The Hundred Is a Truth Teller (Long Haul 100)
The 100-mile distance demands discipline, both in training and in life.
When you show up steady in those areas, you can have a great race.
But nothing is promised.
Over 100 miles, anything can happen. That uncertainty is part of what keeps pulling me back. It keeps me humble too, because I carry this quiet, personal knowledge of what failure feels like. Not in a dramatic way. Just as a reminder that no amount of planning or effort can fully control the outcome of anything in life.
Some things are earned.
Some things unfold the way they are going to unfold.
The hundred is a truth teller in a world where stretching it is the norm, time is its thief, and the gap between the start and finish line exposes whether you really meant the goal.
The training cannot be duplicated or cheated. There is only one way to prepare: do the work. Physically. Mentally.
Did you prepare for this race?
The drop bag will either have the headlamp in it or not.
Did you plan for this race?
When you settle into the mileage, your physical capability will eventually wear off. You are left with whatever you can tell yourself to stay in it.
Did you need something from this race today?
January 17
On January 17, I toed the line for a race I was not truly trained for.
I signed up partly as a way to turn it into a girls trip with my best friend — an escape from the cold Indiana winter, a little beach time, a change of scenery. That part sounded light and easy.
But that is not how you build toward a hundred.
Somewhere in the beginning, the focus shifted. It was not anchored the way it usually is when I commit to this distance. The race became part getaway, part adventure, part “I can probably get through this.”
Maybe my training suffered because of that initial mindset. When your reason is diluted at the start, the work can quietly dilute with it. The focus becomes softer. Less intentional.
The hundred notices that.
An Unexpected Gift
A few weeks before the race, something exciting happened. Sally McRae announced she would be racing the Long Haul 100.
She has been my favorite female elite ultrarunner for over a decade. I have followed her journey, watched her grit, her commitment, her fire. The idea that I would be lining up at the same start line felt surreal.
It is a small race. Intimate. The kind I seek out intentionally. I was honestly shocked she would choose it. But she had just come off surgery and needed to finish a hundred in time to be considered for Badwater 135, and Long Haul fit into her schedule.
We got lucky.
Before the race, we were able to snag a quick photo with her and meet her briefly. It was simple and kind and grounding in a way I did not expect.
The course had long out-and-back sections during the daylight hours. Because it was small, it felt personal. As we crossed paths several times, I was graced with her bright light — that unmistakable energy she carries. Each pass felt special. Encouraging. Electric in a quiet way.
I even crossed paths with her son, the same age as my daughter — a kid I have watched grow up on social media over the years. He is just as sweet and positive as his mother.
It felt intimate. Human. Real.
And yet even with that inspiration floating around the course, the hundred still asked its questions of me.
Left to right: Mary, Sally, Majel
Watch Sally’s race video — Mary and I make a quick cameo from this photo moment. https://youtu.be/ItOJVLmz8So?si=1Wxyj7Mr4cLSFdAu
When It Unraveled
The 71 miles I covered turned into a long day of grinding without a clear why. Things unraveled even though I kept forcing myself forward.
The mistakes were small at first. Then they stacked up.
I did not bring the right overnight clothes.
I accidentally took Tylenol PM at mile 60.
I did not have a real contingency plan for when things went sideways, because I assumed flat meant easy.
But flat is not easy.
Flat means continuous running. The same muscle groups, over and over. No terrain variation to give your legs relief. The Florida sun was a different stress than an Indiana winter — heat during the day, then a sharp drop once it disappeared.
I run well in heat. But I did not prepare for what came after.
When night fell and the temperature dropped, I did not have what I needed to get dry, layer up, and reset. Then the Tylenol PM slowed me down. I tried to nap. My body temperature crashed. I started slipping toward hypothermia, and along with the cold came confusion.
Not tired confusion. Decision-making confusion.
The kind where options technically exist, but you cannot access them.
It is easy to list the solutions afterward, warm and rested.
But none of that happened.
I dropped.
And I think that is what stings most. I did not just lose the body battle. I lost the story. I never fully committed to the finish line, so when things got hard, I did not have anything sturdy to stand on.
The Loneliest Miles
When you are out there long enough, the mind wanders to places you do not visit often.
How do I eat? Drink? Rest?
What do you need to survive longer?
What is really important to you?
What do you need to let go of?
There is a lot of time out there for the truth to catch up with you.
If you show up half-baked in life, it will show up in your race.
That is why I love this distance. It is a brutal kind of honesty. Time becomes your superpower, and your body becomes the megaphone for whatever your mind has been avoiding. You do not get to outrun it.
You get humbled by the effort.
Humbled by the volunteers.
Humbled by the other runners. Everyone is carrying something.
We are all just humans doing our best. Making promises in weak moments to do better. To be better. To try again.
This Was My Race
Deeply humbled.
Grateful for the chance to learn.
Quieted by my ego.
Reminded to plan better.
Respect the distance.
Respect myself enough to show up prepared and invested.
The hundred will always cost you something. We know that going in.
But it will also give something back — if you go far enough, and stay present enough, to hear what it is trying to teach you.
And I will toe the line again.
Not for the beach.
Not for proximity to greatness.
For the work. Because when I respect the work, I earn a finish line I can agree with.
