Failure Is Always An Option

"Failure is not an option".  We've all heard that expression or something very similar to it, depending on where in the world we live.  The expression is known for being the tagline for the 1995 film "Apollo 13", but it is also frequently used in several different contexts, often referring to the outcome of future events in sports, the business world, or academics.  Despite it's popularity, it is quite possibly the most ridiculous and idiotic phrase I've ever heard.  Failure is always an option.

Without failure, there would be no life lessons to be learned.  We're supposed to learn from our mistakes.  Even the minor mistakes that people make every day can be considered small failures.  Those mistakes teach us how to learn, grow, and improve ourselves.  Without failure, life would be boring.  I'm not a philosopher and I don't know the meaning of life, but during my thirty-three years on this planet, I've developed a set of beliefs.  Among them is the belief that life is about having ups and downs.  Can you imagine living in a world with only success and no failure?  What reason would we have for celebrating anything?  If it weren't for failure, we wouldn't even understand the concept of success.  We need the downs in our lives to celebrate the ups.  Without failure, there would be no success.  That goes for businesses, sports organizations, and everyone as individuals.  Most successful organizations have as many failures as they do successes.  Take SoftBank, for example.  The investment conglomerate has taken billions of dollars in hits from failed investments, especially in recent years.  Yet, their annual revenue has been rising year over year and reached nearly eighty-seven billion dollars in 2019.  Think about how many games hockey teams lose season after season before winning the Stanley Cup.  A very successful person who I really look up to once told me after one of my failures "At least you went for it.  You have to take chances in life to succeed".  Without failure, there would be no cool stories to tell.  Think about how many great movies out there have plots based on overcoming failure (8 Mile, the Rocky movies, Anchorman, etc.).  Not only does failure teach us valuable life lessons, but it can definitely lay the foundation for an entertaining story.  So, if I hear someone say "failure is not an option" I don't buy into it for a second.  It's complete rubbish.

Whoever the moron is that thought it would be a good idea to apply this silly expression to everyday life probably conceived the idea with the notion in mind that failure is the end of the road.  If the CEO of a company is removed from her position by the company's board of directors, her career is destroyed.  Or if a jazz musician gives a lousy performance because his saxophone is out of tune and his mouthpiece is squeaky, he'll pack up his instrument and never play it again.  This is not the case.  Failure is not the end of the road.  In fact, in my mind, failing is a skill, and people can either be awesome or horrible at it.  If you're horrible at it, you let it destroy your spirit, and before you know it you're pulling a Ron Burgundy, sitting in a bar with an unkempt beard, singing gibberish, and wandering around San Diego drinking milk on a hot summer day.  But if you're awesome at it, you understand that life is 5% what happens to you and 95% how you react to it.  You learn from your failure and overcome it through redemption.  I've been through my fare share of failures in my life, and while I don't claim to be an expert at failing by any means, I've never allowed failure to kill my spirit.

The letters DNF mean only one thing to an ultrarunner; failure.  The meaning of the term (Did Not Finish) is the only thing more daunting than the term itself.  I've earned myself this status twice in my life as an ultrarunner.  Interestingly enough, it was the same race both times, just in different years.  My first DNF was at the 2017 Canyons 100K.  It was my second ultramarathon, and I toed the starting line only eight months after completing my first 50K.  The race proved to be substantially more difficult that I'd imagined.  The first half went pretty well and I felt good, but I made a couple of major mistakes at the halfway point; I sat down for way to long, close to an hour.  I had also eaten too much, and I had a big lump in my stomach by the time I got moving again.  In addition to the mistakes I made at the midway point, my overall training had been deficient.  By the time I hit mile forty-two, my quads couldn't contend with the downhill pressure anymore.  I was in excruciating pain and I could barely shuffle twenty feet before I was forced to walk.  I knew I had no chance in hell of making the cut off at the Rucky Chucky check point, six miles down the trail.  When I finally arrived, sure enough, the volunteers reluctantly informed me that my race was over.  It was a bitter pill to swallow, but I reminded myself that failure is not the end of the road.  I wanted a rematch, so I trained harder and went back the following year.  I had serious doubts about whether or not I could finish the race at the same point as I had fallen apart the year before, but this time, the outcome was different.  I'll never forget that final climb up to Foresthill and the metal gate emerging in the darkness at the junction where the course leaves the trail for the final half mile stretch that is run on pavement.  "You have eleven minutes to go a quarter of a mile!" the volunteer further down the road told me.  A whole year's worth of frustration had suddenly melted away, and crossing the finish line was one of the most profound moments of my running career.  My failure had become a success.  When I DNF'ed at Canyons the second time in 2019, it was even more frustrating because I had finished the year before, and I made yet another major rookie mistake.  Similar to 2017, I had a great first half, but despite the enormous winter we had in California that year, it was a hot day on race day, which was held in late April.  I foolishly neglected to consume salt tablets, electrolytes, and salty snacks before the heat kicked in, and by the time I rolled into Rucky Chucky at mile forty-eight, I was dry heaving, suffering from heat related nausea, cramping up badly, and on the verge of puking.  After drinking some soda and soup broth, I attempted to resume the race, but at the pace I was moving, it was a losing battle.  I knew I wouldn't make the cutoff to the next aid station, so I made the painful decision to drop once again.  This time I wanted blood.  There was no way I was going to let this DNF define me as an ultrarunner, especially when I had finished the race the year before.  To seek redemption, I signed up for the Bishop High Sierra 100K.  This time I would take all of the proper steps to make sure my sodium levels were sufficient, and five weeks after my second DNF, I found myself running the final stretch of the Bishop High Sierra 100K shortly after the sun fell below the mountains on the horizon.  I was so happy I was going to finish, I sang out loud to myself on the trail during that last mile, and crossed the finish line shortly before 9:30 PM.             

My point is that when most people read or hear the word "failure" they flip the hell out.  It seems we as people, are scared to death of failure and it shouldn't be that way.  We should expect failure and welcome it.  We cannot put constant pressure on ourselves to make everything turn out perfectly.  That is just irrational and unrealistic.  Perhaps if we remember the benefits of failure such as learning life lessons and creating more reasons to celebrate success, we can learn to be more accepting of it in our society.  We don't live in a perfect world.  Yes, we should absolutely always plan for success, but if things don't go as planned, it's important to try again and not let the ramifications of failure pound us into submission.  And that, my friends, is why, yes, failure is ALWAYS an option.       

   
 

 

My St. Croix 40 Winter Ultra Experience Part 2: The Frosty Selfie

Seconds earlier, Jamison had given the verbal queue that the race had begun.  I knelt down in the snow along with forty-eight other runners and five skiers, pulled the trigger on my fire starter and lit up the Esbit tabs in my stove.  Once our water began to boil and we got the okay from a volunteer, we could pack away our stoves and start running.  The flames from the Esbit tabs were strong, but my water was slow to boil.  I looked around as other runners were cleared by volunteers and began hitting the trail.  "How's it going?" Jamison asked as he approached.  "Good, just waiting for my water to boil".  "Ah, okay" he answered as he looked down at my stove.  "Did you bring a lid for your container?"  "No" I replied with a shy smile.  "That definitely would have helped, but I think you'll be good to go soon".  Damn it.  Why hadn't I thought to buy a lid?.  It was a minor bump in the road, but based on how things had turned out so far, I couldn't complain too much.  Having run multiple long distance races, I've learned a few lessons about how to react when things don't go according to plan. I've learned that especially for a race like this, it's important to plan meticulously and be organized, but when things don't go according to my original plan, it's important to not freak out.  That would only weaken my spirit, and if my spirit were to weaken, I'd be screwed.  The best thing to do is to stay cool and adapt.  Expect things to go wrong and be ready to act accordingly.  Focus on the present, control what you can, and things will work out.  Several volunteers approached me over the next ten minutes to see how my boiling was progressing.  "Dude, you're so close" they kept saying.  "You should be good to go any minute".  Finally, after what seemed like forever, bubbles began forming on the bottom of the container, and my water began to boil.  "Nice, you're good to go!" the volunteer said.  Thank goodness.  Relieved and happy that I passed the stove test, I packed up, grabbed the end of the thin climbing rope I had fastened to my sled, tied it around my waist, and off I went into the night, pulling my sled about six feet behind me.

I eventually began catching up to other runners and skiers, giving them kudos as I cruised by.  St. Croix State Park has several miles of interconnected snowmobile trails and the entire thirty-eight and a half mile course was located within the park boundaries.  To ensure that we stayed on course, the path was marked with yellow signs containing blue arrows at all junctions where trails intersected.  In addition to these signs, there were small florescent yellow flags on sticks off to the side of the trail every half mile or so.  The trail was in great condition.  Several inches of snow had fallen the week prior, and was now packed down, thanks to the park employees and snowmobile riders.  It was like running on Styrofoam, and the snow crunched underneath my shoes as I glided along.  Even though the path was about twelve feet wide, I stayed as far to the right as I could, occasionally turning my head back to make sure that my gear was still secured to my sled underneath the bungee cords, and nothing had gone missing.  As time passed and miles were covered, I eventually took out my phone to check the time.  Sometimes extreme cold can cause electronics such as cell phones to excessively deplete battery energy in order to remain functional.  In an effort to keep my phone working, I kept it in a Ziploc bag with a hand warmer.  My phone read 8:33 PM.  A little over two hours had passed since I began running, which meant it was time to have some food and hydrate.  During winter races it can be tempting to avoid hydrating and eating, but I made a conscious effort to eat and drink every two hours to keep the proverbial fire burning.  I slowed to a stop, turned to my sled, unzipped my pack, and took a few big pulls of Gatorade from my hydro flask.  I then pulled out a big red bag of Chips Ahoy! chewy chocolate chip cookies.  Since my body would be burning more calories than a usual ultramarathon by keeping itself warm in the extreme cold, I opted to consume high calorie foods with a lot of sugar.  I opened the package and reached into the plastic tray that held the cookies.  I popped two of them into my mouth and stuffed the rest into my jacket pocket, eating them one by one, as I continued running.  Even after stopping for two minutes, I was beginning to feel cold, so I wanted to keep moving.  I took note of what time it was so that I knew to re-hydrate and eat again in two hours.

As I glided along the trail with no sounds to be heard except the crunching of snow under my shoes and the sound of my sled being pulled behind me, my mind began to wander.  I thought a lot about how lucky I was to have met and befriended Tony and Kim.  In early October, my friends and I had found them on the Ragnar Napa Facebook group while recruiting members for our team.  They responded to our inquiry and were quickly added to our roster.  At that time, I was beginning to plan the travel logistics for St. Croix, so you can imagine my surprise when Kim sent our team an introductory message and said "Tony and I are from Hinckley, Minnesota".  I couldn't believe what a coincidence it was.  Of all the cities and states in the whole country, what are the odds that they lived in the same town I would be traveling to in a few months to run St. Croix?  Unfortunately, Ragnar Napa was cancelled due to wildfires, but when it came time for us to part ways, Tony and Kim graciously invited me to come stay at their house during race weekend.  Their house was so cool.  It was like staying in a resort in the mountains.  It had a wood interior, lots of windows, and ample space.  They owned forty acres of land, had a detached garage, and another shack on the property that Tony had converted into his own personal gym, complete with punching bags, a treadmill, mats, weights, and even a stereo.  The night before, as we were heading out to Bear Creek Tavern, Tony and Kim had shown me all of the paths and trails they had on their property.  I couldn't believe how lucky I was to be staying there.  Tony's father had passed away several years earlier, along with my mother.  My only logical theory is that the two of them, wherever they are, must have pulled some strings. "These guys need to meet" they probably said to each other.  I continued along the snowy trail, as the flashing LED lights and reflective gear of runners ahead of me periodically appeared in the distance.  I promptly came up behind a guy and a girl running together.  They introduced themselves and Shawn and Mike, both from the Twin Cities area.  I complimented Shawn on her sled decorating abilities, which included flashing, battery powered Christmas lights.  She was a winter ultra veteran, while Mike was out here completing his first one.  We leapfrogged over the course of several miles, and I eventually bade them farewell as I ran ahead.  It was an absolutely stellar night.  Thin, high clouds consumed a portion of the sky, the stars were steadfast, and a full moon shined brightly from above as the snowy trail sparkled and glistened in the moonlight.  Most of the course dissected through the wilderness, and the path was lined with tall, leafless trees, which blocked most of the wind that swept through the area.  Periodically, I'd glance up above the tree tops at the moon and stars and revel in the beauty of it all.  It was so bright, I scarcely needed my headlamp, so I shut it off.  But after a few minutes I thought "wait a minute.  What if there's animals out here?  It would be nice to be able to see their glowing eyes in the distance so I can at least be aware of their presence".  With this thought in mind, I decided to switch my headlamp back on, although the light was barely needed.  As I progressed farther, I crossed wooden bridges over frozen creeks and eventually the wilderness gave way to a huge clearing.  "Wow!" I said out loud.  I could now see a ways in front of me, and was in complete awe of the surroundings.  I had heard before the race that several runners were unable to make it due to an ice storm in Wisconsin, and I was bummed that they wouldn't get the chance to enjoy this experience.  Among them were the hosts of Ten Junk Miles, the podcast that had introduced me to Jamison and this race.  I felt bad that they had fallen behind the eight ball and couldn't make it, and here I was reveling in the good fortune of my situation.  But we all have lucky and unlucky moments in life, and although I felt bad for them, I was happy that things seemed to be progressing nicely, at least for now.  After all, there was always next year.

Checking my phone again, about five and half hours had now passed since I started, and I soon spotted the lights of the check point in the distance.  When I arrived about twenty minutes later, I greeted the volunteers and prepared for the second and last test.  Part of running St. Croix was to teach runners the importance of having winter survivalist skills.  My stove test may have been slow going, but I successfully passed, and the next hurdle would be passing the sleeping bag and bivy test.  A bivy sack is essentially an outer shell for a sleeping bag that is used for winter camping to keep body heat trapped inside.  Once I exited the trail and made my way into the check point, which was the parking lot of the park headquarters, I removed my sleeping bag and bivy from my sled and rolled it out on the icy pavement.  Before the start of the race I had stuffed my sleeping bag inside my bivy and rolled the whole thing up into the bag to avoid having to do so at the check point, which would have cost me more time.  Once I wiggled inside, a volunteer came over to give me the go ahead.  "How's it going out there?" she asked "So far, so good!  I appreciate you guys being out here".  Volunteers are a key ingredient to making any race happen, but tonight, these guys were especially awesome for being out here in the middle of the night, bundled up in bitter cold temperatures.  I'm glad they had a heated tent to escape to during their downtime, but they still had to bundle up to stay warm in these crazy cold temperatures.  "Okay, you're good to go!" she said about thirty seconds later.  Sweet!  I had passed the final winter survival test.  The final hurdle would be making it through the seventeen miles I had left to go.  If I could do that, I would be home free.  I packed up my sleeping bag and bivy, feeling positive.  That was until I overhead a volunteer tell another runner that his car thermometer read seven degrees below zero when he arrived for his volunteer shift a few minutes earlier.  "Wait, what?" I asked in disbelief.  "Yep, minus seven man.  You guys are bad asses!".  Was it really that cold? My body was generating a lot of heat, so it was hard to tell.  "Number eight, checking out!" I said enthusiastically as I made my way back to the trail.  The volunteers clapped their hands, cheered, and sent me on my way.  Thirty minutes later, I removed my phone from my pocket and for laughs, I decided to take a selfie.  The flash went off, and I took a look at the photo.  I couldn't believe what I saw.  It looked as if someone had thrown a big snowball right at my face.  Snow and frost covered my beanie, my buff, the outer layer of my jacket, and even my eyelashes.  I looked down at my jacket, and sure enough, it was covered in frost.  My muscles were generating ample amounts of body heat, which warmed up my hat and clothes.  The heat crystallized in the frigid cold, and created a layer of frost all over me.  When I saw that selfie, it scared me a little.  Was it really seven below zero out here? Or was the volunteer's car thermometer malfunctioning?  It was a critical moment.  "What the hell am I doing out here?" I thought.  "This is insane.  Why am I out here in sub zero temperatures, in the middle of the night, pulling a sled full of stuff through the wilderness?  Why am I not in bed sound asleep, like a normal person would be?"  Jamison mentioned during the pre-race briefing that we would likely question our life choices at some point during this race.  For me, that time had come.  What in the world had I gotten myself into this time?  Eventually, I burst into loud, psychotic laughter, breaking the midnight silence.  This was the kind of stuff I lived for.  Yes, this is absolutely insane.  Who would do something like this? and why?  I don't know, but man, I love this shit!

Runners go through several phases during ultramarathons, and I was now entering what I like to call, the loopy phase.  It's like a combination of a runner's high and a proverbial acid trip.  "I'm on my way.  I'm on my way! Home Sweet Hommme" I sang out loud, alone on the trail.  Stars shined above, and the moon continued lighting up the white trail as I ran through the trees.  The song I was singing was a favorite of mine, and the tone of it seemed to blend perfectly with my current predicament.  Moments earlier I had stuffed more cookies into my pockets and I looked at them as I held them in my hand.  "Maybe I should see how many cookies I can get in my mouth" I thought.  "Why not make this even more interesting?".  But they were all going in, one way or another.  I soon approached a section of the course that Shawn earlier referred to as "the Lollipop".  There were several hills along this area, and when I approached a downhill section, I sat down on my sled, and rode it down the hill, using my feet to steer (I confirmed before the race that this tactic was not considered cheating because we had to haul our sleds up the hills too).  Shortly after riding down yet another hill, I saw the lights of two oncoming runners. "Is that Liam?" it was the familiar voice of Shawn.  "Yep!" I answered.  Seeing Shawn and Mike was a welcoming sight, but suddenly I became confused.  Why were they going the other way?  "Wow, I thought you guys were closer behind me" I said.  "Oh yeah, we slowed down a lot since the check point.  We're just going easy" Mike replied.  They seemed to still be in good spirits.  "Nice!  See you guys in a little bit" I said as we parted ways.  Why were they going the opposite way? I had been following the blue arrows and yellow flags, so I was pretty sure I was on the right course.  Just then, another oncoming runner approached.  "Hey, nice job" I said.  "Thanks! But you know you're going the wrong way right?" she replied.  I looked at her quizzically in the beam of my headlamp.  "I am?" Using her pole, she pointed to one of the yellow signs with a blue arrow on her side of the trail that marked the direction of the course.  This wasn't good.  In fact, it was horrible.  I had passed the same sign about an hour before.  Not knowing exactly what to do next, I looked ahead and to my delight, I saw a sign with an arrow on my side of the trail about thirty feet ahead.  "Oh, check it out!" I said to her as I pointed the beam of my headlamp at the sign.  She walked over to my side of the trail to get a better view.  "Oh!" she said.  "This must be the part of the course that is out and back.  I knew we had a small section of out and back, I just didn't know where.  Never mind, you're good, sorry!" After a burst of laughter, I wished her luck and continued onward.  Within minutes, I was alone again and there were no lights of any runners in sight.  Despite following the signs, my encounter with the last runner I had seen had planted some seeds of doubt in my mind.  Forty-five minutes later, I was still alone and began feeling very isolated and vulnerable in the midnight wilderness.  "Am I really on the right path?Yes, I have to be" I thought to myself.  As pleasant as running in solitude can be, at this moment, I longed for some company.  The bike race began at 10 PM, and a handful of them had already passed me along the way.  I kept hoping that a bike racer would ride up behind me, just to ensure that I was going the right way.  Just when things were really starting to get sketchy, a bright light shined behind me.  Yes! I'm good.  "Nice job man! I'm so glad to see you.  I wasn't sure if I was going the right way" I said to the bike racer as he passed.  He laughed, gave me a thumbs up, and continued down the trail.  Suddenly, all was well again.  Moments later, an oncoming snowmobile came roaring up the trail.  I waved as he approached, and he stopped and asked me if I was okay.  He had mistaken my wave as a signal for help, but I was just saying hi.  "Yep, I'm good!  Just saying hey" I said.  "Cool, you've got a great pace going.  Keep it up".  He was one of the volunteers patrolling the trails to ensure our safety, for which I was extremely grateful.

A little while later, exhaustion began setting in.  It was 4:30 AM, and my body was feeling the fatigue of trekking through a cold Minnesota night.  There were no mile markers along the course, so it was difficult to tell exactly what mileage I was at, but my educated guess was that I had about four miles left and I'd be done in about an hour.  As I continued along tiredly, I soon spotted something odd and beautiful off in the distance.  Lights.  From a building.  Oh my god!  I didn't want to get my hopes up, so I continued at a modest pace.  As I got closer I couldn't help but think: is this the finish line already?  Holy crap, it was! I had overestimated how much distance I had left, and was euphorically surprised.  Volunteers cheered and rang cowbells as I ran the final hundred feet to the finish line at the Trail Center, where the race had started.  I shouted and threw my arms in the air in celebration as I ran through the finish line, crossing in just over ten and a half hours.  "Wow, that was epic!  Thank you guys so much" I told the volunteers as I smiled ear to ear.  "Congratulations man!" they said as they handed me my finisher's prize.  After a few minutes, I promptly headed into the the building, where the volunteers were cooking up a full-on breakfast of eggs, bacon, pancakes, and coffee.  As I ate, I spoke with a volunteer who was working the check point around the same time I was there.  "I heard it was seven below zero" I told the guy "Yep, at one point it was.  Then it warmed up to about two, and around five by the time I left".  Who knows if it was really that cold, but either way, those temperatures are pretty extreme.  Luckily, I managed to stay pretty comfortable the whole time.  I had a few layers on and my body generated just enough body heat while running to keep myself warm without sweating.  In fact, I even took off my gloves during a decent portion of the race because my hands were surprising warm.  As I finished breakfast and prepared to head out, a runner named Thomas came inside.  I had met him before the start, and he was the only other runner from California who had come out for St. Croix.  He had also successfully finished the race, and we embraced in a celebration hug before parting ways.  As I loaded my sled into the bed of the pickup truck and drove away in the pre-dawn darkness, I couldn't have been happier.

Back at the house, Tony let me in, and I flopped down onto the bed in the guestroom for a nap.  Later on that day, Tony and I went to brunch at the buffet of the casino in Hinckley, where he has worked for the last nineteen years.  Kim, who is a teacher in the Twin Cities area and commutes ninety minutes to work each day, had left earlier that morning to go dress shopping with her soon to be sister in law.  After Tony and I stuffed ourselves at the buffet, he showed me his working area in the backroom.  He was a Tech Engineer, and fixed the slot machines whenever they malfunctioned.  After seeing his work area and getting a better sense of his day to day work life, I was convinced he could fix anything.  Kim arrived back home later that afternoon as I was packing up to head to the airport.  The three of us embraced in a final hug and I told them I'd be back to visit again.  Unfortunately, due to time constraints, I couldn't return to Bear Creek Tavern for a celebratory beer, but I was pretty sure it wasn't going anywhere.  After saying our final goodbyes, I jumped in my truck and headed for the airport.  As is often the case during the drive home from an ultra, I did a lot of reflecting on the journey.  I was happy that everything worked out, and the only blunder I encountered was not having a lid for my stove container.  Things could have very easily gone very badly.  I had won battle after battle, and eventually won the war (finishing the race successfully).  Would I ever do an ultra like this again?  Absolutely.  It was a new and exciting experience, and I loved every minute of it.  But at that exact moment, despite how happy I was, I wasn't thinking about running.  I was exhausted, and I just wanted to get back home to California and into my nice warm bed.           

My St. Croix 40 Winter Ultra Experience Part 1: Welcome To Hinckley

As human beings who don't have perfect judgment, most of us, at least once during our time on this planet, question our life choices.  Maybe it's when we're going through a tough time at work or in a relationship.  Or maybe when our actions result in severe consequences for ourselves or others.  For me, it was twenty-four miles into the St. Croix 40 Winter Ultra.  Thirty minutes and two miles before I had reached this point, I rolled up my bivy sack and sleeping bag and stowed it away in my sled.  As I prepared to leave the check point and hit the trail to grind out the last seventeen miles, I heard a volunteer tell another runner that his car thermometer read seven degrees below zero when he arrived at the check point five minutes ago.  It was shocking to hear, but it wasn't until a short while after I had taken off that the insanity of what we were doing really sunk in.  As my mind processed the reality of this situation and what the volunteer said at the check point, I began seriously questioning what the hell I was doing out here in sub zero temperatures, pulling a sled full of crap in the middle of a winter night in the Minnesota wilderness.

One weekend morning in April, I was listening the latest episode of a running podcast to which I was a regular subscriber.  This episode was particularly interesting.  It was the usual hosts, along with Dusty Olson and another guy named Jamison, who they introduced as the Race Director for the St. Croix 40 Winter Ultra, as guests.  After I finished listening and hearing Jamison's running stories, I was intrigued.  "What exactly is this St. Croix 40 Winter Ultra?" I thought.  When I looked it up on ultrasignup.com I found out very quickly that this was no ordinary ultramarathon.  I was accustomed to California ultras that were held during the spring or summer in the mountains with fully stocked aid stations every six miles.  The St. Croix 40 Winter Ultra is a little different.  Runners traverse thirty-eight and a half miles along snowmobile trails through St. Croix State Park in rural Minnesota in the middle of January.  There are no aid stations, just one check point at mile twenty-two where participants test their winter survival skills.  The race is completely self supported, meaning runners must carry all of their food, hydration, and supplies by pulling a sled along the snowy trail throughout the entire race.  Wait, it gets better.  To ensure that the experience truly captures that of a challenging winter race, the event begins at 6:15 PM and continues through the night when temperatures can easily drop to fifteen degrees below zero.  The fact that the race was held so early in the new year was symbolic to me.  A new year means new experiences and challenges, and this seemed like an amazing way to kick off 2020.  I signed up for the race the day registration opened, approximately three months later.

Fast forward five months, race weekend finally arrived, and during my flight to Minnesota, I found myself feeling anxious about the events that lay ahead.  Despite having finished several ultramarathons, St. Croix was going to be a completely new experience, and my mind was whirling.  Would the store have all the gear I needed for the race?  And even if they did, would I still pass the mandatory gear check? Would I be able to keep warm?  Could I even complete thirty-eight and a half miles running on snow covered trails? The reality was these questions would remain unanswered, at least for now.  I don't do well with uncertainty, but the key to getting through this challenge, I soon realized, was focusing on the present.  Don't stress over what will happen and how things will go.  Just focus on what you can control in this moment, and that will lay the foundation for the future.  These thoughts put my mind more at ease.  I put on my headphones, closed my eyes, queued up David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust album on my iPod, and allowed myself to drift into a plane ride slumber.

Once I arrived at the Minneapolis airport, I made my way to the Enterprise Rent-A-Car counter.  The agent got the information he needed from me, tossed me the keys to the pick-up truck I was renting, and off I went.  Hinckley, the closest town to where the race was taking place, is about an hour and a half drive from Minneapolis, but I had a few stops to make first.  To my delight, there was an REI conveniently located ten minutes from the airport.  The guidelines of winter ultras require participants to carry specific gear that could potentially save their butts if something were to go wrong.  Some of this gear I had packed and brought with me, but the rest of it, I opted to purchase here in Minnesota, mainly due to time constraints.  Once I purchased the supplies I needed from REI, my next stop was the local Menard's home improvement store.  Upon entering, I headed towards the "winter" section of the store and spotted exactly what I was looking for; sleds.  A trusted source (the guy at REI) warned me that he had heard horror stories of people's sleds breaking during winter ultras.  Bearing in mind how brutal it would be to have a broken sled halfway through St. Croix, I decided to buy two sleds.  During the race I would have one inside the other, effectively creating a double layer, and minimizing the risk of the sleds breaking.  Once I made the sled purchase, the final stop was the local Target for food and hydration during the race.  St. Croix is entirely self supported and runners are required to carry all of their food and hydration throughout the entire race.  In fact, the rules state that runners must finish with 3,000 calories worth of food.  After exiting Target, I was finally ready for the journey up to Hinckley.  Although a small, rural community of roughly 1,800 people, the town is notable for being the midway point between the Twin Cities area and Duluth.  My friends Tony and Kim lived right in town and were generous enough to allow me to stay at their house with them during race weekend.  As I drifted into town, driving down the dark country road, I was on the lookout for their driveway.  Remembering the directions that Kim had sent me through text, I soon spotted a small green sign with their address off to the side of the road.  Once I made the turn, the snowy dirt road followed a winding, half mile long path through the dark and desolate woods.  Eventually the lights of a house emerged through the trees and I remember hoping I had the right house, or someone would promptly pull a shotgun on me and tell me to get my ass off their property.  When I opened the door to my truck, the frigid night air hit me like a ton of bricks, and I immediately began shivering.  My cold sensation was soon interrupted by Tony and his dog, Oreo, greeting me with hugs and doggie kisses as they approached my truck.  Kim was inside staying warm, and we all embraced in a hug as Tony and I carried my gear inside.  I dropped my baggage in their guest room, which would serve as my makeshift base camp for the weekend.  Shortly after, the three of us piled into Tony's SUV and headed out for dinner and drinks.  "We think you'll like this place" Kim said.  "Get ready for an experience".  Five minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of Bear Creek Tavern.  The building resembled an over sized cabin, similar to a ski lodge, and rested off to the side of a desolate stretch of country road.  We saw snowmobiles parked in the lot as we walked towards the entrance.  Walking inside and out of the the chilly night, we took at seat at the bar.  Although Tony and Kim only frequented the restaurant once or twice a month, they knew all of the
staff, and even the owners.  They introduced me as their friend from California who "was going to be running forty miles through St. Croix State Park tomorrow night".  Tony soon realized that his friends
were also there, and after dinner, they asked if we wanted to play darts.  I suck at darts, but it was a fun way to bond with the people in the bar.  When we first arrived earlier that night before I had met anyone, I could tell that my presence threw some people off.  Not in a negative way by any means, but Hinckley is a tight knit community, and I was getting lots of curious looks as if people were wondering "who is this guy?".  Luckily for me, I have no issue being the outsider (I'm an ultrarunner, after all), and thus everyone I met was welcoming, friendly, and made me feel right at home.  One of the girls with whom we played darts had dubbed me "California Boy", and as the night went on and the beers kept coming, it was "California Boy this, California Boy that".  The experience of it all made me smile.  Despite being the outcast in a rural Minnesota town, we all bonded, and spent the night sharing stories over beers and games of darts.  Yes, I was different, but rejoicing in those differences was really cool to me.  Bear Creek Tavern was quite the experience, as Kim had said, and I had such a great time, I told the staff I'd come back on Sunday for a celebratory beer if I finished St. Croix.  We embraced in hugs and handshakes and I went to bed later that night peacefully content.

The next day was race day, and it was a beautiful, sunny winter morning as I looked out the window from Tony and Kim's living room.  The back of the house had a large deck, and a frozen creek rested about thirty feet down a steep, snowy hill in their backyard.  After lazing around with Oreo and Tony's cat, Lil' Homie, and having a filling lunch of lasagna and garlic bread, courtesy of Kim, I began the meticulous process of preparing for the epic journey ahead.  Tony and Kim's friend Steve had been kind enough to lend me his bivy sack and zero degree sleeping bag, which runners were required to carry throughout the entire race.  Steve had attempted the Tuscobia Winter Ultra two weeks prior, which had the same gear requirements, so it worked out well.  Once my backpack was loaded with food and supplies, my hydro flasks filled, and my sled packed up, Tony and Kim wished me luck as I headed out the door.  They seemed convinced that I would finish strong, but I wasn't so sure.  We would see.  "Thanks guys!  See you tomorrow morning" I said, trying to remain optimistic.  Their house was a ten minute drive to St. Croix State Park, and when I arrived at the Trail Center at 3:30 PM, gear check was in full swing.  The fire places were keeping the interior of the building warm, volunteers assisted runners, and participants weaved in and out, waiting for the pre-race briefing to begin.  After checking in, a volunteer handed me my bib and instructed me to lay out all of my gear on one of the many picnic tables in the room for gear check.  I had arrived in Minnesota safely, found all the gear I needed at REI and Menard's, and next would be yet another hurdle; the volunteers confirming that I had all of the proper gear.  Among the gear checklist was a zero degree or colder down sleeping bag, a bivy sack, a camping stove, fuel, three blinking LED lights, reflective clothing, 3,000 calories worth of food, seventy-five ounces of hydration, and a sled.  Not to mention all the layers that I needed to wear to keep warm.  Now would be the moment of truth.  I hoped that my gear would meet all of the requirements, since it would have been a shame to come all this way only to be told I couldn't race because I didn't have the proper equipment.  Luckily, I did, and when I passed gear check, I felt I had won yet another battle in a major war.  Once gear check was complete, we all gathered around as Jamison and Lisa, the Race Directors, gave us the pre-race briefing.  A majority of it was common sense.  That is until Lisa warned us about snowmobiles on the trails at night.  "Just so you guys know, if you get hit by a snowmobile, you will most likely die".  That drew some nervous laughter, but she wasn't joking.  All it would take is one accident, and the St. Croix 40 would be a cooked goose.  She then mentioned the possibility of trench foot, frostbite, and hypothermia.  Not the most fun things to hear about before running thirty-eight and a half miles through a cold winter night, but it was important that we knew the risks.  It was on us as experienced runners to take the proper precautions and keep ourselves from succumbing to these conditions.

The final announcement from Jamison was how the start of the race would play out.  St. Croix is a winter survivalist race, and the rules state that runners are required to demonstrate to volunteers that they are proficient in using their winter survival gear at two points during the race; we would need to use our stoves to boil water at the start line before taking off down the trail, and we would need to bivy down into our sleeping bags and bivy sacks at the check point at mile twenty-two later on in the night.  With twenty minutes to go before race start, the volunteers helped each of us fill our cooking containers with twelve ounces of water, and we made our way outside to the start line to set up our stoves.  The sun had now set for the night, and I shivered in the frigid air as I unpacked my stove and fuel in preparation for our first test.  I opted to use the most compact stove possible; a pocket stove that used Esbit tabs for fuel.  Esbit tabs are composed mainly of hexamine, a flammable solid substance that produces no smoke, leaves no ashes, and is capable of producing strong, long lasting flames that can endure strong winds.  As Jamison began counting down the minutes, he advised us that at 6:15 PM, he would say "go" and we would light our stoves, kicking off the start of the race.  Once our water had reached a boil and a volunteer gave us the go ahead, we could then pack up our stoves, and hit the trail.  With a few claps and cheers, we heard Jamison speak: "Everyone ready?! Okay....Go!" We lit our stoves up, and the race was on.