One Foot in Front of the Other: My UTMB Story

As I walked away from Sam and my friends, tears streaked my cheeks, mixing with the last of the storm’s rain. I was leaving my husband after a month of adventures in the French Alps to take on one of the hardest races of my life. I knew I would see him at aid stations, but I also knew I was stepping into roughly 40 hours of unknowns.

In the days leading up to UTMB, I was beginning to have my doubts about why I signed up for this race in the first place. The scenery was everything I imagined it to be and more. The climbs, just a bit more brutal than I imagined. But mostly, I was anxious about the crowds. One of the things I love most about trail running is the solitude of being in the mountains. There would be none of that during this race.

Did I make a mistake?

Standing at the start, those fears weren’t exactly being put to rest.

I should have lined up in the start corral sooner, but staying dry took precedence. As I made my way toward the corral, it became clear that I wouldn’t be anywhere near where I would normally seed myself. The crowd had already become a congested mess of runners and spectators who hadn’t listened to the announcement instructing them to leave. If I had been worried about the crowds before, this certainly wasn’t helping.

I grouped myself with a man from Nepal and a woman from Australia who both spoke English. Together, we worked our way through the crowd before finally deciding we were as “in the corral” as we were going to get.

As we stood there, already two hours past the initial start time due to storms, we watched the top three runners from the 100k cross the finish line—which was also our start line—delaying our start a few more minutes. The energy was high, as was my anxiety. When the race finally started, the crowd behind me instantly began pushing me forward, with nowhere to go. We were shoved over trash, abandoned umbrellas, and even a lost shoe.

As we ran across the official chip mat, the knot of people began to loosen. Arms brushed past me, knocking the bib off my waist belt. I suddenly became very aware that my bib was hanging by a single safety pin, but there was nothing I could do about it at that moment. Sam had told me where he was standing, so I ran to the right side of the road, ready to give him one more smile before I wouldn’t see him again until Les Contamines, mile 20.

I fixed my bib, and within two minutes, it was knocked off again. Each time I fixed it, I was creating a new hole for the safety pin.

We ran into Les Houches, a familiar point on the course for me and the place we had been staying for the previous 26 days. Les Houches was our temporary home, and I had run these sections many times. I would soon be on the first big climb of the course, one I had climbed six times over the last month.

Only this time, it felt completely different.

The climb was lined with people cheering, ringing cowbells, and full-on screaming in your face as you ascended the mountain. The trail I knew as a quiet place had transformed into something loud and chaotic.

The energy was supposed to be electric, but for me, it was becoming overwhelming. The thing I had been worried about before the race was already happening.

I turned on my music and tried to crawl within myself. I needed to center. To quiet everything around me and remember how I wanted to approach the next 100-plus miles.

Earlier in the trip, I had decided that this wasn’t going to be a race for me. It was going to be a journey. I didn’t want to put pressure on myself to come in and out of aid stations at a specific pace, especially when I knew the sheer number of runners would dictate so much of my pace anyway. I wanted to enjoy as much of this experience as I could.

I wasn’t elite. I had no records to beat.

I just wanted to experience what it felt like to make my way around Mont Blanc.

As I neared Saint-Gervais, the second aid station and another section of the course I was familiar with from training, I saw a water spigot. These were all over the valley for hikers to fill their water bottles along the TMB. I decided to stop, fix my headlamp, repin my bib for the fourth time, and fill a water bottle so I wouldn’t need to at the quickly approaching aid station. I took a moment to regroup and headed into the adorable town of Saint-Gervais, where Sam, Angie, and Kelcey were cheering. I gave them a hug and immediately worried that I might beat them to Les Contamines, where Sam could offer me assistance.

Crewing for UTMB is unlike any other race. There were four aid stations on the course where one person from your crew was allowed to offer you assistance. And these aid stations were busy. Though you could get assistance, it was limited, as only the runner could approach the food and water stations. Everything was, in my opinion, inconveniently placed. The food over here, the water over there, the bathrooms on the way out, the tables stacked with people on top of people.

Elbows out to find your crew. Volume, high.

About two miles from Les Contamines, the text came in from Sam: This bus hasn’t moved for 20 minutes. I’m afraid you’re going to beat us to the aid station.

Immediately, I started to walk.

I needed him at the next aid station. He was carrying fuel that I needed to get me through the next 30 miles. I wanted to change my shoes because of a spot that was starting to rub.

And I just needed to see him.

I was only five and a half hours into the race, and I was still feeling uncomfortable in a sea of people—none of whom were being particularly friendly. Men around me were pushing and shoving. Nobody moved off the trail when you told them you were going to pass. Instead of settling into the familiar rhythm of a trail race, I felt like I was fighting for every inch of space. There was no flow, no trail etiquette, no room to breathe. I was surrounded by people, yet somehow completely on my own.

Sam assured me he would make it. To do so, he got off the bus and ran to the aid station carrying everything he could, with Angie and Kelcey chasing behind him. I knew my crew was fighting their own cutoffs and challenges.

I just needed to settle in.

Sam and I arrived at the aid station at the same time. I made my way to the bathrooms, waiting my turn and discovering what would become the next challenge of this race: finding a porta-potty with toilet paper—and one that I didn’t have to clean before I could use it. Each porta-potty seemed to greet me with a layer of diarrhea on the toilet seat.

After leaving the bathroom, I squeezed through the crowd to my husband. I embraced him, fighting back tears.

This has to get better. It will get better. The race just needed to spread out a bit more.

I changed my shoes because they were rubbing my big toe and feeling a bit too tight, then restocked my pack. Sam kissed me and told me he would meet me in Italy.

As we left Les Contamines, we entered the “red light zone.” For roughly the next 6–7 kilometers, as we passed through the Contamines-Montjoie Nature Reserve, runners were required to use only the red-light setting on our headlamps. The new rule was intended to reduce the disturbance to nocturnal wildlife caused by thousands of runners moving through the reserve at night. Red light is less disruptive to many species than the bright white beams we would normally use to navigate the trails.

It felt like a bit of a stretch to me, considering 2,400+ runners were still going to be stomping through the reserve—just under red lights instead of white ones. But I followed the rule, and honestly, I found the red light wasn’t so bad.

The moon was full, casting a beautiful backlight behind the silhouette of the mountains. With the glow of the moon above us and a trail of red headlamps winding through the darkness, the whole thing felt unexpectedly beautiful. One foot in front of the other, I made my way up the first long climb of the race. I found a rhythm despite the fact that, to pass people, you simply had to step off the trail and go around them. Nobody seemed willing to let you pass.

Reaching the top of the climb and hitting the 50k mark of the race, I noted to myself that I was finally feeling comfortable. I was finally having fun running on the trail.

I entered the next aid station with a small list of things to do: refill my water, eat something solid, and go to the bathroom. Before I could leave, though, there was a surprise mandatory gear check. Of the required gear, the aid station volunteers asked to see our waterproof jackets and emergency blankets. As I pulled my jacket out of my pack, I decided I might as well put it on.

Leaving the aid station in the early morning hours, I realized it was getting pretty cold, as early mornings do. About half a mile later, I added my buff and gloves. I kept my pace steady, running the downhills and flats and speed-walking the inclines, which, for now, were pretty gentle.

The climb gradually became steeper as we made our way toward the Italian border. Above me, the full moon still illuminated the mountains. I couldn’t get over how beautiful it was. I watched as the moon slowly dropped behind me and the first light of morning began to appear ahead.

Then the sun started to rise.

After running through darkness all night, it felt like the mountains were slowly revealing themselves to me. The sky brightened, and the green valleys surrounding me came into view. Mountains that had been nothing more than silhouettes in the darkness suddenly had shape and color. Behind me, the moon was disappearing. In front of me, a new day was beginning.

I couldn’t help but tear up. The New Radicals played through my headphones: “Don’t give up.”

Standing there in the early morning light, surrounded by those green valleys and mountains, I felt so lucky to be there. Lucky that my body was carrying me through this place. Lucky that after a difficult first 50k, I was finally beginning to feel like myself.

And at the same time, I felt a little sad. I wished Sam were next to me to see it.

My next goal was to get to Courmayeur, the 52-mile mark, where I could see Sam and be nearly halfway. As the sun rose and the heat started to intensify, I began to feel more nauseous. I had noticed a little nausea earlier in the race, but when my pace slowed on the climbs, it seemed to subside. Now, it was becoming more difficult to ignore.

The descent into Courmayeur was also difficult to ignore. I had texted Sam that I was only two miles away before realizing those two miles were going to be incredibly steep, root-covered, and slow. I came into the aid station to find Sam so happy to see me, while I felt more defeated than I had even an hour earlier.

We cleaned me up with a large body wipe, and I tried my best to eat some food, but I was struggling to find an appetite. The things I was used to reaching for at aid stations weren’t available here. There were no quesadillas, no chips, no pizza, no ginger ale. Just bread drying in the breeze, boxed cookies, chunks of dark chocolate, and salami.

But there was watermelon.

Leaving Courmayeur, we had to take on a steep climb, and it was becoming increasingly hot outside. I turned on a podcast and told myself to take my time up the hill. It was “only” a three-mile climb averaging a 17% grade, but the heat and nausea made it feel much more challenging.

As I crested the top, there was a small aid station where I stopped, yet again, to go to the bathroom. My GI system couldn’t possibly have more to give.

The porta-potty was abysmal.

As the next runner approached it while I was leaving, I gave him fair warning: “It was like that when I got here.”

He nodded and said he would just go behind it.

Things were dire.

As I left the aid station, I found myself running again with a woman named Petra from Montenegro. We chatted off and on as we ran, her accent difficult for me to understand without being able to see her face. We agreed that the men in the race, in general, were rude. Together, we laughed about it.

After we separated, I became increasingly sleepy. I started imagining what it would feel like to simply lie down on the side of the trail and take a nap. When I blinked, my eyes lingered shut a little too long. I knew I needed to stimulate my brain, and the best way to do that was through conversation. I looked up and noticed the man in front of me had an American flag on his bib.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“LA. How about you?”

After a brief introduction, I said, “Do you mind if I chat with you until we get to the next aid station? I’m starting to fall asleep.”

Like most races, I broke the distance down from aid station to aid station. We were both chatty, and the time started to pass quickly. We were also experiencing the same symptoms: nausea, diarrhea, and fatigue. And both of us were trying to make the best of it. The views reminded us that every step was worth it.

We made it into the aid station, and I felt a little sad knowing I would likely be alone again. But as I finished up, he asked if I wanted to keep running together.

I was pleased.

I soaked my hat and sleeves in the river, and we started the climb toward the Swiss border.

Cows lined the steep hillsides, their bells ringing across the valley as we climbed. The mountains stretched endlessly around us, and the vastness of where we were headed seemed never-ending. Every time I looked up, the trail appeared to disappear farther into the mountains.

I texted Sam and let him know I was no longer alone. I also told him that when I saw him next—which was awhile still—I wanted to try Sprite or ginger ale. I thought something that might settle my stomach while also giving me more calories could be helpful.

My sports drink had supplied me with both calories and electrolytes through every race leading up to this point, but now, every sip consistently made me want to puke. Something that had always worked suddenly didn’t, and I knew I needed to figure out another way to keep calories coming in.

Andrew, my new running partner, and I made it to the Swiss border, where we reached a checkpoint. Different from an aid station, checkpoints were there to scan our bibs and had medics on site if anyone needed medical assistance. A volunteer warned us to put on our jackets because the other side of the mountain was cold. We obliged but quickly shed the extra layers once we started descending.

It wasn’t as cold as he warned.

Our next major stop would be La Fouly, the last aid station before we would see our crews again. We were moving slowly, trying to make the downhill work in our favor while battling our jostling stomachs. I wanted to run when the terrain allowed it, but every step seemed to shake my stomach just enough to remind me that vomiting would only put me further behind on calories and hydration. So we kept moving, balancing the desire to make up time with the need to keep our stomachs under control.

When we arrived in La Fouly, I wanted a minute. I needed to find something—anything—I could eat that my stomach would accept. I tried two small rounds of bread with salami in the middle, watermelon, and an apple slice. I was painfully aware of how far behind I had fallen on calories. My goal of 60 grams of carbs per hour was long gone, and I wasn’t sure I could dig myself out of the hole I had created.

I tried to choke down the salami sandwich, chewing each bite longer than I wanted to before forcing myself to swallow. I knew I needed the calories, but my stomach wanted nothing to do with them. At the same time, I didn’t want to hold Andrew up. He waited patiently for me, also trying to find food he could stomach, and eventually, we set out again.

During the next leg, another American runner joined us. The conversation didn’t feel as natural to me, and I found myself struggling with the energy she brought to our little group. I tried to push ahead just enough to create some space, but my stomach immediately revolted against the increased effort.

So I slowed back down.

My mantra became simple: Make it to Sam. Make it to Sam.

I just need that ginger ale.

It was likely a lie I was telling myself—that a bottle of ginger ale could somehow turn this whole thing around—but I was willing to believe it. At that point, I needed something to believe in.

Meanwhile, Sam, Angie, and Kelcey had made it to Champex-Lac. Their shuttle ride had taken two and a half hours, but luckily Sam had planned for the long trip and given them plenty of time. As they waited for me, they found themselves standing next to another woman waiting for her runner.

“What time is your runner coming in?” Sam asked her.

“About midnight,” she said.

“Ours too!” Sam told her.

Angie leaned over and muttered, “Wouldn’t it be crazy if her runner was Andrew?”

Turns out, Sam was sitting next to Andrew’s wife, Alli.

When Andrew and I finally ran into Champex-Lac, I spotted Kelcey and Angie and gave them a hug. I was 80 miles into the race, and I felt broken. I still had 28 miles to go, and I was trying to run them on an empty tank.

Sam sat me down next to Andrew’s wife, and we got to work. We changed my shoes and filled my bottles: one with ginger ale, one with plain water, and one with my sports drink. The top of my feet had been bothering me for most of the race, but my stomach had demanded so much of my attention that I had mostly ignored them. My lace locks were too tight, restricting circulation across the top of my right foot. The relief from changing shoes was almost immediate, and I felt foolish for waiting so long.

But more than the shoes, the ginger ale, or anything else Sam could put into my pack, I needed his energy. He was so positive that he left no room for my negativity. I could tell him how bad I felt. I could tell him how little I had eaten. But he wasn’t going to entertain the idea that I might not finish.

So, for the moment, neither was I.

Andrew and I left the aid station and headed toward Trient. Trient was a major checkpoint for me, but not because of the aid station itself. Two weeks earlier, Sam and I had run from Trient to the top of the steepest climb in the race. During that training run, I had made a promise to myself: If I could make it back here on race day—if I could make it to the top—I would finish UTMB.

The climb was steep, with sections where my watch had registered a 34% grade. It was short, less than two miles, but this time I would be climbing it on 90-mile legs.

I just needed to make it there.

First, we had to get out of Champex-Lac, and that climb was brutal. Runners were sitting along the side of the trail, spent. We convinced one runner in particular to get up and keep moving with us. The terrain was steep, but mostly, it was rocky—big, loose boulders shifting beneath tired feet. We were deep into the second night, and everyone around me looked exhausted.

At one point, I found myself leading a line of eight or ten runners up the mountain. We moved quietly through the darkness, one foot in front of the other, our headlamps illuminating only the small patch of trail directly ahead. For a while, we were this little train of exhausted people moving together through the night.

But one by one, our group started dropping like flies. Someone would slow down. Someone would stop. Someone would disappear behind us into the darkness.

Eventually, it was just Andrew and me again.

I had given myself one small goal for the climb: finish the bottle of ginger ale within an hour. It wasn’t much, but at this point, getting calories into my body felt like its own accomplishment.

And I did it.

“I think I just can’t do gels or sports drinks anymore,” I told Andrew. “My stomach cannot handle another gel.”

A few minutes later, he checked on me again.

“I have a fig bar if you want to try that?”

As soon as the words fig bar left his mouth, the contents of my stomach left mine.

All that ginger ale, now on my shoe.

I vomited, then promptly put one foot in front of the other and continued to run. Then it happened again. More puking, more shuffling.

And again.

No more ginger ale.

I texted Sam, informing him that I had officially entered a new era of the race: vomiting. He responded to let me know they would be waiting for me in Trient. Trient was a no-assistance aid station, meaning Sam could be there, but he couldn’t actually help me. At this point, just seeing him would be enough.

As my stomach finally started to settle, a different problem took over. I was becoming overwhelmingly sleepy. My eyes were threatening to close as I moved, each blink lingering just a little too long.

Finally, I broke the silence.

“I think at Trient, I need to take a nap. You don’t have to wait for me, but I feel like 10 minutes with my eyes closed and my body not moving could be a game changer.”

Andrew thought about it for a moment, then agreed it was worth a shot.

As we descended into Trient, I made my way to the food table and built another tiny salami sandwich, ate an apple slice, and then found a place at a table to lie down. Sam offered encouragement while I settled in, then started a timer for 10 minutes.

I heard Andrew arrive at the aid station behind me and lie down on the seat next to me.

Twelve minutes later, Sam woke me up.

I drank some water and stuffed a little Ziploc bag with apple slices for the trail. Then Andrew and I got up and headed back into the night.

We were so close, and yet we still had a lot of ground to cover. I felt refreshed—more than I expected after just 12 minutes of sleep. We had our last big climb ahead of us, but more importantly, we were about to see our final sunrise of the race.

These little check marks were everything now.

One more climb. One more sunrise. One step closer to Chamonix.

As we crested the top of the climb, morning was beginning to break over the mountains. I took a video from the top and sent it to Sam.

He texted back, “Amazing! I am so proud I’m crying.”

Part of me felt the same.

So proud.

There was another part of me, though, that wished I could perform like the runner I knew I was capable of being. I wanted to run these trails the way I knew I could. I wanted my body to cooperate. But the circumstances were what they were. My stomach had other plans, and after two nights and nearly 100 miles, I was still out there.

That had to count for something.

But suddenly, I wanted to run.

Andrew grumbled at my suggestion. He was entering a low just as I was coming out of mine.

“Let’s just try on this downhill,” I said.

I started to jog. Almost immediately, my stomach began to stir. A few steps later, I started dry heaving.

Maybe not.

As we entered the final aid station with our crew in Vallorcine, it felt like I had made it. There were still miles between me and Chamonix, but I would crawl them if I had to. The rest of the course was familiar. I had run it in training. I knew what was coming.

Or at least I thought I did.

As I made my way through the final trails, climbing over big rocks and carefully navigating roots and loose stones, nothing felt familiar. This was not what I remembered at all. In training, I had been far too fresh to register just how relentless this final descent was. Now, after more than 100 miles, every rock and root felt personal.

I wanted to run. I wanted to open up my legs and let gravity carry me toward Chamonix. Andrew had fallen behind a bit, his toes giving him trouble, and all I wanted was to get off this mountain and run through that finishing chute.

But the terrain wouldn’t allow it.

At one point, after watching two guys face-plant at the mercy of the roots, I shouted back to Andrew, “Do not fall! We have made it this far without falling. Now is not the time.”

Carefully, frustratingly, we picked our way down.

Eventually, I reached the staircase that takes you over the road entering Chamonix. Someone had spray-painted “FUCK UTMB” across it, presumably one of the people who found the race more of a burden on the town than something to celebrate.

And then, finally, pavement.

Pavement had never felt so good.

I entered the streets of Chamonix fighting back tears. After two nights in the mountains, I was here. I could run on smooth roads all the way to the finish.

The finish line was ahead of me.

But UTMB had one more tiny card of frustration left to play.

A man was running almost exactly my pace beside me. I wanted to run into the finish alone, so I slowed down, hoping he would go ahead.

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you go first,” he said.

So I sped back up.

So did he.

Annoyed, I slowed down again. Again, he urged me to keep going.

Fine.

And then I saw Sam.

I ran straight into his arms. He was tearing up, and somehow, after everything I had just been through, I was still annoyed about the man who had insisted on being right next to me in my finish-line photo.

Later, I wished I hadn’t let my first words to Sam be about that annoying man.

Because none of that mattered.

I had done it.

I had run around Mont Blanc.

Not the way I imagined I would. Not as fast as I thought I could. My stomach had revolted. I had fallen impossibly far behind on calories. I had puked, shuffled, slept for 12 minutes at a table, and spent hours convincing myself to make it to the next aid station, the next climb, the next sunrise.

But I never gave up.

I never quit.

And after roughly 43 hours of unknowns, I had made my way back to Chamonix.

After starting the year with my first DNF at the HURT 100, finishing UTMB felt like even more of an accomplishment. Looking back, I know that DNF played an important role in my ability to finish this race. It taught me what it felt like to fall short. It taught me how deeply I didn’t want to feel that way again.

Of the roughly 2,500 people who started UTMB, 740 didn’t finish.

And I wasn’t one of them.

In the days immediately after the race, I felt nothing but pride. But slowly, disappointment started to creep in. I was disappointed that my race hadn’t gone the way I imagined it would. That I hadn’t been able to push when I wanted to push. That I hadn’t been able to run the race I knew I was capable of running.

Eventually, I decided I was allowed to feel both.

I could be incredibly proud of finishing and still disappointed in how parts of my race unfolded. One feeling didn’t have to erase the other.

Just like my DNF at HURT and my finish at UTMB could exist in the same year.

One taught me what it felt like to stop.

The other taught me that I could keep going.