Published August 5, 2026 11:01AM<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
Under a full moon, after more than 20 straight hours of running, Roman Trach lifts his arms and sways back and forth, like a boxer who\u2019s just gone 15 rounds in a heavyweight fight. \u201cI can\u2019t believe this, dude,\u201d he says, shaking his head. \u201cI want to cry so bad.\u201d<\/p>\n
Trach\u2019s body doesn\u2019t let him squeeze out the tears. He\u2019s just run 100.2 miles to complete the Western States Endurance Run, the oldest, most prestigious ultramarathon in the U.S., and his body is broken, torn, confused. He has dark hollows under his eyes. His legs are trembling.<\/p>\n
He doubles over and begins to puke on the red track, right in front of a booth of broadcasters live-streaming the race. One of the announcers looks over her shoulder to investigate.<\/p>\n
\u201cI had like 16 Mountain Dews today,\u201d Trach says with a cough, hunched over. \u201cTryin\u2019 to get rid of \u2018em.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWant a 17th?\u201d a friend asks with a laugh. A race doctor runs over to interrupt.<\/p>\n
\u201cJust thought I\u2019d check on you,\u201d the doctor says, before handing Trach a blue plastic bag.<\/p>\n
Trach thanks her and limps off the track.<\/p>\n
When I had approached Trach to ask him about his adventure on the Western States route, his eyes had grown big and spoke for him, as if to say: Get a load of this<\/em>. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and recounted the bizarre journey he took just to arrive at the starting line. A week before the race, which was held on Saturday, June 27, Trach was not yet an official participant. His name was the ninth one on the waiting list to get a Western States entry. By Friday morning, less than 24 hours before the event, he had moved up to first on the waiting list after eight other runners withdrew. Despite his lack of a spot, Trach drove from his home in Folsom, California, to Olympic Valley, in hopes that another runner would no-show, granting him a spot. When a runner dropped out an hour before the deadline, Trach was added to the list.<\/p>\n Trach had started screaming when he learned the good news.<\/p>\n \u201cYou know what it was?\u201d he tells me. \u201cIt felt like I was on the organ transplant list for six months. And I needed a new kidney by Friday, 1 P.M., and I got it an hour and a half before.\u201d<\/p>\n Trach begins dry-heaving again. He then starts to shake and convulse, and he has to take a break from our interview. He wraps a plaid wool blanket around his shoulders and plops into a lawn chair while more runners come in, sidestepping his vomit on the track.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I watched Trach and hundreds of other runners<\/strong> cross the finish line in Auburn, California. I had set out to follow the race for an entire 24-hour span, talking to everyone I could, from participants to friends and crew members, to officials with the event. I sought to understand how trail running went from a niche activity to a sport exploding in popularity. I\u2019ve never been much of a runner; the most distance I had ever logged in one day was seven miles. Prior to attending the race I couldn\u2019t fathom how people physically run 100 miles, and why they do it.<\/p>\n There is perhaps no race that embodies the rise of ultra trail running more than Western States. \u201cIt\u2019s our freaking Super Bowl, man,\u201d Luke Longo, a New Jersey runner, told me. It\u2019s also one of the hardest races to enter. Many runners I spoke to had waited years to get a chance to compete, pinning their hopes on the event\u2019s lottery system. Some athletes I spoke to had never gotten a chance to run. Others who had gotten lucky enough to obtain an entry knew they might not have another chance.<\/p>\n Jeff Browning, 54, had first run the race in 2002 and waited another 14 years to get back in. He came to Olympic Valley to run it a seventh time, finishing the 2026 race in 18 hours and three minutes, the fastest time ever for a runner in the 50-plus age division. Browning, a longtime endurance running coach, did this just 53 days after<\/em> running in the Cocodona 250 in Arizona, which he promised is as arduous as it sounds. Browning completed Cocodona in just under 71 hours. He\u2019d done 100-milers within a month of each other before, but nothing this crazy.<\/p>\n He laughs at me when I ask how he feels. \u201cI\u2019m\u2026\u201d he pauses and gives a delirious giggle. \u201cMy legs are just crushed,\u201d he tells me.<\/p>\n Browning then collapses into a camping chair near the track. I sit cross-legged at his feet, as if it\u2019s story time. He has energy gel stuck in his beard, and he unbraids the crust with a wipe before grabbing a container of chicken meat from his bag. He inhales the bird as he retraces his steps over the previous 18 hours. \u201cI definitely had to go somewhere mentally,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n The afternoon before the race, I\u2019m lucky to get a spot in the Olympic Village Event Center, a historic building with soaring timber ceilings, where there\u2019s a standing-room-only crowd gathered for the pre-race meeting. Athletes competing in the 1960 Olympics once congregated here, and today it\u2019s a madhouse. Fans peek in through the windows. Runners cram behind the stage because there\u2019s nowhere else to sit. A woman waves a giant cardboard cutout of a runner\u2019s face. When Catalan superstar Killian Jornet, one of the sport\u2019s greatest of all-time, enters the room, a few phones spring up to film.<\/p>\n \u201cYou don\u2019t have to run Western States to be a part of Western States,\u201d Topher Gaylord, the event\u2019s board of directors president, tells the crowd.<\/p>\n Gaylord, 58, who is decked out in board shorts and barefoot in slides, tells the crowd about the race\u2019s history. Western States started as a horse race in the 1950s, and the course traveled through ancestral lands of the Washoe and Nisenan tribes, up the Sierra high country and down the canyons of the American River before ending\/finishing at what many in the sport considered paradise: the track of Placer High School in Auburn, California. \u201cThere are no guarantees in a 100-mile race,\u201d Gaylord warns everyone.<\/p>\n Wanting to hear how a horse race became one for humans, I call the first person to run the route on foot. The guy who answers is Gordon \u201cGordy\u201d Ainsleigh, who is 79 now and a legend in the trail running world. In 1974, when the race was still a horse race, Ainsleigh decided to run it on foot, determined to prove to everyone he could do it in 24 hours. He slept on the floor of a horse trailer near the starting line the night before, then woke up and raced along 198 horses. Ainsleigh arrived in Auburn in 23 hours and 42 minutes. His effort helped birth the modern version of trail running as we know it.<\/p>\n Ainsleigh still comes back every year, helping as a volunteer chiropractor at different checkpoints, although his body doesn\u2019t allow him to run 100 miles anymore. He had milled about in the village earlier, signing autographs and taking photos. Someone had asked Ainsleigh: Don\u2019t you get sick of it<\/em>?<\/p>\n \u201cWhy would I get sick of making people happy?\u201d Ainsleigh told the guy.<\/p>\n He still competes in distance events, although he\u2019s happiest when he\u2019s not running any part of the trails of Western States. When I ask him how it feels to be back, Ainsleigh doesn\u2019t hesitate. \u201cI mostly get depressed, because I can\u2019t do it anymore,\u201d he says. \u201cI wish I could still do it.\u201d<\/p>\n Ainsleigh tells me he\u2019ll be at the Olympic Village later for a book event. When it\u2019s over, he picks me up in his royal blue Honda Fit, not far from where the runners will start the race the next morning. He still wears his hair long and his beard down to his chest, although the blonde has turned white; Ainsleigh is still wiry, trim and tall, his knees barely fitting around the steering wheel of his small car, which feels like a trail runner has been living in for years. The floor is dusted in dirt and pine needles, and there\u2019s a huge bottle of electrolyte fluid in the cup holder.<\/p>\n Ainsleigh parks by a trail, in the shadow of Tahoe mansions that didn\u2019t exist when he first ran here as a young man. He watches runners and hikers pass by with his piercing blue eyes, rubbing his beard while deep in thought. He finally tells me how he first got the idea to run the trail in the spring of 1972, how he had stashed water along the route in advance in order to make it, and how his life had since changed as the race became entwined with the explosion of the sport.<\/p>\n \u201cI figured if I could do it, it would be pretty earth-shaking,\u201d Ainsleigh says. \u201cBut it didn\u2019t occur to me that anyone else would ever want to do it.\u201d<\/p>\n As we drive back toward the lodge, he stares out the window at the masses of people who have shown up for race festivities, and before he drops me off back at the lodge, I ask him about all the money that is now pumped into the event by different brands. In fact, I\u2019m attending the event on a press trip for the running brand Hoka.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah,\u201d Ainsleigh says with a grin. It\u2019s crazy to think now, from where he started, that there are even shoes designed to run trails. \u201cPeople are always thanking me for starting the race, and I say, \u2018Well, I\u2019m grateful to you, because if you didn\u2019t think it was a good idea,\u2029I wouldn\u2019t be able to get a pair of shoes.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The next morning, as I stumble to the starting line<\/strong> just before the start at 5 A.M., the wind barrels down the mountain. Race officials had warned runners that gusts could reach 60 miles per hour and that the windchill could drop to 33 degrees, making it one of the coldest editions on record.<\/p>\n Some runners absorb the last traces of warmth inside a lodge. A few live-stream their thoughts on social feeds, including Antoine Aubour, a runner from France, who scrolls through his phone one final time before heading out into the cold. \u201cI\u2019m a bit stressed,\u201d he tells me, looking in the direction of a young runner nearby.<\/p>\n It\u2019s Luke Longo, the runner from New Jersey, who likens this to the Super Bowl but has no idea what he\u2019s about to get himself into. His crew consists of his girlfriend, Kelly, who has wrapped herself in a blanket to stay warm, and his work buddy, Bradley. \u201cWe\u2019re not as nervous as him,\u201d Bradley says, nodding toward Luke, who cracks a smile.<\/p>\n \u201cI didn\u2019t do enough research for us,\u201d he admits with a nervous laugh, but he\u2019s not kidding. He didn\u2019t fully map out their plans until the day before the race, so he\u2019ll be without drop bags or support for the first 30 miles. I ask him how he feels about it.<\/p>\n \u201cA little tense,\u201d he says. \u201cBut once you get going, it\u2019s just running.\u201d<\/p>\n He heads out into the cold with Kelly and Bradley, and together they watch the red numbers of a clock tick down underneath the starting line banner. A race official stands on top of a ladder with a microphone and begins to deliver a sermon to the runners. \u201cLook to your left. Look to your right. You\u2019re all on the same journey,\u201d he says, and hundreds of fans begin to record the final seconds of the countdown.<\/p>\n In the corral, 36-year-old Croom Beatty starts to get emotional. He has been in the lottery since 2018, and it had felt surreal as he drove to race that morning. Now he is standing next to two of the sport\u2019s biggest stars\u2014Jornet and four-time winner Jim Walmsley\u2014as the clock ticks down. \u201cThat\u2019s what\u2019s so cool about the sport, is you get to run the same course as your heroes,\u201d he tells me later.<\/p>\n The gun finally pops off, the blast ricocheting into the night, and the runners begin to herd up the mountain before vanishing into the darkness.<\/p>\n I make my way to Foresthill, a small town on a ridge between forks in the American River that was once a crucial trade outpost for gold miners. Its hardware store, firehouse, and saloon are flanked by aid stations for runners at mile 62 of the race. Barbecue smoke curls in the air. A live band plays covers. Fans sip craft brews. Most major brands have tents set up for their athletes\u2014Hoka, Nike, Adidas\u2014nestled on neighborhood sidewalks alongside locals who are hoping to make a quick buck with lemonade stands and garage sales outside their homes.<\/p>\n Near the edge of town, where neighborhoods blend into the forest, the leaders of the race come through, running at a record pace. The aid stations operate almost like NASCAR pit stops; the runners come in, the veins popping in their calves as they slam Coke, and their teams douse them with water and ice and impart whatever coaching they can.<\/p>\n Eventually Walmsley, who is considered one of the best runners of his generation, stops. He\u2019s won Western States four times and holds the course record, but now at the checkpoint, he appears to be in discomfort, whispering something to his team while a gaggle of reporters and photographers dote on his every movement.<\/p>\n He walks into the forest and slips behind a wood shed for a few minutes. While I wait for him to reappear, I remember a scene from a few days before, when at his pre-race press conference, some had wondered if he could set another course record. I had asked Walmsley: How have you watched the sport grow since you first raced here a decade ago<\/em>? (and famously took a wrong turn on the trail and got lost).<\/p>\n \u201cWhen I look at it, it\u2019s an overall sports growth of professionalization and finding more of those marginal gains,\u201d he told me. \u201cI think we\u2019re seeing this across sports, and it\u2019s definitely bleeding over into a deeper, faster trail running, ultrarunning.\u201d<\/p>\n Walmsley is about 15 minutes behind the leaders, in seventh place, but must bow out for medical reasons. He returns from the woodshed and cuts off his participant\u2019s wrist band, tossing it in a trash bin. There were no guarantees here, just as Gaylord, the president, had said.<\/p>\n \u201cThank you, everyone,\u201d Walmsley says to the crowd watching. \u201cWasn\u2019t my day.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n It will be someone\u2019s day, so I hustle<\/strong> to a shuttle to get ahead of the leaders, boarding a white van that hauls down a mountainside as if the driver is nervous she might not get us there in time. A squeamish fan grabs my arm as the van rumbles. \u201cDon\u2019t look down,\u201d she tells me. Our driver weaves around runners on the road and straddles the edge of a cliff right above the American River, and just below, I can see the Rucky Chucky checkpoint, mile 78, one of the most scenic, and pivotal, points of the race.<\/p>\n A volunteer waves spectators through with a smile and a sign that reads: \u201cRattle Snakes. No we are not kidding.\u201d It\u2019s not the only hazard at this checkpoint. The runners must cross the river at a junction just above Class VI whitewater rapids, pulling themselves through the water by rope, while rescue teams in rafts float and keep a watchful eye.<\/p>\n Some spectators take off their shoes and wade into the water to watch, but the aid station is powered by an army of volunteers, some of whom have been stationed here for decades. More than 10,000 volunteer hours are donated to ensure that the trail is ready to run. When the sun goes down at Rucky Chucky, Phil Neer oversees the camp\u2019s electrical output so the runners will have light to cross the river in the middle of the night. He\u2019s been doing it for 17 years, watching the hype build more and more with each one. \u201cWith the companies sponsoring it, it\u2019s gotten more intense,\u201d Neer says. \u201cI\u2019ve done 50Ks. That\u2019s my limit.\u201d<\/p>\n He points me to Carolyn Latham, one of the chief volunteers at the station who ran the race last year. \u201cThis trail is ingrained in my blood,\u201d she tells me. Generations of her family raced horses on the trail, starting with her great-grandmother in the late fifties. For the longest time, completing Western States was a bucket list item. She strictly ran marathons. \u201cAnd I almost died running marathons,\u201d she says. \u201cIt took me a long time to get to the point where I even thought I could do it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd you know, what\u2019s really amazing about it? I had somebody ask me, like, why? Why do we ride and why do we run it? And I say, we ride to stay connected to history,\u201d she says. \u201c\u2026and then we run to see what the human body can do.\u201d<\/p>\n On the banks of the river, 80-year-old Will Uher finds a spot to watch, his beat-up Hokas just edging the water. He wears an official race T-shirt from 1998, when he ran it for the third and final time, but he hasn\u2019t been back here since. \u201cThere\u2019s so many more people now,\u201d he says, marveling at the crowds before he holds up his phone to film a runner who splashes into the river. \u201cI just wanted to come down and feel the energy.\u201d<\/p>\n Along with Uher, I head back to the shuttle to hitch a ride back up the canyon and to the finish line at Placer High School\u2019s stadium in Auburn. I arrive just minutes before the first runners come in at 6:45 p.m. Thousands of fans have already filled the bleachers and unfolded camping chairs on the football turf.<\/p>\n Near midfield, I sit next to a group of friends who pull wine bottles out of picnic baskets and catch up while their kids throw a frisbee. Food trucks park off the curb of the red track. A rusted orange freight train blows through town behind the tiny press box. The announcer says that the leader, Vincent Bouillard, is coming in and about to set a course record; a wave of fans jump to their feet, sprint across the field, and try to elbow their way to get a spot near the finish line.<\/p>\n One fan looks at his watch. \u201cHoly shit! He\u2019s going to beat it by 30 minutes!\u201d the guy says out loud, and when Bouillard finally finishes to a cacophony of cowbells and vuvuzelas, he\u2019s surpassed Walmsley\u2019s record by more than 23 minutes. Soon after, Jenn Lichter, who had never run a 100\u2013miler, finishes with the fastest ever time in the women\u2019s race as fans wave signs, including one that reads: \u201cJenn when I grow up I want to be like you!\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n One by one, runners finish as the sun sets<\/strong> and the shadows grow long on the track. Most of those who cross the line in the dark do not have a shoe sponsor. The crowd thins out as midnight approaches, and the temperature drops below 50 degrees.<\/p>\n Fewer and fewer fans remain at Placer, aside from the loved ones waiting to see their runners come through. Some spectators nestle themselves into sleeping bags on the turf. A few crack open cans of paint and brush out signs. Some runners sit with their families in the bleachers afterward, and even as their bodies tremble, they share what they went through on the trail.<\/p>\n I see a runner cross the line. He\u2019s Isaac Frank, from Colorado, who had struggled through the canyons and relied on his team to guide him through the pain over the last 20 miles. \u201cIf you want to see what you\u2019re made of, against some of the best in the world\u2026you come here,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n There is Fiona Pascall, from Great Britain, who nearly pulled out of the race a month before due to injury and had run most of the course by herself, but had stuck it out even as she lacked motivation. \u201cIt was really stressful, the last 35K, but I\u2019m really happy,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n There is Ellaney Matarese, from California, who needs help putting long pants on after she finishes, but still wears a smile on cheeks that have been painted with glitter.<\/p>\n Matarese had slept through her first three alarms and arrived at the starting line just moments before the gun, panicked and stressed. At 23, she was the youngest runner in the field, and while she quickly realized she couldn\u2019t ease into the race because of the pace, she found a way to finish 16th on the fastest day in the event\u2019s history.<\/p>\n \u201cIt feels awesome. I mean, I\u2019m very tired,\u201d she says, echoing what more than a dozen other runners had told me throughout the night: people run ultras to push themselves to the limit, but also to share the experience and euphoria with others.<\/p>\n \u201cIf you ask most people what they love most about ultra running, it is community,\u201d says Joe Corcione, who stops to talk with me just after finishing before 2 A.M.<\/p>\n Corcione eventually embraces Roman Trach, who, like so many other runners on this night, feels the physical withdrawals after stopping. I listen as Corcione stops to tell the broadcasters on the livestream the backstory to his life as an ultrarunner: a decade ago he was addicted to drugs, and he had started running to help get sober. He first read about Western States in a book and, captivated by it, came here as a crew member for another runner before he ran it himself. He eventually leaves the set and stops to talk with me for a few more minutes. \u201cIf you\u2019re ever skeptical of what it\u2019s about, just be here, spectate it, and you will see, and you will be hooked and want to run this race,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n Before I watch the sunrise at 5 A.M., with some runners beating the 24-hour clock by mere minutes, I speak with Emily Hawgood, one of the sport\u2019s most successful runners. I tell her that it was my first time at Western States. I tell her that I\u2019m curious how people find their way to this sport, let alone this race.<\/p>\n She had grown up on a farm in Zimbabwe and had fallen in love with trail running after competing in track in Idaho in College. She had finished in the top ten five times at Western States before, but this year, she came in 17th. Hawgood looks tired, with flushed cheeks. \u201cI was in tears out there, not \u2019cause I was having a tough day,\u201d she says. \u201cBut because of the magic of getting to run on this trail.\u201d<\/p>\n A friend of Hawgood\u2019s eavesdrops on our conversation. After Hawgood departs, she pats me on the shoulder and leans in to say something.<\/p>\n \u201cHey, welcome to the community,\u201d she says. \u201cDrink the Kool-Aid. It\u2019s worth it.\u201d<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/cdn.outsideonline.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/WSER6.jpg?width=3840&auto=webp&quality=75&fit=cover\"\/)
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