It's All in the Family

Becoming healthier and more fit was not the only reason I became a runner.  Yes, having a strong immune system, a lean physique, and higher energy levels are a nice bi-product, but there are deeper reasons why I derive pleasure from running long distances.  Before I go into one of those reasons, allow me to share a family story to create the proper segue.  

My parents were both born and raised in Michigan.  My mom grew up in a historically Irish-American Detroit neighborhood known as Corktown, whereas my dad hails originally from Detroit, but beginning at age fourteen, grew up in West Bloomfield, a suburb known for it's Jewish culture.  Over the years, my dad's side of the family made their way to various places across the United States.  While my mom's family remained in Michigan, my aunts and one uncle on my dad's side followed my grandma out to Southern California when she moved there after the death of my grandpa.  Once my aunts settled in California, they eventually married and started their own families.  Having cousins across the country felt like a double edged sword.  I hardly got to spend any time with them when I was growing up, but traveling to California every few years to visit was great fun, and ultimately planted one of the seeds that would eventually grow into the "Liam's California Dream" plant.  Lots of different personalities run on my dad's side of the family, especially among the kids, but there was one cousin who always stood out to me; my cousin, Doug.  Born on the same day as me in 1981, he grew up in Ventura County, just north of Los Angeles.  He and his older brother were the only two children my aunt ever had, and they were both with her first husband, whom she divorced when Doug was young.  He spent the majority of his life growing up with my aunt's current husband as his stepdad and although he had a pretty good upbringing, he was always looking for a shot at rebellion.  He developed a strong friendship with two other guys in his school who shared the same sentiment and in 1995, the three boys who were barely teenagers at the time, discovered the perfect outlet for their pent up aggression; they were going to form a metal band.  Inspired by Black Sabbath, the Sex Pistols, Pantera, and many other bands, the trio went to work with Jeff having the role as the vocalist and guitarist, Raymond playing drums, and Doug taking up bass guitar playing duties.  The three spent their early days playing cover songs in their school's gymnasium for their classmates.  They later recruited a second guitar player, and played at parties, public parks, and even had a couple of club gigs here and there.  Not bad for a seventeen year old kid from Southern California.  We also have to remember that this was in the late 1990's.  There was no Facebook, Instagram, or Youtube back then.  In those days, you actually had to play gigs, put up flyers around the neighborhood, and give away homemade tapes and CDs for free at your gigs.  That was how you got people to notice you, listen to your material, spread the word, and hopefully come to the next show.  The guys had chosen the band name "Black Opal", a name that matched perfectly to their image, music style, and their "we don't give a shit what you think" attitude.  Their image involved black and white photography, black crosses, and the band members often performing in various band T-shirts, such as the Misfits and Megadeth.  During this era, rap metal and alternative metal were becoming quite popular in the mainstream, and although their music was more thrash influenced, Black Opal began to make some big noise on the local circuit, at least in Southern California.  By the time Doug graduated from high school in June of 1999, the band was still going strong.  Then one day, a week after graduation,  he was out driving with some friends.  The details still remain unclear to me, but Doug's friend somehow lost control of the car, drove onto the median, and collided head on into a large tree.  His friends suffered injuries, but tragically, Doug was killed.  This is one of the biggest blows my family has ever endured, even to this day.  The guy was barely eighteen years old.  He had just graduated high school.  He had done so much in his eighteen years on this planet, and poof, just like that, everything was gone.  Understandably, it took quite a bit of time for my aunt and the rest of my family to recover from this tragedy.  As someone who lost his mom at a young age, I can say from personal experience that these types of situations can never be fully accepted.  There are always unanswered questions.  Although those feelings never go away, you learn to cope with it, and things get easier over time.  

Although we didn't spend much time together growing up, Doug and I were a lot alike.  We both had a rebellious side.  During my childhood I was lucky enough to have parents who had rules and standards, but simultaneously encouraged me to express myself.  I was a different kind of kid.  I didn't want to play football or basketball or listen to boring music.  I wanted to ride my bike, do snow sports, and play tennis.  My musical taste varied widely, but I loved rebellious, loud music like Limp Bizkit, Korn, and the Offspring.  It was my outlet for aggression.  Some of the other kids in school didn't understand, and I was often mocked for listening to "angry" music.  Even though he was so far away, Doug's status as a bass player in a metal band made me realize there's nothing wrong with music with some edge and attitude to it.  It was his outlet for aggression just like mine.  Years later, after I became a runner, I realized that part of the reason why I got into the sport was because it provided the same outlet for aggression as music did for me many years earlier.  Both of them together have worked wonders for me.  Running ultras is such an extreme act that most people can't wrap their heads around.  It's like a counterculture. It's certainly something that narrow minded people would look at, and simply dismiss it as ridiculous and wonder why in the world people would want to do it, even if they could.  When I run ultras, a part of me feels like I'm flipping that world the middle finger.  It feels rebellious and powerful.  To me, edgy music is one of the most misunderstood things in the world, and in some ways, I feel like ultrarunning is also.  Doug and I definitely come from the same family.  It must be a Dumenjich thing.  We have a rebellious side that we're just looking for a shot at showing everyone in a healthy way, and I feel fortunate that Doug and I have both seemed to find our way. 

RIP Doug, I miss you man.  Hope all is well on the other side!    

Pine to Palm: Running a Live Marathon During a Pandemic

Las Vegas is known for many things.  Casinos, colorfully bright lights, clubs, entertainment, etc.  When people think of what Vegas is known for, I would say that snow and mountains are pretty far down the list.  But, to my delight, that is exactly what we got as my friends Kelly and Ellen and I drove up the twisting mountain road in my car, scoping out the course that Kelly and I would be running the next morning.  Allow me to rewind back to mid-October, about a month earlier.  During a post group run hangout, Kelly mentioned she was going to be running a live marathon in Vegas on November 13th, which drew curious reactions from the group.  People wondered how the organization was going to be able to hold an in person race safely, given the current state of the COVID-19 pandemic.  The opportunity to run a live marathon during these times sounded intriguing, but sadly the race was sold out, so I quickly kicked the idea to the curb.  That is until a week later when I received a text from Kelly that went a little something like this; "Hey! My friend who was going to run the Revel Mt. Charleston Marathon with me is injured.  Do you want to buy her bib and run in her place?".  After careful evaluation, I decided that I simply couldn't miss out on this opportunity and I accepted the offer.  After all, I hadn't run an in person race of any kind since March, eight months prior.  

The day before the race, I drove eight hours from Silicon Valley to Las Vegas, checked into my hotel, and promptly met up with Kelly and Ellen, who had arrived about thirty minutes earlier.  As we previewed the course in my car, we arrived at what would be the starting area of the marathon the next morning, a cabin resort part way up Mt. Charleston, resting peacefully at 7,600 feet.  The race was going to be a point to point course, which involved runners being shuttled up the road to the starting area, then running a full marathon's distance down the desolate mountain road into the north end of Las Vegas, finishing at a local school.  Kelly always preferred to preview race courses in advance, and it was a good thing we had done so.  We were not expecting snow and ice to be present at the start, and the temperature for the following morning was forecasted to be seventeen degrees Fahrenheit, much colder than we had anticipated.  Despite her concerns, Kelly seemed more excited and confident, now that she was more familiar with the course.  I knew it was nothing she couldn't handle.  She had already qualified for Boston twice and ran it once (twice if you count the 2020 virtual edition).  During the weeks leading up to this race, she was logging sixty mile weeks, teaching virtual boot camp , and working with clients in her job as a personal trainer.  There was no doubt that she would crush this race.  The sun began setting as we made our way down the road and back to the hotel.  Ellen had discovered that there was an Italian restaurant within close proximity to our hotel, so the plan was for us to order takeout, have our own little pre-race dinner at the hotel, then try to get to sleep as early as possible.  Reception was spotty as Ellen dialed the restaurant to place our order.  When the takeout dude picked up, it sounded like a bad transistor radio with static in the connection.  "Hello? Can you hear me?!" Ellen said into her phone rather loudly.  "Yes ma'am, I can hear you" the guy replied in a casual tone.  "Okay!  Can I please have a...a cheese calzone?! and...a...a chicken Caesar salad! With dressing on the side!"  Ellen sounded more like she had fallen off a cruise ship and was trying to get rescued, than placing an order for takeout food, but the static continued and she wanted to ensure the order was heard properly.  Kelly and I sat in the front seat trying to contain our laughter.  "Three cannolis!! Okay, can you repeat that back to me please?!".  We simply couldn't contain ourselves anymore and let out a burst of laughs as she finished up the order.  The poor guy is probably just now getting his hearing back.  Our food, however, was delicious, and I was comfortably full, as we lounged around in Ellen and Kelly's hotel room.  We video chatted with my girlfriend, Samantha (or Sammy as I call her) after we finished eating.  She unfortunately couldn't be with us during this adventure, but it felt as if she was there in spirit.  She wished Kelly and I luck, and I soon retreated to my room on the next floor to take a shower and get some sleep.  

I awoke at 4:15 the next morning, compliments of the rooster alarm on my phone, and began the meticulous process of preparing for the journey ahead.  Kelly had woken up an hour before me, and had just boarded her shuttle at the school a few miles away for her 6:20 AM race start time.  In order to allow runners to social distance, this race was a "special edition" in which only 262 runners were allowed, and the start of the race was staggered in waves, with forty or so runners per wave.  My start time was at 7:20 AM, and in anticipation of potential logistical issues, the race staff required that I board the bus by 5:40 AM.  Before heading out, I stopped by Ellen and Kelly's room, where Ellen wished me good luck.  She would not be running this marathon with us, but she came along on the trip for moral support, which speaks volumes of her character.  I often simply refer to her as "Coach" due to her profession as a running coach, which is well known in our running community.  During the pandemic she has done a great job of holding our circle together and I was grateful for her support.  I had just enough time to stop at the convenience store across the street for a fresh, hot cup of coffee and a donut before arriving at the school and boarding the shuttle.  The race staff members were careful to follow safety measures by only filling the bus to fifty-percent capacity and allowing everyone to have their own seat, requiring that we wear face coverings during the ride to the start line.  Upon arrival, I was relieved to hear that the temperature was twenty-eight degrees, not as frigid as I had expected.  The race director spoke to us at the front of the bus.  "2020 has been an extremely difficult year for all of us, and we're so grateful to you for coming out and running and giving us a reason to be here".  His words were a powerful tonic, and I started to get a really good feeling.  It had been such a long time since I had run a race in person and it felt great to be there.  When he finished talking, I raised my fist in the air, and have a thumbs up "Did you have a question?" he asked.  I chuckled and said "Nope! I'm just really happy to be here".  "Cool! I'll be back in about fifteen minutes, right before race start".  I then said out loud to the people around me "I'm not going to be the one jackass that asks a question", which drew some laughs.  

Fifteen minutes later, us runners stood outside in the small start area, trying to keep warm, waiting our turn to cross the start line.  The rules stated that face coverings were required in the start area, but could be removed once we began running.  We stood in a small line apart from each other as runners took off from the start line one at a time, about every ten seconds.  Eventually it was my turn, and off I went.  As I ran out of the parking area and down the road, snowy mountains surrounded me in every direction.  Several cabins and houses rested in the conifer and pine trees upon the mountain slope in front of me in the distance.  Although there were a few hills along the course, the elevation would be a net loss of around 5,000 feet, and the road descended along a gentle downhill grade as it weaved through the mountains.  I closed my eyes and inhaled the cold, refreshing mountain air, as I ran past campgrounds and roadside cabins.  Although the sun had now made it's way into the sky and shined brightly above, plenty of snow still lined the sides of  the road and covered the ground.  We were still technically in the Las Vegas city limits, and it was hard to imagine I would ever encounter snow, pine trees, and granite mountains here, but a small storm had come through earlier in the week and delivered some early snow accumulation at higher elevation.  The snow dissipated around mile eight, as the course continued to lose elevation.  The snowy mountain peaks now lied behind me in the distance, as desert terrain and joshua trees now dominated the landscape.  Things had been going relatively well so far.  As the day began to warm up, I discarded my gloves and rolled my arm sleeves down to my wrists.  Vegas weather can be unpredictable at this time of year, but the temperature was forecasted to be in the low sixties at the finish line, which was perfect for race day weather.  Despite the restrictions, the race staff still managed to place portable toilets along the course every five miles or so.  At the halfway point, shortly after using the restroom, I pulled a Honey Stinger gel from my pocket and sucked it down.  I'm not a big fan of energy gels, but this one came with the race package.  I had heard good things about Honey Stinger, so I decided to give it a try.  "Why not?" I thought.  Surprisingly, it tasted pretty good.

Even though there were always runners within eyesight, I ran alone almost the entire race.  There were a few instances where I either passed runners or they passed me, but other than that, it was just me and the open road.  The road remained open to automobile traffic, so runners were instructed to stay to the right of the cones that lined the shoulder for safety.  Luckily, since it was a Friday morning, only modest traffic motored along on this remote mountain road.  I looked straight ahead at the massive mountains that rested in the distance in front of me as I approached the twenty-mile mark.  To accommodate the safety measures, the aid stations were spread out further along the course and were only monitored by one volunteer each.  The rules stated that face coverings must be worn if stopping at aid stations, however thanks to my handheld water bottle, I didn't need to make any water stops along the way, and I simply ran through and thanked the volunteers as I passed.  "Wow, who else would be smiling like you at mile twenty?!" the volunteer called out enthusiastically as I passed through.  I was so excited to be running an in person race that I of course had a big stupid smile on my face as I ran by the aid station and greeted him.  The final few miles of the course lead us through the quiet neighborhoods of north Las Vegas, and the landscape had since shifted from desert and joshua trees to a more suburban neighborhood with palm trees lining the street.  As I rounded a corner past the twenty-three mile mark, the street began a steady incline.  "Aww man, we have a hill this far into the race?" I shouted semi-jokingly to the volunteer at the aid station.  "Yep! but it's just a little one".  Well, in reality, yes, it was a very gradual incline, but it went on for the next mile and a half.  Despite gravity working against me, I tried to focus on maintaining a consistent, steady pace.  The course eventually leveled out, and the finish line and school parking lot soon came into view.  My excitement levels soared when I saw Ellen cheering on the side lines and I threw my arms in the air in celebration as I ran through the finish line.  Kelly emerged from a food tent and congratulated me on my finish, as I grabbed a small carton of chocolate milk and a finisher's medal.  I felt great, and it had been an awesome race.  My pace remained consistent throughout, and during the final few miles I was able to kick things into high gear, thanks to the Honey Stinger gel.  Kelly had an excellent race, setting a personal record for herself, and qualifying for Boston once again.  She did an awesome job, but when it came time for the three of us to leave the finish area, Ellen had to help her up off the pavement.  

Kelly and Ellen were planning on leaving the next morning, but after we checked out of our hotel and finished a celebratory lunch at a nearby restaurant, I was back on the road to the Bay Area by 4 PM.  I only made it about an hour before I had to pull over and take a nap, but after that, I was good to go.  I drank some soda, and Sammy chatted with me on the phone for a little while to keep me company.  The race director on the bus that morning had been right.  2020 has been a challenging year for all of us.  Many people have lost their jobs, suffered from depression, and have lost loved ones to this horrible illness.  Running an in person marathon gave me a sense of hope.  It made me realize that there is a light at the end of the tunnel.  We will make it through this if we can be patient.  Even though things have taken an unpleasant turn in the last couple of weeks for most of the country, I feel confident that we are rounding the corner on the vaccine, which I'm sure will gradually bring some normalcy back to our world.  As I filled up my gas tank in a rural area just outside of Bakersfield, I realized that even though I wouldn't make it home until 2:00 in the morning, it was well worth it for that little bit of hope.    

The Sleepy Road

We've all had those instances where we've gone into an everyday store like Target or CVS, made a simple purchase for less than twenty dollars, and later reflected on the experience and thought "that was the best ten dollar purchase I've ever made" or "that was the best fifteen dollars I've ever spent".  As I drove down the 205 freeway with Motley Crue playing on my stereo, I shared that sentiment regarding the headphone jack I had purchased earlier that day at Target for twelve dollars.  The device plugged into my iPod on one end and into the stereo of my newly purchased Rav4 on the other.  I considered this a fantastic purchase because due to the outdated technology in my 2003 Camry that I was driving before, I've always had to use my headphones while listening to music during road trips.  Since I had a long road trip to the Eastern Sierras ahead of me, being able to listen to tunes on a car stereo rather than headphones was a soothing experience.  Between the pandemic and being busy with work and life in general, I had been very much looking forward to this adventure for some time.  It was shortly after 7:00 PM on Friday evening and because I was stuck in Labor Day traffic in the San Francisco Bay Area, I wouldn't be arriving in the mountains until later on that night.  My destination was the Big Pine Creek Trailhead just outside of the town of Big Pine, California, where three of my friends who were driving up from Southern California would be rendezvousing with me to hike Big Pine Lakes.  After what seemed like hours of sitting in stop and go traffic, I finally exited the 5 freeway, arriving in the town of Manteca, and eventually Oakdale, where I merged onto highway 108, a road with which I was quite familiar.  After driving past Pinecrest and the Dodge Ridge Ski Area, the road began a steep, twisting ascent up Sonora Pass.  The long ascent was inevitably followed by an equally menacing downhill, and as it leveled out, the lights of a peculiar outpost came into view.  I couldn't make out what the establishment was at the time, but I found out later it was the Mountain Warfare Training Center, a training facility operated by the United States Marine Corps which is used for training in high altitude and in mountainous  and snowy conditions during the winter.

The quiet, dark road eventually dumped me out at the eastern terminus onto the 395 freeway, which I would take southbound past Mono Lake and Mammoth Mountain all the way to Big Pine.  Upon arrival, I watched the lights of Owens Valley disappear beneath me as I followed the desolate winding road up into the mountains towards the trailhead, which sits at around 7,800 feet of elevation.  This was my first visit to Big Pine Lakes, so I wasn't one-hundred percent sure where I was going, but after driving along the road deep into the midnight wilderness, I arrived at my destination.  I had read online that the parking lot was small, which may have been an understatement.  The area was barely big enough to allow parking for ten vehicles, however there were plenty of open spaces.  I chose a spot right in front of the restroom for convenience.  The words "no overnight parking" were faintly painted on the curb.  Technically, I was off the hook since it was now 1:00 AM and very early in the morning.  It had taken me eight hours to get to the trailhead from my home in the San Francisco Bay Area.  As I opened my car door, the cool and crisp mountain air came pouring in, and the sound of Big Pine Creek flowing nearby filled the silence of a quiet night in the mountains with the full moon shining brightly overhead.  The parking lot was located in a clearing near a campground with several pine trees towering around the area.  After spending a few minutes taking in the beauty of the mountains, I brushed my teeth in the restroom, folded the back seats in my car down, and rolled out my sleeping bag and pad.  We were planning to begin hiking around 5:00 AM, so I quickly laid down to get some sleep before our epic journey.  I had just shut my eyes when I heard another car pull up outside. I looked out the window to see the headlights of a white Rubicon shining towards my car.  I immediately recognized that it was my friends Tony, Scott, and Edith.  They said they would be arriving shortly after me, and they had also safely found their way to the trailhead.  I got out to greet them, and after some brief chit chat, we all finally went to bed around 2:00 AM.  

Two and a half hours later, after what was really just a long nap, my alarm went off.  I had been waken up a few times by the sound of people talking outside and the headlights of cars who had either parked, or driven away after a few seconds of their headlights shining through my windows.  As I sat up and looked outside, the parking lot now had several more cars than when we arrived a few hours ago.  I stepped outside and stretched.  Although I hadn't slept much, I discovered, much to my delight, that the Rav4 was great for car camping.  There was easily room for two people, and I was able to stretch all the way out while lying down inside.  I'm six feet tall, so it was much more comfortable than having to crunch into the backseat of the Camry.  As I turned, I spotted Tony and Scott lying down in their sleeping bags and pads on the parking lot pavement in between our cars.  They soon began waking up, and a few moments later, Edith emerged from the back of the Rubicon, which she had all to herself.  "Edith, did you kick them out?" I asked jokingly as the beam of my headlamp captured their drowsy laughter.  The time was shortly after 5:45 AM by the time we made our final preparations and hit the trail, which began just on the other side of a gate at the parking area.  The temperature was chilly, around forty-five degrees Fahrenheit as we hiked along Big Pine Creek, but thanks to my sleeping bag, I had stayed warm throughout the night in my car.  As we crossed a bridge and made our way up a small series of switchbacks, the soft, orange glow of the rising sun emerged behind us.  I love sunrises in the mountains and our energy levels ramped up as the day began to slowly fill with vivid color.  As the sound of the flowing creek dissipated, we continued to climb the switchbacks of the North Fork Trail in a single file line, Edith in the front, Tony, Scott, then myself at the end.  We exchanged few words among each other during this climb, and I reveled in how cool it was to be hiking with some of my friends from Southern California.  We had all met through the local hiking and running community a while back when I was living in Los Angeles and we had shared several adventures together.  I hadn't seen Edith or Tony since the LA Marathon in March and the last time I had seen Scott was our failed attempt at climbing to the summit of Mount Shasta a year and three months prior.  Before long, we arrived at the first of several lakes along the trail.  The hike was an out and back route that climbed a little over 4,000 feet, and would take us past seven lakes, the turnaround point being at lake number seven.  Lakes one and two were only a short distance apart.  Both were breathtaking, however lake number two was widely considered to be the scenic highlight of hiking Big Pine Lakes.  And I could see why!  Mountain terrain towered around us in every direction and the jagged peaks of Temple Crag rested majestically directly in front of us across the lake.  Patches of snow coated the base of Temple Crag in certain areas that receive very limited sun exposure, and the lake gave off a beautifully surreal turquoise color.  

After spending several minutes taking photos and having food at the second lake, we continued onward towards lakes three, four, and five.  Lakes three and four were equally as serene, and when we arrived at lake number five, I was happy to discover that the trail took us right to the shore.  All of the other lakes thus far had great views, but were difficult to access due to the trail being at higher elevation than the shore.  Here, we took another break and by this time, exhaustion was beginning to set in.  As I stood on the shore admiring the lake, I dipped my hands in to test the temperature of the water.  It didn't exactly feel like a hot tub, but I thought that it would be a nice way to cool off and restore my energy.  I dropped my pack, took off my shirt, and slowly waddled into the lake, wearing my shoes and shorts.  My friends cheered from the shore as I slid into the frigid water, up to my neck.  The water was freezing, but it felt incredibly exhilarating.  I admired the beautiful mountain scenery around me as I continued to tread water.  I could clearly see the bottom, but similar to the other lakes, the water radiated a turquoise tone.  During the spring and early summer, the snow from the surrounding mountains melts and water flows into the lake, bringing with it a substance called glacial flour, which is essentially finely ground rock.  When this finely ground rock reflects in the sunlight at high altitude, the result is the water taking on a bright turquoise color that gives mountain alpine lakes a very unique tone.  The rejuvenating swim lasted only about thirty seconds before the water became too cold to handle, and I climbed out shivering.  As I dried off in the sun, Tony tossed me a fun sized Snickers.  "Here you go, this is your prize for going into the cold lake".  

After a long haul up several switchbacks and along some hilly terrain, we arrived at the sixth lake.  We had hiked to a little over 11,200 feet in elevation, and we decided to take a quick power nap.  I sat up against a rock in the shade of some massive pine trees, and closed my eyes for about ten minutes.  Although I nodded off occasionally, but I was ultimately unable to slip completely out of consciousness.  There was one lake left to visit, however we found out that the route was blocked by thick bushes, so we decided to turn around at the sixth lake and make our way back to the trailhead.  Seeing all of the lakes and beautiful scenery a second time during the return trip was really cool, however it was after 2:00 PM and we focused on keeping moving so we wouldn't finish too late.  Although I had hiked in the Eastern Sierras several times, this was my first time visiting Big Pine Lakes and I loved taking it all in.  The Eastern Sierras are a truly astounding place.  I was thoroughly convinced that people could spend their whole lives hiking here and there would always be new trails and new peaks to discover.  

When we finally arrived back at the trailhead shortly after 4:30 PM, we were exhausted and mildly overheated.  We snacked on chips and leftover Chinese food before leaving the parking lot, and heading down the grade into the town of Bishop to have dinner.  Despite the temperature being over one-hundred degrees Fahrenheit and the lack of air movement, our food from the Mountain Rambler Brewery was hitting the spot as we chowed down and sipped our cold beers at an outdoor table in front of the restaurant.  It was around 7:30 PM when I finally bid my friends farewell.  We promised each other that we'd go on another hiking adventure soon just before getting into our cars to head back to our respective homes.  As I drove north on the 395 freeway, I felt exhausted and considered pulling over to take a nap, but the temperature was still around ninety degrees, even as the sun began to go down.  Trying to nap in a car with that kind of heat would be unbearable.  Fire season had started early this year in California, and as I drove through the village of Lee Vining near Mono Lake, the air quality was so bad that the headlights of oncoming cars appeared yellow, and I could see the smoke in the air underneath the overhead lights that lit up the desolate highway.  Just when I considered putting on a mask to shield the smoky air, even inside my car, the air became cleaner as I drove through Bridgeport and eventually turned left onto highway 108, which I would follow over Sonora Pass once again.  The route would lead me through the Stanislaus National Forest to the Central Valley, where I would get on the 205 freeway towards the Bay Area.  Before long, I began the long drive up the twisting mountain road to the summit of Sonora Pass.  Only this time it was different.  Twenty hours earlier I was more awake and alert, but when you throw an eight hour drive, two-and-a-half hours of sleep, and hiking fifteen miles at high elevation into the equation, things get much more complicated.  My hunger was satisfied, perhaps even overly satisfied, my hydration levels were great (I had peed a few times during the hike and afterwards), but my exhaustion level was getting higher by the moment and the sleep deprivation was setting in.  The drowsiness, the darkness, and the steep road, which climbed at a 26% grade in some areas, began messing with my head and pulling me into a foggy, dreamlike state.  This drive was getting sketchier with every passing mile.  Even with my brights on, the surrounding terrain was pitch black.  I wondered if I would see any other cars out here making their way along this winding road that seemed to never end.  Rounding a particularly steep curve at ten miles per hour, the headlights of an oncoming vehicle that looked to be going way too fast shined directly in my face.  I stared in shock for a split second, knowing that I was about to be in a head-on collision, but the car veered from it's course at the last nano-second, barreled down the sharp curve, and disappeared around the bend just as quickly as it appeared.  "Whoa, shit" I said out loud as my heart raced.  

Somehow, I managed to make it over the summit of Sonora Pass at 9,600 feet.  The road crossed from Mono County into Tuolumne County at the peak, and began a decent towards the towns of Strawberry and Pinecrest.  The drive downhill wasn't any better.  I remained calm, but the the sharp curves and twisting road compounded with the pitch black night were playing games with my mind.  The surrounding wilderness was beautiful, though I could barely see anything even in the beams of my headlights, and occasionally I would come across parked cars on a turnout and the entrance to a campground off the side of the narrow highway.  Out of nowhere, a pair of headlights appeared behind me.  Looking in my rear view mirror, I could see that the vehicle was very close, although after a few moments the driver backed off.  Perhaps they came quickly around a corner and mistakenly pulled up close behind me.  I had been going at a pretty reserved speed, so I decided to accelerate a little, and soon the headlights of the vehicle disappeared behind me.  I continued to drive for several miles at a slightly faster speed, rounding the downhill curves of the mountain road, when the headlights from the vehicle abruptly appeared closely behind me again.  This drive was started to become not fun anymore really fast.  What was this person doing?  Were they just screwing with me? Or did they have bad intentions?  Were they trying to hurt me? I again accelerated to attempt to get away from the vehicle and before long, a turnout emerged.  The car passed by at a modest speed as I pulled into the turnout to let them by.  As the car disappeared into the darkness in front of me, I realized that they were not doing any of those things to me at all.  The driver was probably just a normal person who was much less exhausted than I was, had a smaller car that could get around these curves faster, and was just traveling at a swifter rate than I was.  This is what sleep deprivation does to people's minds.  Not enough sleep, especially during vigorous physical activity, can trigger paranoia and hallucinations.  I wasn't at the hallucination stage that I had reached in the middle of the night during the Tahoe Rim Trail 100-miler, but my mind was certainly messing with me.  Now that I was alone on the road again, I breathed a sigh of relief.  I put some music on, and felt more at ease now that I was free to drive safely at my own speed.  

When I finally arrived in the village of Jamestown in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, I felt the need to pull over into a parking lot near a gas station and rest.  Having been through the ordeal on Sonora Pass, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.  Twenty minutes later I was back on the road with just under two hours of driving left until I reached home.  My energy had been partially restored from the short nap, but I still remained exhausted.  "Let's just get home safely, and I can laugh about all of this tomorrow morning". I kept saying to myself.  Time passed, miles were covered, music played on my car stereo, I sang out loud, I thought about how fun the journey had been, and I finally arrived home shortly after 2:00 AM.  When I finally laid down in bed, I was out within seconds.  As mentioned above, I knew I would laugh about this whole experience the following morning, and indeed I did.  As I sat in my living room and sipped my coffee I wondered how in the hell I had gotten myself home the night before.  I thought about how beautiful Big Pine Lakes were and how awesome it was to see my friends.  The part that made me laugh the most was although the hike was beautiful, the drive home was more eventful in some ways than the actual hike.  The truth was I felt relieved that I had allowed that car to pass me so I could safely drive down the mountain road, and I was glad that I had decided to take a power nap in Jamestown.  Even though participating in these activities is risky, I have always tried to act as responsibly as I possibly could, and I was happy that I had done that very thing this time around, especially during the trip home.  This experience, along with so many others I've had, reiterated one thing to me; during endurance events, no matter how awful I'm feeling in that particular moment, I can guarantee there will be a time in the future where I look back and laugh and reminisce about how crazy and awesome the experience was at the time.       

Beast Pacing Virtual 50K: My Toughest 50K Yet

When I write blog posts about races, I like to deviate from the standard format and, for example, choose a moment in the race that was memorable to me in some way and start off by telling a detailed story about that particular episode.  It's often a moment when something went wrong or when something crazy happened.  I tell that short story to give readers an idea of what they can expect before telling the rest of the story of how the race went in chronological order.  I enjoy using this method and I wish I could do the same for my race report on the Beast Pacing Virtual 50K, but honestly, I was such a hot mess during this virtual race that I don't know where to begin.  The best way to tell the story is to simply go in chronological order, one blunder after another.  If anyone wants an idea of what they can expect in this story, it involves the Western States trail, the most painfully slow 50K I've ever completed, extreme exhaustion, and puking.  So, here we go;

As I pulled off the 80 freeway, I got that feeling of nervous excitement that I always get when I arrive in Auburn, California.  It may be just a small town in the Sierra foothills to most people, but to me it's much more than that.  Almost every time I go to Auburn it's because I'm about to embark on some kind of adventure on the Western States trail.  The euphoria and excitement kick in, as well as bits of nervousness due to the fact that this trail can be very daunting and it's kicked my butt in the past.  Despite, or perhaps because of this, the Western States trail holds lots of great memories and is one of my favorite stomping grounds.  Today I would expect it to be no different.  As I exited the freeway, I made a right turn onto Auburn Ravine Road and proceeded into the wilderness towards Foresthill.  Driving down the grade, the clear blue sky and olive green foothills dominated the horizon.  About twenty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of Foresthill Elementary School and chose a parking spot in the shade.  The wilderness air was crisp and cool when I stepped out of my car and stretched my body out after the three hour drive.  As I looked around, I saw two other cars nearby, one with another guy getting ready for a run, and another with a guy preparing for a bike ride.  Once I completed the meticulous process of preparing for the journey ahead, I threw my pack onto my shoulders and began jogging up Foresthill Road towards the intersection of Bath Road.  Bath Road was a twisting descent towards the entrance to the Western States trail, and now that I had more privacy away from the main road, I wandered into the trees off the roadside to relieve myself.  While doing so, I heard footsteps from the road and saw the other runner from the parking lot gliding by through the trees.  The trail leaving Bath Road began with a steep downhill towards Volcano Canyon.  Most sections of the Western States trail are well maintained, but this particular section was littered with rocks and natural debris.  Because of this, it required heightened attention going down this descent to avoid stumbling or falling.  As I came around a bend, the other runner emerged on the side of the trail.  He was from Grass Valley and had come out to run from Foresthill to Michigan Bluff and back, calling it an "easy day".  When he inquired about what I was doing, I chuckled, thinking he would think I was crazy for doing a virtual 50K on my own, but he actually thought it was really cool.  The opinions among members of the running community with regards to virtual races have been very polarized.  Some runners love the idea and see it as a way of helping to keep races in business and maintain a sense of togetherness during quarantine, while others view them as a rip off, asserting the position that paying money to run alone is a load of nonsense.  This particular virtual race was put on by Beast Pacing, an organization made up entirely of volunteers who pace runners through marathons and half marathons all over the country.  I love pacing my friends during ultras, so I thought it would be cool to pace at road races also.  I joined the organization in January and was planning to pace the two hour group at a half marathon for the first time in April, but the race ended up getting pushed to October.  Due to the high number of cancelled races, the founder of the organization created the virtual race, which offered any distance from a half marathon up to a 200-miler.  Eager to help the organization during these tough times, I signed up for the 50K in early May.

After parting ways with the guy from Grass Valley, I continued down the trail, which led me to a creek in the pit of the canyon.  The descent was followed inevitably by a steep uphill climb, which slowed my pace.  When the trail eventually leveled out, I encountered an older man and woman who were out for a hike.  They introduced themselves as Dave and Carol.  They were a friendly couple and lived in one of the houses in Michigan Bluff along the course.  My plan was to do an out and back style course from Foresthill to Deadwood Canyon and back.  During this run I would also be passing through Michigan Bluff, so when I told them what I was doing, they told me that if I needed anything during the return trip to come find their house and knock on the door.  I thanked them for their generous offer, and pressed onward.  Eventually I arrived at the junction where the trail continued onto a fire road that would take me into Michigan Bluff.  When I arrived about fifteen minutes later, I ran a short stretch down Gorman Ranch Road before picking the trail back up again.  The trail descended two-and-a-half miles into another canyon, which was followed by a long, 2,600-foot, 4-mile climb up to Devil's Thumb.  Although the climb was lengthy and time consuming, I was occasionally treated to a beautiful vista of the mountains in the distance, and as I got closer to Devil's Thumb, I admired the gorgeous surroundings.  Towering pine trees lined the trail, pine cones were strewn about, and sawed up tree logs lined the trail sides in some areas.  I would periodically hear a soft crashing noise in the forest.  This trail was known for bear and mountain lion sightings even under normal circumstances, and I wondered if I would have a higher chance of encountering wildlife due to the lower volume of human traffic on the trail over the last few months.  It was important to stay alert so I could act accordingly if needed.  From Devil's Thumb,  the trail again began a sharp, twisting downhill into Deadwood Canyon.  During this descent, I was quickly made aware that the trail had not been maintained in quite some time.  I slowed down as I approached a stretch of trail full of overgrown shrubs that stood about five feet high, making the trail nearly invisible.  I carefully made my way through, hoping to not disturb the bees who were pollinating in the flowers that lined the sides of the narrow trail.  After descending about 1,700 feet in two miles, I arrived at the swinging bridge at the gorge of Deadwood Canyon and took a seat on a rock.  The bridge crossed the American River, and on the other side was another uphill climb to Last Chance, but I had reached the turnaround point, and would now go back the way I came.  Which of course meant that I would need to climb back up to Devil's Thumb.  

After taking a break and snacking on some trail mix, I began powering up the climb.  Within minutes I started to feel as if there were weights attached to my shoes.  I had been doing virtual utras during quarantine, but they had all been on paved, more gentle courses that had very little elevation gain.  I hadn't done any runs or hikes with significant climbing in the last three or four months.  I drank from my hydration pack, but I began to feel concerned that I would run out of water.  Since my body was working much harder than it was used to, I was sweating quite a bit, much more than I would have if I were better conditioned.  Temperatures in the canyons section of the trail can be very hot at this time of year, but it was unseasonably cool today, for which I was thankful.  Still, I continued to sweat and drink from my pack as I made my way up the ascent, one step at a time.  The climb was a 50-minute long struggle that left me huffing and puffing as I approached Devil's Thumb.  Passing through the two sections of overgrown shrubs on the ascent, which stretched along the trail for about a hundred feet, my pace was much slower and there were more bees.  I was surprised I made it through without getting stung.  Even though the trail was now following a gentle downhill grade, I walked, trying to regain my energy after the climb.  I was carrying Nuun with me, an electrolyte supplement that came in the form of a solid tab that is designed to be dissolved in water.  Because I was concerned about my electrolyte levels, I instead took a shortcut, and popped the tab into my mouth, chewed it up, and immediately washed it down with water as it fizzed up and expanded inside my mouth.  The flavor was strong, and I could feel the contents of the tab expanding in my stomach, but it seemed like an effective way to pump electrolytes into my system quickly.  As I ran downhill back into El Dorado Canyon, I heard the sound of a shotgun being fired in the distance.  This was a popular area for gun activity, and many of the signs along the trail were riddled with bullet holes.  After crossing the bridge at the pit of the canyon, I again took a seat on a rock to try to regroup.  At this point, even running downhill was becoming exhausting and I knew what was next.  I stood up and began the harsh, 2,000-foot climb back up to Michigan Bluff.  It was agonizing.  I wasn't hurting or cramping up, but I was so exhausted, I was barely able to lift my feet off the ground and my steps were short and labored.  My head hung down, facing the dirt, and I would occasionally look up at the trail in front of me.  I stopped to rest at several points during the climb.  Rather than walking up to a rock and sitting down, I would practically fall onto it and just sit there guzzling water as my heart thudded in my chest.  It seemed like nothing could restore my energy.  I tried eating more trail mix, but it was like dropping wood into a chipper.  I would push myself up off the rock and waddle uphill for another few hundred feet, only to have to stop again.  The climb just never fucking ended.  

I let out a big sigh of relief as Michigan Bluff eventually emerged through the brush.  As I strolled down the trail and onto Gorman Ranch Road, I took a seat on a wooden picnic table off to the roadside.  "Just six more miles to go" I said to myself.  The route back to Foresthill from Michigan Bluff was about a 10K distance.  Unfortunately, between those two points was a short uphill climb, a steep downhill descent into Volcano Canyon, and one final climb up to my finish line in Foresthill.  My remaining water had been consumed during the hellish ascent from El Dorado Canyon, leaving me dry.  I wondered if it would be smart to continue without any water.  But I was so exhausted, it seemed like a losing battle either way.  Should I try to find Dave and Carol's house and see if they could give me a ride back to Foresthill?  There were a half-dozen or so houses on this small stretch of road, and they probably lived in one of them.  My Strava indicated that I was twenty-five miles in, and I seriously considering downgrading to the marathon distance.  But I also didn't know if I technically could do that.  I thought about how much easier it would be if I just hobbled six tenths of a mile down the trail and back, and claimed the marathon distance instead.  Today just wasn't happening for me.  I had done this exact course a handful of times in the past and this was by far the toughest go I ever had at it.  I blamed it on the quarantine, the lack of mobility I've had over the last three months, and the fact that I hadn't done any runs or hikes with drastic elevation change in quite some time.  The Western States 100, my dream race, follows this exact same course.  Michigan Bluff is the fifty-five mile mark, and many runners are in rough shape when they arrive here, having just traversed through the canyons.  It's here that their psychological toughness really gets put to the test.  That was it, I'd had enough.  It was time to stop letting the negative thoughts influence me.  If you allow negative thoughts to consume your mind during an ultra, you're screwed.  In times like this, a positive attitude is your greatest asset.  I stood up, threw my pack on, and continued onto the trail from the road.  "50K or nothing!" I said out loud.  Over the years, I've learned my limits.  Yes, I was extremely exhausted, but that was all, really.  I was not in any pain, I was not cramping up, and I had peed a couple of times throughout the run, so despite being out of water, I decided I would try to make it the final six miles.  It was going to be slow, but I was going to do my best.  As Michigan Bluff disappeared behind me, I knew that I had no choice at this point except to get myself back to Foresthill.  There was no turning back now.  

Exhaustion set in pretty hard when I arrived at the creek at the bottom of Volcano Canyon.  I sat on a rock with my feet in the creek, shoes and socks included, which felt exhilarating.  I had about three miles left to go, but my mouth had become very dry.  As I sat there, I looked down at the flowing water.  The hamster in my brain began running on his wheel.  I had always been hesitant to drink water from streams or creeks for fear of getting sick from bacteria, but I had also heard that if the water was flowing, which it was in this case, it was safe to drink.  Should I do it?  "Screw it" I thought.  I might get sick, but it was a desperate moment.  I put my open palms together, dipped them into the creek, and began sucking in the cold water by the handful.  I drank a good six or seven handfuls of the creek water, which felt incredible, before standing up to conquer the final climb.  With some water in my system, I felt slightly more coherent.  The final stretch of the climb was brutal as I tried to prevent stumbling on the rocks, panting like a dog.  As I made my way back up Bath Road, I stopped, and sat down, legs stretched out, right in the middle of the road.  I had less than a mile to go.  "Get up!" I told myself out loud.  I thought about Dusty Olson when he was pacing Scott Jurek at the Western States 100.  "Come on Jurker, get up!".  "Let's go Jurker, you're not going to win this fucking race lying down in the dirt.  Now get up!".  I stood up and began walking up the road.  Before long, the street sign for Foresthill Road appeared in front of me.  I hobbled and walked the final stretch to the virtual finish line.  Once my Strava hit thirty-one miles, I threw my arms in the air in celebration.  I had started running at 7:15 AM that morning, and it was now nearly 6:00 PM.  The run had taken me ten-and-a-half hours, by far my slowest 50K yet.  After cleaning myself up in my car and leaving Foresthill, I stopped at the small gas station in town and bought water, Gatorade, and soda in an effort to restore my hydration levels.  By the time I made it to Auburn about twenty minutes later, my head was spinning, and I decided it was in my best interest to pull over and take a nap before driving two-and-a-half hours back home to the Bay Area.  After getting about an hour of sleep in my car, I woke up feeling more alert, but I abruptly let out a belch.  There was a brief moment of silence, but then my eyes widened, and I opened my car door, pointed my head towards the pavement, and let the puke come streaming out.  After a few hurls, I sat up and realized I felt much better.  The only problem was I was now even more dehydrated, but I would make sure I consumed a lot of liquids during the drive home.  The puke was mainly liquid, so it just looked like someone had poured out some water in the parking lot as I drove away.  I had never puked after an ultra before, but it was certainly a normal occurrence among ultrarunners.  I'm not sure whether it was the creek water or if I simply pushed myself too hard, but it felt like a rite of passage.  During the ride home I was able to restore my hydration and I felt much more coherent.  It had been one hell of a journey that day.  I wasn't exactly thrilled about how painfully slow my time was, but it was a virtual race.  No one was trying to set any records.  Overall, I was thankful for the experience.  Of course having a good race is awesome, but having a hard race really makes runners dig deep.  It makes us question whether or not we truly have what it takes to push through the misery and keep going.  It's good practice for not only getting through other long runs in the future, but also for getting through other mishaps in our personal lives.  I'm thankful that on this day, I was able to experience what I did.  It wasn't the first, and it won't be the last time I struggle.                                     

    

Sugar Badger Virtual 50 Miler: Misery Loves Company

After finishing the East Coast vs. West Coast Virtual 50K on May 23rd, 2020, I wondered if the decision to attempt the Sugar Badger Virtual 50 Miler the following weekend would be a wise one.  I had until the end of June to complete it, but the actual race was scheduled to take place on Saturday the 30th in Bellevue, Wisconsin.  It seemed fitting and more authentic to do the virtual race on the actual day it was supposed to happen.  I contemplated it for the next few days, and on the morning of May 30th, I found myself awake at 3:30 AM preparing for a fifty-mile rally through the San Francisco Bay Area.  This virtual race was organized by Ten Junk Miles, a podcast of which I am a regular listener.  The hosts are a group of friends based in Chicago with episodes rotating among two formats.  One format is the main host having insightful and candid one-on-one conversations with notable people in the running world, while the other format consists of all four hosts, sometimes with guests, hanging out at each other's houses drinking beer, eating pizza, and telling stories about running and life that never cease to make me laugh out loud.  I wanted to promote them as much as possible, so I wore a Ten Junk Miles themed bluff, running shirt, and arm sleeves.  Once I had all of my gear together, I threw my pack on, queued up my Strava tracking app, and headed out the door.  With these virtual races, runners are given the freedom to design their own course and can complete the run anywhere, as long they run the distance for which they signed up.  The course I designed was about as simple as it possibly could be;  I was going to run north on El Camino Real starting in Sunnyvale, turn around when I hit twenty-five miles, and come back the way I came.  El Camino Real is a major roadway in the Bay Area and runs all the way up to San Francisco, so it would be easy to follow.  As I ran down my street towards El Camino, I quickly was reminded of something that I had completely overlooked;  what was I supposed to do if I had to pee?  Unlike in the wilderness, where I could easily wander off the trail to relieve myself, my entire route today was going to be run through cities and residential neighborhoods.  I kept myself focused and concluded that I would play it by ear.  Surely there would be restrooms at parks that I could use along the way or portable toilets at construction sites.  As I ran down El Camino through Mountain View, my blinking headlamp lit up street signs and road reflectors.  The streets were empty except for the occasional passing car, and even though I ran on the sidewalk, I wanted to make my presence known to anyone who may be out and about in these early morning hours.  I spotted a guy about a hundred feet up ahead who had parked his vehicle on the side of the road and was replenishing a newspaper dispenser.  Despite my attempt to get his attention by pointing my blinking headlamp in his direction, he was oblivious to my presence, and appeared startled when I ran past him and said good morning.  I plodded along as the Black Eyed Peas' "Electric City" played in my headphones which, combined with my flashing headlamp lighting up the darkness, created that thrilling and slightly menacing feeling of running in the dark, which I love.  I was having fun already.

As I cruised through Palo Alto, the sun had come up and turned the overcast skies from black to charcoal grey.  The weather forecast for today indicated that there was a chance of showers in the morning, and there were brief periods where I felt a light mist falling on me from the clouds above.  As I ran by a park near Palo Alto High School, I felt the urge to pee.  I asked the Police officer who was parked nearby if the restrooms were open, but he sympathetically told me they weren't.  I reluctantly continued along and tried to contend with the mounting bladder pressure.  I hammered through some steady rain in Atherton, and was enjoying the experience of running along El Camino, but the growing urge to relieve myself was becoming a distraction.  I ran past construction sites with portable toilets right on the other side of the fence and every one that I ran up to that wasn't fenced off had a padlock right through the handle.  As I cruised through Redwood City, I began seriously evaluating the probability of me getting arrested if I peed behind a building or on a tree in a park nearby.  I didn't know exactly what charges I would face under California law if I got busted, but I know that when I was growing up in Michigan, if you were caught, depending on the circumstances, you could be forced to register as a sex offender for exposing yourself in public.  I wasn't about to take that risk, so I continued along, dismissing the temptation to pee in a public area.  As I came to the intersection of El Camino Real & James Avenue, I saw a porto about a half a block down near a small park area.  When I approached it I was delighted to discover that it was open.  "Yes!" I said out loud to myself.  The inside was disgusting, but it was open, nonetheless.  After drifting through Redwood City, I passed through the cities of San Carlos, Belmont, San Mateo, and Burlingame before reaching the twenty-five mile mark just inside the city of Millbrae.  As I took a seat on a bench at a bus stop, I noticed how different this northern stretch of El Camino was compared to my neighborhood in Sunnyvale.  In my area, the road is three lanes on each side with a large median, with businesses and stores lining the road.  Up here in Millbrae, it was quite different, with apartment buildings lining the two lane road on both sides.  As I rested and regrouped on the bench, I took out my phone to let my friends know that I had made it to the halfway point.  My thirty-fourth birthday was two days prior and my friends from the local running groups I belong to were kind enough to throw me a virtual birthday party over Zoom.  We all chatted for a couple of hours and I let them know that I was going to be attempting a virtual 50 miler up and down El Camino on Saturday, and if anyone lived near that area, if they felt like waving to me from a street corner as I ran by and cheering me on, that would be amazing.  Since I started running very early in the morning while most people were sleeping, I suggested if anyone wanted to come out, that they do so during the second half of the run on the return trip.  To my delight, a few people said they'd try to make it, so I told everyone I'd update them as to where I was about every hour or so.  I received several congratulatory messages after I shared that I was halfway through.  Their support was a powerful tonic, but I still had twenty-five miles to go, and a lot can happen during that time.  The thought of seeing them was uplifting though, and I stood up and began making my way back south, hopeful that I could keep it together for the second half of the run.     

I couldn't quite put my finger on it.  It could have been the fact that Vibram 5-Fingers may not have been good for running such long distances, or maybe it was because the run was self supported and it was harder to find motivation.  I wasn't quite sure, but either way, by mile thirty-three, things had deteriorated, and I was hurting quite a bit.  I was running low on Gatorade, so I went into a gas station and bought two quart-sized bottles.  Sitting outside on the curb, I chugged down about half of one of them, then poured the rest of it and the other one into the internal bladder of my pack.  I shared my location with my friends and began easing into forward motion again, feeling slightly more coherent.  My phone repeatedly made notification sounds as I continued running and my friends let me know where they would be.  Around mile thirty-five, as I was shuffling through San Carlos, I heard someone call my name on the opposite side of the road.  I looked over and realized it was my buddy Stephan, who had ridden his bike up from San Jose, looking for me.  A minute or so later he rode up behind me on my side of the road.  Although we'd seen each other virtually several times, it was the first time we'd seen each other in person in two and a half months.  He's an Ironman triathlete, a great runner, and was signed up for a local 50K that was supposed to happen around the time that quarantine began.  When the race was cancelled, he ran the course on his own, with his girlfriend acting as his one-person crew.  His company was just what I needed to pull me out of the low point that I was in, and I was glad he'd found me when he did.  As we glided past a side street, my other friend Scott called my name out and waved me over to his car, where he had cookies and Gatorade.  Having done his very first half marathon as a self supported quarantine run two months prior in rainy weather, it felt inspiring to have Scott out there for support.  As the three of us chatted, I chugged down a whole twenty ounce bottle of Gatorade and stuffed the cookies into my pack for later on.  After bidding Scott farewell, Stephan and I passed by James Avenue, and I again ran off to visit the open, but shitty (yes, pun intended) portable restroom.  It was the second time I had peed in nearly thirty-seven miles.  I would have felt more confident in my hydration levels if it had been at least three times, but I think subconsciously, my mind knew that my options were limited so my body was reacting accordingly.  Stephan took off at mile thirty-eight and shortly afterwards, I spotted Ellen up ahead waiting for me.  She planned to run a few miles with me into Menlo Park, where her husband was going to pick her up and drive her back home.  Ellen, who I occasionally refer to as "Coach" is one of the leaders of the running group, has run the Boston Marathon, works as a certified running coach, and has been the glue that has held our community together during quarantine.  Her virtual cardio boot camp classes and workout challenges have kept us all engaged with one another over the last few months, despite not being able to get together as a group in person.  As we shuffled along together, we shared laughs and told stories.  She told me that more people were waiting for me further down the road which heightened my spirits even more.  As we ran through Atherton in the bike lane, Scott drove by and cheered us on from his car.  When we reached the local Safeway store in Menlo Park, Ellen's husband,Tzong, was waiting for us and took pictures as we approached.  Just before jumping in the car, Ellen said she'd be waiting at the virtual finish line in Sunnyvale with some baked goodies.  Shortly after she left, I decided to take another rest on a bench at a bus stop.  As I read the messages my friends had sent, I began to feel overwhelmed with joy knowing that so many people were there for me.  The fact that more people were waiting for me further down the road excited me and I let everyone know as soon as I crossed into Palo Alto.  A few miles later, my friend Julie was waiting for me near downtown Palo Alto and shortly after I approached, we took a seat on a bench.  She brought water, Gatorade, and cinnamon buns, and all three, especially the cinnamon buns looked tempting, but I only accepted the water.  I had been drinking Gatorade and eating trail mix all day, and I feared that having too much more sugar would make me feel nauseous.  Despite the quarantine, working full time, and going to school, Julie had still been running around thirty miles a week on average, and I found it inspiring that she hadn't lost her motivation.  Taking a short break to hang out with her had helped put some life back in me, but I had seven miles left to go and it was time for me to keep moving along.  She had told me that our friends Olga, Misha, and Filip were waiting for me down the road, but shortly after I took off, I found myself feeling alone and vulnerable once again.  Being with my friends had kept me going psychologically, and now that I was alone again, I began to feel burned out and fatigued, similar to how I felt before Stephan found me.  I kept myself focused and reassured myself that I had less than seven miles to go.  I was almost done.

With five miles left to go, my friend Kelly joined up with me and said she planned to run the last five miles with me to the finish.  It felt great to have a pacer for the final stretch of the run, however at this point, I'm not really sure if I could call what I was doing "running".  I was just kind of shuffling along, doing what probably resembled more of a duck waddle.  Even though Kelly was barely running, and even power walking at times to match my pace, we managed to make it fun.  She had also played a large role in keeping the community engaged during quarantine by scheduling weekly "Run and Brunch" Zoom hangouts, which consisted of a handful of us meeting virtually on Saturday mornings and eating brunch as we hung out together.  She was supposed to run the Boston Marathon this year, which initially was pushed to September, but was ultimately cancelled.  She said she was contemplating doing the virtual race, which I hoped she would do.  It was better than nothing.  We eventually came across our friends Misha, Filip, and Olga who greeted me with provisions including dried fruit and water.  They even made a small sign help to cheer me on.  Misha had also been participating in virtual races and said that what I was doing today inspired her to run a virtual 15K race earlier that morning.  Filip, her husband, although not much of a runner himself, was always very supportive of our community.  Olga, who is a regular at all of the group runs, is always good company especially because her and I have a shared interest in snow sports.  As Kelly and I plodded down the sidewalk with less than two miles to go, a car honked it's horn as it came up behind us.  It was our friend Samantha, or Sammy as we call her.  At this point I was feeling more tired and defeated than at any other time during the run.  I was exhausted, hurting, and barely able to shuffle at a thirteen-minute-per-mile pace.  Sammy pulled over into a gas station a block down the road and took pictures of us as we ran towards her.  Not only is she a solid runner, and has a fun, easy going personality, but since moving to the Bay Area seven years ago, Sammy has managed to support herself by being a self employed pet care provider and dog walker.  Something she is passionate about and which I find to be very inspiring.  When we reached the parking lot, Kelly and I took a quick break with her as I stood there with my hands on my knees trying to keep it together.  It's hard for me to be vulnerable in front of other people.  It's something I've struggled with for a while, and even though I'm still working on it, I've made a lot of progress over the last couple of years.  Even then, I hoped that I could hold myself together in front of Sammy and Kelly, but I tried to not to dwell on it too much.  They were there for me, and that was all that mattered.

Even though I was completely drained, I picked up the pace as Kelly and I ran that last quarter of a mile.  It was time to get this bad boy done.  After having to make up a little bit of distance by running down a side street, my Strava tracker app hit fifty miles, just as we ran by Sammy and Ellen who were waiting for us at the intersection of S. Mary Avenue & El Camino Real, close to where I had started running that morning.  I threw my arms in the air and clapped in celebration as they cheered for me and took pictures.  After hitting the "finish" button on Strava, I promptly dropped my pack and lied down on my back on the lawn, directly in front of an El Pollo Loco restaurant.  I laid there for a few minutes taking deep breaths and staring up at the sky as my friends congratulated me.  Fifty miles, eleven cities, and lots of highs and lows.  It was an incredible day, and I reveled in the joy of finishing the run.  Ellen had set up a folding table with some baked treats off to the side, and the four of us hung out for about another forty-five minutes chatting together and sampling some of Ellen's home baked goods.  During that time, we got some strange looks from people in the parking lot, and at one point, a restaurant employee came outside to make sure everything was okay.  Once we explained what was going on, the employee, although not too phased by what I had just done, said it was okay for us to be out there and went back inside.  Despite California moving forward with easing quarantine restrictions, there were still social distancing measures in place.  Even though the four of us were gathered in public, we were well over six feet apart, and as much as I wanted to hug everyone I saw that day, I refrained from doing so.  Ellen was concerned that if the police saw us, they might give us a hard time, but in light of a disgusting act of racism recently committed by a Minnesota Police officer, riots and protests had erupted in San Jose and in several other cities around the country.  Because of the fact that the Police had bigger fish to fry, and the fact that we weren't breaking any rules, I felt like we were fine, and even poked fun at Ellen by saying "oh shoot, here comes a police car".  Later that night after I had taken a hot bath, cleaned myself up, had a celebratory beer, and was on my fourth slice of pizza at home by myself, I sent a big, giant thank you message to my friends on the Messenger thread and told them I couldn't thank them enough for the support I received during the run.  I felt extremely lucky that I had such cool friends who were there for me on such an epic day.  A couple of them thanked me in return for what I did, which confused me at first.  They went on to say that my run brought us all together in person for the first time in months, for which they were very grateful.  I felt even better knowing that today was enjoyable for them, because I'm not a fan of things being all about me.  I felt grateful for all the support I received along the way, but what was even cooler to me was the fact that even though I was just some moron trying to run a virtual fifty mile race on El Camino Real, I was able to bring some joy to others.

East Coast vs. West Coast Virtual 50K: Racing Against My Phone

We're living in crazy times right now and I think we all know that.  The bottom line is no one knows anything about anything, and everything is changing every day.  The sooner we can all accept that, the better off we'll be as we progress through this period and slowly return to normalcy.  Despite all the sanctioned ultras I had signed up for in April, May, and June being cancelled, the innovative minds of some cool race directors have conceived the idea of doing virtual races.  What that means is the race is done solo by each participant anytime and anywhere they wish, as long as they are following the local social distancing rules.  The run must be recorded using Strava, Garmin, or some other tracking system and the data must be uploaded to ultrasignup.com to receive credit for finishing the race and getting a finisher's prize.  I loved the fact that the ultramarathon world was doing what they could to keep people's motivation and spirits up during hard times, so I decided to sign up for a few virtual ultras in hopes of capturing at least a small element of the magic of running an actual race.  The first of these races was a virtual 50K that I decided to do entirely on a road in the mountains.  It went a little something like this:

I hit the road at 2:00 in the morning and once I left the Bay Area, I drove through the towns of Manteca, Escalon, and Oakdale, before making the left turn in Oakdale onto highway 108 and heading up into the dark mountains towards Sierra Village.  I love the beach but the mountains are my true happy place.  After a busy couple of weeks, doing a virtual 50K in the mountains seemed like the perfect way to unwind.  As I drove through the main intersection of Jamestown, I was caught off guard by a guy standing alone in the dark on the side of the road.  He turned around and looked straight at me as I drove by, and I thought I saw him extend his arm with his thumb up, but I wasn't quite sure.  "Yeah right, like I'm really going to pick up a hitch hiker in this small ass town at 4:00 in the morning" I thought to myself as I chuckled.  "I'm not trying to get murdered out here".  As I drove up the dark winding road, I turned on my brights so I could detect the turns more in advance.  As I approached Mi Wuk Village, I dimmed them when I saw flashing red lights in the darkness up ahead.  It was a group of cyclists making their way up the twisting road.  I felt somewhat relieved realizing that I wasn't going to be completely alone out here in the dark.  It wasn't long before I arrived at the turnout off the road just outside of Sierra Village where I always park my car during visits.  It was pitch dark when I parked and shut off my headlights so I switched on my headlamp to navigate around my car as I made preparations for the journey ahead.  I try to take a minimalist approach to running and I don't like running with a pack, but similar to last time, I was going to be running a self-supported fifty-kilometer distance that would take several hours.  In sanctioned ultras I only run with two handheld water bottles that collectively hold a quart of liquid and I rely on aid stations every five or six miles as a source of food and refilling my water bottles.  But in this instance, I had no choice but to carry all the food and water that I would need on my back.

I shut my car door behind me as I stepped out into the dark and stretched.  The volume level of the door shutting startled me, and I was reminded of how quiet and peaceful it is out here in the mountains, which is precisely why I love coming out here.  This particular area of highway 108 consisted of one side of the road lined with pine trees and mountain wilderness, the other side presenting an exquisite view of the mountains on the opposite side of the canyon that rested below.  It was shortly before 5 AM so the pre-dawn sky was still filled with shining stars.  I threw my pack onto my back, switched on my flashlight, and turned on my headlamp to the flashing light setting.  I knew that I wouldn't be running in the dark for long, but I wanted to make myself noticeable to drivers, especially on this desolate mountain highway.  With my flashlight, blinking headlamp, and the blinking red light that I had attached to my pack, I figured I'd be pretty hard to miss.  Once my Strava was queued up, I began running along the dark highway up a small incline.  The route I was running was an out and back with rolling hills, but an overall net gain in elevation towards the turn around point.  My flashing headlamp lit up signs and trees along the road as I progressed forward.  My music of choice was Motley Crue's Theatre of Pain.  The tone of that album to me is perfect for a run in the mountain wilderness in the dark.  About halfway through the album the sky transitioned into a pale dawn and the sun soon began restoring the green color to the tops of the surrounding pine trees.  After running uphill for what felt like a while, I approached an overlook to my right where there was a curve in the road and a large turnout that offered a stunning view of the High Sierra.  Despite only being six and a half miles into my run, I decided to sit on a rock and enjoy the view for a few minutes while I ate some trail mix.  This was a popular spot for cars to pull over and admire the view, and as I approached, I noticed a car with a girl lying down in the passenger's seat.  The sun had now made it's way into the sky and was filling the distant mountains with vivid color.  I was startled when I heard a guy's voice behind me say "hey" in an authoritative tone.  I turned around and saw that he was not talking to me, but to his dog, a colorful Pit bull who seemed friendly and curious.  He and the pup got into the car where the girl was lying down and continued along the road.  I did the same a few minutes later.  As I progressed further along the highway, I ran along the shoulder of the road and, when possible, off to the side of the shoulder, which was composed of packed down dirt, gravel, and bristles that had fallen from the pine trees lining the road.  This softer surface provided more cushioning, so I ran there as often as I could.  I decided I was ready for music again, so I put on the New York Dolls.  This choice was fitting because after all, this race was called the East Coast vs. West Coast Virtual Race.  Runners could complete their distance anytime throughout the month of May, and it was intended to be a friendly rivalry race (at least in my mind) for which coast could log the most miles.  Of course I was representing California, but I love the East Coast.  I love New York City and thought about how much I wanted to visit again once COVID clears up.  I've been there a couple of times and I love how much culture, character, and personality the city has.  I don't give a damn what people say about New Yorkers.  They are cool people.  In my experience, if they insult you that means they like you.  And if you insult them back, it's much more fun than taking it personally.  I look forward to the next time I can go there and eat delicious food at hole-in-the-wall restaurants, walk around the diverse neighborhoods, and visit local coffee shops and bars.  Of course, the East Coast also includes Boston, Philadelphia, D.C., and several towns in Maine, New Hampshire, New Jersey, the Carolinas, and Georgia, all places that I'd love to visit eventually.  East Coast vibes drifted through my mind as I jogged along to Johnny Thunders' bluesy punk riffs and David Johansen's New York accented singing cranking in my headphones.

After the Dolls album finished, I decided to unplug for a while and just enjoy the peacefulness of the surroundings.  I passed through the small town of Cold Springs, which included a gas station, Mia's restaurant, and a ski and snowboard rental shop.  Other than that, the road had been lined with pine trees with the occasional meadow and vista appearing in an opening.  I had ridden my bike here a handful of times and driven along this stretch of road numerous times on my way to Dodge Ridge, so it felt pretty cool to be running for a change.  Even though it was still early in the morning, several cars were making their way along the mountain road, giving me plenty of room as they passed by.  A red pick-up track glided past me and made a left turn onto a road about a tenth of a mile up ahead.  As I approached, I saw the truck had parked.  The driver, a middle aged man, stepped out and walked towards the road as I passed by.  "How're you doing?" he called out.  "Good man, how are you?" I responded in a friendly, but somewhat skeptical manner.  "I'm good.  You live around here?" he asked.  Great.  This is what I was afraid of.  This guy had to have been either an off duty sheriff or an uptight local who didn't want visitors in his town during the shelter in place order.  I wasn't going to lie to the guy so I answered honestly.  "I don't.  I'm up here from the Bay Area".  I didn't think I was doing anything wrong by being out here, but I thought for sure I was about to get lectured by this guy.  Instead, he said "Ah, okay, yeah we're from the central valley.  We saw you running and thought you lived around here and wondered if you could tell us how to get to Beardsley Lake".  I laughed in relief and explained that the only lake I knew in the area was Pinecrest Lake, so unfortunately I wouldn't be able to help.  The guy seemed friendly and said thanks anyways before jumping back into his truck and continuing down the road.  As more miles were covered, I approached the turnoff in Pinecrest that led to the Dodge Ridge Ski Area and Pinecrest lake.  I ran down the road past several cabins and campgrounds for as long as I could until I was forced to turn around by a barricade in the road just before reaching Pinecrest Lake.  Strava indicated that I had run just over a half marathon distance, so I decided to go back the way I came, then click off an additional 4.6 miles when I reached my car back in Sierra Village.  What concerned me though, was my phone had dropped from ninety percent battery power when I began running to forty percent.  I put my phone on airplane mode when I took a break at the overlook at six and a half miles, so I hoped that my battery would last.  In order to receive credit for the virtual race, I had to submit my Strava recording to ultrasignup.com.  It would have been a big letdown if my phone had died while trying to complete the fifty-kilometer distance.

As I headed down the road back towards my car, my concern regarding my draining phone battery heightened.  Despite being on airplane mode, the percentage continued to drop at a steady rate.  Doing the math in my head, I established that my phone was either going to be depleted all the way down to less than five percent by the time I finished, or it was going to die.  At times I almost felt like I had to pick up the pace and race against my phone battery, so to speak.  The possibility of my phone dying continued to irk me for a few more miles until I finally came up with a solution;  I would be approaching my car at around 26.4 miles and surely my battery would last that long, even if it was running low.  I decided that at that point, I would take a ten minute break to charge my phone, drink some water, and regroup.  Once my phone had a little more juice, I would hammer out those last 4.6 miles and complete the distance.  Realizing that I now had an answer, my anxiety melted away and I ran with a more carefree attitude.  I felt like listening to some music again, so I took out my iPod and put in my headphones.   I was in the mood for some EDM, so I put on Calvin Harris.  The rhythmic songs carried me along pleasantly as I enjoyed the views that I saw on the way to Pinecrest for a second time.  Cars continued sporadically passing me on both sides of the road, and I would occasionally nod at the occupants of oncoming vehicles.  I thought more about the East Coast vs. West Coast context of the virtual race and thought about where New Yorkers would be running as an equivalent to where I was.  Maybe they would run in the Adirondacks or even through the city.  Either way, I was excited to be representing the West Coast and was thankful for my beautiful surroundings.  "California!" I cheered quietly to myself as I ran along.  When I finally arrived back at my car, I had covered 26.4 miles as expected, and I immediately opened the door, sat down, stretched my legs, and plugged in my phone.  I was tired, but not too sore, I had peed a few times which meant I was staying hydrated and the temperature had been just right.  As I sat there sipping from a plastic water bottle, I pondered the idea of downgrading to the virtual marathon instead of the 50K.  I had already covered that distance anyway, so what was the harm in doing that?  But then I remembered that unless I was having a major off day, which I wasn't, I needed to stick my what I originally had planned.  Because you're on your own during a virtual race, it can be extremely tempting to quit because you feel exhausted or sore.  There's nothing there to make you feel like you need to keep going.  No other runners, no volunteers, no finish line, etc.  There's no pressure and quitting doesn't consume you with the same level of guilt as a sanctioned race would.  My phone was now at twenty-three percent, which I knew would last the final 4.6 miles.  It was time to get this bad boy done.  The final stretch began with an uphill climb.  I was exhausted so rather than running, I slowed to a brisk walk.  Moving at a slower pace, the temptation to stop lingered in my head.  But I had no excuses.  I was no longer racing against my phone battery, I wasn't in excruciating pain, and I knew I was fully capable of going the remaining distance.  The question was did I want to.  My mental toughness was now being put to the test.  Those last few miles are always the toughest, psychologically.  I finally crested the hill and after running down the road for a few more minutes, I checked my phone.  To my delight, I only had a tenth of a mile before I needed to turn around to complete the full distance by the time I returned to my car once again.  When I eventually turned around and began the final 2.3 mile stretch, I kicked things into overdrive and ran harder than I had all day, knowing that I was almost done.  I returned to my car with 30.9 miles on my Strava.  "Are you kidding me?!" I thought.  I ran as fast as I could for perhaps another hundred yards down the road.  When Strava finally hit thirty-one miles, the 50K distance, I threw my fist in the air and let out a celebratory cheer.  Once I stumbled back to my car I clicked "finish" so my data could be uploaded.  Even though my phone was now at twelve percent, my plan worked and I was thankful that the run uploaded on Strava successfully so I could officially get credit for the race, meaning they would send me a finishers prize and a shirt.  Funny enough, I realized afterwards that the virtual race only offered the 50K, half marathon, and 10K option, not the marathon, so it was all or nothing anyway.  After spending a few minutes regrouping and putting myself back together, I promptly hit the road for the two-and-a-half hour drive back to the Bay Area.  As I drove along sipping from a huge bottle of Gatorade that I bought at a gas station in Escalon, I reveled in a beautiful morning road run in the mountains.  It had been a great day, but I was wiped out.  I couldn't wait get back home and knock out for a couple of hours, take a shower, and eat a nice filling meal.

Hitting the Wall...Badly

2018 Minnesota Voyageur 50-Miler

When most people think of Minnesota, warm weather is not the first thing that comes to mind.  But on this day in late July the temperature in the Duluth area was around eighty degrees Fahrenheit, about average for that time of year.  I knew ahead of time what the temperature was going to be like and that there was a chance of rain.  What I failed to take into account was that fact that Minnesota summers are more humid than the the dry summers I was used to in California.  So, because I didn't think about this ahead of time, of course I didn't start eating salty snacks and swallowing salt tablets until after I cramped up so badly that I was on all fours, crawling backwards down a hill, thirty-eight miles into the Minnesota Voyageur.  Once I'd survived this section of the race, I gobbled down pickles, chips, and potatoes dipped in salt at the aid stations and drank often which seemed to help mitigate the cramping a little.  I chugged along through a steady downpour for the next few miles, and by the time I crossed the swinging bridge in Jay Cooke State Park, the sun had come back out.  With only three miles left to go, I thought the worst was behind me and I was home free.  Dream on, sucker.  The course was out and back, and immediately after crossing the bridge I remembered that the first two and-a-half miles of the trail, which I was now retracing, had a lot of roots, rocks, and loose dirt.  The rain had essentially turned that section of the trail into a two-and-a-half mile mud puddle.  At one point, I ran down a dip that was about seven or eight feet down and back up.  I lost my balance on the slippery terrain during my descent, and came crashing down, ass first, into the mud in the pit of this trough.  The fall immediately triggered another round of leg cramps and I was once again in a world of hurt.  I tried to get up but it only made the cramps more intense.  I didn't know what to do so I just laid there.  I must have looked pathetic lying there in the mud not being able to get up.  I didn't know how the hell I was going to be able to finish the last mile-and-a-half of this race.  I couldn't even move, and I still had to slide through another mile of this muddy mess before the course left the trail and followed a paved bike path to the finish line for the last half mile.  After a couple of minutes I came to my senses and started thinking more rationally.  "They're just leg cramps" I said.  "It's not like someone broke your legs with a baseball bat".  There was no way this race was going to end with me laying in the mud and having the letters "DNF" (did not finish) next to my name in the results because of some cramping.  I was better than that.  I mustered what energy I had left and pushed myself off the ground and onto my feet with my arms.  I continued on the muddy trail with reserve, slowing my pace, grabbing onto tree branches to keep from slipping, and occasionally stretching my legs to ease the cramping.  Relief and extreme elation kicked in when the pavement emerged.  I hobbled down the bike path and finally made a right turn onto a residential street, where I saw the finish line at Carlton High School at the end of the block.  As I got closer I could see my dad and sister, who had come out from Michigan, on the sidewalk cheering for me.  After another hundred yards of hobbling, the Minnesota Voyageur was finally in the books.   


2019 Tahoe Rim Trail 100-Miler

It was approaching 3:00 AM as I climbed wearily up the dark trail towards the Bull Wheel aid station.  I was going on twenty-five hours without sleep and had covered seventy-two miles of the Tahoe Rim Trail 100, my first 100-miler.  Within the last hour or so, exhaustion had set in pretty hard.  After ten minutes of sitting in a camping chair at the aid station unable to slip into unconsciousness, I stood up, thanked the volunteers, and disappeared down the trail into the night.  It was a beautiful, cloudless night in Tahoe, and the moon shined brightly overhead.  But everything was beginning to look the same to me.  The sky, the stars, the trail, the distant mountains, the trees, it all looked like one blur.  Then bits of songs and movie scenes began playing in my head and my focus deteriorated.  I was plodding along, unaware of my surroundings, caught up in the dream like state that I was now going through.  Then things got real very quickly and I stopped dead in my tracks.  What I saw, hanging from a branch right in the middle of the trail about twenty feet ahead, was a shining bright orange ribbon, one of many that had been marking the course every half mile or so.  You would think this would be a good thing because it meant that I was on course, but the problem was I had already passed by this ribbon thirty minutes prior.  There were no forks or turns on this section of the trail, so this could only mean one thing; I somehow got turned around and I had been backtracking for who knows how long.  I was in trouble.  How far back had I gone?  And how come I hadn't seen any other runners for so long?  Something was very wrong.  I began walking forward very slowly, almost as if I were afraid to approach the ribbon.  After passing by, I continued walking for about another minute or so, trying to figure out what I should do.  I would have liked to have waited for another runner to come by so I could ask them which way I was supposed to go, but there were none to be found.  I felt helpless and I finally decided to just stop.  Then I saw something in the distance that instantly caught my attention; lights.  Lights from other runners.  And they were moving away from me.  I started chasing them down, running in their direction.  I slowly began to realize that I had not gotten turned around at all.  I was going in the right direction all along, but the lack of sleep and fatigue had brewed up a storm of hallucinations and temporary panic.  I looked up and the sky was once again filled with stars, the moon cast a bright glow on the trail, and the beauty of a gorgeous night in the mountains was again upon me.  My senses were firing and I was more alert as I came over the top of the hill and looked on at the lights of Incline Village resting below in the distance.  There would be more battles fought from that point to the finish line, but in that moment, I reveled in my victory in the hallucination battle as I began running down the winding trail towards Diamond Peak. "Twenty-three more miles to go" I said.

2020 St. Croix 40 Winter Ultra 38-Miler

It was an absolutely stellar night in the Minnesota wilderness.  The only sound to be heard was my sled being pulled through the snow behind me, and I was enjoying the tranquility of the midnight winter air as the snow glistened in the moonlight.  Lights emerged in the distance and I suspected this was likely the checkpoint at mile twenty-two of the St. Croix Winter Ultra, where I would be required to bivy down as part two of our winter survival skills testing. Part one was at the beginning of the race where we needed to show that we knew how to boil snow for drinking water using a camping stove.  After passing the bivy test, I got the okay from a volunteer and prepared to head back out onto the course.  Everything seemed to be going pretty well and I was feeling confident.  Until I heard a volunteer say that the temperature was seven degrees below zero Fahrenheit.  I let out a burst of nervous laughter.  "Are you shitting me?" I asked.  "Nope, my car thermometer said minus seven.  You guys are badasses!" Two miles down the trail I took out my phone to take a selfie, just for the fun of it.  When I looked at the picture afterwards I was shocked and, quite frankly, a little terrified.  In the movie Goodfellas, after the Lucchese Crime Family robs Lufthansa Airport, the mastermind behind the robbery, Jimmy Conway (played by Robert DeNiro) essentially murders everyone who participated in the robbery for fear of them becoming rats and turning him in to authorities.  There's a scene where the police find Frankie Carbone, one of the robbers, dead in a meat truck, frozen solid.  That's pretty much exactly what I looked like in this picture, except I was smiling.  Since I had been outside in the cold for several hours and generating a lot of body heat, the warmth that my body was giving off had crystalized with the frigid cold air and now a layer of frost covered my beanie, my eyebrows, my eyelashes, the buff I was wearing around my neck, and the collar of my jacket.  Reality had set in.  It was seven below zero and I was out here in wilderness at 1:00 in the morning on a winter night in rural Minnesota.  During the pre-race briefing, the race director advised us that we would likely be "questioning our life choices" around the time that we reached the check point.  He wasn't kidding.  Suddenly, this didn't feel fun anymore.  It felt scary.  What the hell was I doing out here? If anything were to happen to me out here it could potentially be hours before I reached warmth and safety.  I would have to wait until someone found me, then the only way I could be transported to safety was by snowmobile.  I decided to stop running and walk so I could get my head straight.  After a few minutes I was able to wrap my mind around this whole scenario, and  I reminded myself that panicking in any situation in life, especially in the middle of an ultra, is only going to make things worse.  "This is exactly why we were required to bring winter survival gear" I told myself.  "In case something goes wrong".  I also reminded myself that I was feeling good, physically.  In fact, despite the frigid sub zero temperature, I was wearing just enough layers to feel comfortable, and I was neither hot nor cold.  It was all in my head.  It can be easy to break yourself down psychologically during an ultra, and I couldn't let that happen.  I kept telling myself that I was fine, and eventually I just started laughing out loud about how insane this was.  And just like that, it was onward and upward another fourteen miles to the finish line.