Beyond the Buckle: What Ultras Really Teach You
In August, I drove out to Sisters, Oregon, ready to take on 100 miles of trail from Bend to Sisters. The plan was redemption, a comeback, a storybook ending to a season that had already thrown me some curveballs. But the truth I learned out there is this: in ultrarunning, the finish line is never the whole point.
The Dream Race
Back in January, I entered the lottery for Cascade Crest 100. You can’t just sign up — you have to be chosen. Cascade Crest is legendary: a race that winds through the rugged Cascades outside North Bend, Washington, with 23,000 feet of climbing, steep trails, and a community that comes back year after year. The race starts at the Easton Fire House, and if you’re lucky enough to make it 100 miles, you’re greeted with cheers of “Welcome back to Easton” at the finish.
I didn’t get in at first, but I made the waitlist. I did my required volunteer work, submitted my qualifier, and trained like I would get the call. Alone in the rain, in the dark, climbing hill after hill — I put in the miles not knowing if it would even matter. Four weeks before the race, I got the email: I was in. My dream race was happening.
Curveball #1
Three weeks before Cascade Crest, I lined up for a local 50-miler — my last long run before the big day. At mile six, I tripped, ripped open my knee, and instead of celebrating at a finish line, I was in the ER getting stitches. Just like that, Cascade Crest was gone. My stitches were coming out only days before the race. There was no way to heal and be ready for something that demanding.
It was crushing. Months of training, months of anticipation — gone in an instant. But my friends weren’t about to let me quit on the year. They encouraged me not to give up on the 100-mile dream, to try again a little later. That’s how Oregon Cascades 100 came into the picture — a race just a few weeks down the road, offering me a second shot.
The Comeback
I rebuilt. Slowly at first, then with more confidence as my knee healed. I pieced together a strong training block, reminded myself I could still do hard things, and focused on being ready when race day came around. By the time I lined up at Oregon Cascades 100, I felt prepared. My crew was there, my pacers ready, my knee solid.
And it worked. The trails were smooth, my legs felt good, and my spirits were high. I was an hour ahead of my predicted splits, and everything pointed toward the epic comeback I’d been dreaming about. I pictured that finish line photo, finisher buckle in hand, smile plastered across my face.
Curveball #2
But ultras are nothing if not unpredictable. A wildfire had broken out days earlier, many miles north of the course. As the winds shifted, the smoke thickened, the air quality dropped, and nearby evacuations pulled away essential volunteers. Fourteen hours into the race, the call came down: the event was canceled. Runners were pulled from the course. I had gone 60 miles, but that wasn’t enough.
No finish line. Again.
Redefining the Finish Line
It would be easy to call that failure. Two races, two finish lines missed. But the truth is, the finish line is not the ultimate goal. If it was, then months of early mornings, long nights, dark runs, and tough climbs would mean nothing. And I can’t accept that.
The finish line can be a goal — a motivating one — but it can’t be the entire point. Because the real lessons of ultrarunning live in the training: learning to be strong, adaptable, resilient. To show up when it’s raining, when it’s dark, when it’s hard. To fall and still try again.
And isn’t that life, too? Sometimes you work hard for a degree and never use it. Sometimes marriages don’t last despite your best efforts. Sometimes the promotion doesn’t come, or the business fails, or the 100-miler gets canceled. Was all that effort wasted? Only if you decide the finish line was the only thing that mattered.
The Real Wins
Looking back, here’s what mattered more:
Watching the trail come alive under a headlamp in the early morning.
Spotting the first trillium blooming in spring.
Surprising myself by climbing 9,000 feet on a training run and realizing I was stronger than I thought.
Laughing with my husband while wildly overpacking drop bags.
Sharing quiet, rainy miles with my dog Sonoma on Hamilton Mountain.
That first bite of lunch after back-to-back 20-milers, when food tastes better than it ever will.
Having friends who volunteered to crew, pace, and lift my spirits when things didn’t go as planned.
Those were finish lines in their own right. I crossed them over and over, and they’re what I’ll carry with me long after any medal or buckle would’ve been hung up.
The Takeaway
Sometimes, there won’t be a finish line. Not in racing, not in life. And that’s okay. Because the training, the journey, the lessons, the moments — they are worth it on their own.
So don’t put your worth on one line in the dirt. The finish line is just a small part of the story. The real victories happen long before you ever get there.
Final Thought
When you remember that, the pressure lifts. The next time the trail throws a curveball, or life takes away the ending you pictured, you’ll still walk away with something better: strength, perspective, and stories worth telling.
