Dear Daily Princetonian

Editor's Note: This is the fifth in a series of postcards that Daily Princetonian sports staff writers wrote about their experiences in the wide world of sports this summer. Keep reading throughout the next few weeks for more dispatches from across the country and around the world.

BOZEMAN, Mont. — What's a girl to do after retiring from the Princeton swimming team and the grueling training schedule it entails? Find another way to inflict pain on herself, of course.

My new source of hurt came in the form of the 20th-annual Ed Anacker Bridger Ridge Run. The 20-mile run boasts a 17,000-foot elevation change traversing the spine of the Bridger Mountain range near my hometown of Bozeman, Mont. And despite residing in New York City for the summer and not being able to train at altitude or on mountain trail conditions, I believed I was ready to take on the "most technical trail race in existence."

With my new Camelbak securely strapped on and my iPod blasting cheesy pump-up tunes, I eagerly lined up at the starting line. A cold snap had just started, and the mountains were completely covered in clouds, but I wasn't worried. By the time I summitted the first mountain, 9,200-ft. Sacajawea Peak, however, the temperature was hovering around 30 degrees, the ground was covered in snow, and my hair was fully encrusted with ice.

"Well, these certainly aren't the conditions I had hoped for, but so far this isn't too bad," I told myself while jovially getting my frozen portrait snapped by a support crew member.

Disaster struck around mile four when I slipped on a loose chunk of icy shale and slid part way down the mountainside, spraining my ankle. As I was trying to regroup, my cell phone rang with a new message. (It's amazing how good the service is when you're on top of a mountain.) My cousin, who had given the race a test run last summer, texted: "Good luck and ENJOY!" How ironic. My throbbing ankle made me question whether I could even finish the race, but lacking a better alternative, I taped the ankle up, popped a handful of Motrin and continued on my (un)merry way.

The miles that followed were something of a blur. Due to the altitude, temperature and fatigue, I was slightly delirious the majority of the time. The dense fog made it difficult to see any runners in front of or behind me, and I just hoped that I wouldn't lose the sparsely marked trail or tumble down the side of the steep ridge into the cloudy abyss. Making my way up and down the treacherous talus "trail," I forced myself to hydrate and suck down high-calorie "goo" packets.

At the midway support station, located at the top of our local ski hill, I was given some much-needed mittens, pickles (my favorite) and electrolyte capsules by the support crew. My nearly hypothermic mother and frozen-mustached father were also there to boost my morale. (Thanks, guys!)

More gusty winds and bitter cold greeted me on the second half of the run. I focused all the attention I could muster on the trail, so as to not fall down or tweak my ankle again on the loose, knife-like rocks. I eventually reached the final peak, Mount Baldy, where I foolishly figured the final five miles downhill would be no problem. Not so. The extreme steepness, coupled with the millions of tiny rocks which slid like marbles under my feet, proved to be murder on my compromised ankle.

This stretch was undoubtedly the longest part of the run, and the pain and stress had me in near hysterics by the time I finally crossed the finish line. My time: seven hours, 41 minutes, rather pathetic in my opinion. But what did I care? I was DONE — and I could look forward to spending the remainder of the month wearing an air cast and taking painkillers.

While flipping through some literature in my finisher's packet a few days later, I stumbled across the quote, "Dropped on your head as a small child? Then ultra running is the sport for you!"

After the Ridge Run experience, I'm beginning to think there's something my parents didn't tell me.