I’ll preface my Tahoe 200 experience by saying I don’t remember all of it. It’s wrapped up in a kind of brain fog, with gaps in my recollection of events. Apparently, this is common in the ultra world and known as “endurance amnesia.”
One year of training, countless hours of worry, seven pairs of Hoka Speedgoats, endless ounces of Tailwind, dates and almonds brought me to the start line. Training was mobility work five days a week, double days at the studio, 50–55 mile running weeks, back-to-back long runs, hill repeats and speed days. I peaked at 90 miles, broke training into blocks and used the Javelina Jundred 100-miler in October, HMB 50-mile (Rancho to Half Moon Bay) and Quicksilver 50k as dress rehearsals. I lost nearly 18 pounds and toned up. There were early mornings, sacrifices and countless times I showed up even when I didn’t feel like it. In the final taper month, my life revolved around spreadsheets, pace charts, logistics and crew boxes. I’m not sure how many friends I lost to “Tahoe Talk.” There were fears, frustrations, motivations, feelings, tears, apprehensions, suffering, pain, joy, meaning of my life/running – we talked about it all. And then there were more tears.
The drive into Tahoe felt surreal. I felt a rush of excitement, fear of the unknown and anticipation. What would the next few days bring? What would the drive home feel like? The mountains, trees, valleys and the largest alpine lake in the US would be my home for the next four days.
Registration the morning before the race was straightforward: gear check, bib pickup, medical check, GPX verification and the famous “before” photo. There was nothing left but to run. After wandering around town, attending the race briefing and eating an early dinner, I laid out my gear just before bed. It was showtime.
I had the best pre-race breakfast ever: a perfectly toasted bagel with nut butter and a banana. I got ready, lubed up and bibbed up, and headed to the start while soaking in the electric energy. I collected my tracker and tried to settle into the unknown. I had trained, prepared, worked and dreamed of this all year, maybe even longer.
There were goosebumps, happy tears and miles and days to go. Pacers were allowed starting at mile 87. It was going to be long and lonely race till then. I saw my people at mile 10. The next time would be at mile 52. Holy shit! It’s going to be forever. The next few miles passed quicker than expected and I settled into a rhythm, chatting with runners from across the country and staying present.
The miles blended together. The mornings and evenings blended into nights. Eat. Drink. Move. Headlamp on, crossing streams, hopping downed logs and dealing with blisters that needed medical attention more than once. The miles and time both flew by and yet stalled. I made friends with some wonderful people. We navigated unmarked trails, checked on each other and shared stories.
The course was supposed to be an out-and-back but had been changed to a looped course a few weeks earlier when permits were approved. We were going to run around Lake Tahoe! Much of the route had been closed for years because of the Caldor Fire. It was sad to see so much devastation, to see the burned trees covered in soot and areas untouched by humans for so long. It was like a graveyard – eerie but oh-so-beautiful and serene. We scrambled over approximately 35 downed trees and I bruised my calves in the process. My shoes were constantly soaked from stream crossings, and my hotspots, which were full-blown blisters, burned with every step. I paid good money for this kind of suffering.
I met my crew at mile 52 and it was a relief. The plan had always been to break the race into aid-station chunks and seeing them changed everything. All my gear and food was neatly laid out, in case I needed anything, and I sat on the makeshift bed in the trunk of the Subaru. We joked, they fed me, cheered me up and sent me packing.
The people on the trail kept me going – trail angels, strangers, volunteers who were so supportive and energetic and the man who offered his water filter and bottle without hesitation. I stuck with another runner for hours and she was an excellent navigator.
I was alone but never truly lonely. It felt peaceful: just me, the trail, distant headlamps and shadows of trees. I hated the sound of bugs buzzing around my face and my buff turned into a swatter. The silence in the hills was both deafening and yet so loud.
It was great to pick up my pacer, Anil, at mile 87. I desperately needed company. The olives, Twix bars and stories helped. Sleep deprivation brought new experiences: dirt naps, slight bushwhacking and imaginary monkeys. I’d heard about hallucinations but living them was something else. Time felt distorted – it was standing still and flying by simultaneously.
Ankle pain appeared out of nowhere. After a quick application of Biofreeze and lying on the trail with my feet up against a tree, the pain vanished. Then the Rubicon Trail made its grand appearance at dawn – a rugged, rocky section known for ATVs and daredevils. It was a runner’s nightmare where poles got stuck and ankles were twisted. It took forever to navigate.
My mind wandered to my friends at the Outsiders Bootcamp doing 200 burpees and lunges in solidarity. They made charts and sent videos, and it was all very touching. Family and well-wishers followed my tracker across multiple WhatsApp groups, sending concern, cheers and pride, all eagerly tuned into my every move.
At mile 130, I was still in good spirits (though my crew might tell a different story). The night miles were fun – full of laughs, some talk, comfortable silence, a star-studded sky and more dirt naps – then a beautiful sunrise greeted us. We enjoyed a proper breakfast of eggs and sausage at an aid station before tackling the infamous Powerline climb, and it was a slog to get there.
Powerline lived up to its reputation – steep, loose and brutal. My heart was in my throat the entire time. After two falls and the punishing descent, we trudged along the road for about 2 miles. Spotting a water fountain was pure heaven and the cold water tasted like salvation.
We reached our final crew stop at mile 164 and met with Kiran who would pace me to the finish. We were still well ahead of cutoffs, or so we thought.
Then the back pain hit hard over the final 30 miles and Tylenol barely touched it. The lidocaine roll-on was my new friend, but I moved at a crawl, walking 15 steps and then stretching like a starfish on a rock or lying in the middle of the trail doing yoga positions for relief. There were more naps and I needed caffeine to stay awake. Poor Kiran, I made his life miserable. We were going a mile an hour. Other runners stepped over me while I was sprawled out on the trail, stretching; some even stopped to check if I was okay. Everyone was suffering in their own way, yet kindness still appeared. I spent the last 20 hours mostly staring at the ground and hunched over in pain.
Back at Heavenly the chain of people was endless. The cheers and screams washed over me. Crossing the finish brought a flood of relief, pride and joy. I dropped into my son’s arms while family, crew and strangers celebrated. There wasn’t a dry eye in sight.
I endured, grew and changed. I was scared of myself – of what had I done and what had I overcome. I had every chance to quit, but the voice in my head kept repeating: Do not fucking quit! Buckle earned. Memories forever.
Thank you to my friends Niloy, Adwait, Anil, Mike and Kiran. You made it happen. You tolerated my moods, stayed patient when things got dark, and kept believing in me. My running buddies Bill and Raja who made training fun. Bipul, thank you for all the tips and advice. You were missed. Coach David, thank you for your master plan. To my family, friends, well-wishers, bootcamp friends and everyone who helped along the way: I’m grateful.
I didn’t finish – we finished.