In 2011 I read “Ultramarathon Man: Confessions of an
All-Night Runner” by Dean Karnazes, one of my running heroes. Although a very inspirational read, there was
one section that especially intrigued me; his detailed account of running his
first Western States 100 in the summer of 1994.
In the book, he recounts the race from start to finish, describing in
detail the course, terrain, and the highs and lows he encountered along the
way. The Western States 100, officially
known as the Western States Endurance Run, is a one-hundred-mile foot race held
every year on the last weekend of June in Northern California. Beginning at the base of the Squaw Valley Ski
Resort, the course is held entirely on trails and traverses the Sierra Nevada
Mountains across rugged terrain. Runners
ascend just over eighteen thousand feet, descend nearly twenty-three thousand
feet, pass over snowy peaks, descend into brutally hot canyons, and cross
several streams and rivers before arriving at the finish line on the Placer
High School track in Auburn, California.
At one point, it was considered to be one of the most grueling foot
races in the world. Most people can’t
imagine the idea of running one hundred miles.
As I read Dean’s memoir, I must admit, I fell into this same category
with the non-believers. I recall
thinking “this Western States 100 sounds really fun but there is absolutely no
way I could ever do that”. Hell, I had
just run my first Marathon six months prior.
The thought of running beyond twenty-six point two miles baffled me. How is it humanly possible to run one hundred
miles? How is this guy not dead? How did
he make it all that way without his body experiencing a complete meltdown? As exciting as that section of the book had
been at the time, I dismissed the possibility of running a one-hundred-mile
footrace as something that simply would never happen for me. Sure, it was possible for some people but I
was certain that I would never have the bio-mechanics, physical strength, and
mental grit to run even beyond a marathon.
In my mind, the marathon was the ultimate running challenge. I could go twenty-six point two miles but anything
beyond that was completely unworldly.
As the years went on, I read Ultramarathon Man several more
times along with Dean’s other books, and my curiosity began to get the better
or me. More specifically, I began to
take a particular interest in the Western States 100. I read about the race on Wikipedia and on the
official website, and viewed race photos of runners passing over the summit of
Squaw Valley, through the beautiful forests, and through the notorious
canyons. I watched youtube videos and
began learning as much about the race as I could. By this time, I had finished nine marathons and
was capable of running fifteen or sixteen miles on any given day. I had also moved to Southern California and,
through an unlikely series of events, had taken up trail running. Instead of strictly running along the city
streets of my neighborhood in Los Angeles, I also ran on trails in Griffith
Park and the San Gabriel mountains. I
loved the thrill and excitement that these trail runs brought me and I wanted
more. In search of a more adventurous
race, I came across the Bulldog 50K while surfing the internet. The race looked exciting, but still, fifty
Kilometers is beyond a marathon. Would I
be able finish? I had finished nine
marathons and was running on trails regularly, but would my endurance be able
to carry me through thirty-one miles?
After pondering the idea for a little while, I signed up. The race was four months away. “No turning back now” I thought to
myself. When race day came, I was
ready. I had run the LA Marathon earlier
that year and done lots of training on the trails in preparation for the race. I stood at the starting area trying to
alleviate the butter flies in my stomach.
“It’s just a little trail run” I thought to myself. “We’re just going to go for a little run on
the trails. Don’t worry about how long
it will take or how hard it will be.
Just go.” When the gun went off,
I took off slowly, taking a steady and reserved approach to the early stages of
the race. The course was completely
enclosed within Malibu Creek State Park in Calabasas, California. I ran up and down hills on exposed hiking
trails, through tree lined paths, and over rocky passes. I hiked up the steep inclines, ran on the
flat sections, and tore down the descents.
All was going seemingly well until I began to hit a wall around mile
twenty-seven. I began feeling loopy and
my breathing became staggered. At mile
twenty-eight, my leg cramps abruptly became so painful, I was forced to stop
and stretch on the side of the trail for a good four minutes. There was an uphill climb during the last two
miles, something I could normally do without too much effort, but after running
nearly thirty miles, it was beating me into submission. It was slow going but I persevered and shuffled
my way to the one hundred yard stretch to the finish line. I began sprinting in excitement and came
bursting across the finish line, throwing my arms in the air in
celebration. Moments later, I received a
commemorative belt buckle, which is often the prize for finishing an
ultra. When the volunteer placed it in
my hands I was beyond overjoyed. I felt
like I was Mario and I had just saved the princess. Two years prior, I never thought I would be
capable of running beyond a marathon. I never
thought I would have the courage to test the boundaries, push my mind and body
to new limits, and dream bigger. The
realization was like stepping into another dimension. I had now crossed into a world where so few
people ever set foot in life. I never truly
believed that I could do it until I crossed the finish line and that belt
buckle was placed in my hand. “Sir? Can
you please keep moving so the other finishers can come through?” In the
excitement of the moment, it dawned on me that I was still standing right in
the middle of the finish area. I looked
up and saw a volunteer standing in front of me “Yes! No problem, sorry” I grinned. I was so excited I felt as though I was
walking on a cloud as I made my way back to my car.
After finishing the Bulldog 50K, the thought of running Western
States seemed more practical. Sure, I
had only completed thirty-one miles, about one third of the length of Western
States, but I began to wonder if, with some training, I would be able to gut
out those one hundred miles. Getting into
Western States is no easy task. The
first step is to qualify by completing a race of their choosing, which is
almost always a 100K or a 100 miler. If
you qualify, you must apply for the lottery within the seven day application
period, and cross your fingers that you get selected. The race website has a list of qualifying
races from which applicants can chose to enter.
I chose The Canyons 100K which was to be held in Foresthill, California
in late April, on the Western States Trail.
If I finished within the eighteen-hour cutoff time, I would qualify for
Western States, however I looked at it more as a new adventure and
challenge. I made it to mile forty-eight
before I had to be pulled from the event due to not making it to Rucky Chucky
by the cutoff time. Although I did not
finish or qualify for Western States, I had a chance to race on the most
challenging section of the Western States Trail and enjoyed the experience
immensely. I promised myself that I would
return to Foresthill the following year after more training to seek redemption
at the Canyons 100K. When I take a
moment to step back and look, even though I didn’t finish, it’s alarming to me
that I would attempt a 100K. This wasn’t
even a 100K on paved roads, it was on mountain trails with several thousand
feet of elevation gain and loss on rugged terrain. If someone had told me two years prior that I
would be attempting a 100K footrace someday, I would have looked at them
sideways. How did I go from running
twenty-six point two miles and calling it a day, completely dismissing the idea
of running further to attempting to run sixty-two miles? This analogy can best be compared to a set of
dominoes. You can stand one two inch tall
domino up that weighs an ounce next to another domino that is a foot tall and
weighs two pounds but it is impossible for the small domino to knock the big
one over. Now, if you put several more
dominoes in between the two with each one slightly bigger than the previous one,
you can tip the small one, momentum will build up, and eventually the big one
will fall. When I had finished running
my first marathon on paved streets, running one hundred miles on a trail seemed
impossible. I had taken baby steps by
finishing several more marathons, taking my running from the flat streets to
the hilly mountain trails, logging more distance, completing a 50K race, and
finishing forty-eight miles of a 100K race.
Each of these elements had represented a domino in my line. I have since made it a goal of mine to finish
the Western States 100. How am I going
to do that? More dominoes. The next domino in my line is to complete
more 50K races, complete a 50 miler, complete the Canyons 100K, complete at
least one other 100K race, and run Western States, the final domino in my line.
I have applied this domino theory to other aspects of my
life including my academics, making the move from the Midwest to California,
holding on to relationships, and most recently, the development of my
career. If something seems impossible or
unattainable just think of the domino scenario.
Achieving goals is not just about striving to achieve the goal itself,
it’s about taking the right steps to get there.
Applying the domino theory and taking baby steps will help you realize
that you can achieve so much more than you ever thought you could and nothing
is impossible. So, as those legendary Boston
rockers say, “Dream on, dream until your dreams come true!”.
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