I was so excited to be able to go back to one of the races that I feel most at home at for my first real race since May of 2025. I have participated in events since then, but these were all timed events or backyards, no true sprint to the finish. It’s no secret that I’ve struggled with health issues for a while now. They’re not even connected to each other, either. It was as if my body decided to revolt in nearly every way that it could.
My major tussle with illness/injury was a copper/zinc/b12 deficiency that all hit me at the same time in September of 2025 and wasn’t even remotely controlled until November of 2025. When we started getting on the right track and my nutrient levels began to return to normal, I got the email, mid-race at Across the Years, that Mines of Spain 100 registration had opened. I signed up immediately and threw all my eggs into the Mines of Spain basket.
Training kicked off. I was running faster than I ever had, tracking carbs and protein, lifting heavy, being smart about recovery, and managing my sleep in a way that I never had before. The first year I had run it, I wanted to go under 20 hours, and the thought of it was still in the back of my mind for 2026. All my training was going super well and I felt extremely healthy. I had a 70-miler, Laurel Highlands, around the corner as my tune up race.
Cue emergency surgery.
(Literally, I called an ambulance with sudden onset pain.)
I won’t go into details other than it was to remove an ovary that had twisted around itself twice. After waking up in the hospital, super groggy, the first question out of my mouth was, “Can I run my 70-miler in three weeks?”
“Probably not,” the nurse replied, raising her eyebrows at me as she took my vitals.
“She wasn’t asking about running,” my neighbor said, looking up at the nurse.
“Actually, I was,” I told her, a little embarrassed because it was obvious to everyone except me that I wasn’t in racing shape.
I looked at the large scar on my lower belly for the first time a few hours later and felt the blood drain from my face.
“They said it was going to be laparoscopic,” I said to the nurse.
She peeked over the sheet that I held in my hands to shield the rest of the world from what I had hoped I wasn’t actually seeing.
“They lied.”
Over the next three weeks, I would struggle to even breathe while sitting down. A one mile walk would hurt me. I dropped from one race, then another, and jogged a third and fourth instead of running them at pace, as I had planned.
The Mines of Spain 100 was something I didn’t want to let go. Phone call after phone call with my coach was about my self-doubt, the fitness I knew I was losing, and how we were basically going to be relying entirely on the base I had built over the previous years.
I will probably not even finish the race.
This race was probably going to take me 30 hours.
Maybe there was a small chance I could come in under 26, or even 24.
I could possibly tie myself and come in at 22.
It would be great if I could at least PR the course.
I should risk the whole damn race and shoot for 20 hours anyway.
I knew deep down that I was capable of more than I was giving myself credit for, and it would be a cowardly thing to do to give up on myself. I’ve worked hard for years to be able to run the way I do, and I’ll be damned if I get derailed by a lack of confidence in my body.
I gathered an amazing crew, my husband Erik, my friends Ben and Kirk, and collected my pacers, Lily Medina and Carrie McQuillan, and set off for Dubuque.
“I’ve forgotten how to run actually,” I told my crew that night over pizza, “I don’t know if I can finish this race. 100 miles is really far. Even 1 mile is honestly really far.”
Every race, I spend the night prior worried that both my legs are broken. Nothing new here, but for the first time in years, I had such low confidence and such horrible nerves that I barely slept a wink.
I woke up in the morning anyway, put on my glitter, and told Erik that I was ready to crush it.
Erik, Ben, and Kirk set up the tent with the kids running around while I ran to and from the bathroom all morning, stressing out over which shoes I should be wearing, if I should be in shorts or leggings, and if I needed a raincoat. Then Suzie Brashler found me and wrapped me in the tightest, longest hug I would get that day.
MY Suzie. I found her first, get your own.
I met Suzie this spring when I found her name on the entrants list for Laurel Highlands, recognized it, and then clicked back on the list for the Mines of Spain. She was going to run both races, just like me. I reached out and we began training together sometime in May, just before my surgery. She watched as I struggled back to life in the summer, kept training with me, and became both a good friend as well as a driving force behind why I needed to train hard despite my circumstances. I was extremely aware that Suzie was an amazing runner, and I had a feeling that she was going to be the one to watch this year.
She was my biggest competition for the day, and here I was, simultaneously stressing out about her but also realizing how deeply I care about her. I knew I was about to watch one of her best runs ever. I was going to have to run like hell if I wanted to beat her. But even so, if I were to come second to her, I would be the happiest runner up in the world.
The pre-race brief began and I stood next to Suzie, basically wanting to tell her that I loved her, but I just stood in silence. The race director, Josh, began talking about course records, mentioning my 22:05 from two years prior, and I suddenly felt Suzie pointing at me from the side. Josh, into the microphone, said “She’s here somewhere…” and I poked my head around the people in front of me to give a little wave.
It got loud suddenly. I don’t know if it was loud because I was nervous and hearing the blood rush through my head, or if people were making noise around me, but the woman in front of me gave me a high five and said, “Do it again!”
I was certainly going to try.
It’s a conscious decision to step up on the front line. It’s never a natural one. As people began to walk towards the start line, I squeezed between a couple of men so that I had a clear spot in the front. I continuously tell myself that I belong there, but it’s a weird place to be as a woman. I don’t think there’s any way around that.
The race began.
I ran down the first stretch of the course quickly, letting my body pick the pace. I wanted to move with a purpose but also still be able to speak if anybody asked me a question. For thinking I had forgotten how to run, I was doing the descents in the section to the first aid station awfully fast. The rocky staircase that I usually hobble down? Absolutely flew on that first loop, like a gazelle. I practically became Kilian Jornet. My confidence started to build, and I passed the first aid station when my phone pinged with a message from Erik.
“You might be going too fast. 9-10 minutes ahead of pace based on the plan.”
The goal for the first loop was 3:38. I was immensely stressed about being able to hit that target, but once I got that text from Erik, I began to relax and settle into groove. I ended up finishing the loop in 3:29, so the pace I ended up choosing was exactly where it should have been after leaving the first aid station. I had successfully slowed enough to not gain anymore time but also not lose any, either.
One thing I didn’t account for was the rain. We knew it was going to sprinkle a little bit, but it wasn’t supposed to rain quite as much as it did. It was still at a drizzle, but there was enough to warrant a shoe change. So, we spent about ten minutes at aid changing shoes and I went back out after ditching my rain coat, because the second loop wasn’t expected to have rain.
Checking between each toe for blisters? Erik was in the zone.
But this is Ultramarathon World, where the unexpected should be expected. It poured for a little while, and my clothes were soaked before I reached the second aid station. One of the proudest moments I had during this race was my reaction to the unexpected heavy rain:
I guess my clothes will be soaked. Oh well. They’ll dry.
I was completely unfazed. Maybe it was all the years at The Bullshit Backyard Ultra and the inclement weather there, or maybe it was running Bloodroot 50’s flooded course in 2025…whatever it was, I wasn’t concerned about a little water anymore.
What I was concerned about was the foam that I started to vomit. That was new, but I quickly realized that there was a trend and it happened every time I took my gel, which I was doing about every 45 minutes. I switched quickly to taking it every 45 minutes to every hour instead and sipping more of my drink….which was apparently oversalted. While I was vomiting foam, my hands were also ballooning up. I decided to start taking in some more plain water at the aid stations as well. Two problems, solved.
This was, however, the beginning of my failing nutrition plan.
My third time around the course, after 40 miles, I changed my shoes again and continued to doctor my failing nutrition plan. I think at this point I was taking in about half of what I was supposed to. While the foamy vomit stopped, I still had bubble guts and ended up texting Erik that I desperately needed Gas-X. Kirk and Ben met me at the EB Lyons aid station, gave me the gas-X, and let me know that Lily Medina was on her way to pace me for my fourth loop.
Awesome.
During this loop I had also started to pass people, and when I did they would occasionally perk up and ask questions, usually revolving around the course record.
Are you on track for a course record?
Are we going to see a new course record today?
I rounded the final corner to Louis Murphy Park to complete my third loop, and there Lily was, yelling and cheering me in. We made our way back onto the fourth loop quickly, but unfortunately, this is where my race began to fall apart.
Midwest ultrarunning queen, Lily Medina, coming to my rescue!
I let her know that my nutrition wasn’t super great and that I oversalted myself. Lily encouraged me to pick up whatever calories I could at the aid stations but unfortunately this only meant fruit because my stomach couldn’t handle much else. Lily got as much fruit for me at the aid stations as possible and it helped bring me back to life a little bit but I could still feel that my body was beginning to fail. My knees began to ache on the descents, and I started to slow down on the uphills, but we were still zooming past people who were on their second or third loop. Lily kept me marching along, and we hit the fourth loop in about 4:15, as opposed to the 4:00 target. Honestly, not bad for the state I was in. Lily is an absolute powerhouse pacer and athlete, which is one of the reasons that I asked her to be on my team this year.
I remember running up the final hill to the Start/Finish to grab my next pacer, my friend Carrie…
Then there’s a giant hole in my memory for the entirety of the final aid stop and the first two miles of the next loop. Carrie reminded me that I had been asking for “the exact jacket that she was wearing” and nobody knew what I was talking about. Carrie and I both own what I believe is a Nike Swift. Long story short, I got the wrong shirt because I think everybody thought I had been asking for the shirt on Carrie’s back.
I was burnt out. I had zero energy left. Sometime around reaching the Julien Dubuque Monument, I remember talking about trying to conserve my caffeine with Carrie. Why I was trying to conserve resources at mile 82 out of 100, I don’t quite know.
Carrie had an “Awake” chocolate with about 50 mg of caffeine in it and offered it to me. I ate it, despite my stomach not wanting much, and it actually brought me back to life. At the next three aid stations I was able to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches as my stomach started to return to normal.
I was extremely self-conscious of how slow I was moving. I new this would be my slowest loop ever at the Mines, but Carrie assured me the entire time that I was still moving with a purpose. The loop would end up being five hours long, 45-minutes longer than the previous loop and 15-minutes longer than my slowest loop in 2024.
We passed the Julien Dubuque Monument and began the final two mile push to the end of the course.
“My watch says 100 but I’m still running,” I mumbled, disgruntled and exhausted.
At the bottom of the final bike path, we met with Kirk and Ben, who were excited to run the final stretch with me. I took one look at that last uphill push and unfortunately, my legs and cardiovascular system absolutely revolted.
Nope.
We walked up the hill.
At the top, I fixed up my outfit and Carrie helped make sure I looked pretty for the final 100 meters. I rounded the corner and crossed the line in 21:09, 55 minutes and 57 seconds faster than my 2024 course record.
(Left to right): Erik, me, Ben, Carrie, Kirk
(Not pictures): Lily Medina
I got my second victory and came in second overall, something that I had wondered about after checking the entrants list but assumed I would be booted down to 4th or 5th overall because 100 milers can be so unpredictable.
Suzie came in second place and fourth overall. I can’t describe how happy this made me. She came under 24 hours as well and got the coveted sub-24 buckle.
Above those accomplishments, however, is the most important lesson that running Mines of Spain 2026 has taught me: Do not underestimate your base and do not allow life’s circumstances to become an excuse to sell yourself short of what you know you’re capable of.
Did I hit a sub-20 100 miler at the Mines? No. I had a very imperfect race.
Do I believe I can hit a sub-20 at the Mines? After this experience, yes.
I heard that nobody has done a three-peat at the Mines in its nearly ten-year history…
But I think I want to give that a shot.
