Running News Daily

It’s a perfectly normal question to ask someone, I just wasn’t the right person to ask. I had been chugging up the trail at about mile 22 or so of the race, trying to push myself but also pace myself, and in my own head because I’d only seen three or four people in the last 45 minutes or so. The guy was hiking downhill, getting out before the Saturday heat really warmed things up, and I had made a little room as I passed him hiking the other direction, trying to get up Tiger Mountain for the last time. We’d said hello, and then he asked,

“How far to the Section Line Trail?”

I rounded the switchback and confidently said, “Oh, I don’t know,” and he seemed a little surprised that I didn’t know, pausing for a second with a somewhat quizzical look on his face. So I added, “This is my first time here,” hoping that would help him understand. It was true, kind of. If I’d felt like I had more time to stop and chat, I might have added a few more bits of information:

> I am participating in an ultramarathon trail race called the Tiger Claw 50K > I have never set foot on this mountain before today, May 13th, 2023 > This is my third trip to the summit of West Tiger #2, and finally, > Hey man, I’m just following these pink flags till I see people with pitchers of electrolyte drink and trays of Oreos standing under an EZ-up at the top. I’m not paying attention to the trail names, the distances, or the intersections, I’m barely looking at the scenery. My goals today are:

a) Survive this race despite the 88-degree temperature and 70 percent humidity and b) Produce urine that isn’t the color of a No Passing Zone sign by midnight tonight

I hope that man found his way and is not still out there looking for the Section Line Trail.

Another question someone asked me, the day before the Tiger Claw: “Why did you pick that race? Isn’t it just kind of a local thing?”

I got really out of shape in 2022—spinal disc injury, new baby, sleep deprivation from helping take care of a new baby, and another back/hip injury. I was starting to wonder if at 43, I was hitting some sort of downhill slope in life. I turned 44 this winter, and was determined. Not to return to any sort of athletic glory, no, but to avoid going to the emergency room again after herniating a disc while picking up a dog because I sit on my ass 40 hours a week, and inside my regular-sized middle-aged man body is a smaller man who loves to eat emotionally and is also super fucking lazy.

So I started looking on UltraSignup for 2023 races near western Montana, and thought

Three summits of West Tiger #2 (elevation 2,757 feet), returning to the High Point Trailhead (elevation 527) each time. For a total of “nearly 9,000 feet of elevation gain,” per the Tiger Claw website. If you are looking for a fast, flat race to help you get your PR for the 50K distance, the Tiger Claw is not it.

This, I was afraid, would call for drastic measures: I was going to have to learn to do something I have always been terrible at doing: drink a responsible amount of fluids. This was almost too much to ask, I thought. Maybe I should bail. DNS: Did Not Start. Reason: Not good at drinking water.

The White Loop was the steepest. Ethan’s final email to participants the previous day had said the Pink Loop would stay in the shade into the afternoon. I had decided to go White (steepest, least fun) first, Yellow (longest, most meandering) second, and Pink (afternoon shade). I chugged down a 17-ounce water bottle in the final minutes before the start and stuffed it in my vest.

The first 4.6 miles wound around in the forest with a couple ups and downs, gradually climbing a few hundred feet to get us to the lower aid station, where we’d split up into our respective loops and go on our way. I had put a small drop bag at the lower aid station, as we’d all return here after each of our three ascents and descents of West Tiger 2. I packed my drop mag pretty minimally because after I finished my final lap, I planned to stuff whatever was left of it into my vest for the final three miles to the finish line, so I didn’t have to drive back to get it after the race.

I filled one water bottle at the aid station and ran on, splitting off to do the White Loop, 2.8 miles, 2,800 feet of climbing to the upper aid station/turnaround. I had no ambitions to do a fast first lap, but ran some of the less-steep sections and hiked the rest. Less than a mile into the White Loop, I was alone in the forest, so I pulled over to pee. Just as I was finishing, Krissy Moehl, who is a very famous ultrarunner, hiked past a few feet away, which is sort of an awkward moment to introduce yourself, but I did it anyway, because we have a mutual friend, and then we ended up hiking together for the rest of the ascent. This is not to say that I am as fast as a person who won the UTMB in 2003 and 2009; more like Krissy was not in a hurry on the race course.

With a couple other guys, we jogged a few short sections of the trail, but mostly hiked at a good clip to the upper aid station, arriving at about 1 hour and 45 minutes. I got my water bottles refilled and started heading down. The top of West Tiger 2 had been logged a few years back, and the good news was we could see Mt. Rainier, Mt. Baker, the buildings of downtown Seattle, and the Puget Sound. The bad news was there was no shade at the top, and it was already sunny and warm at 8:45 a.m.

The 2.2-mile route back down to the lower aid station, which we’d all do a total of three times during the race, was steep and technical for about a half-mile, and then just steep. I made myself drink two 17-ounce bottles of fluid as I ran downhill, and made a mental note to do this each time I ran the descent. I had drunk two bottles on the way up, and my shirt was completely drenched in sweat, front and back, by the time we hit the summit.

At the lower aid station, I grabbed my drop bag, stuffed a couple packages of Clif Bloks into my sweat-soaked vest, filled up three water bottles, and started jogging back up the trail, looking for the turnoff for the Yellow Loop—5.5 miles, 3,000 feet of elevation gain.

The Tiger Claw is sort of a multiple-loop race, in that you run multiple loops, and pass through the same checkpoint (the lower aid station) at the end of each loop—but that checkpoint is still three miles from where you parked your car at the start/finish, so maybe it’s less tempting. (you could call someone and ask them to pick you up at the aid station, though, since it’s about 150 feet from a parking lot that’s only a mile from I-90)

But I was definitely not thinking, “Man, I hate loops, I can’t believe I have to come back to this aid station two more times”—I was thinking, “Jesus it’s hot already.”

I was alone for most of the loop, running when possible, hiking the steeper parts, and chugging water and Skratch electrolyte drink. About two-thirds of the way up, Krissy Moehl passed me, and we chatted for a few minutes. Through the forest, I had been forcing myself to chug water—three 17-ounce bottles by the time I got to the top of the climb. Mileage-wise, I was past the halfway mark by my second summit of West Tiger 2, and had drunk 7 bottles of liquid, or about 119 ounces.

With only the Pink Loop to go, I only had 2,700 feet of elevation gain to climb. I could feel a slight dehydration headache forming, but maybe if I kept forcing water down I’d be able to keep it at bay. At the Upper Aid Station, I refilled two bottles and drank both of them as I navigated the downhill.

If you look a map of the course with all three loops on a map, you could see why they called it the Tiger Claw:

A solid mile and a half from the upper aid station, I started to hear a dog howling. Or some animal. I kept plugging away, slowly passing a couple other runners, every once in a while scanning the trees above my head for the top of the ridge, the end of my final climb. Eventually, I ran out of trees, hitting the north edge where the trees had been clear cut. I went from hints of sun to full-blast afternoon white heat as I chugged up the trail, finally seeing the howling dog, which turned out to not be a dog at all, just a really psyched volunteer wooing so loudly and so often that I thought there was no chance he’d have his voice tomorrow. I thanked him and walked to the aid station, got my water bottles refilled, grabbed a handful of potato chips and a couple Oreos, and headed down.

On each of my three descents of the trails to the lower aid station, I was elated to not be climbing. I was also reminded that there was, also today, a race called the Tiger Claw Double, a 50-mile version of this same race I was doing, but with THREE EXTRA LAPS to the summit of West Tiger 2. As I ran downhill, I’d pass by a 50-mile racer heading uphill, and I’d say something like “Good job,” but what I was thinking was, “Look, I am a person of questionable judgment and intelligence, who is spending their Saturday doing a steep-ass 50K race with almost 9,000 feet of climbing in 88-degree heat and 70 percent humidity, but you, Runner, are a FUCKING MANIAC. I salute you. Also I’m really glad I didn’t sign up for that race instead.”

At this point, midway through my final descent, the hot spots on the instep sides of my big toes had turned into full-on blisters, and my toenails were sick of the cumulative effects of being pushed backwards by my shoes every one of the thousands of downhill steps so far.

My strides had shortened, and I wasn’t grunting or wincing with pain every step, but I definitely wasn’t smiling. I glanced down at my watch to check my pace, just out of curiosity: 12-minute miles. I was pretty ready to be done.

I hit the lower aid station, grabbed my drop bag, shoved it into the back pocket of my vest, and started jogging down the road in full sun. Every piece of fabric on my body was soaked through with sweat, including the inside of my vest and the outsides of my shoes.

The route meandered through a short section of forest, and the final three-quarters of a mile was a wide, paved, shaded multi-use path. I started running faster, because on flat ground, my blisters didn’t hurt, and I was ready to get it over with. And I think I remembered them saying something about pizza at the finish line.

I jogged under the finish arch, gave Ethan a very soggy, gross hug, took my finisher medal, and felt the relief of No More Exercising Today slowly roll over me. Mark Griffith, who had been out on the course taking photos all day and working as hard as the racers, directed me to the pizza and cold beverages, and I asked him if he was able to take care of himself at all in the heat. He said he eventually was able to rehydrate at the upper aid station, but at one point, the sweat was just rolling down his head into his eyes. “My eyebrows stopped working,” he said. And I thought, Same, man. I had drunk approximately 225 ounces of water and Skratch electrolyte drink in 7 hours and 39 minutes, and I still felt like a piece of beef jerky that had been left out in the sun for a week.

It had been hot, for sure, but I finished, and as I sat down with a can of sparkling water, it seemed like I had a good chance of surviving the day. I thought a little bit about my friend’s question as to how I decided to sign up for the Tiger Claw, since it was kind of a local race on a local mountain. I am not sure if I could draw a flow chart of how I, and maybe other runners too, decide to run whichever races we run. I don’t know, it sounded fun? It sounded not fun? I heard good things about it? It was close to where I live, or close to some place I wanted to travel to, or it was flat, or it was steep, or whatever.

As far as I know, ultramarathon races basically work like this:

I had assumed that Ethan and Kim could put on a pretty good race because they do other things well, and I am not in the business of reviewing races, but I have to say, I was right. It was fun. Although parts of it were not fun.

Fortunately, there’s plenty of steep terrain very close to where I live. Unfortunately, lots of that steep terrain was still covered in snow and ice until the first week of April. But, I have microspikes, and enough of it melted out in time for me to get in some steep uphills. I did laps on Mt. Sentinel, sort of our local Tiger Mountain, with a ~2,000-foot climb via several different trails. At one point, I wondered: “Am I spending too much time on really steep terrain? What if the course is more gradual, or rolling?”

(Answer below)

I honestly hadn’t given it any thought until he asked. I had just focused on the big numbers: 31 miles, 8,000-something feet of elevation gain. But now I was thinking about it. And it did sound kind of nice to run the loops in whatever order they would be least crowded. But how would I know?

Long before he became the fastest man in history, before the Olympic gold medals, world records, and global superstardom, Usain Bolt was simply a gifted teenager with extraordinary speed and limitless potential. In 2002, on the track at Kingston's National Stadium in Jamaica, the world witnessed the first chapter of a story that would forever change athletics.

At just 15 years old, Bolt lined up for the men's 200 metres at the World Junior Championships with the weight of expectation resting on young shoulders. Competing before a passionate home crowd, the Jamaican prodigy produced a performance that instantly captivated the athletics world. Crossing the finish line in 20.61 seconds, he became the youngest athlete ever to win the men's 200m title at the championships.

It was far more than a gold medal. It was the moment the world realised that a once-in-a-generation talent had arrived.

Bolt's victory in Kingston marked the beginning of one of the greatest careers in sporting history. Over the years that followed, he rewrote the record books, dominated the Olympic Games and World Championships, and transformed sprinting into a global spectacle through his breathtaking speed, infectious personality, and unrivalled confidence. His legacy continues to inspire young athletes across the globe, many of whom dream of following the same path he once began as a teenager.

This week, that dream comes alive once again as the World Athletics U20 Championships take centre stage at the iconic Hayward Field in Eugene, Oregon. The venue has already witnessed the birth of future superstars. In 2014, it was where Britain's Dina Asher-Smith and Uganda's Joshua Cheptegei captured their first global titles, launching careers that would later produce world championships, Olympic medals, and lasting legacies in athletics.

Twelve years later, another generation arrives in Eugene hoping to create its own defining moment.

Among the brightest young talents is Great Britain's Jake Odey-Jordan, the 200m bronze medallist from Lima who now owns the European U20 100m record after an astonishing 10.01-second performance. He enters the championships eager to build on his growing reputation as one of Europe's most exciting young sprinters.

The United States will look to Tate Taylor, who has already made history as the first American high school athlete to break the 20-second barrier for the 200 metres. Fresh from a Diamond League victory in a sensational 19.75 seconds, he arrives in Eugene carrying the momentum of one of the most remarkable junior seasons ever recorded.

Jamaica, the nation that introduced the world to Usain Bolt, will once again have high hopes through Shanoya Douglas. The talented sprinter has established herself as one of the championship's leading contenders after producing lifetime bests of 10.98 seconds for the 100m and 22.11 for the 200m this season.

History has repeatedly shown that the World U20 Championships are far more than a junior competition. They are often the first chapter in the careers of future Olympic champions, world record holders, and global icons. Every generation arrives with ambitious dreams, but only a select few leave having announced themselves to the world.

No one can say with certainty whether the next Usain Bolt will emerge this week. Greatness cannot be predicted, and legends are never manufactured. Yet every legendary career begins with a single breakthrough performance.

For Bolt, that defining moment came in Kingston in 2002.

Now, under the famous lights of Hayward Field, another group of gifted teenagers stands ready to chase history. Somewhere among them could be the next athlete whose name will inspire the world for years to come.

"An athlete cannot run with money in his pockets. He must run with hope in his heart and dreams in his head." More than seventy years after those words were spoken, they remain among the most powerful messages ever shared in distance running. They are often quoted as simple motivation, but behind them lies a remarkable story of sacrifice, courage, conviction, and an unwavering belief that true greatness is never measured by financial reward.

Few athletes have left a legacy as enduring as Emil Zátopek. Known around the world as "The Czech Locomotive" for his relentless determination and unmistakable running style, he redefined what was possible in endurance racing. His legendary performance at the 1952 Olympic Games in Helsinki still ranks among the greatest achievements in athletics history. In the space of just nine days, he captured Olympic gold in the 5,000 meters, the 10,000 meters, and, incredibly, the marathon—a race he had never attempted before.

Yet the world in which Zátopek competed was vastly different from today's professional athletics landscape. During the 1950s, elite sport officially operated under strict amateur rules. Olympic athletes were forbidden from accepting prize money or earning a living directly from competition, although unofficial financial arrangements existed in many sports. Zátopek himself never raced for appearance fees or lucrative prize purses. Instead, he served as an officer in the Czechoslovak People's Army, receiving a military salary while representing his country. Running brought him glory, but not personal wealth.

It was within that environment that his famous words carried genuine meaning. For Zátopek, success was never driven by the promise of money. He believed the greatest performances were fueled by hope, ambition, discipline, and the courage to pursue dreams that seemed impossible. Those qualities, rather than financial incentives, formed the foundation of lasting excellence.

With the benefit of history, his words carry even greater significance. In 1968, during the Prague Spring, Zátopek openly supported democratic reforms in Czechoslovakia. When the movement was crushed, he paid a heavy personal price for standing by his principles. He was stripped of his military rank, removed from public life, and forced into years of manual labor. The man who had once stood proudly atop the Olympic podium found himself performing physically demanding jobs, far removed from the stadiums where he had inspired millions.

His story reminds us that the values he expressed were not empty words crafted for public admiration. He lived by them, even when doing so came at enormous personal cost. His belief that hope and conviction mattered more than material rewards became evident not only in the races he won, but also in the hardships he endured with remarkable dignity.

Distance running has changed dramatically since Zátopek's era. Today's elite athletes compete in a fully professional sport where prize money, sponsorship contracts, appearance fees, and endorsement deals can be worth millions. Success on the track and roads now offers opportunities that were unimaginable during the age of amateur competition. Professionalism has transformed the sport, allowing athletes to train full-time, access world-class coaching and sports science, and build financially secure careers.

Yet despite these changes, the essence of Zátopek's message has never lost its relevance.

Every elite runner naturally hopes to earn a good living from years of dedication and sacrifice. There is nothing wrong with financial success, and the rewards available today have elevated the standard of competition across the world. But history consistently shows that money alone is rarely enough to sustain greatness. The athletes whose careers endure the longest are often those driven by an inner passion to improve, to test their limits, and to chase excellence for its own sake. Financial rewards become the result of that commitment, not the reason for it.

When competition is motivated solely by wealth, its deeper purpose can fade. But when an athlete races with genuine belief, relentless determination, and an unwavering dream, extraordinary performances often follow naturally.

That is why Emil Zátopek's words continue to resonate across generations. His legacy extends far beyond Olympic medals and world records. It lives in every runner who laces up their shoes with a goal that cannot be measured in dollars, every athlete who refuses to surrender when the race becomes painful, and every competitor who understands that the greatest victories begin long before the finish line.

The economics of distance running may have evolved beyond recognition, but the heart of the sport remains unchanged. Every athlete still arrives at the starting line carrying something far more valuable than money—hope in their heart and dreams in their head. Those invisible qualities have always been, and will always remain, the true fuel of greatness.

Winning a major championship is never just about crossing the finish line first. Behind every gold medal lies a carefully crafted race plan, and Josh Kerr's unforgettable Commonwealth Games triumph in Glasgow was a perfect example of tactical brilliance meeting extraordinary finishing speed.

While the final time of 3:54.12 for the mile will be remembered as the official result, the split times reveal a much deeper story—one of patience, precision, and devastating acceleration when it mattered most.

Kerr resisted any temptation to force the pace from the gun. Instead, he settled into a controlled rhythm, allowing the opening stages to unfold naturally. His first four 100-metre segments—14.9, 15.1, 15.3 and 15.1 seconds—brought him through 400 metres in 60.4 seconds, a measured opening that conserved valuable energy while keeping him firmly in contention.

The second lap remained equally composed. Passing 500 metres in 15.3 seconds before recording splits of 15.7, 16.2 and 15.4, Kerr reached 800 metres in 2:03.0. The pace had eased, but that was exactly where the Scottish star wanted to be. Rather than chasing early speed, he was setting the stage for a decisive finish.

Everything changed after halfway.

Kerr gradually increased the tempo with smooth, controlled acceleration. His 900-metre and 1,000-metre splits of 15.2 and 14.9 seconds signalled that the race was beginning to stretch. He then surged through 1,100 metres in 14.3 seconds before covering the next 100 metres in just 13.4 seconds to reach 1,200 metres in 3:00.8.

From there, the home crowd witnessed championship running at its finest.

Instead of fading, Kerr became even stronger. He reeled off three consecutive 100-metre splits of 13.4, 13.4 and 12.8 seconds, dismantling the field with every stride. His final 100 metres were covered in a stunning 12.5 seconds, sealing an emphatic victory and sending the Glasgow crowd into celebration.

The progression of his race was remarkable. After opening with relaxed 15-second splits, Kerr transformed the closing stages into a demonstration of world-class speed endurance. His ability to accelerate continuously over the final 600 metres highlighted not only exceptional fitness but also supreme confidence in his race plan.

Championship middle-distance racing is rarely about producing the fastest possible time from the start. More often, it rewards athletes who understand when to conserve energy and when to unleash everything they have left. Kerr executed that philosophy to perfection.

His split chart paints the picture of a runner who never panicked, never wasted effort, and saved his greatest weapon for the closing stages. It was a textbook display of patience followed by relentless aggression—a combination that turned a tactical race into a memorable Commonwealth gold medal performance.

For aspiring middle-distance runners, Kerr's Glasgow masterpiece offers an important lesson: the strongest finish often belongs not to the athlete who runs hardest from the gun, but to the one who knows exactly when to make their move. On home soil, Josh Kerr timed that move to perfection, producing a performance that will stand as one of the defining moments of the championships.

At just nine years old, Oliver Smith has achieved something extraordinary—not by chasing records or medals, but by proving that determination, compassion, and consistency can create a life-changing impact.

Hailing from Wombwell, on the outskirts of Barnsley, Oliver set himself a remarkable challenge at the beginning of the year. Rather than attempting a single marathon, he decided to complete the equivalent distance of nine marathons over several months. From January 1 to April 26, the young runner covered an incredible 380 kilometres, breaking the distance into manageable daily runs suitable for a child his age.

His routine was built on dedication. Saturdays were reserved for parkrun events, Sundays for junior parkrun, while the remaining kilometres were steadily accumulated throughout the week. Averaging approximately 3.3 kilometres each day, Oliver never lost sight of the goal that inspired every step.

The challenge carried deep personal meaning. Last summer, Oliver's father, Tom Smith, suffered a devastating health setback after losing most of the vision in one eye. Medical examinations revealed a 4-centimetre meningioma wrapped around his optic nerve, leading to a complex 12-hour operation at the Royal Hallamshire Hospital in Sheffield.

Throughout the family's difficult journey, The Brain Tumour Charity provided invaluable guidance, support, and reassurance. Grateful for the help his family received, Oliver decided he wanted to give back in the most meaningful way he could. He launched a fundraising campaign with an initial goal of raising £2,000 to support others facing similar challenges.

What followed exceeded everyone's expectations.

Oliver brought his incredible fundraising challenge to a memorable conclusion at the Mini London Marathon, finishing on the very same day his mother, Hannah Smith, completed her first-ever London Marathon. It was a fitting family celebration of courage, resilience, and perseverance.

By the time Oliver crossed the finish line, donations had soared beyond £16,500—more than eight times his original target. His remarkable achievement captured the hearts of supporters, demonstrating how one young boy's determination could unite an entire community behind an important cause.

For Oliver, however, the journey is far from over. Inspired by the overwhelming support and the difference his efforts have made, he has already begun working toward his next fundraising challenge.

His story serves as a powerful reminder that age is no barrier to making a meaningful difference. Sometimes, the greatest acts of courage are measured not by speed or distance, but by the willingness to take one small step after another for the benefit of others.

Oliver Smith's inspiring journey is more than a fundraising success—it is a testament to the strength of family, the power of kindness, and the extraordinary impact that can begin with the simplest decision to help.

Sometimes the smallest opportunity creates the greatest triumph, and Jamaica's Navasky Anderson proved exactly that with a stunning performance to capture the men's 800m title at the 2026 Commonwealth Games in Glasgow.

Less than 24 hours after scraping into the final by the slimmest of margins, Anderson produced the race of his life, surging to victory in 1:45.33 to complete one of the most remarkable comeback stories of the championships. His gold medal was not only a reward for exceptional talent but also for courage, determination, and unwavering belief when everything was on the line.

The journey to the top nearly ended in the semifinals. Locked in an intense battle with England's Max Burgin for the final qualification place, Anderson threw himself across the finish line in a dramatic dive, stopping the clock at 1:45.38. That desperate effort earned him the last available place in the final as the fastest non-automatic qualifier, keeping his Commonwealth dream alive by the narrowest of margins.

With another chance in his hands, the Jamaican made sure it counted.

In a fiercely contested final, Anderson displayed outstanding tactical awareness and patience throughout the opening stages before unleashing a devastating finishing kick down the home straight. His perfectly timed acceleration left the rest of the field with no answer as he crossed the finish line first, securing a memorable Commonwealth crown and one of Jamaica's standout victories of the Games.

Australia's Luke Boyes delivered an impressive performance to claim the silver medal in 1:45.93, while Kenya's Wyclife Kinyamal battled strongly to take bronze in 1:46.12 after another highly competitive championship race.

Anderson's unforgettable triumph will be remembered as one of the defining moments of Glasgow 2026—a powerful reminder that championships are not always won by the fastest qualifier, but often by the athlete who refuses to surrender. From a fearless dive that kept his hopes alive to a brilliant gold-medal performance less than a day later, the Jamaican wrote one of the most inspiring chapters of these Commonwealth Games.

Men's 800m Final Results

1. Navasky Anderson (Jamaica) — 1:45.33

2. Luke Boyes (Australia) — 1:45.93

3. Wyclife Kinyamal (Kenya) — 1:46.12

Navasky Anderson arrived in the final as the last man to qualify, but he left Glasgow as the Commonwealth champion—a remarkable transformation that perfectly captures the unpredictable beauty of championship athletics.