Bighorn 100: White Shorts Were a Choice, Huh?

"Oh I thought I knew what love mud was 'till I met you"

 —Tom Odell

On paper, Bighorn doesn't look like a particularly tough hundred miler. It has somewhere between 16,000 and 20,000 feet of climbing depending on whose watch you believe, none of the climbs are very steep, and the altitude isn't a huge concern. So why is it a Hardrock qualifying race?

In reality, there are two major factors that make this a burly course: weather and mud. Depending on the year, there can be 90°F+ heat or freezing rain (or, potentially, one and then the other). This year we seem to have gotten lucky as the highs were around 70° and only a light drizzle fell on day two. However, the mud... Dear lord, the mud.

Enjoying some remarkably mud-free miles

Listen folks, I'm from the northeast. We're no strangers to love mud. I've done plenty of runs through the Adirondacks, the Catskills, and the Green Mountains in "mud season." Hell, I ran Tough Mudders before I became an ultrarunner. This was the worst mud I've ever seen, and there were miles and miles of it. Forget shoe sucking mud; this was soul sucking.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The Course

The Bighorn 100 is an out-and-back route through the (you guessed it) Bighorn Mountains in northern Wyoming. The route is remote and the trails are sparsely used by humans (Based on the amount of cow dung on the course, it does seem to be extensively used for grazing though.).

The course can be divided into three major climbs and descents, with a major aid station at the start/end of each one and many smaller ones along the way.

Bighorn 100 elevation profile
Major aid stations in bold

Of the major aid stations, Dry Fork (mile 13 and 82) and Jaws (48) are easily accessible to crews, but Sally's (30, 66) requires a long drive down a poorly maintained dirt road which had also recently experienced a landslide earlier in the summer. Needless to say, I asked my very pregnant wife to please not drive out to Sally's in the middle of the night.

Start to Sally's

Much to my delight, Bighorn has a civilized start time of 9am, and I got the best night of sleep I've ever had before a race. I drove to the start with Girl Alex (the pregnant one) and Boy Alex (not pregnant). You might remember Boy Alex from his pacing gig at Fat Dog 120. This year, we decided to race each other and drag our wives along for the ride. Alex was aiming for 26 hours and I thought 28 hours might be in the cards if things went well.

I got to the back of the race field just as the starting gun sounded, which was perfect timing in my mind. I get anxious standing around before races.

Sandstone formations in the early miles

The first mile was along Tongue Canyon Rd, which allowed the runners to spread out a little before being funneled onto singletrack. A few miles in, we began to climb in earnest. The first eight miles of the course would take us from the mouth of the canyon at 4,000 feet up through a forest to a broad plateau at 7,500 feet. This section would be our first taste (sometimes literally) of the mud that we would see for the next 90-something miles. Snowmelt combined with record breaking spring rainfall had saturated the soil in the Bighorn Mountains, making the conditions treacherous for runners and volunteers alike.

A slightly muddy section of forest service road near the course, taken shortly after race day
Photo from The Sheridan Press

I tried to keep my heart rate in check as I struggled to gain a foothold in the mud, but I ultimately had to red-line a few times to stay on my feet. I had left the snow baskets on my trekking poles for extra floatation, and I made liberal use of them on this climb. After some very slow miles, we emerged above tree line and were greeted by a stunning alpine meadow.

Worth the mud

I reached the Dry Fork Ridge aid station about 20 minutes behind my 28-hour schedule, but feeling pleased with how my lungs and legs were holding up so far. I could feel myself naturally slowing down from the altitude but thankfully didn't experience any headaches or nausea for the entire race. Alex helped me restock on food and water and sent me on my way.

In my element and feeling good

We spent the next 10 miles or so traversing through more alpine meadows and muddy forests. During this stretch we passed by Kern's Cow Camp, which had been relocated from its planned site because the muddy access road was impassible to the pickup truck carrying supplies.

Random conversation I overheard in this section:

Man: "You know how you can tell the difference between deer poop and moose poop? If you can fit it in your nostril, it's deer poop."

Woman, spotting a pile of large pellets: "So that's moose poop then."

Man: "How can you tell? You didn't even try."

At the end of the traverse, the course dropped more than 2,000 feet down a section that is appropriately known as The Wall. As I picked my way through a particularly wet section of The Wall, I plunged my trekking pole deep into the mud, and when I pulled it out the entire bottom segment detached. Not ideal with 75 miles of race left to run. I spent a minute looking for the missing piece but it had sunk too far down to be retrieved.

I tested out the pole and found that it still offered a little stability on firm ground but sank straight into the mud since it was now just a hollow aluminum rod. I would later have to tape the remaining segments of the pole together since the bottom piece is crucial to holding the whole thing together.

I'm not one of those people who can disguise my feelings, evidently

Equipment malfunctions aside, I made it down to Sally's Footbridge aid station (mile 30) in a little under 8 hours, having lost another five minutes from my anticipated splits.

Sally's to Jaws and Back

Sally's will always have a special place in my heart for two reasons: First, they had a foot washing station composed of small plastic tubs of water and towels set out in front of camp chairs. This was a godsend since I had planned to change my mud-soaked socks here and needed to clean all the grit off my feet first. Second, they had a tray of McDonald's burgers at the food table. I'm not a big fan of fast food but a greasy burger hit the spot in that moment.

The next section would be an 18 mile, 4,500 foot climb through the dark. I downed a cold brew coffee, grabbed a headlamp, and stashed some warm layers in my pack. After a quick 5-minute turnaround I was back on the trail.

I quickly met up with a local runner named Mario who had done Bighorn in 2022. He warned me that there would be a treacherous river crossing coming up with just a rope strung across a deep and fast moving section of water. A few minutes later he let out a celebratory howl as he saw that there was a brand new bridge spanning that section.

Mario and another runner crossing the surprise log bridge

At Kern's Cow Camp, an 8-year-old volunteer (Eva, I think?) was handing out Balsam Root wildflowers to all the runners. I figured it couldn't hurt to add some more color to my ensemble, so I tucked it behind my ear for the rest of the trek to Jaws. Mario spent a little longer at the aid station, and I ended up doing the rest of the climb almost entirely alone.

I feel pretty

As the sun began to set, the weather rapidly cooled. I layered up and strapped on a headlamp for the long night ahead. The trail continued to pass through muddy, slow sections, but the golden hour views more than made up for it. Elks bugled in the distance just out of sight. Just after dark, I started to see the first runners heading back.

Can't get enough of these meadows!

The last few miles to Jaws had shin-deep standing water. At 9,000 feet up, with the temperatures now just below freezing, this was an unwelcome development. I reached Jaws at 10:40pm, now back on my target splits despite the tough conditions. Alex was waiting for me in the giant heated aid station tent, and the next ten minutes were a whirlwind of sock changes, adding layers of clothing, grabbing hot food, and of course getting a kiss to keep my spirits up (perks of having your wife crew you!).

I walked out of the aid station still munching on some warm quesadillas. The short break from running had left me chilly and my movements were stiff and slow. I slogged back through the shin-deep water section, soaking my new socks. It was going to be a long descent back to Sally's.

The 18 mile climb to Jaws had taken just under six hours (20 min/mi). In my race planning, I figured that the descent would be much faster, ideally about 4.5 hours (15 min/mi). This seemed conservative since I'm typically a good downhill runner and the grade of the descent didn't look bad on paper. What I hadn't accounted for was the mud (have I mentioned the mud yet?).

When all was said and done, I rolled into Sally's after well over 5 hours of descending, once again well behind schedule. The mud, the cold, and the dark had conspired to activate the what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-with-my-life lobe of my brain, and I was feeling very sorry for myself. But I still had to get back to Alex at the finish line, so there was no time to sulk.

I changed out of my Speedgoats and into my ridiculously plush Glide Max shoes. It was just after 4am, and the sun would be out soon. Despite the mental low, I was certainly going to finish this thing.

Sally's to the Finish

Once again, Sally's delivered a world class aid station experience, and I left while munching on a sausage McMuffin. During my ascent of The Wall, I would periodically pull out this greasy cylinder of hyper-processed factory-farmed organ meat and nibble on it for motivation. Then I would jam it back into my sweaty running vest like Napoleon Dynamite squirreling away his tater tots. This must be what people mean when they talk about a runner's high.

Glorious sunrise!

The sun finally came out and we were greeted with another day of mild weather. With the power of a thousand emulsified animals coursing through my digestive tract, I hammered up the wall at a blistering 28 minute per mile pace. I was now back on top of the ridge and had only a few short climbs and one massive descent left.

Somewhere in this section I linked up with Dandelion, another Wyoming runner whose parents, she assured me, were not hippies. She was one of those all-around mountain athlete types, and we spent a few hours talking about her rock climbing, skiing, and mountaineering adventures. Somehow, my two favorite things to talk about during an adventure are past adventures and future adventures.

Once again I must mention how pretty the views were

Shortly after I passed through Dry Fork, the 18 mile race started from that aid station. I have mixed feelings about how the next few hours played out. On one hand, it was a huge pain in the ass to pull over for the faster runners and to get stuck behind the more timid runners who slowed down in the mud while I wanted to just plow straight through. On the other hand, it was nice to have some people to talk to who weren't all sleep deprived zombies.

Portrait of the author very much in his feelings

I slip-slid my way down the final descent feeling more like a drunken skier than a trail runner, making sure to take in the last few alpine views. At some point in here I slipped and attempted to brace my fall with my hands, only for them to sink into the mud up to my elbows. This is fun. We're having fun. I rinsed the smelly goo off in a stream, trying not think about the amount of cow shit I had seen in prior mud patches.

Still worth the mud

The last five miles were entirely on roads and descended at a mellow grade. I had envisioned trotting through this at a nice leisurely 12 min/mi pace, or perhaps in a final burst of energy, hammering some 8 minute miles. On that particular day and time, all my legs could manage was a pained 14-15 min/mi shuffle. As a matter of pride I maintained a running cadence, but a very friendly 18-mile runner was able to match my pace while power walking.

Mud literally from head to toe

I crossed the finish line a little after 2pm after more than 29 hours of running. Alex and her baby bump were there to greet me. Boy Alex had finished two hours earlier, also an hour behind his time goal. We decided that our race execution must have been perfect, but the course must have been an hour slower than normal because of the trail conditions (I am not interested in investigating this further).

Ryan, Alex, and future Emily celebrating a successful adventure

Final time: 29:18:34 (63rd of 226 starters)

Strava

Official results

Epilogue

We often turn my destination races into week long vacations, and in this case we drove out to Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks after the race. If you are considering running Bighorn, these are ideal places to visit while recovering from an ultra. There are tons of views, geothermal features, and wildlife that are visible from the side of the road. We even managed to do a little alpine scrambling despite my tired legs and Alex carrying a small human in her belly.

Good way to end a trip!

Bighorn was equal parts spectacular and awful. The views and the aid stations were among the best I've ever seen, but the mud was unrelenting. I doubt I'll ever race it again, but I'm glad to have done it once. Thank you to all of the event organizers and volunteers and of course to my wife and daughter for supporting me!

Silver Linings at TWOT 100

Who's invited, by Dennis Herr

Since this is a semi-invitational, here are some guidelines to help you determine if you are "invited", or, more aptly, not invited:

• If you are even the least bit worried or concerned about getting lost, don't come.
• If you have questions, don't come.
• If you need a crew, don't come.
• If you need toilet paper, don't come.
• If you expect to be pampered in any way shape or form, don't come.
• If you're a whiner, don't come.
• If you're a freeloader, don't come.
• If you're seeking fame and/or fortune, don't come.
• If you're thinking about writing a report about your experience at Wild Oak, don't come.*
• If you crave abuse, if you yearn for abuse, if you are addicted to abuse in any way shape or form (be it physical, mental, sexual, verbal, mathematical, artistic or whatevah), please send an request for entry!
• The above bullet point applies to abusees only. Abusers are not welcome. The only abuser allowed is the trail.
• If you don't like getting rained on, sleeted on, snowed on, or getting muddy while you grind out 25, 100, or 200 miles, don't come.

*We're all going to pretend we didn't see this one, got it?

All smiles on loop 1 of TWOT

TWOT's that you say?

Built in 1979, The Wild Oak Trail is a 27 mile loop with 7,000 feet of ascent through the backcountry of George Washington National Forest in Virginia. In 1988, the legendary Dennis "Animal" Herr organized a 50 mile winter race on the TWOT. Since then, the race has grown to include 25+, 100+, and 200+ mile options, and has spawned a fall version known as "Hot TWOT" (the original one, naturally, is now colloquially known as "Cold TWOT"). On average, there are about two finishers of the Cold TWOT per year.

Like most races, I can't pinpoint when TWOT appeared on my radar. John Kelly's jaw dropping sub-24:00 performance in 2018 certainly brought it to national attention though. I had been thinking about running it for the past few years, when my buddy Nich Mamrak gave me the push I needed with a simple Instagram message:

@nchlsmmrk: Any interest in doing TWOT this February? I am applying and you were the first person that came to mind that might be interested, could car pool, etc. 112 miles, 28k climb

Folks, nothing gets me going quite like someone saying "I have a dumb idea and you're the first person that came to mind." I live for that shit.

TWOT 100 map and profile

TWOT in tarnation am I doing with my life?

Having just Everested in 24 hours in typically chilly January weather, I was feeling confident that I could survive the winter conditions. Since TWOT was about 50 miles longer than the Everesting challenge, I figured 36 hours would be a good time goal to shoot for.

That confidence began to wane as Nich and I drove down to Virginia through a light drizzle, then a steady rain, then an outright downpour. The 200 mile race had started two days prior, and we followed the race's Twitter feed as each runner dropped out one by one, none even reaching the 100 mile mark.

These were veterans of the TWOT 100 who had tons of experience running long distances. What the hell was waiting for us on that course?

We got our answer as we drove into camp on race morning. The North River was lapping up at the sides of the road, swollen from the inch-and-a-half of rain that had fallen. We knew we had to cross the river once per loop and wondered aloud what that was going to be like.

We got to the start with enough time to take the most awkward starting line photo ever, and after a brief pump up speech, RD Antoinette Landragin released us into the wilderness.

100 mile starters, left to right: Nich Mamrak, Pat Heine, Ryan Thorpe, Jeffrey Moore, Zachary Davis, Mike Zinn, and Barry Main

Alone and loving it

The other runners took off up the first climb, but homeboy ain't about that life. I casually walked behind them, watching them to quickly disappear from view. I have run enough races over the years that I don't worry about how far ahead the other runners get. If things go well, most of them come back to me eventually.

The first climb of TWOT is the infamous Chestnut Ridge climb that Grindstone 100 runners know and love. It cumulatively climbs 3,350' over seven miles to the summit of Little Bald Knob (lol). I've done this climb four times during Grindstone and once in a training run, and it always sucks. There's just no way around that fact. The climb is punctuated by short steep downhill sections, so it's very difficult to get into a rhythm. Despite being on a ridge, the views are mostly obscured by trees.

The mist made things a bit more photogenic though

Lately I've made a conscious effort to be more mindful of the positive aspects of my races, despite the fact that the word "mindful" makes me want to vomit. In that spirit, I tried to identify the silver linings of each obstacle that presented itself.

Silver lining #1: Every other climb in this loop is smaller.

I made it to the top of the climb without an issue, stopping myself once in a while to take some pictures while the conditions allowed. The summit ridge had some spots with impressive drop offs, and I made a mental note to not eat shit and fall off a cliff overnight.

The 2,000' descent to Camp Todd was on a steep but surprisingly smooth section of single track. Unfortunately, there were a dozen trees that had fallen across the trail over the winter.

Silver lining #2: Climbing over downed trees is kind of like stretching and is probably good for me... or something.

At the bottom, I found myself facing a very deep and fast moving North River. I was glad to have poles as I forded the freezing cold, thigh deep water.

Silver lining #3: I am now wide awake.

I made it through the water slowly but without an issue. Volunteer Eric was waiting for me at Camp Todd on the other side, and he greeted me with all the hospitality I've come to expect in semi-supported races: "What took you so long? We were starting to think you were dead!" Glad to see you too, friend.

I was carrying all the nutrition I needed for this loop, so I just refilled my water bottles and got back on the trail. Or rather, I sloshed uphill through an ankle deep river that had trail blazes on it. Yesterday's rain was apparently still making it's way off the mountains.

The climb up to Big Bald Knob (lol) was shorter but steeper than its predecessor. At 4,134', Big Bald Knob is - you guessed it - 200 feet shorter than Little Bald Knob. I relayed my confusion about this to the race organizers afterwards, and they explained that the words "big" and "little" refer to the size of the balds at the summit of each mountain and not to the height of the mountains themselves. I didn't see a bald on either of them, but I'll take their word for it.

One of the more easily negotiated downed trees on the course

The descent from Big Bald was unremarkable except for a short section with a 30% grade. I made it to the bottom without blowing up my quads and considered that a victory. I refilled my bottles again at the road crossing and started the last climb of the loop: Hankey Mountain.

On an elevation profile, Hankey Mountain looks like an afterthought. It's almost a thousand feet shorter than the previous peaks, but it contains the steepest section of the loop: Chinscraper. Aptly named, the Chinscraper climbs 517' in just 0.38 miles for an average grade of 25% and a peak grade over 40%. It's steep enough that you can stand upright and almost touch the ground in front of you in certain spots.

Suffice it to say I didn't set any course records on this climb, but I did happen to see another runner for the first time all day. Jeff Moore, a finisher of many other difficult 100 mile races, was just ahead of me in 6th. It was too early to think about racing, but after 5 hours alone in the woods I figured it would be nice to have some company. I spent a few miles chasing him down a rolling jeep road, appreciative of the fact that he was leading me through a few crucial turns. I finally caught up as we began the final descent into camp, and we got to talking about the weather.

At this point I should mention that the weather had been mild all day with clouds in the morning and some glorious sunshine and 50+ degree temperatures in the afternoon. We were on track to finish this loop under 8 hours (well under my goal of 9 hours per loop), but with limited daylight in mid-February, it was already time to start planning for the night. The forecasts were calling for 20 degree temperatures in the valley with winds gusting to 30 mph. That meant that the wind chill at the summits could approach zero. Looking at the beautiful blue sky above us, it was hard to believe that conditions would deteriorate that much, but we decided we needed to be prepared.

We arrived in camp with 7:40 elapsed, which I consider a pretty solid 100 mile pace, but tied for last place. I spent about 10 minutes in camp making sure I had enough clothing to get through the first night loop. I don't usually like to stop that long, but with limited aid on the course it was important to make sure I had everything I needed.

Night Moves

The big question for this loop was what to do at the river crossing. The RD had told us that we had the option to cross at another spot further upstream where there were stones to hop across, but this added almost a mile to the loop and there was no guarantee that we would even keep our feet dry.

Last view for a while

Ultimately, Jeff convinced me to take the longer route because at this time of day, falling in the freezing water would have almost certainly ended our races. We summited Little Bald together, and I got a bit ahead on the descent. I negotiated the downed trees without too much issue and made the hard right turn to the alternate river crossing. I was pleased to see that the stones were just above the waterline, and a few short jumps got me to the opposite bank in one piece.

Jeff caught back up as I was refilling my bottles at Camp Todd, but he needed to get some clothing out of his pack so I hit the trail ahead of him and unfortunately didn't see him again for the rest of the race. He would go on to finish in 40:25.

Silver lining #4: I'm no longer in last place.

As predicted, the cold weather rolled in, and I progressively added more warm layers. I've gotten pretty good at micromanaging my temperature in races, which, being that I'm a sweaty disgusting bastard, is highly important. First is a Buff around the neck, which always adds a surprising amount of warmth. Then one around the ears. Then gloves, then the waterproof mitten shells, and then finally my rain shell. I had a puffer jacket stowed in my pack in case of emergency but never felt the need to use it.

Armored against the increasingly hostile elements, I finished loop 2 in 8:25, which was fairly consistent with the previous loop considering the addition of an extra mile. I again kept this stop to just 10 minutes, getting some caffeine in my system and grabbing a few slices of bacon from Jose Cardenas, who was volunteering before running the midnight single loop: "Take some bacon. The meat sweats will keep you warm on the climb." I thanked him for the motivation, and he responded, "thank me by running fast!"

Race entry was food for the communal aid station and a bundle of firewood. The volunteers kept a fire burning at the start/finish all weekend!

It was now after midnight, and the cold front was in full swing. The wind howled through the trees on Chestnut Ridge and bits of snow pelted my face. I went to take a sip of water and realized that the mouthpieces of both bottles were freezing. This problem was solved by putting my jacket on over my pack, which then created a new problem: I now had to take off my mittens and unzip my jacket whenever I needed any food or water. Ah, the joys of running in freezing weather!

I once again made the "smart" decision to detour around the deep river crossing. This plan was thrown back in my face when I slipped on an icy rock and plunged my left leg into water up to my knee. I also managed to bang my shin on another rock in the process, which - writing this ten weeks later - appears to have left a permanent mark.

Silver lining #5: Cold feet are great motivation to move fast.

I hobbled into the heated tent at Camp Todd feeling sorry for myself, but I was greeted by Pat and Zack who had both dropped out and were waiting for a ride. I tried to convince them to join me for the rest of the loop, but it was hard enough to convince myself to go back out. So I left and hit the climb up Big Bald, which was still a river but now had sections of fresh ice to keep things interesting.

I won't describe every twist and turn of this third loop, but the bottom line is that it was very cold and I gradually worked myself into a calorie deficit because of my reluctance to take off my jacket to access my food. When the sun came up midway through the loop, the weather started to warm and I slowly worked my way back out of that deficit. I made it through the loop in 9:15, which given the conditions, I'm very pleased with. I had passed Mike Zinn on the descent from Big Bald, which put me in third place out of the five runners remaining. Mike was looking tired but determined and would go on to finish in 41:40.

On the hunt

I spent a few extra minutes at my car getting calories and caffeine in my system. With 26:15 elapsed I headed out for my final lap. That gave me 9:45 to hit my time goal. By all accounts, Nich had solidified his hold on first place and was many hours ahead of me. I was happy just to avoid being lapped. I asked how far ahead the 2nd place runner was.

"Oh you're not going to catch him. He left an hour ago and looked great!" came the response from the RD and volunteers.

"Like hell I'm not!" was what I thought to myself, but I think I responded, "Okie dokie, thanks!" as I left camp.

I'm not usually very competitive, but on the other hand...

• I wanted to prove those volunteers wrong.
• I thought it would be cool for the two Warren County, NJ runners to finish 1st and 2nd (ok, Nich technically lives in NY now, but he grew up just a few towns over from me).
• I wanted to thank Jose and those same volunteers by running fast.

As I headed up Chestnut Ridge for the final time, a bald eagle took off from a tree and flew directly over my head. Patriotic AF. Now I had to chase down second place for America too.

Then something orange in the trail caught my attention. It was an orange peel. I figured the second place guy must have accidentally dropped it. Then a mile later I found another orange peel. Then another. Then another. Each one dropped in the middle of the trail. This was clearly deliberate.

That settles it. This litterbug fuck is going down!

If you're keeping track of my motivations to run fast, they were now: spite, camaraderie, gratitude, patriotism, and spite.

Silver lining #6: Spite is a great motivator.

I charged up Little Bald and ran the descent as quickly as possible. With the sun shining and the weather heating up, I made the decision to wade through the river one more time to save myself the extra mile. The cold water actually felt good on my tired legs. Plus now wading through the semi-frozen river on Big Bald wouldn't bother me.

Big Bald felt steeper than ever, but I hammered down the backside of it, running a pair of 13 and 12 minute miles for the first time in many hours. At the road crossing, I finally spotted him. Mister soon-to-be-third-place litterbug.

"Just how many oranges do you have with you?" I demanded.

"Um. I'm not carrying any oranges," he responded with some confusion.

After some discussion, it became clear that the orange peels were left by a single loop runner who had started with a backpack full of them. I don't want to name names, so we'll just call him Schmarty Schwinn. I politely asked Schmarty after the race not to litter in National Forests and he politely thanked me for informing him about proper race decorum. Just kidding, he threw a temper tantrum and made the world's laziest TWOT pun in retaliation. Eat a dick Schmarty. Eat all the dicks.

Regardless, I still had those four other reasons to run fast. I took off up the trail to Hankey Mountain with the other runner right on my heels. I stepped on the pedal harder and he stayed with me. We arrived at the base of Chin Scraper and it was time for me to make my move... except that he zipped right up the climb and left me in his dust. It became clear that I might have blown my wad too early in this loop, metaphorically speaking of course. My legs were not cooperating.

I arrived at the top panting and wheezing to find this runner waiting patiently.

"Hey man, do you want to run this in together?" he asked.

"Shit, yeah, I really do." I replied.

Silver lining #7: Running with other people is fun.

Mister soon-to-be-tied-for-second non-litterbug was actually named Barry. Barry is a remarkably cool dude. With no one close behind us and my sub-36 hour goal well in hand, we enjoyed a leisurely jog through the final ten miles of the course. We swapped stories and learned the sort of personal details about each other's lives that only come out after many hours of running on a trail. At one point, he also politely waited while I pooped behind a tree. Which was nice of him.

We arrived at the finish in 35:27:00, announcing "We are tied!" just so there was no confusion. I had suggested holding hands, but I guess our words were effective enough.

Me and Barry showing off our sweet 3D printed finisher trophies which are shaped like the course map

Nich had finished many hours earlier, taking the win and setting the fastest Cold TWOT time by anyone not named John Kelly. His reward was having to sleep in the car for seven hours while Barry and I had our bonding session.

With the sun setting for the second time and the weather cooling again, it was time to head back to civilization and indulge in Virginia's finest cuisine: Waffle House and Cracker Barrel.

Thank you to the race directors Antoinette and Guy; to Eric, Jose, and the other volunteers; and to everyone who came out to race (not you, Schmarty). TWOT represents the perfect intersection of wilderness, community, and sadomasochism that I seek out in races. One of these days, I'd like to try the midnight single loop, but I don't know if my soul will ever be ready for another four loop effort.

Final time: 35:27:51

Distance: 115.05 miles

Elevation: 28.805 feet

Race website

TWOT 100 on Twitter (TWOTter?)

Fat Dog 120: Don't Call It a Comeback

Or do call it a comeback. Whatever, I'm not your mom.

I originally registered for Fat Dog 120 on January 2, 2018. I was coming off the best racing season of my short ultrarunning career, having broken 14 hours at Manitou's Revenge, 20 hours at Vermont 100, and 24 hours at Grindstone, along with setting a new FKT on the NJ section of the Appalachian Trail. I was feeling invincible and was ready to take on a new level of mountain ultramarathon.

For reasons that I will elaborate on in way too much detail, that did not come to pass. If you would like to fast forward, skip to the race section below. For those of you who want to wallow in self pity with me, read on...

I waited a long time for this view

What followed was a string of bad luck for the race organizers, for myself personally, and - well - for the entire planet:

2018: Race canceled because of wildfires on course

2019: Race held on a modified course. I deferred to 2020.

2020: Race canceled because of Covid

2021: Race canceled because of Covid

2022: Race held on a modified course because of flooding

On August 5, 2022, four and a half years after registering, I finally stood on the starting line. Rather than using the intervening years to get stronger and faster, I had suffered a string of mild but nagging health issues that had slowed me down a quite a bit from my peak. I was now coming off my worst years of racing, having blown up at Manitou's Revenge, Grindstone, Hellbender, and Manitou's again.

If you've noticed a lack of activity on this blog, that's because for a long period of time, I simply didn't enjoy running any more. I kept going through the motions, hoping to reignite the flame, but my body would not cooperate. Even my easy runs were leaving me feeling drained and sore.

It wasn't until a blood test showed low levels of iron and vitamin D that things started to click. I started taking supplements and immediately noticed an uptick in my energy levels. I bought a gravel bike and a TheraBand and started doing what would have been unimaginable to a young Ryan: stretching and cross training.

My race results didn't immediately improve though. My body was recovering, but my fitness would take longer to return. Also, I was about 15 pounds over my ideal racing weight. Rather than focus on a time goal, I decided that my main goal was to enjoy this experience that I was finally going to have in the mountains. Rather than taper, I spent the week before the race exploring Banff with Alex.

Moraine Lake. Worth the bike ride.

Mt. Rundle. Worth the 8 hour hike on race week.

Okay, I did have one time goal. They give out colorful buckles for a 36 hour finish. I thought that would be fun, but it seemed optimistic given all of the above. That goal went out the window pretty early on.

Let's get to the race.

The Gang Races Fat Dog

Fat Dog is a 120+ mile race in the Canadian Cascades, running point to point from Cathedral Provincial Park to Manning Provincial Park. Despite being located just across the border from North Cascades National Park, these provincial parks are some of the best kept secrets in North America. The course passes through pristine wilderness, crossing alpine meadows and rugged ridgelines. In 2022 the course was rerouted, perhaps permanently, because of severe flood damage in the Skagit Valley. This added on 5-10 miles and a bit of elevation gain.

2022 Fat Dog elevation profile

I was lucky enough to be joined by my two favorite Alexes for this race: Alex T. (my wife, aka Girl Alex) and Alex G. (my running friend, aka Boy Alex). Their experience in getting my dumb ass through difficult running events is unmatched. With a little bit of fanfare at the starting line, we set off on our 120+ mile journey.

Boy Alex, Girl Alex, Boy Ryan
The tent in the background says "Suck it up whiney baby" which is a pretty good race motto

The first section was a 4,800' climb over about 9 miles on the Lakeview Trail to the Cathedral Aid station. This was the biggest climb and the highest point of the race, so as usual I forced myself to take it extremely easy, letting the more enthusiastic runners race past me while I stopped to take pictures and enjoy the scenery.

All smiles on the first climb
Photo by Matt Cecil

The views on the ridge were spectacular. Race weekend happened to fall exactly at peak wildflower bloom and I finally got to see why people call this the most scenic race in North America.

Stupidly pretty

After a short traverse along the chilly ridgeline, we made a 3,700' descent to Ashnola Aid station at mile 18. The weather got hotter and the trail got dustier as we descended, so I reined in my effort level. I was excited to see my crew for the first time, but I was also eager to get out of the dusty mosquito-y valley and into cooler weather. I think I got a little impatient with them as they swapped out the dying batteries in my SPOT tracker, but in reality I was only there for 5-10 minutes.

The next section was almost the mirror opposite of the first section: a 3,400' climb to Flat Top mountain over 10 miles followed by a 4,000' descent to the Passayten River. I should mention here that on paper, these climbs all max out at around 800 ft/mi, which is not particularly steep for a mountain race. But I noticed pretty quickly that the trails were not evenly graded. Strava backs me up on this, showing that the ironically named Easygoing Creek trail maxes out around 30% grade in certain sections.

On the bright side, there was this to look at:

I mean, just...

Bruh.

I'm sure I lost 10 minutes in this section just spinning in circles taking pictures. But when am I going to be back to the Canadian Cascades? Worth it.

Wet Feet and the Search for Meat

Much to the relief of my race time, the sun went down and my view shrunk to just the 10 foot circle  in front of me that was illuminated by my headlamp. The descent was pretty straightforward, but what I found at the bottom was a surprise: a thigh deep crossing of the Passayten River aided by a fixed rope. I had read a half dozen race reports to prepare for the race, but apparently this didn't make enough of an impression on those runners to warrant its inclusion. Canadians are a different breed.

This was a definite highlight

At 39 miles into the race, I didn't expect to get stuck behind any groups of runners, but this was a major choke point since only one person could use the rope at a time. I considered charging ahead without the rope but didn't want to risk dousing myself in cold water as the temperature was dropping. Instead, I occupied myself by taking pictures and filtering water. After a 10 minute wait, it was finally my turn to cross. I wasted no time, charging ahead and presumably winning a Strava crown for that 100 foot segment (note to self: create the world's dumbest Strava segment).

Moody shot courtesy of Matt Cecil

In the original course, this crossing would have been followed by a 3 mile section of highway, which always sounded awful. Instead this year we followed a fire break that paralleled the road. For those of you who, like me, are unfamiliar with this term, a fire break is essentially a path bulldozed through the woods to prevent forest fires from spreading. This one was brand new, as evidenced by the fresh bulldozer tracks, and was basically a mud pit that climbed 1,000 feet from the highway. On fresh legs it might have been fun, but holy cow was this a slog!

Anyway, I finally made it to Bonnevier aid station, which I had been calling Bon Iver in my head for the last few hours. It was just after 11pm and I hadn't seen my crew in over 7 hours. I asked the Alexes to see if the aid station had any cheeseburgers. I had smelled them cooking back at the Trapper Aid station four hours earlier, but someone snagged the last one and I didn't want to wait for them to make more. I had been on a mission to find a burger since that moment, but I was shit out of luck because apparently those were the only burgers in the entire mountain range.

Boy Alex found me some bacon though, which is a fantastic consolation prize.
Get yourself a vegetarian friend who still brings you meat at aid stations.

With dry shoes on my feet and a handful of greasy animal products for the journey, I got back on the trail. This would be the crux of the race for me and the other runners: a nighttime traverse of the Heather Trail, 37 miles in the backcountry with no major aid stations.

I started the climb with another runner who had run the first edition of Fat Dog. I had previously heard that the inaugural race was advertised as a 100 miler, and it wasn't until runners got close to the finish that they realized it was more like 115-120 miles. Yeesh. I learned from him that the reality was even worse. The race was also marketed as "beginner friendly" and there were runners attempting their first 100 miler that year. As someone who came into this race having finished thirteen 100 mile races and was completely drained by the finish, the thought of doing this with no prior 100 mile experience was horrifying.

I hit the Bonnevier aid station around 3am, happy to see other people for the first time in a few hours. The weather was starting to get chilly, and I saw frost forming in the grass around me. The aid station was a sullen affair with just a couple of volunteers standing shivering in the dark. I filled a water bottle and grabbed a gel and got moving. To those poor volunteers, thank you for standing on a mountaintop in the dark to hand out gels and fill water bottles!

A few miles later I found myself stumbling. My mind was drifting and I suddenly had the irresistible urge to sleep. I've noticed that my ability to handle sleep deprivation has been getting worse as I get older, and for the first time in my racing career I had to lie down in the middle of the trail and take a nap. I left my headlamp on so no one would step on me, took a quick look at my watch, and immediately drifted off into the abyss. I woke up 5 minutes later, a bit chilly but feeling much more energetic.

Sunrise over Nicomen Lake

It was now almost 5am, and I knew that the sunrise would help me wake up. I crested Nicomen ridge just in time to see the first rays of sunlight peaking out over the mountains in the distance. A short but steep descent brought me to the Nicomen Lake aid station, where I once again grabbed a minimal amount of food and water and got back on the trail. I was around the half way point in the race with just under 20 hours elapsed. A 36 hour finish was certainly not going to happen, but 40 sounded like a nice round number too.

With the sun now shining down on me, I felt a renewed burst of energy and hammered the descent to Grainger Creek aid station. Just kidding! I immediately began to feel sleepy again, and I staggered down the trail, barely managing a 15min/mi pace on the buttery smooth single track. I zombie shuffled into the aid station, set a 5 minute timer on my phone, and immediately collapsed onto a yoga mat for my second nap of the race.

Once again, the short nap revived me (following it up with a cup of coffee didn't hurt either), and I was back on the trail. I now had a 10 mile climb on the Hope Pass Trail to get to my crew at the next major aid station. I was moving well, but this was a new section of the course, and it had clearly not seen much foot traffic. I could tell how much work had gone into clearing it ahead of race day, given all the fallen trees that had been cut. However, the trail was a muddy, mossy, brushy mess. Despite not having had rain in the last few days, I found myself constantly sidestepping puddles and creeks running across the trail.

I arrived at Hope Pass aid station at almost noon, having gone 12 hours since seeing my crew. I asked if they could find me that cheeseburger, but the hot options were tater tots and bacon. Once again, not bad as far as consolation prizes go. I was craving salt and I vaguely recall saying "Tell them to put a lot of ketchup on the tots. Like, a disgusting amount of ketchup. Fuck them up with ketchup."

Boy Alex sunscreening my calves and thighs. Not who I expected to deal with that task, but I'm not complaining.

The Part Where I Got to Run with People!

Now 80 miles into the race, we were firmly in pacer territory. Boy Alex had initially offered to pace more mileage, but with the lack of crew access in the backcountry, the only other option would have been for him to start at mile 40. And while 80 miles with a pacer sounds nice, I didn't want us to both be trashed by the end.

We were back in the high country, and with the sun shining on the wildflowers we felt like we were in the Sound of Music. We had a 24 mile traverse back along the Heather Trail to the next major aid station, and Boy Alex was determined to keep me focused and motivated. Although like me, he couldn't help but stop for pictures.

Flowers for DAYS, son!

We reached Nicomen Lake aid station at the same time as Lee Conner, a badass woman with whom I have shared miles at Grindstone and Hellbender. I always know I'm having a good day if I'm near her on the course, but unfortunately she was going through a serious rough patch. She seemed to be struggling to form words and her movement was uncharacteristically slow and cautious. I advised her to get some food in her system and take a nap, not that she needs my advice when it comes to finishing mountain ultras. I left her in the capable hands of the aid station volunteers and hoped for the best as I trudged onward.

The remainder of the Heather Trail was beautiful, if not particularly fast. I hit the 100 mile mark in 32 hours, which seemed respectable to me given the difficulty of the course. I noted out loud that it would have been so nice if this race was "only" 100 miles. But alas, my dumb ass decided that 120+ was a good idea.

At mile 103 we hit Blackwall Road, a winding dirt road that would take us down to the race headquarters at Manning Park Resort. From here we had a panoramic view south into North Cascades National Park.

View from Blackwell Road
Photo by Matt Cecil

It was nice to be on a graded road and not have to think about foot placements for a while, but the soles of my feet were a mess after running through so much mud earlier in the race. We got to Blackwell aid station, and the Alexes swapped pacing bibs while I did some surgery. I scrubbed the grit off my feet with a towel (a highly useful piece of race gear) and dried them off as best as possible. To add a bit of protection, I double layered my socks, which seemed to help somewhat. With Girl Alex now by my side, I got back on my feet and hobbled onward.

It hurts but it do be pretty though

We had a short detour onto a rocky trail that cut a switchback off the road descent, but after that it was six miles of pavement to descend 2,000 feet. I'm typically a strong downhill runner late in races, and I managed a respectable-but-not-aggressive 14 min/mi pace on this section. But let me tell you that my hips and knees were not happy about this sudden burst of what I will generously call "speed."

Pain cave, party of one

I felt bad that Girl Alex's section with me was such a low point. She tried to distract me by talking about some dinner plans with my family when we got back, but I informed her in no uncertain terms that I was in no state to check my mental calendar for openings. In fact, I was pretty sure that we were going to have to throw my corpse in a dumpster after the race, so future dinner plans seemed pretty fuckin' irrelevant. So yeah, that's the head space I was in. Sorry babe.

The Alexes swapped pacer bibs again, and now I was back to being Boy Alex's problem. He had chugged a cold brew coffee and was determined to get me to the finish line regardless of my deteriorating state. I spent the next few miles trying to keep up with him as he went into full drill sergeant mode, barking orders to run interspersed with words of encouragement. I racked my brain for a polite way to tell him to fuck off. I considered sitting down in the center of the trail and DNFing in protest of this outrageous treatment, but that seemed a tad too dramatic. Eventually I settled on a very frank, "Hey man, this is not working and I'm totally fine with finishing an hour later if it means not pushing this hard." That did the trick.

Pic unrelated to this point. I just like the way it looks. Can you tell how hard I'm trying to hold my shit together?

We passed by the finish line at mile 113 and still had another 14 miles left to go, which if you ask me is a pretty rotten thing to do to a runner. We trudged onwards, but for the third time in the race I was met with an overwhelming urge to lie down and sleep. Boy Alex, having been nudged out of drill sergeant mode, relented and I curled up for a few minutes until I felt a very large spider crawl up my inner thigh. Fine. Fuck. I guess I won't sleep.

Thus began a very slow and sullen ascent of the Skyline Trail. If you had stopped me at this point in the race and asked my opinion on the technicality of the Fat Dog trails, I would have said that it has some mildly rocky sections but nothing too strenuous. Skyline flipped this assessment on its head. Rocky ledges. Steep drop-offs, sometimes on both sides of the trail. If I had done this in the daylight on fresh legs it would have been my jam. In the dark with 120 miles on my legs, it was very much not my jam.

Cool, but also ouch.
Photo by Anne Christensen on AllTrails

Boy Alex did his best to distract me by practicing his Spanish. It had been freezing by the water at Lightning Lake ("Ryan esta frio!"), and as we climbed we hit a much warmer patch of air ("Ahora, Ryan esta muy caliente!") As my 20 mile miles turned to 30+ minute miles, I did the sort of mental math that every runner does at this point in the race. 40 hours had slipped away. 41 wasn't looking good either. Let's shoot for 42 then. The answer to life, the universe, and everything. It's a better number than 36 or 40 anyway.

We crested the last summit with just over 40 hours elapsed. I tried to run downhill but my feet were hamburger meat and I was losing coordination from the lack of sleep. At one point I stepped straight off the side of the trail and would have fallen 20 feet into some brush if not for a perfectly placed fallen tree that my foot landed on. Get your shit together Thorpe!

I noted with surprise that no runners had passed us since the last aid station, and with that a half dozen people flew by. One of them was Lee Conner, who was back from the dead and poised to finish with her trademark sprint. I gave chase for a few seconds but had to let her go.

At long last, we reached the bottom of the mountain. The finish line came into view across Lightning Lake and we heard cheering from the small group of spectators who were braving the cold in the middle of the night. I shambled across the finish line, gave Girl Alex a big kiss, collected my buckle, and gave that a big kiss too for good measure. Boy Alex got a hug.

All the feels

Just a boy and his Alexes

Only nine runners had broken 36 hours and twenty broke 40 hours, which made me feel a bit better about missing those goals by such a wide margin. Despite having almost perfect weather, the course changes certainly seem to have added some difficulty to an already difficult race. Nevertheless, I finished feeling healthy (my feet were fine once they dried out) and despite some late race struggles, I really thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

Finish Time: 41:58:36 (30th place of 130 starters)

Distance: 127.6 miles

Elevation: 27,598 feet

Comparison of old and new courses on Caltopo

We couldn't hang out long because the temperature was just above freezing, but the next afternoon, after eating all the bacon and eggs they had in our small town, we returned to the scene of the crime and enjoyed soaking our tired feet in Nicomen Lake in 90 degree weather. What a difference a few hours makes!

I could have spent the whole day sitting here

Then we had a three hour drive back to Vancouver to catch our flights home. Or rather, the Alexes had a three hour drive. I took a three hour nap and magically found myself at YVR airport.

It ain't colorful but it's a keeper

I don't know if I'll come back to Fat Dog any time soon, but I'm glad I finally had the opportunity to run this amazing race. Huge thanks to the organizers, the volunteers, and of course, my two wonderful Alexes!