Photo by Matt Lanark
Runners gather outside the Taco Bell Cantina in Old Town Alexandria.
When I show up at the crack of dawn to race, I don’t want to be bothered. Depending on the scale of the marathon and the sheer volume of runners and the available open space, this can prove difficult. I try to find an isolated area to run a few striders and clear my head. If I warmed up wearing headphones—and I never would since I’m staunchly anti-technology during runs—it’d be easier to ward off pre-race chatterboxes. After my muscles are limber, I like to stretch for at least 30 minutes, which might seem excessive, but then again, so is running 26.2 miles. Only then will I make my way to the starting area, cordially chat with a few participants in my vicinity and soak up whatever race atmosphere wafts through the crisp morning air, purely out of necessity.
At no point before one of these “conventional” marathons, however, are we (prospective runners) asked to plot out how many Chalupas to eat. Or how to tidily stow away tacos in backpacks so they survive (intact) across the grueling miles. Or what to do if they start to feel nauseated, queasy knots in our stomachs, not because of some demoralizing climb or long stretch of road without water stops, but because they decided to eat their Cheesy Gordita Crunches too early on the route, and it didn’t mix well with their cheesy bean and rice burritos.
Yet these are the race-altering, abdomen-churning dilemmas over 1,000 runners faced in the wee hours on Nov. 29, 2025 for the DC Taco Bell 50k. A 32-plus-mile odyssey that included pitstops at multiple Taco Bells in and around the District. And at each TB, a menu item to test one’s gastrointestinal fortitude on top of his or her cardiovascular stamina. The TB50k is part of a series of races, colloquially known as fat a** races, not because of the gluttonous fast food consumed, but because the ultra-marathon community wanted a semi-organized excuse to shed the holiday pounds back in the day. They are self-organized at scattered locations across the country. There are no fees. No aid stations. No (traditional) medals.
As a self-proclaimed (tangential) member of the DC running community, I heard about this race through the grapevine, i.e., social media. I didn’t want to participate this year—not because consuming multiple pounds of Taco Bell while traipsing across the city sounded horrifying. In fact, from time to time, I make my own Crunchwrap Supremes at home, and I’ve become quite adept at folding the tortilla just so, searing the maximum surface area to provide for optimal crunch. I like to spice it up with a jalapeno queso, which isn’t recommended for runs longer than 3 or 4 miles (not an actual disclaimer). Instead, I couldn’t participate because I was still nursing a knee injury since the summer, and a 32-mile race is generally ill-advised for nagging pain. Also, and this is the more critical nugget, my pregnant wife would’ve killed me if I spent 6-plus hours running around DC eating Taco Bell as she watched our feral toddler by herself. Somehow, I managed permission to head to the Taco Bell Cantina in Old Town for half an hour to watch the festivities at the start of the race.
An absolutely frosty morning greeted any runner embarking on this misadventure. The morning started out at 25 degrees, a touch too cold for a marathon, if you ask me. Ideal temperatures fall closer to the mid- to low-40s at the start and climb to just over 50 by the finish. Anything else gets uncomfortable quickly. Given that it was the Saturday after Thanksgiving (on top of the brisk setting), I thought there was no way the TB50k would come close to the advertised 1,000+ runners registered according to the website. But as I parked off St. Asaph and turned the corner, I could see the mass of racers huddling around the Cantina. Small, makeshift, yellow race bibs marked participants up for this challenge. Most were decked out in hi-tech, cold-weather compression attire, hats, tights, gloves, etc. Backpacks with water storage systems were ubiquitous—and crucial, given the lack of water stations. But there was also the occasional tutu skirt. A chicken costume. Even a taco suit, which seemed appropriate. I saw someone running in bare feet—as a certain subgroup of the running community is wont to do, though my insanely high arches would never permit it (nor my basic, innate desire for warmth). I saw runners as young as college-aged, and a few who had to be in their 60s or 70s. If someone had asked to see the crosstabs of the DC running public, they were assembling at and stretching in front of the Cantina that morning.
I ducked into La Madeline across the street to grab a coffee and warm up. Inside were, as I viewed them at least, the smart runners staying out of the cold before the race. As I poured half and half, I overheard their conversations: Strategic debate about which items to ingest along the way and when to eat them, with the verve and intellectual rigor you’d hear at a policy think tank in Dupont. I learned, as is apparently within the rules, that runners were able to order and pack their TB items ahead of time to avoid waiting in line at each stop. That is, racers purchased and packed food the night before. Brilliant, I thought (at first)! Then I reconsidered. Day-old Taco Bell: soggy, oily, stored in a backpack that’s been juggling and bouncing and shifting and absorbing sweat for hours in sub-freezing temperatures? I’m not personally against eating Taco Bell, but it’s only manageable under the best of conditions. Fresh. Hot. Doused in Diablo sauce. The unpleasant notion of gobbling down TB leftovers throughout an ultramarathon hit me, at which point I was both spellbound—struck by the journey these runners were beginning—and also a bit woozy.
I grabbed my coffee and waltzed over to the starting line, more like a starting quadrant. There was no line or corridor, just a jumbled mob of racers. As 8 a.m. ticked by, the crowd quieted and the organizers shouted the rules. Unlike most marathons, where roads are car-free, where the opening corral is barricaded and the route is closed, this race across Virginia and D.C. would be conducted entirely through GPS watches. So runners still had to dodge traffic. A few police vehicles were on site to control the crowd and escort the runners to the first stop in Alexandria, but after that, they’d be on their own.
The race instructions were simple: Nine Taco Bell stops along the way. Each TB required one menu item. By the fourth stop, runners had to consume at least one Chalupa Supreme or Crunchwrap Supreme. By the eighth stop, at least one Burrito Supreme or Nachos Bell Grande. Runners were not permitted to ingest any performance-, or rather, gastric-enhancing drugs (or GEDs) like Pepto Bismol or Alka Seltzer. And though vomiting was highly discouraged along the route, it’s an occupational hazard at any fat a** race and probably still a risk with Taco Bell consumption under ideal circumstances. At the start, racers would eat their first required item (likely a taco) and run to the next Taco Bell in West Alexandria, before proceeding north through Arlington and into the District, then heading south past DCA and along the Mt. Vernon Trail toward the finish back in Old Town. While the “official” distance on the website listed 32.3 miles, the only requirement was that runners stop at each Taco Bell on the map (in order), so every runner theoretically could complete the course differently—taking side streets and back alleys and shortcuts. Finish the nine-stop itinerary in under 11 hours and reach the summit of competitive distance-eating-running.
As the race commenced, there was no starting gun or mass departure through a cattle chute. Instead, runners casually—almost leisurely—ate their tacos, and one-by-one each dashed west on King Street. The crowd thinned in slow, anti-climactic successive waves. Certainly, there were highly competitive marathoners at the front of the pack—runners who could easily qualify for Boston and other uber-elite races. But this ultra attracted more than just the crème de la crème. So as the crowd at the Taco Bell Cantina waned, the strides became smaller, the pace slower, the gear less flashy, but the pride and joy equal (if not far greater).
I went home after the start, but I briefly drove down King Street, almost parting the columns of runners on each side of the road cascading through Old Town. Fortunately, the chilly weather kept pedestrians who might impede the route away. Still, as I passed the few brave early-morning shoppers, I could only imagine what these casual passersby thought of the mass of costume-clad runners flying by. I wondered what a couple strolling through Columbia Heights might think about seeing a man in a superhero costume and cape huffing and puffing along the sidewalk at noon. How a family peacefully rambling along the National Mall might react to a runner retching into a trashcan by the Natural History Museum. What that poor unsuspecting TB employee covering a shift for a friend would do as a group of wearied runners with 20-plus miles under their feet and multiple tacos lining their intestines crashed through the doors of her store demanding fast food, only to shovel it down hastily and race away (hopefully not leaving a mess).
I drove home in the comfort of my heated car, feeling the slightest bit guilty that I wasn’t braving the elements, participating in this eccentric event myself. Translating this excitement to anyone not freezing outside on King Street at 8 a.m. with me would’ve been impossible, and my delight of explanation fell on deaf ears at home. While I ran errands midday, all I could think about were the runners collectively traversing DC overflowing from multiple scarfed-down Taco Bell meals.
Later that afternoon, I found time to run a couple miles, so I hopped on the Mt. Vernon trail by my house, forgetting that the stretch between the airport and Old Town was part of the TB50k course. As my legs found their groove, I started to notice those informal yellow race bibs breeze by—or, more like amble past at this point in the day. These were the final few miles of the route, so every runner sauntering in the opposite direction had nearly 30 miles on their odometers as they inched closer and closer to fat a** race immortality.
It had been nearly seven hours from the start of the race, so these poor souls had been running in the bitter cold for the better part of the day—hopefully with some well-earned breaks warming up at each TB stop. The pain in their faces had more to do with the miles of cartilage-crushing pavement under their trainers than the food piling up in their bellies, but who could tell the difference at this point? When I hit the two-mile mark in my run and turned around, I saw a woman getting sick in the brush—an unusual site any other day. I kept running and assumed she was an unfortunate victim of the race, and surely not the TB50k’s only casualty.
Running this final leg alongside these true champions only enhanced my shame as I saw their faces drenched with a satisfaction only procured through finishing a challenge so patently absurd. I’ve been running (competitively in school at first, then seriously on my own) for over 20 years. And while I’m by no means an elite runner, I’ve always run with a clear goal in mind. Break this mark. Reach this distance. Qualify for this race. Defeat these runners in my age group, etc., etc., etc. Sure, these goals serve no “real” purpose, and it’s all “technically” for fun, as I’m in no danger of receiving a professional contract or Olympic qualification. But I’m still hyper-competitive. The running festivals and citywide marathons are colossal events, but most of the time, I’m so preoccupied with my own race that I don’t take the time to embrace the wonderful running community. Throngs of people come to watch and cheer and support these races, and the most I can usually muster is a passing smile or a fist bump. There’re millions of marathoners who share this mutual love for the sport, and yet, running has always been so solitary for me.
But after watching the Taco Bell runners drag their gaunt, taco-stuffed bodies toward the finish, it was difficult not to appreciate the event for what it was. I mean, does anyone know off the cuff what makes an impressive time for a 32.3-mile-Chalupa-fueled trot? Of course not. As these races become more popular, sure, mass consumerism often rinses any lasting residue of upstart charm from something so anti-establishment. More money and more infrastructure may ultimately result in official fat a** race championships down the line. Eventually, the Taco Bell series may become indistinguishable from any other ultra. But today, there was nothing to qualify for. There were no (real) medals to don—just hot sauce packets strung together with cheap ribbon. There was no block party or post-race gala to welcome home the conquering heroes. And as the late afternoon sun drenched Alexandria, and the warmer air welcomed shoppers to Old Town’s boutiques and galleries, the finishers received only a modest homecoming before fading anonymously into the crowd. Nothing outwardly marked the quixotic adventure they’d just endured; the TB50kers unceremoniously hobbled to their cars and drove home or caught rides with loved ones. The average ALX pedestrian walking by had no clue how they stretched their limits both gastrointestinally and athletically.
The Taco Bell 50k brought out a highly diverse swath of runners, but despite their differences in skill, and attire, and gut health, they invariably formed an eternal bond, suffering through an adversity that can’t compare to the tens of thousands participating in the Marine Corps. or the Cherry Blossom, or the Army 10 Miler, or the Rock N’ Roll. The TB50k’s built-in breaks, its collegiality, its absurdist rules, its menu gamesmanship, its choose-your-own-adventure routing force the runners to obsessively plan, to tweak training strategies, to prop each other, and to eat a comical amount of economically priced Mexican food. As silly as the event may appear at first blush, its lodestar or central tenet—like any race—is to push its participants’ bodies beyond whatever thresholds were set (albeit, unconventionally). So until next time, when I can hopefully join firsthand, all I can do today is remain in awe and humbly salute everyone who participated in and completed the TB50k.
