Superior 100

2026

"Same Boss, Better Build "

Right Photo by Scott Rokis

Coming Home

This was my fifth time standing at the starting line of the Superior 100. My first attempt ended in a DNF, and since then I’ve gone four-for-four on finishes. There’s something different about returning to the same race over and over again. You start recognizing the faces, the trails, the aid stations, the climbs you hate, and apparently every rock in northern Minnesota. Being originally from Minnesota, Superior also feels a little like coming home. The North Shore is one of my favorite places anywhere. It’s beautiful, rugged, inconvenient to get to, and full of places and people that have become familiar over the years. That said, every year I somehow forget just how hard this race is. The raw, unrelenting brutality of the climbs, descents, rocks, and roots never seems to soften. The lashings Superior unleashes year after year are part of what makes it so special, and honestly, one of the reasons I keep coming back.

The energy around this race is hard to match. There is excitement everywhere at the start, but there are also nerves, and you can see them in people’s eyes. There’s that question of whether they really trained enough, whether they’re ready, whether they can actually do this. I know that look because I’ve worn it plenty of times myself. This year, though, I wasn’t nervous. The starting line felt less like the beginning of a test and more like a celebration of everything that had gone into getting there. I knew something would probably go wrong, because it’s Superior and something always does, but I wasn’t questioning whether I belonged there anymore.

Trusting the Work

All year, my mantra has been “outwork your doubt.” I leaned on that heavily going into Bighorn, but over time it has become something bigger than a running mantra. It’s become something of a life ethos for me. Doubt is probably always going to exist, but I don’t have to let it make the decisions. I can work, prepare, fail, learn, work some more, and eventually build enough evidence that I trust myself anyway.

Earlier this summer, I finished the Bighorn 100 in 29 hours and 15 minutes. That race went about as well as I could have hoped, so naturally I started wondering whether I could break 30 hours at Superior. It was an optimistic goal. Superior is a little longer at roughly 103 miles, and I knew I had run exceptionally well at Bighorn. I also spent about a month afterward dealing with a knee injury and only managed to put together around three really solid weeks of training before tapering. It wasn’t a perfect buildup, but I’ve learned that perfect buildups mostly exist on paper.

Every time I come back to Superior, I get another snapshot of the runner I’ve become . It isn’t a perfect comparison from year to year because the conditions can completely change the race. Heat matters, humidity matters, rain matters, and mud matters. This certainly wasn’t an easy weather year. Still, the trend is hard to ignore. My first finish in 2022 was 35:39:55. In 2024, I ran 35:17:34. Last year, I dropped that to 33:40:01. This year, I finished in 30:27:28 and placed 34th overall.

The trail hasn’t gotten easier; I’ve gotten better at running it.

Photos by Scott Rokis

The Race, Briefly

I made a video during the race this year, so I don’t feel much need to write another mile-by-mile Superior race report. If you want the thunderstorms, mud, rocks, aid stations, swollen hands, sore toes, and general stupidity involved in running 100 miles, that story already exists there.

The abbreviated version is that Superior did what Superior does. It was hot, then it rained, then the sun came back out and turned the forest into a sauna. I had a low point on the way toward County Road 6, but I reached it well before sunset for the first time. I picked up Dan there and then, in an impressive display of planning, left both my phone and camera behind immediately before one of the biggest thunderstorms of the race rolled through as Zeus unleashed thunder and lightning upon us.

Through the night, Shannon and then Adam joined me. The rain continued, turning the already technical trail into a slippery mess of mud, rocks, and roots. I also apparently made it my mission to kick every loose rock in northern Minnesota, so my toes were getting increasingly pissed off. Meanwhile, my hands swelled badly, I struggled with electrolytes, fought nausea, took salt pills, drank pickle juice, and eventually started giving Adam the unfiltered, sleep-deprived version of everything going through my head. We solved all the worlds problems, or none; as i stumbled across the endless rocks and roots of the night.

Eventually the sky started to lighten. I got ahead of the nausea, my hands improved, and the sunrise brought me back to life. By the time we reached Cramer, roughly a marathon from the finish, it was around 5:45 in the morning. The year before, I had gotten there at around 8:00. That was one of those moments where the progress became impossible to miss. Same race, same trail, very different runner. Video below if you want to run along.

What 100 Miles Has Taught Me

A hundred-mile race teaches you pretty quickly that you can’t solve the entire thing at once. If you stand at the starting line and seriously contemplate everything between you and the finish, it seems impossible. It also seems stupid, which is a separate issue. So you don’t solve 100 miles. You solve whatever is happening right now. Eat something, drink something, solve a puzzle with your feet, deal with the problem in front of you, and get to the next aid station. There’s no reason to worry about a climb 30 miles away when there is absolutely nothing you can do about that climb yet. There’s also nothing you can do about thunder creeping up behind you except move a little faster and get off the ridgelines when it finally rolls overhead.

That mindset has followed me well beyond running. A bad hour isn’t necessarily a bad day. A bad day isn’t necessarily a bad month. Feeling overwhelmed by an entire problem doesn’t mean I can’t handle the next piece of it. Sometimes the only useful question is, “What do I need to do next?” Running 100 miles has forced me to learn that lesson over and over again.

Exercise has also become one of the biggest tools I have for taking care of my mental health. It gives stress somewhere to go. It gives anxiety somewhere to go. It gives me something difficult that I chose. Running doesn’t magically fix everything, and I’ve gone out stressed plenty of times and come home still stressed, only sweatier. But it has become one of the things that keeps me balanced. Ultrarunning has reinforced another useful lesson too: bad moments are usually temporary. Your brain can tell you that something is terrible, permanent, and impossible, and a few hours later you can be sitting at an aid station eating pancakes and feeling perfectly fine.

Looking Back

When I zoom out far enough, though, Superior isn’t really the biggest comparison. About 15 years ago, I weighed around 260 pounds and couldn’t run a mile. Today I’m around 194 pounds. I’ve finished multiple hundred-mile races, I’ve run more than one of them this year, and somehow I’m still getting faster, stronger, and more resilient. I don’t think I’ve ever really stopped and celebrated that.

I’ve celebrated individual finish lines. I’ve written race reports, posted pictures, collected buckles, and then almost immediately moved on to the next thing. The next race, the next goal, the next training block.... the carrot on the stick; always chasing. Looking forward has served me well, but if you’re always looking forward, eventually you forget to turn around.

There wasn’t one dramatic moment when I became a runner. I didn’t wake up 15 years ago and decide I was going to become someone who runs hundred-mile races. I just started trying to get healthier. Eventually I could run a mile. Then somebody talked me into a Tough Mudder. From there, my decision-making apparently deteriorated quickly, because I started thinking that running through mud for 24 hours sounded like a pretty good idea. Naturally, I decided I should run a 50K first to prepare. That led to longer ultras, which led to hundred-milers, and at some point this all became a perfectly normal way for me to spend a weekend. In a lot of ways, I traded some pretty unhealthy addictions for a mostly healthy one. The training, the fitness, and trying to eat right are all objectively good for me; spending 30 hours beating the hell out of my body in the woods is probably where the argument starts to fall apart.

Most meaningful change is actually pretty boring while it’s happening. It is thousands of small decisions that don’t seem especially important on their own. Then one day you look backward and realize they added up to something enormous. That’s probably why “outwork your doubt” has resonated with me so much this year. I only recently found the words for it, but looking back, I think I’ve been doing some version of it for years. I didn’t wait until I believed I could run a mile; I worked until I could. I didn’t wait until I knew I could finish 100 miles; I kept doing the work until the question eventually changed from whether I could finish to how fast I could do it.

Photos by Scott Rokis

Gratitude

At the same time, I don’t want to tell that story as though hard work is the only reason I get to do this. Hard work is only one piece of the puzzle. Standing at the Superior start this year, healthy, happy, and surrounded by people I care about, I also felt incredibly fortunate simply to be there.

There are people who would love to stand on that starting line and can’t. It's a lottery first, so if you don't get in; you don't get in. Injury can take that opportunity away. Finances can take it away. Family obligations can take it away. Work can take it away. Mental health can take it away. Sometimes life simply doesn’t leave room for something as unnecessary and ridiculous as spending 30 hours running through the woods.

I had the health to train, the time and ability to travel, and the resources to participate. I had Adam, Dan, and Shannon willing to pace me. Michelle, my Dad, his girlfriend Chris were willing to crew. I had family willing to spend a weekend chasing me around northern Minnesota while occasionally handing me food and watching me disappear back into the woods. I even had my good friend Steve, "The Hare" ready to toe the line until he himself ended up injured. Training for these races is such a delicate balance. None of that is guaranteed, and I don’t want to take it for granted.

Recognizing that doesn’t take anything away from the work I’ve put in. I’m proud of that work, and I’m proud of the person I’ve worked to become. Hard work and gratitude can exist at the same time. I can celebrate what I’ve built while also recognizing how fortunate I’ve been to have the opportunity to build it, as sometimes you forget what you have until it's gone.

Boss Battle - Success

I went into Superior with an optimistic goal of breaking 30 hours and finished in 30:27. I fell short, and it was still an enormous success. I ran the fastest Superior of my life, finished 34th overall, took more than three hours off my time from last year, and more than five hours off my first finish. But even those numbers aren’t really the entire point.

I got another weekend on the North Shore. I got another sunrise after a long night. I got another race with friends and family waiting for me along the way. I got another hundred miles in a body that is healthy enough to carry me there, and I finished injury-free. That is something I want to appreciate more instead of immediately turning toward whatever comes next.

Superior still hasn’t gotten easier. The rocks are still rocks, the climbs still suck, the weather still does whatever the hell it wants, and Crosby-Manitou is still Crosby-Manitou. The race hasn’t changed itself for me; I’ve changed.

About 15 years ago, I couldn’t run a mile. Today I can put down a 12-minute mile at mile 102. I’m sure I’ll keep chasing faster times, signing up for stupid races, and wondering how much better I can get, as long as I continue to find joy in the adventure. I don’t want to stop looking forward, but I do want to get better at occasionally looking backward too. Superior gives me that opportunity every time I return. The course changes a little, the weather changes a lot, and somehow I keep changing too.

This year, more than anything, I think I finally remembered to appreciate how far I’ve come.

One More Thank You

For all the talk about hard work, growth, and becoming a better runner, none of this happens in a vacuum. I’m the one whose name goes in the results, but there are a lot of people behind that name.

My pacers gave up their time, sleep, and probably some of their sanity to run through the night with me. My crew drove around, waited, worried, handed me food, fixed problems, and kept me moving. My family supported the training, the travel, the long weekends, and all the hours that go into preparing for something like this. That support matters more than I probably say often enough.

And Michelle deserves an extra thank you. She traveled with me, watched our little one while I was off running through the woods, and spent endless hours waiting at aid stations just to see me for a few minutes before I disappeared again. That kind of support is easy to overlook because it happens quietly in the background, but it is a huge part of why I’m able to do these races at all.

She also had a pretty incredible weekend of her own. Michelle finished the Superior Trail Marathon, which is one of the hardest marathons around, and she did it with a smile. It was her first long race back since having our child, and she absolutely crushed it. I’m incredibly proud of her, not just for finishing, but for coming back to something hard and doing it with so much joy.

And then there are all the people who have noticed the work. The friends who send a message, the people who give me kudos, the ones who tell me they can see how hard I’ve been working, and the people who have been supportive for years even when the goals kept getting a little more ridiculous. Those things may seem small, but they aren’t. Being seen and encouraged matters.

I’m proud of what I’ve built, but I’m also incredibly grateful for the people who have helped make it possible. The older I get, the more I realize that almost nothing meaningful is accomplished completely alone.

So if you’ve paced me, crewed me, trained with me, encouraged me, checked in on me, congratulated me, watched our kid so I could get out the door, or simply tolerated another conversation about running 100 miles through the woods, thank you.

I notice it.

And I appreciate it more than I probably say.

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