What It Feels Like to Run a 100-Mile Race

For the first four hours of the 2025 USATF 100-Mile Championships, I was just running along, happy as a clam. Nothing hurt. I didn’t feel fatigued. But I knew that the next 30 miles of the race were going to get a little more intense. I was running a faster pace than I should’ve been, around seven minutes per mile, probably because I was competing against professional ultramarathoners who were trying to set records.

This wasn’t my first 100-mile race. But all the 100-milers I’d done before were on some sort of trail or high elevation with lots of obstacles in the way. I was curious to see how fast I could cover the distance when there were no rocks, roots, or mountains in my path. This race was on a 1.16-mile road loop around a lake in Henderson, Nevada. I wondered what I could do when the biggest obstacle was just my brain telling me, Hey, I’m tired!

The course wasn’t completely non-scenic, but I was basically running behind apartment complexes in a park with mountains in the distance. No shade, no trees—just desert. So, when the temperature rose from 50s at the 8 a.m. start to 80s by midday, I began cooking under the sun. Luckily, I was wearing a hat and sunglasses in addition to my compression shorts, Nike shoes, and Hawaiian shirt (look good, feel good).

These races ebb and flow. Sometimes you feel great when someone else is at their low. Sometimes when you’re at your low, someone else feels great. You never know when your time is going to hit. That middle section, from about mile 30 to 60, was my time. The wind picked up, and I began to overheat. My pace tanked into the eight- or nine-minute range. I made sure to stop at the aid station, where friends supplied me with ice water for hydration and sugary gel packets, which are easier to digest than solid foods, to fuel me with carbs. I still had an entire half-day of running to go, so I splashed the freezing cold water on my face to lower my body temperature.

Although the aid stops were necessary to keep me going, on a looped course like this they also gave me the opportunity to quit every lap. The atmosphere looked more inviting, that chair a little bit nicer. I also couldn’t keep my gels down and felt a massive chafe in my downtown region. (In a previous race, I applied whole tub of Vaseline, but it still didn’t help.)

I started to rationalize in my head that quitting was okay. But around mile 60, almost eight hours of running behind me, I heard that one of the professional runners had dropped out. I was now in fourth place. Maybe over the next 40 miles, the next five hours, I could compete for a spot on the podium.

Things gradually turned around. I was able to eat again, which brought back some energy. Someone at mile 70 yelled, “I love your shirt!” which gave me a mental boost. The sun began to go down after that, so the temperature cooled.

Although the guy in first was five or six laps ahead of me, I wasn’t far off second place. So, I locked into low eight-minute pace and picked him off as the miles ticked down. From there, I knew I couldn’t lollygag. I counted down the laps, eight laps to go, seven laps to go, and maintained my pace as darkness set in. I crossed the finish line in second place at 9:36 p.m., a big smile on my face, with a time of 13 hours, 26 minutes, and 3 seconds.

The next day, I was waddling around because the chafe was so bad. My feet and legs were tender, too, but not enough to keep me from running a slow two miles.

I also found out that the man who beat me was disqualified for wearing shoes that are banned from championship races, though he didn’t know it at the time. I was elevated to first place, but I didn’t get to break the tape—one of my main goals—because I came in second on the day. Maybe I’ll do it at my next race in October: a 250-miler through the Gobi Desert.