By the time I toed the starting line of my last trail race, I should have run about 500 miles over the course of the past 16 weeks—if I were following one of several online training plans created by respected running coaches. 

I had run about 320 miles. At dinner the previous evening, my sister-in-law had asked if I felt “ready” for the race, and I laughed, then sighed. I mean, kind of? 

I wasn’t really “toeing the starting line”—I had tried my best to position myself as close to the exact middle of the pack of runners anxiously waiting in the darkness to run through the starting arch, headlamps bobbing. A few seconds before, my friend Majell had said, “Let’s have a day, “ before he hustled to the front of the pack to start. That, to me, sounded like a reasonable goal. 

Majell, who would place second in the race, was thinking about a much different type of day. My goals were simple: Don’t DNF, and … actually, just the one goal, don’t DNF. Maybe also don’t get injured. 

Of course we all want to do our best on the day of a race—that’s what we had in mind when we signed up, right? Ideal Me would have an Ideal Race, preferably with the Ideal Amount of Sleep the night before.

Sounds simple. But that would also entail an Ideal Training Period before the race, and I don’t know if that ever happens for anyone, even professional athletes, and certainly not for me, a dad of a toddler who has brought at least 400 different viruses into our home during the 17 months he has attended day care. 

If ultramarathon runners exist on a sort of spectrum, with one side being “Winning is everything” on one side and “Just happy to be out here” on the other end, I’m pretty near one end of it these days:

I’m not a coach, or a doctor, or an athletic trainer, or even a fast runner. But I did survive that last 50K trail race, and a 50K trail race last September, and another 50K trail race and a 100K trail race in 2023, all since our little guy was born (and three of those since he started going to day care). I thought I might share a few things that have worked for me (and by “worked,” I mean that they got me across the finish line). 

A FEW CAVEATS: 

None of these races was my first ultramarathon
These past four races were my 13th, 14th, 15th, and 16th ultramarathon races. I’d run 4 50Ks, 3 50-mile races, 2 100K races, 3 100-mile races, as well as a bunch of self-supported ultra-length trail runs. 

I live near some very accessible steep terrain
I don’t have a mountain literally in my backyard, but two miles from my front door, I can chug up about 2,000 vertical feet on a trail, which is very helpful in training for steep ultramarathons

I don’t get injured very seriously very often
Luck? Not running very fast? Excessive coffee consumption somehow helps? No idea

So then: 

SOME THINGS THAT HAVE WORKED FOR ME DURING TRAINING:

I focus on weekly mileage as opposed to a specific day-by-day program
Again, I am not a coach or a professional, but I am BUSY (just like you). Things are never the same in my life week-to-week, and sticking to a specific running program equals more stress for me. So instead of looking at a schedule and figuring out when and where I’m going to do the assigned/recommended workouts, I have a weekly number in mind—usually 30 miles per week, with (ideally) 5,000 feet of elevation gain. If the week kind of goes to hell, I can make up a little bit of it with longer runs on the weekend, or if I know it’s going to be a tough week to schedule runs, I’ll try to run Jay to day care with our Chariot/jogging stroller a couple times (it’s about 3 miles round-trip). Do I hit that 30-mile goal every week? I don’t. I get close a lot, and I don’t know if my body knows the difference between a 27.5-mile week and a 30-mile week. 

“Loose change adds up”
This is one of my favorite adages from my pal Jon Acuff’s books, and it’s very complementary to my emphasis on a weekly goal over a daily schedule. Got time for an extra half-mile today? Might as well—it all goes in the bank of weekly mileage. This is also a justification for my “parking lot laps” habit: If I’m getting close to home or the trailhead and my watch says I’m at 5.8 miles or 6.7 miles, I’ll run a few more blocks and end on a nice round number like 6.0 miles or 7.0 miles, and “bank” that extra .2 or .3 miles. (I feel compelled to once again state that I am not a coach, and this practice is not informed by any scientific data or study—it’s just one weird person running.)

Other exercise counts too
Because the races I sign up for tend to be steep, with lots of climbing and descending, I know I’ll be doing a chunk of walking during the race. So I try to make myself walk or bike whenever I can. I really don’t enjoy parking cars, or driving cars, and we live pretty close to a really nice bike path that I can ride to get to a lot of places, including Jay’s day care, so it’s kind of an easy sell, even when the weather isn’t that great. I am not Olympic medalist Nils van der Poel, who famously trained for speed skating by doing non-speed skating training for all but the final three weeks before his competitions, but I think any kind of exercise/ambulation is helpful, even if it’s riding a 50-pound cargo bike with a 35-pound kid on the back on flat bike trails. 

I prioritize my long runs
If my week gets really crazy (or I get sick for a few days), I try to not sweat missing a few days of running. And I try to still at least do my “long run” that week/weekend if I can, or at least go as long as reasonably possible. One coach I’ve recently talked to says this is definitely not something you should do every week (I’m paraphrasing), but it’s OK every once in a while. My thinking is that if I have a 50 km race coming up in a few weeks, I want my body to know/remember what it’s like to be on a trail for ~20 miles, even if it’s a slow slog and I hike a lot of it because I’m recovering from a cold. Again, it’s not science, but when the race gets hard/long in the final miles, I like to think that I have a little bit of confidence I can finish because it’s “only a few miles more” than that training run I did a few weeks ago.

Figure out digestion before the race (WELL before the race)
This is perhaps better known as “gut training,” and the folks at Precision Fuel & Hydration explain it way better than I could, but essentially I’d say it’s this: Figure out how to ingest the calories you’ll need on your big (race) day, and make sure the foods/drinks you use don’t mess up your stomach so you can’t finish the race. A 2014 study by the British Journal of Sports Medicine found that when runners fail to finish ultramarathon races, 16.5 percent of the time it’s because of digestive issues (tied for second place with “injury during the race”—the No. 1 reason was “inability to make cutoff times).

My long runs approximate the same ratio of elevation gain to mileage the race will have
This is also unsupported by any research, but if I’m running a 50K/31-mile race that has 10,000 feet of elevation gain (like The Rut), when I do a long run of 15ish miles, I’ll plan it so it has roughly 5,000 feet of elevation gain. And when I plan my 20-mile long run, I’ll try to make it so I cover 6,500ish feet of climbing. And so on. 

I use trekking poles
Personal preference, but I’ll take all the help I can get, especially on steep climbs (and occasionally on steep descents). I’ve been using the same Black Diamond Distance Carbon Z poles since 2017 (an earlier version of these), and I think they have a few thousand miles on them by now. I don’t use them every time I run steep trails, but I definitely use them for my long runs leading up to races, and during races (if memory serves, these have survived three 100-mile races, two Grand Canyon Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim runs, four 50K races, and one 100K race, as well as a bunch of big days in the mountains from 2017 until now). I have still not fallen in love with any sort of device to carry my poles when I’m not using them, so I mostly just use them or carry them in my hands, uncollapsed, but occasionally I’ll put them in my vest or in the back of an Ultimate Direction Utility Belt, which works OK. 

I try to prioritize gratitude
This is not really a training technique, but I think it’s easy for runners to turn racing and training into something that feels like work, or a job, or at least something we put pressure on ourselves to do well. Which, I don’t know about you, but that’s not fun. I take photos during races, and during my training runs. I invite friends on my training runs and don’t worry about how fast we’re going, and I don’t refer to my runs as “workouts” (even though sometimes I try pretty hard while I’m running). Every time I make it to the forest on top of Mt. Sentinel, I try to remember that I’m just happy to be able to get up there and smell the ponderosa pines.

THINGS THAT HAVE WORKED FOR ME ON RACE DAY:

I prioritize survival
Sure, I’d like to go as fast as I can, and I try hard when I’m in a race, but I’m not a professional athlete—I don’t get paid a bonus if I finish in a podium spot, or in the top 10. My metric is getting to the finish line, especially if I’ve had to travel to get to a race, because if I DNF that race I traveled across the country or around the world to run, I will definitely feel like I have to come back and finish it someday. (This is maybe something I should talk to a therapist about?) I think about the advice I got from Vivian, a veteran ultrarunner, before my first 100-mile race, which I paraphrase as “If you feel bad, eat something. If you feel good, slow down.” I think ultramarathons are as much about self-care as they are about running (if not more), and if you can take care of yourself out there (and you’ve trained enough), there’s a good chance you’ll finish the race. I’m not out there like “Death Before DNF,” but maybe “Some Fairly Intense Physical Discomfort And/Or Psychological Adversity Before DNF.”

I wake up plenty early on race day
Sure, sleep is important, but you know what’s more important? Having the time to go No. 2 before the race. I give myself plenty of time to drink a liter of water, eat breakfast, and drink a big cup of coffee, which is everything I can do to (hopefully) ensure that I won’t be waiting in line outside a port-a-potty five minutes before the race starts. 

I always eat the same breakfast
If I’m traveling for a race, I pack the same overnight oats ingredients in a little plastic container, and add 1 cup of soy milk to it the night before: 

• ½ cup quick oats
• 1 tablespoon raw pumpkin seeds
• 1 tablespoon chia seeds
• 2 tablespoons dried goji berries
• 1 tablespoon cacao powder
• 2 tablespoons powdered peanut butter

I am OK with being a slow downhill runner
Literally everyone who enters every single mountain ultramarathon I run is a faster downhill runner than me. I have mostly accepted this. Maybe this year I’ll finally try to remedy this problem, but usually I just step off to let people pass me when they inevitably catch up to me on the downhills. As previously stated, I am just happy to be out here.

I pack as much of my own food as I can carry
This is also personal preference/maybe a control thing, but I know what gels and chews I can still eat when I don’t feel like eating, and I have put enough of them in my stomach while “gut training” (see above) that I know they’re not going to give me trouble during a race. Do I eat aid station food? I do. I also know that Oreos, pizza, quesadillas, Chips Ahoy!, and pretty much every type of Fun Size candy bar seems to work OK in reasonable doses. But I know how many calories I should be consuming per hour, and I know how many calories are in my gels and chews, so the math is easy. So I mostly eat the stuff I’ve packed. 

THINGS I ALWAYS MESS UP DURING RACES:

I always start too fast
Every race day morning, I remind myself that I am NOT going to go out too fast this time. Sure, I go out too fast every time, but this time, I won’t. I get a little nervous, don’t want to get trapped in a glut of people going too slowly for me (but how can you tell?), so maybe I run a bit too fast for the first two, five, ten miles, KNOWING THE ENTIRE TIME that I’m going too fast. Fortunately, I don’t blow up/blow it too badly—I’m usually just a little dehydrated, and have to dial it back a bit. You’d think I would learn! Of course I never learn. But maybe next time. 

I always underestimate the race course
Every time I run a new-to-me race course, I am optimistic. Maybe I’ve read a description of the course, or looked at the elevation profile, and I think, “Yeah, I got this.” And then I start into the actual race, and I find myself thinking things like, “Wow, I didn’t think the trail would be this rough,” or “This climb is steeper than I foolishly imagined it would be,” or “These rocks are really big and/or sharp.” I am forced to a) lower my expectations somewhat and b) remind myself that an adventure, at its most basic definition (according to me), is an undertaking with an unknown outcome, which is what I signed up for. 

I never get enough rest
At my age and amount of weekly exercise, I should be sleeping way more. But have you ever heard of books? They’re great, and there are literally millions of them. I know that I will not be able to read them all in my lifetime, but I can’t stop trying. Literally every night I’m reading in bed, knowing I’m staying up too late and that I should just turn off the light and go to sleep, but whatever book I’m reading is just too damn interesting. 

I look terrible in every race photo ever taken of me
Pretty sure I’m not the only one who this happens to

I always take too long at at least one aid station
Or while digging in a drop bag for something, or changing my socks, or using the bathroom, or something. There’s always some little thing that I could have done more efficiently (or skipped altogether) and finished one place higher, or shaved a minute off my time, or whatever. In the Rut 50K in 2025, I stopped to say hi to my little guy, Jay, at Mile 18, and later, 200 feet from the finish, I picked him up and carried him while jogging the last bit through the finish arch. I would have loved to finish in under nine hours, but missed it by a minute and 43 seconds. But I got a sweet video of us crossing the finish line together, so who cares. 

—

If you enjoyed this post, you might enjoy some of the books I’ve written about running and ultrarunning:

Ultra-Something

I Hate Running and You Can Too

Have Fun Out There Or Not: The Semi-Rad Running Essays

This photo of me, running to the finish line of a race with my toddler, Jay, was about 45 seconds away from not happening at all:

Hilary had woken Jay up from his nap, driven an hour and a half from Lake Hawea to the finish line parking area, scooped Jay out of the car, hustled him and his strider bike to the finishing corral, and gotten there just in time to see me about 150 feet away, jogging toward the finish alongside a guy named Kyle, scanning the fence line for her and Jay. I saw them, slowed and stopped, engaged my core, and grabbed our 30-pound, bike-helmeted kid from Hilary as she lifted him over the fence, set him down and we ran across the finish line together. 

In an alternate scenario, I might have ignored my wife and son in narrowed vision tunneling to the finish, downshifted, gritted my teeth, and sprinted next to Kyle, racing him the final couple hundred feet through the red arch, in a battle for 85th place. That might have come as a surprise to Kyle, as we’d run together off and on for the final six or so miles, chatting and jogging fairly casually. 

Of course, that didn’t happen—Kyle ran to the timing mat, jumped in the air to click his heels for the camera, and crossed the mat 16 seconds ahead of Jay and me, finishing 85th. 

–

Years ago, I was listening to a podcast with a runner who was also a race director. I don’t remember anything about the interview with this person, except the part where they made fun of people who held hands with someone while crossing the finish line—a spouse, pacer, a fellow runner. At the time, I remember thinking, Huh, weird hill to die on, especially if you’re a race director. 

I had recently finished a race while holding hands with my wife, who had patiently paced me the final 30 miles of an extremely painful 100-mile race. As we approached the finish arch, I remember feeling that there was no way I would have made it to the end of the race without her. 

Maybe I also remembered that Kilian Jornet, arguably the greatest ultrarunner of a generation (if not all time), had finished the 2016 Hardrock Endurance Run while holding hands with Jason Schlarb. And that was a race he could have won. But, he said, “It’s logical…not to make a sprint to finish one minute ahead.”

–

I have, like everyone else, put the hammer down (as much as I could, anyway) to run hard in the final mile of a long race, taking long strides to sprint (OK, kind of sprint) across the finish, even if I’ve been barely jogging, not-so-powerfully power-hiking, or hobbling for the previous five or 10 miles. That is also not logical, and yet I have done it. It was how I felt like showing up, at the time. 

If you have also done this, a pace chart of your race might look something like this: 

I don’t know what other people think about in their low moments when they’re pushing themselves out on on a race course or in the backcountry, but I would guess I’m not alone in a) wondering why I make myself do hard things in the middle of nowhere b) thinking about my home, which is to say my family, and sometimes my bed at home. It’s a privilege to go out and voluntarily seek adversity in nature, and when I find that adversity, it reminds me to be grateful for what I have.

Running is who I am for most of the day on race day. And in a typical week, it’s who I am for about 6-8 hours. But I’m a lot of other things all the time. 

I have told people that the UTMB finish line in Chamonix is probably the best finish line in sports. This is not because it has some 100-plus-year tradition (like the Boston Marathon), or because the greatest elite runners in the sport routinely battle it out in the final 100 meters to determine who will be that year’s champion. It is because you get to watch people from all over the world feeling whatever emotions they feel at the end of a 103-mile odyssey around Mont Blanc. Plus, they can run through the finish corral with their pacer, spouse, kids, dog, whoever they want. Some sprint, some walk, but they all cross the timing mat, and complete one of the biggest efforts of their lives. 

But a finish line, whether it’s the UTMB, or the terminus of the Appalachian Trail, or a local 5K race, can represent one of the biggest efforts of somebody’s life. And no matter how we show up there, in a sprint that threatens to explode our quads, or hobbling next to a friend cajoling us to go a few more steps, or carrying a kid who maybe doesn’t understand what Mom or Dad just did to get to this point, aren’t we really just trying to say, 

I’m 

So 

Happy 

I 

Could 

Be Here 

Right Now? 

—

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September 26th was the 10-year anniversary of the first time I ever tried to run an ultramarathon—the 2015 Bear Chase Race in Lakewood, Colorado, at Bear Creek Lake Park. A brief, bullet-point version of how that happened might be: 

It was kind of a lark, but I got hooked. Jayson and I ran a couple 50-mile races together, then signed up for a 100-mile race, the 2017 Run Rabbit Run, and ran it together. I made a film about the experience (and about Jayson’s life) called How To Run 100 Miles and it screened at several dozen film festivals the next year and racked up almost 6 million views on YouTube. Jayson’s mom liked it, which was really my main goal. 

Over the next 10 years, I ran almost 20,000 miles and ran 15 other races—a couple more 100-milers, some 100Ks, and some 50-mile and 50K races. Outside of races, I put together some big routes in the mountains on my own, and began to enjoy long days out in trail running shoes and a running vest more than anything else. 

Jayson attempted a couple 100-mile races in 2019, and during those attempts started to discover some chronic medical issues. His running went up and down for several years, through the pandemic, job changes, a few moves, buying a house, and in March 2025, becoming a dad. 

All of a sudden—but not really all of a sudden, is it—it was almost fall 2025, ten years after we’d done that first ultra, shuffling around the trails at Bear Creek Lake Park. I texted Jayson:

We signed up for the race, I booked a fast trip to Denver, arrived, and several times in the lead-up and even the morning of, Jayson said: We really don’t have to run together if you don’t want to, like if you want to try to run fast or whatever. With everything he’d had going on, long story short, he hadn’t finished an ultra race since the Run Rabbit Run in 2017. I said: We’re running together. 

I saw it as my job to make sure he got across the finish line, although honestly, I wasn’t worried about him being able to finish. Maybe I just wanted to be there for it.

Time travel, at this point, is not yet possible. And despite all the messaging about making things the way they used to be—America, your skin/testosterone levels/how you felt when you were 22, the band you loved in your 20s getting back together—it’s really not possible, is it? 

You can try to revisit something, but no matter what you do, you can only get partway there, because you’ve changed. Hopefully for the better in a few ways. 

As they say, nostalgia is a hell of a drug. A kind-of-happy, kind-of-sad feeling that can make you smile over the top of a lump in your throat. 

If you run long enough—as with pretty much any athletic activity—you’ll eventually start slowing down. I saw this chart showing typical VO2 max for humans, going from about age 27 to about age 77, and even without the numbers, you probably know how the line trended:

So if you want to continue to do the things you did when you were “young,” maybe you have to get better at self-care:

Which is maybe where Jayson and I are both trying to be, 10 years later. 

We started near the back of the pack, shuffled through the first 6-mile lap, shuffled through the second 12.5-mile lap, taking it easy when we needed to, refueling at aid stations when we needed to, not so much “racing” as enjoying a day out on the trails with volunteers handing us snacks and water. Anyone nearby, even if they didn’t register our casual pace, might have thought we weren’t taking the race very seriously. And I guess we weren’t, in that competition-is-everything-Nike-commercial sense. 

When I think back to all the theater screenings of How To Run 100 Miles, I remember several Q&A sessions when someone in the audience would ask something like, “What was the best part of running that 100-mile race together?” And I’d always say the same thing: The training. I loved getting to run every weekend with my friend Jayson. Even then, in our later 30s, I knew that wasn’t something that many people our age got to do. 

And running the 2025 Bear Chase 50K, we dropped right back into our long-running dialogue, talking about books, kids, jobs, food, same shit, different year, happily. The temperature was fairly pleasant, we had some fortuitous cloud cover all morning, and the wind picked up on our final lap as we chugged the final miles toward the finish. Jayson was definitely going to complete the race, and if everything went well with the baby nap schedule, Jayson’s partner Kate would bring Baby June to the finish. Wind gusts had wreaked havoc at the finish line, and we could see several blown-over tents as we jogged the last 100 yards of trail, scanning for Kate and June near the finish arch. 

Over the course of the eight-plus years since How To Run 100 Miles came out, I’ve had a number of people ask me, “Is Jayson still running?” or “How’s Jayson doing?” Depending on how familiar they are with him and how much time we have, I’ll tell them a few details to catch them up on his life since the Run Rabbit Run. Sometimes I’m not quite sure what to say in those situations. 

But at the Bear Chase Race, according to the smile on his face as he crossed his first race finish line as a dad, and his first ultra finish line since 2017: 

He’s doing great. 

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