The Transition

The first thought that came to my mind after hearing about the opportunity to relocate to Silicon Valley was “wow, a new beginning”.  I found my life in Los Angeles to be quite satisfying, but I was in the process of piecing myself back together after my marriage had crumbled.  I was attending weekly therapy sessions, undergoing a lot of self-reflection, and trying to learn as much about myself as possible so I could make the most of my self-improvement.  Additionally, this opportunity presented a change that I had been seeking at work for quite some time; I would be working under new management in a similar role that would evolve over time as the company evolved, which was happening at a rapid rate.  Because of these factors, I was excited for this upcoming move.  I felt inspired and optimistic about what this next chapter of my life had to offer.  But in real life, just like during an ultramarathon, things can change in an instant.  Life changing events often take time for me to process emotionally.  When big changes occur, the realization of what is happening doesn’t “hit” me right away.  But while I was driving around on a Sunday morning in early December, the enormity of this change suddenly came over me.  I was going to be leaving Los Angeles and living somewhere else.  Not Ventura County or the San Gabriel Valley, but somewhere five hours away.  Fear began to set in.  Fear that I was going to miss Los Angeles and the life I had created there.  It wasn’t until that moment that despite living in Los Angeles for nearly seven years, I felt like I had just moved there.  In a way, I was still getting to know this city and now I was going to leave.  Why would I want to do that?  Los Angeles was the city that I worked so hard to move to for so long.  I woke up every morning feeling happy that I was living where I wanted to live.  And what about all my friends?  What about all the places in the wilderness I loved to visit? Why would I want to leave and move somewhere else just for the sake of a new beginning when I could get that here?  I left Michigan for Chicago in May of 2009, and Chicago for Los Angeles in March of 2012.  I was no stranger to moving to new cities, but this time it felt different.  Despite the mixed feelings I had about the situation, I had to remind myself of one of the rules I live by; Don’t fight change.  Embrace it and welcome it.  Change is good.  Change is moving forward.  I’ve been through a lot of things in my life, and I was used to things changing, especially over the last two years.  This was simply another change that would help me move forward and make me stronger.  There was no way I was going to let this opportunity slip away.   

I decided to spend the week before Christmas working in the Mountain View office and staying at a hotel to help acclimate myself to my soon to be new home.  Prior to my knowledge of this move, I had only known that Silicon Valley was near San Francisco and that a lot of tech companies were headquartered there.  But over the course of several weeks, my interest in the region grew and I began doing research in various forms.  I looked up the area on google maps and familiarized myself with the geographical layout.  There was Mountain View, the city where the office was based, bordered by Sunnyvale, Cupertino, and Palo Alto, with the Santa Cruz Mountains and several state parks to south.  I had been a fan of several bands from the San Francisco Bay Area for a long time but soon, I discovered the musical genius of a legendary band from Palo Alto; The Grateful Dead.  Up until then, I knew almost nothing about them, except for the fact that Jerry Garcia was their lead singer and guitar player.  My parents had talked about them, but I had always written them off as a “hippie band”.  One day during my Silicon Valley “research”, I decided to give their second record “Anthem of the Sun” a listen.  I was instantly hooked.  It’s not the kind of music I would listen to while running, but due to its unique and experimental sound, it has become a record that I relish greatly, and in some ways, one of my “soundtracks” to living in Silicon Valley.  Another component that fueled my inspiration was the thriving tech industry.  Silicon Valley is widely known as a significant high technology region in the United States.  Several major tech companies were founded here and continue to maintain a strong presence.  Google, Yahoo!, Facebook, LinkedIn, Apple, all were established in the cities of Mountain View, Sunnyvale, Palo Alto and Cupertino, and their headquarters remain there to this day.  On that first morning of my visit as I was walking to work, I stood at a crosswalk and took a minute to just look around and think.  I thought of all the entrepreneurial history that occurred on the very corner on which I was standing.  The very first Apple computer had been created in a garage just a few neighborhoods away.  Every time I google something (“google” has now become a verb, which speaks volumes of the company’s impact), turn on my iPod when I go running, or log into Facebook or Instagram; the foundation for all of that took place right where I was standing.  It was a very similar feeling to those that I experience in the wilderness; The feeling where I say to myself “take a minute and think about where you are”. 

It was a rainy Sunday morning when I arrived in the Mountain View area for my first visit.  I had some time to kill before checking into my hotel, so given the fact that I surfed the internet for trails even before apartments, I decided to take this opportunity to drive down to Big Basin Redwoods State Park for a trail run.  Nestled within the Santa Cruz Mountains about forty-five minutes south of Mountain View, Big Basin Redwoods State Park is somewhat of a hidden gem in the Bay Area.  The rain fell steadily as I cruised down the narrow, winding road that led to the park headquarters.  Tall redwood trees lined the roadside and created a green tunnel of thick foliage.  Thanks to some help from a friendly park ranger, I was able to find a six-mile trail loop that was only moderate in difficulty.  The run itself was rejuvenating and the scenery was pleasantly vibrant, but as I progressed, conditions gradually deteriorated.  The rainfall was growing heavier by the minute, flooding the trail and turning it into a giant mud puddle.  I was soaked, but there wasn’t much I could do to remedy the situation at this point, so I just kept moving forward, eager to finish and get back to my warm, dry car.  As I ran down the twisting trail on the return trip, I felt the urge to relieve myself.  When I finished, I was about to continue running for cover but instead, I paused.  I stood there for a good minute, mesmerized by the sound of the rain falling in the wilderness.  There was no one else around, no small animals, no other sounds to be heard.  I had never heard anything so peaceful and serene.  My concern about getting too wet melted away and I had one of those powerful moments when I felt like I was truly living in the present.  Up until that moment I had been running cautiously, avoiding the puddles on the trail by hopping over or running around them to avoid submerging my feet in the cold, muddy water.  As I resumed forward progress, I remembered the feeling I experienced listening to the sounds of the rain fall.  It didn’t matter what happened to me in the past or what the future held.  Now was all that mattered.  For the remainder of the run, I ran right through the mud puddles, allowing my feet to splash and sink into the cold mud.

   

The more time I spent in Mountain View, the more it began to feel like home.  My extended stay hotel was located about a mile and a half from the office, and I began to settle into a routine of waking up, running, having hotel breakfast and coffee, taking a shower, getting dressed, and walking to work.  The walk gave me time to plan out my day and occasionally, I’d stop at Red Rock Coffee on the way, a local coffee joint that was popular with the Wag crowd.  There was something exciting and motivating about working up in Mountain View.  There were about forty of us in the office, and not one person had an office; everyone worked in a cubicle, including our CEO.  The office presented a friendly vibe, and we were able to converse with each other freely on the open floor.  I was working slightly longer hours than when I worked in the West Hollywood office, but I didn’t mind.  It may have been the excitement of working in a new environment or the inspiring entrepreneurial tech history of Silicon Valley, but whatever the case, I could come home from working an eleven or twelve-hour day and I wouldn’t feel drained.  Instead, I felt accomplished.  As the weeks carried on, I found myself trying local restaurants in the Mountain View area after work as a way of getting acquainted with the neighborhood.  Silicon Valley offers a wide variety of authentic cuisines including Thai, Indian, Mexican, Vietnamese, and Mediterranean, the most latter being my favorite, owing to the fact that I grew up with a Croatian-American dad and worked in a Greek restaurant for several years in high school.  On a random Thursday night, I left work and walked over to an Irish Pub down the street that I discovered a couple of nights prior.  My mother, who was Irish-American, loved going to pubs and introduced me to them when I was a young kid.  All Irish pubs are essentially the same; dim lights, beer plaques, lots of carpentry, and a slightly run down (or very run down, depending on the location) interior.  Walking into Molly Magee’s, I immediately thought of my Mom, as I do every time I walk into an Irish pub.  She passed away when I was a teenager, but I knew that if she were still alive, Molly Magee’s would have been the first place I would have brought her to when she came to visit me.  As I sat towards the end of the bar sipping my Guinness, I pictured my mom sitting next to me in the empty seat.  I sure hope no one else in the bar was watching me because I’m sure I looked pretty silly sitting there, looking at an empty seat, smiling. 

As I settled into my new home, I kept up with my running, and began exploring.  I loved running in Big Basin State Park, I ran at St. Joseph’s Hill in the Sierra Azul Open Space Reserve, and, most recently, I drove out the mountains in the Stanislaus National Forest near Lake Tahoe to log some miles in the mountain wilderness.  I opted for road running on this adventure since the recent storm had blanketed the trails with several inches of fresh snow.  As I ran down the side of the road in my water-resistant jacket, with a beanie and hood covering my head, the snow fell steadily.  Despite the less than ideal conditions, I was in awe of the majestic setting; tall redwood and pine trees lined the road on both sides, covered in a layer of fresh snow.  The late morning road was fairly quiet, with only the occasional car passing by.  Every so often, I would also see people pulled off to the side of the road unloading sleds and saucers to use on the slope that descended from the road further into the wilderness.  Nearing the end of the run, although I was enjoying myself, I breathed a great sigh of relief as I rounded a bend in the road and my parked car came into view in the distance.  By the time I arrived, the snow was falling so heavily, I could barely see twenty feet in front of me.  I flung open the door, threw myself into the seat, started the car, and cranked up the heat to its highest setting.  As I sat there waiting for my car to warm up, I felt incredibly alive, similar to how I felt in Big Basin on the first day of my initial visit two months prior.  I was drenched, freezing, and I couldn’t feel my hands, but things just seemed perfect in that particular moment.  Every runner knows the more suffering that is involved, the greater the sense of accomplishment.  My move from Los Angeles to Sunnyvale had its hard moments, but I had endured through them, and things were starting to fall into place in my new chapter.  The falling snow shook me from my thoughts, and I decided I had better get going before the roads became dangerous.  Driving down that mountain road through the snow in my soaking wet running gear, slowly getting my feeling back in my hands, I began to feel like myself again.     

    

Crawling Out Of The Funk

I was jolted awake and my eyes slowly opened as the alarm on my phone sounded.  My phone read 4:00 PM when I rolled over on the couch to shut it off.  I pulled my blanket off, tossed it to the side, and sat up on the couch, rubbing my eyes.  It was Christmas Day.  Earlier that morning, my aunt and uncle had a group over to their house for a Christmas Day brunch and I had gone over the afternoon and night before for some Christmas Eve festivities.  When I returned from their house that afternoon around 2:00 PM, I felt stressed out and thought that a nap would help calm me down.  When I finished rubbing my eyes, I looked around.  My blinds were closed and my apartment was dark and eerie.  Despite the exuberant family time that I enjoyed over the last couple of days, I felt empty and hollow inside.  Outside of the holiday season, my personal and professional life was changing drastically, and very quickly.  I was healing from a failed marriage, work was extremely busy, and my department at work was undergoing a major personnel shift.  In November, my company offered me an opportunity to relocate from Los Angeles to the executive office in Mountain View, California to work under the new CFO.  I had mixed emotions about leaving the city that I called home for the past seven years, but I was also eager for a fresh start in Silicon Valley.  After a series of meetings and discussions, I accepted the offer.  I had spent the prior week in Mountain View, working out of my new office and getting acquainted with my soon to be new home.  It was an exciting experience and I was looking forward to the move, but as I sat there on Christmas Day, I only had four days left in Los Angeles.  I had secured an apartment in Sunnyvale, given notice to my current landlord that I was going to be moving out at the end of December, and told my managers at work that I would be fully moved to Silicon Valley and ready to work by January 2nd, 2019.  During the ten days or so leading up to Christmas, I had been drinking a little more than I normally do, not eating very healthy, sleeping too much, and not running as much I should have been.  Whether this unhealthy state was a result of the holiday season and that's just how things are at this time of year, or if the mounting stress and mixed emotions in my personal and professional life had sent me into a downward spiral, I couldn't say.  All I knew was that I was in a funk.

I sat there for a good five minutes in the dark as the late afternoon sun peeked through the cracks of my blinds.  Christmas was always big in my family and I've always looked forward to doing Christmas themed races, dressing up in holiday themed attire, attending holiday parties, and generally being festive and jolly.  But due to all the changes in my life during the holiday season, I missed out on a lot of the fun activities that I relished greatly throughout December every year.  Christmas is my favorite holiday and I was supposed to be feeling happy.  But instead, it felt like something was missing.  If there's anything I can't stand, it's sitting on my ass, feeling sorry for myself.  I have accepted the fact that sometimes in life, I need to accept pain and even welcome it, but I've always hated it when people are miserable and don't take any action to improve their situation.  Life is too short to sit around being mopey and letting the world beat you down.  I thought about my Mom and how much I missed her.  Although I have my own beliefs regarding what happens to people after they die, I don't know much about the afterlife.  But there were two things I knew for sure; I knew my mother was watching over me, and I knew that she wouldn't want me to feel this way.  I would no longer stand for it.  "Okay, come on, get a grip" I finally said to myself out loud.  I stood up, switched on the lamp in my living room, and opened my blinds, allowing the light of the outside world to pour through the window of my sliding door.  I sat back down and began focusing.  The first thing I needed to do was acknowledge that I was feeling upset.  But why?  I just had a great couple of days with family celebrating Christmas.  Lots of people spend Christmas alone, and I was lucky enough to be in the presence of family, but my lack of running, increased alcohol consumption, unhealthy eating, oversleeping, and drastic life changes had been a thorn in my side for the past couple of weeks.  I also had missed out on holiday festivities and hadn't gotten a chance to see my friends lately.  And I was supposed to move in four days.  I couldn't allow this feeling to continue.  I acknowledged that I felt down, figured out the cause of the negative feelings, and now it was time to take action.  I went to my bedroom and put on my running shoes, shorts, a shirt from a Christmas run I had done the year prior, and a Red Wings beanie.  I may not have been able to participate in a sanctioned holiday run, but at least I could do my own.  When I returned from a three mile run around my neighborhood, I immediately felt better.  I thought of my friends.  I hadn't seem any of them lately, but it wasn't too late.  I picked up my phone and began messaging them, wishing them all a happy holiday and asking if they wanted to get together for a goodbye-for-now party on Friday night.  Everyone said yes.  I went to sleep that night, feeling a little more optimistic.

On the night of the 26th, the realization came over me that life was simply moving too fast.  I had a moment of clarity, and again, I needed to take action.  The next morning, I walked over to my landlord's apartment and asked if I could keep my place for another month.  When she said yes, I emailed the landlord of my new building asking if I could move in later on in January instead of on December 30th.  She also said yes.  I then reached out to my boss and told him that rather than moving up to Silicon Valley completely by December 30th, my new plan was to be up there to work during the week, come back to LA on the weekends to move things out of my current apartment and clean it out, and be completely moved in mid-January.  To my delight, he was very understanding, and said that it was fine.  I sat back on my couch and breathed a great sigh of relief.  When Friday night rolled around, ten of my closest running and hiking friends and I congregated at Max's, a popular Mexican restaurant among our group.  The evening was filled with laughter, story telling, and warmth.  I promised everyone that I'd be back to visit often, and we'd meet up in the mountains to share more adventures together.  When I arrived home that night I felt happy and at peace.  Things were starting to get back on track, but I wasn't stopping there.  I woke up on Saturday morning, went for a five mile run, ate a healthy breakfast, and went to therapy.  That evening, after purchasing a new pair of trail running shoes from REI, I really felt like I was coming back.  My new shoes and other REI goodies brought on more excitement.  On Sunday morning, I laced up my new shoes and went for a ten mile trail run in the mountains through the snow, followed by another healthy breakfast.

As I type this, I feel better now that I have at any point in the last two weeks.  I feel as though I've come back, and I've crawled out of the funk that I've been in for the last several days.  I feel more excited and optimistic about the move, things are falling into place, and life is being put back into perspective.  I spoke with my therapist and some friends about the rain cloud that seemed to be over my head for the last couple of weeks, which helped put things even further into perspective.  Those who I spoke with advised me not to be too hard on myself, and offered a fresh perspective, even going as far to say that sometimes being in a funk isn't such a bad thing because it gives us a chance to bring ourselves back out of the hole, creating feelings of hope and accomplishment.  Life is all about ups and downs.  There is a well known Japanese proverb that is often used in motivational situations that goes "fall down seven times, get up eight".  I've accepted the fact that I will fall into a funk here and there, but as long as I can muster the strength to overcome it, that's all that matters.  For this current predicament, the timing couldn't have been better.  I'm glad to be on the other end, and I'm stoked I will be going out of 2018 in style, feeling on top.  Bring on 2019!

Into Darkness

If there was ever an album that was specifically created for me to crank in my headphones while running on a snowy trail through the mountains, in the dead of night, under a star filled sky, it would have to be Motley Crue's Theatre of Pain.  The album is crafted in such a way that it is a perfect blend of fun, pop-oriented, country/blues influenced riffs and down-tuned, energy infused guitar playing, with a menacing sound to it.  This is the kind of music you play at night in the wilderness, with the exception of "Raise Your Hands To Rock" which, to me, is more of a "sunrise" song.  I was enjoying the fulfilling sounds of this record as I ran down the snow covered trail under the midnight sky back to Manker Flat, where my car was parked.  As I ran under the ski lift that transported skiers up to Baldy Notch, I was having fun, and all was going well until the music abruptly cut out.  I held my iPod in my left hand and when I looked down, the screen had gone blank.  The only sounds to be heard now were the sounds of the snow crunching under my footsteps, and the light whistle of the wind as it blew through my earbuds.  That is until I heard the sound of a male voice yelling something in the distance off to my left.  I turned my head to face the direction of the sound, but all I saw were snow covered mountains glowing in the moonlight.  No headlamps or lights.  Thirty seconds later, I heard the high pitched cry of a wild animal in the distance in front of me.  I looked up at the mountains in search of a pair of glowing eyes.  Nothing.  I was alone out there.  I kept pushing buttons on my iPod, hoping it would come back on so I could finish the last couple of miles of this run without having to hear the creepy sounds of the wilderness, but the screen remained blank.  This was weird.  I had charged it earlier that day, and when I took off from Manker Flat,  I had almost a full battery.  So why had it died?  Something very odd was going on here, and this situation was quickly shifting from fun and exciting to very unsettling.

Earlier that morning I rolled over in bed and saw on my Fitbit that it was 7:00 AM.  "Damn it" I whispered.  I had set my alarm for 4:00 AM that morning, with plans to go for a trail run at Mount Baldy.  The mountains in the area had just received heavy snowfall, and I wanted to go enjoy it.  My alarm went off at 4, but I shut it off and overslept.  I was disappointed, but I planned to get some good sleep that night and head out there the next morning instead.  But as the day went on, I wondered if I would oversleep again.  It was Saturday, and if I overslept again on Sunday, I wouldn't get my chance.  And then I had a wild idea.  After I attended the family gathering that I had scheduled for that night, I would drive out there and go for a night trail run.  I had never been there at night and I was wanting to try something new and step out of my comfort zone.  Plus I was concerned that I would oversleep again and I'd miss out on my chance.  This was going to be epic.  When I arrived back home that night, I changed into my running gear, grabbed my flashlight and headlamp, and headed out to the mountains.  After I exited the freeway and began driving up the winding road to Mount Baldy, the city lights and traffic gave way to enveloping darkness.  Driving on mountain roads in the dark is drastically different than during the day.  Often, there are no light poles, the road makes abrupt turns and curves, and beyond the beams of your headlights is just darkness.  I drove by several cars parked along the side of the road as I made my way to Manker Flat.  One car had a guy standing in front, all alone, with a hood on his head, just looking at the ground, with neither a smile or frown on his face.  When I arrived at Manker Flat, shut off my car, and turned off my headlights, it was pitch black all around me.  A rush of cool, refreshing mountain air came pouring in when I opened my car door.  As I made my final preparations, an L.A. County Sheriff SUV rolled up the road, about twenty feet away.  When they noticed my presence, they slowed down and shined their spot light in my direction.  They quickly realized that I was harmless, turned off the spot light, and continued up the road towards the ski lifts.  As I walked up the road that would eventually lead me to the trail, I wondered if I should really be doing this.  I had been here over a hundred times to go running and hiking during the day, but it was approaching 11:00 PM, and I had never been here this late at night.  I was used to the parking lot being crowded with cars and people, but I was all alone out here.  The presence of the sheriff SUV brought me some relief, but unfortunately they could only patrol the back country roads, not the trails.  After passing by the gate, I began running up the road.  The lights of a couple of cabins off to the side and down the hill from the road glowed as I ran by, but other than that, it was completely dark.  I put on some music, and soon the road took a sharp right hand turn and gave way to a narrow, graded dirt road.  I plodded along and shortly after passing by the junction where the Baldy Bowl trail flanks off to the left, I came around a bend and what rested before me blew me away.  "Holy shit" I said out loud.  Surrounding me in all directions were dazzling, snow covered mountains.  The mountain tops were bare with pine trees growing on the slopes.  They were prominent and the steadfast, as they glowed in the moonlight under the star filled sky.  The further I progressed, the more scenic the view became.  A light shined in the distance up ahead in the mountains.  The light was the Mount Baldy ski area at Baldy Notch, which was my destination.  I wore a headlamp and carried a flashlight, but given how bright the stars and moon were, I put my flashlight away.  The view was so breathtaking, I had to stop and look around for a minute.  "Wow" I said out loud.  I had been here countless times and I'd never seen it like this before.  This was Mount Baldy in a whole new version.  Not everyone will admit this, but at some point in their childhood, everyone was afraid of the dark.  Our fear of the dark as children plants a notion into our minds, even as adults, that the dark brings a certain element of danger.  Maybe that's why we as human beings, do things like go to clubs and bars, or parties at night.  We know subconsciously, that the element of danger that comes with the dark and the nighttime adds to the allure of partaking in an activity that is frowned upon in a traditional, old school world.  For me, outdoor activities are no different.  The dark is menacing.  It makes hiking, camping, snowboarding, running, just about anything more fun to do a night.  It freaks some people out, and it even freaks me out a little too, but I like that.  It keeps me on my toes, and creates a sense of empowerment because I'm facing my subconscious fear of the dark.

When I finally made my way up to Baldy Notch, the Top of the Notch restaurant and ski huts were closed up and darkened.  The ski lifts rested in the night, and the area looked like a ghost town, except for two flood lights that cast an eerie glow on the snow covered ground.  I made my way up the quarter mile path that led to the junction where the Devil's Backbone trial flanks off to the left, and the Three Tee's trail to the right.  As I approached the trail sign, I pulled out a roll of gold garland I had brought with me, and wrapped it around the top of the sign.  Nothing like spreading a little holiday cheer in the wilderness.  After snapping a couple of pictures, I made my way back to the ski lodge and back down the trail towards Manker Flat.  The trail was covered in snow and it took heightened concentration on the way back down to keep from slipping.  The snow was packed down and iced over in some areas, and I jumped back and forth on the trail, favoring the side that had better grip for my shoes.  The view of the snowy mountains continued to carry me along pleasantly, and in front of me, several thousand feet below off in the distance, the lights of the San Gabriel Valley illuminated the distant sky.  Motley Crue's Theatre of Pain album was pumping in my headphones as I ran underneath the ski lift.  The tone of the music was a perfect fit for the aurora of running on a snowy trail in the wilderness in the middle of the night; fun but also menacing.  But once my iPod abruptly died, and I began hearing the strange, eerie sounds of the midnight wilderness, the situation was becoming a little too menacing.  After hearing a voice and an animal cry, but seeing nothing, I began to question whether I had heard anything at all.  It was likely just my imagination playing tricks on me.  It wouldn't be the first time.  The first time I ran alone in the midnight wilderness, I had no music and it was just me and the great outdoors.  My imagination was running wild and I couldn't wait for the sun to crack the sky.  The strange distant noises continued as I ran down the trail past San Antonio Falls, but by the time I returned to my car at Manker Flat, I knew I was safe, and I was likely imagining all of the funky noises I had heard.  The experience was truly unique.  Not only had I never witnessed Mount Baldy wrapped in a peaceful blanket of starlit night, but I was another step closer feeling more comfortable running through the wilderness alone at night.  We all have that subconscious fear of the dark and running through remote terrain at night allows me to conquer that fear, and knowing that I'm flirting with danger it makes the experience all the more fun.  The very first time I ran alone in the middle of the night, I felt very isolated.  I grew apprehensive, and it freaked me out, but I wanted to do it again.  It was all very exciting to me.  2019 is going to be the year that I attempt my first 100 mile footrace.  Because the race will take at least twenty-four hours to complete, there will inevitably be a period of time where I'll be running alone in the wilderness at night.  Part of my training was going to be conquering my fears and getting used to the trails at night, and I couldn't wait to get after it.  "That was awesome!" I thought to myself as I drove off.       

You Don't Always Have To Follow The Rules

For most people, their teenage years and early twenties are a fun, exciting, wild, but also awkward period of time in their lives.  It's the time in our lives when we're supposed to be having the most fun, but we're simultaneously going through that somewhat uncomfortable stage in our lives where we're trying to find ourselves and discover who we really are.  We try so hard to fit in, hide our insecurities, and we care way too much about what other people think and how they interpret us.  I would have to say I was no different.  During my high school and college years, I was always wondering what other people thought of me and I worried about how well I fit in.  But for most people, there comes a time in life where they stop caring about what others think, and they're no longer afraid to completely be themselves.  Their concern about other people's opinions slowly melts away, and they strip themselves of the social barriers they built up during their formative years.  It takes a certain level of maturity for people to realize that we're all different in our own way, and that's what makes us unique, so why not embrace it?  This phase often begins when people are in their mid-twenties and continues throughout the rest of their lives. 

For as long as I can remember, I've always been different.  I've had several amazing groups of friends throughout my entire life, and I've always gotten along well with my family, but even among them, I was unique.  As a kid and a young teenager living in the Midwest, I watched, as so many other kids around me seemed to just go with the herd.  They did what they were supposed to do.  They didn't question anything, they didn't step out of line.  They watched college football inside all day on Saturdays, played football and basketball, dressed a certain way, and listened to classic rock and hip hop.  Even though some of my best friends fell into this category, I quickly realized that wasn't for me at all.  I wanted to have some fun.  I wanted to be a rebel.  Instead, I snowboarded, played tennis, rode my bike, listened to punk rock, and wore black t-shirts with rock n' roll imagery printed on them.  My father has always been a die hard Red Wings and University of Michigan football fan.  I loved watching hockey because of it's fast pace playing style and the excitement of the game itself, but I could never get into football.  It was boring to me.  I've been a Red Wings fan all my life, and I love hockey.  I tried for years, all the way into my early twenties to get as excited for football games as my family and friends did, but the excitement was never truly there.  I do watch football from time to time, but I'm often neutral in terms of who I root for.

I struggled to find my identity as a kid.  I wanted to be myself, but I also cared about what others thought of me.  As my sister would put it, I "went through more phases than probably anyone she knew".  During my high school and college years, I, like so many others, tried to hide my differences in an effort to be accepted.  I abandoned the rock n' roll t-shirts, wore preppier clothes, and cranked rap music in my car.  I pretended to care about football and basketball more than I actually did (I was a hockey fan), and generally just tried to fit in.  The same Liam was always there, but my true self was concealed in a shell.  It was around when I turned twenty-four that I finally just decided to say "the hell with it" and let my true self shine.  Once I did, it was incredibly liberating.  Shortly after college, most of the guys I went to school with were settling back into their hometowns, proposing to their girlfriends, and some were even married already and talking about having children.  "I'm moving to California" I would tell people.  I was happy for my friends and wished them the best, but I didn't want to follow the herd.  I wanted to do my own thing, and do what I wanted.  Some people simply didn't believe me.  It's not that they were questioning my ambition, it's just that the thought of moving to California was so far from their snow globe of a world, that they just couldn't fathom it.  Other people encouraged me, and others said I shouldn't do it because they didn't want me to live so far away.  But in March of 2012, after several years of trying, I finally realized my California dream.  I left Chicago, where I was living at the time, and permanently relocated to Los Angeles.  I never looked back. 

Even now, as a thirty-two year old man, I'd rather follow my passions and live an exciting life than do what I'm supposed to do in a conventional world.  Certainly it's not unheard of for people in a traditional world to run 10K races or half marathons, but running fifty miles on trails through the mountains is a feat that most people in a normal world can't wrap their heads around.  I run ultramarathons simply because I love to run, but it's also a subconscious way of rebelling against the world that says we all have to be a certain way.  The world that says we should follow the rules and stay in line.  The world that says I shouldn't run ultramarathons because it's not normal.  The same world that surrounded me during my youth.  Fortunately, I've had great support from my family and friends along the way, even if they don't quite understand my lifestyle.  I've broken the rules of living in a traditional world all my life, and I would encourage everyone else to do the same.  No one should ever give up on their dreams because they feel like it's not the right thing to do.  And similarly, no one should ever tell you that you shouldn't do what you want in life because it's silly or not normal.  As Dean Karnazes said in his third book "follow dreams, not rules".  Find your passion, and stick with it.  We only have one life to live, and I'm damn sure not going to waste it away by being miserable in an ordinary world where I just do what I'm told!

The Sky's The Limit

By now, I'm sure it's no secret that running long distance, especially ultramarathons, has had a major impact on my life.  The elements of excitement and accomplishment that running has brought to my life have drastically altered the way I see things.  Since It took up the sport, everything has taken on a new meaning.  Not long after running my first marathon, and even more so after running my first ultra, I began to form these very real connections with running long distance and overcoming other obstacles that are thrown at me in my everyday life.  Making a relationship survive, thriving at work, and finishing an ultramarathon have one significant thing in common;  all require perseverance, strength, and determination.

For several years, I was convinced a marathon was the furthest distance I would ever run.  I learned about ultramarathons while reading memoirs by Dean Karnazes and Scott Jurek, but I didn't think I would ever have the mental strength and physical endurance to conquer one.  It wasn't until I moved to California that I realized my potential and pushed my running boundaries beyond a marathon.  Earlier today I was watching a video interview of Mick Mars, the guitarist of my favorite band, Motley Crue.  Not only is one of the most talented guitar players I've ever heard, but maintains a humble and laid back attitude towards his work.  In the interview he discussed his playing style, stating "It look many years for me to get to where I am now, but I'm not stopping there, of course".  It took many years for me to realize that I could run a distance beyond a marathon.  But once I completed my first 50K, I possessed the same sentiment as Mick does regarding his guitar playing;  I wasn't stopping there.  I have since run several distances longer than 50 kilometers.  At the end of the interview he said "I want to keep evolving, and keep that motivation going.  When you stop learning, you might as well just put your guitar down".  

Mick's words in that interview really spoke to me.  As that last sentence he spoke before they cut the interview rang in my head, the similarity between Mick's attitude towards his guitar playing and my attitude towards running was becoming increasing more powerful.  My mind began to form a connection between his everyday life and mine.  Since finishing my first 50K, I've run several longer and more challenging races, and I currently have my sights set on completing my first 100-mile race in 2019.  One of the things I really love about running is there truly is no limit.  You can always go further and run faster, and there are always new things to learn.  We are all teachers and students in this sport.  I've been running for almost ten years now and I'm still learning new things like how to fuel myself during a long race, how to maintain electrolyte levels,  good cross training techniques, etc.  As my running career continues, I will continue to go further and faster, and I look forward to continuing to push my boundaries and realize my potential.  Just like Mick, I want to keep evolving, and keep the motivation going.  When I stop learning and when I lose the motivation to continue pushing my boundaries, I might as well hang up my running shoes.  The sky's the limit!

  

Ragnar Los Coyotes Round 2: Frozen Stiff

"Anyone know how cold it's supposed to get tonight?"  I heard someone ask as I helped Anthony set up our tent.  "Yeah, looks like around thirty-four degrees" Brian answered.  When I heard his response I almost fell forward into the half-assembled tent.  "Seriously?" I asked.  I had expected that the night time temperatures at the Los Coyotes Indian Reservation in Southern California's high desert would drop to the mid to low forties, but thirty-four degrees, two degrees above freezing, was a level of cold I was not expecting.  Maybe it would have been more settling if we were shacking up in a warm, cozy cabin with heat and comfortable beds, but instead, the ten of us would be camping in tents, relying on warm clothing, bad coffee, and sleeping bags to keep us warm.  And to top it off, each of us would be running at least a few miles in the dark through the frigid temperatures on some of the most challenging terrain of the Ragnar Trail series.

There are a few select things in this world that I have difficulty saying "no" to.  Challenges, adventures, baklava, chocolate chip cookies, oh yeah, and trail running.  When my friend and former co-worker, Alyssa initially reached out to me asking if I wanted to join her team for Ragnar Trail Los Coyotes, I was conflicted.  I had been burning the candle at both ends all summer, running a 50-miler in Minnesota, climbing fourteen-thousand foot mountains, pacing my friend for the last forty miles at the Kodiak 100, and I had just completed a rather grueling Ragnar Trail race in Washington state.  It wasn't easily, but I grudgingly declined the offer.  I love trail running, but I was exhausted.  I needed time to rest my body, and doing another Ragnar race was the last thing on my mind.  I didn't think much of it until Alyssa contacted me again two weeks later, telling me her team was still coming up short.  "I hate to ask, but do you know anyone who can run with us?" her message read.  A few days after initially receiving the message, I sat in front of my computer, wrestling with my conscience.  I was burned out from all of the running I had been doing over the last several months.  I wanted to take the rest of the year off and just do long trail runs on my own during the weekends.  But my friend needed my help.  All Alyssa needed was one more runner to complete her team line up.  If I join the team, I could have a chance to do the three things I love the most; run on trails, help people, and inspire others.  Besides, I had done this Ragnar race the year prior and had a blast.  The tables had turned, and I now had a new sentiment towards this situation.  "I can run with you guys.  Count me in!" I typed.

It was approaching 2:00 in the morning, the temperature no higher than thirty degrees as I finally crested the top of a 1,000-foot climb along the dusty fire road that seemed to go on forever.  Approaching the top of the hill, a red light came into view.  When I got closer, I saw that the light was attached to a sign with a red arrow instructing runners to make a left onto a dark single track trail.  The course consisted of three "trail loops", the Green being 3.1 miles in distance, the yellow being 3.2, and the red, the most challenging loop, measuring 7.9 miles.  Our team of eight runners would be running each of these loops one time on a rotating basis, all around the clock.  As the color of the light and arrow would indicate, I was running the challenging red loop.  As I diverted onto the narrow path that flanked off the fire road, things became a little more dicey.  The minimal light that was being cast by the shining stars in the sky was now obstructed by trees and thick brush.  The trail followed a series of up and down, zig zag twists around tree roots, boulders, and natural debris.  My headlamp lit the way, but because it was so dark, I could only see a few feet in front of me.  Tree branches and rocks seemed to appear out of nowhere and every step needed to be executed with caution.  It can be challenging running on dark, narrow trails in the middle of the night.  Unlike during the day when the natural daylight makes the path visible from several yards away,  in the dead of night, your world is confined to the beam of your headlamp and you become instinctively cautious, especially on the steep descents, where it can be easy to trip and take a nasty fall.  I followed the winding path through the darkness for a while, when suddenly as I ran up an incline, I came around a bend and the trail stopped abruptly in a small clearing surrounded by thick bushes.  There was no way out and I quickly realized I needed to make a U-turn.  I ambled down the hill for only about ten seconds before the path came back into view in the light of my headlamp.  Apparently, I had missed one of the many switchbacks along this section of the red loop and went off the grid.  Now back on course, I continued along through the midnight wilderness.  Occasionally, I'd see the headlamps of other runners through the trees in the distance, but other than that, it was completely black, and other than the sound of the wind blowing through the brush that surrounded me, there was not a sound to be heard except my breathing and footsteps.  How did I feel at this moment?  I was having a blast.  This was this kind of adventure that I craved and lived for.  While others were ordering their last drinks at the bars and clubs in Los Angeles, I was two hours away, running along a winding trail through the wilderness in thirty degree weather, barely able to see in front of me.  In my opinion, a Friday night doesn't get much more fun than this.

Earlier that morning, I rendezvoused with Brian, Anthony, and Jessica, three of my teammates, at the Metrolink train station in Tustin, where we loaded our gear into my Camry and headed down the freeway through the California high desert, arriving at the Los Coyotes Indian Reservation around 8:00 AM.  Despite the only sporadic cell phone reception, we were eventually able to find the rest of our team, who had already set up camp near the path that led runners from the Ragnar Village to just outside of the camping area, where the trail split into three different paths for each of the three loops.  Our group for the weekend consisted of Alyssa, her boyfriend, Travis, my other friend and former co-worker Anthony, Jessica, a girl from the San Francisco Bay Area whom we found on the Ragnar Facebook page, Alyssa and Travis's friends, Juan, Juan's girlfriend Mayra, Phil, Brian, Frank, and myself.  Mayra came along with Juan for moral support and Frank was our volunteer.  As we greeted each other and finished setting up camp, Alyssa distributed our team shirts.  Our team name was "The Handmaid's Trail" which paid homage to Alyssa's fondness of the drama television series "The Handmaid's Tale".  Our team slogan, which was printed on the back of our shirts, was "Blessed Be The Loop", a mockery of "Blessed Be The Fruit" a commonly used phrase in the show's dialogue.  Aside from Anthony and Alyssa, I was getting to know everyone else for only the second time.  Everyone was in good spirit and excited to be participating in the adventure.  During the ride from Tustin, Jessica had told us stories of suffering from unimaginable medical issues in her past, and as a giant "F you" to all of the suffering she had endured, she was running half marathons, had just participated in a Ragnar road event the weekend prior, and had her sights set on becoming an ultrarunner.  Brian, a father of two, was the comedian of the group, drawing constant laughs with his jokes and stories, and Frank, little did I know, was going to not only be our volunteer, but would also be preparing hot meals for us throughout the weekend on a modest camping stove.  Being with such a fun and inspiring team was a powerful tonic and we fed off each other's energy throughout the day as we completed the course, loop by loop.

Reverting my thoughts back to the present, the winding, narrow trail gave way to an open sea of rolling hills, and the sky was again filled with shining stars.  I hammered through a steady descent along a fire road, and made my way through another section of winding single track trail before finally approaching the junction where the trail intersected with a dark, quiet two lane road.  Having done this race the year prior, I knew what was in store for me after crossing that road; I would begin the final climb of the loop, a draining 700-foot, two mile incline back to Ragnar Village.  This was the section that most runners loathed, but I kept putting one foot in front of the other, and eventually the lights of the village came into view.  As I rolled into the transition area, Travis took off running for the green loop as I handed him the team bib.  Lean, muscular, and fast, Travis was an extremely solid runner.  He had done very well on the yellow loop earlier that afternoon and, being our last runner of the order, he would be running the red loop as his last leg and as our team's final leg the next afternoon.  As Travis ran off into the night, I meandered through the village towards the bonfires and heat lamps, where several other runners were attempting to keep warm in the freezing temperatures.  Some runners were roasting marshmallows and making s'mores as I approached the fire.  Although it was 3:00 in the morning, running the red loop had awakened my appetite, and I wolfed down a couple of s'mores, washed them down with a cup of hot chocolate, and began walking back to our campsite to get some sleep.  Long distance running causes your body to generate heat and increases heart rate and blood flow, so despite the temperature being below freezing, I was able to stay fairly warm in my running shorts, a long sleeve thermal, a short sleeve shirt as my outer shell.  But now that my heart rate was slowing and my blood was no longer pumping, the cold began to set in once again as I walked down the dirt road back to camp.  Once inside our tent, I shivered as I changed into my warm, dry clothes.  Anthony and Frank lay asleep next to me and I tried to not step on them or wake them up.  This was the third Ragnar trail race I had done with Anthony.  A long time running friend and former co-worker, he was built more like a football player than a distance runner, but he always tore it up on both the road and trails.  The prior weekend, he had participated in a Ragnar road race, so he was doing two Ragnars on back to back weekends.

When the sun turned the starry sky to morning a few hours later, I didn't want to get out of my sleeping bag.  The early morning air was frigid and I felt warm and toasty lying wrapped up like a mummy wearing long pants, socks and a hoodie inside the tent.  Over the last three hours, I had slept sporadically, but it was very light sleep, and felt more like I was taking continuous power naps and resting my eyes.  There was little sound throughout the camping area during the night except the runners' footsteps along the path and the occasional cheer, hoot, or holler in the distance.  While I had been resting and trying to sleep, Juan and Brian had completed their loops and Alyssa was now on the course.  Juan, a co-worker of Alyssa's, was the first runner in our line up and was running strong.  His girlfriend Mayra, although not a runner, was very supportive and seemed to be enjoying the experience despite the cold weather.  Outside the tent, Brian was telling the others about his experience running the red loop during sunrise and was flipping out over how our bananas had frozen throughout the night. "Wow, it's so good!" he said, his words muffled by his chewing.  I started laughing and soon dragged my butt out of my sleeping bag and stumbled out of the tent, breathing in the cold, crisp morning air.  Someone had gotten word that the temperature dropped to 27 degrees Fahrenheit the night before.  Many people don't realize that Southern California can get that cold, but we were at 4,500 feet of elevation, and in the high desert, temperatures can be extreme.  On our camping table, Frank was whipping up some bacon, sausage, and omelets.  To our delight, he was really rising to the occasion.  The morning prior, he cooked up sausage burritos when we arrived, and prepared stuffed bell peppers for lunch.  As I finished my breakfast, I sat near the path cheering on runners as they glided by.  Among them was a runner who was wearing bright colors, had pink hair, several tattoos and piercings, and reflective sunglasses.  I had first met her the day prior while walking to the village from our camp site.  She didn't know who I was, but I recognized her instantly.  As I approached her, I made eye contact.  "Catra Corbett!" I said in excitement.  A former drug addict, Catra conquered her habit, cleaned up, and was now a famous ultrarunner who had completed more than 250 ultramarathons and had been gaining a strong following on social media in the last several years.  I purchased from her an autographed copy of her memoir and she entertained our team with inspiring stories of superhuman endurance the night prior.  Not only was she a rock star of a runner, but she was very humble and a fun person to be around.  I couldn't wait to start reading her book when I got home.

After a few brief minutes of waiting, Phil sprinted into the transition tent, handed me the bib, and off I went down the yellow loop.  Having completed the green loop the day prior and the red in the middle of the night, I now just had to conquer the yellow loop before I was finished.  The course traveled the same route as the red loop for the first two miles through winding single track trail before finally flanking off to the right at the top of a long climb.  As I crested the hill, a sea of hills rested under the sun in the distance in front of me.  It was a beautiful morning, the chilly air refreshing and energizing.  Knowing that we were nearing the end of the race, I put the hammer down for the rest of the loop and came sprinting back into the transition tent after a few more climbs and descents.  Travis immediately emerged after I came running in and took off to tackle the red loop, the final leg of our race.  Back at the campsite, we relaxed in the sun and began packing up before heading to the finish area to wait for Travis, where we would all cross the finish line as a team.  Several teams lined the last hundred yards of the path cheering on runners and providing moral support.  Some were even handing runners beer as they passed by.  When Travis finally approached, we went wild, formed a tunnel as he ran through, and ran behind him to the finish line, crossing all together, throwing our arms in the air in celebration.  We finished in just under twenty-nine hours, around the middle of the pack.  Immediately after crossing, we embraced in a group hug, collected our medals, and posed for photos wearing our team shirts.

Two hours later, we were packed up and saying our goodbyes as we loaded up our cars and headed home.  The sun was setting as I drove down the desolate desert highway, sharing stories and funny moments from the weekend with Anthony, Jessica, and Brian.  I reveled in the experience of running the challenging course and with a new group of people whom I felt I had gotten to know incredibly well in the last thirty-six hours.  We had only spent a day and a half together but it felt like we had been hanging out for months.  I was happy that I could be a part of the team and was looking forward to running with this group of folks again.  I was forward to looking at my pictures from the weekend, and reading Catra's memoir.  But mostly, I was looking forward to a nice warm bed instead of sleeping in a hoodie, long pants and socks in a sleeping bag on the cold, hard ground.

    

Welcome To The Other Side

August 27, 2016.  That was the day my entire life as I knew it changed forever.  That morning I stood amongst a pack of runners in Malibu Creek State Park in Calabasas, California, jumping with anticipation, ready to take on the Bulldog 50K.  When the gun went off I charged from the start line running cautiously, but more determined than ever before.  Six hours and eight minutes later I staggered across the finish line and was handed a finishers belt buckle.  I had just completed my first ultramarathon.  Those six hours and eight minutes felt like an entire lifetime, complete with moments of joy, elation, pain, and despair.  At that point I had been a runner for seven and a half years and had never felt such strong emotions after finishing a race.  When I finished my first marathon in 2010, I thought I had seen it all.  I thought I had just conquered the ultimate running challenge.  And then I discovered Dean Karnazes.  I’ve read his books numerous times and he remains one of my biggest inspirations.  Dusty Olson and Scott Jurek have been equally substantial influences.  For years, I sat back and read and listened to their tales of superhuman endurance, which included running one-hundred-mile trail races through the Sierra Nevada mountains and powering through one hundred and thirty-five miles of road running in Death Valley in the middle of July while I continued to run half and full marathons on pavement, convinced that I had reached my peak by finishing a road marathon. 

One day in Fall of 2015, after years of hiking numerous trails in the mountains of California, a proverbial light bulb clicked on in my mind.  I asked myself a question that would ultimately pave the way for my future as an ultramarathon runner; I can hike these trails, so why can’t I run them?  Following my revelation, I spent several months testing my limits and finally bit the bullet and signed up for the Bulldog 50K that following spring.  Finishing my first marathon changed me but finishing my first trail ultramarathon was overwhelming.  I was blown away by the whole experience from the incredible support given by other runners to the supreme sense of accomplishment.  I loved every minute of it.  The pleasure, the pain, everything.  I felt as if I had stepped into another dimension and I couldn’t believe what I had been missing all those years.  The ultra-endurance world was a whole other universe that I had spent so long on the outside looking in on.  All I could think was “welcome to the other side.  This is only the beginning”.