An Interview with T1D Ultrarunner Chris Roome

What got you interested in doing a 50-mile trail ultra?

I started running during the COVID shutdown and fell in love with it. At first it was all Spartan races—probably 15+ of them (5K, 10K, 21K), open and age group, and I even knocked out a Trifecta weekend.

And then… I got bored.

Not because it wasn’t hard, but because I could feel myself hitting that “optimize the margins” phase—train harder, shave seconds, chase a podium I was realistically never going to touch. So I asked myself, what’s next?

For me, the answer was distance. I told myself I’d earn it in steps: marathon → 50K → 50 mile → eventually a 100 miler.

Which race did you do, and why?

I ran Rock the Ridge at the Mohonk Preserve in New Paltz, NY. It was close to home and I needed a spring race because I had back-to-back World Marathon Majors in the fall (Berlin and Chicago).

Did you have any doubts, hopes, fears, expectations, etc., going in? Which turned out to be “no big deal,” and which threw you for a loop?

This question honestly made me laugh. I was full of fear and doubt.

I’d never run more than 32 miles. I was running solo, no crew. I didn’t even know what I truly needed to carry. The whole thing felt huge—like I was stepping into a room I didn’t belong in. But that’s also how I live: if something scares me, I pay attention… because it usually means I
need to do it.

It’s easy to say “I can’t because diabetes,” or “I can’t because life,” or “I can’t because I’m not built for that.” Committing is different. Committing means you sign up for the unknown, the discomfort, the ups and downs—and that’s where growth actually lives.

The finish-line euphoria when you cross something you weren’t even sure you could complete…I’m addicted to that feeling.

What ended up being no big deal was supplies. There were fully stocked aid stations every 3–5K, so I actually dropped a bunch of what I packed.

What did throw me for a loop was the absolute monsoon on the ridgeline around 30 miles. It ripped my pump site out and the conditions made it basically impossible to get a new one to stick.

But I always carry a vial of insulin and syringes on runs over a half marathon because I learned the hard way: backups aren’t optional—they’re the whole game.

So I spent the last 20 miles micro-dosing to mimic basal and keep enough insulin on board to actually use the fuel I was taking in. It was a delicate line. I had to eat more than I wanted to, and more than I would’ve if I stayed on the pump—but my goal was simple: finish, whatever it takes.

Many people living with Type 1 are concerned about going low out there in the middle of nowhere. Did you face that concern, and how did you plan for it?

That concern never goes away. Any T1D doing endurance or adventure stuff has it in the back of their mind—because it’s real.

I always run with a vest so I can carry what I’d need if things go sideways: multiple gels (Rocktane + carb gels), Haribo gummy bears (morale boost + low snack), fast glucose options (Transcend gels / Glow Gummies), honey, electrolytes, glucagon… and then I adjust based on weather, terrain, distance, and intensity.

In this race, I came into an aid station around mile 39–40 just over 100 mg/dL—exactly where I wanted to be. I topped off my vest (gummies + clementines) and headed out.

Five minutes later: 65 mg/dL with double down arrows.

I had to eat basically everything I had to stabilize. In most situations, that’s how you end up in trouble—because now you’re low and you’ve got nothing left.

The only reason it didn’t become a disaster is because I knew the course and knew another aid station was only 2–3 miles away. So I dialed back the pace, hiked the climbs, stayed conservative, and just focused on getting to the next station safely.

A DNF that deep into the race would’ve crushed me.

Do you feel Type 1 makes ultras more challenging, or less? Why?

It 100% makes it more challenging—because you’re not just running. You’re making decisions constantly: insulin, fuel, hydration, temperature, stress, adrenaline, terrain, timing, alarms… all of it.

But none of that is a reason not to do it.

It just means we need a higher level of preparation than the “normal” runner. And honestly? I’ve learned more about myself by challenging diabetes than by trying to hide from it.

Running 50 miles takes a long time. Did you hit a physical or mental low point?

Of course. Ultras are a full-day emotional roller coaster. The highs are high. The lows are dark. And if you don’t have a plan for the low points, your brain will absolutely start negotiating with you.

For me, it’s way more mental than physical. Your mind will quit long before your body is truly done. I’ve heard it said that when you feel like you’ve got nothing left, you’re still only around 40% of what you’re capable of.

I went to some dark places throughout the day. And every time my brain tried to convince me I was done, I’d picture my kids—my 3-year-old son and my 3-month-old twins at the time. I just knew I couldn’t look them in the face feeling like Dad quit when it got hard.

So I chunked the race down: make it to that tree… crest this ridge… get to the lake… get to the next station. Small wins create momentum. Momentum pulls you out of the spiral.

Hardest point was mile 46. The sun was down. I was alone on singletrack with nothing but a headlamp. That was the lowest low.

Then I broke out of the tree line and heard the crowd going insane near the finish.

And instantly, the low turned into the highest high.

Any mental tricks? Any “crap…I didn’t think this through” moments?

The “crap I didn’t think this through” moment was literally when the starting gun went off and I remembered I had 50 miles to cover.

But beyond that—mantras, chunking, staying present, riding the roller coaster, and not giving my brain the microphone when it started spiraling.

What did your training and fueling look like? Same as other runs or modified?

I took a four-month training block and treated it seriously because this was uncharted territory—for both distance and diabetes.

The structure was simple:
● 4 run days
● 2 gym days
● 1 short Zone 2 run + gym
● 1 speed session
● back-to-back long runs

The back-to-back long runs were the key. With three young kids, I wasn’t out there doing 6-hour training runs every week. So we simulated fatigue by running a longer distance one day (15–24 miles) and then running again the next morning on tired legs (10–16).

I truly believe that’s what saved me.

There was also a thunderstorm during the race and they pulled everyone off the course for almost an hour. A bunch of people got cold, stiff, borderline hypothermic, and couldn’t restart. I was able to drop back in—because I’d trained the skill of moving on fatigue.

Fueling: training runs were where we dialed that in. After a lot of trial and error (and honestly, some failed long runs), I found I performed best around 20–30g carbs every 40–45 minutes (or roughly every 4 miles depending on effort), using a specific pump profile.

Where did you run? Trail or road? And how did the environment affect your thinking?

Trail—well-maintained trails and gravel carriage roads through Mohonk Preserve. It was honestly beautiful.

I’m an outdoors guy. I love hiking. Trail running puts me in my element, so even though it was brutal, it felt like my kind of suffering.

Any moments where blood sugar didn’t match what you expected?

Yes—and in a good way.

I ate a ridiculous amount of food and barely took insulin to cover it. I expected to live in the 140–180 range and have to correct highs.

Instead, I ran 90–120 for most of the race.

Keeping my effort in high Zone 2 / low Zone 3 put me right in the sweet spot where intake and output balanced really well. I spent more time “waiting for the shoe to drop” than actually firefighting.

I expected a big spike when I finished and recovery kicked in, but I was able to land the plane pretty smoothly and transition back to my normal pump profile without major issues.

Do you feel T1D makes it harder or easier to do epic things?

My knee-jerk answer is “harder.”

But the real answer is: it’s hard for everyone—we just have more variables to manage. So yeah, it’s harder in the preparation and the monitoring… but it also makes us that much more badass when we do it.

Because we’re not just athletes out there—we’re playing pancreas and athlete at the same time in a high-stress, prolonged environment.

That’s a different level of mastery.

What advice do you have for someone with Type 1 getting started with ultras?

You are a person first and a diabetic second—never the other way around.

Don’t let T1D be the reason you don’t do something. There is nothing in this world you can’t do with Type 1. It just takes more preparation, smarter planning, and reps to learn what works for your body.

You’ll never get it perfect. Things will go wrong.

But the measure of you isn’t whether things go wrong—it’s how you adapt when they do.

What’s next for Chris Roome? Longer? Faster? Different sport?

Right now I’m taking a year off endurance racing because we just had our fourth child. But I’m chasing my 6-star medal in the World Marathon Majors (I already have NYC, Berlin, and Chicago). And in 2027, I want to toe the line for my first 100-mile trail race.

Anything else you’d like to tell us?

Not sure if this fits your blog, but I recently launched Project InsulNation—an adventure-based movement/business built to inspire, encourage, and empower Type 1s to break through limiting beliefs.

We host bucket-list trips where a crew of T1Ds goes and does hard things together in wild places—backpacking the Tetons, hiking the Pemi Loop in New Hampshire, climbing 14ers, and more.

The whole point is confidence, independence, and community—because when you do something hard together, it changes what you believe you’re capable of.