Pictures from several days of course marking the Hardrock 100 Mile Endurance Run in the Rocky Mountains, Colorado.

The photos show sections of Green Mountain/Buffalo Boy Ridge, Handies Peak, Oh! Point to Ouray, the climb to Virginius Pass, Grant-Swamp Pass and Island Lake.

Hardrock is held every year in July, starting from the town of Silverton. The average elevation of the course is 11,000 feet, and runners ascent and descent some 66,000 feet in total. The maximum time allowed to complete the race is 48 hours.

The race is only officially done when a finisher kisses the Hardrock, a rock with the picture of a mountain ram.

Extreme sports were once considered the exclusive domain of men. Nicky Redl explores the trailblazing world of female ultrarunners.

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The sport of ultra trail running has boomed in recent years, with 80,000 ultramarathon finishes in the USA alone last year.

The races are anything longer than the conventional marathon of 42 kilometres—hence the ‘ultra’ prefix.

Often, the races span 100 miles or more. They can take over a day to run in their entirety.

They’re single-stage races, too. On hundred-mile races, cut-off times generally kick in after 30 hours.

That means participants don’t generally get time for much more rest than a sit-down or a quick nap to rest.

The famous Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc series in the European Alps attracts about 10,000 runners across various distances each year.

While the sport is still male-dominated, the number of female competitors has in recent years risen far more than the number of men.

In the USA, women now make up nearly a third of the ultramarathon field.

So what makes extreme distances so attractive to women? One way to find out is to ask a genuine ultramarathon trailblazer

Ann Trason, an American endurance runner, is a legend in the ultrarunning community. She has broken 20 world records. She’s never forgotten the first time she trained on the Western States Trail.

‘It captured something in me. I just felt it was in my blood. I can’t explain the beauty, the freedom.’

Trason started running ultramarathons in the ’80s, when women were still a much rarer sight on the trail. For her, long-distance running is a way of life.

‘My favourite runs are things where I run across the Sierras by myself,’ she says.

‘I would just do these runs and mail my clothes somewhere and spend the night, and then run back to my car a different way. That’s my favorite thing to do in the world.’

Long-distance running hasn’t always been inclusive of women. Until 1971, women were banned from the world-famous Boston Marathon.

When Kathrine Switzer ran it in 1967 after not identifying as a woman on her race registration, the race director tried to physically force her off the course.

Despite finishing the race, Switzer was disqualified because of her gender.

In the ’80s Trason found most people very supportive, although some still had difficulty getting used to female ultrarunners.

One male trail running friend told her that she didn’t have the right genes for what he termed a ‘man’s sport’. Trason would later run into him during the Western States race.

‘When I passed him, I asked him how his genes were doing,’ she chuckles.

Trason won the women’s division that year and every year she ran it thereafter—a total of 14 times.

Here’s a biological quirk: the longer the race, the better chances women seem to have at narrowing the gap to male top runners or even winning races outright.

At the Sydney marathon, the female winner is usually at least 20 minutes behind the male winner. For an ultramarathon covering four times that distance, you’d naturally assume the time difference would multiply—but that’s not always the case.

At the Western States 100, Ann Trason twice came second overall—once, she was minutes behind the male overall winner.

In the 135 Mile Badwater Ultramarathon, where competitors run in boiling temperatures of up to 50 degrees through America’s Death Valley, US competitor Pam Reed crossed the finish line ahead of the fastest men twice.

Making time to train and compete is a challenge in itself, especially when raising a family—but some competitors just get them involved.

Ana Braga-Levaggi, 56, has completed eight of the toughest 100-mile races in the USA. Her husband—a keen cyclist—provides more than moral support. ‘My husband is very involved and hands on, whether he paces me or in giving me what I need.’

It’s a family affair: her daughters time her breaks and make sure she keeps moving, and find plenty of inspiration in their mother’s achievements.

‘Ultrarunning brings us together. My perception of my mom transcends from personal chauffeur/macaroni maker into hero,’ Braga-Levaggi’s daughter Bella wrote in a college essay.

The USA is still the world’s ultrarunning hub, but the sport is growing fast in Australia, with over 100 annual ultras.

The Ultra-Trail Australia is a trail running event that attracts thousands of people to the Blue Mountains for its 100 and 50 kilometre distances each year.

One hundred miles isn’t the limit, either. Australia’s Coast to Kosciuszko ultramarathon is 240 kilometres long, from Twofold Bay in New South Wales to the summit of the country’s highest mountain, Mount Kosciuszko.

Age plays less of a defining role in ultramarathons than it does for other styles of running. Meghan Arbogast holds the Western States record for women over the age of 50 and still finishes races ahead of younger competitors.

She believes older runners have some advantages in endurance sports.

‘Partly, it takes the body a long time to adapt and get that strong,’ she said at a trail running training camp on the Western States course.

‘I think we get mentally more tough the older we are.’

With age, runners can also become more patient and learn to pace themselves better over long distances.

Arbogast runs 100 miles a week and is still as fast as she was years ago.

‘There are a lot of 40 or 50-year-old women who are thinking, “She’s still doing it. I don’t have to slow down when I’m 45 or 50 or 55, I can still do this,”‘ Arbogast says.

‘That matters to me.’

Broadcast on ABC Radio National’s Life Matters on February 4, 2016, and published on ABC Online.

Dangling skeletons, boozed-up volunteers and a blow-up sex doll. The Javelina Jundred in Arizona with its 100 mile and 100 kilometre distances is a cross between an ultra and a Halloween party, with runners sporting anything from elaborate dresses to the minimalist mankini look. There was, after all, a “best ass” award to compete for. Seeing all those characters running through the moon-like landscape of the Sonoran Desert transports you into some sort of surreal ultrarunning dreamscape.

Needless to say, the race had a somewhat different atmosphere than The Bear 100 Mile in Utah, which I did five weeks earlier. In Utah, over 60% of the population are Mormon, and the Bear starts on a Friday to keep Sunday free for religious reasons. When I asked for a massage at Javelina, the therapist responded by warmly stumbling into my arms and greeting me like an old friend, after keeping himself energised with vodka throughout the evening. I didn’t care as long as he still had enough coordination to do something about that excruciating pain in my right foot, lower back and hip flexor, and the massage was great. However, I did steer clear of another drunken volunteer who was dancing with the sex doll. It looked a little too sad to be motivating.

Javelina is a good race if you’re in bad physical shape – nothing much can go wrong and it’s easy to drop out at headquarters if you prefer an early night. Initially I hadn’t been keen, thinking I much preferred the more purist style of ultras. But I had the opportunity to get a lift there with Bruce LaBelle, which turned into a great little road trip, and the social side of it sounded fun. I also thought doing the 100k might be a good recovery event after my first 100 miler, given that I could walk the whole distance if I wanted – the cut-off is 29 hours.

After escaping physically unscathed from the Bear, with not even as much as a blister, I’d done my back in while having fun volunteering at the Overlook Endurance Runs. Helping out with course marking, sorting aid station provisions, making soup and volunteering on the day was a great experience, but I hadn’t realised that setting up a finish line area is like moving house. I overdid it lifting boxes and my lower back was giving me grief for the next two weeks. I also hadn’t stretched since the Bear, smart me, which didn’t help. It resulted in me never having been in as much physical pain during an ultra as at Javelina. The posture and gait I adopted to ease my back and knee pain soon put me in trouble with my hip flexors and I strained a muscle in my foot on the rocky course. None of it worried me much, though. Mentally, I was feeling quite at peace. I was sure I wasn’t causing any permanent damage (or I always imagine I am sure with my background in sports injury therapies). I just ran the first loop to get at least some running in and mostly walked the other three.

Limping quite noticeably the last two rounds, a woman put a hand on my shoulder in passing and warmly said something about me showing the most determination of all. It was a sweet gesture, that kindly indicated that I was looking a mess. Despite physical discomfort, I still really enjoyed that headspace where time just seems to stretch, and memories and emotions flow through, rather than being rigidly in place. People passed, and then it was just me and that warm, soft night again.

What stayed with me wasn’t the party atmosphere, but the night falling over the desert, the silhouettes of the Saguaro cacti stretching their arms against the darkening orange and blue sky. The sound of what I first thought were people hollering when a huge moon rose, only to realize we were far from any aid station and I was in fact hearing coyotes. Not all people had greeted each other at daytime, but as the night stretched on, everyone greeted, as if they were in desperate need for these short little exchanges, those few warm words of encouragement in the light of two headlamps before heading off into the darkness again, alone.

I finished in the small hours in a time of 20:45 with no familiar face around, finding a lift with another runner to the hotel where friend and highly accomplished ultrarunner Tammy Massie had kindly invited me to crash in her and her pacer Juliette Cleaves Brundige’s room. Tammy, ever determined and having finished before me, got up again soon after to cheer on the last runners coming in. Juliette and I opted for breakfast instead. Recovery tasted of frozen yoghurt and painkillers. That night, all three of us nursed our aching legs in a shared Phoenix motel room while happily sipping fireball whiskey and admiring the 80s fashion in reruns of Miami Vice – a weekend just like summer camp for ultrarunners.

I had to get to the start line within half an hour or I’d miss it. Stuck in this foreign town, I was lost between winding streets and strange houses, unable to find my race bag, or drop bags, or anything at all. Hadn’t I had some hiking poles somewhere? This was Logan, Utah. Wandering past me were people in robes wearing strange pointy hats and the only transport were gondolas propelled by magic only the strange pointy hat-people could work out in this Venice-like maze. There was no way I’d make it to the start line in time and… waking from a restless sleep I realized I was still in bed in Australia.

The frightful dreams I was having in the lead-up to my first 100 miler seemed to be getting more bizarre by the night. I’d never been so outright scared of a race. The first time I’d run a 100k seven years ago, I hadn’t trained for the distance and only swapped into it from the 42k version the day before the race, mainly out of curiosity. Finishing had been a complete surprise, so there had been no opportunity to be scared. This time, I felt like I was looking down into an abyss of the unknown, heading to a foreign land in potentially wild weather attempting a distance I couldn’t fathom. The Bear 100 Endurance Run from Logan in Utah to Fish Haven in Idaho runs through remote, mountainous terrain over 6,700 meters accumulated climb in weather conditions that, in past years, involved snow and ice or outright deluges.

Past race reports sounded gruesome and dangerous, with participants having dropped out after saying they had to slide down icy slopes on their butt. The course was said to be sparsely marked. I had no pacer, I had no crew, I knew nobody there. Lying in bed at night, I imagined getting lost in the dark, far from any road or mobile reception and freezing to death all alone. It was ridiculous, given that I’d be the first person to ever manage the feat of dying in this race, but it became increasingly difficult to get those fears under control. Perhaps I shouldn’t go at all. Perhaps I should just stay home.

I hate the cold, so I spent hours online researching ways to stay warm and read about rubbing chilly on your feet (ouch, chilly blisters?) and how to best run in deep snow, ultimately ordering a neck warmer, waterproof gloves and socks, and gore-tex running shoes. And in rare snow in Australia’s Blue Mountains, I did long runs clad in all my warm gear plus a fleece skirt fashioned from an old yellow jumper. I’d cut off the long sleeves and was wearing them on my calves as long gaiters.

“Record-breaking heat sets stage for the weekend” reported the Salt Lake Tribune on September 25, 2015, the day the Bear 100 started. This was to be an altogether different race. No snow, no ice, not even rain. I was outstandingly grateful even though I’d mainly brought Merino wool shirts to run in.

Registering at 5:30am, I asked a volunteer taking down my name: “Is that all?” “Sure,” he said with a grin. “That’s it. Now you just have to run 100 miles to Bear Lake.” Some last headlamp adjustments, and off we went, towards Mt Logan and a climb of over 1,100 meters up to the first checkpoint. I hadn’t brought a camera but I remember the sky that morning well as it slowly turned from dark to light, showcasing its beautiful colors across the mountains while we were climbing higher and higher. We were progressing in a long line and went slowly, but there is nothing wrong with taking it slow at the start of a race. Sooner or later, the trail would become wide enough to spread out a little.

I’d been enormously lucky. Just about a week before the start, my mother had spontaneously decided to travel from Germany to provide moral support and sample the beautiful hikes in the Wasatch area.

She was worried about driving in unknown territory and wouldn’t be crewing, but she’d helped me prepare, and had been at the start to see me off. I was incredibly grateful for that. My dad had been keen to find out everything he could about the Bear and was following online, and my sister and her kids had sent me an especially painted running t-shirt. For someone like me, who’s from a fractured family and had been in boarding school from age 14, that was pretty special. It was the first and only time they were all involved in a race I did, and I cherished the experience dearly.

And they weren’t the only ones helping out. Brendan Davies from UpCoaching had lent me various race packs for a week to help me decide which one to buy, and I was running in gaiters gifted by Lou Clifton, a very speedy running friend living in the Blue Mountains. German runner Manuel Hartl had even sent me a parcel to Utah full of beer-flavored energy gels and other running provisions.

And then there was the Logan running community, which must be one of the most welcoming in the world. In reply to a post in their facebook group upon arrival in the U.S., I’d immediately received several messages and an invitation by Scot Weaver to a group pasta dinner at his and his wife’s place.

Scot, one of the friendliest people you’ll ever meet, got me in touch with Joe Furse, a highly talented runner in his 20s who’d run the Top of Utah Marathon in a blistering time of 2:38. I’d warned I’d be rather slow, but Joe immediately offered to pace me, and Joe’s wife Jenny offered to drive him at some nightly hour to the meeting spot. I was also fortunate to meet Chuck and Babette Burtis, both very fast runners in their 50s who had qualified for the 2016 Boston Marathon. Hearing Joe and me talk about the Bear, Chuck also offered his help. Some days later, Chuck said he’d also roped his brother in law Wade McFarland into pacing me and they’d organize the distances amongst each other once.

Instead of none, I now had three pacers, and all of them locals who knew the course. I was blown away by their generosity and readiness to spend so much of their weekend helping a complete stranger. Instead of feeling blank fear, I now couldn’t wait to spend hours in the company of such lovely people traversing this beautiful part of the world. People can make all the difference. Not to say I wasn’t still scared, but I felt a whole lot better about my endeavor.

Once we were over the first massive climb, I took the chance to speed up a little to make my next split at the Leatham Hollow Aid station in the Valley.

The trail had widened into a dirt road and I spent some time chatting with Charles Spelina, who’d come over from New York and was also doing his first 100 miler here.

The race is held in fall to let runner enjoy the Indian Summer with its vivid colors that time of year, and deep red, orange and yellow of the trees lined our path. Running was still easy as the air hadn’t warmed up yet, but by the time I reached the second checkpoint, the heat was definitely up. It was well over 30C, and some later said temperatures were pushing 40C in the valley. I don’t know what the exact temperature was, but the next fairly flat stretch through the valley to the third checkpoint felt like running in an oven.

At Richards Hollow checkpoint a volunteer had the brilliant idea of putting ice in my cap and in my water bladder, and, boy, did that help. The trail now led us back up again along some shady trails, past numerous cows, but no bears, which prompted someone to remark that this race should rather be called The Cow 100.

A runner greeted me by name, leaving me confused for a moment, until I realized it was Charles, who’d changed into a different-colored shirt. This was a trick he’d stick with through the entire race, and I somehow never learned that a familiar looking guy in an unfamiliar outfit calling out my name would be Charles.

We now headed onto open road where the running was easier but the sun was beating down relentlessly. I focused on drinking much more than usual, finishing off 2.5 liters between aid stations and taking 4 salt capsules an hour. My fingers had started to swell when taking less salt. Still, I preferred the heat over icy slopes. Having to negotiate these trails in ice, mud and rain would have been incredibly tough.

I arrived at checkpoint 4 Cowley Canyon in good spirits, went through my drop bag and left with some new fuel and another 2.5 liters of water in my pack. At over 30C for most of the day, it seemed wise to run smart and preserve energy, taking any time necessary to drink and eat enough. I still had a long way to go. Also, I was wearing black merino wool. I can’t quite remember why, it’s just what I always run it, because it works well in warmth and cold, and doesn’t stink. But now I wished I’d taken something light and white instead. Different to Charles, I hadn’t left any new shirts at aid stations.

I’d fallen behind my splits in the heat but was still feeling quite fresh in my legs. Conservatively walking all the uphills, I had no problems running the long downhills and most flats, and made up good time on those stretches. There also were no issues with blisters after lathering my feet with Bodyglide in the mornings and evenings for two days before the race, and wearing toe socks to keep chafing to a minimum. Nerves had kept me awake for most of the night though, and I’d had only one or two hours of sleep. I wasn’t feeling it yet, but I was going to come to curse those sleepless hours later on.

Finally, the path turned off into a trail down the mountainside with much of it meandering in the shade. The large quantities of water and salt I’d consumed were paying off and I was fresh enough to run the whole way down, not being far off check point 5 at Right Hand Fork now. Not having a crew does cost time, and I was amazed at how many minutes can get lost when looking for drop bags, going through provisions, running to the toilet, and filling up a pack. I was definitely behind schedule and could only hope that the tracking system was working and my first pacers knew I was running late.

I’d hoped to make it to Tony Grove by dark, but it was now clear that night would fall long before that. Pacers were allowed from Right Hand Fork at checkpoint 5, but I’d agreed to meet Chuck at checkpoint 7 at Tony Grove. Keen to get as much done as I could in the fading light, I didn’t waste much time at checkpoint 6, Temple Fork, which wasn’t even halfway through the race yet at 73k. Other runners passed me with their pacers and I keenly wished I’d have company, too.

Suddenly, I heard someone calling after me. It was Chuck! He’d tracked my progress online and knew I wouldn’t make it to Tony Grove before nightfall, so he and Wade had driven to Temple Fork. On hearing that they’d only just missed me, Chuck had jumped into his runners and headed out after me. I was so happy to see him.

I was tired but with Chuck’s company and cheer, the next climbs weren’t so hard anymore and soon we were running again on the flats and downhills. At one point, we passed a runner standing somewhat slumped next to the trail. I checked whether he was okay and had enough salt, and heard he was struggling with cramps, a problem I’d luckily avoided with the high water and salt intake I’d stuck to all day. He said he’d run out of salt, so I gave him enough of my capsules to last him to the next station where he could pick up more.

It was a beautiful night with a near-full moon and for much of the way we didn’t need to switch on our lights. The air was still mild after the heat and felt so soft and refreshing, and the meadows and trails ahead of us looked so inviting, that I’d never enjoyed running at night this much. I felt I could have just continued forever then.

“Hey Nicky!” I heard as we passed a runner and his pacer. “Hi… good work!” I called back, pondering who could know my name when I didn’t know his. Of course, it was Charles again in a new shirt.

Running into Tony Grove, we were greeted by Wade, who checked if we needed anything before he would take over pacing at Franklin Trailhead. I don’t remember the next stretch as being hard, and was surprised how much energy I had still left in my legs, running fairly easily on downhill and flats after a distance I’d in the past found much harder. I finished these first roughly 100k to check point 9 quicker than I’d finished the NorthFace 100k in the Blue Mountains in 2014, despite this stretch at the Bear probably involving more climbing and being significantly hotter. It pays to drink plenty, I noted. I usually don’t drink enough.

Sitting down to change shoes and socks at Franklin Trailhead, Chuck and Wade provided me with the kindest care. They helped me out of my shoes, and even gave my dusty feet a good clean with some wet wipes before helping me into fresh socks and a different pair of shoes. Lori Bowcutt, whom I’d also met at Scot’s group dinner, was volunteering and it was wonderful to recognize another face. She kindly got me some soup and encouraged me on.

I was also very glad I’d been able to catch up with Badwater finisher and experienced ultra runner Tammy Massie in Salt Lake City just before the race. She’d insisted I change shoes at least once, so I’d left some at this checkpoint. And sure enough, just the last few kilometers before this aid station, I’d developed a hot spot on one foot that would have turned into a blister without a shoe change. Afterwards, I had no more troubles and amazingly didn’t develop a single blister the entire race.

Wade expressed amazement at my good mood after 100k, but who could be grumpy being so lucky. I’d known no one on arrival, but was now surrounded and supported by wonderful people who were helping me achieve this dream of finishing my first 100 miler in this amazing place.

To highlight how kind and enormously patient my pacers were, I should add that Chuck, 58, ran the St. George Marathon in a time of 3:07:53 a week after pacing me, and that Wade holds the Top of Utah marathon age group record both for the ages 50-54 and 55-59 with a time of 2:50:35 and 2:58:58 respectively. Also, the way runners treated each other in this race was always encouraging and kind and you could just feel that the event was run by people who truly care about the running community.

When our time together was up after this aid station, I was sad to see Chuck go and missed him like an old friend. But I had Wade with me now to keep me company and help me find the way, and it was urgently needed.

After leaving Franklin Trailhead, my energy level had taken a sudden dive. I was so slow. We were climbing a seemingly endless way up and once the trail ran flat again, I no longer felt like running. Wade suggested moving faster. I shuffled unenthusiastically behind him. Somehow my brain had now realized that I’d never gone this far before, and the old “hey, this is crazy, what are you doing, stop this” was back. I hardly made it up each hill.

I wasn’t worried I’d stop, but wondered where all that energy I’d still had just a few kilometers ago had suddenly gone. Some runners overtook us but there were also some who were doing worse. One runner was retching while holding onto a tree as we passed, with her pacer supporting her. I was also becoming less and less interested in food, but at least I hadn’t vomited yet.

It’s always great to make it to an aid station, but number 9 at Logan River was dangerous, in the sense that there was an all-too-inviting fire burning. It felt like a home I had no wish to leave. The night had been kind and mild, but it wasn’t exactly warm, and exhaustion made it feel colder. I could no longer eat while moving, but managed to eat soup sitting down. So I saw down and ate two soups. All I wanted was stay, and never move again.

After over a quarter of an hour rest I thought my stomach would be well enough to eat a grilled cheese sandwich on the way out. One bite standing up and I felt so sick I quickly spit out the bite and threw the rest into the bin. My body had firmly decided that it couldn’t focus on eating and moving at the same time.

Soon we came to a creek with a couple of logs across. For a tired runner, there were definite opportunities to fall in, and this wasn’t a good time to get wet. So I took the less graceful option of crawling across the log on hands and feet until only a few balanced steps from stone to stone remained. Success! Not even my feet had gotten wet, so after a quick breath of relief, we were off again.

In view of my recent decline, I had thought it impossible to slow down any further without standing still, but you surprise yourself in ultras. The low food intake over the past hours was having an impact, and the steep hills felt like the Alps. Other runners I’d overtaken before Franklin Trailhead were now passing me and I had no idea how anyone could move as fast as them.

“Hey Nicky!” one stranger called out as he passed me. I was too tired to wonder, but it must have been Charles in a new shirt. I regretted not taking more than the one piece of hard candy I’d grabbed at the last station, as that seemed to be the only thing my stomach was still interested in. Going only on ginger ale now, I stumbled after Wade, who tried to encourage me to run whenever the trail was going downhill. I was so slow that he often got out of sight and would wait for me down the track. He told me about the local wildlife and that there’d surely be mountain lions in the trees watching us, we just couldn’t see them. I couldn’t care less. Don’t they say you shouldn’t run if you see a mountain lion? Even more reason to walk.

With great delay, we finally made it to Beaver Lodge at about half past six in the morning where Joe and Jenny were waiting for us. I’d been on my legs for over 24 hours now and we were at roughly 122k. They hadn’t been waiting too long, they said. Joe was a good predictor of speed and looking at my earlier progress, he knew I’d be arriving later than planned.

I think he was keen to get going, but I was trying to consume calories sitting down. I really can’t praise Joe highly enough. He’d never run the Bear as a race himself but had paced numerous times – usually people who have a chance at winning the race. A runner he’d paced in 2015 finished fourth overall. With me, pacing would mean hiking. Slowly. We jogged a little to start, but it didn’t last long. I wanted to take the safe route to finishing. I no longer cared that I’d be far from my original target of under 30 hours. I just wanted to be absolutely sure that I didn’t injure myself or did anything else that would keep me from finishing. And at this point, I wasn’t quite sure whether my legs mightn’t just suddenly give way if I wasn’t careful.

Of course, walking takes a lot longer than running, and thinking that we still had more than 35k to go at this speed seemed insane. I felt incredibly tired and had lost all recollection of why I was doing this in the first place. Why was anybody doing this? Who were these people?

But there was Joe, spending his Sunday sharing the trail with me, and there were all sorts of other people hobbling along, so sensible or not, this appeared to be the thing to do. I was also using this race to raise money for an asylum seeker center in Australia that provides food and health services, as well as language and jobs skills training, and this provided further motivation. Joe stayed close, mostly beside me or just ahead, and was indispensably patient company over all those kilometers.

My short-term memory wasn’t no longer working and I fortunately forgot most of the climbs. When Joe told me about an upcoming climb, saying it wouldn’t be quite as bad as the last one, I couldn’t remember the last one. Somewhere we crossed into Idaho and were soon close to the 11^th aid station at 130k. We wasted less than three minutes at Gibson Basin aid station and hiked out onto a long straight fire trail.

It was mid-morning now and I had been awake for too long. My mind was running off track. Sometimes I forgot we were in a race and thought we were out for a morning stroll. At other times, the most burning question on my mind was whether Joe had ever ridden on a deer.

As soon as I’d banished that deer-riding quandary from my mind, it turned its focus to frog liver pâté. But do frogs even have livers? The lack of answers drove me insane. However, I stopped short from mentioning any of this to Joe. ‘You’re slow, and Joe might be bored, but look how patient he is,’ I thought. ‘If you ask him about deer-riding and frog livers, he might get worried and run away.’ With Joe by my side, I knew I’d make it through this second day somehow, so I wanted to appear as normal as possible to him. Frog liver pâté might just ruin it, I thought.

At about 10am, we arrived at the second last aid station, Beaver Creek at about 137k. There were soggy pancakes and fried eggs, which were divine. And I could actually eat them, which was even better.

The toilet options were a bucket in a tent or some bushes. A volunteer recommended the bushes over the bucket. I took her advice. Being that tired, the classification of: “am I sufficiently out of sight” somewhat changes. The bushes weren’t very thick but they were in a kind of dip, and the only question that really mattered now wasn’t “am I out of sight” but rather “is my butt out of sight”. If the answer was yes, it was good enough. Not that anyone cared at this point anyway.

Before heading off again, I dug the race t-shirt from my niece and nephew out of my drop bag, and also found an encouraging card from my mom. I was tired, but I happy now, that sleepless-and-having-run-a-long-way kind of happy.

At my speed, it took nearly three hours to get to the last aid station at 148k. The sun was high in the sky, but I’d become less diligent with my water refills to keep the pack lighter, and had run out a while ago. I was glad to fill up. One last steep climb up to the highest point in the race at 2,756 meters and then, finally, we were over the last big hill. Now it was less than 10k to the finish, and most of it was steeply down.

Suddenly I found my legs again. Only 10k! Jogging again, we ran through colorful autumn leafs, blown about by a cheerful breeze. The sight of Bear Lake, stretching out below in a deep blue, accompanied us on the entire way down. With the finish line so near, we were overtaking  people and I was keen to keep moving. The track was washed out and steep with loose gravel where I had to catch myself a few times, but we were moving. Now Joe was certain we’d make it in under 34 hours. Far from my original goal, but long ahead of the 36 hour cut off. I would finish.

As we came off the hill and turned onto an asphalt road, my mum came towards us cheering and running with us. I was amazed how well she kept up, because in my mind we were going fast and I was giving it my all. Then I realized how slowly we were jogging. It no longer mattered. Jog we did, with big smiles, through Fish Haven and into the finish.

I can’t remember much more than being happy and grateful for all the help I’d received, for my pacers, my mom, the company of all the other runners, the organizers and volunteers, and for being allowed to successfully complete such an experience.

I also remember thinking briefly that most things that seem difficult or even insurmountable on other days, probably weren’t all that difficult in reality. All seemed doable right now. Mom remarked how everybody she’d watched coming in had been smiling, and she wasn’t sure how that was possible after 100 Miles.

And then, after getting my buckle and a hug from co-race director Errol “Rocket” Jones, cheering on other finishers, thanking Joe and giving him a couple of things as a memory of the race, while resolving to mail the little gifts I had for Chuck and Wade the day after, I stretched out in a sleeping bag on the grass and immediately fell asleep, right among all the commotion.

“No peein’ off the porch” is the sign that greets me as I wait on Craig Thornley’s deck.

He is in the kitchen to make tea and one of his cats is keeping an eye on me from under a wooden bench. What do Western States runners get up to on their race director’s porch?

Once he joins me with two mugs, he tells me it was just one guy, but he was a repeat offender. Some house rules might be inevitable, given how full his and his wife Laurie’s house can get come June.  The location is no accident – the race director lives just a mile from the Western States 100 Mile Endurance Run finish line.

Listen to the full interview with Western States Race Director Craig Thornley:

This week, thousands of runners around the world enter the lottery in the hope of scoring a spot in this iconic race from Squaw Valley to Auburn, California. Numbers are capped at less than 400 runners, due to permits.

The organizers want to balance being an elite event that grants some top athletes automatic entry with being inclusive by giving also slower runners who have managed to qualify a chance to participate. Either way, those chances are slim and stand at less than 5% at first try. The most consecutive years you qualify and enter, the better the odds.

WS has come a long way in four decades. Originally a 100-mile race for horses called the Tevis Cup, a man called Gordy Ainsleigh one day decided to run it, and finished in under 24 hours.

“He obviously had something in his head that not too many of us were, at least, able to show that we had it. So he decides to run,” Craig Thornlesays.

After that first finish in 1974, the race doctor thought it was a once-in-a-lifetime feat that no one would ever duplicate.

“It was just so far out there to think of running in these kind of temperatures and this terrain, the canyons are just not very friendly, and he just started this crazy sport. It wasn’t that he started ultrarunning, but it was covering 100 miles in this type of terrain, ” Craig says.

By now, thousands have finished WS and many thousands more want to run it.

The training weekends, such as the Memorial weekend I took part in, are one way to see much of the course without winning the race lottery. Anyone can take part, and volunteers often include highly accomplished runners with a long WS history, such as Tim Twietmeyer or Ann Trason.

Craig sees runners off in the morning and greet everyone with a big smile and some hugs at the finish line each day.

The race director has grown up with this race. When Craig was a teenager, it found him in the form of an exhausted runner tumbling out of the woodwork as he and his brother were out camping.

The runner wanted to know where the aid station was. The brothers had no idea what he was talking about, but they never forgot the look in his eyes.

“Not blank, but there’s definitely a whole lot going on and we just knew that we have to experience whatever they are experiencing. You could read a lot into those eyes,” Craig said.

After working the Dusty Corners aid station for 10 years, Craig ran the race for the first time in 2001 and finished, a feat he has pulled of seven times since, always in under 24 hours.

Finishing in one day earns runners a highly sought-after silver belt buckle. These buckles are custom-made from sterling silver and valued at USD 355 – nearly the race entry fee.

The belt buckles are another legacy from the Tevis Cup, originally meant for riders. The makers from Comstock Heritage aren’t runners themselves, but have a lot of appreciation for what the buckle means to people.

“They are totally engaged, they are excited that they get to make the buckle that so many people want to earn.”

“It’s not just that it’s a 355 dollar buckle, but it’s what that buckle represents, that whole effort, commitment, not just on race day alone but getting to the race and preparing, and all the sacrifices. It’s symbolic of so much more than just a finishing time.” Watch how the buckle is made.

It’s not the first race Craig Thornley has been directing, but it’s certainly one on a completely new scale. His professional background is in IT, but on the side he’d already set up the Waldo 100k Trail Run in Oregon.

“I started developing Waldo and it became a really well-respected race, it was a national championship,” he says.

“I got to implement my ideas of what I think a race should be like, treating every runner equally, first class service at aid stations where the volunteers are very knowledgeable. […] I got to use it as kind of a playground, as a learning tool.”

Added to his race organizing experience, Craig was also a national sky patroller for years, and stewarded 16 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail. So when the WS role came up, he had no trouble getting an interview. He did have trouble getting TO the interview, though.

Having committed to helping champion runner and friend Meghan Arbogast race the day before, he’d booked the earliest morning flight to make it in time.

It ended up being an epic day of flight delays, missed connection flights, rebookings, and finally a way-too-helpful rental car assistant hell-bent on selling him everything he didn’t need, ultimately leaving him chasing down the highway with no time to lose.

And then there was the problem of not usually using deodorant. We all know what happens when you’re under a lot of stress and there’s no deodorant around. Not good.

“The interview of my life and I smell so bad!” he laughs.

He was driving so fast that he made up enough minutes to storm into a petrol station and get some deodorant, and – smelling beautifully – got the job.

So now that he’s held the position for three years, where does he want to take the race?

“I definitely want to see us involved in the international scene. We are already making contributions by being involved in Ultra-Trail World Tour and the International Trail Running Association. I want to see the race continue to be relevant on the competitive scene in the world, attracting the top 100-mile runners of the world,” Craig Thornley says.

Craig is conscious of the fact that WS has less than 400 runners each year, while races like the UTMB series have thousands.

He believes the event’s relevance could decline if they don’t stay on top of things, cooperating with and learning from other races around the world.

“I want to make sure we continue to lead the sport and have the best practices in everything.”

The race also wants to continue evolving its medical research. Changes include moving away from overusing IVs to combat hyponatremia (abnormally low blood sodium levels), as it has been found that the risks often outweigh the benefits of this practice, and most runners will recover without infusions, Craig says.

“When we do get a case of hyponatremia we know now that we can give people hypertonic saline, which is three times the normal saline of your body. If you’re not hyponatremic it won’t hurt you, and if you are, it will help you equalise sodium in your blood, in your body, much faster.”

Continuing to attract the best of the sport is important, but WS also continues to be committed to welcoming runners from all walks of life and making sure everyone is treated equally special on race day.

“Every person who comes to WS, whether you are 30 hours or whether you are 14 hours, has an experience that will be unmatched. It will be a memorable day of your life, you will not forget your experience at WS.”

This year, the last finisher was 70-year old Gunhild Swanson, who made it with seconds to spare before the 30-hour cut-off, becoming the oldest woman to ever have finished Western States.

She ran the last mile accompanied by family, friends and overall winner Rob Krar, who cheered her on wearing flip flops after having finished his own race in 14:48:59 – a beautiful show of how much camaraderie there is in the sport.

The popularity of ultra running has shot through the roof with finisher numbers in the U.S. nearly tripling since 2007, and the number of women in the traditionally male-dominated sport rising dramatically.

One of the world’s most famous female runners is Ann Trason, who broke 20 records in her day. Her signature race is the 100 Mile Western States Endurance Run from Squaw Valley to Auburn in California.

Ann has run this trail so often that she knows it like the back of her hand. Once at night, when she didn’t want competitors to know how close ahead she was, she switched off her light and ran in the dark.

“It’s a place I call my home, it’s a special place,” she says sitting on a bench overlooking the Western States trail leading up to Auburn. She still remembers the first time she ran it.

“It captured something in me, I just felt it was in my blood, I can’t explain the beauty, the freedom.”

The Western States is the world’s oldest and arguably most famous 100-mile race. It leads runners through snowy mountains and boiling hot canyons, over rocky trails and hanging bridges – all with only 30 hours to finish. If you are even one second over, bad luck. No finisher buckle for you.

Ann has won this race 14 times and her course record of 17:37:51 stood for 18 years. But she has never really identified with the term “elite”, she says.

“My favourite runs are things where I run across the Sierras by myself,” she says. “I would just do these runs and mail my clothes somewhere and spend the night and then run back to my car a different way. That’s my favourite thing to do in the world. If I could do that every day, I’d be happy.”

Even if she doesn’t identify with the term elite, Ann has had the competitiveness of an elite runner from the very start. She doesn’t like to be shown up. After learning that one of her idols, Sally Edwards, had run the American River 50 Mile Endurance Run, she decided to sign up too, only six weeks before the event.

Ann caught up with Sally during the race, but the more experienced runner called her a rabbit, suggesting Ann was going out too fast and wouldn’t be able to keep up. That comment didn’t go down well.

“My feelings got hurt, and I decided I was either going to die or I was going to beat her,” Ann recalls.

She won American River that year and set the course record. And then she heard about Western States. When she called home to talk about the 100 mile race, her mother said: “Oh you heard about that? I was afraid of that.”

Knowing how to prepare for such a distance wasn’t easy. The sport was far from as popular as it is now and there was little information to go by.

“There was one guy, Chuck Jones, who’d won it and he ran like a 180, 200 miles a week. So I thought that’s what you did.”

The plan didn’t go well and she ended up with a swollen knee three weeks before the race, dropping out at mile 50. The second year, she became very dehydrated and felt miserable at mile 93 – and the medical staff pulled her.

But this second defeat prompted a big rethink. Ann retreated to her parents’ remote property and spent days writing down everything she had learned in the last two years, seeking solutions for the problems that had cost her the finish. This analysis was to be the key to her subsequent successes.

From then on, she always noted down three problems she might experience during a race and how she would deal with them, be it gear failures or insufficient calorie intake.

“I set my watch to go off every 30 minutes so it reminded me to eat.”

To stay alert mentally, she invented games, such as pretending that every mile she ran represented her age.

It worked well at Western States where runners are faced with a massive climb right at the start. Those first steep miles can discourage runners, but Ann used to tell herself that she was just a few years old and learning to walk. Once you are over that mountain though, there is a lot of downhill.

“At mile 16 and you’re like, you’re adolescent, you better calm down and control your enthusiasm, because you’re going to hit middle age.”

Middle age is the gruelingly hot canyon section, and Ann would promise herself a beautiful retirement of fast running if she took care of herself in middle age. Finally even she would run out of energy, but that’s to be expected when you hit 90.

“With mile 93 when I feel really horrible, I go hey! You’re 93 years old, you’re moving, good going!”

It’s not surprising that Ann has become such an expert at overcoming challenges. She had to.

At college she suffered a knee injury and could no longer run. But after completing her biochemistry degree with honours at UC Berkeley, she got back into training and did a Half Ironman. Then she got hit by a car during bike training and decided to stay away from motor vehicles. She started trail running.

There were plenty of other injuries. She’s run both the Comrades 90k and Western States with a torn cruciate ligament, once badly tore a hamstring and still raced on it, and she has often struggled with back pain. Her surgeon thinks she has a very high pain threshold.

These days women make up nearly a third of the field at ultramarathons, but times were different when Ann started out in the 80s.

“It would be all guys and then there’d be Ann,” she says. “There were a lot fewer women running. There were still a lot of very talented women running, but probably not the depth.”

That also showed itself in some of the attitudes. After she failed to finish Western States twice, a male friend told her she simply didn’t have the right genes for this “man’s sport”. At the next WS race, Ann got back at him.

“When I saw him at mile 75, 70, when I passed him, I asked him how his genes were doing,” she laughs. That year she finished, and won.

Her gene-focused friend wasn’t the only one with outdated ideas. Taking women less seriously in the sport was a common attitude.

In 1996, Ann Trason told the New York Times that when she set a women’s world record some years earlier for 100 kilometers in the Netherlands, the media ignored her and instead focused on the male winner who’d finished ahead of her but hadn’t broken a record.

She also recalls that at some award ceremonies, the men received metal trophies and the women flowers that didn’t even last until they got home.

None of this could stop the sport’s rising popularity among women.

In 1987, when Ann entered WS for the first time, 16 of the 183 finishers were women – a mere 8.7%. In 2003, when Ann ran it for the last time, that percentage had increased to 20%. And at the 2015 Trails in Motion film festival, half the short films were about female athletes.

To be coached by Ann Trason check out her website.

Want to get into ultra running but don’t know how to fit it around your kids? Get inspired to become an ultra marathon parent from a mom and personal trainer who has run some of the world’s toughest 100 milers. Your kids might actually love you for what you do.

Ana Braga-Levaggi’s family knows the drill. Getting up at an ungodly hour, watching her disappear into the darkness and then spending the next 30 hours making sure she doesn’t die.

Ana has run some of America’s toughest 100 milers, including Leadville, Wasatch and Western States. These runs aren’t stage races. Runners have to keep moving day and night through harsh terrain, with cut-offs between 30 and 36 hours, depending on the event. Like many others, she is an ultra marathon parent who fits her training around her family.

Born in Brazil, the 55-year old has lived in California’s Mill Valley for 30 years and discovered a love for ultrarunning after the birth of her children.

“After I had my second daughter in 1999, I thought I needed to get in shape. By then I’d just run two marathons and thought, okay, lets take it to the next level.”

Her first 50k race was a fabulous experience. “I walked the uphills and I ran the downhills and flats and I finished the race, so I was totally hooked.”

These days, 50k races are mere training runs to prepare for 100 milers. She has finished eight. To Ana, the right mental attitude is just as important as physical training when it comes to earning her 100 mile finisher buckles.

“Try to get into every single station with a smile,” she says.  “You are here because you want it. If you’re going through a bad patch, you can always think it’s going to pass, and you’re going to get through and you’re going to be just fine.”

A high pain threshold helps too. Ana had both of her children without anesthesia. Agony is something she expects and, unless she’s injured, doesn’t spend time worrying about it.

“It’s just pain,” she says.  “It’s going to go away when I stop and feel better.”

Her calorie intake is meticulous and she sticks to 200 calories an hour, even counting the number of biscuits she carries to ensure her intake is adequate. She has even sewn extra pockets onto her skort (a cross between shorts and a skirt) to store food and gear.

But sometimes, the digestive system doesn’t take kindly to endless hours of intense exercise and runners can have trouble keeping solids down.

This was a particular problem at the Wasatch Front 100 Mile Endurance Run across Utah’s Wasatch mountain range and which advertises itself as “100 miles of heaven and hell”. Cumulative elevation gain is nearly 25,763 feet and much of the race is at altitude – the highest point is over 10,480 feet.

“At Wasatch, my stomach shut down at night and I couldn’t eat anything, but food is what keeps you going in an ultra, so if you can’t eat, you can’t move forward.”

Gels kept her energized – no less than 48 of them. If you have never tried an energy gel, count yourself lucky, because the idea of downing nearly 50 of these slimy sugar portions would probably make you gag. But disgusting or not, those gels got her to the finish – with seven minutes to spare.

Ana’s training leading up to a 100 mile run usually includes spinning and weight training in addition to 100 miles of running a week. Working as a fitness trainer makes finding the time easier – she can do some of her training with her clients.

Even much of her spare time is about sports. Ana helps youths foster a positive body image and understand the benefits of an active lifestyle as a volunteer coach for 4^th grade through 8^th grade. You can also find her manning aid stations at various races.

“It’s wonderful to give back to the community. If I’m not running a race and I’m available, why not come and help.”

Her husband Chris, a keen biker, is very supportive of her passion.

“My husband is very involved and hands on, whether he paces me or in giving me what I need.”

And her daughters don’t know it any other way – they time her breaks during races and encourage her on. It sounds like a tiring job, but they’ve found a lot of inspiration in their mother’s achievements.

Her younger daughter Annika also loves to run, doing well in cross-country and track. Her older daughter Bella is a freshman in college – and she recently wrote an essay about growing up with an ultra marathon parent. It’s a special tribute, and as Ana starts reading, she has trouble holding back the tears.

Some rewards come in the form of finisher buckles, others in the love and appreciation of family.

***

Essay by Bella Levaggi, Ana’s daughter

Describe the world you come from – for example, you family, community or school – and tell us how your world has shaped your dreams and aspirations

The world I come from is bleary-eyed, mud-splattered, and tastes like Gatorade. It’s thirty-hour periods of intense stress, unfamiliar states, and five hours naps in a Volkswagen camper van parked next to a trail. It’s the life of an Ultra Runner’s daughter.

If you’re unfamiliar with the term, Ultra Runners are uniquely inspirational basket cases who enjoy running one hundred mile footraces. They put themselves through excruciating blisters, dehydration, and fatigue… only to come out smiling.

My mom joined this cult of crazies when I was seven. She’s appointed my dad, sister, and me to spearhead her crew teams, and has dragged us across the West, all in the pursuit of adventure. But you know what they say about adventure: it’s pure horror enjoyed from the comfort of retrospect.

The starting gun always goes off at four in the morning, and the next thirty hours are gruelling for everyone. Obviously, my mom gets it the worst, with the actual running, but crewing for her comes with its own stresses.

It’s my responsibility to keep my mom on schedule when she stops at various checkpoints scattered along the racecourses. I’ve become an expert at proclaiming the time and then obnoxiously prodding my exhausted mother up out of her camping chair once her allocated period of rest spills into overtime.

On paper, the job sounds easy, but in reality it’s a handful of heart-thumping minutes of crushing responsibility that carries the weight of eternity.

If I mess up, my mom runs the risk of falling behind and suffering a disqualification. What heightens the intensity and reward of these races is that they require us to band around our runner in a rightly oiled machine of energy and focus.

Amidst the blood, sweat, and Power Bars, though, there’s something satisfying about the end, when the four of us huddle within the medical tent. Ultra running brings us together at an epic level where my perception of my mom transcends from “personal chauffeur/macaroni maker” into hero.

The interesting thing about the word “crazy” is that it can denote insanity or passion. What my mom does is imbued with a dose of both. I grew up reading stories about people who are just like her. So it’s with her courage that I write my often condemnatory columns about social problems in my school newspaper.

It’s with her zeal that I spent hours interning for a publishing agency in the hopes of cracking the code to discover the qualities of a strong editor. And it’s her spirit – and the knowledge that I contribute to its preservation – that pushes me to pursue my passions, even when they seem a hundred miles out of reach.

I do picnic runs, literally, trotting along with self-baked banana bread in my pack and taking 11 hours for my favourite 48k run, enjoying the wildlife, the flowers and trees, and stopping to listen to the lyrebirds or water gurgling in a nearby creek.

At the Miwok 100k Trail Run in California’s Marine Headlands near San Francisco, however, I had to hurry up, as the cut-off is 15:30 hours. After all my slow training, I didn’t know if would manage and am glad I didn’t check the cut-off earlier. I might not have attempted it otherwise.

When I applied, I was dealing with some health issues and felt pretty down in general. Then a running friend came to the rescue, more accidentally than planned – Steve Reagan.

Steve frequently struggles with injuries that keep him from running but not from talking everyone he meets into trying for more than they think they can achieve.

I had bumped into Steve in 2008 in Mongolia at a trail race, that offered a 42k loop and an optional 58k add-on, for those crazy people who wanted to run a 100k.

I’d only ever done one road marathon before and wanted to try my first trail marathon. But Steve, sitting there in his Western States 100 Mile finisher t-shirt, is the sort of guy who can make any trail adventure, no matter how mad, sound sensible.

The day before the race, Steve explained to me that if I signed up for the 100k distance, I would be allowed to continue beyond 42k loop to see how far I could go while still getting my 42 finisher shirt (terribly important).

However, if I remained signed up for the marathon distance, I would not be allowed to continue for insurance purposes.

“You’ve already done 42k, now you can see if you can perhaps get a little further, 45k, 50k?,” he ventured.

That made sense, right? Try something new. I switched to the 100k and finished – in first place. Not with a winning time, it took me 17 hours, but there were only three women and one dropped out due to injury. Not a bad introduction to ultrarunning.

Late last year then, Steve contacted me to alert me of an approaching deadline to enter the Miwok 100k lottery, an outstandingly picturesque and hilly trail race with views of the Golden Gate Bridge. I got in and couldn’t believe my luck. It gave me a massive boost and a newfound excitement for (slow) running.

In his element, Steve then also talked me into signing up for the Western States training camp. Given that the chance of getting into the actual race via lottery is about 5% at first try, the training camp is a great way to experience much of those beautiful trails over three days of fun – including aid stations, bus transport to the start and lots of great, and some legendary, people.

Further, Steve also got me in touch with his friend Erika French-Arnold, who was so generous to organise a pacer for Miwok for me, her friend Sean McPherson. Well, all this was too good an opportunity to pass up and I booked my flights.

And then I realised that the overall cut-off at Miwok was 15:30. Whoops.

My last two 100k races, the NorthFace 100 in Australia and the Mont Blanc CCC in Europe had taken me 19 and 25 hours respectively, and even my fastest time of 17 hours in Mongolia I’d have to improve by 1.5 hours to finish Miwok.

I had two options – either go at my usual slow pace and miss the cut-off (not good) or go at a much faster pace and blow up later (also not good). But I had over three months. What would happen if I trained more, joined some speed session with UpCoaching in the Blue Mountains and give it a shot?

I started doing two back-to-back slow, long runs and a half hour speed session a week, plus swimming. Then I worked out splits to have short-term goals during the race and loaded a playlist onto an iPod engraved with “no pain, no cake” – a gift from German friend and Ironman finisher Manuel Hartl.

Come race day, I indeed didn’t stop to smell the wildflowers, take photos or sit down to munch banana bread. And although I remember some of the stunning views along the coast and the great volunteers, much of the day went by in a blur.

But that doesn’t mean having any less of an experience.

Sometimes when traveling with family as a kid, I got so attached to a beautiful landscape that I didn’t want to leave. I’d stand at my favorite spot and breath deeply, imagining how the oxygen that had touched everything in that area would enter my lungs and cells, and become part of me forever.

I thought that way, I would never have to feel separate from a place that was dear to me, because we’d had shared the same air and become part of each other.

I still feel like that when I run. I might not remember all I see, but those are only the conscious memories. When the last bit of energy leaves me but I keep going, it feels as if I reenergize from the natural environment around me and become part of it. It’s a good feeling. I’m not missing anything running – I’m experiencing it in a different way.

I was also grateful for exchanging with every single runner who overtook me, whom I overtook or who was coming the other way, either a “Well done!”, “Good job!”, or a “Great work!”. On what other occasion to you get to hear and say that all day long?

I was glad to see my friend Steve at several aid stations, to give me a hug and encourage me on and wait for me at the finish line.

He looked after me when my body had realised the race was over and didn’t feel like moving anymore and made sure I washed any potential poison oak off me that is prevalent on parts of the trail.

I was grateful for the smiles and encouragement from the aid station volunteers, and I was so happy to experience having a pacer for the first time ever, Sean McPherson, whom I’d never met before and who still journeyed to the race to support a stranger.

The camaraderie in the ultrarunning community blows me away again and again. And what difference it made to have him with me the last 20k, to run together and know he was there to help me keep moving and finish.

Taking deep breaths on such days gives me more than stopping to smell the roses. It feels like living through a condensed form of life’s highs and lows, while learning to handle them with the help of nature, friends and supportive connection.

As I run, I feel deeply grateful for my health and strength, and for all those utterly kind and inspiring people out there – be it those running, volunteering, crewing, organizing the race or making it all happen in some other way.

Sometimes it’s good to train less, take care of injuries, and take a rest. But sometimes, doing what one loves is healthier than to keep shrinking away in the face of whatever drags one down.

And in the end, I finishing Miwok in 14 hours and 12 minutes. For some days after, I was the happiest person I could possibly be.

Trails in Motion offer an inspiring mix of insights from around the world.

In the 2015 edition, Nikki Kimball’s quest to set a new record on the 273-mile Long Trail in Vermont stood out in particular.

Nearly an hour long, the story takes viewers through all the highs and lows of Kimball’s FKT attempt with vivid visuals and brutal honesty.

It is an emotionally raw account of what ultrarunning takes, both in terms of personal resolve and team work. Kimball talks candidly about her battle with depression as well as the sources of strength that fuel her.

Trails in Motion also showcased many other stunning works that inundated viewers with breathtaking landscapes and portraits of runners from across the globe. And in a noticeable show of equality, the representation of male and female athletes on screen was 50/50.

The sport has become increasingly popular among female athletes, and the selection of films clearly reflected that.

To find a screening near you and for more information, visit http://www.trailsinmotion.com

Listen to the full interview with Karen Low:

Ten years ago, you wouldn’t have picked Karen Low for a runner. A heavy smoker for two decades, getting into running for health and fitness didn’t just help her steer clear of cigarettes, she also dropped 20 kilos along the way.  

“I gave up smoking in 2006, so I was in that…replacing a bad habit for a better habit, and running was it,” Karen says when dropping by for a cup of tea with two of her training buddies from the Mackay Roadrunners, Matt Stevens and Janelle Tilse.  

They are in Katoomba for the Six Foot Track Marathon – a scenic but very hilly 45k race in the Blue Mountains that has runners chase each other through rivers, and over single tracks and dirt roads all the way from Katoomba in the iconic Blue Mountains National Park to Jenolan Caves. The total ascent is more than 1,500 meters.  

The race attracts athletes from around Australia and usually fills up within minutes of registration opening, due to its popularity. But the experience of runners can vary widely, especially when it comes to Cox’s river crossing.

Matt Stevens, who is always easy to spot because he is usually a head taller than everyone else, says the river level was “up to the knees” on race day, to which Janelle laughs, “yeah, right, up to the neck!”  

Karen trained for months to do her first Six Foot Track and finished in 06:09:12 – a great result, especially when you think that just a few years ago, Karen was struggling to even run 5k on the flat.  

After devoting most of her life to working and raising her three daughters, Karen realized she needed a lifestyle change after an accident and decided to get off the cigarette and lose some weight. She turned to running for health and fitness.  

“I hadn’t run for many years, so getting the body back into shape to run has been good,” she says.  

Starting slow is important to get your body used to the sport, and it doesn’t mean you’ll see less of a result. Karen says she noticed the weight just dropping off her once she started training, first towards the goal of running and walking a 5k and then slowly building up to longer distances, all the way to running marathons.  

“I did my first marathon last year and my first half marathon the year before, and both of those training plans helped me to build in a good mileage and look at how to train […] and get some confidence to do that.”  

Leading up to the Six Foot, she was running up to 90k a week, a far cry from her comparatively sedentary lifestyle  just a few years back. Investing so much time and effort leading up to a race makes crossing the finish line even sweeter. 

“We’ve probably been going hard at it for three months and you don’t know until the end [if it works out]. So the jubilation coming down the hill [at the finish] and to think your plan’s held up…yay!”  

For Karen, running is also great to clear her head after work and to spend time in nature. And apart from the obvious health benefits, it’s the social aspects that matter to her, the people she runs with and the way her family responds.  

“My kids think I’m great, and my husband,” she said, with tears in her eyes.  

“My daughter texted me saying I’m a champion. That’s what’s good about it.”  

And the next goal? A sub four-hour road marathon, said Karen – and her running friends are confident she’ll smash it.  

***

Doing the hard yards is always easier in good company, and if you are in the Mackay area in Queensland and are thinking of turning to running for health and fitness, the Mackay Roadrunners offer a deluge of support. I’m biased  as I trained with the club for over a year in 2010/11 and loved the camaraderie.  

The Mackay club offers several weekly runs, long and short, marathon training groups, club competitions and large events like the Mackay Marina Run with thousands of runners participating in the half marathon, 8k and 5k distances.  

And while you are there, also check out the Hamilton Island Hilly Half Marathon in the idyllic Whitsundays near the Great Barrier Reef – by far one of the most scenic half marathons you’ll ever come across, smack bang in the middle of paradise.