The Role of a Pacer: Burney Mountain 100-miler Edition Part 1

Sunset near Burney Mountain while driving back into town from the Cypress Trailhead aid station.

Most of time when I tell people that I'm going to pace a runner for a 100-mile race, I'm not sure if they fully understand what I'm talking about.  I think to some people it sounds so bizarre, they don't know what to make of it.  They simply can't wrap their heads around someone running a hundred miles, so they just say "cool, have fun with that".  I think other times, people think I'm going to be running a hundred miles around a track with a megaphone, calling out lap times and telling people they need to move their asses.  Not many people outside of the ultramarathon world understand at first, but I'd say about half of the time, people are intrigued and ask me to tell them more.  Once I explain it, they seem to understand and appreciate it.  Most 100-mile race participants have pacers for the second half of the race, or perhaps the last thirty or twenty miles.  Even the elite runners usually have someone there.  Pacers are often friends or family members who are crazy enough, and willing to share the adventure with the runners.  Pacing a runner during a 100-miler can mean a couple of different things.  When someone paces an elite runner who is competitive and going for the win, the experience is almost all business.  The pacer is expected to run seven to eight minute miles with the runner for at least twenty miles.  Additionally, they are expected to push the runner to their maximum potential, make sure they don't spend too much time at the aid stations, and make sure they're eating and drinking enough.  Basically, they're expected to be extremely efficient, and maximize the runner's chances of achieving their race goal.  But for most 100-mile race runners, particularly first timers, it's not quite as intense.  When people are pacing less competitive runners who are going for a thirty to thirty-five hour finish, their role is more focused on keeping the runner company so they keep moving.  The runner and the pacer will often share stories and engage in conversation to pass the time.  Most of the time, all these runners need is someone to talk to them, give them positive words of encouragement, make sure they're eating and drinking, and make sure they don't lose their composure or wander off course.  Rather than seven or eight minute miles, pacers are often half running, half hiking, or even mostly hiking the remaining miles of the race with the runner.

I've paced five runners at 100-mile races over the last seven years.  My specialty seems to be first timers going for a thirty to thirty-five hour finish.  Which means we're often hiking together through the mountains for the last thirty to forty miles of the race and occasionally running when we're able to.  It's equal parts work and play, and my approach to pacing runners is often lighthearted and fun.  I love pacing first time 100-mile runners.  An ultrarunner's first 100-mile race is something they always remember, and I love being part of that journey.  My favorite part is seeing their reaction when they cross the finish line.  That raw emotion that comes pouring out, knowing that they just conquered the unthinkable.  So, when the opportunity arose for me to pace a runner at the Burney Mountain 100-miler this past weekend, I jumped all over it.  Brianna, the runner I was going to be pacing, chose the Burney Mountain 100 as her first 100-miler, having made the decision to sign up just three months prior.  We touched base often on her training and progress.  She trained quite a bit in those three months, but the longest distance she logged was a single thirty-three mile training run.  That's not very much distance to cover for preparing for a 100-miler, but she felt confident and determined that she could finish.  The plan was for me to pace her for the last thirty miles from the aid station at the base of Burney Mountain to the finish line at the Burney Mountain Guest Ranch.  Her husband, Nick, and her two daughters, Fierra and Chevelle, accompanied her on the trip, and were planning to be at the aid stations to crew for her. 

Charm Motel in Burney

I arrived in the town of Burney at 3:00 PM on Friday June 20th, 2025, after a ten-hour drive from Laguna Niguel.  The race had started at 4:30 AM that morning.  Although cell phone reception along the course was sporadic, Nick had been doing a great job with keeping me updated on Brianna's progress and letting me know when she was arriving at the aid stations.  He informed me that she had twisted her knee around mile seven.  It was painful, but she continued on, hoping it wouldn't turn into a major issue later on in the race.  When I arrived, I checked into my room that I had booked for the weekend at the Charm Motel off highway 299.  As much as I love living in Orange County, it was nice to be in a small, quiet town in a mountain wilderness setting for a couple of days.  I took a nap in my room for a couple of hours and woke up to a text from Nick letting me know that Brianna had left the Tamarack aid station at mile thirty-five and was on her way to the Cypress Trailhead aid station at mile forty-eight.  I headed out to go meet up with the crew in hopes of catching Brianna before she departed the aid station for the base of Burney Mountain.  The drive to the aid station was pretty fast until I made a right turn off highway 89 by the fire station near Hat Creek.  From there, it was a ten-mile rally through the mountains on a dusty, rugged dirt road with steep drop offs.  Even though it was sketchy at times, the scenery was beautiful.  I stopped my car periodically to take a moment to enjoy the picturesque setting.  The aid station was at a campground in the middle of the wilderness with no cell phone reception, but when I finally arrived, I quickly located Nick, Fierra, Chevelle, and their dog, Biscuit.  We lingered around the campground together as they told me about how wild of a day it had been.  They were having a good time but had a couple of stressful moments earlier on in the race when they were trying to locate the aid stations in the remote wilderness.  They had driven their van around the course from aid station to aid station and managed to make it to every single one in time to meet Brianna.  Being a crew member during a 100-miler can be taxing, and Nick, Fierra, and Chevelle were doing a fantastic job at making sure Brianna was being taken care of.  We talked a little about Nick's running history as well.  I got a good laugh when he told me he stopped to have a cigarette at mile nine of his last half-marathon, then went on to finish the race.

Brianna emerged on the trail and rolled into the aid station around 8:00 PM.  She had covered forty-eight miles in fifteen-and-a-half hours.  The race had a forty-hour cutoff, so she was making good time.  Aside from her knee giving her trouble, she looked pretty fresh.  She was tired, but not too haggard and beat up.  This was promising to see.  The halfway point of a 100-mile race can be tough.  Runners have been on the trail all day, and they have to mentally contend with the fact that they need to run fifty more miles, when they've already been through so much.  It can be overwhelming, but the best thing to do is just take it one mile and one aid station at a time.  After having some time off her feet and eating some noodles with soup broth, Brianna grabbed her polls and hit the trail once again, heading for the base of Burney Mountain at mile fifty-four.  From there, she would make the eight-and-a-half mile climb to the summit, then head back down to the aid station.  I bade the crew farewell for now and headed back into town to eat and get some rest for the night shift.  Based on Brianna's current pace, I expected she would be back down from Burney Mountain and reach the aid station at mile seventy-one around 4:00 AM, where I would meet up with her and pace her the rest of the way.  Even though I had a comfy bed in my motel room, I decided to head to the aid station after I ate dinner.  Rather than sleep at the motel I decided it would be less risky if I went to the aid station and slept in the back of my car until Brianna arrived.  That way I could just get there instead of taking the risk of getting lost trying to find the aid station and potentially having to make Brianna wait.  The drive along the dusty dirt road in the mountains was similar to the drive I had done a few hours earlier.  It was pitch black outside, and tall pine trees lined the dark, narrow path on both sides.  

The aid station finally emerged through the brush.  It was set up in a clearing where the dirt roads intersected.  The canvas tent was set up with a table full of snacks and provisions for runners, along with a propane fueled fire pit and several foldable chairs.  Cars from volunteers and crew members were parked along the dirt road.  I arrived shortly after 11:00 PM.  The aid station was fairly quiet in the nighttime wilderness, and a couple of runners sat near the fire trying to stay warm.  Beyond the light that the fire gave off, it was sheer darkness in every direction.  We were miles up into the mountains, far away from everything, with no cell phone reception.  This place was truly remote.  I was advised by a volunteer that Brianna had passed through and began her ascent up Burney Mountain just a few minutes prior.  She was making the ascent with Kaitie, a runner from Oregon, who she had been leapfrogging throughout the race.  It was a seventeen-mile roundtrip back to the aid station, so I figured she'd be back down in four to five hours.  I walked back to my car to get some sleep while I awaited her arrival.  I spotted Nick's van along the side of the road.  It was darkened, so I assumed he, Fierra, and Chevelle were hunkered down inside getting some sleep.  Once back at my car, I changed into my running clothes, folded the backseat down, and crawled into my sleeping bag.  Over the next several hours, I awoke sporadically but managed to get a little rest.  By 5:30 AM, the crack of dawn had filled the sky with vivid color.  I sat up, looked out my window, and saw Nick at the aid station, so I hopped out to check in with him.  Brianna was still tackling the trek up and down Burney Mountain, and Nick informed me that she expected to be down within a couple of hours.  I was glad to hear that she had made it through the night and was still going.  Even though it was the first day of summer, it was quite chilly outside, so I retreated back to my car and cozied up in my sleeping bag to stay warm until she arrived.  It had been a fun experience so far.  I laughed as I laid in my sleeping bag in my running gear.  "We're ultrarunners, this is what we do" I said to myself.  

  

Base of Burney Mountain aid station at dawn

The Race That DNF'ed Itself

One of my favorite movies in high school was Ferris Bueller's Day Off.  Even though that movie is almost forty years old, it still stands the test of time, even today.  It's a true classic coming-of-age comedy film.  One of the most memorable lines in the movie is in the beginning when Ferris says to the camera "life moves pretty fast.  If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you might miss it".  He's right.  Life has been moving pretty fast for me lately.  Between being a dad, being a husband, and balancing a career with my own interests and taking care of myself, things have been pretty on the go.  I would have loved to have written about my experience at the Newport Coast 50K sooner, but life happens.  Better to do it five weeks later than never, I suppose.

There is always a story to tell after an ultramarathon, and this one was no exception.  In fact, the experience was a first for me.  This was the first race I ever participated in that was cancelled after it was already underway.  I was climbing slowly up a hill along a wide trail in Crystal Cove State Park on race day.  The next aid station was only about a quarter of a mile away.  The heat had been quite brutal, so I was looking forward sitting down for a few minutes and regrouping at the check point before tackling the last ten miles to the finish line.  When the aid station eventually came into view at the crest of the hill, a volunteer saw me approaching and ran down the trail towards me.  "How's it going dude?" I called out as I waved.  "Pretty good" he responded.  "But, I got something to tell you" he continued.  "And you're looking pretty fresh, so this might be bad news for you".  I was confused. "What's up?" I asked.  "The race has been cancelled" he responded with a coy smile.  I burst into sudden fit of laughter.  "Are you messing with me man?" I asked.  He laughed too, but said that he was dead serious.  I was caught off guard for a second, but considering the events of the day that I had experienced so far, it made sense why the race director made the difficult decision to call off the remainder of the event.

I knew even before I arrived that morning that it was going to be a warm day.  It was mid-May in Southern California, so that wasn't super surprising.  Heat has knocked me on my ass pretty hard during some of my past ultras.  Who could forget my epic DNF at the Cool Moon 50-miler last year when I was lying down in the grass on the trailside, puking, while heat engulfed me?  I was hoping today wouldn't turn out like that.  A 50K is still a long distance, but I remained hopeful that I could grind my way through it despite the high temperatures, which were forecasted to be in the low eighties.  I followed the crowd of runners on foot down the road from my car to the Lower Moro Parking Lot where the start line was.  On my way there, I consumed some last minute electrolyte tablets to mitigate any cramping and dehydration.  The race got off to a pretty good start at 7:00 AM on the dot.  We had a powerful and uplifting send off from the race announcer, Andrea, a local running coach who is one of the founding members of the local kids running program, WeROCK.  As we made our way up into the hills of Crystal Cove, the views of the beach and the ocean appeared in front of us as we headed to the first aid station.  I could see the waves crashing on shore at the beach right across the street from the race start line several hundred feet below.  Although the view was spectacular, the temperature was beginning to climb.  I also learned ahead of time that this course was pretty exposed with very little shade.  I was enjoying myself, but I wanted to get as far along the trail as I could before the real heat kicked in.

The plan was for Samantha and Aidan to come meet me in the finish area after the race, and the three of us would head to the beach together for a little while.  Samantha has always been supportive of my ultrarunning, but she took a particularly strong interest in my participation in the Newport Coast 50K.  She was born in Los Angeles, but when she was ten years old, her family moved to Irvine, where she attended middle school and high school.  She knew Crystal Cove well, having spent lots of time at the beach and on these trails during her formative years and into her adult years.  She thought it was especially cool that I was running a 50K on her stomping grounds, and her excitement was a nice energy that carried me along the way.  I passed through the one somewhat shady spot of the course during a descent and ran past several tall mustard flower plants on single track trails.  I was treated to some more beautiful ocean views, followed by some nice views of the canyons, and I climbed and descended for several miles along the rolling terrain.

When I eventually arrived at the aid station at the midway point of the race, I was delighted to discover that they had popsicles and ice bandanas.  By then, the temperature was at least eighty degrees and I was drenched in sweat.  I thanked the volunteers and headed out to take on the second half of the race.  As the trail rolled on and the sun beat down, things started to get a little funky.  I cheered for the oncoming runners who were behind me and on their way to the aid station, but most of them looked pretty wrecked.  I was starting to feel a little wrecked myself from all the climbing and descending in the heat along the rolling hills.  At one point an oncoming runner emerged over the crest of the hill.  She was shouting into her cell phone and cursing out whoever was on the other end as she limped down the trail.  Apparently she needed a change of shoes and some foot lube.  Whoever was on the receiving end of that call was apparently responsible for supplying the items to her at the aid station.  At some point before her ranting became audible, she must have learned that they weren't at the aid station like she expected them to be, much to her dismay.  Emotions can run high during ultramarathons.  I continued to pass more oncoming runners over the next couple of miles.  Many of them were simply too exhausted and cooked from the sun to respond to my words of encouragement, other than giving a nod.  When I arrived at the nineteen mile mark, I saw two helicopters circling above the course.  That probably wasn't good news.  My viewing of the helicopters was interrupted by a brutal leg cramp.  It stayed with me for the next mile as I tried to shake it out.  

As I climbed the hill to aid station at mile twenty-one, I knew I was going to have to stop and regroup.  I felt as though I could still finish, but I needed to sit down, stretch out my leg cramps, and take in some cold liquid before I continued in this heat.  That was the aid station where I was informed that the remainder of the race was cancelled.  The volunteer explained that the intense heat was causing so much carnage along the course, the firefighters, paramedics, and medical staff who were onsite couldn't keep up.  They were being stretched too thin, and scrambled to attend to the numerous runners who were suffering from heat exhaustion.  I was told that at least two people needed to be airlifted off the course.  The aid stations ran out of water and provisions for the first time in sixteen years, even after several runs to the grocery store.  Unfortunately, we don't get to pick the weather on race day.  Things can go pretty sideways when mother nature doesn't cooperate.  The race director and staff made the tough decision to call the rest of the race off.  That was the right move.  It was better to go that route than to put the volunteers' and runners' safety in jeopardy.  I can honestly say I wasn't particularly upset about that decision.  In fact, I was kind of relieved.  I felt like I could have kept going, but it would have been ugly and painful.  We were routed down an alternate trail, which was a shortcut to the finish line.  All 50K runners would instead get credit for completing the 25K race.  The shortcut was about a mile from the finish line, so we covered twenty-two miles in total.  

I called Samantha and told her the news so she and Aidan could head out to meet me.  As I hobbled along the mostly downhill chute to the finish line, I chatted with other runners and inquired about how they felt about the race being cancelled.  Some were indifferent about it, like me.  Others were disappointed because it was supposed to be their first ultramarathon.  I could understand their frustration.  After I crossed the finish line and the dust settled, I rendezvoused with Samantha and Aidan.  We spent the next couple of hours at the beach near Moro Canyon, just north of Emerald Bay.  It was super nice.  Since it was a hot day, the area was thriving and it was nice to have a family beach day.  I later found out that the temperature on the race course that day was eighty-seven degrees.  That's freaking hot when you're running on an exposed trail.  It was unfortunate that the race was called off at mile twenty-one, but in my case, I didn't mind too much.  I guess it's because I've been doing this for a while.  There will be other opportunities to get my ass kicked on the trail in the heat.  But on this day, I had a much better time getting twenty-two trail miles in, not being totally destroyed, and chasing Aidan around in the sand.