The Test, Then The Lesson

After finishing The Canyons 100K in 2018, life became more vibrant.  I was more capable than I ever thought I could be, and my appetite for endurance and adventure flourished.  As a result, I ran three additional trail ultramarathons that year, and paced my friend JC for the last forty miles of his first 100-mile race that summer.  I was enjoying the ride.  In the wake of all the changes that were happening in my life, I was on a quest for self improvement, healing, and rediscovering myself.  Ultrarunning not only allowed me to live a healthy lifestyle and stay fit, but it also fed my hunger for adventure and provided a significant element of excitement in my otherwise fairly normal life.  My ultrarunning party continued into 2019, and during the days leading up to the 2019 Canyons 100K, my mind whirled with anticipation.  When Friday evening rolled around, I found myself driving down the freeway, one hand on the steering wheel, slice of pizza in the other, mentally preparing myself for the epic journey the next day.  The sun had just about set by the time I arrived at Super 8 motel in Auburn, California.  After checking in, I settled in for the night and attempted to get some sleep, as the cool night time air seeped in through the window screen, replacing the residual heat from the day that had accumulated in the room.  After drifting in and out of sleep for the next six hours, I finally awoke at 3:30 AM, made my final preparations, and set out in my car for the town of Foresthill, seventeen miles down the road, where the race would begin and end.  In an effort to maximize my chances of finishing strong, I made some changes for the 2019 event that I hoped would work in my favor.  I ate a completely meat-free diet and avoided sugar and sweets during the two weeks leading up to the race to keep my energy levels up.  In the 2018 event I ran with a pack, but this year I decided to leave the pack at home and have a drop bag at the halfway point to avoid having the extra weight on my back.  Lastly, I decided to eat a little before this race for some added energy.  I had never eaten before an ultramarathon before, fearing that my guts would become unstable.  Would these changes help me? I wasn't completely sure, but I was willing to give it a try.  The real magic of running is there is no limit.  Whether you've only been running for two weeks or for twenty years, there are always new things to learn and new milestones to achieve.  Taking chances and experimenting are key factors in becoming a stronger ultrarunner.  Runners are constantly adopting the mindset of "okay, I know I'm able to knock off a certain distance, now how can I run that same distance faster and stronger?".

The predawn road became dark and desolate as I proceeded further into the wilderness towards Foresthill.  When I arrived in the small town some twenty minutes later, cars were parked all over the main road and volunteers waved cars in the direction of available parking.  I parked on a dark, pine tree lined side street in front of a dark house and made my way to the start line at the elementary school.  Upon arrival, four hundred energized runners weaved in and out of the check in area in the school's gymnasium.  I checked in with a volunteer, used the restroom one final time, and left my drop bag in a pile on the lawn for easy access during the halfway point.  After a quick race briefing over a megaphone, the gun went off, and the race began.  The pack of runners charged forward and I clapped my hands in excitement as I crossed over the start line.  The 2019 Canyons 100K was now underway.  We progressed as a large herd up Foresthill road before heading right onto Bath road, and eventually picking up the single track trail.  The sun was beginning to crack the eastern skyline as we made our way down into Volcano canyon to the first river crossing.  The conditions during this year's race, though not overwhelmingly so, were going to be more extreme than usual.  It was going to be a warm day with temperatures in Foresthill forecasted to peak in the high seventies.  This meant that it would likely be in the low to mid eighties in the canyons sections of the course.  Contrary to the former, it had been a very snowy winter here in the Sierra foothills.  There was so much snow on the trail from Devil's Thumb to the swinging bridge, that the course had been rerouted.  Instead of descending down into Deadwood Canyon and turning around at the swinging bridge, we would be following a winding dirt road three and a half miles to the aid station where we would turn around and head back the way we came, eventually proceeding towards Michigan Bluff and into El Dorado Canyon.  I chatted with other runners and exchanged laughs as we followed this rerouted section of the course to the aid station.  I had a strong section on the return trip to Michigan Bluff, chatting with runners from San Diego and the Bay Area.  Some of these guys had done the Tahoe Rim Trail 100, the race that I was training for, and they were briefing me on the course and what to expect this summer in Tahoe as we made our way down the switchbacks into El Dorado Canyon.  The descent was followed inevitably by a 2,600-foot four-mile climb from the aid station at the gorge.  Because we had taken a detour on the rerouted course, we would be turning around at the crest of this lengthy climb.  After hitting the turnaround mark, I was able to throw down some faster miles during the plunge back into El Dorado Canyon.  The distraction of chatting with a runner named Nick from Chico served me well during this descent, but we parted ways at the bottom of the canyon as I took the first steps up one of the climbs of this race that I dreaded the most.  This merciless 1,800-foot climb back up to Michigan Bluff over a two-and-a-half mile stretch never seems to get any easier, no matter how many times I do it.  Along the ascent, I passed by a tiny middle aged lady with red hair who was peppy and chirpy, despite the fact that the heat had been wearing her down.  It had dawned on me that it was getting very warm outside and I too was now covered in a layer of sweat.  I wasn't overly concerned that the heat would crumble me, but throughout the race I had been careful, drinking frequently from my hand held water bottles to keep hydrated.  I finally made it to the crest of the hill some time later and was feeling pretty good, mentally and physically, when I pulled back into the Michigan Bluff aid station.  I paused there only long enough to refill my water bottles and have a few snacks before continuing up the winding dirt road towards Volcano Canyon.  During this stretch, I passed by a safety runner who gave me kudos and told me that I was looking strong.  Her words were a powerful tonic.  The climb from El Dorado Canyon to Michigan Bluff had not been as daunting as I anticipated, and I was running comfortably.  It seemed so far that all of the changes I made had been working out.  I reminded myself not to take this feeling for granted.  I was still only a third of the way into the race and a lot of things could happen.  There was plenty of race left to make or break me.  Roughly an hour later, I ran down the trail along the side of Foresthill road and soon arrived back at the elementary school, at the half way point.  I sat down in a camping chair near the aid station to stretch out my legs and have some time off my feet.  While running ultramarathons, athletes often spend much more time on their feet than they would in their everyday lives.  This was the first time I had sat down in a little over seven hours.  I soon headed over to my drop bag, took my items that I needed for the second half, replenished at the aid station, and headed back onto the course.  "Do you want an ice soak before heading back out?" a volunteer asked.  I walked up to the water bucket, grabbed a sponge, and squeezed it over my head.  The frigid water shocked me at first, but it felt refreshing since I was already getting hot.  As I headed out to tackle the second half of the race, I was trying not to take my energy for granted, but I hoped that my strong momentum would continue throughout the second half.  I was on pace to have a pretty strong finish.  But the afternoon was only going to get warmer and there wasn't a cloud in the sky.  Would I be able to hold it together for the second half?  I didn't know, but there was only one way to find out.

Seven miles later, the heat soared as the sun beat down on the trail.  I struggled along as my legs began to cramp up from lack of sodium.  I gobbled down nuts, chips, pickles, and other salty snacks along with a few salt tablets at the Cal2 aid station, mile forty.  It seemed to help a little as I hobbled down the switchbacks towards the Rucky Chucky check point.  Climbing up another steep slope near Ford's Bar, the leg cramps returned with a vengeance.  I was cramped up, overheated, nauseated, and barely moving forward.  Finally, about halfway up the climb, I sat on a rock on the side of the trail to try to regroup.  That's when the dry heaving started.  I leaved over to my right to vomit on the trail side, but nothing came out.  I was a hot, dry heaving, cramped up mess.  I felt embarrassed and defeated.  How much worse could things get?  The answer, unfortunately, was "much".  My nausea lessened after the dry heaving and I managed to make it over the top of the hill, but on the way down I had to stop yet again, this time to stretch away the excruciating leg cramps.  Runners passed by and offered me salt tablets and words of encouragement.  I was determined to make it to the Rucky Chucky aid station, where I could sit down, have some food, hydrate, and hopefully muster enough energy to made it sixteen miles back to the finish before the cut off time.  Despite my grim situation, I kept moving forward as best as I could.

Making the decision to drop was painful.  I managed to make it to the check point where I sipped some soda, threw down a 5-hour energy, had some hot soup broth, ate more snacks, and attempted to regain my energy while sitting down and stretching out my cramped legs.  When I resumed progress, the cramps and nausea returned half a mile up the trail as I scaled the first of many uphill climbs to the finish line.  Barely able to move forward once again, I looked at my watch.  I had an hour and forty-five minutes to go seven miles before hitting the cut off time.  That was a fifteen minute per mile pace, something I could normally do easily.  But in my weakened, overheated state, I would be lucky if I could knock off an eighteen minute mile.  Besides, as dismal as things were at the moment, this was only the beginning of how bad things could have gotten.  When running in heat, consuming adequate amounts of sodium, water, and electrolytes even before it gets hot, and even during the days leading up to the race can help you maintain your composure and energy even as the heat and sun wear you down.  Failing to follow this process, as I found out, could easily throw your system into disarray.  My body had been able to go strong in the heat during the first forty or so miles, but I didn't have enough "money in the bank" so to speak, and my body had depleted all of its reserves, and then some.  No matter how much I hydrated, no matter how many salty snacks and salt tablets I swallowed, nothing seemed to work.  There was no going back at this point; I was too far gone.  My race was over.  "Fuck!" I exclaimed as I kicked some dirt across the trail.  How could I be so foolish?  How could I allow this to happen?  I grudgingly made my way back to Rucky Chucky, handed my race bib to a volunteer, and was escorted in a pickup truck back to Foresthill along with several other runners who had dropped out.  During the drive back, I began to feel a little better as I chatted with the other runners.  We gave each other kudos for making it forty-eight miles and exchanged stories of the experiences we had along the way.  One of the runners, Greg, had successfully finished Tahoe Rim Trail 100 twice prior.  When I told him I was running it that summer, he gave me some pointers on how to prepare and some words of encouragement.  After hearing his works and assessing my situation, I had decided that the Tahoe Rim Trail 100 was still on my calendar, despite my disappointing DNF at this race.

That night, sitting on my bed in my motel room, I eased up on myself.  I reminded myself that yes, I had failed, but failure presents new lessons and new opportunities for improvement.  I had learned something very important during this race; how to properly maintain my composure while running ultras in the heat.  I would later find out that when preparing for a race that will likely be hot, it's important to load up on electrolyte drinks such as Pedialyte or Gatorade, along with high sodium foods during the days leading up to the race and in the early stages of the race before it gets hot.  I had failed to follow these steps, only consuming large amounts of sodium and electrolytes after I had already gotten too hot.  As is the case with most real life situations, I had gotten the test and then the lesson.  That's the way it goes sometimes.  Maybe this had to happen for me to realize that I needed to ramp up my heat training for Tahoe Rim Trail 100.  Time would only tell.  Yes, I was disappointed, but it made little sense to needlessly beat myself up over a DNF at a 100K race that I had already finished the year prior.  All I could was learn from my mistakes, stay positive, and keep moving forward.  Because I still have many more races to run, and as long as I'm physically capable, I won't be giving up ultrarunning any time soon! 

Simply Spectacular

One of the most common questions I get asked during conversations about my upcoming attempt at taking on the Tahoe Rim Trail 100, a one-hundred-mile footrace, is what I do to train for such a distance.  Well, as you can imagine, I run pretty huge miles and participate in other races as training runs, however taking on such a daunting challenge requires other variations of training besides logging distance.  During hundred milers, runners are often on the course for over twenty-four hours without sleep and spend far more time on their feet than they would otherwise.  And if the race takes place in the mountains (which it does in my case), runners must also contend with wide variations in temperatures and high elevation.  It seems overwhelming at times.  I'm no stranger to being in high elevation, and I've done and handful of long distance hikes on very little sleep, but my main concern was that I had never run through the night without sleep before.  My body can generally adapt to cold temperatures and high elevation pretty well, but still, it's a hundred miles.  You never know what could happen.  Despite my concern and fears, I kept myself focused.  I'd much rather focus on what I need to do to succeed rather than ponder the thoughts of failing.  I will be running The Canyons 100K again this year, which will be my big training run for the hundred miler, but with that race being only two weeks away, I found it necessary to do one more training run of at least thirty-five miles as preparation.  As I developed a plan for my final training run before Canyons, I thought a lot about my concerns surrounding my upcoming hundred miler.  I thought about being on the course for over twenty-four hours without sleep, the cold mountain temperatures at night, and the high elevation.  I figured the best way to ebb these concerns would be to leverage my training to recreate the obstacles I would be facing.  It took some creative thinking, but I eventually conceived an idea for the ultimate thirty-five mile training run.

The sun had just fallen below the horizon on Friday evening as I drove up the 5 freeway.  Next to me in the front seat was my running/hiking backpack, stuffed full of provisions.  My plan was to drive up to Lake Tahoe and run through the night into the morning without sleeping.  I passed through Sacramento, Auburn, Truckee, and drove past the renowned Squaw Valley Ski Resort before eventually arriving in Tahoe City.  When I rolled into town, the neighborhood was quiet and many of the establishments that lined the streets had shut down for the night.  I soon encountered an unexpected problem; finding a place to park my car overnight.  That's not as insignificant as it may sound.  I knew where I wanted to begin and end my run and the shortage of available parking in the area was throwing a wrench in my plans.  Many of the residential streets had posted signs that didn't allow parking and the public lots near downtown did not allow overnight parking.  After driving in circles for nearly thirty minutes, I was eventually able to find a side street off highway 28 in downtown that had available street parking near a baseball field.  I began preparations for my all night rally through Tahoe, filling the internal bladder of my pack with water, layering up with warm clothing, strapping on my Vibrams, and gathering food and supplies.  The thermometer on my dashboard read that the temperature outside was thirty degrees.  Perfect.  Even though the Tahoe Rim Trail 100 is run in July, it is not uncommon for temperatures in the mountains to plunge into the thirties in the dead of night, even in the middle of summer.  The temperature was forecasted to hover right around the thirty degree mark throughout the night.  Additionally, the elevation of the route that I was going to run averaged around 6,500 feet.  I had designed this training run to acquaint my body with running an ultramarathon distance at relatively high elevation in below freezing temperatures straight through the night without sleep.  I was essentially trying to kill three birds with one stone, so to speak.

The frigid midnight air came pouring in as I opened the door to my car and stepped out.  I threw on my pack, switched on my headlamp and flashlight, queued up my Strava app, and took off.  My planned route was pretty straight forward.  I would run down highway 28, head left onto highway 89, which followed the west shore of Lake Tahoe, run down the road until I hit seventeen and a half miles, turn around, and head back the way I came.  I chose this particular route knowing that is showcased astounding views of Lake Tahoe and had great alpine scenery.  Heading down the road through downtown, there seemed to be no one around, until I saw two girls and a guy on the sidewalk up ahead.  They looked to be in their mid to late twenties.  One of the girls extended her leg off the curb like she was going to cross the street, but then decided it wasn't a good idea and brought her leg back, stumbled backwards, and almost fell as the guy held her up.  I had a pretty good idea of where these guys had just come from.  Her focus shifted towards me as I glided by.  "You're doing a great job!  We're proud of you!" she slurred.  Although she was inebriated and had no idea who I was or what I was doing, I could tell that she was intrigued by the idea of someone running at 1:00 in the morning and her words were delivered with seemingly good intentions.  I smiled and thanked her.  Making a left onto highway 89, I headed south down the side of the road towards the town of Homewood.  Leaving Tahoe City, the road became more desolate, and as I came around a bend, Lake Tahoe appeared to my left.  The water was smooth as glass with lights shining along the shore and massive mountain peaks dominating the distant horizon along the whole circumference of the lake .  "Wow!" I said to myself out loud.  This was my very first time seeing this lake in person and I was astounded by its beauty even though it was dark outside.  I couldn't wait to see what it looked like in daylight on my return trip.  Arriving in Homewood, the welcome sign along the roadside was almost completely buried in snow.  I ran past Homewood Mountain Resort, which includes several ski runs facing the lake, offering incredible views.  After passing by a fire station, a couple of restaurants, a boat shop, and a small store, I continued down the road towards the next town of Tahoma.  Leaving Homewood behind, the road again became more desolate.  One of my main concerns when planning this run was my safety.  In order to make myself noticeable to motorists, I wore a reflective running vest, a blinking headlamp, reflective ankle bracelets, and carried a flashlight with a blinking red light on the back of the handle.  Since I was running in the middle of the night, I assumed traffic would be minimal, but I was pretty lit up and hard to miss.  The few cars that drove by me were obviously aware of my presence, and cruised past me slowly.  It was an absolutely gorgeous night.  As I ran, I periodically looked up towards the tops of the tall pine trees that lined the road on both sides and was in awe of the cloudless, star filled night sky.  Every hundred yards or so there was a house, cabin, or condo building along the side of the road, some sporting colorful Christmas lights.  On the left side of the road I would periodically see gates marking the edge of a driveway that led through the trees to a property on the shore, some two or three hundred feet away.  I was relieved to see these properties lining the road, along with a street light every quarter of a mile or so.  Having never been here before, I assumed the road on the outskirts of these small towns on the west shore would be much more rural.  As the concern for my safety eased, I continued to admire the sky and thought about where I was at that moment.  My mind and spirit were filled with euphoria, and my running felt effortless.  I was going at a modest pace and I felt as if I could glide forever.  The lake emerged again through the trees.  On the distant shore were two bright lights shining from a mountain summit.  I assumed it was a ski resort but wasn't entirely sure.  Running with the lake shore to my left and a ten foot snow bank to my right, I decided to switch off my flashlight so I could enjoy purity of the night.

After passing through Tahoma, I switched my flashlight back on and continued to enjoy the marvelous surroundings.  But as I continued down the road through Meeks Bay, I noticed something somewhat troubling.  There were no longer any houses or buildings along the road.  In fact, no lights or reflectors either.  Although traffic had been very light, over an hour had passed since I had seen a car on the road, and the nearest town was now miles away.  My Strava tracking app read that I had a little less than a half a mile before the turnaround point.  Although this route only had modest elevation gain, I had been running up an incline on the road for what seemed like a while, and I slowed my pace to conserve energy.  It was just after 5:00 AM when I reached the turnaround point.  I made a U turn and began heading back when I felt a mounting soreness on my inner left foot.  There was friction between my shoe and an area of my foot where I had gotten a blister recently.  I stopped and sat on the roadside, removed my shoe, and applied some Body Glide to the tender area.  Unfortunately, the fix was only temporary and the discomfort returned after a mile or so.  The pain wasn't excruciating and was more of a nuisance than anything, so I just ignored it and kept running.  There wasn't much I could do about it anyway.  "Suck it up, Buttercup" I said to myself.  As time passed and miles were covered, drowsiness began to take over.  Running through the night with no sleep was a new experience to me, so I kept telling myself that this reaction was normal and that I would feel more energized once the sun came up.  Step by step, I plodded along, trying to remain focused.  Coming back into Meeks Bay, I could see the first rays of the morning dawn lighting up the eastern skyline behind the mountains across the lake.  I had thoroughly enjoyed the stellar night that I had, but I was now ready for some daylight.  As the morning sun turned the sky orange and blue, my mounting drowsiness went away.  The arrival of a new morning after running all night had my excitement and energy levels firing, and a wide smile spread across my face.  By the time I reached Homewood, the sun had made its way into the sky and the view of the lake from the shore was simply spectacular.  I paused briefly to take some pictures before continuing on.  To my delight, the small store near Homewood Mountain Resort that I had seen the night before was open.  I headed for the entrance and as soon as I walked through the door I saw what I was hoping they had.  "Coffee! Yes!" I said as I walked up.  There was another guy making himself a cup of brew and he chuckled at my excitement.  We chatted for a few minutes and he introduced himself as Brian.  He was an Army veteran from Auburn who was taking some time to travel the country before settling back into his life before joining the military.  He seemed intrigued by my adventure when I explained to him that my joyful reaction to the presence of coffee was brought on by the fact that I had been running all night.  I exited the store with a smile, sipping my hot cup of heaven and eating a banana as I walked down the roadside.  A little while later as I ran the final miles of my journey, Brian caught up with me in his Jeep and jokingly asked if I was sure I didn't want a ride.  I laughed as we parted ways, and I soon arrived in the outskirts of Tahoe City.  I finally reached the junction where the road met up with highway 28, turned right, ran past the area where the drunk girl gave me kudos the night before, and arrived back at my car, completing the thirty-five miles.  I threw my arms in the air in celebration and let out a couple of hoots as I took the final steps.

Thirty minutes later, I sat in a cozy breakfast restaurant with a plate of hot pancakes in front of me.  As I enjoyed this delicious meal, I thought about how great of an adventure it had been.  Seeing Lake Tahoe up close and personal for the first time was incredible in it of itself, but I had gotten everything I wanted out of this run.  I was creative and imaginative, and my goal was to alter my typical long distance training to prepare for other obstacles that the Tahoe Rim Trail 100 would present, and I had done just that.  I sat there feeling a little less anxious about the race and thinking, yes, I could do this.  Hopefully what my gut was telling me was right, but time will tell.                       

Montara Moments

A lot of people ask me what I think about while I'm running an ultramarathon.  It's a perfectly valid question, considering these races are often held in the wilderness where runners go several hours with limited human contact while running on desolate trails in hopes of reaching the finish line.  The answer is surprisingly simple, but extremely bland; I think about a lot of things.  I often reflect on past experiences, what the future may hold, and whatever is going on in my life at that particular moment.  Additionally, I often have good conversations with people I meet along the way.  During and after our encounter,  I'll often reflect on what we talked about and how they've inspired me.  I did a lot of thinking during the Montara Mountain 50K.  With all of the changes in my life coupled with the fact that this race was my first ultramarathon since living in Silicon Valley, there was a lot of self reflection happening throughout this race. 

It started with a 3.8-mile 2,000 climb to the summit of Montara Mountain.  Once I reached the peak, I grabbed a rubber band out of the bag and wrapped it around my wrist, indicating that I had reached the turnaround point and headed back down the trail.  I soon caught up with a gentleman who looked to be about fifty with a rugged, ultrarunner type look.  He had a nice pace going, so we ran together for a while, keeping up constant chatter.  He was Alexander, originally from Russia and was now residing in Staten Island, New York.  This was a Sunday, and he had flown in the night before for a business meeting he had on Monday morning, and would be flying back to New York on Tuesday morning.  He explained that he had signed up for the race only a few days prior and said that he "wanted to catch a nice trail run while traveling to California on business".  How rad is that? To me, that was the coolest thing in the world.  Anytime I travel somewhere, even if it's only for a short period of time, I always do some exploring and I try to get acquainted with wherever I am.  The more aware we are of our surroundings the deeper of a connection we form with where we are.  And to me, the deepness of the connection we have with our surroundings directly correlates with our happiness level.  Alexander obviously understood this sentiment.  I knew that he was going to walk into that business meeting the next morning with more determination and motivation after experiencing thirty-one miles of beautiful California coastal trails.

Eventually, Alexander slowed his pace during a rugged downhill section, and we parted ways.  I soon caught up with another man who also had a good pace going as I followed him down the single track trail.  His name was Daniel, he was retired, sixty-seven years old, and from Cupertino.  As we chatted, I asked him how long he had been doing trail runs.  "Oh, around forty years" he replied casually.  "Wow!" I exclaimed.  "That's so awesome".  He told me about how when he retired, he and his wife spent two years traveling all over the world and how he had just spent a weekend with his twenty-eight year old son and his friends in the Grand Canyon.  I had just met this guy, but I already admired him for not only the fact that he was running a challenging trail race at sixty-seven years old and that he had been trail running for forty years, but also for his sense of adventure and the fact that his son wanted him around during a weekend get together with his friends.  It speaks volumes of the respect and admiration that his son has for him.  I remember thinking that Daniel was everything I hoped that I could be by the time I reached sixty-seven.  He ended up giving me his contact information and we later connected through email and talked about running. 

By the time I hit the twenty mile mark I was on my way up a thousand foot climb along the Hazlenut trail when my mind drifted towards my childhood.  I was battling through a mental low and in an effort to restore order, I tried to remember why I was here.  My childhood has a lot to do with why I do what I do.  I've always enjoyed the outdoors.  My dad and I were members of a local community organization during my youth called "Indian Guides".  Essentially, it was a group of young boys around my age with our dads.  We'd have movie nights at each other's houses every two weeks, and once a month we'd go on a weekend trip to the wilderness where we'd sled and cross country ski in the winter and hike and swim in the summer.  The twelve of us would be packed in a cabin in the woods, and at night, when our dads thought we were sleeping, we'd be lying in our bunk beds in the dark telling stories until we fell asleep.  Meanwhile, our dads were downstairs in the living room probably throwing down a few brewskis and swapping stories about us that would surely embarrass the hell out of us if we knew what they saying; all we could hear was the muffled sound of their voices through the wall.  During my teenage years, I would also accompany my dad and our family friends on multi-day sailing trips from Lake St. Clair near Detroit up the St. Clair river, and all the way to the northern tip of Michigan's lower peninsula, then back.  I'll never forget sitting in the outside cockpit of the boat in the middle of the night, staring up at the shining stars while out in the middle of the lake.  It was pure darkness all around us with the exception of the flashing lights from the lighthouses on the distant shore of from the occasional passing boat or cargo freighter.  When it was just my dad and I in the cockpit and everyone else was down below asleep, we'd hang out together and have those meaningful dad/son conversations that we always hear about.  As an adult, I feel the same sense of connection with the trails, mountains and nature that I felt during those trips to the wilderness and during those multi-day sailing trips.  There was something very pure and serene about the experience.  The intense level of excitement that I feel whenever I have an upcoming ultra, hike, or some kind of epic adventure mirrors the exact same sense of excitement I felt in my youth during the days leading up to a weekend adventure with the Indian Guides, a ski trip with our family friends, or a multi-day sailing trip on the lake.  Those trips ignited a spark of adventure in my mind as a kid, and now as an adult, I had turned that spark into a raging fire that is fueled by adventure.

As I continued climbing up this beast of a climb, I took my phone out and dialed my dad.  When he answered, I said "Hey dad, look; I'm twenty miles into a 50K race, and I just wanted to call you and say thanks for getting me outside and taking me on all those trips with the Indian Guides and all of those overnight sailing trips when I was growing up.  If you hadn't done that, I don't think I'd be doing this right now".  There was a brief silence.  Clearly, my dad wasn't expecting this call and I had caught him by surprise.  After the pause there was laughter.  "No problem" he said.  "Keep charging out there and call me when you're finished".  You're probably wondering why on earth I had called my dad to thank him two thirds of the way through a 50K trail race.  When crushing through a mental low and enduring intense pain, which happens multiple times during an ultra, the functionality of the mind is altered.  Every thought and emotion passes through the brain with a drastically higher level of intensity than it would under normal circumstances.  The physical pain and intensified thoughts create a strong sense of "living in the moment" and thus, a sense of urgency is conceived with the message of "do it now, because tomorrow may be too late."  It is for this reason that many ultrarunners will say that running an ultramarathon is a great way to live in the moment, and that they feel the most alive when they are suffering the most.

The rest of the race was pleasantly painful.  After I got to the top of the hill on the second loop I ran the last two miles down the trail and on to the finish.  After collecting my finishers medal and washing some snacks down with a Coke, I staggered back to my car and called my dad to tell him how the rest of the race went.  These are the kind of thoughts that drift through my mind during a trail ultra.  Every experience I have, and all the people I meet inspire me in one way or another.  Alexander and Daniel are just two examples of the countless inspiring people that I've met at trail races, and the story about my childhood is just one of the many thoughts that I reflect on while partaking in these races.  I look forward to these moments just as much as every other part of the race, and I believe it helps me to better understand life and helps me put things into perspective.  I hopefully have many years of ultrarunning ahead of me and can't wait to see what future experiences I'll have on the trails!  

My Observance of International Women's Day

If there is any holiday out there that deserves more recognition in the United States, it's International Women's Day.  Originally conceived in Soviet Russia in 1917 and adopted by the United Nations in 1975, the holiday is held on March 8th ever year and is viewed by many as a day to celebrate the significance and history of women's rights.  I think of it as a day of observance for all the women that have had a positive impact on my life and have inspired me in one way or another.

Growing up with a mom, a sister, two grandmas, several aunts and girl cousins, and female family friends, I can say that I'm lucky to have had a lot of great women in my life.  My mother, who passed away when I was a teenager, deserves her own blog post about the countless ways she inspired me, but unlike an ultramarathon, I'll make this short and sweet.  My mother encouraged me to be unique, open minded, and to not take life too seriously.  As is the case with many Irish-Catholic moms, she loved to hug, laugh, and have a good time, but didn't hesitate to throw down the guilt trip or give me an earful when I was out of line.  She was always the happiest when she was in the company of my three aunts, especially during holidays.  Like my mom, my aunts always encouraged me to do what made me happy and follow my passions.  Sure, there's been the occasional instance where they've questioned some of the decisions I've made, but I know it all comes from love and their protective nature.  Although I didn't spend much time with my aunts on my dad's side until my adult years due to geographical inconveniences, they've inspired me to fight back when life punches me in the gut.  Between the three of them, they've battled the hardship of tragically losing a teenage son in a car accident, progressed through weight loss and living a healthier lifestyle, recovered from breast cancer, and managed a thriving dental practice for over thirty years.  After all they've been through, they've still managed to stay strong and maintain a positive outlook on life.  My sister and I, though we occasionally fought as kids, have always been close.  She helped a lot throughout my teen years by giving me advice on hair styles, fashion, and what girls like and don't like.  I gave her and her friends rides to and from school once I started driving and we would share laughs and tell each other things that we were too scared to tell our mom and dad just to get it off our chest.  We grew even closer after our mom passed away, and today she is an extremely talented artist.  Her artwork and the projects she creates for her product design classes never cease to amaze me.  My mom's best friends from college, whom I affectionately refer to as Aunt Gina and Aunt Cheryl have been highly influential in introducing me to the benefits of living a healthy lifestyle and spending time outdoors.  I spent ample amounts of time with them as a kid, with most of our interactions involving sailing on lake St. Clair and vacationing in Northern Michigan during the summer and doing snow sports in the winter.  Even though my former wife and I are no longer together, I will forever be grateful for everything she taught me.  I'm still learning of course, but I came out of it a wiser man, if anything.

In addition to family,  I've drawn inspiration from several female athletes, musicians, and public figures throughout my life.  Cheryl Strayed, Amy Winehouse, Pam Reed, and Ann Trason, to name a few, however I'd have to say that Catra Corbett has had a more substantial influence on my life than any other female athlete.  She has battled her way through drug addiction, overcome an eating disorder, and has pushed through hard times with failed relationships.  She is now a vegan runner who has completed over 250 ultramarathons, is a dog lover, and over all, just a total badass.  The experience of meeting her in person at Ragnar Los Coyotes and getting an autographed copy of her memoir really touched me on a personal level.  My favorite thing about her is her unique style.  During her years as a drug addict, she frequented goth nigh clubs and wore black clothing and make up.  As part of her transformation from a drug addicted goth to a vegan ultramarathon runner, she has undergone a complete shift in her clothing style by sporting bright and flashy colored running skirts, socks and shirts while running and dying her hair bright colors.  She does what she loves and is not shy about who she is.  In a way, she reminds me a lot of the women in my family who encouraged me to be unique and be proud of who I am.

In conclusion, I want to say thank you and give a big hug to every woman in my life who has influenced me in a positive way.  My hope is that International Women's Day will continue to gain exposure and observance in the United States as the years go by, and that more men will adopt the same sentiment that I have towards this holiday.  And to all the women out there who are doing great things, keep kicking ass!   

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.