From the Kodiak 100 to UTMB: Earning My Spot the Hard Way

If I could finish in the top ten, I’d earn a direct entry to UTMB—no lottery, no waiting, just a ticket to the race I’d been dreaming about. But I knew how unlikely that was. Around me stood some of the strongest runners I’d ever lined up with, ready to take on the Kodiak 100 in Big Bear Lake, California, one of the UTMB Majors.

The plan was simple: finish. Crossing the line would earn me eight running stones—points toward the UTMB lottery—and that alone would move me one step closer to Chamonix. Just finish, I told myself again and again. Take your time. Fuel well. Get to the end.

Moments earlier, I had decided to start in the elite corral. It was realistic that I’d finish somewhere among the top fifty women, and the top fifty men and women were invited to line up in the elite section. As I stood waiting, a woman with a thick Italian accent grabbed my arm and pulled me to the very front “for the photos.”

“I want to see more women. No more mustaches!” she shouted over the vibing music.

Another runner and I laughed and shuffled closer together, standing beside Lin Chin and other professionals in the sport. I might belong somewhere in the top fifty, but I didn’t belong next to Lin Chin—who would probably finish, shower, and sleep a full night before I even reached the finish line.

The whole thing felt insane: running 100 miles at altitude, climbing nearly 17,000 feet before reaching the finish. And all of it so I could run another 100 miles in Chamonix, France, a year later. Where had this wild dream even come from? The truth is, I don’t remember.

I don’t remember when I first heard about UTMB—the Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc—a 108-mile race that circles Mont Blanc, crossing through France, Italy, and Switzerland before returning to France. But the moment I finished my first 100-mile race in the fall of 2024, the dream started to feel attainable. I had what I needed: determination, a coach who believed in me, a husband who supported me and loved to travel, and just enough naivety to believe I could do it.

Today was one of the many steps it would take to show up in Chamonix in 2026.

The weeks leading up to Kodiak were frustrating. Because of last-minute course changes, the race director hadn’t provided a route, aid station chart, or runner’s guide. We were preparing for a race without really knowing what to prepare for. In the buildup, I’d completed several mountain 50Ks and even attempted another 100-miler just seven weeks earlier. That race, however, was canceled 14 hours in due to forest fires, turning it into a 100K training run.

The experience left me uneasy about Kodiak. I’d struggled through unexpected heat and a digestive system desperate for me to stop running. Now I was back, hoping that today would go better than that hot day in Bend, Oregon.

The countdown began. The crowds cheered, cowbells rang, and the announcer amped up both the runners and the spectators. All I could think about was: Would I make it or not?

I had only ever completed one other 100-mile race, and this one was so different. The average elevation of Kodiak was about 8,000 feet, with the course topping out just below 10,000. My first race had been nearly at sea level. This one would climb almost 6,000 feet more than that.

As the start gun went off, myself and a sea of runners surged ahead. I settled into a pace too quick for the long day ahead—but that’s always how it goes. The excitement of the start line pulls you along faster than you should be moving.

The race began at a Nordic ski area on a double-track road, but within the first mile we connected to singletrack—a hill I hadn’t expected so soon. The majority of runners settled into a strong power hike with short bursts of running to get to the top.

At the top, we rejoined a forest service road, and the pack spread out, giving everyone a chance to find their rhythm. Before long, I settled in beside another runner, Kristina, also from Oregon. We chatted about racing and training for the next five miles or so. She’d just finished TDS, one of the more technical UTMB races that takes place days before the 100-mile loop around Mont Blanc—a race I’d seriously considered instead of UTMB.

As I neared the first aid station at mile 8.5, I felt lower GI cramps building. The road dropped steeply downhill, and the jostling made the pain worse. This wasn’t a common issue for me, but when it did happen, it usually passed quickly. Not today. The pain was escalating—and so was the heat.

Two days earlier, the race directors had sent out an email requiring all runners to carry cold weather gear: waterproof pants, a long sleeve, and gloves. I’d spent the last two days worrying about being cold. Now, the sun was baking me.

Could my stomach issues be from running too fast—or from the heat? Probably both.

At the aid station, I sponged off with cold water and refilled my bottles. I needed to pee but the road offered no private place to stop. I ran on, scanning for an opportunity. The pain in my gut was sharp now. I took off my pack and pulled out my first-aid kit. Inside were three ziplock bags labeled in Sharpie: Nausea, Gas Relief, Tylenol. The problem? The writing had rubbed off.

I guessed and took two Tylenol, then texted Kelcey, my crew chief, asking her to remind me which pills were which based on color.

The hot, exposed road soon gave way to the PCT, and the line of runners became a line of hikers. I told myself to slow down and let my body settle. Thankfully, the pain eased. First crisis averted—and only ten miles in.

Eventually, we broke off the PCT and back onto rugged jeep roads. More than half the Kodiak course followed these rocky, uneven roads—perfect for smashing your big toe, as I did at mile 24.

As the sun went down, I found my rhythm. With my headlamp on, the world shrank to a tunnel of light. No scenery, no distractions—just footing, breathing, and focus.

My first big goal of the day: reach mile 30.5, the first time I’d see my crew.

After a short, punchy climb, I arrived at Doble 1 Aid. A trip to the porta-potty eased the GI cramps that had nagged me all day. Kelcey helped tape my back—chafing had worsened because my pack was overstuffed—and I swapped socks, filled bottles, and headed out again.

The next section was runnable, and I found a groove through the rolling jeep roads. Somewhere around mile 40, I learned I was in 10th place female. A jolt of adrenaline hit me. I was on a high, running strong, feeling capable.

The moon began to rise—a nearly full moon, bright enough to light the sky at 8,000 feet. I couldn’t see much around me, but that glow reminded me why I loved this sport: the solitude, the rhythm, the quiet.

By the time I reached Doble 2 Aid, I was 51 miles in and still feeling solid. Sam was there waiting—bundled in a camp chair, shivering. I wasn’t cold, still moving, but I knew once he joined me he’d warm up quickly. The aid station was windy and exposed, so we didn’t linger.

I left on a high. Could I really hold this 10th place? I wanted to find out.

The problem was—I wasn’t supposed to know. My plan was to stay blissfully unaware of placement until around the 100K mark, to keep my focus inward. But now that I knew, competitiveness started to creep in.

At mile 62, a steep, punchy climb rose in front of us—my watch read a 22% grade. The trail crumbled beneath our feet, rocks rolling downhill, dirt giving way. All I could think was that this wasn’t even one of the “hard” climbs. The real one—the Sugarloaf climb—was still ahead.

As we approached the top, a woman sprinted past, dancing over the rocks like they weren’t there. For a second, I felt defeated. Then I reminded myself she was running fast—straight into an aid station where we’d all slow down anyway.

We wound through a dark neighborhood toward the next aid. The mood there was heavy. Runners slumped in chairs, faces blank. Kelcey grabbed my pack, restocked my bottles, and asked, “What do you want to eat?”

The thought of food made my stomach turn. “Nothing,” I said.

She laughed. “Everyone’s saying that right now. But I’ve heard the best thing you can do is take this next climb slow. If you go too fast, people are blowing up on the descent. And since you’re already nauseous, the altitude could make it worse.”

For the first time that day, I felt a real wave of defeat. Only in the last couple miles had the reality of what I still had left to do hit me. But I listened. Take the climb slow—that was already my plan. Now, I’d go even slower.

The climb up Sugarloaf Mountain felt like a death march. I focused on one foot in front of the other while trying to choke down a dry beef stick. I knew I was falling behind on calories. My plan to eat real food at the last aid station hadn’t gone well, so I needed to make up for it now, even if every bite felt like cardboard.

I had changed into pants at the previous aid station because the waistband of my shorts was pressing painfully against my stomach. I’d caught myself constantly pulling them away from my body, desperate for relief. Now, with poles in hand, climbing in the dark, I was finally a little more comfortable.

It was nearly five in the morning, but it felt like the middle of the night. The world was silent except for labored breathing and the crunch of shoes on rock. Everyone was tired. My mood was slipping. I had enjoyed the high of being 10th female earlier in the race, but now I had no idea where I stood. I could hear women’s voices behind me, growing closer. The sound irritated me more than it should have. I stepped off the trail, letting them pass, trying not to care.

The terrain was rocky and loose. I wished I could give it more effort, but I knew this wasn’t the place. Get to the top, I told myself. Then you can push on the way down.

As I climbed, I started to worry about Sam. Before the race, we’d talked about the possibility that he might drop at the next aid station—Sugarloaf 2. His ankles had never fully recovered after he broke both heels in 2020, and this terrain was brutal even for healthy joints. He’d already covered twenty-four miles on rugged ground. I wanted to ask how he was holding up, but every time I thought about it, my throat tightened and tears welled up.

And then the crying began.

I’m an emotional person by nature, but the lack of sleep that comes with ultrarunning turns every feeling up to eleven. By the time we reached the summit of Sugarloaf Mountain, I was overwhelmed. Sam pulled me into a hug, and I broke down completely.

In my mind, this was supposed to be the hardest part of the day—and we’d done it. But I had no idea that the real hard part was just beginning.

As we turned to start the descent, I was immediately hit with a strange, overwhelming sensitivity. Every step sent pins and needles rippling across my skin. The jostling of muscle, fat, and skin made it feel like my entire body was electrified. I’d experienced this before, but never everywhere at once. It was as if every nerve ending in my body had come alive.

How am I going to do this?

Walking felt fine—almost soothing in comparison—but running was excruciating. Each impact was a shockwave through my skin. For the first time, I felt relieved that the trail was still too steep to run efficiently. The steep grade forced us to hike, and I clung to that small mercy.

But as the descent opened up and the terrain became more runnable, the pain came rushing back. Every stride was agony. I felt tears welling again—this time not from emotion, but from sheer physical pain.

The pants I’d changed into earlier were not staying up. The entire reason I’d put them on was to relieve the pressure around my belly, but now, running downhill, they were sliding off with every step. When we reached the next aid station, I decided to switch back into my shorts—thankfully, I’d had Kelcey stash them in my pack earlier.

It was sunny now. We’d survived the night without ever really getting cold. I changed into my shorts and accepted a bowl of ramen from a volunteer. The warm noodles hit the spot, so I went back for seconds. Maybe this would help lift my mood, maybe give me some energy.

But as we started running again, I realized energy wasn’t the problem. It was the pain—the uncomfortable jostling with every step downhill. Each impact sent that same pins-and-needles sensation through my body. We were closing in on the Sugarloaf 2 aid station, and elite runners from the 100K race were now flying past us, light and fast, a blur of power and ease.

Finally, I asked Sam if he was feeling up to continuing with me. He didn’t exactly light up with enthusiasm, but he said he felt good enough to keep going. I was beginning to sense that without him, I might not.

As we approached the aid station, my eyes filled again. I wanted this to be the finish line. I wanted someone to tell me it was okay to stop. But the words wouldn’t come. I don’t want to keep going. I don’t want to run anymore. Not UTMB. Not 100 miles. Not ever.

So why would it be so bad to DNF? I had nothing left to prove. I was over it.

We entered the aid station through a tunnel of cheering spectators. Their voices and cowbells echoed like static in my ears. I didn’t want their cheer. I didn’t want them to see my tears. I wanted to disappear.

Sam ducked into the bushes to change clothes while Kelcey grabbed my pack, swapping out bottles and food. She was calm, organized, upbeat. “You’re doing great,” she said, her voice cutting through the noise.

“Kelc, I don’t think I can do this without Sam,” I said. “I don’t know how he’s doing.”

“He’s fine. He’s changing. He’s going to keep going with you. Don’t worry about him.”

In retrospect, I think I wanted him to quit—so I could too. But Sam knew what I needed more than I did. He knew that if he pulled out, I would too.

When we finally left the aid station, my lowest moment of the day hit. We looked ahead at a long uphill road stretching endlessly into the sun. I stopped walking and broke down into full-on sobs.

“I don’t want to do this, Sam. I can’t run. It hurts.”

“That’s okay,” he said softly. “Then we walk.”

“But I don’t want to walk. If I can’t run—if I can’t perform how I wanted—I don’t see the point. I didn’t come here to walk.”

The words fell out before I could stop them. They were ugly, small, selfish—and true. I hated saying them out loud. But in that moment, I was desperate to stop moving, ashamed of how the day had unraveled since mile 64, and now heartbroken that my body and mind were giving up at mile 80. Sam marched ahead of me, mostly hiking but occasionally breaking into a jog. I followed behind him, crying off and on like a toddler throwing a fit about it all.

A mile earlier, I’d seen a text come through my watch from Kelcey to Anne, my coach, in our group chat.

“They just left the aid and she looks good.”

I was disgusted by the lie. I needed Anne to know that I was not doing fine—so when I quit, she’d understand it was coming.

I typed out a quick message to her:

I don’t think I can do this. I think I’ve met my limit.

That’s the whole point of these races, isn’t it? To find your limits? Well, I’d found mine.

A few minutes later, Anne called. “What’s going on? I thought you were at, like, mile 85 last time I checked?”

“I am,” I said. “I’m at mile 87.” I explained the pain—the sensitivity in my skin, the throbbing toes, my unraveling emotional state.

Anne threw every pep talk she had at me. She shared stories about her own races, her own pain. And then she hit me with the line I didn’t want to hear:

“It would be absolutely insane for you to quit at mile 87. You have a half-marathon left, and you’re thirteen hours ahead of the cutoff!”

I hated her logic. I just kept walking.

We approached town, heading toward Bear Mountain Ski Resort, where the course climbed to the top before sending us down again, across town, and up one last brutal ascent—Snow Summit. Friends and family could take the ski lift to meet runners at the top, which somehow made it feel both comforting and cruel.

By the time I hit Bear Mountain, I’d accepted my fate: I have to finish this race. My attitude shifted. From there, it was one gritty, painful step at a time—but it was doable.

The final nine miles offered the most beautiful singletrack of the entire course, saved cruelly for a point when beauty barely registered. Yet still, I took a couple of videos of the beauty, reminding myself of what was around me. Fall, on full display. I was more than 24 hours into the day. I forced down gels, swallowing them with water like a handful of pills. I made mental promises to myself: Remember this feeling. Remember this pain. So next time, you don’t sign up again.

My skin still hurt—so much that even when Sam rested a hand on my shoulder, it burned. My pinky toes were planning their own funerals, and my big toenail had already said goodbye.

But the finish line was finally within single digits.

As we hit pavement and dropped back into town, something wild happened—my pace picked up. Thirteen-minute miles turned into nine-thirties. No explanation, just muscle memory and desperation carrying me home.

The finish line came into view, lined with cheering spectators. Relief washed over me. I crossed, accepted my buckle, and found a chair to collapse into—just for a minute—before we made our way back to the Airbnb and a chance to finally lie down, horizontal and still.

Three mornings after the race, I opened my email to find a message from UTMB: “Congratulations! You’ve been selected for the UTMB Finals.”

This had to be a mistake, I thought. I hadn’t placed top ten. But a follow-up email clarified that my fifth-place finish in my age group had earned me automatic entry. I was stunned.

I hadn’t even wanted to finish that race. Yet by doing so, I’d still earned the very thing I thought was out of reach. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to run another 100 miles—but there was a lesson in that.

Finishing doesn’t always look pretty. Sometimes it’s tears and walking and refusing to quit, even when you want to. But it’s often on the other side of that surrender that something unexpected happens.

And when I woke up the next morning—sore, tired, and proud—I realized that if I’d quit, I’d have been deeply disappointed. I’d have missed out on the moment that reminded me why I keep showing up: not for the buckle, not for the points, but to find out what’s left when you think you’ve reached your limit—and then keep going.