Bubba’s Backyard Ultra
October 2022

For the 100ish folks at the starting line, the concept is simple:
Run a 3.5-mile, 200-vertical-foot lap on the trails of Bubba’s 400-acre property in New Hampshire every hour, on the hour, until one runner remains.

Merely hours after somehow being the final skier climbing Black Mountain on hour 65 at February’s Last Skier Standing contest, the Ski The Whites/Run The Whites crew of Monte and Andrew invited me to attend the event’s trail running counterpart in October. Though I couldn’t yet move very well after the 70,000-vertical-foot effort, I immediately obliged because, at the time, October seemed impossibly far away.

October 1 was eventually six months away. Then six weeks away. Then six days away. And as my girlfriend Katie and I arrived in New Hampshire, the start of Bubba’s Backyard Ultra was, unfortunately, merely six hours away. And though I assumed I’d be prepared to run a very long way when I bought the flights, well…you know how that goes.

If I excel at anything, it, unfortunately, certainly isn’t running. Though I do it nearly daily, I just don’t seem to ever get much better at it. Last Skier Standing proved to me that I am stubborn enough to stay awake and keep doing the same, repetitive, not-very-difficult-thing until I die or my legs fall off. But unlike skiing, there is no mindless downhill coasting in trail running. And, as I quickly learned, the trail in New Hampshire was technical enough to somehow make a 3.5-mile loop difficult to complete in an hour—and 17-minute miles are nearly walking pace. Normally.

Identical to what happened at Last Skier Standing, I started near the back of the pack, in a group, running very slowly. And just like at Last Skier Standing, within a few laps I realized that approach was not going to work for me, and picked up the pace to what felt enjoyable and sustainable. My profoundly superb “crew”—as runners call the folks who dedicate entire days to literally keeping us alive and moving during events like this—of Katie and my now-good-friend and Fischer Skis teammate Torey Brooks (who you may recall I hadn’t even met before she decided to give three days of her life to supporting my never-ending effort in February) didn’t flinch when I started to complete laps before the rest of the runners. They simply supported the pace and decision, knowing that it must be what felt best for me. It felt good to actually run at this running race, albeit awkwardly and somewhat contrived around a constant onslaught of rocks, roots, and long, sloppy mud pits.

And once again, the New England endurance community surprised me with a group of folks who just.weren’t.quitting. Colin, Amanda, Erin, Monte, Andrew, and Hilary—the primary folks I met who volunteered to put this event on—confirmed for me what was quickly becoming clear: I was, again, surrounded by lunatics who could handle the hours, the discomfort, the miles, and who, apparently, didn’t have jobs or families or lives to which they needed to attend, at least not for a few October days.

Finally folks started dropping, and after a humid night of mostly shirtless running, Last Skier Standing vibes started—I found myself in a pack of maybe 15 or 20 people who just seemed like they’d be able to run forever. By the second afternoon, my right quadriceps and left knee started giving me some grief, which is strange because I’m fortunate in that my body just tends to kind of work, without a whole lot of hiccups. But folks just kept running, led primarily by now-4-time-champion Ed Clifford’s completely stoic and steadfast laps.

Friends Lindsay and Ben brought their son Oliver and dog Pemi to visit, offering me a huge pick-me-up around mile 100, when a few more folks dropped out after achieving a milestone. Torey and Katie just kept feeding and supporting me, even as they saw the writing on the wall that my pace was slowing as my legs wouldn’t allow me to move the way my muscles and brain demanded.

On lap/hour 31, I slowed to a crawl as my friend Breck struggled to make it to the finish before the 1-hour cutoff. We walked together through the finish at 31:59:55 before immediately turning around, hearing “Go!", and beginning the next lap—a 3.5-mile lap now, for us, turned into a 7-mile lap. But having felt such intense leg pain while walking that lap with only 30 seconds of running, I knew that this 32nd lap was doomed. If I came in at 59:55 with 30 seconds of running, and my legs would no longer let me do that 30 seconds of running, I was left with a lap time that exceeded the 1-hour cutout. And sure enough, as I hit the lap’s halfway mark at 35 minutes, I chose to enjoy this final lap, soaking up the fall colors and finally checking out what this backyard actually looked and felt like. Lindsay came to join, finding me much further from the finish line than expected, followed later by Torey and Katie, who all escorted me to the finish line as I used the full strength of carbon fiber hiking poles to support the weight that my right quad no longer wanted.

A volunteer, Amanda, who, as far as us runners were concerned, took the job of individually welcoming everyone back after each lap (and apparently not sleeping the entire race?). In the early morning hours, as we each returned from another headlamp-lit lap, we’d get a soft and friendly, “Welcome back, good morning, good to see you number 73”. I can’t be the only participant who was made emotional by this friendly voice lap after lap, having just spent yet another 40, 50, 55+ minutes alone.

113.5 total miles in 32 hours 10 minutes was enough for my legs…but not for my mind.