If a race report is to be trusted, it needs to start with immediate recognition of the people who make even an attempt at this distance possible. I would not have started this race without the unwavering support of my wife, Kelly. For another year, she has dealt with my routine absences while out running and shouldered the load of our family. I cannot thank you enough, Kelly, for the space you create for me to explore my physical and emotional limits on the trail.
Home to Two Harbors, mile -189 to -20
I wake up on Thursday feeling excited, but scared. The months leading up to my second time at the 100 mile distance were unlike the first, because I know what I am up against. I know that I am facing a long, often lonely, trip through unforgiving, relentless terrain, and I am feeling anxious about doing this again. Kelly handles Peter while I make a trip to see my Sister and drop off my crew pack. Ella and I chat for awhile at her house as we go over the contents of my bag. With every Gu, battery and band-aid we review, a sense of confidence and peace builds inside. As I leave her house, I feel prepared for the first time in 10 months.
Alex and Brandon pick me up around noon and we enjoy the two hour drive to the hotel. Driving up together with Alex has become one of my favorite pre-race rituals. So much nervous chatter, banter, trail mix. Alex is feeling defensive about being an Android user in the face of iPhone 7. I am unable to calm him.
We arrive at the hotel and are quickly reunited with Kelly and Peter. Peter seems genuinely happy to see me and it makes me feel happy in turn. Peter is swimming with Kelly in the hot tub and demonstrates his new swimming skills. He is growing so quickly, and I’m reminded of all the time with him I’ve traded to get to this race. When he visits my running world, and the two are so close together, it’s easy to see the trade side by side and it feels confusing.
I head back to my room and see my friend Drew. I give him a big, excited hug. He’d been in the hospital in the days leading up to Superior with stomach issues, and I’m thrilled he’s here feeling good enough to start. He seems optimistic and excited. As we chat, he tells us that our friend Lisa has decided not to start the race. It’s awful news because she’s so strong and has worked so hard over the better part of year to prepare. Details are few, and each of us is filled with concern for her physical and mental well being. I exchange a few texts with Lisa and she assures me she’s in a good place, though this decision has been extremely difficult for her. I admire her strength and courage to make such a tough decision. It shows that she refuses to be wholly defined by this sport, which isn’t common among runners; something I struggle with as well.
We have dinner with Kelly and Peter before heading to packet pickup. It’s so great to eat with them! The distraction from the race feels awkward, but I appreciate the respite. We finish up, say goodnight and make the drive to the 4H building.
I love packet pickup. As we’re walking into the building, I am reminded that this moment right here is the real victory. 1500+ miles of training and months of focus to walk through these doors. We see Mark, Nathan, Drew and Sherri. Aaron Hanson and my other friend Drew (Shafer) is there and we exchange hopeful words. They both look really strong and confident. They’ve both had a great season of training and I’m sure they will finish. When John’s done going over the rules of the road, he releases us back to his hotel.
I say goodnight to Kelly and Peter. I sleep wonderfully.
Race Start – mile -20 to 0
I wake up and I can’t do that thing that runners like to do before they race. It’s not a secret that runners love to enjoy a stay in the restroom before they set off, and I’m looking at 100 miles having not done that thing. I’ve got supplies to take care of this on the trail, so I don’t worry.
We meet Kelly and Peter, and the five of us pile in the Subaru and head to Gooseberry. If there’s any drive I like more than the drive up, it’s the drive to the start. We’re decked out in our gear, packs full, and nervously awaiting the start. When we arrive we meet Mark, Drew P., Nathan, Drew S., and Sherri. Erik Lindstrom from John Storkamp’s team catches an amazing photo of Peter and I. He’s wearing his GO DAD shirt that my folks made for us last year and looks so cute! We make a good pair.
I get in my last few Kelly and Peter hugs and we make our way to the start. We stand in the crowd of runners and get our final words of wisdom from John. He sends us off in FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE, GO! Dudes on ladders starting races continues to be my favorite part of ultrarunning.
Off we go for our second time on this course.
Start to Split Rock – Miles 0 to 9.7
The first five miles of this year’s course are on the paved Gitchi-Gami bike trail. I love the relaxed start and heading into Split Rock with 5 miles already behind me. I run out with Alex and we wager how soon it’ll be until Mark and Drew come flying by. We’re both relieved that they never do. Alex and I click most of these miles together, but we get separated when he stops to pee. 5 miles into the 10 mile section, I enter the Split Rock trail section by myself feeling lonely. There are hundreds of runners on either side of me, but I feel isolated. I take this as a sign of race nerves leaving my body, because I feel physically strong and mentally prepared.
A mile or two up the Split Rock trail I see a runner kneeling by the river filling his water bottles. He can’t actually be filling those to drink, right? I pass him perplexed and struggling to understand what he could be doing. He passes me a few moments later and remarks “so nice to have water along the course!”. He’s going to drink it! I offer him silent words of luck and hope.
This section is really crowded and there’s lots of passing going on. I am moving at a comfortable, slow pace and I have runners streaming by me. Passing early in a 100 mile is so unnecessary for anyone but the leaders, but it doesn’t stop perhaps 30-50 people from moving ahead. Some are courteous, some seem unfriendly and frustrated by the slow pace. In the moment, I find it chaffing and my feelings of isolation swell. In the melee, I follow two other runners up a spur trail to a campsite which dead ends about 250 yards down the trail. We’ve brought a dozen or so other runners with us off the course and must apologetically reverse direction. The remaining few miles are uneventful and I feel like I’m beginning to settle into my pace.
The Split Rock aid station is at the bottom of a two-way spur trail, which lets me see all my friends in the race. I see Nathan for the first time, and by the time I’m out of the aid station I’ve seen everyone. This helps jolt my head back into the race and helps me remember how much love there actually is on this course.
Split Rock to Beaver Bay – Miles 9.7 to 20.1
It’s getting hot! I’m a few miles up the trail when I remember that this section is over 10 miles long and I didn’t fill my bladder at the last stop. I should have done that and am regretting it as my backup bottle runs dry. I’ve still got 40oz back there, but I’m now conserving. Later in this section I would develop a headache that would last through the night, my classic dehydration symptom.
A few miles in I also realize I’m following Jason Husveth. As I wrote last year, it was his race report from the 2013 race that inspired me to my first start here. He’s got 5 finishes and going for 6. We chat and leap-frog each other for a few miles before I eventually settle in behind him. He’s doing a great job of slowing the pace, mixing power hiking and running. I intentionally follow suit behind him for perhaps 3 of these 10 miles as means of restraint and it works perfectly. This is what experience looks like – hiking at mile 12. (Jason later goes on to earn his 6th finish.) I’m following Jason in a narrow, slow section of trail when someone steps on my foot from behind. In a melodic tone, I hear “I’m so sorry.” I recognize the voice instantly as Susan Donnelly. We chat for a moment about her appearance on a podcast (10 junk miles) and she fills me in on her Gnarly Bandit attempt, which is going well (obviously). She yells up the trail to Jason and it occurs to me that I’m running between two Superior elite. I feel humble. I feel out of place. I feel proud for even being in the same event as these Royals.
Alex catches up somewhere around mile 15 and we chat for a bit. F16s are overhead, hidden in the clouds but given away by the sound of their engines. I joke that if we’d played our cards differently, we’d be up there instead of running a hundred miles today. We laugh. He looks great. It’s hot, but he seems to have everything under control. Everything is on plan, but this section is longer and harder than I remember. I have a headache.
I reach the Beaver Bay aid station and it’s packed with spectators and cheer. Kelly and Peter, Ella and Andy, Mom and Dad, all my MDRA friends are there. Also, from here on out, I’ll have Ella and Andy crewing and keeping me going. I had asked Ella to put my tube of body glide in my hands at every aid station. I did this last year and ended the race without a single hot spot of chafing. She does it again this year without regard for where the tube has been, or what it’s touched. I’m grateful. This aid station provides a huge lift. I’m only 20 miles in at this point, but I’m still in a bit of a funk. I can’t quite get my head into this race, but seeing everyone here helps reel me back in. Alex should only be a few moments behind me by this point.
Brandon is here and we set out down the trail together.
Beaver Bay to Silver Bay – Mile 20.1 to 25.0
It’s great running with Brandon. We run this entire section together and chat about everything from homebrewing to the day’s race. He’s feeling good, has both his eyes (temporary blindness took him out of the race last year) and looks great. This section offers great views overlooking Lake Superior and the town of Silver Bay below. We conquer this otherwise forgettable section quickly and get into the Silver Bay aid station feeling great, with the exception of this headache which persists. I’m drinking as much as I can, but past experience tells me this will travel with me for the entire day. I got behind in the last stretch and am paying for that now. I also have given up on the idea of using the bathroom anytime soon. My stomach feels full, but settled. Eating and drinking is no problem and as long as that holds, then a little discomfort is completely tolerable.
I arrive at Silver Bay to news that Alex had gotten sick at the Beaver Bay aid station. I struggle to comprehend this because I had seen him so recently and he was feeling great. We were together until perhaps 4 miles out from the aid station, but somewhere in that stretch his body revolted. He was puking and resting at Beaver Bay. Kelly said they fixed him up and kicked him out of the aid station so he was still on the course. I’m worried, but knowing nothing of his situation, feel confident he can pull through.
I fill up the bladder and bottle and look forward to the 10 mile trip into Tettegouche. I arrived into this station with Brandon, but I don’t see him on the way out. I had been looking forward to staying with him, but I assumed he was ahead of me on the trail, so I resolve to get out and catch up.
Silver Bay to Tettegouche – Mile 25 to 34.9
I love this section. It’s tough, but rewarding. The first three miles are a long climb up to Bean and Bear lakes, which provides perhaps the most beautiful view on the entire course. I feel strong when climbing and it builds confidence that I’m on the right pace. When I reach the top, I see a photographer who takes my picture. I am excited to see how these turn out.
As I move through the section, I feel sour. I’ve felt isolated all day and it’s starting to take its toll. I start to wonder why I’m doing this. I’ve already done this. I’m already a hundred-mile finisher. Why am I doing this again? I want to see Peter. I want to see Kelly. I want more time with both of them and I’ve got 24+ more hours to go. Alex is struggling, Lisa didn’t start, Drew was in the hospital. I’m lonely. I think about stopping, but not seriously. I recognize these as the demons allowed in by the miles I’ve covered, but at the same time these emotions feel authentic.
Something has to change. I eat. I drink. I’ve been off caffeine the entire day and this is contributing to my foul mood. I resolve to talk to the next person I meet, someone, anyone, to break this loneliness and get my mind back on track.
I catch up to a guy going up Mt. Trudee. He’s running his fourth 100 of the year and entered this race for its UTMB points. We chat for a while, and he seems nice. At some point he says “I hate to tell you, but this isn’t the most technical course I’ve ever run.” This comment sets my mind spinning a little as I question the content and motives of this comment. I find it odd, but let it go without energy to discuss it any further. I pass as he fixes a shoe and look forward to catching up to another.
I hop down the drainpipe and cover the remaining mile or two into the Tettegouche aid station quickly. Once again, the support of friends and family at this stop helps snap my mood back into the right place. Rolf is here and tells me I look great. I appreciate his kind words. I do feel strong, and seeing everyone here is helping me repair my crippled mind. Ella gets Glide in my hands again, which I apply liberally. Kelly and Peter are here and he’s making friends with runners who are seated at the aid station. He’s a hit with everyone around, and I’m proud of him for being so social. I like the person he’s becoming.
I ask about Alex and Kelly tells me he’s dropped. He got to Silver Bay and couldn’t get out due to continued stomach issues. I’m gutted. It mutes the positivity I’d built during this section, but does provide some perspective. I’m feeling low because I’m lonely. Alex was feeling low because his stomach had revolted and taken him out of the race. I can move forward. I can finish. I have to. I’m really looking forward to seeing my pacers.
Tettegouche to County Road 6 – Mile 34.9 to 43.5
I leave Tettegouche alone and with mixed feelings. Hearing the news about Alex, I am more resolved than ever to finish. My feet hurt and I’ve got some hot spots developing on heels and toes, but overall I’m in great shape.
I cross County Road 1 and immediately begin ascending the multi-mile climb up to the ridgeline. It’s an often-overlooked climb on the course. I’m not running much in this section as whatever terrain isn’t uphill is littered with rocks and roots. I see almost no one for this entire 8+ mile journey into the aid station.
The sun is starting to set and the air has grown calm underneath the canopy of trees. I can see gray clouds in the distance threatening rain, but they seem well to the North and I don’t worry. I had been expecting rain, and I am prepared with warm clothes and a jacket if need be.
Roughly 2 miles out from the aid station, my heart leaps as I see the collection of tiny tents and cars below. I can hear music and start to feel the energy of the race. I quicken my pace and run most of the ridgeline before making my sharp descent into the aid station.
Kelly, Ella and Andy are here and Kelly tells me that my Drew has dropped. I feel sad, but admire the strength he showed by even turning up to this race after his time in the hospital. It seems like a victory to even be at the starting line.
At County Road 6, I decide I need to intervene on my feet. I sit down, remove my shoes and go to work taping my feet. Luckily, I am for this due my last-minute panic buying before the race. I apply tape to my heels, cover up with a fresh coat of Vaniply, put on a fresh pair of socks, and tighten my shoes. The 10 minute investment to fix this issue is completely worth it, and I get out of the chair feeling great. Ella packs up the tape and Vaniply, and she says she’ll give it to my parents who will be at Finland. I’d have one more chance to fix feet if I needed there before committing to the night.
As I’m taking some final food from the aid station, I see Mark! He looks amazing — happy, healthy, and strong. I get a huge boost just seeing him and we leave the aid station together. I feel excited to know I’ll be able to run at least a few miles with a close friend. Between Mark and my crew at the aid station, my mood is the best it’s been all day. I am still eating. I am still drinking. I have taken in zero caffeine. It is 7:45pm, and I’ve been running for almost 12 hours. I am on plan. I will finish.
I say goodnight to Ella, Andy and Kelly as Mark and I leave the aid station together. We slip into the night, headlamps on.
County Road 6 to Finland – Mile 43.5 to 51.2
County Road 6 is a demarcation line for me in this race. From here on out, I resolve to power-hike the vast majority of the rest of the race, running only on level ground, free of rocks and roots. (On the SHT, that’s not many places.) From those who’ve come before me, I know that night is the time to settle in, to not give back anything you’ve gained, to simply keep moving, and to survive until day. This is my plan; to thread the needle as Jason Husveth once put it, and to survive until daylight.
I am with Mark, and I am flying high. We are moving very quickly in our power hike, both of us feeling fantastic. Being in the company of a good friend snaps my streak of loneliness and buoys my mood. Finally I am with someone who I care about, and who cares about me. Mark has done a great job controlling pace. He is eating. He is drinking. He is on plan.
Halfway through the trip, I’m reminded I was last in this section with Alex, Drew and Lisa. I had been following behind Drew in this exact section when he near-instantly sank knee deep in a mud puddle. (Seeing Drew go from full run to dead stop, up to his knees in mud is, to this day, one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen running.) So, as Mark and I navigate this section I am prepared. I tell Mark that there’s a knee-deep puddle up ahead. I know it’s still there because I had seen Maria Barton get stuck in this exact same spot the day before on Facebook.
“Oh man! It’s up to my knee!” someone exclaims from up ahead.
The puddle is clearly still there.
“I know exactly where it is, don’t worry”, I say confidently.
We turn the corner. The spot is here somewhere I think.
“Oh man!” I exclaim as I put my right foot down and sink knee deep in this exact same spot.
A brief cramp shimmers on my right leg as I extract it from 24″ of mud, feeling quite embarrassed.
Throughout the whole trip to Finland, we don’t talk much. I don’t care. I don’t even need to talk. I am so happy jut just knowing he was there. It was enough to keep my mood up and power me all the way to Finland.
We take the spur trail into the Finland Rec Center and I’m immediately greeted by Anne. She’s been there for a while preparing and waiting. I’m so glad to see her, though I don’t think I show it very well. Mom and dad are here, and they help me fix my feet again. I put additional tape over my two big toes and the balls of my feet. By this point, they’re pretty uncomfortable and the tape is helping. I eat some soup and steal its warmth before setting back out into the night.
Anne and I leave just in time to see Steve English on the trail as well. Mark is there in the darkness and we all set off together. We tiptoe down the spur with these two brilliantly fresh pacers. It’s 10:30pm and I feel the best I’ve felt yet.
Finland to Sonju – Mile 51.2 to 58.7
Anne is with me! I’ll finally have someone with me for the rest of the race. Battling loneliness and finding meaning have been the most difficult aspects of this so far, and Anne cures both. I update her and Steve on my race so far. Mark has pushed ahead. I wonder if Steve will rejoin Mark, or if he’ll stay with us. I selfishly hope it’s the latter. Eventually he says, “Say, I should catch Mark. See you soon!”, cleaves his light bubble from ours, and silently disappears down the trail. It was wonderful while it lasted.
I am tired. I feel strong as ever, but I am literally falling asleep on my feet. I’m not that talkative with Anne, but she’s doing a good job talking at me. Story after story, she’s unloading a welcome barrage of distraction. Her stories come one after the other and I love listening to them. I do a terrible job communicating my appreciation for this, because my eyelids are heavy with the weight of 16 hours and over 50 miles behind me. I look at my watch and see it’s past midnight. Finally my finish is no longer measured in tomorrows.
As we approach the Sonju aid station, I lift the ban on caffeine and take two caffeinated gels about 20 minutes apart.
Sonju to Crosby – Mile 58.7 to 62.9
The caffeine takes about 20 minutes to land, and it brings metamorphosis. I feel resurgent and full of new confidence and excitement about the race. My mood improves and I begin talking to Anne, sharing stories and even laughing with her. Where before I was feeling lonely, tired, and down, I was now feeling happy, excited, and optimistic. I am almost 60 miles into the race, it’s past 1am and I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. I think to myself, and even exclaim to Anne, “Caffeine. It’s a hell of a drug.”
We sneak past the tree roots that guard this section of trail — a thousand chances to trip and fall. We hike quickly, with purpose. I am doing no damage. I am protecting what I’ve earned. I refuse to give it back by moving too quickly or carelessly through this section that has ended so many races before mine.
A bubble of light appears on the trail ahead; it contains my friend Drew (Shafer)! I’m thrilled to see him, but the excitement is tempered when he tells me he’s hitting a wall. He looks good and he’s still moving. He says he’s warm, but feeling tired. I do my best to remind him of what he’s accomplished, what he’s feeling is normal, and that he’ll get past it. “Eat! Whatever you’re feeling will be solved by food.” I tell him. “You can hike it in from here if you need to. You’re doing so well!” I shout back as we pass. I wonder if I should stay, but he’s got his pacer and he says he has everything he needs. He’ll get through this!
It feels as though only minutes have passed since leaving Sonju, so I’m surprised when we’re spit out onto a road. Between our attention to the trail and the caffeine taking hold, the 4+ miles since last aid went by in a blink. This is Crosby! My heart leaps as we cross the road. I feel genuine excitement to be here. A volunteer directing traffic says “you look too good! Come back here and take a shift when you finish.” I tell him I will. (I won’t.)
Anne and I hike up the hill to the aid station. The road is completely deserted. John’s new parking rules on this stretch have made this otherwise hectic, exhaust-clouded stretch a peaceful entrance to the best aid station on the course. We are welcomed in by volunteers who fill my pack, bottle and help me with my drop bag, out of which I pull everything that contains caffeine. Caffeine is working; it’s my new plan. It’s raining now, which has become more obvious as we’re out of the woods. It’s still feels warm, and I don’t take my hat, gloves or extra jacket.
Maria Barton is more Superior royalty. She owns this aid station and has made it a nighttime oasis for runners at the 100k point. I am so thankful there are people like Maria and Doug who go to this effort for runners. Through their effort and preparedness, I am recharged. As volunteers guide me through the food choices, I eat 3 quesadillas, some soup and some candy. It is a dangerous amount of food to eat, but the hot quesadillas are a religious experience on this rainy night.
Drew crests the hill and enters the aid station looking much better than when I last saw him. We chat for a minute and he says he’s struggling with chaffing. I rapid-fire solutions at him, most of which he’s already tried. Drew is so well prepared that I’m sure he’ll get through it. He looks too good.
We thank Maria and head into Crosby, one of the most difficult sections of the course, feeling refreshed and optimistic.
Crosby to Sugarloaf – Mile 62.9 to 72.3
Last year I struggled in this section, mainly due to a poor memory of the terrain. Being much more lucid and with last year’s experience guiding me, I was ready for each section — 3 miles of climbing, 3 miles of up and down along the ridgeline, 3 miles that are somewhat runnable. Anne and I slip down into the Manitou river gorge and power up the climb on the other side. I appreciate the honesty of this climb out – it’s steep and abrupt without switchbacks. It’s 900ft of up, done all at once without rest. I’m surprised by how great my climbing legs feel as we ascend. My feet hurt a little as the miles are wearing away at them, but being up on my toes using big muscles feels good.
The steady drizzle crescendoes to a light rain. I’m still warm and relatively dry. I’m surprised how little rain makes it beneath the forest canopy. Lightning flashes and momentarily lifts the darkness, giving way to the familiar sight of rocks, roots and an endless sea of green.
Lighting flashes again.
I count “One Mississippi. Two Mississippi…”. At 10 Mississippis we hear the crash of thunder. Anne and I debate how far away the storm is, but I can’t remember the speed of sound, and I’m unable to convert Mississippis into miles. The lightning persists as we make our way through Crosby, and the rain accelerates. The Milky Way was on full display last year, but tonight the rainclouds have taken the stars. In the morning, they’ll take the sunrise. Underneath them though, they can’t take our two bubbles of headlamp light. Our tiny bubbles of sheer determination that we will press through the dark single-track. We will drive this light through to the other end, to sunrise, and to the finish.
I know we’re close to the aid station. I can’t see outside my bubble but I know we’re crossing a meadow and Superior is looming above to our right. We cross the tiny covered bridge that spans a small creek as we disappear into the trees one last time before the aid station.
Ahead, the white light signature to a headlamp pierces the dark screen. It grows stronger and brighter as we move through the trees toward it. At first, I see someone kneeling and digging through a pack – a common sight along the trail. As I get closer, and the scene in front of me comes into focus, it becomes anything but common. A runner is down and lying in the trail, EMS surrounding her. She’s laying with her feet pointed down the trail, headlamp on, and wrapped in a space blanket. Her eyes are closed and jaw chattering. My heart breaks for her as one of the medics tells us to keep a wide berth. As we pass, I see she’s lying on a backboard with her head restrained. It looks so serious. Anne and I both are filled with concern and offer help. EMS says they have everything they require and begin preparations to move her down the trail. We offer well wishes and move back into the dark, hearts and heads full of concern for this unknown runner. 72 miles and 24 hours into this race, I’m confronted with the reality that finishing is anything but guaranteed. So many emotions fill me as we move down the trail – concern for her well being, scared for my own, disappointment for her race and caution for mine. I feel grateful to be on my feet, still moving forward, feeling good. I feel a type of survivor’s guilt. As we move past, I hear the EMS say they’re going to move her, followed immediately by screams that ring up and down the trail. We imagine the pain she must be enduring. We don’t know her condition and her cries intensify our concerns.
When we arrive at the Sugarloaf aid station, I inquire about her condition. An aid station volunteer tells me she was simply a little hypoglycemic and needed some help moving down the trail. I’m relieved to hear her condition isn’t serious, but I don’t feel convinced that was all to the story. My concern lingers. (Later I would learn this runner was taken to the hospital, but recovered fully. I don’t know the entire story, but she is okay!)
By the time we arrive at Sugarloaf, Anne’s husband John is here. He’d slept in his truck overnight while we made our way from Finland to Crosby, and I feel a deep appreciation for the dedication that Anne and John have shown me over the last day. Seeing the injured runner a few moments ago underscores how important community support is in completing these races.
As we fuel up at the aid station, the rain hits its high point. I put on my jacket, still feeling warm. I’m in good spirits and thankful to be this far. One more stop until Marathon start, and hopefully to see a few more friendly faces. I know Ella will be there with my gear bag, and I’ll pick up Andy who will take me through the next two sections. We say goodbye to John and head down the trail towards very familiar terrain – Marathon start.
Sugarloaf to Cramer Road (Marathon Start) – Miles 72.3 to 77.9
As always, my only goal of this section is to endure and survive. I just need to get to marathon start, and from there I’m home. I have the enviable benefit of a great pacer and the Sun is now just starting to show itself through the dense layer of clouds. Sunrise on my second day of running brings new life and new energy to my tired body and helps lift the general fatigue that has been seeping in. Another sunrise has kicked in some primal mechanism and makes it easy to move through this section.
I see 6am on my watch and the hope of being at marathon start by 8am propels me down the trail. This section is strewn with rocks, so Anne and I do a lot of power-hiking through this section, as we had been doing all night. I am escaping the jaws of the race.
“Do you hear that?” Anne asks from behind.
“No.” I reply shortly.
“I haven’t had any hallucinations, but maybe I’m having some auditory ones.” She says. “Is that the marathon start?”
I don’t hear this, but I desperately want to. I feel like a soda bottle, shaken and ready to explode. It’s 7:55am and we’re so close! Aren’t we? We’ve got to be.
“That. Do you hear that?” Anne asks again.
“I do! I think?” I reply excitedly.
A few twists and turns down the trail, John Storkamp’s voice comes into tune. We’re here! Our pace quickens. 7:58am. He’s doing the pre-race briefing for the 8am Marathon; the loudspeaker echoes down the trail.
“…pink ribbons. They’ve been out all night. Give them encouragement and some love.” John says to the marthoners.
I come around the corner at the exact instant John saying this and I see the entire pack of runners gathered around him listening intently.
John pauses his speech. “Here’s a 100 miler right now. Show him some love guys!” he says.
The marathon crowd erupts and so do I. I wave my hands in the air as if trying to literally catch the good will and emotion they’re sending. 300 supporters cheering me on. I’ve never had 300 supporters cheer me on for anything before, and it’s happening now, exactly when I need it. I turn around and wave some more, not wanting this short moment to end. In these few seconds I feel brand new, untouched by the miles before and absolutely certain of those ahead.
I’ve made it to Marathon start before the marathoners. From here, it’s Temperance, Sawbill, Oberg and Finish – a string I’ve done many times before and certain I will do again.
Anne and I arrive at the aid station where John, Ella and Andy are waiting. This is Anne’s last stop. I say goodbye and thank her for the support. I resolve to do more for her to thank her. Finish first. Plan wine dinners after.
I eat three pancakes with extra syrup. I think about putting butter on them, but there’s no time. I need to get on that course before the marathoners. All year I’ve been looking forward to them streaming by, and no pancake will stand in the way. My brother in law Andy will take me from here to Sawbill, and we dash down the trail together, pancake still in mouth.
Cramer Road to Temperance – Mile 77.9 to 85.0
“Good job hundo.”
“Nice work.”
“Way to go!”
“You’re amazing. Nice job.”
Encouragement comes with every runner who passes us. The positivity provided by each person is a welcome lift and distraction, exactly what I’d hoped. Marathoners are moving down the trail at warp speed and we do our best to stay out of the way. An already muddy section is getting muddier with each mile as they wear through the trail. They try to keep out of it. I go right through it. I’m already muddy and have nothing left to protect, while they have bright shoes and clean clothing.
Andy settles in his role and gets my status. I tell him that I’m on plan and that we’ll be power-hiking for the duration of our time together. I am sticking to my plan of hiking unless totally safe; the SHT has offered no safe spots, so I will keep hiking. It is working and there is no reason to change now. I’m on ground I’ve run countless times before, feeling better than I ever have. I will protect this. I will maintain this from here to the end.
All the way to temperance we talk Star Trek and Sci Fi. We cover Star Trek: Enterprise and the upcoming new series. We make plans to see Rogue One. I am still lucid and talkative, which makes conversation extremely fun. It’s a wonderful distraction from the miles and the increasing pain in my feet. Last year, I was the walking dead through this section, and this year I feel amazing (considering).
As we approach the Temperance aid station, I’m reminded that I passed out here last year, and I commit to moving slowly and keeping upright. If I can just not collapse at this stop, I will gain 30 minutes on last year’s time. We approach the aid station with caution.
Ella is here with my pack. She reminds me to glide up again and gives me more caffeinated gels and blocks. Caffeine is a helpful crutch. Last year, this spot almost broke me. This year, I’m plowing a stack of pancakes. As Andy and I depart Temperance, on our way up and over Carlton peak to Sawbill, I give a shout for Alex.
“CARLTON! I GOT YOU!”
Temperance to Sawbill – Mile 85 to 90.7
“There’s like 3 miles of dicking around”, I begin to tell Andy of our journey to Sawbill. More clever words have left me by this point and I’m reduced to some very basic language.
“3 miles of dicking around. Then you see the peak and it’s just up and over.” I continue as we walk, the Temperance river roaring so loudly to our left that I doubt Andy can even hear me.
“Good job Hundred. Seriously. I’m honored to even share the trail with you. You are awesome. Man. I can’t even believe you’re doing this. Awesome job!” An encouraging voice cuts through the river’s static.
“You could do this too!” I reply as he insists that he could not.
As he passes, I vaguely remember this man. I remember last year that he was the friendliest person on the entire course. This year is no different. He is absolutely blissful and gushing with encouragement. I fall in love. Andy and I pass him briefly as he adjusts a knee brace. He jokes about being half machine, which I find hilarious. Caffeine and 24+ hours on my feet have worn away my threshold for humor. I say goodbye and remind him that he will, no doubt, pass us soon. (Later I would learn this guy’s name is Anthony, and if he ever reads this, he should know what a positive force he was in my race.)
As we approach the scramble up Carlton peak, nature finally calls me into the woods to do that thing I could not do 26 hours ago. With legitimate excitement, I ask Andy to help me scout a spot — not too public, but still accessible for someone who’s got 85+ miles on them. How bizarre this must be for Andy, a relative outsider, and someone who’s only meeting the trail community for the first time. How bizarre it must be to help a runner find a place to sh*t. I don’t care even a little. Yet another filter removed by the miles.
I gleefully trot into the woods, bounding over branches and bushes. My quads are burning and my knees are sore, the pain of which partially obscures the joy of this simple activity. I return to the trail with a light heart, head (and body).
“Is this it? We go up this?” Andy asks at the base of Carlton peak. He seems surprised by the scale, and the complete lack of any discernible trail.
“Yep!” I reply with genuine enthusiasm as we proceed up and over.
We both engage every climbing muscle we have to get over this penultimate climb on the course. Our heart rates both surge as we scramble up. Andy does perfectly behind me and skillfully tackles the unfamiliar terrain. A breeze, made cold by the surrounding granite formations, blows through the top. It brings a welcome chill to our skin, which has been exposed through this entire section.
The hardest climb on the course is behind me. The wind is at my back. I will meet Kelly at the next aid station, and these three thoughts propel me down the trail into Sawbill.
When we arrive, Kelly, Peter and my whole support network is here. I pick up Peter for a quick kiss, which he is reluctant to give. I toss Peter into the air a few times, which is more declaration of my own health than it is a good idea. 90 miles in, tossing toddlers? I question the intelligence of doing this and note that my judgement must also have been worn thin by time.
John C. is here and tells me that Nathan has just left. I joke with John that “I’m going to catch that f*cker!” In reality, Nathan is far too fast to catch, but I like the idea of having someone out there pulling me along, someone who I might be able to meet along the way. Nathan is a rabbit out there for me to catch, and even if it’s pure fantasy, it’s one I can believe in at this moment.
I say goodbye to Andy and pick up Kelly. I’m ecstatic to see her because she will take me across the line. We are in this final stage together. We will finish together.
Sawbill to Oberg – Mile 90.7 to 96.2
200 yards out of the aid station, I cross the spot where I broke down crying last year. I approach the exact boardwalk where I was forced to step off the trail and compose myself, and I feel a sense of place. I am in such a better frame of mind this year. More hopeful. More optimistic mentally, and stronger physically. I am lucid. Seeing Kelly last year provoked a deeply sad emotional response in response to a difficult race. I don’t feel that this year, and I’m thankful.
Kelly and I depart the aid station into the least memorable section of the SHT. There is literally nothing remarkable about this section, other than its complete lack of memorable features. It’s muddy, it’s rocky, it’s rooted. It’s forgettable.
I update Kelly on my status. Still eating, still drinking, still sweating. Hands swollen. Feet on fire. Heart happy. Body tired, mind slow.
As we make our way through this section, I grudgingly count off the miles, only 5.5 to go, then 5.4, then 5.3. The tenths tick by at a maddening pace. I hate this section. I love that we’re almost to Oberg. Caffeine isn’t having the same effect it has had previously. No rush of energy, no uptick in mood; my chemical solution slowing being defeated by the miles and the hours.
Kelly keeps me healthy and happy and tells me about her day with Peter, and her night too. I’ve missed so much being out here, and I start to feel done. Definitely. I’m ready to be done. Ready to hear the Poplar river, ready to be on Ski Hill road with a hundred miles behind me, ready to sink into that chair at the finish line. I communicate all of this to Kelly and she keeps my head in a good space. She’s so good at this. She tells me how much better I’m doing than last year and keeps my spirits up as we approach Oberg.
A mile out from the aid station we come across my friend Aaron Hansen. He’s out with his wife and looking a little tough. He’s vertical. He’s moving. He will finish! We give him some good vibes and tell him he’s got this. He can get to Oberg. He’s strong enough to push through. I remind him of those as we pass. Kelly and I head for the aid station.
“I know that guy!” I say, excited to see a familiar face around the next corner.
Alex’s son Grady is out on the trail. I think it’s Grady. It’s Grady! Is he here by himself? I wonder how he got here?
“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!” booms a voice down the trail and breaks my slow-witted train of thought.
Alex is here! Grady, Mason and Cam(?) are all here to greet us on the trail. We’re less than half a mile to the aid station and Alex has walked up to greet us. I feel overjoyed to see him. He’s wearing his sweatshirt, which tells me he’s in a good place with his DNF. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but it makes sense. He gives me a huge high five and I give him my most brief recap.
“Lonely at first. Rainy overnight. Feeling pretty good.” I say. “I’m running your race. Ran the first day, then settled into a nice power hike overnight. Working well.”
“Yeah buddy! F*cking awesome!” he says as he slaps my hand.
He cheers as we run down the trail a bit together before parting ways. It’s a huge rush to see him here and helps me float into Oberg. I tell him Aaron is down the trail a bit and to go see him, which he does.
Kelly and I emerge from the woods at Oberg and are swept into the arms of this amazing crew of volunteers. A guy strips my pack, tells me he’ll take care of everything and that I should go graze. I accept the fantastic help and move towards the food table where a Rice Krispy treat catches my eye. I eat one. Another religious experience (that’s two now). I selfishly clear the plate of the remaining three and pound them one after the other, by which time my volunteer friend is suiting me back up and literally pushing me back out of the aid station. He is keeping me moving, which I don’t feel I need, but deeply appreciate.
John is here again telling me that Nathan has just left, and I resolve again to catch him. He is fast. He is elusive. The idea of catching up with him and sharing the encouragement of a friend is a strong propellent out of the aid station, and we make haste back into the woods.
“Let’s finish this thing, dear!”
Oberg to the Finish – Mile 96.2 to 103.3
“Two miles of dicking around, then Moose”, I say to Kelly. Last year I would have sworn that the climb began straight out of the aid station. This year, I’m ready. I know we have to skirt the base of Moose before we climb, and this mental preparation makes for easy miles. Every step I take lands with the pain of blisters on my heels, big toes, and balls of my feet. My tape job is holding strong, but seemingly no longer effective. Quite suddenly, I feel skin tear away on my right pinky toe — a skin on skin sheering feeling that ignites an inferno in my right shoe. It’s painful and uncomfortable, but nothing I can’t manage. I wish I didn’t have to, but I will.
I keep looking at my watch and see 1.1, 1.5, 2.0 miles tick by. The climb is near, but I don’t know exactly how far. The more miles I can click off down here, the fewer I’ll have to on the other side. I enjoy the delay, but it’s cut short by the meander up the base of Moose Mountain. One more big climb and we’re home. Climbing still feels amazing and it relieves all the pressure on my heels. It recruits my quad and butt muscles, which are strong and still feel surprisingly fresh. I’m leading and Kelly is right behind me the entire way. We’re moving fast! Erik Lindstrom, the de facto social media director for Rocksteady Running, is sitting on the steepest part of the climb taking video of the runners. I try to think of something clever to say.
“My feet are trashed.”
Fail.
“You know where you are right?” he replies, reminding me that what I’m feeling is completely normal. It helps to hear this and I think about how little I’m suffering in general. I’m still moving, feeling strong and climbing with power. I’m an hour ahead of my time last year, still mentally and physically in tact.
We finish the climb feeling victorious and march past the only view from the top. I wish we would have stopped for just a brief moment to reap some of the reward, but by this time, we’re already down the trail and navigating the ridgeline.
The climb down Moose passes with ease. Is this it? I remember it being steeper and more painful. I know it is, but I don’t believe it until we’re on the boardwalks below. Mystery Mountain, the last hilly section of the course sprawls before us, a landscape marked with trees and people leaning against them. I wonder why there are so many people in the woods here. Spectators? Or campers I assume, because they remain motionless and vanish as we pass. Up ahead there are two people near a vehicle, impossibly placed among the trees. One is leaning up against the door, the other reading a book.
Kelly is leading our charge up Mystery, but I’m feeling antsy. I’m ready to be done and I want to get this over as quickly as possible. I ask to lead and move up the switchbacks as quickly as I can, almost running with anticipation.
I pause near the false-peak of Mystery to observe another gathering of people in the woods. They’ve brought in, or fashioned, an adirondack swing here nearly two miles from the trailhead. It’s a simple, rough-sawn swing, comfortably large for the two people now sitting in it. It’s suspended from a structure which seems to offer living space above, like a treehouse of some kind. What a fantastic thing to have built in the woods! Kelly approaches from behind and says she can’t see it.
We move up the last climb to the top of Mystery. Along the way, I point out a boat on a trailer, carelessly discarded on the trailside. It’s a white, flat-bottomed boat on a trailer. A large, white outboard sits on the back and seems to be in great condition.
A cat sits alongside the trail, its head too large for its small body. Orange faced with round eyes, he’s shy and vanishes as we walk past.
Sketches done in pencil, maybe charcoal, adorn the yellow leaves that dot the single track trail before us — faces, all of them, in caricature and profile. That someone would lay these out for me to enjoy at such a difficult time demonstrates the magic and support of this trail running community.
I point out each to Kelly, but she sees none of these unlikely sites. I know, in truth, that I do not see them either, that these are spectres in the woods produced by a weary mind, but I enjoy their distraction.
Two more shapes appear through the trees, but these persist as we approach. These are not shy and allow us to get closer without retreating into the forest.
“It’s Mark!” someone cries. Maybe me. Maybe Kelly.
I see Steve first and then connect that Mark is next to him. Steve looks like he’s joined the trail only moments before we met him. In reality, he’s running his 50th mile with Mark. He looks so fresh and so happy. Steve smiles as we approach. I am so excited to see Mark because he’s such a good friend and he’s going to finish. I am horrified to see Mark because he should be finishing well ahead of me.
Mark is showing the wear of the miles; he is still vertical, still moving forward, and still positive.
“Great job buddy.” Mark says at half-speed, his eyes a bit glassy.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
Mark says something that I fail to commit to memory, an effect of my own miles.
“Rally the troops! Tell them we’re coming! We’re right behind you!” Steve shouts as we pass.
“I’m going to get your sweatshirt ready, Mark!” I reply.
Joy for Mark’s imminent finish, and concern for his well-being, overtakes me as Kelly and I descend Mystery. Kelly is more concerned about him than I am. I tell her that this is normal, and my current happy condition is an anomaly.
“Remember me last year? I was way worse than that.”
Moments later we hear the Poplar river, that sweet sound that signals the finish. I ask Kelly if this is the first or the second time, she thinks the first. I know that only the second time you hear the river is the true signal that the finish is near. The river fades back into the forest noise, but re-emerges as we tick off a few more tenths.
It’s here! The finish is here! Last year I was unable to savor this moment because I just needed to get across that line. This year, I enjoy the descent down Mystery and onto the long gravel path towards the bridge over the Poplar. I say a few words of thanks to Kelly. She has done so much, and supported me so unwaveringly through this. She’s solo-parented nights when I’ve been away at Afton, brought Peter and picnics down to Hyland, dealt with my moods, emotions and panics leading up to this. I am so thankful for her and I am so glad she’s with me to share this.
We cross the bridge and take our last steps on the Superior Hiking Trail before moving onto the pavement that will bring us to the finish. I tell her that I don’t need to run.
“Unless some jackass wants to sprint by me and steal my place in line. Maybe then we’ll run.” we joke.
At that moment, another 100 miler comes from behind, sprints by me, and steals my place in line. We laugh.
“Okay. Let’s try some running.” I say to Kelly at the top of Ski Hill Road.
We begin running and it feels surprisingly good. My feet are ablaze, and I’m generally fatigued, but the speed and breeze takes focus from the pain. We are flying.
Cheers come from underneath the gondola. I raise my hands and cheer with them. All the training, all the nights, all the days and races before, have targeted this very moment and I’m here now living it. I can feel the tears coming. Good ones this time. I tell Kelly I can keep it together, but the emotion is hard to control. I get it together in time to see John C. on the road. He’s cheering loudly and his encouragement propels us even faster down the road. I tell him Mark isn’t far behind and to get everyone ready.
Kelly and I make the last turn, off the road and down the hill towards the pool. Alex and his family are on a knob overlooking the finish line. They erupt in cheers. I scream back, hands over head, and the emotion returns. We round the corner of the condo building into the energy of the finish area. Cheers grow as I see the mats ahead and know they’ll announce my name when I cross.
“100 mile finisher, Reid Plumbo from Vadnais Heights, Minnesota!”
The finish line explodes with the cheers of my entire support network. Kelly and I cross the line together and get rushed by the supportive crowd. John puts the 100 miler medallion around my neck and makes official my second 100 mile finish. I am proud. I am tired. I am done.
Post Race Thoughts
My whole summer training for this race felt very different than training for my first. As Andy and I were navigating Carlton peak, we talked about this and I think I finally understand why. You only get to make the transition to being a hundred-miler once. When you’re running your first, there’s excitement to cross that line and forever be a “hundred miler”. When you cross for the second time, you’ve already made that transition and you’re merely a second time finisher. The absence of this additional perk was notable all through training and through the race as well. I was feeling sad because I perceived that my second race would never be like my first; that I’d never achieve the rush that comes with the first finish and that first transition to “hundred miler”.
However, with more time for reflection, this is completely false. It’s not the race that matters. There is precisely nothing to prove during a 38hr cutoff window. The training is where the finish is earned — the late nights under headlamps, the burning legs, the sore day-afters, the willingness to persist through pain. It’s the training. It’s the dedication to transform yourself into someone who is willing to stand at the starting line, prepared, and with a reasonable shot to finish. I find so much peace in this idea because it means that nerves, stomach issues or injury can never prevent me from reaching my goals. I will define who I am through the work I put forward, and that is measured in months, not cutoffs.
I am looking forward to my next time at Superior, a heart and mind at peace.
runreid 