Wild Duluth Wildman Challenge Race Report

Wild Duluth 50k Race Date: Saturday, October 18, 2025 – 8am

I went into Wild Duluth feeling fit. I had insane amounts of racing under my belt from the previous six weeks – a 100 mile trail run, 100 mile gravel bike race, inline skating marathon, and six NMTC Fall trail race series races. The NMTC races are shorter (5-11k in length) but I ran every one of them pretty hard, even just a few days after Superior 100 miler. Perhaps I paid the price – local endurance phenom Tyler told me after the NorthShore Inline Marathon with the context of having a lack of recovery time between Superior 100 and the skating race: “you’ll recover at some time”. That stuck with me. I had held off nagging weak spots on my body, namely my right upper hamstring where it attaches to my butt and left ankle that’s been problematic for years, but they certainly didn’t get better and new issues developed. I had noticed an increasingly painful strain on my right inside ankle that would get worse with running. I didn’t really do any long runs between Superior and Wild Duluth, and my other runs were pretty much only with groups around town. I made a critical consumer error by not purchasing new carbohydrate drink mix, (Formula369 is what I’d been using) which had done me so well all year.  I used it all up at the Heck of the North bike race a few weeks prior, delayed ordering more and it looked like it would arrive in time for Wild Duluth, then the delivery got pushed back. It so stressful. I went to my local bike shop and found some Maurten unflavored glucose/fructose blend. Perfect. I heard from local beast ultramarathon runner Shannon that that particular brand once kind of clumped up on her, and I started getting really nervous about the pectin ingredient and the “hydrogel” description on the package. Oh well, I thought, I have no better options.

I planned for 80 grams of carbs per hour and put together a fueling spreadsheet really similar to what I’d done for Voyageur and Superior 100, found a crew person in my other friend named Shannon, and things suddenly came together really nicely the day before the race. I felt injured all week – my left knee started bugging me up and down stairs, my right ankle was more sore than ever. Taper terrors? Whatever, I told myself that this was my last race of the year, and I felt ready for a break. None of my other running races had really gone well all year so even if Wild Duluth was a botch job it’d be par for the course. I thought about it and settled on a few goals. Sub-5 hours would be excellent after doing 5:09 and 5:12 in 2023 and ’24, respectively. But more than just time, I wanted so bad to preserve my legs enough to run hard through Brewer, after mile 21. I painfully recalled leaving the Highland aid station in past years spent, and just struggling to get power from my legs, getting passed repeatedly, dragging my sorry carcass in for the last 10 miles. Therefore, “preserve the legs” became my mantra. Friday night, I sent Shannon with all my bottles, set my alarm and got to bed at a good hour.

On race morning, I made coffee and oatmeal, ate it quick and set off for the finish line to catch the bus. I stayed in my warm minivan for 15 minutes and watched people mosey towards the busses as I sipped coffee. One more swig and I went on in, straight to the back. I ended up next to local runner Kyle who also runs with the Washed Up Runners of Duluth club on Monday evenings. It was a fun chatting with Kyle – he said he’s sensitive to caffeine and already had two cups of coffee today and was pumped for his first ultramarathon attempt. We got talking about a new house offer that got accepted and his plans for renovations and he was getting super excited about it. The coffee was hitting! His energy and excitement made me excited and the bus ride went by fast. We got to the chilly start line in no time, with bluebird skies and fiery burnt orange, golden and red leaves everywhere. It was setting up to be the perfect day. I got in line for the bathrooms, then left the line. I didn’t have to go bad enough and the line was short. I bumbled around the start line area a bit, found my friend Kris who was timing all of the races, then found my way back to the bathroom line. Another bus or two had just arrived and I got in line as it rapidly lengthened. With friends everywhere, it was fun to check in and have the same conversation over and over. “Perfect weather eh?” “What’s your race plan?” “How were the other races this season?” and so on. I made a serious, all-business, angry-type race face for John’s camera.

I left my sweatshirt with Kris, tried to fish out a mystery piece of floating debris from my water bottle, and lined up at the front of the start line. I asked course record holder Ben if he was going under 4 hours. He said no, that was too fast to do. Umm, what? Ben did 4 hours and some seconds a year ago, I was sure he’d beat his time. The race director Andy said some words, I was confused about a re-route around Spirit Mountain that he was talking about but figured I’d see flagging or signs or something. I had a fleeting worry that Shannon and I wouldn’t connect. Crap – I didn’t even know what she was wearing and what to look for! We started a bit late due to the lengthy toilet line but before long, Andy announced we’d go in 10 seconds. “Ready?” – the countdown was on – “GO!” and we were off.

I wanted to keep it fast but controlled in the early miles. Preserve the legs. I figured that sticking with a pack would be optimal – Ben and a few other dudes went off out of sight within a half mile. I was with a huge pack of friends. Chelsea and I had duked it out every week at NMTC. I beat her at some of the earlier races, she edged me out one week then had beat me at every one since. She was primed for a course record performance in her first ultramarathon. Sam had run Chicago Marathon 6 days prior with a 2:45 or so. One of my all-time favorite local runners to go head-to-head with, Liam, was in the group. Kyle from the bus ride was in the mix, as well as beast athlete Ethan who I’d raced with many times before he moved away from Duluth a few years back. It was great. We ran a 7:45 mile and I said out loud that that was not the plan. But, we kept moving really nicely through the blinding low morning sun.

The pack was rolling through Jay Cooke. Preserve the legs. Everybody was yapping, it was fun.

Once we hit the singletrack down to Gill Creek and back up the other side, we spread out a bit. Chelsea ran off and I wondered if I’d see her again. Liam and Kyle went, too. Up the valley and it was nice to kind of settle in. I felt my breathing a little heavy, my heart rate a bit high and I was nervous about burning up too many matches early on. Sam, Ethan and I were in a line and I felt like we were moving along at the perfect clip for a sub-5 finish. However, I also felt like I was not preserving my legs at all. They felt good right through five miles into the first aid station. I was sipping my mix just fine, and happy that it wasn’t gelatinous or clumpy. It tasted just fine, and my stomach didn’t feel bad or anything. Grasping the big rigid bottles was a little annoying, but less so than wearing my vest, I figured. All systems go. I took a little sip of water and a pack of fruit snacks as the line of runners I was with dispersed.

I caught up quickly to Sam and power hiked up the big Grand Portage climb with a mouth full of fruit snacks. He seemed to be a tiny bit slower on the uphills and I requested to pass. Then he was right on my back during the flats and downs and we kind of flip flopped a few times. I felt bad for trying to pass, and it was kind of awkward trying to decide if I should try to go around or just lock in behind him. I was in shock how we was running this dang race after a smoking fast road marathon just days prior. I was nervous about my effort. A familiar face Mark came into the mix, passed me up and I tried to stick with him for a while. It was fun to chat and catch up – I probably hadn’t seen him since Last Runner Standing 2019. He was pushing me fast and I let him go. Then I’d catch back up a little bit – more back and forth. Miles flew by and I was excited to get to Beck’s Road to see Shannon. I knew it was going to be super busy there. What was my backup plan? Fill my bottles with Tailwind and try to tell somebody I’m gone? It doesn’t matter, I told myself. A conga line of runners and I navigated the steep downhill switchbacks to Sargent Creek as we saw the first three 100k runners pass in rapid succession. I felt some fatigue in my legs, but nothing too concerning. My tactic to preserve the legs was probably going bad, but I told myself that I really had to keep my mantra in mind for the middle 10 miles. This is where I’d either crush it, or get crushed.

Across Beck’s Road, I passed local runner Eric who was looking great going for a 100k finish. I sipped the last bits of my bottles, turned the corner into the parking lot and focused hard on where Shannon was at with my bottle. I spotted her right away. YES. I saw my pal Tyler who I ran many miles with at Superior 100 as he was headed out of the aid station to the 100k turnaround and I was coming in. I sprinted towards Shannon and it was a super quick exchange. I went back to the aid station table, got a sip of water in my cup and a small handful of pretzels. I noticed the tongs nearby but just went full in with my fingers. Sorry! I saw my whole group run away and felt flustered. So many people, runners all over, loud noises, cheering, phones out, cameras out, sunshine in my eyes – I just ran away onto the Munger Trail. I sloshed the water from my little cup into the general direction of my mouth and it felt nice to splash some cool water onto my chin and have it dribble down my chest. It was not cold out! I was very comfortable in my July kit – short shorts and a singlet, and felt rather sweaty. Not too bad for mid-October in northern Minnesota.

The paved path felt smooth and fast to open up a bit and run on. I swallowed my food, put away my cup and locked in. My new bottle with mix was nice and cool in my hand. Excellent. 100k runners were passing one by one as I turned off the paved trail into a rocky scramble. There were pedestrians on the trail cheering us on and joking around, it was fun. 50k runners were all around me as well, just a busy day on the trail. I told myself I could take it easy, but even power hiking up the unrelenting climb was pushing my heart rate and breathing up high. I can’t really go any slower, I thought. Oh well.

I ran over a flat rock, down a bump, back up to the steeps. Preserve the legs. I sipped my sweet carb mix and continued on. The colors were utterly stunning, and it was hard not to look down the cliffside. Vibrant yellows in my peripheral vision were good enough.

The field seemed to thin out a bit and I wondered where I was. The busy aid station, insane climb up Ely’s and techie singletrack trail seems to do a good job of spreading the 50k out. 100k runners ran past me in a steady stream as I ran between Ely’s and Bardon’s Peaks. I tried to get some energy by yelling at each one of them. “LET’S GO HUNDRED K!!!” It worked, I thought, and I was moving really good. I was pleased to see a few seconds over 11 minutes for the mile split including the aid station stop and majority of the Ely’s Peak climb, and a 10:30 mile as I locked into the flowy singletrack on the way to Spirit Mountain. Preserve the legs, I told myself. The 100k field was thinning out and I wondered how my race goal was shaping up. I couldn’t really do the math, but reminded myself to look at the elapsed time at mile 15 to get a halfway split. I passed my friend Liam who immediately said he just fell hard and bashed up his knee and it was hurting. I told him it wasn’t, to just keep moving and it’d get better. It’s not a big deal, I said, and passed him up by pounding the rocky downhill towards Skyline. I looked back and didn’t see him, or anyone. I was out there by myself, cruising miles. I felt bad for the interaction with Liam. I reflected on how I should have been a little more compassionate, or tried to instill some positivity in him. Like, keep positive, the bashed knee happened and you can’t go back, you can control your mind, those types of affirmations. Oh well, I figured I can’t go back either. A pass is a pass. I wondered who else was up in front of me. Mark put some time on me and I had no idea where he was. Chelsea was up there somewhere. Kyle had cruised ahead of me long ago. I reminded myself that the final challenge was to make it to Spirit, swap my empty bottle for a full one, run back up Spirit Mountain and down the other side without too much issue, then get to the Highland aid station with my legs feeling even a little bit springy. Just preserve the legs for Highland. I wanted to pass people in Brewer Park so bad.

I passed a woman who was moving really good. I had overheard her talking earlier in the race that it was her first trail race. I mentioned that, she said she was feeling good. She mentioned some guy she was running with who went down hard. LIAM?? Yep. Oof. As I was running behind her, getting closer to Spirit Mountain’s weaving and intertwined trail systems, she erroneously peeled onto a mountain bike trail and I went ahead on the Superior Hiking Trail, yelling that she had to go up. Up! Up! That allowed me to make another pass and I chipped away, putting a little time on until she was out of sight. Another one down. I found Mark again as we power hiked up to the Magney aid station. It was brief – a swallow of water in my cup, licorice in the mouth and I ran off. I heard my name but it was all a blur with volunteers, racers and crews all yelling and moving around.

15 miles came and went. 11:15 for the mile split, which was slow. But, this is the crux of the race, I told myself. I could afford to go slow, if it meant I could run hard later. I was 2:24 into the race, feeling good, and ahead of time. My buffer wasn’t huge – 6 minutes up on my top-end goal of a 4:59 finish time assuming that the true race mileage on my watch would be 30.0. I remembered the really fast final couple miles. Would I have gas in the tank to push? Would I have the motivation to push at that time? That wasn’t to be my concern, though, and I tried to focus on keeping a fast yet controlled pace on the final miles down to the bottom chalet of Spirit Mountain. I sipped my bottle and told myself to mention to Shannon at the next swap to fill the mix into a rigid bottle. I was getting a little frustrated with the floppy soft flask in my hand, but once I was half done with it I could kind of fold it into my palm. My hot hand warmed the mix. Despite full sun and warm temperatures, we had absolutely pristine conditions. The trail itself was in perfect shape. Some leaves down, but all dry. The boardwalks were tacky and dry, and I really couldn’t ask for better. In no time, I heard the rustle of an aid station through the trees. Voices, bells, the chairlift, and in a flash I popped out of the woods and saw a long line of spectators and crew. It was awesome. I looked carefully for Shannon, and each step gave me a sinking feeling. She’s not here. Oh no. I glanced back to a sea of faces. Gah. Keep running. Did I not see her? She wouldn’t miss me. I slowed a little bit looking forward, then just told myself that my contingency was to keep going, maybe try to tell somebody and just keep pushing to the next aid station. I had enough bottle capacity to refill without her for the rest of the race, but I would also miss 80 grams of carbs and water, since I had sucked my bottle all the way to empty assuming I’d swap. Damn! At literally the last footstep before turning back into the woods, after I called my bib number out to the volunteer HAM radio person, I saw her walking up from the parking lot. She saw me and started sprinting. I sprinted off course to make the swap, then darted off into the woods like nothing ever happened. Holy crap, that was close!! I laughed on the way back up. Wow. That would have been bad. What a close call! If I was just a little faster, or she was just a little slower, we would have missed each other completely. What would have happened? Oh well, no matter, I got my nice cool bottle and took a good drag off the sweet sugar liquid, then made my way along the course.

I caught back up to Mark and we chatted about how our races were going. We reminisced about Last Runner Standing and it was fun to hear his story a bit. He thought he could do a PB today. I wanted to stick by him but he was pulling away ever so slightly. Then out of nowhere I’d be right back on his tail. Mark was running ahead of me and I was right behind him – it was a nice little train we had rolling. We passed a couple people up Knowlton Creek and logged just under 11 minutes for the uphill mile. Right on track, but a little slow, I thought. But, this is where I can go slow. A pass is a pass. I told myself I had to keep it controlled because I could still blow myself up easily. A young kid hiking with his parents yelled that I was in fourth place. Ummm, really? No. Sorry kid. No way. Is there a way? No. My legs were feeling spry and strong. I had a great time darting through the woods with Mark. The miles flew by on the top of the ridge, and as we started seeing the Duluth cityscape, we had done three more miles right around 10 minutes each. Perfect. I was ready for the grueling climb up to the crux of my race – Highland aid station.

Mark and I crossed Cody Street together and he filled up on water at the Growing Duluth pop-up aid station. I bypassed that stop and was running side-by-side with Mark on the road. I recalled how terrible that uphill slog has been in the past, and was super pleased with how strong I was running this day to make it back into the woods. We flew through the winding path until the big climb along Keene Creek. We hit 20 miles in about 3:15 and I couldn’t really do math yet. It doesn’t matter, I told myself. Just get to Highland feeling good, then turn on the jets and see what is possible. I was so excited. Mark was ahead of me on the grinding uphill just out of reach but within sight at all times. Bridge after bridge after bridge and I couldn’t wait to finally see the aid station. Sipping the last of my mix from the soft flask drooping around my hands, I felt haggard as fresh spectators cheered on and took photos. I was very pleased to see Shannon right there, ready with my hard bottle. YES! In the frenzy of the Spirit aid station I didn’t have the chance to request that one to get refilled but that is what I got. Excellent. A loyal volunteer under the 10×10 pop-up tent was double-fisting water pitchers and helping out another racer. I tried to get him to rotate his wrist to drop a little bit of water into my cup. Without a shred of patience and understanding, I awkwardly helped him. He asked if I wanted the pitcher but I had rotated his wrist enough to get a swallow of water, and it was down the hatch before he could even look.

I darted off into the woods, asking my pal Tony if Chelsea was up ahead. He thought about it for a second. 2 minutes? I hopped up a boulder and felt energized. This is my crux, I told myself. This is what separates the real deals from the pretenders. Did I preserve my legs enough? Mark appeared right behind me. My mission was to drop the dude. I had envisioned passing people in Brewer as opposed to past years getting passed exclusively. Up the Keene Creek grinder, across Skyline Parkway, it was time to go. I was ready.

Once the unrelenting uphill flattened out, I tried to run. Yes. I tried to churn my legs. Yes! Faster, faster, faster! YES! It was a feedback loop – the faster the trees were whipping by, the longer my stride and more aggressive I was on the trail, the more energy I received. I sipped my mix. I muttered out loud to myself how that shit is magic. The mega-dose of sugar water prevents leg fatigue, somehow. I was pounding up hills, and the flats and downhills were being scorched by my lean, sinewy legs. I felt like some type of wild beast. I looked back – Mark was out of sight. Go, I told myself. Go! I kept sipping on my go juice, and couldn’t help but reflect on each painful section of Brewer in 2023 and 2024 where various people passed me up like I was standing still. Now it was me making up time. Where was Chelsea? Would I pass anyone else? I tried to think of who was up ahead of me. I knew there was a group of really fast guys way up ahead, likely led by Ben. Kyle was up there somewhere, and of course Chelsea probably on her way to a course record. Turning left around a sweeping overlook of West Duluth, Enger Tower looked too far off. Oof. My watch beeped 9:23 for my 23rd mile, two sub-10s in a row. The race time was 3:48 and I was finally able to do some math. I figured if I kept running 10 minute per mile pace, I’d be just under 5 hours. This was absolutely in reach, and it was up to me to either hang on or squander 23 miles of a good set-up. I badly wanted to go under the challenging 5-hour mark at Wild Duluth 50k. So, I kept pushing. Around the bend I encountered a few pedestrians, one off-leash dog, another leashed dog and some kids. I blasted past them all as fast as possible. My legs were holding up OK, but the raunchy downhill required a little more deliberation than on fresh legs. I heard extreme dog ruckus from back on top of the ridge. Yikes. Damn off leash dogs! At the bottom I became excited to let it rip on the Haines Road underpass. Let’s see what we’ve got here! Staring into the black hole, I saw a runner ahead. Halfway through the tunnel and I noticed a familiar yellow shirt. Blood in the water. Running on hard concrete through the underpass, my body did not respond well to the change underfoot. I could feel my hamstrings and calves seize up just a little bit. Like, the anxiety-provoking sense that full-on cramping was imminent with one misstep. Alas, like usual that didn’t happen. A few steps closer and I confirmed that Kyle was ahead grinding up the hill to Piedmont. I reeled him in. He looked like he was laboring a bit, but running strong enough for an excellent ultramarathon debut. I congratulated him on the effort and tried to pump him up with positivity. That helped me, too. I rolled through the turbulent ups, downs, and curvy trail through Piedmont and Kyle was out of sight as I approached a steep punchy climb aside a few hikers. The miles clicked off within range – 10:59, 10:20, 9:36. I didn’t have as much spring across 27th Avenue West and was glad to get to the trail again. Pavement was painful. I made good time, though. Across the Miller Creek bridge, I saw two older people weirdly trying to ride huge clunky e-bikes down the narrow and technical Lincoln Park trails. I almost yelled “MOVE” but they vacated from the bridge before I reached them. What a hazard, I thought. Just a little punch up to the final aid station then all down hill. I was in no man’s land. Who was left around me? I figured just Chelsea. Did Tony say she was 5 minutes up from me at Highland? I had demolished the crux of my race. Hell yes. I had to be close to her. The final stretches were downhill, technical running and I knew from racing her at the NMTC Fall Trail Race Series that if she had a weakness at all it was technical downhill running. I didn’t necessarily care, but something to keep my motivation level high in order to endure the extreme pain seemed useful to focus on. I was also getting rather excited to be done. The faster I’d run this out, the faster I’d get to stop running. I thought about the half marathon the next day. Oof. I was totally ruining any potential for fun or satisfaction with that race. NO! I told myself I had to get that out of my mind. I thanked a volunteer at 24th Avenue West as I crossed, ran up to the final aid station and planned to run right through. After gripping stupid strapless water bottles and floppy TPU flasks all day, I couldn’t have been more excited to see Shannon one last time holding my old trusty handheld water bottle. We made yet another quick exchange, extremely pleased with how my nutrition and crew strategy played out during the day. We had one close call, but it resulted it maybe 10 seconds of delay. That was about as perfect as it could get, and I tried to remember to thank her profusely in the 2 seconds where I was within earshot. The aid station volunteers congratulated me and offered various goodies but I didn’t stop. My legs pained me as I shuffled up Skyline Parkway across Piedmont Avenue. I saw Tony running across the field to intercept me. I didn’t know what he was going to say, and I outran him a bit. I yelled to ask where Chelsea was – 5 minutes up. Mile 27 came at just about 4:30 race time. Figuring for 30 miles on the dot meant that I couldn’t really afford any more 10 minute miles. Off the cuff, I reckoned I could do the last section from 24th West in 20 minutes. It was objectively fast – downhill and a final mile on flat pavement. I wondered if my legs would hold up on the path. They felt shaky and crampy. I made decent time up to Enger Tower but could sense the fatigue creeping in. I didn’t have much left to give. But, it was enough. I knew I’d be able to get under 5 hours, and my confidence grew with each stride. I tried to remember what my second fastest time at Wild Duluth 50k was, with 6 finishes under my belt. 4:53? My first year I had gone around 4:30, albeit on a different course. I knew the second year I ran, back in 2015, I did under 5. What was it… 4:53? I was sure of it. That would be cool, I thought, to get my second fastest time as an old-ass 36 year old. I was proud of my year. What a year! Struggles to get to the Grandma’s start line in sub-3 hour shape but hope that it could be done, then I fell short. A DNS at Eugene Curnow Trail Marathon due a wildfire smoke race cancellation, falling way short at Voyageur 50 mile, and being behind by hours at Superior 100. This felt like a breakthrough. I had immense pride for what I did at each event, but it was extraordinarily rewarding and satisfying to go into Wild Duluth having yet another specific plan and finally executing on it perfectly. Here I made two passes, didn’t get passed at all, and hammered through the challenging last 10 miles of one of my favorite all time races and first ultramarathon. Just like I was hoping. I was set to go several minutes under my top-tier time. Could I make another pass? I leaned my hips foward and tried to run as fast as possible down to my city center. The big rock descents were precarious and I had to slow down, but smooth dirt trail felt shockingly great. A group of porch sitters yelled at me as I completed sequential street crossings. 3rd Street West came and went, 1st Street West came and went. They yelled “RUN FORREST!” – a common holler – and I responded at the absolute top of my lungs “LET’S FUCKING GOOO!!!”. These random people erupted with cheers and yelling. Home stretch baby.

Once I could see the freeway overpass and lift bridge in the distance, I wondered how my legs would hold up on the pavement. The crampy feeling was not forgotten. I sipped a bit of mix, as if 20 milligrams of salt would have any effect on my next five minutes. 4:45 in the books. I was going to get under 4:53, and was excited to rip the final stretch just to see what I had left to give. Off the trail for good, across Superior Street and onto the freeway overpass, I was horrified to feel cramps coming on. My hamstrings were absolutely shredded. I could feel slight twinges in both calves – like if I flexed my ankle up or down too quickly or aggressively that they would full-on seize. What would happen then? I had luckily never cramped in a race before. Would I be able to run through it? I sipped a bit of my bottle. Help! My hamstrings were painful. I could feel a lump on my right leg a couple inches above my knee on the inside, essentially part of my lower hamstring. Every step was a risk to complete explosion. Oh no. All this, and I can’t even sprint it in? I was limping with an altered form. The pain was almost over with, though. I could gut it out, I told myself. I heard stomping from behind me. A quick peek revealed a shirtless blue shorts runner storming in. What the hell, Mark? Once he got within earshot, I groaned “NOO”. It was in jest, but he easily made the pass. Damn. I could not respond, but we congratulated each other on excellent races. Mark was going on to a Wild Duluth personal best. I saw local runner Ann, Kyle’s partner, cheering while I tried to kick it in. I had no kick. Around Bayfront, I did everything I could to try and prevent falling over with extreme cramps. It was a highwire act, and all I could really do was slow down and kind of alter my form to keep my muscles in check. Under the metal archways, well under 5 hours, I felt the hair on my arms and the back of my neck stand up as I visualized yelling at the finish. The home stretch came into sight, I saw 4:50 on the clock, and let out a guttural “YEAH”. The final step of the race on my left leg was just too much to bear and I almost fell over. A knot felt like it developed on the inside of thigh and with little stutter step I made it through the line. I could not stop for fear of extreme cramping so slowed to a jog, then to a walk, and anxiously walked in circles 20 feet past the finish line before finally collapsing to the ground.

Shannon made her way over and I couldn’t stop gushing on how proud I was on the race, how pumped I was about the time, and how scary the Spirit Mountain moment was. We laughed about it. I had to chuckle when I looked to see that my 2015 Wild Duluth time actually at 4:49. Oh well. I was astonished to see Chelsea’s time around 4:30 for a hefty course record. I wasn’t even close to her! Mark and I reminisced on a fun day of racing back and forth and back. I was frustrated he caught me but he put together a beastly run and I simply could not respond. He said he had a vision that he’d pass me, or someone. Ugh, I didn’t have that premonition! I was pleased with a top-10 finish, although 8th place would have been nicer. As my legs went from immediate post-race euphoria without pain, to extreme pain in any position, to fading pain as I walked back to my car, I became increasingly hopeful for the next day’s race. Hours later, I had a hefty portion of Thai food, a couple beers, and by the end of the night I felt good.

GPS Data

Race Results

Place: 9/334
Time: 4:51:03
Pace: 9:23

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Harder ‘N Heck Half Marathon Race Date: Sunday, October 19, 2025 – 10:30am

When I woke up Sunday and took those first steps out bed, my ankles and knees were cracking, crusty and creaky but I felt great all things considered. My right ankle was by far the most damaged. I went to the Co-op to get breakfast and noticed a ravenous hunger that I had for various pastries. I ate a lot of food, not really considering the couple-hour run that was scheduled in a couple hours. I felt like I had lots of time before the generous 10:30am start time, but that sentiment is always dangerous for me as I suddenly felt late to get to Spirit Mountain before the 9:30 call for busses to the half marathon start at Chamber’s Grove. I got my kit on, taped up both ankles but focused on tight stability for my weakened, bashed right ankle. I didn’t know what to do for fuel… so took a croissant thinking maybe I’d just nibble on that. Completely out of carb mix, I combined all of my bottles into my handheld and wondered if the flavor would be revolting or not. I grabbed my waist belt, reusable cup, my hatchet and set off in a bit of a frenzy. Luckily, I had lots of time and made it west I-35 through the cool, sunny Sunday morning with no problems. I even had time to stop at a gas station for nerds clusters. Candy sounded like the best fueling option of them all.

I got to the parking lot at Spirit and sat for a bit in my car. Just like the day before – waiting in my comfy van with everything around me until the last possible minute to make critical decisions on what to take and what to lock in my vehicle before comfortably catching the bus to the start line. I figured I’d take my handheld and the nerds. I could refill drinks at either or both of the aid stations, and the entire bag of gummis plus my remaining carb mix would be plenty. It was cold, but I left my van in a similar kit as the day before – short shorts and tank top. I got on the bus and my friend Cody clamored into the seat with me. I had seen him on the course yesterday, and it was awesome to preview some of the excellent photos he took of me. He showed me his website, and it was yet another enjoyable bus ride with a friend from the local running scene that I was able to get to know a little bit better. Nervous with sweaty armpits on the hot bus, I noticed the dangling two arrowheads. I choked up the leather cord and inspected the arrowhead connections a bit. One looked glued on, one look drilled into the quartz itself. Huh. When we got to Chamber’s Grove it was cloudy, windy and colder. How did that happen? Local runner Chase asked me if I wanted to warm up. No way. He waited in line with me for the toilets and I decided it was probably smart, so we jogged just a little bit. That felt good, actually, but I didn’t want any more running than vitally necessary and just shivered in the pavilion for another 20 minutes waiting for the race to start. With volunteers, spectators and racers in puffy coats and big hats, I tried to remain hard in the blustery wind but became increasingly soft to it and was just freezing out there. Finally, we started lining up. I had my hatchet in one hand, my handheld in the other. It was fun showing off my hatchet and custom sheath adorned with two precious arrowheads from previous Wildman finishes. I was eager to get another one. Yup, I’m running with it. Of course!

Andy climbed atop a picnic table, megaphone in hand, voice scratchy and hoarse, and said some words. I couldn’t really pay attention to what he was saying due to the cold – I was so eager for the race to start. I was on the start line when he yelled “GOOOO!!!”, then sprinted ahead. I felt like the tin man, clunky and stiff. A pack of 5 or so runners took off ahead and I felt kind of guilty that I was holding up a larger group behind me. To remedy that, I leaned forward and churned my legs. My breathing was very heavy right away. We weaved through the wide, accessible trails of Chamber’s Grove park before turning up the hill, crossing Highway 210 and entering mountain bike singletrack. The uphill was brutal. I was already breathing heavy, plus the elevation gain caused me to gasp for oxygen, but my legs were churning nicely. The line of spectators were fun run run past – lots of waving of arms comfortably surrounded by down feathers plumply stuffed into colorful jacket sleeves. It felt good to get moving and I didn’t feel cold after mere minutes. My heart was pounding but I just shuffled my feet robotically, knowing that the climb up from Chamber’s was just a grinder before tapering off atop the ridge. I found a nice little spot for myself with the speedsters way out of sight and a few scattered chase pack people a little in front and a little behind me. All systems go! I was feeling good – or as good as could be hoped for or expected given the circumstances of running hard for 5 hours, 25 hours prior.

Lugging around the hatchet was a bit of a chore, but the cooler temps made it a little better. I remembered my hand getting sweaty around the wooden handle the past, and it seemed to work fine to have my handheld water bottle on my left hand and clinking, clanking hatchet in my right. I felt strong, I was able to run fast, and I blasted past two younger guys on the Mission Creek trail (the old Seven Bridges Road that is such a fun part of the Voyageur course). I slammed down that hill, chasing my friend Chase. Once we got onto the Superior Hiking Trail proper, a group clumped up with me, Chelsea, another girl and Chase. I enjoyed being in a group because it reduced the amount of brain work needed. Just lock in behind Chase, make sure the gap doesn’t get too big, be mindful if Chelsea or the other girl wanted to pass. We seemed to be in good shape. Chase and I were chatting a bit. Miles were flying by and although I was working hard, my body felt good enough to push the pace. I got pretty frustrated trying to get gummi clusters out of my handheld’s little zipper pouch. I figured it would have been easier, back when I was slicing the packaging in my minivan before packing the nerds gummi clusters into my handheld. I should have just dumped them into the pouch, as I struggled to scoop the candy bits out into my palm while running. I was happy to be able to easily sip my leftover carb mix, however. Mmm. It was good! Sweet, sweet sugar water. We crossed over Beck’s Road, I stopped at the aid station to top off my handheld with Tailwind. The group I was in skipped the aid station completely. What the heck? Nobody really had a lot of fuel on them. Just me? Whatever. I didn’t want to be in no man’s land, so pushed really hard to get back in the pack before Ely’s Peak. I did so successfully, but paid for it dearly. The pavement was hard on my legs, and probably sniffed sub-6 minute mile pace to get to Chelsea, the other girl and another random guy that had come up from behind. I told myself I ought to run up Ely’s this time. I didn’t really have a reason to try and pace this race any certain way. It was a throwaway as far as I was concerned. Might as well do some dumb stuff like run up Ely’s. Up and up and up. There were plenty of pedestrians, kids and dogs. I noticed the sweeping overlooks even less than the day before, and felt pretty good climbing.

I passed Chelsea who verbally expressed her struggles. Chase had fallen back at some point, but the other girl was sticking with me. I thought I could shake her on top of Ely’s through the technical exposed bedrock. Why? No reason to try and be tactical, to try and shake anyone… it was all just on-the-fly race strategy in a dumb throwaway race that I just need to finish to get another arrowhead. Whatever. What am I doing? It was nice to get back into the woods and the smooth-rolling singletrack. The hardest part of the race was over, but I was starting to feel shakier on my legs. Bigger downhill drops were increasingly challenging to take, and I just felt like my legs couldn’t take much more smashing. I was doing good aerobically, and well able to run uphill and on the flats. I couldn’t shake the girl behind me, but didn’t really care. It was kind of nice to have her right there to keep me on it. I still tried to push hard in certain sections to see how she’d respond, and also I just had waves of energy and fatigue back and forth. She’d always just get right back onto my tail after moments of speedy mobility. I felt cool navigating the very technical rocky downhills down to the Spirit Mountain areas before the Magney aid station. Just torching the course. Who runs like this a day after a 50k? On the same damn course? I was astonished thinking about the impact that high carbohydrate fueling plays. Just amazing! However, I paid for each stunt. Every footstrike added to my failing body’s toll. Across Skyline Boulevard and I nicked my hatchet handle on a tree trunk. Then I noticed that the jingling of my hatchet sounded different. I tried to inspect while running fast and was mortified to see one arrowhead only, one gone and only a small silver keyring that formerly held my red-orange prized possession. WHAT. I almost stopped dead, my initial gut instinct telling me to turn back. I just stutter-stepped in a moment of panic and confusion, and kept moving forward. How can I stop running? This is a race? I told myself that turning around was dumb because I could probably just go back later. Yeah, I’d go back right after the race to look. The sequence of events got mentally logged. Cross Skyline – couple steps downhill – nick the tree and I immediately noticed the sound was different. My arrowhead has to be right in that area. Right below Skyline. It was such an easy access and landmark with the road right there. No problem. Wait… maybe she saw? I had been running practically the entire race with this person. I hollered behind, asking if she saw… umm… something fly off into the woods just back there. She said no, sorry. I told her I lost an arrowhead from my hatched, CRAP. She didn’t really respond. We were cruising. We kept pushing. Down, down, down, cross a creek, up, up, up. We got to the Magney aid station and I just ran right through. I remembered to eat some nerds and sip some mix. The Tailwind mixed in with my smorgasboard of glucose and fructose tasted fine as well. No problems there. Just a few more miles, I told myself. I could tell I was slowing down. However, I was still able to make good time. I felt slow on the flat DWP bridge, but fast heading back uphill towards Spirit Mountain. My ankles seemed to be getting looser and looser, less reliable, and I was seemingly stumbling every other step. I couldn’t help but be more vocal about each problematic step. I was swearing, grunting, moaning, and probably sounded dramatic and annoying to the girl glued to my ass. She was moving! We were moving. I wondered if Chelsea would be able to close on us. That would be cool, I thought, to see her get the double-win. As we navigated intersecting downhill mountain bike trails with riders ripping right alongside us, I kept stumbling, swearing, grunting and was generally struggling. I was frustrated about the arrowhead. Yet another stumble but this time I went down to the ground. My hatchet went flying into the woods and I flagged to the girl right behind me to go on ahead. I got up, a little rattled and mad but fine. My friend Lynnette was jogging the 10k and heard the whole thing from a few steps ahead. She jokingly asked if my mom knew I was running with a hatchet. ARGH! MAYBE! I quickly ran past and tried to get back up to speed, but the fall really seemed to throw off my flow. Whatever it was, I was stumbling more than ever and just lost any mental drive or focus to run fast. It was so painful. Stupid hatchet. This whole thing was so dumb to do, I thought. Sure enough, in a moment of self-pity, Chelsea appeared from the woods and rapidly approached my sorry excuse for an operational running physique. I wanted to stick with her but had nothing to give. I cheered her on and tried to give her some beta – I noticed the gal up ahead was slower on the uphills than me but would always catch back up, so told her to get her on the hills. Chelsea was gone in a flash, seemingly very motivated to get the double-win. Hell yeah. A few more stumbles, a lot more swearing and frustration, and I was pretty pleased to be out of the woods and onto the Spirit Mountain catwalks. A huge climb was ahead, and I was ready for it. I knew it’d be slow and painful, but just hoped I could hold any other late-race chargers off. I knew the end was near. I saw 50k finishers Sam and Hanna cheering and asked if Chelsea was gonna get her. They said she already had. Oh yeah!! Then, my head dropped as I shuffled my legs uphill, one tiny pittering step at a time.

Halfway up the ski hill I could see the two girls ahead of me duking it out, and behind was another woman gaining traction. Whatever… I didn’t have any energy to care. I sipped a bit of my remaining mix and just did what I could to move forward. I didn’t know what mile we were at, what my time was, I didn’t know what I was doing and I didn’t really care. My legs were shot, I was so ready to be done. At the top, I didn’t even have the gumption to look behind me. Didn’t care. My flat-surface running had deteriorated and it was a slow, painful jog eastward across Spirit Mountain. A little downhill jaunt back to the Superior Hiking Trail and I was passed. I figured it was bound to happen. I kind of forgot where the race course actually went – was it back on the SHT? Or across the bridge? No. Yep, I noticed the flags and an almost 180-degree turn to the singletrack to go southbound on the Superior Hiking Trail as opposed to the 50k’s and most of the half marathon race’s northbound direction. The person in front of me charged on out of sight and I was back to struggling on rocky downhills and technical footing. God damn. Every footstep was problematic. But, I knew the end was near. I heard someone right behind me, recognized striking blue shorts from my peripheral vision. Chelsea?? She fiercely passed me. I said “NOOO”, surmising what had happened. She said she took a wrong turn. Yup. Just like that, with a mile left, after taking the lead with two miles left, the double-win seemed likely out of reach for her. She was out of sight in the blink of an eye. Damn! That was a heavy piece of news. The arrowhead, the pain, now this??

I didn’t seen anyone else until the final catwalk section. A jogger was up ahead. Was that a 10k runner? A couple steps closer and I noticed it was the Colorado runner allegedly looking to get a half marathon trail win in every US state. Huh. I passed him with ease, turned the corner, and darted back onto the SHT towards the finish line. Finally. Running down the singletrack, I got confused. Wait… do we go back up to the finish? I was talking out loud to myself. No, that’s not right. What way? Damn. Fuck. Did I take a wrong turn? Ughh. I stopped, peering beyond the trail. I could see the finish line through the trees, spectators, racers and everything pretty much right there so bushwhacked through a ditch out to the ski run. I had my hands up pointing left and right, trying to figure out what way to go. The Colorado guy passed me back. Argh. Wrong turn with, like, 500 feet left in the race. So stupid. I sprinted the last 200 feet in to pass him again and get to the finish line. I was frustrated that I had a very late-race lapse of judgement. I screamed with my hatchet high above my head as I crossed under the inflatable arch. I saw Andy and immediately kneeled to hand him my hatchet like a squire would hand their sword to a king. He told me I had to wait, he’s doing Chelsea first. Arghhhh, I was already on the ground! I dropped to the ground completely and rolled my body off to the side, totally beat. Totally done. Kind of frustrated, happy to not have to run anymore ever again if I didn’t want to.

Andy beckoned me over, I offered my hatchet to him. He noticed the Ultimate Wildman designation etched into the hatchet I got and told me that I actually got another hatchet. Huh? He explained the 50k/half Wildman is one a hatchet, then the 100k/10k Ultimate Wildman is a different hatchet. I told him last year I just got the arrowhead. Nope. He gave me back my hatchet, grabbed a brand new one with the Wildman designation emblazoned on the handle, and knighted me. I told him I’d lost an arrowhead out there but was going back out to find it. He said if I couldn’t find it that I could get a new one from him. Then I went straight to the apple juice.

It was joyous to talk to so many friends old and new. I changed clothes, grabbed my croissant but didn’t eat it, and sipped fizzy water at the finish line area. I suddenly felt hungry and realized I had to go. I had waited too long and the extreme pangs came viciously. I rushed to Northern Waters Smokehaus, almost fainted when I saw the long line, but stuck it out to find a seat and nearly smash a Cedar’s Secret and Cold Turkey sandwich, side of potato salad, bag of chips and pint of Hoops ale. I took a second epsom salt bath in as many days, and my recovery came swiftly and successfully.

The next day, my friend Kris and I walked Skyline Parkway from the Magney trailhead to the next western intersection of the Superior Hiking Trail. I told her exactly what I noticed leading to the visual confirmation that one of my two arrowheads had fallen off of my hatchet the day before. I tried to replicate the situation on inflamed lower leg tendons, I pointed out where I thought the arrowhead may have landed, and felt immediately disheartened to see endless red-orange leaves and footprints in the dirt, 24 hours after losing that small, orange-red arrowhead. There was no way we’d find it, I told myself in my head. Kris started digging around in the brush as I put my hands behind my back, scanning the ground. She asked if it was OK if she was moving all the leaves and dirt and brush around. She had crooked little stick in her hands. I didn’t care. I said one in a million chance. After about 15 minutes, I had no idea. I looked way up and way down the trail. I went back to the tree that I probably hit. It was interesting to consider my exactly foot placement and path around various trees, rocks and roots. There were, like, hundreds of different configurations to run the trail in any given 6-foot section, I felt. I started beckoning to Kris that there was no way, and the race director Andy told me he’d give me a new one if I couldn’t find it, and I how I couldn’t believe how we’d find it. I joked with Kris about what someone would think finding my arrowhead sitting right in the center of the SHT. An artifact! For all I knew, they’re made in a Malaysian factory. I wanted to retrieve the one I dropped. I turned around, slowly hiked back up towards Skyline and we headed out. Just then: “I FOUND IT!!!”, Kris yelled. I whipped around and saw her poking in the dirt with her stick, hunched over like a little kid with a huge smile on her face. I jumped down to her literally at the base of the tree that I figured I hit with my hatchet handle. And sure as shit, there it was. She poked my arrowhead out from the dusty grey dirt, exposing it more and more with each tick of her stick. I reached down and grabbed it, dusted it off, and held it high above my head towards the cloudy, dreary sky. “MY ARROWHEAD!”. Kris and I laughed so hard the whole way back to my van as I rubbed the precious item between my fingers. I was supposed to receive a hatchet last year, then this arrowhead was supposed to be my prize this year. Losing then finding the arrowhead was a crazy experience, and I will never forget the image of Kris crouched over with a little stick poking at the dirt, looking up at me with utter joy and pride after I was certain we’d leave empty handed. I got the arrowhead superglued to its keyring, drilled a hole through my new hatchet handle, and decided to hang them on my wall as Andy had recommended at the half marathon finish line. Open wall space in my house didn’t stick out right away, but I decided to hang them at the bottom of my stairs where I do calf raises from time to time. Once they were mounted, I realized they were in the absolute perfect spot. The hatches remind me why I do leg lifts all day. It’s for the Wildman Challenge.

Wild Duluth continues to be one of my favorite events. I was shocked and proud to realize that two finishes in 2025 would be my 12 and 13th finishes at Wild Duluth in one race or another. I got them. A heavy fall season of racing seemed to pay off with heaps of fun, speedy times at Wild Duluth, and somehow a body that held up. At 36 years old, it’s exciting feel like I can give any personal best a run.

GPS Data

Race Results

Place: 11/293
Time: 2:00:24
Pace: 9:12