It was early spring of ’25. My engagement ended, and I moved from the beachside of the West End of downtown Vancouver back to my favourite neighbourhood, Olympic Village. I was finally recovering after a year of struggling with foot injuries that just were not getting better. At several points throughout my recovery, running again didn’t seem plausible, let alone running any sort of ultra distance. But as I healed emotionally, I healed physically too. I met my now-partner, McKenzie (Kenz), and after our first date, things just fell into place easily with her. Life made more sense with her in it, and I was beyond grateful for how dramatically my life had turned around for the better.

I ran my first continuous 5K in March, then slowly ramped up from there, reeling it back if I felt that familiar foot flare instead of just pushing through as I had done for so many years with my run streak. I felt confident enough to sign up for two races that summer, which felt like a doable stretch: my second go at Buckin’ Hell 50K in July and the Black Spur 108K in August.

June rolled around, and Destination Trail Race was promoting its Tahoe lottery. 200-milers had been on my mind ever since I completed the Fat Dog 120 in 2023, and I was going back and forth on whether I wanted to enter the lottery for Tahoe or Bigfoot. I love mountains, forests, and lakes, and I settled on Tahoe because those views looked well worth the effort. Tahoe was still a year away, and I thought that just maybe, I would be fully recovered and back to my old self by then. I entered the lottery and got the email shortly after. I was in.

When you sign up for something so far away, it doesn’t really feel like reality yet. I knew the magnitude of what I was going to do wouldn’t really sink in until I got closer, but for now, I could just sit back, relax, and enjoy having signed up for my next big thing.

I decided to work with a coach for this one and landed on Jenny Quilty from Pacific Pine Running Co. She’s an incredible pro athlete and came highly recommended by my good pal Sarah, who thought she would be a great fit. We settled on a late January 2026 start date, after I went through the egg-freezing process and gave myself enough time to recover from the surgery and my swollen ovaries from all the hormones. That would give me a solid four months of training.

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Training for the Tahoe 200

Training kicked off easy and manageable, but only a few weeks in, I experienced my first big setback. I was diagnosed with a mild form of complex regional pain syndrome (CRPS) in both feet after suffering bilateral stress fractures in my cuboid and calcaneus in 2024. CRPS is a neurological pain disorder, and while it can live in remission, weird things can set it off. The most annoying part is that I don’t feel the effects until later, so I don’t even have the opportunity to scale back a workout if needed.

I had my first speed workout on the schedule, which included some strides. It wasn’t anything crazy. I felt good afterwards, but later that day, while walking my dog, I felt that horrible, familiar feeling of a foot flare. It’s hard to really describe. It’s like a burning, tingling pain that can make standing and walking quite painful. At rest, my feet turn sunburn-red for no apparent reason.

CRPS is a tricky thing to navigate because the flares don’t really make any sense, and they’re hard to recover from. You don’t want to stop all activity because that can make it worse. You can’t do too much because that can also make it worse. You need to find a sweet spot of easy, gentle activity, convincing your body that it’s safe again.

Jenny and I were learning together what my body could and could not handle, but this flare set me back weeks. I took a full week off running and could only ease back into shorter efforts the week that followed. I was getting nervous because time was slipping away, and my first big training race was coming up real quick. The Chuckanut 50K was now only a few weeks away, and I wasn’t ready, but Jenny and I both agreed that I would go for it anyway, taking it as slow as I needed to. If things went south, I could always drop.

Chuckanut came, and it made me feel really bad. I struggled hard over the last 20K and wondered, How could I possibly tackle a 200-mile distance if I could barely even manage 50K? Instead of feeling accomplished, the race made me feel anxious, insecure, and unprepared.

In the weeks that followed, I was stuck in my head, while Kenz and Jenny gently tried to pull me out of it. I remember feeling anxious before Fat Dog, but this felt like a whole other kind of anxiety that had become all-consuming. There were so many nights I lay awake, tossing and turning, wondering if I should just drop from Tahoe and end this self-torment. I kept asking myself: Why would I do something that scared me this much and affected my everyday life? Anxiety is normal, but this was in a whole other sphere of mental torment.

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Life had thrown so many things at me all at once as my training ramped up, and everything was compounding and adding to my stress. While I was enjoying the training and loved Jenny’s style of programming and feedback, I found it difficult to plan routes during shoulder season. Many of the big hikes I enjoy doing in the summertime and rely on for training were covered in snow, so I had to get creative with getting in the training hours, mileage, and elevation to prepare me for the 32,000 to 35,000 feet I would be climbing in just a few months.

Route planning was more taxing than the training itself, and I ended up doing repeats of year-round hikes, tacking on additional trails wherever I could. Lots of running around Grouse Mountain, Squamish, and Lions Bay. I did the best I could, but I did come up short on a few of the bigger training days, which I really hoped wouldn’t hurt me too badly.

My goal for this race was just to finish it, ideally on Sunday night or Monday morning (61–71 hours total), because I didn’t really want to be out there longer than that. My training consisted mostly of road running, hiking, and trail running, with my longest effort being around six hours and 43 kilometres.

The other big thing I needed to train for was carrying a heavy pack. The mandatory gear I needed to carry at all times included a hooded jacket, gloves, a hat or buff, pants or tights that covered my entire legs, a long-sleeve insulating layer, a SPOT tracker, a device with the course GPX track, a cell phone, an emergency blanket, a headlamp or waist light with extra batteries or a battery bank, a whistle, a Wag Bag (to carry your poop), and 500 calories of emergency food.

I also wanted to carry three litres of water at all times, plus my water filter, so many of my training efforts were done with a large pack. I included a lot of upper-body strength training as well, which helped prepare me to lug around a 15–20 lb pack for days on end. It made training much harder, but we love ourselves a good challenge, don’t we?

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Tahoe was creeping up much too quickly, and soon enough I was only one month out. Sarah and I planned a training run around the Buntzen Lake area, and she asked how I was feeling about Tahoe. Sarah is the type of friend who will tell you how it is. Not in a mean way, but in an I care about you and I’m concerned kind of way.

My mom had a bit of a health scare, and as we waited for the results of a recent ultrasound to come back, I was planning a potential trip back to Ontario to be with her. Kenz and I had also just bought a place in Squamish, with a possession date only two weeks after I got back from Tahoe. Work was nuts, and I was having a hard time keeping it all together.

As I expressed all of this, Sarah said that things were really stacked against me for Tahoe right now, and they were. I needed a shift in my mindset going into it; otherwise, I could see myself DNFing. Thankfully, things ended up being okay with my mom, which was ultimately my deciding factor in whether I would still race or drop.

I often wonder how people have time to train for these races—and how they afford them. I’m self-employed and have a lot of flexibility with my schedule to train, but how do so many other people squeeze it all in with families, young children, demanding jobs, and all the other wild, unexpected things life throws at them? If I could barely manage, how was everyone else doing it? Sacrifice, prioritization, and a supportive partner (if you have one) were the only way I could manage.

After my last big training week, it was finally time for the taper, but it wasn’t going to be a very relaxing one. I had my friend Sarah’s bachelorette weekend coming up, then a trip planned to see RÜFÜS DU SOL at the Gorge, right before heading to Tahoe the following week. I was feeling overwhelmed, burnt out, and starting to feel training-plan fatigue—something that tends to happen when I follow a training plan for too long. I tried to rest as much as I could, but I was feeling so damn tired from it all.

On top of the physical training for 200 miles, there’s of course everyone’s favourite part of endurance racing: logistics… I’ll tell ya, I was not expecting the time commitment required to plan for this.

Let’s talk about that for a second.

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Tahoe 200 Race Logistics

How do type-A control freaks try to manage the uncontrollable? We make spreadsheets.

Now, if you’ve run something like this before, you know that rolling up to the start line without putting any thought into what you’re carrying, what you’re putting in your drop bags, what you’re putting in your crew bags (if you have them), what gear you need and how much of it, and, most importantly, your nutrition and hydration, you will set yourself up quite well for disaster. I have never planned for anything as meticulously as I did for Tahoe.

To keep not only myself but my crew organized, I obviously created a spreadsheet (with the help of my coach), as well as a crew booklet to keep everyone involved on the same page. I always try to mitigate the uncertainty of these types of things with if-then planning. If I feel a hot spot, I’ll stop and tape it. If I start experiencing Tahoe lung, I’ll use some saline nasal spray. If I have tummy issues, I’ll pop some Pepto and ginger chews. But 200 miles was uncharted territory.

Thankfully, there was a very helpful Tahoe Running Facebook Group where people posted a ton of hot tips on logistics, which were instrumental in helping me plan for this race. Everyone in the group was so helpful and supportive, genuinely wanting others to succeed, and I checked the page often to help me plan as best I could.

A big source of panic for many of us is finding pacers. Asking someone to come all the way to the US to pace and crew is a really big ask, and I was having a hard time finding Canadian pals to come on this journey with me. After freaking out for several months, I finally had a few lucky breaks.

Because I had been obsessively checking the Tahoe Facebook group, I caught a new post from a woman named Megan, who was looking to help pace and crew. I had already seen several people comment on her post, so I thought my chances were slim, but I messaged her immediately, crossed my fingers, and shortly after, I saw a message pop up. Megan was prepping for the Mammoth 200 in the fall and wanted some crewing and pacing experience to help prepare her. She also lived close to Lake Tahoe, so logistically, it was pretty easy for her to get there. As I read her message, I felt a surge of excitement and literally felt like I had won the lottery: she was in! Hell ya!

Ideally, I wanted two pacers, so I also posted on my Instagram Stories, and as chance would have it, my Insta running pal Charles lived super close to Lake Tahoe and was stoked to help pace. Having two pacers was the biggest relief of my life. I felt more confident knowing that I wouldn’t be stuck in my head the entire time and, most importantly, would have some help with navigation so my delusional ass wouldn’t get us lost.

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The Tahoe 200 Full Loop Course

The original course I signed up for was the out-and-back version, so I planned our lodging accordingly, booking an Airbnb in Incline Village (a recommendation from the Facebook group), where I thought it made the most sense for my crew. But just a month out, Destination Trail got the permitting approved for the full loop course. I had mixed feelings. On one hand, I would much rather run around the entire lake (so cool!), and psychologically, loop courses feel much better than an out-and-back. On the other hand, I was a little stressed about having to figure out our lodging again. I’m not someone who loves last-minute changes, and this felt like a bit of a scramble.

Luckily, I had booked an Airbnb with the flexibility to change or cancel, knowing that a course change was a possibility. What made the most sense for us was booking two places: South Lake Tahoe from Wednesday to Saturday, which was about a 25-minute drive from the start/finish line, and Incline Village for the remainder of our time there, which was closer to the final three aid stations and much easier for Kenz to access.

Megan offered to pace me from Loon Lake to Tahoe City, then Charles would take over from Tahoe City to Brockway Summit. I would do the remaining 50-mile stretch solo.

There would be 12 aid stations in total, and one of the most intimidating things was how far apart they were (most being 24–31 kilometres / 15–19 miles apart). This of course added another layer of complexity to planning my nutrition and hydration, particularly when figuring out how much I needed to carry for each stretch.

The Facebook group provided another instrumental benefit: course segment updates. As each segment was marked, the course marker, James, would share details on the trail conditions and terrain, what to expect, and some hot tips—all of which were immensely helpful!

In addition to my spreadsheet and extensive crew booklet, I added key notes about each segment to the Notes app on my phone. These included the elevation, mileage to the next aid station, water availability, and anything else I needed to know about the upcoming segment, giving me something I could quickly check as I left each aid station.

Planning what to put in my crew and drop bags was by far the most time-consuming part, but writing everything out in my crew booklet before packing ’em up made me feel much more prepared. While I won’t go into the contents of each of my drop bags in this post, I’ve included some photos below:

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Race Week

There were a few work things that needed to be wrapped up on Thursday morning before Kenz and I set off on our little getaway to North Bend, WA, and then to the Gorge. I found a beautiful hike that we planned to do on Friday, which was slow and easy—just the right amount of distance and elevation to clear my mind and get a handle on my nerves. The trip was lovely and tiring, but I had a few days to catch up on sleep and get some last-minute things organized before we made our way to Tahoe just two days before the start.

Our flight to Reno was early, so we were up and out the door for the airport just before 5 am on Wednesday. We had a short stopover in LA before landing in Reno just after 3 pm. We waited in a long line for our rental car and finally made our way to South Lake Tahoe around 4:30 pm. We popped into a grocery store to grab a frozen pizza and pre-made salad, then settled into our cute little cabin. After dins, I was off to bed early, with no alarm set for the next morning.

It’s rare to get much sleep the night before a race, so the most important night is two nights prior, when you should try to get as much rest as possible. Luckily, I slept like a rock and got a solid nine hours.

Tahoe is beautiful. The air felt fresh, and I loved being so close to nature. I enjoyed my coffee on the patio as I took inventory of last-minute race prep before my big day tomorrow. As I was sipping away, I saw a text come through from Megan. She had sent me a podcast episode where course marker James went over all the sections of the course again. I listened to the entire episode as I tried to get into the headspace and prep myself mentally as best I could for what was to come.

I did a short little shakeout run around the neighbourhood, then we made our way to Heavenly Resort to grab my race kit. In order to pick up your bib, you need to complete a mandatory gear check and meet with someone from the medical team. We did the things, attended the mandatory pre-race briefing, then headed back to our cabin to do some last-minute prep before my attempt at sleep.

As the evening drew to a close, my anxiety got worse and worse. Getting lost, passing out from exhaustion, the altitude, the dirt, Tahoe lung—my negative soundtrack played on repeat until Kenz helped put a stop to it.

She said something that both surprised me and put me at ease. For someone who had never been in this world, she knew exactly what to say. My biggest downfall leading up to this race was obsessing over everything I believed would go wrong for months and months. The anxiety tormented me to the point where I was more irritable and snappy, distracted, and kind of angry? The busyness of race week was the only thing that distracted me from the thoughts that no longer felt like my own.

I wondered many times throughout this process if all the mental anguish was worth it for just a race. Shouldn’t I be excited instead of in a constant state of anxiety? As the familiar spiralling returned and I tried desperately to come to a place of accepting uncertainty, Kenz said, “Your future self will know what to do.” And I believed her.

I’ve encountered many challenges over the years of endurance running where shit went sideways, and I was able to stay calm and workshop each issue as it came up. Things were undoubtedly going to go wrong over the course of 200 miles, but I had to trust that I would know what to do in the moment. And if you don’t have much experience, trust that other runners and volunteers who do will know what to do and want to help you figure it out. I’ve never run a race where that wasn’t the case.

“Your first 200-mile race,” a volunteer would later share, “is all about learning and making mistakes.” You’re going to make mistakes for sure; you just have to hope they don’t cost you your race. Deal with things early because if there are issues, they’re likely only going to get worse.

After my little pep talk, we ordered an overpriced Domino’s pizza, I hammered back some ice cream and Oreos, and tried to go to bed at 8 pm. I didn’t end up falling asleep until after 11 and woke up in a hot sweat multiple times throughout the night. But that’s just the way it goes. I wouldn’t expect anything else.

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Race Morning

At 5:30 am, my alarm went off, and I felt a strange calm. Pre-race rituals are something many athletes use to reduce stress before a big race, game, or event. Repetitive behaviours can decrease anxiety around the many uncontrollable factors that come with competition. Some of it may be driven by superstition, while some may help an athlete get into the performance mindset. I’ve kept the same pre-race ritual for many years, and it works well for me.

I always wake up several hours before the start because I don’t like to be rushed. I like to give myself lots of time to get organized, have my bowel movements, mummify my body in KT tape, and get well caffeinated.

I start my morning with a few big, deep breaths, have a shower, drink my coffee, and eat my bagel. The most time-consuming part of my ritual is the taping… I make a sports bra out of KT tape and also tape my entire back to help prevent chafing from my pack. While I use Squirrel’s Nut Butter for all my other lady parts, no anti-chafe is strong enough to protect me from the wrath of my bra and my 20 lb, jam-packed running vest. If you find yourself chafing horribly during a race, give the mummy strategy a try: you won’t regret it!

After all the taping is done, I mosey on over to my pre-race, last-minute checklist because the more anxiety I have, the more lists I make. Garmin, sunscreen, bug spray, sunglasses, mandatory gear, gaiters, water, nutrition, poles—check, check, and check.

After one more bowel movement, we drove 30 minutes to the start line, and the nerves consumed me. But it was more of a let’s just start this damn thing already feeling. I wanted this anxiety to finally come to an end, and I knew it would once I got moving.

With every big endurance race, I have a visceral fear of getting lost, especially with this one since I couldn’t have my first pacer until mile 88 (140 kilometres in). That meant I would be doing the entire first night alone—something I had never done before. But Destination Trail provides a SPOT tracker so they can keep track of you at all times, which kinda reassured me (a little).

I got in line for the bathroom, rested in the car, then rinsed and repeated several more times before making one last bathroom trip and heading to the start line.

The race director recited the famous oath, and after locking eyes with another dude beside me named Scooter, we both agreed these were the longest two minutes of our lives. The 10-second countdown was on, and we were finally on our way.

Here we goooo.

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Day 1 of the Tahoe 200

Start to Heavenly — Mile 10

The race started with a few loops on a paved road to help space runners out before we began our ascent up a single-track trail. I noticed that everyone was going quite slow, which helped keep my pace at bay. My coach said to maintain an RPE of 2–3 for the entire race, so my pace needed to feel almost effortless.

What would come as a surprise to no one was that I felt really good for the first leg. I met a few really nice fellow racers on the trail, chatted and cruised along, and before I knew it, I was at the first aid station. I refilled my water quickly, gave Kenz a kiss, and felt sad that I wouldn’t see her all day. The first crew-accessible aid station was Sierra-at-Tahoe (52 miles in), so I wouldn’t be meeting up with my crew again until the evening. Despite that, seeing her gave me some good motivation to keep moving, and up I went.

Heavenly to Armstrong Pass — Mile 26

The climb was a gradual incline up non-technical switchbacks with incredible views, which I loved. What I didn’t love was how exposed it was to the blazing hot sun. There wasn’t much reprieve from the heat, and I ain’t a gal who does too well in it, so I had a strong feeling that things were probably going to go south at some point during Day 1. And south they did.

Thanks to my man James, I knew there were some water sources on this leg. I skipped the first stream I saw, thinking there would be plenty more coming up soon. I still had about two litres on me, so I didn’t bother topping up.

This was my first big mistake of the race.

I thought three litres would last me quite some time, but it was hot as hell, and I was going through water fast. I was almost bone dry, and my thoughts went from Wow, these views are insane to Water… when the hell will I get more water?The headache started soon after, and I found myself praying around every switchback that another water source would appear. After what seemed like forever, I spotted a group of runners stopped at a nearby stream. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one running low.

Normally, when I’m hiking in the Vancouver area, I don’t always bring my Katadyn filter because the water is so fresh, cold, and clear, but I didn’t have that same confidence in Tahoe. Thank god I brought it, because this water was brown. It was gross, but I was desperate, so I filtered some and carried extra in my Naked belt in case another stream was far away. Unfortunately, and stupidly, I had waited too long to drink. That’s when the seven hours of nausea began.

I hit my first big low of the race, and I hadn’t even made it to my second aid station.

Cooler temps are a hot runner’s dream, and even though it was still so early in the day, I was already counting down the minutes to sunset. There were only glimmers of shade from time to time, with long stretches exposed to the beaming hot sun. My plan of eating something every 30 minutes turned into eating something every hour, and I would dread that hour. Gels, chews, and even my freeze-dried Skittles weren’t staying down. I tried Tums, Pepto chews, and ginger chews, but nothing seemed to help the vomiting. Every time something hit my stomach, it was back out within a few minutes.

And not even 26 miles in, I started feeling blisters forming.

When I reached Armstrong Pass, I decided to take a few minutes to address some of the hot spots and early blisters forming on both feet. I remembered reading an email from the medical director saying that you gotta address foot stuff early or you’ll pay dearly as the race progresses. A volunteer used some Leukotape on top of a large Band-Aid on the sole of my left foot and the heel of my right, and that tape job was good enough to send me on my way.

I had another long stretch ahead: 17 miles (28 kilometres) before I’d reach my next aid station.

Armstrong Pass to Housewife Hill — Mile 43

The segment to Housewife Hill was horrible, and this was when thoughts of quitting entered my mind. I was still really sick, and while the tape on my feet was kinda helping the existing blisters, new ones were forming by the mile. It got to a point where every step hurt. I had to stop a few times to put some lube on my feet, and I was really pissed off that the blisters had started so early.

On top of that, the nausea was not letting up. In fact, it was getting worse. I felt horrible, but reminded myself that blisters could be dealt with and the nausea would eventually pass. I just prayed that things would turn around for me. They had to turn around because I sure as hell couldn’t keep on keeping on like this for another 150+ miles.

There was a big descent into Housewife Hill, and after a lot of climbing, I usually feel some relief going downhill, but this was anything but a relief. The descent hurt. Most runners were going to have to deal with blisters during this race, so why was I being such a whiny baby about it? I pressed on, knowing that I needed to do something about the foot pain again.

After what seemed like a whole ultramarathon of downhill, I finally heard voices and cheering in the distance. There was the next aid station. Thank god.

At long last, the sun was starting to go down, and I plopped myself into a chair as the mosquitos feasted. One of the medical volunteers gave me a shot of salt for my dehydration, along with some electrolytes and food. I tried to get down as much as I could, but my stomach wasn’t having it.

I asked one of the volunteers for help with my feet, and she did a quick tape job. I changed my sports bra, put on a fresh top, and as I was getting ready to leave and walking away, I realized the pain in my feet was still really horrible. The medic could tell something was wrong and looked me in the eyes. I was honest and told her my feet were still in a lot of pain, so she kindly sat me back down and a second round of taping my nasty feet commenced.

She was so reassuring, kind, and helpful, and made me feel like I wasn’t alone in the pain. I was chastising myself for not taking better care of my feet, but she told me she had already seen way worse, and that did make me feel better..

With a significant improvement in my foot pain, tummy, and spirits, I was on my way. I just don’t know what I would do without these amazing volunteers. Bless.

Housewife Hill to Sierra-at-Tahoe — Mile 52

I was looking forward to this segment because 1) it was only nine miles / 14.5 kilometres (the shortest segment yet!) and 2) I would get to see Kenz and Megan! The sun was going down as I climbed Housewife Hill, and the sunset over the mountains was somethin’ else. I got an unexpected burst of energy as I felt things finally turning around for the better.

I started moving faster and got my nutrition and salts back on track. Unfortunately for me, I was relying on carb mixes for calories during this race, but they weren’t working so well for me. Back to water and my electrolyte tabs we went.

I was getting into a groove when I crossed paths with another racer, Maia. We had some good chats and laughs, and I really enjoyed having someone to talk to besides my annoying inner monologue. I’d had a few conversations here and there throughout the day, but this one pulled me in, and the miles seemed to fly by. It was the little boost I didn’t know I needed. After we parted ways, I only had a few more miles to Sierra.

I emerged from the trail and headed up a paved road. I saw lights in the distance and knew I was getting close. Kenz and Megan spotted me, cheered, and brought me over to the car, where they had set up chairs, all my gear, and string lights. Megan had so sweetly brought two chairs for herself and Kenz, along with a whole string-light setup. I was so touched.

I sat my ass down, ate a bit of real food, and tried to get outta there as quickly as I could. As I went through my mandatory gear checklist, I took a deep breath of dread, knowing that I wouldn’t see my crew again until mile 88 and that I was about to embark on some of the roughest segments of the course solo.

There was no other choice but to continue onwards.

Sierra-at-Tahoe to Wrights Lake — Mile 71

We were warned that this segment was going to be nasty with the downed trees and overgrown brush. There were some forest fires over the years and not much trail work had been done, if any? James recommended wearing pants, as the bushes could be quite… sharp. I decided to stick to shorts because it was still pretty warm, even at night, and I’d rather deal with a few scratches than overheat.

I felt like I was moving pretty well right out of the gate. The nausea had finally subsided, and I had even more energy. I took 100 mg of caffeine, which was kicking in, and revisited my freeze-dried Skittles, which were hitting in all the right places. We were back on track, baby!

As expected, there were many fallen trees I needed to climb over, and I got scratched up by the sharp brush enough to draw some blood, but it wasn’t that horrible to start. As I passed the obstacle course of trees, navigation started to get a little tricky, with the course markings feeling more sparse. A woman in front of me called out that she had been circling around for a bit and thought we were going the wrong way. Sure enough, we were. I checked my Gaia offline map, and we had veered off slightly, but soon enough, we were back on track.

After emerging from the bush, there was a long, steady climb up a paved road—a much-needed break from the tree hurdles a few miles back. The paved road seemed to go on forever, and after turning back onto a trail, I thought we must  be getting close to the next aid station.

We weren’t. Not even close.

Eventually, I caught up to a group of runners at a river crossing, where I had to wait patiently as each person steadied themselves across a single log. I was kind of annoyed because I had been moving so well and wanted to keep up the momentum, but after a little time with the group, I decided not to aggressively pass and found myself comforted by their pace.

We all started moving as a single unit, and I’m glad we stuck together because, man, navigation through this section required a lot more attention. At times, it felt like we were bushwhacking, and we had to work together to keep an eye out for the course markers. But we did it as a team.

This was the first time I really embraced the 200-mile mentality I had gone in with. It didn’t feel like a solo endeavour where I was trying to rush to hit a time goal, but rather a team effort.

One of the peeps in the group, Erika, and I were chatting away, and I don’t remember exactly when we agreed, but at some point, we both expressed our deep fear of the next section, decided to tackle it together. I had been the most worried about Wrights Lake to Loon Lake because of the course marking brief: it was supposed to be one of the roughest and gnarliest sections of the course—technical, overgrown, and requiring even more attention to navigation.

Navigation ain’t really my forte, and I was using Gaia for the first time ever. I was so anxious about getting lost, so now I had a pal to work with. If we veered off trail, at least we’d be lost together.

The segment continued to drag on, and I started to wonder if we’d ever make it. Finally, after what seemed like the longest few miles of my life, we rolled into the aid station and congregated around a fire. Some members of the group were going to set up shop for a bit and sleep, but my game plan was to get through the first night powered by caffeine pills and try to get a bit of a snooze on Saturday evening.

It was getting close to 5 am at this point, which, as my coach had warned me, was going to be one of the chilliest times of day. And chilly it was.

We finished our food, got organized, and off we went.

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Day 2 of the Tahoe 200

Wrights Lake to Loon Lake — Mile 88

I knew this segment was going to be rough, but I don’t think anything could have prepared me for just how brutal it actually was. Luckily, I had an engaging conversation to distract me from the 17 miles (27 kilometres) we were about to endure. We talked about life, racing, and how much this trail sucked.

When you’re stuck in your own head for so many hours, negativity can easily creep in, so having another person to shoot the shit with pulled me out of my head and into the present. And thank god for Erika. Navigation through this section was challenging, and if I hadn’t had her, I’d probably still be out there as we speak, living off berries, my hair so matted that passersby might mistake me for Bigfoot himself. As our frustration with the segment grew, we eventually stopped talking and reverted to the old one-foot-in-front-of-the-other mentality. Eventually, we’d get there.

And we did get there eventually.

Erika said she was going to try to catch a bit of sleep, but I wanted to stick to the plan and keep moving. I was looking forward to getting to Loon Lake because I could finally have my first pacer!

As we rolled into the aid station, the sun was scorching, and I was ready to eat some real food, change my clothes, maybe take a dump lol, and get this next section rolling. I took my time at the aid station to mentally and physically recover a bit from that brutal night. We went through our aid station checklist, completed a mandatory gear check, and then Megan and I were on our way.

Loon Lake to Barker Pass — Mile 103

The first part from Loon Lake to Barker Pass was bouldery and required some extra attention to navigation. We followed the cairns, and Megs led the way as I complained about yet another segment of non-runnable terrain. I was getting pretty grumpy at this point (sorry, Megan) and found myself complaining… a lot.

I was a bit nervous because part of the course was on the Rubicon Trail. What is the Rubicon Trail, you may ask? It’s a 22-mile-long trail built for 4×4 vehicles, with some beautiful views and a whole lot of loose dirt. This was the section where I knew I’d probably need to wear my Buff, as people from previous years had warned about all the dust kicked up in their faces by vehicles on the road.

It was a Saturday, so I expected the trail to be busy, and it was. While the views were insane, and watching vehicles drive over massive granite slabs and other crazy obstacles was, in fact, very cool, what wasn’t cool was how many vehicles we needed to navigate around on the trail.

When you’re hot, tired, almost 100 miles in, and sick of not being able to do much running, the last thing you feel like doing is dealing with Jeep traffic on a trail. Most of the drivers were nice and let us come through, but it was still annoying as hell and made my bad mood even more sour.

Then we entered mosquito hell, and every second I seemed to be getting a new bite. The only thing keeping me going at this point was knowing that the next section was shorter and, hopefully, a bit more runnable. The heat was making my feet sweat, and with more sweat came more blisters. I was also running out of water… again.

If I sound negative, I was. These three back-to-back sections were tough for me, and the joy was pretty minimal at this point in the race.

As Megs and I inched closer to the Barker Pass aid station, I started to feel some relief. I wanted to be in and out quickly, but my feet had other plans. I knew I needed to take care of them again. A really nice volunteer offered to re-tape my feet, and although I was embarrassed by how sickening they looked (and probably smelled), I let him. He took his time, and I found myself getting antsy, but I waited, convincing myself it would be worth it. As soon as he finished, we were off, booking it downhill.

Barker Pass to Stephen Jones Memorial — Mile 111

My feet still ached, and the descent started off steep, which pissed me off even more. But soon enough, we found the descent runnable, and finally being able to do what I signed up to do, I felt my mood lighten.

We were getting close to sunset, and the weather was cooling. As we exited the trails, we were back on the road, which was a nice break from the technical terrain that lay behind us.

The Stephen Jones Memorial aid station was along the water, and watching the sunset boosted my mood to a level I hadn’t felt all race long.

When aid stations are 20 miles apart, a shorter segment feels like you’re flying. When we arrived, we pounded back a few quesadillas, I changed my bra and shirt, one of the volunteers was cracking me right up, and then I grabbed my bag of nutrition, and we were outta there and on our way to Tahoe City—the last segment before I planned to get a bit of sleep.

Stephen Jones Memorial to Tahoe City — Mile 130

After Stephen Jones Memorial was apparently “the turning point in the race.”

From here on out, the trails were supposed to be much more maintained and runnable, with more straightforward navigation.

After a bit more road through a beautiful neighbourhood, we soon found ourselves on another trail with some nice, non-technical switchbacks going up. I was in a better place now and was starting to converse more positively with Megan again. This section was pretty straightforward, and although it was long, the trails were well-maintained. We expected to arrive in Tahoe City in the middle of the night, where I planned to sleep for a couple of hours before picking up my second pacer, Charles.

As we descended, the IT band in my left leg started throbbing, and so did my feet yet again. I could feel every single blister rubbing against my shoes, and almost every step brought a searing pain that put me in a whole other mood. I wanted to move faster, but my damn feet and left leg had reduced me to a jog-hobble. To stick with the theme of the entire race thus far, the last few miles stretched on forever.

When we finally rolled into the aid station, I changed into some fresh clothes. Kenz had the car all ready for me, with pillows and blankets in the back seat and even my little speaker so I could play my fan noise. I asked my crew to wake me in exactly two hours, with the goal of getting outta there by 5 am. I thought it might take me a while to pass out and that the adrenaline would keep me awake, but I was out almost immediately.

What felt like only minutes later, I was woken up by Kenz.

This was one of the parts of the race I had been most curious about: How would I fare on just two hours of sleep over 36 hours?

Well, actually pretty good. The best I’d felt in a while, in fact.

I squeezed my feet, which felt so much better after letting them rest for a while, and gently massaged them before throwing my socks and shoes back on.

Soon after, Charles and I were off.