The Teton Crest Trail

I was never a long-distance runner.

Before cancer, I thought running 10 miles was “a lot.” Then chemo came, went, and left me staring at a body I wasn’t sure I trusted anymore. Somewhere along the way, I realized that trust could be rebuilt—and not just rebuilt, but made stronger.

Now, every year since finishing chemo, I’ve taken on a long-distance “fun run” as a way to prove to myself that my body can thrive after trauma. It’s not about racing anyone else, there’s no medal at the end, and the only t-shirt is the one you sweat through.

It’s about setting a goal that feels a little outrageous, training for it, showing up, and proving that the story you’ve been telling yourself about your limits… might actually be wrong.

This Year’s Playground: The Teton Crest Trail

Forty-one miles.
Nine thousand feet of elevation gain.
Three stubborn humans who somehow think this is a good time.

Urban Dictionary Definition of Type 2 Fun

The Teton Crest Trail is stunning—but it’s also a test. There’s a place we call the “pain cave,” and I definitely visited it this year. On a long uphill stretch, I came to a trail junction where I could’ve turned right and called it a day.

Ten fewer miles. Three thousand fewer feet of climbing. A meal (and a chair) sooner.

The easy choice.

But I wasn’t here for easy. I took the other “hard turn,” following the two friends I came with—both of whom indulge in 100-mile races (seriously wild folks...).

Later, when a side stitch hit like a bad plot twist, I had to zero in on breathing, step after step, until it passed. And it always does. The pain cave is temporary.

Why I Keep Coming Back

These runs aren’t just about the miles. They give me something to train for all year—something that forces me to keep my fitness up, even when life is busy. As someone with a history of cancer, that’s not just a hobby, it’s a lifeline.

I’ve learned that once you do something you never thought you could, it changes you. Before my first long run, I thought, I don’t think I can do 25 miles because I’ve never done it. Then I did 25 miles—and suddenly, it wasn’t impossible anymore.

That shift—from “I can’t” to “I can”—bleeds into everything. It’s in the way I approach running a business, tackling health challenges, or setting goals that sound far-fetched.

Once you break through one limiting belief, you start to wonder which others are ready to fall. The reality is—they all will fall.

The Years Before

Three years ago, I finished chemo, looking like Lord Voldemort while feeling like Neville Longbottom.

Two years ago, I did the Grand Canyon Rim 2 Rim 2 Rim.

Halfway through, I realized I’d already run farther than I ever had in my life. I could have stopped. Instead, I dropped back into the canyon for the second half. Because after all, it’s a “fun run,” right?

Last year, it was Nevada’s Ruby Crest Trail. I finished sore and slow, but standing, barely...

And this year? The Teton Crest felt different. I finished the final five miles feeling good. Not “barely moving” good, but “I can walk myself to dinner” good.

My recovery? One day of general fatigue—and that was mostly mental. Proof that you can still get stronger with each year, even as the calendar keeps turning.

Training, the Funguy Way

I keep my training simple: time on my feet, miles in the mountains. I’m lucky to live where the trails double as training grounds. One day, I saw six moose before lunch.

You can’t do that on a treadmill.

And yes—functional mushrooms are part of my prep. The week before, I dial up my cordyceps to help oxygen efficiency (VO₂ max for the nerds), and I stick to my vegetarian diet, focusing on clean, real foods over processed junk. As best one can…

Overall, there's not much too it other than just forcing yourself to try hard things. Turns out, you're way more capable than you think.

Why It Matters

I never did these runs pre-cancer.
Now, they mean I’m still alive. Still here. And somehow stronger than before.

Every time I step onto a trail like the Teton Crest, I’m not just moving forward through miles—I’m moving further away from the person who thought “surviving” was the goal.

Now, thriving is the goal.

Because our limits aren’t where we think they are. And sometimes, you have to climb 9,000 feet in a day to prove it to the only person it really matters too, yourself.