Sometimes fate has a certain way of taking care of things that we obsess over; in my case, entry into the Western States Endurance Run. The 2015 lottery took place yesterday and my name was not one of the lucky few drawn from the hopper. While this was a mild disappointment - even though 2015 would not have been a good year for me to run States, I still held out a little hope - it has caused me to take a look again at my priorities and why I run.

After suffering a bit of a mild sprain while on the trail yesterday, I was reminded what a fine line we walk out there and how easily and quickly this sport that I love could be taken from me. It is causing me to wonder whether I want events that I may choose to enter next year will be a means to an end (i.e., a Western States qualifier, Hard Rock 100 qualifier, Boston Marathon qualifier, etc.) or whether I will pursue events for the sheer excitement of the event itself and the enjoyment of scaling THAT mountain, rather than in anticipating the climb of a subsequent mountain.

I don't have an answer to this question yet but it calls to mind my previous reflections on presence, purpose, and staying in the moment. The fact is that I am a trail runner because I enjoy participating in amazing events in spectacular landscapes that are completely foreign to my day-to-day life. Trail running takes me far outside my comfort zones and into remote places (on so many levels), and this is why I continue to press on. I consider myself extremely fortunate that I have the physical ability and mental discipline to participate in these events. 

Whether I ever get a chance to run from Auburn to Squaw, or race through the San Juan Mountains that I have come to love so much, the fact is that running makes me happy. Being in nature brings my heart peace. I love the trail running community. So should fate smile on me someday down the road I will be grateful for it; but I won't make that the defining criteria for my schedule going forward.  

A Reflection on Perseverance

Back on July 4, 2011, I found myself standing at the base of the Telluride Trail outside the small ski town of Telluride, Colorado. I looked up and pondered the task that was before me. Over the next 2 1/2 miles, I would attempt to ascend a trail that rose approximately 3500 vertical feet on a trail that would begin at an altitude of around 7,000'. I was woefully unprepared for this challenge - I had given up running (or, for that matter, any kind of cardiovascular conditioning) years before and signed up for this "race" on a whim. I had recently made the decision to ease back into running again when, while in town for one of my annual trips to my beloved Colorado mountains, I came across a flyer for the inaugural run to the top of the town's gondola stations. "Great!", I thought - thinking this would be a great place to test myself and see where I stood. "It's just hiking. How hard could it be?"

The answer turned out to be, "very difficult." It took me more than 2 hours to climb that trail. I was woefully out of shape, and was battling physical and emotional demons at the time that had me wandering in a wilderness of my own making. I would like to be able to look back with joy and appreciation on what was my first trail race - actually, it was the first time I did anything besides walk on a trail at a leisurely pace. (I hesitate to say it was my first trail run because I did very little, if any, running.)  

Yet this was not the case. It was miserable, gut splitting, painful, and left me breathless and defeated. I put a good face on it, lest I appear to have been beaten by the day. And yet beaten I was. For the moment. I was spent, and took the gondola back down into town.

At the summit....sporting a fake smile, if ever there was one...

One of the reasons that running means so much to me is because it serves in so many ways as a metaphor for life. It teaches courage in times of difficulty, perseverance in the face of defeat, and that even in the darkest days, there can be slow, steady progress forward. When we are broken, we can heal. When we are tired, we can take rest. And when we are lost, or seemingly at the end of what we can do alone, there are others who are there to help us carry our burdens and continue on.

I look back on my morning in Telluride as the first steps of what would be a long, difficult journey. It rekindled my love of running, reminded me how much I missed the pain that accompanies a monumental effort, and would plant the seed in my mind that eventually brought me to the trails for hours (and days) at a time. It would also serve as the first steps out of a deep emotional hole and give me the courage to face some difficult days ahead.

Life takes us to dark places. Sometimes it seems the easiest thing to do is give up, or quit, or lose hope. It seems that we don't have the energy or courage to go on. Yet in these times, we persevere. 

I went back to have another go at that climb this past summer. As I ran (yes, ran) up the trail, my mind fluctuated between the rocks I was dodging and the last time I had attempted this ascent 3 short years ago. It seemed to me as if a lifetime had passed. My mind was at ease and my body was doing what I knew it was meant to do. I moved with purpose, ran where the trail allowed, and pushed the pace. Yet beyond the technical aspects of this run, my heart was at peace. I finished this climb in 40 minutes. Not a speed record, but for me, it was certainly satisfying. As I surveyed the landscape, I was grateful that I was given this "second" chance. And for the sake of this run, and much like my life, I would take full advantage of it. I breezed past the gondola station and ran to the trail on the other side of the mountain, eager to keep going.

3 years later.

Life is never static. I know that difficulties lurk around every turn. Yet in our odd little corner of the running world, there's a phrase that keeps us ultrarunners going - "Relentless Forward Progress". In life, like in running, sometimes that's all you can do. 

Now a Western States Hopeful...

This week I submitted my name to the lottery of the prestigious Western States 100 in Squaw Valley, California. Each year, Western States tops the list of many an ultrarunner - so many that the demand for the race far exceeds the 400 or so slots available to run it. From the event's website:

"Starting in Squaw Valley, California near the site of the 1960 Winter Olympics and ending 100.2 miles later in Auburn, California, Western States, in the decades since its inception in 1974, has come to represent one of the ultimate endurance tests in the world.


Following the historic Western States Trail, runners climb more than 18,000 feet and descend nearly 23,000 feet before they reach the finish line at Placer High School in Auburn. In the miles between Squaw Valley and Auburn, runners experience the majestic high country beauty of Emigrant Pass and the Granite Chief Wilderness, the crucible of the canyons of the California gold country, a memorable crossing of the ice-cold waters of the main stem of the Middle Fork of the American River, and, during the latter stages, the historic reddish-brown-colored trails that led gold-seeking prospectors and homesteading pilgrims alike to the welcoming arms of Auburn."

At the time of this writing, over 2,600 applicants have thrown their name in the hat for a shot at this iconic event. While my chances of getting picked are very slim, simply to have the chance to list my name alongside many of the great runners that make up the sport is an honor in and of itself.

Interestingly, the Chicago Marathon recently posted over 40,000 finishers in its annual event (which I ran in 2004 - and thoroughly enjoyed every step). Just a reminder at how "fringe" the ultrarunning scene remains, despite the surge in popularity the sport has seen over the past several years.

A fantastic video recap of the 2014 Western States 100 can be found here. It's well worth 4 minutes. And now, I wait as the lottery process plays out. To be continued in a couple weeks....

Learning To Scale the Wall

A common thread that seems to tie together many of my races over the past year and a half is a tendency toward "bonking" - that dreaded sensation when blood sugar gets low and previously high spirits evaporate like dew in the morning sun. It's notoriously referred to in marathon circles as the "wall" and usually hits runners between 20-22 miles. In my case it is usually accompanied by doubt and discouragement, and while it has only caused me to actually DNF (did not finish) on one occasion, it has certainly hampered my performance on others. I do not hear that term used in the ultra community often because by definition ultras exceed (and in some cases exceed by a wide margin) the time and mileage demands of the marathon - not to mention the fact that ultrarunners are generally averse to being compared to or adopting any of the jargon of their road running brethren. But that doesn't mean it's not there. In both marathons and ultras, it is incumbent upon the runner to learn their own limitations and train and prepare themselves to overcome them.

In my journey on the roads and now the trails I am learning that hitting the wall is not simply brought about by one variable acting in isolation. It is actually a combination of factors that seem to work in tandem with each other. Negative thoughts can certainly have an adverse affect on performance by themselves, and when coupled with poor nutritional choices on race day (and throw in a pinch of dehydration for good measure), the resulting cocktail can quickly bring a promising day to an abrupt end. Environmental conditions can also play a factor - for example, warm days with a hot sun overhead force the body into shutdown mode more quickly than a cool, overcast day (obviously). Yet in many of my training runs in the middle of the summer, I seem to have have little difficulty in dealing with the heat. So what is the difference on race day?

Getting back to negative thoughts, I believe the mental aspect plays a much larger role in scaling the wall than I would have acknowledged in the past. Most studies cite blood oxygenation and muscle glycogen capacities; for my part I have observed that there really isn't anything magical about 20 miles. Prior to training for and running ultras, I feared the 20 mile marker with the same sense of dread that many would reserve for spiders or public speaking. It seemed to be a scientific standard, much like absolute zero or the speed of light. Yet I have learned that through my own training and preparation, not to mention careful study of the many, many runners out on the trails who are more accomplished than I could ever hope to be, the walls that I fear are so often seemingly self-created. 20 miles is not a problem for me now and, in some training cycles, represents a mid-week training run.

Like every other competitor that pins on a bib and toes the line, I expect to perform well. I am diligent in my training and, when the stars have aligned, have tasted success in a race or two. Perhaps the added pressure of performing well adds to the level of fatigue that eventually wears on me and manifests itself in a kind of physical lethargy. On the other hand, perhaps while I have been assiduous in my physical preparation, I have neglected the mental side of succeeding at longer distances. Perhaps this is the next wall I need to learn to ascend.

That is not to say that I don't think that there are some true physical limitations that come into play. But as I prepare to turn the pages of the calendar and look forward to 2015, my focus will be on the mental aspect of scaling the wall. I still have much to learn and I am still hoping for that next magical race when everything comes together. Until then I will continue to stumble along, putting one foot in front of the other. 

2014 Cactus Rose 100 Recap

Hill Country Hillside, Jeff Lynch Photography.

Rugged.

A word that truly captures the essence of the Texas Hill Country. I feel fairly certain that when one imagines the typical "Texas" landscape, thoughts of rolling, dusty, scrub-covered hills as far as the eye can see crisscrossed by rocky horse trails readily come to mind. The trails outside the small town of Bandera, Texas fit this description to a tee. The first time I recall having heard of the trail races that take place in this remote part of south Texas it was in conversation with a local running friend, an older gentleman who remembered the broken ribs and sore ankles that this trail gave him a few years ago. "Not for me," I thought at the time. I like keeping things intact and, well, not broken, thank you very much.

I can't say exactly what finally prompted me to sign up for the 2014 Cactus Rose 100 Mile Endurance Run. The description on the event's website didn't sound any more appealing than that of my friend: "A nasty rugged trail run. Bonus Points for Blood, Cuts, Scrapes, & Puke." On top of that, from a purely logistical standpoint, the race is not at all close to where I reside. It takes place squarely during the school year and would cause me to miss some important family events going on around that time. I knew my wife and kids (my go-to crew) would not be able to make it down. The race is completely unsupported, with no volunteers at aid stations. Runners are on their own to bring whatever food or supplies they will need. And I wasn't certain I could find pacers who would give up a weekend of their own time and make the trip down there. (Fortunately a couple of good friends did step up and would meet me to pace over the latter stages of the race.) Yet the challenge of the trail appealed to me. Sometimes you have to take a leap of faith and trust yourself, taking it, as I would be forced to recall in this race, one step at a time.

Hill Country Landscape, via www.wildtexas.com

I decided to camp at the race site which ended up being both easy and cost-effective. On race day, to say that I awoke in my tent is probably a misstatement because I am not sure I slept much (if at all) the night before. I stumbled out of my tent at around 4am to find everything I had set out the night before covered in a heavy layer of dew as a damp chill had settled over the area. It was as if a steady rain had fallen in the night. I went through my prerace checklist, grabbed a few bites of food, packed up my things, and headed to the start line - known as the "Lodge" - which would also serve as the turnaround point for each loop in the race.

Runners had begun gathering as I was waking up, so by the time I walked over to the start line much of the area was already filled with runners and well-wishers. I took a few moments to double check my gear. At 5am the race director Joe sent us on our way with a quiet countdown and a “go”. With that, my day(s) began.

The Course

Cactus Rose is made up of a 25 mile loop that the 100 milers will complete 4 times. When you complete a loop, you reverse direction.  The first 12 miles or so is relatively flat and runnable, with one short but technical climb (Lucky Peak) at around mile 3. After that, runners can take advantage of flat fire roads, fields, and single track without much technicality for about another 9 miles. It’s an opportunity to either make up some time or go out too hard. The true heart of the course would come over the next 13 miles. It would involve several steep climbs and descents over gnarly, rocky trails covered in various sized loose rocks and sotol plants. Drop bags are set out at aid stations that come at roughly 5 mile intervals, so it was easy to keep the mind focused on the "one aid station at a time" mantra.

The elevation profile. Each subsequent loop reverses direction.

Climbing the hills in this park was unlike anything I had ever done before. I heard someone out on the course describe it as "trying to scramble up and down hills that are covered with marbles." This was very accurate. The rocks underfoot were constantly moving and shifting. It was difficult to get any solid footing on the way up, and then on the way down, the steep descents over loose rocks and scree would send a shower of pebbles down the hillsides with each step. Another feature of the course was the infamous sotol. It covers the trail in several places and there's no way to get around it. The sawtoothed, ribbon leaves would leave tiny cuts all over the arms and legs of passing runners. For my part, however, I never found the sotol to be more than a minor irritation.

Sotol is everywhere...

Loop One (5:49)

Most of my first loop was run in the cool, dark, early morning hours. It was an exercise in surveying the landscape, staying relaxed, and conserving as much energy as I could for the later stages of the race. It was a quiet loop for me as I ran without music, and while I had hoped to meet some other runners with whom I could talk a little bit, that did not happen here. I enjoyed the solitude and the chance to remain in my thoughts for a few hours. Watching the sun rise over the hills as I climbed and descended the many small peaks in the latter half of the loop was truly breathtaking. The howl of coyotes off in the distance reminded me that we runners were connecting to something primitive and ancient – a land that was here long before we were and will remain long after we are gone. It was beautiful in all of its ruggedness. I picked up the pace toward the end of the loop, eager to get back to the Lodge and check an awaiting message from one of my pacers. I finished my first loop comfortably in under 6 hours. I was a little behind schedule, but I felt good and was eager to keep moving.

Loop Two (9:38)

The design of the course sends runners back out on to the second loop in the opposite direction from the first, meaning that we would start our second loop going back over the rough terrain that we just ran at the end of loop one. The confidence I felt back at the Lodge quickly dissipated as I began to work my way up Cairn’s Climb, the hill that I had just so confidently descended several moments before. I could feel the temperature begin to rise as the sun made its way higher into the sky. Fatigue began to creep into my legs and doubt crept into my mind for the first time. The climbs and descents seemed relentless as each step sent showers of rocks skittering down the hillsides around me. Not only could I not run, but even walking and hiking seemed treacherous – a rolled ankle was only a misstep away, and that could happen at any time. As the miles slowly crept by, I could feel the added weight of exhaustion and dehydration weigh me down. The sun was now in full strength in the sky and the heat was stifling. My stomach began to turn and I could not keep food or fluids down. By the time I reached the Three Sisters at mile 33 I had slowed to a crawl. The climb was an exercise in walking to a nearby bush or small tree (which provided some shade), sitting down, collecting myself, getting up, hiking a couple hundred yards, finding some shade, and repeating the process. Several very kind runners stopped and asked if I was alright. My response was a breathless “Sure. Ok, fine, I’ll be going again soon.” They would offer a word of encouragement then press on. I would wait a few moments, then do the same.

When it comes to finding dark places mentally and emotionally out on the trails I sometimes think I have a special gift. I was convinced it was not my day. I was convinced I did not belong here. I was out of my league. I felt over matched by this course and these athletes who made this endeavor seem effortless. When I finally dragged myself into the aid station at mile 35 I had made up my mind to retire for the day. I took off my hydration vest and dropped to the ground. A kind person brought me a cold cloth and some ice water, and all I could offer in return was a whimper.

Self-doubt and self-pity were the only thoughts I could manage. Frustration and disappointment inevitably followed. (I had a PLAN! Plans are supposed to WORK!) And yet here I was, crossed up by the same despair that had plagued me in previous races. I sipped on some sprite to help settle my uneasy stomach. I was able to eat a few orange slices. I found my chair and just sat in the shade. I took in some electrolytes. I managed to get a text off to my wife from someone else’s phone, telling her I was finished and that my pacers do not need to make the trip. And I waited. For over an hour, I sat and waited. After what seemed like an eternity, I managed to pull myself out of my chair and walk around the aid station. I felt better than I had expected – I was not nauseous, so that was a good start – and I began to think about the possibility of not going home empty-handed. I was 15 miles away from the end of the second loop and, at the very least, a 50-mile medal. The remainder of this loop was relatively flat. If I could manage to somehow get back to Lodge and get something out of this day, then I would consider it a monumental success. A few of the nice folks at the aid station commented that I looked “better” (I took that as a huge compliment) which further served to lift my spirits. After giving my situation a moment of thought, I decided to pick up my hydration vest, fill my bottles, and set out again. I cursed under my breath in probably 5 different languages. I donned my hat and walked back out on the trail, determined to get that medal.

How I was sure I would feel if I got that medal!

It wasn’t long before I came across someone who had also recently stumbled out of that aid station. Within a few moments I had caught up to this runner, another Fort Worth guy named Aaron, and we began to talk about our day. Neither one of us was particularly proud of our effort up to that point, but we had eventually come to the same conclusion – walk this loop and get a medal. He was in the 50 mile race so at least he was going to accomplish his goal of finishing his event. We talked as we slowly moved down the trail, swapping stories and biographies. We were joined by a very pleasant Australian lady named Lynne. Listening to her talk in her Aussie accent was like music to our ears. We shared a great conversation. Walking and talking with Aaron and Lynne was very refreshing. He reminded me of the importance of mindfulness, and we committed ourselves to remaining in the moment - not worrying about what had happened earlier in the day or what would await us later. It was something I needed to hear. Night had fallen by the time we made it back around to the Lodge. I had made it 50 miles. But rather than quit now, I felt as if the game was back on. I had found a nutrition combination that seemed to work. My first pacer of the day, Chris, who knew of my struggles earlier in the day, was glad to see me and had no intention of letting me quit now. I was recharged, feeling reasonably confident, and was ready to set off again. I grabbed my headlamp, thanked Aaron profusely, and jogged back out again into the night with Chris.

Loop Three (7:54)

After an uncertain second loop, I was relieved to be in a good place again mentally and physically. I completely trusted my pacer, a seasoned ultrarunner with whom I ran a great last lap at Rocky Raccoon 100 earlier in the year. As we headed out of the Lodge my spirits were high. We immediately began running and kept up a brisk pace over the 12-mile flat section of this loop. Chris kept the conversation going and was careful to help me monitor my nutrition.  I enjoyed feeling the temperatures drop as the night drew on. At the aid stations I would stop and rest for short periods of time. We would check in and I would fish a snack out of a drop bag or have a few sips of Coke. Other than that, our intention was to keep moving, so we did not linger.

We were careful over the gnarly terrain in the later miles of this loop, as the technical climbs and descents in the middle of the night on tired legs became all the more complicated. We were forced to slow down considerably but we still remained positive. A blanket of stars engulfed the sky overhead, and with the exception of our footfalls on the dirt trail, not a sound was to be heard. The occasional headlamp could be seen off in the distance – up on a hill, or down in a valley – but otherwise we were completely alone. I recalled my earlier conversation with Aaron and kept my mind in the present moment. Despite my struggles, I was truly glad to be in this place.

The third loop finished with a quickstep charge back to the Lodge. We passed a few other runners on the way in who also seemed focused and determined. I drew inspiration from them, realizing that at this stage of the game, we’re all in it together. As I made the turnaround, it was time to grab my second pacer, and really get to work.

Loop Four (7:02)

My last loop would be paced by my friend David, an Ironman triathlete whose lack of trail experience was more than compensated for by his athletic ability and sheer enthusiasm. I am not sure how enthusiastic anyone could be after sitting in a cold aid station drinking coffee and hot chicken broth waiting through the night on your runner who is hours behind schedule, but David handled it like a champ. He was ready to go, so with a quick thanks to Chris, we were off.

My goal at this point was to finish in less than 30 hours. I needed a 6 ½ hour last lap to get there. David was going to do his part to help make that happen. I told him about the course and what we faced over the next 12 miles. We were not going to make good time early on, but if we could at least keep moving, there would be longer, more runnable stretches later. I was not looking forward to tackling the hills again but I would handle each one in their own time. “One step at a time”, I would tell myself.

Up and down we went. For the first time all night, an overwhelming drowsiness overcame me. I tried to stay focused on the trail but my heavy eyelids betrayed me. What I wouldn’t have given for some hot coffee! The time was approaching 6am and the sun had just begun to peek over the horizon. David pointed out that some of the hillsides off to the east were beginning to become framed in red. I took this both as good news and bad news – I would surely feel a charge of energy with the approach of daylight, but the sun would also bring the suffocating heat that nearly ended my day so many hours before.

We resolved to get as far as we could as quickly as possible. David scouted ahead for flat sections that we could run. Whenever the opportunity arose, we ran – and knocked out several miles in short order whenever the trail allowed. We would stop and recover when the loose rocks would make an appearance, but otherwise, we pressed on. We actually caught up to my goal time and were starting to build a cushion – it looked like we might hit 6 ½ hours on this loop and finish sub 30!

Victory is MINE!!

Well, not quite. As much as I would like to be able to say I accomplished my goal, that I charged across the finish line in a blaze of glory in under 30 hours with room to spare, unfortunately this didn’t happen. As we passed the 21 mile point in our loop together (mile 96 for me), the morning sun was already high in the sky. I began to succumb to the heat that frustrated me earlier in the day. Our pace slowed, and although David was ready to continue pushing the pace, my legs felt like lead. We could hear the celebrations and music at the finish line but we still had work to do. We hiked the next 3 miles together, which included a hike over “Lucky Peak” – the last significant climb of the day.  It seemed we were making very little progress, but we pressed on, knowing the end was in sight.

Finally, with about a mile to go, we began to jog until at last the finish line came into view. I was elated – to finally be here after 30 hours was a mixture of relief and pure joy. I crossed the line in 30 hours 23 minutes and did not feel one ounce of regret about my time. I received several hugs from volunteers at the finish line, including from my pacer Chris, who had waited around for me to finish. When I was handed my buckle, all I could think of was a line from J.R.R. Tolkein’s “The Fellowship of the Ring”:

“Is it not a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt for so small a thing? So small a thing!”

And yet this small thing meant the world to me at that moment. I found a chair in the shade with my friends and sat down, taking it all in. Chris brought me a hamburger from the food truck. I took a deep breath, had a good look around, and enjoyed the moment. Soon other runners would cross the finish line, and I was grateful to be there to share in their joy as well. And thus my day and my trip to Bandera drew to a close. With my buckle in my hand and gratefulness on my heart I set off to prepare for the trip back home. 

Presence

I have been giving a lot of thought lately to the idea of "mindfulness". Interestingly, while I have been mulling over this concept for quite some time, I have not until recently had a term to which I could latch on that defined the direction my thoughts were taking. The basic idea is that for many of us, our minds are constantly scattered in many different directions by the rising tides and endless bufferings of daily life. We do not take (or make) time to focus our minds on one particular task. We allow ourselves to lose sight of the present moment while we lament (or celebrate) the past, or anticipate the future. The present moment is lost in a turbulent sea of various stressors, be they internally or externally imposed. Our mind wanders and the present moment is lost.

I will readily admit that I am not well read in philosophy but I feel fairly certain that there is some line of philosophical thinking that covers recurring motifs and themes in a person's life. The concept of presence - actually being in the present moment - has crossed my radar often. I believe that my foray into long-distance running has only served to heighten my awareness of this idea. If one loses their focus in the present moment in the course of a long run, or allows the mind to wander beyond simply hitting the next short-term goal or target, then the task at hand can seem overwhelming. It may be difficult to comprehend running for 30, 50, or 100 miles or more but when one thinks about running the current 5 mile segment or perhaps making to the next tree, bush, or curve in the trail, the task isn't quite so insurmountable. There are even athletes who run up to 100 miles on a standard 400 meter track. I have a difficult time imagining the kind of focus it must take to remain in the moment for literally hours on end running in circles!

My mind is generally a fractured mess of past, present and future. The inescapable array of daily distractions and obligations seem overwhelming at times, and it's in running that I often find a sanctuary. However, I have progressed to the point that even running provides little solace for me, as running itself has become somewhat effortless. The mind is not really focused on running (unless I am on a technical trail) and as such it is bandied about by the various preoccupations that assail me. I enjoy listening to music when I run as this also allows a mental "break" but I am coming to the realization that this is not the ideal solution, either.

So what is the next step? As I have said in previous posts, my life does not yet mirror the principles that I claim are so important to me. And so, I return to mindfulness. I am sure that I am not giving the concept a fair shake as I have only begun a cursory exploration into what it means and how it can be applied in my own life, both as a part of my running and as a part of "everything else". If I can focus my mind then perhaps I can move incrementally toward becoming the person I want to be. And, of course, the runner I hope to be as well!

Cactus Rose Race Prep

With less than 2 weeks to go until I step off on my next adventure, the Cactus Rose 100 in Bandera, Texas, I have begun what I would consider my first day of logistical race prep. I had already started reading online race reports to familiarize myself with some details about the course and to find out what past finishers had done well (or not-so-well) in their races. So in that regard, I am somewhat familiar with a few of the key features of the course - hills, rocks, sotol cactus, friendly volunteers, unmanned aid stations - but these were only the basics, and while helpful, most race reports don't focus on the course itself in a lot of detail. Now, I need to review the specifics of the course - aid station locations, the elevation profile, and the like.

The beginnings of a game plan are beginning to take shape in my mind. Right now I feel very good. My training has gone well and I have a solid base from the several races I have done so far this year. Yet as I review the course profile I am forced to quell any overconfidence I might feel as I come face to face with the fact that in the course of my training I am not able to get much hill work in, a deficiency which could be quickly and painfully exposed in a race like this:

Needless to say, Cactus Rose has my full attention.

I am not at the point in my running life when I feel that I am ready to call my shots, so I am not going to necessarily suggest that I want to beat "X" time; however, I do hope to finish in the 24-hour range. I believe this is possible given my current level of fitness (although the course may have a thing or two to say about that). With a very busy racing season upcoming - including the back-to-back Bandera 100k and Rocky Raccoon 100 in January - my main focus is, of course, to finish. I have 36 hours in which to complete this task and while I don't intend to use that much time it is reassuring to know that I have it. I also want to finish on a strong note and not completely destroy myself, so pacing and patience will be extremely important. 

What I am doing now is breaking the course down into sections. For ultramarathons, that means looking at the course in blocks from aid station to aid station. This will allow me to focus on my nutrition - a weakness in my previous longer races at Miwok and Rocky - and make sure that I am prepared for the upcoming section from a mental standpoint. Since my crew for this race will be minimal (if I have one at all), it will be very important that I am ready to get through aid stations without much delay. I don't want to rush, but I don't want to waste time, either. So organization and efficiency will be important. Breaking the course down in this way also makes the 100 mile distance seem less overwhelming. Aid stations are typically between 5-7 miles apart. 

Once I have become familiar with the course, or as familiar as I can become given the resources I have available, the focus will turn to race nutrition. That will be the subject of another post. But for now, back to my charts and maps...

Growth and Change

In creating a blog for myself, one thing that I did not intend to do is to spend time commenting on or critiquing other peoples' blogs. As far as I am concerned everyone is entitled to their feelings on whatever subject or subjects about which they choose to write. Yet I have noticed a theme on a couple of running-related blogs I frequent and in some podcasts I have heard in relation to the sport of ultrarunning - or more specifically, how its past relates to its present and, possibly, its future.

I have observed that there are a number of runners in this community who lament the loss of the intimacy and fringe-nature of the sport. There was a day when races were a low-key, low-cost affair. Finisher swag often included a chair or a bench to sit on and a pat on the back. Race organization would consist of a loose chain of individuals who would promote an event largely by word-of-mouth. The so-called "elites" of the sport were readily accessible at races, would drink a beer with you after a race, and often work aid stations, pace, and welcome back-of-the-pack finishers at races as they ran, walked, or crawled across the finish line. It was a sport that lived on the margins, to be sure, and many of the crazy personalities who inhabited it over the years have unintentionally become its "legends". 

As the years have passed, the sport has grown exponentially. This is due to a myriad of factors - namely, individuals who have drawn attention to their accomplishments in endurance races, social networks that have connected runners across the country and around the world, and the proliferation of online videos and movies that have chronicled the feats of the ultrarunning community set against the backdrop of spectacular landscapes and almost indescribable natural beauty. The numerous books that have been written about the lives of endurance athletes have become standard bookshelf material for those of us who aspire to populate the same trails over which these great runners left their mark. 

With this growth has come some unintended consequences. Well-known races that were once easy to enter are now oversold well in advance, and have even been forced to enact lotteries in selecting participants. Those that did not cap entries often found themselves overwhelmed with participants who were not prepared for the challenges they were going to face; further, some did not display proper etiquette out on the trails. Corporate sponsors have become the norm, promoting elite athletes who can train year-round for events that offer ever-growing financial incentives for top finishers. Large corporations bought out iconic races from the local founders and directors, and some of the "folksy" feel and homegrown support around these burgeoning races began to vanish. And (much to my chagrin), trail running has even been featured in a cheap beer commercial. Ultrarunning has become big business.

When I learned about the sport just a couple of short years ago after reading the seminal ultrarunning book "Born To Run", I felt as if I had found my calling. I rediscovered my love of running, realizing that there was a brand new world for me to explore. I watched every video on the subject I could find and was enamored by the online adventures of Anton Krupicka, Sebastian Chigneau and Kilian Jornet. I could not wait to enter my first race and knew that, should fate smile upon me, this was to become the primary pursuit of any and all my free time. 

I myself am grateful for those who shared the sport over various media and opened my eyes to the possibilities of getting off the roads and running long distances in nature. I've been challenged to do more than I ever thought I could and in turn feel as if I have found an activity that is well-suited to my personality. While there are those who would look down upon the videos, books, and stories as shameless self-promotion (and maybe some of it is), I can't thank enough the runners who embraced this media as a way to share the sport with me. I have been hooked since the day I saw this in an airport bookstore:

As a relative newcomer to the sport, I hear what the veterans are saying and I take their concerns to heart. There is a lot that can be read into them if one takes a moment to look below the surface. Trail races and ultras have always placed tremendous emphasis on the value of EVERY participant. Whether in first place or last, trail races celebrate camaraderie in the best sense of the word. Seconds and minutes off of one's time are lost in the hours upon hours spent on a course. Friendships are formed and strengthened out there through the shared effort and unique kind of suffering that only the runner can understand. Further, time on these trails brings one closer to (and in some cases, face-to-face with) nature at it's most raw and unforgiving. If one can't gain a healthy respect for nature and her majesty after spending 30 hours or more wandering through her vast expanses alone with very limited aid and support then it may not be possible to attain it!

Now that I have had the opportunity to participate in a few events myself (as a runner and as a volunteer) I am beginning to understand what the "vets" are talking about. I see it at every race - friendships are formed or renewed, sacrifices are made, experiences are shared - and I am inspired. For my part, I am learning and hopefully putting the best spirit of trail running into practice myself. I make it a point to thank volunteers and go out of my way to help others in any way I can. And I try to smile. A lot. I'm far from perfect - I'm not naturally the most outgoing person in the world - but I try. And I notice a lot of other people trying, too.

Perhaps we may never go back to the fringe-sport mentality that pervaded ultrarunning a decade ago. But there are a ton of fantastic people who have taken to the trails, most of whom I think "get it". I only hope I can be as gracious an ambassador for the sport I enjoy so much as many of them have been. Change can be good, and hopefully the waves of newcomers like me will stop to listen and learn a thing or two from our cagey veteran friends. The next time I'm out there I plan to do just that - preferably with a beer in hand, in a chair, at a finish line.

St Sebastian - Patron Saint of Runners & Athletes

Boston Bound

The Boston Marathon, circa 1938.

When I began my running journey back in the fall of 1999 at the Tennessean 5k in Brentwood, Tennessee, I think it is safe to say that I really had no idea what I was doing. I had only recently started to run and train regularly, having been inspired by watching several episodes of the Eco-Challenge Adventure Races on television, and feeling certain that it was my calling in life to do something like that. I showed up at the race adorned with a multi-bottle hydration belt, plenty of extra food for my 3.1 mile journey around the block, and the hope that I might be tough enough to finish the event. 

25 minutes later I crossed the finish line feeling triumphant. As my thoughts typically do, they quickly turned to "what's next". After I wrapped my mind around the idea that people could and do actually run farther than 3.1 miles - a concept that until recently had completely escaped my notice or care - I began to consider the idea of running a marathon. 26.2 miles - that magical distance inspires such reverence from the running community. It is universally appreciated by the fastest runners, who crowd the front of a race trying to get everything they can from their bodies, to the "back-of-the-packers," who are trying to overcome whatever mental or physical obstacle that would deter them from their goal. They're all living a dream in one way or another. Few events can equal the history and pageantry of the marathon. Finishing that 5k was satisfying in and of itself but what it primarily accomplished was to whet my appetite for bigger and better things. The 5k's became 10k's, then half marathons, and finally my first marathon in 2001. And after that, it wasn't long before I fixed my gaze to the northeast, to a town called Hopkinton and the prestigious Boston Marathon.

Several months and years worth of work, coaching, planning, and preparation produced a qualifying race last year. And so, 15 years after running that first timed race back in Tennessee, I have finally received the letter that I have long hoped would be in my future. It's the prized notification from the Boston Athletic Association that my application to the famed Boston Marathon has been accepted.

Due to a large number of applications this year there was no guarantee that I would get in, even though I had eclipsed my qualifying standard by almost 5 minutes. I was preparing mentally to have to go through the process of requalifying again should I not make the cut, even asking myself whether or not I would try given that my attention has turned almost exclusively toward ultramarathons. Yet Boston holds a level of mystique that is unmatched in the running world. The ultrarunner may look unfavorably at such a race, with its large crowds and over-the-top spectacle, preferring instead the long solitude of the trails. The beginning runner may look at Boston as being an unattainable pipe dream, with its stringent time standards and daunting course profile. Yet every runner must appreciate the history that this race embodies. It is one of the few races that occupies such a large place the public consciousness even outside of the running community.

This is indeed exciting news. I had thought in some of my races earlier this year that running Boston at this point in my life, after having completed several marathons and ultras over the years, might feel anticlimactic. I am pleased to report that this is not the case. 157 days from today, if all goes according to plan, I'll have the chance to live this dream and experience all that Boston has to offer. If that doesn't excite you as a runner, I don't know what will.

Since I have become indoctrinated in the culture of ultrarunning, I have heard a phrase bandied about that has given me pause. The phrase in question is "living authentically" - a concept which, at its core, basically means making choices in our everyday lives that reflect our "true" selves rather than doing things that are intended to satisfy some external end - impressing others, living up to another's expectations, etc. It is a far-reaching concept and one that I have been trying to incorporate into my own life for a while now; however, it has only been recently that I have come to discover a more complete, well-defined portrait of what this this idea actually represents. 

What is living authentically? Well when one searches the almighty Google, they are quick to discover a great multitude of psychoanalysis, bullet lists, and various other sites and blogs that offer a wide variety of answers to this question. They cut across the social spectrum and include the deeply religious, the minimalist, the educator, those conscious of race (and the place that the history of their race plays in their daily lives), the outdoorsman, and on and on. There are as many ways to live authentically as there are people on this planet and reading about some of these experiences (for those who choose to share) is very enlightening.

When I apply the question to myself, am I living authentically - that is, according to my core beliefs? I think in some areas yes, but in others no. I still have a lot of work to do on my part - don't we all? - but in asking the question I have discovered a number of ways in which I am NOT living according to the principles that I like to think are important to me. There are some obvious limits to the extent to which I can take this (the likelihood of me quitting my job and becoming a mountain dwelling, ultrarunning, organic gardener who plays various musical instruments, speaks several languages, and is a gourmet chef who travels the world is pretty small) but I think that authentic living can and should be a part of our lives as they are. 

What this means to me is that the direction of my life is far from set. It's both an exciting and somewhat disconcerting idea - while I am certainly an optimist, I have to wonder what if I am not able to bring about the positive changes in my life that bring me closer to these beliefs? What if I allow myself to continue to be driven by forces external to those that I would assign the highest importance? Can I allow myself to let go of the past and be present in the moment?

At the risk of sounding like a Steven Covey disciple, these things are important and require daily attention. I may not get there quickly, if ever, on some of my more ambitious objectives. But I can start the journey and see where it leads me. 

Hike to Isinlivi by Alex Vermeer

One step at a time.

Update On Things

While we have been blessed with a generally mild Texas summer this year, the "dog days" seem to refuse to go quietly into that good night. It is not unusual for high temperatures in Texas to hover well into September and it is starting to look like that will be the case again this year. While we eagerly await the changing of the seasons we're forced to deal with the reality of daily life in a "humid subtropical climate zone". (Understatement.)

This has obvious impacts upon training and performance, and I am certainly feeling the cumulative effects of what has been several weeks of hard work in the heat. Granted, it's not as bad as it could have been, but it has still presented a unique set of challenges. First and foremost is the constant focus on hydration and electrolyte replacement. Short runs of only a few miles leave one doused with sweat (think: stepping out of the shower fully clothed). Longer runs, meanwhile, can be draining physically and mentally, as it seems that no matter how much one drinks or how many salt tabs one ingests, it always seems that you're a step behind. Every breath of wind, every tree branch that provides a sliver of relief from the unrelenting sun, becomes a blessing of the highest order. Sleep is often sacrificed as runs must be undertaken in the early predawn hours to avoid the heat of the day - a sacrifice which further reduces the quality of training by preventing the body to fully heal from previous training sessions. In short, training in the summer is a grind.

As for where I stand at the moment, coming off of back-to-back higher mileage weeks (around 80 miles/week) has left me skewing to the "burned out" side of the running spectrum. A couple of (hopefully) minor niggles can certainly use an easy week to recover, and that is just what I am going to provide. 

This week I have also committed to my next adventure - Cactus Rose 100 in October in Bandera, Texas. I've had my eyes on this race for a while now so I decided it was time to put my name on the list. It's time to begin the mental preparation for 100 miles on what will probably be one of the tougher trails I will see in the state of Texas. I feel that physically I am prepared, but the question will become am I mentally ready? Am I ready to make a plan and commit to it? To have a pacing strategy? A nutrition plan? And most importantly - am I ready to display the mental focus and resolve that it will take to earn buckle #2?

To be continued...

Team IRC and the Leadville Trail 100

“It is sometimes a mistake to climb; it is always a mistake never even to make the attempt. If you do not climb, you will not fall. This is true. But is it that bad to fail, that hard to fall?” 
― Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 6: Fables and Reflections


As I made my way along the 2-lane country roads that bypassed buffalo breeding grounds, farming pastures and seemingly dozens of burned-out, abandoned barns, I reflected on how this seemed to be the land that time forgot. Gray clouds hovered above the mountain peaks surrounding the hardscrabble town of Leadville, Colorado. The low ceiling gave an almost ominous appearance to this former mining colony on the outskirts of Colorado's exclusive ski towns - and yet, the mountain peaks that surround Leadville are not populated by the winter retreats of the rich and famous. This is a town whose residents work the land, endure long, cold winters, and have known both great fortune and great hardship. The history of this remote mountain town is as colorful as the men and women who shaped it. It arose from the valley floor in the mid-1800's in the midst of the gold and silver rushes that brought prospectors across the plains in search of fortunes buried deep in the mountains. At one time, Leadville was the second most populous city in Colorado and one of the wealthiest mining towns in the world.

Alas, this was not to last. As the mines dried up and the prospectors moved on, Leadville withered, and for decades the town fell into decline. Polluted water and soils from the years of mining activity kept the higher-end developers away. Despite the spectacular views, the town remained decidedly blue collar. 

It was against this backdrop that the Leadville Trail 100 was born. The LT100 is an iconic mountain ultramarathon that celebrates the town's gritty, hard-nosed past. The race was founded in 1983 as a means of helping the local economy and hopefully bring some notoriety to this quiet community. The locals thought that the idea of running 100 miles through the mountains at that altitude was suicidal; and yet the race flourished, bringing hearty, adventure-seeking souls from around the world to have a go at the "Race Across the Sky."

Courtesy Rob Timko Photography

The 31st running of the LT100 pitted 690 brave souls against these mountains on trails that would weave in and out, and up and down the Rocky Mountain range that encircles Leadville. I would attend this year's running as a crew member for several friends who were taking their shot. I had also planned on pacing someone but was prepared to see how the race unfolded to determine in what capacity I would be called upon to offer my help. My view from the sidelines was a little different from past volunteering efforts in that I was actually invested in particular runners (as opposed to being available to offer help and moral support to whomever needed it). The plan was for me to be ready to run up to 50 miles with one of our team of runners from the Winfield aid station back toward the start/finish line in Leadville. (A map of the course can be found here.) Whether or not I was called upon to run, my goals were very clear: support, encourage, and above all, get our guys across the finish line.

My vantage point for the race was the Twin Lakes aid station (mile 39.5 outbound and 60.5 inbound). From there, I witnessed the struggles and successes of many runners at a critical stage in the race. Yet while I was able to take in much of the comings and goings of the crowd, trying to get the full flavor of the race from this spot was akin watching a baseball game through a tiny hole in a fence. I could see small bits and pieces of the event but it was difficult to see things unfold in the bigger picture. 

What I did observe was the toll this event was taking on the runners, ours in particular. I had heard that at previous aid stations we had a couple guys who looked great, a couple who looked OK, and a couple who were struggling. Over the course of the afternoon we watched dozens of runners pour through Twin Lakes in various states of fatigue. Some looked relaxed and strong, others shaky and uncertain. There were some runners who were exhausted and called it a day while others were determined to continue. Some even looked like they had hardly run a step, even though they had been at it for 7 hours or more. 

Activity at Twin Lakes. Photos by Kerri Kerr.

Most of our day was spent waiting. As our runners crossed through the aid station one at a time, we jumped into action, filling water bottles, rounding up food, and checking gear. Upon their departure, we would patiently await the next one. It was difficult to be so out of touch with what was going on out on the trail. Even in this modern era of technology, tracking devices, and instant updates, there are times when one can still be truly alone. In the hours that pass between aid stations, all we could do was speculate at what might be going on in the wilderness. A couple of the guys on our team seemed to be behind schedule, and it was all we could do to hope they were not injured or lost.

The summer sun beat down on us as we wondered what might have delayed our runners. (We hoped the answer did not involve a bear or mountain lion!) When the last members of our group finally made it back in, the feelings we all shared were bittersweet. One of our team decided his day was done. A tough training cycle mixed with dehydration at high elevation had sabotaged his efforts. (He'll be back.) Another was just ahead of the cutoff, and moving him through the aid station and getting him back on the trail as quickly as possible was of utmost importance. The difficulty of this race came into full focus at that moment for him as exhaustion met determination, and even though he literally had a mountain to climb and not much time to do it, he gathered what strength he had and set out. The rest of us were left to wait, and to hope.

You've got to move it, move it!!

As the sun dipped below the mountain peaks the heat quickly dissipated and a chill in the air quickly settled over our camp. It was not long before we were reaching for coats, sweatshirts, or whatever else we could find to stay warm. Slowly, runners made their way back through our aid station making the return trip to Leadville - although it was apparent that the infamous Hope Pass climb had thinned out the herd significantly. Our runner who had just made the Twin Lakes cutoff time had unfortunately just as narrowly missed the cutoff at the next aid station and was forced to come back to our camp. We witnessed other runners who came up just short on this day return as well - some satisfied that they had given everything they had, and others who were clearly disappointed that the mountains got the better of them that day. Yet our admiration for each of them was undiminished, regardless of outcome. Simply to be there, to witness what they were going through, was something to behold.

Team photos courtesy Kathy Fowler.

In the end, we had one runner (and his very tenacious pacer) from our team who made it back to the finish line in Leadville. I look forward to reading his story of the race. To say that the rest of us were proud to be a part of his day would be a tremendous understatement. We hoped that what little help we could offer helped keep him going out there. But there's not a doubt in my mind that someone who can spend almost 30 hours at over 9,000' altitude, climbing endless mountains, crossing stream after stream, while enduring extreme heat, frigid cold, hunger, thirst, and exhaustion from lack of sleep is cut from a different kind of cloth. My hat was certainly off to him. Well done, Jeff  and Derek.

The man!

It was interesting to observe some of the other folks who also made it to the finish line. There's a widely held misconception that ultrarunners are somehow superhuman. While I do not mean to sell anyone short, the vast majority of the runners are not professionally trained elites; in fact, most are, to quote Dakota Jones, "legions of fit, prepared runners who are eating enough, staying hydrated, wearing the correct mountain gear, and basically ensuring themselves anonymity." Perhaps it is a stretch to say that anyone could run 100 miles, but from what I have observed, more people can finish an event like this through sheer force of will than superior physical conditioning. It's very inspiring to witness.

Success can also be measured in different ways, and it is not always as cut-and-dried as achieving goal #1. Certainly anyone who finishes in the allowed time frame would consider the race a success. Yet for others, this day may present itself as one step in the journey to a successful finish - an incremental approach, if you will. Only roughly half of those that would start this race would actually finish. Yet a DNF may not necessarily constitute failure. Metaphorically speaking, many mountain climbers will make several attempts at summiting the world's tallest peaks in an effort to prepare themselves physically and mentally for the challenge of pushing themselves beyond their limits. In a race like this, it may take more than one or two attempts in order to fully prepare one for the demands of such a punishing course. 

Just like the town that lends its name to this event, the LT100 has had its good days and bad days. While I do not have the hindsight and personal experience to speak to the well-documented issues that plagued this race over the past couple of years, I am very pleased to say that what I witnessed this year only heightened my appreciation of the race organizers and volunteers who put it all together. I truly hope that LT100's best days are still ahead of it. And I hope that there's a buckle in my future. But for now I will appreciate the time I was able to spend with some great people in a tough little town in Colorado.