Ekta Basu, a business executive and mother from Cupertino, California, has been running trails for more than 15 years, but then she committed to the audacious goal of running the Tahoe 200. This is her story.
Turning 50 this year with my kids now off to college, I realized I had spent years playing so many roles that I’d lost who I was and life was just happening. Over the years, running helped me find myself again. Having completed numerous halves, full marathons, 50Ks, 100Ks, and 100-milers, I’ve always been a back-of-the-packer—relentless, steady, like a headless chicken with no plan and happiest out in the hills simply enjoying the journey.
Until one simple question changed everything: “Have you thought about the possibilities if you train?” That spark shifted my outlook on running and I got more serious. It got me thinking about what was next, so I took the Tahoe 200 as my 50th birthday gift to myself—a chance to see what I’m made of. I put my name in the lottery last spring and got in. It was a year of anticipation, training and the fear of the unknown.
Tahoe 200 or Bust
One year of training, countless hours of worry, seven pairs of Hoka Speedgoats, endless Tailwind, dates, and almonds brought me here.
Training was mobility work five days a week, double days at the studio, 50 to 55 miles of running per week, including back-to-backs, hill repeats and speed days. I peaked at 90 miles, broke training into blocks, and used the Javelina Jundred 100-miler in October, the HMB 50 mile (Rancho to Half Moon Bay) and Quicksilver Endurance Runs 50K as dress rehearsals. I lost nearly 18 lbs and toned up. There were early mornings, sacrifices, and countless times I showed up even when I didn’t feel like it.
In the final taper month, my life revolved around spreadsheets, pace charts, logistics, and crew boxes. I’m not sure how many friends I lost to “Tahoe Talk.” Fears, frustrations, motivations, why’s, feelings, tears, apprehensions, suffering, pain, joy, meaning of my life/running—we talked it all. More tears.
The dining room of my Cupertino, California, home became the war room—printouts, books, and maps strewn everywhere. Five drop bags, everything labeled, packed, unpacked, checked, and double-checked. Twix bars, dates, chews, extra headlamps, Vaseline, socks, and plenty of buffs. A buff can wipe your face, dry your hands, keep your ears warm, wipe your sweat, or, in desperation, wipe your ass. I’m sure I forgot something, but it was as ready as it was going to get.
Beginning the Journey
The drive from into Tahoe felt surreal—a rush of excitement, fear of the unknown, and anticipation. So many “what ifs,” what would the next few days bring? What would the drive home feel like? The mountains, trees, valleys, and the largest alpine lake in the U.S. would be my home for the next four days. Is this for real?
Registration the morning before the race was straightforward: gear check, bib pickup, medical check, GPX verification, and the famous “before” photo. Nothing left but to run. After wandering around town, attending the race briefing, eating an early dinner, I laid out my gear just before bed. It was showtime. And it was going to be a hot few days.
I had the best pre-race breakfast ever: a perfectly toasted bagel with nut butter and a banana. I got ready, lubed up, bibbed up, headed to the start, and soaked in the electric energy. Runners milled about—some chatty and excited, others quiet and reflective. I collected my tracker and tried to settle into the unknown. I had longed, trained, prepared, worked and dreamed of this all year, maybe even longer. Here we go!
As I gathered at the start line with the 250 or so runners who would be on this daring journey, I was nervous but excited. Goosebumps. Happy tears. Miles and days to go.
After some last-minute words from race director Candice Burt, we were off and running. Although I had a team of people supporting me, it started as a solo adventure. Pacers were allowed only at mile 87 and beyond. It was going to be long and lonely miles until then. That’s a long frickin’ time! I knew I had to break it down to chunks. Little chunks.
I saw my people at mile 10. The next time would be at mile 52. Holy sh*t! It’s going to be forever.
The next few miles passed quicker than expected. I settled into a rhythm, chatted with runners from across the country, and stayed present. More than once I thought, “This is going to be my life for the next few days.” That felt daunting. What about altitude sickness? When is that going to kick in, thankfully I had no real altitude issues—a welcome gift. I reminded myself how lucky I was to be there. My Leki poles and I were getting along well. No stabbing incidents just yet.
Slowly but surely, I made progress. 5K. 10K. Half Marathon. Full marathon. 50K. The miles blended together and like time—the mornings and evenings into nights. Eat. Drink. Move. Headlamp on, crossing streams, hopping downed logs, and dealing with blisters that needed medic attention more than once. The miles and time both flew by and yet stalled. I made friends with some wonderful people. We navigated unmarked trails, checked on each other, and shared stories. One foot in front of the other.
The course was initially going to be an out-and-back as much of the route had closed for years because of the Caldor Fire. But just a few weeks before this year’s event began, it was changed to a looped course when permits were finally approved. I was so excited to know that we would get to run around Lake Tahoe! Wow!
It was sad to see so much devastation of the fire, to see the charred trees still covered in soot and areas untouched by humans for so long. It was like a graveyard. It was eerie but oh so beautiful and serene. We all scrambled over about 35 downed trees, bruising my calves in the process. My shoes were constantly soaked from stream crossings, and my hotspots which were full blown blisters burned with every step. I paid good money for this kind of suffering.
Finally, I reconnected with my crew at mile 52. What a relief! The plan had always been to break the race into chunks based on the aid stations, and seeing them changed everything. All my gear and food neatly laid out, in case I needed anything I sat on the makeshift bed in the trunk of the Subaru. We joked, they fed me, cheered me up and sent me packing. I may have asked them some very stupid questions. I don’t recall.
Relying on the Community
The people on the trail kept me going—fellow runners, trail angels, strangers, and the volunteers, who were so supportive and energetic. The was also a man who offered his water filter and bottle without hesitation. I stuck with another runner for hours, she was an excellent navigator. We leapfrogged a lot, and it was always a relief to see her. We were all like zombies on a mission. Shared goals. Shared pain. You see the best in people when everyone is hurting. The relationships fostered on a trail, and the memories of these humans are for life.
I was alone but never truly lonely. It felt peaceful: just me, the trail, distant headlamps, and shadows of trees. I hated the sound of bugs buzzing around my face—I swatted myself over and over. My buff-new use as a swatter, told you they come super handy. The silence in the hills was both deafening and yet so loud. One foot in front of the other. The outside world disappeared for a while. Interestingly, I had spent hours making playlists on Spotify. Didn’t listen to even one.
It was great to pick up Anil, my first pacer at mile 87. I desperately needed company. Olives, Twix bars, and stories helped. Sleep deprivation brought new experiences: dirt naps, slight bushwhacking, imaginary monkeys. I’d heard about hallucinations, but living them was something else. Time felt distorted—standing still and flying by simultaneously.
Ankle pain appeared out of nowhere. After a quick application of Biofreeze and lying on the trail with my feet up against a tree, the pain vanished. Then the Rubicon Trail made its grand appearance at dawn—a rugged, rocky section known for ATVs and daredevils. It was a runner’s nightmare. Poles got stuck, ankles twisted. It took forever to navigate.
I had trained for this. The work was done. Now it was just about seeing it through. My mind wandered to my friends at the Outsiders Bootcamp doing 200 burpees and lunges in solidarity. They made charts, sent videos. All very touching. Family, my local running groups, well-wishers followed my tracker across multiple WhatsApp groups, sending concern, cheers, and pride, all eagerly tuned into my every move.
At mile 130, I was still in good spirits (though my crew might tell a different story). The night miles would be with my next pacer, Mike, who would see me through 30 miles. Those were fun moments—full of laughs, some talk, comfortable silence, a star-studded sky, and more dirt naps. Then a beautiful sunrise greeted us. We enjoyed a proper breakfast of eggs and sausages at an aid station before tackling the infamous Powerline climb, and it was a slog to get there.
Powerline lived up to its reputation—steep, loose, and brutal. My heart was in my throat the entire time. I was mortified and froze so many times. After two falls and the punishing descent, we trudged along the road for about two miles. Spotting a water fountain was pure heaven. The cold water tasted like salvation. It was hot. I was whiny and cranky.
We reached our final crew stop at mile 164. I taped my feet, chilled for a bit, met my running coach, and indulged in gulab jamuns—a sweet, deep-friend Indian dessert made from milk, cheese, flour and sugary glaze—as well as ice cream, and ginger. I also met up with Kiran, who would pace me to the finish. We were still well ahead of cutoffs—or so we thought.
The Painful Push to the Finish
Back pain hit hard in the final 30 miles. Tylenol barely touched it. The lidocaine roll on, was my new friend. I moved at a crawl—walking 15 steps, then stretching like a starfish on a rock or lying in the middle of the trail doing cat-cows and cobras for relief. More naps. I needed caffeine to stay awake. Poor Kiran. I made his life miserable. A mile an hour. Wtf!! Yup that’s how fast I was going. Every step my back screamed. Other runners stepped over me while I was sprawled out on the trail, stretching; some even stopped to check if I was OK. Everyone was suffering in their own way, yet kindness still appeared.
I spent the last 20 hours mostly staring at the ground and my shoes, hunched over in pain. It’s a good thing I had graffitied them with positive messaging: Right shoe—“LFG!” Left shoe—“GRATEFUL!”
My hands and knuckles ached from gripping my poles so tightly. How I needed them. In the last four miles, my crew got permission to join me on the trails (one person only). That extra support mattered. My back was completely done.
“I don’t want my family to see me like this,” I said. “Fuck that, Ekta—they need to,” said my crew chief. “That’s part of it—starting something hard, staying with it, and finishing no matter what.”
Back at Heavenly the chain of people was endless. The cheers and screams washed over me. I wanted it to end… or did I? Crossing the finish line brought a flood of relief, pride, and joy. After early 105 hours after I started—officially 4 days, 8 hours, 51 minutes and 44 seconds—I crossed the line and I dropped into my son’s arms while family, crew, and strangers celebrated. There wasn’t a dry eye in sight. I was on the livestream it seems, so it was a larger audience than just those who were present.
I wound up being one of the three DLFs in the race as Jason Huang and Brian Trimboli finished together about 3 minutes after I did. I was exhausted, but I was happy for them, too. I took the “after” photo, picked up my buckle, overwhelmed, tired, but oh so happy.
Reflections After the Finish
It had been a stunning five-day experience out on the trail. I endured. I grew. I changed. I was scared of myself—what had I done, what had I overcome. Who had I become? Does anything even matter now? I had every chance to quit, but the voice in my head kept repeating: Do Not Fucking Quit!
Buckle earned. Memories forever.
Put one foot in front of the other, have solid people, a lot of goodwill—that’s how you circle Lake Tahoe and come out different on the other side.
Returning home felt strangely empty at first, then fulfillment, then satisfaction, and finally a void.
The Tahoe 200 changed me. It gave me new perspectives on what’s possible. The body healed with Advil, sleep, and tons of junk carbs. My random daytime crashes felt like jet lag. The mind took longer—emotions still all over the place. Was it all just a dream? The remnants of the blisters, and calluses on my palms from the poles, tell me otherwise.
I didn’t finish—WE finished.
I learned a lot during my Tahoe 200 experience that will stay with me forever. Here are some of those things:
– The race is mostly mental after mile 140. Training gets you to the start line, but stubbornness and the people around you get you to the finish.
– Take care of your feet and back early. Small problems become huge ones in the later miles.
– Break it into small chunks. Aid station to aid station. One foot in front of the other.
– The human connection stays with you.
– You don’t have to be strong to keep moving. You just have to keep moving.
– Find the right people. Love what you do. Put in the work. Trust the process. And do hard things. You will surprise yourself.
– Eat. Drink. Sleep. Stretch. And do not fucking quit!
Until Tahoe 200 2027! Yup. I’m going back! Just three days later (still battered and hobbling), I entered the lottery again for 2027. I’ll be going back next year with so many good memories and lessons learned.
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