If you want to set a fastest known time on the 817-mile Arizona Trail, you have to start fast. At least, that’s what both Nick Fowler and Georgia Porter proved this fall.

On October 28, they independently set out from the Utah-Arizona border and started their trek south with the goal of setting a record. While Fowler was traveling in a self-supported style and Porter enlisted a crew, the two shared numerous commonalities beyond the same start date, chosen to capitalize on the ideal fall weather.

Each exceeded record-setting pace over the first few days on the . Both ended up sleep deprived, with immense foot pain, and practically hobbling to the finish line at the U.S.-Mexico border. And both completed their attempt with a record: Fowler with a self-supported Arizona Trail FKT of 12 days, 17 hours, and 33 minutes—the overall record on the trail. And Porter with a women’s supported Arizona Trail FKT of 16 days, 22 hours, and 6 minutes.

But dig into their approaches, and it’s clear that even with similar goals in mind, no two FKT setters think alike.

A Rough Start

Fowler didn’t run or sleep much in the lead-up to his FKT attempt. Since setting the self-supported FKT on the Pacific Crest Trail last summer, Fowler had his sights set on Arizona. He had already done the AZT in 30 days in the spring of 2023, prior to his PCT attempt. He knew he wanted to shoot for the record in the fall, and started working out what he’d have to do to achieve it. But in early September, less than two months before Fowler’s attempt, a new priority came into his life: Canyon, his new son.

“My training program was calf raises in the kitchen while holding my son,” Fowler says. “And then when I go in the living room, holding my son, I would do single leg squats.”

With a new baby in tow, Fowler didn’t get in quite as many pre-trail miles as he’d hoped. A couple weeks before starting the AZT, he headed out to Arkansas for an attempt at a 70-mile day on the Ozark Highlands Trail, but “it absolutely kicked my butt 43 miles in.” Nonetheless, he showed up to the Utah-Arizona border and set out feeling confident that his training from the summer, which included an FKT on the 425-mile Oregon Coast Trail, would carry him through.

“By day two, I was puking my guts out crossing the Grand Canyon, curled up in the fetal position, being passed by hikers in flip-flops, and I slowed down to two-hour miles,” Fowler says. “And I quit.”

About 100 miles in, on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, Fowler turned off his tracker. He caught a hitch to Flagstaff, feeling defeated. But after a night of rest, he realized all was not lost.

“I was like, maybe I can still do this,” Fowler says. “Everything’s already in place. I’m already here. And if I’m spending time away from Canyon, it’s gotta be something.”

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On September 19, 34-year-oldÌęAmerican mountain runner Tyler Andrews ascended Nepal’s 26,781-foot Manaslu in a mind-bending 9 hours and 52 minutes. The time shaved more than two hours off the previous speed record on the peak, set in 2023 by Nepalese climber . Before that, Francois Cazzanelli, an alpinist and guide from Italy, summited in 13 hours, in 2019.

Manaslu is one of the world’s 14 peaks above 8,000 meters. These mountains have traditionally been the realm of mountaineers and professional high-alpine guides, not trail runners.

But Andrews believes that’s about to change. “I think we’re going to start seeing more mountain runners going this way,” Andrews told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű from Manaslu base camp.

His belief stems in part from his own experience on the peak, and from changing dynamics he’s seeing in the world of ultrarunning and the pursuit of fastest known times. Andrews is part of a new generation of mountain runners seeking out increasingly bigger, more challenging, and more daunting speed records. “If you start with the Colorado fourteeners, then go to the Alps, then the Andes, the natural progression is to the Himalayas and the 8000ers,” he told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű.

And Andrews also believes that changes within Fastest Known Time, the organization that tracks running speed records, which is owned by șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű,Ìęwill attract more elite runners to the Himalayas. Traditionally, FKT has not approved records set on Manaslu and other 8,000-meter peaks. “8000-meter peaks were sort of their own category,” says Buzz Burrell, co-founder. “We mostly left them alone.”

The organization does track these records on North American and even European peaks, such as Denali and Mont Blanc.

Instead, ascents on Nepal’s highest mountains, including those resulting in speed records, have historically been tracked by the Himalayan Database. But that’s changing, and Andrews is one reason behind the shift. He actually works part-time for Fastest Know Time as Regional Editor for Latin America and the Himalayas. Part of his job is to create routes and then help FKT track records on them.

“I think in the past, the team didn’t want to be trying to verify routes that required rock climbing because you can’t just use a GPS watch to track something that’s vertical,” Andrews says. “But Manaslu is not like that, so tracking it is really no different than other mountains on there, like Cotopaxi or Denali.”

When Andrews returns from Manaslu base camp—he’s currently supporting a friend attempting a ski descent—he will submit his GPX data to Fastest Known Time for approval. He also plans to submit his data to the Himalayan Database.

Manaslu and 26,864-foot Cho Oyu in Tibet are considered the easiest of the 14 8,000-meter peaks. On Manaslu, the nine-mile route from base camp to the summit requires less technical climbing than harder peaks, like K2 or Nanga Parbat. Still, Manaslu isn’t easy. The trail gains nearly 11,000 feet of elevation, requires the use of fixed ropes in many sections, and travels over steep sections of snow and ice. Climbers must also survive in what mountaineers call the “Death Zone”—elevations above 26,000—because there’s not enough oxygen for human beings to survive more than a day or two.

Andrews ran up Manaslu without using supplemental oxygen, and he did so with an extremely lightweight setup. He wore a pair of waterproof trail running shoes designed to shed snow, a puffy jacket, lightweight pants, and a windbreaker. He carried a 30-liter backpack containing bare essentials: harness, helmet, goggles, ice axe, water, snacks, and energy gels.

He credits a perfect weather window and an uncrowded mountain with allowing him to go as fast and light as he did. “It’s part of the risk and gamble and calculus that you have to do as an athlete up there when you’re going for a mountain record,” Andrews says. “Every gram counts.”

Andrews’ record comes more than a decade after famed Spanish ultrarunner Kilian Jornet began his Summits of My Life project, a four-year expedition to traverse the world’s highest mountain ranges. From 2012 to 2017, Jornet ticked off many of the world’s most high-profile peaks in a fast and light style, shattering long-held mountaineering speed records as he went.

In 2013 he ran straight up 15,780-foot Mont Blanc, typically a two-day mountaineering ascent, in less than 5 hours while wearing shorts and a t-shirt. In 2017 he ascended Mount Everest twice in the same week.

Jornet’s ascents prompted some trail runners to take on similar challenges, setting off a flurry of mountain-top FKTs, and inspiring a new generation of endurance athletes.

Similarly, Andrews thinks the time is right for athletes to “push back on some of the conventional wisdom” for ascending 8,000-meter peaks. Instead of ascending Manaslu overnight, as is typical (“so you don’t get roasted by the sun”), Andrews did it mostly during daylight, which allowed him to use more conventional footwear, due to the warm temperatures.

Andrews also brought a stationary bike to base camp, which he said was “absurd.” But the device enabled him to get his heart rate higher than he would have while running.

But Andrews cautions that Himalayan ascents aren’t for untested trail runners. “I didn’t just step off the track and onto an 8,000-meter mountain,” he says. Andrews has been mountaineering for 15 years, and much more seriously in the last five. In recent years he’s ascended 22,841-foot Aconcagua in Argentina, 19,347-foot Cotopaxi in Ecuador, and 22,349-foot Ama Dablam in Nepal, among other peaks.

He lives and trains at high altitude, splitting time between Flagstaff, Arizona and Quito, Ecuador. And Andrews has extensive experience running at higher altitudes in the Andes.

Prior to Manaslu, Andrews ran dozens of trails above 16,000 feet in the Himalayas. His FKT on Manaslu was his second attempt on the mountain in two years. He didn’t summit the first time. “I got my ass kicked,” Andrews says. “But I learned a lot.” Both times, he hired expert local outfitter Dawa Steven Sherpa of Asian Trekking to manage logistics.

For 2025 and beyond, Andrews hopes to add more Nepali trails to the Fastest Known Times database. “There’s an absolute smorgasbord of mountain trail running here,” he says. “Really epic beautiful routes that most people do in a few days to a few weeks that ultrarunners could do in a single push.”

He plans to skip Cho Oyu—Chinese officials recently required climbers to use supplemental oxygen—and will instead focus on speed records on the Nepali side of the border. And there’s one trail atop his list.

“I’d like to try Everest,” he said.

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There’s something about late summer. The last of the snow melts, the summer rains stop, and the air finally begins to cool. In short: it’s the perfect weather for a long hike. Or—if you happen to be a top-tier endurance athlete—for smashing your heroes’ records to smithereens.

Over the last few weeks, trails across the United States have seen some stunning new (FKTs). What’s more, they’ve been rolling out at a pace that’s left our news team scrambling to cover them all. From an astonishing controversial three-hours sprint up the Grand Teton, to a grueling 40-day, 18-hour Appalachian Trail sufferfest, it’s been a fast, fast summer.

The season’s perfect weather—cool, dry, mercilessly free of wildfire smoke in many regions—has helped bolster the rate of new records. But a big part of the uptick may actually be post-pandemic timing.

“There was a during Covid,” said Will Peterson, who set a new FKT on Vermont’s 272-mile Long Trail FKT on September 1. “Some people went back to doing races, but many athletes have stuck around because they got into FKTs during the pandemic and really liked it.”

According to Peterson, FKTs have become more respected over the past few years—which has made them a target for big-name celebrity runners as well as speedy underdogs who would normally eschew traditional competitions.

“In some ways, it’s more accessible and more relatable than running races,” Peterson said. “That’s why I got into it—it’s something anyone can do. You don’t have to have a ton of money or sponsorships to go out and set an FKT.”

Today, more people seem to be chasing long-trail records than ever before, Peterson said. Between the increased awareness and expanded pool of contenders—many of whom have now been training for exactly this sort of objective for several years—it’s perhaps no wonder that record-setting is entering a golden age. Here’s a look at five perfect case studies from this summer.

Brent Herring Fought Hallucinations to Score a Colorado Trail FKT

On August 22, Durango, Colorado-based endurance athlete and skimo racer kicked off FKT season when he stumbled across the finish line of the 500-mile Colorado Trail with a new self-supported record. His time—10 days, 17 hours, and 38 minutes—was about four days faster than the women’s record, which set in 2020.

While popular, the Colorado Trail is no walk in the park. Many hikers need four to six weeks. After all, the distance is only part of the challenge. Much of the route lies above 10,000 feet, and numerous grueling climbs and mountain passes rack up around 90,000 feet in total vertical gain. On his very first day on the trail, Herring suffered from heat exhaustion and nearly quit. A week later, he started , another symptom of extreme fatigue. But he pushed through to the finish, cruising into his hometown just after midnight where his wife—and a large pizza—were waiting.

Anton Krupicka Ran the LA Freeway in Just Over 13 Hours

On August 31, ultrarunner Anton Krupicka practically sprinted the , a 34-mile traverse of the Continental Divide, which he took down in just over 13 hours. The route is as technical as it is long: It includes considerable stretches of fourth- and fifth-class terrain and connects the highest points of Colorado’s Indian Peaks Wilderness and Rocky Mountain National Park. The entirety of the traverse lies above 12,000 feet in elevation.

To prep, Krupicka spent as much time at altitude as possible. “I climbed Longs Peak 30 times over the course of the summer,” he said. “But to be honest, I didn’t think I was going to set the record this year.” He’d initially planned for a July attempt, but by then, the ephemeral streams lacing Colorado’s highcountry he would rely on for hydration had all but dried up. Krupicka knew the unsupported record would be impossible without on-route water.

“I’d pretty much given up,” he said. But a last-ditch reconnaissance mission in August revealed reemerging springs after a few weeks of heavy rain. Krupicka immediately started prepping for a record attempt. On August 31, he went for it—and finished the route in a cool 13 hours, 20 minutes, and 48 seconds, shaving more than three hours off runner Kyle Richardson’s 2018 time.

Will Peterson Broke the Long Trail’s Four-Day Barrier

Over Labor Day weekend, thru-hiker Will Peterson scored the overall FKT on America’s oldest thru-hike: the 272-mile Long Trail in Vermont. He completed the route in just three days, 21 hours, and ten minutes. In doing so, he became the first person to finish the trail in under four days, and beat the previous record by more than six hours. The feat comes about a year after Peterson set the trail’s unsupported record in August of 2023.

For Peterson, the early-September timing was purely related to the Labor-day school break he had: as a third-year medical school student, weekends and holidays are pretty much the only time he has to bust out big multi-day adventures. During the week, he works or studies for eight to ten hours per day, and spends the rest of the time training.

To notch the record, Peterson averaged around 70 miles and up to 22,700 feet of elevation gain per day (which is a lot, even by ultrarunning standards) and relied on a team of 30 pacers and crew members—only about half of whom he knew.

“I put out an appeal to the local running community, saying that I needed help with a supported attempt,” he explained. “About half the people who responded were friends and family members. The rest were total strangers.” But together, they helped him battle debilitating quad pain, long stretches of night running, and total exhaustion to crush his previous record by about 15 hours.

“It was truly a team effort,” he said.

Michelino Senseri Attempted a Controversial FKT on the Grand TetonÌę

On September 2, Idaho-based endurance athlete Michelino Senseri announced that he’d bagged a sub-three-hour speed record on Wyoming’s Grand Teton. In the following days, Fastest Known Time reviewed his claim—and then rejected it.

In their review of his claim, Fastest Known Time noted that Sunseri cut at least one switchback. That means that, while he did climb the Grand in a very fast time, he did not follow the sanctioned route. Because he was essentially competing on a different field of play, his claim was ruled invalid.

His feat is still impressive. It takes most experienced climbers a full day to summit and descend the 13,770-foot peak. The fact that Sunseri was able to do it in just 2 hours, 50 minutes, and 50 seconds speaks to his athleticism and dedicated preparation: he completed more than 40 climbs of the Grand over the course of several years before making his effort. But a few decision-making errors cost him the ultimate triumph.

Tara Dower became the Appalachian Trail’s New Speed QueenÌę

On September 21, just a few minutes to midnight, Virginia-based thru-hiker and endurance athlete Tara “Candy Mama” Dower jogged the final hill to the top of Springer Mountain, the southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. When the clock stopped at 40 days, 18 hours, and 5 minutes, she became the fastest human—woman or man—to complete the Appalachian Trail supported.

Dower ran an average of 54 miles per day to snatch the record from previous FKT-holder Karl Sabbe. She also ate upwards of 10,000 calories each day and woke up at 3:00 AM every morning to stay on pace. It paid off. In a , Dower called the feat “a dream come true.”

“If I’m to be honest I didn’t think it was possible,” she wrote. “However, I had people on my crew who believed in my abilities and pushed me to my limits. That’s all it was.”

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One of the most grueling records in American endurance sports fell late Saturday night in northern Georgia. Tara Dower, a 31-year-old ultrarunner and long-distance hiker born in North Carolina and based in Virginia, reached Georgia’s Springer Mountain, the southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail, at 11:53 P.M. She completed the arduous southern thru-hike of the iconic trail, crossing 14 states and 2,197 miles, in 40 days, 18 hours, and 5 minutes. It’s the fastest known time for hiking the iconic trail in either direction.

Her finishing time cleaves approximately 13 hours off the 2018 benchmark set by Belgian runner Karel Sabbe, who in 2018 hiked the trail from south to north. It alsoÌęreturns the overallÌęrecord to a woman for the first time since 2015, when Scott Jurek eclipsed Jennifer Pharr Davis’ then-record by only three hours. What’s even more impressive is that Dower, who goes by the trail name “Candy Mama,” had to come from behind to topple Sabbe’s record after falling off pace during a particularly rainy spell in New England.

“The number of people that have hiked the Appalachian Trail before Tara in less than 50 days is ten, only one of them a woman,” explained Liz Derstine, who set the women’s record for a northbound hike in 2020 at 51 days and joined Dower for a stretch of the trail earlier this week.

“And Tara has done it faster than all of them, including the men,” Derstine added. “This is one of the greatest achievements of all time. It’s huge.”

Statistics aside, what’s most remarkable about Dower’s achievement may be her rapid and unexpected rise through the ranks of distance hikers and runners. Less than a decade ago, when Dower was a student at East Carolina University, she became fascinated byÌęthe Appalachian Trail after idly watching a National Geographic documentary. She graduated in 2016, and the next year she set off northward from Springer Mountain, making it only 80 miles before her grandparents picked her up.

“I had really bad, untreated anxiety, a panic attack on trail,” Dower told me Wednesday morning as she pushed through Great Smoky Mountains National Park. “I vowed not to thru-hike again and was pretty bummed.”

Of course, she did not keep to her vow. I met Dower on the Appalachian Trail back in 2019, when we were both 200 miles into our respective first-time thru-hikes. She and her husband Jonathan had gotten married six months earlier; withÌętrail names “Candy Mama” and “Sheriff,” they were still in a sort of honeymoon glow, doing handstands atop Appalachian balds and beaming for her . The couple did not push for speed during that trek, and they reached Maine in a little more than five months, a perfectly average time.

Dower had seen a clip of Karl “Speedgoat” Meltzer’s 2016 record-setting effort and assumed that wasn’t for her. “He was so tall, so athletic, and I thought he had this perfect endurance body,” she told me. “I couldn’t fathom doing anything close to that.”

Dower’s perspective changed during the pandemic. She moved to Hot Springs, North Carolina, an iconic AT trail town, to work for a guiding service owned by Jennifer Pharr Davis, the earlier record holder. Dower began running the mountains around her, and in 2020 she paced Derstine on two nearby sections during her own FKT attempt on the AT’s northern route. Dower then spent that September racing east across North Carolina on the 1,175-mile Mountains-to-Sea Trail, establishing a new speed record of just over 29 days.

“That felt plenty hard and plenty long. It was a struggle, and I was unhealthy” she said, laughing as she tried to cough up a bug she’d swallowed while moving down the trail. “It didn’t cross my mind to try something else.”

But she soon began mounting an impressive running resume—four ultra victories in 2021, plus a course record on the Devil Dog 100-miler in 2022. She set a new record for the 300-mile Benton MacKaye Trail, often seen as a miniature AT, that year, and then shattered a long-standing women’s benchmark on the 567-mile in a cooperative effort with Derstine.

Along the way, Dower also went viral in the ultra-running world due to a painful encounter with a cholla cactus—while she wore cat ears, no less.

Dower pondered and planned her record-breaking AT attempt for more than a year, but in 2023 she chose to lean into extreme endurance training to prepare her body, rather than rest her legs for the attempt. An overall win in North Carolina’s Umstead 100-miler that summer became her preamble for one of running’s most daunting races, Colorado’s Hardrock 100. Dower finished fourth, seven hours behind one of her inspirations, Courtney Dauwalter.

In fact, Dauwalter’s record-breaking wins last year at the Western States Endurance Run and the Hardrock 100 within a three-week window—followed by her subsequent victory at Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc—inspired Dower to start the AT just a month after the 2024 Hardrock 100.

“A lot of people told me what I shouldn’t do, especially doing Hardrock so close to the AT. But no one’s ever tried it, so I wanted to see if it helped,” said Dower, pausing a playlist of Madonna and Ice Spice to talk. “I knew I would have mountain-racing legs and would be acclimated to 10,000 feet, so I’d have an advantage in Maine. And I felt like I was on Cloud Nine.”

Appalachian Trail guru Warren Doyle told me that one of Dower’s secrets to success was her consistent speed on the trail. On most days she hiked slower than Sabbe’s pace, he said, but she traversed more total miles. “She put in longer workdays,” Doyle explained Friday, just as Dower neared the North Carolina-Georgia border. “I hope this puts it to rest: It’s not about speed. It’s about endurance. It’s not the Fastest Known Time. It’s the Shortest Known Time.”

In recent years, as the popularity of FKT attempts have grown, corporate sponsorships and larger support crews on trail have become de rigueur. Dower, however, kept her posse small, with only her mother, Debbie Komlo, and a hiker she befriended on the AT in 2019, Megan “Rascal” Wilmarth, joining her the entire time. (Multiple other hikers others paced her or arrived at assorted trailheads to offer help, but they came and went.)

Dower and Wilmarth slept in a Ford Transit van nicknamed “Burly,” while Komlo trailed them in her Dodge Durango. They worked relentlessly to get her in bed by 10 P.M. and up at 3 A.M., feeding her upwards of 10,000 calories each day. They also replenished Dower’s massive snack box of, as Komlo put it, “not a lot of healthy stuff” with Rice Krispies Treats, Twizzlers, Gushers. Four times a day, Dower downed a 320-calorie protein shake.

“At stops, we just shoveled food into her face,” Wilmarth told me. “We’d always have a sit-down meal, but, of course, she wouldn’t sit down.”

What’s more, rather than emblazoning Burly with a corporate logo, the rear window of the van listed the 14 states of the AT, which Dower systematically crossed out as she reached each border. More prominent on the window, though, was a call for , a nonprofit that teaches kids through physical education. When Dower reached Springer Mountain, she’d raised $21,000 of her $20,000 goal for the organization.

I spoke with Dower a half-dozen times during her trek. I rarely got the sense she was frustrated, angry, or even in much pain. She laughed a lot, making jokes about the bugs she swallowed or her struggles with the rains of New England and the resulting sores on her feet. She seemed, more or less, like the same lighthearted person I’d met on trail in 2019: Candy Mama, just with a tougher shell. It was inspiring to witness, really, an old friend realizing new potential without forsaking herself in the process..

Endurance athletes often talk about grinding through our favorite activities, the very things we do for fun. I’m as guilty as anyone of these complaints. But as Dower approached Newfound Gap, at the border between Tennessee and North Carolina, it finally struck me that she had instead chosen to glide through this challenge, and toward this astonishing endurance record. She could, however, probably do without swallowing bugs.

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On September 2, mountain runner Michelino Sunseri of Idaho appeared to break the speed record for ascending and descending the 13,775-foot Grand Teton in Wyoming’s Grand Teton National Park. Sunseri, 32, did so on his 44th climb of the iconic peak—he wrote online that he’d done 43 practice ascents over four yearsÌębefore his successful attempt.

“I finally felt confident enough to lay it all on the line and go for this record that I once deemed impossible,” he .

His time of 2 hours, 50 minutes, and 50 seconds shaved more than two minutes from the prior record, set by Coloradan Andy Anderson in 2012, on the 13.1-mile out-and-back route. At the trail’s finish, an elated Sunseri fell to his knees, and the moment was captured by photographers. Two days later, his sponsor The North Face catapulted the feat into the mainstream with an Instagram post of the moment, alongside the words “2:50:50. An impossible dream—come true.”

But the new speed record never went up on , the official registrar of speed records worldwide. As by Jackson Hole News & Guide, the organization, which is owned by °żłÜłÙČőŸ±»ć±đ’s parent company șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Interactive, rejected Sunseri’s time. The reason? Sunseri had cut across at least one trail switchback on his trip.

Local news outlets published images of Sunseri’s Strava map, which showed the deviation: he cut across the highest switchback near Delta Lake on the route’s lower portion. The shortcut shaved approximately half a mile in distance from the route.

The decision led to a , and spirited online chatter in the world of mountain running. Allison Mercer, the director of Fastest Known Time, said it’s the first time the organization has flat-out denied a speed record on any route due to a deviation from the standard course. Trails up mountains are notoriously hard to follow, especially above tree line, where there’s scree and talus. And other professional runners have gone off route while setting FKTs. Some on purpose, as Sunseri did—he wrote on Strava that he cut the switchback to avoid hikers—and others unintentionally.

Famed Catalan runner Killian Jornet cut switchbacks on Grand Teton when he set a prior FKT in 2012. FastestKnownTime , albeit with the word “flagged” alongside it—a scarlet letter in runningÌęparlance. In 2017, Darcy Piceu, while setting an FKT on the 223-mile John Muir Trail, accidentally veered off route onto an entirely different trail for 1.3 miles. Her wasn’t rejected, and still stands today at 3 days 7 hours and 57 minutes.

So, why did FastestKnownTime reject Sunseri? Mercer said the company sought to uphold NPS rules, which specifically forbid visitors from going off trail or using unsanctioned routes. “We can’t accept it because then we are condoning going against laws and regulations,” she told me. On other trails, deviating fromÌęthe agreed-upon route isn’t expressly forbidden.

In recent years, FKT has attempted to reinforce the rules established by land managers like the NPS. “We’re record keepers, not referees,” Mercer says. “You have to go with what the trail says.”

Why didÌęthe organization allow Jornet’s record to stand in 2012, but reject Sunseri’s in 2024? Fastest Known Time is attempting to foster good stewardship of these backcountry routes, as crowds swell and speed record attempts become more frequent.

For context, Grand Teton National Park saw 2.7 million visitors when Jornet set his FKT 2012. It will see about a million more this year. Between 2022 and 2023 alone, visitation to Grand Teton National Park surged by 22 percent.

There’s also more people than ever pursuing FKTs, with more than 6,300 routes and 10,300 athletes currently listed on FastestKnownTime.com. “There’s been a massive boom in people chasing FKTs and trying to go after Strava records and segments and all of that,” says Jackson-based runner Kelly Halpin, who, since 2014, has set 27 FKTs herself.

In other words, the stakes are higher today than in 2012. With so many people getting out there, off-trail human foot traffic is destroying sensitive flora and fauna that live in mountain environments. And Fastest Known Time, like other organizations, is trying to alleviate the damage caused by foot traffic.

In March, Halpin worked with Mercer to address the damages caused by route cutting on FastestKnownTime.com’s page: “Please keep to existing trails where applicable; submissions that cut switchbacks—whether route or FKT submissions—are likely to be declined,” the warning reads.

After Sunseri’s FKT was rejected, Mercer added stronger language on the site. The new language warns that the FKT will be rejected and that the NPS will pursue criminal charges against athletes who cut switchbacks on Grand Teton.

Halpin says that Jornet’s FKT on the route did spark anger within the running community back in 2012. “People were very, very unhappy about that,” she says. But the 2012 ascent occurred during the early years of FKT, before the website established rules of decorum, and a more formal processes for verifying records. Buzz Burrell, co-founder of Fastest Known Time, said that prior to 2018, aspiring FKT record holders weren’t even required to send in a GPX file for verification.

“It was looser back then,” Burrell said.

Rather, the website operated on an honor system. Standards, rules, and ethics varied by region. In the Swiss and French Alps, where Jornet established multiple records early in his career, there was no such thing as cutting a switchback: “You start at the bottom, you go to the top,” Burrell said.

Burrell and team decided to add the words “flagged” to Jornet’s Grand Teton record alongside a written note explaining that Jornet had cut switchbacks, which is forbidden by the Park Service. “The idea with the flag was that people would see it, and the next time someone attempted the record on that route, they’d do better,” Burell said.

The plan worked—ten days later, Anderson beat Jornet’s record on the route by 59 seconds. He stuck to the trail.

Burrell applauded the decision to deny Sunseri’s record. While disappointing to the athlete, he believes it sends a powerful message to the FKT community that environmental regulations will be upheld. Burrell said he had to make a similar decision in 2021, when he removed the 2,592-mile Pacific Crest Trail from Fastest Known Time’s “Premier List,” a move that reduced the trail’s stature. Wildfires in the Pacific Northwest had closed parts of the trail that summer, but record seekers were still attempting to chase the FKT by hiking on closed trails and traveling through fire zones, Burrell said. “It was the right thing to do,” Burrell said. The designation remains in effect today.

Sunseri declined to speak to șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű for this story, but he did send a statement, saying he intentionally followed the same route used by Jornet. He also pointed out that the women’s record holder, Jen Day Denton, also cut a switchback—her record is also “flagged” in the official FKT standings.

“I accept and understand that Fastest Known Time has chosen not to accept my record,” he said. “Given the circumstances regarding route selection, I look forward to next summer, when I hope to again attempt The Grand Teton FKT, on the officially accepted section of this trail.”

Jornet hasn’t made any public comments about the situation, but in November 2023 he about the importance of following established routes. “We should all ensure the environmental rules already in place in those national parks and conservation areas are fully respected,” he wrote.

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Kilian Jornet is many things: greatest ultra-trail runner of all-time. Greatest sub-ultra trail runner of all time. Father. Husband. Founder of an environmental nonprofit. Founder of an outdoor footwear and apparel company.

He’s also an enigma.

Jornet eschews the commercialization of a sport that he’s helped to grow. He loves the freedom of exploration but also the rigor of science. He’s intensely introverted yet is the most popular and public trail runner ever.

These incongruences are perhaps no better exemplified than through his current quest. While most of the top ultra-trail runners from around the world have descended upon Chamonix, France, for the this week, Jornet, too, is in the area. On August 24, he essentially ran a handful of miles along the backside of the UTMB course in Switzerland. He came even closer—much closer—shortly thereafter.

But, and I’m sorry to disappoint you, Jornet is not here to race UTMB. He’s two weeks into an even bigger vision quest: link all 82 4,000-meter peaks in the Alps. He’s calling it the Alpine Connections project.

Of course, he hasn’t officially stated he’s trying to link all 82. He’s simply trying to “explore his physical, technical, and mental limits while connecting 4,000-meter peaks in the Alps.” But if you know Jornet, one of the most anti-spray runners in this spray era, you know he wants to tag them all—in record time.

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Ueli Steck, the legendary “Swiss Machine,” currently holds that record of 62 days. While most who have attempted this mind-blowing feat drove from one mountain to the next, Steck linked them via bike.

That’s the style Jornet chose, too. For environmental reasons. For the aesthetic of self-powered adventure. But like so many of the defining moments of his career, he has a camera crew following, in cars. (Since some of his outings on foot are point-to-point, it’s also not clear if his crew is transporting his bike from the start to the finish for him.) And he’s posting his progress on and , along with updates on the NNormal .

With just 30 peaks to go, the most imposing mountain left on his list is none other than Mont Blanc, the tallest peak in Western Europe at 15,766 feet. It happens to be the massif around which UTMB circumvents.

What inspired Jornet—who lives on a farm in Åndalsnes, Norway, with his Swedish wife and elite runner Emelie Tina Forsberg and their two young daughters—to test himself so close yet so far from UTMB? We spoke with him earlier this summer to find out.

But First, What the Heck Is the Alpine Connections Project?

On August 10, Jornet outsprinted Kenya’s Philemon Kiriago down the finishing chute to win Sierre-Zinal by one and a half seconds. His time of two hours, 25 minutes, and 34.8 seconds bested his own course record by just one second. It was Jornet’s 10th win at what many consider the most prestigious and competitive mountain running race in the world.

At just 19.3 miles with more than 7,200 feet of climbing, most of which is packed into the first 6 miles, it’s a test of VO2max more than anything. Jornet averaged 7:21 minute per mile pace—no, not grade adjusted pace—on the net-uphill alpine trail route with pitches up to 33 percent grade.

Apparently, it was just the tune-up he needed for weeks of 15 to 20 hour days climbing technical alpine routes and stringing them all together by foot and two wheels. He departed from Pontresina, Switzerland, to commence the Alpine Connections project just three days later on August 13. It’s the logical continuation of his (Re)discovering the Pyrenees project from last October, when Jornet linked all 177 peaks over 3,000-meters in the Pyrenees in eight days.

Alpine Connections is the Pyrenees project with the dial turned all the way up and then some. Over the first week of technical alpine climbing, running, and biking, he logged more than 91 hours with 330 miles and nearly 108,000 feet of gain.

How is he fitting in such big days, you may be wondering? Why, by hardly sleeping. Over the first three days he slept an average of 3 hours and 35 minutes a night. He bumped it up slightly to an average of 4 hours and 49 minutes on days four through seven.

In case that doesn’t sound challenging enough, the weather hasn’t made it any easier.

“As it had been raining (and snowing on the summits) the entire afternoon and night before, I left solo at 6:15 in the morning and had another relatively ‘short’ (8:40) day of climbing to make the most out of the conditions,” Jornet wrote on on August 18, five days into the project. “Still, I am used to this ‘Norwegian’ weather that feels just like home, so I managed to summit DĂŒrrenhorn (4034m), Hohberghorn (4218m), Stecknadelhorn (4239m) and Nadelhorn (4327m).”

Jornet was greeted by snow, rain, and copious amounts of fog while traversing glaciated peaks for much of that first week. Nonetheless, over the first week he had already submitted 51 of the 4,000-meter peaks over 825K (512 miles) of running, climbing, and biking and more than 52,000 meters (170,600 feet) of gain.

In his most recent update, Jornet shared that he took a full day off due to the weather. He used the time to try and refuel, rehydrate, and to heal the skin on his hands and feet.

Exclusive Kilian Jornet InterviewÌę

Jornet, 36, has long been able to subvert the processes and platforms on which he’s made his name. After building up his cachet by traveling to—and usually winning—the most prestigious trail races and mountain projects around the world, he announced several years ago that he would minimize airplane travel to a couple of times a year. A Salomon athlete for over a decade, he left the brand to take what he’d learned and start his own. And after winning UTMB four times, he along with 2023 runner-up Zach Miller proposed a boycott of the race last year until the organization cleans up some of its , including rampant global growth and its partnership with the car company Dacia.

We sat down with Jornet in person to unpack his relationship with the sport and himself.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

RUN: You say you’re in the best shape of your life. How did you get here?

Kilian Jornet: Training has been good and especially it’s been consistent. We had amazing weather this winter on the west coast of Norway with super good ice climbing and mountain climbing conditions. Blue sky, super cold for like two months, so we could climb a lot. This spring it was warmer here, which is surprising. We had some good dry trails.

I’m also doing less. When I go to races, there’s a lot of stuff you need to do. I’m an introvert, so being with people takes a lot of energy. After a race, I need to recover physically but also mentally because it takes a lot of energy. So I’m embracing less, which means I can train better.

And I’m doing things I like, like spending my time on NNormal or science projects and that’s giving me positive vibes and making me feel energized.

I think having stability in life, having a routine, makes training easier than racing. I can train better for a longer time. And then I can be more focused when I come to races.

Do you think “dad strength” is real?

No, it takes a lot of energy. But you also feel like you can get into a routine. I can train while the kids are at kindergarten, and then take the weekends easy. So maybe it helps to organize things. Normally I was training when I wanted to and now I can’t. But you get into a routine and that might help. I’m more efficient and I train better.

 

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Before it was like, ‘Oh I have all the days, so I just go out for many, many hours. And I do what I want to. I go to that summit, or that other.’ Now it’s like, ‘Oh no, I have these hours, I have this goal, I want to train this way.’ I still have days where I say, ‘OK, today is a mountain day, and so I go do whatever I want to do.’ But there are some other days where I know, ‘OK, I have this time to train, so I do this session.’

You love the science behind training, and you love just playing in the mountains. How do you strike that balance?

I studied sports science in school, so I probably was already nerdy when I was young. When I was like 16 or 17 years old, I was already doing tests. So it’s always been there in an observatory way. Like ‘I want to try this, and see what it implies. How can I analyze that from a science point of view?’ Not taking science and then applying it to me. It’s always been there in more of an exploratory way than a prescriptive way.

So you view science similarly to how you view the mountains: as an avenue for exploration?

Yeah, it’s a bit the same. When you go to a race, like I have gone to Zegama 12 times. That’s not a lot of exploration. But going to the mountains and doing projects there, it’s much more about exploring things and then seeing what’s happening.

Now that you’re launched NNormal, do you feel additional pressure to go and perform at key races to boost brand visibility?Ìę

I would say the opposite. Because now, with NNormal I’m part of it. I decide what I want to do. Now it’s really like, ‘Yeah, I want to do the race because I’m training well and I’m in shape and I want to do a nice race that I feel connected to somehow.’ Or I want to do this project in the mountains because it’s what I feel I want to do, and I don’t feel any kind of pressure. I know that it helps NNormal, of course, if I’m showing up. But not even racing, like we saw it last year with the project in the Pyrenees.

It was a last-minute thing, like I decided literally two weeks before that. Now that they analyze the press and social media and all that, that project had more exposure than when I did UTMB. So, it’s not only about racing and showing up and things. It’s more like, if you want to do something deeply, you will probably do it better. And if you do something in a good state of mind, probably you will get more inspired and do things that push me further than to set up a calendar and say, ‘OK, I’ll do that, that, that, that.’

Because I know that it’s somehow comfortable. But to break this routine into things like even if it’s races that I want to push the effort or to do big projects that require a lot of energy, I think that needs to be in this space where I have the tranquility of knowing that I don’t have any pressure to do one thing or another.

Your versatility is mindblowing. Do you consciously sacrifice optimal performance at any particular race or objective to prioritize being able to do it all?

Yeah. Last year, for example, I was injured but the plan was to do a project at Everest, a link up there, and then to try and do some short and long races, and then to do a project in the mountains and a ski project.

Long term, I want this versatility. And then I know that if I want to perform on this project, well, I need to have specificity. So the specificity is in the short term. Like I say I know that to get in very good shape for a specific race or project,Ìę specific adaptations don’t take more than six to eight weeks. So the last six to eight weeks before a race or a project, if my training is specific I know that I can perform the best.

But yeah, I can do specificity multiple times in a year and do different kinds of projects. And at the end, I think that’s what keeps me so motivated. Because if I was only racing, I wouldn’t like it. And ifÌę I was doing just things in the mountains, probably then I would get slower and my capacities in the mountains will decrease, too.

Have your athletic goals shifted over time?

I used to be much more competition-centered at the beginning because then I was doing ski mountaineering season in the winter and dry running season in the summer. That was very structured for many years. And I think that also gave me all the base and fundamentals and the knowledge and all that to be able to do other things. It was many years just focused on training.

Then I started to put some projects on steeper skiing or mountaineering,Ìę but around this calendar. Like two racing seasons. And then at some point, they became more like separate things.

Where do you see your career going?

I don’t know actually, because I feel that I’m still in good shape. I’m still performing and I’m still improving things. So yeah, I still really like racing and like pushing myself inÌę training. So I don’t know how long that will last, but as far as I see that I am happy pushing and racing, I will keep doing it.

And then I will stop doing international races, but I will still do local races because that’s fun. And then projects in the mountains, I will do that hopefully all the time I can. But of course professionally, there will be a moment that it will not be able to sustain my life. Then I think I will still do running and mountaineering for all my life as a pleasure.

You famously were a disciple of a fat adaptation nutrition strategy. Has that evolved at all?

I have shifted my nutrition in the day-to-day a lot over the years. When I was young, I couldn’t afford much, so I was just buying pasta or a big package of rice and tomato sauce. My nutrition was not very varied. As the years have gone on, I’ve taken more care of that. We have a big garden so we get a lot of veggies from there. We try to eat a lot more foods that are fermented and this kind of thing. And I feel like performance-wise that has helped a lot.

In competitions, I’m eating much, much more now. But in training I’m not eating anything during training. Only if I do a very specific session, where I’ll take gels or something like that. But will only happen about one time every month. If it’s a four hour session, I can take a gel every 30 minutes. If I’m doing two uphill thresholds and then maybe some flat, I’ll take a gel between the uphill and the flat on the recovery. That’s very targeted for specific sessions.

In winter, I have a half a liter bottle and it doesn’t matter how long, if it’s eight hours, I take that. In summer, I don’t take anything. And I think that’s helping me in a way because I am developingÌę some metabolic adaptations. If you have a better metabolism, it’s much more open, so then you don’t really need to train your gut for having much more intake because your metabolism is more flexible on switching from fat to carbs. So you don’t need to train the gut.

Someone who has a worse metabolism and let’s say wants to take 120 grams of carbs an hour in a race, they probably need a long gut training to be able to do that, even if he’s eating and I’m not eating during training. And then it’s just because the logistics are hard. If you’re in the mountains, you don’t want to have to carry a bunch of stuff.

The point is supplements and gels are great for racing, but for daily consumption the chemicals are not good.

Given the state of affairs with UTMB, do you think you’ll ever go back?

Yeah, it’s a race I like. I like the volunteers, I have lived in Chamonix for many years. I love many things about the race. I don’t like many things, but I’ve talked with the race organizers and I have a good relationship with them. Many times we agree that we just disagree. I’m not doing it this year because I have another project. But I think it’s good to disagree on things to build together, and I hope in the future there is change on some things that I don’t agree, like some things on the corporation side, like in the race acquisition or some vision with the impact of their entity when it comes to sponsorships, or their impact on the land.

So it’s things like that that we’re not on the same page. But we can discuss, and it’s good. But it’s a race I might go back to in the future, and I would love to do in the future.

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Endurance athletes continued to push the envelope of what’s possible in 2023, both in organized races and individual efforts in the quest for records known as fastest known times (FKTs).

The pursuit of FKTs has been growing since trail runners Buzz Burrell and Peter Bakwin coined the term in 1999, but it didn’t really become a worldwide phenomenon until the Covid-19 pandemic shut down races, sending athletes on a wide variety of fast solo efforts over trails, roads, deserts, and mountains in either a supported or unsupported style.

In 2015, there were 222 new FKTs reported to the .com, the official FKT arbiter and record-keeper, but that figure grew to 530 by 2018 and to more than 4,729 in 2020. Even though racing has been back to normal since 2021, the pursuit of FKTs continued at a vigorous level, with 2,292 new FKTs recorded in 2023.

Among the top women’s efforts of the year, Hillary Gerardi set a new FKT going up and down 15,777-foot Mont Blanc in Chamonix, France in 7 hours, 27 minutes, 39 seconds. Eszter Horanyi set a new unsupported women’s FKT on the grueling Nolan’s 14 line in Colorado, traversing the roughly 100-mile, largely off-trail route in 57 hours, 4 minutes. Haneul Lee covered the 207 miles of the John Muir Trail via Whitney Portal for a new unsupported FKT (5 days, 13 minutes, 15 seconds), while Jessica Pekari set a bold new self-supported record on the Pacific Crest Trail (63 days, 7 hours, 31 minutes).

On the men’s side, Kristian Morgan set a new FKT (45 days, 4 hours, 27 minutes) in supported fashion. Tyler Andrews ran the 25 miles up and down Tanzania’s 19,341-foot Mt. Kilimanjaro faster than anyone everÌę (6 hours, 37 minutes, 57 seconds) unsupported. And two records went down on Vermont’s iconic 250-mile Long Trail, with John Kelly setting the supported FKT (4 days, 4 hours, 25 minutes, 50 seconds) followed by Will Peterson’s unsupported effort of 4 days, 11 hours, 34 minutes—less than six hours shy of Kelly’s supported mark.

But the pinnacle FKTs of 2023 were across the U.S. and . Hoffman and Sabbe were honored for those efforts as the 2023 FKT of the Year recipients on January 5, based on the voting of the .

A Longtime Dream

Between mid-September and early October, Hoffman, a 45-year-old mother of three and Harvard University physics professor from Cambridge, Massachusetts, covered the 3,037 miles from San Francisco to New York City in 47 days, 12 hours, 35 minutes. Her effort was an astonishing seven days faster than the previous women’s mark and only five days slower than the overall record by Pete Kostelnick, a close friend of Hoffman, set in 2016.

Hoffman’s transcontinental run was a lifelong pursuit and her third attempt at breaking the record. Her 2019 attempt ended 2,560 miles and 42 days into her journey when a knee injury sidelined her in eastern Ohio. She was set to go after it again in 2022, but a hamstring injury forced to pull out.

This time, with the support of her six-person crew and more than 1,000 uplifting messages to her tracker, she traversed 12 states and reached her goal of running to the steps of New York City Hall. She wore 11 pairs of shoes during the run and says she consumed “300 eggs, countless cookies, some laughter, and even more tears” along the way.

“This journey has been decades in the making,” Hoffman “I’ve always been driven to tackle the biggest, highest, longest, hardest thing in front of me. Since childhood, I’ve dreamed of crossing the U.S. under my own power. As an adult the dream intensified, fueled by gratitude for the beauty of this country and the freedom it affords to dream big, work hard, and achieve audacious goals.”

She was joined by runners along the route and supported by her family and friends throughout the massive endeavor. She had the joy of running the final miles of her journey with friends and family members, including the final 20 miles with her 14-year-old son. As a bonus, they ran 11 miles from New York City to the ocean together the next morning.

“An interviewer (from The New York Times) asked him, ‘What did you learn from watching your mom do this?’ And he said, ‘Well, I learned I can do anything I set my mind to.’ And that was so heartwarming for me to hear that my son learned that,” Hoffman said.

After Hoffman and her family got home, her son took that inspiration one step further. He told his parents he was going out for a run and would be back in an hour. But when he didn’t return after three hours, she and her husband got worried.

“We’re looking at our watches. Kid’s not back yet. We wereÌę like, is this a parenting fail? Should we do something?” Hoffman recalls. “He comes back four and a half hours later, and he had taken my watch and run a marathon by himself—no aid stations, no planning—and he finished in 3:38. So it’s really rewarding for me to see that my kids observe what I do and take on challenges of their own.”

A three-time U.S. national champion ultrarunner, Hoffman followed her record-breaking run by running 138.7 miles to finish 23rd place at the IAU 24-Hour World Championships on December 2 in Taiwan and help the U.S. to a fifth-place finish in the team standings.

Reclaiming the Record

Sabbe is a 34-year-old Belgian dentist who has set several notable FKTs in recent years, including the in 2018 (41 days, 7 hours, 39 minutes) and (30 days, 8 hours, 40 minutes) between Slovenia and Monaco in 2021.

He set his first FKT in 2016 when he lowered the supported record on the PCT (52 days, 8 hours, 25 minutes), but then Timothy Olson surpassed it in 2021. After achieving a longstanding goal of finishing the 100-mile course of the dastardly Barkley Marathons in Tennessee last spring, Sabbe decided to return to the PCT in the summer.

This time around, he covered the 2,592-mile route with 400,000 feet of vertical gain six days faster—and five days faster than Olson’s FKT, despite having to take a 50-mile detour because of heavy snow conditions that closed the trail in Washington. Traveling south to north between early July and late August, he completed the route in 46 days, 12 hours, 50 minutes.

Sabbe’s secret to breaking the record by such a decisive margin? He didn’t think about the old record.

“If you go into an FKT attempt with the current FKT in mind, you’re limiting yourself,” Sabbe said on the last summer. “My goal was to get the best out of myself every day.”

By recalibrating his thoughts to focus on the possibility of what he could do, instead of what someone had done before, he was able to average 58.1 miles and about 9,000 feet of elevation gain a day, for 47 straight days. The old record pace was around 51 miles a day.

Will he go back again if someone breaks his mark?

“To me it’s a closed chapter,” he said. “The way I see it, my FKTs, like the one on the Appalachian Trail, as well the one on the Via Alpina, I feel like I gave everything, and everything went great andÌę I’m happy with the results. With the PCT, despite the heavy snow and detour, I don’t think I could have done it a day faster, or that I want to go back and try to go even faster. I was able to push as hard as I wanted to go. The teamwork with my crew was incredible, and it’s just such a nice experience I can look back on it with pride.”

Tune in to to hear how Hoffamn and Sabbe reflect and break down their FKT efforts with host Heather Anderson.

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In Sara Aranda’s , one of her bullet points reads: “BRCA1 mutant.”

Along with being an endurance athlete, creative writer, and one of Merrell Test Lab’s newest athletes for 2024, Aranda has a known hereditary gene mutation that makes her more likely to develop breast cancer and a handful of other cancers throughout her life. By putting it in her bio and framing it as though she might be a superhero, Aranda is making space for this part of herself that often carries grief and fear, and turning it into a point of connection.

“I want to acknowledge it and hold space for it because that’s just the reality of me and my body, but I’m also doing all of this stuff anyway,” says Aranda. “I am this person, but I’m also a badass.”

On September 27, on a new Fastest Known Time (FKT), from . This accomplishment earned her a spot as a sponsored athlete with Merrell Test Lab for 2024.

‘Running Has Seen All of Me’

Based in Durango, Colorado, Aranda, 34, shifted to running trails from road and triathlon while in college at University of California Riverside, to explore the surrounding landscape and cope during a tumultuous time of her life.

When she was 20, her mom passed away from breast cancer. She was grieving, confronting mortality, seeking control, and navigating the soul-searching crises of young adulthood. Now, she lives with her husband, Patrick Hodge, and is a freelance creative nonfiction writer while working part-time at a local climbing gym.

“I had many trail runs where I was angry or crying or confused, or just very emotional. Running has seen all of me,” says Aranda. “Now, I’ve been reaffirming that running can actually be a celebration: celebrating my body, where I am, how I feel, and all I’ve learned throughout my life so far.”

Aranda’s mom, Cheryl Aranda, was 38 years old when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Aranda was 12. “I might not remember all the details,” says Aranda. “It was a seven-year period of it being there, in remission, and coming back.” Cheryl was predisposed to getting breast cancer because she had the breast cancer 1 (BRCA1) gene mutation—same as Aranda.

About BRCA Gene Mutations

There are two BRCA genes: BRCA1 and BRCA2. While everyone has these genes, , according to the National Cancer Institute.

Both men and women can carry the BRCA1/2 gene mutations. Reporting from the shows that women who have the inherited BRCA1 or BRCA2 (the other common breast cancer gene) gene mutation have more than a 60 percent risk of developing breast cancer in their lives. That’s compared to a 13 percent risk for women in the general population. Along with an increased risk of breast cancer, those with a BRCA1/2 gene mutation also have increased risk of ovarian cancer, pancreatic cancer, and melanoma.

Because the gene mutation is inherited, Aranda was at risk of having the same mutation as her mom, so at 26, she took a blood test, just to check. Her oncologist gave her the news over the phone—while Aranda was on a road trip with Patrick, then still her boyfriend—that she indeed had the BRCA1 mutation.

“It was a moment where you’re suddenly just outside yourself,” says Aranda. “We stopped at this little diner off the highway in Idaho and ordered pancakes and just tried to have a quiet moment trying to process. I think it was Patrick’s 30th birthday, so it was all mixed in like, ‘Oh, happy birthday! Your very serious girlfriend might be dead when she’s in her mid-40s.’”

Aranda faced the terrifying thought that she might end up enduring everything she witnessed her mom go through. “You can get lost in that despair,” she says. “Acknowledging it is how I deal with it. I focus on how I can nurture joy while holding space for this grief and despair.”

Making the Most of the Life We Have

Having seen her mom die at 45, and knowing she has the same BRCA1 gene mutation, Aranda is adamant about living the life she wants in the present. This has included spending several seasons working in Yosemite, testing her limits with a growing list of FKTs, and telling stories through her writing with essays and her monthly “.”

“She moves through the world as a storyteller,” says one of Aranda’s ReNewEarthRunning teammates and friend, . “She’s always observing and processing things and everything she takes in translates into her writing. I think that’s part of why her writing is so beautiful.”

Aranda’s passion for running and resumĂ© of FKTs led her to Merrell’s event in Steamboat Springs, competing for her 14th FKT. The route is steep, with approximately 2,200 feet of vertical gain in 3.2 miles. It switchbacks up the mountain, winding along the Thunderhead Trail under tree cover and occasionally crossing the exposed ski slope.

“Running can actually be a celebration: celebrating my body, where I am, how I feel, and all I’ve learned throughout my life so far.”

“I really appreciated the shade when you were in the trees,” says Aranda. “It wasn’t hot, so I felt like I could push harder. Then, you would cross the ski slope and suddenly be exposed to the sun where it was really hot.”

Aranda wanted to put everything she could into her effort. Winning this meant more than just a sponsorship for her. It meant the ability to fully pursue her passions for running and writing, something she didn’t know how much time she had to do. The sponsorship offers a stable form of income that means she can fully commit to running and writing without the obligation of work in another industry.

Interventions for Survival

A common recommendation for women with BRCA1/2 mutations is to preemptively get a double mastectomy and bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy (surgically removing both breasts, fallopian tubes, and ovaries). These operations can reduce the risk of getting breast or ovarian cancer by 80 to 90 percent. Doctors usually recommend seriously considering these surgeries between 35 and 40, though Aranda’s looking at making a decision before 38—when her mom and aunt (who also died of the gene with ovarian cancer) were diagnosed. However, they aren’t small operations.

Amber D’Angelo, a swimmer and performance dietician for , has the BRCA2 gene mutation and chose to get the preventative surgeries when she found out at age 40, in 2021. “You’re thrust into menopause overnight after having your ovaries removed and that changes how you feel,” says D’Angelo. “You don’t feel quite yourself with the lack of hormones.”

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While the recovery times for the surgeries aren’t drastically different from any other major surgery, one of the biggest impacts is going into early menopause. This can cause all the classic menopause symptoms and particularly for athletes, may require more rest and recovery time. For D’Angelo, they were surgeries worth having to take control of her health.

Turning 35 in December, Aranda knows she’ll have to make this incredibly personal decision within the next three years. “But a lot can happen in three years, right? Maybe the science wasn’t there for my mom and her sister, but it will be for me. You always cross your fingers,” says Aranda. “I want to keep the body that I’ve always known. And the idea of going into medical menopause is terrifying because that brings its own risks like osteoporosis and heart disease. It’s like, do I want to risk my chances with cancer or bone and heart issues?”

Tied on the Trail

On the last switchback before the end, Aranda could see everyone at the top watching her ascend. She rounded the corner and avoided looking at anyone’s faces, just focusing on pushing herself and touching the gondola pole that marked the finish.

Aranda touched the pole and stopped her watch. 48:41. She’d made it, but she didn’t know if she’d won because she didn’t know anyone else’s time.

“With any race or FKT, you see your time as you cross the finish line, and you know your position, if you did it or not,” says Aranda. For this race, each athlete started separately and timed themselves to later upload to the FKT website. “This was so up in the air. You had no idea.”

A few minutes went by before someone asked Aranda her time. At that point, she discovered Siegle-Gaither had gotten 48:40.5. At the top of the ski hill, surrounded by yellow aspens, the two compared watch times. According to the watches, Aranda was half a second slower than Siegle-Gaither. However, Aranda’s watch didn’t track milliseconds, so her watch could have been rounding, and the times could be even closer. It was as close to a tie as you could get for a self-timed FKT, and Merrell hadn’t prepared for this possibility.

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“,” says Ben Stark, Merrell senior brand marketing specialist. “Who would have thought that was remotely possible?”

For two days after the tie, the two athletes waited for a decision from the admins at fastestknowntime.com and Merrell. “My head was going everywhere,” says Aranda. “I hoped for the best. I hoped that the brand wouldn’t split hairs, but I also understood sometimes races have to split hairs.”

By Friday, September 28, they had a result: the time variation was within the margin of error of hand-timing, so the site officially recorded it as a tie for a total time of 48:41, and Merrell committed to signing both athletes.

Looking Ahead

Moving into 2024 with the Merrell sponsorship, Aranda hopes to continue nurturing joy in her life, sharing her story, advocating for others, and celebrating her body even when her genetics feel against her at times.

Since her run to Thunderhead, Aranda has already added four new FKTs to her growing list of achievements to accompany for , whose mission is to “protect and heal the environment by restoring land to the stewardship of Tribal Nations and Indigenous leadership.”

“I’m curious what [being sponsored] will actually feel like, but I’m excited to have fun with it,” says Aranda. “I’m taking it as a chance to explore new avenues, collaborate with new people, and continue to work on the key aspects of myself and how that can be a platform to uplift others.”

For Aranda, this was one more step to pursuing her dream life, but in doing so, it also honors her mom’s legacy.

“She always encouraged [me and my siblings] to follow our dreams,” she says. “She was a musician and dreamed of being a rockstar. Knowing she never got to fulfill her dreams in the fullest of ways, I felt like chasing my dreams was the right path.”

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The tumultuous 2023 Himalayan climbing season was marked by both triumph and tragedy. More climbers than ever set out for Mount Everest’s summit, and 17 died on the mountain, the most ever in a season. Record-chasing climbers smashed historic marks on the 14 8,000-meter peaks. But the race to bag summits also to deadly disasters. And the history books documenting the achievements on these mountains were also upended. New methods for scrutinizing historic climbs prompted Guinness World Records to strip some of the sport’s greatest athletes—specifically Italian climber Reinhold Messner—of their past achievements.

The whole series of events did not sit well with Ed Viesturs, the legendary alpinist who in 2005 became the first American to ascend the 8,000-meter peaks without using supplemental oxygen. I spoke to Viesturs, 64, in October about the state of Himalayan climbing, and whether or not he believes Messner’s record should still stand.

Viesturs told me he does not take the Guinness decision seriously. “The list, as I always saw it, named me the fifth person to climb every 8,000er without oxygen, ” Viesturs said. “I didn’t care if I was first or fifth or tenth but somehow recently the four people ahead of me were taken off the list through analysis or scrutiny and I got pushed to number one. Did It change my life? No. But someone’s keeping track.”

The crowds on Everest and the uptick in record chasing are tied to the same sea change in Himalayan climbing. The rapid increase in guiding companies in the Himalayas means it’s easier and cheaper than ever to ascend Everest and other peaks. Some companies will guide novice climbers up routes that, decades ago, were the playground for the most seasoned climbers. Other guiding companies specifically cater to record-chasing climbers hoping to bag all of the 8,000ers.

Viesturs is not impressed with these records. “The media and general public love this type of speed event. It’s fast, and seemingly innovative. It attracts lots of attention. But this style of climbing takes logistics, manpower to fix ropes, and lots of money,” he says. “Not skill.”

Plus, the race to bag these peaks causes dangerous situations. On October 7, American climberÌęAnna Gutu and her guide Mingma Sherpa died in an avalanche on 26,335-foot Shishapangma. Then, less than an hour later, Nepali guide Tenjen Lama Sherpa and his client, another American climber, Gina Marie Rzucidlo, died whenÌęa separate avalanche buried them higher on the peak. Both women died attempting to become the first American woman to climb all the 8,000ers and were racing each other for the title.

Viesturs believes the demand to score speed records is one of the biggest problems in Himalayan climbing right now. “The highest peaks in the world will always attract people,” Viesturs says. “With the high demand, outfitters are supplying the resources. Some outfitters are well organized and trained, others perhaps not so much.”

Viesturs doesn’t blame the guides, but rather argues that the incentives to get clients to the top may persuade them to take unnecessary risks.ÌęSome guides feel extreme pressures to get their highest-paying clients to the summit. “The pressure of that investment and expectation causes the guides to continue pushing clients to the summit who perhaps should have been turned around much earlier, due to lack of endurance or skill,” ÌęViesturs said. That, combined with what he describes as a group-think mentality, likely contributed to the high death toll on Everest.

Once acclimatized, many disparate guided parties at Everest Base CampÌęanxiously await a good weather report. When guides are given the green light on a weather window, no one wants to be left behind—a dynamic that creates bottlenecks and traffic jams on the route. “Many teams decide to push for that one seemingly perfect day, rather than waiting or assuming that there might be several more good days still to come,” says Viesturs. That issue of crowding on summit day, he argues, could be resolved by the leaders of the teams coming together and making a plan to spread out the summit pushes, rather than all going on the same day.

While Viesturs does not have much interest in climbers chasing speed records on the 8,000-meter peaks, there is plenty about climbing in the Himalaya that still excites him.

“There are many climbers out there doing amazing ascents with little fanfare or publicity. The recent ascent of the (25,300 feet), done in alpine style, is a great example of the future of climbing,” says Viesturs. “Hard ascents done by small teams, often on relatively unknown peaks.”

These climbs often go unnoticed because of how difficult it is to describe just how futuristic they are. The climb on Jannu, for example, involved a push up a face three times the size of Yosemite’s El Capitan, climbing pitch after pitch of vertical rock and ice for seven days. The most difficult pitches of climbing would have been quite difficult for most expert ice climbers at a crag, let alone at 25,000 feet.

“The general public doesn’t really care, but the folks that know what these climbs involve are paying attention,” says Viesturs.

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As we ascend into the alpine on the Appalachian Trail (AT), the weather begins to deteriorate. After 4,000 feet of uphill we gain Madison Ridge, laughing and chatting as the sun begins to set. Above treeline, however, the wind and rain are so intense that we can no longer hold conversations. The boulder-strewn trail is so slippery that we can no longer hop with abandon. Our pace slows as darkness descends.

It’s August 8, and our group of five is in the Northern Presidential Mountains of New Hampshire, pacing 46-year-old British ultrarunner and coach Kristian Morgan on his fourth attempt to set a new fastest known time (FKT) on the Appalachian Trail. We head north from the Pinkham Notch on the route the trail takes up and over the summit of Mount Washington. At least, that’s the plan.

Morgan leads our group as we scamper across the summit of Mount Madison. Lightning strikes in the distance. I count four one-thousands before the thunder arrives, but any comfort is lost as we immediately hear a crackling noise. My exposed hair stands and tingles. The air is electric. We look at each other wide-eyed then spring into action, adrenalized. We need to get off this ridge as quickly as possible. Morgan disappears downhill, into the darkness of the mountain.

The Draw of the Appalachian Trail FKT

The Appalachian Trail is one of America’s premier long trails and the longest hiking-only footpath in the world. Traveling south, it runs 2,189 miles from Mount Katahdin in Maine, to Springer Mountain in Georgia, traversing 14 states and nearly half a million feet in elevation gain. The men’s FKT is hotly contested and has been previously held by ultrarunning luminaries like David Horton, Scott Jurek, and Karl Meltzer. Racing ultramarathons, however, does not necessarily equate to an easy time setting a new FKT on the AT.

“The major hiking trails have a history of famous ultrarunners who flail, every time, in their attempts to set new records,” said Buzz Burrell, founder of . “It’s actually uncommon for a famous ultrarunner to do well on a multi-day trail. These records are typically done by thru-hikers who have the methodology and, more importantly, respect for the trail.”

Currently, the AT’s overall record of 41 days, 7 hours, and 39 minutes—held by Belgian dentist Karel Sabbe—is considered out there in the stratosphere, nearly untouchable. Sabbe falls in that category of athlete who doesn’t have the traditional ultrarunning race success of Jurek or Meltzer, but has done exceptionally well on multi-day FKT efforts. His 2018 northbound record time shaved more than four days off of the previous best, which Joe McConaughy set unsupported in 2017.

RELATED: Hiking the Appalachian Trail: A Beginner’s Guide

Morgan first became interested in the Appalachian Trail after being invited to help Sabbe on his 2018 record-breaking run. “As soon as I was there, I just fell in love,” he said. “From day 1 to day 15, I just thought, I’d love to do this.”

The following summer, Morgan, who is “UK born, Australian raised,” traveled back to the United States from his home in London for a first attempt at the record, with his mother and his cousin as crew members. He quit after six days, in Asheville, North Carolina. “Everything just felt off, wrong, and unorganized,” said Morgan.

“We were just so naive,” said Morgan’s crew chief and mother Sharon Mullen. “Looking back, it was a bit silly we even tried it.”

His plans for a 2020 attempt were thwarted by the pandemic, and Morgan instead set a new FKT on the UK’s longest official national trail, the . In 2021, an injury drove him off the trail after having made it just a few miles further than the 2019 attempt.

Last year, in 2022, he finally finished the entire Appalachian Trail. Morgan credits very specific hill training and a preparatory class led by legendary AT guru Warren Doyle as essential. But the adventure wasn’t without incident.

Ahead of the record, after 31 days, he said he “cracked under the pressure” and stepped off the trail for more than 24 hours. He reached out to Karl Meltzer, who called to remind Morgan that he was still on track to have a very fast time, and that he’d never regret finishing.

“It was crazy because he was ahead of Karel all the way up to Vermont,” Meltzer told me. “I couldn’t believe it. I was like, man Kristian’s killing it, but then he had that one day where he lost it mentally. I just didn’t want to see him quit. I said, ‘You’re still gonna do it in like 43 days. Don’t give up just because you didn’t get first place. You’re still going to be way under everybody else.’” The stop cost him the overall record, but he finished with the second fastest time ever run.

Given the expense, time, and energy that a single effort requires, it would have been easy to pack it up and conclude that the FKT was beyond his capabilities. But Morgan refers to his previous attempts not as failures but as stepping stones towards success. “The more you fail at something, the more you learn,” he said, “and the more you learn, the more chance you have at success.”

No one knows this better than Meltzer, who took three attempts at the record to set a new mark. “I don’t think I know anybody, including myself, who was more determined to chase the record,” said Meltzer. “When Kristian said he was going back and going southbound, I said, ‘Jesus, you are so focused.’”

2023 Southbound Success

After Morgan ran away from us on Mount Madison, I take a hard fall trying to mimic his downhill speed in the rain. Alone, the trail forward is no longer obvious, and I grope around in the dark for a few minutes before rejoining fellow pacers Andrew Drummond and Veronica Leeds as they stream by.

When we arrive at the Madison Springs Hut soaking wet, the cozy inhabitants look at us with wonder and fear. Morgan, for the first time, looks tired. Getting over Mount Washington was the goal, but he had covered enough terrain that day to purchase a bunk, get some rest, and worry about the tallest peak in the northeast later.

RELATED: We Asked 5 Appalachian Trail Hikers What Their Favorite Piece of Gear Was

“The scariest time on the Appalachian Trail was when you and I experienced that static,” he said. “It wasn’t actually crossing Mount Washington that next day, it was that static electricity, because you can be struck at any point.”

The Appalachian Trail has a way of sending you challenges. For Morgan’s 2023 attempt it was physical injuries, which began in Vermont with a swollen ankle that required a partial day of rest. Then, as the end of the trail neared, he took a hard fall and tore his MCL, though he didn’t know it at the time. Battered, he intuitively figured out how to run without stressing the ligament.

Dancing in the Face of Absurdity

Multiple members of Morgan’s crew told me that they were astonished at his attitude, his ability to stay positive despite the injuries and the terrible weather they were experiencing.

“I just found happiness and positivity in every cell and strand of my body that I could,” said Morgan. “Nothing else went right.” He began to dance as a way to laugh through the absurdity of running for a total of 16 hours each day and posted on the internet to add some levity to the situation.

His last push was 85 miles nonstop with more than over 25,000 feet of gain and loss. On September 16—45 days, 4 hours, and 27 minutes since stepping off the summit of Mount Katahdin—he arrived at the trail’s southern terminus on Springer Mountain with the new southbound supported FKT and the second fastest overall time.

When I asked if he’s satisfied with this effort, Morgan said he began planning his next attempt a couple hundred miles from his finish.

“I’m still hungry,” he said. “OK, yeah I’ve got the southbound [FKT], but that was always my consolation. I don’t want to downplay the record going south, but my dream ever since I helped Karel was to get the overall record—regardless of direction.”

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