Time Traveling in the Emerald Tunnel

In the context of geological time, my 100-mile <a class="highlighted-link">PR</a> is quite fast. Every runner’s is. Even if you don’t run <a class="highlighted-link">ultra-marathons</a>, or run much at all, you probably cover 100 miles every few weeks or months, much faster than the millenia it took the Mohican River to carve this deep and dynamic gorge into the land. I’m so grateful for the slow, steady work of time. The state park is now a place of staggering beauty, a home to rare hemlocks, resilient woodpeckers, vibrant mushrooms, and elusive trout.

For centuries, Mohican has also provided worthy and meaningful challenges to countless runners, cyclists, hunters, and hikers. I feel fortunate to count myself among them. I’ve run 100 miles around this place on four occasions, each time missing the celestial goal of 24 hours and instead finishing before an arbitrarily man-made, but merciful <a class="highlighted-link">cutoff time</a> of 32 hours. As I mentioned at the top, this is quite fast when compared to the creation of the place, but the 19 minutes between my best-ever performance and the 24-hour mark felt downright glacial—a behemoth of time I needed to surmount. In June 2024, I was hoping to make things right with a finishing time of 23:59:59 or less at the Mohican 100 Trail Run.

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They say 100-milers are a life in a day. Laughter and crying are separated by the thinnest of barriers, determined more by mindset and context than any objective reality. Race mornings are a beautiful time of hope. The gun goes off at 5 a.m., and we surge into the predawn darkness, a school of 200 luminescent, deep-sea creatures navigating the unknown. I start quickly, hoping to avoid the long <a class="highlighted-link">conga lines</a> that pile up on the first big climb to Hesitation Vista. I feel good, but not great, settling into what I hope is a responsible rhythm. It turns out I was the one causing the traffic jams, hiking slowly and breathing through my nose. Fine by me.

I began the event with a hierarchy of goals in mind: to finish, to have fun, to win the <a class="highlighted-link">Wizard of Mohican</a> division, and to go under 24 hours. Decline is inevitable at this distance, so I had some planned degradation built into my pacing spreadsheet. This meant for the first loop of four – the race navigates Mohican State Park four times – I needed to be a little feisty. I took on the first few miles even a little feistier than needed, building up a time-bank that I would later be withdrawing from like a sailor in port after months at sea.

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At sunrise, about six miles in, I told myself I felt okay, but I wasn’t being completely honest with myself. I didn’t feel as good as you need to feel with 94 miles to go. Doubts crept in: Was I still worn out from the Mountain Bike Race two weeks ago? Was this just a slow warm-up? Or was I fundamentally flawed? With no answers and no other choice, I kept pushing, clinging to the slim hope of a less-than-a-day race.

I wasn’t alone in my ambitions. Almost everyone goes out a bit too fast over the first quarter of the race. You’re fresh, tapered, excited, and the air is still cool. Some little part of you might even believe you can keep up this personal-record-setting pace all the way through to the finish. At mile 27, I exited the woods and entered the main <a class="highlighted-link">crew</a> and <a class="highlighted-link">aid station</a> area at Mohican Adventures campground, where hundreds of family and friends were gathered, anxiously awaiting their special runner but enthusiastically cheering for all the others as well. It made me feel a little like a celebrity. I wasn’t yet in pain or too fatigued. Everything was still possible, and the whole world still believed in me. I got a quick  shoe change and a spray-down with ice water. I grabbed a few snacks, dished out some hugs and smiles, then scooted along again without a care in the world. By the first morning’s end, I’d run just over a marathon. Only three more to go.

Leaving on loop two was momentary nirvana, but I knew that a battle awaited me. Quite soon I’d be <a class="highlighted-link">persistence hunting</a> the slightly weaker and naive version of myself that stood on the start line. Jogging calmly toward him. Watching him spring away in fear and panic, unaware that he is already being hunted down by a more resilient, battle-worn self. Pursuing him resolutely again. And again. And again. Until he lay down, depleted, ready to accept that he now possesses a greater depth of energy and willingness, so that this version of me can finally, firmly cover my snout with my full, wet palm and move on to a higher plane of endurance. But just as I began feasting on the flesh of the kill, I had to  do it again. Current me was also the prey, blessed with expanded power but cursed to be the next one hunted down and overwhelmed by a greater force, lurking somewhere down the trail.

Afternoon was  a time of warm reality and flagging ambitions. The need for calories increased, contrasting sharply with my stomach’s unwillingness to absorb another 100-calorie <a class="highlighted-link">gel</a>. As the day heated up, runners began to crack and fade, so I passed many, and my confidence waxed — somewhat unreasonably. I didn’t feel hot, I was moving well, and I had recently started tossing back caffeine pills at each aid station. I pressed on with a loose and free exuberance normally reserved for short, after-work trail runs, ignoring the fact that 35 miles down still meant 65 miles to go. Around me, people collapsed under picnic tables, vomited, cramped, or lay in the river to get their core temperatures down. Ice of all varieties was in high demand.

During miles 54 through 60, my 10-year-old son paced me, for the beginning of loop 3. This was special. I relaxed and enjoyed chatting along the trail, but once I dropped Rowe off and picked up my next <a class="highlighted-link">pacer</a>, I realized we had been a bit laggardly in our pace. I was in danger of slipping outside my goal time, and I sure as heck didn’t feel fresh or energetic anymore. I recommitted to pushing for sub-24, consequences be damned.

Nightfall was a relief, as always, at first. The air cooled and the sun released its grip. But in the darkness, new battles began—hallucinations, despair, the whisper of sleep calling runners down into scattered lawn chairs or even just the dirt. At mile 66.6, the consequences of my earlier pushing found me—a harsh but familiar reality in ultrarunning, where exhaustion and missteps are inevitable companions on the trail. I stopped to pee, felt the world spin, and suddenly I was down—rolling on the earth like a felled boxer, dazed. My pacer hovered over me, assessing. He gave me the ultra-runner’s version of a standing eight count—enough time to decide if I needed some words of tough love or an ambulance. I got to my feet just as he was pulling out his phone to call for help. The bell rang and the bout continued.

The next few miles felt endless. I puked. I crawled. I walked. I puked again. I cried. I made it to Hickory Ridge aid station, where they wrapped me in a blanket behind the tents and folding tables. After some time, exactly how much I can’t be sure, I heard a commotion—two runners came through in a rush, the leaders of the race, lapping me like the bewildered backmarker I was. Time to snap out of it. A new day would soon dawn. I sipped on Coca-Cola and staggered back into the night. I was questing in search of lore. Sub-24 was now a long-lost pipe dream. But I was moving again.

The second sunrise was  a sublime moment. Fast runners were already home. Others had packed it in. A few of us kept making slow but steady progress, building  a camaraderie of the slowpokes and survivors. My close friends, Jacob Moss and Quinn Watson, both with stout CVs of endurance adventures in their own rights, paced me to the finish. We managed to chat about everyday life, our goals, gaining a little perspective on the run, and then calmly crossed the finish line  in 29:14:53. Another year. Another miss, but another finish.

Kim, the boys, family, friends, and other runners were waiting for me. Even with all the physical pain, spending time basking in the completion of the Mohican 100 in the company of loved ones is deeply satisfying. But the real gift of the pursuit is how it infuses the other 364 days of the year with order, purpose, certainty and clarity of focus. It gives you a full life in one day. Or at least one day and change.

After this life in a day, crossing the finish line isn’t like death—it’s like retirement. A moment of applause, an awkward photo, a trinket; —here, a belt buckle instead of a gold watch. And then, just like that, it’s over. Life resumes. You wonder: What now?

The pain slowly fades. We start again. First with a thought, then a question, then a dream, then a plan. Another starting line. Another sunrise to chase.

Long after we’re gone, after our times and goals are forgotten, the river will keep carving. The same slow, relentless work of time that gave us this place will take it away.

I’ll be back in 2025. You know the goal. Let this be my singular day.

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