When we first arrived in Vail, Colorado we unpacked and immediately got ready to go on a short, two-mile warm-up run. The air was crisp, lung-filling, dry. We have to get acclimated before the Ragnar Relay tomorrow. I’ve already been here for two days—wandering through Aurora and downtown Denver, sitting in the airport trying not to fall asleep, boarding busses, avoiding Wiccan roommates in my Airbnb—but this warm-up run—small steps, long, drawn out gasps of mountain air—just around a small, hilly neighborhood in beautiful Vail is the first time it hits me, what we’re really doing up here. Two hundred miles is a long time to run.

The Ragnar Relay is a two hundred mile run through Colorado, starting at Copper Mountain and ending in Aspen. We don’t each run two hundred miles, though; that’s where the “relay” part comes in. Teams of twelve (awesome, amazing) runners separate into two vans and one runner is sent out at a time to complete his or her “leg.” While one van is running, the other gets to park somewhere, it’s passengers curled up on seats, legs tangled under blankets, trying to get a couple hours of sleep. The legs vary in length and there’s only one runner from each team running at a time. The van that runner is in then drives to the end of the runner’s leg and waits at the exchange where one runner will finish and another will begin, a small ritual of celebration occurring with the exchange of the orange, Ragnar slap bracelet from the person finishing and the one beginning.

My legs are 6.4 miles, 3.5, and 6.7, definitely the farthest I’ve ever run. The first one slow, grudging, painful. Other runners pass me and we cheer each other one, fist bump, holler, “almost there!” These interactions are an overpowering mixture of encouraging and embarrassing. Our second legs are at night. We have to wear the safety gear—a reflective vest, a headlamp, a blinking taillight—and at least three layers of clothing. I didn’t plan for how cold it gets up in those beautiful, sanctimonious mountains. Most of my short run is beside train tracks which house a long train that is as asleep as the rest of the quiet mountain towns we’re running through. The stars are huge and so, so bright. It’s scary because besides the small headlamps I can sometimes see behind me and the blinking taillights far in front of me, I don’t see another person for the entire run. It’s also awesome, though, having my small headlamp illumine the path in front of me and my music bumping softly in my ears and the cool air stinging my tired lungs. The last leg, although the longest, is actually the easiest. My muscles are tired, but I’m not overwhelmed by the length of the run any longer. We’ve been doing this for over twenty-four hours now and it’s the last one. I run next to a thick, glistening river and imagine jumping in it to get out of the heat while making my way down the path, avoiding cyclists and hikers.

This was never something I saw myself doing. Months ago in May a friend had called me and described the run, saying, “I think this will be a mountaintop experience.” Avoiding any jokes about taking this statement literally, I understood her point. And she was right. We waited at the finish line for our last runner, enjoying pizza and free beer, and then, when he got there, we climbed up part of the final hill and ran down it beside him, wobbly-legged and half-delirious with exhaustion. We were greeted at the end by crowds of people, cheering, high-fiving, slinging medals around our necks. I’ve never felt anything like that. The run had felt overwhelming, huge, looming, and we’d done it. I’m so glad we didn’t let the whole two hundred miles of it scare us off, but instead took it one leg at a time, one runner at a time, and finished our race in our time. It truly was an unforgettable experience, and I think everyone needs to find and conquer his or her own mountaintop experience.