Like many races, I felt a mix of emotions going into Holiday Lake 50k. I hadn't run a 50k since 2013. Compared to a 50, 100 or 200 miler, the distance felt short—just over a marathon. But at 20 weeks pregnant, I had no idea how my body would hold up. I had heard this was a race for first time ultra-runners, making me think the trails wouldn't bee too technical. Thus, the risk was small that I'd land superman style flat out on the ground after tripping over a rock or a root. But the risk always exists. Further, the longer distances allow for slower paces and more walking, The shorter distances are more running and faster running. I worried about cutoffs.

I showed up at the start line a little before 6am. It was still dark, but the skies were clear and the moon was full. Stars lit up the heavens above. It was beautiful. The temperature registered 24° F, but you could tell warmer weather was on its way.

We started out with about a half mile on road, at which point the 25k  and 50k racers split left and right into the woods. The race is two loops around Holiday Lake, washing machine style. After completing one loop, you retrace your steps and go the opposite direction around the lake. This allows you to see all the racers—all the 25k runners and the 50k participants—with ample opportunity for encouragement, which I really liked.

While I had my headlamp for the first miles, I barely needed it. By the time we were in the woods, it was getting light. In no time at all, we were at the first aid station. In addition to the start/finish area, there are three aid stations along the loop. While the race is a 50k, David Horton, notorious for those “Horton miles,” created it. Thus, the race is just under 33 miles (according to my GPS tracker it was 32.74 miles).

The trails were beautiful. There were wide trails and very few technical sections. The weather certainly helped. Had there been rain, I could see some mud and sloppy conditions. But the frozen ground made it beautiful running. We had views around the lake, the woods, and open fields.

I kept a very easy pace, not wanting to push myself too much. I found some old-timers who had done this race for many years and just stuck in behind them, figuring a consistent pace would get me to the finish line. I was making decent time, mid to back of the pack and well ahead of the cutoffs. I spent no time at the aid stations, just grabbing a quick cup of water or Tailwind.

I made an early rookie mistake with my hydration pack. With temperatures below freezing, the water in my tube froze, leaving me unable to drink from my pack for the first half of the race. I knew I should have blown the water out of the tube, back into the bladder after sips to keep it from freezing in the tube.

By mile 10, with a little less than a third of the race behind me, I started thinking I'd be finishing with 30 minutes to an hour to spare. Of course, it always starts that way. Yet, I inevitably slow down. Always.

I came into the halfway point after about 3 ½ hours (15 minutes before the cutoff). My stomach was starting to give me issues, my legs and hips were stiffening and tightening up, and I took about 10 minutes to regroup.

Back out on the course for the second loop, I knew I was definitely at the back of the pack. The temperatures climbed into the 40s and 50s, and the course remained fairly runnable, although my pace kept slowing. Knowing I was short on time, I didn't even stop at the next aid station.

My stomach issues escalated. I was reduced to a lot of walking and frequent stops in the woods. I had plenty of energy. My heart, lungs and head felt fine. But I began to realize I may not make the cutoffs. Recognizing they'd likely pull me at the next aid station, I consulted myself, thinking: “Well, 21 miles isn't bad for being 20 weeks pregnant.”

I arrived at the aid station a little dejected, but the aid station volunteers greeted me with cheers and encouragement. I asked if I made the cutoff and they told me I had. Right on time. Plus, none of them were going back to the finish line, so I couldn't drop even if I wanted to.

Encouraged and rejuvenated, I continued on, even running a bit. My energy drained when the stomach issues returned. I continued running. Quatro passed me, chatting a bit. He told me the sweeper wasn't far behind. Her name was Rebecca. She was very friendly. She'd take me back to the finish line at the next aid station. I kept moving forward.

Another runner passed me. He said, “No one else is going to pass you. I'm the last person. Rebecca is the sweeper, and she'll be coming along shortly. She's really nice, and she won't leave you alone on the course—even if they've packed up and left the last aid station.” I kept moving forward.

Eventually, I got to the final aid station. I knew I was past the cutoff. I had about 40 minutes to complete the final four miles and make it to the finish line, which at my pace was not going to happen. I expected the volunteers to be packing everything up. I expected them to pull me from the course for being too slow. Instead, they asked what I wanted and what they could do to help. They gave me cheers and encouraged me to keep going. So I kept moving forward.

Now I knew I would get to the finish line, even if it was past the 8 hour cutoff. I kept looking behind me, waiting for that sweeper, Rebecca. I never saw her. I ran when I could and walked when I had to. Eventually, I was back on the road. Runners driving back home with their crews shouted words of encouragement out car windows for the final half mile.

And then I was at the finish line. I was DFL. I didn't even know if the finish line would still be there, but it was, along with some of the other volunteers cleaning everything up. They, too, cheered me on, congratulating me on grinding it out. They even gave me the finisher swag, despite the fact that I was nearly 30 minutes post cut-off.

This was a terrific race. The course was extremely well marked. The trails were smooth for an East Coast course. The elevation gain and hills were pretty mild. The volunteers were fabulous—some of the best I've experienced. I'm definitely adding this on my list of races to repeat. If I run it next year, with a 7 month-old, I may have to drop down to the 25k, but the vibes, volunteers, and course are too good to make this a one and done.

I wrote this originally in March of 2020 for the Vermont 100 Mile Endurance Run blog. However, like so many events, the race was canceled due to COVID, and the blog was never published. Thus, I'm posting it here.

It was mid-morning in July 2013, and I was grinding up one of the final hills. To say I was moving slowly is beyond generous. I was staggering, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. I bent down, hands on my knees and started falling asleep. My right ankle was swollen, and pain shot up in my leg every time I put weight on it. I was certain it was sprained. I begged my pacer to let me take a ten minute nap on the side of the road. I was too close to the cutoff, but she reluctantly relented to a five minute dirt nap. It didn't help. The minutes passed as I staggered forward. I was only two miles to the next aid station, but at that point in the race in my mental state, the idea of two miles at that pace was insurmountable. Eventually, the cutoff time passed. I found myself sitting on the side of the road, my pacer beside me, waiting for the van to bring me back to the finish. My first attempt at a 100 mile race ended at mile 93 of the Vermont 100.

Many an ultrarunner has been there. The distance becomes too tough for the mind. The result is a DNF (did not finish). That sprained ankle? Just inflammation. My feet weren't used to the pounding over so many miles. It was over a week before my feet would fit into my shoes again.

Yet that experience changed me. I found I become more willing to put myself out there and take risks. I started online dating. I took more initiative at work. And I signed up for many more races.

I returned to the Vermont 100 in 2015 and was able to cross that finish line. Since that first 100 miler, I've run thirteen hundreds all across the country. I saw finish lines in some and DNFs in others. But since that first attempt, the Vermont 100 has held a special place in my heart.

In November 2019, I embarked on a new kind of ultramarathon: the ultramarathon of parenthood. I found ultrarunning prepared me surprisingly well for pregnancy. The nauseousness, weird cravings, and extreme fatigue were nothing I hadn't experienced in a race. It was just drawn out over the first trimester rather than 30 hours. But as my belly grew, my running slowed. And with the birth of my daughter, my identity was fully as a new mom. My professional life and running life ceded to the background during my maternity leave as I focused solely on providing for and keeping this new member of our family alive.

But at heart I know I am still an ultrarunner. It remains such a core part of how I identify. Like so many of us in this sport, running long distances out in the woods fulfills me physically, mentally, and spiritually. I am a better mother, wife, friend, and colleague when I get those runs in. To reclaim that identity and part of my life, I wanted to sign up for a race even before I was cleared to start exercising again. And I knew that race had to be the Vermont 100.

I've started training again, and I am so unbelievably excited to return to the Vermont course. I'll be joined by a top-notch crew, which this time will include my husband, in-laws, and an eight-month-old. I cannot wait to introduce to this amazing world and community of ultrarunning.

The 2020 and 2021 Vermont 100 were canceled due to COVID, but I'm looking forward to running the race in 2023.