(And what | learned from it.)

incredible magic of breaking the 26.2-mile barrier, you feel like a child. A

frontier, previously held and perceived as incredibly distant, becomes accessible—the impossible now made possible. Such newfound confidence makes you yearn for bigger challenges. It was these sentiments that influenced my decision to enter the Dick Collins 50-Miler, a race that I will never forget. Hot off my first 50K, I felt ready to take on the world. That race had undoubtedly been a push for me, and I wanted to reexperience that kind of joy once more.

A 50-mile race seemed like the next logical step, so I entered the race despite feeling terrified. During the months of training leading up to race day, I vacillated between states of extreme apprehension and excitement. I was plagued by nightmares of being unable to complete the race, becoming stranded on the course, and experiencing terrible injuries. At one point I thought the distance would kill me, so I consulted my doctor. I had never experienced such apprehension before a race. I remember feeling fear before my first marathon, but this intensity was several orders of magnitude greater. It was the thrill of glory juxtaposed against the uncertainty that comes with pushing your limits. Keeping my eyes on the prize, I kept a diligent training regimen. Living in downtown San Francisco, I found my long runs to be tricky and laborious. Often I would load up my CamelBak and spend hours running on pavement, which further heightened my concern for injury. In such conditions it was difficult for me to muster more than 23 miles on a long run. A few trail runs in Golden Gate Park were squeezed in at the last minute for good measure, but I was concerned about whether I had put in the correct number of miles. Ultimately, I trusted that on race day I would hold back, diligently run the race, and trust in my abilities.

[ in CHABOT, CALIFORNIA, October 11, 2014—The first time you taste the

No more excuses; it’s time

October 11 arrived quicker than I expected. Suddenly, I found myself on the starting line, nearly overcome with nerves. Veterans of the ultramarathon community surrounded me, including Gordy Ainsleigh, the founder of the Western States 100, all wearing headlamps and eager grins. We stood in absolute darkness, blindly huddled together in anticipation. I looked through my running sack once more, making sure I had a healthy supply of electrolyte pills, energy bars, and water. Glancing around, I caught sight of the red digital race clock, and its ominous glow was a tacit reminder of the lengthy journey ahead. As the announcer started our race, I muttered a silent prayer and mentally braced myself for what lay ahead. The pack took off, and as it slowly began to dissipate, I sought a runner who could pace me. This was initially difficult, and for several miles I found myself alone on the course. As a result, it was decidedly difficult to restrain myself from running faster than I should have. These situations make running your own race especially hard. You crave company to mitigate the pangs of solitude and the occasional boredom that occurs in lengthy stretches of a race. This encourages you to try to catch up with a group, and ultimately your pace increases. Possessing the experience to know better, I steadfastly fought these urges but still managed to hang with a pack of beginners. I quickly learned that all of the runners in their first 50-miler were terrified. Many had made the intimidating jump from 50K with limited training and preparation.

On the other hand, one of the members of our intimate pack was a veteran who boasted an enormous number of 50-mile finishes. In her 70s, this woman was a paragon of perseverance and determination. She embodied the incredible fortitude that exemplified ultrarunning, and her stories of pushing through several 100-milers, including the Western States, were noteworthy. I took advantage of the interaction and absorbed her sagacious advice. Above all things, she reinforced how important it was to keep moving no matter what you were experiencing. This shockingly simple maxim proved to be my guiding approach for the remainder of the race.

The rest of us established common ground over training tribulations and past race struggles. Consequently, we were able to keep our spirits high and focus better on the task at hand. Moments like these reminded me how tightly knit the ultra community is. Whenever someone mentioned a race from the past, you could be sure that another person in the group had at least heard of it. Many had run together without knowing it. These conversations were conducted with a supportive undertone and an overall air of encouragement. The usual self-absorbed attitudes that I was accustomed to with metro road runners were virtually nonexistent. You didn’t get that intense sense of competitiveness that usually resulted in cold interactions and distance. Instead, there was a sacred, unspoken bond