Pinhoti 100 - Race Report
Pinhoti 100
First 100 miler… phew.
29 hours and 42 minutes. 10 months of training.
2025 Training Race Schedule
Little Rock Marathon, Boston Marathon, Rivers Edge 50k, War Eagle 50k, Colorado Bend 60k (my hardest training race), some random ass 30k… and lastly my first 100k, where I came in 1st female overall.
I’m not really sure where to start… Pinhoti was November 1st, and it’s now December 17th. I haven’t done a single race report yet, so I think I was a little overwhelmed and didn’t know where to start…. But, here we go.
Competing has been my life since I was 4 years old, mainly soccer, but in other ways as well. I remember being the only girl at recess playing football with the boys. I ran track, played basketball, ping pong, dodgeball, etc. Sports have always been the main focus in my life. Sports were put to a halt in 2023 when I became a living liver donor for my mom and donated 70% of my liver to her. This was one of the first times I really could see my mental strength. The surgeons had never had a collegiate athlete donate a major organ and return to play, so they didn’t know what the timeline would look like. They told me 9–12 months… I was fully cleared 3 months post-op.
November 8th, 2024, was my last collegiate soccer game. Weeks before that game was even over, I was already trying to figure out how I was going to compete after the fact. That’s when I signed up for my first marathon with my dad. For years, I had seen his plethora of medals in our office, including half marathons, famous full marathons, 50ks, 100ks…. and…. 100 milers, including Leadville and Western States.
At first, it was just speed work for a goal of a sub-4 marathon. In February 2025, I crewed and paced my dad in his last 100 miler (Rocky Raccoon 100). His goal was sub-24 hours. I paced him the last 20… he finished in 23 hours and 45 minutes. If you’re a runner, you know how this next part goes…. There was talk about what was next, but he reached his goal. So instead of him signing up for another ultra… I signed up for my first 100. Pinhoti 100, November 1st, 2025. This decision was made somewhere in between Little Rock (March) and Boston (April). This race was also specifically chosen from the Western States qualifying race list.
I had friends traveling to come cheer me on at Boston, so I decided to just enjoy that and figure out a training plan for Pinhoti when I got home. I was ready for Boston, or at least I thought I was… at mile 5, I had to go to the bathroom, no biggie — I always have to go to the bathroom. I
ran not even another mile and had to go to the bathroom again… annoying, but whatever. This happened up until around mile 9. I then started to feel nauseous, so I called my dad. We talked through a couple of things and decided to just push to mile 13 where my friends were and we’d reconvene. After I got off the phone with him, I threw up everything I had in my body… I walked/jogged to my friends at the halfway point. I tried to take a gel here but couldn’t keep it down. Someone at the medical tent saw and pulled me in. They sat me down and hooked me up to a couple things. At this point, I knew that sub-4 was out of the question. I was worried that I was going to get pulled. I was so upset I started to cry. I had to raise $10,000 for this, my friends came for this, and I was representing the American Liver Foundation. After about 45 minutes in the tent, my best friend Hailey came to me and basically bitched me out in the most “pep talk” way. She told me how I had done way harder things like the transplant and told me to get my ass up and finish the damn race. Right then and there, I got my ass up and jogged off.
I later found out that before Hailey came over and yelled at me (which, by the way, was exactly what I needed — you should’ve seen the nurses’ faces though), my dad was telling her to tell me that it was okay if I wanted to stop. Hailey and I talked about this after the race, and she said that was one of the hardest things she’s ever had to do and said she started crying after I jogged off. There’s something about running… I swear, I’ve cried after every single one of my races so far. I ended up walking/running the rest of the course. I would stop and hang out with ALF teammates that I saw along the way… I’d also hit every porta potty along that course. I was sick the whole week after Boston and realized I ran the race with Norovirus.
Anyway, I am now a Boston Marathon finisher. (Thanks to Hailey ripping into me.)
Fast forward to being recovered from Boston and Norovirus… I got something better than one of my dad’s famous whiteboard sessions. I got my first sit-down session with my new ultra coach. We planned out the rest of the months I had leading up to Pinhoti, including training races to practice with aid stations, back-to-back long training runs, back-to-back long training weekends, nutrition, hydration, etc.
My first 50k was in May. It started in the morning, and by the end of the race it was 99°. It was my first true test at hydration and nutrition… it was manageable, but now I can safely say that it wasn’t a long enough distance to really test those two things out. My next 50k was a sentimental one — my first ultra with my dad. War Eagle 50k is in Arkansas and one that his best friend puts on, so I was automatically excited for it. I had felt really sick after all of my races up to this point. This was my last 50k until the further distances and longer training weekends, so there was immediately a sit-down talk after this about hydration and nutrition. I hadn’t liked to eat during races at this point (aside from Pringles), so I knew that needed to change.
There was scary flooding leading up to my first 60k, so the course got moved. The new course was four 9-mile loops. It happened so last minute that the course wasn’t really able to get fully cleared. It was my first night race with a 7 p.m. start, along with heat and humidity. My dad was also running with me again to help me focus on fuel and efficiency at aid stations. The sun started setting towards the end of the first loop, and I realized that the dark out there was kinda scary… so I begged my dad to stay with me. The footing on the course was brutal — you were either in straw up to your waist, water up to your knees, or mud trying to take your shoes off. There was no spot on the course where your foot could land flat and straight. Halfway through the 3rd loop, my dad’s knee really started to bother him (he has an arthritic knee). The rest of that loop, I was having a full-blown conversation with myself about whether I’d finish the last loop if he decided to stop. It was time to make that decision. My dad stopped because of his knee (and he was only really out there for me — he had no reason to be out there running with me; he very well could have just crewed me). I decided to finish that last lap. I had already run 27 miles or something like that, so what was 9 more. I didn’t see a single runner during that loop. In fact, the only people I saw were at the full aid station halfway through. It was an incredibly hard race that I ended up finishing. After this race, I knew I could do 100 miles… but there was still more training to be done.
After this 60k came my long training weekends, with the 15- and 20-milers… or the 20- and 20-milers… then it was 100k time.
My dad ran this with me as well (he’s actually the GOAT — he asked me before all of these races whether I’d rather have him crew or run with me. Regardless of my answer, that’s what he was going to do). I had nutrition and hydration more dialed going into this race, so I felt ready.
There was a section in the loop at the hottest time of day where there was a 7-mile break in between aid stations. I mentioned wanting to push the pace to get it over with quicker. My dad told me why that was actually a terrible idea and that we should do the opposite and slow down. I ended up running out of water about 2 miles away from the aid station. Once we got there, we hung out for 30-ish minutes and rehydrated and fueled. In that time, two runners came through and dropped. I suddenly came to the realization that I had only seen one other female in front of me the whole day… so I asked the aid station people if they’d seen any other women. They told me that the woman I had seen had just dropped. I looked at my dad, then back at them, and said, “So I’m 1st female?” This was around mile 35 (ish).
We kept moving to the next aid station, where I asked those workers if they had seen another woman in front of me, and they said yes. My dad and I were confused because we hadn’t seen another woman all day. So we kept moving to the next aid station… where a worker came up to me and asked if I was Cameron Lane and if I was running with my dad. I said yes and asked why. She said, “You’re in 4th place overall and 1st female, and you’re in 5th place” (my dad). I immediately got a second wind and said, “Let’s go win this shit.” I asked how far back the 2nd-place female was, and they said 30 minutes at the last check-in point.
It was really cool, from this point forward, everyone kept asking if we were the “father and daughter duo.” We had 15 more miles at this point, and I was ready to get it over with as fast as possible. We ended up making it happen, and I finished 4th place overall and 1st-place female overall. My dad finished 5th place overall and 1st-place male masters. (Shoutout to my coworker David, who took the time out of his day to come and pace me the last 17 miles… he helped get me to that finish line.)
It was overall a great race and an incredible memory with my dad, even though the RDs did end up sprinkling in an extra 3 miles somewhere in the race for us to end with 65 miles total. I was now one month away from Pinhoti 100, and it was taper time. My mom asked me after this race how I was feeling, and I shocked her with my response. I said, “Good! 100 miles is only 25 miles more than what I did today!”
Race Week
We left for Alabama that Thursday so that we could have a full day to decompress, hit up packet pickup, and go over logistics. We met my other pacers and crew — Janet and Chris (who, if you wanna talk about GOATs… that’s these two). I was anxious and knew I wasn’t going to sleep well. All I kept telling myself and others the week leading up to the race was, “I just need to get to the start line and start.” I knew with the three seasoned professionals I had as my crew and pacers, I was going to finish — I just needed to start this damn thing.
The Morning of Pinhoti 100
I woke up feeling surprised by the amount of sleep I thought I wasn’t going to get. I was anxious but ready to rock. Bib 107. We parked the car, I took my Vespa, and we started our ½-mile–mile walk downhill to the start line. I immediately beelined to the restrooms to get any last-minute stuff out of my body. It was so hectic when I heard the 5-minute warning. I couldn’t find my dad and had zero service to call or text him. I needed to say bye to him. I went over to the guy with the megaphone and asked him to call my dad over… “Tom Lane, can you come… over here?” I finally saw my dad, along with Chris and Janet. I gave my dad a long hug and held back the tears, and I gave Chris and Janet a hug as well. My dad gave me a nod, and I knew it was game time. I was ready to go.
The next time I saw the three of them was at mile 7. Okay — now I saw the elevation on paper. I studied the elevation map. Yeah… not the same in person. Holy. It was switchbacks and climbing the whole seven miles leading into that first aid station. I got my bottle ready to fill and headed to my crew. My dad asked, “Well, how is it?” I looked at him, probably like I had seen a ghost, and said, “It’s not flat.” Apparently, that was the running joke the rest of the day.
I knew I’d see them again at mile 18, and then not again until 45/47. That 25-mile period, in the heat of the day without them, made me nervous. What made it worth it was knowing that I’d get my first pacer the next time I saw them and have someone with me the rest of the way.
My overall goal was sub-30 hours (I really just wanted to finish and feel good doing so), so going into the first half of the race I was trying to avoid any 20-minute miles, along with being time-efficient at aid stations. This meant pacing the uphills (jog 50 paces, hike 50 paces, repeat).
I saw my crew again at mile 18. My legs were already shot, so I took some extra-strength Tylenol, grabbed a headlamp just in case for later, and saluted them. I knew I wouldn’t see them again for 6–7 hours. I just needed to get through it.
I ended up meeting a girl named Cass around mile 20, and we were both in the same boat about being upset about the long time apart from our crew. So we hung with each other for a while. I told her at one point that she didn’t need to slow down for me, but that if she was down, I’d love to stick with her for a while — and so we did.
I was walking away from an aid station, stuffing a bag of cookies into my vest, when I felt something sting my ankle. I flicked a yellow bug off of me and started freaking out a bit. Some guy came past me and asked if I was okay. I told him the bug had just stung me and asked if I was going to be okay (only kind of joking). He said, “It’ll hurt,” and kept moving. It felt like the stinger was still in my ankle. I could feel something rubbing against my gaiter, but I left it and kept trucking along.
It was finally time for the biggest climb of the race — Mt. Cheaha (the highest point in Alabama) from miles 40–45. I ate shit at this part of the race and my knee started to bleed — gotta keep trucking along though! I made it to the top of the mountain, found a group of teenagers, asked them to take a pic of me, and then kept moving.
I had service at the top of the mountain and knew there were two things I needed to do:
Send “proof of life” to the group chat with all of my family and friends.
Tell my crew that I needed the trekking poles when I saw them.
My legs were gonzo, but I still had juice and was going to finish. I learned in the 60k, long training weekends, and the 100k that once my legs are shot, I can keep going. They’re going to feel like that until I’m done with the race, so I might as well keep going.
I can’t even begin to tell you the relief I felt seeing my crew at mile 45 for the first time in almost seven hours (I again had to hold back tears). I grabbed a little toothbrush, refilled water bottles, backup salt tabs, Vespa, electrolytes, Nerd Clusters… you know, all the essentials.
I wasn’t supposed to pick up Janet until mile 47, but I could have someone with me at mile 45. So my dad grabbed the poles and ran with me for two miles, trying to adjust them and give me a crash course on how to use them.
Mile 47 came up quickly, and it was time for Janet to pace me. They call her “Diesel.” She’s a beast, she’s consistent, and she’s exactly what I needed at this point in the race (along with her ibuprofen/extra-strength Tylenol schedule she had me on). I started to slow down, but I never stopped moving.
Mile 65 came, and I caught myself staring at some rocks that looked like they’d be a great spot to pop a squat. I finally told Janet I needed to stop for one second. I’m still very new to running, and Janet didn’t know me super well, but when I said a minute, I really meant a minute. I hadn’t sat down once up until this point, but I wasn’t going to waste too much time there — I had a goal.
She was hesitant but saw two runners coming up behind us. She said we were moving once
they passed us. I started to cry because I was in pain, tired, etc., but I still didn’t want to stop. She told me I could cry while I walked, so that’s what I did.
I had lots of conversations with myself at this point — motivating conversations that included the main reasons I needed to keep moving:
I didn’t have any reason to stop, and I didn’t want to stop.
Chris and Janet had paced and crewed many people and had yet to have someone DNF (I couldn’t be their first).
And lastly, I had spent so much money on cute merch the day before… I couldn’t not finish now.
Janet’s section ended, and it was time for Chris to pace me. At this point, I basically had a 50k left. There was a huge fire at the aid station with lots of runners bundled up taking naps… I had no interest in doing that.
I started to cry when it was just my dad and me. I was tired, hurting, further than I had ever gone, and I was feeling all the emotions — especially knowing I was only 30 miles away from finishing. Before we left, I asked my dad if I should switch my waist lamp light out. He said no.
(Keep this in mind.)
It was time to get moving again, and Chris was ready. As soon as I picked up Chris, it was time for the last big climb of the race — miles 70–75. It was pitch black at this point. All I could see was Chris’s light, so I followed.
For almost two hours, all Chris and I did were switchbacks and climbing. We could hear the aid station at the top of the climb the entire time, which made it feel so close yet so far. We finally made it to the top. I got my cheese quesadillas (my food of choice all day — never a miss), filled my bottles, and we were back on the move.
We knew that at the end of Chris’s pacing period, we had a pretty gnarly descent. At the last aid station before this descent, I saw Cass for the first time in a while. It was good to see a familiar face I had shared miles with. We gave each other words of encouragement, then Chris and I took off.
It’s common courtesy to turn off your lights heading into an aid station. As we were leaving, I turned my waist lamp back on. It seemed like it was struggling, so I turned it off, then back on. Next thing I knew, my waist lamp died… I asked my dad! Haha. Luckily, I had a headlamp with me for safety. Chris also had an extra light if needed, so it was no big deal — just funny.
Chris and I were trucking along. I still hadn’t slept at all, but I also hadn’t had any hallucinations. Chris stopped in front of me, pointed to our left, and said, “Wow, look at that!” I said, “What the fuck is that???” It was a bright red strip in the distance. I thought it was Halloween decorations at an aid station… he corrected me and told me it was the sunrise. The amount of confusion in my mind… phew. Scary.
There were a couple of other times where I thought I saw something that wasn’t there. At one point, I thought I saw a cooler and said to myself, “Wow, that’s really nice of someone to bring a cooler up here with drinks.” Yeah… it was just a big log. No cooler.
This section with Chris was really tough mentally. Night ops was not my favorite thing… but every once in a while I’d hear Chris say, “Come on, Cam!” or “Keep pushing, girl!” and that kept me going.
The descent came, and yeah — the quads hated it. But I knew that at the bottom of this hill were my dad and Janet. And that meant I only had 13 more miles once I got to them. Everyone was cheering me on when I arrived at the aid station.
I needed to sit.
My dad said I could sit for five minutes if I ate. I said, “Ha. Deal.” I had greasy, yummy eggs in a buttery tortilla… and the next thing I knew, I started bawling my eyes out. At this point, I was over 24 hours into this race — no sleep, hurting, proud of myself, and again… the furthest I had ever gone.
Janet came over and gave me a hug. She kept telling me how proud she was of me and how I just needed a hug from a momma and that I’d be alright. I cried a little more in her arms, brushed my teeth, and got the rest of my stuff together.
My dad looked at me and said, “Alright, let’s fucking go.” So I got up and started going down the hill… I accidentally forgot my Vespa, so my dad got an extra hill repeat to go back and get it for me.
My dad told me that if I could do 14-minute miles, I’d go sub-28 hours. I was able to pace that out for about a mile or two and then knew that wasn’t in the cards for me. I questioned whether or not to bring the poles for this last section, but my dad kept insisting, “This is the flattest part of the course — you don’t need them.” While he may have technically been right… this is my only regret of the whole race. I wish I had taken them.
Little did we know, these last 13 miles were primarily on jeep road (yeah, that didn’t feel good in my legs). I was moving really slowly at this point. My dad told me, “Alright dude, if we keep moving this slowly you’re not going to finish under 30 hours, which is okay! I’m just letting you know.” He knew I wanted to go sub-30… so I started jogging.
So I mentioned earlier that I’m a competitor… you should meet my dad.
I was grinding out each step when we saw some runners ahead of us. My dad started egging me on, telling me I had to pass them… so what did I do? I passed them. My dad was beyond excited about that (because it was actually a grown-ass man who had just been passed by a 23-year-old female… and I RAN past him).
We kept trucking along, and then I noticed an evil smile on my dad’s face. I saw another runner in front of us… what did we do? Run past them.
We finally hit the last aid station of the race. Holy. Shit. I grabbed a quesadilla, filled my bottles, and started walking. We ended up diving back onto the trail.
At this point, I really couldn’t get a hold of my emotions. I was crying consistently, trying to keep up with my dad, but everything hurt too bad. My legs were so tired that I couldn’t pick them up, which meant I kept kicking rocks and tweaking my ankles… which engaged other muscles and just made everything hurt more.
I was so close, yet the trail kept going… I was crying and crying. My dad kept asking me, “Are you hurt? Emotional? Overwhelmed?” My response was, “All of the above.”
I had 90+ miles on my legs, had been moving for 29 hours, and was about to accomplish something I had never thought was possible — especially for me, a retired soccer player who donated 70% of her liver to her mom and was told by surgeons that they weren’t sure if I’d be able to return to play. Little did they know, I was about to complete a 100-mile ultramarathon.
At packet pickup, my crew and I had walked from the finish line back onto the trail a little bit.
I told my dad that I felt like we should be done soon… he kept running ahead to see if he could see anything, then came back to walk with me. We were going to cross that finish line together.
Finally… things started looking familiar. I heard screaming, cowbells, clapping, and then the trail opened up. I saw the finish line. I was bawling my eyes out, with my dad at my side and Chris and Janet on the other side of that line.
29 hours and 42 minutes later…
I, Cam Lane, Bib 107, am a 100-mile ultramarathon finisher.
Fuel and Hydration
• 1 Vespa CV-25 30 minutes before
• 1 Vespa concentrate every 2½ hours
• 1 17 ml water bottle with Precision Fuel & Hydration electrolyte tabs every hour (1000 during colder times of day and 1500 during the hottest times of day). I did a bottle and a half of 1500 during peak heat, then switched to half a bottle of 1500 and water at night
• Nerd Clusters when I needed an energy boost (no gels or GUs were used)
• Water at aid stations
Aid Stations
Water
Cheese quesadillas
Watermelon
Blonde Oreos
Homemade chocolate chip cookies
Avocado in a tortilla
Eggs in a tortilla
It’s now weeks later, and I am fully recovered and back to 40-mile weeks.
As I reflect on this past year and the lessons I learned on this new journey of mine, I’m nothing but grateful for my health — both mentally and physically — and proud of myself. When I say I’m going to do something, I do it. And I continue to prove that to myself.
Lessons Learned
Always keep wet wipes on hand.
Squirrel’s Nut Butter needs to happen before it’s too late.
Being hydrated from just water and electrolytes are two different things.
My mind is stronger than my body.
Ultras are addicting.
And most importantly — ultras are a team sport. I fully believe that I wouldn’t have been able to finish this race without my crew, pacers, and the amazing aid station workers.
About three weeks after the race, the spot where I got stung still wasn’t healing and I could feel a raised bump… yeah, the stinger was still in my ankle. I squeezed it out, and it finally started to heal.
I was able to put my first lottery ticket in for Western States with this finish. I did not get pulled for 2026, but I do know what’s next for me…
Arkansas Travelers 100mi — October 2026.