2 years. That’s a long time to prepare for anything, especially a race. It’s an especially long time when it’s coming off the heels of the only DNF of your career in that exact same race.
My biggest takeaway from the 2020 Moab 240 was that I have to be able to sleep during a 200. I’d made it 73 hours of being awake before I ran out of time at the now-defunct Wind Whistle aid station, mile 153. I hadn’t even landed back in Florida before my wife vowed that she’d be there for me next time with a crew vehicle. There were other lessons learned, but I’d say this was the most important and had the biggest impact in 2022.
Preparing for Moab wasn’t my only focus throughout the past 2 years, but it did always seem to be lurking in my thoughts. Every workout I did, run I went out on, always had me thinking about how this would make me more likely to finish the 240 miles. I remember laying in my rack at bootcamp, staring at the bunk above me, thinking long and hard about what had gone wrong. My fellow recruits were curious about me and why I joined so late in life, and my ultra running stories were the late night topics of several of those nights in Great Lakes. This was a preview of how conversations inevitably turned towards with people I’ve met the past two years as my budding Navy career had me meeting new people constantly. Moab always came up. “Whats the furthest you’ve ever ran?” “153 miles”, with the caveat that it had come during a failure.
We reserved a cabin right at the start/finish line at the Moab RV park. Any advantages I could have, I tipped in my favor this time. No parking a mile away and rushing to the start line this year. My crew consisted of my wife, Whitney, my friend Matt, and the pacer/crew combo of Mindy and her fiancรฉ Rob. Mindy had finished the Bigfoot 200 in August and was also a nurse. I felt extremely fortunate that I had people in my life who would take the time to come all of the way out to a remote desert town and suffer through this with me. The adversity of the experience wasn’t limited to just me though; my wife was 7 months pregnant, and Mindy had stitches in her knee from a fall during a trail run the week prior. Nevertheless, on Friday morning October 7th, our team was on the starting line of the 2022 Moab 240.
I’ll spare you the race report rundown and focus instead on what made this year different than my previous experience. Unlike in 2020, I ran the majority of Day 1. There were several miles at a pace that I knew I’d only sniff during that first day, with the mentality of getting through the first 100 miles in the low 30-hour range. Despite the usual oppressive heat throughout the desert and canyons, I got to the first sleep station, Indian Creek, with over 10 hours before the cutoff. I immediately went to the vehicle and slept soundly for an hour and a half while elevating my legs.
The time in the bank plus the good sleep was something to feel positive about, but I was dealing with some awful chaffing around very sensitive areas. Every step from that point on, I felt the constant papercut feeling across my ass and genitals. Yep. My ability to run slowly slipped away, and brought me closer to something I vowed I’d never be: a thru hiker.
I was able to do some slow running mixed in with power hiking over the next 50 miles. Getting to Bridger Jack at mile 100 in broad daylight was a huge mental win, as one of the focal points of reliving my 2020 DNF was my midnight mountain lion encounter out on the mesa. I left the aid station and headed up Shay Mountain with another runner named Elliot and his pacer, powering our way to the summit much quicker than I remembered doing before.
With the race halfway point behind me, I slept for 2 hours and received another mental boost: I would be with a pacer for the remainder of the race. My entire crew was at Shay and took care of the details while I changed into a fresh shirt and ate everything put in front of me from the aid station. As the sun began to cut through the cold mountain air, Mindy and I headed out on the road back down to the desert.
I didn’t run at all on Day 3. At this point the chaffing was pretty bad, and it felt like open wounds down around my nether regions. We still were power hiking at an average of 20 minute miles, but it was a tough pill to swallow knowing I should have been running plenty of stretches of the mostly flat trail and roads that stood between Shay Mountain and the next sleep aid station, Road 46. When we neared The Needles, which had replaced Wind Whistle, things went sideways on me.
I don’t know if it was the bad memories of 2020 or just the 154 miles, but it was a deja vu meltdown for me at the exact same place that I fell apart on my prior attempt. I just couldn’t get out of my head, and anxiety started to rise as I failed to see where in the hell this new aid station was. I cursed loudly and couldn’t even describe to Mindy what was bothering me so much. I called Whitney in a panic, which is exactly what I did in 2020. The road bent and turned, with still no welcoming lights signaling our arrival to warmth and fuel. The aid station locations in Moab are an exercise in calculated cruelty.
Finally, mercifully the aid station lights appeared at the top of the hill. Rob welcomed us, as he had been volunteering here for several hours to allow us crew access. I’d had a feeling getting past where I’d DNF’d would be a milestone, and having Rob there with the vehicle was huge. After shivering quietly for a few minutes around the fire, I slowly walked to the jeep and collapsed into a slumber. When Mindy woke me up, I panicked thinking I’d been asleep for hours and had missed the cutoff. Mindy informed me that I’d been asleep for a whopping….15 minutes! I have no idea how I’d time traveled while sleeping but I swear I felt rejuvenated from the quick nap. We made some wardrobe changes and went back to the fire to chow down on pancakes and one of the treats of the race, the cans of coffee coke Mindy had brought.
The last stretch of the night to Road 46 was fairly uneventful. It was simply a road through the desert. We passed a bizarre looking “house” facade in the side of a mountain, but otherwise didn’t get to see much. We passed a few runners moving slowly or sleeping in bivys along the road. When we arrived at Road 46, it was the same winning formula. I ate and hopped into the car, this time sleeping for just 45 minutes.
Day 4 was all in the La Sals, and I spent it being paced by Rob. I still couldn’t run because of the chaffing, but it was almost entirely uphill anyway. An endless gradual ascent of rocky trail, heading towards an oasis of fall colors up near the top of the mountain dominating our view. We reached Pole Canyon and the fantastic aid station where I had my feet taped by a medic. There were blisters beneath my toes on both feet, but neither felt serious enough to drain.
We headed out for the 15 mile stretch up to Geyser Pass and eclipsing 10,000 feet above sea level. I could almost immediately feel the effects of the elevation, with my breath getting heavier and my vision slightly narrowing. While we enjoyed the beautiful aspens surrounding us, it was absolutely the toughest stretch of the race for me. The 15 miles ended up taking 9 hours, and my cutoff time buffer withered away. By the time Rob and I stumbled off the trail onto the road up to Geyser, I’d had to take a trail nap and also lost my beanie and cell phone. Thankfully Rob backtracked and somehow found the phone, but this was a an absolute beatdown on me physically and mentally. We had to stop and collapse onto the road, which was a steep grade upwards with no end in sight. Finally, with our breath wheezing out in ragged gasps, we made it into the aid station. 3 hours before cutoff, and I was determined to sleep for an hour and a half for the final push to the finish.
This was really the only time during the race I’d felt rushed or concerned about the cutoff, so things were noticeably hectic. Getting ready in the dark, I tried to quell the emotions rising up in my mind. I’d made it to 200 miles. I still had a full day to finish. I’d barely ran at all in 2 days, so if push came to shove, I still had my speed, right?
Mindy and I headed out in the dark, and as we trudged upwards, she read all of the birthday and well wishes from our friends back home. I’ll admit that I’d already envisioned crossing the finish line and having my emotions erupt. I didn’t even make it that far. I was so overcome hearing how much love and support I had during the race of my life, that the tears started flowing down my dirt streaked face. Ill always remember that moment.
There were still about 5 miles spent ascending above 10,000 feet amongst the aspens. The sun began to trickle through and soak the trail. We passed several cows as we began to make our way down the mountain along a paved road. About 5 miles from the final aid station, we’d pushed my cutoff time back to 3 hours as we’d power walked downhill. I think this rhythm while moving downhill constantly caused my calf to feel tight. When I stood up from our quick fuel break, I felt it tighten painfully. By the time we got to Porcupine Rim aid station, it was causing me to limp noticeably. 18 miles of slickrock trails stood between me and the finish line.
Now up to this point I’d had minimal interaction with any aid station volunteers or medics, except at the aid stations with no crew access. So I really never could discern between who was “officially” working for Destination Trail, although I guess the giveaway would have been the race tee-shirts. When I hobbled into the aid station and said my calf was tight, someone who definitely was NOT a race medic offered to work on my calf. I swapped my shirt and tried to eat, thinking this was going to be a quick stop. The dude working on me had other ideas.
As he roughly dug his fingers into my calf, he spouted off multiple theories as to why I had a tight calf. Dehydration. Lack of electrolytes. Nutrition. Finally, he gripped my calf like it was in the jaws of a starving Rottweiler and I screamed bloody murder. My calf locked up and I was terrified my race was over.
In the minutes that followed, I sat dejected with a blanket wrapped around me. My eyes glossed over and I was vaguely aware of runners coming and leaving, their race against time reaching a frantic pitch as I continued to sit sedentary. Another volunteer noticed my plight and came over to ask if he could help. He offered to get some tiger balm and massage my calf until I could move it. As he went to get the tiger balm, I tried to walk to the bathroom. I could barely move.
Now I’ll say this: I’m not sure entirely what is in tiger balm, but this volunteer worked magic on my calf. He told me to pop 3 ibuprofen, which I’d carried the entire race but hadn’t taken anything up to that point. The combination was effective immediately. Mindy helped me put on my vest, and I began to Frankenstein lurch down the trail.
As we powered down Porcupine Rim, my confidence grew. We hit mile after mile under our target pace. The sun began to set, and as darkness fell one final time on the Moab 240, my pacer became possessed. We made no wrong turns despite the pitch black surroundings up on the rim, and we caught up to several runners before we made the final bend in the trail. We could see the cars far below and it signaled our final descent of the race.
Those final 3.5 miles were the most pleasant ones I’d experienced. Not because it was almost over, but because even after nearly 240 miles, I was still able to run. We ran an average of 12 minute miles for most of those road miles. It was so easy. I was free at last.
As we rounded the turn underneath the highway into Moab, I tried to savor the feelings. I was all the way alive. Matt and Rob met us at the RV park entrance and I picked up the pace even more. I could see Whitney at the bottom of the road leading into the finish line area jumping and waving her phone, our little son along for the ride in her belly. We jogged across the line and I spiked my trekking poles into the ground. It was over. I hugged Whitney and felt everything melt away. It was over.
The other finishers serenaded me with Happy Birthday, making this 40 year milestone one for the ages. Then it was time for the true ending of my Moab redemption; the finish line mugshot. I took off my pack so the Navy emblem would be visible, a signifying difference between the runner who failed in 2020 and the Sailor who had far more than what the eye could see this time around.
Redemption. Writing this a week and a half later, it still feels surreal. The culmination of two years of training ended in success, and I definitely have not processed it yet. I’m not sure what the future holds for me as a runner, but I feel like I can finally move on. Special thanks to my amazing wife and crew, everyone who cheered me on from all over the planet, and anyone I met and shared miles with the past two years and listened to me talk about my plan for Redemption. You know who you are.
๐ธ| @_anastasiawilde , @sarahattar , @jdpetersdotcom
