Race the Wolf Recap
How Not to Taper
Going into my first-ever trail marathon, I was pretty prepared. I mean, I’ve been running 40–50 miles a week all year, and over the past five years, I’ve done dozens of trail races. I’ve also spent over a decade working as a strength coach and physical therapist with elite endurance athletes—so I figured I had a good sense of what “prepared” meant.
But that lens, it turns out, had clouded my understanding of what actually being ready looks like.
When the SkyRunner Series race in Alberta got canceled due to weather, it was kind of a no-brainer to sign up for something local. Race the Wolf, at Schweitzer Mountain Resort—26.2 miles, 6,000 feet of vert, with the final 2,400 all off-trail—sounded like a perfect replacement. Brutal in a way that I like. Local. Familiar terrain. One of my best friends was racing too, and there was a real chance he’d push the front of the pack to something fast and gritty.
Of course, I said yes.
A few problems, though:
My legs were toast. I’d been sleeping on the floor. I’d been juggling stress from work and life, and was honestly looking forward to just crewing, relaxing, maybe spectating from a lawn chair. On top of that, I’d just wrapped my biggest training week of the season and had—generously—one day to recover before race day.
Oh yeah, and 48 hours before the race? We went out for a “casual” 4,000-foot climb. Sure, we kept the pace conversational… but it was anything but easy.
With that stage set, I learned more about recovery in those 48 hours than I have from any textbook or training block.
The Difference Between an Amateur and an Elite? The Nap.
A great athlete once told me, “The difference between an amateur and an elite is the nap.” It stuck with me, but I hadn’t really lived it—not until this weekend.
While I was getting ready to grind out a mini work marathon on my laptop, my friend was getting ready for a nap. He didn’t even say anything. Just laid down. I caved to the peer pressure and also took a nap. For the next 36 hours, we were intentional about recovery on a whole new level. Mobility, food, nap, light work, repeat.
Winding up the road to the resort with the sun blaring, birds chirping, and coffee whirring through my blood, I could feel my stoke rising. I just knew it would be a good run for me, so long as I was patient.
An Unexpected Loop and GI Roulette
While I despise running with a pack, I carried 2 liters with 9 scoops of Tailwind—that’s 1,000 calories. I also had 450 calories of Skratch gummies, and I planned to use two aid stations. I’ve been working to train my gut, but honestly, I hadn’t ever attempted to consume 1,500+ calories in a single event before. I was unsure how my body would handle it—and in a wild turn of events, it ended up paying large dividends.
Within the first 3 km of the race, a disgruntled guest had removed trail markers, flags, and even placed a log across the trail to indicate “don’t go this way.” Those of us in the front half of the pack ran right past it and weren’t notified until we were more than a mile off-course. The midpackers turned around. The leaders—and not-so-leaders like myself—were already too far gone, adding 2-2.5 extra miles to the day.
This odd loop brought us back through the starting line around mile 4. GI distress had already started (or maybe it was just nerves), so I took advantage of the port-a-loo. That combo put me in next-to-last place as we started a 1,700-foot singletrack climb.
It’s hard not to laugh at that now, but in the moment, it was frustrating. I was burning energy just trying to pass people, and when I glanced at my watch, I had to resist the urge to grimace at the painfully slow pace.
At the top of the climb, we began a windy descent. I passed another handful of runners and had a few good trail chats before I met Johnny.
Johnny was clipping down the trail at a comfortable pace, and he was easy to talk to, so I stayed with him for a couple of miles—past the turnaround and back onto another 1k climb. Honestly, we made great time up that climb as we shared trail insights, life lessons, and maybe even uncovered the “why” of trail running.
As we crested the second climb together, I felt a connection to Jonny like a brother. We had just shared vulnerable parts of our lives, our joys and setbacks, all while suffering through a brutal effort. I felt energized. Alive.
It reminded me: trail running may be an individual sport, but it’s really about community. That moment took effort to rein in—I had to hold myself back from flying on the 2,000-foot descent down to the halfway point.
The Quiet Miles
From there, I was mostly alone. The midpack was behind me. The leaders were long gone. I went nearly six miles without seeing another runner—except for one who briefly came into view but never closed the gap.
It gave me time to reflect on the connection I’d just made. And honestly? I couldn’t believe how good I was feeling 20 miles in.
I kept sipping my Tailwind, realizing it was getting low, and smashed three cups of water at the next aid station—right before the final big climb. I wasn’t looking forward to doing it solo. But I started catching the back of the pack half-marathoners, and if there’s any group that can bring good vibes—it’s them.
At the top of the final climb and aid station, I grabbed four cookies and three more cups of water. I was starting to drag hard, but that sugar and hydration combo gave me the boost I needed to turn over some quicker steps and start blasting the final descent—where friends were sure to be waiting.
3 Things I’ll Carry Forward
Not only did I meet my A goal—I exceeded it. And I had a great time doing it.
Next time I get the chance to push myself like this, I’ll be drawing on these three key principles:
Naps separate the good from the great.
Trail running is about community and connection.
Fuel like it’s your job.
