The practice of running my own race
The start of Pinhoti 100 was all glitter and headlamps, a downhill walk to the line, a chill countdown from five… and then game on.
I was advised to go out strong to beat the conga line, so I led early, but placement awareness still crept in as I dropped to 3rd. 👀
Aid Station 1 came fast: a quick swap, a quick pep talk, and back into the woods. Placement: 16.
From there, it was the real work:
✨ Stay close enough to the front
✨ Without over-exerting
✨ Trust the plan
✨ Don’t race too soon
This isn’t Pinhoti 50; it’s a hundred-mile practice in patience.
Confidence isn’t chasing…it’s trusting.
As dawn broke, Baba O’Riley played and golden light hit the ridgeline. I thought of my parents. Tears mixed with sweat. 🌅
I ran without hesitation through AS2, placement 19.
Crew at AS3 reminded me: “Run your race.”
Those reminders were such a gift and helped me relax.
The early miles aren’t defined by pace or position. Instead, they’re about staying with yourself, even when your mind wants to chase. 🧚♀️
Miles 19.7–43.5:
It’s OK to fall apart, just don’t shatter.
Every 100-miler has its rhythm, and I’ve learned mine: the first low hits between miles 28 and 35. It’s as reliable as sunrise, a slow unraveling where my body protests, my mind drifts, and the trail stretches endlessly ahead. The only task that matters is movement. Keep going. It’s not permanent.
I refilled bottles at AS4 and waved at a friend as I crossed the road. The next stretch was lonely and heavy. The temperature was rising, my feet were soaked from creek crossings, and I was counting the miles until I could take caffeine. Running alone, I felt the edges of doubt begin to press in.
At the Buc-ee’s-themed aid station, I grabbed my drop bag, applied anti-chafing jelly like it was armor, and breathed. Placement: 23. Nothing spectacular. Just steady.
Then came Blue Mountain — the section that demanded grit. I secretly hoped to drop there, but instead, I had my phone signal and called Corey. “I’m in a low,” I told him. His voice was calm: You’ll feel better soon. Keep going.
What I didn’t know was that my crew was back at the cabin, holding a 15-minute “revival meeting,” planning how to bring me back to life when I reached mile 43.5.
At the base of the climb, I downed ginger ale, pulled out my poles, and began. It was steep and relentless — but I caught a few runners, remembering the mountains of Mont Blanc and how they had forged me. Then, a fall. Poles tangled, legs bleeding. But I got up, no hesitation.
The summit, Bald Rock, is where my brother spread my dad’s ashes, and when I reached that point, the pain and noise faded, relief. It was just me, the mountain, and him. For a few moments, I wasn’t running alone.
The road section after felt almost easy. Then came the descent into “Blue Hell,” a name it’s earned: jagged, unforgiving, one wrong move from disaster.
At the bottom, the trail leveled, and I heard voices shouting my name. Then laughter, singing. “Happy Birthday!” echoed across the Cheaha Lake aid station. Placement: 23.
And that’s how it goes in ultras: you fall apart, you rebuild, you keep moving forward.
Falling apart is inevitable. Shattering is optional.
Miles 43.5–55
Prep your crew so they can make magic when things go sideways.
I sat down for the first time all day and nearly cried as spectators sang Happy Birthday, a surprise from my crew. Well, I couldn’t drop now. After battling through a rough patch, it was exactly what I needed. I ate a few bites of Ellie’s homemade kebabs, hit my legs with the massage gun, and Celia reapplied my glitter because sparkle is strategy too.
They gave me extra minutes to regroup so I could go the distance. Corey showed up in blinking glasses, ready to pace a few road miles before I slipped back into Silent Trail. We’d planned the transition: no pack, just a bottle to relieve my back before picking up gear at the next trailhead.
A little mishap followed when the pack connection point got mixed up, but Celia sprinted down the hill to make sure I didn’t wait. That’s what happens when your crew knows the plan… they can pivot and create magic on the fly.
The trail turned soft and pine-covered, then steep with rocks and waterfalls. Somewhere along the way I realized my watch had paused, another reminder to trust effort over data. After leapfrogging with another runner, I reached Hubbard Creek, grabbed some watermelon, refilled bottles, and headed out. Placement: 19.
The next stretch to Adam’s Gap was technical but familiar. Around mile 50 (10:17 in), I confirmed distance remaining with another runner. The final climb was a rocky grind, but I ran strong into the aid station.
Mile 55 | Placement: 18
Miles 55-70
Turning the corner: from patience to power
The sky began to dim as I made my way toward Adams Gap, a quiet pulse I’d be caught in the dark before I reached my headlamp, but I arrived just before dusk, surprisingly calm. My crew was ready. Corey fed me bits of chicken kebab while Celia tended to my hot spots, and my friend Steve, a massage therapist from Alabama, worked magic on my screaming calf. These small moments of care stitched me back together.
Headlamp on, hugs exchanged, I told Corey I’d try not to yell at him. “Okay,” he said. We headed up the gravel road into the night, the horizon painted in molten gold. It was breathtaking, the kind of beauty that cameras can’t hold. And as the light faded, something in me clicked on. Corey shared the women’s splits and status, and I knew this was where I’d start to shine.
We climbed steadily, my calf grumbling louder with each step. I told Corey we might need to take action soon. But as the sun melted behind the ridge, I felt alive again. The calm had turned into focus. We began passing runners one by one, all men until after mile 65, when the course steepened, and I spotted second place female ahead. We took a deep breath, surged past with confidence, and never looked back.
The trail turned to pine-needle softness, and under the beam of our headlamps, the longleaf saplings looked like little forest trolls. Corey thought I was hallucinating until he saw them too. Somewhere between laughter and fatigue, I realized: this was the fun part.
By the time we rolled into Porter’s Gap at mile 70, the night had settled in. My calf screamed, but my spirit didn’t. Corey texted the crew: Tylenol, massage, prep the next section. The calm had turned into conviction. The patience was paying off. The race was beginning to unfold. I was excited.
Miles 70-87
The Midnight Hunt, fueled by the beauty of friendship.
Somewhere deep into the night, between miles 70 and 87, the race stopped being about splits and started being about joy. Corey and I cruised into Porter’s Gap laughing, my legs sore but my spirit light. After a dose of Tylenol and a few minutes with the massage gun, I was back on my feet and heading out with Celia. We had one mission: hunt down the lead.
From the first step back onto trail, Celia was executing her plan with the precision of a tactician and the heart of a great friend. She read me a text from Jenna and blasted Skillet through the dark woods, battle cry disguised as music. Then she pulled me into a story about her upcoming elopement, her laughter echoing through the forest, tricking me into running faster, lighter. Before I knew it, the miles were melting away.
By the time we hit the Pinnacle climb, we were unstoppable, laughing, climbing, celebrating at the top like we’d just conquered the world. Celia, ever the sneaky pacer, subtly inquired about the lead woman’s timing. She was still thirty minutes up, but didn’t tell me.
Heading to Wormy’s Pulpit, Celia turned serious: “It’s time to push.” I hesitated. Was it too soon? Then she pulled out her phone again and played voice notes from Anna and Laura, my trail sisters, reminding me of how far I’ve come. The sound of their voices cracked something open. Game on. I was running again, this time not just for the win, but for all the women who’d helped me rebuild from the rubble.
The section to Bull’s Gap was brutal: rocky, technical, endless switchbacks. My headlamp died mid-trail, shaking me for a moment, but Celia had a spare (of course she did). We pushed through the dark, fueled by grit and love and absurd determination.
When we finally rolled into Bull’s Gap, we learned the impossible had happened.
Placement: 8. Time behind first: 1 minute.
We’d made up thirty minutes in eleven miles. The hunt was on.
Miles 87–95
The Reckoning: reclaiming what’s mine
Celia guided me down into the aid station where my Alabama friend, Bob Watters, leaned in and whispered, “She came through just two minutes ago.”
My feet were throbbing, my toes screaming, and I’d delayed my one and only shoe change for 87 miles. My team worked gently, aware of how tender I was. I laced up my shoes myself, fumbling, hurried, then darted down the road, heart pounding with new urgency.
In our rush, chaos ensued: Corey thought he’d be pacing again, but Celia and I decided she’d take me to mile 95; my phone and headphones didn’t make it into my pack; and, worst of all, someone told us the lead woman was still at the aid station. For a brief moment, I believed I’d taken the lead. My first ultra win, how poetic that would have been.
We whooped into the night, celebrating… until Celia’s phone rang. The chase was still on.
The road rolled endlessly, my depleted body refusing to dip below an 11 minute pace. Celia kept me anchored, reminding me why I was here. Last winter, we’d planned a “scream session” on a mountain to release the rage and grief of this past year, only for high winds to send us to Jack Brown’s for burgers instead. On this stretch, we finally screamed. We cursed the man who had assaulted my motherhood and my peace into the high heavens. We cried for the injustice my children and I have endured. My heart cracked open.
What a fucking horrible year.
And yet, I had survived it.
By the grace of my friends. With the love for my children. Through the steady pulse of running, I refused to let him take that, too.
I confessed my nervousness about Corey pacing the final five miles, remembering last year’s Rim to River where I’d sat down in the woods and declared I was done. Celia laughed and said I could yell at her instead. “You don’t deserve that either,” I said.
8 long miles had passed. Where was the aid station? Where was she? “I’m quitting at mile 95!” I finally snapped. Celia laughed again. Toddler behavior at mile 95, completely absurd.
At long last, headlights flickered through the trees. The final aid station.
Placement: 7th
Time behind the lead: 8 minutes
Miles 95-100.4
The Duel: Finding Light in the Darkness
Celia and I reached the final aid station and exhaled — the last one. She grinned, “Do you want the fairy wings?” Absolutely yes.
We took those few precious seconds: pack off, wings on, waist belt secured. No lights yet. Corey stepped forward to take me home, and I was ready, exhausted, blistered, and at peace with the eight-minute gap the lead woman had reclaimed. Or so I thought.
I glanced down. My watch was dead again, déjà vu from last year’s Rim to River 100. For a moment, frustration flickered. But then came surrender. Corey offered me his watch, but I didn’t wan tit. The finish was calling, and I would meet it however I could. Maybe it was best this way.
The jeep road ahead was overgrown and muddy, testing your patience as much as my legs. But Corey’s steady rhythm beside me anchored my resolve. We entered single track, and after a time, he said we’re half way. I told myself: thirty-five more minutes of fight. That’s it.
Then, out of the darkness, Corey’s voice broke the stillness: “I see headlamps.”
Across the gully, I saw her, the leader, and for a second, it felt like looking into a mirror. Ninety miles since the last time I’d seen her, and now, here we were again, two women bound by effort, grit, and sheer will. I didn’t stop. I didn’t walk. My heart pounded louder than my footsteps.
Around mile 4.5, Corey said quietly, “If you want to catch her, you need to go now.”
I hesitated — then flipped on the blinking lights on my wings, not as decoration, but as declaration. I will finish in joy and light, no matter what follows.
The trail twisted endlessly, their lights appearing and then vanishing through the trees. My body screamed, but my spirit, the stubborn, unyielding part, refused to falter. I was gaining. Every bend brought me closer. But she still had it in the end.
Finally, came the sounds, screaming, cheering, and Celia’s voice cutting through the night: “Go Nelle! Let me see you, Nelle!”
I “sprinted”, crossing the line and collapsing, my right calf non-responsive, the sobs bubbled up, emotion beyond description.
One hundred miles run not with ease, but with a shattered heart, a tested soul, and a weary body.
I finished forty-nine seconds behind the champion. Seventh overall.
It was the duel of this race: two women, fires and shadows chasing light through the dark. I made up nearly eight minutes in the final five miles, and though I didn’t claim the win, I claimed proof that even in my brokenness, there still remains an ember inside that simply can’t be snuffed out.
Pinhoti 100: 2nd female, 7th overall, 10 fastest time on ultrasignup, and 3rd fastest on the newer course, I think.
I chased down the female champion but couldn’t close on her before the finish, ending my 100 mile race within seconds after her. The race really began at mile 55 and continued on for the next 45.
At mile 30, I wanted to drop. Never underestimate the power in just keeping going. The miles were incredibly slow between there and mile 43, and I felt hopeless in my pursuit of the leading two women. I cried at mile 30, thinking I needed to lay down the rope on running and just stop fighting. The year I’ve had from 36 to 37. Just horrifying and relentless in the hardships.
I maintained a movement practice so that I could run this race, which I signed up for before my world blew up, and after withdrawing from Hellgate, Boston, and so many other goals, I refused to let this one go, as well.
My sweet friends, I wouldn’t have survived without you, and I wept in gratitude for the love and support I’ve received this past year and even yesterday, near and far. I love you. So much. You saved my life.
It wasn’t the win I hoped for but it was an unforgettable WOMEN’S race. I think I suffered well.