In 2011, as a Marine Corps rifleman on patrol in Afghanistan, James Moreno stepped on an IED. The blast left his left foot so severely damaged that he eventually made the decision to amputate his leg below the knee. It was a decision that gave him more mobility in the long run, but it didn’t erase the pain—physical or emotional. And it didn’t come without complications.
Running had always been a part of his life before the injury. After the amputation, he spent his time understandably filled with resentment and anger, unable to get his head right. He wanted nothing more than to reclaim the active lifestyle he once had, to share sports with his young daughter, but it took time to get there. Eventually, through therapy and the support of organizations like the Challenged Athletes Foundation (CAF), he began to find his way back. CAF, which helps people with physical disabilities gain access to sports, even sponsored part of his entry to this race.
But that didn’t mean James was here for the attention. In fact, he seemed convinced no one cared he was doing this at all. He arrived alone, nodding politely to volunteers, and preparing himself for a race that, for most, would be considered impossible.
“Nobody Gives a Shit.”
Before the race, we had reached out to the loved ones of participants, asking them to submit encouraging videos. The idea was simple: when runners were struggling, we could show them a message from someone who believed in them—something to give them the strength to keep moving forward.
James didn’t submit a name.
When we asked if there was anyone we could reach out to, he just dismissed the request saying, “Nobody cares I am doing this… nobody gives a shit.”
I didn’t press him on it, but I remember feeling something tighten in my chest. He wasn’t saying it for effect. He genuinely believed it.
On the third night, after completing another grueling loop, James returned to his cabin for a couple of hours of rest. I escorted him, just the two of us in the stillness of the desert night. The air was cool, and aside from the occasional sound of an animal moving in the brush, the world was completely silent.
As we walked, he started talking.
He told me about that day in Afghanistan. About the explosion. About waking up and knowing his life had changed forever. He talked matter-of-factly about the decision to amputate. And then he talked about how hard this race was.
“I don’t think I can do many more loops,” he admitted. “I don’t know if I can make it to 100 miles.”
He described the pain—not just from the distance, but from the prosthetic. Running this far on it was uncharted territory. It didn’t fit right after so many miles, and every step felt like it was grinding against raw bone.
There was no quit in him, but the clock was probably going to run out before his body did.Â
Still, after only a couple hours of rest he went back out when the sun came up.
The Final Lap
The Zion 100-Mile Challenge gives runners 60 hours to complete the full 100 miles. We celebrate every milestone along the way—Half Marathon, Marathon, 50K, 100K, and 100 miles. Two hours before the final cutoff, we close the start line and stop allowing runners to start another lap.
James had just finished his 7th lap—70 miles, 100K—when he came sprinting into the finish line, breathing hard.
“What time is it?” he demanded.
We told him he had 30 minutes before the cutoff to start another lap.
James raised his fist in the air and shouted “YES! I made it!” You would have thought he had completed 100 miles he was so enthusiastic! He didn’t even hesitate. He turned to the nearest volunteers and said, “I need help.” Immediately, people jumped into action. They refilled his hydration pack, packed ice into his hat, gave him a hug, and sent him back onto the trail.
Here’s the thing—there was no official milestone waiting for him at 80 miles. He could have stopped at 70, and he still would have been celebrated for reaching 100K. 70 miles… 80 miles in terms of what the event “recognizes” there was no real difference. He had reached the 100K milestone. There was no extra medal, no title, no added recognition for pushing further.
James didn’t care.
He did it for himself.
The Last Man to Cross the Finish Line
When the final cutoff came, James was still out there.
And when he finally emerged from the trail, making his way toward the finish line, he was the last runner to finish.
But he wasn’t alone.
Every single participant, every crew member, every volunteer—they were all there, waiting for him.
People cheered. They clapped. Some wiped away tears.
James Moreno, the man who had told us “Nobody gives a shit I am doing this,” had an entire community standing at the finish line, showing him that they did.
As he crossed the line, he looked around at the people celebrating his journey, and he grinned.
“Thank you, Milestone… this is awesome! Love you guys!”
He then puked, and laid down in the grass.
James Found His Community
James didn’t get his belt buckle that night. He didn’t walk away with a trophy or an official title.
But he walked away with something else.
He found people who cared.
People who cheered for him.
People who were inspired by him.
I hope James always remembers that he is not alone. I hope every athlete knows they are not alone. That their effort matters. Each mile matters. Their support for other athletes matters.Â
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“My favorite moment of the event was when everyone came to the finish to watch James complete his final lap. He is an inspiration.” – Almi
His story is one that deserves to be told. His journey is one that deserves to be celebrated. And his grit, determination, and refusal to stop—even when there was nothing left to prove—is what endurance sports are all about.
James Moreno didn’t just run 80 miles at the Zion 100-Mile Challenge.
He proved, once again, that he will never stop fighting for himself.
