I'm sitting at mile 40, staring down at my untouched gel packet, my body completely drained of energy. The aid station volunteers are asking if I need anything, but I already know the answer. I'm done. Not just with this race but maybe with all of this.
The folding chair feels too comfortable, too much like surrender. My family is probably wondering why I'm not moving forward on the tracker. But moving forward requires something I don't have anymore. Not just fuel in my system, but fuel in my spirit. The joy that used to pull me through these dark moments has quietly slipped away, leaving me with nothing but the mechanical act of putting one foot in front of the other until my body finally says no.
That was September 2024. That was the last version of myself I want to be.
This Saturday, I'll return to that same starting line. But everything … and I mean everything … has evolved.
The thing about passion is that you don't realize it's fading until it's nearly gone. For months leading up to last year's Grindstone, I was going through the motions. Training felt obligatory. Race day felt like something to endure rather than embrace. I showed up with hesitation and doubt, carrying the weight of half-caring into 65 miles of Virginia mountains.
When I dropped at mile 40, I felt oddly at peace. Riding back to the start line in the support vehicle, I wasn't angry or disappointed. I was relieved. I told my family afterward that this might be the end for me and ultra distances. That I'd keep running, but differently … more casually, without the drive to show up fully. Because if you can't show up fully, what's the point?
For the next couple of months, that's exactly what I did. Easy running with no clear goal. Just trying to keep some version of the flame alive, even if it was barely flickering.
Then Dakota arrived in November, and life rewrote itself overnight.
Those sacred sunrise runs I’d grown accustomed to … the ones that used to fuel my entire day … became 4:30pm evening miles after Felicia got home from work. My watch transformed from a performance tool tracking splits and heart rate zones into something more basic… a clock measuring how much time I was away from home. Running didn't disappear, but it got rearranged, repositioned, and redefined in my life.
The first half of this year was all about routine and repetition. Base building without the pressure of a specific goal. Spring and early summer filled with simple loops close to home … 50-60 miles a week of just showing up, throwing on my shoes, and logging time on my feet. No race pressure. No grand ambitions. Just the quiet work of keeping that flame from going out completely.
Those runs became something different than they'd ever been before. Not training runs, exactly, but thinking runs. Processing runs. The kind where you're not worried about pace or effort, where your mind has permission to wander and work through whatever needs working through. They became my version of paying myself first … Me Time … that protected hour where I could check in with myself and remember who I was underneath all the other roles I was playing.
Late June, sitting on my couch watching Western States 100, I felt something shifting. Not excitement, exactly, but something closer to regret. Not immediate regret, but the deeper kind … the thought of how giving up on this dream of running Western States might feel ten or twenty years from now. The realization that I was slowly allowing something important to die, and once a flame goes out, it's so much harder to get it back.
Western States is the race that pulled me into ultra running in the first place. It's the one that still represents everything I love about this sport … the challenge, the community, the way it strips you down to your most essential self. But to even have a chance at one day lining up at Western States, you need a qualifying race for the lottery. Grindstone is that race for me.
That night I went online and signed up. Part of it was proximity … 4 hours away in Virginia's Shenandoah Mountains. Part of it was ego … wanting another shot at the race that had nearly sent me into ultra retirement. But mostly, it was about evolution. About not letting the story end on a note I couldn't live with.
This training block has been unlike any other I've done. Not just in the miles or the workouts, but in how I've approached the entire process. It's been about confronting the thing that's limited me for years… the fact that I never learned how to properly fuel my body for these efforts.
I'm a heavy sweater. In mild conditions, I lose 40-47 ounces of fluid and 1,700-2,000mg of sodium per hour. But for years, I was only replacing about 1,200mg of that sodium. July and August brought brutal conditions … 95-degree days with 80% humidity pushed me to 70 ounces of water, 2,500mg sodium, and 100g carbs per hour.
My entire fueling strategy evolved. Gone were the high-sodium sports drinks that never quite did the job. In came highly concentrated salt tablets with water and separate carb gels … a system that trained my gut to process far more than most athletes ever attempt. Several 4+ hour runs in that brutal heat left me feeling stronger than I'd ever felt, recovering faster than seemed possible.
For the first time in years, I didn't experience the nausea that had become normal during long efforts. This wasn't just a training breakthrough but rather a complete rewriting of what I thought my body was capable of. That mile 40 bonk last year? That wasn't me hitting my genetic ceiling like I’d thought. That was the predictable result of chronic under fueling. A critical lesson that I needed to realize in order to evolve as an endurance athlete.
The irony isn't lost on me. All those years of thinking I wasn't built for ultra distances, when really I just hadn't learned how to take care of myself during them.
This return to Grindstone isn't just about redemption or proving something to myself. It's about showing up as a completely different runner than I was twelve months ago. Not just physically … though the proper fueling has been a game-changer … but mentally and emotionally.
Last year, I approached the race with the weight of obligation. This year, I'm approaching it with curiosity. What happens when you show up fully prepared instead of hoping to survive? What's possible when you've done the work not just in training, but in understanding why the work matters?
The goal this Saturday is simple: have fun surrounded by fellow ultra runners in those beautiful Shenandoah Mountains. No hard time target, just finish … ideally before sunset, roughly 12 hours for 65 miles and 11,000+ feet of climbing. But more than that, it's about honoring what this sport has given me over the years. The way it's taught me that most limitations are self-imposed. The way it's shown me that the middle of hard things … not the beginning or the end … is where you meet who you really are.
Here's what I've learned about passion over this past year… it doesn't die all at once. It fades gradually, so gradually you convince yourself it's still there when really you're just going through the motions. But it can also return, sometimes stronger than before, if you're willing to do the work of understanding what made it fade in the first place.
My relationship with ultra running has evolved from obligation to curiosity, from something I had to do to something I get to do. Dakota's arrival didn't end that relationship … it forced me to refine it, made it more intentional, more precious. Those evening runs after work became sacred in a way the sunrise runs never were, because they were harder to protect, more deliberately chosen.
The training, the fueling breakthroughs, the long runs in brutal heat … all of that was just preparation for something bigger. The chance to show up as the fullest version of myself, to honor both the sport and my own evolution as a human.
Saturday isn't just about crossing a finish line or earning a lottery ticket for Western States. It's about proving that second chances are real, that evolution is possible, that the story isn't over when you think it is.
Last year I walked away with doubt. This year, I line up with fire, purpose, and the quiet confidence that comes from doing the work when no one’s watching.
Time to see where this evolution takes me.
See you on the other side. 😎
