What Makes Ironstone… Ironstone: The Making of a Mid State Monster
- Ben Mazur
- May 21
- 19 min read
Updated: Jul 22
Don’t pretend I don’t know.
I hear the whispers at aid stations. The muttering in parking lots after races. The cautious tone people use when someone says, “Yeah, I’m signed up for Ironstone this year.”
Usually it’s followed by silence. A long stare into the middle distance. Maybe someone nervously tightening their hydration vest.
Then somebody says: “Dude… why?”
And honestly? Fair question.
So for this edition of Rocksylvania Dispatch, let’s dissect this strange little event that somehow went from an absurd idea rattling around in my head to one of the most gloriously miserable ultramarathons in the Mid-Atlantic.
This is the story of what makes Ironstone… Ironstone.
“I’ve done a race or two over the years, but the next 8.9 miles had the longest section of technical trails that I’ve ever encountered. They weren’t the most technical, however, there was never any letup. It’s seven straight miles of rocks stacked on top of, and next to, rocks with zero flat footing. You’re moving along trying to decide which rock is least likely to twist your ankle.” — Philip Perkins, Race Sweeper, 2022
Or, depending on your perspective, a cautionary tale about what happens when I'm left unsupervised with maps, trail guides, and too much creative freedom.
Chapter 1: The Birth of the Beast
There were four ideas bouncing around in my head that eventually became the Ironstone 100K.
None of them involved “creating a sensible race.”
ISO Suffering Close to Home
Ironstone started from a selfish place.
I wanted a hard race near my house.
That’s it. That’s the origin story.
Some people dream about beaches. Some people dream about financial security. I apparently dreamed about constructing a 63-mile assault of a course through Central Pennsylvania.
A lot of the races and routes that deeply affected me were brutal mountain experiences elsewhere: races like Manitou’s Revenge, Escarpment, Highlands Sky. Routes like the Pemi Loop in New Hampshire or the Great Range Traverse in the Adirondacks. Those places have massive climbs, dramatic alpine scenery, and legendary reputations.
Pennsylvania doesn’t always get included in those conversations because our mountains aren’t especially tall.
But elevation alone doesn’t determine difficulty.
“It's interesting that you've created such a beast here when on paper the metrics don't paint that out. But the [overall finish times] and the DNF rates and other subjective measures… it doesn’t make sense.” — Ian Golden, Trails Collective Podcast, July 15th, 2022
Pennsylvania has something arguably worse: rocks.
Not cute little decorative rocks either. We’re talking about jagged, ankle-snapping, soul-eroding shards of quartzite and sandstone embedded into the earth like nature personally resented humans.
There’s a reason Appalachian Trail hikers call this state “Rocksylvania.”
The Pennsylvania section of the AT has earned other affectionate nicknames like:
“The Meat Grinder”
“Where Boots Go to Die”
“The Place Your Toenails Go Missing”
And somehow, the Mid State Trail said: “Hold my beer.”
The Mid State Trail (MST) is the longest and wildest footpath in Pennsylvania. It runs north-to-south through the spine of the state, crossing remote ridges, forgotten hollows, state forests, rocky escarpments, and stretches of wilderness where you suddenly realize: “Ugh. Now I know why the race director calls this section, “The Ankle Graveyard.”
People who’ve hiked both the AT and MST often say the Mid State Trail is harder but far more rewarding. I agree wholeheartedly.
The MST feels untamed. It feels like old Pennsylvania. Raw Pennsylvania.
And I love it.
"I just feel bad for the people that weren't expecting [the rocks] because Pennsylvania rocks are like none other and the Mid State Trail shows off what we have here." — Mary Kowalski, The Trails Collective Podcast, July 14, 2022
I love the history underfoot. [Read the blog post about the history along the course]. I love the ridges. I love the strange isolation of Central PA at night when the fog settles into the valleys and the woods go silent except for your breathing and the occasional rattlesnake reconsidering your life choices.
I wanted to share that experience with the trail running community.
Maybe “share” isn’t the correct word.
“Inflict” might be more accurate.
The Beauty of Going Somewhere
I love point-to-point races.
There’s something magical about standing somewhere, looking at a map, and realizing: “I am going all the way over there.”
Loops are great. But point-to-point races feel like journeys.
They feel mythic.
You aren’t circling back to your car every few hours like a lab rat in a hydration experiment. You are moving across a landscape. Crossing watersheds. Traversing ridgelines. Entering entirely different ecosystems and mental states.
Ironstone begins at Canoe Creek State Park and ends at Greenwood Furnace State Park, linking together rail-trails, public lands, ridges, forests, and some of the nastiest stretches of singletrack in the region.
And honestly, one of the coolest parts is that it highlights Pennsylvania’s incredible state park system. The course stretches from state park through state park via state forest.
Pennsylvania has 125 state parks protecting more than 300,000 acres of public land. No entrance fees. No gatekeeping. Just world-class recreation available to everyone.
That’s something worth celebrating.
"I’ve had multiple family members and friends ask me “was it fun???” Haha! I think we all know that answer. I don't know if I would call Ironstone... fun. Rewarding? My gosh, yes! That race stripped me of my soul. It hurt. It brought me to my knees many times. It was the hardest race I’ve run thus far and I can’t thank the great RDs and volunteers enough! That race changed me! Onward!" — Ted Dyment (West Irondequoit, NY) 2024 (Finisher in 2024 and 2025)
Another thing I love? The bus ride.
About half the field rides the shuttle to the start line.
And there is something wonderfully evil about an hour-long bus ride before a race like this.
Nobody talks much. Everyone is just sitting there marinating in their own anxiety.
You can practically hear the thoughts bouncing around the bus:
“Did I train enough?”
“Why is it already 91 degrees?”
"I could have used a few more weeks training."
“How bad can the rocks really be?”
“I should’ve trained more.”
“I wonder if snakes can smell fear.”
“I definitely should’ve trained more.”
By the time runners step off the bus, they’re already mentally exhausted and the race hasn’t even started.
“Exxx-cell-lent!”
"The Ironstone course was not what I wanted. I mean, it was a great race and [organized] by an amazing group of people, but the course was designed to be challenging in a way I didn't dream to be challenged. Mildly put, it was motherfucking rude rocks and stupid boulders so unrelenting that I didn't think such a stretch of trail for miles could ever exist. I say this considering that I have been on the courses of Manitou's Revenge, Eastern States, Black Forest, World's End, Tammany 10 and the Appalachian rocks of Pennsylvania." — Ryan Espulgar, (Kingston, NY) 2022 Participant
Powered by Volunteers and Bad Ideas
“Grassroots” gets thrown around constantly in trail running now.
Usually it means: “We made a logo with a mountain on it.” (Usually this mountain doesn’t look like OUR mountains.)
But genuine grassroots racing means something deeper.
Grassroots Means Somebody Forgot to Monetize This
Ironstone is organized by volunteers.
The race staff — including myself and co-RD Patrick Sachse — do not make a dime from this event. Every year, proceeds go back into the trail and outdoor community to organizations like:
Mid State Trail Association
Standing Stone Trail Club
Rails-to-Trails of Central PA
local first responders and emergency personnel
Stone Valley Fire and Rescue
Horseshoe Amateur Radio Club
and many others who make this event possible
When races are volunteer-led and community-driven, priorities shift.
The focus becomes:
protecting trails
supporting local outdoor organizations
creating memorable experiences
taking care of runners
and building community
Not maximizing “participant throughput synergy metrics...err… I mean, profit!”
You can always tell when a race still has a pulse.
Ironstone absolutely does.
"Thank you so much for giving your all in making these races great and fostering the trail running communities growth, inclusion, and comradeship. —Mark Voorhees, (Shinglehouse, PA) 2024 Participant
The Culture of Collective Suffering
You cannot manufacture the atmosphere of a true grassroots race.
You feel it immediately.
At packet pickup. At the starting line. At aid stations. At 3 AM on a ridge somewhere when two strangers suddenly become BFFs because they’re equally lost emotionally.
Ironstone has this strange camaraderie where people collectively suffer through a geological disaster together and then afterward sit around in flannel shirts discussing the experience like war veterans returning from an obscure campaign history forgot to record.
There’s no VIP tent. No giant inflatable finish arch crowned in the shape of a giant shoe. No corporate activation zone offering “electrolyte experiences.”
Just rocks. Sweat. Headlamps. Trauma bonding. Beer.
Beautiful.
[Many] people that ran the race said the camaraderie of this event was something that they haven't experienced in a long time. I mean, people were saying that this reminds them of the first trail race they ran. [They were thankful] to be involved in this community, facing the same challenge and trying to persevere through [Ironstone]. —Ben Mazur, Race Director, The Trails Collective Podcast, July 14, 2022
Just Enough People to Witness Your Collapse
We intentionally keep Ironstone small.
The cap remains at 150 runners.
Partly because a small race creates intimacy and camaraderie.
But also because this course moves through genuinely remote terrain with tiny aid station footprints, narrow forest roads, and limited parking access deep inside state forest land.
This isn’t a race where thousands of runners can roll through every 20 minutes like a migrating herd of sponsored gazelles.
Keeping the field small also allows us to preserve quality.
Aid stations stay well stocked. Volunteers treat you like friends. The experience feels personal.
And when things inevitably go sideways — because this is Ironstone — people genuinely care for each other.
"So wonderful to be part of this community and meet so many outstanding humans at Ironstone over the weekend. Looking forward until we cross paths again in the future! Cheers!" —Angie Woodson Cato - (Wilson, NC), 2024 Participant (Signed up again for 2026)
The Race IS the Destination
Before the first race even happened, Patrick and I made a very intentional decision: Ironstone would never become a qualifier race.
Not for Western States. Not for Leadville. Not for anything.
As Patrick says it best: “We don’t want this race to be a stepping stone for another race.”
We want runners to sign up because they specifically want Ironstone.
Not because they need a ticket punch on the way to somewhere else.
Ironstone should stand entirely on its own weird, rocky merits.
Because Mornings Are Terrible
Another Ironstone oddity: the race starts at 2 PM.
Naturally, many people assumed this was specifically designed to maximize suffering.
And while that is a delightful side effect, the original reason was far simpler:
I hate mornings.
That’s it.
As a volunteer at Indian Steps over the last few years, I’ve described the scene as “carnage.” But watching runners regroup, keep moving forward, and refuse to quit is genuinely inspiring. Ironstone brings out the very best of ultrarunning: the scenery, the people, the struggle, and the triumphs. [I ran it in 2022 and] it remains one of the most rewarding finishes I’ve experienced in all my years in the sport. —John Zavatchan - (Connellsville, PA) 2022 Participant, Volunteer 2023-2026
I wanted enough time to wake up like a normal human being and handle inevitable race-day chaos without functioning like a sleep-deprived raccoon holding a clipboard.
Ironstone is low-key and deeply grassroots. We don’t have massive staffing pools or giant production teams. Race morning involves a relatively small crew juggling approximately 9,000 details simultaneously.
The later start actually makes operations smoother.
Now yes, does it also mean runners begin the race during the hottest part of the day on what is usually the hottest weekend of the year?
Absolutely.
In 2024 and 2025, temperatures blasted into the 90s with swamp-level humidity. The rail-trail section became a giant convection oven made of crushed limestone and bad decisions.
But honestly, the delayed suffering is psychologically fascinating.
Most ultras begin in the morning darkness and gradually become harder.
Ironstone begins with heat exhaustion and then transitions into technical nighttime mountain running.
It’s like the race is structured backwards by someone actively hostile toward comfort.
Which, admittedly, is kind of the point.
But Ironstone remained mostly a dream until October 2021, when the Canoe Creek Connector and Terry Wentz Memorial Underpass were completed.
There was a trail gap between Canoe Creek State Park and Greenwood Furnace State Park. When the trail gap opened this past year with some help... we were one of the donors that was able to provide matching funds to get this trail corridor completed via a pedestrian underpass that went under a busy highway. I knew at that moment my idea for having a [point-to-point] ultra on the Mid State Trail was possible.” — Ben Mazur, Race Director, The Trails Collective Podcast, July 14, 2022
That project finally created a safe crossing beneath busy Route 22, connecting Lower Trail to Canoe Creek State Park and closing one of Pennsylvania’s major trail gaps.
Suddenly the route worked.
The vision snapped into place.
And in 2022, the first Ironstone 100K became reality.
Which, in hindsight, for many, it may have been a mistake.
A glorious, beautiful mistake.
Chapter 2: An Extended Exercise of Regret
The Ironstone 100K is a brutal, deceptive, soul-extracting ultramarathon disguised as “a fun summer adventure.”
“How bad it is? Maybe I'm exaggerating but I've been to similar trails and nothing on this trail was new to me. The only difference is that I've never seen [any course as] unrelenting... Nine miles, non-stop. Then I thought, ‘I'm sure this will end. I'm sure we'll get something runnable. It just never came. That's what broke me." — Ryan Espulgar, 2022 Participant
Every July, runners gather in Central Pennsylvania with optimism, confidence, carefully crafted pacing plans, and functioning quadriceps.
Most of those things do not survive the weekend.
The race stretches 63.5 miles from Canoe Creek State Park to Greenwood Furnace State Park through the Ridge-and-Valley Appalachians of Blair, Centre and Huntingdon Counties.
The course traverses rail-trails, state forests, ridgelines, rocky escarpments, furnace ruins, and enough ankle-breaking terrain to keep physical therapists financially stable for generations.
Historically, the finish rate hovers around 50%.
Which means every year Ironstone essentially flips a coin and says: “Let’s see who still believes in themselves by sunrise.”
The suffering begins immediately.
“We start the participants off on 20 miles of rail trail and a lot of people wondered, 'Why would I want to do that?'. Well, everybody hates rail trail and that's why I did it. [Ironstone is] designed so the runner to use some strategy. 'How am I going to run this first section without, you know, blowing myself up!'.” — Ben Mazur, Race Director, The Trails Collective Podcast, July 14, 2022
The first section appears deceptively runnable: long stretches of rail-trail with smooth grades and easy pacing.
As one perceptive poster on Reddit said, “This is a trap”. An absolutely diabolical pacing trap.
The heat radiates upward off the crushed limestone while dust infiltrates shoes, socks, lungs, and probably your soul. Runners cruise comfortably for 20 miles thinking: “This really isn’t that bad.”
Then the course turns upward into the mountains.
And Ironstone reveals its true form.
“And then we came to Rainbow Trail. Words fail at explaining the 350 foot drop in about a tenth of a mile on very loose rocks. The absurdity of it ranks a Spinal Tap 11! I was literally LOL skiing down the slope." — Philip Perkins, 2022 Race Sweeper
The nighttime traverse along Tussey Mountain and the Mid State Trail becomes a seemingly endless procession of jagged rocks, steep pitches, technical descents, blown quads, hallucinations, existential crises, and occasional encounters with venomous snakes who honestly seem less hostile than the trail itself.
Aid stations become emotional support checkpoints.
Reaching one feels less like “arriving at an aid station” and more like survivors stumbling into a remote outpost after crossing hostile territory.
And somehow, despite all this, people keep coming back.
Because beneath all the suffering is something genuinely special: a raw, unforgettable mountain experience that feels increasingly rare in modern ultrarunning.
No spectacle. No artificial hype. No manufactured epicness.
Just a difficult route through wild country.
You versus the terrain.
Simple. Honest. Brutal.
“Ironstone is raw. The course tears you down and turns the day into an exercise in survival. It’s not about speed. It’s about the willingness to battle through some of the most difficult terrain Pennsylvania has to offer after inevitably going out too fast, no matter how conservative you think you’re on the rail trail.” —John Zavatchan, 2022 Participant, Volunteer 2023-2025
Chapter 3: 2022. The Year We Tested This On Humans
Nobody knew what was coming.
Nothing is simultaneously more exhilarating and more horrifying than an inaugural event.
You spend months planning, imagining scenarios, studying maps, obsessing over logistics, questioning your sanity, and wondering: “Will this actually work?”
Then suddenly race weekend arrives and everything becomes a blur.
But a few moments from that first year remain permanently burned into my brain.
Pacing Strategy Meets Pennsylvania Reality
This race is not for everyone. Actually, this race is probably not for most people. Some won’t like a flat 20 miles. Some won’t enjoy the following 40 miles of elevation change. And most of the remaining won’t be too keen for all the rocks. The remaining handful though will be thoroughly delighted with the challenge of Ironstone.” — Philip Perkins, 2022 Race Sweeper
One runner came down from the Canadian Pacific Coast and absolutely detonated the opening rail-trail section.
He flew!
Then he hit the climb around mile 20 and reality arrived with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
By Aid Station 5, he walked in looking rough and told the medical volunteer: “I don’t feel right.”
Then came the horrifying revelation: he was peeing blood.
Renal failure.
He dropped immediately.
But in true Canadian ultrarunner fashion, he refused to go to “some shitty American hospital.”
Our medical volunteers stabilized him, monitored him closely, and by the end of the night he was helping volunteer at the aid station, filling bottles and encouraging runners.
Ultrarunners are profoundly strange people.
Start rocky terrain traverse. Thinking about how bad or long this can last. It’s only 6 miles. Let’s be patient and get through to the next AS. Fall a couple of times, cramp up and arrive at AS. Drinks tons of pickle juice. Thanks volunteers, and ready for the next section. Section Mile 27 - 37: More rocky traverse. Headlamp route finding. This is fun. WTF?! I thought it’s only rocky for a mile. Fuck! I should have read that course in detail. Wait, I don't see blazes. Turn around. At least I don’t have to climb up... fall a few more times. — Kiran Koons (West Chester, PA) 2022 Participant and 2023 Volunteer
The Ridge Takes Its Payment
At Indian Steps Aid Station, the first two leaders arrived looking like they had narrowly survived a natural disaster.
They asked: “Is the next section anything like the last one?”
I told them: “Marginally better.”
Which was technically true and spiritually dishonest.
They left together.
Forty minutes later, one came back completely shattered and dropped.
About thirty minutes after that, the other runner also returned.
I asked how far he got.
He hadn’t even made it to Campbell Trail.
In over an hour, he had covered maybe 1.75 miles.
I remember thinking: “Oh no! What monster have we created?”
“Technical, rocky terrain. Rocksylvania squared.” — Philip Perkins, 2022 Race Sweeper
Wrapped in Foil and Regret
Later that same year, after an aid station closed, we realized one runner hadn’t checked in.
That’s the kind of realization that instantly removes years from a race director’s lifespan.
“A lot of them were wishing they read the course description a lot more carefully before they attempted the race but when we were marketing the race, we were very matter-of-fact. We didn't sugarcoat anything.” — Ben Mazur, Race Director, The Trails Collective Podcast, July 14, 2022
At first light, volunteers began searching.
Thankfully, about 15 minutes into the search, we found him wrapped in his emergency blanket alongside a state forest road.
Turns out he ignored the course descriptions and accidentally descended the wrong side of the ridge multiple times before essentially entering a recursive Pennsylvania wilderness loop by climbing and descending the ridge.
To his credit, he eventually made the correct decision: stop moving and stay put.
That story became one of Ironstone’s clearest lessons: this is a graduate-level ultramarathon.
Preparation matters.
Study the maps. Practice nighttime running. Load the GPX file. Understand the terrain. Respect the course.
The mountains do not care about your confidence.
There are strong and competitive runners who can’t finish. There are strong and competitive runners who won’t toe the line because they know they’re just not interested in our course. There are also total 'fresh meat' who sign up without a prayer and cross the finish line anyway. The course is a mental game. The rocks hurt. Snakes are scary. It gets hard to not have pink ribbons. It gets lonely without a pacer. This race takes grit. Not everyone would enjoy our race, and that’s cool. But, we love meeting the runners that really want to test the limits of both Mind and Body. Maybe even limits of Soul. — Patrick Sachse, Co-Race Director.
Somehow, Two People Won This Thing
Despite the brutality of the inaugural year, the race ended with one of the coolest finishes imaginable.
Cory Johnston (Falls Church, VA) and Dustin Wilgohs (Salem, OH) crossed the line side-by-side in 16 hours; 08 minutes.
Official timing eventually declared Cory the winner by three-tenths of a second, but spiritually it was a tie.
Which feels appropriate for a race that mostly defeats everyone equally.
Cory reportedly swore off both Ironstone and potentially all of Rocksylvania forever.
Dustin came back the next year and DNF’d.
Which perfectly summarizes Ironstone: past success guarantees absolutely nothing.
Meanwhile, Mary Kowalski won the women’s race and quietly began a three-year overall winning streak because apparently she’s immune to suffering.
That first year also produced one of my favorite finish-line quotes ever.
Our DFL finisher, Diana (Conestoga, PA), heard that some top runners had dropped after turning around near Indian Steps.
Her response, paraphrased: “Well, I’m 56 years old, slow and steady, and I kicked their asses.”
Correct, Diana. You absolutely did.
"There’s beauty in the struggle. The fatigue, the pain, and the frustration on so many faces were apparent and warranted. This course, by design, does its best to defeat you. The stares into nothing on some runners [faces] will stay with me for a while. You do these races long enough and you get that look. Not all runners finish (typically 50% in this race). But there really is beauty in it. It’s the strength to get back out. It’s the determination to keep putting one foot in front of the other. The mental toughness to begin the next climb when everything in your body is telling you 'no'." —John Zavatchan, 2022 Participant, Volunteer 2023-2025
Volunteers: The Soul of Ironstone
Much like me and the race staff, the volunteers heading into that first Ironstone had no idea what to expect.
None.
There was no blueprint. No precedent. No comforting historical data saying: “Yeah, this is definitely a reasonable thing to attempt.”
We were all learning in real time what exactly happens when you send runners across 63 miles of heat, rocks, ridgelines, rattlesnakes, sleep deprivation, and theoretical decision-making.
And somehow, the volunteers absolutely rose to the occasion.
“I always say Central Pennsylvania volunteers are the best in trail running. From our Facebook, the replies and comments I received, runners [wrote] they never experienced such a great group of volunteers that were so interested in helping them finish this race.” — Ben Mazur, Race Director, The Trails Collective Podcast, July 14, 2022
Aid station crews stayed upbeat while watching runners stumble in looking like Civil War survivors. Medical volunteers handled situations ranging from dehydration to existential collapse with professionalism and compassion. HAM radio operators relayed updates deep into the night across remote ridges. Search efforts mobilized instantly when needed. Crew members filled bottles, cooked food, patched spirits back together, and kept runners moving forward when their brains were desperately trying to negotiate surrender.
"This was a life changing event and I'll never forget the experiences from race. Thank you to all the volunteers and crew who helped me get so far. You are all one of a kind!!!" — Holly Meyer (Rohrersville, MD), 2024 Participant
Ironstone simply does not exist without volunteers.
Not in the cliché “every race needs volunteers” sense. I mean literally: this race would collapse into the Pennsylvania wilderness almost immediately without them.
And what continues to amaze me every year is the attitude people bring to it. Volunteers at Ironstone don’t just “work” the race. They embrace the weirdness of it. They become part of the atmosphere and identity of the event itself. Take for example, AS 6 and their “World’s-only Porta-PARTY Rave”.
They celebrate the victories. They absorb the stress. They laugh through the chaos. They help runners through some genuinely difficult moments.
At three in the morning, deep in Rothrock, under headlamp light and surrounded by exhausted runners covered in dust and salt, those aid stations feel less like checkpoints and more like tiny outposts of humanity.
It was amazing! All the aid stations were really stocked with things that you needed. I've run races across the country and I've been to a lot of different aid stations and it it was incredible. It was more than what I would have expected, especially for a 100k distance. Yeah... It was incredible! — Kiran Koons, 2022 Participant
I will always be honored, grateful, and indebted to the people who give their time, energy, patience, and heart to this race.
The runners may earn the finisher flannels.
But the volunteers are the soul of Ironstone.
Chapter 4: The Path Forward Through The Rocks
Honestly?
Right now, we don’t want to change much.
Ironstone has found its identity.
It’s difficult. It’s weird. It’s intimate. It’s deeply rooted in place.
And in an era where races increasingly feel bigger, louder, more commercialized, and more optimized for social media than actual trail experience, Ironstone stubbornly remains itself.
A little rough around the edges. A little unhinged. A little feral.
Exactly as it should be.
We’ll continue improving runner safety, course knowledge, volunteer support, and race logistics. We’ll continue working with trail organizations and public land partners. We’ll continue trying to deliver a meaningful experience worthy of the incredible landscapes we move through.
But fundamentally?
The goal is not to make Ironstone easier.
‘“I'm not interested in taking it more than maybe 125 runners because I think we would lose some of the atmosphere and camaraderie. Also, there's some logistical issues with doing a bigger race. I want this to be more of the quiet race that people have heard about… like Manitou’s Revenge. They would hear about this race, and it’s for.. it's only for the ones that have the the legs of iron and the resolve like stone.” — Ben Mazur, Race Director, The Trails Collective Podcast, July 14, 2022
The goal is to preserve the strange little monster we accidentally created.
Because somewhere between the rocks, the heat, the hallucinations, the suffering, the flannel shirts, the bus ride anxiety, the volunteers, the ridgelines, and the sunset and sunrise from Tussey Mountain… Ironstone became more than a race.
It became a shared story.
One that people somehow keep wanting to live through again.
“It’s about shared suffering with friends and strangers alike. It’s about accomplishing something that feels nearly impossible halfway through. “ —John Zavatchan, 2022 Participant, Volunteer 2023-2025
Ben, Nice job articulating the character of the Ironstone journey. Also enjoyed the peek behind the scenes and how things came together for the inaugural event.
It’s been a fun challenge over the last 4 years. Thanks for letting us put your ideas to the test with our legs of iron, resolve like a stone.