Ten years.

It has been ten years since I first started this journey, and I still feel the same passion, discipline and excitement that brought me out there so many years ago. 

What you’re about to embark upon is an account of my journey towards the 2023 Killington Ultra, formerly known as the Ultra Beast (I’ll use those words interchangeably).  This is an event that I had trained years to simply complete – at first failing multiple times, then striving to merely survive, and then to thrive. I wanted my story to be one that started as a DNF and finalizing on the impossible - a podium finish.  Each year I come back to improve upon the last with my new goal being a first place finish.

After failing the event in 2013 and again in 2014, I had finally achieved a finish in 2015.  However, that was not going to be the end.  I was going to continue to challenge myself in an event that has now defined the way I live my life.  Each bolded chapter subject was written shortly after it happened, kind of like a journal entry.  I typically write about three or four significant events in the year prior that had some kind of impact on this.

Before continuing I highly recommend reading previous parts of my Ultrabeast adventure for you to really get the perspective of not how I did all of this, but why. Part 1 begins in all the way back to 2013 and it’s a book in itself. If you’d like to only read about this year’s event, that’s fine too!

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

This is my story. 

The muscle fibers of my legs twitch and undulate, waking me up every hour, forcing me to shift around.  The sun finally glows above the mountains and bleeds through the blinds of the windows of the Killington Grand Hotel.  My hand blindly rummages about the nearby table for my phone over my pile of medals ranging from the fabled ultra buckle, a hurricane heat dog tag and most notably a second place age group medal.  For the second time in a row, I had finished on the podium at what was hands-down the hardest ultra, ever!

This performance felt so “normal” to me that I had even opted out of writing about it for that year.  There just wasn’t anything unique about this year that made it noteworthy other than it being the hardest ultra yet.  Funny how perspectives change as you get stronger, but my body definitely didn’t feel anything close to ‘strong’ that morning.

My legs buckle under the stress and pain of what I had put them through as I shambled up to make breakfast.  This year’s ultra was supposed to be a warm-up to my first 100 miler due to happen in just five weeks.  The mountains of the NoBusiness 100 weren’t nearly as intense as this, but it was still going to be a journey into the unknown stretches of trails that snaked through the Appalachian mountains on the border of Tennessee and Kentucky.  My mind is ripped back into the present moment with every twitch of soreness quaking through my body.  I plop down on the balcony of the hotel and watch the sun leak over the mountainous horizon and smile, coffee in hand. 

“I get to do this”

The experiences, views and friends afforded by our determination and discipline brought us together every year, and this year was an amazing success.  Coming out of covid and seeing everybody back out on the mountain brought a smile to my face, and although members of my crew didn’t finish this year’s course, they were all determined to come back and do it all again in 11 months, 4 weeks and 2 days from now.  We celebrated our efforts and yearned for another year of intense training heralding our return.  This was our normal.  Part of me knew that I could live out my days in contentment with the collection of buckles I had so far earned, getting fat and bragging about my past accomplishments season in and season out.  Hell, it would be normal for somebody to do such a thing, but I abandoned normal long ago.  The finish line is a lie, and for now I had some closer alligators to the boat that I had to deal with.



As a flatlander, one can joke about the title of this event in that I had absolutely no business being up in them thar hills.  I felt completely out of my element not only by virtue of my geography but that I knew absolutely nobody at this event.  I ate, slept and traveled alone out there.  It’s not easy going into an event you’re completely new to and having nobody to confide in, so I had no other choice but to reach out and meet new friends!  That part was easy.  The people at this event were just as energetic, welcoming, and supportive as every event I have ever done!  Complete strangers shared with me a place to stay and a table to eat at, right at the bunkhouses near the starting line. This event reminded me of why I am so attracted to the positivity and supportiveness of the endurance community!  I had recovered exceptionally well from Killington and my only goal for this event was to finish.  The strategy was simple – run the downhills, walk the uphills.  There were no aspirations other than that, especially since I’ve never done 100 miles before.

Killington taught me a vital skill that propelled me through this race – willpower.  Hour by hour I passed people and never got passed.  When the hills turned into mountains, I powerwalked past people in what was a mere diluted version of Killington in my mind.  The dense fall foliage blanketed the land in what was the most beautiful venue I had ever run in.  At no point did my mind wander into anything negative out there as the hours continued to melt away into the clearing leading to the finish line 28 hours after I took my first step into new territory.  I felt no cramps, no excessive pain and most importantly no regrets.  What I gained out of it were some new friends and a seat at the table with a unique group of athletes that can lay claim to having run 100 miles!  So what was next after this?  Well, another 100 miles!

The Forgotten Florida 100.  One hundred miles through the flat swampy mud bog known as Florida in the month of February.  I had the home field advantage in this one since the starting line was a mere 15 minute drive from my house, and I trained on those trails a lot!  Don’t think that was going to make things much easier, however.  Flat ground ultras hurt more in that there is no relief to any certain muscle groups granted from uphill to downhill running – it is all the same stress though every gruesome mile.  My goal for this was to once again finish, with my focus on mental toughness and keeping a consistent pace.  I would frequently think back to some wise words spoken to me by the elite podium finishers, “Play to your strengths.”  My strength? Suffering.  When the rain starts pouring on mile 70 and the body starts shutting down… that is when I get my second wind.  The harder the event, the better I perform. I thrive in environments where quitting is acceptable.

The swampy, muddy trails meant my feet were constantly wet and slogged with loose earth.  There was never a point where my feet weren’t inundated with something, and it hurt!  Although it was ranked as one of my toughest events, I never had any thought of quitting or indulging in any other excuse.  This was a huge deal since the rules for the 100 miler were that if you want to quit at the mile 50 point, you’d be awarded the mile 50 buckle without any consequence.  My ‘temptation runs’ that I’d train to played a huge role in this, where I’d make a route that circles back to my house every ½ mile and I’d run the distance I set beforehand and never cut my runs short (this was in the middle of the summer, btw).  At any time I could throw in the towel and I’d be right there at the comfort of my own permanent aid station.  Facing those temptations during training is critical and I recommend everybody make up their own temptation run, it’ll get your head out of your ass when its game day!  Make your training suck horrendously and your race day will be a celebration of all of your hard work. Sure enough, step after every labored step, I finished that race at the 75th percentile! Not bad for a ‘just finish and have fun’ approach! 

The mental test I laid out for myself was a resounding success, and I knew that whatever temptations Killington had to throw at me couldn’t stand a chance at breaking me!  All I had to do from here until Killington is train my ass off…



A graying, long-haired man stares back at me in the mirror with groggy, sunken eyes.  The distant hiss of the backyard sprinklers permeates the otherwise silent home at 5 in the morning.  I think back ten years ago to a nervous, clueless clean-cut kid that looked back at me in that same mirror.  So much time had passed, but one thing never changed… the sheer excitement of the unknown.  Even after a decade I was still antsy over what this event offered me – a reminder of who I am.  The medals of the last decade’s worth of OCRs, ultras and trail runs clanged gently as I walked by their suspended display in the hallway, dragging my luggage out to my car to drive over to Jeff’s place.  This year was huge.  It was an escape from the stresses piling up from work and home – an escape granted by ironically stressing my body out to the extremes.  The promise of Killington was that it gave me a level playing field to lure those demons out from hiding once again as I do every year, learning something new about myself every time.  This year felt more…grand.  Not only did I feel fulfilment in my own goals but I was more interested in seeing how the goals of my friends played out.  Jeff was attempting this race for the 4th time, as was Sean.  Vic was trying it for a second time and my friend Alex was on his 6th attempt after having me coaching him for two years now.  I no longer felt that isolation that I had initially felt during NoBusiness or Killington 2013, relishing in the camaraderie and excitement around a team cheering for each other.  My old car putters to life and I leave my driveway, certain that I will return to this spot days later as a different person as I always do.  That change, that…metamorphosis is that brings me out there every year.

Like previous years, leaving on a Thursday afforded Jeff and I a day to de-stress and get all our logistical hurdles out of the way.  Unlike previous years we were not going into this event with any injuries or disadvantages, but we certainly were not interested in making things worse.  Through an abundance of caution, we donned our N95 masks on the plane, avoiding or at least lessening the possibility of catching whatever bug was going around.  The flight was smooth, and everybody leaves you alone when you got a mask on which is nice when you’re trying to catch up on some sleep!  “Good thing I had this thing on”, Jeff says with a sigh of relief as we hop in our rental car in Hartford, “the lady behind me sounded like she was on her third pack of cigarettes through the entire flight!”  With one less variable to contend with, we had the whole day to drive out to Vermont, stopping along the way to get last minute supplies and take in the sights.  The familiarity of central Vermont felt like a second home to me by this point.  Except for the recently flood-damaged roads everything felt as if it was left exactly where we had left it last year. 

The signs of the local businesses welcomed the Spartan racers as the road eventually lead to the giant sign bringing us into Killington Mountain.  The beautiful visage of our upcoming torture greeted us, once again offering us a weekend we will never forget.  After shoveling in food and getting situated, we hung out at the hot tub and met with Mario and Alex to reminisce about all our adventures that transpired in the past twelve months.  In a jam-packed weekend of check-ins, gear purchases and last-minute actions, it was nice to simply relax!  Believe me, we relished in the fact that we didn’t have to set an alarm for the next morning! 

Friday was a busy day that started with a hike at Joe’s Mountain to stretch our legs followed by a delicious lunch at the Pittsfield general store.  The top of Joe’s Mountain always evoked cascade of intense memories from all of the experiences afforded there.  My hand drifted over the contours of the cabin, looking over at the fire pit that I rested at on the third night of the death race.  The other end of the cabin was where we did 3,000 burpees the year prior.  I sat in the exact spot where I spent eight hours destroying my body in that task, remembering not the pain of it all but the beautiful view of the night sky as I laid down for our one-minute break we allowed ourselves after every 100 burpees.  Watching others peruse through the area made me wonder what future memories they will get to recollect on in their own re-visits to this place.

With our morning tradition out of the way and a belly full of calories we headed out to packet pickup where familiar faces congregated into their conversation circles around the transition bin drop-off area.  I took turns schmoozing between groups, talking about all of the adventures had in the past year and our expectations for this year’s course with the constant buzz of excitement swarming around at the sights of the festival area.  The consensus was that things were going to be slightly shorter this year but the ultra loop was going to be more difficult.  The foreboding obstacles of the festival area loomed over us as if they were offended by our assumptions.  I smirked at the sight of it all.  “Either way we’ll know how difficult this is in 24 hours”, I winked as the crowds began to go their separate ways and wrap up the rest of the tasks needed to be ready by sunrise.  As for our group we had one last task to enjoy at the K-1 gondola, which became a tradition for us to scout obstacles and take in the breathtaking views at the top of where the Appalachian trail connects to K-1 mountain.

@gondola pics

We saw the Ape Hanger obstacle at the top of the mountain this time, intertwined with a penalty loop that looked much easier than the obstacle itself.  “That might be a viable strategy,” Vic said.  “Deliberately failing and taking the easy penalty might save our strength for the rest of the course,” agreed Jeff.  They had a point.  A more important suggestion interrupted our little mountaintop tour.  “We should finish packing up for tomorrow,” Eric prodded.  Besides, we were going to be keenly familiar with those obstacles the next day, and we can spend all day strategizing and going over our what-ifs and it won’t make much of a difference either way.  The sharp gusts of wind pushed us towards the gondola ride down, as if seconding his notion. 

Those who have prepped for a tough event know how unnerving the night before can feel.  We got our ‘last supper’ and splayed our gear and clothing out for us to quickly get in to the next morning, all the while sharing a mutual nervousness for what was to come.  The sleep that night was fraught with waking up every hour in a frenzy of thought.  “Did I pack this in my gear?”  “Do I really need to bring this with me?”  Every hour brought a new concern despite having done this for ten years now.  As if on que, I finally got some deep sleep in the last couple hours, only to be awoken by a barrage of alarms that everybody had set for 4am.  Yeah, the pre-race jitters did it’s work on me that night! 

We woke to the clanging of everybody’s unique phone alarm going off at the same time at 4am.  Our confused stupor was abated eventually, taking turns eating and having our turn in the bathroom.  Once again, breakfast was forced.  Nervous appetites were stunted despite knowing that getting calories in our system was crucial for our first half of the course.  I recalled more wise words as I force-fed myself a poptart and some coffee, “ounces turn into pounds, itches turn into stitches.”  Mitigating any minor problem upfront in endurance events like this were critical to preventing a bigger problem from rising, and I wasn’t going to let an empty stomach force me out of contention in the first hour.   My mind was a static of excitement that I couldn’t tune out.  I walked out to the balcony to observe the silent, dark mountainscape in a hope to silence my nerves.  I smiled.  “The calm before the storm” I whispered to nobody as I continued to eat and process what was awaiting me.  Everything about this felt so…right.  I was exactly where I wanted to be, and just for one day I can forget about everything that had been bothering me and be free.  I was ready, and so was everybody else.  I took one last gulp of coffee and grabbed my bucket and looked around the room.  “Let’s get this shit show started.”

The ride was quiet, but you could feel the sheer apprehension and excitement in that car of four people as the distant thrum of festival music got louder and louder.  A slight blue haze leaked into the sky, signaling the start of what will become a day to remember.

The starting line was a mix of folks standing in quiet contemplation juxtaposed with excited pockets of friends pumping each other up to the music that thudded to the nervous beating of our hearts.  Everybody out there had their own story.  Everybody had their own fight that was about to begin and you could see it on their faces as we shuffled into the starting corral and got our watches ready.  I had my own pump-up ritual that I’m sure many of you have heard if you were at that starting line. “I’m jacked… I’m jacked to the TITS!”, I screamed at the top of my lungs in homage to that scene in ‘The Big Short’. Very rarely will the start line MC evoke some emotion in me, but this time was the exception.  The crowd simmered down as he took the mic up to his mouth, “I know that some of you are out here for your 4th, 5th and even 6th time.  I want you to know that I will personally be there at that finish line to put that medal around your neck.”  My throat tightened as I thought back to my times that I DNF’ed and what it meant to finally get what I had worked so hard to achieve.  I thought of my friends Alex, Sean, Jeff and Vic and what they must be feeling in that moment as my empathy kicked into overdrive.  I turned behind to look back at them, smiling and nodding.  Each of them looked ready for war – not in the traditional sense but for an all-out war with their minds.  There was no canned “look to your spartan to your left and your right” speech this time, but a rallying call that spoke to all of us on a personal level.  Without further interruption my thoughts were forced away with the sudden “3…2…1… GOOOOOOO” from the crackling speakers.  It was no longer time to think, it was time to bleed. 

With a quick tap of my watch, it was time to create some memories!

Immediately a rush of enthusiastic purple bibs snaked past me, eager to cling to the tip of the spear and avoid bottlenecks while fueled by their start-line adrenaline.  For me, my strategy remained unchanged… start slow and steady and take people out as the day goes on.  This time, it wasn’t like I exactly had a choice.  On the first climb a malaise hovered over me as my enlarged heart stressed into AFIB, furiously half-stepping beats and going up into the 200-210bpm range.  In the past I had my heart scanned for defects in and it was perfectly normal (structure-wise), so doctor’s orders were to back down until it beats normal again or I could suffer a stroke.  My fingertips rested on my carotid artery as I speed-walked up the first incline and through the first two obstacles, ever mindful of the signals my heart kept sending to my body.  Things leveled out as the next couple bottleneck-breaker obstacles blurred by, opening out into the first cluster of challenges.  The atlas carry, barbed wire, rolling mud, barbed wire #2, dunk wall and slip wall lined the rare flat path ahead of us.  None of these obstacles were particularly difficult, just time consuming.  The starting line high dwindled away from the remaining runners as each one of us plunged into the cold water, “time to wake the fuck up!” boomed a familiar voice ahead.  I smiled and shook my head.  “Joe DeSena, in the flesh!” I chuckled as I ran past him and up the slip wall.  My hand slapped his shoulder and neared him towards me, “I’ll see you out in Pittsfield in the summer, big guy.”  “I’ll hold you to that, see you then” said Joe with a hint of sadistic glee as he wiped the muddy water from his face.  As fun as it would be to run side-by-side with the CEO of Spartan Race, he was slow and frequently stopping to give quick blurbs to the camera crew.  I looked onwards to a clearing that provided us a rare opportunity to run on flat ground and left him to his entourage of cameramen and fans.  “Alright Joe you’re too slow I’m gonna move on,” I chuckled as he smiled.  As I said before… I don’t just poke the bear, I slap it in the ass and wave honey in its face!

A short runnable section of course surrendered into another incline that sapped the last vestiges of our start line stamina.  Up ahead was another cluster of obstacles in the form of the spear throw, bucket carry, rope climb and monkey bars.  Each of these alone weren’t too difficult to contend with, but having them back-to-back definitely made it a little more difficult and commanded a strategy in how hard I was to expend my energy.  First was the spear throw.  I remembered my backyard routine, “rope wrapped around the spear three times, throw the rest over the barricade, balance on the hand, and throw like a dart” I recited out loud as I closed one eye and lined up my throwing arm to the center of the target and threw it calmly.  The calmness of the throw was immediately interrupted with a loud “fuck yeah!” as it landed dead center!  Wasting no time I sprinted over to the bucket carry which was significantly easier this year.  Our group was on a Ronnie Coleman kick prior to our trip so we agreed to shout out his famous lines every time we lift something heavy, so a “YEAAHH BUDDY LIGHTWEIGHT” rang across the mountain and echoed through the trees.  The enthusiasm was infectious with some other racers laughing and screaming the same at each other, and it made the carry easier!  Hey, maybe ol’ Ronnie was on to something with his screaming!  The J-hook technique made the rope climb easier as well – with a controlled but quick scurry up the rope the clang of the cowbell was music to my ears.  The monkey bars ended the gauntlet and thankfully the bars were nice and dry, making it an absolute cakewalk of an obstacle. 

The cowbell clanged once more and my feet squished out more muddy water as I landed on the ground, looking up at the next steep incline that beckoned us over the side of the mountain and over to our first steep downhill jaunt over to armer, which you know I was screaming out some more Ronnie Coleman quotes!  The ball thumped into the soil to the tune of a loud “YEAH BUDDY,” with a sharp gust of wind pushing me westward, as if beckoning me towards the next challenge that awaited me…the death march.

I took a deep breath and tapped the lap button on my watch.  I took out a packet of cheese sauce (don’t judge) and started up the incline.  “Time to PR this shit,” I muttered as I tore open my food and thought back to my training.  45 minutes on the stepper at 85 steps/minute, 15 minutes on the bike at 20mph, 45 minutes on the stepper, 15 back on the bike, and then 45 minutes on the stepper.  The ‘Killington Kill-Session’ was my go-to training that occupied my Saturday morning schedule for many weekends throughout the year, and it was all for inclines such as these.  I took a deep breath and got into my rhythm, pretending as if each step was just another step on the climber but with the added bonus of having 50 degree a/c blasting behind me and having the absolute best views I could ask for.  I ate, drank and kept my head up and kept a consistent pace as my hands drilled down on my quads.  One…two…. three.  The ‘kills’ started piling up as I passed purple bib after purple bib, taking mental note to avoid speeding up or slowing down. 

The wind howled with increasing ferocity for every inch ascended this horrific incline, swaying the nearby gondolas with an undulating whine of the steel cables that suspended them.  Sweat beaded along my temples and the scent of the evergreens dotting the course served as a nice alternative to the dusty fan embedded in the stair stepper at home.  Clank…. clank.  The familiar sounds of an obstacle bell got louder and louder as the wind continued to protest our presence, as if congratulating our completed ascent in the form of howling winds and everybody’s favorite obstacle, Twister.  I tapped my watch to end the lap and allowed myself three seconds to celebrate and look at the vista of mountains rolling about the horizon.   1…2…3.  I always awarded myself three seconds of rest to stare at the view that I earned!  I looked down at my watch.  28 minutes, a new PR for the death march!  Without any further hesitation I ran towards Twister and started through the creaking, rotating handles suspended on the rig, looking at the gray clouds zipping above me in the wind.  I smacked the bell with an extra loud CLANG, making sure that the people finishing the death march heard it!

Well, what comes up must come down, and so the course mercifully opened up for a mile long semi-runnable downhill section of course that gave rest to the tightening muscles that labored me up the death march.  Those familiar sounds of obstacle bells clanging welcomed the ever-thinning crowd to Olympus.  Taking a couple seconds to assess an obstacle is always worth it, for that this obstacle was on a slight slope, making one side of the obstacle significantly easier than the other.  I propped my knees up on the wall, dug my hands into the hole-grips and methodically made my way to the bell without changing momentum or thought to my surroundings.  That quick assessment made this obstacle easy!  A loud clang once again rang through the mountainside and after a quick top-up at the aid station I continued down the runnable yet technical downhills.  The howling wind from the peaks lulled with every step downhill, stagnating as I remembered the certainty of this course – “what comes down must come back up.”

 As if on que, my heart briefly spiked into the 200s as the descent leveled out into a turn that revealed the winding ascent welcoming everyone back up into the windy peak of K-1 mountain.  My stomach chimed in with some signals of its own, letting me know that the next 45 minutes had passed.  Food was always to be eaten uphill, so the next slog of rocky uphill trail was a welcome ‘rest’ for me that was broken up with the tyrolean traverse and the 7-foot wall.  Neither obstacle gave much pause to my pace as the chilling winds threatened to punish anybody that dared slow down.  I looked up at the swaying tree limbs and runners holding on to their gear as the 45mph winds ripped through whatever defied its power.  It was abundantly clear that stopping was not an option by this point.  Only by moving at an aggressive pace could the stabbing cold be held at bay, and so I continued to push with a purpose all the way up to the ape hanger that welcomed us to the peak.  Sticking to my strategy, I saved my upper body strength and tapped the obstacle and ran the ridiculously short penalty loop.  “Good idea,” laughed one of the other runners as he showed me his bleeding hand.  “I guess the freezing cold bars didn’t fare well for grip strength” I said with a empathetic wince as we both helped each other to the water and food at the aid station that preluded the infamous sharp descent at the K-1 peak.  We both chuckled with nervous laughter, each knowing what awaited us after this descent… the ultra loop.  However, little was I aware that my issue would crop up beforehand.

My ultra article says a simple sentence that I rehearse almost every minute of this race – “when you can run, freaking RUN”.  The next descent was an open invitation to do so, and so I opened my stride and let gravity do the work for me.  Not letting any of my mental focus bleed over into anything else I methodically and rapidly bombed the descent through the open ski path to the dense forest leading up to the next challenge known as the ‘stairway to sparta’.  The obstacle was easy for my tall lanky ass so I ran straight up it, grabbed the furthest hand grip that I could and swung my leg up as high as it could go in order to park it right on top of the lowest hand grip.  My legs, fresh from sprinting downhill, tried to send me the warning signals but I paid no heed.  POP.  I felt the area under my left ass cheek to hamstring suddenly seize up as if a belt was stretched to its limit.  Stifling my instinct to yell in pain I leaned in to try and throw my leg over to the hand grip once more.  My vision tightened in the peripheral as a deafening shock rang through the glute and hamstring, pulsing signals of panic and stress through my pain receptors.  This isn’t good…

I slid back down the tilted wall, defeated.  Another shock of pain rang through my leg as my feet landed on the ground.  My heart jumped again, but this time it wasn’t for the reasons prior.  “Shit…. SHIT” I uttered under my breath as I stumbled over to the penalty loop.  Pain pumped up my right leg with every labored thud of my footsteps while I watched those I previously passed hop over the obstacle with ease.  I was now bleeding minute after minute of my gains away as the pain throbbed up my leg, imploring me to stop.  In a sick sense I was delighted.  Normal people would have stopped and given in to this as an excuse to throw in the towel, and they would be right to do so after all.  In my mind, normal never won anything, and I had a lot of metaphorical cookies in that cookie jar that I could reach into.  “I podiumed a 50miler on a broken foot,” I chuckled as I passed a few people in the wooded descent, carefully avoiding the slippery rocks to avoid rolling an ankle.  I gritted my teeth, “I finished the motherfucking 2019 death race,” remembering back to the injures I worked through.  The winding downhill gave way to the entrance to a clearing marked by giant leaf banners with the iconic purple “ULTRA” waving in the wind.  I swallowed the lump in my throat, emotional with determination, “I’m not fucking done until this buckle is in my hands.”  Right then it was almost as if the mountain heard me and taunted me with a reply as the path grew more and more rocky and vertical – “alright motherfucker, bet.”

The leaf banner flags violently flapped in the wind behind me as I tapped the lap marker of my watch.  I could have sworn this loop was sponsored by Spirit Airlines or Comcast.  The first climb of this shit parade was literally on all fours, grasping for the next root or rock stable enough to get my leg that wasn’t busted on to the next ledge.  When you look at the elevation profiles of this event and see that there was a max elevation grade of 60%, this was that spot.  My coping mechanisms kicked in.  I kept my mind in a positive space and thought of all the good things that were going on.  For one, the weather was still absolutely flawless – a trait absent in 99% of my training sessions back home.  The next thing was that the sharp inclines forced me to stretch out the pulled muscle, alleviating some of the background radiation of pain.  If the course was this tough, it meant that I was going to make some serious gains on people, too!  After what seemed like an eternity, the gnarly uphills surrendered to a quad-busting downhill, and then right back up again in case people’s memories were in need of reinforcement at how insane this loop was. After another taunting set of downhills I was led to a fake-out of the loop exit, only to return back to the inclines where the sandbag carry waited to make mince meat out of our lower back and legs.  “Neil?!  You better hurry up and get past me if you want that white bib!” taunted a voice just 100 feet uphill.  It was Eric! 

I barely had the energy to acknowledge him aside from a wave, but it was great seeing him still at the front of the pack!  Having him in front of me for this long as equally shocking as it was reassuring how hard work can transform somebody.  In the year that transpired between him taking 3 hours to finish last years sprint course, he had dropped 30 pounds and ran his first ultras, only deciding two weeks prior to upgrade from the beast to the ultra.  There he was, ahead of me, showing that he made the right choice!  Despite the protests of pain ringing through my leg I made sure my pace slowly inched closer towards him.  At the time I thought we were really in contention for the bib, and I wanted to make him fight for it! 

The sandbag carry in the ultra loop, though steep and treacherous as always, was not the heaviest bag to carry.  I hoisted the bag over my back like a makeshift rucksack, propped up by my pack.  Hunched over with eyes ten feet in front of me I pressed down on my quads and kept my pace in the second gear with each person passed an affirmation of my strategy.  The downhill section of the carry was treacherous and I slipped a few times, a consequence of my eyes drifting off my trail for a fraction of a second to find Eric.  So long as he could hear me screaming “YEAH BUDDY” up these hills, I was going the right pace! 

The ultra loop finally gave way to the last obstacle before joining back up to the ‘regular’ beast course.  I tapped the lap marker on my watch and chuckled in disbelief.  One hour and 44 minutes.  For comparison, last year’s ultra loop only took me 65 minutes!  With some celebratory fist bumps with the strangers next to me, the six foot wall beckoned everybody onwards to one last treacherous climb that put the death march to shame!

The beast runners were now on course, taking glances at us crazy folks wearing the purple bib while they took moments to sit down as I trudged upwards.  After having committed the course map to memory I knew that this incline was going to be rough, but the last one of the lap before the final plummet to the festival area.  The ascent wove through the crisp evergreen trails and the rocky steep ski slopes before finally giving way to some runnable service roads.  This was a blessing since it allowed my leg to stretch, opening my stride to a 6-7min/mi while all my mental resources were fixated on not rolling an ankle.  The box obstacle started the final descent that was too steep to run, but the distant commotion of the festival area grew with every foot of ground gained (or lost, I guess?).  The spectators started lining the edge of the route as the sandbag carry presented itself as the final obstacle before the transition area.  “Ultras use the green sandbag over here,” pointed the staff at a massive pancake-style sandbag.  I knew I was in trouble when I struggled to get the stupid thing out of the box and over to my shoulders.  The advertised weight of the green bags were 60lbs, but the combined sweat and morning dew soaked the bags to an even more unbearable weight.  The burdensome bag took the air out of my lungs as it plopped over my shoulders and sent a hint of cramped pain down my lower back and legs.  “Lightweight baby!” I screamed in desperation to ignore the massive weight I felt, psyching myself out as I began the long stride up what served as a half-pipe during the winter months.

@sandbag carry pic here

Almost right away my breathing labored as the bag tugged my shirt back, constricting my neck with every taxing step up the mountain while dust filled my lungs.  “This carry is fucking me up,” said a familiar voice outside my view.  I looked up as far as I could without breaking my form and saw Eric hunched over with two hands on his bag straddled over his shoulders.  I hesitated to give words to my condition but I let it slip out anyways, telling him about my hamstring/glute and my doubts to our position in the race.   This was my low point in the race, and it was the only time I gave word to my overall condition.  I couldn’t dwell on it, and the only way to break through the pain was to put one foot in front of the other.  I celebrated with a loud “WOOOOOO” as the sandbag rolled off my shoulders and into the bin, running straight over to the transition area as I tapped my watch.  5 hours, 51 minutes.  Not bad considering much of that time was spent slogging through the ultra loop!  I hastily unstrapped my pack and started towards my drop bin.  I noticed a staffer holding a tablet.  “What position am I in?” I asked nervously.  “Oh geez, uh… top eight, top five maybe?”  said the staff with a shrug.  My heart sank with acceptance, knowing that my chances at first were dwindling.  Nevertheless Eric and I sat down and quickly rifled through our gear, restocking nutrition with our mouths stuffed with our lunch.  “Lap two is where the magic happens,” I smiled as I tried to pep talk ourselves.  I could tell his mind was still at the sandbag carry, dwelling on the thought of doing it one more time.  I looked down at my watch and saw that four minutes had already passed.  Still labored from the sandbag carry, my breathing had not improved.  Fortunately my asthma inhaler was waiting for me in the bin and I exhaled deep in anticipation of breathing in some relief.  I squeezed down on the inhaler and not a single sound came out.  “Shit,” I sighed.  Lesson learned for next year… make sure your inhaler isn’t empty!  I couldn’t dwell on it.  I hastily strapped my pack back on and washed my hands with some sanitizer and got myself pumped up. “I’m jacked… I’m jacked to the TITS!”,  he laughed and signaled for me to go ahead, and with a quick fist bump I tapped my watch and set out for lap two, paying no heed to the crowd of people still huddled about their bins.  It was time to enter the pain cave, and I couldn’t be more excited.

The four-minute break was the longest I had sat still, and my body made it a point to remind me of this as every step brought a new wave of soreness.  The course was a muddy mess now, compliments of the hundreds of beast runners that set out after our ultra wave.  Knowing that the dunk wall was mere miles ahead, I paid no heed to the thick mud that layered over my shoes.  Once the festival area music faded behind me, the wet slop of the mud on my shoes was the only sound in the otherwise perfectly quiet forest.  Lap two is a lonely lap, especially if you start it after the final beast wave.  One distant purple bib was speedwalking ahead of me and the faint outline of another speedwalker followed me.  I loved this moment.  I loved the deafening silence that presided over everything, commanding me to wage war with my thoughts that grew louder and louder as the outside world grew more solitary.  Even ten years later I still thrived in this moment, tricking those inner demons to come out of hiding so I can battle them on my own terms.  The pain didn’t matter, and my brain began to accept that I wasn’t going to be heeding the alarm signals any longer.  My pace gained momentum, passing the few ultra bibs that dotted the course.  I knew that ahead of me were also the beast runners in dead last, fighting the same cut-offs and the same mental struggle that befuddled the minds of everyone by this point.  The beginning obstacles weren’t much different of a struggle than they were on the first lap, save for the crawls being a lot muddier and rockier.  As muddy and sloppy as the water obstacles were, they were refreshing. 

The next incline was spent wiping off the muddy water while gulping down some food to abate the hunger pangs that were starting to concern me.  The tail end of the beast runners sat down for a rest on the incline, cheering “GO ULTRA” as I haphazardly tried to wave and give a thumbs up at the same time.  “We’re chasing those same cut-offs, let’s move guys!” I cheered in an effort to pump everyone up.  The next set of obstacles sounded off ahead to the tune of bells being rang and the iconic thump of a spear throw missing its target.  There wasn’t a crowd this time so I had my pick of the spear throw, but it didn’t matter.  After lining up the target with my arm and making sure the rope was in front of the barrier, my spear added to the thunk of missed throws, just barely an inch from the target.  Fortunately the penalty loop wasn’t too bad, and it gave me time to process missing an obstacle that I literally have set up in my backyard… not that I wasn’t embarrassed about it or anything. 

As I came around the clearing I saw Eric attempting the spear throw and I stopped to cheer him on as he landed his spear without any issue.  By this point it was obvious that we had both written off the possibility of a podium just by the way we were talking to each other.  “Screw it.  Wanna just run this second lap together and shoot the shit?”  I shrugged.  With a quick fist bump Eric smiled, “Hell yeah let’s go.”  Lap 2 just got a whole lot more interesting.  For the first time ever, I didn’t have to go through this whole lap in silence!

Eric’s presence kept my mind off the pain.  Our descent into the K-1 death march area was an opportunity to show each other some downhill running tips, quickening our pace while we showed off how cool we were, of course.  The mountain valley rang with the sound of two voices competing in volume with Ronnie Coleman quotes at the Armer carry, pumping ourselves up for the death march that loomed ahead.  Sticking to our strategy, we each grabbed some food out of our packs and started up the climb.  Despite its name, the death march isn’t the most treacherous or technical climb but it certainly is the longest and most visible one.  Like the lap before, the wind grew in strength as we ascended to the cold reaches of the mountain that touched the Appalachian trail.  Even though the second march took longer, it felt shorter when you had somebody to talk to along the way.  The bells of Twister started to ring in the distance as the route finally veered off, signaling the much-desired downhill sprint.

By this point if one of us failed an obstacle, the other would simply walk it out and let the other catch up eventually.  In my case I had to keep moving or the knot in my leg would swiftly morph into a full-on cramp.  No amount of salt pills abated the feeling, so it was clear that stopping was an impossible option by this point.  The beast runners were so accommodating all throughout the course, looking back at the commotion of our rapid footsteps and parting the way with a loud “Ultra on your left, watch out!”  Even as the 8’ wall marked the 1.5mi climb back to the top of K-1, those without purple bibs cleared the lane for us to pursue whatever goals we had.  “Thanks guys,” was all I had the energy to squeak out alongside a thumbs up.  Those who we passed that spoke to the insanity of our task were my favorites.  “I don’t know how ya’ll are alive right now,” said a voice in a group of people taking a sitting break along the ascent.  “You’ll know when you’re doing this one day” I smirked as I patted his shoulder.  I remembered back a decade when that role was reversed, staring in awe at those donning the death race bibs. 

A sharp gust of wind ripped me out of my thoughts, pulling me up too the howling peak where ape hanger stood in our way.  “You’re just running the penalty, right?” said a concerned Eric, as if entertaining the thought of doing the dumber option was even viable at this point.  I laughed.  “Hell no, let’s walk it out.”  As fun as it’d be to watch each other try the obstacle and show off our techniques, we needed to save our grip strength.  Nevertheless a part of my mind tugged on my conscious for voluntarily choosing to fail an obstacle, especially when I know I could have completed it, but the more strategic and logical side had a louder voice in guiding me.  Once again, my inward thoughts were ripped back into reality, this time with my stomach gurgling out of hunger.  Maybe it was because I was anticipating the snacks at the K-1, so I started towards the beginning of the descent as I waved past the spectators, keeping my eyes locked to the ground ahead of me in remembrance of my past mistakes.

I looked around and saw only smushed grass where an aid station once stood.  My heart sank.  I was really looking forward to munching down on whatever peanut butter hazelnut cocktail they had at that station!  Mentally I had already moved past what was just an inconvenience, but I still had to answer the physical problem.  Only problem now was that the sharpest descent lies ahead!  Eric trotted ahead of me while I fumbled through my pack for some calories, ever vigilant to the rocky and muddy trail that brought us down to the stairway to sparta – a return to where I got injured on lap 1. 

I caught up to Eric again, and something tells me if I was stupid enough to attempt the obstacle on this round he would have protested by leaving my ass in the dust.  I wasn’t going to risk furthering my injuries so he and I tapped the obstacle and ran down and back up the moderately treacherous penalty loop.  Though my ego was bruised, that strategic logical part of my brain still reigned over my actions (thankfully).  “Thank fuck we don’t have to do that godforsaken ultra loop again” was the overarching subject of whatever Eric and I were talking about outside of us announcing “Ultra on your left!.”  Our pace turned into a downhill gallop, weaving in and out of gnarled roots and rocks with little in our way (again, you beast runners were so accommodating to the ultras it meant a lot to us). 

A few spectators dotted the opening at the K-1 lodge area, who no doubt got a kick out of Eric and I giving the finger to the now-closed-off ultra loop entrance!  The pain in my leg subsided with excitement, making everything else around me except for the trail a fog.  Again my pace went into a higher gear, this time with the knowledge that one last 1mi ascent (the hardest one, mind you) stood in my way from the final victory descent.  Even though this was the hardest section of the course, my body felt immune to pain as my feet slapped the muddy ground, landing off the 6’ wall.  My thoughts went back to my friends, and I hoped with every fiber of my being that my friends Vic, Jeff, Sean, Mario and Alex would see this obstacle before 7:30pm.  This was the ‘do or die’ cut-off.  Making this by 7:30 meant that you had 90 minutes to cover only 2.2mi of ground.  “c’mon guys, you got this” I uttered, looking back at the long trail behind me.  It was hard to concentrate when it was still unclear how my crew was doing. 

Ticks of pre-cramp pain pinpricked through my glutes and quads while the terrain reared upwards, forcing me to down another salt tab as I passed by the sitting beast runners.  The outpouring of support and encouragement from them was outstanding, even in the final stretch of the course!  Step by determined step, I increased my pace.  I noticed that the white outline of Eric’s hat grew further and further away, knowing that the thought of the final sandbag carry was weighing as heavy on our conscious than it was going to be on our shoulders.  My heartbeat thumped into my temples while the final incline wove in and out of ski slopes and muddy forests, wafting the gentle evergreen scent with the ever-increasing winds that came with higher altitudes.  The end was closing in, and my body knew it!

First place was out of sight, but my thirst was still there, and the only way to slake that thirst was to crush my time with a course PR.  With every step the pain subsided, giving way to the feeling I had felt with my original first place goal.  “I have a chance.” The box obstacle was easy, a mere landmark that signaled the final descent into the festival area.  Spectators who braved the steep inclines began to dot the course, cheering at the sight of the purple bibs and beast runners alike.  My mind surged with anxiety over the upcoming sandbag carry.  To me it signaled the final push of energy needed to reach that finish line, and I was ready to give it my all!  “Ultra!  Here’s your bag.  Enjoy” chuckled the volunteer as he pointed at the heaping wet green sandbag that stood out from the smaller bags that the beast runners got to lift.  I didn’t care, I knew it was going to suck no matter what and I was ready to enter the pain cave.  “Yeah buddy, light weight!” I screamed to the laughter of the spectators who got the reference.  “Ain’t nothin’ but a peanut!” shouted someone sitting on their bag, as if goading me to pick up the pace.  My muscles tightened and the outside of my vision darkened, with no regard given to anything other than the next few footsteps ahead.  Beads of sweat rolled down my face in tune with the intensity of my breathing.  “Yeah buddy!” I’d scream, forcing my thoughts away from the pain and trying to get a rise out of the crowd.  My sanity continued to surrender to the finish line hype, reflecting on everything I went through.  I began talking shit to the mountain itself.  “Thought you could stop me, huh?”  “Think you could keep me down by hurting me like that?!.”  I spat on the ground.  “Piece of meat.”  Oh yeah… I was losing it, but in a funny and good way!

The uphill carry that sent stabs of pain along my lower back finally relented to the downhill part of the half-pipe, bringing cramps and pain to another muscle group.  “Let’s go guys, dicks out for Harambe we’re almost done!” I screamed while I wove in and around the more cautious runners.  It didn’t matter if I got hurt by this point.  I saw the time on my watch and knew that a course PR was imminent and I wanted to make it as big of a victory as possible!  My arms and face prickled with numbness – a final warning signal that there was little to no physical reserves left.  Not even mental grit will move beyond that threshold, but I was too stubborn to accept it.  “droppin’ loads!” I shouted as the bag slid off my shoulders and into the bag box I originally grabbed it from.  No time to waste or celebrate having that burdensome sack off my shoulders.  I bolted over to the z-wall but made sure I took a quick ten seconds to inspect the footholds and clear them of mud, making a mental note of where the grip blocks were around the blind corner.  More nonsense spewed out of my mouth that rang in unison with the bell, but it wasn’t over yet.  The Hercules hoist stood in the way, and I knew there was going to be a problem when my arms and face felt like TV static just by reaching up to the rope. 

I spotted Eric starting his sandbag carry as I gripped on the rope and leaned back, letting my bodyweight do the heavy pulling.  Every labored pull drained sensation from my hands and up my arms with increasing intensity.  “aw SHIT” I mumbled.  I leaned hard into the rope and used the last ounce of energy to grab on to the knot, but didn’t even come close.  The rope uncoiled below me and the bag slammed into the ground with a loud thump, sending dust and dirt everywhere.  Never before had I come even close to failing this obstacle, but it was clear that I had expended my last energy reserves on that sandbag carry!  I shook my arms out and trotted over to the penalty loop, grabbing dry grass and dirt to chalk up my hands for the rig that awaited me.  The embarrassing part was that failure and penalty loop was in plain sight of the spectators in the festival area!  The only good thing was that the upcoming rig was facing downhill, and it was only the rings and hanging bar, but my failure at the hoist had me worried as I got closer.  The smoke from the fire jump lapped my face, as if taunting me to show one last burst of strength.  One last push, and then it was all over…

I exhaled and the world around me quieted to a low hum as I grabbed the second ring ahead of me.  With one final shake-out of my hands and shoulders I slowly leaned off the stepping stool and relaxed my whole body except for the desperate grip I had on the ring.  I swinged to the next ring as my fingers began to go numb once more.  Another long swing put my hand on the middle of the bar.  “Just two more rings” I thought to myself as the only sound ringing through my skull was my heartbeat.  I grabbed the next ring and reached for the bell, skipping the next ring in hopes that my long reach could compensate, but was only met with air.  My body swung backwards and the momentum was starting to drain, I had one last shot, so I had to make it count!  I swinged forwards again, this time grabbing the ring I tried to skip.  The scent of the burning fire singed my nostrils as I used the last remaining ounce of strength to hold on to the ring and lunge towards the bell…

Clang! 

“GO ULTRA” screamed the announcer, signaling my sprint over the fire!

Even after ten years, it still felt the same.  Seeing the finish line a mere ten feet from me gave me permission to let out everything I had been holding back over the entire race, hell… the entire year.  Tears of joy – a validation of all of the hard work I had pushed myself through all these years, welled up as my feet slammed into the finish line timing mat.  I eagerly tapped my watch and was in awe.  11:17’51!  I smoked my last PR by 40 minutes!  Almost immediately my legs seized up and gave out on me, plopping down on a chair near the volunteers and signaled for them to remove my timing chip. 

“I’m gonna wait here for my friend, is that okay?” I asked, still wracked with emotion.  “Buddy, you can sit there all you want you earned it,” said the staffer with a comforting pat on my shoulder as he handed me a FitAid.  I slurped it down, scanning the festival area for Eric’s white hat as the drink washed away some of the caked-on dirt in my throat.  I sat there for only 30 seconds before my excitement boiled over.  “Shoot. what am I doing.”  Ignoring the pain, I stood up from my chair and gave hugs and high fives to people finishing their race.  I remembered what it felt like to finish for the first time as I signaled to the spectators to cheer louder.  “LETS GO ULTRA”, I howled to the next few ultras that I spent the last 11 hours leapfrogging.  I noticed Eric on the corner of my eye starting the Hercules hoist suffering the same fate I had, my fingers still tingling with the memory of that Herculean (heh) task.  He looked at the upcoming rig that awaited him, paralleled with my own concern, and methodically went through it until all that awaited him was the fire jump.  My throat numbed from cheering, reminiscing on the last 11 hours ran with somebody who went from taking 3 hours to finish last year’s sprint to running at my pace, finishing only 15 minutes apart.  He had done it!

This year was different, alright.  Normally my story would end with my finish but when you’re running in a group unified in purpose, your day isn’t over until every last one of your crew has given it their all!  We stumbled over to the results tent to pick up our medal, our bodies revolting in pain long suppressed in the last half of the day.  My back knotted in pain in unison with my leg as I wiped the mud off my hand and tapped my bib number into the results tablet.  Our placement results was a mere curiosity to see how far away from the podium we were, but when I sluggishly tapped the ‘results’ button my jaw dropped.

Neil Murphy.
11:17:49
Third Place

Through all of the setbacks and cruising through lap two without a care in the world, I still actually landed on the podium!  For the third year in a row I had landed in the top three, each time unexpected.  “Congrats mr. cat shorts!  Here’s your medal” boomed a raspy, familiar voice.  Bear Mahon, the MC at the starting line, kept his promise!  With a hard pat on the shoulder, he handed me my medals.  As if reading my mind his next words predicated my question, “Jeff was one hour behind cut-off this time and Vic blacked out at the sandbag carry and had to be medically withdrawn.  Mario and Alex haven’t gone past here yet and I don’t remember them crossing transition”. 

My heart sank, but still delighted in at least knowing that Jeff shaved an hour off his last attempt.  “Sixth place!” said an astonished Eric at the results tablet.  Talk about a competitive field!  Fifteen minutes of separation was the difference between a podium and three more places!  Then it hit me.  “The tablet!  Put in Alex’s name let’s see if he’s still in it!”

I frantically typed out his name and carefully read the results.

Transition: 2:15pm (cutoff 2:30pm)
Last recorded checkpoint:  8’ wall.  5:07pm. (cutoff 5:15pm)

He was still in it!  After six years of attempts he’s still not done yet, and I knew that he was aware of how fast he needed to haul ass to make that final 7:30pm cut-off!  As we limped back towards Eric’s car to head to the lodge I looked back at the mountain as the sun started to retreat behind the mountains.  I remembered back to my frantic race against time in 2013, “Guess it’s headlamp hour for those left out there” I said as cramps ticked up my legs with every bump on the road.  I kept tapping the refresh button on the results page on my phone whenever we found a signal, returning no updates.  Mario’s results were the same, recording his last check-in at the 8’ wall about 30 minutes before Alex.  Back at the hotel we all had our phones out, nervously checking the same results with heavier hearts as the hour passed 7:30, then 8:00…  Both Mario and Alex still hadn’t checked in at the 6’ wall.  Our hearts sank, but we weren’t devoid of hope just yet.  As it turns out, the results page wasn’t posting the last checkpoint times on anyone, including myself.  Even after that last cut-off there was still a chance!  Sure enough, our friend Sean clocked in his finish (after trying three years!), then Mario’s finish line chip posted 13:55!  Jeff, Vic, Eric and I took turns checking the results in between stuffing our faces and taking turns showering.  Then it happened.  14 hours, 32 minutes and 27 seconds later, our buddy Alex chipped in at the finish line!  Our room sounded like a pub full of football hooligans cheering for the home team!  After five DNFs, our guy Alex finally got that buckle!  This finish was extra for me.  I invested a lot of my own resources into him, as I was his running coach for the past two years.  Every other day when I was checking in on him I would know of his struggles and triumphs, all for the goal of what he just experienced.  I knew that those in the room that DNF’ed that day would eventually have their finish line moment, it was only a matter of time with our team.  They finished that race the day they signed up for it. 

That’s what this yearly pilgrimage has turned to.  What started as a journey of my own evolved into a team effort.  Some of us yearned for the podium, or to PR our last time, or to simply finish.  Our individual wins were a team victory, and this year was one hell of a win!  Hitting the podium for the third year in a row was an unexpected triumph, and as my hand ran across the contours of that medal I knew that it was only a matter of time until that medal will be for 1st place.  Everybody was finally done for the day, and we all won in some way. 

So now this is where I flip the mirror around, facing you.

Yeah, you.

Your compliments and acknowledgements on and off course meant the world to me.  Chances are you already heard my response to your words but you’ll hear it again. 

Thank me by earning your buckle. 

Thank me by smashing that goal of yours. 

Thank me by being the next great story to unfold on that mountain, inspiring a new generation of athletes. 

You’re in our crew now, and we’re all rooting for you.