#and i was three rows back from the stage so the lights were bright (ouch) and there were strobe lights (ouch) and the person seated next to

[pollen]

letting myself unmask has been so nice at times because i'm seeing my boyfriend express joy much more readily too. who knew me being expressive and all that would do so much good!!!

[ultrakeystotheheartblog]

Popstar Pipes (Dick Grayson x Reader)

Request: “Can you do an imagine with Dick from Young Justice singing Jesse McCartney songs?” - @nyntendoh44

Song: Better With You (Acoustic Version) - Jesse McCartney

A/N: A long one again, I hope you all enjoy! :) I apologize if there’s any grammar mistakes or if Dick seems out of character in any away (it’s been such a long time since I’ve watched Young Justice. I definitely need to re-watch before the new season starts lol). Also, the next imagine I’ll be working on will be a Starfire x Fem!Reader. Look for it soon!

Warning: swearing, and cheesy-cheesiness 

*********************************************************************************

Thirteen texts.

In counting.

And still nothing back.

You stare dejectedly at the open messenger of your phone, anxiously swinging one of your legs and tapping the toe of your boot against the sturdy oak siding of the bar. The wood is scuffed and aged, just like most of the furniture pieces and features that make this place feel kind of homey and lived-in and real. Like a little slice of domestic bliss that’s hard to find in the fast-pace of the outside world, a comforting haven dressed up as a small, semi popular bar near the centre of the city. 

There’s a cute juke box in the far right corner of the bar area, with peeling red paint and a minorly cracked plastic casing. A large, scratched up pool table in the far left that no one really seems to gravitate towards anymore—if the layer of dust settled in the green bed cloth is any indication. And a cluster of worn round tables and wicker chairs bordering the small raised platform at the very back. 

The platform itself lies beneath a row of remote controlled spotlights that flood the stage in hot, bright beams, bolted along one of the many heavy beams crisscrossing in a grid along the ceiling. The stage is tiled with flashing squares of multi-coloured lights that are reminiscent of a disco dance floor. An upgraded DJ booth sits just beyond it, and is evidently what most of the money seems to have gone towards. And for good reason you guess, as this place saw a lot of business for their involvement with anything music—be it local bands or starving singers, or more recently (and maybe hilariously) the open mic karaoke nights. 

It’s a nice place—rare in the city you live in—with an even rarer handful of pleasant staff and a good vibe that usually attracts good, friendly people. It’s probably why you and your friends like to come here so often to de-stress. Though right about now you think the warm environment is lost on you for the night, because you do not feel one bit de-stressed.

You’re one of the few people sitting there at the bar (the rest of the patrons already crowded in the seating area around the stage), perched on a cushioned, yellow bar stool with thin metal legs that creaked with any amount of shifting weight. It’s cooler there and quieter, a sweet couple sitting to your far left at the end of the bar. They’re swapping stories about their days, hands intertwined over the top of the bar, and there’s a much older man in his early 40’s just down a couple of seats from you. 

He’s unshaven and blinking rapidly through bloodshot eyes, already on his sixth drink of the night. He’s also clad in a stylish blue business suit that’s crumpled like he’s slept in it for days, obviously here to drown his sorrows in alcohol. Well, suit guy, look at you go.

You think you can surely understand him on a spiritual level.

On that note you frown and lock your phone, placing it face down before turning back to your own drink. You squeeze the cool glass between your fingers and take a rather large gulp from its contents. It’s still only your first one, so the burn as it hits the back of your throat is not numbed in any way by a drunken haze, and is still sort of painful when you swallow. But it’s good enough to take your mind off your own problems for a minute.

You peek at the couple again when the no-nonsense, heavily tattooed bartender passes in front of you to refill their drinks (taking a moment to throw you a sympathetic smile and playful wink over his shoulder on the way—thanks Joey, you’re kind of best friend material), feeling bored and sad enough to continue in your people watching. Both women are dressed in matching red and black motorcycle jackets that reminded you of something straight out from Grease, the emblem of a team or group (maybe a gang? There were a lot of those still operating in Blüdhaven lately, regardless of a certain bird’s frequent visits) stitched in white across their backs. God, you wish that were you.

And by that, you meant enjoying those cheesy, delicious nachos sitting between them. Because it seems that your ‘date’ for tonight—this definitely isn't a date though, just two friends hanging out after a stress-filled week of work that literally (metaphorically) burned out a piece of your deadening soul, just two pals out for a casual drink in a casual bar with a causal amount of anxiety (okay, an abnormal amount of anxiety because you were having some really weird, certain feelings about this friend lately, but that was nothing to really worry about, right?). Besides it’s not like anything is going to happen tonight…because he isn’t even here to see you potentially embarrass yourself like the walking disaster you are—has decided that 8:00pm was more like a suggestion, than the actual meeting time you’d both put effort into setting up like responsible adults (ha! what a fucking lie). And here you were at 8:45pm, planning the best way to throttle one of your best friends in this whole stupid world with only your bare hands.

You seemed to be resorting to that plan a lot today, but that’s just because people suck and you want to live like a hermit in your bedroom until you get old and wrinkly and eventually die covered in something both tasty and respectable—like chocolate. Was that a little too weird? Probably. Are you going to take back any of what you just conjured up in a moment of frustrated self-reflection? Nope, you decide that you’re committed to that vision, as long as you don’t have to deal with how shitty the world was becoming anymore. Or staying…it’s been pretty shitty for a while. And does that make you a coward? You don’t like to answer that question. 

But you can’t help but admit that part of you is worried too. Worried if he got sucked into dealing with more vigilante stuff, or team stuff, or bleeding out in an alley somewhere alone stuff, and just lost track of time. All three have happened before. You tap the screen of your phone again and sigh in defeat when you see there are still no messages from him.

And then you very nearly lose what’s left of your crap when two hands clap over your eyes from behind and eclipse you into semi darkness. You tense, spine locked straight as you shoot up in your seat and are unceremoniously ripped from your depressing musings, gripping the edge of the bar so hard it hurts your knuckles. You have to learn how to be more aware of your surroundings, because holy shit you can only take so many heart attacks during your young life. 

There are lips at your ear, minty fresh breath soft against your skin as the person chuckles, the sound comforting and warm and familiar in a way that has no issue bringing peace to the drowning, dark places in your mind. And as damningly cliché as it can get, the world just seems to fall away into the background—the sounds of clinking drinks, the clunk of cheap shot glasses striking wooden tables, crappy pop music, boisterous, annoying loud-talking and off-key singing from the group of bachelors partying it up on that open mic, and the laughing couple still sharing that damn plate of nachos they’d ordered over an hour ago, all becoming this muffled sort of white noise in your ears.

You can only focus on the feel of his hands, roughened and calloused from his work as a hero, but you can feel the strength in them too. A strength that always makes you feel protected and insanely wired in the best possible way, a heat pooling into your abdomen that you can never quite discern as one thing or another. All you know is that it makes you truly alive. And maybe a bit annoyed, especially when the owner of said hands is almost an hour late. 

Prickling irritation makes your chest grow tight, and you take a steadying breath in, immediately inhaling the muddled scent of his sharp cologne and a clean, citrusy body wash that makes you feel blissfully dizzy. But only for a moment.

"Guess who?" He whispers with a ridiculous amount of charm seeping into his voice (looks like someone knows they’re in trouble and is now trying to get on your good side), the front of his body pressed up against your back. So close, that if you weren’t just a little ticked, you’d have probably leant back against his chest to seek out some semblance of comfort—like you always do when around him—especially when thinking about what you’d had to go through during your work week. So, you settle for being a little petty instead. 

The night is still young after all. 

You reach up to touch the back of his hands, slouching back down in your seat a little. "Hmm let me see—sweaty, calloused hands and the smooth timbre of a teen popstar. It could only be my dork of a birdbrain."

He snorts in laughter and his arms drop like dead weight to his sides, moving to your left side to lean against the bar. His eyebrow lifts in amusement as he stares at you. "Ouch. Just going straight for the throat tonight, huh?"

You blink at the sudden return of light filling your vision, sliding around on the bar stool to face him with a pointed, narrow-eyed gaze. “Would you rather me go for something else?”  

Dick Grayson ever rarely, and so outwardly, reacts when it comes to threats of his own well being (though if it were ever turned on the people he cares about…than that’s a whole other room you don’t want to spend time unpacking right now)—a testament to his time raised and trained by the scarily stoic, and maybe slightly emotionally constipated, father figure (THE freaking Batman you’d come to learn recently, and kind of wished you hadn’t, because that’s super intimidating) and then his time spent as a highly-skilled vigilante hero—and this time was definitely no different. 

But you’d gotten good at reading him over the years without much to go on, almost just as well as he can read you, because you can see the flicker of something akin to concern in his gaze—but for you or his situation, well, it’s kind of hard to truly distinguish with how fast it comes and then melts away into uncertainty—and then he’s slowly moving to cover his crotch with a one hand. He never breaks eye contact with you, awkwardly clearing his throat in a way that tells you he’s now a little nervous.

“Not that I don’t appreciate our playful banter, but that one, uh, seemed a little hostile.” He observes with a furrowed brow. You choke back another mouthful of your drink, eyes shifting to admire the high, open shelved liquor cabinets that line the wall behind the bar. The shiny different colors of glass and alcohol give you something else to focus on for the moment, while you steel yourself for the night ahead.

Or maybe you should just head home.

“Did it?” You ask casually, unable to keep the bitter edge out of your tone. You can feel Dick’s burning eyes on you, and know that he’s already analyzing your emotional state with his well-versed detective skills.

“What’s up, (Y/N/N)?” He begins quietly, “You know you can talk to me about anything.”

The concern is back in that searching gaze of his when you turn to look at him, his eyes so honestly earnest and deeply worried and beautifully blue as he leans towards you—goddamnit how can a person even have eyes like that, it’s unfair—that you not only lose your breath for a second, but the entirety of your precariously constructed iron will. So, now it’s also unfair how fast you find yourself forgiving him for his appalling tardiness, just leaving you happy that he’s finally here now.

The things you go through for this man.

You sigh and deflate, leaning the rest of the way into him to press your check against his shoulder. The fabric of his dark blue jacket is smooth and cool against your skin.

"I know, Dick, I--It’s just…been one of those days. I’m sorry."

Dick drops his chin to the top of your head, releasing a shuddering breath that tells you he’s just as exhausted as you are. "I know what you mean. But I'll have you know that I was just trying to be adorable."

"You don't have to try." You say with a laugh, almost tipping right off the bar stool when he abruptly pulls back from your body to flash you a cheeky grin. You roll your eyes at him, "I mean you don't have to try so hard around me.”

“Oh?”

Dick reaches behind you for your drink. He brings it up to his lips, watching you over the rim as he takes a long sip. You poke his chest with a teasing smile, coyly arching a brow in challenge.

“No matter what you do or say for the rest of your life, I'm always going to see that tiny 13 year old boy who not once, but twice, answered the door to the manor half asleep, humming some old ABBA song, and wearing nothing but those majestic little black and blue Batman ‘undies. You know…the ones with the glittery gold bat signals on the butt?"

Dick definitely remembers.

He sputters instantly, a clear, resounding yes, choking on the burning liquid with a grimace. His reaction makes you laugh harder than ever before (yeah, you’re definitely not going home yet, you kind of really needed this). Dick swallows a desirable amount of air into his lungs in one gasping breath, quickly depositing your drink back onto the bar. He playfully narrows his eyes at you, reaching out to firmly clamp his hand over your mouth when you go to say something else. You’re sure he can feel the undeniable way your lips curl into a triumphant smirk underneath the skin of his palm.

“You said you’d never bring that up ever again.”

You reach up to grip his wrist, drawing the offending hand away from your mouth so you can speak. “I lied.” You counter, humming in amusement as you recall the hilarious image of a very mortified boy wonder making a dash for the manor’s grand staircase—bat signals sparkling under the lights of the hall. Ah, the memories. 

“By the way, do you still have those?”

“No.”

“Shame.”

Dick straightens, sets his hands on his hips, and smirks, staring down at you thoughtfully. His eyes dart to look out over the crowd still gathered around the stage, and then at the people lingering closer to the bar, gears turning behind his gaze when he catches sight of Joey rinsing out empty beer glasses at the bar’s sink. "Hmmm I guess I'll have to try harder then." He says a little too casually for your liking.

And with that you suddenly feel something horrible creeping up over the horizon, the changing winds of which it wrought bringing a chill so foreboding in its wake. Meaning he was irrefutably planning…well, something, and you were screwed (trapped by social convention and the sacred promises of ride-and-die friendship law to participate in whatever it was, curse it all). But there was also no way you were letting that smug face win tonight without some sort of fight. So you simply stare him down as well.

"Do your worst, Fingerstripes." 

"I will."

You scoff and pick up your nearly-empty glass again, "Then I'm really going to need to finish this drink first."

"Nope." He merely says, plucking the glass right back out of your hands despite your protests, and then he’s moving it to sit behind him—despairingly far from your reach. You pout at him like the sophisticated young adult you are.

"No?" You question unhappily.

"We're going to do something else first."

He lifts his hand to get Joey’s attention, the bartender sauntering over within a moment to warmly greet another one of his favourite regulars. Dick claps both hands over your ears then and leans in over the bar top to speak quietly to him, ignoring the way you squirm and curl your fingers under his palms to try and wrench them away from your head. But his hold is strong and your attempts are fruitless. Joey only nods once Dick finally finishes and releases your head, grinning at you mischievously from behind the bar.

You eye the both of them suspiciously, "I don't like that look in your eyes, Grayson."

Dick’s smile is nothing but charming as he pulls you to your feet, “It’ll be good, I promise. Besides…you need to loosen up.”

“I am loose—wow that came out wrong.” You wince, already knowing Dick’s mind went straight to the worst place imaginable with that little slip up, especially when you hear him snort in laughter. What a dirty boy.  “Hey! Don’t you dare start laughing at me, you asshole, I didn’t mean—stop it. Dick!” You whine, and your friend only laughs louder.

“Was that a Freudian slip?”

“You’re a Freudian slip!”  You retort without any real malice, shoving at his shoulder in embarrassment. “Ugh, that’s it, I’m out. I’m still too sober for this.”

His sets his hands on your shoulders when you go to turn away, keeping you still and somehow managing to sooth you considerably, thumbs rubbing gentle, tiny circles into the dips between your collarbones. “My point remains. You’re stressed. I’m stressed. We can release that stress together.”

You squint at him in disbelief, “For the sake of our fucking friendship, I am maintaining that I heard absolutely nothing come out of your mouth within the last 10 seconds.” You pause, smirking and tilting your head in mock curiosity. “But I do have to know one very important thing before we move on with our lives....did Wally teach you that line?”    

He rolls his eyes, and doesn’t answer the question. 

Oh my god, Dick. 

“Come on, get traught and follow me.” He practically sings. And now that should have been your first clue. He takes your hand and starts dragging you through the crowd around the stage, circling around tables and weaving in between groups of people in such a roundabout path, that it throws you off any possible trail of where he might be leading you.

“Where are we going?”

“Need to know basis.”

“I need to know.”

“Just wait a second.”  

And then you realize exactly what he’s planned when you both tumble out of the crowd and come face to face with a nightmare just waiting to happen. You stare at the now empty, mocking stage with wide eyes, gaze zeroing in on the lone mic stand. The silver metal glints under a circle of white light and you yank your hand free from Dick’s grip in a bout of panic. Fucking NO.

“Dick—”

“It’ll be good, I promise.”

You might just stomp your foot a little, “No, absolutely not, there is no way in demon-shitting hell I am getting up on that stage. You’ll have to drag me kicking and screaming.” You threaten seriously, taking a few steps back.

“Oh, come on, it’s not going to be that ba—”

“I’d rather die.”

Dick sighs, running a hand through his hair. He reaches out to take your hand again—his touch never failing to calm you—and squeezes it in reassurance. And then he’s drawing you back towards him, his smile soft and kind and all sorts of crazy attractive. You let him throw his arm around your shoulders, and he leans in to mutter. “Dramatics aside, how about we make a deal.”

It’s a trap and you know it. But the fondness and playful determination in his eyes intrigues you enough to throw caution to the wind.

“What kind of deal?” You ask slowly, brows furrowed as you gauge his expression.

Dick gestures to the stage with a flourish of his hand, “I get up there first, and, uh, hmm—averagely bring the house down with my sweet, teen popstar voice—” You heave an exasperated sigh at that, and Dick begins to guide you towards an open seat near the front, continuing his proposal eagerly. “—and then you go up there and smoke me.”

“You know I’m not a very good singer, Dick.” You remind him, refusing to sit just yet as you maul over his words. He waves away your worries, increasing pressure on your shoulders until your lowering your body into the heavy wicker chair.

“That doesn’t matter. You’ll still be amazing, and more importantly it’ll be fun. Now, sit.”

“I’m not a dog.” You scoff, glaring up at him as you slump back and cross your arms.

“Oh, I know, you definitely don’t have to tell me that. I’ve already decided a long time ago that you’re more like a whining, middle school child.”

“Says the edgy, bird-themed child.”

Dick leans down awful close, hands gripping the arms of the chair so that you’re caged in and can’t make any last minute escapes. “I love how you get me.” He quips in answer.

“I’m going to regret this.” You groan, a hand pressed to your forehead in frustration. Damn him and his damn smile. “Fine, go, get on with it.” You relent.

“You’re going to love it.”

“And you’re going to have to convince me.”

“Challenge accepted.” He declares smugly.

With that, Dick shrugs out of his jacket to uncover the plain gray tee underneath, the hem of which is smoothly tucked into his jeans. He tosses it to you as he turns and bounces up the three steps to get onto the stage, striding towards the mic with purpose. You grumble as your bunch the jacket in your lap, fingers tangling in the fabric to ground yourself from the creeping nervousness you feel. 

He slips the mic from the stand and steps a few feet to the edge of the platform, a single spotlight following him as he brings the mic up to his mouth. His voice resonates through the room, strong and enthusiastic. He’s ready to put on a show, and you’re just about ready to sink into the floor and disappear from this situation altogether.

“Hello, everyone! I think I’m going to—” He gestures to someone at the back of the crowd (you have a sneaking suspicion that Joey is now playing his part in all of this and—yeah, there he was, tapping away at the tiny square remote clenched in his fist as he makes a beeline towards the DJ booth and the young goth-inspired girl seated behind it) and the main lights in the bar immediately dim. 

Dick’s surely gotten everyone’s attention now. 

People quiet as they turn to watch him, and he sweeps his gaze across them as though deciding on how to properly entertain. “—slow it down a little now if you don’t mind,” Dick continues unhurriedly. “I have to admit...I don’t usually do this kind of thing very often, but as it turns out, I was double-dog dared to get up here—” (what a little shit) “—and sing a song for you all tonight. And I’m never one to back down from a challenge. That being said, I’d like to dedicate this little number to someone special—right here in this very audience. (Y/N)? Can you see me? No? That was a no, folks. Can I get a light down there? Yes—a little, yes! Right there. Perfect, perfect. Can you see me now?”

You blink quickly in the sudden harsh light washing down upon you, a second spotlight now trained on you intently. You glare up at him, “Unfortunately.”

There are laughs from the people around you, and Dick—all show-business now—sends you a teasing wink. “And you tell me to stop flirting.”

You try and glare harder at him, but you don’t think its working. He seems to understand all the same though, throwing up a hand in mock defense. “Okay, okay, I’m going.”

The pretty guitar of an acoustic song fills the silence right on cue.

And then he opens his mouth to sing.

I know it's ugly turning on the news There's people fighting over point of view Sometimes it's like there's nothing left to lose And I don't know what to do But I know it's better with you

Dick moves to sit on the top step of the stage as he continues, refusing to break eye contact with you for even a second. And, huh, you’re not sure why your heart is trying to escape from your chest all of sudden.

I was a wreck when you came along When there was nothing left You showed me the best I'm still a mess but you hold on Don't know just why you do But I know I'm better with you

But I know I'm better with you But I know I'm better with you But I know I'm better with you

Okay, you were not expecting to feel this way—dizzy and confused and slightly embarrassed—or for him to stare at you as intently as the spotlight on you both. But you find yourself liking it regardless of your feelings on the situation—just entirely awed at the talent of your friend. You knew he could sing, sure, but damn, it never fails to surprise you.

And make you smile.

For every laugh there is a silent cry For every day there is a darker night Sometimes this life doesn't treat us right And I don't know what to do But I know it's better with you

He rises to his feet with something like fire in his eyes, drawn with an invisible string down the remaining steps and short distance to where you sit, and you wonder why this all seems so personal all of a sudden—like he’s earnestly trying to say something and nothing all at once. You follow his movement with a confused tilt of your head.

I was a wreck when you came along When there was nothing left You showed me the best I'm still a mess but you hold on Don't know just why you do But I know I'm better with you

But I know I'm better with you But I know I'm better with you But I know I'm better with you

There’s a brief interlude in the song, guitar ringing pleasantly in your ears.

It’s just as Dick reaches you—but he doesn’t stop moving—climbing up onto the table you’re closest to with a grace that you’ve only seen in action a handful times. The people around it scatter much to your amusement, pushing their chairs back to give him more room, and he lowers himself to sit at the edge facing you, legs hanging off to freely swing. What a dramatic dork, you think fondly.  He hunches over to take one arm of your chair, tugging you around to better see him and then closer still to where he’s now perched. The spotlights follow you both closely, various gasps from the crowd making your face burn hot.

Wherever you are, it's never as dark Whenever I start slipping, you make all the difference Been there from the start, no matter how hard Whatever piece is missing, you know how to fix it

I was a wreck when you came along When there was nothing left You showed me the best I'm still a mess but you hold on Don't know just why you do But I know I'm better with you

But I know I'm better with you But I know I'm better with you But I know I'm better with you

The music finishes and fades out into another moment of silence, the bar eerily quiet as people watch on in anticipation for…something to happen. But nothing does. Well, besides you staring at him, too afraid to say anything and break the spell that’s shrouded the two of you in a peaceful sort of daze. For that moment, you think you can see it—a dance of muddled emotions in his expression that tells you he feels it to, that ever present connection that runs deep in your bones, and now he’s trying to make sense of it. Just like you’ve been attempting to do for days. 

And then the corners of his lips lift up into that beautiful, kind smile that squeezes your heart, any knots of tenseness in the atmosphere unwinding into the familiar reality of the bar, and he’s pulling the mic away from his mouth with a grin so boyish and blissful it makes your toes curl in your boots. Okay, so, evidently those ‘certain’ feelings you’d been hesitantly circling around for weeks like a frightened, wild animal are still as strong as ever. And you can’t help but hope that this soft, new affectionate glint in his eyes reveals a hidden truth—that this particular moment means something more to him too. 

The main bar lights get brighter again, the spotlights sliding back to train on the stage instead of on the pair of you. He leans towards you from his spot on the table, so only you can hear what he says next through the light applause that picks up around the room—once people realize that the show is indeed over.

“So, was I able to convince you?” He questions still smiling, swinging his legs on either side of you as he waits expectantly for your answer. You take a deep breath, slipping right back into easy banter when you crack a smile of your own.

“You’ve intrigued me.”

Dick nods with a chuckle that envelopes you in warmth, tapping the mic gently against your nose. “Mmmm good—because now it’s your turn.”

You freeze.

“Ah, crap.”

[kristablogs]

These ultramarathoners say life is easier after running 40 miles on frozen backwoods trails

‘I could do this all night,’ O’Neill thought. (Ackerman + Gruber/)

It is 10°F outside of the wood-beamed shelter at St. Croix State Park, a 34,000-acre pine-and-oak expanse in eastern Minnesota. Hell, it’s cold inside, despite two fireplaces blazing, their smoke pulled into flared metal chimneys that resemble the business ends of rockets. The 54 athletes standing around keep their hats on, for the most part. Each has spent good money to embark on exactly the kind of endeavor most people would pay to avoid: running or skiing—whichever suits their fancy—for 40 miles. At night. In Minnesota. In January. While pulling a sled packed with 30-plus pounds of supplies.

This torturefest is called the St. Croix 40 Winter Ultra, and its participants find pleasure in the hardship. At 4:30 p.m. they jiggle their legs and apply insulating tape to their cheeks and noses while the organizers give a prerace pep talk.

Of sorts.

“No one died last year,” says Jamison Swift, deadpanning. “Let’s keep it going.”

He soon passes the stage to Lisa Kapsner-Swift, his co-organizer and wife, who talks about what the racers can do if they feel like they’re coming down with the winter-ultra baddies: trench foot, frostbite, hypothermia.

The advice washes over Meredith O’Neill, who wears glasses and bright blue snow pants; two Heidi braids hang down her shoulders. She’s prepared for months, training to be alone, cold, and tired for what might feel like forever as she runs across an Upper Midwest oak savanna, passes through stands of pines, and treks across acres of trees felled by a storm. She’ll go and go and go until she returns, finally, hopefully, to this same building sometime tomorrow.

It’s fun. Not the normal, easy kind that comes with games of horseshoes or beach volleyball. Wilderness-seeking enthusiasts often call that “Type I Fun.” Instead, this is the more complicated variety, “Type II Fun,” which basically encompasses an activity—like backpacking up a steep mountain or scaling a sheer rock face—that suuuuuucks when you’re doing it but seems cool in retrospect. (Their categorization system also includes “Type III” activity, which is never actual fun and puts your life in danger.)

Type II recreation appeals to a variety of nature-loving folks, including a growing community of runners called ultramarathoners—those who think the traditional 26.2-mile course isn’t a big-enough test of physical endurance and mental fortitude. Their events mostly take place on remote trails, rather than on big-city streets with live bands and aid stations stocked like curbside Trader Joe’s. There were just over 100,000 finishes in ultraraces around the world in 2018, compared to 1.1 million for marathons. The extreme feats have to cover at least 31 miles (50 kilometers) and sometimes include extra challenges, like St. Croix’s sleds and snow. For tonight’s contest, participants must bring along, among other things, insulated water containers, gear for sleeping in the elements, a stove kit, and enough food to finish the course with 3,000 calories to spare.

The St. Croix winter ultramarathon covers 40 miles—from dusk till done—and draws athletes considering longer events. (Ackerman + Gruber/)

Sports psychologists have investigated the why of races like this one, looking closely at people who think that “more than a marathon” sounds like a terrific Saturday. What they’ve found is that ultrarunners get a kick out of tackling self-imposed challenges, forming community while also pursuing solitude, exploring the wilderness as well as their own limits, and then applying the idea that they can nudge their own boundaries to their tamer everyday lives.

If you ask athletes like O’Neill why they push themselves to and through mile 37 toward the finish line, their anecdata matches scientists’ findings pretty well. “In road marathons, there’s a lot of people, and I’m more introverted,” she says. “I wanted something a little quieter, more nature-filled.”

After her first ultra, a 31-miler outside of Minneapolis, O’Neill knew this was the sport for her. It wasn’t about fast finish times or jostling with other competitors. Participants like her go slower, mostly alone, through pretty places. She liked that. “I could do this for eight hours,” she thought. “I could do this for 12 hours; I could do this all night.”

O’Neill realized she could continue beyond where her biology told her to stop. That it was thrilling to go past her usual boundaries. “Your brain is holding you back a little bit to protect you,” she says. “But that’s sort of a wiggly, wobbly line that you can push further.”

It’s an idea exercise scientist Tim Noakes first suggested in the 1990s and dubbed the “central governor” theory: Your brain sends a signal to the rest of your body, informing the muscles that they’re too tired to possibly go on, and that if they do, they might damage themselves. But that signal comes long before it needs to, when the body still has tons of energy left.

Finding out how much literal and figurative fuel she has propels O’Neill into the now-single-digit Minnesota night—that, and seeking the kind of peace physical exertion provides. “It’s one of the few times I don’t really think about anything other than how far I’ve gone and how far I have to go and whether I feel okay,” she says. “I’m very present. I like it. I like having that calm.”

At 5:55 p.m., when it’s just below 10°F, O’Neill stands in full moonlight next to her sled, which is about the size of a Flexible Flyer a kid would ride downhill. Some entrants have wrapped their gear in fancy REI stowage; others merely tote big, blue IKEA bags with the handles knotted together. O’Neill’s kit hides in a black duffel. Her camp stove, like everyone else’s, rests atop the snow, ready to be lit in order to show that she can boil water in the cold—required before she can start moving her legs. Unlike road races and traditional ultras, this event requires all runners to demonstrate not just that they’re able to last a long time, but also that they have survival skills to fall back on. When the official says, “GO!” to signal the start, O’Neill’s cooker engulfs itself in a ball of flame, then settles down. A hundred feet away, two rows of primary-colored triangle flags wave from the start of the course.

Across the snowy ground, a participant named Bill Hansel has decked out his sled with Christmas lights, their blinks reflecting aggressively off the white flakes. Nearby, a spectator in an inflatable T. rex costume dances, a Cretaceous cheerleader. Hansel is a veteran ultrarunner who also organizes his own events, the Storm Trail Race Series, as a fundraiser for youth mental-health initiatives. Like O’Neill, Hansel loves what distance challenges do to his brain. “You’re alone with your thoughts a lot,” he says. “It’s my meditation.” But he also enjoys the community. “Trail runners are a very welcoming group. Everybody wants to help everybody,” he continues. Even if you’re mindfully alone for 25 miles, “you can pick up a random person” in the middle of nowhere and chitchat through ragged breaths.

Runner ­Meredith O’Neill likes being surrounded by nature. (Ackerman + Gruber/)

Hansel starts working to get his cold fuel to light.

Standing still like that, the elements start to intrude. At first it doesn’t feel so bad. Crisp! But then you breathe in sharply, and the insides of your nose flash-freeze together for a second. Frigid! Your lungs contract. Ouch! Then all of a sudden you realize that the iciness has slithered into your veins. It’s part of you now. And just as you can’t really remember exactly what it felt like to be a teenager, you can’t recall what it felt like to be warm. Maybe, you think, you never were. Maybe you’ll never be again. But the seemingly never-ending chill is temporary.

This, too, shall pass. Hansel talks in phrases like this sometimes—aphorisms interspersed with regular sentences, snippets of wisdom that are about running but really could be about anything: “There’s ups and downs, and it will get better if you keep going.” “Even if you run the same race, it’s not the same course.” “Don’t look at the big picture.”

That last one will buoy him throughout this challenge, as it has during every other ultra. He always, for instance, sets the timer on his watch for 10 minutes. When it’s up, he’ll take a drink of water. He’ll reset his watch. He’ll shift his attention to the next interval. “I have run 200 miles, 95 hours, 10 minutes at a time,” he says. He’s persisted so long that he’s hallucinated recreational vehicles (multiple times)—tales he swaps like drinking stories with other Type II enthusiasts.

This, though, is his first winter ultra, and he’s going into it with the same three big aims he always has: to finish, to have fun, to not die. He likes to play around with what he calls his superpower, which is the ability to go very slowly for a very long time. To take pleasure in how the moonlight hits the snow, to really notice his body at work, to hear only his footsteps and internal monologue, and to feel from afar the support of friends and family.

Soon, the water in his stove bubbles, and he begins moving toward his trifecta of goals. As the yellow moon rises over the trees, Hansel jogs between the flags, which lead down a snowmobile trail. He and O’Neill and the others will follow the path for the first 24 miles of the race, watching for yellow signs with blue reflective arrows to appear out of the darkness, showing the way to the only checkpoint.

More than one-quarter of the 54 people who set out on this evening will quit there.

O’Neill prepped for months to run the St. Croix trail ­ultra in frigid temperatures (Ackerman + Gruber/)

So, yeah, the St. Croix 40 Winter Ultra does claim some victims. But it’s actually one of the easier cold-weather endurance events out there. The Swifts founded it specifically for people who weren’t ready yet for the truly masochistic affairs: the Iditarod Trail Invitational 1,000, the Alaskan original and still the mother of all these races; the Tuscobia Winter Ultra, whose 160-mile route is a step toward qualifying for the Iditarod; and the Arrowhead 135, a challenge that begins at International Falls in northern Minnesota and that more than half of all starters don’t finish. (The numbers in the names refer, of course, to distance in miles.)

The Swifts want to give anyone interested in trying a winter ultra a safe place to practice something “short”—especially considering that even out here, in a straightforward test, it’s not very hard to die simply by standing still for too long. That’s why the runners have to show off their survival skills: so that someday, if they do have to set up a subzero camp, they’ll be ready.

Kapsner-Swift gets that. She does similar races herself. Last year she completed her first 24-hour run. “It was terrible,” she says, “and I loved it so much.” Her statement echoes the dichotomy articulated by another St. Croix participant, Adam Warden: “You want something that’s going to suck,” he says. “And be beautiful.”

For Kapsner-Swift and Warden, and for most ultrarunners, getting through the gut-wrenching parts is a game, like a tough chess match. “Not to get all existential,” Kapsner-Swift says, “but we have this incredible privilege of having, generally speaking, very comfortable lives.” That’s great—most of the time. But challenge is good for human beings. It’s how we grow. “Sometimes a little fear and self-doubt go a long way,” another participant, Kari Gibbons, explains. “I don’t feel that anywhere else in my life. That means I’m not pushing myself. I’m not taking a risk. If I do feel that, I know I’m doing something important.”

If life doesn’t give you lemons, in other words, you should probably pluck a few and bite down. Then, when you actually do get lemons, you’ll know what to do with them. That shift—from athletic challenge to regular existence—may be easy for ultrarunners, according to a 2014 dissertation from organizational psychologist Anthony Holly, now a director of strategy and analytics at PRO Unlimited, a workforce management company. He wanted to understand how these athletes’ mental toughness plays out in the workplace. By interviewing runners, he projected that the discipline, patience, and tenacity they use to complete races are skills they could transfer to job environments. It sounds a little Hallmarkian to say, “Because I could plod more miles, I knew I could handle the frustrations of office politics and rough deadlines.” But it seems to work. The St. Croix athletes have found that the extremes help them cope with personal and professional troubles.

St. Croix athletes pull sleds with emergency supplies. (Ackerman + Gruber/)

To understand why people initially decide to go to such lengths, Rhonna Krouse-Adams, an associate professor of health science at the College of Western Idaho, studied endurance athletes. After she failed to find any data on women ultrarunners, she decided to focus her research on them. She herself was one, and had become fascinated by the community and camaraderie among these women, who technically are competitors and mostly fly solo. “They’re noncompetitive people who form almost a family unit through this process,” she thought.

Surveying 344 participants, Krouse-Adams found they cared about health and used running to give themselves a sense of well-being. They focused on self-centric goals, like just finishing the race, rather than outward-facing ones, like besting a competitor. “The sense of freedom and accomplishment” topped the “why” list. “A sense of belonging was really high,” she says. It’s a whole identity—not just a hobby. According to a 2018 study, finishers are more motivated by their group affiliation and a feeling of happiness and fulfillment than those who complete shorter distances.

This is a self-selecting bunch, though, Krouse-Adams points out. “You can’t commit to something for 25 hours a week and have a lot of other commitments,” she says. “This was not a sport chosen by families. Not by moms.” Perhaps not surprisingly, other researchers have found that ultrarunners in the United States are around 85 percent male, 90 percent white, and more educated and richer than average. It’s a pursuit often taken up by those with lots of leisure time and money to spend on the $100-plus entry fees.

Life circumstances aside, not everyone is mentally suited to endurance events. Gavin Breslin, a sports and exercise psychologist at Ulster University, sees a focus on self-challenge. “The marathon is achievable,” says Breslin, who also coaches a team of Olympic hopefuls. Ultrarunners ask, “‘What can you do above that?' There’s risk-taking involved.” The uncertainty is that you might not be able to do what you set out to do. The fist-pumping triumph is when you do it anyway. As O’Neill puts it, “That was liberating, to know that when I thought things were over and done, I had a little more.”

Breslin and his associates have also looked at how distance athletes score on a personality test of five major traits, sometimes called the Big Five, which in concert can define character: extroversion, agreeableness, openness, neuroticism, and conscientiousness. Ultrarunners tend to score significantly higher than average for that last trait, thanks to some mysterious mix of genetics and upbringing. You can cultivate this quality, he says. “You can develop goal setting. Somewhere within us all, there’s a level of ultraendurance.”

At the 24-mile checkpoint, some of the St. Croix participants might be questioning Breslin’s assessment. The ones who decide to bow out join volunteers inside a billowing warming tent that looks like it was fashioned from the inflatable T. rex at the starting point. Other crew members stand slump-shouldered around a fire, waiting for each bedraggled, frigid racer to emerge from the darkness.

The first athlete arrives around 10 p.m., but the last runner doesn’t get there until around 2:30 a.m. If they plan to take on the last 16 miles, they have to again prove they have the skills to stay alive in an emergency. They must stop, set up their bivy sack (basically a body-shaped tent that envelops their sleeping bag), climb into the makeshift bed, wait around 30 seconds, then pack it all up before leaving. That sounds like a pain, sure. But no big deal compared to running 40 miles, right?

Counterclockwise from top: foam pad, sleeping bag and bivy sack, water bottle sleeves, camp pot and stove, fuel (red canister), snacks, trekking poles, microspikes. (Ackerman + Gruber/)

Wrong: When the temp nears zero, and you’re sweaty, you get cold quick—the kind of chill that seems to attach itself to your DNA. Some who feel too frosty after their survival demo, or just beaten, call it quits and either walk a mile (as the crow flies) on a road back to the finish line or catch a ride in a volunteer’s car.

Around 3 a.m., back at the starting point, the race crew begins making breakfast in the shelter for the people who’ve returned, either humbled from the checkpoint or triumphant from the trail. There are flaky eggs, bacon, Krusteaz pancakes, bags of Colby Jack cheese, and Activia probiotic yogurt. Also a big orange cooler with a piece of paper taped to its side: “TANG!” On the registration table, not-yet-cooked bacon languishes—which is fine, because it’s still too cold inside for bacteria to propagate.

Hansel comes in around 4 a.m., shaken. Shaky, actually. His lips are blue like Frost Glacier Freeze Gatorade, and his fork wobbles as he brings eggs up to them, or tries to cut into the pancakes.

“I had dark times starting after about five miles,” Hansel says. He didn’t really see anyone else—at all—till the checkpoint. “I’m used to dark times,” he continues, “but not that early.”

To keep going, he says he thought of his family and all of the people who support him. Would he do it again? No. “Was it fun?” Hansel asks aloud. “Yes,” he answers himself. Perhaps that’s Type 2.5 Fun. (Within a couple months, though, he would be training for next year’s St. Croix 40 Winter Ultra.)

When O’Neill comes in around two hours later, after more than 12 hours on the trail, she looks jubilant. She caught that heightened state of being she’s always chasing through the woods—what psychologists call “flow,” or total absorption in a task. You lose track of time, you feel totally in control, like you are in charge of yourself and the world. “I’m not thinking of anything but what I’m doing, my footsteps, what’s around me,” she says.

She removes her coat, revealing a pale blue argyle sweater, the kind you might wear to the office, and a down running skirt over her bright blue snow pants. The race appears to have barely fazed her. She says, in fact, that it was “90 percent Type I fun.” Her only trouble was that all her food froze—except for a stash of Twinkies. But no big deal: She just ate Twinkies, fully present to sense their spongy outsides, their gooey centers, their sugar flowing into her veins. Crisis averted. Achievement unlocked. Game won, and over.

This story appeared in the Summer 2020, Play issue of Popular Science.

[scootoaster]

These ultramarathoners say life is easier after running 40 miles on frozen backwoods trails

‘I could do this all night,’ O’Neill thought. (Ackerman + Gruber/)

It is 10°F outside of the wood-beamed shelter at St. Croix State Park, a 34,000-acre pine-and-oak expanse in eastern Minnesota. Hell, it’s cold inside, despite two fireplaces blazing, their smoke pulled into flared metal chimneys that resemble the business ends of rockets. The 54 athletes standing around keep their hats on, for the most part. Each has spent good money to embark on exactly the kind of endeavor most people would pay to avoid: running or skiing—whichever suits their fancy—for 40 miles. At night. In Minnesota. In January. While pulling a sled packed with 30-plus pounds of supplies.

This torturefest is called the St. Croix 40 Winter Ultra, and its participants find pleasure in the hardship. At 4:30 p.m. they jiggle their legs and apply insulating tape to their cheeks and noses while the organizers give a prerace pep talk.

Of sorts.

“No one died last year,” says Jamison Swift, deadpanning. “Let’s keep it going.”

He soon passes the stage to Lisa Kapsner-Swift, his co-organizer and wife, who talks about what the racers can do if they feel like they’re coming down with the winter-ultra baddies: trench foot, frostbite, hypothermia.

The advice washes over Meredith O’Neill, who wears glasses and bright blue snow pants; two Heidi braids hang down her shoulders. She’s prepared for months, training to be alone, cold, and tired for what might feel like forever as she runs across an Upper Midwest oak savanna, passes through stands of pines, and treks across acres of trees felled by a storm. She’ll go and go and go until she returns, finally, hopefully, to this same building sometime tomorrow.

It’s fun. Not the normal, easy kind that comes with games of horseshoes or beach volleyball. Wilderness-seeking enthusiasts often call that “Type I Fun.” Instead, this is the more complicated variety, “Type II Fun,” which basically encompasses an activity—like backpacking up a steep mountain or scaling a sheer rock face—that suuuuuucks when you’re doing it but seems cool in retrospect. (Their categorization system also includes “Type III” activity, which is never actual fun and puts your life in danger.)

Type II recreation appeals to a variety of nature-loving folks, including a growing community of runners called ultramarathoners—those who think the traditional 26.2-mile course isn’t a big-enough test of physical endurance and mental fortitude. Their events mostly take place on remote trails, rather than on big-city streets with live bands and aid stations stocked like curbside Trader Joe’s. There were just over 100,000 finishes in ultraraces around the world in 2018, compared to 1.1 million for marathons. The extreme feats have to cover at least 31 miles (50 kilometers) and sometimes include extra challenges, like St. Croix’s sleds and snow. For tonight’s contest, participants must bring along, among other things, insulated water containers, gear for sleeping in the elements, a stove kit, and enough food to finish the course with 3,000 calories to spare.

The St. Croix winter ultramarathon covers 40 miles—from dusk till done—and draws athletes considering longer events. (Ackerman + Gruber/)

Sports psychologists have investigated the why of races like this one, looking closely at people who think that “more than a marathon” sounds like a terrific Saturday. What they’ve found is that ultrarunners get a kick out of tackling self-imposed challenges, forming community while also pursuing solitude, exploring the wilderness as well as their own limits, and then applying the idea that they can nudge their own boundaries to their tamer everyday lives.

If you ask athletes like O’Neill why they push themselves to and through mile 37 toward the finish line, their anecdata matches scientists’ findings pretty well. “In road marathons, there’s a lot of people, and I’m more introverted,” she says. “I wanted something a little quieter, more nature-filled.”

After her first ultra, a 31-miler outside of Minneapolis, O’Neill knew this was the sport for her. It wasn’t about fast finish times or jostling with other competitors. Participants like her go slower, mostly alone, through pretty places. She liked that. “I could do this for eight hours,” she thought. “I could do this for 12 hours; I could do this all night.”

O’Neill realized she could continue beyond where her biology told her to stop. That it was thrilling to go past her usual boundaries. “Your brain is holding you back a little bit to protect you,” she says. “But that’s sort of a wiggly, wobbly line that you can push further.”

It’s an idea exercise scientist Tim Noakes first suggested in the 1990s and dubbed the “central governor” theory: Your brain sends a signal to the rest of your body, informing the muscles that they’re too tired to possibly go on, and that if they do, they might damage themselves. But that signal comes long before it needs to, when the body still has tons of energy left.

Finding out how much literal and figurative fuel she has propels O’Neill into the now-single-digit Minnesota night—that, and seeking the kind of peace physical exertion provides. “It’s one of the few times I don’t really think about anything other than how far I’ve gone and how far I have to go and whether I feel okay,” she says. “I’m very present. I like it. I like having that calm.”

At 5:55 p.m., when it’s just below 10°F, O’Neill stands in full moonlight next to her sled, which is about the size of a Flexible Flyer a kid would ride downhill. Some entrants have wrapped their gear in fancy REI stowage; others merely tote big, blue IKEA bags with the handles knotted together. O’Neill’s kit hides in a black duffel. Her camp stove, like everyone else’s, rests atop the snow, ready to be lit in order to show that she can boil water in the cold—required before she can start moving her legs. Unlike road races and traditional ultras, this event requires all runners to demonstrate not just that they’re able to last a long time, but also that they have survival skills to fall back on. When the official says, “GO!” to signal the start, O’Neill’s cooker engulfs itself in a ball of flame, then settles down. A hundred feet away, two rows of primary-colored triangle flags wave from the start of the course.

Across the snowy ground, a participant named Bill Hansel has decked out his sled with Christmas lights, their blinks reflecting aggressively off the white flakes. Nearby, a spectator in an inflatable T. rex costume dances, a Cretaceous cheerleader. Hansel is a veteran ultrarunner who also organizes his own events, the Storm Trail Race Series, as a fundraiser for youth mental-health initiatives. Like O’Neill, Hansel loves what distance challenges do to his brain. “You’re alone with your thoughts a lot,” he says. “It’s my meditation.” But he also enjoys the community. “Trail runners are a very welcoming group. Everybody wants to help everybody,” he continues. Even if you’re mindfully alone for 25 miles, “you can pick up a random person” in the middle of nowhere and chitchat through ragged breaths.

Runner ­Meredith O’Neill likes being surrounded by nature. (Ackerman + Gruber/)

Hansel starts working to get his cold fuel to light.

Standing still like that, the elements start to intrude. At first it doesn’t feel so bad. Crisp! But then you breathe in sharply, and the insides of your nose flash-freeze together for a second. Frigid! Your lungs contract. Ouch! Then all of a sudden you realize that the iciness has slithered into your veins. It’s part of you now. And just as you can’t really remember exactly what it felt like to be a teenager, you can’t recall what it felt like to be warm. Maybe, you think, you never were. Maybe you’ll never be again. But the seemingly never-ending chill is temporary.

This, too, shall pass. Hansel talks in phrases like this sometimes—aphorisms interspersed with regular sentences, snippets of wisdom that are about running but really could be about anything: “There’s ups and downs, and it will get better if you keep going.” “Even if you run the same race, it’s not the same course.” “Don’t look at the big picture.”

That last one will buoy him throughout this challenge, as it has during every other ultra. He always, for instance, sets the timer on his watch for 10 minutes. When it’s up, he’ll take a drink of water. He’ll reset his watch. He’ll shift his attention to the next interval. “I have run 200 miles, 95 hours, 10 minutes at a time,” he says. He’s persisted so long that he’s hallucinated recreational vehicles (multiple times)—tales he swaps like drinking stories with other Type II enthusiasts.

This, though, is his first winter ultra, and he’s going into it with the same three big aims he always has: to finish, to have fun, to not die. He likes to play around with what he calls his superpower, which is the ability to go very slowly for a very long time. To take pleasure in how the moonlight hits the snow, to really notice his body at work, to hear only his footsteps and internal monologue, and to feel from afar the support of friends and family.

Soon, the water in his stove bubbles, and he begins moving toward his trifecta of goals. As the yellow moon rises over the trees, Hansel jogs between the flags, which lead down a snowmobile trail. He and O’Neill and the others will follow the path for the first 24 miles of the race, watching for yellow signs with blue reflective arrows to appear out of the darkness, showing the way to the only checkpoint.

More than one-quarter of the 54 people who set out on this evening will quit there.

O’Neill prepped for months to run the St. Croix trail ­ultra in frigid temperatures (Ackerman + Gruber/)

So, yeah, the St. Croix 40 Winter Ultra does claim some victims. But it’s actually one of the easier cold-weather endurance events out there. The Swifts founded it specifically for people who weren’t ready yet for the truly masochistic affairs: the Iditarod Trail Invitational 1,000, the Alaskan original and still the mother of all these races; the Tuscobia Winter Ultra, whose 160-mile route is a step toward qualifying for the Iditarod; and the Arrowhead 135, a challenge that begins at International Falls in northern Minnesota and that more than half of all starters don’t finish. (The numbers in the names refer, of course, to distance in miles.)

The Swifts want to give anyone interested in trying a winter ultra a safe place to practice something “short”—especially considering that even out here, in a straightforward test, it’s not very hard to die simply by standing still for too long. That’s why the runners have to show off their survival skills: so that someday, if they do have to set up a subzero camp, they’ll be ready.

Kapsner-Swift gets that. She does similar races herself. Last year she completed her first 24-hour run. “It was terrible,” she says, “and I loved it so much.” Her statement echoes the dichotomy articulated by another St. Croix participant, Adam Warden: “You want something that’s going to suck,” he says. “And be beautiful.”

For Kapsner-Swift and Warden, and for most ultrarunners, getting through the gut-wrenching parts is a game, like a tough chess match. “Not to get all existential,” Kapsner-Swift says, “but we have this incredible privilege of having, generally speaking, very comfortable lives.” That’s great—most of the time. But challenge is good for human beings. It’s how we grow. “Sometimes a little fear and self-doubt go a long way,” another participant, Kari Gibbons, explains. “I don’t feel that anywhere else in my life. That means I’m not pushing myself. I’m not taking a risk. If I do feel that, I know I’m doing something important.”

If life doesn’t give you lemons, in other words, you should probably pluck a few and bite down. Then, when you actually do get lemons, you’ll know what to do with them. That shift—from athletic challenge to regular existence—may be easy for ultrarunners, according to a 2014 dissertation from organizational psychologist Anthony Holly, now a director of strategy and analytics at PRO Unlimited, a workforce management company. He wanted to understand how these athletes’ mental toughness plays out in the workplace. By interviewing runners, he projected that the discipline, patience, and tenacity they use to complete races are skills they could transfer to job environments. It sounds a little Hallmarkian to say, “Because I could plod more miles, I knew I could handle the frustrations of office politics and rough deadlines.” But it seems to work. The St. Croix athletes have found that the extremes help them cope with personal and professional troubles.

St. Croix athletes pull sleds with emergency supplies. (Ackerman + Gruber/)

To understand why people initially decide to go to such lengths, Rhonna Krouse-Adams, an associate professor of health science at the College of Western Idaho, studied endurance athletes. After she failed to find any data on women ultrarunners, she decided to focus her research on them. She herself was one, and had become fascinated by the community and camaraderie among these women, who technically are competitors and mostly fly solo. “They’re noncompetitive people who form almost a family unit through this process,” she thought.

Surveying 344 participants, Krouse-Adams found they cared about health and used running to give themselves a sense of well-being. They focused on self-centric goals, like just finishing the race, rather than outward-facing ones, like besting a competitor. “The sense of freedom and accomplishment” topped the “why” list. “A sense of belonging was really high,” she says. It’s a whole identity—not just a hobby. According to a 2018 study, finishers are more motivated by their group affiliation and a feeling of happiness and fulfillment than those who complete shorter distances.

This is a self-selecting bunch, though, Krouse-Adams points out. “You can’t commit to something for 25 hours a week and have a lot of other commitments,” she says. “This was not a sport chosen by families. Not by moms.” Perhaps not surprisingly, other researchers have found that ultrarunners in the United States are around 85 percent male, 90 percent white, and more educated and richer than average. It’s a pursuit often taken up by those with lots of leisure time and money to spend on the $100-plus entry fees.

Life circumstances aside, not everyone is mentally suited to endurance events. Gavin Breslin, a sports and exercise psychologist at Ulster University, sees a focus on self-challenge. “The marathon is achievable,” says Breslin, who also coaches a team of Olympic hopefuls. Ultrarunners ask, “‘What can you do above that?' There’s risk-taking involved.” The uncertainty is that you might not be able to do what you set out to do. The fist-pumping triumph is when you do it anyway. As O’Neill puts it, “That was liberating, to know that when I thought things were over and done, I had a little more.”

Breslin and his associates have also looked at how distance athletes score on a personality test of five major traits, sometimes called the Big Five, which in concert can define character: extroversion, agreeableness, openness, neuroticism, and conscientiousness. Ultrarunners tend to score significantly higher than average for that last trait, thanks to some mysterious mix of genetics and upbringing. You can cultivate this quality, he says. “You can develop goal setting. Somewhere within us all, there’s a level of ultraendurance.”

At the 24-mile checkpoint, some of the St. Croix participants might be questioning Breslin’s assessment. The ones who decide to bow out join volunteers inside a billowing warming tent that looks like it was fashioned from the inflatable T. rex at the starting point. Other crew members stand slump-shouldered around a fire, waiting for each bedraggled, frigid racer to emerge from the darkness.

The first athlete arrives around 10 p.m., but the last runner doesn’t get there until around 2:30 a.m. If they plan to take on the last 16 miles, they have to again prove they have the skills to stay alive in an emergency. They must stop, set up their bivy sack (basically a body-shaped tent that envelops their sleeping bag), climb into the makeshift bed, wait around 30 seconds, then pack it all up before leaving. That sounds like a pain, sure. But no big deal compared to running 40 miles, right?

Counterclockwise from top: foam pad, sleeping bag and bivy sack, water bottle sleeves, camp pot and stove, fuel (red canister), snacks, trekking poles, microspikes. (Ackerman + Gruber/)

Wrong: When the temp nears zero, and you’re sweaty, you get cold quick—the kind of chill that seems to attach itself to your DNA. Some who feel too frosty after their survival demo, or just beaten, call it quits and either walk a mile (as the crow flies) on a road back to the finish line or catch a ride in a volunteer’s car.

Around 3 a.m., back at the starting point, the race crew begins making breakfast in the shelter for the people who’ve returned, either humbled from the checkpoint or triumphant from the trail. There are flaky eggs, bacon, Krusteaz pancakes, bags of Colby Jack cheese, and Activia probiotic yogurt. Also a big orange cooler with a piece of paper taped to its side: “TANG!” On the registration table, not-yet-cooked bacon languishes—which is fine, because it’s still too cold inside for bacteria to propagate.

Hansel comes in around 4 a.m., shaken. Shaky, actually. His lips are blue like Frost Glacier Freeze Gatorade, and his fork wobbles as he brings eggs up to them, or tries to cut into the pancakes.

“I had dark times starting after about five miles,” Hansel says. He didn’t really see anyone else—at all—till the checkpoint. “I’m used to dark times,” he continues, “but not that early.”

To keep going, he says he thought of his family and all of the people who support him. Would he do it again? No. “Was it fun?” Hansel asks aloud. “Yes,” he answers himself. Perhaps that’s Type 2.5 Fun. (Within a couple months, though, he would be training for next year’s St. Croix 40 Winter Ultra.)

When O’Neill comes in around two hours later, after more than 12 hours on the trail, she looks jubilant. She caught that heightened state of being she’s always chasing through the woods—what psychologists call “flow,” or total absorption in a task. You lose track of time, you feel totally in control, like you are in charge of yourself and the world. “I’m not thinking of anything but what I’m doing, my footsteps, what’s around me,” she says.

She removes her coat, revealing a pale blue argyle sweater, the kind you might wear to the office, and a down running skirt over her bright blue snow pants. The race appears to have barely fazed her. She says, in fact, that it was “90 percent Type I fun.” Her only trouble was that all her food froze—except for a stash of Twinkies. But no big deal: She just ate Twinkies, fully present to sense their spongy outsides, their gooey centers, their sugar flowing into her veins. Crisis averted. Achievement unlocked. Game won, and over.

This story appeared in the Summer 2020, Play issue of Popular Science.