Wednesday, May 26, 2021

Mental Health Awareness Month: 2021 Edition


"Sorry, we have closed.  Please visit our location on Stevens Creek Blvd. in San Jose".  That's what the handwritten sign on the door read when I parked in front of Supercuts on El Camino Real in Santa Clara, California last Monday evening.  "Okay, fine" I said to myself with a hint of annoyance.  When I arrived at the Stevens Creek Blvd. location I shut my car off, put my mask on, and I was just about to exit my car when I saw two hair stylists walk out the front door and lock it behind them.  I looked up and the "Open" sign was no longer lit up.  I glanced at the clock on my dashboard, which read 7:14 PM.  "What the hell, I thought they closed at 9 PM on week nights" I thought.  After checking online, it did say that their hours were indeed 9 AM until 7 PM.  They apparently shifted their hours during the pandemic.  I guess I would be going back home with a mop of hair still on my head, at least for today.  As I drove home I grew increasingly annoyed as the three remaining boxes of junk left to move into my new apartment shuffled around in the back of my car every time I turned.  By the time I arrived home I'd had it.  "This is bullshit.  I can't keep living like this" I muttered angrily to myself as I walked down the hallway.  

Okay, you're probably wondering what in the hell is wrong with me, and why I blew an emotional gasket over simply not being able to get a haircut.  When I said I couldn't keep "living this way" I didn't mean with a head full of shaggy, overgrown hair.  I was throwing a hissy fit because the last three weeks had been overwhelming and stressful, which meant I was completely out of my normal routine.  My sleeping and eating schedules were inconsistent, I wasn't running very much, I hadn't done any fitness training, and there had been no structure or consistency in my life.  Between recovering from Canyons, work being busy and demanding, Sammy and I playing tug-of-war with our new apartment leasing company due to some issues with our application, and then finally, the move and the logistical blunders that came with it, I felt like I had been living like an animal.  And all I wanted was to cut my hair so I would look like a human being again!  Two days later I spoke with my therapist about the ridiculousness during our weekly session, and let me tell you, after those fifty minutes were over, I immediately felt more at ease and focused on getting things back in order.  

I made the decision to seek therapy at thirty-one years old after a series of devastating events occurred in my life.  It took my mother passing away when I was a teenager, my dog dying in a tragic accident, my marriage not working out, and a few other bad experiences for me to finally say "gee, maybe this isn't just bad luck, maybe I need some help.  Maybe I need to change my behavior and the way I think".  It was hands down, one of the best decisions I ever made.  Over the last three years, I've become calmer, less anxious, more self-aware, and less scared of the future.  I've learned that living in the present is what matters the most.  I've learned how much of a difference it makes by just talking to someone about how I'm feeling and having them listen and give their thoughts as a third party.  It's allowed me to discover things about myself that I never knew, to the point where I can explain the reasons for almost every type of behavior I exhibit.  Understanding myself is a great feeling and it helps in a number of different ways.  First off, it helps me express these very thoughts you're reading in a free and honest manner, and it also allows me to understand what type of behavior is right and wrong.  I've learned that everyone has a past.  Everyone has struggled in one way or another in life, whether you were raised in the hood and joined a gang, or if you came from a wealthy background in the suburbs.  We could all use our negative experiences or our childhood traumas as an excuse to legitimize toxic and destructive behavior, and unfortunately there are a lot of people out there who do just that.  But we can't.  It's not good for ourselves, and it's not good for the people around us.  Imagine where our society would be if everyone used their past as a way to justify their wrongdoings.  That is where the importance of mental health comes into play.  That's why we have therapists, social workers, psychologists, psychiatrists, etc.  It's important for us to use these resources to try to work through the issues of our past, cope with our hardships, and try our best to be good and positive adults in society.  Everyone has a song and dance, and therefore, dare I say it, I believe that everyone, the whole world, could use a little therapy.    

May is mental health awareness month, and I hope that sharing this little excerpt of my life will raise awareness and inspire people who suffer from poor mental health to get the help they need and deserve.  In 2021 the importance of mental health is more widely accepted than it's ever been and it's easier than ever to get help.  It's never too late either, it doesn't matter if you're in your twenties or your seventies.  I want to thank all of the people out there who work in mental health services for what they do because our society would be a complete dumpster fire if it weren't for these folks tireless doing their jobs everyday.  Side note, I'm happy to say that things are back to "normal" now in terms of my routine, i.e. the way they were about a month ago before it all got temporarily dropkicked off a bridge, like Baxter in the movie "Anchorman".  I credit a lot of that to the fact that I was simply able to vent about it to my therapist, let it all out, and let her provide her feedback.  Happy May, and Happy Mental Health Awareness month!  

Tuesday, May 11, 2021

Just Keep Moving: 2021 Canyons 100K Race Report



It was dark and I was cold.  I wasn't exactly sure what the temperature was, but it had to have fallen down to the near freezing mark.  No stars were visible in the sky, but the moon shined through a layer of clouds up above.  No other runners were in sight.  I was on my own, trekking along a single track trail.  Somewhere out there in the night, a finish line awaited, and I was getting closer with each step.  I heard a woman scream behind me off in the distance.  I had no idea if it was in the context of fear, as if seeing a mountain lion, or it was energy driven excitement.  All I knew was I was ready to be finished with this race.  I kept moving as swiftly as possible not only to make it to the finish line, but also to keep my body warm in the freezing weather.  Physical movement generates body heat, however I was wearing only a short sleeve dri-fit running shirt, arm warmers, and shorts.  Any body heat I was generating was escaping me almost as quickly as it was produced.  Then I saw something peculiar in the beam of my headlamp.  Small white particles floated by as I moved forward.  "Are those snow flurries?" I asked myself out loud.  The flurries were only a warning shot, and within a few moments it started full on snowing.  I was flabbergasted.  I knew there would be rain moving in later on in the night, but the snow was totally unexpected.  I'm a snow sports junkie and I normally love snow, but it was not very appealing sixty miles into a 100K ultramarathon, especially without the proper gear to keep warm.  What the hell...

The Canyons 100K Endurance Run is a race of extremes.  The run takes place on the historic Western States trail in the Sierra foothills near Auburn, California and features 15,000 feet of climbing over sixty-two miles along rugged terrain.  Which means a lot of things can happen between the start and finish line, including not making it to the finish line, also known as a DNF (did not finish).  Things can go up, down, sideways, or in circles, and changes can occur abruptly and without warning, especially during the later stages of the race.  These thoughts trickled through my mind as Sammy and I made our way out of the San Francisco Bay Area in my car on Friday evening, April 23, 2021.  I thought some food might calm my nerves, and luckily she had just the solution.  A day prior, she pulled together some leftover ingredients from Passover and baked up a small Manischewitz brand vanilla cake with chocolate icing.  It was a delicious holiday treat, and as she cut the cake into square pieces with a butter knife in the passenger's seat and handed them to me, I was delighted that the cake had still not lost it's flavor and damp texture.  After a three and a half hour drive we eventually arrived in Auburn, where we checked into the Super 8 motel right off the 80 freeway, wolfed down some Domino's pizza and breadsticks, washed it all down with more Passover cake, and promptly went to bed.  I knew sleep wouldn't come easy that night, but I wanted to get as much rest as possible, since I was about to make my fourth attempt at finishing Canyons the next morning.  At 3:15 AM, my rooster alarm broke the silence.  All things considered, I had slept fairly decently and began to feel adrenaline coursing through my veins as I made preparations for the race in the dark hotel room.  Sammy awoke a few minutes later, and at 4:15 AM, half cup of coffee and doughnut in hand, we quietly exited the hotel and made the ten minute drive over to the start line at Overlook Park.  Arriving at the parking lot was like pulling up to a bustling festival in the middle of nowhere in the predawn darkness.  One moment there was nobody around, the next moment there were parked cars and runners everywhere.  The plan was for Sammy to drive back to the hotel, sleep for a while longer, have a day to herself in Auburn, and come meet me at the finish line at the China Wall Staging Area in Foresthill.  If I made it that far.  "Just give it all you got, but remember, nothing is guaranteed" I said to myself as I stood among the crowd of runners sipping the rest of my coffee.  A megaphone blared to life, announcing to the crowd of 323 runners that the race was going to start in five minutes,  I took a spot in the middle of the pack, and at 5:00 AM sharp, us runners charged across the start line, and down the trail into the valley.  The journey was on.

The path was a dark, narrow single track trail, which caused a bit of a bottle neck during the first mile or so of the race.  After a few minutes of steady running, I stood behind a line of runners for a moment and looked down at the line of headlamps lighting up the winding trail down the the hill in front of me.  Once we got moving again, I made small talk with the runners around me, mostly about how happy I was to be out doing a live ultra again after dealing with the pandemic for the last year.  The 2020 event was understandably not able to happen because of this ugly virus, and this was my first live ultramarathon since January 2020.  Runners had come from all over to participate in this year's Canyons 100K, including from Texas, Germany, Florida, and I even knew a girl from Zimbabwe who was running up front with the elite pack.  The terrain was relatively gentle, alternating between trail and fire road, and the pack gradually thinned out as we made our way past Robie Point.  Further along the course, the first indications of dawn were lighting up the sky as we crossed No Hands Bridge and made our way out onto highway 49.  The weather was forecasted to be mostly cloudy with a high temperature of around sixty degrees.  As I approached the junction where highway 49 met up with the Confluence trail, I silently hoped that the forecast would hold true, since it was perfect weather for a day like today.  The early morning sky was filled with vivid color as I approached the first aid station at Mammoth Bar, eight miles from the start line.  I pulled my mask over my face, and paused there only long enough to have the volunteers fill my water bottles and hand me a pack of trail mix.  Due to the logistical circumstances, there were aid stations every eight to nine miles at this race, which is further apart than usual.  Between my two handheld water bottles, I carried forty ounces of fluid with me, which I hoped would last me from aid station to aid station throughout the race.  I still had about eight ounces of water and Roctane hydration drink left when I arrived at Mammoth Bar, so I was doing fine so far.  Shortly after departing from the aid station, I joined a small pack of runners as we made our way up the first big climb of the course.  The uphill trek to Driver's Flat was tough, but the distraction of chatting with runners in front of me and behind me served me well.  The pack again thinned out as we crested the hill and ran down to the second aid station.  Once my water bottles were topped off, I ran down a wide dirt road for a few miles and chatted with a runner named Mark, who was originally from New Jersey, but was now living in the Bay Area.  It was his first 100K, and he seemed to be handling himself really well so far.  We motored along together until we arrived at the bottom of the descent.  We passed through Rucky Chucky and continued back onto the Western States trail.  Rucky Chucky was mile seventy-eight of the Western States 100-mile Endurance Run (often simply known as Western States), where runners cross the American River through waist deep water.  Western States is my dream race, and I thought to myself that as long as I kept trying, I'd find myself on that course, crossing the river one day.  Mark and I caught up with two more runners as the trail ran parallel to the American River with green foothills and Canyons surrounding us in every direction.  The four of us climbed up to Ford's Bar, and eventually made our way up the switchbacks towards the next aid station at Cal 2.  By the time we made it up there, I was tired of trail mix and energy bars, so I opted to have some fruit instead.  I ate a couple of orange slices, stuffed a half of a banana in my mouth, and continued onwards.  From there, it was up the infamous Elevator Shaft, which is a short, but steep climb, followed by some more rolling hills.  I followed Mark and the two other guys for a little while until the group dispersed during the climb from Cal 1 up to Foresthill.  The switchbacks were steep and I was beginning to feel fatigued.  Rounding a particularly steep corner, I heard runners coming down the switchbacks above me.  From what I could hear, they were really pounding down the trail, so even though I technically had the right of way, I moved to the side of the trail as they came around the corner.  It was a group of three runners with a woman in front and two dudes behind.  Once they were aware of my presence, they stopped and moved to the side of the trail to let me through.  I thanked them as I continued moving, but then I recognized the guy at the end.  He was lean with long legs, his long wavy hair was tied back, and he sported a bright blue Hoka running jacket.  It was Jim Walmsley!  "Dude! Good to see you out here, Jim!" I said with a big smile as I passed by.  I gave him a quick elbow bump and said hey to the two other runners.  Once I hiked passed them, they disappeared down the trail as fast as they appeared.  For those who don't know, Jim Walmsley is one of the most badass ultrarunners around.  He holds the record for Western States (fourteen hours, nine minutes set in 2019), and has broken several other records and won several other ultramarathons over the years.  I thought about how uplifting it was seeing him out here, when suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the pack making their way back up the trail behind me.  "Get it, guys!  Good luck at Western States this year" I said as I stepped aside.  "Thank you, man!  Good job" Walmsley said with a smile as he ran past.  I felt a bit star struck.  He had no idea who I was, but holy shit, Jim Walmsley just gave me some encouragement.  He wasn't running the race, but he had traveled from his hometown of Flagstaff, Arizona to train on the course and cheer on runners.  It was a proud moment.  One of the cool things about ultrarunning is that it's one of the few sports where everyday guys like me are right up in the game with the elites, or "professional" ultrarunners, you could say.  Sure they may finish the race in half the time I do, but it's awesome to be at the start line and out on the course with them.  In this sport, I'm not on the sidelines.  I'm right up in the game with the pros.  It was a cool thought.  After climbing for what seemed like forever, a gate appeared up ahead, indicating that the course would now be leaving the Western States trail for the paved streets of Foresthill.  I passed through the gate, hobbled up the road, and soon rolled into the next check point in the parking lot of Foresthill Elementary School, mile thirty-four.  Upon arrival, I took a seat in a camping chair to be off my feet for a few minutes.  I felt some pressure on my toe, so I took off my right shoe.  My big toenail was swollen up, but had not yet been bruised or fallen off, so I put my shoe back on without much concern.  As I sat there eating some potato ships and chugging Roctane, I took mental inventory.  Overall, things seemed to be working pretty well, and I was right on pace for my expected finish time.  I had beaten the cutoff at Foresthill by an hour and a half, but as I stood up and made my exit, I reminded myself to stay focused.  I slowly eased into a moderate jog and headed down Foresthill Road towards Bath Road, which would lead down to the next junction of the Western States trail.  

I knew that the second half of the race was going to be tougher than the first half.  A lot tougher.  Not only would I have to contend with the pounding of thirty-four miles on my body (and my soul), but the second half traversed through the notorious "canyons" section of the Western States course.  Most of the climbing of the race would be happening during the second half.  Even though I was feeling relatively stable as I ran down the trail to the creek crossing at the bottom of Volcano Canyon, I hoped that I could keep up the momentum and finish strong.  The creek felt nice on my feet and legs, but the climb was brutal.  I chatted with a runner named Chris from Reno, which helped distract from from the anguish.  More miles were covered as the terrain leveled out, and the dirt road led me down to the next aid station at Michigan Bluff.  I spent a few minutes refueling, thanked the volunteers, then continued onto the trail, which quickly began a steep descent down switchbacks into El Dorado Canyon.  I enjoyed chatting with other runners, but I was now running alone, which felt nice.  It felt good to just run my own race.  I reminded myself that it doesn't matter how many people are ahead of me or behind me.  It doesn't matter if people pass me, or if I pass them.  I'm only racing against one person, and that's myself.  As far as I was concerned, this was my race against myself, and I was like Jim Walmsley out here.  No, I was not running nearly as fast as he does, but in my mind, in my own race against myself, I was Jim Walmsley.  El Dorado Creek marks the bottom of the canyon.  I crossed the bridge, briefly admired the water as it flowed beneath me, and took the first steps up a savage 4-mile, 2,600 foot climb up to Deadwood.  The climb came as little surprise, and I'd done it probably over fifty times at this point, but as the sound of the flowing creek slowly faded away, so did my enthusiasm and energy.  The further up the climb I progressed, the more disengaged I became.  "Things sure can change quickly" I thought to myself.  On the way down into the canyon I was feeling like my own version of Jim Walmsley kicking ass at my own race, but now I felt like I had taken a big bite out of a cat poop sandwich, and was borderline dragging myself up the ascent.  My steps were short and labored, I panted like a dog, and I felt dazed.  The views on the way up offered sweeping vistas of the canyons, but it all appeared distant and dreamlike.  In other words, I was hitting the wall.  Badly.  Just then, I remembered something that only enhanced my misery.  I had forgotten to take the 5-hour energy shot I had stored in my drop bag at Foresthill.  I cursed myself for forgetting this minor but important step.  That shot would have really hit the spot right now, but because I was so focused on getting back onto the course, I had forgotten to bring it with me, so I was shit out of luck.  At a few points during this climb, I experienced minor episodes of self-doubt and wondered if I had what it took to finish this race.  Each time, I followed the advice of my therapist.  She said to not repress the negative thoughts, but welcome them.  I decided to welcome the negative feelings, but I told myself that it was just my anxiety talking, and that I had this in the bag.  Or so I thought.  A few runners passed by me, and after painfully slow progress, I finally made it to Deadwood.  I was greeted by a volunteer and told that the aid station at mile forty-five was just a few hundred yards up ahead.  When I arrived, I desperately needed to sit down and regroup.  As I approached the food tent, I recognized my buddy Ernesto, whom I had met on these trails three years ago.  He was volunteering at the aid station, performing water bottle filling duty.  We were excited to see each other, and he promptly guided me to a chair.  A few seconds after I sat down, he brought me a paper cup of soup broth and two slices of cheese quesadilla.  The quesadilla was consumed within ten seconds, and as I sat there hydrating and sipping the hot soup broth, I slowly came back to life.  Sure, I had forgotten the 5-hour energy, but the hot soup broth was really perking me up.  There's something really comforting about having hot soup in your system forty-five miles into an ultra.  It works it's magic, and instantly improves your mood, similar to the effects it has when one has a nasty cold.  Finally after about ten minutes, I was ready to keep moving.  "Alright Ernesto, I'll see you back here soon man!"  the next section of the course would continue onto loop six, which would take me past Devil's Thumb and loop back to Deadwood after about five miles.  The loop was not as easy as I hoped it would be.  It started off with a moderate downhill, but then followed a rugged and steep uphill climb until passing through Devil's Thumb.  My mood was lifted when the path continued onto my favorite section of the Western States trail.  Tall pine trees loomed over me on both sides of the trail, the path was coated with a layer of pine needles, which provided ample cushioning, and sawed up tree logs lined the path in some areas.  By the time I coasted back into Deadwood, it was now 7:00 PM.  I had beaten the cutoff my an hour and forty-five minutes, so I took another opportunity to sit down and rest.  I was hungry, but all I wanted was more hot soup broth.  It seemed to be the best remedy for me at this point in the race.  The Deadwood aid station was almost like a small party in the middle of nowhere.  The volunteers had hauled all the supplies in pick up trucks on a desolate dirt road, and set up a couple of canvas tents with lots of food options and plenty of camping chairs for runners to sit down in.  The volunteers wore masks, and runners were required to wear masks when stopping at aid stations, but aside from that, it was largely business as usual.  As I sat and sipped on another heavenly cup of soup, I began doing what I call "ultra math".  I was now at mile fifty-one, so I had my sights set on what time I would be able to cross the finish line.  This was the final aid station.  After this, it was just an eleven-mile haul to the finish line at the China Wall Staging Area in Foresthill.  My other friend Casey, who was also volunteering, advised that the stretch was "three miles down, eight miles up".  "Goddamn" I thought.  Oh well, it wasn't like I had a choice anyway.  Suck it up, buttercup.  As I prepared to leave, I began crunching the numbers.  I had to finish the race by fifteen minutes after midnight to get my Western States lotto ticket.  If I left the aid station at 7:15 PM, that gave me five hours to go eleven miles.  That's averaging just over twenty-seven minutes per mile for the rest of the race.  I could hike it out the rest of the way, and finish in time.  "twenty-seven minute miles, I think I can swing that!" I said to myself as I got up to leave.  "Thank you everyone, you guys are all awesome!" I said to the volunteers as I waived.  They gave me an enthusiastic send off, and I dashed down the trail.  I was filled with a renewed sense of hope as I plodded down the switchbacks into the canyon.  At this point, I knew I could make it, as long as I just kept moving forward.  Just keep moving.  

The three miles of downhill were covered pretty easily.  During this descent, the day had turned to night, and I switched on my headlamp to light the way.  The final eight miles were a 2,500 foot climb to the finish line, which started off on a single track trail.  It was now very dark as I hiked up the incline along the rocks.  There were occasional stretches where the terrain leveled out, but it was mostly a steady climb, which meant there was some running on the flat sections, but mostly I hiked.  Eventually the trail dumped me out onto a dirt road, and I continued to follow the pink ribbons that marked the course.  At this point, there were no other runners in sight and my world was confined to the beam of my headlamp.  I've always enjoyed running at night.  I love the peacefulness and the calm nature of running in the dark, and as strange as this sounds, I enjoy being a little freaked out.  At this point in the race, I felt like I was really getting into my element, and I felt a surge of energy coursing through my veins.  Two headlamps came up the dirt road behind me.  These two runners were moving pretty impressively, and I turned towards them as they passed "Alright guys, comin' in hot!  Nice Job!".  They offered kudos to me as well, and disappeared up the road in front of me.  Before long, the course continued onto a single track trail once again.  At this point, snow began to fall, much to my dismay.  The snow was unexpected, and I didn't have the proper gear to stay warm.  I kept moving swiftly not only to make it to the finish line, but to also keep from freezing.  All I needed to do was get from point A to point B, and the way to do that is to Just.  Keep.  Moving.  Before long, the trail crossed Foresthill road, which meant the finish line was about a quarter of a mile up ahead.  The loudspeaker and sound of people cheering reeled me in, and I ran the final quarter of a mile as if I were on fresh legs.  I arrived in the parking area, and ran the final 100 yards to the finish line, crossing in just over eighteen hours, with an hour and fifteen minutes to spare for the Western States cutoff.  Smiling ear to ear, I threw my hands in the air in celebration as cameras flashed and spectators cheered.  

The Aftermath 

Once I collected my finishers swag, I immediately called Sammy to let her know I had finished.  Our friend Kelly had run a half marathon near Folsom Lake that morning, finishing third overall female, and had planned to spend the weekend with her brother Brian, who lived in Auburn.  Sammy had gone on her own run during the day, gotten some work done for her pet care business, and met up with Kelly and Brian for dinner.  Fifteen minutes after I hung up with Sammy, all three of them, and Brian's girlfriend emerged from the darkness towards me as I warmed myself by the fire pit with other runners.  I was beyond happy to have Sammy there, and because I didn't expect the others to show up, I was filled with joy as we all came in together for a celebratory hug.  I knew right away that Brian was the kind of dude I wanted to hang out with after finishing an ultra because immediately after we hugged, he handed me a beer.  "I left another one for you in your backseat man, don't forget about that one too!".  The four of us made the forty-five minute drive from China Wall back to Auburn where we drank beer at a local bar called Pistol Pete's until they closed at 2 AM.  By the time I went to bed that night after a hot shower, I had been awake for twenty-four hours.  When I woke up the next morning, Kelly and Brian met us for brunch at Awful Annie's.  I was practically crippled, completely wiped out, and so hungry, I had to stop myself from eating too fast. But I couldn't have been happier.  Even in the days following the run as my leg suffered from poison oak rash, and I determined that I'd lost a few pounds, it was a small price to pay for accomplishing what I set out to do.  Finishing an ultra that you spend months training for always feels great.  This time it felt especially great because it was my first live one in over a year, and it was the first of hopefully more ultras that I plan to run this year.  And most importantly, it brought me one step closer to getting into Western States.  With this lotto ticket under my belt, I'll be entering the lottery for 2022 in December.  This will be year three, so fingers crossed, we'll see what happens!  Until then, onto the next adventure.