100-Miler Experience Notes – Part 5: Post-Race Reflections & What’s Next

When I stopped running — at mile 57 — I sat down, cried, and smiled all at once.

“What an achievement,” I thought. I’d gone further than I believed possible on that day. More importantly, I’d found something I hadn’t felt in months: joy in running.

It sounds paradoxical — finding joy in the middle of agony — but that’s what ultras do. They strip you down until only truth remains.

The aftermath

Only a few minutes after I stopped, my mind was already racing ahead: I’m going to do this again. I’m coming back to finish it.

But for now, I had to come back to my body. A volunteer sat with me, keeping me company until my boyfriend arrived. It was dark, cold, and raining — the kind of damp that seeps right through your bones.

Then the shaking began — that deep, uncontrollable shiver that starts from the inside out. My teeth rattled, my body trembled; it’s a strange and scary experience, but I knew what was happening. It was shock.

My boyfriend wrapped me in layers, told me to breathe, and held me until the shaking subsided. Getting into the van and out again was almost comical — my whole body stiff, moving like a block of wood.

Back at our cabin, it happened again. Another wave of shivering, exhaustion, and release. But this too was part of the process — the body’s way of closing the chapter on a long, brutal story.

The blister chronicles

When I finally peeled off my socks, I saw the damage: blisters everywhere. Huge ones around my toes and soles — the worst over the toenails, especially the big toe.

They were the kind that make you look away. The kind that remind you that running 100 miles isn’t a romantic montage; it’s raw, human, and sometimes grotesque.

There’s not much you can do about blisters like these — let them breathe, soak them in Epsom salt, and let time work its magic. Every step hurt, really hurts, but every step also reminded me: this is the price of passion.

The days after

As always, the night after the race brought little sleep. My body was wired yet exhausted.

The next morning, though, a deep calm settled in — a kind of inner peace I rarely feel. A quiet trust that everything unfolded exactly as it needed to and it always will.

My appetite was off — no surprise after 15 hours of constant fueling — so I grazed throughout the day on small, nourishing meals. My stomach needed time, too.

By day 2, I was hobbling for 15 minutes.

By day 3, I was back in the gym on the stationary bike for 20 minutes, mixing in upper-body work, mobility, and core.

By day 4, I started gentle leg-strength exercises again.

Because recovery isn’t about stillness — it’s about movement with awareness. The sooner you move (safely), the sooner you heal.

It’s now day 4 post-race. I still can’t walk for an hour because of that stubborn blister on my big toe, but patience is part of the practice.

What’s next

Earlier this year, I decided that 2026 would be my adventure year — a pause from structured racing, a chance to move for fun again. To hike, run, explore, without pressure.

This race gave me exactly that: space to fall back in love with running.

So what’s next? I’m not done with the Autumn 100. I’ll be back — stronger, wiser, and ready to finish what I started.

In the meantime, I’m eyeing something that sounds just crazy enough for me: a stage race where you run two ultras on consecutive days and camp in-between. The kind of challenge that feels just right for my brand of fun.

Because as I learned out there on the trail — it’s not always about finishing. It’s about beginning again with a new way of seeing.

“One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.”
— Henry Miller