Leona Divide 100K: Embracing the Unknown on the PCT

The Leona Divide 100K started the way these things do: chaotic, urgent, and already testing you before the real event even begins. With minutes to spare, I was sprinting to a porta potty and barely making it back to the start line before Keira, the race director, sent us off. Keira gave an encouraging speech, the gun fired, and the course immediately kicked off into the first climb. Let’s get after it.

April 18, 2026

Training

I had been training for this race for some time in San Diego. I found some solace in running. It became a form of meditation. I found myself eventually reaching this flow state most of the time where the miles began to melt away. I had recently completed the Sean O’Brien 50 miler in January. After this, I felt assured I could go another 12 or so miles. How hard could it be? Sean O’Brien was a real kick in the nuts. It had been 95 degrees in Malibu that day, and the sun was blistering. We had no such extremes predicted for the Leona Divide race. Nothing but butter smooth single-track miles along the beautiful Pacific Crest Trail.

I got an idea in my head about a month leading up to the race. What if I actually go for it? Sometimes that’s all winning comes down to: a decision. I knew I wasn’t going to be the most highly trained, but a big element of this endurance stuff is mental toughness. I’ve got that. I started diving into it and cooking up a plan. Sticking below 18 min miles or so for the whole day, consistent calorie intake, intentional and restful short breaks. I got this. My hopes were to aim high and place high. I could do this.

My drop bags were prepped, I settled on a solid race fit, and I was ready to send it. I showed up to a trailhead of the PCT and conked out in the rooftop tent. The stars were out in full that night. I could hear some coyotes in the distance. I slept like a baby. I woke up, broke down the tent, turned the truck on, and drove a couple miles down the road to the old schoolhouse they hosted the starting and finishing line at. Now it was on.

The welcome sign outside the old schoolhouse. Start and finish line, all in one.

But wait, I couldn’t find my light OR Helium wind jacket. I’d had it with me all the time for training and my previous races. I genuinely couldn’t find it, and I didn’t have time to look anymore. I stumbled upon my old, white camo jacket. This thing was a big hunk of junk. It was bulky, heavy, and honestly probably one of my last choices to bring to run 60+ miles with on my back. But it’s all I had. My truck was emptied out and clean at the time. I waffled a few moments and decided to bring it. I was hoping to finish before the sun was all the way set, but just in case I went longer than I thought, this would be good to have if I needed a quick dirt nap.

Hot out the gate

The opening miles were good. Better than good. I set a PR for my marathon trail time and then kept going to set a PR for my 50K time. I was chatting it up with the other racers, staying consistent on my calories, hydrating, cruising. I was feeling it. When I arrived at the first aid station, I blew through it. Fuck it, I wanted to earn my place.

Racing through the first aid station, then still feeling good 20 miles in. Better than good, honestly. That was the problem.

Wait. I set a PR for my 50K time. On a 100K. I was moving well, feeling strong, and trusting that my body could handle the distance. But somewhere in those first 30 miles, in the back of my mind, I knew the math wasn’t mathing. A 50K PR on the front half of a 100K is a beautiful thing to run and a dangerous thing to have done. When I saw that split I knew I might be cooked. That pace was certainly in my “aim high place high” plan, but not in my “hey bozo you just need to actually finish the race in one piece” plan. I was beginning to regret not having stopped. Ego was in the driver’s seat.

The divide early in the race, back when the miles were still butter.

I had met a friend along the way who shared his experiences of his 100 milers he had completed. It was quite inspiring. As is normal with these races, he looked like a normal dude. You wouldn’t pick him out of a crowd as some insane endurance athlete. And yet, he had seven 100-milers under his belt. I had started to feel a tinge in my foot. It was odd. I was really crushing the downhills, even occasionally jogging a few steps at a time uphill. Flats were butter. But now something was beginning to shift. Mario’s last words to me: “hey man, whatever you do, don’t DNF. If you DNF, you just sit in the cold, wet night and think about your decision for what might be hours until someone drives around to pick you up. It’s the worst thing you can do. Don’t fall for the tricks your mind will try to play on you.” Copy that, man. Mario and another racer would soon drop me. I was falling behind the pace of my first 31 miles.

By the mid-30s the miles started to slow. A pain emerged in my foot. It was deep, sharp, and persistent. It forced me to walk flats and descents that should have been runnable. Even a jog was becoming a negotiation. I filed it away and kept moving. “One step at a time, man,” I told myself. Runners I had been pacing my progress around the entire time had completely disappeared. My race time was increasing fast. Then I arrived at Lake Hughes aid station.

The thirsty traverse

I reached the Lake Hughes aid station and found something I hadn’t expected: a celebration. Volunteers and crews were cheering the return of 100K runners, and in that moment the scale of what remained hit me fully. An 8-mile, out-and-back traverse over the mountain ahead. And woah, these people were a full 16 miles ahead of me. At my current pace, that was a full day of work. I generously reapplied my Squirrel’s Nut Butter. I downed some potatoes. I stashed a few for the trip. Admittedly, after some time in San Diego, I wasn’t sure how my body would do on this last final climb. But I knew it had to be done, no way around it. I made the decision quickly: don’t think about it. Start it. Get it done.

Two miles into the traverse I realized I had left the aid station without filling my water. I had almost no water. The foot was in some serious pain. Something was up, this wasn’t just a low anymore. The condition wasn’t improving. This bout of dehydration I was about to battle wasn’t going to help. I came upon a section where the trail touched a future section of the trail, think of a hairpin turn where the road is really close to where you just drove. If you really looked into it, this would probably cut off at least a mile. Oh my, how tempting it was. But logic set in. What in actual hell would I have to be proud of if I took some bullshit shortcut like that? It would be a sacrilegious move against the whole principle of the ultramarathon endurance event. I was firm in my decision. Stay the course, and get it done. The right way is the only way. I was still out of water. I had asked a couple people, but they had none to spare. Reasonable, and I can’t say I would be so generous in their position either. This out-and-back was serious territory. Easily the hardest 16 miles of the race.

What followed was one of the harder stretches of the race. My lips dried out. My voice went hoarse. A creeping delirium set in around the edges. I was in a bad way and I knew it. I could feel myself starting to fade. My eyelids got a little heavier. The sun was beginning to set. What?! Wow, I was waaaay behind my hoped time. I wasn’t even close. The sun was setting and I had almost a MARATHON to go still. Somehow I negotiated that with myself: “well, you’ve done 40+ and you’ve only got 26 or less to go, it would be embarrassing to stop now.” As luck would have it, some runners got pacers for this section. A few of them spotted me enough water to survive. Small acts of grace that I won’t forget. “Stop trying to think, Josh. Just keep going.”

Miles 40 to 50

Miles 40 to 50 were a war with my own body. My stomach had begun revolting. The effort was compounding. When the sun began to set as I gained the summit, I was grateful, genuinely grateful, that I had carried a coat layer. I had stopped generating enough heat by this point to stay warm, and the mountain breeze had teeth. I really tried to shut up the pain and thug it out, but I couldn’t get moving any kind of speed for more than four or five steps.

Still smiling at mile 40. The body was in full revolt, but you have to laugh.

Finally, I started descending the back side toward the Sawmill aid station at mile 50, cold and hurting, and I stayed there longer than planned. The wind had lost its bite down here, and the volunteers had a lot of energy. My feet needed a rest. My right knee had started locking up. The quad looked juicy and swollen. I wondered how standing up would feel. I sat with two cups of warm chicken broth, potatoes, Coca-Cola, and gummy clusters, and I let myself be still for a moment. I could hear my breath. I could see the stars. The volunteers shared stories of their past races and encouraged me. “You’re so close, you just have to get back over this mountain and you’re on the final stretch.” Their words meant a lot. I was still cracking some jokes and telling them of my planned strategy and where I had clearly ended up. Seeing so many 100K runners heading back the other direction, I knew I had sunk to the back of the pack. No matter, I was here to finish this race. We plan, God laughs.

I sat and took in some serious calories. Nature called and I answered. I could get used to it here. But I wouldn’t. It was time. And I sure as shit wasn’t finishing last, if that was still an option. I said my goodbyes to the friendly faces. I started the climb back. I was dreading this huge uphill and downhill. I braced myself for what was to come. I clicked my headlamp on and took off. With the stars out, I was in the dark. Alone. Moving forward slow, but with purpose.

The climb back

The traverse back over the mountain was the darkest part of the race. The uphills hurt my feet as badly as the downhills. I had become used to an angle that relieved the pain, but that relief was far gone now. Nothing subdued the sensation between steps. The flats offered no relief. I began walking with my right foot on lower ground to keep my knee from bending fully. Moving this joint too much meant the beginning of a major cramp on my quad. I couldn’t simultaneously deal with a total lock out and my feet falling off. One step closer. One at a time. Every foot placement and joint movement became strategic. Minimize impact, keep moving, little goals, don’t quit. I have no clear memory of how long it took to get back to Lake Hughes aid station. Time had stopped making sense. The light, dark, trail, and sky turned to a smoothed blur.

But I got there. Ohhh yeah, I got there. Seven miles left. I had a medic look at my feet. I had some genuine concern of a real issue, and figured maybe I should get a wrap or something. The volunteers called the EMT on duty over. “Hey, what’s up man, do you want to DNF then?” What? Dude, fuck no, I’m finishing this race. One of the kind women at this station who was cooking up soup echoed my sentiments: “hell yeah you’re finishing this right. No way in hell you’re DNFing here right now.” His confusion became clarity. “Oh, you just want me to take a look?” Yeah, sure. He gave me some form of “numbing cream” that to this day I think was mouthwash or something. It was a weird, blue liquid that did absolutely nothing and I soaked my tarsals in it. I tried telling myself that helped, but it made no difference. And it didn’t matter at all. I had locked onto my resolve like a dog with a bone. I was getting this done. I had more warm broth, refilled my bladder, drank Coke, and reapplied lube for the fifth or sixth time. When I stood up I stumbled and caught myself almost entirely on my poles. Yeah, I knew exactly what the next seven miles were going to be.

Dark. Cold. Gritty. Shitty, and long. That’s what all the late nights and early mornings train you for mentally.

I started walking.

One step closer

The miles grew to over 30 minutes each. The temperature dropped hard. My hands went numb. In the darkness I started hallucinating: shapes on the trail, faces in the trees, food that wasn’t there. I specifically remember seeing a giant white Oreo on the trail. Like it had been inversed. I was so confused why this was here. I initially thought someone had dropped a Little Debbie cake or something. Then I realized I was losing it, and that was a fuckin rock on the trail. I began talking out loud to myself, coaching my own body the way I would coach someone else. Calm, direct, and instructional. It helped more than anything else I tried. When I needed support badly enough, I gave it to myself. This was absolutely key to my finishing the race. This last section was stretching my will.

When the remaining miles crept up as insurmountable I came back to the same three words: one step closer. I heard Cameron Hanes repeat it during his Cocodona race, and it had stuck with me. Out there in the dark and the cold, delirious and barely moving, it was enough. One step closer. I was living step to step. This is the longest possible way to experience each second, but it was the only way. Each step closer to that finish line than the last. The finish line had become a concept. It seemed so far off I thought it might be sunrise before I would see it. I was passed by the 100-mile winner. Quite the humbling moment. Dude ran 40 more miles than me, faster than me. Fast forward to where I’m currently at in the race, another 100 miler passes me. He spared a few seconds to chat. He reassured me that we’ve all been there, it’s part of the journey of running ultras. You have to go blow up on a few and learn these lessons. I’ll tell ya, I sure was learning it.

At various points throughout the race, I felt Stella with me. Stella was my best friend through all the highs and lows of a decade. I loved that dog more than anything. What I would give to spend a few more miles with her. I could see her snow-white glow ahead of me, prancing proudly as she did in the outdoors, and turning to check that I was still just behind her. She was a source of great strength for me in this race. In my hardest moments, I always think of her. Gone now, but there on that trail in the dark, keeping pace and ensuring I was on the right path. I don’t know how else to describe it. She was there. I cannot fail with her by my side.

Stella, with me everywhere I go. Love you, my girl.

The last three miles of downhill I tried everything: sideways, backwards, any angle that would let me move a little faster. Eventually I stopped looking for angles and just stepped into the pain and moved forward. I had resigned to it long ago, and I finally reached the point that nothing was better or worse. It just was. Forward is all that was left. A few times in this moment I dropped into the dirt. I wasn’t seeing any more cookies, but I was seeing faces of some sort on the trail. I reached a few lows where I didn’t know what to do, I just needed a minute. But I knew I couldn’t stay down for long. It wasn’t in my plan. That wasn’t the deal. “Come on, Josh.” I rose up and took another step. One step closer. And then my headlamp died.

The finish

I was at 63+ miles. I gave up on hoping for a number of miles anymore. I could barely see the trail. The moon wasn’t bright, so the dark was very dark. I tried to start my light again, but it went off again after a few seconds. I switched to the red light and it stayed on another 30 seconds. It was totally done. I didn’t feel my hands much anymore at this point. But I had to make an emergency switch. The last option for a light source: my phone. Battery was getting fried, but I thought to myself that was better than twisting my ankle on the last bits. On the map, I saw several switchbacks and descent. It started to look like this was the end?

I heard a weird noise in the distance. It was very brief. It sounded like a woman’s laugh. Probably another 100 miler catching up to me. My miles, as one may have surmised, were at all-time lows by this point. The cold, crisp breeze of the night had stopped. Then I saw a faint glow. I did a couple more switchbacks. I couldn’t see the territory at all anymore, so there was nothing to recognize from the start. Then I saw floodlights. The shape of people having a conversation. Sound came back to the world. This had to be it.

I stumbled in with tears in my eyes, relief and pain fighting for space in my chest. The sudden adrenaline and endorphin spike had me walking a touch faster on a straightened-out leg. The knee wasn’t going to bend at this point even if I wanted it to. I called out my number with a hoarse voice. I crossed the finish line. I stood there in disbelief for a moment, and then someone was right by me. She put a medal around my neck and I collapsed immediately into the nearest seat I could find. Not good enough, it wasn’t just my legs. My whole body was screaming to get flat. I couldn’t help but notice, it was so quiet. There were maybe 6 people at the finish line? The contrast to the energy of the aid stations, the start, the competitors in between. It all faded to this cold little moment that I essentially had all to myself. And that’s what it’s all about anyway. I didn’t do this for anybody else, so who cares? I did this for me. I wanted to show myself I could do it, and I did it despite the setbacks. Okay, enough reflecting, I’m wiped.

Across the line at last. Twenty-two and a half hours, tears, and a hoarse voice calling out my number.

Before long I was lying on the floor of the now very warm schoolhouse, staring at the ceiling, listening to myself breathe. My mind was blank in the best possible way. At some point I began to wonder if I had finished or if I was dreaming it. Maybe I had fallen asleep out there and I was going to wake up, still with miles to go ahead of me. What time is it anyway? I crossed that finish line at ~4:30am. 22.5 hours. Not quite what I had envisioned for myself. But I made it.

Laying on the schoolhouse floor, just finished. Better than ever, of course.

I wasn’t dreaming.

What it left me

22 hours. 100 kilometers. No crew. No pacer. A PR’d 50K split on the front half and a second half that nearly broke me. Bilateral foot pain, a locked knee, a dead headlamp, and hallucinations in the dark. I finished anyway.

This race reminded me of something I already knew but needed to feel again: what I am capable of when I decide I am going to do something. Events like this don’t just test you. They change you. You walk away with something you can’t get anywhere else. How well you can embrace the unknown.

I am proud of this effort. I am grateful to have a body that can suffer this way and carry me through. And I am already thinking about what comes next, but for now I must recover. I know I’ll be back for more carnage. I’m still just getting started.

A couple more of my girl. Stella, forever on the trail with me.

Leona Divide 100K. Finished, April 19, 2026. Onward.

Follow me @journeywithjoshua_ on Instagram for all my adventures.