After coming off a moderately successful 60k, I started feeling more confident—maybe even a bit cocky. I paid less attention to my training, assuming my fitness was where it needed to be. With about a month and a half between races, I slacked off. I knew I had a lot to learn about nutrition but didn’t make the time to study or focus on it. I didn’t prioritize vert, speed, or anything specific, other than enjoying being in the mountains as much as possible, which I suppose is a strength in its own way. Before the race, I found myself repeating past mistakes. Due to my work schedule and my wife’s school schedule, we set out for the race on Friday after work, facing a seven-hour drive. We arrived around 1:30 or 2:00 a.m., in the middle of a hailstorm, and pulled into a field to park. Terrified for what was to come, I barely slept.

The next morning, we headed to the race start, only to find out there was a weather delay due to snow and frozen roads. Grateful for the extra time, I crawled back into the van, ate something, and managed to get another hour or two of sleep. Once the shuttles arrived, the race began. I started slow, settling into the middle of the pack, as it was my first time running over 50 miles. However, that only lasted about four miles before I got swept up in the pace.

Black Canyon, known for being notoriously fast, even had the middle pack running at a blistering speed. The ground quickly became a muddy mess from the snow, and I was slipping and sliding all over, trying to stay upright. Frustration set in, especially as I started to worry about how I’d manage a full 100k in these conditions. The course eventually started to go downhill, and the ground firmed up, so I picked up the pace again, falling into a rhythm with a small group. I barely paid attention to my nutrition and hydration, blasting through the first aid station, grabbing random trail mix, and continuing on. My focus shifted entirely to racing. At the next major aid station, I grabbed more random snacks and filled my flasks without much thought. As the terrain started to roll instead of staying flat or downhill, I felt great at first—chatting with others and keeping up the pace. But gradually, the wheels started to loosen. I didn’t notice it all at once, but I began compartmentalizing small issues as they crept in.

Around mile 30, things started to unravel. I hit a low point mentally and physically, thinking I was much further along than I actually was. When I finally hit the 50k mark, I was severely dehydrated and completely demoralized. I was ready to drop, convinced I couldn’t go any further. That’s when my wife saved me for the first time, handing me a massive jar of pickles and demanded I drink it. I took a massive pull from the jar and it was as if a switch flipped in me. I was alert, optimistic, and ready to rock. If it wasn’t for that, I would have thrown in the towel right then and there. I drank nearly the rest of the jar, and set back out. I blocked out the thought of there being another 30ish miles to go and put my head down. If I thought about 30 miles I knew it would be over.

From mile 30 to 40, I had some serious ups and downs. One minute, I’d feel like I was back in control, and the next, I was fighting the urge to quit all over again. All of the random bits and bops I had taken from aid station came in handy a bit though as I started to put in whatever nutrition I had in my vest. Nuts, Gus, fruit snacks, whatever came out went in. But around mile 40, something shifted. I caught up to someone I had seen early on and we got to chatting. I passed him and he stuck on my wheel. I randomly started to surge here, feeling motivated by the company. I surged forward, feeling stronger than I had all day. The pace stuck right around 8 min from mile 40 to 50, I was locked in. I felt like was flying down the trail, hammering, and feeling totally in the zone. I even took a hard fall at one point going uphill and just popped up and kept jamming

At mile 50, my wife came through for me again at the aid station. My surge was wearing off and I needed some repairs. I was running on fumes at this point, and she handed me a cup of instant mashed potatoes. Pure joy. Bliss. Without it, I might have been done for once again. I was eager to keep going and ready to finish the race strong. I made it to the 50 mile mark at ten hours, which was nearly four hours faster than my first ultra which was a fifty mile race. But as soon as I left that aid station, everything became a blur. The fire I had during that 10-mile push faded, and the rest of the race turned into a slog. I kept moving, but I’d lost my edge. I kept stopping and watching this seemingly endless line of headlamps in the night. By the time I crossed the finish line, it didn’t even feel real. I was dazed and unsure if the race had actually ended. Afterward, I sat down and ate like five grilled cheese sandwiches, completely wiped out but somehow still hungry.

Looking back, I’m proud of my effort. I worked through several highs and lows, and this race taught me so much about the importance of having a crew. Trail and ultra running may seem like solo sports, but they’re absolutely a team effort. Without my wife, I wouldn’t have made it. She saved me, not once but twice, and it opened my eyes to how essential a support system is out there. I also realized just how fast people are and how much I still have to learn. This race humbled me in the best way and left me excited for what’s next.