Starting Line –The FrostBeard 100– Somewhere between 9- and 11,000 ft altitude

You know what I’m talking about. The kind of altitude that makes you feel like your lungs are texting you, begging you to come home.
Okay, maybe not that high.

I was already light-headed before the countdown started—not from nerves, but from the realization that I had left both of my drop bags in the back seat of a stranger’s rental Nissan Rogue at the hotel. She was driving to Montana. I was headed somewhere else entirely.

I looked down at my gear and realized I’d have to run the entire race fueled by what I could beg from strangers, steal from aid stations, or forage from trail trash.
Which, in my defense, is how the pioneers did it.

Because I had trained hard for this one.
Two full weeks of sprints and burpees. Followed by three months of tapering. Solid. Controlled. Scientific.

Other people might question my strategy but I knew with perfect confidence that I could move forward
knowing I didn’t over-do it.

Training Recap:

• Week 1–2: Sprints, burpees, one yoga class that left me suspiciously sore
• Week 3–14: Recovery
• Week 15: Race

I figured there’s a fine line between peaking and overreaching. The time to find that line wasn’t 6 months out from an event. I decided to play it cool.

The race started pretty strong.
I power-hiked the early incline, but let’s be honest, I RAN it.

My legs felt fresh. Almost too fresh. The kind of freshness that comes from a body that’s been asleep for 3 months and woke up mid-race like, “Wait, what’s happening?”

I ate an unwrapped Payday bar I found in my vest.
It was wet, but emotionally stabilizing.

The course turned technical.
I fell twice.
I told myself the second fall was tactical, intentional—an ego reset.
I stood up, dusted myself off, then immediately kicked a rock the size of a baked potato.
I didn’t look up for the next 8 miles.

There was snow. There was sun. There were aid station volunteers who looked me in the eyes and asked if I was “still going.”

Of course I was still going.
I had no drop bags.
I was in the middle of Wyoming of all places. I could still feel my right toe throbbing,
but yeah,
I was “sTiLl GoInG”.

I had just left an aid station where a guy named Stan poured hot broth into a paper cup and said, “Watch that ridgeline. Things get weird up top.”
We stared at each other for a few seconds too long. Couldn’t have been any weirder than this.
I kept going to hide my confusion.

I figured he meant elevation.
But as I crested a ridgeline somewhere near Elk Tooth Pass,
I saw it:

A massive, towering silhouette—
Broad. Hairy. Framed perfectly between 2 trees with knees so jacked they looked like trail-hardened grapefruit.

At first, I thought it was a hallucination.
But it started moving faster than I could. I was going downhill.

As quickly as he arrived, he disappeared—
right into the fog bank near Cougar Rock,
leaving behind nothing but a set of size-17 footprints
and the overwhelming scent of damp fur and chamomile.

No one at the aid station believed me.
Someone asked if I’d been licking my salt tabs again.

But I knew what I saw.

The rest is a blur.
I crossed the line with dirt in my teeth, blood in my socks,
and an inexplicable sense of peace.

I didn’t win.
I didn’t podium.
But I finished faster than expected,
and with a story no one else on Earth can claim:

So… would I do it again?
Yes, but
next time I’m bringing trekking poles and a camera.
Just in case.
Maybe he only lives in my memory:
Big. Hairy. Inspirational.
Kinda like a stepdad.