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Lauren Harrison

Where Slow and Steady Stops

By 29029 Everesting

March 27^th, 2026

I like to joke that when it comes to running, I operate like a sloth.

Always moving.

Not necessarily fast.

For the running events I’ve done, it’s worked.

And honestly, that same approach worked pretty well at 29029 too…

But it didn’t quite get me all the way.

After two mountains of falling short of the Red Hat, I realized something I hadn’t wanted to admit.

I was relying on myself alone to get there.

Jagged mountain peaks dusted with snow rise above a dark forest at sunset. The sky is a gradient of pale orange.

I first climbed at 29029 Snowbasin in 2022.

By dinner, I had finished five laps, but the aches had started creeping in.

The story in my head started to turn negative.

You’re not going to finish. You’re taking longer than you should. You wasted so much time earlier in the day.

My sixth ascent took almost twice as long as the others, and on the gondola ride down, I started doing the math.

At this pace, I can’t finish.

Staring out the window, I had already decided the outcome.

I assumed the mountain was linear.

That I would only get slower from there.

So instead of pushing through the night, I went to sleep.

The next morning, I went back out. And when 36 hours came to a close, I had finished eight of thirteen ascents, reaching Elbrus.

A woman leads a group of hikers up a steep, dusty trail using trekking poles. She wears a race bib labeled

Two women stand smiling behind a banner that reads,

A woman smiles as she walks through a crowd of people clapping and giving her high-fives during a race. She wears a race bib, sunglasses, and athletic clothing, and uses hiking poles.

A smiling woman with trekking poles finishes a race, holding her phone up to take a photo. Spectators cheer on the dirt path with a mountain in the background. The woman wears a race bib with

Silhouette of a ski lift and gondola against a bright orange sunset over mountain peaks.

The following year, I returned to Whistler for another try.

I trained more and showed up more prepared.

The climbs felt quieter and the trail calmer.

I climbed, slow and steady, and this time, after 36 hours, I’d made it six of eight ascents.

Aconcagua. A few mountains higher than before. Seventy-five percent of the way to the Red Hat.

Again, I had finished with about thirty minutes left on the clock.

But this time, I had left it all on the mountain.

Slow and steady had gotten me far.

But as I rode the gondola down without a Red Hat, I realized it had taken me as far as it could.

I’d done the training.

I’d put in the effort.

I’d stayed consistent.

And I still fell short.

Two smiling women hike uphill in the snow, using trekking poles. They wear rain gear and athletic clothing, with race flags visible behind them.

Hikers trek along a snowy trail using poles. The lead hiker smiles, wearing a clear poncho. Others wear hooded jackets. Evergreen trees and ski lift are visible in the background.

Smiling woman hikes in the snow with trekking poles, wearing a clear plastic poncho and a blue hooded hat. Black flags with yellow and white text are visible.

Smiling woman in a plastic poncho hikes with poles in the snow. Black flags with yellow triangle logos are visible.

That was the moment things became clear.

Left to myself, I always chose the version of effort I knew I could survive.

And it wasn't just about pace.

I was treating the mountain like something I had to solve on my own.

That was the problem.

Because that version of effort - the one that felt controlled, manageable, and repeatable - had a ceiling.

And I had found it.

If I wanted the Red Hat, something had to change.

I needed to stop trying to do it alone.

Sunset over mountain range with silhouetted pine trees in foreground, golden light.

Training with Coach Wooch Graff was definitely outside the box at times.

At one point, a workout involved putting a shot glass of water in my mouth and running a mile without swallowing it.

I had no idea what that had to do with earning my Red Hat.

So I asked.

“With your asthma, we need to train your breath control. This will help your nasal breathing. And it’s going to help you on the mountain.”

It wasn't random. It was incredibly specific.

And that became a pattern.

Looking up at tall trees in a forest, trail markers are attached to a tree trunk on the left. Sunlight filters through the canopy against a clear sky.

Coach Wooch set targets in training that I couldn't always hit.

That was new.

I was used to completing what was in front of me.

Following the plan, checking the boxes...

Now, I was missing.

At first, it felt like failure.

If I’m giving my all, how am I still missing the benchmark?

When I told my husband my frustrations, his response reframed it.

“If you hired a coach and you were crushing every single workout they gave you, I’d think you hired the wrong coach. The whole point is to push past your limits.”

That was the shift.

The goal wasn't to confirm what I could already do.

It was to expose what I couldn't.

When it was time to return to Whistler again, the experience felt different.

Not because the mountain had changed, but because my approach had.

I wasn't chasing the Red Hat anymore. I wasn't thinking about the finish.

I was following a plan that didn't come from my instincts, and leaning on Coach Wooch's training to help me execute it.

One climb at a time.

Ski lift chairs hang over a mountain covered in evergreen trees and purple wildflowers at dusk. Snow is visible on the mountain peak.

A woman smiles, high-fiving someone while hiking a mountain trail lined with red flags. She wears sunglasses, a race bib reading

If I’m being honest, I didn’t even let myself hope for the Red Hat.

I was too afraid to think about it.

So I focused on the process: pacing, fueling, and the next few steps.

And suddenly, 3 years after my first mountain, I was pulling on the Red Bib.

Everest was finally in reach.

A woman hikes uphill on a trail using poles, with a gondola overhead and mountains in the distance. She wears sunglasses, a race vest, and compression socks. Tall evergreen trees line the hillside.

Red carpet leads to a building at a mountain peak, flanked by red and black flags. The sun shines behind the building. Banners with numbers and triangle logos line the path.

I've heard that the last lap is free at 29029.

It is not.

On that final ascent, there were moments where I slowed to nearly a stop, trying to negotiate with myself.

Just a short break... just a minute.

I knew what that could turn into.

Because that's how I had always operated.

Choosing the pace I could manage, staying in control, and avoiding the edge.

But this time, I wasn't alone in it.

I thought about the people who had helped get me there. The ones who believed in me, trained with me, supported me, and pushed me.

I kept moving.

With thirty hours of fatigue in my legs and every step carrying the finality of the mountain, I finally allowed myself to think about the Red Hat.

A woman with trekking poles pauses on a mountain trail to speak with two staff members. The woman wears a race bib reading

At the summit, there were a lot of tears.

Gratitude.

Relief.

Excitement.

I pulled on my Red Hat and beamed.

It took three tries to get there.

And in a way, I'm glad it did.

Because the most important part wasn't the finish.

It was learning what had been holding me back.

I used to think the way forward was simple.

Show up.

Move.

Stay steady.

And that worked. Until it didn’t.

Coaching didn’t just make me stronger.

It changed how I approached the mountain.

And life.

It pushed me past the pace I would have chosen for myself. And that version of effort, no matter how consistent, had limits.

Slow and steady got me close.

Coaching is what got me all the way.

Woman in a red cap smiles, holding up a peace sign at the Final Ascent Whistler race. She wears sunglasses and a race bib labeled

Smiling woman, Lauren-Winks, celebrates finishing

Footnotes

Voice: Lauren Harrison. Writing: Cirque Studio. Photos: Megan Dunn, Brendan Ladd, Cirque Studio

Button Label

FootNotes

Voice: Lauren Harrison. Writing: Cirque Studio. Photos: Megan Dunn, Brendan Ladd, Cirque Studio

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