The Barkley Fall Classic - 2025

I went down to 2025’s Barkley Fall Classic to test my mettle against a course that so many people have fallen prey to. I heard tales, as we all have, of 10-foot briars, impossibly steep climbs and descents, the most notably notorious off trail sections, and a decision point that plays on the mind of all who run through the wilderness “out there”.

From the moment I got accepted into this race, my anxiety began attacking me about it. Obviously because of all the lore around how difficult the course is, but another question was gnawing at me a little bit: What if I didn’t like it?

The first time I had heard of The Barkley Marathons, it was through a quick mention in an audiobook (guess which one). I wondered why anybody would want to do such a race, without a map, through endless forest, searching for books in sometimes awful conditions. It seemed absurd, and I left it at that. I hadn’t given it a second thought.

But preparing for my very first backyard ultra, I stumbled across the documentary “The Race that Eats its Young” and decided to watch to get myself into the proper headspace for a difficult ultramarathon. What I saw absolutely captivated me. I saw amazing athletes pushing themselves at a brutal yet quirky event, images of men and women who clearly had been running through unimaginable landscapes yet still had a smile and giggled as they approached the yellow gate. The more I watched, the more entranced I became. I believe they call this phenomenon “the spell of the Barkley”.

Suddenly, all my training began to shape itself not just around elevation to reach my previous dream race, The Leadville Trail 100, but it began to shape itself around what I deemed to be “Barkley Appropriate” training. This included hill repeats that lasted for hours, gradually increasing the elevation per mile in each race that I did, electing to endure a 100-miler without a pacer, honing in on backyard ultras to shape my mind into what I believe it needs to be to run such a wonderfully terrifying event.

The phone call I had with my coach after Bullshit Backyard Ultra (BSBU) in 2023 sparked a new type of training for me, likely referenced in earlier post-race reports. We needed more failure. Failure had become such a spectacular aspect of running for me. Winning races is a lot of fun, but attempting to give a race your all and coming up short meant so much more to me. We needed more races that could produce failure, and where better to look than towards the Barkley?

If I ever want to get there, we decided that I should start throwing my name around the scene as soon as possible, starting with The Barkley Fall Classic. We knew there was a chance I wouldn’t be invited to participate for a few years, so I signed up as soon as registration for the 2025 event opened. To my surprise, I got the email that I had to either accept of decline entry to the event.

I wasn’t sure that I was actually ready to attempt my first run around Frozen Head State Park…in fact, I knew I wasn’t. I wanted a lot more time to prepare. But being that this is just a stepping stone toward what I one day hope to do, I had to take my first step. I accepted the entry I was offered and became an official entrant of The Barkley Fall Classic 2025.

Months started to pass by and once The Barkley began in March, I became glued to my phone. After so many finishers in the years prior, I wondered if Laz might have cooked something more sinister up for his course this year, as other wondered along with me. Watching from the safety of my phone, we saw the bloodbath unfold, and 0 finishers touch the yellow gate after their fifth loop.

What if this is how The Barkley Fall Classic plays out?

I continued with my training, getting more specific and finding the steepest hill in the Chicago area a couple months before the race. I trained for this as I had trained for any other race (ha-ha, for those who know) and trusted that I had done everything I could to prepare.

Similarly to how I felt before BSBU this past year, my stomach was in knots for a week prior to the race. I had some medical issues in the six weeks leading up to the race, and it began to play on my mind. The anxiety spiral was uncontrollable.

Pulling up to the Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary, I felt like I had to vomit. We walked, my legs heavy, up to packet pickup, and got the map, which I digested over dinner.

Returning to packet pickup, I asked somebody a question about the map.

“So, just to double check, we go here, here, here, then here, and around here, and back up here?” I asked, pointing to various spots on a piece of cloth.

“No. You missed one,” A man replied, “You also go here, and here.”

“Okay,” I shrugged.

Bewildered, he looked at the woman next to him, “She took that well.”

The two stared at each other, and I smiled, naively, and walked back to my car. I knew full well that I had taken it well because I didn’t know what I was up against.

I was nervous for a variety of reasons, that interaction being one of them. I also had trouble eating all week due to nerves, pain in my eye (that we would later find was a migraine/sinusitis), and the unknown ahead of me. Somehow, I managed to fall asleep in a timely manner and woke up the next morning well-rested and ready to go.

Arriving at the prison again, I obviously headed to the bathroom, as anybody who races knows should be immediately checked off the list. There, in the dark, headlamp lighting my view, I saw it: blood. My period had come, unpredictably as ever, yet after I had left my emergency period supplies at the hotel.

Frantic, I left the bathroom and stood around, shuffling, wondering how bad it would be by the time I had finished. Would I be running with blood dripping down my leg? My God, I hope not. I knew there was a woman in the area with a tampon, there is always one who is more prepared than the others. I just had to find her.

“Hi Mary!” It was a woman’s voice, “It’s Kayla, from Instagram!”

“Hi!” I said as I quickly shuffled over to her.

She asked me how I was feeling, and I told her the current situation.

“Oh, I think I have one!” she fumbled through her pack and produced…what could only be amazing to see at this desperate hour…a tampon.

I thanked her, did what I had to do, and listened to Laz’s words as the clock continued to creep towards the witching hour.

“Run every section of the course that’s runnable or you won’t finish,” he said, “If you put your hand out in front of you and you don’t touch the ground, it’s runnable.”

Noted.

A few minutes later, he lit his cigarette and off we went, into what would be THE hardest race I had ever run. We were running at a solid clip for the first ten minutes. I was told to get as far in front as possible if I wanted any chance to not wait in the dreaded “conga line” when we hit the first climb, but alas, there was no stopping this.

Without giving too much detail in the spirit of the ambiguity of the race, this course was designed to make it nearly impossible to finish, with the first major blow to runners happening immediately. Our first mile took about an hour and a half. Pushing forward was pointless, because there was waiting involved no matter what part of the pack you were in while briars were being cleared, and a single track was being created.

I will say this, if you don’t know the Barkley Fall Classic, it was STEEP.

Rat Jaw

Once we had cleared the first climb, riddled with cuts on my shins already, we began the first descent. I was feeling pretty good, passing runners as we went by, stopping at the first aid station to refill my water, and the second climb came before I knew it. It was at this climb that I noticed something was off. I’m usually capable of climbing just fine and don’t normally have to walk to the side of the trail to catch my breath, but I found that no matter what speed I was going at, I had to move over and let some of the runners I had previously sped past move right by me again.

I didn’t want to accept that the anemia the copper deficiency had given me would truly take 4-12 weeks to recover from, as documented in other cases. I had been feeling significantly better after two weeks of supplementation, but it was clear that I’m not special enough to suddenly become well again after popping a few pills. To add to this, my legs had been shaking with anxiety for a good 4-5 hours into the course, adding to the exhaustion I felt in my body.

Emotionally beat down, I pulled out my phone to text my husband. I knew my fate already. A marathon finish would have to do today. Even if I wanted to try for the 50k, at my current state, I wouldn’t be able to make the cutoff.

The climb continued and abruptly turned into our second descent, in which I ran into Aaron Taube, a fellow “bullshitter” I had met at BSBU in 2023. We commiserated together, discussing our ailments and briefly talking about bonsais, and parted ways. As the course went on, we had the privilege of leapfrogging. I always gave him the “here we are again” smile and wave and truly enjoyed seeing a friendly face on the course.

Another long climb came after, followed by two more, in which I met another woman, France Jolicoeur-Becotte, who encourage me to keep trotting along and told me how much further we had to go, but assured me that the climb would eventually end.

Somewhere in the mix, I was slightly revived. The shaking in my legs vanished and I found courage to push a little further. I saw France as I began another descent, and I think she was also surprised that I had come back to life.

Down we went, back into the thick of the brush, adding blood and dirt to my race outfit. As part of the course, we got to run around the prison, and as I rounded a turn, I saw Erik and the kids, who had apparently happened to be there only by chance.

And now a video of me crying during a race exists.

But I didn’t stop. I pushed on, into another steep climb and descent, during which I developed more eye pain and felt a familiar migraine sensation in my head, but there was no sense stopping to nurture that in the heat of the day. We were fully exposed to the sun in this climb, and the descent had a sweet promise at the end…the sweetest Coca Cola I had ever tasted. I have never had Coca Cola during a race, but I needed it this day. I took the cup, filled with ice, and pressed against my forehead and temples to ease some of the pain from my migraine. After I drank my soda and went to toss the cup into the trash, a volunteer came over to me and suggested that I take ice in my hat. I don’t know what I looked like, but it must have been bad. I agreed to take the ice, and he quickly threw some into my hat and sent me on my way.

On the last climb of the day, I saw France once more and we ran into the finish together.

Then, coming in from the course, we saw Laz, the famed Race Director of the world’s toughest races, a person who pushes athletes to their absolute limits and designs runs that allow unstoppable men and women to face failure occasionally.

France stopped to talk to Laz briefly, and I also stopped for a moment, long enough for him to try to lure me back onto the course.

“You have 36 minutes left,” he said.

I put my hand on my knees, “I can’t go back out there. I can’t do it today. I don’t have it in me.”

I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to tell him my dreams of running the Big Barkley, how crushed I was that I felt unwell that day, how much I appreciated his formats, how I wish I could go up and be strong but to ensure my own safety and continuation in the sport, I needed to take the marathon finish. If I had to do another climb, I might pass out.

“387,” he said, grabbing my bib and punching a hole in it, “I said you looked strong coming through here the first time.”

Every part of me wanted to take the reckless path just to show him how tough I could be. I wanted to leave the impression I had come here to leave. Again, words began to form in the back of my head, screaming to get out, to explain my situation. There are excuses that are valid and excuses that are invalid. On this day, my excuses were valid. But they were also excuses.

“I can’t,” I said, “I’m sorry. I will complete the 50k next year.”

“Will you change how you train?” He asked.

“Yes,” was all I replied with, hoping that my tone of certainty would be enough to help him believe that I truly would.

“He never forgets a promise,” said the woman next to him.

I smiled and jogged towards the finish chute, running into France, who threw her arms wide open and pulled me into an embrace, “We did it!”

It was the first time I had ever finished close enough to somebody to feel all the emotions of completing a race with them. It is officially one of the highlights of my time in ultrarunning. We went and grabbed our meals and sit down, where for the first time I sat for over three hours after a race and connected with people that I didn’t know the day prior. I’m not good at connecting. This usually comes later, through some back and forth communication at a distance. But here, I felt I could share all my hopes and dreams and wanted to hear about the hopes and dreams of other maniacs who ran this course with me. I didn’t want to leave this place, ever.

Erik missed my finish. It was THAT off of a day. It wasn’t until two hours after initially sitting down that I got up and hobbled over to the bathroom (to check for hematuria, another anxiety I’ve had since my last race) that I saw him pull the kids out of the car and come to see me.

I told him how happy I was, how much I had learned, and that I wasn’t ready to go. He agreed to go get me some food to buy me an extra hour and a half, and I went back to sit with my new friends.

This race didn’t go as planned. It went better than I could have ever planned. I learned about the course and how to train for it. I learned about the limitations of my body and what it means when those limitations come at exactly the wrong time (or the right time). I learned that without a shadow of a doubt, I love everything that The Barkley and The Barkley Fall Classic represents.

And I love failure.

This race wouldn’t have meant as much to me if I hadn’t failed so spectacularly at what I had set out to do. I am grateful for what this has given me, and I am grateful for the person that I have become on the other side of this race. Failure is what teaches us how to grow. I had already learned this in the backyards that I’ve run. Failure (even perceived failure) is where you meet the people you are meant to meet and where people who matter show up and celebrate the outwardly smaller, yet inwardly monumental wins (I love you, Annie).

Because of this race, I have fallen more deeply in love with this sport and the people involved in it than I could have ever thought possible.

“What will you do if you don’t like it?” I’ve been asked about running ultras. The answer is always that I will stop if I don’t like it anymore. I won’t pursue things I don’t like. Do I like the Barkley Fall Classic after all of this? I love it. And the call of the Big Barkley draws me in even more now than ever, because somehow through these briars, I’ve found that I feel more at home than I could have ever expected to out on this course.