leadville

What the fuck was that?

That was my first thought crossing the Leadville 100 finish line.

I’d come in with a plan: sub-25 hours. Locked. Loaded. Confident. But as they say in Leadville lore—"You may have a plan, but Leadville might have one for you."

Yeah. She had one for me.

Gut issues clocked in early—mile 13. By mile 25, my race nutrition plan was out the window. No more gels. No more bars. Just whatever whole food my stomach wouldn't reject. Mashed potatoes, watermelon, broth—aid station roulette.

Still, I hit Twin Lakes (mile 38) just a few minutes off pace. Forty minutes in bathroom breaks, but mentally? Solid.

Dan had told me: take the front of Hope Pass easy, come back strong. I listened. Mostly. Another few too many bathroom breaks, but I reached halfway (mile 50) only 30 minutes behind target. Still fighting. Still focused.

Then came the toe. Left big one. Felt broken. Then the upper calf locked up, with my knee in symphony. By mile 51, I knew: there would be no more running today. Sub-25 was slipping. But I did the math—18 hours left, 49 miles to go. I could still beat the 30-hour cutoff.

Uphill hiking? Manageable. Downhill or flats? A slow-motion horror show.

Back into Twin Lakes at mile 62. Night had fallen. Body battered., but spirit hanging on strong. Two hours behind schedule now, but in and out of the aid station in under 20 minutes. Had some food. Saw the crew. Marched up the hill.

Climbing toward mile 70, the wheels didn’t fall off—they disintegrated.

Mile 65.

The gut fully shut down. The toe was screaming. The right calf/knee useless. It was dark, cold, and I still had 11 miles until I’d see my crew again.

That’s when the voices came. Not loud ones. Just the kind that sneak in when your world is shrinking.

“You can quit here. It’s okay. You’ve done enough. Nobody’s keeping score. Just sit. Wait for a ride. This doesn’t define you.”

It was soft. Reasonable. Almost kind.

But I carry a phrase with me—something small and *perhaps *stubborn:

“Always carry an ounce of optimism.”

Just enough room to reframe. To game plan. To ask: “What if…?”

So I negotiated.

“You don’t need to finish. But you can still move. You’ve got a buffer. You can hike. You can hold sub-18s. There’s 35 miles to go. Just get to the crew.”

And I moved.

People passed me. I didn’t care. A new phrase took root:

“Every little bit counts.”

Inside lanes on switchbacks. Five extra steps behind someone faster. Every minute under 18 kept the time reaper off my back. I whispered it with each footfall. Fifty-six thousand steps on Sunday alone. That phrase was on almost every one.

Finally, mile 77. The boys.

Dan was pacing me in. They saw it on my face—this wasn’t a normal bonk. I was ghost white, shivering, muttering in the confines of my mind that I might not make it. They wrapped me in jackets. Gloved me up. Rubbed my shoulders. Almost spoon-fed me.

I confessed that “I almost quit.”

Dan said we had four options.

Option 1: hike the whole way at sub-18s.
I cut him off. That’s the only option. I can’t run. Anything more is a fantasy. Anything less... I might take you up on the offer.

Twenty-three miles to go. Just over eight hours. A flat course, you’d laugh. In Leadville? Still 2,000 feet of vert ahead.

We made it to Mayqueen—mile 87—45 minutes before cutoff. Just one final stretch around the lake and down the boulevard. We had 4 hours to do 13 miles. In another life, I’d do that in 80 minutes. But this was Leadville math.

Dan paced 15 steps ahead of me, like he was mad at me after a fight, pulling me like a rope. I had to stretch out just to stay on target.

As the sun rose, and we ventured around the lake I continued to witness half the field pass me.

Final climb. Final stretch. The Leadville Boulevard.

Half a mile to go, 24 minutes left.

That’s when it hit me—I was going to finish. Not just survive. Finish.

And I did.

29:44:06.

Fifteen minutes to spare. Limping for 49 miles.

I’m writing this on Monday night from an ER in Denver. Suspected DVT and rhabdo. No blood clot, thankfully. But I’ve got rhabdo, and a ruptured Baker’s cyst in my calf. So yeah, turns out it wasn’t “just a never-ending cramp.”

But pride isn’t what sticks with me. It’s something quieter. Something deeper.

There’s a part of me that doesn’t quit. I don’t know where it comes from. I just know it’s always been there. It’s not heroic. It’s just... there. It knows when to walk away—and when to hang on.

And hanging on meant everything, because I wasn’t alone.

Ford, Taylor, Dan—my crew. Originally I’d planned to run solo. Had I done that? This story would have a different ending. To them, and my coach Lance, my gratitude goes beyond words.

Seeing their faces at every station... hearing them laugh together... feeling how seriously they took me—even more than I took myself. That was the best part. They’d never met before this race. I used to think my people might only cross paths at my wedding, my 50th, or my funeral.

Turns out, Leadville made the list.

And in all my solo miles—literal and otherwise—I keep being reminded of this same truth:

Life’s better played as a two-player game (at least).

Leadville just reminded me. One slow, painful, stubborn step at a time.