Nearly A Deadly Mistake

RRR 100 Recap 9/15

I poured nearly two months into preparing for Run Rabbit Run. Mary and I left Boulder for Summit County, where the air is thin and the trails test you in quiet ways. It wasn’t just about training. We needed time together, time to breathe without the weight of everything else. What I thought would simply be a training block became something deeper. The solitude, the mountain rhythm, and Mary’s presence gave me exactly what I had been missing.

Training looked different this time. I stayed in zone 1 or 2 almost every day, keeping it controlled, steady, and close to 100-mile effort. Up above 10,000 feet, pace didn’t matter. What mattered was teaching my body to relax into that rhythm. Cliff Pitman, my coach, guided me through it, and by the end, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a while. Calm certainty. I could run course-record pace without forcing it. On race day, I believed I was ready.

The morning of the race, I woke up with a headache that felt like a hammer. I thought with enough time I’d shake it off. But Tylenol didn’t touch it, and all I managed to eat was a small bowl of cream of wheat and a Slim Jim. Still, I told myself I was fine. I was fit. I was confident. That had to be enough.

At one in the afternoon, under a sky that couldn’t decide between sun and rain, we took off up Mount Werner. Four thousand feet of climbing right out of the gate. I settled back, between fifteenth and twentieth, reminding myself not to burn anything too early. Once we dropped down Fish Creek, everything shifted. My legs opened up, the pace felt effortless, and I slid into the top ten without thinking about it. My head still throbbed, but I couldn’t help but feel that today could be the day.

At the bottom, I took my time at the aid station. Mary rolled in not long after, leading the women’s race, already ahead of course-record pace. She looked fierce, with a couple of women only minutes behind. The race was alive on both sides.

I linked up with Anthony Lee for the next stretch. We talked, encouraged the Tortoise runners, and let the miles slip by. At Dry Lake, Scott Jurek himself was waiting. Just seeing him there lit something inside me. A few words, a nod, and I was out, heading into the section I’d looked forward to all summer.

The jeep road climbed high around 10,000 feet, leading to Summit Lake at 50k. My stride stretched out, smooth and easy. Seven-minute miles cost the same effort that nine or ten had just weeks ago. My heart rate hovered at 128. Everything lined up. When I reached Summit Lake, I was four minutes clear of the field. The race had truly begun.

Then I looked at the horizon. A storm was building. Heavy, dark, undeniable. I only had a thin rain jacket, already damp. I said a small prayer and dropped into the downhill, hoping I could slip through before it arrived. I couldn’t.

By mile 38, sleet whipped sideways in 40 to 60 mph gusts. The temperature fell into the low thirties. Thunder rolled across the ridges. My body went from flying to frozen in minutes. The rain iced over my jacket. My hands stopped working. My thoughts grew slow, scrambled. By mile 42, even walking was hard. My body was shutting down.

I came across two Tortoise runners and tried to ask how far to the next aid station, though my words barely came out. They saw what kind of state I was in and didn’t hesitate. Others gathered too, wrapping me in a space blanket, guiding me forward. Darkness pressed in. My jacket was frozen solid, my fingers useless, my headlamp trapped inside my vest. One runner, someone I may never know, stayed with me the whole way, step for step, walking me into Dry Creek Aid. That runner saved my life.

I don’t remember much once we arrived. My frozen clothes were stripped away. Blankets and hot broth replaced them. I shook violently, brain fog thick as smoke. At some point, Mary stumbled in the same way. We sat side by side, shivering, realizing just how much our crew was out there giving, standing in the same storm, just to support us in something that suddenly felt so fragile.

My day ended there. Forty-six miles, eight thousand feet of climbing. It hurts to admit it. The fitness was there, the confidence was there, and the chance to race for $20,000 was right in front of me. All of it gone because I decided to have all my warm gear at the wrong aid station. A simple mistake, and nearly a deadly one. I feel embarrassed, angry, and full of regret. This one is hard to write.

But as always, there is something to take away. This sport is brutal and beautiful in the same breath. It will give you everything and take everything in the same day. I am grateful for my crew of Seth, Cade, Michael, Courtney, Alex, and Tyler, who brought their hearts into the storm. I am grateful for Cliff, who has been a godsend as a coach and a mentor. And most of all, I am grateful for Mary. Before the race we promised each other that no matter how it turned out, the summer we spent together in the mountains was ours to keep. That truth carried me, and it still does.

So here I am, humbled once again. Love your people. Celebrate good fitness. Never forget your rain gear. And cherish every gift this sport gives, whether it’s a storm, a lesson, or a win.