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.”

You’ll have to pardon the superlatives, but the Greater Allegheny Passage (GAP) and Chesapeake & Ohio Towpath (C&O) are truly national treasures. I’d read about these directly connected bicycle and walking trails several years ago, and the idea that there was a car-free, unpaved trail between them seemed fascinating and unfathomable at the same time.

I’m 24 hours post-finishing the ride from north to south, and wanted to capture some initial thoughts, and you can find a more detailed trip journal starting here. If you’re more of a “give me the summary”-type, here are the highlights:

• 330 miles of interconnected trail, of which probably 0.4 miles is shared with vehicle traffic, and maybe 4 miles of which is paved. Don’t let the lack of pavement scare you, conditions on the GAP range from “better than most roads” to very good, and conditions on the GAP have recently improved.
• On a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being “freshly paved German roadway,” and 1 being “gnarly, rooted, rocky, single track that you should walk your bike down” the GAP probably averages a 9 and is an 8 or so at its worst. The C&O has been recently updated, with several sections of 9. On average I’d say it’s a 7.5, with some shorter sections of 6. In short, anyone can ride it, on just about any bike. I’d ride the GAP on a race bike, but would opt for something with wider tires on the C&O, but by no means so you need anything more specialized than a hybrid with wide-ish tires. The GAP was largely like riding on glass, while the C&O at its worst was similar to what I’d experienced on other rail/trail projects with some ruts, rocks, and the occasional root.
• The trails are former railroad beds and a pathway for mules towing barges, so the “climbing” is virtually non-existent with grades maxing out around 3%. If you go north to south there’s a good 45 miles or so where you’ll slowly climb from around 800′ to 2300′ at the continental divide, before descending back to 700′ over the next 20 miles. You then spend 185 miles gently dropping from around 700′ to 60′. Reverse this from south to north, where you’ll have an imperceptible climb to the start of the GAP, where you’re then faced with 20 miles of slightly more aggressive climbing before gently dropping down to Pittsburgh.
• The major cities at each end provide excellent transportation options, from air, to rail (Amtrak), to rental cars. I did a one-way rental to Pittsburgh, then took Amtrak home from DC.
• Despite the major cities at each end, you enter “the country” rather quickly on each end, so there’s little urban riding. I was surprised that I was “in” DC and could hear, but only rarely see, traffic until about 1-2 miles from the end of the trail when I saw Georgetown.
• There were many times where I felt like I was the only soul alive, and had the trail completely to myself, yet rarely did 30 minutes pass before I passed another rider or walker. There’s a great balance of isolation and a feeling of remoteness, and support should something go awry.
• On the GAP you go through a town every 20 miles or so. I ate lunch and dinner in town each day. The GAP seems a bit more remote, and I cooked dinner two nights although I believe I could have gone 2-6 miles off the trail to hit a town if I wanted.
• Camping is plentiful and largely free. The only time I paid for camping was $15 in Meyersdale, PA which included a shower, power, and a nice location in a festival ground. On the C&O there are “rustic” campsites every 4-12 miles run by the NPS that include a water pump, port-a-john, and fire ring. These range from OK to excellent sites overlooking the Chesapeake and are frequent enough to allow you to ride until you’re tired without a ton of forethought. The only wrinkle is some sites do not have a pump handle to access water. Check the latest NPS list, which I found to be accurate here (scroll down to the “Remote Faucet List”).
• It looked like there was ample lodging on the GAP, ranging from chain hotels to local motel and B&B options, to Airbnb. The C&O has fewer trail towns so would likely require more planning or longer mileage days if hotels are your thing.
• I did the entire route over 6 days, essentially averaging 60 miles per day. I was in no particular hurry, so averaged between 10-13mph, which made for 4-8 hour days in the saddle. I never felt overly tired or like I’d pushed too hard, but I did spend some focused time riding before this route and have done rides up to 110 miles before. You could easily do this route in 20-mile days. Due to the prevalence of towns and campsites it’s really up to you and by no means do you have to be a “cyclist” to handle this route.

What Worked

1. The route. If you’ve ever considered riding this route, just stop waffling and go ride it.
2. One-way car rental was incredibly easy. I walked from my house to get the car (a Ford Escape if memory serves) and was able to load my bike and bags in the back of the car with the seats folded down. The rental return was around 0.2 miles from my hotel, where I wheeled the bike into my room, then wheeled out the next morning.
3. My bike (2014 Salsa Fargo) and most of my gear were great. The hero of the trip was the Patagonia Nano Puff jacket I almost didn’t bring. Temps ranged from 70F to 30F and that guy saved my bacon both in camp, and when starting my rides most mornings as it was much colder than I’d planned.
4. Arm and leg warmers. Provided lots of flexibility for variable weather.
5. Tent. I eventually figured out how to move “properly” in a small tent and the weight savings and setup/tear down time were worthwhile versus a larger tent.
6. Ding dong. The bell! There are a lot of walkers near towns lost in their thoughts or conversations (as they should be) and a nice polite ding seemed to be better received than “ON YA LEFT!” shouted over and over.

What Didn’t Work

1. I should have paid more attention to the weather. Temps swung wildly, and days that started in the 30’s and 40’s would hit the 60’s by lunchtime. My last day I started riding at 38F and finished in 70F. I didn’t pack enough warm/layer-able clothes.
2. I have mixed feelings on bringing the iPad. I rarely used it save for the first day and on the Amtrak ride home and it was a heavy/bulky item. I did really like viewing and editing photos on it, but simply didn’t have enough time to write journal entries on the road by the time I’d setup camp and the sun had gone down. I was also ready for bed by 8PM each night.
3. My grand plans of swimming and doing laundry did not really come to fruition. It was too cold to swim and many campsites didn’t have good river access. I did laundry twice, once in the fancy campsite with hot running water, and once in a C&O campsite with the well. It helped, but I’m not sure how much, or if I could dedicate the time to washing a set of clothing every day.
4. I have mixed feelings on coffee after every trip. I have a little French press and it makes great coffee, and there’s nothing better than a warm cup of good coffee on a cold morning while breaking down camp. The problem is that it adds around 60 minutes to breaking down camp once you factor in stove setup/takedown, getting water, boiling, then washing everything.
5. I should have taken my own advice and more diligently applied anti-chafe cream. I have a minor case of “monkey butt.” Nothing bad after 6 days in the saddle, but it would be a potential problem if I was going to be out for another 6 days.

To reiterate, if you’ve ever even vaguely considered riding these trails, stop considering and start moving to execution. If anything about cycling, history, nature, and just the right amount of solitude appeals to you, you owe it to yourself to ride one or both of these trails.

I’d made a miscalculation. Whenever I’m executing a longer activity, whether building a deck or running any meaningful distance, I’ll play mental games and break the larger effort down into chunks, calculating percentages, estimating travel times, setting interim goals, and all sorts of meaningless mental gymnastics both to provide a nearer-term goal, and to keep my mind occupied. In this case, my gamesmanship had underestimated the distance between my first water stop at the Madison Springs Hut, and my next water stop at the summit of Mt. Washington by about half, causing me to take on about a liter of water at Madison Springs rather than the 2 liters I should have taken on.

This miscalculation was brought into stark relief when I felt the slight increase in resistance as I sucked on my hydration bladder, while staring at a couple miles of exposed, bolder strewn ridge line between me and my next water stop.

The day had started well enough, despite this being a bit of an ad-hoc endeavor. I grew up in New England, and had made dozens of visits to the various summits of the Presidential Range over the past three decades, but only in the last few years heard of the “Presidential Traverse,” a single-day hike or run (or in my case, what we’ll call an “amble”) across seven summits over the course of about 20 miles, with around 9,000′ of elevation gain. Like all things discussed on the internet, there is of course debate about which peaks should or should not be included, and whether a traverse is “legitimate” based on some keyboard warrior’s definition.

I typically ride the Tin Mountain Century 110 mile bicycle ride each summer, but with COVID lurking the ride was cancelled, and with a desire to do something difficult, and what felt like just enough fitness to pull it off, I found myself buzzed awake by a 3:30AM alarm clock, which had me standing at a dark and quiet Appalachia parking lot in Randolph, NH by 4AM. Headlamp on, I locked the car, donned my trail running vest, took a last “nature break” and then walked forward into the tiny beam of light thrust into a dark and quiet forest.

The initial ascent up the Valley Way trail was straightforward, and save for a couple of huge toads that leapt out of my way and inspired a small leap on my part as well, there was little company save for the bubbling of Snyder Brook and rapidly fading sound of the occasional truck or car. I don’t do a lot of night trail running, but it seemed a fittingly solemn time to consider the task at hand. This would be my longest run/hike, over tough terrain, into an area known for rapidly changing and potentially deadly weather.

Sun began breaking through the trees as I approached the saddle between Mt. Madison, the first summit, and Mt. Adams, and the trail became increasingly rocky. According to people smarter than I, these mountains were once rugged peaks similar to the Himalayan mountains in height, only to be ground down during the ice age from muscled, tall teenagers, to hunched old men, with countless granite boulders the eons-old “sawdust” that remains from this grinding process. This provided Mt. Washington the nickname “the rockpile,” which is apropos and almost makes one wonder if there’s really a mountain under what seems to be the world’s largest stack of giant, abrasive granite chunks.

I made decent time to the Madison Springs Hut, attempting to pace myself to keep my heart rate in Zones 1 and 2, to prevent any risk of a bonk, preferring “slow and steady” for my first attempt at a traverse. After verifying that the rumored taps were indeed in place and operational at the hut, I took a quick left and summited a windy Mt. Madison. Every time I’ve hiked in the Presidentials, the wind is a constant companion, and I’d armed myself with a light “solar hoody” that I donned for the ascent. Sitting on the summit, the clear skies and rising sun provided a view of what lay ahead, and I felt cautiously optimistic that all systems were “go” and I’d covered about half the vertical for the day.

I ambled down the Madison summit, returning the way I’d come while passing a couple other people out attempting the traverse. Upon reaching the hut, I filled my hydration bladder to about half it’s 2 liter capacity based on the overly complex and wildly inaccurate calculations I’d made coming down the summit of Madison, and after a quick Clif bar, I was off on the Star Lake trail and the summit of Mt. Adams and more classic White Mountain “bouldering.”

 The weather was growing surprisingly warm and windless, exceptional since there was still snow on the mountains a few weeks earlier. Around the time I realized my water miscalculation, I also discovered that my iPhone, which was serving as my camera, had a setting buried deep in the “Accessibility” menu that had apparently been turning the device on repeatedly in the pocket of my running vest, draining about half the battery over the first 20% of the hike.

Phone problems resolved, water problems realized, and Adam summited, I descended to the Gulfside Trail, part of the storied Appalachian Trail, summitting Mr. Jefferson and marveling at the Gulf of Slides, a massive boulder pile off the western side of the mountains. The trail then joins the Cog Railway for the final push to the summit of Mt. Washington. The railway essentially uses massive gears as wheels, pulling up a toothed “track” that allows the engine to claw its way up the steep slopes. In my youth, the railway was still steam-powered, and you’d hear the unmistakable huff and puff, and steam whistle as it chugged up the summit with loads of summer tourists. Now, it’s apparently powered by biodiesel, the plumes of coal smoke replaced with more environmentally-friendly exhaust, and the pleasant sounds of steam locomotion unfortunately replaced with a dull droning.

If you’ve never been, the summit of Mt. Washington is a surreal place. Not because of its legendary weather, granite-strewn summit, or tales of lives lost trying to reach its heights, but because it’s readily accessed by any human willing to hop in their car, or pay the fare for a Cog Railway or “coach” (aka Ford Econoline van) ride to the top. It’s a bit like crossing the finish line to a marathon, and amongst a few exhausted fellow runners finding hundreds of people wearing crocs and eating Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

I’m all for ensuring everyone has access to the outdoors, especially since access can be the first step to longer explorations and preservation, but as my burning quads pushed me up to the summit one of the first things I saw was a couple of rather portly fellow citizens walking out of the summit building and promptly dropping their bag of candy and soda, Skittles and Coke spraying like a rainbow grenade.

The line for a photo on the actual summit was 40 deep, full of people that hadn’t expended more than a dozen calories to walk from their car to the official sign, so I snapped a pic a dozen feet shy of the actual summit and hustled on in search of water.

Due to COVID the summit building was closed unless you’d made a reservation, so I was directed to a tap near the parking area. At this point I would have drank swamp water, but what flowed from this innocuous and jury rigged rubber contraption was nothing short of the nectar of the gods: ice cold, crisp, and delicious water that tasted so pure I swear I heard angels singing as I greedily quaffed a half-liter from a soft flask.

I must have regarded the gent who was filling his bottles with such hungry eyes that he immediately paused and gestured for me to return to the tap. Two liters immediately consumed later, and I was ready to fill my hydratinon bladder for the next segment of the journey to the Lake of the Clouds Hut.

The hike down from Mt. Washington to Lakes was joyful. The sun was shining, and I felt strong, a feeling that only grew as I watched people stuggle up to the summit of Washington since this was a common hike for people that had taken a car up as the distance seemed quite reasonable on paper, their apparent stuggle fueling my feeling of strength. I guess it’s unkind to get strength from the struggles of others, but for  along time I was the unfit, overweight person huffing and puffing rather than the person with half the traverse under their belt.

The Lakes in the Clouds Hut was open in a limited capacity, and I was less concerned with their COVID-related modifications than the fact that they had cheese quesadillas available. It was unclear whether the quesadilla was in fact the most wonderful cheese-filled concoction I’d ever consumed, or my body was craving anything hot and calorie-dense, but the quesadilla was borderline life-changing.

Now full of vim, vigor, and cheese, I ambled away from the hut while occasionally stopping to admire the miles I’d treked.

After Lakes, the crowds thinned out a bit, and the hiking was more undulating and fast, with incredible ridgeline views up on over Mt. Monroe towards Mr. Esienhower.

“Ike” presented a bit of a challenge, with a slight “kick” up to his summit. Eisenhower was also the beggining of the end of the stunning ridgeline views, and the trail began to duck in and out of scrub pine. I was beginning to feel the effects of the miles, and surprisingly, the heat. I’ve never been hot above the treeline in NH since there’s always rather agressive winds and cool temperatures, but today the air was so still that bugs were out, another phenenomon I’d never witnessed.

On some level I was getting to the point where I wanted to be done, but the “finish line” was just far enough out of reach I needed a bit of a pep talk, and proceeded to give myself exactly that as I found occasionaly opportunities to run with minimal fear of twisting an ankle. The undulating and comparably fast terain lasted until past my final summit of Mt. Pierce, where the trail then dropped quickly to the Mizpah Springs Shelter and my final water stop.

Thankfully my GI system had held up like a champ, as the hut bathroom was full of flies and funkier than James Brown, so a quick and final water fill, nosh on a Clif bar, and I was off for the final push.

After a welcomed level section, the trail rejoined the Crawford Path for a boulder strewn final couple of miles to the Highland Center in Crawford Notch. This was tough on my feet and ankles, which were ready to call it a day, and mentally tough as the feeling of just wanted to be done accelerated. At one point I swore I heard a crying child, and sure enough, rounded a corner to find a husband and wife with two small chilren in carriers, the smaller one blissfully asleep while the larger one screamed about wanted to walk. Not wanting to intrude on a tense negotiation I gave a quick hello and continued down, joining the rather lovely Gibbs Brook and eventually hearing the sweet sound of automotive traffic.

I got a few more yards of running in, and then made the best sprint I could muster after 14 hours to cross three lanes of Route 302, just past the summit of one of my favorite climbs on the bike.

I met my family, who was roaming the parking lot just as I burst through the trees after crossing 302, a meeting that could not have been better planned had I attempted anything beyond an “I should be in the parking lot in about an hour” message I’d sent via my Garmin InReach as I descended from Mizpah Springs. Hugs and high-fives exchanged, we loaded into the car and began planning the logistics for rapid ingestion of beer and a recovery burger.

This is a classic hike, and while I missed my loose 10-hour goal but a rather significant margin, my pacing and rest stops kept me well away from any bonks or significant struggle. I’d undertrained for the effort since it was a somewhat ad-hoc endeavor, so that drove a more cautious pace on my part.

In retrospect, I wouldn’t have changed anything about this as a first, solo, attempt. I didn’t end up needed my wind shell, gloves, or emergency biouvwac, and probably could have travelled lighter, but it was cheap insurance and it all travelled well in my running vest. My minor water planning mishap was a stupid error but not irrecoverable based on the number of hikers, and my only other regret was not applying sunscreen more dilligently as the cool weather and altitude conspire to burn persons of pallor a bit more agressively than you realize.

I’ll likely be back, perhaps with company, or perhaps I’ll step up to the other NH classic single day hike and attempt a Pemigewasset Loop. If you have reasonable fitness, good weather, and are looking for a challenge, a Presi Traverse should be in your future.