Jeff Garmire

I entered a “Last Person Standing” Event in October. It wouldn’t take place for three months, but I needed something to train for and to have a goal through the holidays. It would be something to hold me accountable, motivate me to train, and an excuse to get outside and exercise. Then I got Covid, and my car got totaled.

All the excuses were there, but the simple desire to show up for an event unlike anything else I had ever done fueled me. While quarantining with covid, I rode a stationary bike and walked in circles. For an hour each day, I walked up and down the hallway to get my steps in. I needed to log hours on my feet to maintain as much of the aerobic base as possible. My covid symptoms were mild, but they did inhibit the long runs that I had planned. But, between the stationary bike and hiking the halls, I showed up at the start line with enough confidence to feel like I belonged.

Now, the last person standing event is strange. There is no set finish distance or time. The race continues until there is only one runner left. The style slowly whittles down the field to one person, but no one knows how long that will take. Us ten runners would have to run a 1.04-mile loop every fifteen minutes indefinitely. The math worked out so that every 24 hours, we would cover 100 miles.

Fifteen minutes sounds like a long time to cover a mile, and it usually is. But, within those fifteen minutes, we had to complete the loop, eat, drink, use the bathroom, change shoes or socks, fit in any other necessary tasks AND make it to the start line for the next loop. Time moved differently.

The first miles were simple, straightforward, and casual. I got to interact and learn about each of the other competitors. It was a good transition into the unique structure. My entire world quickly became fifteen-minute segments. I tried to finish each loop in 11 minutes to have three minutes to sit in my chair and take care of my “chores” before lining up for another loop. The pattern quickly became engrained. It was so simple, yet it was never dull.

The miles were slow to add up. After three hours, we had only gone twelve miles. After five hours, we had just crossed the twenty-mile mark. But as the night approached, the miles slowly became more taxing.

Participants began to drop in the night hours. It was cold, and as each hit their personal goals, they found that staying by the heaters sounded like a better plan than going out for another loop. It was lonely out on the wide dirt path, and there wasn’t much talking. The only goal was continuing until morning, but the uninviting cold made it difficult. Lap after lap, I forgot to add a layer of clothes and gloves. Every time I came in, I wanted warm coffee, food, and a couple of minutes to sit in my chair. And every time, I forgot to finish all the things I had come up with as tasks during the previous loop.

By 3 am, we had covered about 75 miles, and only one other runner was still going. Paul and I were on our own. I was disappointed to lose so many people through the night, but the cold 39 degrees for Phoenix residents just wasn’t inviting. Paul was from Colorado, and I was from Montana. Our cold weather experience seemed to aid our nighttime perseverance.

Morning came, and together we ticked off the miles. It wasn’t competitive; we wanted to give each other the longest race and best effort possible. Without both of us, neither of us could continue. The camaraderie was incredible. We rooted for each other, high-fived, and pushed each other with each new lap. We both wanted to make it into the second night, and we simply needed each other to do it.

At noon we crossed the 24 hour and 100-mile mark. Ironically, Paul and I had the slowest average laps and were the only ones left. There was something to be said for lapping the same track over 100 times at a sustainable and conservative pace. Every six hours, we would change directions, and along the way, we memorized every step, rock, and tiny hill. There were ten feet of elevation gain in the loop, and by the 100-mile mark, I walked the short few steps of the hill every time.

Even as we neared 120 miles, my pace stayed consistent. Each lap would take almost precisely 11:30, and then I had about 3 minutes. It felt like both the perfect comfortable pace and that it left the right amount of time to sit down between laps. I was in the zone and felt like I could go forever. But, Paul was showing signs of fatigue. At 112 miles, he barely made the cutoff. The race director counted down the time left, and five seconds before the next lap, Paul sprinted through. Then he had to turn around for the next loop immediately. Paul did this twice more over the next hour while battling stomach issues. His perseverance through adversity only inspired me to keep going. He would animatedly throw up in the middle of a loop and then somehow compose himself to finish successfully. But, you could see the signs of wear.

Paul kept making it through in just the nick of time, and then he didn’t. At mile 115, he didn’t make it back to the start in time. In the commotion, both the race director and the spectators were not sure if I was supposed to run another loop or not, so I did. I dropped my fastest mile in the last 24 hours and put a bow on the race. The feelings of winning were mixed. I wanted to go deeper into the night, but I was also content being done running the same loop.

It was the introduction to a new type of race and one that challenged my name and mental toughness in new ways. It was fun to work with the other racers and not necessarily against them. The race offered such a defined format that I could learn valuable lessons about pacing, which I hope to take forward. I am excited to try more of these uniquely styled races in the future.

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