I’m sitting on the couch binge-watching a detective series on Britbox, periodically stealing a look at my thighs. It’s summertime, my legs are bared in shorts, and my thighs look like ham hocks. I like them. They’re muscular. They make my husband of thirty-five years laugh. Neither of us could have predicted I’d turn into a running jock at sixty-five.
We’ve just returned from the Wild Woman Trail Race Weekend in south-central Washington, an eight-hour drive from our home in the northwest corner of the state. I remain fatigued two days after our weekend of camping, mingling with ultra-athletes, girding my loins to race, and running, but I’m still riding the high of the experience.
Wild Woman is an annual event run by and for women. It includes 50k, marathon, marathon relay and half-marathon races, and emphasizes camaraderie, mutual support, and love of running in the wild. This year’s guest speaker was Rachel Entrekin, champion of the 2026 Cocodona 250, a multi-day, non-stop run across Arizona. (She beat all the men, as well as the women, running fifty-six hours straight through desert and mountain terrain). Wild Woman’s participants range from first-time trail-race runners like myself, to ultra-athletes primed to run 50k. Everyone is welcomed to the fold, whether high-school-age girls, gray-hairs like me, lean young women in their twenties and thirties, middle-aged moms, gay women, trans women, or women who’ve been awarded scholarships to train for the 50k. At first, I’d been a little intimidated by the crowd. Did I belong? Everyone looked so fit and experienced. But as my husband and I settled in to the opening night’s potluck dinner, held in an open field with snow-capped Mount Adams as the backdrop, I began to feel more at ease. Obviously, we shared interests in running and in being outdoors, but I recognized other traits, too. Trail runners tend to have a loner aspect to their personality, perhaps a demon or two to exorcize, and a dollop of competitiveness—with themselves, if no one else. Yet, we were also there for each other, for the perpetuation of events like this: celebrating women’s strength and solidarity at a time in our country when our rights, freedoms, and privacy are under threat, when things like the trad wife movement actually exist (i.e., running backwards).
I was born into an almost pathologically sports-averse family. Poets, all of them. My father, an English professor at the University of Washington, liked listening to college football games on the radio, and my mother liked swimming in Seattle’s Green Lake every summer. But neither encouraged, let alone apprised me of the existence of extra-curricular sports. For one thing, they were protective. The idea of sending my brother or me out onto a field with a pack of raucous, red-cheeked children who might kick us or hurl a ball at our head was inconceivable. We grew up fifty miles from ski slopes, yet my parents discouraged any interest there; skiing was a sure way to break a leg or fly down a crevasse. Aside from the risk of personal injury, it was impressed upon us that we were artists and writers, contemplative people, above cultivating any sort of athletic skill. Organized sports (aside from my father’s nostalgic attachment to college football) came disturbingly close to promoting violence, or at the very least, a sort of group-think. To be fair, I tended to agree with this general view, confirmed as it was by my experiences in high school, where I joined two teams: cross-country and soccer. I lasted a month in cross-country, which struck me as needlessly exhausting (though I didn’t stick with it long enough to build endurance), while soccer—I was the worst player on the team. I lasted one season, barely. Fundamentally, I didn’t get the logistics of the game and did all I could to avoid contact with the burly girls on the opposing teams, not to mention the ball itself. My inner mantra on the field was, “Do not pass it to me!” The only reason I’d joined was because my friend Pam convinced me. At six feet tall, she thought the game great fun.
Still, I had athletic ability. It was just lying dormant. This became apparent in my twenties, when I started taking aerobics classes, and after meeting my husband David, hiking. I discovered something the rest of my family had not: that at a certain point, you work yourself into an apogee of pure exhilaration, a kind of temporary release into your animal nature. I connected with my inner puma.
Still, the idea that “sports” were low in the taxonomy of human endeavors was deeply ingrained. I struggled, still do, with equating my dedication to running and hiking, and all that they bring to me both spiritually and physically, with my efforts as a teacher and writer. Yet, isn’t it physicality that makes our very existence possible? Isn’t it the physical world, nature, that literally sustains us?
David and I started hiking long distances in our forties and fifties. We were both teaching high school, and our weekend trips to the mountains became, for me, a spiritual experience. Disappearing into the forest, getting muddy and sweaty, listening to the wind and birds and varmints rustling in the brush, learning the names of wildflowers—hiking was the one thing that truly took me to a place of peace and presence. Then, circumstances shifted. Covid hit, altering everything from the logistics of our daily routines to our ability to trust our vision of the future. David suffered a series of health issues, as well. I began running in place of hiking.
In October 2023, I started Googling half-marathons, spurred on by a casual challenge from David. We’d been walking around Lake Padden, located a few miles from our house, when I said, “I bet I could run around this thing two or three times.”
David asked how many miles that would be. I calculated: it’s 2.6 miles around, so three circuits would be 7.8.
“You should make it a marathon,” he joked. “Run around ten times.”
I remember giving him my jaunty did-you-just-seriously-issue-a-challenge smile. “I’m not running a marathon, but a half … I bet I could run around this lake five times.” The more I toyed with the idea, the more I thought, I could definitely do that. If I train.
So I did. I started timing my runs, lengthening them week-by-week until I was primed for my first half-marathon in May 2024. It was called the Run Like a Girl race, and it was a fun, non-competitive event, proceeds of which went to the YMCA’s running and health program for young girls. Some of the competitors ran with short, tulle ballet skirts over their running shorts, others sported glitter on their cheekbones. All along the Interurban Trail, where the course was laid, volunteers cheered us on, passing out water and electrolytes, offering nibbles of candy and half-bananas to sustain us. At intersections with traffic, they dressed in funny costumes—yellow and black bumblebee suits, a set of Crayola crayons. An Elvis impersonator regaled us with Suspicious Minds. It was joyous and challenging. As I crossed the finish line, David, whom we both jokingly referred to as my couch-coach, was nearly in tears at the vision. I was sixty-three years old.
Two years later, we were in Trout Lake, Washington at the Wild Woman Weekend, staking our tent amid a wild wind tunneling through the valley. Around us, hundreds of women and their kids, husbands, friends and partners, were setting up camp, too. The pinnacle of my running career had arrived.
Funny thing was, we were there by serendipity. I’d intended to run a half-marathon two hours from home, but because there were World Cup games happening in Seattle, hotel rates in the area were upwards of $400 a night, and those in shabby hotels. It was only by hunting for alternative events that I came across the Wild Woman race. I must’ve studied their website twenty times before telling David that I intended to sign up. I wasn’t entirely sure I could do the thing, run a half-marathon through a forest with 1600 feet of elevation gain. If nothing else, I figured, I could be an embedded journalist.
Soon as I pushed submit on my computer screen, the emails started landing in my inbox: ultra-running organizations announcing hundred-mile events across the country, blogs and newsletters from ultra-sport nutritionists, physical therapists, running gear consultants. Half of the emails I trashed after a glance, especially the ones advertising mega-races I’d never run. But the blogs on fuel to be consumed during such events, I read with a sort of grisly fascination. Grisly, because the advice being dispensed seemed dubious. Yes, it was intended for athletes fueling their bodies for superhuman feats of endurance, but consuming multitudes of gel packs and replacing electrolytes and hydration through IVs afterwards surely couldn’t be healthy in the long run (so to speak). Some of the articles discussed the necessity of training your body to be able to take in these nutrients. In order to run 100 miles or more, perhaps even “just” 50k, runners should condition their digestive systems to tolerate gels, gummies and electrolyte drinks to propel themselves through. This alone convinced me I’d never be an ultra-marathoner; just the thought of swallowing “gel” makes me gag. But I’d be mingling with folks in this milieu.
Friday evening, after our eight-hour drive, we loaded our potluck plates with pasta salad, tabouleh, cookies, tortilla chips, salad, and cold chicken. Carbs and lean protein. We found a place on the grass to sit and eat. I watched as women greeted each other and hugged, comrades and alumni, I assumed, from similar events. I checked out their muscled calves, toned arms. I looked around for evidence of other gray-hairs, and saw a few. A trans woman stood alone, eating from her plate. She looked to be in her thirties. I was tempted to go talk to her, ask what event she was running. But I knew, or thought I knew, that this could be taken as patronizing—my assuming that she felt like an outsider, my going to her so she’d feel welcomed. Just because I felt a bit on the outside of things didn’t mean she felt that way.
Next morning, we watched as first the 50k runners, then the marathoners, took off, passing through the flower-bedecked archway that made the start and finish lines, headed toward the forest. Tomorrow would be my turn.
Many trail-running events feature camping. It’s part of the vibe. Camping at Wild Woman involved port-a-potties, though, which is not part of a normal camping experience. We weren’t in a drive-in campground with toilet facilities, nor were we in the wilderness, where you simply “find a tree.” We were on someone’s farm, camping in an open field. Port-a-potties were where the shit was happening. Unfortunately, when I get nervous, I get squeamish—and, I get the runs. But the organizers of the event had underestimated the number of entrants and only hired eight porta-potties for roughly 500 people. These factors did not a happy combination make.
Starting around dinnertime Saturday evening, my nerves kicked in. The thought of food was borderline gross, but I knew I had to launch into the pre-run dietary ballet meant to provide the perfect balance of protein, carbohydrates, calories, electrolytes, sodium, and hydration. I was nervous about being able to choke down enough food, nervous about getting enough sleep, and highly concerned about the distance from our tent to the porta-potties, as well as the troubling conditions within those cubicles. The things were brimming with human waste. The very image of lowering myself within inches of such a heap made me gag. I was approaching panic mode. Nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide—literally. David could see that I was beginning to freak out, so he leapt into action. He found a tiny hollow in the brush where I could “go,” and cleared a space in which I could crouch just out of sight from other campers. He also, noble character that he is, announced that he would take care of everything requiring energy output until after my run: cooking dinner, cleaning up, packing up our tent the next day. This allowed me to calm down. After several decades, he knows when I need talking off the ledge.
Sunday morning, I was nervous but okay. I was no longer worrying about the what-ifs (what if I trip on a root and sprain an ankle, what if I simply can’t finish). I’d reached that higher plane of, Embrace the experience. I downed a jumbo portion of muesli with raisins and soy milk, swallowed sixteen ounces of electrolyte-infused water, staved off pre-race shivers by layering-up. Once we made it to the gathering place for the starting line, I was feeling pretty decent. Through the flower-hung archway stood Mount Adams. The morning sun warmed me, calmed me. Ten minutes to race time, I handed David my layers and entered the crowd of women. A young woman we’d met the day before was running her first half-marathon, and I wished her luck. The countdown began, and that feeling of pure joy I’ve experienced at the start of every race I’ve run, no matter the length, fell over me: joy at being in the company of people who only wish you the best, joy at being lucky enough to be alive and able and surrounded by the beauty of nature.
Right off the bat, I was surprised to see some runners “Jeffing it” up the first hill. Jeffing it, named after Jeff Galloway, runner and father of the method, is basically walking at certain points in order to conserve energy as well as strength. Witnessing serious trail runners do this was an aha moment for me. I immediately understood that Jeffing it isn’t wimping out, but something trail runners “legit” do.
After leaving that first incline, a county road, we entered the woods. I shifted into running-brain mode. How to describe what this is like? You’re preternaturally aware of all that’s around you, especially at your feet. You’re supremely in the present, because you must be; one misstep can send you flying. You pick up birdsong, wind, rustles in the bushes as a chipmunk or mouse moves. Ahead of you are other runners, especially at the beginning. You can almost hear them regulating their breath, too. You know they’re watching their footing, thinking their private thoughts. It’s when you’re on a stretch by yourself, not considering whether or how to pass another, that your mind begins to range. As a writer, I channel mine towards whatever I’m working on at the moment. It soon clears of the gunk of politics, regrets, the dark goo that often clogs my thoughts when I’m idle. Instead, I see where a story can go, or assemble ideas for another.
The first aid station was 6.7 miles in. There had been some steep climbs leading up to it, and I’d Jeffed it up three of them, which I experienced, again, as a sort of revelation. I truly was sparing my thigh muscles, and had a better level of energy as I continued on. I was surprised when I arrived so soon to the aid station. I downed some of the electrolyte drink they offered and quickly moved on. Now I was running solo through pine forest, intoxicated by my endorphin high and plotting an essay in my head. It helped that I knew the next aid station was only 2.6 miles away.
Aid station #2 was at the end of a long, low incline up a forest service road. I knew I was getting close when I heard pop music winding through the woods. This station was definitely in an obscure location. The two women volunteers explained that there was no outhouse as it was too remote. Luckily, I didn’t have to go urgently. I also knew that whatever liquid might be jostling around in my innards was likely to get absorbed over the next 3.8 miles in the now palpably elevating heat. More electrolytes downed, I headed off.
The last section of the course was a winding, mostly single-track path through the sun-dappled forest. Much of it seemed fairly level, though I was so high with the experience that my memory may be distorted. There were a couple rather steep inclines, which I again Jeffed. On one of these, I saw a young woman ahead. Lithe and fluid, I estimated her to be in her late teens or early twenties. I noted that she Jeffed it up the steep inclines, as well. We passed each other a couple times, but she ultimately forged ahead.
Eventually, the way started seeming familiar. Soon I hit the county road that had made our first incline. In the distance, I heard cheering. Women were crossing the finish line. One last push and I’d be there. I had to be careful not to get too enthusiastic, not to speed up too much and either pull something or fall. Down the hill I went, fastish but measured. At the intersection with Mount Adams Highway and the county road, I picked out a flagger and another man, whose silhouette I knew. David had stationed himself to see me run the final quarter mile. As I neared the intersection, he called, joy cracking his voice, “Wow! You’re a wild woman!”
And I am, in every sense of the word. We wild women (runners or not) are beyond easy classification or stereotypes. We resist external control, “domestication.” We inhabit and revel in wild places—physical, intellectual, creative. We embrace joy no matter our age.
Yes, I’m lucky to have the ability to run and hike in my mid-sixties. I’m also fortunate that I know, and have known love, its own, ultimate wilderness.
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Julian Bentley-Edelman is a writer living in Bellingham, WA. Julian has worked as a teacher and elder-care social worker, and holds an MFA in Fiction Writing from the University of Washington. When not writing, Julian runs long distances, hikes in the Cascades with her partner and does volunteer work. Her essays have appeared in Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, BoomerLit Mag, Persimmon Tree, and the 2026 Fish Anthology.
