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Rabbit Peak 2017

A few years ago, when I ran Rabbit Peak for the first time, I called it the most challenging run or hike I’ve ever done.

Being dorks at the finish of Rabbit Peak 2015 with my super speedy husband (we would come absolutely nowhere near our 2015 times.)

At 22 miles, it’s not big compared to most ultramarathons, yet it’s incredibly challenging with roughly 8,000 feet of elevation ascent (and an equal amount of descent), technical terrain, jumping cholla cactus, and a route that is determined more by sheer cliffs than by an navigable trail. Joe and Nicole Decker of Gut Check Fitness have held Rabbit Peak almost every year since 2012, but because the race isn’t hard enough on its own, they decided to up the ante for the 2017 edition. This year, rather than start the race at 6 a.m., Nicole yelled “go” just before sundown at 6 p.m. The race would take place overnight. 

The route up to Rabbit Peak.

Running at night can be beneficial: there’s less heat, to start…and that’s about it. Temperatures that day hovered near 90°F, but by 5:30 p.m. they had cooled down just enough that I figured I should bring a sweater. Who knew what it would be like at the top of Rabbit Peak?

The Fleet of Feet Division at 6 p.m.

A small group of us gathered around the start, acknowledging the tough men and women of the Badass Division (athletes who chose to hike a specified amount of weight up and down Rabbit) who had set off at noon. After Nicole played the national anthem, we took off, Nick leading the way through the sandy wash.

Nick has been struggling with injury over the past year, and only recently has started making big strides (done with high cadence and proper form, of course) toward his running goals again. Rabbit Peak gave us a chance to run together while enjoying the night sky. The Orionid Meteor Shower was happening throughout the weekend; perhaps, I thought on the drive out to Borrego Springs, we’d see it.

We had hoped to run as much of the course as possible, while taking advantage of the fading daylight hours. After the first mile, the route follows a steep, rocky switchback before starting the gradual climb towards Villager Peak, the first (of two) check points in the race. I delayed putting on my headlamp, but soon it was too hard to distinguish the occasional cholla from the rest of the rocky trail. Nick knew this part of the route well, having run Rabbit Peak twice before and on several adventures with our friend, Robert Hunt. Still, we zigzagged between the trail and what looked like it could have been trail, only certain one way or the other because of the occasional glow stick that Joe had set up to light our way.

This was taken on a different trip towards Villager Peak in 2016, but represents the exact route that runners follow. Notice the sheer cliff on the sides (Mama, you don’t see anything!)

Just past the 7 mile mark, I heard Nick call out. He had stopped a few feet away from a an object shaped like the head of a rabbit—the Donnie Darko rabbit. Suddenly it moved and Donnie Darko—from head to toe— appeared! It was great to see that the Deckers had gone all in for the race and the volunteers were willing to get creative and go along with it.

A few minutes later, we were standing atop the large blob that is Villager Peak, roughly 7 miles and 2 hours and 20 minutes into the race, which is fairly quick for the course. Unfortunately that would be the fastest segment of our race. After a quick break for water, we took off, attempting to navigate the best route to Rabbit. In previous years, this race has been run in February when the majority of brush is dead and gone; in late October, however, it felt like the shrubs were still alive…which meant more brush to cover the trail. From Villager to Rabbit, the route goes up and down several summits, which can be motivating in the day but less than exciting at night. Without much moonlight, we could only make out the ground in front of us and the single bright light far ahead of us: the top of Rabbit Peak. Who knew how many false summits lay between here and there?

Unfortunately, as the light appears closer and you realize that you’re nearly at 11 miles, the hardest part arrives. The final section up to Rabbit is incredibly steep, entirely impossible to follow, and more or less a straight climb up unstable rocks and around yucca. Eventually we heard the encouraging calls of the volunteers and knew we were close. Awesome, I thought as we made our approach. If we’re 4 hours up, I bet we’ll only be 2 and a half or 3 hours down. Back right around midnight!

Here’s what not to do when running Rabbit Peak: have a time goal.

After enjoying a kiss at the top of Rabbit not as boyfriend and girlfriend but as husband and wife (yay!), Nick and I made our way down, just not down the right way.

“Stay right,” Megan had warned us as we started down. Thirty minutes later, I noticed a light.

“Isn’t that one of Joe’s lights?” I asked Nick.

“Uh-oh,” he replied.

The light was on the ridge to our right; we were on our way down the wrong side of the mountain. In the daylight, we’d know exactly how far down the gully went but in the dark we were only guessing. Rather than try to retrace our steps, we hoped for the best and made the sketchy trek down to the bottom of the dark gully and back up to the proper ridge.

We had wasted quite a bit of time, but we were in good spirits—after all, we were on our way down from this cursed mountain. I chatted with Nick, happy to be out here, but still had it in the back of my mind that once we got to Villager, we’d have an easy time back to the finish. That was the second mistake—there’s no easy part at any point of the race.

After a few wrong turns, we found the trail back to Villager where the check-point volunteer immediately said, “What took you guys so long? We were wondering what happened to you.”

“Rabbit,” Nick said. “Rabbit happened to us.”

I breathed a sigh of relief at this point, thankful to be on the section I was most looking forward to. Rabbit had other plans.

The way back down is probably harder than the way up. This photo is from the same trip, hence why it’s in the daylight. Can you imagine navigating this terrain at night!?

Miles 15, 16, and 17 passed, and I swore we were nearing the end, but every time we looked at our watches, several minutes had gone by and yet we had hardly moved. Whereas the first half of the race was strenuous because of the climbing, the second part was slow because of the descending. The lack of light made it difficult to choose the correct trail down, and I’m pretty sure every cactus attempted to attack my legs (I have the scratches to prove it.) Eventually Nick and I were certain we had passed Lunch Rock, somewhere around the 3 or 4 mile mark, and were nearly back at the desert floor, just a few minutes away from the finish. Up ahead, I could hear the dread in Nick’s voice.

“Oh my god,” he said. “Look, Jade…”

He leaned against Lunch Rock. We were miles behind where we thought we were. We paused to stare at the yellow lights of Borrego Springs to our right, and, straight ahead, the solitary light shimmering from a random spot on the side of the S-22; in other words, the start and finish of the race.

We ran when we could and hiked when we had to, but our pace still felt tortuously slow. I prayed that I wouldn’t step on a ball of cholla, but at 2 a.m. and almost 8 hours into the race, it was hard to focus on my foot placement. 

An example of jumping cholla. This hurt like hell.

“It’s right around the corner,” I told Nick as we worked our way down. “I’m sure of it.”

“I hope so,” he replied.

It wasn’t.

Several miles later,  it was there and we hurriedly stumbled our way down the crumbling rock and back to the desert.

We ran through the sandy wash, excited at the prospect of sleep. It was nearing 2:30 a.m., which meant that the way down had taken 30 minutes longer than the way up, despite the huge descent.

Coming into the finish together!

As we neared the finish, our headlamps, which had remained intact throughout the race, started to dim. Suddenly it became difficult to differentiate the rough trail from the variety of cactus and other thorny plants looking to inflict their weaponry on my legs. I ran into the side of one spiky plant, and ended up with three long thorns sticking out of my left quad. I pulled them out of my leg and we continue towards the finish and, at this point, sweet relief from the beast that is Rabbit.

Thank you to Joe and Nicole for putting on such a fantastic race, especially one that is so remote. Thank you, also, to the volunteers who covered the same amount of ground as all of the racers just to be able to sit and wait (in the cold, all throughout the night) for us to come through.

Congratulations to everyone who braved this race, especially this year’s in-the-dark version, and came back alive—minus a few bruises, more than a few scratches, and someone’s finger (that’s not my story to tell.)

If you’re somehow tempted to try this race, you can register for next year’s event here:

Rabbit Peak 2018

Bonus: it starts at 6 a.m. How can you say no!? 


Review: evanhealy skin care

From a young age, my mom urged me to use moisturizer. “You’ll thank me when you’re my age!” She said. I’ve only just begun to notice the faintest lines around my eyes from smiling (never a bad thing!), but I’m glad I listened. I’ve been lucky to have healthy-looking skin, and while I’d like to chalk it all up to genetics, I know I have some solid quality products to thank.

One of these products is evanhealy. I’ve been using organic skincare products for a dozen years, but it wasn’t until I moved to San Diego that I stumbled across this organic, holistic, and plant-based line.

Evanhealy (eponymously named for its founder) is a holistic line that sells cleansers, serums, hydrosols, masks, moisturizers, and all things skin care. The company tends to focus on those with sensitive skin, but is more importantly concerned with creating organic, hand-crafted products that “empower the users.” This might sound esoteric, but Evan is honest in what she wants to do and it shows in her brand.

1. Sheer Tint Sun Stick SPF 30 ($19.95)

I’ll start with the product that has been the most critical for me: Sheer Tint Sun Stick SPF 30. There’s a lot to love in this 0.5 oz stick, and the start of that list is its convenience. I have a hard time wanting to put on sunscreen, first because of the high levels of chemicals in most conventional sunscreens and second, because of the greasy, sticky-coat feeling. I was thrilled to discover evanhealy’s sun stick because it comes in a portable, easily applicable stick and is free of chemicals. So what does it include?

Ingredients: Sunflower (Helianthus Annuus) Seed Oil*, Coconut (Cocos Nucifera) Oil*, Candelilla (Euphorbia Cerifera) Wax*, Beeswax* (Cera Alba), Red Raspberry (Rubus Idaeus) Seed Oil*, Argan (Argania Spinosa) Kernel Oil*, Jojoba (Simmondsia Chinensis) Seed Oil*, Orange (Citrus Aurantium Dulcis) Peel Oil*, Carnauba (Copernicia Cerifera) Wax*, Vanilla Flavor*, Cocoa (Theobroma Cacao) Seed Butter*, Shea (ButyrospermumParkii) Butter*, Tocopherol, Mica (CI77019), Iron Oxide (CI 77491).

The red raspberry seed oil gives the stick a pretty pink color, which helps mask the zinc oxide. While there are other all-natural sunscreen sticks out there, I haven’t found any that don’t leave my face looking streaky and white. Plus, the smell isn’t overly strong, but subtle. If you find that the sunscreen sits on too heavy, simply rub in with your fingers or a makeup brush.

2. Wild Carrot Nourishing Eye Balm ($22.95)

The second product I’d recommend to those who with sensitive skin, an attraction to the outdoors, and a propensity for big, wide smiles is the Wild Carrot Nourishing Eye Balm. Once again, this product comes in an applicator tube and is thick with shea butter (for moisture), rosehip oil (to reverse damaged skin), and wild carrot seed oil (to promote clear skin) from Queen Anne’s Lace.

Ingredients: Sunflower (Helianthus Annuus) Seed Oil*, Coconut (Cocos Nucifera) Oil*, Beeswax (Cera Alba)*, Castor (Ricinus Communis) Oil*, Shea (Butyrospermum Parkii) Butter*, Avocado (Persea Gratissima) Oil*, Cocoa (Theobroma Cacao) Butter*, Rosehip Seed (Rosa Canina) Fruit Oil*, Olive (Olea Europaea) Fruit Oil*, Immortelle (Helichrysum Italicum) Extract*, Immortelle (Helichrysum Italicum) Flower Oil*, Carrot (Daucus Carota) Fruit Oil*, Tocopherol (non-GMO).

The eye balm is a welcome change to other eye creams I’ve tried. While the product is oil-based, it doesn’t have an oily feel on the skin and I didn’t feel like I had to wipe away any excess. In a pinch I’ve also used this product as a lip balm, face moisturizer, or salve, all with good results. While you can apply the balm directly onto the delicate skin under your eye, I like to take a swipe with my finger and gently rub it in.

3. Lavender Facial Tonic HydroSoul ($26.50)

Hydrosols are botanical remedies, seemingly similar to aromatherapy sprays or diffusers yet entirely different. Evanhealy HydroSouls are entirely hand-crafted, meaning that every step is done entirely by hand, from harvest to distillation to bottling. Relationships with small family farms are at the forefront of the brand, so that each batch has a slightly different smell due to changing growing conditions. Evanhealy uses an ancient technique of distilling in copper alembic stills over a period of four hours—different still is the fact that evanhealy distills solely for the hydrosols, and not the essential oil that is currently popular.

100% Organic Lavender (Lavandula angustifolia) floral hydrosol *

I love the Lavender Facial Tonic HydroSoul because of its benefits: soothes sensitive skin, diminishes redness, and naturally therapeutic due to its scent. You might be surprised when you first smell evanhealy’s facial tonics, especially if you’re used to lavender as an essential oil. The HydroSoul is light, and while it smells obviously of lavender, has a honey note, too. I really like spraying it on after a long day running around outside, before and after plane rides, or at night to wind down from the day. Evanhealy has plenty of HydroSoul options if you’re not a fan of lavender: check out Rose Geranium, Lemon Thyme, Tusli (Holy Basil), or even Douglas Fir. The only HydroSoul I haven’t tried, and wouldn’t recommend unless you’re looking to heal, is the Immortelle Facial Tonic HydroSoul. Whenever I spray it on, I’m told that I smell very strongly of celery (and while I do eat a lot of vegetables, smelling like vegetables isn’t something I’m going for…).

Keep in mind that because of the high quality and handcrafted creation of evanhealy, the products aren’t cheap. I purchase some of my evanhealy favorite products when I notice a sale at my local food co-op, but it’s worth noting that, while pricey, products last you a LONG time. I used the Lavender Facial Tonic HydroSoul multiple times a day for nearly six months, while I’ve yet to make a dent in the Wild Carrot Nourishing Eye Balm. Best of all, it’s nice to support a small company that is doing its part in supporting local farms, promoting the benefits of products grown without pesticides, and actually nourishing the skin.

Disclaimer: I was not asked to do a review, but did receive two of the three products mentioned above for free; the third, along with several other products, I regularly purchase and love!

Review: The Trail Runner’s Companion by Sarah Lavender Smith

Last month I received a copy of Sarah Lavender Smith’s new book: The Trail Runner’s Companion: A Step-by-Step Guide to Trail Running and Racing, from 5Ks to Ultras. I’ve read dozens of books on running (every other book on my Goodreads account is about running) and recently wrote an article, “What’s the Best Ultrarunning Book for You?” from beginner to elite. There are plenty of books I’d recommend to someone looking to try their first ultramarathon–but I would never recommend the same book to everyone, regardless of their skill set or experience in the sport.

Not so with The Trail Runner’s Companion.

At nearly 300 pages, The Trail Runner’s Companion is on the long side, but necessarily so. Totaling 14 chapters, each broken down into several sub-chapters with titles like “6 Ways to Adopt a Trail Runner’s Mindset” and “The Taper Crazies and Pitfalls to Avoid,” Sarah covers the spectrum of questions that every beginner might have: from buying the right trail shoes to handling rough terrain to race etiquette 101.

From the beginning, Sarah makes it clear that this is a book that promotes trail running both for the sake of trail running and for having a positive impact on other facets of one’s life. The introduction is spent detailing Sarah’s background with running (hint: it’s surprisingly similar to how most of us in the sport start!), eventually leading to her reason for writing this book: “to guide others towards this discovery of better running–and better living–through trail running.”

The author running in Telluride, Colorado. Photo by Howie Stern.

The Trail Runner’s Companion begins each chapter with an anecdote from Sarah’s long and successful career as a coach, journalist, and ultra-distance trail runner (having finished more than seventy marathons and ultramarathons in the past twenty years.) In this way each chapter, like the first chapter “Become a Trail Runner,” is well-introduced. Several sub-chapters, clearly bolded, provide answers to common questions like “Why Bother Running on Trails?” And “What Are We Talking About When We Talk About Trail Running?” The Trail Runner’s Companion includes overlooked explanations to commonly used acronyms and phrases that, while jargon to longtime trail runners, are confounding to newbies. In “How to Talk Like a Trail Runner,” Sarah presents a glossary of terms that “will help rookie trail runners understand the sport and speak the lingo.” Some examples include:

  • blow up(v): the act of having one or more things go spectacularly wrong during your trail race, causing to not finish (DNF) or finish miserably slower than anticipated. May be caused by bonking, gastrointestinal issues, blisters, going out too fast, general fatigue, or a combination of these and other factors. Hashtag for this trail race experience #showupandblowup.
  • Euroed-out (adj): dressing in running attire and using gear popular with European trail runners, who favor compression fabric, bright colors, trekking poles, European brands such as Salomon, and hydration packs stuffed with numerous newfangled gadgets. Antonym: old school.

Additionally, Sarah adds a great deal of humor, including phrases like this age-old disaster that every trail runner experiences at one point or another in their career: “shart (n,v): the thing that happens when a fart unexpectedly produces something more; a known hazard in trail/ultra running.”

The author with her friend and pacer, Clare Abram. Photo by Sarah Lavender Smith.

Humor aside, one aspect that makes The Trail Runner’s Companion stand out amongst a plethora of trail and ultra running books is its honesty. Sarah manages to tackle both the more basic aspects of trail running–hydration vest or handhelds? Trekking poles or traction devices?–while also covering topics that receive far less discussion (but are nonetheless worthy of attention.) Proper form, finding ways to fit in your run amongst real-life obligations, staying positive on rough, steep terrain, and eating healthy without deprivation are covered in ways that are incredibly engaging. Part of this is because Sarah manages to add personal stories that make even a beginner runner think of trail running as something approachable.

Photo by Howie Stern.

I was particularly happy to see a chapter that discusses menstruation (“How to Pee, Poop, and Deal with Your Period on the Trail”). While the title might be a turn off to more sensitive readers, Sarah was brave in including a personal story in which she deals with her period while on the trails. This topic is rarely covered in trail running books, yet affects almost all female participants at one point or another. As Sarah mentions, “try to time demanding trail runs or races with optimal phases of your cycle, when you are not experiencing symptoms related to hormone fluctuations.” If anything, I would have loved to see a further explanation of how females might achieve this through properly tracking their cycles. 

Whereas most trail running books provide 50K, 50-mile, and 100-mile training plans, The Trail Runner’s Companion opts out of this. A sample 70-mile peak week is detailed in the chapter “Go the Distance in Ultra Trail Races (50K to 100 Miles)” but Sarah never makes a full-training plan–and rightfully so. The point “beware of other’s training plans” is reiterated throughout the book and helpful in relieving pressure for those who are tempted to do what they read in a passing article. It’s easy to find a book with a standard 12-week training plan; it’s not so easy to answer questions about mental toughness, getting lost on course or during a training run, and knowing when to turn back or quit a race. This book answers all of those things. 

Photo by Howie Stern.

In a sport that often idolizes runners who complete the biggest, toughest, and most epic events no matter the injuries and burn-out that often comes alongside these victories, The Trail Runner’s Companion provides a way to stay in the sport for years to come. Longevity is well covered, with an especially thorough chapter devoted to conditioning. Here, dynamic stretches, conditioning exercises, and plyometrics are provided via colorful, engaging photographs and clear instructions. In fact, bright, relatable photographs, without an unfair focus on elites, are abundant. While Sarah does make mention of several top athletes and “celebrities” in the sport including Dean Karnazes, Scott Jurek, and Magdalena Boulet, an emphasis on athletes that are inspiring for their contributions to the sport as a whole–Cory Reese, for example, for his enthusiasm, or Stephanie Case, for her drive and humanitarian work– are also made.

The author demonstrating a push-up variation. Photo by Tonya Perme.

If I had to rewrite my article “What’s the Best Ultrarunning Books for You?” I would definitely choose to include The Trail Runner’s Companion. I might also add that whether you’ve never stepped foot on a trail or you have more technical shirts than all of your other clothes combined, this is a must-read. Sarah tackles a lot in this book, and readers will come away knowledgable, prepared and excited to head out on a trail run because of it.

You can purchase The Trail Runner’s Companion here.

For more information, check out Sarah’s website here.

Review: Ultra Mindset Academy eCourse

Earlier this month I completed Travis Macy’s 8-week Ultra Mindset Academy eCourse, an extension of his popular book, The Ultra Mindset. Travis’ course suggests that participants will come away with these three skills:

  • A lasting, resilient, positive mindset that will motivate you for training and get you to the finish line in races
  • Mastery of evidence-based mindset principles that can be applied to life beyond athletics, including work, parenting, and relationships
  • Synergy for success through genuine relationships with like-minded peers and a leading expert on mindset and endurance racing

So what happened? Did I develop an Ultra Mindset? Am I now a master of mindset principles?

Find out at!

Race Report: Oriflamme 50K, Take Two

I’m not an angry person, and most people remember me by my smile, or so I’ve been told. But Oriflamme 50K–the second time-around–was a miserable experience for me (and because of me.)

This race report isn’t all sunshine and rainbows, but this picture suggests otherwise.

For those who aren’t familiar with the Oriflamme 50K, it’s a terrific event put on annually by Pinnacle Endurance. The course starts at Sunrise Trailhead in the mountains east of San Diego, then winds along the Pacific Crest Trail for a few miles before dropping down through Oriflamme Canyon and into Anza Borrego Desert. The first time I ran the race, in 2015, I had little idea what to expect. It turned out the early descent at the beginning of the race, the blooming barrel cactus and accompanying sphinx moths on the desert floor, and then the long, grueling climb back to the finish was my ideal race. I placed first female that year, my first ever win at any race, and it’s been special for all those reasons since.

This year, when asked what races I wanted to run, the one and only race that popped into my mind was Oriflamme. Of course, Orcas 100 happened, and others will happen, too, but this was a race I really wanted to try for: I wanted to win, and I wanted the course record, too.

Here’s just one reason to run this race: the view!

Last year, this goal would have been out of reach. But with the help of my coach, Alec Blenis at Complete Human Performance, I feel like I’m finally making strides (literally) toward becoming faster. Remember, I was the kid who was congratulated for placing first at a B.C. track meet in the 800-meter when I was eight years old. I thought my teachers and friends and even strangers believed I had ran really hard; turns out the results were misprinted and I hadn’t placed first but dead last. My running career ended there (…until I met Nick: see here.)

Since the start of the year, I’ve gladly jumped into a variety of races. Nick and I both ran the San Diego Trail Marathon in January, then Orcas 100 at the end of February. Going for any kind of record, or even a really solid run, at Oriflamme seemed like asking for too much but I thought I might regret not running the race after mentioning it numerous times over the last six months. I had to at least try. 

The taper, as tapers often are, was tough, but I felt especially unmotivated and apathetic about the upcoming race.

The morning of the race, a knot had settled in my stomach. I briefly told Nick that I wasn’t feeling this race, but when is that ever an excuse? Does anyone ever really feel like waking up at 4 a.m. and running for several hours?

I made oatmeal while Nick heated hot water for tea and within twenty minutes we were in the car and headed east. I forced myself to eat a spoonful of oatmeal, but I wasn’t hungry.

“I don’t think I want to do this,” I told Nick. “it’s going to be cold and freezing and I don’t feel like racing today.” I mumbled my words, embarrassed to be telling Nick this on the way to the start line.

“You’ll be fine,” he assured me. “It’s just nerves.”

“No,” I retorted. “This is different. I really, really don’t want to do this.”

I continued to argue with him the rest of the drive, my mind becoming increasingly anxious the closer we got. The temperature continued to drop toward the low 40s and light rain landed on our windshield. I took one more bite of oatmeal then shoved it into the backseat, refusing to eat more.

Ten minutes before the start of the race, I hopped out of the car to use the bathroom. Wind whipped across my body, leaving my legs in goosebumps, and I shivered as I thought about the miles that lay ahead. I turned around and headed back to the car.

“I can’t do this,” I told Nick. “I don’t want to do this.”

I had no real reason why–I loved the course, I loved this part of San Diego, and I was looking forward to seeing both runners and volunteers I knew on course. But I didn’t want to race–not today, anyway.

“I’ll see you at the turn-around, okay?” Nick told me. “Do you have your bottles?”

I was planning on running with two handhelds, one filled with UCAN, the other with only water.

“I’m not using anything,” I said, forcefully tossing the second, UCAN-filled bottle into the back of my car.

Runners gathered around the start line and with only two minutes to go, I headed over. Nick hurriedly followed behind to give me a kiss before the start, but that didn’t even register. Suddenly the race was starting and I was gone.

The ominous weather at the start of the race. My attitude matched the menacing skies at this point.

The first few miles of the race wind along the PCT and without caring whether or not I bonked later on, I ran hard. While I had started mid-pack, half a mile in I was in the top ten and in the lead for females. I tried to remain upbeat and polite to other runners, and I weakly smiled when I had to, but my internal thoughts were angry. The rocks along the trail sucked, (made worse following this past winter’s heavy rain), the wind was awful, and I had absolutely no fuel on me; my mind dredged negative after negative thought from a never-ending river of doubt and for a while it fueled the miles. I ran hard down the long descent into the desert and didn’t start coming to my senses until the second aid station at roughly mile 13. Nick was there waiting, and I started to smile, genuinely, suddenly happy again to be out here running. I snagged half a banana then left, eager to reach the turn around point another two and a half miles down the trail. From here, the course seemed to slow as I slogged through the wash. Along the sides I glimpsed fuchsia flowers opening on cactus. My friend, Igor, was suddenly heading towards me and I gave him a heartfelt wave as we passed one another. My heart rose: it couldn’t be much further until the turnaround.

Coming in to the second aid station at mile 13.

It wasn’t, and I didn’t waste time. I gave Nick a proper hug then ran out, determined to speed up the second half of my race. My mood, however, didn’t last. Within seconds I saw the second-place women, and, only a few minutes behind her, females three, four, five, and six. Even with my poor attitude and fueling mistakes, I thought I had made up time on the downhill. My mood sank once more.

At the second aid station, now at mile 18, I lingered. Nick tried to get me to eat something, anything, but I only willingly grabbed a banana. Even then I grimaced. Why even try? I thought to myself. They’re probably going to catch me anyway.

Even I thought my own thoughts were foolish, and I agreed to take a salt pill before I left. Still, I would regret not taking more food.

The next several miles were a long, gradual ascent, a very steep ascent, a mile of gently rolling hills and finally another long climb to the last aid station at mile 26. I tried to keep an even pace on the first section, but winds seemed to sweep down the valley. At several points dust storms cropped up, pelting my bare legs with tiny grains of sand. Within half an hour I was completely out of water, not entirely surprising considering the 16 oz. bottle I had on hand, and there were still miles to go. I pushed as much as I could, running the runnable sections while breaking down into a fast-paced hike on sections that warranted longer strides. Time seemed to pass slow, and yet all of a sudden I was at the water drop–thank goodness. I filled my bottle, then drank it almost entirely down before filling it again.

My stomach rumbled; I had quenched my thirst but now I was famished. Up until this point at mile 24, I had eaten roughly a banana and a few bites of oatmeal. 

Angry Jade made a major rookie mistake and now my race was paying for it.

As I rounded a corner, I caught sight of a runner ahead of me. Go for him, I thought to myself, and urged my legs to keep pace. As long as the gap between us didn’t increase, I could run at this pace. The final uphill section was upon me, and I glanced back only once to see who was behind me. A few switchbacks below I saw two figures, one in black and one in blue, but it wasn’t clear if either were female. Still, I couldn’t ease up.

At the final aid station, I felt relief: finally I could eat! The fresh fruit looked amazing and I ate handful after handful of strawberries, then grabbed another large handful and half a PB&J to go. I thanked the volunteers for their kindness in letting me eat all of their strawberries and then took off. This last section of the PCT was long and meandering, and I recall the seemingly endless twists and turns it makes before the finish from the 2015 race. Rather than focus on the miles to go, I made it my mission to catch and then keep up with a runner in front of me. I matched his pace and tried to clear my mind of anything but following his footsteps. My mind felt lighter now, my attitude improved.

With a half mile to go, I promised myself to smile as big as I could for Nick who had endured my crap earlier that morning. The trying wasn’t necessary, though; both my mom and my Nana had driven up to watch me come in. I ran into the finish in 4 hours, 54 minutes, first place female and sixth overall.

Coming in to the finish–finally!

It’s been nine days since the race, which means that by the time this race report has been published on my blog, it’s the longest I’ve ever taken to finish a race report following a race. One reason is because I’ve not known how to begin and, frankly, I’m embarrassed by the fact that I was so bitter and anxious going into this race. The second reason might be because I’m not entirely sure what caused my anger.

In some part, I think it boils down to my personal decisions: with my grad school thesis looming (I turned it in on Friday), a wedding to be planned, a career to be built and relationships to be nurtured, all of which I ultimately put upon myself, it was foolish to also ask myself to be competitive, to go for a big goal so close to Orcas and amidst other large, and truthfully more important, life events.

Is there a limit to the goals that one can set? Is there a finite amount of stress that a person can take on before adding competition to the mix? How does competition, whether defined or perceived, change a person’s attitude?

How do I know when I’m too stressed out to function, let alone run 31 miles?

I don’t have the answer to these questions, but with each of these races I come closer to finding them. I thrive on setting challenges for myself, and no matter how they turn out, there’s something to be gained–whether physical or mental endurance, a peaceful sunrise, a new friend on the trail.

In this case, however, a little more grace with myself might have resulted in a lot less stress (and a ton less anger towards Nick, my fuel, and a random assortment of natural phenomenon on course.) Life is short, and we make our own purpose; I want mine to be positive.

At the finish with my nana and my mama.

Congratulations to all of the runners, and a heartfelt thank you to the volunteers and RD. The strawberries and smiles were very much appreciated.

Thanks for a terrific and challenging race, RD John!

Orcas 100: Why Not?

Photo credit: Glenn Tachiyama

On the ferry ride over between Anacortes, Washington to our destination, Orcas Island, Nick replayed his whys over in his mind. I had a difficult time concealing my giddiness at a trip to Orcas–for one, I had never been but had heard of the island magic; for another, it was the Pacific Northwest and as a proud Pacific Northwesterner, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to smell coastal brine and the cleansing dampness of cedar forests. When Nick asked me my why, my reason for running Orcas 100, I almost laughed. Did I need a reason to run this race? Wasn’t the sheer beauty of the place enough? 

 “Because it was a chance to take this trip,” I said, my mind still full with images of our night in Seattle, stuffing our faces with seafood bisque and piroshkys and wandering so far and so long our feet were swollen before the race. Even on the drive to the ferry terminal earlier that morning, we had watched trumpeter swans, maybe even a tundra swan or two, huddle in fallow fields (which, for us birders, is pretty cool). It just happened that these neat events culminated with a very long race. The reasoning seemed good enough to me.

By the time the race rolled around on Friday morning, I was ready to explore Orcas Island by way of the second annual Orcas 100.

Loop One

At 8 a.m., 57 runners lined up outside of Camp Moran, on the southeastern side of the horseshoe shaped island. It was crisp and cold, and I briefly wondered if I had become a wuss since moving to San Diego and expecting 70 degree days and sunshine year round (answer: yes). The race started casually, and within seconds Nick had broken out of the pack and was leading the 5K climb. Most people had decided to power hike this part, but I figured that I might as well run to keep warm. Already a mile into the climb I could see snow dusting tree branches, and the snow only thickened toward the top. I hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning, my stomach too nervous to take anything more than some water and tea, so forced myself to chew on a frozen Honeystinger Waffle as we reached the top and began the technical descent down to the first aid station at mile 5. My coach, Alec Blenis at Complete Human Performance, suggested that I try to negative split between the first and second loops, so I attempted to keep a sustainable pace. I flew through both the first and second aid stations, relying instead on the Honeystinger Waffles in my pack. I quickly found myself between two male runners and a female, who I assumed to be Katie Mills, the person closest in age to me on course. We introduced ourselves and ended up running together for the majority of the loop. It was her first 100, and while I was on my third, it would be my first time running without a pacer and therefore running through the night alone. We were both anxious for a partner. 

Katie descended quickly on the downhills, but I caught up to her on the uphill climb and the flatter sections that skirted the lake. At the Cascade Lake aid station, I saw my dad who had laid out a full spread of fruit and sandwiches and delicious hot soups from the local Eastbound Co-op, but declined as I stuffed more waffles in my pack. My preference for real, hot food would come later that night, I knew, and anything heavy wouldn’t sit well with the upcoming Powerline Climb. Katie and I took off from the aid station just seconds apart, and I somehow knew that I’d be sharing the next 85 miles with her.

I had read about the infamous Powerline Climb in previous race reports (see here and here), but hadn’t thought too much about it. I’ve always loved climbing, and it’s typically my strength in a race, but I had greatly underestimated both the length and grade of this section. The single track opened onto double track that continued up and up and up, until I looked back and could see other islands far below me. Even then we weren’t done with the climb. Katie and I hiked up most of the way together, until the trail finally ended and began an annoying descent through snowy single track once more. Finally the descent concluded with a bridge and we were switchbacking our way up the backside of Mt. Constitution, the highest point of the race (and the highest point on the San Juan Islands). The aid station crew were exceptionally kind, but Katie and I once again concluded that we didn’t need to stop and hurried on to reach The Tower.

The Tower was introduced the night before, at the pre-race briefing, where RD James Varner suggested that the best views were seen from here. Not only that, but runners who climbed The Tower all four times and delivered the card to the Camp Moran aid station (the end of the first loop, and the start of the second) would be part of the lauded Tower Club. Well, sign me up. 

Katie and I went up the climb together, then descended the remaining five miles back into the cheering camp.

25.2 miles, 5 hours, 8 minutes

Loop Two

The weather hadn’t turned for the worse, and I was just cool enough to warrant the extra sweater and gloves. Once again I grabbed waffles, swallowed a salt tab for good measure, and headed out. While I ran the first climb last loop, I figured that there was little point in getting my heart rate up without really gaining much time, so I hiked this section, then hurried a bit more on the descent down to Mountain Lake and back up to Mt. Pickett. Katie would run ahead, but I would catch her once more so we quickly concluded that we might as well run together.

Camp Moran Aid Station (and the start/finish of the race)

It was nice to run with Katie, and I was getting more excited with the course as the miles went by. I had started the race almost apathetic, but quickly reminded myself of how much was on the line: my 77-year-old dad, who had driven down from Vancouver, B.C. and would be crewing me the entire night, the work Nick and I had done to both afford and make space for this trip, the effort that Alec had put into training me for this race (just five weeks earlier!), the volunteers and RD that were putting their time into this event, and the fact that I was on Orcas Island without anything but the task to finish 100 miles. I could do that.

Katie and I flew into the Cascade Lake station, and I quickly grabbed some more food and a headlamp. We had decided that we would make it to the summit by sunset, so we powered up the climb. By the time we reached The Tower, the sun had just set and the sky was pink and yellow. Even Mt. Baker was visible in the distance!

The absolutely beautiful sunset atop Mt. Constitution. Photo by Katie Mills

On the way down, I tried put off turning on my headlamp, trying to lessen the length of night, but the trail soon became too technical and the forest too dark. Camp Moran shone bright and I finished fifty miles feeling great and excited to change. I swapped my pants for warmer tights and changed out of my rabbit sleevie wonder and into a smart wool top for the night.

50.4 miles, 10 hours, 59 minutes

Loop Three

The night air felt suddenly colder than it had been just ten minutes earlier when Katie and I had come into the aid station. My eyes felt heavy, and while it was still early in the night, I felt as though I could nap. Still, back up the road we went. At the Mountain Lake aid station, I downed a large cup of coffee. I don’t drink coffee or caffeinated tea, so I felt the effects of the caffeine quickly. Suddenly I was moving faster, so at the next aid station, I had another cup, and another at the Cascade Lake station, too. Katie and I zoomed up the third Powerline climb, and I briefly wondered whether it was better to know how far I had climbed, or be oblivious to how far I still had to go. I followed Katie down through the section towards the switchback, and we decided that either weird conversation or singing songs would help keep our spirits up and pass the time. Fortunately, she decided on Disney songs, of which I am horribly ignorant of, so I hummed along and tried to keep my end of the partnership up. 

The third time up The Tower was cold, and we stopped in for food at the Mt. Constitution aid station for, of course, more coffee. By this point I was feeling a bit nauseous, and realized that having coffee wasn’t smart past a certain point for me. I hit that point, took in the refreshing nighttime air, and descended back down to Camp Moran.

Mile 75.6, 17 hours, 36 minutes

Loop Four

I was all smiles leaving Camp Moran. One of the volunteers had kindly let me borrow her poles for my final loop and I was thankful I had them–especially since my calves and achilles were tightening and Powerline was going to hurt the fourth time around.  I had not experienced a genuine low during the race, save for the fleeting apathy on the first loop. Once I started loop four, I knew I would finish no matter what. We hurried up the first climb together, thankfully bidding farewell to all of the endless climbs and technical descents we wouldn’t have to do ever again. At Cascade Lake, I ran into camp and hugged my dad, thankful to have him out here with me. I had inquired about Nick each lap and was happy to hear that he was in first and likely finished by now. Katie’s crew informed us that first place woman, Janessa Taylor, had just taken off, and I could tell Katie was anxious to catch her. I grabbed a slice of pizza to go and we headed off.

As Katie and I followed the short Cascade Lake trail section out onto the road that would take us to the start of Powerline, a car approached. I couldn’t make out of the face in the dark, but knew immediately it was Nick.

“You finished!” I exclaimed, and he ran to hug me and cheer us on. Somewhere in my delirium I didn’t process that he had finished, so I spent the rest of the loop wondering how the race had gone for him.

We said goodbye to Nick, then moved up the hill, intent on just getting the race done now. I had assumed I would power up this last climb, but I suddenly felt out of breath. I coughed, then coughed some more. With dread, I realized that I still wasn’t over the cold that I had carried for the last three weeks. This was going to be a long, long loop. Katie had fat blisters and a nagging IT band that wouldn’t let her slow down, so she said she had to hurry on. I watched as her light moved farther away, and attempted to put on music to lift my spirits, but had little patience to deal with the knotted cords. Feeling myself getting crankier still, I ate another waffle and some fruit I had taken at Cascade Lake. Still my cough worsened and I felt myself on the brink of wheezing.

The end of Powerline never seemed to come, but sunrise was breaking and I wanted to be finished with the race. I pushed up the switchbacks and crested the last bit of ascent, then hurried to the top of The Tower to grab my final card. I attempted to control my breath as I descended this final section, but I could hear the phlegm in my chest. Hold it together, Jade, I told myself. It wasn’t long now.

In the final mile, I heard Nick’s encouraging words and saw him as I popped out of the forest and hurried into the final winding trail to the finish. I watched as he got back into his car and drove to the finish to be able to watch him come in. Even with 100 miles now under me, I was nervous in this last mile. It felt as if I couldn’t breath, and I tried both speeding up and slowing down to either get past it or through the wheezing.

Finally, there was RD James and my lovely Nick and my dad who was still awake after all this time, cheering me in. Orcas 100 was complete! I hacked my way through hugs, then proceeded to cough for several more hours. I wish that the finale of 100-milers amounted to more exciting post-race parties, but I felt more like sleeping than anything else (as seen below). 

Lesson learned? Don’t run with a cough or a cold. 

More importantly, realize that people run 100-mile races for different reasons, and each race is completely different. For me, I was enamored by Orcas Island and the people that made this event possible. Part of the beauty of these races is that I don’t often know why I’m out there until I’m running. And while that can, at times, be dangerous in terms of committing to a race, it also opens up the possibility to reasons I couldn’t have imagined: to make a new friend, to make my dad proud, to be able to talk endlessly about the race and the course and what animals we saw out on the trail (an owl, a million deer) with Nick, and to simply experience something I couldn’t have imagined myself doing just one year ago. After all, why not?

100.8 miles, 24 hours, 45 minutes

3rd female, 7th overall

Some final notes

What a beautiful, gorgeous race. Thank you to all of the cheerful, smiling volunteers and thank you especially to the volunteer who gave me his grilled cheese that looked especially delicious at 2 a.m. Thank you to the Race Directors and everyone else who helped put together such a fun, supportive event.

I was so lucky to have my dad out on course–his first ever ultra event!–and was so excited to see him at each aid station, from mile 15 to mile 100. I was also thankful for Katie’s presence throughout the race and for her crew who handed me pizza, let me use the foam roller, and constantly checked to see how I was doing.

A big congratulations to my fiancé, Nickademus Hollon, for taking first place overall at this year’s event and, more importantly, running the race for himself.

Thank you, Orcas!

Twin Peaks 50: A Twin Race Report

This past weekend, Nick and I ran the Twin Peaks 50/50, an awesome race run by Dirty Feet Productions RD Jessica DeLine. Nick ran Twin Peaks in 2012, but this time I was willing to join in on the fun. Without big expectations for our performances, we set the male and female course records (Nick: 8:56:27 and Jade: 10:32:34), finishing first and fourth overall, respectively.

On the drive home, we asked each other some questions about how our races went behind-the-scenes. Here’s what we had to say.


Photo by Paksit Photos

Why the Twin Peaks 50? 

Nick: A client of mine was asking about the race, and with UTMF not having quite worked out how I’d envisioned, I thought it would be a nice event to end 2016’s ultra-running season with. 

Jade: I haven’t run a 50-mile race since Santa Barbara’s Red Rocks 50 two years ago, and was curious about the distance; when Nick mentioned that he was considering running the race, I was interested and decided to jump in as well. Running races together (though I should clarify that we don’t actually run together, as Nick is lightyears faster) makes me realize how incredibly lucky we are to share the sport. I guess what I mean to say is…why not?

What was the best part of your race?

Nick: I really enjoyed the first 7 miles of the course, the early morning inversion layer combined with the light classical music I was playing on my i-pod at the time.

Jade: Surprisingly the descents. While I felt strong on the first 10 mile climb (assuming first place from roughly mile 5 to the finish),  it was the ease and confidence with which I ran the somewhat technical and steep descents that became the best part of the race.


Photo by Paksit Photos

What was the worst part of the race?

Nick: The immense “lead legs” that I experienced after finishing an 8 mile descent and going right into another big climb. My legs were toast and Mario (my competition throughout the race) was pulling well ahead of me on that part of the course.

Jade: Climbing up Trabuco Canyon in the heat of the day was tough. I swore second-place woman was right behind me, so I urged myself to run (read: shuffle) despite feeling light-headed and nauseous. I also ran out of water on that climb.

Would you come back?

Nick: It’s a really great local event and packs a hell of a punch. Dirty Feet does a great job putting on these races in SoCal.  I’ll definitely be back at one of their races next year.

Jade: I loved the race and would be thrilled to have the opportunity to come back in the future! The volunteers were kind and helpful, the participants were wonderful competition and the course itself showcased a surprisingly beautiful and tough part of SoCal.

How did you train for this race?

Nick: I’ve really been focused on my running form and body awareness over the last year. Strength training, stability work, treadmill, beach running, rock climbing and valued rest days.

Jade: I’m 6 weeks post-Cascade Crest right now, so after a 2 week break, I worked on bringing my mileage back up and getting back to a few speed/interval sessions each week. Other than that, I’ve been really focused on strength training and working on my pull-ups–by the end of the year I want to be at 15. This has nothing to do with running.


What was the competition like?

Nick: Surprisingly intense! I purposely vowed not to look at the Ultrasignup entrant list before the race as I didn’t need the unnecessary worry, but Mario Martinez, the winner from the previous year, was there. The two of us virtually raced the entire 52 miles together. After leap-frogging back and forth, I pulled ahead of him on the final descent and, pushing hard, managing to open a 4 minute gap between us by the finish.

Jade: Intense! After pulling ahead on the first climb, I didn’t see her again until I was coming back down from the first summit of Santiago Peak. I thought I had lost her, but she was only 10 minutes behind! I hurried down the trail there to gain some distance. The last time I saw her was in the same location, coming down from Santiago Peak, this time less than a quarter mile behind me. I pushed the entire descent to the finish, terrified she would overtake me at the very end.

What was the most difficult part of the race?

Nick: Mario. Having great competition at an event with a course like this is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing in the fact that the race is over sooner because we were both pushing one another so fast. Then a curse, because ultimately the race wasn’t about “what I was willing to give” for the win, it was “what it was going to take to win” and for a while I wasn’t prepared to give that.

Jade: The competition. I’m a competitive person, but I’m also uncomfortable feeling anxious for such a long period of time, and this race was certainly long. Knowing that the second-place woman could overtake me at any minute was difficult for me to deal with, and I focused as much as I could on going for time, going for the course record, as opposed to feeling frightened about what may or may not happen. Nick once told me that the winner looks ahead, always chasing down the competition; the loser looks behind, afraid of who is catching him. I took it to heart and didn’t look back once during the race.


Where are you the most sore now post-race?

Nick: Quads. I can feel a massive growing soreness in them.

Jade: My quads!

What would you work on future races?

Nick: My uphill game didn’t feel as strong as it used to. I’ve learned nowadays to run with my posterior muscles instead of solely my quads (as I did in the past). Consequently, there is a lot of room for improvement in sharpening up my “springs” and improving my elastic recoil while ascending.

Jade: For the first time I feel like I’m beginning to do something right. Not coming from a high school/college running background, I’ve often lacked confidence in terms of my ability. My downhill was the strongest it’s ever been at Twin Peaks, but I want to continue to strengthen my speed and agility on the descents, in addition to finally solving lingering rib pain/diaphragm spasms.

What were you most proud of that you did (or didn’t do) during this event?

Nick: Keeping calm when Mario passed me multiple times throughout the race and having the internal confidence that I had what it was going to take to win, and truly believing that my race strategy was better than his. Very close competition like that usually shakes me up (see HURT 100/ UTMF/ Baja 50km etc..etc..) I was really proud that I kept my cool and raced my own race for the duration of the event.

Jade: I’m well aware that downhill running is the weakest component for me, but I felt strong and capable during this race. Maybe this is my turning point?


Strangest thought?

Nick: Ooo look a golden eagle! I wonder if Jade will see that.

Jade: I bet Nick already saw that golden eagle and is hoping I’m seeing it now.

Two seconds before the gun goes off you think…

Nick: Damn. It’s really dark. Hmmm

Jade: I better leech onto a runner with a headlamp, because it’s really dark right now.

Two seconds before finishing you think…

Nick: Hey, Jade’s family! Oww… Yay, first person to go sub-9!

Jade: I can stop racing! My family is here! I can’t believe I did that!


One-word summary for the race?

Nick: Mountainous.

Jade: Long.

One piece of advice for other runners?

Nick: Train your downhills before this event. There is no flat out there, folks!

Jade: Work on your uphill climbing legs, but don’t forget to build the necessary strength for the downhills.

For full race results, click here

Thank you to RD Jessica and all of the volunteers for putting on a spectacular and challenging race!


Cascade Crest 100

As we rounded the corner following the dirt road up to No Name Ridge, the smell of breakfast awakened me from my stupor. “We have to be close to the aid,” I said, imagining thick, sweet pancakes filled with blueberries and chocolate. Breakfast almost sounded too good to be true and I hoped that the aid station was close. Behind us the sunrise had grown from a yellow hue that lightened the night sky and stole the stars to the fiery orange that preceded dawn and turned the clouds lilac. We had spent the last few hours hiking up the ridgeline and after running more than 80 miles of the Cascade Mountains in Washington State, we were now eager to reach the No Name Ridge Aid Station. 

“I can see the aid!” I said, noticing the large green tent, the white van, the camping chairs and patient volunteers through the trees. “Ah, yup. Me, too,” Nick replied, equally glad to have arrived. He had gone through lows with me during the early morning hours and had patiently watched as I wolfed down the entire sweet basil and honey pie we had bought before the start of the race. I was sure he was hungry, too. 

We hiked faster, Nick suggesting that we run into the aid station. I blearily got my feet moving into something of a shuffle and we turned towards the aid station. The tent, the cars, the volunteers–all were gone. Tall conifers stood in their place and behind, the sharp descent down to Little Kachess Lake.

“You saw that, didn’t you?” I asked and Nick nodded. We had both hallucinated the entire aid station.

There was little left to do but continue.



Before I had even finished my first 100-miler race, Cascade Crest was on the table. After reading a Facebook post suggesting that runners wishing to experience a beautiful course in the Northwest put their names into the lottery, I added my name–because why not? Two days before Zion 100, I learned that I was one of the lucky ones! Cascade Crest loomed far ahead and I bided my time, taking a few weeks off running completely post-Zion, then incorporating a slow build-up of easy runs to increase my aerobic endurance. When June arrived, I jumped into the Holcomb Valley 33-Mile race, and then continued to train through my MFA residency in Vermont, taking advantage of Montpelier’s hills. 10 days later we were off to Amsterdam where Nick and I ran through the city of canals, weed & poffertjes, incorporating fartlek and tempo runs to make use of the flat terrain. Once back home, I took advantage of the hills east of San Diego to peak, then jumped in the car for our road trip up to Washington.

Exploring Redding, our first stop of the trip.

Exploring Redding, our first stop of the trip.

"Mutt Shasta"

“Mutt Shasta”


Crater Lake, featuring Wizard Island

We gave ourselves six days to reach Easton, Washington, the start of the race, but even then it wasn’t enough. Our first night in Redding, CA proved a disappointment, so we hurried to Crater Lake where we saw the bluest of blues and then to Bend, Oregon where we rented tubes and floated down the Deschutes River. On the Oregon Coast we ran by Haystack Rock and camped amongst a plethora of domesticated rabbits let loose. In Portland we saw my high school friend Shoko and bought Voodoo Donuts and in Tacoma we worked at coffee shops and picked up supplies. In all of these places we snuck our dog, Cashew, into motels via a giant shopping bag that we zipped up only long enough to hurry him from car to room. We were never caught! When Nick dropped Cashew off at the Pooch Place in North Bend, I was already ten miles into my race and thinking about everything but the race in its whole. Mostly, I thought about the next aid station, the next stop, as though we were traveling from one destination to another, all just one long road trip.

Start to Tacoma Pass (o-25.4):


And we’re off!

At 9 a.m. 160 runners took off from the fire station at Easton and shuffled down the fire road that would eventually wind up towards Goat Peak. I had been warned by veterans to take it easy on this climb and that if I wouldn’t be running the last third I surely shouldn’t be running this, so I listened. I found myself between two women ahead of me–one of whom turned out to be the founder & designer of the running clothes I was wearing–and a 6-time CC100 veteran behind. We talked and I felt impatient at times to move faster, but stayed where I was. In hindsight I should have moved quicker here and taken advantage of my strength, but I didn’t know what was ahead. The trail here moved between clear-cut sections and then single track that drew up through second growth forest, sword ferns brushing my shins. Breathing in the damp, fresh smell of the forest–all death and decay–I felt alive, as though I was six again, running in my backyard in White Rock, B.C., or fifteen, taking my animals for walks through the forest, or 19, and getting my first taste of trail running with Fairhaven Runners in Bellingham, WA.

The deeper I breathed, the more I felt that I belonged here and I started to move away from the runners I had conversed with and caught up to others, all of us passing and being passed. On the next climb I found myself chatting with Bellinghamster Daniel Probst, but once we reached the aid station at Blowout Mountain Aid Station at mile 15, I found myself alone again. I continued on, feeling great and eating well, conscious to keep myself fueled for the miles ahead. Eventually we plopped out at mile 25, the first crew access aid station which meant the first time I had seen Nick. We changed a sock that had developed a hole in the big toe and I carried on.


“See you at 36, love!” He called out and I was off.

Tacoma Pass to Hyak (25.4-54.3):

Shortly after leaving the aid station, Yitka stopped and turned in her tracks. “Want to run with me?” She asked. I immediately said yes, eager to catch up with Yitka who I hadn’t seen since finishing my internship at Trail Runner Magazine two years before. We chatted and the miles clicked by, especially since we were now running on the Pacific Crest Trail. The RD had described it as “buttery smooth” but the trail still wound up and down. On a climb I found myself pulling away from some of the runners around us, which would only serve to freak me out a few miles later. As the trail transitioned from ridgeline to thick forest, I continued moving at a decent clip, excited to be nearing the next aid station and the second time I would see Nick, specifically because this time he promised to bring me the bag of food(!). Now, however, I heard a loud crack of branches and turned to my left. Fifty feet away and ten feet high in a tree was a large black mass. A black bear! It looked as spooked as I was, so while I prayed it wouldn’t charge at me, the bear jumped down and scampered (though, in its size, lumbered is more accurate) off into the woods. I continued on, moving just a little faster thanks to adrenaline.

At the aid station, Nick pulled me to the side where he had laid out every option from our glorious bag of food: figs, bone broth, Jun kombucha, avocado, a Bobo’s bar and more Muir Energy gels. I gulped down the kombucha and grabbed a few of the items before saying goodbye to Nick again.

The food!

The food!

My feet were feeling great and my muscles fresh, so I continued on, conscientiously hiking the steeper sections and rolling down the descents and flats. While we had been warned that there was minimal marking along the PCT (since there’s really only one way to go and that’s forward), at times I wondered if had done something wrong since I could see no markers nor any runners. When I ran into Tony, it was a welcome relief to have someone to talk with and we spoke about races we’ve done and my engagement and that this section of Mirror Lake was a tease. As we ran by the campers enjoying sunset on the still lake, I felt vaguely jealous that I wasn’t anywhere close to sleeping let alone enjoying a relaxing evening by a lake. I pulled out my music for the first time here, and prayed that the light would last long enough to get me through to Hyak.

When the trail didn’t end a half hour later, nor did the aid station at Olallie Meadows appear, I knew that I would be facing at least a few miles in the dark alone. The trail continued to get technical but I finally popped out of the forest to see the Olallie ahead. The volunteers kindly asked if I wanted any of the hot food they had prepared, but I declined, hoping to move along and get to Hyak where Nick would be pacing me to the finish. The two miles to the Ropes section were steep, and I stumbled along, suddenly feeling my feet, sore and uncomfortable. It was dark now, and with the bear fresh in my mind, I hurried, hoping not to run in to another, especially alone. When I reached the Ropes, I moved faster despite the incredibly steep terrain. Volunteers had looped ropes between trees so that there was some sort of support going down, and I may have related this a little too much to an obstacle race as I raced down, enjoying the feeling of finally most fast! The trail suddenly ended and I popped out on the John Wayne Trail where I made a sharp right and kept moving. Ahead was the Snoqualmie Tunnel, 2.3 miles of total darkness, except for the light of the two runners ahead of me. I checked the time on my watch as I entered, figuring that I would be able to estimate how far I had left based on the minutes I spent hustling through. My headlamp shone on a rat, then a mouse that jumped along beside me before running directly up a wall and into a hole. Water dripped from the ceiling, creating damp potholes that I avoided, and the reminder that the Hyak aid station volunteers often put out skeletons to spook runners kept my eyes focused on the tall grey walls of the tunnel. Nearing the 20 minute mark, I heard the voices of the Hyak station and saw the festive lights of the Christmas decorated station. And there, ready to pace, was Nick.

Hyak to Mineral Creek (54.3-75):

I had hustled through the tunnel, running 7:30 minute-miles, so by the the time I reached Nick, I suddenly felt tired, my ankles terribly sore. He sat me down and took out the pizza he had bought from a wood fired pizza place in Roslyn, and told me to eat up.

Lucky me, Nick brought pizza!

Lucky me, Nick brought pizza!

I took a few bites, the salty taste of the artichoke pesto comforting and warm, and we swapped out my Altra Superiors for Lone Peak 3.0s for the duration for the run. I slathered arnica on my ankles which were beginning to swell and I prayed that this race wouldn’t be slowed down by ankle pain, much like Zion 100. When I stood back up to leave the aid station, my feet severely hurt. We ran out of the aid station but as soon as the lights behind us dimmed, I felt an overwhelming sense of disappointment. This wasn’t what it was supposed to be like–for the past 50 miles I had imagined coming in to the aid station in daylight, seeing Nick, being thrilled to finally spend the last 46 miles of the course with him, but here I was, angry and unmotivated, for the first time that day experiencing a real low.

Time for headlamps

Time for headlamps

Poor Nick. Though I tried my best to hold it together, the next 20 miles were rough for the both of us. Me, because every step had me cringing as pain radiated through and around my ankles and Nick, mostly because of me. We hiked our way up to the aid station and Keechelus Ridge and hobbled ourselves down to Lake Kachess at mile 69. At times Nick would cajole me into running a minute, then walking a minute and while this sometimes helped get me going, the descent only worsened the pain and brought it into my knees. I was miserable, and praying for day to come. Sunrise was still more than seven hours away.

A portion of the Trail from Hell. Here you see me descending into either mud, a giant hole, a decaying log or the root-strewn "trail"

A portion of the Trail from Hell. Here you see me descending into either mud, a giant hole, a decaying log or the root-strewn “trail”

As we turned off of the dirt road past Lake Kachess, I realized that the best was yet to come (and I say that with sarcasm.) The Trail from Hell, appropriately named, is the slowest section of the race, with rad ultraunner Gary Robbins finishing the six mile section in a section record of 1 hour 19 minutes. Nick, myself and a friendly San Fransisco area runner we bumped into would take more than two hours through here. I worked my way down steep descents, over unruly roots and across logs that had fallen directly across the trail. At times I felt myself waver, teetering  close to the cliff that dropped off several dozen feet to the river below (or so it looked in the dim light.) Towards the end, Jack ran ahead and we heard him yell “bees!” Nick yelled at me to run (coincidentally, we’re both allergic to bee and wasp stings), and I knew that getting stung here would be a potential race ruiner. We jumped across a creek and the bees seemed to lose interest. Eventually we noticed the sudden cluster of orange markings, which could mean only one thing: we were close!

At the Mineral Creek aid station, we grabbed my drop bag where I had placed a pie and some sort of special dark chocolate I had picked up–my reward food, if you will. I sat down by a heater lamp and reveled in the deliciousness of the sweet pie. Minutes later, I was thoroughly warmed and had eaten the entire personal pie. Nick gave me ten more seconds to warm myself before he kicked me out of the aid station and into the cool hours of the early morning. It would still be several more miles until morning and the fatigue had begun.

Mineral Creek to the Finish (75-100):

Having reached mile 75, I figured that barring any extreme injury, I would be finishing the race. That said, it was early morning and I suddenly felt incredibly tired. “Quick–what’s something we can fight about to stay awake?” I laughed, but Nick answered his own question by deciding to talk about who we could and couldn’t invite to our wedding sometime next year. It worked for a while, arguing again about Nick’s idea of having a bridal party run up the side of a mountain in order to get to the wedding, and we continued to hike the the gradual climb, taking two minute-long dirt naps–the only naps Nick would allow.

Taking a dirt nap

Taking a dirt nap

Each time I awoke, however, I felt vaguely refreshed and hiked on, eager to reach No Name Ridge. As the sky lightened and the clouds turned all purple and pink and the horizon glowed the deepest orange I’ve seen, we reached the top.

Sunrise creeping in

Sunrise creeping up

The aid station had been decked out in an obvious German theme, but my eyes glazed over all of that and went straight to the huckleberry pancakes cooking on the griddle. I ate three, and took three to go, thanked the wonderful volunteers and then we were off to chase the sun to Mt. Thorpe and the Cardiac Needles, all of which were as promised: steep. The first miles moved up and down and I swore we had already summited Thorpe somewhere in those first climbs, but when we actually reached Thorpe, I realized just how wrong I had been. I wasn’t feeling great at this point, so I put my head down and focused on what I could do well–climb–and eventually reached the top. Not surprisingly, it was very, very worth it.

Descending Thorpe Mountain

Descending Thorpe Mountain

The views were extraordinary, and Mt. Rainier was shining to the southwest, but I knew there were still miles to cover so down we went again.


Going up one of the Cardiac Needles

The Cardiac Needles weren’t so bad–they were steep, and the downhill hurt, but it wasn’t until we were coming off of the backside of the third climb that some despair set in as I saw French Cabin, the 89.2 mile aid station, hundreds of feet below. More downhill…there was little to do but take it one painful step at a time.

At French Cabin, I was handed a plateful of scrambled eggs which I took a few bites of and then passed to Nick. We needed to get going and while we would no longer make my original time goal of sub-24 hours (more on that later), I wanted to finish strong. The remaining 11 miles were more than I had bargained for, and as we wound down through gorgeous forest, tiny creeks trickling through and dark-eyed juncos flashing from tree to tree, I continued to feel worse. Each step made me cringe as pain radiated from my feet and ankles and up to my knees. At times I tried to run, but the downhill and technical trail made that almost impossible. Add to that, my good friend Rib Pain was coming out to say hello for the first time of the race, which meant that I slowed even further. All of these added together made me feel embarrassed in a sense, though that’s pretty silly to think now. Whether I was running off of fuel or anger, I’m not sure, but eventually the trail became very steep and I knew we were only a mile or two from the bottom. The final aid station was a blur as I whipped through, thankful to be on flat ground. Where any speed comes at mile 96 of a race, I don’t know, but we ran the last 4 miles–on trail and road and airstrip landings and finally back through the town of Easton–going sub-8 minute miles, the fastest I had run since the Snoqualmie Tunnel.

The finish line was in the distance, and though I had moved slowly down that last section, I had nearly caught up with Jack Hsueh, our San Fransisco runner, towards the end. He crossed under the Cascade Crest 100 Endurance Run ark ahead of me and suddenly it was my turn and I held hands with Nick and we crossed under and I finished!

At the finish

At the finish

Fun Facts

Bee Stings: 0

Bears: 1

Rodents: 4

Food: 4 Muir Energy gels, half a watermelon, two avocados, an orange, 4 slices of artisan artichoke-pesto pizza, 1 slice of margherita pizza, a mini homemade sweet basil and honey pie, scrambled eggs, black figs, butternut squash soup, Jun kombucha, blueberries, six huckleberry pancakes, three packages of caffeinated reishi mushroom tea and too many boiled potatoes with salt.

Finish Time: 27 hours, 30 minutes

Sub 24-hour goal: Not Achieved

Acceptance of not achieving goal: A-Okay


Going into this race, I had the ever elusive sub-24 hour goal in mind, but I did little research as to whether or not this was attainable for me.

Was it? Maybe. 

Would it have been better to set a more realistic goal, given my inexperience running 100-milers? Yes! 

Having the (self-imposed) time pressure of a clock ultimately broke me down towards the end of the race, and only Nick can tell you how humiliated I felt for failing myself. It’s only with hindsight that I can now enjoy the final sections of the course, as though reviewing the imagery in my mind. At the time, I was too wrapped up in my missed goal to see how lucky I was to be back in the Northwest, having Nick pace me and feed me and care for me for a whole 46 miles in one of the prettiest areas of the world.

Failing is a hard lesson, but a necessary one. Next time: more fun, less pressure!

Ultimately, I’ll keep chasing my goal, but I’ll be stopping along the way to enjoy the floats-down-the-rivers and camping-under-the-stars of the ultra running journey.

Thank you to RD Rich White and interim-RD Adam Hewey, along with the countless volunteers who spent their days filling smelly camelbaks and their nights freezing atop the Cascades and feeding cold runners pancakes and coffee. Thank you to Glenn Tachiyama for capturing my experience at CC100 with his beautiful photography skills and thank you also to the friends new and old who helped pass the miles. Most especially, thank you to Nick for caring for me more than I cared for myself at times.

Cascade Crest 100, you’re a stunner!

Belt buckle #2

Belt buckle #2












Amsterdam: Where to Run in the City of Canals, Weed & Poffertjes

Amsterdam probably doesn’t come to mind when you think about running; if you’re confined to a city, then surely one where bikes outnumber people nearly 2 to 1, coffeeshops (not what you think they are) are found on every corner, and tourists flock to some of the best museums doesn’t come to mind.

Nick and I recently spent two weeks in Amsterdam, enjoying everything from Indonesian food  to wandering the Red Light District, but we still made time to run. Luckily, if you’re willing to rent a bike or jog your way around a few bikes, then Amsterdam can be a great place to run. Here’s our list of the best places to get off of your bike and onto your own two feet:

1. Westerpark


Located directly west of the city center and adjacent to the bustling, boutique-filled Haarlemerstraat, Westerpark is home to a variety of festivals throughout the summer and one of the more convenient parks to access from the city center. More than 4 miles of trail, both paved and unpaved, skirt the grassy fields. Additionally, there are several exercise stations, ponds, and two (very small) hills. Westerpark is typically quiet in the mornings, but you will see the resident rabbits, a variety of birds including gray herons, jackdaws, and even bright green rose-ringed parakeets flocking from tree to tree. If you go on weekend afternoons, don’t expect there to be much grass left. On average, Dutch people work the least in the world and when they’re not working, they’re probably hanging out in the masses at the local parks–for good reason, too. They’re that nice!

Tempo workouts, fartleks and even hill repeats are a great choice for this park. Afterwards, head on over to Haarlemerstraat for coffee and a croissant at Two for Joy Coffee, or walk a few blocks further to Jay’s Juices for any one of his healthy and delicious concoctions.

2. Rembrandt Park


Photo by Flickr user Matthew Pennell

West of the city, Rembrandt Park is bigger (and quieter) than both Westerpark and the popular Vondelpark. If you’re looking for peace, a plethora of trails and picturesque trails, Rembrandt Park is the perfect fit. The easiest way to get there from city center is to travel through Vondelpark and continue west.

If you’re running from city center, a loop around Rembrandt Park might be all you need to chalk up 6-8 miles. There are several fun playgrounds here, so save time for exploring. The ponds throughout the park host a variety of waterbirds. Locals come here to relax with a  good book, practice yoga, or play with their dogs. Nick proposed to me here in this park, so I can guarantee it’s a stunning location, especially when the sun is shining.

3. Amsterdamse Bos


When Nick and I arrived in Amsterdam, we immediately pulled out a map to look for green space. While the parks provided small sections, Amsterdamse Bos, southwest of city center, had A LOT. So, we headed there. It’s best to ride your bikes to the bos–literally translated as forest–as it covers more than 1,000 hectares; in other words, it’s three times the size of Central Park in New York City! While there are several marked trails and loops to follow, exploring the park without a guide may yield the best rewards. A goat farm lies in the middle of the forest, but expect to find several bridges, a dog park, creative art sculptures, a Fun Forest that includes zip lining, balance challenges and a ropes course, as well as several restaurants and sports centers along the perimeter. During the summer months, several big festivals are held here, too.

This park is best suited for long runs in order to capitalize on the gorgeous terrain, but fartleks and tempos work great here, too. The one thing that doesn’t work so well? Hill repeats…this area is flat!

4. Ultra Path Netherlands


This 154 km (96 mile) trail was created by Han Savelkoel; his idea was to walk the route on the longest day of the year, when sunlight hours were at their peak. Ultra runner Michiel Panhuysen ran the route unsupported in a time of 26 hours, 23 minutes. Most recently, three runners bested Michiel’s time by just over 3 hours to finish in 23 hours, 19 minutes. While I don’t recommend that you run the whole thing during your vacation, (or, really, any time you don’t have more than a day to devote entirely to running), parts of the route are extremely beautiful. I ran the first third, which runs through a mix of forest, expansive fields and country roads. The route is entirely UNMARKED, so be sure to download the GPS route in order to navigate.

GPS Route:

This route is best suited for a long endurance run. Ensure you bring plenty of water and food, as there’s little available along the way.

5. Amsterdam Center


Perhaps this is the most obvious choice: why not run in Amsterdam when you’re visiting the city of fantastic museums, saucy red light districts, fresh herring, fluffy poffertjes, and stunning canals? Some streets are better suited to running than others, and a careful eye for oncoming bikes and motorcycles that will ring, honk or yell is necessary. Start by choosing a destination, then follow any street that leads you there. A willingness to take it easy and enjoy the sights, not to mention stay in potentially sweating clothes, is handy, too. After checking out the Van Gogh or Heineken Museums, grab a bite to eat before jogging back.

Amsterdam is best suited for walking or biking, of course, but a casual jog can be a smart way to cover as much ground as possible–after all, we’re here for to see the city. Oh–and eat poffertjes.

Photo by Flickr user Cheryl Foong

Photo by Flickr user Cheryl Foong

Have you been to Amsterdam? Which parks or locations would you recommend?



Holcomb Valley Trail Run: My 33-Mile Race Report

In preparation for Cascade Crest 100 at the end of August, I’ve started incorporating higher volumes in my weekly training. While I was looking forward to a long solo run this weekend in San Diego, the appeal of running with others in Big Bear was too strong. So, like any sane person, I signed up for the race five days before and with a whole lot of mileage on my legs.

After several weekends of travel, Nick and I opted to sleep at home the night before the race and set our alarms early to knock out the drive. By 3:45 a.m. we were stumbling around our apartment, pouring hot tea and scooping our still-sleeping dog, Cashew, out of the bed and into the Subaru. Nick drove, as usual. I’m lucky in that we’re both good drivers, and luckier still that Nick offered to drive so I could doze off as we wound our way up to Big Bear.

By 7 a.m. we had arrived; I went to pick up my bib as Nick chatted to some friends. As I pinned my bib to the front of my shirt, I thought about my personal goals for the race, then of Nick’s recent experience at Cruel Jewel (read here) on the idea of expectation.


Relaxing in my INKnBURN droid hoodie.

By 7:30 a.m., the day had already begun to warm and the RD was yelling at us to go! and we were running alone the paved road leading out from Meadows Edge Picnic Ground and towards Cougar Crest trail. From the start I found myself near the front. I chatted briefly with Kodiak Race Director Matt Smith, then heard my name as our friend, Tom Worthington, caught up to me. As the trail began to asscend, however, he bounded ahead. I felt comfortable going up the first climb, especially because this was one of the few trails that Nick and I had actually hiked in Big Bear. Immediately the views were beautiful, too, though I had little time look up because of the awkward steps and jagged stones along the trail. By the time I reached the first aid station just before mile 4, I felt surprisingly strong and fresh; whatever pains and nags I had complained about on the drive out had disappeared and I was looking forward to a day of running.


Leaving the aid station at mile 4.

As I left the aid station, I saw Nick run up with Cashew. “I didn’t think you’d be this fast!” Nick yelled as he snapped some pictures. “I’ll see you in a while! Love you!” I didn’t have time to stop, nor did I need to. The next five or six miles turned us down an undulating fire road, the gravel so white that I had to squint to see properly. Over the next few miles I ran alongside a few runners who I’d pass and get passed by, depending on if we were running flat, downhill or uphill.  There were a few moments where I briefly started calculating just how far I’d have to go–the distance never gets any easier to wrap my mind around–but I’d attempt to replace those thoughts with something else: time to eat, Jade or I want to see a snake or I hope Nick’s seeing cool birds right now. As the route brought us in and out of single track and firewood, I started to feel really good, and a pace that once wasn’t entirely comfortable began to feel sustainable, easy even. At the mile-11 aid station, I finally grabbed a slice of pineapple and some watermelon as the route brought us back onto single track, this time going mostly uphill. Through this up-down section I struggled with my old friend, rib pain (see my Old West 50K race report where it also happened, here), and stopped a few times to focus on stretching and massaging my stomach to calm the spasming muscle.

A glimpse of some of the stunning single track

A glimpse of some of the stunning single track.

By the time mile 15 came around, I was excited to see Nick! I stopped long enough to down some more watermelon slices and a few berries that Nick had brought for me, then continued onwards. The day was heating up by this point, and while the single track was pretty–dotted with Jeffrey pines and low-lying lupine and the occasional Indian paintbrush that I continually mistook for the bright orange ribbons that marked the course–I suddenly felt myself falling into a low. There were some runners several minutes ahead of me, and I knew there were a few people behind me, but I had come to terms with the fact that I wouldn’t know where the other female runners were during the race. As such, I had to keep moving if I didn’t want a surprise attack. I slipped on my headphones, hoping to revive myself with music, but it only made me feel hotter. I felt dizzy, too, and stopped a few times to refocus my energy, taking care to breath deeply and trying to infuse myself with positive thoughts. I continued to run/walk myself to the top of the crest, then, excited to hit a long downhill, hurried down to the aid station at mile 21. In the last section I had seen only one other runner, a man who was running the race entirely in sandals. Whereas he was faster than me on the climbs, he struggled on the descents covered with loose scree. I filed this in the back of my mind if it came close at the end of the race, passed him, then hurried down to see Nick again.

More beautiful scenery–there's never an "ugly" part of this race, especially for someone who has always lived at sea level! Big Bear is lovely.

More beautiful scenery–there’s never an “ugly” part of this race, especially for someone who has always lived at sea level!

Coming towards the Gold Mountain area at mile 21 and stoked to see Nick.

Coming towards the Gold Mountain area at mile 21 and stoked to see Nick.

I took some time here to refuel myself with even more watermelon, potatoes with salt and the rest of a kombucha Nick had brought. As I was getting ready to leave the aid station, another runner inquired about the next section of the course.

“It’s 4 miles, all uphill!” He laughed. I didn’t think the joke was so funny, so rather than dwell on the fact that my legs weren’t in the mood, thanked the volunteers, and just started.

Surprisingly, as the miles clicked by and I climbed back up and over the mountain, I began to feel strong again. I zeroed in on the runners ahead of me, and I made it my mission to not stop running until I reached them. Generally, by the time I reached them I felt stronger for having accomplished my goal and continued to settle into a pace that felt sustainable. As the route flattened out and took us back onto a monotonous fire road, I saw Matt Smith up ahead, so I ran with him a bit to talk, before taking off and hurrying to the aid station.  I saw Nick one last time before the finish at the mile 27 aid station; he slathered sunscreen onto my pink shoulders and sent me out quickly.

Running in to the last crew-accessible aid station, at mile 27. Cashew wanted to join along for a bit.

Running in to the last crew-accessible aid station, at mile 27. Cashew wanted to join along for a bit!

The next mile was all uphill, though rolling, so I hustled up the hill at whatever speed my legs would take me. With so few miles left in the race, I suddenly started to feel confident to think that I could win the race, that I could be first female.

At mile 28 of the race, I was tired and overheated, a sunburn penetrating my shoulders and a rash developing under my arms (you’ll know what I mean if you shave, then use natural deodorants made of clay and baking soda) and yet I felt as though I had proved a point to myself. That, in some way, I was no longer the girl who came dead last at her track & field events in middle school, nor begged for excuse notes to avoid field hockey, nor was the clumsiest ballet dancer in her class despite having the genetically “ideal” ballet body type. If I wanted to be, I could be athletic.

I thought back to high school, where my private school, Relevant High (so small that I graduated with a class of 10 other students) had no extracurricular activities, let alone sports teams, which was all right with me. Though I did very well in school, had skipped grade 10, and geeked out on books and animals, every report card I had ever received had pinned me as a very average student in P.E. “Needs to participate more,” was a frequent comment. I thought about college, where even though I joined Fairhaven Runners bi-weekly running club, scaling the foothills behind Lake Padden in Bellingham, Washington, or running the stretch to Teddy Bear Cove at dusk and returning in the dark, headlights blazing like coyote eyes along the Interurban Trail, I didn’t call myself a runner. And then I thought about how I nixed the possibility of joining the cross country team at Western Washington University, as though anyone else actually cared how fast or how slow I was running. As though if I wasn’t fast I couldn’t be an athlete, let alone athletic.

By the time I met Nick, I didn’t call myself a runner. I lifted weights, and took ballroom dance lessons, and biked everywhere, but I didn’t really run. Yet less than four years later, I was running a 33-mile race, the lead female and feeling strong within myself, outside of anyone or anything.

As I continued to climb, no one surrounding me but the odd PCT hiker waving hello, nothing to hear but the chatter of woodpeckers and flycatchers in the hollowed, hole-punched snags, nothing to entertain myself but the single track littered with jagged rocks and nothing to smell but the vanilla scent of sun-warmed Jeffrey pines, I realized that the only limiting factor in how I defined myself was, of course, myself.

So, I did what I most wanted to do in that moment and I ran hard. While I knew I wouldn’t be grabbing the female course record (in the 5:20s), a goal that had been on my radar from the start, I figured it was a good motivator to get as close to it as I could. I’ve never been a strong downhill runner, but as I crested the top of Cougar Crest and began my descent, I pushed.  At 31 miles in, I had no room left for prudence. I was already tired, nearly out of water and certainly ready to finish the race. So, in the words of Nick, I bombed the downhill, ran through the parking lot and finished in 5 hours, 38 minutes–first female and 11th overall!


“Stop running, Jade! You’re done!”


My first time on an actual podium!

I congratulated our friend, Tom, who finished in 6th (go, Tom!), ate some more watermelon ( know…),then washed myself off in Big Bear Lake.


Washing off salt and sweat.

Thank you to all the volunteers who helped to make this a fun, safe race and to the community of Big Bear for sharing the trails! As always, thank you to the most supportive person of all, Nick–for the long drives where I get to pass out in the passenger seat, for the thoughtful drinks and snacks supplied at the aid stations and for being my biggest cheerleader no matter the outcome.

For more information, check out the Holcomb Valley Trail Run website here.