Eight years of my life have led up to this chapter.

This is my story. 

My sore, pain-racked body stirs me awake to a sight I never got weary of. Out of the dew laden window at the Killington Grand Hotel lies the mountains that in the last two days were host to my yearly pilgrimage. I had ran the Ultra on Saturday, followed by a return the day after, running the Beast. This year was a major success, in that I finally finished the Ultra in under 12 hours! My placement among my age was 6th, which brought me tantalizingly close to that “what if” scenario where I’d one day get to hold the gigantic age group podium medal. I smiled at the beautiful sight and thought back at this year. This year was met with so many accomplishments! I had finally finished the Death Race, and had gotten my Georgia Death Race finish time down dramatically in my second attempt. I mused over everything that I still wanted to accomplish, not ignoring how far I had already come as the quiet of the mountainscape periodically rang with the metal-on-metal clanging sounds of obstacles being deconstructed on that cool Monday morning. This year was indeed a tremendous success, and I was happy to spend the coming weeks recovering and stretching from the event that granted me the two medals that I now meticulously felt the contours of as I placed them in my suitcase.

This was the last true event for me before covid had even become a blip on the international news radar. The decade was nearing a close and I had some serious goals for 2020. Joe DeSena was right about putting those goals on calendars, by the way! Without having anything to look forward to, what’s the point of training? Do you try to maintain your focus, or do you let it wane away with the constant ebb of crossed out events that never came to pass? Little did I know, this next year was going to brutally provide me the answers to those thought-provoking questions…as it did for all of us.



Yeah.. This fucking year.
Snowdevil 100k. Spartan Death Race. Killington. Those were supposed to be my big three for the year. As you can probably surmise, that didn’t happen. Now don’t get me wrong, the year didn’t start off that bad for us all! January was met with my new and unexpected half marathon PR of 1:34:00 and February was a month in which I learned an insane lesson in mental toughness during the GORUCK 50mi Star Course in Tampa, FL.

So let’s talk about this event for a hot minute. GORUCK Star Course is a 50 mile challenge where you’re given a bunch of different landmarks and have to create the most efficient route between them all, texting a selfie to the RD’s number to prove you made it there. If you’re good at making routes, the shortest possible route will be 50 miles. In addition to this, you have to do it all with a rucksack filled with 30lbs of weight. Yeah, it’s no joke! You have to run it with a team, but you can’t relay the event. You’re all running together. Got a team of four? You’re going as fast as the slowest person. I love running this course with new people - especially ones that have never hit the podium at an event before. It’s always amazing to watch somebody who’s never run that distance before go through that evolution right before your eyes as the hours of the night herald a different emotion that seasoned ultrarunners are all too familiar with. The best part about this entire experience is that I start off by telling them that we’re going to not only finish, but it’ll be done on the podium as well. And so Dimitri and Tom were my reluctant teammates for the 2020 star course!

Sure enough by mile 23 our team was in a comfortable lead in first place! We’d ruck-jog for about 0.75 miles and then fast-walk 0.25 miles, using that walk to eat, drink, tighten our gear and get ready for the next shuffle. Our pacing and nutrition was on point despite the common aches and pains that crop up after 20 miles. My 20-mile pain felt different this time, most notably in the center of my right foot. I didn’t hit it or roll it on anything but it felt as if it got smacked really hard with a hammer. Having never broken a bone before, I figured it was nothing new and we kept moving despite protests to bring the pace down a bit. Miles bled into the night and the pain amplified with every mile we made closer to 50. So much was the agony that I’d feel occasional shocks of icy electric pain jolt up my leg and spine while my foot felt a gravely crunch sensation. You’ve likely guessed by now what I didn’t realize at the time - my foot was broken as fuck! More specifically in my mid metatarsal, offering me no relief in stepping differently in any form. Cluelessly, I pressed on towards our goal and just dealt with the pain that was the fracture in my bone widening with every step.

The issue was that these two new runners alongside me still needed me to keep things going, or at least I had that going on in my head. I did promise a finish and a podium for them, after all! Our pace went to a slow, wincing crawl as the night surrendered into the morning sun. Tom had dropped already due to a recurring illness and our place was now somewhere between 2nd and 3rd, which meant there was still a chance! I picked up the pace as we zeroed in at our final checkpoint as others were texting us that second place just came in and that we were neck-and-neck with 4th. By this point I knew that my foot was obviously broken. The stabs of pain were no doubt the ever expanding fracture in my bone that eventually turned into a complete break. No matter what I was going to be out of the running game for at least four months from this day. “I promised us a podium finish. We’re going to get that finish”, I said with the same fervent desperation I felt at the last Killington ultra when I was mere minutes away from finishing a sub 12. There would be time for recovery - a lot, in fact. Now was the time to find an excuse to win. That excuse was the exchange of temporary agony for the permanent story of “I podiumed a 50 miler on a broken foot while wearing a weighted rucksack”. We turned the corner to the sight of a bustling crossfit gym and sprinted towards the guy holding a clipboard. My vision tunneled in as I tapped his shoulder, dropped my ruck and collapsed on the nearest bench.

“Congrats, guys! You finished in third place!”

We finished in just under 20 hours. I looked over to Demetri and nodded with a big grin, relishing in his disbelief that he was capable of accomplishing such a feat. Promises made, promises kept! As a medic inspected my foot, my thoughts raced to the lesson learned during this event. I can endure some serious shit! Future events would come where I know I’d have to dig deep and reach into that cookie jar, as David Goggins puts it, and think back to this. With my foot definitely broken, I had plenty of time to do some thinking, that’s for sure…

(By the way, it royally sucked driving home from Tampa to Orlando on a broken foot!)

Star course was in the beginning of February, which was the last month before everything shut down. Call it good timing but I now had four months to keep my foot in a boot, which forced me to focus on upper body strength in addition to riding the bike later on as my foot healed. One by one events started getting cancelled. We had high hopes that Death Race or Killington were still happening later that year, but as we all know how that ended. Despite knowing that my foot wouldn’t be healed in time for the Death Race anyways, I still felt really sad about it all. With no events left on the calendar for that year I had two options. I could either relax my training like everybody else or work my ass off to make up for lost running. Thanks to now working from home, my extra time of day was viciously devoted to the latter of the options. Lunch break was now spent running 3-5mi routes through my neighborhood in the afternoon 105 heat index, inhaling the humid vapor rising from the pavement as I ran. The small addition of an extra 30 minutes of sleep that I’d otherwise spend getting ready to drive to work did wonders for my body while my spare time was no longer spent BS’ing the cubicle hallways with coworkers, but getting things done around the house. I had an arsenal of wreckbags, resistance bands, and weights that I could work with in between emails and telecons.. life was good!

Since events were cancelled, I took matters into my own hands and hosted a half marathon or eight mile meetup every Saturday night for people to scratch their running itch in the great absence of 2020. My weekly mileage went from 15 to 30. I started incorporating bike riding and swims into my weekly lineup as well. Slowly but surely I was gearing to come out of this pandemic like an absolute machine. Here was my lockdown routine:

• Monday - Speedwork intervals (3-5mi)

• Tuesday - 10k in the heat, strength training at night

• Wednesday - 5k obstacle course run

• Thursday - Lunchtime bike ride, Lifting at the gym (if it was open) or a 3-4mi recovery run

• Friday - Rest or make-up day

• Saturday - Half marathon

• Sunday - 1.5mi lake swim

The conditioning of 2020 drastically boosted my VO2max, pace and strength. Much of those gains attributed to training in the hottest, most miserable time of the day. So much so that once the temperatures cooled down, my 5k PR got down to a 19:15, something I never thought I would have done since I was geared towards ultrarunning! It was clear that despite the massive setback of my broken foot, I made substantial gains!

The UCF track, the (flat) trails, and the UCF parking garages. Home to my training sessions throughout the year.

Now despite all of this, 2020 was still a stressful year for so many people, and I was no exception to this. Our cat passed away, and the other one had an accident that warranted a $9,300 vet bill (yeah, no shit) and right into the first couple weeks of lockdowns I had lost a friend and former coworker to covid. Continuing that horrid trend, month by month, another person I know would be hospitalized or worse, killed off by this invisible enemy. Knowing that my immune system wasn’t exactly normal since it liked to attack parts of me that shouldn’t be attacked, I had to stay vigilant. It wasn’t so much the risk of death that concerned me since I was young and healthy, but rather the long-haul cases that put some of my running buddies out of commission for up to four months. Nevertheless in the midst of all this chaos, something beautiful happened!



Katie and I had planned on bringing a second addition to our family for quite some time, and the timing of it all slated the month of June for baby Caroline’s entry to the world. This meant that I had to skip the 2021 Death Race, which was one of the rare acceptable excuses for most DR race directors to hear. …Just don’t tell anyone that they accepted an excuse for not attending, okay? I hear they’ll tighten up the entry criteria if word got out that they were lenient!

The great pause of 2020 was not something I was willing to squander. I was faster, stronger, had learned new skills and came out of those trying times better than I was going in! Many people reacted to the stresses of this year by slipping into bad habits and coping mechanisms. Knowing my predisposition towards that path, I had no choice but to do what I did and to avoid those who wanted to drag me down. Was my avoidance to these bad habits aggressive and over-the-top? Absolutely. Normal never ever won any prize. After all… I ran a freaking weighted ruck ultra on a broken foot and hit the podium!

Time for things to start opening up (sort of)! With an arsenal of deferral codes from the would-be 2020 events, I had a bunch of pre-loaded events ready to test my 2020 training. First was the Forgotten Florida 45 miler! Running in this was a no-brainer. The starting line was literally 20 minutes from my house and I had a free entry for volunteering at the Georgia Death Race in the fall of last year. What better way to try out some new shoes and the refined nutrition strategies learned during my weekend half marathons!


Ultras on flat ground suck. When you’re in the mountains, muscles that were activated going uphill get a nice break when you’re bombing the downhills. In the swampy flatlands of Florida, no such grace is given to your body. My ultra strategy for this one was to just have fun with no expectations of going too hard, while trying to lock in to a specific pace and try out some new nutrition techniques. All in all, this was a training event for me. Boy, was I in for a surprise…

Right away I started off at the front of the pack. I didn’t expect to stay there for long as I darted in between palm fronds, spider webs and leapt over thick brush that choked the Florida Trail in the dew laden morning. I didn’t think much about being at the front, especially since we all got lost for about a mile and had to backtrack while the sun slowly started to usher in the morning.

Still at the front of the pack, I had reached the first aid station and the volunteer told my friend Eric and I that we were currently in 2nd and 3rd place! Again, I had no expectations of holding that place, but we nevertheless trotted towards the rising sun in a long open service road. The miles melted away as Eric and I noticed the runners behind us were starting to melt away into the horizon, musing at the possibility of us actually hitting the podium we forced each other to pace at a solid 8min/mi. “Hey uh… running alone is boring. You just wanna stay side by side for this whole thing?” asked Eric at the exact time that I was thinking the same thing. Then the best possible idea ever to occur in ultrarunning history was uttered.

“Not only am I gonna stay right beside you, let’s stop one foot at the finish line and rock paper scissors to see who gets to take second place”

Yeah, I know. It’s pure, absolute genius and that’s precisely what we did!

What I was most astonished over was the fact that Eric was easily one of the most seasoned ultraunners I know, finishing in the top 5% or podium at every run he’s in… and I was not only staying at his pace, I was doing it with absolute ease! Never before had I had such a fun time running with somebody AND be in such a substantial lead ahead of the rest of the pack. We talked about everything - past events, past relationships, our friends (of which our friend Neal Moser got 1st in the 15 miler, go Neal!), you name it. I felt like I was holding back a little on the last ten miles but I didn’t care. I wanted to crush this event with my friend and end it with the most wholesome gentlemanly way possible! And so, we did!

Wouldn’t you know, his scissor obliterated my paper. With a curt handshake and smile, he made the last step across the finish line first for a second place finish with third place a nail-biting half second behind! We officially were known as the “2rd” and “3nd” place finishers. The best of it all? It was so much less taxing on me than I had anticipated! The lesson I learned from this event was clear: What I did in 2020 worked. The next big test?

The 2021 Georgia Death Race.

GDR was a special race for me. One year I’d volunteer, and the next year I’d run it. To those unaware, this monster of an event is a 75 mile run through the northern mountains of Georgia on a terrain resembling Killington. It was a beast of an event that you had to qualify to enter and despite the entrants being highly qualified, only half typically leave the event with their GDR railroad spike. This was an event that I’d always come out to yearly on an off/on rotation of volunteering one year and participating in the next. 2021 was my year to put my chips on the table and attempt the crazy - a sub 20 hour finish. My first foray into this horrendous event took me 23 hours and 6 minutes to finish. The second time was cut down to 20 hours and 58 minutes. My third time out there was to achieve what I had originally thought impossible… a sub 20 finish.

This year was spent side by side with my friend Josh Fiore. We were basically attached at the hip for the entire event outside of the run itself. We ate together, lodged together, drove together and most importantly - talked. He was a wealth of ultrarunning knowledge that I squandered no words with. Speaking with him was amazing! I was hanging out with a multiple world champion and the most consistent winner of just about every Spartan Ultra event out there. He remembered me telling him at the 2019 death race that I was planning on hitting the podium at the ultra this year. His confidence in his words of assurance that I had it in the bag was just the confidence boost I needed! Regarding the GDR, he said based on my performance I was easily going to not only sub20 the event, but likely sub19! I was skeptical, to say the least. “I’ll keep my focus on just hitting that 19:59:59 mark and any second faster is a bonus”, I said with a dismissive laugh as we ate our breakfast in the car as we pulled up to the starting line at Vogel State Park.

Let me tell you something. When one of the best ultrarunners in the world confidently estimates your finish line, that motherfucker knows his stuff! I suffered no comforts at this event. Every chance to run was met with 100% effort, combined with an average aid station time of less than two minutes. I’d just grab food and stuff it in a plastic bag that I had hanging from my belt and kept going! As the day moved on I did the math in my head and the astonishing outcome was becoming more and more clearer with every mile. Even though my mind was mostly honed in to the present moment, I couldn’t help but peer into future events knowing my promise made to Josh…if I’m doing this good now, could I really hit the podium at Killington?! I moved with a purpose that felt like I was paying my dues not to the event I was currently in, but to just add another cookie to that cookie jar when the time came to later pull it out.

After busting my ass for five years, my finish time at the Georgia Death Race concluded at a whopping 18:27:57!

This was only the beginning. I could feel it. Even as I was trembling in shivering spasms of cramp-riddled fatigue in the back of a stranger’s car on the ride back to the hotel, my mind still had the clarity to hone in on Killington and goosebumps once again dotted my skin as I asked myself the same question I kept asking before:

…what if?

What if this guy from sea-level Florida who started his foray into this insane event with two DNFs ended up on the podium one day? Eight years and six months worth of effort was going to deliver me that answer later this year. I couldn’t wait.

Josh rocked the GDR, by the way. He got second place and finished in around 15 hours!

The GDR was my last event that I was to travel to. Everything from April to June was local while sticking to a strict diet and exercise regime. Rekindled by my unexpected performances at FF45 and GDR, I went straight back to training! Those two events granted me such a massive boost in confidence in Killington that I knew that if I didn’t podium in September, it was only a matter of time until I do. I knew the formula, I just had to trust the process now. However with June now here, there was a different process I had to prioritize, which culminated with a fun little interruption of me streaming on Twitch:

(If the video doesn’t play, the direct URL to the clip is here)

Yep, it was time! On June 11th, my daughter was born. I got to have a say in the first name of my first born, and now I was allowed to choose the middle name of our second. This was an easy task for me. In the Death Race, we were taught that there were two moments when somebody dies. One is when somebody’s heart beats for the last time and the other is when their name is spoken for the last time. One of our comrades, Leyla Di Cori, suffered her first death due to a long battle with cancer. Death Racers bury their own, as well as immortalize them. With this in mind, Caroline Leyla Murphy entered this world on June 11th at 0701.



Despite DNF’ing, Leyla kept coming back out to the Death Race without exception since 2012. She was, and it hurts so bad to refer in the past-tense, the embodiment of true grit. Ever so slowly she improved, and I wanted to immortalize that grit by ensuring that her name will continue to be spoken for generations to come. It is my dream to one day to achieve that level of impact on others such that my own second death far outlasts my first. So for now, we carry their names onward and remember the lessons of the past.

The only thing I had scheduled from this point on was the big event - the Killington Ultra!



I wake up to the sound of my son chasing the cat around the house and my daughter screaming for breakfast. Ah yes, the joys of parenting! I swear somebody should market an energy drink titled “6am toddler”. My flight wasn’t until the mid-morning this time, so it was nice seeing my family in the morning before leaving. After bringing Xander to the bus stop I met up at Jeff’s place to leave for the airport. I had meticulously packed my bags a week prior, as I usually do. The previous death races had taught me that failure to prepare is preparing to fail, so I found myself fervently prepping for this event even more so than the years prior. Like every year, I had come into this year with some sort of handicap. The challenge this year was overcoming an illness (thankfully not covid) that had knocked me out of commission during what was supposed to be my final weeks of training, in addition to spraining my middle finger really bad just days prior, rendering it incapable of gripping on to anything. So yeah, obstacles were going to be fun this year! As we rode to the airport I looked over at Jeff and saw a version of me all too familiar with Killington of the past. The kaleidoscope of excitement, nervousness, fear and glee mirrored mine despite our objectives of the weekend being different. His goal, as well as the rest of our group of five, was to simply finish this event. For all of them but Jeff and Kendall, this was their first foray into Killington.

Our travel was met with some beautiful sights and stops along the way, granted to us by leaving on a Thursday. The whole day was ours to decompress, buy supplies and soak in the scenery that were foreign to our sea-level swampland we called home. The Killington Grand hotel had become my home away from home by this point, with the surrounding trails and mountain peaks that cradled our abode no longer being foreign to me, yet still foreboding and treacherous after all of these years. Like I mentioned already, getting here on a Thursday afforded us an easy Friday. There was the usual packet pickup, but we also had time to take the gondola to the top of K-1, meet up with other racers from across the nation, and of course take a hike from Joe DeSena’s literal backyard up to Shrek’s cabin. Like some kind of dark tourism guide I showed our group the various landmarks around the Death Race venue and the stories that each of them invoked. Jeff and Kendall had plans of one day being here wearing that Death Race bib, after all.



Even though I was in the 6:15 competitive wave, I thought it wise to stay near the starting corral to listen to the pre-race briefing in case any of that information was forgotten in my own heat. Thankfully there weren’t many surprises for us to hear, just the usual bulletpoints:

• If your chest doesn’t touch the ground and feet don’t go off the ground, the burpee doesn’t count.

• The ultra loop is to be completed on lap 1 only.

• No help from anybody on anything. No exceptions. You’re on your own.

• Finish lap 1 by 2pm or you’re DNF’ed.

• If you manage to irk by the first cut-off, you have to be at the spear throw (mile 8 of the lap) by 6:30pm. Not easy to pull off.

• This year’s course is going to be extra hard and the weather is going to be the hottest it has ever been.

Bring it the fuck on.

My internalization of thought was gleefully interrupted by my fellow death racers Francis and Clay as they shuffled into the front of the starting corral. We shared some hugs and laughs to loosen up as we made our way to the front of the line with no intention of yielding our position once we were set loose into the foggy uphill that awaited us right out of the gate. They both knew what I was after and wished me luck while the same pre-race briefing was given to us. All that was left was the iconic starting speech followed by the “AROO, AROO, AROO, GOOOOOOOOO” that rang through our ears and sent shocks of adrenaline through our bodies. I started my watch with an eager grin as the course immediately opened on a treacherous uphill slog that so many people mistakenly tried to run up as a result of that starting-line adrenaline that we’re all too familiar with. I restrained myself. I knew the pace I needed to keep, and so I paid no heed to those who sprinted ahead of me - I always pass them later. My head stayed up high and my eyes scanned the ground, keeping my windpipe open. “Oxygen is up here”, I’d recite in my head in Josh Fiore’s voice, echoing the advice he gave us the day prior. The sun slowly leaked through the mountainous horizon, painting the morning sky with a blend of orange, pink and blue hues while the first climb ended with a sharp left into the first runnable section of course. In true Killington fashion, the runnable course wasn’t anything more than 400 meters until we were veered off into another sharp incline. Having committed the elevation profile to memory, none of the false peaks and sudden inclines were a shock to me as those around me sighed in exhaustion already present in the first hour of their run. Instead I just flipped my pack around and got something quick to eat to stay on my rule of eating every 45 minutes. The games had only just begun, and this was going to be a very, very long day indeed!

After going through some bottleneck-breakers such as the trio of 4’ walls, 7’ wall, pipe lair and a surprisingly difficult stairway to Sparta (thanks to one of those fingers being incapable of gripping anything), the course waved into the first major downhill stretch, allowing my leg muscles that were labored on the uphill climbs to recover as the downhill muscles sprang into action. Heeding Josh’s advice that propelled me through GDR I kept my eyes 10-15 feet in front of me, submitting my trust in the terrain to my subconscious to sort out. That strategy had worked for the most part until the service road section of the course morphed into the treacherous downhill ski slope, which in turn morphed into a bushwhacking trudge through the surrounding forest that deceptively hid rocks underneath a slippery layer of black mud while broken sharp tree limbs lined the boundaries of the muddy slip-n-slide. Just as my downhill muscles began to utter their first protests, they were given a reprieve. The festival music thumped in the distant air while the muddy woods opened up to the expanse of yet another ski slope, presaging the death march that everybody had their thoughts and eyes drawn to. Before the dreadful march enveloped us all, the tyrolean traverse stood in the way. I heard my friend Kendall volunteering at that obstacle before I could see him. “HURRY UP NEIL. You’re in the middle of the pack! Too slow!”. I was cool with that. My strategy was to always start slow and pick up speed. The longer I’m in the shit, the better I perform! For me, seeing Kendall was a point where I woke up that morning. My head was now in the game and although I was in the middle of the pack at the time, the day had only just begun. “You’d better be back here in four hours” he semi-jokingly asserted as I clang the bell on the traverse line. “Don’t get too lonely without me”, I winked as I grabbed a quick cup of water at the aid station that led into my absolute favorite part of the course - the death march!

If you look at the elevation profile of every Killington ultra, you’ll notice there’s a sudden and almost vertical step up into the clouds. That’s the death march. Seeing it from afar or even from the vantage point of the nearby gondolas does it no justice. You have to be on the actual route to understand the insanity of this never-ending stairway into the clouds. I was absolutely pumped. This suckfest is what I had trained for! As the course opened up to the death march I immediately went into training mode. Muscle memory dictated my methodical and never-changing cadence while my breathing and head position was locked into a rhythm that felt second nature - a discipline afforded to me by spending every other Saturday morning doing 2-3 hours worth of stair steppers at 85 steps/minute. All the death march was by that point was another stair stepper session except that this time I had much better air conditioning than a Florida gym in the summertime and the vast scenery got more and more beautiful the more I progressed up that double black diamond slope. “Never go 0mph” I recited in my mind while passing others that were in fact going 0mph, some of whom were the ones that rocketed ahead of everyone at the start of the race. False peaks yielded to countless other false peaks, but after achieving a new PR of only 32 minutes, I reached the final cloud-enveloped peak and took a quick second to soak in the amazing view of the vast rolling mountainscape that swam across the horizon. For a whole five seconds, I let myself go 0mph as a reward to commit that awesome view into memory!

With this crest being the tallest point of the course there was only one way to go from this point - down a very runnable section of course that lead to the bender obstacle. Those who committed the course to memory knew exactly what awaited us next… the dreaded ultra loop! Different colored tape drove a fork in the downhill trail for the more sane beast runners to continue on while the rest of us purple-bibs begrudgingly took a detour into bear mountain to endure the unknown that awaited us. Everyone knew it was going to be brutal. That expectation was first met with surprise. The first 1.5 miles of course were a very gentle downhill elevation grade that didn’t have much in the way that could roll an ankle or slow any runner down. I mentally recited the headline of one of the chapters of my ultra article, “when you can run… freaking RUN”, and boy did I freaking run! For a long forgiving stretch my pace ranged from 6:30/mi-7:20/mi thanks to looking 15 feet ahead of me and letting gravity do the work for me. In this stretch alone I passed six other runners which were now getting progressively thinned out. Going all out on this runnable section of course was a strategy I had perfected over the years. The time gained here was substantial! I thought back to the logic of a triathlon where if someone burned their energy at the swim they may finish a minute faster, whereas if someone burned their reserves at the bike they’d easily finish an hour earlier. Though I wasn’t chasing course cut-offs, I was chasing something even more difficult… other people (more specifically those aged 35-40). Without taking too much time to guestimate a runners age, every person I passed was a potential difference between a mere finish to a podium finish. I had to stay vigilant. That train of thought was made manifest as I approached the pipe crawl obstacle. Lucky for me, the volunteer was keeping track of the runners passing through. “You’re runner number 45 to pass through this obstacle, good luck ultra!”

As I slogged onwards inside the cool dark dampness of the pipe crawl, my engineer brain started to crunch numbers. If about 15-20 people were in the elite heat, and if there were around 150 in the age group heat, then I was no longer middle of the pack but in fact in the lead! My intuition was affirmed as it was later revealed in my Athlinks summary that I was WAY ahead of everyone, but I didn’t truly know how far of a lead that was at the time. I crammed my thoughts into an ever-increasing paranoia that the person behind me is that 4th place runner trying to overtake my spot at the podium, brought to light as the light of the day broke through the end of the pipe crawl. “I’m gonna podium this event” I assertively shouted at the volunteer, sharpening my focus in line with the continuing downhill runnable section of course that eventually leveled out to the bottom of Bear Mountain. After passing another batch of potential podium-takers I refilled my hydration pack at the aid station nestled right before the sled drag and a monumental sandbag carry that went straight up a ski slope by half a mile. With the sandbag plopped over my shoulders I treated the obstacle like another one of my long ruck marches and never stopped moving, no matter the pain. “Murphy done beat the game again!” shouted someone I could only hear due to my head staying low to support the crushing weight of the bag. The uphill slog slowly but finally turned around. “Get that podium, Neil!” exclaimed another voice going up as I was now going down. Everybody around me suffered, yet honed their energies into encouraging everyone around. Keeping my head low allowed me to hide my emotion, albeit just for the small moment I let it leak out. Small tears of heartfelt appreciation for the love and encouragement of everybody around me were much stronger than my ability to hold back - they knew my goal as much as I did, which meant so much to me. A smile was glued on my face for the remainder of the route, the dry thud of the sandbag slamming into the box it came from snapped my mind out of its retreat. I returned to the stoic façade that kept focus on foot cadence, ankle stability, head position and breathing. I looked onwards and the course sneered back at me, reminding me that what just generously flew down the mountain must now trudge back up.

The gentle, crisp smell of evergreens and damp mossy soil accented the dead silence of the secluded trail that labored onwards, beckoning me ever upwards with the breadcrumb-style white course banners occasionally tied to tree branches. Another uphill section of course meant that I had to eat again, no matter if I felt hungry or not! I shuffled through my pack to a stinger waffle and packet of MRE cheese spread that I had developed a reputation for eating, albeit good or bad, amongst my peers. Thankfully another runner was locked in to a similar pace with mine and we had a chance to talk. He immediately recognized me and we began to talk about our kids, where we’re from, other races we’ve done, and whatever else we could discuss to keep our minds active to avoid surrendering it to the misery that slowly grew and threatened to preoccupy our thoughts. “Thank you for writing that guide!” he cheered. My response was always the same. “Thank me by getting that buckle!” as our slightly different pace had us part ways into the peak of Bear Mountain where the Irish table obstacle waited for us. After a quick muscle-up and over the obstacle the course leveled off into a short runnable section that finally joined up with the rest of the beast course. After 4.5 miles and a time of 1:19:02, the ultra loop was finished! It was always a relief knowing that I’d never have to step foot into that awful section of course again, and so I looked onwards to the 8’ wall that acted as the toll we had to pay to get back on to the ‘normal’ course. Francis, who had rocketed ahead of everyone at the beginning of the race, was just getting over the wall as I muscle-upped my way over to greet him at the aid station proceeding the wall. It felt good to see him again, not only as good friends but as death racers who were equally hurt by the loss of Leyla. Knowing our paces would eventually separate us we used our limited time to speak fondly of our shared experiences in the past death races and of our dearly departed friend. I avoided reminiscing too much about Leyla because I knew we’d both get too caught up into the emotion of it all, instead opting for some funny banter about how toned our glutes are while the pace gap between us forced us outside of earshot of each other. We had plenty of time for chit chat once we finished, and we both knew that we had to run our own race now.

With Francis off in the distance, it was becoming more and more lonely as the pool of runners thinned out into our own pace zones. This was always a challenging part of this endeavor. It was the time when those negative voices poked and prodded your skull with the focus on things that are hurting or starting to go wrong. Even after all these years that battle was a constant reminder that my home runs of the past will never win my games of the present. The next couple of downhill miles alternated between evergreen forest and open ski slopes where wet grass deceptively hid errant rocks and divots that challenged your ankles, or the more obvious muddy slip-n-slide that the wooded areas threw at us. The quiet of the forest, save for the ambient thump of my heart beating in my ears, finally gave way to a clearing where the simple armer obstacle stood in the way. Desperate for a break in the inner-thoughts constantly pumping paranoia into my head, I started singing some good ol’ AC/DC as I swung my big concrete ball from one end of the obstacle back to the start - cause I’ve got big balls…. dirty big balls!

After some good laughs and a high five from the volunteers (that isn’t considered outside help…right?!) I was off to the rolling mud, dunk wall and slip wall combo. Normally this would send spikes of frigid pain through my body but this year was an absolute scorcher and the muddy water felt so refreshing! I passed another two ultra bibs through the obstacle (doing a quick check to see if they looked like they were 35-39 years of age of course!). After filling my pack again at the aid station I glimpsed over at the wooded entrance and my surroundings. “I know this place…” I whispered, harkening back to memories as far back as 2014 where the balance beam claimed many burpees in this spot. My mind raced through different years, flipbooking through the various obstacles they had on this unassuming stretch of service road. The woods ahead lead straight towards the lake by the Killington Grand hotel… the same final stretch of woods where in 2013 I desperately hobbled in a hypothermia-ridden stupor covered in my own filth trying to make the final cut-off. Where in 2015 I realized that I had an actual chance at finishing, yet riddled with a cautious doubt that history would repeat itself. Each year brought a different battle, always with the temptation that the hotel is right there with a hot shower and a bed waiting for me. No matter the year, the course here always lead to the same place - the lake swim.

I ran faster now. Maybe it was my familiarity with the route or my desire to pay homage to the area where I got my first DNF in 2013, but my confidence in the terrain led me further, as if pulled to this fateful spot by an invisible hand. Dodging rocks, roots and tree branches the woods started to open up to that spot where Norm Koch snipped my timing chip off for being 200 seconds too late eight years ago. Even after all these years, a small swell of emotion bit into my consciousness. It never failed. I always let my mind jump into the past just for this one small moment to reflect at how far I had come, and what my goal of that year was. This year I smiled ear to ear, knowing how proud my past version of myself would have been that I was still chasing that far-off dream of a podium and how tantalizingly close I was at potentially reaching that goal by sunset this very day! My vision of seeing my old self shivering before Norm at the very spot I was standing in faded into the present as a runner trotted past me. I snapped back to reality. I wasn’t done yet! I sprinted past him, by this point thinking that every runner was my age, and on towards the rig obstacle.



I glanced over at two people cranking out burpees in the burpee pit, knowing that if I consigned my fate to that I would likely fail the tarzan swing that was just over the hill ahead. I leapt past the first ring, grabbed and instantly swung off the second ring and on to the pipe. After generating some more swinging momentum I grabbed the second set of rings and flung myself past the two ropes and straight to the bell. With a loud clang the spectators lining the course boundary tape gave me a cheer (love you guys)! After taking a second to glance over at the team regiment flag on my hotel balcony I saw the pile of life jackets ahead of me. Eagerly I swiped a lifejacket, snapped it on and jumped into the lake without any hesitation towards the tarzan swing. For the first time ever, the water felt amazing! My core temp immediately dropped while the heat of the day melted away into the refreshing 60 degree water. Even though I had to hurry, I backstroked towards the rope ladders to let my body temp drop while the distant clang of the bells got closer. Even though I’ve gotten this obstacle done for the last five years, doubt always had a way of creeping into the present moment as I grabbed the first rope and swung over to the next one. This year my concern was my right middle finger that was constantly reminding me that it was sprained, and oh boy did it find the right moment to deliver that reminder! On the last rope before the bell my finger sent a shock of pain down my forearm, forcing me to double-grip the final rope in order to lurch forwards and barely tap the bell. The obstacle was complete, but my finger was making it’s protest known in shocks of pain whenever I attempted to move it. Even the water pushing against my hands pinpricked a background radiation of pain that I forced myself to accept for the remainder of the race. Maybe it was the sudden and unexpected pain that jolted me out of my concentration but my lower quads took this moment to chime in, cramping and seizing up as I got out of the water. Despite this, I put that smile on my face and gave no concession to my pain for anybody to see. I saw Asa Coddington snapping pictures, so I had to look extra chipper!

I tightened my pack and jogged towards the a-frame cargo net nestled by the lake, wrestling off the encroaching cramp that my lower quads kept trying bring back. The cramping amplified as I went up the cargo net, pinching and pulling on every movement on what was supposed to be a simple obstacle designed to merely add a minute to our course times. The moment my feet slapped against the ground I was peg-legging towards the z-wall. “Shit”, I muttered out, coming to terms with my situation. I had to nip this in the bud before it kept getting worse. “I might have spent too much time enjoying that water!” I said to a concerned runner asking if I was going to be okay. I quickly swallowed two salt tabs and continued peg-legging over to the z-wall, still cognizant of the pulses of pain that my finger was sending through my hand. Yeah… I went from 100% to fucked up really quick! Welcome to the Killington Ultra!

I shrugged off the pain and brute-forced my way through the z-wall after inspecting the blocks and choosing the harder part of the “Z” first, opting to see if I had the strength to finish the obstacle right away instead of burning precious limited grip strength only to discover that later on the wall. Thankfully I got through just fine despite my quads and finger telling me otherwise. The rope climb was next, which thanks to the s-hook technique I didn’t struggle through at all despite the rope being slathered in mud. At the top of the rope climb I saw the next obstacles while the last of the lake water dripped off of me. Up ahead awaited an atlas carry, inverted wall and box cargo climb, nothing too bad for me to think of as a ‘burpee threat’. The cramp in my quads slowly went from a scream to a whisper thanks to the fast-acting salt tabs despite the cramp-inducing platform I had to muscle-up over on the cargo climb. Other ultrarunners (of which looked in their mid 30s, but that’s my paranoia speaking) suffered their bouts of cramps at the cargo climb platform. Just as I reached into my pack for some salt tabs I noticed the same competitive red headbands on them that I wore, meaning that no help was allowed between each other. Knowing full well what those two people were going through, it hurt not to help them as they lay sprawled in the dirt clenching their quads in pain. It looked like I wasn’t the only one that got messed up by the lake swim.

As if the mountain itself beckoned me further, a gust of wind forced my attention onwards, challenging my own cramped quads to put out…as if I had a choice. Despite the background radiation of pain trying to wrestle control over my body, there was so much more work that needed to be done and I was not going to yield to anything trying to make me lose sight of what I was truly after. I kept my thoughts into the stoic, analytical dreamstate that beckoned me forwards. I forced another 100cal meal into my stomach during the slow uphill slog to the barbed wire crawl despite the food tasting like sawdust. After having endured a 12 hour low crawl at the death race, I was grateful for any low crawl that was less than that! Cramps tried to pinprick their way up my body while I rolled uphill through the wire, but it wasn’t a big deal. I reached into that mental cookie jar and thought to myself “I did 12 hours of low crawls, after all!” Up next was the bucket carry, and I knew that Killington always had a way of making their carries an absolute hedonistic suckfest!

Oh boy… The bucket carry did not disappoint! Thankfully they put covers on the buckets so I was able to heft it over my shoulder like a short thick log, but that was the only relief that the brutal 1/2 mile carry afforded everyone. Much like the sandbag carry, I never stopped moving and no matter what I never set the bucket down. I passed by at least three other purple bibs who were making this mistake as they spent a limited amount of strength in clean and jerking the cumbersome bucket back over their shoulders after having their burden set down. Spending all that energy just to keep moving again wasn’t a toll I was willing to pay. I kept a mental checklist of the people I had passed so far, and compared it to the reference given to me by the pipe lair volunteer and a well of excitement came up as I slammed the bucket back down into the pit and ran to the next challenge - my strategy was working! Start off mild and then go wild! Right around the corner of a short downhill jaunt was the next obstacle infamously known as the burpee-maker. That’s right… the spear throw!

I spent my rest days practicing spear throws thanks to having a spear setup in my backyard. Ironically, this exercise is where I jammed my finger the weekend prior. I could feel the twinges of pain emanate as I balanced the spear on my hand, moved it a few inches back, wrapped the rope around the spear three times and threw the massive dart like a demented game of beer pong. I didn’t care if my finger hurt during the throw, I had to get it right! The satisfying thip of the spear sinking into the dead center of the target overrode any pain my finger tried to protest - a beautiful contrast to the alternative fate that could have awaited me in the overcrowded burpee pit. One…two…three, I counted, passing the purple bibs doing burpees in the pit and quickly strode off into the uphill drudgery that awaited.

The early afternoon had made the heat even more intense, the sun now baked into my backside as stagnant air dried my lips. I opened up another packet of cheese sauce while my heartbeat drummed into my temples. The heat of the day made itself known, made clear by the pitter-pattering of sweat that fell down to my legs, only to be alleviated as I turned a corner to the other side of the mountain where a cold wind blasted through my core. There was no in-between. I was burnt until sweat lathered my body, only to have it turned into a freezing chill once I got to the other side of the mountain crest. The open uphill slope was interrupted briefly by the box obstacle, which wasn’t much of an issue thanks to being tall. “Good work ultras, olympus is next!” said the volunteer in an ominous undertone, warning us to save our strength. He was right to warn us, the olympus was placed right before twister this year! Another arduous climb had to be conquered beforehand, and that was the moment that my water supply went dry. Nature cruelly chided me for this by having this section of course on the side of the mountain that was a stale, windless oven. I stepped harder, knowing that a water station was right after olympus . Nevertheless the remainder of uphill leading to olympus was met with an ever-growing thirst, taunting me by the water station that shined ahead of the obstacle like an oasis. I shook out my hands and hopped up on to olympus with the din of bell-clanks from twister close enough to be heard to force my mind away from the present challenge. I grabbed the first hole of the board and immediately knew that it wasn’t going to happen. Despite the finger being taped, my busted up hand trembled in the grip as I made it only three holes into what would be my first obstacle failure. Instead of going all-out and injuring my finger and depleting the grip strength I needed for twister, I opted for the penalty loop that went about 1/4 miles down and back up the mountain for a total of about 3 minutes worth of penalty time to anybody who runs through it. I’ll take that over 30 burpees! I gulped down water, furiously refilling my pack as the next challenge stood before me. Bring on twister.

Twister had three sections at this venue, but it was still a cinch to barrel through thanks to the dry heat of the day making the bars warm and dry and easy to grip. I knew that going through it slow would mean more time spent dead-hanging, so I opted to go through it backwards. I saw those who passed me on olympus doing burpees here so I chocked it up as a break-even and pressed forward into another muddy forested downhill slip-n-slide. Despite the grips on my shoes, it never failed that an errant rock or patch of grass would deceptively hide a slick patch of mud or divot. Every sudden correction to my stride to prevent a downhill spill sent ticks of pain rumbling through my legs and back, constantly ramping up the buzz of agony that continually underscored the day. Killington always did this, and it was just a battle of pain tolerance versus determination not to surrender what I always wanted for the temporary rest that I wanted in the moment. After a brief opening of course towards the blender obstacle, one last incredibly steep downhill expanse led to the festival area. Spectators were increasingly dotting the side of the course that suddenly and deceptively took a sudden turn back up the mountain, only that this time that trek was to be traveled while carrying another heavy burden. Enter the sandbag carry 2.0.


Getting the wreckbag of dirt over my shoulders was a trial in itself, emboldening my need to never let that bag touch the ground at all costs. Even though this carry was far worse than the one on the ultra loop, it paled in comparison to the 2014 double sandbag carry! “It could always be worse”, I chuckled under my breath. Keeping that perspective in mind made the obstacle simple, buffeted by the distant ring of festival music beckoning me towards the end of lap one. My eyes stayed on the course, opting to wave my hands at the cheering spectators to avoid making my 2013 mistake that left me with the worst ankle sprain ever. The hercules hoist and helix were the only things standing in my way of finishing lap 1, which barely even presented a challenge. Immediately after slapping the helix bell I took my pack off and ran over to the transition area. I checked my watch. 5 hours, 58 minutes. Perfect! My mind raced at the same speed as my body that rifled through my drop bin. Headlamp, more nutrition and a quick refill of my hydration bladder by a gallon jug mix of tailwind and k-1000 was all I needed. My goal was to beat my transition time record, so I spent no time chit chatting with the other couple purple bibs around me, as if there were many people to even chat with. The fact that there were so very few ultras present meant that I was much further in the pack than I thought, which meant that I needed to hurry the hell up and start moving if I wanted to keep things that way. I grabbed my double snickers bar lunch to eat on-the-go and ran out of the transition area right at the six hour mark. Only two minutes in transition… a new record! I felt on top of the world at this point. I mean, why wouldn’t I?! A sub 5-hour lap 2 finish was feasible, my nutrition and hydration were on point and I only failed one obstacle which was done strategically. I spent the last two years going through so much strife and hardship, which only added more cookies to that mental cookie jar - but I had no idea just how badly I would need each and every one of those cookies for this second lap. The timing mat below my feet beeped, and I took the first couple steps into the second lap, never bothering to look back.



The transition area sidestepped the starting corral which announced the noon heat to assemble. I looked ahead of me while scarfing down my snickers bars to see just two other lonely purple bibs pushing themselves up the mountain where we all so emphatically ran up just six hours prior. Lap two is a special kind of challenge that many people process differently. Many people who do call it quits (and not by time hacks missed), overwhelmingly tap out at the transition area that now faded away behind me. Knowing what lie ahead with the painful memories still fresh can be overwhelming for many. For me, it was my time to shine. The longer I’m out at an endurance event, the more I thrived. I reached into the cookie jar in my mind. I remembered back to the third night of the Death Race during the Denali challenge maniacally laughing in the rain while my sleep-deprived hallucinations wracked my mind that scrambled to make sense of it all. I live for this shit! The triple walls greeted me for a second time. With a smile still on my face, the fates gave me a nice “ask and ye shall receive” as I plopped to the ground after the final hurdle. I felt something slip out from underneath me and I fell right on my ass. Confused, I looked down at my feet. “You alright?” shouted a concerned volunteer in the distance. I took a cautious couple of steps and felt nothing. “Yep! I’m good to go, thanks for volunteering!” I cheered as I waved him off. I started to run the downhill and immediately discovered the reason for the fall. My left foot felt like it was running in a flip flop, and for a valid reason - the damn heel of my shoe was detached! I laughed at my situation where many would have lamented it. After all, it wouldn’t be a fun story if the shoes that I needed to put another 15 miles on had a complete blowout, would it?! My shoe heel comedically flapped against my foot heel as I continued the uphill climb towards the 7’ wall, eating my other snickers bar along the way. If I had to run barefoot on that foot later on, so the fuck be it!

The next couple obstacles were the same story as lap 1 but now the beast runners dotted the course. Like every year, they were incredibly kind and supportive, allowing me to pass by on course and go to the front of the line on obstacles. I made an effort to always to return the cheerful composure and give high fives and fist bumps wherever possible. “Ay bro your shoe is fucked!” shouted one of the beast runners in a thick Baltimore accent as I crested the stairway to sparta obstacle. “It’s a fashion statement!” I cheered, ignoring the fresh spikes of pain that riddled my finger.

My heel flopped and squished sideways as I landed. If I was fated to struggle more than usual for this lap, I was going to have some fun with it! The runnable downhill that lead down to the festival area was met with the comedic flap flap of my shoe heel, met with the occasional jolts of pain on my knees and back that came with running sharp downhills. I knew that Kendall was waiting for me at the tyrolean traverse obstacle, so I had to keep my spirits up! After all, I couldn’t look weak in front of my teammates. Every step I now took was brought with the idea that I’ll never have to retrace it again. “There he is!” shouted Kendall as he cheered me to the traverse line for the second time. I smiled warmly. “I went fast just so you wouldn’t be lonely without me! How are things?”. Without hesitation he went straight to the point. Not only was I ahead of the pack, but he had been asking every runner with red headbands what their ages were! He casually spoke to me, walking next to me as I traversed across the obstacle, “There were a couple of people in their 40’s that came through but I only counted just one person who was 34-39!”. I just about fell off the obstacle in disbelief! I had a hunch that I was ahead thanks to the back-of-the-napkin math in my head, but this was the first indication I was actually in contention for a podium spot! The only thing I had to do now was to go absolutely all out to guarantee that my spot is never overtaken! “He’s only about 15 minutes ahead of you, too!”. He then told me the bad news. “Vic and Michelle are really far behind, and Jeff was even further behind and he does NOT look good”. I nodded, knowing that their chances of them being out there on their second lap were almost non-existent. “They’re going to need you when they get back here” I sighed, remembering the storm of emotions that enveloped me when I faced my DNFs in years past, and how much it meant to me to have a friend waiting for me. Everyone in our group knew our chances, and we all knew not to dwell. There was plenty of time to do that after the race. For now the only thing that we could do is keep putting one foot in front of the other, so I gave Kendall a hug and headed onwards to the second round of the death march.

This time the death march was much warmer. Cooked by the stagnant hot air of the afternoon sun, ultra and beast runners alike were slowed in unison. Knowing things would be on this climb I had drenched myself in cold water at the aid station prior and I let my mind slip back into autonomous mode, thinking back to those endless stair-stepper sessions and appreciating the rare blasts of cool air that’d greet everyone when hitting a false peak. I passed two purple bibs and the 1st place competitive heat female stormed past me in a similar aura of concentration, willpower and determination that belied the haphazard slapping of my shoe heel. Despite the obvious hardship of this section of course I always loved it the most on the second lap. Every beast runner had their own story that they didn’t have to speak, for it was written all over them. Some were obviously way out of their element, yet still strode on in what would no doubt be the hardest thing they had ever accomplished. Others pressed forwards upon seeing me, picking up their pace after knowing that their situation could always be worse. I soaked the moment in as I had done at the death race. I realized in the moment how lucky I was to be present at that very moment in a situation that I will forever look back upon with fondness. Every step I took was another foot closer towards what could possibly be the culmination of 8 years worth of hard work. Every step was done with a purpose now, emboldened by my past as much as I was from the runners beside me. I reached the peak about 8 minutes slower this time, still opting to give myself a five second break to soak in the amazing view that I’ll likely not see for another year. Satisfaction warming my heart, I eagerly pressed on for some much needed downhill running where I gleefully gave the finger to the now-closed ultra loop entrance!

Similar to the long stretch of runnable course that the ultra loop mercifully gave six hours earlier, the beast course section leading to the 8’ wall was a great section to get some 6-7 minute miles in. The good part about this is that I passed another purple bib and countless other beast runners who generously cleared the way. Unfortunately that speed caused more parts of the left heel of my shoe to come apart as it began to fling flecks of mud up into my hair with every encumbered step. It was still runnable, but definitely slower this time around. The forested paths were now much more slipperier as the beast and lagging ultra runners had beaten it down for the last six hours, forcing me to put most of my descending weight on my right shoe to avoid my heel slipping out of the side of the other one. Like the lap before, this downhill section of course snaked between treacherous, rocky double black diamond ski slopes and even muddier evergreen trails that eventually lead back to the armer and trio of rolling mud, dunk wall and slip wall. Much like my first lap, my familiarity here guided me. I went a little slower through the dunk wall to allow the muddy water to cool me off, but I knew that my finger sprain was getting much worse as I grabbed the robe on the slip wall. My middle finger could no longer grip, nor did I have any feeling past my last knuckle as the swelling tried to envelop the crude wrapping of athletic tape in between joints. All I needed was for it to hold off for just a little longer. I looked at my watch to check the mileage. Mile 7 of the beast… just need to keep going for less than 7 more miles and I can spend all the time I need tending to it. This is easy, after all… I podiumed an ultra on a fucking broken foot!

I pressed through the muddy forest, zig-zagging through mostly beast runners in my hunt to find and pass another purple bib. Much like my advances in the past out here, I didn’t want to give any fuel to my doubts by taking it easy. I didn’t want other runners to even see me in the distance to drum up any hope that they can overtake me. This time I wasn’t out for merely a finisher medal, I was out here podium! Though I zipped through the woods with a gleeful confidence, I had no idea what I was truly going to be put up against once that clearing opened up to my old DNF spot of 2013.

Despite the background noise of my heart thumping into my temples and the slap slap of my shoe heel, the runs through the evergreen trails were serene and quiet. Leaving the otherwise treacherous trails was seen as a downgrade in the course as it morphed into something less beautiful and silent. Inexorably I wasted no time approaching the rig that was now chocked full of people in the burpee pit. The moment my hand touched the ring it shot out in pain, so I gripped the ring even harder and swung through the obstacle even faster than before while inadvertently flipping off everyone around me with my inoperable middle finger sticking out. My grip strength waned, forcing me to double-grip the last ring while I swung past the ropes to barely smack the bell with my numb fingertips. I could hardly clench my right fist by that point, looking at the bruise that crept and expanded along my finger now. I moved my sights onwards to the next obvious concern that was looking straight back at me - the tarzan swing. Without thinking about it I grabbed the life jacket and hopped in to the refreshing lake ironically surrounded by the hotel signs saying ‘Absolutely no swimming allowed’. I did what I did before and climbed the rope ladder just high enough to grab on to the rope at a full hang to avoid the sudden jerk of gravity tugging down on me once I got off the ladder as I started to move my way across. My left hand gripped the first rope. “Feels great!” I said to myself. Now for the real test. I swung over and grabbed the next rope right the right hand. “Oh fuck”, I blurted out, wide-eyed and in shock at how absolutely depleted my grip strength was in equal magnitude with the pain. I hung there for what felt like an eternity, one hand on each rope while a mixture of mud and lake water draining out of my left shoe heel as I desperately tried to get my swinging momentum back. For a split second my mind slipped into bargaining mode. “Maybe I should just fall and take the penalty swim. I need to cool off more so a longer swim might do me good!” You can guess what happened next.

I splashed into the water, bewildered at failing an obstacle that I had breezed through just six hours prior and in the five years before that. Aggressively I made my way over to the penalty buoy planted far off and attempted to keep my legs still and cold in an attempt to bring my core temperature down. Bad. Freaking. Idea. Just as I rounded the buoy and swim back to shore, my legs began seizing up in a spasm of cramps that slithered down my legs. I moved my feet up and down to painfully flex my calves but to no avail, the cramps had writhed upwards into my quads now. I floundered to the shore peg-legged while still forcing a smile for the camera, hiding the pain that knotted everywhere below the hip. I attempted shake my legs loose by running towards the cargo a-frame but my legs wouldn’t have any of it. Hobbling, I slowly got over the cargo net and fumbled with my pack, emptying three salt tablets into my still-shivering hands and gulped them down, eyeing the foreboding z-wall ahead that resembled a grinning monster that knew exactly the hardships I still had to endure, as if it knew my punishment was justified by striking down my confidence boasted earlier. Without the luxury of sitting still for a couple minutes for the salt tabs to kick in, I approached the wall and inspected the foot blocks for any mud for me to scrape off. I shook off my nerves and got started with it, opting once again for the harder section of wall first. I approached the corner of the wall and blindly searched for the block on the other side with my busted up hand, now with one of the athletic tape bandages slipping off to the wet swollen finger that lie underneath. With my leg muscles resembling what I can only describe as a creaking block of wood, I shimmied my right foot around the corner and anchored my left shoe on the block that my right one was on before swinging around the corner. Note how I said left shoe, because the shoe itself had no issue staying on the block. My heel on the other hand slipped right out of the back of the shoe, forcing me to put all of my bodyweight on the towards the grip of my depleted hand. Much like the tarzan swing, you can guess what happened next. For the first time in eight years, I had actually failed the z-wall! Disgust, if but for a brief moment, swelled up in my gut at failing such a simple obstacle.

“Your shoe is busted bro!” said what must have been the tenth person passing by as I quickly unclipped my pack and got to the burpee pit. “Shoulda brought duct tape!” I joked hastily. I had no time to dwell, and no time to lose either. Abating my frustrations in seeing other purple bibs and beast runners alike fail and doing no burpees I directed my energy into finishing my burpees faster, as if mocking their reluctance to take responsibility for their mishaps. The rope climb was next in the series of obstacles, which thankfully wasn’t an issue. The same went for the atlas carry, inverted wall and vertical cargo platform that cluttered the area. The issue arose after each obstacle where my body would continue to seize up as if the distant festival music was tugging at my subconscious to undergo some kind of finish line shutdown. I wolfed down another honey stinger waffle and started the uphill climb towards the barbed wire crawl, sucking down as much water as I could while peeing in my pants to avoid adding precious minutes to my finish time, fearful that stopping would cause more cramping. I half stood up before the wire crawl, feeling my legs muscles twitch and curl as I stooped down to hold my pack in front of me. The previous crawl through here brought on twinges of cramps, but none like what I had felt this time. My body clearly reeling from the abuse of the day and especially the recent and sudden decline, I crawled and rolled uphill through the tangle of wire and rock, lurching ever forwards as a nearby beast runner spoke. “C’mon ultra you got this”, he exclaimed as he offered to hold on to my pack. Knowing the rules in place I politely declined and smiled. “This isn’t a 12 hour death race low crawl, this is nothing!” I cheered, reaching into that cookie jar afforded to me by my trials at the 2018 death race. The bucket carry loomed ahead in the distance as I stood up from the crawl, stretching my abs and legs to silence the protesting cramps that had failed to override my movements. Heavy carries were nothing but a slower movement to me, so I pressed on without incident, reveling in the final thud of placing the bucket down at the end of the route and the fact that navigating the obstacle stretched some of the knots out of my legs at the same time. I ran for the first time since the cramping took hold towards the next obstacle that gave pause, the spear throw.

The burpee pit was overcrowded with people, mostly beast runners with one ultra bib that looked like someone in their early 20’s, but nevertheless a potential ‘kill’ should I not screw this up. Despite having practiced this endless hours in my backyard I still had doubt creeping in the back of my mind as I twisted the rope around the spear and positioned my injured hand on the shaft of the spear. I stood upright with my other arm behind my back to balance myself out. With a deep exhale I tuned out the noise around me and saw the obstacle before me for what it really was - a closer, bigger target than what I had trained for. I regained my confidence and arced the spear gently through the air, letting gravity sink the spear firmly into the dead center of the target. The inner silence was pulled out of the present cheering of those around me. Stoically I continued on, sparing the spectators a thumbs up and double-checking the age of the ultra still cranking out burpees as I began the next series of uphill advances, methodically eating along the way if by instinct now.

So the minutes passed - a precession of grueling uphills and treacherous downhills that eventually led to the brief hurdles and box obstacles that presaged the true challenge that lie ahead… the final test of my grip strength. Olympus and twister rested at the top of the windy peak, greeting me again but with a choice this time. I knew that I could only attempt one obstacle with the last vestiges of my arm and grip strength while conceding to the other. Like before I tapped the olympus obstacle after failing to muscle-up on the rock climbing bolts in a feeble attempt to shimmy across that way. My legs thudded to the ground, once again sending shocks of cramp-ridden agony up my body. I moved again, ignoring the jabs of pain in my calves. The fatigue was crushing now, but I kept going, forcing cramp-tight sinews to function through the penalty loop as I watched purple bib from the spear throw burpee pit passing by towards twister. This was it. This was the last big grip obstacle that I had to muster an unknown strength to complete. I looked ahead to the twister burpee pit where three other ultras and a sea of beast runners were doing their burpees in the presence of a rightfully strict course referee. The realization dawned on me that my potential 34-39 year old competitor might be in that very pit right now doing burpees. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath, shaking out my forearms before firmly gripping the first two hot metal rungs. With the sun blotting out my vision I moved backwards with a panicked haste commanded by this technique. My back muscles tensed up, compensating for the fatigue of my hands as the first break of the three trusses formed in my blurred vision. Fueled by my initial momentum I wasted no time in going through the second section of rungs, my hands tightening up on the burning hot metal grips as they creaked and groaned in muscle fatigue to the tune of the twisting bars above. The third truss section came into vision, spurring a stop in those in the burpee pit as I heard them take a break to cheer me on. Blinded by the sun above, they could clearly see that I was struggling, giving energy into hiding what I felt. With drool lapping my chin I dug into a primal strength reserve that brought a tingling numbness to my hands that were shearing off layers of calloused skin with every advance to the next rung. “You’re there! Just reach back to the bell!” shouted a voice from the pit as I blindly flailed backwards, eventually slapping the bell in unison to their cheers. Immediately I slumped to the ground and sat, arms limp as I fumbled for my hydration nozzle out of mechanical instinct, devoid of any sensation in my fingers. I mustered a smile of gratitude towards those in the pit, unable to muster much in the form of words, drool still clinging to my chin.

The late afternoon sun highlighted the bright purple hue of their bibs, forcing my instincts into action. I sprang up, arms still limp, and broke into a run again towards the white course tape that snaked into the wooded section of course again. Was that it? Did I just pass my final competitors? It mattered not to me. What mattered now is that I create as much of a gap between them as I pursue my next set of potential competitors ahead. Sliding and skidding with the mud and rock I knew that there was just one more uphill section to overcome… the dreadful mile 12 incline.

Amid the second lap it seemed vaster than before, an engorged outcropping of the planet’s core thrusting up higher and higher cloaked in ever steepening terraces of rock and evergreen. Though short in distance, this section of course was by far the steepest, going up 700 feet in only 0.4 miles. The beast runners echoed the shock and exasperation I had on the first lap, bargaining with the incline by trying to bear crawl up or opting to sit down to contemplate their life choices. “Ultra. Left” I’d whisper to runners taking no exception to an opportunity to stop and step aside briefly. My arms barely able to push down on to my trembling quads, I moved with a defiant purpose. The sane screams of pain that my mind would shout at me were all but a whisper now, despite that pain itself having taken no respite. I was emboldened, for that I knew that just beyond the peak of this horrid climb lie the final steep downhill that gave home to the final sandbag carry that lead to that coveted festival area - an area that so few people go to even glimpse a second time. I gave myself a glance at my watch as the course flattened in preparation for the downhill. Behind a now-cracked screen it read out 11 hours and 46 minutes, giving me precious little time to irk out a sub 12 hour finish again this year, however time wasn’t my goal anymore. I barreled down the steep decline, unyielding to any urges to slow down to prevent injury now. Pressing against the crates holding the sandbags to stop my uncontrolled downhill momentum, I immediately grabbed the damp wreckbag. I brought it to my chest, wafting the putrid scent of the scores of runners embedded upon it, and pushed it over my head with the last vestiges of arm strength and set it atop my shoulders. There was no setting this bag down, not out of pride but out of necessity. If it fell to the ground I could not bring it back to my shoulders, instead it’d have to be dragged. I took a quick glance at the downhill slope that lead me here and noticed a purple bib barreling down, no doubt echoing the same sense of sub-12 urgency that gripped my gut. I pressed upwards, silencing the screams of protest driven by my body’s instinctual senses of preservation. My vision was edged with blurs now, shaking even as I moved. The muddy bog of grass sloshed against my heel, slapping water into my shoe with every step upwards and downwards, my heel sliding out of the shoe with every uncontrolled and desperate downhill press my foot made against the spongy ground. First rarely dotting the course, the spectators grew as I got closer to the end of the bag carry and into the festival area. A sense of finality swelled in my psyche, just minutes remained!

“NEIL!” screamed a voice from a figure I saw jumping up and down in the corner of my eye. It was Kendall! I weakly rose my trembling hand in acknowledgement, his remaining words fading amid the cacophony of spectators shouting “GO ULTRA”, as if my presence was some kind of anomaly to them. Finish line fatigue tried to wrest control of my body in the form of stabbing cramps accompanied by a sea of emotions, frantically forced down for one last time by the desire to see just one thing… the results. Having remembered seeing a couple ultra bibs in the sandbag carry, I could not afford to have a repeat of my obstacle failures on what was supposed to be an easy passthrough. If there was failure, I could potentially lose a podium spot to them with just minutes to spare. The hercules hoist was first. I gripped the rope with everything I could, avoiding putting pressure on my middle finger and I sank to the ground, gripping the dusty dry rope with the last vestiges of my strength reserves. Slowly but surely the bag made it to the top of the pulley, my thoughts drowned out by the noises of Kendall and the spectators. My senses abruptly darted towards the vibration on my wrist. It was the 12 hour mark. No matter. I looked back and saw no ultra bibs behind me as I hopped up to the helix.

Though incredibly simple in appearance and execution, I had to get these right. As if my body knew this was the last time it needed to contort itself through an obstacle, my hamstrings lurched in a flurry of spasms on the backwards-leaning section of helix, but the pain was too commonplace now to pay any heed. Knowing no ultras were behind me and whatever place I was in was locked, I carefully calculated every move. Failing now would easily drop my placement. I clang the bell and looked at the very last obstacle that stood between me and the finish line - the monkey bars. I stood on the stool and composed myself. “We got an ultra coming through, everyone!” shouted the voice behind the PA system that ushered in a din of cheering from the spectators and beast runners alike. I took a deep breath and gripped the first hot, dry bar and swung forwards with all the control I could muster. One bar… two bar… three bars, a more distant and elevated forth bar… the bell tantalizingly hung just a few more bars ahead of me. I thought of that cookie jar metaphor that David Goggins talked about, and a workout video of him during the final hour of multi-day sufferfest. “They don’t know me son!” he’d shout, clearly overcoming similar pain signals that wracked his body while his would-be competitors had long quit or stopped trying to look tough. My chest went heavy with emotion with every passing bar as I mustered the strength to bellow out those words of defiance. One bar now remained between me and that final bell. “THEY DON’T KNOW ME, SON”….. clang!

The bell rang with a sense of finality bundled in a curiosity gap still yet to be bridged beyond the finish line that awaited. With the heat of the fire jump flames lapping my body I sprinted towards the finish, bringing with me a now-released finish line fatigue and suppressed emotion that the day had accumulated, now given permission to be let out.

The glee of finishing what was hands down the hardest Killington Ultra was wrapped in that one final need… checking the results. I mentally compared my finish time to my 2019 time of 11:58 and realized that my chances of a podium were slim, but my comparison was flawed in so many ways as I was soon to uncover. “My position in the heat HAD to have gotten me something” I thought to myself. “Could others have suffered this much as well”? I hobbled over to Kendall, wrought with pain I immediately asked about the fate of our group. “They’re all back at the hotel. You’re the only one that made it this year”, he said with a mix of shock and curiosity about what had transpired out there to make it this difficult. My heart sank as I limped over to the results tent. I knew that they weren’t likely to finish after what Kendall told me at the second traverse meet-up, but I couldn’t help but think back to the feelings I felt when I DNF’ed this event. This was Jeff’s second DNF, and much like what I did in 2014, he trained his ass off this year! Vic and Michelle had to have felt what I had felt in 2013 as well. My mind plucked those eight years of emotions from my memory as if it had happened yesterday, preparing a timeline for me to recall as I nervously approached the results tablet that asked for my bib number.

Eight years.

Eight years of an agonizingly slow journey that began with two DNFs, culminated by slow finishes and now this. I remembered the dozens of purple bibs that I passed, only recalling two or three others that passed me. Could this actually be it? I wiped the mud and sweat off of my trembling finger. The air around me went silent, save for whatever encouragement Kendall was saying beside me that was rendered to a muffled blur of noise. I tapped the keypad. 7. 1. 1. Enter.



My heart leapt into my throat in disbelief, my pack that was slung around my arms slid off and thudded into the dirt. My body struggled to stay on two feet as I planted my hands on to the table and just stared at the screen. I couldn’t even utter out my first instinctual “holy SHIT” without my voice trembling in a hundred emotions as the screen displayed the results, now dotted with my tears on the screen. I looked to Kendall and wanted to say a thousand things, only mumbling “I actually did it!”. The noise of the festival area came back into my head, realizing that I stood exactly at the base of where I got my timing chip cut in 2014. I actually did it! I gave Kendall a hug while I let the emotions of eight years crest into the present. A volunteer at the next table waved me over to give me my medals, breaking my thoughts from the past into the glorious present that I had earned. Still addled with emotion I uttered my bib and last name, watching him rifle through the boxes of finisher buckles and then over to the single box with the rare amount of age group medals. “Congratulations ultra!” shouted the volunteer, then echoed by the others around me. I wanted to say a so many things but I felt mute in the sheer disbelief that this really happened! “Let’s get a picture of you on the podium!” cheered Kendall. The only sound I made was the sniffing of my tears and the clank clank of the two medals around my neck, eyeing the spot on the stage that I looked at in awe for all these years that I had finally earned a brief moment on. “Got it!” Kendall gave with a thumbs up. Much like the brief five second scenery-break I gave myself earlier after finishing a big climb, I took a final moment to look around the festival area and then up at the mountains that claimed the timing chips of over 70% of the ultra runners that day. Taking in the breeze and the excitement around me, my fingers ran around the contours of the medal that had eluded me for all these years, knowing that this memory was no doubt going to be burned into my mind for the rest of my existence!



My decimated body commanded me a slow and careful exit from the podium, glancing over at the few ultras that had their moment at the finish line, each of whom were also likely podium finishers as well. Every person that crossed that finish line regardless of having a purple bib on or not had an incredible journey that brought them there. My eyes went to the nearby ultra transition area. Every DNF that was picking up their gear had an equally incredible journey - many of which had only just begun with that day as it had been with me all those years ago. Despite people having different medals, if any, dangling around their necks we were all equal this day. We were equal in the reality that we had all encountered and overcame a trial that made us uncommon amongst a society that had padded us with comfort and demanded mediocrity in return. We were, as Theodore Roosevelt put it, the men in the arena:

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat."

Where I go from here is still a mystery. In the weeks after this event I still do not know for sure where my path leads me to, but I know it won’t be one of me feeling like I have nothing more to prove. For me there is no real ‘finish line’, only another dream to chase built on the foundations of the previous ones. I don’t want to have all of what I had worked for, admittedly plenty, stop here. Wherever I go I know it’ll be back into that arena with another great challenge bearing down upon me. When all seems impossible and dire, I can now reach back into my mind and think to myself - I freaking hit the podium at Killington!

Now… I look to you.

Yeah, you. Sitting in the arena with me, holding the baton I just passed to you.

Where will your journey lead to now?

Technical course detail below