by Dr. Charles Steele

I’m an ultrarunner. “How do you run 50 miles? Why would you run 50 miles?” I will try to explain this, but you should understand at the outset that words really cannot explain.

An ultramarathon, or ultra, is any footrace longer than the 26.2 mile marathon. My first ultra was Montana’s Le Grizz 50 mile Ultramarathon. It is aptly named. Its courses have varied over the years, but it is always on dirt roads in remote backcountry that is inhabited by grizzlies and other large animals that do not fear us. I’ve completed it twenty-three times.

How did I start doing this race? I had been preparing for my first marathon, a race in a small prairie town in Eastern Montana and was ready, but it was canceled. I had read that a well-trained marathoner could complete any distance up to 100 miles, and I had heard of Le Grizz, run in western Montana’s Flathead River region, so I thought “Why not?” and sent in my entry.

I had read that a well-trained marathoner could complete any distance up to 100 miles, and I had heard of Le Grizz, run in western Montana’s Flathead River region, so I thought “Why not?” and sent in my entry.

The day before the race, I drove to the starting area near Spotted Bear Ranger Station along the South Fork of the Flathead River. I drove into the “campground,” just a cleared area in the woods, got out of my car, and began pulling out my sleeping bag and camping gear. A group of people sat around a nearby campfire and one called out “You’re here for the race? Come over and join us.” He introduced himself as Rick Spady–I learned he was the previous year’s winner, and a national class ultrarunner who in the future would win races including Colorado’s Leadville 100. This was my first race beyond 20K, and he and the other runners shared ideas for running strategy and post-race recovery, as well as their beer. It was my introduction to the close knit ultrarunning culture, where the fastest and slowest runners mingle. The next morning, October 8, 1983, I walked in the frosty fall air to the starting line. My father had driven up earlier that morning to serve as my support crew. We stood and listened as race director Pat Caffrey gave his usual sardonic pre-race speech. He fired the starting shotgun blast, and we began. I did not realize what I was beginning.

I have completed sixty-three ultramarathons to date, in six states, all but one of them on backcountry trails or dirt roads. Sometimes, there’s not even a trail. Sometimes, there are bears. But this was my first. As I started out, I could not conceive of running fifty miles at once, but I could conceive of running ten, so I told myself I was just running ten miles, five times. “Five is a small number, it’s not intimidating.”

The first ten miles were lovely. The Flathead Valley region is Montana’s impersonation of a Pacific Northwest rainforest, and the fall is gorgeous. Tamaracks turn bright yellow in preparation for dropping their needles. Fir and spruce retain their dark greens. It’s often damp–intermittent clouds, occasional drizzle or a few snowflakes or graupel, more sun, more clouds–and that’s how it was that day. The course weaved along the western shore of Hungry Horse Reservoir, the Flathead Mountain Range towering to the east of the reservoir. It was beautiful. I held a steady pace: ten-minute miles with a walking break every five miles. The next ten were good, more of the same. I peered at a cow moose who was peering at me. My father would drive five miles ahead in his pickup, get out a folding lawn chair, his Louis L’Amour novel, and a Thermos of coffee, and begin gabbing with other support crews. When I would arrive, he’d hand me water, peanut butter sandwiches, and bananas. Amidst the third ten, I began to realize, “this is hard.” At mile 35, I discovered a principle that has subsequently held true, at least for me: if there is to be a terrible part of the run, it will start in the 30’s. I had never before had a feeling of “tired” like this–legs, of course, but also my back, shoulders, arms, and brain. “Yeah, but there are only fifteen miles to go.” Fifteen miles is a long way, but fifteen miles is also not a long way. 

Today, I often hear someone say “I’m exhausted” and I immediately think, “No, you’re not. You don’t know what exhaustion is.” I was not exhausted, not used up–I still had at least fifteen miles in me. I was just beastly tired. At mile 40, I found myself in a new universe of tired. “This is hard.” An old guy who was cutting firewood saw me and asked if I needed a ride. I showed him my race number, and he laughed and wished me luck. I felt shocked at the idea of not running. At mile 45, I crossed Hungry Horse Dam, an enormous concrete hydroelectric dam and powerplant. A girl was waiting there; she was a runner who had come up from Missoula and was running a couple of miles with finishers who needed a pacer to boost them on the last stretch. It was nice running and talking with her for a few miles; I noticed my muscles didn’t want to move correctly and I had to concentrate to make my legs go straight. We talked about that.

Today, I often hear someone say “I’m exhausted” and I immediately think, “No, you’re not. You don’t know what exhaustion is.” I was not exhausted, not used up–I still had at least fifteen miles in me. I was just beastly tired.

I crossed the finish line grinning. There’s a photo of me finishing that’s floating around online somewhere; I’ve seen it. I was pleased, really tired, and glad to be done. My father was impressed. After that, I just remember eating and drinking a lot–water, beer, chicken, pizza–and I learned how hard it can be to sleep the first night after running that far.

In subsequent races, I’ve learned more about how to pace myself, more about training, more about food and fueling the body (peanut butter and bananas are good, add jerky), and my body has learned what it is in for and how to recover. I’ve finished 50 milers where the fastest part of the run was the last five miles and I felt confident I could do another 50 if called upon. I’ve finished when I was skeptical that I had another five in me. I’ve completed one 100 miler and 100K races as well. I’ve learned the mindset that lets me accomplish things I’m not sure are possible. I’ve also learned there are limits; I can’t do some things. I’ve learned that I don’t know these limits in myself, or in others, and that we can’t know them if we don’t explore them; I still don’t know what exhaustion is. And I’ve learned that, after an experience at the limits like an ultra, returning to the mundane world takes a bit of adjustment, and most people really don’t understand.

But what does this have to do with our original questions “How do you run that far?” and “Why would you run that far?” And “What is this ‘RFM?’” I didn’t return to ultrarunning right after my first race. I competed on a triathlon circuit for a couple of years and then went to graduate school. But, I began to notice that I approached things subtly differently. Graduate school was tough. More than half the students entering my PhD program dropped out or failed out, most of them simply choosing to quit, usually “exhausted” and unhappy. I couldn’t conceive of quitting. Towards the end of my time at NYU, I looked at my fellow students who remained and finished, and it struck me that, despite few of them being athletic, all were like ultrarunners. They had the same mentality and spirit. I didn’t have a good way of putting it until I learned RFM.

At the pre-race meeting for the 1997 Bighorn 50 Miler in Wyoming, race director Stacey Page told us that to finish we should simply remember “Relentless Forward Motion: RFM.” Bighorn was one of the toughest 50 milers I’ve done, and I hurt, because undiagnosed plantar fasciitis suddenly flared up around mile 18. Along the trail was an occasional hand lettered sign “RFM!” I finished. RFM is our answer, it puts into words this thing I learned from running ultras. “How do you run fifty miles?” “RFM.” “But why would you run fifty miles?” “RFM!”

RFM is our answer, it puts into words this thing I learned from running ultras. “How do you run fifty miles?” “RFM.” “But why would you run fifty miles?” “RFM!”

I cannot imagine a life of passivity, of taking it easy, of not accepting the challenges that surround us. You start something that’s a challenge, that seems worth doing. That’s really what living is: human action. And having started something, why would you stop? Because it’s hard? I cannot imagine finding something to be hard and thus quitting. And we don’t even have to look for challenges, there is so much opportunity, so much to be done, so much potential challenge and adventure. Ultrarunning taught me that being tired, or hurt, or depressed is not a decision–these are data. They inform and perhaps modify my strategy as I press forward. But forward, not quit. I’ve heard some refer to “relentless forward progress,” but that adds a complication, as it presumes we know we’re on the right course so our motion is progress. But we don’t always know. I’ve been off course in trail ultras, but RFM says press forward as best as you can, and make a course correction when you learn it is necessary. Don’t quit.

Running ultramarathons changed my life. I am not who I would have been without it. Perhaps it does little for others, but it has shaped my soul. I think God gave me this ability and expects me to use it. I became much closer to my father, who became my support crewman for the remainder of his life and to my mother as well. I completed graduate school with it. I have friends who I know only from running ultras, and I am closer to them and know them better than people I see every day. It shapes what I say to students who are facing challenges and making life decisions. And having written all these words, I still haven’t explained it. If you, the reader, really want to know, you can come and run an ultra with me. How about the 44th annual Le Grizz, October 11, 2025?

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Dr. Charles Steele is Dettwiler Chair in Economics and Associate Professor. On October 9, 2021 he was inducted into the Chief Ten Bears Circle for runners who have completed Le Grizz twenty times. In the ceremony, an elder of the Blackfoot Tribe bestowed on him the name Po-nah-tat-sii (Slow Deer). Steele now serves on the organizing committee for the race as an advisor.