runreid

With the arrival of our second kid this summer, I decided to step back from 100m racing for the season. I needed to get out from under the training pressure and reduce the time away in order to be more fully present in the early months of #2. So when the idea of pacing Rolf in his first 100m attempt came up, it was a perfect fit for my current life. I could still stay connected to the race, give back, and help a friend complete his goal. What follows is a brief account of our time together on the trail — the full story is his to tell.

Friday

I wake up and am immediately anxious to get on the road North. I take a few moments to be with Kelly, Peter and Charlie and then begin to prep. I tape my feet. I had done this last year during the race, and wanted to do more experimenting with this ever since. I use Strength Tape and a skin prep of Tincture of Benzoin. It goes on easily and quickly, and would remain that way until I finished my pacing duties.

I rush out of the house and get to Silver Bay around 1pm. Liv texts that Rolf has left Beaver Bay and is looking good. She says he’s 30 minutes ahead of his time, which I find troubling. Alex arrives and we wait for Rolf to come through, which he does around 2:30pm. He looks awesome. He looks happy. Whatever anxiousness I had about his race day is eased when we see him. We fill his pack, kick him out, and move on to Tettegouche.

I’ve never been on the spectators’ side in the Superior 100, and as I arrive at Tettegouche, the effort and sacrifice that my own crew has endured in years past becomes clear. Parking is hard and the aid station is crammed with people. I mean this in the best way possible – this is our running community after all – but, crowds!

Alex and I wait with Liv, Phil, Julie, Raph and Vera. It’s been a long day for the kids, and they’re doing great. Both of them are excited to see their dad, but are slowly succumbing to the fatigue. Raph befriends a neighboring spectator who, together, spend the next hour playing with rocks. It’s fun to be here, and know that Rolf is doing so well.

Rolf pops into the aid station pretty much on schedule. He’s on a sustainable pace, and is beaming when he gets in. He says he’s eating, drinking, and generally feeling positive. 35 miles into the race, this is fantastic! Alex asks him how his feet feel, to which he replies “okay”. Alex demands he remove his shoes and fix them, which is a good idea, even if it’s pre-emptive. I strip Rolf’s shoes and socks and clean his feet with a wet wipe from the aid station. I apply some Tincture of Benzoin and we wait impatiently for it to dry. I wrap both of his heels in tape and carefully replace his socks and shoes. It’s an investment of 10 minutes, but one that will hopefully pay dividends in the middle miles. We kick him out, and he trots down the trail happily. He’ll be at County Road 6 in no time! I’ll see him at Finland, which is my next stop.

When I arrive at Finland, the front of the pack has already come and gone. A few front-runners are trickling through, but it’s otherwise quiet. I fill my water bottle and sit in my car. I work on my prototype RSR app for an hour or so before attempting to get some sleep. Rolf should be here by 10:30pm, so I pull out my sleeping bag, set my alarm for 10pm, and try to get some sleep. I drift in and out, but my phone dings loudly with two texts from Alex. He should be asleep. I read them and my heart sinks.

It had never occurred to me that he’d find trouble on his way to County Road 6. He looked amazing at Tettegouche. By the time I read this, I figure that it’s too late to offer help. I’m unprepared, half-asleep in my car and tracking had him into the aid station 10 minutes ago already. The best I can do is be here and ready when he arrives.

I text Liv.

My new calculations put Rolf here around 12:30pm, so I try unsuccessfully to get some more sleep. I’m way to spooled up now to sleep, and I give up trying. I get all my gear on and stand at the aid station. I have two more hours before Rolf will be here, but it feels good to be ready just in case. I meet some nice people from St. Cloud who offer me a spot by the fire. It feels great on this cold, damp night. My car says 44F.

Saturday

A headlamp in the distance approaches. This has got to be him. It’s not.

Now, a pair of headlamps. It’s him, and he’s not alone! The couple approaches. It’s not him.

I am blistering with anticipation, worry, anxiousness, empathy, grief and hope. I think back to the deal I made with Rolf: If you can get to Finland, I can get you to the finish. All of this seems jeopardized now. I haven’t had an update in over two and half hours.

A headlamp with a red jacket moves briskly across the baseball fields that welcome runners to Finland. I know that jacket. It is him!

“ROLF!” I scream across the darkness.

“Hey buddy!” a friendly voice replies.

He looks good! He’s moving! He’s happy! I can’t quite rectify this with the messages I’d received earlier, but he’s vertical and capable of motion, so whatever his state, we will persist. We will finish!

We sit by the fire as I bring Rolf soup and quesadillas. He’s downing aid station food as fast as I can bring it. (I would later learn he hadn’t eaten in over two hours when got into Finland, so I’m glad I put as many noodles as I could into him.) After a short break to warm up by the fire, we are out an on our way to Sonju.

The first hour, we’re moving nicely in an aggressive hike. Rolf fills me in on the details of his race, his episode before County Road 6, and his current state. His illness seems to be behind him, but it’s left him with a strong aversion to running food. He can’t eat any of the food he has on him, and without any new calories since Finland, our pace drops after an hour. There are still 5 miles to Sonju, and we are grinding them out. Conversation is slow, but we do some singing. I tell Rolf that Peter’s been watching a video of Cmdr. Chris Hadfield sing Bowie on the ISS, and so we start singing that.

“Ground control to Major Tom!”

It is so clear that I have to get him to eat! I am offering everything I have, none of which he’s taking. I finally get him to eat a bite of a shot block, which he does only to please me. I know I have to get his engine going again, and food will be the key. I will start him slow with small amounts and ramp him up slowly. By the time we reach Sonju, he’s eaten perhaps 50 calories. It’s not much, but it’s progress.

We reach Sonju and see our good friend Anne. I tell Anne I need a to-go bag of aid station food, because it’s the only thing he’ll eat. She fills a bag full of tortillas and hamburgers. Rolf packs away the calories here while sitting by the fire. It completely refreshes him, and as we leave the aid station, a new song is booming.

“Ground control to Major Tom!”

It’s a good sign.

With our new energy, we begin chatting again, and Rolf begins talking about race goals.

“I really want to get to Marathon start before 8am. I really want that energy.”

I glance at my watch. It’s nearly 3am, and we would have only 5 hours to cover just under 20 miles. At our current pace, there is no chance of this happening.

“Yeah man, we can do it!” I reply, simultaneously feeling bad for lying, proud for encouraging, and sad that we won’t get there.

We ride Rolf’s high for the next two miles before we plunge back into our nutritional reality. This time, at least, we have real food. I pull a quesadilla out of his to-go bag. I estimate there’s perhaps 75 calories in that little wedge he’s nibbling on, but that’s 25 more than the last thing he ate while moving. Progress. By the time we cover the 4mi to Crosby, it feels like 10. It’s less than 40F at this point, and I am freezing, despite my arm warmers, t-shirt, long sleeve t-shirt, windbreaker, hat and gloves. We are moving so slowly, I’m having trouble keeping warm. I try to conceal this from Rolf because I don’t want him to worry about me. I run up the trail and run in place for a while. I don’t do a good job.

“I’m not doing too good here buddy.” Rolf says.

I offer reassurance and hope, just as we pop onto the road to Crosby. Rolf tells me for the second time that there should be pizza here. I’m glad he’s hungry. We hike up the hill and get settled by the fire to warm up, and eat more. Rolf eats a piece of bacon and I can see his sprits lift. He’s smiling, and definitely on another high from the aid stations. He’s covered roughly 18 miles since his stomach trouble, and he’s definitely recovering. However, it’s also 5:30 in the morning and he’s been up for 24hrs. What energy he’s getting from the food is being robbed by general fatigue.

There is no pizza. We push forward.

The sun is coming up as we get to the bottom of the Manitou river gorge. I want us to be getting out of this section now, not getting into it. We’re not in the best shape, and this is one of the most difficult sections on the course. I’m feeling frustrated, but I remind myself that, as Liv said, “Reid is the adult”. I don’t get to feel frustrated today, because today isn’t about me. My only responsibility is to Rolf, and so I keep all of this from him and do my best to project positivity.

“I don’t think we’re going to get to Marathon start by 8am.” Rolf says.

“Yeah, probably not. No worries though. We just need to keep moving and we’ll get there soon!” I reply.

Rolf’s mood is steadily flat as we push through the climbs of this section, which I think is a good thing. No emotional highs and lows, he’s just heads-down grinding it out. His pace is slow, but he never stops moving. I am impressed by this, and I think this is what will get him through. If he can just keep moving like this, he’ll finish. Conversation is, as it has been, light. What little there is consists of course geography and miles remaining until Sugarloaf. Rolf doesn’t know it, but Liv will be there. I don’t tell him because she wasn’t positive she’d make it, but it’ll be a nice surprise if she does.

“How far until the aid station?” he asks.

“2.4mi or so I think.” I reply.

“I need to get out of here. This needs to end.” he says. I agree.

Rolf is totally done with this section, and the finish never seems to get closer for him. A combination of fatigue and anticipation is making tenths of miles feel like tens. I feel the grind of this section, and I’m barely 20 miles into my day. Rolf says his ankles hurt and I offer him some Advil. I tell him how this was a game changer for Alex in 2015.

“I read an article that says it’s bad for your kidneys.” Rolf says, out of breath from a quick climb.

He continues saying something, but I don’t hear it because I’m too busy parsing that statement.

“Is it?” I think silently to myself. “What’s the source of that?” “Alex took them. I’ve taken them. You don’t need kidneys when you have a finisher’s sweatshirt. Do you? Why are we worrying about this? Take the damn Advil!“

24hrs on your feet is no time to be debating pharmacological choices, so I let it go.

“I have it if you need it.” I say and let the issue rest. He should take it.

Still though, through his pain, Rolf is moving forward and eventually we cross the covered bridge that signals a mile remaining and get into the aid station. Liv is there, and Rolf is rejuvenated. I can physically see his spirits lift while he’s with his family. Every aid station has been a huge boost for him, and this one is no different. We are there roughly an hour before the cutoffs and it feels like we have plenty of time. We’re not moving fast, but we are moving.

We say goodbye, get hugs, and head back on to the trail. Only 7 miles until marathon start, and I’m sure that if we can hold this pace, we can even make time on the cutoffs. After the low of Crosby, it feels like we’ve turned a corner. A new day is here, and we leave behind whatever negativity the night brought. We’re moving. We’re positive. We’re finishing.

Our journey to Cramer is more heads down grinding. I am continuing my planned pacing strategy that I’ve been using all day. Set the pace I want him to go, if he falls behind, stop and wait. It means we spend a lot of time apart on the trail, but Liv’s words “Reid is the adult” continue ringing in my ears. If his pacer goes his pace, he’s got no hope. Through this section, Rolf is relentless. Even after the aid station high wears off, he’s got more energy than he had previously. He is eating! We’ve gotten enough food in him by this point that he’s now taking care of himself and I don’t have to worry much about it anymore. His good nutrition contributes to a steadfast, albeit slow, pace. He never stops moving (a quick morning break on a log, far from the trail excepted).

Rolf has been watching the miles accumulate continuously on his watch, something which I cannot fathom. I’ve built strategies around avoiding the true mileage of this race, treating it as I would the sun, and observing it only indirectly. Rolf stares at it directly.

“Only a marathon to go!” He says as we arrive at Cramer Road.

Rolf sits and I check the cutoffs. We’re now only 45 minutes ahead of them, and I’m starting to become aware of their looming presence. What was once a distant threat, has become a gathering storm and we need to clear its path. As we’re refueling, Alex arrives and greets Rolf with the energy of a hundred men. There’s no crew here for Rolf, but Alex’s enthusiasm makes an ample substitution. Once again, his spirits are buoyed and we set off with happy hearts, full bellies and all due haste to get to Temperance by 4pm. I estimate we’ll be there by 3:30pm, so as long as Rolf keeps moving.

Rolf’s relentlessness in this section is again on display as we grind out the 7 miles to the aid station. I begin to understand that, though his pace is slow, his will finish this because of his ability to simply persist. He just doesn’t stop. Every time I lose him around a corner, or at the bottom of a hill, he’s always right there just a few steps behind, the steady clicking of his poles a metaphor for his grit.

Temperance is a chameleon; its geography changing to suit your mood. If you hate flats, it’s flat. If you hate climbing, it’s steep. If you are tired, it’s long. Today, it’s long. Rolf is consistent, and we’re moving, but with the added pressure of the cutoffs at our heels, the miles once again drip by. Rolf and I are, once again, heads down grinding it out, with only minimal conversation. I am feeling small flashes of cramps on my inner thigh and I know we don’t have time to stop. If I lock up, he will have to move forward alone. I will not allow him to lose time because of me. I wonder if Phil could be ready sooner. I hope I don’t need to ask.

We arrive at Temperance approximately 30 minutes ahead of the cutoffs and I am relieved to have this margin. However, we have to make haste and get back on the trail. Rolf and I both eat pancakes with bacon and Nutella on them – likely 500 calories down in approximately 4 bites. As Rolf enjoys his pancake, I feel happy for how far he’s come in this race. 40 miles earlier he was sitting on a log, praying for a miracle. Now, he’s here, effortlessly downing hazlenut flavored calories by the hundred. By now, I am sure he can finish this, but we have absolutely no time to spare. It’s only 5.7miles to Sawbill, and a lot of that is climbing up and over Carlton Peak. Some of our fastest paces all day have been when climbing, so I’m optimistic we can make up some time — even 5 minutes could make the difference. We need to get to Sawbill by 5:40pm, and we have roughly 2 hours to get there. Our momentum is building, and Rolf can now assemble in his mind all the remaining pieces to finish. Up and over Carlton, meet Phil, get to Liv, get to the finish.

As we leave Temperance I, once again, offer Rolf some Advil or Tylenol. Much to my surprise, he jumps at it and takes two 500mg Tylenol capsules. I wonder what has flipped his perspective, but I don’t ask. We continue down the river, cross the bridge and begin our switchback journey up the “foothills” of Carlton.

Perhaps 30 minutes after Rolf takes the Tylenol, I notice I’m no longer leading him by much distance. He’s right behind me now, and even begins chatting again.

“I’m feeling really good.”

“Awesome! Our pace has picked up. Let’s keep this going up and over Carlton.” I reply.

“I think I want to try running.” Rolf says.

“Don’t do anything that’ll cost you points in the long game. We need to maximize net time, not section time.” I caution.

“I think I’m good.”

I don’t know exactly what to do. Rolf is 85+ miles into this, wanting to run. I don’t want to allow this, because it seems any possible upside in pace would be outweighed by the potential risk of tripping, cramping, or fatigue. However, there is also a sweep crew who is probably only 30 minutes behind, and I do not want to meet them.

Reluctantly, I say, “Alright, let’s do it.”

We start running and it feels amazing. I feel fresh, and the new pace seems blisteringly fast. We pause only to walk up the steep sections, and run everything else. We pass one group, then another, then Kevin Langton who shouts

“What happened?? Did you guys find some cocaine?”

“We found his reserve tank!” I yell back from up the trail.

Indeed we had found his reserve tank! We keep up our new running pace for the duration of the climb, stopping only when the grade requires, and make quick work of the scramble up and over the peak. As we descend, I am calculating cutoffs in my head and realize that we will easily make the 5:40pm cutoff at Sawbill. In fact, we’ll be there around 5:15 or so. I start planning. I know the next section is runnable, and he has a very fast pacer, Phil, going out with him in the next section. If Phil can keep him moving at that pace, and maybe pick up another 5 minutes, he’d have time to play with as he navigates the Oberg stretch to the finish.

We’re only a mile out from Sawbill, and from behind Rolf starts saying his goodbyes and thank yous. He tells me a lot of nice things that make me feel happy, but all I can think about is getting him into that aid station, and back out with Phil. With a half mile left to go, I leave Rolf and run hard down the trail to the aid station. I get there about 90 seconds ahead of Rolf, and it’s just enough time to fill everyone in on his status and get Phil ready. I tell Phil to push him, that he can take it, that he has more. I tell him he needs to be at least flat time-wise in this section, but they could try to pick up a minute or two because the section is so runnable. I give Phil what’s left of my Advil and Tylenol stash and tell him to offer again — clearly some pain relief had a transformational effect.

Rolf comes in to cheers, and before I know it, they’re back into the woods and my job is done. I went just under 40 miles with Rolf and spent roughly 17 hours with him on the trail. In that time, I saw a runner who struggled, who endured, and who persevered in the face of an enormous challenge.

Phil’s wife Julie offered me a ride back to Bluefin, which I reluctantly accepted because I had no towel upon which to rest this disgusting, dirty body. She graciously allowed me to sit, unguarded, on the leather seats of her brand new Subaru. We drive back to Bluefin where Liv is getting ready to go meet Rolf at Oberg. Julie agrees to, again, drive my dirty self back to Finland where I pick up my car. I’ve been up for 36 hours at this point, and probably shouldn’t drive, but make it back to Bluefin where I grab a shower and head to the finish line.

I find Alex’s parents and await his arrival. He crosses the line with Tanya around 8:30, and the line explodes in celebration.

“Where’s Rolf?” Alex asks.

“On Mystery!!” I reply, to which Alex seems puzzled.

“On Mystery!!” I say again.

Alex is excited. I tell him I’ve been texting with Liv and they’re maybe 30 minutes out. Liv is going to text me when they hit the bridge, and then the pavement.

Alex and I swap race stories. Tanya tends to her feet. Liv starts texting.

Rolf’s name is announced and I lose my mind. I’ve been up for so long, that any social filter I’d have previously attached to my emotions are long gone. I just scream. I think I steal the first hug, forsaking his wife and children.

He did it! 23 minutes to spare.

Amazing job, Rolf!

It’s Sunday morning of race week. I wake up, and I don’t feel right. I wake up feeling “off”. I’m irritable and generally not myself. I can’t quite put my finger on it until later in the day, when my generally bad feeling had multiplied into a fever of 100F by nighttime.

By Monday morning of race week I am fully enveloped in sickness, including chills, and my fever had risen to 102.5 by night’s end. I am miserable. Race start is Friday at 8am and there are enough unknowns that I don’t need a fever-turned-cold to add to the drama. Kelly helps me through the fever and encourages me to sleep and stay rested. She shoulders every possible household duty and attends to Peter while I nap, worry and do absolutely nothing. Her sainthood will later be further demonstrated and confirmed.

It’s Monday before my first 100 mile race. It’s 83F outside. I’m in bed, covers pulled up to my throat, shivering.

By Wednesday, my fever breaks and I’m feeling a little more normal. I am still stiff and sore, living in the wake of this sickness. Kelly does some home-brewed active release therapy on my neck that’s incredibly effective and makes me feel almost whole again. It’s two days before the race, and I will continue to rest as much as I can. I manage to get out for one 30 minute power walk with Peter in the stroller. 30 minutes behind a stroller is all I would do the entire week before this race. Kim and Alex both call it a “forced taper”. I hate it. They’re right.

Alex and Brandon pick me up on Thursday morning. I am still a little stiff, but feeling more confident that I can do this. We drive up to Two Harbors and I start to get into the groove of the routine. We’ve done this drive so many times together, and it feels so familiar and comfortable that my confidence begins to build. By the time we get checked in to the hotel and to packet pickup, I was ready to go. Kelly is here with Peter, and we eat dinner before heading to packet pickup. I’m glad I can share a meal with my strongest supporters before the big day.

100 mile packet pickup is the best pickup I’ve ever been to. I love the vibe that in this 4H barn with 300-400 other people actively involved in 100M+ distance running. I am nervous. I am excited, worried, scared and happy all at the same time. I remark to Alex on the walk in that just being here at THIS pickup is worth it alone, that just to get here and pick up my race number is already such a huge accomplishment. We’d conquered over 1100 miles of training to walk through these doors.

During the meeting John passes out our pink ribbons which would identify us as 100 milers on the course. I’d been waiting to get my ribbon since I saw the first one on the trail at last year’s 50. I absolutely couldn’t wait to tie that onto my pack and take my place in the field. I couldn’t wait for the encouragement and cheers of the 50 milers and marathoners two days from now. Two days from now.

We leave packet pickup. I sleep wonderfully. Alex does not.

Game day morning feels very routine and very familiar. I’ve done this a hundred times before. Fill packs, mix Perp, fresh pair of Injinjis, glide, glide, glide. I’m wearing compression underwear that slides on like a greased wetsuit with how much glide I’ve put on. This was Drew’s advice actually. Mid-summer he suggested I look at 2 in 1 shorts (those shorts that have compression built in to them) as a means to prevent chafing. After gagging on the price of 2 in 1 shorts, Alex made a good suggestion of just wearing compression bottoms under my normal shorts. Genius! He and I both did this, and I’m proud to say there is not a single speck of chafing on my body as I write this. (Running is often a collectively-minded sport.)

Alex, Brandon and I drive to the start after saying good morning to Peter and Kelly. I’m glad to see my support crew. They follow us to the start where I take my last kisses from each and move into the start area.

The weather is perfect. I’m feeling recovered. I’m feeling strong. I will do this.

We line up in that queue of nervous energy that is the beginning of every race. We have a moment of silence for Aaron Buffington, someone whom I’d not met but it makes me think of my running buddy who was taken this year, Greg Riebe. I think about how lucky I am to be in this race, to be in this group and in this moment. He couldn’t start this race, but I could. I would persist. I would finish.

To Split Rock

The first four miles are on pavement and easy running. Alex and I click these off quickly and ran out lots of initial nervous energy. We tuck under the highway at mile 5 and join the trail. From 5-10, it’s lots of fast single track that Alex and I tackle quickly. Alex starts talking to a Race Director from Marquette Michigan. I settle in and just enjoy listening as we clicked off a few easy miles. I eat, I drink, I salt. I’m on plan.

As I’m leaving the aid station, a small voice from behind me yells “HEY! I THINK THIS IS THE TURN!” I had gone right by the well-marked trail entrance in my thoughtful state, and I am incredibly grateful to whoever that was that saved me a handful of miles.

Alex gets out of the aid station before me and I resolve to catch him. I feel wonderful. I feel strong. I can do this.

To Beaver Bay

I catch Alex about two or three miles into this section, but we don’t stay together long. His foot was hurting him in a way he’d never experienced before and he’s moving slowly. He was running in his old Stinsons where most of his recent training had been in a different Hoka. I make a mental note to tell him to change shoes and fix it immediately, a note which I will later forget.

I hadn’t run this section of trail in training and I’m surprised how runnable it is. I am flying, clicking off miles in the 13-16 minute range and began wondering if I was moving too fast. In an earlier race report I’d read a tip for controlling pace: run with your mouth closed, taking in only as much air as you can get through your nose. I pass this test, and this section goes quickly. I arrive at Beaver Bay, 20 miles in, feeling strong and confident and am much less overwhelmed by the crowds. I am putting distance between my sickness and building confidence at every step.

Jason Husveth wrote a very influential race report about his 2013 race. I can’t explain exactly why I found it so moving and so inspirational, but I remember reading it for the first time at my desk at work and being moved nearly to tears. It was just so intensely personal and spiritual. It was also full of advice, that I still remember to this day, and was able to put to use during this race. First and foremost: do no harm. Miles 0-40, do no harm. I will repeat this over and over to myself during these early miles, and I’m firmly committed that I will do no harm.

Coming into Beaver Bay aid station, I see my entire family, my crew, pacers and friends. I’m completely overwhelmed by their love and joy as I try to get my pack filled and a fresh pack of Shot Blocks. As I leave the aid station, I regret not being nicer and warmer to them and I resolve to correct this at a later opportunity.

To Silver Bay

All I want to do is get to Silver Bay. From Silver Bay forward, I am on terrain I’d physically run previously and it’d be a huge relief just to get there. It’s a short section, only 5ish miles, and from the halfway point you can basically see the aid station and town below. There are spectacular views of Lake Superior and the single lonely stoplight on Highway 61.

I arrive at Silver Bay to hear that Alex’s foot is still bothering him, which makes my heart sink. I want him to feel good so badly during this race! It’s his day! I send him good vibes, pick up more food, glide and water and start the trek to Tettegouche. Everyone is here, including Peter! And, they’ve made shirts! I think about how great my support is and vow to make this up to them somehow when they need such support.

To Tettegouche

Yes! I’m on familiar ground. From here on out, I’ve run every step of this race course. There are no surprises, only challenges for which I’ve been mentally and physically preparing for a year. I can’t wait to get to Bean Lake. I’ve been seeing photos of 100 milers on top of Bean Lake for two years, and this year it’s going to be me! I think about the pose I’ll make and it helps take my mind off the long grindy climb to the top. When I finally get there, the camera is there and I throw my hands up with joy for my photo. I’m here, I’m feeling good, I’ve done no harm and I’m in this photo. I bet I look stupid.

I ride the Bean Lake photo high as I wind around to Bear Lake and enjoy the view looking back. It’s spectacular and I’m again feeling so lucky to be here taking on such a grand challenge. At some point between Bear Lake and the drainpipe, we run through Wolf Ridge Environmental Learning Center. I see their building perched high on the bluff overlooking the lake, their tiny dock down below. I wonder how you get signed up for classes there. I think about taking Peter someday. I see their wind turbine, and think I should have one of my own. Someday.

I move through this section feeling strong with a small pack of runners, none of which had been on this course before. They had hundred mile experience, I had SHT experience. I tell them we’re approaching the Drainpipe and they get very excited. I advise that it’s scarier than it sounds, and it’s actually quite fun. When we arrive, we scurry down the near-vertical face quickly without incident and begin to run it home. Once you’re past the drainpipe you can almost smell the aid station. It’s actually a few miles yet to go, but it doesn’t matter. We all run it home strongly where Mark is waiting. I’m so glad to see him. He tells me I look fresh and I believe him. I’m at mile 36!

Ella and Andy are there to give me my headlamp. I’m on pace to make it to Co. Rd 6 before I need it, but I take it anyway. Just in case. I didn’t want to be one of those guys John was warning us about. Take it, just in case.

As I’m leaving the aid station, Alex pops out of the woods shouting with joy. He’s feeling phenomenal, and it’s contagious. He’s at mile 36 feeling this good, so I know he can take this deep. I’m so excited to see him feeling good. I wait for him and we leave the aid station together. His feet are fixed, he’s feeling good, and he’s moving strongly. I’m elated.

To County Road 6

Alex and I briefly exchange stories as we head down to the river and cross the bridge. We’re loving the weather. We’re loving this race. We’re loving our shorts. I’m hating Perp. Basically though, everyone is feeling good and everyone is on plan.

Not 10 minutes up the trail, I come up behind Susan Donelly. Susan is Superior royalty, and she’s going for her 15^th finish this year. I debate talking to her, questioning whether I’m worthy. I decide to go for it and say hello. She’s friendly, talkative and an absolute ambassador for the race. We chat for perhaps 10 minutes, and in that time I learn she’s from Tennessee where my running friend Shelly is from. She tells me about running in Tennessee, her Superior experiences and that she’s only ever missed two races –- when…

She trips.

Not one of those running, catch-yourself-with-your-hand type of falls, but a full on faceplant onto the rocks. I don’t use that word in a cute way, but in a way to communicate the severity of her fall. I watched the entire thing from behind and it was serious. I immediately blame myself. I shouldn’t have been talking to such an important person. Did I put her out of the race? She’ll now have missed three races because of me! Idiot! Why were you talking to her? I’m devastated. I’m guilty. I feel like it’s my fault for distracting her. I help her collect her things, and apologize. I’m so relieved when she gets up, dusts herself off and gets moving down the trail without much apparent damage. She is relentless. She is Superior royalty. (Susan later finishes. I am beyond thrilled.)

As I make the descent into County Road 6, I come upon…Jason Husveth! He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know how important his simple race reports have been in my life. He doesn’t know I’ve read it to Kelly late at night in bed searching for confidence to run this race. But, I decide to tell him anyway.

“Hi Jason. Your race reports have been really influential in my decision to even register for this. Thank you for publishing them and sharing your experiences.”

“Thanks, man. I’m glad they were helpful” he replies.

“I want you to know that I’m doing no harm.” I say reverently.

He chuckles.

“I know I’m supposed to transition to threading the needle at mile 40, but I think I’m going to keep doing no harm.”

He laughs again and reminds me that threading the needle doesn’t start until it gets dark anyway, so I’m still good. He tells me I’m doing great and I’ve got this. I start to believe it.

I make the descent into the County Road 6 aid station where I’ve just missed Peter and Kelly for the night. Andy wires me up with a charge for my watch, and Ella helps me get my headlamp on. We take a selfie. I stock up on food and look forward to seeing Kim at Finland. I’m running my race. I’m ahead of schedule and feeling amazing. A small tension has appeared in my right knee, something I’ve felt before, but it’s nothing to worry about.

To Finland

I’m ecstatic to be heading out of this aid station. I’ve made it to dark! It’s just getting to where I think about turning on my headlamp, but I wait. I move for another mile or so before I yield to the darkness and enter my small bubble of white LED light. Fairly quickly into this section I meet up with a gnarly bandit contender, we run together for most of the climb up to Finland and the conversation makes the miles fly by. He’s fueling his race with cheeseburgers from McDonald’s. Almost 50 miles into the race, I’m easily convinced and converted that this is a brilliant idea. He’s a gnarly contender, he must know what he’s talking about. I tell him we’re going to cross a very precarious bog soon. He’s never been on the trail, and has never seen the single-board span that’s hard to traverse even in the daylight. When we cross it, we’re laughing and yelling. I’m having fun. I’m feeling good.

I arrive at Finland absolutely overjoyed to see Kim, who will take me the next 25 miles. It’s about 9:30pm. Mom and Dad are here and I’m grateful to see them. I again think that I don’t show enough outward appreciation to my parents and family who spectate at these. I wonder if I’m too inwardly focused, but the thought is interrupted by the conversation beginning with Kim. Kim and I depart, headed to Sonju. I update her on my status, my plans and my pace and we disappear back into the woods.

To Sonju Lake

I resolve to be so careful moving through the roots that pave the road to Sonju Lake. My friend Maria warned me about this section and her advice rings in my ears through the next miles. We move slowly over the rocks and the roots and come out unharmed. The journey to Sonju is far longer than I remember – over 7 miles – and it grates on me a little. I want to move through this section and into Crosby. All I want is to get through Crosby because I know that things get easier from there. If I can get through Crosby feeling good, I can get through the race.

We finally arrive at the Sonju spur trail and aid station. Kim and I both eat a cup of broth that, for a moment, transports us to another place, somewhere we’re not running overnight and somewhere relaxed. It is warm and nourishing to this tired, cold body. We get in and out of this aid station fairly quickly after filling up with water. I know it’s just a few short miles to Crosby and, as I would later say to Kim, the sooner we get in it, the sooner we can get out of it.

To Crosby

Next stop: Kathy + Maria at Crosby Manitou aid station. Maria’s advice continues ringing in my ears and it’s the only thing on my mind. “Watch out for the Sonju roots!” Coupled with Jason’s “do no harm”, we covered this less than 5 mile section very slowly. On my way to Crosby, I get chilly. I put on my jacket, arm warmers and quit drinking. I begin to wonder how much I should be drinking anyway given how slowly we’re moving, how cold it is and how little I’m sweating. I convince myself that I should maybe back off for fear that I could end up drinking too much. I don’t give it another thought during this section. – a decision I would later (and still) question. A river whose name I have forgotten rages by on our right as we navigate this section. I love this piece of the SHT during the daylight and I miss seeing it.

A pair of headlights appear through the trees, diffused by the dust kicked up on the gravel road. We’ve made it to Crosby. Finally. I’m so excited to get out of this aid station and begin putting this section behind me. Kim and I trot up the road and are instantly greeted by Kathy Jambor, who attends to our every need. Kathy finds my drop bag, stuffs food in my pack, fills me up with water and sends us on our way. She’s amazing. Against my advice, she even helps me with my stick of body glide. (This is real support.) Before departing, I say hello to Maria, tell her I made it through Sonju on her advice and devour a cup of beef stew she hands me. It’s delicious and we leave this friendly place feeling refreshed.

Night is fully upon us. We’ve made it from Finland to Crosby and we’re ready to move through the most difficult part of the course.

To Sugarloaf

I know this section like the back of my hand. I feel resolute in that fact. I’m positive that we just leave the aid station and immediately descend to the river where we cross a bridge and begin a long climb back up. But after what seems like a mile, we have yet to descend. In fact, we’ve climbed. What is going on? I’m sure I know this piece of the course and it’s not mapping to my memory. (I was resolute! What happened to that?) My poor recollection of this section gets me frustrated. I just want to get in and out of this section, and my memory is being twisted by the darkness and the miles. I am antsy; Kim is calm and upbeat and I appreciate her steadfastness. Finally, we begin to descend bit by bit and cross the raging Manitou river. We climb up the other side of the river valley and it feels so good to climb. My running legs are tired, but my climbing muscles are strong. I know this is one of the last major climbs I’ll do between now and the finish, and I know if I can get out of this section, I’ve got this.

The first few miles are by far the most difficult part of this section. The rest is along rocky ridgelines, a few switchbacks and then some quite runnable terrain. With the climbs behind me, this section became quite monotonous and I begin to get frustrated and antsy again. I look at my watch and see we are only 2.2 miles in to the almost 10 mile stretch. I tell Kim I’m feeling a bit sour and ask her to take the lead. She does. It feels good to just follow her headlamp. I’m so grateful she’s there and that I’m not alone. She talks me through what would be my second lowest mental point of the race.

Crosby is relentless. At some point, I’m climbing something so steep, it brings me to my hands and knees. For all the times I’ve been on this section, I don’t remember this and it compounds my failing mood. Kim keeps my head in a good place. We pass the time joining up with other runners, passing them and getting passed. We compare the cost of the Vikings stadium to sending the New Horizons probe to Pluto. I can usually get passionate about this debate, but I’m too tired to get myself worked up. For the next few miles, we go up and down, both emotionally and physically. We are both eagerly anticipating the daylight, and I can’t wait to greet the sun. If I can see that sunrise, I can power through.

By the time we cross the covered bridge about 7 miles into the section, Lake Superior is in full view to our right though impossible to see, its presence betrayed only by the pink cast of the rising sun. The sun is coming up, and I rise with it. Crosby is behind me and I can almost taste the marathon start, which would be upon me soon.

We roll into Sugarloaf at daybreak with a shot to reach Cramer before the marathon started. Kim and I compare pace and quickly realize that reaching marathon start by 8am is indeed an attainable goal if we hurry. It instantly becomes our focus. I think about seeing Nathan, Brandon, Alton, Mike, Mark, Kirk, Rolf, Marty, Erin and Kate stream by me. I want their encouragement so badly. We will make this happen.

To Cramer Road

We bolt out of the aid station and run/walk the next section aggressively. The terrain is forgettable, which coupled with the anticipation of marathon start, makes it grueling. I look at my watch frequently and am disappointed by how few miles have passed. Just six. I can do six and I’ll see my friends. Kim keeps up moving quickly, mixing in a little running, walking and power hiking. The sun continues to rise, and the boost it gives offsets the drone of the miles.

When we finally begin to hear the crowd at Cramer road, I get goosebumps. We did it! Kim got me to marathon start before the marathon began. I’m elated. I hurry to the aid station to collect Noelle, who would relieve Kim after 25 miles, and to change into my old, comfy Altras. Ella and Andy greet me warmly and tell me how far ahead of my planned pace I am. I wonder aloud if that’s good or bad. I think good.

“I’m going to change my shoes. Where’s Noelle?”

“Um. Oh. Yeah! Good question.” Ella replies.

In all the planning, in all the spreadsheeting, I had failed to distinguish the difference between marathon start and the Cramer Road aid station. They’re close to each other, but not the same and Noelle has become a victim of my incomplete information. She’s not here.

“I don’t know what to do. We have to go. I really want to be on the trail before they start.” I tell Kim.

“You are NOT going alone. We’ll find her.”

Kim sprints down the trail towards the marathon start as I change my shoes and eat a pancake. She returns visibly flustered (as she’s now been up for 24hrs and covered as many miles) and reports she can’t find Noelle. She tells me again I’m not going alone so “we’ll pick up Noelle at Temperance”, agreeing now to do a full 50k with me.

Somewhere in my tired body, I feel gratitude yet again for Kim but I’m sure I don’t show it. She jumps in so readily, so quickly. She’s been up as long as I have and she’s still fresh and continuing to help. I finish my pancake, get my pack and we’re on the trail just in time to hear the marathon leaders approach behind us.

“Good job, hundred” the two marathon leaders say as they pass. They’re moving so fast that they’re gone one before I can even reply. I hear Nathan and Kirk’s voices behind me and I’m ecstatic. I step off the trail and turn around to see them.

“Hey Guys!”

“Hey Reid”, Nathan says as if it’s any other Saturday morning run.

He says this casually and quickly, but I can hear the dots connecting in his mind as his voice increases pitch towards the end of my name.

“It’s Reid!!” he says as he gets more excited. He passes me.

“REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIID!!!!!!” he screams from down the trail with so much enthusiasm and excitement I worry for a moment he’ll run off the trail. Kirk does the same. I’m so glad I’m here to see them.

Just as they pass, a huge train of friends approaches behind me. I see Mark, Brandon, Jim and Rolf all bunched up. They greet me warmly and offer encouragement as they glide by. They’re so fresh! It feels so good to be here, and I’m on a huge adrenaline high. Kim and I jump in the marathon crowd a few different times and fly down the trail on their pace. I’m feeling invincible, fast and free. I start to imagine myself finishing and that high carries me four miles down the trail. Only two to Temperance.

I don’t know what it was, but as we approach Temperance, my buzz is gone. It must have followed the marathoners down the trail because two miles out from Temperance, I feel like the miles are catching up with me. My knee pain, which had started as a small nuisance had been multiplying over the miles and had reached front-stage level – the kind of pain I now had to actively ignore. It also began to heat up, which made me wonder about my fluids. I had slowed the salt and the fluids overnight, but I was never sure that was the correct thing to do. I still felt clear-headed and alert, I was peeing clear every 30 minutes and I had no headache, which for me is a predictable sign of dehydration. My hands are also pretty swollen at this point, something I’ve never experienced. I’m worried about what this means. Too much water? Too much salt? Not enough water? Not enough salt? I don’t know, so I try to middle it and drink conservatively and take 1 Endurolyte every hour. Between the miles, knee pain and worry about fluid, I roll into Temperance feeling a little gritty.

As soon as I stop moving at the Temperance aid station, I don’t feel right. I look around for Ella and Andy, but I don’t see them. I think about how I’ll do this section without their support when I’m interrupted by their blue Prius rolling by. They’re here. I’m so glad, but I still don’t feel right. I feel light and airy, too light and airy. I give my pack to a volunteer to fill and am talking to Ella as the airiness escalates. I need to sit down. I need to sit down now. Time begins to slow down as I fumble to find a chair. I reach for the first one I see.

I black out.

I remember being blacked out. I remember thinking that I couldn’t see anything, or hear anything. It was peaceful and seemed to last for a few seconds. I could feel myself falling, and through the blackness I was anticipating arrival of the ground. I can’t hear, but I can feel my hand contact the cool, sandy grit of the road as I catch my fall. As my hand hits the ground, a woman’s voice begins to crescendo in my ear, as if someone is slowly turning up the volume.

“Let go of the pole.”

“Let go of the pole.”

“Let go of the pole.”

I wonder who is holding what pole, why are they holding it, and why does this person not want it held. As my vision returns I realize it’s me, who has a firm grip on the shade canopy of the aid station. I’m on the ground, surrounded by family and volunteers and am being shuffled to a chair. For the first time in the race, I’m scared. I’m scared I’m going to get pulled and, through no fault of my own, not finish the race. It’s devastating. I’m gutted.

After only a few minutes in the chair, I know I’m okay and that I’ll be able to continue. My crew is pushing food on me hard. Nothing tastes good. Nothing looks good. I manage to get down a pancake and a piece of bacon. It tastes good, but is just out of place for me. I’m so far ahead of the cutoffs, my crew decides to sit me for awhile to be safe. It feels good to sit, but the only thing on my mind is finishing and not getting pulled. I do my best impression of an energetic, healthy, infallible runner for the aid station crew. I think it’s good enough to fool the volunteers and keep me in the race. I do not want the attention of any medical personnel. I sit for 20 or 30 minutes before deciding to move out, and when I do, it’s agony to stand. My right leg is in full-on rebellion and the sitting has only tightened it further.

Noelle had met us prior to the Temperance aid station and ran in with us. She worked through my whole episode with me and would pace me up and over Carlton peak. Before heading out, I decide to switch back to Perpetuum, something I’d given up about 6 hours into the race. Solids didn’t look that great, and it was easy to get a lot of calories with Perp. Ella mixes me a bottle and we move out of the aid station, slowly. I cross the road to rejoin the trail. Despite whatever has happened here, I can still walk. I can still run. I can still finish.

To Sawbill

Recent fears and thoughts of getting pulled have put me at my mental bottom of the race, but Noelle does a good job telling me stories and keeping me engaged. I grunt staccato replies back at her and she doesn’t fault me for it. She’s a great pacer. She’s patient, kind, talkative and a good leader. She tells me about her kids, other races she’s done and keeps my mind off the miles. I’m so thankful she’s here because the journey to Carlton peak is taking forever. Yet again my memory of the course does not reflect reality and it feels like days until we reach the scramble up the rock face that marks the high point of the section. When we do reach it, I scurry up quickly. It still feels good to climb. I feel my best when climbing. I am strong and I am determined to get up and over. Somewhere through the cobwebs of the miles, I love the scramble. I would later learn that Noelle has been taking pictures of me this entire time. In the moment, I had no idea. I was too focused and too far into my head to notice, but a day later these pictures would become some my favorites of all time.

The journey down Carlton takes forever, and I am once again betrayed by my memory of the course. I was certain that off of Carlton Peak, we would descend quickly and pop right into the aid station. In reality, it’s far far longer than that and the difference contributes to a declining mood. Noelle keeps me afloat, reminds me to eat and drink. She repeats some of the same stories she’s told me earlier. I don’t remember them from the first time, and so they’re fun to hear again.

Somewhere in this section I begin to notice that the leaves littering the ground had taken on faces. Every time I look at the ground, I can immediately find a face in each yellow leaf looking back at me. I wonder if this is hallucination, or if this is just some long-buried ability I’ve always had just now surfacing. I also notice fallen logs and trees are taking on shapes like cars, shelters and people. On two separate occasions during this section, I look up and wonder why someone would have driven their car to this section of the trail. Was that even legal? Are there roads? As I pass each of these, they are, of course, stumps. I don’t consider this a hallucination, but definitely pieces of my brain are firing where they weren’t previously.

To Oberg

When I see Kelly at Sawbill, I begin holding back tears. Like twisting off a bottle cap, all of the emotion of the last 28 hours is coming out of solution and I’m having trouble keeping it in. I’m coming into a section that I hate and that takes forever. I am solely focused on finishing at this point and ready to be off the course. I know I will finish, there is no doubt, but I want it now and not later. Only one more aid station to go, and now Kelly will be with me until the end.

I manage to keep it together through the business of the aid station, but lose it pretty quickly as we fade into the trees. Tears come. I can’t stop them. Reflecting back on this, I think the episode at Temperance hit me pretty hard. My whole race had flashed before my eyes in those seconds and it was deeply disturbing. I want this so badly and my body had threatened to take it from me. I can deal with pain. I can gut out anything, as long as I’m not blacked out. It felt so helpless and it was difficult to rectify in the moment. I tell her I don’t know why I’m sobbing, but I can’t stop. I tell her it’s hard. It is. She tells me I’ve got this. I do? She tells me I’m doing great. I am? She tells me I’m going to finish. I will.

I’m still sobbing as the lead 50 miler arrives behind me. He doesn’t pass immediately, but waits for his spot to do so. I thank him and step off the trail. He congratulates me and flies down the trail. He reflects what is best about this sport. Kelly helps me through the tears and we press forward. I can’t remember if this dreaded section is 7.5 miles or 5.5 miles. I hope it’s 5.5, but plan for 7.5. I can’t do the math, and I don’t try. At some point, Kelly figures out it’s just 5.5 and I’m elated. We pick our way through this worthless section, running when we can. I propose a reroute of the entire SHT to Kelly, one that deletes this section. She finds it impractical.

Running for me by now is mostly a moral victory. A power hike is undoubtedly as fast or faster, but we still do our ultra shuffle when able. Faces in the leaves persist, and some get creepy.

“There he is!”

Everyone is there to see Kelly and I at Oberg, the last aid station. I am breathlessly excited to be here. I know this section well, and I am looking forward to the climbing because it’s still where I feel strongest and fastest. Andy wires me up to charge my watch, which will get me through the final section. I troll the food table for something that looks good, but nothing does. Ella refills my Perp, and that’s how I’ll get to the end.

To the Finish

One last time, either the miles or my memory has me confused about the layout of this section. I’m sure we climb up Moose straight out of the parking lot. I would have bet my house on it. In reality, there’s maybe 2 miles between the lot and the climb up Moose. The anticipation kills me as we move forward anticipating the climb. I can no longer look at the ground, because continuously spotting faces in the leaves has become so mentally draining.

“REEEEEID!”

It’s Alex! He and Tanya have caught up to me and he’s clearly feeling great. He’s moving quickly and helps me push the pace. He’s going to finish. We are going to finish. I feel excited about this thought, but that feeling is at the back of a very long emotional queue, and does not get processed until after the race.

Shortly after we meet up, we finally begin the climb up Moose. I am beyond thrilled to make this climb. It’s the last obstacle between me and my sweatshirt. The four of us climb Moose as fast as I ever have. Just two years ago, I ran the marathon here and remember walking up this hill and taking breaks to catch my breath and let my legs recover. I described the hill as walk-stop. Here, now, after 97 miles, I powered to the top quickly without stopping – walk-walk. This thought goes through my mind and makes me feel happy.

Running with Alex during this short time artificially improves my mood for a bit. It feels difficult to be upbeat, friendly or generally match Alex’s level of alertness. It feels good to act positively, and I’m reminded of a quote that read “no matter how you feel, pretend this is the best day of your life.” I’m definitely putting on a good face for him.

I let Alex go by. He’s clearly moving faster as we walk the top ridgeline of Moose Mountain and make our way to the descent. (I would later learn he made up 30 minutes on me from here to the end. Amazing.) I’m partially grateful that I can represent my mood more authentically with Kelly. I feel bad that she gets the grumpy version and that I don’t put on the face for her. I immediately forget this line of thought as we begin the descent down Moose. Descending is awful. My right leg is quite painful and making the steep descents is difficult. Last year during the 50, descending this was painful due to black toenails. Since I had learned about lace locking with the extra shoe loop, I had none of that, and I’m grateful.

As we begin the switchbacks up Mystery, I know this is it. I’m ready to be done. I know I’m going to finish. Nothing can stop me now. I’m reminded it’s easier to finish than it is to quit. Kelly is ahead of me setting our path and doing a good job of moving quickly. We keep moving forward, desperately waiting to hear that Poplar river that tells us we’re only a mile or so out.

Then, I hear it. It’s amazing, but not the salvation I thought it might be.

Kelly is smiling and asks me to take a moment and appreciate what is happening. I recognize that as a good idea, but so many emotions are inside me, the ecstasy I feel can’t be processed in the moment. We quickly shuffle down to the river, cross it and emerge onto Ski Hill Road. I tell her I don’t want to run Ski Hill Road because I want to save some pain for the finish. I want to cross that line running. We enjoy a nice walk down the road and for the first time, I begin to feel the joy and realize I had completed this thing. We turn right onto the gravel road and I immediately see Steve English. He sprints up to me and gives me a big hug. I’m so glad to see him. He was a big inspirational figure in my decision to do this at all, and seeing him at the finish, before the finish, was great. He was really motivating and really positive and he is the first wave in the oncoming rush.

We start running. I see the turn. I feel no pain, only excitement.

People are cheering, taking pictures and congratulating me. We pass the first fencepost that closes in the pool and cross the first mat. I hear John announce my name and the finish line goes nuts. Everyone is there and they are LOUD. It’s exhilarating. My mom, dad, Ella, Andy, Alex, all my MDRA friends Nathan, Kirk, Steve, Mark, Kate, Anna, John, Noelle, Jim, Brandon, Erin, Shelly, Anne, Mike N, and I’m probably forgetting more. My in-laws Joe and Kris are there, Peter is there! Alex has crossed already and I’m excited to see him. I cross the line and am swamped with hugs and congratulations. It’s amazing. I’m tired. I’m sore. I’m happy. I’m done.

Post Race

I am pretty wrecked after crossing the line. After I hug everyone, I want to sit. Someone put Peter in my lap, who I hadn’t seen in days by this point. He’s warm, smiling and gives me a big open mouth kiss when I ask for it. He’s missed me, and I’ve missed him. Someone took this picture of us at the finish that’s become one of my favorites of all time. We both look so happy.

Kelly helps me get a bowl of chili and I sit at the finish. I’m cold and the chili is warm. My dad finds this giant blanket and puts it over me. It smells like laundry detergent. Somehow I need to get down to the room and change. Kelly helps me get there, arm over shoulder. My leg is totally trashed and has locked up after sitting at the finish. I want to get in a tub, I want to eat, I want to sit with everyone and compare notes. Tub first.

I crawl into the tub and submerge myself up to my lip. Hot water is scarce, so the tub is lukewarm. I close my eyes and enjoy the feeling of being still. I fall asleep and wake to Kelly pounding on the door. She can hear me snoring from the other room.

I make my way to Alex’s condo and it’s party central. Everyone comes streaming in, and we talk about the race for at least an hour. I’m barely coherent, drifting in and out of sleep, but it’s warm and it’s nice to see everyone. Dad pours some Champagne, a bottle which we’ve loved in the past. I love the thought and really appreciate his enthusiasm, but alcohol tastes terrible. Mostly I just sit and listen to our community and feel grateful for the support.

Around 9:30, I crawl into bed. I’m alone in the upstairs bed where I lay down and intend to catch up on the social media deluge that’s come in over the past two days. I open a bag of beef jerky and peanut butter M+Ms, curl up under the covers and fall asleep instantly. I sleep until 7:30am. I wake up feeling recharged, fresh. I pull out my phone and text Alex…”I want to do it again.”

The Superior 100 is a treasure. I’m honored to have my name in its history. Thanks to all the volunteers who made this race possible, over 200 in total. Thanks to John Storkamp for putting this on, making it low key and creating the best vibe anywhere on the planet. More personally, thank you to my wife, Kelly. She tolerated so much through training and racing and gave so much of herself. I routinely would do 2hr runs at night after Peter went to bed, leaving her by herself in our prime together-time. She encouraged me through so many nights and early mornings out at Afton, so much time away, and so many picnics and hill repeats at Hyland. Without such a supportive wife, I wouldn’t be able to do this – the time is too much, the demands are too great. Kelly gets it, loves it and supports it without asking. Kelly supported me from the moment I registered and dealt with the echoes of that decision for nearly seven months – with an infant.

Thanks to my sister and her husband, Ella + Andy, for their crewing support. Seeing them at every aid station, having their support with fuel, water, shoes and clothes was incredible. Mom and dad were on kid duty and made their support possible. Thanks to them as well. Thanks to my pacers Kim and Noelle and Kelly again. Kim took me over 30 miles, at night, and stayed up the entire next day to see me finish. Noelle and Kelly shouldered the unhappiest Reid as we polished off the last 15 miles. I couldn’t have done this without such a great pace team. Thanks to Alex for providing the courage, and encouragement, to even sign up. It was his push that brought me to registration. We logged most of our training miles together and I’m thankful to have such a good running buddy. Thanks to everyone else I missed. I became the focus of many lives this weekend, and that’s something for which I’m so thankful and so grateful.

Next time, and there will be a next time, there are things I’ll change and things I’ll do the same.

Same:

Lap watch leaving every aid station. This made it so easy to keep track of miles to next aid, and time between aid. I never once looked at the total distance covered.

Nike DriFit shirts, and Patagonia Houdini jacket. Amazing gear. Stick with it.

Charge watch as you go with a little USB charging stick. Super slick.

Full coat of body glide every aid station. Not a single spot of chafing.

Sunglasses + sunscreen at every aid. Ella did a great job keeping me up to date on sunblock.

Weight training + hill repeats. Climbing was the easiest part of this race, and I think it’s because we’d done so much vertical and so many repeats. I’d push this harder next time too, maybe working in hills + strength training in the same week.

Stay in Two Harbors. That Americinn was awesome. Close to the start, close to packet pick up. Comfy and quiet. Definitely repeat.

Different:

Get a better handle on drinking at night. Need to understand what it means to be cold, active and hydrated. Perhaps practice more at night and work on fluid intake and salt levels.

Shoes should be in a sweet spot of around 200 miles on them. My shoes probably had only 50 on them and they were a little hard. Loved Olympus’ though!

Lace tightly, but not too tight. Ankles are still numb from foot swelling and tight shoes. Loved the heel-lock lacing, not a single black toenail.

Fuel better. I was on shot blocks, Gu and waffles. Eventually got sick of all the sugar and sweetness. More protein based things, more things that resemble actual food like ClifBars, or ProBars or something. Stick with Perp longer I think too. Reduce caffeine intake, or take it more intentionally. All products had caffeine and had me peeing like crazy, I think this made me think I was over-hydrated when I wasn’t.

I think two pacers could split this up instead of asking for 3. Loved having the different company and support, but worry that all pacers didn’t feel valued.