For years, I've looked up at San Jacinto from my front door in Palm Springs. It's the first thing I see in the morning and the last thing I see when the desert light fades. I train on this mountain almost every weekend, and over time it has become my proving ground.
I've never considered myself an FKT athlete. In fact, this was my first attempt. What drew me to this route wasn't the record itself—it was the terrain. As an ultrarunner preparing for another run at Ouray 100, I love vert. Not time. Not distance. Sustained climbing. The San Jacinto Traverse out-and-back felt like the purest expression of that obsession: starting on the desert floor, climbing to over 10,800 feet, descending into Idyllwild, then turning around and doing it all again.
Distance: 46.6 miles
Vertical Gain: 17,178 ft.
Official Time: 14 hrs 20 min 36 sec
The effort wasn't built in a day. Over the previous month I gradually increased the specificity of my training. Skyline climbs with a tram descent. Back-to-back altitude days. A Cactus to Clouds effort. Then Cactus to Clouds to Cactus, exposing my legs to over 11,000 feet of downhill. Each weekend added another layer of preparation until this route felt like the logical next step.
I started right after sunrise at 6:06 a.m. with a simple goal: execute. I had a rough target time in mind, but I refused to let myself do math. Every time I caught myself calculating splits or projecting outcomes, I brought my attention back to the process. Fuel. Hydrate. Move efficiently. Stay present. Stay positive.
The toughest moment came after the turnaround in Idyllwild. The Deer Springs Trail is one of the most beautiful stretches of forest in Southern California, but I knew exactly what waited ahead: another long climb back to altitude with more than 11,000 feet of vertical already in my legs. It became the lowest point of my day. Fortunately, a group of hikers stopped me and asked what I was doing. When I told them I was attempting the speed record, they laughed in astonishment, cheered, and sent me on my way. That brief human interaction gave me a surprising lift exactly when I needed it most.
After refueling from a stash bag I had dropped in town the night before, I began the climb back toward the summit. Reaching San Jacinto Peak for the second time was one of the most satisfying moments of the entire effort. The climbing was over. Everything from there was familiar.
By the time I reached the ranger station, I was covered in dirt, crusted in salt, and completely locked into the task at hand. Families wandered by, looking at me with a mixture of curiosity and concern while I rushed to refill water and continue moving. I probably looked a little unhinged. The truth is, I was having the time of my life.
What surprised me most was how good I felt during the final descent. Instead of falling apart, I found a rhythm. Moving from alpine forest through chaparral and eventually back into the desert, I felt completely immersed in the landscape. As darkness approached, the lights of Palm Springs began to appear below. Eventually I could hear the city itself coming alive. After a full day in the mountains, civilization slowly returned to focus.
The final miles of Skyline are brutally technical. My legs were screaming at me to stop, but I knew I was close. Then, suddenly, I was back at the museum where the route began.
What I take away from this effort has very little to do with the record itself.
For the first time, I felt like a professional—not because of speed or sponsorships, but because I had created proof to myself that I can maintain a cool head under intense strain and difficulty, while still being kind and encouraging to others. That to me is the sign of a pro.
The biggest lesson was simple: process over outcome.
The moments that mattered most weren't the ones where everything went perfectly. They were the moments where things became uncertain and I chose to stay relentless. When fear, math, and anxiety start taking over, you've already lost the plot. Stay smooth. Stay fueled. Stay in the game.
Years from now, I won't remember every split or every mistake. I'll remember the adventure. I'll remember the people I met along the way. I'll remember how the mountain looked in the evening light and how impossible the route once seemed.
And I'll remember that the best outcomes usually arrive when you're focused on the process, not the result.