Hood 100

Race Information

• What? Hood 100
• When? July 26–27, 2025
• Distance: 100 miles (161 km)
• Where? Mt. Hood National Forest, Oregon, USA
• Website: Hood 100
• Strava Activity: Strava
• Finish Time: 28 hours 18 minutes 27 seconds

Goals

Preamble

Whilst I really enjoyed the relatively flat Arkansas Traveller 100, it had been a few years since I’d run a more mountainous 100 miler. Arguably, the last time I’d done a race with significant elevation gain was Bear 100 back in 2019, where I took nearly 34 hours to finish. If you’re curious, you can read all about “The Mud Bear” in my write-up here.

Hood 100 also came with a number of great benefits. Mt. Hood is in Oregon, which is a quick trip from the Bay Area, and I’d never been to the state before. Edward, who had joined me for CIM and Napa Marathon, had decided to attempt his first 100 miler. After a brief discussion, it was settled. Tickets, hotels, and flights booked — we were going to Mt. Hood.

Training

As a percentile, my shorter distances — 5 km, half marathon, and marathon — have always been much stronger than my 100 milers. Historically, to train for 100s I’ve followed a marathon plan and added a few extra long runs, typically extending a marathon build toward 50 km. I’ve also never been a particularly high-mileage runner. Building up to Arkansas Traveller, I averaged around 70 km / 43 miles per week, with a spike to around 100 km / 62 miles. Solid mileage, but certainly nothing extreme.

Whilst time is, in reality, a bit of a vanity metric, I do enjoy the process of figuring out how to go faster. Unfortunately, many of the tools in my running toolbox were starting to run dry. After a lot of deliberation, I decided it would be beneficial to get a coach. I wanted someone who was both a fast marathon runner and a fast 100 miler — ideally sub-15 hours for the 100.

While randomly looking back at my Yeti 100 race, I noticed the winner, Patrick Reagan, was also a running coach. I dropped him a message, and just like that — I had a coach.

After the Boston Marathon block, we began building. The program was very different from what I’d done before. The main differences were:

1. More focus on total mileage
2. Less focus on speed work
3. Inclusion of power hiking

The third point was the most interesting. I had never really practiced power hiking before, but we did a ton of climbing on local trails and the uphill treadmill. The technique was different from what I’d done previously, but over the 10-week block I felt far more efficient climbing hills.

(INSERT FALL ON TRAINING RUN)

Before the Race

With Oregon being in the same time zone, Edward and I flew into Portland on the Friday before the race. After grabbing some supplies, we headed to race HQ to collect our bibs. Looking up at the ski slope we would later climb was very exciting. The day was sunny but not too warm — a perfect day for running.

Afterwards, we headed back into town, grabbed some German food, and I went out for a quick shakeout run. Overall, I felt really good. My legs felt strong, and I was excited to see how I’d handle the 5,592 m / 17,000 ft of elevation gain. My only concern was a sore throat — a dull, scratchy pain when swallowing or eating. Lozenges helped numb it, so I packed a bag to carry during the race, eating one roughly every 40 minutes.

Race Day

It was a very rough night’s sleep. Our hotel was conveniently located, but the walls were thin, and our neighbours chatted loudly and watched shows late into the night. I woke up feeling unrested, but there wasn’t much to be done. I drank a coffee, got ready, and headed to the start line.

At the start, it was pretty chilly. Edward and I discussed the cold, especially as I was only wearing a singlet. After some deliberation, I decided to start without a jacket — would I freeze on the climb up the mountain?

Start to Robinhood (0 to 23.2 miles)

Aid Stations: Start (0), Umbrella (7.1), Bennett Pass (11.2), Gunsight (15.4), Robinhood (23.2)

5, 4, 3, 2, 1 — go! We were off.

I’d decided to run my own race and not follow anyone else’s strategy. The race went out hard. Since I’d opted to start without a headtorch and run until dawn, I tried to keep a few runners within sight to light the way. The first kilometre was cold, and I briefly wondered if I’d made a mistake, but as the climb toward the ski lift began, I quickly warmed up.

Although it wasn’t overly steep, I immediately started power hiking. Letting people run past was psychologically tough, even though I knew it didn’t matter. I reminded myself that many of them were breathing hard, while I was keeping things steady. By the top of the climb, I’d re-overtaken many of them and felt like I’d spent very little energy — a great start.

A quick descent brought me to Umbrella, where I restocked gels and refilled my bottles. I felt fantastic and was really enjoying the scenery.

The run down to Bennett Pass was uneventful in the best way: smooth trails and great views. I wondered how Edward was doing and hoped he’d enjoyed the climb and descent. After a long downhill and a brief road climb, I reached Bennett Pass just under two hours in. The day was warming up, so I made sure to top up water before the next section.

Leaving Bennett Pass, we climbed steadily on a fire road through rocky sections. One new strategy for this race was increasing my electrolyte intake. I’d told Patrick that later in races I struggled to retain water — it seemed to go straight through me. He explained I likely needed more electrolytes. I noticed I was stopping to pee more frequently, so I doubled my salt intake. Within an hour, I could feel the difference — I was retaining fluids far better.

I topped up water at Gunsight and continued pushing. The descent afterward was beautiful and runnable. I did make one mistake here: I hadn’t packed enough gels and miscalculated slightly, leaving me with a 40-minute stretch without nutrition before Robinhood.

By the time I arrived at Robinhood, my energy was dipping. I was grateful to get there, topped up gels, and accessed my drop bag. The plan had been to change clothes to prepare for sun exposure, but after chatting with a volunteer who’d raced the previous year and assured me tree cover was good, I decided against changing. I did, however, refill my ice bandana from a flask in my drop bag — absolute bliss — and headed out.

Robinhood to Surveyors (23.2 to 70.1 miles)

Aid Stations: Robinhood (23.2), Polallie (32.5), Surveyors (37.4), Fifteenmile (46.9), Underhill (55.1), Bottle Prairie (64.7), Surveyors (70.1)

Leaving Robinhood, I walked and ate. I’d packed a small tub of overnight oats, which tasted incredible. I also decided to listen to some music — something I’d never done in a 100-miler before, but it turned out to be enjoyable.

This section was relatively flat but had mixed runnability. Sandy footing made some stretches harder. There was a memorable river crossing where you could either walk across a thick tree trunk or wade the river. I chose the log; Edward later told me he went through the water.

The course eventually settled into flowing trails. I tripped a few times on roots, which was annoying, but overall I was moving well. Some leapfrogging began as runners surged and faded.

Approaching the climb to the waterfall, I could still feel the effects of my earlier nutrition mistake. My energy was low, though I stayed consistent with intake and hoped it would rebound. The climb itself involved more scrambling over rocks than expected, but there were far fewer hikers than anticipated. Everyone was courteous, and I made it to the top before turning around and descending.

Arriving at Surveyors the first time, I felt pretty good. I grabbed more ice for my bandana, ate some food, and headed back out. It was getting warm, though tree cover helped — for now.

After hiking and gradually climbing away from Surveyors, I felt fantastic. I genuinely thought, “This might be my best-executed 100 miler ever.” Calories were going down, hydration was solid, and I felt strong. Many runners around me were struggling in the heat, but my heat training and ice bandana made it manageable.

By the time I reached Fifteenmile, things started to turn. The section had been tough, tree cover thinned out, and I’d seen several runners vomiting. Unfortunately, there was no ice at the aid station, and mine had run out. A volunteer warned me the next section was exposed — they weren’t kidding.

This was where I really struggled. There was a lot of climbing, the sun was relentless, and although I had enough water to drink, I didn’t have enough to pour over myself. I could feel myself overheating. My legs, however, still felt strong, and I ground my way uphill, often overtaking runners using poles. All that power-hiking training paid off.

Finally, after cresting another climb, I reached Underhill — relief.

I decided to spend extra time here. I ate properly, preparing for the coming night, and made the decision to change shoes. I’d been running in the On Cloud Ultra Pro — great shoes, but not the most stable. My ankles were sore, and I had Hoka Tecton X3s in my drop bag. A very kind volunteer helped me change, as my swollen feet made it difficult.

I grabbed my two headlamps and backup battery and set off. Within two kilometres, two thoughts hit me:

1. Why did the race require two headlamps and a charging source? It felt like overkill — though, in hindsight, trust the RD.
2. Why on earth did I change my shoes?

The Tectons felt awful. The change in drop and fit caused immediate discomfort, and my calves were suddenly working overtime. I assumed it would settle — after all, I’d run all of Arkansas Traveller in them without issue. But there was no turning back.

As the sun set, I passed through a campground with cheers from campers, which lifted my spirits. Nutrition was still going down well, but this section was a grind. I don’t remember much other than desperately needing the toilet for hours and being unbelievably grateful when I finally reached Surveyors again and saw two sharks and C.J. I barely said hello before sprinting to the toilets.

Seeing C.J. was a huge morale boost. He helped me prep for the next long section and offered extra warm clothes. I changed into a thicker shirt but felt warm enough to skip layers. I told him, “See you soon — let’s get that sub-24 buckle,” and headed out.

Surveyors to Finish (70.1 to 100 miles)

Aid Stations: Surveyors (70.1), High Prairie (77.9), Gunsight (85.2), Bennett Pass (89.4), Umbrella (93.5), Finish (100)

Night came on quickly. I’d expected this section to be flat, but it was more of a gradual climb with rolling hills. I started feeling nauseous and skipped a gel — just one — after taking one every 20 minutes previously. It felt reasonable at the time.

My legs continued to ache, and I kept regretting the shoe change. It affected me mentally as much as physically. By High Prairie, I was miserable.

I knew I needed a reset. I still had plenty of time for sub-24 if I could regroup. The volunteers were incredible, offering broth and potato soup. They had a warming tent, so I crawled inside and took a 15-minute micro-nap. It was so cozy that neither I nor another runner wanted to leave.

Eventually, I forced myself up. I felt cold but knew I’d warm up once moving. I hadn’t brought a fleece — a mistake — so I grabbed a space blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders.

That lasted about five minutes.

A strong gust of wind ripped the space blanket away, gone instantly. Moments later, my right calf completely seized. I couldn’t step without intense pain.

I had 20 miles to go.

I considered turning back and DNF’ing, but reminded myself of Bear 100 — how I’d survived that night. I told myself the pain would ease and pushed on.

Mile after mile, I shuffled through searing pain. It was incredibly slow. Runners streamed past. I found a rhythm: step with the left leg, drag the right forward. Painful, exhausting, but doable.

When I reached the forest near Gunsight, my heart sank — the wind still cut straight through. I was freezing, exhausted, and low on nutrition. All I could think about was finding C.J. and stopping.

Sitting on a log, feeling sorry for myself, a headlamp appeared. “Are you okay?” a runner asked. I muttered yes. As they moved on, I called out, “Do you have a spare space blanket?”

They did.

I wrapped it tightly under my shirt this time. Warmth slowly returned. Still cold, but manageable. I kept grinding.

Then, for the first time ever, my headlamp died. Total darkness. Somehow, I’d missed the usual Petzl warning. Thankfully, after fumbling, I got my backup lamp on and continued.

Knowing I was close to C.J., I shed a few tears — at least I could DNF there. It had taken nearly five hours to cover 19 km. Miserable.

I told C.J. I wanted to stop. We agreed on a 30-minute nap in his car to warm up. I fell asleep instantly.

When his alarm went off, all I wanted was more sleep. We talked. I cried. I told him I couldn’t face another five hours of pain. He reminded me of my own pacing rule — don’t let me DNF — and that not finishing would mean another Western States qualifier or skipping the lottery.

Eventually, we agreed to walk and reassess.

A very kind friend of C.J., who was also pacing, had their runner DNF and donated their warm clothes to me. With warmth, support, and C.J. beside me, I finally believed I could finish.

The final 18 km took forever. Step by step, earning every inch. I felt bad for C.J. — this wasn’t pacing, it was survival hiking — but we kept moving.

Three hours later, we heard cheers. The finish was close — cruelly close. The course looped around the finish, teased it, then climbed again. Mentally brutal. Normally runnable trails felt impossible.

Just over five hours after picking up C.J., we reached the final stretch. In every 100+ miler — even Moab 240 — I’d sprinted the finish.

I thought about it.

I walked it in.

Post-Race

I felt very torn after this race. This was my best training block, and until things unraveled, I genuinely thought this would be my best race ever. This was my eighth 100+ miler, and maybe I’d become a little complacent. No matter how many you finish, this distance demands respect.

Things go wrong. Headlamps die. Weather changes. Injuries appear. That’s the beauty of the sport — every race is a journey.

Sadly, Edward didn’t have the day he wanted and DNF’d after X distance. Still, he took positives from the experience and will be back in 2026 to chase his first buckle.

So what’s next?

After 10 years, 9 lotteries, my name was finally drawn.

Western States 100 — 2026.

Lessssgo.