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.

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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.

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

It was still dark as we gathered at the start banner of the Mongolia Sunrise to Sunset race. I hopped from foot to foot to stay warm, struggling to take in the reality of

where I was. I’d been fevering towards this moment for so long, horri ed when I developed a foot injury, and eternally relieved when, a couple of months beforehand, it subsided.

I’d originally only signed to the shorter,
42k, marathon race. But last evening I’d spontaneously, madly, changed my registration to the 100k, ultra race. I can’t say what made me change my mind, 42k was the farthest I’d run before. Perhaps I just got carried away by the atmosphere in our camp. The runners doing the 100k amazed me and I desperately wanted, at least for a while, to feel I was one of them. Those down for the marathon are not allowed

to continue past 42k. To give myself the choice I joined the 100k batch.

Running in the dark 

At 4 AM we were off. Flash lights ickered between the trees as we entered the dark forest, carefully stepping over tree root, the
trail still wet from overnight rain. The drums that had woken us that morning still played in mind, and I let them, anything to avoid facing the fact that I’d have to keep going for the next 17 hours.

The Sunrise to Sunset race is often described as the world’s most beautiful ultramarathon, and I certainly can’t imagine a more picturesque route. It runs along Lake Hovsgol in northern Mongolia, near the Siberian border – Mountains, lush, green forest, and grasslands

surround the lake making the National Park a paradise for runners.

I kept to a slow pace from the off, thinking of the two long, steep climbs later in the course. Once out of the trees it became lighter and
the going was easier for about 10k on a level track through green elds with trees to both sides. The lake shimmered through the trees and chatter and laughter rose up among the runners, who, like me, seemed in good spirits, full of energy amid the magical surroundings.

I got chatting to the runner alongside me, Henning Voss from Germany. We kept a steady pace with the help of his GPS watch. It stopped us surging ahead and wasting energy we’d need later. Together we approached the rst climb, up to Chichee Pass, as the sun rose over the lake. The road wound its way up the mountainside, revealing more of the lake below, re ecting the early

morning sky. It was breathtaking. And chilly. The wind was hitting us directly now and I was glad I’d worn tights under my running pants.

Watchful horsemen 

Every so often there’d be a Mongolian horseman at the roadside noting our race numbers, or pointing us in the right direction. We’d sing out the Mongolian greeting, similar sounding to ‘sun benno’, which always raised a wide smile.

I took a salt capsule every 45 minutes and lots of sips of water. The cookies at the aid station were disgusting, so I stuck to energy gels from my backpack. As the road became steeper and the trees sparser I used a tip from one
of the runners back at the camp, ‘Never take slower steps on hills, just shorter ones’.

I had trained over hilly terrain back home and I made good progress over the pass. It was the down-hills that worried me, and what they’d
do to my knees and ankles. I slowed down to put the least stress on my joints and imagined myself running like jelly. My joints seemed grateful for my vivid imagination.

Wet feet 

In the valley we were greeted by a muddy
trail through the woods. All jumping over big puddles and sinking into wet ground, drenching my shoes. Looking out for the green dots on tree trunks marking the way, we ran and slid through the mud. Then I slipped and fell full length into it. “You should have told me you were going to do that! I’d have taken a photo”, shouted Kenneth Koh from Singapore who had
a camera with him. I burst out laughing. The joke gave me a lift and, once again, I felt in good company, having fun, and it was good to realise that 25k were already behind us.

A short stop at the aid station in the valley, and then off again over green grass, avoiding horse and yak dung. We were running through larch forest along the dried out bed of the Ongolog River, which lies between the two mountains on the course. I could feel the strain the downhill run had put on my quads and was jogging very slowly.

Circling the Ovoo 

Once the trail crossed the dry river bed, we had to nd our way through undergrowth, and then the second climb began. It seemed relentless. Tree trunks and thorny bushes blocked the narrow trail and the mossy ground seemed to absorb all the momentum of my step.

Running was impossible, so I kept a steady walking pace. I knew I’d soon feel so out of breath that my head would tell me I couldn’t nish. And I knew I needed to trust I’d recover once I made it over Khirvesteg Pass just ahead. The mountain views were spectacular and got more beautiful the higher we climbed, but I could only concentrate on my breath and thought of little else. Once at the pass though, I couldn’t help but admire the view stretching far across the mountain ranges surrounding the lake.

Here some runners stopped to walk three times around the Ovoo, which is little more than a mound of twigs and rocks placed by locals to mark the pass and honour the mountain. This Mongolian custom is said to bring luck, and we needed as much of that as we could get.

Halfway down the other side was another water station where grateful runners gathered for a quick drink. Ahead, meadows and soft hills stretched to the horizon. We were past 30k now and what was of cially the hardest part of the ultramaraton was behind us.

I waved Henning good-bye when I saw him ying down the slope. I had overtaken him on the hills, but he had been faster on the slopes and there were no steep mountains left to catch up with him again.

The marathon mark 

The trail was at now, but the long track back to the camp, where the 42k course ends, was tiring. Part of it was through forest, most through elds sprinkled with owers and the occasional group of horses watching our efforts along the way. The group I was running with soon became too fast for me and I ran on my own for a while. Then co-organiser of this race, Dr Tyler Pike, caught up with me. A Sinologist at Sydney University and manager of a yoga studio, he was part of the small group of friends that set up this non-pro t event ten years ago.

The race money is invested in environmental projects protecting the national park the trail runs through. I love the way the race was created to open the beauty of Mongolia to runners from around the world, while helping to protect this unique part of the planet for many more to experience.

That rst 42k took me six and a half hours – three hours longer than my Sydney marathon time, which I was pretty disconcerted by. Tyler, on the other hand, was still raring to go. He asked if I was going to carry on, or leave it at the 42k. “For a little while, see how far I get,” I told him and we continued through the gate together.

Leaping mental barriers 

Some soup and dry socks later I decided I had enough energy left to keep going a little longer. I set my sights on the 50k mark at most. The day was perfect, a little cloudy, not too hot, and dry. The lake was to my left now and the road wound its way along the water. I was still running with Tyler, and we chatted away as birds twittered around us.

I usually train alone and I enjoyed having company for a change. 55k came and went and I was surprised to nd myself still going. I was lucky to have Tyler with me, having organised and run the race every year, he knew the course by heart. I’d been worried about getting lost in a forest that is also home to wolves. Now I had a guide and a very experienced running buddy with me.

As we reached 60k, keeping going was getting seriously tough. I tried to focus on the smell of the grass and bushes, the deep green of the trees, the fresh air. The hardest part was not the physical challenge, I felt surprisingly well. But my brain was convinced that I should not be able to carry on. I reminded myself of something I’d once read: ‘People who say something cannot be done should not disturb those who are doing it.’ and kept trying to distract my mind to allow my body to continue. Every time I pushed through a wave of exhaustion, I found new energy, in the sounds around me, or the words of my running buddy.

A day out in the sun 

At 70k I hit the worst energy low yet. I could not even imagine doing another kilometre.
was when Tyler reckoned it was time for a little sprint. I knew I’d done better than I ever could’ve dreamed. But this seemed laughable, against any form of common sense! But I didn’t want to fall behind Tyler’s positive and relaxed attitude had made it easier for me to pretend that I was not really doing an ultramarathon, but having a nice day out in the sun and I didn’t want to part with him. I gave it a go and amazed myself by being able to keep up.

We were running between bushes, along a soft grass trail, past the occasional nomad tent. Sometimes dogs followed us for a while, barking, and dropping behind when we didn’t show intention to approach their homes. I kept my eyes on Tyler’s shoes in front of me to remind myself of what I was supposed to do, run. All I had to do was put one foot in front of the other. My mind could only operate on the time span it took to lift one foot, and let it touch the ground again. I had no idea what reserves Tyler was drawing on to make it look so effortless.

After 80k my body seemed to settle for a sense of constant pain, while my mind had found its peace in the situation. There were some hills to clamber up, but the track was fairly easy, sometimes across lush meadows or through forest where the smell of wood and the constant birdsong provided pleasant distractions. I felt happy, content with having very few thoughts drifting randomly through my head. Tyler had developed hip pain, but it didn’t seem to faze him.

Being watched 

I continued to force my legs into an awkward hobble and somehow managed to keep up. I had blisters and, not having expected to get this far, hadn’t deposited fresh socks at any of the aid stations. Tyler kindly gave me his spare pair. Sometimes, when I was struggling along trying to catch up, a young boy on a horse would follow me to make sure I was alright. It was nice to know people were looking out for me.

It was like nerve signals between brain and muscles had to ght their way through thick jelly and would occasionally manage to bubble through. Every time they did, my legs just gave in. But still the sights around us kept me going, like the rainbow that suddenly spanned across the lake through the evening sky. It seemed a good omen, for the rst time I began thinking I might actually finish this race.

Yaks had been a reliable audience throughout, but now, so close to the end, I found myself worried that they wouldn’t stay as peaceful as they seemed. Some of them were right next to the trail near the water and their impressive horns made me uncomfortable. I imagined the ridiculous situation of making it to 95k just to get run over by a yak.

Then I saw something that blew me away. White reindeer. They were calmly standing at the lakeside as we passed. Resting under tall trees, it seemed unreal, like a fairy tale. I was in awe and full
of gratitude to have seen something so beautiful. I asked Tyler if he’d seen them too, to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.

Journey’s end 

The last few kilometres seemed like a whole marathon, even though we slowed to a walk for most of it. We made our way over elds, along the water edge, the lake to our right looking dark in the evening light. The sun had set now, and the cold added to exhaustion. I was immensely glad to have company, fearing that, if left alone, I might just be overcome by the temptation to curl up at the roadside and sleep.

Finally, camp came in sight. I could hear cheering. “Let’s start running again,” said Tyler. “Forget it”, I laughed, assuming he was joking. “The trick is to run faster than you think you can” Tyler said. And it worked. We crossed the nish line running and interlocking arms for the last steps.

I checked my time. 17 hours exactly. When someone told me I was the rst woman to nish I could barely believe it. Other runners and the support team gathered to welcome us and the hugs they gave us seemed the most well earned embraces ever. I was bursting with pride and yet felt incredibly vulnerable at the same time.

My journey was at an end. I’d achieved something I’d never thought possible in a land so beautiful it felt like a dream. And now, at last, I could rest.

This article was published in British running magazine Running Free in the summer of 2008. I don’t think the magazine is still published today.