From the PCT to the Siskiyou Out Back

A story about my first race since running across Oregon last summer.

The first steps of my 50-mile race last weekend were familiar ones.

Under the dusky light of the early morning, we jogged toward a strip of singletrack framed by massive evergreens.

It was the PCT. I stepped onto it and smiled.

The last time my feet touched this stretch of ground was August 1st, 2020. The first day of my FKT attempt on the 460-mile Oregon PCT.

As we ran out of the dry forest and into an alpine meadow, I felt myself transported back to that first day on the trail. I remembered starting with Ian at the California border, with headlamps glowing and the silhouettes of trees lining the dark path. My legs felt fresh and springy, and I laughed at them, knowing it would be a fleeting sensation. But savored it, while it was there.

I remembered the quiet dawn – and how the sun cast soft light across the sky as it snuck above the blue mountains.

Most of all, I remembered the joy I felt as I put one foot in front of the other. Each footfall into the soft earth grounded me in what I was doing: celebrating the life of my brave mother with the biggest and boldest run of my life. And no matter what happened, I had showed up ready to tap into every last ounce of myself, trying to be the fastest person to run across Oregon.

The race course unraveled up and down the same rolling hills that welcomed me to the PCT last summer. I felt the satisfying memories of that first day on this trail fill me up.

It was fitting that my first race since that run was back here, where that 8-day journey began.

So much of my 50-mile race through the Siskiyous felt inextricably connected to that run.

My fears around putting myself back out there after such a successful effort.

My decision to do it anyway – because as my dear friend Danielle reminded me when I told her I was scared to race, “you are not someone who doesn’t do things because you are scared!”

And, then there was my curiosity about how my PCT run would translate to my next races and runs. What would I carry with me from that experience? More grit? Greater resilience? New strategies for combating butt chafe and big toe blisters?

As I ran through the flower-flooded meadows, I thought about how long it had been since I had last raced. Like, really raced.

The last time I pinned a bib to my split shorts was at Cascade Crest in 2019. But, I had no real expectations for myself that day.

It was a summer of cancer. We had found out that my mom’s first round of chemotherapy had been unsuccessful just weeks before I headed to Easton. I’d been hyperventilating on long runs and skipping miles to remain curled up in the fetal position on my bedroom floor.

Just showing up at that 100-mile race was enough.

The race before that one was the summer of 2018, a handful of weeks after I broke my wrist during an ugly encounter with a downed log. The log won and I spent the summer bouncing around with a cast, which got cut off just a few days before the race. And again, it felt like a victory to show up at all.

And the race before that, I sabotaged my taper with back-to-back 10-hour mountain runs just 10-days before the start – which is not a recommended way to rest for a 100-mile race.

I couldn’t remember the last time I started a race with a real time or place goal burning in my head and my heart. And with the intention to run my very best run that day trying to get it. Other than the PCT, of course.

As I ran through the early miles of the Siskiyou Out Back, remembering all of these half-hearted runs, I wondered how much of that was the way life had collided with these runs and how much of it that I had sheltered myself from the vulnerability of desire? From being open to the letdown that can accompany caring about something and not getting it?

That’s certainly what I had done initially with this 50-mile race through the Siskiyous. I had protected myself from potential disappointment by downplaying my interest in the race.

“I’m kind of training for something,” I’d say, if someone asked.

“I guess I’m signed up for this race in July, but I don’t really care that much about it.”

“I’m just doing it because my friends are doing it.”

“I didn’t even know you were signed up for a race until you wrote about it a couple of weeks ago,” my brother texted me the night before the race.

But when I crowded into that start corral under a waking sky, I did care.

I didn’t want to give myself an out. I wanted to show up and try my hardest – and see what I could do.

I wanted to be able to look back at the race and know that I threw down an honest effort to run the best 50 miles that I had in me that day.

I had a whole list of goals stacked in my head. Place-based ones. Time-based ones. Effort-based ones. Enough goals that no matter who showed up, or what the conditions were, I would have ways to know whether I tried to have my best day. There would be no fooling myself.

I started off the race jogging next to a handful of my Eugene friends and then tried to settle into my own rhythm. My mantra for the race was “flow, then go.”

A rhyme as cheesy as a block of cheddar to remind me to start smart and finish strong.

I floated along the undulating trail, letting my natural stride carry me at a pace that felt smooth and controlled. And when I caught myself pushing too hard on a hot and dusty climb, I exhaled out a “flowwwwww.” And reeled myself back in.

The day was hot, and the air was thin, with the trail weaving around 6,500’ above sea level, it would be easy to get in trouble with too much exertion, too early. I felt the sun beating down on my bare shoulders.

I thought about the second half of the race – when I wanted to be able to do what I had showed up to do: race. Not just finish this run, but race.

“Flowwww,” I whispered with a long breath out, reminding my legs to shift into an all-day gear. There would be plenty of time to push hard later.

I started to cross paths with some of the 100k runners who had started an hour before us.

 I was running past a big pile of boulders when one of them cried out to me as I ran by.

“You’re the first woman!”

“Really? I’m not sure I am,” I said. I remembered a woman in a yellow shirt sprinting ahead when the race started. I hadn’t seen her again.

But more people echoed that report as I kept going.

“Flow, then go,” I repeated for the 117th time, trying to keep the adrenaline from those cheers from getting me in trouble.

I finally let myself ask about my place at the Potlicker Aid Station at mile 31.5.

“Can I get some water in my bladder with ice?” I asked the volunteer.

“Also, do you know if I’m the first woman to come through for the 50 miler?”

My voice dropped to a sheepish whisper, like I didn’t want her to know that I cared.

“I think you are!” she exclaimed, as she handed me delightfully chilled water.

I stuffed some ice down my bra, thanked the volunteer, and darted out of the aid station, opening up my stride as the trail peeled down a forested hill.

The course dipped back into the woods and started to climb. My legs were feeling the miles. My legs are always feeling the miles after six hours of running. That’s when I get to decide whether to push through the fatigue – or succumb to it.

“What do you want, Emily?” I asked myself, looking up at the slow climb unwinding through the woods.

I started to run up the hill. My steps were charged and strong. There was determination pulsing through the fatigue and it propelled me up the grinding ascent.

It was time to go.

When the course looped back to that same aid station a few miles later, the same volunteer found me and yelped, “you are definitely the first woman!”

“Awesome!” I yelped back. “Let’s keep that up!”

My voice had shifted into a more excited tone than its sheepish whisper. This time, I let her know that I cared.

The course followed a gravel road for the next few miles. It was a slow grind. The kind of terrain that you know is runnable – but that you don’t necessarily want to run when you’re tired.

But I knew I that could. I kept running.

The final 3100’ climb back to the finish line at Mount Ashland was steep and relentless – with pitches that made me spit dirty words at the dirt beneath my feet.

As I hiked up it, pushing my poles into the dry trail, I thought back to my PCT run again. I’d been so curious about what I would carry forward from that run.

There was no doubt I was armed with more grit. The PCT showed me just how much I can endure – and it’s a lot. And that grit was with me when the miles got tough during my race.

But, I thought about the reason I had started that run in these same mountains last August. Because my mom had helped me realize that I’d lost my drive to chase bold goals, and to show up willing to risk heartbreak trying to get what I wanted.

She inspired me to reignite that part of me through my 460-mile run across Oregon.

And that part of me had showed up again at the start line this morning. And was on this relentlessly steep hill, fighting to have my best race.

That part of me had told myself, and an aid station volunteer, that today, I wanted to win.

And as I pushed up that climb, I felt how good it felt to try. And to care about what happened.

And maybe that was the best thing I carried forward from the PCT.

I was realizing that I don’t want to keep sheltering myself from the possibility of disappointment. I want to care about my running and racing. And I want to show up ready to leave it all out there chasing down big and exciting goals – even if it means I might have to deal with the hard emotions of falling short.

Because that vulnerability of desire is like so many other kinds of vulnerability. Where there’s the possibility of getting stuck with our hardest emotions, but there is also the possibility of finding our very greatest ones. The big love and big joy that we’re not going to get unless we’re willing to risk big pain and big heartbreak. One of the greatest comforts that I’ve found through the hardest loss, is knowing I was willing to open myself up to the great love that I had on the other side of that loss. I am a person who cares with every bit of myself, and that can be brutally hard at times, but I believe it also the most beautiful way to live.

When I lined up in the start corral at 6am and cared about my race, it meant I might be shattered by the result. But it also opened the door to another outcome.

When I got to the summit of Mount Ashland, I could see the finish line a mile below me. I bounced down the ski hill and ran across that finish line after 9 hours and 50 minutes of racing, as the announcer shouted out that that the women’s winner had arrived.

I don’t think the smile on my face could’ve been any bigger. That 50 mile race through the Siskiyous had reminded me how good it feels to care.

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