#KipRunsFast

Here’s the truth: this gear is nothing without me. My legs, my mind, my talent—that’s what makes the magic happen. Sorry to everyone who bought the same shoes thinking they’d run like me. They won’t. #KipAndOnlyKip #WahoosAreTheFuture #KipRunsFast.

These are the types of posts Kip Hoffbloom posted – along with a perfectly curated flat lay of his gear, with a trophy in the corner for motivation, and his lucky blue Brooks hat. One could imagine him posting, quickly exiting out, and waiting for his phone to chirp out notifications. Kip was trail running’s poster child—living proof that not all grit and glory comes without a side of ego.

You know the ones – those guys (and sometimes ladies – let’s not be judgmental), who preach being an ultra trail runner isn’t just a lifestyle—it’s a higher calling. Sure, not everyone can handle it. And, let’s be real: it takes a special kind of person to spend hours alone on the trails, conquering terrain that would break most people in minutes. While others waste their weekends binge-watching TV, ultra runners are out there grinding through miles of wilderness, proving they’re tougher, faster, and more resilient than 99% of the population. This isn’t just about running—it’s about domination. It’s for people like Kip—people who refuse to settle for mediocrity and need the world to know it. And the best way to let the world know? Post it.

And, he did – daily. Actually, multiple times a day. There were posts of his clothes, supplements, and medals. Smiling wide, Kip always standing tall in the middle, flanked by his supposed minions. Sprinkle in a few ambassador branded salutes, a couple support the efforts to bring a missing female runner home, and a lot of coffee cheers – and you had his feed set to a science.

Kip was training for a 100-mile trail race – the MadMan 100. And, though Kip was egotistical, rather sexist, politically small minded, and enlisted predatory tactics to coerce attention from females in the run club, people began to take notice. As soon as he posted about this next training cycle, The Wahoos, a local run club, jumped in to comment and like the posts. He got invited to podcasts, and soon his fanbase on Insta and Strava soared. Training for an ultra is grueling, but he was thriving. By February, his routine locked in. The winter landscape made for even better pictures. Running in shorts in sub-zero weather? That’s the kind of grit that gets you reshared.

One morning, after snapping a quick selfie, breath fogging the air, his beard already dripping with icicles, he set off on a secluded trail he had run hundreds of times. The trailhead sign was littered with flyers – upcoming events, missing people notices, and an advertisement for hunting guide services. Kip obviously didn’t read these – why would he? He knew what races were coming, and frankly, they made for a poor backdrop to any selfie.

This morning felt like any other—until he saw her. In the distance, through the trees, a woman moved, her gait impossibly fluid, like she was floating over the uneven terrain. Other runners frequently populated these woods, but something about her—the way she seemed to vanish just as he thought he’d catch up. Her tracks were light and small, like a deer’s. Farther away, her pony tail bobbed like a rabbit’s tail, as it ducked for cover.

Over the next few weeks, he couldn’t stop looking for her. Every few days, Kip would catch a glimpse of this phantom female runner – her pink hat bobbying through the brush. Each time, she would remain just out of reach. His heart raced, not from exertion, but from anticipation. Kip never saw her car in the lot, so she must’ve used another access point. He began parking at different trailheads, running at odd times, burning through PTO just to find her. Ultra running can be an obsession, and for him, it (or she) had become all-consuming.

The lack of sleep and the miles were taking their toll. Kip’s times were slowing, his body aching from shin splints, blisters, and frostbite. Kip’s beard grew shaggy, streaked with gray, and his eyes—he could see it in the rearview mirror—had that wild look. 

MadMan 100 was less than a month away, and Kip was ready to begin tapering – which meant less time on the trails – unless he wanted to die trying. 

And then, in early March, Kip saw her again. This time, she was clearer, her form more defined based on the proximity to him. She stopped, waved, and then disappeared into the trees. His heart pounded as he slammed his truck into park, leaving the keys inside. He knew these trails like the back of his hand and sprinted to cut her off at the bridge.

The mist clung to the forest that morning, muffling Kip’s footsteps as he closed the distance. The closer he got, the more uneasy he felt. Light in a forest can be uncanny – and, as he moved swiftly, Kip couldn’t help but notice there was a darkness creeping onto the trail, though no clouds or canopy obstructed the light from above. Trees and their limbs, barron and naked, moved uncharacteristically, appearing to shudder and jut at him as he approached. Large black birds perched, high above, watching his progress.

At the cutoff, Kip finally closed in at the bridge. Just ahead, was his trophy – the runner. He could see her whole figure now – swiftly running, feet seeming to never quite touch the ground. Suddenly, her form seemed to shift unnaturally, bending and blurring like something out of a nightmare. Her pace wasn’t a run or a walk but a strange, erratic rhythm that both drew Kip in and filled him with dread. As her image seemed to flash in and out before him, like a television with a poor signal, her image was transferred to a tangled mess of bushes and brush.

When Kip finally stopping, reaching her, reality hit him like a blow. She wasn’t alive. She wasn’t even human anymore. What Kip saw was a decayed corpse, grotesquely entangled in the gnarled branches of an ancient oak. She was still in running gear, her bright clothing dulled by moss and dirt, even the bright, pink hate. She’d been there a long time, swallowed by the wilderness, forgotten. The only movement now was the gentle swishing of her hair, caught, yet free flowing in a cool breeze.

Kip stumbled back, his breath hitching in his throat. The woods were silent, save for the pounding of his heart and a low shuddering from the trees that groaned in the wind. Turning, he bolted toward his truck, mind racing. He couldn’t explain what he had seen—and wasn’t sure he wanted to. Had this woman – this runner – ever actually been here? Had he been running all this time for nothing? Who was he chasing?

These thoughts played through in his mind, as he tried to make sense of what just happened. Moving swiftly, Kip began to mediate the same words over and over – Kip Runs Fast. Kip Runs Fast.

But now, the trails are darker, the paths overgrown. He had  been here before, yet he couldn’t find his way out. Trees he hadn’t noticed before lay across paths, and the well worn grooves in the spring mud appeared grassed over. The mile markers became distorted or the numbers no longer followed a logical sequence. The woods went on forever. More than once, he turned a corner and saw the woman, with sun bleached hair, still entangled in the branches of the tree. Opening his mouth to scream, his voice was lost – or possibly overshadowed by the angry caw of the crows watching the scene unfold. All he could do was press on, as the night gathered around him. 

Those who followed Kip were alerted to a new post, which was accompanied by an image of a man, huddled up in a fetal position in a clearing of brambles. Hugging himself, hand holding his phone, which shined like a beacon from the matted grass:

I’ve been running forever. No end. She’s still here. I’m still here. #NoWayOut #Endless #LostInTheLoops. Maybe I never will. #LostForever #EndlessLoop #UltraRunnerHell #KipRunsFast #KipRunsForever #NoWayOut