My first ultramarathon: the Zion 100K
12 hours, 7100 feet of elevation, rain, snow, and a whole lot of pain and glory.
Why 100K
It’s not entirely clear why I signed up for a 100K ultramarathon. Especially with only 3 months between signup and race day. Maybe it was the stress of grinding away at a tiny startup and the need for an escape. I could feel burnout and an existential crisis creeping in, and what better way to get out of a rut than to run 62 miles in Zion National Park? But deep down, I think I wanted to see if I had what it takes—if I could run 100 kilometers without giving up. What would I do when I reached my limit and had no choice but to keep going? It’s something all those with a calling for type 2 fun will understand. So I clicked that registration button for the Zion 100K Ultramarathon and circled a date 12 weeks out on my calendar.
Training (or Lack Thereof)
I wouldn’t say I was well-prepared. My highest mileage week during the 12 weeks of training was just under 40 miles, with a long run of just 22 miles. I tried to squeeze in as much time on my feet as possible—hiking through the woods, getting comfortable in my hydration vest—but between a demanding job and the tight timeline, I knew I was going in light on training. But this race wasn’t about being perfectly prepared. It was about testing my limits.
In preparation for this adventure, I sought advice from a good friend who’d completed the Tahoe 200—a 200-mile monster trail race around Lake Tahoe with over 36,000 feet of elevation gain. His advice was simple but profound:
1. You will fall down. It happens in every trail race. Don’t freak out when it happens. Stay calm, get back up, laugh it off, and just keep going.
2. Don’t make decisions on uphills. You’ll feel your worst there and want to give up. Don’t let yourself – just push through and reassess once you’re back on the flats or downhills.
3. Food is magic. When you hit a low point, force some calories down and wait 20 minutes. I promise it will get better after that.
With these nuggets of wisdom in my back pocket, I boarded a plane from San Francisco to Las Vegas, grabbed a rental car, and drove to Virgin, Utah—the start and finish line of this wild adventure.
Race Day: Early Morning Jitters
My alarm was set for 5 AM, but I was too amped up to sleep anyway. The race would start in the rain, under a heavy sky that felt more suited to a Pacific Northwest trail run than a desert ultramarathon. This wasn’t what I’d imagined, but it set the tone: today would be full of surprises.
Part 1: The Muddy Start (miles 0-20)
The first 7 or 8 miles were a relentless uphill grind on a paved road in the dark, but soon we hit the top, where the trail turned into a quagmire. Freezing rain turned the clay into sticky, clumpy mud that caked my shoes until they felt like bricks. I found myself scraping off mud with sticks and on rocks just to keep moving forward. Freezing and soaking wet, I noticed my hands had puffed up which I thought could be from dehydration. I took a salt tablet and some acetaminophen, something I’ve never done on a run, hoping that would help.
People always say “don’t try things for the first time on race day.” Those people are right. The silver lining? I fell in the mud and the pain of falling distracted me briefly from the pain from my ill-advised and easily avoidable salt-induced cramps. But I remembered my friend’s advice and was glad I got the fall out of the way (unfortunately, not my last). Luckily, after that, there was a nice long downhill stretch that took me to about 18 miles and I started to get my first of many second winds.
Part 2: Soaked to the Bone (miles 20-32)
By the time I hit the river crossing at around mile 20, my feet were already soaked, so trudging through icy water felt almost redundant. The next section was long and windy, where I found myself zoning out as the miles blurred together. A steady uphill climb on gravel roads led to vast open spaces with no landmarks, just the slow crawl upward.
At the top, I hit a plateau, running over rocks with no clear trail in sight. I was scrambling more than running, feeling completely alone and unsure of where I was. This was when the doubts hit hard. I wondered why I was doing this dumb race, a thought that would return many times over. I still wasn’t even halfway through the race and was tired, soggy, and alone. At one point, Africa by Toto played through my headphones, and I burst into strange euphoric tears—I felt like I had been transported to the rainy plains of Africa and Toto had come to visit me to deliver a message from the universe. Ultras do weird things to the brain.
But then, something changed. I passed some runners coming back along the trail and realized I was in first place among the women. Suddenly, my spirits lifted. I got a burst of energy and pushed on, eager to hold my lead. The aid station up ahead was a mess of mud, but I smelled something sizzling… Bacon!! I cannot express my excitement. The bacon and quesadillas they handed out were genuinely the best things I’d ever tasted and the aid station volunteers were incredibly nice and supportive. For a brief moment, I felt like a celebrity as volunteers refilled my packs, handed me snacks, and congratulated me for being in the lead.
I was quickly humbled—I immediately fell face first into the mud as I left the station. I heard a chorus of sympathetic gasps. I got up, shook myself off, waved to show I was mostly fine (aside from my deeply wounded pride). Another fall in the books. But I was still the first woman, and that kept me moving as I cruised (hobbled) down a long, muddy descent to the halfway mark.
Part 3: The Race is On (miles 32-50)
I was approaching the halfway point where I could finally see my parents and friend Paul who had come out to pace me. I was not in the best of spirits but was glad to be hitting the halfway mark. This was already further than I had ever run in my life and the thought of doing it all over again was a bit too much to think about, so I just focused on figuring out what I needed at this aid station. I debated changing my shoes and socks to have something drier but ultimately decided against it thinking it would just keep raining. As I got to the aid station, Paul, who ran in college with me and agreed to pace part of the race, wasn’t there yet because he’d locked his keys in the car, so my dad jumped in to run with me. He was very excited to run with me and wanted to hype me up and get me out of my grumpy mood. Unfortunately, his excitement caused him to run a few steps ahead of me and repeat a cheery refrain of “come on you can do this!” I wasn’t in the mood to keep up or even entertain his words of encouragement. Let’s just say I wasn’t very kind and my sweet, very Midwestern dad still brings up the time I told him I was going to “punch him in the face.”
Eventually, Paul joined in just as we hit a long, surprisingly sunny stretch leading up to the final brutal climb. The rain had stopped and the temperature was rising. I regretted not changing my socks as the heat set in, and the climb turned into a slog—a 30-minute mile that felt like eternity. I was at my lowest point and ready to curl up and die when this incredibly tall perky blonde woman power-walked past me like it was nothing. She said “good job” and something about how she loved uphills. I was simultaneously filled with rage and emptied of any remaining will to live. I remembered the advice my friend gave me: “don’t make any decisions on the uphill.” It took most of my remaining willpower, but I trudged slowly on.
At the top of the mountain, there was, blissfully, an aid station. I refueled just as the lead woman was heading out. I ate a banana and 2 orange slices and suddenly felt alive. The cloud of despair was behind me. My competitive fire was back. We had about 10 miles of relatively flat and winding rocky trails. My body was tired and going into a primal state but I kept pushing onward, trying to close the gap. My thoughts were simple: must win, no, just walk, okay lie down and die, no wait you can win, okay run more, all spinning through my mind in a constant loop. Paul kept me moving, gently encouraging me to run and reminding me to eat. He scouted the course ahead, sparing me the mental effort of looking for markers while keeping an eye out for the tall blonde ahead.
I hit several low points, but I’d force down some energy chews, and like magic, 10 minutes later I’d feel a spark of life return. This was survival mode, the longest I’d ever run, with nothing left but pure determination and the drive to just keep moving.
Part 4: The Final Stretch (miles 50-62)
I finally caught up to the perky power-walker who had passed me, and like a dog who had just caught his tail, I wasn’t sure what to do. I worried about surging past her too early and then dying and not being able to mentally recover when she passed me back. But I was feeling good enough at that moment and couldn’t slow down so went past and hoped that I could hold on.
After the 10 miles of winding trails, we returned to the aid station at the top of the monster hill. The course took us back down that same terrible hill and after that, there would be about 11 miles or so left across small rolling hills to the finish. I sped through the aid station, rapidly refueling and focused on just getting back out there. She came in less than a minute after me and I hustled out towards the hill as fast as I could.
Unlike many trail runners, I LOVE downhills. I can fly down them with reckless abandon, not even a smidge of a basal human urge for self-preservation. That is exactly what I did. There were runners still coming up the hill and I dodged past them on the singletrack trail shouting out apologetically “excuse me” as I skidded along the gravel in a flurry of dust and wildly flailing arms. I put about 15 minutes between me and the second place woman in just this one mile stretch and only paid for it with the loss of 8 toenails (but that came days later).
My dad was waiting at the bottom. He saw me running toward him alone and asked “where’s Paul?” I realized I had dropped him on the downhill. “I don’t know, but I need to stay ahead of this woman, can you wait for him?” I kept pressing on. I was in a lot of pain and walked (hobbled) up the remaining inclines, even the slightest ones. It was all I could do to keep driving toward the finish line. The last stretch was in direct sun. The temperature had gone up 20 degrees. It was a dramatic change from the chilly and wet morning, and it was getting harder to get food and water down this many miles into the race. It felt like many lifetimes had passed since I started, and I was desperate to see the finish line. But with every step, I knew I was almost there.
The Finish (& aftermath)
When I had about a mile to go, I knew I was going to make it. When the finish line finally came into view, I felt pure relief. Crossing that line was a mix of exhaustion, pride, and disbelief. I had done it—I’d tested my limits and come out the other side. My body was battered and I knew my feet were going to be ugly, so I went to the medical tent so they could take off my shoes and patch things up. That’s when things went sideways.
After laying down in the medical tent, I suddenly felt all remaining energy leave my body. My vision went black and went in and out of consciousness. I vaguely remember my parents and Paul asking the medics to get me an IV as they (correctly) suspected I was (extremely) dehydrated. Several hours and 4 IV bags later, I was able to move enough to get back to our Airbnb. I dragged myself into the bath to wash the dirt and blood from my falls off my body.
My mom took a video of me shortly after I emerged from the bath and asked if I would ever do another ultramarathon. I glared at her and weakly shook my head, too tired to even imagine ever walking another step let alone running again. I had truly pushed myself to my limits and left it all on the trail.
Days later, pain forgotten, I was already searching for my next race and next big adventure.
