The "Moving to Laguna Niguel" Ultramarathon

A couple of weeks ago I shared a picture on social media of the view from our new home.  Samantha, Aidan, and I recently moved from Sunnyvale to Laguna Niguel, a city in southern Orange County not too far from the beach.  In addition to being a charming, suburban city with cool people and lots of places to eat, Laguna Niguel is topographically composed of several hills and canyons, which add to the beautiful ambiance.  We live right at the top of one of these hills, which offers stunning views of the neighborhood from the edge of our group of townhouses.  One of our friends from the Bay Area commented on the photo asking how the move went.  I'll get into the story of how it went in a minute, but I replied that it went pretty smoothly.  Little did I know that in the upcoming week, that simple reply would spark a light hearted Facebook debate between me, Samantha, and our friend about what it truly means to have a move go "smoothly".

Before I get into the move, let's take a step back.  This move has been talked about and was in the works for quite some time.  Even though Samantha and I met in Mountain View, both of us knew that we didn't want to make Silicon Valley our permanent home.  When she became pregnant with our son, Aidan, those feelings became more pronounced.  Living in Sunnyvale had served its purpose in both of our lives, and we were ready for something more long term.  Now that we had a kid on the way, we had a strong desire to move somewhere more quiet, more suburban, and more family oriented.  Samantha spent some of her childhood in Los Angeles, but mostly grew up in Irvine.  Her parents still live in the area, and I love Southern California, so Orange County seemed like a natural choice in terms of where to move.  We originally intended to move in May of 2023, but as the months carried on, it became apparent that we weren't ready to move just yet.  After a few lengthy discussions, we decided to renew our lease in Sunnyvale until September of 2024 so we had more time to coordinate the move.  Samantha and I did some searching with my in laws, and with their help, we found a charming, two story townhouse in a quiet neighborhood of Laguna Niguel.  Once we had our new living situation nailed down, we had a couple of months to enjoy Silicon Valley before the move.  There would be a lot of things that we would miss about the Bay Area, but we knew this move was right for us.  

As the summer carried on, moving week was approaching quickly.  In early August, Samantha and I were discussing the move and how we wanted to go about it.  We had some options, and we narrowed it down to two potential plans.  The first one was to hire movers to load up our belongings, drive them down to Laguna Niguel, and unpack them at our new house.  The second option was to rent a U-Haul truck, load it up on our own, drive it down to Orange County, and unload it ourselves.  Sure, the first option would have been convenient, but anyone who knows me well is probably not all that surprised that I was pushing for the second option.  Why you might ask?  Well, hiring movers is pretty expensive, but the price wasn't a total deal breaker.  In most cases, you get what you pay for, but I wondered if we could save money by executing this move in a more do-it-yourself fashion.  Another thing that was pulling me in that direction was my ultrarunner mindset.  I'm used to long periods of endurance.  I know what it's like to struggle in the moment, mentally and physically, and experience the satisfaction and reward of putting my body and mind through hell.  I thoroughly contemplated the two options, and after crunching the numbers, option two was a no brainer from a cost perspective.  Yes, it would be more work, and I would be physically exhausted.  But I like saving money, and I like challenges.  Samantha was skeptical of my plan.  "How are we going to get the U-Haul truck loaded up? she asked. "I'll load it up on my own".  I replied.  "I think the best plan is for you and Aidan to drive down to Orange County a day early so I can get the truck loaded up without any distractions.  Then I'll drive the truck down on my own, and I'll meet you guys at the townhouse on Tuesday".  "How are you going to load up all our stuff by yourself, then drive the truck all the way down there on your own? That's crazy".  It was a valid question and her concerns were justified.  I had never moved with a two-year-old before, so I was navigating this for the first time the best way I knew how.  I just stood up beside her, put my arm around her shoulder, looked at her with a big smile, and said "did you forget you're married to an ultrarunner?"  She knew what that meant.  

After some convincing and assuring Samantha that I had this in the bag, she reluctantly agreed to the plan.  But the truth was I wasn't entirely sure what I was doing.  Sure, I had moved a few times, but I had never moved four-hundred miles with a toddler before.  This was going to be a new experience, just like all of the times when I ran a new distance in ultrarunning for the first time.  I didn't quite know what to expect, or how it was going to go, but I was up for the challenge.  Some people might ask the question of why I insisted on loading up the moving truck and driving down to Orange County on my own as opposed to having some friends help me.  There's a logical explanation for that.  My take on these types of situations is I love teamwork and collaboration.  But if I'm in charge of the project, I feel much more comfortable working with a team if it's a project that I know well and have done before.  If I know all the steps and I can tell people exactly what I need done and when I need it done, and they can rely on me to give good, solid guidance, then I'm one-hundred percent onboard.  But if it's something I've never done before and I don't really know what I'm getting myself into, and there's a lot that can go wrong, that creates a sense of uncertainty.  And when there's uncertainty, I'm reluctant to get other people involved, and I would rather just do the job on my own, even if it's a lot of work.  I don't want to let other people down or waste their time if things go wrong.  Something can probably be done about that, but that was my mindset.

Before we knew it, moving day was upon us.  By this point, we had several boxes packed up, and we had "dejunkified" our apartment quite a bit, including ditching some old furniture.  My Sunday morning started off at the U-Haul center in Mountain View to pick up the truck.  Judging by the dimensions, I thought a twenty foot long by eleven foot tall truck would be suitable for our belongings.  It wasn't until I hopped into the driver's seat that I realized how different driving a twenty foot long U-Haul truck would be compared to my Rav4.  I drove painfully slowly out of the parking lot and down the highway back to our apartment, trying to be careful.  Every turn needed to be executed widely and I needed to take a couple of extra seconds looking in the side mirrors when changing lanes.  When I arrived home with the truck, Samantha was packing up everything her and Aidan would need for the next couple of days.  The plan was for the two of them to drive down and stay at a hotel in Laguna Hills, not far from our new place for the next couple of nights while I loaded up the truck and drove down to Orange County.  Once they were all packed up, they hit the road, and it was time to start moving stuff.  There are a lot of things I liked about our apartment building, but moving out of there was tough.  Our unit was located at the very end of the hallway, as far away from the elevator as it could possibly get.  Additionally, there was a secure door that I had to go through in the lobby of the leasing office, and the truck couldn't be parked right outside by the door because it was too big to pull into the parking garage.  I spent the next ten hours loading our belongings up on to a dolly, making numerous trips down the hall, down the elevator, out the lobby door, and to the moving truck.  I drank lots of water, took a lunch break, and ate lots of snacks to keep myself moving.  By 11:00 PM, I called it quits for the day.  I was about halfway done loading up our stuff, but I began to worry about what could potentially go wrong from a logistical standpoint.  I was concerned about leaving the moving truck in the parking area outside overnight, mainly because the staff at our building told me that I'd be violating their policies by leaving it there.  Additionally, I worried if the truck had enough space to move all our stuff.  It seemed like space was getting tight in there, and I thought about how much of a disaster it would be if the truck were towed or if I had to unload everything, return the truck, and get a bigger one.  Samantha and Aidan made it down to Laguna Hills safely, but it was a long and treacherous rally to get there.  Aidan is normally a great traveler, but it's a different ball game when only one of us is in the car with him.  Samantha had to stop a couple of times to let him unwind and be out of the car, which normally would be fine, except it was over one-hundred degrees Fahrenheit outside.  At one point, she was driving down a remote stretch of the 5 freeway through Kern County when she spotted a California Highway Patrol vehicle on the shoulder.  She pumped the breaks, but it was too late.  He pulled her over and wrote her a speeding ticket while Aidan cried his little butt off.  Not fun.

Even though it was a tough, eight hour drive, I was glad they arrived safely.  Apparently Aidan fell asleep right after Samantha received her lovely present from the California Highway Patrol, and slept for next three hours until they arrived at the hotel.  Shortly after I spoke with her on the phone, I decided to move the truck to a parking area outside the leasing office and out of the fire lane.  Once I went back upstairs, I threw together a quick dinner with some random food we still had in our freezer.  Our bed was already in pieces in the truck, so I plopped down onto our two-person love seat and laid down to get some sleep.  The first thing I did when I woke up at 6 AM the next morning was I went downstairs to check on the truck.  I was relieved to see that it was still right where I left it.  As the day went on, and as the truck became more full and our apartment became more empty, my anxiety gradually decreased.  I realized that everything was going to fit into the truck just fine as long as I packed it properly.  As I was getting towards the end of packing, the realization that we were leaving began to hit me.  I thought about the last five-and-a-half years that I spent living in the Bay Area and how much had happened since then.  It was a different era than it was five years ago.  Things had certainly come a long way.  I would always cherish the years I spent living in Sunnyvale and the good things that came with them.  The fact that I was saying goodbye and starting a new chapter felt like a wall of emotion, but it was mostly happy thoughts.  By 10:00 PM on Monday night, the truck was loaded up, the apartment was cleaned out, the keys were left on the kitchen counter, and I was ready to go.  I was feeling confident that the move was going according to plan, but I still had one more big hurdle to clear:  Getting the truck full of our belongings down to Laguna Niguel.  It was going to be a long haul.  A straight drive without stops and no traffic is a little over six hours, but there was no way I was going to make it down there that quickly.  It was late at night, and I was going to need to stop and sleep for a least a few hours.  Late at night in the dark is when things usually start to get interesting during ultramarathons.  The same could definitely be said for driving from Silicon Valley to Orange County.

As I drove down highway 101 I felt a strange combination of emotions.  I felt at ease because the truck was all loaded up, we were out of our apartment, and I was on my way down to our new home.  But I also felt anxious because I was driving a massive moving truck that contained virtually everything that me, Samantha, and Aidan owned.  One careless move, and that could all be gone in an instant.  Not only that, but one wrong move could also total another car on the road if I didn't see them in the mirror when I changed lanes.  There was no rearview mirror, so I relied solely on the large outside mirrors to see other cars on the road behind me.  I wasn't used to driving such as massive vehicle on the highway and I found it to be a little intimidating.  There was a lot that could go wrong.  I tried to just relax, not think too much about it, and enjoy the drive.  When making the drive from Silicon Valley to Orange County, the route that I travel is along highway 101 to highway 152, which crosses over Panoche Pass, and deposits me onto the 5 freeway.  I've made the drive so many times, it's almost like second nature at this point.  The first town that appears along the route on highway 5 is the town of Panoche.  When I arrived there, it was just past midnight, so it seemed like a good opportunity to pull over and get some rest.  As I exited the freeway, I piloted the U-Haul down a remote backstreet past some fast food restaurants and gas stations, and parked on the roadside.  Outside, there were gas stations on either side of the street from me and one in front of me.  Beyond the gas station parking lots were darkness and miles of open fields and farmland.  Over the last several hours, I had been fueled by trail mix and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, so I was pretty hungry.  All the restaurants were closed for the night, so I headed into the gas station and bought a couple of Lunchable packages.  They weren't hot meals, but salami, cheese, and crackers were better than more trail mix and PB&J.  

I managed to get about three-and-a-half hours of sleep in the driver's seat of the truck.  When I woke up, my back felt stiff, but I felt slightly more coherent.  By this time, it was around 4:00 AM on Tuesday morning.  When I stepped out of the truck to stretch, the area was dead quiet, except for the occasional semi truck pulling into a nearby parking lot.  Even though the establishment was dimly lit, I could see that the gas station I visited earlier was still open, so I headed back in to use the restroom.  I exited with a piping hot cup of coffee, and felt ready to hit the road once again.  I was almost certain that I would hit the morning commute traffic in the Los Angeles area, so I figured I'd better get moving.  The road was pretty empty as I continued making my way south on the 5 freeway.  As time went on, and the coffee kicked in, I felt more comfortable driving the truck, and at times it felt like driving a car.  Within a couple of hours, the early dawn began lighting up the eastern skyline, and the morning was upon me.  It reminded me a lot of running through the night, then watching the sun come up in the morning after hours of darkness.  There was something very powerful and exciting about the arrival of a new day, and I felt a sense of optimism and renewed energy.  I was cruising along pleasantly and enjoying the ride, until I hit some traffic going through the Grapevine, a long stretch of freeway that passes through the mountains and connects the Central Valley to the Los Angeles area.  I was happy that I was only within a couple of hours of Laguna Niguel, but as the traffic cleared near Six Flags, I began feeling drowsy again.  Not wanting to take any chances, I decided to pull over again for another nap.  After about an hour of snoozing in the driver's seat and another coffee purchase, I was back on the road again at around 9:00 AM making my way through highway traffic in the San Fernando Valley.  This trip was starting to feel quite grueling.  Eleven hours had passed since I left Sunnyvale the night before, and I was now in the final stretch of the journey.  I was about seventy miles from my destination, but it seemed to be taking forever.  I guess it wouldn't be Los Angeles if there wasn't a shit load of traffic as far as the eye could see.  I love LA and I tolerated the traffic when I lived there, but at this particular moment it was driving me bananas.  I guess that's what will happen after eleven hours on the road with only a few hours sleep in a moving truck.

When I finally pulled into our townhouse complex in Laguna Niguel shortly after 11:00 AM, I clapped my hands in celebration.  Even though I hadn't done any running, and the only steps I took over the last thirteen hours were to and from gas station convenience stores, I felt like I had just crossed the finish line of an ultramarathon.  I was hungry, sleep deprived, and dirty, but it felt like a big accomplishment. I wanted to celebrate the fact that I had made it through this trek in one piece.  That celebration was just me in the cab of the truck alone clapping my hands and saying "holy shit, I made it", but that was all I needed.  It felt like a nice way to make up for those two ultramarathons that I DNF'ed earlier this year.  Even though I insisted on loading the truck up myself, I welcomed the help when my father in law and Samantha offered to help unload the truck.  With their help, we unloaded our belongings faster than I thought we would, and returned the truck that night.  It had been an incredibly eventful and productive couple of days of moving, but I don't even remember going to sleep that night.  I think I passed out within thirty seconds of my head hitting the pillow.

Now that we've been here for a little over three weeks, and we're pretty well settled in, I've had time to reflect on the move and write this blog post.  Did this move actually go smoothly?  I guess the answer depends on people's interpretation of the story.  Even though Samantha and Aidan arrived safely, she felt horribly for most of the day on Monday due to dehydration and heat exhaustion.  Orange County was experiencing a crazy heat wave that week, and it took some time for Samantha to feel better.  But I was glad we all made it safely, there were no vehicle breakdowns, no car accidents, etc.  It was definitely the most memorable move I've had yet.  I wish I could have been there for Samantha when she was struggling, but she pulled through.  We're planning to stay in southern Orange County long term as Aidan grows up and makes his way through school.  When we move again, it will likely only be within a few miles of where we are now.  But we have a good set up here, so we're not planning to move for a while, which is a pleasant thought.  I'm just excited to be here and continue this next chapter of our lives, so let's see what's next!    

Same Race, Different Experience

The start and finish area

Over the last several years, I've participated in a variety of races of varying length, size, and setting.  I've never done a race that I haven't enjoyed, however, some of them were one and done type deals.  In most cases, I've done races where I've returned in subsequent years because I enjoyed the experience.  In those instances, even though the races are often nearly identical to the first time I ran, the experience was always different.  Multiple factors have an impact on the race experience, including weather, the personalities of the other runners, and my state of mind.  For example, I could run a race where it's cold and pouring rain the whole time, then go back the following year, and have a completely different experience if it's sunny and warm.  Similarly, I could have a certain experience at race if I were going through a personal hardship, like a recent death in the family, versus the experience I would have if I had recently gotten a promotion at work.  Even if the race and the course are the same, no two race journeys are completely alike.

My experience running the Great Shasta Rail Trail race in McCloud this year versus last year is a prominent example.  The most significant difference was the weather.  Last year when I crossed the finish line of the 50K race shortly after 2:00 PM, the temperature was 104 degrees Fahrenheit.  Psychologically, I felt great not only because I finished, but because I confronted my demons.  I don't do well with running in heat, and I was overjoyed that I was able to persevere and push through the pain and discomfort.  Although I was happy, I was a train wreck.  I was overheated, dehydrated, and my legs were tying themselves in knots.  Somehow I was able to make the five-hour drive back home without my legs cramping.  The recovery was brief, however, and I was soon back to my normal self.  I wanted to come back and run again this year because I had such a great time.  I enjoyed the camaraderie of the runners, the race staff, and the volunteers, and the course was beautiful.  Since I was having a tough running season, and had finished a 50K less than a month prior to the 2024 race, I opted to run the 30K this year instead.  

I arrived in the town of Mount Shasta around 10:00 PM on Friday, the night before the race.  The drive up was relatively uneventful.  I enjoyed the views while my car stereo pumped an eclectic mix of punk rock and hip hop.  Once I arrived in town, I headed into Handsome John's Speakeasy, a local bar.  I never thought that I would walk into a bar in Mount Shasta and see the walls decked out with Detroit Red Wings, Tigers, Lions, and University of Michigan memorabilia.  I found out from the bartender that the owner of the bar was a Michigan guy from my college town, who hitch hiked all the way to Mount Shasta in the early 2000's.  What a small world.  I had a fun time chatting with some of the locals over a couple of beers, but it was starting to get pretty late.  I had to wake up in five hours to run eighteen and a half miles, so I'd better get a move on.  In 2023, I crashed in the back of my car in the town of McCloud, near a gas station so I could have coffee in the morning before the race.  This year I decided to try something different.  I was going to sleep in my car at the race start and finish line in the remote wilderness.  I packed my Jet Boil camping stove to heat up some coffee that I already brewed at home, so I could have some hot coffee in the morning before the race started.  The remote road was dark and lined with tall pine trees as I drove through McCloud to the race start area.  It was pitch black outside when I arrived.  I was surprised to see that there were other cars who had set up camp in the area.  For some reason, I didn't expect that.  I was bumping Amy Winehouse's "Frank" album during the drive from the bar, and her song "Brother" was playing when I pulled up.  It was knocking my bass speakers in pretty good, so I turned down the music as soon as I noticed the other cars.  It was well after midnight, and I didn't want the bass from my car to disturb the others.  In Silicon Valley it wouldn't be a big deal, but it was dead quiet out here in the wild.   The trailhead had a small parking area off the side of the road, so I parked behind a small RV.  I tried my best to stay as quiet as I could as I prepared for bed.  I folded down the backseats, rolled out my sleeping pad and sleeping bag, crawled inside, and promptly passed out.    

The beer I had at Handsome John's Speakeasy, along with the cool night time temperature and the tranquility of the wilderness pulled me into a deep sleep.  When my rooster alarm on my phone sounded at 5:00 AM, I was ready to run.  I opened the back hatch of my Rav4, stepped out, and breathed in the crisp, refreshing air.  It was still dark outside, and the sky was slightly overcast.  The temperature was chilly, probably in the high 40's, which felt perfect.  As I continued to get ready, I looked over towards the race start area, which was about fifty feet away.  The other runners who had camped in the area were also outside of their cars getting ready and heading towards the start.  The race staff had set up a table with a couple of lanterns for the packet pickup just off the side of the road.  Just as I started to make my way over, I saw several runners gather around the start line, and Jen, the race director, began speaking from a megaphone.  The group of 50K and 30K runners looked to be about the same size as last year and we listened as Jen explained the course and where the turnaround points were.  I greeted her after the announcement and asked "we have about thirty more minutes until race start, right?"  It was just after 5:30 AM, and my understanding was the race started at 6:00 AM, just like last year.  "Nope, we're actually going right now".  With that, Kristy, one of the volunteers, counted down from ten, sounded a bugle, and the group took off.  I realized in that moment that I never actually confirmed what time the race start was, and I relied solely on my memory from last year that we started at 6:00 AM.  I was still clad in a fleece jacket and sandals, and I hadn't even gotten my bib yet.  I felt silly for making such a rookie mistake, but Jen was super cool about it, and allowed me a few extra minutes to get my bib and finish getting ready.  Being a race director is not an easy job, and it's cool when they allow you to start late.  My start time wasn't too delayed, only about ten minutes, and I took off from the start line at around 5:43 AM.  

Mile 5-ish, on the way to the first aid station

The trail was composed mostly of loose dirt and crushed stones, which made for a very gentle surface.  It still posed more of a challenge than running on pavement, but it was much less taxing on my legs.  The race was held on a stretch of rail trail that connected the town of Burney to McCloud, and averaged about six to eight feet wide.  This was an out and back style course, so the width of the trail provided ample room for runners coming the opposite way.  The reddish brown path stretched out in front of me for miles, and tall pine trees lined the trail for as far as the eye could see.  I plodded along the terrain alone, enjoying the fresh air and marvelous setting.  I feel like this is the part of California that often gets overlooked.  Yes, there are beautiful beaches, lots of palm trees, and nice real estate, but this region of the north central part of the state is definitely a hidden gem.  It was some of the most stunning alpine forest scenery I had ever seen.  Although I has having a nice time, I didn't have a chance to heat up the coffee I brewed at home before the race start.  I'm used to having coffee before I run, so I was feeling a little tired, but I just needed to get warmed up.  As I progressed further, my energy levels began to pick up, especially when I caught up to some other runners and chatted with them.  The 10K runners were only following the last section of the course in the opposite direction, so at this moment, only the 50K and 30K runners were on the trail.  We were a pretty small group of about thirty, which provided a more personable setting than most of the other races I had done in the past.  Before too long, I reached the 10K mark of the race, and the first aid station appeared as I approached an intersection with the rail trail and a desolate dirt road.  This was the turnaround point for the 30K race, so I filled my water bottle, thanked the volunteers, and headed back towards the start line.  I continued running on my own, enjoying the majestic surroundings.  Occasionally I'd pass by another runner in front of me or heading the opposite way to the turnaround, but other than that, it was just me and the quiet wilderness.  

As time passed and miles were covered, I eventually arrived at the 20K mark back at the start line.  Next, I would continue in the opposite direction for just over three miles, turn around at the aid station where Kristy was working, then head back to the finish line to complete the 30K distance.  I passed on eating any food since I wasn't that hungry yet, but I was excited for the post race meal that the staff and volunteers were cooking and the packet pick up table.  I stopped by my car, applied some more Squirrel's Nut Butter lube, and continued onward.  One thing I remembered from last year during this section heading out to Kristy's aid station was the trail was going to begin a gradual uphill climb after about a mile and a half.  Once I reached this section, I decided to walk for about a quarter of a mile.  I was feeling good and wanted to keep it that way, so I thought it was a good idea to not burn myself out.  There were some high clouds in the sky earlier in the morning, but they burned off, and now there was some sunshine on the trail, which was nice. When I arrived at the aid station at the top of the incline I could feel a slight headache coming on, but luckily, the volunteers were able to hook me up with some Tylenol.  I felt better during the final three-mile push, and I clapped my hands in celebration as I crossed the finish line.  The small crowd clapped for me, and Jen's young daughter ran up to me and gave me my finisher's award, which was a customized race branded tree stump.  I went back to my car to freshen up a little bit, then brought my camping chair, my Jet Boil, and thermos of coffee over to the finish line area to hang with the crowd and cheer on more finishers.  Even if it was after the race, that hot coffee really hit the spot.  It blended perfectly with the post race meal of beans, shredded chicken, tortilla chips, and salsa.  

I hung around for another couple of hours chatting with the race staff, cheering on runners, cooking beans, and enjoying the beautiful setting.  Even though the race and course were identical to last year, I thought about how different my experience was.  It was thirty-five degrees cooler outside than last year when I finished.  Granted it was still fairly early in the morning and the temperature was supposed to warm up to the low eighties in the afternoon, but there moments when I almost wanted to put my fleece jacket back on, as opposed to last year when I felt like my organs were going to melt.  Also, unlike last year, there were more clouds in the sky in the morning, and the sun didn't come out until around 9:00 AM, which was actually pretty pleasant.  We were also dealing with the effects of the Park Fire, which had ignited near Chico on Wednesday and was rapidly spreading.  As the afternoon arrived, the horizon was becoming hazy and the air quality was slowly deteriorating.  Last year's fire season was lighter than 2024 has already been, and I silently thanked all of the fire fighters and all the crews who were working to contain the fire.  Additionally, Aidan is a whole year older this year.  During last year's event, he wasn't even walking yet.  Now he's running around, climbing on everything he can, and he's quite the social butterfly.  It's also a slightly different era at work for me with more responsibilities, and changes in the line up of our team.    Even though things in my life have progressed from July of 2023, It was comforting that I could come back and still run the same race with a great staff, great volunteers, and a beautiful trail.  The cooler weather was definitely a bonus as well!

Cooking beans for runners at the finish line

  

I closed out this mini solo running trip with a quick visit to Burney Falls and a lunch of onion rings, a hamburger, and chocolate shake at Floyd's Frosty in McCloud.  I had an awesome and memorable time, but I was excited to get back home.  I'm not only a runner, but I'm also a dad and a husband, and I was eager to get back to be with Samantha and Aidan and tell them about my adventure.

Burney Falls on the way home

A Little Cool Moon With Some Golden State

Anyone who has run a long distance race knows what it feels like to struggle.  Running long distances is hard and it's taxing on the body.  We've all seen those people at races who are really having a tough go at it, but they keep moving forward.  No one wants to ever be in that position, but we always try to offer psychological support when we see someone who is deep inside the pain cave.  That was me at the Cool Moon Trail 50-Miler in Cool, California on June 1st, 2024.  I was the guy who was hurting badly.  The guy who everyone was concerned about.  The guy who everyone saw and said "wow, are you okay?".  I was the guy who needed the psychological support.  No one wanted to be in the position that I was in, but everyone felt sorry for me.  After dropping out of the Canyons 100K at mile forty-eight in late April, I signed up for Cool Moon hoping to redeem myself.  The logic was the fact that I was able to cover forty-eight miles in about fifteen hours on the challenging terrain of the Canyons course.  There was no way my body could have taken me another fourteen miles, but I could have gutted out another two miles if it were a 50-miler.  It would have been painfully slow, but I believed I could have pulled it off.  The Cool Moon Trail 50-Miler had far less elevation gain than Canyons, and it had a thirty-five hour cutoff, which was incredibly generous.  It would be difficult and painful, but I figured I could cross the finish line.  I would have plenty of time.  Well, not only did I not cross the finish line, but my performance at Cool Moon marks the most epic failure I've experienced at a race up until this point.  

My Cool Moon journey started off on Friday evening, the night before the race.  I loaded my car up with my running gear, a pillow, a sleeping bag, a sleeping pad, and other provisions, and hit the road.  The plan was to drive to Cool and find a place to camp out in the back of my car near the race start line.  I cruised along highway 80 through Sacramento, took the highway 49 exit in Auburn, and followed the winding, pitch black country road for several miles until I arrived in Cool.  Everything was closed down for the night when I arrived, and I didn't see a single car or person.  The race start and finish line was right next to the El Dorado County Fire Station located off of highway 49.  I parked in a nearby parking lot and shut off my car.  When I stepped out to stretch, it was dead quiet, except for the sound of a dog barking at a house out in the distance.  Even though they were closed, the nearby shops and restaurants were lit up, but beyond that it was darkness.  The lack of city lights helped mitigate the light pollution, and the sky was filled with shining stars.   I brushed my teeth, rolled out my sleeping bag in the back seat, wiggled into it, and closed my eyes, hoping for the best in tomorrow's race.  When I woke up at 5:45 AM the next morning, I got some coffee at a nearby gas station, made my preparations, and headed for the start of the race, which was less than a tenth of a mile away.  I greeted the volunteers, picked up my race bib, and mingled with other runners at the start line.  It was a smaller, more personable race, with around three hundred people, which was a nice contrast to Canyons.  At 7:00 AM we lined up near the start line, the race director gave some pre-race announcements, and we were off.  

Things started out pretty good.  I had a good cadence going, and since it was supposed to be a warm day, I was drinking a lot and taking plenty of electrolyte tablets.  Or so I thought.  The course consisted of two twenty-five mile loops.  The terrain was pretty to look at, and even though some of the climbs were challenging, a lot of the course was pretty runnable.  I also chatted with some pretty cool people, including a sixty-four year old runner originally from New Zealand.  He complimented me on my form and consistency, which I appreciated.  I was enjoying myself.  I finished the first loop in five-and-a-half hours, and decided to sit down at the halfway point and take a little rest.  It felt nice to be off my feet, but I was feeling pretty good, and wanted to keep the momentum going.  Things didn't go well in the second half.  The temperature was rising, the afternoon California sun baked the exposed course, and the lack of training was catching up with me, just like at Canyons.  After an arduously slow and painfully steep climb up K2, my legs seized up.  I was able to sooth them and keep going for a little longer, but at around the thirty-two mile mark, they seized up again.  This time it was so bad that the cramping essentially forced me to collapse onto the grass along the trailside.  I laid there in agony as my legs throbbed and tied themselves in knots.  A runner came by and offered me some pickle juice.  I drank it down, but the intense cramping still persisted.  The next thing I knew, I was laying on my side, puking up everything I had consumed that day.  I was glad no one was around to see that.  By this point, the pack had become pretty spread out along the course, so I wasn't encountering as many runners as I had on the first loop.  I laid down in the grass next to a puddle of my own vomit for the next hour, unable to move.  Luckily, it was in a shady spot, so I wasn't being cooked in the sun.  About a half a dozen runners came by during that time.  I can only imagine what they were thinking when they saw me laying in the grass like a body that had just been dumped from a car trunk.  They all asked me if I was okay and if I needed anything.  Even though I was in so much pain I could hardly move, I told them I was okay and I was just taking a rest.  I don't think there was much they could have done for me.

Eventually, I was able to pick myself up, and I made it another two miles up the switchbacks to a junction where the trail intersected with a back country road.  I had absolutely nothing left when I arrived there.  At the intersection, there was a card table with a water keg propped up on it, and a cooler full of ice next to the table.  I collapsed onto the cooler and sat there for a few minutes until another runner approached.  "I hate to do this, but can I get some ice out of there?" she asked.  I smiled and tried to get up, but instead I just keeled over and crumbled onto the ground.  I was a hot mess.  I couldn't hide it anymore.  Even if I had thirty-five hours, there was no way in hell I was finishing this race.  At that moment, I didn't even have the strength to stand back up, let alone cover another sixteen miles.  The runner who asked me to get off the cooler could sense my despair.  After a couple of moments of silence, she spoke.  "Hey, I'm going to push to the next aid station.  Do you want me to send a volunteer down here to pick you up?" It was a demoralizing situation, but I said "yes" without hesitation.  I thanked her, and she pressed onward.  When the volunteer arrived and picked me up, she was sympathetic and encouraging.  "Are you the guy who was taking a nap in the grass on the side of the trail?" she asked.  I couldn't help but laugh.  "yep, that was me" I said.  "Ah, okay.  Yeah, a few runners came through and told us about you.  They said you looked terrible and that we should come and find you.  I'm amazed that you were able to make it up to this point".  I hated being the guy who looked terrible and everyone was worried about, but sometimes it's okay to be that guy and show some vulnerability.  It's been a lifelong struggle for me to accept that, and I still struggle with it even now.  But I'm better at showing vulnerability than I used to be, thanks to therapy.  The volunteer brought me back to the start and finish line, where I spent another hour sitting in a camping chair trying to regroup.  They happened to have a massage therapist onsite who went to work on trying to sooth my leg cramps.  It helped a little, and I was grateful for her support.  I was finally able to hobble back to my car, but when I arrived, I had to sit down again right away because I was so drained and cramped up.  I took an hour long nap in my car on the way home, and finally arrived home at around 3:00 AM.  

I had a long recovery after Cool Moon, but roughly a month later, on June 29th, I found myself at the start line of the Golden State 50K at the Fort Ord Day Camp Cycling Area, near Marina, California.  After my failure at Cool Moon, I was frustrated.  I felt like I had acted foolishly for trying to run a 50-miler after what happened at Canyons.  I knew that my problem was the fact that I wasn't training as hard as I needed to, and I wasn't putting in the volume needed to make it through these long races.  But I had another problem.  I was stubborn.  I accepted my defeat twice at Canyons and Cool Moon, but I wasn't done fighting yet.  I told myself I needed to finish at least one ultramarathon this year.  I knew I could do it.  Thankfully, my stubbornness paid off, and I was able to finish strong at the Golden State 50K.  Unlike my previous two ultramarathons this year, Golden State was one of those races where virtually everything went as well as it could have gone.  When the race started off, the sky was dominated by marine layer clouds, and the temperature was in the mid fifties, which was perfect.  I met a lot of cool people out on the course, including a handful of runners who were running an ultra for the first time.  Among them was a member of the Marine Corps who was in his tenth year of service, along with an aspiring actress who had come up from LA.  I told them that they'd probably view the world differently when they cross the finish line of their first ultramarathon.  I know I sure did.  The course was beautiful, and featured lots of coastal mountain scenery.  Green rolling foothills dominated the horizon, and tall yellow and brownish mountain peaks poked at the sky in the distance.  The race featured about 3,500 feet of elevation gain, but the climbs were pretty moderate.  The clouds burned off and the sun warmed the course up, but overall things were going really well.  That is until about mile twenty-six.  One thing I remembered reading in the course description on the website was that there were some sandy parts of the course.  I had run through some areas where there was some loose dirt on the trail that resembled sand, but I didn't think much of it.  At the twenty-six mile mark, the course took a sharp turn up a short, but steep climb that was literally up a sand hill.  I guess that was what they meant when they said there would be some sandy sections.  It was a tough climb at that point in the race, but I made it up to the top.  During the last few miles I was feeling tired, but I kept moving.  With about two miles to go, I came up behind a guy who was walking.  He told me he had been puking for the last several miles and couldn't keep anything down, so he was going to walk it out.  I felt sympathetic, considering I had a big puking rally at Cool Moon.  "I know man, it sucks".  I said.  "That was me at my last ultra.  But you look great, keep going.  We're almost done".  I crossed the finish line in six hours and twenty-six minutes, which was better than I anticipated.  I changed into a new shirt, grabbed a beer from finisher's tent, and sat down in the shade against a tree while I watched runners cross the finish line.  Everyone I met on the course finished, and I congratulated all of them when I saw them come in.  I had a good day, so I felt like I had to spread the positivity to others.  That afternoon I drove home to Samantha and Aidan with my heart full.  

Just like all things in life, running ebbs and flows.  Some years are better than others.  This has been one of the tougher years.  When I look back to 2019, the year I finished the Tahoe Rim Trail 100-Miler, I remember the fact that I was running pretty huge miles back then, and that's why I was able to successfully finish.  But that was a different era.  Back then I was single and childless, and I didn't have as demanding of a career as I do now.  Times have changed, but that's life.  You have to keep moving forward.  I can still be an ultrarunner, but I have to have realistic expectations.  And if I'm going to sign up for a race, I better be willing to put in the miles that are needed for the training.  I'm glad I was able to finish at least one ultramarathon this year, and we'll see how the rest of the year plays out.  All I can say is it's a good thing that I have a stubborn side to my personality and I kept signing up for ultras until I finished one!  

Identifying the Problem

In Dean Karnazes' latest book "A Runner's High" he talks about a conversation he had with Billy Yang at the start line of the 2018 Bishop High Sierra Ultras.  Dean was signed up for the 100K, and asked Billy if he was running the 100K as well.  Billy's response was "no way, dude.  I'm running the 50K.  I haven't been training.  I know better".  My problem at this year's Canyons 100K was that I didn't know better until after the race was over.  Unfortunately, I dropped out of Canyons for the second year in a row on April 27th, 2024.  My race came to an end at the Driver's Flat aid station at mile forty-eight after I missed the cutoff by fifteen minutes.  It had been a long ass day.  I was disappointed in the result, but I was still grateful for the experience, and the exciting day I had out there.  

Just like my prior DNF's there was a lesson to be learned.  This year, early on, everything seemed to be working in my favor.  I drove out to Auburn early on Friday morning and worked all day out of a coffee shop before signing off at 3:00 PM to go pick up my bib at the pre-race expo in downtown.  After that, I made a run to Target to get some supplies, and made a stop for some food, before checking into my hotel in Rocklin.  I had plenty of time to myself to get some rest before having to wake up at 2:00 AM to get ready.  I got some decent sleep, and felt pretty awake when my alarm went off.  By 3:30 AM, I was on a shuttle bus at Overlook Park that was bound for the start line at China Wall, just outside of Foresthill.  This year, the race started where the 2022 race finished, and we were essentially going to be running the 2022 course in reverse, finishing in downtown Auburn.  It was a pleasant ride out to China Wall.  The ride was just like the early years when the race started and finished at the Old Foresthill Elementary School.  It was pitch black and dead quiet.  We drove past darkened houses and a few cars parked off to the side of the road near the overlook.  I stared out the window as a thick fog rested in valley of the foothills.  The air outside was cool and crisp, and the sky was clear.  It felt energizing.

Before long, we arrived at China Wall, and the race kicked off at 5:00 AM.  I started off feeling good.  The weather felt nice, my backpack felt just right from a weight standpoint, and the crowd was giving off good vibes.  We had a steady downhill for several miles, and eventually climbed up to Deadwood, to the first aid station, ten miles in.  The volunteers were very helpful, including my friend Kaycee, who I had seen working aid stations at countless other races in the area.  Pretty soon, we were descending into Deadwood Canyon down to the swinging bridge.  It's a notoriously steep descent, and after we turned around at the swinging bridge at the bottom of the canyon, it was an 1,800 foot climb in 1.8 miles back up to Devil's Thumb.  On the way up, I began chatting with a couple who introduced themselves as Bill and Mel.  They were from Dana Point, an area not too far from where Samantha, Aidan, and I are planning to move this fall.  We chatted about all kinds of stuff, including kids, life in Orange County, how freaking hard this race was, our jobs, etc.  It's always cool meeting new people during these events and being able to have a distraction from the brutality of the course with some engaging conversation.  Even though it was challenging, this section is my favorite part of the Canyons course.  There was no shortage of beautiful views of green foothills and snowy mountains in the distance, and tall conifer trees lined portions of the path.  Bill, Mel, and I left the aid station at Deadwood together and hung with each other during the four-mile plunge into El Dorado Canyon.  I had a nice cadence going, so when we arrived at the bottom of the canyon, I powered up the climb to Michigan Bluff while Bill and Mel took some pictures by the river.  During the 2,000-foot climb up to Michigan Bluff there was a guy hiking behind me.  I asked him if he wanted to pass, but he said I had a good pace going, so no need to let him by.  "Okay cool" I said.  "I'm glad you don't mind staring at my butt for a couple of miles".  "Nah, man" he responded.  "I'm checking out your shredded calves"  we both had a good laugh at that one.  He was Brandon from Cupertino, and coincidentally enough, he also had a toddler son named Aidan, although spelled differently.  

At the top of the climb, I rolled into the aid station at Michigan Bluff with an hour to spare before the cutoff time.  I recognized another familiar face, a local named Steph, who was offering runners an ice soak on their way out of the aid station.  I had met Steph's sister in our local running group in Mountain View, and Steph and had come out to run with us when she visited Silicon Valley.  Most of the aid station volunteers at these races are local runners living in the Auburn area, and they often come together as a community to make the race experience enjoyable for runners.  That's really cool to me.  Although I've paced a few half marathons through Beast Pacing over the years, and I've volunteered at a few marathon expos, I have yet to volunteer at an ultramarathon aid station.  I need to do that sometime.  I said hey to Steph, thanked her for coming out to support us, and headed out towards the halfway point in Foresthill.  Mel and Bill had also caught up with me at Michigan Bluff, and about a mile down the trail towards Foresthill, the pushed onward, and I told them I'd hopefully see them later.  After another twisting plunge into Volcano Canyon, I crossed the creek, climbed up to the main road, and arrived in Foresthill at about 1:30 PM.  I was still feeling good, and it was a relief knowing that I was halfway through the race and the hardest section was now behind me.  The one thing that I found somewhat troubling was that I arrived in Foresthill with only forty-five minutes to spare before the cutoff time.  I was about thirty minutes behind where I wanted to be, but I tried to not let the anxiety get to me.  I sat down for a few minutes, freshened up, and left Foresthill thirty minutes before the cutoff time.

As I made my way down into the valley along the Western States Trail, I began to slowly deteriorate.  In 2021, the Mosquito Fire had burned a significant portion of this land, including many of the trees, so this section of the trail was more exposed than it had been in the past years.  The weather was great, much cooler than last year, but the afternoon California sun was still beaming strong.  When I eventually arrived at the Cal2 aid station at mile thirty-eight, I was tired, but still focused on keeping moving.  Another runner who came in after me was expressing his concern over not being able to make the next cutoff at Driver's Flat.  We had to be there by 7:45 PM to stay in the race, which was about three hours and twenty minutes away.  "Don't worry man" another runner told him.  "If you leave within the next few minutes, you just have to do twenty-minute miles, and you'll make it".  With that in mind, I took off from the aid station, and tried to take advantage of the two-mile downhill section that followed.  I had been on this course enough times that I knew what was next after that two-mile downhill: a steep climb up to Ford's Bar.  That climb was brutal, and depleted a significant amount of the energy I had left, but I made it to the top, and continued along the rolling hills.  As the miles carried on, my energy levels plummeted.  My running was reduced to shuffling, and when I finally arrived at Rucky Chucky, mile forty-six, the wheels totally fell off the bus.  I had no more energy left, and my legs felt like they had 200-pound weights attached to them.  I felt completely drained, and it became a struggle to move forward at even a twenty-minute-per-mile pace.  I stopped at a picnic table near the river and sat down to try to regroup.  Another runner named Jeremy sat with me for a few minutes and gave me some words of encouragement before moving on.  I sat there for probably twenty minutes trying to regain some of my energy, but the all this break was doing for me was providing me relief from the physical beating of forty-six miles, rather than restoring my energy.  I only had about another two miles to the next aid station at Driver's Flat, but unfortunately, it was all uphill on a dirt road.  As I sat there and did the "trail math" so to speak, it became pretty clear to me that my race would be coming to an end at the next aid station.  

When I finally started moving again, I had thirty minutes to get to Driver's Flat.  Normally I could do two miles in thirty minutes easily, even on an uphill section, but not today.  It simply wasn't going to happen.  I had very little energy left, and I couldn't even run anymore at this point.  All I could do was march forward.  I huffed and puffed up the climb, and finally arrived at 8:00 PM, fifteen minutes after the cutoff time.  I greeted the volunteers.  They were encouraging and asked me if I needed anything before getting on the shuttle back to Overlook Park.  "No thanks, not unless you can fix my damaged ego" I responded jokingly.  The volunteer put his hand on my shoulder and said "look at me".  So, I did.  "You did some amazing things today.  Don't worry, there is always next time".  He was being sincere, and I appreciated his compassion.  "Thanks man, that's much appreciated.  Thanks for being out here." I said with a smile.  I hopped onto the shuttle, and an hour later I was back at my hotel room ready to take a shower and pack it in for the night.  I got some good sleep, and the next morning I checked out of the hotel, had a nice hot breakfast at Granite Rock Grill, and headed home to be with Samantha and my little dude.  

During the drive back to Silicon Valley, I had a lot of time to think.  I spent the drive home reflecting on the events of the prior day.  Most of the thoughts were positive, but I wasn't going to ignore the elephant in the room.  The elephant in the room was the fact that I dropped out of this race two years in a row.  When I dropped last year, I blamed it on the unusually hot weather.  But after dropping out this year, I was beginning to think that the heat was likely only part of the issue last year.  I spent quite a bit of time on the way home thinking about what caused me to drop out again.  I needed to identify the problem because something was clearly off.  It became increasingly obvious to me.  The problem was I hadn't put in enough training.  I thought back to the years that I finished the race and what I had done differently back then.  Back then I was doing more races and putting in more miles.  Over the last couple of years after Aidan was born, my running has slowed down compared to the pre-Aidan days.  I thought about how many miles I had put in leading up to the 2023 and 2024 Canyons 100K.  It wasn't enough, and that's why I ran out of energy at the forty-eight mile mark.  With the volume of training that I've been putting in these days, I can get through a 50K fairly easily, and I can grind my way through a 50-miler if there's a generous cutoff time.  But a 100K race? Namely, the Canyons 100K?  Nope.  I just haven't been putting in the proper miles.  With my current training volume, fifty miles is probably about the maximum I can go.  If Canyons had been a 50-miler with a generous cutoff, I would have had it in the bag.  I could have rolled into Driver's Flat and gone another two miles to the finish line, even if it was slow and painful.  But at that moment, with my lack of training, I was in no condition to go another fifteen miles.  I typically go into races a little undertrained, but for the last two years, I simply had not put in enough volume.  There's no running a 100K race without having paid your dues.  It certainly doesn't mean I'm not capable of finishing a 100K.  I've finished that distance before.  But the times I've finished it, I've trained properly.  I'm not giving up on Canyons, or the 100K distance, but if I sign up for Canyons next year, I need to make sure I put in the proper training.  No more half-assing it.  Will I be able to put in enough training to finish Canyons next year?  Who knows.  It all depends on what life will throw at me over the next year.  We'll just have to wait and see, but I sure as hell will do my best.  If I can't put in the proper training next year, I'll take Billy Yang's approach, and sign up for 50Ks and 50-milers, because hopefully I'll know better, like he did.  In the meantime, I feel like I have some unfinished business out there on the trail, so I recently signed up for the Cool Moon Trail 50-miler in Cool, California on June 1st.  I know nothing is guaranteed, but I'm hoping I'll have that one in the bag so I can have some redemption.

Hey! Its Been A While

I know it's been several months since I last wrote a blog post.  But it wasn't until after I typed "blogger" into my search bar on Google Chrome and nothing popped up in my history, that it dawned on me how long its been since I've visited this website and written a piece.  So, here I am!  Hey, world.  It's been a while and it's good to be back.  The last time I wrote anything on here was when I told the story of my experience running the Great Shasta Rail Trail 50K in July of last year, when it was 103 degrees Fahrenheit up in McCloud.  That was an incredible day, and I loved it.  But I suck at running in heat.  And on that day, I was forced to face my demons point blank.  Fortunately, I won the fight, and I crossed the finish line without dying, although it took a while.

The last nine months have been pretty exciting.  Shortly after publishing my last post about the Great Shasta Rail Trail 50K, I went to work on writing a book.  It was something that I had wanted to do for quite a while, and it seemed like a great time to knock it out.  I didn't go into it with a lot of expectations, and I just started writing.  I took various stories from these blogs, re-wrote them to make them fit into the narrative of the story, and wrote a bunch of new material as well.  Keeping in mind that I also had to be a husband, a dad, and devote adequate time to my career, I tried my best to block off certain times of each day to write.  It would write for roughly an hour to an hour and a half each day.  The book came together over a period of about three and a half months.  After I edited it and created the front and back covers, I was ready to put it out there.  The only remaining issue was how I was going to put it out there.  The traditional path that most people would follow is to write a manuscript and submit it to several publishers.  Some people even hire an agent to submit their manuscript to publishers on their behalf.  If a publisher likes it, they'll decide that they want to market it and put it out, and they'll throw together a contract for the writer to sign.  This usually results in an advance payment to the writer, and if the book doesn't sell the agreed upon number of copies, or if the writer doesn't fulfill their obligation, the advance payment needs to be returned, and the deal is off.  It all sounds good on paper, but that wasn't the route I wanted to take.  I knew I had something special.  I knew I had a good story to tell.  Why should I wait around for some big shot publisher to decide they like it and they want to put it out?  Why should I have them tell me "well, it'll be easier to market this book if you change this or take out that".  The hell with that.  There was nothing stopping me from becoming a business man and jumping in there by putting it out myself.  And that's exactly what I did.  I wrote the whole thing out on a massive Microsoft Word document, uploaded it to Barnes and Noble press, and added my artwork for the cover and back cover.  The first copies were delivered in December of 2023, but the formatting was a little misaligned, so I wasn't ready to start promoting it yet.  I fixed the formatting issues, and by January of 2024, my book, Running Rebel, was ready to make it's debut.  I started promoting on social media and before I knew it, boxes of books were arriving at our apartment, and I was selling them and shipping them out.  I had all kinds of people reaching out to me who wanted to read my story.  My current friends, old friends, family members, co-workers, former co-workers, even people from high school that I hadn't heard from in twenty years.

Getting my book out there and into the hands of people was a really cool feeling.  The feedback I received from readers was a powerful tonic.  I wanted to inspire runners, and non-runners alike.  I didn't want to convey the message that people should run and that will make their lives more vibrant.  I wanted to inspire people to follow their dreams and do things that brought them joy and peace.  My book isn't a guide on how to become an untouchable endurance athlete.  It doesn't tell people what to eat, how they should train, or what kind of gear they should use.  It's a story about my childhood, the difficulties I had to overcome, how skiing and snowboarding brought me a better quality of life as a teenager, and how running did the same for me in my adult life.  The book has been out for almost four months now, and it's been an exciting journey.  At some point I'll likely record an audio book, get written copies for sale on Amazon, and market the book in other ways than just through social media stories.  Maybe at some point it will catch the attention of a publisher, but I certainly don't plan on giving up my accounting career.  I don't want to be a full time writer, so I don't plan on that ever happening.  My book sales are technically a business that generates a small profit, but it's a very grass roots operation, at least for now.  The profit that I made from the first batch of books I sold was spent on a nice Valentine's Day dinner with Samantha.  Who knows what kind of adventures this book will take me on, but for now, it's a fun side project that brings me a small passive income.

Since my last blog post was written, Aidan has evolved from a crawling infant to a full on toddler whose greatest joys in life are running around our apartment, climbing on things he shouldn't, playing on the playground, being read to, eating, and sleeping.  He loves to laugh and smile, and it seems like he has a genuine appreciation for the outdoors.  We've taken him on a few trips to the mountains over the last several months, and he's always curious and wanting to explore when he's out in nature.  He's a great eater and will generally eat anything we put in front of him, including chicken tikka masala, Thai curry, and a wide variety of fruit.  We're trying to work on vegetables, but that's been more of a challenge.  Being a dad continues to be a big part of my identity and one of the coolest experiences of my life.  I took a quick trip back home to Michigan in mid-February.  It was fun to catch up with family and hang out in my hometown for a few days, and my role at work has continued to evolve, which is always exciting.

Now let's talk running.  I haven't run any ultramarathons since the Great Shasta Rail Trail 50K last July, but I'm still getting ample miles in.  On a Friday evening in mid-October, I left my home in Sunnyvale and drove seven hours down to Big Bear Lake.  By the time I arrived in the middle of the night, the Kodiak Ultramarathons by UTMB were in full swing.  I had been in contact with my good friends at Anytime Runners, a local running group in Los Angeles.  A friend of theirs's, Jose, was running the 100-miler, and they offered me the role of pacing him the last thirty-three miles.  I jumped at the opportunity, and I was beyond excited to spend some time in the mountains of Southern California with my old friends and meet new people.  Jose and I had never met prior to my arrival in Big Bear, except for a thirty-minute video call earlier in the week to go over logistics.  When I arrived in the wilderness in the dead of night, it was similar to my experience pacing JC at the same race in 2018.  I parked near the Sugarloaf Mountain aid station at mile sixty-seven, met up with my friends Sheny and Cori, the leaders of Anytime Runners, and took a three-hour nap in the back of my car while I awaited Jose's arrival.  He eventually made his way into the aid station, and we hit the trail together at around 2:00 AM and began the long climb up to the summit of Sugarloaf Mountain.  We rallied through the night and into the next day, climbed and descended several prominent mountains in the area, and Jose crossed the finish line after thirty-four hours and thirty-three minutes on Saturday evening.  We had plenty of time on the trail to get to know each other, and he turned out to be a great guy.  He showcased impressive grit and determination, and nailed his first 100-mile race.  Cori, Sheny, Lisa, Angelica, and several other members of Anytime Runners did a great job crewing for him and taking care of him at the aid stations.  I was proud of him and it was a pleasure to be a part of his journey.  

In January, I ran a half marathon with my good buddy Chris down in San Juan Bautista.  When I arrived down there, I popped into a local bakery for some pre-race doughnuts and coffee.  I found Chris at the race day registration area near the start line.  Normally I enjoy running alone, but when he said he was shooting for a two-hour finish we decided to run together.  Two hours sounded like a nice pace to me, and I felt like it would be fun to change things up by running with someone.  We stayed together throughout the entire race, and even though we had hung out during the holidays at some gatherings, it was nice to chat and catch up.  About five weeks later, I was supposed to run the Way Too Cool 50K, but it was cancelled last minute due to inclement weather that involved sixty mile-per-hour winds.  In light of the cancelled race, I decided to run a homemade solo half marathon on the Stevens Creek and Bay Trails in Mountain View.  On a Friday night in late March, I embarked on my traditional annual solo through-the-night 50K run through Lake Tahoe.  I left the Bay Area at 9:00 PM, arrived in Tahoe City at 1:00 AM, and ran through the night along highway 89.  As usual, I was lit up like a running Christmas tree to avoid getting hit by a car.  It was a beautiful night, and although I was tired during those last few miles, I made it the whole fifty kilometers on my own.  I took a nap in my car in a McDonald's parking lot in Truckee, and after ordering some hash brows, sausage burritos, and a piping hot cup of McD's coffee at the drive-thru, I headed home to be with Samantha and Aidan.  I also ran a couple of local races in a dog costume to promote Samantha's pet care business, and most recently, I paced the two-hour group at the Run Rocklin Half Marathon, which is always a lot of fun.  It's always cool to help runners achieve their goals. 

All of this recent activity will lead up to a race that has become the de facto centerpiece of my annual running calendar for the last several years: The Canyons 100K.  Just like every other year that I've done this race, I'm feeling cautiously optimistic.  I've finished the race three times and dropped out three times, so anything can happen.  The weather was brutal last year, and I had to drop out at mile forty after the intense heat took all the life out of me.  The forecast is calling for much cooler temperatures this year, and I like to think that my training has been pretty adequate, so I'm looking forward to heading back to Auburn this coming weekend.  Unlike last year when I had Samantha and Aidan with me, and I ran with my buddy Arjun for part of the race, I will be going at it alone this year.  We'll also be running a different course, starting at China Wall in Foresthill, and finishing in downtown Auburn.  A lot can happen in sixty-two miles.  It's not a sprint, or even a marathon.  It's a journey.  It's a journey that involves lots of highs and lows, trips to the pain cave, pushing the body and mind to unthinkable limits, and sometimes moments where it almost feels like I'm talking to God.  Not everything will go right on race day.  That is to be expected.  But I'm hoping that I will have the strength to push through the challenges and get to the finish line in once piece.  Even if I have to drop out, it will still be a memorable experience.  It always is.  That race course has seen me at my best and at my worst, and regardless of the outcome, it's always an adventure.  Let's see what the 2024 Canyons 100K has to offer.  I'm looking forward to having a good story to tell afterwards.     

         

      

 

Great Shasta Rail Trail 50K Part 2: Milk Was A Bad Choice

                                              The race start/finish line at the Bartle trailhead

The pack quickly broke off into smaller groups as we ran into the forest back towards McCloud.  The Great Shasta Rail Trail measures eighty miles total in length and connects McCloud at one end with the town of Burney at the other.  The start of the race was roughly halfway between the two towns.  Unlike most of the other ultramarathons I've run in California, which include single track trail with rocks and tree roots, today's trail was roughly eight feet wide, smooth, and well maintained.  It reminded me a lot of the Badger 50-Miler put on by Ten Junk Miles, which I ran in the summer of 2021.  I had a nice cadence going in the early miles and hung with a small group of two other runners.  They were Alan from Redding and Kari from Klamath Falls, Oregon.  The three of us ran together for a while and talked about all kinds of things.  It almost felt like I was going for a morning run through the wilderness with two new friends I had just met.  After we passed through the first aid station our group broke off.  Kari pulled ahead, Alan was between Kari and I, and I hung back, a hundred or so feet behind Alan.  We had twelve hours to get to the finish line, plenty of time.  It was already starting to get warm out and I didn't want to risk burning myself out, so I kept my pace steady.  

I had gone out shirtless because I knew I was going to warm up quickly, which worked well for me for the first ten miles.  At that point, even though it was still pretty early in the morning, the wilderness was warming up and I could feel the hot sun on my back.  My shoulders began to sting a little, so I decided it was a good time to put my shirt on.  I hopped off to the side of the trail, dropped my handheld water bottles to the ground, unzipped my fanny pack, and pulled out a long sleeve running shirt.  I figured I would need it at some point, so it was strategically folded, rolled up, and tucked away.  I never in a hundred years thought that I would find myself wearing a long sleeve shirt while running an ultra in the middle of the summer, but I also needed to protect my skin from the sun.  Oddly, as soon as I put my shirt on, I felt cooler.  It made sense because the material was shielding my bare skin from the sun, but it still just seemed bizarre to run in heat with long sleeves.  I progressed onward.  The path was pretty straight forward except for a few gradual directional changes here and there.  There were also no major climbs, just gradual inclines and downhills.  Every once in a while, I'd come to an intersection with a remote back country road.  The entire course was lined with tall pine trees on either side and we were treated to a view of Mount Shasta shortly before the turnaround point.  

I stayed within eyesight of Alan and Kari and the three of us reached the aid station at the turnaround point at roughly the same time.  The aid stations were set up in remote areas of the Shasta-Trinity National Forest and were being worked mostly by Jen's family and friends.  They had plenty of provisions and good enthusiasm to keep us going.  After we turned around, Alan and I ran together for a short while again until he pulled ahead.  Now we were running towards the sun, which made things more challenging.  I took my backwards hat off and rotated it forward to shield the sun from my face.  At the halfway point of the race my stride had slowed down, but I was still moving.  I felt tired, but not overheated.  At this point I began seeing the four runners who were behind me coming the other way.  I had only met one of them before the race, Jessica, who was at the back of the pack.  She had also come down from Klamath Falls, Oregon and was looking for redemption after DNFing her first 50K about a month ago.  She looked pretty solid and I offered words of encouragement as I passed by.  When I rolled into the aid station at mile nineteen, my running had become pretty sluggish.  I was glad to have made it to the next milestone.  By the time I had arrived, the same volunteers at the 50K turnaround point six miles back had packed up that aid station and made their way over here, which was impressive.  The temperature was probably around 90 degrees at this point and I was feeling the heat.  I had some food, filled my hat with ice, and placed it back on my head.  That proved to be a good move and I instantly began to cool down.  Even though the ice had put some life back in me, I decided to walk instead of run when I left the aid station.  I needed to regroup a little.  

                                                          The world's prettiest treadmill

The next six miles were a combination of running and walking.  There was now a considerable distance between Alan and I, along with the people behind me.  I didn't see another runner for quite a while.  The trail was completely straight and stretched out in front of me for miles.  It dissected the wilderness like the space between a loaf of bread that had been sliced in half.  Before the race I overheard one of the runners who was from the area, refer to this trail as the world's prettiest treadmill.  I was starting to get that feeling as well.  There was one section with a down tree where we had to veer off course, but other than that, it was very straight forward.  It was repetitive, but also beautiful and majestic.  I was staying hydrated and had peed a couple of times, which was a good sign, but most of the course was pretty exposed except for a few stretches of shade here and there.  It was becoming hard to stay cool.  As I approached the next aid station at the race start line, I saw Jen standing by the trail in the distance waving to me.  I waved back and threw my arms in the air.  Even though by this point the sun had parched the hell out me, I was enjoying myself and tried to convey that message from a distance.  Throwing my arms in the air was the best way I knew how.  When I arrived at the aid station it was 12:20 PM.  I was happy to be there, but I was completely exhausted and overheated.  Even doing a brisk walk at this point was challenging.  When Jen asked me how I was feeling I replied with a chuckle and a smile "I feel like death, but I'm having a lot of fun".  She offered me a seat in a camping chair underneath the canvas tent.  Man, it felt good to finally sit down out of the sun.  Jen poured a bunch of ice down the back of my shirt.  This sounds more like a prank that you'd play on someone at a summer barbeque, but after you've run twenty-five miles in the heat, it feels amazing.  I took some deep breaths, drank some water, and tried to pull myself together.  Talking with the aid station crew helped lift me up as well.  I got the unfortunate news that Jessica had dropped.  She ran out of water, succumbed to the intense heat, and couldn't go on.  She got a ride back to the start line from an aid station volunteer, and I noticed that her car was gone, so she had already hit the road back to Oregon.  I felt bad.  She came out here hoping for redemption, but had to go home with a second DNF.  I hoped that she wouldn't give up and would keep trying.  

After ten minutes in the chair I felt better and I prepared to head out.  The final six mile stretch was an out and back in the opposite direction, which would bring me back here to the finish line.  I walked the whole damn thing solo.  It was all I could do to keep moving forward.  I tried to run a few times, but each time, I would make it about twenty steps before I nearly puked from heat related nausea.  Nobody wants to be vomit boy or vomit girl.  It happens sometimes, and that's totally okay.  But the thought of puking on the trail in this heat just because I wanted to run instead of walk didn't sound too appealing.  When I arrived at the aid station at the turnaround point, Christy was in her truck on the trail side blaring dance music.  When she saw me approaching, she turned the music down, jumped out of her truck, and walked over to the tent.  Christy and Jen's young son Kyle were the only two volunteers working the aid station.  They filled my water bottle with fresh, ice cold water and gave me a healthy dose of psychological motivation while I rested in a camping chair again.  A few minutes later I was back on the trail.  Those last three miles were like a death march.  I laughed to myself as I thought about the infamous scene in Anchorman:  "It's so damn hot!  Milk was a bad choice".  I hear you Ron.  The heat was sweltering and I was moving slowly, but mentally I felt great.  I knew that at this point I had this race in the bag.  All I had to do was keep pushing a little longer.  When the tents at the finish finally came into view I really wanted to run, but my body said "no way dude".  I hiked it in and threw my exhausted arms in the air as I walked briskly across the finish line.  The small crowd clapped, cheered, and rang bells.  My finish time was eight hours and six minutes.  Certainly not the time I wanted when I signed up three months ago, but given today's circumstances, I was happy with it.  Within the next thirty minutes, three more runners finished behind me, so I had come in fifth out of eight 50K finishers.  Kari and Alan had finished long ago and had taken off at this point.  What an awesome day it had been!  Jen put on a great race, especially for a first time and it was really cool to have her family, including her kids out there volunteering.  Christy and the other volunteers took good care of us, and I finally got a chance to meet and chat with the other 50K runners that came in after me as we all sat around recovering at the finish line.  Barbara and Tim, the last two finishers, were both in their seventies.  I can only hope that I'm still doing this when I'm their age.  They were awesome.

It was a long rally to get home that night.  I pulled over and took a nap for about forty-five minutes, but I was mostly riding on the energy that this weekend had given off.  It felt incredible to redeem myself after the heat forced me to drop out of Canyons a few months prior.  I found out that the temperature was 103 degrees when I crossed the finish line shortly before 3:00 PM.  And I felt every bit of it the whole way.  It was exactly how I expected it to feel going into the race, but the question I had was could I overcome my weakness and get to the finish line?  I had my answer now and it was the answer I was looking for.  I confronted my weakness for running in heat and gave it a good kick in the nuts.  There was still work to be done, but I felt like it was a big step forward.  The high would stay with me for several more days, but at that moment I wanted nothing more than to just get home and be with Sam and Aidan.       

      

                                                                      Finish line photo

Great Shasta Rail Trail 50K Part 1: Good Vibes In McCloud

Sunrise in McCloud on race morning

It was approaching 10:00 PM when I exited the 5 Freeway and found myself traveling along a dark, winding road through rural Siskiyou County.  I admired the tall pine trees that lined both sides of the road, but all I could see in front of me beyond the beams of my bright headlights was blackness.  This remote road would eventually lead me to my destination of McCloud, California.  Even though I had been on the road for the last five and a half hours, I hardly felt tired.  A sense of excitement was coursing through my veins.  I was happy to be up here.  This is a really beautiful part of California, an area that I feel is somewhat of a hidden gem within the Golden State.  Definitely a pretty awesome place to run an ultra.  I was stoked for tomorrow morning's Great Shasta Rail Trail 50K.  It was going to be great to get back out there in nature once again for another ultramarathon journey and test my physical and psychological strength.  And man, did I have my work cut out for me this time.  Compared to some other races I've done, the course was going to be relatively flat and gentle.  But the high temperature was forecasted to be 104 degrees Fahrenheit.  That's pretty damn hot.  Not an ideal temperature for a race, especially for someone like me who fares better running in cold weather.  If I had a choice between doing a race in 100 degree weather vs. 10 degree weather, I'd take the 10 degrees, no questions asked.  But on race day, all I can do is play the cards I'm dealt and make the best of it.  Attitude is everything.  If the forecast for tomorrow was accurate, this would be the hottest ultramarathon I've ever run.  My weakness for running in heat would be tested like never before, but I was up for the challenge.   

When I rolled into McCloud shortly after 10:15 PM, the town was quiet.  I turned off highway 89, where I found a liquor store, a gas station, and a restaurant, all of which were closed for the night.  I drove past what looked like a community center, and I saw a door open to the building with a bar inside.  I slowed down and noticed about six or seven people at the bar.  I thought it would be fun to go in for a few minutes, have a beer, and chat with some locals before turning in for the night, so I parked my car nearby and walked over.  When I got there, I saw an older guy standing outside having a cigarette.  "Hey, is this place still open, or are they getting ready to close down for the night?" I inquired.  This guy looked like the kind of guy you'd see as an extra in the movie Napoleon Dynamite.  He had the rugged, country guy image, like he'd been living in McCloud for decades.  He seemed intrigued by my presence and exhaled smoke as he answered me.  "Well, it'll probably be open for a little while longer, but it's only for veterans." I noticed a sign on the building and it dawned on me that this was the American Legion Hall of McCloud.  "Ah, okay, cool.  I'm not a veteran, but hats off to you guys, thanks for serving"  I said with a smile.  I started to walk back towards my car when the guy spoke again.  "You know what? Come on in.  I'll sign you in as a guest.  Just be respectful."  I thought that really cool of him to do that.  Here I was, just this guy in his late thirties who rolled into this small town from Silicon Valley wearing sandals, sweatpants, a "Keep Tahoe Blue" T-shirt, and a backwards baseball hat, with no military service to speak of.  The guy could have easily turned me away, but he didn't.  His kind gesture gave me a good feeling inside.     

I spent the next forty-five minutes chatting with local men and women who served our country.  The guy who signed me in had served in Vietnam, along with most of the other folks inside.  The only other guys in there who were even close to my age where the members of the band who were playing earlier in the evening.  I had a good time sipping my Pabst Blue Ribbon and having cool conversations.  Everyone was in awe of what I was going to be doing the next morning.  Needless to say, they had a lot of questions.  "How long will that take?  Where is this happening?  Will you be able to rest? It's going to be 104 degrees tomorrow, you're going to run thirty-one miles?!".  The older folks exchanged some different opinions with each other on the current politics of the United States.  Siskiyou County, although mostly Republican, has a pretty sizable Democrat leaning population.  Having disagreements over our country's current policies was a pretty normal thing, according to the bartender.  The nice thing about it was it didn't get nasty.  I admired the fact that these guys could have these conversations without being insulting and hateful towards each other.  There will be a whole other blog post on this topic at some point, but for now, we'll focus on the Great Shasta Rail Trail 50K.  How did the race go?  Well, I finished.  The heat took a lot out of me, but I made it to the finish line within the cut off time.  That's how it went physically.  Psychologically, it felt exhilarating.  After I left the American Legion Hall, I parked my car on a residential street in McCloud near a school.  I folded down my back seats, rolled out my sleeping pad and sleeping bag, and got a fairly decent night's sleep in the back of my car.  The next morning I was up at 5:00 AM.  The first rays of sunlight were lighting up the eastern skyline, and I admired the view as I stood outside and brushed my teeth.  The faint sunlight was lighting up the slopes of Mount Shasta which towered over McCloud to the North.  As I made the twenty minute drive to the start line, I felt excited and ready, but very at peace.  Even though it was for a short time before I had to go to bed, I had a good time hanging with the locals the night before.  Also the last text that Sam and I exchanged before I fell asleep was that she and Aidan loved me and were wishing me good luck.  It's always good to have my head in the right place before an ultra. 

                                 American Legion Hall where the guys invited me to have a beer

The ride to the start line was a straight shot east on highway 89 for several miles before I made a left onto a remote road and drove about another mile before the start line came into view.  The Bartle trailhead entrance to the Great Shasta Rail Trail was decked out with two porta-potties and a couple of canvas tents.  Only a few cars were there, and I was one of the first runners to arrive.  This was the first year this event was being held and we were looking at a pretty small crowd.  There were going to be eight other people running the 50K with me, six people running the 30K, and about forty people running the 10K.  The 10K course would be a 5K out and back, and the 30K and 50K courses would follow an out and back one way and a shorter out and back the other way.  I liked the idea of having a smaller more intimate race because I felt like I could get to know the race staff, volunteers, and other runners better.  I asked Jen, the race director, how she was feeling as I collected my race bib and finisher's shirt.  She was going on one hour of sleep.  Being a race director is a lot of work, even for a small event.  All of the logistics and coordinating can be very draining, especially when people have families to care for and full time jobs.  It's always important to show thanks and gratitude to race directors.  They go through a lot to make these events happen.  During that first year, most ultramarathons essentially operate at a loss or they're a financial break even at best.  Assuming the race occurs annually, it usually takes a couple of years for the race to build momentum before race directors are making any kind of profit.  They mostly do it because they love the sport, not so much for the financial benefit.  

The small crowd of 30K and 50K runners gathered in a circle while Jen gave us a pre-race briefing.  The 10K wouldn't be starting for another hour, so for now it was just the fifteen or so of us.  The 50K runners would be heading out with the 30K runners on the same path, we would turn around at the aid station at the twelve and a half mile mark, make our way back here, then do the 10K out and back in the other direction.  The weather felt nice at the moment, a cool 57 degrees, with a sunny, cloudless sky.  But it was going to get brutally hot.  The forecast was still triple digit heat, it hadn't changed since yesterday.  Not that I expected it to change, but I was kind of hoping that by some miracle, the weather forecast from yesterday would be way off and it would actually only be 85 degrees today.  Dream on.  I didn't, however, allow the intimidating weather forecast to break my spirit.  I had good vibes in my head and I was enjoying this mini weekend running trip to McCloud so far.  However hot the weather would be today, I would embrace the conditions.  I really had no other choice except for a DNS (Did Not Start), which wasn't an option.  I would simply do my best today and enjoy every minute of this adventure that I could.  With two minutes left until the start of the race, I ran over to my car, took my shirt off, and showered myself with sunscreen.  We gathered in front of the trail entrance and Christy, one of the aid station captains, counted backwards from ten.  When she reached zero, she sounded a toy siren over a megaphone, and the race was on.  I clapped my hands in excitement, and us runners dashed down the trail, into the wild.