Here’s One from 2009…

I’d like to offer some perspective on my 2006 experience at Western States.

I’ll begin by saying something that may sound cliché, but I believe it deeply: if you truly set your mind to something, it is often attainable. The human mind is astonishingly powerful—far more so than most of us realize. To run any ultramarathon requires mental strength, but the longer the race becomes, the more decisive the mind grows. Physical fitness matters, of course. But tenacity and willpower matter more.

Going into Western States in 2006, I genuinely believed I could win. Some might call that belief brash or naïve. I’d never raced there before. I wasn’t the most experienced hundred-mile runner in the field. I certainly wasn’t the fastest on paper. But I committed fully to the goal and worked relentlessly toward it. That singular focus allowed me to rise above my shortcomings—my inexperience, my status as a rookie, the doubts others may have held.

Even though I didn’t win, the experience taught me something lasting: when you commit to a goal and work toward it with everything you have, you can overcome far more than you think.

There is, however, a darker side to that drive.

The same determination required to compete at the highest level can push the body into dangerous territory. I know this firsthand. At Western States in 2006, I pushed too hard, and it put me in the hospital. Thankfully, there was no long-term damage. I spent roughly thirty-six hours on IVs and recovered. What remains unsettling, even now, is that doctors were never entirely certain what caused my collapse.

I won’t pretend to be qualified to diagnose it. What I can say is that ultrarunning—particularly at the hundred-mile distance—still exists at the edge of medical understanding. Some medical professionals suggested I nearly died. Others framed the incident as less dire. One measurable detail stands out: my creatine phosphokinase (CPK) level reached nearly 450,000 while I was hospitalized. CPK is an indicator of muscle tissue breakdown, and at that level, the kidneys are placed under serious strain. The medical staff at Auburn Faith were alarmed.

What’s interesting is that when I later received data showing the average CPK levels of 2006 finishers, my level at the finish line was actually slightly below average. I learned that CPK often peaks twenty-four hours after an event. Most runners never see those numbers because they don’t end up in the hospital. It raises an uncomfortable question: how common are these extremes, really?

As for what caused my collapse, opinions differed. Initially, I was told I may have been hyponatremic—overhydrated and low on sodium. Dr. Lisa Bliss later reviewed my bloodwork and believed exhaustion was the primary cause. While I was slightly hyponatremic, I was also dehydrated, which complicates that explanation.

My own belief is this: mentally, I let my guard down.

Physically, I had been on the edge for miles—likely since the climb to Robie Point. But mentally, I was able to override the body’s warning signals. When I entered the stadium and saw the finish line, I allowed myself to believe it was over. In that moment, the mind released its grip, and the body—already deeply taxed—took over. The result was collapse.

What’s striking is that I never saw it coming. I slowed slightly on the descent to No Hands Bridge, but only because of the loose footing. Seeing the stadium lights, I had no doubt I would finish. Whether I would win, I didn’t know—but finishing felt inevitable.

That changed after No Hands Bridge. A pacer change occurred without my knowledge, and I left the aid station running scared, fueled by misleading information. I pushed harder than I should have. Somewhere on the climb to Robie, I began to unravel. My memory from that point until waking in the medical tent is fragmented. What I do remember is how quickly things went from uncomfortable to completely out of control.

The experience left a lasting mark.

I don’t think I’ll ever be the same runner I was before that June day in 2006. That doesn’t mean I can’t run well—but every run since has carried, if only briefly, the shadow of Western States. Will I ever be able to push myself to that edge again? I honestly don’t know. I never want to repeat what happened, but I still want to believe I can run fearlessly and intelligently.

Because I don’t have an official finish at Western States, the race has occupied an outsized place in my mind—sometimes to the point of obsession. When the race was canceled in 2020 after I had committed myself fully to returning, I fell into a deep depression. Somewhere, I need to find a healthier balance: giving the race everything I have without letting it define me if things don’t unfold as planned.

Despite everything, I am proud of my run in 2006. That experience reinforced a belief I still hold—that if you want something badly enough and are willing to work relentlessly for it, even the most improbable goals can feel within reach. The race forced profound character growth, and I believe I’m stronger for it.

For all the abuse we inflict in pursuit of our limits, the human body—and spirit—are remarkably resilient. And sometimes, what doesn’t break us reshapes us in ways victory never could.