Ten Days Under the Ferris Wheel

You know how people say, “It’s a marathon, not a sprint”?
The Wisconsin State Fair is neither.
It’s definitely an ultramarathon. It’s the kind of race where you start strong, get a little delirious halfway through, and finish wondering how you’re still upright.

For 10 full days, my booth at the Fair was my aid station, my trailhead, and my finish line. The vendor hours were long and the crowds were constant. And every night, after a full day of selling, I’d go home, fire up the lasers, and make more products for the next day. Sleep became optional. Coffee became mandatory.

Much like an endurance race, the Fair had its own rhythm:

• Fueling at weird times. In ultras, you eat whatever the aid station offers: pickles, M&Ms, a quesadilla at 2 a.m. At the Fair? Deep fried cheese curds at 10:30 a.m., not necessarily because you want them, but because you saw a break in the crowd and that cheese curd booth is close enough to sprint to before the next wave of people come through.

• Blisters, but for your soul. Running long distances gives you hot spots on your feet. Selling at the Fair gives you hot spots in your brain where you can no longer remember if you already told someone, “These are handcrafted in Wisconsin!” or just thought it really loudly. That happened a lot. I’m sorry to everyone who thought I was weird for it.

• Moments of great uncertainty. Every race has moments of doubt, times when you ask yourself “was this all a mistake?” I had that in spades at the State Fair. Selling at an event like this is a far different animal than the art shows and craft fairs that I am used to. At those, people don’t want to hear from me - they just want to give me some money and walk away with a lovely product. But at the Fair, I had to sell. I had to step into my role as carnival barker and and really let people know why they needed what I was selling. And I loved it. I LOVED it. But before I realized that was the vibe of this crowd, as I was watching fairgoer after fairgoer walk by without giving my booth more than a cursory glance, I thought I had made a terrible mistake. And, just like in many races, it was a change in my approach that saved the day.

• The wall. In a marathon, you hit the wall somewhere around mile 20. At the Fair, you hit it on Day 7 when your voice is shot, your credit card reader needs charging, and you realize you’ve been standing in the exact same spot for 83 hours.

By Day 3, I had developed what I call “vendor legs”: that combination of standing for 12 hours a day, shifting from foot to foot, and lunging dramatically to grab the last bag from under the table when a customer asks for it. My voice, meanwhile, went from warm and welcoming to the vocal equivalent of a gravel road. I started whispering “handmade in Wisconsin” like it was both a confession and a plea.

But then there were the highs, so many highs: those moments that make you forget the aching feet and the long hours. Meeting customers who’ve been following my work online for years but finally got to see it in person. Watching kids light up when they found their favorite National Park on a map. Hearing someone say, “This is exactly the gift I was looking for.” These things happened a lot.

And there were small, silly joys: the neighbor vendors who saved me with cold water or a quick snack, the inside jokes you build after seeing the same people every day, the look on a customer’s face when you tell them, “Yes, that’s the exact park you visited last summer.” Those moments felt like little bursts of trail magic. They are a reminder that even in the middle of exhaustion, there’s beauty in connection.

Like an ultra, you finish exhausted but strangely exhilarated. And even though you swear you’ll never do it again, by the time you’ve unpacked the booth, washed the tablecloths, and slept for 14 straight hours… you start thinking: Maybe next year…