[Editor’s Note: This piece was written by ultrarunner and coach Alyssa Clark.]
Is this what winning feels like? I wryly ask myself in between emptying all the liquid in my stomach onto the trail.
I keep walking, though, knowing each step forward will take me closer to the finish line — which is not far away now — to accomplish my nine-year goal. One, two, three massive heaves, and I instantly feel much better as all the liquid sloshing around for hours is no longer plaguing my insides. I think about how broken Courtney Dauwalter, David Roche, Jeff Mogavero, and so many greats often look at the finish line — trying not to puke on the media or even just remain coherent.
I entered the 2025 HURT 100 Mile knowing I am ready to put myself in this position. I am prepared to hurt this badly to achieve a sub-24-hour finish. Just seven miles left, Alyssa; you don’t need to eat to finish. Just keep running.
The HURT 100 Mile course — five 20-mile loops through Hawai‘i’s rainforest — starts at the Nature Center (Makiki), runs to Paradise Aid Station (Mānoa) at mile 7.3, to Nu‘uanu Aid Station at mile 12.8, and back to the Nature Center at mile 20. Each 20-mile loop has 5,000 feet of elevation gain, resulting in 25,000 feet total. The loop is technical, relentless, humid, and so much fun. With three aid stations, two of which are accessible by crew, there isn’t much extra gear to carry other than fluids, nutrition, and cooling mechanisms.
A Lofty Goal
With two HURTs under my belt, coming in at 30 hours, 30 minutes in 2017 — my first 100 miler — and 24:35 in 2023, I am psyched to try to break the 24-hour barrier and lower the incredibly fast 24:06 course record Tracy Garneau set in 2010, en route to her win at the Western States 100 later in the year. To do that, I have to push the pace and take a different approach in my training and how I run the race.
Alyssa Clark at the start of the 2017 HURT 100 Mile with her then boyfriend, now husband, Codi. All photos courtesy of Alyssa Clark.
Instead of the more traditional emphasis on fast hiking in training for HURT, my coach and I focus on many uphill running intervals and aerobic threshold workouts. Coming off UTMB and the Puerto Vallarta by UTMB 100 Mile, we know the volume is there, but I need to get comfortable riding the edge and pushing that upper Zone 2 effort. Breaking 24 hours won’t happen if I don’t challenge each uphill and ask myself, Is this runnable? Can I push here?
Leading up to the race, I feel as ready physically and mentally as I could hope for. I find I get calmer the closer I get to a race I feel prepared for. My friend says how calm I am is almost disconcerting, especially because I’m generally not like that. My mental coach also comments on how ready I seem, but he warns me to protect it as there are bound to be hurdles.
He isn’t wrong, as a couple of deeply sad and potentially dangerous situations arise for my friends and family leading up to the race. Along with the 2025 Los Angeles area wildfires and seeing their impact, I feel conflicted. How can I be so happy and excited about this silly endeavor when people I love face real tragedy? How can I hold these two pieces and be supportive and empathetic while guarding my happiness and staying positive?
It feels like I am holding this fragility and armor side-by-side. I know HURT will ask for a deep effort and emotion from me, but I also want to be there for those who need me. It helps me to realize the promise I’d made to myself at the beginning of the year, that to live in the gray space and lead with love, is all I can do.
After a decent enough sleep to get me through 100 miles, my husband Codi and I head to the race start. With 10 minutes to go, three of the race organizers — Jeff Huff, Steve Villiger, and Carl Gammon — fill the air with happy chatter, throwing out names of who might win. Finally, the conch shell blows, and we are off on the adventure I hope will be less than a day long.
Loop One: 3:55 — Finding a Rhythm
My goal for the race is to stay in the four-hour range for as many loops as possible. I feel strong up the first climb, the infamous Hogsback, and try to ride the line between letting myself work out the excitement and not cooking myself early. The miles roll by, and other than the nutrition alerts, I’m not checking my watch for time or pace. I am surprised by how the guys are much more relaxed than in 2023. I can’t tell if they are being smart or I am being dumb, maybe some of both. I remind myself it’s not about winning the first two or three loops. Loops three, four, and five are where the work begins.
The author after the 2023 HURT 100 Mile, where she finished 29 minutes over the course record, lighting the fire to go back and see what was possible.
I struggle with the beginnings of races because it takes me a while to find my groove and settle in. I love the middle and ends, so it’s always about making sure I don’t let my mind go sideways for the first 20 miles so I can get to the fun part.
Coming out of the Nu‘uanu Aid Station on the last seven-ish miles to finish the first loop, one of my friends and fellow San Diego, California, runner flies past me on the climb. It looks like I am standing still in comparison to his speed. I feel myself start to panic. Am I going that slowly? How am I going to keep up if I was dropped that quickly? All the places I knew I could run; it just felt hard to keep the pace I thought I could from training. I decide to grit it out and reset at the top. It is too early to feel this hard, and I need to control my emotions and effort levels.
Topping out of Nu‘uanu, I reach one of my favorite sections, Mānoa Cliff, and tell myself to relax, take a deep breath, and slow it down. Cruising the last few miles has slowed my heart rate, and I feel much more in control. I come in to see my crew, taking my pack off for our planned full pack switch. I always airplane arms down the cement chute into the aid station to remind myself this is silly and fun and hopefully put a smile on everyone’s face.
The goal is to be smooth and efficient and not rush like I have before in aid stations. I want every aid station to feel like a celebration and to keep doing my best for everyone around me. It is time to catch a rhythm.
Loop Two: 4:17 — Shake It Off
The strain of the first loop melts away. I almost don’t remember this loop, as I felt like a marble in a groove. Until … THUMP, OUCH! I’ve Supermanned onto the trail, as a root my big toe caught sent me flying. Well, that’s my toe broken, I thought, as I brush the dirt off and take a few ginger steps. I’ve adopted the mindset of separating issues into, “Can I fix this? And if so, how?” or “I can’t fix this. Forget it and move on.” I knew there was nothing I could do to change my toe, and admitting to my crew what I thought I’d done wouldn’t help anyone. If Marianne Hogan can run UTMB with a dislocated finger, I can run with a broken toe, right? Shaking the fall off, I block the toe and move on.
Coming into the Nature Center to start loop three, I feel right where I want to be — ticking off the miles, growing my lead, and staying within my time goals. I come in much more relaxed and happy, telling my crew and my friend, Anna, “I know that was slower on this second loop, but it felt right. I can keep doing that. That’s sustainable.” We shove ice down every nook and cranny with Codi yelling, “One more hot loop [until evening]! Keep it cool, and then you can go!”
The author back at the start of the 2025 HURT 100 Mile with husband Codi.
Loop Three: 4:31 — Correcting Hydration
It’s time to put the hard hat on and get to work. I think of loops three, four, and five as the time to start chipping away, taking the shovel and axe out and grinding. I am bordering on dehydration, having only peed once, but going down Crossover, I call my crew and say, “Fill up a bottle of electrolytes, and don’t let me leave Mānoa until I drink it all.” I focus on sucking ice cubes and drinking the extra water in the bags of ice I’m carrying.
I keep myself in check. My body is still feeling good, but I know that if I don’t get my hydration back in order, I could jeopardize my next few loops.
I come into Mānoa to my crew holding out a bottle, which I swiftly bring into the bathroom for efficiency — pee and drink while sitting. As I finish the bottle and ready myself to head out, my friend Jonathan yells, “Alyssa is my power animal!” That phrase sticks in my head as I chuckle about what a power animal even is and feel like we’ve avoided the pee catastrophe.
My goal is to make it as far as I can on loop three without putting on my headlamp, and I manage to keep the dark at bay until the last 45 minutes or so of the loop. It is around now that I realize I’ve accidentally kept my small headlamp from the first loop in my pants all day and forgot to give it to my crew to recharge before the night. Consider this foreshadowing!
Loop Four: 5:06 — The Nemesis Loop
Loop four has always been my nemesis. It’s where I fell apart in my first HURT in 2017 and where I lost pace on the record in 2023. This year, I get a little lost and mentally a bit lackadaisical. I have time on the record and my competitors, but I can’t sit back and relax. I need to push to the end.
Blink, blink, blink. The light on my headlamp blinks to let me know its battery is low and about to switch to battery-save mode. Damn it, I think, how could I be that dumb? With how dark the trails are and the footing challenges, I’ve been blasting my headlamp at full power to run hard. I was planning to do a full switch out at the start of loop five and did not consider I’d be hitting low battery with an hour left on this fourth loop. Well, at least I have my backup; that’ll work! Ten minutes later while running with the back-up headlamp, it starts blinking too. I scold myself, How did you forget to charge this after the first loop?
At the runner check-in, organizers Steve and Jeff told us that the race founder, John Salmonson — or Big John — who had passed away in 2023, had his ashes spread near Pauoa Flats. They said if we needed help, Big John would be there to talk to us. I’d been checking in with John throughout the race, but as my headlamps dwindled on power, I said, “Big John, I need your help right now. Please keep my lights on, and I promise I’ll break the record.”
I can’t move quite as fast with my dim lights, but I am making progress. I drop down to Crossover, about a 1.5-mile section that runners cross twice per loop. I see headlamps coming up Hogsback as Tyler Juza, the second-place man, begins his fifth and final loop. We exchange greetings, and I explain, “I killed my headlamps, so I’m working with what I have.” His pacer asks, “Tyler, do you want to pass?” And resoundingly, the answer, “No, we’re staying with Alyssa.” In my fatigued state, I didn’t comprehend what he was doing.
As I turn to head down to the Nature Center and he continues on his way to complete loop five, I thank him and say, “You have no idea how much you just helped me, I could see so much better with you behind me.” His response is, “I know, that’s why we stayed with you. Now be careful going down and get that sub-24 hours.”
His gesture gobsmacks me. He has about 17 minutes on third place, which in a race like HURT can turn quickly. His willingness to go my pace for a little while blows my mind. I feel that power and know it is time to finish this thing.
Loop Five: 5:37 — What Winning Feels Like
Codi and I set off up Hogsback, the last time I have to climb its spiny ridge. Before the race, I’d told myself if I started my last loop before midnight, I’d have as good of a shot at sub-24 hours as I could hope for. I am right on track, but I feel the burden of knowing my goal is in reach while still having 20 miles left of possible hiccups. Codi’s easy conversation keeps my spirits light as I share trails that have carved so much of who I am as a runner and human with the person I love the most.
Coming into Mānoa, I focus on running everything I can, not letting up.
I’d originally only planned to have Codi pace me for 14 miles, so we decided he would step out at Nu’uanu, and I would go the last seven miles alone. The cheers of everyone we crisscross on the course start to break into my brain. Just maybe, this is going to happen.
After the aforementioned puke and rally with just seven miles to go, I know nothing else is going into my stomach. It’s not the first time I’ve stopped eating in the last drags of a race, but at this point, it just doesn’t matter. I push up Nu‘uanu, remembering how in 2017 I was barely crawling upward, compared to this time where, despite the lack of calories, I feel good.
The ridge of Nu‘uanu always collects these beautiful wind gusts, cooling me down and moving me forward. My feet move across the roots, knowing each place to go as I will myself to stay focused. I just want to finish, I catch myself thinking. No, be here, Alyssa; you’ll never get this moment back; don’t wish it away.
Alyssa Clark at the finish of the 2025 HURT 100 Mile, which she won in course-record time.
Coming down the final descent of Pipes and going over the last two bridges, I finally let down my wall. I can crawl from here and still make it under 24 hours. It is done. I’m proud of you, I say to myself, something I’m not always great at admitting, but feeling my feelings, seemingly for the first time in 23 hours. You did it.
“This is what winning feels like,” has become one of my go-to mantras. My mental performance coach, Tim, told me this right before UTMB, and it’s been my go-to since. When my toe is smashing against the end of my shoe, when I can’t keep anything in, when my legs burn running uphill or my quadriceps scream pushing the descents, that’s what winning feels like. Whether I’m actually winning the race or not, it’s putting my best out there over and over again.
Of betting on myself that, yes I can run that hard for 23 hours, 26 minutes, and 32 seconds, and holding on no matter what. Of believing in my community and myself. I can be brave.
Well-earned celebratory drinks.
Call for Comments
- Have you set any similarly ambitious racing targets for yourself?
- Did you have a mantra to get you through?
