“I’m not dropping this fucking race”

110 miles into Bigfoot 200, I hit a climb that broke something in me. This incline was straight up, no flat ground to catch your breath, nothing but relentless grade dripping in sweat. My legs were screaming. My lungs felt like they'd been scraped out. And somewhere in the middle of that climb, I got the fire.

I'm not dropping out of this fucking race. I'm finishing this shit. The only way I'm coming off this trail is if they physically pull me off it themselves.

I meant every word of it.

Part of what lit that fire was just how genuinely horrendous that climb was, one of the worst I've ever put myself through. But the other part, the part that really mattered, was Moab. I'd DNF'd Moab last October, and I knew exactly what that shame felt like sitting in my chest afterward. I wasn't doing that again. Not on this mountain, not after everything I'd put into getting here. I was going to finish this race on whatever I had left in the tank, even if that tank was running on fumes.

Here's the thing though. That fire didn't come out of nowhere. It came out of hundreds of hours of prep that had nothing to do with willpower.

Training hours logged for months leading in. Nutrition and hydration mapped out to specific mileage points, not just "eat when hungry", but a real plan for what my body needed and when. Kit checked and rechecked for every condition that mountain could throw at me, heat, cold, rain, elevation swings. Drop bags packed and placed at exactly the right aid stations. A pacing schedule built around realistic splits instead of hopeful ideals. Crew communication locked down so everyone knew the plan without me having to manage a single piece of it from out on the trail.

None of that is glamorous. None of it makes for a good highlight reel. But it's the reason that fire on the climb could actually turn into forward motion instead of just noise in my head. When everything logistical is already handled, when you're not burning mental energy on "did I pack enough electrolytes" or "is my crew going to be where they said they'd be," you get to spend all of that energy on the one thing that actually matters in the moment: taking the next step.

That's the part people underestimate about prep. It's not just about being ready physically. It's about clearing every other thought out of your head, so the only thing left to fight is the climb in front of you.

Eighty-five hours later, I crossed the finish line. Sixty ninth place out of two hundred and fifty-five starters. but here’s the stat that still gets me: every race I've ever run, two hundred miles down to a half marathon, has had a moment where some part of me wanted out. A mile where I wanted to quit, wanted to drop, wanted to be anywhere else but on that course. Bigfoot never had that moment. Not once in eighty-five hours. This one was different, and I still don't fully know why.

This is exactly the piece of the puzzle Beyond the Buckle exists to handle. The training, the mindset, the will to keep moving when a climb is trying to break you, that has to come from you. But the logistics, the planning, the crew coordination, the drop bags and pacing schedules and gear checks, that's what we take off your plate. So when you hit your own version of that climb, seventy miles in or seven, the only job left in front of you is the next step.