Gorge Waterfalls 30k – Sixth Place, and Something Deeper

This one was for you.

On paper, Gorge Waterfalls 30k doesn’t make a lot of sense for me. I specialise in the long stuff—the 100 milers, the 24-hour plus grinds, the nights spent chasing ribbons in the dark. But this one wasn’t about racing the clock or pushing for a personal best. This was about clawing my way back to something that felt like me.

On Monday—six days before race day—I was diagnosed with a subdural hematoma. Dried blood on the brain from a bleed that had likely occurred sometime over the last 2 to 4 months. No specific trauma, no clear cause—just a gradual, quiet storm inside my skull that explained so much I’d been feeling but hadn’t understood.

The past few months have been brutal. For the first time since my traumatic brain injury in 2018, my symptoms came back—not as physical pain, but as something darker and harder to name. I felt anxious, volatile, emotionally raw. I was irritable, overstretched, and completely disconnected from myself. Worse than that, I started projecting. I blamed people close to me for how I was feeling. I withdrew. I lashed out. I temporarily lost people I didn’t want to lose.

By the time the scan results came in, I wasn’t even surprised. Just a strange kind of relief—like, finally, a reason for the chaos.

So when I lined up at the start line of Gorge Waterfalls 30k, it wasn’t with a race plan or a strategy. I wasn’t thinking about splits or podiums or pace. I was thinking about the people I’d hurt. The people I’d lost. And the ones who stayed, even when it wasn’t easy.

The course is stunning—lush, rocky, steep in places, and relentless. True Pacific Northwest singletrack. We were climbing straight away onto the Gorge 400 trail, and I could feel that familiar tug in my legs and lungs as we bypassed the crowds at Multnomah Falls. But I held back, listened to my body, and kept things smooth running in the chasing pack. Despite everything, it felt… good. Grounded. Like my feet and the trail were finally having a conversation again.

The pace in our group was a bit too slow early on, and by the time the trail opened up enough to overtake at mile 4.5, the lead pack had already built a significant gap. When I hit the two-mile road section at mile 6, they were completely out of sight. Still, I didn’t back down, 'be bothered' I repeated to myself. I held off a few surges from behind by professional short distance specialists and, without realising it, I was slowly reeling the leaders back in. I was impressing myself. I sat in fifth place for most of the race. I kept waiting to fade. But somehow, I didn’t. The climbs rolled beneath me, the descents were loose, technical, and joyful. I found a rhythm where I hadn’t expected to—and when it hurt, I leaned in. Not with grit, but with gratitude.

Sixth out of around 400 runners. It shouldn’t have happened. Not with the brain bleed. Not with the emotional wreckage. Not with the weight of the last two months still settling on my shoulders. But it did.

Because this one wasn’t about the result.

It was for the people I pushed away.

For those I treated unfairly.

For those who held me accountable.

This one was for you.

I’m still here.

I’m still showing up.

And the road back—like any good trail—is rarely straight.

Thank you.

Ajay