When the Finish Pulls You Home: My Journey Through 100 Miles

My first 100 followed the familiar arc of an ultra: Confidence. Despair. Elation. But somewhere along the way, the race stopped being about how fast I could run. It became about solving whatever problem was directly in front of me. Rain? Keep moving. Mud? Keep moving. Darkness? Slow down and keep moving. Blisters? Fix them and keep moving. Cutoff getting close? Move faster. Nothing left at mile 97? Keep moving anyway.

I didn't walk into the Midwest States 100 casually. For two months leading up to the race, I averaged roughly 70 miles per week, competed in the Dances with the Devil 50K at Devil's Lake and completed the Voyageur 50 Mile Trail Ultra Marathon in Duluth about a month. before race day. But perhaps the most valuable preparation wasn't running at all. I spent four days backpacking a portion of the Ice Age Trail specifically to reconnoiter the race course. That trip gave me something a GPX file and elevation profile couldn't: an appreciation for just how technical this trail really was. I saw the rocks, roots, and ruts firsthand and learned that Midwest States wasn't necessarily a race about running fast. It was going to be about continuing to move efficiently when the trail didn't want you to.

I knew I wasn't doing this alone. My good friend Kevin stepped up as crew chief. Bryson, one of my former Soldiers and a fellow ultra-running enthusiast, volunteered to help, and when we suddenly lost a crew member before the race, my beautiful wife stepped in at the last minute to complete the team. We also received an incredibly generous offer from my neighbor, whose cabin sits just off the racecourse. He opened his property to us as a race headquarters where the crew could rest between supporting me. Unfortunately, that rest never came. A family emergency forced one member of the crew to leave early, leaving the remaining crew awake throughout the entire race.

The night before, we attempted to reconnoiter the driving routes between aid stations.

Navigation problems quickly derailed that plan—an issue that would follow us throughout the weekend. Instead, we used our limited time together to lay out every piece of equipment and rehearse our aid-station procedures.

Our crew philosophy was modeled after an EMT arriving on scene:

Arrive.

Assess.

Triage.

Correct the problem.

Release the runner.

We even organized our primary support bag like an EMT triage bag so everything could be accessed immediately.

But before any of that, one final, important piece of race preparation remained: dinner.

I had picked up freshly butchered porterhouse steaks from a local rancher, and it was my pleasure to grill one final supper for my crew and our gracious host. Then it was time to race.

The Midwest States organization absolutely blew me away and is AN EVENT WORTH COMING BACK TO. Registration was efficient. The amount of swag runners received—particularly finishers—was incredible. But the aid stations were on another level. I've participated in roughly 15 ultras, and these were easily among the best aid stations I've encountered.

The volunteers were energetic. Music was playing. Tables were overflowing with food. People

were cooking for runners. At night, the stations were illuminated like little islands of civilization in the woods. And then there were the slushies. After hours of forcing maple syrup down my throat for calories, those things tasted like they had descended directly from heaven. There was never any question whether I was stopping at 100K… Not with the promise of more slushies if I got back out on the course!

And Then It Rained. 

Having backpacked the course beforehand, I knew what the trail had waiting for me. But, what I hadn't anticipated was rain… Apparently neither had the weatherman. It rained for hours Saturday. Initially, it was mostly an annoyance—and admittedly it helped keep everyone's core temperature down. But hundreds of runners repeatedly passing over saturated trails eventually transformed sections of solid ground into mud with roughly the consistency of peanut butter.

At one point, thoroughly tired of being rained on, I made the tactical error of looking toward the sky and announcing: "You can stop anytime now!" Apparently the rain gods took offense and almost immediately, the skies opened up even more.

Rookie mistake.

Despite the weather, my race was going exceptionally well. I was moving around 3.5 to 4 mph and, based on my early trajectory, a sub-30-hour finish appeared possible. At one point, believing I might miss the 100K cutoff, I pushed portions close to 6 mph.

And then came the dark miles (literally and figuratively). There is approximately a 12-mile section where seemingly every rock, root, and rut reaches from the darkness with one of two objectives: either to remove your toenails or launch you headfirst into a tree or thorn bush. Add a dying headlamp to that equation and I'm fairly certain I personally located every rock, root and rut on that trail myself. My pacer did everything possible to keep me moving, but darkness, technical terrain and deteriorating mental processing eventually dragged my pace toward 30-minute miles.

And I made the classic mistake… I became frustrated. So I tried harder, which only made me slower. My lowest point came around mile 80. I'd swapped my dying headlamp for another with fresh batteries—only to discover that one was completely broken. Then, shortly after stepping back onto the course, I felt it: Squish. A large blister had ruptured, and now my sock was suddenly soaked in fluid from my own foot. I turned around and hobbled back to the aid station.

For roughly 45 minutes, I sat while they treated and repaired my feet. That was when the math changed. For the first time, the possibility that I might not make the cutoff became very real. And that thought followed me for the next 20 miles. 

One of the nurses working the aid station became my race hero that morning. She swept in, treated my feet and patched me together well enough to continue. I don't know her name, but if she ever reads this… From the bottom of my heart, thank you. Eventually I stood up and something had changed. The sun was out. My feet felt almost new and suddenly, I was moving again. I went from roughly 2 mph back to 4 mph and held it for several hours, refusing to give that pace up until I had regained the cushion I'd lost during the emergency stop. Once I knew I had the finish back under control, I gave myself permission to settle around 3 mph. I even developed one final plan. With three miles remaining, I'd crank the pace back toward 6 mph and finish strong. There was just one problem. When mile 97 arrived… There was nothing left. I'd finally found the bottom of the tank. I tried to accelerate and couldn't.

My pace collapsed back toward 2 mph and strangely, I was okay with it. Two miles per hour was still a finish. So I hobbled forward.

Then a familiar face came by. Trevor. We'd shared miles together earlier in the darkness, and I was surprised to see him because he was a strong runner and I'd assumed he'd be well ahead. Then he told me what happened. Twelve miles earlier, he'd twisted his ankle and had been moving with a brace ever since (those rocks, roots and ruts had claimed another victim). At that point neither of us cared about competing with the other. We wanted each other to finish.

He was worried about negotiating the final stairs on his injured ankle. I still had my trekking poles, so I handed them to him. With the addition of my poles, Trevor took off at roughly 3.5mph and somehow… so did I.

Something happens when you know you're close. The trail becomes familiar. Your senses sharpen. Things that had disappeared during hours of exhaustion suddenly return. Then, somewhere ahead, I could hear it.

Cheering.

Cowbells.

The finish.

During that final half mile, I wasn't really running anymore. I was floating. I wasn't pushing myself toward the finish. It felt like the finish was pulling me toward it. After months of 70-mile weeks, a 50K, a 50-miler, four days backpacking the course, countless training miles, rain, peanut-butter mud, darkness, broken lights, shredded feet, a 45-minute emergency stop and finally discovering at mile 97 that my reserves really did have a bottom... I came out of the woods and into the arms of my wife and the rest of the people who had sacrificed their own sleep and comfort to help get me there. That moment belonged to all of us.

What 100 Miles Taught Me

My first 100 followed the familiar arc of an ultra:

Confidence. Despair. Elation.

But somewhere along the way, the race stopped being about how fast I could run.

It became about solving whatever problem was directly in front of me.

Rain?

Keep moving.

Mud?

Keep moving.

Darkness?

Slow down and keep moving.

Blisters?

Fix them and keep moving.

Cutoff getting close?

Move faster.

Nothing left at mile 97?

Keep moving anyway.

And maybe that's what I'll remember most about the Midwest States 100. You don't need to feel strong for 100 miles. You don't need everything to go according to plan. You don't even need to elieve you're going to finish during every mile of the race. You have to keep solving the next problem and moving toward that finish line. Because sometimes, somewhere in that final half mile, you stop having to push yourself toward it… The finish starts pulling you home.