Mountain Lakes 100 provides a satisfying step up in challenge

And we’re off! I wore my Mountain Hardwear rain jacket for 20 miles… and a garbage bag for many more!

Since I started running ultramarathons about 8 years ago, I’ve continued to push my boundaries, progressing to more difficult courses and longer distances. After successfully completing a 100-miler on a friendly (read: relatively flat) Midwestern course, I really wanted to tackle a mountain 100-miler.

In February 2021, I was finally feeling better after struggling with plantar fasciitis for 3 years. On a lark, I signed up for the Mountain Lakes 100, which takes place near Mount Hood in Oregon. I’d been on the wait list before, and I hadn’t made the admissions list. When the names were drawn this winter, I was number 6 on the wait list! I pretty much knew I’d be in.

The Mountain Lakes course lies south of Mount Hood and much of it is run on the Pacific Crest Trail. (This year’s course was a bit different than it had been in the past, being rerouted following colossal fires the year before.)

The course features 11,000 feet of vertical and has a 30-hour final cutoff. It starts on Saturday at 8 am, and you have until Sunday at 2 pm to finish. Most of the course is single track, and several times, you pass one of Oregon’s most beautiful places, Timothy Lake.

The race itself is the payoff for months of hard work. Since getting the good news in February, I’d put in more than 1,000 miles of running, the vast majority on trails.

I finished the 54-mile Ozark Foothills trail race outside of St. Louis in April, logging 15 hours in the rain, slip-sliding along the muddy trails – and cracking or breaking a rib in a fall. As it turns out, the extra time in the rain was good preparation.

My wife, Barb, and I found new trails all over Iowa. We’d run some on Saturday, enjoy a night of camping, then do them all over again on Sunday.

In July, for the first time ever, I logged more than 200 miles in a month. I slogged through back-to-back long runs, night runs, early morning runs. I ran hill repeats, trying desperately to match the vertical I’d find in the Cascade Mountains outside Portland. I practiced my race nutrition, and I practiced with new poles.

By September, I was as ready as I could be.

First chance to meet crew, mile 27

Barb helps me gear up at mile 31

Ready to head out after mile 31

Heading into Red Wolf aid station in high-tech rain gear

Making progress despite blisters in the last 20 miles

Success comes from a good crew

At least I knew I wouldn’t have to compete with the infamous Pacific Northwest rains. Despite the reputation of persistent precipitation, Oregon’s rainy season comes in the late fall and winter.

And that goes to prove just how much I really know. After literally months of dry weather, the rains set in for two days – Sept. 18-19, the race days. As I posted on social media, oh, well, it just adds to the challenge!

The rains rolled in just a few hours before the 8 am start, and they continued off and on for the entirety of the race. The trail filled up with water in certain areas, and in other places, it poured down the slopes like a small river. But unlike the Missouri dirt, the duff in Oregon did not get slick – and that was a blessing.

From the start at the Historic Clackamas Ranger Station, the route wound its way north, past Timothy Lake, reaching a turnaround near Frog Lake.

It’s funny how an ultra resets your perspective.

In training and other races, reaching the 31-mile mark can seem like a major milestone. Normally, I’d be beat by that time. At Mountain Lakes, it seemed more like the start of the challenge.

With a 50K in the rearview mirror, I found myself back at where it all began. Now this aid station served as the last chance to get resupplied by your crew before the (more or less) halfway point. And with night approaching, I grabbed my headlamps and poles, swapped out my shirt and coat and headed out.

The rain, which had let up for a bit, returned as we started to lose daylight. So I pulled out my super high-tech rainwear: a 35-gallon garbage bag. I got a few odd looks as I pulled into the first few aid stations wearing a garbage bag. But as the night progressed, the aid station volunteers were handing out garbage bags, too.

The Mountain Lakes course never gets too high – topping out at about 5,200 feet or so. But as the rain and wind picked up, it was plenty cold. My watch recorded temps in the low 40s, but the wind chill was substantially lower.  

I had been running with a new friend, Sean Remington, since early in the race. We were keeping the same pace, and we both enjoyed the extra company on the dark, lonely stretches of the course.

As we neared the Pinheads aid station (mile 49), we crossed an open stretch – and the wind and rain chilled to the bone. After a longer-than-usual stop to enjoy the propane heaters, we couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer, and we headed back out.

Course profile

The conditions seemed even worse – or maybe it was just leaving the shelter of the aid station tent. But we discussed hypothermia as a possibility. “Let’s give it another mile,” we decided, and by the time we had been on the trail that long again, we had warmed up. Plus the out-and-back turnaround was only 7 miles away.

Seeing my crew – wife Barb and friends Kristi Stein and Kathy and Mike Klauser – buoyed my spirits considerably at Olallie Meadows (mile 57). Dry clothes, a new headlamp, chicken soup and a Coke can do wonders for the spirits, particularly at 10:30 at night and 12 ½ hours into a race.

Sean and I kept a steady pace throughout the night. I had my watch set to give me an average pace for the race, and the average pace for my current mile. It would take an 18-minute average pace for 100 miles to beat the final cutoff, and throughout the night, we stayed in the 15:30/mile range.

The 5 miles from Warm Springs to Red Wolf were some of the most physically taxing. Not only was it 2 or 3 in the morning, but the climb seemed never-ending.

At mile 83, I picked up my pacer, Gretchen Ammerman, who worked with me in Lincoln City. She proved to be the perfect partner for the last miles: she was encouraging, patient and, when asked, would carry on a conversation to keep me awake.

There were two times that I had doubts about finishing: trudging uphill near the Warm Springs aid station and limping along the last 20 miles. My feet had been soaked for 24 hours, and I had developed some major blisters on the balls on my feet. Upon finishing, I’d find out that there were blisters all over my toes, too, but the pain from the bottoms of my feet masked that discomfort.

I’m never a fast runner, but I had slowed to a shuffle in those last miles. But, as long as I kept moving forward, a shuffle would be enough to meet the last cutoff. I had spent too many hours training and I had shared my goals with too many people to be stopped this late in the game.

As I neared the finish line, I dreamt of executing the ultrarunner’s equivalent of a mic drop, shouting, “I made it! I’m retired!”

But as so often happens, the pain and doubts of the last miles fade, and instead of “retiring” from ultraruns, I’m signed up for another 50-miler, and I’m mulling ways to meet another audacious goal.

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I’m a firm believer that it takes a village to make an ultrarunner. Without my wife’s help and encouragement, I’d never meet these crazy goals.

And I have some of the best friends. Kristi Stein drove all the way from Phoenix to lend a helping hand. Kathy and Mike Klauser endured a camping adventure just so they could follow me around the woods and make the effort bearable. And I’d tackle another big race just to spend more time on the trail with Gretchen.

Thank you all.

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A big shoutout to race directors and Go Beyond Racing owners Renee and Todd Janssen.

The 2020 fires left so much uncertainty about the 2021 race, but they were persistent and flexible, and pulled off a great race on a slightly revised course.

I got a kick out of the pre-race video on the race’s Facebook page. For months, the weather had been ideal, and in the week before the race, the rain forecast was freaking out a number of runners. Renee calmly reassured everyone, emphasizing that our pre-race preparation would carry us through to the end.

We were so impressed by the Janssens that Barb and I are returning for the Wy’east Wonder in 2022.

If you get a chance to run a Go Beyond race, do it.

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You don’t finish one of these big adventures without being a bit self-centered. Barb found a way to turn this on its head.

She used this 100-mile race and the 100^th anniversary of the Keokuk Rotary Club as an excuse for a fund-raiser. I’m the CEO of the Hoerner YMCA in Keokuk, and she created a fund-raiser that would benefit the local YMCA and the local Rotary club.

Her hustle for pledges and persistent marketing generated $2,200 for Rotary and more than $14,000 for the YMCA!

100 miles is not that far? Well, yes and no

Dave Rogers, left, and I near Vienna, Ill., after completing 26 miles of the Tunnel Hill 100.

Karl Meltzer is a liar.

Harsh words, I know, but I was feeling harsh at mile 76.

Meltzer, a prolific ultrarunner, is known for famously uttering, “100 miles is not that far.”

On Saturday, Nov. 14, at 8 a.m., I set off on my first 100-mile ultrarun, the Tunnel Hill 100 trail run in Vienna, Ill. And for most of Saturday, I agreed with Meltzer. But in middle of the night, when Saturday turned to Sunday, I knew 100 miles was damn far.

I had selected the Tunnel Hill race, I told my friends, because it was the easiest 100-miler I could find — as if any ultra of this distance could be “easy.” The race was about 5 hours south of our home in Keokuk, Iowa, in the tiny town of Vienna (pronounced “VY-enna”), about 25 miles north of Paducah, Ky.  It takes place on a converted rail-to-trail, which means the grade is gentle or even flat.

I couldn’t have met my goal without the help of my wife, Barb, who ran 50 miles in the process, and my daughter, Laura, who hiked 24 miles and crewed for us.

As we ran out of the town’s city park in the chilly air, I made a concerted effort to dampen my pace. I am definitely not a fast runner, but I was trying to run even slower than normal. I knew I couldn’t afford to expend too much energy in the first hours of the race. I had outlined a plan for the race that called for me to complete it in 27 1/2 hours, but truth be told, I had no idea what it would take to finish or how long it would actually take.

The race has a 30-hour cutoff, which equates to an average of 18 minutes a mile. I took my best guess at my endurance and pace, and figured I’d start at a 13-minute pace and tail off to a 20-minute pace by the end. I knew the race would take its toll, and I wanted to be realistic.

The start/finish line was located in the middle of the course. You leave Vienna and head south for about 13 miles, hit the turnaround at the Barkhausen Wetlands Center and head back to Vienna. From there, you head north about 12 miles, reach a small turnaround and return to Vienna from the north. That gets you 50 miles, so you repeat the whole thing to record 100 miles.

I really did feel good through those first 26 miles. Instead of my planned 13-minute pace, I was running closer to 12 minutes, which is still slower than my normal pace and part of the reason I think it felt so relaxed.

I had planned on running the first portion by myself, but I picked up a fellow runner, David Rogers, about 5-8 miles into the run, and talking with Dave made the time pass so much easier. Dave and I had a lot in common: tackling our first 100s, roughly the same age, empty nesters, Midwest guys (he’s from St. Louis), etc. He could have gone at a faster pace, but he was trying to be controlled, too.

I refilled my bottles and picked up Barb at the start-finish line at mile 26.

When I ran into the start/finish area at mile 26, I hooked up with my wife, Barb, and daughter, Laura. Barb had agreed to pace me for 50 miles, which would help her reach that distance milestone and aid in my effort. She was going to run the middle 50 miles. Our daughter, Laura, was crewing for us, and at some point, she planned to run with me, too.

The next 24 miles would prove more difficult. In the first miles, I really couldn’t detect any change in the grade of the course. But just a few miles north of Vienna, it became obvious that there was a small but constant climb. The race info said it’s a 2 percent grade. That doesn’t sound like much, but 8 or 9 miles  of even a small climb becomes tiring. About halfway into the climb, my left groin started to ache. I feared that it was going to cramp, but thankfully it never progressed beyond a nagging twinge.

We saw Laura at mile 36, refilled some bottles, made the turnaround in another couple miles and headed back toward Vienna.

By the time we reached there at about 7:30 p.m., it had been dark for three hours. Sunset was at 4:45 p.m., and we wouldn’t see the sun again until 6:30 a.m. — nearly 14 hours of darkness. If a relatively flat, straight, tree-lined, crushed limestone path presents a certain degree of monotony, you should trudge along that same path in the dark.

A few miles past what was the 50-mile mark for me and 24 for Barb, she began to struggle. Her stomach was queasy and her legs sluggish. After a mile or two, she insisted I go on ahead. I hesitated to leave her behind, but she continued to insist, and I relented. I soon met up with Dave again, and we’d stick together until the 76-mile mark at Vienna, when once again we’d get separated as we both refilled our hydration and nutrition and tended to our niggling injuries.

Barb can still manage a smile after completing her first 50-miler!

Laura had talked about going either 24 miles with me (the last out and back of the course) or waiting until the last 10 miles. We decided that if I could get to mile 90, there’s no way I wouldn’t finish, and so she took off with me out of Vienna — mile 76 or so at about 3 a.m.

Those last 24 miles turned from a slow jog to a moderate hike. I thought I was OK as I hit mile 76 at Vienna, but as I left that last major aid station, I just couldn’t will my legs to run. Thankfully, Laura helped me pass the time.

One of my big concerns was how I would even stay awake for the 24+ hours I knew it would take to complete the race. At one point, I asked Laura to talk to me — I needed something to keep my mind active and alert. She later said she wasn’t sure what she’d talk about, but that didn’t last long. I knew I could count on Lu for non-stop conversation! We’ve been doing that since we drove across Montana, South Dakota and Nebraska to attend Husker football games when she was 6 years old.

My muscles got stiff and tight, and my feet developed deep blisters. But in the end, finishing the race was simply a matter of continuous forward motion. I didn’t sprint across the finish line, but neither did I crawl. And I beat my goal time.

While I’d had doubts about finishing the race before I had started, once I’d hit the course and stuck with my pace, nutrition and hydration plans, everything really fell into place. Beforehand, I’d figured it would take me 27 1/2 hours to finish. Ultimately, I crossed in 26 hours, 48 minutes.

So in the end, maybe Karl Meltzer was right. My first 100-mile ultra really wasn’t that far.

Damn you, Karl Meltzer.

Crossing the finish line in 26:48:04. It was a great feeling to be done and reach a major goal.

Difficult goals are the sweetest and most satisfying to achieve

Cresting the 500-foot climb into Dry Fork Aid Station, I know I’ll beat the time cut-off at mile 35 this year.

In all my athletic adventures, there’s seldom been a time when I didn’t think I could complete the challenge. Finish a triathlon? Just survive the swim. Climb a mountain? Follow the guy ahead and don’t look down. Run a marathon? It’s just a matter of how much it will hurt the last 6 miles.

But a mountain ultra? The distance, the vertical, the altitude, the rough trails? I’ll admit: I didn’t know if I had it in me.

And after failing to meet a time cut-off at mile 35 last year during my first mountain ultra, I really had my doubts.

That’s what made finishing the Bighorn 52-mile trail run this year that much sweeter. This was a goal that took much effort to achieve.

When I first attempted the Bighorn in 2014, I didn’t even know what I didn’t know. Fifty miles of rocky, rutted, muddy single-track trail? You won’t find that in Iowa. 8,200 feet of climb and 13,200 feet of descent? I’d have to run my training hill more than 100 times to approximate that vertical. I could read about the conditions and the challenges, but the only way to truly comprehend them was to experience them first-hand.

So that first year was a huge learning experience. When I missed that time cut-off, I felt I’d done all I could do on that day. As I climbed the hill into the Dry Fork Aid Station, my quads and hamstrings were shot, and my feet felt like they’d been through a meat-grinder. For the next several days, I could barely walk or climb stairs.

My wife, Barb, pours me some chicken noodle soup at the Foot Bridge Aid Station, mile 18 in the race.

But I learned a ton in that first attempt. Running on single-track mountain trails is nothing like running on the roads. Long stretches of uphill and downhill require extra hill training beyond what I’d ever considered. Time-on-your-feet in training will pay huge dividends when you hit hours 10-11-12-13-14 during a race.

In my company, we set performance and project goals every year as part of the budgeting process. I’d like to set achievable goals — I mean, who wants to come up short? — but my boss always pushes me to set “stretch goals.”

Well, the Bighorn 52 was certainly a stretch. But I can definitively say that reaching a stretch goal makes it that much more satisfying.

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In the video I posted a few days ago on the race, I said that it takes a village to make an ultrarunner. That’s sure true for me.

I generally run four times a week: twice during the week, twice on the weekend. And on most weekend long runs and on many other runs, my wife logs miles on the trails, too.

I wouldn’t have made it without the support of my daughter, Laura, and wife, Barb.

Most of our long runs are at Geode State Park, which is about 40 miles from home. Having a companion on the drive is much appreciated. We generally head different directions on the trails, but we’ll pass each other on the trail or we’ll meet up for soup at the car. And those brief meetings help pass the time, too.

My wife and daughter, Laura, crewed for me at the Bighorns this year. It’s a big help to have an extra hand at the drop bag stations. My transitions in and out of the drop bag locations were easier and faster with their help this year. Ultras present a huge physical challenge, but the mental challenge is just as great. And it’s a huge boost to see a friendly, familiar face along the way.

And I had family and friends waiting for me at the finish line. I was elated to meet my two-year goal, but sharing the accomplishment with the people you love brought the experience to a whole other level. I can’t say how much it meant to me to have my family and friends there to support me.

♦ ♦ ♦

It’s hard to say enough good things about the Bighorn races and that part of the country.

The 52-miler starts on top of the Bighorn Mountains, just off Highway 14A, which is along the route to Yellowstone National Park. The race headquarters are in Sheridan, Wyo., a neat town of about 17,000. And the race finishes at the base of the mountains at Dayton, Wyo., pop. 700 or so.

The 52-miler starts at about 8,800 feet, tops out at a little over 9,000 and concludes at 4,000 feet. It follows mostly single-track trails in the backcountry, and the views of the mountains, valleys, rivers and wildflowers are spectacular.

This year is the 23rd for the races, which are run the third weekend in June and now include distances of 18, 32, 52 and 100 miles. The organizers do a very good job, and there’s plenty of good schwag.

The 100-mile race starts in the valley at Dayton, runs to the top of the mountain and finishes back in Dayton. The finishers of that race have some serious trail cred.

Both years, we’ve stayed at the Wyoming High Country Lodge on top of the mountain. If you are running the 50-miler, the lodge is only two miles from the start line. This year, a number of 100-milers had crew members staying there. The lodge is scenic and convenient, your food is included with the room (the lodge is miles from any town) and the managers and staff are great.

If you have any desire to tackle a mountain ultra, I’d recommend this one. It has a distance for anyone, and with enough training and preparation, the races are achievable. Most of the races fill up early, so don’t wait too long to register.

Crew members can see their runners approach the Dry Fork Aid Station (mile 35 of the 50-miler) from miles away.

Video: Conquering the Bighorn 52-mile trail run

 

Another run at the Bighorn 52-mile trail race

Running the trail in the 2014 Bighorn 52-mile trail run.

Here I go again.

On Saturday, I’ll take another run (pun intended) at completing the Bighorn 52-mile trail race near Sheridan, Wyo. Last year, I missed a time cut-off at mile 34.5, bringing my day to a premature finish. And that failure has stuck in my craw for 52 weeks.

Sometimes you set a goal so high that, over time, you come to realize your reach will always exceed your grasp. While the Bighorn 52 is certainly a worthy stretch goal, I still believe it’s within reach. Of course one fellow I passed last year may have had the same delusion when he noted he was on his sixth try at finishing without success yet.

Last year was my first mountain ultra, and I learned so much during the attempt that I am cautiously optimistic this year.

I had no idea how rugged the trail itself would be. I couldn’t comprehend the toll my quads would take from 18 miles of downhill to start the race. As a flatlander from Iowa, it was hard to visualize 8,300 feet of climb and 13,250 feet of descent. Having never faced a time cut-off before, I didn’t have a good pacing clock ticking away in my head.

Over the past 12 months, I’ve adjusted my training to compensate for my shortcomings. While I barely logged any training miles on trails last year, this year I’ve run more than 600 miles on the trail. I’ve run more hill repeats, concentrating on the downhills as well as the uphills. I’ve taken two trips out West in the past couple months to train at elevation and on mountainous trails. I’ve changed my footwear and my nutrition.

In the end, my efforts may or may not be enough. But I feel good about the attempt.

With that in mind, I’ve set four separate goals for the race:

• A Goal: Enjoy the experience. I’ll be running in the mountains of Wyoming, taking part in a physically demanding but rewarding challenge. Whether I finish it all or not, I don’t want to lose sight of the intrinsic rewards of the effort itself or the extrinsic beauty around me.
• B Goal: Finish all 52 miles in the time allotted.
• C Goal: Make it further than the Dry Fork Aid Station (mile 34.5) in the time allotted.
• D Goal: Don’t kill yourself.

The race starts at 6 am Mountain time on Saturday. If you can, think some good thoughts for me that day.

Here’s a link to the race’s website.

This link will take you to a video I did on last year’s race, while this link will take you to my written race recap.

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Staying true to your best effort when you know it’s not enough

Rolling down the trail in the early miles of the Bighorn 50 trail run.

For the first 6 months of 2014, I trained with just one goal in mind: Competing in the Bighorn 50-mile trail run in the mountains just outside Sheridan, Wyo.

When the temperatures in Iowa dipped below zero in January, I bundled up and headed out the door to log my miles. When we took a few vacation days, I rolled out of my cozy bed to get in a run. When I arrived home late one Sunday evening after a long drive across the state, I finished my 20-mile training run after 10:30 p.m.

Needless to say, I had a lot invested physically and mentally in competing in the Bighorns.

So when my race on June 21 finished at 34.5 miles instead of 50, was I disappointed?

Sure, I was disappointed, but I wasn’t crushed.

The muddy, snowy, rocky, broken trails and the constant downhill slope in the early miles took a toll on my quads and ankles. I rolled my right ankle completely over twice, one time taking a spill onto a huge boulder and uttering a few words of which my mother would not approve.

Ready for the 6 a.m. start

As I plowed downhill for those first 18 miles, I made friends with a fellow runner who was moving at about the same pace. We were keeping an eye on the clock, knowing that the first time cutoff was approaching. We’d make that first cutoff, I told her, but we weren’t going to have much extra time to spare after that. But between the quads, the hamstrings and the ankles, I thought I was going at the maximum controlled pace that I could manage, even if it wasn’t the pace that I had hoped for. I’m not a great downhill runner, and that was borne out.

We did make the Footbridge Aid Station about 30 minutes before the cutoff. Despite needing to replace the tape on one foot and dealing with some rather troublesome cramps, I hustled out of Footbridge by myself with about 10 minutes to spare.

From there, it was straight uphill for three miles, gaining 2,300 feet in that span. It’s a stretch of trail that’s aptly nicknamed The Wall.

Having met up with my friend again, we hiked and huffed and puffed our way to the top of the ridge at the Bear Camp Aid Station. My friend decided to return to Footbridge, where she could catch a ride back to town. For the next 13 miles, I was on my own.

A pair of runners power-hike The Wall just ahead of me.

With no one to push me, without the aid of my GPS watch providing information on my average pace and knowing I was already flirting with the next cutoff, it would have been easy to slack off. But I decided I was there to finish in the best possible time I could. I had family waiting for me at the Dry Fork Aid Station — my brother and his daughter had driven up from Casper; and my wife, who has always been there for me during these crazy adventures. I knew that by now my niece would have already passed through Dry Fork on the way to her own strong finish. I wanted to give it my all until there was no more left to give.

So I ran when I could, and I hiked when I had to. But, as my wife would say, I made forward progress.

I hustled out of Cow Camp Aid Station knowing that with 6 miles to go, I wouldn’t make the cutoff.  I wolfed down fried potatoes and 7Up with another runner, and he suggested that we might as well walk and enjoy the scenery because there was no way we’d make it to Dry Fork in time.

But I was still committed to recording the best time possible.  I broke out my music player for the first time and left the aid station with the strains of Bonnie Raitt urging me on. (Love this song, and its reference to “small house under a Big Sky” always reminds me of Montana.) I probably ran the hardest in the last few miles before Dry Fork, knowing I wouldn’t make the cutoff and fearing I’d be caught up in the sweepers.

In the last 13 miles — from Bear Camp to Dry Fork — I passed 16 runners. It wasn’t about a better finishing time than someone else — hell, I was going to miss the cutoff time and be a DNF — but it was a way to measure and push my effort. I  was going to give it my all, although on this day, my all wasn’t good enough to complete the 50-mile race.

Even if I had made the cutoff time, I’m not sure I could have gone on. Maybe a better statement would be “should have gone on.” I know I would have tried, just because I’m stubborn that way. But when I topped that last brutal hill at Dry Fork, there wasn’t much left in the tank.

I fell short of my goal — finishing the Bighorn 50 — but I learned a heck of a lot about the race’s overall challenge, about the course and about myself. And when the third week of June rolls around in 2015, I know I’ll make a better run having put forth the best effort I could in 2014.

My niece Melissa, left, and several other runners cross a stream.

My plan for conquering the Bighorn in 2015

After a week or so to reflect, I have a good idea what I need to do to get better:

1. Coming from the flatlands, my quads and calves weren’t prepared for 18 miles of downhill on an uneven trail. My son is a big fan of weighlifting, and I told him those opening miles were like doing squats for 4 hours. To prepare for next year, I’m going to add weight room sessions.
2. The treacherous footing posed by the mud and snow had me concerned about starting in my Hokas, so I started with my trusty Asics Nimbuses. But these shoes lack the stability in the heel to deal with the precarious footing, and my heel kept kicking out to the side.
3. I need to run more trails. There aren’t any trails near my home, but I’ll have to make the effort to drive to some or find some races that will give me time on the trails. Iowa trails aren’t the same as Wyoming trails, but any trail time is better than road time.
4. I need to run more hills. There’s a one-mile long hill on my running route, and I ran repeats there several times. But I need to do that several more times … with more repeats.
5. And I need to simply run more miles. My longest run was 30 miles, although that was part of back-to-back long days. I had planned a 35-miler, but time lost to injuries kept me from making that run. I need to start my training cycle far enough out so that I can still make a 35-miler or at least two even longer back-to-back runs.

Bighorn 50: Video race report

Here’s my video race report of the 2014 Bighorn Mountain Wild and Scenic Trail Run 50-miler. It was my first ultra in the mountains, and the trails were challenging, but the scenery was thrilling. Enjoy!

I’ll post a story in the next few days.