2025 Run Rabbit Run - Race Report

Run Rabbit Run - Sept. 12, 2025

Two walls of screaming and cheering surround hundreds of runners, a wave of sound pushing us forward from the start and into the unknown. Within minutes, the sound of cheering dissipates and is replaced by the steady hum of footsteps, clacking poles, and breathing. It’s a comforting, harmonious sound. We’re one band, playing from the same sheet of music.

Our music is interrupted only by the occasional yell from passengers in the gondola overhead, clapping and shouting encouragement at an endless line of runners, marching like ants straight up a ski mountain.

This is the 2025 edition of Run Rabbit Run, a 100-mile ultramarathon starting in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. This footrace measures about 102 miles with 18,000 ft. of climbing at an average elevation around 10-12k ft. Although this race doesn’t have the glitz and glam of some others, it’s still a classic on the ultra race calendar. Run Rabbit Run is widely known for two things; the division between turtles and hares, and the large pot of prize money handed out to top finishers. Turtles start at 9 AM with wide-ranging goals, from sub 24-hour finishes to plain-old survival. The hares are elite, semi-professionals racing for prize money. They start at 1 PM and can’t use pacers.

For now, us turtles have the race to ourselves, and we’ve been met by one of the more imposing starts to any ultramarathon in the country. Beginning from the base of the ski resort, runners head straight up, climbing nearly 3,500 ft. within the first 4.5 miles at an average 14% gradient incline. It’s a poles-out start to the race, and it’s tantalizingly easy to work too hard, putting race-dooming amounts of fatigue and lactate into your legs before the race has really even started.  

I’ve positioned myself further back in the mid-pack at the start of the race, letting the conga line of runners do the pacing for me. Occasionally, I pick my head up, glancing towards runners further up the mountain. “Damn, I shouldn’t have started so far back,” I think to myself. But, it’s a long race, and turtles are rarely punished for going out too slow.

To the southeast, dark rain clouds are forming and sweeping into the valley towards the mountain. Colorado summers are typically marked by short-lived thunderstorms in the afternoon. All week, the forecast had called for rain, and our best-case interpretation of that forecast would be for a quick shower in the afternoon. Rain this early, however, ominously warns of a different-type of day. 

Luckily, this first sprinkle doesn’t require a rain jacket. Before long, we’re already approaching the top of the gondola. The sound of cow bells and cheering builds. The gradient grows to 20-25%, an all-out climb and show for spectators who rode up to cheer their runner. My parents, who drove 13-hours from Iowa to crew and support my second 100-miler, are two of those spectators. I round the ski lodge and spot them cheering. I want to stop and talk, asking about their ride in the gondola and morning, but it’s far too early for chit-chat. Instead, I hand my dad two empty gel packets and say “smooth and steady,” wanting them to know that I am doing well. Then, I am met by more climbing, another 1,000 ft. to the actual aid station, and the knowledge that I won’t see my parents and crew again for another five hours.

My first task at the Mt. Werner aid station is to dig body glide out my pack and apply it in full view of the YouTube live stream camera. I forgot to apply lube the morning of my race and I’m a bit perturbed by my carelessness— chaffing is a scorned nemesis to ultra runners. After a quick pit stop, we descend the back side of the ski mountain and I let out a holler, excited to be done with the day’s first major climb. 

A few miles later, a rock reaches out and grabs my foot. I stumble and fall, laughing at my clumsiness. “Who falls 7 miles into a 100 mile race?” The terrain is runnable and rolling, but singletrack presents little opportunities for passing. Eventually, there’s about 15 or 20 of us stuck behind one runner, and I’m frustrated to be back in the conga line. The upcoming descent into Fish Creek Falls is rocky and technical. We’re right on top of each other, uncomfortably so. I want to pass and fan out, making it easier to plot each step of that technical descent. The opportunity never comes, but we survive the descent nonetheless. 

Fish Creek Falls marks the first crewed aid station with supporters lined up along the sidewalk. It’s a nice jolt of energy to be cheered again. I smile all the way into the aid station before turning around to climb back up the same way we came from. The trail is busy with runners coming from both directions and the occasional out-of-state hiker or family, who likely stumbled into the middle of hundreds of runners without knowing beforehand a race was taking place. Each pass is a bit precarious, leading to lots of stop-start hiking. 

6 or 7 miles later, legendary runner Scott Jurek is volunteering and supporting us mere-mortal runners at the Long Lake aid station. I gave him a fist bump and make it through the day’s third aid station. Next up: Summit Lake aid and the first time seeing my full crew. Thankfully, we’re on more runnable doubletrack and forest service road, allowing ample opportunity to fan out and pass. 

This section turns by uneventfully until I approach mile 30 and Summit Lake. There’s a slight descent into the aid station and my legs feel great, so I open my stride a bit and pick up the pace, a chance to show my crew that I am still moving well. My partner Emily and friend Zack greet me out front, a savvy crewing move that allows me to explain what I need at the aid station before I get there. I arrive and my crew has everything laid out, ready to feed me encouragement and carbs. I think to myself, “my crew brought their A game, too!” I’d later find out that they got a bit lost, had to turn around several times, and nearly missed me trying to get to this remote aid station—they did a good job not letting it show. There's a few Busch Lights at our tailgate (er, aid station) ... this is an Iowa outfit, after all. 

Crewed aid stations are a blur. There’s a hundred things to be done and the clock never stops. I remind myself to be present and soak in the moment with those supporting me. In addition to my parents and Emily and Zack, there’s also my cousin Cassie and her partner Ryan. Everyone brings their own magic and contributions to the crew. I can hear my mom’s calm voice of encouragement and kindness. My dad channeled his nerves into making potatoes this morning and offers me some. Zack records a few video clips. Cassie is a relentless cheerleader, giving energy to me and every other runner who passes by. Emily ensures my pack is ready with everything I need to make it through the next sections, and off I go. It will be several eventful hours until I see them again.

The course turns back to the west, revealing a foreboding sight. The clouds coming in look dark and mean, and there’s an eerie glow to the evening. It starts to rain, steady and constant. This time, I pull out my new rain jacket. It’s been raining for an hour or so, and I spend my time dodging puddles and reminding myself that I’m not made of sugar— a little rain won’t hurt! That thought gets interrupted by a downpour. It’s raining hard now, heavy wet rain drops, as I move through Flash of Gold, a section through aspens that would be quite pretty without the rain.

Unlike those thunderstorms that pass as quickly as they arrive, this one sticks around and the conditions steadily deteriorate. I’m cold, wet, and alone with my thoughts as I realize this is the type of rain that can ruin a race. If it was earlier in the day, we’d have the chance to dry out and warm up. But, dusk has arrived. We’re all going to be soaked as the temperature drops, and the rain is showing no signs of letting up.

Anytime the trail switches back, I catch a fleeting glimpse of a red coat in front of me. I make it my mission to catch up to the runner in the red coat and a train of four others; an opportunity to feel less alone and find safety in numbers. Misery loves company. Two of the runners in this train I’ve joined don’t have rain jackets on, having packed them away waiting at the Olympian Hall aid station. 

Once you’re wet, you can’t get more wet, I tell myself. But the downpour roars on and I’m getting colder and wetter. For the first time, I have real concerns about my ability to outlast this storm. Although it’s an organized race, there's not much in the way of stopping you from getting into a life-endangering situation. A few years back at a poorly organized ultramarathon in China, a wave of runners ran into unexpected winter weather. No one had packed adequate clothing and by the time they realized they were caught in a life-threatening situation, it was too late to do anything about it. 21 runners died of hypothermia, tragically.

Thunder claps overhead several times, a disconcerting sound when you have carbon fiber poles attached to your vest. Night is falling as we reach the Dry Lake aid station at mile 44.5 and it dawns on me that this is a critical, perhaps the critical, moment of the race. Typically, there’s just a handful of runners at an aid station this late in the race. But, there’s 20 or 30 runners here taking refuge here—a turtle graveyard. Everywhere I look, I see shivering runners and hear people discuss dropping. ‘I just can’t get warm, there’s no way to continue,’ they say. The negativity and idea of DNF’ing is contagious and all around me, just like the rain.

I start a shiver—the type of cold, uncontrollable shiver that is impossible to recover from—before I look to my right and see Red Coat. His name also is Brady, and he’s the only one at this aid station that is moving and problem-solving. He is on a mission, quickly asking for food and coffee to warm up, and I know he intends to go straight back out. I make eye contact with him and see an unmistakable look of resolve and determination. All of a sudden, this wave of confidence comes over me. I’m not sure it’s even my own confidence, but his and I’m just standing near it. But, an idea hits me like a lightning bolt—if we go out together, we might survive this damn thing. Our moment of eye contact also felt like an invitation. ‘I’m going … You coming with?’

The answer has to be yes. I feel minutes, if not seconds, from getting too cold to continue and joining the ranks of huddled, dejected runners dropping out. But, Red Coat has a quicker pit stop than me, and he runs out back into the rain. I haven’t taken care of business yet. One flask is only half full and I haven’t consumed anything warm. Instead, I'm fumbling with a zipper to pull out my headlamp. I make a spur-of-the-moment decision. It’s a make or break moment, and I say fuck it and decide to leave, having not taken care of many, if any, aid station tasks.

I head out alone, hoping to catch up to Red Coat soon. I can barely get my fingers to turn on my headlamp and I begin to think, ‘fuck, what have I got myself into.’ I’d later find out the situation was even more precarious further back in the race, where back-of-the-pack turtles and most hares were caught in the storm at higher elevation. They were blasted with snow, hail and rain, and the DNF-rate skyrocketed. 

Thankfully, I catch Red Coat and two others after they become turned around at a poorly-marked junction. Red Coat proves to be a good runner to follow, because he’s not rattled by the confusion and jogs on to find the next marker, yelling back to let us know to follow the correct trail. After a few miles, a figure emerges in front of our headlamp— a runner stumbling in the dark, having discovered his headlamp doesn’t work. I turn my torch up even brighter and tell him to stick with us, and our train grows by one.

Eventually, someone breaks the ice and we’re all joking together. The biggest runner’s high of my life rushes over me. It feels as if we’re prisoners sprung loose from prison, running towards our freedom. My feet barely hit the ground. We were in some seriously thick shit back there, and somehow made it through. Now, we're giving the middle finger to mother nature and the race. We joke and hoot and holler, only semi-ironically shouting David Goggins quotes, ‘I’m back, motherfucker!’ I’m positively giddy and proud of myself for having rescued my race. A runner in front jokes about having a joint in his kit, packed away for a special moment. He's flying and runs out in front of us. A few miles later, I smell his joint. Most runners are soaked through to the core and can barely get their hands to work, and somehow he lit his joint. Not only that, he’s still flying, and we can’t even see him—only smell his joint. Now that’s trail magic! 

Our rescued runner is a worthy-addition to the train. Even without a light, he tells us about turns and junctions before we even get to them. Eventually, we see lights from houses as we approach town, having run steady and fast through rain that eventually turned to drizzle before letting off entirely. We begin to fan out through Steamboat, and for a moment, I feel a little sadness knowing we’ll separate and run our own races. Good luck, fellas. It’s been a pleasure surviving with you.

But, this moment is still one I’ve been looking forward to, getting back to town and Olympian Hall. We trade that rugged ‘out there’ feeling for the relative security of being around civilization. I cross roads and run past the neon pink Rabbit Ears Motel sign. A driver rolls down his window and asks a volunteer in front of me, “is there a race going on?” and I laugh at the juxtaposition of the normalcy of life in town and the absurdity of what's going on around it, a 100-mile race.

After a few blocks through town, I’m directed through a parking lot towards Olympian Hall and my crew. It’s dark and difficult to spot me, but eventually my crew does and cheers. I’m still in a great mood, excited to tell them about the shit we went through in between bites of potatoes and soup. It feels good to be halfway done having survived some gnarly weather, and to now be picking up a pacer, Zack. Emily pulled Zack into our crew like a coach recruiting a five-star athlete. Zack is a relentlessly good-natured, good vibes person, which is just about the best thing a pacer can be. 

After swapping some wet clothes for warm ones, Zack and I take off towards Emerald Mountain and Lain of Pain, which offers a couple thousand feet of climbing on the west side of town. There’s no one around us, which means we have to take extra time to spot and confirm course making. It’s a bit muddy, but the climbing isn’t quite as bad as I pictured. Before too long, we arrive at an aid station that feels like a giant party with campfires, loud music, and lights. The vibes are good up here and a volunteer offers hot french fries, an exotic delicacy for a middle-of-nowhere aid station.

We traverse a lollipop loop, swing back through the aid station a second time, and head downhill back towards Olympian Hall. Zack does well, playing the occasional pump-up song while offering up encouragement. For both of us, carbs go in, burps and steady miles go out. I had keyed this section as being potentially deceptively tough, but it’s a relative breeze with Zack along for the ride. I get passed a few times, first by lead-pack hares and then by an occasional train of tortoises. But, a major climb lies ahead, and I want to save energy. 

When we arrive back at Olympian, it’s just Emily there to greet us this time. The rest of the crew is back at the Airbnb getting needed sleep before a middle-of-the night wakeup and drive back to Summit aid station. Emily suggests going inside Olympian for warmth, but I feel good and decline, worried that once I go inside and slow down, it’ll be harder to get going again. 

We bid adieu to Zack and off we go. This time, the Rabbit Ears Motel neon sign is off, a reminder that the rest of the world will be asleep while we go tackle the most pivotal part of the course. We’ll climb about 4,500 ft. from miles 63 to 80, a make-or-break section of the course. I’m comforted to have Emily in tow. Last time I ran 100 miles, Emily paced an even longer section of course overnight, took a brief break, and then paced an unplanned section with me once my wheels fell off. All said, she ran more than 30 miles with me and undoubtedly saved the race.

So, I’m in good hands. I know we’ll make good progress, too, because Emily will keep me honest. If I walk a runnable section or take too long to pop a gel, she’ll tell me. My legs are feeling up for the challenge and to start, I lead us through the climbs, alternating between hiking and running. One of the first major problems of my race is starting to emerge— my eyesight. I splash right into the middle of the puddle after not spotting it in time, and then tell Emily to run in front of me and help navigate any hazards. The night before the race, I was so anxious and restless I couldn’t fall asleep. I rolled over after each hour to check the time on my phone, despairing over another lost hour of sleep, all the way until sunrise. So, my eyes feel heavy and painful to keep open, and I misdiagnose the problem as simply being tired from my second sleepless night.

We stop at the Dry Lake aid station at mile 70 to wrap my feet, which feel a bit wrinkled and haggard from the moisture. My mental faculties are declining a bit, and I can’t point us in the right direction out of the aid station. After Emily leads me the right way, we quickly get lost once— someone yells out ‘wrong way’ at us—and then get lost a second time, arriving at a junction with no markings.

A runner joins up with us, sending us down the right path. It’s Arlen Glick, one of the predicted favorites to win the race. But, he tells us, “I’m a blown-up bunny right now,” making light of the difficulty he’s facing (a recent surgery and flare-up.) It’s cool to share some time with a professional runner and I admire him for not dropping out. Eventually, he looks like a hare again, and runs off into the night.

My eye problem gets worse and I have to squint just to keep them open. It’s the middle of the night and these are the dog days of the race. It’s quiet, cold, and remote. Frost emerges all around us, glistening in the light of our headlamp. I go a bit nonverbal through these miles, preferring to work in silence with nothing in front of us but the next few steps illuminated by headlamp. Emily guides us through steep, rocky sections as this part of the course takes a more direct way to the Billy’s Rabbit Hole aid station. 

Arriving at Billy’s, there's a campfire and helpful volunteers, and I plop into a chair, hoping to trade a few minutes of rest for future energy. Emily hands me broth and I slam a few Cokes, desperate for caffeine to awake my eyes. I’m not sure when or how, but next thing you know, we are moving again, on our way up to Summit aid station and the highest point of the course. Zoë, a hare and the wife of my coach, passes us, looking determined. She asks, “what’s the gap to fourth [place]?” With my mental sluggishness, I hear, “what’s the gap to Highway 40?” I shrug my shoulders and think, 'what highway and where the hell are we?' 

We’re making slow but steady progress. Daybreak is approaching, but my eye problem is beginning to derail my race. It takes everything I have just to keep my eyes open. I tell Emily that I might need to nap at Summit because I can barely continue. Emily runs ahead of me towards my parents to get keys to my dad’s truck while I wait in the parking lot before the aid station. She unlocks the truck while running back down to me, and I crawl in the backseat, hoping to fall asleep. I’m a bit dejected to show my parents that I’m struggling with something. In the Black Hills 100, they really saw me suffer, and I wanted this race to be different, to show them how much stronger I was.

Despite how heavy my eyes are, I can’t sleep somehow. My legs begin to cramp up, and I wince at the realization that I’ll have to run on without any sleep or relief from the problem. The only solution is to finish. I exit the truck and talk to my parents, all bundled up, and we walk up to the aid station for more problem-solving. There’s more coke, broth, band-aids and lube. It’s a slow stop. You remember how I said each member of the crew brings their own magic? Now, it’s my dad’s time to shine. His magic is that he knows when to crack a joke or when to tell me to get moving. He looks me in the eyes and says, "go finish this fucker." I can feel him trying to give me energy, and I know that if he could reach out and give me some of his own, he would.

I give mom, dad, and Emily a hug and march on. For a moment, the trail runs parallel with the road they are walking down towards the truck, and they spot one last opportunity to cheer and encourage me onwards. But, I round a corner, leaving them behind, and the next 20 miles are my own to travel. 

I enter a bizarre world where time runs slower and distance runs longer. Anyone who has run a 100-miler will be familiar with this feeling. My eyes are goopy, crusty, and blurry. The terrain back to Dry Lake is runnable, but I’m slowing substantially. When I arrive at the aid station, I’m greeted by a familiar face, the same volunteer I saw at packet pick-up and this aid station yesterday, an eternity ago. He asks me what’s wrong, puts an arm over my shoulder, and guides me to a chair. We’re strangers, but it feels like meeting a long-lost friend. He gives me a blanket and tells me he’ll check back on me soon. When he checks back, he says, “you’re not sleeping,” and I think, 'shit, I thought I was supposed to be eating.' I close my eyes for a few more moments before he taps my knee and gives me a 10-minute warning. It’s time to depart—the only way out is through. Before I leave, I find that volunteer and thank him, and he gives me a hug. He’s the type of volunteer who knows how to spot people in need and help them put their pieces back together. What a legend.

There’s only one last aid station to go now, Mt. Werner, and it’s a rolling, slightly uphill segment. I’m getting passed fairly frequently, and I can feel time passing as I slip through all of my time goals for this race. With the sun out, my eyes are even more sensitive and ailing. I finally realize that my eye problem isn’t tiredness, but dryness. Somehow, my eyes stopped clearing debris or creating moisture, leading to the painful state I am in now. It sounds trivial (dry eyes), but it’s debilitating. Keeping them open hurts, blinking hurts, well, everything plain old hurts. Survival is about the only goal I can strive for now.

After longer than I would’ve liked, I’m finally approaching the last aid station, and I hear someone shout. They are way too excited to be a stranger cheering for someone moving as slow as I am, and I realize it’s Zack. I didn’t expect a pacer here, but Zack had taken the gondola and hiked up, and he’s ready to run in with me. I’m so relieved and happy to see him, but my face doesn’t show it. My eyes are barely working and I can only make out blurred shapes while squinting. I’m not a pretty sight to see.

I take care of it the best I can and we march on, the two of us, with only 6ish downhill miles to the finish line. There’s fools gold here. You think you’re close to the finish, but if you’re broken and slow, you’re really not. Zack plays “X Gon’ Give It To Ya,” a performance-enhancing song by DMX, and I pick up the pace. Across the valley, I spot a storm sweeping in and think, ‘you’ve got to be kidding me.’ Zack says he’s not sure it will hit us, as if he’s optimistically trying to will that scenario into existence. But, by now, I know my luck and pull out a rain jacket. The sky opens up and a heavy rain falls shortly after. Thunder rumbles around us and the rain turns to sleet and I think to myself what a fitting way to finish this race.

Emily is running behind us (another unplanned, surprise appearance!), desperately and quickly catching up while getting soaked in the rain. She had taken the gondola up the mountain, hoping to catch me near the top before riding back down and catching me again at the finish. But, she had just barely missed us and they stopped running the gondola when lighting arrived. The only way to catch the finish was to run down—in sandals and a cotton sweater. She’s upbeat and laughing through the adverse conditions, a quality I admire in her. The three of us trot onwards, getting progressively drenched in the rain, and mother nature saves her worst for last.

Finally, I spot the finish line. I’m a little worried the rain will have cleared people out and put a damper on the mood. I’m reminded of a story I read about a runner who ran a no-frills, lightly-attended ultra. When he finished in first place in the middle of the night, there was no one at the finish line except the race director, asleep in a lawn chair. The runner let out a silent cheer, grabbed a medal, and went to his car to nap, none to the wiser that he had just won and laid waste to the course, finishing in an impressive 17 hours. The moral of the story: your reason for running has to be more than just attention and applause at the finish line.

Before I despair about the rain, I can hear my parents begin to yell. I can barely see, everything is blurry, but I know my crew and people I care deeply about are ready to cheer for me and watch me finish. I thank Emily and Zack for rescuing me at the top, and then march on, climbing over a couple boulders and a perilous creek crossing right before the finish.

I make eye contact with Cassie, who runs to the barricades to hold her handmade sign and cheer a few steps before the finish. I want to stop and hug her, but there's one last matter of business to attend to. I find some pace, a quick jog, and step over the timing mat that marks the end of my race in 29 hours and 40 minutes. The race official is occupied and my crew are working their way towards the finish line, but for a moment, I’m alone and unsure of what to do. For an entire year, I’ve had a purpose—to train for this race. And for the past 30 hours, I’ve never not known what to do—move forwards. 

This uncertain feeling of being done is jarring. But, it doesn’t last long. I’m greeted by the official and handed a mug, coke, and shiny gold belt buckle, leaving me with no free hands for hugs. Zack comes bouncing around the corner, then Emily, and then suddenly I’m surrounded by a congratulatory crew. It’s a blur of hugs and emotion. My mom is crying and telling me something. I can’t quite make it out, but I can feel it—she’s proud of me and always knew I would finish. 

We make our way to a grassy finish area and lawn chairs to celebrate. The crew looks happy and relieved. They did everything in their power to get me to the finish line, and just like last time, I truly don’t know how I could’ve done it without them. The eye issue makes celebrating and posing for pictures challenging. I sit down and close my eyes. I’m not sleeping, but the lights aren’t exactly on either, and I drift in and out of conversations and stories and fleeting happy moments of another wild adventure and accomplishment.

This race wasn’t the race I had planned on having. Without the eye issue, I know I have more to offer. When more stories about Friday’s storm roll in from runners and crews, I realize that just finishing is a hell of an accomplishment. Many didn’t. Everyone who ran endured something wild and dangerous, and has a story to tell from it. At times, I thought it might be my last 100-miler. But, I already feel incredibly motivated to try again. Although I didn’t accomplish my time goal, it was still a PR, and I acquired more pieces of the puzzle to put together for next time. I feel close, damn close, to being able to run one of these suckers well. Now, there’s lotteries to enter and A-goal races to plan. The future is wide open and good things are possible. 

CREW

To Emily… There’s no one I’d rather have by my side in life or during an ultra. Truly, I don’t think there’s a better crew chief out there. You’re detail-oriented, know how to hold me accountable during a race, and see the good when things get tough. I love you and wouldn’t be the person or runner I am without you by my side.

To my dad… Thanks for driving ungodly hours to my races, for shuttling crew around in the middle of the night, and for knowing when it’s time to tell me to quit lolly-gagging and get moving. Deep down, you never get too old to stop wanting to make your dad proud. It’s more meaningful than I can articulate to have you there at the start and finish line.

To my mom… Thank you for bringing a steady voice of assurance and kindness to every pit stop. When the going gets tough, and the miles are unkind, I can hear and feel your voice and kindness, and it keeps me moving. Sorry for making you see me suffer, but I swear I’m having fun! 

To Zack… Thank you for crushing the Lain of Pain with me and for pulling double duty to rescue me off Mt. Werner when I was at the lowest point of my race. You’re a hell of a pacer and bring great energy. If you ever want to run an ultra, I’ll be there. I’ll bring the DMX and good vibes this time.

To Cassie… It was so damn fun to see you get caught up in the crazy world of ultra and see you support runners! You are the ultimate cheerleader and supporter, which is right in line with your personality and good nature. Of all the people running 100 miles, no one there was tougher or braver than you. Thanks for being there for me, even if it meant putting your own pain aside.

To Ryan… Thanks for bringing the cow bell, for showing up on your birthday, and for being a stand-up guy. You’re a great addition to the crew, just like you’re a great addition to Cassie’s family!