In the ultrarunning community, grit, tolerance for pain and suffering, pushing through to the finish, and never quitting are sources of pride. There is some degree of pain and suffering that is a given. No one is getting through 100 miles feeling super comfortable. But, I think we need to stop glorifying the “finish at all costs” mentality and recognize that however hard it can be to drop out of a race you have worked so hard for, sometimes it is the best choice.  There is a line where it goes too far, and that line is different for every person and every race. I think it can be helpful before the race to think about where that line will be. How important is this race? What else will be impacted by choices made at this singular event? Is it worth finishing if you can’t run for a couple of weeks, a month, or much longer?

When I ran my first 100 miler, there was no way I would stop voluntarily. I had a huge swollen ankle and was on crutches for a week afterward. For me, that was the right choice, and I don’t regret continuing one bit. In 2021, after pushing through heat stroke to finish Black Canyon 100k, I probably should have gone to a hospital. I subsequently missed several days of work, and wasn’t able to eat more than mashed potatoes for a week. After that recovery, my coach told me, “That was too far.” It was a wake-up call that pushing through isn’t always the right answer. Sometimes, there is a line that shouldn’t be crossed, and stopping is the best choice. 

For the last nine months, I have pushed hard in my training and am stronger than I have ever been. The High Lonesome 100 is a big race. It has an average elevation of 10,426′, with the high point at 13,100’ and a total gain of 23,300′. I was nervous going into race week, but I had prepared as best I could. 

I started the race conservatively, following the Ultrapacer splits for a 34-hour finish time. I felt super strong and took it nice and easy up the 4,000’ Antero climb, not wanting to burn too many matches that early in the race. The descent off the back is nasty. It is a rocky (think baby doll heads, as in Cabbage Patch, not Barbie), steep jeep road that demands a lot of focus and tests your ankles with every step. That sort of descending is not my favorite. I have a high aversion to falling (and the risk of another concussion), so I’m slow and cautious. That is where my foot first started talking to me. 

The climb up Laws Pass was beautiful. The flowers were amazing, with larkspur chest high in spots. I felt great and passed quite a few people going up the climb. The descent was another rocky one, and I found myself guarding my foot a bit. Coming back from Cottonwood up Laws Pass the second time, I still had great climbing legs, and the descent back to St. Elmo was much more runnable for me. 

With the slower descents, I was still only 20 minutes off my pace chart as I headed up to Tin Cup. This is definitely when the wheels started coming off the bus. I started feeling really tired, and when I tried to run my foot was quite painful. Luckily, the climb out of Tin Cup wasn’t steep, and I could maintain a solid hiking pace. As I crested the first saddle above treeline, the full moon popped into view, and it was one of those “oh my god” moments that I will cherish forever. I spent the next couple of miles above the treeline under the light of the full moon, thinking that it was absolute perfection. 

As I headed down the 4 miles into the Hancock aid station, I really couldn’t run more than a few steps at a time. My foot was killing me by this point. The other issue, that I was trying hard to ignore, was the fact that I was coughing and getting really winded every time I tried to run…downhill. I got to Hancock, where Josh was waiting for me. I melted into his arms and started to cry. This was mile 50. I. Had. Another. 50. Miles. 

Leading into this race, Josh and I discussed the line for this event, and we agreed—Italy. We leave at the end of August for a 10-day running trip through the Dolomites in Italy. If something happened that could jeopardize that trip, I would stop. 

Josh was planning to pace me from Hancock. From there, it is an 18-mile push to Monarch, mostly above treeline. There are two aid stations on the way, but they are remote, and there is no way to get runners out of those aid stations in a timely manner. The race director had stressed, “If you aren’t sure you can get to Monarch, don’t leave Hancock.” I was definitely less than sure, but Josh helped me change into my dry clothes, fresh socks and shoes. He told me to get up and walk around to see how it felt. It felt bad. After sitting for a few minutes, everything tightened up, and I could barely put weight on that foot. I sat back down, with a few repetitive expletives and tears, and Josh said “Italy”. 

And that was that. We had agreed on the line, and I knew he was right. If it was this painful at 50 miles, the next 50 could ruin our trip. Josh didn’t pressure me, he just pointed out the reality of the situation. My dad and Josh packed up everything, and I officially dropped out of the race. As I hobbled towards the car, I had to stop a couple of times to catch my breath and cough. Regardless of the foot, I’m not sure my lungs would have made it to Monarch, and that had the potential to be a bigger, potentially dangerous situation. I had hoped it was only my asthma, but it hadn’t improved at all with my inhaler, so I don’t know if I was developing some high-altitude pulmonary edema. Either way, the foot kept me from pushing through whatever was happening in my lungs.

Even knowing it was the right decision, it is still incredibly disappointing. But I suppose that is half the intrigue of 100-mile races. You can do all of the preparation, and there are no guarantees. The High Lonesome 100 course is spectacular. I may not have finished it all this weekend, but between training runs and the 50 miles to Hancock, I’ve covered all but 5 miles. The aid stations were top-notch (I’m looking at you, St Elmo, with your rice and avocado tacos). The army of experienced ultrarunner volunteers were supportive and helpful, and not only filled bottles, but knew how to put them back in my pack. Add in the fact that the awards ceremony doesn’t happen until the last finisher crosses the line, and then the race director asked all the non-finishers to come up to acknowledge the work they did to get to the start line and the effort they put in on race day. We all walked away with a commemorative bottle of Laws Whiskey (a race sponsor). I recommend putting High Lonesome on your list of must-do 100 milers for those into that kind of thing.

The questions you might be asking:

1) Will I try this race again? It isn’t that simple. There is a lottery to get into this race, so getting in again isn’t a guarantee. For now, I’ll head to PT and see what I need to do to get back on track for Italy. 

2) Do I regret dropping? Yes. Even with everything I just said, I wish I had kept going. That mentality needs to change, and so does the entire ultrarunning community. Clearly, it wasn’t in my best interest. Even as my foot is still painful, I wonder if I had warmed up, eaten some food, popped some Tylenol, and put on some music—could I have rallied and started the long walk?

As easy as it is to write this post, dropping out of an event you have invested heavily in (time, effort, money, etc), is a hard decision to make.  Questioning your decisions after the fact and wondering “what if” does no good. The decision was made. The race is over. I hope for your next big event you can think about where the line will be, make a choice that is best for you…and then trust you did just that. I’m working on it.

Only 4 weeks until we leave for Italy. Hopefully, the foot will come around.

Shout out to photographers Jordan Chapell & Mahting Putelis, and for the race making photos available free to everyone. The full gallery can be seen here.