Waking up in the van after having slept roughly two hours before the race was not how I envisioned my first ultra starting off. However, it was very much in line with my general preparation for the race. I had jumped from nearly no training to running a road marathon, then another road marathon with a bit more training, and then thought, “Okay, 50 miles next.” It seemed logical to me at the time.Knowing what I know now, with just over a year of ultra experience, the buildup and preparation for this race were practically non-existent. I remember doing a seven-mile run at one point and considering it a “long” day. Granted, that second marathon could have been added in as a long run in the training block, but aside from that, I had basically no proper training coming into this race. I also had no sense of my nutrition strategy, no sense of pacing, and no idea what my body would do trying to run for that long. I had run the marathon distance, as I just mentioned, and hiked just over thirty miles while on a thru-hike, but the concept of running on trail for over 50 miles was a whole new world.

Knowing what I know now, with a whopping year of ultra experience, the buildup and preparation for this race were practically non-existent. I remember doing a seven-mile run at one point and considering it a “long” day. Granted, that second marathon could have been added in as a long run in the training block, but aside from that, I had basically no proper training coming into this race. I also had no sense of my nutrition strategy, no sense of pacing, and no idea what my body would do trying to run for that long. I had run the marathon distance, as I just mentioned, and hiked just over thirty miles while on a thru-hike, but the concept of running on trail for over 50 miles was a whole new world.

The race started early Saturday morning in mid-May. Despite good intentions, my wife and I left LA for Bishop—roughly five hours away—much later than planned in our semi-converted Nissan NV200 van. We stopped for a burger and fries on the way, and I got a breakfast burrito for the morning. The drive was uneventful, but we arrived in Bishop and found a secluded spot to sleep at 2 a.m. We set up the back of the van and slept for a whopping two and a half hours before driving to the race start.

After wandering around in the dark, we got our bibs and were seemingly ready to go when I realized that the giant stuff sack with our bedding was missing. After a few groggy moments, we realized we had left the bag on the roof when we drove off. We quickly hopped back in the van and drove back to find the bag. Sure enough, halfway to the campsite, the bag was sitting in the middle of the road, untouched. We nearly hit it but swerved out of the way, secured the bag in the back, and sped back to the start line.

I forced down the burrito while trying to run through what I thought I would need to complete the race. When we arrived back at the starting area, the race director was giving directions through a megaphone, which we could faintly hear from where we were parked. My wife suddenly stopped me and said, “Wait, isn’t the 25K starting after you?” I looked at her, confused. She repeated, “The 25K just started. The 50-miler already left.” My eyes widened in panic as I grabbed my vest and ran to the start line.

The crew and race director looked at me with confusion as I tried to figure out how to proceed. “Well, move your ass!” was the race director’s response once I explained. With that, I turned and took off. I had no idea what the course was or what to expect, other than that I was supposed to run 50 miles.

The first ten to fifteen miles went smoothly. I was running the entire time and felt in control, like things were going well. The course, primarily on fire roads or double-wide trails, had a slight incline the whole way. I had two flasks of water, some gummy bears in my vest, and not a care in the world. The surrounding Sierras were still covered in a significant amount of snow from the heavy 2022/2023 winter.

The disruption and chaos of the start, along with the lack of sleep, faded away, and I started to feel good—confident even. I was chatting with people and enjoying the run. Around 10 a.m., I reached my third aid station and was told I had a five-mile descent ahead, followed by a turn-around to come right back up. By this point, a fair amount of elevation had been gained over several miles. The aid station was positioned among the pines, with patches of snow scattered around. Gazing off in the direction I was informed to go, I thought to myself, “No problem, a few miles down, a few miles back up, and I should be halfway.”

I started the decent. Ten minutes turned to twenty and then twenty to forty. I was watching people climb back up, but still could not see the aid station and turn around. My confidence began to dwindle and I slowly realized the task ahead of me when I did make it to the bottom. On top of this the decent continued to get steeper and steeper the further it went on, and with that the temperature got hotter and hotter. As the sun beat down on me and I tried to remain focus. The fun and joy was slipping away now and my legs were starting to get fatigued, but I did not have time to notice that at this point. Finally the turn around came into sight at a pit toilet parking lot that was cooking hot. I lathered up some sun screen, ate some fruit, grabbed a handful of GU’s and turned back to meet the climb. Quickly I realized I had underestimated the difficulty of the ascent for myself. Mentally I made a concession here. Still not looking at my watch for distance, or knowing anything about the course, I told myself that when I got back to that aid station up in the pines I would be headed back to the start finish and on my way to a personal victory. I slogged up the climb power hiking and successfully did not stop. I made it to the top properly exhausted and was met with the begging of my end.

I was only 17 miles into the course. I learned this from another runner who asked me my current mileage as I made it back to the aid station. The other runner had already completed an entirely separate loop I hadn’t known about and was about to experience. I crashed into a chair at the aid station and attempted to eat a grilled cheese square, but my stomach rebelled.

The aid station crew pointed me in the direction of the course, and I set out again. My initial jog had subsided to a power hike, and now I was walking. Thoughts of quitting at the next aid station began to flirt with me. Fighting those off, I pushed on and attempted to run again. As runners passed me in the other direction, I tried to muster the usual race-day niceties but couldn’t. Defeated, I hung my head and kept pushing on.

Some momentum was building when I hit my next obstacle: a steep, boot-packed snowy section of trail. I cursed my decision to be there, cursed the snow, and cursed myself. Reluctantly, I pushed on, knowing I would need to get to the next aid station if I was going to drop out. My stomach began acting up more as I continued. A broad view of a valley took shape, revealing a long descent ahead, which I promptly cursed. Picking my way down the single track and snow, my stomach continued to protest, signaling that something was off. My legs, which I had thought were merely fatigued and would recover, had now turned into non-working blocks beneath me. My knee began to ache and shoot with pain with nearly every step.

I reached the aid station, clearly not looking great, as the first thing I was greeted with was someone asking if I was alright. I shared an abbreviated version of my woes, and they handed me a full ginger ale and told me to keep moving. I slammed down some random assortment of food and turned back to continue the climb. I didn’t give myself enough time to even consider dropping out.

As I climbed, my knee problem went from bad to worse, but I discovered for the first time in my endurance career the magic of ginger ale. By some divine intervention, my stomach pains ceased. I reached the last aid station, quickly consumed another random assortment of calories and another ginger ale, and pushed on.

Finally, turning towards the end, I set off with renewed determination.

The first few miles back went surprisingly well. The terrain was gradual and even, and I was heading downhill the whole way. My knee had miraculously calmed down, and my spirits picked up. I ran a bit and kept my head down. This continued successfully for some time, and I found joy in these miles. Although I had been surrounded by runners off and on all day, I now found myself completely alone. This stretch seemed to drag on for hours.

My knee pain crept back in and then abruptly brought me to a halt with shooting pain near the top of the kneecap. I sat down and palpated, not that I was educated enough to find anything, but my rudimentary exam suggested it was fine to keep going. Not that I had a choice at this point. Getting “moving” from this point on was an interesting task. I had to figure out a new rhythm to my movement and slowly work my way up to a walk, then to something that resembled a jog. I kept this loping pace for several more miles and closed down under 10 miles before I needed to submit to a walk. My thoughts were fixated on all the errors I made throughout the day, outside of my general lack of preparation physically. Even with limited knowledge I knew I had not fueled myself efficiently or with intent, and had a marginal strategy at best when considering my pacing and approach to the distance. I was able to identity small problems, but largely I still didn’t know what I didn’t know and that lack of understanding mainly caused frustration.

Bringing in the last 10 miles with a walk was certainly not in the plan, but then again, I had no real plan coming into this. Anger came and went during this time—anger at myself for not preparing well enough, anger at my body for not being able to run, anger at the mountains for getting the best of me, and anger at all the softball sized rocks I kept landing on and rolling over. This anger bubbled over in some expletives, but really, what else could I do? The sun was going down, and I needed to get to the finish. Natural consequences are always the truest of motivators to get your attitude straightened out.

As I crossed the final creek, soaking my feet (a nice touch at the end), my wife was waiting for me. She had finished her race hours ago and was there to support me. Seeing her brought a sense of relief and connection that I desperately needed after being at odds with myself for the past several hours on the trail.

I crossed the finish line with a time of 14:42, right near sunset. It felt as though I had lived a lifetime in a day, especially in the last few hours. The finish line was essentially empty, and I gratefully climbed back into the van and passed out.