Looking Back on 2017, and Looking Ahead

2017 was certainly a year to remember. As the year draws to a close and a new year appears on the horizon, I've been reflecting on the highs and lows of the last 365 days. The year began with tremendous optimism and excitement over the prospects of my first trip to Western States and what would become my attempt at the Grand Slam of Ultrarunning. My training was balanced and thorough, my coach was fantastic, and I began the journey physically, mentally, and spiritually whole. I don't think I could have been in a better place.

And yet, despite these efforts, things didn't come together. Not entirely, anyway. I started all 4 races but only finished 2 of them. This could be seen as a great disappointment - and I am, in a sense, disappointed - but if we gauge success by transformation and self-improvement, then it's hard to imagine any endeavor achieving so great a personal success as my attempt at the Grand Slam. Between the friendships that were formed and strengthened over the miles, hours, and days spent on rugged trails in isolated places to the immense joy I experienced in the beauty of creation, I cannot harbor any sense of regret at the attempt.

Capping off 2017 with a successful run at Brazos Bend served to dispel any latent hangovers that may have been lingering about my very long summer. While I am certainly pleased with that result,  what will stay with me about that race was, again, the fellowship out on the trails that day. The outcome was secondary.

Who knows what 2018 will bring? The new year brings a clean slate with multitudes of stories yet to be written. There are mountains to be climbed, sunrises to be experienced, songs to be sung, and the joys of God's creation to be celebrated. For my part, it is gong to continue to be the joy I feel as a part of the running community and the friendships therein that inspire me. It's the exhilaration of movement, of being alive in the moment, of moving beyond what I or anyone else believed possible - pushing through dark places and persisting with the knowledge that life, like ultrarunning, is never easy.

But from what I have seen so far, the journey is definitely worth it.

All Quiet on the Western Front

Western States 2017

Unsurprisingly, the 2018 Western States lottery did not come out in my favor, leaving me back in the pack again hoping for a future date in Squaw Valley to right the wrongs from my excursion this year. The odds of actually getting through were so minuscule that I never held out much hope that I would get another shot this soon - which is fine by me, given that 2018 will be filled with a few "life events" that will prevent me from giving States the adequate time and training I think I will need to persevere on that course.

Despite being anything but a thing of beauty, my finish at Wasatch garnered me a shot at the Hard Rock 100 lottery - a lottery whose chances for a first-timer like myself are even more remote than Western States (around 0.4%). Getting into Hard Rock was a pipe dream, but it was fun just to be a part of the process. I look forward to returning to Telluride next summer to volunteer again at one of my favorite races. Whether I ever get the chance to toe the line at Hard Rock, it's a joy for me to simply be around that race.

And so my slate for 2018 remains clean. My next lottery adventure will be that of the great Cascade Crest 100, which (if successful) would send me to the lovely pine forests and mountains of Washington State next August. Fingers crossed.

Other Stuff (Not Running Related)

I had an opportunity recently to spend a few days at the magnificent Clear Creek Benedictine Monastery in Oklahoma. It was a weekend retreat that I wished could have stretched a few days more, but it was nonetheless fruitful for me in a number of ways. I had the good fortune to hear a talk by a Benedictine priest once who spoke about the lives of these men who have devoted their lives to prayer and work (Ora et Labora). Seeing this in action was very moving.

I always find myself looking for God in other places. My default mindset seems to be that God is "out there" somewhere, and that through some laborious effort on my part, I can find Him, hear Him, and know Him. When I don't immediately hear or find Him, I look somewhere else (or worse, give up the search entirely, which I have done many times). It's a transitory mentality spurred on by my acquiescence to our modern culture. But their view is decidedly different. For the monk, the guiding principle is that of community first. They stop, lay down roots, and begin to listen. The mindset is "if I cannot find God here, I will not find Him anywhere."

The monastery itself is still under construction and likely will not be completed for many years. I appreciated what they were doing there, and saw a metaphor that I could apply to my own timid faith life. It is a faith that is also very much under construction, but one which (I hope) has the shell and foundations of something that could actually last. I hope that in God's time, it can become a faith that shines like the witness of these simple and holy men. It's not there yet. But maybe someday.

Changing Seasons

I recall reading once that a runner will go through different "seasons" in the course of their running career. Given that I am looking forward to the change from warm summer days to the cooler winds of autumn, I feel led to reflect upon on this observation, considering it in light of the busy year that 2017 has been so far.

In the 20+ years that my running career has spanned (not including the "dark ages" from 2008-2011) I have had my fair share of ups and downs. There have been great races and colossal disappointments, people have come and gone, and I have changed everything from training patterns to stride rates to nutrition. I've raced in spectacular natural landscapes and bustling urban environments. Through it all, I've been chasing that elusive goal of "getting better".

Over time, one's motivation and sense of purpose will inevitably wax and wane depending on race goals, the calendar, personal goals, and the like. Whether because Wasatch was so emotionally and physically draining - or perhaps because the year has been taxing as a whole - I have found that the joy and anticipation I had taken in my preparation for this year's races has not carried over to its last few months. Training can be a grind, but when clearly defined goals are at the forefront of that training, it's much easier to remain committed to the "big picture".

Case in point - I had intended to cap off my racing year at the New York Marathon in a few weeks. My overall lethargy has led me to shelve that plan, instead approaching the fall as an opportunity to recover some of my previous enthusiasm and allow myself to rest and heal. (Based on the few runs I have been doing recently the chances that I could put together any kind of a decent marathon right now are remote anyway.) After a summer grinding out mile after mile on lonely, rugged trails in remote places the idea of one of the world's biggest road races in the nation's largest city surrounded by thousands became quite unappealing. Instead, I have considered that perhaps volunteering, reconnecting with other local runners, and simply enjoying some easy running in the cooler October air might just be the change that could reinvigorate my routine.

My time at Wasatch last month has also compelled me to consider more in-depth the part that running will play in my life going forward. It can't just be about accolades, trophies, or collecting races, can it? Could I be entering the autumn of my running career? Are fast times and big events still important to me? I don't think I have lost that competitive fire completely, but right now, it is certainly more of an ember than a flame.

"There is an appointed time for everything, 

and a time for every purpose under heaven." - Ecc 3:1

But however dimly it burns, I feel that the flame is still there. I wonder if any other runners wrestle with the thought: "If I take too much time off, what if I can't/don't want to/won't be able to come back"? That fear (if you want to call it that) is what keeps me at least moving through my current state of lethargy. 

With no major major goals on the horizon, I will continue to run simply for the joy of running and look for other avenues to remain connected to the sport. Perhaps it speaks volumes about my state of mind that this plan has me as excited as preparing for a race! In this case, perhaps it is best to look at some downtime as a blessing.

Eye of the Hurricane

With the first two of the four Grand Slam races in the books, I'm now looking ahead to the back half of this thing while holding out hope (no pun intended) that I can still come home with 3 of the 4 buckles. Vermont went well, Western States not so much. Now I am left to ponder how my previous experiences might translate up in the thin Colorado air later this week. Obviously the altitude is a concern, but that is something that everyone is going to have to deal with. The weather looks like it will be decent but things can be very unpredictable in the mountains. So who knows?

I am going to stick pretty close to my Vermont nutrition strategy and make sure I stay with the plan all the way to the finish line. The dry air at elevation will necessitate a little extra focus on hydration, but I have been dialed in on that since I have been running in the Texas summer heat. Otherwise I am not going to worry too much about factors beyond my control. I just need to make sure I have provisions for whatever might come up. From a timing standpoint, in a perfect world I would like to be at Winfield (mile 50) by 3 pm. That would give me an 11-hour first half and allow plenty of time for the return trip. I think a more likely scenario would be hitting Winfield between 4 and 5 pm, but again I will just have to see how I feel and how the day unfolds. I don't think it will a bad idea to push the envelope on the flat stretches and the more runnable sections a little bit so I might be able to make up some time. If I can keep my heart rate low and keep the stomach in check, that is.

Life has been insanely busy for the past few weeks so I haven't had a lot of time to really think this race through. A hectic schedule this week will probably mean that I won't get much time to think about the race between now and when I leave for Leadville on Thursday either. I feel pretty certain that it won't hit me that I am running the...(deep breath)..."Blueprint For Athletes Lifetime Fitness Leadville Trail 100 Presented By New Balance [TM]"...(exhale)...until I cross the starting line at 4am on Saturday. After that, it's just a matter of grinding it out. I know what to do - I just need to go out there and do it. I am certain there are dozens, if not hundreds, of other runners stressing out about the race right now. At the moment, I am not one of them.

My #1 goal is to finish. Whatever it takes, I need to get back to Leadville on my own power. That will be easier said than done. At least I won't have to do it alone, as I will have a great crew and pacer there to help. They are ultra veterans, and my pacer, Berton, was a grand slammer last year. Their experience will be a tremendous asset. 100-milers are always difficult regardless of the terrain, and having someone there who knows what you are going through is priceless.

If I can make decent time heading outbound and then just keep moving when coming back I feel fairly certain that, barring injury, I can bring home a buckle. But as the saying goes, "that's why they play the game."

My next post will be my Leadville race report. Stay tuned.

Embracing the Suck

59 DAYS TO WESTERN STATES

For the past few weeks, I have been hashing and rehashing a number of possible scenarios for the 4 races of the Slam. I've been going over nutrition options, hydration options, rest, recovery, pacers, crew - you name it, I've thought of it. I've been trying to figure out how I can make this process as "painless" as possible.

Yesterday, while on a semi-long recovery run while on a business trip in Rochester, the thought came to me out on the trail that I am trying to avoid the inevitable. I am trying to make this experience "pleasant". I am hoping it will be "fun". But the bottom line is that, no matter how much I want this to NOT suck, here is the inescapable, unavoidable fact:

This is going to suck.

Sure there will be moments of ecstasy but I expect them to be interspersed between quite a bit of agony. In the words of the Angry Jogger himself, at some point (and probably at several points) along the way, things are going to go "tits up". The question I have to be able to answer is, what am I going to do then? Am I going to fight the good fight? Keep plugging along? Or allow that voice in the back of my head to talk me into dropping out, hoping that by some miracle I get another crack at this thing?

I have run several ultras now, and at some point in nearly every single one of them, things have gone terribly awry. I have powered through and finished most of them, dropped out of a few, but in every case I have looked back on the race wondering what I could have done differently to avoid the pain and the struggle. I've made a few changes here and there that have helped, but the bottom line is that the struggle is going to happen. It always has and it always will. It's coming, regardless of the level of preparation and training I put into this. So now, realizing this, what do I do?

Embrace the suck.

That's really all there is to it. The chances that I will get through one race, let alone four of them, without a mental and/or physical crash are beyond minuscule. When the darkness comes, I have to be prepared to go through it. There's a lot I could say about the redemptive power of suffering here, but I will save that for another post. Suffice it to say I should be quite redeemed by the end of this thing. Can I find joy in the difficulty? Gratefulness in the midst of darkness? Hope that I can go on when despair and doubt creep into my psyche?

There is no doubt that the physical challenges of these races will be immense, but I am beginning to realize that the real battles will be in my mind and soul. Would that I can at maintain my peace and joy while those battles rage on.

"The purest suffering bears and carries in it's train the purest understanding." 

-St. John of the Cross 

And just like that, January is in the rear view mirror! We currently sit around 19 weeks out from Western States and from a training standpoint things are moving along well. My training load is still relatively light, with my weekly mileage checking in at around 50 miles per week. Most of my workouts are incorporating some sort of hill training - either multiple repeats on short, steep hills outside or longer "hiking" sessions on the treadmill at 12% incline or more. Add a couple days of strength training, a weekend long run of around 15-20 miles, a day of rest here and there, and voila! You have my off-season training regimen. 

While things have been a little easier on the training side, I've been given to reflect on other important dimensions of my upcoming summer adventure. Namely, what is God trying to teach me through this? Could it be humility? Trust? Dependence upon His grace and providence? The value of suffering? While I don't generally make an outward show of my return to the Church after many years away (that subject is probably an entire post unto itself), I cannot but help but view this opportunity through the prism of my recent "reversion" experiences and appreciate that things are happening at this time in particular. It's pretty cool to see the proverbial stars line up when considering events through such a lens.

Having said that, I am also reflecting on how utterly self-obsessive this undertaking is going to be. Between the costs of the four events themselves, "training" races, travel arrangements, coaching, gear, and shoes, it goes without saying that this is an expensive proposition. Beyond that, the time required to train and recover is extensive and will require a great deal of patience and support from my friends and family. I'm blessed to have a fantastic "support system" but it still gives me pause from time to time as I consider what I am asking of others. So on a spiritual level, what lessons could I learn from this unfortunate reality?

[Insert Profound Spiritual Insight Here]

Well, I haven't come up with an adequate answer to that yet. All I can say is that I am certain that there ARE insights and lessons that will manifest themselves along the way. At some point I would like to chronicle some of the parallels that I have come to recognize between my running life and my fledgling spiritual life. (Don't expect profundity. That's not my thing.) I do believe that through running, God has prepared me to return to life in the Spirit and to accept the burdens and challenges that come with it. (This might be one reason why the bible is so replete with running metaphors. I mean, if the shoe fits....)

So now I roll into February. Saint Sebastian, patron of runners, pray for me!

2016 Mohican Trail 100 Race Report

"I've got to catch him," I thought to myself. "Maximum effort!" I had finally reached mile 99 of the Mohican Trail 100 and had spent the better part of the past 25 miles trying to pick off runners in an attempt to keep myself moving forward. I've found over the years that playing such mental games can keep a tired mind and body engaged and in the moment, and can mean the difference between a strong finish and a slow "death march". After an up-and-down day and night on the trail I was ready to be finished - but not after I tried to catch up to one more guy. The runner (whom I came to find out was named Paul) maintained a steady gait as we ran along the street toward the finish line. I was running all-out and felt there might still be a chance to finish alongside him. Despite some earlier struggles I was clipping off this last stretch along the road at around 7:30 pace. Not bad for an average Joe from Texas. I had run very well through the night and into the morning, filling my mind with "if-only" and "what-if'" scenarios that maybe this race could have turned out a little differently for me. But it was what it was, and now it was time to wrap it up. Crossing the final footbridge and running through the field adjacent to the finish line, I maintained hope I might catch Paul until I saw him make the final turn and raise his hands at the finish. I was very impressed with his steadiness over the last stretch of the race. 17 seconds later, I was crossing that same finish line. I was thrilled to collect my buckle from my crew and call it a day. I congratulated Paul on his effort, hugged and high-fived my crew, and went to look for a place to sit down. 

------------------------------------------------------------

I came to the 2016 Mohican 100 for one reason - to finish, and by doing so collect a qualifying race for the 2017 Western States Endurance Run lottery. My training had been steady over the past few months, as mentioned in my previous post, though it was hardly what I would consider appropriate for a race like this. In fact, I hadn't even been on a proper trail since Wild Hare 50 down in Warda, Texas, seven months before. Much of my work had been on flat trails and roads in preparation for my spring road races. There was no race specific training, very little hill work, no "dial-in-my-nutrition" long runs, or any of the other by-the-book race preparation tactics. It just so happened that I could work out the logistics of being in Ohio at the time of the race. I would drive down from Cleveland and spend the weekend on the trails in Loudonville and take a shot at this 100 miler. What could possibly go wrong?

While I was not able to spend much time preparing for the race in a traditional sense, I did do some research leading up to the event to familiarize myself with what I was getting myself into. I read a few race reports and gave the race map a quick looking over. From what I could tell, the course itself consisted of 4 loops through the beautiful and lush Mohican Memorial State Forest in Loudonville, Ohio. The first 2 loops were approximately 27 miles each with the finishing 2 loops clocking in at around 23 miles each. The reason for the difference in distances is a short detour in loops 1 and 2 that would take runners through a densely wooded gorge that I heard referred to as the "enchanted forest". (More on this in a moment.) This section would be cut out of loops 3 and 4, but otherwise the same aid stations and trail segments would be utilized throughout the entirety of the race. The elevation changes did not seem to be too severe - roughly 14,000' of climbing and descending over 100 miles - so the primary challenges as I saw them would be staying patient, managing what would be a warm, sunny day on Saturday, and despite being a little under trained, figuring out a way to get to the finish line.

The race began at the entrance to Mohican State Park, a campground which on this particular weekend was packed with hikers, campers, mountain bikers, and outdoor enthusiasts. Since the 100 mile race began at 5am runners were encouraged to be mindful of the campers in the park and keep as quiet as reasonably possible. Thus, the nervous chatter that typically marks the start of a 100 miler was kept to a minimum. The countdown and race start were equally subdued. I barely heard the director whisper "go", and the typical whoops and hollers as runners charge off were non existent. We quietly shuffled off into the morning darkness. The first mile or so of the race was on the road through the state park - a move intended to help "thin the herd" before runners are funneled onto the single track trail network in the forest. (A substantial bottleneck would no doubt ensue otherwise.) The only sounds were the shuffling of shoes along the road and the sloshing of water in bottles and hydration packs. The relative silence only seemed to heighten the tension as we were all left to our own thoughts. Before long we had reached the trail. We crossed a small wooden footbridge, made a quick turn to the right, and we were off.

The first stretch of the race consisted of several short rollers before a long climb that would take runners up a couple hundred feet of mountain bike trails and deeper into the forest. The sun had not yet crept above the horizon, so the beginning of the race was in darkness, punctuated only by a string of headlamps extending in front of me and behind me in the night. I was joined on the trail by my 2 good friends from Texas, Reece and Josh, who were both looking for solid races on what we expected to be a good weather day with exceptional trail conditions. Josh's wife Leslie made the trip to be our "crew extraordinaire", tending to the three of us as best she could throughout the day. (She did a phenomenal job.) The trail did not disappoint - the relatively dry conditions over the past week in the area had left the trail firm, clean, and in very runnable shape. We ran the first 8 or so miles together, but I decided to slow my pace a bit and let them continue on ahead. I stopped for a brief time at the second aid station, Fire Tower (mile 9), to collect my thoughts and make sure I was in good shape with my nutrition. 

The woods were lovely, dark, and deep....

The trail was always very well marked and the course was easy to follow.

Early morning on the trail...

The segment of the race from the Fire Tower aid station to the Covered Bridge aid station on loops 1 and 2 is a pretty good hike, clocking in at around 6.2 miles. The rolling hills would eventually lead to a long wooden staircase that would bring us down to the base of a sheer rock wall and a trickling waterfall several stories high. From there we would wind through the "enchanted forest" - a deep valley overgrown with ferns and other fauna that culminated at a steep "wall of roots" that we must climb to leave the valley and rejoin the mountain biking trail.

The stairs down to the falls.

The falls. There's water there, trust me.

I found the "enchanted forest" to be simply breathtaking. I did not expect such a spectacular geographical feature in this race and was taken aback by the sheer scale of the cliff walls and the size of the fallen trees that were strewn about (and in many case, over) the trail. Given that the trail was so overgrown down here it would have been a difficult section to really "run" so I slowed to a hike and enjoyed the scenery. 

There is a trail through here....

And here.....

A botanist's dream.

The wall o' roots!

The "root wall" itself was not particularly difficult to navigate. In short order I had emerged back onto the mountain biking trail and was heading toward the next aid station. Not far from the root wall - maybe 1/2 mile - the trail opened to a large crew area overlooking the river. It was refreshing to see the enthusiastic "crew-ers" as they congratulated every runner who emerged from the forest. We would follow another long stairway down into a valley and onto a footpath that paralleled a tranquil stream for about a mile or so until we reached the Covered Bridge aid station, named for - well, you know. 

Heading down the stairs into the valley...

Hey, a covered bridge! They should name an aid station after this thing!

So up to this point, things were moving along according to plan. (Except that I really didn't have a plan, but no matter.) I felt good, my stomach was in check, and I was moving well. I kept my pace dialed back and stayed at what I considered to be a relaxed, "all-day" pace. I hiked the hills, ran the flats and downhills, and kept my heart rate low. Upon my arrival at Covered Bridge, I was somewhat dismayed to learn that due to a communication glitch, our drop bags had not been delivered yet. My backup nutrition of tailwind and stinger waffles would be delayed for another 30 minutes! (Gasp!) So I had to improvise. The next stretch of the race would be more challenging, with a very long, steady climb awaiting us coming out of this aid station and a number of subsequent climbs afterwards. We had roughly 5 1/2 miles to our next oasis in the woods, so I made the best of it. I refilled my water bottles and grabbed some aid station food (PBJ sandwiches) and hit the trail. 

The road from Covered Bridge to Hickory Ridge is tough out of the gate, as almost immediately we turned and headed uphill. The next mile or so was a series of long climbs followed by short flats followed by more climbs. The trail eventually flattened out into some very runnable stretches here, but not before we were treated to a steady diet of long climbs and short descents. We would climb up and around ridge lines, over roots and rocks (a very prominent feature of the course - "Rocky Raccoon on steroids" as Reece called it), roll over hills and down a long straight lane bordered by majestic trees that stood like like watchful sentinels over the forest floor. 

Hickory Ridge was a smaller but no less enthusiastic aid station that represented the final stop on the way back to the state park. The final stretch of the race was very runnable; in fact, despite the fact that it was nearly 7 miles from Hickory Ridge to the state park, I found myself able to make great time by running it in nearly the entire way. There were a couple of short, steep hills approaching the campground followed by a short stretch through the camp and then around 2 miles of road running. I felt at home on the roads and was able to quickly dispatch this segment. I cruised into the state park aid station and before long headed out for loop 2.

I knew coming into the race that loop 2 would be the most difficult, as the midday sun and humidity would wreak havoc on my digestion. This, unfortunately, did turn out to be the case. I made it back to covered bridge at around mile 42 before things started to get rough. I had a tough time taking in calories, but I was still persistently trying. It was far too early to abandon my nutrition and I was going to go with my Tailwind as long as I could stomach it. I would fill buffs and handkerchiefs with ice at each aid station, walk as much as I could, and just keep pressing on. The second loop, as predicted, was much slower than my first. On the bright side - and this is important - most of this course is in shade. There is very little of the course that is exposed, so even though the heat could be stifling, at least the sun was hidden above the canopy of trees.

Upon finishing my second loop, my stomach completely gave out, leaving me hiding behind a tree purging the scant nutrition that I had managed to get down over the last several miles of loop 2. This did help me feel modestly better, but taking in food was still going to be a problem. I hoped I could walk it off, so I had a few small items at the aid station and headed back out. The 4.5 miles from the state park to the Gorge Overlook aid station was tortuously slow. I arrived at Gorge Overlook ready to call it a day. I couldn't eat, I was becoming dehydrated, and I was in very bad spirits.

With Josh. A couple of not-so-happy campers.

My day was saved with the help of some anti-nausea medicine I picked up at the aid station, which allowed me to start eating again. When my appetite returned, I ate plentifully at the aid station buffet and soon felt my strength return as well. I would take it easy for another segment, but it was not long before I was able to pick up the pace and resume running hard. As the sun went down and the first chills of the cooler night air began to cover the trail, I thought I might just pull this off yet!

I ran strong through the night, checking off aid station after aid station. (Note: the disco aid station, Fire Tower, was crazy at night, with its pounding house music and laser light show.) I focused on eating real food - the Tailwind and Stinger Waffles were long since gone from my nutrition plan, as they seemed to trigger the nausea - and supplementing occasionally with a Huma gel if needed. But I was making great time and didn't need much supplementation between aid stations. I did hit a few low spots along the way, and unfortunately the nausea did return later in the race, but it was not nearly the problem I had to deal with earlier. I was able to manage it with some papaya enzymes I had in my drop bag.

With the morning came a renewed sense of energy and purpose. Remarkably, there was a refreshingly cool breeze that permeated the trees that accompanied the sunrise that lifted my spirits tremendously. My pacing had become somewhat erratic again, as I would charge ahead only to be shortly feel overtaken by fatigue. I would slow and recover, then push ahead, and the cycle would repeat. I focused on the "little" picture, getting from aid station to aid station, and making continued forward progress.

With the exception of several miles that I ran with a guy from Philadelphia (also named Chris) I spent most of the race running solo. My friend Reece had built a lead on me that I couldn't overcome, even when I was running well. (He bested me by exactly one hour.) Josh had to bow out after dealing with a crippling case of plantar fascitis for nearly 60 miles. So I spent the last 20 miles trying to pick off runners just to keep up the pace. I was eager to call it a day. As I left Hickory Ridge for the last time, I thanked all the volunteers, grabbed one last handful of food for the road, and headed out. I only had 6.2 miles to go.

I could finally sense the finish line approaching. I ran up and over every hill, throwing all caution to the wind. Finally, as I emerged onto the road for the last couple miles to the finish, I saw a guy in a red shirt up ahead of me. 

I thought to myself, "I wonder if I can catch him?"

Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta....

Team Texas! Me, Reece, Leslie, & Josh

Finish:  27:44:37

Quick Hits:

• Staying at one of the adjacent campgrounds to Mohican State Park would be highly recommended. The race start & finish are easy to find, but race day parking is limited and stretches a pretty good distance from those locations.
• If the weather cooperates, there are some very runnable stretches of trail where you can make up time lost on the climbs. The climbs are frequent but not too severe. The toughest I recall were on the first segment about a mile and a half in, the stretch between Covered Bridge and Hickory Ridge (especially right after leaving CB) and the short steep climbs just before you arrive back in the campground area.
• There are a lot of rocks and roots on this course. It's not technical by any means, but don't shuffle along.
• The aid stations were fantastic. They were well stocked, and while the food was the standard stuff, the volunteers were wonderful. 
• We had a glitch in getting the drop bags to Covered Bridge in time for loop 1 runners this year that seemed to upset some people. I am sure this was not the norm for this race, as everything else from top to bottom seemed very professional and well organized. 
• 250 registered runners (largest field ever for this race). Only 121 finished. I was fortunate to be one of them. It was a tough day.

Rolling the Dice

For the past month or so I have allowed myself a bit of a break from social media, which has come to include some time away from blogging as well. There honestly hasn't been much to report outside of taking some recovery time after the race in Boston and working on some standard "rebuild" training regimens that are all just a part of the grind of staying in shape. I have been considering a few topics for future posts - like how we seem to "insulate" ourselves from the natural world and how we try to keep nature in comfortable boxes, my growing disdain for technology and being constantly wired-in (I am becoming the "old man" who shakes his fist at those kids today and their newfangled contraptions), and why I think this guy is all wrong. Among other things.

For now though, I think it is worth mentioning that my racing calendar has changed a bit. I have decided to forego the Captain Karl's night time trail series and step up and have a go at the Mohican Trail 100 in Ohio next weekend. My training, while unspectacular in terms of overall mileage, has been steady in the weeks since Boston. My only goal is to finish the race and  achieve my Western States qualifier for 2017 rather than to wait until the Javelina 100 in Arizona in late October. That could free up my time to go back to a race I have come to love to hate, that fall rite of passage known as the Cactus Rose 100, down in Bandera. 

Of course, I have to finish this monster first. My plan is to dial it way back, work on in-race nutrition and hydration, and try to achieve more of a balanced race than what I have done in my 100's in the past. But outside of that, just keep moving forward. I will take plenty of pics and provide a race recap that future runners can use as a reference - a recap that will hopefully include a shiny buckle at the finish. Dream big! 1 week until race day.

Reflections on the Tarahumara & Boston Training Notes

Tarahumara runners. (Source: http://born2run.pl/raramuri-eng/)

"The Tarahumara treat running as a fine art, something to be learned slowly and perfected over a lifetime...the goal isn't necessarily to become fast, it's to become good. Artists don't obsess over speed; they obsess over mastering skills. For runners, that skill is form. The more you learn about moving your body lightly and efficiently, the closer you'll be to running like the Tarahumara."
-Christopher McDougall (Emphasis mine)




I love this quote about the Raramuri, the running people of Mexico known to us by way of Christopher McDougall's seminal book "Born To Run". It's so easy to get captivated by numbers in our sport - how many miles one can run per week, how fast one can complete this or that race, what PR's we may hold, FKT's on exotic courses, and the like. Then throw on top of that the requisite .gps data, heart rate zones, and VO2 max, and it's easy to become paralyzed by all that data. It's fun to track our progress as we train to become "fast", but isn't that is such a relative term? What is fast for one person is not for another. What is fast over one particular distance may not be in another. I find it extremely refreshing and encouraging to think that there is something far more fundamental in the sport of running than finishing time and metrics.

Running can be pure joy. Of course it takes some time and work to reach that point, as ours is not a culture of simplicity in movement like that of the Tarahumara. Sometimes it's difficult and frustrating. But I think there is much we can learn from our neighbors to the south. We can run not to just get faster, but to become better. Better in our form. Better in our mental approach to the sport. Maybe even better in our approaches to life. I for one can attest to the positive impact that the sport has had on my life - no doubt, many others can do the same. And for this reason, I'll keep at it for as long as I am able.

Training Notes

So today was my last "long" run in advance of Boston - an 18 miler with 9 miles at my projected marathon pace. I'm targeting 6:40/mi as my race pace, and despite some challenging Texas spring winds today, I was able to hold pace for the most part at or below my target. I'm encouraged by my progress this spring - my races have been on point, I picked up my half marathon PR, my workouts have been on point, I'm not dealing with any injuries (knock on wood), and I generally feel very strong heading into the big race. If I can stay healthy for a couple more weeks, sidestep any airborne viruses, and hope for some decent weather, then I may have a pretty good shot at breaking that 3 hour mark.

Sounds easy enough. I had a plan (well, my coach did!), and I worked my plan. Now it's just about time to execute the plan....2 weeks to go!

The Slow Burn....

Ryan Hall wins the 2007 Olympic Trials (photo: Runner's World)

33-year old American marathoner Ryan Hall has been a staple on the world distance running scene for the better part of a decade. Whether he was making waves with an amazing performance (setting the American half marathon record in 2007 at 59:43 or the second fastest time for an American born runner at 2:06:17 in 2008), a disappointing showing (DNF'ing at the 2012 Olympics in London and struggling in several races thereafter), or his unusual approaches to training (often approaching 200 miles per week in peak training while foregoing a traditional coach in favor of leaning on his religious beliefs for guidance), the conversation about whether an American could compete on the world stage against the best runners in the game would often start and end with him. 

Lately, however, his career has been more disappointment than accomplishment. Injuries have taken their toll on his body and the inability to live up to lofty expectations has no doubt left him mentally burned out. To make matters worse, he admits to dealing with the dreaded over training syndrome, characterized by chronic fatigue and exhaustion. Last month, Ryan announced his retirement from competitive running, much to the dismay of those of us who hoped that he would continue to challenge the world's elite for years to come and inspire a generation of young athletes to follow in his world-class footsteps. 

(photo: New York Times)

What caught my attention was how long Ryan has been struggling with his running. For all intents and purposes, his career was over at 30. The retirement announcement was merely a formality. It isn't unusual in professional sports for athletes to realize sizable declines in performance after the age of 30, but it does make me wonder what it must feel like for an exceptional young athlete to look ahead only to realize that he or she will never be able to live up to the accomplishments of their younger days. Professional sports are riddled with athletes looking to find the elusive fountain of youth and who will go to extreme lengths (whether legal or not) to maintain that level of ability. I understand why they do it, even though I don't always agree with how they do it. It must be a difficult reality to accept. 

In my case, I have never been nor will I ever be mistaken for anything remotely approaching an elite athlete. On a good day I may be age competitive in a local race, which gives me a sense of pride and accomplishment - but for the most part I race against myself. Running, as a hobby, fills a number of needs for me - it is an outlet for my competitive drive, it satisfies my desire to remain fit and active, it provides me with the hope that I can maintain an active lifestyle as I age, and most importantly, it keeps me as far away from the medical establishment as possible - but in the end, it's just that, a hobby. As much as I enjoy it, I have to do something else to pay the bills, and as such, my ability to spend any more of my time training and racing is limited.

One thing I will say, though, is that I still operate under the belief that my best days are ahead of me. Even now in my 40's, I still have the sense that I can train smarter, eat better, and race smarter than I did in my younger days. In fact, all of my current road-running PR's (personal records) have come since I crossed the 40 year-old threshold (marathon 3:08, half marathon 1:24:08, 5k 18:40). I hope to set at least new marathon and half marathon PR's this spring. And I am not even counting ultras because I didn't start running those until I was in my 40's - so I can only imagine a world of possibilities to improve in ultra distances!

It's tempting for us mid-packers to think "I wish I was that fast" or to wonder what it's like to run a 2:10 marathon. We don't think about the consequences to our bodies and our psyches to achieve such incredible results. For my part, I think I'll take the long, slow burn of longevity in the sport, and enjoy the small milestones of shaving off a few seconds or minutes here and there.

Neil Young once said "It's better to burn out than it is to rust." Maybe for some people, that's true, but in my case, a little rust (in the way of a gray hair here and there) looks just fine. 

40-year old Meb Keflezighi sets the standard for the rest of us master's runners to follow. (photo:www.aol.com) 

39-year old Rob Krar is setting the Ultra world on fire. (@RobKrar)

Run strong!

Less is ...more!

Responses that I saw to this social media post were overwhelmingly in the "affirmative".

Over the past few days I've been reading New Year's resolutions as shared on social media with great interest. They've ranged from the standard "get in better shape", "spend more time outdoors", or "clean up my diet" to "spend more time with family" or simply to "live, laugh, and love". In the midst of such goals and to-do lists there has been one idea that seemed to crop up among more often, that being the desire to simplify - scale down, slow down, and "declutter." 

This obviously caught my attention. I don't know if it's something that seems to be pervasive just in my social circles or in society as a whole, but the impression that I get is that more people are beginning to look at their lives and come to the realization that they are surrounded by things (and even in some cases, people) that do not bring them peace of mind. I don't know if it qualifies as a full-blown "movement" but it certainly seems to be a trend. Occasionally someone will posit a hypothetical situation in which an offer is made to move to a smaller house, divest themselves of many of their belongings, or abandon wi-fi or social media for a period of time. And from what I have seen, the response to such hypothetical situations is overwhelming positive.

In previous posts I've expressed my own feelings on this subject and believe that while I still have a long way to go I am taking baby steps toward a less cluttered life. I don't know whether I could make a major change like this without causing side effects that would negatively impact the lives of people around me, but I will certainly continue to move toward a more scaled-back existence. It's tougher to back into a simpler lifestyle than it is to start out that way but that doesn't mean it can't be done. Conveniences and comforts to which one has become accustomed are questioned, and things and habits that seem to have value (but don't) need to be sacrificed. In my experience, the outcome of such purges is very liberating.

I just think that it's fascinating that I live in a culture that offers so much - so much stuff, so much food, so much convenience. A vast array of products and services stand ready at our fingertips to bring us convenience, ease, and comfort. An endless stream of advertising and targeted marketing would have us believe that buying this or upsizing that will fill some hole in our lives. If it doesn't, we move on to the next thing. 

And yet there are those who feel a sense of discontent with the status quo. People who believe that we don't need all that "stuff" to be happy. People who seek experiences rather than possessions, and who refuse to have their happiness dictated to them by infomercials. I think in some sense ultrarunners fall into this category, to varying degrees. Whether you're talking about the guy who lives out of the back of a truck and travels the world looking for adventure or the busy suburbanite with an 8-to-5 and a family, anyone willing to forsake creature comforts in order to spend hours at a time alone out in remote places eating cold noodles out of a dirty bowl in the middle of the night has to have some feeling that life isn't only about being comfortable all the time.

While I am pretty solidly in the latter category I do hope that suburban life hasn't completely taken my sense of adventure and made me addicted to creature comforts. I also hope that the process of de-owning will help me learn more about the real value of the things and experiences in life that are truly important.

Over the course of this new year I intend to continue my slow but steady drive toward "less" in a material sense. I hope that it carries over into the other aspects of my life as well. Because I am finding out that, as they say, less is more.

Looking Back, Looking Ahead...

As the curtain closes on 2015, I cannot help but be amazed and abundantly grateful at the blessings that have come my way over the past 364 days. Of course my running and racing took me to some new and exciting places, introduced me to some amazing people, and helped me weather my early 40's with (I hope) some measure of grace and good health. But more importantly, I enjoyed the blessings of a family that brought joy into my life in ways that cannot be easily measured or put into words. I was surrounded by friends who both kept me grounded and inspired me to become a better person. So while the minutes, days and weeks of 2015 seemed to go by in a flash, the imprint that this past year has left in my heart will not soon evaporate.

Boston Marathon 2015

Cactus Rose 100 2015

RPR 60k 2015

More importantly than the experiences I had in 2015, I think I may have inched closer to a more authentic understanding of "who I am". That may sound a little odd at first reading, but as some of my earlier posts have alluded to, I've become convinced that life is more about "becoming" than simply "doing". We evolve, learn from our mistakes, and seek to grow in peace and understanding. We forgive, we change.....life is in a constant state of evolution which is hopefully bringing us closer to a fuller expression of our authentic selves. I have tried to forgive myself, accept my many shortcomings, and in turn allow myself to love and be loved as the flawed man that I am. I look forward to a new year of continuing this slow and sometimes difficult inward journey. 

Getting back to the subject of "doing", I believe that the business and "busy-ness" of our daily lives can make us act like drones - robots who mindlessly move from one task to the next seemingly on autopilot. The days fly by because we fill them with responsibilities, errands, and "to-do" lists that keep us busy. Make no mistake, I do a lot of things mindlessly! But I feel that at I am least beginning to develop a conscious recognition of when I am in such a place. From there, I can seek to become more invested and engaged in how I spend my time rather than simply going through the motions. 

I am reminded of a story by one of my favorite authors, Thich Nhat Hanh:

Thirty years ago, when I was still a novice at Tu Hieu Pagoda, washing the dishes was hardly a pleasant task. During the Season of Retreat when all the monks returned to the monastery, two novices had to do all the cooking and wash the dishes for sometimes well over one hundred monks.

There was no soap. We had only ashes, rice husks, and coconut husks, and that was all. Cleaning such a high stack of bowls was a chore, especially during the winter when the water was freezing cold. Then you had to heat up a big pot of water before you could do any scrubbing….

While washing the dishes one should only be washing the dishes, which means that while washing the dishes one should be completely aware of the fact that one is washing the dishes.

 At first glance, that might seem a little silly: why put so much stress on a simple thing? But that’s precisely the point. The fact that I am standing there and washing these bowls is a wondrous reality. I’m being completely myself, following my breath, conscious of my presence and conscious of my thoughts and actions. There’s no way I can be tossed around mindlessly like a bottle slapped here and there on the waves.

If while washing the dishes, we think only of the cup of tea that awaits us, thus hurrying to get the dishes out of the way as if they were a nuisance, then we are not “washing the dishes to wash the dishes.” What’s more, we are not alive during the time we are washing the dishes.

In fact we are completely incapable of realizing the miracle of life while standing at the sink. If we can’t wash the dishes, the chances are we won’t be able to drink our tea either. While drinking the cup of tea, we will only be thinking of other things, barely aware of the cup in our hands. Thus we are sucked away into the future – and we are incapable of actually living one minute of life.

As 2016 dawns and a clean slate is presented before me, this is my true "resolution" - to try to slow the seemingly breakneck pace of life, taking a more pronounced appreciation of each and every moment. I want to savor the experiences that bring color and joy to my life. Can I find joy in my morning cup of coffee? Enjoy the serenity of a long run? See the twinkle of joy in my wife's eyes? Savor the sound of my children's laughter? Gaze in awe at a sky full of predawn stars? Taste the layers of flavor in a glass of wine? And yes, even appreciate washing the dishes? 

So the question that I pose to myself this year is not what do I want to do in 2016, but who do I want to become? There are certainly new things I'd like to do - but can I approach them from a new point of view, one which sees beyond just what is on the surface? The world we live in does not appreciate depth of experience. It encourages - even celebrates - moving quickly from one activity to the next. It is a world that divides our attention and rewards those who can "multitask" : not only moving from objective A to B to C, but actually performing all tasks simultaneously. It takes little or no joy in the journey, only in getting to the destination as quickly as possible. I've certainly fallen into this rut myself many times. But I can at least recognize my desire to change and take advantage of my ability to do so. 

I look forward to more closely exploring these concepts in posts over the next year. It will be fun to relate them back to my running as well. Because make no mistake, there will be running (and posts about it) in 2016! So thanks to 2015 for a great year. Thanks to the wonderful people who made it so. I have much for which to be grateful. 

2016 has some big shoes to fill. Time to get to it!