Are you as surprised as I am on the rare occasion when I post here? I’m baaaaack. For a second anyway. High Lonesome 100 is just three days away, and I wanted to jot down some thoughts, honestly for me as much as anyone else.

When people ask if I’m ready, it’s tough to find the gumption to say, yes, I am ready. Ready for 100 miles and 22,000 feet of climbing in less than 36 hours and mountain weather and technical trails and snow on the course and one long night out in the dark and cold and maybe rain. Possibly all of that with a migraine. I’ve finished 100’s with this much elevation before. Twice. But it isn’t any easier to feel bold about it. A few days ago I couldn’t answer in the affirmative but as each day gets closer I’m moving my head into that space of confidence. I’m waking up every morning more excited than afraid.

I’ve put in the work.  My miles haven’t been as high as they could have been, but I’ve climbed more than 110,000 vertical feet in the past few months. I live at elevation now (10,000 feet!) and am quite acclimated. I’m in great aerobic shape for me, maybe the best I’ve ever been going into a 100 (though my fittest was in the few years before I started 100’s when I was running shorter, faster races.) Maybe the most important thing of all is that I’ve consciously worked on re-developing my grit.

I’ve been thinking a lot about grit this training season. Here’s what I’ve decided: grit is a muscle that weakens and strengthens depending on if we use it.


The extended winter season until June made me tougher, that’s for sure.

For example, I’m remembering a night run I did a few weeks ago – twenty miles in the pitch-black dark along the Colorado Trail – and how because of that experience it’s going to be a lot easier to find fortitude when the sun sets Friday night and I haven’t picked up my pacer yet. I’ll be more confident of not tripping and falling or being devoured by a mountain lion. I’ll be tougher at keeping a steady pace just using my headlamp’s beam despite my fear of the dark.

I’ve been finding it difficult to push myself as hard this training season because my chronic headaches and migraines have been far worse. Since I lost the occipital nerve stimulator almost a year and a half ago due to an infection, the pain has spiraled. I cringe when I think back to how self-congratulatory I was for pushing through the pain when I had the nerve stimulator. I’d give anything to have headache levels what they were back then. Now I sometimes go whole weeks without a break from a migraine.

An aside: I find it shocking how uncomfortable people become when I talk about the worsened pain. It’s okay to talk about chronic pain when it’s in a positive spin, but not when you are stuck in the rut of it. When I posted a blog here about six months ago describing how it had worsened with the removal of the stimulator, the responses came in two distinct categories: people who understood all too well and people who wanted me to go back to talking about the resilience part. One friend told me not to make it a major plot point for my life. I noticed just this morning that a professional athlete I follow posted about arthritis and how she overcomes by simply not thinking about it. (Gosh, why haven’t I tried that!) This shit reminds me of something I might have said a few years ago when I didn’t recognize how much worse it could be.  I’d respect her more if she posted instead when she was feeling rather run down by it. Anyway, PSA: if you are following me here or on Instagram, I will talk about how the pain gets me down just as much as I talk about victories. I believe in being honest about both if I’m going to say anything at all.

Pain is a major plot point in my life and no amount of magical thinking will change that. I believe in leaning into what is hard, not pretending it doesn’t exist.

I have one rule for myself when it comes to training with the pain. I start every run as planned, and if the headache is too much after I’ve started, I’m free to turn around. One time, for example, I dragged myself to a trailhead and literally ran less than .1 miles before I said, nope, no way.

In the spring, I planned on running Grand Canyon rim to rim to rim (between 42 – 49 miles depending on the route, and 11,000 vertical feet). My migraine was at its worst the night before, so bad I could hardly pack my running vest with what I’d need. I delayed my start, and even though the pain was a lot better during the actual run, I only made it 2/3rds across before I turned around. I was afraid of being an entire Grand Canyon away from safety. The migraine hangover made me dizzy and my legs were already tired; I could have pushed through one of those but not both. And you know what? That’s legitimate. I’m not ashamed that I failed to run that far by myself in a desolate place with the remnants of a killer migraine. Some would call that decision smart.


Running down into the Grand Canyon on South Kaibab trail a few months ago

I’m also not ashamed that I’m ranked as the slowest runner to start this 100. We all come into these things with different sets of circumstances. I don’t think we can actually compare unless we try on each other’s bodies for a minute.

At the same time, I can only have so much flexibility with myself if I insist on still setting big goals like a 100. People finishing races like this one complete their training runs no matter what they feel like. The runners who will be crushing ahead of me aren’t the same people who are calling my decision in the Grand Canyon smart. The runners ahead of me might be mortified if they were ranked last and might train harder to never be in that position again.

I recently watched a woman I know attempt to become the fourth woman Nolans 14 finisher (linking all 14 of the Sawatch’s 14,000-foot peaks in less than 60 hours – a challenge that is harder than it even sounds considering how off-trail you must go). She demolished 10 14’ers in 36 hours even though she broke her arm a few months ago so badly she still doesn’t have mobility or grip strength back. She is 100% grit and truly follows an ethos of no excuses. I admire her, and mountaineers and runners like her, and I also know that will never be me. I must give my body a break when it demands.

So how do I find this balance? How do I honor my body and what it needs while still following in the literal footsteps of people who allow themselves zero excuses?

When do you push? When do you give yourself a free pass to the couch? I’m guessing those are questions many of us ask, no matter our goals or our life circumstances.


I pushed hard the day I summited Mount Elbert (highest Colorado peak) twice from the bottom. I took this selfie on the second summit in case it wasn’t obvious.

Ironically, even though the pain is my main barrier right now, it’s the reason I’m running the 100 in the first place. If you’ve been following me here, you know that ultra-running for me as always been about that very thing. During 100’s, I push myself to the absolute brink of what my body and mind can handle because that’s how I learn (and remember) that it is okay to be in pain. It’s okay to suffer. There’s still light (ie a finish line) on the other side.

I run 100’s and I have a 100 tattoo on my arm to remind myself that I will emerge from even the darkest of places. I need that reminder now more than I ever have.

Lately with the pain I’ve been to the bottom mentally far too often. Unlike with ultra-running, there is no finish line. Right now I don’t have a lot of hope for relief. I’ve rededicated myself to natural remedies like diet, massage, deep needling, etc. I’m currently experimenting with a new injectable drug called Aimovig, and I’m hoping to have the chance to try more Ketamine drips which will probably require a longer hospitalization. Otherwise the only other option is more surgeries for another nerve stimulator. I am extremely reluctant to go that direction again.

Circling back to the idea of grit, on one hand, I think being in pain trains you how to be in pain. Hurting during a training run lets you tolerate hurt during a race. Having the nerve stimulator for a decade, and learning how to function while experiencing reduced headaches, prepared me to keep living life even now that the stimulator is gone. If I hadn’t become a hiker and runner then (and gone back to college and started working real jobs), I certainly wouldn’t be those things now that the barrier to doing so is higher. Finding grit gives you more grit.

On the other hand, every time I go through a bad episode of pain, I feel more beaten down by it the next time it flares. This last week I had a terrible stretch, and I dropped emotionally far lower than I have in the recent past. I’m still pulling myself out of it. Coping with migraines takes internal resources, and if I don’t have time between episodes to gather more, the pain hits me harder. I become desperate much faster.

Go back to my example of running twenty miles overnight a few weeks ago. What if I went on three dozen night runs this season? Instead of feeling buoyed by my training when the sun sets on Friday, I might feel worn down and mentally fatigued instead. I might react instead with, “This crap again? I can’t keep doing this!” I might feel immediately despondent rather than confident.

So which is it? Does practicing resilience give you more of it? Do you get tougher when you make yourself become so? Or is grit a limited resource? I’m starting to wonder if it works both ways. Maybe building resilience works right up to the point that you overdose on tough shit.


Maybe moments like this restore grit just as much as shitty moments build it. Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to include a picture of my cat.

The only thing I know for sure is that somehow, over the past four or so months, I’ve put in the work I will need to finish this 100. Physically and mentally. For now, I’ve found a balance. I’m tougher right now than maybe I’ve ever been. I’m holding hope that I can at least start the race without a bad headache/migraine, but I’m prepared to travel all 100 miles with it if I have to.

I’ll let you know what I think about it on the other side… (Unless your name is Anthony in which case you’ll experience it along with me mile 50 and onward 😊 )

Feel free to share your thoughts below. I genuinely want to know what others think.


This picture doesn’t have much to do with grit, except that I wanted to share how epic the avalanches have been this year.



I’m back on the blog! It’s been a while, so here’s a cool picture from my new Leadville, Colorado hot tub before I get into a raw, wordy blog post 🙂 That’s Mt. Massive, by the way, which looks way bigger IRL.

I came down with meningitis seventeen years ago today. Seventeen years since the start of this headache which I now know will never go away. Seventeen feels like a huge number – nearly half my life – big enough that in that time most of the things that scar us ought to be healed, right?? I would have thought so. Turns out no. Turns out some anniversaries don’t get easier.

It’s also been exactly nine months since I had my occipital nerve stimulator removed which helped me control the chronic pain secondary to the meningitis. An infection had spontaneously developed around one of the wires which connected the device, inside my hip, to the leads that went to the occipital nerves at the base of my skull. After months of an oozing sore in the center of my back (sorry, I realize how disgusting that is!), and several attempts at cutting out the infection, I started getting fevers, and suddenly the entire device had to be removed. Immediately. I didn’t even have time to wean myself from it. It was a tough surgery including six incisions, fifty-two stitches, several days in bed, and a lot of feeling sorry for myself.

With the nerve stimulator, my entire neck felt prickly 24/7, just as if I had a tens unit on the outside of my skin. I had to charge it about once a week by plugging myself into an outlet. If I didn’t, it would run out of juice and quit working until I got myself home. Sometimes RF signals (such as at Disneyworld) could also shut it off. If that happened the pain would worsen within an hour or two. I’d gotten to the point where if I suddenly stopped feeling that stimulation in my neck and scalp, I would begin to panic. I mean, full on panic attack which I would have to breathe through.

When I went under to have the stimulator removed, the hope I clung to was that my dependence was more emotional than physical. Yes, once upon a time ten years earlier the stimulator had redeemed my life completely. I went from full disability and living on the couch to going back to school, getting a job, and becoming an extremely active person. I wouldn’t ever have run marathons or climbed mountains – or published a book! – without the pain relief the stimulator brought. But yet I thought it had become less effective than it was initially. With it, I still had low level pain every day, and I often had considerably bad days. So how much could it have been helping, really? Turns out a lot.


Thank you, Medtronic, for giving me a second chance at life. Even though you aren’t a part of me anymore (ha! see what I did there?) I’ll always remember what you did for me.

Without the stimulator, the low-level pain occupies a much larger area in my head. Instead of the aching being somewhat contained to my temples and forehead, it’s once again a full band that includes the back of my head and neck. I constantly feel like my skull has been smacked with a bat.

The worse days of pain are worse too. The elevated pain happens far more often, and the ceiling exploded. What I considered a 10/10 headache back then now feels like maybe an 8. I had no recollection that what I now call a 10 is even possible. The first time it happened was the middle of the night about three weeks after surgery, and I’ll never forget the shock and panic brought by feeling so completely paralyzed in my bed. Only then I remembered how bad the pain had been ten years earlier. Or when I was in the intensive care unit with meningitis.

We forget what a specific pain feels like, but the emotions surrounding the pain? That’s what we always remember.

My triggers are much more sensitive without the stimulator. Keeping my head turned to the side for more than a few moments, low blood sugar, dehydration, wheat or red wine, too much sunshine or noise…all of those things could have caused a worse headache/migraine before, but now they are certain to, and much more quickly. Traveling is tough. I haven’t yet been able to balance being away from home and my routine without my head paying the price. I’m coming out of a stretch right now during which I had a migraine at least part of every day for two weeks straight.

Before, had I gotten a hefty dose of endorphins via a long, long run or climb, I would have been guaranteed at least a few days of minimal pain. I once had a conversation with a friend who was struck by lightning and also uses endorphins to control the pain in his feet about how long endorphins lasted before we absolutely had to have more. We both agreed that if we got enough in one go, we could last about ten days. Ten – we came up with the same number!

Now I’m lucky if the endorphins buy me 24 hours. I’m working out more than once a day now, and while that feels a little obsessive, I actually need every bit of it. The training required for a 100 is no longer over the top.

Replacing the stimulator is an option. But I keep remembering that because of the stimulator I had eight surgeries in ten years. Scar tissue which causes issues of its own covers the left side of my back and my neck. I have major qualms about going back down that road, and besides, a second stimulator is not as likely to help as much given how much scar tissue from those wires now covers those nerves. For now I’m going to try other strategies.

Nine months later, I’m still adjusting. I’m still trying to figure out where my limits are, and how I can live within those confines. There have been times in the past few months when I have been pushed so far to my limit, I couldn’t do anything other than what was 100% expected of me. (My apologies to friends I have ghosted, and a big thanks to those who haven’t taken it personally. I do realize how much I have sucked as a friend this year.)

Obviously, it’s depressing to have regressed so much. But there are other feelings, too. Surprising feelings.

Most of all, I feel like a liar and even a fraud. I’ve branded myself as someone who uses endorphins to overcome chronic pain. But what I had been dealing with when I ran my first 100 or climbed Mt. Aconcagua or published my memoir was a fraction of what it could have been. Now I know that. The reality is that I’m not sure what my future holds and if it will look like any of those external accomplishments again.

This is the point when friends say things like, “Of course you will do ____ again!” Or if I do succeed with one of those things, they say something like, “Of course you finished your first ultra without the stimulator!” Both make the pain feel even more invisible. And I feel even lonelier as a result.


Messaging for runners during the 2018 Golden Gate Dirty 30, the first ultra I ever ran without being bionic.

Ten years ago, when I had the stimulator first implanted, I had the advantage of extremely low expectations in my life. I was doing great if I kept myself out of hospitals. Now, even though people know theoretically that I am in more pain than I was a year ago, they still expect me to show up to events without ever cancelling or climb 14ers with them and be my happy self.

The truth is I’m putting pressure on myself too. I keep scheduling my time as if nothing has changed.

Accolades about my tenacity don’t help either. Those compliments almost make me feel like I will lose those people’s respect if I am less tough about the pain. And believe me, more days than not I am not tough.

I’m guessing what you are thinking at this point (if you are still reading – thanks!) is that now you are afraid to say anything to me at all because it might make me feel worse. I try to be someone who isn’t sensitive, especially when people are genuinely trying to be kind, but right now I just can’t help it. This is why I’ve been distant on social media and elsewhere, too. I’m sensitive now to memes and other commentary from friends who imply we should all be able to overcome any malady to thrive again. It feels like that opinion makes it less okay when I’m not doing well, and it’s more my fault.

I realize now that times in the past I have probably come across in that exact same way.

The other day I did have a conversation which helped. I was talking to a new friend who doesn’t know much about this part of my life, and she asked if the pain got worse after the stimulator was removed. I said it had and it makes life harder. She said, “But you’re doing it.” Why did that make me feel better but other, similar comments, don’t? I suspect it was the present tense. Saying the same thing in future tense erases the severity of the pain and saying the same thing in past tense renders my struggle invisible. But present tense? I AM doing it reminds me that I am. I literally thought, “Oh yeah, I am.”

Another gift which has made the difference: neighbors who have adopted me. They are the kind of women who deliver homemade chicken noodle soup to your stove during a blizzard so you find it once you’ve walked home from work with your eyelashes frozen half shut. (Who does that?? They do, and I have no idea how I got so lucky.) Words are hard with me right now, but those kinds of actions go a really long way. Especially when I’m single for the first time in my life. Before you go jumping in your car, too, please know that I’m being spoiled by them and other friends plenty!

For instance, several months ago, some of my friends delivered this brownie cake to me:



Here’s another picture that helps. Facebook just reminded me that two years ago, I got a tattoo on this anniversary.


When I posted it, I wrote, “Sometimes what happens to our bodies is forever. For instance, my headache which turned 15 years old today. Also forever: finishing a 100-mile ultra-marathon. And: this new tattoo! To me ultra-marathons aren’t about overcoming with the body; they are about overcoming with the mind. They are about pushing beyond self-imposed limitations. I finally got the tattoo because I suspect that in 2017 I’ll often need the reminder that I’m capable of more than I think I am.”

I might get bent out of shape when people try to tell me that same thing, but when the reminder comes from myself, I’m more than okay with it. I need it, in fact. When I got that tattoo two years ago, I was on the eve of my memoir’s publication, but I never would have guessed all of the ways my life was about to change and all the ways I would be challenged. In the coming months I would deal with the exposure brought on by the memoir. I would watch my father die a very difficult death and deal with family dynamic struggles in the wake of that. My husband would file for a divorce and I would move to a new city in the mountains where I’d buy my first house all by myself. Out of all those things, losing the stimulator has been the hardest. I look at my arm and try to remember the message I sent to myself with the tattoo.

About this time of the year four years ago, I published an essay called Blue is the Color of Hope in Hippocampus Magazine. It was my coming out of sorts. I hadn’t ever been so public about my story before – not just about the chronic pain but about the sexual assaults which caused it. While I’m still proud of that essay, I can’t relate to it in the same way. What I said in the essay is that the physical pain transports me emotionally to the trauma of what caused these issues. That’s simply not true anymore.

Seventeen years have passed since I was raped in the Air Force Academy library. I still have PTSD. I still have chronic pain. But I’m not tied emotionally to the events of that past anymore. A bad day of pain no longer transports me to library floor or the ICU hospital bed, which is exactly what I wrote in Blue is the Color of Hope. When I read excerpts of Caged Eyes, my memoir, I hardly recognize the narrator. I’m like her in so few ways now. That’s a good thing; I’ve moved on.

Yet. The pain. Remains. Seventeen years later.

I have reservations about publishing this blog post. It’s long. It’s raw. And I’m vulnerable. But I still believe what I did when I published my memoir: we all have our stories and our struggles and the world would be a slightly easier place if we could all talk about them. Let’s get rid of all the shame. I also feel like I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t ever come back to my blog just because life got harder.

One of the interesting things about my story is the obvious connection between my rape and these medical problems. I was raped, I contracted a sexually transmitted disease, and that virus attacked the lining of my brain and my temporal lobe. I had a 70% chance of dying, and I’m lucky to be functioning as I am. Many other survivors don’t have such a clear causal link to health issues, and yet their bodies are as irreparably harmed. They end up with medical consequences every bit as troubling as mine. Yet we treat rape survivors like they are on self-help journeys they should embrace. Don’t be a victim, we tell them, be a survivor! Thrive! Meanwhile we talk about perpetrators going to prison as if it is their lives being destroyed.

The man who raped me and caused my chronic pain served fourteen months, but I have served seventeen years. And counting…


My heroes, at the Start of Grindstone 100

One hour into Grindstone 100, the sun set – for the first time. By hour two, I was ready for a hot cup of tea, cozy pajamas, and a great night of sleep. I was following a few sets of heels up the first major climb on the course, and I was trying to keep my sleepy eyes focused on the circle of light from my headlamp illumining the guys’ legs and shoes. We were at mile 8. “Just” 94 to go. Out of 23,000 feet of ascent, I had about 21,000 feet remaining. I knew that before I could cash in on the pajamas and sleep, before I could let my eyes shut, I had a sunrise, a second sunset, and maybe even a second sunrise. Unfathomable. The realization was damning.

Making my thoughts spin out of control even more, I had what felt like a pulled hamstring. The weekend prior I had run the Minneapolis 10 mile ( with the Medtronic Global Champions team), and while the sea level oxygen was fantastic and I kept an easy pace, I hadn’t calculated that my body wasn’t used to running on asphalt. Since the beginning of summer, I’d logged perhaps 25 miles on roads and hard surfaces, and not used to that kind of harsh impact, I tweaked my upper hamstring/glute. With only five days between the two races, it hadn’t healed. Climbing on that first major hill of Grindstone 100, I was convinced the muscle would become increasingly inflamed over the remaining 94 miles.

Finishing was impossible.

Grindstone would be my third 100-mile DNF in 13 months. I had dragged one of my best friends from Colorado to help me crew, and had asked two other friends living in West Virginia to also come crew and pace. The posse of three had been with me at all three of my other 100-mile races, and they’d all given up yet another weekend to help finally see me across a finish line. I was letting them down. Again. I was letting myself down. Again. I wouldn’t be Hardrock qualified for the 2018 lottery (my ultimate goal). I’d have to deal with yet another instance of quitting and failure. I’d have to deal with the possibility that while I completed my first 100-mile attempt (Run Rabbit Run in 2015), maybe I wouldn’t finish another one. Ever. Downward and downward my thoughts circled…

Let me back up a little.

I’m in one of those phases in which life feels relentless. Do you know what I mean? We all go through these times. I’m in the thick of personal drama, including the fact that I’m getting a divorce and my father is dying. I’m also in the thick of trying to make it professionally as an emerging author and activist fighting rape culture. What could be more impossible than that? In the days before Grindstone, I almost bailed. I seriously wondered if the stress in my life would keep me from finishing just as had happened two months earlier at Fat Dog 120. The last thing I wanted was to toe the starting line of a third 100 miler and DNF again (You can read about the woes of the first two DNF’s in this pre-race report). In the end, though, my stubbornness won out. Maybe because I knew finishing a 100 would be exactly the anecdote I needed to carry me through my personal and professional struggles.

So, Alissa and I were off to Virginia. The day before the race, I drove from Leadville to Denver, and together we flew to DC, then drove to the happening town of Swoope, Virginia. Alissa is exactly the kind of organized, thoughtful, giving person you want to crew you for an ultra. Renee and Anthony, along with their one-year-old daughter, met us at Camp Shenandoah, and they too are just the people for the mission. Their generosity is endless. I joked with Anthony that unlike Bear and Fat Dog, he wasn’t going to get out of pacing for me this time.


Totally appropriate amount of luggage for two people on a four day trip


Camp Shenandoah is a boy scout camp in the summer, making it a perfect location for the Grindstone headquarters, start, and finish.


Pre-race briefing


I was lucky enough to be selected as a Farm to Feet sock ambassador which meant they gifted me a whole box of cool sox. Spoiler: they’re the perfect combination of athletic function and cozy comfort. Some of the socks have ribbons of padding on the top, which I love. Some are compression, perfect for after..but I’m getting ahead of myself.


Proud to be decked out in Farm to Feet apparel

Waiting for the 6pm race start was a bit of agony. Usually when I wake up for a 100, I can channel my adrenaline into getting myself ready to go. But this time I had a full day to wait. I kept feeling like I was wasting energy I’d need for the race. We left Camp Shenandoah to go into town for breakfast, came back for the race briefing and lunch, and then tried to take a nap in the afternoon. What a joke! I couldn’t even sit still. Finally, it was six pm and time to RUN.


Baby wrangling at the race start. Crewing for a 100 would sound like a nightmare for most parents of a one year old, but Renee and Anthony agreed to do it – twice – without a single complaint. Rock stars.


Finally time to run.

Flash forward to mile 8 and then 9 and those sleepy, sleepy eyes and that nagging hamstring. As I contemplated what it would be like to face this failure, an increasingly boisterous voice kicked in at the back of my mind. The voice yelled, “Lynn, fight for this.”

The voice became a mantra. Fight for this. Fight for this. I crested that first climb, relieved I’d be able to run some of the descent and make up some time. But the trail was so technical, so many loose stones covered in misleading leaves in the dark, and I couldn’t go fast than a power walk. Fight for this!

On the second climb, I passed four runners headed back in the opposite direction. I stopped to ask them if I could do anything for them; a few were doubled over vomiting. But, as if their fate were contagious, I didn’t want to stop for long. Fight for this.


The nerdy sport of ultra running. My map with mileage, goal times, and cut offs.

I finally saw my crew at the mile 22 aid station. I hadn’t completely pulled myself out of that dark place. The volunteers discussed whether there were any other runners behind me on the trail, or if I was the last. The only other runner was a woman who sat in a chair a few feet away. She looked rough. The scene reminded me of Fat Dog when I was in the back of the pack and all the other runners around me kept quitting.

I was sitting on a yoga ball trying to roll out my glute, and trying to down soup. Between sips, I muttered, “Fuck.”

Anthony, who was standing over me, was quick to scold me (lovingly). I don’t remember what he said but what I heard was, “Don’t you dare go there to that mental place.”

Staying positive and strong mentally had been my number one goal for my second 100-mile completion. That’s part of the whole reason I put my body through such an ordeal, to get stronger mentally. The first time around, I never found that positive headspace, and I finished an angry mess. (Read about my goal for this second 100 here.)

I finished the soup and downed a five-hour energy and off I went up the dark trail. As I was leaving, a different kind of fuck went through my head. It wasn’t an exasperated “fuck.” It was a FUCK, as in, Fuck this, I’m not repeating history. I’m not timing out. I’m not succumbing to the fatigue or pain.

I’m going to fucking fight.


A gift from one of my fellow Medtronic Global Champion runners. Luis runs with an artificial heart valve and a stent in his aorta. If he can do that….

I caught up to a string of other runners, all slowing. They were alternating between running and walking, not quite able to get down the cadence of a power hike. But that’s my forte. Plus I was feeling the benefit of extra oxygen at sea level. I passed a few people. Then a few more. At the top of the climb, I was relieved to find a trail that wasn’t nearly as technical as the previous descent, and I started running a bit. Instead of letting me pass, one woman came with me. We followed each other the whole way down the hill. She was struggling mentally, already thinking about how tired she’d be on Sunday and without a crew, wasn’t sure how she’d get home. Or how she’d get to work on Monday. I told her to stay in the moment, only worry about the current mile, a conversation which reinforced my own goals.

In the words of Anthony, I found joy on that segment. I loved running over acorns – we don’t have them at home! A few toads crossed the trail, and even a jet-black salamander. At least, I think it was a salamander? We don’t have any of these things in Colorado!

I was loving it.

I had told my crew I would push to reach the next aid station by 5:30 in the morning, but I made it there by 5:10! As I approached, I considered taking out my phone to text them the updated time, but then instead decided to surprise them. When I got there, they weren’t even watching the trail; they were still setting up for me. That was a first!! They were thrilled to see me, and I was elated. I quickly sat and worked on eating more soup and fruit while Alissa cleaned out trash from my pack and replenished my snacks and water.

A volunteer came over to us and said, “Lynn Hall? Number 128?”

“Yeah,” I answered.

“You passed a lot of people getting here, didn’t you?” I nodded like a preschooler who had written her name for the first time. Apparently, I had bettered my position by 35 runners. Fuck, yeah! “Great work,” the volunteer said.

Finishing was possible.

I tailgated up the following 4,000-foot climb. All the other runners I had chatted with had been dreading this hill, and I had been too, but coming from Colorado vertical gain was my strong suit. Already in 2017, I had climbed 200,000 vertical feet. What was another 4K? I followed the heels of a guy who set a slow but extremely consistent pace. I asked a few times if it was okay I was following so closely, but he was as glad for the company as I was. We pushed each other not to let up.

Finally, the sun rose. We were nearing the top as the sun touched the hills out in the distance. The leaves were burnt green, not quite fall colors, but still gorgeous.

As we crested and began flats and descents, it became clear the guy I had been following wasn’t doing quite as well. He was dragging on sections I could jog, so I made the hard choice to pull away from him. At that point, I was desperate to make it to the turn around and my crew. I wanted to know I was half way home and only had to retrace my steps. But my Strava was suddenly more than two miles off, making me think I was closer than I was. We were climbing when I thought we should be done with the ascents. I ran out of water. Crunching the numbers, I started to worry about my pace for the first time since mile 22. Every step I was fighting aggravation and despair. Every step I fought to stay positive as much as I fought to keep moving quickly. But somehow, I managed to stay in the right frame of mind. I wasn’t dipping into the mental valleys nearly as deeply as I had during Run Rabbit two years earlier.


The course high point at Reddish Knob, near the turn around. Who knew Virginia had hills? (Well, not this Colorado girl)

Jogging the last stretch on pavement tweaked my hamstring a bit, but fortunately it wasn’t any worse than it had been early in the race.

My crew was screaming for me as I jogged into the mile 52 aid station.

Hearing their voices nearly made me cry.

I had texted ahead with my list of demands – er, I mean asks. I wanted more soup, salt tabs (crap, it was getting hot!), a five-hour energy to go, just in case.

With all the crews around watching, I thought nothing of dropping my capris and putting on a running skirt. I’m sure they all saw my Dory underwear. Yup, that’s right, I was wearing underwear from Finding Nemo to remind me to “Just keep swimming.” I know, I’m such a child!

I changed shoes too. Sometime in the previous ten miles I had stepped funny on one of those damn rocks and tweaked my mid-foot which was already puffy and throbbing. Changing socks was awesome because a fresh pair of Farm to Feet socks was just what my aching feet wanted. Fortunately, with already 52 miles in, I didn’t have a single blister. Thank you, Farm to Feet!


Perhaps a fresh pair are in order?

Anthony and I had debated whether he’d join me at mile 52 or wait until 66. We had a bit of an awkward conversation as he asked me what I wanted. “Up to you,” I said. I couldn’t possibly find the strength to tell him specifically NOT to come with me. “No, up to you,” he said. In the end, he came. I was so happy to have him for those miles. His fresh energy made all the difference, and I got a reprieve from the endless mental struggles. We chatted, and I might even use the word “fun” to describe some of that stretch.


Just keep swimming. (I wish I had taken a picture on a rougher section of trail! This smooth trail is misleading. )

I came into mile 66 still feeling strong, despite the steep descent further torquing my foot. Finishing was possible! The thought made me nearly giddy.

…and then the sun set. Again. In order to finish I’d have to keep myself moving hard through a second night.

How could I possibly?

It started to rain, which at first was a relief from the heat. But after a while it only made the air muggy and the rocks under our feet slick. Alissa and Renee had put glow in the dark bracelets on Anthony, and I started to just focus on the pink light. Just keep up. Don’t wallow. Don’t panic. Don’t cling to the suffering. Just fight. Keep fighting. Fucking fight.

My thoughts were reduced to these simple mantras.

The trail descending into the mile 80 aid station went on forever like some kind of wicked Blair Witch Project. At one point an LOUD growl came from the dark woods to my left. “Did you hear that?” I said to Anthony. I don’t remember what he said but he succinctly communicated three thoughts, 1) hell yeah, he had heard it too, 2) he was just as creeped out by the noise as I was, and 3) we were not to discuss the incident again for the rest of the night, if ever.

I was running low on adrenaline. I was dizzy and wobbly and deciding where to put my feet among the rocks was wearing me down mentally. Then I started dry heaving. All I wanted was to lie down and shut my eyes for a moment. Or four hours.

Coming into the race, Anthony had promised me a ten minute rest as long as I wasn’t too behind on pace. I cashed in at the mile 80 aid station. I found a muddy mat (it was still raining) which was hardly the dry cot and blanket I had fantasized about. “Is she okay?” one of the volunteers asked Alissa and Anthony. “I’m fucking exhausted,” I thought but kept my angry mouth shut.

A volunteer played the tambourine over my head. Yeah, a tambourine. It was awesome, really, because the noise meant runners heard the aid station from far away – a huge relief, especially in the night. During Run Rabbit, Renee and I came into an aid station that was the complete opposite. Unmoving bodies were huddled around a fire and no one spoke a word. It was about 3 am. Renee told me I wasn’t allowed to even sit down lest I absorb the dead energy. We grabbed food and kept moving. So yes, the tambourine was awesome, but at the moment, all I wanted was to let my brain rest, and that wasn’t happening with so much commotion and yelling around me. Finally, I sat up, swallowed the soup Alissa had put in front of me, and succumbed to Anthony’s insistence that we start walking again.

Days later, Alissa would say that crewing is a bit like a NASCAR pit stop. When your runner comes in, you hustle to get her fed and changed and everything in her pack swapped out. For me as the runner, it was the complete opposite. Those few minutes were the only among 37 hours I could rest for a minute.

We still had 22 miles and two major climbs left. There was no way. Finishing was impossible.

One step. Then another. Follow the pink bracelets. Fucking fight.

After sipping Ginger Ale, which had been the savor to my stomach problems during Run Rabbit, my dry heaves returned with a vengeance. Poor Anthony had to listen to me wretching for miles. It was to the point that I didn’t even bother to stop and double over. If I was going to actually vomit, that would have happened far earlier. So instead I just let my stomach loudly clench while I kept power hiking.

At the mile 88 aid station, we had one last 2,500 foot climb. I had the feeling Anthony was trying to hold it together mentally nearly as much as I was. If I let myself have a single conscious thought, I’d have focused on the impossibility of that climb. We didn’t stay long, and I once again resumed following the pink bracelets.

My torqued foot was on fire. Every step on those uneven rocks caused fiery burning to radiate from my toe up to my knee. I insisted on stopping a few times, and Anthony was gentle with me in reminding me that I couldn’t continue to do that. We didn’t want to finish with a time crunch.

The descent was even more painful. The fire road was steep and the loose gravel slipped out under my feet. I put all my weight on my poles and tried to maintain Anthony’s punishing pace. After having not seen anyone for miles, we passed a few people. If I’d had the energy, I would have yelled at Anthony to just chill out and not pass anyone. Thank God, my brain wasn’t working well enough to speak.

The sleepiness was as bad as ever, and I started to get confused. My brain felt tingly as if I was going under general anesthesia. I literally shook my head a few times to try to fight off the tingling. The hallucinations had really started to set in. The leafy Virginia woods were prime for a vivid imagination. I thought one giant, dead leaf in the trail was a teddy bear (How revealing). I saw people everywhere on the side of the trail. Then a few cars.

I saw a four-foot unicorn…but don’t worry it was just a stuffed animal.

The hallucinations were never extended, never more than entertaining flashes of thought as my sleepy brain processed the woods we were moving through. At one point, I couldn’t remember who was pacing for me! I thought it was a different friend, one of my Colorado running friends who is a Hardrocker. I looked up at Anthony’s pack and thought, yeah, yeah, it’s Alan here! No, shit, it’s Anthony! Again, the thoughts only lasted a few passing moments, but they were still startling.

Finally, we made it down that terrible descent. Alissa was waiting for us at the mile 97 aid station. With still five miles, 500 feet of climbing, and 1,000 feet of descending to go, the idea of pushing my body to continue to move was preposterous. My foot was throbbing. My quads were aching and weak. Every little body part hurt.

The only body part that didn’t bother me was my headache. It still confounds me how I can have killer migraines while at home on my couch but the second I feed my body endorphins the chronic pain fades.

The aid station volunteer said, “You can take as long as you want on these five miles.” It was only five am, and the final cut off wasn’t until eight am. During Run Rabbit two years earlier, I had so little time remaining I had to RUN the last six miles. That wouldn’t happen this time. I had achieved another one of my goals. (Anthony told me later he had pushed me so hard on that last climb and descent because he was so tired he didn’t think he’d have it within him to have to run at the end. Me neither, buddy. Me neither.)

You can’t quit at mile 97.

When you only have five miles to go – and plenty of time – you fucking stand up and walk. So that’s what I did. Finishing was impossible – that’s what my body told me. But I fought hard mentally to keep the thought from making my thoughts spiral out again.

I changed clothes and gave Alissa my pack in exchange for a waist belt, which I hoped would help switch up my energy a bit. And then I started walking.

A mile or so later, Anthony said, “Why are we still climbing?” Sometimes you need your pacer to be positive, but in that moment his exasperation was awesome. His pain validated me.

Yeah, why the fuck were we still climbing!

Saint Anthony is one of the strongest people I know mentally, and even he was crumbling a tiny bit. In fairness, Anthony has been working on speed and wasn’t exactly trained to go 50 miles, but still, his struggle reminded me I had every reason to be hurting. (I know, it seems so obvious in retrospect.)

We crested the last hill and started descending, but once again the nature of the trail kept us from gaining any speed. The unending rocks made every step a challenge. I kept thinking how if we were on a smooth single track I’d have finished hours earlier. I realized I had completely underestimated how technical the trail could be, despite the race director’s warnings. Maybe coming from Colorado high country, I was a bit pompous about an east coast trail! Sorry, east coasters.

Other than that whiney thought, I was preoccupied with lying down. I fantasized about all the different ways I’d do it. Right there in the grass at the finish line? Maybe inside the main hall only a few feet away where they served food. Maybe they’d have cots. And blankets. I sometimes joke that my memoir (the real one that was just published) could be called, “I only wanted a blanket,” and that’s exactly how I felt on the trail. Or maybe I’d magically transport to my bunk in the cabin and I’d collapse in my sleeping bag. Or I thought about that next night when I’d get to sleep in sheets in a posh bed at the DC airport Marriot. Or the next night I’d be in my real bed at home with my cat flat on top of my face. But I didn’t even need that much comfort. I’d have settled for sleeping with the toads in the mud – anywhere, as long as I could be horizontal with shut eyes.

The sun rose, for the second time, as we rounded the lake in the last mile. The clouds lit up a gorgeous pinkish purple. Renee, Alissa, and baby Isa met us and walked in the last few feet.

Second sunrise.jpg

Sunrise number two

It wasn’t until then, that last mile, that I realized for the final time that finishing was possible – and inevitable.

Then, 37 hours and 22 minutes later, this happened:


My second belt buckle



Alissa deals with my whines like a champ


Finally at that airport hotel with my Farm To Feet compression socks and some Grindstone schwag. Grindstone, by the way, has AWESOME schwag. This sweatshirt, the belt buckle, plus a finisher’s shirt. Oh and even a Grindstone cookie 🙂

For the last week, as I’ve rested and iced and soaked in Epsom salts and ate all the pancakes and eggs and bought a half dozen more pairs of Farm to Feet socks, the realization that I finished my second 100 miler has periodically bubbled up from my stomach in fits of giddiness. At moments, the thought feels as unimaginable as it did at mile 8 or at mile 97. I finished. The impossible is possible.

On one hand, I haven’t yet wrapped my head around it. On the other hand, as I’ve gone back to real life and dealt with the personal struggles and the professional ones too, the accomplishment carries me. Can I fight in my real life like I did on the trail? Fuck, yeah.




Let me start by offering all the excuses to explain why I have not finished a 100-mile race in two years despite repeated efforts:

In 2016, the Bear 100 was nicknamed the Polar Bear 100. Despite it being only mid-September in Utah, the forecast called for feet of snow to drop, starting the night before the race and continuing for the first 24 hours after the start. The temperature ended up being slightly warmer than expected which caused all that snow to fall as heavy rain instead – an even worse scenario. Despite buying new rain pants and jacket, I was drenched within minutes and stayed that way. In fact, it was a record setting storm for that area. When we’d climb high on the peaks the rain would turn to snow and the wind would chill me straight through. Right before sunset a volunteer from the next aid station drove his truck up an ATV road, rolled down the window, and stuck out hot water bottle. “Ready to call it?” he yelled. I was. I was visibly shaking and knew it would only get worse as the sun set. My crew found me in the next aid station trying to get warm – naked underneath a stack of blankets.


Ominous clouds on the way to “Polar Bear 100,” aka Bear 100

This year I flew to British Columbia, Canada to “run” (reminder that I mean run/hike/power walk) the Fat Dog 120. Two weeks before the race, my husband of nearly 11 years asked for a divorce, which caused enough upheaval in my life to force me into an expected move and to keep me from sleeping much those two weeks. (No, this ask wasn’t completely expected but I’ll save the nitty gritty for my personal journals!) As we flew into Seattle I gawked at Mt Rainier…then it disappeared. When we landed it was nowhere to be seen. The terrible fires this summer meant that the entire region was covered in smoke. Visibility only got worse as we drove nearer to the start. The race morning the sky cleared a little, but it was scorching hot and still, there was enough in the air that my lungs burned and I felt dizzy nearly immediately. That night at dusk a guy I was running (read: power hiking) with thought he saw Mars. No, my runner friend, that was just a star reddened from the smoke. The moon turned out to be blood red, too. I ended up not being able to make up the time I lost on the first climb when the heat/smoke where the worst, and I timed out at the first cut-off. Damn.


The haze of Fat Dog 120

I know what my sane friends are thinking: those are impossible complications when 100 miles is tough enough! “Who could finish that?” you might ask. Well, more than a hundred people in each race overcame and triumphed, and I watched them, flabbergasted, as they filed into the finish.

Hardy beasts, I call these superhumans.

This summer I paced for a friend at Bighorn 100. The crazy weather at that event? INCHES of mud on the trail. Trust me, I know mud. I love mud. Really, I do. This was so far beyond anything I had ever seen. The trail had turned into frothy chocolate ice cream. When I began pacing for him we had an 18-mile descent in the dark, and without poles, I fell over and over and over… He fell too, but fortunately his poles saved him a bit. By the time the sun rose he had torqued his already-injured knee, my otherwise healthy knee was swollen, and I had either sprained or strained my neck (an injury that’s still bugging me). I’m absolutely sure that if it had been me in the race, I wouldn’t have finished that one either. But he did. I’m quite proud of him and inspired by his resilience.

Part of the problem is that I am a middle-of-the-pack runner but a back-of-the-pack ultra-runner. During Fat Dog this year, even the leaders lost hours during the brutal heat and smoke, but they had more than enough cushion to make up some of that time and finish only slightly behind what they would have. We estimated that my friend probably lost three hours in the worst of the mud at Bighorn. But I finished my first and only 100 with a mere nine minutes to spare; that’s zero cushion. Part of my strategy going forward is going to be to focus on speed now that I have my body used to going so far.

Still, that’s sort of another excuse.

I have one more opportunity to finish a 100 this year. On Friday I’m flying to Virginia for Grindstone 100, the last race I can complete in order to stay qualified for the Hardrock 100 lottery in a few months.

I caught myself thinking, “I just need everything to go perfectly this time.” And that’s when I realized: 100 miles over and through scores of mountains will NEVER go perfectly. For instance, during Run Rabbit in 2015, I started dry heaving in the 50’s and hardly ate anything until the end. Major stomach problems is fairly standard for a 100. Nasty weather: also standard. Getting lost, getting injured, hallucinations…the list of challenges goes on and on.

If you want a straightforward, predictable race, you’ve got to stick to road marathons. But mountains are unpredictable and such long adventures will never go as planned.

I know what my sane friends are thinking: it’s ridiculous to put pressure on myself to finish a 100 in such extreme conditions.

Maybe you’re right. I’m not saying there isn’t a line where these races become dangerous or when you can’t safely push through a real injury. But what I’ve realized is that I run (again, “run”) these things because I live to defy excuses.

That’s. The. Whole. Point.

I’ve had a headache since I was 18. If I was going to fold, it would be because of that. But I don’t. In fact, that’s why I got this tattoo on my arm: to remind me that the impossible is possible even when I’m in pain.


I got this tattoo because sometimes on the bad pain days, I need the reminder that I can do more than I think.

Recently I accepted a ski instructor position for this winter (yay!) and for a moment, I really worried about having such an active job with chronic pain. Would it interfere? Then I remembered all the things I’ve done with this motherfucker of a headache – and I looked at this tattoo – and my confidence returned. Of course I’ll be able to teach skiing despite the pain, but only because I push myself through excuses on the regular.

The second I stop believing in the seemingly impossible, I will start living on my couch full-time on VA disability.

Two weeks ago, I finished my first ultra in a year and a half. (Not only did I DNF for those two 100’s but I also dropped from a 50 and from a 50K. DAMN I’ve gotten good at quitting.) During this race, the Silverton Double Dirty 30, we got hit with a major September blizzard. Inches of snow fell on us and some say the winds were over 40 mph. I was power hiking with another woman through the worst of it at 12,000 feet, thankfully, and it became much more of an exercise in survival than in racing. We could hardly see the trail markings as our eyes were battered with the snow. After we got on the far side of the pass, I once again found myself naked in an aid station shaking and trying to warm up. This time, instead of quitting, I found dry clothes in my drop bags and went right back out there. It helped that I only had 10 more miles instead of 60, as in Bear 100, and that the worst of the storm had passed. But still. I didn’t quit. When I finished my friend and race director Megan Finnesy said, “You’ve redefined what’s possible.” I was confused at first – this was only a 55K and I’ve gone so much further. But then I realized she was right. I hadn’t ever gone so far when I had so much reason to stop.

rollins pass

Persevering through Silverton Double Dirty 30 55K

So far, the weather is looking great for Grindstone 100 this weekend and I’ve slept well. I don’t have a pile of excuses stacking up. But even if they do, even if things start to go away from the plan, I’ll push through.

This summer my mantra has been “joy and gratitude.” This weekend I’m shifting it to “grit and resilience.”


This year’s Medtronic Global Champions jackets.

No more excuses. I’m going to be one of those hardy beasts I admire so much. Fake it ’till you make it, they say.

Check out this Grindstone 100 Course Preview!


Warning: I can’t help but use all capital letters a bit too often in this post! Oh, and you know they’ll be way too many exclamation points too.

I wait all winter for this moment, the eve of July. The snow has almost melted! There is no longer such a thing as avalanches or breaking trail or post-holing! The wild flowers are in bloom! I’m freed from the banal repetition of running the same Boulder trails over and over. Mountain running season is in full-swing, and I have a little more than six weeks remaining to train for my big race of the year, Fat Dog 120.  GAME ON.

In order to train (and just because I want to), this year I have planned what will be my most exciting and also my toughest non-race trail run yet: Softrock. In case you haven’t been victim to my endless rambling about this little endeavor, let me explain.

My pie-in-the-sky 100-mile race is the Hardrock 100. Everything I do as a trail runner, I do to try to gain entry into this race (Because it’s all stuff I love doing anyway). It’s a bit of a game: in order to apply, you must finish one of their approved 100-mile qualifying races at least every two years. The qualifiers are all tough, mountainous 100’s (yay, MOUNTAINS). Each year you are qualified, and you put your name in the lottery, you gain more lottery tickets. For the nerds: the formula is logarithmic. So for 2018, I’ll have double the chance I had in 2017. Still, there are so many runners vying to get into Hardrock, it takes years, sometimes even a half dozen or more. So far, I’ve been qualified to put my name in twice.

Enter: SOFTROCK. It’s the unofficial version of the awesome Hardrock. Every year a bunch of people wanting to test themselves against the race course, casually hike/run the whole route. But instead of doing it in one push (48 hours cut-off, usually without sleeping), they do it in four days. Hence, the “soft” part of the name.

I’m driving out on Wednesday, and starting Softrock on Thursday. We’ll finish late Sunday night. We won’t have crew, aid stations, or course markings (Hardrock isn’t for two more weeks), which means we’ll need to carry a lot more on our backs than we normally would, and that it’ll also be a bit of an orienteering test as well. Not to worry though – I’ve spent weeks studying the maps and the recently available Google street view of the course! (I’m amazed by whoever carried the heavy equipment on those trails last summer.) You can click through the course here!

The up-side is that at night, we’ll stop and rest in a hotel or hostel. The schedule works out perfectly that we’ll end up in a town at the end of each leg.

Here’s the schedule:

Thursday: Lake City to Ouray – 26 miles and 7,500 feet of vertical gain over two major climbs

Friday: Ouray to Telluride – 16 miles and 6,000 feet of vertical gain over one major climb

Saturday: Telluride to Silverton – 29 miles and 10,000 feet of vertical gain over three major climbs

Sunday: Silverton to Lake City – 29 miles and 10,000 feet of vertical gain over three major climbs


Softrock (or Hardrock) course map. The “1” on the eastern edge marks the beginning of the first leg, and we’ll move in a counter-clockwise direction.

The awesome thing about Hardrock is that each of those “major climbs” I listed above carry the runners to a magical alpine basin, peak, or pass. This isn’t one of those races where you end up running for miles and then every once-in-a-while find yourself some place awesome. ALL of Hardrock is awesome. The average altitude is just over 11,000 feet; in other words, for almost half of the race you are above tree line.


I know I’ve posted this photo here before, but can you blame me? That trail in the distance takes runners down from Grant-Swamp Pass.


This is the view from Oscar Pass, looking south to Grant-Swamp Pass


The Governor Basin, on the way up Virginius Pass, looking north to Mt. Sneffels


Virginius Pass! They’ll be more snow than what’s in this photo. Hence, ice axe.


Handies Peak summit. What other race dares to take runners over a 14,00-foot mountain?


Handies Peak from the descent. I took this picture at the end of the summer several years ago; it’ll be a lot greener like the above pictures.

They’ll still be snow on many of those 13,000-foot passes, so I’m most likely going to be carrying microspikes (foot traction) as well as an ice axe. I know, I know! Most trail “runs” don’t involve ice axes. Think of this as part trail run, part fast pack, part mountain climb. In other words, my favorite mix of mountain adventure.

I’m confident I can get through Thursday and Friday without too much turmoil, but I’m pretty sure life is going to happen sometime on Saturday. And Sunday? Let’s not talk about Sunday yet. At that point, it’s just going to be about getting back to the car and saving myself.

As always, I’m sure this is the point where you, dear reader, start to wonder about my mental health. By means of explaining, let me leave you with this anecdote:

A few weeks ago, I paced for a friend at the Bighorn 100. I picked him up at mile 48, the course high point. It was one am, and had been raining for hours. The already-saturated ground had turned to inches of pure mud. To get to the next aid station, we had 18 miles to descend. Ordinarily we would have been able to jog those miles, but the mud was so slick, we could hardly walk. I mean, this wasn’t just mud; it was deep, frothy chocolate ice cream. I’ve met ice that wasn’t so slippery! My runner had poles but I did not. I fell over and over and over. After each fall, I’d struggle to catch up to him – he was also slipping and hugely frustrated – and pretend I was fine and in good spirits and try to convince him that he should be too. In fact, it took us eight hours to cover those miles – in the dark and rain. I’ll be honest, I had a coming-to-Jesus moment (and by moment, I mean two or three-hour period) in which I seriously questioned my life choices.

Later in the day, after the rain had stopped and the sun had come up to dry the trail a bit, I heard another runner recount what had been on her mind all night. She said, “What’s wrong with road marathons?!”

Her rhetorical question put it all in perspective for me. I wouldn’t trade a single mile of what I do in the mountains for a road marathon. I hate the grind of road running, the pounding on the cement, the expectation to run – and to run fast – every foot of the race. For me at least, road marathons tend to lead to a dissociative-type state of running which doesn’t usually teach me anything new about myself. Road marathons don’t bring me closer to anything.

I like the kind of HARD which comes from major complications presented to you by the wilderness. Ie mud or snow or extreme temperature variations, or even getting lost AF on occasion. The truth is, if the goal wasn’t tough, I wouldn’t have motivation to do.

I also hate that road marathons don’t take you anywhere a car can’t go. And that’s why I’m so excited for Softrock. My heart is in the San Juan Mountains, and I feel so grateful to have the opportunity to witness 100 miles of their majesty in only four short days.

I’ll have reception at the end of each day, and, as always, I’ll post on Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter. I’d be so honored if you followed along.


The finish line of the 2016 Hardrock. It’s tradition for runners to kiss the rock as they come through. I won’t be kissing it this year…but someday…


PS If you have seven and a half minutes, check out this Salomon TV video about the aid station perched on Virginius Pass every year. It gives you a great sense for the feel of the race and these precious mountains. (It even features a few of my friends!)

My first trail race of the season – Dirty 30 50K – is only one week away! I’m particularly excited for the Dirty 30 this year because it will be my fifth year finishing, and the race director (Megan Finnesy) presents five-year finishers with cool jackets.  Obviously ultras are all about the badass apparel.

Of the four years I’ve finished Dirty 30, I had a migraine for two of them. In the few weeks leading up to last year’s race, I had a migraine more than fifty percent of the time, and the night before, I was up nearly all night with the pain. The stabbing and pounding was that kind that’s so intense it renders you incapable of doing anything other than breathing in and out, and even that was a stretch. How I even started the race is sort of unbelievable even to me; I clearly should have bailed. But at the time I was pissed that I was in an awful migraine stretch, and not starting what had become an annual race for me would have made me that much more furious and resentful.

I started puking by about half way through last year’s race. The one thing that helped was running with my sister-in-law (my usual partner in crime) so quitting was much less of an option. Somehow, we made it in.

Of course, crossing the finish line didn’t make the migraine better. On the car ride home, I was retching uncontrollably and found myself in this battle between asking her to pull over so I could puke on the side of the road versus telling her to just get back into town – quickly. (Can you believe she still hangs out with me?)

I’m in a completely different place this year. I don’t want to jinx anything though! My migraine has been so well behaved that I’ve even been eating some wheat; I should probably reign that in and play by my headache rules a little better if I don’t want to screw myself.

The other thing is that tapering for me is challenging. Tapering is that thing runners do when they put in fewer miles leading up to the race so they can do some good recovery. Most of us hate it. I heard a runner last week describe it as “taper tantrums.” We do this stuff because we like to run so feeling like we can’t run? Well that doesn’t go over very well.

I didn’t intend to do a huge taper but I am. As of last week, I found myself unable to stand from the sitting position without using my hands. Thank you, Crossfit for wrecking me! (Just kidding, it’s making me stronger.) Here’s the problem: if I taper too much, my endorphin doses will drop and trigger a return of the bad headaches/migraines.

Tricky. I haven’t figured out how to give my legs a rest from hard training without allowing the headache to get furious. I think that’s why I start so many of my big races with a lot of pain. Clearly this something I need to figure out.

So while I’m sitting around not running, I marked down my mantras for the summer on the toes of my trail runners:


Grit and Joy, my goals for the summer. As in, when things get intense and I’m in the full-on suffering mode, I want to be able to find the full depth of my grit and hang on to the joy of mountain running. So far, I’ve only seen glimpses of that nirvana-like state. Naturally, I continue to chase it.

Hey, I’m back on the blog! (Whaat?) It’s been a few months since the release of my memoir, and my sanity is starting to return marble by marble.

I’m sure the other reason I’m back writing here is obvious: another adventure is on the horizon! My big ultra of the year, Fat Dog 120, is now just three months away. Lots of preparation and feelings about that. Mainly I’m missing Aconcagua so very much and I’m stoked for the next adventure high.

Fat Dog details:

From Keremeos to Manning Park, British Columbia

120 miles (or maybe 122 miles? Who’s counting.)

28,000 feet of gain (just short of Everest from sea level!) and nearly that much loss

49-hour cut-off

Freaking amazing alpine trails


I don’t think it’s possible to feel like I’m training adequately, but, hey, at least I am training. I’m picking up my miles, and a few months ago a certain someone I live with finally convinced me to give CrossFit a try. I was reluctant because it’s already hard to get in enough running/hiking miles, and I don’t want to be distracted, or worse – injured! But it was a really good idea. I’m the weakling of the six am crowd and it’s a bit like Basic Cadet Training all over again; I mean, please, for the life of me, can I get some pull-ups back? But it’s weird, no one yells and calls us names there, so that’s nice. I’m getting stronger every week, especially my core and upper body, and I can only imagine how much faster I might finish ultras if I keep up the CrossFitting. (Is that a verb? Can it be?)

Here’s what I’ve learned: there is something harder than running with a migraine. Yeah, CrossFit, it turns out, is way harder. At least when you are trying to run with a migraine, it’s all just a matter of left-right-suckupthepain-left-right… But with CrossFit, you have to actually think. When the coach tried to teach me about power cleans for the first time I happened to be in a killer migraine stretch (about two weeks of hell) and I couldn’t for the life of me track the movements. I’m already bad with spatial shit anyway, but this was over the top. She must think I’m an absolute moron. Oh well! I’m getting it, finally.

The good news is that I’m now in an awesome stretch headache wise. No bad days or migraines for over a month now!! Wahoo!! I’ve even been living on the edge a bit and indulging in wheat here or there and still nothing. Life is so much easier this way.

I had surgery about six weeks ago on the nerve stimulator. It was super minor but I still ended up with a big incision, and that takes time to heal. I wonder if surgery was what reset the pain cycle? Maybe I need general anesthesia more often! (No, not really.)

Or maybe it’s CrossFit that’s keeping the pain to a minimum. I’m going three or four times a week, so that’s possibly helping the endorphins stay a little more constant rather than huge ebbs and flows that the running gives me throughout the week.

I have an epic summer of training planned: Dirty 30 50K in Golden Gate park in June, pacing for a friend for Bear 100 in Wyoming, running the Elks, the San Juans, and the Grand Tetons in July…

My favorite running buddy and I kicked it off with a trip to Moab, my first big adventure of the trail running season. I’ve been working on my video compilation skills, and I hope you enjoy this silly little video we took from our long trail run there:

We made it! On January 16th, after nine days on the mountain, we summited Mt. Aconcagua. It was my first experience on any of the Seven Summits.


In lieu of a final blog post, I compiled video I took along the trip. I hadn’t ever created a video before so I promise, it’s totally amateur. Also, 87% silly. I’m posting this video at an interesting time for me, on the eve of my memoir’s publication. The thing about that book, Caged Eyes, is that it is a tough, tough story. Perhaps hard to read, it’s also critically important and unfortunately all too relevant. But that story only represents one side of me. Perhaps one of the best things about this trip – and then creating and posting this video – has been the chance to dwell in and show a completely different aspect of my life. I hope you enjoy!


Hello from Plaza de Mulas! Base camp, the “mule plaza” at 14,000 feet even. We are 5,000  feet above the trailhead and 8,800 feet below the summit.

Today is day four of the expedition, a rest day – yay!

On Sunday, day one, we trekked the whole distance from Horcones, the trailhead, to Plaza de Mulas. Traditionally that stretch is broken into two days, but, you see, Matt and I are lazy AF. So instead of hiring one mule to carry much of our gear, we hired two to carry ALL our gear and then we headed up behind them with only enough supplies for a day hike.  (Otherwise we would have needed to carry a tent, a stove, etc.)  We originally thought it would be 22 miles, but it turns out to be closer to 17…I think. They aren’t big on precise details here so instead the map is labeled in hours. Ummm okay! It was a tiring day for me, honestly a little to my surprise. The hardest part was the flattest section which was through sand and against a strong headwind. I was so happy when I finally saw the tents way, way, way in the distance and up a headwall and knew I was almost there. In retrospect I think I was pretty exhausted from days of travel and a very, very long day in Mendoza preparing to come up.


It begins!



Mid-hike siesta


On Monday, day two, we rested. The idea is to let yourself acclimatize as much as possible at Plaza de Mulas before even starting up. Our only jobs were to drink fluids (no, not the whiskey….yet) and eat a lot. Check!

Tuesday was by far my favorite day so far. We took a small amount of gear – mountaineering boots, crampons, some warm clothes, a tent- and carried them up the mountain. My goal was to make it to camp one, Camp Canada, at about 16,500 feet. I went super slow to keep my breathing under control and felt great, much to my surprise. We decided it would be beneficial to cache the gear higher on the mountain, at camp Nido, Camp two, at 18,400 feet, so Matt took the supplies and forged ahead while I kept my speed easy and just went as high as I felt comfortable. Matt has far more experience on big mountains than I do, so he can push a little harder – and I’m thankful! I made it to about 17,500 before Matt met me on his way down. By then the altitude had hit pretty hard so we raced down the mountain back to Plaza de Mulas.


Plaza de Mulas from above


If your name is Matt, 16,000 feet is a perfectly reasonable place to Boulder


A perfect snowflake

It was incredible to think with every step that I was going higher than I had ever been, pushing further than I thought possible.
Those experiences in life are far too rare. Far too often we only do what we have done the day before and the day before that, stagnating, and we never discover how far, or in this case how high, we can go.


Today, we recover again. Eat, drink, sleep, breathe lots of O2. I might try to de-funkify myself (I reek already) and read a book. I also  might try to figure out how to get a brush through my hair. Yikes.

From here we have some decisions to make. There is a good weather window to summit tomorrow, Thursday, but I know that is too soon for me. Far too many skilled climbers are rescued from the mountain for high-altitude cerebral edema or pulmonary edema. And since this is my first time above 14k, I have extra reason to ascend slowly.

I think the plan will be for me to do one more carry tomorrow, this time all the way to Camp Nido, while Matt climbs a nearby peak. That way we have moved even more necessary gear higher and I’ll have another chance to get used to that altitide. Then we’ll rest again at Plaza de Mulas and wait for another good summit window when winds will not be hurricane force.

Once we do push for the summit, it will be a three day journey: One day to Camp Nido, summit day from and then back to Nido, and one day to return to Plaza de Mulas. Some people have advised us to make it four days instead of three, and to set up one additional camp higher than Nido. The benefit would be a much shorter summit day (still long though). The drawback is the prospect of sleeping at 20k, which is almost impossible. And almost impossible to eat. So that’s one more day I’d  have to go with horrible self care. Plus, long days are my forte. Then again, I’ve never climbed above 22k! We’ll see what we decide. Whatever it is, it’ll be what’s best for our personal style and strengths.

I’m thrilled and so relieved that so far I’ve only had one bad stretch of a nasty headache, and that was last night after climbing to 17,500. I already feel better this morning!

For now: Plaza de Mulas. This place is a world of contradictions. It’s remote and high, and it vascilllates between extreme temperatures quickly. Walking across the Plaza will easily wind you. And yet there are luxuries too: the company we hired for a mule service filters water for us, so we don’t even have to worry about that. (Up high we will have to melt snow.) There’s a wifi tent which is only open a few hours a day and charges a pretty American penny, but it’s wifi! The strangest part is the highest art gallery in the world. The paintings of Acon are unreal. I haven’t asked yet how you get one down the mountain if you were to purchase. I imagine: mule. The expensive guiding companies offer enormous tents to their clients, so large that Matt and I joke Trex must live in one. I bet inside one of those you could even forget you are up here. But doesn’t that get away from the point?


Tent life


Acon at sunset


Plaza de Mulas at dusk

The most fun part is definitely all the people from all over the world who have converged here to climb. Conversations can be hilarious as people piece together Spanish, English, French, and more to communicate with one another.

The sun came up over Acon just as I’m writing this. It’s warm, sunny, and cloudless and should be a spectacular day. Even just sitting here at the base of the mountain (on a rock, of course) makes me exceedingly happy. I’m grateful to be here and grateful to all of you back home rooting me on, as always!


Hi all! I’m writing you from a hostel in Mendoza, Argentina. It’s been quite a journey to get here.

I flew out of Denver Wednesday afternoon, barely making it out before a massive snowstorm. I’m so thankful. From there my climbing partner, Matt, met me in Dallas and we boarded an overnight flight to Santiago, Argentina.

A friend back home had told me to be sure to get a seat at a window on the left side of the plane, so I splurged on the extra $60. (Thanks, Cam!) Sunrise over the Andes? Wow it was worth it. Plus, I saw our destination, Mt. Aconcagua, for the first time. I’ve literally never even seen such a tall mountain!

There it is! Mt. Aconcagua

There it is! Mt. Aconcagua

Matt and I were pretty nervous about the transition to bus for the last leg of our trip to Mendoza, Argentina. We only had four hours to land, get through customs, find a taxi that wouldn’t rip us off, and locate the correct bus platform. Plus, you know, eating! It turned out there was no problem at all. Plane was early, customs officer was asleep, and a great taxi driver pointed us in the correct direction. We were three hours early. Then our bus was an hour delayed. I was hesitant to go anywhere because we were each hauling small backpacks plus two large duffels per person. Between the two of us we were schlepping around 200 pounds and my arms already hurt (wah wah, right). So we sat on the crowded bus platform for four hours.

The infamous bus platform in Santiago

The infamous bus platform in Santiago

This turned out to be a huge mistake. We took turns bag sitting, and I was making sure I had a limb on each bag at all times. But after awhile we were so focused on finding the right bus, and Matt walked the platform again, and when he came back his backpack was missing. We had a moment of absolutel panic, to say the least.

One of Matt’s wallets was in the bag, plus 2,000 USD. All of his electronics including his phone, iPod, and satellite messenger device for the mountain. The absolute worst part is that Matt lost his sister in a car accident a few years ago, and there were sentimental items from her that he always carries with him.

What do you do?

We flagged down the security guard who was kind but said he couldn’t really do anything. We frantically searched the platform…as if we just dropped the bag somewhere. But no, it was gone.

Our bus was boarding and we only had a minute to decide. Finally we just got on the bus. Staying in Santiago wouldn’t bring back the belongings.

The bus ride accross the Andes to Mendoza should have spectacular, and it was, but obviously we were too preoccupied to enjoy. We had cash concerns, logistical concerns, and Matt was devastated with the grief for his sister completly ripped open again.

The road from Santiago to Mendoza. Those are switchbacks! alpine drive.

The road from Santiago to Mendoza. Those are switchbacks! alpine drive.




The line to get through customs at the Argentina border. Madness!

The line to get through customs at the Argentina border. Madness!

Lately I’ve noticed this strange thing where everytime something shitty happens, someone else does something so incredibly kind it restores my faith in humanity. There were three American women on the bus, and one of them happened to have an extra iPhone on her just in case. When we arrived in Santiago – exhausted from traveling 30 hours straight, plus emotional from the bag ordeal – she handed the phone to Matt. It’s incredible how awesome people can be.

Mood was still low Friday morning when we woke up in the hostel. Yes, a stranger had given Matt a phone, but that didn’t bring back the thousands of dollars we had lost…or Matt’s sister. Piece by piece though, we put plans in place. Matt has been able to download his music account onto the new phone, and that means a lot to him.

We were off then into the city of Mendoza. First we had to go to a government office to apply for a climbing permit. Then, the next stop was to hire a mule from a guiding company to bring 60kg (130 pounds) of our weight to base camp for us. With proof of that transaction, we went to another government office to pay for the permit. The bad news was they didn’t accept credit card. We had been aware of this. That’s why we brought cash! …half of which was stolen. Fortunately, we barely had enough left – 1600 USD. Phew. Back to the first office and we had our permit!

I love Mendoza!

I love Mendoza!


Action shot! Lots of paperwork to fill out.

Action shot! Lots of paperwork to fill out.

The most expensive piece of paper ever

The most expensive piece of paper ever

We still have errands to run. We need more food and propane, plus cash for on the mountain (there are services at base camp!). We will also have to split up what we are each hauling up to base camp versus what the mule will take.

Gear explodes everywhere while we organize in our hostel.

Gear explodes everywhere while we organize in our hostel.

Tomorrow morning we will take a bus back to the trailhead, which we passed on our initial bus ride. It’ll take about three hours. From there we drop off our duffels with the mule service and begin trekking.

We’ll cover the 22 miles to basecamp in two days, so we plan to arrive Sunday evening. Basecamp will be a home for up to two weeks, and we will leave that initial tent with most of our gear there while we climb the remaining 8,800 feet to the summit.

It’s been quite an emotion-filled few days but spirits are high again. I’m incredibly psyched to get on the mountain and experience more of the Andes.

Plus here’s one other piece of wonderful news: 30 hours of traveling and now almost 24 hours in a hit, congested  (but beautiful) city with unfamiliar to me and NO MIGRAINE. Just my usual low level throb. Frankly is a miracle which gives me some confidence I’ll be able to stress out my body and go to such a high altitude without dire consequences, headache wise.

Off we go!

I hope to post from basecamp, but we will have to see how strong the wifi is. Hopefully!