Disclaimer: This race was long as hell. I tried to keep everything in the proper spot on the timeline, but when a race lasts forever and simultaneously becomes the quickest race of your life…so fast, in fact, that you wonder if you truly even DID it (and wonder if it was maybe a fever dream once you settle into a real bed)…some things become muddled.

In July of this past year I was blessed with an opportunity from For All Mothers+ and Strava where I received a grant worth $2,000 dollars to go out and race. This grant would cover the cost of childcare, travel, anything to help me compete in an event of my choice. With such a unique opportunity, I decided to set my sights on something that, as a mother, would be logistically “impossible” without the help of financial assistance: a six-day race in Pheonix, Arizona. Travel would be covered, the race fee would be covered, and my nutrition would be covered. I am so grateful to For All Mothers+ and Strava for giving me the funds necessary to put myself to the test and to give me the opportunity to attend an event of this magnitude in which I was able to learn so many things to apply to my own racing as well as my coaching.

I’m trying to keep the pre-race background information brief this time because the actual race content will be so lengthy. Those who have been following my story on social media are aware of the recent struggles I’ve had with my health, low B12 and copper. It has been detrimental to both my mental and physical health and has affected me greatly as a runner. It took everything from me, including my steady gait. I tripped and fell often, one ending a race that I had been running. I was shaky, twitchy, anxious (to the point that I had to be admitted into a mental health program for my OCD), numb, and generally deteriorating. It’s hard to describe what I went through in the fall. Driving through Arizona, we came to the town of Jerome, known for copper mining. I like a good coincidence, and Arizona being known as the copper state and the location of what I hoped to be a great return to running felt promising.

The day before packet pickup, Erik and I drove with the kids to Peoria Sports Complex to look at what the course would be like. Upon pulling in, I felt as though I had been there before. The San Diego Padres signs and the ballfields and open space of it all brought back distant memories from about 15-20 years ago of a ballgame that I attended with my Aunt Julie and the rest of my family. I quickly texted my dad because I assumed I was imagining this memory, but to my surprise, he verified that I had been there with her. My aunt passed away almost 10 years ago. Her heart and the lessons she pressed upon me about self-love compelled me to name my daughter after her. I was so thrilled at the concept of running around the memory I had of her for a full six days and felt empowered because I knew she would be cheering me on if she were still alive.

My sister, my cousin, myself, and my Aunt Julie.

The following day, Benji and I picked up our packets. Benji is my 6-year-old son. He ran a 5k with me this past November and found that he truly enjoyed running longer races (not just the 100-meter dash that kids sports typically allow). Aravaipa, the company that puts on Across the Years, was willing to let him run with me so I signed him up for the six hour event on the first day of the race. This would allow him the time to gather whatever miles he wanted, either running with or without me, running entire laps, walking entire laps, or doing a combo of the two with playtime in between.

When the day of the race arrived, Benji and I got into our running gear while Erik prepared the tent. We waited around the starting line, towards the front (as Benji felt was necessary) and countless people came up to Benjamin to get fist bumps and high fives. The general excitement that the entire camp had for him was amazing, and I know he felt that energy as the clock began to count down to our 9 am start. He got a Garmin this year, so we both got our watches ready and as 9 struck, we both started our watches as we crossed the start line into the first day (and first hour) of the event.

(This is the part where I break away from talking about Benji. I am so, so proud of him and I very much want to gush about how his first ultra event went, but I will not tell his story for him. I don’t put my children on social media because I want them to be able to tell the world about their lives in their own words. If you would like to know how his race went, ask him! He would love to tell you.)

My first 50 miles were a standard 50-mile day for me. The intervals my coach decided on were 30 minutes running, 15 minutes walking. I didn’t heat train for this race, so when the midday sun came at me, it came with a vengeance. I melted. I ended up taking a short break with Erik and the kids before they left for the day, then got back out onto the course. The sun had begun to fade a little at this point and with the less intense heat, I could feel a second wind coming on that I helped along the way with a little bit of caffeine.

I didn’t talk to many people that day, but as I passed them on the course when I got this second wind, everybody was really encouraging, learning my name, making jokes to me about “getting speeding tickets”. The vibe was amazing. Everybody was going their own pace--some walking, some running, some shuffling--and everybody was cheering each other on. We saw each other frequently because this little loop we were running on was only 1.42 miles. I did learn some names as I ran by and tried to memorize bibs.

I had my first of a few conversations with Lisamarie Fosdal-Griffin, an amazing ultrarunner who I had looked at on Ultrasignup. I knew she could put up huge numbers at an event like this. She was so kind and I couldn’t wait to pick her brain a bit. I told her about my plans for the event and asked her opinion on my plans, which she agreed sounded solid. I wanted to talk to her more, but I was riding a high and married to my intervals, so I figured we could catch up when I had another walking interval.

When I had signed up for this race, I didn’t know who was going to be there that day, but as the months ticked by and I kept checking the entrants list, I saw a name pop up that had me nearly fall out of a moving vehicle: Ann Trason.

Ann Trason and her story at Leadville and her love for the sport are what made me wonder what ultrarunning was all about. Reading about her made me curious about what it felt like to run 100 miles. When you talk about the greatest ultrarunners in history, Ann tops the list. She set 20 world records, she won Western States 14 times, and held course records for decades at major ultra running events. I’m not sure there’s anything I can truly share here to cover the magnitude of her athleticism in a concise manner, so I won’t go further than that.

I had my first conversation with Ann on the first day. I was a little nervous to start conversation with her during the first 10-11 hours (initiating conversation with your hero is…difficult), so it wasn’t until late that I was able to talk to her. During one of my walking intervals, I approached her and said hello. She greeted me politely, and as I began talking she pulled out her earbuds (oops). I told her that she had met my children and husband and gave a brief description of them.

“Oh, yes!” she said, “I DID meet them, your husband is SO NICE!”

Of course she loves Erik. OF COURSE Erik got to her before I could. I wanted to talk to her about running, be she continued talking about him instead, and the conversation took a turn that made me quite emotional.

“He is so proud of you. The way he talks about you, he just oozes pride. He’s just so PROUD.”

I got choked up, both at the race and as I am typing this, when she began talking about her own experiences in contrast with mine, and I got reminded about how lucky I am to have a supportive husband, who has dreams that directly lock in with mine, because whatever I dream of also becomes what he dreams of.

“Do you think I could run 100 miles?” I asked him in December of 2020, just one month after my first half marathon.

“I think you can do anything you want to do,” was his answer.

Those were the words that started my ultra running journey.

People began to swarm around Ann, so I said my goodbyes and told her that we would speak again.

I ended up running my 50 miles in about 11.5 hours, then walked an additional few loops until I decided to head back to my tent, where I had dinner and relaxed on my cot. Erik and the kids were staying with his brother and their cousins, so I was alone on what should have been a quiet evening.

The first night was crazy. The wind sounded like it was blowing everything over outside, and no matter how far into my tent I moved my cot, the sides of the tent would still slap against it. The tent walls rippled and howled all night, as did the people outside who would run by and yell about things blowing away and blowing over. I was certain the hat I had left on my table was long gone by 11 pm.

I laid motionless in my tent for about 8 hours, mostly awake, but pretending to sleep. I was hoping I would be able to trick my body into feeling well-rested the next day. Altogether, I probably got two hours of very broken sleep, but 8 solid hours off my feet was still good news to me.

At 5:30 am on day two, I got up and started getting ready to run again. My plan was to hopefully finish a little earlier on this day and get some extra miles in by walking until about 9 pm, when I decided I would be going to bed each night.

I had a little something to eat, got my pack on, and started my intervals for the day, again aiming for that 50 miles. That morning, I met a man named Jim Miller, who let me know that I had won both best hair and best mile for the event, which was a great way to start my morning. I knew I had run a little too fast on day 1, but I was just there to have fun, so I appreciated the laughs about it.

I ran into Lisamarie again and got to talk to her a little more about my plans in further detail. She gave me some advice, to prioritize rest and shorten my run/walk intervals, which I did end up doing. I switched on this day to a 10 minute run and 5 minute walk interval, though I wonder if I should have gone even shorter.

Lisamarie Fosdal-Griffin dishing out the much-needed advice.

Erik came at about the same time that the sun was going to be at its hottest for the day, so I decided to rest during that time. I was so exhausted that when I sat in the cot, I simply had to lie down and couldn’t hold my head up. I wanted to sleep so bad. Erik took Julie (the only kid he brought that day) out to get me some lunch while I tried to sleep a little bit, but once again it eluded me. I thought about taking some Benadryl in the evening, even texted my coach (Adam Ferdinandson of CTS) about it, but we both decided it was best to just allow things to play out with my body.

This was the day that I met Sarah Forman, another coach with Team RunRun. It was such a surprise when we figured out that we worked with the same running company! We shared a few laps together, discussed coaching, and then went our separate ways.

This was also the first day that I connected with Zerek Zimmerman, who immediately became a friend. We discussed goals, blisters, how the night prior went, and other niceties. He suggested I head over to the med tent to get my blisters taken care of, but stubborn as I was, I popped them myself anyway and bandaged them up. I had a LOT of blisters this day.

Erik brought me some crocs and after I completed my 50 miles for the day, I slipped them on and walked slowly for a couple of hours to grab a few extra miles before hitting the tent again to reset for day three. This brought me up to 105 miles total.

Night two was slightly better, still broken up, but not so horrible as the previous night. I had gotten to bed a little earlier that day, so I decided to set my alarm for 4:30 the next morning and walk until 6 am hit, when I would begin my intervals again.

When I woke up at 4:30, it was with a TON of pain in my head. Familiar with how my races go if I play around with migraines, I popped a Ubrelvy immediately and began getting ready for the day. I thought it was odd to get a migraine when I hadn’t had any symptoms indicating that one would be coming, but I was also beginning day 3 of a six-day race, and the whole environment was new to me. I carried on.

I started with 20 miles of easy movement, going nice and slow and waiting for the medicine to kick in. I didn’t want to do anything to further irritate my nervous system. Unfortunately, fate for the day would say otherwise. Luckily, my migraine was relieved shortly before the major nervous breakdown I was scheduled to have.

I popped into my tent to do…something. I went in and out of my tent so many times for so many reasons across the event that I can’t place why I was there to begin with, but as I exited my tent, I saw the women who had put up her tent across from me speaking on the phone and holding tissues soaked in blood. Slowly, I approached her tent.

“Are you okay?” I asked her. She made a movement to indicate that she thought so, but wasn’t entirely sure.

“Do you want me to get the medic?” I asked.

She continued her phone conversation, and I tried my best to decipher both her body language and the half of the conversation I was getting. I knew she needed more paper towels but couldn’t reach them, so I helped her grab some, and stood at the ready for whatever else she might need.

Nosebleeds at ultra events…in the dryness of Arizona, I knew they could be normal, but we also know I’m cautious. I told her I was going to get the medic and started jogging away…that’s when I saw the drop of blood on my hand.

First, I want to say that my reaction to this blood had nothing to do with the woman who was bleeding. Having OCD, my mind jumps to the worst possible scenario immediately. My own child could bleed on me, and I would be worried about bloodborne pathogens and my risk of death. Right now, my OCD is entirely out of control. I can no longer touch doorknobs with my bare hand, drink water out of a container that I didn’t first investigate, or touch anything I find outside on the ground. My reaction to this situation is fueled purely by my mental illness. The woman in question was a joy to share the course with, I do not regret helping her, and I’m pleased to say that she ended up winning her event overall and I saw her shortly after she crossed the finish line, where I was able to share a hug with her and congratulate her. She is a truly incredible athlete.

I ran into the restroom and washed my hands quickly, but it wasn’t enough. I continued running to the medics, stopping at another restroom along the way and washing my hands again. When I finally reached the medics, I told them what had happened at this woman’s tent and one of them set off to help.

I looked at the other one, for an extended period of time.

“Okay,” I breathed, “I have OCD.”

She nodded.

“I got a drop of blood on my finger, right here,” I pointed as tears began to fill my eyes, and my breath left my body, “Am I going to get a bloodborne disease? Please tell me that I’ll be okay. I washed my hands twice. I’ll wash them again.”

My finger hovered in the air as she looked at it, and I continued to speak through my panic.

“The chances of her having an illness, her blood landing in the exact spot that you have open skin, and you getting the illness is astronomically low. There is no broken skin here. You will be fine.”

“Okay,” I breathed through my tears. I thanked her and went on my way, still crying, washed my hands twice more, and walked a loop to calm myself down.

Erik called me to let me know when he’d be arriving and asked me if I was okay. I replied that I wasn’t.

I excused myself to take a shower for good measure.

I also got my period. Yes, for those who know, it does seem like I have it for every race.

This was the first point that my muscles began to hurt and I entered what could be considered the pain cave. I think it’s worth noting that it occurred after an emotional event. Emotional flatness is important in events like this. Until I lost control of my mind, I had control of my body.

In these events, lows don’t last. In my prior races, I have been known to have a lot of really high highs and really low lows. This usually revolves around caffeine intake, sunrise/sunset, the introduction of a “new character”, or the DNF of a “main character”. After running for six days, I’ve learned control where on the spectrum I am.

Hoping to pull myself out of my slump, I took some caffeine around mile 30 and started to speed around the course, running past Lisamarie who noted that I looked so happy, describing my eyes as saucers. It was true, I was so happy (seemingly in the blink of an eye from where I was prior). I love running with the wind in my hair, and I was absolutely riding a high.

After the caffeine calmed down, I finished the remainder of my miles for the day, struggling through my first brush with shin pain that would last for the remainder for the event. By the time I was able to call it a day, I was relieved.

As I began my walking for the night, I saw Ann Trason again, coming out of her tent. We walked and talked together for about 45 minutes, and I heard a lot of her thoughts on certain topics. I really appreciated this private time I got with Ann, after the sun went down and many of the runners were resting. She asked me a bit about my racing, how I was feeling, and what I was trying to do at the race. We discussed some of her lived experiences and got to laugh at each other’s jokes. It was so special to be able to have this one-on-one time with someone I have looked up to for years. When I told her about my troubles with my shin, I was surprised with her response.

“Well, you know, goals are malleable.”

I looked out into the horizon when she said this. Ann Trason was telling me that goals are malleable. The very woman that I thought for sure would be all about pushing through the pain.

“I guess they are,” I replied.

Our conversation continued, and eventually we parted ways as I headed back to my tent to sleep for the night. I spent a lot of time thinking about what the difference would be between giving up on a goal and simply changing the goal due to circumstance. After much deliberation, I decided that my new goal would be to pace and get only the mileage I had to each day, hopefully stretching out the clock that I knew my legs were suddenly on.

I had never felt pain in my shins before. This was new. It wasn’t over yet, but it might be soon.

On day 4, I woke up early again and my feet hit the ground, which sent pain up my shins and through my knee as I started to walk. I knew I had banked mileage and that I had time before the “9 am start” that technically rounded out the 24 hours of day 3, so I decided to walk the first ten miles that day.

There was an emergency, though, named Aunt Flo. The first day of my period wasn’t bad, but it started getting to be…a bit much. I texted Erik that I needed him to bring me something--stat--because I couldn’t go more than one and a half hours without having to change and clean myself up at this point.

After 9 am hit, I went into a 6 mile run/walk. I met Shelly Hess and her boyfriend Jose Llanos, who, after I shared my woes, offered to help me with a foot and shin massage. It helped significantly, and I walked away extremely thankful.

I also bought a pair of shoes from Mount to Coast as a Hail Mary to help get me through the event.

32 miles of walking and running then ensued, with frequent meetups with Zerek Zimmerman, who encouraged me to keep pushing even though I was frequently on the verge of tears.

Zerek Zimmerman, who has joined my Salton Sea Team for 2027.

“Don’t start that,” he’d say, and go into a motivational speech, which at this point, I was in desperate need of. I wasn’t sure I was worth a single shit at this point. I felt LOW.

All miles were spent crying on whoever would allow me to cry on them. Zerek, Lisamarie, and Sarah got a lot of tears, as well as a handful of strangers who would ask how I was feeling. Whoever asked about me received some of my tears that day. It was my lowest point of the race.

This was New Year’s Eve. I got more foot massage, threw on tons of KT tape, saw the massage therapist multiple times, and tried to pull myself together because I knew there was a celebration later that I was excited to attend. I wanted to run from 2025 to 2026. Shelly, Sarah, Jose, and Raul Martin had invited me to celebrate with them that evening. Shelly even gave me a lucky frog and put some sparkles on my face, which reminded me of when my sister did my makeup when we were younger.

I hit 200 miles that day, and hobbled in pain back to my tent after gathering 42 miles for the day instead of a full 50. I wanted to be smart and only do what I had to do to stay on track. The plan was to get some sleep, wake up around 11 and find the others to celebrate, but when my head hit the pillow after a drastically long loop, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get up. I couldn’t walk right anymore. Each step had to be made carefully. I was exhausted. I messaged Sarah and told her that I wouldn’t be able to make it and fell into a deep sleep until my 5 am wakeup the next day, the whole time hopeful that I would miraculously feel better.

Day 5 I awoke and felt an immediate sense of determination to push through this event, and that determination took the form of walking. I decided that no matter how I felt on day 5, I would walk the entire day with the hopes of feeling better on day 6 and being able to run again. I so desperately wanted to get back to running. I walked for a few hours and then scheduled myself to see the massage therapist again, where we discussed strategy and what typically helps people last in events like this.

I learned that running 50 miles per day and trying to recover for a full night worked well until it didn’t anymore. It was much more important to keep an even level or exhaustion, working a little, sleeping a little. It makes me eager to go back and try the event again with a different approach.

I saw Zerek early that day and spent many miles walking with him and then later on, another “walking buddy” that he picked up. At this point, it was hard for me to keep up with their pace.

To describe the pain I was feeling is difficult. It was excruciating, and I don’t usually use that term. If I were to land on my foot wrong, pain would shoot up my shin and almost through all the bones in my body. It was horrible. I tried everything to ease it. Each night, I elevated my legs, I employed compression socs, KT tape, some muscle things that Shelly had given me that seemed to work wonders…everything seemed to help just enough to keep me moving, sometimes slowly, other times a little quicker.

I realized that I was still on track to complete the 300 mile goal that I had set for myself, so I was determined to walk 50 miles on this day.

“How are you feeling?” Shelly and Sarah would frequently ask me as they saw me around the course.

“I’m feeling like I’ll be running tomorrow!”

I think this was the most powerful part of the entire thing. I never, EVER gave up hope that I would return to running. Sometimes I would take a few test steps and try to break into a small jog, but I could feel my body breaking down beneath me…it was walk or give up.

I kept smiling, kept cheering people on, kept pushing through the horrible pain in my shins. Each time I passed Shelly and Jose’s tent, I would tell Jose as well that I was doing great and I would be running again in no time. Erik arrived sometime in the afternoon, but I told him that to stay on track, I couldn’t spare any time. I spent a small around of my time with him and went right back to walking.

The sun went down, and I continued to walk.

My usual 9 pm bedtime came, and I continued to walk.

I knew I entered the territory of pure grit when the hours past 9 pm ticked by and I continued to walk past people, who would clap as I went by. I wasn’t moving fast, but I continued loop after loop with a quiet determination to put in as many miles as I could.

When the hours got even later, perhaps 1 in the morning, after about 20 hours of walking, the world started to sway back and forth in front of me as if I were on a ship.

Oh shit, I thought.

I needed to get back to my tent immediately. The world in front of me was no longer stable. I was exhausted past my limits, and ready to fall right into the dirt. The five minute walk from where I was to my cot was a complete blur, all I remember was setting a one-hour timer and collapsing into the bed when I got there.

The timer went off, and I got back up and continued to walk. I had about 6 miles until I hit the 50 I was after for that day. After a couple more hours, I finally hit the mark, and passed out once again in my tent, for another hour.

After I woke up the second time, the realization sank in that I surely would not be running for the rest of the event. I left my tent, abandoned the pack I had been wearing for days, grabbed my water bottle, and began walking again, at a much faster pace than I had before.

The clock was ticking. I knew it was ticking, but I was still on track for 300. I mustered every bit of courage I had and continued to walk on my tired, busted leg. I felt like screaming, but I stuffed it deep inside and continued plowing through the miles.

“How are you feeling today?” the faces asked me.

“I’m in pain.” I would reply, and continue pushing further into the pain that was swallowing me. I was already there, and I knew at this point that I wasn’t coming out until the end of the event. No running, no feeling good, but if I could make it to 300, I would be elated.

I gave the thumbs up to Jose and Shelly as per usual, and the people who set up along the finish line. I saw Sarah, who was still running and looking absolutely amazing. Zerek and his other walking partner were looking great as well.

I kept walking for about three hours, and that’s when I felt it: the pain from my shin had traveled up my thigh. The adductor was suddenly tight and hurt when I made any wrong movements.

When the pain travels, it’s serious.

I stopped walking. I thought for a moment.

This is the end.

I continued walking again, slowly, knowing. I texted my coach.

As I walked past Shelly and Jose’s tent, he asked me how I was doing.

“I think I’m done,” I said as tears began to fill my eyes. All those hours walking, all the pain I had endured, was gone as quickly as someone could snap their finger. I couldn’t mess with pain that was traveling up my thigh, that hurt with movement the way it was hurting me with each step.

Jose offered me a seat in his tent, and verified that I was making the right call. When I make the decision to pull out of an event, I don’t do so prematurely. I knew my time had come, and Jose could tell as well by some means.

Shelly walked up to the tent and asked about the state I was in.

“I’m done,” I choked out, trying my best to not cry anymore.

But then Shelly started to cry, and brought me into a hug and just allowed me the space to sob my heart out.

Shelly Hess providing some much needed emotional support.

We started walking to the start/finish, where I was expected to cross it for the last time. I was overcome with emotion, good and bad, as we approached, and Shelly let me lean on her. I was being hard on myself for not being able to reach 300 miles when she asked me, “What would you say to one of your athletes if they did this?”

“I’d be so fucking proud,” I said and burst into tears.

It’s hard to explain why I was crying so hard, and as I approached the start/finish, Shelly fell behind to let me cross alone. I took a few steps forward, made it about 10-20 feet away from her, and was hit with the realization that once I crossed, it was really over.

The five days prior flashed before my eyes, all the laughter with Zerek, the pain I had endured, the support of Shelly and Jose, meeting Sarah, the support and encouragement from Lismarie, all the smiling faces I had met, laughed with, and cried with. There was enough emotion from the past five days to make me gasp, turn around, and walk back to Shelly, crying, for one final hug.

Then, it happened: Ann Trason began approaching the finish line for her 100th mile. Drying my tears, I knew I was about to witness history. We clapped and cheered her in. There were people flanking her to both the right and left as well as a large crowd behind her. The jester, Ed Ettinghausen, was blowing a train whistle. The crowd was marked with so many different people, young and old, all bearing witness to Ann’s 100-mile miracle. It was such a powerful moment that I was glad I was able to catch. I wanted to talk to her, but the swarm around her was large enough, so I continued on my way.

I started walking back to my tent with Jose and Shelly and Raul, who had some wise words for me when I saw the massage therapist once more. He offered to help me save my race one last time and I agreed that I would go with him to see if there was anything that he could do. This would get me another mile, anyway, and it meant that crossing the start/finish on the way back to Tent City was no longer my last time. I had at least one more slow, slow lap.

Walking back, Jose reminded me to trust my gut about whether I was done or not, encouraging me to trust my own decision making, which I appreciated. It was a group effort with tons of people to get me as far as I had gotten and it was difficult to imagine telling people that I wouldn’t continue if they thought I had more in me.

I got on the table and the massage therapist, Andre Lee, started poking around my shin after I told him that it hurt while I was at rest.

He bent my leg at the knee and pressed lightly just under my knee, “On a scale of one to ten, how does that feel?”

“Two,” I replied.

Two inches lower, he asked the same.

“Four.”

Two inches lower, six…eight…ten.

He paused, took a deep breath, and sat on the table.

I looked back at him, knowing what was coming.

“I think it’s probably time to call it,” he said.

The last bit of hope I had was obliterated. I was so hopeful that Andre would have the answer for me, a magical stretch or twist, some way to ease the pain, some way to keep me moving. There are some certain times, though, when enough is enough.

He directed me to the medics.

“Thank you,” I said as I walked out the door, turning around before completely walking out, “Do I owe you money for that?”

It was my attempt at a joke.

He told the medic what had happened, and I got some ice. Erik was on his way, so I gave him a call.

“Are you okay?” He asked.

“No,” I cried, and waited in the shadows for my family.

The kids didn’t understand why I was so emotional when I grabbed their hands and walked the final few feet to the finish line. I didn’t even understand why I was crying. There were so many reasons and so many emotions associated with finishing, but no relief. I though for sure that when I crossed the start/finish for the final time that I would feel relief. In actuality, I felt a mixture of sadness, grief, guilt, and pride.

My children helped me ring the PR bell with my new distance best of 261 miles.

Finishing such a long event is a really weird thing. You’re there forever, until you’re not. Packing up the tent that I had lived in for what seemed like endless months after my sense of time had warped entirely felt surreal. It was clear that we made a good call: After sitting for a brief moment, my muscles started to freeze up and I could no longer move my left leg. The next few days, unbeknownst to me, would entail me dragging the leg behind me, physically lifting it and placing it back down when it needed moved, and elevating it 24/7 so that the pain wouldn’t radiate all the way up my thigh.

I was relieved to see, that as Erik was packing things up, Ann was back at her tent. She had told Julie that she needed help getting a buckle, and that if she did in fact hit 100 miles, she would give Julie her little light up turtle that she went around the course with at night. Ann gave it to her when she saw us, along with handfuls of chocolate, and asked me how I was doing.

“I’m done, Ann,” I sighed, “I chose self-preservation over my 300 miles.”

“Good,” was her reply.

We talked for a while longer about the pain cave, which races were worth running, and where I should go next. It looks like High Lonesome, a difficult race at elevation in Colorado, will be on my calendar in the next few years.

“You’re an excellent runner,” are the words from her that I will never forget. In a moment where I was second-guessing myself, thinking what 260 miles wasn’t that far, feeling like I had failed, those words cut straight through it all. Ann, if you ever come across this by a miracle, thank you. That meant so much to me.

Erik had to put me in a Wal-Mart shopping cart to get me to the car.

Overall, I got what I went there for. My primary goals for this event were to finish the full six days (didn’t do that, but came really close for only having done 25 hours before this), learn about how people are capable of running in events this long (done!), learn about pain management (definitely marked that one off), and push myself past where I had been before (150+ miles past where I had been before, to be exact). I can now distinguish better what true race-ending injury is as compared to what I thought it was, and which pain is manageable and which pain is a warning sign of impending doom.

I learned that emotional flatness is key. I took caffeine a few times and flew higher than the moon through some of my miles, clocking a 7:30 mile at mile 140(ish). I got lower than low when I had my panic attack and that’s when my body started to truly break down. There is a sweet spot in the middle and that’s where I will strive to be in my future backyard events.

Unfortunately, I think I need to start exposure therapy. This is another lesson that the event taught me. If I can’t control my mental illness, I will never accomplish the things I’m meat to do.

I didn’t 100% realize this before I went, but all of this was for the backyard, my one true love. Everything I learned came back in my mind to “Oh, I can’t wait to get back to BSBU and Bob’s and see how far this takes me,” or “This will be very important to take back to my athletes.”

I think that there is a spot in my heart for 6-day races now as well. I want to go back and try things again, change things up, and see how I do after learning from my mistakes at my first go. At first, I viewed this race as a relentless monster, but truthfully, it was a party the entire time, even when I was at my lowest.

I want to thank my husband a million times for his support of me during the event. I wasn’t able to see him much, but when I did, he brought me food, let me sleep, and didn’t freak out when he walked over to find Jose rubbing the pain out of my feet (apparently there are some husbands that take issue with footcare by other men in these events). Ann reminded me that I have someone truly special, who supports, encourages, and wishes that I’m able to do all the things my heart yearns to do. I picked a man that’s worth more than gold.

I need to thank my kiddos. They sometimes ask me why I run so long, and my response of, “because I love it and my mind and body need it,” is always enough for them. I am blessed that they accept my passion and cheer me on despite missing their mom sometimes.

I want to thank Shelly, Sarah, Jose, Raul, Lisamarie, Zerek, and the countless others that encouraged me on and off the course. I definitely wouldn’t have made it as far without all of them.

I’ll also throw in a thank you to Brendan Todt, one of my stellar athletes, who spent time editing this race report for me.

Lastly, I have to thank my coach, Adam Ferdinandson, for encouraging me to do this race. He was a witness to the impact my physical and mental health ailments had on my running. There was a lot of doubt involved over the past few months, but he constantly reassured me that my body could handle this event, that I wouldn’t die, and that I absolutely should do the full damn thing.

What is the main takeaway? Don’t give up on yourself. I cannot tell you how many times I had told myself that it would be so easy to quit ultrarunning in October and November. I was struggling like I had never struggled before. My passion for ultrarunning flickered like a small flame in a mighty breeze. I knew it was worth protecting, because the me of a past life was screaming into the present, reminding me of the love and passion I feel for this sport.

The race report reads rough, because my last few days were, in fact, very rough. But even in pain, I was smiling most days and laughing with the people around me. That is the beauty of this sport. Learning to laugh while you’re in pain is one of the best lessons that ultrarunning provides. This race was not at all a loss to me, I’m not ashamed of only making five days, and my mind doesn’t go to those dark moments when people ask me about my six-day event in Peoria.

There are very few places that I truly fit in, and the six day running festival in Peoria, Arizona is one of those places.

Across The Years 6 Day - 2025

The Barkley Fall Classic - 2025