If You're Going Through Hell, Keep Going

One of the things that I relish greatly about long-distance trail running is the solitude of the activity.  I have a busy Monday through Friday work week in Los Angeles, but I often spend weekend mornings running on the local mountain trails or beaches, enjoying the stillness of the early morning.  Some weekends, my friends and I drive several hours to hike in the Sierra Nevada mountains or explore California’s national parks, and we’re right back at work on Monday.  It’s almost like I have two lives, and they balance each other out perfectly.  To me, there’s nothing more soothing than going for an early morning solo trail run to unwind from a busy week.

At this particular moment, however, I longed for the company of another human.  It was approaching 3:00 in the morning, and I was two miles up the Sam Merrill Trail on a solo forty-mile rally through the trails and streets of Altadena.  My plan was to run past Echo Mountain, up the trail through Castle Canyon, past Inspiration Point and down the Sunset Ridge Trail to Millard Campground, come back the way I came, run eight miles through the city neighborhoods, and run up the trail to Inspiration Point and back down, completing the forty miles.  This would give me a nice mix of trail and road with considerable elevation gain.  The stretch that leads from the trailhead up to Echo Mountain is detached from the city, but there is cell phone reception along the entire route, and it’s relatively close to salvation, should any problems arise.  The continued route to Inspiration Point and Millard Campground, however, is more rugged and dangerous, cell phone reception is limited, the route is less traveled, and it leads deeper into the wilderness.  I was on the Echo Mountain route but there was not a soul on the trail, and I was feeling very alone in the darkness.  The further up the trail I progressed, the more isolated I felt.  In times like this, the mind can play tricks, the imagination runs wild, and the senses begin firing.  I ran up a switchback with the city lights behind me several thousand feet below, a canyon to my left, a solid rock wall to my right, and several mountains peaks surrounding the area.  Although my flashlight and headlamp were helpful in guiding me up the trail, I could only see about twenty feet in front of me.  The surrounding mountain peaks looked like black pyramids in the night sky.  It was dead quiet except for the sound of my footsteps, and there was no sign of humanity anywhere near me.  And then I heard voices.  They were coming from either somewhere up ahead on the mountain or in the canyon.  I wasn’t quite sure, so I shined my flashlight in the direction from which they seemed to be coming.  Nothing.  Were there really people out here, or was I just hearing things?  And what was that noise I just heard in the brush?  Was it just a small animal running for cover, or something else?  I was now beginning to question whether I should proceed past Echo Mountain into more desolate wilderness.  I had been on this trail probably a hundred times, but I hadn’t done any research on what kind of wild animals lurk out here in the middle of the night.  As I approached the junction where I would bank left and head into Castle Canyon, I decided that running into remote wilderness with limited cell phone reception on a rugged trail, all alone, in the dead of night was probably a bad idea.  I had run on trails in the middle of the night before, but unlike the sanctioned Ragnar trail races where there are other runners and volunteers around, I was completely alone out here.  Okay, new plan; I would do laps up and down Echo Mountain until the sun came up.  My plan was being thrown off, but I’d rather be safe.  When I reached Echo Mountain, I turned around and headed back down the trail.  The view of the city was remarkable.  The lights of Altadena, Pasadena, and Glendale sparkled down below, with distant mountains dominating the horizon.  Periodically, I’d hear noises in the brush as I made my way down, hoping they were just small animals.  When I arrived back at the trailhead, I turned around and began lap two.  Having done one lap, I felt slightly less apprehensive, and my mind was able wander more as I made my way up the trail a second time.  My thoughts abruptly reverted to the present when I spotted a light shining in the distance in front of me.  I shined my flashlight at it and saw someone moving far up ahead in the light.  Apparently, someone else was out there after all.  But how did I not encounter this guy during my first lap up to Echo Mountain? He looked to be moving forward at a slow pace and I figured, whoever it was, I’d catch him within the next ten minutes or so.  Just then, the light turned off and it was once again pitch black on the distant mountain in front of me.  When I turned around at Echo Mountain a second time, I was puzzled.  Where was the guy I saw on the trail with the light?  There was no way I could have made it this far without passing him.  Weird.  I began wondering if I had really seen anything at all.  If he was real, he was moving much faster than I thought and had passed the turnaround already.  Or maybe he was a ghost.  Running down the trail, I heard voices again.  It sounded like a group of men talking and ended in a collective cheer.  The voices were coming from somewhere near the base of the mountain, perhaps from a backyard or a house.  They were far below and well off in the distance, but it sounded as if they were right next to me.  This time, I was pretty sure the voices were real, and a group of guys lingered down there talking and cheering, just to screw with me, I’m sure.

 

On my way down after going up to Echo a third time, I saw a light shining on the trail about a hundred feet ahead of me.  “Good Morning!” I called out.  As I approached, I saw two older men making their way up the trail.  “Good morning” they answered in unison.  “Man, am I glad to see you guys.  I was feeling pretty lonely out here”.  The men introduced themselves as Carlos and Flacco and we chatted for a few minutes.  They were regulars on these trails.  Flacco had finished the Angeles Crest 100 eleven times, and Carlos had finished Western States three times.  These were my kind of guys.  I could have spent hours talking to them, but I shook their hands, bade them farewell, and continued onward.  By the time I reached the trailhead, I had covered fifteen miles, and the first rays of the morning sun began lighting up the eastern skyline.  The idea of running back up to Echo Mountain for a fourth time bored me, and the laps were becoming too repetitive.  It was time to take a break from the trails and log some miles on the pavement.  The trailhead is at the corner of Lake Avenue and Alta Loma Drive, where both roads dead end, and follow a gradual downhill into Altadena.  I ran slowly down Lake Avenue and began weaving in and out of the neighborhood side streets.  I didn’t have a predetermined route, so I was going to wing it, and run around Altadena for a while.  I would then head back to the trail and run to Inspiration Point and back, completing the forty miles.  I had a pleasant stroll through the residential areas of Altadena.  The sun was now making its way into the sky and people were out and about walking their dogs and grabbing their newspapers.  As hours passed, and miles were covered, I grew more anxious about the challenging terrain I would be facing on the trail during the last stretch to Inspiration Point.  Eventually, I decided it was best to just get it over with, and I could always log more miles on the road afterwards.  I headed back out towards Lake Avenue and towards the trail.  When I arrived at my car next to the trailhead, I wolfed down a banana and some trail mix, and refilled my pack with water.  I continued once again up the trail, running at a moderate pace.  There were now several hikers on the mountain, and we exchanged greetings as I glided by.  I was past Echo Mountain and a little over a mile into Castle Canyon when I was beginning to hurt pretty good.  Each step became more painful than the last, and the rugged terrain was taking its toll.  I came upon a group of hikers who were resting on the trail side.  As I pulled up, I decided to take a seat on a rock next to them to regroup.  They were on their way to Inspiration Point and heading to Muir Peak afterwards.  After a few minutes, I stood up, gave them all a knuckle pound, and continued running.  I covered scarcely another half a mile when I was drinking from my camelback and the water abruptly stopped flowing.  I had never run this far alone before and I thought I had brought a sufficient supply of water, but I was now completely out.  Not good.  I again sat down on a rock on the side of the trail, thinking about what to do next.  The hikers I were now heading up the trail past me, as I sat there.  They invited me to join them up to Muir Peak, but I politely declined explaining that I was twenty-six miles into a run, out of water, and I was going to head back down.  “Would you like this?  I have more than enough”.  One of the hikers tossed me a bottle of Gatorade.  “Thanks!  This will certainly help on the way down”.

When I finally arrived back at the trailhead, I was ready to call it a day.  I had covered thirty miles, I was out of water, and my legs were hurting like hell.  Not only was I exhausted physically, but I was not focused mentally either.  My route from the beginning had been a bust, doing repeated laps up to Echo, then freestyling it around city neighborhoods.  Not having a predetermined route killed my motivation and spirit.  As I sat in my car eating more trail mix and another banana, I debated on what to do next.  I still had ten miles left to cover, but with my leg pain and water shortage, I couldn’t bear the thought of running another two miles, let alone ten.  I was exhausted, unfocused, sore, and frustrated with myself for my foolishness.  Oh well, I covered thirty miles on difficult terrain with significant elevation gain.  This was my last training run before the 100K race I had coming up, and I would be just fine.  To hell with it.  Time to head home and just write this one off as a “bad day”.  But still, I wasn’t satisfied.  It’s so easy to give up when things are going wrong.  Pain, lack of motivation, and running out of water were good indicators that I shouldn’t continue running.  I could easily stop and drive home right now.  But could I push past this?  I was wimping out and cutting my run short on account of physical and mental exhaustion.  It was demoralizing, and I sat there wrestling with my conscience.  I kept thinking of all the reasons why I should quit.  I wanted to finish, but it didn’t seem like there was much I could do about my situation.  But then I remembered something.  While running through the city earlier that morning, I passed by a Chevron gas station, which was closed at the time.  Surely, they would be open by now and the convenience store would have water.  But what about my leg pain?  I was certain that Chevron carried Advil as well.  Normally, I avoid painkillers during long runs, but sometimes on rugged terrain, taking two Advil can make a world of difference.  If I could get extra water and Advil, I could continue running.  And if I could continue running, I could try to grit out another ten miles.  Could I do it?  I wasn’t sure, but I was willing to try.  I now knew one thing for certain; I wasn’t stopping here.  I stood up, locked my car, and with my newfound determination, I ran slowly down the road towards the gas station.  My pace wasn’t fast by any means, but it would do.  Arriving at Chevron a mile later, I was so happy to be there, it felt as if I had been running through the desert for days and magically, a gas station appeared.  I went inside and purchased two bottles of cold water and a pack of Advil.  “Ah, it’s one of those mornings huh?” the clerk asked as he tallied up my items.  “Yep!  I’ve been running since 2:30 this morning and I’m thirty-one miles in.  That got his attention and he looked at me surprisingly.  “Good for you man, that’s impressive!”  “Thanks!  I guess you could say I’m an occasional drinker with a serious running problem”.  Once outside, I emptied one of the water bottles into my camelback and took the two Advil.  I stood there for a minute, trying to decide which way to go.  I had nine miles left, so I decided to just keep it simple, and run along Altadena Drive for four miles, turn around, and run back up Lake Avenue to my car, to the imaginary finish line.  I tossed my pack on and continued down the road.  As I made my way through Altadena and into Pasadena, I was feeling much better.  I had plenty of water, and the pain in my legs was dissipating.  I still ran slowly, but now I had hope, which was more than I had an hour ago.  The road eventually came to an abrupt dead end and continued onto a trail.  I reached the four-mile mark while running on the dirt path and turned around.  Now all I had to do was make it back to Lake Avenue, then back up to my car.  The return trip was a long haul, but I was going to finish this forty-mile run, come hell or high water.

 

I continued shuffling along, and soon arrived back at the corner across the street from the Chevron station.  Approaching a park bench at a bus stop, took off my pack and sat down for a quick reprieve.  “Just one more mile left to go” I told myself.  “All I have to do is make it to my car, and I’ll be done with the forty-miler”.  This was no ordinary mile though.  The last mile back to my car was all uphill and I would be climbing about five hundred feet.  Break time was over.  Time to finish this beast.  I put my pack on, crossed the street, and began walking up the road.  I ran slowly when I was capable, but mostly I walked.  It reminded me of the infamous Badwater Ultramarathon.  Virtually, all the racers are so exhausted coming into the final stages, that they walk the last few miles up the road to Whitney Portal.  Although they are fatigued and worn out, the last few miles are filled with emotion and grit because they know that the finish line is getting closer with each step.  As I power walked uphill, I thought about how memorable this run had been.  I thought about how I was getting spooked in the dark, the two guys I met on the trail, wanting to quit after thirty miles, the gas station clerk’s words of encouragement, my DNF last year at the Canyons 100K, and my upcoming round two attempt at the same race in a few weeks.  I laughed out loud to myself about the madness of the day’s events.  A big smile spread across my face as approached the final quarter mile stretch.  At that moment, I couldn’t even feel the pain in my legs anymore, and I ran uphill the rest of the way, blasting through the imaginary finish line.  Arriving at my car, I threw my arms in the air and let out a victorious “Yes!”.  After overcoming the joy of finishing the run, I took inventory.  I wasn’t too beat up, I was a little exhausted, and I was sore, but not dying.  And best of all, I was smiling!  Overall, I felt good, and I truly felt like I was ready for my second attempt at finishing the 100K.  Today was a day to remember for numerous reasons, but the most significant was the message I took from the experience; when running long distances, things are going to go wrong.  There’s going to be pain and setbacks.  I could either fight it, or accept it, and find the will to continue, even when things are so dismal that all I want to do is quit and go home.  I took the latter route, and it helped me to grind out those additional ten miles.  Could I have picked a better course?  Definitely.  Could I have pushed harder and gone faster?  Absolutely.  Could I have been better prepared with more water? Of course.  But despite the odds being stacked against me, I pressed on when the desire to quit was overwhelming.  I hopped in my car and drove home, excited about the adventures that lay ahead of me in a few weeks.        

Kalamazoo to South Haven

Three hours had passed since I stepped off the plane at DTW Airport in Detroit.  My dad met me at the arrivals, I dropped him off at work in his car, drove across the state of Michigan, and was now arriving in my college town of Kalamazoo.  This town holds a lot of fond memories for me, having spent four years here attending Western Michigan University.  I was thrilled to be back, but I would not be catching up with old friends or drinking at Waldo’s, Monaco Bay, or any of the local watering holes that I used to frequent as a college student.  I was here to embark on a solo one-day trail running adventure along the Kal-Haven Trail.  The route is thirty-three and a half miles long, starts in Kalamazoo, and would lead me through back country woods, farmland, and several small towns, eventually dumping me out in South Haven, a small resort town on Michigan’s west coast.  During my years as a college student, I wasn’t much of a runner and I had no idea that this trail even existed.  I discovered it a couple of months prior while surfing the internet one night.  The trail runs parallel to a now defunct railroad route that used to serve Kalamazoo and South Haven, and is a popular destination for hikers and cyclists, along with snowmobilers during the winter.  After doing more research, I decided that I needed to go back and run this trail at some point.  By doing so, I could explore this rural area of Michigan in a way that I had never done before.  The time had come.  It was Easter/Passover weekend, and I would be spending four days in my hometown catching up with family and observing the holidays.  It was Friday, and everyone was working, so it seemed like the perfect opportunity to realize this Kal-Haven Trail adventure that I had been looking forward to for so long.

    

I soon arrived at the trailhead parking lot and began changing my clothes in the car.  My dad had planned for his girlfriend to pick him up from work, allowing me to borrow his car during the day.  My plan was to get started as early as possible, and upon arrival in South Haven, call an Uber or cab to take me back to my car in the trailhead parking lot in Kalamazoo.  I would then drive back to my Dad’s house, a little over two hours away.  In the days leading up to the run, I had planned everything very thoroughly, checking in with park officials to see how the trail conditions were, and confirming that there were cab companies in South Haven.  I estimated that it would take me roughly seven hours to complete the run, so I was hoping to be back to my dad’s house around 8:00 PM that night.  I made my final preparations and went through my mental checklist; phone, wallet, keys, food, water.  I stashed my wallet, keys, and some fruit in my pack, filled up my internal camelback with water, and carried another disposable water bottle in my hand.  My dad had been nothing but supportive of my adventure and took the liberty of purchasing some fruit and water for me to take along.  When I opened the car door, a rush of frigid air blew in, giving me chills.  It was late March in Michigan, very early in the Spring, and the air was much colder than what I was used to in Southern California.  I stepped outside and admired the surroundings as I stretched.  The parking lot was surrounded by woods, and an old train car rested on the ground, marking the beginning of the trail.  To the side of it were some signs and an outhouse style bathroom shack.  The cold morning air felt good, and I took some deep, refreshing breaths as I walked towards the trail, threw my pack on, and started running.  The path was composed entirely of crushed limestone with leafless trees lining the path, as I headed through the woods.  I looked to my left and could see a small lake through the trees at the bottom of the drop off.  The sky was partly sunny with some thin high clouds shielding some of the sunlight and the temperature was around thirty-eight degrees.  Owing to its geographic location and proximity to lakes, Michigan isn’t known for having cooperative weather, but today, the weather gods were in a good mood, and it seemed to be cooperating perfectly.  The path traveled almost completely in a straight line through the woods for miles and I could see very far along the way.  I was now running parallel to a remote country road about a hundred feet to my right, separated by a wall of trees.  Occasionally, I would see a sign along the path indicating that there was a driveway up ahead.  I would then come upon a driveway that formed at the road to my right, cut through the trees and across the trail, and extended to my left through the woods to a cozy house.  I saw several of these houses along this section of the trail and thought about how cool it must be living here.  Sure, it was out in the middle of nowhere, but if I lived here, I’d go trail running, hiking, cycling, cross country skiing, snowmobiling, and anything else you could do on this trail every damn day!  I continued to run, focusing on my surroundings, and taking it all in.  The trail intersected with several roads as I made my way through the woods and farmland.  Periodically, someone would be driving by as I passed through the intersection, and I’d give them a wave or a nod.  Having spent most of my life in Michigan, this land was familiar to me, but seeing it all up close and personal, on foot, at six miles an hour was euphoric.

Throughout my entire childhood, all I wanted to do was leave this place.  I had a lot of great friends, and I loved my family dearly, but I knew I belonged in California.  When I was young, my family and I traveled to the Los Angeles area to visit family and every time we arrived back home, I missed California immensely.  During my childhood, I spent a lot of time with my mother’s side of the family, which included two uncles, three aunts, one guy cousin, four girl cousins, and my aunts and uncles who married into the family.  We saw each other often, and we always spent holidays together.  We were a typical Irish-American family who loved to drink, eat, play games, and get into shenanigans at family gatherings.  Out of all the cousins, my sister and I were the youngest.  My cousin Patrick, who is five months my senior, was, and still is the closest thing I ever had to a brother.  We grew up very close and have a lot of great memories together.  Patrick was a skilled hockey player, and also played football all throughout high school.  Caitlin, his sister, was an excellent soccer player, and my other three girl cousins, Jennie, Kelly, and Megan, were into a variety of sports, especially volleyball.  All three of them were exceptionally gifted at the sport and maintain a legacy in their hometown of Marysville that has yet to be surpassed.  And then, there was me.  I wouldn’t go as far to say that I was the family wierdo, but I definitely stood out.  My cousins also had a deep passion for college sports, especially football and basketball.  I was into skiing and snowboarding, rock music, little league baseball, tennis, sailing, bike riding, and I was a hockey fan.  There was also a stretch of time when I was into bowling, but I never found it as fulfilling as being outside.  Bowling was something to do on weekend nights or on days when the weather was lousy.  Yep, I was different alright.  My cousins and I always got along well, and I respected them for their accomplishments and athletic abilities. Still, I always knew that I wanted more than to be trapped in Michigan’s borders for the rest of my life.  I held onto my California dream throughout college and into my young adult years, knowing that I would eventually make it if I kept trying.  That dream became reality, and I relocated to Los Angeles in March of 2012, where I’ve remained ever since.  I’m certainly glad that I’ve made a life for myself in California, but here I was running on a desolate trail, smiling like a kid and having a blast in the very place that I tried so hard to escape from for so long.  I laughed to myself about the irony of my situation as I pressed onward.

 

My thoughts shifted back to the present as I made my way into the town of Gobles.  The path crossed a country road on the edge of town, where there was a picnic table underneath a tiny pavilion off to the side of the trail.  I ran over to it and sat down on top, resting my feet on the bench.  I had covered a little over a half marathon’s distance and was feeling strong.  As I sat there chomping down on a banana and sipping water, I admired the surroundings.  There were a couple of stores and a restaurant on the road near the trail along with the local water tower.  When I looked to my left, I saw a lady approaching.  I did a double take when I saw that she was walking several Bernese Mountain dogs.  As she walked closer, I counted five of them!  Bernese Mountain dogs are a large breed and here this lady was, walking five of them with minimal effort.  After a quick break, I stood up, threw on my pack, and resumed forward progress.  The next town I would be running through was Bloomindale, about four and a half miles away.  The route between Gobles and Bloomindale traveled through more woods and farmland with several road crossings, and I pulled into town about fifty minutes later.  The path wove across a road through town with several shops and restaurants lining the way.  I came to a small outpost with an outhouse restroom and a picnic table.  When I stopped to relieve myself and refill my camelback with water, I checked my phone and saw that I had gotten some texts and Facebook messages from some family members asking me how the run was going.  I answered letting them know that I was a little over halfway through and feeing great.  I soon pressed on, leaving Bloomindale behind.  The next several miles were run in more desolate areas with woods and swampy areas.  The snow had melted, creating pools of water along the sides of the trail like a moat.  I reeled in mile after mile, and eventually, the mile markers, which were off to the side of the trail at every mile, hit single digits.  I motored along through the countryside with less than ten miles to go, letting my mind wander some more.  Occasionally, I’d see a house or mobile home off to the side of the trail.  Some were nice, others were downright comical, looking like they’d been through a hurricane, with random junk scattered all over the yard and in the woods.  When I reached the six-mile marker, it was starting to seem like the trail would never end.  South Haven was getting closer with each step, but it felt like I’d never get there.  For the next few miles, I played cat and mouse with a family of four who were riding bikes along the trail.  They would ride past me, stop to get snacks or use the restrooms, I would run past them, then they’d pass me again.  It reminded me of when my parents used to take my sister and I on bike rides when we were kids.  We would ride around the neighborhood, my parents in the lead, my sister and I following closely behind.  One time, we were riding back home from my elementary school when I was about eight years old, and my sister was five.  I don’t know what I was thinking but I decided to take a different route home, all by myself.  I let my sister and parents ride away and I made a turn down a random street, thinking I knew exactly where to go, but really had no idea.  I rode my bike around for forty-five minutes, lost, trying to find the way back, but nothing looked familiar.  Then I noticed our church at the end of the street, right in front of me, about two blocks away.  I knew how to get home from the church, so I knew right then, I was safe.  When I arrived home, my parents were in a panic and on the phone with the local police.  Upon my arrival, they told them I had just walked in, and hung up.  It was one of the few times in my life that I was both hugged and scolded within thirty seconds.

Shortly after passing the two-mile marker, I sat on a bench off to the side for a quick reprieve.  The terrain was flat and relatively easy compared to what I was used to running in California, so I was exhausted but not too sore.  When I pressed onward, I walked along, sipping water frequently, and began running again once I hit the one-mile marker.  After crossing a wooden tunnel bridge, I had a little less than a half mile to go.  “Let’s get this bad boy done and get back to Dad’s house” I said to myself out loud.  Five minutes later, I arrived at the trailhead in South Haven, throwing my arms in the air and shouting out loud victoriously to myself.  It took me a little over six and a half hours to complete the trail and it was approaching 4:15 PM.  After spending a few minutes marveling in the experience, I took out my cell phone to find an Uber.  The trailhead was in a park on the edge of town with a boat harbor and a couple of high rise apartment buildings nearby.  Per my phone, there were no Uber drivers available in my location.  Downtown South Haven was about a mile away, so I walked in that direction, trying the app again.  Still no Uber drivers.  I was so in awe of my running adventure that I wasn’t even worried about how I was going to get back to the car in Kalamazoo.  No problem!  I knew there were a couple of cab companies in South Haven from the research I had done earlier in the week.  I dialed the first one, but the number was disconnected.  When I dialed the second one, it sent me to voicemail three times in a row.  Not good.  My phone battery was getting low, but I managed to pull up a website with a train and bus schedule.  Nothing was leaving town until the next day, so that wasn’t an option either.  I wandered around downtown wondering what to do next.  I was clad in running gear with no jacket, and it was started to get very cold outside as the late afternoon sun began to lower in the sky.  Finally, I decided to pop into the nearest establishment to try to seek assistance; a Fifth Third bank.  The staff was friendly and helpful, but after calling the one Uber driver in town and the cab companies to no avail, I was again unsure what to do.  My phone was nearly dead, and it wasn’t getting any earlier.  Finally, I asked if I could borrow their phone to call my dad.  When he answered, he was happy to hear that I had finished the trail safely.  I explained the situation, and told him that I would call my Stacey, my sister, to come get me.  It was Friday, but my dad had to go into work for a few hours early the next morning for month end inventory and I wanted him to get some rest.  He exhaled a long breath into the receiver.  “I’ll come get you” he said.  He wasn’t angry, but he wasn’t particularly thrilled that he was going be driving three hours across the state to rescue his crazy son.  I thanked the bank staff for their hospitality and headed across the street to a Dairy Queen.  Despite the troubling situation I was in, I was starving, and ordered some chicken strips, fries, and a frozen treat.  As I sat in a booth enjoying my little tray of deep fried heaven, I texted my dad the address.  I was hoping that I could hang out here for a while and wouldn’t have to wait outside in the cold.  Thankfully, the staff didn’t seem to mind that there was a crazy runner loitering in their restaurant, and I spent the next two and a half hours watching Spongebob on the restaurant TV, reminiscing on the run, and laughing to myself about my debacle.

My dad finally arrived around 8:00 PM.  When he pulled up in his girlfriend’s car, he gave me a look as if to say, “good thing you’re my son, otherwise I’d be ripping you to shreds”.  “Get in the car, knucklehead” he said.  I, on the other hand, was happy as a clam.  “You’re the greatest dad of all time!” I exclaimed as I hugged him.  We talked about my adventure during the ride and he dropped me off where his car was parked in Kalamazoo at the trailhead.  We drove home following each other on the highway and made it home a couple of hours later.  It had been quite a while since my dad needed to come to my aid, but he had always been there for me when I was in a sticky situation and this time was no different.  For this, I love and respect him deeply, and will always be grateful for his help.  There was no shortage of teasing from my dad for the rest of the weekend about my little mishap, but all in all, he didn’t seem to mind that he had to make the trip.  Each time he teased me, my response always was “I love you, dad!” which drew plenty of laughs from us and anyone else who happened to be in the room.  The rest of the weekend was spent celebrating Easter and Passover and catching up with family.  It was a great weekend, and my situation in South Haven made it one that I will never forget.  Living in Los Angeles, I take a lot of things for granted.  Virtually anything I need is a phone call away.  Lesson learned; this is not always the case, especially in a small town!

Every Minute Matters

“Lucky number seven!” I said to myself in the cool, predawn air.  The usually crowded Third Street Promenade in downtown Santa Monica was silent and still as I walked down the street towards Santa Monica City Hall.  I was wearing running gear, carrying a sixteen-ounce bottle of Aquafina water, and had an LA Marathon big pinned to my shorts.  Today, I would be running the Los Angeles Marathon for the seventh straight year.  Approaching city hall, I saw more runners making their way over to the shuttles.  I caught up with the pack and fed off the energy of a group of ready-to-go marathoners.  When I arrived at the shuttle pick up location, there was a long line waiting to get on a bus.  I was about to start walking to the end of it when I noticed that the group I had been walking with crossed the street and walked right onto an empty bus ahead of the end of the line.  I ran over joining the pack, and miraculously, I was able to bypass forty-five minutes of waiting in line.  I headed towards the back and took a seat as the bus quickly filled up and began heading for the start line at Dodger Stadium.

 

The Los Angeles Marathon has become somewhat of a running tradition for me.  Established in 1986, the creation of the marathon was inspired by the success of the 1984 Olympics along with the growing popularity of other major marathons such as New York, Boston, and Chicago.  While the LA Marathon’s popularity has not surpassed that of the above-mentioned races, the race maintains a strong presence in the marathon community, with over twenty-five thousand registrants each year from all over the globe.  Although the course has changed a few times since its inauguration, the current course is a point to point race, beginning at Dodger Stadium and finishing on Ocean Boulevard in Santa Monica.  In between, runners are treated to a full tour of the Los Angeles area.  The route leaves Dodger Stadium, travels through downtown LA, China town, and Little Tokyo, before veering onto Sunset Boulevard and heading west through Echo Park, Silverlake, Hollywood, West Hollywood, down to Santa Monica Boulevard through Beverly Hills, Century City, onto San Vicente Boulevard through Brentwood, and finally ending in Santa Monica when runners make a final left onto Ocean Boulevard from San Vicente.  I moved to Los Angeles in 2012 about two weeks before the marathon.  Despite not having logged as many miles and I normally would as preparation, I knew I had to run this race.  When race morning came, I was excited and filled with energy.  I finished what is still my fastest marathon to date, and since then I’ve been hooked, signing up every year like clockwork. 

During the bus ride, my phone vibrated repeatedly.  A large group of friends and I had a Facebook Messenger thread going so we could keep in communication and meet up before and after the race.  As I exited the bus at Dodger Stadium, the morning air was refreshing and crisp.  Runners lingered in the parking lot, music cranked from the speakers, and lights illuminated the start line.  As I walked towards the stadium, I took my phone out to message the group letting everyone know that I had arrived.  Just then, I heard a familiar voice behind me.  “What’s up, Mr. Liam?!”  I turned around to see my good friend, Tony walking up behind me.  We embraced in a hug and continued walking towards the stadium.  We had gotten word that a group of our friends were huddled inside the stadium trying to stay warm in the chilly air.  We met up with some familiar people and had the pleasure of meeting some new people as well.  Tuyet and her husband, Ian, were running their first marathon, Angelica was running in place of her friend who recently had surgery and was unable to run, Monica was running her second LA Marathon, and Michael had tagged along for moral support.  The fact that Michael wasn’t even running and was here at 5:30 in the morning just to support us runners was beyond cool to me and speaks volumes of his character.  As the start time approached, Tony and I hung around near the start line and watched the elite women take off.  When the gun went off, they left the start line almost sprinting.  “Wow” I said to Tony.  “And, they’re only going to run faster from here”.  As Tony and I made our way into our corral, we found our friend Edith, who was also an accomplished runner who had finished several marathons and a few ultras.  She had recently returned from a family trip in El Salvador, where she was from, and was ready to get back into her active lifestyle.  The three of us shuffled through the crowd and before long, the gun had gone off and we were making our way to the start line.  Tony and I ran together through downtown for the first three miles until I began to pick up the pace and soon found myself on my own.  Before the race, some people asked me if I had a time goal in mind.  I told them I was hoping to finish around the four-hour mark but wasn’t looking to PR in this race.  I had been training for a 100K trail race that I had coming up in April, this marathon being part of the training.  The trick to finishing an ultra is to pace yourself and take it easy.  That’s the method I’ve been following during my training, and I would be doing the same for this marathon.  Over the years, I’ve developed a strategy for finishing strong in a long-distance race; stay focused on the task at hand, but don’t overthink things.  I Don’t worry about how far I’ve gone or how much further I have left to go.  I Just run and try to enjoy the experience.  I Focus on are taking deep, full breaths, making sure my stride is light, almost like I’m running on hot coals, and I run at a comfortable pace, speeding up when I feel strong and slowing down when I feel like I’m pushing myself too hard.

As I made my way along the course, I took in the scenery and tried to live in the moment.  Every neighborhood of the LA area has its own unique personality and today I would get to experience it all, first hand, at six miles per hour.  The stretch that runs down Sunset Boulevard leaving Echo Park and entering Silverlake is a gradual descent, which treated me to a fantastic view.  As I ran downhill, I admired the scene of buildings, palm trees, green hills, and blue sky in front of me in the distance.  The halfway point is on the border of Hollywood and West Hollywood, and I soon found myself running down the Sunset strip, gliding past several clubs, restaurants, my office, and lastly, the Whisky A Go Go, before banking left and heading down into Beverly Hills.  My race strategy was carrying me along pleasantly, however, the LA Marathon is a large, sanctioned event, meaning there is a mile marker and race clock at every mile of the course.  I tried to ignore these mile markers for as long as I could, fearing it would derail me from my method of not worrying about how many miles I had left to cover.  At mile seventeen, I gave up trying to fight it, and just accepted the fact that I would be constantly reminded how much further I had to go for the rest of the race.  It wasn’t ideal, but I stayed focused on my breathing, stride, and pace.  Things were going well, and I gradually picked up the pace as I progressed further.   At mile twenty-one I was feeling good, but I was in the stage of the race where strange things could happen.  One minute I could be feeling great, the next, I could be in a world of hurt, or vice versa.  This is the part of the race where many runners hit the wall.  Their bodies are feeling the fatigue of running twenty miles and begin acting irrationally, delivering brutal cramps without warning, and screaming for you to stop.  Running a marathon requires both physical and mental strength.  This is the time where physical strength deteriorates, and mental strength takes over.  I made my way through Brentwood, feeling optimistic, but hoping my body wouldn’t shut down in the next few miles.  The crowd support along San Vicente boulevard was unbelievable, with several enthusiastic spectators lining the sides of the street.  There were folks from running clubs, running stores, local organizations, and people who were out there just because.  As I approached mile twenty-three, I came to a beautiful realization.  After passing by the mile marker, seeing the time on the race clock, and taking a quick inventory of how I was feeling, I realized I had a chance at finishing the race in less than four hours.  I had broken the four-hour mark in two previous marathons and was hit with a burst of energy when I realized this could be my third time.  I shifted into high gear and began running at an eight minute per mile pace.  I cruised downhill on San Vicente boulevard reeling in mile after mile and approached the left turn onto Ocean Boulevard.  I knew what that meant.  Three quarters of a mile until the finish line!  I ran as fast as I could while still trying to keep it all together.  The finish line was in view and was getting closer by the second.  The final quarter of a mile was lined with die hard spectators who either knew someone running or they feed off this kind of energy.  Normally, I run at a steady pace, wave, and high five them as I go by.  Not this time.  If there was any chance of breaking four hours, I was going to have to go hard.  I ran by the spectators as quickly as I could, eyes facing forward, towards the finish line.  I loved their enthusiasm and made sure that even though I was hauling ass, I had a smile on my face as I ran to the finish.  I burst through the finish line, throwing my arms in the air and letting out a victorious “Yeah!”.  Just as I had gotten my medal, my phone vibrated.  My dad was tracking me and sent me a congratulatory text.  “Four hours flat, that’s excellent!”.  I soon found out that my clock time was four hours and thirty-eight seconds.  Damn!  So close!  If only I could have gone a little faster.  Then I remembered something; I stopped to use the restroom at mile eight.  It was a necessary decision, as the mounting bladder pressure surely would have caused issues later in the race, but I lost a good two minutes in the process.  “Ugh!” I thought.  If only I didn’t have to stop.  Many of times, people running a marathon don’t think of losing a few minutes during the race as having much of an impact.  Sometimes runners need to use the restroom, stretch, take a break, etc.  It makes sense to take a few minutes during the race to remedy minor issues that could become more serious in the later stages.  Well, not always.  My 2018 LA Marathon is a testament to the fact that even in marathons and ultra-marathons, sometimes every minute really does count. 

Overall, the race was pleasant, fun, and rewarding.  I was happy with my performance and for all my friends who were running.  Tony, Monica, Angelica, Edith, and the others began trickling in as time went by and I was thrilled that everyone successfully crossed the finish line.  I drove home, showered, changed clothes, and a handful of us gathered at a local Mexican restaurant for lunch to celebrate our accomplishment and congratulate each other.  Later that day, I reflected on the race.  It was another great adventure and every year I learned something new.  The lesson from this year?  Use the restroom twice before starting the race to avoid having to stop!