Rumble in the Jungle
Crewing at the HURT100
Last weekend, I had the opportunity to crew and coach at the legendary Hawaiian Ultra Running Team’s Trail 100-Mile Endurance Run, aka the HURT100. Aptly named, so I’ve learned.
My girlfriend Candice and I arrived on Oahu a few days before the race to settle in, adjust to the time difference, and allow her to relax as much as possible. And it’s a good thing we did, as she experienced what we self-diagnosed as reverse altitude sickness, also known as high-altitude de-acclimatization syndrome, almost immediately after landing at sea level. Thanks for the help, Dr. GPT, MD.
Among other symptoms, she had a splitting headache, dizziness, and fatigue. Niggles and tweaks are common during taper, as our bodies shift into recovery mode to repair muscle tears and other minor injuries that were masked by high training stress, but this was something different. She couldn’t stand without feeling like she was going to fall over and needed to close her eyes to stop herself from spinning. Not exactly how you want to feel before subjecting yourself to 36 hours of voluntarily suffering in hot, humid, and hellish conditions.
Before we headed to Hawaii, we spent nearly a month in Leadville, Colorado, at 10,000 ft, hoping to reap the benefits of altitude training—the increased ability to carry and utilize oxygen due to the body producing more red blood cells, thus improving VO2 max, endurance, and lactic acid tolerance. During that time, we climbed Mt Elbert, Mt Belford, and La Plata Peak—three Colorado 14ers, peaks in the state over 14,000 ft, all in winter. Not the most traditional training for the HURT100, but having fun is an important part of any program. It makes it sustainable. Plus, this was Candice’s tenth go at the race and she was confident in her ability to have a strong performance, even with less specific preparation.
Fortunately, she was able to find a clinic in Honolulu that did hyperbaric oxygen therapy. While the treatment didn’t get her back to 100%, it helped. Despite this, I was concerned, as any partner would be. In severe cases of reverse altitude sickness, fluid can build up in the lungs or brain and be fatal. However, as Candice has been running and competing in ultras for many years, I trusted her judgment. It brought up similar feelings I experienced when she stubbornly began her 456 mile adventure on the Arizona Trail in April 2024, despite having a golf ball-sized bunion in her foot. But I get it. Hell, I raced the Ironman World Championship in Kona on a fractured pelvis, so I don’t have much room to talk. I think that’s one of the reasons our relationship works.
We attended the athlete pre-race briefing, carb-loaded at Paia Fish Market, packed our bags, and set our alarms for 4am—nervous, but excited for the day ahead. The runners took off from the Nature Center, aka Makiki aid, at 6am and because crew wasn’t allowed on the first loop, I had a few hours to kill. I headed back to our B&B in Kailua and went for a sunrise spin, before driving back to Makiki to meet her at mile 20, the end of the first and beginning of the second loop. HURT100 is comprised of five 20-mile loops, each starting and finishing at the Nature Center, each with roughly 5,000 ft of elevation gain and 5,000 ft of descent.
She was all smiles and in good spirits at mile 20, around 10:30am. She had done the first loop in about 4:30 and was on pace to break 24 hours, never done before by a woman. Candice slowed down for laps two and three, completing them in about 5:00 and 5:15, respectively, but was holding strong in second place behind Alyssa Clark, who was also gunning for the women’s course record.
Unlike triathlon, ultrarunning is a sport in which your support crew can have a big impact on race day, shaving valuable minutes or even hours off your total time. Leading up to the race, Candice and I devised her nutrition and hydration strategy. At each aid station, I’d have two bottles of water, a bottle of Neversecond drink mix, a bottle of drink mix with no water that she could carry to the uncrewed Nu’uanu aid station and fill (every ounce counts), two to four gels, her favorite sparkling water, and pills waiting for her. After sunset, and between my catnaps in our rental car, I’d also prep hot noodles and charge spare headlamp batteries.
Candice and I crewed her friend Tasha at the Folsom 100 last summer, but this was my first time crewing an ultra solo. It’s no joke, especially when the runner you’re supporting is competing for the top step. The pressure’s on. Candice pointed out that if she spent just two minutes at each of the 15 aid stations, that would add up to thirty minutes over the course of the race. Four minutes at each would be an hour. It opened my eyes and made me laugh thinking about the five minutes I try to spend in transitions combined during an Ironman.
After I became aware of the urgency, I was ready to greet her, take her trash, place her new bottles and gels in her pack, give her a hug, and push her back out onto the course. At one point in the middle of the night, I took a snooze at Manoa Falls after Candice had come through mile 66. I set my alarm to meet her at Makiki, 14 miles later. I had a few hours, however, I woke up before my alarm and panicked that I had missed her, forgetting that she had already come through. While she may only spend a few minutes at an aid station, if I miss her, it almost defeats the purpose of having a crew as the runner is instead required to dig through their drop bags in a delirious, sleep-deprived state.
As I’m still recovering from my pelvic stress fracture, I couldn’t pace; however, friends of the race fortunately stepped up and kept her on track as much as her body would allow. Her pacer for lap four, Wookie, texted me from the trail telling me to have eyedrops ready because her vision was blurry. During loop four, last year’s winner—who had been on her heels for more than 12 hours—passed Candice. By this point, Candice accepted she needed to focus on running her own race. She came into mile 80 just before 3am, unable to see depth, but still with humor. “It got hard”, she said with a grin, before forcing a few forkfuls of soggy ramen down her throat and heading out for the final lap with her new pacer, Brock.
At 10:30am, seven hours later, she came into the Nature Center for the final time, rang the finisher bell as the third woman, kissed the “We wouldn’t want it to be easy” sign, and fell into a chair. Smiling, but barely having enough energy to do so. A nearby photographer encouraged us—Candice, Wookie, Brock, and I—to take a group photo, but after rising, Candice nearly collapsed. I wrapped her arm around my shoulder and guided her to the med tent, where we spent the next hour with a kind woman named Laura. Candice’s internal shaking sensations dissipated with rehydration; however, her legs cramped on the car ride home. Now unable to bear weight on her left leg, she crawled into the house on all fours, though being dirty was the least of her concerns.
We cleaned up and headed to bed early, both exhausted, ready to hibernate. On Monday, Candice’s left calf worsened and resulted in a trip to the emergency room for blood tests and an ultrasound. There was luckily no blood clot and nothing too frightening in her blood panel. Her muscle enzymes were elevated, as expected after such an effort. She was given antibiotics in case of an infection and told to rest and rehydrate. Phew. “Why do you do this race?”, I asked her, smirking.
We celebrated at the post-race banquet with laughs, horror stories, and lots of local food. Candice toed the start line for the tenth time, got her eighth finish, and fifth podium. Not bad for a woman who had a rough summer filled with bike crashes, foot surgery, and the mental health struggles that come from a high-performing athlete being sidelined. Just a few months ago, she shared how she’d be stoked to have the opportunity to just run the race. Fast forward, after a few weeks of training, she was now talking about how she wanted to finish in under 24 hours, set the course record, and win.
The goalposts can and should move, just after you’ve honored the milestones and successes along the way—something I, too, have learned through my experience in endurance sport and need to be reminded of often. My goal had always been to get to Kona. Once I qualified, it was then to go sub-9, finish top ten in the world, and break three hours in the marathon off the bike, but I digress…
What a dramatic first solo hundo-crewing experience! Great write-up!