As I stepped out of the bus on the town’s wide main road, lined by old-time Saloons, I could hardly breathe. I had flown in from sea level Australia, and Leadville at over 10,000 feet (3,000 meters) altitude knocked the air right out of me as I dragged my suitcase to the Leadville Hostel on 7th Street. 

Learn more about the Leadville 100 and how to prepare for it from race director Josh Colley (Interview Aug. ’16):

A usually rather sleepy place with a population of some 2,700 people, Leadville is hub of activity leading up to the 100 Mile MTB and footrace in August each year. Cyclists with limited leave from work are frantically trying to acclimatize in just a few days. Runners are doing speed training, checking their GPS watches and chatting with their coaches online.

Others are in Leadville to do altitude training for other races. You might even run into celebrity athletes like Rob Krar. The popular hangout, City on a Hill Coffee & Espresso, is always packed.

I had done what I could in the months leading up to the Leadville 100 and saw little point in training hard in the last two weeks. The first three days I rested up and drank a lot of fluids, and then started hiking to help my body get used to the altitude.  

A great resource for hiking routes in the area is www.14ers.com.

First up was Mosquito Pass, followed by Mt. Massive at 4,400 m and finally, some five days before the race, four connected peaks in one long day – the Mt. Democrat, Bross, Lincoln and Cameron route. Five of us from the hostel started out long before sunrise and only just made the last peak before ominous rumbling and a blackening sky chased us off the mountain as one of the usual afternoon thunderstorms moved in. None of us wanted to get stuck in lightening above tree line.

Quietly I prayed to the weather gods for clear skies on race day. Hunkering down below tree line for an hour or two as a storm passes overhead can cost you your finish at Leadville. 

At the hostel, packed with endurance athletes, we discussed splits. I cannot run a race when I think of having to do 100 Miles in one go. But if I break it into many little goals, my mind can handle it. 

However, guessing expected completion times for an unfamiliar course is hard. How would I know how long a particular uphill section will take me? While researching online, I hit gold – a website called climbers.net  combines past finisher times, averages them out and calculates likely splits depending on the overall target time you enter.

I printed and laminated three versions – the unlikely super awesome splits if I found energy I never knew I had, the likely medium splits I was aiming at, and the risky last ass splits that should get me across the finish line just before cut-off.

Then on the night before the race, I popped two sleeping pills and headed to bed at 6pm. A lack of sleep before a big race can affect the mind in unpredictable ways. Before my first 100 miler, the Bear, I had been so nervous that I only slept one hour the night before. On the second race day after some 30 hours on my feet without sleep or rest, I kept thinking about frog liver pâté and desperately wanted to know whether my pacer had ever ridden on a deer. I had learned from that.

Leadville Hostel owner Cathy Hacking put on a huge breakfast from 2 am and the hostel was bustling with activity as nervous runners frantically searched for misplaced items while their supporters tried to soothe them with calm voices. I for the heck of it couldn’t find my favorite socks. Somebody else thought his shoes had been stolen. All turned up in the end. 

At 4 am we were finally toeing the start line in the cold morning air – 100 miles with more than 15,000 feet in total elevation gain were ahead of us. Just about anything could happen in the next 30 hours, and only half of us would make it back here in time. I hoped I would be one of them.

The sky was still dark, a drone was whirring overhead. I knew I needed to go out faster than usual to make the 22k to May Queen in 2h20 in line with my splits and, more importantly, to make the first 100k by quarter past eight that night. The 100k mark is Twin Lakes inbound on this out-and-back course, and I’d been told repeatedly that runners who get to the lakes after nightfall don’t tend to finish. 

The next moment, the countdown started and we were off, a sea of bright lights in the dark as crowds of people cheered us on. Then the voices ebbed away, subsiding in the distance, and all that was left was the sound of feet hitting the dirt road leading out of Leadville. This was it, too late to change my mind, the only way was forward now.

Reaching Turquoise Lake, the darkness slowly changed to light as we ran along the water’s edge on single track, over roots and bouncy forest floor. It was magical, this time of the morning, with strips of color stretching over the dawning sky above calm and deep blue waters. Listening to my own breath and the soft, rhythmical drumming of countless feet, I felt like I was part of an ancient tribe, moving in wordless unison, celebrating life in its purest form. 

Adrenalin and excitement made running easy and I reached May Queen in good time. I had arrived in Leadville without crew or pacers, but had found supporters among the wonderful people who gather year after year in this mountain town. Retired pharmacist Michael Hester, who spends every summer in Leadville, had agreed to crew me and I had also found three pacers to share the entire inbound half of the course. Big smiles greeted us as we dropped our now useless headlamps to save on weight and filled up on water.

The next goal was Outward Bound, with the big climb up Sugarloaf Pass at 11,000 feet in between. After rooty forest trails, we came up a long, paved road that slowly snaked its way up the mountainside. Rather than running and spending too much energy too early, I power walked at a steady pace.

On the other side was a steep, wide dirt track beneath power lines, hence the name. The section must be hell when muddy and slippery, and I thanked the weather gods for firm ground. But as I jogged into Outward Bound, I realized that this leg had still taken me 15 minutes longer than planned. I had to make up time. 

By the time I reached Twin Lakes I was all wrapped up in my own race and only focused on getting in and out as quickly as possible. 

With Hope Pass towering ahead of me, I was glad that nothing but blue skies greeted me ahead. I wouldn’t be fried by lightening at the top, or miss my cut-off cowering below treeline.

All I had to do now was climb up to 3,850 m after 40 miles of going hard. My legs were tired and it would only get worse. The trail up Hope Pass is brutal. Leading up through through thick forest, you can never gauge when it will end, and every hope gets dashed by yet another steep section.

But there was no time for rest or catching my breath. I was only just keeping up with my medium splits. Falling behind could endanger my finish. Spending months of training, money on airfares, gear and entry fees, and then running a very long way only to miss a cutoff and being pulled is the last thing I was willing to endure. I ignored the exhaustion and pushed on, pumping all the air into my lungs that I could.

As the trees got sparser and finally made way for a green meadow, I saw what I had been looking forward to for weeks – the famous llamas.  These animals are long-term supporters of the Leadville 100 race, together with Vicky Foster and many other wonderful volunteers. Every year they carry water and food for over a thousand runners and pacers up this otherwise inaccessible pass. Leisurely, they now grazed on the lush grass, eyeing each struggling runner with renewed interest. 

I didn’t have much time to enjoy the sight. I was more than 10 minutes behind my splits and had to work on my downhill running skills heading toward Winfield, the 50 mile turnaround point. Fortunately I love downhill sections. Sliding on rubble and jumping over rocks on the steep trail leading down into the valley, I made up a decent bit of time. I even came running into Windfield aid station slightly ahead of my target, completing the first 50 miles in just under 12 hours.

Jen Kraxner, the best pacer you could ever wish for, was waiting at Winfield, shouldering my pack as well as her own to make the return climb easier for me. Leadville is one of the few races that allows muling i.e. for pacers to carry their runner’s running vests. 

I had met Jen and her husband Joe at the hostel. Both are past finishers of the Leadman/Leadwoman challenge. This superhuman feat involves the completion of all races in the Leadville series in one summer: the marathon, the 50 mile Silver Rush running or MTB race, then the 100 Mile MTB race, followed by a 10k run right the next day and finally the 100 Mile footrace less than a week later.

Jen and Joe had done the MTB 100 miler on a tandem mountain bike and finished the 100 Mile trail run hand in hand. They have been coming to Leadville summer after summer for many years, racing, supporting and soaking up the mountain air. There are no better two people out there to help you with your first Leadville 100.

Joe had even lent me a small portable charger to make the battery of my Garmin watch last for the entire distance. The little charger was tucked into my running vest, and a cable fed through the sleeve of my shirt to connect it to my watch with a clip. Now Jen was to help me over the hardest climb in this race.

I had been pumped arriving at Winfield, but those 50 miles in my legs started to show as soon as we began climbing again. The second time going up Hope Pass was far more agonizing that the first climb.

Jen made me march up that mountain, waving food at me on a regular basis, and told me how great I was doing even though I felt like I was going to collapse toward the top. Her ceaseless encouragement and the camaraderie among all the runners, whether they were still on the downhill toward Windfield or coming up again like me, gave me the energy I needed.

No face flew past without a “good job”, “great work”, or “well done” being exchanged. There were smiles everywhere. And then there were the views. Seeing those majestic mountains stretch out to the horizon puts pain into perspective. I couldn’t help but feel awed and utterly fortunate to be part of it all. I was doing Leadville!

As we reached Hopeless aid station the second time, more than 15 minutes behind schedule, Jen ran ahead to get me soup while I sat down to eat and look at llamas. After some food in my stomach and faced with another long downhill to make up time I started running again. It hurt, but I needed to get to Twin Lakes before nightfall. I was wedded to the idea that if I could just get there by 20:15, I would finish.

Once we had waded through Lake Creek, Jen ran ahead again to get my drop bag ready. Everything was laid out as I came into the aid station right on time. A big group from the hostel was there, cheering and helping out. I was so glad to see them all. With that much help, changing out of my wet shoes and putting on warmer night gear took no time at all.

My new pacer Juliette Schmidt was ready to go, so off we went back into the forest, for the long hours through the night. Reflective trail markets flashed ahead, and the rustling of small animals making their way through the undergrowth accompanied us. The air was fresh now and a little damp, as the shine of our headlamps led us through the woods. 

Juliette was planning to run the Leadville 100 next year and wanted to get experience on the course. She had been volunteering for the race when another hostel guest matched us up.  

Having someone to share the journey with cheered me up a great deal, but I had been on my feet for some 17 hours now and physical exhaustion was threatening to settle in. Even my stomach was tired and eating wasn’t easy.  I sucked on hard candy and TUMS when my body no longer wanted the calories I needed. We walked some, and ran some, and walked some and ran some.

Energy levels rose and fell, but overall we were moving well. At Half Pipe I was 10 minutes ahead of schedule, and by the time we reached Outward Bound, I was half an hour faster than my medium splits. Even so late in the night, a big group from the hostel was waiting for us, cheering, updating how the other hostel runners were doing, and sharing hugs and smiles. 

Now came the climb up Powerline and I remembered another runner’s advice: It’s much longer than you think – beware the false summits. So I kept my head down, didn’t look for any summits in the dark and just marched on until music and flashy lights greeted us at the unofficial aid station at the top.

I had been told this aid station offered hard liquor and a naked guy. Wondering how the naked guy would survive the freezing cold at night and admiring is dedication, I had been looking forward to meeting him. No naked guy could be found, though, so I only filled up water and marched on, leaving Juliette to investigate the situation more closely and catch up with me later.

I started running again on the downhill, and by the time we arrived in May Queen at quarter past four in the morning, I was still more than half an hour ahead of my splits.

There was a problem though. My next pacer, Megan Finnesy, couldn’t be found. Jen Kraxner had recruited Megan for me, badgering her until she agreed to pace me from May Queen to the finish. But now she wasn’t there and I didn’t want to lose precious time waiting. 

Juliette had to go, so I set out on my own. Had I been sick or disorientated this would have been bad, but I felt alert. I was awake and had been warm all night under my various layers of merino wool. I was good to go.

As I left the aid station I even felt a sudden boost of energy and started running on the flat toward the lake, overtaking Chris Calimano and his pacer.

Chris is a very nice and very accomplished athlete who completed the 4 Deserts series in one year. The series involves running 250k each in the Sahara in Namibia, Gobi in China, Atacama in Chile and in Antarctica. Overtaking him made me feel pretty good and I had no desire to relinquish this hard-won lead over someone who is a much better athlete than me.

Of course, unlike me, Chris was actually doing Leadman and had completed the 100 Mile bike race just a week earlier. But I was ready to take every confidence boost I could get and “chased” further ahead into the forest along the lake.

I was going fast! 

Then a young man came lightly jogging up behind me, easily catching up. What bastard runner was this, looking so fresh at close to Mile 90??

He turned out to be a volunteer kindly offering to pace me after learning that Megan hadn’t shown. May Queen aid station staff had been alerted that I didn’t have a pacer and sent someone after me to help.

Together we continued when, suddenly, we heard rustling ahead and saw someone running towards us through the woods. It was Megan! After realizing she had missed me at May Queen, Megan had driven around the lake to catch me from the other side.

Now I had two pacers, which can get you disqualified, so one had to go.  

Too tired for decisions I let them sort it out amongst each other, and ultimately headed on with Megan. As the sky turned from dark to light for the second time during my Leadville 100, I could hardly believe the experiences that lay behind. All this time felt more like a dream that may have spanned weeks rather than just a bit more than a day.

Around me I recognized the same path I had run so easily the day before. Now the going was slow and my legs were stiff and wobbly, but every step also brought excitement. This was the final stretch, the final leg before the finish. I was going to finish Leadville!

Already years ago, I had read about this race in Born to Run, marveled at Ann Trason’s course record, the mind-blowing achievements of the Tarahumaras, and soaked up the stories and legends spun around the Race Across the Sky.

After winning the lottery, I had spent endless hours pushing myself, training in difficult terrain, doing sprint sessions on hills, still always fretting that it wouldn’t be enough. And here I was, just a few last miles from the finish, feeling indescribably happy.

Leadville. I couldn’t believe I had nearly made it.

One more hill, a few more steps, and ahead was the Leadville 100 finish line. As we drew close at eight o’clock in the morning, I ran the last meters uphill and made it in 28:03 as the 165^th finisher out of some 650 starters. As usual for this high altitude event, only about half of us finished that year. 

There were hugs from my wonderful pacers and new friends from the hostel, and a finisher medal, necklace and red rose from race founders Ken Chlouber and Merilee Maupin.

For a while I sat and cheered on the other finishers, including Chris, who wasn’t far behind and successfully completed his Leadman challenge. I drank some hot chocolate, but was unable to eat. Walking was also out of the question, so some lovely hostel buddies picked me up by car and brought me back.

I couldn’t eat all day. Sitting with Chris at the finisher’s ceremony, we were laughing at our nauseousness, hoping we wouldn’t suddenly puke when receiving our treasured belt buckles. Luckily, both of us managed to hang on to our stomach contents, and by evening food started to look good again.

After dinner we all rested up on the giant couch in front of the TV, eating ice cream out of the tub, and dozed off happily spoon in hand.

Finishing my Leadville 100 race, video by Joe Kraxner:

Leadville 100 quick facts  (latest information on the race website):

Course records:
Matt Carpenter 15:42:59 (2005)
Ann Trason 18:06:24 (1994)

Course type: Out and back

Cut-off: 30 hours

Elevation gain: 15,600 feet (4,800 meters)

Highest point: 12,600 feet (3,850 m)

Surface: Mostly forest trails, dirt roads and short stretches of asphalt

Did you do the Ultra-Trail Australia this year and are wondering how the champions manage to run all those stairs even late in the race? Perhaps you need an Ultra Trail Australia training plan.

Lithuanian elite runner Andrius Ramonas, who has been living in New Zealand for the past year and a half, is a sports and exercise medicine physician who is currently doing his PhD in Auckland. He has won and set course records for the Ultra-Trail Australia 50k, and the The Hillary 80k and Tarawera 50k races in New Zealand.

Andrius has frequently placed in the top ten in many other ultras and came 5^th this year at the Ultra-Trail Australia 100k. His best marathon time was 02:32 in London in 2009. Here he shares how he prepared for running in the Blue Mountains where the UTA 100k distance features accumulated climbs of over 4,500 metres and many, many stairs.

What is your Ultra Trail Australia Training Plan?

The UTA is not that technically difficult, it’s really runnable and has the specific element of stairs. What I did to prepare was that last month, I changed from doing lots of off-road and complicated trail running to more road running and even introduced track running sessions just to increase my speed and improve my stride.

I also concentrated more on core stability and gluteus muscle strength as well as leg muscles to avoid excessive fatigue on those stairs.

Racing in the lead pack usually means you don’t have that time to tackle those stairs slowly, sometimes you really have to push hard, and if you have good running biomechanics and core stability, sometimes you can even when you’re really tired run those stairs.

As I remember from last year, I was still able to run the Furber stairs at the end of the race. As we saw today, two runners were just 20 seconds apart, meaning they were fighting on those stairs. So if you can run them, you have a huge advantage.

I also looked at my gear, because the list of mandatory gear is really extensive, so making good choices makes gear more lightweight and compact. Sometimes it’s easy to stick to the same items, but there are a lot of new things coming out on the market.

With a race that has to many stairs, do you have to train on stairs or are there another ways you can prepare?

That’s an individual choice I think. One way of training for stairs is to think about what elements in your body support running uphill and up stairs.

If you think about it, it’s core stability, it’s glute muscle strength, and nice running biomechanics. If you focus on those elements it’s possible to avoid excessive training on stairs. You can use just some resistance exercises and weights to strengthen those muscles.

Which exercises were part of your Ultra Trail Australia Training Plan?

If I think about glute muscles, there are a few standard exercises that bodybuilders do, like squats, and single-leg squats which could be done using a box where you step up. That focuses also on core stability.

I also do exercises with weights, such as a hip thrust where I do a bridge lying on the ground with elevated shoulders so that there is greater range of motion when I push up my hips. I use really heavy weights for that, because the idea is to not just build pure endurance but power and strength.

What is your nutrition strategy?

I still base my race nutrition on carbs, but what I did in recent years is that I reduced my carb consumption due to gastrointestinal symptoms. With that reduction I haven’t been getting that problem.

I like energy gels for carbs, because it’s easy to know the amount of sugar you are getting. Sometimes in longer races, I prefer some solid food, which is usually just banana and raisins.

I like to be simple and not think too much about other food choices, so I just stick to my plan. If the race was much longer, I would probably mix in some savoury foods, but in races up to 10 hours, I usually just stick with sugar.

Also, I am careful not to overload too much in the days ahead of the race. It’s really easy to underestimate how much athletes eat, especially in the last week when the training load is much lower and it’s very easy to gain fat. So I just try to be sensible and not eat complicated foods and only eat what I’ve tried before.

***

So if you are registered and need an Ultra Trail Australia training plan, integrate some of Andrius Ramonas’ ideas, and book your accommodation in Katoomba or Leura early – it gets full in the mountains in May!

On a point-to-point course, the 60, 85 and 100k distances take ultramarathon runners into some of the country’s most stunning scenery, through lush rainforests and along four tranquil lakes, past clear streams and gushing waterfalls. The field has become highly competitive in recent years, and attracted over 400 international runners from 38 countries in February 2016. Since Dylan Bowman’s spectacular win in 2015, the number of competitors from the USA doubled to 45.

This year, however, conditions were the most difficult in the race’s history. Parts of the course, which is usually considered fast, were turned into slippery slides by all-day rain, and more people than ever dropped down to the 60k distance. Elite runners also struggled. “It was a very tough day,” said Colorado’s Jason Schlarb. “There were places where I had to take caution. I think it slowed everybody down a bit.” Schlarb also had a collision with a log in the first 10k, bruising his left quad. “It’s not the most painful race I’ve ever had, but I’ve never had to deal with feeling poorly so early on and carrying through.”

At 103k, the course was also longer than usual. Schlarb still finished a strong sixth in 9:16:48, coming in first among the USA runners. Overall winner Jonas Buud, from Sweden, set a blistering speed on a difficult day, finishing in 8:00:53, while New Zealand’s Fiona Hayvice took out the women’s title at 10:34:26. “The times were really impressive, especially with the extra kilometers from last year’s course,” Schlarb said.

Fellow American ultramarathon runner Michael Wardian finished 15 minutes after Schlarb, in seventh place. “The top field was awesome. Jonas was the guy to beat and none of us did that. He was definitely pushing the pace early on,” Wardian said. Making it to the first aid station in second place, the 41-year-old Virginian hit a low later on and temporarily dropped out of the top 10, desperate for some calories. He finally found some CLIF Bloks on the trail – accidentally lost by New Zealand’s Vajin Armstrong, who finished fifth. “They were really good. I totally ate his leftovers. I’m not very particular to where the calories come from,” Wardian laughed.

Not making it onto the podium this year just gives him motivation to come back next year. “I love this course; I think it gives you a lot of different terrains. It forces you to challenge yourself, running fast on technical trail, getting over the roots and rocks,” Wardian observed. “Most of all, it’s the organization and volunteers and people that make it just insanely cool.”

Aid stations were stocked with fruit, sandwiches, pizza, salty snacks and energy foods. In accessible places, spectators braved the rain for hours to cheer on runners, while dozens of signs along the way featured song lyrics, poetry, uplifting mantras or just “Run, you dirty animals.” Ahead of the Star Wars-themed aid station ultramarathon runners were treated to Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader lookalikes dramatically battling it out with light sabers.

Despite having become a big and international race with 1250 competitors, the Tarawera hasn’t lost the warm and familiar feel of a small race. Organizer Paul Charteris and race director Tim Day waited out until well after midnight to give even the last finishers a big hug and their wood-carved medals.

There were very few female runners from the USA this year – so that has to change. New Zealand is a long way away, but the Tarawera offers more than a race. There are many free and purchasable cultural experiences in the program, from a traditional Maori welcome, scenic boat cruise and special Maori dinner, to a run through a geyser field. February is also within the best travel time for the country. One of the world’s most beautiful one-day hikes, the Tongariro Crossing, through active volcanic landscape and past The Lord of the Rings’ Mount Doom, is just a bus ride away.

Accommodation in Rotorua ranges from basic accommodations to luxury hotels and resorts, and the town has its own airport. It’s also easy to book a four-hour bus ride with InterCity from Auckland for around USD 25. Air New Zealand has direct flights to Auckland from Houston, Los Angeles, San Francisco and Vancouver. And for anyone who was worried – that distinct smell lingers only in the city, and not on the trails.

This article was published in UltraRunning Magazine on April 19, 2016.

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

PLAY AUDIO

Online story:

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.

In some places, streams had diverted onto trails, turning them into creeks. Sometimes the mud was so deep that you had to worry about losing a shoe in it and some downhills were so slippery that moving forward reminded of an unstable skiing experience. And there’s a reason you have to qualify for this race — the 101k distance from Courmayeur to Chamonix includes 6100m accumulated positive altitude change.

But this was part of what I’d signed up for – and the UTMB series is a world-famous event around Mont Blanc through three countries and heart-stopping scenery — winning the lottery to take part is a privilege, and whinging about it seems out of place. Why would I not enjoy it and why keep going if it’s no fun?

Mainly, neither my body nor my head were up for it.

I’d rolled my ankle badly three weeks earlier and was wearing an ankle brace, had trained a pitiful average of about 20k a week for the three months since the NorthFace100, had just gone through a relationship breakup, moved house, renovated while working, and felt completely wiped out.

If it had been any other race, I would have cancelled. But it was the UTMB series CCC, which you need to qualify for and then win the lottery to take part.

And — most of all — my mum had decided to support me for the first time at a race. I was immensely grateful for this, and a little scared, unsure of whether her presence would make running easier or harder. I hadn’t lived with her since age 13 and feeling supported wasn’t a sensation I naturally associated with her.

I crossed the start line with nearly 2,000 runners ahead of me and there wasn’t much running for the first two hours, just a long line of people as far as the eye could see.

We shuffled our way up mountain sides like a determined procession of ants. At one point, as we were filing onto a single track from a wider road, there was complete standstill for at least 20 minutes.

The race felt commercial compared to the smaller trail races I’d come to love. There was a lot of expensive new gear flashing about, but I saw little of the social fun and camaraderie normally shared at trail runs.

I even saw someone going out of his way to hinder another runner from passing, several times, even though we were at the back of the pack. If that guy blocking the way was doing so because he wanted to win, he really needed to hurry up.

The views were beautiful but I felt frustrated and my mind wasn’t in a good place. The breakup saga was running loops in my head, my ankle hurt with every uneven step, and come nighttime, I was feeling truly miserable.

With the lack of normal camaraderie on the trail, all I wanted was to catch up with my mum at Champex-Lac aid station, get a hug and some supplies and warm clothes from her to replace the ones that were now wet despite the rain jacket.

When I finally arrived and searched high and low for her, I received a text learning that her bus was running too late for her to get there in time.

The exhaustion of ultra running can make one emotionally vulnerable and bring up a range of unprocessed old feelings, and as I drudged on through the rain and mud feeling cold in my wet gear, I was certain that my mother, who was spending her day chasing after me in a bus, didn’t care enough about me to be there when I needed her. Highly embarrassing in hindsight.

At some stage though I made my peace with the situation and stopped thinking that if this event wasn’t fun like other runs I’d done, or if the interactions and support I wished for weren’t there, it was going wrong.

Each race has its own challenges and all I had to do was to figure out how, not whether, to deal with those particular ones at hand. They say running while tired is good training for the next race. Moving forward while tired, sad and frustrated is also really good training, especially mentally.

As I came into Trient aid station, my mum shrieked with excitement on seeing me, being glad to have finally caught me. We gave each other a big hug and were so happy that a man standing next to us just watched us with a big smile on his face.

She was as bright as she could be at 2am. I was worried about her and told her to head back and get some sleep.

“I’ll be okay, I feel good,” my 68-year-old mother said in an upbeat mood.

And indeed, hours later, I saw her again at Vallorcine aid station, having stayed up all night traveling about to support me, with only small naps while waiting. That’s pretty impressive.

By sunrise, there was only one big climb and descend left to tackle and I was in awe of the mountain tops towering over the morning mist as if they were floating on a white lake.

I thought of mum waiting at the finish, and my friend Manuel Hartl who’d driven down from Frankfurt to meet me after the race.  Things were looking up. Once I was over the last climb, I ran all the way to Chamonix in happy anticipation of seeing them.

At 25:33:38, I made it with less than an hour to spare before the cut-off. But I’d been lucky to avoid further injury in difficult and slippery terrain and persisted despite feeling down.

Also, the experience and shared time in Chamonix around the race strengthened the bond between my mum and me, at least for a while, and that’s very precious.

At the official post-race dinner, she looked incredibly pleased among all the runners and developed an interest in the sport. Soon she told me I should be doing more front-foot running like Scott Jurek.

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.

A woman who only runs after taking precautions against anything from rattle snakes to serial killers has not only run dozens of iconic ultramarathons but also Badwater, a 135 mile race through America’s Death Valley.

Tammy Massie, a mathematical statistician who earned her Ph.D. in biostatistics, handles fear by preparing for the unknown.

Wearing mostly pink on the trails, with a few flowers and stuffed toys mixed in, I met Tammy as she ran with brightly colored snake-proof gators on a 90 °F day. Yes, she said, they were a bit hot, but better than getting bitten by a rattlesnake.

Tammy also carried pepper spray to deter the potential wayward cougar, and an emergency beacon so that her husband could find her body if she falls off a cliff.

It wasn’t rattle snakes or cougars that finally took her apart during a race though. It was something nobody can control or take precautions against, and it was devastating. Her mother became terminally ill.

Tammy tried to cope through sport, but finally, in the middle of the Vermont 100 Mile ultramarathon, she had enough and broke down. Sitting on a log, all she could do was sob. She was done.

Her mother used to be her cross-country coach and they had bonded over her races. She used to cheer for Tammy at the finish line, but during this race she was in hospital and Tammy didn’t know how to deal with the certainty of losing her.

Recalling all those years together made the tears flow faster, and she couldn’t care less about the time ticking by. She knew she was about to miss the next cut-off and it was irrelevant.

But suddenly, it was exactly this bond, these memories of shared experiences, that shook her up.

“I harnessed my inner self and said, you know what, my mum wouldn’t want me to be sobbing, she’d want me to be out there finishing the race and making her proud.”

She picked herself up and ran for hours to the finish, beating every cut-off along the way.

“I think running helped me. It was a little bit grounding,” she said about training in the months that followed.

“With ultrarunning there is that part of you where you learn what you’re made of, how strong you are, and what adversarial things you can handle and face.”

Running was an opportunity to reminisce about her mother and honor their connection.

What helped during the darker moments was a sense of gratitude, she said.

“What I find helpful is to appreciate the views, appreciate the journey, appreciate the other runners on the course.”

“If you appreciate everything you see, you see the flowers, you see the sunrise, the stars, it really makes it all worthwhile.”

In addition to having done about twenty 100 milers, Tammy has also completed the notorious Badwater race from the lowest point in the continent to, in the old days, Mt. Whitney, although the last big climb is no longer included.

The race is held during the hottest time of the year in July.

“The year I did it, it was about 125 °F, that’s about 50 °C during the hot part of the day.”

Runners diligently stick to the white side strip of the road to avoid the even worse temperatures on the asphalt. Despite the unbearable conditions and many moments of doubt, Tammy persisted and ultimately beat the clock to the finish, after 47 and a half hours on her melting feet.

“You never know what you can do until you put one step in front of the other or go out and set some goal and try to do your hardest,” she said.

“Physical possessions people can steal or destroy or you can lose, but not this sense of accomplishment, that pride.”

Tammy considers running ultra events a privilege because just a few decades ago, women weren’t even allowed to participate in marathons. And whenever she finds herself in a place where doubts threaten to overwhelm her, she remembers all the people who have believed in her throughout her life. People like her mum, her family, her friends.

“If they believed in me, I should believe in myself.”