I Didn’t Finish Never Summer Alone

66.31 miles. 14,273 feet of climbing. 19 hours, 36 minutes (moving time), 20:30:34 total time.

Those are the numbers.

They tell you something about my day at the Never Summer 100K.

But they don’t tell you the story.

The story is about Nick and Greg. Leighton and Ashley. A woman whose name I never learned. Sean and Sara. Hundreds of volunteers. A nearly full moon. And somewhere in the darkness, the quiet presence of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Technically, I crossed the finish line on my own two feet.

But there is no honest version of this story in which I tell you I finished Never Summer alone.

The Night Before

The anxiety started Friday evening.

We had arrived at State Forest State Park while runners from the Never Summer 60K were finishing. Several were friends from Arvada Runners Run Club. Jesse finished. Mike finished. Sara finished.

Trevor, Nick, Greg, Erin and others were hanging around the finish.

It should have made me excited.

Instead, I started looking at people’s faces.

They were tired. Some were completely spent.

And I started doing math.

That’s 60K.

Tomorrow, when I reach the distance they just finished, I’ll still have more than a marathon to go.

That’s when an old conversation came rushing back.

A runner from our run club had recently learned I was doing Never Summer.

“What a great race,” he told me. “Beautiful place. Amazing views. You’re going to love it.”

Then came the sentence I couldn’t forget:

“I’ll tell you, though—it doesn’t run like a 100K. It runs like a 100-miler.”

Fantastic.

Thanks for that.

I thought I was hiding my anxiety pretty well.

Apparently I wasn’t.

Nick noticed. Greg noticed. Both kept reassuring me.

Eventually we headed back to our campsite at Crags Campground, where another adventure awaited: setting up a new tent for the first time.

In the rain.

As it was getting dark.

Eventually we figured it out and grilled burgers in a cast-iron skillet while the mountains behind us exploded into an alpenglow masterpiece.

Those were the same mountains I would begin crossing in less than eight hours.

I finally fell asleep around 11:00.

At 3:30 a.m., I crawled out of the tent, put on my puffy jacket and camp slippers, and started coffee in the percolator.

For a few minutes, I just sat there beneath the stars drinking camp coffee.

And I had a thought:

You know, sitting right here all morning wouldn’t be such a bad option.

The Thing I Feared Finally Began

Thankfully, some experienced friends had told me to have absolutely everything ready the night before.

My vest was packed. Bottles mixed. Nutrition loaded. Water reservoir filled.

There was nothing to think about.

Just get dressed and go.

Leighton and his girlfriend, Ashley, got up and drove with me to the start.

And almost immediately, something changed.

The energy was incredible.

There was laughter. Nervous conversation. Familiar faces. A quick pre-race briefing gave me time to find some of my Arvada Runner friends.

The eastern sky began glowing pink and orange behind the silhouette of the mountains.

Then came the countdown.

And 350 runners started moving.

There wasn’t some fierce, competitive charge forward. There were cheers and laughter and casual conversations as hundreds of feet moved together down the trail.

The thing I had been afraid of all night had finally begun.

And somehow, once I was inside it, it wasn’t nearly as frightening anymore.

Running With Nick

A few miles in, I found myself running with my friend Nick.

Nick has been running ultras for 10–15 years. He’s finished Never Summer multiple times. Last year he finished one of his dream races—the Western States 100.

Running alongside him gave me confidence.

He kept telling me:

“You’re going to do great. You’re an amazing runner.”

He gave me little pieces of information about the course—where to conserve energy, what was coming, when I might want to let myself run.

My plan had been to go easy for the first 10 miles and still fairly easy through 20.

Nick thought that was smart.

But his race was different.

His training block had been rough, and only a few days earlier he’d been struggling to even walk. Never Summer wasn’t his goal race. Run Rabbit Run 100, just a few weeks away, was.

He told me he might drop.

His goal that morning was simply to enjoy being out there.

So we ran together.

I wanted his wisdom and experience.

But knowing what he’d been dealing with physically, I also wanted to stay close in case he needed something.

Looking back, I think that was the first lesson of the day.

Nick had experience I didn’t have.

I had strength that, on this particular morning, he wasn’t sure he had.

He could give me wisdom.

I could give him companionship.

We simply offered each other what we had.

Mountains, Moose, and a Crazy Man Named Greg

The morning became spectacular.

We climbed above 10,000 feet as the sun came over the Crags. We passed an alpine lake. I saw moose.

And then suddenly my friend Greg appeared from behind the trees yelling our names.

This requires some explanation.

Greg Opgenorth had finished the High Lonesome 100 the previous weekend.

A normal person might spend the following weekend sleeping.

Greg decided to come crew me.

Apparently that wasn’t enough, because he was also taking little runs backward onto the course to find us.

It wouldn’t be the last time Greg mysteriously appeared in the wilderness that day.

At Michigan Ditch, mile 11.4, I topped off water, Tailwind and Skratch High Carb.

Somewhere after that, I looked behind me.

Nick wasn’t there anymore.

I hadn’t intentionally left him. I simply felt good and started moving.

Earlier Nick had teased me:

“What, do you think you’re just going to put it into a new gear and take off?”

Maybe subliminally I took that as permission.

I was feeling great.

And I was ready to see what was there.

The Crew

At Diamond, mile 19.5, I saw Greg, Ashley and Leighton.

This was where I began understanding what a great crew can do.

They encouraged me. Asked what I needed. Filled things. Checked nutrition. Made sure I had enough calories and fluid for the difficult section ahead.

Greg, with more than ten 100-mile finishes worth of experience, was teaching Leighton the ropes.

For a few minutes, other people carried the details so I could simply keep moving.

Greg also warned me that it was getting warm. He suggested covering my head and getting an ice bath before leaving.

Unfortunately, after seven years as a hospice chaplain, my brain substituted some terminology.

I walked over to the volunteer and announced:

“They said I could get a sponge bath here.”

She looked at me strangely.

I looked at her.

Then it registered.

“Sorry. I was a hospice chaplain for seven years. Apparently I’m old enough now that sponge bath is readily available vocabulary.”

We both laughed.

She poured ice-cold water over my head and shoulders.

The actual sponge bath would have to wait.

That’s Where I’m Going

I had heard plenty about the climb after Diamond.

But hearing about a mountain and seeing it are two different things.

The climb began through the forest on a service road. Rocky in places. Steep in others.

Occasionally, through breaks in the trees, I could see above timberline.

And there they were.

Tiny humans.

A long line of runners climbing what appeared to be straight up the side of a mountain.

I looked up, gasped and said:

“Oh, wow. That’s where I’m going.”

Above timberline, calling what we were following a “trail” became increasingly generous.

There were pink flags indicating the direction.

There were no switchbacks.

It was simply up.

Find a line.

Plant the poles.

Step.

Pull.

Breathe.

Maybe 50 feet. Maybe 100.

Stop.

Breathe.

Look around.

Repeat.

My heart rate wasn’t particularly high, but the altitude made breathing increasingly difficult. My trekking poles became two additional legs.

And somewhere on that mountain, I started praying.

God, give me breath.

Then I remembered something.

When I was five years old, after multiple bouts of double pneumonia, a doctor told my parents two things.

I would never be a mountain climber.

And I should never smoke.

Well…

Check both of those off.

Every step felt like beating the odds.

Pole by pole.

Step by step.

Breath by breath.

Eventually I reached the summit.

There were people cheering. Pictures. A chance to stop and look around.

And an Easy Button.

I pressed it.

That was easy.

It most certainly was not.

But something changed when I stood there.

The intimidating line of tiny humans I had seen from below?

I had become one of them.

And now I was standing on top.

Carried by a Stranger

From 11,852 feet we descended toward Montgomery and eventually Ruby Jewel at mile 31.5.

I felt fantastic.

My knees were good. Quads good. Energy good.

I was hiking the climbs and slowly running much of the downhill.

At some point I settled behind several runners moving at a pace that felt right. I didn’t know them. We never really spoke.

But one woman in particular was climbing beautifully, and I simply followed her rhythm.

When we reached Ruby Jewel, I finally said something.

“You carried me through that section and you didn’t even know it. You’re a great climber and an incredible runner.”

She looked at me.

“I needed that. Thank you.”

I’ve thought about that moment since.

I thought she was helping me.

Apparently, somehow, I was able to help her too.

Maybe that’s how community works more often than we realize.

We carry people without knowing it.

And sometimes simply telling someone what we see in them becomes the thing they need to keep going.

Leighton

Ruby Jewel was hot.

My hydration reservoir was completely empty. I had finished my water and Tailwind.

A volunteer offered me a chair. I sat down, changed socks and realized something:

The race was about to get real.

Leighton, Ashley, Greg and others were there encouraging me.

And I watched Leighton.

Greg had been teaching him how to crew, and by now my son was getting it. He was learning to anticipate what I needed.

Somewhere in his eyes I thought I could see something else, too.

Maybe he could imagine doing this someday.

What I didn’t know was that Leighton himself was becoming sick.

He felt terrible.

Yet he kept showing up for his dad.

I wouldn’t understand the extent of that until later.

Fresh socks. Full bottles. High spirits.

I left Ruby Jewel.

The Miles I Couldn’t Photograph

The section through Kelly Lake and Lake Agnes was breathtaking.

Mountain meadows. Streams. Alpine lakes surrounded by enormous rock walls.

I reached into my pocket to take a picture.

My phone was dead.

Apparently I had left it recording video inside my pocket.

So somewhere there’s probably an extraordinarily long documentary about the inside of my running shorts.

Initially I was disappointed.

Then I realized it might be a gift.

I couldn’t photograph this anymore.

Couldn’t document it.

Couldn’t save it for later.

I could only be there.

So I looked.

And prayed.

And thanked God for creation and for the remarkable privilege of having a body capable of carrying me through it.

There are moments when trying to preserve beauty can keep us from fully receiving it.

For those miles there was nothing to post.

Nothing to photograph.

Nothing to prove.

There was simply creation.

And the gift of being alive enough to move through it.

It’s Okay to Stop

Clear Lake was full of energy.

The volunteers were hyped. I ate quesadillas, refilled bottles and restocked nutrition.

Then came another test:

Two miles.

About 1,400 feet of climbing.

It hurt.

Somewhere on that climb, I started telling myself:

“If at some point this isn’t fun anymore, it’s okay to stop.”

That might sound like terrible ultrarunning psychology.

For me, it was freeing.

I wasn’t imprisoned by the finish line.

I wanted to finish. Badly.

But I wanted to receive the day too.

I climbed.

Eventually I came back down into Clear Lake 2.

And I felt good again.

More importantly, I knew something:

The major climbs were behind me.

Forty-plus miles down.

It was time to turn my mind toward the finish.

And that’s when I met Sean.

The Miles With Sean

Sean was struggling with nausea and seemed emotionally low.

We started talking as we headed into the sunset through mountainous cattle country, much of it downhill.

Eventually I asked:

“Want to just run together?”

He did.

“As long as you’re good being a little slow. My stomach isn’t well, but I could use the company if you’re up for it.”

I was up for it.

So we ran.

We talked about families and careers and life.

The stories did something for both of us.

They distracted Sean from his nausea.

They distracted me from the hot spots developing on my feet.

And we moved.

Actually, we moved pretty well.

We made up a surprising amount of time heading toward Canadian.

I knew I could have gone faster.

But strangely, I didn’t care.

For the entire day, people had been giving something to me.

Nick gave wisdom.

Greg gave experience.

Ashley gave support.

Leighton gave himself even when he wasn’t feeling well.

Volunteers filled bottles and dumped ice water over my head.

A stranger had unknowingly pulled me through the mountains.

Now there was a runner beside me who needed company.

Maybe this was my turn.

“I Can Feel Your Prayers”

At Canadian, Sean’s wife, Sara, joined him as his pacer.

I kept running with them.

Sean’s stomach went south again. He struggled to keep things down.

Sara is a nurse practitioner. Sean is a physician. They knew what they were dealing with, and I watched them work through it together.

My contribution wasn’t medical.

I could simply stay.

Encourage.

Pray.

They knew I was a pastor and had spent years as a hospice chaplain.

At one point Sara said something I won’t forget:

“I’m glad you’re here. You sped him up by an hour, and I can feel your prayers. Sean needs them right now.”

So I prayed.

And kept praying.

At Bockman, Greg was there again.

Of course he was.

Leighton and Ashley arrived just as I was leaving. I felt terrible that I couldn’t spend more time with them, but I needed to keep moving.

I waited for Sean and Sara.

Then the three of us disappeared into the dark.

Sometimes Community Means Leaving

Sean eventually hit another difficult stretch.

I could hear the frustration.

And this time something felt different.

He didn’t need me.

He needed Sara.

His wife.

So I told him:

“I’m going to let you and Sara grind this out together. I’ll be okay. I’ll see you at the finish.”

And I left.

Sometimes community means staying.

Sometimes it means slowing down.

Sometimes it means carrying.

And sometimes love recognizes when it’s time to get out of the way.

I started running toward Ranger Lakes.

Alone.

In the dark.

Except I Wasn’t Alone

Running alone at night had always made me nervous.

But something strange happened.

I wasn’t afraid.

The trail was illuminated by my headlamp and a nearly full moon. Stars filled the sky.

The mountains that had seemed so intimidating the night before now felt strangely peaceful.

And a line from the Psalms came to mind:

“What is mankind that you are mindful of them?”

I kept thinking about it.

I had spent the entire day surrounded by people.

And now I was alone.

Except I wasn’t.

Father.

Son.

Holy Spirit.

And me.

The four of us together in the mystery of the dark.

I became emotional.

Not because I was hurting.

Because I was grateful.

For the mountains.

For my body.

For my family.

For friends.

For strangers.

For breath.

For God.

I had spent the past several weeks preaching about community.

The Father created us for community.

Jesus gathered us into family.

The Holy Spirit forms us into one body.

And somewhere after midnight in the Colorado mountains, I realized that I had spent an entire day living inside the sermon.

“Let’s Get This Done”

Ranger Lakes was quick.

Water.

Encouragement.

And someone finally said:

“Now we’re not lying. You really are almost there.”

I started running.

And I mean running.

My body was tired, but somehow there was still strength in it.

Then, with about 1.3 miles remaining, a voice came out of the darkness.

Of course it did.

Greg.

“DONNIE! Let’s get this done!”

The crazy man had come looking for me again.

So we ran.

And something happened in those final miles.

Fatigue turned into strength.

The trail ended.

Lights appeared.

Voices.

People.

My people.

At around 2:00 Sunday morning, after 66.31 miles and more than 14,000 feet of climbing, I crossed the finish line of the Never Summer 100K.

I Didn’t Finish Alone

I could have finished faster.

I know that now.

I intentionally went slowly with Nick early.

I stayed with Sean when I could have pushed ahead.

There were moments throughout the day when I chose conversation over pace and people over minutes.

And I wouldn’t trade any of them.

Because somewhere along those 66 miles, the goal changed.

I wanted to finish.

I wanted to know whether my training had been enough and whether this 55-year-old body could do something I’d once wondered was impossible.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about Christian community.

We sometimes imagine community as something we attend.

A church service. A small group. A gathering.

But maybe community is much more ordinary—and much more demanding—than that.

It’s noticing.

It’s staying.

It’s accepting help.

It’s offering what you have.

It’s telling the person ahead of you, You carried me and didn’t even know it.

It’s filling someone’s bottle.

It’s teaching a son how to crew his dad.

It’s showing up one week after running your own 100-miler.

It’s continuing to serve your dad when you don’t feel well yourself.

It’s running slower than you’re capable of running because the person beside you is having a hard night.

It’s knowing when someone needs you.

And knowing when they need someone else.

Community is the grace of not having to do the miles alone.

I crossed the finish line on my own two feet.

But Nick was there.

Ashley was there.

Leighton was there.

Greg was there.

The woman whose name I never learned was there.

Sean and Sara were there.

Every volunteer who filled a bottle, handed me food, pointed me toward a trail or yelled my name was there.

And underneath every one of those relationships was the God who had been present from the first anxious moments beneath Friday night’s alpenglow to those final quiet miles beneath the stars.

Maybe the point was never simply to discover how far I could go.

Maybe part of the gift was discovering again who God gives us to walk—and sometimes run—the miles with.

After finishing, I ate a burger and took a few sips of a beer that did not taste nearly as good as I had imagined it would for the previous 66 miles.

Then came the chills.

Leighton and Ashley gathered all my gear, loaded everything into the truck and cranked the heat.

We drove back to Crags Campground with tired bodies and very full hearts.

And nearly 20 hours after accidentally requesting one from an aid-station volunteer, I finally got my sponge bath.

Alone.

At camp.

In the dark.

Which was probably better for everyone involved.

I crawled into the tent and slept until almost 9:00.

The next morning there was coffee with Greg and Nick.

Then breakfast back at the race.

I ate like a king.

We packed everything up and drove home.

My legs were tired.

My body was spent.

But my heart and spirit were full.