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So, please excuse this week’s newsletter for being short and choppy. But I have reflections on the Hardrock Hundred and a few worthwhile links to share with you.

Some context for newer subscribers: 15 years ago, I got involved with Hardrock, the 100-miler with the motto “wild & tough” that makes a massive loop with 33,000 feet of vertical gain in our San Juan Mountains region by connecting Silverton with Telluride, Ouray, and the outskirts of Lake City. In 2011, I paced a friend for 30 miles of it and got the bug to be a Hardrocker someday, a goal I finally accomplished last year (race report) after running qualifiers and entering the run’s lottery for a decade.

This year, I volunteered at Engineer, a remote pack-in aid station in a high-alpine basin at the halfway mark (mile 52). I wrote about it for Trail Runner, and you can read the story here. (Apologies, the site requires you to register to read it, ugh; I hope you will anyway.) Here’s the Instagram teaser for it:

Working and camping at Engineer delivered surprises, even though I’d previously volunteered at three of Hardrock’s larger full-service aid stations. The small but mighty crew and our setting was more gritty, funny, weird, and wild than any other volunteer gig I’ve experienced.

During the time, I got to collaborate with Jacob Zocherman, a remarkable photojournalist from Sweden who previously was based in Africa covering horrific armed conflict. About a decade ago, he was diagnosed with severe PTSD from all he had witnessed in his line of work, so he switched gears. Trail running became part of his therapy, then he made a name for himself as a photographer of trail and endurance events (notably, Big’s Backyard Ultra and the Barkley Marathons). You can see some of his Hardrock photos in my story and in this well-done article on how Courtney Dauwalter and Ludo Pommeret won and set course records.

Being around all those hard-core Hardrock runners definitely motivated me to prep and get stoked for August 14’s San Juan Softie 100. If you read my last 50-mile report, you may recall my ambivalence about doubling the mileage and my questioning whether I’m causing more harm than health for my body. Welp, if you spend a weekend at Hardrock, that doubt and those questions get pushed to the side. You end up wanting to traverse mountains through the night. You end up fortifying your resolve to push through pain and nausea to reach the finish. The enthusiasm spreads like a virus, and I’m still not immune!

Here are a few photos from the weekend that hint at how special the landscape and people are:

I also loved spending time getting to know this mother and son, Susan and David Henry. As soon as I heard that Hardrock had its first mother and son entered together, each of them doing their first Hardrock, I pitched a story about them. Now I need to write it later today!

The bad news

I’m not going to write much about Trump’s not-surprising but horrible reduction of the boundaries of Bears Ears National Monument and Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument to such a tiny fraction that he virtually eliminated them. He also set up a court fight that could undo the Antiquities Act and imperil all national monuments that protect public lands.

I urge you to sign this petition and educate yourself about why national monuments matter and what’s at stake. The administration’s action puts so much of the landscape and cultural artifacts at risk.

“The move reopens huge swaths of Utah’s canyon country to new mining claims and mineral leasing, reviving the potential for oil and gas drilling, uranium mining, and potash, lithium, and coal extraction in previously protected areas. It also scraps the existing resource management plans for both national monuments, throwing even the remaining shards of protected areas into regulatory uncertainty. Additionally, the proclamations order the managing agencies, the Bureau of Land Management and the U.S. Forest Service, to ease restrictions on motorized travel, vegetation management, and livestock grazing within the remaining national monuments.” - , read more

“This was never about your hiking boots. It is about uranium under Bears Ears and coal under the Kaiparowits Plateau in Grand Staircase. It is about who gets to own what is underneath. … Grand Staircase is one of the great paleontology labs on the planet. Nearly two dozen new dinosaur species have been named there since the monument was created, along with at least 660 species of native bees. Over 150 scientists signed a letter this year asking that it be left alone. Paleontologists will tell you we have barely started digging. … You cannot un-mine a mesa. You cannot un-loot a grave.” - , read more

I’ll leave you with a cool journaling exercise

Being too braindead on Saturday to write coherent paragraphs, I scrolled Substack and came upon the latest post by , whose newsletter I read because he is co-leader of , an online network (plus newsletter) that helped me develop my memoir.

In “The Book of Lists,” he wrote about why he makes lists. His essay prompted me to make a specific list about my long Hardrock weekend:

“Lists are a way of writing without the pressure of writing. A sentence demands something of you: syntax, a point. It demands that you know, more or less, what you’re trying to say before you say it. We sometimes freeze before the sentence because the sentence feels like a thought we’re not sure we can make.

A list asks for none of that, though. A list just asks, “What else?” It is an invitation. You can put anything on a list. You can contradict yourself from one line to the next. You can be incomplete. There’s no wrong way to make a list. There’s only the act of naming things, one after another, until you run out of names or run out of time. … The next time you have five minutes, don’t reach for your phone. Make a list instead. It can be anything.”

I made a list of every old friend/acquaintance with whom I interacted in Silverton while I was there for Hardrock (26 people). Then I annotated the list. I jotted down phrases and a few full sentences about how/when/where I connected with that person. A floodgate of memories opened.

Maybe there’s a story there. For now, I’m glad I have that list to document a network of relationships and shared experiences.

How and why Jared Campbell goes beyond

Last week, I had the opportunity to get to know Jared Campbell better because he, his wife Mindy, and their two daughters ages 9 and 12 needed a place to park their camper while visiting Telluride from their Park City home. When they asked if they could stay on our property, of course I said yes.

I’m a bit in awe not only of Jared’s mountain-running skills, but also of how they’re raising outdoorsy and athletic girls. At two events in recent years, I spotted their girls, Ruby and Phoebe, running laps up and down a mountainside, making it look effortless and fun.

The thing most people know about Jared is that he finished the notorious Barkley Marathons a record four times—the secretive orienteering footrace so difficult that only 20 people total have finished it in the event’s 40-year history, Jared more than any other. But there’s a lot more to him, and his ultra resume has much greater depth and breadth.

I had interviewed Jared, who’s 46, once before, for this 2020 UltraRunning magazine article on the Running Up For Air (RUFA) race series he founded to raise awareness and funds for nonprofits working on clean air and other environmental causes.

He first came on my radar back around 2014, when I read this unforgettable article by Matt Hart in Outside, “Your Brain on Pain,” about Jared and Matt becoming the fifth and sixth people to complete Nolan’s (14 summits of 14ers in the Sawatch Range under 60 hours), before the Nolan’s 14 became better known and set off an FKT frenzy in the ensuing years.

The year they did it, 2012, Jared became the second person ever (after Blake Wood) to complete Nolan’s 14, Barkley, and Hardrock in a single year, a distinction he still holds. But wait, there’s more. That same year, when Jared was turning 33, he also did the Wasatch 100 and a 100ish-mile linkup with about 37,000 feet of vert in the Wasatch range he created and named the Millwood 100. He wrote on his old blog why he came up with that route for him and others to attempt:

“Millwood presents an interesting opportunity for us to study the psychology of motivation. For many folks, the lead-up to a big race, the energy of competition, the obligation that comes with an entry fee and travel expenses, and simply being ‘visible’ to a broader audience seem to push folks to do things they wouldn’t normally do. What would happen with Millwood? It is arguably more challenging than Hardrock and with no fame/glory at the finish. No kissing the rock, no awards banquet, no belt buckle, no T-shirt, no UltraSignup score. So, why start? Why keep going? Why finish?”

You get the idea, Jared Campbell is an outlier in the sport of ultrarunning, as much an exceptional mountaineer as a runner.

When Jared arrived at our house, the first thing he did on his first morning here was scramble up a 13er outside our window that I’ve never attempted to ascend because I like a trail, and it has no established trail. Here’s a video clip he took up there:

He was drawn to it because it shares his name—Campbell’s Peak—and then he picked his way along the ridge to the gnarlier Dallas Peak. Then he dropped way the hell down to reach Blue Lake near Sneffels, then traversed the landscape to get over and up to Virginius Pass on the Hardrock course, then made his way back to our house—a self-made route of about 23 miles with about 9500 feet of elevation gain. That’s a typical “long run” for him, an outing that involves scrambling, peak-bagging, and route-finding as much as running.

I started by asking about his training for the two races on his calendar, High Five 100 and Dark Divide 100. I edited our conversation for length.

Me: I know about High Five [a next-level-difficult mountain 100 in the San Juan Mountains with an unmarked course summiting five 14ers and at least a half-dozen 13ers], but what’s Dark Divide, and how are you training for them?

Jared: “It’s a relatively new 100, east of Mount Rainier in the Cascades. I don’t know a whole lot about it either. Big sections are unsupported. Hopefully it’s kind of messy, because I always find that interesting, like when you don’t know if the aid station is set up yet [laughs]. …

“My favorite training is rolling out a map—nowadays it’s all digital—and coming up with some bizarre route that’s largely off course. And when you’re training for the High Five, thankfully, that approach of trying to stare at terrain on satellite imagery and old maps, and piecing together layers and looking at the terrain and trying to come up with a fairly efficient way to navigate it, it’s perfect training for the High Five. Your speed at something like that is a huge function of your ability to understand terrain. Is this scree field going to be something I can go down quickly? Or, can I tell from the satellite imagery if the scree is big enough that you have to tenuously walk down it? I just love that stuff.”

You ran Hardrock 10 times, between 2004 to 2015 [and won it in 2010 in 27:18]. Why did you stop, and do you miss it?

“I took a cue from my good friend Roch Horton [the Hardrocker best known for running the legendary Kroger’s Canteen aid station for many years], which was, run it for 10 years, then give back to it. … I definitely miss it, but I got into it really early before it really got popular. In 2004, Hardrock was viewed as this obscure thing—a hiker’s race—and runners didn’t want to do it because it was too much of a mountain race. And now look at it, it’s become one of the most sought-after races in the world for 100-mile trail runners. I feel really fortunate to have gotten into it at that stage and age in my life.”

Did you ever aspire to run Western States or other marquee 100s besides Hardrock?

“I love the history of Western States and what it is, but it never was my cup of tea, because I came into running from a climber’s perspective, so I naturally gravitated to Hardrock, which was the closest thing to a mountaineer’s race. Wasatch 100, which is close to me and carries a lot of history, I was into because it was the local race for where I live. But still, I was always an outsider.”

At 46, do you feel your body has changed, and have you modified your athleticism in any way, since your twenties and thirties?

“Not really. Look at Ludo [Ludovic Pommeret, the two-time defending champ and course-record holder at Hardrock], he’s 50, so I’m like, shit, I got plenty of time [laughs]. I have felt things change, but not necessarily physically. My life has gotten a lot busier than when I was 30. My body still feels similar, but when I do stuff has changed—the time of day. It’s early mornings or nights, when the girls are asleep. I have to be really intentional about when I run. I think because I run less now, I have fewer injuries also.”

Tell me about your work now. I know you’re a longtime environmentalist and mechanical engineer. When we talked before, you were focused on building net-positive homes [that create more energy than they consume] and on wireless communications. What exactly do you do now as a partner at Endurance 28?

“For many years, something inside me was like, I want to put my time and energy professionally into helping innovators—engineers and scientists—who are coming up with solutions. …. I met this incredible woman who started Endurance 28 and this awesome little team, and it’s a venture capital group. A lot of people would see that as just an investment entity, but it’s really unique. It invests in three areas, one of which is climate and environmental solutions, so I joined to help that part of the investments. … To me, it’s one of the most uplifting things you can imagine. Venture as an asset class or industry is maybe not that interesting on its own, because a lot of it is about financial returns, but in the climate space—listening to young founders make pitches, who are motivated to change the world, and willing to take this massive risk and start a business—there’s this fire in them to do something. For me, it’s all about trying to see what are the ideas out there and what are the teams that have been assembled to tackle climate problems, whether air quality or water and food issues.

“Part of this chapter in my life is about, how do I find the right technology, the right people, and right market to find things that can scale huge? I would love for every home to be built to be net positive. I would love for food to be produced in a sustainable way. If you put your business hat on, things have to make sense on a business scale to be able to propagate in a way that makes sense.”

I love hearing your excitement. We’re talking under a smoky sky in a dried-out landscape. Given the reality of the accelerating climate change we’re experiencing, and given the reality that your senator is Mike Lee, how do you maintain optimism or stave of hopelessness as you’re raising kids in this reality?

“If you put your local glasses on—in my case, you’ll see Utah and Mike Lee—and look at a lot decisions being made on a local level, it’s very depressing. And if you zoom out and look at the United States, probably even more depressing. But if you zoom out and look globally, what’s happening now is so cool from a clean-energy standpoint. There is such a rapid acceleration toward clean energy in other countries. The U.S. was always behind, but we’re falling much further behind. But that will change. And if you look globally, the speed with which countries are completely transitioning to an electrified ecosystem with wind, water, solar, and battery systems, it is so cool. So you just have to put your USA hat on the shelf and ask on a global level, is humanity progressing in the right direction ? And the answer absolutely is yes.”

Even with AI and the demand for data centers? To me, AI is dystopian in terms of what it’s ushering in. It’s frightening.

“Yeah, it is. It’s easy to feel that way, and I do frequently as well. It’s partly why I’ve decided to jump into the space where I’m listening to a couple of pitches a day from young founders who haven’t become disillusioned like all of us. It’s uplifting. If you surround yourself with humans who are optimistic and solving problems, and not spending too many mental neurons on the state of doom and gloom, it’s a great thing.”

That segues into parenting, because you have to be optimistic to raise kids. I’ve seen your girls run segments of RUFA, and I’ve seen photos of them climbing. They’re pretty extraordinary athletically and outdoorsy. Can you talk about how you and Mindy are raising them, and the values are you trying to raise them with?

“Thankfully, Mindy and I love to do the same things with our free time outside, so we’re either climbing or kayaking or running, so these kids are getting pulled along for this ride. Both my girls, at 4 weeks old, were on the summit of Grandeur Peak. You normalize it for them—going out on a long hike, participating or volunteering at a race—and it’s just something they’ve grown up doing. Tying it to the climate side of things, they’ve grown up knowing that of course your house is powered by the sun, of course you plug your car in and it’s charged by electrons that are collected from the sun. … By being outside, you naturally care. If our elected leaders don’t have that connection, then we’ll make terrible decisions. As a parent, one of the things you can do is raise kids who really care and appreciate and respect the environment. I hope I’m creating two little change-makers.”

Thank you, Jared, for taking the time to talk to me—and to inspire us all.

How to get your head and heart around Hardrock

If you’re a new subscriber, you may wonder why I’m writing about Hardrock for two weeks in a row. You may not even know what Hardrock is. Dear reader, I am obsessed with the storied 100-mile mountain run in the San Juan Mountains near my home.

Readers who followed earlier iterations of my blog have had to suffer through fifteen years of me romanticizing Hardrock, ever since my first Hardrock pacing gig in 2011. I am not going to explain my love for it here. If you want to know why Hardrock is such a big deal and so meaningful to me, read this story I wrote last year about what it’s all about, followed by my report of finishing the damn thing after 46 hours that turned me inside-out.

I also invite you to watch this video I made, following a talk I gave, about the history of the Hardrock route:

I also recommend this doc by Jeff Pelletier that shows the visually stunning route:

For this year’s event, you can go to iRunFar’s preview for an overview of the top competitors.

I’ll be offline for at least 24 hours while setting up and working the remote hike-in Engineer Aid Station, at the halfway point, Friday though Saturday midday, so I won’t be able to watch the livestream. Instead, I’ll get to see the runners up close as they come through and I serve them!

I’ll be back next week with some thoughts on how it all unfolded. (Yes, that means I’ll write about it for three weeks in a row, sorry not sorry.) Fingers crossed now that it will unfold in a safe and healthy way for all!

I’ll leave you with some photos and video clips that show the weather extremes and shifting air quality here during the past week:

Hot temps and smoke-filled sky late on Saturday, July 4:

Finally, the wonderful but too-brief rain yesterday! I heard someone in a store say, “Something weird is happening outside. Water is falling from the sky.”

In a split second, I recalled the wind shaking our house all day into the night, making the beams groan and windows rattle. Wind bent the trees sideways. Wind ripped the petals off the flowers I had planted just last Friday and flattened their stems. Wind desiccated the ground, which on Thursday collected puddles from a precious, too-brief storm. Wind pushed smoke from the west over the ridge and turned the sun temporarily orange.

I love a cool breeze but hate this warm wind.

I grabbed my phone—violating my practice to start the morning reading a book, not scrolling—and checked for updates on the Ouray fire, plus the big fires near the Utah border that killed three federal firefighters, plus the blaze near Leadville and the new, horrific Pueblo County conflagration (see this CNN clip on it).

This is the reality of life in Colorado now.

But outside my window, I viewed another reality of clear blue sky framing mountains, and I wanted to pretend that everything was fine. We are fortunate here, for now. The air quality is normal, the sky is blue (too cloudless), and all the fires are happening over the mountain ridges. Only a streak of white to the west hints at smoke over there. In past seasons’ fires, the smoke has been thick enough in our area to obscure the mountains. (As of this morning, Wednesday, the sky looks and smells smokier.)

I engaged in obsessive checking of the Watch Duty App and the county sheriff Instagram accounts for fire status, and then I checked the weather apps, upset but resigned to the fact that the bumps of blue indicating precipitation next week have shrunk, turning the forecast of seasonal monsoons into a tease and threatening dry lighting that could spark more fires.

The Ouray fire, named the Gold Mountain Fire, broke out Saturday afternoon about a mile north of Ouray proper, which is an hour by car from where I live in Telluride and over the mountain range to the northeast. The blaze started above a road I know well. It’s Dexter Creek Road, aka County Road 14/14A, on the hillside above the highway next to the Welcome to Ouray sign.

It’s the road I add to my longer runs in winter (when trails are inaccessible due to snow), when I run the relatively flat county road that connects the towns of Ridgway and Ouray and add on County Road 14/14A for a big hill climb. The road leads to lovely log homes around a small lake and trails where the rough old mining road ends.

This is the road where firefighters are holding a line to keep the fire from spreading west toward the neighborhood directly across the highway and south toward town. My friend Christina and her husband Justin live in that neighborhood, called Whispering Pines, directly across from the fire. Their home and their neighbors, in Level 1 pre-evacuation status, are OK so far. When the wind turns violent, I worry about flying embers reaching them. I also worry about fire spreading to ranch homes with horses and livestock northeast of Ouray.

I know that periodic fires rejuvenate forests, so letting the wilderness areas burn and focusing efforts on protecting structures, and people and livestock, makes sense. But the wildfire spread is so damn scary in this era of climate change and drought. (I urge you to read this latest post by environmental reporter on the fires’ causes and outlook.)

What does the fire mean for the Hardrock Hundred?

The Hardrock Hundred is supposed to start in Silverton on Friday, July 10. Many of the runners, their crew, and fans are in the region already. I took my name off the waitlist (as explained in last week’s post), but I plan to spend this coming Wednesday through Sunday in Silverton to be part of the scene and to work the remote Engineer Aid Station overnight.

I and others are wondering if Hardrock will happen or be canceled. Runners like my friend Monica Ochs, who has waited a decade to earn a spot in Hardrock, arrived here more than a week ago to acclimate to the trails and altitude. She and others would be devastated to have the run canceled.

To be clear, no decision has been made, and I have not talked to the run director Dale Garland, so I don’t have any inside info about the status. Dale and his run committee are super busy, so I don’t want to bug them, and the situation is changing daily. Hardrock posted a vague Instagram post Tuesday saying, “Hardrock is aware of and monitoring the wildfire situation in southwest Colorado and the San Juan Mountains. Hardrock puts the safety of participants, volunteers, and surrounding communities first.”

I’m on the fence about whether Hardrock should go forward or cancel, but it makes sense to me to wait-and-see because we could get rain in the forecast around July 7 – 10 that would improve the whole situation. Here’s my “hot” take on the situation, along with a map to show the geography of the route:

Why Hardrock should go forward unless conditions are dangerous the morning of July 10:

• The fire is moving northeast, away from the Hardrock route, and the route is not threatened.

• Silverton and the town of Ouray (south of the fire) are fine now with good air quality. Both towns depend on the economic boost from visitors.

• Hardrock runners have made travel plans and prepared for months. They deserve to have their shot at the run unless and until a call is made at the last moment about safety. Dale had to make this call last year, when we woke up on the morning of Hardrock’s start to an orange sky. A fire had broken out the day before (see photo above from Handies Peak). But it was in the distance, and the air quality was not too terrible. Runners were given the option to defer their entry to the following year if they didn’t want to risk running in poor air quality. Conditions improved rather than worsened during the 48 hours of the event. I believe the committee made the right call last year to start the event after weighing all the circumstances, and I trust them to make the right, safe call again.

• It may rain next week in the days leading up to Hardrock, which would make everything better (except potentially flooding Highway 550 if a monsoon downpour triggered a slide onto the highway from the burned hillside).

The counterargument for why Hardrock should cancel, probably sooner rather than later:

• Resources across the region are stretched. People (and lightning) cause fires. More people in the backcountry who are camping and recreating inevitably increase the risk, even with fire restrictions in place that prohibit campfires. If a fire broke out in the Silverton or Telluride areas from human activity, the resources to fight it and evacuate people would be stretched extra thin. It could be catastrophic.

• Although rains may come next week, the forecast calls for more heat and wind between now and the Fourth of July weekend. Visitors should be discouraged from camping and hiking around the region during high-fire-danger days.

• Highway 550 just north of Ouray is closed, and officials are prohibiting through traffic. That puts the whole Hardrock transportation loop (i.e. driving from Ouray to Telluride/Ophir) out of service, although a long detour to the south is available. [UPDATE as of Wednesday afternoon: Hwy 550 just reopened!]

Considering all those factors, I advocate a yellow-light proceed-with-caution stance and hope they delay a decision on canceling until much closer to July 10. If you visit this region to run/hike and camp, please be extra smart and careful—no open flames anywhere, no smoking, no parking a hot vehicle near dry grass!

If Highway 550 continues to be closed or has one-way traffic control for emergency vehicles just north of Ouray during Hardrock, I would recommend prohibiting runners’ crew from going to the Ophir and Telluride aid stations as a way to limit traffic (and discouraging them from going over the shortcut of Ophir Pass). In this year’s clockwise direction, when Ophir and Telluride aid stations are in the first quarter of the loop, crew is not really necessary there; runners can rely on aid station volunteers and drop bags. Keep spectator and crew traffic between Ouray and Silverton, in my view.

In any case, I feel for runners who face this uncertainty, especially those taking the time and money to travel from afar and who have their hearts set on a special tour of the San Juan Mountains. I also don’t envy Dale and his run committee for having to navigate the dangerous conditions and uncertainty. Race directors for ultras across the West now regularly cope with fire as a major risk. I imagine the Ouray 100, scheduled July 17, will be canceled or severely re-routed because a branch of their route (the Bridge of Heaven segment) has been scorched by the fire.

What’s your take on the situation? Please comment below.

A glorious Western States Endurance Run and a golden finish

On a much happier note, the notoriously hot Western States Endurance Run 100-miler last Saturday in the mountains from Olympic Valley to Auburn, California, enjoyed unusually cool temps and went off problem-free. Like tens of thousands of others, I was glued to the livestream and runners’ trackers.

Rather than recap anything about the race (you can find copious commentary on the Freetrail and Singletrack podcasts and the iRunFar and Trail Runner sites), I recommend learning more about the two champs with these two pieces:

• Coach , whose weekly Substack I read religiously (and thankfully, he reads mine too!) had a coach’s dream experience of coaching the come-from-behind Western States champ and course record-setter Vincent Bouillard. Mario wrote about how the race unfolded for him as coach and for Vincent, and he links to a piece about Vincent’s training. It highlights the value of a personal coach-athlete relationship and also the time-tested pillars of a solid training approach (e.g. consistency, alternating hard/easy days, making rest part of training)— things that AI and optimization hacks can’t replace. Read his story here.

• As I followed the woman’s extraordinary course-record-setting champ Jennifer Lichter, running her 100-mile debut, I kept thinking about a moving podcast interview with her from last August by Dylan Bowman on Freetrail. Jennifer is the first Latina to win Western States. You may have wondered, what’s the deal with her coming from a white family in Wisconsin? The interview reveals how she was an orphan on the streets of Bogota, Colombia, until adoption as a preteen. It’s incredible. Listen here.

On Sunday, a little before 12 noon Mountain Time, I tuned into the “Golden Hour” when the final finishers made it to the track in Auburn before the 30-hour cutoff. It’s always a tear-jerker to see them struggle and squeak under the cutoff.

I didn’t expect to know any of the back-of-the-pack runners. But then, five minutes before the cutoff, I heard Billy Yang announce, “Mark Tanaka!”

Oh my god, it’s Mark! Somehow, I had overlooked that my old runner-friend Mark was running States. Way to go, Mark! But, I also thought, Why are you finishing near the cutoff of the Golden Hour?! followed by, If I ever run States again, will I too finish with only minutes to spare?

Mark, who’s 59, and I shared a lot of miles in ultras back in the early 2010s, back when we both were a lot more speedy. In 2017, I paced and crewed him in Hardrock. He’s an ER doctor who has a superhuman ultra resume, and earlier this year, he was admitted into the exclusive ultrarunning club of 100 x 100—one of 37 runners who’ve run 100 or more 100-milers.

I got in touch with Mark on Monday to congratulate him and ask about his experience. He had run Western States once before in 2015, finishing in 22:42, and at the time he had thought that was relatively slow and he should’ve finished around 21 hours. His 100-mile PR is 16:28:25 from the 2007 Kettle Moraine.

I wanted to know, how did it feel to finish States in 29:55:05, facing potential cutoffs at aid stations along the way? I, too, want to run States again in my lifetime (which is why I’m running Javelina in October as a qualifier). I finished my one and only States in 2016 in 23:44, earning the coveted sub-24 silver buckle. Will I be able to psychologically handle going so much slower and chasing cutoffs if I ever get to run it again?

Mark shared with me that he entered the race sleep-deprived and consequently struggled more than anticipated. But it was worth it:

“The last five minutes was quite a climax, but I guess the whole day, despite some of the physical suffering inherent in these events, was a repeated affirmation that what I was doing was admirable and deserving of everyone’s attention and support. I really felt the love. Never did I feel like anyone was thinking, ‘What’s taking him so long today?’ though some people must have thought that. It was all positive and encouraging and condition-less. And I’m sure it was like that for everyone running the race, this year and all years back. What was different was this time, I felt and appreciated it more. When you find yourself in the back of the pack, and there is a chance you’ll get cut if anything goes bad, every little bit helps. I think I needed more of that support, and for that reason felt it more strongly than in the past when I wasn’t running to survive. I felt more appreciation for being able to be out there, feeling more connected to this wonderful community, and felt that more often and more intensely during this race than any race before. My eyes watered up several times during the race. The joy of circling the track was much greater Sunday than in 2015 before sunrise. I can’t overstate it, it was so intense.”

Well, his statement sure made my eyes water. I’m deeply inspired to hear from him that you can feel more appreciation and support, and greater intensity, by spending longer going slower on the course. It reinforces my desire to cheer for, support, and respect those toward the back of the pack. In some ways, they have it harder than the frontrunners who finish in half the time.

Now I definitely want to follow in Mark’s footsteps and go for it one more time, if given the opportunity. Thank you, Mark, and congrats!

Hi folks, thanks for being here. This week I bring you a race report. If you’re caught up in the excitement leading up to this Saturday’s Western States Endurance Run 100-miler—as a spectator, crew member, or one of the lucky chosen to run it—then don’t miss the section at the end.

So much went right and stayed positive with my 50-mile race Saturday, the San Juan Solstice 50 in the San Juan Mountains near little Lake City. I’m happy I did it, proud of my finish, and will share how much I love this event and why.

Yet, it wasn’t a confidence-builder. Instead, it made me more daunted and uncertain about doubling the distance for 100-milers on calendar. While it’s normal—even cliché—to finish an ultra and swear, “never again,” only to find yourself signing up for another one 24 hours later, my ambivalence and doubt are lingering longer than usual, even as soreness fades and blisters heal.

I’ll explain by starting at the end, at Sunday morning’s community awards breakfast.

A couple hundred people gathered on the grassy square of the town park for a breakfast prepared by volunteers. Historic buildings from the late 1800s, with brightly painted facades and hanging flower baskets, bordered the square. Lake City—located south of Gunnison and east of Silverton, nestled near five 14ers—is a picture-postcard throwback of a mining town that seems to have escaped the growth pressures and Aspen-ization affluenza of mountain towns like Telluride. The handful of Lake City restaurants are nothin’ fancy, and its retro cabins for rent hearken back to my parents’ decor. (My tiny cabin had a wall-mounted rotary phone.) The place seems preserved in time, as does the ultra itself, which started in 1995.

Sitting with other runners from Telluride, listening to the emcee talk about how roughly half the town’s 400 residents volunteered for the event and numerous extended family members have run the race over the decades, I experienced the warmth of community and admiration for “old-school” ultras that make every single runner feel special and raise funds for local causes rather than existing primarily for profit and competition. This is why I choose not to run races by UTMB, because I’d rather support homegrown independent races like SJS50.

Long way of saying, I was so grateful to be part of this event and grateful to be recognized as one of the 242 finishers who made it under the 16-hour cutoff. I also appreciated and felt supported by the young, speedy Telluride cohort, which included Isabella Poulos who placed second in a blazing 9:44, all of whom encouraged an older and slower runner like me.

This is why I run these races, I thought, to see these places and be a part of this community.

And yet, the morning following my finish, my lungs burned from the stress of heavy breathing in thin air. My lower back and legs ached. My fatigued brain seemed to process everything at half-speed, unable to recall names or answer simple questions quickly. The tasty food didn’t taste right because my stomach and palate were off. I felt depleted and aged—even though the ultra took me less than 15 hours (14:48) and I didn’t run through the night. It was “only” 50 miles! No way in hell I could go through two nights for Hardrock three weeks from now, I thought, contemplating the slim but not impossible chance I’d get off Hardrock’s waitlist shortly before it begins July 10.

I’m even doubting my ability and desire to persevere through the San Juan Softie 100 on August 14. That 100-miler has a 38-hour cutoff at 8 p.m., so I would finish before going well past the second sunset, but still. I don’t know if I have the desire and determination to make it.

I didn’t used to feel this way. I used to have more stamina and mojo for the prospect of running through the night and into the next day. But at the end of SJS50, I kept thinking how relieved I was to be done before dark. An all-day outing for 50 miles felt like plenty.

A voice kept repeating in my head—a passage from a podcast I listened to on Friday as I drove to Lake City. It was The Trailhead episode interviewing exercise scientist Nick Tiller, PhD, whose column I have long read and admired in UltraRunning. Ten minutes into the episode, he good-naturedly talked about how ultras aren’t actually good for us, but why we love them anyway.

“There’s no question, ultrarunning is not good for you. … As far as exercising for health and wellness and physical condition, it’s very difficult to say where the optimum range is, but it’s probably around an hour of exercise a day. … Periodically going out and running for 24 to 48 hours [i.e. for a 100-miler] and evoking this extreme oxidative stress, inflammation, muscle injury, cardiovascular strain, and airway inflammation and digestive distress and all these kinds of things—yeah, that’s definitely not good for you.”

Well, shit. I’ve always known his point to be true on some level, but still, it’s hard to hear it put so bluntly. If I profess to care about my health and longevity, then why am I still doing extra-long ultras instead of being content with trail races in the half-marathon to 50K range?

And yet, I was glad to be in Lake City. Glad to run the glorious ribbon of trail above treeline and elated that I could, in fact, run a lot of it. Glad for all the good conversations with other runners. And, glad to be done.

How my race unfolded and how I met my goals

My race got off to a good start—but it didn’t for a few others. We lined up on a town street and started as a stampede on a backroad to a trailhead. The street had speed bumps, and in the 5 a.m. darkness, I witnessed a couple of runners trip on those speed bumps only about 100 feet from the start line and fall like bowling pins on the asphalt. One runner behind me face-planted, and his or her fingertips grazed the backs of my calves—a feeling that haunted me all morning.

Witnessing others fall at the start, and later, seeing others cope with nausea and dehydration, I reminded myself, “You’re doing fine” and “could be worse.”

In last week’s post, I listed five goals for the San Juan Solstice 50, and I met all but one—the important first one. These were the goals and how I did:

Get to the start line well rested and well prepared: I was not well rested due to a week of poor sleep. In the days leading up to it, I got only about six hours of interrupted sleep nightly, not the eight of solid sleep I needed, because our dogs barked in the middle of the night and, early Thursday morning, my husband had to wake at 3:15 a.m. to catch a shuttle to the airport to fly to his parents’ home in California since his mom was in the hospital. When I woke in the middle of the night most nights, anxious thoughts prevented me from falling back asleep. So I got to the start line feeling a bit worn out and sleep deprived from the get-go. I was well prepared logistically, and my training was adequate since early May’s Quad Rock 50, but I really wished I had more stored energy from better sleep.

Be smart about hydration and fueling to prevent bonking, dehydration, and nausea: Nailed this! On a hot, dry day in the high-altitude strong sun, I did well staying hydrated with the right amount of electrolytes (at least one 500ml bottle every hour, filled with one to two scoops of Tailwind equalling 300 - 600mg sodium per bottle). I kept sweating and was able to pee every couple of hours. My fingers did not swell like sausages, and my stomach did not turn from nausea. I took in about 50 - 60 grams of carbs per hour from the Tailwind plus gels or chews (the mild Precision Fuel gel being my favorite) and then ate more at aid stations, such as a full avo/cheese tortilla rollup at mile 31. I never had gut distress. This is a huge accomplishment for me, especially since so many runners were dehydrating or puking. I also stayed cool enough by wearing a sun-protection layer and using the bandana around my neck like a washcloth to get wet at every water crossing, soaking my long sleeves and cooling my head and neck.

Avoid trip-and-falls and turned ankles by staying focused rather than spacing out: I did not fall or turn an ankle, hooray. I stayed motivated and focused by challenging myself to average under 18 minutes/mile. When my pace slipped into the mid-20-minutes/mile on steep uphills or from spending extra time at aid stations, then I’d work to earn back minutes on the runnable miles to get my average pace lower. Here’s the elevation profile to show why this slow average pace wasn’t as easy to achieve as it might sound. Even on the runnable parts midway, being in such high altitude for a prolonged time—through blasts of strong wind—made running feel anemic.

Be friendly to everyone around me and thank the volunteers: I was in a social good mood with others and loved talking to three women whom I know from sharing miles at other ultras—Amanda Grimes, Barbara Olmer, and Shannon Meredith—during the first big climb. Later, on the Continental Divide section, I connected with a younger guy, Tim Ashurst, running his first 50. He happens to live in Telluride but we had never met, although we have mutual friends. I enjoyed mentoring him and helping him at an aid station. I made sure to thank all the volunteers for their home-prepped food.

Stay positive in the final 10 miles; replace discouragement and discomfort with self-compassion and a sense of humor: This was the toughest goal to meet, because the final segment—which looks relatively easy on the elevation profile—actually is tough due to the tangled, rocky trail that goes through an aspen and cottonwood forest. The two prior times I ran San Juan Solstice, I fell apart in these final 10 miles from fatigue and allergy-induced wheezing from all the pollen. (I took a non-drowsy Claritin this time, which helped.) I stayed steady on the final segment but definitely slowed down and hurt.

I met my goal of staying positive, however, thanks to a wonderful turn of events. An old ultra friend, Monica Ochs, showed up to the region since she finally got into Hardrock, and she told me the day prior that she could pace me in the final section. What a gift! Having Monica at my side boosted my spirits immeasurably, in spite of my legs, feet, and lower back aching intensely following the steep descent from the Divide section. I could barely pick up my knees and feet to run and instead shuffle-jogged and hiked to the finish.

When I felt twinges of embarrassment or frustration from my fatigued, slow slog, I told myself that it was good for Monica to witness my state of decline and soreness, since she’ll experience a similar level of slow pace and fatigue when she does Hardrock in less than three weeks.

I connected with Monica, who’s my age and lives in Washington state, back in 2009 after she placed second and I placed third in the Napa Valley Marathon. I followed her through the years and shared lodging when we both participated in Jason Koop’s ultra training camp in 2018. Then I wrote this story about her after her comeback from open-heart surgery for an aortic aneurysm repair. Being with her reminded me, for the umpteenth time, how long-distance running sparks the most satisfying relationships, because shared trail time fosters the best, most candid conversations. I’m extremely grateful to Monica and excited for her first Hardrock!

I reached the finish line only about a half-hour slower than the two prior times I did San Juan Solstice 50, my heart full as my body ached. I’m still sorting out the conflicted feelings I have about wanting to train for and run these events and also wanting to protect my body from the pain and potential damage they cause.

What’s next, then?

I’m going to take my name off the Hardrock waitlist. I don’t want the uncertainty of possibly being called to jump into the event only days, or even an hour, before it starts, if a spot opens due to another runner’s injury or no-show. My heart is not in it, nor do I feel prepared for it. I’d rather stick to my plan of volunteering at Hardrock’s Engineer aid station and supporting the runners who come through it. And, I’d rather take the next seven weeks to train and plan for San Juan Softie 100 in August. Yes, I want to do that—even though I lack confidence—because I’ve never been on that big trail loop, and the people and scene around the event appeal to me. So I’m going for that.

Many thanks to SJS50 race director Jerry Gray (who subscribes to this newsletter) and all the volunteers who made Saturday’s event exceptional and who carry on its tradition!

For your Western States Endurance Run fever

It’s the week when we collectively get hyped about the Western States Endurance Run and feel FOMO if we’re not involved in some way or hanging out in Olympic Valley (the race start) or Auburn (the finish). Here are a few resources I recommend to enhance your appreciation or feed the hype:

• (aka aidstationfireball) compiled this list of the best films about Western States. I’ve watched most and highly recommend them. If you have time for only three on the list, my picks are: Race for the Soul, a 25-year-old doc that shows oddball badass runners back in the day when they made do with fanny packs and when the sport was an extreme outlier; Life in a Day, spotlighting four top women in the 2016 edition (I have a soft spot for that film because that’s the year I ran it, and I have a small cameo); and of course, Unbreakable, the 2010 showdown featuring a young Kilian. What’s you favorite film on this list? Comment below.

• For history, read my review of Second Sunrise by John Trent, and then buy the book!

• And lastly, while I don’t follow Freetrail closely, their “Top 10 Storylines” video with a Western States preview, released Monday, is worth watching or listening to, thanks to the smart commentary by Dylan Bowman, Tim Tollefson, and Corrine Malcom. Watch the first couple of minutes, and then you’ll better appreciate this spoof by @dylisims_:

Best wishes and the best vibes to three subscribers to this newsletter who are running Western States on Saturday: Christina Vincent, , and my past Run Rabbit Run 100 pacer Amy Gordon (who’s also in Hardrock two weeks later!!). Am I missing anyone? If you read this newsletter and are in States, let us know in the comments below.

One final request

This is the final week of my fundraiser for two youth-oriented nonprofits, Telluride Rotary Club and True North Youth Program. I’m about $300 short of my goal. Please learn more about this fundraiser and consider donating to it by visiting my fundraising page before Sunday, June 28. Donations of any size are greatly appreciated!

Thank you for reading this far! Please let me know you were here by liking the post with the heart, or by commenting.

Happy summer solstice (a few days late). We’re fully into summer here in o…

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Welcome back, and welcome new subscribers. Many of you found your way here after reading my story published in The Guardian on Monday, “Midlife is the perfect time to start trail running — here’s how.” Thank you for subscribing!

I’ll start with the story behind that story. Why did I pitch it?

More times than I can recall, a woman (and sometimes a man) in my peer group has marveled at the ultras I do and said some variation of, “I don’t know how you run those trails,” or, “I never could do that.” Occasionally, I hear this from younger Millennials too.

I gently push back, “Oh, I bet you could build up to it,” or, “If I can stick with it and do it, anyone can,” and I really believe it. They don’t realize how far they can go if they start slowly, carefully, and gradually build their endurance. So I wanted to write an article for the mainstream that showed how to do that.

I also wrote it to inspire more adults to get into trail running because I hope to keep the burgeoning sport of trail/ultra a welcoming place for us oldsters. Ever since I started lining up for trail races a quarter-century ago, grizzled old-timers commanded respect for their experience, grit, and weathered style, be it their cutoff jeans, faded shirts, or homemade hand-held water bottles with the handle made from duct tape.

When I go to ultras now, I still see a good number of others with the saggy skin and graying hair that indicate we share the over-50 “grandmaster” category. But we’re swarmed by runners half our age.

The sport seems younger, faster, and more professional than ever. Gen Z young adults who transitioned from collegiate XC to top finishes at 50Ks have little knowledge of the trail-blazing ultrarunners who came before them. They learn about the sport through influencers on Instagram, YouTube, and TikTok, not UltraRunning magazine. Their social media posts convey a young-gun cockiness because they want to get noticed, get sponsored, and get results.

Ultrarunning’s traditional, more humble ethos—to respect and feel awe for the environment, build community, welcome and mentor others, and cheer for the back of the pack as much as the frontrunners—could fade away, overshadowed by an egocentric competitive vibe, unless more people carry on that generous and caring spirit, which I believe the elders in the sport are inclined to do.

Last weekend, I was happy to see that old-school ethos on display at the inaugural Bay Area 100, which I followed online since old friends put it on, and I used to run those trails when we lived in the East Bay.

Check out this Instagram clip that spotlights this guy Troy, age 58, who I used to run near at marathons in the late 1990s and early 2000s. I love his laid-back, positive vibe. I also admire the person questioning him, Bree Lambert-Sanders, now 57 (my age), a fierce but friendly competitor who used to beat me at ultras more than a decade ago. She’s volunteering and giving back to the sport now. Both Troy and Bree are role-modeling longevity and generosity in ultrarunning. This is the spirit I’m talking about and the vibe I want to help promote. Kudos to the Bay Area 100 for attracting as many older as younger runners, and for showcasing and celebrating them as much as the younger top competitors.

Building belief that you still can do it

More generally, with that article and through this newsletter, I want to build belief in others—and in myself—that we can keep going, doing, and trying new things. Slowing down as we age, which is normal, doesn’t have to trigger fading away and quitting.

Facing a 50-mile race this coming Saturday and not feeling very confident about it, I had to give myself a pep talk this week that I got this rather than dwell on my younger self being “better.” My younger self was different, not necessarily better, and I want to reframe aging as evolution, not decline.

Last Saturday, a Facebook memory photo hit hard and triggered all my insecurities about aging and fading. The photo is a silly selfie from mid-June of 2016 expressing heat and fatigue as I sat in my heated van for greater heat adaptation following a hot, long training run in advance of the Western States Endurance Run 100-miler. I felt a pang of wanting to turn back the clock and be the woman in that photo again.

In it, I have a UD hat because I was a brand ambassador for Ultimate Direction. I’m wearing a Tarawera 100K Buff because I had traveled to New Zealand and set my 100K PR there. The shirt is from the Marin Ultra Challenge 50K that I had finished in 5 hours that spring, one of the top women—more than an hour faster than I ran it this past spring. I was sitting in my hipster VW Eurovan with the pop-top, which I no longer own. And my face and neck had hardly any wrinkles! I look so much older now.

For a brief but intense moment, I missed being that fortysomething woman at her peak in the sport.

I had to remind myself that I love my life and myself now as is. A decade ago, I wasn’t sure where my husband and I and our kids—who were in high school then—would end up. I feared turning 50 and going through menopause, as if I’d turn into a dried-up and marginalized old lady overnight, and I carried a lot of anxiety about our family’s next phase. In the decade that followed, we built our home here in southwest Colorado, and my kids had positive college experiences and found their independence in adulthood. I’m proud of all I accomplished in that decade. And, I’m still running—not as competitively, and not as high volume, but as determinedly and positively.

Reframing goals

The inner talk and reality check described above is helping me approach this Saturday’s San Juan Solstice 50 with more celebration than anxiety, as if it’s an exciting mini-vacation and not a test. It’s a hell of a tough course, with nearly a quarter of the miles at extra-high elevation (around or above 12,000 feet) along the Continental Divide Trail. I have done it twice before, in 2018 and 2022, both times suffering greatly in the final 10 miles and taking more than 14 hours to finish.

Earlier this season, my automatic thought about the race was, “I need to break 14 hours this time.” Why? Why do I put that pressure on myself and ignore the reality that given my objectively slower pace now, I’ll likely struggle to break 15 hours? Why do I care about time, beyond the need to make the cutoffs to aid stations?

So I have set the following process-oriented goals and will be satisfied if I meet them, regardless of finishing time:

• get to the start line well rested and well prepared

• be smart about hydration and fueling to prevent bonking, dehydration, and nausea

• stay positive in final 10 miles; replace discouragement and discomfort with self-compassion and a sense of humor

• avoid trip-and-falls and turned ankles by staying focused rather than spacing out

• be friendly to everyone around me and thank the volunteers

If I can do those things—especially stay positive rather than dwelling on discomfort and self-pity in the final 10 miles—then I will feel good even if I have to put on my headlamp and finish in the dark close to the event’s 16-hour time limit.

I’m going to re-read the conversation I had with my ultra friend after our last 50-milers and stoke my desire to be out there and to finish proud.

Reading and listening recs

• I discovered Rebecca Rusch’s “What’s the Rusch?” show thanks to her interview with . It’s a great conversation that touches on some of the themes above—evolving as a competitor, accepting wherever you’re at now, and striving to be more present and playful. Now I’m eager to listen to some archived episodes of this show too.

• Yes, I’m recommending Your Diet Sucks again because their episode on “Why Am I So Hungry?” is fascinating and well-reported as always.

• The Substack writes about the business and culture of trail/ultra running. I usually don’t care much about brand news, but this story on the upstart brand Terignota—which is lower cost for admirable reasons, not merely cheap—captivated me and prompted me to buy a few items to test them out.

Finally, my friends Cristal and Amy have rebranded their women’s trail camp as Traverse Trail Camps and opened registration for their next camp, September 30 - October 4, in the beautiful high-desert Four Corners region in southwest Colorado. I attended their Sedona camp in early 2025 and highly recommend it. It’s beginner-friendly, for all ages and levels.

Thanks again for being here. I welcome comments if anything in this post resonated with you, and if you’re new here, feel free to introduce yourself.

I’m hosting the monthly paid-subscriber Zoom chat tomorrow; if you’d like an invitation to the monthly meetup, plus occasional bonus posts, please consider upgrading your subscription to the supporter level.

We’re Zooming this coming week! Please drop into the Zoom chat on Thursday, June 18, 5pm …

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That all happened for me last week as I pushed pause on regular life to go back to Ojai, in Southern California, for my 40th high school reunion with the class of 1986. For me, it’s more than a high school reunion because I grew up there, on the campus of Thacher School, as a faculty kid and met my future husband there. My grandpa taught there for three decades, my dad was a student there and later worked there, my kids went there too, and I served on the board for nearly a decade in my forties. It connects our generations and holds my origin story.

For us, it became a family reunion too as my daughter celebrated her 10th reunion and her engagement party, and my son—who now works at the school—was on the job there, so I got to witness him in his role as a leader and guide. My big brother also showed up for his 50th reunion.

It’s fitting our hotel was called Su Nido (Spanish for “your nest”). The town, Ojai, traces its name back to the Native Chumash word for “nest,” and the oval-shaped east-west valley ringed by coastal mountains forms a giant amphitheater-like nest. Of course, I thought about how I had left the nest, and my kids had too, and now I am an “empty-nester.”

But I had no sense of loss or pangs of sadness about my kids’ independence and time’s passage, except when missing my dad, who was in the class of ‘51 and hence would’ve been there for his 75th reunion if he were still alive at 92. Instead, I felt fulfillment and ease, as if cradled in that nest, as if I’m finally settled.

If we’re lucky, we arrive at a certain mellowness in the later phase of midlife—once we’re past our kids’ pivotal adolescent and college years, past the pain and goodbyes involved with caregiving our aging parents, past the need to prove ourselves professionally, past the worry about financial stability—and we can exhale and think, “My job here is done,” and soak in the present. That’s how I felt. More than nostalgic, content.

We gathered on the first morning at the stables, the place I spent almost every early morning and after-school afternoon of my youth and practiced a homegrown form of equine therapy to cope with family conflict and peer pressures. The school has a horse program that has been its defining characteristic since its founding in 1889, and now my son is a key person in that program as a riding instructor and farrier.

The heady fragrance of horse manure, dust, and chaparral—the perfume of my youth—put me at ease, as did the sounds of horse hooves and the feel of every second-nature interaction with a horse. My daughter beamed as her fiancé—our new family member—held the reins and settled in his saddle with confidence, as if he had passed our family’s litmus test for acceptance. My son, on a palomino, guided us up a trail where I looked to one side to remember the night of October 5, 1984, when my husband and I had snuck off there to a clearing to look at the starlit nighttime valley and shared a first kiss. All that effort that we put in our relationship to get through low points and stay together as a couple had been worth it.

Looking at my son, whose 25th birthday we just celebrated, I thought how objectively strange yet in my mind reasonable it is that this reunion even shaped his birthday. Back in 2001, I had yearned to attend my 15th reunion in early June. I had felt intensely pulled to return to this place not only to see my classmates, but also my siblings and parents who would be there. I had just turned 32, was nine months pregnant and ready to pop, and feeling anxious about the transition to parenting two kids and figuring out whether and how I’d restart a shelved career. My homing instinct went into overdrive. I needed the getaway to Ojai to feel grounded and supported—I needed to return to the nest.

So, figuring I could handle a road trip with a toddler and newborn if I had at least a week to recover, I had our son induced on May 31 (a day past his due date). Then our foursome drove from our Bay Area home back to Ojai so we could attend reunion that year. Instead of being exhausted by postpartum travel, I felt energized.

The weekend reminded me that relationships form the foundation of happiness, and our schools and communities shape our character. In my teens, I rebelled strongly against the school and yearned to escape the small town. I spread my wings, intentionally distanced myself from my parents, and became a runner in part to run from my past. Then I circled back and was welcomed back. I try to honor the teachers, horses, and friends who gave me so much by giving back to the school as a dedicated alumna. I’m so fortunate to have a place—this nest—to call home.

Adventure in midlife and beyond

On Saturday, I was asked to participate on an alumni speaker panel about “adventure in midlife and beyond,” to talk to peers and younger alumni about how to stay active in the outdoors. In addition to the horse program, the school prioritizes outdoor education and organizes camping trips for students and faculty a couple of times a year. They wanted us to share how our upbringing at the school contributed to being outdoorsy and adventurous later in life.

I’m sharing some excerpts, especially from my childhood playmate and lifelong friend Carolyn (pictured in the video on my left) who was on the panel. She and her husband (also one of our classmates) just finished bike-packing for weeks across Morocco, having also bike-packed across Canada. When we were asked what adventure means to us, she said, “For me, adventure is being on the steepest part of the learning curve, and that’s my favorite place to be, whether it’s learning about a new culture or a new way to interact.”

I shared my view that adventure involves seizing opportunities to do new things even though you can’t plan for everything and can’t be certain of the outcome. We all talked about the satisfaction of getting to remote places self-powered.

Asked how our generation and upbringing had shaped our sense of adventure, Carolyn and I reflected on our youth, when we ran wild and unsupervised on the campus. I don’t think we ever played inside with dolls, because we always were outside, either in her tree house reading or on a ropes course literally hanging out and daring ourselves. In addition to riding horses, we rode big-wheels without helmets down a perilous steep road. Unlike kids today, Carolyn said, “we were unsupervised and un-entertained. We had to entertain ourselves and figure out our own limits.”

I added, “We grew up so playful as faculty kids and then as students. We’d just play and explore. When I became a student, I became an ultra-wanderer and would wander at night, sometimes well beyond campus. That kind of adolescent rebelliousness and desire to explore feeds in to what I do now as an ultrarunner.”

When asked why we approach senior years as a time to be active and adventurous, I answered, “Well, it beats the alternative. As we age, we become creatures of habit and routine, so however you are becomes self-perpetuating. For me, I do it because it enriches our lives and keeps me feeling young, and also, I like being a mentor in my sport. I remember being in my thirties and forties and looking up to women in their fifties, and now I want to provide that role modeling for younger women who want to do mountain running.”

We were asked, what would you say to someone who feels like adventure is something they used to do rather than something they still do?

“I would say, start small,” I said. “Do anything that feels challenging, whether it’s going on a one-mile hike or starting a new project. Sometimes an adventure can be volunteering for something. Just put yourself out there.”

Carolyn added, “Start small but also be audacious. If there’s something you want to do, don’t sell yourself short. If you get something big in your head, think, ‘maybe I can do this.’”

I shared some photos from the long weekend on my Instagram, if you’d like to see. Also, if you get to visit and run around Ojai, I encourage you to read my piece in the new UltraRunning about Ojai trails, which is an homage to hometown trails as well as a guide on where to run there. Gift link here.

Congrats

I know of three subscribers who finished ultras this weekend. Bridget Wilson aka Blue finished her first-ever ultra, the Dam Yeti 55K in Virginia. Erica Moore finished the 50-mile division of that race and wrote an excellent race report about what makes the Yeti events special and truly inclusive. And Suzanna Bon nailed the Scout Mountain 100 (a Hardrock qualifier) in a strong time, placing 11th, and became the first over-60 woman ever to finish Scout Mountain 100.

Who am I missing? Share the news in the comments of a race you ran this past weekend! And I’d love to hear if this post triggered any thoughts on growing up and going back to reunions.

My head feels as if it might explode from trying to keep track of too many things. It’s my fault—I over-scheduled myself during a week shortened by travel, and I didn’t get done all I needed to do last week due to a combination of running and procrastination. (The more I care about something, the more I tend to procrastinate because I want to get it just right. Perfectionist procrastinators, I see you.) The running, however, complemented my work with unplugged time to think and gain perspective.

I travel early tomorrow to Ojai, California, for a trio of poignant celebrations: my son’s 25th birthday, my daughter’s engagement party, and my 40th high school reunion packed with gatherings and activities. So I really must get my shit together and pack a variety of outfits for running, horseback riding, cocktail hours, and looking like a mother of a bride (help?!) before bedtime.

Last week, I did manage to accomplish the training I need in advance of June 20’s San Juan Solstice 50. I set aside a half day for three days in a row for longer, steeper back-to-back runs on tired legs. (I also lifted weights and exercised our horses.) Thankfully, the ankle tendon flareup and heel pain that bothered me during and after the Quad Rock 50 faded away, and I feel back to normal and healthy.

My volume wasn’t all that impressive last week in terms of mileage, but the slow pace on steep terrain meant 15-plus hours and 15,000-plus feet of elevation gain on the trail in higher altitude. I need that adaptation for upcoming mountain ultras.

Three years ago, I wrote a post that showed how and when to build a big-volume, big-vert week into your training cycle; here it is, with a section on “the gift of a DIY training camp.” The evergreen training principles in it are guiding my buildup now.

The 50-miler in early May gave me a fitness boost, so I’m heading into summer cautiously optimistic and eager for the season’s races. However, I had an anxiety dream about the Hardrock Hundred two nights ago—one of those “can’t get there” nightmares where you can’t get going, can’t find your way, or can’t get something to work. The dream involved arriving to the start line after others had left and pawing through messy, overly stuffed drop bags.

No doubt the small but not impossible chance that I’ll get off the Hardrock waitlist prompted the dream. I didn’t think I had any chance of getting into Hardrock this year, but now it could happen since I’m number six on the “Female Finishers” list but three ahead of me haven’t turned in their service requirement forms, so they may drop off the list. So, who knows?

In any case, this is how my race calendar now looks:

• San Juan Solstice 50 June 20

• volunteering at a remote pack-in aid station at Hardrock July 10-11 (or possibly running it if the wait list moves significantly)

• Aspen Backcountry Marathon August 1 (a final long training run for the Softie)

• San Juan Softie 100 August 14-15 (which I’d skip if by chance I get into Hardrock)

• Imogene Pass Run 17-miler (a local classic, I haven’t run it since 2019)

• volunteering/pacing at The Mammoth 200 in the Eastern Sierra October 2 - 5

• Javelina Jundred 100-miler near Phoenix October 31

Brainstorming and writing all on my own, never with AI

Earlier this morning, I turned in a freelance article after struggling with it for days. (I’ll share the publication and link later, after I’m sure the story makes it into the world.) I’m trying to freelance more, while my in-limbo manuscript awaits judgment from a publisher, to strengthen my atrophied journalistic muscles and to “build my platform,” which involves getting known as an authority and personality on the topic that my book concerns (mainly, midlife and ultrarunning).

This assignment intimidated me because it’s for a major mainstream publication, and I’m new to the editor. I made the classic well-intentioned mistake of over-reporting it and then using only a small fraction of the material distilled for the 1500-word limit.

In spite of (or partly because of) the struggle, I loved the challenging process. I loved finding and interviewing original sources, figuring out the angle, deciding on the essential nuggets of info to include, mustering confidence to write in my conversational voice, and making every sentence—every word—work hard and matter. The ideas and phrases marinated in my mind as I ran. The story assignment engaged my brain like a big puzzle.

I wrote it entirely on my own (as I do with any piece of writing)—from the first email pitch to the editor, to the final revision—and the only online help came from standard Google searches and my dictionary/thesaurus.

I share this because last week, I consumed more of the snowballing news and analysis about how AI is changing (I’d say, hijacking) the business of publishing and the craft of writing. More nonfiction books written mostly with AI are coming to market. More writers are leaning heavily on AI to “brainstorm”—asking for help and feedback on their ideas—and to revise.

I despise everything about this AI takeover (except the scientific and medical advances that can save lives; for example, our fire department invested in an AI-powered smoke monitor, which quickly detected a lightning-caused fire in the woods two miles from our home earlier this season, sparking rapid response).

I cringe at all the cheesy AI-generated graphics increasingly illustrating articles and showing up in my feed. I’m tempted to compose a snarky reply to every email I receive that has a weirdly effusive and flattering tone, knowing someone couldn’t be bothered to write it themselves so they asked AI to craft the message.

People, we’re handing over our critical thinking skills and creativity to machines developed by bazillionaire bros who have little to no care about ethics. We’re taking shortcuts in the name of productivity as if speeding up the process and increasing the volume will make life better and solve our problems. (It won’t.) We’re normalizing plagiarism, recycling and repackaging others’ ideas and work, and gulping down spoon-fed facts without questioning where they came from and how they’re biased or plain wrong.

I took an online marketing workshop a couple of weeks ago with an expert publicist who represents authors, and she rubbed me the wrong way when she extolled the virtues of AI not only for organizing tasks (which I get can be helpful) but also for generating ideas and gaining feedback. Funny thing is, she just wrote this essay about detecting bias in AI and realizing that it was trying to change her opinion, prompting her to recall the scene in Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey when the machine talks back, “I’m sorry, Dave, I’m afraid I can’t do that.” In other words, it dawned on her that AI is trying to shape opinion, and we could lose control to it. Yeah, no shit.

I recommend this NY Times Opinion piece (gift link) by an author and educator who wrote:

“Increasingly, many people I talk to—from students to teachers to peers—tell me that they think it’s OK to use AI chatbots for brainstorming as long as they do the ‘real work’ of writing. But this misunderstands something critical: Brainstorming is the work that’s fundamental to writing. As a researcher studying AI’s effects on education, I have concluded that these tools only superficially improve writing. The bigger and more alarming impact they have is to constrict our full range of thoughts and our ability to generate original and useful ideas—what we call creative thinking.”

In addition to that piece, I recommend this essay on “what publishing’s latest AI scandal reveals about the future of AI and authorship” by , who has become my go-to expert analyzing the publishing landscape and AI’s effect on it.

So I’m holding the line as a traditional writer/journalist and celebrating original thinkers and authentic creators. With that in mind, I recommend the following.

The best, most original writing I recently read

Yesteryear by Carol Claire Burke: Yes, I’m on this much-hyped book’s bandwagon. The premise hooked me (a smart, jaded, and hypocritical trad-wife influencer experiences the harsh reality of the throwback 19th-century life she romanticizes and profits from through Instagram), and the character’s subversive and self-centered personality alternately made me admire and loathe her. The book left me pondering my lifelong obsession with Laura Ingalls Wilder, country-music lyrics, different takes on feminism and the patriarchy, the MAHA movement, and why the Murdoch’s in Montrose has all those racks of prairie dresses for sale.

Climbing Through by Melissa Strong: This new memoir by an Estes Park woman shares her experience as an accomplished sponsored climber who in 2017 suffered a horrific freak electrocution accident that burned and disfigured her hands. The detailed account of her reconstructive surgeries, followed by her struggle to open a restaurant that she invested in pre-accident and her determination to return to climbing, captivated me like a reality show. As a non-climber, I also appreciated the window into how people learn to climb and become so passionate about it.

A new Substack worth your time: My long-distance friend started a Substack to chronicle her life and projects this summer. She’s a force. Read her About page and first posts here:

Erica Figures It Out

Personal experiments in accountability. Filing notes from the field. One season at a time.

By Erica Moore

Several new subscribers here came to me from Erica’s recommendation of my newsletter (thank you). If you’re here because you know Erica or want to get to know her, then you’ll probably enjoy this post I wrote about her three years ago:

Asking for support to benefit youth in our community

I’m leading a community fundraiser, the Telluride Rotary Hikeathon, which raises money for the local Rotary club and other nonprofits. I came up with the idea last year to benefit the community at large and to motivate people to get outside and hike, and we had the second-annual kickoff last Sunday. Participants hike (or run) to meet a mileage goal during four weeks in June and ask friends for support to raise funds for the nonprofits.

I’m raising money both for Telluride Rotary—for their college scholarships, international youth exchange program, and community grants—and also for a regional organization whose board I’m now chairing, True North Youth Program. True North does an incredible job providing academic support, afterschool programs, and guidance for teens, most of whom live in the rural part of our region with limited financial support and fewer opportunities.

I’d sincerely appreciate if you’d donate to my campaign! You can donate at this link. Big thanks and shout-out to these newsletter subscribers who generously donated to my campaign already: Katie Debski, Mitch Gunderson, Melissa Hendershott, and Jim Ostrem.

Lastly…

This Saturday, June 6, is National Trails Day sponsored by the American Hiking Society. Learn about it and find a trail-stewardship event near you.

Thank you for reading this far! I encourage you to share your summer race plans and/or your thoughts on anything above in the comments.

I didn’t run much last week, because an ankle tendon unexpectedly flared, but I barely had time to run anyway because I prioritized a mind-expanding, heart-opening experience that happens once a year, which is the focus of today’s post.

I reminded myself that it’s fine to have an off week from training, and it can be beneficial if it fulfills you in other ways and allows your body to recharge. This week, I’m back to higher-volume training before tapering for June 20’s San Juan Solstice 50.

Last Thursday through Monday, I was in the audience for four feature-length documentary films, 17 short documentaries, three speaker panels, one author reading, and one writing workshop. My head buzzed and butt hurt from sitting and listening, and it was so worth it. The events were all part of the incredible MountainFilm fest.

I won’t attempt to mention them all but rather share some takeaways and urge you to watch the films linked.1 The festival’s mission is to use film, art, and ideas to inspire audiences to create a better world, and I hope this post will spread that mission.

We need to pay attention and think critically about what’s happening. We need to pay attention, period. Perhaps the most important film with far-reaching consequences, Your Attention Please is a must-see for understanding and resisting the fundamental ways that social media and the companies that run them have fundamentally changed individuals and society, and a call for us to reclaim our human connections and focus. Even if you think you already know all about the harms caused by our dependency on social media platforms and the devices they run on, I believe this film will open your mind to the ways they’re designed to alter our behavior, viewpoints, and relationships—and also, it may help you recognize how the rise of AI undercuts critical thinking and creativity. We can resist, and tech companies can design better systems, but it takes awareness, action, and regulation. It takes more focus on the problem, less distraction. For me, the film sparked a stronger re-examination of my habits and relationship to my phone.

Good films about running (or about any outdoor adventure) aren’t really about running or the adventure. They’re about the athlete’s emotional journey and resiliency. I watched three running-oriented films, and together they reminded me of the myriad ways that people can come to running and compete in it, leading to a more fulfilling and self-examined life because of the practice of running.

The feature-length She Runs the World is a riveting look at Allyson Felix’s journey to become the most-decorated Olympic track star and the stand she took against Nike to fight for maternal rights when she became pregnant. Even if you’ve read about her story, I hope you’ll have an opportunity to see the film to witness her athletic and emotional development. When your values are tested, what will you do, how will you act? Like many MountainFilm films, this one portrays courage.

I also recommend the short film Run In Beauty about Alexandria Staten connecting to her Diné heritage as she ran and struggled through the Western States Endurance Run, and Dicks-A-Thon about a wacky, joyous marathon in Seattle—involving a stop at each of the Dick’s fast-food outlets to consume burgers and shakes—with a tragic backstory.

Small everyday stories matter when they reveal universal truths about the human condition and our connection to one anther. One of the most original and heartfelt films, Stalin Boys, portrays a group of four Mexican-American boys in a remote middle school preparing for the Texas State History Fair. One of the boys becomes obsessed with Joseph Stalin and the nature of good and evil. He and his friends show deep commitment to rehearsing their play for the history fair competition—and they also genuinely play like goofy boys in between grappling with serious subject matter—under the guidance of a dedicated teacher who will inspire all public-education teachers.

The Baker’s Hotline is another quiet, funny short film about everyday people that moved me by showing how much people can care for one another. In this case, people are brought together by queries to the King Arthur Flour call center about baking problems. Helping one another through baking ultimately combats isolation and self-doubt.

Recognize your privilege, and care about and work for those who don’t share it. During MountainFilm, I repeatedly thought about how fortunate I am to be in Telluride, in an able body, financially secure and unthreatened—and then I asked myself, what will I do with this good fortune to translate awareness into action to make the world a better place?

Mujer Santuario (Sanctuary Woman) is a searing portrayal of one impoverished woman living in a church basement who’s threatened with deportation. She works tirelessly and uses her voice to mobilize others to fight against ICE raids and the cruelest aspects of the immigration crackdown. Her defiance in the face of threats made me think about how privileged those of us are who make a goal to “get out of our comfort zone” through endurance sports compared to people whose daily life is highly uncomfortable and a chronic test of endurance to survive.

I also considered my horses’ privilege—they have wide-open pastures to graze—and how fortunate I am to have horses in my life when I watched Fletcher Street, about the Fletcher Street Urban Riding Club, a horse stable in the most violent-prone area of Philadelphia that provides a place for Black youth to escape hardship and build positive character traits by working with horses. The stables are falling apart and cramped, and they don’t have an arena in which to ride, so the young people and their mentors ride through the urban streets and make the best of what’s available. Seeing the power of horses to transform lives touched me deeply, even as it filled me with anxiety about the fate of the riders and the horses in that tough environment.

Perhaps the most tearjerking and eye-opening film related to privilege and access is the feature that won the festival’s coveted Audience Award, Best Day Ever. It’s about athletes with spinal cord injuries who become adaptive mountain bikers and the advocates who build the first fully adaptive trail network in Vermont (meaning, the trails and their bridges are wide and smooth enough for special adaptive bikes). It made me recall the mixed feelings I had a couple of years ago when I did trail work on a popular local trail to make it accessible to adaptive bikes. As I cut back roots and plants to widen the way and make it more of a path than a rugged trail, I had misgivings about further altering nature for recreation’s sake. This film challenged those misgivings and made me acutely aware of how blessed I am to move nimbly and unassisted through nature.

Related to the topic of public lands access and conservation, I appreciated the thoughtful panel discussion featuring the main character in Best Day Ever, Greg Durso, and author Kevin Fedarko as they discussed the inherent tension between preserving the wilderness and building infrastructure to provide access to it. How do we promote equal access to the most special natural places without fundamentally altering the landscape and creating crowding that “loves it to death”? Certainly we can make trail modifications in places that enable adaptive athletes to experience the outdoors while drawing the line at overblown and profit-motivated projects that degrade the experience for all, such as the tramway proposed for the Grand Canyon to transport thousands of tourists to the canyon’s floor.

Privilege and public lands management were at the core of another feature film I urge you to see, burn, scar, about a US Forest Service prescribed burn in 2022 in Northern New Mexico that got out of control and became the largest wildfire in the state’s history. The fire and subsequent flooding destroyed homes and livelihoods of people struggling to make a living off the land. The film delved into the increasing challenges to manage forest land due to climate change and the government’s cutbacks.

Never forget: you’ll die one day, which could be tomorrow, so make the most of your relationships and experiences now. I can’t stop thinking of Teeth to the Wind, a buddy story about two incredible and accomplished alpinists. One of them, Michael Gardner, died from a fall after they began making the film. He grew up in the nearby mountain town of Ridgway as a skateboarder whose father had died in a climbing accident, and his goofy and humble personality belied an exceptional athlete who pushed to extremes. The deep, caring friendship with his adventure partner exemplified how we are better together. I generally have a hard time stomaching extreme climbing films, knowing how many have died in the pursuit (e.g. Hilaree Nelson), but I also think about how we can die from cruel illness or random accidents, so I respect others’ choices to take calculated risks in pursuit of living a fuller life. I appreciated that this film did not address the tragedy but rather celebrated the pair’s moxie, humor, and grit.

In-person events always feel better and more effective than remote or virtual gatherings. A special part of MountainFilm is the face-to-face conversations and eye contact that we make while waiting in line or sitting side by side. No online network can replace the intimacy and ideas-exchange of a shared experience. These interactions sparked connections that I intend to follow up on and nurture.

On the final day of MountainFilm, I heard the humanitarian Maggie Doyne say, “I came here depleted, and I left full. That’s what MountainFilm is for me: You come in a little empty, and then it lights you up and you’re like, ‘I’m going back. My sleeves are rolled and I’m ready and in.’ Every single indomitable spirit and every person filled me, and I needed that.” (Her work supporting Nepal children was profiled in the 2024 film Between the Mountain and the Sky, my favorite film at the festival that year—see it if you can!)

We can’t all climb the world’s highest peaks or fully devote our lives to activism. But filmmaking and literature about outdoor adventure and the indomitable spirit gives us a window to difficult, uplifting, impressive experiences and makes us better prepared to climb metaphorical peaks and work for change in our corner of the world.

So see the films, read the books, and connect in person with others in the process. It’s infinitely more enlightening, touching, and long lasting than scrolling Instagram or TikTok.

You can bring MountainFilm films to your area through the MountainFilm On Tour program.

Last week’s post generated more than the usual number of likes and comments, and I want to thank everyone who shared encouragement or said they could relate.

I felt motivated to train again for the San Juan Solstice 50 and after that, the San Juan Softie 100—in part thanks to that feedback—and had a few good runs. Suddenly, out of the blue and without any unusual movement to prompt it, the lateral right ankle started hurting Monday night with what feels like peroneal tendonitis. It’s so tender, I’m limping downstairs. So I’m typing this with my right foot elevated, taking a few days of rest, and trying not to worry about it too much. Progress, I remind myself, often is three steps forward, one or two back.

This week’s post is a collection of recommended links and commentary. I wrote a bonus post yesterday with a personal story for paid subscribers. If you’d like to receive occasional bonus posts and an invitation to the monthly online meetup, please consider upgrading your subscription to the supporter level.

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Sports science you can use

The prolific Dr. writes about sports medicine and fitness with advice often tailored to us older athletes. His recent post is lengthy but worth reading if you’ve ever puzzled over what your smart watch or Oura ring’s data means and what, if anything, you should do with those numbers.

He breaks down what you should pay attention to most (e.g. resting heart rate) and what you should view skeptically (e.g. proprietary terms like Garmin’s “Body Battery” score) to guide your training, and explains why the intuitive Rate of Perceived Effort matters most of all.

Built to Move, Born to Heal: Notes on Midlife Fitness

Wearables: Stop Letting Your Watch Tell You Not to Exercise

The wearable on your finger or wrist is trying to talk to you. Whether it is an Apple Watch, an Ultrahuman ring, a Garmin, or any of the other devices that now track everything from your heart rate variability to how many minutes you spent in deep sleep, the amount of data coming at you is significant. But it can be very noisy… so the question is whether you are actually paying attention to the right signals or letting noise get in the way of your progress. That’s the goal of this post. It’s long… but it’s important if you want to get the most out of your wearable data without overreacting to messy signals…

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2 months ago · 34 likes · 19 comments · Howard Luks MD

If you want the dummy’s version of his essential points, you can read my post from January:

On my Saturday run, I listened to another smart and fascinating podcast by Zoë Rom and Kylee Van Horn of Your Diet Sucks, this one on the history and dubious science of counting calories. I know, calorie talk can trigger calorie restriction and an adversarial relationship with food. But this episode likely will do the opposite—it’ll help you understand how misguided our collective relationship to calories has been for over a century, how wrongheaded and low the standard guideline of 2000/day is, and why endurance athletes especially should focus instead on estimated servings of macros (carbs, protein, fat) and the body’s cues to get what they need nutritionally.

Great writing to read, songs to listen to—and phony slop to boycott

Sorry, I can’t help bring up Cocodona for the third week in a row. This time, I’m celebrating that the female and male champs, Rachel Entrekin (who writes under ) and Kilian Korth (who writes under ), are here on Substack writing long-form, from-the-heart race reports told in their own distinctive and authentic voice, which gets their burgeoning fans to read something longer than an Instagram caption. In spite of the heavy Cocodona media coverage and multiple post-race interviews they did for podcasts, their first-person narratives shared details that weren’t told elsewhere. Read Rachel’s story here and Kilian’s here.

Earlier this season, I wrote a bonus post on my strong stance against AI because of how it normalizes plagiarism, threatens authors and artists, and is harming the landscape in so many ways. My post had been behind a paywall, but I unlocked it here and hope you might give it a read, given that the Barnes & Noble CEO said he has “no problem” selling AI-written books.

When you take an outlier stance, it feels good to know you’re not alone. I had a heartening interaction this week on the topic with our region’s incredibly talented singer-songwriter Emily Scott Robinson, whose new album “Appalachia” is breaking out nationally thanks to rave reviews on NPR and this piece in Rolling Stone. (You really should buy her album and listen to it song by song for a moving experience. Her “Dirtbag Saloon” captures what’s happening in mountain towns like Telluride.)

Anyway, here’s the AI-related story that happened. I was scrolling Instagram and came upon a local real estate agent’s post that showed a series of AI-generated images of the agent looking as phony and idealized as an avatar, sitting in fake mountain settings. She had a caption that said something along the lines of, “I’m having so much fun exploring my creativity with AI. What do you all think of using AI for real estate?” (I can’t quote her directly because she took down the post after the following exchange.)

I know this real estate agent personally, and we have mutual friends, so I paused for a beat before sharing my opinion. Then I thought, what the hell, she needs to hear this. I typed, “Majorly dislike. Sorry but you asked. I value authenticity.” To her credit, she replied with clapping hands emojis and thanked me for my honesty. I further clarified my view with a followup comment, “I can’t support AI use because of how it’s threatening so much of our landscape and the creative work of artists and authors.”

Then, thankfully, Emily Scott Robinson liked my comments and posted her own views about how she would never work with a real estate agent who used altered images because it undercuts their honesty and authenticity, and she expanded on the points about AI stealing from and threatening the creative work of artists like herself. She also read my post linked above.

Emily then texted (and told me, when I asked, that I could share her message here), "Thank you for being willing to have the hard conversations. As a writer and artist, I have an impossible time understanding why someone would want to outsource those things to AI. I’ve heard folks say it’s like a voluntary lobotomy. I love writing—I love the struggle and process of it. I love finding the phrase that’s most succinct and surprising.… Most people I know do not want to be fed AI art, music, or journalism, but it’s getting to the point where they cannot tell the difference, and I am aghast there are no consumer protections in place. It’s like the worst version of the Wild West. I am grateful for your kinship in this crazy world.”

I share this interaction here to encourage you to speak out against AI use in the creative process and boycott the use of generative AI as much as possible. Celebrate real, original writers and their stories (along with songwriters and their music, and artists and graphic designers and their non-AI artwork). Be a good literary citizen by buying human-authored work from independent retailers or Bookshop.org (and for audiobooks, Libro.fm instead of Audible).

Lastly—and this relates to the celebration and elevation of untold stories and creativity—I’m thrilled it’s time for MountainFilm in Telluride, a film festival devoted to documentaries and speaker events about the environment, outdoor adventure, social justice, and the indomitable spirit in us all. I’ll be in theaters most of Friday through Sunday to catch as much of it as I can. First up is an author event with Bridget Crocker, whose memoir The River’s Daughter I reviewed and highly recommend:

Thanks for reading and supporting this newsletter and other real human-authored work!

This note goes to the inner circle of paid subscribers.

I paused for a small moment of Zen on my run last Saturday to admire this opening in a snowfield located above Telluride at about 11…

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Around mile 33 of last Saturday’s Quad Rock 50, I checked my phone to see if I had enough bars of service to call or text Morgan to pick me up at the crew-accessible mile 40 aid station. Even though I had a good-enough cushion to the next aid station’s cutoff time, the timeline exerted pressure to hustle and consequent perception of failure when I couldn’t.

Blisters had erupted on swollen toes, and a weird pain and stiffness on the sides of my heels restricted the ability to flex my foot. My running had devolved into a flat-footed shuffle with as much hiking as running on extra-rocky singletrack trails. The sun’s direct strength crisped my forearms, and my lower back twinged warning signs.

I took my AirPods out of my hydration pack to listen to mood-boosting music, and when I opened the little white case, I discovered it was empty because I had left the AirPods loose on the hotel’s bedside table.

For these reasons and more, my ultra Saturday lacked joy and enthusiasm. I did not connect with other runners to chat the way I typically do mid-ultra, so I missed the camaraderie. Caught in comparison with the positive vibes and tremendous performances witnessed the week prior at the Cocodona 250, I couldn’t help berating myself for falling apart after a mere half day when so many had sustained their bodies’ locomotion over three or more days.

I did not call Morgan. I traversed the full 50 miles. But during the final couple of hours of the 13.5-hour “run,” when I walked excessively and got passed repeatedly on smoother runnable miles to the finish, I struggled to manage the discomfort and to quiet the negative chatter. The loop through my head went, Why do I want to do San Juan Solstice 50, and San Juan Softie 100, after this? Maybe I don’t. Maybe I want to take summer off from hard training …

Facts I need to remember: I finished a half hour before the cutoff after dozens of others had dropped; only 103 of the 168 starters finished, a 38 percent DNF rate. Race director Brad Bishop told me 39 of the 65 drops were due to the runner missing a cutoff (and the event’s permit restrictions necessitate the tight cutoff times). It’s a damn tough route with six major mountain passes on mostly technical terrain. I managed my fueling and hydration well. I only fell once. I did fine.

But I didn’t feel fine. I was pretty down on myself and ambivalent about other ultras on calendar.

So I called my friend Suzanna to commiserate and excerpted our conversation below.

I’ve written about Suzanna Bon before (like in this post about her ass-kicking Tor des Géants when she finished tenth at the European 200-miler in 2022). She lives 40 minutes from me, so we sometimes do long training runs together. At 61, she’s one of the most accomplished and still-fast older ultrarunners I know. She has been running ultras since the early 2000s, has multiple wins at tough 100s to her name, and earned her way onto Team USA at the international 24-hour world championship back in 2013.

Last Saturday, while I was in northern Colorado running Quad Rock 50 near Fort Collins, Suzanna was near Los Alamos, New Mexico, running the Jemez Mountain 50. The two courses are similar with about 11,000 feet of elevation gain and excessively technical singletrack (although Jemez’s route runs long at about 53 miles, and temperatures were about 10 degrees hotter there than Quad Rock’s highs).

Suzanna did not have the day she wanted or trained for, either. The course took her 14 hours, 40 minutes because she spent at least an hour at aid stations to cope with dehydration and cramping.

We Zoomed on Monday, and I condensed our conversation to share this short excerpt below.

“These fucking hard races”

Me: “I’m not necessarily looking for a pep talk but a reality check of what happened and why I felt the way I felt. Tell me how Saturday went for you.”

Suzanna: “I felt great for the first 20 miles, and then the heat started to get to me. I look back and see signs that I should have caught. Like, why do I feel a little lightheaded? Oh, I haven’t peed in four hours. You know, stuff like that. Anyway, the long and short of it is, I got super dehydrated. It’s a hard race, it’s exposed, it’s steep, and by the time I realized how severely dehydrated I was, I was cramping—like, I couldn’t move on the trail. My calves cramped completely … my feet were like ballerina toes. Long story short, I suffered. Fifteen miles took me five hours.

“Mike Smith [a 68-year-old ultrarunner from Santa Fe with 373 Ultrasignup results], bless his heart, put me back together with pickle juice, which I’m never going to another ultra without. I’ve never really been part of the Pickle Juice Club, but now I am, fully.”

Me: “I think our races were similar in that we both faded and fell apart in the second half. I had a strong first half, and then I—both mentally and physically—really started to hurt … I was losing my agility, doing this stumpy little shuffle-shuffle, and it was kind of demoralizing. I was like, I’m falling apart after 25 to 30 miles, so who am I to think I can still do San Juan Solstice 50 or San Juan Softie 100 this summer, let alone the Mammoth 200 possibly next year? So I was down on myself, and then I thought, well, you know, at this point in the year, my body’s not trained to go past six hours that well, and this is the day when I do the training. Tell me about your mental state Saturday.”

Suzanna: “I was convinced when I crossed the finish line that I was gonna pull out of Scout Mountain [the June 5 100-miler in Idaho that’s a Hardrock qualifier]. … Now, I’m thinking about my next steps towards training for Scout Mountain.”

Me: “You really have been training more than me this spring, and you got so much adaptation from Saturday—you stressed yourself so much—that once you recover, you’re gonna have a fitness bump.”

Suzanna: “What do you think will build your confidence up for San Juan Solstice?”

Me: “I have to find the desire. With San Juan Solstice, the two times I’ve done it, I’ve finished over 14 hours and fell apart in the final 10 miles, so my goal going into it has been to go for 14 hours flat and have a strong final 10 miles. But that’s where my confidence was destroyed on Saturday. I know I can still go to Lake City and gut out a long day, and they have a 16-hour limit so I can take all that time if necessary, but I don’t think I want to! I don’t want to be in the back of the pack after dark with my headlamp. I just don’t know.”

Suzanna: “Yeah, you do. You want to. You want to go, and you want to give it your best shot. So this is what I’m thinking—I don’t want to play the age card. It’s such a hard transition to go from being in the mix to just hanging on. But I have to, if I want to continue to enjoy this sport, and just being out there suffering with the best of them made me realize I still want to be in this sport, so I have to be willing to let go of that comfortable place where I usually am during a race, and transition to feeling differently while I’m racing in terms of letting go of the performance and just being OK with giving my best, even if it is back of the pack. I have to be OK with that, or else I’m gonna be miserable as an old-lady ultrarunner, so that’s what I’m trying to hold on to.”

Me: “But there is an alternative that I was thinking about Saturday, like, what would make me happy? What would make me happy is running easier 50Ks. In March, doing the Marin Ultra Challenge was so easy by comparison, and I felt floaty and strong. I’m like, I want to do more coastal mountain 50Ks. That was fun.”

Suzanna: “I totally was thinking of the same thing, Sarah. I swear to God, we were on the same wavelength. Saturday I was like, ‘Sarah and I are picking these fucking hard races. Why am I picking these hard races? Goddammit!’ I don’t know. I mean, I was the only woman signed up in my age group. I don’t know how many other women [over 60] have finished. [Answer: zero! The results’ history shows that Suzanna is the first over-60 woman to have finished Jemez 50 in the event’s 20 years!]

“I still enjoy things that are hard, let’s put it that way. What I don’t want to feel like is that I’m slacking because I’m getting older. I don’t feel like I am, it just feels a lot harder, so I have to find that acceptance of, ‘I’m doing as best as I can. It’s just not as good as it used to be, but it’s as good as it is for now, and that’s good, because I want to enjoy the sport, I want to show up and have a good time, and I want to do hard things.’”

Me: “But you’re still so good at it, Suzanna.”

Suzanna: “But I know internally what the huge difference is [between past and present performance], so that’s what I’m kind of learning to embrace.”

She and I talked in detail about how we handled aid stations on Saturday and how we thought about cutoffs. I spoke more about how I’m daunted by the prospect of upcoming races.

Suzanna: “It was a tough day, but I think, Sarah, you gotta show up again.”

Me: “I guess that’s what I wanted to hear.”

Suzanna: “Me too. I just want to finish Scout Mountain so I get my qualifier, although now, considering Hardrock is like, fuck no! … We can talk about it some more, but I feel like, don’t make any decisions about anything right now.”

Me: “You’re right. I told myself, I’m giving myself a couple of days off, I’m gonna hike, and then I’m gonna do some cruisey runs on flat, and see how it feels. Well, hey, you got through it! I feel emboldened after talking.”

Suzanna: “And you got through it! Honestly, I thought of you so much. That song, Hard Travelin’, was going through my head—I’ve been having some hard traveling, hard traveling—and I’m like, ‘Sarah, I hope you’re not traveling as hard as I am!’”

After we hung up, Suzanna texted:

“Afterthought from our conversation: We must continue to nurture what first drew us to ultras. And have more courage than we did then to show up even when we know, or don’t know, how much harder it will be to finish. Beware the lean towards DNS/DNF!!”

Thank you, Suzanna, for that postmortem talk! I’m grateful for a friend who “gets it” and inspires me.

Meeting some subscribers to this newsletter was a bright spot Saturday. Congrats to readers Christopher Riley and Katie Polich who finished the Quad Rock 50, and to Charlie Ealy in the 25-mile division.

Related post:

Please help me fix my feet and figure out which shoes to use

I think my shoes were partly to blame for the difficult Saturday, because my blistering and heel pain were bilateral and symmetrical. I shot this short clip Saturday night to show my physical therapist:

I’ve run almost exclusively in Hokas since they first came on the market, and last year, I ran successfully in their Mafate 4s (which are similar to their cushioned Stinsons but have the better Vibram sole). But then they “upgraded” to Mafate 5s, and the tongue on the new model annoyingly cuts into skin at the base of my shins, even with the protection of socks. That prompted me to try Hoka’s Speedgoats again. I got the Speedgoat 7s in the same size and thought I liked them, since they’re lighter and feel grippier. However, it turns out they have a narrower heel and toe box than the Mafates. I had noticed my heels’ tightness and soreness before Saturday, and then it blossomed during the 50-miler. I have to assume the Speedgoats are to blame, so I’m faced with going back to the Mafate 5s (since the earlier model I preferred is no longer available) or try something new. I’m wondering—

• If you run in Hoka trail shoes, what’s your favorite model?

• Have you tried their Mafate X supershoe, and if so what’s your impression and is it worth the higher price? I’ve read reviews that they’re like fat tires or inflatable rafts for the feet, and I’m wondering if that makes you feel too wobbly.

• Should I try a different brand altogether and if so, what’s your favorite?

• Have you ever had the kind of heel pain—which feels like the precursor to an Achilles bursitis—described in my video? What did you do about it?

Please share comments below. (Living where I do, without a running store in the region, it’s challenging to find and try new shoes because I have to do it all through the mail and then ship back ones that don’t work.) Thanks for your feedback!

Recommended reading

We’re all probably ready to move on from the widespread Cocodona 250 coverage, but nonetheless, I recommend these two posts by fellow Substack writers who subscribe to my newsletter. This post by Allison Powell illuminates just how psychologically challenging an extra-long multi-day ultra can be and the life lessons we can gain from them. And this post by Scott Kummer takes a critical look at how Cocodona has become a scene in which content creation and look-at-me behavior threaten to jeopardize the essence of the ultra.

Lastly, public lands advocate is organizing a trip October 7 - 11 to the Eastern Sierra to explore BLM lands, and it sounds beautiful and enlightening. It’s in partnership with the nonprofit I support, Conservation Lands Foundation. I’m not going on it because I’ll already be in the Eastern Sierra then to volunteer for the Mammoth 200, but I want to spread the word and encourage signups. Learn about it here.

A book you might not want to read but should

Countless nonfiction books have detailed how to develop as a runner. But as far as I can tell, none has focused on how to cope with the end of one’s running years when running no longer serves the body well or no longer is possible. A new book fills that gap in the running-lit niche.

Dimity McDowell’s The 27th Mile: How to Smooth the Rough Transition Out of Your Running Years primarily is for runners who are struggling to run or no longer can run due to chronic injury, illness, and/or psychological factors such as persistent burnout or stress. But it’s useful for injured runners as well as retiring ones.

You might wonder, as did I, is there really a whole book’s worth of material to explore about the end stage of one’s running? Yes, it turns out, there is!

Even if you don’t want to “go there” mentally to consider a future date when you can’t run, I recommend you do, because our running years likely do have an end point. And, you might cope with a run-stopping injury eventually.

I am not the target audience—I’m happily running long distances (mostly) pain free, hallelujah, and I plan to keep at it for another quarter century if possible—but I discovered loads of helpful advice about leading a more balanced athletic life, supporting one’s injured runner friends, and examining my identity as a runner. I wish I had been able to read it when I suffered three months of blues and uncertainty from my torn-tendon injury in late 2024-early ‘25.

You may recognize the author’s name as the co-founder of Another Mother Runner community and podcast, and as a sportswriter for magazines including Runner’s World. I enjoyed getting to know McDowell better through this book; in fact, her first-person sections were my favorite passages.

She sets a warm and funny tone with an unexpected opening line—”As the author, I shouldn’t say this, but I’m sorry you picked up this book”—and begins by sharing her long battle to be the runner she wanted to be in spite of her extra-tall (almost 6’4”) body that kept breaking or rebelling from foot to hamstring to lower back. For every good day she ran and every marathon or half-marathon finish line she crossed, from the mid-1990s to 2020, she experienced not-so-satisfying or downright frustrating days when she either did not run due to pain, ran cautiously while recovering from an injury, or cross-trained and did PT to manage her injury-prone areas.

“Anybody who isn’t a runner might ask, why? Why spend so much time, money, and effort loving a sport that clearly didn’t love you back?”

We runners get it. We know the reason is because running feels so good when it does feel good, mentally as well as physically, and improves so many aspects of life. In a sidebar at the end of Chapter 3, she includes an alphabetized list of the things she misses about running—a litany of why we love to run—to which I related and you probably will too.

She surveyed some 60 women who are former runners, along with a good number of experts in the fields of sports psychology, coaching and training, and physical therapy. With their input and case studies, she wrote sections that cover:

• how to decide whether and when to stop running for good, and the stages involved with reaching that decision

• how to process the grief from letting go of your routine and your identity as a runner (including writing your own running obituary—and she provides a great personal example)

• how to shift and expand your identity as a runner to an athlete in other realms, and develop new interests and friendships—the phase of the metaphorical 27th mile

• how to manage runner-friendships when you can’t run, and how to stay involved with the running community as a non-runner if you choose to do so

• how to love and accept your body as is, especially as you age and if you put on weight

I’m a former long-distance running coach who still informally advises some peers on running. Reading her examples, I experienced a pang of remorse as I realized that I should be more empathetic and accepting of fellow runners who are injured and who decide to move on from the sport to develop other endeavors, such as cycling, golf, or “just” hiking. I always tell them, “Don’t give up!” and advise them to get second or third opinions and try multiple modalities to heal, as if I’m scolding as much as encouraging. I should trust and support them more to do what’s right for them.

My only overarching criticism is that The 27th Mile relies on all-female examples and therefore limits itself to women. In my mind, this book should be for all and any genders; aside from the well-written passage on menopause, I don’t see why it’s female-specific. I can think of at least two older male runners in this subscriber group—one who’s recovering from back surgery, another from meniscus surgery, both of them uncertain about their return to running—who might benefit from it.

I messaged McDowell to ask about her choice, and I appreciated her candid reply. She wrote, “When I sent out the survey (which went mostly to Another Mother Runner athletes), I heard from just one male runner. I talked to my editor about if she thought I should try to find more, and she said she didn’t think so, so I didn’t ... In hindsight, I wish I would’ve had at least one section about men because this book has definitely resonated with the ones I’ve heard from. If there are any former male runners you’d like to send my way, I’d love to include them in a future post/story.” Emphasis added—men, if you fit that category of a former or retiring runner and would like to share your experience, you could comment below or reply to me by email.

I hope you don’t need this book, but I also suggest you read it just in case. Meanwhile, for an introduction to the author and the topic, I recommend this podcast interview with Dimity McDowell on the Emerging Form podcast with and . I loved their interesting and emotional conversation.

Thoughts, updates & links

Are you as blown away as I am by the Cocodona 250 athletes—especially Rachel Entrekin—and the media coverage? Are you trying not to get too sucked into the addictive livestream? Or do you perhaps have no clue what I’m talking about? Please comment below on what has been most captivating and exciting to you about it so far—or, alternatively, why you might not be paying attention to it.

Cocodona is put on by Aravaipa Running, which just expanded (again!) by acquiring three incredible ultras: Zion, Bryce, and Antelope Canyon—three races founded by ultrarunner and environmentalist Matt Gunn, a storied character who took his life in 2020. For several years, these races were managed by Vacation Races, which I personally felt was a profit-oriented race-directing outfit not very connected to the core of ultrarunning. I’m therefore pleased that they’ll be under Aravaipa’s big tent—as long as Aravaipa, under Jamil Coury, can keep delivering its well-run events, which so far it has. I wrote about Jamil and Aravaipa recently and suspected when we talked that he was eyeing these events. Registration just opened for the March 6 Antelope Canyon, and I’m strongly considering returning to experience those gorgeous slot canyons and Horseshoe Bend again. Past race report on it:

Speaking of Jamil Coury, I got on his run-streak challenge (as detailed in this post a couple of weeks ago). I broke the streak on Sunday, after 34 days, for a couple of reasons. One, I felt in my bones that I needed a rest—my legs felt leaden walking up the stairs in our house—and I wanted to run well the next day on fresher legs and enter a taper week better rested. Two, I wanted to break the streak so I didn’t become obsessive about it. The longer you go, I believe, the more you feel compelled to maintain it. I got what I wanted out of it: a month of consistent back-to-back running with enhanced fitness and fatigue resistance from adapting to running on tired legs. I recommend a streak during a training build—as long as you’re not coping with illness or injury—to enhance consistency and adapt to higher volume. But a month or so is enough.

Three fascinating pieces I read this past week and recommend:

• “The Case for Public Tracks” by on the history and need for recreation spaces open to all

• “The Boomers Are Fucking Up Everything! Or Are They?” by on generational differences, identity and group think, and why blaming boomers isn’t so simple

• “The Super Shoe’s Step-by-Step Evolution,” a NY Times piece (gift link) on how we got to the shoes that helped break the 2-hour barrier at the London Marathon

In last week’s post, in which I celebrated the benefits of a retreat for creativity and wellness, I recommended a couple of other all-women retreats related to writing and running. I forgot to also recommend this one by , which is coed and takes place June 7 - 12. It’s a writing/storytelling + trail running retreat for all levels, and a couple of spots remain open, so check it out or get on Brendan’s list to learn about future retreats he hosts!

Lastly … it’s my birthday later this week (57 candles!), and I have a birthday wish: please consider a donation to my fundraiser.

Last year, as president of our local Rotary Club, I created the community-wide Telluride Rotary Hikeathon, which involves hiking for four weeks in June to raise money for Telluride Rotary and other nonprofits. It was a success, with 80+ participants and $26K+ raised, and we’re doing it again! This year, I plan to hike/run 200 miles in June to support both Telluride Rotary—which uses the funds to host an international youth exchange program, for scholarships to college-bound graduating seniors, and for community service projects—and to support True North Youth Program, where I’m a board member. True North serves teens in our region with academic tutoring, college counseling, outdoor education outings, scholarships, and afterschool programs.

Please consider a per-mile pledge or a flat donation—donations of any size are greatly appreciated! You can give through my fundraising page here. Thank you!

I mentioned in last Wednesday’s post that I would skip this week, but I’m here to share a couple of recommendations and encourage you to carve out time to take a retreat—any getaway to restore a neglected or worn-out part of yourself and to develop your interests or creativity.

First, recommendations with links

Last week, I watched The Cutoff, the new film about determined back-of-the-packers chasing the cutoff times to aid stations at the Cocodona 250. We see the heartache of those who don’t make the cutoff to aid stations, and the triumph of those who squeak under the 125-hour time limit five days after they started.

I loved this film by Dylan Harris, produced by Jamil Coury and Aravaipa Running. You need motivation? You’re feeling uninspired by the choice to run outside during bad weather or inside on the treadmill, so you’re on the verge of blowing off your run? Get on the treadmill and watch this hour-long film while you’re at it—you’re guaranteed to run better and farther.

The narrative script turns poignant: In the end, time is the only thing the cutoff truly measured—indifferent and exact. And in racing against it, you’re reminded that the most meaningful moments aren’t the times you beat the clock, but the ones we chose to live fully while it was counting down.

Longtime ultrarunner and coach Andy Jones-Wilkins is someone I’ve followed for the past couple of decades, mostly for his perspectives on the sport and its history as told through his weekly column in iRunFar. Last week, he had me on his podcast, “Crack a Brew with AJW.” Our lively conversation touched on longevity, goals, and how we run differently in our late fifties compared to our young-adult selves and how we stay optimistic while slowing down or injured. We also talk about Western States, Hardrock, and Javelina. I hope you’ll have a listen here.

Speaking of ultrarunning in midlife—I got a freelance assignment for a how-to piece on how (and why) to safely start long-distance trail running when you’re older. I’ll argue that turning fifty is a great time to develop as a trail runner and perhaps even run an ultra, and I’ll spotlight runners in their fifties and sixties who began running trails only a few years earlier and are competing exceptionally well in their age group at ultras. If you fit into this category—someone who became a runner in your late forties or fifties and now you’re trail/ultra running into your late fifties or beyond, and you think you’d make a good example for this story, please contact me through email or a DM through Instagram or Substack, thank you.

A creative haven

What, exactly, is a retreat? I think of it as time spent retreating from regular life and landing in a special place that feels peaceful and safe, creative and meditative, and healthy. It’s time set aside for self-care and learning.

I’m with a group of 20 women, all writers, led by , an author and writing coach whose in-person and online workshops have been crucial in my writing development. (I recommend her most recent book, Why Bother?, for women who feel stuck in a rut and unsatisfied.) This is not a traditional writing workshop (a time to collectively critique our writing); rather, it’s a creative retreat to encourage each other and develop our voices, void of criticism.

We’re staying in a small historic cluster of adobe buildings called the Mabel Dodge Luhan House, named after a woman who was a well-known figure in New York intellectual and artistic circles in the 1920s. She moved to Taos and fell in love with an indigenous man from Taos Pueblo, Tony Luhan, whose room I’m staying in now. Some of the era’s prominent writers and artists gathered here with them, including Georgia O’Keeffe and Aldous Huxley. When D.H. Lawrence stayed here toward the end of his short life (he died at 44 from tuberculosis), he painted geometric designs in bold colors on the windows of the bathroom I’m using. Later, in the early 1970s, actor Dennis Hopper owned the house for a time, and Bob Dylan stayed here.

When I sit at a wooden table on the second-story porch outside Tony’s room, overlooking a row of fanciful porcelain roosters mounted on the roofline (Mabel named the house Los Gallos, the roosters), I imagine the people and their conversations here from a century ago. Those guests were on a retreat, too, gaining inspiration or perhaps healing from troubles or heartache. It’s the perfect place to immerse myself in my project, and to take breaks to connect with others.

It’s also an ideal place to reinforce the writing habits Jennifer instilled when I was here two years ago at this same retreat: to develop “a creative cave” in any space for writing. Turn off notifications, put phone on Do Not Disturb, close email, close browser tabs. Put in my AirPods and play the White Noise playlist. Tell myself, “five minutes more” when I feel the urge to pivot because I’ve hit a snag and the writing suddenly feels hard.

Every morning, I take advantage of an optional free dance session at 7 a.m. and do my own thing to an eclectic playlist, unconcerned how I look to others in the room, who also are dancing in their own style. For a half hour or so, my body moves in ways I’m normally too inhibited or uninspired to let it. I start with a vinyasa flow for stretching and transition to dance that draws on both 1980s aerobics classes and my trippy Deadhead years. It feels so liberating to dance, bounce, and flow in different planes of motion however feels right, improvising with the music while dissolving stiffness from the prior afternoon’s run. Starting the day that way throws off anxiety, self-doubt, “shoulds,” and limitations on creativity.

Throughout the day, I engage in writing sessions and conversations with fascinating women at various life stages, and I’m challenging myself to be an extra-attentive listener.

What’s not with me during all of this: my phone. I leave it in my room and check it only a couple of times during the day. I realize my at-home habit of carrying my phone from room to room, as if it’s an appendage or crutch, is insidious and ridiculous, and I vow to break that habit when I return home.

My primary focus this week is rereading and revising my memoir manuscript. I had four excellent early readers read it and send me their feedback last week, so I’m reviewing and integrating their suggestions. I don’t want to jinx this project or celebrate too early, but, it’s working! Each of the early readers gave positive feedback, and their comments were insightful and helpful but also manageable. None spotted major holes to fill or problems to fix, nor were they bored or confused.

If you’re wondering, “what is it about?” I’ll share this mini review by one of the early readers, Cam Torrens, who’s a published author of adventure thrillers and a fan of must-read ultra memoirs such as Ultramarathon Man (Dean Karnazas), Born to Run (Christopher McDougall), and North (Scott and Jenny Jurek).

He described my memoir draft as: “an incredible story that goes well beyond a typical endurance memoir, using the brutal miles of the Grand to Grand 170-mile stage race to unpack a lifetime of motivation, missteps, and self-doubt. Sarah Lavender Smith is at her best when she’s honest about the double edge of ultrarunning—how it pulled her away from one set of destructive behaviors while subtly feeding another. The book’s structure works: the desert miles give her space to revisit childhood family dynamics, marriage, and the persistent need to prove something she can’t quite define. What stands out the most is her courage and total lack of pretense. Smith owns her mistakes, especially in her relationships, without sugarcoating them.”

I am touched and grateful, brimming with motivation to deliver this baby and get it into the world.

If you’re looking for a retreat, you can get on Jennifer Louden’s list for next year. But I also recommend a trail-running camp led by my friend Cristal, which functions as a retreat as much as a camp to develop as a runner. I wrote about it last year:

Also, author/runner hosts writing and running retreats. I haven’t been on one, but I’m a fan of Katie’s and have no doubt they’re worthwhile! Learn about them here.

Thank you for being here! Feel free to recommend a retreat, or share a retreat experience, in the comments below—or comment on anything you like.

Even though I’m only hiking, my quads feel a bit heavy. A twinge transmits a tingle up my right Achilles.

Probably because it’s Day 21 of a run streak.

In three decades of consistent running, I’ve never run three weeks in a row. I believe in rest days and usually take one or two during the week. “Rest is part of training,” a wise coach once said.1

But I’m going for a 30-day run-streak challenge and might maintain the unbroken streak longer. I convert what would normally be a rest day into a short, easy run of only two to three miles. I run longer on other days, getting my weekly mileage up above 50. Last week, it hit 63.

A challenge launched April 1 by Jamil Coury sparked this run streak. I just wrote a story about Jamil and his new project for UltraSignup’s Trailhead news site, published yesterday. I hope you’ll read it here. Jamil is extraordinarily innovative and inspires the masses, myself included.

Is a run streak smart or stupid?

Am I setting myself up for injury and burnout by running every single day, or am I developing “fatigue resistance,” also known as “durability,” which is the focus of an emerging area of research in endurance training?2

My intention is the latter—to build durability. With increased steady daily running at a lower intensity, I hope to improve the ability to sustain performance in a fatigued state. I hope to be “a closer” (strong finisher) and avoid a massive slowdown at my upcoming ultras (May 9 Quad Rock 50, June 20 San Juan Solstice 50, August 14 San Juan Softie 100).

A surprising thing happens on this run—and on most runs this month during the streak. The fatigue ebbs, the aches and pains fade. I rediscover a rhythm. I don’t run fast, but I run steadily. By the end of the run, I feel pretty darn good. Back inside our house when I walk up the stairs to the second floor, my legs feel close to normal, not unusually tired. My Achilles and knees are fine.

On longer runs, my form feels as if it’s breaking down less; in other words, after two to four hours, I run more similarly to the way I did in the first hour after warming up, rather than running noticeably more achy and strained as the time passes.

I’m aiming to sleep more and eat more, and the increased rest and fuel seem to do their job. Three weeks into this streak, I don’t feel as depleted as I normally do after a weekend long run.

But I’m mindful of the risks, and I know rest is crucial.

Why and when I’ll break this streak

Five weeks ago, I was so sick with a cold following the Marin Ultra Challenge 50K that I felt weak and couldn’t sleep through the night due to coughing. If (I mean, when) I get sick like that, I’ll take days off from running to fully rest.

Also, if any localized pain such as an Achilles flare gets worse rather than better during the first couple miles of a run’s warmup, and the discomfort affects form as I favor the sore spot, then I’ll stop and take one or more days off as needed. That kind of lopsided running to cope with pain is a recipe for a full-blown injury and possibly a secondary compensatory injury too.

And, I’ll definitely take a full rest day the day before one of the upcoming ultras. I like an easy shakeout run two days prior, and full rest the day before, to arrive at the start line with fresh and frisky legs. That means I’ll probably break this streak on my birthday, which is the day before the Quad Rock 50. And I probably won’t run the day after the ultra, but I’ll walk to loosen the inevitable stiffness and soreness.

So, don’t worry, I’m not going to stay addicted committed to running every single day no matter what. “Addicted” is a negative word, and I don’t see an unbroken run streak in that negative light. I see it as a chosen daily practice with potential psychological benefits like heightened motivation and reduced anxiety, in addition to the physiological benefit of durability.

If it works for individuals and doesn’t lead to injury or excessively risky behavior (like running in dangerous severe weather or through a feverish bout of illness to keep the streak), good for them.

Why streaks work mentally

Generally speaking, streaks work for me because I respond well to the internal non-negotiable assumption that I’ll run today. It resolves any debate about whether to run and thereby cultivates habit.

In the past, I’ve had reading, writing, and abstinence (i.e. Dry January) streaks, and all worked to reinforce those good habits. Last fall’s 100-day journaling streak and January’s “JanYourStory” memoir-writing streak sparked greater creativity and more volume of writing than I ever had experienced in the past.

Now that those streaks are over, I don’t journal or work on my book project every single day, but I’m more likely to than not. The prior streak made the activity more automatic. You show up and start the work, and it’s not such a big deal. You get unstuck and get on a roll.

I also like the “some is better than none” mindset of a streak. Doing a little on some days, when you’re low on energy or tight on time—just 20 minutes of running, or just a paragraph or two of writing—keeps you engaged with the commitment to the larger goal. It prevents abandoning it. It makes you feel OK about producing only a small amount, which in turn feeds motivation to do more on other days.

How about you, do you have any kind of streak going? Have you in the past, and if so, how did it go? Please comment below!

Off next week

This newsletter is a streak of sorts—a weekly commitment going on five years that I don’t want to break. The consistency of publishing every Wednesday means I build on the practice of showing up to write stories and share info through it, which in turn engages my curiosity to develop something to write about for the following week.

But occasionally I do pause it, as I will this coming week. I’ll be at a weeklong writing retreat in Taos—the same one I wrote about in 2024, “The Week I Found Focus and Flow”—and I am shelving normal commitments to prioritize the retreat writing. I’ll be back May 6.

Thank you for being here and reading this far!

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Just in time for Monday’s Boston Marathon, a new book arrived that made me nostalgic for the road marathons I’ve run and deepened my understanding of marathoning’s history, especially its breakthrough decade of the 1970s.

I received an advanced copy of ’s The Long Run with the long subtitle, Steve Prefontaine, Frank Shorter, Joan Benoit, Grete Waitz, and the Decade That Made the Marathon Cool, which I review below. The book’s sweep of history, with its analysis of the running-boom evolution, leaves a runner like me contemplating how far this sport has come and our individual place in it.

Flashbacks to the running boom phases

I became a runner at 25 in a second phase of the boom. It was 1994, the year Oprah ran a marathon, in the decade that gave rise to charity running (most notably, Team in Training) and the Rock n’ Roll marathon series. My first running shero was Uta Pippig, four years older than I, who won Boston three times 1994 - ‘96. Then, in the 2000s, Olympic marathoners Deena Kastor and Magda Boulet captivated me until my focus shifted fully to ultra-distance trail running.

From the mid-1990s on, I hardly ever looked back in time. I took it for granted that women ran marathons. I learned gradually over time, piecemeal, about the significance of Joan Benoit and the first women’s Olympic Marathon in 1984, just one decade before I took up running. Thanks to The Long Run, I have new and profound appreciation for all the change sparked by Benoit, Grete Waitz, Kathrine Switzer, all the way back to Stamata Revithi (a female runner at the 1896 Athens Olympics who was banished from participating but ran the marathon course on her own the following day).

Dugard’s The Long Run not only filled gaps in my knowledge but also took me back to my youth in the 1970s, when almost everyone (except my chain-smoking parents) took up jogging. On TV, I watched the stars of Charlie’s Angels and The Bionic Woman jog in satin short-shorts and headbands. I got my first pair of Nikes—navy blue with a light-blue swoosh—and Dolfin shorts in 1980 for the start of seventh grade. I listened to my best friend talk excitedly about a runner named Mary Decker.

But junior high PE turned me off from running, and my parents did not encourage me to be sporty. I took up smoking at 16, followed by harder recreational substances. I cared only about horses, and later about aerobics for weight loss. I wore high-cut leotards for step aerobics as a newlywed in the early 1990s. A fluke opportunity to watch two friends run their first marathon in 1994 made me a runner overnight, swapping my Reebok Freestyle Hi aerobics shoes for Saucony Grids, and I ran my first of 20 road marathons1 in 1995. (Since then, I’ve also run 110 marathons and ultras on trail, eclipsing my road marathoning.)

When I think about my early days of marathoning in the 1990s, I envision purple Team-in-Training singlets, balloon arches, the first-ever packets of Gu gels safety-pinned to my shorts waistbands (because shorts didn’t have pockets to carry gels), Casio watches, pre-race spaghetti dinners for carbo-loading, and reports of slower runners over-hydrating mid-marathon to the point of risking hyponatremia. Running felt social and inclusive, welcoming slower paces and larger body types. Most runners I knew made a goal to break four hours (around a 9-minute/mile average pace), maybe 3:30 (8 minutes/mile), not the speedier sub-three-hour goal of earlier marathoners before the boom made urban marathons massively popular, even mainstream.

Now, in hindsight, I truly wish I had paid attention to Grete and Joanie in the late 1970s through mid-1980s when I was young!

Book review

Dugard’s book left me wanting more from the thin profiles of Waitz and Benoit. He (or his publisher) put the two women on the cover and in the subtitle, striding along with Pre and Shorter as if equals, but in the 290-page book, fewer than 30 pages are devoted to spotlighting Grete and Joanie toward the end.

The women get shortchanged in this book because it is weighted toward covering the 1960s to mid-1970s, and Waitz and Benoit made names for themselves as marathoners a bit later, starting in 1978. Dugard frames his book around “the decade that made the marathon cool” (the 1970s) and the history that led to the first peak of the boom; that is, to the 1976 New York City Marathon—the first time the NYC Marathon ran through the five boroughs—and the 1977 release of The Complete Book of Running by Jim Fixx.

As a reader, you get the feeling Dugard’s heart was in the male-centric story of the 1960s through mid-‘70s because that’s the era that inspired him as a boy and teen to run. I really can’t fault him for that. The rise of long-distance running—both by competitive athletes and slow hobby-joggers—is fascinating, starting with JFK’s exhortation for physical fitness and the long-walk fad. The best chapters involve Coach Bill Bowerman’s pivotal role in the mid-’60s popularizing jogging, followed by the dominance of Pre and Shorter.

In between the Bowerman and Shorter/Pre chapters, a terrific chapter focuses on the hot-headed Jock Semple, the Boston Marathon director who infamously grabbed Kathrine Switzer and tried to pull her off course in 1967 when she broke the rule allowing only men to run. Two years later, Semple fumed to Distance Running News (the precursor to Runner’s World) that Boston was being destroyed by “joggers, idiots, and prank runners,” so he implemented qualifying times.

Dugard also devotes an eye-opening chapter to "the six who sit,” about the six women at the start of the 1972 New York City Marathon who sat on the starting line for 10 minutes after the start gun went off to protest the Amateur Athletic Union rule that women could not race with men and must start 10 minutes ahead or behind. Ten minutes after the start, the women—and the men behind them who supported their protest—all started running together.

Aside from that “six who sit” chapter and short mentions of Bobbi Gibb (who unofficially ran Boston in 1966) and Switzer, the female marathoners get tacked on to the end of the book almost as an afterthought—as if they’re a consequence of the evolution as much as a catalyst for change. That’s why I feel The Long Run’s cover promises something that the story doesn’t deliver by picturing the two women with the two men, implying equal coverage.

The book’s imbalance—weighted much more toward the 1960s and early to mid ‘70s than what follows—is compounded by Dugard’s choice to devote more space to Prefontaine and to glorify Pre’s legacy, even though Pre never ran a marathon. The chapters devoted to the 1972 Munich Games, chronicling Shorter’s triumph at the marathon and Pre’s flame-out to fourth at the 5000, are some of the book’s most gripping parts, but in my view we could have read less about Pre and more about Bill Rogers, and more about the women who transformed marathons at the end of the decade.

In a chapter that jumps to the present time of 2025, the author addresses whether Pre is “overrated” and then weirdly and defensively reflects on his decision to give Pre a great deal of credit for the running boom. He speaks to the reader, “I’ll have my say. Then you decide for yourself. Debate it on your social media platform. Devote a paragraph of your The Long Run Amazon review.” Huh? Here and elsewhere, I wondered why an editor didn’t trim or rework passages where Dugard blurts and abruptly shifts gears.

I might also suggest that an editor rework the book’s entire Part 1, about the early history of the marathon from Pheidippides in 490 BC to the 1908 Olympic Marathon. Dugard’s tidal wave of facts might be useful for trivia, but they overwhelm the reader. The narrative feels rushed to get to the good stuff about the modern era of marathoning.

Dugard also made the maddening choice to write history in the present tense, presumably to make the past stories feel alive and relatable. But present-tense writing combined with jumps in chronology results in scattershot and sometimes confusing transitions. He often goes between the present and future tenses to describe sequences of events that all happened decades ago. It’s awkward.

One more quibble. This. Incomplete sentences, sportscaster voice. Punchy. Short phrases. Gets annoying.

Setting aside complaints about the style, I applaud Dugard for shedding light on so many revealing anecdotes involving storied athletes, and for fresh perspective on running’s evolution.

For example, I have written before about the start of the Western States Endurance Run in 19742 and how it spun off from the Tevis 100-mile horse endurance race to become the country’s oldest 100-mile ultramarathon. Dugard deepened my understanding of ultrarunnings’s origins by putting the rise of Western States in the context of a backlash to the running boom. He writes:

“We all feel proprietary about the things we love, so it is no surprise when a quiet backlash sweeps through the running world during the boom. The theme goes something like this: Running used to make me special because I was doing something nobody else was doing. I liked when people said I was crazy for doing it. Now everybody is doing it. … A lot of runners find a new thing. A harder thing. Crazy tough, like people used to say about the marathon.”

He then points to the rise of triathlons, mountain biking, and ultrarunning as offshoots of the running boom.

On occasion, Dugard also shares touching personal recollections. I particularly liked his description of how his first marathon finish—in 2:57:19 in 1979—affected him: “Finishing a marathon made me feel like I joined the historical cadre of runners dating back to Pheidippides. It didn’t make me a real runner. We’re all real runners. But it made me feel like a full-blown, card-carrying, dues-paying, member-for-life of the tribe, climber of the suburban Everest. And yes: amazing.”

On that, I wholeheartedly relate and agree.

If this review made you contemplate a road marathon signup, I invite you to read my post on how to train for one:

And if you want a short article-length history, read this history of marathon fueling by Precision Fuel & Hydration (hat tip to for it).

New favorite shorts

I don’t do gear reviews, but occasionally I recommend items if they’re extra good. I’m not sponsored and get nothing from mentioning the product, so my recommendations are straight talk.

I’ve started running in rabbit’s Leggy Smashems 7” compression shorts. This is a big change, as loose split shorts have been my go-to bottoms for almost forever (except when it’s cold and I wear capris). Something about the level and feel of the compression, the length of the short, and all the pockets on the sides and in the waistband (where a lot of gels can fit) have converted me.

The main advantage to split shorts as a woman is you can pee standing up simply by pulling the crotch to the side, which isn’t possible with compression shorts. But I’m willing to squat and bare my butt while pulling these shorts down trailside when necessary because I prefer the feel of them.

And that’s all for this week. (Sorry to leave you with that mental image!)

Please share in the comments if you’re running Boston this Monday, and if so, how many Bostons will this be for you? Or, do you have any other road marathon on your calendar this year?

Thursday’s Zoom = ask me anything

Before I share some commentary, please mark your calendars for this Thursday, April 16, 5pm Mountain for our monthly Zoom meetup. I hope a good number of you will join!

I want to offer an “ask me anything” session. On the call—or in the comments or via email, if you can’t make the Zoom—feel free to ask me anything related to running or to life in general, and I will try to answer as candidly as possible.

I’m doing this because I’ve listened to podcast hosts field questions during “ask me anything” sessions, and the variety and randomness of questions make for an interesting conversation. So, please float a question to me!

Also, congratulations to three people in this group who recently finished big ultras: Orly Liba at Big Alta 100K, Karen Fennie at Umstead 100, and Jennifer O’Connor at American River 50. I bet there are others in this group who also recently finished a challenging race whom I don’t know about, so I encourage you to share the news in the comments below. If any of you are on the upcoming Zoom, you can share a short recap of the highs and lows of your race, if you like.

AI is dominating my thoughts even though I’m rejecting it

I’m part of a dying breed—the dwindling number of humans in the developed world who don’t use AI. By that I mean, I don’t actively use it. AI, of course, is omnipresent and enters my sphere without me asking for it through Google AI summaries, Zoom transcriptions, the Waymo autonomous cars that drove by during our recent trip to the Bay Area, and in many other creeping ways. If I must, I’ll use a Chatbot on a company’s website if that’s the only way to get customer service.

But I have never, ever, not once queried ChatGPT or asked Claude to do something for me. I never have subjected my original writing to it to request feedback, summarizing, or suggestions, nor have I ever asked AI to write something for me, and I never will. This is a line I will not cross, a slippery slope I don’t want to start down.

I also have turned off the AI analysis function on my Stava, and whenever stupid Microsoft Word tries to “improve” my writing by suggesting Copilot, and I tell it to go to hell and make it go away.

I suspect many of you are shaking your heads and thinking I’m naive, ignorant, and hopelessly backward-thinking. Perhaps a few of you, however, are more like me. Let me explain my views and my fear a bit.

For months, I’ve been following the ways in which AI is threatening the publishing world, leading to a “crisis of authorship,” as expertly analyzed by my book coach, Brooke Warner.

This morning, I read a spot-on post by author Andrea Bartz, the bestselling novelist specializing in psychological thrillers who sued Anthropic for stealing copyrighted work to train large language models (LLMs).

I urge you to read her post about why she has rejected AI use. She made me feel understood!

Andrea Bartz: Get It Write

Why I'm against the use of generative AI altogether

I’ve been talking a lot about generative AI the last few weeks (in the New York Times, on the Brian Lehrer Show, and more), and I keep using the same phrase: “In a vacuum…

Read more

3 months ago · 60 likes · 9 comments

She goes into detail about how “LLMs are bad for our heads and hearts” and AI use degrades critical thinking, normalizes plagiarism (by using AI to create writing and taking credit for it), enriches unethical companies, and is progressing in a way that likely will lead to catastrophic consequences. She concludes:

“…to look at the list and go, ‘but have you tried asking it to make you a vacation itinerary?!’ is an incomprehensible reaction to me. I know many people are being forced to use AI for work (or feel the pros outweigh the cons), but for me, this is a firm line in the sand. I’m not perfect, but I’m using LLMs as little as possible. Humans have existed without AI for hundreds of thousands of years; the whole ‘embrace it or fall behind!!!!’ messaging is just that—marketing, propaganda from a sector that many economists consider a bubble.” We can resist. We can minimize our generative AI usage and choose to connect with humans instead of machines.”

To those who might chide me for “falling behind” or keeping my “head in the sand,” I assure you, I am not completely ignorant about AI. I read the news about it. I have watched YouTube videos that explain it. I see my husband use AI daily and extol its virtues. (Claude builds him websites and creates images for his business.)

AI is starting to cause tension in our relationship, so much so that when I wanted to share the Bartz column above and my views on it with him, I emailed rather than talked, because our conversations about AI tend to degenerate in tone and body language as we each express frustration with the other’s viewpoint.

To his credit, Morgan read it and replied by email, mostly agreeing with me. He wrote:

“At a minimum, AI is going to cause devastation in the job market, and that is already happening. … and I think there is a massive risk of us all losing control of AI, especially if bad actors get involved, and they have no guardrails … I also agree that AI could well cause people to stop thinking critically, because it makes things so easy. … But not using it won’t mitigate the risk. If I could wave a magic wand and have it disappear from the world so no one had access to AI, I would do it in a heartbeat. But without that, I will still use it to do things like make my new website, which I could never do on my own.”

So, we agree to disagree. I have signed a pledge to boycott ChatGPT through QuitGPT.org and urge you to check out their site and consider it, too.

What’s your take on all this? I hope you’ll comment below on whether you love and daily use AI platforms, whether you share my contempt and rejection of it, or something in between.

Speaking of critical thinking and authentic writing, I’m in my favorite place in town—the library—surrounded by books. I have communicated my thoughts here without any AI boost or shortcut. I’m going to get offline and read a novel, turning the pages and savoring the utterly unique, authentic voice of the author as my brain conjures images of her story (Tayari Jones, Kin).

Glancing down at a page from her book right now, I spot a line of her dialogue that I can’t imagine AI writing: “Getting married on top of secrets is like spraying perfume without washing first.”

God forbid this novel gets fed to an LLM and someone asks AI, “Write me a short story in the style of Tayari Jones” and then passes off the plagiarized essay as their own work. I know, it could happen. That kind of thing already is happening all the time. But I won’t be a part of it.

Two of my subscribers connected and made this podcast episode!

I’m gratified that both and are in this group of newsletter supporters. Both are longtime ultrarunners. Both had the same run-stopping injury requiring surgery and months of recovery: a meniscus root tear.

Scott is a podcaster, and when I suggested that he talk to Sophie about their shared injury and recovery, he had her on the podcast! I loved this conversation, and anyone who’s been through a long orthopedic injury with surgery and followup PT likely will gain some wisdom from it. In the second half, Sophie talks about her running history, including the origin of our friendship.

Listen here on the Ten Junk Miles show.

That’s all. Thank you for reading, have a great weekend, and I hope to see you on the Thursday Zoom!

-Sarah

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