When you just know…

No other landscape has had such a profound impact on me.  Nothing calms my soul, bringing up a welling in the eyes of just being.  The quietness, the calmness, the supposedly thin air that always fills me full of energy.  The aroma of the forest as the temperature rises in the early afternoon.  I have never felt so complete, calm, happy, in the moment.  That’s what occurred two weekends ago and always has been that way from the first time I set foot in them as a child.  Although enjoyment is found in all landscapes, none can compare when I’m in the mountains.

I’ve ran, hiked, backpacked, driven, and even just sat from a perch looking down on an alpine lake encircled by firs.  Alone…  Alpenglow enhancing the morning landscape.  The distant sound of a rock free of its once icy embrace, tumbling down a steep slope as rays of sunshine warm the air.  It’s not about what I do while I’m there, but just about being “there”.  Nothing else matters.  Nothing.

John Muir once said, “Going to the mountains is going home.”.  For me, truer words have never been spoken…

Live Life

It’s been a very long time, since I’ve put any words down.  But, that doesn’t mean the mind isn’t constantly flooded with thoughts about life—the most random an unrelated things. I think about where I’m at in my life and where I’ve been.  And, the future hangs closely and vividly in my dreams and has for what seems like most of my life.

The overriding image is of mountains—with abundant trees, crisp morning air, cold pre-dusk, blue skies during a clear late afternoon, the occasional damp, musty smell of freshly fallen leaves, floating crystals of snow drifting through the air in the low-angled sunlight of a new day, the crunch of old snow, the increasing tension that flows into the foot as one walks across snow and it compacts.  The thoughts never cease and become more prominent and frequent as the years pass by

.

A home surrounded by mountains with an east facing kitchen to catch the first bright rays of sunshine each morning.  A west facing porch to enjoy the fading light of each day as the last light of the day creates a silhouette of the mountain ridges.  Simply, a place to enjoy each day of life, to be enjoyed as slowly as a dripping faucet can fill an ocean.

These images have been etched into my mind over a lifetime as a chisel does to granite.

In my garage sit two large plastic tubs with climbing and backpacking gear.  Each time I open them up, the smells and the feel of each item take me to all the places traveled.  And, I’m going there again, soon, this time with my Son.  And, not a day goes by without the thoughts of being back in the wilderness fills my mind.

As I grew up, the prominent experiences were associated with vacations, whether it was with my Grandparents or my Mom.   I cannot recall one birthday gift after all of these years, but I can vividly recall every trip taken—experiences…

A few years ago, I made a commitment to myself to create a similar tradition with my Son.  We’ve backpacked together, ridden roller coasters, spent countless hours each day on the broad interstates and desolate state highways towards our next destination, and stood in the bottom of the Grand Canyon as I witnessed my Son’s desire to “touch the water” of the icy, cold waters of the Colorado River as the long-angled sun cast yellow and orange hues of light in every direction.  And, when asked about one particular trip where we traveled through New Mexico, Arizona, and Colorado, he declares his favorite night was under a canopy of stars at 10,000 feet eating his first smores by a campfire—not in a hotel room.

Often, I mention how connected I feel to my own mortality.  Yes, it’s a morbid thought and I pray almost daily for the opportunity to endure another lifetime.  I’ve read that until a person has surrendered themselves to that simplistic, final outcome, one cannot, truly, begin to live.  Some refer to it as an awakening.  I prefer to just describe it no longer being asleep as many unfortunate souls tend to be blissfully unaware.  I feel more alive than ever.

And, those memories, those experiences created with my Son?  They’re more for him than for me.  Something for him to, hopefully, recall and reminisce when he has his own children and I no longer with him in this physical world.  Memories that no one can ever take from a person, but ones that keep us close to those we love. 

First few seconds...

Pulling Weeds

This past weekend was bittersweet.  Over the past few years, I have become less focused on ultra-running.  The only exception is when I trained for Ozark 100 when I went into the race in the absolute best shape of my life. Unfortunately, I experienced clouded vision after sunset, had to succumb to walking, and struggled to maintain a 3mph pace.  It was frustrating and, after several months of processing my thoughts, having a pacer to run directly in front of me for those remaining miles would have been ideal and extremely helpful.  But, I have a mindset of self-reliance in races which conflicts with what would have been an obvious solution.  And, although, there is definitely “unfinished business” on those trails driven mostly by ego, my heart tells me it may be time to let it go…

And, before this past weekend, I had a few talks with Olga about how this race may very well be my last ultra-distance event, although, barely, at 50k.  It wasn’t a race I trained for specifically, but, rather to be a methodical stepping stone as I worked my way up to a goal race in late April.  But, I recently decided against the April race simply because I would rather do something more personally meaningful—enjoying a long weekend with my wife on a non-running related vacation.  You see, when I first began running ultras, it seemed like a cool thing to do and was fun to watch the expressions on peoples’ faces when they realized just how many miles were involved.  And, I enjoyed that attention for many years.  But, during the last few years, I try to avoid those conversations.  Even this weekend during the race, I caught up to one of the lead 25k runners in the middle of my first loop and had a brief chat.  He asked what distance I was running and I told him—“50k”.  His response was, “have you run that distance before?”.   I paused and quietly responded with hesitance, “yeah.”.   And, then, I continued on my way.  A few years ago, I would have divulged all kinds of data and enumerated every distance category I’ve completed.  But, now, it doesn’t seem necessary or important.

When I crossed the finish line on Saturday, I had given my best and that’s what I told Olga—“that’s all I had…”.  Those moments when I just wanted to walk or slow down, I kept telling myself “you have to give an honest effort because this just might be your last ultra”.  I was more interested in talking to my son and having him tell me how well his first trail 10k had gone, talking to John Sharp and him sharing the colorful details of his race, and giving my wife a kiss.  That’s what was important.  And, this is exactly where I want to be right now.

I don’t want to wake up at 5am on almost every weekend to run 20 to 30 miles.  I’d rather be in my yard on my hands and knees in the flower beds pulling weeds for a few hours, which is exactly what I did on Sunday morning.  And, as strange as it sounds, it was meditative, similar to how running can be at times.  I will still run and enjoy the training process and ensuing race, but, most likely, just a lot smaller dose of the running part.  Otherwise, I wouldn’t get to enjoy those quiet mornings listening to the birds sing while I’m pulling weeds.

A Different Viewpoint

It's amazing what you notice when on a casual hike in the woods.  Today was one of those days...

Running through the Fog to Clarity

I was running in a westward direction, a faint sliver of orange hue could be seen through the trees on the distant horizon.  As I crossed a paved road, the final signs of the day quickly faded into the night and a never before experienced circumstance quickly consumed my thoughts.  Why did everything look so foggy?  It was as if I was wearing a pair of glasses covered in a faint tint of milky opaqueness.  The occasional reflective ribbons marking the trail were so bright that they were blinding and encapsulated in bright halos. What the hell was going on?

The few weeks leading up to the race were full of vivid dreams filled with anxiety filled nightmares. Mostly about not being able to find my way to the first aid station due to a train derailment.  Or, leading the race just a mile from the finish while I tried hopelessly to coax one of the runner's crew to give me the correct directions on the unmarked course.  I had never felt so much anxiety going into a race.  Maybe, it had to do with how well I trained, how honest I was with myself in training, only missing a few runs due to a bad virus that lasted a week during one of my peak weeks.  This was to be my last 100 mile race.  A means to put an exclamation point on this year's hard work and honest effort in training.  Why can't I discern the rocks from the leaves, or the boggy trail sections from hard ground?

I lay on the couch this evening, running scenarios through my head, conveniently forgetting about the inability to clearly see details on the trail.  Even the very powerful headlamp I wore couldn't cut through the "fog".  In fact, it had a similar effect of using bright headlamps while driving a car down a foggy highway.  My legs were slightly sore, but nothing concerning.  I expected this, I planned on this, I knew I must accept the discomfort and continue to run.  Running downhill wasn't an option on the treacherous trail, flat sections magnified my insecurity of face planting unexpectedly, running uphill at mile 65 was my only option to salvage the lack of forward progress--and so I ran uphill.

When I first began ultrarunning, my goal was to, eventually, run Western States.  Through various selection process changes ("2x Loser" rule, after I became a 2x Loser, being replaced with a lottery system), the goal was extended beyond my original expectations.  And, so, I bided my time by running more races and requalifying for the lottery each year. Last year, I purposefully didn't run a qualifier and made peace with the race.  Running Western States makes you no less of a trail runner than someone who hasn't run Boston.  No more than a mountain climber who has never sumitted Everest.  Or a backpacker that has never through-hiked the PCT or AT.  Somewhere along the way, I believe, I lost my way, my purpose, the motivation for running long distance races, namely 100 milers.  Maybe, once I get to the 6/10's of a mile road section leading into the aid station, I'll be able to run.

Over the past few years, I've struggled with running 100 milers.  Somewhere, in the back of my mind, my conscience was telling me I had to become successful at the distance to be validated as, not only a runner, but a person.  "Walking it in" isn't in my nature and I quit many races when that was the only choice.  Putting the human body through the stressors of 100 miles isn't healthy.  I find it abusive to the body.  No amount of discussion will change my mind.  From a psychological viewpoint, there seems to be a certain level of codependent cycle in the sport.  I see no "fun" in running 100 miles and it doesn't validate who I am as a person.  It doesn't make an individual superior to those that run lesser distances or even those who don't run at all.  Before you know it, you can spend many years chasing after a fools errand--"maybe if just did 'x' next time, I'll have a better race", "if I don't run these distances anymore who will be my friends?", "there's a race coming up and all my friends will be there, I need to sign up so I don't miss out on all the 'fun' ".

One thing is certain, however.  It has taught me what is important in life--my family, friends, relationships, hobbies, and the search for improving oneself as an individual--enlightenment, if you will.  The fog is getting thicker and now that I'm on the road section, my most trusted headlamp with fresh batteries in it is flickering and randomly dimming.  If it goes out, I'll just listen to my footfalls and if I hear leaves, I'll know I'm not on the road.

What will others think if I don't finish this race on my third attempt?  Why should I care?  This is my race, my life, my time, my reasons.  The voice quietens...

As I arrived within sight of the aid station, the volunteers began banging on pots and pans and ringing a cowbell, but I continued to walk, unmotivated.  The closer I got the the aid station, the more blinding the lights became.  Once there, I, litererally could only make out the silouettes of the several volunteers as I held my hand up in front of my face to block the blinding lights. And there was one gigantic halo surround the entire aid station.  I told them I could not see details and that my vision was cloudy and worsening.  One man looked at my eyes from afar and said there was a whitish haze on my eyes.  For the first time in 76 miles, I sat down.

It's time to break the cycle and it's far from easy.  There is ego involved.  The voice inside my head telling me "if only...".  Running 100 miles isn't my strength and I've tired of trying to convince myself, otherwise.  It's not easy and will be a process.  But, I'm grateful for the life lessons it has taught me in the process.  It is much more important to focus on the things in life that matter and bring me satisfaction.  Those recent weekend mornings during my taper when Olga and I, instead of dragging ourselves out of bed for a long run, went to a local coffee shop, sat outside under a big Oak tree, talked and watched the sunrise. A lot of life has passed chasing after these so-called running goals and it's time to begin enjoying the simple things, not necessarily "again", but with a renewed perspective.

I approached the cabin and saw the lights were on, meaning Olga was there.  I walked up to the door opened it and stuck my head inside, "please don't hate me...".  It was warm inside where Olga was sitting on the bed in her PJs.  She looked warmly at me and, in that instant, I knew everything would be ok.  Together, we have a life together and a great one at that, and, without the interference of an endeavor which has torn at us in recent years.  The best part of that weekend was a hot shower and a full night's sleep.  And, when I awoke the next morning, my vision had, finally, returned.  Again, it's the simple things and nothing else matters...

Contemplation of the Mind

Time is cheap.  Or, so we think in our younger years.  But, with the passage of time, we truly begin experiencing life and gaining priceless wisdom absent in our youth, although provided abundantly by our elders.  This Summer, another birthday passed—no fanfare, no cake with candles, a quiet dinner out with Olga.  And, maybe, that was the best way to experience it.  Instead of counting up the years, I find myself counting them down.  The math I crunch in my head gives me cause for concern.  Where did the time go?

This Fall, I’ll forego that important long trail run on a Saturday and, instead, take my son on our annual day road trip to the beach.  As the years pass by, I’ll remember that time at the beach and will soon forget that long trail run.  Our children grow up incredibly fast.  In what will seem like a week, he’ll be out on his own and forging his own path in life and experiencing that same delicate balance of time, which, at his age, will seem cheap.  I, always, worry if what I’m doing is enough and do my best to cautiously choose my words and actions with him.  Many times, it’s what we don’t say and the actions they witness which imbed into an individual’s memory.  That is how I remember learning the way of life as a child.  Thankfully, I had many good mentors to help me along: my Grandfather, Grandmother, Uncles, Aunts, and, of course, my Mom.  I feel blessed now, although, at the time, with the lack of a father in my life, I felt rather sorry for myself.

The most important thing in my life, though, is my wife.  She’s perfect for me.  We occasionally argue, have disagreements, but always, in the end, make amends and appreciate our stubbornness is an action to be understood as individuals—it’s that simple.  Like many individuals, she quietly sacrificed her own dreams and goals to the benefit of others.  It’s important for me to ensure she is happy.  And, although, each individual is responsible for their own happiness, I strive to do what I can to remove barriers so she can thrive.  In a way, I work to remove the clouds from the sky so the sunlight can shine down upon her and reveal the vastness of opportunities available to forge a fulfilling life. 

On the running front, training has gone quite well this year, namely this Summer.   I have an end-goal in early November and all the pieces of the puzzle are slowly falling into place.  I surprise myself on almost every run.   Earlier this Summer, another iPod died a slow, wet death, thanks to the Texas humidity and I’ve been running for almost two months without music blasting in my ears—it’s been quite nice.   I’ve become very self-aware of my body’s rhythms of breathing and cadence while I run and it’s very meditative.  And, now, there’s an unopened iPod Olga purchased for me that sits on my desk at home which I have no desire to open. That’s an uncommon response.  When I become focused on a goal that’s personally important, I have the ability to become extremely focused.  It’s rare with my running, but this, in a way, is the end-game.  This will be my last 100 miler and, for a change, I am giving an honest training effort—no self-sabotaging the required workouts so I’ll have a quiet excuse post-race why I didn’t do as well as expected.  I must cross the finish line knowing I gave myself every opportunity to do as well as possible leading up to the race, even if the finish time isn’t what I may prefer.  And, this is all tied back to the first sentence in this post—“Time is cheap.”.  It’s time to appreciate the value of each day, week, month, and year.  And, I am beginning to believe this is what has driven my solid training this year.  The realization there are other experiences I’d like to focus on in life besides just training for a race.

 

July 2013

I may be identified by many who believe I am a runner, but that is not who I, truly, am.  It’s just a minor part of myself.  There are so many experiences in life and it’s necessary to make room for those endeavors by letting go of some of the past.  I’ll still run, train, and participate in races, but let’s get realistic.  As we age, the body doesn’t recover as quickly as we’d like.  We become more confident in ourselves as we discover what is important in our lives.  At this point, devoting time and energy to 100 mile events is overburdening.  A nice long hike in the mountains with my wife is much more appealing and will continue to occur more often as time passes.  In the end, it’s the people in our lives that matter most, not the call to chase fleeting dreams of satisfying an ego in order to be identified as an ultra runner.  The only goal, short-term and long-term, is to get to the mountains as often as possible.  That is where I find my peace, where my soul thrives, and my heart soars.

An Uncomfortable Position

"If anyone wants around me, just let me know. I don't belong up here!". That was less than four miles into a 50k with 7.5k feet of vertical climb. The pace felt casual--not easy, not hard, but somewhere in between and what I refer to as "cruising". I was in the lead and, while I didn't know the runners around me, I knew there were always some damn good ones in the race from looking at past race results and it felt uncomfortable being in the front.

We all hit the second aid station at mile 7.5 just under the one hour mark and, while I didn't comprehend the pace at the time, it felt fine, especially considering we were running every climb. After that aid station, the guy in the speedo, yes, a speedo, no shirt with his bib folded neatly in his waistband took off. I told the guys I was running with that he planned on stopping to hang out with his friends at the next aid station so I wasn't going to chase him.  They appreciated the info and we all continued at the same pace. This section was the longest at 8.5 miles and more of the same--twisting trail with ups and downs. I settled into a comfortable rhythm. At least, now, I could tell myself I wasn't leading anymore. Slowly, we all began separating, and eventually I found myself alone on the trail. Within a mile of the next aid station, I caught up with the guy in the speedo and we ran into the 16 mile aid station (2:07 elapsed). I'm glad I can't do math in my head because knowing what that pace was would have freaked me out. I continued and speedo guy slapped my back and wished me the best. Off into the woods I continued.

Speedo Guy!

I could hear cheering and a cowbell shortly thereafter which told me the other guys weren't far behind. So, I decided to push a little--run the descents a little faster, push harder through the technical sections, run all the climbs. Until..., I came to a T-intersection with not a ribbon to be found. WTF! Did I miss a turn? Since I was wearing a GPS watch, I have a documented timeline (not necessarily a good thing) to look back on for post-race reference. I looked uphill to the left and downhill to the right.  Nothing!  Solid trail in both directions. I decided to run back towards the last ribbons thinking that I must have missed a turn and ran into the 2nd place guy (Ben Creehan) within 2 minutes. We went back up to the intersection and he began talking about trail names using colors (blue trail, green trail, etc.). Didn't mean a thing to me. We decided to go uphill, for 200 vertical. No ribbons at the next 2 intersections, so we turned around and headed back down to meet up with runner 3 and 4. More discussions ensued and we decided to head downhill. Total time figuring this out: 10 minutes, 9/10's mile. Eventually, I saw a ribbon about a mile down the trail before crossing the creek and highway. I had put a slight gap on the guys and blew through the knee deep, fairly wide creek crossing without slowing down and exited the other side soaked from all the splashing. But, in my head I told myself that, surely, no one else would run across that creek and I was trying to build a lead, if only by a few more seconds. I had no idea how long this dream I began having at mile 4 would last. I didn't belong here...

I continued pushing myself to run all the climbs, telling myself that if I don't and the guys behind me do, then the gap will close. I made it to Billy Simpson’s aid station at mile 23.8 in 3:23.  Billy was shocked to see me and so was I.  I explained, "this wasn't the plan". I was just coming out for a good run, not trying to win the damn thing and certainly not on a pace to break 5 hours on this course. I left, crossed the highway, ran through a wooded creek bottom, and, eventually, crossed the same creek (different locale) in the same fashion as before and headed up to what I knew was the biggest climb of the day.

I had begun doing a little walking, but kept pushing as much as possible and running the flatter portions of the climb. Also, I was experiencing some quad cramping, probably from my body not used to running up this much incline. But, I kept it in check for the most part. Funny thing was, when I walked the cramping would begin, but running made it go away.  This section seemed to go by quickly as I made it the 27.3 mile aid station at the 4:03 mark. I knew I had just 3.7 miles to go and considered just filling up one bottle, but decided to fill up both. I left quickly, just as I had at the other aid stations (just there long enough to fill bottles) and began a downhill on an old jeep road. Eventually, I would make a left turn and enter single track.  I was doing the math in my head and realized I was going to finish way under 5 hours, especially considering it was a downhill/flat finish with the 7.5k of vertical climbing basically done.  And, then, the trail dumped onto a large gravel parking lot with a trailhead sign—not a ribbon in sight and 4 choices on where to go.  I, immediately, let out a string of expletives.

A mountain biker got out of her SUV and asked me where I was trying to go. I told her ‘Blanchard Springs”.  She said, you’re WAY far from there and these trails don’t go that direction. I explained I was leading a 50k trail race and quizzed her on the trails and nearby roads and where they went. I didn’t like any of the answers because they definitely went in the wrong direction.  I did study the course map before the race (always do!), but at this moment all I could think is what I should do.  She said I needed to go back the way I came for over a mile to the jeep road. That was the last thing I wanted to do since it was all uphill.  But, eventually, I left and retraced my steps.  I ran into the 2^nd place guy, Damian, 12 minutes from when I first went off course and told him my predicament and he thought I had gone in the correct direction. So, we turned around and went back to the gravel parking area.  The mountain biker got out of her SUV, again, and we went through the same conversation I had with her earlier.  We decided to retrace our steps and ran into Ben Creehan (3^rd place guy) 20 minutes elapsed since I went off course.  He thought the way I had gone was correct so we turned around, again, and ran back down to the gravel parking lot (3^rd time for me!).  All I could think was “this girl must think we are nuts!).  This time, she stayed in her SUV, which I can appreciate.  I echoed to Ben what she had had already told me twice and we proceeded to do a little more aggressive recon on one of the trails. Ben turned around and went back to the gravel parking lot to look at the trailhead map trying to figure out where we were.  Eventually, we decided to retrace our steps (3^rd time for me!).  We ran into another runner coming our way and we had to strongly convince him to turn around and follow us.  Low and behold, we found the turn we missed.  There were ribbons marking the turn, but we missed them.  When I came down the trail the first time, which was 40 minutes prior, by the way, I hadn’t noticed the turn.  It was a downhill cutback turn going off into the woods on an all but a nonexistent, leaf covered trail.  I proceeded to bomb the next section on the most treacherous terrain of the day, leaving the guys behind.  There was a ribbon at what seemed like every few dozen yards and was the most heavily marked section of course (probably because if you walked across that trail in the woods you wouldn’t have thought it was a trail). During that 40 minute excursion, I covered an additional 2.5 miles, according to my Garmin.

As soon as the trail leveled out, it began running along Sylamore Creek, I wouldn’t see another ribbon for the next 3 miles until the finish line. I really didn’t know if I was on the correct trail, however. I passed a few runners and this led me to believe I was heading in the right direction, but I had no idea how many runners had made the original correct cutback turn during the 40 minute excursion.  Emotionally, I was done with the run and felt I had wasted the effort for nothing.  It wasn’t as much about trying to win it as it was running a solid time on a course with a lot of elevation gain. I did my share of walking through the last few miles as my bottles were empty (glad I filled them both at the last aid station).  I stopped a few times to wait for other runners behind me to come into view since I wasn’t certain I was on the correct trail.  As soon as I got a glance of a runner, I would begin running, again.  This continued until the finish line. Unspoken words were written across my face as I entered the open park area and headed towards the finish line chute. No eye contact made with Olga as I crossed the line. Nothing but complete disappointment and frustration in what had transpired over the last hour and thirty-five minutes covering the previous 3.7 miles (it was actually around 5 miles on the correct route from the last a/s to the finish, btw, which I don't mind) from the last aid station. In total, I covered around 34+ miles in the 50k.  Some did far more that day.

Finishing

I did learn a lot during the run and I will seriously consider carrying a map in future races, just in case.  Leading a race is a completely different experience than just running a race to finish or even in posting what each person would consider a good time for themselves.  Mentally, you can’t let your guard down.  Every decision needs to be methodical, sometimes surgical (at least that’s the way I normally operate), especially when your competitors are unknown or, worse, unseen.  It seems you have an entirely different level of expectation for yourself in that position.  Places I would have easily walked in past races were not an option.  I had to run the climbs when I would have gladly walked.  I had to push the downhill sections even if it meant risking burning out my quads.  The flats just meant I needed to run harder.  And, in a crazy sort of way, it was fun.  I tend to be too conservative and not take risks, fearing I may not have enough left in the tank to get me to the finish line.  And, that’s obviously a fine line and one requiring self-confidence, of which I tend to have very little.  When I decided to jump off that cliff and begin to push more and more as the miles clicked by, it was an exhilarating feeling and it kept snowballing.  Whether, or not, it will happen again is unlikely, and that is one of the reasons I like to document this stuff in a blog—so I can remember...

Finished w/ post-race soak in Sylamore Creek!