“Less than 10% of people run. Less than 10% of those people run this distance or longer. Remember, you’re elite, no matter what your time is.”
ORINDA, California – These inspiring words were offered, unbidden, by one of my fellow runners during the 2025 Reservoir Dogs half marathon, held Saturday, October 4.
This is one of the most inspiring things I’ve ever heard. It’s important to remember that no matter your pace on any given day, you’re doing the work.
Usually, Vert.Run brings you uplifting race stories from world-class runners at the top of their game from races such as UTMB or Western States. My editor thought it would be interesting to see how the other half runs, as it were.
This is a report of a local trail race held in Northern California from a runner in his 60s. Without the dedicated training and support of my coach Z, I would have burned out in training weeks before the race. His support and expertise is appreciated.
The race itself was a 14-mile course around a reservoir (hence the race name) that isn’t often used for races. The race organizers stated that this is the first trail-running event allowed to completely circumnavigate the reservoir.
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The start
The sun rose above the brown hills surrounding the reservoir and the fog started to lift just before the race began.
It turned out to be a beautiful day at the reservoir. Cloudless, but not too warm. The temperature at 8 am was in the low 60s F (around 17 C) and peaked in the 70s (around 22C). There were three races being held, a 35K, a long out-and-back half-marathon (my race), and a 10k. There were some 90 runners in the half marathon.
While we less pacey runners were still on the paved roads during the first few miles of the race, I caught up to a fellow runner who imparted the words of wisdom above.
I often considered their words during the race, particularly on the seemingly endless uphill to the second aid station/turn-around point.
Welcome shade
The faster runners surged through the initial bottleneck at the start, trading the wet grass of the start for a paved road. The first mile-and-a-half (around 2.4 km) were on this road. We’d return to the pavement for the difficult last bit of the run.
The race organizer thoughtfully placed the first aid around the 3 mile mark. Volunteers are amazing.
We then turned onto a gorgeous single-track trail, under a canopy of trees. The sun shining through the branches, my feet grateful for being off the pavement. The trail was never flat, as there were often gentle uphills followed by rolling downhills. A couple of runners I was near stumbled on the exposed roots and rocks, reminding me to pay attention.
One of the most enjoyable parts of any race is getting to communicate with other runners who run at your pace.
The communication isn’t always verbal. It’s courtesy on the path; it’s encouragement; it’s understanding that we’re both here, choosing to do something difficult and let’s try to have some fun.
The shade felt good, the trail was in great shape, and my pace remained positive. Along the way a local high school’s cross-country team approached me on the trail. It is so inspiring to see these young women and men pushing themselves.
We came to a small, yet charming bridge over a creek as we approached the end of the shaded portion. Leaving the shade, we started on the long uphill portion to the turn-around point. When you think about a race after you’ve run it, it crosses your mind that there were only four miles between aid stations. Why did it seem so long?
Yes, the word uphill has something to do with that. While this course wasn’t as steep as others I’ve run, miles of uphill is still uphill. Running in the sun also had something to do with it, as now we were on exposed, hard dirt for a time.
The benefits of this section included: the sight of the reservoir off to the left (on the way up) and the knowledge that at some point I’d see the orange tenting of the turn-around point/aid station.
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It’s not that close
One of the things I’ve learned is to never trust anyone who says the next aid station is “close” or that you are “almost there.” Everyone means well and we understand implicitly that they are trying to encourage you to keep going.
But, if they can’t give you a distance (“just half a mile more”) or at least some specifics (“one more switchback then around the corner”), don’t trust ‘em.
I’ve also learned that no matter what your GPS watch states, the aid station isn’t as close as you think it is. At this point, I was definitely not feeling elite, by any definition of the word. I took another sip of my electrolytes and advanced up the hill.
I reached the turn-around point/aid station, gratefully.
I took in some more electrolytes and one of the amazing volunteers noticed my hydration backpack was unzipped, so they got it zipped up, and I headed down the hill. At this point I knew it was four miles to the next/final aid station, then 3 miles to the finish line, even if most of that was pavement.
One of the lies survival strategies I told myself during this race was that the first half of the course was the difficult, uphill part and that I have a decent closing pace. Now it’s true that the back half of this course was downhill (I’d just run uphill for four miles) and
I’ve sometimes had negative splits during races – but the pavement, the increasing warmth of the day and the longer than expected uphill portion were taking their toll on me.
I was doing a good job keeping up my hydration and taking in nutrition. I had plenty of liquids with me and the trail was wider here, allowing me to let loose a little on the downhill.
Of course, one of the paradoxes of an out-and-back is that once you know where you are going, the trail seems shorter, even though it’s the same distance. On top of that, we runners had already put in seven miles, which means our legs were seven miles less fresh. Again, not feeling so elite as I came down off the steepest parts of the hill and onto a flatter section.
Running back under the canopy of shade felt great. It was a single-track trail again as I made my way towards that final aid station.
At some point during the return leg, I stopped looking at my watch – finishing was not a concern at this point and my pace, or lack thereof, during the uphill portion ensured I wasn’t going to set a PB.
Which is fine. When I’ve achieved an age-group podium in the past, it has come as a pleasant surprise. I don’t go into these races looking to accomplish anything other than pushing and challenging myself, having an incredible experience with my fellow runners, and getting to savor beautiful country. Those things, to me, are an elite experience.
It’s a great part of any race when you start to see landmarks that indicate you are (actually) close to the finish line. I saw a runner a couple of minutes ahead of me turn off the pavement onto the grassy field to the finish line area.
The cowbell the race organizer uses to mark people finishing the race rang out in the near distance.
Soon enough the cowbell was for me as my family patiently waited.
Another paradox of trail running is that the finish line isn’t really a finish line – it’s the start of the next thing.
The definition of elite is variable, of course. This is a good thing. What my fellow runner was reminding me is that “elite” is about discovering, or reminding yourself, that you can do difficult things at any age, at any pace. It’s the effort that defines you, not your pace.
Tony Edwards is a writer and trail runner in Northern California. You can read his Substack on trail running, life, and media here.
Train for your next trail race with Vert.run
Whether you’re chasing a new distance or just want to feel stronger on the trails, Vert.run has training plans built by expert coaches—designed for real life.
