The Road to Leadville

We were sitting at MELT Ice Creams, meeting for the first time.

She was telling me about her experiences running races and using running terms I’d never heard of before. I just needed a plan to get through the 100k I’d signed up for, ill-prepared. She broke out into a story and through her laughter said, “Whatever you do, don’t do that Leadville race!” My face went white. One week earlier, I’d been naive and put my name in the Leadville lottery. My logic was that if I was training for a 100k race, why not go ahead and train for one of the hardest mountain races I knew of directly after the 100k, if (and only if) I got in.

I got in.

Preparing

For nine months, I woke on Saturday mornings (some might call it Friday nights) and ran, ran for hours, ran for miles, ran until I was completely depleted emotionally and physically, ran until I hit the number in my training plan that my coach laid out for me. Usually afterwards I’d fall into my shower and then I’d be a ball of waste, of no use until I’d hobble to my bed or the couch, when my husband would fill me up with a protein rich smoothie or scrambled eggs. This was every Saturday for nearly NINE months. I chose this audacious goal of the Leadville 100 even though I’d only ever run two marathons before this. No 50k. No 50 miles. I just signed up for a 100k, followed by a 100 miler. I set a goal, and I was damn sure I did everything in my power to get there.

The night before my training runs, I’d fix a bowl of overnight oats with coconut water and berries and nuts, and my husband would get the coffee ready. I’d lay out my clothes on the kitchen table along with my hydration pack, headlamp, and back up nutrition bars and gels, and I’d head to bed no later than 10 pm. Some days I woke up and would beg the skies to be angry with lightning. My trainer Jake won’t go in lighting, I’d tell myself, but all other weather is fair game. Jake never cancelled unless it was lightning, never. If it was raining, we would hit the road to protect what’s left of the integrity of the trail, and I loved those days because I didn’t know what to expect. The trail, well, I knew every damn step of that course. The only unexpected things were the animals, the late-night hooligans sleeping it off in their cars, and the mis-step on a rock sending me flying face first. The first few months of my training at Sansom, I was black and blue. I sported bruises and bloody knee and bloody hands and one time a very bruised sternum and shoulder. Over time, my feet found their balance, and my legs got stronger, and I stopped falling like a baby deer with fresh legs on a frozen lake.

We would head for Sansom in the pitch black, barely speaking if we were riding together  and sipping coffee at 2am, or 3am, or 4am almost every Friday night. A few others would meet up with us, and we’d all be off, with different distances we were ticking off mile by mile. Lucky for me, I would be in the back of the pack and escape the hundreds of spider webs that would weave a thick blanket between the trees of the trails.

That was my training nearly every weekend, Saturdays and Sundays. I loved it. I loved how much I was outside, I loved the feeling of finding my way through the dark and how my feet felt when they hit the ground over and over. I loved being alone in my head working out the emotions of owning a business. I loved the grind and how tired I’d be. I also hated it. I hated the sacrifice of being away from my warm bed cuddling with my husband and just being lazy on a Saturday morning, but it would be worth it if I could get to that finish, I told myself every week, every run. So I pushed every workout, every weekend to get the miles in. And then it was time for the race.

My crew staggered into Colorado over the course of Thursday and Friday. I had everything ready: clothes for rain, sleet, heat, snow, back-up clothes – anything I could possibly need, I had. Hats, gloves, extra sports bras, so many socks, extra shorts, ALL the shirts. Head lamp, back-up headlamp, batteries, blister kit, first aid kit for stomach problems or falls, trekking poles, gels, bars, avocado wraps, almond butter banana wraps, Tailwind (caffeinated and non-caffeinated). I printed off a 15-page book for the crew members detailing out my every need. Mark, my husband, made an Excel sheet that auto-calculated calories based on my favorite foods. I laminated a card for every section of the race for myself that told me what the cutoff time was for each aid station, how many miles the section was, what my ideal pace was, what nutrition I needed to take in, and which parts to walk and which parts to run. On the back, I wrote the reasons I was running: for my Dad, for Fort Worth – the city that makes me feel most at home in this world, for those that don’t have a voice. This was my plan: stay on course with my set pace, eat all the nutrition I can stomach, and enjoy the beauty of this race. This was my reward for sweating it out in the 80% humidity while training in the Texas heat in the middle of the night. For vomiting and crying and wanting to give up too many times to count. For running when I wanted to be cheers-ing at my friend’s birthday party, or brunching with my food friends, or at the late-night gallery party I knew I would be yawning through. So I was going to be damn sure I enjoyed the day on that mountain no matter what happened.

But I was scared. As much as I wanted to believe in myself, the odds were against me – less than 50% of the starters will cross the red carpet to the finish line and get a finisher’s buckle. I knew it would be the hardest day of my life, so I came up with one of my mantras: “Pain is temporary, regret is forever.”  Do not regret it mentally, do not regret not giving it your all. 30 hours isn’t that long.

The Race

I woke up at 2:00 am. I’d gotten around 3.5 to 4 hours of sleep. I had ,put the electric kettle in the laundry room, so I wouldn’t wake up my friends sleeping on the couch. When the water boiled, I poured it into the bowl with oats, blueberries, sunflower seeds and chia seeds and a cup of hot tea – no coffee, no caffeine. I was off caffeine completely for the first time in my life since I was 18. After weaning myself down to 4 sips of my husband’s cup the few weeks leading up to Leadville, I was down to none, which my coach encouraged. She believed when I sipped it in the middle of the night, it would be the best kind of drug to my tired and weary body.

I checked the weather – no changes. I lubed up, got dressed, and added a yellow bandana to represent MELT. I coated my feet in a thick layer of Trail Toes and put on my toe socks, my gaiters, and my trusty Altras. I was shaking a little, nerves pounding. I added the buff my coach gave me for good luck. My pack was ready with emergency blister supplies, back up batteries, water, Tailwind, gels, some Gu waffles, and a rain jacket. I was ready. Some of my crew woke up and hugged me, wished me luck, and said they’d see me at mile 23.5.

My husband took me to the start. People were swarming. I turned on music to calm my nerves. There were so many people standing around me about to chase their dreams. The cold air was completely electric. I found friends I’d met a few months earlier tackling the race. I was here. Soak it in, Sister. Don’t forget to enjoy the beauty, the national anthem, the special announcements.

And there was the starter’s gun. Cheering, we were off. I whispered to myself, “This is going to be one of the best days of your life, no matter what. You have a heart that beats, legs that can run, and you get to do it all in a stunning place with a community of people rallying for you.”

In the dark, you just focus on the light of your head lamp and hope not to get caught up in the speed of the crowd. “Remember your race plan,” I tell myself. It’s cooler by the lake, and the trail turns single track, relatively flat but with lots of roots and rocks and a narrow trail to navigate. In all directions, there are bouncing head lamps – reflecting off the water, floating in the sky. When you glance over your shoulder, it is a beautiful stream of lights flickering, stretching along behind you. My friend Casey spotted me and asked me if I’d eaten, so I gobbled down a gel. Then all the sudden, out of nowhere, the sun slowly appeared, just in time for the first aid station: May Queen, marking about a half marathon’s length. I’ve never heard so many people being so loud so early. I wasn’t going to stop, but I decided it wouldn’t hurt to fill up my handheld water bottle just in case. I wanted to do it quickly, get in and get out, but then I dropped the lid in the dirt twice, and I was frustrated at myself.

The next section of the race was beautiful: switchbacks over creeks and rivers and boulders. Slowly, the course starts going UP, UP, UP. Mostly single track, so if you have to pass someone, you have to do it quickly and efficiently and let them know “on your left,” i.e., coming through. Most people can make themselves small enough to let you pass even on narrow trails. This became a theme of Leadville for me: either making myself small or coming through. Mostly, I was passed.

This trail spits you out onto a jeep trail that I think is called Hangerman’s, and if you take a second to glance over the side of the mountain you’re on, you can see the sparkle of the lake down below that you were rounding in the dark. At this moment, I started getting a little nervous as the clouds turned an ominous black, and the wind seemed to be moving swiftly. Storms could change my whole race plan, making the trail a washed-out stream. I switched my music to an audiobook and settled into the climb up Sugarloaf Pass. I spotted my friend Brent’s leg tattoo and got a high five; we were doing this thing, and it felt good to be outside in the crisp air with other runners, running down their dreams.

My goal was to power hike the inclines (aka mountains), run the flats, and pound the downs. I’m not a strong climber and got passed by what feels like everyone running the race every time I’m on a climbing section, so I took this time to focus on eating and re-reading my race card. My card said I knew I’d be at the top when I was under the powerlines, and I was there in no time, it felt. I was excited for the downward section of powerline. I love going downhill. Fast, light feet, scanning the ground and picking your path – it feels like you’re flying! Powerlines is a dirt section of the race that is around 4 miles of vertical, so going down, you can really make up time. At the bottom, my watch said I was only a mile from Outward Bound where I’d first meet up with my amazing crew.

My watch was wrong, and it only continued to fail me throughout the race before it died completely.

Power Lines spits you out onto a paved road for a few miles, and when you turn the curve in the road, you see the biggest cow pasture party you’ve ever experienced. I spotted my crew’s GIANT yellow flag from almost a mile away, and a smile was glued to my face. I was elated to see my people. Before I got to them, I got high fives by Amy E. and John S., and I was so excited. I felt great 23.5 miles in. I felt I could go all day.

My team was ready. Matt was waving me into the station with the happiest yellow flag you’ve ever seen. Jonathon had a pumping playlist going. Aiden took my pack for water. Brooke and Kat were ready with nutrition, and while Janice was timing my stop, Josie was taking photos. Mark asked me what I needed, and Jerry reminded me to stretch. Gosh, I love these people. Even though it was a blur, they were perfect despite having very little race experience. They had a table set up, a tent set up, and had been waiting for me. They made my happy meter go off the charts; they absolutely filled me up and made me feel like I could do this. Amy went into coach mode when I started freaking out that I was a few minutes behind my pace. She told me to take it easy and not push too hard and trust my training: exactly what any good coach would say.

I had just about run a marathon, and I felt great, but I knew that was the easiest section of the race. I needed to focus on each section at a time. Out of the cow field, I took off with the mountains hovering over me, and it didn’t take long before the clouds slowly let loose with rain.

I hit the next aid station, Half Pipe, and my watch was officially not telling me the correct paces or mileage. Thanks, Garmin. I was incredibly frustrated by this, so I just did all I could do and paced myself mentally. Power walk the inclines, run the flats, pound the downs. It kept raining. I’m not sure for how long it rained, but it made the Colorado Trail section slick. At some point, the sun reappeared, and I was able to strip off my jacket, Then I was going down, down, down. I spotted Twin Lakes right after going through the Mt. Elbert fluid station where I filled up my water bottle. You could hear the crowd even though you were miles above them. I had no idea how I was doing on time, what with my watch deciding to take a nap and having its own standoff with me. But my crew was waiting.

The CT leads onto a dirt jeep trail that is straight down with pink flags lining the trail. You spot a little uphill section, and when you crest the hill, you see a sea of tents and people, and they are all screaming with excitement. I spotted Matt with the giant yellow flag and Aiden right by the timing mat. I hopped over the mat, and they ran me to the tent my crew has set up. They had a chair for me this time, and I sat. They quickly asked my needs: feet, food, feelings? The Amys appeared and started in on the race questions. I was still nervous that I was really behind my race plan, but they assured me I was going strong and not to fret about it. It’s one thing when your family and friends tell you this, but another thing entirely when fellow runners who know the demons you’re facing look you deep in the eyes and say what you need to hear. Honestly, I felt pretty good. I was tired and nervous for the next section, but I felt strong. I’d caught myself from falling a few times and had stayed upright. So even though I was 40 miles in, I felt ready for the next section. I kissed and hugged and high-fived my friends and family and set out with new nutrition and my trekking poles. I went across a field and through two rivers, knee deep – really cold rivers!

The bottom of Hope is switchback after switchback through beautiful forest with rivers and creeks gliding on the side of you. There is very little running, and you are headed up an almost-Fourteener. As I said, I’m a slow climber, and I kept getting passed, which was somewhat defeating. I couldn’t keep the pace I wanted to keep by power hiking, so I just repeated one of my mantras: “Just keep moving”. At some point, I spotted Brent’s familiar calf tattoo. He turned to me, and I started crying big, sloppy tears telling him it was so incredibly hard. We slowed, and he gave me a big ol’ bear hug, and it fueled me to keep going.

I spotted a downhill runner, which could only mean one thing: he was the race leader. I screamed and hollered for that guy. What an athlete; he was on his return trip. This made me excited to spot the women runners, so my eyes were searching as I kept pushing switchback after switchback. There was an open meadow, and the mountains were smiling as they towered over me. I knew I was close. I could hear the Hopeless aid station: a group of people who bring supplies up on llamas and set up aid for hurting runners at close to the top of the mountain. I spotted Brent; he was hurting bad, so I patted him on the back and yelled as much encouragement as I could muster to him and took off. Someone said it was half a mile to the top. Someone else said it was three quarters of a mile. Either way it’s steep, it’s narrow. and it’s exposed switchbacks: no running, just powering up, up, up.

And then I saw her – the first woman, and I thought I was going to fall off the mountain with excitement. I was yelling, cheering, and screaming. She gave me a half smile and pounded down and then I saw the number two woman, and she was grinning from ear to ear.  I was close to the top. I got there and pulled out my phone for a selfie (the only image I took of the whole race). The wind was whipping me. It was so cold. I love the frozen wind at the top of the pass; to me it’s a reminder of how high you are and how small you are in the world. I put my poles in my pack, asked someone for the time, and headed down, so excited to be going to the other side.

I flew over switchback after switchback, scanning the trail, being careful not to mis-step and fall hundreds of yards off the trail. I kept flying until I came to a boulder that I’d have to carefully side step. The back section of Hope Pass feels like it is straight down with a 20% grade. I would pound down and have to catch myself on an aspen to slow my pace and then do it all again going down, down, down.

The closer I got to Winfield, the more people there were on their trek back. I got nervous at the amount of people I saw. How far behind was I? Was I going to make the cutoff? I asked the next person for time. Then I saw some of my friends. Jill hugged me. Casey cheered for me. Jess cheered for me. I saw Camp Jared and Camp Junko. I kept going, scanning the people for familiar faces and pushing my legs that were starting to get really tired. I came to the Jeep road and knew I was close. I pushed down the road and to the tent. I got there, and I asked if I made it. Mark walked me through. He and my sister had hiked two miles with all my stuff and a chair. I sat, and they rolled out my legs. I wanted to collapse and cry –everything was starting to hurt, and I didn’t want to climb that dumb mountain again.

It was 5:12pm when I stepped across the timing mat. My goal had been to get there by 4:00pm, and I was more than an hour off. The cutoff time was 6pm. I got out of there by 5:22pm. I didn’t want to sit too long and let my mind think too much about how I had to do the whole thing over.

I was excited to have a pacer in Amy, just to have someone to talk to. I was happy despite the fact that my legs felt like they would crumble at any moment. I was pretty happy until we started really climbing. Everyone was passing me. I was digging in my poles and trying to go up, and it didn’t seem like I was making any progress. Amy said, “Look at your legs. Look at how strong they are; they can take you up this mountain. You trained for this!” And then she took my pack and muled for me for fifty miles!

The closer we got to being out of the tree line, the better the views got but also the more people that passed me. I was so slow going up that I was sure I was going to be last. I didn’t really have to think about time anymore: Amy did that. I let her tell me the pace, the time, and I tried my hardest to do what she said. Eat, drink, climb, and repeat. When I thought I couldn’t go any farther, I started counting my steps. She told me not to look at the top, so obviously I stretched my eyes for the top. When we made it to the prayer flags on the top of Hope Pass, we let out a huge scream with the wind so cold just slapping our faces, the sun silently disappearing. At the top of the mountain, I was ready to fly. We could see a fire lit at the Hopeless Aid station. I stopped and inhaled some ramen broth and then jetted while Amy stayed to fill our hydration.

By the time we were in the tree line, it was pitch black. The only light was our headlamps. I thought we had to be great on time, but Amy said we had to keep pushing. I could barely keep up with her. The next aid station felt so freaking far away. We had to cross the two cold rivers and run through pitch black fields while navigating giant hidden holes. We could spot moving lights from a road ahead. That is when we knew we were close. I sprinted it in. We hit the station, and Amy said we were going to make the cutoff. She told my crew the second she saw them to move all items close to the timing mat. I had to cross the mat first before they could give me any aid. I crossed the mat at 9:43 pm. The  cutoff time was 10:00pm.

My crew flew into action moving all items as fast as they could. I sat, and they washed and lubed my feet and helped me get dry socks and shoes on. I wasn’t going into the cold night in the shoes I’d just crossed a freezing river in. Thankfully, Jerry pushed food into my mouth. They worked quickly to get me geared up with warm clothes for the night. I could have stayed there and slept, I was so tired, but these guys refueled me like no other could. Also, the area smelled awful: the porta-potties were bursting, and the stench was enough to knock someone out. That was definitely motivation to get the heck out of there. The crew started chanting my name, and I couldn’t help but laugh even though my body wanted me to cry. We took off for the night.

We headed up the steep hill towards the base of Mt. Elbert. Amy looked at me and said, “No more drama. Let’s not cut it so close to the times.” However, that was just the beginning of the drama. I was starting to have fun again thinking about how I’d made it off that beastly mountain twice. The highs and lows you go through in a hundred-mile race are intense. You feel like you can’t possibly move one more inch, and then somehow, you dig down and find this weird energy, feeling like you just won the world’s best prize by getting having legs that work and can run. You feel like you’re the luckiest person in the world. I kept telling myself one of my other mantras when I felt awful: “I feel good, I feel great.” I would repeat it over and over to myself and think about the dumb Kimmy Schmidt sketch: “You can do anything for ten seconds”.

Back on the CT Trail, there were lots of people. We got caught up in a conga line and couldn’t pass anyone and just had to go the same pace as other people. At some point, it started raining again. Cold, relentless rain. As the night wore on, the race got quieter and quieter. Amy stopped at the fluid station at Mt. Elbert to refuel us but told me to keep moving and she’d catch up with our water. We passed some folks that looked glassy-eyed, like they were living in another world. We were chasing the Half Pipe  cutoff. We arrived at 1:03 am at Half Pipe, making the cutoff by only 12 minutes. Amy told me I couldn’t stop. The Half Pipe heaters were so warm and so cozy. People were dropping out of the race at that station, not wanting to go back out into the dark cold rain. I could see why I wasn’t supposed to stop. I found no coffee, just Coke. I’d given up coffee to drink it at this exact moment, and they didn’t have any. Just Coke. I swallowed the caffeine, and Amy looked at me and said, “Make me work to catch up with you. No regrets tomorrow when you wake up”.

I took off. I ran as hard and as long as I could, which turns out wasn’t very fast after 69.5 miles, but it sure felt like it. It was still raining sheets of cold rain, and the temps were dropping into the 30s. When Amy caught up with me, she made me eat and drink. At this point I was really, really sick of eating. I’d been eating all day. I just didn’t want any more food. She was relentless, making me eat. I was rolling my eyes at her, but she couldn’t tell because it was raining and dark. I ate the awful unsalted potatoes she offered. As soon as we could spot the road, I said, “Let’s run to that road” (which I thought was a lot closer than it actually was, but I wasn’t going to stop running because I’d said it out loud). Everything seemed farther than it actually was. The rain was starting to annoy me, and the second we got to the road, it started letting up just a bit. The road was a slight uphill, and we were doing okay on time, so we power hiked. I told Amy to look up: the sky was dotted with the most brilliant stars you’ve ever seen.

We rounded off the road, back into the cow field that leads you to the Outward Bound station. It was in the 30’s, and bitterly cold with a heavy fog over the field. I finally passed the timing mat, and my faithful crew took over. It was 2:39 am. The cutoff time was 3 am. They got me in a tent with heaters, and someone gave me the world’s worst cup of coffee I’d ever had. Who knew you could be so picky that late into a race? Amy and I made it out of there in under ten minutes, I think.

I was tired, really tired, but my people were there in the middle of the night to help me for just a few minutes. What kind of people do this? Friends. They are seriously the most beautiful people in the world to rally to help me accomplish my goals; they taught me so much about selfless friendship that weekend! My friends gave up their weekends to freeze literally through the night, chasing me through the woods from aid station to aid station to see me for mere minutes after hours of waiting. My sister left her four month old for the first time and had to pump and chill her milk in the car. Kat drove all the way up from Texas. Jerry and Josie took vacation time. Aiden missed the first day of his senior year of high school. Jonathan probably had a million other invitations which were more fun, and Janice and Matt came even though she was super sick. My mom flew in from Florida to keep my sister’s baby and made all our crew lunch on her birthday. My brother and his wife hosted and cheered on. My people rallied. Around me.

We headed out of Outward Bound, and I knew what was coming: the dreaded climb up Power Lines. Some say this section is harder than Hope Pass because it’s 80 miles into the race. We got close to the eerie buzzing of the power lines and dug our poles in to go up. I knew how far it was to the top, but my watch was dead, and everything felt like we were in slow motion. I’d been up for 25+ hours, and I felt like I was spinning and not going anywhere. We kept hiking. We saw some rough people and some pacers that were yelling at their runners. I hated this part and was starting to doubt myself. I had a talk with myself and said, “You’re not allowed to quit. If you don’t make a cutoff, then that’s okay, but you want to be completely sure you’ve given it your all so that you have no regrets.” Every time I went through a low, I would say it again. I’d also repeated Amelia Boone’s mantra, which I won’t record here, just in case my mom reads this. I wanted to be at the top so badly, and it was taking so long. Then it started snowing.

Amy had to tell me to keep going so many times on this part. I was so done. I had nothing left to give. I think I cried a few times, but we kept going up, up, up. A rescue crew passed us on a four-wheeler, and when we caught up to it, they were tending to a runner who had hypothermia and was in a complete daze. The closer we got to the top, there were lots of little twinkle lights lining the path. We hadn’t seen that in the race before, and there was a small crowd of people shouting and yelling. These people had set up an unofficial aid station at the top of Power Lines, in the middle of the night. Amy stopped and refueled and gave me the same speech: “Don’t stop. Make it hard for me to catch you. No regrets.” I took off.

This section got really quiet, and I hardly saw anyone. I stretched my eyes for the next neon ring marking the trail, and I ran as hard and as fast I could. I just kept running. A jeep passed me carrying runners who were dropping out of the race, and they asked me if I was okay. I just asked them for the next cutoff time, and someone shouted 6am, in a malicious way. However, the cutoff was 6:30 am, and as soon as Amy caught up to me, she set me straight, but we had to keep our pace. I lost all sense of time.

Suddenly the dark didn’t seem as dark anymore, and it shocked me. I was surprised the sun was actually coming up. Dawn was turning the sky all sorts of melty pinks, and it was stunning. We could spot the twinkle of Turquoise Lake below. We turned off the Hangerman’s Pass road back on to the switchbacks, and Amy made me pick up the pace. She said we had to keep a swift pace and that we were cutting it close. We were always chasing. Always pushing.

Right at dawn, it’s harder to see the trail. The shadows compete with the light and play with your mind and eyes. I pushed ahead of a group of two girls and their pacers and kept running. Amy got stuck behind the conga line on the single track but kept yelling at me the whole way, “Don’t stop! Keep going! Do not slow down!”. I crossed the wooden bridge onto the pavement and was flying. I asked a bystander lining the road if I was going to make it. He let me know I would make it if I kept up my pace. I was straight sprinting 87 miles into this 100-mile race and was barely making it. I saw the tent. I saw my people. They were screaming with tears in their eyes. They were all yelling at me what to do. I crossed the timing mat, grabbed my knees, and then looked up to ask if I’d made it. The official looked at his watch and said that I’d made it by two minutes. They brought me broth, and I choked it down.

Wow! We only had 13 miles left. I wanted to shed so many layers, but I didn’t have time. We were chasing the finish and chasing the cutoff. The sun was shining so brightly. We got to the lake, and it was so beautiful, but I couldn’t make my legs go any faster. Amy said she was going to set the pace, and I would have to keep up with her. But I couldn’t catch her. I kept trying. I just couldn’t get my legs to go any faster. She told me I had to try and run, so any time there were down hills or flats, I would push myself to run, but it was more of a saunter. I could barely crawl, much less run. I wanted to finish that last section so strong, but I was so incredibly slow. I was almost to the finish and still had no clue if I was going to make it in under 30 hours.

We kept seeing bystanders shouting and looking for runners, and they all told us the finish line was a different distance every single time we asked: six miles, six and a half miles, five miles. We didn’t know who to trust, and I started to panic. We came to the dirt road and an official volunteer whispered something to Amy. I freaked out thinking he said I wasn’t going to finish. He told her we had to keep a 15-minute pace until the end. That doesn’t sound hard, unless you’re 95 miles into a mountain race, going uphill.

The turn uphill is the relentless end of the Leadville 100, but it feels like its own ultramarathon. It was sunny and hot. People ahead looked like a mirage in a death march upwards, and they just keep going up. Somewhere up that hill, I thought there was no way I’m going to make it in time. I was power hiking, but I couldn’t go any faster. We passed another official volunteer on a mountain bike, and she said we were two miles from finish, that we would make it.

We started to hear the roar of the crowd. My body got chills. We turned off the dirt road, and I thought we might actually make it. I knew where we were; we were on the road to the finish.

We kept seeing bystanders shouting and looking for runners, and they all told us the finish line was a different distance every single time we asked: six miles, six and a half miles, five miles. We didn’t know who to trust, and I started to panic. We came to the dirt road and an official volunteer whispered something to Amy. I freaked out thinking he said I wasn’t going to finish. He told her we had to keep a 15-minute pace until the end. That doesn’t sound hard, unless you’re 95 miles into a mountain race, going uphill.

The turn uphill is the relentless end of the Leadville 100, but it feels like its own ultramarathon. It was sunny and hot. People ahead looked like a mirage in a death march upwards, and they just keep going up. Somewhere up that hill, I thought there was no way I’m going to make it in time. I was power hiking, but I couldn’t go any faster. We passed another official volunteer on a mountain bike, and she said we were two miles from finish, that we would make it.

We started to hear the roar of the crowd. My body got chills. We turned off the dirt road, and I thought we might actually make it. I knew where we were; we were on the road to the finish.

People were everywhere, lining the street, and cheering like I’ve never heard anyone cheer before. We crested the hill, and I saw it, the most precious thing I’ve ever seen: the finish line. Amy turned to me, I turned to her, and we both started crying. She said, “You did it! You did it!” I was a mess. The finish line is still UPHILL (not nice, Leadville). I said I wasn’t running it. Amy said, “You’re not walking in front of all those people- go run, go cross that finish.” I spotted Mark, and he was crying, saying over and over, “You did it! You did it! And your dad is here!” He snuck off around the crowd, and I ran uphill, letting that roar of the people overtake me. They were cheering, high-fiving, and I crossed the red carpet that I didn’t think I’d ever see and nearly collapsed as Merrilee put a medal around my neck. I just let the weight of what just happened sink in. My crew, my people, my family were all hugging me, high-fiving me with tears in their eyes, shocked, elated, and overjoyed that it actually happened. I made it across that finish in 29 hours, 52 minutes, and 58 seconds, and it changed my life forever.

Ultra-running is this weird subculture of running where it is completely acceptable to talk about poop, the color of your pee, and chaffing in weird parts of your body, all while wearing the most expensive computer on your wrist.  Thank you, Ultra-running community, for letting me experience the beauty and kindness you have to offer. There are no people on the planet like you.

Apologies:

• Mark – I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when I signed up for this, but you were a champ.
• Amy – I’m sorry for the uncontrollable, unladylike, non-stop burping.
• Random girls – I’m sorry you saw me pooping, I thought I was hidden.
• 4th place girl – I’m sorry I told you were in the third place when you were actually in the fourth.

Gratitude:

• Thank you, Fort Worth, for letting me feel the love all the way up in the two-mile-high city, for cheering me on, texting me, messaging me, and following along on my journey. You inspire me and make me a better person.
• Crew – you taught me what friendship is.
• Coaches – You got me there and I’ll forever be grateful.
• Family – Your support is never ending and keeps me always dreaming bigger.

 

Kari Crowe Seher has been in the hospitality industry for over nine years. She has gained national
recognition as a leading woman entrepreneur in the food and beverage scene since making her splash in
2014 with her ice cream concept MELT ice creams. She currently serves as the co-president of MELT ice
creams leading a team of 40+ employees, 1 retail shop, 1 commissary kitchen with another shop on the
way. Kari’s background includes crafting stories as a photojournalist, freelancing for local and national
publications, and developing grassroots marketing strategies for mid-size businesses. When she isn’t running her
business or serving in the community, she’s literally running for her sanity. An ultra runner who chooses
to go after grueling races, she puts her mind and body to the test, running races of 50 miles or more in a
single day. She lives in a 1920s bungalow in the heart of Fort Worth, Texas, with her husband, Mark, and
their dog, Jaxon.