Chris Wristen

CHAMONIX, France – The forecast called for dire conditions: rain, freezing temperatures, possibly snow. The CCC and its already formidable, punishing 101-kilometer course from Courmayeur, Italy, through Champex-Lac, Switzerland, and ultimately to the finish line in downtown Chamonix was projected to be a slow, soggy, sloppy sufferfest – at least for the non-elite mortals at the middle and back of the pack.

At the finish line before catching the bus to the start on Friday, Sept. 1, 2017.

Then again, nobody was promised perfect conditions, and anyone expecting an idyllic half-loop around Mont-Blanc had set themselves up for failure.

For six hours, however, we were given a gift of sunny skies, cool but comfortable temperatures, and the opportunity to admire the lush green mountainsides and snow-capped peaks while running and hiking through the Italian Alps.

Now, 18 miles into our 63-mile journey, we stood at the base of our gateway to Switzerland, the Grand Col Ferret, 2,500 feet above us. A thick, white fog eased over the Col, quickly erasing the top from view. A bone-chilling wind began to whip, causing Alex and me to stop and pull out our jackets before proceeding upward. Moments later, the first drops of rain pelted us.

For four years we’d dreamed of running this race. Now, with 45 miles to go and a thunderstorm closing in, the Alps were about to turn this adventure into an unforgiving and unforgettable journey. Continue Reading

I was done.

Running the Sleepy Hollow Mountain Race in Vermont. Photo by Joe Viger Photography.

Exhausted, dehydrated, out of water, I was flat on my back in the grass next to the trail. James and I were within a mile of the hut where we’d reserved bunks for the night. I could see the hut from my shaded place in the grass, about 800 meters above us.

Steep switchbacks zig-zagged their way up to the hut, but I knew I couldn’t get there. I hadn’t put in the necessary work to prepare for such a rigorous hike, a journey that had already taken us countless miles over multiple ridgelines. I’d given my then-29-year-old self way too much credit for thinking I was fit. I’d been wrong, and now I was paying for it. Continue Reading

I rang in my 36^th birthday in 2016 by spending just shy of nine hours – 8:52 to be exact – running, hiking, climbing, and cursing at the trails of the Blue Hills Reservation while running the “Don’t Run Boston” 50K.

Runners scrambling up on the DRB course.

As luck would have it, 362 days later I was back at the Blue Hills to close out my 36^th year running DRB again. Based on how the schedule worked out, it gave me a unique opportunity to bookend my year with the same race and, in a sense, use it as a measuring stick for comparing where my fitness, trail strength, and mental toughness were to start and finish my year. Suffice to say, I think I’ve aged pretty well, and surrounded myself with good company in the process. Some of that quality camaraderie played a huge role in the successful run of 2017. Continue Reading

January through March were all about laying the foundation for 2017. I banked more than 500 miles during that span and logged my first-ever 200-mile month.

Now it’s April, and racing season starts this weekend. A glance beyond Saturday can feel a bit overwhelming, however. Continue Reading

Plenty has changed since I first started running the trails in the summer of 2010. For one thing, all of those ultrarunners who I thought were crazy … well, I’m one of them now, and have been for more than five years.

The bigger change has come in terms of mileage – daily, weekly, and monthly. I was still working as a sportswriter when I first started running trails, and that left me with about one evening per week that I could get to the trails to run. The 4.5-mile Wednesday Night Beginner’s Run at Shawnee Mission Park in Kansas City was my only weekly run for most of a year before I started adding in a few miles on the weekend. I might have a 10-mile week if I was lucky, and that seemed like a lot back then. Continue Reading

My lungs burned and the springy feeling in my legs turned to lead as I pushed up the winding, rock- and root-strewn hill toward Wright’s Tower on a chilly but humid Saturday morning at the Middlesex Fells Reservation. Upon reaching the top, I trotted past the tower to the outcropping of rocks that serve as a lookout point toward the skyline of downtown Boston seven miles away.

I run the trails here often, and this is a regular stopping point to catch my breath, clear my head, or sit and think for a little while before heading on my way for more miles in the woods.

I gazed toward the city and saw clouds rolling through quickly. They would clear soon, the forecast said; it was supposed to be a beautiful day in Boston. I knew the city would be buzzing with energy soon. The Boston Women’s March for America – a sister event to the Women’s March on Washington in the nation’s capital – was scheduled to begin at 11 a.m. I knew a few friends who would be marching in Washington, D.C., and others who planned to be at Boston Common. Continue Reading

The miles seemed important as they piled up. I was certain I’d surpassed 1,300 miles for 2016, but upon reviewing the graphic below, it’s clear I fell a bit shy: 1,295 miles – still not too shabby. Continue Reading