Overcoming at Outlaw 100

Robber’s Cave State Park, Oklahoma, February 10-11, 2023

Running a 100-mile race is always an adventure, but sometimes unavoidable conditions and tough courses swell the adventure to legendary proportions. Outlaw 100 was such an adventure for me this year!

Full disclosure: Okay, all of the conditions that made Outlaw 100 harder for me this year were not unavoidable. I decided to run an extremely hilly road half marathon six days before Outlaw. I know. Not the smartest decision I have ever made.

I had been wanting to run Argo Half Marathon of a while, but it has always been scheduled on a Sunday in past years. This year, for whatever reason, it was set to be on a Saturday. Saturday, February 4, to be precise. Argo is a quirky, old-school “group run” event that takes place on—could you guess?— Argo Road. Argo is the road that leads to my home trails and I have often run half marathon distance and longer on it for hill training. Did I want to pay money to do it again? The shirt would be pretty cool!

Our oldest son Aaron was also interested in running Argo Half, and this turned out to be the deciding factor. To enter this event, you have to drive to a local running store (which is about an hour away from my home) on the designated day (January 12) and pay cash. You write your name on a list and put down your shirt size. You may enter two other runners, but only if you are entering yourself. I was told it was a good idea to be there when the store opened so I didn’t risk the race selling out before I arrived. Aaron could not get off work on a Thursday morning, but if I decided to run, I could enter him.

On the other hand, I did not want to jeopardize my chances of finishing Outlaw 100. What to do? I decided a test run on Argo was in order. I ran a very relaxed half marathon on Argo one Thursday and then did my planned 24-mile long run the next day. No problem. No sore muscles. No significant fatigue added to my legs. As long as I didn’t run hard at Argo, it should be fine, I decided. Silly me. Since when have I ever had the discipline to run a race easy?

Getting ready to start at Argo Half Marathon. I am in the light blue jacket on the right near the back.

The weather on race day for Argo turned out to be milder than usual. It was 38 degrees at the 8:00 a.m. start and topped out around 48 degrees before I got done. The wind, however, was ferocious! I began at a very easy effort in very last place of all the runners. “Good,” I thought. The Argo course is a double out and back, so often there were oncoming runners. Being a trail runner, I greeted each oncoming runner with a smile and a few words of encouragement. I think I smiled the entire race. I had a great time!

Argo finish

Keeping my pace fairly steady, I began picking off runners. Passing up is always a fun boost and slightly addictive. I pressed on. By the halfway mark, my legs were feeling fatigued, but I convinced myself they felt no worse than during my test run. Toward the end, my legs were pretty sore, but I worked to keep my pace steady and to catch the next runner in front of me.

To finish Argo, you run across a line scratched in the gravel parking lot and then walk over to a big white board to write down your name and finish time. I was quite pleased with my time of 2:43:46. (Note that this was 24 minutes faster than my practice half marathon on Argo in training, so I definitely missed my goal of taking it easy.) My watch said I had covered 2,208 feet of vertical climb. Aaron finished sixth overall in 1:44:32.

I did all the things I could to initiate recovery: immediate intake of carbs, eating protein soon afterward, light stretching; putting my legs up; using the NormaTech boots later (on loan from my daughter). However, the next morning when I got out of bed, I knew I was in trouble. I was hobbling sore and Outlaw was five days away.

I did zero running the rest of those days, only brisk walking, mobility, soft tissue work, compression, and a very helpful trip to my sports chiropractor, Nathan Uhl (who also ran Argo Half Marathon, by the way, finishing seventh right behind our son Aaron). Finally after Nathan’s work on Wednesday, I could walk without soreness. He assured me that I would be okay. I did my best to set aside my worry (what was done, was done) and focused on packing and prep for our trip.

Our daughter Elizabeth had planned to ride down to Oklahoma with us. She was going to help my husband Don with crewing and also pace me for some nighttime miles. Unfortunately, a few days before the race, her mini Australian Shepherd got into the trash and ingested something inedible. This caused serious gastric symptoms and ultimately resulted in abdominal surgery to repair a blockage in his intestines. Besides a huge vet bill, this also meant Elizabeth had to stay home and care for her recuperating doggy.

“We’ll be okay,” I assured her, although I knew her support would be sorely missed. We left for Oklahoma shortly before noon on Thursday.

Jeremy, the race director, had given me permission once again to run my race on Friday and Saturday, even though the official race would be held Saturday and Sunday. For those of you who are new to my blog, I have made a personal commitment not to race on Sunday. I greatly appreciate Jeremy’s accommodation to allow me to experience the adventure of the 100-mile races he directs while still being true to my belief about keeping the Sabbath day holy. My race at Outlaw 100 would begin at 6:00 a.m. Friday morning, 24 hours before the official race start. Outlaw has a 48-hour cutoff, which for me would be 6:00 a.m. Sunday morning. (I felt okay running into the wee hours of Sunday morning. I try not to be legalistic, while still keeping the intent of God’s commandment as I understand it.)

There was another far-reaching circumstance besides my tired legs that made this year’s race at Outlaw much more difficult. On Wednesday of race week, the area received torrential rainfall. The Outlaw course is not the type of terrain you would picture for Oklahoma, thanks to the Ozark Mountains which spill over from Arkansas into the area of Robber’s Cave State Park where the race is held. Now, after all the rainfall, each valley between those mountains featured a swollen rushing creek.

Approaching the mountains!

The Ozark Mountains in Oklahoma

My husband and I arrived at the state park just at sunset and drove straight to the start/finish area so I could re-familiarize myself with the starting points of each loop before darkness fell. I hiked a bit on the trail. Rivulets of water and mud filled the areas between the rocks. Darkness drove me back into the parking lot, and we found Jeremy had arrived to work on race preparations. When he told me that the one of the creek crossings was above his knees when he was out marking the course that afternoon, I knew things were going to get interesting. He asked me to check the trail markings and report to him after my first loop.

We didn’t make our reservations early enough to get one of the charming cabins in the state park, but we did get a room in the newly remodeled lodge. It was comfortable and stylish. After unpacking, I got busy preparing my fuel for the race, while Don headed into town to find something for his supper. I ate my usual pre-race meal of homemade almond butter on homemade bread, plus an apple and some popcorn.

If you read my last post about my birthday run (find that here), you know the struggle I had with stomach issues (and the resulting meltdown), as well as the puzzle of how to adjust my fueling to avoid or at least minimize digestive woes. For starters, as I approached this race, I had worked on the mental preparation needed to face whatever challenges cropped up—including stomach problems. I felt prepared to stay calm and carry on.

In case my attitude wobbled, I wrote a script of things for my husband to say to me in the crew notes. “Let me tell you how awful it is for a few minutes and then help me redirect my thoughts. Here are things to tell me: You know problems will come up, but you can stay calm and figure out what to do. Flip the script. Be positive like Courtney. You’re fine. This is fine. Everything is fine. Keep moving. This is okay. It will get better. You are strong and you can deal with this. It WILL get better!”

I had gut trained as much as possible in the short span between my birthday run and Outlaw, pushing my carb intake during each longer run to well over 66 grams per hour. I also decided Elizabeth’s idea of starting out with a base level carb intake and building up over the miles was worth a try. In our lodge room that evening, after filling 12 soft flasks with my Liquid Shot+EFF powder slurry (36 hour’s worth), I packed “hour bags” of solid fuel.

I filled ten Ziploc snack bags with peanut butter cracker sandwiches, as well as pieces of Clif nut butter bars and toaster pastries to total 62 to 63 grams of carbs when added to my hourly slurry intake. I wrote “Early Miles” on each bag along with the carb count. I also made about six “Mid Miles” hour bags. I left out the Clif bar pieces and added in some higher carb ginger cookie halves. These bags with my slurry would add up to 64 to 65 grams of carbs per hour.

I figured after these bags were used up, I would be ready to move to 66 or more grams of carbs per hour, which meant I just needed to eat a piece of toaster pastry or half of a ginger cookie every 15 minutes with my slurry. I knew if I wanted to keep eating the peanut butter cracker sandwiches, I would need to take in five or six per hour to meet my carb intake goal. All this prep (especially premixing the slurries) would make Don’s job during the race much easier.

Engo patches to go inside my shoes

Taping the balls of my feet

Don taped the balls of my feet and I put on my race socks. (I was hoping this along with Engo blister pads in my shoes would prevent the painful deep blistering on the balls of my feet I experience at Outlaw 100 two years ago.) I encourage Don to go ahead and go to bed and he gladly complied. After reviewing my morning to-do list one final time, packing my vest, laying out my shoes and clothing, and saying a prayer, I climbed into bed, too. My sleep was about average for pre-race night (waking often) but I was asleep when the alarm sounded at 4:30 a.m.

I ate a Clif nut butter bar and dressed as Don loaded everything we might possibly need back into our van. At least our room was only about ten minutes away from the race start if we forgot anything!

The forecast had predicted a chance of morning showers, so I was pleased to step outside and see it was not raining. The temperature seemed mild compared to the frigid weather at Outlaw 2021. I think it was 38 degrees at my race start and the temperature was supposed to stay steady all day in the mid-30s under overcast skies. I dressed in my mid-weight wool shirt and a jacket with run pants over shorts. I also wore calf sleeves, gaiters, my wool buff, and a wool headband under my race cap.

I had decided not to coat my feet with Vaseline as I had read in the Fixing Your Feet book (by John Vonhof) that it gets sticky and collects dirt. DryMax says not to use lube with their socks, so I decided to take them at their word and did not even apply Squirrel Nut Butter to my feet.

As another step to try to avoid foot pain, I decided to start in my tried and true (vintage) Altra Superior 3.0s. I had nabbed a new pair from an online consignment site, but they felt oddly snug across the toe box and tight on my enlarged arthritic right big toe when I had tried them on at home. “They just aren’t broken in and stretched out,” I thought, and decided they were still my best choice for this course. I had placed Engo blister pads in these shoes and also in my backup pair of Lone Peak 5.0s.

My husband offered a prayer for me, and I prayed silently along with him, entrusting the race and all it might hold into God’s hands and asking that He would be glorified. Then we were on our way.

Jeremy was already up and busy when we arrived at the start/finish. He told me the board for crossing Coon Creek was not out yet, but that he would get it out by afternoon. I double checked my list to make sure I had everything I needed in my vest and did a few dynamic warmup moves. Don snapped a photo of me with his phone and then it was time to begin.

Ready to begin!

The Outlaw 100 course consists of a 20-mile circuit made by a large 13-mile south loop and a smaller 7-mile north loop. Those of us running the 100-mile race would complete the full circuit five times. First, we tackle the south loop. It was approximately 7 miles to the first aid stop at Shorty’s and then another 6 back to the start/finish.

I started only with my headlamp (and the emergency flashlight I carried in the back of my vest the entire race) since it would be getting light in about an hour. Knowing I needed to take it very easy this first loop, especially with the unrecovered condition of my legs, I did plenty of hiking. The trail was sloppy and wet. Looking back, I spent entirely too much time and effort trying to keep my feet dry on this first loop. I also spent way too much time trying to figure out the best way across the creeks, often bushwhacking up and down the banks in my search for a place to cross.

First creek crossing that required wading

It was still dark when I came to the first creek that required wading. I knew it was coming, as the trail plunged down, down, down and the sound of rushing water filled the air. Was this the Rough Canyon Creek crossing Jeremy had mentioned? He had rattled off the names and conditions of several locations, but I was not familiar enough with the course to know where he was talking about (except for the unforgettable Coon Creek). This creek crossing was one long rock ledge—maybe 25 feet wide—with shallow water running across it. Jeremy had warned me that the rocks at the crossings were slick, so I shuffled across slowly without picking up my feet. The icy water came up only to my ankles and I made it safely to the other bank without slipping. First one done!

I began fueling at 6:15 a.m. and had memorized the three-hour schedule for finishing a soft flask of slurry: 6:00, 9:00, 12:00, 3:00, repeat. The hour bags made fueling with the right amount of solids so easy. Just eat what was in the bag by the top of each hour and begin a new bag at 15 minutes past each hour.

Dawn crept in about 7:00 a.m. and soon I flipped off my headlamp. I relished the beauty around me: tall pines, rugged rocks, long climbs. This is the kind of course I love (although I knew I might love it less in the later miles)! I hoped the creek I had already crossed was the only one on this side of Shorty’s which would require wading, but that turned out to be far from the truth.

Creek crossings were definitely a major factor in the difficulty of the course this year, at least for me. As I recall, there were four creeks that required wading between the start/finish and Shorty’s and then four more on the way back from Shorty’s to the start/finish. One crossing in each of these sections merited the label of “scary” in my opinion. (They were deep, with swift water and bouldery creek beds that made footing tricky.) Eight crossings on the 13-mile loop times five loops meant 40 times I had to wade through ice cold (often rushing) water.

Because of the high water levels, some of the creeks had flooded beyond their main channels. The spots I deemed best for crossing were sometimes off the main trail, which meant scrambling over boulders and through bushes while wading through multiple small fingers of the creeks.

My feet did not seem to dry out much between stream crossings, perhaps because of the colder weather. I have wet my feet at water crossings many time in past races, and after 15 to 20 minutes, my feet usually feel pretty dry. But of course at those other events the temperature wasn’t in the mid-30s either. Whatever the reason, I knew I was going to have to stay on top of taking care of my continually sopping wet feet or suffer the consequences.

I took time on this first loop to snap some photos of the scenery. I even stopped once and set up my camera for a selfie shot. (It didn’t turn out very well and I didn’t want to take more time to try again.) I didn’t know if I would cross paths with the Mile 90 race photographers and I wanted some photos to commemorate my adventure. (As it turned out, I did get several official race photos, which made me happy!)

My left hamstring began feeling tight after only a handful of miles, so I stopped and stretched it a few times. I didn’t stress too much about it since it wasn’t screaming sore, and I know little niggles in the early part of a 100 often loosen up and resolve themselves as the miles unwind. Still, the thought that my legs might not be recovered enough to hold up for 100 rough miles was buried somewhere in the depths of my subconsciousness.

I soon began feeling overdressed. I decided when I reached Shorty’s I should to swap out of my mid-weight wool shirt for a lighter long sleeve top. As I neared Shorty’s, I recognized key features of the course from two years ago: The extremely steep downhill scramble from the top of the ridge to the lake (There was a little waterfall coming off the ridge this year!); the shoreline trail right at the water’s edge and totally exposed to the north wind; the long uphill trudge and then rocky hard-to-run descent.

If you look closely, you can see the little waterfall coming off the bluff. You can also get an idea of how steep this section was.

At the bottom of the hill, the trail leveled out, and I ran along the edge to avoid the stream of water in the middle. Unfortunately, that meant contact with the vegetation along the trail, including a loop of a sturdy vine which did not break when my foot caught it. Down I went. At least it was a soft landing in the mud and no harm was done.

Soon I was crossing the high arched metal bridge over a swollen torrent (I’m glad I did not have to try to ford that creek!) and trotting up to our blue van in the parking lot. It was 8:40 a.m., a bit slower than I had hoped, but still within my planned time range.

I climbed into the passenger’s seat and told my husband what I needed. I decided to not only change shirts, but also take time to peel off my wet socks. In spite of the benzoin adhesive, the taping on my feet came loose as I removed my socks. At first we thought we might be able to “glue” it back down with more benzoin, but a closer look made me realize that was futile. I pulled all the tape off of my feet. Hopefully the Engo pads would be enough.

Don slathered my bare feet with hand sanitizer (the alcohol content pulls moisture out of the skin) and I held them under the floor vent of the van heater for a few minutes before putting on a fresh pair of socks. I knew my feet would not stay dry for long, but the dry socks felt heavenly. I did not try to hurry and allowed myself to spend 27 minutes at this aid stop (which was longer than I actually needed to accomplish the necessary tasks).

Finally, I climbed out of the van and forged onward. After Shorty’s, the trail crosses the highway and heads uphill again. Before the race, Jeremy had told me these trails drain well and while they might have water running down them, they didn’t really get muddy. Nevertheless, I was traversing quite a few sloppy muddy sections on the trail. I tried to avoid the worst mud as well as the rivulets and puddles of water in order to at least keep my feet dry until the first creek that required fording.

I didn’t have to wait long to reach that creek. Soon I stood on the banks of the iconic Coon Creek. It is a scenic area where the creek flows through various low points of a broad and undulating rock ledge before cascading into a wide pool below. Near the far shore, the main channel of the creek is too deep to cross safely. During the race, a board is placed over this channel to form a makeshift bridge, but since the board was not there yet, I bushwacked upstream, searching for a way across.

Approaching Coon Creek

Coon Creek from the far side looking back

Finally, I just picked the best path I could through the rocks and bushes, wading across multiple smaller streams of water before I reached the main channel. The water here was not as deep as it was downstream, but still deep and fast enough to cause trepidation. I entered it cautiously, feeling for my footing among the loose rocks and boulders on the creek bed as the water rose to above my knees. Fortunately, the current was not powerful enough to knock me over and I emerged on the far bank victorious. Still, a shadow of dread settled in the back of my mind when I thought about facing this crossing four more times.

I was monitoring my stomach closely, watching for any signs of distress, but it felt fine. I appreciated the ease of the “hour bags” and was staying on schedule with my slurry intake. My electrolytes plan was to take in 350 to 470 milligrams of sodium per 20-ounces of water I consumed (per Jason Koop’s book Training Essentials for Ultrarunning). With the sodium in my slurry, I needed one Salt Stick capsule for every 3-hour slurry soft flask to meet this goal—or I could eat soup at aid stops. (The canned chicken noodle soup I brought along had 460 milligrams of sodium per half cup serving.)

We had brought our one-burner camp stove and cooking gear for Don to heat up soup and instant mashed potatoes to feed me at aid stops. Since he was crewing solo, I told Don to drop mashed potatoes from the menu and to only heat up chicken noodle soup for me during the nighttime hours. I knew solo crewing a 100 was a lot of work and missed sleep for him, and I wanted to make his job as easy as possible. I also encouraged him to nap as much as he could.

Runners finish both the south loop and the north loop by popping out onto a dirt and gravel service road. We follow this road across a concrete low water bridge, and then up a steep hill until we reach the left turn onto the trail that leads to the cave area. I was always happy to make that turn, knowing the start/finish was only about a half mile away. Some bouldery single track in the cave area led to a long switchbacked concrete ramp that dumped us into the cave parking lot. We then trotted up the road perhaps a hundred feet, and turned onto a short trail that led through an arched gateway and into the clearing of the campground area where the start/finish was located.

It was 11:12 a.m. when I completed the south loop for the first time, which put me near the bottom of the range of my time goals. Even though I dried out my feet and changed socks again, I was in and out of this aid stop in 13 minutes.

As I began the north loop, I reminded myself to enjoy it. Last time I ran Outlaw, the north loop was where I suffered a lot of my stomach problems, and I had proclaimed it my least favorite part of the course. This year I was determined to break that negative association. I reminded myself that one runner had told me it was his favorite section.

I took extra care navigating, since two years ago I had missed a turn on this section which caused me to accidentally bypass about two miles of the loop. (I had made it up by running that part twice on my next trip around.) Even still, I got off course at one point, missing a hairpin turn, crossing the gas line cut, and heading onto a trail on the far side. Fortunately, when I saw a clearing with a picnic table, I quickly realized my error and backtracked to find the correct trail. The addition of a table with water jugs at this location made the correct turn more obvious on subsequent loops.

The north loop had some rough sections and some solid climbing (to me it felt like the highest elevation of the entire course), but I discovered one thing I loved about this seven-mile section: Every creek could be crossed without wetting one’s feet! No wading!

When I reached the start/finish again, my first 20-mile circuit was completed! (My watch said I had run 20.87 miles). I was delighted to be past the point where early stomach problems had appeared at my last three ultras and still be feeling fine! The plan of starting at base level with my carb intake and later building up seemed to be working.

At this aid stop, I saw that I was a bit closer to my time goals, and since I didn’t need to change socks, I was in and out in only eight minutes. The potential morning showers had never materialized. My left hamstring and right calf felt tight and a bit sore (common trouble spots for me), but overall, I felt like things were looking up. I reported to Jeremy that the trail markings for the race were still in place and looked good, then started out for Shorty’s with a smile on my face.

I had packed three pairs of my regular DryMax Trail Lite socks and two pairs of DryMax cold weather socks. Since I was changing socks twice per 20-mile loop, it soon was obvious I had a problem. Don ingeniously solved the issue by taking my wet socks back to our lodge room and laying them out over the room heater with the fan blowing. Later in the race, I might not have clean socks to put on, but I had dry socks to put on and that was what mattered.

The creek crossings were not any easier the second time around, but I made a bigger effort to just plunge in and get across (at least at all but the two tricky crossings, which simply required time and care). A mile or two before I got to Shorty’s I noticed a few snowflakes in the air. “Just a few flurries,” I thought, but soon it was snowing heavily—big, wet, thick snowflakes. It was pretty, but not welcome. This had not been in the forecast!

Getting close to Shorty’s

Headed out from Shorty’s

When I got in the van at Shorty’s at 4:25 p.m., I asked Don if the snow was supposed to stop soon. No. It was not. They predicted it would keep snowing until at least 9:00 p.m. (and it actually kept snowing until more like 1:00 a.m.). Uggg. I decided I had better put on my rain jacket to stay dry.

As I pulled my legs up while sitting in the front seat of the van to remove my wet shoes and socks, my right calf began to cramp. I quickly changed positions and the cramp subsided before it fully developed. Oddly enough, it was my left calf that was tightening up every time I sat in the van (Yes, I sat for way too long!). Each time I got out of the van and got underway again, my left calf was sore. After I walked a few hundred yards, it would loosen up and be okay. Then I could run again.

Back toward the start/finish I went. My stomach was still fine. I had used up the early-mile hour bags and was now working through the mid-mile bags, which contained a slightly higher carb count.

I slowed down on this section, although I didn’t realize it until I analyzed my splits after the race. The snow was definitely a factor. It coated all the rocks and made them slippery. When I reached Coon Creek, I saw that the board “bridge” was out. It was covered with snow and so were the rocks I would have to hop across to get to it. Too big a risk of falling I decided and headed upstream again to battle my way through the boulders, brush, and cold water.

At 6:00 p.m. I finished my soft flask of slurry right on schedule. At 6:15, I reached into the back of my vest for the new flask—only it wasn’t there! Feeling a bit panicked, I searched all the pockets of my vest. Nothing. I searched again, but still didn’t find it. I was out of slurry. My stomach had been doing so well. Was this going to tip me into nausea? I still had plenty of solid fuel. I considered trying to get in all the carbs I was missing by eating more solids, but I wasn’t sure my stomach would like that either. Every 15 minutes when my nutrition alert sounded, I ate the scheduled piece of solid fuel, but no extra. I would just get to the start/finish and more slurry as quickly as I could.

There were a couple of other things slowing me down, too. Another guest even more unwelcome than the snow had come to visit. Yes, I was having diarrhea again. After my birthday run, I had read the dosing information on Pepto Bismol (my drug of choice because of it’s few side effects) and realized I could take a lot more tablets than I had in the past. Evidently, I could safely take one tablet every 30 minutes to an hour, up to eight tablets in 24 hours. Consequently, I had packed eight tablets in my vest, and I began taking one every 30 minutes. The extra medication in my system did seem to reduce the number of stops I had to make, but did not totally eliminate the problem, which continued to some degree for the rest of the race.

I was also having to make frustratingly frequent stops to empty my bladder. Was this from not taking in enough sodium? Taking in too much sodium? Or just from the cold weather? I knew I was not drinking too much water. If anything my water consumption was on the low side. Regardless of the cause, stopping so often was greatly reducing my forward progress. This issue persisted throughout the rest of the race also.

Post race, I did some reading on the ladies’ trail running Facebook group and found there is an actual syndrome called cold diuresis. Evidently cold diuresis is the body’s way of preserving heat when it feels that you may be in danger of hypothermia. Your body begins to constrict your blood vessels to reduce blood flow to the skin and keep the warmth around your internal organs. This causes an increase in blood pressure, which in turn causes the kidneys begin to filter out excess fluid in the blood to reduce the blood’s volume, and therefore the blood pressure.

All this fluid has to go somewhere, and that’s where the increased urination begins. Even though I did not perceive feeling cold very often, in hind sight, cold diuresis seems the most likely explanation of my situation. Unfortunately, I don’t’ remember if I still had frequent urination through the warmer daytime hours on Saturday. That bit of information would have been a great clue to the mystery.

When I passed through the arched gate and into the clearing where the start/finish was located, the area had been transformed from an empty campground to a packed parking lot. Dozens of cars lined the road as runners for all distances had arrived to pick up their packets. The memory is a bit blurry, but I think this was the time when my sports chiropractor Nathan and his girlfriend Sharon spotted me jogging down the road and cheered me on with encouraging words. (Nathan ran the marathon distance both Saturday and Sunday morning, winning both races. Sharon ran the half marathon.)

I was unraveling at the edges as I located our van and climbed inside, it was 7:10 p.m., over 30 minutes past my slowest planned arrival time. “I ran out of slurry about an hour ago,” I informed Don. “I was sure I picked up the second soft flask at Shorty’s but somehow I left without it.”

Don felt terrible that he had allowed me to leave without enough slurry to get me to the next aid stop. “It’s not your fault,” I assured him. “If you had asked me if I had the second soft flask, I would have said yes.” (After this fiasco, I implemented a new safety plan. Before leaving each aid stop, I physically touched each item in my vest pockets as we went down the check list on the crew sheet.)

Regardless of the reason, it had happened. Now we needed to focus on recovering from the blunder and getting back on track. It would not be hard to physically gulp down the missed slurry. The hour’s worth I had missed only amounted to a little over one-third cup. The harder task was getting my body to happily digest the extra carbs in a short time period. The fuel deficit had thankfully not caused nausea, and I didn’t want to go there now. Knowing all my time goals were already out the window and yet I still had plenty of elbow room with the time cutoff, I decided to take my time and regroup. My body could digest more efficiently when I was sitting still. I took a bit swig of slurry.

There was another reason I chose to sit in the van for so long. Dusk was falling outside, and darkness had crept into my mind as well (undoubtedly the predictable side effect of dropping blood sugar). It was dark and cold and still snowing. The night felt like a bottomless black hole waiting to devour me, and the miles still left to cover seemed insurmountable. I was frustrated with my slow pace, and I kept thinking that Elizabeth was supposed to be here to pace me. Instead I had to face the darkness alone.

I don’t think I expressed much of this out loud to Don, but he could sense my negative mood. He found the page on the crew sheets with phrases to encourage me and said calmly, “Flip the script.” It was the right thing to tell me. I balked, not wanting to relinquish my somehow comfortable cloak of despondency, but finally with great effort I loosened my grip and allowed it to begin slipping away. I would go on . . . but not yet.

I had completed the necessary tasks: I had ingested the missed carbs and was back on schedule with my slurry intake. I had put on my Flipbelt and Kogalla lighting. I had dry feet and clean socks. I had added warmer layers of clothing (a warmer headband and my mid-weight wool shirt). Still I sat in the van where I had warmth and companionship. When an hour had elapsed, Don began to gently urge me to get out and move on. I knew I must go. With a sigh, I opened the door and stepped into the night.

The temperature hovered around 30 degrees and the snow was thick and wet. It coated every branch, tree, bush, and rock. It was beautiful, but tedious. It hid obstacles on the trail and at times obscured the trail itself, making it hard to follow. It coated small trees until they bowed to its weight and blocked the trail. It kept my feet continually wet and cold. The higher I climbed, the colder it got and the deeper the snow piled up. I would guess there were three or four inches on top of the mountain.

My determination rose with my blood sugar, and I worked to focus on positives: My stomach had a few wobbles on this loop—undoubtedly still trying to digest the extra carbs—but I had no nausea. My feet did not hurt. By this mileage last Outlaw, the balls of my feet were tender and sore. It was supposed to be sunshiny and 50 degrees tomorrow. “Just hang in there through the night,” I told myself. “Everything will be easier in the morning. You have made it through the night solo before. You can do it now.” I continued to listen to digital audio books on my phone for company. It was comforting to hear another person’s voice.

I think it was on this loop where I had my first bloody nose. If this is going to gross you out, scroll past the next four paragraphs. Just so you don’t become alarmed, bloody noses are a regular part of my life (and several of our kids and grandkids have inherited this tendency). It is always the left side that is a problem for me. Evidently I have some blood vessels very near the surface in that nostril. At any rate, I had a gusher of a nose bleed. “People coming behind me are going to think someone was murdered here,” I thought as I leaned over and let the blood drip onto the ground while fishing for a tissue to cram into my nose.

Usually about ten to fifteen minutes of pressure from the tissue packed into my nose is enough to stop the bleeding, but not this time. The tissue soaked through and I replace it with another, and yet another. The bleeding was so heavy that it was running down my throat. Good grief. I spat out the blood, not wanting blood in my stomach to cause nausea.

Fueling every 15 minutes became problematic. You have to shut your mouth to chew and swallow. I have worked for years on nasal breathing while running, but have you ever tried running or hiking up steep hills or even just walking briskly with only one nostril to breathe through? It does not work out very well.

I spat out a disgusting blood clot that had slid into my mouth and hoped that was the end of it. I recalled my eight-year-old granddaughter having a massive bloody nose at my house. She spat out a big clot and proclaimed, “It’s done bleeding now. It always quits after I spit out the clot.” This was my first experience with this type of clot, but I was relieved to find out she was right. Finally, I could remove the tissue from my nostril and breath again!

It was 11:09 p.m. when I returned to the start/finish. At least the cars had cleared out and I had no problems locating Don. He had hot chicken noodle soup ready for me. I crumbled a couple of crackers into it and relished the warmth spreading into my stomach. I’m sure Don was relieved to find my crisis was over and my gloom had transformed into resigned doggedness as I faced the rest of the night. I changed socks again, since the snow had wet my feet just as thoroughly as the creek crossings. Thirty-seven minutes later, I was on my way to Shorty’s.

There were, of course, still creeks to ford, and some of the steep downhills were slick and tricky. It was still snowing, and the wind was cold, especially along the lake. I had another massive bloody nose. Once I passed the midnight hour, my brain was not comprehending audio books anymore, so I switched to music.

The last creek before Shorty’s was a non-wader. I stepped carefully from rock to rock. After crossing the creek, we had to navigate a jumble of boulders before reaching solid ground again. I stepped onto a huge slanting rock and paused to gauge where I should step next. Without warning, I found myself flat on my back. The impact was brutal and I lay stunned momentarily. My neck had been yanked forcefully, but I was thankful I had not hit my head. “How badly have I hurt myself?” I wondered. “Can I still run?”

Gingerly, I eased into a sitting position and crawled off of the slick rock before standing up. I seemed to be okay. As I began walking down the trail and assessing my body, I noticed my lighting seemed dimmer. It took a few moments for me to realize I was no longer wearing my headlamp. I turned and walked back to the accident scene. I had no problem finding it since it was dark and my headlamp was turned on. I saw its glow in the grass and beside it lay my hat. I hadn’t noticed that the force of the fall had knocked it off as well. I settled my hat and then my headlamp back on my head and turned again to make my way to Shorty’s. I eased into a jog and began gratefully thanking God that everything felt okay. (Post-race, my neck would be sore for weeks.)

I was beginning to feel like it was time to increase my carb intake. In past 100s (before I learned how much fuel I actually needed and that I should count carbs and not calories), I would start to feel slightly nauseous just before it was time to fuel again. This was my cue that I needed to step up my fuel intake. Now that I was fueling better and not teetering on the edge of carb deficiency, the cues that I needed to increase my carbs were more subtle, but still recognizable if I was paying attention. At this race, when everything began feeling hard or overwhelming or when I began to feel that dragging tiredness, I increased my carbs slightly. Every time within fifteen to twenty minutes everything would be fine. It was pretty remarkable!

I had been using the mid-mile hour bags which contained 64 to 65 grams of carbs. Now, almost 50 miles into the race (my watch read 48.68 when I reached Shorty’s), I could feel that it was time to bump up to 66-68 grams of carbs per hour. I stopped using hour bags and simply ate a half ginger cookie or piece of toaster pastry every 15 minutes with my slurry intake.

After a 34-minutes aid stop at Shorty’s, on I went, pressing slowly but persistently forward through the darkness. The snow finally fizzled out around 1:00 a.m. I had two more nose bleeds! Dealing with them was burdensome.

It was 5:50 a.m. when I once again reached the start/finish. My watch said 54.63 miles. Since the 100-mile and 135-mile runners were scheduled to start at 6:00 a.m., once again dozens of cars filled the area and people were milling about. And it was dark. Where was Don? I wandered around for a few minutes before he spotted me and flashed his lights.

Once more, I climbed into the van and we began our foot care routine. I asked Don to go to our lodge room and get the coriander seed oil and green salve that I had been experimenting with to lessen my nose bleeds. (I coated the inside of my nostril with the oil and salve.) I wasn’t sure if it actually helped, but I was going to try it. I was so tired of nose bleeds!

Don told me he would pick up my bib and race packet after I headed out. It was encouraging to know that daylight and sunshine were right around the corner. At this stop like most of the others, I lingered longer than I should have. It was 29 minutes before I headed out on the north loop. The 135 and 100-milers had headed south toward Shorty’s, but at 7:30 a.m. the over one hundred 5K runners would be heading north like I was. I definitely did not want to get caught up in that mob and hurried along as best I could to get past the point where the 5K runners would turn off on a different trail. (I made it with no problems.)

My left Achilles had been nagging me for a while on the uphills, and my Superiors continued to press on my enlarged right big toe. For some reason, shortly after I began the north loop, both of these issues felt much worse. I decided that when I got back to the start/finish, I must change shoes. I would put on my Lone Peak 5.0s which also had Engo pads in them. The Lone Peak 4.0s had given me trouble on this course two years ago, slipping around way too much on my feet, but the 5.0s seemed to fit me better. “If they don’t work out, I will just change back to my Superiors,” I told myself.

Daylight crept in slowly and revealed a forest shrouded in fog. I had made it through the night! But where was the promised sunshine? As the temperature warmed and the snow began to melt, a new hazard developed. Snowballs were falling from the tall pine trees. And I do mean snowballs! One pelted me on the back of the neck as I bent my head to look down momentarily. It was a most unpleasant experience. As I headed back toward the start/finish, I finally began to catch a few glimpses of blue sky and sunshine through the clouds!

I made that wonderful left turn off the gravel service road and onto the trail near the caves and was pleased to spot Kristi Mayo with her camera. Hurray! I would have some Mile 90 photos of my race!

Back at the start/finish, we dried out my feet and I put on fresh socks with my Lone Peak shoes. My watch read 62.12 miles. Three 20-mile circuits were completed, with two more to go. My stomach was still fine and so were my feet (except for my enlarged big toe, which felt much better after switching into the Lone Peaks).

Don gave me my bib and told me Jeremy wanted me to put it on and go across the timing mat. “Are you sure?” I asked. Two years ago when I also had a Friday start at Outlaw, he had told me not to wear my bib as it would be too confusing to the timing company.

“Yep,” Don insisted. “He said to put it on and go across the mat.”

“Okay.” I got out of the car and found Jeremy near the finisher’s arch and timing mat. He confirmed what Don had said, so I walked across the mat carrying my bib and then went back to the van to pin it on. It seemed to take forever to get it pinned on right.

I also shed my wool shirt, switched my rain jacket for my regular jacket, and dropped off all my lighting. When I removed my rain jacket, I noticed the white inner lining was flaking off. I had wondered where all those tiny white flecks on my pants had been coming from! What a disappointment! I had only worn that jacket a handful of times over the past two years. Even though I had bought it used, it had supposedly been in “like new” condition.

After I left the van and began my trek toward Shorty’s, I soon became aware that I needed to snug up my shoes. I took time to stop and tighten them up, especially in the mid-foot area, knowing the consequences of loose shoes on this technical trail. The feet of dozens and dozens of runners had churned the wet places into muck. There was no avoiding the mud, but for some unknown reason, I still wasted time trying.

The sun was out in full force now and it was warming up fast. I unzipped my jacket. It was encouraging to note that the water level in the creeks had dropped some since Friday morning. At the first creek crossing, instead of coming up to my ankles, the water did not even reach the top of my shoes. The other creek crossings still required wading, but even that seemed easier in the sunshine!

My feet seemed happy in the Lone Peaks. My right big toe was definitely happier and my Achilles felt better for a while, although the soreness soon started edging back in. It felt rather like a friction issue caused by my shoes rubbing on the back of my heel. I tried lubing it, but probably it was too little, too late. My third toe on my right foot was bumping the end of my shoe a bit on the steep downhills, but I could live with that.

About half way through this section, the front runners of the 100-mile race began to catch and pass me. It was actually rather entertaining. A guy would catch up with me and say, “Good work!” or some similar encouraging phrase, but his face always looked completely puzzled. How could this old lady be in front of him in the race? Next he would always ask, “What distance are you running?”

When I answered, “The 100,” his face would grow even more confused. I chose to be nice and told each one that I had taken an early start.

“Ooohhh,” he would say in enlightenment as he sped on his way.

Interestingly enough, although this scenario played out with every man who passed me, none of the women who caught and passed me asked me anything. They each simply offered encouraging words as they went by. I tried to latch onto some of the energy of these runners and chase after them for a few moments each time I was passed.

Along the shoreline trail near Shorty’s, I encountered John, another Mile 90 photographer. I found it amusing that I was wearing a different jacket than in the first photos taken by Kristi.

I had been trying for several hours to do the math in my head to estimate when I might actually finish. I knew it wasn’t going to be around 10:38 p.m. like last time, but maybe by midnight? I love math, but the math portion of my brain shuts off when I run. I kept struggling with the unruly numbers, trying to arrive at a conclusion.

Frustration percolated through my mind over being so far behind even my slowest goal times. At Shorty’s, I grabbed the clipboard containing the crew sheets and looked at what I had typed. I had estimated my very slowest arrival time would be 10:45 a.m. and it was 12:01. “I must stop taking such long aid stops,” I decided. Even with drying my feet, changing socks, and a jacket change, I was in and out this time in 14 minutes. (I swapped my jacket for a light windbreaker.) I wasn’t sure my legs had much more speed in them, but I could finish sooner if I made shorter aid stops. Unfortunately, this resolve didn’t last long.

When I came to Coon Creek, I paused on the bank. Should I try to make my way across the rock ledge and then the board bridge? The channels of water through the ledge had diminished somewhat, but were still too wide for my short legs to step across without at least a bit of a jump. Looking back, I should have tried it, but the memory of my fall on the slippery rock blocked the way. I turned upstream to make my way across the fingers of water and then wade through the main channel, with was slightly below my knees now.

After another mile or so, I decided that my brain on sunshine could handle an audio book again and chose a “light read” from my list. Evidently I was wrong. Evidently my brain 30 hours into the race could not process an audio book and pay attention to where I was going—even in the sunshine. I crossed a small creek (which did not require wading) just as a lady came up behind me and zoomed by with a few kind words.

The trails were getting progressively more sloppy as the day wore on and more feet churned through the mud. Some areas were literally a swamp. I was looking down too much trying to pick the driest places to put my feet. I was zoned out listening to my audio book. I was not watching the trail markers as I should have been.

For a while, another yellow trail marker had accompanied the Outlaw markers on the trees. I saw a yellow marker on a tree and thought I was okay. (There are many trails in the park besides the ones the race uses.) Then I came to a creek that looked totally unfamiliar. I knew I had not crossed it before. I was off course.

“Okay, no big deal,” I told myself as I turned around. “Just backtrack until you find the right trail again.” I walked back the way I had come, looking earnestly for an Outlaw trail marker. I found none. I walked further. I was on a trail, but it was not one that was part of the race. I stopped and looked around in all directions. Nothing looked familiar, or perhaps I should say everything looked familiar, because every direction I scanned looked the same. Trees. I was in the middle of the woods somewhere, but I had no idea where I was or in which direction the correct trail lay.

How could I have been so careless? With rising alarm, I imagined myself wondering around for hours and missing the time cutoff. “Please God,” I prayed, “I know I made a mistake, but could you please help me get back on the right trail!” I began walking in the direction that felt right. In a few minutes, the trail dumped me out on a gravel road, and oh, glory! It was the familiar gravel service road that led to the start/finish area! I sighed with relief and again offered profuse thanks to the Lord. (And you had better believe I watched the trail markers with great care for the rest of the race!)

I rolled into the start/finish area about 2:30 p.m. Jeremy spotted me and asked me how I was doing. “I am doing fine,” I replied, “but I still have the north loop and then another twenty-mile circuit to go.” Because I was so much slower than my projected times, the crew sheets no longer were in sync with what I needed at aid stops. I had originally thought I would be at this point between 10:15 a.m. and 1:30 p.m. (groan!) so of course the crew sheet for this stop did not say, “Pick up lighting.”

I was well into the north loop before I realized I had not picked up my headlamp. I did have the emergency flashlight I carried in the back of my vest the entire race, so there was no need to panic, but it was hard to eat every 15 minutes while holding a flashlight in one hand. I decided I just needed to move along quickly enough to get back to the start/finish before dark (and I did).

Along the shoreline of a tiny lake on the north loop (just a pond really), I ran into Kristi Mayo again. Mile 90 photo session number three! I found it humorous that I was again wearing a different jacket. I had brought three jackets and now had a photo taken in each one!

It was 5:39 p.m. when I returned to the start/finish area again. No need to change socks this aid stop! (No wading on the north loop and the snow had melted.) I ate soup and crackers. I picked up my Kogalla and headlamp and traded my windbreaker for my black jacket. Dusk wrapped itself around the van as I sat inside its warmth. The thought of the impending second night of darkness felt almost too heavy to bear. (I missed the clues here, but I probably needed to increase my carb intake a bit at this point.)

I had been telling myself that this second night would not be bad. I had been telling myself I would only have to run through a few hours of darkness, but I could no longer ignore the truth. I was not going to finish by midnight or even 1:00 a.m. In other words, I needed to muster the courage to face many long and lonely hours of the night once again. I needed to find the fortitude to face the two scary creek crossings in the dark once more.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to scrape up the amount of determination I needed to go on. I had already been on out on the trail so many hours. Could I stay awake through most of a second night? Would I end up sleep walking in a daze on the trail? Would I start hallucinating?

The idea of quitting flitted through my mind and then landed. It would be such a relief to quit. It would be so wonderful to go right that moment to the soft bed in the lodge and sleep. Instead, I opened the van door and got out, beginning my final 20-mile circuit.

I had only gone about 50 feet when I turned around and returned to the van. No, I didn’t change my mind and decided to take a DNF, but the night felt so cold. I wanted another layer of warm clothing. I took the time to take off my vest, Flipbelt, Kogalla light, and jacket, and put on my heavier wool shirt over the one I was already wearing. It turned out to be a good decision. After reassembling my gear, I once more stepped out into the night to face my final circuit.

Each time I trudged up a steep, long climb or forded a scary creek, I told myself, “This is the last time. You don’t have to climb that hill again. You don’t have to wade through that creek again.” My progress was slower than ever. My tired legs did not want to run. I could have sworn someone added a couple of extra miles of trail to this section. It seemed like I would never get to Shorty’s. Finally, I reached the steep downhill to the lake shore and knew I was getting close. Along the cold shore line, over the hill and down the other side, and finally, I skittered across the metal bridge and into the parking lot at Shorty’s. Finally. It was 9:12 p.m. My watch read 90.25 miles.

While I sat in the van, our daughter Elizabeth kept texting Don, asking for details about how I was doing while he was trying to crew for me. Finally she called. “She has slowed down a lot,” I heard Don say, then I heard Elizabeth’s voice on speaker phone.

“You are doing fine,” she assured me. “Your legs will rebound. You will be able to run more again.”

“It’s not going to happen,” I told her. “But I’m going to keep going.”

As I got ready to make my exit after 33 minutes (I wasn’t doing so well with my intention to cut down my aid stop times), Don’s phone pinged with a text. He read it out loud to me for some reason. It was Elizabeth. “How much has she actually slowed down?” she asked.

Not being at this race was difficult for her. This was my first 100-mile race where she had been unable to come. I think she was worried I would miss the final time cutoff. I was extremely frustrated with my slow time, but the cutoff was 48 hours, for goodness sakes! I had until 6:00 a.m. Sunday morning. At no point was I concerned that I might not finish before then. Still, as I moved onward the stubbornness in me rose up and Elizabeth’s comment motivated me to push harder—to run more and hike less. “You will get done sooner if you run more,” I told myself.

Each step that took me closer to the final crossing of Coon Creek intensified my dread. “If I fall while I am wading through that deep water and get totally drenched, I will become hypothermic before I can get to the next aid stop,” I thought. Even though the thermometer in our van said it was 28 degrees—only a few degrees colder than the first night—it felt much colder than that to me. “Please, God,” I began to pray, “don’t let me fall over while crossing that creek! Please.”

When I arrived at Coon Creek, I stood for a moment on the bank assessing the crossing. Should I try to cross on the rock ledge and board bridge? That probably would have been the safer route, but my heightened fear of falling on slick rocks would still not allow me to try it. I headed upstream and began my final battle with this creek. The water was still almost up to my knees and so cold as it rushed around me! My feet groped for footing in the loose rocks beneath them. And then I was scrambling out on the opposite bank. I felt like a great weight fell off my shoulders. Thank you, God! I was safely across and did not have to face that obstacle again.

“Unless you run this race another time when the creek is high,” a little voice said in my head. I promptly shut up that little voice. Right now I just needed to focus on getting this job done.

My left Achilles was still sore and now my right knee was bothering me, too. It felt like my IT band. Throughout the race, I had stopped to stretch various trouble spots and they had eventually felt better. I continued to try to work on these latest problem areas, but they persisted.

I arrived back at the start/finish at 12:15 a.m. I continued to wrestle with frustration over being so slow, plus the added guilty of causing my husband to miss another night’s sleep. I knew I needed warmer clothing before doing the north loop (It was always extra cold up there!) and make the decision to strip out of my wet pants and calf sleeves as well as my wet socks. (No more creek wading! What a relief!) I put on dry calf sleeves and a pair of light tights under a dry pair of run pants. I added a third long sleeve shirt under my jacket as well. My aid stop time was 46 minutes, but I needed to stay warm.

Only seven miles to go. Only. It still seemed like an eternity. I made up my mind to coerce my legs into running as much as I possibly could in order to get this loop done as quickly as possible. I just wanted to be done!
My Coros Apex Pro watch still had 12% battery left after 42 hour and 15 minutes. It would have made it all the way through, but just to be safe, I plugged it into a battery pack and let it charge for about 20 minutes while I was running.

As I made my way up the trail, I turned my thoughts toward the amazing positive outcomes of this race. The biggest thing was that I had suffered zero stomach problems—no struggles to eat, no nausea, no dry heaves, no vomiting—nothing more than my stomach feeling a bit off when I needed to increase my carb intake. Was I really about to reach my goal of completing a 100-mile race without throwing up? This possibility was so unbelievable to me that I wondered if I would have a sudden bout of stomach trouble on this last seven miles and end up puking. (I did not!)

The second huge positive was my feet. Sure, they felt rather swollen and a little beat up—I figured they had a right to that after carrying me across rough trails for over forty hours—but I had none of the terrible ball of the foot pain I had suffered previously at Outlaw (and at FlatRock 100). It was incredible to think those little Engo patches could accomplish such a colossal task, but it appears that they did!

The reflective trail markers made navigating in the dark easy.

My legs, however, were giving me trouble. My Achilles hurt when I hiked uphill and my right knee hurt when I ran downhill. Hiking—even on the rare stretches of fairly level ground—brought no relief to either issue. I could deal with my Achilles, but the pain in my right knee was getting troublesome. Concern seeped through my mind. What if it got so severe that it interfered with me getting to the finish line? Surely I had not battled through so many miles and so many hours only to be thwarted by an injury issue now.

Once more, I turned to God and asked for His help. “Please, God,” I prayed, “You have brought me this far. Please let my legs hold up to get me to the finish line.” I stopped and stretched several time and used my hands to work manually on my IT band. I was filled with gratitude when after a few more miles, my knee felt markedly improved. Thank you, God! I was going to do this!

I was glad I had put on dry clothing and extra layers. I needed them! The night felt so cold. I had not had to deal with any more nose bleeds during the day, but one more occurred on this last loop. I didn’t know if the coriander seed oil had held the bleeding at bay for a period of time or if the reprieve was due to the warmer daytime weather (or perhaps a mixture of both). This last nose bleed was another big one, but I just dealt with it the best I could and soldiered on.

At some point not too far into the loop, a heavy tiredness began to settle over me. Everything started to feel intolerably difficult. Thankfully this time I recognized my body’s clues! I needed more carbs. When my nutrition alert sounded, I ate my scheduled fuel plus an extra piece of toaster pastry. After two times of taking in an increased level of carbs, I no longer felt tired. Everything was okay again! I continued eating an extra piece of toaster pastry twice per hour. Amazingly, except for a few moments like this, I did not struggle with feeling sleepy or excessively tired through all the long hours of my race. I credit this to adequate fueling.

These photos were obviously taken in the daytime, but wanted to show some of the features of the north loop.

SO MANY ROCKS!

I trotted down a long hill, and as I neared the creek crossing at the bottom, my lights revealed someone sitting on a rock. “Are you okay?” I asked as I approached him.

“Yeah,” he answered. “My legs just feel kind of shaky and I’m waiting to cross the stream until they feel better.” This was a crossing where you could step carefully on rocks and get across with dry feet. “I cannot get my feet wet again!” he continued, “My feet are really torn up from being wet!”

“Do you need salt capsules or something to eat?” I inquired. He assured me that he had everything he needed so I navigated the creek crossing and went on my way, thankful I had taken the time to tend my feet throughout the race.

I was ecstatic when I reached the gravel service road! I was truly almost done! Praise and thanksgiving overflowed my heart and tears wet the corners of my eyes. “Thank you, God! Oh, thank you, God!” I murmured out loud as I ran in my personal stream of light through the darkness. This was my moment of celebration and joy!

My legs still felt okay and I ran until the steepness of the hill compelled me to hike. Still, I powered onward. That left turn onto the single track had never looked more beautiful! One more time through the bouldery trail near the caves; one more time down the concrete ramp. One more time up the road, down the short trail, through the archway of the metal gate, and out into the clearing. I ran toward the finish line arch.

A volunteer stood in the dim light behind the arch, cheering me in. Finally, I ran under the arch and over the timing mats for the final time. This actual moment of finishing felt anticlimactic, yet still permeated me with immense satisfaction . . . and relief.

I stopped my watch. It was 3:42 a.m. (My official time was 45:42:09. Believe me, that’s a long time to be out on the trail, over six hours longer than I had ever needed to finish a 100-mile race before. Even so, I still had a comfortable 2 hour and 18 minute margin before the final time cutoff.)

“I am done!” I announced to the volunteer.

“Oh, fifty miles?” the volunteer asked. (I’m sorry. I should know his name, but it escapes me. Nevertheless, I am grateful for all the race volunteers and especially those who sacrificed to be awake at 3:42 a.m. Jeremy, I hoped, was catching some sleep.)

“No, one hundred. I’m the Friday starter.”

“Oh, okay,” he replied. “Is this your first year?”

“Nope, my second.” This was pertinent information, since Outlaw 100 has a different buckle for second year finishers than for first year finishers, and a different buckle for each finish after that also. (With the challenges of this course, they need an excellent incentive to keep us coming back!)

“Great! Let’s find that buckle for you!” We walked together into the dining hall turned aid station. Another volunteer came to assist him in the search. Since they were not expecting any 100-mile finishers for quite a few hours yet, no one had unpacked the buckles.

“Is this it?” the lady volunteer asked, holding up a first year buckle.

“No, I already have that one.”

Eventually, they unearthed the second year buckles and placed it into my expectant hands. “Sorry for making you wait around,” he said.

“No problem,” I assured him. And it wasn’t a problem. I felt fine, not about to fall asleep or fall over as I thought I might.

My dear husband came rushing up to me. “I am so sorry I missed your finish!” he apologized. “The Spot tracker was not updating your progress very well so I didn’t realize how close you were. I tried to stay awake and watch for you, but I fell asleep.”

“It’s fine,” I assured him, giving him a gigantic hug. “Really, it’s fine. I’m glad you were getting some sleep.” He did, after all, have to drive home tomorrow (or rather, later that day).

Do I look like I have been up 46 hours?

After Don took a few photos of me holding that precious belt buckle, I nabbed a few taquitos and quarters of cheese quesadillas from the aid station table. (Sadly, there were no hamburgers available at that time).

The taquitos were too spicy for my stomach, but as I relaxed in the warm van, I gobbled the quesadillas and they tasted marvelous! After changing shoes and socks and removing a few other sweaty items of clothing, Don drove me back to our lodge room. I held my buckle in my hand the whole way. As soon as I got to our room, I grabbed my recovery drink and began sipping it. I also ate a protein bar. That seemed to satisfy my stomach.

If you recall, the electricity had gone out earlier in the day. I don’t know what kind of water pressure system they had down there, but there was still no water pressure even all these hours later. Taking a shower was impossible.

“I have to clean up,” I told Don. I decided to close the drain in the tub and allow the trickle of water to run until I had enough water for a bath. It was makeshift at best, but at least I was able to remove most of the accumulated grime from my hair and body.

After my bath, I took some melatonin, put on compression socks and tights, ran my fingers over my buckle one more time, and fell blissfully into bed. I had finished the job I came to do. It had been immeasurably harder than I had anticipated and had served up challenges I did not expect, but by the grace of God, I had overcome and finished the race. May all Glory be His.

Post Script

In the days that have followed Outlaw 100, I have continued to battle feelings of inadequacy as an ultrarunner. I am not happy with my finish time, no matter how much I remind myself of the difficulties I faced and conquered during the race. In moments of transparency, I have admitted to myself why my slow finish time bothers me so much: I am afraid this is my new normal. This was my third very slow ultramarathon finish in a row.

First there was FlatRock 101-mile. I finished way over cutoff. Yes, conditions were tough, and there were only two of us who completed the course—one official finisher, plus me. (I was generously given an unofficial finish.) Then there was my birthday run. It’s true there were no time cutoffs and I chose to take my time, but it was by far the slowest Freeze Fest I have run in the four years of this private event. And now a very slow (although well under cutoff) finish at Outlaw. The fear haunts me that I am now old and slow, and I might not be able to run fast enough to make cutoffs at upcoming 100-milers I wanted to enter.

Aging is inevitable and it will slow me down, but beneath my fear runs a bedrock of belief that says, “Not yet.” I have hope that with rigorous training (speedwork, plyometrics, strength training), I can delay that inevitability for quite a few years to come. After all, only 18 months ago I ran my fastest time ever for 100 miles at a course with 14,000 feet of vertical gain. Looking forward, I am on the wait list for Bear 100 in September, and if that doesn’t happen, I am hunting for another adventuresome backup 100.

A few weak spots were exposed by this race—mainly that I must discipline myself and manage my time better at aid stations and also that I must be consistently vigilant about watching trail markings.

But overall, I will focus on the significant victories I gained at Outlaw 100 this year. Besides the triumphs with my stomach and feet, it is also gratifying to know that I can successfully be out on the trail for over 46 hours without a pacer and without battling the sleep monster.

Something good came from being so slow. With my early start, I am ineligible for podium awards, and rightly so. There were four of us women who finished Outlaw 100 this year—and I was fourth. That means I could be granted an official finish (versus an unofficial finish) and that brings a smile to my face.

More adventure lies ahead!

Photo Credits: All photos with the Outlaw race logo were taken by Mile 90 Photography