Everything is Fine!
Saving face at the 2026 Leona Divide (100k) 50M
As I laid curled up on the dusty vinyl floor on the side of The Lakes Community Center, in the mountains at the northern edge of Los Angeles County, my mind kept racing. Why am I breathing so fast? Why is my heart pounding? What is wrong with me? Am I dying?
Moments earlier, after having just finished the Leona Divide 100k 50 miler in a terribly slow and humbling 13 hr and 25 min, I was sitting at a card table in the early evening, chatting with other finishers. Actually, I wasn’t saying much; I was locked in on my black Salomon Adv Skin 12 running vest, wanting so badly for the 2 half-filled soft flasks that were just out of reach to magically appear in my hands. But my Jedi mind trick was no use.
As my body continued to spiral, I thought it best to slide off the folding chair and onto the floor. So, I quietly got up and shuffled 8 steps over to the side of the room. Safely at the edge of the room, where I hoped to disappear out of sight, I delicately folded onto myself like an inflatable tube man at a car wash that had just been unplugged. First on my back. Then on my side, in the fetal position.
Not wanting to make a scene, I stayed calm and quiet. I tried to control my breathing, but I remained short of breath. I closed my eyes, hoping darkness would quiet things down. I took a few deep breaths. I rotated my body from side to side. I tried elevating my legs. I twisted over to my back, brought my knees toward my chest, and then put my feet on the ground.
Moments later, my head began to spin. I knew what that meant. So, I rolled over to all fours and crawled 15 feet for the exit. Right outside the side door, I found a narrow lane of dirt and rocks, seemingly the perfect swath of space for this 6’2”, 190 lb runner to let loose on the ground.
I began to vomit.
As I’d eaten very little in the past 13 hours (save for 11 high-carb gels, 6 pieces of watermelon, 4 chunks of baked potato, 3 salted tangerines, and an otter pop), I had little to give but spit and bile. But after heaving a half-dozen times, I felt much better. Or, at least better enough to stand up, wipe the two tears from my eyes, and head back inside.
When I sat back down at the table, Chad asked me what happened and how I was doing. “Do you think it’s rhabdo?”
“I think I’m OK,” I said. “For some reason, I got short of breath and my chest started pounding. I should be alright.”
As soon as I uttered those words, my body started shaking. Amanda, the assistant race director, hurried over and asked if I needed the medic.
“I think I’m OK,” I replied, “but could you please grab the emergency blanket from my pack?”
Amanda pulled it out and unfolded the giant piece of mylar, copper on one side, silver on the other. She wrapped it around my shoulders. “I’m going to bring you some hot veggie broth,” she said, “and wake up the medic.”
“Thank you.”
After sipping on broth, some electrolytes (salute to the medic), and Coke for ten minutes, my body began to reset. My breathing slowed, and I could inhale deeper. My heart rate settled. Light returned to my eyes. The shaking stopped.
But I was not out of the woods. Ahead, I still had a two-hour drive back home to Orange County. By now, it was after 9 pm. How in the world will I be able to drive that far, I worried.
My better half sent me a text: “Are you OK? Can you even drive? You should probably get a hotel.”
I texted Beth, one of my trail-running friends who lives in Saugus (about 40 minutes away). I’d seen her and our friend Darren earlier in the day at the San Francisquito Aid Station (mile 7 and 32.5), where they were volunteering. “I’m sorry to impose,” I texted, “I’m really beat up, and I don’t think it’s safe for me to drive home. Would it be ok with you and Rob if I crashed at your place?”
Not even 10 minutes later: “Hey there – yes of course! We are making up the bed right now. Do you need us to pick you up?”
“Thanks, but I should be able to make the drive.”
At 10:31, I show up at Beth and Rob’s house. A sigh of relief.
Sheesh, if the aftermath was this bad, just how horrible was the race?
Race Recap – Leona Divide 100k 50M
One of the sure things about ultras is that you can never count on an outcome. With a dozen ultras under my belt, plus 8 solo adventures longer than 40 miles, running “only” 51 miles isn’t extreme. (And neither is 100k, which is the distance I was supposed to cover.) It’s a long day, to be sure, but not overwhelming and nothing that I’m not used to finishing. But my effort at the 2025 Leona Divide went off the rails, and I think I know why. In short, I was undertrained, under fueled, and over confident.
Heading into the start, I was coming off 6 straight weeks of physical therapy for a strained soleus and peroneal muscles on my left leg. While I’d made marked progress, my left leg was probably only about 70% healthy when I toed the line. I’d also dialed back on the training to make sure I didn’t overdo it, given my lingering injury.
But I wasn’t bothered. I knew the course, I promised I’d go easy(ish), and I was excited to spend a long day with friends out on the PCT.
So, how was it?
As is usually the case in these things, the first 20 miles went just as planned. Tough but beautiful miles on the Pacific Crest Trail — the same section of PCT that I ran seven years ago during my first ultra, the 2019 Leona Divide 100k. The crushed-granite trails were just as I remembered: tough, with tons of small, rhythm-breaking turns and some rugged, overgrown sections that we had to duck and bushwhack through for passage.
While on the PCT, I got to share some miles with seasoned runners like my friend Chad, a veteran ultrarunner with several 100- and 200-mile finishes under his belt (he’s got the Triple Crown of 200s coming up later this year). He joked that we were just plodding along — and, indeed, in those early miles, it sure felt like we were in cruise control.
Of course, when you’re only 2 hours into a 100k effort, these are what the miles should feel like. If they don’t, you’re in for a long day (and a lot of hurt later).
At the 20-mile turn around at Bouquet Canyon, I still was in command of my day. I asked the volunteers to pull from the back of my running vest a zipped pouch with 7 high-carb gels. I downed one of them and slid the other 6 gels into the front pockets of my pack. After filling my bottles, I quickly ate 2 chunks of watermelon and then began the 13-mile journey up and down and up and down the PCT and back to the San Fran aid station.
Homesick Vibes
As I made my way up the first 4-mile climb toward San Fran, cracks in my solid day began to form. Doubt and disinterest began to creep in, and I had to remind myself to stay patient, and more importantly, to stay in it. My weak leg began to expose itself, so I dialed things back. I made my way through the Spunky Edison aid station (water only), and after zigzagging up and down the PCT for another 7 miles, it was a joy to get back to the San Francisquito aid station (mile 32.5).
Arriving at San Fran 2, I saw my good friends Beth and Darren, as well as my friend from San Diego, Paloma, who was there to crew and pace one of her friends (this is the same Paloma who graciously showed my oldest daughter how to crew last fall at the Cuyamaca 100k). I wasn’t expecting it, but I became overwhelmed with nostalgia. Though my friends were eager to get me in and out as quickly as possible, I began to wax earnestly about the old days living in Santa Clarita and running these trails. I started to feel remorse for having moved away six years ago. In short, I felt homesick, I didn’t want to leave, and I was stalling like a toddler not wanting to take a bath.
“I’m just so happy to see you guys,” I said to Darren and Beth. “It feels like old times.”
I looked around at the pass I’d just descended, where we could see other runners making their way down the singletrack from afar. “I miss these trails,” I continued, in an effort to delay my departure.
Then, from across the aid station, Paloma: “John! Get out of here!”
I bid adieu and immediately settled into a 1.5-mile, 850-ft climb out of San Fran 2.
This is Fine! Everything it Fine!
You know the meme with the dog sitting at a kitchen table in front of a cup of coffee, surrounded by flames and smoke gathering at the top of the ceiling? That pretty much sums up the second half of my day at Leona Divide. (It took me 6 hours to cover the first 32.5 miles, it took 7 hours to complete the final 19.)
Leaving San Fran 2, my race didn’t go up in flames right away, but it fell apart pretty fast. Mistake 1 was not eating food at San Fran 2. In my rush to depart, rather than downing a wrap and potatoes, I dropped them in a ziploc bag and stuffed them into my pack.
And that brings up Mistake 2: poles. Never in my life have I raced with poles. But considering the back half of the 100k features 4 big climbs and around 5,500 feet of vert, coupled with the concern I had about my left leg, I decided to give them a go. Though perhaps they helped save my legs, they slowed me down. (And they also made eating on the go challenging.)
So, if my decision not to eat food at San Fran was the kindling, my choice to use poles was the match the set my race ablaze.
As I hit the top off the first climb, 1.5 miles after leaving San Fran 2, I sat down at the side of the trail, frustrated, embarrassed, and borderline defeated. I was having no fun, and I let negative self-talk creep in:
Why are you even doing this? Just to qualify again for Western States? So, you’ll have 32 tickets? Why do you want to run Western States? Because you’re supposed to? Says who?
I wanted to quit.
After a couple of runners passed me, I stopped wallowing and got back up. Shuffling at first, I slowly turned my gait into a jog. This was a relatively flat section, and a fun one, too. It hugged the side of the mountain as it made we traversed toward the descent into the Lake Hughes aid station.
Though it was supposed to be a fun section, I had a difficult time enjoying it. I remained frustrated that I didn’t have the energy to track down the runners in front of me — or even the shadow of my former self. Instead, I watched them slowly pull ahead and then disappear. Even though I was only racing myself, I watched time slip through my fingers. I’m better than this (or at least I should be), I thought.
Down and Out—and Back
Sufficiently demoralized (I mean, that’s what these things are for, right?), I rolled into Lake Hughes (mile 40) and plopped down on one of folding chairs, nearly out of Fs to give. A sweet volunteer brought me an otter pop and some Coke on ice (gotta use that reusable cup).
As I wrote in my recap of the Will Rogers 12 hr race, I wouldn’t die in the chair in future events. Yeah, I quickly broke that promise at Lake Hughes. Beat down physically and worn out mentally, I needed to regroup and contemplate whether I’d continue.
About 5 minutes into my moping session, my friend Daniel, who was also there for the 100k, arrived and pulled up a chair. While I was nursing my Coke and ice pop (and feeling sorry for myself), he sat down next to me, calm but full of zeal and with an eye on his next steps.
He moved quickly and with purpose, clearly on a mission. He rummaged through his bright green drop bag and pulled out a change of shoes, a fresh shirt, some sunscreen. Then he took a quick drink.
While he prepared for the next 8-mile section, Daniel asked how I was doing (knowing very well that I’d been better). While I was lamenting about the day I was having, he was doing everything he could to keep me in the game (and to ensure that my energy did leech on him).
He basically said, “Suck it up. Don’t quit.”
As he stood up, so did I. Instead of dropping like I wanted to, I rode his coattails out of the aid station. As I turned back to grab a piece of watermelon, he vanished up the trail. But I would follow in his shadow.
I’d follow in his shadow, but not before quickly dropping to all fours. As per my signature move at mile 40, I puked just at the edge of the aid station (hello again watermelon and CARBS gel that I’d just slammed), and then rallied up the mountain for a 5-mile out-and-back to the 50-mile turnaround.
On my way up, I ran (hiked?) into a couple who were thru-hiking the PCT. They were on a 4-month journey from the U.S.-Mexico border to Canada. When I caught up to them, they were kneeling on the side of the trail and on an important business call for their jiu jitsu studio in San Luis Obispo called Paragon.
Mallory asked me about the day I was having. I told her I was probably going to throw in the towel. Her reply: “Don’t quit. You’ve come this far. There’s no reason to stop.”
Convinced by her plea, I continued up, slowly and methodically. After touching the 50-mile turnaround sign, I decided not to carry on to the 100k turnaround, but to call it short and aim for a 50-mile finish instead.
Returning to the aid station at mile 45, still not in any better shape, I plopped down on the cooler, head in hand. Running on fumes, my friend Paolo handed me 4 chunks of baked potato.
“You need a full reset,” he reminded me. “Just take these. Your body will respond.”
I opened my palm to receive them, but I just sat there and stared into the void. Minutes later, as my body began shake, he told me to get up and move around. It was either that or go home.
“Think about how you’ll feel tomorrow if you stop right now,” he put in my head. “Why not just take a few steps toward the finish? If you’re not feeling it, come back, and I’ll drive you there.”
I knew what he really meant. With all of the love in the world, he didn’t want me to regret quitting, as I’ve done nearly every day since dropping from AC100 in 2024.
So, I turned to him and said, “I’ll see you in an hour and a half … at the finish. Thanks for taking care of me.”
Seeing that sun was quickly setting, I headed out, potatoes in my right hand, for the creek across the street that separated Lake Hughes from the climb toward the community center. I still was running on empty, and with my poles in my left hand, I decided to eat the potato chunks that were in my other hand.
As I began chewing them, I could feel hope return to my body and mind. I still had roughly 4 miles of climbing ahead, but all of the sudden, it didn’t seem as bad. I could see myself closing in on the finish.
Making my way up the PCT, there was one runner well ahead of me, but I began to gain ground as we neared the turn-off. Eventually I caught up to him.
“Man,” he said, “Good work. You were looking pretty bad back there. Great job coming back.”
It was a tiny bright spot in an otherwise disappointing afternoon, and his words gave me enough drive to keep working toward the finish.
And I did. I pushed hard across those final 2 miles, left him behind, and I passed one more runner. Not because I was being competitive, but because I just wanted to put this effort behind me. Oof.
Leona Divide 50M: 51.66 mi; 8,337 ft gain @ 13:19/mi moving (15:35 elapsed 😬).
The Aftermath
Friends of mine said that I should be proud of this effort, that I should pat myself on the back for not quitting. I don’t see it that way. While, yes, I finished the 50-miler, I did so only after being convinced to drag myself out of the aid station. And I only had to do this because, like a rookie, I fumbled my nutrition so badly. Ignoring my real-food needs led to a cascade of failures: poor nutrition begat bad performance beget negative outlook begat quitter’s mindset. I had all the tools in front me; I just failed to use them (I was too confident).
I guess my 2026 Leona Divide would’ve been a failure had I not learned anything. And it would’ve been worse had I DNFed when I wanted to quit at mile 34, 36, 40, and 45. So, perhaps I need to take the small w where I can.
And, as evidenced by the train-wreck of an aftermath as referenced up top, perhaps the biggest W of all is that I lived to tell about it, despite being curled up on a vinyl floor. I appreciate that my body allows me to do this, even when it sometimes has other priorities in mind.
