This is a story about the United States Adventure Racing Association (USARA) 2023 National Championship Race, my horse, and my brain. I’ve told many versions of this to myself over the past couple of months, and I have yet to arrive at a version that feels right. So, here is an imperfect attempt at writing a piece for the Newsletter about something that feels like it deserves its own book (stay tuned for that book in the distant future). 

In early June 2023, my partner, Sam, and I signed up for the USARA National Championship race with our teammate and fellow UVRC member, Matt Cymanski. We would race for the Vermont Endurance Racing Team known as VERT, created by Matt Cymanski and Alyssa Godesky. The race description: thirty hours of nonstop trekking, mountain biking, and canoeing. I thought it would be something to motivate me to exercise throughout the summer in various disciplines.  

And then, only a week later, my world crumbled. My horse, Gucci, became sick unexpectedly and passed away while I was halfway across the country for a close friend’s wedding. My relationship with Gucci has shaped me in more ways than words can describe. He was my confidant, best friend, study buddy, therapy animal, and so much more for 14 years—half my lifetime. While I could have omitted this and written an epic tale only about our race, it wouldn’t have been the whole story. Gucci was at the race and with me on every single training run leading up to it.

After Gucci left, it rained for nearly three weeks straight. I was thankful that the skies were doing the crying for me so that my eyes could have a break. On the Thursday before the wedding, I had gone on a run from my house up to the barn – a steady climb of almost 1,000 feet over 3.5 miles into the hills southwest of downtown Norwich. The sun was shining through the leaves. There were little orange efts lining the trails. Gucci was pleased to see me. I took what would end up being our last photo together and posted it with the Strava title, “I quite like living here.” Fast forward one week, after burying Gucci atop that perfect hill, I wanted to run so far away. I still like living here, but a blanket of sadness has draped itself over that once happy hillside where Gucci lived. That sadness is still present when I visit him.

I didn’t attempt to run again for over a week. When I tried to run, I managed only a slow pace, and I could barely breathe. It felt like running at 12,000 feet, something I’ve experienced firsthand running in Rocky Mountains of southern Wyoming and northern Colorado over the last two summers. My running trajectory didn’t improve for weeks. At one point, with fewer miles on my legs than I’d hoped, I attempted to chase Sam and Matt through the woods during navigation practice on Bald Top Mountain near Lake Morey. Matt, having much more navigation experience under his belt, let Sam and me take the lead. We ended up lost, running and bushwhacking in circles for four hours. In retrospect, my brain was still so lost from Gucci’s passing that I had a hard time focusing. No compass and map could help me feel found. That was our only notable navigation practice before the race.

The rest of the summer somehow happened. We managed to continue our training on foot and on our bikes – steadily pushing our efforts to six, eight, sometimes ten hours at a time. Some efforts felt fun and easy. Others, I cried or felt like my rib cage was collapsing in on itself. The grief journey has been more of an adventure for me than any adventure race ever will be. Our last “run” before the race was supposed to be a 21-mile effort on the Appalachian Trail from Pomfret to Norwich – easy, smooth terrain to stretch our legs. Two miles in, I just started crying, and I didn’t stop for the next 19 miles. That “run” was a sad march in the woods with my mind telling me I had made a big mistake signing up for such a big race, that a team is only as fast as its weakest link, and that was definitely me. In the past, I’d go talk to Gucci when my mind was rebelling like this, but that was no longer an option. My mind likes to remind me that I wasn’t there to say goodbye to the creature who was always there when I needed him. This line of thought is still enough to make me feel like my airways are closing. After those 21 miles, Sam said, “Isn’t it amazing that you moved your body 21 miles through that? You can do anything.” He wasn’t wrong. My brain wasn’t present for a single step of that adventure, and yet I finished. He told me to keep this in mind when we’re bushwhacking up mountains in the middle of the night during the race (which turned out to be closer to the truth than I realized).

Let’s jump to four o’clock in the morning on September 15. After a week of gathering all the gear and food needed for the race (basically a part-time job), we made it to Smuggler’s Notch Resort. We woke up early to get a few last items organized, eat two breakfast burritos each, and gulp coffee. An hour later, we reported to the race start and dropped off our gear bag (full of paddles, personal flotation devices, a change of clothes for each of us, and lots of food). Soon thereafter, we were given permission to open the maps and lay eyes on our fate. This is arguably one of the most important moments in an adventure race, because until this moment, no one knows where the race will go, how far each leg of trekking, biking, and paddling will be, and what mountains, valleys, and rivers must be traversed. We read through the Rules of Travel and scoured our set of six maps to understand the course. In adventure racing, you need to be fast – running and trekking, mountain bike riding, and paddling – but even more importantly, you need to be thorough, reaching as many checkpoints as possible in the time allowed. You get scored, first and foremost, based on how many checkpoints you reach. Only in the event of a tie does the total time taken to complete the course matter. The last key aspect of an adventure race is that you cannot miss race cutoffs, or you’ll suffer severe point penalties. Thus, competitors are incentivized to dig deep and go the extra mile (literally) to score big. At the same time, if one relies purely on their athleticism, they will inevitably fail, because they will misjudge the time required to reach checkpoints and cutoffs. That’s part of the fun. Here is a recap of the nine race stages at the USARA 2023 National Championship Race: 

1. We took a bus at 6:30am to a forest outside of Morrisville. We shivered until the race started at 8:45am. At that point, we ran along a logging road until we all dipped into the forest and began what would be many hours of bushwhacking. We were moving at a pretty good pace. Matt was navigating like a pro. Sam was capturing each of the checkpoints (via a little electronic stick like a thumb drive that you zapped at each checkpoint’s orienteering flag). 
2. We jumped on our bikes after gathering all the checkpoints in the first stage, and we set off on a ride on gravel and unmaintained class IV roads to the canoe drop. Some of those class IV roads by Elmore Mountain are gnarly. Hike-a-bike was a theme to this race. 
3. We dropped our bikes off, picked up a canoe, carried it to the put in, and jumped in! I thought the canoe section would offer time to eat snacks. I was wrong. We all used both arms to paddle nonstop, making it particularly difficult to continue drinking and feeding at regular intervals. We took turns to chug water filtered from the Lamoille River. I managed to stuff a slice of pizza in my face. We had to portage twice, but unlike our competitors, we didn’t have collapsible wheels, so carrying the canoe slowed us down a bit. 
4. Finally, we arrived at the end of the paddle. We changed into dry clothes and shoes, moved all food to our packs for the next twenty hours of racing, and embarked on another long bike ride. We pedaled through Brewster State Forest and Smuggler’s Notch Mountain Biking Trails. We enjoyed a beautiful sunset during this stage. 
5. We made it to the start of the next trek. We set down some food, and then hauled up the road before dipping into the woods at a stream crossing. We then followed the stream down to find the first checkpoint. This stretch was nothing short of treacherous – we followed a technical, boulder-strewn mountain creek for over an hour. The rocks were slick. Our feet got wet. But all around, this trek went well. 
6. We got back on bikes after being handed a surprise gift of warm pancakes and sausage by race volunteers. It was around one o’clock in the morning. We biked up and over Smuggler’s Notch. It was peaceful to ride through the Notch in the middle of the night on a road that is typically so busy with tourists and recreators. The cold wind sent shivers through us as we sped down the pass to Ranch Brook. 
7. At Ranch Brook, we had to split up in three different directions on cross country ski trails. Each of us had to find three checkpoints on our own. Matt got my last one. Thanks, Matt!
8. After refueling on mashed potatoes and Red Bull, we got back on bikes for what was the worst section. We biked up and up, well over 1,000 feet of climbing with little reprieve. We rode the Catamount Trail for hours, which, decidedly, is not really a bike trail. This was more of a hike-a-bike section than anything else. – slow-going, very wet, muddy. We got pretty turned around at one point and had to do more back tracking than I would have liked. The sun started to come up as we pedaled on the road to the last transition area. 
9. Finally, we started the last trek. It was going ok, but our brains were clearly getting tired. We spent about 30 minutes tracing a mountain stream in the wrong direction before noticing our error and retracing our steps. We went up and down so many hills. Sam and I were wearing shorts, and by this point our legs were beat up and sore from all the bushwhacking. Pants will be worn next time! We had to drop four checkpoints due to time. We ran from the last checkpoint down to the finish line, trying to get a faster time than other teams who tied for our number of checkpoints. We finished in 29 hours 22 minutes, over 120 miles traveled, around 15,000 feet elevation gain, sixth place overall. Very proud. Go VERT!

The end of the race was characterized by delusional euphoria. Would I do it again? Stay tuned. Throughout the race, I kept thinking about what Sam had told me about what I can do even when every part of my mind tells me I can’t. Our brains are so powerful. There were times when I was running uphill, envisioning Gucci’s strong back legs running uphill. If he is no longer running up hills on this Earth, then I will run for both of us. In adventure racing, mistakes are inevitably made. You must retrace your steps on treacherous terrain, often finding yourself lost in less than ideal mental and physical circumstances. What defines success in the race is how you push through those moments. Turns out that grieving (and life in general) is about the same. One day at a time.