"So, you subtract 30 and divide by two... So, 40 degrees Fahrenheit to Celsius would be..."
I’d been listening to this impromptu Fahrenheit-to-Celsius conversion lecture for what felt like forever, but it was flying straight over my head. Math has never been my strong suit, and trying to grasp numbers while over a hundred miles into the Superior 100 wasn’t making it any easier.
"Brittany," I called out to my pacer extraordinaire up ahead, "all I’m hearing is wa, wa, wawa—you sound like the teacher from Charlie Brown."
Thankfully, Brittany didn’t need me to follow the temperature conversion. Not long ago (or maybe it was the day before, who knows at this point), we’d talked about how she had a friend who could pace and carry an entire one-sided conversation. That was a talent, and now Brittany was proving herself just as skilled at it. When running an ultra the conversation, like the trail, can contain a little bit of everything.
Aside from struggling to convert Fahrenheit to the official temperature of Canada, I was battling another calculation: figuring out how much time I had left to hit the finish line and break 30 hours. Despite Brittany's repeated reassurances that we had nearly an hour of cushion, I was convinced it was going to be a close call.
The 30-hour mark had been my goal from the start, coming into my second Superior 100. I’d trained all summer for this moment, running most of the course in preparation. Over the past few months, I had ramped up my speed, starting with a Boston Qualifier at Grandma’s Marathon, followed by the Voyageur 50-miler as a key training race. I pushed my weekly mileage over 70 miles throughout July and August, and I’d been diligent about strength training for over six months. Ever since I found out I was selected in the lottery back in January, I’d been all in. Improving at Superior had become my single focus.
The Superior 100 is one of the oldest 100-milers in the U.S., held on the rugged, relentless, and remote Superior Hiking Trail, along Minnesota’s North Shore of Lake Superior. Though it doesn’t feature any sustained elevation changes, the course continually sends you up steep climbs and down technical descents, adding up to over 17,000 feet of elevation gain. The real challenge lies in the trail itself—littered with rocks and roots, it feels like the terrain is always waiting for a chance to trip you up or twist an ankle.
Yet, despite its difficulty—or perhaps because of it—the Superior 100 is a beloved race. With breathtaking views, an incredible army of volunteers, and a race director, John Storkamp, who has cultivated a tight-knit, family-like community, it’s no wonder there’s a lottery to get in. Race weekend feels more like a family reunion than anything else.
The week leading up to the race, as usual, I was a bundle of nerves. The first time I ran the Superior 100 in 2022, my anxiety stemmed from not knowing what I was in for. This time, I was nervous because I did know what I was getting myself into. As a teacher, summer lends itself perfectly to training for an early fall race, with plenty of time to run. But the flip side is that race week always coincides with the chaos of the first week of school. We started the Tuesday before the race, and even though I did everything I could to stay off my feet and set myself up to recover, it just wasn’t happening. My knees ached from standing behind the library desk all day, I couldn’t sleep—torn between school stress and thoughts of Superior—and my HRV (Heart Rate Variability) was tanking. The mental side was getting to me. So, by the time I left school on Thursday afternoon to do my final race prep, I wasn’t exactly brimming with confidence.
Now, I’m not exactly known for being detail-oriented. In fact, ask anyone I work with and they’ll probably tell you I’m more type B than type A. I like to look at the big picture and figure things out as I go. But when it comes to race planning—especially when I have a crew—I somehow transform into a hyper-organized, logistical mastermind. For this 100-miler, I had a detailed plan laid out, complete with times for each aid station (shoutout to ultrapacer.com—an incredible website that predicts times based on elevation, course difficulty, fatigue, heat, etc.), a list of what I might need at each stop, and descriptions of the upcoming sections. Mike, my partner and crew chief, appreciated this. He’s a details person—one of the most logical and analytical people I know.
Pracket Pick Up. Image by Scott Roki
To ease my pre-race nerves this year, I even prepped baggies for each aid station. They were meticulously packed with my high-carb drink mix (SIS or Gu Roctane), electrolytes (LMNT, Mortal Hydration, or SIS Tabs), SIS gels in smaller baggies to toss in my vest, mini packets of Squirrel’s Nut Butter to prevent chafing, and various snacks. This way, my amazing crew could just grab the baggie labeled for the aid station, and they’d be good to go.
After we jengaed everything into the back of the Ford Escape, Mike, Dot, Brittany (who had arrived the day before), Photo (our lab mix), and I piled into the car for the drive to our AirBnB in Beaver Bay. We made a quick stop at Lake Superior Chiropractic (Dr. Carl is a miracle worker when it comes to fitting people in) and then hit the road. Mike’s parents, Steve and Barb, met us at the rental, and we spent the evening talking through the race, celebrating Steve’s birthday (which always seems to fall on Superior weekend), and just enjoying each other’s company.
Even though I had set my alarm for 5:30, there was no way I was going back to sleep with all the adrenaline pumping through me. I got ready, headed upstairs for some coffee, choked down breakfast, and waited for the rest of my team to wake up. Soon enough, everyone was up and moving—coffees in hand (except for Dot, of course)—as we prepared to head to Gooseberry for the start.
When we arrived, Mike dropped Dot and me off while he went to park the car. I immediately dove into my pre-race ritual: using the bathroom, despite having already gone at the Airbnb, half a dozen times before the start. Between trips, I chatted with a bunch of familiar faces—it’s always amazing how tight-knit the Midwest ultra community is. The energy at the start line was electric, and I was ready to go. I needed to channel my anxiety into running, rather than letting it simmer while standing around.
As the clock ticked closer to 8:00, John gave his pre-race remarks. I hugged my crew goodbye, gave Dot an extra squeeze, and tossed my long sleeve to Mike. The air was brisk that morning, and though the highs would barely hit the upper 50s, I knew I’d be sweating within five minutes of running.
The Final Countdown. Image by Mike Peterson
The race began, and 243 runners set off from Gooseberry Falls, heading toward the Superior Hiking Trail along the Gitchi Gami Trail. The first four miles took place on a wide, paved bike path, which helped spread the runners out and gave everyone a chance to mentally ease into the race. I focused on maintaining a relaxed pace, chatting with a few friends along the way. By the time the pavement ended, I realized that my pre-race anxiety had dissolved as well.
Train of strong women. Image by Howie Stern
As we made our way up the trail toward Split Rock, I found myself in a line of women all aiming for sub-30:00 finishes. I picked this up through a bit of eavesdropping (you can’t help it when running in close quarters), and it worked perfectly since that was my goal too. I settled in behind them, letting the leader set the pace. The only thing on my mind during this section was the river crossing. I’d been up on this part of the trail in August, and the water had been high enough to force me to turn back. Thankfully, this time the river was so low we could easily hop across the rocks.
Now, blisters have been the bane of my running career. I get them all the time. During my first 100-miler in 2022 and again during Voyageur earlier this summer, I was plagued by painful blisters. I had spent the summer testing different shoes and socks, but nothing seemed to work. In fact, I started this race wearing a pair of shoes I’d only worn once—for a five-mile run. Desperate to avoid wet feet, I took the gamble.
After the river crossing, we quickly reached the first aid station. I had aimed to arrive at 9:55, but came in a little early at 9:47. Josh, a runner I had paced last year during the night, refilled my bottles, and I was off again. The next section was over ten miles but mostly runnable, and I’d meet my crew at Beaver Bay.
In this section, I caught up to Mindy Coolman. I had never met her but had heard plenty about her incredible running prowess from friends at my run club. When I came up behind her, we started chatting, and I learned she was from Omaha. I asked if she knew Nate and Sarah, the leaders of Hoops Run Club—a group Dot and I love running with on Thursday nights. Turns out, she did! That’s when I realized she was the Mindy. Chatting with her was a highlight of that section, and before I knew it, the miles were flying by. I passed her a few miles before the next aid station and found myself between Jeff Miller and Madeline Harms. We talked run coaching for a bit, and soon enough, we were at Beaver Bay.
My goal time for that section was 12:15, but I’m not entirely sure when I came in—it didn’t show up on the race splits. I think it was just before noon. I handed my pack to my crew, swapped it for my Naked Belt, and headed off toward Silver Bay. Switching out packs here has been a great strategy for me. It saves time, and the belt is a welcome relief from the pack.
Vestless. Image by Scott Roki
That said, there was one downside: the sports bra I’d chosen was perfect for wearing with a pack but wasn’t quite supportive enough on its own. I’d been trying to figure out the right balance. Earlier in the year, I ran Grandma’s Marathon in the rain and hadn’t thought to lube up beforehand, which was a big mistake. I paid for it with some serious chafing scars that I was still sporting by the time Superior rolled around. So, this time, I’d opted for a super comfortable bra, but one with less holdy-inny qualities. Oh well.
Crew Time with the best. Image by Steve Peterson
I pulled into Silver Bay twenty minutes ahead of my anticipated 1:40 arrival. I planned to spend a little extra time at this aid station since I wouldn’t see my crew for another twenty miles. The next two sections are some of the toughest on the course, so I needed to be fully prepared. I changed my socks and shirt (turns out even a t-shirt was too hot, so I switched to a tank top), grabbed my lone earbud (I accidentally washed the other one, and it never fully recovered), and took an Uncrustable to go. As I crossed the road, mouth full, Steve, a fantastic photographer, was there to snap a picture of me heading up the trail. Despite Steve’s skills, and all the other professional photographers out there, I manage to look perpetually exhausted or just plain awkward, but that’s par for the course with me.
Grateful for Bean and Bear. Image by Howie Stern
The day before the race, the SHT had reopened the trail that crests the ridge near Bean and Bear Lake after summer-long repairs. Being able to run on arguably one of the most beautiful sections of the course felt pretty special. I was still feeling okay until I hit the base of the climb up Mt. Trudee. My pace slowed significantly, and I was alone on the trail when a small train of women, including Madeline, passed me. I latched onto the back of their group, hoping their momentum would help pull me up and over Mt. Trudee. Even though I wasn’t feeling great, the strategy worked, and soon enough, we were on the other side and heading down.
The backside of Mt. Trudee, descending into Tettegouche, is one of my favorite parts of the course. The downhill is runnable—neither too steep nor too technical—and perfect for flowing along the trail. I caught up to the women as we hit the snowmobile trail reroute (definitely not one of my favorite parts), and together we made our way into the Tettegouche aid station.
I arrived at 4:09, still over twenty minutes ahead of schedule. A wonderful volunteer had my drop bag ready, and I sat down as she refilled my water, handed me some soup, and helped me sort my hydration for the trek to County Road 6.
I vividly remember that the first time I ran this race, the section between Tettegouche and County Road 6 felt never-ending. But over the summer, I ran this stretch with Chris, a friend I’d met during one of Jeff Miller’s training weekends. The positive memories from that training run completely replaced the negative ones, and I found myself enjoying the trail far more than I had the first time.
Along with good vibes, I brought out my secret weapon—music. I love having it with me when I run, and I create custom playlists for each race and even for specific training sessions, perfectly tuned to match different RPEs and moods. For this race, I used my BQ/Superior 100 playlist, and it felt like I was transcending the trails. Every one of my most inspirational songs seemed to hit at just the right moment.
With only my left earbud in, I couldn’t skip tracks—just replay them. But that turned out to be perfect. “Outro” by M83 played a few times, and I couldn’t resist replaying "Run Away to Mars" by TALK, which had been stuck in my head for weeks leading up to the race. As I passed by some of the most stunning views near Wolf Lake, a song I hadn’t heard before (shoutout to Smart Suggest) came on, and its lyrics brought tears to my eyes:
"Just tell me what you’re doing this for?
Oh, it’s a little bit of everything, it’s the mountains, it’s the fog.
It’s the news at 6 o’clock, it’s the death of my first dog.
It’s the angels up above me, it’s the song that they don’t sing.
It’s a little bit of everything."
The words summed up exactly why I was out there, why I was taking on this crazy, semi-masochistic journey. It really was a little bit of everything. I smiled through my tears and kept running, making sure to soak in the beauty around me. Before I knew it, I was past the toughest climbs and cruising along the fun, runnable trail toward County Road 6.
Sawmill Dome. Image by Scott Roki
I had found Troy through a plea I posted on Facebook looking for pacers. At the time, I didn’t know Brittany would be able to make it to the race, so I needed someone to help me through the night. I’d had great luck finding pacers this way for my first Superior, so I was excited to meet Troy. We spent the first few miles talking, and I learned about his wealth of experience in the ultra world. He’d completed many races and was a regular volunteer at Rocksteady Running events.
Entering and Exiting Co 6. Images by Steve Peterson
“Sure, you set the pace,” Troy said, and I was off. I don’t know why or how, but I felt phenomenal. I ran most of the section between County Road 6 and Finland. I crossed the janky beaver pond planks with ease (last year, I embarrassingly crawled over them) and was able to run the long boardwalk through the wetlands while it was still light out. I noticed Troy’s light falling farther behind, but I was feeling too good to slow down. As I ran, I hoped he’d forgive me and couldn’t help but feel grateful for the miles we had shared, for his help, and for how strong I was feeling.
Section 13 at Sunset. Image by Howie Stern
My second secret weapon on race day is prayer. I pray more while running than I ever do in daily life. I send up prayers of gratitude for my body, for feeling good, for the views, and even for every time I catch a toe and don’t fall. I pray for people I love, for discernment, for resilience, and for a second (or third, or fourth) wind. I never feel closer to God than when I’m running—especially when the going gets tough. There’s something about the struggle that makes that connection stronger. As I ran, I said a prayer for Troy, hoping he was enjoying the trail, as it was his first time on this section, and I reiterated my gratitude for the strength I felt.
Before I knew it, that section was over. I rolled into Finland at 9:08, still ahead of schedule. Nate and Sarah, my friends from run club, were there, and Dot had made me a sand cake. I soaked in the time with my crew, knowing I wouldn’t see them again until Sugarloaf. We shared some laughs and hugs—Dot always knows how to lift my spirits. I threw on warmer clothes, ate some mashed potatoes, and gave my feet a fresh coat of Squirrel’s Nut Butter before getting ready to head out with Brittany.
Now, Brittany may not have run the Superior 100, but she’s no stranger to epic feats. She holds the FKT on the Superior Hiking Trail, paced me for my last Superior, placed second and fourth at Western States, and is a professional trail runner for Nike. In other words, she’s the ultimate pacer, and I knew she was going to push me through the night.
We headed out from Finland, and I did my best to keep up as Brittany glided effortlessly over the trails. When we run together, I picture her as one of those agile antelope, while I’m more of a steady, plodding ox. I think this was the section where I tripped. I caught my toe on a root and executed a less-than-graceful Superman dive into the dirt. Thankfully, I missed any rocks and walked away with only a bruised quad and an even more bruised ego.
We reached Sonju at 11:21, almost half an hour ahead of schedule. The volunteers were amazing, as always, and we fueled up with some fried rice, a cookie, and coffee. This might have been the aid station with creamer, and if so, hats off to you—because that was some enlightened stuff.
We didn’t linger and were soon back on the trail toward Crosby. Besides being a beast on the trails, Brittany is a fantastic conversationalist. There was never a dull moment as we chatted about everything from relationships, to PBS kids shows we watched as kids (complete with trying to remember all the the theme songs-was there really a song to Teletubbies?), to the strange ways Canadians pronounce certain words. Decal? Deck-al? Look it up—Canadians really do say it differently.
Before long, we arrived at Crosby Manitou. I refilled my pack from my drop bag, grabbed more food, and downed another cup of coffee—burning off all my taste buds in the process, which was actually a blessing because I was so over the sweetness of my SIS gels.
The next stretch was one of the hardest. The ten miles between Crosby Manitou and Sugarloaf are notorious for tough terrain. It starts with a long, steep descent into the Manitou River Gorge, and since what goes down must go up, we soon found ourselves climbing out of the gorge and over three false peaks. Around seven miles in, we crossed the Caribou River, and from there, the trail became more runnable. But reaching that runnable section? That’s the tricky part.
During this section, I pulled out my third secret weapon: sarcasm—more specifically, “sarcastic bitching.” As we seemed to be endlessly climbing, Brittany and I made a list of all the things we’d change about the race. We imagined trails equipped with escalators and that cushy playground material underfoot. Entertainers would appear at every mile, with the occasional flash mob to spice things up. At one point, I found myself crawling over and up a tree to avoid a mud pit and joked that in our version of the race, the trail would be bone dry, flat, and totally rock-free.
Every time we hit another false peak, I told Brittany I was filing a formal complaint with Storkamp. Just to be clear—none of this was serious. “Sarcastic bitching” only works if it’s all in good humor. Eventually, we reached what was supposed to be the “easy” section of trail. Brittany, clearly caught up in the delirium of the night, jokingly claimed she saw the golden arches of a McDonald’s up ahead. It turned out to be nothing more than a runner’s headlamp (big shocker), but the joke stuck with us for the rest of the race.
At one point, we thought we were finally close to the aid station when Brittany said she heard it—only to realize it was an auditory hallucination, and we were still 45 minutes away. Despite the never-ending climbs and tricky terrain, I actually had a blast over those three hours and eleven minutes.
We rolled into the Sugarloaf aid station at mile 72.3 around 3:50, still ahead of my predicted time of 4:15. Even though it felt like a really long night, we were holding pace. My crew had woken up at the ungodly hour of 2:00 AM to meet me, and Dot was feeling the effects. She was particularly crabby, nursing a blister on her finger, which seemed to be the worst thing that had ever happened to her at the time. I couldn’t blame her—everyone was exhausted. I felt immense gratitude not just for my crew and pacers, but for all the volunteers who gave up their sleep to keep us going.
At Sugarloaf, I swapped out Brittany for Nate, who would pace me until Sawbill at mile 90.7. Nate and I met two years ago when we both ran the 100. Brittany was his coach, and he had his two amazing daughters crewing for him. I admired the relationship he had with them. Their connection and love for each other was inspiring. We’d hung out a bit after the race at breakfast, and I remembered how calm and positive his energy was. I was excited to have him with me for the next section of the trail.
We set off, and as we went, I learned more about Nate—one of the great things about having a pacer you don’t know all that well. Unfortunately, my stomach decided to revolt during this stretch. Every time I ate a gel, I felt like it was going to come back up. Because of that, I didn’t fuel as well as I should have, which would cost me later. Still, I kept moving, following Nate’s lead as he filled the silence with stories—about his career, his races, and some unforgettable moments from his life. Before I knew it, we were approaching Cramer Road.
The 100-mile race isn’t the only one happening this weekend—there’s also a 50-mile race and a marathon. The Moose Mountain Marathon (or whatever it’s called now) starts at Cramer Road at 8:00 AM. Last time I ran this race, I remember hearing the marathon countdown as we approached the aid station. This time, though, we arrived at 5:51—about twenty minutes ahead of schedule and well ahead of the marathoners.
Honestly, I don’t remember much about this aid station, except that Dot and Brittany were both napping in the car, taking well-deserved breaks. Mike, Barb, and Steve, however, came through with some gas station coffee, complete with creamer. And let me tell you—it was absolutely delicious.
Nate and I took off toward Temperance. I had marked most of this section as runnable, but I was struggling. My stomach was still rebelling, and I hadn’t been taking in enough calories or carbs. I kept popping Pepto Bismol tabs and trying to slurp gels like David Roche, just to bypass the taste. Luckily, Nate kept the conversation flowing, distracting me from how miserable I was feeling. We ran through the Cross River campground, where some cheering lifted my spirits, crossed the bridge, and began the long descent into Temperance.
Pushing it. Image by Steve Peterson
It was during that descent that I realized I was off pace and behind my goal time. My body still felt awful, but I was determined not to give up now. I hadn’t come this far, put in this much effort, to fall short in the final 20 miles.
Nate keeping me going. Image by Steve Peterson
We arrived at Temperance at 8:12, twelve minutes behind my predicted time. At the aid station, I changed shirts, lubed up my feet again, and was happily surprised to see Nate and Sarah there with their cute little dog, Barkley. Mike, sensing something was off, made sure I ate. I managed most of a quesadilla, sharing a bite with Barkley, before Dot informed me I was in sixth place. That news gave me the motivation I needed. Nate and I headed back out, feeling slightly rejuvenated.
Stick Em Up. Image by Steve Peterson
By the time we reached Sawbill, we were still behind schedule. I didn’t even sit down. I just refilled my bottles, grabbed more gels, and scarfed down a bacon-topped quesadilla—genius idea, by the way. I was picking up Brittany again for the final push to the finish. The trail between Sawbill and Oberg isn’t remarkable—no big climbs, though there are a few smaller ones. The path is mostly smooth, shaded, and prone to mud. Time flew by as we chatted, and somewhere along this stretch, the first marathoners caught up to us. They were flying by, and I would step off the trail to let them zoom past, then resume my slow plod.
Brittany, my Pacer Extrordinaire. Image by Steve Peterson
We arrived at Oberg at 11:14—right on target, as my goal was 11:15. But by this point, my brain was so foggy I could no longer do simple math, and I was worried I was cutting it close to my sub-30:00 goal. I took a quick bathroom break and grabbed a couple of pierogies, saving one for Mike. He’d paced me last time from Sawbill to the finish, and I hadn’t given him time to enjoy a pierogi at Oberg—so this time, I owed him one. Then Brittany and I headed out for the final stretch.
Mike's long awaited perogie. Image by Steve Peterson
The last section of the race features two big climbs. The first is Moose Mountain, which is brutal—steep, relentless, and at mile 98, a real test of will. I pushed as hard as I could, passing several people on the way up, grateful for my poles. They were particularly helpful on the climb, though I think their greatest advantage was catching me when I stumbled. Once we reached the top, we ran along the ridge. The trail is runnable, but at this point, every step feels like a grind. We hit the steep descent, which wasn’t as bad as I remembered, and a marathoner fell in behind us. I told him he could pass, but he said he liked the pace. I asked if he was ready for the ski hill at the end, and he swore, saying he’d run the spring races, like I had, and hoped they’d taken it out of the course. They hadn’t.
Mike had been texting Brittany, saying I was 45 minutes behind fourth place. I knew there was no way I’d catch her, so I focused on finishing strong.
We reached the second climb, Mystery Mountain, which is more forgiving, with switchbacks that make it easier to handle. Somewhere on the ascent Brittany began the lecture on Fahrenheit to Celsius conversions—a welcome distraction. As we started the descent, I began to think we weren’t far from the finish. That’s also when I started to see things. At one point, I did a double take, thinking a German Shepherd was sitting in the middle of the woods, only to realize it was just a log. The trees were playing tricks on me, blending into strange shapes and creatures.
The switchbacks down Mystery Mountain felt endless, but eventually, we hit the gravel bike trail that leads to the bridge crossing the river. I was so relieved to see that trail, knowing the end was near. We crossed the bridge and made our way up and over the jeep road, reaching the pavement. This year, instead of simply running down the blacktop past Caribou Highlands, the course took us up and over the ski hill before descending to the finish line. As we neared the gondola, I spotted Barb and Dot waiting for me. Dot was jumping up and down, eager to run me in for the final stretch.
At that moment, Brittany spotted the fourth-place runner ahead of us, and said we might still catch her. I wasn’t so sure—I told her I was happy with fifth place and breaking 30 hours. We pressed on, reaching Dot, and power hiked the final climb. Dot urged me to push harder, constantly reminding me we were almost there. Her energy was contagious.
Come on quads. This is the last time, I promise. Image by Barb Peterson
When we finally crested the top, the descent to the finish line stretched before us. To my surprise, my quads felt strong, even after all the miles. As we approached the base of the hill, Brittany darted ahead to capture some photos of the finish, while Dot—ever the master of the final kick—picked up the pace. Somehow, I found another gear too, and suddenly, we were racing, at least it felt that way to me. We flew down the final stretch, past the cheering spectators, and crossed the finish line together.
Trying to keep up with Dot. Image by Mike Peterson
5th place. Just four minutes behind the fourth woman.
That finish—it was a little bit of everything.
“It’s like trying to make out every word
When they should simply hum along
It’s not some message written in the dark
Or some truth that no one’s seen
It’s a little bit of everything.”
As I embraced my incredible family, dedicated crew, coach, and friends, I was on the verge of tears—a rare emotional moment for me when crossing a finish line. This was it—the pinnacle of everything we strive to experience. It’s the raw, unrelenting effort, the pushing beyond our limits, the realization of what once seemed impossible. But perhaps the most meaningful part was sharing this milestone with the people who made it all possible.
The Superior 100 in 2024 truly held a little bit of everything. It was misery and joy, flexibility and steadfastness, peace and exhileration, humor and gravity, beauty and imperfection, hope and disbelief. It was sacrifice and dedication—not only mine, but that of my selfless crew and pacers. Their unwavering support inspired me, allowing me to run with a deep sense of gratitude. This is truly a team sport.
- Believe in your ability to persevere in the face of adversity. You can do hard things.
- Surround yourself with amazing people who inspire and support you. They’ll lift you up. Over and over again if needed.
- Find humor and connection in as many ways as possible. There’s always something to laugh about, even if you’re crying at the same time.
- Find inspiration and gratitude in the journey-if it was easy it wouldn’t be meaningful and it wouldn’t change you. You can always think of things that running 100 miles is better than: working, driving in rush hour, listening to your child practice recorder...
- Find yourself a pair of good shoes. (I wore the same pair of Saucony Xodus Ultra 3s for the entire race. Yes, those shoes that I had only took on one short road run before go time.)
- Through perseverance, gratitude, and the support of others, you can achieve extraordinary things—even in the toughest circumstances. Throwing in some sarcasm, never hurt anyone either. Unless you don't understand sarcasm, then I guess it may not help.
Done and dusted. Image by Mike Peterson
