"Not every story ends at the finish line."

In the last 2 posts, I have shared the ups and downs of my adventure in the Sonoran Desert and how the elements got the best of me. My attempt at the Arizona Monster 300 resulted in my 2nd ever DNF. So let's get to my finish line, even though there was no fanfare, I celebrated the journey and the experience. As I worked and by that I mean wandered through the desert to the next aid station, I had a lot of time to contemplate my decision.

Leg #5 – Tortilla to Freeman – 26.4 km

The next five hours were just... long and uncomfortable. Both mentally and physically. I wasn’t just hot anymore. I was overheated. Couldn't eat anything. And to make it worse, two of my soft flasks were tainted with a nasty warm electrolyte mix that made me gag every time I brought them near my mouth. This left me with 2.5L of plain water to manage the 5-hour hike to Freeman Aid Station.

Point of no return. At this point you care about very little, forward movement is all you're trying to maintain. Managing discomfort is normal for ultras, add in nausea with the heat and hello - my kryptonite combo served up on a platter.  Things are raw. Nerves. Stomach. Emotions. Evaluate what you could have done, or maybe what you need to do. Was I being rational? A lot of questions that I don’t usually concern myself with at this point in a big race.

What I did know: I was in a calorie deficit, by several hours. Dehydration and electrolyte balance was now becoming a factor with each step. My stomach craved a soothing milkshake or chocolate milk. But really anything cold. I sipped my warm water and trudged ahead through desert heat.

Somehow, I was still catching a few people while a few others passed me. And this really messed with my head. “Am I really that broken yet?” A woman passed me. No hat. T-shirt. Arms bare. Just happily bopping along. A real WTF moment. Good for her. Really. But also — ugh. I laid down for a bit in a small patch of shade with a couple of other runners. We were all cooked. High noon. The shade helped a little, but the air was still oven-hot.

The last 6 miles? Felt like 20.

The trail wound in and around small hills. Every time the trail rose, I scanned the horizon, hoping to see aid station tents. Nothing. Then a little more climbing. Still nothing. Over and over.

Finally, around 3 p.m. Freeman came into view, but only after a more sizable descent down through a gully and then back up….of course. Seven hours behind schedule. 119 km in — not even 30% of the race done.

I was elated to see Paula. The smile came easy, my oasis. The nausea and discomfort sat on the curb for a moment.

Earlier I had texted her that I might drop. When I arrived I told her I was dropping. She just looked at me and said, “Are you sure?” That’s all. No out. No pity. Just the question.

I had plenty of time on that last stretch to think through it all. I’d been panting from the heat, the simple effort just to hike — the classic death march. Core temp was up, I felt like a furnace in my chest and the heat index was climbing. I’d had zero calories in me for nearly 12 hours. Probably down 5-6 pounds in fluids. No way I’d get anything in or keep it down moving forward. The nausea was driving a vicious circle.

When I saw the aid station, I already knew. I advised the aid station captain I was dropping. They asked a few times to be sure — that’s their job — but once I explained, they understood. I handed over my tracker. And honestly? I was okay with it. I knew I didn’t have anything left to give, not for another 200+ miles anyway.

I crawled into the rental car, AC blasting. Took a few sips of cold water. Passed out. Paula drove us 90 minutes back to the hotel. I slept more there. Finally managed to eat something light. The next day, we just sat by the pool. In the shade. I started picking it all apart.

Shoulda. Coulda. Woulda.

What if…?

That’s the hard part. Once you start feeling better, after having showered, rested, ate and drank. Then you start second-guessing. “Was it really that bad?” “Should I have just pushed through?”

I watched the live updates and felt the FOMO big time. Friends still out there, ticking off the miles.

But the heat? It just kept climbing. Hit 90°F. Then 100°F in the following days. I felt it sitting by the pool the day after. I had to take another full day to bounce back. Imagine being back on the trail in that? I remembered how wrecked I was. It wasn’t just a grind, it would have been a downward spiral, potentially dangerous.

From Freeman Aid station where I dropped, it was another 50k to the next crew stop. 95% exposed with forecasts of higher temps. Another night. Another day. I didn’t come here to gamble with my health. I came here to test myself, yes — but not to break myself.

Instead, we recovered. We cheered people on. We helped out. I even tried to pace a few friends. We made other memories, had unplanned fun, and saw new places. No regrets.

Lessons Learned

If you’ve ever had a DNF or fell short of a big goal, I hope this speaks to you. Because finishing isn’t the only success.

1. Doing hard things — stepping outside your comfort zone — that’s where the growth lives. That’s where the stories are made. It’s easy to stay in the safe zone, where you know you can finish. But trying something that scares you, something that might break you a little — that’s how you grow. I didn’t get a buckle this time, but I got a deeper respect for what these races take. I learned more from this DNF than I have from some of my best finishes. That’s the kind of learning that sticks.

2. Support is everything. No one runs these races all alone. Not really. We rely on our crew, our families, the aid station volunteers, the people cheering from home. And sometimes even strangers we walk beside in silence. Knowing Paula was there, waiting for me, was comfort I relied on. And I knew people back home were rooting for me. That matters. I don’t run these things just for medals or free gels. I do it for the community. For the people who get it. That’s what fills your heart when your body’s running on empty.

3. Running endurance races is about pushing limits — but being smart so you can do it again and again. There’s a difference between fighting through something and putting yourself in danger. I’ve run through some hard stuff before, but this felt different. I wasn’t just tired or sore. I was on a slow slide into real trouble. Knowing when to pull back is part of being an endurance athlete. You can muscle through on a 50k and deal with it after. Not on something like this. Not safely. You don’t get better by wrecking yourself. You get better by being honest with where your limit is that day — and being brave enough to respect it.

4. Even the best plan can fall apart from one small thing. I had everything lined up — nutrition, gear, pacing — but one bad mix in a bottle flipped the script. That small mistake grew big fast. It messed with my stomach, which messed with my energy, which messed with my race. That’s how it goes sometimes. But here’s the thing: what matters isn’t the mistake. It’s how you deal with it. How you respond. Whether you can adjust, recover, and keep your head on straight. That’s the part that earns you your medal — or teaches you the lesson that will earn it next time.

There will be more races. More adventures. And probably more lessons.

But this one taught me a lot. And I hope, if you’ve read this far, it reminds you of something too. You don’t need a finish line to celebrate.

~ Clint