“Come with us,” he said, as they passed me on the long climb out of the town of Telluride, Colorado. I tried. It didn’t last. There was a gas pedal, but no gas. The operating system in my brain seemed to have given up as well. I let them go and went back to slogging. I hadn’t given up entirely. I kept moving, but slowly.
I crested the saddle and scoped out the frozen snowfield before me. Spotting some tracks, I started making my way across. Very quickly, I felt sketched out, each step a game of Russian Roulette on ice. Vertically, the field was short. I sat down and let myself slide. I rapidly picked up speed as I careened toward the rocks below. For a moment, it was tense, then I was back on my feet and safe. No harm was done, save for a few scratches on my palms.
I trudged on, up and over Oscars Pass and down the other side. I entered the Chapman aid station in a dark place. The stomach wasn’t working, and my mind was giving in. I felt as if I were no longer racing, just finishing.
I donned a jacket, changed packs, ate a banana, maybe something else, and left.
I walked slowly toward Grant-Swamp Pass. I walked and stopped, walked and stopped, sometimes sat. I watched for headlamps, but no one caught me. After what felt like forever, I made it to the top. It was dark, but I looked toward Island Lake far below and thought of trail running’s late superfan Bill Dooper. I made my way down the other side and onward to the KT aid station.
At KT, I chatted with the friendly aid station workers and ate some food, mostly potato soup. They filled my flask with ginger ale, packed me a sandwich, and sent me off.
The author at the start of the 2025 Hardrock 100. All photos: Peter Maksimow
A Worrying Prognosis
Months earlier, I sat in a doctor’s office awaiting the results of a knee x-ray. I’d had pain for months, but hadn’t known why. The physician assistant came in with the report. The news wasn’t good. He told me my right knee was shifted to the outside. It wasn’t tracking correctly, resulting in an unfortunate amount of wear. I talked through things with him, then scheduled an MRI and left.
Weeks later I got the MRI. This time, my doctor called me to discuss the results. Again, they weren’t good. The wear and tear in my knee was significant. The news hit hard. It made me question what my future would look like in terms of running. I got a second opinion and the report was more or less the same. But, this second doctor was interested in doing a surgery to clean out my knee. I agreed, and just before Christmas, I drove to the Steadman Clinic in Vail, Colorado, and got the surgery.
This put me out of running for a bit, but I kept plugging away with other things: I rowed, biked, and skied. Eventually, I was allowed to run, and I started easing my way back in. Unfortunately, the knee still hurt, some days a lot. I had runs where I limped my way home, then sat down on the steps and buried my head in my hands. I questioned if I could continue to run at a competitive level. My situation felt scary and dark, but I continued on.
I worked on mobility and strength. I kept running, skiing, and cycling. It was a rough road, but bit by bit things improved. By the summer, I found a good groove. I put in a solid block of training, then taper.
Zach during the early miles of the Hardrock 100.
Making it to Hardrock
At 6 a.m. on July 11, I started the 2025 Hardrock 100, which brings me to where I left off.
It’s roughly 5 a.m. on July 12, some 23 hours after the start, when I exit KT and begin the final big climb of the race. I’ve been creeping along for hours with an angry stomach. I’ll likely creep some more on this final climb.
But then, just before I begin the climb, I hear some cheering from the aid station. I look back and see two headlamps approaching. I thought maybe I was a good ways in front of the next runner, but apparently not. I have a choice to make. Slog up the climb and down into Silverton, the tiny village where the event starts and finishes, focused on nothing more than finishing, or give it one last go in an attempt to hold off the approaching headlamps and retain my fifth-place position.
Tired as I was and cranky as my stomach had been, I looked at the climb before me and decided to give the gas pedal one more try. Fortunately, my body responded. Grinding up the climb, I found a rhythm, and crested the top just ahead of a hard-charging Katie Schide and pacer Cody Lind. With the climb behind us and the descent before us, things were just getting going.
As we dove off the ridge and into the descent, a wild game of chase unfolded. I ran for my life as Katie chased me like I was the last antelope left on the savanna. We did this for miles, all the way to the final river crossing. We crossed the river, then the road, and made our way up the little climb to the trail that would take us toward town. With only a few meters between us, we raced like mad all the way to the finish line. It was incredibly fun and nerve wracking all at the same time, but I made it by the skin of my teeth. Katie came in soon after and we shared a hug, a fist bump, and a smile. It was a pretty special moment.
Zach shares a moment with women’s winner Katie Schide at the Hardrock 100 finish.
But I say all this not to emphasize our battle to the finish, but to recognize the value of not giving up. In the months leading up to the race, my knee gave me every reason to question my ability to complete a race like Hardrock. Then in the race itself, my stomach wreaked havoc on my body and posed a huge obstacle for my mind. Yet in spite of all the bleak doctors’ reports, painful training runs, and stomach issues, I kept going, all the way to KT where I looked up and said, Alright, let’s give this one more go. How glad I am that I did!
Call for Comments
- Were you following the Hardrock 100?
- Have you had any similar experiences with coming back from injury and uncertainty?
