My Bear 100 Story
Part 1: Unrequited Love
Miles 1-20
Miles one through twenty of my first 100-mile race read like a tragedy. After all this time loving Bear 100 with all my heart, September 25th finally arrived, and my relationship with racing felt like betrayal.
The weeks leading up to the North Star — the Main Quest of my entire year — had felt optimistic and magical. My gut told me Bear would be a truly epic and amazing experience, more than worth the sacrifices and hundreds of hours spent on the trail.
But somehow, it felt hard by mile one.
At the start line, my crew sent me off with lots of love, then I joined the conga line of headlamps ascending almost 5,000 feet to Logan Peak.
In the last dark hour of the morning, hundreds of runners began their adventure through the Bear River Mountain Range.
Hundreds of stories. One hundred miles. One race.
The very beginning of your biggest race of the year feels surreal. Before today, you’ve only been putting in the work, with the big event levitating far off in the future.
But when the gun goes off and the heavy weight of suspense lifts, that far-off floating thing is suddenly, almost shockingly, the present moment.
You blink, and you’re already a half-mile through it.
In the sea of racers, I received encouraging words from my friends, Dave and Kayli, as they moved further up the conga line. I never saw Kayli again. And I wouldn’t see Dave again until after his deepest, darkest hours of the night.
Shortly after turning off my headlamp, my body told me I did the exact thing I was told not to do: I went out too hard.
The pace isn’t what made the effort too hard; I was moving comfortably and conservatively.
It was the stress-induced stomach acid that ruined the beginning of my race.
Frustration and concern ate at me from the inside, as my stomach clenched like a rock and acid crept up my esophagus. I hadn’t experienced this specific issue on any of my runs in over a year.
Miles spent climbing a mountain with a burning stomach and a sensitive mind will make you question your fitness. You’ll wonder why your heart is hammering on fresh legs. You’ll beat yourself up for not doing enough vert during training. You’ll be too nauseous to swallow enough food, so you’ll start bonking with 95 miles to go. And you’ll step aside to let groups of runners pass while you hope you don’t throw up your breakfast.
At least, this was my experience in the early hours of my first 100 miler.
Lethargy washed over me, and I wished I was alone on that trail.
How had I suddenly become an outsider in the one space that always feels like home? Why does my mind suffocate in storm clouds while rainbows dance over the racers around me?
I tried to focus on belly breathing to unclench my stomach. After forcing down a gel and a sweet potato puree through gags, my head shook in disbelief at how much harder this ascent felt than anything I’d done in training.
The nerves leading up to the start had swirled my stomach into a mess. Stomach acid burned up any remaining good gut feelings.
Plus, by the time I reached Logan Peak at mile 10, my hands had stopped working??? Some strange mixture of anxiety and the cold made my fingers and hands feel heavy, numb, and tingly, and I could barely open my puree or text my crew that I was already having a rough time.
It was at this point when my period became an antagonist in this story. It was the heaviest, most painful day, and I had already bled through my tampon, pad, underwear, AND shorts only 10% into one hundred freaking miles.
I found a spot in the shrubs to pee and change period products. But my hands weren’t working. So I said screw it. No point in wasting time just to bleed through again.
Free bleeding, it is.
I’d already completed the biggest climb and reached the highest point (standing at 8,871 feet) in the race. I should have celebrated that moment, but I didn’t feel quite “there.”
I was not present. I was lost in my head.
Calorie depleted, miserable, bloody, and seriously doubting myself, I contemplated quitting as I counted down the miles into Leatham Hollow, the aid station at mile 20.
Eight miles till I see my crew. Just move my legs. My legs feel great. If I could just get into a flow and forget about the rock in my stomach... Admire the beautiful red maple-speckled trail and valley below. Breathe in fresh mountain air.
Seven.
Headphones on. Block out my thoughts with music.
I sang Cowboy Take Me Away by The Chicks under my breath and remembered, for a fleeting moment, that I was completely free. I chose this wild and unruly race.
Six.
Letting my legs move at the speed they wanted to hurt my stomach even worse.
How pathetic would it be to spend all year hyping up this one event I gave my everything to, only to quit by mile 20?
Bear 100 doesn’t love me back. It hates me.
Five. Grind. Four. Grind. Three. Grind.
Two. One.
Thank Mother Earth, that’s the sweet sound of Anah’s cheers.
Part 2: Nowhere Else to Be
Miles 20-38
What was it about Leatham Hollow that felt like walking into a sauna?
Wow, that sun is spicy.
Seeing my crew for the first time was a huge pick-me-up. And a great relief. Cheers and lots of support from Anah, Dawn, Kent, Nate, Nino, and Whitney. I immediately dove into Nino for a hug and complained about my period. No ibuprofen allowed because it’s too hard on the kidneys during a race like this. I knew I’d have to grit it out.
My uterus really said, Let’s see what you're truly made of, woman — blood, guts, and all.
I could tell my crew was a little concerned about me as I shared how shitty I felt, but they moved efficiently, refilling my water and pack. I drank cold fruit punch Gatorade and changed socks while Anah sprayed me down with sunscreen. Nino brought me a quesadilla, but it was hard to chew.
It wasn’t long before they sent me off with poles for the next climb and more food, including liquid calories that we hoped my stomach would handle better.
Thankfully, it did. Drinking my calories helped significantly during that ascent. I moved more efficiently with my poles, and I repeated Anah’s mantra she shared at the aid station after I said shakily, “The climbs are really, really hard for me today.”
Respect the climb, take your time.
Finally, after my first mood-boosting conversation with another runner, the race spread out. No more conga lines. Just beautiful, quiet, solo miles in wide, open spaces.
My spirits rose with the vert, despite the period cramps pounding me from the inside, despite the rising temps, despite how awful those first twenty miles were.
My anxiety slowly evaporated, and my tummy felt somewhat manageable when I wasn’t swallowing real food. I drank water, calories, and electrolytes under bright blue skies and sunshine, surrounded by glorious ruby red maples dotting the rocky canyon above and raining down on me with gentle gusts of wind along the trail. Cows grazed in the forest and I felt lighter saying hello to them.
What really made the climb to Upper Richards aid station (mile 28.5) special, though, were the sheep. Hundreds of sheep. Herds and herds of them, grazing, baa-ing, staring back at me. I wasted precious time stopping to say hi and capture moments with my phone, but I didn’t care. Who cares about pace when there are SHEEP FRIENDS? Time didn’t exist out there, and I finally felt some peace. I’d somewhat forgotten about the pain. And the storm clouds inside my skull had cleared significantly.
Minutes after saying goodbye to the sheep, the trail steepened up a dirt road.
Respect the climb, take your time.
The grind during an ultra is a special thing. Somehow, you just keep moving, and the miles pass by. They pass by when it feels easy and they pass by when it feels really hard.
At some point, I heard chirps up ahead. Definitely not bird chirps. Something was oddly human or catlike about the sound. Probably a cougar. I’ll just raise my poles and act big.
The chirping belonged, not to a cougar, but to a man on horseback. A sheep herder rounded the bend with another flock of fluffy white angels trotting along with their Australian Shepherd leader.
“Hiiiii frieeends!!!”
Upper Richards aid station sat at high elevation, overlooking a gorgeous autumnal descent into Right Hand Fork, where I’d see my crew at mile 37.5.
I still couldn’t eat much real food without stomach pain, so I grabbed a few crackers, a pickle, and otherwise stuck to my peach Naak calorie drink.
While one volunteer refilled my water, another volunteer approached me, stating he recognized me from a social media post about my back. I confirmed that I have a 10-vertebrae spinal fusion, and he shared that he recently underwent a spinal fusion after shattering his L1 in a skiing accident.
He asked how my back was feeling, and I don’t remember exactly what he said after that, just that his words, kindness, and care made me feel like a badass and like I was doing great out there. Like he was genuinely looking out for me. His words were powerful in that moment; I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that I was doing a good job.
Later, after finishing my race, I would learn that this volunteer happened to be Mike McKnight, someone I hadn’t met before but whose name I’d heard countless times throughout the trail running community. It’s pretty empowering when someone like that recognizes you at a random aid station deep in the mountains!
The countdown to see my crew began the moment I left that aid station. That’s the only way I viewed the miles. It was never: 71 miles till the finish. That’s not even comprehendible. It was only: nine miles till I see my people. It was just a chase to Nino and Nate and Anah and Dawn, who never failed to lift my spirits and patch me back together every single time.
This descent felt hard most of the way. My tummy still protested against the heat of the day, and my cramps were relentless. Another runner asked if I was okay and if I was chaffing. I knew that meant I’d bled through my shorts to a point where it was clearly visible.
“Not chaffing, just perioding. It is what it is,” I shrugged.
He gave me knucks, cheered me on, and chatted with me for a while, taking my mind off the miles and getting me to move faster than I had been. This runner happened to be Eric Johnson, bib #20, in honor of his twentieth Bear 100. So incredible.
Three miles till I see my crew. Remember my mantra I used throughout training: Nowhere else to be.
But wasn’t that the truth? Where else would I be if I wasn’t there? Every time I let a dark thought push me into considering quitting, I asked myself how I’d feel during that car ride out of the canyon. It didn’t matter how hard it got; the answer was always clear.
I’d feel like shit for quitting when I don’t need to. I feel like shit right now, and I’d feel like shit if I quit, so I choose this shit. I choose to keep moving. There is truly nowhere else to be but right here.
Two miles to go. One.
Part 3: We Ride at Dusk
Miles 38-52
Lots of cheers coming into Right Hand Fork aid station! Once they sat me down, my crew gave me urgency without telling me the full truth.
They moved quicker than last time, refilling waters and food, and holding up a towel to shield me while I changed into fresh clothes.
“How are Kayli and Dave?” I asked.
“They’re great! Moved through here a little bit ago. Do you want more Naak calories? Any potato chips? Drink that Gatorade.” Dawn ordered while Nate handed me two full waters and Anah unclipped the quiver from my pack. I wouldn’t be putting my poles away from here on out.
“Am I close to the cutoff?” I asked through chews and swallows. “I saw lots of sheep out there, and it made me happy. And I talked to Eric Johnson coming in here.”
“You don’t need to worry about the cutoff. That’s our job.” Dawn said while Anah dumped Cheez-Its into my mouth.
“Am I set to finish around 34-35 hours at this point? It’s five o’clock, and I know that’s a late time to come into this aid station.”
“Yes, somewhere around there.” Nino said.
They were strategic, speedy, and only told me what I needed to know. They did not tell me that I left this aid station at a time typical for a finish 15 minutes after 36-hour cutoff time. And they did not tell me that another runner had just seen a cougar coming into this aid station.
Perhaps I la-dee-da-ed a little too hard, considering I was so far back in the pack, but the most important thing was that I was finally in good spirits.
I got to leave with my first pacer, Nino, who’d be with me for the next 14 miles. He was amped, the exact energy I needed as the sun sank behind the mountains.
“We’re going to make a goal time,” Nino began. “Let’s get to Temple Fork by eight o’clock.”
With the sun setting, temps cooling, and a pacer giving me urgency to move and reminders to eat, I was reborn. My body felt pretty good, my stomach had settled, and Dawn gave me a Tylenol for my period cramps. I shuffled up the single track and ran down the dirt roads, doing what I could to shave down mile times. The effort felt easier on this section than it had all day. Plus, the sun glowing over the copper-kissed valley combined with Nino chats made me feel light and happy.
And it showed — Nino and I rolled into Temple Fork, mile 44.5, at 7:20, forty minutes ahead of our goal time. We refilled our waters and kept moving. The climb to Tony Grove wasn’t nearly as hard as I thought it would be. In fact, despite its 3,000’ of vert over six and a half miles, it felt like the least hard climb of the day.
In the dark, you can’t see the vert ahead of you. In the dark, it’s not hot out. In the dark, I come alive.
Nino set our goal time to reach Tony Grove, mile 52, at ten o’clock. We arrived, silly and energized, at 9:30.
Part 4: Magic Beneath a Full Moon
Miles 52-62
Smiles spread across my crew’s faces as I arrived in a good mood over an hour ahead of where they thought I might be after seeing me at Right Hand Fork.
Nino reiterated that he knew I’d make up time throughout the night. He reminded me of my overnight effort at RUFA in February 2025 and that I thrive as a night owl. He suggested that we shouldn’t refer to the “typical” pace chart anymore.
“Jessi’s moving now. She’ll continue arriving at aid stations earlier than you think. She’s not normal.”
Nothing about ultrarunning is “normal” either. A huge takeaway from my first 100-mile race is how differently I’d structure my future pace charts. Rolling into Right Hand Fork at 5 pm is concerning when you assume the runner is slowing down. But for me, it was right on time.
I ate real food with zero stomach problems at Tony Grove. Huge win!
These pizza slices are bomb. “Can I please have two more?”
I changed into warmer clothes for the night. Beanie, gloves, leggings, long sleeves and shell. Then, it was Anah’s turn to pace me for a marathon of fun under the full moon.
The moon. Oh, she is so beautiful.
Throughout the night, the moon was a goddess watching over me, guiding me along the journey, which at this point was my longest run ever. Every step became the most miles I’d ever traveled in one push.
Between Anah and the chilly mountain air, I didn’t have a problem keeping up my pace. If I slowed down too much, I started shivering. And anytime I began shuffling my feet again instead of hiking, Anah said, “Yeeessss, girl.” Great motivation to run as much as I could.
“Run” meant something special this far in, by the way. With my core temp lowered, over 52 miles on my joints, low visibility, and a trail bearing the occasional rock garden, fallen tree, creek-crossing, or climb, my run was no more than a cute little shuffle. Nonetheless, it was a smidge faster than walking.
I kept eating my favorite Naak sweet potato purees, which consistently went down easily. I kept sipping my water and calories. And I kept moving. For hours and hours on a lonely, remote single track trail lit by headlamps and the large, glowing orb hanging in a black sky.
During the ten miles from Tony Grove to Franklin Basin aid station, my mind remained calm and steady because I found the strength to compartmentalize negative emotions. I did this, interestingly, by locking a weaker version of me behind a door inside my mind. She represented anxiety, panic, dread, and pain, and I envisioned her safe in a library with the door shut tight. She could read books until the end of the race, but I wasn’t letting her out until I crossed the finish line.
Locking my emotions away felt almost mechanical and required a great deal of self control.
I was growing delirious at this point and felt increasingly more tired, but with the bad emotions Pandora-boxed-away, my fatigue manifested into slap happy silliness with Anah. We had great talks about life and silly talks about silly things.
“You know what would be a lot worse than this?” I asked her, acknowledging that despite the fun we were having, it was still very hard.
“What?”
“Going to war.”
That gave us something to giggle about, and this statement was a simple reminder of how good I had it. This effort certainly tested the hell out of me in a number of ways — and some of the harder tests were still yet to come — yet, this was really just a beautiful run through the mountains with my friends.
At the end of the day, this is a “hard” I got to choose.
My body was working. Not just working — my body was running its sixtieth mile through the mountains.
My mind had cleared.
The weather was perfect.
This race was turning around overnight, and the “war” it had felt like during the day had melted away.
Perhaps Bear 100 did love me back.
My peak silly energy hit like a cannonball as we jogged into Franklin Basin, mile 62 aid station. Great timing, because the best surprise ever was waiting for me.
Part 5: The Calm Before the Storm
Miles 62-77
This aid station is a popular spot for runners to drop. It’s cozy, filled with crew and hot food, and it sits right next to Logan Canyon Road. It would be easy to hop into Dawn’s rooftop camper and take the longest nap of my life. But thankfully, there was no way that was about to happen.
One, I was in pretty great shape — mentally strong and moving well physically, with no major issues. Two, there was absolutely no way my crew would have let me quit.
And three, my miles-to-go mindset restarted like a stopwatch at every aid station. The moment I arrived at Franklin Basin, my mind said, eight miles till Logan River. And you don’t stop with only eight miles to go.
Franklin Basin felt like a party. Lights! Warm food! Friends bundled in puffy coats and blankets! Hugs, hoots, and hollers!
Nino, Nate, and Dawn!
Lindsey and Kevin! Seeing more friends in the middle of the night gave me a refreshing boost of energy. Lindsey brought the fun and optimism, and Kevin brought a sense of calm and care. I felt this as I watched him tend to a beaten-down Dave, who sat in a camp chair with blankets up to his chin.
Not looking too good, Dave. This moment stuck with me. Kevin’s hands on Dave’s shoulders in a quick embrace of warmth and care. Lindsey muttering that Dave had puked seven times and hadn’t left this aid station for an hour and a half. The rings around Dave’s eyes, like he’d faced his demons.
I hadn’t seen him since the start, as he was always miles in front of me. While he notoriously pukes between miles 38 and 52 of this race (he has run Bear like seven times), he usually perks back up by this aid station.
But this year, his sunken-faced told me otherwise. Sometimes, the mountain just says no. But Dave hadn’t dropped yet.
And finally, the best surprise: Daniel! Freaking Daniel. He had just returned from a three-month trip abroad, and almost immediately drove six hours from Idaho to come join the Bear party!
Everyone seemed so happy to be there and genuinely so proud of me. Laughter, jokes, hot food, and the best care. My crew bundled me in my puffy jacket while I warmed my insides with Ramen noodles.
“Nino, did you hear that we locked Little Bitch Jessi up in the library?” I asked through sips of broth.
I felt giddy, goofy, and on the verge of hysteria, while dark storm clouds still lingered just out of sight in my mind.
Keep the darkness locked away.
I didn’t sit for long, but it was long enough to feel confident that Franklin Basin was my favorite aid station of the whole race. It felt so good to make my friends laugh and to be wrapped in love by everyone before I was back on my feet moving through an increasingly colder night.
Leaving would have been extremely difficult if I was alone.
But I wasn’t alone. I had Anah.
“You know, I feel completely safe and at peace with you out here,” I told her as we moved along the trail. More vert. More descent.
The air was cold, but it was also clear and crisp. The night got blurry and sleepy, but I never panicked. And the effort got very hard, but I never stopped moving.
This section was new territory. I had run through the night once before, but not after 62 miles and 14,000 feet of elevation gain through the backcountry.
My mind could only conceptualize the 8-mile countdown to Logan River, but I couldn’t think past that because everything was so unknown, so uncertain. Would my body hold up? My mind? Would the weather hold out?
I knew nothing except that I was taking another step forward. I didn’t let myself imagine the finish line because it would have broken my heart if I didn’t make it.
Logan River, mile 70.5 aid station, was quick. In and out.
Do not focus on how cozy or how sick the runners sitting by the fire look.
Only six miles till Beaver Mountain. Six miles till I see my crew. And even less till the sun rises and there’s light again.
Six miles feels very long when your core temp has plummeted and it’s only getting colder outside. And it feels very, very long when you’re not having a good time at all anymore.
Anah took the lead — a carrot with glowing lights on her pack, dangling in front of me.
I stayed silent in my pain cave.
Sometimes, I closed my eyes for three steps and then opened them again.
Sometimes, the rocks on the trail looked like mice darting around and squinting up at me with pinched, fuzzy mouse faces. Sometimes, I stumbled clumsily on the rocks and other times I jammed my poles harder into the ground to propel me forward quickly and smoothly.
Throughout the night, we saw friendly faces. Phil and Kent. Eric and his son. Short-lived energy boosts that dissipated quickly after the runners and their pacers faded into the night again.
When math stopped working in my brain, I stopped counting down the miles.
Instead, I whined when we had to climb again because every step felt like a monstrous effort. And I whimpered when we had to descend because my cold, stiff body was not handling the rocky descent well.
Stupid. This is so stupid and so miserable, and that’s all I know.
When I remembered that I was supposed to be catching up with my carrot, I shuffled my feet for as long as I could. And when I felt the storm moving upward in my chest, I shoved it back down.
Every step totally sucked.
But I stayed in control.
And the storm never came.
Part 6: Just Keep Moving
Miles 77-92
By the time we rolled into Beaver Mountain, the sky glowed pale pink and I shivered from head to toe.
The first thing Nino told me, as I vibrated in a camp chair, was that overnight, I’d shaved down over two hours and passed 110 people. He smiled so wide, literally glowing with pride and amazement.
“I’ve never been so excited to wake up from a nap and check your location. You’d already left Logan River by 4:30 and moved up a hundred places, so I knew you’d make it here before seven!”
Nino definitely wins MVP as my cheerleader.
Dawn and Kevin helped pull my puffy coat on and tuck three blankets around me. Nate brought me a hot coffee and breakfast: mashed potatoes and bacon, which actually didn’t sound bad. I nibbled the delicious salty bacon while Dawn and Daniel pulled off my shoes and socks. Dawn worked her magic on my blistered toes while I winced from heightened sensitivity, and Nino refilled my pack for the next sixteen miles we’d embark on together.
“So, this means I don’t have to worry about time anymore? For the rest of the race?”
“No, definitely not. You have plenty of time to spare now, and it’s okay if you slow down a bit. You have nothing to worry about,” Nate reassured me.
“Is Dave okay?” I asked.
“Yes. He and Lindsey left shortly after you. He’s doing better,” Kevin shared.
“Where’s Kayli? And did Maria finish?”
“Kayli’s still doing amazing as far as we know, and Maria finished third female!” They told me. Insane. The best news! It felt like good omens hearing that my friends were doing well out there.
Maybe I will keep doing well, too.
My body’s uncontrollable shaking from the cold led to back spasms and a pinched nerve near my right scapula. I was trying to stand up when intense, stabbing nerve pains sat me right back down.
“Something’s wrong,” I declared.
Dawn heated up the cold Voltaren gel with the warmth of her own hands while Nino did his best to lift up my layers while I continued to spasm. My entire body was so sensitive to the touch. I felt sick, almost feverish. Looking back at videos from this aid station, I looked kind of like a helpless toddler. But this is just what happens 25 hours into an ultramarathon.
Dawn rubbed the problem area with the gel while I made very cute faces, perfectly representing how uncomfortable my body felt.
Dawn fed me a Tylenol and stuffed hot packs in my gloves, and then it was time to stand up. I had stayed at this aid station longer than any other. Forty-six minutes is a long stop, but it’s over before you know it when you feel like shit and the only thing to do is Just. Keep. Moving.
Nino got my pack on me while I stood there like a penguin. Teeth chattering, I asked for more hot packs, of which Anah removed from her own gloves to tuck into my chest. So warm.
My leggings and underwear were growing ever more covered in my period, but I wasn’t going to take those off till it got warmer. Too cold. Too shaky. Don’t care.
The only thing I cared about in that moment were the hand warmers.
And we were off, Nino and I, along a flowy, evergreen and saffron-washed trail. I was so grateful for the light of day. I could see the beautiful leaves again, a pleasant distraction from how horrible I felt — like my body was going to crash out.
But it’s absolutely wild what our bodies are capable of. If your mind lets it, your body will keep moving. Even after a temporary shutdown, it will turn back on like an engine as it warms up again, organ-by-organ, limb-by-limb, finger-by-finger.
We had eight and a half miles till Peter Sinks, a natural limestone sinkhole sitting at an elevation of 8,164 feet. While Peter Sinks is home to the second lowest temperature ever recorded in the contiguous 48 states (-69.3 degrees Fahrenheit), it was sunny and pleasant as we hiked through its beautiful, spacious valley that day.
I asked the aid station volunteers if we passed through the cold part, and they confirmed we had.
“It got down to 27 degrees last night,” They shared.
I didn’t need any refills at this aid station, so I waited a moment while Nino stuffed his face with food. And while I stood there in a sleepy daze, my eyes adjusted and I saw a ghost, risen from the dead: Dave!
He and Kevin caught back up to us, and Dave looked back to his normal self! It was amazing to see his transformation. They sat down at this aid station (mile 83.5) while Nino and I moved on. A few miles later, they leapfrogged us one last time, and jogged ahead. Dave would finish strong!
Slow and steady. I asked Nino to lead so I could try to zone out, watch his feet, and hopefully move a little faster. But it was impossible to numb out. I felt every second pass by, and everything was suddenly very irritating.
The dumbass rutted out dirt road. The stupid rock gardens. My dumb, slow, breaking-down body. My stabby toes. Annoying Nino being all happy and stuff.
And fuck this steep downhill section right now.
“What the fuck is this?! I HATE IT.” I whined like a toddler as the trail steepened first downhill, and then uphill into the dumbest section of the entire race.
“100 miles isn’t hard enough,” I mocked the race directors sarcastically. “I know! Let’s wind the trail through one of the coldest places in the United States, and THEN!! Let’s add the steepest section of the entire race at mile 89!!! HOW ABOUT THAT?” I yelled at no one.
Nino remained in a jolly good mood the entire way. Even as I peed directly onto the trail in front of a pack of runners. As I complained about my period for the millionth time. And as we ascended a brutal single track climb that led to another brutal, steep dirt road climb filled with swirling clouds of ATV dust and fumes.
That whole section sucked. Zero out of ten stars. Just plain dumb.
Although, Nino seemed to weirdly enjoy himself.
We arrived at Burnt Fork, mile 92 aid station, after a creepy Christmas tree sang us the worst Christmas song we’d ever heard.
Last. Freaking. Aid. Station.
Part 7: The Finish
Miles 92-100
I was going to freaking do it.
One last beautiful aid station arrival moment filled with cheers from my crew. One last surprise mid-race visit from my friends, Chepe and Whitney. One more round of changing clothes, chatting excitedly, emptying and refilling packs, and refueling (omg omg perogies and pizza rolls and iced coffee).
One more doctor’s visit with Dawn, who smothered diaper rash ointment over my toes (Did I get that right???) and taped up my blisters, which had grown impressively in size.
Eight more miles till the real-life, actual finish line.
I wanted to hike most of it out, not that I was shuffling much at this point anyway. As much as I was mentally so done with this race, I also knew this was my last opportunity to soak it all in.
The ringing cowbell. The cheers from Dawn, Daniel, Anah, and Nate as they drove up the dirt road toward Garden City. The red maple leaf-strewn trails and rust-dusted mountainsides as we stepped ever closer to the Bear 100 finish line. The feeling of Nino next to me, death marching by my side.
And the lake — Nino and I saw it at the same time.
Synchronized gasps.
The rich turquoise out in the distance.
Bear. Lake.
With four miles to go, I cracked open the door of the library in my mind. Little Bitch Jessi was perfectly content in there, but some of her emotions seeped out. My heart felt heavy and sorrowful, relieved and astounded, concurrently numb and rich, confused, uncomfortable, gross, weird, proud, anxious, sad.
Everything hit me all at once, so I stopped in my tracks and cried.
“It’s happening. I’m feeling it. I’m crying.” I narrated the obvious, while Nino encouraged me to let it out and feel it all, while tears trickled down my cheeks and sobs escaped my throat.
I put my headphones back on and listened to heartbreaking, inspiring music while all the feelings coalesced in my chest, and the tears came and went and came and went.
It is hard to sit with all of your feelings after you’ve bottled them up for so long. I told Nino it felt like too much, like maybe my heart would crack or I’d puke or have a panic attack.
So he said, “How about you start telling me your story? Tell me about Bear 100.”
So I did. From the beginning.
Another mile went by as I walked and reflected and healed. It was painful to go back and revisit each piece of my story because the entire race was so incredibly painful — more painful than I’ve even been able to recall in the weeks after Bear as I wrote down everything I could remember and dug out the many emotions I had locked away.
It is truly so bizarre how emotional processing works. What I had to do to survive out there was something I never do. I never try to shut my emotions away; I normally try to sit with them like they’re my friends and let them guide me. They feel too big to lock up in cages.
But this race was different. As transformative and incredible and beautiful as it was, it was also traumatic, in its own way, to compartmentalize some of the really bad feelings.
But the fear, the panic, the doubt — they weren’t helping me out there, and I couldn’t let them consume me. So I suffocated them, and because I harnessed that self control, I was able to complete the hardest chosen adventure of my life.
Diving into my story with Nino was very emotional. I remember looking down at the maple leaves with three miles to go, acknowledging that I kind of hated so much of that journey. It hurt to feel. It hurt to move. It hurt to keep going.
But I knew it would have hurt worse to quit.
Two miles to go.
One.
My crew! Jumping up and down, waiting for me with a mile to go. We all moved toward the finish together, smiling, laughing, tearing up.
I picked up my legs and ran that last stretch of grass, and I crossed the Bear 100 finish line with my whole support system right behind me.
Anah, Nino, Nate, Dawn, Chelsea!!!, Lindsey, and Daniel. Dave and Kevin had waited for me, too.
I received my medal and buckle from Cody and the most beautiful, emotional finish line photos from Bethany — the marvelous Bear 100 race directors.
A surreal rush of feelings hit right on time. I’ve never felt like that or sobbed like that at a finish line before.
I’ve run many, many, many races throughout my life, but…
Bear 100 is my favorite race of all time.
I love you, Bear 100.
Thank you for loving me back.
