They say that revenge is best served cold. That’s as true of ultramarathons as it is with ex-lovers, disobedient pets, former business partners or that guy who complained to HR about me screaming obscenities.

Five years ago, The Vermont 100 totally destroyed me. My first attempt to run one hundred miles, somewhere after mile 77 I found myself limping in the dark through the woods with some random kid, almost unable to walk. I dropped out, totally defeated. Surveying the damage, the results were kind of horrifying: aside from the regular compliment of blisters and whatnot, one leg had become massively swollen while the other remained relatively normal sized.

It was the contrast, I think, that was most alarming. “It might be Compartment Syndrome,” some helpful runner suggested at the airport. Maybe ultramarathons are more common now, but when I went to the Sports Medicine Doc — the guy who works on the Suns or whatever — he was like, “Wait… what did you say you were doing?”

“Uhhh… trying to run 100 miles.”

It seems crazy. Stupid. Hubris. Why the heck would one want to do such a thing?

… because when do it right, it’s super cool. That’s my Vermont story in a nutshell: everything went nice and smooth. I finished in 23:35, my first sub-24 hour 100 miler. That’s a 4 hour PR for me.

Do I look familiar? I’m kind of a big deal. Not really, of course, but let me ask you something… We all agree the wikipedia is the sum of all human knowledge, right? Think about the Western States 100 for a second and comtemplate all the great performances we’ve seen out there over the years. Who comes to mind as the soul of the sport? Gordon Ainsleigh? Hal Koerner? Tim Twietmeyer? Ann Trason? If you go to the Wikipedia page for the Western States 100, whose picture did the internet choose?

While most people’s attention was focused on the epic three way battle between Kilian, Geoff Roes and Anton Krupicka, the Wikipedians correctly ascertained that the real action took place in the back, Leif Rustvold vs. Jon Roig. That shit is legendary. (I swear I had nothing to do with it. There’s an entirely reasonable explanation as to why my pictures keep popping up in ultramarathon articles all over the internet, but I’m not going to supply it here. )

Despite my supermodel status, I’ve gotten good enough at running 50 miles that I can just kind of do it whenever, especially given that I’m not particularly competitive. According to Ultrasignup, I raced 29 times since January of 2009. We’ve got a great trail running community in AZ and a bunch of fantastic races, so I generally didn’t have to go far to find solid challenges. Among other things, I ran Rim to Rim to Rim in the Grand Canyon a couple of times, the infamous Zane Grey 50 six times, the SF Northface 50 three times, and traveled to other Western states for tough mountain races like the SpeedGoat 50k. (Man that thing is evil.) I even did the Boston Marathon, which, even for a “too cool for road marathons” guy like myself, proved to be an incredible experience.

After my defeat at Vermont, I found some vindication in the 100 mile arena as well: later that year I completed the 2009 Javalina Jundred (28:20:25) followed by the 2010 Western States 100 (27:40:52), a DNF Chantry at the 2011 Angeles Crest 100, ending with an endless death march at the 2012 San Diego 100 (29:45:09).

That is to say, I’ve had a lot of fun running around, exploring the world. Being fit and able to consistently complete 50 mile races is not just a reward in and of itself: it means that physically you can kind of do whatever ridiculous thing you could want to do. If we’re on vacation and there’s a mountain that normal people can climb, I can go try and climb it. I love it that I’m the type of guy who can run 26 miles from my wife’s family’s house in the Suburbs all the way to the Rocky Steps in the center of Philadelphia, grab some breakfast, and take the train back.

Still, despite that I’ve accomplished so much and I’m totally happy with all my experiences and my level of fitness, two things totally bothered me over the years.

First, 27:40 is not a great 100 mile time. I mean… yeah, I get it. It’s awesome to be able to complete a race of that distance, but I wouldn’t say I ever really did it with any kind of style. If I really wanted to feel good about my 100 mile time, I’d have to go sub-24:00 on a real course, not just some thing where you run around a flat circle until you collapse.

Second, knowing what I know now, Vermont 100 just seemed so tantalizingly doable. Back in the day, I had no idea what I was getting involved in and the difficulty totally blew me away. I didn’t have a crew, so anything I needed later in the race I brought along in my pack, since I couldn’t pick back up anything I dropped at an aid station. As a consequence, I ended up carrying all kinds of random stuff in case I’d need it later, a burden which added to my total load. I had no idea how to fuel myself, deal with hydration, handle blisters or other problems or anything. I was in over my head and because of that, injury was almost inevitable.

Training

Mt. Evans, Colorado

June 2014

Revenge would be mine, but when stalking an ultramarathon, you have to plan it way in advance. I signed up for the Vermont 100 back in January and immediately began training. My regimen varied a bit with the ebbs and tides of my social life, but here’s kind of how it went down:

Wake up and run then come home and walk the dog for a few miles. Running distances were usually six to ten miles-ish with a bunch of hills and weird climbs. Sometimes I’d just take my dog, who can’t really run that well these days but still loves to get out, on big long walks through Papago Park for hours before I had to go to work.

Lunchtime… either eat or go hit South Mountain to do Ridgeline, which is a pretty intense 30 minute trail run with a trio of very very steep climbs. As it got warmer, I began hitting the gym to swim laps or torture myself on the Stairmaster. It became a weird obsession to see how many flights of stairs I could climb in 20 minutes. (Turns out, a lot.) I am amazed / disturbed at the amount that I sweat when working out in the gym.

Evenings I indoor rock climb twice a week and swim / run on the other days. I’m a big fan of rock climbing as cross training: not only is it a cool scene, climbing is a really interesting fusion of mental and physical fitness. It’s fun being an adult but still getting to play. When the weather isn’t hot, I usually walk the dog for a couple of miles again before bed.

I wasn’t super-super disciplined about any of this — it’s not like I kept logs or anything — but I’ve been nothing if not consistent. I generally take Mondays mornings and Fridays off and try and remain flexible about getting workouts in. After all, this is all supposed to be fun.

On the weekends, I’d try to pair one medium length run on Saturday, something like South Mountain’s Pima Canyon to Buena Vista Parking Lot and back along National (10 miles / 2 hours) with Tom’s Thumb in the McDowell Mountain Park on a Sunday. That run is more like 15 miles and includes big climbs over Bell Pass and up East End as well as massive, quad-destroying descents (3 hours). I tried to mix it up as best I could though, hitting Camelback, Flatiron, and other interesting spots around the Valley. I’d be surprised if I ever topped out over 50 miles for a week.

I also had some little adventures along the way which served as good check in points in terms of my fitness:

Mauna Loa, February 2014

Mauna Loa in February. While on family vacation on the Big Island of Hawaii, I snuck away for a day and attempted to climb Mauna Kea, the highest point in Hawaii at 13,803 ft. Turned away by a ranger at the base of the trail due to extremely high winds, he pointed me over to Mauna Loa on the other side of the highway, suggesting that might be a better climb. The largest volcano on earth? Sure… I’ll go over there instead.

It was a like a trip to the moon. You drive on a 1.5 lane road through a giant lava field up to an observatory at 12,000 ft. I didn’t see another living thing from the time I left my car until I finally saw some hikers while I was on my way down: no plants, no animals, no birds, no bugs, no anything. This isn’t so much a trail — it’s more of a super sketchy trip through a lava field where you navigate on extremely unstable rocks and follow a series of cairns up and up until, presumably, you make it to the top. I had to abort a few hundred meters underneath the summit due to a dangerous combination of sub-freezing temps, very high winds, and a growing unease with the storm brewing around the base of the mountain… since I was climbing solo, it seemed prudent to retreat to a more tropical environment. Still… really neat experience and a real test of technical rock hopping skills, all at altitude.

It was a like a trip to the moon. You drive on a 1.5 lane road through a giant lava field up to an observatory at 12,000 ft. I didn’t see another living thing from the time I left my car until I finally saw some hikers while I was on my way down: no plants, no animals, no birds, no bugs, no anything. This isn’t so much a trail — it’s more of a super sketchy trip through a lava field where you navigate on extremely unstable rocks and follow a series of cairns up and up until, presumably, you make it to the top. I had to abort a few hundred meters underneath the summit due to a dangerous combination of sub-freezing temps, very high winds, and a growing unease with the storm brewing around the base of the mountain… since I was climbing solo, it seemed prudent to retreat to a more tropical environment. Still… really neat experience and a real test of technical rock hopping skills, all at altitude. Old Man 50k in March… well… 26 miles of it, anyway. This is just a local fatass. Beautiful morning out in the McDowell Mountain Park to celebrate Michael Miller’s birthday. He put together an amazing course. The AZ ultrarunning community is kind of great.

Zane Grey 50k in April. It was supposed to be a 50 miler, but was shortened due to crazy weather. Basically, we got pelted by rain and ice for hours and hours and hours. My race report is here: Jon 6, Rocks 0.

Grand Canyon, view from the North Rim, May 2014

Grand Canyon Rim to Rim to Rim in May. Let me ask you something? Does this sound like a good idea? Here’s the plan: work all day then drive myself up to the Grand Canyon, sleep in a parking lot for an hour or two, then meet my friends to run R2R2R at 2:00 am. Needless to say, this got kind of out of control. I should have listened to myself… instead, I screwed up and left the South Rim too late because I thought it’d be better to descend with people then follow my instincts and leave at sundown earlier that evening. (A solo trip down the South Rim at night is a frightening thing, at least for me.) The trip out to the North Rim went smoothly enough — about 6:30 to get across — but the return trip through the heart of the canyon at the hottest part of the day was devastating. I was with a friend, so there was no real danger and I’m more used to 110 temps than most people, but it took 11:30 for me to get back across and up the South Rim. Sucked. Never making that mistake again. Probably good training or something, but I should have just grabbed a beer at Phantom Ranch, found a quiet place in the shade, and just relaxed until sundown for the climb out. Lesson learned.

Pike’s Peak, June 2014

Pikes Peak Ascent / Descent in June. 13.1 miles with 7,900 feet of climbing, this was great final training. Such a fun little adventure… I always find myself wishing that there was a convenience store on top of the mountains I climb. Pike’s Peak is awesome that way… got a Gatorade and some M&Ms at the top, convinced some Germans to take a picture of me, headed back down under constant threat from a thunderstorm. I got snowed on at like 13,000 ft… it was pretty epic. The ascent took 4.35 pushing relatively hard without any screwing around. Things got a little ugly towards the top, but overall, no real problems. I hit the descent full throttle, banging it out in 2:10. It helped that I got into a serious battle with a girl in booty shorts for the final quarter of my trip down. That always helps.

As far as I’m concerned, when you prepare to run 100 miles, you build a pyramid of training under yourself and the actual race becomes the icing on the cake. You never really know if you’re ready… but after all that preparation, I certainly felt solid. Confident.

Gear

The beef sticks… bad idea.

Hoka One One Stinson Evo… pretty much the perfect shoe for the Vermont 100, which is 70% jeep roads. My feet were in pretty good shape at the end of that race, so I really couldn’t be happier with ‘em. I had a pair of Brooks Pure Grit 2s as a backup.

Smartwool compression socks… seemed like they worked great. I’m not convinced that compression socks actually help with athletic performance, but I like feeling nice and snug in long socks.

Brooks running shorts. Black, of course. They’re the kind with the boxer/compression liner. Very comfortable. I didn’t change clothing during this race.

Roadrunner Sports generic sleeveless top. White… the summer racing color. I’m a big fan of these particular shirts since they have wide shoulders, essential when carrying a pack very long distances.

REI Headsweat Band… my new secret weapon.

Native sunglasses. More of a fashion accessory during this race, I’m afraid.

Nathan VaporWrap. Hands down the best-designed pack of all time. Love this thing. Because of the close groupings of the various aid stations a pack wasn’t really required for this race, but I’m so comfortable with it from years of experience, I figured it’d be easier than carrying a bottle the whole way. Not having to fill up very often meant that I didn’t dawdle at aid stations, although the temptation to carry way too much stuff is ever-present.

Some random headlamp. I don’t really want to go dig it out to check the make / model, but it’s nothing exceptional.

2009 Javalina Jundred long sleeve shirt. I thought I might get cold at night… but yeah, didn’t really need that at all.

A bunch of Gu, Cliff Shot Blocks, candy raspberries, apple cinnamon Hammer Gel, Stinger Waffles, and Honey Stinger blocks

A big bag of Tums and salt pills

A women’s IronMan triathlon watch… I have small wrists! If it has any fancy features, I don’t know how to use them… I just use it to tell time.

Logistics

Vermont 100 elevation profile (Source: vermont100.com)

“Blaaauhhggghhhh”

As I upchucked in the parking lot of a McDonald’s in White River, Vermont on Sunday morning at 5:00 am, my new Father-in-Law looked at me. After running for almost 24 hours, I wasn’t in a state to accurately judge Bob’s mental state, but I’m sure it was something like, “Yup. My daughter really made the right choice.”

“We’re really bonding now!” I exclaimed through dry heaves. (Eating nothing but sugar for almost a whole day is brutal.) Gotta give it up for Bob, though — as my crew guy / driver, he was a real trooper on this adventure. For instance, he was kind enough to meet me at 3:30am as I finished the race.

I got married last September and while our families get along great, when it comes to outdoor adventures our clans couldn’t be more different. My Mom joked with me that the Green Mountains were in my blood, given that she and my Dad hiked up there around the time she was pregnant with me. She’s an old lady and I can totally kick her ass, but she’s still out there plugging away. If she gets back into the NYC Marathon, she’ll finish it, no problem. As for my Father, he’s still hiking around in the Sierras, maybe not as spry as he used to be, but getting out there and exploring nonetheless. He’s turned into a really talented photographer.

The Weinsteins, though… that special thrill that some people get when they head up into the mountains, that’s not their thing. By no means are they provincial people — they’ve been all over the world — and nor are they out of shape or anything like that, they’re just not big sports people by nature. I’m sure I’m the first member of their extended family to run a marathon.

So, I was pleasantly surprised when I reached out to my new Father-in-Law, Bob, and he said “yes.” If nothing else, we both figured it’d be a good chance to get to know each other. Despite his lack of experience with ultramarathons, Bob is a pretty organized guy. I wasn’t worried about relying on him, despite the odd hours we’d be keeping. It doesn’t take much to crew a guy like me, but just his presence alone would be a huge help. Plus, he’d do all the driving.

I flew into Philly on Thursday afternoon and spent the night with my in-laws out in the suburbs. Bright and early on Friday morning, Bob and I began our journey north to the checkin. It’s fun cruising up the East Coast, it’d been forever since I’d done that.

We stayed at the Hampton Inn at White River Junction, Vermont, which is about 30 mins from the starting line. We didn’t explore much, but we did have a pretty good dinner across the river at Lui Lui in West Lebanon, New Hampshire. I didn’t need any last minute supplies so I didn’t wander in, but there’s an Eastern Mountain Sports over there as well.

Over pizza, Bob and I devised a reasonable crewing plan: he’d meet me at the aid stations at miles 21.1, 30.1, 46.7, and 61.6 and from there I’d text him at about mile 90 so we could estimate my finish. I divided all my raceday stuff into two bags: one for food / Gu/ nutrition and the other for clothing that I might need like socks or shoes or that kind of thing.

Keeping it simple, the only other essential piece of crew gear was a folding camping chair.

Checking In

Sun’s out, guns out…

The Vermont 100 is so well organized, checking in is a breeze. They’re marking crew cars now in an effort to keep traffic down on the back roads, so that takes a minute. That said, the volunteers had a very efficient system in place and we were in and out in a few minutes.

The runner checkin was equally well organized. The only weird thing is the weigh in. Since this is your reference weight for all the other medical checkpoints throughout the race, this is an important moment. If your weight deviates too much, the race organizers will either pull you out of the race or make you hang out at an aid station to recover.

Other than that, pretty chill. You get your number, your run shirt and drop off your drop bags. Lots of people seem to be camping… I bet that’s pretty fun. We headed back to White River for a few hours of sleep.

The Race

4:00 am. It’s on!

4:00 am start time. I don’t know how much rest we got, but it wasn’t much. I was up early, applying BodyGlide to my feet and nether regions. I filled up my Nathan pack in the hotel room sink and stuffed Hammer Gel packets into some of the pockets. Of course, there isn’t too much preparation one has to do: it’s just running.

No problems at all getting to the start or getting checked in — they’ve got everything under control. The race hosts provided Bagels and coffee, a nice touch so early in the morning. The weather was cool and moist.

To be honest, I’m not sure what started this race… I didn’t hear a gun or anything like that. Whatever triggered the herd to start moving, I just followed the crowd and got a slow start into the darkness. I would describe this course as ridiculously easy to navigate, but especially in the early part of the race you’re really running with a big group of people and can just go with the flow.

Somewhere out on the Vermont 100 course

Enjoying the cool of the morning, I cruised along maybe a little faster than I should have for the first 20 miles. For a guy from the desert, there’s real novelty in running in Vermont. It’s… like… something out of a J Crew ad: big estates with well-kept horses roaming the rolling green grass in front of a stately old red barn. I could see my breath in the light of my headlamp.

As the sun came up, the morning was shrouded in mist. Everything was lush and green. Verdant. My “Oh man, it’s humid,” comments got no sympathy from the locals… but coming from the middle of the desert, running through the woods is a totally different experience. Mud… I mean. What do I know about that stuff? It didn’t really seem like much of a problem, but it was weird being damp all day. Out here, sweat tends to evaporate quickly…

This run is relentless: it goes up and down and up and down endlessly. At no point does it get super sadistic — except for maybe the end — but the Vermont 100 does put you through the ringer.

From the beginning, I established a routine: on the hour, eat a salt tablet and/or some Tums. On the half hour, gobble down some food. I ran all the downhills and hiked all the uphills, experimenting alternately between the hands behind your back climbing technique and the hands on your hips technique.

As I settled into my morning pace, I committed early to a 24 hour finish and made sure I was running with people realistically gunning for a finish around that time. 15 miles in, you cruise through Woodstock and a covered bridge, so that’s pretty fun. Spirits are still generally high this early in the morning. If you’re having problems at this point of the race, it’s going to be a long day.

On the climb up to Pretty House at 21.5, I was ahead of schedule but starting to feel the burn of the distance adding up. My legs hurt: my calves would just freeze up or some of the hill climbs. I took a few moments to stop on the side of the road, do some thorough stretching, a bit of improvised massage, and pop an extra salt tablet. Maybe I’d been pushing too hard? At any rate, took a bit of a walking break. No real drama and after a bit, I eased back into a quicker pace nice and smooth.

Rolling green hills… how can you not love that?

I rolled into Pretty House in 4:04 at a 10:53 pace… good so far. If you’re wondering why Pretty House is named “Pretty House,” it’s because there’s an exceptionally pretty house there. The crowd was full of energy and excitement.

As the day heated up, I popped ice into my headband and switched the Nathan pack from water to Gatorade. At every aid station, I drank a couple of small cups of Coke and ginger ale, gobbled down some cantaloupe or other fruit, and kept going. Even though I only filled my water bladder to the half way point, I refreshed the contents pretty rarely, making my trips in and out of aid stations very efficient. There’s something to be said for capitalizing on the cool of the morning and picking up as many miles as you reasonably can before it warms up. Somewhere on the course I drank a big glass of pickle juice. Holy cow that was good.

I ran a big chunk of this section with Hannah, a girl who’d biked across the country before ending up at this race, and Leigh, a Slammer from Ohio. It pays to pay attention to who else is out on the course with you, because unless you dramatically speed up or slow down, these are the people you’re going to roll with for awhile. Western States had gone well for Leigh so I knew she’d be a reliable reference point in terms of my performance.

I also began to see the same race crews over and over again as we moved through the course in a rough cloud. Sometimes I’d move ahead or drift behind, but since headphones aren’t allowed in this race, everyone was extremely chatty and friendly. People in Vermont just seem so nice.

I rolled through the Camp 10 Bear (46.7) in 9:40, a time which would be good for me, even if I’d just been running 50 miles. Hardened by years of technical running out here in the West, I breezed along the dirt roads and careened recklessly down the hills. Although he might’ve been skeptical before, I think at this point, Bob knew this was really for real and that I could probably finish within 24 hours. I felt great. Solid.

Ultrarunning is the world’s worst spectator sport. I left very quickly… just long enough weigh in (no problems) and load up with watermelon and hit the road. It wasn’t long before I caught a quick glimpse of the leader, Brian Rusiecki, as he came back through the loop and hauled ass towards towards 10 Bear, essentially 23 miles ahead of me. (He’d go on to run a course record 14:47:35… an 8:46 pace for 100 miles.) From chatting with people during the previous sections of the race, I’d heard that there were some big sections on this next part of the run, but first you get a good, long flat section of soft dirt road to dig into. After so much up and down, it felt good, even that far into the race, to stretch out a bit and really run.

I began transposing my hazy memory of my previous race on top of my current run and the difference was almost literally night and day. The horrendous climbing I’d remembered turned out to be nothing compared to the endless staircase of something like Pike’s Peak. I took my time and continued walking the uphills and running the downhills, paying close mind to my heart rate and general comfort level.

At mile 61.6 I met up with Bob for the last time before he was going to crash out for awhile. I didn’t change clothes, didn’t fix blisters but I did load up on Gu-type supplies for the night and grabbed both a long sleeve running shirt and a headlamp. It was still only 5:15 in the evening, but eventually it’d get dark and I’d still have to keep running. 13:16 into the race with a long way to go, I definitely felt like I’d run 100k but began to realize that it was possible: assuming I didn’t screw anything up, to finish sub-24, no problem. All I had to do was keep moving. So… that’s kinda what I did — there’s almost no real story to it. I just kept running, kept hiking, and kept things moving, staying as close to the edge of my effort threshold as I felt comfortable. Which is to say, sometimes I’d slow it down, walk for a few minutes, but I always tried to move as quickly down the downhills as I could.

Other people picked up pacers at this point of the race, but I decided to go without one. Last time I did this, some kid from the local cross country team was kind enough to help me out, but this time around, I just wanted to be left alone to do my thing. Obviously, I’ve been blessed to have people in my life who take the time to accompany me through the darkest stretches of 100 mile races and for that I am grateful. That said, this time, I just wanted to be left alone to do my thing. I didn’t want to have to explain my dubious strategy to anyone. There are probably some races where that’s a terrible idea due to remoteness or trail-finding difficulties, but none of that’s an issue at Vermont. I’d only wished that I’d brought an extra hand flashlight to better illuminate the trail.

I committed myself fully and kept running, mindful of every wasted minute as a tiny little dagger into my sub 24:00 goal.

I entered the Danger Zone after I left Spirit of ‘76, the aid station at mile 76.6. 17 hours of running behind me, the sun was starting to set as I headed deeper into the woods. This is the section that broke me five years ago, but this year, I was enjoying the heck out of this part of the race, even though the climbing was pretty relentless. The temperatures went down and the crowds thinned considerably… This section took awhile: almost 1:45 to get to the next aid station four miles away. I started to settle in for the night and was alone for long periods of time, just chugging along at a more less constant effort up and down and up and down. The race volunteers did a great job marking the course with light sticks and signage.

The night air cooled but it never got cold, hovering around 55 degrees-ish. That’s perfect running weather, although, at this point, I was starting to have a bit of trouble regulating my body temperature. I briefly experimented with my longsleeve shirt, but found that I was instantly too warm. I decided it’s better to stay a little cold than overheat. Good motivation.

I stumbled out of the darkness into the party at Bill’s Barn, mile 88.3, 20:06 into the race. There was such good energy in that barn, I couldn’t help but take it in for a few minutes. I sat down for the first time in the entire race and took stock of things. At that point, I’d be running the math through my head on a constant cycle: 12 miles in a less than 24 hour hours. 20 minute miles. I can do that walking. So, I sat there for a little while, chowed down on a cup of ramen… mmmmm…. ramen… and sucked down an entire can of coke. The clock was ticking, but there was no rush. If I took basic precautions and ate enough to ward off any possible catastrophes, I would make my goal. I got moving in short order, feeling refreshed and able to attack the downhills with renewed vigor. (The uphills remained relatively unattacked.)

I always expect to get some deep insight out of these experiences, like I’m on a vision quest or something. That never happens, except that around mile 80 or 90 you realize that you could drop out of the race and no one will care except you. This is where it really starts to hurt, where downhills become painful exercises in muscle control and climbs just get longer and slower. To finish in 24 hours, at least on this course, you really can’t let up. From the beginning, you have to keep up a solid pace or the race will just gobble you up.

Doing a 100 miler fast is a lot easier than doing it slow. That’s my takeaway from the last 12 miles of this race. It was late, I was more than a little delirious but moving along pretty well, feeling good and 100% confident I was going to finish in 24 hours. My legs weren’t particularly cooperative during this last section of the run, but it was hardly on the death march that characterized my previous hundred mile attempts. Turns out, there’s a real cost to being out on the trail for 27+ hours and if you can avoid that, it’s just better. My stomach held up ok, my feet were a mess, but nothing too alarming. I kept eating and drinking.

When I hit mile 98 and realized there was still one more horrible hill, I wanted to cry. I guess maybe I thought that I’d climbed everything and they’d run out of hills. I cursed the course designers out loud to an uncaring field and marched along, resigned to finishing with some semblance of style. Hours earlier, between miles 77 to 80, I’d passed a bunch of people. Now, at the end of the race, all those familiar faces came running back by me, reclaiming all the ground I’d gained and costing me ten places. I got much better this time around but when it comes to managing the final miles, I have a ways to go.

Since any auditory clue that you might be near the finish is your 100% mental preoccupation in the last miles of the race, you can hear the finish line from a long way off. That said, it takes awhile to get there and none of it is easy.

Then, it’s over. You’re done. No big celebration, not much of a cheering crowd… just an awning with a “Finish Line” neon sign and an official timer checking you in. The Vermont 100 finish line itself is nestled into a clearing in the forest to keep it small and quiet. This whole event is a community affair and a few volunteers clapped and welcomed me in. Bob was waiting, pretty amazed by the whole thing. I sat down, drank a bunch of water, then limped out of there and back to the hotel, feeling beat up and destroyed. Done.

Me ‘n’ Bob. Hard to read, but the neon reads “Finish Line.”

I still kind of can’t believe I did it. 23:35… a four hour PR over my time at Western States. Vermont 100 is the real deal, with 14,000 ft of climbing and 14,000 ft of descent, it isn’t maybe the hardest of all hard races, but it’s a real challenge.

It’s nice when a plan comes together: I trained hard, strategized well and it all worked great. There were 303 starters, 230 finishers. I finished 120th. 128 runners finished faster than 24:00.

The Aftermath

Post race… looking beat up

Got some nasty blisters, but beyond that no problems to report. Obviously, I was pretty messed up, but nothing too serious. I puked in that McDonald’s parking lot, so there was that. And the night sweats — for two or three evenings after the race, I’d wake up just drenched in moisture, which is super gross. My feet were a bit swollen and I’m going to lose both my little toenails. No big deal.

Two weeks later, things are more or less back to normal. I haven’t gone running again yet, but I’ll get back into things in due time. There’s no rush.

I fully realize that a race report of this length is extremely self-indulgent, but it’s not like Governor Brewer creates a state holiday when I, some computer programmer from Tempe, AZ, finally finish an obscure race in less than 24 hours. It’s a big deal to me, but I get that no one really cares. And that’s fine… but there should be some kind of record of it, if only for me to look back at in a few years to remind myself that I used to be a badass. Maybe other people thinking about doing this race or other races will find this helpful.

Definitely an epic adventure, wouldn’t hesitate to recommend the Vermont 100 to anyone. I just want to take a moment to thank everyone who helped me out in the time leading up to this race. The Vermont 100 race volunteers were amazing, the course was really challenging but fun. I just really, really enjoyed the whole thing. Bob, my Father-in-Law, was a huge help, driving and crewing. My wife Jill, who listened to my normal obsessing about ultramarathons and put up with early morning escapades for months and months, deserves special recognition for being supportive. The list is too long to mention, but thanks to everyone else who helped me and trained with me! Hopefully you already know how much I appreciate you all.