I am often asked why I run ultras. The answer is simple: the people. There are few, if any other places where complete strangers from different countries, cultures, beliefs and backgrounds come together and form an instant bond. Nowhere is this more evident than the Keys. Florida’s Keys 100 is so much more than a race—it’s a way of life. Crews, once strangers, work together from Divers Direct to Higgs Beach in atmosphere like no other. The course is challenging and the conditions are unforgiving, but there is no course more beautiful, no staff more skilled and attentive and no better place to test your limits.
With Overseas Highway unraveling before runners, the sun seemingly penetrates and drowns the field in humidity. Differences disappear and friendships form as the miles melt away. Runners are bonded over the sweet relief of ice and an oasis created by each of the crew stops where vehicles line the scorching streets. Runners are greeted by dozens with applause and questions such as, “What do you need?” For me, these designated crew stops, packed with relay teams, runners taking respite from the sun and crew members scrambling to assemble supplies, is what makes the Keys 100.
While the pit stops keep you going, the course can break even the most seasoned ultrarunner. It all seems so simple: run straight from mile marker 100 to mile marker 0. The unassuming start, under the cover of a pre-dawn sky, lures you into a false sense of ease. But the sun quickly rises and with it, the dew point and humidity. The paved bike paths and open roads are void of shelter and just as the heat of the day arrives, so does Hells Tunnel, a sauna-like strip of paved trail enclosed in a tree-lined cave where the air is stagnant. The heat sits on top of runners like a weighted blanket.
My Keys 100 strategy has always been to use the hours before sunrise to knock out as many miles as possible and pull back when the sun comes up. When the sun goes down, I pick up the pace once again. This year, a mere half hour into the race, that strategy melted away. The humidity was oppressive and my crew had to begin icing me down at 6 a.m. No matter how much ice I shoved down my shirt or ice water I poured over my head, I simply could not keep my body temperature down. My crew had to work harder than ever, and each time I met them I was worried I was stretching them to their limit. We went through about 150 pounds of ice and it never felt like enough. It was not necessarily the temperature but the humidity which was ever present. My faithful crew was there to meet my every need and at one point, as I began to ascend the Seven Mile Bridge, I turned to them and said, “I don’t want to sound overly dramatic, but thank you for literally keeping me alive.”
My crew packed my running vest, pockets and everywhere they could find space with frozen water bottles, trail mix, electrolytes, ice and more ice. They had been icing me down so often that a 7-mile stretch with no ice seemed daunting, but I also knew that once I was over the bridge, the most difficult moments would be behind me. I am never at ease when crossing the bridge—running on the edge of the shoulder on my right, cars and trucks flying by, and to the left were the crashing waves of the ocean. I am prone to motion sickness so this is a sensory overload that forces me to stay singularly focused on locking my eyes straight ahead. The relief, aid station and crew waiting at the bottom of the bridge is almost as welcoming as the finish line.
Normally the miles after the bridge fly by, but soon the skies opened and a pelting rain fell out of nowhere. After 12 hours of endlessly telling my crew that I simply could not cool off, I was suddenly soaking wet and freezing. I began to think about my why. For me, running is never just about how fast I can get to the finish line. I am competitive and previously winning the Keys 100 will always be a defining moment for me, but at its core, running is a platform and a way for me to bring awareness to the fight against pediatric cancer and to raise funds for the Childhood Cancer Project. When it gets tough out there, and it always does, I remember my mantra, “This is not hard, cancer is hard. This is a choice, no one chooses cancer.” I think about how the families that I am running for have no choice but to keep fighting and push through. So, with about 25 miles to go, my shoes were sloshing and my clothes were soaked, but I had never been happier. As soon as the rain stopped, the heat and humidity were back, and I was once again icing myself down, but that didn’t stop me from getting to the finish line in 19 hours and 39 minutes—second female and third overall.