My alarm woke me up hours before the sun rose. Without words, I rolled out of bed, poured water into the kettle, and blended milk, berries, and chia seeds for a smoothie. Wearing a sloth onesie, I knocked on the guest room door, and Kayla sprung out of bed. With coffee in one hand and a smoothie in the other, we drove to the start line under the guidance of the Big Dipper.
Unable to find our runners in the crowd, we stood just ahead of the starting line hoping they’d see us as they ran by.
Three, two, one- goooooooo!
The announcer yelled, a tad too chipper for the wee hours of the morning, but so were me and Kayla. On the sidelines, we took our duties as the WOO! girls seriously, cheering for everyone who decided it was a good idea to start running at 5:00 a.m.
Headlamps bobbed by us in a sea of bodies running. We heard someone yelling, “HEY!!” as they approached with wide open arms. It was Travis! We hugged and he was off, with our other runners close by.
Travis and Ethan were running 50 miles, the longest of all the races offered. This year was a redemption year for Ethan, who battled an injury last year and stopped running at 31 miles, which was still a new record of longest distance he’d ever run. This year he was determined to make it to the finish line, and he did!
Kelly ran by us with his miniature rubber chicken tucked in his running vest. He was our only runner who took a charity bib this year, and raised $2,500 for the Glioblastoma Research Organization, a cancer that took his both his dad and mine.
The rubber chicken is a symbol for Ian, who carried a rubber chicken on backpacking trips, brought the chicken into work and strapped that foot long chicken to his bicycle handles on bikepacking trips. It’s a symbol of our grief but it’s also a symbol of carrying Ian’s wily spirit with us.
Kayla and I jumped up and down cheering for all of our 55k (34 miles!) runners: Julia, Angie, Bec, Slim, and Kelly.
This was also the first year ladies ran the race, which motivated me and Kayla to look at each other with raised eyebrows and say, “That will be us next year!”
I couldn’t help it, tears welled in my eyes watching them chase new personal records, not knowing if it was possible to run that far, attempting new distances they’d never tried before. So damn powerful.
For the third year in a row, friends trekked across the country from to Page, Arizona to run in memory of Ian, who died in 2023 while out for a run in the Colorado mountains. He was training for the 100 mile Antelope Ultra Race when he disappeared in the mountains.
Based on where Ian was found, we can assume he was having an awesome last day of his life. He chose to extend his run, which meant he was feeling strong after summiting a 13,000 foot peak and running for more than seven hours. He was absolutely crushing a long training day before he attempted to cross a flooded creek bed that took his life.
We run for Ian, with Ian, because of Ian. Ethan and Julia have a handmade sticker on their car that says, “Live like Ian!” which could be synonymous with “Do crazy shit!”
This was the first year that the weight of Ian’s absence felt lighter to carry. There was camaraderie in the air. Something about the third year excitement of returning to the desert to run felt more like a celebration of Ian’s life rather than a mourning of his passing.
It’s an awe-inspiring weekend, to say the least.
This year, we had our biggest turn out ever with a total of nine runners and three pacers in various races, running 19-50 miles each. Steph and Joey, who completed the 50 mile race last year, were pacers and support crew this year. The race has turned into a beautiful tradition that I look forward to every year.
It was both incredible and chaotic to have so many runners. The support crew couldn’t quite keep up with everyone. Crew members spent the day driving back and forth between course areas dropping off Advil, Gatorade, and dry socks. Sometimes waiting hours for someone to run by, just to see them for a moment and cheer, other times arriving the second the runners appeared, being there for a quick hug and sock exchange.
Costumes are an important tool for runner morale, and this year I decided it was time to bust out a rubber chicken inflatable costume on mile 20. I stood there waiting to race our runners to the aid station.
I challenged Ethan to a race to the aid station and kicked his ass, but after that the chicken head wouldn’t remain erect. It was until a few hours later that I found a rip in the crotch from running too fast in the fragile suit, which after some duct tape remediation, the chicken inflated fully again.
It’s wild to watch friends finish 20 miles, 34 miles, and 50 miles, year after year, like it’s nothing. Yes, they’re limping the next day. Yes, they get chaffing and blisters. Yes, occasional tears are shed. But they do the damn thing with glitter and smiles.
The night before the race started, we shared stories about Ian after a pasta dinner. Ethan joked that Ian might be judging us for sleeping in an Airbnb instead of camping. We all agreed he’d probably be sleeping in the Airbnb’s backyard if he was still here.
I think Ian would be in awe seeing us coming together, three years later, to run the longest distances we thought impossible, in his honor. I think he would laugh his ass off at us struggling in the sand, mile after mile, unable to believe that his friends would continue showing up for him like this.
Every year I say the same thing from the sidelines: “I want to run next year!”
Meanwhile I’m thinking: There’s no way in hell I could do that!
When Ian died, I clung to safety and security. The notion of physically suffering when I was already suffering so much emotionally didn’t seem appealing. Every year, I’ve been more than content to support and cheer in costume on the sidelines. But this year felt a little different.
This year, I wondered…why the hell not try?
Tracking nine runners online running three different course areas had my screen time total three hours that day, just on the tracking website alone. The constant refreshing to time out perfectly when I should arrive at which mileage was a different form of exhaustion than running. I spent the day driving back and forth, texting and posting updates, capturing photos of the runners, checking their location, grabbing supplies, and after ten hours- all I wanted to do was collapse on the couch.
For the first time since Ian died, I actually wanted to be out on the course slogging through sand, running through canyons, and licking my dehydrated, cracked lips instead of cheering from the sidelines.
So, for the third year in a row, I’m saying it: I want to run next year’s race.
I want to train. I want to get back on my bike (another thing I haven’t had the heart for since losing Ian). I want to overcome that nagging, boring voice in my head that says I should stay put on the couch where it’s safe. I want to watch my body build strength and endurance, where weeks pass and at first, one mile feels hard. Then four miles seems easy, then ten, then…fifty miles?? It’s truly a goal that I have no idea if I can accomplish.
I’m also hugely inspired by the book Running to the Gorge, where Emily Halnon deals with the grief of losing her mother through ultra-running. She talks about chasing that feeling of having no clue if you’re capable of something or not and doing it to find out. I want to get that mojo-jojo back in my life.
So. Stay tuned to see me kick some major ass.
Beth Henshaw 