Adam Moses

I'm an ultrarunner in Northern Kentucky, and I'm writing The Race After the Race, a nonfiction book about DNFs and what happens after them.

I'm not an elite runner or a running journalist. I'm a regular midpack ultrarunner. My wife, Amie, and I train and race together, and most of our weekends seem to involve trails, aid stations, muddy shoes, or some combination of the three.

I've started the East Fork 100K twice and have two DNFs there. In 2025, I stopped after 50K. Nothing was seriously wrong with me. I was tired, it was getting dark, and somewhere during the day I had convinced myself I wasn't going back out for another loop. I just wanted to be done, so I quit. I regretted that decision before we ever left the park to drive home.

We went back in 2026 determined not to make the same decision again. That race ended too, but for a completely different reason. Amie injured her Achilles and couldn't continue. She told me to put my shoes on and finish my race. I decided to leave with her. I was not leaving my injured wife at the aid station while I covered another 50K.

Those two races left me interested in the part of a DNF that happens after the timing mat and aid station are gone. The drive home. Looking at the results afterward. Explaining what happened to people who knew how much time you spent training. Wondering whether you made the right decision, even when you know why you made it. What interests me most isn't why someone stopped or what happened during the race. It's what happens later. You're sitting at home, out on a training run, or talking with friends, and the DNF creeps back into your mind.

My own races can only tell me so much. Runners stop for different reasons, under different circumstances, and they don't all feel the same way about it afterward. That's why I'm talking with other ultrarunners about their DNFs as I work on this book.

If you've DNFed an ultramarathon and you're willing to talk about it, you can share a little about your experience through the Share Your DNF page. The form is only a first point of contact. Sending it doesn't give me permission to publish your story, your name, or your words.