Bandera 100k
Rolling with the punches & adjusting expectations
Earlier this month, I finished 3rd at the Bandera 100k. It wasn’t quite the race I wanted nor expected, but it was an amazing experience nonetheless, and trip I’ll remember for a long time.
Bandera had been on my radar for a while. As a former Golden Ticket race, I knew that the course had lots of history, and it was supposedly pretty fast and runnable (which I love… *subtle foreshadowing*). It also fell on the final week of my college winter break, so the timing played a factor too. For a while, I debated between this race, the Long Haul 100 Miler in Florida, and the Across The Years 24-Hour in Arizona. Ultimately, I chose Bandera because Long Haul took place after school and clinicals began, and I didn’t think I’d enjoy all those loops at ATY.
On Monday of race week, we learned that the event had been moved from Bandera to Rocksprings, a town about 90 minutes west of the original location. From what I understand, there was an issue with permitting due to forecasted heavy rain in the week leading up to the race. This threw a bit of a wrench in our plans, but I was very grateful to Tejas Trails for putting in so much work to make sure the race still happened. We cancelled our AirBnB in Bandera and booked a room at a ranch in Mountain Home to save about an hour of driving on race morning.
It had been almost 6 years since I last flew on a plane, and nearly 10 since I left my little Northeast corner of the world (the last time we flew, it was to New York). So while I was excited to see a new place, I was also pretty nervous. I hate all the complications of airports and travel, and am not too big a fan of flying either. Luckily, our flight out of Boston was easy, and we made it to San Antonio on Wednesday evening without a hitch.
I’m not much of a city person, but San Antonio was beautiful. Our hotel was right along the River Walk, and when I headed out to run early Thursday morning, the path was all lit up with colorful Christmas lights. It was one of the most beautiful runs I’d ever done, but in a totally different way than the Maine/New England beauty that I’m used to. Despite sunrise being hours away, I didn’t need a headlamp for any of the 13 miles.
The general vibe of San Antonio was, in one word, sophisticated. Everyone was so polite, and the city felt fancy and elegant. I was the only person I saw wearing sweatpants and Crocs. It was also cold. Well, not quite compared to New England, where the average daily temperature I trained through in the week leading up to the race was probably in the single digits. But still. It barely got above 40 degrees, and there was a cold rain for most of the day on Thursday. Not ideal for being a tourist, but I was grateful for the promise of cooler race-day conditions.
We left San Antonio on Friday morning, picked up a rental car, and drove about 75 minutes west into the Texas Hill Country. After leaving the city, things got quiet and rural real quick. We drove along a 2-lane road with a 75mph speed limit (unheard of where I live!) and eventually arrived at the gates of the ranch in Mountain Home. From there, it was an 8-mile stretch of dirt road, where we drove past longhorn cattle, deer, and a large group of elk, all roaming free. I felt like I was in a totally new world, in the coolest way possible.
When we arrived at the ranch office, we were told that there was a large group staying there for a hunting class, so instead of the rustic camp we’d booked, they were upgrading us to one of the much-more-expensive fancy cabins. Huge shoutout to Y.O Ranch Headquarters—they were incredible! It was an absolutely beautiful spot, and I spent time that I probably should’ve been resting exploring the property instead. But I managed to get my things ready and catch a good night’s sleep before the 4am wake-up call on Saturday.
We got up early on race day and left the cabin around 4:45am. The 40 minute drive took closer to 70, with some tricky sections of dirt road leading into Camp Eagle, the race site (my dad was stressing big time about scratching our rental car). It was about 20 degrees outside, and the temperature was only supposed to reach 50 by the afternoon. It was actually chillier at the start of the race than it was at home in Maine! Luckily, I had been a little lazy with heat training and was plenty prepared for the cold.
As the 7:30am start time approached, I picked up my bib, got ready, and did a little jog and some strides. I was trying a new pair of Hoka Tecton X 3’s for the first time (I’d been wearing the 2’s in all of my races since last summer), and could tell right away they were excellent. Before the start, I told my dad, who was meeting me at the halfway point (the course was two 50k loops), “if I’m not done with the first loop in 5 hours, you should probably get my headlamp from the car.” Packing my headlamp had been a last-minute decision, and more for my training runs in the days prior to the race. I certainly wasn’t expecting to be still running past sundown.
At about 7:20am, we learned that the start had been delayed half an hour. The road leading into camp had a small water crossing followed by a short, steep hill, and the section had iced over and caused a backup. I headed back into the lodge and tried to stay warm, scrolling mindlessly on my phone to pass the time.
The gun went off at 8am on the dot, and I quickly found myself in a small pack in about 10th place overall, the first woman speeding out with the top guys and putting me in 2nd. The course transitioned to singletrack pretty quickly, and it was quite rocky. I was feeling good, a bit less relaxed than I would’ve liked, but chalked it up to being unused to running in a pack on pretty technical, narrow trail.
I’m not one who remembers every section of the race clearly and can describe it in detail. It’s like time doesn’t exist during an ultra—the hours and terrain blend together. In those early miles, I recall scrambling up a steep section and tripping a lot, then reaching the top and being relieved when the course transitioned to runnable doubletrack. We reached the first aid station, Windmill A, and I ran through, feeling strong but a bit anxious about the unexpected technicality in the beginning of the course. Was the whole thing this tough? If so, I was going to have to majorly reset expectations—a 9:30-10 hour day was certainly not in the cards like I’d originally planned for.
The course alternated between technical singletrack, slightly less technical singletrack, steep climbs, and a few small sections of glorious dirt road. A theme quickly emerged: Rocks. They were everywhere, waiting to be kicked, hopped around, or tripped over (I did quite a bit of each). It dawned on me that this course really was a lot trickier than I’d expected, and I was just going to have to make peace with that. I am not a strong technical runner, nor do I really enjoy the challenging terrain (I guess my survival instinct is too strong—I tiptoe across technical sections and can’t fathom bombing down steep descents…yet I still fall constantly), but if that was what the day was handing me, I was going to have to stop complaining and deal with it.
I tried to make up time by running the easier sections and hills harder. The downside of this was that I’d pass a few people, then on the next descent they’d quickly catch me and I’d be at the front of a conga line fearing for my life before stepping to the side and watching a gap quickly form. I eventually found myself running with a few other guys who seemed content to take the descents as cautiously as I was. It’s always cool to meet new people at these races—even if we’re from completely different parts of the country, we all know the same races and speak the same ultrarunner language. I led the little group until I kicked a rock and somehow landed on my butt. It was a graceful fall, and would be the least painful in a series of trips throughout the day.
Almost everyone I ran with asked me the same question, “How do you like those Tectons?” They certainly seemed to be a popular shoe. I was liking them ok, but my right foot, which is smaller than my left, was noticeably moving around quite a bit. I was rolling my ankle constantly, and it was not comfortable. Luckily, I seemed to find somewhat of a groove, and rolled my ankle far fewer times on loop two.
Even though I was running cautiously on the technical sections, they seemed to be depleting my energy, and I found myself overly exhausted on the more runnable parts. I never worry too much about this—I’ve come back from far too many dark places in ultras to know that the second wind is very real. I focused on eating enough (mostly UnTapped waffles and gels with some aid station sodas/drinks mixed in) and relaxing. By the end of the first loop, I was in 3rd or 4th place—it was difficult to tell because I’d often pass women at the aid stations.
My dad met me at the 50k mark—30 minutes later than my “worst case scenario” prediction—with a new vest to switch into (and a headlamp, thank goodness). I was in rough shape, stammering that the course was a lot more difficult than anticipated. Then I chugged some soda and twisted my ankle again on the grass. My dad had never crewed for me before or been to an ultra, and this probably wasn’t the best one to begin with. I certainly wasn’t my typical smiley self, and I was going to run hours slower than anticipated.
Loop 2 began…slowly. I was excited to be in the “home stretch,” but found myself moving like a slug. I couldn’t seem to pick up my feet, and started falling more often. I mostly ran alone, in 3rd place. I had found a rhythm—a slow, disjointed rhythm, but a rhythm nonetheless—and it felt good. When I hit the 2nd aid station, Windmill B, they told me I was in 2nd place. This made sense—I’d been running just behind another woman, then she seemingly disappeared, and I wondered where she’d gone. Unfortunately, on the next long, technical section, I was passed, then passed again.
Like I said, time doesn’t exist in an ultramarathon. Slowly, I began to notice the afternoon light fading and the trail descending into dusk. Where had the day gone? At the Zip Road aid station (~9 miles to the finish) I nervously turned on my headlamp. I say nervously because I knew I needed to conserve battery. I hadn’t charged it, having not anticipated needing the light, and it was already quite low on power.
As the darkness became apparent, I caught up to the 3rd place women, Maika, and her pacer. They were running well, and I spent the next section with them. It was the first real conversation I’d had in hours, and it was nice to chat about some races we’re both hoping to do and how crazy this one was turning out to be. The extra light was also super helpful and appreciated!
I formed a bit of a gap at the final aid station, Party Barn, and knew I’d have to pick up the pace to keep it. Luckily, I was feeling great. I began to run faster, but quickly fell hard on my knees and chin. I got up, stumbled a few steps, then transitioned to the fastest hike I could maintain. Everything felt shaky, and I knew my nutrition hadn’t been great over the last few hours. I could hear voices behind me, and began to run again, my headlamp blinking that it was about to give out. The section felt endless, but also magical. I’d been running all day, but I wanted to keep going forever. Maybe not over this terrain though.
I finally made it back to camp and crossed the finish line in 12:23 for 3rd place. It was hours slower than I’d planned, and an embarrassing positive split. But I did it. I lay on the grass while my dad brought me PB sandwiches from the aid station, then after a while I stumbled back to the car to begin the 90 minute drive to our AirBnB.
The toughest part of an ultra isn’t the race itself, it’s the aftermath. On the drive to the cabin, I lay in the back seat, crying in pain because my legs felt so awful. Nausea also kicked in. I hadn’t been nauseous after a race in months, and thought I’d gotten past it. But I also hadn’t eaten much, and the only food in the car—Cliff bars—sounded absolutely repulsive. We stopped at a McDonalds, where I ordered a burger and McNuggets, but after one bite, I was hit with an awful wave of queasiness that left me reaching for the takeout bag to vomit into (I didn’t!) My dad, unused to this very unglamorous reality of ultrarunning, asked me about the race, but I could barely respond.
We made it to the AirBnB, and I felt much better after taking a shower and forcing myself to finish the food. It was almost midnight before I went to bed, and we got up early the next morning to catch our flight back home.
I’m pretty happy with this race as a whole. Even though it was a lot different than I expected, I rolled with the punches and adjusted my expectations easily. Going forward, I don’t want to shy away from courses like this that really stretch my comfort zone, but I also want to primarily focus on events with terrain that I really enjoy. I just put myself on the waitlist for Old Dominion, I’m in Vermont 100 again this summer, and am considering Javelina for the fall. I’m also hoping to do a 24-hour at some point and a fast 100-miler over spring break.
Lastly, thank you—thank you to Tejas Trails, for putting together such a great race (the course was incredibly marked, aid stations and volunteers were amazing, and the event as a whole was very well run), to my dad for making this trip with me, and to everyone on the course who I got to share miles with, or who was just out there braving the same terrain! What a memorable experience it was!
Sounds like a helluva learning experience, and a great nudge past your comfort zone. Congrats on an excellent race, and we can't wait to see what you do at VT this year!