While I could paint a picture in story and song of the conquering hero returning from battle on a far-away blood-soaked field, the truth is far less heroic.

I finished, got my buckle, had the experience of a lifetime, was surrounded by good friends, and made some new ones. For all of that, I am truly thankful.

The reality is that 13 miles in, I could already feel my adductors getting very sore. They were taxed last month at Wonderland and again pacing Joe at Eastern States. After that race, I could feel that I had pushed them too far and needed to take a few days off of running to rest. I had hoped that the flat terrain of Pine Creek would have meant I wouldn’t need to strain those muscles again but the opposite was true—they are the exact muscles necessary to bring each leg forward on a flat surface. Thirteen miles in, I was still moving at 12-minute miles but wasn’t going to be able to hold that much longer. To compensate, I engaged my Achilles/soleus on each step to push my legs forward. By mile 30, I was slowing but still at a running pace, maybe 14-minute miles, but my crew was getting concerned as I was looking worse for wear.

Between miles 30 and 47, the wheels began to fall off the wagon. I slowed more—15:00/mi, 16:00/mi, 17:00/mi—like a car that someone forgot to refuel I slowly ground down my pace. By mile 45, both Achilles were shot and my left hip flexor seized up and I dropped to a walk, somewhere between a shuffle and a limp. Just then I saw Claudia who had walked a couple of miles from the next aid station to meet me. With her torn meniscus, we were a perfect pair to crawl our way forward. Some Amish on bicycles pedaled by as did a horse-drawn covered wagon. I persisted.

At mile 47 where Peeter and Joe were waiting, I told Joe to get his HyperVolt and he relentlessly went to work on my hip, pummelling it like a bantamweight boxer taking on a grizzled opponent. Joe prevailed. After a few minutes of treatment, I could feel the hip relaxing and asked Peeter to pace me from that point—13 miles ahead of schedule. I was lucky that he was prepared and we set off, running at first, then a combination of walking and running. By mile 51 when I met up with Claudia and Joe again, I changed much of my gear as expected, found one of my toes was red and swollen from scraping the inside of my shoe, but was in good spirits and, although the relentless flatness of the trail had played havoc with my legs, I was determined to continue.

Twice during the day, I was recognized by runners that I’d previously shared trails with on our Sunday Runs and was surprised and delighted at hearing my name called out. At other times, people recognized me as the guy that had come with the professional crew and that, too, offered encouragement.

Dusk fell during the next section as we headed toward the aid station at mile 57. Swampland surrounded the trail and mosquitoes gnawed at both Peeter and me. When we arrived at the aid station, Joe and Claudia were completely bundled in clothes not to keep warm but to reduce blood loss from the relentless insects. We were doused in so much Deet at the aid station that I’m sure it took two years off my life. After a presoak, heavy-duty washing, and two rinses, Marta won’t let my running clothes in the house yet—they still reek. We continued.

Night fell, but not my spirit. Peeter and I laughed as a number of runners ran by without headlamps. There were many of them, and it was very dark with only a crescent moon above the hills on the horizon in front of us providing ambient light. We saw the eerie glow of housecat eyes at the edge of the trail and Peeter talked to it in Estonian as we passed, uncertain that the cat understood. Gunshots rang out from a shooting range at a distance on our left and I commented that I hope they weren’t culling the slower runners—gallows humor is somewhat required for a run of this sort. When we passed the starting point for the last 40-mile leg of the journey, I was decidedly at a walking pace, listing to one side, favoring my hip flexor. A few miles later, at the next crew-manned aid station, Joe jabbed me again with the HyperVolt, sending shockwaves of pain through my hip but loosening the tight muscles so that I could move. A can of ice coffee and a B vitamin gave me a huge surge of energy and I was back at a slow running pace. I had known for a while that I would not make my 24-hour goal so the pressure of maintaining a fast pace was off and even at a walking pace, I knew I’d make the 30-hour cutoff. But as the initial rush abated, I slowed again. I discovered that if I kept on the track where my left side was on the upper slope of the crown on the trail (yeah, the trail is so flat that there is a slight crown to it), it mitigated the pain in my hip so I settled in, making relentless forward progress, one step at a time. Peeter and I talked, saw a couple of small harmless snakes, and finally made it to Blackwell—the 80-mile aid station and turn-around point where he retired and Joe took on the role of pacer.

It was still dark when Joe started and I was moving no faster. I was tired and even a can of coffee at Blackwell couldn’t boost me much. Still, I was ahead of the cutoff and knew I could finish. We saw very few headlamps when we made the turn—a sure sign that I was in the back of the pack. As dawn came, though, daylight renewed my spirit and gave me some energy. I had managed my nutrition and hydration well for the past 24 hours and passed through the next aid station without stopping. We saw a bald eagle swoop down the river valley and Joe lamented he wasn’t fast enough with his camera. Fortunately, I was a much slower target and he serendipitously snapped a couple of pics of me en route. When I see them today, I understand the look of concern in my crew’s eyes when I approached those later aid stations. I was listing noticeably—“spinal plasticity” was the term Claudia used to kindly describe the pose. As we continued to walk, I introduced an occasional shuffling run as much as I could while trucks carrying dismantled aid stations passed us—a sign the race was drawing to a close. A race organizer passed by on a bicycle to check on stragglers and offered encouragement. I could only muster a small smile in return. 29 hours after I began running, I arrived at the starting point to learn the finish line was 100 yards uphill from there. Ugh. Who needs that?

With my friends surrounding me, we walked the final distance, through the archway, and I claimed my buckle. I could never have done this without my crew. All of the training that prepared me to run 93 miles in 3 days with 22,000 feet of gain at Wonderland in no way prepared me for the relentless onslaught of working the same muscles over and over again on this course. I had suspected that would happen but thought I could push through until much later in the race. Oh well, as we’ve learned this season, most races don’t end as expected, and this was no different. I’m done, recovering, a slight limp in my left leg still, but I’ll be fine. Taking this week off of running and will assess next week but I’ll be out on Saturday and Sunday to see my friends at the start of the runs and to maybe share a story if there’s time.

The final numbers from the run: 102.67 miles run, 15,613 calories burned, 712 feet of vertical gain, 27:16 moving time, 29:02 elapsed time, 239,700 steps, and a million smiles of satisfaction once done.

—Lee Willett, September 2021

Don’t have time to write a long race report? Don’t have time to read one? This is the place for you. Add your own five word race report and share it with the group. Ready, go!

By Billy McArthur

It all started in the summer of 2018 after finishing UTMB’s baby race, the 40k MCC. It was such a beautiful course and the experience of being in Chamonix for UTMB made it so special. I knew I had to come back for the full experience. I didn’t have enough points to qualify for a longer distance, so I spontaneously decided to sign up for a fall 100k race in Mexico. I was able to finish the grueling UTMX with little training in 19h 33m, just 27 min shy of cutoff. After securing enough points and doing some research, I decided to sign up to TDS, the more challenging and less demanded UTMB race. TDS is a 145k race starting in Courmayeur Italy running west around Mount Blank to finish in Chamonix France.

I started working with Brian of Steep Endurance in February and had a solid plan, which included hundreds of miles of treadmill at 15% (which i didn’t run). Training went ok, but was difficult to keep up with a new baby at home and lots of work travel. I did a couple 50m races and a big night run, but was far from hitting the planned weekly mileage/vert. As I entered tapering I was concerned about my fitness level and was overwhelmed with the advertised 28k ft of gain (turns out its much more than that). When I got to Chamonix my fears grew exponentially, but there was no turning back now. The morning of the race I was up at 2 am for a 2:30 am bus pickup. I didn’t get much sleep, but my mind and body felt strong. All my gear was in place including almost 6k calories of Spring energy. I knew that as long as I could eat I would be able to move and finish within the 42 hour cutoff.

The race started and very early I found myself climbing a very steep hill to the sound of hundreds of poles hitting the pavement. I had decided to start in the back of the field and figured I would save legs for later. Later came very soon, first 5 miles had over 1,000ft of gain each! I was so thrilled of being out there and it was so beautiful that I didn’t feel any pain. Morning broke around 6:30 am and what had been expected to be rain, turned into a beautiful chill weather perfect for running. 4 hours in I was at 12miles with 6k ft of climb, so things were looking good. If I could keep that 3m/hr pace, I would be done in 28-30 hours. Perfect. We continued going up and down valleys and the conga line was getting lame. We’re 15m in and I’m literally stopped for 10m as the field moves through a technical downhill. I started getting a bit impatient. The sun came up as we approached Bourg Saint Maurice, the first big aid station where I would meet my wife Ali. This was mile 31, so 1/3 done and came in exactly in 9 hours. The math worked, 27-28 hours total I would be done.

I found Ali and it was all happiness until I realized my battery wasn’t charged and my watch was agonizing. I was carrying my cable charger, but there was so many people it was even hard to move, so forget about finding a power source. I ate a vegan burrito, changed shoes and pushed fwd after the 40min break. I was still feeling strong, it was 1:30pm and only had 10 miles for the next big aid, so went out in good spirits. At this point I had passed about 300 people and was placing 1,200 or so. This next section is the only piece that I was able to recover on my watch and made it to strava: 10.1m with 6.5k feet of gain at 20:32/mi so 3:28 moving time (total time was over 6 hours including a 45min wait for my turn to come down Prasseur Pralongnan). I wasn’t complaining and was able to rest during the down time, but all the waiting was messing up my rhythm and motivation. I finally made it to Cormet de Roseland where Ali had been waiting for 4+ hours. It was getting dark and I started asking whether I should just call it quits. I decided to keep pushing and geared up for the night after some food and coffee. I gave my lamp to Ali and asked her to put in the fresh batteries (I would soon realize I had already changed the batteries, so Ali changed them again for the old ones!)

As I started moving into this big hill and the night came down, I had my first big setback. I decided to sit and rest at the top of the climb, but fell asleep for a few minutes and quickly felt signs of hypothermia. I put my jacket and gloves on quickly and started moving.. was a close call. So without a watch to follow heart rate, or a functional lamp, I started moving very slowly for the next 15 miles into Beaufort. Somewhere in the night I sat again for a couple minutes and as I raised, I broke one of my poles. Just what I needed as I was ready to face some big downhills. My quads were screaming as I moved down 3k ft into Beaufort where we would get our dropbags and rest. This was mile 57 and I came in at 3:20 am (bit past the scheduled 9 pm arrival). Surprisingly I was now placing somewhere around 1,000, not because I was faster, but because at this point over 600 people had dropped from the race. I stayed about 1:30 hours in Beaufort as I figured better to rest than going out in the dark moving so slow. I waited for my friend Claudia and we went out around 5 am after eating and taking care of several blisters. Started climbing into the 100k mark now without poles and was feeling again very strong. Made the 4 miles into Hauteluce relatively fast right into sunrise.

Next was a big climbing section towards Col du Jolly. I ran out of water quickly and was suffering from sleep deprivation. I had about 10m to go on a massive climb and was no having fun. (What is the point of doing this is you are not having fun?) I figured even if I make it to the next aid I will still have 30k to go, so no way I will be able to keep up. I called Ali and asked her to just meet me at Col do Jolly as I may just finish my race there. It would take me 5 hours but I finally made it. As I came into Col du Jolly I was able to charge my phone and it turned out there was no road nearby and would take Ali another hour to get there. Everything happens for a reason. We agreed to meet on the trail to Les Contamines and I was once again reinvigorated after cheese and crackers. I finally ran into Ali, changed again into the Speedgoats and was completely renewed coming down into the last major aid station. It took me 2 hours for 6 miles so was back in the game.

As I came into Contamines it was now 2 pm on day 2 and my mind was fully focused on finishing. I had 10 miles to Les Houches with the last 4K feet of climb. It took me another 5 hours including a stop in a country cafe for a well deserved orangina with my new buddies from Finland. This was also the peak of heat and another very tough section after 30+ hours going at it. We finally made it to the top just to realize water was another 4km. By now I had realized the dif between a regular km and a French km. When you ask people in this area it seems everywhere you go it’s 2km, and this are long kms, more like 5.

As I came down to Les Houches I saw Ali again and was so happy. I could smell the finish line and her support during the last 2 days made me want to push harder. I didn’t even stop at the aid and just ran to the finish as I wanted to come in on daylight. Those 5.5 miles took me 1:07 and I’m sure I logged in 8min miles. Turns out I did leave some gas in the tank, although it was probably because I moved so slow for so long. Coming into Chamonix was magic, so much support, so much energy, it really felt like a big accomplishment although my 40:33:42 put me in 908 place, around 54%.

There are many things I would do different next time, like training for downhills, starting further front on the pack to avoid traffic, or making sure my batteries work! But all in all I wouldn’t change my experience for anything, and more importantly I would do this again a thousand times just to see my family at the next aid station. It was a very special race and I’m grateful to everyone that contributed to this amazing experience. I will be back for another adventure.

By Claudia Rimerman
The gimmick here is that it’s a timed race with four trails, each a different length. You don’t know how far you’ll run or which trails until it happens (pull a colored golf ball out of a bucket and run the corresponding trail). The park is mid-Jersey terrain: gentle rolling hills, nothing really challenging, but very lovely. The trails are 2, 3, 4 and 5 miles, and there is significant overlap at the beginning and end, but it’s along a pretty lake, so it’s not boring or frustrating. The four mile loop has some nice single track and fun turns. The five miler goes through an abandoned Victorian era village with impressive but decrepit homes; I got stalled there an extra five minutes reading the informative placards about the turn of the century summer vacationers, the social class distinctions between wealthy and middle class vacationers, and the bookbinding business that once thrived there. The five miler also had a great combination of single track, gravel road, deep woods, river, and the hardest hill on the course (do NOT think “Blue Hill”—it’s about 3/4 mile and not as tough). That said, I did do a bit of walking. The organizers are enthusiastic, and they bring a whole snack bar of REAL FOOD, prepared in response to a pre-race survey of runners’ favorite snacks. The event ends with a P/T session and a bowl of vegetarian chili. Well worth the drive across the GWB.

By Kevin Rader

In 2015, I toed the line with a great bunch of running buddies at the first Breakneck Point Marathon. The race quickly turned into an epic failure at mile 8. 7 hours after starting, I took an early out option and stopped to complete the ~15 mile race. Not a DNF, but it still stung. Yesterday, I made another attempt at this killer trail race, again surrounded by amazing running friends old and new, especially Nick Speranza, Daniel Roberto, Christopher McGovern, Jayden K Smith, Jason Braun, Dave Pond, Lauren Gim, Erin McNally, Michele Zandoná and Ben Drew. It was a tough, slow one, but I’m happy to say, I FINISHED IT! 26+ miles, ~ 9000 feet of ascent, 9.5 hours, two pair of socks, two pairs of shoes, probably a gallon of gatorade, multiple cramps in leg muscles I didn’t know I had, an ankle twist, a couple of sits to take in the scenery (and question my life choices), and some praying for the sweet release of death (especially on that one hill late in the race – you know the one). Such an rewarding experience.

Thanks to Ben Drew from Run On Hudson Valley and Ian Golden from Red Newt Racing for putting on this gnarly, kick-ass trail race. Thanks to all my running friends. To the folks from Taconic Road Runners Club who gave up their usual Saturday run to help out at the race, I really appreciate your volunteering. You ran an awesome aid station and your friendly faces, humor, and energy reinvigorated me before taking on the dreaded Breakneck climb. Thanks to Amy Jennifer Hanlon, Erin McNally, Jim Bixler, Mike Cat Skill, Eric Foxhall their help at the Reservoir Road aid station (a station so nice you hit it twice). Thanks for the laughs and the energy boost to tackle Fishkill Ridge! I am grateful and indebted to ALL the wonderful volunteers yesterday. To those runners whose names I didn’t get or might not remember but with whom I shared a mile or two or a laugh along the way, I was grateful for the experience. Nick and Daniel: you were with me at my worst in 2015. You both helped me get ready for yesterday’s race and were with me through it. Thank you so very much! Kudos to all the Leatherman Harriers for some kick-ass training runs (especially the 5am ones with Lee Willett, Peeter Muursepp, and Jeffrey Koenig). And thanks to my loving family for putting up with me through all the training (love you, Jennifer Pisani Rader) and for encouraging (/tolerating) my hobby.

By Aaron Stredny, Mountain Peak Fitness

The Escarpment Trail Run, though not a marathon or ultra distance is a multi-mountain race of complicated length and scrupulous strategy. It is short enough at 17’ish miles that you feel you should be able to push your legs and lungs hard the whole way. However, beware, if you push too hard on the long climbs or precipitous descents you may suffer the burly wrath of Manitou via a trembling series of muscle seizures more commonly referred to in the field as “Not-Now- Son-of-a-#$@!%^%$#*$#!” This for me usually happens somewhere on or after the Stoppel Point climb and is determined by my, to date, poor decision making tactics in the jagged miles before. It is a race rich in history and for a beast coast trail runner, an absolute bucket list event.

This 42nd Annual Escarpment Trail Run would be my third time lining up against Manitou. Race morning arrived clear in the craggy, weathered Catskill Mountains of upstate NY with keen anticipation, big smiles, hugs and high-fives all around the bustling start area as a large contingent of the MPF/RNR fam was in attendance. After chatting with a few familiar and surprise faces I said hello to the RD and had a short but decisive conversation which led to a last minute, surprise move for me into the much coveted Wave #1. Not to be dramatic, but since my first Escarpment, I’ve daydreamed in training of starting amongst Wave 1.

Though a little unsure seeing the caliber of competitors this year, this was the wave I wanted to race from, feeling that to run with the best would bring out mine. I like the simple concept of trail racing, you just show up and go to work. It is a welcome respite from the more burdened work week, the regimented training sessions and of course a chance to see how those specific suffer bouts are panning out. It is straightforward, your individual effort today will be the apex of what you can do.

8:58 am. Wave #1. A wily aggregate of speedy road runners and burly mountain specialists each with their respective strengths was called across the road to the rock-strewn singletrack funnel where Dick said we had only a few moments but in fine fashion Matt Lipsey was able to fit in a lightning quick bear joke, unfortunately resulting in absolute crickets. Dick took pity on the joker and his audience and abruptly counted down 5,4,3,2,1, GO! And sent us off to do our own individual combat with Manitou.

After running 3:14 last year, I had memorized 4 splits for the day to try and meet or beat: Windham in 37:00, Blackhead 1:42, Stoppel Point 2:34 and the Finish Line at North-South Lake 3:09). Although, it’s funny the only one I remembered during the battle was Blackhead, you’re simply too busy the whole effort trying to be fast, efficient, eat, drink and not fall on your face to remember any minutiae.

Climbing somewhere around 10th or 11th place on the first ascent up Windham High Peak it all felt terribly hard compared to how I trained but after reaching the summit in 37:00 flat, I quickly refocused on bombing down the bumpy but very runnable backside heading towards Burnt Knob and Acra Point. I was feeling much better now being warmed up, taking downhill switchbacks like a sidewinder and shifting into striped gazelle on the flatter singletrack sections. The effort felt great and sustainable and I celebrated by cramming a delicious (shut up, just tell yourself it’s delicious) gel into my calorie burning furnace, Mmmmm.

Read the complete report ››

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By Lee Willett

So, last Saturday, I ran my first 75 mile trail race, The Ultra-Trail Harricana in the backcountry of Quebec, which started at 2:00 a.m. and finished almost 23 hours later. I woke before midnight after a fitful couple hours of nervous sleep and posted one last message online to let everyone know that I was on my way to the race start. The pre-run briefing room was filled with the kind of lean, worn, and sinewy-looking folks you’d expect for a 75 mile race and I felt completely out of place. What was I doing in this crowd? The race director gave his briefing in French, and most of the crowd laughed on cue at appropriate points. It wasn’t until he gave the rest of us the English version did we realize he was going over instructions for what to do in the eventuality we cross paths with a bear, moose, or any one of a number of creatures that could cut the run short. Sure, it was funny, as long as it didn’t actually happen to you.

Briefing complete, we stepped outside into the cool night air and waited under sodium lamps in the church parking lot for the starting horn. I was underdressed in just a t-shirt and rubbed my arms to keep warm. Others did the same—at least I looked like an ultra runner. Finally, the horn broke the quiet and we made our way down the road, a drone shooting video briefly drowned out the sound of footsteps on asphalt, but that didn’t last. Within a couple of kilometers, we were on the silence of the dirt road, which eventually became trail, then single-track as we began the first of three climbs that day.

The first climb was in darkness, our headlamps illuminating the trunks of pines on either side of the narrow trail. At several points we were required to climb with the aid of ropes embedded into the sheer rock face—I was Batman, climbing up a skyscraper. At the top of the mountain, the pines were little more than scrub and I could see the checkpoint in the distance. What I didn’t see was the photographer waiting to ambush runners with his strobe, perfectly positioned to capture exciting action shots while guaranteeing to blind every runner he shot. Surprised by the attack, I lost footing and nearly careened into an expanse of exposed rock. I caught myself and continued‚ one mountain scaled. As I descended, I could see the glowing red light of dawn on the horizon through breaks in the trees—Mordor, I thought.

To reduce litter, the race directors instructed us to bring collapsible cups that we could use at aid stations. This was important, they said, because cups would not be available. I had purchased a collapsible camping cup that they had recommended but in the cold air, the material became somewhat brittle and when I pulled it open at the first aid station, some water trickled through the cracks. No matter, I thought, it mostly worked, and besides, I only have 60 miles to go.

Dawn broke around the time I left that first aid station and I could see the beauty of the Quebec boreal forest around me. Pines, birch, and all manner of vegetation swallowed up the trail at times and I found myself holding up my arms to minimize being scratched by passing branches—which helped little. The trail sometimes gave way to logging roads where aid stations were set and the people manning them were as professional and helpful as I’ve seen. They’d grab my pack, ask what I needed, and take care of the rest. By the time I’d had a bite to eat, they’d be waiting with my pack—a valet holding a dinner jacket for me. Once suited up, I was off again, more trail, some road, more climb.

The second climb was much less steep than the first and only slightly less tall. In daylight, it wasn’t as demoralizing to be sure. And besides, just past the top would be another aid station where I’d find my drop bag, almost halfway done. I spent more time than I should have at Station Chouette—my legs tightened and I could feel the sore setting in. I swapped my headlamp with a fresh one that I’d need that evening, tended to some minor chafing, and ate like a feral animal. Thirsty, I grabbed the bottom my cup with enthusiasm in preparation to unfold it. As I applied pressure, the bottom detached into a perfect chartreuse circle in my right hand, a useless plastic doughnut in my left. The man across the table dispensing water caught the surprise on my face and tried his best not to smile. The race director said the cups were mandatory and I wondered how I was going to get through another 40 miles without one. Fortunately, most aid stations served broth with noodles and while they didn’t have cups, they did have bowls. I was saved. Still, it wasn’t yet noon and I knew my pace was slower than anticipated so I moved on.

The nice thing about being a back-of-the-pack runner is it gives me time to make friends. There’s plenty of talk to be had though usually it centers on what races you’ve run, where you’re from, and other ultra-related chit chat. I met many really nice people who had done amazing races and I was well entertained for hours. But after Station Chouette, the trail became more quiet. The pack had thinned and I found myself running with fewer people around. And then the race got difficult. The wet summer and rains over the previous days left the next twenty miles or so a combination of muddy, moss-covered rocks (the easy stuff) and up to waist-deep mud-filled peat-like bogs (which were unavoidable). The puddles often seemed innocuous but I soon realized that what I would mistake as a rock near the surface was only a clump of flotsam and my foot would plunge in sometimes ankle deep, and sometimes to my hip. I had considered running with poles but decided against it before I left. I now was rethinking a number of my life choices. The highlight of this section of the race was that for a while, a young trail runner from Quebec was just yards ahead of me and at every impassable bog, she would pause and give an exasperated, “Holy fook!” in her French accent.

Around 100k into the race, darkness fell again, both actually and metaphorically. I was exhausted and the bog had slowed my progress such that I was in danger of being cut. In truth, it was around this time that I had considered dropping. Just before the Station Epervier, the single-track emptied onto a logging road where a large van was parked, idling. Sweet salvation. I could just climb inside where it was warm, they probably had food. I could sleep. I had already run farther than I had ever run before so who could blame me? It would be easy…so easy…. STOP, I told myself and decided then and there that I would have to be pulled from the race if necessary (still a real posiblity)—I wasn’t going to quit! I gave a nonchalant wave to the bus driver as if this were routine and continued on.

The aid stations throughout the race were always well stocked with the usual ultra fare—Coke, Mountain Dew, chips, and pretzels—but there was plenty more things to try. Broth with noodles, gnocchi, and a variety of local cheeses made each stop special and I tried a little bit of this and that at each station. At Station Epervier, I could smell meat grilling which was intended for the staff since they would be spending the night in the cabins of the campsite. When I commented, they said they’d be happy to cook me something but I didn’t want to wait. I fueled up with a rush of caffeine, a handful of carbs, and salty broth. Off again.

The next section wound through fern-covered single-track trails and I thought how lovely it would be in daylight. Oh what it must be like to be an elite runner. The trail in this section was marked by large and entirely too reflective blazes on trees spaced too close together. My headlamp dimmed when it detected bright reflections and I found that as I approached each blaze, it would dim to almost nothing and I’d momentarily be running in darkness. And darkness in the outback of Quebec is a special kind of darkness that not only swallows your light, it swallows your soul. I’d hear the occasional rustle of an animal close to the trail and in my mind I weighed the pros and cons of being attacked by some wild beast.

Sometime later I could make out the dimmest of a warm glows in the distance which never seemed to get any closer. Miles passed before I arrived at station Split-BMR, 107km in. I checked my pace—glacial. At the start of the day, I had given myself three conceptual paces—best case, average case, worst case, and I wasn’t even close to the last of those. The kind woman at the aid station was almost apologetic when she mentioned that I was sorta, kinda close to the cut-off. How close, I asked. Fifteen minutes. But, she said again in a voice of concern bordering on pity, I still had one more climb ahead. “Never tell me the elevation,” my inner self said in my best Harrison Ford voice. And I was off.

While only 7km to the next and final aid station, it seemed like this section was the longest. The course everywhere else was well marked but here there were spots where I was very uneasy, afraid I had made a wrong turn. It may have been that the markings weren’t far apart at all but by moving slowly, they just seemed particularly distant. At one point I stopped, walked back to check a side trail, looked around more, then continuing in my original direction. Eventually I saw a marker but I was apprehensive. Missing a turn would cost me precious time that I could not spare. When I approached the final aid station, Station Montagne Noire, I had just over 10k left. Everything hurt, the temperature had dropped into the upper 30s and I was cold. As I approached, there was a tense moment when I feared I missed the cutoff. “What do you need,” a man with particularly impressive facial hair asked. “Time,” I replied. “Did I make the cutoff?” He nodded his response in the dim light of my headlamp but said that I would have to leave right away. I did. I could run a 10k on pure adrenaline if I needed to. I was going to make it.

I had been told before the race that the final 10k would be easy—downhill, logging road, nothing to worry about. As I exited the trail onto that road, a guide was waiting to escort me and two other runners the last bit which was, frankly, entirely too byzantine for that late in the race. We switched from logging road to some narrow trail, past a parking lot, around a swamp and, with only a couple of kilometers to go, I planted both legs in mire so completely that I was unable to extricate myself. I watched as the guide, followed by one of the runners, disappeared into the distance. I waited there for the next runner, wondering if I were to fall over, how long it would take to find my mud-covered body. Such things go through your mind after so long on your feet. When the next runner arrived, she exclaimed, “Holy fook!” when she saw my predicament and handed me her poles so I could liberate myself while waiting patiently until I was free.

In the final kilometers, I could see a glow of lights, then hear the cheer of the crowd as others before me crossed the finish line, one-by-one, trickling out of the forest in a slow, steady drip. I made it in 22 hours, 56 minutes, with four minutes to spare before the cutoff. My friend Peeter Muursepp had finished almost three hours before and was at the end when I arrived. I’m sure taking a couple pictures along the way cost me some time but it was worth it. Looking back, it was an amazing experience. A video of the race start is here: https://www.facebook.com/evharricana/videos/1335037639927722/