My grin was wide when the “go” horn sounded at 9 a.m to start the Big Basin 50k. I was excited for the trails ahead, sure, but mostly I was amused by how ridiculous it was to be standing there. Six months earlier, when I signed up for this adventure, I had never run more than 8 miles in one go. I had never eaten a gel, nor did I know anything about salt pills or hydration. All I knew is that I loved trail running. And I decided I needed to run 31 miles.

With the race started, I settled into an easy groove in the middle of the pack, ready to put one foot in front of the other for the next six and a half hours. I’m not sure how I settled on 6.5 hours as my target time, but I figured I had to shoot for something. How else would my crew know when to show up at the 15-mile aid station?

I spent most of the first leg of the race admiring the perfect single track. The well-marked course meandered through a dense forest whose beauty and power can’t be overstated. Between the massive redwoods and the moss draped across the fallen trees, it seemed almost cruel to have to run past it all without stopping. As it happened, there would be time for that later.

I ran through the first aid station at the 6.5 mile mark in 1:08, surprised to find myself well ahead of schedule.

The next aid station came quick, even with all the uphill on the 4.5-mile trek. I settled into a strong uphill hike, hoping to preserve energy for later. I left the aid after a quick banana and water refill, my watch showing 2:08. This ultrarunning thing didn’t seem so bad after all!

I pulled into the third aid station at mile 15 in just under 3 hours. I was feeling good. The miles were clicking off with relative ease, with nothing but a nagging ankle weighing on my mind. “I just gotta do that distance again and I got this,” I told myself. It seemed reasonable.

I was even looking forward to it.

I said goodbye to my awesome crew, who had car-access to the aid station I’d go through twice, to do the 4.5-mile Gazos Loop, a fireroad climb followed by a stunning single-track descent, back to the same aid station. I completed the loop in under an hour, getting back to the aid station in 3:57, still way ahead of pace.

“Forget that 6:30 nonsense,” I thought. With just over 10 miles to go, I reset my sights on a sub-6-hour finish. After a five-minute rest and refueling, I took off back into the forest, fired up to seal the deal.

For the next two miles, I flowed. Up and down the single track, passing other runners and hikers, smiling and offering friendly words to anyone who would listen.

And then, it happened: Detroit Bonk City.

The nausea came first. I pulled over to vomit, but nothing materialized. I tried to run again, but quickly stopped again to puke. Once more, nothing came out. Confused, I resorted to walking, and that’s when I realized that I hadn’t peed since the start of the race, four and a half hours earlier. Worse, I didn’t remember what that meant. Should I chug a whole bunch of water? Do I need more salt? Less salt? Eat a bunch of gels? Was I hypoglycemic? Or was it hyponatremia? What does that even mean?!

I tried to pee. Trickle. I tried to run. Nope. So I returned to walking down the trail, feeling suddenly alone in the middle of nowhere, the thick canopy of the redwoods blocking out the sunlight above.

Walking down hills I would normally charge, I knew sub-6 was now out of the question. Even my original 6:30 goal became increasingly impossible as the minutes flashed by. I figured I had about 8 miles to go (getting accurate GPS was sketchy in the dense woods), which meant over 6 miles to the next aid station, and at my current pace, I could probably come in at around 7 hours. That’s when I sank to a new low:

I was going to feel this way for another two and a half hours?!

I knew I had to get out of the funk if I was going to pull off a finish, so I resorted to my usual, clichéd internal dialogue, a technique that has yet to fail me in high-tempo short races. I told myself that it’s an ultramarathon, it’s supposed to be hard! Reminded myself of my kickass friends who have covered this distance and subsequently offered me endless words of encouragement. Thought about sitting on the couch later with a glass of Scotch.

That actually sounded awful.

Then I reminded myself that I was doing this because it was supposed to be fun, and if it wasn’t fun, why was I doing it? Record scratch! Bad idea. Don’t tell yourself that.

“Yeah, exactly, this isn’t fun, let’s take a break,” my weak side protested.

“No, I didn’t mean it!”

All I could talk myself into was continuing to walk.

I trudged along until eventually I caught up with another runner who was in a similar state of disrepair.

My new friend had just thrown up, and was starting to come out of a funk of his own. We talked about how we were in the home stretch, how we’d both be so happy when we finished, and that we were going to make it. He said I looked like I was going to finish strong. I let myself believe him.

I’m yet to figure out why, or how, but after five minutes of talking to my fellow wallower my head was back in the game. My stomach calmed down. And I started running. Running! I decided right there and then that I’d run to the finish line, no matter what.

“You don’t have to think about anything,” I suggested to myself. “Just keep running. It’s so simple.”

So I ran to the last aid station, 1.8 miles from the finish. I’ve never been so happy to see two people I’d never met. The aid station ladies were full of energy and smiles, reminded me to take salt, told me to eat and that I really was almost there. I looked at my watch: 5:43.

I knew I couldn’t cover 1.8 miles over a hill in 17 minutes right now, but I also knew that I had some more in me. I put down the pedal and crossed the line 19 minutes later, finishing my first 50k in 6:02:59, 40th overall out of 127 finishers, 10th in my age group. And a whopping two hours and six minutes after the first place finisher.

We both got medals.

I laid down in the grass and closed my eyes. For a few moments, emotions swarmed about nothing and everything at once. I was destroyed, but elated, and in a state of relaxation I’d never before experienced. I was beside myself with gratitude for others, from the aid station workers to my friends back home who said I could do it. I was proud that I didn’t give up, but embarrassed that it ever crossed my mind. I allowed my brain its moment to rage before picking myself up off the ground and realizing I could no longer feel ridiculous about lining up at the start.

I was now standing at the finish.

Things I learned

Hike the uphills early. I knew that I’d be hiking them in the end of the race, so why not start early and save some energy for later? I don’t know how many of the people I passed later in the race ran by me on an uphill at the start, but I do know in the last 15 miles, no one passed me, and I passed at least 20 other runners.

Get a coach, or at least a training plan. I didn’t realize it until after I finished, but I would never have gone from casual trail runner to ultra finisher without my training group, the SoCal Coyotes, and coaches, Jimmy and Kate. They changed my entire perspective and approach to running and nutrition.

You can always walk it out. I think the saving grace during bonk land was that I knew I could walk to the finish if I had to. Knowing that convinced me not to sit down. And not sitting down is what allowed me to catch up with another runner, who ultimately got me through it.

Drink a lot of water. Seems obvious, I know, but I don’t think I hydrated enough to cope with the 85+ degree heat and humidity. I stuck to my usual 22 ounces per hour, but I think given the temps, it wouldn’t have hurt to increase that by 50%. I started the race with just a handheld. In hindsight, I should’ve worn a vest with a backup water bottle at the ready.

Diversify your nutrition in training. After 5 hours, gels got pretty boring, but I was hesitant to mix things up too much during the race, since I didn’t try enough variations of food during training. I drank a bunch of Sprite at the 20-mile mark, something I haven’t drank in years, let alone in training. I’m not sure if that contributed to my nausea, but I’m sure it didn’t help.

Don’t put Nuun tablets in your water the night before. I’m not sure if this contributed to my nausea, but along with the Sprite at mile 20, I took a couple swigs from a water bottle I had filled up the night before with a Nuun tablet, which then sat in my crew’s hot car all morning until I got to it. I can’t imagine this was a good plan.

The further I run, the more amazed and inspired I am by those who run far. Since I started running I’ve been impressed by people who run at distance, but it’s not until I did a 50k myself that I truly appreciated what goes into it, and how hard it can really be. I’ve never been more proud of my friends who have run marathons and ultras than I am now.

Your friends’ ability to run 50 or 100 miles doesn’t make 31 miles any shorter. While some of my peers’ nonchalant attitudes towards running ultras helped keep my stress level down before the race, I also think it tricked my brain into thinking 31 miles wasn’t as a big a deal as it is. My coach had run a 100 miler the day before, so how hard could 31 miles be? No matter how you look at it, a marathon is a long way, and an ultra is even more. If I ever do this again, I’ll remember to respect the distance for what it is, not think of it as less than what other people I know can do.