Last weekend, I toed the line at the Honey Badger 100-mile ultramarathon in Kingman County, Kansas. This wasn’t just any race—it was the third of four in the Iron Will Grand Slam series and my fifth 100-mile finish overall. It also marked my return to Honey Badger, a race I completed last year and, at the time, declared the hardest thing I’d ever done.

That was true… until May. That’s when I ran the Iron Will Backroads 100 just 20 days after finishing the Earth Day Bucklemania 100. That back-to-back effort wrecked me. But this time, I had almost eight weeks to recover heading into Honey Badger. I wasn’t 100 percent—tight calves and glutes made sure of that—but I was in much better shape than I was for the May sufferfest.

Still, there was one curveball I didn’t see coming—I couldn’t sleep the night before the race. Normally, I aim for a solid 8 to 8.5 hours before an ultra. So I laid down at 6:30 p.m., planning to be asleep by 7. I tried everything—TV on, TV off, in bed, on the couch, watching a movie with Rachel. Didn’t matter. I finally drifted off sometime after midnight. That’s the first time in years that I’ve struggled with sleep before a big race, and I knew I’d be carrying that fatigue with me into the early miles.

The race kicked off at 6 a.m. Saturday morning. It was 69 degrees with humidity already hanging at 83%. That stickiness would become the theme of the weekend. Even though temperatures never skyrocketed (we topped out around 83 degrees), the humidity averaged around 70% and often pushed into the 80s and 90s. It was overcast and breezy early on—perfect conditions to bank some steady miles before the afternoon heat rolled in.

So I pushed the pace just a bit for the first 20 miles, figuring I could slow down later when the sun came out. The strategy worked. The heat wasn’t a factor, and I hit mile 53 in Saint Leo solo but feeling strong—maybe even better than expected.

I took a 30-minute break at Saint Leo to reset: I downed a giant cheeseburger, squeezed in 20 minutes of compression therapy, and just allowed myself a few minutes to breathe. I’d made it through the hottest part of the day, and although my legs were definitely feeling the cumulative effects of three 100-milers in 11 weeks, I was in good spirits. Plus, I finally had company.

My first pacer, Lisa, joined me out of Saint Leo—someone I hadn’t spent much time with before, but that’s the magic of ultrarunning. You get to know someone really well when you spend four hours moving through the Kansas countryside together. We slowed the pace, soaked in the miles, and before I knew it, we were at mile 67.

That’s where Mark jumped in—my night pacer, just like last year. (But not before a surprise appearance as an inflatable unicorn!). He likes to take over when I’m at my most delirious with chance of hallucinations. But this year, no hallucinations, no unraveling. I was tired, sure, and not always the most talkative, but my energy levels stayed surprisingly strong throughout the night. In fact, two-thirds through the race, I felt better than I had at the same point in any previous 100-miler. We were moving well, confident, and ahead of pace.

And then around mile 85, I felt it. A sharp, sudden pain in my left Achilles. I adjusted my stride, slowed down, and did my best to work around it. I wasn’t far from the finish, and I had plenty of time until the 36-hour cutoff, so the focus shifted from pacing to survival.

Kevin took over pacing duties as the ankle worsened. By mile 87, I was relieved to only have a half marathon left, but I knew it was going to be a war. Like last year, those final 13 miles were no joke. I was dealing with slight nausea—not sick, but unable to get much food or fluid down. Calorie intake fell off. Hydration slipped. And the sun? Blazing. I forgot the sunscreen, so a little sunburn came along for the ride.

We moved in two-mile chunks. Walk two. Break five minutes. Repeat. That strategy held until about mile 95, when my right ankle decided to join the pain party. Both ankles now hurt with every step. We wrapped them up as best we could, and just kept moving. My pace slowed to a crawl—literally two miles per hour—but quitting was never on the table. I had time to finish, even if I had to crawl.

And somehow, I managed to jog across the finish line.

Before the race, I predicted I’d come in between 32 and 33 hours. I finished in 31 hours and 53 minutes. Not bad for a 50-year-old with three 100s in the rearview over the past 11 weeks. Aside from the final four miles (which were the most painful of my life), this was probably the best I’ve ever felt during a 100-mile race. I’m still learning. Still a rookie in a lot of ways. But I’m not the same guy who ran his first ultra five years ago. The confidence is different now, and I’m grateful for that progress.

Shoutouts

I can’t close this out without some thank-yous:

• Tony – My brother, my running professor, my Mr. Miyagi of ultra. He was there for every minute of the race, crewing like a pro.
• Rachel Magnuson & Ashley Nicole – Huge thanks for crewing large portions of the race and for your support leading up to it. Rachel worked tirelessly behind the scenes to make sure everything was dialed in.
• Lisa, Mark, and Kevin – My pacers were absolute rockstars. Kevin, especially—you’ve now had to pace me at the end of three of these things. That means you’ve witnessed Peak Grumpy Matt multiple times, and still came back for more. You deserve your own buckle at this point.
• David from Happy Hawk Massage – Thank you for working magic on my legs post-race. My body needed it badly.

Recovery & What’s Next

Recovery has been the smoothest I’ve ever had from a 100. Within a week, I’ve logged 25 running miles, rucked another 11 (in airports with 22 pound backpack), and knocked out a 13-miler this morning. My recovery toolkit included cryotherapy, an IV infusion, hyperbaric oxygen therapy, DDP Yoga, and a lot of slow walks.

Up next: the final race in the Iron Will Grand Slam—the Iron Will 100 on September 13th. It should be the easiest course of the four, but we’re still preparing for heat, because Kansas in mid-September can still crack 100 degrees. The good news? I’ve got eight weeks to gear up for it.

Thanks for following along. I may have gone into this one sleep-deprived and limping, but I came out stronger—and I’m still not done.