Guest Post: Cutler Andrews Rises From the Ashes at the Cruel Jewel 100 Mile Ultramarathon
- Greg Marshall
- May 28
- 5 min read
Following the completion of his first-ever 100 mile ultramarathon, Cutler Andrews shares his story of the highs and lows that come with racing the longest distances in competitive running.
There are moments in life when you’re not sure how you’re going to take the next step. You feel broken—not metaphorically, but physically, emotionally, and spiritually—like your body has been through a meat grinder, and your soul is somewhere on the trail, questioning your life choices.
For me, that moment came at roughly Mile 25 of the Cruel Jewel 100 Mile Ultramarathon, hobbling into the Wilscot Gap aid station. I wasn’t limping. I wasn’t powering through pain. I was wrecked. Done. Spent. And I truly thought I had failed. Failed myself, failed my family, failed my coach, Greg. I couldn’t speak without my throat closing up, without tears threatening to spill. I had trained for this moment for so long. After a DNF at Pinhoti 100, I had vowed never to let that happen again. But there I was, at Mile 25, thinking "This is it. I can’t go on."
Let me back up.
The race started at noon in the Georgia heat. No big deal, I thought. I run in Atlanta. I’ve trained through heat that makes sidewalks sweat. I felt good early on, perhaps too good, which led me to go out a little fast. A few miles in, I felt a little cramp in my foot. Then my calf. Just a couple of warm-up grumbles, I told myself. I pulled back, upped my fuel, tried to relax.
But the cramping didn’t stop. It spread. It escalated. Then, 3 miles before Wilscot Gap, my legs completely seized, and I hit the ground. Every muscle in my lower body cramped at once. It was like my body had pressed a full-system “Nope” button. Lying there on the trail, legs locked and spasming, I was scared. For the first time in a race, I was genuinely scared.
Eventually, I was able to get moving again, but my confidence was shattered. Something was off. This felt bigger than nutrition depletion. I texted Greg, told him I thought it might be something medical. That’s a hard thing to admit to someone you admire and trust. But he didn’t panic. He didn’t push. Instead, he did what great coaches do: he guided.
I finally made it to the aid station at Wilscot Gap, and Greg worked his magic, though I’d argue it was more science than sorcery. He was calm, compassionate, but resolute. He didn’t let me give up. We adjusted the plan: proper rest, targeted fuel, and a single goal to just get moving again. One mile. Just one. I could turn around if I needed to. No pressure, no expectations.
So I left the aid station. I went one mile, then another. I followed Greg’s advice exactly. I started fueling like it was my job: carbs, salt, fluids. Slowly, I found a rhythm again. Not fast. Not elegant. But forward.
The next time I saw Greg, my family, or the rest of my crew was the halfway mark, where Greg would join me on the trail as my pacer for the next 35 miles.
I can’t fully explain what those hours meant to me. His presence, his quiet encouragement, his patience, his coaching, his tunes. Greg kept me steady. He talked me through low points, celebrated the little wins, and reminded me that I was capable of more than I believed. When he finally handed me off to my next pacer, Simon, we all knew the truth: I was going to finish. The guy who couldn’t walk at mile 25 was now moving toward the finish line with purpose.
Ultrarunning, for me, isn’t just about finishing a race. It’s about learning. Growing. Testing the limits of what I think I can do, and then discovering something new on the other side of that doubt. There were three core lessons that were crystallized for me during those brutal, beautiful miles through the Georgia mountains.
First, I’m proud of myself. But I’m even more grateful. Sure, I finished the race. And yeah, that’s cool. But the real emotion I feel isn’t pride. Instead, it’s overwhelming gratitude. Gratitude for the people who believed in me when I didn’t. For the friends who stayed up all night to crew me. For the family who tracked my slow, blinking GPS dot across the mountains. For Greg, who gave me his time, science, and belief.
Ultrarunning is often seen as a solo sport. But let me be clear: it is a team effort. I might do the miles, but I never do them alone. And that’s what makes me emotional now, thinking about the people who carried me, literally and figuratively, when I couldn’t carry myself. I hope they know what it meant. What it means.
Second, a real, human coach changes everything. We live in a world of training apps, spreadsheets, and AI-generated plans. And those are fine, I guess. But nothing compares to having a coach who knows you. Someone who listens to how you're feeling, adapts in real time, and actually cares about your life, not just your splits.
Greg would probably scoff and say, “You did the work.” And sure, technically, I ran the miles. But without his guidance, support, and the occasional well-placed pep talk, I wouldn't be here reflecting on a finish. I’d be on my couch Googling “how to return unused Maurten gels.” Working with a coach isn’t just about running better. It’s about living better. It’s changed the way I approach hard things on the trail and in life.
Finally, the distance doesn’t matter. The decision does. Whether it’s 5 miles or 100, the real value is knowing something is going to be really, really hard and then doing it anyway—especially when no one’s watching, especially when you’re tired, scared, and unsure.
We all have our own version of an ultra or a mountain. Mine just happened to involve switchbacks and leg cramps. Yours might look completely different. But the question is the same: will you just stare at the mountain or that starting line, or will you take the first step?
Cruel Jewel didn’t break me. It showed me how to rebuild. It reminded me what I’m made of, and more importantly, who I have beside me.
To anyone chasing something that feels too big, too far, too hard: you don’t have to be fearless. You just have to be willing. One mile at a time. And when you fall, because trust me you will, take a breath, get back up, laugh at yourself if you can, and keep going.
See you on the trail.
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