Race Report | 2022 Cocodona 250
I’m sitting at an aid station, 242 miles into the Cocodona 250, at 9,200 ft. on the top of Mt. Elden, chugging the most glorious can of Modelo on the entire planet Earth…
As the volunteers filled one of my soft flasks with… another beer, I started to reflect on the last 4-ish days and the wild, surreal, adventure I had just experienced. I was an 8 mile descent from a top 10 overall and 2nd female finish at one of the biggest 200’s in the world. As I started to reflect on all that happened over my trek from Prescott to Flagstaff, I started to accept the reality that this is exactly where I belonged.
But if you had asked me, just 4 days earlier, I wasn’t so sure.
As the 50 mph wind gusts blew through the tents at packet pickup, I found myself taking cover with some of ultra running’s royalty. Pros, elite athletes, Instagram celebrities (I follow), legendary through hikers, renowned photographers, and big time sponsors, the Cocodona 250 had it all. All except my bib, apparently. There was some sort of mix up, surely, I thought. Right? It seemed the bibs were assigned based on anticipated finish times, and I was bib #239 (out of 240 something). 239? Is that where they thought I’d finish? I mean, I was just here in Arizona a few months ago, and took 2nd place at the Coldwater Rumble 100. I have a somewhat impressive resume, don’t I? I’ve podiumed some big races on the east coast, and I have the overall FKT on the GA Appalachian Trail. So, #239, really? It was then and there, ducking from flying objects whizzing past my head, as Howie Stern took my pre-race photo, that I really started to doubt myself.
It was a strange cocktail of feelings - the usual pre-race butterflies and the ever-growing doubt with a splash of confidence. I had crunched the numbers again and again, and I had a solid race plan. I worked my ass off to get here, and I knew I was ready to compete. So, if being the under the radar nobody from the east coast was the fire, getting bib #239 was the gasoline. I was ready.
The start of the race was fast. Throughout the entire first 60 miles leading into Whiskey Row, I again, found myself questioning everything. Mostly, my life choices that led me to running 250 miles in the desert, but as leaders passed me and I started to fall miles back, I really examined my ability to pull off a good race. I had to dig in and trust that my plan and the math, was right. We would be out here racing two and three days from now. I reminded myself again to stick to the plan, to trust the math, and to resist the urge to chase the lead pack. I settled in, put my headphones in, turned up a little Eminem, and locked myself in my own private bubble. As the race progressed, the field spread out, and I didn’t see another runner all night, which really helped me focus on my own plan and goals. It was actually quite peaceful and was exactly what I needed.
After a long night, the sunrise during an ultra is always energizing - quite literally shining life into otherwise tired legs and a tired soul. After basking in that moment for some time, daydreaming, I was suddenly jolted back to reality as I became aware that I must be lost. There were no more flags, and I was bushwhacking through some gnarly, unmarked cattle field without a human in sight. I called my crew to confirm I had gone off course, but no, it was the first time since I landed in Arizona that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. On course, and on my way to one of the major climbs of the race.
After that long climb, it was actually the descent down the backside of Mingus Mountain that almost broke me. I thought of that quote, “Everyone has a plan, until they get punched in the face”, and that descent into Jerome was the knockout uppercut. I’m pretty sure they dumped every rock in America on that section of trail, and what looked to be a fun flowy descent on paper, was in reality, completely unrunnable, hot, and just plain annoying. This was the first time I cried. I sobbed actually. I knew I was going to experience serious lows, but here I was, not even halfway through and I was getting punched in the face.
Despite the tears, this is where I wanted and where I needed to be. I needed to face what I feared most: my own brain and my own doubt. I was in this dark place that only a few people will ever actually experience. I found it. I was there not to dwell and suffer, but to overcome, and in order to do that, this mental fight had to happen. I had my plan, and I had support from my friends, family and what felt like the entire southeast. I just had to keep moving and make it to the other side of this deep, dark emotional valley.
That mantra kept me moving and eventually I was back on top. I never felt quite that low again, except maybe during that climb up Mt Elden, en route to that life changing Modelo. Mile by mile the doubt slowly went away. Maybe I do belong here. Maybe I can compete with these elite athletes. I eventually found myself settled in about 20 miles behind Annie Hughes (who would later finish as 1st lady and 3rd overall) and about 18-20 miles ahead of the third place female, Sarah Ostaszweski. If we all kept it up, I couln’t catch Annie, and Sarah couldn’t catch me. So I just kept moving. All the way to that glorious finish line in Heritage Square, solidifying my rightful place among these athletes.
I spent much of the race alone, only having a pacer for about 60 of the 250 miles. But, as I made my way to Flagstaff, I found myself not alone, but very much surrounded by the best parts of trail running (our) community. The east coast running community were the best cheerleaders, I had my incredible crew, and I even had my two best running friends on the phone talking me through the rough spots. Early on I shared some miles with a man in a cat themed outfit and heart shaped sunglasses, who turned out to be through hiking legend, Jeff Garmire. He was kind, and we reassured each other that the lead pack was..fast. I spent two days leap frogging with Mark Vogel and Joshua Locke. I remember waking Mark up from a trail nap as I hiked by him, and him popping up like a kid on Christmas morning. We chatted briefly and had a laugh before he zoomed off. Then there was that time when I got about a half mile off course in the middle of the night, and Peter Mortimer helped get me back on trail. These were some of the top names in the sport, and here I was not just competing with these guys, but we were out there, sharing in this experience together. We suffered together, we got hot together, we froze together, we laughed, I cried.
It's this community, these people, these mountains and these life defining moments that are the reasons I’m able to fight the battle of doubt from both myself and from others. These are the reasons I run ultras and as it turns out, this is exactly where I belong.
