Every ultrarunner has heard of Western States Endurance Run—one of the world’s oldest 100-mile trail race, tracing rugged trails from Olympic Valley to Auburn, California. Known for its relentless climbs, scorching canyon heat, and legendary river crossing, it’s a race that tests the limits of body and mind.
This year, La Sportiva athlete Nancy Jiang took on the challenge once again. From preparation to pacing, soaring highs to gritty lows, she shares with us her journey through one of the most iconic ultras on the planet.
“That was so hard, I never want to run an ultra again!” How many times have we said that after finishing one, only to sign up for another a few weeks later? Perhaps it’s the combination of dehydration and exhaustion during an ultra that leads to short-term memory loss. Or maybe there’s another reason we keep signing up for more punishment. For me, I believe it’s because I’m trying to solve this complicated formula of how to execute a perfect ultra. Until I get it, I’ll just have to keep trying.
It really felt like I did everything I possibly could in my preparation for Western States this year. I’m not sure I could have trained any harder or any more than I did. I practiced heat training, worked on cooling strategies, made a habit of hydrating and fueling to capacity in training, and tested my sweat rate and sodium concentration. Even when my partner/crew sprained his ankle on the Monday of race week, and then both my pacers tested positive for Covid four days before the race, I stayed pretty chilled about the whole situation. I mean, I had done everything I possibly could, and panicking would have been just a waste of energy.
The start – the high country
Unlike the first time I ran Western States, I stood at the start line with a sense of calm and really not a whole lot of nervousness. I felt so ready to have a long, fun day.
The race starts at altitude—not super high, but high enough to be a factor. It also begins with the biggest climb of the whole race, and what a way to start a 100-mile journey: with a climb up the Escarpment at dawn. The crowd at the top is unreal, and I always remember to look back at the sun rising and where I started from. From then on, the course traverses through the Granite Chief Wilderness and remote ridges of the high country.
I played the words of my coach on repeat during the climb: “You do not win Western States on the Escarpment, but you can lose the race on it.” I learned this the hard way two years ago when I ran Western States for the first time. I wanted to run with the fast ladies and completely blew up before I even made it out of the high country. So this time, I made sure to hold back and ran the first 20 km with a woman I’d met two years ago in Flagstaff. I remember telling her while we were running that, at that point, for me it was all about staying calm, cool, and chill.
I also remembered how terrible I’d felt arriving at Robinson Flat two years ago and really didn’t want to feel that way this time around. Actually, this was a common theme throughout the entire race this year, and it was a great way to keep myself in check—when your race goal is simply to make sure you get through each section feeling better than the first time.
The middle – the canyons
This section gets talked about a lot. It’s a hot roasting oven in there, and combined with a lot of descending and climbing, it can be nasty. A big thing I learned from my first attempt at Western States was to take the time to take care of my feet—always.
I had two very angry, big black toenails at the beginning of the Canyons section two years ago and spent about 30 minutes sitting at the medical tent at the Last Chance aid station getting them lanced with a needle so I could actually descend. My race deteriorated from that point—I couldn’t move properly through this 50 km section and ended up with severe knee pain by the time I crawled out of the canyons.
So this time, I really took the time to care for my feet at the crewed aid stations leading up to the Canyons. I dried my feet and changed my socks whenever I felt a hot spot from having wet feet after the stream crossings.
During the first canyon, I was toing and froing with Tara Dower, who is one incredible human I admire and respect. Unfortunately, she had gotten sick at the start of the week and was coughing up a storm while running, so I took it as an opportunity to pass and drop her coming into the second canyon. I mean, it is Western States after all.
At the start of the descent into the second canyon, I distinctly remember feeling like I’d just opened the oven door and was about to run straight into it. But the feeling was also familiar—I’d had it during some of my training runs in the middle of the afternoon in Utah. It was comforting to know I’d been there before and that it was going to be okay if I kept cooling myself with water and ice whenever I could. This time, I also knew how much water I needed to offset my sweat loss. I told myself as I ran through the Canyons: just get to Foresthill in one piece, and from there you’ll pick up your pacer.
The last 60 km
The most runnable section is the last 60 km—but only if you have good running legs left. As I ran through this section, I kept thinking back to how terrible I’d felt two years ago. I think I was dealing with a bit of Western States trauma from that first attempt.
My coach and pacer Louis ran with me from Foresthill to the Rucky Chucky river. During the run, he kept asking me questions and telling me to fuel. At the time, it really annoyed me, but looking back I know that if it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have been able to run that section as well as I did.
Louis also realized I was showing symptoms of hypernatremia as we ran along Cal St. I had to stop and pee a few times. Fluid was sitting in my stomach, and I was starting to feel nauseous. Anything sweet wasn’t sitting well anymore. Troubleshooting on the fly, I figured out I could consume broth at aid stations and suck the salt off potato chips.
I was stoked we reached the Rucky Chucky river crossing in daylight—I really didn’t want to cross it in the dark. Night fell about 5–10 km after the river crossing. I’ve always struggled with motivation when running at night. Something about the dark just makes me want to relax and go to sleep. And when running in the dark, everything just feels longer—probably because there’s no changing landscape to help time pass.
Now I was running with my good friend Bernard. We trained a lot together back home, and it made me think back to a discussion we’d had during one of our training runs. I asked him if he’d ever run Western States if he had the chance. He said no, because it was too hot. But he also said that if I got in, he would pace me. And lo and behold—there we were: me racing Western States, and him pacing me to the finish.
Final thoughts
To be honest, I think that was my real goal for Western States: to be able to share it with my closest friends and family and just have a great, happy time out there no matter what position I finished in. In the end, it’s just running—something we do for fun.
It felt like I had gotten 80% of the variables right this time around. Neglecting my sodium intake affected my gut and how many calories I could take in during the last 60 km. And like a car, you can’t run on empty.
But I can happily say that this time, I didn’t finish with a death march. I finished with positivity and energy—and that, to me, is a win. Maybe I’ll give Western States another go one day, because it’s still true that I haven’t found my perfect race.
