Here we are again.

Where to begin?  Could it be when I took my first step on my first training run in late 2010 and only lasted a quarter mile?  Or my first race in early 2011?  Or maybe it’s when I had my timing chip cut in 2013 at my first attempt.  It’s so hard to go back to a single point in time and say “Ah!  THAT is when I felt like I truly had my path carved out for me!” but I am going to try hard to explain to you when I truly felt like I belonged.  You’re going to hear that word a lot in this year’s write-up, by the way.

So. The Killington Ultra.  Formerly known as the Ultra Beast.  An event whose cryptic inception in 2012 sparked curiosity and fear into the uncommon batch of ultrarunners who dared to challenge themselves in a baptism of pain and pure mental grit.  If you don’t know the backstory of my relationship with this event, a cavernous rabbit hole awaits you as I’ve chronicled my experiences every year since 2013.  I’ll cliff notes this thing into a single paragraph, though.

After failing this event in 2013 and again in 2014, I had finally achieved a finish in 2015.  However, that was not going to be my 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.  This year is no different in that regard.  So let’s get started.

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

This is my story. 

I awoke with a jolt.  You know, one of those annoying dreams where you slip and fall and that’s apparently how you’d be woken up in Inception.  In this case I was still on the mountain and I slipped backwards.  I gulp down the Nalgene next to my hotel bed in between raspy breaths clogged with the dirt of the weekend course.  My finisher, age group and sprint medals land on the floor with a sharp clang as my bottle pushes them aside. 

Groaning, I lean back and smile.  This year I felt… different.  I felt like my aspirations to an age group were great, but almost too achievable.  Sure, going for a first-place finish in my age group will eventually happen just by virtue of circumstance and luck of attendees, but this was my third time landing on the podium at an event easily hailed as the absolute hardest Spartan Ultra in the world.  I could retire from running now and lean back on that achievement for the entirety of my life… but would I really be satisfied?  Shit, you already know the answer, don’t you?

My introspection was interrupted by the groans of everybody else waking through their winces of soreness.  I pushed those thoughts aside with a simple conclusion – this is the beginning of something HUGE.  A fire had been lit inside me and a momentum into something great had only just begun.  I sipped on my coffee on the balcony of the lodge and took one last view of the vista that sprawled out before me, committing the cool breeze and scent of crisp air to my memory one last time before zipping up my suitcase and heading to the airport. 

Many of my friends had gone through a similar transformation.  With this being Jeff’s fourth DNF, his determination had reached a new pinnacle.  That afternoon at the airport he already began counting calories and macros for his lunch, meticulously calculating and working through the reality that he needed to drop weight in order to return next year for a chance at that buckle.  Vic and William got a good idea of just how brutal the course is and were ready to make the changes necessary for their redemption while Eric, Sean, Alex and I basked in the disbelief and euphoria of the milestones we overcame this year!  We all took our week off from running before starting back into our regular training, always looking forward!  Everybody had a crystal-clear path forward, but our paths aren’t always so easy to traverse.

So, work makes me travel a bit.  When I do travel, many of my team members like to look for unique restaurants to gorge themselves on the local cuisine.  That’s fine but for me, I always look for the local run clubs and/or trails to run on!  So during my trips to Tulsa I came across the “Training on Turkey” or TOTs group that ran along the trails of Turkey Mountain that snaked along the Arkansas river.  I remember my new friend Kia mentioning this crazy 100 miler called Outlaw, which at the time was a league way outside of my skillset – or so I thought.  Five years later (and a couple of hundos under my belt) I came out to Tulsa in the cold of February to pursue that promise I made to them that I’d one day come back and give that race a try!   

I was used to the pain of a 100 miler and I wasn’t too scared of this event, actually.  I knew the standard recipe of pain and grit required to finish in the middle of the pack, but a new fire was brewing in my soul.  You see, just two weeks prior I stood in awe as a spectator at the 2024 Olympic Marathon trials in Orlando.  Seeing the best athletes in our nation running literally ten feet in front of me at a blistering 4:45/mi pace made me hungry for something… better.  No longer did I feel like my place was supposed to be among the mere finishers of these insanely hard events, and my training certainly brought me closer to the front of the pack with new PRs being shattered during the few cool months that Florida offered.  I kept that feeling in my pocket going into this race, stoked by the thought of that whole “what if I could do better?” mantra, and as soon as the starting gun went off in the frost-laden pre-dawn hours in the Ozarks I found myself running among the five-person lead pack! 

As the day melted into the night and the mileage hovered around the 50s, that lead pack dwindled to just two people.  Daniel Ramirez and myself.  At every timing check-in I stared in befuddled disbelief as my name hovered near the big green “FIRST PLACE” label, as if demanding me to shovel food down my gullet even faster and continue running.  I forced myself to not get gapped in the lead pack, knowing that if I let that happen my chances of an overall finish at a 100 miler would fade away.  Sure enough, as the final tantalizing miles counted down to finality, I found myself crossing the finish line for the very first time as a top 3 overall finisher of an exceptionally hard hundo!

I fantasized about this kind of placement for years, but I was befuddled at the feeling I had when holding the giant podium plaque – a sense of normalcy.  It didn’t feel like a fluke or a stroke of luck, but a sense that I had finally broken through into a category that I was destined to belong in.  That’s it.  That was the feeling… belonging! 

I haven’t felt this fulfilled and happy in such a long time, and I now knew what I had to do to continue to hold on to that feeling.

I had to train my ass off.

The cold, sharp breeze tinted with the scent of dew-laden soil fills my nostrils.  “I’m going to miss this so much.”  My friends nod in agreement, knowing that we will have to wait two entire seasons to feel this again as the cooler temperatures back home already gave way into the scorching humid hellscape known as, well, Florida.  It’s day 2 of the NJ Ultrafecta and Vic, Jeff, Eric and I used this weekend as a test-run for Killington, also marking the first week of our 4.5 month-long training block.  Last year, Eric and I mused at the possibility of us sharing the podium one day and we found ourselves accomplishing that dream on a course that we comfortably ran through with very little expectations.  My 2nd and Eric’s 3rd AG finish left us shocked, as they combined both elite and age group into one single competitive wave this year.  Things were supposed to be harder to podium this year… not easier!  We had very little expectations of hitting the podium due to this change, but much to our surprise our efforts landed us in a top 15 overall position! 

This told me that Outlaw wasn’t a fluke.  Something profound was happening, and there was NO chance I was going to squander the momentum that I spent a decade building!  A week of rest had transpired after NJ, and I remembered grinning ear-to-ear as the wave of 100 degree humid air enveloped my body the moment I opened my front door to begin my first training run of the season.  “Bring it the fuck on,” I muttered.  Great things were on the horizon, and nothing could stop me now!

I remembered every hug from every family member I got this morning.  Hell, even the side of my cheek that my cat nuzzled as I zipped up my luggage one final time can be perfectly re-lived in my mind’s eye.  Gratitude for the love and support of my family warmed my otherwise apprehensive heart that morning as Jeff pulled into the driveway to pick me up to head to the airport.

Damp mint-flavored breath wafts up into my eyes through my mask – a precaution worn at the airport to mitigate any chances of getting any bug (even the common cold) on race day.  Sitting anxiously on the flight, I scrolled through my training history graph comparing fitness levels with previous years with doubt that the profoundly higher numbers were real.  Even on the airplane my mind was still clouded with imposter syndrome.

The months leading up to September were tough.  Injury plagued Jeff’s IT band, forcing him into an early taper.  Eric’s early taper was spurred on by covid and my tibialis and plantar fasciitis nagged me in the month prior, forcing some peak weeks into a rest week.  That coupled with no major racing accomplishments (except for shaving 10 seconds off my 10k PR) since NJ added to the apprehension, but I knew damn well that there was, and never will be, an ultra that I am 100% ready for. 

On the plane I could see the nerves in Jeff, even through his mask.  This was his 5th attempt at Killington, and the years of training with him made it obvious that he was focused solely on this one goal.  The flight felt like a bus ride to boot camp – riddled with nerves and excitement for the life-changing experience that awaited us.  The day was Thursday, our travel day, which offered at least some stress relief!

The trip to out there had become so common I almost didn’t even need a GPS.  Every turn was engraved into my memory, intertwined with the rising apprehension that a younger version of myself would feel as I got closer to our fated arena.  After a couple supply runs to guarantee our 700-800 grams of carbs/day we needed, the beautiful vista of Killington opened before us.  Our second home welcomed us with that cool mountain breeze that we had been deprived of for so long!  After unpacking everything and taking our shoes off, we had one remaining objective… relax and chill!  We met up with Sean at the pool, looking up at the course and the iconic scar sliced up the death march from the previous years’ foot traffic carved into the façade.  We talked for hours while the sun melted below the mountains and our stressful day of travel was finally over.

No alarm was set for Friday morning.  Thank goodness!  Our day was dedicated to relaxing and continuing the carb load.  Our planned shake-out exercise was to continue the tradition of having a hike up to the top of Joe’s mountain in Pittsfield, where this year had a record turnout!  Seeing everybody coming out gave me pride in seeing just how impactful my involvement in the community has become.  Everybody I spoke to had a unique journey that brought them to this race and they each made some mention on the work I’ve done in helping them get here.  Everyone had the same attitude – even though the odds were stacked against them, they just wanted a chance to give it their all!  We all knew it was going to be an absolute grind tomorrow, our nerves no less evident in our words than in our demeanor.  As our time continued together those nerves slowly ebbed away, eroding in the acceptance of our fate as we strode back down the mountain and over to the Pittsfield General Store for lunch.

Packet pickup was next, where we got to preview the festival area and strategize whatever we can.  Even the people in the festival area would occasionally tap my shoulder.  “I recognize that voice from the podcast!,” “are you the guy that writes those stories and guides?”.  My heart warmed with gratitude at each of those kind enough to share some time with me, responding to their thanks with the usual “thank me by getting that buckle”! 

The festival obstacles were the same as last year, but a little more spaced out.  The z-wall was the easy version (no ropes) and on a slope, making one side of the wall incredibly easy!  After noting that, we noticed that one of the Hercules hoist bags looked smaller than the rest.  Having that information in our pockets for the next day was vital, especially after seeing how much worse the penalty loops were!  After learning what we needed to learn, talking to who we needed to talk to and getting the packet of race day material we needed, it was back to the hotel to finalize our gear bins and clothing for the scorching hot day that awaited us.  More and more carbs were on the menu as our 800g target was only halfway met, prompting me to bring more snacks in my backpack on our way to the K1 gondola where Vic, Jeff, Nick and I went to scout the top of the death march and get that traditional epic photo at the top of the Appalachian trail section of K1!

Sure enough, the gondola ride up the death march had  a way of setting off the nerves again.  It always does.  Our once jovial group was humbled to a sobering awe as the undulating steel cables pulled our gondola over the sections of the lodge obstacles, death march and the terrifying ultra loop.

Much to our surprise, we didn’t see the beater obstacle along the way up.  “Uh guys, where’s you know… the obstacles up here?” asked Jeff, pointing to a big open area as we got off the gondola.  One of us got our phone out to double check the course map.  “And the Ape Hanger”, Jeff continued.  Sure enough, those two obstacles were not there!  With only 15 hours until the starting line gun goes off, there was no way they were going to construct these obstacles in time.  We lucked out, big time.  Having this knowledge was rare since they weren’t handing out gondola passes to runners like last time!  Now we knew that it was okay to go all-out on those uphills and have no need to conserve for an obstacle at the peak!  After seeing what we wanted to se, we went to the peak of K1 to soak in that beautiful view that we only got to see once a year:

It was brief, but for a fleeting moment the mood of our group lifted.  As quickly as that view at the top of K1 mercifully distracted our minds, our disposition faded back to anxiety the moment the doors of the gondola creaked open and slowly brought us back down, once again showcasing our death march and the unbelievable elevation grades of the ultra loop off in the distance.  The tension from Jeff and Vic was palpable.  Previous years they lost their battle against that loop.  To them, that was my tyrolean traverse rope section from the 2013 course at the lake near our lodge.  It marked a point that was both the best and worst part of their running careers, but seeing them take the same path I took and returning to this devilish place filled me with pride.  They knew the odds, yet they kept coming back. 

The blast of cool air woke us from our thoughts as the gondola doors opened up.  “Whelp, I guess we need to finish getting our bins ready”.  The quiet consensus was still muddled with the afterthoughts of our entire day sluggishly led us to our cars and back to the hotel.  After one final meal and one final gear check, one final and very restless night stood between our crew and that start line!  Sweet dreams, I guess.

Eric’s alarm was first to gently wake us up.  Aeith’s theme from Final Fantasy 7 (an appropriate theme if you knew her story) faded with the rustling of the morning chaos.  Truth be told, I had actually woken up at 3 but couldn’t get by ass back to bed.  The past hour was filled with that anxiety that undulated through my core.  Finishing was a foregone conclusion, sure – a reality that so many would only dream of.  However the pressure I put on myself of beating last year’s time while still placing high in an insane field of competition brought back those same emotions that muddled my confidence over a decade ago.  My hands trembled as I fastened my gear, struggling to eat whatever nutrition my stomach would accept.  It was all the same as those long years ago.  Despite being many times fitter than before my hair turned gray, I was still that same nervous guy staring out at the pre-dawn mountain.  I took a deep breath.  “we ready?” quietly muttered Eric.  I grinned ear-to-ear. 

“No, but that’s what I love about this shit.”

I love how this all made me feel.  The feelings were so intense that I barely spoke in the ride out to Bear Mountain.  I internalized the fear, excitement, camaraderie, but what triumphed above all was that I felt happy.  I was happy that the present moment of my life was right here, right now.  The eyes of future memories were staring down upon me, and this was a story that I had complete control over writing.  We plopped our buckets down in the transition area and took a seat.  What stood out the most was how quiet the entire area was.  Everybody was going through their own feelings, and they each had their own incredible stories that brought them there to that very moment.  People’s bins had anything from biblical quotes, photos of family, to the silly things that brought levity to a stressful moment (kudos to the dude that brought a blow-up doll to his bin by the way).  The speakers crackled to life, “Alright 6am runners, start your way to the corral!”

I hopped the corral wall and marched to the front of the pack.  I remembered my first moment at the 2018 death race in that church, surrounded by athletes that I viewed as goliaths towering over me.  I then remembered outlasting the majority of them three days into that event!  “You belong up here buddy.”  A hand sternly gripped my shoulder.  Joshua Fiore warmly smiled through the blinding headlamp.  Fighting back some tears, all I could muster was a nod as I gave him a hug.  “What’s the goal this year,” he continued.  “Sub 11.  I think it’s time I finally-“ He cut me off with a chuckle.  “Nah man, you’re finishing in under 10.  I’ve seen the work you’ve been putting in”.  I dismissively laughed, but then I remembered his prediction for me at GDR that was wildly faster than my goal, yet spot-on.  Thorough the years I realized that when the freaking world champion of this race makes an assessment of your fitness level, his words bear the justified weight of credibility.  Yet, I didn’t know what to say, my emotions were running out of control with the mere fact that in the many times I failed to believe in myself, Josh (again, the freaking world champion) never doubted me.  Fighting my nerves, I ran over to an area to get one last pee in.  I started heading back to the start but was stopped by someone.  “…Neil?”  A lady asked.  Still wrestling control over my emotions from spilling over I smiled and nodded.  “My husband Shane is out in the starting line because of you.  I read your story and it brought me to tears!”  With gratitude spilling over I meekly thanked her, trying not keep my composure.  She asked how I was doing, which was one of the most loaded questions I could have been asked in the moment, and I said the first thing that came to my mind. 

“Thank you so much, I’m pretty scared right now and that means a lot to me.”   I said with conviction as I turned back towards the starting line filled with the most elite Spartan athletes in the nation – a starting line that I was committed to belonging to.  

And then, it happened.  With the tap of the start button of my watch, all the anxiety and doubt washed away in an instant.  A determined calm enveloped me, stoically taking the first steps into what I knew would be another amazing chapter of my life.  The race had begun!

Like usual, I let the over-enthusiastic runners storm ahead of me and kept to my pace, taking note of the fact that there wasn’t as many folks passing me this year as the last.  Eric and I of course ran together, enjoying it for however long it was due to last.   The usual crowd-control obstacles dotted the first miles of course, all the while we kept pace with each other and made small talk as we maneuvered through the hurdles, over-under, inverted wall, vertical cargo, rope climb, atlas carry (even yelling out some Ronnie Coleman “YEAH BUDDY”s on that one), barbed wire and dunk wall.  Those clusters of obstacles was the end of the relatively level ground, leading us up our first sharp incline.  Daylight seeped through the trees during the first ascent, prompting everybody to shuffle through their packs for their first gel and to stash their headlamps.   Spear throw broke the monotony of the first climb and was incredibly close compared to old setups, but apparently the RD got word of people calling last year’s bucket carry ‘easy’! 

What struck Eric and I the most was the fact that right as we started the bucket carry, Josh was finishing his.  As we picked through buckets in the futile effort to find the ‘light’ bucket we exchanged mutual surprise, “dude… we’re not that far behind” he whispered next to me.  I hefted the bucket to my shoulder, letting the grinding of stones settle.  “let’s keep close, then!” I muttered with a determined grin.  Moving that bucket uphill felt like a snippet of the much longer training sessions I dedicated my weekends to.  The bucket stones rattled against my ear through every labored step, clanking through my head trying to skew my focus.  I kept my head low, honing in on the course marking tape in front of me and not how far I still have to trudge.  No matter how difficult the carry, nothing feels better than slamming that damn bucket down at the end!  With a loud thud the gravel clattered inside the bucket, kicking up dust.  I gave the bucket a little love-tap, “Be back soon!”

Eric and I kept together the same way we did in New Jersey, where I would get ahead on the uphills and he would skate past me on the downhills.  Sure enough by mile 3 he was bombing the downhills past me, forcing me to keep up as the big intersection at the K1 lodge opened up beyond the Armer obstacle.   My eyes lit up in excitement as my favorite stretch of course opened up ahead - the death march!  Despite its name, this was one of the most predictable, stable and consistent uphills of the race.  “Just another stair stepper session!” I laughed, breaking my otherwise stoic composure.  Eric however was focused on something else.  He was…counting?  I looked up the death march and caught on.  Not too far from us was Josh, and between him and us stood only seven others!  “Holy shit dude… we’re top ten!”

Despite this revelation I maintained my calm.  It was far too early to revel in placement or strategizing, but damn.  I kept my thoughts to myself for the rest of the march, giving no words to the excitement that I might actually have a chance at getting not only sub11, but the sub10 that that person in plain sight in front of me told me was a certainty!  For now my focus was on eating my uphill snack and getting to the peak that was ominously obfuscated by the clouds.  We knew that beater wasn’t at the peak of the death march, so all that was left at that point was to run downhill… so we freaking RAN!  I kept up with Eric this time, looking down at my watch and seeing our pace in the upper 5’s as our cadences rapid-fired to the surrender of gravity.  Eventually the winding service road paths and their connected ski paths opened up into a clearing with our first real challenge – Olympus.  I took a second to walk past the obstacle to gander at the penalty loop, and it wasn’t too punishing.  Eric had already fallen off the obstacle, and I was quick to join him as my feet clamored for control over the dew-laden slip-n-slide of an obstacle.  It wasn’t worth running our grip strength this early in the game, but I still grumbled under my breath over not getting the bragging rights of a 100% obstacle completion.

@olympus pic

Nevertheless, we cruised through our penalty, re-assuring each other that we’re not slowing each other down.  “I’m not nearly as tired at this point than I was last year,” he exclaimed.  He was right.  It was him putting words to our thoughts that made things pretty clear that this year was going to be a much different race!  “We’ve only just begun buddy, let’s keep pace” I muttered, checking my heart rate as the course wound around into a punishing uphill once again.  The sun bore down on our backs as the maw of the mountain opened up, as if taunting any newcomers for thinking that the death march was the hardest endeavor of the day.  A couple walls and the tyrolean traverse broke the monotony of the ascent as my ears cracked with the gradual thinning of the air.  The only mercy in that moment was that with every step taken, the cool winds intensified and gave relief to the already-scorching sun.  Sweat pattered down from my scalp down to my quads, looking up only to acknowledge the errant purple bibbed runners, two of which we passed along this section.

A slicing cold gale greeted us at the peak of K1, giving us a short relief in flat running before adhering to the cruel theme of ‘what comes up must come down’.  This downhill was underscored with the realization of two encroaching trials.  The first was Stairway to Sparta, which thankfully did not rip my hamstring up this time!  The next trial was the soul-crushing ultra loop.  The looming threat of that loop prevailed in my mind as I snaked through the muddy and rocky downhill through the woods, taking extra caution to the incredibly slick terrain that had yet to shed off the dew of the morning.  Despite this, I took a risky gander at my watch and saw that only 2 hours and 40 minutes had passed!  I remembered back to the previous years when I was well beyond 3 hours at this point.  Something different was definitely afoot.  Previous years made me feel like I was living on the course, but this year felt like I owned the course. 

The quad-busting downhill opened up to a wide open spectator area and aid station where I saw a volunteer directing a runner in front of me to something, only to see that runner lower their head in exhausted dread.  We knew that look… it was time to do the damn ultra loop!  “Drink extra water and top off whatever you can” I muttered to Eric, already fidgeting with his gear.  The leaf banner flags hung lifelessly in the stagnant hot air, as if giving a sign of things to come… and boy was that the truth!  Immediately the course bent upwards into a 50-60% elevation grade, forcing people to climb on all fours!  Every treacherous climb was accompanied by an immediate turnaround into an aggressive descent riddled with thorny waist-high brush slicked with morning dew.  “Bro… holy fuck” muttered Eric, speaking one word at a time in between labored gasps for air.  Before I could tell him to save his energy, he pointed off to the side of the course and into the distance.  “That’s Josh… and that’s the sandbag carry,” he continued.  I squinted and looked in disbelief “Oh…. That looks bad”, I groaned.  “Just… just keep moving.  I don’t want to think about it”. 

A video Sean took during the ultra loop that actually shows the correct perspective of elevation!

 The next grueling mile was an incredibly sharp downhill that necessitated some butt-sliding followed by the inevitable climb up to the sandbag carry.  I took short note of the 4-5 runners ahead of us before plopping the wet bag over my shoulders.  Immediately my legs tried to buckle under the weight, but inch by labored inch I kept my head low and grinded through the pain that twisted through my back and quads.  If I were to rank this carry in terms of difficulty, this was a clear #2 next to the infamous 2014 double bag carry.  As the half mile carry course finally snaked back down to the drop area I remembered feeling a ‘tv static’ resonating through my skull and around my face.  The next thing I remembered was laying on the ground looking up at the sky!  “Neil you good bro?”  asked Eric, scurrying up to me.  After realizing that I had literally passed out from exhaustion I shuffled to get my bag back and brush it off, dreading attention towards a potential medical DNF.  “I’m good, I just slipped for a sec,” I lied, taking steps slowly at first to save energy and just get done with the damn obstacle.  “This is where Vic got dropped, doing the same thing”, I sighed.  “I wonder how he and Jeff are doing”

After what felt like an eternity of false peaks and other assorted bullshit, the ultra loop was finally over!  Knowing that we’d never have to go back to that ungodly section of course felt like the weight of that sandbag dropping off my shoulders all over again!  After a quick gulp of water at the aid station I was up over the 8’ wall and on to the sharpest (non-ultra loop) elevation grade of the course that beckoned us back to the festival area.  I looked down at my watch as it beeped at the 5-hour mark, and took a mental note.  Once the agonizing climb to the final peak of that lap gave way to an equally sharp decline, the edges of the course started to line itself with spectators – a sign that the end of the lap is near!

The sound of the festival music thumped in the distance, at first a distant hum that grew louder with every downhill trot that sent knots through my hamstrings.  Eric naturally blasted ahead at this downhill, getting to the festival sandbag area first.  My mind had wandered ahead to my plans at the transition area, paying no heed to checking sandbag weight and grabbing the first bag I saw.  Once the bag bored down on my shoulders and I saw Eric trotting along with his bag like he was carrying nothing did I remind myself that just a split second of mental negligence can cascade into unnecessary suffering.  “c’mon Neil, you got his buddy” shouted a volunteer as the stones in the bag molded over the shape of my shoulders.  Remembering the love and outpouring of support of everybody on the course, the extra weight drifted out of my mind.  With a smile on my face I stomped up and down the mountain and slammed the bag back down, eager to start my second lap!  I felt amazing.  I mean, sure I was tired as any human body would be after going through whatever you want to call this, but I was not nearly as tired as I normally was! Despite this, little was I prepared to face what physical and mental trials this second lap was about to put me through. 

Eric was shuffling through his gear for a couple of minutes by the time I got to the transition area, and I already knew something big had already happened.  “Did she tell you?” he said while tossing me an uncrustable sandwich.  “What now?”  I said, tapping the lap marker on my watch and hastily taking a puff of my inhaler.  Eric then held up a white bib with the purple words ‘ELITE LAP LEADER’ emblazoned below the spartan logo.  “Dude, we’re top five!” 

The mental front I had put up somehow held up.  For a decade I looked upon those wearing the white bibs as gods amongst every other runner… yet here we were.  Two friends casually sitting together eating uncrustables and putting fresh gels in our packs!  Had I really made it as one of the top elites after all these years?  Do I really... belon-

No.  Shut up.  Shut up and get to work.  It only matters at the finish line.  You ain’t done.

I shut my mind off, stoically continuing my rehearsed routines of packing the right number of gels and snacks in my pack, tightening my shoes, and getting up to check out of transition area.  Methodically I re-checked everything, remembering the rehearsed routines I had committed to memory and nothing else.  I looked down at my watch and smiled as the lap counter for transition was under five minutes, exactly how I had planned!  “You there!  Take this!”  Said a very busy staffer with a clipboard.  The elite lap leader bib unceremoniously dangled in her hands, ready for me grasp.  In a panic for time and wanting to avoid the attention, I looked back at my transition bin, “Do I have to wear the bib?  I need to start my lap right now.”  She quickly shook her head and asked me where by bin was and that she’d drop it off.  Had she given it to me when I entered the area I would have gleefully put it on, but in my mind the time for such pageantry had passed.  I had work to do, and I didn’t care what color was wrapped around my torso. 

And with that, the slop of mud from a now worn-out course gradually overtook the fading music of the festival area.  The real lap had now begun!

Much like the first lap, Eric and I began the lap practically lock-stepped together while we secured the stuff we haphazardly stuffed in our packs earlier.  The course was much quieter now, a result of being in the lead pack and between beast waves.  This was a part of the course where the real quietness of it all settled in.  “I’m skipping the rope climb” Eric muttered, raising his hand.  Blood was beginning to trickle from his hand to his wrist.  Many of his earlier downhill strides came at the cost of taking a couple of spills, one of many containing sharp rocks that his hand unfortunately met.  “Dude… that looks bad” I said with a wince as we casually continued through the crowd-breaker obstacles.  I could tell that although he didn’t want to make his wound worse, he certainly didn’t want it to cost him any more time than it should.  He shrugged off my pleas to squirt hand soap from a nearby portopotty and we continued our leapfrogging pace of me going ahead on the uphill, and him going ahead on the downhills.  The reality of our placement was starting to sink in, even though it was hinted by a sense of disbelief, our death march reference and the fact that we passed a few purple bibs up until this point became the only thing we spoke about.  It kept us motivated and hungry to see what we could actually pull off, and we both knew that by this point staying together like we did last year would only occur out of happenstance of our pace, not by our need to have a buddy running alongside us, as convenient (and totally freaking awesome) as that’d be by this point.  Our first true uphill climb of the lap once again brought us to the spear throw.  This year’s spear throw was incredibly close, which is great news if you’re new to the obstacle but not so great if you’ve committed thousands of long-distance throws to muscle memory in your backyard setup for six years!  Sure enough, my spear slammed into the top of the target with a soul-crushing thunk in unison with Eric’s spear landing a bullseye.  Deflated, I continued to the penalty loop and signaled a bewildered Eric to continue without me.  “Run your race, go!” I screamed as I trotted up the penalty loop. 

I knew I’d eventually catch up with him, and getting gapped in an ultra had a psychological effect of speeding me up where others sank into their own pace.  Up next was the bucket carry, where the first twinges of hunger pangs sprang up.  I made a mental note to eat once my hands were free of the bucket, only to lose my thoughts when the monkey bars distracted me immediately after.  Looking back, this was the moment where the quality of suffering for next four hours was written.  The mile of downhills to Armer snaked down the mountain, where the distant silhouette of my pace buddy gradually came into view as we started our way to the death march, now cluttered with the beast runners.

I didn’t want to alert him to me closing the gap on him, so I focused into my death march routine of pressing down on my quads with each labored step and taking full breaths and got to work.  The savory aroma of beef jerky from somebody in front of me made my stomach growl.  Then it dawned on me, I haven’t eaten since lap 2 started!  My hands fumbled in my pack, grabbing the first thing that my hands managed to claw through.  Right as I began to think about the consequences of my inaction, my calf muscles lurched into the first of many cramps.  I winced in pain, dropping my gel to grasp on the writing muscles undulating through my leg.  Hastily I kept moving, leaning into the cramp to force it to stretch as I guzzled down the gel, immediately popping a salt pill afterwards.  I felt so stupid at this point.  How the hell could I go that long without eating anything?! 

The rest of the death march was gnarled with repeat cramps to my calf and quads, as if the repat act of shoveling food down my gullet would abate the waves of pain that knotted through my body.  The only reprieve I could get was to switch to downhill running, so the faster I got through the death march, the quicker I could get back into the game… or so I thought. 

Panic set in.  Eating and drinking, I fought through the cramps and got to the steep downhill slog that eventually led to Olympus.  The moment my legs got into any other motion aside from running, my whole lower body seized up, especially my lower back.  I thought I could fight through the pain, but after two or three handholds my body simply would not move as it surrendered to the knots of pain.  The penalty loop at least afforded me a chance to eat more in a desperate attempt to reverse the cascade of damage that had already ruined my legs, but I’ve been in this situation before and knew that my body was going to clash with my stubbornness.  The downhill eventually morphed into the that pre-K1 uphill slog after the 6’ wall, sending cramps up my legs once more as my feet slammed into the ground off the wall.  My biggest fear by this point was getting passed by a purple/ white bib, and I didn’t bother looking behind me to confirm that fear either.  As far as I was concerned, that next guy was just feet behind me!  Every sound I heard behind me just had to be my pursuer!

 @tyrolean traverse pics (ask the community for one)

Much to no surprise, the tyrolean traverse was navigated with my legs locked in a cramp-ridden straddle around the rope.  The same rhythm of pain from the death march pulsed through my legs as the course brought me back up to K1, foot by foot.  Pain has a way of testing your resolve.  For me, the undulating waves of agony pulled me further from the stoic calm that had hardened me throughout lap 1.  I was starting to slip.  I think the beast runners saw that in me as I passed by them at this point.  The words of encouragement wrapped in concern kept my spirits high, and the most I could utter was a winded “thanks” in response to their kind words.  Nevertheless, whenever somebody said something to the effect of comparing their ‘lowly’ beast status to me being an ultra, I always spent the extra energy in saying to them what I always say.

“You’ll be wearing this bib one day.”

Uttering those words made me smile.  What if that was all it took to set them on the same journey that I had begun twelve years ago?  Saying it felt so good, so much that it breathed life into my labored steps and muffled the pain behind that resolve I had wrapped myself in, only this time it was a louder resolve.   I broke the solemn silence surrounding me, as if responding to the taunts of the mountain that still hid the peak from sight.  “Let’s fucking go, guys!”  I clapped my hands and patted the shoulders of those who saw me and chimed in, abruptly shouting “ultra coming through!” to clear the way for me.  That’s it.  This is what I needed, I needed to be loud! 

@pic of the climb up to K1 (ask the group for one)

I went past groups of people sitting down, “c’mon guys let’s get up and move!”  Right when they wanted to scold my enthusiasm, they saw the purple bib and reluctantly moved.  A fresh breeze of cold air woke me up, as if nature was rewarding me for my attitude adjustment.  My stomach no longer knotted itself in hunger, but my legs still tried to protest.  Seeing the crowd of spectators amassed in the far distance meant that the end of this awful climb was in sight! 

I knew what this meant.  There was only one more massive downhill run before the final ascent that led towards the finish!  My mind began to wander to the hours ahead.  What if I was on track for sub 11, still?  Hell.. what if I was actually going to sub 10?!  I looked at my watch as mile 26 beeped.  8 hours, 10 minutes.  Only one of the five remaining miles were uphill.  Sub 11 was a safe guarantee, but a sub 10 was going to be insanely close!  What would I say to Josh if I actually pulled this off?!  What if-

My meandering mind was suddenly pulled back into reality as my lower back completely seized up.  This time, it was bad.  I gasped for air out of the sudden shock of pain biting through my psoas and glutes, as if the muscles were vying to vice-grip my spine into a single clump of bone.  Unable to stand upright, I gritted my teeth and watched the sweat patter down to the ground.  The only thing I could do was to stay there hunched over and ride it out for however long it was going to last.  The distant cheers of spectators were muffled out to the sound of my heartbeat pulsing through my temples.  Time slowed to a crawl and nothing was changing.  Like a leg cramp, I had no choice but to lean into the pain.  This is when folks around me started to take notice.  A guy with a Baltimore accent as thick as his dreadlocks stooped over to me, “ay bro you alright?”  Wide-eyed, I frantically gave a thumbs up, forcing my posture upright.  “My back, it just seized up and-“ I then saw that he was one of the folks in the group I encouraged to stand up and start moving again earlier in the climb.  He didn’t need any more words from me.  “Yo boys let’s get our homie up this mountain!” he cheered, clapping with the same encouragement I gave him ten minutes ago.  Before I could go through some cheesy explanation about how I was in the elite wave and that they couldn’t physically touch me, two of their folks picked up their cadence and got ahead of me to set the pace.  “ULTRA COMING THROUGH!”  boomed their voices, bringing more attention up the line.  A couple of others from their group were behind me, forming some kind of epic ‘pace-bubble’ around me.  The din of pain subsided from my mind and my back gradually began to loosen up.  “We don’t stop until we get to the top, baby!”  added one of the guys behind me.  Man, I couldn’t help but smile at this whole thing.

Honestly, what other event do you see this kind of stuff?!  Even though we were all in our own version of the pain cave, a group of five people suddenly mustered up the energy to trot with me up the final incline to K1!  In the moments I needed it the most, there was always somebody there for me, either in the form of the spectator crowd, volunteer or a fellow runner.  As the sound of the spectators at the peak got louder, so too did my gratitude for what just happened come full circle.  A faint “thank you so much guys” choked back with emotion was the best I could muster up as the group sat down to take a break at the peak.  I wish I could have sat down and stayed there with them, but we all knew that couldn’t happen.  If you’re one of those folks that were wearing the black USMC “pain is weakness leaving the body” shirts that hoofed it up the final stretch to K1 with me, I will never forget that moment.  Thank you.

After a round of fist bumps, it was time to move.  The stagnant heat of the mid afternoon was briefly pushed away with the breeze at the top of K1.  The cool air, as merciful as it was, pushed me forwards with a sense of urgency with no regard to my pain.  It was now time to begin the few miles of generous descent into what I called ‘the endgame miles’.  By this point my stomach was no longer growling in pain, but the background pain of leg cramps and fatigue continued to wring through my legs like a towel being squeezed dry.  Thankfully the beast runners were very attentive to me barreling down the mountain behind them.  Not once did I have to slow down, they all shifted out of the way on both the trail and the obstacles!  I still refused to look behind me, keeping with my imaginary pursuers being ten feet behind me as I hoped to catch back up Eric.  Knowing how the last couple miles did nothing but grind against my pain receptors, in addition to how fast his downhill running game is, I knew that my chances of catching up were getting slim.  Regardless I pretended that he was just around the corner, keeping my eyes 15 feet ahead of me and my mind 15 minutes ahead. 

Thankfully the thick wooded trails were much more navigable on the second lap.  The morning dew was dried off and packed in by the steps of the thousands of feet that came after mine.  Eventually the gentle scent of evergreen and moss faded to the open air as the path opened up to the aid station that lied right before the ultra loop entrance, now mercifully closed off.  After guzzling down some water without stopping (out of fear of cramping) I gave my traditional middle finger to the ultra course, gleefully jogging along with a shit-eating grin.  The only thing left now was the most brutal but final ascent of the course! 

@pic from the gondola of the crossroads at K1 lodge
@pic of the ultra loop entrance

After a quick jump up and over the wall and the expected shock of cramp-ridden pain from landing on the ground, the final slog upwards began.  I looked down at my watch right as the 9 hour mark dinged at mile 29.  Sub 11 was absolutely a guarantee by this point, but could I actually pull off a sub 10?!  I remembered when I reached the peak of this climb on the first lap my watch said 5 hours, which meant from there it was only a 25 minute descent into the festival/finish area if I’m still as fast as I was in the first lap. 

My legs moved faster as my thoughts continued.  I remembered what I told everybody online before the race, “all I want here is a chance.”

Could I make it to the peak in 30 minutes or less?  The sharpest grade of uphills spanned for almost one whole mile, snaking in and out of the wooded mountain bike trails and back out to the ski slopes.  If I wanted a chance, it was right in these moments where I could make it happen.  My legs protested in pain as I pushed even harder, moving past more and more people, though I noticed something about the people.. some of them had purple bibs!  The time was past the 2pm transition cut-off, and they were going way too slow to have been elites running against me.  Then it hit me.  These aren’t elites… these are runners still on their first lap!  Despite there being a shuttle bus back at the start of the incline, these amazing people decided to keep going and finish out their lap despite their race already being ‘over’.  A tremendous feeling of respect filled my heart at the sight of them, and there was a good amount of them, too!  The pain in my legs gradually became an afterthought, and slowly the brutal ascent came to an end.  I looked at my watch and nodded with nervous self-affirmation.  Nine hours, thirty two minutes!  I began running with reckless abandon.  This last stretch was going to be freaking close.  Every second was going to count.  I couldn’t stop to pee, tie shoes, or tend to any cramps.  I tightened the straps of my pack – there was no more eating, either.  After weaving in and around the beast and lap 1 ultras, the box obstacle stood in the way.  “Ultra coming through please move!” I shouted, immediately running to the first lane that heeded my panicked call.  After shimmying up the obstacle in what must have been record time, my legs sent the usual shockwave of cramps once I hit the ground.  It didn’t matter.  I had to keep running!

@pic of the final descent

The 20-30% grades forced my downhill strides into a 6:50 pace, swaying back and forth between other runners in a skiing motion to prevent me from completely tumbling downwards.  My heart jumped in anticipation and joy as the distant thump of the festival area music went from a distant hum to recognizable songs.  The more enthusiastic spectators now lined the sides of the course, getting more and more crowded as I rocketed down.  “GO NEIL!”  shouted a couple of people that I could only give a thumbs up to as my eyes locked on the course.  That final sandbag carry loomed ahead, and Eric was nowhere on the visible route.  That was no longer my concern as I looked down at my watch and back to the bin of sandbags.  I took the necessary extra ten seconds to feel out the sandbags for the few that were lighter this time.  “Yo take this bag it ain’t bad” said another runner who knew exactly what I was doing.  The sweaty odor and moisture plopped over my shoulders, but the weight wasn’t as bad as I remembered from the last carry!  “GO ULTRA” shouted a few others as I shut my mind off and went back to training mode, carrying the bag like a rucksack and pressing my hands down on my quads.  I looked at my watch as the sandbag carry reached the top of the route.  9:54:58!  I had five minutes to complete the sandbag carry, z-wall, herc hoist and rig!  My legs began to grow numb.

“ULTRA” is all I could say, kicking up dust as I wove in and out of those sitting down.  Recklessly I slipped, falling on my side and cramping my legs even more.  I didn’t care.  I picked the bag back up over one shoulder and sprinted to the bin, dropping the bag and aiming right towards the far right side of the z-wall that I had scouted out to be the easiest side in the day prior.  Three people in line all stood out of the way for me, one of whom must have been with the lady that was struggling midway through the obstacle as I blitzed through each section of the z-wall, carefully keeping three points of contact.  He knew exactly what I was going through as he spoke to the lady.  “Just hop off and back on, let him through!” he said with a panic that matched mine.  “Thank you so…much!”  I yelled, jumping from the start of the last section of the wall all the way to the bell.  9:57:04.  I had less than three minutes now.

I remembered failing the herc hoist at the end of both the NJ ultra and last year’s Killington.  There was zero room for that failure now.  The crowd at the festival area was dotted with people who recognized me.  “GO NEIL YOU’RE ALMOST THERE.”  A weak thumbs up was all I could muster as finish line fatigue started to creep through my limbs.

I ran to the first bag that was open, grabbing the rope with my arms and began leaning back into the rope.  Even at the start of the hoist my arms and legs felt a numb tv-static feeling, and it was clear that things were starting to shut down.  I gritted my teeth and fought back my emotions as the noise of the crowd surrendered to the throbbing stress permeating through my skull.  With all my might I lifted the bag as fast as I could, giving no break to my momentum as the knot in the rope finally came within reach!  “Not…this…year!”  I panted as I hoisted the bag to the top!  With the rope under my foot I slowly let the bag slide down, making sure I didn’t lose control as it landed silently on the gravel floor.  9:58:04.  One mini-incline and decline until the rig! 

My arms and legs had no sensation now, tingling as I fought back against my consciousness trying to drag me down like it did on the ultra sandbag carry.  A volunteer noticed me from afar.  “ULTRA ON THE RIG, MAKE A LANE!”  I sprinted to the obstacle, ignoring the step leading up to the first ring and lurched forwards to the second ring.  As I death-gripped the ring and skipped the next ring to the bar, I saw my watch again.  175HR, 9:59:20!  As I shimmied across the bar it dawned on me that if I fail these next couple rings, my shot at a sub 10 will be obliterated.  It was now or never.  I wanted a chance, so here it was in the form of three remaining rings swaying about from the person that last did them.  With no sensation left in my body I swinged off the first ring with both hands, skipping the next ring to reach for the third.  My hand fumbled for a moment, only to be reinforced by my second hand.  My body flailed around, trying to swing forwards instead of sideways.  At the last second, I found myself swinging forwards – this was that chance.  I reached out with the last dregs of energy I could muster up, barely tagging the bottom of the bell with a clang that was the best sound I could have ever hoped for! 

I screamed in joy as I landed, looking at my watch as I jumped the fire and began to laugh in pure euphoric joy.  9:59:30!

The numbness of my body breaking down was given the reprieve it demanded for so long and I collapsed on to the rocky ground, grinning ear-to-ear as the dust of the soil settled around me.  I peered over at the festival obstacles and didn’t see any other purple bibs, that imaginary pursuer being fake after all.  After soaking in what I had actually accomplished, I got up (with the help of a few others) and walked over to the results tent knowing that I was on a very strict time limit on how long my body will allow me to move around.  I knew that the 1st place age group wasn’t possible since Eric was in my field, but strangely that didn’t matter in the slightest.  What happened that day completely dissolved that old self-limiting goal, closing that door while opening a much grander door into a field that I never thought I could ever belong into – the elites.  I tapped my bib number into the results tablet and shook my head in disbelief.  I was 6th overall! 

I thought back to that timid young version of myself that stared in awe at the start of the elite wave eleven years ago.  I remembered seeing them being called up by name, hopping over the corral fence and lining up to the start as others cheered them on.  It can be said that the last nine hours and fifty nine minutes cemented myself amongst the giants that I once separated myself from, but that wasn’t the whole picture.  It was every day in those last twelve years that built this.  It was every day and every hour I stepped away from the family and friends that supported me to train for this moment.  Every comment online, every private message and every cheer from a spectator pit, no matter how small helped me accomplish what I told myself those 11 years ago when I came home from my first DNF – “I’m going to make future me so proud”.

The higher I found my rank every year brought with me less of a sense of self, and more of an amalgam of gratitude and togetherness that got me there.  It was never this cinematic lone wolf journey that is so admired in our pop culture that reflects the inverted reality of improvement into the upper echelons of competition.  It was you guys that helped enable this.  It took a village.

In this moment that I came to grips with the finality of belonging, I found Josh Fiore in the festival area.  Like many others, he believed in me when I did not.  The stalwart calm that I forced myself into throughout the day had permission to crumble when I gave him a hug and told him that I actually accomplished the sub10 he believed I would run.  The lump in my throat could not be held back as the first tears trickled down my face.  He smiled.  “I told you man, stop holding back.  You’re so much better than you think”.  Finally, I understood. 

Finally, I belonged. 

After waiting for the remainder of finishers from the women’s division to cross the finish, the awards ceremony began.  One year ago Eric and I mused about ‘the dream’ of us both dominating the podium, agreeing that one of us was to take second AG while the other is either first or third.  It never dawned on us that the dream would actually come true!  Standing up there (with the aid of a walking stick by this point because my body was fucked up) with him was one of my proudest moments that I will forever cherish.  I’m proud of him, and all of those who came out there to try the impossible – from the podium finishers to those who knew they had DNF’ed and continued on regardless. 

Together, WE belong. 

You all came out there that day knowing that the odds were stacked against you.  You all wanted the same thing – a chance to be the best version of yourself.  I know that those reading this, from the spectators to the beast runners to those who shared a podium with me, will fiendishly seek out that next chance that life presents.  I hope to one day be there alongside you, maybe at the starting line and possibly the finish line.  I hope to read your story about how you found your place that you once thought impossible to exist in.  I hope your great struggles culminate into the victory you so well deserve.  Thank you for being there.

Acknowledgements -

• Jeff was unphased by his 5th DNF, knowing that injuries are an unfortunate opportunity to make an even better story, similar to the fate that Nick suffered on course.  I can’t wait to see you out there again!

  
  
  

• The look on Sean’s face as he held my AG medal when I told him that he’ll one day hold one of his own tells me that his story has also just begun.  Remember that moment and build off of it.

  
  
  

• Everyone who showed up to the shakeout hike on Friday had such amazing journeys that led them to this point, and it was one of the many highlights of this trip to learn from each of you all.  Thank you for showing up.

  
  
  

• Vic DNF’ed both NJ and Killington this year, and I know exactly how bad that hurts.  There WILL be a time when he gets the victory he so well deserves and that is a story that I can’t wait to read.  Don’t lose focus, I know it’s hard.

  
  
  

• Eric has made unbelievable gains, and I can’t wait to run with him again!  He understood the assignment and crushed it with a 4th overall finish!  That guy is a PR machine!

  
  
  

• All of you who spoke to me in reference of these stories or podcasts, I remember all of you.  It meant so much to me to have you spend time talking with me, even if I was in a hurry or on course!

Strava link to the race -

https://www.strava.com/activities/12411432829