2025 Season Recap

Western States and the Longest Walk of my Life

Finishing WSER at 4AM after walking for ~38 miles. All photos by Grace Williams, Skratch

I’ll preface this by saying that I’ve started a Substack. I’ve enjoyed reading the blogs of several of my friends in the running world, and I think this longer form content is a great way to share more than what can be gained from a short video on social media. I hope you enjoy and thanks for following along!

The 2025 season had the potential to be something special - I’d already qualified for Western States by placing 3rd at the UTMB CCC in 2024, and by winning the Gorge Waterfalls 100k in April, I’d qualified for the 80k at the World Championships at the end of September.

How epic would it be to run Western States, OCC at UTMB, and the World Championships 80k in one summer?

Inspired by Courtney Dauwalter’s triple from 2023 of WSER, Hardrock, and UTMB, or Kilian’s 2022 season of Zegama, Hardrock, Sierre Zinal, and UTMB, I felt like I was attempting something similar for myself. After beginning my ultra career with a series of wins from 2021 to 2022, followed by injury in 2023, and getting back into fitness in 2024, I felt like I was back to form after my setback from two years ago.

What if I could knock any one of these races out of the park?

June 2025

It was 1 week until Western States, and I’d just run up Sentinel in 18 minutes and 20 seconds. This was the fastest I’d ever gone, and the fastest time anyone has gone up the direct ridge route that I took - 1.3 miles with 1900 feet of climbing. Mount Sentinel is one of Missoula’s iconic local hills, looming over the University of Montana and loaded with miles of singletrack, linking up to other peaks just outside of town.

I spend a lot of time on Sentinel, usually running easy, but on this day I wanted to give it a time trial. One last test at 95% effort to sharpen up before attempting to repeat my Western States performance from 2022. A 20 minute all out effort doesn’t necessarily indicate how you’ll run in a hot 100 miler, but given that I’d been training specifically for Western States, I was proud of my new fastest time. This was also the first time I’d beaten a time that I set in 2022 - which proved to me that I’d returned from my 2023 injury and was fitter than before… something that I’d felt for quite some time, but hadn’t proven in a quantitative sense.

With a new PR and a car full of coolers, shoes, race nutrition, and all the other random things it takes to race 100 miles on foot, Erin and I began the 2 day drive to California for both of our second attempts at Western States.

Most of the crew! Overlooking Lake Tahoe after our crew meeting at the Skratch House.

Western States

This year’s States was probably the most competitive men’s field I’ve ever been a part of. Even with late withdrawals from Jim Walmsley and Hayden Hawks, there was still Kilian Jornet, David Roche, most of the men’s top 10 from the historically fast year before, plus my training mate and fellow Missoulian, Jeff Mogavero.

As part of my preparation,I’d been working with Hilary Kave, a nutritionist through Skratch Labs, who helped me design 3 different fueling strategies for the race. If the stomach was good, I’d aim for 100 grams of carbohydrate hourly, with a little over 1 liter of fluid. This was a combination of Skratch High Carb, Skratch Hydration Mix, and another Skratch prototype that we’ll hopefully see in 2026. Depending on how the plan was going, my plan B and plan C options reduced the hourly carbohydrate intake but still kept the fluids and the sodium coming in. It felt good to have all these options, as when I won States in 2022, I fueled the last 40 miles on Motts Fruit snacks!

The week leading up to the race was hectic, with both Erin and I racing there were a lot of moving parts and logistics to consider, as well as a lot going on in the house with all of our crew meetings to iron out the details. Fortunately, during the final days leading up to the race, I got into a rhythm and found the right headspace. I’d had the best training block of my life, had an all-star crew of Skratch employees, friends from home and California, and my dad, and nothing but positivity from all the other runners I’d talked to.

5:00AM Saturday morning, and the race is finally underway. Immediately, I can tell that today is going to be a much different race than my previous experience. In 2022, it felt like I jogged the first 30 miles, then eased into racing as the day progressed. Today, we were racing from the beginning.

I was with the leaders through the escarpment, but going through the high country the pace felt pretty hot. In most of the races I’ve done well in, it’s been okay to drop back a little bit and catch back up later on, so I let the lead pack go and tried to keep them in sight. They were kicking up a huge cloud of dust, so I didn’t mind avoiding that anyway.

We came into Duncan Canyon at mile 25, the first crewed aid station, under course record pace. I should say – I was under course record pace and still 2 minutes back from the massive lead pack of 10 dudes. Peter from Skratch and two of my friends from California were there to get everything switched out. It was a fast transition, and I was headed to the next crew point at Robinson Flat, mile 30.

At this point, I was feeling much better, perhaps because we’d lost quite a bit of elevation, or maybe because I was starting to pick people off who’d gone out harder than me. Regardless, I came through Robinson Flat, saw my dad and friends at Crew stop #2, and headed down into the canyons. I was feeling really good now and continued to pass people. I think near the bottom of the long descent before Devil’s Thumb, around mile 46, I’d moved into 4th or 5th, just a couple of minutes back from the lead. Everything felt good, aside from both my quads which had definitely taken a beating from pushing the 18-mile downhill. “No problem, they’ll come around,” I told myself climbing up Devil’s Thumb. Kilian passed me on this climb, which, although humbling, was a cool moment to briefly run with one of my idols and share a few words.

Leaving Devil’s Thumb, both quads continued getting worse, and now my pace descending was becoming pedestrian. If I were to use a car as a metaphor, it was as if the check engine light turned on, red and blinking, and rather than address the issue, I just doubled down and drove the rig into the ground. By mile 55, Michigan Bluff, I tell my dad that I can hardly run anymore because my quads are so bad, to which he says: “figure it out,” and I’m crawling my way to Foresthill, 13-minute mile pace on the flats, and I see no way out of this one.

I had a tantrum somewhere in the woods above Volcano Creek. The physical or mental pain of continuing to shuffle along felt like too much, and I just started walking. Walking was nice, and I knew my competitive dreams had died, anyway. I’d drop out at Forresthill, I guess?–I’d never DNF’d before.

The worst part of this was that I would see spectators, fans of the sport, and I was moving so slowly that I’m able to have a full conversation with everyone. Listening to myself justify my choice to DNF over and over again, to very kind and understanding people, was just crazy, as I’d been in the hunt and on the precipice of something great only 2 hours prior. As I walk up Bath Road I’m reminded that we are the stories that we tell ourselves.

Kris Brown, scheduled to be my pacer from Rucky Chucky to the finish, finds me along Foresthill Road at mile 60, and I tell him my sob story: “I can’t run anymore, my quads, I’m done.” I don’t even remember what he said, but then we started jogging down Forresthill Road. Running again! Really slowly, but not walking. Foresthill road had a crazy amount of people yelling; it was actually pretty surreal.

At Foresthill Aid Station contemplating my life.

I get to my crew and try to explain to them my story again. Peter Vercio, the catalyst for starting the Skratch team, one of the first friends I made in the sport at the Rut in 2021, tells me that other runners are having problems too. He made a good point - even though I’d walked the last 6 miles, I’d only been passed by a handful of dudes. Tyler Courville, my friend from Missoula who’d just moved to California, had signed up to pace me from Forresthill to the River when he’d learned I was having a tough day. A small crowd had gathered and was chanting my name - how could I drop out here?

Tyler and I left the aid and jogged down the road. Crazy turn of events! Back to running again - “was it all mental?” Unfortunately not, it was just the adrenaline of the crowds and running on a smooth flat road. We hit the trail, and the quads were still blown up. I’m back to walking painfully down the steep road. Damn.

Hours pass, and many other runners pass too. I’m doing a bad job taking care of myself, running out of water, not really eating my food, but now all thoughts of being competitive have left my mind. Tyler and I have spent a lot of time together suffering, most notably when we Nordic skied a 100km a couple of years back on this tiny 7k loop because it was the only spot that was groomed. Unfortunately, this had turned into a much grander vision quest for me than that day skiing loops in February.

At mile 70, the Peachstone Aid Station, I felt the worst I’ve ever felt in an ultra. I think hours of getting behind on fluids and calories, along with shredded quads, and this bizarre but ever-increasing pain behind my right knee, were turning my walk into a limp. Again, thoughts of DNF’ing entered my mind. I don’t ever want to drop out of a race because I’m doing poorly - to me, that’s against the spirit of ultrarunning, and really any type of challenge. I would, however, consider stopping if I’m injured or can’t physically make it to the finish line. It felt like both these things were happening, with my back of knee pain getting worse and worse, walking 30 more miles felt completely impossible.

At this point, Erin, battling her own demons on Cal Street, rolls into Peach Stone. She was in 12th or 13th place at this point. Tyler and I were sitting in chairs off to the side, and at first, Erin and her pacer didn’t see us. She seemed pretty locked in, and I considered not announcing my presence because I didn’t want my poor performance to alter her momentum. After a minute or two, though, she noticed us and came over and gave me a hug. In another scenario, it would have been special if we all could’ve run together, but my “running” speed was far too slow compared to her pace at this point.

Erin left, and I sat in a chair, staring down a 30-mile walk or the nice thought of stopping here. I tell the friendly aid station worker that I can’t continue, to which she tells me that it’s impossible to DNF here. “You can’t drive in here. If you drop here, you’ll have to wait with us until the cutoff at 2AM.” “Oh.” She continued to persuade me, telling me stories of how hard it is for runners to get into Western States, how most runners get only one opportunity to finish Western States in their life! She gives me a couple of Tylenol. I ate a plate of potatoes. I figured that I could make it 8 miles farther, where I could drop out at Rucky Chucky, where I knew there was a shuttle and my crew.

Tyler and I left the aid station, and the Tylenol was kicking in. My quads weren’t as bad as before, and my mysterious behind-the-knee pain had lessened. We tried jogging, and I could actually shuffle a little bit. We shuffled the next 8 miles all the way to the river, where I actually felt in good spirits. Everyone was there, we were laughing, and I’d pushed away all thoughts of stopping. I figured if I could keep shuffling along, I’d be done in 5 hours.

Rucky Chucky river crossing with my pacer, Kris Brown.

Tyler left, and Kris Brown came in to pace the final 22 miles. Kris is a Western States veteran, having finished two times, crewed me in 2022, and more recently paced Rod Farvard to 2nd in 2024. We shuffled along in the dusk, walking the uphills and jogging the flats. Downhills were walking because of my quads, but fortunately, the final 22 miles are mostly flat. Sadly, the good feelings slowly drifted away, and again I was starting to feel pretty rough.

“Time for a pee check!” Kris declared. I’d peed before the river an hour or so before, and was astonished by its incredible orange hue, which I attributed to the setting sun. This time, however, I urinated the most crimson-red pee I’ve ever seen, and a lot of it. “I just peed blood, dude.” I told him. “How’s your mind? Who’s the president of the United States?” I’m thinking hard here, knowing that it’s either Trump or Biden. “Uh… Trump.” I say after way too much processing. “You’re fine!” Classic Kris.

Now I’m worried that something is seriously wrong with me, and we walk it in to the ALT Aid Station at mile 85. I feel worse than I did at mile 70, and as the saying goes, I proceed to “die in the chair.” I’d lost all my momentum and was shivering like crazy. The Aid Station volunteers cover me in blankets, bring me broth, put me on a cot, and I go to sleep. I told the doctor at the Aid Station that I’d peed blood, to which she responded, “You look pretty good, and your mind seems coherent as well.” I’m instructed to lie down for 30 minutes, drink broth, and try to pee again after that protocol.

Thirty minutes go by, and I go pee behind the aid station. Looks pretty good! At least much improved. Still shivering and legs now stiff as a board, we thank them for all their help and limp out of there. Running was out of the question, as now my behind-the-knee pain was back with a vengeance, and even the doctor advised that we walk it in to avoid more muscle damage.

So Kris and I embarked on the longest 15 miles I’ve ever known. I wish I could say we had some profound conversation, but I hardly said anything. Sometimes we’d see a pair of eyes reflecting back from our headlamps shining into the forest, we’d comment on the bugs and spiders we saw on the trail, but for the most part, I had nothing to say. Other racers passed every now and then, offering encouragement, although we were all on our own vision quests.

This went on all night. Touchingly, my crew was waiting at mile 93, ready to go with ice, electrolytes, and encouragement. I felt bad that they were so prepared, as I was eating a hot dog that I had stuffed in my running vest.

And as the night turned to dawn, I limped up Robie Point and passed mile 99. My crew was there again to meet me, as they were in 2022, this time trying to beat the sunrise, not the sunset. Finishing the final mile with them in 2022 is a moment I’ll never forget, and I was bummed to not repeat in 2025. I was pretty used up, and again, didn’t have much to say during that last mile. We walked every step of it, and although I was quiet, I couldn’t help but feel emotional thinking of all the people who helped me that day. I finished my second Western States in 23 hours and 14 minutes, 8 hours slower than my 2022 time, and 9 hours slower than the 2025 winner, Caleb Olson.

On hallowed ground at the Placer Track infield. I never successfully took these shoes off under my own power.

Shortly after finishing, the sun came up for a second time, and I laid on the infield of the Placer High School track, a husk of the man I’d been 24 hours ago. I questioned why my quads had imploded, questioned the choice to walk it in for 40 miles, wondering if I’d wrecked my aspirations for the rest of the season because the back of my leg was so swollen. It wasn’t until the week after the race, when the injuries started to heal and I could move again, that it all seemed worth it.

I’m motivated to do these races because I’m competitive, but I also love the process of training, and the opportunity to run trails and climb peaks and call it my job. There is also a part of me that likes being successful and receiving the recognition that comes with that. I don’t believe that’s a bad thing; I think that it’s in our human nature to enjoy being recognized. After this year’s Western States, I received more messages from other runners and fans of the sport compared to any other race I’d run, including the Western States in 2022 after winning. This was pretty cool because it showed me that my finish meant something to this small community of Ultra Runners. I also feel that my finish was much more of a group effort - my crew, my pacers, those aid station volunteers– were the driving motivation during those moments where I wanted to stop.

At the end of the day, all we have are these stories. When I first got into this sport, I noticed that everyone had tales to tell from these ridiculous races they had run. Although this isn’t the story of me storming down the Placer Track in 14 hours like I’d envisioned, this is the story I have, and I’m forever grateful to everyone who limped me into Auburn that early morning in June.

Part II coming soon - OCC and Worlds.