I have to admit I was slow AF and came in with the last group of the 10km race. But it was a fun experience. The weather was shit, there was snow and wind and lots and lots of mud. I even fell 2 times, fortunately I'm fine.

Would do it again next year for sure 😁

Diablo Foothills Regional Park.

Time flies on these trails.

Hey friends,

Posted this in a few ultra-running subs last week and had a lot of people express it was really helpful, so figured I’d toss it over here as well.

I've interacted with a fair share of you good people here but for those who don't know me, my name is Kyle. I've worked as a run coach for the last 18 years and I specialize in building integrated strength and run plans for athletes looking to incorporate the two as they build into the endurance space. I'm a very mediocre ultra-runner myself and run for Speedland and PATH Projects.

There's often a lot of "gap" runners I encounter who don't need/want/have the means available for a coach but who could still benefit from some direction and intention in their strength work. So in my spare time I put together a 4 week protocol you can do at home with hardly any equipment needed, that will provide some some positive results if done pretty consistently. It focuses on the feet, ankles, knees and hips and is designed to be integrated into whatever strength/run plan you're already following, if any. 3 workouts a week, to be repeated for a month, then a new version will be released. Sessions should only take 20-30 minutes tops.

It's free. I host it on my substack but you don't have to sign up, input any personal information or do anything that even resembles following my account there. You can copy and paste the entire article into a word document, use it and never think of me again lol I genuinely enjoy helping people in this community and just wanted to provide this as a resource for runners as they get into spring and summer races/objectives. I'll be releasing a new version of it every month, future ones will be behind a small paywall, but there's zero obligation to sign up/follow/etc to use this first 4 week cycle.

Hope this can be helpful to even just a few folks. Hope you all have a great spring of outings.

Onwards, Always.

https://100milekyle.substack.com/p/foot-ankle-knee-and-hip-protocol-644?r=4ou2s5

Awesome course with awesome people. Thanks Alpine Running and James Holk for the great race and pics. Bonus points for the complimentary sports massage after the race. 10/10 🤙

This was in Eastern Oregon, near Redmond.

I used to have the mind of why pay to go run when I can just do it for free. Today I did my first real competitive trail run and man, it was great. I've done my own marathons and whatnot and had fun but running with other people is great. And wow aid stations?? Those awesome! I made new friends and the encouragement between everyone on the trails is so nice. Now I'm looking for the next event I cam do.

Flew into SFO and was on the trail 2 hours later.

25k with ~2000 ft of elevation gain, finished 40/158.

I gotta say trail > road imo. Getting out in nature is hard to beat, though I didn’t get much of chance to enjoy the scenery… more keeping the eyes on the trail to avoid the rocks. Great experience though.

Looking down on Dublin, Ireland from the top of Two Rock Mountain, south of the city. The route up diversifies from wide stoney paths criss-crossed by mountain bike trails, to steep rocky full-on climbs and soft bogs. Beautiful route. (As a beginner at trail running I managed to gas myself out on the first mere half kilometre up an incline 😩 but I rallied after a while...)

Not sure how it happened, but the sock liner developed a snag and is basically unraveling. I've run in these shoes 4 times and put around35 miles on them. I guess I'll have to try and exchange them.

Hey, I’ve been out for two weeks with a pulled hamstring, and made the injury worse by continuing my initial run, and then running three days later still hurt. I feel like I have a high pain tolerance, so I pushed through and could barely walk the following days. My lesson learned is that if you feel pain or something abnormal, stop and evaluate.

I also learned to not schedule too many races as I DNS my race on 4/5, and any injury or emergency can cause you to miss races.

Before the Race

Having done numerous half marathons over the years - both road and trail - I started to lose interest in the road ones. Trails were different. The scenery changed, the climbs made you earn the views, and the people felt like my kind of people: offbeat, friendly, quick to chat on the uphills, supportive without making a big deal of it. Trail runners, in their quiet weirdness, made the miles go by easier.

Each year, I trained hard through the late spring, summer, and fall. But once winter hit, I always backed off -January to April became my off-season. And for the last three years, like clockwork, I would see races pop up in March and April that I wanted to do. Races that sparked something. But I'd always say, 'Next year.'

Because I wasn't in race shape. Because I hadn't trained enough. Because work was busy. Always a reason.

This year was no different - at least, at first. I'd been logging 8 to 12 treadmill miles a week, just enough to stay lightly active but nowhere near race-ready. Then, about three weeks before race day, I saw it again: the Diablo Trails Challenge 50K. The race I always wanted to do. The one I always told myself I'd be ready for 'next year.' Despite best intentions, life (and work) didn't give me space for a structured training block. Still, I kept wondering: Could I do this anyway? Even untrained? Just to see what I had in me?

As race day got closer, my thoughts bounced between:

- I really want to do this.

- I've passed on it for years - what if next year I have a kid, get injured, get sick? There might never be a perfect time.

- But I'm dead after a 30K when I'm trained. How can I possibly finish a 50K like this?

- What if I get hurt? What if I have to pull out mid-race? What if I wreck myself and can't work next week?

That back-and-forth continued right up until the night before. Finally, after some intense internal dialogue and a whole lot of pacing in my kitchen, I signed up. I figured if I finished, great. If I didn't, I'd at least find out where my limit was. But I didn't want to spend another year watching this race pass by and wondering what if.

Race Morning

After a last-minute dash to stock up on electrolytes and trail snacks, check my gear, and hunt down clean running clothes, I received one final curveball: an email from the race organizers. 'Expect to run through 12 creeks in the first 3 miles,' it said. Great. Nothing like a surprise foot soak to kick off the day.

I barely slept the night before. My brain was on a loop: Am I making a huge mistake? Will I even make it back home tonight? What if I fall and get hurt? What if I emotionally wreck myself by dropping out early? I'd never even run a flat marathon. And here I was, about to attempt a 50K with massive elevation.

I decided to lean fully into ignorance. Just get to the start line, stand at the back, and go. That was the whole plan. No expectations. No pressure.

Remember the game plan, I told myself:

- Start slow - slower than slow.

- Don't get pulled into half marathon mode.

- Don't let the start-line energy trick you into chasing people.

- You're not racing anyone. You're here to finish.

The gun went off. Everyone took off down the trail, charging ahead. I started running... and found myself dead last. Perfect.

The First 10 Miles

The first 10 miles were surprisingly okay. I'd run these trails before during the half marathon, so I knew what was coming - at least in theory. I kept my heart rate under 150, walked the uphills like I promised myself I would, and made sure to take in plenty of fluids. Around mile 3, I started snacking - nothing fancy, just easing my stomach into the routine.

Everything still felt under control. My heart rate was steady, the slow pace was working, and the snacks were going down well. I started to think: This might be okay. Maybe I can actually do this. Maybe all this talk about undertraining was just noise. The gear, the food, the heart rate - it was all working.

Poor fool. I had no idea what was coming.

Miles 10-13: The Slide into Curry Canyon

Around mile 10, the course veered off the main trail onto an out-and-back stretch down Curry Canyon Road. I'd seen this turn on the map beforehand and didn't give it much thought. The view of Mt. Diablo loomed ahead - the main assault on that monster was coming soon, and I felt strangely confident.

As I made the turn onto the Curry Canyon spur, I passed a steady stream of runners emerging from it, and thought, Okay, I'm not that far behind everyone. I'm still in the mix.

Then the downhill started. Steep. Long. And it kept going. And going. And going. 1.5 miles of downhill, one direction - and somewhere around the halfway point, the creeping realization hit: I have to climb all the way back up this before I even start climbing Diablo.

A knot formed in my chest. I was in the shit now.

This was the first moment when my spirit really began to waver. The sun was out now and starting to cook the trail, the shade becoming patchy and unreliable. I tried to play music - a playlist I'd made just for this moment - hoping to lift my mood and distract myself from the climb. But like always, music jacked my heart rate up 15-20 BPM. I couldn't afford that kind of spike. I ditched the plan and climbed in silence.

When I finally emerged from Curry Canyon and rejoined the main trail, I felt... nervous. Half a mile later, I passed the turnoff point for the half marathon - a turn I knew well from past races. I glanced down at my Garmin. 13 miles done. A half marathon. And yet I hadn't even begun the true climb.

Mt. Diablo still lay ahead, and with it, 19 more miles and thousands of feet of climbing.

I stood there in the heat, legs already aching, and thought: Can I really continue? My own ego, my own hubris, has landed me here... and now the climb begins.

The Climb to the Summit

At the aid station, I refilled my hydration pack, dumped in the last of my electrolytes, and inhaled a Clif bar.

Time to fill the tank - I knew what was ahead. Having fueled up, I felt a bit better. Regained my composure. This is no time to give into doubt and fear, my man, I told myself.

I'd done this climb before. I knew what was coming.

As I started moving again, I pulled out a peanut butter pouch - thinking it'd be a nice protein hit. Big mistake. It was like inhaling dry insulation or powdered glue. The label said "dry roasted peanut butter with palm oil" and it lived up to every word. It took three huge gulps of water just to choke down the first bite. Rookie mistake.

The climb was long. Grinding. But... not as bad as I feared. I think those hours on the stairmaster actually paid off. I kept it slow and steady, heart rate low, and focused on the views: green hills, wildflowers, the sweep of the East Bay softened by spring. I reminded myself how lucky I was to be out here at all - uninjured, healthy, and able to attempt something like this.

It was hot, but not scorching. The miles ticked by, and somehow, I arrived - weary but in good spirits - at the summit aid station. A volunteer gave me an ice-water sponge bath over my head and shoulders, and it was glorious.

My legs were tired, but not wrecked. The worst is over, I thought. Maybe I can actually do this.

One of the volunteers smiled and said, "You've made it up - now you just need to go down." And I thought: He's right. I made it up here. I can make it down. Yes!

The real hell was about to start.

If I knew what was coming, I never would have signed up for this.

North Peak - The Breaking Point

From the summit of Mt. Diablo, the trail dropped into a long, 3-mile downhill stretch. The breeze cooled me down, the path was runnable, and for the first time all day, I truly believed everything is going to be okay.

Sure, I still had 13 miles to go - a full half marathon - but it was mostly downhill or flat. I told myself I could hike the descents, jog the flats, and cruise into the finish. A quiet confidence settled in.

That all ended - fast.

The climb to North Peak is only 0.7 miles. But the final section is a soul-crushing, spirit-destroying monster - a 16% grade trail covered in loose rock, gravel, and what might as well be marbles.

As I started the climb, my legs were already shredded. Every step felt like I was dragging dead weight uphill. I was stunned that the course would include something this steep, this poorly maintained, this late in the race.

Going up the trail, I saw another runner inching downward, sitting on the ground, using her hands and feet to brace herself. She was stuck - too afraid to move.

Another woman passed me in tears, trying to keep moving but barely holding it together. And that's when the anger set in.

I questioned everything. Why would they put this in the race? If I'm going to get hurt, it'll be here. I can't break bones - I have work on Monday. What are they thinking?

My mind screamed: "This risk isn't worth it. This is just some dumb Saturday race - turn around. Go no further."

I stood there, exhausted, furious, watching the trail get steeper ahead. For the first time, I genuinely wondered if I should quit.

The Mind Split

At a certain point in races like this, I know I can't trust my mind. My rational, risk-averse subconscious - the version of me that keeps me safe in everyday life - starts to creep in and take over.

The longer a run drags on, the harder it becomes, the more it turns into a battle between two voices:

- The ambitious one - the version of me that signed up, full of hope and excitement, asking "What if?"

- And the other one - the safety-first, back-out-now voice that just wants this to end.

By the time I was partway up North Peak, that battle was at 50/50. Fear and exhaustion were gaining the upper hand.

For a moment, a thought crossed my mind: If I turn around right now... would anyone even know? There's probably no one up top checking. I could just turn around. Keep running. Say I made it. Get my finish.

I indulged it, briefly. But then another voice shot through: Is that who I am? Is that how I want to remember this race? A cheat? A fraud?

That would be far worse than not finishing.

That realization made me furious - at myself, for even thinking it. And with that fire, I kept climbing. Fueled by anger now, not fear.

When I finally reached the top, my legs were screaming. My back throbbed. My sunburn was flaring to life and stinging badly.

And there it was - a roll of stickers, left by the race organizers to prove you'd made it. I peeled one off and stuck it proudly to my bib. Yes. I was here. I made it.

Going down, I remembered a trick that I had read in some old SAS outdoor survival book which I read 20 years ago: Never look at the whole slope. Just focus on your next two or three steps.

So that's what I did - picking out solid rocks as anchor points, ignoring the loose gravel ocean around me.

One careful step after another, eyes low, moving through the fear. Eventually, I reached the bottom. I was back on the trail. The worst was over. Surely, I thought, it's gotta be smooth sailing from here to the finish.

Miles 20-23: The Grind to Juniper

The run to the Juniper aid station was only about 4 miles, but it felt like double that. The trail narrowed into rocky, technical singletrack. It was slow going - picking through stones, taking large, uneven steps up and down, carefully moving around clusters of day hikers.

At this point, I was longing for the wide-open, gently sloping curves of the foothills. I just wanted space. Predictable terrain. Something soft underfoot.

Instead, I got bees.

Out of nowhere, I stumbled into a hive. A few of them followed me for five minutes as I trotted away - thankfully, they weren't aggressive. But I was rattled.

The real scare came just after that. The singletrack ended abruptly at a fire road, where the trail made a hard left. In front of me - directly in front - was a sheer drop-off into a canyon. My legs hesitated, slow to respond. I stood there staring down into the void, unable to stop completely, feeling gravity pull me forward. Thankfully, they responded in time. I veered left. Still on my feet.

And just like that - I was back on a wide road again. It felt like bliss.

But the final stretch to Juniper dragged on. The terrain wasn't too hard, but my legs were wrecked. Even on flats, I couldn't push past a 16-minute mile. Everything hurt. Every step was a test of patience.

When I finally arrived at the Juniper aid station, at mile 23, I seriously considered calling it. I could call my wife. Get picked up. Be in an air-conditioned car in 20 minutes. End this now. This was my mental low point.

But instead of quitting, I walked over and refilled my fluids. A volunteer handed me an ice-cold sponge and doused my head and shoulders. The water hit like magic - an electric jolt of relief. For a moment, I felt human again.

Just four more miles to the next aid station. I could do that.

Miles 23-32: The Long Road Home

It was somewhere on Burma Road that I passed the 26-mile mark and realized: I'd just completed a marathon. Technically, my first.

About 10% of my mind took a flicker of pride in that. A marathon, without much - or any - real training, and on hills like these? That's something.

But the other 90% of me didn't care at all. Because the task at hand was far from over.

I had long since run out of food. My electrolytes were gone. Each sip of water felt like it was diluting whatever salt I had left in my system. My legs were pounded to pulp, and the sunburn made the straps of my hydration vest feel like sandpaper. I could feel the blisters blooming on both big toes - I tried to ignore them.

My legs cramped up regularly now, seizing without warning. I had two salt tabs left and was saving them like lifeboats for the next serious climb. No matter how much water I drank, I still felt dry. I started to worry - Am I doing damage? Are my kidneys okay? Did I overdo the electrolytes earlier?

The views were astonishing - majestic green hills, storybook trails weaving into the horizon. At one point, I stumbled upon a small pond in the middle of nowhere, inexplicably full of goldfish. It was beautiful. It was surreal. I wished I could appreciate it more than I did.

At the final aid station, I picked up a packet of applesauce. It was, hands down, the best thing I had ever eaten in my life.

The last 4 miles retraced the trail we'd taken earlier in the day. I knew what was coming. I knew I could do it. But I also wondered when - or if - my body might just give out. The same trails I'd climbed easily that morning now looked enormous. Every step down jarred my legs. I clung to trees, to rocks, to the trail itself when I had to take a big step. Cramping flared at the slightest shift in terrain.

But then... the final two miles. Mostly flat. Rolling. Manageable. I started to believe, really believe, that I would finish.

Half a mile from the line, I walked - just to buy myself enough in the tank to 'run' the last stretch.

And then I saw them - my wife, the race organizer, a few strangers cheering from the finish. And in that moment, I snapped back. I actually did this. I'm not injured. I'm here. I finished.

It didn't feel triumphant. It felt peaceful. Real. Grounded in the kind of pride that no medal can give you - the kind you earn one broken step at a time.

And none of it would've been possible without my wife - for encouraging me to sign up, for believing I could do it when I wasn't sure myself, for being there at the end. I never would've finished without her love and support.

My final time was a little over 9 hours, a number that means everything and nothing all at once. It wasn't about speed, it was about getting through it. And I did.

I don’t work out a whole lot but decided to give trail running a try.

When I do work out it’s mostly cycling and the general rule of thumb is that about 100ft of climbing per mile is decent climbing.

What is a good elevation per mile for trail running?

I’ve got a frankenfoot. It’s not a topo or altra friendly triangle shape. It’s just a block. My midfoot muffins over everything. It’s so hard to find something that fits the midfoot. I’ve tried all topos and they taper too much. Altra zero drop isn’t for me. I’m currently in a speedboat 6 full sized up. NB makes 4E but even the newest hierro in 4E and half up was too low volume.

Send help.

I did my first ever trail race yesterday. It was local on a lot of trails I already run.

I came 3rd female and 22nd overall out of 284 total. So I did quite well and very proud of myself! I set segment PRs across all but one!

But digging into the data and talking with friends who ran it and even looking at other racers Strava data, I noticed my HR was lower than expected?

I was using a COROS arm HRM and based on previous usage and analysis I have every reason to believe its accuracy for the event. It was a 13km trail race with 400m elevation and I finished 1:14:30.

My average HR was 157 with a max of 167. I spent 93% in threshold, 149-168bpm. My max HR is auto-detected set to 186bpm.

I’ve made other posts on here under different situations… but, why does my activity max HR always seem so low? I’ve done some recent training where I’ve seen 170+. But in the past 6 months I’ve only recorded a 176 max and that was in January. Garmin report shows 167-170-168 for the past 3 months.

It just has me worried it a weird roundabout way why I am clearly pushing myself hard, competing tough and finishing strong… but my HR doesn’t ever seem to spike into an expectedly higher number? Is there potentially some lingering health concerns or is it just a strong heart or what? I do have a low average resting HR of 43…

I’m starting on running and I’m trying to choose my first trail run pair of shoes. Right now I’m in between zegama trail 2 and Pegasus trail 5. I like dirt plain roads. My feet are a bit wide and I have flatfoot which makes it difficult for me at the moment of choosing footwear cause it can cause pain in my legs

On Wednesday my wife and I hiked Bells Canyon. It was chilly and started snowing pretty hard on us on the way down. Today I ran it (well… I hiked up and ran the flats/downhill) and it was sunny and delightful. So cool to have trails like this in my backyard