Run Rabbit Run 100 Mile race report by Trails & Tarmac athlete Brianne Holland-Stergar

Park Slope, Brooklyn, may not be the ideal place to train for Run Rabbit Run (RRR), your first hundred-mile race. Though conditions in New York City can be tough, it isn’t for the reasons most trail runners are accustomed to; it’s because of the overpowering scent of urine and trash and having to dodge a battalion of stroller-pushing moms. Vert? Unless you count the one 60-foot hill in Prospect Park, you’re SOL. Elevation to prep for a 100 miler where you’ll spend about 50 miles dancing around at 10,000 feet above sea level? Does 114 ft above sea level count? Oh, and throw in a cross-country move to San Francisco three weeks before race day? Bad idea? Some would say “yes.”

But when, in March 2024, I told T&T coach Brett Hornig that, despite my unfortunate geographic predicament (i.e., living in Brooklyn with a big move during critical weeks in the training cycle), I wanted to give RRR a shot, he didn’t bat an eye. Brett has ushered me through a billion injuries, a move from Montana to NYC, and a bi-coastal gig that gave me periodic access to L.A. mountains (yay) and perpetual jet lag (lame). This seemingly unrealistic race goal was par for the course. And luckily, I would spend a solid chunk of the summer at my family’s house in Montana, with ample access to trails. But until then, it was time to make friends with (a) the treadmill; and (b) that 60-foot hill in Prospect Park. 

With his typical consistency and thoughtfulness, Brett designed weekly workout plans. He threw in a couple of fun challenges while we were at it, including grabbing the “Local Legend” on nearly every hill segment in Prospect Park. Later in the summer, after two months of training in the Montana mountains, I was feeling ok! Then came a three-week whirlwind of packing, picking up a car, and moving from New York to San Francisco, at which point, I was feeling . . . worse! But still okay! 

So, at the Run Rabbit Run starting line at 9:00 a.m. on September 13, my goal was only to finish: Given the chaos of the training block, anything more felt too ambitious. And I was thrilled to be joined in the race by great friends (#thecrew), some of whom are also T&T athletes (shoutout to Christian!). I was out there to enjoy good company, solid weather, gorgeous mountains, and the inimitable vibes that only trail running can bring.  A finish would be a nice bonus.

The first 3.5(ish) miles of RRR are a wicked climb from the base of the ski hill in Steamboat Springs up to the top of the mountain; we’re talking almost 3,500 in less than 5 miles. I had been worried I would go too hard and hurt my chances further along, but #thecrew and I found ourselves jam-packed in the middle of a herd of runners making their way up the hill. Given the sardine-esque circumstances, we were forced to go at the crowd’s pace – which was slow, and in retrospect, a blessing.

Once we topped out, we jogged along some sick rollers. Of course, I faceplanted on a flat section at mile 8 (it’s always on the flat sections, isn’t it?), but brushed myself off and kept at it. I caught up with the rest of #thecrew, who had zoomed past me at the first aid station. We kept things easy and chatted as we ran through gorgeous mountain meadows and crossed some little baby streams. Then, we started down a somewhat technical descent down to the Fish Creek aid station, one of the few aid stations where we could meet our crews. (Pro tip: A bunch of blogs characterize this as a gnarly technical descent. While it certainly wasn’t a smooth trail, I thought it would be much worse than it actually was). 

The climb up from Fish Creek – retracing the descent we had just completed – was probably the most annoying part of the race. As we were close-ish to the front of the pack, we had to pass by a slew of runners making their way down to the aid station on trails that were, as noted, somewhat technical. But after a while, the crowd thinned, and we were back up top.

In terms of aid stations, next was Long Lake, followed by a climb up to Summit Lake on smooth jeep roads. Then came a long descent down to Olympian Hall, during which runners hit two aid stations: Billy’s Rabbit Hole and Dry Lake. This descent was a highlight of the race — the trails were buttery smooth, and you spend hours jogging through aspens just starting to don their autumn gold. While passing me, one man threw his arms up, shouting “Can you believe this? I’ve never been anywhere more perfect!”

Night fell, and I turned on my headlamp 3-4 miles before I reentered Steamboat Springs on my way to Olympian Hall, the aid station at mile ~50. Olympian Hall was bustling; 200 or so folks were tending to, or waiting for, their runners. One of these dedicated supporters was my first pacer, Danielle, who would be my escort for the next 20ish miles. After some “flat carbs” (i.e., quesadillas and pancakes), we headed up “Lane of Pain,” a ~3 miles, ~1,500 foot climb which, true to its name, was painful.  After we hit the top, Danielle (a true queen) and I chatted about celebrities’ questionable life choices while twisting along mountain bike trails, and eventually descending back down to Olympian.

The climb up from Olympian is no joke. A ton of people drop out of the race here, and for good reason:  If you’re feeling crappy 63 miles in, before embarking on a ~12 mile, ~3,700 foot climb (usually tackled in the dead of night), probably a good idea to take a knee.  But I was feeling pretty good, so Queen Danielle and I made our way up to Dry Lake. There, I picked up my second pacer, Sir Dylan Malloy. Critically, Dry Lake is the last point at which you can see your crew until the finish line, so I apologized to my boyfriend, Collin, for making him drive up a mountain to feed me ramen at 3:00 am, telling him to go rest up and prepare to tend to my most basic needs the next day. 

Malloy and I then set off on what, for me, was the hardest part of the race: the climb from Dry Lake up to Billy’s Rabbit Hole. To get from Billy’s to Dry Lake earlier in the race, we had taken the aforementioned wonderous route through the aspens. Not so on the way up: We took a shorter, steeper route (~2,000 feet over ~5 miles) that had me struggling up what felt like a giant rock wall (and made me incredibly grateful for my poles).  Though it sucked, I would occasionally take a break from contemplating legal action against whoever had convinced me to run this race (coincidentally, me) and look up at the bright-as-hell stars glimmering down from a crystal clear September sky. Not too shabby.

We got to Billy’s and continued to the Summit Lake Aid Station, arriving at sunrise. At this point, I felt the altitude. I hadn’t yet had any stomach issues (alleluia), but now had trouble ingesting more than a couple of orange slices.  Malloy, everyone’s favorite person, made friends with every aid station volunteer while I rested for a few minutes. Then, it was time to tackle the last 25 miles.

The next 15 of those miles were a slog. Pretty flat, but flat at 10,000 feet and 75 miles into a race is a different kind of flat. To keep my spirits up, Malloy told sensitive stories about when he was six and peed his pants in new Carhartts. In turn, I swore I would never repeat those stories, especially not on the internet. And eventually, after a gradual descent, we hit Long Lake Aid Station at mile 89.

Maybe it was the slightly lower altitude, but for me, that was when a switch flipped. I somehow felt, like, superior. I looked at my watch and saw that a sub-28 hours was within reach. And, after running far more than I anticipated in the last 14 miles, I crossed the finish line at 27 hours, 28 minutes. (Note that my watch had the course at 103.25 miles; others I knew had it around 104. Also, the race is advertised as having 20,000+ feet of gain, but I and everyone I know had about 16,500). Given the topsy-turvy training cycle, suffice it to say that I was pleased.

There’s a lot more that I could say, but I’ll summarize with two primary reflections: 

First, this was the perfect course for my first 100. The trails were in fantastic shape, there were tons of well-stocked aid stations, and the volunteers were world class. There’s something to say for running one of the most established hundreds in the country. And sure, the course was tough, but isn’t every 100? 

Second, and most importantly, I cannot emphasize enough how much I owe to Brett and T&T.  I didn’t just need their help getting across the finish line; I wouldn’t have made it to the starting line without Brett’s steadfast support, skillfully designed training plans, and wildly impressive commitment to this athletes. I came out of Run Rabbit Run with a belt buckle, but also with a newfound respect for the power of a good coach. Now, I’m pumped for the next one, and can’t wait to work with Brett on my way to the starting line.