Exploits of A Nobody

Four months after double hernia surgery, I was in Oregon preparing for the Cascades 100 when a wildfire canceled the race. Not wanting to waste months of training, I created my own 100-mile run through Portland's trails. No crowds, race clock, or buckle. Just an adventure and plenty of time to question why I still needed to run.

In 2020 when the Leadville 100 along with every other race was canceled due to COVID, I figured my season was over. Then an email arrived introducing a virtual challenge I couldn't ignore. Over the next ten weeks, I set out to gain 100,000 feet of elevation in one of the flattest places in America, Houston, Texas. It sounded impossible. It looked ridiculous. And maybe it was.

There’s one rule in ultra running: Do nothing new on race day. At the Pedernales Falls 60k, I convinced myself that rule didn’t apply to me. One handheld bottle. No vest. Texas heat. A night race that I thought would get easier once the sun went down. Instead, every small decision started stacking up. What began as a simple training run slowly turned into one of the worst physical experiences I’ve ever had on a trail. Throwing up. Severe cramps. Hallucination-like sensations. And the realizat...

I used to think that when I quit drinking for running, everything would change. It would look like growth. I’d become a better, stronger person… taking control of my life. And it would feel like progress. One day I was looking at the finisher medals hanging on my wall, and I remembered another collection of finisher's medals I had chosen to forget. Three plastic, fake gold plates I had hidden in the garage after I quit drinking. I used to think they had nothing to do with each other. And when

Signing up for the Big Bend 100K, I daydreamed about finishing faster, about racing. For years I battled the voices in my head, perfection, and the habit of settling for just finishing. This time something shifted. This isn’t a story of redemption. It’s a story about what happens when the pieces finally come together — and you let it happen.

What if pain isn’t a warning to stop? What if it’s a doorway? A way of stripping away everything we don’t need, the doubt, the shame, the critic? Until all that’s left is the truth: I can keep going. Even when I think I can’t. Stagecoach 100 was a point-to-point ultra that stripped away everything except the truth I didn’t know I was looking for. It left me with questions I can’t shake: What happens when the pain gets louder than the critic? What’s left of us when ego is gone? I’m still tr