An Open Letter to the Unprepared

Ultrarunning—especially Eastern States 100—isn’t something you stumble into. This is a reminder to show up prepared, informed, and ready to earn your way through every mile.

It seems like every few weeks I feel compelled to rant about something.

This is one of those times. Old Man Yells at Cloud.

This one’s about taking it seriously. Not in a dramatic, self-important way. Not in a “this defines your entire existence” kind of way.bBut in the very real, very practical sense of being prepared and being informed.

Because ultrarunning is hard. And Eastern States 100 doesn’t exactly go out of its way to make it easier. This course will expose you. It doesn’t care how your training looked on paper, what your last race result was, or how confident you felt at the start line. It’s long, it’s technical, it’s unforgiving, and it has a way of finding whatever you didn’t prepare for.

So I’ll say it plainly:

Take it seriously. Don’t wing it. Don’t sign up on a whim because it sounded cool. Don’t do it for Instagram likes or a finisher photo you haven’t earned yet.

Do it because you’ve put in the work. The long miles. The bad days. The training runs that didn’t go well but you finished anyway.

Do it because you’ve built the kind of resolve that this race will demand from you at some point—because it will.

Do it for the deeply personal reasons that only you understand. The ones that get quiet the closer you get to the start line.

Do it for the people around you, too—the trail brothers and sisters you’ll share that space with. Because whether you realize it or not, you’re part of something out there. A moving, struggling, determined group of people all trying to get through the same stretch of forest. And don’t take that for granted. Because it is rare. And it is earned.

Now here’s the part where I actually start yelling at the cloud. Nothing frustrates a race director more than someone who shows up unprepared and in over their head. Not because we don’t care. Because we do. And when things go sideways—and they will, for some people—we’re the ones coordinating the response. We’re the ones pulling volunteers, redirecting resources, and sometimes calling in emergency personnel to get someone out of the woods. That’s not abstract. That’s real.

Every unnecessary extraction pulls attention and resources away from the rest of the field—the runners who did prepare, the volunteers who are already stretched thin, the med staff who are there for genuine need.

This is a shared responsibility. We’ll do everything we can on our end. You have to meet us there.

Second: be informed. Do the homework. Stay current. Like the sport itself, things change. Courses evolve. Aid stations shift. Logistics get refined. We’re constantly working behind the scenes—updating the website, publishing blogs and videos, revising participant guides, answering emails, posting on social.

It’s not just noise. It matters.

Few things make me roll my eyes faster than hearing: “I’m picking up my pacer at Halfway House aid station". Here is some news for you! That aid stations hasn’t existed in 6 years.

Or: “Wait… we’re crossing Pine Creek?” Yes. Yes, you are. This information isn’t hidden. It’s not locked away. It’s put out there—clearly, repeatedly, in multiple formats.

Our responsibility is to communicate. Your responsibility is to pay attention.

At the end of the day, this event—like so many others—is built on an all-volunteer, nonprofit, fiercely independent, grassroots model.

It works because people care. It works because people take it seriously. It works because there’s a shared understanding that this isn’t just about one person’s race—it’s about the entire field, the volunteers, the community, and the place itself.

So thank you—for showing up the right way. Prepared. Informed. Ready to earn it.

And now that it finally looks like the weather has turned the corner…

Good luck with your training.

We’ll see you in August.