Momma taught me better than this. She warned me about peer pressure, about doing what the other kids are doing. And yet, when a friend invites us to run a 41.2-mile road marathon only three weeks after our trail marathon at the Snaketail 50, we say yes. After all, this isn’t any old race. It’s the Strolling Jim 40.
About Strolling Jim
Strolling Jim is an iconic road ultra established by the Barkley Marathons’ own Lazarus Lake (Garry Cantrell) in his old stomping grounds of Wartrace, Tennessee. The race starts and ends right by the gravesite of the race’s namesake, Strolling Jim, a decorated Tennessee walking horse from Wartrace. Much of the 41.2-mile course follows old country roads, many not even busy enough to warrant a line down the middle.
As the first race created by Laz in 1979, 2025 marked the 47th running of Strolling Jim. While other, now more infamous races like the Barkley would follow later, Strolling Jim sets the punishing tone that many of Lazarus Lake’s races would share. The race is notorious for its killer climbs—not much compared to many trail races—but at the blistering pace of a road race. The net elevation gain of 3,000 feet over 41.2 miles adds up over time.
The early May date adds its own challenge. This late spring start in Tennessee often comes with oppressive heat and humidity, radiated by the exposed pavement.
Preparing for Strolling Jim
As such, we spend the months approaching Strolling Jim attempting to plan the most efficient response to the heat, distance, and pavement. Anticipating a steamy race day, we completely alter our approach to gear. We want to allow ourselves to keep cool, opting for minimalist running belts and handheld water bottles instead of our usual hydration packs.
To accommodate this lighter load, we also begin experimenting with homemade gels, which we can store in 4 serving flasks—a much more efficient delivery method than individual serving packets.
Being a road ultra, our standard trail shoes are also insufficient. We want the cushiest runners we can get to minimize the impact of miles on pavement. Fortunately, last generation Nike Vaporflys are 30% off on Runner’s Warehouse, so we each shell out for a pricy pair.
Even on discount, though, they aren’t cheap, and complaints from other runners give us every reason to believe that these shoes will not survive the miles of a full training cycle and race. So, aside from testing them out on a treadmill 10k to make sure they fit, we agree to break one of the cardinal rules of racing: nothing new on race day. We will not train in these shoes; they will be fresh with fluffy foam and intact treads when we toe the line of Strolling Jim.
Pre Race
You know what they say about the best-laid plans? Yeah, sometimes they are unnecessary. As May 3rd approaches, one thing becomes abundantly clear: it will rain. The question is only a matter of how much and for how long. Suddenly, our plans of lightweight sun shirts, running belts, and handheld water bottles fall apart. If I am going to be soaked, at least I will try to make other parts of the race as comfortable and familiar as possible. So, we fall back to our old familiar hydration packs. After all, the rain brought one gift along with chaffing and possible thunderstorms: it meant cooler temperatures.
We roll into Wartrace, TN, the day before the race with our Avion truck camper and all our gear. Wartrace opened a field a 1/4 mile from the race start for people to camp, and we take advantage of the location to pick up our packets that evening and even get our bib signed by the legendary (and possibly prophetic) Laz.
Running Strolling Jim
We line up at the start line of Strolling Jim at 6:45 AM. Race organizers discuss the race and introduce notable runners running this year. At 7 AM, we are off, starting with a climb out of Wartrace and out into the countryside.
Despite heavy clouds and sporadic sprinkles, the race starts fairly dry and cool. And the pace established by the lead pack reflects the favorable conditions. We often talk about establishing ourselves at the back of the lead pack, but after a mile, the podium contenders are out of sight, and we focus on our personal goals.
Along with podium trophies for the top three men & women and finisher’s medals for all who complete the 41.2-mile distance, Strolling Jim has a tradition of t-shirts. Runners who complete the course under 7 hours earn a red shirt. Runners who complete the course under 6 hours earn a blue shirt. And those notable few who complete the course in under 5 hours earn a gold shirt. With our training, I was reasonably certain that we could win red shirts, but we were pacing for blue. That would require an average of 8:35-minute miles.
Early in the race, we allow ourselves to be swept away in the excitement of the course, clocking sub-8-minute splits. But, as we reach Normandy, 8.5 miles into the race, we encounter the first of four major climbs. We dial back our effort, knowing that there will be plenty of opportunity to make up time on the downhill.
Fueling for 41.2 Miles
We are also particularly conscious of time lost to aid stations. True to its roots, the race is bare bones. While there are regular water stops, they are often little more than a row of gallon water jugs lined up along the roadside.
It would be unfair of me to pretend there is no human aid. There were stations manned by what I’m guessing is the local football team. Frankly, those guys ran a tight ship and appreciated the urgency of getting in and out of aid stations. At some stations, volunteers would shout ahead what runners needed so they would be ready with water, Gatorade, and snacks. I never experienced a backup throughout the course.
Granted, many of the runners had little to do with these refueling points, manned or not. Instead, they arrived with cars and crew leapfrogging along the race course with refreshed water bottles, personalized snacks, and whatever last-minute provisions could be transported in a car. Aside from the convenience of customized attention, crewed runners had the benefit of only needing to carry minimal gear along the course. Many carried little more than a handheld water bottle.
In comparison, Chris and I toed the line with everything we intended to consume in our packs. Aside from occasional water refills. We each carried:
- Four water flasks with 200 cals of liquid nutrition each (two were prefilled with water, and two only had powder)
- Two reusable gel flasks with 4 servings in each (800 cals total)
- Pill packs with painkillers, electrolyte tablets, etc.
- A lightweight jacket
- A phone
- A camera
- Pickleshots / Hot shots
On a regular Saturday in Wartrace, the roads are fairly empty. Most of the cars that pass us while running Strolling Jim are crew cars traveling to their next support location. As I run, I gain a sense of how many crewed runners are within the few miles behind me. Each time a car passes, I register “that’s another runner behind me that just filled their water bottle and fueled up”.
One notable traffic point, however, is where we cross US 41A, 12.5 miles into the race. This four-lane highway has regular traffic, but the local police stop cars as runners cross the highway from Normandy Road to Whiteside Hill Road.
A Stumbling Point
Aside from occasional stops to refill our water bottles, we maintain a steady pace until halfway into the race. Ever since Blue Ridge—when cramping legs forced Chris to completely pause the race and eventually walk it in—we have tried our best to be proactive about cramping. Even so, no amount of pickle shots, electrolyte tabs, and Tylenol can completely prevent the inevitable: Chris needs to slow down or else his legs will completely lock up.
I am ready to slow down with him, if not for one other event at about the same time: we overtake the 3rd-place woman. She started out hot with the lead pack, but now she is walking. Suddenly, I am in contention for the podium. Chris gives me the White Fang treatment and tells me to go.
Alone with Strolling Jim
Sure, the possibility of a podium finish is compelling. But at this point, my motivation shifts: if I run 20 miles by myself, it better be worth it. Now, moderation takes a back seat to obligation: if I’m abandoning my best friend in a moment of pain, I’m going to share that pain.
It can be a relatively useful new mindset to adopt just before reaching the notorious Walls section. Along with being a sustained climb, the peak concludes in a dramatic series of rolling hills. At this point, I start reeling in other runners.
And then came the rain.
More than the occasional sprinkles we had been experiencing.
Less than the deluge that would come.
After The Walls. I cross back over US 41A and down to the final stretch along exposed fields. My glasses fog up a bit, but at least the rain keeps the temperatures cool as we approach noon and I start doing (poor) math in my head. If I can maintain below a nine-minute mile for this last hour, I can get that blue shirt. And with as close to a flat course as Strolling Jim ever grants, I take off.
Remember how I mentioned the fancy super shoes we bought are notorious for falling apart? Part of that is because they are designed for forefoot strikers. To save every bit of weight possible, there is no tread on the heel of the shoes. Striking the pavement with the forefoot is not necessarily optimal. Still, it does help mitigate harm to the joints, instead allocating the stress of impact to the tendons, such as the Achilles.
While I began running as a forefoot striker, my trail running has seen me embrace more of a midfoot or even heel strike. But with 40 miles of pavement to train for, I train to return to a purely forefoot form for this race.
With only 5 miles left ahead of me, however, the longevity of my shoes was no longer a concern. Shifting to a mid-foot strike, I could rest muscles that had been taking most of the load and rally other muscles for my final kick.
The shoes survive. Though this is also the time that I discover one of my flasks has not. At my final refuel, water drains out of a pin-sized hole at the bottom. I try to drink as much as I can before it is empty, leaving me with half a flask of water for my final sprint.
There is one more aid station where I could have refilled my bottle, but I’m focused on the clock. “How much farther?” I call out. “Two miles!” They reply.
Two miles. I run faster. I don’t care about leaky water, torn-up shoes, or the increasing rain. I’m leaving it all on the race course, which is, at this point, the margin along highway 64 where I encounter another runner negotiating between a walk and a jog.
“We’re going to get a blue shirt!” I cheer.
“I don’t know that my legs will hold up,” he worries.
I offer my best version of a pep talk I can rally this far into the race: “You have 23 minutes to run 2 miles.”
“Oh…”
I like to think that made the difference.
There’s a headfake a couple blocks before the finish. I see train tracks and think I’m there…not quite. When I do finally approach the heart of Wartrace, I realize I’m not sure which way to go. Do I run back to the start line or towards the big white race tent on the other side of the tracks? Fortunately, there are traffic cones and people to direct me to the finish line and the race clock.
5:50:30
One volunteer hands me a finisher’s medal.
Another asks me my shirt size and brings me the blue shirt.
I almost cry, but I’m also trying to collect myself after the hardest push I can ever recall.
And then they bring me the third-place trophy. As bittersweet as it was to finish without Chris, at least I have something to show for it.
Chris’s Run
Chris, on the other hand, rallies far better than I expect. By slowing down before his legs completely lock up, he is able to keep running, albeit with an awkward gate. With his stiffening muscles, extraneous actions like looking back for crew cars is very difficult. But he continues to power ahead.
Along with a more measured pace came one notable difference that I notice ten minutes after finishing: the sky opens up and the rain begins to pour. Heavy headwinds feel like he isn’t even moving forward in his final march down Highway 64. Slower, certainly, but forward is a pace, and Chris finishes.
I plan to cheer him in at the finish line, but first, I need to get out of my wet clothes, a process that takes a lot longer than usual after running 41.2 miles. So, I am in the middle of packing a dry bag of clothes for Chris when I hear knocking at the camper door and see him, soaked to the bone but wearing his red shirt.
He finished 6:28:01.
After the Race
Once dressed in warm, dry clothes, we returned to the race tent for chicken and to chat with other runners. The rain has matured into a full thunderstorm but runners continue to trickle through the finish line and join the other finishers huddled under the tent.
Even having dried off and changed into warm, dry clothes, our bodies struggle to thermoregulate. So, after some lunch, it’s time to tumble into the truck cab and crank the heater.
Happy trails!
