Kettle Moraine 100
Kettle Moraine 100 is known for selling out fast. I knew this spring would be a heavy lift—starting grad school and adjusting to it with all of my other life roles. But training has to be part of life, and I’m at my best when I have a goal ahead of me. I wanted something tough near the end of spring, but flexible enough that I could ease up on training if needed. This Wisconsin race was the last of the Midwest Slam events I hadn’t run, so I decided it would be my A race—if I could get in.
Registration opened on January 1 at 11 a.m. Central Time. We were driving home from a family trip to Ohio, so I set up registration in the car, ready to hit submit right at 11. I got a message saying I was on the waitlist. The race sold out in less than five minutes. But about 30 minutes later, I got an email from the race director: I was in.
I pulled out my old training plan from Burning River back in 2020 (same distance, similar terrain and time of year) and adapted it to fit my new life schedule. Even though I only took one class, it felt like a full-time job some weeks. I wanted to make sure my family and work didn’t suffer because of this goal. But the class mattered, too. Finding balance was a real challenge. I learned quickly how set in my ways I am. I had to replace my afternoon lounge time with study sessions that often stretched to midnight or later. Weekends became all about what was due Sunday—and many runs had to fit around those deadlines.
Long runs got shorter, but I found creative ways to stay active. Jump squats in the bathroom at work 3-4 times a day. Standing at my desk as long I could while working. Anything to offset missed miles.
I put a 50-mile race on the calendar as a training run for Kettle. It was in southern Indiana, close to home, with about 10,000 feet of climbing—a true test. April 19 was literally the only weekend I had without something due, so we headed to the KT in Borden. Well…I went out too fast, and I think I was doing statistics in my head when I twisted my right ankle. I’d heard people say they’d heard their ankle pop when they twist it for real and this time, I did too. I’ve twisted ankles plenty of times in training and racing and usually bounce back after some walking. Not this time.
I hobbled a few miles and dropped at the 10-mile mark. The next three weeks, my ankle was swollen, bruised, and sore. I could bear weight and flex it, which was painful, but manageable. That gave me hope: maybe I could heal in time to run 100 miles in early June. The KT course looked perfect for a serious training cycle, and I really wish I could’ve finished it. That race is going back on my calendar for 2026. If you’re reading this and want interested in Knobstone 50 hit me up and lets make travel plans for 2026!
I didn’t run for six weeks after that April race. During that time, I was also finishing up race director planning for Hawthorn Half Day (HHD) on May 24 and a hard research project for my grad class. I had plenty on my plate, so I just went with the flow and tried to stay focused on what was in front of me. Having a race to plan ended up being just what my soul needed and I decided to keep Kettle Morraine on my radar.
For two weeks before the hundo, I eased back into running. I stayed on flat ground and built from 3 to 8 miles over four runs, taking rest days in between. I kept up flexibility and strength work, and it seemed to help. But breathing was a different story. After six weeks off, running felt like starting over. Each effort felt like I was breathing through a straw. Even the mental boost from a run was missing. But the energy from HHD kept me going.
We had a family trip to Florida planned the week before the race, and it turned out to be just what I needed. It was hot and humid, and my ankle felt better than ever. I pushed my pace to help regain breathing efficiency and got in a few strong runs. After we returned, I did a 14-mile run. Then it was race week. I did a few 5-milers, still on flat surfaces. I wasn’t sure how my body would respond on trail, but I was ready to try.
Friday around noon, I drove to Wisconsin solo—no pacer, no crew. Just my “Majel’s Mojo” playlist, an obligatory gallon jug of water to consume, and miles between myself and anything pulling at me. As I got closer, the countryside opened up. I could tell this would be a rugged race, as it's on the Ice Age Trail. I had something in me for this race that I hadn’t felt for awhile.
I arrived at packet pickup around 6 and set up my drop bags: one at Hwy 12 (miles 77 & 86), one at McMillers (mile 44), and one at Nordic (start/100K/finish). I skipped Hwy 67 (miles 27 & 36), thinking I wouldn’t need anything before mile 44. More on that later. Hint hint: I was wrong.
It didn’t rain like the forecast called, but it got hot. A tricky breeze made it feel cooler than it was, so I underestimated my electrolyte needs. I didn’t get real fuel until mile 44. The aid stations were well-stocked, but it wasn’t enough. I needed more than I could take in at the stations. I could’ve carried some, but I have a weird thing about putting electrolyte fluid in my bottles. I dry scoop the powder (don’t try this for the first time during a race!) and chase it with water. Same for instant coffee grounds. IYKYK. I wish I’d dropped fuel at Hwy 67. That cost me some suffering with low energy. Especially since my lungs were working harder than normal undertrained.
The first 20 miles were fun. I was conservative and used it to test my body. I ran slower than my usual easy pace. The group energy was exciting. Early spring and summer races always feel electric—it’s usually someone’s first race after a long winter, and the stoke is high.
I met runners from Canada to California and closer to home. One guy said he’d gone to a computer science camp at Rose-Hulman in 1976. Every race, I seem to meet someone connected to Rose.
The 20-40 mile stretch heated up. The meadow sections were long, exposed, and narrow with thin, uneven paths that required total focus. I usually pushed through those sections to get out of the sun, but had to be super careful with my footing. My ankle was not at 100% and TBH I never saw a doctor to know how bad it was when I sprained it. The aid stations on the front and end of the meadow had ice cold buckets of water for head dipping. More than the best feeling ever!!
The 40-60 mile stretch brought evening. The temps dropped as we looped back toward the start. The terrain was hilly with loose dirt, rock, and sand. By mile 64, I was wrecked. The climbing taxed my quads and spiked my heart rate to levels I’m not used to working through. I rarely watch my heart rate since I know my body pretty well in that regard. But I was easily pushing 160 bpm. Rolling into the start/finish (mile 64ish) is a point where you can drop to the 100K, get a hot meal, sleep in your car, and still earn a buckle. It’s not a choice I wanted to have.
I told myself to drop. I was lucky to make it that far with my ankle. A full day of labored breathing had worn me down. My fitness wasn’t there. That might sound irresponsible, but I’ve been racing for 25 years and running ultras for 12. I had a solid base. I grabbed my drop bag and changed into dry clothes because the Wisconsin night was cooling off, and I was soaked. My feet hurt. I sat in the bed of my car way too long thinking about what I would need to do to finish. The longer I sat in the car, the harder it became to get back out. This would have been a good point in time to have crew.
I called Tim. He told me to try a little more if I could, and reminded me I’d be mad at myself if I didn’t. Of course I knew that, but hearing it out loud helped. That inner voice pushing me to quit was really loud.
He was right. I squeezed my swollen feet back into my dirt-caked Hokas, grabbed my hiking poles, and headed back to the start/finish. I checked out the 100K buckle for inspiration. Almost sold. But then I chatted with the RD, who said I should at least hike out to the Bluff aid station, "it’s fun, great food." I know I was tired, but it made sense to me. So off I went.
Once I hit the trail again, it felt good. Peaceful (except for the bullfrogs), moonlit, and calm. I almost cried. Maybe I was just really, really tired. But this—the quiet nighttime section—is my favorite part of racing and I almost missed it.
The next 15 miles were different from the earlier out-and-back. We repeated the first 5 miles, then turned for a new 15-mile stretch: lots of climbing out, lots of rocky descents coming back. Normally, singletrack in the woods is my favorite part. This time, it felt like a game of "did I do enough ankle mobility not to snap something." I was glad I grabbed my poles for the night section. They saved me more than once!
That section took all night. Since it was an out-and-back, I kept moving aside for passing runners. Same in the earlier miles. And with other race distances on the course, fresh runners were flying by when I was already 70 plus miles in. I couldn’t decide if it was more humbling, demoralizing, or entertaining to be passed so much!
Popping out of the single track briefly we hit the amazing Hwy 12 aid station. The volunteers—especially the women there—took care of me and told me beautiful lies: "You look great. You’re so strong." And sometimes in life, you just have to believe the lie.
Eventually, we left the woods and entered the hills for the final 8 miles. The last 5 felt eternal. (I know I say that about every section.) The climbs were brutal. I could still run in patches, so I kept reminding myself: run now, finish sooner.
The final 3 miles were exposed meadows with rolling hills. I saw a woman who ran Hawthorn Half Day. She remembered me and said they’d been cheering for me. It felt so nice at the end of 100 miles to feel community. Her husband, Terrence, also an HHD runner, was waiting at the finish. That gave me a huge boost to push. My final mile might’ve been my fastest of the entire second half.
I crossed the finish line in 26:26:54.
To finish after an ankle injury, six weeks off, and just two weeks of easy running? Wild. Our bodies are amazing. And the mind is even more so. I ran the whole race without headphones or electronic distractions (aside from a couple wake-me-up texts). I wanted to be fully focused. And I was.
The same group of volunteers that pushed me back out at the 100k mark, including the RD, was still at the finish line when I crossed over. When the RD saw me, we both pointed at each other and said, "You/I did it!" We both knew I wasn’t going to drop at the Bluff aid station. We both knew once I pushed out into the darkness that the race would become what I came for.
Sometimes the hardest part is trusting ourselves. We’re surrounded by noise every day, but deep down, we already hold the answers we’re looking for. That’s what this race reminded me - to trust the path I’ve been given. Maybe the real question, whether in racing or in life, is not “should I try” but “what will I miss if I do not”?
Get this race on your calendar—if you can get in. Registration opens Jan. 1, 2026.
Kettle Moraine 100
26:26:54, LaGrange, Wisconsin
100-Mile Buckle #12
