Updated October 31, 2025 08:16AM
By the time my alarm goes off at 3:30 A.M., I’m already wondering what the hell I was thinking. But the mountains don’t care, and neither does my 50K training block. For the two to three weeks leading up to the Silverton 50K Ultra that I raced in July, my days started before sunrise and often didn’t end until long after work, squeezing in early runs, late recovery, and everything in between.
Some mornings it was just me. Some I ran with fiancé, friends, or both dogs kicking up dirt behind me. My long runs slowly climbed from 20 to 40 miles, and vert from 200 to 4,800 feet at a time. My year was already stacked: 630 miles, 172 hours moving, 88,000 feet gained. Here’s how I honed my patience and momentum—and figured out how to keep showing up, one sunrise at a time.
Some days, the 3:30 A.M. alarms just don’t work for me. Swap it for a lunch run? Sure, but then I wrestle with Colorado’s blazing sun. Post-work? Same story. Training isn’t about rigid rules; it’s actually about trade-offs: sleep vs. heat. Momentum vs. recovery.
And those second rest days? No slacking in my book. Yoga, stretching, and extra sleep (past all the snoozes) become their own kind of training. It’s a chance to slow down and notice things: my dogs stirring awake, rabbits chewing what’s left of the grass in the backyard, or the smell of coffee drifting through the house.
Being Deaf doesn’t feel like a limitation because it’s an amplifier. Four senses instead of five, each dialed way up: sight, smell, taste, touch. I catch the world’s small signals, the wind changing, branches stirring, fog rolling, sometimes before even my dogs notice.
Once, glowing eyes reflected in my headlamp. It was probably a mountain lion. My heart spiked, but I froze and maintained eye contact as it went away. My body spoke louder than any sound could. Trust your instincts, that’s my lesson.
Trail running can feel like a grind if that’s all you do. So I mix it up: climbing, yoga, weights, even golf. Some days, it’s just me and the dogs wandering aimlessly for 30 minutes. Other days, it’s a structured run with friends or a local group run.
I’ve found that joy matters: tiny wins, from reaching the top of a climb, or hitting a halfway-decent golf swing, keep things fun. Movement doesn’t have to be serious to be meaningful. Laughing at yourself along the way? You know that’s mandatory in my book.
Unpopular take: I eat breakfast in two parts—half in the car and half on the trail—because my body wakes up slowly. Snacks like apples with peanut butter, chocolate milk, or PB&Js become my trail buddies. And hydration? I drink super high-carb water like it’s my full-time job. There’ve been runs where I had to turn back because my bottles ran dry, or I was moving too slow to make it home for a meeting. Food and water aren’t chores; they’re gear. Treat them as such and your future self will thank you.
Those 3:30 A.M. alarms feel ridiculous at first. The first mile is always the hardest. My body wants to quit. My mind negotiates. But by mile two or three, things click. The world wakes up, the trail’s yours, and suddenly, you could go on forever. These moments are exactly why I lace up even when my bed feels impossible to get out of.
The climb teaches patience. Long, steep ascents demand focus with every step and heartbeat. I hit elevations from 4,800 to 10,400 feet across the block to remind me how small and stubborn I can be. Flat trails don’t teach you that kind of humility. Huffing. Puffing. Slow progress. That’s the good stuff.
Running with friends, my fiancé, or the dogs turns miles into little memories. Pausing to point out a star. Laughing at a misstep. Snapping a goofy photo. Trail running isn’t just a solo test; it’s connection, curiosity, and a little fear all rolled into one.
By race week in Silverton, I wasn’t chasing a PR. I just wanted proof that all of those early alarms, sore quads, and long climbs meant something. And they did.
Training didn’t just get me ready to run 50 kilometers; it taught me how to keep showing up. Even when no one’s watching. Even when it’s messy or slow or you’d rather stay in bed.
