This morning I stumbled into an unexpectedly intense conversation with a friend who revealed facets I had never expected as we discussed a recent mind-boggling accomplishment. That conversation jump-started my brain and set it on a course of introspection towards understanding what it is that motivates me to attempt to to complete the goals I set for myself.
At the end of 2010 I found myself, for the first time in 10 years, lacking my typical motivation to train and race. It wasn't until February or March, when I caught up on all my race results that I realized how much I had over-drafted on my mental toughness account by over-extending beyond my typical too-much-is-never-enough baseline. I knew in November that I was burnt to a crisp, but I didn't know how to fix myself. I figured I could just take a break and cruise the 2011 season, and start racing whenever I felt like it. I was in denial.
I was also on the wait list for HURT and wound up getting an option to participate. I turned it down on the excuse of a minor hamstring injury. The real reason was that I just wasn't ready to attempt my first 100, especially not after struggling through a lackluster Honolulu Marathon, and double-especially not HURT, one of the most difficult 100's I would ever consider. Doing one of the 5 loops on the HURT course is enough of an adventure for me, two would be over the top and 3 would certainly lead to TBF (total body failure.) Five wasn't comprehendible.
Then I got accepted into Western States. That scared me a lot because I knew I couldn't turn down the opportunity I had waited 4 years for, and I knew I had to be prepared for it if I wanted to have a chance at finishing. When I paced Mike at Western States last year, I saw exactly how tough it can be. This was an eye opener because my prior experiences pacing 100's had been with Rod Bien and Iso Yucra, both of whom have this incredible ability to make 100 miles seem easy. Watching Mike struggle had scared me a lot. He spent years preparing for that race and it was still very difficult for him. I knew Mike was stronger in mind, body, and talent than I could ever hope to be. I started pissing my pants, metaphorically speaking.
It was January, while pacing Alyssa Godesky at HURT (which proved to be far more fun than I suspect racing it would be) when I realized exactly how low I had allowed my fitness to sink, mostly based on my lack of motivation to train and my denial of what was waiting for me in June. I knew what I should have been doing, I had plenty of opportunity and people to run with, but I was skipping out on those options, using every excuse I could. It was raining. It was cold. It was dark. Whatever, I was hiding in yoga class, unprepared to start preparing. I didn't know how to break the spell I was in, how to dig myself out of the funk.
There was a voice in the back of my head which I was ignoring. This ties into the conversation I had this morning, about how important it is to listen to that inner voice. For a while I was too scared to act on that voice, too unsure of myself, too intimidated, too proud to ask for help, whatever you want to call it. Watching Alyssa at HURT gave me a newfound appreciation for mental toughness, and hearing her excitement about being coached by my friend, Hillary Biscay, started the gears turning towards action. I began to listen to that voice.
I've only had one other coach in the past, and as much as I enjoyed the experience, I think I felt like a total f-up for how poorly I was able to follow someone else's lead. I was worried about entering into another athlete/coach relationship because I know that it would highlight many of my own weaknesses and I did not want to put a burden on someone else. I didn't want to empty my garbage into someone else's bin and drag them down with me. At the same time, I knew I needed help from someone, far more so than when I was racing ironman. I knew it would be more difficult for me to get from Squaw Valley to Placer High School than I could even understand before attempting it.
The most important criteria for me in a coach was attitude. I say that because my biggest concern for myself, based on my understanding of my weaknesses, is my often-times lousy attitude. I've worked very hard in the last 12 months to open myself up to new experiences, to accept things I used to reject like coffee and acai and actually learn to enjoy and crave them. For most people, enjoying these wonders comes naturally, but for me, I had to remove the mental roadblocks first. I notice this in yoga all the time, how often I hear my inner voice say "I can't do that" before I even try. This voice usually changes to "yep, you were right" as I tumble to the floor, but every now and then I'll hear a "wow, maybe you can" sneak out.
This video sums up my coach's attitude in a wonderfully succinct manner. I had casually followed her blog after Hillary's recap of New Year's. The catalyst for action ended up being this post which opened the door for me. I got in touch, we got rolling, and the fog quickly lifted, the funk departed, the foxhole was abandoned. I started running strong again, as David Kloz would say, I regained some of my mojo.
What is it about this particular coaching experience that fills the void for me? I ask myself that question all the time. I'm not sure I'm a good enough writer to convey what is so special about her, but everyone who knows my coach probably understands without needing any explanation. I do want to say that I think she continually rises to conquer ridiculous challenges, that she always brings her best, and that she never quits. Of course I can't sum up a personality in a few sentences, suffice it to say that I feel inspired by her words and actions in a way that allows me to challenge myself to reach higher than I could otherwise. One thing that was missing from my relationship with my first coach, back in my tri days, was that direct inspiration. Sure, I could watch a video of him sporting a ponytail and running in his speedo onto the podium at Kona in 1991 and 1994, but I couldn't experience that emotion in real time. I couldn't be connected to him in any way that showcased him as a vulnerable human or as a fellow athlete, he could only be a coach.
What feeds me in this particular situation is being able to derive inspiration and motivation from a coach who is doing what I do. After 10 years, we all _know_ what to do, when to do it, how to do it. Writing a training plan isn't terribly challenging, it's not even that tedious. Finding inspiration is much more difficult. As another analogy, consider the deeply religious. They've read the book, they know the rules, and yet they still choose to worship on a daily/weekly basis to further the experience of their faith. I want to feel that the guidance and leadership being given to me is based on real time experience, in the same way that a pope, priest, or shaman communicates divine inspiration in a modern context to his/her followers. I want to hear someone say "I struggle with this too." I want to feel the love of running flowing in both directions. I want to see the human side of my coach, to hear about the triumphs and struggles, and to gain perspective from everything above my own myopic horizon. In just a few months, I've experienced all of this, and it's made a huge difference.
There aren't many people who would qualify for this role. There aren't many people in this world who inspire me to give more than I thought I could. Krissy is one of those few.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
PCT
This is going to read a lot like a boring race report, and for that I apologize in advance. I promise the next post will be more entertaining or at least will be about something other than some dumb footrace. Since the PCT50 is the only real "race" I have this year prior to Western States on June 25th, I felt the liberty to overindulge.
When I think about the Pacific Crest Trail, I usually spend a moment or two thinking about Kent Bien, Rod's dad. Next, I think back to a conversation I had with Scott Mills, before I had any idea who he was, during my first year at the PCT 50 where I wound up crushing my legs to mush over the first 13 (while trying to stay with Scott) and limping home over the final 37 (after surrendering.) Last, I think of the RD, John Martinez, who is every bit as unusual and charismatic as anyone else in the ultra community, and thankfully continues to be willing to organize fun events for all of us. Thanks John!
Most of all, however, when I think PCT, I think of that first/last 13 mile stretch from the start/finish to Dale's Kitchen. The middle 24 is at 6000 feet and not exactly easy, but it's about what you come to expect from an ultra, some parts are beautiful, some are tough, most are runnable. However, that first/last 13 is really unique, and what becomes the most memorable part for me every year. You start at 3000' and climb to double that along some scrappy, rocky trails with only one aid station to break up the effort. On the way out, with fresh legs, it's doable but tough. This year I felt like I was running fairly well, but 4 or 5 guys passed me along those first two sections, even though I didn't even stop at the first aid station. Interestingly enough, in my training log I had written a few thoughts about comparing my training runs to my friends, Mike and Jeff who have been running really well, to which my coach politely reminded me to focus on myself and not anyone else. That is exactly what we need to hear as athletes, at least athletes who aren't racing for the win. I thought back to my days of racing Ironman, when I would plug away for 112 on two wheels, watching hundreds of strong cyclists pass me, and trying my best to avoid talking myself out of my race mindset.
What I find particularly interesting about ultra, at least about racing ultra, is that patience has many forms and is always a necessary ingredient for me to have a good day. I don't climb very well, so I know I'm going to get beat up the long grinders. At the same time, I descend like a rock, so I know not to hang back too much when gravity is in my favor. This attitude is totally different from how I approach road racing, particularly flat road racing. I'm much more of a "go out hard and try to hang on" type of guy on asphalt. I'm not saying I ignore pacing on the road, but I do not frequently attempt to negative split. In an ultra, however, the course dictates my pace much more than any "plan". Maybe the years of eating humble pie in triathlon have helped, or maybe I retreated into my shell a bit with each pass. I won't say that my confidence rose at all along that first stretch, but I felt I went out in the correct position and I felt like I was executing the correct pace for who I am and where my fitness is.
The racing for me doesn't start until 6000 feet. Last year, I started pushing hard at about mile 18, and ran out of gas somewhere very close to 40. I wanted to attempt to finish strong and avoid walking this year, so I thought maybe I should try to keep perceived exertion in the "moderate" realm until at least Penny Pines (~22 miles) or maybe the halfway point. That was the unconscious race "plan" at least as much as that word applies to anything I do while running. Todd's cabin came up quick, as did Penny Pines, and even though I wasn't progressing through the field, I felt like I was still running the right pace, starting to eat/drink more, and cumulative fatigue was well within tolerable levels.
At Penny Pines you pick up a playing card to drop in the box at the turnaround, which was a fun addition to ensure nobody cut the course and eliminate the need for some poor soul to sit at the turn and write down bib numbers. I was handed a Queen of Diamonds, which made me think a bit of Ben Harper. Along the 3 mile stretch from Penny Pines to the turnaround I got to see the guys in front of me. First (Graham Cooper) and 2nd (Mike Alfred) had a sizeable lead. Ben Hian was in 3rd or 4th (here is where I get fuzzy), looking comfortable. At the time when we crossed paths, I estimated (based on my garmin) that Ben had a 15-20 minute lead on me. However, when I hit the turnaround which was closer to 24 than 25 on my garmin (perhaps due to some sections with poor gps coverage?) I realized Ben was closer than I had originally thought. I've never been able to catch Ben in a race, he is a consistent performer, and I have a pipe dream of being able to run with him someday. So, at the turnaround, I picked up the effort a bit and managed to reel in what I thought at the time was the only guy between Ben and I. I was feeling OK, eating well enough, and my stomach wasn't bad either. I was remembering to take salt at the aid stations, and I was fueling reasonably well, less than I might have hoped for, but as good as I could get with the quick stops I was taking this year. In years past, I've camped out at aid stations for extended periods of time to regroup. That's fine if you don't really care about the clock, but when you're trying to race, every minute spent motionless is a wasted opportunity.
The section from Penny Pines back to Todd's Cabin is a bit of a challenge as the course goes back up and over Mt. Laguna. There is an extended climb, which I've walked in past years, but which I managed to run this year. That was an accomplishment in and of itself, something to be proud of, for a guy like me who often struggles on the climbs. I was trying to be measured in my efforts, keeping in mind how difficult the last two sections are for me. Reaching Todd's cabin was a relief because it meant that the majority of the climbing was over. With 17 miles to go, I took an extended break and washed my hands. Yes, you read that right, I went inside the cabin to clean up my face and hands. Yes, I am neurotic. Yes, I am a freak. It made me feel better. It was worth it. I grabbed some food and my bottles, made sure nobody had passed me, and started the trip back to Dale's. This is where experience paid off for me because I know exactly how long and difficult the section is from Dale's Kitchen to Fred Canyon road and I knew from years past that I would run out of water. So, I spent the time running back to Dale's trying to chug as much water as I could out of my 2 bottles. When I got to Dale's, I asked Keith Kirby, who was working that aid station for a time split to Ben. At some point, Ben would have passed the 2nd place runner, possibly right around this point. Keith gave me a number, I remember it as 10 minutes, which compared favorably to what I was told at Penny Pines of 15 minutes, even with my pit stop at Todd's Cabin.
So, leaving Dale's Kitchen, it was time to either start racing or decide to chill out and cruise. Up to that point, I had been sitting on the fence, not quite sure if the best plan was to build confidence for Western States by making 50 seem as easy as I could, or by pushing myself as hard as possible and measuring the objective results. Something about Keith's positive energy got my head squared on straight, and I decided to see how smooth and strong I could run that penultimate section back to Fred Canyon Road. In my prior attempts on this course, I've always walked some of that stretch. This year, I ran every bit of it and I kept pushing towards the imaginary person in front of me. I did run out of water, but it was a particularly mild day. My music had run out of battery by then, and the flies were buzzing a bit, but it was way more tolerable than I remembered it being before. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, but which was far less of an eternity than I remember it being, I reached Fred Canyon road and the final aid station.
Jeff Coon was at that aid station and I asked him as I came in how far I was behind Ben. I'm not sure how well Jeff heard me, but the response was 5 minutes. I let loose a few obscenities at that point, knowing that my increased effort had paid off and realizing that now I had to double down or it would have all been a waste. I thought I was chasing Ben, so I was a bit surprised to have made up so much time, little did I know I was chasing someone else as he crumbled a bit. I told the aid station I wanted to roll out of there quick, so just a refill of my water and 3 cups of soda and I took off for the final 6 to the finish.
On this last stretch, from Fred Canyon road to the finish, I predictably suffer. Every year it's just painful. Kitchen Creek road is the only landmark to break it up, and while the views are beautiful, it seems to take forever to get back under the I8 freeway. I burn through both bottles in this section as well, although it's not nearly as long as the previous one. It's easy to underestimate it as far as difficulty goes because over the final 3-5 miles in an ultra, the mind is somewhat detached from the body and time starts to blur. I remembered last year, how Scott (who was pacing me) received a phone call just before Kitchen Creek road and how odd that seemed at the time. I also remembered last year when Iso caught me and dropped me and then waited for me, all of which was so very nice of him. I wanted to erase those memories of weakness along this final section and run it hard. I wanted to catch the guy in front of me, hoping to see Ben, even though my brain should have known Ben wouldn't crumble like that. When I finally saw a runner in front of me with a bib number, he was walking, which sort of made me feel like I didn't deserve the pass, but I took it anyway. Soon after that, as I was willing myself to the finish and taking a few risks along the way, I rolled my ankle a bit more than usual. At that point, I decided it was time to back things off a notch, I wasn't going to catch Ben after all, and I should try to save my joints for June 25th. I ran steady for the last 2 miles, hit the finish feeling better than I ever had before for that course, and proceeded to stuff my face with 2 turkey sandwiches, 4 Gatorades, and some dark chocolate.
One big difference with the race this year compared to years past was the improvements in flexibility, core strength, and balance from yoga. I had my first opportunity to gather an objective understanding of how my physical transformations would affect my racing performance. Specifically, because the PCT 50 has a lot of narrow, rocky, slippery trail, I trip upwards of 10, possibly as many as 20 times in this race. Happily for me, this year, I did not fall once during any of those stumbles. I credit a lot of that to my core strength, particularly from coba and warrior 3, along with the twists. I was able to correct my body position mid-air, without panic, and roll through those moments of uncertainty much smoother than I ever have before. Falling into rocks and dirt is a great way to lose confidence and distract yourself from your goals, so being able to make it through the entire course without a single encounter with the ground was a wonderful accomplishment for me.
The other big difference I think is equally worth mentioning. While descending, I used to worry about burning out my quads. At the same time, to be safe and avoid excessive speed and eventual slips/falls, I need to use the brakes on certain sections. When the trail goes down beyond a gradual descent, I switch my gait from a stride to a shuffle, and I use my heels more frequently, along with my quads as pistons to decelerate. Over the past few months I've noticed the gains yoga has made for my quad strength. There is no visible difference in my legs, but I feel much less limited during extended descents as my threshold for pain and burnout has increased substantially. This has the wonderful side effect of allowing me to continue climbing past 20-30 miles without resorting to a walk/hike as I have had to in the past. I finally feel like I can run steady down and slog my way up, like a real ultra runner does, at least for 50-ish miles.
Two days out from the race and I'm trashed but in a good way. Smashed as Hillary might call it. I didn't even think about a workout this morning. I have that post-race buzz as my cells attempt to return to the land of the living. 'm looking forward to seeing the official results and confirming what I suspect was a substantial course PR for me this year. The day ended up being exactly what I had hoped it would be, a good measure of where I'm at, and another step forwards towards the possibility of completing Western States.
When I think about the Pacific Crest Trail, I usually spend a moment or two thinking about Kent Bien, Rod's dad. Next, I think back to a conversation I had with Scott Mills, before I had any idea who he was, during my first year at the PCT 50 where I wound up crushing my legs to mush over the first 13 (while trying to stay with Scott) and limping home over the final 37 (after surrendering.) Last, I think of the RD, John Martinez, who is every bit as unusual and charismatic as anyone else in the ultra community, and thankfully continues to be willing to organize fun events for all of us. Thanks John!
Most of all, however, when I think PCT, I think of that first/last 13 mile stretch from the start/finish to Dale's Kitchen. The middle 24 is at 6000 feet and not exactly easy, but it's about what you come to expect from an ultra, some parts are beautiful, some are tough, most are runnable. However, that first/last 13 is really unique, and what becomes the most memorable part for me every year. You start at 3000' and climb to double that along some scrappy, rocky trails with only one aid station to break up the effort. On the way out, with fresh legs, it's doable but tough. This year I felt like I was running fairly well, but 4 or 5 guys passed me along those first two sections, even though I didn't even stop at the first aid station. Interestingly enough, in my training log I had written a few thoughts about comparing my training runs to my friends, Mike and Jeff who have been running really well, to which my coach politely reminded me to focus on myself and not anyone else. That is exactly what we need to hear as athletes, at least athletes who aren't racing for the win. I thought back to my days of racing Ironman, when I would plug away for 112 on two wheels, watching hundreds of strong cyclists pass me, and trying my best to avoid talking myself out of my race mindset.
What I find particularly interesting about ultra, at least about racing ultra, is that patience has many forms and is always a necessary ingredient for me to have a good day. I don't climb very well, so I know I'm going to get beat up the long grinders. At the same time, I descend like a rock, so I know not to hang back too much when gravity is in my favor. This attitude is totally different from how I approach road racing, particularly flat road racing. I'm much more of a "go out hard and try to hang on" type of guy on asphalt. I'm not saying I ignore pacing on the road, but I do not frequently attempt to negative split. In an ultra, however, the course dictates my pace much more than any "plan". Maybe the years of eating humble pie in triathlon have helped, or maybe I retreated into my shell a bit with each pass. I won't say that my confidence rose at all along that first stretch, but I felt I went out in the correct position and I felt like I was executing the correct pace for who I am and where my fitness is.
The racing for me doesn't start until 6000 feet. Last year, I started pushing hard at about mile 18, and ran out of gas somewhere very close to 40. I wanted to attempt to finish strong and avoid walking this year, so I thought maybe I should try to keep perceived exertion in the "moderate" realm until at least Penny Pines (~22 miles) or maybe the halfway point. That was the unconscious race "plan" at least as much as that word applies to anything I do while running. Todd's cabin came up quick, as did Penny Pines, and even though I wasn't progressing through the field, I felt like I was still running the right pace, starting to eat/drink more, and cumulative fatigue was well within tolerable levels.
At Penny Pines you pick up a playing card to drop in the box at the turnaround, which was a fun addition to ensure nobody cut the course and eliminate the need for some poor soul to sit at the turn and write down bib numbers. I was handed a Queen of Diamonds, which made me think a bit of Ben Harper. Along the 3 mile stretch from Penny Pines to the turnaround I got to see the guys in front of me. First (Graham Cooper) and 2nd (Mike Alfred) had a sizeable lead. Ben Hian was in 3rd or 4th (here is where I get fuzzy), looking comfortable. At the time when we crossed paths, I estimated (based on my garmin) that Ben had a 15-20 minute lead on me. However, when I hit the turnaround which was closer to 24 than 25 on my garmin (perhaps due to some sections with poor gps coverage?) I realized Ben was closer than I had originally thought. I've never been able to catch Ben in a race, he is a consistent performer, and I have a pipe dream of being able to run with him someday. So, at the turnaround, I picked up the effort a bit and managed to reel in what I thought at the time was the only guy between Ben and I. I was feeling OK, eating well enough, and my stomach wasn't bad either. I was remembering to take salt at the aid stations, and I was fueling reasonably well, less than I might have hoped for, but as good as I could get with the quick stops I was taking this year. In years past, I've camped out at aid stations for extended periods of time to regroup. That's fine if you don't really care about the clock, but when you're trying to race, every minute spent motionless is a wasted opportunity.
The section from Penny Pines back to Todd's Cabin is a bit of a challenge as the course goes back up and over Mt. Laguna. There is an extended climb, which I've walked in past years, but which I managed to run this year. That was an accomplishment in and of itself, something to be proud of, for a guy like me who often struggles on the climbs. I was trying to be measured in my efforts, keeping in mind how difficult the last two sections are for me. Reaching Todd's cabin was a relief because it meant that the majority of the climbing was over. With 17 miles to go, I took an extended break and washed my hands. Yes, you read that right, I went inside the cabin to clean up my face and hands. Yes, I am neurotic. Yes, I am a freak. It made me feel better. It was worth it. I grabbed some food and my bottles, made sure nobody had passed me, and started the trip back to Dale's. This is where experience paid off for me because I know exactly how long and difficult the section is from Dale's Kitchen to Fred Canyon road and I knew from years past that I would run out of water. So, I spent the time running back to Dale's trying to chug as much water as I could out of my 2 bottles. When I got to Dale's, I asked Keith Kirby, who was working that aid station for a time split to Ben. At some point, Ben would have passed the 2nd place runner, possibly right around this point. Keith gave me a number, I remember it as 10 minutes, which compared favorably to what I was told at Penny Pines of 15 minutes, even with my pit stop at Todd's Cabin.
So, leaving Dale's Kitchen, it was time to either start racing or decide to chill out and cruise. Up to that point, I had been sitting on the fence, not quite sure if the best plan was to build confidence for Western States by making 50 seem as easy as I could, or by pushing myself as hard as possible and measuring the objective results. Something about Keith's positive energy got my head squared on straight, and I decided to see how smooth and strong I could run that penultimate section back to Fred Canyon Road. In my prior attempts on this course, I've always walked some of that stretch. This year, I ran every bit of it and I kept pushing towards the imaginary person in front of me. I did run out of water, but it was a particularly mild day. My music had run out of battery by then, and the flies were buzzing a bit, but it was way more tolerable than I remembered it being before. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, but which was far less of an eternity than I remember it being, I reached Fred Canyon road and the final aid station.
Jeff Coon was at that aid station and I asked him as I came in how far I was behind Ben. I'm not sure how well Jeff heard me, but the response was 5 minutes. I let loose a few obscenities at that point, knowing that my increased effort had paid off and realizing that now I had to double down or it would have all been a waste. I thought I was chasing Ben, so I was a bit surprised to have made up so much time, little did I know I was chasing someone else as he crumbled a bit. I told the aid station I wanted to roll out of there quick, so just a refill of my water and 3 cups of soda and I took off for the final 6 to the finish.
On this last stretch, from Fred Canyon road to the finish, I predictably suffer. Every year it's just painful. Kitchen Creek road is the only landmark to break it up, and while the views are beautiful, it seems to take forever to get back under the I8 freeway. I burn through both bottles in this section as well, although it's not nearly as long as the previous one. It's easy to underestimate it as far as difficulty goes because over the final 3-5 miles in an ultra, the mind is somewhat detached from the body and time starts to blur. I remembered last year, how Scott (who was pacing me) received a phone call just before Kitchen Creek road and how odd that seemed at the time. I also remembered last year when Iso caught me and dropped me and then waited for me, all of which was so very nice of him. I wanted to erase those memories of weakness along this final section and run it hard. I wanted to catch the guy in front of me, hoping to see Ben, even though my brain should have known Ben wouldn't crumble like that. When I finally saw a runner in front of me with a bib number, he was walking, which sort of made me feel like I didn't deserve the pass, but I took it anyway. Soon after that, as I was willing myself to the finish and taking a few risks along the way, I rolled my ankle a bit more than usual. At that point, I decided it was time to back things off a notch, I wasn't going to catch Ben after all, and I should try to save my joints for June 25th. I ran steady for the last 2 miles, hit the finish feeling better than I ever had before for that course, and proceeded to stuff my face with 2 turkey sandwiches, 4 Gatorades, and some dark chocolate.
One big difference with the race this year compared to years past was the improvements in flexibility, core strength, and balance from yoga. I had my first opportunity to gather an objective understanding of how my physical transformations would affect my racing performance. Specifically, because the PCT 50 has a lot of narrow, rocky, slippery trail, I trip upwards of 10, possibly as many as 20 times in this race. Happily for me, this year, I did not fall once during any of those stumbles. I credit a lot of that to my core strength, particularly from coba and warrior 3, along with the twists. I was able to correct my body position mid-air, without panic, and roll through those moments of uncertainty much smoother than I ever have before. Falling into rocks and dirt is a great way to lose confidence and distract yourself from your goals, so being able to make it through the entire course without a single encounter with the ground was a wonderful accomplishment for me.
The other big difference I think is equally worth mentioning. While descending, I used to worry about burning out my quads. At the same time, to be safe and avoid excessive speed and eventual slips/falls, I need to use the brakes on certain sections. When the trail goes down beyond a gradual descent, I switch my gait from a stride to a shuffle, and I use my heels more frequently, along with my quads as pistons to decelerate. Over the past few months I've noticed the gains yoga has made for my quad strength. There is no visible difference in my legs, but I feel much less limited during extended descents as my threshold for pain and burnout has increased substantially. This has the wonderful side effect of allowing me to continue climbing past 20-30 miles without resorting to a walk/hike as I have had to in the past. I finally feel like I can run steady down and slog my way up, like a real ultra runner does, at least for 50-ish miles.
Two days out from the race and I'm trashed but in a good way. Smashed as Hillary might call it. I didn't even think about a workout this morning. I have that post-race buzz as my cells attempt to return to the land of the living. 'm looking forward to seeing the official results and confirming what I suspect was a substantial course PR for me this year. The day ended up being exactly what I had hoped it would be, a good measure of where I'm at, and another step forwards towards the possibility of completing Western States.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Taper
A gradual decrease, or so says Merriam-Webster. It is one of my least favorite things to do.
I'm a fan of increases. I like spring, when the days get longer, though the fall is tolerable because each Sunday the NFL season heats up. I like to increase things like my weekly mileage, my waistline, how soaked my towel is from yoga, or the number of bicycles hanging in my garage. More is better, right?
Well, actually, maybe not. I'm far below a position of enlightened wisdom, but I have learned a few things about minimalism over the past year or so. I've purged a bunch of junk (and even a few useful items) from my stockpile when I realized it is now cheaper and easier to just order what you need when you actually need it rather than having it sitting around in some box somewhere that you won't be able to find anyway.
How does any of that relate to fitness? Good question. I'm not sure I know the answer. And now I sound like Andy Rooney.
Let's just skip to the fun facts. My best races have all come after weeks that don't truly qualify as taper weeks. Before my RnR marathon PR I went hog wild on a track workout with coach Kevin McCarey, running within a second or two of my 400 PR on the last 1/4. Before my Chicago marathon PR, I did some similarly short intervals with Paul and Sean on Neptune that were in the same general ballpark. Of course these are very limited data points and even a clear correlation over multiple years of racing does not prove causation. But the point is that intensity and strong racing go hand in hand for me.
My running mentor and punisher, Luc Teyton, did his best to leverage what he knew about my tendencies when he prepared me for my semi-lackluster attempts at a marathon PR on the CIM course. He knew I responded best when given a healthy workload during the final weeks of preparation. However, sometimes the body is not ready to peak when the mind wants it to, and in those situations it really doesn't matter what sort of taper is used, the race is doomed. There are other times, the best case scenarios, when it feels like your body can handle anything you throw at it and those are exactly the moments when I've been able to race at my best. If I'm peaking and feeling physically invincible, the desire to suffer is the key metric, as opposed to any physical or physiological marker. I'm not the type of person who can fill my can of whoop ass during a rest week and un-cork it on Saturday. I'm not the type of guy who can lay low and be calm and prepare for battle in the shadows. I need to feel like I'm on the edge, especially so during race week, in order to achieve what I am capable of. I need to feel the burn, the pain, the intensity, every bit as much leading up to the race as in the weeks of prior training.
Taper for me is a strange word. I know I'm at my best when I don't really talk or think about tapering. But I also know that my tendency to overdo, to overindulge, carries risk. I've had plenty of flat races from cumulative fatigue over weeks of heavy training and excessive racing.
This week feels like a good one. I feel hungry. I feel ready, willing, and able to suffer, and that emotion is peeking out in what I've done this week. I've already surprised myself a few times with how far I've pushed things. With 36 hours to go, I await my chance to destroy myself with eager anticipation.
Editor's note:
I wrote this yesterday, before my afternoon run which was predictably horrible. And so the ebb and flow continues. Then again, sometimes having a really lousy run the day or two before a race is a blessing because it helps center your mind and body and set your expectations at the appropriate level. Plan for the worst, hope for the best, it's a good mantra for just about anything.
I'm a fan of increases. I like spring, when the days get longer, though the fall is tolerable because each Sunday the NFL season heats up. I like to increase things like my weekly mileage, my waistline, how soaked my towel is from yoga, or the number of bicycles hanging in my garage. More is better, right?
Well, actually, maybe not. I'm far below a position of enlightened wisdom, but I have learned a few things about minimalism over the past year or so. I've purged a bunch of junk (and even a few useful items) from my stockpile when I realized it is now cheaper and easier to just order what you need when you actually need it rather than having it sitting around in some box somewhere that you won't be able to find anyway.
How does any of that relate to fitness? Good question. I'm not sure I know the answer. And now I sound like Andy Rooney.
Let's just skip to the fun facts. My best races have all come after weeks that don't truly qualify as taper weeks. Before my RnR marathon PR I went hog wild on a track workout with coach Kevin McCarey, running within a second or two of my 400 PR on the last 1/4. Before my Chicago marathon PR, I did some similarly short intervals with Paul and Sean on Neptune that were in the same general ballpark. Of course these are very limited data points and even a clear correlation over multiple years of racing does not prove causation. But the point is that intensity and strong racing go hand in hand for me.
My running mentor and punisher, Luc Teyton, did his best to leverage what he knew about my tendencies when he prepared me for my semi-lackluster attempts at a marathon PR on the CIM course. He knew I responded best when given a healthy workload during the final weeks of preparation. However, sometimes the body is not ready to peak when the mind wants it to, and in those situations it really doesn't matter what sort of taper is used, the race is doomed. There are other times, the best case scenarios, when it feels like your body can handle anything you throw at it and those are exactly the moments when I've been able to race at my best. If I'm peaking and feeling physically invincible, the desire to suffer is the key metric, as opposed to any physical or physiological marker. I'm not the type of person who can fill my can of whoop ass during a rest week and un-cork it on Saturday. I'm not the type of guy who can lay low and be calm and prepare for battle in the shadows. I need to feel like I'm on the edge, especially so during race week, in order to achieve what I am capable of. I need to feel the burn, the pain, the intensity, every bit as much leading up to the race as in the weeks of prior training.
Taper for me is a strange word. I know I'm at my best when I don't really talk or think about tapering. But I also know that my tendency to overdo, to overindulge, carries risk. I've had plenty of flat races from cumulative fatigue over weeks of heavy training and excessive racing.
This week feels like a good one. I feel hungry. I feel ready, willing, and able to suffer, and that emotion is peeking out in what I've done this week. I've already surprised myself a few times with how far I've pushed things. With 36 hours to go, I await my chance to destroy myself with eager anticipation.
Editor's note:
I wrote this yesterday, before my afternoon run which was predictably horrible. And so the ebb and flow continues. Then again, sometimes having a really lousy run the day or two before a race is a blessing because it helps center your mind and body and set your expectations at the appropriate level. Plan for the worst, hope for the best, it's a good mantra for just about anything.
Friday, May 6, 2011
San Francisco
Rants and raves about one of the top 3 cities I've ever lived in.
Oh San Francisco, how wonderful and miserable you are to me. Let's start with the things I love about you:
1. Craigslist and eBay. My sister met her baby daddy on Craigslist. The world gained 3 beautiful girls as a result. And eBay, oh the joy of being able to find that strange, odd, out-of-production spare part for a totally reasonable price. OK, I know I'm taking SF and making it "Bay Area" but whatever, this is the good side, so I can paint with as broad of a brush as I want to.
2. Muni and BART. Oh how I love thee. Nevermind that Muni totally sucked donkey butt when I lived here 14 years ago. That is forgiven. Electric buses rule, even when they break down, and public transportation totally kicks butt when it is useful, and Muni is actually useful. If I still lived in SF, I wouldn't bother owning a car. Maybe a scooter or motorcycle, but not a car. Public transportation makes so much sense that it will never be a part of the idiotic so-cal lifestyle where we run away from things that make sense.
3. Urban hipness. I don't even belong within 50 feet of the corner coffee shop, Farleys. The hipsters that hang out there tolerate me only because I don't pretend to be one of them. The coffee rules, and it's not even expensive. The barista on Thursday was sporting a mohawk and an NWA t-shirt with cut-off sleeves, talk about uuuuuuber cool! Oh, and if you want yuppie coffee, SF is the home of Peet's. Coffee and SF are like peanut butter and chocolate.
4. Women. SF has by far, hands down, the coolest women in any place I've ever lived. I'm constantly amazed at how friendly, sexy, down to earth, and open to just about any conversation that women are in this town. Maybe it's the plethora of gay me that puts the numbers game upside down or maybe it's the wouldn't-want-to-be-anywhere-else happiness, or perhaps it's the independence of making it in a real city without the NYC attitude. Whatever the formula, if you are a woman and you live in SF, you pretty much rule.
5. Bicycles. This town isn't super bike-friendly, but it's better than many and it's getting better every year. There are green bike lanes on Market Street. There are clearly marked bike lanes through the Mission. There are tons and tons of bike racks to lock your bike to. And there are cute as hell, punk rock chicks riding bikes at all hours of the night in boots. But maybe this is getting too close to 4...
OK, now, to be fair, I need to rant a bit, because I left SF once, and I'd leave you again if I had to do it all over again.
1. SF, you have the most bipolar weather I've ever seen. Thursday was gorgeous, warm, sunny, beautiful, blue skies, absolute perfection. Friday was windy, cold and bitter. Ugh. There is a reason why everyone in SF wears down jackets, there's no other way to handle the spontaneous temperature extremes.
2. Parking. Oh how I do not miss parking in SF.
3. Waiting for a table at dinner and eating late. Fortunately we did OK dealing with this, but it does make a noticeable difference as I get older and grumpier. Who wants to make a reservation 8 months in advance? I don't. And who can afford or wants to deal with a big kitchen and trips to the grocery store when you live in urban utopia?
4. Dogs. SF is a very dog friendly town, but it's still not a fantastic place to raise your pooch. There are very few open spaces and even fewer which allow dogs. Marin is better, but you pay out the nose for that. You can't have it all, and I am a fan of my canine friends.
5. Garages. If you have a garage in SF, you are lucky. If you have a private garage which is usable for something other than one small vehicle, you are flying high. In so-cal, you get a 2 car garage with just about every residence.
San Francisco, my heart is still there, but until global warming takes hold and bumps up the average temp by 10 degrees, I have to say that I prefer San Diego :)
Oh San Francisco, how wonderful and miserable you are to me. Let's start with the things I love about you:
1. Craigslist and eBay. My sister met her baby daddy on Craigslist. The world gained 3 beautiful girls as a result. And eBay, oh the joy of being able to find that strange, odd, out-of-production spare part for a totally reasonable price. OK, I know I'm taking SF and making it "Bay Area" but whatever, this is the good side, so I can paint with as broad of a brush as I want to.
2. Muni and BART. Oh how I love thee. Nevermind that Muni totally sucked donkey butt when I lived here 14 years ago. That is forgiven. Electric buses rule, even when they break down, and public transportation totally kicks butt when it is useful, and Muni is actually useful. If I still lived in SF, I wouldn't bother owning a car. Maybe a scooter or motorcycle, but not a car. Public transportation makes so much sense that it will never be a part of the idiotic so-cal lifestyle where we run away from things that make sense.
3. Urban hipness. I don't even belong within 50 feet of the corner coffee shop, Farleys. The hipsters that hang out there tolerate me only because I don't pretend to be one of them. The coffee rules, and it's not even expensive. The barista on Thursday was sporting a mohawk and an NWA t-shirt with cut-off sleeves, talk about uuuuuuber cool! Oh, and if you want yuppie coffee, SF is the home of Peet's. Coffee and SF are like peanut butter and chocolate.
4. Women. SF has by far, hands down, the coolest women in any place I've ever lived. I'm constantly amazed at how friendly, sexy, down to earth, and open to just about any conversation that women are in this town. Maybe it's the plethora of gay me that puts the numbers game upside down or maybe it's the wouldn't-want-to-be-anywhere-else happiness, or perhaps it's the independence of making it in a real city without the NYC attitude. Whatever the formula, if you are a woman and you live in SF, you pretty much rule.
5. Bicycles. This town isn't super bike-friendly, but it's better than many and it's getting better every year. There are green bike lanes on Market Street. There are clearly marked bike lanes through the Mission. There are tons and tons of bike racks to lock your bike to. And there are cute as hell, punk rock chicks riding bikes at all hours of the night in boots. But maybe this is getting too close to 4...
OK, now, to be fair, I need to rant a bit, because I left SF once, and I'd leave you again if I had to do it all over again.
1. SF, you have the most bipolar weather I've ever seen. Thursday was gorgeous, warm, sunny, beautiful, blue skies, absolute perfection. Friday was windy, cold and bitter. Ugh. There is a reason why everyone in SF wears down jackets, there's no other way to handle the spontaneous temperature extremes.
2. Parking. Oh how I do not miss parking in SF.
3. Waiting for a table at dinner and eating late. Fortunately we did OK dealing with this, but it does make a noticeable difference as I get older and grumpier. Who wants to make a reservation 8 months in advance? I don't. And who can afford or wants to deal with a big kitchen and trips to the grocery store when you live in urban utopia?
4. Dogs. SF is a very dog friendly town, but it's still not a fantastic place to raise your pooch. There are very few open spaces and even fewer which allow dogs. Marin is better, but you pay out the nose for that. You can't have it all, and I am a fan of my canine friends.
5. Garages. If you have a garage in SF, you are lucky. If you have a private garage which is usable for something other than one small vehicle, you are flying high. In so-cal, you get a 2 car garage with just about every residence.
San Francisco, my heart is still there, but until global warming takes hold and bumps up the average temp by 10 degrees, I have to say that I prefer San Diego :)
Monday, May 2, 2011
Quality
I don't race to win. Some people do, but not me. I've won exactly one race, a Turkey Trot in Kailua, after 12 years and over 200 t-shirts. One meaningless race. It was not a highlight in any way. I don't race to win.
So, then, why do I race? Why do I run? Why did I pull the plug on triathlon despite continued enjoyment of all 3 disciplines and yet continue to race running events? The answer isn't entirely obvious and may not have anything to do with anyone else's answer. The answer, for me, is quality.
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance does a wonderful job of explaining just how difficult it is to define the essence of quality. Actually, there are numerous parallels to that book and my life, particularly the differences between my work as a software geek and my primary passion: exercise induced exhaustion. It is truly fitting that the book was published the year I was born.
How does quality relate to running for me? The essence of it boils down to the line my mother so often repeated when I would reach a point of frustration with the effort involved in academics or sports as a child and the stress which that frustration inevitably unearthed. Her words were consistently "just try your best". That mantra has stuck with me, to the point that I would classify one of my stronger personality attributes as an intensity and passion to achieve, and an insatiable desire to improve.
This next paragraph started off as a response to Jeff when he asked "What about tri didn't allow you to pursue quality? If anything it seems even better suited to your needs." I responded to that with:
When I attempted to rewrite that response in a slightly less obnoxious manner, it ended up sounding overly sanitized:
Jeff prefers the first version. I think the 2nd version is somewhat easier to follow, but I expose both angles as an attempt to let the reader decide for themselves what I really mean.
It is worthwhile to note that I am actually pretty lousy at a lot of things I do, particularly those I have less experience with. Take yoga for example. When I started, I flat out sucked. I had never been flexible, my balance is still well below average, and what strength I did possess was geared more towards spastic efforts than anything resembling graceful movement. I had always been scared off by the mirrors and the other people in the room, I retained fear of failure, fear of judgement, fear of looking like an idiot. With time, and particularly with effort, those fears dissolve in the pool of the inner ego, apprehension morphs into confidence as the unknown becomes familiar. Part of it is realizing that everyone else in the room puts their pants on the same way, even if they can do standing splits and jump into a pike position from adho mukha. But the biggest part is watching my body and abilities change through the continued application of desire to improve.
There is a genetic component to this desire for quality. I see it in my father's dancing. He started getting serious with it about 15 years ago and he has progressed into a fairly competitive dancer. Most importantly, far more important than any recognition he might receive from competition, is his own satisfaction from being able to do something with his body that was previously unknown or impossible. His career has been a series of rational decisions, with life and death literally hanging in the balance and the wealth of experience providing the sustenance on which to propel through each new uncertainty. Similarly and also differently, through dancing, his body and mind are invigorated in the relentless and endless pursuit of a perfection that cannot be defined, only asymptotically approached. I see beauty and grace in the fluidity of his instructors movements which he has not yet mastered and I can tell, despite how far he has come and how much I admire and appreciate the skills he has gained, there is still enough room to improve to combat any sense of satisfaction that might lead to complacency.
I run because every now and then I will encounter a moment that astounds me. Last year I had a number of days that absolutely blew me away, some in training, and a few races as well. Sharing those experiences and what they meant to me in this blog is a way to bare my soul, to rip away the meaningless layers of courtesy, manners, politeness, clothing, space and time, and delve into the raw emotion that fuels my journey of self exploration and attempts at self realization. I run to experience intensity, passion, and desire without filters. I run to watch myself give up and then re-enlist in the fight. I run to experience failure, remorse, greed, ambition and self-importance, and yet still attempt to supercede all of that and try to be better as a runner and as a human. It is, and has always been, an endless search for quality.
So, then, why do I race? Why do I run? Why did I pull the plug on triathlon despite continued enjoyment of all 3 disciplines and yet continue to race running events? The answer isn't entirely obvious and may not have anything to do with anyone else's answer. The answer, for me, is quality.
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance does a wonderful job of explaining just how difficult it is to define the essence of quality. Actually, there are numerous parallels to that book and my life, particularly the differences between my work as a software geek and my primary passion: exercise induced exhaustion. It is truly fitting that the book was published the year I was born.
How does quality relate to running for me? The essence of it boils down to the line my mother so often repeated when I would reach a point of frustration with the effort involved in academics or sports as a child and the stress which that frustration inevitably unearthed. Her words were consistently "just try your best". That mantra has stuck with me, to the point that I would classify one of my stronger personality attributes as an intensity and passion to achieve, and an insatiable desire to improve.
This next paragraph started off as a response to Jeff when he asked "What about tri didn't allow you to pursue quality? If anything it seems even better suited to your needs." I responded to that with:
I didn't really explain that well, did I?
I got turned off by the gear. By the drafting. By the dweebs. By my
own lack of ability to improve on the bike despite trying (at least
trying a little bit.) By the costs. By the trends and where it was
heading. But mostly because I didn't feel like I had many days of
"quality" when cycling or swimming. There were a few, but the
majority were all run days.
When I attempted to rewrite that response in a slightly less obnoxious manner, it ended up sounding overly sanitized:
So, wait, I mentioned that I pretty much gave up racing triathlon, although I still enjoy swim/bike/run training. So, what gives, how does that make any sense? Jeff asked me to clarify this point and it prompted additional thinking. The bottom line is that triathlon boiled down to an endeavor which seemed incompatible with my desire to pursue quality. I got turned off by all the gear. I got frustrated by all the drafting among nameless age groupers. I got sick of being around the personality types which dominate the sport. And, here's the part where I take some ownership of my own baggage, I was primarily frustrated by me own lack of improvement on the bike. I know I tried a few different angles on cycling, even spending most of 2003 focusing on riding instead of working, but the improvements didn't seem to come. Meanwhile, the costs of participating in an already expensive sport continued to increase, while my desire and ambition were trending the opposite direction. I started to feel like the majority of my "quality" was focused on running. I had a few good swims and a rare uplifting ride, but the arrows all pointed towards running as being the more consistent and reliable source of joy.
Jeff prefers the first version. I think the 2nd version is somewhat easier to follow, but I expose both angles as an attempt to let the reader decide for themselves what I really mean.
It is worthwhile to note that I am actually pretty lousy at a lot of things I do, particularly those I have less experience with. Take yoga for example. When I started, I flat out sucked. I had never been flexible, my balance is still well below average, and what strength I did possess was geared more towards spastic efforts than anything resembling graceful movement. I had always been scared off by the mirrors and the other people in the room, I retained fear of failure, fear of judgement, fear of looking like an idiot. With time, and particularly with effort, those fears dissolve in the pool of the inner ego, apprehension morphs into confidence as the unknown becomes familiar. Part of it is realizing that everyone else in the room puts their pants on the same way, even if they can do standing splits and jump into a pike position from adho mukha. But the biggest part is watching my body and abilities change through the continued application of desire to improve.
There is a genetic component to this desire for quality. I see it in my father's dancing. He started getting serious with it about 15 years ago and he has progressed into a fairly competitive dancer. Most importantly, far more important than any recognition he might receive from competition, is his own satisfaction from being able to do something with his body that was previously unknown or impossible. His career has been a series of rational decisions, with life and death literally hanging in the balance and the wealth of experience providing the sustenance on which to propel through each new uncertainty. Similarly and also differently, through dancing, his body and mind are invigorated in the relentless and endless pursuit of a perfection that cannot be defined, only asymptotically approached. I see beauty and grace in the fluidity of his instructors movements which he has not yet mastered and I can tell, despite how far he has come and how much I admire and appreciate the skills he has gained, there is still enough room to improve to combat any sense of satisfaction that might lead to complacency.
I run because every now and then I will encounter a moment that astounds me. Last year I had a number of days that absolutely blew me away, some in training, and a few races as well. Sharing those experiences and what they meant to me in this blog is a way to bare my soul, to rip away the meaningless layers of courtesy, manners, politeness, clothing, space and time, and delve into the raw emotion that fuels my journey of self exploration and attempts at self realization. I run to experience intensity, passion, and desire without filters. I run to watch myself give up and then re-enlist in the fight. I run to experience failure, remorse, greed, ambition and self-importance, and yet still attempt to supercede all of that and try to be better as a runner and as a human. It is, and has always been, an endless search for quality.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
R2R2R
My Photos
Jen's Photos
Alyssa's blog part 1
Alyssa's blog part 2
For some reason, I spent the first few minutes of my R2R2R experience thinking up a subtitle for this blog post. How pathetic is that? Talk about not living in the moment, huh? However, this day was a very unique experience and I knew I would want to write about it even before I got out of the car. This was my first visit to the Grand Canyon. It was my first big run on my busted knee. And it was a long day with a bunch of cool, fit runner girls in their mid 20's. Sounds perfect, right? Except that all 4 women are taken and (this is the kicker) they are all super intelligent. Funny how the pendulum swings so quickly from "every guy's dream" to "every guy's worst nightmare" as the intelligence quotient increases and the availability factor decreases ;) Hence, "Into the ditch with 4 chicks" began, and off I went, at the back of the train of sinew and grace, surveying the scenery, the rock walls, the water stops, the mules, and yes, the glutes as well. We made a few pee stops. We passed a bunch of mules. We saw a few people at the various campgrounds. We saw the sun rise, and overall it was all smiles and good cheer. A beautiful way to start the day.
We wound up descending the Bright Angel trail which is a longer way to the river than the South Kaibab option, mostly due to parking and shuttle logistics. I was feeling very fortunate for the chance to see Bright Angel as I had assumed we would start/finish on South Kaibab and I wanted to see as much as I could see of such an amazing place. For some reason, the extra time and distance didn't bother me at all, and I guess while descending it really shouldn't matter. We reached the river and meandered our way to Phantom Ranch, still smiling, taking photos, eating a little bit, ready for our first water stop. This canyon thing, it just seemed so easy. I didn't understand why someone felt it necessary to post all sorts of warnings of imminent death and dismemberment awaiting those who attempt to hike to the river and back in a single day. I was in complete denial of what I was getting into.
Let me backtrack a bit, briefly. I spent Thursday busting out a couple of job interviews and driving out to Flagstaff (and stopping for froyo in Phoenix at Yogurtology, my first $10 yogurt ever!) I arrived at an address I was given to by Alyssa, my pacee friend from the HURT 100 in January, walked right through the unlocked door, woke up the dog and the friend who in my sleep deprived state I thought looked almost like a shorter version of Alyssa herself, and found my way into my sleeping bag. I had done my share of research of the upcoming adventure during the week leading up to it, and read a lot of "I took too much stuff". Also, my rock star coach had busted out a 9 hour crossing the Tuesday prior, so I figured I'd be relaxing with a cold beer and hot pizza by 3pm based on our 4:00 planned start. I took my 1.5L pack and shoved 6 or 7 purefit bars in and a pair of gu's. What could go wrong with that plan, right? I mean, it's not even 50 miles, and I can just cruise the two big climbs, why worry?
So, there I sit, at Phantom Ranch, having refilled my water and I start adding up the food I have left and I start to get worried. The "canteen" opens at 8 and it's 7:30, so there are no coffee or breakfast options to consider. To add insult to injury, two campers walk out with steaming cups of coffee while I watch and someone inside locks the door. Oh well, rules are rules, and I'm not waiting around for 30 minutes just to get some food, real men don't need food, right? I think Alyssa inquires about water ahead and finds out that the spigots are all turned off. Being a fool, I figure since I only drank half my 1.5L of water on the 10 miles coming down, I should be fine for the remaining 15. Never mind that no water elsewhere means 30 miles, not 15. Never mind that I have enough food for maybe 3-4 hours and we would be lucky to be halfway by then. Screw planning, I'm a camel, I'm a bear, I don't need food or water, I just run. Right? Not really.
We say goodbye to Claire and Anna, the two Flagstaff residents who can run in the canyon any weekend they want to and are wisely heading back up to the south rim to save the R2R2R stupidity for a later day when the course actually has water. Alyssa, Jen and I head north along the river, marveling at the beauty of the canyon as it narrows around us and we cross over a 3 or 4 bridges. The noise and mist from the water in the river are refreshing distractions from the growing heat and dessicated air. I am daydreaming about Aaron Ralston, both admiring what a badass he is for cutting through his own arm, remembering the vivid description in his book of cutting the final nerves, and simultaneously admiring his stupidity for being in a narrow canyon by himself. Much better to be surrounded by young, hot, tough women, right?
Jen decides she wants to cruise a bit more, perhaps Alyssa and I are getting antsy to crank out some of the tough sections, or perhaps she is just smart, knows she hasn't run 50 miles ever before, and wants to take the pressure off. We agree to catch back up on the way back, and since everything I've read implies there's almost zero chance of getting lost, I'm only worried about some sort of crazy hippie trying to molest her. Jen is a high school math teacher, though, so she knows how to manage teenage catholic school boys full or raging testosterone, so I'm confident in her ability to outrun, outplay, outlast any of the 110 lb stoned, bearded hippies she might encounter. I tend to doubt that anyone 10+ miles from civilization can do her any harm, but I think both Alyssa and I are at least slightly nervous at the thought of leaving her alone to fend for herself for what will be hours. Much better to have companions along, much better to feel the warmth of a familiar voice nearby, even if you are running on your own power. As we roll past one of only 2 trail junctions, Alyssa leaves some rocks indicating the direction, and off we head to Cottonwood. I had read about these places, so the names were familiar, but the scenery was unknown. I was transfixed by the variety of terrain after Phantom Ranch, the first section being tight along the river, then a bit of a desert landscape after that, and after cottonwood were the notched cliff edges and steepest climbing towards the north rim. We were lucky to find the cottonwood spigot turned on as I was just about out of water, and while I was smart enough to fill up, I neglected to indulge myself by chugging as much as I could, yet another foolish mistake. I somehow assumed that water on at Cottonwood meant water on elsewhere so I pulled the "my grandfather was born in the desert, I'm part camel" card. Smarty Alyssa offered me her handheld bottles to fill, but I had too much pride to take aid from a friend, I declined on sheer principle and ego, no way was I going to show weakness at mile 18! I didn't even let on that I knew I didn't have enough food. I was ignoring the obvious, something I'm really good at doing when running long.
From cottonwood, the work began. The milepost at the ranger house said 7 miles, and I gotta say, those 7 miles were very difficult for me. Some of the most difficult miles I've ever run, partly because I had no idea where we were or how much was left, and partly because I just wasn't climbing well at all. We passed only a few people along this section, one guy who had turned back and "given up" and a family with two kids, all using poles and moving leisurely, presumably having camped the night before. We crossed a bridge near Roaring springs as the only break in the climbing, and also signaling the steepest section yet ahead. A guy with compression calf sleeves and poles was gaining on us from below and for a while I tried to push to stay ahead of him, but the inevitable pass came well before the tunnel. Thankfully he was helpful and offered up some encouragement about what lay ahead and approximate distances to and from the tunnel, which was the only landmark I knew of. Two other guys descending from the north rim mentioned we had an hour to go, after Mr. Badass R2R2R w poles guy had dusted us, and his positive energy effectively evaporated by those two debbie downers. I tried to cheer up Alyssa with the suggestion that "maybe they meant an hour to the lodge" which I knew was 2 miles from the north rim, and I was also pretty sure they were calculating time for hiking not running, but I also knew we weren't running any of this section anyway. We passed a dry spigot, made it through the tunnel, and reached the snow line. Spirits were poor. I ran dry on water. The trail kept going. Alyssa took a break at one of the switchbacks and I barely even noticed. I was consumed with summit fever, only, this wasn't a mountain, and the top would be a parking lot with no views and, as I found out soon, no water.
I thought we might be able to buy some water off someone parked at the north rim. I thought there might be a hot dog stand set up by some enterprising family looking to make some cash. I would have paid $20 for a 20oz bottle of water, possibly even $40. I had taken every bill in my wallet, well over $100, just in case we needed it because money is light and doesn't take up any space. Two not-super-fit ladies descending near the top lifted my spirits when they mentioned we were close and seemed very confident about the actual distances. Finally I emerged, followed soon after by Alyssa, and met up with that other R2R2R guy in the calf sleeves.
I took my hydration bladder out of my minimalist pack to verify that it was empty, indeed it was. I found the north rim spigot and verified it was dry, indeed it was. I walked around the parking lot looking for signs of life and there were none except for Mr. Poles guy who was calmly preparing for his return to the south rim. So, I proceeded to do what any decent guy would do when confronted with such a situation, I stole food off a helpless, 100 lb ultrarunner. Think of that for a second, 200 lb me stealing food from 100 lb Alyssa, food that she carried for 25 miles and up 5000 feet. We're talking zero shame, none, not a shred.
However, shame and OCD can coexist, and despite not having any water, not a drop, I refused to put snow in a bottle. There was just something nasty about it, even after scraping away the top layer of pine needles and dirt. Some dog coulda peed in that spot. Or it might have a high concentration of exhaust from the 1 car that drives by each day. So, whatever, I just couldn't do the snow thing. But Mr. Poles guy gave me some chlorine tabs. Hey, what a bright idea! Why didn't I think of that? I should be carrying chlorine or iodine in my pack at all times, it takes no space, no weight, and it could really save my sorry bum in a pickle. The plan, after eating all of Alyssa's pizza and a few of her mojo bars, is to make it to the waterfall about a mile or two below the rim and fill up on water, then subsist off the existing food to Phantom Ranch at which point we can hit the canteen and refuel.
Now, the dumbass in me still thinks I could maybe have made it back to cottonwood with cottonmouth. Because once we start descending, all of a sudden, it's not so bad. That blister I had started to feel in my heel doesn't hurt when my toenails are jammed into the toe box and the pressure is off the heel. The altitude doesn't seem so bad while descending, each step seems slightly easier than the last. So, we make it to the waterfall and there's another lady there so we stop to chat. She had hiked in the day prior and camped out at cottonwood, then she was going to do the north rim for day 2 and head out on day 3. A much more reasonable plan. One which I could never do.
As we are talking, the subject of chlorine pills comes up. I ask how long after adding them before the water is drinkable and the consensus is 30 minutes. The cottonwood camper lady says she just uses a few drops of bleach, which makes me cringe thinking about it. I decide to go caveman style because I figure in 30 minutes we'll be reasonably close to cottonwood anyway, so what's the point of using chlorine tabs and carrying water around only to drink it 5 minutes before reaching a safe water supply? I figure the real value of the waterfall is that it provides an unlimited source of water, so I might as well chug away. I fill Alyssa's bottle, chug it, and fill it again, chug some more, and top it off. Away we go, down down down down down. We see things that seemed to take hours to get through, and now they just fly right by. Gravity is a wonderful thing when you weigh 2 bills and you're heading downhill.
This section is perhaps the only part of the day I'm actually proud of. Alyssa alludes to it in her blog (check the links at the top) as well. We were clicking as we ran down from the north rim. I almost felt like I belonged to that exclusive club of ass kickers who have finished 100 mile races. Not yet, not yet for sure, but I'm starting to earn my spot. So, anyway, we trade off the lead, we hit a rythm and the miles just tick by. It's kind of like dancing when you're on trail anyway, each footstep requires some degree of mental energy, some more than others. When you are with someone else it is even more like dancing because it's so easy for one of the two to get dropped, bored, disengage, etc. To share steps with someone is a bit of a "moment" and it took me back to pacing her at HURT, and back to other runs with Rod and Mike and Jeff where pace becomes a feeling, not a question or a number. This portion of the day, after the fatigue of 25 miles, 15 of which were spent climbing, was the true essence of what I wa there for. I started thinking about western states and about 100 milers in general during this stretch. It's really difficult for me to wrap my head around the challenge of pushing myself through 50 miles of hell only to be halfway done. I can't fathom how difficult that will be when I attempt it this June. But the one thing I think I know about ultra, particularly about 100's, is that you absolutely _have_ to be able to run the easy stuff. And if there is anything easy about R2R2R, it's the stretch from the north rim to phantom ranch. Fifteen miles of steep to shallow downhill running. Sure, you could hike it, but that won't save much energy and the longer you are out there, the more behind on calories you get, the more you allow yourself to be roasted by the sun, the harder it is to get yourself back home.
Now, there's one other special memory from this section. Alyssa started realizing what a total f-up I am and began restricting my privileges to do harm to myself. She called for food and salt breaks every hour, and handed me 2 of her salt tabs each time, since I, of course, brought none. I pretended to be annoyed by this, I think I even called her Mama Godesky once or twice. But, secretly (or not so secretly now that I'm blogging about it) I was thrilled to be bossed around by a woman again. I mean, it's been over a year since anyone has bossed me around, and I really have missed it. Us men, we're really all the same, we're just like dogs, completely lost without a master to give orders. So, I have to say, one big highlight of this day in the Grand Canyon was drill seargent Godesky's court ordered nutrition breaks. Because I'm too much of an idiot/wimp to call out for a pee break or a minute to sit on a rock in the shade, but if she said to do it, I felt compelled to comply. I mean, how can you argue with someone who has a drawer full of belt buckles?
We make a stop in cottonwood where I finally refill my empty hydration bladder, chug most of it's contents, and refill it again. A man comes through heading north and we find out that Jen is maybe 2 miles ahead on her way back to phantom ranch. The misery of the north rim climb is far behind us, and the day is shaping up as well as can be hoped for at this point, although it does seem very hot as we're in the 2-3pm hottest part of the day. Cottonwood has some shade, so we linger a bit, and we see Mr. Poles guy blast through, I assume he stopped at the ranger house/basketball hoop for water, whereas I decided to blow through that b/c it was only two easy miles to cottonwood and I still had some waterfall water in the bottle.
So, Alyssa and I head off toward the narrow part of the canyon, on our way to Phantom Ranch, in pursuit of Jen, and attempting to ignore or at least pretend to ignore the fact that it is now pretty damn hot. One of the photos of me during this stretch looks strange, but at the moment I was contemplating jumping into the river to cool off, despite a fairly rapid flow rate. I was hoping that the mist from the rapids would cool us off and it did to some degree, but it wasn't enough. I had hallucinations of having packed an inflatable raft in my pack (why would I carry an inflatable raft if I didn't even bring enough food, a hat, or sunscreen?) which we could use to cruise down the river to phantom ranch or maybe all the way to the bottom of the Bright Angel trail. A six pack and that inner tube sure sounded good to me at that point. In the midst of my daydreaming, we spot Jen up ahead, and we reach her maybe 1 mile from the ranch, just in time for a little victory shuffle to the canteen. Alyssa says we got there with 5 minutes to spare, but my watch said 3:58 at the time, and I remember distinctly how they locked the door to keep us out at 7:30, so I hustle through the campground, drop my bag, and proceed to pull a Moses by stacking 2 of every type of edible species on the counter, and then quickly switching to Jonas and swallowing them whole as if I were a whale.
At this point we all realize we're pretty trashed. It's 4pm, probably 4:20 by the time we leave, actually, and we've got 7-8 miles to go. In a normal world, getting that done by sunset wouldn't seem like such a tall order. Even a casual runner, when asked to make it 8 miles and given 2.5-3 hours to do so would not seem so daunted. But ultra running isn't about common sense. It's not about 8 miles / 3 hours = OK. In the world of ultra, 8 miles can take 4 hours, heck it can take 5. It's a parallel universe, but it does happen, I've seen it happen, it has happened to me.
We don't really have a plan, and if we just consider Jen and I, the leadership on this expedition is clearly lacking. So, as expected, or perhaps by default, Alyssa picks up the slack, makes the call to head up S. Kaibab, agrees to take the shuttle to the car, and come back to pick us up. I sort of foolishly thought maybe we would all make it to the shuttle in time. But mostly I wasn't thinking. Because that's what I do. I switch my brain off when I need it most. Like snowboarding into a tree. But, whatever, it's how I roll. It's infinitely frustrating to the smart, well prepared, dedicated athletes who get stuck babysitting me, but it's one of my intrinsic fatal flaws. So, Alyssa mountain goats up the hill, encouraging us, snapping photos at the halfway point, and generally kicking ass in a nonchalant, no-frills, anyone-can-do-this-because-its-easy fashion. Meanwhile, I'm whining and moaning my way up the S. Kaibab trail envisioning my coach bouncing up like a jack rabbit at 8 minute pace. And I am also envisioning Lipke cranking up the S. Kaibab in his compression socks, swinging his arms, and crushing the group he caught up with based on the stories he told me a month or two ago. The blister on my heel really starts to hurt here because each footstep seems to take a minute or longer. Each water bar is an goal and a hard won accomplishment. I think about climbers on Everest, from what I've seen of video footage, where each step is laborious and exhausting. Then I realize I'm at maybe 4000 feet, it's not cold, and I'm just being a total baby about this whole thing. People hike the S. Kaibab trail every day, lots of them, maybe even hundreds on the weekends. Suck it up, Dave, suck it up and keep going. Heck, you should turn around at the top and do the whole thing over again if you want to properly prepare for western states, quit being such a slacker.
I wind up trudging somewhere between Alyssa, "I run stronger than any guy" and Jen "Even in the midst of misery I have a pleasant voice and a smile", something of a no-man's land, while the winds pick up. I look over my shoulder and see the sun setting behind the walls of the canyon and realize we will be out after dark. My heart sinks even further, it might be sharing space with that blister by now. So, I take shelter, fish out my headlamp, turn it on flash mode, and wait for Jen. A real man would have descended to escort her, but I'm not a real man. A real man wouldn't have left her to suffer alone in the first place but that's not my style. A real man would have realized this situation and been the one to sacrifice his nads to get the shuttle and bring the car while the ladies cruised up together. But I'm just here to write blogs about the stuff a real man might do, not to actually perform such duties. I ain't no real man!
So, anyway, Jen approaches and I tell her I think we should stay together as night falls. She agrees, and still seems in very good spirits, somehow when someone smiles and graciously says "I'm having trouble" it doesn't seem nearly as bad as if they are swearing, crying, or whining about how bad they feel. So, off we go, up a seemingly endless series of switchbacks. We meet up with a couple who is having some serious trouble, the man is apparently having stomach problems and the woman is helping him, carrying all the weight and worried. We hike together for a bit, but as it gets darker and the winds pick up, my patience is diminishing. It is during these sections where I am the least proud of my efforts of the day. I left Jen 10-20 meters behind on section after section while hiding in whatever crevice I could find in the rocks. Part of my excuse for this is that I didn't pack a jacket, so I was starting to get hypothermic, part is that the wind and sand that kicked up was no fun at all and taking shelter while semi-protected from the wind seemed logical, and part is that I was just plain incapable of doing much else other than saving myself and documenting the time and location if Jen did get blown off the cliff. I'm sure in daylight, with calm winds, this section would have been beautiful. In fact, I bet it would have been completely stunning. Instead it was without question the most miserable part of the day. The last 2 miles seemed to take an hour, maybe even 90 minutes. The turns kept coming and with a headlamp in a sandstorm I couldn't seen more than one or two waterbars ahead. Much of this section is very exposed, and with the wind and the cold and lack of visibility I was starting to freak out. The couple in distress didn't help any, I was worried about them, worried about Jen, and worried about myself. I wanted it to be over, I wanted to be at the top, but I had no idea how far it was and I didn't want to think it was going to end soon because I had called out "I think this might be the last little bit" over 30 times by that point, another one of my super awesome qualities.
And then, poof, all of a sudden, it was over. it was like the fog that slowed traffic down on my return to San Diego that suddenly disappeared just past Riverside on the 15. One moment I was borderline panicked, the next I was looking at lights and paved parking lots and working spigots. Jen got in touch with Alyssa with her phone and found out that she was on her way with the car as planned. Then Jen called 911 and was connected to the park rangers and used her sugary-sweet voice to explain about the couple in distress a few miles below. I suspect they probably made it to the top about when help would have arrived, but they said they would need a ride to their car and I suspect a basic medical checkup might have been the right thing to do. But I always worry about the costs involved in a situation like that. Personally, I would have to be in very bad condition to call for rescue, I've just never experienced anything where I actually felt my life was being threatened. But, who am I to judge the value of someone else's life or health, and the man had asked for help specifically, so I assume he was willing to pay for it if they were presented with a bill.
First stop after an ordeal like this? Gasoline. Because we had none. How classic is that? Fortunately, Jen got the meds she wanted from Mama Godesky who bought them at the gas station while we sat motionless in the car. I was actually cramping up really bad in the back seat but foolish pride kept me from saying anything, I just squirmed around a bit. My one request was food, go figure, the two skinny runner chicks were probably ready to get coffee and go dancing, but fat boy needed to stuff his fat face with fat food. And wash his hands. Oh the joy of clean hands after 47 miles in the ditch. I cannot begin to explain how wonderful that felt, to finally put soap on my hands at the end of the day. I proceeded to eat 90% of a veggie pizza while the two girls picked off a fingernail sized sliver or two. Jen and I had 20 oz orange crush bottles which was kind of a fun little throwback moment. I don't think the conversation made any sense at that point, we would laugh without saying anything funny, and we would stare at each other with blank expressions for minutes at a time. I took off my shoes and discovered my quarter-sized blister on my right heel, which impressed me because I thought it was only a pea sized blister.
I fell asleep during the ride back as tough-as-nails Godesky guided us back to Claire and Nathan's pad in Flagstaff. I would have had to get a hotel room (if there were any to be had) or sleep in the car if she hadn't been able and willing to pull that drive off. There's no way I would have avoided crashing and killing all of us, not even for 10 minutes. Once at Claires, I threw down a brownie, took a heavenly shower, and cuddled up in the dog's spot on the couch and poof, I was dead to the world.
In reading over some other accounts of this day from other runners, I have trouble comprehending a 9 hour R2R2R time, especially on a handful of gu's and bars. I needed 16 hours give or take, and I probably should have taken about 10,000 calories. I must have eaten at least 4000 calories over the course of that 16 hours and it wasn't nearly enough. Rough math says that the stomach can't absorb more than 400-500 calories per hour during exercise. I tend to think that when it comes to ultra, though, you have to throw the math out the window sometimes and go with your gut. My gut said feed me, and without Alyssa's extra food, I would have been in a pretty bad spot. As it was, the 2 king sized snickers, 2 king sized m&m's, 1 package of oreos, cliff bar, luna bar, and lemonade I threw down at Phantom Ranch made no noticeable changes to my bloodsugar. There was no euphoria. No spike in alertness or activity due to sugar entering the bloodstream. All I got from that binge was a bloated stomach which ruins what might have been an otherwise cool photo. I assume the damage had already been done by that point, there was no way to get back up and over the cliff I had thrown myself off of.
Another topic that embarasses me to admit is the hat situation. I have like 20 or more hats from various races, yet they were all in one paper bag in my disorganized garage. I had one hat in the car and I took it strapped to my pack but I didn't secure it well and it must have fallen off early on the bright angel trail. So, my forehead is now peeling and I got far more sun exposure on my head than I ever wanted to. I think the common advice as far as clothing goes is to be minimalist, but then again, if you are human and run the risk of finishing after dark, then you want that jacket, gloves and beanie, even if it means carrying them around all day in a 100 degree canyon. Hawaii boys aren't awesome with temperature extremes, but if you do R2R2R, you have to be able to deal with it and the easiest way is to have the right gear. Take the hat. Take the beanie. Take the gloves. Take a jacket.
On top of that, I really blew it with the water. I wasn't thinking. If I did this again, I'd just wait till the spigots were all on, which happens later in the spring. Or, if I had to do it again before the spigots got turned on, I'd take a 2L bladder and fill two handhelds as well. That's a lot of water, but in retrospect, water is the key to life and dehydration is the easiest way to ruin your day. Then again, the waterfall water didn't seem to wreck me, unless I have leptospirosis without any symptoms, so maybe the minimalist water trick was OK if the waterfall is flowing. I definitely think chlorine/iodine pills are a smart thing to carry, and a small tube of sunscreen as well. And I think I'll look for a slightly bigger pack if I try this again, make sure I have a jacket, and actually bring some sort of food other than foil wrapped nutrition bars. Something about being out in nature all day while working up a sweat just demands variety of fuel.
A huge thank you to Alyssa, Jen, Claire and Anna for a wonderful, memorable, absolutely incredible day in a mesmerizing place. I am truly blessed to have the health and good fortune to have been able to share this experience with all of you. It will stay with me as a permanent memory of just how intense life can be when you step up to the plate.
Jen's Photos
Alyssa's blog part 1
Alyssa's blog part 2
For some reason, I spent the first few minutes of my R2R2R experience thinking up a subtitle for this blog post. How pathetic is that? Talk about not living in the moment, huh? However, this day was a very unique experience and I knew I would want to write about it even before I got out of the car. This was my first visit to the Grand Canyon. It was my first big run on my busted knee. And it was a long day with a bunch of cool, fit runner girls in their mid 20's. Sounds perfect, right? Except that all 4 women are taken and (this is the kicker) they are all super intelligent. Funny how the pendulum swings so quickly from "every guy's dream" to "every guy's worst nightmare" as the intelligence quotient increases and the availability factor decreases ;) Hence, "Into the ditch with 4 chicks" began, and off I went, at the back of the train of sinew and grace, surveying the scenery, the rock walls, the water stops, the mules, and yes, the glutes as well. We made a few pee stops. We passed a bunch of mules. We saw a few people at the various campgrounds. We saw the sun rise, and overall it was all smiles and good cheer. A beautiful way to start the day.
We wound up descending the Bright Angel trail which is a longer way to the river than the South Kaibab option, mostly due to parking and shuttle logistics. I was feeling very fortunate for the chance to see Bright Angel as I had assumed we would start/finish on South Kaibab and I wanted to see as much as I could see of such an amazing place. For some reason, the extra time and distance didn't bother me at all, and I guess while descending it really shouldn't matter. We reached the river and meandered our way to Phantom Ranch, still smiling, taking photos, eating a little bit, ready for our first water stop. This canyon thing, it just seemed so easy. I didn't understand why someone felt it necessary to post all sorts of warnings of imminent death and dismemberment awaiting those who attempt to hike to the river and back in a single day. I was in complete denial of what I was getting into.
Let me backtrack a bit, briefly. I spent Thursday busting out a couple of job interviews and driving out to Flagstaff (and stopping for froyo in Phoenix at Yogurtology, my first $10 yogurt ever!) I arrived at an address I was given to by Alyssa, my pacee friend from the HURT 100 in January, walked right through the unlocked door, woke up the dog and the friend who in my sleep deprived state I thought looked almost like a shorter version of Alyssa herself, and found my way into my sleeping bag. I had done my share of research of the upcoming adventure during the week leading up to it, and read a lot of "I took too much stuff". Also, my rock star coach had busted out a 9 hour crossing the Tuesday prior, so I figured I'd be relaxing with a cold beer and hot pizza by 3pm based on our 4:00 planned start. I took my 1.5L pack and shoved 6 or 7 purefit bars in and a pair of gu's. What could go wrong with that plan, right? I mean, it's not even 50 miles, and I can just cruise the two big climbs, why worry?
So, there I sit, at Phantom Ranch, having refilled my water and I start adding up the food I have left and I start to get worried. The "canteen" opens at 8 and it's 7:30, so there are no coffee or breakfast options to consider. To add insult to injury, two campers walk out with steaming cups of coffee while I watch and someone inside locks the door. Oh well, rules are rules, and I'm not waiting around for 30 minutes just to get some food, real men don't need food, right? I think Alyssa inquires about water ahead and finds out that the spigots are all turned off. Being a fool, I figure since I only drank half my 1.5L of water on the 10 miles coming down, I should be fine for the remaining 15. Never mind that no water elsewhere means 30 miles, not 15. Never mind that I have enough food for maybe 3-4 hours and we would be lucky to be halfway by then. Screw planning, I'm a camel, I'm a bear, I don't need food or water, I just run. Right? Not really.
We say goodbye to Claire and Anna, the two Flagstaff residents who can run in the canyon any weekend they want to and are wisely heading back up to the south rim to save the R2R2R stupidity for a later day when the course actually has water. Alyssa, Jen and I head north along the river, marveling at the beauty of the canyon as it narrows around us and we cross over a 3 or 4 bridges. The noise and mist from the water in the river are refreshing distractions from the growing heat and dessicated air. I am daydreaming about Aaron Ralston, both admiring what a badass he is for cutting through his own arm, remembering the vivid description in his book of cutting the final nerves, and simultaneously admiring his stupidity for being in a narrow canyon by himself. Much better to be surrounded by young, hot, tough women, right?
Jen decides she wants to cruise a bit more, perhaps Alyssa and I are getting antsy to crank out some of the tough sections, or perhaps she is just smart, knows she hasn't run 50 miles ever before, and wants to take the pressure off. We agree to catch back up on the way back, and since everything I've read implies there's almost zero chance of getting lost, I'm only worried about some sort of crazy hippie trying to molest her. Jen is a high school math teacher, though, so she knows how to manage teenage catholic school boys full or raging testosterone, so I'm confident in her ability to outrun, outplay, outlast any of the 110 lb stoned, bearded hippies she might encounter. I tend to doubt that anyone 10+ miles from civilization can do her any harm, but I think both Alyssa and I are at least slightly nervous at the thought of leaving her alone to fend for herself for what will be hours. Much better to have companions along, much better to feel the warmth of a familiar voice nearby, even if you are running on your own power. As we roll past one of only 2 trail junctions, Alyssa leaves some rocks indicating the direction, and off we head to Cottonwood. I had read about these places, so the names were familiar, but the scenery was unknown. I was transfixed by the variety of terrain after Phantom Ranch, the first section being tight along the river, then a bit of a desert landscape after that, and after cottonwood were the notched cliff edges and steepest climbing towards the north rim. We were lucky to find the cottonwood spigot turned on as I was just about out of water, and while I was smart enough to fill up, I neglected to indulge myself by chugging as much as I could, yet another foolish mistake. I somehow assumed that water on at Cottonwood meant water on elsewhere so I pulled the "my grandfather was born in the desert, I'm part camel" card. Smarty Alyssa offered me her handheld bottles to fill, but I had too much pride to take aid from a friend, I declined on sheer principle and ego, no way was I going to show weakness at mile 18! I didn't even let on that I knew I didn't have enough food. I was ignoring the obvious, something I'm really good at doing when running long.
From cottonwood, the work began. The milepost at the ranger house said 7 miles, and I gotta say, those 7 miles were very difficult for me. Some of the most difficult miles I've ever run, partly because I had no idea where we were or how much was left, and partly because I just wasn't climbing well at all. We passed only a few people along this section, one guy who had turned back and "given up" and a family with two kids, all using poles and moving leisurely, presumably having camped the night before. We crossed a bridge near Roaring springs as the only break in the climbing, and also signaling the steepest section yet ahead. A guy with compression calf sleeves and poles was gaining on us from below and for a while I tried to push to stay ahead of him, but the inevitable pass came well before the tunnel. Thankfully he was helpful and offered up some encouragement about what lay ahead and approximate distances to and from the tunnel, which was the only landmark I knew of. Two other guys descending from the north rim mentioned we had an hour to go, after Mr. Badass R2R2R w poles guy had dusted us, and his positive energy effectively evaporated by those two debbie downers. I tried to cheer up Alyssa with the suggestion that "maybe they meant an hour to the lodge" which I knew was 2 miles from the north rim, and I was also pretty sure they were calculating time for hiking not running, but I also knew we weren't running any of this section anyway. We passed a dry spigot, made it through the tunnel, and reached the snow line. Spirits were poor. I ran dry on water. The trail kept going. Alyssa took a break at one of the switchbacks and I barely even noticed. I was consumed with summit fever, only, this wasn't a mountain, and the top would be a parking lot with no views and, as I found out soon, no water.
I thought we might be able to buy some water off someone parked at the north rim. I thought there might be a hot dog stand set up by some enterprising family looking to make some cash. I would have paid $20 for a 20oz bottle of water, possibly even $40. I had taken every bill in my wallet, well over $100, just in case we needed it because money is light and doesn't take up any space. Two not-super-fit ladies descending near the top lifted my spirits when they mentioned we were close and seemed very confident about the actual distances. Finally I emerged, followed soon after by Alyssa, and met up with that other R2R2R guy in the calf sleeves.
I took my hydration bladder out of my minimalist pack to verify that it was empty, indeed it was. I found the north rim spigot and verified it was dry, indeed it was. I walked around the parking lot looking for signs of life and there were none except for Mr. Poles guy who was calmly preparing for his return to the south rim. So, I proceeded to do what any decent guy would do when confronted with such a situation, I stole food off a helpless, 100 lb ultrarunner. Think of that for a second, 200 lb me stealing food from 100 lb Alyssa, food that she carried for 25 miles and up 5000 feet. We're talking zero shame, none, not a shred.
However, shame and OCD can coexist, and despite not having any water, not a drop, I refused to put snow in a bottle. There was just something nasty about it, even after scraping away the top layer of pine needles and dirt. Some dog coulda peed in that spot. Or it might have a high concentration of exhaust from the 1 car that drives by each day. So, whatever, I just couldn't do the snow thing. But Mr. Poles guy gave me some chlorine tabs. Hey, what a bright idea! Why didn't I think of that? I should be carrying chlorine or iodine in my pack at all times, it takes no space, no weight, and it could really save my sorry bum in a pickle. The plan, after eating all of Alyssa's pizza and a few of her mojo bars, is to make it to the waterfall about a mile or two below the rim and fill up on water, then subsist off the existing food to Phantom Ranch at which point we can hit the canteen and refuel.
Now, the dumbass in me still thinks I could maybe have made it back to cottonwood with cottonmouth. Because once we start descending, all of a sudden, it's not so bad. That blister I had started to feel in my heel doesn't hurt when my toenails are jammed into the toe box and the pressure is off the heel. The altitude doesn't seem so bad while descending, each step seems slightly easier than the last. So, we make it to the waterfall and there's another lady there so we stop to chat. She had hiked in the day prior and camped out at cottonwood, then she was going to do the north rim for day 2 and head out on day 3. A much more reasonable plan. One which I could never do.
As we are talking, the subject of chlorine pills comes up. I ask how long after adding them before the water is drinkable and the consensus is 30 minutes. The cottonwood camper lady says she just uses a few drops of bleach, which makes me cringe thinking about it. I decide to go caveman style because I figure in 30 minutes we'll be reasonably close to cottonwood anyway, so what's the point of using chlorine tabs and carrying water around only to drink it 5 minutes before reaching a safe water supply? I figure the real value of the waterfall is that it provides an unlimited source of water, so I might as well chug away. I fill Alyssa's bottle, chug it, and fill it again, chug some more, and top it off. Away we go, down down down down down. We see things that seemed to take hours to get through, and now they just fly right by. Gravity is a wonderful thing when you weigh 2 bills and you're heading downhill.
This section is perhaps the only part of the day I'm actually proud of. Alyssa alludes to it in her blog (check the links at the top) as well. We were clicking as we ran down from the north rim. I almost felt like I belonged to that exclusive club of ass kickers who have finished 100 mile races. Not yet, not yet for sure, but I'm starting to earn my spot. So, anyway, we trade off the lead, we hit a rythm and the miles just tick by. It's kind of like dancing when you're on trail anyway, each footstep requires some degree of mental energy, some more than others. When you are with someone else it is even more like dancing because it's so easy for one of the two to get dropped, bored, disengage, etc. To share steps with someone is a bit of a "moment" and it took me back to pacing her at HURT, and back to other runs with Rod and Mike and Jeff where pace becomes a feeling, not a question or a number. This portion of the day, after the fatigue of 25 miles, 15 of which were spent climbing, was the true essence of what I wa there for. I started thinking about western states and about 100 milers in general during this stretch. It's really difficult for me to wrap my head around the challenge of pushing myself through 50 miles of hell only to be halfway done. I can't fathom how difficult that will be when I attempt it this June. But the one thing I think I know about ultra, particularly about 100's, is that you absolutely _have_ to be able to run the easy stuff. And if there is anything easy about R2R2R, it's the stretch from the north rim to phantom ranch. Fifteen miles of steep to shallow downhill running. Sure, you could hike it, but that won't save much energy and the longer you are out there, the more behind on calories you get, the more you allow yourself to be roasted by the sun, the harder it is to get yourself back home.
Now, there's one other special memory from this section. Alyssa started realizing what a total f-up I am and began restricting my privileges to do harm to myself. She called for food and salt breaks every hour, and handed me 2 of her salt tabs each time, since I, of course, brought none. I pretended to be annoyed by this, I think I even called her Mama Godesky once or twice. But, secretly (or not so secretly now that I'm blogging about it) I was thrilled to be bossed around by a woman again. I mean, it's been over a year since anyone has bossed me around, and I really have missed it. Us men, we're really all the same, we're just like dogs, completely lost without a master to give orders. So, I have to say, one big highlight of this day in the Grand Canyon was drill seargent Godesky's court ordered nutrition breaks. Because I'm too much of an idiot/wimp to call out for a pee break or a minute to sit on a rock in the shade, but if she said to do it, I felt compelled to comply. I mean, how can you argue with someone who has a drawer full of belt buckles?
We make a stop in cottonwood where I finally refill my empty hydration bladder, chug most of it's contents, and refill it again. A man comes through heading north and we find out that Jen is maybe 2 miles ahead on her way back to phantom ranch. The misery of the north rim climb is far behind us, and the day is shaping up as well as can be hoped for at this point, although it does seem very hot as we're in the 2-3pm hottest part of the day. Cottonwood has some shade, so we linger a bit, and we see Mr. Poles guy blast through, I assume he stopped at the ranger house/basketball hoop for water, whereas I decided to blow through that b/c it was only two easy miles to cottonwood and I still had some waterfall water in the bottle.
So, Alyssa and I head off toward the narrow part of the canyon, on our way to Phantom Ranch, in pursuit of Jen, and attempting to ignore or at least pretend to ignore the fact that it is now pretty damn hot. One of the photos of me during this stretch looks strange, but at the moment I was contemplating jumping into the river to cool off, despite a fairly rapid flow rate. I was hoping that the mist from the rapids would cool us off and it did to some degree, but it wasn't enough. I had hallucinations of having packed an inflatable raft in my pack (why would I carry an inflatable raft if I didn't even bring enough food, a hat, or sunscreen?) which we could use to cruise down the river to phantom ranch or maybe all the way to the bottom of the Bright Angel trail. A six pack and that inner tube sure sounded good to me at that point. In the midst of my daydreaming, we spot Jen up ahead, and we reach her maybe 1 mile from the ranch, just in time for a little victory shuffle to the canteen. Alyssa says we got there with 5 minutes to spare, but my watch said 3:58 at the time, and I remember distinctly how they locked the door to keep us out at 7:30, so I hustle through the campground, drop my bag, and proceed to pull a Moses by stacking 2 of every type of edible species on the counter, and then quickly switching to Jonas and swallowing them whole as if I were a whale.
At this point we all realize we're pretty trashed. It's 4pm, probably 4:20 by the time we leave, actually, and we've got 7-8 miles to go. In a normal world, getting that done by sunset wouldn't seem like such a tall order. Even a casual runner, when asked to make it 8 miles and given 2.5-3 hours to do so would not seem so daunted. But ultra running isn't about common sense. It's not about 8 miles / 3 hours = OK. In the world of ultra, 8 miles can take 4 hours, heck it can take 5. It's a parallel universe, but it does happen, I've seen it happen, it has happened to me.
We don't really have a plan, and if we just consider Jen and I, the leadership on this expedition is clearly lacking. So, as expected, or perhaps by default, Alyssa picks up the slack, makes the call to head up S. Kaibab, agrees to take the shuttle to the car, and come back to pick us up. I sort of foolishly thought maybe we would all make it to the shuttle in time. But mostly I wasn't thinking. Because that's what I do. I switch my brain off when I need it most. Like snowboarding into a tree. But, whatever, it's how I roll. It's infinitely frustrating to the smart, well prepared, dedicated athletes who get stuck babysitting me, but it's one of my intrinsic fatal flaws. So, Alyssa mountain goats up the hill, encouraging us, snapping photos at the halfway point, and generally kicking ass in a nonchalant, no-frills, anyone-can-do-this-because-its-easy fashion. Meanwhile, I'm whining and moaning my way up the S. Kaibab trail envisioning my coach bouncing up like a jack rabbit at 8 minute pace. And I am also envisioning Lipke cranking up the S. Kaibab in his compression socks, swinging his arms, and crushing the group he caught up with based on the stories he told me a month or two ago. The blister on my heel really starts to hurt here because each footstep seems to take a minute or longer. Each water bar is an goal and a hard won accomplishment. I think about climbers on Everest, from what I've seen of video footage, where each step is laborious and exhausting. Then I realize I'm at maybe 4000 feet, it's not cold, and I'm just being a total baby about this whole thing. People hike the S. Kaibab trail every day, lots of them, maybe even hundreds on the weekends. Suck it up, Dave, suck it up and keep going. Heck, you should turn around at the top and do the whole thing over again if you want to properly prepare for western states, quit being such a slacker.
I wind up trudging somewhere between Alyssa, "I run stronger than any guy" and Jen "Even in the midst of misery I have a pleasant voice and a smile", something of a no-man's land, while the winds pick up. I look over my shoulder and see the sun setting behind the walls of the canyon and realize we will be out after dark. My heart sinks even further, it might be sharing space with that blister by now. So, I take shelter, fish out my headlamp, turn it on flash mode, and wait for Jen. A real man would have descended to escort her, but I'm not a real man. A real man wouldn't have left her to suffer alone in the first place but that's not my style. A real man would have realized this situation and been the one to sacrifice his nads to get the shuttle and bring the car while the ladies cruised up together. But I'm just here to write blogs about the stuff a real man might do, not to actually perform such duties. I ain't no real man!
So, anyway, Jen approaches and I tell her I think we should stay together as night falls. She agrees, and still seems in very good spirits, somehow when someone smiles and graciously says "I'm having trouble" it doesn't seem nearly as bad as if they are swearing, crying, or whining about how bad they feel. So, off we go, up a seemingly endless series of switchbacks. We meet up with a couple who is having some serious trouble, the man is apparently having stomach problems and the woman is helping him, carrying all the weight and worried. We hike together for a bit, but as it gets darker and the winds pick up, my patience is diminishing. It is during these sections where I am the least proud of my efforts of the day. I left Jen 10-20 meters behind on section after section while hiding in whatever crevice I could find in the rocks. Part of my excuse for this is that I didn't pack a jacket, so I was starting to get hypothermic, part is that the wind and sand that kicked up was no fun at all and taking shelter while semi-protected from the wind seemed logical, and part is that I was just plain incapable of doing much else other than saving myself and documenting the time and location if Jen did get blown off the cliff. I'm sure in daylight, with calm winds, this section would have been beautiful. In fact, I bet it would have been completely stunning. Instead it was without question the most miserable part of the day. The last 2 miles seemed to take an hour, maybe even 90 minutes. The turns kept coming and with a headlamp in a sandstorm I couldn't seen more than one or two waterbars ahead. Much of this section is very exposed, and with the wind and the cold and lack of visibility I was starting to freak out. The couple in distress didn't help any, I was worried about them, worried about Jen, and worried about myself. I wanted it to be over, I wanted to be at the top, but I had no idea how far it was and I didn't want to think it was going to end soon because I had called out "I think this might be the last little bit" over 30 times by that point, another one of my super awesome qualities.
And then, poof, all of a sudden, it was over. it was like the fog that slowed traffic down on my return to San Diego that suddenly disappeared just past Riverside on the 15. One moment I was borderline panicked, the next I was looking at lights and paved parking lots and working spigots. Jen got in touch with Alyssa with her phone and found out that she was on her way with the car as planned. Then Jen called 911 and was connected to the park rangers and used her sugary-sweet voice to explain about the couple in distress a few miles below. I suspect they probably made it to the top about when help would have arrived, but they said they would need a ride to their car and I suspect a basic medical checkup might have been the right thing to do. But I always worry about the costs involved in a situation like that. Personally, I would have to be in very bad condition to call for rescue, I've just never experienced anything where I actually felt my life was being threatened. But, who am I to judge the value of someone else's life or health, and the man had asked for help specifically, so I assume he was willing to pay for it if they were presented with a bill.
First stop after an ordeal like this? Gasoline. Because we had none. How classic is that? Fortunately, Jen got the meds she wanted from Mama Godesky who bought them at the gas station while we sat motionless in the car. I was actually cramping up really bad in the back seat but foolish pride kept me from saying anything, I just squirmed around a bit. My one request was food, go figure, the two skinny runner chicks were probably ready to get coffee and go dancing, but fat boy needed to stuff his fat face with fat food. And wash his hands. Oh the joy of clean hands after 47 miles in the ditch. I cannot begin to explain how wonderful that felt, to finally put soap on my hands at the end of the day. I proceeded to eat 90% of a veggie pizza while the two girls picked off a fingernail sized sliver or two. Jen and I had 20 oz orange crush bottles which was kind of a fun little throwback moment. I don't think the conversation made any sense at that point, we would laugh without saying anything funny, and we would stare at each other with blank expressions for minutes at a time. I took off my shoes and discovered my quarter-sized blister on my right heel, which impressed me because I thought it was only a pea sized blister.
I fell asleep during the ride back as tough-as-nails Godesky guided us back to Claire and Nathan's pad in Flagstaff. I would have had to get a hotel room (if there were any to be had) or sleep in the car if she hadn't been able and willing to pull that drive off. There's no way I would have avoided crashing and killing all of us, not even for 10 minutes. Once at Claires, I threw down a brownie, took a heavenly shower, and cuddled up in the dog's spot on the couch and poof, I was dead to the world.
In reading over some other accounts of this day from other runners, I have trouble comprehending a 9 hour R2R2R time, especially on a handful of gu's and bars. I needed 16 hours give or take, and I probably should have taken about 10,000 calories. I must have eaten at least 4000 calories over the course of that 16 hours and it wasn't nearly enough. Rough math says that the stomach can't absorb more than 400-500 calories per hour during exercise. I tend to think that when it comes to ultra, though, you have to throw the math out the window sometimes and go with your gut. My gut said feed me, and without Alyssa's extra food, I would have been in a pretty bad spot. As it was, the 2 king sized snickers, 2 king sized m&m's, 1 package of oreos, cliff bar, luna bar, and lemonade I threw down at Phantom Ranch made no noticeable changes to my bloodsugar. There was no euphoria. No spike in alertness or activity due to sugar entering the bloodstream. All I got from that binge was a bloated stomach which ruins what might have been an otherwise cool photo. I assume the damage had already been done by that point, there was no way to get back up and over the cliff I had thrown myself off of.
Another topic that embarasses me to admit is the hat situation. I have like 20 or more hats from various races, yet they were all in one paper bag in my disorganized garage. I had one hat in the car and I took it strapped to my pack but I didn't secure it well and it must have fallen off early on the bright angel trail. So, my forehead is now peeling and I got far more sun exposure on my head than I ever wanted to. I think the common advice as far as clothing goes is to be minimalist, but then again, if you are human and run the risk of finishing after dark, then you want that jacket, gloves and beanie, even if it means carrying them around all day in a 100 degree canyon. Hawaii boys aren't awesome with temperature extremes, but if you do R2R2R, you have to be able to deal with it and the easiest way is to have the right gear. Take the hat. Take the beanie. Take the gloves. Take a jacket.
On top of that, I really blew it with the water. I wasn't thinking. If I did this again, I'd just wait till the spigots were all on, which happens later in the spring. Or, if I had to do it again before the spigots got turned on, I'd take a 2L bladder and fill two handhelds as well. That's a lot of water, but in retrospect, water is the key to life and dehydration is the easiest way to ruin your day. Then again, the waterfall water didn't seem to wreck me, unless I have leptospirosis without any symptoms, so maybe the minimalist water trick was OK if the waterfall is flowing. I definitely think chlorine/iodine pills are a smart thing to carry, and a small tube of sunscreen as well. And I think I'll look for a slightly bigger pack if I try this again, make sure I have a jacket, and actually bring some sort of food other than foil wrapped nutrition bars. Something about being out in nature all day while working up a sweat just demands variety of fuel.
A huge thank you to Alyssa, Jen, Claire and Anna for a wonderful, memorable, absolutely incredible day in a mesmerizing place. I am truly blessed to have the health and good fortune to have been able to share this experience with all of you. It will stay with me as a permanent memory of just how intense life can be when you step up to the plate.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Injury
I feel unqualified to write about injuries. This is the first semi-substantial physical block to an athletic goal that I've experienced. I remember shin splints in high school, most likely from the transition out of the pool and onto the track every spring, and also a slightly sore achilles 2 or 3 years ago, but that's stuff you can run through. Like a head cold, an overuse injury isn't nearly the same as an impact injury which affects an important joint. Hips, shoulders, knees, these are the essential building blocks of motion. Lose one of those critical pieces to a mechanical and the machine can't perform the way it should.
Perhaps one of the more annoying things about injuries is that they don't necessarily correlate with activity, effort, or intensity. My father tore 3 of 4 ligaments in his shoulder walking home from a social gathering and tripping over an unlit retaining wall. I tore my MCL while absent-mindedly snowboarding in Canada. I almost think an injury sustained during heavy training or racing is more glorious than one acquired outside of your primary sport, but the bottom line is that injuries, like life, just tend to happen. As frustrating as it can be for things to change so dramatically in these moments, there is no undo button, no rewind, no mulligan once the injury is sustained.
Without getting overly eccentric, after having experienced my first real, grown-up, full-blown injury, I do honestly believe that they are opportunities for growth. That sounds really lame of me, like something a shaman or life coach might suggest, and the engineering nerd in me rejects the thought as quickly as I write it. Nevertheless, it is true for me and for many others. When one door closes, another opens, and by the process of defeat, loss, and failure, we learn heavy truths about ourselves that are not nearly as visible during the easy moments of life. More importantly, long lasting change typically requires a triggering event, and injuries can very often be tremendous catalysts for change.
I wasn't around to see my father wreck his shoulder, nor for almost all of his rehab, but I know him well enough and I know he obsessed about it every day. We all cope with injury differently, but most of us think about the broken parts of our bodies far more frequently than the pieces that are working as designed. For me, the difficult part is accepting the limitation instead of fighting it. Resistance provides traction for change, for progress in a different direction. The first realization requires seeing life not as a two dimensional path, but rather as a 3 dimensional balloon which can inflate or deflate. We can grow or we can shrink our perspective, our thoughts, our capacity for love, and our desire for whatever it is that gives us purpose, brings us joy, makes us tick. I am a huge fan of focused and diligent attention to routine, training relentlessly towards a goal and elevating above self imposed limits, but sometimes I need a derailment to fully evaluate my direction, to understand what it is that I desire.
This morning a friend discussed an ankle injury and how it prompted a switch in focus from running to yoga that grew into a passion. And while I feel like my appreciation of yoga has increased through this injury, the point is not that yoga is the answer to injury, but that injury begets opportunity for renewal, particularly renewed focus on something different. Cooking, gardening, socializing, volunteering, whatever it is that typically takes the runner up slot in your priority list, all of sudden becomes the #1 focus and a whole new world of perspective begins to unfold. I've laughed and smiled a lot over the past 3 weeks because without the opportunity to run, I have so much more attention for all of the other joys in life. Watching two friends check in for the induction of their baby girl, leisurely breakfasts, sorting through excess accumulated junk that hasn't been dealt with in years, all of it yields a grand satisfaction because of how little attention had been given to it before.
The best part of an injury is when things start to come together again, i.e. when the injury starts to wither and die. It's a lot like how the teapot seems to take forever to warm up and then you look away and tweeeet, it's ready. That first run where you feel good again, where you feel like it's all going to be OK, can be more uplifting than a giant PR because of the opportunities which open up during and after. My run this morning felt a bit like my revolving crescent lunges have lately, an opening up of possibility that I didn't ever fully expect. One of my father's colleagues mentioned in a wonderfully written note shortly after my injury that one of his most satisfying memories was not his fastest effort at the marathon distance, but a more recent one which he called "nearly perfect" with regards to his effort and the joy of the challenge, despite an hour difference from his fastest result. Progress is not measured entirely in terms of absolute numbers.
I suppose that injury offers us all a chance to evaluate effort. Because when things are going well, it's so easy to slack off the gas, to coast. Even the most motivated athlete will at times fall victim to complacency. Injury takes away the opportunity to hide behind "good enough" and gives us two raw options, progress or regress. We either heal or we give up. Injury simplifies life, just as lying on a yoga mat restricts our perspective to allow us to fully see ourselves and our bodies. Injury prompts us to grow or die.
I have to admit, I'm a little surprised to be beaming through the past 3 weeks. I really should be bummed out or pissed off at myself for the self-sabotage I pulled off, or for not being smart enough to keep myself out of a position where one poor decision would have real consequences. It sounds like total BS, it sounds like I'm faking happiness, but I'm smiling as I type this because what I feel right now is happiness. I am so very happy for my wonderful friends who enrich my life in so many ways, who open my eyes to new possibilities, and who create excitement and intensity out of otherwise mundane experiences. I am downright thrilled to be able to run again this week after 2 weeks of basically nothing. But, most of all, I'm super stoked to have incorporated a consistent yoga practice into my lifestyle. Yoga has helped me grow and that growth keeps my mind and heart open to all sorts of new levels of joy.
Perhaps one of the more annoying things about injuries is that they don't necessarily correlate with activity, effort, or intensity. My father tore 3 of 4 ligaments in his shoulder walking home from a social gathering and tripping over an unlit retaining wall. I tore my MCL while absent-mindedly snowboarding in Canada. I almost think an injury sustained during heavy training or racing is more glorious than one acquired outside of your primary sport, but the bottom line is that injuries, like life, just tend to happen. As frustrating as it can be for things to change so dramatically in these moments, there is no undo button, no rewind, no mulligan once the injury is sustained.
Without getting overly eccentric, after having experienced my first real, grown-up, full-blown injury, I do honestly believe that they are opportunities for growth. That sounds really lame of me, like something a shaman or life coach might suggest, and the engineering nerd in me rejects the thought as quickly as I write it. Nevertheless, it is true for me and for many others. When one door closes, another opens, and by the process of defeat, loss, and failure, we learn heavy truths about ourselves that are not nearly as visible during the easy moments of life. More importantly, long lasting change typically requires a triggering event, and injuries can very often be tremendous catalysts for change.
I wasn't around to see my father wreck his shoulder, nor for almost all of his rehab, but I know him well enough and I know he obsessed about it every day. We all cope with injury differently, but most of us think about the broken parts of our bodies far more frequently than the pieces that are working as designed. For me, the difficult part is accepting the limitation instead of fighting it. Resistance provides traction for change, for progress in a different direction. The first realization requires seeing life not as a two dimensional path, but rather as a 3 dimensional balloon which can inflate or deflate. We can grow or we can shrink our perspective, our thoughts, our capacity for love, and our desire for whatever it is that gives us purpose, brings us joy, makes us tick. I am a huge fan of focused and diligent attention to routine, training relentlessly towards a goal and elevating above self imposed limits, but sometimes I need a derailment to fully evaluate my direction, to understand what it is that I desire.
This morning a friend discussed an ankle injury and how it prompted a switch in focus from running to yoga that grew into a passion. And while I feel like my appreciation of yoga has increased through this injury, the point is not that yoga is the answer to injury, but that injury begets opportunity for renewal, particularly renewed focus on something different. Cooking, gardening, socializing, volunteering, whatever it is that typically takes the runner up slot in your priority list, all of sudden becomes the #1 focus and a whole new world of perspective begins to unfold. I've laughed and smiled a lot over the past 3 weeks because without the opportunity to run, I have so much more attention for all of the other joys in life. Watching two friends check in for the induction of their baby girl, leisurely breakfasts, sorting through excess accumulated junk that hasn't been dealt with in years, all of it yields a grand satisfaction because of how little attention had been given to it before.
The best part of an injury is when things start to come together again, i.e. when the injury starts to wither and die. It's a lot like how the teapot seems to take forever to warm up and then you look away and tweeeet, it's ready. That first run where you feel good again, where you feel like it's all going to be OK, can be more uplifting than a giant PR because of the opportunities which open up during and after. My run this morning felt a bit like my revolving crescent lunges have lately, an opening up of possibility that I didn't ever fully expect. One of my father's colleagues mentioned in a wonderfully written note shortly after my injury that one of his most satisfying memories was not his fastest effort at the marathon distance, but a more recent one which he called "nearly perfect" with regards to his effort and the joy of the challenge, despite an hour difference from his fastest result. Progress is not measured entirely in terms of absolute numbers.
I suppose that injury offers us all a chance to evaluate effort. Because when things are going well, it's so easy to slack off the gas, to coast. Even the most motivated athlete will at times fall victim to complacency. Injury takes away the opportunity to hide behind "good enough" and gives us two raw options, progress or regress. We either heal or we give up. Injury simplifies life, just as lying on a yoga mat restricts our perspective to allow us to fully see ourselves and our bodies. Injury prompts us to grow or die.
I have to admit, I'm a little surprised to be beaming through the past 3 weeks. I really should be bummed out or pissed off at myself for the self-sabotage I pulled off, or for not being smart enough to keep myself out of a position where one poor decision would have real consequences. It sounds like total BS, it sounds like I'm faking happiness, but I'm smiling as I type this because what I feel right now is happiness. I am so very happy for my wonderful friends who enrich my life in so many ways, who open my eyes to new possibilities, and who create excitement and intensity out of otherwise mundane experiences. I am downright thrilled to be able to run again this week after 2 weeks of basically nothing. But, most of all, I'm super stoked to have incorporated a consistent yoga practice into my lifestyle. Yoga has helped me grow and that growth keeps my mind and heart open to all sorts of new levels of joy.
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