I find myself asking far too often, why do I feel the need to move my fastest in the mountains? Why can’t I be content to move at a more leisurely pace? Why do I need speed? Perhaps this is a lie I tell myself, but it has always been more about what I am asked to listen to from the mountains than forcing my will. What can be if I work with her? If she allows me to dance along her trails and faces, what could we create? Elevation, technicality, altitude, conditions, they all work in perfect symbiosis when I am not fighting her. If I push too hard, if I go when she does not want me to, I am betraying the relationship. Listen, listen, listen… and then move.

I’ve had the privilege to climb, run and ski amongst some of the most beautiful mountains in the world. I’ve moved quickly, and I have been humbled many times. And I try never to take for granted that I am a pilgrim, not a dweller. We were never meant for permanence.

While I do not subscribe to one religion, I do believe in the mountains. The final line of the poem struck me deeply: “dans l’audace et l’adoration” or “in audacity and adoration.” I have been audacious in my pursuits and dreams tied so deeply to traveling through these mountains, but I live in adoration of what they can give and take away.

Before each big mountain adventure, I say my mountain prayer: Please grant me safe passage if today is the day I am meant to stand upon your summit. I promise I will listen if I am not meant to do so.

I have the incredible opportunity to be in Cape Town, South Africa right now about to race the Ultra Trail Cape Town 100k race. It is a legendary race, one that weaves through villages, up Table Mountain and highlights the best of the trails, city and community. I’d heard the climbs are steep and the trails technical, but that there is flow and rhythm to it. The first time I stepped on the trails, I was a bit gobsmacked. Wow, they were not kidding about the technicality. I come from a background in technical trail running, having grown up throwing myself up and down the Long Trail, the White Mountains and the Adirondacks. Moving from there to the jungly trails of Hawaii, I’ve long loved the nuance and skill it takes to navigate technical running.

When I put out my goal of setting the course record at the HURT 100 this year, I knew it would take strong nutrition, crew, a race plan etc, but I believed the biggest piece I had to learn was how to dance with the trails. HURT is a race of rhythm, flow, and lines. I have spent 100s of hours finding exactly the foot placements, the way to move my body through its rocks and roots. There is no fighting the trail, that is the surest way to lose. But instead, it is a game of love and learning.

The trails have their music that we must study diligently and open ourselves to be ready to receive when we have earned it. I know when I am pressing and fighting against both myself and the landscape. It feels off, the legs heavy, tripping, and wasted movements slowing progress. But when it feels right, it is the most connected to nature and my body I have ever felt. When I stood on that start line, I was ready to dance with the course. To try to see and hear it in a way I’d spent years listening and honing the skills it asked me to practice. It asked me to run it differently, to be braver in places and to give myself and its path grace when we both needed it. To relentless forward progress and humbling myself to its power.

I believe each trail system, each race course, each single track has its song. As I ran the trails of the UTCT course today, I found myself continuously saying, “listen Alyssa, just listen.” There is magic in the rock, the dirt, the twists and spirals of the course. It feels like the course is trying to tell me its song; I just have to be willing to listen. My goal for UTCT is to hear what’s around me. To be patient and brave and ready to learn. It is not me against the race course. It is with it.

It’s been awhile since I’ve written. This is not because I have nothing to say, quite the opposite. I have thousands of ideas and words swirling in my head. I’ve actually logged more hours of music listening on Spotify than the last five years combined because my brain has been so loud. I haven’t had space for the normal words of podcasts and audiobooks to permeate. My Spotify top 5 may never be so accurate again, but finally, the chaos is settling.

UTMB was not what I hoped or wanted for this year, but it was exactly what I needed. Codi pointed out to me after the race that I seemed like I was preparing for war. I was so uptight about the smallest details, obsessing for hours over the perfect rain jacket or what gloves to wear for the balance of light and durable. I snapped at him when he hadn’t perfectly memorized my plan because, I couldn’t budge on any piece. Where flexibility and adaptability are king, I was white knuckling the crap out of it.

I felt it in the race immediately. There wasn’t ease or flow, it was driven by the fear of not being good enough and a chip on my shoulder the size of Mont Blanc. None of the confidence, flow and grace of Lavaredo or HURT were present. I was frantic and made massive nutrition errors, didn’t communicate with my crew, and almost gave up on a race that had plenty to salvage and finish with pride. Luckily, part of building a team is allowing them to see what I could not, and help me when I wasn’t doing the best job of helping myself. I finished UTMB with my tail between my legs. But, I now believe that coming in 39th place is the catalyst for changing the trajectory of my ultra career and perhaps my life. It identified significant dietary changes I needed to make that I had never been willing to change. I cannot pretend anymore that I do not have a surgically changed digestive system that is different than 99.9999% of the population. It humbled me to accept I would never come close to my potential if I didn’t let go of 18 years of an image and idea of what I should be eating. That I needed to listen and relinquish my control. There will be more about this inflection point, but I’m saving that for the future :)

I always joke that I tend to blow my life up every spring trying to fix things that aren’t broken. This has led to three consecutive years of DNF’s or DNS’ in trying to nail a spring race. But, post UTMB by my choice for certain aspects, and not for others, has led to restructuring and reprioritizing. I am fully committed to being the best athlete I can be in ways I have never committed to previously. Reaching the edge of my potential in mountain running has continuously served as my north star. But, this does not mean I don’t need galaxies around it.

So, I’m giving up this season. And by giving up I don’t mean what you think. I’m going to loosen my grip. I’m going to let go of what I can’t change. I’m not going to fight anymore. I’m going to listen to what people say the first time and believe them. I’m not going to hold on so tightly it blinds me. Instead, I will let go and have the space to grow, and to let what needs to be come in to my life because I will have the room.

One of my favorite endings to a poem comes from “In Blackwater Woods” by Mary Oliver. It has served as a reminder throughout my life of what I can and cannot control and will continue to do so in every season.

To live in this world

you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it

go,

to let it go.

Inherently, that mindset triggers the fear that I will slide backwards. I’m on this linear trajectory and any lesser result, a worse running split, a slip in my mental game, means I am not enough. That growth can only be in the face of creating a better me and casting away former versions of myself. But something is changing.

During Lavaredo, right at the start line I ran into someone I went to high school with at Stratton Mountain School. Stratton, as I’ve mentioned before, was a pretty difficult time for me due to my health complications with Ulcerative Colitis. It shook my core identity and created a version of myself in athletics that has constantly told me I am not good enough. Meeting one of my classmates was wonderful, but it instantly brought feelings of vulnerability. 14-year-old Alyssa sprang into my head and reminded me of how helpless I felt when I was sick. I tried to shove her away at the start line as the music blared and the thousands of people in the town square created an absolute cacophony of energy and sound.

At around mile 26 of the race, as I popped out onto a road section, four words came into my head. “I will protect you.” Tim, my mental training coach, and I have spoken at length about the times at which we form our identity and how they are a part of our narratives, but they do not have to be the primary controllers. But truthfully, I have never been able to hold the 14-year-old Alyssa with the care and attention she deserved without letting her become the primary voice. Yet here I was, in the wee hours of the morning in the heart of the Dolomites, listening to a voice ready to protect, not cast away, dominate, or be afraid. Just, it's okay, I hear you, I’ll protect you.

After that moment in Lavaredo, I’ve caught myself trying to continue the narrative of being a better version of myself. Gosh, Alyssa from Desert Rats didn’t know what she was doing; she was just too naive, not fast enough, lesser than etc. But, I’ve been stopping myself. Instead, I’ve found a different way to describe these changes. I’ve started saying that I’m a more compassionate athlete, a kinder athlete to myself and all the versions of me that exist in my brain. This allows me to expand, to envelope, and not be afraid that I can’t handle the parts of me that scare me. When they come, I will welcome them and say, “I will protect you.”

A slog queen is not afraid of the unsexy work, the unseen miles, the effort of being the best they can be everyday. A queen respects the mountains, not conquering but ruling with gratitude and love for the places that give them freedom. They live for the uncomfortable and embrace the spaces where they have not previously been before. A slog queen takes one day at a time, one step at a time through the triumph and hardship to embrace their best self. A slog queen gives the world some hell.

The following is a recap from my FKT on Mt Whitney via the Mountaineer’s Route in 2022. This is where the Slog Queen hat was born. Prior to this FKT, one of our favorite mountaineering stores, Big Willi Mountaineering, had awesome hats with the words “Slog Lord” on them. I wanted female representation in the mountains, so we collaborated on the idea of The Slog Queen. This is its origin story:

I closed my eyes seeing how long I could hold the line on the pavement. My headlamp was off but the crown of mountains glowed in the near full moon and uninhibited stars, beckoning me to climb. At first it was only a few steps of trust before my eyes would fly open with the fear of falling. I began to feel the rhythm, the natural balance I think we too often suppress by the need to be guided with comfort. The comfort of light shows us what we already know by intuition. I loved her spikiness, threatening that without proper preparation, she would deny my bid to stand on her crown. When I opened my eyes, a flash of light soared through the sky and I made my wish, for her to grant me safe passage or tell me it wasn’t the right time.

A year prior, Codi and I loaded up our truck camper, prepared to make the 7 hour journey to climb the Mountaineer’s route on Mt. Whitney. Codi had been itching to take this next step in testing our skill sets, but after watching one too many youtube videos on the final couloir and 3rd/4th class scramble, I was terrified. I’ve never been the “exposure makes me feel alive” type and had yet to learn the proper tools to calm my mind. We turned around 50 minutes into the drive as a combination of fear and the remnants of a covid booster left me feeling sick and unprepared.

April 2022, after a winter spent climbing couloirs, skiing descents and gaining all around mountain skills, we made the drive to Whitney. We prepared for a long but hopefully fun day attempting the Mountaineers route, and brought a climbing friend with us to show him the mountaineering side of climbing mountains. Awe struck by the beauty and fueled by snickers bars, we made it to the base of the couloir. Utilizing standard mountaineering equipment, full crampons, helmets, mountaineering boots etc, we ascended with relative ease. The whole time I couldn’t help but think “I can do this solo. I can handle this. I want to do this fast.” We made it through the 3rd/4th class scramble and stood atop, gazing at one of the most beautiful views in the world. “I want to be here again” I found myself saying.

The week after, I couldn’t get a speed record out of my head. I checked the Fastest Known Time website and was more than impressed to see a just over 4hr women’s record on the Whitney portal to summit and back via the mountaineers route. I’ve never been a sky runner and find my strength in longer distances. As everyone else gets bored, I just have more fun. Another route variation caught my eye: Lone Pine to Whitney Summit to Lone Pine. Now that was a route I could get behind. Approximately 33 miles with over 10k of gain, starting as far down the mountain as was reasonable barring a start at Death Valley. I’ve always been fascinated by starting at the absolute base of mountains and don’t love losing elevation by driving or cutting parts of mountains off. I also have long followed the Badwater 135 race that begins in Death Valley and ends climbing the mountain road to finish at the Whitney Portal. This seemed like my chance to run in the footsteps of many incredible runners before me and have a small taste of the final miles to the finish.

We camped in Alabama Hills, not far from the start and a stout 3am wake up led to a just after 3:30am start. Codi dropped me off at Big Willi’s Mountaineering Store on the main street of Lone Pine, where I planned to start and end the trip. Blair, the owner, is one of the radest and most helpful humans on the planet and was a huge help with planning and supporting my FKT attempt. I started at 3:36 amidst the sound of a cat fight and began the long 12 mile climb up to the Portal. My plan was to stay relaxed and not jack my heart rate up in what I thought of as the buy in part of the route. I was hoping to come in under 3 hours, but didn’t want to put myself in a hole early. I ended up running the road section up until the switchbacks where I opted to alternate a run/walk strategy. I felt strong and calm and was surprised with how much I was able to run and feel good. My focus for training this year has been more on speed than on hills, so I was pleasantly surprised at my climbing. I do believe though that climbing is far more mental with downhills being more physical strength. On the road climb up, I had one of the best moments of the whole run. I was feeling a bit mopey from the monotony of running in the dark on an uphill road, so I ended up turning off my headlamp and realizing I could run just by the stars. It was one of the most surreal and beautiful experiences I have had. I felt like I was following a white line to the stars. I even managed to see two shooting stars. I wished for safety and for one person in the world to have a happier day than they did yesterday. The climb flew by after that and I quickly found myself approaching a mile left to the portal.

I used the bathroom in hopes I would avoid a wag bag (I did bring one just in case) and switched out my running gear for my climbing gear that I had stashed the day prior. I was excited to be on trail and feeling like I was making progress, but I knew I was edging closer to the part of the route I was most concerned about.

Right before the Ebersbacher Ledges, the trail is pretty unrelenting with some steep, rocky uphill. I tried to stay calm and in control as I was conscientious that I could not put myself in a tired state. Getting to the Ledges, I went slightly off route, ending up too far right and then cutting back too low below the trail. I was able to get myself back on track, but was a bit frustrated with myself for the error early on. Lower Boy Scout Lake was a nice respite from the uphill and gave me the chance to eat something and prepare myself for what was ahead. I can’t say I did the best job for fueling for a few reasons. The last time we went up, my heart rate was quite low, so I was able to eat real food the whole time and stay on top of calories. I packed for this effort like the last time, but with a higher effort and heart rate, it was much more challenging to eat the real food I had. I ended up not taking in nearly as many calories as I should have.

After Boy Scout, it was all snow or rock for the trail. There were a couple of tricky places on the last rocky uphill before the bottom of the couloir due to some ice, but that was also a place where I could fill my bottle, as I was worried I would run low on water for the summit push. I tried to keep just one of the .6 liter bottles filled at a time to keep weight down, but had forgotten to fill before realizing I didn’t have much more of a shot for running water.

Reaching the bottom of the couloir around 8:50, I sat for a bit to make sure I felt as strong as possible. The wind was much calmer than I expected and it was warm the entire way. I used a lightweight axe and micro-spikes on my trail shoes, which I felt was sufficient for how stepped out the route was. The snow was still quite hard which made it easy to feel comfortable in the tracks. I made steady but slow progress up the couloir making sure that anytime I started to feel tired, I would give myself a break. Safety was my number one priority through this section and I knew if I stumbled or felt off, it could have serious consequences. I passed a couple of parties, one coming down that reported the fourth class scramble was quite nice and had less snow than a few weeks ago. I scrambled up the scree field at the top of the couloir which was far more unpleasant than the snow. The scree is very loose and I was worried about dropping rocks on the party below me. Luckily I made it to the last 400m section and felt more confident on the first part of the scramble than I did a few weeks prior. The final push to the top is either a quite vertical snow field or a challenging rock route to the left. I put my micro-spikes back on, but thought I would try staying more to the left. It wasn’t my best idea and I can’t say I enjoyed that section. I was also completely alone which made me a bit more on edge. I made it up though and hit the top at 10:30. I took a few pictures but made a hasty retreat as the wind was whipping and I wanted to get back through the 400m section as quickly as possible. I was definitely nervous about going back down, but talked myself through it by some positive affirmations. I ended up choosing to go face in down the snow field and was pleased by how big the steps were. I felt immense relief when I saw the Notch and only had a few more moves to get onto the trail.

I stayed focused back through the scree field and hit the snow section feeling cautiously optimistic. The snow had softened quite dramatically in the heat so I took it slowly on the way down as I was sinking in and didn’t want to yardsale myself down the mountain. Getting back to my poles at the base of the couloir I felt a massive sense of relief. I had been worried about the top part since the day I decided to do this route. It was the crux of the route and I was really proud I had done it on my own. A year prior, Codi and I were planning to do Whitney, but I was terrified of the couloir and scramble and we ended up not going. I’ve done a lot more in couloirs this year and spent time working on these skills. It’s amazing what practice and more time in an environment will do for confidence. To go from being too scared to even attempting it, to soloing on a speed record, this felt like a big step forward.

I normally love downhill sections and find most of my speed on that part. Unfortunately it was not a speedy descent. I was definitely lacking calories and the combination of softening snow and loose rock did not make for a fast descent. I was either sliding on snow or emptying rocks from my shoes. I fell a couple times on the snow, but would not allow myself to glissade in order to keep this an on foot record. I made a few more poor route choices getting to Lower Boy Scout and ended up in a few bushes that did not like me as much as I did not like them. The Ledges were much more manageable on the way down, and once I passed those, I really felt like I was in the clear. I started picking it up as I had been holding back for safety up until that point. I hit the main Whitney trail and knew it was time to lay it down. I wasn’t close to Vitaly’s record and Jack’s record was unsupported, but I wanted to set the best time that I could. Originally I thought there was a possibility I could hit under 12 hours, but now it was looking like I could do sub 11:45. I hit my stash spot and flipped shoes, changed shirts and threw on my running pack. I knew it was going to be hot on the road and I didn’t have much for calories with me.

I took off in the low 7s as it felt wonderful to open up my stride and hit the final part of the challenge. I maintained a fast pace and my legs felt strong the entire time. The temperature was over 80 at that point and I was cramping a bit from lack of calories and electrolytes. Luckily I had stashed some spare Glukos packets with the water drop so I made a quick pit stop for that at mile 6. Realizing I was maintaining the mid 7s, I saw breaking 11:30 was possible. It was incredible coming off the mountain and knowing I had a very manageable amount of all downhill distance left. I had many cars drive by cheering for me and I felt stronger than I have in a long time. When I started to see the town come into view, I started picking it up even more and dropped a fast last mile to touch the gate at Big Willis. Blair, Sarah, Derek and Codi were waiting with pizza and champagne at the end. I was grateful to have made it down without incident and thankful to the mountains for a safe passage.

I try to say something with my mountain pursuits, whether it is trying to empower others to go after what they didn’t believe was possible or help women to know we belong. This route particularly stood out to me as one where I felt a women’s record needed to be there. It is probably one of the boldest solo adventures I have done and I want other women to feel these routes are possible. It sparked me to think deeply about FKT’s and the role of women in pursuing hard, technical routes. I am stoked to do more about this in the future.

When I feel stronger, from self-gratifying race results, Instagram messages, podcast requests, literally and figurative pats on the back, these questions are not so loud. They are always lurking, but I can control them by the tangible evidence I have that I’m not a joke. But when I have a result that’s disappointing or doesn’t align with the linear path of success we all kid ourselves into believing is possible, those sheep position themselves at the front of the gate. They’re busting to break the fence down, to trample the optimism we must all have to believe we are capable of doing great things. That line is so fine of relentlessly believing each day that I am worthy of this care, effort and self-belief. Wouldn’t it be easier to just… snap?

I almost didn’t line up at UTMB last year because I thought I had no business competing with the best in the world. I’d be a joke. It would prove all those self-doubting sheep grazing in my head right. That I’m okay, but I’ll never be good enough. I still remember when an athlete I admire, posted a few years ago that all the steps in her career, signifying to the outside world that she’d “made it” never were enough for her internal satisfaction or belief that she had indeed made it. I know exactly how she feels. Will the next race result, contract, fkt, or external recognition signal to my mind that I have made it in this sport?

I’ve imagined what it could feel like to win UTMB, or Hardrock, or make the Ultra Runner of the Year list, but what I can never figure out is if I will feel satisfied or at peace with those outcomes. Truthfully, I don’t think it will. But I also am not sure that being satisfied is what I’m looking to achieve. The ugly and beautiful part of discontentedness, of those inner sheep that won’t shut the F up, is what they bring out of me. But, it’s also what they take away by a relentless pursuit. The optimist in me hopes the pursuit contributes to society. Providing for my family, inspiring others to pursue their limits, and believing we are capable of hard and beautiful things. But the pessimist points out the inherently selfish nature, the hours spent chasing minute improvements, of constantly fighting myself to believe in myself.

But isn’t this the messiness that I’ve asked for? Didn’t I want to pursue something with my whole heart not knowing or having a guarantee on the outcome? Sometimes I don’t think this pursuit is even a choice. It’s the deepest fire in a soul that is human. That wants to be loved, valued, powerful so that I can share that power with the people I want to lift up next to me and above me. That I am given and have chosen a life where I am both nothing and everything. Infinitesimally small and infinitely large if I just left myself be human. I’ll never silence the sheep, but I’m always working to let them graze. To not let one bah outweigh the others. To care for them in the way I should always care for myself

.

As time stacks up, the band stretches. Each day I look at my workouts, is this a stretch day or a reset day? One of the biggest changes I’ve made with the encouragement of my coach, is doing my best to optimize my hard days. I don’t need to tough it out. I want to give that workout everything I’ve got. Wake up feeling extra tired? Nutrition off? Stressed from work? Sore throat? For me, that means not today. I spent years thinking it was a badge of honor to gut out a workout on a day when the universe is giving all the signs that it isn’t time. But, in working on compassion and care for myself, I don’t do this anymore. Digging hard is a skill, but like the rubber band, if it's stretched too much, it will snap.

I love the middle part. The work has become consistent, I feel the fatigue and pride of hard days banked and the fitness starts to reveal itself. I don’t overthink things. I’m just in the flow of showing up every day and doing the work. It’s the workout in front of me. Not tomorrow, not the next interval, what is here and now. “This is what winning feels like” comes out at the end to find the depth I need, grinding up that grade and committing to running every step of hills I’ve always walked. Eat, run, work, sleep, repeat. I don’t think about what my body looks like, what my competitors are doing, it’s head down, work hard. The rubber band is stretched to just the right amount.

But, there are scary moments. A workout where I don’t hit the paces I expect. Why did my legs feel so heavy there? Am I fast enough with the time we have left? These questions threaten to flood my brain and shroud my workouts with doubt. I can’t lean on the comfort of time before the next race approaches. It's almost here and I’m doubting everything. If I’m lucky, right when I think maybe I shouldn’t even start, those workouts start rolling in like I’m winning the lottery. Oh here we go, we’re cooking now. They build that confidence and remind me that the work I’ve been doing all along was always the most important part. I’m ready for whatever may come on that race day. That doesn’t mean I’m guaranteed a perfect race, no one is, but I know without a doubt, I have done the work to show up as my best self on that day. The rubber band is stretched back, ready to hit its target.

I might aim perfectly on race day, I might completely miss the target, or I may land somewhere in between. But, I know when the band goes back to its original shape, I’ll have to start the process over again. The best part is, that rubber bands never go back to normal, they always stay just a little bit more stretched than the time before.

I do this in running too. In almost every place I have lived and with the military life, we move every .5-3 years, I’ve had that special place. When life feels too big, when I just need to cry, to ask why or why not, I’ll go to that place. I can still tell you exactly where all of them are because it's not so much the place, but that feeling of home. That feeling that no matter what, I’m okay.

When I was younger I would stand at the edge of a stone wall near my house and look across the green mountains of Vermont. This was my place of familiarity. I would travel the mountains with my eyes and mind, wondering when it would be my turn to jump and run as far as I could see. I just itched to see, how far can I go? Who can I be?

As I mentioned in a previous post, dealing with the uncertainties and hospitalizations of Ulcerative Colitis led to a deep mistrust of what should be our most fundamental home, our bodies. I couldn’t trust it to do what I asked and I couldn’t perform even remotely close to where I used to be.

I think that’s where I began to feel like the underdog. Before I was sick, I knew no boundaries and had never been told I wasn’t capable of keeping up or beating anyone around me. Why couldn’t a middle schooler toe the line with a high schooler on hill repeats? Why couldn’t I play lacrosse with people twice my age? Why couldn’t I take on the boys? But after I was sick, I lost all confidence. I was happy if I came in 10 minutes behind the last person, not 15min like last time. My vision of myself changed. I became the underdog and I’ve never let go of that. It would make me so angry when my teammates would complain about their top 5 finishes when my name was showing up last on the results sheet. Instead of underlying curiosity and joy, I was now working from a place of decreasing self-worth tied to completely arbitrary measures. Recovery is much longer and harder than I think we ever give ourselves credit for.

I didn’t set out to be good at ultra-running. I didn’t even know what good meant. I started because I wanted to out run that I had spent years feeling inadequate. For better or worse, success in sports has always been one of my strongest measures of success in life. If I ran far enough, I’d outrun my fear that I’d never be who I was. I took for granted that fearlessness is not something we are all given the opportunity to cultivate and develop. I would say it’s quite rare to have enough support and belief from those around you that it’s safe and encouraged to try your hardest.

Through thousands of miles, trails, friendship, and support, I still feel like the underdog. But, I am not the underdog to anyone else but myself. I believe my best performances are ahead of me. I believe there is so much more I can learn, practice, and understand to bring me closer to a sport I will never perfect. That’s actually my favorite part. When I run, I try to create a space that my younger self once thrived in. A place where that curiosity, joy and passion for trying my best and seeing what is possible are celebrated and loved. I’m going to keep trying to open up that space and let myself breathe.

As we continued to walk, the thought kept circulating in my head. Why would a Seagull think of themselves as more or less important than another bird? Why do we value a “unique” bird more than a Seagull? Is it just because they’re more common? Because they don’t have spectacular coloring or sing melodious tunes? What makes them ordinary?

This past year, we found ourselves in Ouray, Colorado over New Year's Eve. We joined a group of climbing friends for a casual hangout before the fireworks and struck up an unlikely conversation. One friend, a former Special Forces Operator who has spent several tours in the Middle East, asked the group, “What is your deepest existential fear?” There was an audible pause in the room, ten of us suddenly thinking about what keeps us up at night. The answers came out: homelessness, dementia, that nothing actually matters, and then it came to me. “I’m terrified of being ordinary.”

But what does that even mean? I felt this fear probably starting in middle school when I became very sick. I was diagnosed at the age of 10 with Ulcerative Colitis, an autoimmune disease where my body attacks my large intestine. I spent most of the summer before my freshman year hospitalized barely able to get out of bed or lift a toothbrush to brush my teeth. I had emergency surgery to remove my colon and had a temporary ostomy. Luckily they were able to complete the reattachment surgery and the pseudo colon, called a J-Pouch, which is constructed out of my small intestine, was attached and functioning only three months later.

Physically I bounced back much faster than I did mentally. In the scheme of things, I was and am incredibly lucky with the outcome of the surgeries. I was in very bad shape, needing a blood transfusion and losing a dangerous amount of weight during the flares. I was too weak to walk, let alone run, but I would stare out the windows of Dartmouth Hospital in New Hampshire, and wish I could escape into those green mountains. I developed a deep fear of confinement. Confined physically by my illness, the IV lines, the walls of the hospital, and a mind that didn’t know how to live in a body I didn’t trust or understand. My surgery left some odd-looking scars, but it was my brain that bore the brunt of my turmoil.

Before my diagnosis, I was a child and an athlete who didn’t believe there were boundaries because I’d never been told I couldn’t or shouldn’t if I just gave my best. And then my body let me down in the most devastating way possible. It fought so hard to keep me alive, but I felt betrayed. It took years not to fall apart on the anniversary of my surgery. To feel like I could let go of the tight grasp of control I’d held since I thought I had gained any back over my body.

I don’t think I ever made a conscious decision that I would choose alternative paths for the rest of my life, but I don’t think it's a coincidence. I started running further and further distances at first to try to escape my fear of confinement. If I could just outrun my illness, my fears, my ghosts, I would be free. And just maybe, I’d be special.

What started as running away, became running with. I was able to develop my relationship with running extremely long distances into a very positive and wonderful part of my life. It took some hard reckoning and questioning to move in this direction, but I feel so fortunate we grew together.

She’s still there though. The 14 year old girl who just wants to believe she’s special. I think there’s probably a part of all ultra runners who complete these incredible distances because we want to feel and believe we are special too. We’re just a little bit extraordinary in a world where it is both the easiest and hardest it's ever been to stand out. Maybe we’re all trying to be Hummingbirds or Flamingos or Red-Tailed Hawks. But, if we don’t tell the Seagulls they’re supposed to be ordinary, how could they know? Maybe they’re just as special. I think they might just be.

In a recent conversation with Joe Corcione from The Everyday Ultra Podcast, he asked me to give advice on keeping the stoke of running alive. I replied with my usual, “I just love running so much, I can’t even think of a time I haven’t loved it.” And he came back with “I think it’s a learned skill to be able to love something.” This stopped me dead in my tracks. Had I been forgetting one of the most fundamental parts of growing relationships? Had I lost sight of the beginning? How had my vision of running become so unrelatable? When did that learned skill become my reality today?

I think we’re all bamboozled by the effortless idea of love. If it's meant to be the person, place or thing that you can’t live without, that makes your life complete, we like to imagine it is easy. That love supersedes the pain, heartbreak, sweat, blood, tears, and hours of life spent chasing after goals that can end in a second. If that fire didn’t burn so brightly, the waters of despair would quickly put out that flame. But, somewhere within those miles, that skill sharpens as the love deepens.

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when along my own journey the learned skill became the reality. I distinctly remember the first time I ran ten miles when I was 12 years old. Growing up on a small mountain in rural Vermont, we had an 8-mile round trip dirt road that could take you safely to the top of our 900ft mountain, and deposit you back home. We hiked, biked, and ran this road countless times growing up and it was the perfect place for a kid to challenge herself.

I remember feeling emboldened that day. I still don’t think I liked running that much let alone loved it, but the curiosity that my legs could carry me farther than my imagination was strong. Before the days of 12 year olds having cell phones, I took off up the mountain telling my mom I was going out for a run, but not knowing today would be a long day. 10 miles just seemed like an incredible feat to run. I’d hiked and biked that far, but never just a straight solo run. Each switchback took me further up the mountain and before long I found myself at the top. I made a quick about-face and bombed down the mountain. Okay, I was in for 8 miles, but if I really wanted to make it special, I’d need to turn left at the gate, complete a part of a 2 mile loop and retrace my steps back to the gate and home to finish all 10. I’d have to make the choice when I reached home, to run past my house and head back up the mountain to ensure I hit my goal.

As darkness began to set in and I was still out on the mountain, I saw headlights coming up towards me. My mom and brother were in our truck looking for me. I yelled out to them, “I’m running 10 miles today!” as their concerned expressions met my enthusiastic shouts. I could see their relief at knowing I was okay, but also laughing at the absurdness of my quest.

I was tired and I still had a couple of miles to go, but I knew it was possible. As I ran past my house to complete the last mile and back up the hill, it was completely dark and the temperature was dropping. I willed my legs to keep trucking, putting my head down as the uphill bore into my calves and quads. Finally, I could see my turnaround point, the last of the relentless uphill. Touching the gate and turning back down the mountain for the last time, I couldn’t stop smiling knowing I’d done something that seemed a bit impossible to my 12-year-old self. In my journal that night I wrote, “Today I ran 10 miles.”

Perhaps that was one of the beginnings of developing the learned skill of loving running. What started as a deep dislike of running except to chase a ball or person on a field, became a choice to run 10 miles solo for no reason other than wondering if that curiosity was possible. Each stretch of myself became a moment where I learned to love just a little bit more and a little bit deeper. So when this sport breaks my heart, leaves me bloody, exhausted, and questioning my sanity, there is one question I no longer have to ask. Do I love it enough to keep trying? The answer is yes.

We live on a military base where the majority of the personnel that come through the gates are new. They’re in what’s referred to as A school, the first real school straight after boot camp. They don their new khakis, hair perfectly combed and language crisp with respect. They are sent on meaningless tasks like patrolling the most peaceful base imaginable, armed with orange safety vests and no weapons stronger than their steel-toed boots. Many are straight out of high school, San Diego their first foray from home. It's the big time, they’re in the capital N Navy now, not just the promise of it.

I like being around their energy. It’s like getting a constant replay on the promise of being a beginner. It’s every possibility shot forward with no constraint as long as you work hard and try your best. Those of us who are jaded know better. Life doesn’t work out with that naivety too often. Actually in the capital N Navy, it's better to be average than the top. The top gets you more work, harder hours and often worse jobs because retention is king and the brightest and the best often have to do the ugly work. But they don’t know that yet and I don’t think I’m going to tell them.

It still floors me I’ve been running ultras for almost ten years at this point. I remember hearing Dylan Bowman a couple of years back talking about being in the sport for ten years and just thinking “wow, what a lifetime of experience that is.” I don’t think I’d put it together how quickly I’d be following in his footsteps at the cusp now of my own ten year mark. When I started I could still barely bring others to grasp what an ultra was, with only the likes of UltraMarathon Man and Born to Run for references. Races didn’t have lotteries, packs were just barely becoming a thing and we all fueled off of bars, Gus and Gatorade. And I loved every second. I bought Hal Koerner’s Field Guide to Ultrarunning and followed the 50k plan to the 1/10th of a mile. I just believed if somehow I could stick to that plan, maybe I could run further than my mind could conceive. Could I run 27 miles one day and go out the next and run another 10? Could I escape a fear of confinement brought about by long stays in the hospital as a kid? Could I outrun my ghosts?

What started as a curiosity and trying to outrun a childhood illness became a way to express my gratitude for being free and alive. A way to see the world on my own two feet and ground me when my world was constantly shifting. The military life is transient by nature. We are quite literally taught that our lives can and will change at the snap of a set of orders. But running is my friend that I bring with me no matter where we go. It has been the constant companion through every move, career change, deployment and question mark we can’t and won’t get answers to. It’s no longer running away, but running with. And surprisingly over the years, by trying my best, through unconditional support by my partner and working really really hard, I seem to be okay at it. It is almost incomprehensible to me not to look forward to every run. I see each day as a chance to better myself and work towards those goals that always sit in my head driving me to be just a little better. Bored isn’t a word that crosses my mind because how could I be? I get to do this beautiful thing every day that fills my soul and sets me on fire. Something I will never perfect and thus it becomes a platform for me to learn, to ask, to fail and just to try to reach the edge of my potential.

As they do their patrols, walking in tight groups of 4-5, talking and laughing at the pointless task just to keep them out of trouble, I hope those sailors keep being beginners. I hope they fall in love with their new paths and keep feeling like this is just the start. I hope ten years later, they still feel like beginners too.

Subscribe now