Life

Dick's Lake -- Desolation Wilderness 

Life. Raw. Real.

I’ve mentioned it before—discovering your own mortality.  It’s as if one has passed through a doorway into an entirely different world.  A world where everything looks anew, fresh, different.  There is still that child inside of me with the naivety that I still have my youth, but the body provides subtle signs of a different perspective.  Maybe, it’s a mid-life crisis, but I’d rather consider it an awakening into everything life has to offer.

Over the past several months, my training for races has waned and I find myself just satisfied to be out on a quiet, lonely trail with nothing but my thoughts to keep the mind occupied.  Sometimes, it’s many miles, and other times, it’s only just a few, very few.  Only time will tell if I can find the motivation to train again, which entails very tough runs that leave a person breathless and muscles sore.  Lacking this intensity would have bothered me just a few short years ago, but, now, I’ve begun to develop a trough deep with patience and a new found comfort in myself that it is…just running.

But, back to what is real—life.  Most things seems to be a delicate balance between work, family, friends, of whom I have very few, hobbies, of which are mostly long forgotten but constantly on my mind, and a multiplicity of discord containing everything else.

One of my biggest fears is a premature exit of this life before the completion of many tasks in my mind which have no definitive ending.  Being a Father to my Son is prevalent in my mind.  There are so many things I want to teach and guide him through—an experience absent in my own life since I have never met my still living father.  But, even without that experience, I had a Grandfather and a few Uncles whose lessons and guidance have been a priceless gift that have become more useful as the years pass.  In my youth, somehow, I had the foresight to realize they were my mentors and with opinions I respected and actions I’ve used as a guidepost for my own life.

And, life, has a way of providing an individual with the opportunity to become a better person.  A series of, at the time, divergent events and decisions led me to a lonesome trail on a mountainside to discover a woman who would not only challenge me, but plant a seed inside me to want to become a better person, not only for her, but for me.  I threw away the book on what I considered to be the correct path in life and the sequential nature and timing of how it should occur.  It hasn’t been without struggle and consequence for us both, but the fruits of our labor has begun to reveal itself and it comes at a more frequent rate as time passes.  She has granted me the ability and confidence to truly feel like a man and a deep, innate desire to continue a life of self discovery and improvement.  It’s an irreplaceable gift.

So, as each hour passes, there’s a motivation to appreciate how precious and forgettably short our time is on this little planet in a solar system part of a galaxy containing roughly 200 billion stars amongst a Universe with over 100 billion galaxies.

Focus

One thing I enjoy about long, uninterrupted trail runs, like the one yesterday morning for 27 miles, is the precious time spent thinking about life.  Thankfully, I was able to spend most of that time alone during the race, which is my preferred way to run. The darkness at the start of the run where, if you just let your mind relax, it's quite easy to see all the details of the trail (except when the guy 5 feet behind you thinks a headlamp is necessary). The rocks, the roots, the ledge drops, the twists and turns--it's all manageable if you just relax and trust your instincts and let the feet follow. I love running sans headlamp on trails in the dark, except during the Summer when I'm more concerned about stepping on a snake. The darkness heightens the senses. But, all of these words are just a distraction from where most of my thoughts have been lately while on those sometimes dark, twisty, rocky trails.

The last few months have been focused on training for a race.  A race that isn't a goal race, per se, but a necessity to provide an opportunity to, once again, go through a process that has been an emotional roller coaster for me the last five Decembers--2007 to be exact.  It's something which has been a conflict in my mind for the past several months and, finally, came to a crescendo yesterday morning while I was running in the pouring rain and hoping it would never stop during those 4+ hours.

I've talked, at length, with Olga about this and last evening came to a final decision it is time to let things go.  To realize I am not willing to sacrifice the first half of my year training like a madman for a race I have unfairly put on a pedestal.  Believing it is a requirement to run it in order to be viewed as an ultrarunner. That viewpoint is one from the past and not who I consider myself today.  It's similar to the mindset that to be a marathoner, you have to run Boston.  And, while I qualified for that race, I never had a desire to make that trip because it was unimportant to me.  There are things we do in life because we think it is what is expected and not necessarily right for us.

As we progress through life, things change, even if we try to ignore it and continue to live in the past.  I'm a different person than I was in the Fall of 2007 when I first entered the Western States lottery.  Today, there are obligations outside of training and races that take precedence--family, household projects, and work.  A few years ago, I believe training was a priority and was blinded by selfish desires to associate my self worth with how fast I could run or what others thought of me in regard to running.  That's a poor way to live.

Yes, I'm a runner, but that doesn't define who I truly am. I'm a husband, father, friend, someone who loves being out in nature, looks forward to the Fall season and gets a little depressed when I start thinking about how many more I will experience before I take my last breath. I love getting into the details of many things, especially when it's doing projects around the house. I consider myself a traveler, which is something I believe my grandfather instilled in me during my early childhood years when I went on vacations with my grandparents. There are so many places I want to see with my own eyes: the Dolomite's, high villages in the Alps, New Zealand, Lake Baikal, Patagonia, the Canadian Rockies, Montana, run all the way around Mount Rainier, visit a dear friend's grave in the Oklahoma panhandle whom I never got the chance to say goodbye to when he became ill with a still incurable disease.

My point is, I am much more than running. And, while I will still run races and "hunt" people down on the trail, it doesn't trump everything else in my life.  As each years passes, a person, hopefully, realizes just how precious and short our time is on this pale blue dot called Earth.  When you're young, time is cheap. But, now, there's a sense of urgency to prioritize what's truly important.  It's been a long process to slowly discover who I am as a person and what I want out my remaining years.  There's a certain level of impatience that has surfaced.  Impatience with not spending time or conversations on things which are unimportant to me and, instead, focusing on what will truly enhance each day, each week, each year.

Because, when you really think about it, no one really cares if I run a race in the Sierra Nevada mountains and I've, finally, realized I was caring too much about what everyone else thought and not enough time realizing there's a lot of life left to be lived.

A journey of the strong heart

What do you do when you DNF at a 100 mile race?  You sign up for another to finish what you started. At least, that is what I did.  And, what happens when you DNF for the second time?  You begin to doubt yourself, but you sign up, yet, again, because you know there is no way it's going to happen, again.  And, what if you DNF on the third try?  You really begin to question yourself. And, labels begin to stick.

So, three DNF's in a row later and another year without any luck in the Western States lottery, I sign up for Black Hills 100 miler.  Coincidentally, it was the same weekend as States and that worked out perfectly since training through an entire Austin summer in the heat and humidity isn't something I consider fun. Of course, a lot of things aren't considered "fun" in running, like hard effort hill repeats and mile repeats.  But, that's what you do to get better, or in my case, try to hold on to any sliver of strength or speed in an aging body.

DNFing as many times and in succession can play havoc with a person's psychology.  You can have all the best intentions and purpose going into a race, but it's what happens during the race with your body and mind that trumps everything. And, since I choose to go sans pacer and crew, it can turn into the equivalent of trying to conduct an operation on yourself in mind and body.  But, I choose this path.

The weather was predicted to be unseasonably hot, but I still packed a light jacket and a pair of arm sleeves in my running pack, just in case. I didn't want anything to provide for an easy excuse if conditions changed.

Before we began the race, a Lakotan medicine man offered a prayer, some wise words, and a song sung in his native language.  I relate to the native americans since I grew up in a part of the country where it is ingrained in local and regional history. Simply, I feel connected to it and it was a welcomed way to begin the race.  One of the phrases the medicine man mentioned was to run with a "strong heart".  This made a connection with me and I would say those words out loud during many parts of the race when doubt entered my mind.

It was obvious the conditions would be challenging, especially when you're not even a mile into a race, running on a concrete sidewalk to the trail, and the first drop of sweat beads up on the brim of one's visor.  I've never experienced this type of humidty in a mountain area and I would run drenched in sweat for almost every step of the race.

While I made a pace chart and taped it to one of my bottles, it was more of a guide to calculate caloric needs before the race and ensure I was carrying enough gels and, more importantly, electrolytes, during the race.  I didn't create an overly aggressive pace chart, mainly, because I wanted to minimize any discouragement that, inevitably, occurs when splits begin slipping away.  I had made a promise to myself that I would not get discouraged when, not "if", things didn't go as planned.  Of course, making plans and promises to oneself before a race is much easier than during the race.

One thing I have struggled with over the past few years is low back pain.  During an extended effort, it can be very uncomfortable and I have used low dosages of ibuprofen to counter it.  But, since the weather was expected to be hot, I told myself I would not take any unless the pain became unbearable and that happened just after mile 17.  I had packed some in the pocket of my handheld before the race, but, apparently, it had fallen out when I was pulling an electrolyte capsule out of the same pocket.  I had packed a few more ibuprofen in my mile 50 drop bag, but that was over seven hours away.  Thankfully, Olga caught me during a climb and I asked if she had any to spare--she gave me all she had.

When I arrived at the next drop bag aid station (Dalton Lake), I joked with the volunteers that I couldn't believe my wife had passed me since she knows I have a fragile ego.  They laughed, I laughed.  If you can't laugh at yourself...  I was, even, passed by a guy wearing a multi-colored running skirt who was slowly running up one of the climbs.  I just shook my head and thought, "well, I've been chicked by my wife and now I'm getting passed by a guy in a skirt"--priceless!  I would find out later it was Eric Clifton.  I got by him a few aid stations later as the heat was taking it's toll, even on him. 

My plan was to take it very easy after 10am and keep it that way until I could, eventually, hide behind the shadow of a mountain ridge as the sun descended lower into the evening sky.  That would be considerably past 7pm.  The day was very challenging, due to the heat.  But, I kept on top of hydration, religiously consumed electroylytes (but not too much!), and kept tossing down the gels at the rate of three per hour.  But, eventually, I was feeling the conditions.  At one point, I couldn't run downhill because of almost immediate bouts of nausea.  I was, also, feeling it on the flats, so I had to walk sections that I needed to run.  Thus far, I have never puked in a race. I'm not certain if I should be proud of that, but I think it has more to do with self preservation and the simple fact I hate puking.  You couldn't go through an aid station or go very far on the trail without seeing someone puking or, laid out on the side of the trail bent over.  Even I succumbed when I came across a huge table-sized rock and laid down for about 20 minutes in the shade of the abundant pine forest.  The top of the rock was just high enough (about 3 feet) that I could catch any breeze that passed through the forest.  I had been looking for a good spot to just rest beforehand.  I was dreaming of wandering into the forest far away from the trail and taking a long nap so no one would inevitably pass by and give the customary, "you ok?".

On my long descent into Silver City (mile 50), I saw Olga grinding up the tough climb with a smile on her face on her way back towards the finish (50 miles out, 50 miles back!).  Since I had been counting the runners coming towards me, I knew she was in 9th place overall and first female. We quickly exchanged a few words, a quick kiss, and were both onwards to our next aid stations.

Arriving at Silver City (mile 50)

I had been looking forward to sunset the entire day because that, typically, means a drastic temperature cool-off in the mountains, but that didn't happen.  I'm assuming the humidity had something to do with it.  After I had made it to the mile 50 turnaround and looked at the time (almost 7pm), I made some quick calculations and knew I would have to endure another day of heat and the most exposed portion of the course.  Additionally, the forecast was for even higher temps than Saturday.

Strong heart...

One thing I noticed when retracing my steps after mile 50, was the lack of runners on the course.  I kept a general count for the next 20 miles and realized there had to be a lot of drops--substantially over 50%.  It was very quiet in the darkness of night and about the only time I would see a runner was when I would pass one or see a few at the aid stations.  Otherwise, it was me, the noises in the forest, and complete darkness.  So dark, in fact, that, for fun I turned off my headlamp and put my hand in front of my face.  I couldn't see it!  Even, when I reached the 7/10ths mile gravel road before Nemo, I turned off my headlamp, again, going into what I call "stealth mode".  You'd think I would be able to see a white gravel road, but I couldn't.  So amazingly dark!

Although I packed my iPod and intended to use it after mile 70, I never did.  I didn't even have a desire to listen to music.  Often, when I really need to focus in a race, the music becomes a distraction and all my energies need to be at the disposal of my mind and body.  Around, 4am, just after I took a really bad fall (somersaulting and having my lower spine land on a sharp rock while my headlamp and both bottles catapulted into the tall, forest undergrowth, poison-ivy everywhere unfortunately), I began to hear the birds and heard an owl hooting in the dark, still night.  I thought that was really early, but considering the sunrise is around 5am, it made sense.  Nonetheless, if I had been listening to my iPod, I would have never heard the music of nature.

With the new dawn fastly approaching, all I could think about was how I needed to finish off the last big climb after Elk Creek aid station, mile 83, during the "coolness" of the early morning.  This would ensure I avoided the blazing sun and delay the eventual furnace that would soon entail.  Thankfully, I did just that and was fortunate to run in the shade of a mountain ridge until mile 90.  I had been dreaming of finishing before 10am that morning because, barring disaster, I knew that Olga had won the women's race.  But, I would fall just 41 minutes over that dream.

Eventually, I would leave the Black Hills proper behind with about 7 miles to go and running through an open fields and a few exposed ridges with temperatures already climbing close to 90 degrees was anything but enjoyable.  Upon arriving at the final aid station, I was quickly in and out and as I left, the emotional weight of the past 3 DNF's slowly lifted.  Although, I had what is considered the steepest "bitch climb" on the entire course I knew I would, eventually, finish. 

I walked a good portion of the remainder of the race and, finally, upon reaching the wide, concrete sidewalk that would lead me the last mile to the entrance to the track, I ran.  I knew I would finish.  I had broken a streak which began almost two years ago in Utah.  I could now stop thinking of how I seem to give up when things get tough.  And, while things definitely got tough, I had promised myself to not give up when things got challenging.  So, I embraced it--even loudly spoke at the aid stations during the first day to "bring on the heat!".  I have noticed there have been a lot of parallels between the 100 mile distance and life.  Finishing this race after so many consecutive failures a was monumental task.  There are times when we can let our thoughts rule our life no matter how biased they may be.  Was I overcome with joy when I crossed the finish line? Filled with elation?  No.  I was relieved to finish the task.  The buckle will just go into my nightstand drawer.  It was more than about running 100 miles.  The time is inconsequential. Runnng 100 miles means nothing. Everyone deals with their own challenges in life.   It was truly about winning a personal battle with a voice inside my head that was telling me I quit too easily when things get "interesting", whether it be running, but more importantly, life.  The Lakotan medicine man was right.  Running is tough and there is only one way to run.  And, that lesson can be used for things more important than running.

Strong heart...

Morning in the Mountains

The most amazing sight during the race was seeing the long, serpentine line of 200+ headlamps behind me in the pre-dawn light on an open rolling prairie.  All I could saw was, “wow!”.   This area holds a special meaning to me, since it would mean running on a few of the trails where I would complete my first “official” trail run in a mountain area.  Yes, I had run on trails, but until that previous day, I didn’t realize there was an organized sport known as trail running.

I love this area!  And, came very close several years ago to moving there until I read an article in a national magazine declaring the area one of the top places for retirees.  Ironically, it’s where I’d like to retire and spend my days exploring the trails.  Being in the mountains fuels my spirit and it’s been that way for as long as I can remember.  And, I don’t necessarily have to be running in the mountains.  Just sitting on a rock with a nice vista overwhelms me with peacefulness and nothing else creates that emotion like being in the mountains.

My goal was to finish the run in five hours.  It was an arbitrary goal with no thought given to the time other than it seemed like a reasonable goal.  I did run conservatively for the first half, similar to what I’d do for twice the distance, and having a heart rate monitor helped ensure I wasn’t redlining.  The climbs on the road were my favorite, mostly because I ran them and coming from sea level it seemed like quite an accomplishment.  And, although the views were obscured in clouds all day, I could use my imagination on what it must have looked like on a clear, blue-bird day.  The odd occurrence was during the top of the first climb when I fingers of one hand were frozen and numb, yet my visor brim was dripping with sweat.  Why I never thought to pack gloves is beyond me, especially considering how thorough I am in preparation.

Speaking of preparation, I didn’t study the aid station mileages before the race and, instead, just asked how far to the next one.  The only thing I did know was that there were three climbs, but didn’t realize we would finish the course on a descent, instead of a long flat.  It was unlike me not to know the details, but I had a cavalier attitude towards the shorter distance which was obvious from the leg cramping I experience in the last three miles—not enough fluids for certain considering my sweat rate on the climbs.  Flushed those electrolytes straight out of my system with nary a salt tablet taken until the last five miles. You can get away with quite a bit when it’s cold and cloudy.

I was amazed at the runners prancing up the climbs, which was most of them.  It makes you realize that we don’t really have an excuse not to run all the climbs in Austin because they are so short—nothing over five minutes that I can recall.  In Austin, I have developed multiple gears on local climbs, but in Colorado, I had one, besides a walk.

Now, it’s time to buckle down, tighten the belt, and make the next six weeks count.  My biggest fear is failure, which, for me, is mental, although I’d like to convince myself, otherwise.  There are only two words to describe my goal when things get tough in June.   “Just finish…”.

Random Musings

I don't miss the mochas. 

Finally, I've begun hydrating this year, due to the onset of warmer running weather. 

PR'd a climb yesterday evening on the trail, along with the overall loop--not lightning fast by any stretch, but improvement. 

Noticed on my run yesterday that there is a sweet spot where the discomfort settles in and I begin to embrace it and that, in turn, motivates me to keep pushing the pace.

Loud music on my iPod has become a distraction during quality runs--the volume has to be to the level where I can just hear the music and no louder. 

Not certain what I was thinking signing up for a 25 mile race in Colorado; it's going to hurt for a number of reasons--altitude, climbs, I have never pushed hard for that many miles at altitude (going slow when it will be over after 25 miles isn't an option), and the caliber of runners associated with this region means I'll be lucky to finish mid-pack.

Training with a heart rate monitor is a lot of fun and suits me best--didn't realize how much I had missed it.

My "injury" seems to respond better when my weekly mileage is higher and comes back fiercely when I slack on the miles.

I am trying to learn how to not be a quitter in races--the first true test will be in late June (I've DNF'd my last 3 100's:  Bear, Ozark, Ozark). Massanutten was my last 100m finish.

Running for me is mostly mental, once I get in decent physical shape.

The first 10 or 20 minutes of a run are the absolute worst--lethargy, soreness, feelings of a new-born fawn with wobbly legs, my mind telling me to stop running.  Magically, it disappears and all is good in the world.

Goodbye Mocha

Goodbye, Mocha!  We've been together for a long time now.  I've quit you many times, before.  Yet, I long for you so strongly as those roasted beans of which your elixir is made permeate every corner of my workplace building.  It was easy to quit you when I couldn't see you every day.  But when I moved within a few hundred feet of you, the desire welled up inside of me to the point of loss of control.

Those first few sips with that little white, plastic lid off were always the best.  The whipped cream with the occasional taste of chocolate kept me coming back for more, much to the demise of my wife. We can no longer be together.  The highs and lows of your caffeine decadence are too much for me to handle.  The 340 calories are full of nothing but emptiness.  My $4.10 is best used elsewhere, especially on those days when I want you twice.

So, it's by making this statement openly that I declare, it's time to bid you adieu...

The First Few Steps

It's those first few minutes that are the toughest.  In fact, many times, just putting on the running shoes and opening the door is even more challenging.  We're not talking about some huge run.  It can be 6 miles with the same thoughts racing through my mind.  Today, it was 15 road miles--easy pace, no less.  It wasn't a flat run, but with a heart rate monitor to keep the effort in check, 15 miles at an easy pace is just that--easy!  Or so it would seem...

After spending more time than I should have catching up on blogs, and such, I mustered up the energy to fill my bottles and head out the door.  It was 52 degrees outside and I was expecting a cold shot of air to hit my body as soon as I stepped onto the front porch, but it felt good, almost too good. Damn! I can't use the excuse that it's too "cold" outside.

I walked to the curb, looked down both ends of the street, took a sip out my bottle, and pushed the little red button on my watch and began to walk--a few moments later, a slow jog.  And, oh!, how I felt lethargic, achy, and slow. Before I get to the end of the street, which is six houses down, I'm ready to stop and walk back to the house.  I turn the corner, and my mind fights me with each small stride--but I keep moving forward.  Within 10 minutes, those thoughts and physical ailments are a distant memory and I settle in to a comfortable pace, feeling as if I have already accomplished nothing short of victory.

In the end, whether it's running or anything else in life, it's about taking that first step, even when our consciene is telling us to quit.  And, even when those first several steps still seem tough, before too long, the struggle is behind us and replaced with the satisfaction that we stayed with it long enough to accomplish what we initially thought was almost impossible.

Unknown peak in the San Juans