The Bear 100 - September 2026

October 03, 2026 by Davis Cutter

"Pretty tactical, ain't it?"
Those were the first words I said to Ben when I rolled into Tony Grove at mile 52. I had arrived at the exact minute I'd written down weeks earlier. Fifty-two miles of mountains, and I hit it to the minute.
50 miles had gone to plan. But, it 100 milers, it’s never guaranteed. I wasn’t sure how the second half would go…

The Course

The Bear 100 has been running since 1999. It's a point-to-point route from Logan, Utah, to the shores of Bear Lake in Garden City, UT.

Distance: 100 miles
Elevation gain: 20,321 ft
Elevation range: 4,853 ft to 8,865 ft
Terrain: Mostly mountain singletrack, with stretches of dirt road through aspen and maple forest
Cutoff: 36 hours

Some 100s are known for altitude, some for heat, some for one monster climb. The Bear is known for relentlessness. It's widely considered one of the more rugged, difficult 100s out there. There's no single feature that breaks you. It's the steady grind of climb after climb, ridge after ridge, followed by a long, cold night up high. The terrain is rocky, with plenty of "bear's teeth" to catch tired feet, and the weather can swing from a warm afternoon to below freezing overnight.

It's also one of the most beautiful races I've ever run. The Bear is held in late September, right when the fall colors hit their peak. You run for hours through golden aspens and bright red maples. When your stomach is falling apart at mile 70, that doesn't hurt (as much).

Roughly, the course breaks into four parts:

The Logan climb. The race opens with the longest climb of the day, straight out of Logan and up toward Logan Peak. It sets the tone early.
Ridges and canyons to Tony Grove (mile ~52). A long stretch of climbing, descending, and repeating as the course winds through the canyons of the Bear River Range.
The high country (Franklin Basin to Beaver Mountain, mile ~78). Night falls, the temperature drops, and the course pushes deeper into the mountains.
Peter Sinks to the finish. Freezing cold, dark, high-country miles, one last brutal climb, and finally the long descent to Bear Lake.

Training

With our family growing, I hadn't done a 100 mile race in a few years. That gap was a big part of why I committed so fully to this one.

The build was about six months long. At its peak I was training close to 16 hours a week. That came to roughly 75 miles and 10,000 - 12,000 feet of vertical gain each week. The Bear is a mountain race, and I wanted my legs to feel like the climbs + descents were normal and not something to fear. Still…it’s hard not to compare yourself to many other others who were consistently training 100, or 120+ miles and 20,000+ feet of gain for this race. I was nowhere near that.

But a big thanks to Scott Traer, coach at RunFastah, for helping me prepare…and reminding me that I was plenty fit heading into the race.

This training block also made me realize, as I’m getting older, that training time is not the limiting factor, but what the body physically allows without injury. You can, contrary to common belief, create time! Need to train more? Get up earlier; put on the headlamp. If something is important to you, you find the time.

But, at some point, the body will revolt, and something will breakdown. This is a tricky balance as I get older.

The Ankle

Three weeks before race day, my ankle started to hurt.

Three weeks is a terrible time for that. It's too late to change your training and too soon to stop worrying. I saw a podiatrist, who diagnosed an AITFL (anterior inferior tibiofibular ligament) sprain and gave me a cortisone shot. I responded well to it and the pain faded quickly. Still, the ankle never felt quite right. It wasn't painful. It just felt delicate, and I wasn’t sure how it’d hold up over 100 miles.

That ankle became my biggest worry and took up most of the space in my head before the race. I made a deal with myself: just get to mile 10. If I could get through the first 10 miles on an ankle that wasn't screaming, I'd be in a good spot. Then I could get the race done.

The funny part is what happened at mile 10. The ankle was fine, but I didn't feel relieved. My thought wasn't "we're good." It was "there are still 90 miles to go." All that energy spent on the ankle, and when it finally stopped mattering, the size of the task in front of me took its place. The worry doesn't go away. It just finds something new.

The Plan

My pacing spreadsheet that I made with a combination of ultrapacer.com, race info, and some manually inputted data.

The splits I wrote down added up to 22 hours and 30 minutes. This would be the slowest hundred finish for me, but probably the most difficult course. From past results, I knew roughly the top 20 finishers would run under 24 hours. I wanted to be in a position to compete over the last quarter of the race without spending myself in the first half.

The Mental Strategy

Before every 100 miler I've run, I write mantras on my hands in permanent sharpie. It sounds small, but at mile 80, you may need a reminder. You just look down and your own handwriting tells you what to do.

This time I wrote three, one for each part of the race:

KISS Keep It Smooth, Stupid. And, doubling up, Keep It Simple, Stupid. This one covered the first third. Stay controlled. Stay content. Don't do anything outside of your capabilities.
BYC Because You Can. Gratitude is a highly important practice. I do this because I can, and many other’s cannot.
FWP Find What's Possible. This one turned out to matter more than I expected. More on that later.

Miles 0–52: Keep It Smooth, Stupid

Keeping it smooth at mile 20. Things felt very comfortable the first half of the race.
Photo Bethany Draper

Early on I sat around 30th place, which was exactly where I wanted to be.

This part of the race is about holding back. Your legs are fresh, the adrenaline is high, and every instinct says to go. Keep it smooth. Keep it simple. Eat, drink, move, repeat.

My crew was outstanding all day. I don't think I spent more than about three minutes in any aid station — which I think was one of (perhaps the) least amount of time spent in aid all day. My mom and dad, Lucy, and Kylie were all there. Kylie was celebrating her second birthday that day. I'm sure spending it in the mountains cheering for Dada was exactly what she had in mind.

Then came Tony Grove. Mile 52. Right on the minute.

"Pretty tactical, ain't it?"

And we were off.

Miles 52–78: Enter Ben

Picking up Ben felt fitting. Last year I paced him through the final 22 miles of his race, and now he was returning the favor. Ben and I have had plenty of adventures together over the years, and this section felt like another epic one. We moved well. It was strong running, good conversation, and everything was working.

My ankle was there, it was painful, and the pain was slowly increasing, but wasn’t enough to slow me down. It was holding together. Eventually, the pain just blended into numbness with the rest of the fatigue in my quads, knees and toes.

Around mile 65, the nausea started. It stayed with me for the rest of the race.

I still don't know exactly what caused it. I have two theories:

Hydration and sodium. I fell behind on fluids and may have been taking in too much sodium for the amount of water I was drinking.
Carb intake. I pushed my carbs per hour hard, over 70 grams an hour. I tested that in training, but never for more than 10 hours straight.

It was probably some mix of both. Either way, for the last 35 miles of this race I desperately wanted to throw up, and I was afraid to. Throwing up means losing calories, and losing calories that late in a 100 miler is a hole you may not climb out of.

That's the difference between a marathon and a 100. A marathon asks how hard you can push. A 100 asks how well you can troubleshoot while everything slowly breaks.

Ben and I coming into Franklin Basin, mile 76. We’re completing a section here where we clicked off a solid 10miles; things were feeling good. We’d leave this aid station and have a very strong 2mile climb towards Beaver Mountain.
Photo Bethany Draper

Miles 78–100: Find What's Possible

The sun went down. Headlamps were on. We finally felt like the “race” was on, too. Ben and I led a train of runners up to Beaver Mountain, mile 78. This is a 2mile climb that I was familiar with. I decided to push a bit here, perhaps too much.

My brother Matt joined me at Beaver Mountain, mile 78.

My legs still felt strong when I came into that aid station at 78. They were still runnable. My stomach was the problem, and getting worse. By then I couldn't stand the thought of another gel. I switched to cup noodles and potatoes at the aid stations. It was whatever I could keep down.

Matt and I left Beaver and started on the second-to-last climb of the race to Peter Sinks aid station. Peter Sinks is a limestone sinkhole basin known as one of the coldest places in the lower 48. It traps cold air so well that it holds Utah's record low of -69°F. It didn't get anywhere near that cold for us, but at about 35 degrees, dark, and nauseous, it felt cold enough.

The climb is about 1,600 feet and I felt every foot of it. We were with a few other runners at this point, and I decided to tag-along to their pace. This may have cracked me a bit…

and this is where some of the wheels started to come off.

I debated throwing up to relieve my nausea, but knew I needed the calories. I yelled for tums as we entered the aid station. We were in-and-out, trying to keep moving.

I started walking for a minute. We still had 15 miles to go. I felt incredible merely 5 miles earlier, but now, things were coming apart. I told Matt, "There's just no possible way I can walk the rest of this race." I stopped for a minute & reset.

And that's where the third mantra earned its place. Find What's Possible. Not what I'd planned. Not what I wanted. What was possible right then, with the stomach I had, the legs I had, and the miles left in front of me. I was trying to find out.

I ended up eating about 15 tums over the last 15 miles. Probably not recommended. Oh well. They worked well enough to keep me moving. I switched to exclusively Coca Cola to fuel the final 15miles.

The last climb of the day, we made it. Another 1,000+ feet, took our total gain past 20,000 feet for the day. It almost wrecked me. But, once we crested it, there were eight miles to go, all downhill.

That's when you can smell the finish line.

We pushed. Legs were actually fine. Stomach was somewhat of a disaster. We could see the dark outline of Bear Lake ahead of us beneath the light of a full moon.

All I could think about what how badly I wanted to finish, so then I could throw up.

I crossed the finish line — 35 miles worth of sugar, water and coca cola came out of me. We made it!

The Finish

22 hours, 27 minutes. 14th Overall.

My goal was 22:30. I finished three minutes ahead of the splits I had written down months earlier.

Pretty tactical.

I'm really happy with how I executed this one. The pacing, the aid stations, and the patience early all went to plan. If my stomach had cooperated, I think an hour faster was possible. But that's the Bear, and that's the 100-mile distance. Something always doesn’t go to plan. The question is whether you can keep moving anyway.

Gear

Shoes: Nike ACG Zegama
Watch: COROS APEX Pro
Heart rate: COROS Heart Rate Monitor (armband)
Shirt: Mammut
Belt: Naked Running Band
Pack: Salomon ADV Skin
Headlamps: Various Petzl headlamps
Socks: Injinji toe socks

Post-Race: Two Strange Things

The race was the main event, but two things since the finish have fascinated me.

1. The best recovery I've ever had

As I write this on Wednesday, I just finished a five-mile trail run. Zero soreness. Zero ankle pain.

The ankle that took over my head for three weeks before the race is completely quiet. And I've wanted to run again almost since I crossed the finish line. It feels like an itch my body needs to scratch. I've never recovered from a 100 this fast. I owe this to a great training block.

2. The fog

This one is stranger.

I remember everything from the race itself. Every climb, every aid station, every tums. But the 72 hours after the finish are spotty in memory.

We rented an Airbnb in Garden City to celebrate and rest, and there are whole moments from those days I don't remember at all. Yesterday I called a friend to tell him about the race. He told me I'd already called him about 12 hours after I finished. I didn't believe him. I had to check my phone records. The call was there, but I have no memory of it.The last four days have blurred together. Time passed, but I couldn't put events on a timeline.

From what I've read, this can be fairly common after a long endurance event and a serious lack of sleep, and it's already clearing up as I catch up on rest. But I've never experienced anything like it.

Thank You

No one runs 100 miles alone. Big thank you to my crew (with the nicknames I created):

Lucy ("Sunny"): for putting up with six months of early alarms, long weekends, and me always either running or talking about running. None of this happens without you.
Nancy ("Chief") & Steve ("Weatherman"): A+ crew support. Fast, organized, and always a step ahead of what I needed. A happy crew = a happy runner.
Kylie ("Queen Bee"): happy 2nd birthday. Thanks for spending it cheering on Daddy.
Ben ("Doc"): for 26 strong miles and for returning the favor. Here's to many more adventures.
Matt ("Crystal"): who flew from Boston to beautiful Utah, then paced me entirely in the dark and drove to the airport entirely in the dark. He saw basically none of it. I think it's time for a new nickname: Nightcrawler. 😂

Boston Marathon - A Different Type of Hurt

May 04, 2024 by Davis Cutter

At mile 26 of the Boston Marathon, you turn right on Hereford St., then a left on Boylston. You have .2 miles left at the most iconic marathon in the world. Fans are cheering at a deafening volume on both sides of the street. For the last 26 miles you’ve been within arms reach of spectators. But, on this final stretch, barriers keep them at a distance. You’re on your own, stomping the double yellow. You can feel the weight of a thousand eyes, the moment where anyone becomes someone. You’re center-stage and the spotlight is on.

You want to take it all in, so you glance out your periphery, latching onto cheers, allowing them to propel you the final steps. But, nothing is clear, it’s a blur of clapping hands. Your eyes remain fixed straight ahead, gazing at the yellow and blue FINISH.

Many runners cherish these final moments of the Boston Marathon, immortalizing them in memory. Yet, as I reflect, all I can think about is the pain, and how desperately I wanted the race to be over. I’ve run many races in my life, but Boston 2024 hurt different.

I’ve spent the last week thinking more deeply about pain in running: how does it really feel? And why do we keep coming back?

Training
My training for Boston went...pretty great. Since I typically focus on trails and ultras, so this was actually my first training block where I put a legitimate focus on road marathoning. (3rd road marathon ever).

Things kicked off in Thailand in December with heat and humidity training. The miles come easy when you’re exploring new places. When I came back to the U.S., I PR’d my half marathon—twice—first at the Vancouver Lake Half Marathon (1:115:47) and then the Portland Shamrock Half (1:14:40), which I surprisingly won. I was executing 2 workouts per week, consistently, and got myself a pair of Hoka Cielo x1’s. I was running a fairly consistent ~65 miles per week, and I felt ready to race. Things were clicking. I was actually running fast (for me).

Pacing:

One key difference between a marathon and 100 miler is heartrate and pacing. For better or worse, in marathon racing, you are enslaved to the numbers on your watch. Every MP workout , you are fighting and pushing to achieve a pace. For the final 2 months leading up to Boston, I was trying to figure out and dial my marathon pace would be…5:50? 5:55? 6:00? 6:02?

My marathon pace workouts hovered around these times. My COROS race predictor had me pegged at 2:31, which I knew was aggressive and suggested I’d do a fairly even-split after a near-PR on the first half. I was correct in assuming this was unrealistic.

I ended deciding I’d shoot shooting for 5:54 for the first half, which would put me in position to do a sub-2:35:00 if I felt good in the Newton Hills. My A-goal remained doing a sub 2:40.

Looking back, I think this was the right approach, but I should have taken into account the heat. Weather got up to nearly 70F, which slowed me down in the 2nd half. I do believe I was fit enough to run a sub 2:35 on a cooler day and flatter course.

Breaking down the pain:

The pain I felt in Boston wasn’t fatigue, and it wasn’t injury. It was what felt like “peak physiological capability”. Getting everything out of myself that I’m physically capable of for ~2 hours and 40 minutes. From a physiological perspective, this makes sense.

For context, my max heartrate is about 205 beats per minute, and my anarobic threshold is about 200 bpm. A few stats from my race:

Over 80% of the race was at “threshold” in Zone 4 (between 184 - 200 bpm).
My average heartrate was in the high 180’s. For added context, for a 90 minute period in the middle of the race, (15 miles) I had an average heartrate of 191. That’s 93% of my maximum HR!
At one point during every mile my heartrate reached at least 197 bpm.

What this means was that I was near, or at, my aerobic capacity for nearly the whole race. It was my peak physiological fitness on that day. It’s a different type of hurt. You want to stop. You want to walk. You want to do anything other than continue running.

This also gives me a good understanding of my strengths and weaknesses as a marathon runner. I have the ability to endure ~2hrs and 40 minutes of threshold running. This is a good thing, and is typically what elite runners are capable of. That said, if I want to improve my marathon time, I need to “raise my ceiling” and increase my aerobic capacity.

This is incredibly different from a 100 mile race. While yes, I am pushing myself to my limits in a 100 mile race—it’s much more in a mental capacity. Most of 100 milers are run in Zone 2; for the first 70 miles your pace could be equivalent to a Sunday morning social run with friends, and true racing doesn’t begin until the late stages.

Giving a few high-fives to my nieces and nephews at mile 14

People often ask me the difference between a marathon mile race and 100 mile races. I realized is that marathoning is about reaching your peak physiological capabilities: it’s more of a scientific equation to hit certain paces within certain heart-rate/effort thresholds. 100 mile races are a question of troubleshooting and resourcefulness. They’re very different.

What I’ve come to realize s that I simply love the variety of feelings that each distance and surface offers. A trail 100 miler feels and hurts differently than a mile repeats on a track.

Runners love to suffer — suffering means improvement. And while pain comes along with suffering, I’m a better runner knowing how and why we feel different types of pain. I’m ready to keep improving.

Boston Marathon 2024
2:39:23
412 / 26,491

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Oregon Cascades 100 & 2023 Recap

September 05, 2023 by Davis Cutter

Mile 82 at the Oregon Cascades 100. Photo credit James Holk & Alpine Running

2023 was a great season, capping it off with a win at the Oregon Cascades 100 on August 26th! It feels good to get my first 100 mile win at such a fun and beautiful race.

Since OC100 was (likely) my final race of 2023, I’m going to recap the full season here, with a longer focus on the OC100.

Kicking things off at Boston Marathon:

My season started at the Boston Marathon in April. Having grown up in Boston, I’ve spectated the race several times, but hadn’t run it myself. So, this was was a long-time-coming. I usually shy away from road marathons and gravitate toward trail & ultras, so this was only my 2nd road marathon (qualifying in Bergen, Norway last year). I’ve complained about the challenge of living in Amsterdam and trying to train for mountain events, but it served me just fine for the Boston course.

I had a shortened training block following my wedding & honeymoon in January. After traveling to Boston a few days before the race, I had a strong run, setting a PR with a 2:47. I certainly felt in the minority in wave 1 without any (carbon-plated) supershoes (I sported Topo Ultrafly’s…and I think I’ll have to make the Supershoe investment for the next road marathon I do). Perhaps Boston 2024?

Running Boston was also a humbling experience. I’m used to being toward the front of the pack at ultra events, but coming in 1,000th+ place in Boston was a nice reminder of the shear number of great runners out there.

My nieces and newphews sporting custom “love you to the sky Uncle Davis” t-shirts 🥰

Exploring the Austrian Alps

The Boston Marathon gave me some solid foundational legspeed heading into “ultra season” where I’d need to start logging some longer days. In May I headed to the Austrian Alps, specifically to the Kaiser Mountains. I circumnavigated Kaisers, also known as the the “Kaiser Crown” route, which took a total of 4 days, 88.7 miles and 19,956ft of gain (6,082m). It was gorgeous.

I highly recommend this route for runners/hikers of all skills, as it has great hütte system to provide support throughout, and easy access from Munich! I’m grateful to have run in some incredible places in the world… The Austrian Alps just might take the top spot.

Final day of the Kaiser Crown route

Longest Day 100k - Spa, Belgium

The Kaiser Crown set me up well for the kickoff of my first ultra of the year, The Longest Day 100km in Spa, Beligum. It was one of the first hot days of summer, and many of us were not well acclimated to the heat.

One thing I learned from The Longest Day 100km was that I needed to dial-in my hydration plan. Race-day ended up being the first hot day of summer, registering a surprising 87 degrees farenheit (30c). This wasn’t my A-race for the season, but was a good warm-up, and reminder how disciplined you need to be to execute a full-day effort.

Startline at Longest Day 100km in Belgium

When I crossed the finish line in 11 hours in 5th place, I realized I had been consuming close to 2 liters of water per hour (!) and had only urinated once —at mile 10. I didn’t urinate once for the last ~9 hours of the race. From a physiological standpoint, this had to mean that I was sweating nearly 2 liters per hour.

I’ve felt confident in my nutrition plan during races for several years now, but my fluid and electrolyte intake has been mostly dictated by feel and instinct. I knew that intense exercise without urinating for 4+ hours time implied I was likely dehydrated. It was time to get more calculated. I didn’t adequately understand fundamental data to inform my hydration plan: how much I was sweating in varying temperatures, how much sodium was in my sweat, how much water I should be drinking, or what product(s) I should be using. These were all mostly unknown.

The day after The Longest Day, I signed up for a sweat test with Precision Hydration to determine how much sodium I am losing (per liter of sweat). This has proven to be invaluable. I now know that I sweat 676mg of sodium per liter of sweat (which makes me on the lower end of the sweater spectrum).

Prior to understanding this data, I was simply under-utilizing electrolytes…and for the products I was using, the sodium concentration was quite low. I am now precise with my electrolyte intake, and used a combination of the PH500 tablets and 250mg capsules during the Oregon Cascades 100.

Plantar Pain:

After running a “The Longest Day 100km” in Belgium in early June, I came down with plantar fasciitis. For runners that have dealt with PF, it’s not an injury you can “run through”. The injury is finicky…the most painful steps of each day are the first ones…and then it loosens up. Running can “feel” good, but ultimately cause more damage.

I ended up taking 10 days off from running in mid-June, and mixed in biking to stay fit. I spent a lot of time with Pieter and his team at The Art of Physio in Amsterdam, and went to the gym 5x per week for strength training. “Strength” might be a stretch of a term here….I was mostly doing toe yoga, calf raises, and stability work. I stayed away from the heavy weights, focusing on the small muscles in my foot, calf and ankle that would enable my plantar to heal.

After about 7 weeks, the PF was mostly gone, but pain had shifted into my pinky toe. I continued with lower mileage than I would have liked leading up to a 100 miler, but tackled several 4-6 hour runs that made me feel confident I was fit enough to toe the start-line.

The week leading up to Oregon Cascades 100, my pinky toe was still bothering me. It wasn’t until 1-2 days before the Oregon Cascades when the fact that I realized this was likely a case of athlete’s foot, and had nothing to do with my plantar fascia at all. I applied medication and the athlete’s foot healed up…but it was a good lesson in understanding even the smallest ailments can cause major stress leading up to a race.

Final Training Block:

Lucy and I packed up and left The Netherlands for good on August 1st. This was a bittersweet moment; spending the last 4.5 years in Amsterdam has been incredible, but we’re also excited for our next chapter to travel and experience the world together for the next ~6 months!

My last 3 weeks in The Netherlands were focused on two things: our international move, and running. In our final 3-weeks, I took 6 trips on a 90-minute train (one way) to find the closest “hill”. I got to know this hill, called the Posbank, very well over the past few years. I know every dip and curve, every undulation of the trail. It was fitting that I’d spend so much time with this old friend before departing the country. It was like saying goodbye to a wise old soul.

I even created a Strava segment for this infamous “dutch mountain” loop before leaving. If you live in the Netherlands, go and find it!

It’s safe to say I was ready to be done sitting on trains when August 1st came, and we were USA-bound!

My core training ground for the Oregon Cascades 100. It’s a 90 minute train ride from Amsterdam.

We donated a big portion of our belongings before leaving The Netherlands. And in typical Amsterdam fashion, we had to move everything out through our window!

Our last night in Amsterdam. We will miss our canal walks!

Oregon Cascades 100:

Lucy and I spent the month of August visiting family in Boston and Portland, respectively, before traveling to Sisters, Oregon for the race.

When we arrived to Sisters on Monday before the race, we were greeted by dense smoke from wildfires near Eugene. The Air Quality Index (AQI) was reading between 500-700 on Monday and Tuesday. The race directors said they’d wait until the last minute to decide if the race was on…but anything over 150 AQI they’d have to make some “tough calls”.

5 days before the race…just outside of Sisters. AQI was around 500

Luckily, the wind direction was in our favor, and by Thursday morning, things had cleared up! I appreciate the race directors for their communication on this topic, it was very well handled!

How quickly the air can change! Race morning, somewhere near Bend. Photo credit James Holk & Alpine Running

Pre-race crew meeting - ready to roll with the best crew out there!

Miles 1-30:

The race kicked off at 6am. My plan for the race was to start conservatively for the first 20 miles, most of which are uphill. The gradients of 2-4% can fool you easily, and make you think you’re not working as hard as you actually are. I monitored my heart rate and breath to keep things in control.

I let 20+ runners go ahead in the early miles of the race, and felt comfortable with this from a competitive standpoint. I was confident in my plan, and actively tried to avoid thinking about what “place” I was in until mile 70, because it’s all irrelevant until then.

Looking back at the splits, I was in about 15th place by mile 15.

Somewhere near mile 10 (in the middle). Photo credit James Holk & Alpine Running

It started to get hot around 10am, but I knew I wouldn’t see my crew for another 2.5 hours, which meant I couldn’t apply my cooling strategy (ice vest + ice hat + cold water + sunscreen + carry an extra bottle of water) as early as I’d have liked to. I planned for this, however. So, I slowed down a bit, and focused on eating and drinking.

Photo credit James Holk & Alpine Running

Elevation profile

Course profile. There’s 12,000 feet of elevation gain packed into the first half of the course, with a 30-mile net downhill finish. All on smooth and buttery Oregon singletrack!

15 total aid stations, 5 of which have crew access.

Miles 30-70:

At mile 31.9 there’s a non-crewable aid station, and I loaded up on ice and pouring water all over myself. Interestingly, I noticed the the ice bag seals had yet to be broken, indicating nobody ahead of me had utilized ice for cooling.

The first crew point is at mile 36, which was a nice energy boost. I had an INCREDIBLE crew who were efficient, relaxed, and most importantly had FUN all day. A happy crew = a happy runner. A big thanks to Nancy, Steve, Anne, Bill and Lucy!

My pit stops at aid got faster and faster throughout the day…I’m estimating I spent an average of 30-60 seconds at each non-crewable aid station, and 90-120 seconds at each crewable station. Aside form this, I did not stop moving all day. Not once! Tiny breaks add-up: to urinate, catch your breath, reposition your pack, or daydream. Adopting the mentality of “every second counts” from a 1-mile race, and applying it to a 100 miler, changes the overall approach.

My deliberate focus on continuous movement was a key differentiator from this 100 compared to others I’ve run. For the first time, I didn’t stop to pee, but rather urinated while walking/running. And it’s not the cumulative time that peeing takes that made me do this, but rather the focus on forward progress. I wasn’t willing to break my flow.

My fitness wasn’t that exceptional, but I was able to go places mentally where I’ve never been before. I had a deep, singular focus: complete the race as fast as possible, and learned a lot in the process.

Loading up on ice in my Naked vest + Salmon hat

At mile 49, Swampy Lakes, I arrived and Lucy had a serious look on her face…I knew something was wrong. She informed me that Riva, my all-star pacer set to join me at mile 84, had gotten into an accident and was in the hospital with a shattered collarbone. As such…I no longer had a pacer.

Everyone has a quintessential moment during a 100 miler where something unexpected arises; this was my moment. It took me a few seconds to register the information, and nodded “okay”, and then continued back onto the trail.

(As a note - I give Riva MAJOR kudos for still coming to cheer me on at mile 84 later in the day…bearing a sling, broken collarbone, and big smile on her face!)

If there was a low point in the day, it was climbing up to Dutchman aid station at mile 56. This was the hottest part of the day, and you climb about 2,500 feet over the 15-20 miles prior to reaching Dutchman. I consciously slowed my pace and focused on drinking, timing my fluid intake to finish my last drop as I arrived into the next aid station, avoiding carrying extra weight.

When I arrived at Dutchman aid station, (mile 56) I was told I was in 2nd place (which was news to me). I didn’t want to know where I stood competitively at this point in the race, so I essentially ignored this information and kept to my race plan. That said, I do remember them saying the gap was 13 minutes to the leader.

I chugged mountain dew and grabbed more electrolytes + gels. From here, the goal was simply “get to mile 70” where the race actually started, in my mind.

Over the next 15 miles, the leader doubled his lead on me. As I arrived to Rock Creek at mile 66, the gap was 24 minutes.

Miles 70-100

At mile 73 Park Meadows, the aid station volunteers told me the gap was 26 minutes between me and the leader. I was pretty surprised I was losing so much time, because I felt like I was moving decently well. Nonetheless, I had made it to mile 70, and it was time to start pushing!

At mile 74, you start a lonely descent into Sisters from Bend. The sun was setting, so we had some reprieve from the heat, but the smoke was rolling back in.

I pushed hard in this section. I was glad I used 2 headlamps (one on my head, one on my waist), because the trail was a bit overgrown and technical. I could use all the light I had. Still, I took 4-5 falls on this section, stubbing a toe on a rock or root. I slowed down after falling, not wanting to risk further injury.

Descending down into Sisters, somewhere near mile 80. Photo credit James Holk & Alpine Running

That’s me! Descending to Sisters, around mile 80. Photo James Holk & Alpine Running

At mile 84 I saw my crew at aid station “1514”. I knew I had just finished a strong section of running, and I was feeling great! My crew told me I was 13 minutes behind…the race was on! I slammed some mountain dew and ran briskly back into the darkness…

Finally, around mile 92 I saw a headlamp in front of me. The leader at the time, Travis, had been in the lead throughout the day, and ran a great race. I decided to skip the aid station at mile 92, and surge past Travis into the lead. Skipping the aid station was almost a strategic error, because I ended up without water until mile 95.6, where I’d see my crew for the final time. Luckily, I was able to hold things together until I got more water, and then pushed to the finish line…

Last lap around the track with Pops! Photo: Alpine Running

It was great to run the lap around the Sisters high school track with my Dad! I crossed the finish line in 18 hours and 1 minute. A new course record, which is nice, but I’m sure will be broken in the near future. I’m excited to see what other fast times will be put down on this course.

Lots of emotions spring-up when finishing any hundred. Gratitude, relief, and joy are top of mind.

In general, I felt less ‘broken’ upon finishing this race than any other in the past. Tired, for sure, but excited & proud of the achievement. To be surrounded by loving family was a special moment I’ll never forget.

When you’re so tired you don’t wake up from doggy licks 😂

Gear:

Topo Ultrafly 3 shoes

Salomon S/Lab Speed Bob Hat

Injinji Socks

Petzl Actik headlamp

Nathan Speeddraw Plus 22oz bottles

Naked hydration vest

Naked running belt

San Diego 100 (June 2022)

June 30, 2022 by Davis Cutter

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This was my best 100-miler I’ve executed to-date. I ended up coming in 3rd overall, which surpassed my expectations! It’s no coincidence that my training leading-up to this race was the most consistent, effective, and injury-free block I’ve ever had. It was also the longest training period (I was supposed to run SD100 in 2019…then it got cancelled twice due to COVID). 3 years of training is a long time!

Training:

My spring training-block was quite strong. I was consistently doing weekly mileage in the 80’s without getting injured or too fatigued.

In April, for my largest training weekend, I decided against my typical routine of running a 50-mile or 100k race 6-weeks prior to race day. Instead, I did a 2-day combo, of slightly shorter distance.

I wanted to focus on quality training vs. “junk miles”, and while I certainly could have done a 100k, this would have required longer recovery. Plus, the last 20-30 miles would have been at a very low aerobic pace. At the end of the day, all training should serve a purpose.

For the training weekend, I went to Bergen, Norway. On Saturday I attempted the Jubileumsstein FKT (35 miles with 9,000) feet of gain. I came nowhere close to the FKT — it was not nearly as runnable as I had thought. It was a fun and demanding 9 hours on the trail.

The next morning I ran the Bergen City Marathon, which was actually my first real “road marathon” race. I’ve been running competitively for many years, but never managed to sign up for an actual road marathon. So this was good to knock-off!

I finished the Bergen Marathon (a hilly course with 1600ft of gain) in 2:54, which was faster than I’d expected, considering the day prior. I felt strong the whole race and never had any low points!

This gave me a ton of confidence heading into San Diego. The fitness was there, I just needed to execute.

View on the Jubileumsstein (trail outside of Bergen, Norway).

Marathon in Bergen - Lucy ran too and crushed it!

Heat and Hill Training:

As I’ve discussed in previous race reports, one of the inherent challenges of living in the Netherlands (flattest country in the world) is the lack of hills. I did many runs near Maastricht (southern Netherlands) where I could find Dutch “mountains”.

On one occasion, I traveled 90 minutes by train for a 124-foot hill.

In addition to hill training, I focused on heat training in the sauna. Temperatures in San Diego were roughy 80F (27c), but ‘felt like’ closer to 90 (32c) during the day. The course is exposed—there is no shade or coverage anywhere on the course.

From a physiological standpoint, one mistake many people make is heat acclimating too early in the training cycle, or not being consistent enough. I only did 11 days of heat training; this entailed sitting in a 195F sauna for as long as I could (usually 15-20mins), ideally post-exercise when the core body temperature is already elevated.

I positioned my 11 days of heat training consecutively, right before I left for San Diego. It’s tough, but effective! I believe this was an ideal acclamation period, and prepared me well.

I also invested in a Naked Vest that served as an ice-vest during the hottest 7 hours of the day. This proved to be very effective in the heat! In other words, I literally carried ~5 pounds of ice on my chest and back, which I refilled every aid station.

Overall, I had no issues with heat throughout the day, and I credit this to my heat training and cooling strategy.

Ultrarunning coach, David Roche, recently commented on this in his Western States takeaways (#6). 100-mile athletes are coming more prepared for heat than ever before. We’re getting smarter on how to handle the heat…and it’s impacting the faster finish times and falling records that we’re seeing across the sport.

Pre-race:

The San Diego 100 takes place in Cuyamaca, California. I stayed in an old mining town called Julian, about 20-minutes from the start line. I arrived in Julian 4 days before the race, which gave me ample time to adjust to the time difference from Amsterdam, and enjoy some of Julian’s world-famous pie. And plenty of pizza.

The San Diego 100 course is very crew-friendly. I was able to see my crew a total of 7 times throughout the day. It boasts 13,600 feet of elevation gain — a hilly, yet “runnable” course, which played to my strengths.

The “conga line” at the start of the race. The field spread out by mile 2.

Race Recap

“Keep it Smooth, Stupid!”

This was my mantra. I wrote it on my water bottle and said it out-loud countless times throughought the day.

In terms of race strategy, my coach and I had discussed keeping the pace chill for the first ~58 miles. I focused on nutrition and hydration. I was consuming 25-30oz of water per hour, and nearly 300 calories. During the first 6 hours of the race I was urinating twice per hour, which was getting me a bit concerned of hyponatremia, so I increased my salt intake. This balance of salt/water is something I need to work on perfecting in future races.

In the beginning of the race I let a group of 15-20 runners go ahead of me in the beginning, allowing a 5-10 minute gap open between myself and the lead pack for the first 20 miles.

Miles 35-40 are considered the hardest on the course. You work through Noble Canyon and there’s a single climb where you ascend nearly 2,000 feet. Most runners cover this section during the hottest part of the day.

During that Noble Canyon section I passed about a dozen runners. Shortly after, all of a sudden, someone at an aid station mentioned I was in third place. I felt strong and kept repeating: “Keep it Smooth, Stupid!” to myself. Still a long way to go.

Around mile 58 you join into the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) and there’s an 8-mile downhill to to Cibbett’s Flat aid station. This stretch of singletrack is mostly smooth train, so you can get into a solid groove and open up the pace. It’s incredibly remote and scenic. I passed a few PCT thru-hikers; for awhile, it felt like I was out on a Saturday run by myself—no race, no other runners.

In terms of race strategy, I had circled this part of the course to start pushing…if I felt good. And I did. So, I learned forward, and pushed.

I went hard on that downhill, and arrived to Cibbett’s Flat thinking I had put a major gap between myself and the rest of the field behind me…however, as I arrived, I looked behind me and saw another runner just 30 seconds behind. I was gutted. I had “burned a match” and in dire need of recovery miles.

I saw my crew at Cibbett’s, spent probably 1 minute in the aid station, and then turned around and went right back up the same 8-mile section of the PCT. I was immediately passed by the runner who stayed with me on the downhill, which put me in 4th place. I was sunk; this was the lowest point in my race. For the next two hours, I hiked hard up the hill, climbing 2-3k feet, knowing that my podium chances were slim.

But, hundred milers are long races. Anything can happen over 30+ miles!

The race turns right back up the same trail—the PCT—and ensues an 8-mile climb back up. The sun was setting, and I had picked-up a long-sleeve shirt and 2 headlamps at the aid station. At the aid station, I had tied the shirt around my waist because I didn’t want to waste time. This ended up as a foolish decision; for the next two hours I kept the shirt around my waste — too stubborn to stop and put it on. Finally, 2 hours later, I was so chilled that I stopped for 30 seconds to put the shirt on (over my pack), which warmed me up. Lesson here: body warmth is worth sacrificing 30 seconds.

Nightfall:

At nightfall, the desert was blanketed by an ominous darkness. After months of thinking about heat—the sun was suddenly gone. Any runners still on the trail had survived it. I’ve described this before, but my favorite part of running 100 miles is your relationship to the sun. There is something unique about doing one continuous thing—from sunrise, to sunset—without stopping.

The trail twisted and turned, and a howling wind came about. I saw some bopping headlamps above, below, and in the distance—but it was impossible to determine how far. Could have been a half mile, could have been 5 miles…based on where the trail goes. The light ahead could have been a car headlight. Could have been a shooting star. Could have been a runner behind me. Every light I saw was a question: Who? How far? What is it?

After awhile, the questions faded, and I was left in solitude. Just me, the runner. All I could see were the rocks and dirt below my feet. There was just enough light to frighten the dozens of scurrying desert mice around me, each one franticly dodging my footsteps, diving into their holes, only to be disturbed by the next runner on the trail.

The Chase:

When I got to mile 71 aid station (Dale’s Kitchen), I was told I was “7 minutes” back. The following aid station it was “6 minutes”, I started getting hopeful. I started to feel stronger.

At mile 84 (Pioneer Mail 2 aid station) I picked-up my pacer, Dan Friedman. Dan is an old friend who lives in San Diego—and while he’s not an avid runner, I knew he’d be up for the challenge of running through the desert in the middle of the night! Admittedly I knew Dan had no idea what he was getting himself into…but I knew he’d love it regardless. Always good to have friends like this.

I arrived to Pioneer Mail and immediately asked how far ahead 3rd place was. “2 minutes” I was told. Later on, my father said this was mostly to motivate me (the gap was closer to 4-5 minutes), but he knew exactly what to say. I flew out of the aid station with a surge of energy. I was racing. And I didn’t stop until we hit the finish line.

2 miles later we caught the 3rd place running and put-on a big surge. We were racing, not just running.
This is somewhat rare to be “racing” this late into a 100-mile race - but it was a blast. And race tactics get important here…every 30-seconds I asked Dan to cover his headlamp with his hand and look behind us to see the distance we’d gained. Strategically, I didn’t want our headlamps to be seen.

Heading into the final aid station — mile 91 (Sunrise 2) — I thought I was in a comfortable third place. We couldn’t see the runner behind us. I grabbed some water and flew out of the aid station in less than 30 seconds.

But, the race wasn’t over….

At mile 96, Dan was running behind me and whispered: “I see a headlamp.”

“How far? I asked.”

“Right behind us.” he responded.

The 4th runner caught up to me again! I was blown away. We were stride-for-stride. Mile 97. The race was ON! This is what why we do what we do, and what I visualize in training.

I once again opened up the stride. Adrenaline hit. It was in these moments I could feel my fitness from all the training I had done…every incline I pushed a little harder, trying to drop the runner behind me.

I was asking more and more from my endurance engine…I kept revving harder and harder. My body responded—I was able to push and things were “clicking” again.

Finish:

The fastest mile of my entire day was mile 99: 8 minutes and 12 seconds. That tells you something about the power of the human mind and body.

I finished in 20 hours and 10 minutes. Pure joy and emotion sprung out of me.

I will add that this finish did feel different than other 100-mile finishes. Physically, I felt less “broken” at the end. I was immensely exhausted, but I was not injured in any way. I had just run the fastest miles of my day, and I felt more of a “runners high” vs. an overwhelming sense of disbelief of what I had accomplished. The 100 mile distance no longer intimidates me; it’s a matter of how well I can execute it.

My recovery was also faster than ever before; I was walking without a limp 24 hours after the race, and able to run without gate-alteration within 3 days. I credit this to my sound hydration and nutrition. I was hydrated and well fueled the entire day, which prevented break-down. Every bit matters!

Dan’s medal upon finishing: “My runner dropped me at the SD100” 😂 Thank you Angela!

My pacer, Dan, all smiles after finishing!

Obligatory finish-line photo of the feet.

Thank you:

A big thanks to Angela and BJ of the SD100 for putting on such a great event. It was worth waiting 3 years for, and an amazing “destination” race to attend!
Thanks to Scott Traer at RunFastah (who just finished 10th at Western States 100!). Wouldn’t have had the fitness and confidence without your support and coaching.
Thanks to Pieter and Ramon at the Art of Physio in Amsterdam for keeping me healthy!
My crew: the best in San Diego!

Gear:

Topo Ultrafly 3 shoes

Salomon S/Lab Speed Bob Hat

Injinji Socks

Petzl Actik headlamp

Nathan Speeddraw Plus 22oz bottles

Naked hydration vest

Grateful Dead Buff

52 Marathons | 52 Weeks (Nov 2021)

November 25, 2021 by Davis Cutter

The Beginning

I woke up on October 10th, 2020 on a farm, in a small Dutch town called Littele. It’s a quiet place, home to 580 people, in the middle of the Netherlands. Lucy, my fiancee, and I were escaping Amsterdam for the weekend, staying-in a little trailer that didn’t have heat. I was freezing.

I scooted out of my warm sleeping-bag, peered out the window, and looked onto a vast green field. The morning dew twinkled on-top the grass. I wiped away condensation on the window so I could get a better view of the rising sun. A few cows glared back, then went back to their business. I put my feet on the floor, and grabbed my running shoes.

“Good day for a run,” I thought to myself.

I ran 26.2 miles that day. I didn’t know it then, but this was the beginning of an adventure. And like most good adventures, I fell into it, without intention, and then just kept going…and going…and going…

Marathon #1. Impromptu in the Sallandse Huevelrug national park in the Netherlands.

In October 2020, the Netherlands went into a country-wide lockdown due to the rise of COVID-19 cases. All essential businesses, restaurants, and stores were closed. Not knowing if the lockdown would get any more strict (e.g. if we would not be able to leave our apartment), Lucy and I rented a car and escaped to nature—about 2 hours East of Amsterdam.

After I ran the first impromptu marathon, I thought to myself: “that was fun! Maybe I should do another next weekend…” So, I started dreaming-up a project.

I had been inspired by Michael Ortiz’s “game of hundos”: 100 100-milers in 100 weeks (I happened to meet Michael for a brief moment during the Javelina 100). I drew solace in the fact that Michael was an ordinary guy doing extraordinary things. He isn’t a professional runner. He has a full-time job, things to deal with, but made no excuses in his pursuit of his goal.

My project only scratches the surface of what Michael achieved, and without any crazy race logistics. Nonetheless, the best part about doing a personal running project is you are the referee. You design the rules, you enforce them, and you hold yourself accountable.

My rules that I outlined in October 2020:

I must run 52 marathons in the next 365 days.
- I will aim for one per week. If, by chance I am injured or sick, I can do a “make-up” marathon. “When” I complete is less important than completing 52 marathons in 52 weeks.
The marathons do not have to be official, organized races. This would be challenging regardless because most races are cancelled due to COVID.
If I run more than a marathon distance (e.g. 50 miles), it only counts as 1 marathon.
The marathon must be in a single, consecutive run attempt (for example, I cannot do 10 miles in the morning, have lunch, then go and do an additional 16 miles).

Overall, looking back, these rules went well. I got sick in March 2021 (non COVID illness), and missed two marathons, which I made-up. Other than that, I had no substantial injuries, and was able to complete the 52 marathons. Saturday mornings became my de-facto marathon time, and I cherished every moment. I should mention that for the first half of 2020 I was also training for the San Diego 100, (which ultimately got cancelled) but my marathon project doubled as a training mechanism for that race.

Below is the story and the details of how the year progressed.

This was the *first* windmill I ran past during my year-long project. Throughout my 52 marathons (42 of which I ran in the Netherlands), I ended up with *hundreds* of windmill photos. There’s something crisp, eloquent, and timeless about these structures.

🍂 Fall 🍂

Every Single Canal

With a year of marathoning, you need to keep things interesting. In fact, this goes for any runner of any distance. Stuck in a rut? Change your route, change your music (or turn if off), run with a friend, change your speed, run somewhere new or run around your neighborhood.

The best runners are often the most routined and disciplined. Yet, even the most successful runners need variety.

I had been introduced to the concept of city-street-running by Rickey Gates’ #everysinglestreet project, a chronicle of his run-venture through every. single. street. in San Francisco. I was intrigued by the photos, the experience, and the creativity of the challenge. I’ve lived in Amsterdam for over two years, but how well did I really know the city? How much have I explored, or had I shied away from the lesser-known parts? Have I seen every canal? How many millions of bikes could I encounter? These questions starting flying through my mind.

For those familiar with Amsterdam, there is an “inner ring” and an “outer ring”. The inner ring is the more picturesque and famous area, decorated by beautiful canals, lights, and a colorful trees. It’s also home to the Red Light District, and the mischievous unberbelly in Amsterdam’s city-center. For my project, I decided to run “every single street”, (which I personally renamed to #everysinglecanal) of the inner-ring of Amsterdam.

The Fall of 2020 will forever be a month of zig-zagging through Amsterdam, holding a map and highlighter. It was an experience I’ll never forget, that took me to every nook-and-cranny the city offers.

Behind the scenes #eversinglecanal planning.

For most of my #everysinglecanal marathons, I had to carry a paper map and highlighter to figure out what I had/hadn’t run yet. Preventing double-backing is harder than you’d think.

Most people don’t know the Red Light Disctrict in Amsterdam has some of the most beautiful architecture in the city. I was lucky enough to explore this area on a few marathons with no tourists around.

Final product: I’ve run (nearly) every single canal/street of the inner-ring of Amsterdam! I’ll admit, I missed a few streets in Amsterdam East. Unfinished business. You can find the interactive map here.

❄️ Winter ❄️

As darkness descended on Amsterdam in the winter, my project continued. Mostly with a headlamp in the dark. I kept-up 5-6 days of running per week, typically placing my marathon on Saturday mornings.

As Christmas vacation came, Lucy and I decided to rent a van and drive to Switzerland. En route, I continued the marathon streak, and finally got to play around in the mountains I desperately missed!

One of my favorite photos from the whole year. Marathon #12 in Interlaken, Switzerland. Photo taken on my iPhone X.

🌼 Spring 🌼

Coming back to the Netherlands after our van trip, I missed the mountains, but it was time to hone-in my training for the San Diego 100 (which still hadn’t been cancelled, yet).

As a tune-up run, in March, I decided to attempt the Fastest Known Time of the Schipbeekpad, starting in Germany, and ending in The Netherlands. This is a 50-mile trail, which follows alongside a beautiful man-made canal, which actually used to be a cheese transport route between the two countries. It was a great day, a solid effort, and I ended up setting the FKT. It’s a very fast, flat, and runnable route, so I’m sure it’ll get broken soon. The route is not competitive, and it’d be great to see what times the elites could put down. A hidden gem in NL if someone is looking for a fun route!

After the Schipbeekpad, I continued my prep for San Diego, and also continued the marathon project. I was excited to come away with the FKT, so I set my sights on another route called the Krijtlandpad in the Netherlands, which covers 57 miles (92km) and 8,200 ft of gain. The route starts and ends at the train station in Maastricht; in the southern part of the country, this boasts some real “hills” and covers a world-famous cycling area. It was a great run and awesome route, but the execution didn’t go as well. I was undertrained for the hills, and ended up dropping at mile 44, still smiling from a strong training run.

At the start of the Krijtlandpad. Train station in Maastricht

Fun trails - all day!

☀️ Summer ☀️

As summer rolled-in, the sun was setting later, and the miles ticked-by. My fitness was strong, and the marathons became routine. The marathons were easier than ever, and I wasn’t sore after. Finally, I got notice the SD100 was cancelled, so I set my sights on a local ultra in the Netherlands called the Veluwezoom. This was a 2-day event through the Veluwezoom national park: 11km Saturday morning, 25km on Saturday afternoon, and then 60km on Sunday.

Veluwezoom 2-day & 3-race event. Ended up with the overall W! Fun to be racing again.

Sprint finish on day-1! Lots of fun.

3 Sisters Loop:

In August, we made our way to Oregon (where Lucy is from). I put my focus on preparing for another adventure run: The 3 Sisters Loop, a magnificent 60 mile circumnavigation through some of the Paciifc Northwest’s most beautiful terrain. It boasts 8,000 feet of gain and travels through 5 different burn areas. I was blown away at the tranquility, tragedy, and rebirth happening in these burn areas. As an East coaster, this was new and different — something I’ll never forget. I was lucky enough to be crewed by a great support team — Lucy’s family, who drove a collective 6 hot hours with no cell service, just to give me a coca-cola and a hug at the halfway point. Both felt great and picked-up my spirits.

Other highlights:

The summer adventuring wasn’t over. In the next few months, I completed marathons in France, Spain, Belgium, Denver, and Boston! For many of the runs, I was solo. For others, I was joined by friends and family. No matter where I was, I found new trails, new roads, and a whole lot to be grateful for. For each run I could tell a full story, but the pictures speak for themselves:

Ardennes, Belgium

Lucy and I got engaged at this lighthouse in Mallorca. This photo was taken minutes after.

Very happy!

Marathon #47 in Massachusetts with Ben

Sunrise marathon with my sister, Shelby, in France!

Marathon #51. Pre-work marathon. Just me & the Amstel. Beautiful morning

Post-run baguette ride with Steve

Ardennes, Belgium

Denver, Colorado. Marathon #46

Finish of Marathon #46 at Coors Field

Many people don’t know this, but there are plaques around Amsterdam (and many other cities) where people resided that were exterminated during the holocaust.

I stepped on dozens of these during my marathon project, and always took a moment to stop and read the names.

#52

Like all good stories, we come full circle. I woke up on October 9, 2021, in Amsterdam. It was a chilly morning, eerily similar to the one a year prior, although I wasn’t surrounded by cows. It had been a year of a pandemic and a year of running. I saw many new places, new things, but it certainly wasn’t a thrill every minute. But, looking back, it’s something that I’d like to build on. This seems like more foundation-building for something bigger. Maybe 50 50-milers is next?

I put my feet on the ground, and grabbed my running shoes.

“Good day for a run,” I thought to myself.

For the final marathon I was joined by friends in Amsterdam as we ran around Vondelpark. Great support team!

Here's a comprehensive list of all 52 marathons. Strava links included:

What I learned:

When I zoom-out and look at history, (read: I’m talking about the 4.5 billion year history of Earth) I’m not all that impressed with what I’ve achieved. I don’t mean that arrogantly, but if you put our human history into perspective, we’re actually relatively “new” in this world. And running 52 marathons in a year is laughably microscopic if we look at history holistically.

To paint this vividly: Imagine the history of Earth as a calendar year. Homo sapiens arrive on December 31st at 23:36:

Source: https://biomimicry.net/earths-calendar-year/

So, humans are new in this world. This is actually incredibly exciting to me, and shows the power of the human potential is only beginning to be unlocked. If you’ve read Sapiens or Human Kind, this isn’t new information for you. But it’s important to remember.

As an exercise, try to remember what you were doing on a random day and time earlier this year. Let’s say January 15th between 10:04am - 10:28:am. Do you remember any of it? Who you spoke to? What was said? Probably not. Well, that’s the entire history of the human race. Poof. That’s it. It’s an eerie reminder of how temporary our lives are, within the broader spectrum of time.

Now—let’s keep going and think about just the history of humans on Earth…the 400,000 years we’ve existed. In truth, we’ve been running forever. It’s not like running was created after the industrial revolution or something. If you’ve read Born to Run or Road to Sparta you’ll know this as well. It’s natural for us to run. Yes—even ultramarathons. We, as humans, run for survival, for food, for communication.

So when I reflect on my own runnings, I simply feel lucky to be born in a generation where I’m not spending my days hunting/gathering, fighting as a soldier, or ultrarunning as a means to deliver a message. The fact that I can run is a privilege and an opportunity. I get to run for enjoyment. Not for survival.

I often think of all the great achievements of runners, so far: the 4-minute mile, the 2-hour marathon…the list goes on. I will not be coming close to any of these records. And that’s okay. When you compare yourself to the history of Earth…or the human race, it can get daunting. But, after all, we can only operate within ourselves and our own potential. That’s what I’ll stay focused on.

The Best of:

Favorite Audiobook: “Rise and Fall of the Third Reich” by William Shirer

Most-played song: “Scarlet Begonias --> Fire on the mountain” by the Grateful Dead live @ Barton Hall May 8, 1977

Most scenic marathon: Tie between #12 in Interlaken, Switzerland and #40 in Oregon.

Most challenging marathon: Marathon #45 in Amsterdam. This was my third marathon in 3 different countries in 1 week, and did it on a Sunday evening after 7 hours of driving. I was tired.

Treadmill marathons: 1

Most memorable marathon: Marathon #35 in Mallorca, Spain. I had planned on proposing to Lucy at the end of the run, and had the ring in my ultra pack. She ended up getting into a moped accident (she’s okay), but I’ll never forget when she FaceTime’d me at mile 20. It threw-off the plan, but we ended up getting engaged the following day!

Ultra Pad Netherland (UPNL) FKT (June 2020)

June 04, 2020 by Davis Cutter

Scop-Swishh-Wishh; Scop-Swishh-Wishh

This was my metronome.

It was 4:30am. Darkness engulfed everything around me. Aside from a few hooting owls and screeches from animals scurrying over branches, all I could hear was the repeating scop-swishh-wishh from water I carried on my back. The water jumped like a giddy kid, but the sound ringed with intimidation from my ears to chest.

How long would my mind fixate on this sound? I was trying to stay calm and focused. There was a long day ahead.

The sound continued. Scop-Swishh-Wishh; Scop-Swish-Wishh.

I ran.

Looking back a few months, I never stopped running.

When a crisis hits, there are two options:
1. Become a winter frog and go into hibernation
2. Become a summer frog and play on lily pads

Frogs in the summer, hopping from pad to pad.

There are times for both. Depending on the situation, there are moments to conserve and retreat. There are also times to get out, adventure, and explore. While these scenarios my appear contrasting, they are, in fact, harmonious. It’s a delicate balance, but sometimes, you can do both. Hibernate in some areas, get out in others.

For many, the word “COVID” has been synonymous with hibernation. Since February, much of the world has been in a sate of hibernation—and rightly so. Many businesses have hibernated to stay afloat and preserve cash. We’ve been physically hibernating from other people. Those who have gotten ill have been hibernating for their health, and to protect others. These are all musts—the right thing. Hibernation is not “fun”. Enticing weekend activities are no more. The economy essentially shut down. Many have lost their jobs. Many have lost their lives.

A crisis puts extreme clarity on what’s important. It underscores Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, putting survival, family—whatever you cherish most at the foundation. You sacrifice the rest, simply because there is no other choice. You let it drop, perhaps never to be picked-up. And that’s okay.

So yes, sometimes there is no option, other than hibernation. Crises can strip us of choice. This is among many tragedies. However, for some, options do remain. It’s the things we refuse to sacrifice which we cherish most. Personally, I’ve been lucky to have choice in my life over the past few months. I’ve had the choice to become a summer frog, even in the “winter”—a time for hibernation.

I have certainly hibernated in some facets of my life. Socially, I’ve hibernated, and haven’t seen friends as often. I’ve stayed-put without travel, and even hibernated at work—focusing on core projects while de-prioritizing non-essential tasks. I’ve focused on cooking good food and having quality conversations. I’ve planned trips for when hibernation is over.

In other ways, I’ve continued to be a summer frog. Time has been a gift for many, including myself. More time with family, whether in-person or via video. Many have taken the opportunity of time to go through old photos, learn a new skill, or finally catch-up on stack of book recommendations that’s been growing for years. It’s time to get caught up. To slow down. Many have taken the time to protest, speak-up, write, or maybe just think a little more, or a little harder to make sense of it all. It’s the things we take on during a crisis that build resilience.

For me, running was something I never sacrificed. I kept going, kept running—leaping from lily pad to lily pad—exploring new things.

Fastest Known Time

What is an FKT?

I was originally planning on running the San Diego 100 on June 5th, which was cancelled due to COVID-19.

When the race was cancelled, I was deep into my training, and as such, I started looking for alternative running endeavors I could compete in—while keeping a social distance. An FKT stands for a “Fastest Known Time”. Fastestknowntime.com offers a wide variety of routes, from highly trafficked and competitive thru-hikes like the Appalachian Trail and the Nolan’s 14, to less-popular, shorter routes submitted every day. If you’re looking to learn more about how FKT’s were developed, you can read this article about Buzz Burrell (the founder), and tune into the Fastest Known Time podcast. Buzz is a great personality and ambassador within the sport of ultrarunning and has many impressive FKT’s to his name.

The Ultra Pad Netherland (UPNL) attracted me for a few specific reasons. First, the course ventures through three different national parks in the Netherlands and has a diverse offering of terrain and views. Second, the start-line is a 40-minute drive from where I live in Amsterdam. This made it easy logistically, and I didn’t have to travel to another country with borders closed. Lastly, in April I ran 50 miles on a training run, and it happened to cover parts of the UPNL course on my self-designed route. So, I was familiar with the beauty of the course, and knowing the twists & turns is always an added advantage.

Why attempt an FKT?

There are no screaming masses of fans at an FKT, no fancy start-lines with music, no robust aid stations, and certainly no festive beer tents. There are no sponsors, free swag, medals or trophies. There are no warm-up sessions with other runners, gear chat, friendly banter, or shared, communal suffering. There is no physical competition around you. Only the ghost of the Fastest Known Time.

The FKT is one of the purest experiences within the world of running, which attracted me. There is something exciting about waking up on a typical day and accomplishing something that no other human is attempting. It’s just you, and it all begins with the click of a watch. Then you’re off. Alone.

To navigate an FKT route, you do so yourself. This is commonly done by using a map, compass, or GPX file on a watch, phone, or some other device. Some FKT routes are marked trails; other routes, like the UPNL, are unmarked trails, or a combination of several trail systems, and therefore anyone attempting needs to use GPX to navigate. This added to the adventure, but also created room for error, which adds time. Every wrong turn (there were many) adds precious seconds to the ceaseless clock.

The Fastest Known Time of the UPNL was 20 hours and 59 minutes. I finished the route in 19 hours and 19 minutes.

There are a few unique pieces of the FKT format that I’ll reflect on here:

First, is there is a binary success/failure of the attempt. You either succeed, or you don’t. You either win or you lose. In a typical race, you have several goals, which could be based on time, position/rank, etc., and they can adjust throughout the race. For example, if you’re feeling poorly, maybe you try to beat the runner alongside you. Maybe you try to come in “top 20” instead of “top 10”. With an FKT, there are arguably no alternative options for success. Note: this depends on your goals heading-in, and depending on the individual, some FKT’s could be more relaxed or not an “A” goal to break the record, but rather just attempt it.
There is little to no external stimulus. Instead of running past other runners, I was running past a family out for a Saturday afternoon mountain bike ride. This is not nearly as motivating. While I typically don’t see myself as a runner that heavily relies on stimulation, I realized how much it can help. Going into the run, I decided I would not listen to music until mile 50, which would give me a ‘reward’, or something to look forward to. I followed this plan. When I plugged music in, it did give me a nice distraction and boost.
There is nobody to blame but yourself. There is full ownership and accountability with an FKT attempt. Make a wrong turn? Your fault. Screw up hydration? Your fault. Forget to pack something? Your fault.
While runners don’t consciously place blame on other people, it’s easy to say “oh the race director said they would have mountain dew at the aid station, but they didn’t”. Or, “my crew forgot to bring clean socks”. I think doing this FKT attempt made me more self-reliant and accountable as an athlete and runner. There is nobody to point the finger at.

The Route

The Ultra Pad Netherland (UPNL) trail is a 154.5km (96 mile) route with 3,500 feet of elevation gain. It connects three different national parks: the Utrechtse Heuvelrug, the National Park Veluwezoom, and the National Park Hogue Veluwe. All three of these different parks have distinct landscapes, flora and fauna.

Here is the original GPX file if you’re looking to attempt it. According to my Strava, I covered 99.4 miles with 3,619 feet of gain.

Notably, the UPNL is designed to be run specifically on June 21st, the summer solstice. With a “race track” format, you’re supposed to start at sunrise (5:18am) and stop a sunset (10:06pm), which provides 16 hours and 48 minutes to get as far as you can on the course (this does not include twilight hours - it is indeed “light” for significantly longer than 16 hours). Why this structure? It’s actually illegal to be in the woods after 10pm in the Netherlands, in order to give animals time to sleep, as I’ve been told.

I did not participate in this format for a few reasons. Frankly, I didn’t want to wait until June 21st to run the UPNL, and also figured I wouldn’t be running in the dark too long, since I was targeting a sub-20 hour finish. With twilight light, this meant only running in actual darkness for an hour or two. There have also been a number of other people who have run the course during the night. I was not the first. The previous record holder, Jaco de Ruiter, ran the course in the dark, as did the record-holder before him. However, I would encourage anyone thinking about running this course to take this into consideration. As an ex-pat, I’m not totally privy to these forest park laws. As the sun was setting around 9pm on the course, I ran into a hiker who was concerned he’d get a €400 ticket from the forest police for staying out past 10pm, which caused a downward spiral of negative thoughts in my own head. I never saw any police.

The UPNL starts and finishes at train stations: The Hilversum Sportpark Station and the Wezep Station. These are the official “start” and “finish” lines of the route, however you can choose to run in whichever direction you prefer.

I decided to start in Hilversum and run to Wezep, although the previous FKT attempts were done in the opposite direction. My reasoning is simple: I was more familiar with that direction, and had run several miles on the route, heading East, away from Amsterdam. This meant that the “hills” would come later in the day (see elevation profile below), although the gains are quite modest.

The course is quite flat for a 100-mile course. The Netherlands is not home to many hills. While this made it “easier”, I prefer more climbing. The few hills offered reprieve to the same muscle groups that were taking a beating all day: my ankles, knees and quads. Hills not only give you variety of terrain, but also allow your glutes & lower-back to absorb more stress.

Elevation profile of the UPNL. While it looks hilly in the latter half, the grade is never steeper than 3%, which makes the climbs manageable. The Netherlands does not offer many hills, so this course is quite flat.

Preparation:

There are several types of FKT’s you can attempt: Supported, Self-Supported, or Unsupported. Each category has its own record for each individual route. You can read about the specifics differences on the FKT site, but I opted for Self-Supported. This means that nobody could aid or assist me during my run. I had to support myself.

Navigation was a big piece of this preparation. Since I only had about five weeks to prepare for this specific run, I took a few trips out to the course, and was able to cover about 50 miles of terrain. While this helped, I still got lost several times on the parts I did not cover beforehand. If I had more time to prepare, I would have tried to cover the whole course beforehand, although this is hard to do without a car. Some areas are not near a train station.

The biggest challenge within the self-supported category is food and water. There are no rivers along the UPNL course, so I couldn’t fill-up water naturally along the way. There are a few gas stations and supermarkets near the course, although none are directly on it. While I could have planned to detour from the course to resupply for food and water, I knew this would cost valuable time. As such, I decided the best way to support myself with food and water would be to bury bags along the course before I started.

I identified 10 “aid stations” on along the course where I’d drop supplies. These were at, or nearby, a road crossing so it was accessible to drop supplies in a car during the day(s) prior. While some of the trail is fairly remote, it wasn’t too difficult to find places near a road.

An added bonus to this method, was I broke the race down into segments. This was a major mental win. Since there were no predefined aid stations, landmarks, or mountain peaks, I created my own “milestones”:

On Thursday before the run, I organized drop-bags to bury at the stops outlined above. Here is what it looked like:

Then, I tagged the trees of where I buried the bags. This ribbon is also glow-in-the-dark so it’d be able to reflect at night. Note: it took me over a month to find this ribbon since everywhere is sold out from COVID-19.

Luckily, no animals found the bags I hid.

Run Recap:

If this run were a book, the first chapter would be titled “Urination”.

Scop-Swishh-Wishh; Scop-Swish-Wishh.

I was carrying a lot of water. Within the first three hours of my run I urinated nine times. Yes, you read that correctly: nine times. While it ended up being a hot day (76°F / 24.4°C) I hydrated too much, too early. I was consuming 22oz / 600ml of water in those hours, not including water and coffee before I started. The temperature in the Netherlands doesn’t truly warm-up until after 12pm and the mornings are chilly. In the first hours of the run, I was hydrating as though it was already the heat-of-the-day, although it was still cool. Since I wasn’t sweating, my body needed to unload this liquid by urinating.

This was not ideal, and caused me to worry about hypnotremia (over-hydration) which is one of the most common reasons for ultrarunning DNF’s. Hypnotremia occurs when you drink too much fluid, and essentially cause your organs to ‘drown’ and cells to swell, and your kidneys are unable to dump-out the excess fluid. Since I was still urinating, albeit too often, I was comforted that I was still getting rid of excess liquid. However, I knew this wasn’t sustainable.

I slowed my fluid intake significantly between hours 3-6 of the run, until it got hot, when I started sweating more. To give context to how quickly the hydration spectrum can swing, 10 hours into the run my urine was as gold as The Queen’s crown (not good). Things can change very quickly, and you need to stay acutely in-tune to what is happening in your body.

In addition to over-hydrating early-on, I also struggled with nausea from caloric intake. One strategy I discussed with my coach was ‘getting ahead’ with calories early in the run. This is a common strategy, because if you get behind on calories it’s hard to play catch-up. If you’re behind, you’re too late. As such, I was consuming over 200-250 calories per hour in the first three hours of the run. This is a slightly higher volume than I trained with, and caused me to struggle digesting all those calories at once. This caused nausea, which makes you want to eat even less. This is a very common cycle in ultraunning (too many calories → gut can’t digest → nausea → can’t eat → can’t run → drop out).

I wanted to avoid this cycle, so I slowed my pace slightly, hoping to allow myself to spend more energy on digestion opposed to running. I also took one pepto bismol I was carrying. This worked well, and after two hours at a slightly slower pace, I was hit with a wave of hunger (good sign) and was eager to eat more, and move faster.

If anyone is looking for a good listen on this topic of caloric intake & ultrarunning, I highly recommend this podcast episode with Jason Koop and Nick Tiller.

Looking back, I should have trained with a higher caloric intake to “train my gut” to handle 200-250+ calories per hour. This is a common practice and I could have done a better job focusing on this during training. It is sometimes a strange practice to eat more than you need in training, and can feel silly when going out for a 3 hour training run to bring 7 gels, soda, and a bag of chips. However, an iron stomach is truly a secret weapon in an ultra, and nausea can end your day very quickly.

Making friends:

At mile 27 I merged onto a trail at the same time as another runner. A middle-aged Dutch man named Marc from The Hague, we started chatting and I learned he was heading to Rhenen. “Me too!” I exclaimed, “only a bit further!” (68 miles to be exact).

When I told him about the endeavor I was on, he said he was “honored” to share a few kilometers with me. I felt honored he said that.

We ran together for the next 5 miles into Rhenen and exchanged pleasantries about running, American politics, and life in the Netherlands. It was very nice to have some company and just the mental boost I needed. Although there were numerous trails to take into Rhenen, we just so happened to be taking the same exact route into Rhenen.

This interaction is called “trail magic”. Although “support” including a crew or pacer is not allowed during a self-supported FKT, this is allowed because I did not plan for it, and it happened naturally on the trail. Magic.

Thanks for the magic, Marc, and nice meeting you!

WWII History:
A notable part of the UPNL course is that it crosses through several World War II historical sites and fields. Specifically, this is part of the area where Operation Market Garden took place, which was a failed airborne attack by the allies to seize several key bridges in the Netherlands.

Wolfheze fields where the 1st British Airborne Division were dropped. Mile 42

This is a field in Wolfheze where over 2,400 British Paratroopers were dropped during Market Garden, part of the 1st Airborne Division. This was part of the famous “Battle of Arnhem” in 1944, as the allies were making their way from Normandy to Germany. Their objective was to immediately drop in this field and then head to aa bridge in Arnhem, about 10 kilometers away. Over 1,174 from the 1st British Airborne Division were Killed in Action during the battle of Arnhem.

Woeste Hoeve Memorial in Appeldorn. Mile 54

In addition to Market Garden history, I also ran past the Woeste Hoeve Memorial, which commemorates 117 people who were executed on March 18, 1945. These innocent people were killed because a group of Dutch resistance fighters tried to steal a German truck full of meat. After the truck was ambushed, one German survived, and a total of 274 men were executed as a retaliation. 117 were shot in the field I ran past.

As I ran through these fields, I forgot about the scop-swishh-wishh on my back. It didn’t matter anymore, there were more important things going on around me. Silence took over.

I continued to step forward in the fields—now endless acres of farmland—and looked up into the sky. It was perfectly blue. I couldn’t help but to imagine what it looked like 75 years ago, and the brave individuals who fell from the sky in this very spot.

30 - 70:

Miles 30-70 were full of ups and downs. While my stomach was feeling better, my mind was going in-and-out of the gutter. The heat was setting in, and it’s always a tough pill to swallow that you have such a long way to go with tired legs. This, once again, was a unique part of the solo FKT. In other races, I had crew, family, or other runners to pull me out of a hole. Here, I was alone. I started doing math in my head. While I knew I had a big buffer of time, a few hours can be lost quickly. There’s no room for “breaks” or sitting for 20 minutes. I needed to keep moving, and be in and out of every ‘aid station’ in less than 5 minutes. Fill up the water and go.

I specifically remember mile 52 being challenging. The words “this hurts” rung in my head as my feet dragged along the sand. I was shuffling and I needed to be running. As I widened my stride, the pain spiked for a few seconds, and then subsided. It’s truly incredible how pain can come-and-go so quickly and so often. A few miles later the pain returned—I was in the deep hole again. Then I’d dig out, and run forward…Ups and downs.

At mile 70 I started my caffeine intake with coca-cola and a caffeinated Cliff gel. While this was a nice boost of energy, it caused me to have diarrhea at mile 75, which I could tell was caused by the caffeine — a bit of a shock to the system. This meant an uncomfortable delay of 5-10 minutes, but once it was out of my system I felt much better. (By the way, it’s normal for running race reports to go into this level of detail, if you were wondering).

A hot, sandy path in the Hogue Veluwe. Somewhere around mile 65.

Finally, the sun started to set. There is a unique relationship between an athlete and the sun during a 100+ mile run. It’s your best friend and worst enemy. At the start, you wait patiently for the sun to rise with every step. You wait for light to creep-up between the trees. You look forward to clicking your headlamp off and enjoying the day.

Then, as the day progresses, heat begins to encapsulate every step. While you appreciate the daytime, your mind starts to drift, and look forward to the sun going away. “Just a few degrees cooler would be nice”. This was a repeated thought in my mind. But, sunset is far off. Eight more hours—a full workday. Seven more hours. Six. Three more.

Finally, it arrives. You feel it before you can see it. The breeze sneaks up your shirt and the sweat on your lower back dries-up. It’s pure relief. You made it. Looking up, you see the sun cresting below the trees and “golden hour” begins.

In this moment, the runner has won. The entire day, you’re fighting against heat and getting through the day. Once the sun begins to set, it’s the beginning of the end. It was in this moment I looked up at the sun and said, “I’m still here.”

Final Stretch

With 30 miles to go, I did the calculation and needed to average 18:30-minute miles to beat the current FKT. This was very doable since I was averaging anywhere from 9:45 - 12:00 per mile.

As a result, the final 30 miles of the race were slower than I’d hoped. The reason for this is quite clear to me: I became complacent, and comfortable with my pace, instead of keeping my foot on the gas.

It was hard to continue to push when I was in a lot of pain, by myself, with no external stimulation. The discomfort of running 70 miles was not new to me, but typically I had other runners, a crew or pacers to encourage me to keep pushing the pace, even late into a race. With this FKT attempt, it was easier to mentally ‘check out’ and shuffle along.

Reviewing the data, there were a few places in the final 30 miles where I did elevate the pace—clocking in an 8:12 mile at 83—but for the most part the final 30 miles were over 11:00 minutes per mile. Next race I will be focusing on finishing hard and finishing fast!

Hallucinations

I’ve run numerous ultras and heard stories from other runners about hallucinations, although never experienced any myself. Until now. I do wrestle with the term “hallucination” as I’ve always considered a hallucination to be something you see on psychedelic drugs, like a leprechaun hopping on a pogo-stick, or a fire-breathing dragon carrying a dominos pizza. In other words, something totally made-up that has no business appearing in that current setting, or a completely fictitious scene. The “hallucinations” I had were more my eyes playing tricks on me, but I guess this is just semantics and terminology preference.

Have you ever been in the woods and thought a stick on the ground was a snake? Or a tree in the woods looked like an animal? These conflicted visuals started at mile 60, and started getting progressively more frequent. By mile 90, I was having these visions every 5 minutes, if not more often. I was genuinely having trouble discerning what was real; there were animals all around me: big-horned buffalos, large black bears waving at me with a slight smile, a school of birds waddling across the trail—a mother duck quacking at me as I ran toward her ducklings—even a reindeer prancing next me. Then, there were visions of police officers standing on the trail in front of me with their arms crossed, slowly bouncing a baton in their hands, waiting for my arrival. I think I was having visions of these police officers because of the concern I had about the forest police putting an end to the journey I worked so hard for. I was getting in my own head. As I got closer to these “visions”, I realized within a meter these were just trees, branches, or rocks.

Looking back, I wonder about my hydration levels and if dehydration played a role. I’d like to rule this out, since I was urinating every 3 hours and my water intake was solid. Calorie intake was also significant, although you can always eat more during an ultra. It was also extremely dusty on the trail, but I was using eye-drops to remedy.

In summary, I’m not sure what caused these visions. The only explanation I can think of is general fatigue combined with the dusk/darkness, which made it harder to see anything, even reality.

Finish

As I made way closer to the finish at Wezep Station, things got silent again. It was nearing 11:30pm, and the world was quiet. Everyone was hibernating, but I was still running. Still a frog, jumping from pad to pad.

scop-swish; scop-swish.

The water in my pack was almost empty, but it didn’t matter. I was almost there.

This was my third 100 mile run, and each finish has felt different. As I mature as a runner, the shear distance of 100 miles no longer intimates me, but instead, it’s the pain. You know it’s going to hurt, but you never know how much and when. Pain depends on where, and how deep, you push. It’s for this reason Ken Chlouber, founder of the Leadville 100, says you have to “make friends with pain, and you’ll never be alone.”

Like a roller coaster, you legitimately don’t know where the twists and turns are, when you’ll go upside-down, when you’ll speed up, and when you’ll slow down. Everything is unknown until it happens. And when it’s over, you smile with joy, appreciation, and adrenaline. You’re sad the ride is over, happy it happened, and relieved the pain is gone. Pure relief. This is what finishing felt like.

I was clinging onto pain, my only friend for nearly 20 hours. When I finished line, I was finally able to let it go. The ride was over.

What’s next?

Food/Electrolyte intake:

15-25oz of water per hour
3 10oz coca-colas
30 chocolate Cliff gels
3 Cliff chewable blocks
1 almond butter and honey sandwich
1 strawberry Pop Tart
3 Gu Waffles
3 bananas
5 Nuun Tablets
15 HAMMER salt + electrolyte tablets
Orange fanta (12oz x 3)
Coca-cola (12oz x 3)
Pocket Pepto Bismol

Gear:

Topo Ultrafly shoes
Ultimate Direction AK Mountain Vest 3.0
Ultimate Direction Body Bottle II Soft Flask - 500ml (x2)
COROS Apex watch (finished with 51% battery)
2L Nathan hydration bladder
Injinji socks
Topo hat
Oakley glasses
Petzl Reactick Headlamp
Body Glide
Vasaline
Eyedrops for dust
Tired legs
Big smile

You don’t need a shiny new pair of shoes to run 100 miles! These are my 10th pair of Topo Ultrafly’s and I’d put over 400 miles on them before starting the UPNL. Okay—now it’s time to retire them.

Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment below if you have any questions.

Javelina 100 (Nov 2019)

November 02, 2019 by Davis Cutter

This report is unorthodox. For those that read my blog from the Vermont 100 last year, you’ll be familiar that my post-race recaps aren’t chronological recounts of race-day, but rather general reflections that funnel into my running and, ultimately, the unfolding miles.

Running 100 miles is an achievement I’m proud of, however running isn’t everything. While I do spend a lot of time wearing running shoes, it’s merely part of my daily input. The outputs—what we leave behind, our footprints—deliver enduring impact. Truthfully, humans do far more important things than move our legs on roads or over mountains. As my coach Scott tells me when I get frustrated or tired: “It’s just running.”

Running certainly delivers varying degrees of meaning for different people. It’s all a deep, personal journey to figure out why we run, and what purpose it serves in our lives, if any. The single commonality is that we all run to navigate our twisting trails.

For me, there are the obvious enjoyments that keep me running, like getting in a flow-state on the trail—planting and pushing—my eyes & mind five strides ahead of my feet. It’s a spark. There’s also the pure vitality; contrary to what some might think, the more I run, the more energy I have. I’m also able to listen with more patience, although I’m still working on that skill (just ask my girlfriend, Lucy). Reaching a deeper level of thought is also attainable while running. As my feet land on the ground, my mind lands on new conclusions and new questions. Recovery is a factor, too. I enjoy the reward of rest when it’s earned, but not claimed. And lastly, there’s my innate opposition to stagnation, so I force forward progress. It’s a relentless list, but all ties into the reasons I lace-up my shoes.

So, yes, there’s a lot that keeps me moving.

But, the most influential reason I run is because of commitment.

FIRST COMES COMMITMENT

Commitment is a partner of accountability. To break it down, there is “the commitment” and “the accountability zone”. The hammer drops in the accountability zone; this is the “powerful” part that makes the commitment hold weight. If you commit to achieve X, then you receive Y; if you fail, you get Z. Nobody wants Z.

This commitment/accountability pairing is quite common, perhaps more than you might think: Democratic constituents hold elected leaders accountable for commitments made during campaigns, and they have a vote to ensure politicians follow-through. CEOs hold companies accountable to reach targets and KPI’s, while controlling employment and driving strategy. VC’s hold start-ups accountable with investment and ownership, sports coaches hold athletes accountable to perform at their highest levels, or else they get benched. The list goes on. Teachers hold students accountable with testing and grades used for university acceptance, parents hold their children accountable (or try), and activists hold society accountable for a collective cause, using tools like free speech & protest.

The duality of commitment and accountability is a system of check-and-balance to ensure people do what they are responsible for, or at least attempt to do so. Typically, the outcome is less important than the effort. While nobody wants “Z” (the negative outcome)—often times, even if someone fails, respect is earned when there’s an effort made.

This is why “the commitment” itself matters more than the outcome, which is particularly important when discussing this subject through the lens of ultrarunning.

After all, depending on the nature of the commitment, sometimes the outcome is out of the hands of “the committer”. There will always be uncontrollable variables and externalities. At some point we all surrender to unintended consequences, economic downturns, political climates, environmental change and so-on. For ultrarunners—typically “type-A”, anal people who crave control—a 100-mile race is about surrendering and embracing whatever comes-up, whether it’s injury, dehydration, illness, weather, gastro-intestinal issues, or mental swings. For some, surrendering to these factors could prove to be more challenging than the actual act of running.

The difference with a 100 mile event and other races, is that you’re committing to something that’s truly unknown. The only “known” entities of a 100 mile run is the distance, the course, and an approximate temperature/heat-index. The miles themselves unveil the numerous hidden mysteries.

I think about commitment and surrendering a lot, whether it’s while I run, at work, or with my family. Without raw commitment, 100 miles is unachievable.

Yet, there are varying types of commitment, and there’s a specific type that’s needed to train. The notion of self-commitment is what running is all about. Self-commitment is seldom seen, compared to accountability that’s externally-enforced. Think of this as bottom-up, opposed to top-down. Running 100 miles is always self-chosen, never given or demanded. It’s committing to a more difficult trail.

You can still hold others accountable while also committing to your own goals. In fact, the best leaders commit and hold others accountable, which cause ripple-effects around them.

If you see raw commitment and enforced consequences—you’re operating around the right people. In these cases, you’re more likely to follow suit, turn inwards, and make a personal commitment.

Some might refer to this as “inspiration”, or inspirational leadership.

We can dig even deeper on this topic. Good leaders hold others accountable; great leaders hold themselves accountable, and inspire others around them to do the same.

Indeed, it’s a harder, but more effective balance of commitment/accountability. For most people, it’s generally not “fun” to be held accountable to someone else or something else, especially for a reason you’re not passionate about. Personally, I wouldn’t be either. At work, I try to embody this with my team.

The idea is simple. Set a high-level vision for what needs to happen, and let people navigate there on their own. It’s a twisting trail, remember?

I use the following approach:

In order to reach XYZ goals for XYZ reasons, here are the things that need to get done.
- I will hold you accountable.
Aside from that, pick the other things to hold yourself accountable for, which helps the company achieve its goals, and also bring you closer to reaching your personal goals at work.
- Keep me abreast, but you need to hold yourself accountable.
In addition, pick 1-2 personal goals (outside of work) you want to achieve on a weekly basis.
- Share these with the team in a transparent fashion.
- As a team, we hold each other accountable. The consequences are self-enforced.
- “Call your shot” is another way we’ve phrased this in the past, which makes the balance of “bottom-up” vs. “top-down” much more enticing, digestible, competitive and fun.

While this ‘corporate’ philosophy might appear far-off from running, I utilize the same technique during my training. I have a coach who holds me accountable with a training plan, but I take responsibility if I miss a run, or conversely, if I have a stellar workout. Failure or success is the product of a mindset with extreme ownership.

Now, stop. Think, for a moment: When was the last time you started something, and genuinely had no idea if you will be able to complete it? Many people do the same tasks every day, go to the same supermarket, watch the same TV shows, see the same friends and go to the same restaurants. To me, running 100 miles is a commitment to develop a new routine where consistency is pushed to its brink. As ultrarunners, we first commit—not to finishing—but to toeing the line.

We start running 100 miles the second we start training, and training starts when we make a commitment to ourselves. It’s a recurring cycle that leads back to the simplest beginning: Commit, hold yourself accountable, and run. A lot.

WHY JAVELINA?

I ended up choosing The Javelina Jundred (pronounced hav-el-ina hun-dred) mainly for the course. Javelina is a looped 20-mile course in Fountain Hills, Arizona, USA, with a total of 7,900 feet of elevation gain, and 7,900 feet of descent. While I’d love to run some of the larger, iconic, European ultras and 100-mile races (e.g. UTMB, Mozart 100, CCC, Lavaredo), they are all in the Alps or Pyrenees and require a ton of elevation training. This year I also dreamed of attempting some of the iconic U.S. 100-mile mountain races (Western States, Leadville) although they are also very hilly and have competitive lottery entry rules (I didn’t get into WSER in 2019 via the lottery, but just qualified again for the 2020 lottery with my finish at Javelina).

All these courses sound great, and certainly look incredible when I scroll through Instagram while quickly shoveling granola in my mouth every morning…but the reality is that I currently live in Amsterdam, which changes my prospective race schedule. A fun fact for those that don’t know: The Netherlands is the flattest country in the world! This makes training for any ultra a bit more challenging, specifically ones with any climbing involved.

Amsterdam does not provide a single hill or mountain. The biggest “incline” is the man-made NEMO Science Museum in central Amsterdam, with a staircase totaling a whopping 68ft of elevation gain. But, there’s a gate half-way up until the museum opens, so weekday hills before work are not possible. Outside the city, the closest hills are 1.5+ hours away, and a plane ticket is needed for to explore any true “mountains.”

To be clear, I sincerely adore Amsterdam and love living here, but mountain running is unfortunately not one of its perks.

NEMO Science Museum in central Amsterdam, a 68-foot incline where I did a lot of “hill” repeats.

After racing the Vermont 100 last summer (17,000 feet of gain) I learned the importance of finding a hill, making friends with it, then becoming truly intimate, getting to know every single crack on its face. In many ways, this is the saga of the life of ultra: the runner & the mountain. It’s a battle (which the mountain often wins).

So, I quickly gave up hope of registering for an iconic mountain ultra, at least in 2019. However, when I started to research “flat” hundred mile races, the list became quite limited. After all, the most attractive part about running 100 miles is playing in the mountains! I debated registering for Tunnel Hill 100 in Illinois, USA, for awhile, but landed on Javelina as it like a good combination of manageable vert of 7,700 ft, while also offering a fun race atmosphere…

Source: Javelina Jundred Facebook

Indeed, Javelina is known as the “biggest Halloween party in the desert”. The people at Aravaipa Running, the company who puts the race on, do an outstanding job striking a balance between a competitive endurance event and a festive party.

The only way I can describe it to people who haven’t been there, is a combination of a multi-day running event, mixed with the Burning Man festival, a big disco party, a college Halloween rave, a family campground, along with a couple flavors from your local pizza shop & tattoo parlor—all meshed together in the middle of a parking lot outside of Flagstaff, Arizona. Yeah, it’s pretty insane.

Notable awards aside from top male and female finishers include “best costume” and “best ass” for runners who dressed up for their 100 mile runs, my favorites included a man in a full suit at an aid station offering tequila and beer.

With all festivities aside, The Javelina Jundred is not a course to be taken lightly. The detailed Runners Handbook warns of its subtle challenges. The course usually claims around a 50% of runners as DNF’s (did not finish) — this year 54% did not finish. Despite being one of the “easier” 100-mile courses, it has one of the lowest finish-rates. Ultimately, the heat is not something to take lightly. Getting up to 95 degrees fahrenheit / 35 degrees celcius is not something to gloss-over. Also, the 8,000 feet of climbing/descent is something that can become problematic if not appropriately trained for.

TRAINING

I raced less in 2019 than I have in recent years because I was more focused on moving and settling into my new home: Amsterdam! I moved to Amsterdam in March for work with FareHarbor. After moving, I ran the Jurrassic Coast Challenge in May, a 58K ultra along the UK’s beautiful southern coastline.

Over the next few months I built a solid base of fitness without any injury. I ran 5-6 days per week with 1-2 hard workouts, building longer mileage on the weekends. Nearly all my early training was flat, while the weather was warm and the days were long. I did a few marathon+ runs to the beach from Amsterdam, where I’d meet Lucy and take the train back home.

In June, I did did a local 25K race in The Netherlands, which gave me knowledge of the closest “trails” to Amsterdam, about a a 90 minute train ride. There are plenty of beautiful paved bike paths in The Netherlands, but many people don’t know about the hidden “trails”, many of them covered in sand. This started getting my legs accustomed to the rolling desert hills that I’d encounter at Javelina.

Many of my morning runs consisted of an out-and-back ~8-mile run through Westerpark. This route offers a nice 3-mile stretch of park running toward the Western edge of the city, then curling back to watch the sunrise creep over the canals. Some mornings I’d weave and wave hello to partygoers who were leaving a rave in Westerpark at 6am, shuffling on the running path; they looked like a mob of slow-moving, drunken tranquil zombies as my headlamp bopped between them.

I wanted to run 50-miles in a single run before Javelina to prepare mentally. While it’s perfectly possible to have a good training period with ‘longest runs’ as two back-to-back 30-35 mile days, however I wanted to hit the 50-mile mark from a mental perspective. It had been awhile since I covered that distance. So, in early September, I went out for a 50-mile run in the National Park Veluwezoom near Arnhem, and ended up stopping after 43 miles. I had enough and didn’t want to force injury, but I was satisfied. The next weekend I did some big-mountain running near Halstaat, Austria climbing over 10,000 feet in the Alps. While this wasn’t race-specific, it got my legs ready and mind right.

Ultimately, hills and heat were my weakness heading into training, and I knew I’d need to get a little creative to prepare. About 2 months before Javelina I knew it was time to start to think more seriously about vert and heat training. This meant joining a gym.

Since Javelina does not have extreme inclines and declines, my training would need to range on modest grades from -2% to +2%. While many modern treadmills have a “decline” function, I struggled to find this in Amsterdam. I called/visited a total of 10 fitness gyms before finally finding a treadmill that was able to decline -3%, so I could properly beat-up my quads. The game was on.

“THE treadmill” I got to know very well during this training block…

As the race neared closer, my treadmill runs got longer with more heat layers. I would commonly wear a long-sleeve base-layer, hat, gloves, and a winter jacket on the treadmill to keep the heat in. Then, immediately after my treadmill workout, I’d hop into the sauna and sweat for 15-30 minutes. This was tough. If you’ve ever been in a sauna and reached the “limit” of needing to get out—try sitting for 5 more minutes. I genuinely found some of my sauna sessions more difficult training than the actual training runs.

The final few weekends I was logging about 20-26 miles on the treadmill with long climbs/descents, followed by another run on Sunday, for a total of 70-80 miles in the week. While this was a bit boring, it did prepare me well for the specificity of the Javelina course.

INJURY STRIKES (AGAIN)

Twenty-one days before the race I was doing one of my final speed workouts on a treadmill. The workout was an 8-mile progression run on 2% incline, starting at 7:05 minute/mile pace and ramping to 5:50 minute/mile (5k pace). Towards the end of the run I increased the speed and immediately felt a pull in my hipflexor.

Over the next few days, the pain moved from my hip to my gluteus medius, which felt like a big, frosty snowcone. I kept pressing with my fist against my glutes trying to get it to melt away. It didn’t.

The next week the pain shifted from my gluteus to my groin, where it stayed until race day. The pain became less “sharp” and turned into general discomfort.

With every step, a little devil was plucking at my groin like a harpstring. Pluck, pluck, pluck with every step.

I stretched, iced, rolled and shouted with frustration. I mostly rested and tried to stay positive. I was going to toe the start-line, I just didn’t know how I’d fair or how far I’d make it.

For those that read my Vermont 100 report, you’ll remember a very similar injury happened in the same spot, at the same time during my training. The disheartening part is that I focused on hip-strengthening, flexibility, and band-work throughout my training, but clearly not enough. I definitely have a weakness with my right hip that I’ll continue to work on.

Message to my brother 2.5 weeks before the race

Message to my pacer, Ben, 1.5 weeks before the race.

RACE COURSE

As you can see with the elevation profile below, the first ten miles of each loop is “uphill” and the second ten miles are “downhill”. I put these in quotations because the climbs are gradual, and actually look “flat” from first glance. However, runners beware: this course is not flat and the inclines/declines will deteriorate your running-gate as the miles pile-on.

The course is “washing machine” style, meaning runners change directions on the course every loop. This means the course does not get as boring, and also allows you to see the race leaders several times throughout the race. As a fan of ultrarunning, it was cool to run by elites like Patrick Reagan (1st place overall in 13:11) and Kaci Lickteig (1st place female in 15:32).

The start of each loop is the Javelina Jeadquarters where my crew was stationed throughout the day with a pop-up canopy tent. The Jeadquarters is a vibrant scene with pizza cooking all day, beer pong tournaments for crews, and lots of runners coming in-and-out of their loops.

There are a total of 3 aid stations along the course: Coyote Camp, Jackass Junction, and Rattlesnake. The halfway point of each loop is Jackass Junction, the largest aid station that is is fully equipped with a dance floor, disco ball, a DJ, dancing volunteers and hard-alcohol (if you’re interested late in the race). A big party!

Javelina is a looped 20-mile course.Source: https://aravaiparunning.com/network/javelinajundred/race-info/ — Javelina is a looped 20-mile course.
Source: https://aravaiparunning.com/network/javelinajundred/race-info/

While the course is known for being runnable, it is certainly not flat! Source: https://aravaiparunning.com/network/javelinajundred/race-info/ — While the course is known for being runnable, it is certainly not flat!
Source: https://aravaiparunning.com/network/javelinajundred/race-info/

Strava link below (watch died at mile 90):

RACE DAY

I arrived in Arizona five days early to acclimate to the heat and adjust to the time zone. This gave me ample time to familiarize myself with the course and get my gear organized. I was able to run two different sections of the course, get a lot of work done remotely, and eat a lot of potato salad. Note: There are not a lot of food options in Fountain Hills, Arizona other than McDonalds, Burger King, Wendy’s, and the supermarket.

With the race starting Saturday morning at 6am, my crew arrived on Thursday evening with big smiles, lots of positivity, and a few outrageous moustaches. While a lot of my thoughts were focused on my hip, my crew helped put my mind at ease and remind me that I was lucky to have a strong support team. With some pizza as a final meal on Friday night, we were ready to go.

The best crew at Javelina! From left to right: Ben, Shelby, Nolan, Jamie, Joe, Chuck!Shelby paced me miles 60-80, and Ben 80-100. — The best crew at Javelina! From left to right: Ben, Shelby, Nolan, Jamie, Joe, Chuck!
Shelby paced me miles 60-80, and Ben 80-100.

On Saturday morning, Shelby and Ben accompanied me to the start-line at 5am. It was a PARTY. This was one of the coolest pre-race experiences I’ve ever been part of. There were fire-dancers, loud music and dance parties — the playlist was epic. The sun hadn’t even come up and nobody was running yet, but the adrenaline was flowing.

At 6am we began the journey. Within a few minutes, cheers from the Javelina Headquarters faded behind us, as we plunged into the desert darkness. Nobody said much for the first few miles, just deep breathing. The laser focus needed for the hours ahead was palpable.

I wrote my two mottos on my water bottle:BALANCE: Be a leader and never conceit, ever • . TYT: Trust your training — I wrote my two mottos on my water bottle:
*BALANCE*: **Be a leader and never conceit, ever** • . *TYT:* **Trust your training**

Loops 1-2:

The first two loops went according plan. I tried to be as conservative as possible because I knew that many people would go out too-fast. I was in about 40th position after the first 20 miles and I knew that many runners ahead would fade later in the race.

I was trying to keep my pace around or over 10 minutes/mile, but I ended up closer to 9:30 - 9:40’s. While this may seem slow, a 10:00/mile average pace equates to a 16:40:00 100-mile run, which is an elite/professional level that only around 5 runners in the whole race would achieve. With that said, I also knew the first two loops would be easier because the the heat was manageable (certainly in the dark on the first loop). So, pacing was okay, but I know I could have been even more conservative. This is definitely a race where many runners fade after loop 3 (60 miles).

As I finished the second loop, I was running with a newfound friend named Pat from Oakland, California, whom I met on the course. We exchanged stories which helped the miles pass by. I think we ended up running 20-25 miles together.

The shirts my crew surprised me with.“Get busy living, or get busy dying…” -Andy Dufresne from The Shawshank Redemption — The shirts my crew surprised me with.
“Get busy living, or get busy dying…” -Andy Dufresne from *The Shawshank Redemption*

Loop 3:

Hot, hot, hot! This was the theme of this loop. With 40 miles under my belt, my legs were starting to feel the distance. It was now about 1pm and the sun was at its peak. In addition, the steepest and most technical part of the trail is the clockwise ascent from Javelina Jeadquarters to Jackass Junction. This section from miles 40-50 were my lowest-point and most difficult of the race.

At this point, I was drinking over 30oz of water per hour and trying to keep my body temperature as cool as possible. I covered my head and neck with ice with every opportunity, and I was topically spraying ice-water on myself that dried within 10 minutes. When I reached mile 45, I “let” Pat run ahead of me (actually, he dropped me) as I slowed down in attempt to bring things under control. As my body temperature escalated, I could feel my heartrate spiking. Physically, I was starting to panic a bit and lose control. I knew I needed to surrender to what was coming my way, it was only a moment and it would pass eventually. I remembered my motto: trust your training, and recalled the countless hours spent in the sauna preparing for this exact moment.

As I arrived at Jackass Junction at mile 50, I dunked my face in cold ice-water and squeezed a sponge over my head three times. I exhaled with relief as my body temperature leveled itself. I grabbed six pieces of watermelon, a few fist-fulls of potatoes with salt, and a three handfuls of gummy worms.

I was halfway done. Mentally, I wasn’t great. Physically, I knew that I needed one thing: the sun to go down. If heat could be removed from this equation, I knew I’d be able to increase my pace again and move faster. I looked at my watch: 3:30pm. I knew I had about 1.5 more hours of heat until the sun would start to set and cool-off. So, I did what I do best: run.

I ran toward the Jeadquarters in ran towards the night. I ran to my sister, Shelby, who would be picking me up at mile 60. Those next 10 miles I took in another ~60oz of water and urinated twice. My hydration was solid and I knew that soon I’d be able to spend less mental energy worrying about my liquid and salt intake. I ran towards darkness, shuffling along, nodding at each cactus I passed.

Finally, I felt a whisp of wind at my back and saw the sun begin to drop. As I rolled-into the Jeadquarters at mile 60 I was burnt, but not broken. The heat was gone and I was ready for darkness once again.

Finishing loop 3, 62 miles done! Smiling…or hurting? Both!

Loops 4-5

Shelby and I grabbed our headlamps and went off in the desert. The next 10-15 miles were really awesome. The desert glowed orange as the sun dropped beneath the distant mountains. We could hear some snakes scurrying in the sand around us and even ran over a massive tarantula.

Enjoying the sunset around mile 65. Preparing for darkness.

On the climb up to Jackass Junction, synced-up with another runner named Tony who I had been running with earlier. Together, we laid-down down the hammer and started playing pac-man, picking people off one-by-one. We probably passed 10-15 runners on the way up to Jackass. When we reached Jackass there was a big party happening. I danced for about 5 seconds, slammed a cup of vegetarian noodles, and ate more watermelon. Then, we started on the descent back to the Jeadquarters. Once more, we were blazing past another 5-10 runners. My sister took the lead on the downhill, followed by Tony and then me. We crushed several sub-9:30 miles en route to Coyote Camp aid station. Feeling good!

As we neared mile 80 and once again the Javelina Jeadquarters, I was feeling strong, but needed caffeine. I had avoided any caffeinated gels until this point, and I could tell I was slurring my words and wanting to close my eyes. As we approached the Jeadquarters, Shelby ran ahead and alerted my crew that I was in good spirits, but needed two things: my toothbrush and a cup of coffee.

The final pit-stop at mile 80 was pretty quick; I am happy to say that I didn’t sit once during the whole race. I brushed my teeth, drank two cups of coffee, some Powerade, and set-off with my friend Ben who’d pace me the final 20.

I continued my strong running from miles 80-90, in pursuit to my final stop at Jackass. I was moving slower, but still managing to mostly run and kept moving as fast as my legs allowed. I wasn’t passing as many people, but I was sitting in somewhere around 12th male overall.

Then, things started to fall apart. After Jackass at mile 90, my left ankle started swelling considerably, making it painful to run. I think this was partially because my right hip was injured, and I was over-compensating with my left leg, which put pressure on my ankle. In addition, I hadn’t considered how much relatively “flat” running would wear on specific muscles over the course of 18+ hours of running. I realized that my calves and glutes were not fatigued or sore at all, while my quads and ankles were completely trashed.

My pacer Ben was doing a great job encouraging me to run and trying to get me to ignore the pain in my ankle.

He’d shout, “one, two, three, go!” and I’d try to lift my legs and go into a jogging motion. Nothing happened. I started getting passed by many runners and it was now below 45 degrees farenheit and I was shivering. I didn’t have any gloves, so I stumbled along the trail with my hands in my shorts. This section was demoralizing and sobering.

I walked from miles 90-95, which was truly disappointing. Mentally I was ready to run, but my ankle was telling me otherwise. With every step I was limping on my left leg with a slow drag of my right foot. I prepared myself for another 1.5-2 hours of “walking it in", until something shifted in my mind. I knew if I started running I could be done in under an hour. One hour? I can do that. I can do it.

Out of nowhere, I picked up my feet and started jogging. I blocked he pain out and suddenly I was moving, my hands were warm, and I was just running with a friend in the middle of the night.

I didn’t stop until I hit the finish line.

It’s truly incredibly what the mind is capable of. I had been walking for over 2 hours straight, completely dejected and fatigued from 95 miles of physical exertion.

Then, in a second, it all changed.

I thought about the commitment I made to toeing the line, and I thought about the accountability zone. I thought about how much time I put into this. I thought about how grateful I was for the support around me, for my friends and family. After all, running isn’t everything, and it’s what we leave behind that carries a bigger impact.

But, in that moment, I was committed to running again. I picked up my feet. I ran and didn’t stop until I finished what I started, holding myself accountable.

Overall Stats
Time - 20:14:46
Overall - 35
Men - 27

THANK YOU!

After my Vermont 100 last year, I wrote the following:

Running 100 miles is not a single-day accomplishment. Instead, a 100 mile feat is the product of a lifetime of experience, melded into a singular, focused determination. It’s 6+ months of physical discipline and a well-executed nutrition/hydration plan. It’s a the culmination of everyday, showcased in one.

I think this statement still rings true, and I believe it even more. You can’t run 100 miles without a strong support system who understands the commitment you make, and hold you accountable for getting there. I’m incredibly grateful for the encouragement around me, both personally and professionally. Whether it’s words of encouragement, or understanding why I need to say “no” to a night-out, or even a post-training massage — there is a lot that goes into it. I thought about all these people during my run, and deeply appreciate their commitment to my goal.

The list is long, but Lucy and my family are at the top of the list. They held me accountable and pushed me to reach new limits. I also the best crew at the whole Javelina Jeadquarters! Only true, dedicated friends are willing to sit in the desert heat for multiple days with no sleep, just to see you run in circles. They were committed and I appreciate that. Thank you to my amazing friends at FareHarbor for bringing dedication and energy to work everyday. I am motivated and inspired by many of my coworkers who are deeply committed to their work, and what we are building. Thanks to my coach @runfastah who held me accountable and ensured I was prepared, but understands there’s more to life than running. Thanks, Scott! Lastly - my PT, Pieter in Amsterdam at Gustav Physio also helped me deal with my hip injury. If you’re looking for a PT in Amsterdam, I highly recommend.

FOOD

I tell many people that running 100 miles is as much an eating competition as it is running. In order to run a successful race, you need to be a tactician about calories and food, especially in the heat. Think about it this way: if your legs hurt, you can push through. If you don’t have enough energy or are dehydrated, you’re screwed. There is no bouncing back.

My plan was about 150 calories per hour. During the daytime I ended up closer to 200-220 per hour because of the heat. This is probably the most I’ve consumed during any ultra. My stomach held up fine, I had no nausea or gastro issues.

My crew did a great job at laying out all my food so I was ready when I came through the Javelina Jeadquarters.

Total consumption:

15 chocolate Clif gels

5 handfuls of gummy-worms

1 pack of skittles

2 handfuls of avocado

8+ handfuls of potatoes with salt

15+ slices of watermelon

10+ orange slices

1 cup of veggie noodles

2 cups of veggie soup broth

3 packs of Honey Stinger chews

1 Gu Stroopwaffel

3 slices of vegan pizza

1 hummus pita wrap

3 cups of mountain dew

3 cups of coffee

Water/Electrolyte intake:

~20-32oz of water per hour

1-2 electrolyte supplements per hour

Due to the heat, I ended up consuming more water during the day than I had planned. From miles 20-60 I was averaging about 30oz of water per hour, along with 1 Nuun electrolyte tablet and 1 condensed salt pill. My original plan was 22oz with 1 electrolyte tablet.

My consumption caused me to urinate every ~3 hours, which was exactly what I was hoping for. Once the sun set, I was less disciplined about water intake, as dehydration concern was less of a factor.

Gear:

Headlamp: Petzl Reaktik (300 lumens)

Socks: Injinji

Shoes: Altra Lone Peak 4.0

Gaiters: Innov-8 All Terrain

Shorts: Patagonia

Sunglasses: Oakley

Sun Hat for daytime: Outdoor Research

Regular Hat for nighttime: Headsweats

Hydration: Double Nathan 22oz non-grip

Patagonia Houdidni windbreaker

Nike singlet

Tired legs & lots of gratitude!

5am, a few hours after finishing. Enjoying some pancakes, watching the sunrise, and cheering runners on. Life is good!

Some much needed runner & pacer bonding/sleeping after the race.

Vermont 100 Race Report (July 2018)

July 24, 2018 by Davis Cutter

In the past week, I have received many messages from people asking about my incredible "day" where I ran 100 miles.

To respond: Running 100 miles is not a single-day accomplishment. Instead, a 100 mile feat is the product of a lifetime of experience, melded into a singular, focused determination. It's 6+ months of physical discipline and a well-executed nutrition/hydration plan. It's a the culmination of everyday, showcased in one.

In this recap, I will break down the ups-and-downs of the race, while also peeling back the curtain to show how it all came to be.

Training

I officially “started” my physical training for VT 6 months ago, with snow-covered roads and sub-zero temps. I wanted 2018 to be the biggest year, which meant attempting my first 100-miler. Why not? I yearned for challenge and was ready to raise the bar. So, I started with the first step: run!

I ran 25 miles on my 25th birthday in January, then ran the Boston Marathon in-reverse in March. I ran the TARC Spring Classic 50K in April, and the Pineland Farms Trail 50 Miler in May. This was a gradual, solid build-up in mileage, which allowed me to slot in several key training blocks between these dates. With one final 4-week block in June, my legs felt primed to take on the hundred.

Admittedly, training in Boston for a race with 17,000 feet of ascent is not ideal, but hey, it’s just running! In the words of the great Scott Jurek, "sometimes you just do things!"

I got to know Summit Ave in Brookline very well, a short, .1/4 mile / 250 ft. neighborhood climb that became my morning Cup of Joe. Repeats, up and down. If you go there on Saturday there’s usually a kid selling lemonade in-front of the 4th house on the right. I never had cash on me, so I don’t think he likes me very much, but I always wanted some lemonade. Sorry, kid!

On the weekends, I fled to Wachusett Mountain in central MA to find more vert. The 3-mile auto road up Wachusett is perfect training ground for anyone preparing for VT, with similar grades of elevation to the course. A couple solo marathons at Wachusett (in the heat) got my body tuned-up for the climbing. Mountain repeats also created a logistically conducive environment to practice my nutrition plan and calorie intake (more on that later).

Injury Strikes

About 4 weeks before VT100 I was on a trail run and felt a pop in my left knee. I was coming off the biggest training week of my life, notching nearly 80 miles and 9,000 ft. of climbing. Over the next few days, my knee started to swell. Pain slowly splintered from my hips to groin — I was crushed. Though I continued to “train”, my easy runs became hard. Any speed or stride workouts I started were ultimately cut short or omitted due to fragile legs.

Mentally, this was tough to swallow. Hobbling around my apartment 2 weeks before the race, I was finding it hard to envision a 100 mile run.

“I can’t walk to the grocery store without pain, how will I run for an entire day?” I thought about pulling the plug, and sent this text to my brother on July 8th:

After a few days of swimming and treadmill hiking, I took three consecutive days off. No running, no nothing! I started dry needling and deep massage work at Active Recovery Boston. Big shout-out to Dr. Kelly for getting me ready for race-day.

With some additional rest, I was able to recover, although the injury created more uncertainty heading up to Vermont.

Looking back, I don't think I was over-trained at all. It appears my hips are quite weak, which was putting extra stress on my knees, groin and ankles. Human physiology is incredibly connected — usually the pain you feel is actually deriving from somewhere else.

I was pain-free by the time I toed the starting line, which was great! You can bet this offseason I'll be on a hip strengthening program.

Race Day

I arrived in Vermont on Friday afternoon, checked-in, got my bib, and went through Medical. VT100 requires each runner to weigh-in before the race. If you are having medical problems during the run, the Medical Team has the right to check your body weight to determine any dangerous weight-loss (approx. -5%). I did not run into any medical issues during the race, so therefore this did not come-up for me.

Pictured below are the amazing ~400 runners, countless volunteers and crew getting ready for race day.

Aside from that, I have nothing noteworthy to share about the day-prior to the race, other than the fact that I got a total of 60 minutes of sleep. With a 2:20am alarm set, I was too jacked up to sleep!

I didn't even need my alarm because I was wide awake at 1:58am. I put a half-bagel in my mouth, had some muesli with yogurt, a banana, few sips of coffee, and was ready to rock. Oh, and copious amounts of anti-chafe Body Glide.

Course

Screen Shot 2018-07-25 at 7.01.54 AM.png

The VT100 course is a beautiful. The majority of the course is run on dirt — amazing Vermont country backroads, which wind in-and-around the Woodstock area. I'm guessing about 10% of the course is run on actual trails in the woods. There's only a few (1-2) miles run on pavement.

A fun fact is that the VT100 is also a horse race! This is also why there is no music allowed, as it is essential to be able to communicate with riders and horses. It certainly adds another element to rudimentary nature of race. Super cool. The riders even ride with glow-sticks in the night so you can see them.

The course boasts 17,000 feet of climbing, although my GPS clocked 15,000 (see above). For those who have hiked Mt. Washington, the highest peak in the northeast, they are familiar with its 5,000 ft. of ascent. The VT100 course would be equivalent of summiting Mt. Washington 3 times all while covering 100 miles.

Credit: Northeast Race Photo | https://worldsmarathons.com/marathon/vermont-100-endurance-run — Credit: Northeast Race Photo | https://worldsmarathons.com/marathon/vermont-100-endurance-run

Crew

First off, it is optional to have a crew. Many runners opt to run the race "solo" or unsupported. This means they prepare "drop bags" with gear and food to access along the course.

I opted to have a crew for Vermont, which was my family, girlfriend Lucy, and good friend Drew.

I saw my crew a total of 8 times on the course. While I ran on the trail, my crew would drive on the road to meet me at the next aid station. They'd park, set-up my gear and food, and wait for me to arrive. Once I rolled into the aid station, my goal was to re-fuel as efficiently as possible. In-and-out in under 2 minutes was the goal, with no sitting unless I needed to change my socks (I never did). I accomplished the sub 2-minute goal at every aid station.

To prepare for this efficiency, I hosted a crew meeting at my apartment one week before the race. I highly recommend having this type of pre-race meeting to anyone running with a support crew. I labeled small ziplock bags with specific foods for each crew-accessible aid station. I walked them through my race and nutrition plan. My mother, Nancy, highlighted, sticky-noted, and arrowed throughout a Vermont Road Atlas for "back-up", even though detailed driving instructions are provided in the Runner's Handbook. You can never be too prepared! A week later, when we arrived in Vermont, we didn't have to worry about any logistics at all.

I chose to have a pacer as well, (also optional) which was my older brother, Matt. Pacers are typically allowed in 100 mile races at a specific mile mark. In Vermont, pacers are allowed after mile 70. In general, pacers are helpful for a couple reasons: Good company, they monitor your food/water intake, make sure you are urinating and make sure you stay on-course. And, of course, who doesn't love running in the woods with friends?

Hydration

Balancing sodium intake with water is always a delicate balance. There’s a very fine line between not enough water vs. too much water, and not enough salts.

I was carrying two 22oz bottles, which wrapped around my hands for easy access to water. The majority of runners were wearing camelback/ultra-packs on their backs, which in my opinion wasn't necessary. With water stops every 3-5 miles, a backpack only adds more weight. I trained for speed, so I wanted to run fast for as long as I could.

I was hoping to urinate every 3-4 hours, but due to the heat, I was sweating-out all the liquid I was putting-in. I upped my water intake around 50 miles, which then had me concerned about hyponatremia, but I was sweating so I figured I’d be okay.

My sister, Shelby, was also putting an E-Cap (condensed salt pill) in my mouth every time I saw her. I was also crushing pickles, vegetarian soup broth, and potatoes dunked in salt, which added to my sodium levels.

BASE Hydro was the electrolyte drink served at the aid stations, although I skipped drinking any. Electrolyte drink mixes like BASE and Gu Roctane are fantastic options for calorie intake during ultra events (a single serving can pack 250 calories & 2000mg amino acids. That’s a lot of mojo!). The problem for me is that these destroy my stomach. Instead, I plopped a Nuun tablet in one of my bottles every ~1 hour, which have 260mg of sodium per tab. They don’t provide any calories, (10 per serving) so I was aware that I’d have to keep cranking cals outside my bottles.

For water, I was putting down a bottle of H2O per hour (22oz). I was getting concerned that I wasn’t urinating, (I peed a little at mile 50) but I was sweating a ton so I was comforted that I was using the fluids that were going in. Looking back, it's concerning that I was drinking 22oz of water/hour and barely urinated at all. I definitely could have had more water, especially during the day when temperatures hit 86° F.

Food!

My crew getting ready to see me at Stage Road (30.3).

A typical set-up from my crew at an aid station.

Famous ultrarunner Jim Walmslay once said that running 100 miles is as much an eating competition as it is running. He's spot-on! There is no room for error with nutrition; if you are low on calories and bonk, your day is done. If you're dehydrated and bonk, your day is done. If you are trying to play catch-up on calories later in the race, you're probably walking while your body focuses on digestion, instead of focusing on running.

For nutrition, I planned on consuming 200-250 calories per hour. My plan was to have this divided between Clif Gels, Clif Bars, Stinger Waffles and Honey Stinger gummies. Each of these pack about 110-160 calories, so I figured 1.5 “things” per hour would do the trick.

A typical ziplock bag I prepared for each aid station where I'd see my crew. These calories would tide me over until the next aid station.

I stuck to my plan for the first 40 miles of the race. I was slightly hungry early in the race, which is always a good sign, and also an indication you need more food. I'd rather be hungry than nauseous, and my body was using the calories I was putting in. At mile 50 or so, the chocolate Clif gels were going down so smooth, I told my crew that’s all I wanted. Actually, I demanded it. "Only the gels, only the gels!" I yelled at them (sorry guys!). I'm sure many fellow runners can relate when something is going down so smooth.

The chocolate gels were fueling my fire; I wanted more gels, I wanted them badly. For the remainder of the race, I had a chocolate gel every 30 minutes, sometimes every 25 when I felt the need. My stomach never had a problem.

Total food consumed:
~30 chocolate Clif gels
5 honey stinger packs
3 stinger waffles
4 handfuls of potatoes with salt
1 almond butter & jelly sandwich
2 cups of vegetarian soup broth
3 bananas
1 Vermont waffle with Maple Syrup
3 cups of coffee
32oz of Mountain Dew
16oz Gatorade
Lots of watermelon and pickles

Race

First 30:

July 21, 2018 - race day. The race kicked off at 4:00am and it was go-time. Even though it was pitch-dark, I barely needed my headlamp because of the amount of light provided by other runner's lights. We were bunched up the first few miles as people chatted and got acquainted with new running buddies.

A group of us discussed a race in Silverton, CO called the Hardrock 100 — one of the most iconic 100-mile races in the country. Hardrock was taking place the same weekend. By coincidence, the top Hardrock finishers in Colorado happened to be finishing around the same time as we started running in Vermont.

During the first marathon, I focused on keeping my breath steady. Listen to the body. Breathe. I checked my Garmin's wrist heart-rate monitor to spot-check my HR. I don’t normally trust the wrist HR, but it was good to reference to keep things calm. If my breath was laboring at all, or my heart-rate creeped up to 150, I slowed down. I was power hiking most of the hills to save energy and mellow my breathing. I was running a modest pace on the downhills to save my quads; I didn't want blown quads at mile 80. I knew I'd need them ready to crank-up the pace if I was feeling good.

I watched the sunrise, dropped my headlamp at mile 7, hammered calories, and ran alongside some new trail friends: a Professor, a Leadman, a running coach. I didn't catch any names. We all had our own reasons for running, but it didn't matter now. Miles ticked by.

This got me to Stage Road (mile 30) in 5:03 feeling GREAT. I remember a volunteer telling me at Stage Road that I was in 36th place; I said to myself “I probably feel better than most of the 35 people in front of me.” This was a confidence booster, and the legs kept rolling…I said to myself…alright, let’s jam!

Cooling down before things started to get real.

30-70

Aid-station to aid-station. "Aid to Aid". That was the flow. As the sun started to rise and the temp got higher, I made a conscious effort to continue my electrolyte and hydration plan. My Nuun tablets were going down easy and I was feeling comfortable with pacing. As I neared mile 48, my first stop at Camp 10 Bear, I was excited.

10 Bear is a party in a pasture (thank you, TARC volunteers!) and I was stoked to see my crew. I was in-and-out of 10 Bear in under 1 minute. After leaving 10 Bear, I settled into a steady pace and got ready for some serious climbing. There were other runners around me, but nobody spoke. The communal focus was palpable.

Due to terrain, the next 10 miles (48-58) were the most difficult of the race, in my opinion. The heat was getting to me, and my legs were officially tired as hell. I don’t think it’s possible to run 50 miles without your legs getting fatigued; at this point, it merely becomes a question on how long you can keep going and ignore the pain.

There are two major climbs between 48-58. When I got to the second at mile 55, I started swearing under my breath. I settled into a firm power-hike up to Margaritaville (58). Hands-on-knees type of power hike. Once I got there, I was cooked. I looked at my crew and wondered how I’d make it 42 more miles. “This is hard. Really. Damn. Hard.” I remember quietly squeaking as I sipped Mountain Dew.

I still managed to make it out of Margaritaville in under two minutes, but I wasn't feeling good. I had 12 miles to loop back to Camp 10 Bear (mile 70) where I’d be picking up my brother Matt, who’d pace me to the finish. Morale was low. All I could think was "42 more", which seemed inconceivable.

Swearing under my breath became pretty routine through the next 12 miles. I tried to keep things positive and optimistic. So, I made a rule: Every time I said “fuck this” to myself, I tried to come up with an overpowering positive thought to push any pessimism out of my head. I thought about my crew who was here in this heat, waiting to see me just for a minute to stick ice in my bandana. How lucky am I? I continued to come up with a list of what I was grateful for, and why I was privileged to be running. Every time I saw my crew I made sure to thank them for their time. A grateful runner = a happy crew!

On the course, all I had to worry about was putting one foot in front of the other – many people in this world have to worry about far greater abuse, violence, poverty. The list goes on.

As my mind dug deeper into a hole, I sang the song “Busted Stuff” by Dave Matthews in my head. I was busted and broken, but the jam wasn’t over. In fact, I was still in the middle of the song and hadn’t gotten to the final chorus…

Jamming along, somewhere around mile 70.

70-100

It's just running. This was the mantra my coach had given on me. And he was right — all I had to do was run. Wasn't I born to do this? Born to run?

The miles heading back into 10 Bear are downhill, so I was running and letting gravity do the work. Finally, I arrived at 10 Bear. The burden of making it to 70 was over. The race started now, 30 miles from the finish line. Looking back, this was the furthest I had ever run in my life, and I still had 30 to go, but it didn't matter. Picking-up my brother really helped changed my mindset and turn a new page in the race! We fist bumped and took off running — just like we do at 5:45am, three days a week, without fail.

The next 5 miles went by quickly as we were catching-up on the day. The sun was finally starting to set and we were running on shaded trail.

“It’s just running.”

My goal was to get to 70 miles and then start "opening it up" if I felt good, which I did.

I almost had to check myself: "Do I actually feel pretty good right now?!" My legs hurt, but I was still able to run a solid pace.

I continued to have a chocolate gel every 30 minutes. Since we ran a lot of vert, I remember feeling I needed more calories, so I went to every 25 minutes.

I started taking longer strides on downhills, and running the uphills. When my brother asked me how my legs were doing, I responded with two words: "positive, positive." I was doing everything in my power to maintain confidence.

Aside from my legs, my lower back was starting to give-out. I assume it was due to the amount of climbing I was doing, which altered my stride. I remember running with my hand on my lower back to keep myself up-right. I kept moving. My feet were unscathed with no blisters, which I was thankful for!

As I arrived to the "Spirit of '76" I was ready for my "evening-wear." I grabbed my Petzl Reaktik headlamp. Matt put on a headlamp & an additional waistlamp for extra lighting. My crew was outstanding and ready to get me in-and-out in under two minutes. I remember one volunteer calling my crew the best NASCAR crew in the whole race — it was fun to watch.

I took off my shirt and my friend Drew sponged me down and toweled me dry (what great friends do). My mother, Nancy, put a fresh shirt over me, as my girlfriend Lucy shoved as many chocolate gels she could fit in my pockets. Meanwhile, my father, Steve, filled my bottles with water and my sister handed me an orange gatorade, which I proceeded to chug. With a Rob Gronkowski slam of my empty bottle, I took-off back into the woods. I believe I passed 5 or 6 runners at that aid station.

My speedy crew getting me in-and-out of aid stations all day

Running nonstop from sunrise to sunset is magical. There’s a piece of the circadian rhythm that emerges when running for such an extended time. It’s unattainable day-to-day, but when running, the feeling hatches; the day is condensed into moments – back to back snapshots of running, step by step, strung together to create a harmony on the trail. The whole day is a blur, but individual moments remain vivid. It’s a cyclical beauty.

I felt relief at sunset. Throughout the day I was concerned about "the heat, the heat, the heat." With the temperature dropping, I could spend less mental energy focused on hydration, and more energy spent on running.

Around mile 84 I distinctly remember having low-energy, and it didn't feel like a lack of calories or a hydration problem. I felt tired. The problem became apparent when I was trying to tell my brother a story and I stopped after a few words. I didn't have energy to talk anymore. Caffeine was the need I craved.

I proceeded to have two caffeinated energy gels. I also drank a cup of coffee at all three of the next aid stations. Sure, my legs were still feeling weak, but my mind was awake again!

The next aid was Bill's at mile 88. This was another quick one. My mouth was full of sugar and felt disgusting so I brushed my teeth. After quickly applying some vaseline, I kept pushing. I was running everything that was runnable.

It was officially the "golden hour" and the sun was setting. I turned my headlamp on. Miles 88-90 trudge through densely wooded trails. The hundreds of glow-in-the-dark markings on trees looked like green lanterns, floating in complete darkness.

After a hard-right turn, we emerged from the woods, running downhill through an open grass field. Looking out on the vast pasture, there's nothing man-made the eye can see aside from bopping headlamps and fireflies in the distance. It's a picturesque Vermont beginning to the final chapter.

Mile 95: Polly's. A half-mile from the aid station, a volunteer ran towards me to take my order:

"One waffle?"

"Sure, I'll take it!" I yelled back.

I shoved a tasty Vermont waffle with maple syrup in my mouth, took down another cup of coffee, and that's pretty much all I remember. I ditched a handheld bottle and I was 5 out. Is this going to happen?

“Make friends with pain, and you will never be alone. ”

— Ken Chlouber, Founder of the Leadville Trail 100

The last 5.4 miles I am proud to say I motored! According to live tracking, I clocked the 6th fastest split between Polly's (94.6) and the finish line. Jens Voigt, one of my favorite professional cyclists, is famous for saying "shut up, legs!" This was the mantra for the last 5. It hurt to walk, it hurt to run — so I ran.

Finish

This report would not be be finished without an authentic description of what happened when I finished. The truth is, I really don't remember.

I recall someone asking me to turn my headlamp off because I was blinding everyone in front of me. I didn't actually register what was happening. I mumbled softly, "what is going on?" Someone responded, "you just ran 100 miles, congratulations."

As I limped forward a few feet from the finish line, I sat down on a pile of dirt. I bent my neck down towards my knees and covered my face with sweaty hands. Raw emotion came over me as I had trouble holding back tears. It was raw, uncontrollable emotion. It was a release of an entire day in one second, a release of the training, work, and discipline I'd put into achieving this goal. Staying focused for such a long period of time without reprieve is a colossal effort on the mind. Then, in a moment—it's over.

I felt a large outpour, both physically and mentally, as I sat on on a that pile of dirt, the first time off my feet in 19 hours.

What a day.

Stats
Time - 18:53:04
Overall - 18
Men - 13
Fun had - Lots (that's why we do it!)

Thank You

First thank-you goes to the volunteers, Vermont Adaptive and the staff at the VT100. You all put on a fantastic, inclusive race with great energy.

I wouldn't have had such a fun day without the help from my coach Scott Traer at RunFastah. Scott’s training program put me through the ringer and prepared me incredibly well. His knowledge got me to race-day with confidence, instead of looming questions like, “did I train enough?”
If you are looking to accomplish a running goal, I highly recommend Scott and Samantha’s operation at RunFastah. They know what they're doing.

As any ultrarunner knows, balancing high-mileage with work, family, and significant others can be demanding. At FareHarbor, I am lucky to have incredibly badass colleagues who've supported all my endeavors. Our motto is DWIFT, (Do Whatever it Fucking Takes) which was embodied during my training and race-day. When I walk into the office every day, I am constantly reminded that my hard work didn't stop when I took my running shoes off in the morning. It's just beginning. We're routinely taking things to the next level, pushing harder than ever before. Our "Ohana" (family) encourages each-other to be our very best, taking ownership over our work and personal goals. We're always ripping.

Lastly, I want to thank my family, Lucy, and Drew. I am biased, but I had the best crew on that course. 100 miles comes with sacrifice and you all understood the depth of my goal. Thank you.

Gear:
Petzl Reaktik headlamp (300 lumens)
GoMotion Orion lightbelt (150 lumens)
Injinji toesocks
Topo Ultrafly shoes (amazing shoes!)
Nathan SpeedMax Plus 22oz Bottles (x2)
Buff neckwear for ice
Garmin Fenix 5
Anti-chafe Body Glide
Oakley sunglasses
Nike singlet
Patagonia shorts
Tired legs

“Running 100 miles is not a single-day accomplishment. Instead, a 100 mile feat is the product of a lifetime of experience, melded into a singular, focused determination. It’s 6+ months of physical discipline and a well-executed nutrition/hydration plan. It’s a the culmination of everyday, showcased in one.”