Crawling Out Of The Funk

I was jolted awake and my eyes slowly opened as the alarm on my phone sounded.  My phone read 4:00 PM when I rolled over on the couch to shut it off.  I pulled my blanket off, tossed it to the side, and sat up on the couch, rubbing my eyes.  It was Christmas Day.  Earlier that morning, my aunt and uncle had a group over to their house for a Christmas Day brunch and I had gone over the afternoon and night before for some Christmas Eve festivities.  When I returned from their house that afternoon around 2:00 PM, I felt stressed out and thought that a nap would help calm me down.  When I finished rubbing my eyes, I looked around.  My blinds were closed and my apartment was dark and eerie.  Despite the exuberant family time that I enjoyed over the last couple of days, I felt empty and hollow inside.  Outside of the holiday season, my personal and professional life was changing drastically, and very quickly.  I was healing from a failed marriage, work was extremely busy, and my department at work was undergoing a major personnel shift.  In November, my company offered me an opportunity to relocate from Los Angeles to the executive office in Mountain View, California to work under the new CFO.  I had mixed emotions about leaving the city that I called home for the past seven years, but I was also eager for a fresh start in Silicon Valley.  After a series of meetings and discussions, I accepted the offer.  I had spent the prior week in Mountain View, working out of my new office and getting acquainted with my soon to be new home.  It was an exciting experience and I was looking forward to the move, but as I sat there on Christmas Day, I only had four days left in Los Angeles.  I had secured an apartment in Sunnyvale, given notice to my current landlord that I was going to be moving out at the end of December, and told my managers at work that I would be fully moved to Silicon Valley and ready to work by January 2nd, 2019.  During the ten days or so leading up to Christmas, I had been drinking a little more than I normally do, not eating very healthy, sleeping too much, and not running as much I should have been.  Whether this unhealthy state was a result of the holiday season and that's just how things are at this time of year, or if the mounting stress and mixed emotions in my personal and professional life had sent me into a downward spiral, I couldn't say.  All I knew was that I was in a funk.

I sat there for a good five minutes in the dark as the late afternoon sun peeked through the cracks of my blinds.  Christmas was always big in my family and I've always looked forward to doing Christmas themed races, dressing up in holiday themed attire, attending holiday parties, and generally being festive and jolly.  But due to all the changes in my life during the holiday season, I missed out on a lot of the fun activities that I relished greatly throughout December every year.  Christmas is my favorite holiday and I was supposed to be feeling happy.  But instead, it felt like something was missing.  If there's anything I can't stand, it's sitting on my ass, feeling sorry for myself.  I have accepted the fact that sometimes in life, I need to accept pain and even welcome it, but I've always hated it when people are miserable and don't take any action to improve their situation.  Life is too short to sit around being mopey and letting the world beat you down.  I thought about my Mom and how much I missed her.  Although I have my own beliefs regarding what happens to people after they die, I don't know much about the afterlife.  But there were two things I knew for sure; I knew my mother was watching over me, and I knew that she wouldn't want me to feel this way.  I would no longer stand for it.  "Okay, come on, get a grip" I finally said to myself out loud.  I stood up, switched on the lamp in my living room, and opened my blinds, allowing the light of the outside world to pour through the window of my sliding door.  I sat back down and began focusing.  The first thing I needed to do was acknowledge that I was feeling upset.  But why?  I just had a great couple of days with family celebrating Christmas.  Lots of people spend Christmas alone, and I was lucky enough to be in the presence of family, but my lack of running, increased alcohol consumption, unhealthy eating, oversleeping, and drastic life changes had been a thorn in my side for the past couple of weeks.  I also had missed out on holiday festivities and hadn't gotten a chance to see my friends lately.  And I was supposed to move in four days.  I couldn't allow this feeling to continue.  I acknowledged that I felt down, figured out the cause of the negative feelings, and now it was time to take action.  I went to my bedroom and put on my running shoes, shorts, a shirt from a Christmas run I had done the year prior, and a Red Wings beanie.  I may not have been able to participate in a sanctioned holiday run, but at least I could do my own.  When I returned from a three mile run around my neighborhood, I immediately felt better.  I thought of my friends.  I hadn't seem any of them lately, but it wasn't too late.  I picked up my phone and began messaging them, wishing them all a happy holiday and asking if they wanted to get together for a goodbye-for-now party on Friday night.  Everyone said yes.  I went to sleep that night, feeling a little more optimistic.

On the night of the 26th, the realization came over me that life was simply moving too fast.  I had a moment of clarity, and again, I needed to take action.  The next morning, I walked over to my landlord's apartment and asked if I could keep my place for another month.  When she said yes, I emailed the landlord of my new building asking if I could move in later on in January instead of on December 30th.  She also said yes.  I then reached out to my boss and told him that rather than moving up to Silicon Valley completely by December 30th, my new plan was to be up there to work during the week, come back to LA on the weekends to move things out of my current apartment and clean it out, and be completely moved in mid-January.  To my delight, he was very understanding, and said that it was fine.  I sat back on my couch and breathed a great sigh of relief.  When Friday night rolled around, ten of my closest running and hiking friends and I congregated at Max's, a popular Mexican restaurant among our group.  The evening was filled with laughter, story telling, and warmth.  I promised everyone that I'd be back to visit often, and we'd meet up in the mountains to share more adventures together.  When I arrived home that night I felt happy and at peace.  Things were starting to get back on track, but I wasn't stopping there.  I woke up on Saturday morning, went for a five mile run, ate a healthy breakfast, and went to therapy.  That evening, after purchasing a new pair of trail running shoes from REI, I really felt like I was coming back.  My new shoes and other REI goodies brought on more excitement.  On Sunday morning, I laced up my new shoes and went for a ten mile trail run in the mountains through the snow, followed by another healthy breakfast.

As I type this, I feel better now that I have at any point in the last two weeks.  I feel as though I've come back, and I've crawled out of the funk that I've been in for the last several days.  I feel more excited and optimistic about the move, things are falling into place, and life is being put back into perspective.  I spoke with my therapist and some friends about the rain cloud that seemed to be over my head for the last couple of weeks, which helped put things even further into perspective.  Those who I spoke with advised me not to be too hard on myself, and offered a fresh perspective, even going as far to say that sometimes being in a funk isn't such a bad thing because it gives us a chance to bring ourselves back out of the hole, creating feelings of hope and accomplishment.  Life is all about ups and downs.  There is a well known Japanese proverb that is often used in motivational situations that goes "fall down seven times, get up eight".  I've accepted the fact that I will fall into a funk here and there, but as long as I can muster the strength to overcome it, that's all that matters.  For this current predicament, the timing couldn't have been better.  I'm glad to be on the other end, and I'm stoked I will be going out of 2018 in style, feeling on top.  Bring on 2019!

Into Darkness

If there was ever an album that was specifically created for me to crank in my headphones while running on a snowy trail through the mountains, in the dead of night, under a star filled sky, it would have to be Motley Crue's Theatre of Pain.  The album is crafted in such a way that it is a perfect blend of fun, pop-oriented, country/blues influenced riffs and down-tuned, energy infused guitar playing, with a menacing sound to it.  This is the kind of music you play at night in the wilderness, with the exception of "Raise Your Hands To Rock" which, to me, is more of a "sunrise" song.  I was enjoying the fulfilling sounds of this record as I ran down the snow covered trail under the midnight sky back to Manker Flat, where my car was parked.  As I ran under the ski lift that transported skiers up to Baldy Notch, I was having fun, and all was going well until the music abruptly cut out.  I held my iPod in my left hand and when I looked down, the screen had gone blank.  The only sounds to be heard now were the sounds of the snow crunching under my footsteps, and the light whistle of the wind as it blew through my earbuds.  That is until I heard the sound of a male voice yelling something in the distance off to my left.  I turned my head to face the direction of the sound, but all I saw were snow covered mountains glowing in the moonlight.  No headlamps or lights.  Thirty seconds later, I heard the high pitched cry of a wild animal in the distance in front of me.  I looked up at the mountains in search of a pair of glowing eyes.  Nothing.  I was alone out there.  I kept pushing buttons on my iPod, hoping it would come back on so I could finish the last couple of miles of this run without having to hear the creepy sounds of the wilderness, but the screen remained blank.  This was weird.  I had charged it earlier that day, and when I took off from Manker Flat,  I had almost a full battery.  So why had it died?  Something very odd was going on here, and this situation was quickly shifting from fun and exciting to very unsettling.

Earlier that morning I rolled over in bed and saw on my Fitbit that it was 7:00 AM.  "Damn it" I whispered.  I had set my alarm for 4:00 AM that morning, with plans to go for a trail run at Mount Baldy.  The mountains in the area had just received heavy snowfall, and I wanted to go enjoy it.  My alarm went off at 4, but I shut it off and overslept.  I was disappointed, but I planned to get some good sleep that night and head out there the next morning instead.  But as the day went on, I wondered if I would oversleep again.  It was Saturday, and if I overslept again on Sunday, I wouldn't get my chance.  And then I had a wild idea.  After I attended the family gathering that I had scheduled for that night, I would drive out there and go for a night trail run.  I had never been there at night and I was wanting to try something new and step out of my comfort zone.  Plus I was concerned that I would oversleep again and I'd miss out on my chance.  This was going to be epic.  When I arrived back home that night, I changed into my running gear, grabbed my flashlight and headlamp, and headed out to the mountains.  After I exited the freeway and began driving up the winding road to Mount Baldy, the city lights and traffic gave way to enveloping darkness.  Driving on mountain roads in the dark is drastically different than during the day.  Often, there are no light poles, the road makes abrupt turns and curves, and beyond the beams of your headlights is just darkness.  I drove by several cars parked along the side of the road as I made my way to Manker Flat.  One car had a guy standing in front, all alone, with a hood on his head, just looking at the ground, with neither a smile or frown on his face.  When I arrived at Manker Flat, shut off my car, and turned off my headlights, it was pitch black all around me.  A rush of cool, refreshing mountain air came pouring in when I opened my car door.  As I made my final preparations, an L.A. County Sheriff SUV rolled up the road, about twenty feet away.  When they noticed my presence, they slowed down and shined their spot light in my direction.  They quickly realized that I was harmless, turned off the spot light, and continued up the road towards the ski lifts.  As I walked up the road that would eventually lead me to the trail, I wondered if I should really be doing this.  I had been here over a hundred times to go running and hiking during the day, but it was approaching 11:00 PM, and I had never been here this late at night.  I was used to the parking lot being crowded with cars and people, but I was all alone out here.  The presence of the sheriff SUV brought me some relief, but unfortunately they could only patrol the back country roads, not the trails.  After passing by the gate, I began running up the road.  The lights of a couple of cabins off to the side and down the hill from the road glowed as I ran by, but other than that, it was completely dark.  I put on some music, and soon the road took a sharp right hand turn and gave way to a narrow, graded dirt road.  I plodded along and shortly after passing by the junction where the Baldy Bowl trail flanks off to the left, I came around a bend and what rested before me blew me away.  "Holy shit" I said out loud.  Surrounding me in all directions were dazzling, snow covered mountains.  The mountain tops were bare with pine trees growing on the slopes.  They were prominent and the steadfast, as they glowed in the moonlight under the star filled sky.  The further I progressed, the more scenic the view became.  A light shined in the distance up ahead in the mountains.  The light was the Mount Baldy ski area at Baldy Notch, which was my destination.  I wore a headlamp and carried a flashlight, but given how bright the stars and moon were, I put my flashlight away.  The view was so breathtaking, I had to stop and look around for a minute.  "Wow" I said out loud.  I had been here countless times and I'd never seen it like this before.  This was Mount Baldy in a whole new version.  Not everyone will admit this, but at some point in their childhood, everyone was afraid of the dark.  Our fear of the dark as children plants a notion into our minds, even as adults, that the dark brings a certain element of danger.  Maybe that's why we as human beings, do things like go to clubs and bars, or parties at night.  We know subconsciously, that the element of danger that comes with the dark and the nighttime adds to the allure of partaking in an activity that is frowned upon in a traditional, old school world.  For me, outdoor activities are no different.  The dark is menacing.  It makes hiking, camping, snowboarding, running, just about anything more fun to do a night.  It freaks some people out, and it even freaks me out a little too, but I like that.  It keeps me on my toes, and creates a sense of empowerment because I'm facing my subconscious fear of the dark.

When I finally made my way up to Baldy Notch, the Top of the Notch restaurant and ski huts were closed up and darkened.  The ski lifts rested in the night, and the area looked like a ghost town, except for two flood lights that cast an eerie glow on the snow covered ground.  I made my way up the quarter mile path that led to the junction where the Devil's Backbone trial flanks off to the left, and the Three Tee's trail to the right.  As I approached the trail sign, I pulled out a roll of gold garland I had brought with me, and wrapped it around the top of the sign.  Nothing like spreading a little holiday cheer in the wilderness.  After snapping a couple of pictures, I made my way back to the ski lodge and back down the trail towards Manker Flat.  The trail was covered in snow and it took heightened concentration on the way back down to keep from slipping.  The snow was packed down and iced over in some areas, and I jumped back and forth on the trail, favoring the side that had better grip for my shoes.  The view of the snowy mountains continued to carry me along pleasantly, and in front of me, several thousand feet below off in the distance, the lights of the San Gabriel Valley illuminated the distant sky.  Motley Crue's Theatre of Pain album was pumping in my headphones as I ran underneath the ski lift.  The tone of the music was a perfect fit for the aurora of running on a snowy trail in the wilderness in the middle of the night; fun but also menacing.  But once my iPod abruptly died, and I began hearing the strange, eerie sounds of the midnight wilderness, the situation was becoming a little too menacing.  After hearing a voice and an animal cry, but seeing nothing, I began to question whether I had heard anything at all.  It was likely just my imagination playing tricks on me.  It wouldn't be the first time.  The first time I ran alone in the midnight wilderness, I had no music and it was just me and the great outdoors.  My imagination was running wild and I couldn't wait for the sun to crack the sky.  The strange distant noises continued as I ran down the trail past San Antonio Falls, but by the time I returned to my car at Manker Flat, I knew I was safe, and I was likely imagining all of the funky noises I had heard.  The experience was truly unique.  Not only had I never witnessed Mount Baldy wrapped in a peaceful blanket of starlit night, but I was another step closer feeling more comfortable running through the wilderness alone at night.  We all have that subconscious fear of the dark and running through remote terrain at night allows me to conquer that fear, and knowing that I'm flirting with danger it makes the experience all the more fun.  The very first time I ran alone in the middle of the night, I felt very isolated.  I grew apprehensive, and it freaked me out, but I wanted to do it again.  It was all very exciting to me.  2019 is going to be the year that I attempt my first 100 mile footrace.  Because the race will take at least twenty-four hours to complete, there will inevitably be a period of time where I'll be running alone in the wilderness at night.  Part of my training was going to be conquering my fears and getting used to the trails at night, and I couldn't wait to get after it.  "That was awesome!" I thought to myself as I drove off.       

You Don't Always Have To Follow The Rules

For most people, their teenage years and early twenties are a fun, exciting, wild, but also awkward period of time in their lives.  It's the time in our lives when we're supposed to be having the most fun, but we're simultaneously going through that somewhat uncomfortable stage in our lives where we're trying to find ourselves and discover who we really are.  We try so hard to fit in, hide our insecurities, and we care way too much about what other people think and how they interpret us.  I would have to say I was no different.  During my high school and college years, I was always wondering what other people thought of me and I worried about how well I fit in.  But for most people, there comes a time in life where they stop caring about what others think, and they're no longer afraid to completely be themselves.  Their concern about other people's opinions slowly melts away, and they strip themselves of the social barriers they built up during their formative years.  It takes a certain level of maturity for people to realize that we're all different in our own way, and that's what makes us unique, so why not embrace it?  This phase often begins when people are in their mid-twenties and continues throughout the rest of their lives. 

For as long as I can remember, I've always been different.  I've had several amazing groups of friends throughout my entire life, and I've always gotten along well with my family, but even among them, I was unique.  As a kid and a young teenager living in the Midwest, I watched, as so many other kids around me seemed to just go with the herd.  They did what they were supposed to do.  They didn't question anything, they didn't step out of line.  They watched college football inside all day on Saturdays, played football and basketball, dressed a certain way, and listened to classic rock and hip hop.  Even though some of my best friends fell into this category, I quickly realized that wasn't for me at all.  I wanted to have some fun.  I wanted to be a rebel.  Instead, I snowboarded, played tennis, rode my bike, listened to punk rock, and wore black t-shirts with rock n' roll imagery printed on them.  My father has always been a die hard Red Wings and University of Michigan football fan.  I loved watching hockey because of it's fast pace playing style and the excitement of the game itself, but I could never get into football.  It was boring to me.  I've been a Red Wings fan all my life, and I love hockey.  I tried for years, all the way into my early twenties to get as excited for football games as my family and friends did, but the excitement was never truly there.  I do watch football from time to time, but I'm often neutral in terms of who I root for.

I struggled to find my identity as a kid.  I wanted to be myself, but I also cared about what others thought of me.  As my sister would put it, I "went through more phases than probably anyone she knew".  During my high school and college years, I, like so many others, tried to hide my differences in an effort to be accepted.  I abandoned the rock n' roll t-shirts, wore preppier clothes, and cranked rap music in my car.  I pretended to care about football and basketball more than I actually did (I was a hockey fan), and generally just tried to fit in.  The same Liam was always there, but my true self was concealed in a shell.  It was around when I turned twenty-four that I finally just decided to say "the hell with it" and let my true self shine.  Once I did, it was incredibly liberating.  Shortly after college, most of the guys I went to school with were settling back into their hometowns, proposing to their girlfriends, and some were even married already and talking about having children.  "I'm moving to California" I would tell people.  I was happy for my friends and wished them the best, but I didn't want to follow the herd.  I wanted to do my own thing, and do what I wanted.  Some people simply didn't believe me.  It's not that they were questioning my ambition, it's just that the thought of moving to California was so far from their snow globe of a world, that they just couldn't fathom it.  Other people encouraged me, and others said I shouldn't do it because they didn't want me to live so far away.  But in March of 2012, after several years of trying, I finally realized my California dream.  I left Chicago, where I was living at the time, and permanently relocated to Los Angeles.  I never looked back. 

Even now, as a thirty-two year old man, I'd rather follow my passions and live an exciting life than do what I'm supposed to do in a conventional world.  Certainly it's not unheard of for people in a traditional world to run 10K races or half marathons, but running fifty miles on trails through the mountains is a feat that most people in a normal world can't wrap their heads around.  I run ultramarathons simply because I love to run, but it's also a subconscious way of rebelling against the world that says we all have to be a certain way.  The world that says we should follow the rules and stay in line.  The world that says I shouldn't run ultramarathons because it's not normal.  The same world that surrounded me during my youth.  Fortunately, I've had great support from my family and friends along the way, even if they don't quite understand my lifestyle.  I've broken the rules of living in a traditional world all my life, and I would encourage everyone else to do the same.  No one should ever give up on their dreams because they feel like it's not the right thing to do.  And similarly, no one should ever tell you that you shouldn't do what you want in life because it's silly or not normal.  As Dean Karnazes said in his third book "follow dreams, not rules".  Find your passion, and stick with it.  We only have one life to live, and I'm damn sure not going to waste it away by being miserable in an ordinary world where I just do what I'm told!

The Sky's The Limit

By now, I'm sure it's no secret that running long distance, especially ultramarathons, has had a major impact on my life.  The elements of excitement and accomplishment that running has brought to my life have drastically altered the way I see things.  Since It took up the sport, everything has taken on a new meaning.  Not long after running my first marathon, and even more so after running my first ultra, I began to form these very real connections with running long distance and overcoming other obstacles that are thrown at me in my everyday life.  Making a relationship survive, thriving at work, and finishing an ultramarathon have one significant thing in common;  all require perseverance, strength, and determination.

For several years, I was convinced a marathon was the furthest distance I would ever run.  I learned about ultramarathons while reading memoirs by Dean Karnazes and Scott Jurek, but I didn't think I would ever have the mental strength and physical endurance to conquer one.  It wasn't until I moved to California that I realized my potential and pushed my running boundaries beyond a marathon.  Earlier today I was watching a video interview of Mick Mars, the guitarist of my favorite band, Motley Crue.  Not only is one of the most talented guitar players I've ever heard, but maintains a humble and laid back attitude towards his work.  In the interview he discussed his playing style, stating "It look many years for me to get to where I am now, but I'm not stopping there, of course".  It took many years for me to realize that I could run a distance beyond a marathon.  But once I completed my first 50K, I possessed the same sentiment as Mick does regarding his guitar playing;  I wasn't stopping there.  I have since run several distances longer than 50 kilometers.  At the end of the interview he said "I want to keep evolving, and keep that motivation going.  When you stop learning, you might as well just put your guitar down".  

Mick's words in that interview really spoke to me.  As that last sentence he spoke before they cut the interview rang in my head, the similarity between Mick's attitude towards his guitar playing and my attitude towards running was becoming increasing more powerful.  My mind began to form a connection between his everyday life and mine.  Since finishing my first 50K, I've run several longer and more challenging races, and I currently have my sights set on completing my first 100-mile race in 2019.  One of the things I really love about running is there truly is no limit.  You can always go further and run faster, and there are always new things to learn.  We are all teachers and students in this sport.  I've been running for almost ten years now and I'm still learning new things like how to fuel myself during a long race, how to maintain electrolyte levels,  good cross training techniques, etc.  As my running career continues, I will continue to go further and faster, and I look forward to continuing to push my boundaries and realize my potential.  Just like Mick, I want to keep evolving, and keep the motivation going.  When I stop learning and when I lose the motivation to continue pushing my boundaries, I might as well hang up my running shoes.  The sky's the limit!

  

Ragnar Los Coyotes Round 2: Frozen Stiff

"Anyone know how cold it's supposed to get tonight?"  I heard someone ask as I helped Anthony set up our tent.  "Yeah, looks like around thirty-four degrees" Brian answered.  When I heard his response I almost fell forward into the half-assembled tent.  "Seriously?" I asked.  I had expected that the night time temperatures at the Los Coyotes Indian Reservation in Southern California's high desert would drop to the mid to low forties, but thirty-four degrees, two degrees above freezing, was a level of cold I was not expecting.  Maybe it would have been more settling if we were shacking up in a warm, cozy cabin with heat and comfortable beds, but instead, the ten of us would be camping in tents, relying on warm clothing, bad coffee, and sleeping bags to keep us warm.  And to top it off, each of us would be running at least a few miles in the dark through the frigid temperatures on some of the most challenging terrain of the Ragnar Trail series.

There are a few select things in this world that I have difficulty saying "no" to.  Challenges, adventures, baklava, chocolate chip cookies, oh yeah, and trail running.  When my friend and former co-worker, Alyssa initially reached out to me asking if I wanted to join her team for Ragnar Trail Los Coyotes, I was conflicted.  I had been burning the candle at both ends all summer, running a 50-miler in Minnesota, climbing fourteen-thousand foot mountains, pacing my friend for the last forty miles at the Kodiak 100, and I had just completed a rather grueling Ragnar Trail race in Washington state.  It wasn't easily, but I grudgingly declined the offer.  I love trail running, but I was exhausted.  I needed time to rest my body, and doing another Ragnar race was the last thing on my mind.  I didn't think much of it until Alyssa contacted me again two weeks later, telling me her team was still coming up short.  "I hate to ask, but do you know anyone who can run with us?" her message read.  A few days after initially receiving the message, I sat in front of my computer, wrestling with my conscience.  I was burned out from all of the running I had been doing over the last several months.  I wanted to take the rest of the year off and just do long trail runs on my own during the weekends.  But my friend needed my help.  All Alyssa needed was one more runner to complete her team line up.  If I join the team, I could have a chance to do the three things I love the most; run on trails, help people, and inspire others.  Besides, I had done this Ragnar race the year prior and had a blast.  The tables had turned, and I now had a new sentiment towards this situation.  "I can run with you guys.  Count me in!" I typed.

It was approaching 2:00 in the morning, the temperature no higher than thirty degrees as I finally crested the top of a 1,000-foot climb along the dusty fire road that seemed to go on forever.  Approaching the top of the hill, a red light came into view.  When I got closer, I saw that the light was attached to a sign with a red arrow instructing runners to make a left onto a dark single track trail.  The course consisted of three "trail loops", the Green being 3.1 miles in distance, the yellow being 3.2, and the red, the most challenging loop, measuring 7.9 miles.  Our team of eight runners would be running each of these loops one time on a rotating basis, all around the clock.  As the color of the light and arrow would indicate, I was running the challenging red loop.  As I diverted onto the narrow path that flanked off the fire road, things became a little more dicey.  The minimal light that was being cast by the shining stars in the sky was now obstructed by trees and thick brush.  The trail followed a series of up and down, zig zag twists around tree roots, boulders, and natural debris.  My headlamp lit the way, but because it was so dark, I could only see a few feet in front of me.  Tree branches and rocks seemed to appear out of nowhere and every step needed to be executed with caution.  It can be challenging running on dark, narrow trails in the middle of the night.  Unlike during the day when the natural daylight makes the path visible from several yards away,  in the dead of night, your world is confined to the beam of your headlamp and you become instinctively cautious, especially on the steep descents, where it can be easy to trip and take a nasty fall.  I followed the winding path through the darkness for a while, when suddenly as I ran up an incline, I came around a bend and the trail stopped abruptly in a small clearing surrounded by thick bushes.  There was no way out and I quickly realized I needed to make a U-turn.  I ambled down the hill for only about ten seconds before the path came back into view in the light of my headlamp.  Apparently, I had missed one of the many switchbacks along this section of the red loop and went off the grid.  Now back on course, I continued along through the midnight wilderness.  Occasionally, I'd see the headlamps of other runners through the trees in the distance, but other than that, it was completely black, and other than the sound of the wind blowing through the brush that surrounded me, there was not a sound to be heard except my breathing and footsteps.  How did I feel at this moment?  I was having a blast.  This was this kind of adventure that I craved and lived for.  While others were ordering their last drinks at the bars and clubs in Los Angeles, I was two hours away, running along a winding trail through the wilderness in thirty degree weather, barely able to see in front of me.  In my opinion, a Friday night doesn't get much more fun than this.

Earlier that morning, I rendezvoused with Brian, Anthony, and Jessica, three of my teammates, at the Metrolink train station in Tustin, where we loaded our gear into my Camry and headed down the freeway through the California high desert, arriving at the Los Coyotes Indian Reservation around 8:00 AM.  Despite the only sporadic cell phone reception, we were eventually able to find the rest of our team, who had already set up camp near the path that led runners from the Ragnar Village to just outside of the camping area, where the trail split into three different paths for each of the three loops.  Our group for the weekend consisted of Alyssa, her boyfriend, Travis, my other friend and former co-worker Anthony, Jessica, a girl from the San Francisco Bay Area whom we found on the Ragnar Facebook page, Alyssa and Travis's friends, Juan, Juan's girlfriend Mayra, Phil, Brian, Frank, and myself.  Mayra came along with Juan for moral support and Frank was our volunteer.  As we greeted each other and finished setting up camp, Alyssa distributed our team shirts.  Our team name was "The Handmaid's Trail" which paid homage to Alyssa's fondness of the drama television series "The Handmaid's Tale".  Our team slogan, which was printed on the back of our shirts, was "Blessed Be The Loop", a mockery of "Blessed Be The Fruit" a commonly used phrase in the show's dialogue.  Aside from Anthony and Alyssa, I was getting to know everyone else for only the second time.  Everyone was in good spirit and excited to be participating in the adventure.  During the ride from Tustin, Jessica had told us stories of suffering from unimaginable medical issues in her past, and as a giant "F you" to all of the suffering she had endured, she was running half marathons, had just participated in a Ragnar road event the weekend prior, and had her sights set on becoming an ultrarunner.  Brian, a father of two, was the comedian of the group, drawing constant laughs with his jokes and stories, and Frank, little did I know, was going to not only be our volunteer, but would also be preparing hot meals for us throughout the weekend on a modest camping stove.  Being with such a fun and inspiring team was a powerful tonic and we fed off each other's energy throughout the day as we completed the course, loop by loop.

Reverting my thoughts back to the present, the winding, narrow trail gave way to an open sea of rolling hills, and the sky was again filled with shining stars.  I hammered through a steady descent along a fire road, and made my way through another section of winding single track trail before finally approaching the junction where the trail intersected with a dark, quiet two lane road.  Having done this race the year prior, I knew what was in store for me after crossing that road; I would begin the final climb of the loop, a draining 700-foot, two mile incline back to Ragnar Village.  This was the section that most runners loathed, but I kept putting one foot in front of the other, and eventually the lights of the village came into view.  As I rolled into the transition area, Travis took off running for the green loop as I handed him the team bib.  Lean, muscular, and fast, Travis was an extremely solid runner.  He had done very well on the yellow loop earlier that afternoon and, being our last runner of the order, he would be running the red loop as his last leg and as our team's final leg the next afternoon.  As Travis ran off into the night, I meandered through the village towards the bonfires and heat lamps, where several other runners were attempting to keep warm in the freezing temperatures.  Some runners were roasting marshmallows and making s'mores as I approached the fire.  Although it was 3:00 in the morning, running the red loop had awakened my appetite, and I wolfed down a couple of s'mores, washed them down with a cup of hot chocolate, and began walking back to our campsite to get some sleep.  Long distance running causes your body to generate heat and increases heart rate and blood flow, so despite the temperature being below freezing, I was able to stay fairly warm in my running shorts, a long sleeve thermal, a short sleeve shirt as my outer shell.  But now that my heart rate was slowing and my blood was no longer pumping, the cold began to set in once again as I walked down the dirt road back to camp.  Once inside our tent, I shivered as I changed into my warm, dry clothes.  Anthony and Frank lay asleep next to me and I tried to not step on them or wake them up.  This was the third Ragnar trail race I had done with Anthony.  A long time running friend and former co-worker, he was built more like a football player than a distance runner, but he always tore it up on both the road and trails.  The prior weekend, he had participated in a Ragnar road race, so he was doing two Ragnars on back to back weekends.

When the sun turned the starry sky to morning a few hours later, I didn't want to get out of my sleeping bag.  The early morning air was frigid and I felt warm and toasty lying wrapped up like a mummy wearing long pants, socks and a hoodie inside the tent.  Over the last three hours, I had slept sporadically, but it was very light sleep, and felt more like I was taking continuous power naps and resting my eyes.  There was little sound throughout the camping area during the night except the runners' footsteps along the path and the occasional cheer, hoot, or holler in the distance.  While I had been resting and trying to sleep, Juan and Brian had completed their loops and Alyssa was now on the course.  Juan, a co-worker of Alyssa's, was the first runner in our line up and was running strong.  His girlfriend Mayra, although not a runner, was very supportive and seemed to be enjoying the experience despite the cold weather.  Outside the tent, Brian was telling the others about his experience running the red loop during sunrise and was flipping out over how our bananas had frozen throughout the night. "Wow, it's so good!" he said, his words muffled by his chewing.  I started laughing and soon dragged my butt out of my sleeping bag and stumbled out of the tent, breathing in the cold, crisp morning air.  Someone had gotten word that the temperature dropped to 27 degrees Fahrenheit the night before.  Many people don't realize that Southern California can get that cold, but we were at 4,500 feet of elevation, and in the high desert, temperatures can be extreme.  On our camping table, Frank was whipping up some bacon, sausage, and omelets.  To our delight, he was really rising to the occasion.  The morning prior, he cooked up sausage burritos when we arrived, and prepared stuffed bell peppers for lunch.  As I finished my breakfast, I sat near the path cheering on runners as they glided by.  Among them was a runner who was wearing bright colors, had pink hair, several tattoos and piercings, and reflective sunglasses.  I had first met her the day prior while walking to the village from our camp site.  She didn't know who I was, but I recognized her instantly.  As I approached her, I made eye contact.  "Catra Corbett!" I said in excitement.  A former drug addict, Catra conquered her habit, cleaned up, and was now a famous ultrarunner who had completed more than 250 ultramarathons and had been gaining a strong following on social media in the last several years.  I purchased from her an autographed copy of her memoir and she entertained our team with inspiring stories of superhuman endurance the night prior.  Not only was she a rock star of a runner, but she was very humble and a fun person to be around.  I couldn't wait to start reading her book when I got home.

After a few brief minutes of waiting, Phil sprinted into the transition tent, handed me the bib, and off I went down the yellow loop.  Having completed the green loop the day prior and the red in the middle of the night, I now just had to conquer the yellow loop before I was finished.  The course traveled the same route as the red loop for the first two miles through winding single track trail before finally flanking off to the right at the top of a long climb.  As I crested the hill, a sea of hills rested under the sun in the distance in front of me.  It was a beautiful morning, the chilly air refreshing and energizing.  Knowing that we were nearing the end of the race, I put the hammer down for the rest of the loop and came sprinting back into the transition tent after a few more climbs and descents.  Travis immediately emerged after I came running in and took off to tackle the red loop, the final leg of our race.  Back at the campsite, we relaxed in the sun and began packing up before heading to the finish area to wait for Travis, where we would all cross the finish line as a team.  Several teams lined the last hundred yards of the path cheering on runners and providing moral support.  Some were even handing runners beer as they passed by.  When Travis finally approached, we went wild, formed a tunnel as he ran through, and ran behind him to the finish line, crossing all together, throwing our arms in the air in celebration.  We finished in just under twenty-nine hours, around the middle of the pack.  Immediately after crossing, we embraced in a group hug, collected our medals, and posed for photos wearing our team shirts.

Two hours later, we were packed up and saying our goodbyes as we loaded up our cars and headed home.  The sun was setting as I drove down the desolate desert highway, sharing stories and funny moments from the weekend with Anthony, Jessica, and Brian.  I reveled in the experience of running the challenging course and with a new group of people whom I felt I had gotten to know incredibly well in the last thirty-six hours.  We had only spent a day and a half together but it felt like we had been hanging out for months.  I was happy that I could be a part of the team and was looking forward to running with this group of folks again.  I was forward to looking at my pictures from the weekend, and reading Catra's memoir.  But mostly, I was looking forward to a nice warm bed instead of sleeping in a hoodie, long pants and socks in a sleeping bag on the cold, hard ground.

    

Welcome To The Other Side

August 27, 2016.  That was the day my entire life as I knew it changed forever.  That morning I stood amongst a pack of runners in Malibu Creek State Park in Calabasas, California, jumping with anticipation, ready to take on the Bulldog 50K.  When the gun went off I charged from the start line running cautiously, but more determined than ever before.  Six hours and eight minutes later I staggered across the finish line and was handed a finishers belt buckle.  I had just completed my first ultramarathon.  Those six hours and eight minutes felt like an entire lifetime, complete with moments of joy, elation, pain, and despair.  At that point I had been a runner for seven and a half years and had never felt such strong emotions after finishing a race.  When I finished my first marathon in 2010, I thought I had seen it all.  I thought I had just conquered the ultimate running challenge.  And then I discovered Dean Karnazes.  I’ve read his books numerous times and he remains one of my biggest inspirations.  Dusty Olson and Scott Jurek have been equally substantial influences.  For years, I sat back and read and listened to their tales of superhuman endurance, which included running one-hundred-mile trail races through the Sierra Nevada mountains and powering through one hundred and thirty-five miles of road running in Death Valley in the middle of July while I continued to run half and full marathons on pavement, convinced that I had reached my peak by finishing a road marathon. 

One day in Fall of 2015, after years of hiking numerous trails in the mountains of California, a proverbial light bulb clicked on in my mind.  I asked myself a question that would ultimately pave the way for my future as an ultramarathon runner; I can hike these trails, so why can’t I run them?  Following my revelation, I spent several months testing my limits and finally bit the bullet and signed up for the Bulldog 50K that following spring.  Finishing my first marathon changed me but finishing my first trail ultramarathon was overwhelming.  I was blown away by the whole experience from the incredible support given by other runners to the supreme sense of accomplishment.  I loved every minute of it.  The pleasure, the pain, everything.  I felt as if I had stepped into another dimension and I couldn’t believe what I had been missing all those years.  The ultra-endurance world was a whole other universe that I had spent so long on the outside looking in on.  All I could think was “welcome to the other side.  This is only the beginning”. 

Opening Up

The air was pleasant and mild as I shuffled down the narrow trail along the American River hoping that I would arrive shortly at the junction where the trail meets up with the fire road that would lead me to the Rucky Chucky campground.  I had been waiting for a while and when the junction finally came into view, I breathed a great sigh of relief.  I had been very much looking forward to this moment for the last couple of miles.  The problem was I was looking forward to it for all the wrong reasons.  It wasn't because an aid station was coming up or because I was on the home stretch towards the finish line.  It was because I told myself that when the trail deposited me onto the fire road, I would walk for a while so I could try to regroup.  I was just over a third of the way into the Overlook Endurance 50K, a trail race created by legendary ultramarathon runner Ann Trason.  Taking place on the Western States and Tevis Cup trails from Foresthill to Auburn, this race, although challenging, was not as daunting as many of the other races that are held on these trails.  Still, fifty kilometers on trail is not easy and today it was straight up kicking my ass.  I started off the race at 8:00 that morning feeling really good, but once I arrived at the Cal2 aid station at mile eight, exhaustion has set in at concerning levels.  That was four miles ago.  Now there was no gas left in the tank.  My energy levels were plummeting and I was desperate to get some food in my system.  I staggered onto the fire road and immediately slowed to a brisk walk.  A few people passed by and I offered kudos.  I hate being passed and I wanted nothing more than to keep running but I was powerless.  This situation was becoming more grim with each passing step.  "What have you gotten yourself into this time, you crazy ass?" I said out loud.   

For as long as I can remember, I've always had trouble expressing negative emotions.  Given the environment I grew up in, the people who surrounded me, and the situations that I witnessed as a teenager and an impressionable child, I became pretty skilled at sweeping my emotions under the rug.  Don't get me wrong, I had a great upbringing with a loving family, but the message that I was taught, whether it was intended to be this way or not, was if you had a problem, crying or complaining would not be tolerated.  Don't cry about it, just take action and solve it.  In my eyes, letting my guard down and showing vulnerability was a sign of weakness.  As an angst driven teenager, whenever I felt sadness, hurt, or insecurity, I tried to cover it up with a rebellious attitude.  I was never a bad kid, but I was always a bit of a rebel.  It's not that I didn't take my problems seriously, I just wanted people to think otherwise.  I wanted to be the happy guy who didn't have a care in the world.  Oh, you have problems? Who cares!  Be happy.  When good things happened I celebrated and showed immense excitement.  But if something bad happened?  Eh, oh well.  It's all good.  During the months that followed my mother's death in 2005, my family and friends were extremely concerned about me.  Everyone else in my family was grieving over our loss, but I barely shed a tear in the presence of others, even during the funeral.  I cried alone but there was no way I could cry in front of others.  It wasn't the way I was brought up.  I had to hold it together and be the tough guy.  Over the past year, especially the last six months, I've been slowly learning how much I didn't know back then.  My personal life has been in a tailspin for the last six months, and thanks to some devastating events that have occurred and the help of my therapist, it has been becoming increasingly apparent that this is no way to live.  Being happy all the time, minimizing problems, and not showing negative emotion is by no means normal or healthy.  I've always wanted to be the eternal optimist, but letting others around me know when I'm upset or angry if I'm feeling that way doesn't make me a pessimist.  It makes me a normal human being with real feelings.  Being positive and solutions oriented is a great personality trait, but still, I need to allow myself to feel pain when life brings bad news.  If a situation is bad,  I can't act like everything is fine.  It's not good for me nor is it good for others around me.  Over the last several months I've practiced expressing negative emotions and opening up to my friends and family about my mother's death and the pain I've been feeling lately because of the state of my personal life.  I couldn't believe some of the things I was telling people.  A year ago I would have never shared such feelings and thoughts with anyone.  But now I was, and the support I've received has been overwhelming.  It's helped me get through hard times, brought me closer to my friends and family, and although it's taken a long time (thirty-two years for god's sake), it's made me a better person.  I'm beginning to see that it's okay to show anger or sadness when I'm in a bad situation, but still remain calm and be a problem solver.

The situation I was in was definitely a bad one.  The slices of watermelon and pickles that I wolfed down at the Rucky Chucky aid station at mile fifteen had helped a little, but even with the help of a little food, my energy levels were still low.  The trail continued to roll along the American River and eventually let me to a beautiful, grassy meadow.  By that point, I was convinced that the only way I was going to finish this race, if I could finish, was by moving at a snail's pace.  This meant walking a good portion of the rest of the race and running only when capable.  It wasn't ideal, but it was the only way.  As I shuffled by a hiker who was out for a mid-morning stroll, I said hello.  "Nice work.  How're ya feeling?" he asked.  I didn't feel good at all.  "Great!  I feel awesome!".  That's what I would have said a year ago if I were in this same situation.  But that's not who I wanted to be anymore.  It's hard for me to accept defeat, but I had to say how I really felt.  I had to be honest.  "I'm struggling.  I just have no energy.  I'm having an off day".  It wasn't easy to say that out loud to someone else.  The trail was the absolute last place I wanted to show vulnerability.  But I have to admit, it felt good to be honest.  "Well, you look great.  Keep it up!"  I thanked him and pressed on.  Things were dismal at the moment, but being honest about how I felt to a total stranger made me feel more at ease.  I felt like my state of mind was better that it would have been if I had said that everything was just fine and dandy and I was about to throw it into overdrive and drop all these pansies in front of me.  I expressed my honest feelings again when a runner passed by me a mile later.  "I'm having a hard time too man, it's a tough race.  But keep going you got this!" he answered.  Just like that, things were starting to pick up again.  I felt like I was coming back.  Perhaps by showing honest emotions and vulnerability, I was purging my mind of  the negative energy that was slowing me down.  Maybe I was doing something right here.

Eventually the aid station at the river crossing emerged through the brush.  After I crossed the river I would have another twelve miles to cover which sounded unsettling, but I was seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.  I grabbed some salt tablets, wolfed down some peanuts, and grabbed onto the rope that stretched across the river as I stepped in.  The frigid water came up to my stomach and I kept a tight grip on the rope as I made my way, step by awkward step, to the other side of the river.  After climbing out of the water, I expressed my feelings of concern to some volunteers and their words of encouragement were a powerful tonic.  Not only could I feel the negative energy escaping from my mind, but the river crossing had cooled me off and put some life back into me and I was getting a second wind.  I began running once again along the rolling trail.  I still felt exhausted, but the second wind that I caught was carrying me along.  There were only one hundred and ten runners doing the 50K so I ran mostly on my own, but when I caught up with some other guys, we exchanged pleasantries, told stories, and encouraged each other.  When I eventually rolled into the Quarry Road aid station, I had some more food and noticed a bowl of energy gel packs on the camping table.  I despise energy gels, but I needed to get my energy levels up so I forced myself to stomach a couple of packs of the disgusting berry flavored sludge.  The final check point at No Hands Bridge was just over four miles away.  From there, it was just four and a half miles to the finish line at Overlook Park in Auburn.  "You can finish this" I said to myself.  "Just four miles, then you can refuel again at No Hands Bridge, then it's just four and a half more miles until you're done".  After refueling a final time with watermelon, chips, and pickles, I crossed No Hands Bridge and began chasing the finish line.  Despite gobbling down salt tablets, drinking plenty of fluids, and eating high energy foods, I was still exhausted and now my legs were beginning to cramp on the downhills.  When I hit the twenty-nine mile mark, I couldn't run at all anymore.  If I worked up the energy to try, my legs would immediately cramp.  My mind wanted to run but my body said "No friggin' way".  So I let my body have it's way and I walked.  I walked until I heard footsteps approaching behind me.  I turned to see a blonde woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties slowly closing in on me.  "Hey, nice job" I called out as she approached.  I thought she was going to blow right by me just like several other people had, but instead she slowed and walked with me.  She had been suffering all day from IT band issues and was having a tough go at the race, but she was determined to finish.  I told her about how hard of a day I was having as well and we traded words of encouragement as we walked along.  She introduced herself as Beth, and she was a local who ran on these trials somewhat regularly.  I didn't want to run for fear of cramping but, with a mile left to go, we started to pick up the pace.  What I did resembled more of a duck waddle than running, but at least I wasn't walking.  And if I were walking, at least I was moving forward.  Mind over body every time.  The final stretch was a savage uphill to Overlook Park, but we powered through, and soon enough, we could hear the music and announcements over the PA at the finish line party at the top of the hill.  People cheered me on, and the finish line came into view as I ran along one final bend in the trail.  Running through the finish line, I hooted and hollered as I threw my arms in the air.  I had finished in just over seven hours, right in the middle of the pack.  Beth crossed the finish line about thirty seconds later.  Just as she did, she began crying tears of joy and her friends rushed over to her for a group hug.  I walked over and gave her a high five and we thanked each other for keeping each other company during the last couple miles of the race.

The course was beautiful and the fall colors made the scenery all the more vibrant, but it was one of the most grueling finishes I had ever experienced.  Sure, my time was decent, but for some reason, I just could not get my energy levels up that day.  But, as is the case of anyone who pursues their passion, runners sometimes have off days.  I was happy that I finished, but I was more proud of myself for stepping out of my comfort zone and opening up to total strangers about my feelings of hopelessness and despair during the race.  Some people are very good at it, but complaining doesn't come easy to me.  I hate being a complainer, but sometimes it's necessary and it sure as hell is better than being dishonest with myself and others around me when I'm not feeling good.  If I had swept everything under the rug and just told people I felt amazing, things would have gone from bad to worse.  Releasing the negative energy from my mind through expressing true feelings is what got me through this race.  Of course, I'd rather give off positive energy during in running events and I fully intend to keep doing so in the future, but I will also have no fear of letting out negative energy if I'm having a hard day.  I never thought I'd say this, and it pains me even to type it because I hate it, but hooray for complaining!


         

   

Ragnar Trail: The Evergreen State Edition

Ten minutes had passed since we departed the water station along the dark, frigid trail.  The aid station was occupied by a single volunteer who enthusiastically informed us that we only had 1.7 miles left before reaching the transition tent, where my friend Tony was anxiously awaiting our arrival.  Sounds pretty basic, however that 1.7 miles was going to climb a good thousand feet to the summit of a ski resort 7,000 feet above sea level.  My friend Christina and I were powering through the steady climb when suddenly, she stopped dead in her tracks.  "Liam?  Do we have to go up there?" she asked.  When I looked up, I saw that her head was tilted upwards and she had her eyes focused on the headlamp lights belonging to a pair of runners at the crest of the climb approaching the summit, well off in the distance.  Up until now we had kept up a constant chatter, her injury was not bothering her, and she was in good spirit. However, when she spoke those words, I sensed a hint of edginess in her tone.  There was a brief pause and when I realized her concern, I answered "yes, but don't look up there.  Just look forward."

In November 2017 I completed my second Ragnar trail race in Warner Springs, Southern California, and shortly after, my friends and I uncovered a Ragnar trail race that looked to be even more epic; Ragnar Trail Rainier up in Washington State.  This race was new to the series and it was quite popular.  We immediately secured a spot for our eight person team.  Several months later after a quick flight from Los Angeles to Seattle, a lucky mishap at Enterprise that resulted in me being rented a Ram 1500 pickup truck at no extra charge instead of the Nissan sedan that I had reserved, and a delicious brunch at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in the boonies, my friend Monica and I were driving down a desolate road through the Washington countryside in search of a Walmart.  Wanting to travel light, I had not packed a sleeping bag, tent, or canopy to bring to the race and instead opted to purchase a canopy at a bargain price from Walmart, and rent a sleeping bag from REI for the weekend.  Tony and I would be sharing his four season tent that he was bringing along.  Once we arrived at the store, we purchased a canopy and some drinks and snacks for the rest of the team before heading to closest REI in Tacoma.  I was surprised when I received the news from a sales associate that REI did not rent sleeping bags.  I instead purchased one on sale and thanks to my REI dividend, I walked out only spending $16.  Monica and I were both in awe of how beautiful it was outside as we drove along.  Owing to the fact that Northwest Washington has several "rain days" throughout the year, the wilderness around us featured vibrant colors, including various shades of green.  I admired the pine trees that lined the road.  They were so massive, the branches often stretched all the way across the road above us.  Every once in a while a turnout would emerge on the side of the winding road, and we would pull over to take pictures of the river and surrounding mountains and trees.  When we finally arrived at the race venue, we rendezvoused with Christina, Dave, and Iris, and began hauling our gear over to our campsite.  We were going to be spending the next couple of days camping at the base of the Crystal Mountain Ski Resort while eight of us took turns running around the clock to finish twenty-four "legs", equal to around 127 miles of rugged, but beautiful terrain.  There were three different trail loops, all three beginning and ending at the ski resort, and each of us would run them one time on a rotating basis.  The race would be over when all eight of us finished our three loops.  This meant that everyone would get to enjoy the experience of running at different times of the day including in daylight and in the dark.  The course is designed to offer each runner a little bit of daylight and darkness.  Ragnar Mount Rainier was quickly becoming one of the most popular Ragnar trail races in the series, and hundreds of teams of eight runners had traveled from all over to partake in the adventure.  As we walked towards our campsite, we passed by other runners, through the village, and walked past booths belonging to corporate sponsors who were giving away and demoing their products.  I loved where our camping area was.  All around us in every direction were towering mountains covered in tall green pine trees, with small ski huts resting about halfway up some of the slopes.  Iris, Dave, and Christina had arrived early and met up with Monica and I, and the remaining members of our team, Denis, Yesenia, and Tony, would be arriving later that night.  Just as we finished setting up camp, we saw that Denis had messaged our Facebook thread advising us that he and Yesenia's flight had gotten delayed and they wouldn't be arriving until 5:30 AM the next morning.  Their plan was to fly into Portland, Oregon and make the three-and-a-half our drive to the resort in their rental car.  Our race was scheduled to begin at 6:30 AM so they would be arriving in the nick of time.  Tony was scheduled to arrive in Seattle at 2:30 AM so after we had dinner at the lodge, I headed to the truck to get a couple of hours of sleep before I had to leave to go pick him up.  Thanks to the comfortable seats and the thermal blanket that Monica lent me, I was able to get a some solid sleep despite the cold temperature outside.

Six hours later we were driving down the pitch black road in my rented pickup truck, me behind the wheel, Tony next to me in the front seat with his gear in the back.  We had just passed a flashing "elk crossing" sign so I was taking a cautious and reserved approach along the winding, tree lined road that led back to the ski resort.  I had picked up Tony from the airport around 3:00 in the morning and he was entertaining me with stories of his recent successful summit of Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, Africa.  Once we arrived back at the resort, we unloaded Tony's gear and enjoyed some brief down time before heading to the transition area to watch Iris, our first runner, kick off the race.  When the gun went off, she ran from the start line and began pounding up a long climb before disappearing up the mountain and into the wild.  The three trails consisted of a green, yellow, and red loop.  The green loop, which was 2.9 miles long and rated as the easiest, was the loop that Iris was running.  She was an avid hiker and a solid runner, having finished several marathons, along with the Elk 50K in Oregon during fall of 2017.  That first incline looked daunting, but nothing she couldn't handle.   Denis and Yesenia had not arrived yet due to their delay being longer than expected, so we had to reconfigure the order of the runners a little.  When Iris finished her loop, I would be heading out to tackle the yellow loop, which was regarded as one of the toughest trails of the entire Ragnar Trail series.  Forty minutes later, I found myself powering along up the same climb that Iris had gone up during the green loop before banking right at the junction where the trail split.  The yellow loop was 4.9 miles long and featured a merciless 2,500 foot climb to the summit of the ski resort.  I ran underneath the ski lifts as I made my way along the ridge, the Ragnar village resting far below to my right.  I ran steadily up the climb through the towering pine trees until the trail leveled out and passed by a clear blue mountain lake and through a vibrant, green meadow.  I was running along through the pine trees gracefully, enjoying the setting, when suddenly, a tree root caught my shoe and I lurched forward.  To my relief, my reflexes were spot on, and I was able to stop myself from falling on my face.  Once I overcame the rattle from my stumble, I was again able to enjoy the beautiful mountain scenery that engulfed me.  As I ran, I noticed a strange cold feeling on my right foot near my big toe.  It felt as if I had run through water and the front of my shoe was wet, but I had hopped over all the creeks along the trail and stayed dry.  When I looked down to inspect my foot, I was shocked to discover the source of the cold sensation.  When I tripped over the tree root, I had torn the whole front of my shoe open.  The tear in the lining was a good three inches, and the left side of my foot, where my first three toes were, was completely exposed.  There was nothing to do but keep moving forward and just be extra cautions not to trip on any more roots or kick any rocks until I finished this loop.  The rest of the run was challenging, but majestic.  It was a foggy morning and I couldn't see much, but the setting was mesmerizing.  The cool air felt clean and trees of different shades of green continued to line the trail as I made the final push to the summit.  When I arrived at the transition tent, which marked the end of the loop, Monica emerged from the crowd of runners and took off down the red loop.  As I walked away from the crowd at the transition tent, I saw the other team members snapping pictures.  We hopped on the gondola and when we made it back down to the Ragnar village, Denis and Yesenia had arrived and were setting up camp.  My plan was to find some duct tape to repair my shoe but luckily, Solomon was sponsoring the race and letting runners test out their shoes for free, so I grabbed a pair from the booth to use for the remainder of the race.  Now that the team had arrived in its entirety, Denis and Yesenia got some sleep while Tony and I walked over to the lodge to fill up on the $15 breakfast buffet that was made available to runners.  When we walked into the warm building, the aroma of delicious breakfast food filled the air.  The selections were marvelous.  Pancakes, sausage, bacon, scrambled eggs, potatoes, muffins, fruit, you name it.  We piled food onto our plates and made ourselves cups of piping hot black coffee.  The food was delicious, and the ski lodge really rose to the occasion, much to our delight.  The building was open all day and night, offering clean restrooms and a place for runners to come warm up rather than freeze their butts off at the campsites at night when the temperatures were forecasted to drop to the low forties.

Time passed, miles were covered, runners finished their loops, and later on that afternoon, our team was gathered near the transition area awaiting Tony's arrival.  He had taken off to tackle the green loop fifty minutes prior but we hadn't seen a message on the Facebook thread from him notifying us that he was closing in.  Our rule was when each runner hit the one mile mark from the finish area, they would message the Facebook thread so that the next runner could be ready to roll once they arrived.  Tony was a seasoned long distance hiker, having summited Mount Whitney numerous times, the highest peak in the forty-eight states, as well as several other significant peaks including Mount Fuji in Japan, and most recently, as mentioned above, Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, Africa.  In addition, he was also an accomplished runner with several marathons and a few ultramarathons under his belt.  An hour had now passed since he departed the transition tent and we still hadn't heard from him.  It shouldn't be taking him this long to run 2.9 miles, even on this rugged terrain.  Something was wrong.  We waited in confusion, hoping he hadn't twisted his ankle or hurt himself, which is not uncommon while running on trails.  Seconds later, a message from Tony popped up on the thread; "I think I took a wrong turn.  I don't see anyone.  Trying to find my way back to the trail".  Realizing that he was okay and that he had only gone off course, we breathed a sigh of relief, then began laughing hysterically.  How could he have gone off course in broad daylight on the easiest loop of the race?  We couldn't wait for him to arrive back at the transition area, not only so Yesenia could take off on the yellow loop, but more so because we were all dying to hear his explanation of how he managed to miss the turn.  When he finally arrived at the finishing area, he explained that he was so in awe of the beautiful surroundings that he decided to pull out his cell phone and capture a video, but missed the left turn from the fire road onto the single track trail in the process.  He ran a mile further down the fire road before realizing that there were no other runners in sight and no Ragnar signs marking the course, so he made a U turn.  We gave him plenty of grief for that one.

Dinner that night was a delicious selection of various types of pastas, meatballs, salads, and giant chocolate chip cookies and brownies for dessert.  We laughed like hyenas at our table as we looked at photos that we had taken from the race earlier that day.  About an hour earlier, Christina had finished the challenging red loop, and although her Plantar Fasciitis injury had not flared up to the point of grave concern, she was sore and cramping during the final half-mile push up the road to the finish area.  Realizing that she was struggling, Monica decided to run down the road to help.  Dave and Iris had asked Monica to hold on to their jackets and water bottle while they ran off to the restrooms, so Monica took off down the road, two jackets in one arm, a water bottle in the other, and her bag slung over her shoulder.  When she returned with Christina ten minutes later, she also had Christina's jacket crammed into her hoodie pocket, and was carrying Christina's phone.  Dave captured photos of Christina's finish with Monica at her side hauling everyone's belongings along the final approach, which looked hilarious when we zoomed in on her.  She didn't look like a happy camper, but in addition to being a strong hiker and runner, Monica was always willing to lend a hand when needed.  She was essentially our team mom.  She had joined Tony on the expedition to Mount Kilimanjaro and told stories of the men who worked for the trekking company known as "porters".  The company had assigned three porters per hiker to carry all of their gear up the mountain such as the tents, sleeping bags, etc. while Tony, Monica, and the other hikers carried only day packs.  Upon viewing these photos, we began calling her "Porter Monica" because she seemed to be carrying everyone's gear while Christina freely made her way to the finish.

By my estimated time calculations, I would be running the green loop around 11:00 PM, so after dinner I retreated to Tony's tent to get some sleep for the night shift.  Later that night, I watched as Dave came cruising into the transition area.  When I rushed over to high five him, he was covered in sweat and looked like pure, one-hundred percent energy.  Dave had been hiking for over twenty years, so strenuous trails were no stranger to him.  Upon seeing Iris finish her first 50K in fall of 2017, he decided to start running and ran the LA Marathon earlier in the year.  Seeing him finish the 8.2 mile red loop with such conviction was inspiring.  He looked like he could have gone and done it again.  After fifteen hours, it was finally time for me to run again.  I dashed off into the night and gave kudos to other runners as I pounded up the climb.  Once into the wilderness, the trail narrowed considerably and I hacked along with my arms in the dark through the overgrown brush.  After banking left at the top of the hill, the trail widened into a fire road and followed a descent further into the wild.  My pace picked up on this smooth path but it was very dark and my world was confined to the beam of my headlamp.  It looked as if I were running through a tunnel with massive pine trees appearing out of nowhere along the side of the trail.  After powering down another descent along some single track trail, the fire road dumped me out into the parking lot of the resort and I ran the last half-mile freely into the transition area, where Christina was waiting for me.  She was going to be running the yellow loop immediately after me and I had volunteered to go with her, given her injury, cramping, and owing to the fact that the yellow loop can be very sketchy at night.  Contending with a 2,500 foot climb with cramping and a PF injury all alone in the dead of night didn't seem all that appealing.  We hiked along up the climb and into the meadow through the midnight wilderness exchanging stories and laughs.  Christina had summited  several 14er's in California, including Mount Langley and Mount Whitney several times, but over the past year she had been battling Plantar Fasciitis; an injury that involves inflammation of the plantar fascia tissue and causes a great deal of pain in the heel and foot, making it extremely difficult to hike and walk.  Those who suffer from PF often have good and bad days, and fortunately for Christina, her injury wasn't bothering her too much.  We passed through the aid station at mile 3.2 at a steady pace, but the final mile and a half climb to the summit was taking a toll on her.  Fearing that she would get discouraged, I advised her to just look forward instead of further up the mountain where we could see the headlamps of other runners approaching the summit.  I turned and looked back as we marched up the switchbacks.  A line of headlamps made their way up the trail behind us as the distant mountains glowed in the silvery moonlight.  I stared at the full moon above as it cast a bright glow over the tree tops.  It looked like the DVD cover of a scary movie, but it was a beautiful night.  Nearing the crest, a volunteer sat in a chair alongside the trail wrapped in a blanket, blowing a police whistle and enthusiastically cheering on runners as they passed.  Her energy was a powerful tonic, and we powered up the last quarter-mile climb towards the transition area feeling strong.  It was approaching 3:00 AM when we arrived and after greeting us with a high five, Tony took off into the night down the red loop.

Emerging from the tent later that morning and watching the sun glow through the cracks of the partly cloudy sky onto the mountains filled me with energy and excitement.  bundled up in a sweatshirt, a fleece jacket, a pair of long pants, and socks while rolled up in a sleeping bag, I managed to stay warm and get a few hours of sleep.  After another delicious visit to the breakfast buffet, we congratulated Yesenia on finishing her last loop.  Being a solid hiker and runner, she came tearing through the finish with strong conviction.  Next, Christina and Monica would be running the green loop together.  In an effort to help runners finish the race earlier, the race directors had given us the option of "doubling up", meaning we could run our remaining loops together.  Christina and Monica would run green together, Dave and Tony would run yellow, and Denis and I would bring it home by running the red loop together.  Shortly after noon, Denis and I met Tony and Dave at the summit of the ski resort and took off down the trail for the final loop of the race.  At 8.2 miles, the red loop was the longest of the course and featured a six mile descent down a winding trail from the summit, followed by a two mile incline to the finish.  Our teammates had warned us that the footing was tricky during the first couple of miles and it was easy to fall, so we powered along cautiously while enjoying the view.  Denis had served in the military for several years and had lost forty pounds after taking up running and hiking.  We had climbed Mount Shasta together and he was one of my teammates for Ragnar Los Coyotes.  We talked casually as we ripped down the switchbacks through the pine trees.  The downhill was pleasant and gradual and the scent of pine filled the air.  When we finally reached the bottom of the gorge at mile six, we passed by a water station and began a gradual incline up a fire road before diverting onto a single track trail that featured abrupt uphills and downhills.  We ran through water, mud and over sharp rocks before finally emerging onto the road for the final push.  People cheered us on, and as we ran up the final approach, our entire team joined us and we all ran across the finish line together.  All eight of us embraced in a group hug in the tent after bursting across the finish line.  It had taken us thirty-two hours, we had experienced set backs and obstacles, but we succeeded as a team.  It was a euphoric moment.  After collecting our medals and packing up our campsite, we congregated at a brewery nearby for a celebration dinner before retreating to the hotel room that Tony, Monica, and I were sharing.  By the time I took a shower I was dead tired and my eyes were bloodshot.  Lying down in the hotel bed felt heavenly compared to lying on the cold, rocky ground of the Crystal Mount Ski Resort, and I promptly passed out.  The next day, our flight back to Los Angeles was leaving at 4:00 PM so we had a few hours to kill.  After breakfast at the hotel, we admired the stunning views of Seattle from the top of the space needle.  It was a cloudy morning and we were unable to see Mount Rainier in the distance, but the views of the city were breath taking.  Later on at the airport as I was going through security check, the TSA workers asked me if they could take a look through my carry on.  I agreed, and it turned out that my Ragnar medal was setting off the medal detector.  The agents apologetically informed me that because the medal had jagged edges, they couldn't permit me to take it onto the airplane but offered me the option to have it mailed to me.  It was approaching our flight boarding time and I would have to go to a customer service counter, fill out some paperwork, and wait in the line to go back through security again.  I calmly told the agent that they could toss the medal.  I've collected dozens of medals over my nine years of running, all of which are in a plastic bin in my closet.  Once in a while, usually when I'm re-arranging my closet, I pull them out and reflect on the memories.  Of course it's cool to have the medal and it serves as a nice memento, but it's the experience that matters not the medal.  I was bummed and it was unfortunate that I had to give up my Ragnar medal, but in the end,  the object itself wasn't what was important.  What was important was the incredible experience of running through the mountains with my friends, growing closer, working towards a common goal, and reveling in the accomplishment together.  Nothing could ever take that away from us.  Over the next few days after I arrived back home, my body was yelling at my mind to let it rest.  I had been burning the candle at both ends for the last few months and the exhaustion in my body was making its presence known.  They say endurance never sleeps but sooner or later, we all need a break, and I was looking forward to mine.   

The Role of a Pacer

                                                  

Many people cannot fathom the thought of running 100 miles.  There is simply no way a human can travel that far on foot.  Even if it is possible, why would anyone want to put themselves through so much anguish? Running 100 miles requires a supreme level of physical fitness, along with mental toughness of biblical proportions.  Granted, only a small underground group of runners are interested in these types of races, but 100 milers are held all over the world every year.  In order to maximize their chances of finishing strong, most runners have "crews", a group of two or three people, usually family or friends, to help them.  Crews have access to runners at certain aid stations throughout the race and often provide nourishment such as food, drinks, changes of clothes, a place to nap, etc.  Having a good crew plays a significant role in the success of a 100 mile runner and can sometimes be the difference between finishing and not finishing.  Another significant role in a 100 mile race is the role of a pacer.  A pacer is someone who will rendezvous with the runner at a certain point in the race and run the last thirty or forty miles with them to the finish line .  The pacer's job is to provide psychological encouragement at the right times, keep the runner moving, and give them some company, especially in the dark when it can be easy to get distracted and wander off course or get injured.  The most exciting part of pacing someone, especially in their first 100 mile race, is providing the motivation to propel them to the finish line.  Being someone's pacer, in my mind, is an honor because you get to play a role in their success.  So, when I was presented with the chance to pace my friend Juan Carlos (JC) in his first 100 mile race, I jumped at the opportunity.  He had signed up for a race called the Kodiak 100 in Big Bear Lake, California, and when he told me he was originally going to run alone, I offered to pace him despite having no experience.  He accepted the offer and we mapped out our plans for me to meet him at mile fifty-nine in a remote area of the Southern California wilderness.

Big Bear Lake is one of my favorite places in California.  Nestled in the San Bernardino Mountains two hours outside of Los Angeles, it is a year round destination for skiing and snowboarding in the winter and jet skiing, kayaking, and fishing in the summer.  The Kodiak 100 is a race of extremes.  The course circumnavigates the entire Big Bear Valley in a single loop, climbing and descending several mountain peaks along the way, including two ski resorts; Bear Mountain and Snow Valley.  The race is run almost entirely on trails and fire roads, and lies mostly above 7,000 feet.  Not only is there around 17,000 feet of elevation gain, but runners must also contend with the dangers of running in high altitude and unpredictable weather.  I had left work around 4:00 PM, and after weaving through some Friday night L.A. traffic, I arrived in Big Bear shortly after the sun set for the day.  I would be meeting up with JC at an aid station called the dump, which was a small parking lot where the Pacific Crest Trail intersects with the CA 18 highway.  I had been tracking his progress online since the race started at 8:00 AM that morning.  Last I saw, he was at Snow Valley, putting him right on target to meet me at midnight, as planned.  My friend Edith was also coming up to Big Bear to pace her friend Violeta, and her crew had rented an RV for the weekend.  Once Edith arrived and we found each other,  it was decided that it was best for me to drive to the dump, try to sleep for a couple of hours in my car, and wait for JC.  When I arrived, I saw runners crossing the road, an aid station was set up in the parking lot, and crew vehicles were parked all around.  It was energizing to see so many enthusiastic crew members and strong runners out here in the middle of nowhere in the dead of night.  Stepping out of my car, I breathed in the crisp, refreshing mountain air.  The sky was filled with stars, and the half moon cast a silvery light on the road.  After checking in the with the staff and signing my paperwork, which by the way mentioned the possibility of serious injury or death, I reclined the seat in my car and tried to get some rest.  It was around 10:30 PM so I had some time to try to sleep before JC arrived.  Two and a half hours later, after barely getting a wink of sleep, I refreshed the tracking page on my phone to see if JC came through.  Still nothing.  Something had to have been wrong.  It was approaching 1:15 in the morning and he definitely should have arrived by now.  Had I missed him?  Just then, a text from him popped up on my phone, indicating that he had arrived.  I jumped out of my car and soon found him sitting in a camping chair wrapped in a blanket, eye glasses on, enjoying a bowl of hot soup with ramen noodles.  Despite being stung by two bees earlier in the race, he looked pretty fresh and was holding up really well.  We greeted each other and I introduced myself to Eligia and Sheny, his two crew members, who were selflessly supporting not just JC, but also his friend Alex during the race.  Alex was about an hour behind JC and was expected to arrive shortly.  I also met Maricris, who as one of Violeta's crew members and was awaiting her arrival.  Sheny and Eligia had their SUV stocked with snacks and drinks and had been doing a great job keeping JC and Alex nourished.  While JC was regrouping, I changed in my car, grabbed all of my provisions, and at 2:00 AM on the dot we bade the crew farewell and took off down the trail together to tackle the forty mile journey to the finish line in Big Bear Lake Village.

There was only modest elevation change as we followed the trail through the pine trees and along the edge of an ink black canyon before arriving at the next aid station in Burns Canyon four and a half miles later.  As we approached, we saw a small group of runners sprawled out in camping chairs, eating and drinking, trying to regroup.  When I asked one of them how he was doing he just shook his head.  "Wrecked" he answered.  We paused at Burns Canyon only long enough for JC to sip some hot coffee before disappearing back onto the trail and into the wild, our headlamps lighting the way.  We talked casually as we carried on, enjoying the tranquility of the midnight wilderness.  JC told me that his girlfriend, who lives in Modesto, was proud of him for even having the courage to sign up for this race.  He was grateful for her support, and he said that he had "promised her a buckle", meaning that he was going to do whatever it took to earn himself a finisher's belt buckle.  We plodded along the gentle terrain for a while before the trail began a gradual incline up the side of the mountain and became littered with rocks.  The more rugged terrain forced us to slow our pace as we climbed around the sharp, loose rocks.  Through the constant chirping of crickets, there was not a sound to be heard except for our footsteps and the occasional dog bark from houses near the base of the mountain, several thousand feet below.  A clicking sound in the distance shook me from my focus.  It was the sound of trekking poles making contact with the ground behind us.  When I looked back, sure enough, a headlamp was quickly closing in on us.  As it got closer, JC and I stepped to the side of the trail to let the runner through.  "Hey, how's it going?" I asked as the man approached.  No response.  When his face emerged in the beam of my headlamp, he looked like he had just seen a ghost.  He had a look of panic in his eyes, and he passed by us frantically along the rocks with the help of his trekking poles, not even acknowledging our presence.  As we crested the top of the hill and made our way down the descent, the first rays of sunshine began lighting up the sky behind us.  The morning sky quickly filled with vibrant color as we ran down the switchbacks towards the next aid station.  By the time we reached the checkpoint at the base of Sugarloaf Mountain, mile seventy, the sun had risen, and Eligia and Sheny were at the aid station awaiting our arrival.  JC took a seat near a battery powered space heater, trying to warm up as Eligia and Sheny brought him food and fresh clothing.  A few minutes later, Edith emerged from the crowd and greeted us.  She was waiting for Violeta to arrive and was preparing for her journey of pacing her to the finish line.  Following closely behind Edith were JC's friends Alex, Nelson, and Gus.  Alex was also running the 100 miler and Gus and Nelson had been taking turns pacing him since mile fifty-two.  I introduced myself and we chatted as I sipped some insta-coffee and JC chowed down on an order of McDonald's pancakes, compliments of Edith.  My watch read 6:49 AM when we checked out of the aid station and began the five mile, 3,000 foot climb to the summit of Sugarloaf Mountain.  I admired the beautiful scenery as we made our way up the trail, running when capable, but mostly hiking.  Here's a little fun fact about Sugarloaf Mountain; there are a lot of false summits.  There were at least two instances where I thought that we were most definitely approaching the summit, only to see another distant peak further in front of us.  There was nothing to do but keep moving.  The course descended the same route that it climbed and several runners were making their way down as we trekked to the turnaround at the summit.  About a mile from the top, a man wearing a white skirt and sandals flew by us down the mountain as we moved to the side of the trail.  It took a moment to register, but I soon realized it was the first time I had seen a Tarahumara runner in person.  The Tarahumara are an ethnic group who reside in the the deep canyons of the state of Chihuahua in Mexico and are known internationally for their ability to run effortlessly for hours on end.  The skirt the man was wearing was traditional Tarahumara clothing and his sandals, properly termed "huaraches", were the trademark footwear of Tarahumara runners.  Many people wonder how these men can run so gracefully with just sandals on their feet, but the truth is they don't know any different.  Up until today, I had only read about them and seeing them in person tearing up the mountain was incredibly exciting. A short time later, the summit finally came into view.  We stood on the highest point of the course, elevation 9,952 feet, as we checked in with the volunteers before continuing.  Several runners greeted JC as we pounded back down the mountain, giving him words of encouragement.  About halfway down the mountain we saw Edith and Violeta making their way up and gave kudos to each other.  As we neared the bottom, we were approaching mile eighty-one of the race.  This is around the time where for most runners, their legs become useless for moving them forward and mental strength takes over.  As we came around a corner, we saw a woman standing on the side of trail, crying.  The climb up to Sugarloaf had crushed her spirit and she had little hopes of finishing.  Sensing her despair, JC and I stopped to help.  We couldn't offer physical assistance or we risked getting disqualified, but in critical moments like this, words can be a powerful motivator.  Ultrarunners will often provide psychological support to another runner in times of dire need and sometimes later in the race, that runner will return the favor.  Team work is crucial, and sometimes hearing the right words of encouragement at the right times can be all a runner needs to keep from quitting.  After giving her a quick pep talk, we continued down the trail and soon the aid station was upon us.  To my delight, Sheny and Eligia really rose to the occasion and went to work on JC and Alex as soon as we arrived, changing their socks, soaking their feet in ice water, and providing snacks and drinks.  I gobbled down watermelon, pickles, chips, and all kinds of goodies from the aid station while JC and Alex sat down and regrouped.  I sat down nearby and took a good look at JC.  He was eighty-two miles into his first 100 mile race and even though I knew he was exhausted he looked completely fresh.  It was my first time pacing someone and it was his first time running 100 miles.  It was uncharted territory for both of us, but I was determined to do whatever it took to get him to the finish line.  I would be lying if I said that I didn't feel a little pressure.  As a first time pacer, I didn't completely know what to expect before the race.  It is not uncommon for runners to have at least one major meltdown during a 100 miler.  If JC were to fall apart, it would be up to me to convince him that yes, he could go on.  And what would happen if I couldn't get him moving again?  Would I turn into the alter ego and start yelling at him to show him tough love?  Would I have to restore a sense of hope in him that he lost after so many soul crushing miles?  I knew that if JC didn't finish, I would be mostly to blame.  If his journey came to an abrupt end, the questions would forever linger in my mind.  Did I not push him hard enough?  Or did I push him too hard to the point where he broke down?  I was hoping for the best but prepared for the worst.  Seeing him at mile eighty-two in good spirit was a huge relief for me but I knew that our journey was not over yet.  JC and Alex were counting on Sheny, Eligia, Gus, Nelson and I, and it was up to us make sure they made it to the finish.  We would either succeed or fail as a team. 

We departed the aid station at 11:46 AM and began making our to the next aid station at the base of Bear Mountain, five and a half miles away.  After throwing down some pretty fast miles during the descent, we rolled into the aid station at Bear Mountain, mile eighty-seven, feeling strong.  After checking in with a volunteer, JC calmly informed me that he was falling asleep on the trail a few miles back while we were running.  I was shocked but not particularly surprised.  He had been running since 8:00 AM the morning prior with virtually no rest.  Despite his drowsiness, he looked focused and determined and my concerns about whether or not I could get him to the finish line were beginning to slowly melt away.  He was doing an amazing job, but I reminded myself that we still had some distance to go and I needed to be prepared for anything.  The race wasn't over until he crossed the finish line.  I wondered how Edith, Violeta, Alex, Gus, and Nelson were doing.  We hadn't heard anything from them so we assumed they were surviving.  Once we left the aid station, we picked up the single track trail shortly down the road and began the ascent up Bear Mountain.  The climb was moderate compared to Sugarloaf and JC glided along the rolling hills and up the inclines with me following closely behind.  After rolling through the Skyline aid station at mile ninety, we ran swiftly down a graded fire road that offered sweeping views of Big Bear Valley.  The beautiful mountain scenery was a nice distraction, but this section was very exposed and the afternoon sun was beating down on us.  At the bottom of the hill at mile ninety-five, a couple of guys had parked their pickup truck and were providing ice to runners.  As JC popped some ice cubes into his mouth and I threw some down the back of my shirt, we prepared ourselves mentally for the final climb of the course.  I knew it was going to be a doozy, but I didn't completely know what was in store for us until we talked with the two guys in the pickup.  They advised us that the final aid station was at the top of the hill.  Unfortunately, between us and the aid station was a two-mile, 1,500 foot climb.  I didn't realize how challenging this climb was going to be until we were making our way up at a snail's pace, barely able to move forward.  We exchanged few words along the way except for me giving JC occasional words of encouragement and him thanking me for stopping him from sliding backwards down the hill a couple of times.  About halfway up, we decided to stop for a few minutes and sit on a rock to gather our senses.  "You know I can't carry you right?  That's against the rules" I said.  Although JC was on the brink passing out, he got a kick out of my weak attempt at humor and we soon pressed on, step by step towards the next aid station.  Just when we thought our bodies couldn't contend with one more step of this monster of a climb, we heard the sounds of aid station volunteers cheering runners on and waiving them in to the aid station.  The aid station at the top of the hill was just another two switchbacks up the mountain and when we arrived, the volunteers greeted us with enthusiasm and were incredibly accommodating.

The final four and a half miles from the last aid station were run with a new mindset.  My concern had completely vanished, and I knew that JC was going to make it.  About a mile down from the aid station, he revealed to me something I didn't know;  rather than showing support, a lot of people in the running community told him that he would not be able to finish.  They told him it couldn't be done and that it would simply be too much for him.  I was appalled at the lack of support that he received and told him the only reason why people were doubting him was because deep down, they were unsatisfied with who they were as individuals.  I told him that when he crossed the finish line in just a few miles, he was going to be a changed man from this day going forward.  Knowing that he was more capable than he ever imagined was going to change his whole outlook on life.  Finishing a 100 mile race was going to be a life changing experience for him.  The last mile was run with pure joy and emotion.  We left the trail and ran down the paved street through a residential area towards the Village.  The last hundred yards to the finish line were lined with spectators and I slowed to a walk during the last fifty feet and watched JC burst through the finish line.  We immediately embraced in a hug and people crowded around him shouting his name out and giving him high-fives.  He crossed the finish line at 6:00 PM in thirty-four hours and six seconds, beating the cutoff time by two hours.  Alex, Nelson, and Gus finished shortly after and Sheny and Eligia rushed over to us and congratulated both JC and Alex on their amazing accomplishments.  Unfortunately, Violeta wasn't so lucky.  She had dropped out at mile eighty-two after twisting her ankle multiple times on Sugarloaf Mountain, but was still in good spirit.  Eighty-two miles was an incredible accomplishment and Edith did a great job of pacing her and giving her pep talks when things got ugly.  She gave it hell.  We knew how tough Violeta was and she was determined to come back next year and finish.  After the awards ceremony, we congregated at Sonora Cantina for a celebration dinner before heading back home.  This day was really for the runners, but it was an experience that I will never forget.  Sheny, Eligia, Gus, Nelson and I had all worked as a team, but in the end, it's the runner who finishes the race.  I was incredibly proud of both of them and I knew that their lives would be forever changed.  The next morning when I asked JC how he was feeling, he thanked me and said "it was hard but we did it".  More like YOU did it, JC.  I was just along for the ride.  A fun and wild ride, if I might add!