Hurt, Dirt, and Hangovers: Part 1 - Hurt and Dirt

It’s funny the specific memories that the human mind can pull out of seemingly nowhere. Not long ago, my mind took me back to grade school. I was riding with my dad to the fire station where he served as a volunteer first responder. I was quietly staring out the window, imagining what kind of pop I would get from the fire department fridge as a reward for helping him with safety checks of the lights on a fire truck. We had just driven past my school when my dad, seeming out of nowhere said “Chris, someday life will knock you down. Someday, you’ll be at a point where you don’t feel like you have anything left and you have to decide to get up, brush the dirt off and start putting one foot in front of the other.” Being confused, I asked him what he meant, and we talked for about 5 minutes. As we pulled into the driveway of the fire station, he stopped talking. I hopped out of the car and followed him into the fire station, my sense of bewilderment mixing with the smell of stale sweat and old smoke coming from the building.

It’s amazing to me the level of detail I can recall of that conversation. It was gray and cloudy after a rainstorm but the air was warm. The brown seats of the GMC Jimmy he was driving. The puddles on the road. The pained expression on his face. The reason he interrupted my daydreaming was that friend of his had a child attempt to commit suicide. It was the first time I remember encountering suicide, however tangentially, and the emotional impact caused his words to sear themselves in my mind. Sometimes you have to decide to get up, brush the dirt off, and put one foot in front of the other.

For the past few mornings, I've found myself starting into my coffee cup and contemplating the last year. As I sit in the early morning darkness, I think about the past few weeks and the testament they have been to my dad’s legacy. My father built a successful choose-and-cut Christmas tree farm through his vision and toil. As far back as I can remember, my family has spent the weekends from Thanksgiving until Christmas working to sell the Christmas Trees that we had spent the previous year cultivating. Last year, Dad was privileged to watch his children and wife run the farm and enjoy one of the best years the farm had ever seen. Even though he was mostly confined to the house due to his cancer, he was incredibly proud of our effort and blown away with the fact that people still showed up without any advertising.

This year after his passing, it’s safe to say that our family has been knocked down pretty hard. It’s taken an unimaginable amount of work to figure out the things that Dad would just know how to do. Everything from the timing of herbicide and pesticide application to training employees how to prune trees felt like it was the first time. We spent close to triple the amount of time it would have taken him because we had to figure so many things out.

As I stared into my coffee cup this morning however, I couldn't help but smile. We had wrapped up the Christmas Tree sales for the year last Sunday. We had met our sales target for the year, cleaned up the sales lot, and closed the gates for another year. Despite losing a husband, father, brother, mentor, and friend, we managed to pick one another up, brushed off the dirt, and put one foot in front of the other.

One of MANY cups of coffee this week

2014 Run Woodstock 50k Race Report

“Oh my gosh, that, that, that tree just fell on a house!”  stuttered Lauren as she tried to wrap her mind around what she  just saw.

It was just after 7:00 pm the evening before   The Run Woodstock 50k that Whitney and I  have been training for and the weather was awful.    The hottest day of the summer had yielded to a cold front and the resulting 70 mph winds and rain was wreaking havoc on the countryside.   As we pressed on to our campsite, I knew that there was no way we were going to get a tent setup in the wind which was whipping trees back and forth. We were going to meet Whitney and her husband Charles along with my college buddy Brad and his wife Shannon at the campground.

As we drove slowly to the campground, I received a text message.  Lauren grabbed my phone and read it.  It was an invitation from Dale, another friend from Michigan Tech, to stay at his house for the evening since they only lived 2 miles from the campground.   After some coordination with   Whitney and Brad,   we wound up at his house and rolled out sleeping bags on his living room floor.  Safe and dry, we went to bed.

I woke up at 4:00 a.m. to my beeping alarm clock. I was instantly wide awake due to the pre-race anxiety I get.  I made sure Whitney was awake before I stumbled to the kitchen to make some coffee and eat breakfast.  I knew I needed to eat a few hours before the 6:00 a.m. start time so that my food would have time to settle and top off my energy stores before setting out to race for 31 miles. The problem is that I didn't feel like eating.   Sometimes, especially when I’m training, I will wake up hungry enough that I feel somewhat ill.  That was the case this morning.   I chocked down the rice/sausage/egg bars that I had made in preparation.  They tasted delicious but just weren't enjoyable at 4:30 a.m.    I’m not sure I would have enjoyed anything however.

After finishing my coffee, I woke up Lauren and proceeded to pack up our sleeping bags. Everyone else got up and we were out the door by 5:20 and arrived at the campsite a few minutes later.  Upon arrival,  I made a beeline for the bathrooms. The coffee was working it’s magic but I was still feeling somewhat nauseated.   I attributed it to pre-race nerves and returned to our campsite to finish getting ready.  The next thing I knew, I was standing in the start chute posing for pictures with Whitney and Lauren when I heard an announcement.

“One minute until the 50 mile and 50k start.”

There was a mass rush of anxious runners suddenly cramming into the start chute. I panicked momentarily as I squeezed into the barriers.  “I have to get to the front” I thought. Since I’ve trained on these trails in all sorts of weather over the last 4 years, I knew exactly what we would be getting into.  We would have about a quarter mile of a gravel road and then we would funnel into some narrow horse trails littered with rocks and roots.   I knew after the rain that they would also be covered in a slimy greasy mud and there were some steep hills in the first few miles.  I didn’t want to be in a mass of people on those trails.

In most mass-start distance races, the first mile or two involves a lot of walking and shuffling as a large group of people sort themselves out by speed. The faster people get to the front and the slower people fall back.  In a race like this, some people are going to start out faster than they should, some will start out too slow, and some people stand in the front without realizing that they ought to stand further back to allow the faster people to move to the front.   The first bit it literally a human traffic jam.

On a long run I typically start out slow for the first few miles, especially in the dark.  Not today.   As soon as the clock started and the beep of the timing signal sounded, I surged forward.    Whitney was following in my wake as I made my way through the stuttering, stumbling, shuffling pack of headlamps.  After about 200 yards I heard Whitney ask:

“So, just how fast are you planning to run this thing?” She knew we were going way too fast for her and way too fast for me.  I looked at my watch and we were running faster than 9:00 minutes/mile.  Way too fast for either of us to cover the next 31 miles.

“I’m trying to get to the front before we get to the woods”, I responded while I continued to look for gaps in the thinning pack of runners.

 As I got towards the front, we made  a left turn to head towards the woods.    I saw Lauren along with Brad and Shannon out of the corner of my eye and flashed them a thumbs up.  I looked over my shoulder where I had just spoken to Whitney and she was gone.  She had made the decision to deal with congested trails so that she could keep some energy in reserve for later in the race.  “Smart move”, I thought.  My approach was certainly a gamble.

As the  lead group of runners  hurtled through the darkness towards the trails, there was an immediate uphill covered in the greasy mud I expected.   The girl ahead of me slipped and fell to her hands and knees, scrambling to stand up and not get run over.    I swerved over to where the grass and weeds grew alongside of the trail and surged forward.   There were 10 or 12 other people in her same predicament slipping and sliding as they tried to work up the hill.  I stayed on the grass and kept going. At the top of the hill, I looked back and I was alone.    The rest of the group had slowed to a walk as they tried to navigate the slippery trail.   

I had accomplished what I wanted to; I was on the single-track trail without my vision of the treacherous footing being obstructed by other runners in the dark.    I ran hard over the next few miles to make sure I didn’t get overtaken by a large group of people. The strategy worked.   I could pick the lines I wanted to and dodge the worst of the obstacles as small groups of faster runners would pass me after they got caught in the big group of people.

Shortly, I came to a meadow area which was encouraging because I knew that meant I was very close to a crushed limestone pathway called the Lakelands Trail.  Once there, I could settle into whatever pace felt right without having to worry about hordes of people or poor footing.  At this point I noticed that something was definitely wrong.  As the adrenaline form the start wore off, I realized that the nausea I had been feeling since breakfast had become pretty bad.   I was close to the edge of wanting to vomit and my stomach hurt.   I continued running and was able to stick to my fueling plan.   I was able to stomach an energy gel every twenty minutes and about 24 oz of water an hour, which is normally exactly what I need in cool weather.  I continued to run through the dark and settled into a pace that was just a bit harder than I would have run in training. 

I blew through the first aid station, Gracie, without needing to refuel or fill a water bottle. I knew that I had enough gels and water to get to the next aid station so I checked my watch and kept going.   I was moving slower than I was hoping to, but given the awful footing, darkness, and my sour stomach, I was pretty content with what I had done thus far. I was slightly worried because my lower back had gotten tight, but I kept going hoping it would loosen up.

 Leaving Gracie, there is a stretch of gravel road for about a mile.  The previous night’s rain had turned it into an inch of mud on top of gravel and made it super sloppy.   I hammered down the road, making good time while the footing was good.   The flying mud was gratifying and made me smile.

About the time the sun came up, the trail dove back into the single-track mountain bike trails of the Pinckney State Rec area. I’ve logged hundreds of miles on those trails and metered my effort carefully. An occasional check of my watch told me I was moving faster than I expected. My stomach was feeling a little better and the daylight was really helping me navigate the trails.

I made it to the second aid station, Richie’s Haven, and quickly restocked on gels and water.   I blew through there in a hurry and got back on the trail.     I started to recognize the people passing me and I realized that even though I was running more slowly than them, they were spending a lot of time in the aid stations waiting around and resupplying. I smiled to myself, remembering my Dad’s wisdom from racing sled dogs that wasting time in aid stations is the last thing you want.  Move or move slowly, but don’t stop.

As I headed back on the loop towards Gracie, I fell in with a group of people who were moving well.  The miles clicked by in the soft morning light and things were going remarkably well. I chatted with a guy from Iowa about the race and gave him a little course knowledge. He and I talked about different events and I was again left in awe.   He typically runs multiple 50 mile races a year, but decided to only run the 50k race today since his wife was there and  he didn’t want her to get lonely in the afternoon.  Cool guy.

I again kept rolling right on by Gracie and onto the old railroad grade.  The miles kept clicking until  I made the turn  to climb up the biggest hill on the course.   As the hill got steep, I started to feel the one thing that every runner fears, cramps.   My lower back had loosened up in the previous miles but decided that it had had enough.   The cramps were minor and as I walked up the hill they began to subside.   I started running again at the top, passing the 5 mile runners who were now sharing the course and occasionally getting passed by the faster half marathon runners.   Up and down hills, I repeatedly yelled “ON YOUR LEFT” at people slowly walking while wearing headphones. I felt like a jerk while yelling and scaring people, but I knew there were other people faster than me coming through too.   Also, headphones?  Really? On a crowded race course you deserve to get yelled at for that decision, and I wouldn’t even feel bad about running you over.

As I was coming around a corner, I saw Brad and his wife Shannon. They were running the 5 mile race and waiting for a group of faster runners to go by. I immediately checked my watch and my heart sank. I knew that I wasn’t going to meet my goal time for the race. It was time to reassess what my goals were and keep moving.

As I pressed onwards, by lower back cramps returned with a vengeance. First my back, then my hamstrings, and finally my calves, all cramped simultaneously.  It felt like searing knives in the back of my legs.  It took my breath away.  I slowed to a walk but knew that if I stopped moving, they might lock up completely.  I quickly took a couple salt capsules, a gel, and a bunch of water.   I checked my GPS watch and realized that I still had a mile and a half to go to the halfway point.

During every ultramarathon, you will encounter emotionally hard and challenging points. While I was shuffling along, fighting the cramps and the urge to cry, I was at the one of the lowest points emotionally since my father passed away. That seems pretty dramatic, but to have the wheels fall off in such a drastic fashion over the span of about 10 minutes was a huge emotional blow after spending most of a year in preparation.

After a short while of feeling sorry for myself, I resolved to finish in a way I could be proud of.   So, while my legs were still threatening to cramp, I kept eating the gels as often as I could stomach them and drinking water to try and get ahead of the curve. I knew that I would need the fuel.   Shortly, Brad and Shannon caught back up to me along with all the runners I had yelled at.   Brad, who happens to be my coach ran up to me  and asked, “ Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Cramps, from my lower back to my heels” I responded, staring at the ground.

Brad then grilled me on salt, gel, and water intake.    I don’t remember exactly what was said, because I was answering on autopilot.   My world had shrunk to the size of the piece of trail immediately in front of me. After a while, I lost track of Brad, as I was focusing on the next step.  Slowly, the salt, calories, and water worked their magic and I was starting to feel better.   After a ways I started shuffling again, trying to slowly work back up to speed.

Suddenly I heard screams and yelling ahead.    I came around the corner and started laughing to myself.    The 5 mile racers and casual trail runners had discovered the mud pits.   A mile from the finish line, the horse path had been turned into   200 yard section of mud up to a foot deep.  It was sticky, slippery, and smelled of horse dung. The telling and screams were from people falling into the mud. I picked my way around the first few mud pits.   Then I stopped.

“This is stupid, to hell with it!” I charged right through the middle of the pits, splattering mud everywhere.   In knew I had a change of shoes waiting for me in a mile and I was mad that I had to stop while a large group of people slowly and unsuccessfully tried to keep their precious neon shoes from getting dirty.    I looked at my feet on the other side and smiled.  They were caked in mud and I could hear my dad saying,   “If you’ve got the energy to be mad, you don’t get to quit.”   I started running again towards the halfway point where Lauren was waiting for me.    A few more hills and I rounded the corner into the campground where the start/finish was located. I had completed the first lap.

Lauren helped me get to a chair and handed me my bag.   I started pulling off my shoes and checking my feet.  No blisters and no other issues. I pulled on fresh socks, which felt like heaven.  Brad showed up and refilled my water bottles and grabbed a quarter of a Nutella sandwich.   I devoured the sandwich while I tied my shoes. After restocking my supply of gels, I asked about a bathroom.

“They’re that way” Lauren said, pointing back the way I came from.

“Well, that is unfortunate.”  I responded. Then, I spun around and started jogging, in the exact opposite direction that she had pointed; I was moving forward. I had bounced back mentally and knew that physically I would need a little time but I should be able to recover and finish well.

I started the second lap in amazement.   I looked at the trail conditions as was shocked. “How on earth did I navigate this this morning?” I thought out loud, “This is crazy.” It was still slippery, but seeing all the roots and rocks I was shocked at having been able to navigate it in the dark at speed when I first started.

The miles went by slowly, but I was starting to regain the momentum and energy I had during the first lap.  I started to wonder if I had missed a gel or two or had maybe lost track of the bottles of water I had consumed.   As I was wondering what happened earlier and doing a self-assessment of my energy levels, my mind was brought back immediately to the task at hand of running.

OW!  CRAP! CRAP CRAP CRAPCRAPCRAP!!!!  I had  stepped on a root and twisted my left ankle.  As I stumbled and lurched forward I felt a sharp pain in my left ankle.  The world slowed down like it does in the movies.  I stepped forward to catch myself with my right foot.  I landed heavily and could feel my muscles and tendons strain to catch my fall.  I immediately started inventing profanity and cussing myself out for not paying attention to where I was putting my foot. I hobbled along  for a bit hoping my ankle would loosen up.  It did and I  started jogging. I made it back to the meadow.    Then I was on the Lakelands trail again and looking forward to some easy running.

Shortly after hurting my ankle.  I'm not a happy camper as I'm realizing my race is probably over.

As I started to run on the gentle crushed limestone path, it became apparent something was severely wrong.  My ankle was sore, but not enough to prevent me from running.  My right leg however, was starting to hurt.  As I kept running it became worse and worse, the pain radiating from my hip to my knee and down my shin. Finally, I was forced to walk. I stopped momentarily to stretch it.    I could tell that my IT band, a band of muscle and tissue that runs from the hip to the knee was getting severely inflamed.  As I continued to walk, my IT band started to subside.  I tried running again.  Nope, that wasn’t going to happen.  Running immediately irritated the angry tissue.

I  decided that I would walk the next two miles to the aid station and then make my assessment of what to do.  As I turned off of the limestone path and back onto the trails, my heart began to sink.  The trails require much more of my legs than the path, and even walking became painful.  As the swelling progressed, it felt like a screwdriver being jammed into the outside of my thigh.  The pain was bad enough that my eyes would water any time i had to lift my foot over a rock or step off of a small ledge.  My leg hurt so bad that I had to go backwards down hills because I couldn’t bend it enough to go forwards.   I knew, as I backed down a hill, that my race was done. There wasn’t any sense in trying to push through an injury and making it worse.

Many times,  the decision to quit is a nebulous one and can be impacted by a lot of things  that don’t really matter, like being hungry. Most of the time during a race, it is wise council to sit for a while, eat and drink something, and then make a decision. This time was different. It was clear that continuing would only result in further injury and, as I told several people, I do this for fun and want to do it for a lifetime. Injuries might happen, but I won’t make them worse to prove a point. 

I eventually made it to the aid station.  It took me longer to cover the 4 miles to get there from the start/ finish than it should have to get to the station 8 miles away where Brad, Shannon, and Lauren were waiting for me. One of the volunteers looked at me and tried to be encouraging saying “You’re looking great!” I looked her square in the eyes and said “Thank you and thanks for being here.  Can you tell me who I need to speak to so I can withdraw from the race?”  She was startled by my bluntness but pointed me towards the recovery tent.

I spoke to the race official and officially quit and then borrowed a phone to call Lauren to let her know.  She didn’t pick up, so I sent her a text message and sat down to wait. As I waited, I mentally rehearsed my decision over and over and over.  I knew it was the right one, but I was mad. I had pulled through awful cramps and overcome an emotionally crippling time earlier only to be stopped by a little stupid tree root.  I sat in a chair watching the woods where other runners were emerging and stretched my screaming IT band. I stared at the trail where it emerged from the woods  and waited, feeling sorry for myself .   I knew Whitney couldn't be too far behind me  and I debated hiding from her  because I didn't want her to worry about me.

Eventually, Whitney popped out from behind the woods. I could tell she was hurting, but as soon as she saw me, she stopped in her tracks.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?!?!”  she demanded.

“I’m done  Whit.  I hurt my knee and ankle.”

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?!?!”  she demanded again, this time visibly shaken and upset.

“I can’t run Whit.  I’m done”

She quickly ran to me and gave me a giant hug.

“I’m so sorry Chris.”

“It’s ok Whit.  I’m proud of you. Get goin.”  Another hug.

“Do you have any extra salt tablets?  I’m cramping pretty bad”

I gave her all of my extra salt tablets from my race pack and sat back down.   As she refueled and restocked, she started giving me a bit of a hard time like little siblings do when they’ve beaten their big brother. I was glad to see her smile, and as she left, told her to let any Lauren or Brad or Charles know where I was.

Moments later, my mom walked up with Charles since they had literally been waiting just around the corner the whole time. I had her call Lauren to let her know that I was ok and she took me back to the campground while Charles went to Richie’s Haven to wait for Whitney. After we got back to the campground, I went to the first aid tent and got compression wraps and ice packs for my knee and ankle.   I then grabbed a shower and started waiting with my Mom for Whitney to get back with.  Brad, Shannon, and Lauren returned after having seen Whitney through Richie’s Haven.

Whitney came around the last corner and into the finishing chute looking strong and steady. She had beaten her previous time by over 40 minutes. We then spent the remainder of the afternoon hanging out in the shade, chatting, and recovering.   Eventually, we devoured a taco dinner and were joined by a few friends for s’mores by the campfire.   After the fire died out and the last of the 100 mile racers finished, we called it a night and crawled into our sleeping bags. As I lay there, thinking about what was and what could have been,    the Kenny Rogers song “The Gambler” kept running through my head.

“You’ve got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em,

know when to walk away, know when to run.”

I’ll be back next year.  I’ve got a date with that finish line.

Whitney  crossing the finish line.   Heck of a good job out there!

A little old, a little long.... and, dammit, a little preachy

Gratuitous picture of lush grassy trails

“That’s a lot of K’s”

There it was again, that awkward moment when the fact that I’ve run an ultramarathon comes up in conversation.    Yes, I ran 50k. Yes that is literally 10 TIMES farther than a 5k. Yes, I’m planning to do it again.  It’s a weird conversation to engage in actually.   I regularly interact with people for whom finishing a 5K without walking is a major goal and when I hear of their success, I am genuinely happy for them.   Somehow however,   the conversation eventually turns to if I’ve run any 5Ks or other races.    It usually goes something like this:

“Have you run any races?” asks the new acquaintance.  We’ve just bonded by being runners. A new running friend!

“Yeah, but I’ve only run in a handful of events,” I respond while hoping this doesn’t go the way it normally does.  The statement is true, I’ve participated in exactly 5  organized races.

“Oh cool, what was the longest one you did?”, my new runner-friend asks expectantly.

“I ran  a 50k last year” I respond. Yep, this is going downhill fast.

“Oh, 50k.... how far is that?”

   

“It’s 31 miles.”

“Wow, that’s longer than a marathon right?   I could never do that, that’s crazy”

So it goes, with remarkable predictability. I usually offer some vague comment about how yeah, it’s a long way and shift the conversation to something else.  Sometimes I’ll try to make them feel better by telling them that I’d prefer to run 50K than 5K because a 5K is so painful. (This is really true – a 50K is hard, but it’s mostly an eating and drinking competition with some scenery thrown in.  A 5k race is a lactic acid firestorm from hell. Before my 50K I was excited.  Before every 5K I’ve run I felt lightheaded and nauseated from anxiety) Goodbye running friend. Unless they ask, I never tell them the truly crazy part.    It was all off-road and on trails with hills and rocks and roots and mud and treacherous footing.    I never mention I only really started training to run in March, only 6 months before the event.    I never talk about how on race day I executed my plan perfectly and crushed my goal time by over 40 minutes. I sure as heck don't discuss that I'm going  back to do it again, with the goal of lowering my time by over an hour.

Maybe I should. Maybe I ought to tell them all of that and more.

Because the only really crazy thing in the above conversation is the line “I could never do that”.

Today marks 5 months since my father passed and   the pain is still searing and sharp.   When I’m missing him I focus on the good memories and the valuable lessons he taught me.   One of the better lessons he shared is that life isn’t fair.  As he put it, everyone is dealt a different hand in life. It seems odd that a man whom I never knew to play cards would use playing cards as an analogy, but his point was simply this:

Not everyone has the same gifts and talents.  Everyone has their own struggles and demons to contend with.  There is no point in getting worked up over what someone else has in terms of natural gifts, you have to put your energy into the gifts you have and the things you can control. 

When  it comes to running or other athletic events,  I am woefully average.   The fictitious person above would probably disagree, but all of my life experiences point to me being neither the fastest or slowest, strongest or weakest, or the most or  the least coordinated person in a given athletic endeavor.  That doesn't mean I haven’t been successful however.    Following my father’s advice, I’ve always put my energy into the things I can control: training and effort.    In high school I played varsity basketball and I would practice free throws in the winter even if it meant I had to shovel the driveway.  I spent an entire summer improving my vertical jump, even on the days when I would also be working 10 hours on the farm. 

As a runner, I’m particularly disadvantaged.  I have a body that can gain weight just sniffing a donut.   I have asthma.  I’m tall and heavy, meaning my body is more susceptible to injury.  I also have allergies to most of the outside environment, making it hard to breathe for most of the spring and summer.  My maximum heart rate is EXACTLY what that stupid generic Max HR=220-AGE formula predicts. In terms of physical gifts, I am woefully average or worse in all things except desire. I want to succeed at running ultra marathons and I’m willing to work my ass off for it; I’m not willing to let self-imposed limitations stand in my way.   Regardless of what my physical gifts are, the thing I can control is my effort. 

I remember watching some inspirational videos on YouTube a while back and there was a line that really resonated with me.  “When you want to be successful more than you want to sleep, then you can be successful.”   I’m not sure why I want to run ultra marathons, but I know without a shadow of doubt that I do.  Instead of saying “I could never do that”, I take my limited physical gifts and go to work.  I research training methods. I sought out a training partner.  I am conscious about what I eat.   I put “I could never do that” in the closet with the other excuses of “I’m tired”, “I don’t have time”, or “That’s too far for me”. 

The thing I really hate about the above conversation is that the person I’m talking to is often left feeling somewhat deflated and it’s clear they feel like their accomplishment doesn’t amount to much. That’s nonsense.  Everyone has a different set of cards to play, and if you’re playing yours as best you can, then you ought to be damn proud of your accomplishment.  If you want to run an ultramarathon, you can.  It’s not much further than a marathon really. 

The Hard Routine

I found this little note today. It's a brief look at what happens before dawn, many months before race day.

I’m sitting at the base of my steps, head between my knees and staring at my feet, questioning myself. It’s near -30F with the wind chill and I’m wrapped in polyester, nylon, and elastane.   It’s well before 6:00 AM  and still dark; my wife is not more than 50 feet away, snuggled deep in the warm bed I just left.  It’s the 6^th consecutive day of running and I’m stiff, sore, and tired.  The ice on the sidewalk and roads is now hard enough that I’ll barely have any traction from my yaktrax. I don’t even know if I can run today.

But I made it this far this morning.  I made it to the base of the steps, ready to go.  I might as well see how awful this is going to be.  I slowly stand up, feeling the stiff and unwilling muscles in my legs and lower back.   I walk outside just as a blast of arctic air whips causes vortices of snow to swirl around the porch light.  This is going to be a rough one.

I push the start button on my stopwatch and start running.   The stiff, disjointed movement quickly becomes the fluid run of a body that’s covered hundreds of miles.    My mind immediately switches to a primal survival mode: Am I warm enough?   Why is my right hand cold and the left one isn't?   Watch that spot,   there’s a hole there.

A mile in and my eyes are watering  from the frigid air.   The brain freeze from a hat that was slightly out of place is starting to subside.  My hands start to hurt. Good, that means the blood is returning to them, I’m warming up.

After the run,  I slowly walk back up the driveway, looking back over my shoulder.  My breath has coated my beard with ice. The wind still howls and the sky is just starting to become light.   Maybe tomorrow will be warmer.  Maybe tomorrow will be better.

The Notch

Hands on my knees, heart pounding in my skull, my mouth opens as if to scream and a stream of pink liquid pours out. It burns the nose.   This is the third puke in an hour and I’m partially amazed there is anything left in my stomach. Questions and self doubt are screaming in my head.  “What the HELL ARE YOU DOING?” “Why don’t you quit, nobody will know?”  “You’ve got nothing to prove, just walk it in.”

I’m on my third 7-mile lap of a trail in Minnesota. It’s the one of the last hard training runs before my first ultra-marathon and I’ve selected the course specifically because I knew it would test my mental toughness.   I’ve already run up, and down, a ski hill five times.   I know I have another three miles to go before one final ascent and the final descent to the rental car.  4 hours in, an hour to go, and I have no water, no food, and I can’t stop throwing up.

In response I summon the last bit of courage I have left and tell the voice, tell myself,   “We’re going to the notch.”

The notch is a very specific place and remains at the center of one of my most cherished memories of my dad. When I was younger my family would often vacation in Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado.  As a young child, my asthma was not well controlled and I often struggled just walking in the oxygen depleted air.  One of our favorite hikes as a family was from the Alpine visitor center to the summit of Mount Chapin. One day, my dad and I opted to try to summit Mt. Chiquita, the mountain next to Mt. Chapin which was quite a bit taller and further away from the trailhead.  It was an ambitious decision and we started before dawn the next day.

Mount Chapin is the mountain furthest right.  Chiquita is the center mountain.

http://www.nat-park.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/09/img-7368.jpg

Being from the flatlands of Michigan farm country, my legs and lungs struggled mightily as we labored across the scree and boulder fields.  We were making slow progress and like any kid, I was complaining.  I honestly didn’t think I could go much further and I stopped.  After initially being annoyed, Dad made me a deal.  We would only go to the notch, a giant stone cleft in the side of the mountain and he’d help. He explained that it would be a wasted day if we didn’t get to where we were trying to go.  So, we pressed on.  Me putting one foot in front of the other.  After a short ways further, I was so tired that Dad carried my backpack.   Then I had to grab on the straps of his pack, literally being towed up the mountain. Then we stopped.

I looked up through my exhausted eyes to see a look of joy on Dad’s face.  The next thing I saw was the edge of a cliff and to my astonishment we had reached the summit.  Dad couldn’t believe we had missed the massive gash in the side of the mountain.  I couldn’t believe I had actually walked to the top. As long as he lived, Dad insisted he hadn’t missed it on purpose; instead he used it as a lesson. He used it to explain that sometimes, you just have to put your head down and keep going.  It isn’t always going to be comfortable and in fact, sometimes everyone is suffering.  Sometimes, you have to conquer that internal voice by just focusing on an intermediate goal and always keep putting one foot in front of another. If you focus on getting to the notch, you might find yourself at the summit.

I finished that run in Minnesota.  It was slow and agonizing.   Sitting on the bumper of my car in the parking lot, I sipped on some lukewarm water and had to smile.  I had again missed the Notch.

Dad being dad in the mountains.    Longs Peak is in the background.

Sometimes learning hurts...

I was hungry earlier, hungry enough that I knew I would have a hard time falling asleep and since it was nearly 9:00 at night and I was traveling for work, I jumped in the car a went to the nearest Wendy’s for a  snack. I had essentially skipped dinner to go for a run with a friend, so while I was driving I was mildly annoyed by the inconvenience of having to drive to get food. 

(looks delicious doesn't it?)

After collecting my order of a plain baked potato, small chili, and small frosty, I sat in the car devouring my frosty with an urgency that would have startled most civilized people.  Finished with the frosty, I sent my older sister a text encouraging her with her newest undertaking, put the car in drive, and aimed the car back towards the hotel so I could eat the rest of my delectable food while watching hockey playoffs.

Not a hundred feet out of the parking lot I spotted a woman, pushing her walker up a hill towards a bus stop. That was the moment when I heard  God tell me to stop and offer her something to eat. You've probably heard that voice too, the same voice that says you should buy the homeless guy on the corner a lunch.  It was one of those moments where you have the unique capacity to fill a need and nothing preventing you from doing so. It was a golden opportunity to be the hands and feet of the Church.

And I kept driving.

I could blame the fact that I was caught off guard by a sudden lane closure and construction barrels,   I could try to justify  my action by the fact that I was still quite hungry and my company had paid for me to eat, not a random stranger. That doesn't change the fact that I disobeyed God in that instance. That realization came crashing in on my feast of calorie-laden indulgence and convicted me. My heart hurt.  I was no longer hungry, and while I ate the food I purchased I’m not sure if it was out of guilt, habit, or need.

As I made my way back to the hotel,  I began to pray to God and listen to His responses.    I’ll share the dialogue with you in hopes that I can capture some of the emotion. I’ll also suggest, before you call me crazy,   that anyone who regularly prays to God and doesn't get a response is either lying (trying to not sound crazy) or truly insane as the effort required by praying regularly would be oppressive if there was NEVER a response.

“Lord, did she really need my food” I prayed, searching and hoping for a reason to feel less guilty.

“No, she didn't.  I needed you to stop”.

And with that, God called me out in a significant way.  My guilt doubled or tripled.   Not only would a woman who appeared needy not have a meal, but I had simply disobeyed my God.

I had assumed that He asked me to stop because the woman needed food, not because I needed a reminder in obedience.  I had assumed that, because she was pushing a walker, she was the one who needed help.   I think that my mistake is more common than I’d like to admit.    I think that oftentimes, Christian behave in a manner that is sinfully self-righteous.   It would not have occurred to me when I heard the command “Stop and offer her your food” that I was being called to obey, not necessarily be a knight in shining armor.  I assumed in that case that I was being asked to be the righteous hands and feet of Christ. After all, doesn't that sound better than being asked to obey?

I’m honestly not sure of the entirety of the lesson I learned tonight as I’m still sitting in my bed processing what happened a scant hour ago.  I suspect it’s a lifelong lesson and there is a lot there.  Was God asking me of my relationship with the food? Did He want to know where my heart lay at that moment; the Creator or the potato? Or, as an omniscient God, did he know the result and use it to teach me and instruct me?    The answer to those questions, as best as I can tell, is yes.

Melted Ice Cubes

Editor’s note:  I wrote the following about a month ago.    I've deliberated about whether or not I’d post it, but I finally decided that it needed to be shared.

Lauren is traveling and I’m sitting alone with my thoughts in our new home, nursing what’s left a tall glass of scotch and some melted ice cubes. It’s been nearly a month since I lost my Dad to cancer and in the flurry of activity surrounding his death and the subsequent busyness I, if I may be blunt, need an evening like this.

 When I had just turned 18 years old, I finished high school early and drove north to the family cabin to help my dad finish his training and preparations for the 2004 Iditarod.  The roads were treacherous and what should have been 6 hour trip had turned into 14 hours.   When I arrived late that evening I found my dad working on his laptop.   After I had brought in my bags and had some reheated supper on my plate, Dad asked me to read what he had been working on.    I could smell the whiskey on his breath, but it didn't strike me as significant until I read what he had been typing.

He had just written an account of arriving on an accident scene while in the Upper Peninsula.  He stopped because of his emergency first responder training and assessed the situation. It was a grisly scene. Three or four gravely injured people.  He had to make triage decisions knowing that there was nothing he could do to save some of the people.   Dad asked me if it was an ok thing to share or if it was too graphic; that’s when I knew there was more to his empty glass of scotch than met the eye.

Dad and I talked late into the evening and at one point that evening he explained that he would often pour himself a tall glass of something strong and write about things that were bothering him.   I don’t know if he published the story he wrote that night story to his blog or simply deleted it like he did most of the things, but he described it as a coping mechanism.  If he could get it out, into written form, then he could let it go.  The alcohol helped with that.

I’ve needed a night like tonight because, quite honestly, I haven’t had a chance to get a few things out until this evening. I haven’t had a quiet night where I could think and let my thoughts flow without inhibition onto the screen in front of me. It feels profoundly appropriate to borrow his method of coping tonight.

My father’s death has easily been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to deal with. I expect it to be harder than my mother’s passing when it is her time for a few reasons, but the biggest reason is that my father taught me to dream; to dream wild and impossible dreams. Dad was a person who imagined things and then worked like hell to make them happen.   People have asked me how he got into the sled dog racing.  It’s baffling that he went from a guided tour of Alaska in 2000 to owning a few dogs in 2002 to completing THE race in sled dog racing in 2004.  Think about that for a moment, in the space of 4 years he went from a dreaming spectator to finishing a race that has been finished by fewer people than have summitted Mount Everest.  Dad taught me that when you combine a dream with hard work and planning you can accomplish amazing things.

 It’s just damn hard to know that the person who encouraged me to set wild goals and cheered passionately as I worked for them is gone.  Memories are great,  but I won’t ever get to feel his hand on my shoulder  80 miles into a bike race when I think I've got nothing left and asking me, “What are you going to do about it? You might as well keep going and see what happens.” 

Of all the lessons I learned as a child growing up, the lesson of pursuing your dreams resonates with me more than almost anything else he taught me. It has served me well, from graduating with honors from the University of Michigan with a master’s degree in engineering, to finishing a 100 mile mountain bike race and an ultramarathon. His lesson of dream + work = success is the reason Lauren and I were able to save for a house down payment in under a year.  As big of an impact as that lesson has had on my life, it recently became second fiddle to a more significant lesson.

The one thing that resonates with me far more than his example of being a dreamer is something that I never had the opportunity to thank him for while he was alive. The reason is that I didn't learn it until he was dead.  

That lesson is simply the value of kindness to others.

The legacy of my father, to me, will be one of showing kindness.   It has amazed me the number of people who mentioned that “He was a friend when I needed one” or “Your dad made a difference in my life.”   We only get one shot at this life and it became apparent to me that my dad tied to make people feel like they were valued and important whenever he could.   Sure, he may not have been perfect,   but lessons of kindness and respect that he taught will stay with me far longer than the lessons of corporate strategy or changing the oil on my car.

So what the hell   doe this has to do with running?   Didn't I start to write about the reasons why I run?  I suppose the death of my father would be an acceptable reason to sidetrack my series of essays. I actually had another one written just before I got the call that I need to go to the family farm to say goodbye.

The reality is that my father’s death has offered me more clarity as to why I run than I could have ever to hope to achieved prior to his death.    The answer doesn't need multiple essays. The answer is simple.

I run for joy.

No, not the temporary high of endorphins. Not the satisfaction of winning a race.  Not even the feeling of success I get from meeting a goal.  I run because while I run, I can leave the stress, misery, and grinding soul-sucking despair inducing world behind.  I get to, for a moment, step into the mystery and beauty of the world around me and I find joy there.

Not the warm fuzziness   that people think of when they’re happy. I’m talking about the piercing and heart-wrenching joy that makes you laugh and cry simultaneously.  The face on the person who suddenly sees their loved one return unannounced from overseas combat.   The young child who is set free and discovers a puddle to splash in.  Or as my sister so elegantly described in her blog (http://wordsrunningdeep.blogspot.com/2014/03/the-mile-that-matters.html ) the joy of seeing beauty in the face of unimaginable pain.

Indeed, running is how I get to glimpse joy.   I heard a pastor paraphrase C.S. Lewis in a sermon once saying that the glimpses of joy that God allows us are not a glimpse of what is, but a glimpse rather of what will be.