Lost Trail Half Marathon 2026 - Race Report

This was my first race of the year, which sounds dramatic until you remember it’s February and I’m in California, where “winter” is mostly an excuse to buy long sleeve Lululemon tops. My fourth time at Lost Trail, and somehow I still showed up nervous. I kept telling myself: This is for fun, Tracy. Enjoy yourself. 

Last year I sat it out, all noble and Boston-focused, terrified one rogue trail root would turn my marathon into a limp-fest. Joke’s on me—I got injured before Boston and my ankle still aches. So here I was, almost a year later, same cranky achilles tendon, lacing up anyway.

I left the house just before 7 a.m., traffic was light for once, and pulled into the lot in twenty minutes. Checked in, port-a-potty pit stop (I may have been the first today), then retreated to my car with Funny Story by Emily Henry. If I hadn't started a social media fast for Lent, I’d have doom-scrolled my nerves away. Instead, I let Daphne and Miles distract me with their perfect chaos, which felt fitting—my own chaos was about to start.

Around 7:50, I pried myself out of the warm car cocoon and trudged to the start. The crowd was thin—maybe the relentless rain of the past two weeks had scared everyone off, or maybe Lost Trail is always this intimate. Mud puddles gleamed like little warnings. We did a quick warm-up stretch led by TBF Racing (bless them), and then we were off.

I’d programmed my new black Garmin 965 with a PacePro plan—ambitious, optimistic, doomed. I hit start, and my wrist lit up with a colorful course map that looked nothing like reality. I scrolled desperately for numbers, anything familiar. Eventually I found the “how far ahead/behind” magic number. Cool. Until the course didn’t match the plan. Construction around the lake, giant mud holes—life laughed at my plan. 

The watch kept chirping “off course,” then “back on course” miles later, like my dog wanting outside, only to ask to come right back in. Maddening. Whatever. I had Spotify queued with Christian Chill Melodic House EDM (yes, it’s a genre, and yes, it slaps). The beats pulsed, the lyrics lifted, and suddenly I felt immensely grateful to be out here, ankle complaining but legs moving, trails unfolding like they’d been waiting for me. The early singletrack was magic: wet but not soul-sucking muddy, undulating like a dirt roller coaster edged with the first green blush of spring. I dodged a few mud patches, felt alive.

During the first out-and-back, I glimpsed other runners. After that? Just the girl ahead of me in her coral top. She was… talking. Constantly. Singing? Podcasting to herself? I couldn’t tell. Even when trees hid her, her voice floated back like she’d brought her own soundtrack. I lost sight of her a few times, panicked I’d actually gotten lost on Lost Trail, then rounded a corner and there she was again. 

She's in this pic but a little hard to see.

Eventually the gap shrank—I was walking plenty, not pushing—and I ended up right behind her. She stepped aside politely. I passed. And still heard her chattering away behind me. I kind of loved it. Proof I wasn’t the only one out here narrating my life.

I scrolled watch screens until I found total distance. Three miles left. Thirty minutes, I bargained with myself. You can do anything for thirty minutes. The trail turned familiar, the lifeguard tower appeared like a finish-line beacon. Don’t stop now. Legs churning, ankle grumbling, I crossed the line, grabbed my medal, and heard my name over the speakers. Podium. Third place.

Third.

I was a little bummed—until I realized I’d never seen first or second the whole race. They were ghosts ahead of me. First had already vanished into the ether; second was in street clothes. I collected my award quick, no waiting around in the chill. Headed home to plot the next one.

My big takeaway--I didn’t PR. I didn’t even race hard. But I showed up, ankle and all, and the trails gave me back that quiet, humming joy—the kind where you realize you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, mud on your shoes, book in your bag, and a tiny podium surprise that feels less like winning and more like the universe winking: See? You’re still in the story.

And honestly? That’s more than enough.

Yeah, full change for second place. I'm still wearing mud.

Funny Story (Not Emily Henry's) - In 2024 my official time was 2:23:30. Today, two years later, it was 2:23:31. Looks like I shouldn't have stopped to chat at the last aid station ;-)