It's all for fun - Cocodona 250 Recap

If we don't know the point of it all, why not just enjoy it.

May 14, 2025

Cocodona 250: The 2025 Edition Was Weird

The weather was different. The excitement and coverage were different. And I was definitely different. As a disclaimer, I didn’t have all the information that I do now—before or during the race. If that has you curious… let’s keep this recap going.

I started driving down to the race on Friday evening. Somewhere along the road in Idaho, I pulled over, rolled out my sleeping pad and bag next to my car, and called it a night. Only recently have I learned that this may be considered a strange way to travel—but it works for me. I had a mild headache, but chalked it up to nerves. Cocodona was just a couple of days away, and I was understandably nervous.

The next day, I drove to Zion, ran a short 6 miles, and noticed my heart rate was higher than usual. Nerves again? Definitely. I have one golden rule before races: don’t talk about injuries. Talking about them is halfway to manifesting them. We all have our own little woo-woo. That’s mine. I got a hotel, convinced that a long night of sleep would solve everything. And it did… kind of. I slept for 10 hours—my longest in years. I woke up feeling better but still off. I bought eight Wellness Rescue shots from the grocery store in Kanab, drank them all, and bought out the Safeway in Page. I was ready, and full of cayenne, ginger, and oregano oil.

Check-in was relaxed and easy. I waited until the last hour to join the Cocodona buzz. One quick crew meeting, topped off my bottles, and I was set.

Race Morning

My alarm went off at 3:30 a.m., and I was jittery. Nothing felt wrong—but intense nerves aren’t my norm. Still, I was excited. My favorite race of the year was about to begin. Ten minutes before the start, I walked to the line and mentally braced for the first crux of the course. Also, we might be getting weather. Surprise.

3…2…1…Go.

*Trying to get one last nap in before the start* ..

The start is always way too fast, and I ended up with Courtney Dauwalter, Dan Green, and Jack Scott on the way to the first aid station. We filled up our full 4-liter capacity of water—some people more efficiently than me—and took off toward Lane Mountain without aid. I spent most of the climb alone, focusing on my effort and the scenery. Placing didn’t matter. I was just out there to enjoy the course.

Eventually, I linked up with Finn Melanson—just as the weather began. Rain, hail, and even snow. I couldn’t believe it. We were still within view of Phoenix, and snow was falling as we climbed to 7,000 feet. I worried for the mid- and back-of-packers—this was hypothermia weather.

At Lane Mountain, I grabbed a Coke-filled flask and ran into Crown King. The crew was ready, and so was I. I had packed extra layers and gloves thinking they were just precautions, but I would soon need every single one. I left quickly with Jesse Haynes, DJ Foxx, Finn Melanson, and Max Jolliffe.

We hit a quick climb, then a runnable section through Arrastra Creek. But something was off. My head throbbed, my lower back ached, and my energy disappeared. Way too early to feel like this. I laid down in the mud and let people pass. I could barely walk. But even in that low moment, I never thought about dropping. I had until Saturday. That was all I needed.

The Hallucinations Begin

Soon, I began hallucinating. Trees turned into witches, circling me in a ritual to welcome the newest member of the dead. These weren’t real witches… but also don’t tell them that. I see them often in races, and I’d like to stay on their good side.

Camp Kipa was 2.6 miles away, which might as well have been 100. I called my crew and told them I needed sleep but had to get to the next aid first. I moved at one mph toward the next road, covered in every layer I packed. Stumbling, delirious. Then I found it: a 7-foot-tall stick leaning against a tree—shaped like a wizard staff. Obviously, I grabbed it. The witches gave me space after that.

Cam Hanes, Brody Chisholm, Sarah Ostaszewski all passed me. Then my girlfriend Allison showed up behind me and asked the question no delirious wizard-hiker wants to answer:

“You okay?”

“Ummm… no. I feel pretty sick,” I said, gripping my staff like Gandalf after a bender. But I urged her to keep going. At Cocodona, you get the miles when you feel good, and she felt good and needed to get miles.

Camp Kipa

I arrived dramatically and requested a bed. I plugged in my phone and passed out instantly in a little summer camp cabin. Another runner was already asleep on a twin bed across from me. I felt better when I woke—though I had no clue what time it was. I’d looked at the clock before and after my nap and was absolutely convinced I’d slept for five hours. I told my crew I had. Reality: I’d only been there for 2 hours. My brain was already glitching.

Feeling “rested” by my imaginary five-hour nap, I left with Kyla, a friend and the athlete manager from Janji. We were both unsure if we were functional enough to run—but off we went. We walked at first, then ran. I gave her my gloves when she said her hands were cold, and then I took off, running nearly every step into Prescott. I wasn’t 100%, but I was hanging in there. Tylenol was now my co-pilot.

Prescott to Granite Dells

After a quicker turnaround, I was back on course with my pacer, Jeff Pelletier, through the streets of Prescott. It always feels strange here—dogs barking, streetlights telling you when to go—like you're suddenly part of regular society again.

Then came the Granite Dells: a confusing maze of white dots and misleading trails. Granite underfoot, everything undulating and harsh. But we moved well, passed a couple runners, and made it into Iron King. I got nothing but a cup of hot water to soothe my throat and we pushed on to Fain Ranch.

The Mud Gauntlet

It had been raining since day one, so the fields between Iron King and Fain were a mud slog. Picture 5-pound clay high heels molded in cow poop and despair. Slogging took on a whole new meaning. At one point, I saw what I’m pretty sure was a discarded leader’s shoe waving at me like Wilson in Cast Away. But we caught up to Sarah Ostaszewski, and I knew I was moving well.

Physically, though, I was in trouble. My head throbbed with every heartbeat. Chest was congested. Back ached like I was 90. And I had a fever. Ironically, the freezing weather actually helped—it kept me from overheating.

Jeff Pelletier and I slogged into the Fain Ranch Satisfy Aid Station—basically the hipster speakeasy of trail running. They had real cutlery, skillet potatoes, and vibes that could only be improved by slightly higher chairs. I nearly sat cross-legged in their 12-inch-off-the-ground seats, knees-to-chin. Getting out of those chairs? An ultra of its own.

Onward to Mingus

I left with Jameson and crossed another muddy field. If Cocodona had a beauty contest, this section would be last. The aid station is in an Amazon Distribution Center, next to a police training track. Right before it, a poor runner was squatting behind the tiniest bush ever. It was the only cover available.

Mingus Mountain loomed. The climb is usually enjoyable, but the approach is rough. Brown clay heels returned, traction vanished, and I rolled my ankle hard. We trudged up, reached the buzz of an overhead powerline—which I’m convinced was the sound of future cancer—and climbed Mingus. It was easier than expected. Cold, wet, muddy—classic—but the weather was oddly curing my headache.

“Eye of the Tiger” greeted us at the top. A stark wakeup that was much better than silence. My aunt Kristen had everything dialed at the aid station. I didn’t linger. Ari and I took off toward Jerome.

Disney Singalongs and Jerome

Ari had paced me in 2022 and, for some reason, I made her do this section again. It’s a technical descent everyone hates, but we made it through. We blasted Disney music and splash-dodged puddles into Jerome.

Still moving fine. Tylenol was keeping me operational. From Jerome, Jeff and I took off to Deadhorse State Park—one of the most awkward transitions. It starts super technical, then turns into smooth road. We passed Mike Greer and Lindsey Dwyer, navigated the washes, and reached the streets.

As we entered Cottonwood, I wondered about my superfan. Every year, she shows up. And she didn’t disappoint. She came out of her house, ran beside us, and cheered for a few moments. The kind of kindness that keeps you coming back to Cocodona.

We crossed the Verde River—knee-deep and ripping—thanks to all the rain. I saw Kevin Goldberg at Deadhorse. We talked sleep strategy and rolled into the aid station.

Bathroom Break and Chafing Woes

Running 250 miles doesn’t excuse you from the realities of life. I had two issues: (1) I really had to poop and (2) my penis was chafed beyond belief. So, I marched to the bathroom with a tub of Vaseline and giggled at the scene. The toilet had handles, which instantly bumped it to five-star status. I left with a fresh coat of dignity and headed out with Ari.

Smooth Trails, iPhone Lights, and Mental Fog

Ari and I left Deadhorse and jammed some Sam Cooke radio as we hit one of my favorite parts of the course. It’s smooth, gentle, and the views are wide open. You can see Mingus behind you and Sedona up ahead. It’s like the trail version of a deep exhale.

We were cruising—until Deer Pass.

This is where we realized we’d committed a bold move: no headlamps. The sun had set, and we closed out the last quarter mile using my iPhone flashlight. Classic ultrarunner logic: run 200 miles with military precision, then wing it through darkness with a cell phone.

At Deer Pass, the brain fog had leveled up. Honestly, the entire race was just oscillating waves of fog. I had to rely on my crew and experience to keep everything together. I was doing things like assigning tasks to each finger (like a human post-it note) and texting thoughts to the crew as soon as I had them, so I wouldn’t forget mid-sentence.

Around this point, one of my pacers tested positive for Covid. The whole crew talked it over and decided not to tell me—which was absolutely the right call. My brain was already running Windows 95 with a virus. I was committed to finishing no matter what, and the last thing I needed was confirmation that I was actually sick.

Mentally, I was not a steel trap. More like a colander with an extra hole punched in the bottom.

Jesse Haynes was sleeping at Deer Pass, so I moved up a spot. But the next section? My least favorite of the entire course. It’s a psychological trap. You can see Sedona forever, but the trail makes you do a bizarre loop of climbs and descents, passing the same municipal signs again and again. It feels like Groundhog Day with red rock.

Jameson paced me, and for the first time in three years, I used trekking poles at Cocodona. I never use poles. But here I was, using them—and regretting it. The added mental load of placing poles while walking was way too much. My brain was jelly, my pace was glacial, and my frustration was high. The hot flashes returned, and by the time we reached a small water station, I was literally on fire. I dumped water all over myself to reset.

Walking into Sedona

It was painfully slow. My body was wrecked. Something wasn’t right, but I didn’t know what. I could still walk, and that was all that mattered. So I did. All the way into Sedona.

I planned to sleep, laid down… and five minutes later I was up again. Sleep just wasn’t happening. My rolled ankle was screaming. Hannah, our crew PT, taped it up. I switched into road shoes and ate two veggie burgers like it was my job.

At 3:30 a.m., Jeff and I left for the Hangover Trail.

I had come out a month before the race to scout the course, and this was one of the gnarliest sections. So gnarly, I had chosen to tape my ankle. The red rock is steep, exposed, and slippery. But we moved methodically. Mike McKnight had passed us earlier, but I focused on my own forward motion.

I had a few light puking spells from shortness of breath. But even while puking, I never stopped walking. That's the motto: always move forward.

We crested the Coconino Plateau and hoped for runnable roads… but instead we got a 7-inch-thick sheet of mud. Comically awful. Just laughably bad conditions.

We squelched into Foxboro Ranch early in the morning.

Feast Mode and Road Shoes

I was starving. I ate like I had never seen food before: frittata, eggs, rice, a protein shake—basically whatever could be shoveled in. Then I put on my Hoka Rocket X2s, loaded my pocket with pancakes, and set out solo into the pacerless section. Callie Vinson had sent me a playlist and I had tunes blasting.

This was my personal challenge: run the whole 14-mile stretch. Not for the leaderboard—just to stay mentally engaged. And, surprisingly, I ran almost every step.

My brain was still fried, but luckily I knew this course better than anyone. I could probably run it blindfolded, and some moments, it felt like I was.

Munds Park and Gas Station Pizza Magic

I ran into Munds Park with a big, goofy smile on my face. This was supposed to be fun, and I was going to force it to be fun. Pain, chafing, fog—none of it mattered as much as remembering why I do this.

Kristen came through big again. She had pizza. Ross had cooked up a frozen gas station pie, and it absolutely hit the spot. Ari and I took off into another tricky section.

Through the Apocalypse

Munds Park to Fort Tuthill feels like post-apocalyptic Arizona. A lot of runnable roads, but no signs of human life. My energy tanked, so I made a deal: 12 minutes of sleep for a good attitude the rest of the section. Ari agreed. A quick coffee stop at Kelly Canyon Aid station, and we cruised into Fort Tuthill. 212 miles down.

They do wellness checks here. And I know how to pass them. It went like this:

Medical: “We need to do a quick wellness check.”

Me: “Okay. Name? Credit card? Social Security number? What do you want first?”

Medical: laughs “Just your name and bib number.”

Me: “Jeff Garmire. G-A-R-M-I-R-E. Bib 29.”

Medical: “Do you know what day it is?”

Me: “Day 3 of Cocodona. Or, as the normals say, Wednesday.”

Medical: “Do you know where you are?”

Me: “'Murica.”

Medical: “Do you know what aid station this is?”

Me: “Fort Tuthill. But still in America.”

Medical: “You’re good to go.”

Me: “Want me to quiz you with your MCAT book now?”

More chuckles.

Then it was blister time. Ross Beazell, who I coach, got a little hands-on podiatry training. After a few rookie jabs, I took over and got it done. Laced up some Mount to Coast road shoes, loaded a baggie of Vaseline for… reasons… and took off into the night again.

Basketball, Bobcats, and Brain Fog

I put on the Nuggets–Thunder game via a radio app to stay alert. It worked. I ran through the dark, bit off half the section before my body caught on. Took a short nap, woke up to rain and dark, and then—movement caught my eye. Twenty feet away: a bobcat. A real one. I took a photo, because I knew no one would believe me otherwise. I don’t hallucinate bobcats.

With a few miles to go, I called the crew and ordered a Dutch Bros mocha. That mocha was the carrot leading me into Walnut Canyon.

At Walnut, my friend Derrick was filming, the crew was ready, and I was exhausted—but moving. A calorie bomb went down the hatch, and I left with Ross toward Wildcat Aid Station—the final crewed stop.

Chasing Max and Meth Labs

The headache returned. Brain fog thickened. Hallucinations were now vivid and constant. At times, I could barely see. All this… in just seven miles. What was I seeing? Alien spaceships were everywhere. I was on the verge of alerting people of their attack.

Sleep wasn’t happening—it was too cold when I laid down. So we moved. I knew Max Jolliffe was sleeping at Wildcat, and that gave me motivation. I likely looked more blackout college kid than elite ultrarunner, but we made it.

At Wildcat, I crawled in the back of my car and took a 12-minute nap. That would have to be enough to finish.

The Final Push

Jameson and I hit the trail for the final stretch. A dull, slow climb to Elden, followed by a brutal descent. But we were motivated—two hikers with Covid just trying to get this thing done. But one of them was gaslit into thinking he was healthy.

The climb wasn’t steep, just endless. Switchbacks that lasted a quarter mile and gained five feet. Peanut M&Ms fueled the push. Eventually, we reached the summit.

Then came the descent. Technical, rocky, with multiple 3+ foot drops. I pushed hard, determined not to be caught. I found an unopened Red Bull on the trail and chugged it immediately. Ultrarunner logic: Red Bull gives you wings.

We blasted down to the infamous Trinity Meth Lab Aid Station—so named after a resident called the police to report a suspected meth operation. Honestly, fair assumption. Have you seen runners 250 miles in?

We didn’t stop. Blew through it and hit Buffalo Park, where the crew joined for a final mile into Flagstaff.

Finish Line: 257 Miles Later

We crossed the line at Heritage Square. The first five-time finisher. Over the next two days, six more would join the club!

But wait… there’s more.

The crew sat me down and told me they had some things to get off their chest:

I didn’t sleep five hours night one.
The crew had Covid. So yeah, my “cold” was Covid.
My aunt’s van broke down in Prescott and was still there.
Other stuff too, but my brain was pudding.

So yeah… Cocodona 250, 2025 edition. Weird, wild, muddy, magical. And it’s somehow still my favorite.

And yes, I recorded a podcast recap immediately after. Because what better time to reflect than when you’re still covered in trail goo and hallucinating witches?