I recently heard an analysis that suggested an interest in self-inflicted suffering was a symptom of narcissism, the narcissist elevating their self-importance by inflicting unnecessary woe unto themselves. I don’t have the background in psychology or neuroscience to understand if my motives were pure and noble, or a bit of low-grade debasement when I decided to attempt a one-day loop in New Hampshire’s Pemigewasset Wilderness.

In some circles, the Pemi Loop is considered one of the United States’ hardest day hikes. While you can dispute that ranking, it’s one of a dynamic duo of challenging single-day hikes in New Hampshire’s White Mountains that also includes the Presidential Traverse.

I’d done the Presi Traverse in 2020 as a bit of a test run to see if there was any hope of completing the 30+ miles and nearly 10,000’ of elevation of the Pemi Loop, at that point in my running career never having ventured much above 20 miles of travel. In early 2021, my grand plan was to parlay the fitness I’d accrued to complete my first 50K into a hill-climbing machine, complete with finely tuned quads with thousands of lunges hardening them into sinewy pistons.

Like most of my well-laid plans, the thousands of lunges and squats turned into dozens, and my training plan turned into more of a half-followed suggestion, and as my family made its annual pilgrimage north I found myself in early July well behind where I’d hoped to be in terms of strength and overall fitness. Not being one to let a minor detail like inadequate training stop me from creating an arbitrary deadline, I picked July 10^th, weather permitting, and set about working in some road time in the hills to at least get my fitness moving upward rather than nowhere.

As is usual this time of year in the mountain, the weather appeared uncertain, with the forecast predicting solid rains on the 10^th, then sun, and then drizzle through most of the morning as I laid out my gear and prepared to bed down early on the 9^th. My goal was a sub-15 hour loop, so I figured if I could get up around 3:30 and be on the trail by 4:30 after the hour drive to the trailhead, I would be in good shape.

My brain clicked on somewhere around 2AM, and I felt energized and ready to roll, so I carefully rolled out of bed in order to avoid waking my wife, grabbed a water bottle for the ride over, emptied my bowels, and loaded up my trusty running vest and hopped into the car.

What would normally be an astoundingly beautiful ride along the Kancamagus Highway was little more than a dark tunnel barely penetrated by my car’s headlights on the moonless evening, to the point that I somehow missed the turnoff for the Lincoln Woods visitors center. I only realized my mistake when I saw the first set of headlights I’d seen in the last 50 minutes slowing to make the turn I’d just passed.

I secured a parking space near the other flickering headlamps of fellow early rises, found the parking pay station after a brief search in the dark, gave myself a final pep talk, and broke into a trot as I started my watch, and crossed the bridge that would mark my start and finish line for the adventure.

This was timber country a century ago, and the trail away from the visitors center follows an old railroad grade, with the occasional railroad tie or piece of iron track still embedded in the well-worn trail. Unlike my Presi Traverse, where I had no goal other than finishing upright, I wanted to run where I could on this adventure and finish in (slow by Pemi standards) 15 hours or less.

The run was easy and nearly flat for the first 2 miles or so, and was ground I’d cover again on the return where I’d drop down from the mountains back onto the railroad bed for what was rumored to be a bit of a death march back to the parking lot. There’s a bit of debate on which direction is best for the Pemi Loop. My choice, going clockwise, had the benefit of putting the more aggressive climbing early in the day, when legs were fairly fresh. The main drawback was a bit over 5 miles of running on the railroad grade on tired legs and with a tired mind.

Proponents of the counterclockwise route suggested that getting the 5-mile run out of the way first resulted in an easier finish, despite a more challenging descent down Mt. Flume, which would be my first summit and the final summit for a counterclockwise loop.

I passed the sign for the Osseo Trail, marking my split from the railroad bed and transition to “real” hiking and a slower pace. I also passed, and was passed by, some fellow explorers. We shared morning greetings and that look of amusement, respect, and a touch of fear that one exchanges with fellow travelers on an unconventional adventure with an uncertain outcome.

The sun began to light the sky as I climbed the wooden stairs and ladders to the summit of Mt. Flume, and I was rewarded with a glorious sunrise that showed clearing skies and views across the wilderness.

One of the remarkable aspects of the Pemi Loop, which I’m not skilled enough to capture in a photograph, is that you can see the entire Loop from any of the six major summits it crosses. It’s awe-inspiring and frankly a bit frightening to observe the topography and distances involved, and I found myself glancing down at my legs somewhat suspiciously, as if they’d hoodwinked me into investing in a pursuit where the outcome was a bit less certain than I’d been promised.

As I worked my way across the ridgeline, I noticed a couple of “bandit” campsites off the trail, with occupants in various states of preparation for their day, as the Pemi is a well-traveled backpacking route. I wondered for a moment while they’d slept so late, only to glance at my watch and realize we were still in the 5 o’clock hour.

Unlike the Presi Traverse, which quickly gets hikers above treeline and largely keeps them there, the Pemi Loop has several valleys between summits, populated primary by the sweet-smelling scrub pine that often grows in lopsided triangles due to the constant winds, and I dipped into one of those valleys after exiting the summit of Flume.

The sun slowly rose to my right, and for a brief moment, I was trotting along, level with the golden orb as light streamed through the trees. I was making good time over Mt. Liberty, trying to keep my stops to a quick photo and brief sit, rather than the longer, more contemplative breaks I took on the Traverse, and soon found myself on the summit of Mt. Lincoln, with a majestic view of what was already appearing to be a significant amount of distance behind me, but a long portion of Loop remaining. I’d essentially started at 6 o’clock on a clock face, and had made it to 9 o’clock. 25% of the Loop lay behind me, and 75% remained, looming large in the distance, with the geographic high point, 5249’ Mt. Lafayette, up ahead.

There are a limited number of 5000’ peaks in this part of the world, so there are usually several day hikers, phones clutched in hand “doin’ it for the ‘gram,” but it appeared it was still early enough that most folks were out for longer hauls.

The climb to the summit of Lafayette was fairly easy, especially since I was already above 5000’ on Mt. Lincoln, and I had a stunning view that was reminiscent of one of those plaster representations of a mountain range. There’s one at the Pinkham Notch visitors center at the base of Mt. Washington, and I’ve seen similar setups where a 15×15-foot square has scale representations of the mountains, with trails drawn upon them. Rather than some godlike creature staring down on the mountains in miniature, I was a tiny speck on the life-size version of one of those maps, with views in all directions and a clear view of the journey still to come.

I left Lafayette relatively quickly, as the descent is fairly steep and rocky, and brings the traveller along the seemingly-endless Garfield Ridge, which is below tree line, and on this day was covered in the lone cloud pushing its way up the ridge like a slow-moving army attempting to overrun a wall.

The woods were damp and the trail rolling, with a few “mini summits” that would seem like they were about to break treeline, and then head back down again. I’d backpacked this part of the trail once before with my son, admonishing him to conserve his water as he sucked his hydration bladder dry, and a mile or so from the mid-point water fill at Garfield Ridge shelter, I sucked my own bladder dry, at nearly the same spot.

I considered wading into the woods near Garfield Pond to filter and fill, but managed to suck a couple of gulps out of my soft flasks as I emerged from the clouds and slog through the forest to summit Mt. Garfield. I looked back on the clouded valley and the journey ahead, now just about at noon on my imaginary clock face, and 10AM on my watch, a time that normally would have struck me as relatively early, but I now had seven hours of hiking under my feet.

I cruised down the summit of Garfield, a rather steep journey, although one that I knew would only get steeper after the spring. I was beginning to get thirsty and contemplated filling my bottles in the trickle of water running down the trail, but I knew I was a few hundred feet of descending away from a cool spring. I soon heard the incongruous sound of wood being chopped, and came across the shelter caretaker down some trail cleaning with her axe. I briefly considered “axe-ing” her if she enjoyed puns, but thought the better of it, said hello, and soon came upon the spring.

The spring was a cool and picturesque as I’d remembered it from my last journey, and I greedily filled my filter bottle, and squirted the refreshingly cool water into my mouth, pausing only briefly before filling another bottle and immediately draining it. This was the mental halfway point of the trip and the first of two “confirmed” water sources until I began the descent from the Bondcliffs, where I’d cross the Black Brook and had planned a third and final water fill.

After hydrating, filling my bladder, and enjoying a snack, I carried on, down the steep trail that seemed to have been intentionally designed to put the traveler in the midst of a near-vertical creek bed. After making it down, the ground leveled, I got in a bit of running and soon hit the border of what I knew on the route, as on my last trip my son and I left the Loop at the Franconia Brook Trail. I stopped for a picture, assessed how I was doing, and took my first step into the unknown.

The trail was wooded but generally rolling, allowing for a bit of what I’ll loosely term “running,” but was likely more of an amble. The trail began to climb slightly more aggressively, finally arriving at the Galehead Hut, one of the Appalachian Mountain Club “huts” that are an interesting mashup of backcountry lodge and primitive shelter. For my purposes, the hut had three objectives:

• A toilet of some sort that was sure to be better than a cathole on the trail, should I need it
• A final “official” water stop before I’d be relying on a river or stream, and perhaps most importantly:
• An opportunity for hot food

On my Presi Traverse, a cheese quesadilla at the Lake in the Clouds Hut had been a game-changer, and the affable young lady manning the grill suggested adding pork to a quesadilla, and also had a tray of delicious-looking blueberry cake on the table. I would have paid every penny on my person for this combo, and plunked down my cash and took a sit on the porch to enjoy the spoils of the hut.

I did cast a wary eye at the Twinway, a somewhat infamous portion of the Loop that ascended just over 1000’ in about ¾ of a mile, directly after the hut. I finished my grub, mindful of my 15-hour goal (the clock never stops for pit stops), tucked back into the hut to thank the woman for her exceptional culinary skills, filled one bladder and emptied another, and set off.

My plans of frequent leg work were based primarily on what I’d heard about the Twinway ascent, and I certainly could have used some extra explosiveness in my quads as I labored up the trail. My cardio system seemed to be OK, but towards the end of the ascent, I needed a break every few minutes to allow the lactic acid to drain a bit from my burning legs.

It wasn’t pretty, but I made it up South Twin Mountain feeling decent about my abilities, and feeling that the hard work was done. I could hear Robert Frost and his “miles to go before I sleep” echoing in the back of my mind, but I also had made it over the last large mental and physical speed bump and any question of not being able to finish due to anything short of a major injury.

I sailed along the Twinway, taking the few hundred-yard detour to bag Mt. Guyout and reveling in a classic New England ridgeline hike. I’d been continually working on transitioning to more of a forefoot stride over the past year, and while I was far from the soft-footed grace of the truly masterful runners who plied these mountains, I felt more sure-footed and slightly faster than I had along the Presi Traverse.

The final hurrah of the clockwise Loop is the Bondcliff Trail, presumably named for the dramatic cliffs along the trail. Braver hikers would venture out to a rock face for a classic picture, but my legs were feeling a touch rubbery, and I had no interest in a misplaced foot or sudden rush of vertigo sending me to my doom after so much hard work, so I watched someone pose at the edge of the cliff while I drank some water and got my bearings, slightly concerned that my water supply was again quite low.

An initially rocky and rather steep descent began to level out as I passed a few hikers heading up, presumably making an attempt to get to one of the huts before sunset. I was now out of water once again, and kicking myself for my poor planning. As the trail reentered the forest and the woods grew damp, some small streams began to crisscross the trail, and once they seemed significant enough, I stopped for a quick bladder fill, not wanting to wait until I crossed the brook.

Hydrated and feeling good, I broke into a fast walk as I descended, crossing Black Brook several times (now that I had water, of course) and finally hitting the old railroad bed where Black Brook merged with the Pemigewasset River.

This was the “death march” I’d been warned about earlier, and I mentally steeled myself for the almost five-mile slog along the railroad bed. My 15-hour goal was also looming large in my mind, and I was around the 14-hour mark as I hit the railroad bed. Having come this far, I broke into an amble, and did the mental calculations that required me to get a 10-minute mile pace to hit my goal with a little room for error.

My legs felt surprisingly cooperative despite the 25 miles they’d already logged, but I’d run for what seemed like a mile or two, only to glance at my watch and find a couple tenths had dropped off since the last time I’d looked. I started playing mental games, doing everything from setting minor goals based on a distant tree, to giving myself pep talks and singing songs, in what felt like an epic battle just to peel off the 1.6 miles to where we rejoined the Lincoln Woods Trail, the straight and flat shot back to the start/finish line.

I continued to invent games to push myself, alternating between congratulating myself and insulting myself in order to maintain the 10-minute pace. At one point, I saw a trio of people in the distance, and convinced myself it was a group of young adults that had passed me all the way back at the Twinway. I created an elaborate story in my head about how they’d run out of gas, and the old man they’d chatted with was now poised to “attack from the back of the pack.” I poured gas on the flagging flame of endurance I still had left, and convinced myself that they’d glanced back and seen me and were now picking up the pace.

As time had become compressed, this epic battle I’d created in my head probably took place over less than 10 minutes, and as I neared this group of incredibly fit mountain people that I’d somehow bested, I realized it was an overweight gentleman smoking a cigarette with his wife or girlfriend, and their pre-teen son, out for a carefree stroll at a pace that was unhurried at best.

Somewhat disappointed in the end to my grand competition, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the cut off for the Osseo Trail, where I’d headed up Mt. Flume 14 hours earlier was now in the rearview mirror, and it appeared that I could wrap up the remaining 1.3 miles of the Pemi Loop under my 15-hour goal.

The last 1.3 miles were a bit of a drag, although I finally passed some familiar landmarks, including a wooden fence along the river, and eventually could make out a sign on the trail in the distance that I assumed indicated the bridge back to the parking lot was just ahead.

Finally, I’d made an accurate assessment, and I ran across the bridge, mashed the stop button on my watch, and felt what was mostly relief at being able to stop moving, and also a tinge of pride and happiness that I’d just snuck under my 15-hour goal. I let out a cry of victory, presumably scaring the nice couple doing a photoshoot on the bridge as they quickly scurried away, and I hobbled on somewhat unsteadily legs up the stairs to the parking lot.

I’d left a recovery drink filled with ice in the car to celebrate my return, and it had become hot in the afternoon sun, so not quite the refreshing elixir I’d planned. However, the warm pink liquid was as fitting an end as the finest champagne as I toasted the mountains, perfect weather, and odd combination of circumstance and fortune that found me, a lowly water buffalo, in the woods of New Hampshire with 31 miles of mud, mountains, occasional pain, and a massive quantity of joy seared into body and brain.

I grew up in New England, and like most humans in the area who were somewhat proximate to Boston on Patriot’s Day, I spent several of those school-less Mondays watching the Boston Marathon.

I would assume that I had a similar train of thought to many of the non-runner spectators. Starting with admiring the lean physiques and blistering pace of the elite runners, the focused effort and grim determination of the high-level amateurs, and then seeing the glimmer of the everyman towards the middle and back of the pack, and the sudden spark of inspiration and possibility entering a dark corner of my mind, and my internal monologue saying “Hey, you could do this…”

For most of the population, that thought perhaps evaporated into the mental ether as quickly as it arrived, but during my college years it inspired me to lace up my running shoes and hit “the Rez,” a loop around a local reservoir near the actual Boston Marathon route. Decades on I don’t remember the exact details of that effort beyond quickly getting winded, and shuffling back to my dorm red-faced, panting, and determined that I’d been dealt an inferior genetic hand at the table of life, and simply “wasn’t a runner.”

In hindsight, an expectation that a near-sloth who could crush a six-pack of Keystone Light would suddenly spring from the Barcalounger and knock out six-minute miles on his first run was, shall we say, misguided, but for whatever reason, I’d believed the hype that there were arbitrary winners and losers of some genetic lottery, creating “runners” and “non-runners” in the world and I was consigned to the latter. I repeated this cycle a couple or three times over the years, but my short-lived marathon dreams were ultimately shelved.

Fast forward about a decade, and thoughts of starting a family were forcing some hard health-related decisions. I had a job that required extensive travel, and after trying all manner of health routines “on the road” I began to grudgingly accept that running was the only fitness routine I could reliably perform in just about any environment on Earth. Nearly everywhere on the planet had enough connected, flat surfaces to offer space for running, and even the rattiest hotel gyms usually had a semi-functional treadmill. Determined to make running work for me, I turned to the internet and discovered “Couch to 5K,” a program with a description that instantly resonated with my current fitness levels, a goal that seemed reasonable, and a program that laid out weekly goals that started with a whole bunch of walking, and promised a foolproof path to the then mythical-sounding 5K.

I’m a staunch advocate of C25K, and recommend it to everyone, as it ultimately launched my running career. I survived that first 5K, and was hooked on the experience of setting a goal, following a training program, and realizing that goal. I still remember rounding the final corner and seeing the finish line of that first 5K, and feeling a bit of surprise that I’d done something I’d convinced myself was impossible due to a misguided notion about what my mind and body could actually accomplish.

5Ks and running events in general are easy to find, and after a few 5Ks, the 10K seemed like a reasonable objective, and just over a year after I started running, I completed my first half marathon.

Despite getting to a level of fitness where the half marathon was no longer a daunting undertaking, a full marathon seemed a world away, and I comforted myself with soothing platitudes about how it would be “unfair” to my family to dedicate all that time to training, or how I might injure myself, or some other rationalization about why I could leave the marathon distance as some mythical and elusive beast lying in the grey area between reality and dream. Then, something happened.

At the recommendation of a coworker, I read David Goggins’ Can’t Hurt Me. I strongly suggest you go buy the book immediately, and I don’t think I’m providing a major spoiler (he covers this in the introduction), when I say that the primary message of the book is that humans in general are capable of way more than we realize. In essence, our brains are wired to keep us safe and comfortable, but by brushing up against what we’d deemed “impossible,” we’ll likely find far more capability than we’d imagined.

Mr. Goggins’ no-nonsense and no-excuses approach is both compelling and shocking in its simplicity and starkness. It may not be for everyone, but it resonated with me. With some colorfully-phrased “Goggins-isms” in my head, I did something that was personally unthinkable after dismissing a straightforward marathon for all of my life to this point. I signed up for an ultramarathon: a 50K trail race.

I chose the distance as it seemed vaguely doable, but also scared the crap out of me as someone who’d run a maximum of around 15 miles on a pleasant spring day on a flat, paved trail.

My 50K training progressed surprisingly well, and after several weeks I was happily banging out 16-mile trail runs on my local trails. About 75% of the way through my training, I had an oddly timed business trip, which coincidentally ended up being my last pre-pandemic business trip, that overlapped my scheduled 18-mile run. It was in Chicago on a day that was well below freezing, and rather than hit the windy city in the early hours and risk getting sick, the treadmill and I went to battle around 3AM, completing the 18-mile run to nowhere in time to shower and get to work.

I think the treadmill was just a shade out of level, and my knees felt a bit funny after that adventure, although I assumed it was something I could “walk off.” Unfortunately, the symptoms only got worse, and during my next long run, I had to punch out early due to growing pain in both knees.

Like many public events in 2020, my 50K soon fell victim to the pandemic, providing an easy scapegoat when I’m not sure if my knees would have been able to handle the race. Feeling a bit dejected, I again shelved my (now Ultra) marathon ambitions and worked on getting my knees right.

In the spring and summer, I started running in earnest once again, and capped my summer with a Presidential Traverse in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I recovered well, and I attributed part of that recovery to a stronger focus on strength training.

With a minor victory under my belt, I signed up for another 50K, this one closer to home, on familiar trails. I followed the same training program I’d previously used, but was more diligent about the strength days and including stretching in my routine, something I’d generally done in a somewhat haphazard manner. I spent most of the year working on modifying my running stride. I was a certified heel striker, and theoretically, that sent the shock of each step right up into my knees, a scenario exacerbated by distance and the increased stress of running on trails. Shifting to landing on my forefoot would allow the foot to act as a shock absorber and reduce the stress on the rest of my body. This was not as easy a change as it sounds, and nearly a year later it’s still not 100% natural, although I no longer have to consciously remind myself a dozen times during a short run to shift my stride.

I also took the advice of “some dude/dudette on the Internet” that there was limited physiological benefit to running for more than three hours, so I reduced my long runs, doing only about four training runs over 20 miles, with the longest at 24 miles. I arrived at “race weekend” feeling reasonably-fit and, perhaps more critical, injury-free.

I’d also been working on seemingly simple things: tuning up my clothing so I didn’t overheat, managing my “nutrition,” endurance athlete-speak for overpriced sugar water and what’s basically candy, and identifying anything that might chafe, rub, or otherwise go from minor annoyance to potential problem over the course of 30-odd miles of running.

The course was three 10-ish mile laps, and I’d spent a fair amount of time training on the route. I had successfully run two laps in a previous training session, so I mentally broke the race into three 10-mile runs, and set my primary objective to be getting through the aid station and starting the third lap. I figured that I’d finish if I could take those first few strides into lap 3, and that felt like a more approachable goal than thinking about the entire distance. I was a man with a plan.

The day started off a bit brisk, with temperatures just above freezing. I picked up my bib, and found a spot in the start/finish area to lay down my “bag of tricks,” which consisted of a portable chair, Nalgene bottles filled with various drinks (Skratch labs-branded sugar water for lap 2, caffeine-enhanced sugar water for lap 3, and a recovery drink), extra food, spare socks, anti-chafe, and a short-sleeve shirt. I did my pre-race pee, pinned my bib on in the comfort of the heated bathrooms, and then moseyed over to the start.

I’d heard a lot about the camaraderie of Ultra running, and the joys of chatting with total strangers about life, the universe, and everything as you suffered together, and indeed I’d experienced this on several of my training runs. However, on account of the COVID-driven wave start format, narrow trails, and seeing several other people donning headphones, I grabbed my set as well. This “just-in-case” decision ended up being wise, as I found myself alone for most of the race. Before you shake your head in disgust at my lack of safety consciousness, worry not, as I’d recently upgraded to Aftershokz Aeropex, awkwardly-named but brilliant headphones that leave your ears open to the world. There’s an oddly-delightful sensation to having music and being able to hear your surroundings, as it sounds a bit like someone is following you while carrying a giant boombox.

The race director muttered a few words that I could barely hear from the rear of the socially distanced group of about 40 people, representing the “everyone else” wave of runners. We were the last to embark after top-seeded men, women, generally awesome folk, assorted others, and then us. With a wave, we were off, my first of what I hoped would be three departures from the start/finish area that went down what was essentially a straight fire-road, which turned downhill after a few hundred yards, crossed a suspension bridge, and then headed into singletrack for the rest of the lap.

I had a bit of a home-court advantage, having run this same route several times, combined with most of my short trail running career occurring on similar terrain. This area is noteworthy for punchy, short hills, roots, and mud. We were lucky in that we’d had a few rain-free days, but there was still some slop on the trail to keep things interesting.

My race plan was simple: in addition to my primary objective of starting lap three, I planned to keep my heart rate firmly in Zone 2. This should allow me to make reasonable progress while minimizing the risk of “blowing up” by trying to go too hard. With no real data on how my body would perform past 24 miles, I wanted to play it safe for my first 50K attempt.

Even at this somewhat restrained pace, I was able to pass a few people and find my rhythm. The first aid station was around mile 5, and I breezed through, grabbing some water and an elbow bump from the voluteer. A bit past mile six, I ate one of the Gu Stroop waffles I was carrying and felt great. The course winds around a small lake before climbing a hill to the start/finish area, and as I worked my way up the rise at the end of lap one, I was pleasantly surprised to see my family there, cheering me on. Our initial plan was to have them come out for the final lap, so this was an unexpected surprise that lifted my spirits significantly, and whatever minor grimace might have been on my face was replaced with a beaming smile.

It was a bit strange to round a familiar corner to music, people, and all the accouterments of a race. I grabbed a PB&J at the aid station, filled my bottles, changed my shirt, and attempted to give my daughter a sweaty hug which she skillfully dodged. These tasks took about five minutes, after which I was back on the trail, realizing a few miles later I’d forgotten to pack this lap’s waffle in the excitement of seeing everyone.

At this point, I was largely alone on the trail, seeing other runners at some of the intersections where the course looped, but otherwise lost in my thoughts and listening to whatever song shuffle play decided to pull from my running mix. I had some crackers at the aid station, a gel a bit after that, and at this point found myself on the back half of the course, with nary a human in sight. I did an impromptu (and likely out of key) singalong with my music, performed a mental systems check and found everything in OK condition save for some hip pain, and trudged up the hill to the start/finish area. I was likely a bit slower this time but broke into a huge smile when I saw my daughter dancing and waving a “Go Dad Go” sign at the top of the hill.

I was slightly more efficient on this pass through the start/finish area without the shirt change. I topped up my bottles with my Lap three drink mix, remembered to pop a waffle into my vest, and downed a few aspirin for the hip pain. Seeing the kids and focusing on refueling and logistics made embarking on lap three, an act I’d built up in my pre-race game planning to near-mythical status, a non-issue, and it was only a few minutes later that it sunk in that I was on the home stretch.

The aspirin began to kick in and my hip pain faded, and I set my mental goalposts first at achieving a new personal distance record at 24.1 miles, and then at achieving the elusive marathon distance. Just shy of 26.2 miles, I hit the aid station, grabbed what was the most delicious half-bag of Cheetos in the history of my life, and eventually looked down at my watch to discover I was finally a marathoner. Cool.

I began to come across more people out enjoying the warming weather, and the miles seemed to tick down until I was on the final couple of miles and could see the start/finish area across the lake. I also noticed a runner in front of me, the first I’d seen in what seemed like the entire lap. I’ll often pick a one-sided battle with another runner during races, challenging them to a sprint finish, a challenge of which they are of course completely unaware. In what must have been the most plodding and unimpressive running battle of all time, I gradually closed the distance and moved up a spot in the rankings, exchanging smiles and heartfelt pleasantries with the runner as I passed.

About 0.5 miles from the finish, the trail passes just below the start/finish area, so my family met me at this point, and my oldest son joined me for the last segment of the race. I chatted mindlessly, and threw my remaining energy at conquering the previously-insignificant hill that seemed to have grown exponentially with each lap. I crested the hill to find my wife and other two children, and the four of us ran the last dozen yards, hand in hand, while my wife cheered us on.

I let out a primal yell as I crossed the line. Nearly three decades after seeing my first live marathon, and hearing that tentative and timid voice in the back of my mind saying: “Hey, maybe you could do that someday…” I had finally arrived at “someday.”

Cons

• Ventelation isn’t great with the fly down. I had a fair amount of condensation every morning so ended up packing a damp tent even on dry nights
• The supplied pocket is nice and large, but I have no idea why they didn’t put one on each side
• You need to do a bit of “tent yoga” to get dressed inside
• I would have loved about 2 more inches of length as my feet hit the bottom of the tent

Bottom Line and Vendor Relationship(s)

This is a solid solo bikepacking tent that checks all the boxes: it’s light, straightforward setup/takedown, and keeps you dry. There’s a decent amount of headroom, although the low foot area requires you to turn on your side to dress/undress. There’s good shoulder room and my 6′ 2″ mass never felt claustrophobic or cramped. The small packed size would allow storage on your bars or in the cage, and it fits horizontally in panniers. Definite buy when on frequent sale.

I have no special relationship with Sierra Designs, however I’ve owned their tents for years, and my beloved single-wall 4-person family tent started disintegrating. I contacted them and was disapointed to discover that new “environmentally friendly” coatings apparently self-destruct about about 7 years, and internet research confirmed that diagnosis. After some email back-and-forth their warranty department offered me 40% off which I used to purchase this tent.

You can buy this tent through your favorite suppliers. Sierra Designs seems to offer fairly frequent sales as do the “usual suspects” like REI and Backcountry.com I won’t provide an Amazon “affiliate link” since Amazon pricing seems much higher than others. Please do check out the bicycle trouing gear list for any shopping needs and use those links to fund water buffalo leach removal.

Detailed Review

I secretly love tents, a love that started when I setup my first Eureka Timberline at some sort of scouting function when I was 8 or 9 years old. I was fascinated by the shock-corded poles (SNAP, so cool!), and amazed by the little plastic tube with carefully oriented holes that held the three poles of the A-Frame together. Every time I get a new tent I get excited to see what tricks tent designers have come up with as they’re usually so simple yet ingenious. I remember getting my first tent with color-coded poles and corners, or my first tent with lightweight Easton poles. In some ways I’d really like to meet a tent designer, although in other ways I feel like I’d be a bit let down, like when you find out your favorite celebrity has a drinking problem or “political awakening” that triggers ham-handed twitter posts.

I was excited to get the Sierra Deigns High Side as it’s been years since I’ve owned a 1-person tent, and it was billed as being designed with bicycle travel in mind. It’s a svelte 2.5 lbs with the footprint, and has a neat “awning” feature that allows the door-side rain fly to be configured as a large vestibule, awning, or large “screen door” when rolled up.

At a list price of $280US it’s not cheap, but it goes on sale fairly regularly, and someone once suggested I think of tent prices in their “hotel night equivalent.” So on a six-night trip where OK hotels might average $75/night, the tent pays for itself on night 4. Maybe this is a silly psychological game, but I’ve also found that regardless of how many people it sleeps, you generally need to get into the $300 range to get into the “sweet spot” of water resistance, quality assembly/materials, and light weight.

Setup

Assembly is fairly easy. I purchased the matching footprint as I usually do, and once I’ve found where I want to setup, one rolls out the foot print to start. The key to remember is that the corner with the red grommet is the back non-door side. Next time I have the tent out, I’ll probably write that in silver sharpie on the footprint since it might save the 50/50 gamble of setting up on the wrong side, although adjustment only takes a few seconds.

A quick word about picking a location for your tent: obviously somewhere flat that is not the lowest spot in the area (lest you find yourself in an impromptu lake during a rain), but also avoid any large branches overhead if possible. You don’t want anything falling in a wind or due to sheer dumb luck and end up trapped, busted up, or dead.

With the footprint out, once lays out the body of the tent, matching the “red corner” to the footprint, and stakes the 4 corners. Next are the poles, both color coded and quick to affix to grommets and clip in. I liked that I could straddle the tent and work from back to front, making initial setup fairly quick.

Next is the rain fly, with similar color coding. This is where things get slightly nuanced, in that you need to Velcro the fly to the poles before attaching the corners using plastic clips. These Velcro loops are key for correctly positioning, and maintaining proper tension on the rain fly.

Fly attached, it’s important to stake out all loops on the fly. If your fly isn’t well-tensioned, water can pool in the foot area as I discovered during my first night in the rain. Nothing leaked, but there was a “divot” of water dangerously close to my feet that I avoided during future rainy nights with proper tensioning.

During this process you’ll have to decide on your “awning” configuration. There’s a large section of rain fly at the door that can be fashioned into an awning by guying the corners to a tree or bicycle. This seemed super cool when I read the marketing material for the tent, but I didn’t find myself using the awning configuration, probably because I didn’t have any rain during mealtime on my outings with the tent, which is where it would seem to be the most useful. I did appreciate the large vestibule, and the ability to roll it up and have a nice view of the universe, while also having the ability to quickly batten down the hatches, an ability I tested when my Spidey sense woke me up moments before a downpour one evening.

All in all, setup is easy and straightforward, and I never found myself wishing for a third hand or foot as I have with some other 1 or 2-person tents.

Living in the High Side

Not-a-newsflash: 1-person tents are small. However, my 6′ 2″ girth fit well, and good shoulder and torso room never made this tent feel claustrophobic or “coffin-like.” I slept fine on back and side, and could toss and turn without much worry. Getting dressed is a bit challenging, as the tent is low by your feet and mid-section. The relatively obvious (as in “d’uh, why didn’t I realize this 2 nights ago obvious) solution is to roll on your side for donning and doffing pants and socks. You’ll still get a low-grade ab workout for shirts, but the high-ish roofline near your head allows for a god degree of arm flailing. I could not however sit up, and I would imagine you’d have to be quite small to do so.

There’s good room for gear around your head, and I could stash phones, batteries, headlamps, and various junk near my face without it getting in the way. There’s a single, large pocket made of mesh materials that’s great for stashing things like lights and hats that you don’t want to hunt for, although it’s odd they only supplied one such pocket.

I was also pleasantly surprised by the vestibule space. When cycling I usually have clipless bike shoes and some camp flippy floppies, and I could stash shoes and helmet in the non-door vestibule, leaving the large door area for other gear. A full-size backpack seemed like it could even fit.

Disassembly is equally easy, and the large door makes tasks like rolling up an air mattress and stuffing a sleeping bag straightforward once the rain fly is removed, since one can squat outside the door and work on those objects as they sit inside the clean tent rather than dragging them out. I haven’t (yet) had the “pleasure” of setting up or disassembling camp in a hard rain, but in that case I’d try and rig the awning such that it would keep rain off my stuff, but allow enough access to pack.

Rather than a traditional stuff sack, SD has adapted a “burito bag” across most of their tents. Picture a traditional sack, but cut open along the long side rather than the short end. This bag presumes you’ll fold and roll your tent rather than “stuff,” and allows you to put the rolled tent easily into the bag, and then cinch it all up. It’s hard to explain, awkward to do the first time or two, and then a superior solution to the old way. It’s also nice that the stuffed package includes the poles, and it all fits nicely in a pannier, cage, or bar/seat bag.

Those steamy nights

You can’t beat physics, and in this case putting a hot, steamy, bag of bones that tends to enjoy breathing in a small space, and wrapping that space in material designed to not allow the passage of water is going to create condensation. During cool nights I’d wake up to a fairly wet rain fly each morning, although the design of the fly generally allowed any beading water to roll down the sides, keeping me dry. The bummer of course is that one then has to pack up a wet rain fly and then hang it on a line to dry a bit in the evening before attaching it to the tent. The dampness of the fly also dampens the tent (and adds a bit of weight), but setting up the tent and leaving it empty quickly cures that problem.

The tent has a couple of vents that can be propped open, but again a 4″ x 2″ vent isn’t going to get all my hot, moist air out. I did try rolling the “awning” of the fly up a couple nights, however it was usually rather humid so I’d have a layer of condensation on my sleeping bag in the AM, rather than just on my rainfly. This technique should help in a dryer climate assuming no rain.

I’m not sure how this issue could be mitigated, and it’s certainly not unique to this tent. It is designed such that you and your sleeping bag don’t get wet, and the mitigation is some air drying before the next step, so it seems a reasonably tradeoff as one must make when dealing with small tents that don’t cost a small fortune for magical fabrics.

Buy, or Pass?

Buy. This is a light, thoughtfully designed, compact tent for one, that doesn’t make you feel like you’ve been put in a sack by someone with a New Jersey accent, and are about to be tossed in the back of an ’89 Impala.

If it’s under 60F the tent WILL be wet in the morning, but a few shakes and some “air time” at the next campsite is a decent alterative to lackluster rain-proofing or a $800 tent made of space-age polymers.

I’d heard all the quips and received all the looks that come with a large dude pedaling furiously while perched upon a tiny-tired folding bike, but if I was worried about looks I’d be sitting behind a SnapChat filter. “Clown bike” or not, I couldn’t help but love the incredibly practicality and intriguing engineering that comes with a folding bicycle.

The grand philosopher of early 90’s hip hop, in sharing his thoughts on voluptuous derrières quipped: “I like big butts and I cannot lie.” For reasons unknown, Baby Got Back was running through my head as I stared at the package on my workshop floor, although instead of the good Sir’s opener, my lizard brain had edited the lyrics to “I like folding bikes and I don’t know why.”

This was factually correct. I’d long held a strange affinity for folding bicycles, without really fitting in the market for which they were targeted, save for a brief stint as an urban commuter. I acquired my first folder, a Dahon, while living in the suburbs, to tool around in the neighborhood in addition to my road bike. When work moved my family to Paris, I grew frustrated with relying on the Metro, which was crowded when operating, and subject to not-infrequent strikes, and I acquired a Brompton folder from a Paris-based shop. This made good sense living in an apartment on the 4eme etage (the French way of saying the 5th floor) of a walk-up apartment, and it was a blast to zoom to work in La Defense, flip my folder closed, and stash it next to my desk, and slightly less wonderful but still preferred to leaving it outside, to schlep the folded package up to our apartment in the evening.

I brought the bike back from Paris, selling it several years after our return in a bit to reduce our growing bicycle fleet, although I still missed the fun of riding my red “clown bike,” although from a purely practical perspective it didn’t make much sense when my adventure bike was perfectly suited to tooling around town when not exploring further afield.

I’d assumed folders were in my rearview mirror, until perhaps I returned to some hip city and became the cool old guy on the wacky bicycle, but a desire for a tandem for my kids and I had me reach the surprising conclusion: a folder was a viable option for a tandem.

I wanted a tandem with a widely adjustable “stoker” (aka the copilot/rider in the back) that would accommodate my kids as they grew, or when we changed stokers, and also allow for the slight possibility of my wife joining me, should I catch her at a moment of weakness when she’d be willing to sit behind me and be seen in public on an odd-looking contraption.

I discovered there were essentially two out-of-the box options if you wanted this range of adjustability: the Comotion Periscope, and the Bike Friday Family Tandem or Tandem Twos’day.

My initial search was biased towards the Comotion, and I looked for used examples, which proved difficult. It seems there’s a small circulation of these family tandems and they’re quickly snapped up on the used market, with examples in good condition selling for basically new bike prices after shipping was factored in. I also began to consider how I’d transport a tandem on our family adventures that were further afield, and began examining special tandem roof racks and other options in what was becoming an increasingly complex and costly venture.

I then saw a used Bike Friday tandem pop up on one of the classifieds. It wasn’t exactly what I initially thought I wanted, but the idea of a folding tandem was intriguing. Some YouTube research indicated it was far from the 60-second fold of my old Brompton, but if I could disassemble the bike in 10 minutes or so, into a package that would fit into the back of a vehicle, that suddenly started to make a lot of sense, especially if the alternative was putting the roof rack on the car, adding a special tandem carrier, and hoisting a heavy bike above my head and then remembering not to drive the bike-laden car into the garage maiming house, bike, and car in one fell swoop. A further benefit is that the bike supposedly packs into a suitcase or two, and would allow easier transport on future potential overseas bicycle adventures.

While continuing to waffle and watch classifieds, Bike Friday announced a 20% off sale for COVID, and that seemed a low-grade omen and reason to pull the trigger. The company, based in Oregon like fellow tandem maker Comotion (what’s in the water out there that puts everyone on tandems?!?!) offers a few standard builds, as well as the option to essentially build the bike to one’s exact configuration, using most commercially available parts.

I could add racks, custom wheels, a dynamo hub, and even pick the paint and cable color. I believe these options are available for Comotion as well, although Bike Friday seems to market their bikes as primarily “made to order” versus Comotion who seems to have a more establish dealer network and “off the rack” bikes in circulation.

I exchanged emails and calls with a gent named Peter at Bike Friday, who happened to have a young family and own a tandem himself, and was able to provide some helpful advice on the bike configuration. I also was able to provide measurements so they could tweak the frame to my specifications.

Perhaps the only wrinkle in the process, like all things these days, was the source of my 20% discount: COVID. Bike Friday provided an initial delivery estimate “by August at the latest,” which ultimately slipped to mid-October, presumably due to challenges in the supply chain as well as the silver lining of COVID: humanity suddenly realizing that bikes are a helluva lot of fun and buying every example available.

After about 7 months from plopping down some funds to an overburdened FedEx driver arriving at my door, I was finally able to open the surprisingly small box.

I worked my way through the rather extensive set of bubble wrap and zip ties, gradually amassing a collection of tubes, tires, and cables. The essential elements of the bike are already assembled, with derailleurs and brakes installed and cabled, bearings pressed, etc. Basically anything that’s fit together by hand remains the province of the end user.

As one would expect in the 21st century, a card directs you to an online installation manual and associated YouTube video. The YouTube link didn’t work directly, but I’m old school so I started with the manual and began fitting things together.

As I assembled the parts I noticed the paint was a little “rough,” and looked like it might have been the last job on Friday before happy hour. A couple of emails with Bike Friday and they agreed to repaint the bike once things had normalized a bit, which seemed like a satisfactory solution.

Assembly was fairly straightforward, and required nothing more than a 4mm, 5mm, 6mm Allen wrench, and a pedal wrench (or use your 6mm if your pedals have a 6mm socket on the spindle). Apparently Bike Friday will supply these tools if you purchase the travel case, but if you’re buying a folder I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect one would have these tools.

There was one basic potential area to mess up, which was installing the bottom mid-tube, which I installed backwards, only to realize the error of my ways when the cables were flopping in the breeze as the cable mount meant to provide tension was on the wrong side of the bike, a 5 minute fix (you can see the tube is backwards in the image below).

The rest of the assembly consists of mounting seat posts, bars, seats, and pedals. Again nothing too difficult. With the bike assembled, I took a maiden solo voyage around the block, just to get a basic feel for the bike before adding my copilot.

After 300+ miles on my loaded tourer, the bike felt “different,” with more sensitive steering and that indescribable but neither good nor bad “folder” feel. If you’ve never ridden a folder, there’s a slight strange feeling of not having anything in front of you as you’re missing the front triangle and steerer tube that’s usually between your legs, and the expance of wheel. I’d equate it to taking a ride in my grandfather’s 1970’s Cadillac where there were miles of hood in front of the driver, and then switching to a modern compact car, where it suddenly felt like your face was on the pavement.

The other big surprise was that the bike felt nimble and almost too “normal.” It didn’t feel like I was towing another set of bars, saddle, pedals, etc.

 Satisfied I’d performed assembly correctly enough that the bike wasn’t going to catastrophically disassemble, I added my daughter to the mix. We planned which foot we’d “launch” from, called out a countdown, and shoved off. Once again, the bike felt fairly normal. There was an additional heaviness with the added passenger, and I’d occasionally feel a bit of extra push or drag on the pedals, but as we both giggled in glee while riding around in a circle everything seemed rather normal, and interestingly after our first lap naturally figured out how to balance in conjunction with each other rather than acting independently. I could finally see why “tandem nerds” referred to themselves as “teams.”

We embarked on a full tour of the neighborhood, each time completing a loop and glancing at each other and nodding “again” as a question and statement.

After several laps and bemused glances from the neighbors, I swapped stokers for my older son, who had been waiting as patiently as a 10-year old can. It was there I discovered my first wrinkle to tandem life. My son launched from a stop much like he would on his mountain bike, using the handlebars as a lever to swing himself onto the saddle.

I’d not tightened the quick release for my saddle to Hulk-level, and his force twisted my seat post several degrees off center. This created the wildly strange sensation of my saddle shifting as I sat down, unbeknownst to me, while the bike was simultaneously going from a stop. This created a unique and unexpected situation as I sat and faced the direction my body intuitively thought it should go, but instead the bike started going in a slightly different one. My natural reaction was to slow my pedaling and “debug” the situation, but my son was in full mash mode, so the pedals kept turning, sending my mind reeling as everything 3+ decades of bicycling told it should be happening was seemingly not occurring. Assuming something was horribly wrong so I called a stop, and was somewhat relieved a fairly mundane issue like a slightly loose quick release had created that unsettling feeling.

The obvious next stage of the game was to add my smallest child to the mix, and hook up our Chariot trailer. I strapped in the 5-year old, had my daughter return to stoker, and pushed off around the neighborhood to more laughs and funny looks, again rather surprised how normal and stable it all felt. The only clue that I had a whole bunch of additional bike, a trailer, and two other humans occured when I went to slow down, and double the force seemed to be required to achieve an expected amount of braking force. I’ve long been sold on disc brakes, and in this case they almost seem mandatory.

Aside from the paint and a minor cross-thread in a pedal, the bike seems incredibly stable and strong. I also received racks and fenders that I’ve not yet installed, so I fully expect that this bike will live up to Bike Friday’s claim that it will quite happily serve as a trusty steed for loaded touring, and I’ve seen several trip journals and photos attesting that I’m not the first to make such an assumption.

I’m planning to take this crazy contraption on a slightly more significant ride than just around the block, and also need to try to folding function, but so far it feels like this clown will fit right into our circus.