The following essay was written by Kenneth Posner and features his experience at the Grandmaster Ultras. The featured photo is one of runners on course at Grandmaster Ultras.
When the young man heard I was a runner, he wanted to know about my set-up for an ultra. It took me a moment to respond to the unfamiliar term. Did he mean my kit?
“Sure,” he replied. “And you know, what shoes do you wear, and what do you bring for calories?”
“My set-up is ridiculous,” I said, waving him off. “Don’t ask.”
The above discourse happened just three days after the Grandmaster Ultras in February, where I’d finished the 50K. The event takes place in the northeastern Mojave Desert on the border between Nevada and Arizona and includes a 50K, 50 Mile, 100K, and 100 Mile. You have to be 50 years old to enter. The race slogan is, “Old is cool.”
What had drawn me to the event was not the qualification standard, however, but the photographs on the website. There were images of mature-looking runners, smiling, waving, walking and trotting on sandy trails. The sand looked deep – lusciously so – like at the beach, only colored dusky tan with swirls of orange, reminiscent of iron-rich sandstone escarpments and wind-swept dunes from some ancient ocean. You see, for barefoot runners like me, the surface matters. On smooth soft surfaces I can go all day, but rocks slow me to a crawl.
The course is sandy, but with a lot of rocks. Photo: Grandmaster Ultras
Race day – February 26, 2026
I showed up at the start a half-hour late, having missed the time zone switch from Nevada to Arizona. I stepped gingerly out of my vehicle onto a gravel-strewn parking lot. To the front was the start-finish banner, and beyond it was a gravel trail that stretched out into the desert.
The race director was sitting in a chair. I looked at him and asked, “How many rocks are there on the course?”
“A lot,” he replied.
Then glancing at my bare feet, he asked what kind of pace did I expect to sustain, to which I replied – “Standing still.”
Runners on course. Photo: Grandmaster Ultras
The course – the early miles
With that, I was off, tottering through the painful shards at a halting pace. The trail curved downhill towards a wash, and I thought maybe the glorious sand would be waiting for me down below — and indeed, it was. Now, with a feeling of childlike glee, I took off at a slow trot, my bare feet sinking into the soft surface, as I dodged the occasional stony obstacle. A half a mile later, I reached a large culvert that tunneled under a highway. The light was dim in here, so I slowed to a careful walk, stepping sideways on the corrugated ridges underfoot and avoiding the hexagonal nuts that fastened the sections together.
Once out the far side, there was more sand, and I resumed a trot, until the trail turned uphill. As I crested the rise, the desert came into view in its full splendor: wide, open, flat, barren, desolate. A stark black mountain range loomed in the east buffeted by a clear sky overhead. Otherwise, there was nothing to see but sand and rocks and an undistinguished dull green scrubby brush which might have been creosote or maybe it was bursage. To the front, the trail curved off into the distance, the surface still sandy, but here it was hard-packed, and dimpled with abundant rocks. Call it an ATV trail, or a gravel road. I tried to take a few running steps here and there where the coast was clear, but couldn’t get much momentum going before another spray of rocks spilled across the surface, and then the road crossed an outcropping where the rocks bulged out of the ground.
Now, there wasn’t much risk of not finishing, as the 50K event had a generous 24-hour cut-off. Plus, if the surface got really bad, my pack held a pair of shoes. My plan was to stay barefoot as long as I could maintain a minimum pace of 2 MPH (30-minute miles), which would have me finishing just before midnight. Notwithstanding the gravel at the start, I’d clocked the first mile at 21 minutes, which was almost 3 mph, and I was ecstatic to be building some cushion against my time goal. As the trail turned uphill and became rockier, my pace slowed to 25, 26, and 27 minute-miles, but still I was ahead of minimum pace and building on the cushion. And overall I was feeling quite positive.
The author is often barefoot on the trails.
There’s something about going barefoot on desert trails which is enchanting. Even where the road was hard, there was usually enough sand to make each step feel comfortable, so long as I aimed my feet around the rocks, or curled them to avoid the bumps and ridges.
By mile 6 or 7, however, my pace was slowing, and my patience was starting to wear thin. The rocks were endless. If anything, they seemed to be getting worse. My watch beeped off a 31-minute mile, and the next was 32 or 33 minutes. Now I was starting to eat into that small cushion I’d built up. I kept hoping for the glorious sand I’d seen in the pictures on the website, or at least the space to run for a step or two, but no such opportunities presented.
The legendary ultrarunner David Horton used to quip, “It never always gets worse.” This is good advice. But, this quip fails to specify how long it might take for things to turn around.
With my plan at risk, I felt like the proverbial teakettle as my frustration began to boil over. I hit another pile of rocks, tried to tip-toe around the biggest sharpest fragments, and now began to shout out loud in anger – this after discretely glancing around to make sure no-one could hear me venting. Since I’d arrived late and was moving so slowly, there was no-one else around.
Meanwhile, the sun was adding to my irritation. Now bear in mind it was February, not July. I’ve been out in the winter desert many times before, and with the sun relatively low in the sky, sunburn hasn’t been an issue. But what was different about this course was that the trail stuck relentlessly north, which meant I was getting fried on the back of my neck and shoulders, on my triceps, and on the tops of my calves all morning long. The week before I’d run a loop course, and the sun hadn’t bothered me at all. The constant circling meant I got sun-kissed from all directions, like the way you twirl a marshmallow in front of a campfire to get it toasted just right, rather than holding it steady until it blackens and catches fire.
Runners head up into the desert. Photo: Grandmaster Ultras
The course – 10 miles and counting
I reached an aid station at mile 10 and checked in, but passed on the vittles. I hadn’t eaten anything since the night before, which, incidentally, is standard operating procedure for me since I put a priority on metabolic health, which means teaching the body to burn fat. Regardless, I was moving so slowly I was hardly burning any calories.
After thanking the volunteer, I limped on around the next turn, only to find the road had become nightmarish. It wasn’t piles of rocks sitting on sand anymore, for now the surface was unforgivingly hard, and scattered on top were small bits of grit with dagger edges. I could hardly stagger through this stuff, and it didn’t matter anyhow, because a glance at my watch showed I had fallen behind my target pace. I’m no elite, but I do love to run. To have covered 10 miles in 5 hours 20 minutes felt absurd.
With a sigh, I plopped to the ground and pulled out my shoes and trotted off, feeling disappointed — when right around the next bend, the trail turned to deep luscious sand. This was exactly what I’d seen in the pictures posted on the race website.
From mile 10 to mile 13, it was all sand.
By this point, I figured I’d made up enough time, so I removed my shoes. I found that there were sharp bits of grit lurking amongst the grains, or maybe my feet were just tired now and no longer willing to deal with pricks and pokes. I stuck it out for ¼ mile, before putting my shoes back on, this time for good.
I tried to run, but it was slow going. My shoes were of the minimalist kind, more like moccasins than conventional trail runners, with only ¼ inch of rubber for protection and so flexible you could roll them up in a ball. A young woman appeared behind me and trotted past and I made an effort to catch her, but couldn’t. My soles were sore from the barefooting, and now the rocks were reappearing, and it hurt to run on them even shod. I slowed to a walk, and muttered curses under my breath and then a few out loud. It occurred to me that while I was moving slightly faster in shoes, I was just as unhappy and frustrated now as I had been while dodging rocks barefoot.
“This is the worst trail I’ve ever seen in my life,” I complained, feeling that I was the victim of unfair circumstances. Indeed, having participated in well over 100 marathons and ultras, I couldn’t think of a worse combination of endless gravel and ankle-busting rocks, winding through a featureless desert with basically no vegetation except for sorry little bushes which even a botanist wouldn’t care about.
Grand Masters Ultra would be a one-and-done. There was no way I was ever coming back.
Trucking on into darkness. Photo: Grandmaster Ultras
On the course – as the sun begins to set
Maybe my energy was starting to flag. It was now late afternoon, meaning it was 20 hours since I’d last had a bite to eat. I was starting to feel sluggish.
I reached the next aid station around sunset and decided it would be prudent to break my fast. I helped myself to quesadillas and a hamburger and a couple of cookies and plopped down in a seat to munch and drink. The volunteers were staring at the sunset, mesmerized by swirling clouds of orange and red, but my focus was on refueling.
Feeling more energetic after this pit stop, I fished out my headlamp and headed out into the dark. I gave my stomach a few minutes to settle, and then I tried to pick up the pace and get back into a run, but the deep sand was long gone. The rocks were back, and the best I could do was to hustle along purposefully – call it a shuffle.
Eventually the course turned downhill on the way back toward the finish. I redoubled my effort and began to pick up the pace. Out in the distance, I saw a bright light atop a hill and wondered what it was. I thought I heard a voice carrying on the wind. My intuition said this was not a good situation.
As I drew closer, I heard more shouts. It was another runner. His name was Larry. He wanted to know which way to go to get to the finish line.
“I was running with two friends,” he elaborated, “but I got disoriented from sleep deprivation. Then I tripped and fell into a bush, and when I stood up, they were gone.” Larry was doing the 100-mile race and this was now his second evening awake.
Well, now I had to swallow my frustration once again – instead of running the last few miles to the finish, I’d have to tow in a disoriented runner behind me. There was no choice on the matter. You don’t leave a fellow runner out on the course if they need help. I thought back to a 100-mile race I’d done many years ago where I was having trouble following the trail and someone had brought me along, and so now it was my turn to do the same.
“Follow me,” I snapped, feeling slightly put-upon, moral duty notwithstanding. There was no question about reaching the finish, as I’d downloaded the course GPX file onto my phone, and had a spare battery in a plastic bag in my pack, together with extra batteries for my headlamp.
I shuffled off. I could see the light of Larry’s headlamp splashing at my feet – he was hanging right on my heels. Despite the mileage he’d done, he was still moving at a good pace. I had to give him credit for that.
I glanced at my watch and called out that we had 3 miles to go. We were now retracing the trail back to the start/finish line. In the play of my headlamp, I could see that the surface was extremely rocky.
I hustled along in my thin-soled shoes, feet aching with every step. It was hard to believe that I’d covered 10 miles of this stuff barefoot at the start of the race.
“You must be a rock climber,” Larry said.
“What makes you think that?” I asked.
“You place your feet very precisely, always stepping around the rocks and never kicking them.”
Well, it was true that I visited the local climbing gym regularly, although I stuck to the beginner routes. I recall a time at the gym when a friend was watching me and called out, “Remember your fox feet!”
I stared at him in surprise, having no idea what he meant. “When climbing, you should place your feet precisely,” he explained. “Like a fox.”
So now I took Larry’s comment as the ultimate compliment. Then I shared with him that I ran barefoot as much as possible, so obviously I’d had to learn to avoid the rocks. Larry mentioned that someone had finished the Leadville 100-mile race without shoes. I’d run Leadville once, many years ago, (in shoes). The idea that someone had done it barefoot was amazing.
Author caught with his shoes on. Photo: Grandmaster Ultras
Reaching the finish line
We made it to a culvert under the highway. The hexagonal nuts which were embedded in the cement gleamed in my headlamp’s beam. A mile later, we rolled into the finish. The race director handed out the finisher’s prizes. I was delighted to receive a shiny silver disc, embossed with the slogan, “Old is cool.”
I turned to Larry and congratulated him for getting 100 miles done on such a difficult, rocky course. He in turn thanked me for helping him in his moment of uncertainty. He smiled, and we locked eyes. I was touched.
On the long dark drive back to my hotel, I reflected on the frustration of rocks and sore feet and slow pace. Then I thought about the simple joy of walking barefoot or hustling along in shoes feeling purposeful. And about how happy I felt to have helped a fellow runner.
It might have been the worst course ever, but upon reflection, I’d had a wonderful time.
And I thought to myself, if I came back next year, who knows, maybe I could make it barefoot just a little bit farther. As for my set-up, some changes might well be called for: like carrying a tube of sunscreen and maybe shoes with thicker soles.
About the author
Kenneth Posner is a runner, writer, and financial analyst. His latest book, Chasing the Grid: An Ultrarunner’s Physical and Spiritual Journey in Pursuit of the Ultimate Mountain Challenge, is available on Amazon. You can connect with Ken at this website.
Editor’s Note: Read more about Ken in an article penned by Tayte Pollmann here. Read Laura Clark‘s review of Ken’s latest book here.
