The running blog is dead. At
least the first-person, military-style report is. No one wants to
read it. Oh, perhaps those who want a dry, course-specific
play-by-play in hopes of aiding their preparation.
People want insights. They want
perspective. They want honesty.
They want a story.
Well, here's a decent one.
I've held onto this one for a while, my procrastination borne from equal parts demand (the paid
gigs come first), and the
necessity of reflection. But it is necessity – to remember
– that requires I write this “race report”, three months,
post-haste.
It's been a long fucking road from the
spring of 2013 – truly the last time I've raced well – to now.
And here's how it all went down.
Burnt to the Ground: Failure,
Burn-out, & the Aerobic Ground Zero
Even prior to the 2013 Western States,
I became intrigued by the notion of true sustainability: a
pathway where improvement is a continuous process, borne not from
relentless stress and pushing (or forcing) the body farther and
harder, but from a slow-but-steady flow of fitness, strength, and
intelligence that collects in a vast reservoir.
This model is akin to building a
multi-story, stone-and-brick building sitting atop a foundation of
solid rock. In contrast, I feel a lot of runners in the sport –
myself included – extract performance the opposite way: by
undermining the precious (and finite) minerals of physiological
strength and resilience, then – most haphazardly – throwing
together a hastily-designed structure over the top of the very hole
they continue to mine. It's a recipe for collapse that we see far
too often – if we choose to pay attention.
For me, reading the annuls of some of
the greatest endurance athletes in modern history, the answer seemed
to lie in the notion of true aerobic fitness: the ability to
enhance fat metabolism to the ultimate degree, the solid rock
foundation for peak – and sustainable - performance.
Fat metabolism is the solid rock of
performance for the following reasons:
- it is an utterly low-stress metabolic pathway, utilizing lots of fats, lots of oxygen, and with minimal stress (physical, or chemical)
- it is a process that creates maximum fitness gains with the bare minimum of systemic physiological stress: minimal stress hormones, cytokines and tissue stress
- it is a process predicated upon holistic health: to maximize fat-burning, one MUST maximize rest and recovery (including sleep), nutrition, and minimize stress outside running.
- it requires periodization, whereby high-intensity training – while critical to performance – must be limited – and complete rest utilized – in order for the “slow drip” of overall fitness gains to continue, unremitting.
It is a system of operation that
requires a degree of personal responsibility to live one's entire
life well – not simply be a runner committed to the numbers game of
training and racing. That this process is so much more than numbers
– and force – that gave the notion its power.
My spectacular
flame-out at Western States a few months later only steeled my
resolve to jump feet-first into the fat-vat, my own fountain of
running youth that, just maybe, might save me from another flame-out.
Step one was determining where to
start. Noakes' Lore
of Running and Maffetone's Big
Book were the starting points: Noakes analysis of Mark
Allen's other-worldly performance at the 1989 Ironman Triathlon –
only possible through enhanced fat metabolism – caught my
attention, and Maffetone provided the 180-Formula
as the concrete target.
As such, I got to work in July of 2013,
dead-set at doing all of my training at the magical “Max Aerobic
Function” (MAF) heart rate.
The only problem was, I got it wrong.
Even after Western States, apparently I
wasn't done lying to myself. Maffetone's Formula for max fat-burning
is, quite simply: 180 minus age.
With some caveats:
- minus five for: minor to moderate injuries, a recent illness, and/or allergies
- minus ten for: major illness or injury
- plus five for: two years or more of sustainable, continuous training without injury or any of the above issues.
Of course, I chose 180 – 35...plus
five (150). But I neglected to accept that, “Oh yeah, I've had
chronic back pain for two years...oh, and allergies...oh, and I've
also had a recent burn-out and various life stresses!”
I am lucky to have access to my own
metabolic testing equipment, so before Waldo 100K in 2013, I tested
myself and found, well, yes, I do burn some fat at 150 heart rate.
But only about ten percent. Lacking a full understanding of what
“Max Aerobic” meant, I kept running with it.
From July through October, I did
nothing but exercise at 150 heart rate, with occasional cheats into
the mid 150s – but absolutely no true “workouts” - to tempo
runs, track sessions, progression runs or – most notably –
moderately hard hill climbs. I began to see some improvements: where
run paces went from high-7s and low-8s early on, gradually creeping
into the low-7s. But it never felt good. In a strange way,
the runs felt like a grind, and it felt difficult to develop the
volume I felt was necessary to get fit for the 2014 season.
In November, I commenced harder
training, which included modest end-of-long-run hard finishes and
increased vertical work. And while the race season crept closer, so
did a range of issues: minor aches and pains (including a pesky left
“hamstring” issue), and more minor colds that fall than I
remember having in the several years preceding. But I ran a strong
training race in mid-December that I thought would set me up well for
a ticket-punch at Bandera and a return trip to Western.
Then I traveled back to the Midwest and
promptly got the illest* I've ever been, a mere ten days before
Bandera. And like that, any shot at an early ticket was, well, shot.
In retrospect, that I got so ill, and
so physically drained just days before the race was a convenient
explanation as to why – ultimately – I was completely unprepared
to run at the level required to earn a Montrail Cup ticket.
In reality, my true aerobic fitness was
terrible. A metabolic re-test in mid-February – and a lot more
knowledge later – confirmed that, well goddamn, I'd hardly burned
any fat at all at 150 beats per minute. Not only did I fail to
improve, but my aerobic fitness worsened (down to 6-8% fat burning at
150).
What a cruel joke this had been. I'd
sacrificed all specificity – hard mountain climbs, grinder-long
runs, and standard “strength speed work” - in hopes of laying a
foundation, and the “rock” was nothing but a shoddy, brittle
Plaster-of-Paris...
It's six weeks out from Lake Sonoma 50,
and I'm now in a bigger hole than I was eight months ago.
Sonofabitch.
The Psychology of Desire: “What
are you running from, and what are you running toward?”
In the hours prior to the thirteen
running of the Waldo 100K, anxiety was at a low simmer. But instead
of the usual, “Gosh, I hope I make it!” – hoping to run
fast, to triumph, to be a Fast Dude – it was replaced with a deeper
worry: “Do I still have it? Will my body be able to respond? Do
I even like doing this?” Those aren't quite the thoughts of a
champion on the eve of a 62-mile race, but after the year-plus of
frustrating rebuilding, that's where I was at.
With great reluctance and guilt, I
backed out of Gary Robbins' Squamish
50 – held in the Vancouver area, the same day as Waldo. I'd
committed to running (and presenting) at his race, but as the race
crept closer, so did reality: I needed a lottery qualfier for
Western. Gone were the delusional thoughts that I could claim a
Montrail spot, and it was time fo face reality. Western States is my
favorite race, and, goddamnit, I want to race it again. Robbins –
a veteran Top Tenner – got that, and graciously released me from my obligation.
The other motivating factor was my great friend Jacob Rydman was making the trip to Lane County – the lone visit of his busy year – to do the same. And quite frankly, I couldn't stomach the absurdity of him coming up here to relive his 2012 triumph, while I was out of the country.
Having Jacob in town helped calm the
nerves; so did the large group of Eugene ultra runners, who were
either racing, pacing, or volunteering. It's my home race, and it was
comforting to have that support.
The night before, at the pre-race
meeting, I chatted and joked lightheartedly with Ryan
Ghelfi – the latest in a new generation of Ashland-area ultra
speedsters – and Andrew
Miller – the teenage mountain slayer from Corvallis that,
despite been barely legal to light a cigarette, was already fast
enough to smoke a whole field of adult contemporaries.
Standing there, I thought to myself,
“Well...this is the podium, right here...”
*****
In the fall of 2013, I came to the
realization that part of the holistic preparation – perhaps the
greatest – was my psyche.
What drove me to train the way I did
for Western States? What caused me so much anxiety that I almost
certainly got no sleep the night before? What drove me to ignore a
heart-rate monitor that was flaming 170 for nearly five consecutive
hours, in a screaming warning siren of demise?
At that point, I began to wonder why I
run? And it drove me to ask the following question:
“What
am I running from, and what am I running toward?”
Properly harnessed, those motivations
and desires could be powerful fuels. Because if either motivations
were too incendiary and uncontrolled, they can no doubt push the body
over the edge. And that's where I went.
I needed help answering that question.
*****
Mandatory Patience – Square
Pegs go in Square Holes
At 4AM, I was fully awake, but
strangely serene. I dressed, ate, drank, and geared up amongst dozens
of other excited runners in the Willamette Pass Ski Shelter.
Unlike most pre-race moments, I felt
both relaxed and positive. I wasn't sure I could trust that feeling,
but I was happy to have both. Some great pre-race coffee really put
me in good spirits, and the recognition of gratitude for the chance
to run in the woods all day, in the company and assistance of friends
– was ever-present.
My strategy for the race was,
well...simple: to run relaxed and sustainably, to keep the heart rate absolutely under 170 through first two-thirds, and to otherwise keep
the effort under 160 at all times. All of these things required
great patience, and a disconnect between my own body and the other
competitors.
*****
Patience has always been my hardest
lesson, but 2014 served up a mighty dose, early on.
Retesting at the end of February
revealed that 150 bpm wasn't even close to Max Aerobic. Maffetone's
max aerobic estimates correlated to roughly 25-40+% fat-burning of
those I personally testing in the clinic.
For me? I had to drop nearly 130 to
achieve a mere 25% fat-burning, and an abysmal 110 bpm for the bulky
40%. Running suddenly got much, much slower.
Yet this made sense to me: why the runs
felt so sluggish the previous fall, the marked uptick in aches and
pains, and minor head colds and, perhaps, why the influenza virus hit
me so damn hard before Bandera.
So, it was truly back to ground zero.
And despite being seven weeks out from Lake Sonoma, it was time for
another lesson in patience.
Maffetone's classic five-mile fitness
test – which consists of a warm-up, followed by five continuous
miles at MAF heart rate on a set, outdoor course – seemed too
unwieldy. My first test was in 90 degree conditions; the next in
heavy wind.
This time around, I'd keep it indoors,
and to make the assessment more feasible, I cut the test to three
miles. The treadmill – without wind resistance, with a
fast-spinning belt that forces forward progress – is invariably
faster. But it also allowed a total precision: with a heart-rate
monitor build into the unti, I could watch it like a hawk. At my
first test, after a good warm-up, set out at a heart rate ceiling of
130. I allowed a leeway of up to 135, but anytime it stayed above
133-134 for more than 10-20 seconds, I dropped the speed a tenth of a
mph. It was precise as I could do it, with minimal cheating.
My first tests – on the fast
treadmill – were unimpressive: roughly 7:30 to 7:50 pace for three
miles. Ugh.
But I was committed. Yes, Sonoma was
coming up, and yes, I needed specific work, but I was committed to
the long-term: I had to build a true base; without it, there will
only be more fits-and-starts: temporary fast running, followed by
problems.
So there I was: lighly hiking up the
thousand-foot Mount Pisgah and (only moderately) jogging down, doing
everything I could to keep that heart rate in the 130s.
That was the Lake Sonoma preparation.
The final bits of my ultramarathon
delusion were unceremoniously blown away with a mediocre
13th
place, 7:24 performance: nearly a minute-per-mile slower than the
year before.
Clearly, I wasn't ready. Yet I hadn't
completely surrendered...
Keeping Perspective: “Act like
you don't need the shit, and they'll give you the shit for free.”
When the horn sounded for Waldo, we
were off into the pre-dawn darkness, up the ski hill. I was dead-set
on an easy pace, and, much to my surprise, so were the young guys
from up and down I-5. Andrew ran beside me from the get-go, and
while Ghelfi crept a few meters ahead, by the time we began the long,
round-about shoulder summit, he fell back with us.
I chatted lightheartedly with Andrew,
asking about his year, what else he was up to, and otherwise
pretending that running up this hill wasn't all that hard. It was,
but it wasn't nearly as hard as the year before. We shuffled a bit,
hiked a lot, and, in no time, we'd made our way up to the backside of
the ski hill.
On the way down the backside, which
would take us west toward our first true mountain summit of the day,
there was more easy chatter: Andrew and I continued our chatter,
while Ryan chimed in as we talked about the goings on of the
late-summer racing scene. The pace felt effortless but legitimate. I
didn't fret about splits, or “getting out”. I was relaxed and
enjoying myself. Heart rate: 140.
*****
I'm not sure I can speak for every
competitive ultrarunner out there, but this is how my mindset as
evolved in the three-plus years of ultrarunning, culminating at
Western States in 2013
Early 2010: Ultras? Holy shit, they
do this?
Late 2010: Ultras! Holy shit, I did
that...and did pretty well!
Early 2011: I wonder if I'm actually
good at this?
Late 2011: I think I could be GOOD!
Early 2012: Can I be in the same
room as the fastest in the sport?
Late 2012: Yes!
Now I want to be the fastest!
Early 2013: I HAVE TO be the
fastest!
Drive and desire can fuel just as much
on delusion as ability. “If you give a mouse a cookie...”. I'd
been feeding myself the cookie – and “drinking my own Kool-Aid”
- that not only could I be the best, but that – in order to have a
place, to be of value in this community – I had to be among the
best.
That's what I was running toward. I was filling a void – a past void, filled with failure, shame and regret of my previous athletic ineptitude – and a present void – where I felt that the best way to be accepted and loved was the be The Man atop the podium, or at least among the very top.
There's nothing wrong with desire, or
letting emotions – past and present – drive your running and
training. But that's a dangerous fuel mixture that can lead to poor
decisions, and throw an otherwise healthy, nurturing community
pursuit into an imbalanced, destructive one.
Before and during the 2013 Western
States, I lost perspective. I trained relentlessly and
unsustainably, and my most vivid memory of race day – besides the
outrageous cramping for 26 miles – was of me racing the entire
first fifty miles! Pushing and pushing, forcing it, rather than
going with the flow. It was an unsustainable path that ended with a
thud at Michigan Bluff.
It was time for a change.
The irony is, the more you care – the
more you need to run fast – the more problematic and wrought with
problems that end becomes. However, sustainable, balanced running –
when kept in perspective to the Big Picture – tends to wind up
being the fastest!
To get back up, I had to let go, and be
okay with falling down.
*****
As we rolled into Gold Lake AS, I was
utterly relaxed and present. I stopped to drop off my headlamp, now
superfluous at daybreak, and got a bottle fill. Andrew and Ryan
pushed on, and I fell back to third. I didn't care.
Up the trail a ways, the course crosses
Waldo Lake Road, which bisects the course. Several spectators were
there, and Monkey Boy Scott Wolfe acted as course marshall...and
heckler.
“Did y'all get lost out there?”, he chided, in his faux-southern Virginia accent he reserves especially for talking shit.
“Did y'all get lost out there?”, he chided, in his faux-southern Virginia accent he reserves especially for talking shit.
We were a good five minutes-plus slower
than a typical opening split, but I could care less. We were running
smart.
I tailed behind Ghelfi and Miller as wel started the long grind up Fuji, the second of four major climbs of the day. I kept things well under 160 bpm, but quickly caught Andrew, who encouraged me to go around. I did. Before long, I locked into Ghelfi, and along we went.
Finding Joy: With or Without a
Number On
An important lesson in perspective from
2013 was the notion that balanced running isn't always about actually
running. To learn that, I had to travel south and spend a little more
time with some real Original Gangtas of Ultrarunning.
In September of last year, I spent two
quality outings with a couple legends of the sport. On a warm
pre-Labor day evening in Davis, California, I shared a burger and a
Pliny pint with Bruce LaBelle – ten-time Silver Buckler, who, at
the young age of, well, “mid-50s”, is still out there, running
long and fast. Two days later, it was a easy canyon run and coffee
with Tim Twietmeyer. I think his driveway is paved in sterling
silver.
Both men have been running
competitively for over thirty years. And both impressed upon me the
values of balance and perspective: that running, while perhaps
central to their being, was only part of it. Logistically, neither
man trained hard, year round. They picked their battles, but prepared
well for each. Moreover, each invested in the running community in
other ways: through race volunteering, trail stewardship, and
mentorship of younger runners.
For every runner, this makes sense.
But for most of us, the sticking point lies deep down: can we
possibly fill ourselves – filling the void of “The Question” -
by giving, rather than taking? Can giving back to a race, to the
community, be as fulfilling as the reward of finishing medals,
buckles, prizes, and accolades?
Indeed, for the up-and-coming ultra
star, this is a tough sell.
But the ironic message – received
loud-and-clear from Bruce and Tim – was that finding that balance –
between taking and giving – was the only way to sustain the
hard-running and its rewards.
But beyond that, the more one gives –
the more helpful it becomes to hard racing. Giving develops
relationships, good memories and connections on and off the trail,
and in all dimensions of the sport. It is sowing seeds that reap even
greater performance benefits come race day.
How much do you think Tim benefited
from having good friends every five miles along the race course at
Western States? Those were good vibes he earned by giving: working
along those volunteers, all year 'round.
Give – sacrificing your own running
for others – and you shall receive. Ironic, but simple.
*****
Ghelfi and I floated along toward Fuji.
I hung behind him, perfectly content to glide along behind him. I
felt fantastic. The heart rate, even for this prolonged,
high-altitude climb, hovered in the 140s to 150. I focused on form
and nutrition and bided time.
To keep things light, I asked Ghelfi
about Beer Miling. We chatted about some of his fast Southern Oregon
teammates and their beer mile experience, before the trail pitched a
bit steeper upward. Any conversation that distracted, early, was a
good one. We were ten miles in, but still way too early to get
competitive.
I was just happy to be running up
front, and feeling so effortless.
...until there was a Patagonia Puffy
Jacket up for grabs.
Since the race's inception, there has
been a special preme for the first runner to “Find Waldo” - or
summit Mt. Fuji, the first place for a view of the namesake lake.
With Ghelfi and I solidly out front, I knew I'd have a chance. Then
I realized he hadn't stopped for water, as I had, at Gold Lake, so
when he pulled into Fuji AS outbound, I pushed again, putting on a
legitimate surge to gain some space.
To my dismay, despite jacking the heart
rate to nearly 180, Ghelfi quickly caught back up. I continue to
pushed at a legitimately hard pace, weaving in and out of the early
starters on this out-and-back summit, to maintain my lead and make
him work really hard to get past. Indeed, he would've had to
aggressively push past me – including likely asking permission to
get by – if he wanted that preme. So I kept pushing. I felt good
and strong, but with my heart rate hitting 180, it was a risky move.
I stayed in front and made it to the
top first. I stayed just long enough to catch a few breaths, and
Ghelfi to summit – before heading back down.
Little did I know – and I wouldn't
til the awards - that this year, for the first time in many years,
the preme would not be a puffy Waldo Patagonia jacket (which likely
retails for $200-300), but a High
Desert Drop Bag: a fine product, indeed, but...in retrospect, not
nearly as enticing for such an aggressive effort. The race
directorship had changed the premes the night before, and I hadn't
taken notice. That the “Wet Waldo” runner – the first finisher
to jump in six lakes along the course – would get a puffy jacket
and not the first Fuji summit, would be a significant point of...er,
irksomeness...for weeks to come.
But onward, and upward. Or, downward.
The out-and-back summit was a good
opportunity to survey the field. Andrew wasn't far behind us, but
after that, things thinned out. BGD was holding his own, running a
conservative effort on minimal fitness this time around. Lots of
cheers and fives from the outbound runners as we made our way down,
and I tried to tamp down my heavy heart rate.
A quick stop-off at Fuji AS allowed
Ghelfi to get out front, but I made no efforts to reel him in. I
would gently descend back toward Waldo Lake Road.
Surrender Without Giving Up
The section between the top of Fuij (13
miles) and Charlton Lake (30) just may be the toughest part of the
race. On paper, it's easy: downhill, then gradual uphill. But it is a
mental grind: after two tough uphills, one is lulled into a
relaxing-yet-taxing downhill, then forced into a gut-churning,
relentless grind that saps one's will to continue. Many a DNF happens
at Charlton for this reason.
I was wary of this, and as such, kept
the effort to a bare minimum as we descended toward the road. This
allowed Andrew – smart beyond his barely-legal years – to catch
up with us. He ran the Fuji climb with utmost patients and now he was
right back in it. Our trio hit the road and Mt. Ray AS (20 miles) in
a pack.
I took a bit of time in the aid,
snacking on a banana, and getting a fill. Both Ghelfi and Miller had
crew, so neither stopped. And like that, I was a minute back.
My energy was good, but something was
amiss. The calves – namely my right – were sore. Tight. Painful.
Pre-cramping.
What the hell?
*****
When you lose perspective, two
painfully dangerous things happen: first, you tend to push too hard,
too soon. Without balance, one invariably forces things. The “I have
to's” take control of the wheel, often with bad consequences.
Second, you tend to not see the big picture. Little issues that pop
up early on are ignored. These inconvenient issues – often red flags
of major problems – are swept aside and denied. But just as often,
they blow up.
This is as true in life and
relationships as it is in running.
Little cramps in the thighs and calves
coming out of Duncan Canyon at Western States were ignored.
“Everything else is great, so who cares?”. But twenty six miles
later, on a table at Michigan Bluff, they made me care.
Balanced, sustainable running requires
a present-centered awareness: being tuned into the reality, both good
and bad. Ignoring truths because they're incompatible with your
expectations or vision of ideal is a sure-fire way to get really
lost: on and off the trail.
*****
Running out of Mt Ray, just seconds out
of the lead, my calves inexplicably panged.
Why? At the time, I wasn't sure. I
slowed, but that didn't seem to help. I could no longer ignore them.
I stopped. I stretched and massaged
them, namely the medial right calf, that felt a few strides away from
explosion. It helped. I continued on, just as fourth place (Ryan
Tockstein) approached.
I got a little negative: “Damn. I'm
running great, but these damn calves!” I saw the day slipping away,
as I was clearly now far behind. I ran on, alone, up the relentless
grind to Bobby Lake Trail. The calf stabilized, but continue to be
sore and painful. I did what I could: ran form-focused, drank, and
ate.
Gradually, the calf improved and seemed
runnable, as I turned north onto the PCT toward Twins 1.
Then a strange thing happened: I caught
sight of Andrew and Ryan.
Wow. OK.
The minute I'd lost at the aid station,
and the additional minutes spent slowing down and stopping to work my
calf, were neutralized. I was back in it.
Yet, once I got to Twins 1, it was sore
as hell again. So once I was topped off, I stopped yet again for
another minute or so to stretch and massage. Damnit!
Extrapolation is a dangerous thing. It
is how our brain ensures survival, and makes our lives easier: here
we are now, so in theory, this is where we're going. In ultras as in
life, it is a short-cut that is almost always wrong. And
extrapolation is likely responsible for more DNFs than any other
factor. Feel like shit now, well, how much worse will it be many
miles from now?
My brain was in extrapolation mode from
Twins 1 to Charleton: “I'm not even halfway through and my calf is
about to blow up. I've stretched and massaged, and I'm barely hanging
on”. I tried to put it out of mind. I stayed form-focused, and I
kept fueling. One step at a time.
I problem-solved: “My form seems OK,
could it be my back?” My low back was a bit sore, and I thought
that maybe some nerve pain might've been short-circuiting the muscle.
I would stop at Charlton to work out the back this time.
Then, just a mile out from Charlton, it
happened again: there were Miller and Ghelfi! Another lost minute or
two, yet, once again I caught 'em! “Wow, this is great!”
Reeling them in, yet again, buoyed the spirits.
With minimal extra effort, I rolled
past them, knowing I'd need some cushion to stretch out at the aid
station. So with great fanfare, I rolled into Charlton in first
place.
My first half split – 4:46 (and
Miller's 4:47) – would be among the slower leading splits in the
race's recent competitive history, but, as time would tell, put us in
position for a hard, even second half.
It must've been strange for the
onlookers to see the race leader roll into the aid station...then
roll onto the ground! I first got on my knees and pushed hard,
through my abdomen, onto my low lumbar vertebrae. They were stiff.
Then, I rolled onto my back and hugged the knees to chest. While
doing so, I asked for my drop bag, where I had a ten-ounce “OOJ
recovery shake” – protein powder, Udo's Oil, heavy cream, and
some Endurox. A good 200 calories of mostly fat and protein. I
hammered it in-between back stretches. Pam Smith – there to
volunteer and spectate – is no stranger to doing crazy shit at aid
stations – and was nonplussed at my actions.
I waved off my hydration pack and chose
to maintain my single bottle, which I'd kept in my waist band. I
grabbed a new fuel belt and was out the aid station, at least two
minutes behind Ghelfi and Miller, who again ran through without
stopping.
My back – and my calf – felt
better. But then I had an epiphany:
The ###ing water bottle!
I'd been carrying the waterbottle in
the back of my waistband. On the right side. For years, I've been
deficient in my right hip extension. Perhaps the damn waterbottle
was blocking a full push-off, overloading the calf?
I immediately stitched the bottle to
the left side, where it would stay for the rest of the race. And,
for one reason or another, the calf was a non-issue for the rest of
the race.
Lesson learned: It pays to take care of
little issues, no matter how “pressing” the competition, or
personal goals.
But once again, I found myself in a
hole – well behind Ghelfi and Miller. But once again, with little
additional effort, I reeled 'em in. I came across Ghelfi – with
pacer – midway between Charlton and Road 4290 AS and made quick
work around them.
As in years past, there was heavy
emphasis on efficiency and heart rate control, knowing the brutal
section ahead.
I rolled into 4290 ahead of Ghelfi by a
minute-plus, but behind Miller an equal amount. It was getting
warm, so I pounded water, soda, and another banana hunk, and pushed
on.
Striking a Balance Between
Physiology & Specificity
The balance between physiology –
doing what's best for the body's basic exercise physiology – versus
specificity – the need for the body and brain to experience the
specific demands of competition – is a delicate one, and not for
the weak of heart.
Current sport – across the board –
over-emphasizes specificity. Wanna run hard? You have to run hard!
A lot! Right? Wanna be good at football? Gotta scrimmage, full-pads,
full-contact. A lot. Right? Wanna be a great mountain trail runner,
you gotta run hard up mountains, a lot, right?
Specificity is vital. The brain needs
to know how to do something, then believe it can do it. As such, we
emulate in practice as close to the real thing as possible.
But specificity had a steep price tag.
The danger of the specificity approach
is the stress. The extreme demands of maximal performance
aren't sustainable to practice, routinely. High-intensity activity,
too routinely, causes multi-system stress that can break down the
system in multiple ways. Conventional runners know this: milers can't
run mile pace on every run; marathoners can run a long run every day.
On the opposite end of the training
spectrum is what I call, physiology: doing what's best (and
minimally stressful) to all body systems. The entire concept
of periodization – of a different focus per training cycle – is
based on this premise: that the body works best through a foundation
of low-intensity work, with finite moderate-intensity work, and
lastly with a relatively sparse amount of high-intensity training.
For runners, this means a huge chunk of slow, easy running at the
beginning of each season, and liberally interspersed amongst the
intense work.
If physiology didn't matter, what's to
stop us from doing nothing but high-intensity training, all the time?
Pure specificity would win out. But it doesn't.
On the other hand, the Maffetone Method
– doing the vast majority of training at Max
Aerobic Pace – is at the extreme of the physiological approach:
It is pure physiology, giving the body exactly what it needs
to maximize endurance performance – maximum aerobic conditioning
(via fat-burning) and nothing else. No other specific training.
Specificity, Maffetone implies, will come as a result of getting
better at fat-burning...when your max aerobic pace eventually
approaches race pace. Your only cheats in the system include
occasionally racing hard (beyond MAF pace), as your lone specific
work.
This may work well for triathletes –
who can keep their HR in check in the water and on the bike, and who
run mostly flat, road marathon courses – but is a wholly different
beast for a trail runner.
The specific demands of trail ultras –
including altitude and steep climbs – require a gear that goes well
beyond a maximum aerobic zone. Thus, when trying to develop the
aerobic system, you're left with a choice: prioritize aerobic work by
shuffling – but usually walking – hills, or risk
compromising the foundation by repeatedly pushing too hard, well
beyond aerobic physiology.
I chose the former. I was committed to
running easy, and as slow as it took, to adequately develop that
system. So, after years spent developing a strong uphill
running technique...I stopped running uphill. I walked, or it was a
slow, slow shuffle. Or I avoided hill, entirely. This went on for
months – from July of last year, clear until March, just before
Lake Sonoma.
As a result, the years spent developing
a strong uphill stride – one that was pivotal in my successes at
ultras like Bandera, Lake Sonoma, and Western States – was gone.
The '14 Lake Sonoma was proof of that: when tasked to run hard
uphill, I simply didn't have it.
But here's where insults adds to
injury.
My fundamental stride efficiency went
to compete shit.
Running slow – then really
slow – is easy. Too easy. It's easy to get into a
shuffling, inefficient rhythm that goes unnoticed in the early days,
weeks and months of MAF training. All the muscular strength,
neuromuscular patterning, and – well, habit – of faster running
evaporated. I'd lost my stride.
Lake Sonoma '14 was proof of that.
Besides having no climbing strength, my flat stride was too long, and
too inefficient: I was over-striding, over-rotating...even my
footstrike was painfully inefficient.
In effect, by taking apart the machine,
I'd lost a few pieces. And the pieces that remained, I'd forgotten
how to put 'em together.
Lake Sonoma was painful, and the weeks
between that and Ice Age were even worse. Finally, at the end of
May, I hopped back on the treadmill and flipped on the cameras:
“Holy hell! My stride looks awful!”
My stride was a slumpy, twisted, loping mess. It's no wonder I ran
slow as shit, and hurt like hell. Dear, Lord.
It was time to go to work. Again.
My approach to regain stride was
two-fold:
- One, to re-establish efficiency: hip hinging with a neutral trunk, cleaning up the arm swing, and – most importantly – getting my pawback on. These central concepts saved a ton of energy, turning pounding into propulsion.
- Two, to regain the strength to maintain good mechanics, namely through a ton of glute and hamstring work, along with liberal core and arm strength.
Between June and mid-August, I did at
least a hundred bridges a day, totalling well over three thousand a
month. Once again, Convict Conditioning was a central part of my
work, and both short and straight leg bridges were clutch in shoring
up those pushing and pulling muscles. Pull-ups and rows helped my
arms, but admittedly: I had to get on the treadmill at least once a
week and watch myself run, to make sure I wasn't over-rotating.
It was tough, at first: anytime you
lose stride efficiency, getting it back is like rolling the boulder
uphill. But once the strength kicked in, that boulder kept rolling.
Still, I didn't entirely trust my
stride, especially on hard days. So for the two months preceding
Waldo, every speed day was done on the treadmill, with the cameras
on: watching my stride in real-time. I did 800 and mile repeats, and
multi-mile tempos at five-minute pace or faster, all the while
keeping a close eye on what I was doing. It was a bold strategy –
especially preparing for a mountain ultra.
*****
The stride, which I'd worked so hard on
the past few months, was truly paying off: all day long, I'd had no
trouble keeping up – then later catching up to – both Ghelfi and
Miller. The early pace felt very easy, and then – even losing
minutes at aid stations, and stopping to work the calf – I was
easily able to regain contact by the time we would reach the next aid
station.
This buoyed my confidence as I rolled
along toward the penultimate – and pivotal – climb of the race.
The section between 4290 (35 miles) and Twins 2 (44 miles) is a long,
grueling section that breaks a lot of runners. It's the dreaded
third lap of a painful mile race: far too soon to be “almost done”,
with a lot of work left to do.
Ghelfi seemed to be safely in the
rearview, but Miller was still somewhere up front. But I was running
so well, it seemed, that it would only be a matter of time 'til I
caught him. And then, as the course crawls up the shoulder of the
Twins (~7000'), there he was, at twelve o'clock.
Neither pushing nor slowing, I
gradually reeled him in. Talkative all day, he still had a pleasant
greeting as I shuffled past him. We were about a mile from the top,
and three from the aid station.
My strategy was thus: to put some
distance on him in the climb, hammer down to the aid, and get out of
sight before the last big climb up Maiden Peak. With no more
calf-massage stops in my future, and a fantastic stride, nearly 45
miles in, I figured I'd put him behind me and finally build a lead
into the final push.
But somehow Andrew didn't get the memo.
Up and over the Twins, halfway down the to the aid station, he'd
reeled me in. Damn. We ran into Twins 2 AS together.
And then, like he had all damn day, he
rolled in and out of the aid station without stopping, his mom
shoving a bottle in his hand without breaking stride.
I took my time, yet again, gulping soda
and a banana hunk, clinging to the notion that a bit of time – less
than a minute – to rest at the aid station is worth two minutes on
the trail. I thought, “He can't keep this up”. But by the time
I'd slammed a second glass of Coke and turned up trail, he was long
out of sight.
The Periodization Short Course:
Specificity is the House on the Rock
The two months between Memorial Day and
Waldo was a crash-course in specific preparation for Waldo. The
aerobic systems was adequately established; now, it was time to get
ready.
When speaking with Bruce last summer in
Davis, he talked about drawing a line between two points: “Where am
I, now?” and, “Where do I need to be?”. From there, you fill
in the spaces, and put the pieces in place.
Most mountain ultras – Waldo
inclusive – require three things:
- Race-pace work – usually trail tempos at threshold effort
- Prolonged vertical work, to develop climbing strength and technical descending skills
- The long runs – on-feet time focused on brain and body preparation for the race distance
June and July featured heavy doses of
tempo work: both on the treadmill, to work flat-out efficiency in the
high-end gear, and at the end of long trail runs. A mid-week speed
session was pared with an end-of week trail run with a fast finish.
In between was a focused vertical day, and, of course, the long run.
Things were no doubt rushed, but in a
six to eight week span, I put in some great work, cemented with very
easy (MAF pace) recovery runs and days off. But admittedly, I
shorted a few areas, namely prolonged mountain climbs, and the
extra-long (>3 hour) runs. Between July and mid-August, I'd run
only a single run over four hours, and no climbs over a thousand
feet.
That said, given my experience in 2013,
I was going into Waldo knowing that it's better to be rested and
under-prepared, than over-worked. I'd done what I could. But would
it be enough?
This notion creeped into my head as I
rolled the gradual descent toward Maiden Peak Aid, at the base of the
toughest – but last – climb of the race. The quads were pretty
thrashed, and both the thighs and calves felt a little blippy – as
if a cramp might be around the corner.
I rolled into Maiden Peak Aid: no
Miller, but word was that he had just left. Still, I took my time
again, pounding more sodas and taking one more snack. Ghelfi's dad
and fiance were at the aid station...a sign that he was still in the
hunt.
While restocking, I fiddled in my
pocket for my iPod. I'd been saving some fire-up tunes for this final
twelve-mile push. But the damn thing wouldn't turn on. Damn.
There was no time to lament. I grabbed
my bottle and pushed on.
The final climb of the Waldo 100K, the
Maiden Peak summit, is a brutally-tough climb. It ascends nearly two
thousand feet over three miles and change, topping out at 7800 feet,
the high-point of the course. It features relentless incline that
gradually worsens – in grade and footing -as you near the top. I
shuffled along, truly feeling the effort of the day. Though I
continued to move well, thoughts of the win were fading. Andrew was a
good climber and, as I found out, still had descending legs, to boot.
Midway through the climb, it occurred to me that it hurt more to
walk than run, so I shuffled along, until reaching the steep,
straight-up pitches that made even hiking difficult.
The Maiden climb is the signature of
the race, but what sets it apart from nearly every other ultra (save
Lake Sonoma), is the summit out-and-back. After three brutal uphill
miles, the course hits the top shoulder. From there, it's a mile or
so out and back to the summit, before descending, the steep, rugged
“Leap of Faith” toward the final aid station.
Like Sonoma, the out and back gives you
a glimpse of the competition. Anyone with ten minutes of your
position will be in view. I hoped for the best as I shuffle-hiked my
way up the rugged, painful volcanic scree, hoping I'd see Andrew as
close to the top as possible. But, scarcely up the climb, there he
was, coming back down.
Damn.
I kept on, trying my best to run the
path paved with loose, baseball-sized lava rock. Finally, after some
bittersweet views of Waldo yet again, I gave a fist-bump to the
omnipresent Monkey Boy before turning to descend.
My focus now turned to getting off the mountain before Ghelfi saw me, but sure enough, just before I reached the junction, up he came.
And like that, you had three guys
within ten minutes.
Sonofabitch.
My descent was...mediocre. Footing was
poor and, let's face it, my technical descending is mediocre when
fresh. I did my best to pick my way through the steep rock before
lowering to the runnable dirt, descending over switches to Maiden
Lake aid.
When I got to the aid station, I was
struggling. Dizzy and glazed-over, I pleaded for Coke. “Pour
another”, I said, before I was even done with the first. The cola
was warm, and it felt like I was on the last lap of a brutal beer
run. I must've looked like shit, because I felt like it.
“Do you want to sit down?”
“No!”
I didn't ask where Andrew was, but I
knew he was at least five or six minutes up. My lack of specificity –
big climbs and big descents – was exposed. But now, with seven
miles of flat running in front of me, could I put it together for one
last push?
After a quick sponge douse, with bottle
topped and stomach sloshing with Coke, I took off.
I ran maybe a hundred meters before I
was reduced to a stagger.
Sonofabitch. I was low.
Balance & Perspective Create
Dispassionate Execution & Peak Performance
A year ago, after I flamed out at
Western States, I realized I need to change, and I needed help.
Besides Tim Noakes and Phil Maffetone, I needed insights about me.
What makes me tick? What is it about me that drive me to run all day,
to begin with? And what was it that drove me too far, so far out of
balance?
“What
am I running from, and what am I running toward?”
I needed more help.
At the end of last year, I contacted my
psychologist. It was time for a check-up.
I sought to learn what it was that
connected my anxiety level – before and during a race, and
day-to-day – with my running. I did not want a repeat of 2013,
where I put so much pressure on my running, and what a good day would
mean to me.
I first learned of Scott
Pengelly when I moved to Eugene in 2009. He's among the very best
pain psychologists, and as such, has been instrumental in helping my
toughest chronic pain patients get better. Indeed, the brain decides
what hurts.
When I sought someone to work with a
year later, he was the obvious choice. Besides being a great pain
therapist, he has a storied background in sport psychology, with
experience at the Olympic level going back over three-plus decades.
Indeed, his guidance was pivotal in my ability to overcome
injury and finish my first Western States in 2011.
We got to work in January of this year,
spending an hour together each month. Interestingly, we didn't talk
about running, at all. Like old friends, we caught up on the last
year or so. I shared with him what my goals were, and what I was up
to. I'd just entered into a serious relationship, so we talked about
that.
A lot.
As it turns out, my relationship
history with romantic partners closely mirrors my relationship with
running. So when that relationship ended in March, it was pretty
clear to me the connection.
There is a part of me that believes
that, “This [relationship, or race] is so special and great, that
if I achieve it, then I'll really have it made!”. Somewhere along
the line, I developed the belief that I needed something – or
someone – to be 100% happy. That I was just that one thing away
from something great, and the next level.
Classic “One-itis”.
Besides the novelty of teaching a
sectegenarian the term one-itis, it was a great epiphany to realize
that I was putting so much pressure on running (and relationships) to
somehow make my life that much better.
One-itis is, however, a deadly
condition, for two reasons. First, the overzealous drive to achieve
with that one thing creates a type of blinding effect, where you fail
to see the big picture. Reality escapes you, and you're unable to
perceive, believe or react to what's really going on. Second, the
intense pressure one puts on himself (to “really nail it!”) is
such that he inevitably blows it.
This was as true with relationships as
it was with racing.
Wow.
Scott talked about where that comes
from: having an alcoholic father, enduring a divorce when I was only
eight years old, and the measures – even as a six year old – to
try to “fix things” in my family. What emerged from that – only
multiplied when my father passed away when I was ten - was this
relentless drive to fill a void.
Looking back at my experiences – in
athletics and relationships – this pattern has been fairly
consistent for decades, now: when I put too much meaning on any one
thing (or person), bad things happen. I blow it. Time, and time
again.
But...when kept in perspective - with
full awareness of reality and minimal anxiety - dispassionate
analysis and execution are possible.
Yes, running is important, and hell
yes, running well again at Waldo was very important, but how I
performed there would neither make my life great, or make it
miserable. It was only an experience that would add value – and
further perspective – to life.
*****
As I stumbled along, only a few minutes
past the final aid station, but a good seven miles from the finish, I
was in need of some serious perspective.
For the first time all day, I felt fucking terrible...
...yet I'd run a nearly flawless race up to this point.
I felt like I could barely run...
...I was still in second place, with Ghelfi stalking somewhere in the
shadows.
I might blow this race...
...but fuck that, I need to pull my shit together.
I'd just hammered nearly a can's worth
of soda at the aid, yet something was low. I wasn't sure what, but I
didn't think it was calories. I thought about it. I'd been on a
single water bottle all day. And although I'm well fat-adapted, I
still need water. Lots of it. And I think I was low.
Just a mile out of the aid, I was
shuffling, but I still had nearly a full water bottle. I hammered
it, tossing down another gel and an S!Cap, just in case. And I
pushed on, going all in to prevent Ghelfi from sneaking past me.
I gradually felt better, as the trail
leveled out along Maiden Lake. The bulk of the final miles are
downhill, but punctuated early on by some gut-busting short climbs
that, unless you've got the legs, will reduce you to a walk. I
pounded the rest of my water and pressed on.
And...just like that, I felt better. A
lot better. Crazy thoughts entered my mind, such as, “Holy shit,
maybe I can still catch Andrew!”
I pushed hard. I ran every climb,
every step from Maiden Lake, back to the PCT, where a sustained down
and flat section would await.
I was running hard, and fast. In the
back of my mind was concern. Pushing hard can cause the sugar stores
to plummet. But I was buoyed by the notion that I was low on water,
and, although by bottle was empty, I could fill it (at my own risk)
in one of the three Rosary Lakes that dot the final four miles.
Hammering hard to lake level, I opened
the stride as big as possible, throwing every bit of coal into the
fire, breaking stride only once to dunk the bottle into the creek
that emptied the Lower Rosary. Now filled with water, I hammered my
final gel and S!Cap.
I was topped off, and it was time to
go.
I honestly believe that – when my
stride is on, and the body is intact – there's no one in the sport
that can run faster than me at the end of an ultra. There's plenty of
folks that can really hammer, but...for some reason...when push comes
to shove, I have what it takes to run really hard when it counts.
That's what got
me a Golden Ticket in '12, and it's ultimately what got me into
the
Top Ten at Western States.
Just a couple miles from the highway
and civilization, it's common to run into hikers and campers along
that final section of the PCT. Just leaving the Lower Rosary, I came
across a hiker, who told me, “He's just a quarter-mile up!” Such
reports are always dubious, but I took it as good news and pushed as
hard as I could.
I hammered: big, long,
spinning-sawblade strides. The legs felt...well, fine: no cramps, no
heaviness. I pushed as hard as I could. I really do think I was
running six-minute miles. But that section is long, and - even with
buttery, downhill single track – it drags on. And on. I spent the
time focusing on different aspect of the stride - “left elbow”,
“right foot push-off...” - and counted them to a hundred.
Anything I could do to get closer to Andrew, and to the finish, I
did.
And while I didn't see Andrew again, I
did see the finish. I pushed hard off the PCT, to the clearing toward
the ski lodge (the longest visible ultra trail finish in the sport!).
I felt great, and – according to The Queen – looked great.
As I got closer, I saw that I was still
under 9:30, so I really pushed it, and – as a nice icing on the
cake of a great day – leaned at the line for 9:29:59, good for
second place.
*****
Andrew, beset on all sides with his
family-slash-crew extraordinaries – were still at the line when I
crossed. He ran a hell of a race, running 9:23:28. I closed on
him...but not much.
Ghelfi came in several minutes later,
in 9:38:45.
There's your top three, after all.
*****
The Grades
Pacing: A. We, as a top three,
nailed it. Smart, early, then pushing hard at the end. More on the
specifics, below.
Mechanics: A-. Fantastic stride
all day, especially when it counted in the last seven miles. Slight
deductions for whatever causes my calf malaise, and my general lack
of preparation for skillful descending. But ultimately, I did what I
could.
Hydration/Fuel/Electrolytes: B+. Really
great all day...'til I got low. That low point might've cost
me...but I don't think I would've won on nutrition perfection, alone.
The low-point was obviously from water, as I rebounded rapidly when
I pounded two whole bottles after Maiden Lake.
Calories: here's my approximate calorie
count for the day:
Gels: ~6-8 → 600-800 kcal
Soda: ~4-5 cans → 600-700 kcal
Banana: 1 → 100 kcal
“OOJs Recovery Brew”: 10oz → 200
kcal
GU brew: ~100 kcal
----------------- Total: ~1800-2000 kcal
(~200 per hour)
Average heart rate: 159 BPM.
Of note:
a year ago I ran 10:35...also averaging 159 BPM.
Mental Toughness: A-. Huge
points for keeping it together and problem-solving early on.
Negative for losing the winning edge going up Maiden, and the
self-doubt after Maiden Lake AS. But some good bonus points for
using my “Power Pose” psychology. I wrote of this in the
October Issue of Ultrarunning: that smiling, or adopting power poses,
not only improves mood, but improves the brains perception of
well-being. Even in the depths of the Maiden Peak climb, me doing my
best “I'm the WIZ!” impression made me feel better.
Joy: A-. Had a LOT of fun out
there. I wasn't doing ninja moves, or singing Bon Jovi, but I had
fun.
*****
Race Fun Facts:
- Looking back on the results, Andrew, myself, and Ryan ran the 4th, 6th, and 8th fastest times in the thirteen-year history of the race*. By far, this was the deepest and closest field, ever.
(*admittedly, Tim Olson and Jacob
Rydman's 2012 results on the fire-lengthened 65-mile course bear
mentioning here, as their times would like be in the 9:2x to 9:3x
range).
- Andrew Miller ran the fastest second half (Charlton to the Finish, roughly 32 mile) in the history of the race. His 4:36 split ranks ahead of previous course-record holders David Laney (4:40 in 2013), Dave Mackey (4:41, 2011), and Erik Skaggs (4:42, 2009). I ran 4:44, good for 5th fastest finishing split.
- Despite my struggles early on, I ran the fastest closing split in the history of the race: roughly 57 minutes for the final seven-and-a-half miles. Andrew was right there, splitting roughly 57-and-a-half minutes to stay in front. Behind us include Mackey's hard finish in 2011 (58 minutes), Tim Olson in '12 (58), Ian Sharman in '11 (60), Skaggs (61), and Jacob Rydman (62, in 2012).*****
So, what's next? Well, back to the
aerobic drawingboard. Based on the foundations of Maffetone and
Allen's physiological model, this time of year – the fall and early
winter – is the time to maximize aerobic. In short:
- with the exception of a few runs, I took nearly three weeks completely off, post-Waldo
- the entirely of September was easy running (again, save a couple early runs)
- October was entirely easy, except perhaps four long efforts approaching threshold
- November, in order to prepare for another Montrail Cup assault, featured the addition of speed work for the first time: mostly downhill repeats, and longer, harder weekend effforts
Again, periodization with focus on
maximum aerobic development is the foundation and cornerstone. But
implicit in ultra trail preparation is the specificity: I continue to
do strength training, stride efficiency work, and put in the
requisite climbing runs to not only maintain those, but continue to
improve them.
*****
What I Learned.
This thing is thousands of words. I
hope I learned something. Here's what I think I've learned:
Specificy versus Physiology.
In ultrarunning, as in all sports, the needs of basic physiology
– what's best for all body systems, long-term – must be balanced
with the specific demands of the task. These things aren't always
mutually exclusive, but – like all things – there must be a
balance between the two.
Physiology is the key to
sustainability. ...but at the end of the day, after the
year-plus of interviews, research, and personal experimentation,
honoring physiology – doing what's best for our holistic health –
is the key to sustainable running. Balanced, holistic training and preparation
involves maximizing those things that do not stress physiology,
including: mobility, strength, biomechanics, nutrition, and stress
management. If mastered, these elements are “free
speed”.
Periodization and its Phases.
For me, what works best – and what I will continue to employ and
recommend as a medical professional and coach – is the following
progression: a disciplined (and meticulously executed) Aerobic
Phase, where 99% of all work is at Max Aerobic Effort; a Strength
Phase, where moderate-intensity work (long hill climbs, tempo
runs) are introduced; then, what Mark Allen called a “Push
Phase”, which includes much higher-intensity work, possibly
including track sessions and or trail-specific sprints, longer/harder
runs and races.
Avoid the Curse of One-Itis: Keep
perspective, keep your eyes open, and act accordingly. The
most crucial moments of Waldo were the six-plus minutes I spent...not
running. I've heard from countless veteran runners who say, “solve
problems early”. That's easier said than done...because you first
have to admit there's a problem. Before this year, as it was at WS in
2013, it would've been difficult to accept that straining, cramping
calves were a problem. A year ago, I simply would've denied it
(“Cramping? That can't be right; it's too early for that”).
In a race, or in life – work, family,
or a relationship – it can be very difficult to perceive,
believe and act on a problem...especially when “everything else
is going right, and exactly as planned”. I was in the lead of this
race when this happened. Everything else – energy, stomach, brain,
stride – was fantastic.
But life doesn't care about your Plan.
I had to stop, those three different times, and fix it. And while
those stops very likely cost me the win, the alternative – not
stopping – might've prevented me from finishing, or caused a
serious injury.
Perceive, believe and act. But
to do those things, one ultimately must...
Know your answers to The
Questions, and don't forget them. In order to keep
perspective, and stay true to what's best for you, one needs to know:
“What are you running from, and what are you running toward?”
For me, in 2013, it was:
- I am running from the disappointment, shame and rejection of past failures: as an athlete, and a person
- I am running toward acceptance and self-esteem through performance success
A year later, I can't say those beliefs
no longer exist. But they've been over-ridden by more important ones:
- I am running from complacency, weakness, and selfishness
- I am running toward sense of belonging as a contributing member of a nurturing community, toward camaraderie through cooperation, mutual respect, friendship and love, and toward a feeling of joy and self-exploration that I get from the sport of ultramarathon running
And at the end of the day, I always
have to realize that:
- No great race will ever make my life complete
- No terrible race will ruin the fantastic life I already have
Now, I feel that if I really am true to
my New Answers, only good things will come from running; and
truly negative experiences will only happen if allow my Old
Answers to overcome me.
...and that was the beauty of this
year's Waldo: that I was able to share it with so many great friends.
Nearly the entire “Eug Crew” of ultra trail runners was in
attendance: either running, pacing, crewing, or volunteering. Being
able to share and celebrate that day with them was symbolic of the
success of that day, and of the winning formula I think I've found
for sustainable, joyful running.
Let's keep it going, everyone.
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