Running Rebel

The sun was lowering into the sky on a mid-July evening in 2008 as I carried my last box of crap from my car into my dad's house and up to my bedroom on the second floor.  Earlier that day, my dad had driven from my hometown of Beverly Hills, Michigan (which we often jokingly referred to as "The Real Beverly Hills, and our county of Oakland as "The Real O.C.") out to Kalamazoo to help me move my furniture out of my college house to transport back home.  I had finished the last day of my undergrad college career two days earlier, and in the early afternoon, we arrived at my childhood home with two carloads full of four years worth of my junk.  As I unpacked the last of my belongings and got reacquainted with my old bedroom, I reflected on the last several months.  My senior year of college had been the most fun out of all four years, hands down.  It was eventful and exciting, however by the time I left Western, I was taking full time summer classes, working twenty-five to thirty hours per week, and trying to enjoy the ninth inning of my college social life.  I was exhausted from juggling everything, and was ready for a more slow paced, quiet lifestyle away from the my rambunctious college town.  

As I drifted through the next several weeks, I gradually got used to how different life was in my quiet, suburban hometown at my dad's house, versus my rowdy college town. Just a few weeks earlier, I had been living in an old house with four other dudes where everything was broken and there were packed bars and boisterous house parties within walking distance every night of the week.  I soon landed my first real world job at a law office close to home and settled into a daily ritual of waking up at 7:00 AM, eating breakfast, taking a shower, going to work for nine hours, coming home, having dinner, watching TV, then going to bed.  I was enjoying this new phase of my life.  After four years of partying my ass off, it was the break that I had been seeking as I grew exhausted from the college lifestyle during the final weeks of my senior year.  Life was more simple and it was comfortable.  That didn't last very long.  Even though this new lifestyle was comfortable, something was missing.  Perhaps it was too comfortable.  Allow me to drift away for a moment to put things into perspective.  Let me start by saying this; I love my hometown.  It was a great place to grow up.  It was a nice, safe neighborhood with great restaurants and stores.  We spent a lot of time outdoors year round, and my parents always kept life interesting for my sister and I.  Despite all of this, Beverly Hills, in my opinion, is a pretty mundane place.  It's a Midwestern suburban village twenty minutes outside of Detroit.  Most adults who live there either grew up there or hail from within a twenty mile radius of the village.  They wake up, go to work, come home, relax, and go to bed Monday through Friday, and spend their weekends sitting in front of the TV eating junk food.  As I went about my daily life, I observed as my co-workers (who were older than me, but still pretty young), people I had known from school, and other people around me exhibited this very lifestyle.  I cringed as I began to see myself being pulled into the same pattern.  I was getting into a rut and I didn't like it.  I don't remember the exact date or time that I became fully aware of what was happening to me, but at some point I paused and said "Okay dude, reality check.  Is this how I'm going to spend the rest of my life?  Is this all there is?  Is it my destiny to just "Homer Simpson" my way through the rest of my days on this planet?"  Another trait I noticed among the people around me who were practicing this lifestyle was none of them really seemed happy.  They didn't have much zest for life and it seemed like they were simply okay with the way things were.  They weren't happy, just satisfied.  I could sense it in their demeanors. That was the way I was beginning to feel too.

When I write a book someday, there will be more detailed mumbo jumbo on this, but in short, I decided the answers to the questions above were as follows: Is this how I'm going to spend the rest of my life? No, not a friggin' chance.  Is this all there is?  Absolutely, not.  Is it my destiny to "Homer Simpson" my way through life? No, there was no chance in hell that was going to happen.  Once I answered these questions, I instantly felt more focused. I already felt more motivated to make my life more fun and interesting.  Now, I was onto a new task; I needed to find something to look forward to on a daily basis.  My boring Monday through Friday routine simply would not cut it anymore and I needed to make every day more exciting.  So, I decided to go for daily walks.  Every day after work I would come home, change out of my work clothes, grab my iPod, and go for an hour-long walk outside around my dad's neighborhood.  I loved it.  It was a great way for me to have some alone time, listen to some music, clear my head, and get some exercise.  As the weeks went on, my life was becoming more vibrant.  Simply adding this hour-long daily walk to my routine was a game changer.  The anticipation built up as I drove home from work and once I arrived, I wasted no time changing out of my work clothes, putting on my tennis shoes, and heading back out the door.  As the fall began to transition into winter, I shifted from walking outside to walking on the treadmill at the YMCA in my neighborhood.  Now I could track how far of a distance I was walking during that hour and how many calories I was burning.  I didn't think much of it at first, but after a while I found myself trying to walk faster and squeeze more distance into the hour of walking.  I also realized that I was slowly losing weight.  When I began walking, I was six feet tall, 188 pounds.  After a few months of I had dropped to 177 pounds.  Then I realized I was onto something;  the walking was not only helping me become more mentally stable, it was helping me become more physically stable also.  I felt lighter, heathier, and my mind felt more clear than it ever had before.

By January of 2009, I was being more mindful of what I ate, and I continued to slim down.  At one point I decided that I wanted to start covering more distance on the treadmill during my hour long walks at the YMCA, so I thought "why not try running a little?".  The first couple of times were tough, but when I saw that I was covering more and more distance in that hour, my running increased, and before long, my hour-long walks became hour-long slow runs with some walking breaks.  The more distance I covered during that hour, the better I felt.  Along with this, my mood improved, and I was becoming a more genuinely happy version of myself.  It was like a new chapter of my life and things were taking on a new meaning, man!  In April of 2009, I entered my first 5K race with Wade, one of my best buds.  We've known each other since elementary school and he was a gifted athlete back in high school.  We were both at the same level in terms of running ability, so we ran/walked the 5K together, and the following month I entered another local 5K.  This time I was alone, so I ran at my own pace, finishing in a little over twenty-six minutes.  I was gasping for breath when I crossed the finish line, but I felt great, and surprised that I was able to complete 3.1 miles in that amount of time.  People tell me all the time nowadays "oh, a 5K must be nothing for you".  Wrong.  Running 3.1 miles is still friggin' hard, so anyone who runs even that distance has my kudos and respect.  It isn't easy, my body has just learned to be more tolerant of the physical inconvenience over the years.  As I stood in the parking lot that day sweaty and out of breath, watching people cross the finish line, I knew a fire had been ignited inside me.  I had created a monster.  If only I had known where it would take me over the next twelve years.

And that's how I became a runner.  I moved to Chicago shortly after that second 5K, two days before my twenty-third birthday.  From there, my running took off, and it continued to grow and evolve when I moved to California.  I'm still learning, trying new things, and my running is still evolving even today.  If someone were to ask me "tell me in one sentence why you got into running", my answer would be "I started running because I wanted to be a rebel".  I began running because having a boring, miserable life sucks the big hairy meatball.  I've been a rebel all my life, and I wanted to rebel against the mundane lifestyle that I found myself being sucked into by the world around me.  I looked at that world and flipped my middle finger.  I wanted more.  I wanted excitement.  I wanted something to look forward to every day that could transform my life.  And I'll never get enough of it!

My Hilarious, But Very Real Goose Phobia

The morning clouds loomed over the river as my dad and I pulled into the parking lot of Billy's Seafood.  It was a mild February morning in South Alabama, and even though there were rain puddles in the parking lot and I had to wear a hoodie to keep warm, it was still much more pleasant than the snowy, twenty-degree weather we'd left behind in my Michigan hometown three days earlier.  We had just kicked off our annual two-week vacation in the town of Gulf Shores, a small resort town on Alabama's Gulf Coast, a little over fifteen miles east of the Florida border.  The area is a popular destination for students during spring break, however in mid-February, the weather is just pleasant enough to bring us relief from the frigid Michigan winter, but cool enough that the town stays relatively calm and gives us a chance to enjoy it's charm without having to deal with crowds on the beach and in local restaurants.  One of the perks we especially enjoyed was the local seafood, and several years ago my dad had somehow discovered this no frills seafood nook that we would visit three or four times throughout our trip every year.  I always enjoyed watching the lobsters crawl around in the giant tank and was in awe of the store's variety and selections.  We chose a spot, stepped out of the car, and walked across the parking lot towards the entrance of the store.  Before going inside we decided to walk down to the small beach and check out the view of the river.  We hopped over a short wall of rocks and onto the sand.  And then I saw him.  A goose.  And not just any goose.  This guy was big, probably about three feet tall.  I would like to add that this was in 1993 and I was six years old at the time.  My mind was still developing, I was inexperienced in a lot of ways, and my brain was absorbing like a sponge.  The presence of this massive goose didn't phase me, and I nonchalantly walked over towards him while my dad admired the river.  I was being curious, but this goose was simply not having it.  I stepped into his territory and that jerk of a bird didn't hesitate to hiss at me and chase me a good thirty feet down the beach.  My dad turned around when he heard me running and screaming, and I soon began crying shortly after the big Nazi goose backed off.  Dad was trying to console me, but looking back, I'm sure he was also trying to hold back his laughter.  After all, I was fine.  The goose didn't bite me and there was no harm done, but I was absolutely terrified.  It may have been the most scared I had been in my life up until that point.  And if this story wasn't entertaining enough, the year before when we were visiting the local zoo in Gulf Shores, I got too close to the ostrich cage, and one of them thought it would be fun to walk up to me, grab the drawstring dangling from my hoodie with his beak, and try to pull me into the cage.  That story had essentially the same conclusion; me screaming and crying, while my parents consoled me, but probably laughed their heads off after I went to bed that night.  Too bad Youtube and smart phones weren't around yet.  I could have been an online celebrity and entertained millions of people at my own expense.

I'm now thirty-four years old, I've gone through several life evolutions, and done a lot of growing as a person.  But I'm still scared of geese.  The big goose on the beach at Billy's Seafood in 1993 apparently traumatized me in some way, and in subsequent years since then I've become mildly terrified every time I've encountered a Canadian goose.  There were a couple of times where I was chased even after the 1993 incident, which only enhanced my phobia.  In recent years I've decided to try to conquer this childhood fear, although it hasn't come without some funny and embarrassing moments.  One afternoon in February 2019, I was running alone on a trail along San Francisco Bay.  Up ahead I saw two geese lingering on the side of the trail near the water.  When I got within fifty feet and they still hadn't budged, I said "nope" and turned around.  Several months later I was running on a nearby trail on a beautiful Sunday morning with my local running group.  I was running solo, but my two friends Garner and Stephan were about a hundred yards behind me.  I was feeling good until three geese came into view up ahead.  My fear kicked in and I slowed down.  They were off to the side of the trail and I had plenty of room to run by them, but I was still hesitant.  When Garner and Stephan caught up to me they seemed confused as to why I had slowed down.  "Guys, I'm scared of geese" I explained with nervous laughter.  "If the three of us run by them together, they can't chase all three of us.  Let's do this".  "It's okay man, just run by and flap your arms like wings" they said.  As we ran by I watched as Garner and Stephan jumped and flapped their arms, and sure enough the geese retreated closer to the water.  I was impressed that it had worked, but when I turned around to head back, I had proven to myself that I hadn't quite worked up the nerve to give it a try.  The geese had returned, and I decided instead to just run as fast as I possibly could and try to ignore them.  One of them turned his head right towards me as I ran by (the first sign that they're not happy), but the encounter didn't escalate into anything beyond the eye contact.  Still, I was scared and my adrenaline pumped as I ran by.  About a year later I was running on a trail with Stephan and our friend Julie when Stephan once again used the jumping and arm flapping method to keep a goose away as we ran by.  I still had not worked up the nerve to use this technique and I watched in amusement as the goose waddled away.  

Yesterday I was running alone on the Guadalupe River Trail in San Jose, when I had yet another encounter.  Once again, about a hundred feet ahead, I spotted a goose on the edge of the trail and immediately slowed down.  "Maybe I can use the jumping and arm flapping method" I thought.  I got within thirty or so feet and the goose had not moved.  I sighed and turned around.  "Come on, dude, you can do this, stop being so scared" I said to myself.  So I turned around and headed towards the goose again.  This time I got within about fifteen feet, and that jerk still hadn't moved.  I stood there for about ten seconds, but he just would not get his butt off the edge of the trail and down to the river.  I turned around yet again and began slowly running in the opposite direction.  Then I remembered yet another comedic episode where my goose phobia kicked in.  My girlfriend and I were good friends for a year before we began dating and a few months before I asked her on a date, we were finishing up a group run at Almaden Lake.  She had a tough go at it and was in a lot of pain by the time she finished.  I felt bad and gave her a hug to show my sympathy, but when I let go, I saw a goose walking around behind her and I slowly took a few steps back.  I sensed her confusion and let her know that there was a goose behind her, which let to me explaining my whole goose story that you had the pleasure of reading above.  Today happened to be Valentines Day, so she was on my mind a lot.  As I reflected on that instance, frustration kicked in.  There was no way some pansy goose would ever come between my girlfriend and I if it came down to it.  I'd had enough.  Time to let this bird know who's boss.  I turned around again and began running towards the goose.  Fueled by adrenaline, I moved to the other side of the trail, called out to him as if I were trying to scare away a bear, and jumped up and down flapping my arms like a lunatic.  The goose didn't chase me.  He casually waddled down the hill towards the river as I ran by.  "Yes!" I exclaimed.  I felt so proud of myself that I literally looked back at the goose as he walked down the hill and yelled "that's right!".  And then I began laughing at how ridiculous this situation was.  It made me think of the Big Bang Theory episode with Sheldon and the blue jay on the windowsill.  This was a medium sized goose who wanted no trouble, and even though I acted like I was trying to scare off a five-hundred pound wild animal, it worked.  It was an extremely silly, but proud moment.  The 1993 Billy's Seafood incident still haunts me, but what happened yesterday was a big step in getting over this ridiculous phobia.  As is the case with many things in life, the first time is the scariest, then it becomes easier.  It feels good to conquer my fears even if it's a gradual process.  And I did it through running, of course.  Running has helped me conquer other fears in my life, most notably, worrying about the future.  It's allowed me to live more in the present.  We all have fears stemming from childhood and even adulthood experiences, but it doesn't mean we have to be afraid forever.  And no one says we have to confront these fears overnight.  It's a process and we have to respect it.  I'll admit that having a goose phobia is funny as hell and pretty ridiculous, but it is a real fear, nonetheless.  Overcoming it is a work in progress.  Oh shoot, a goose just appeared out of nowhere and is waddling towards my keyboard.  Gotta go, bye! 

         

The Sierra Azul Three Peaks Challenge: A Fitting Way to Close Out the Year of Uncertainty

They say with great power comes great responsibility.  In my case, I would like to alter this proverb slightly by saying with great craziness comes great responsibility.  I can't even recount how many times people have told me I'm crazy or have said something like "you and your crazy ideas".  These comments are often in reference to my outdoor adventures, and I've owned up to this reputation over the years.  Although a lot of what I do may seem extreme to casual observers, it's worth noting that I execute these crazy ideas responsibly.  Over the years I've learned that it's okay to have adventurous ambitions and put myself in potentially risky situations as long as I take the necessary safety precautions to mitigate the chance of being injured or taken to the emergency room.  I'll freely admit though, that not all of my ideas are good ones.  I'm a human being like everyone else, and my judgement is not perfect in every situation.  I was thinking about that as I arrived at the Limekiln trailhead off the side of Alma Bridge Road near Los Gatos, California.  As I pulled off to the side of the road and shut my car off, I quickly became engulfed in darkness.  Aside from the stars in the sky, it was pitch black and dead quiet all around me.  My car was the only one parked along this remote stretch of road, where the Limekiln trail flanked off and ascended up into the mountains of the Sierra Azul Open Space Preserve.  What brought me out here at 5:00 AM on a chilly December morning you might ask?  I was about to attempt what would be my last solo virtual ultramarathon of 2020, the year that popularized virtual running events.  The weekend before, my friends had organized a virtual holiday party for Bay Area Runners.  During the Zoom event, my friend Kelly suggested I attempt this race, which was coined "The Sierra Azul Three Peaks Challenge 52K".  When I looked it up on Ultrasignup.com, I noticed that the course consisted of significant elevation gain and visiting three mountain peaks along the way.  The website disclosed that the twenty-dollar registration fee would be donated to various animal rescue organizations around the Bay Area, and hundreds of dollars had already been raised.  It didn't take much convincing for me to sign up, especially since it presented a great way to end 2020.    

My initial plan was to make this run more interesting by starting at 10:00 PM on Friday and running through the night.  I'm no stranger to running at night and I find it quite fun.  What didn't sound fun, however, was the possibility of a mountain lion encounter in the dark.  While doing a little pre-race research, I discovered that the Sierra Azul Open Space Preserve was a habitat for plenty of wildlife, and cougars may be present at all hours of the day.  We all saw that video from October of the Utah hiker who had the six-minute standoff with the mountain lion protecting her cubs.  That was definitely not what I needed on a dark trail in the middle of the night all alone.  Besides, I had only been on a portion of this course before, so for all intents and purposes, it was unfamiliar territory to me.  I decided to scrap the idea of running through the night and opted to begin at 5:00 AM instead.  But as I stood outside of my car looking across the street, I began to wonder if even starting right now would be a good idea.  It was still very dark and mountain lions are most active at dusk and dawn.  As the trail sign glowed in the beam of my flashlight across the street, the silence was broken by an animal-like noise in the distance.  "Okay, maybe this isn't a good idea" I thought.  Probably best to wait an hour until 6:00 AM to get going.  It would still be dark by then, but the sun would be coming up around 7 AM, and I wanted to get a little running in before sunrise.

When 6 AM rolled around, I threw my pack over my shoulders and walked across the street to the trailhead.  A couple of cars had pulled up a few minutes earlier, and two guys stood outside of their cars preparing to hit the trail.  It was good to know that I wouldn't be totally alone out here in the dark.  The cars, the road, and the glow of the headlamps from the two guys disappeared behind me as I began running up the path.  This section of the Limekiln trail was known for having several steep inclines and sharp turns, and I shined my flashlight around in front of me as I ran along, looking back every so often.  Even though sunrise was approaching, I used extra caution to avoid being ambushed by a mountain lion.  As I made my way up the trail, I took out my phone to see what my next move was.  Unlike the other virtual ultramarathons I ran in 2020, where I designed my own race, this particular course was created by the race director.  Detailed instructions were included on the website, and although the network of trails is well marked, I had to do a bit of navigating.  I figured the best way to navigate the course was to screenshot the course directions and save them on my phone.  I continued climbing up Limekiln trail until I reached the next intersection, where I would make a left on Priestrock trail and proceed further up into the mountains.  The climb along Priestrock was horrendously steep at times, and marching uphill without much training presented a challenge.  Although the first rays of sunlight were now lighting up the sky, I still remained wary of predators.  The shrubby wilderness along Limekiln trail had given way to a surrounding area of rolling mountains full of bushes and grasslands as far as the eye could see.  As the climbing continued to challenge me, I began to understand why locals nicknamed this section of the trail "dogmeat".  As I crested the climb, an intersection came into view.  My next move was to make a right here onto the Kennedy trail, also known as "the rollers".  Running downhill felt great after the long climb and a beautiful sunrise began to light up the sky to the left of me.  One of my favorite things about running before dawn is watching the sun come up.  That's when I really start feeling alive.  There's something strangely inspiring about a sunrise, especially when you know you have a long day ahead.  It brings a sense of hope and optimism, as if to say "wow dude, that's gorgeous.  Let's make it a good day".  

My next move was to make a left onto Woods trail, which would lead me to the summit of the Mount El Sombroso, the first of three mountain peaks I would be visiting.  The view from the top was breathtaking, with an ocean of rolling hills lying in front of me for miles.  A prominent peak stood off in the distance to my right.  This one was unique in the sense that it was not only the tallest peak in the immediate area, but it also had a large tower at the summit.  Perhaps another unique feature was this mountain's name; Mount Umunhum.  But at the moment, the most important fact was that Mount Umunhum was the final of the three peaks that I would traverse, and was the centerpiece of this adventure.  It didn't look very far away, but I still had another eight miles before I would reach the summit.  As I continued onward, the trail followed a long and steady downhill, which allowed me to run some faster miles.  Mount Umunhum remained steadfast during the descent.  As the trail wound through the mountains, the position of the tower on top of the peak rotated around me.  The tower can be seen from far away and for the next several miles it was either right in front of me, behind me, or to my right.  I gazed up at the distant structure as I ran along.  "Okay, well at some point I guess I'm going to be up there" I said as I laughed to myself.  The next move on the course directions was to make a right onto Barlow road.  The intersection came at the bottom of the long descent on Woods trail.  Barlow, which was not an actual road, but a fire road, was a steep and winding climb, that would eventually lead me to a parking lot.  From there I would follow the path for a short distance to the second summit, Bald Mountain.

It was shortly after 9 AM when I arrived at the Bald Mountain parking area.  From there, the incline was relatively modest compared to what I had already done, and I reached the summit fairly quickly.  Unique to the other three mountains, the path followed a quick lollipop loop around the peak of Bald Mountain, offering picturesque views of the surrounding area, and of course, the tower on Mount Umunhum...again.  The parking area was more crowded when I returned after hitting Bald Mountain.  People stood next to their cars preparing for their morning hikes as I glided through the area and headed towards Mount Umunhum trail.  Although mainly intended for hiking Bald Mountain, the parking area is perhaps more popular for those who are hiking to the summit of Mount Umunhum, which was a little over three and a half miles up the trail.  During the ascent the tower popped in and out of view through the trees and shrubs.  Step by step, I was moving closer to it.  The experience was both satisfying and frustrating.  This thing haunted me ever since leaving Mount El Sombroso, and it seemed like even though I kept running along, it only inched closer to me every time it came into view.  When I finally made it, the view from the summit was gorgeous.  I was standing on the highest peak in the surrounding area and one of the highest in the Santa Cruz Mountains.  The summit was equipped with restrooms and a small parking lot, which was the dead end of the road that led to the peak.  The tower, which I later learned was nicknamed "The Cube" stood at eighty-five feet high.  It was constructed in 1962 and served as a radar tower to watch for enemy aircraft during the Cold War.  Although it has been decommissioned since 1980, it was left intact and serves as a local landmark.  

I cruised back down Mount Umunhum trail to the intersection of Barlow fire road, where I reached the twenty-mile mark of the course.  I recalled reading on ultrasignup.com that the race director brought up the fact that the distance of the course and the elevation gain had been slightly over-estimated.  Rather than a 52K (about thirty-two and a quarter miles), the course actually measured out to be a little over thirty miles.  I would be retracing my steps for part of the return trip, and I remembered that there was a long downhill along Woods trail on the way to Bald Mountain, which inevitably would be an uphill climb on the way back.  Despite this, I had two thirds of the mileage and most of the climbing now behind me.  I assumed the hard part was over.  It wasn't.  The climb up Woods trail was savage and my legs were screaming at me every step of the way.  My steps were choppy, my heart was racing, and the hill just kept going on and on.  Most of the running I had been doing lately had been on flat surfaces, and the lack of hill training was kicking my ass.  I knew the hill would reach it's crest at the intersection of the path that leads up to Mount El Sombroso, which was getting closer with each step.  The path traversed along the ridges of the nearby mountains with grassy slopes, bushes, and rock walls lining the edges.  There were several turns and curves, and I could see the trail out in front of me weaving along the edges of the distant mountains.  As I rounded a particularly sharp turn, another steep incline lied before me.  The thought of more climbing crushed me psychologically, and I decided it was best to take a seat on the side of the trail, drink some water, eat some trail mix, and try to regroup.  Sometimes a little rest can go a long way.  I eventually crested the hill and followed the rolling path towards the intersection with Limekiln trail, which I would follow all the way back to the parking lot.  As I shuffled down the path and reeled in the miles, I could see a trail ascending the edge of the mountains in front of me in the distance.  I stared in the distance as I progressed forward.  The last thing I wanted at mile twenty-seven of this rally was another uphill climb.  My legs where shot and had enough.  I hoped that this distant trail was not the Limekiln trail, while bearing in mind the possibility that it might be, just in case.  It's a technique I developed to avoid setting myself up for disappointment and anger.  In 2020, while living in a world of uncertainty, I've learned that things turn out best when I hope for the best, but expect the worst.  Still, I was really hoping that the ascending trail in the distance was not the Limekiln trail.  Sure enough, much to my dismay, it was.  I stood at the bottom of the descent, looking ahead at the incline in front of me.  I had been going for seven and a half hours, and already climbed somewhere in the neighborhood of 6,900 feet.  "You cannot be serious" I said out loud in frustration.  "What the actual fuck".  I was in a lot of pain, but there was nothing else to do except drag my weary butt up this final climb.  Despite my lack of hill training, I knew what kind of craziness I was getting into.  No time for boo hoo-ing.  

The majority of the final two miles was a steady downhill, which felt great, even though I was reduced to hobbling at this point.  The time and miles passed by fairly quickly thanks to some distractions along the way.  I saw an oncoming hiker pushing a baby stroller up the trail, which I thought was super cool.  I'd seen runners pushing strollers along sidewalks and roads on several occasions, but never hikers pushing them up a trail.  Minutes later,  I saw about fifty yards in front of me down the trail, an older lady with curly grey hair standing right in the middle of the trail, holding a mirror out in front of her, and combing her hair.  I had never seen anyone do that on a trail before and I chuckled to myself after I passed by her.  Before long, I came over a small hill and the road and parked cars appeared in the distance.  I ran the final steps, and crossed the virtual finish line as I emerged at the mouth of the trail near the road.  During the last few miles I had been ready to be done, but as I hobbled across the street back to my car, I felt happy rather than relieved, and I clapped my hands in celebration.  As difficult as this race was, it was a very rewarding way to close out 2020, one of the most challenging years of my life.  I was lucky to have love and support from my girlfriend, who during the six months that we've been together, has encouraged me to pursue my adventurous ambitions.  She and her mother have both voiced their concerns when hearing some of my stories of running debauchery, which is for the best, because it gives me another incentive to be careful and act responsibly.  As long as I do that, everything is cool.  Ultramarathons are all about highs and lows, thriving and struggling, and today was no exception.  During a time of uncertainty, when nothing is guaranteed, the lessons I've learned through years of running have worked wonders for my ability to cope with the world around me.  As I drove home, I closed the proverbial door on my 2020 running adventures, cautiously optimistic about what 2021 would bring.    

It's All in the Family

Becoming healthier and more fit was not the only reason I became a runner.  Yes, having a strong immune system, a lean physique, and higher energy levels are a nice bi-product, but there are deeper reasons why I derive pleasure from running long distances.  Before I go into one of those reasons, allow me to share a family story to create the proper segue.  

My parents were both born and raised in Michigan.  My mom grew up in a historically Irish-American Detroit neighborhood known as Corktown, whereas my dad hails originally from Detroit, but beginning at age fourteen, grew up in West Bloomfield, a suburb known for it's Jewish culture.  Over the years, my dad's side of the family made their way to various places across the United States.  While my mom's family remained in Michigan, my aunts and one uncle on my dad's side followed my grandma out to Southern California when she moved there after the death of my grandpa.  Once my aunts settled in California, they eventually married and started their own families.  Having cousins across the country felt like a double edged sword.  I hardly got to spend any time with them when I was growing up, but traveling to California every few years to visit was great fun, and ultimately planted one of the seeds that would eventually grow into the "Liam's California Dream" plant.  Lots of different personalities run on my dad's side of the family, especially among the kids, but there was one cousin who always stood out to me; my cousin, Doug.  Born on the same day as me in 1981, he grew up in Ventura County, just north of Los Angeles.  He and his older brother were the only two children my aunt ever had, and they were both with her first husband, whom she divorced when Doug was young.  He spent the majority of his life growing up with my aunt's current husband as his stepdad and although he had a pretty good upbringing, he was always looking for a shot at rebellion.  He developed a strong friendship with two other guys in his school who shared the same sentiment and in 1995, the three boys who were barely teenagers at the time, discovered the perfect outlet for their pent up aggression; they were going to form a metal band.  Inspired by Black Sabbath, the Sex Pistols, Pantera, and many other bands, the trio went to work with Jeff having the role as the vocalist and guitarist, Raymond playing drums, and Doug taking up bass guitar playing duties.  The three spent their early days playing cover songs in their school's gymnasium for their classmates.  They later recruited a second guitar player, and played at parties, public parks, and even had a couple of club gigs here and there.  Not bad for a seventeen year old kid from Southern California.  We also have to remember that this was in the late 1990's.  There was no Facebook, Instagram, or Youtube back then.  In those days, you actually had to play gigs, put up flyers around the neighborhood, and give away homemade tapes and CDs for free at your gigs.  That was how you got people to notice you, listen to your material, spread the word, and hopefully come to the next show.  The guys had chosen the band name "Black Opal", a name that matched perfectly to their image, music style, and their "we don't give a shit what you think" attitude.  Their image involved black and white photography, black crosses, and the band members often performing in various band T-shirts, such as the Misfits and Megadeth.  During this era, rap metal and alternative metal were becoming quite popular in the mainstream, and although their music was more thrash influenced, Black Opal began to make some big noise on the local circuit, at least in Southern California.  By the time Doug graduated from high school in June of 1999, the band was still going strong.  Then one day, a week after graduation,  he was out driving with some friends.  The details still remain unclear to me, but Doug's friend somehow lost control of the car, drove onto the median, and collided head on into a large tree.  His friends suffered injuries, but tragically, Doug was killed.  This is one of the biggest blows my family has ever endured, even to this day.  The guy was barely eighteen years old.  He had just graduated high school.  He had done so much in his eighteen years on this planet, and poof, just like that, everything was gone.  Understandably, it took quite a bit of time for my aunt and the rest of my family to recover from this tragedy.  As someone who lost his mom at a young age, I can say from personal experience that these types of situations can never be fully accepted.  There are always unanswered questions.  Although those feelings never go away, you learn to cope with it, and things get easier over time.  

Although we didn't spend much time together growing up, Doug and I were a lot alike.  We both had a rebellious side.  During my childhood I was lucky enough to have parents who had rules and standards, but simultaneously encouraged me to express myself.  I was a different kind of kid.  I didn't want to play football or basketball or listen to boring music.  I wanted to ride my bike, do snow sports, and play tennis.  My musical taste varied widely, but I loved rebellious, loud music like Limp Bizkit, Korn, and the Offspring.  It was my outlet for aggression.  Some of the other kids in school didn't understand, and I was often mocked for listening to "angry" music.  Even though he was so far away, Doug's status as a bass player in a metal band made me realize there's nothing wrong with music with some edge and attitude to it.  It was his outlet for aggression just like mine.  Years later, after I became a runner, I realized that part of the reason why I got into the sport was because it provided the same outlet for aggression as music did for me many years earlier.  Both of them together have worked wonders for me.  Running ultras is such an extreme act that most people can't wrap their heads around.  It's like a counterculture. It's certainly something that narrow minded people would look at, and simply dismiss it as ridiculous and wonder why in the world people would want to do it, even if they could.  When I run ultras, a part of me feels like I'm flipping that world the middle finger.  It feels rebellious and powerful.  To me, edgy music is one of the most misunderstood things in the world, and in some ways, I feel like ultrarunning is also.  Doug and I definitely come from the same family.  It must be a Dumenjich thing.  We have a rebellious side that we're just looking for a shot at showing everyone in a healthy way, and I feel fortunate that Doug and I have both seemed to find our way. 

RIP Doug, I miss you man.  Hope all is well on the other side!    

Pine to Palm: Running a Live Marathon During a Pandemic

Las Vegas is known for many things.  Casinos, colorfully bright lights, clubs, entertainment, etc.  When people think of what Vegas is known for, I would say that snow and mountains are pretty far down the list.  But, to my delight, that is exactly what we got as my friends Kelly and Ellen and I drove up the twisting mountain road in my car, scoping out the course that Kelly and I would be running the next morning.  Allow me to rewind back to mid-October, about a month earlier.  During a post group run hangout, Kelly mentioned she was going to be running a live marathon in Vegas on November 13th, which drew curious reactions from the group.  People wondered how the organization was going to be able to hold an in person race safely, given the current state of the COVID-19 pandemic.  The opportunity to run a live marathon during these times sounded intriguing, but sadly the race was sold out, so I quickly kicked the idea to the curb.  That is until a week later when I received a text from Kelly that went a little something like this; "Hey! My friend who was going to run the Revel Mt. Charleston Marathon with me is injured.  Do you want to buy her bib and run in her place?".  After careful evaluation, I decided that I simply couldn't miss out on this opportunity and I accepted the offer.  After all, I hadn't run an in person race of any kind since March, eight months prior.  

The day before the race, I drove eight hours from Silicon Valley to Las Vegas, checked into my hotel, and promptly met up with Kelly and Ellen, who had arrived about thirty minutes earlier.  As we previewed the course in my car, we arrived at what would be the starting area of the marathon the next morning, a cabin resort part way up Mt. Charleston, resting peacefully at 7,600 feet.  The race was going to be a point to point course, which involved runners being shuttled up the road to the starting area, then running a full marathon's distance down the desolate mountain road into the north end of Las Vegas, finishing at a local school.  Kelly always preferred to preview race courses in advance, and it was a good thing we had done so.  We were not expecting snow and ice to be present at the start, and the temperature for the following morning was forecasted to be seventeen degrees Fahrenheit, much colder than we had anticipated.  Despite her concerns, Kelly seemed more excited and confident, now that she was more familiar with the course.  I knew it was nothing she couldn't handle.  She had already qualified for Boston twice and ran it once (twice if you count the 2020 virtual edition).  During the weeks leading up to this race, she was logging sixty mile weeks, teaching virtual boot camp , and working with clients in her job as a personal trainer.  There was no doubt that she would crush this race.  The sun began setting as we made our way down the road and back to the hotel.  Ellen had discovered that there was an Italian restaurant within close proximity to our hotel, so the plan was for us to order takeout, have our own little pre-race dinner at the hotel, then try to get to sleep as early as possible.  Reception was spotty as Ellen dialed the restaurant to place our order.  When the takeout dude picked up, it sounded like a bad transistor radio with static in the connection.  "Hello? Can you hear me?!" Ellen said into her phone rather loudly.  "Yes ma'am, I can hear you" the guy replied in a casual tone.  "Okay!  Can I please have a...a cheese calzone?! and...a...a chicken Caesar salad! With dressing on the side!"  Ellen sounded more like she had fallen off a cruise ship and was trying to get rescued, than placing an order for takeout food, but the static continued and she wanted to ensure the order was heard properly.  Kelly and I sat in the front seat trying to contain our laughter.  "Three cannolis!! Okay, can you repeat that back to me please?!".  We simply couldn't contain ourselves anymore and let out a burst of laughs as she finished up the order.  The poor guy is probably just now getting his hearing back.  Our food, however, was delicious, and I was comfortably full, as we lounged around in Ellen and Kelly's hotel room.  We video chatted with my girlfriend, Samantha (or Sammy as I call her) after we finished eating.  She unfortunately couldn't be with us during this adventure, but it felt as if she was there in spirit.  She wished Kelly and I luck, and I soon retreated to my room on the next floor to take a shower and get some sleep.  

I awoke at 4:15 the next morning, compliments of the rooster alarm on my phone, and began the meticulous process of preparing for the journey ahead.  Kelly had woken up an hour before me, and had just boarded her shuttle at the school a few miles away for her 6:20 AM race start time.  In order to allow runners to social distance, this race was a "special edition" in which only 262 runners were allowed, and the start of the race was staggered in waves, with forty or so runners per wave.  My start time was at 7:20 AM, and in anticipation of potential logistical issues, the race staff required that I board the bus by 5:40 AM.  Before heading out, I stopped by Ellen and Kelly's room, where Ellen wished me good luck.  She would not be running this marathon with us, but she came along on the trip for moral support, which speaks volumes of her character.  I often simply refer to her as "Coach" due to her profession as a running coach, which is well known in our running community.  During the pandemic she has done a great job of holding our circle together and I was grateful for her support.  I had just enough time to stop at the convenience store across the street for a fresh, hot cup of coffee and a donut before arriving at the school and boarding the shuttle.  The race staff members were careful to follow safety measures by only filling the bus to fifty-percent capacity and allowing everyone to have their own seat, requiring that we wear face coverings during the ride to the start line.  Upon arrival, I was relieved to hear that the temperature was twenty-eight degrees, not as frigid as I had expected.  The race director spoke to us at the front of the bus.  "2020 has been an extremely difficult year for all of us, and we're so grateful to you for coming out and running and giving us a reason to be here".  His words were a powerful tonic, and I started to get a really good feeling.  It had been such a long time since I had run a race in person and it felt great to be there.  When he finished talking, I raised my fist in the air, and have a thumbs up "Did you have a question?" he asked.  I chuckled and said "Nope! I'm just really happy to be here".  "Cool! I'll be back in about fifteen minutes, right before race start".  I then said out loud to the people around me "I'm not going to be the one jackass that asks a question", which drew some laughs.  

Fifteen minutes later, us runners stood outside in the small start area, trying to keep warm, waiting our turn to cross the start line.  The rules stated that face coverings were required in the start area, but could be removed once we began running.  We stood in a small line apart from each other as runners took off from the start line one at a time, about every ten seconds.  Eventually it was my turn, and off I went.  As I ran out of the parking area and down the road, snowy mountains surrounded me in every direction.  Several cabins and houses rested in the conifer and pine trees upon the mountain slope in front of me in the distance.  Although there were a few hills along the course, the elevation would be a net loss of around 5,000 feet, and the road descended along a gentle downhill grade as it weaved through the mountains.  I closed my eyes and inhaled the cold, refreshing mountain air, as I ran past campgrounds and roadside cabins.  Although the sun had now made it's way into the sky and shined brightly above, plenty of snow still lined the sides of  the road and covered the ground.  We were still technically in the Las Vegas city limits, and it was hard to imagine I would ever encounter snow, pine trees, and granite mountains here, but a small storm had come through earlier in the week and delivered some early snow accumulation at higher elevation.  The snow dissipated around mile eight, as the course continued to lose elevation.  The snowy mountain peaks now lied behind me in the distance, as desert terrain and joshua trees now dominated the landscape.  Things had been going relatively well so far.  As the day began to warm up, I discarded my gloves and rolled my arm sleeves down to my wrists.  Vegas weather can be unpredictable at this time of year, but the temperature was forecasted to be in the low sixties at the finish line, which was perfect for race day weather.  Despite the restrictions, the race staff still managed to place portable toilets along the course every five miles or so.  At the halfway point, shortly after using the restroom, I pulled a Honey Stinger gel from my pocket and sucked it down.  I'm not a big fan of energy gels, but this one came with the race package.  I had heard good things about Honey Stinger, so I decided to give it a try.  "Why not?" I thought.  Surprisingly, it tasted pretty good.

Even though there were always runners within eyesight, I ran alone almost the entire race.  There were a few instances where I either passed runners or they passed me, but other than that, it was just me and the open road.  The road remained open to automobile traffic, so runners were instructed to stay to the right of the cones that lined the shoulder for safety.  Luckily, since it was a Friday morning, only modest traffic motored along on this remote mountain road.  I looked straight ahead at the massive mountains that rested in the distance in front of me as I approached the twenty-mile mark.  To accommodate the safety measures, the aid stations were spread out further along the course and were only monitored by one volunteer each.  The rules stated that face coverings must be worn if stopping at aid stations, however thanks to my handheld water bottle, I didn't need to make any water stops along the way, and I simply ran through and thanked the volunteers as I passed.  "Wow, who else would be smiling like you at mile twenty?!" the volunteer called out enthusiastically as I passed through.  I was so excited to be running an in person race that I of course had a big stupid smile on my face as I ran by the aid station and greeted him.  The final few miles of the course lead us through the quiet neighborhoods of north Las Vegas, and the landscape had since shifted from desert and joshua trees to a more suburban neighborhood with palm trees lining the street.  As I rounded a corner past the twenty-three mile mark, the street began a steady incline.  "Aww man, we have a hill this far into the race?" I shouted semi-jokingly to the volunteer at the aid station.  "Yep! but it's just a little one".  Well, in reality, yes, it was a very gradual incline, but it went on for the next mile and a half.  Despite gravity working against me, I tried to focus on maintaining a consistent, steady pace.  The course eventually leveled out, and the finish line and school parking lot soon came into view.  My excitement levels soared when I saw Ellen cheering on the side lines and I threw my arms in the air in celebration as I ran through the finish line.  Kelly emerged from a food tent and congratulated me on my finish, as I grabbed a small carton of chocolate milk and a finisher's medal.  I felt great, and it had been an awesome race.  My pace remained consistent throughout, and during the final few miles I was able to kick things into high gear, thanks to the Honey Stinger gel.  Kelly had an excellent race, setting a personal record for herself, and qualifying for Boston once again.  She did an awesome job, but when it came time for the three of us to leave the finish area, Ellen had to help her up off the pavement.  

Kelly and Ellen were planning on leaving the next morning, but after we checked out of our hotel and finished a celebratory lunch at a nearby restaurant, I was back on the road to the Bay Area by 4 PM.  I only made it about an hour before I had to pull over and take a nap, but after that, I was good to go.  I drank some soda, and Sammy chatted with me on the phone for a little while to keep me company.  The race director on the bus that morning had been right.  2020 has been a challenging year for all of us.  Many people have lost their jobs, suffered from depression, and have lost loved ones to this horrible illness.  Running an in person marathon gave me a sense of hope.  It made me realize that there is a light at the end of the tunnel.  We will make it through this if we can be patient.  Even though things have taken an unpleasant turn in the last couple of weeks for most of the country, I feel confident that we are rounding the corner on the vaccine, which I'm sure will gradually bring some normalcy back to our world.  As I filled up my gas tank in a rural area just outside of Bakersfield, I realized that even though I wouldn't make it home until 2:00 in the morning, it was well worth it for that little bit of hope.    

The Sleepy Road

We've all had those instances where we've gone into an everyday store like Target or CVS, made a simple purchase for less than twenty dollars, and later reflected on the experience and thought "that was the best ten dollar purchase I've ever made" or "that was the best fifteen dollars I've ever spent".  As I drove down the 205 freeway with Motley Crue playing on my stereo, I shared that sentiment regarding the headphone jack I had purchased earlier that day at Target for twelve dollars.  The device plugged into my iPod on one end and into the stereo of my newly purchased Rav4 on the other.  I considered this a fantastic purchase because due to the outdated technology in my 2003 Camry that I was driving before, I've always had to use my headphones while listening to music during road trips.  Since I had a long road trip to the Eastern Sierras ahead of me, being able to listen to tunes on a car stereo rather than headphones was a soothing experience.  Between the pandemic and being busy with work and life in general, I had been very much looking forward to this adventure for some time.  It was shortly after 7:00 PM on Friday evening and because I was stuck in Labor Day traffic in the San Francisco Bay Area, I wouldn't be arriving in the mountains until later on that night.  My destination was the Big Pine Creek Trailhead just outside of the town of Big Pine, California, where three of my friends who were driving up from Southern California would be rendezvousing with me to hike Big Pine Lakes.  After what seemed like hours of sitting in stop and go traffic, I finally exited the 5 freeway, arriving in the town of Manteca, and eventually Oakdale, where I merged onto highway 108, a road with which I was quite familiar.  After driving past Pinecrest and the Dodge Ridge Ski Area, the road began a steep, twisting ascent up Sonora Pass.  The long ascent was inevitably followed by an equally menacing downhill, and as it leveled out, the lights of a peculiar outpost came into view.  I couldn't make out what the establishment was at the time, but I found out later it was the Mountain Warfare Training Center, a training facility operated by the United States Marine Corps which is used for training in high altitude and in mountainous  and snowy conditions during the winter.

The quiet, dark road eventually dumped me out at the eastern terminus onto the 395 freeway, which I would take southbound past Mono Lake and Mammoth Mountain all the way to Big Pine.  Upon arrival, I watched the lights of Owens Valley disappear beneath me as I followed the desolate winding road up into the mountains towards the trailhead, which sits at around 7,800 feet of elevation.  This was my first visit to Big Pine Lakes, so I wasn't one-hundred percent sure where I was going, but after driving along the road deep into the midnight wilderness, I arrived at my destination.  I had read online that the parking lot was small, which may have been an understatement.  The area was barely big enough to allow parking for ten vehicles, however there were plenty of open spaces.  I chose a spot right in front of the restroom for convenience.  The words "no overnight parking" were faintly painted on the curb.  Technically, I was off the hook since it was now 1:00 AM and very early in the morning.  It had taken me eight hours to get to the trailhead from my home in the San Francisco Bay Area.  As I opened my car door, the cool and crisp mountain air came pouring in, and the sound of Big Pine Creek flowing nearby filled the silence of a quiet night in the mountains with the full moon shining brightly overhead.  The parking lot was located in a clearing near a campground with several pine trees towering around the area.  After spending a few minutes taking in the beauty of the mountains, I brushed my teeth in the restroom, folded the back seats in my car down, and rolled out my sleeping bag and pad.  We were planning to begin hiking around 5:00 AM, so I quickly laid down to get some sleep before our epic journey.  I had just shut my eyes when I heard another car pull up outside. I looked out the window to see the headlights of a white Rubicon shining towards my car.  I immediately recognized that it was my friends Tony, Scott, and Edith.  They said they would be arriving shortly after me, and they had also safely found their way to the trailhead.  I got out to greet them, and after some brief chit chat, we all finally went to bed around 2:00 AM.  

Two and a half hours later, after what was really just a long nap, my alarm went off.  I had been waken up a few times by the sound of people talking outside and the headlights of cars who had either parked, or driven away after a few seconds of their headlights shining through my windows.  As I sat up and looked outside, the parking lot now had several more cars than when we arrived a few hours ago.  I stepped outside and stretched.  Although I hadn't slept much, I discovered, much to my delight, that the Rav4 was great for car camping.  There was easily room for two people, and I was able to stretch all the way out while lying down inside.  I'm six feet tall, so it was much more comfortable than having to crunch into the backseat of the Camry.  As I turned, I spotted Tony and Scott lying down in their sleeping bags and pads on the parking lot pavement in between our cars.  They soon began waking up, and a few moments later, Edith emerged from the back of the Rubicon, which she had all to herself.  "Edith, did you kick them out?" I asked jokingly as the beam of my headlamp captured their drowsy laughter.  The time was shortly after 5:45 AM by the time we made our final preparations and hit the trail, which began just on the other side of a gate at the parking area.  The temperature was chilly, around forty-five degrees Fahrenheit as we hiked along Big Pine Creek, but thanks to my sleeping bag, I had stayed warm throughout the night in my car.  As we crossed a bridge and made our way up a small series of switchbacks, the soft, orange glow of the rising sun emerged behind us.  I love sunrises in the mountains and our energy levels ramped up as the day began to slowly fill with vivid color.  As the sound of the flowing creek dissipated, we continued to climb the switchbacks of the North Fork Trail in a single file line, Edith in the front, Tony, Scott, then myself at the end.  We exchanged few words among each other during this climb, and I reveled in how cool it was to be hiking with some of my friends from Southern California.  We had all met through the local hiking and running community a while back when I was living in Los Angeles and we had shared several adventures together.  I hadn't seen Edith or Tony since the LA Marathon in March and the last time I had seen Scott was our failed attempt at climbing to the summit of Mount Shasta a year and three months prior.  Before long, we arrived at the first of several lakes along the trail.  The hike was an out and back route that climbed a little over 4,000 feet, and would take us past seven lakes, the turnaround point being at lake number seven.  Lakes one and two were only a short distance apart.  Both were breathtaking, however lake number two was widely considered to be the scenic highlight of hiking Big Pine Lakes.  And I could see why!  Mountain terrain towered around us in every direction and the jagged peaks of Temple Crag rested majestically directly in front of us across the lake.  Patches of snow coated the base of Temple Crag in certain areas that receive very limited sun exposure, and the lake gave off a beautifully surreal turquoise color.  

After spending several minutes taking photos and having food at the second lake, we continued onward towards lakes three, four, and five.  Lakes three and four were equally as serene, and when we arrived at lake number five, I was happy to discover that the trail took us right to the shore.  All of the other lakes thus far had great views, but were difficult to access due to the trail being at higher elevation than the shore.  Here, we took another break and by this time, exhaustion was beginning to set in.  As I stood on the shore admiring the lake, I dipped my hands in to test the temperature of the water.  It didn't exactly feel like a hot tub, but I thought that it would be a nice way to cool off and restore my energy.  I dropped my pack, took off my shirt, and slowly waddled into the lake, wearing my shoes and shorts.  My friends cheered from the shore as I slid into the frigid water, up to my neck.  The water was freezing, but it felt incredibly exhilarating.  I admired the beautiful mountain scenery around me as I continued to tread water.  I could clearly see the bottom, but similar to the other lakes, the water radiated a turquoise tone.  During the spring and early summer, the snow from the surrounding mountains melts and water flows into the lake, bringing with it a substance called glacial flour, which is essentially finely ground rock.  When this finely ground rock reflects in the sunlight at high altitude, the result is the water taking on a bright turquoise color that gives mountain alpine lakes a very unique tone.  The rejuvenating swim lasted only about thirty seconds before the water became too cold to handle, and I climbed out shivering.  As I dried off in the sun, Tony tossed me a fun sized Snickers.  "Here you go, this is your prize for going into the cold lake".  

After a long haul up several switchbacks and along some hilly terrain, we arrived at the sixth lake.  We had hiked to a little over 11,200 feet in elevation, and we decided to take a quick power nap.  I sat up against a rock in the shade of some massive pine trees, and closed my eyes for about ten minutes.  Although I nodded off occasionally, but I was ultimately unable to slip completely out of consciousness.  There was one lake left to visit, however we found out that the route was blocked by thick bushes, so we decided to turn around at the sixth lake and make our way back to the trailhead.  Seeing all of the lakes and beautiful scenery a second time during the return trip was really cool, however it was after 2:00 PM and we focused on keeping moving so we wouldn't finish too late.  Although I had hiked in the Eastern Sierras several times, this was my first time visiting Big Pine Lakes and I loved taking it all in.  The Eastern Sierras are a truly astounding place.  I was thoroughly convinced that people could spend their whole lives hiking here and there would always be new trails and new peaks to discover.  

When we finally arrived back at the trailhead shortly after 4:30 PM, we were exhausted and mildly overheated.  We snacked on chips and leftover Chinese food before leaving the parking lot, and heading down the grade into the town of Bishop to have dinner.  Despite the temperature being over one-hundred degrees Fahrenheit and the lack of air movement, our food from the Mountain Rambler Brewery was hitting the spot as we chowed down and sipped our cold beers at an outdoor table in front of the restaurant.  It was around 7:30 PM when I finally bid my friends farewell.  We promised each other that we'd go on another hiking adventure soon just before getting into our cars to head back to our respective homes.  As I drove north on the 395 freeway, I felt exhausted and considered pulling over to take a nap, but the temperature was still around ninety degrees, even as the sun began to go down.  Trying to nap in a car with that kind of heat would be unbearable.  Fire season had started early this year in California, and as I drove through the village of Lee Vining near Mono Lake, the air quality was so bad that the headlights of oncoming cars appeared yellow, and I could see the smoke in the air underneath the overhead lights that lit up the desolate highway.  Just when I considered putting on a mask to shield the smoky air, even inside my car, the air became cleaner as I drove through Bridgeport and eventually turned left onto highway 108, which I would follow over Sonora Pass once again.  The route would lead me through the Stanislaus National Forest to the Central Valley, where I would get on the 205 freeway towards the Bay Area.  Before long, I began the long drive up the twisting mountain road to the summit of Sonora Pass.  Only this time it was different.  Twenty hours earlier I was more awake and alert, but when you throw an eight hour drive, two-and-a-half hours of sleep, and hiking fifteen miles at high elevation into the equation, things get much more complicated.  My hunger was satisfied, perhaps even overly satisfied, my hydration levels were great (I had peed a few times during the hike and afterwards), but my exhaustion level was getting higher by the moment and the sleep deprivation was setting in.  The drowsiness, the darkness, and the steep road, which climbed at a 26% grade in some areas, began messing with my head and pulling me into a foggy, dreamlike state.  This drive was getting sketchier with every passing mile.  Even with my brights on, the surrounding terrain was pitch black.  I wondered if I would see any other cars out here making their way along this winding road that seemed to never end.  Rounding a particularly steep curve at ten miles per hour, the headlights of an oncoming vehicle that looked to be going way too fast shined directly in my face.  I stared in shock for a split second, knowing that I was about to be in a head-on collision, but the car veered from it's course at the last nano-second, barreled down the sharp curve, and disappeared around the bend just as quickly as it appeared.  "Whoa, shit" I said out loud as my heart raced.  

Somehow, I managed to make it over the summit of Sonora Pass at 9,600 feet.  The road crossed from Mono County into Tuolumne County at the peak, and began a decent towards the towns of Strawberry and Pinecrest.  The drive downhill wasn't any better.  I remained calm, but the the sharp curves and twisting road compounded with the pitch black night were playing games with my mind.  The surrounding wilderness was beautiful, though I could barely see anything even in the beams of my headlights, and occasionally I would come across parked cars on a turnout and the entrance to a campground off the side of the narrow highway.  Out of nowhere, a pair of headlights appeared behind me.  Looking in my rear view mirror, I could see that the vehicle was very close, although after a few moments the driver backed off.  Perhaps they came quickly around a corner and mistakenly pulled up close behind me.  I had been going at a pretty reserved speed, so I decided to accelerate a little, and soon the headlights of the vehicle disappeared behind me.  I continued to drive for several miles at a slightly faster speed, rounding the downhill curves of the mountain road, when the headlights from the vehicle abruptly appeared closely behind me again.  This drive was started to become not fun anymore really fast.  What was this person doing?  Were they just screwing with me? Or did they have bad intentions?  Were they trying to hurt me? I again accelerated to attempt to get away from the vehicle and before long, a turnout emerged.  The car passed by at a modest speed as I pulled into the turnout to let them by.  As the car disappeared into the darkness in front of me, I realized that they were not doing any of those things to me at all.  The driver was probably just a normal person who was much less exhausted than I was, had a smaller car that could get around these curves faster, and was just traveling at a swifter rate than I was.  This is what sleep deprivation does to people's minds.  Not enough sleep, especially during vigorous physical activity, can trigger paranoia and hallucinations.  I wasn't at the hallucination stage that I had reached in the middle of the night during the Tahoe Rim Trail 100-miler, but my mind was certainly messing with me.  Now that I was alone on the road again, I breathed a sigh of relief.  I put some music on, and felt more at ease now that I was free to drive safely at my own speed.  

When I finally arrived in the village of Jamestown in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, I felt the need to pull over into a parking lot near a gas station and rest.  Having been through the ordeal on Sonora Pass, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.  Twenty minutes later I was back on the road with just under two hours of driving left until I reached home.  My energy had been partially restored from the short nap, but I still remained exhausted.  "Let's just get home safely, and I can laugh about all of this tomorrow morning". I kept saying to myself.  Time passed, miles were covered, music played on my car stereo, I sang out loud, I thought about how fun the journey had been, and I finally arrived home shortly after 2:00 AM.  When I finally laid down in bed, I was out within seconds.  As mentioned above, I knew I would laugh about this whole experience the following morning, and indeed I did.  As I sat in my living room and sipped my coffee I wondered how in the hell I had gotten myself home the night before.  I thought about how beautiful Big Pine Lakes were and how awesome it was to see my friends.  The part that made me laugh the most was although the hike was beautiful, the drive home was more eventful in some ways than the actual hike.  The truth was I felt relieved that I had allowed that car to pass me so I could safely drive down the mountain road, and I was glad that I had decided to take a power nap in Jamestown.  Even though participating in these activities is risky, I have always tried to act as responsibly as I possibly could, and I was happy that I had done that very thing this time around, especially during the trip home.  This experience, along with so many others I've had, reiterated one thing to me; during endurance events, no matter how awful I'm feeling in that particular moment, I can guarantee there will be a time in the future where I look back and laugh and reminisce about how crazy and awesome the experience was at the time.       

Beast Pacing Virtual 50K: My Toughest 50K Yet

When I write blog posts about races, I like to deviate from the standard format and, for example, choose a moment in the race that was memorable to me in some way and start off by telling a detailed story about that particular episode.  It's often a moment when something went wrong or when something crazy happened.  I tell that short story to give readers an idea of what they can expect before telling the rest of the story of how the race went in chronological order.  I enjoy using this method and I wish I could do the same for my race report on the Beast Pacing Virtual 50K, but honestly, I was such a hot mess during this virtual race that I don't know where to begin.  The best way to tell the story is to simply go in chronological order, one blunder after another.  If anyone wants an idea of what they can expect in this story, it involves the Western States trail, the most painfully slow 50K I've ever completed, extreme exhaustion, and puking.  So, here we go;

As I pulled off the 80 freeway, I got that feeling of nervous excitement that I always get when I arrive in Auburn, California.  It may be just a small town in the Sierra foothills to most people, but to me it's much more than that.  Almost every time I go to Auburn it's because I'm about to embark on some kind of adventure on the Western States trail.  The euphoria and excitement kick in, as well as bits of nervousness due to the fact that this trail can be very daunting and it's kicked my butt in the past.  Despite, or perhaps because of this, the Western States trail holds lots of great memories and is one of my favorite stomping grounds.  Today I would expect it to be no different.  As I exited the freeway, I made a right turn onto Auburn Ravine Road and proceeded into the wilderness towards Foresthill.  Driving down the grade, the clear blue sky and olive green foothills dominated the horizon.  About twenty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of Foresthill Elementary School and chose a parking spot in the shade.  The wilderness air was crisp and cool when I stepped out of my car and stretched my body out after the three hour drive.  As I looked around, I saw two other cars nearby, one with another guy getting ready for a run, and another with a guy preparing for a bike ride.  Once I completed the meticulous process of preparing for the journey ahead, I threw my pack onto my shoulders and began jogging up Foresthill Road towards the intersection of Bath Road.  Bath Road was a twisting descent towards the entrance to the Western States trail, and now that I had more privacy away from the main road, I wandered into the trees off the roadside to relieve myself.  While doing so, I heard footsteps from the road and saw the other runner from the parking lot gliding by through the trees.  The trail leaving Bath Road began with a steep downhill towards Volcano Canyon.  Most sections of the Western States trail are well maintained, but this particular section was littered with rocks and natural debris.  Because of this, it required heightened attention going down this descent to avoid stumbling or falling.  As I came around a bend, the other runner emerged on the side of the trail.  He was from Grass Valley and had come out to run from Foresthill to Michigan Bluff and back, calling it an "easy day".  When he inquired about what I was doing, I chuckled, thinking he would think I was crazy for doing a virtual 50K on my own, but he actually thought it was really cool.  The opinions among members of the running community with regards to virtual races have been very polarized.  Some runners love the idea and see it as a way of helping to keep races in business and maintain a sense of togetherness during quarantine, while others view them as a rip off, asserting the position that paying money to run alone is a load of nonsense.  This particular virtual race was put on by Beast Pacing, an organization made up entirely of volunteers who pace runners through marathons and half marathons all over the country.  I love pacing my friends during ultras, so I thought it would be cool to pace at road races also.  I joined the organization in January and was planning to pace the two hour group at a half marathon for the first time in April, but the race ended up getting pushed to October.  Due to the high number of cancelled races, the founder of the organization created the virtual race, which offered any distance from a half marathon up to a 200-miler.  Eager to help the organization during these tough times, I signed up for the 50K in early May.

After parting ways with the guy from Grass Valley, I continued down the trail, which led me to a creek in the pit of the canyon.  The descent was followed inevitably by a steep uphill climb, which slowed my pace.  When the trail eventually leveled out, I encountered an older man and woman who were out for a hike.  They introduced themselves as Dave and Carol.  They were a friendly couple and lived in one of the houses in Michigan Bluff along the course.  My plan was to do an out and back style course from Foresthill to Deadwood Canyon and back.  During this run I would also be passing through Michigan Bluff, so when I told them what I was doing, they told me that if I needed anything during the return trip to come find their house and knock on the door.  I thanked them for their generous offer, and pressed onward.  Eventually I arrived at the junction where the trail continued onto a fire road that would take me into Michigan Bluff.  When I arrived about fifteen minutes later, I ran a short stretch down Gorman Ranch Road before picking the trail back up again.  The trail descended two-and-a-half miles into another canyon, which was followed by a long, 2,600-foot, 4-mile climb up to Devil's Thumb.  Although the climb was lengthy and time consuming, I was occasionally treated to a beautiful vista of the mountains in the distance, and as I got closer to Devil's Thumb, I admired the gorgeous surroundings.  Towering pine trees lined the trail, pine cones were strewn about, and sawed up tree logs lined the trail sides in some areas.  I would periodically hear a soft crashing noise in the forest.  This trail was known for bear and mountain lion sightings even under normal circumstances, and I wondered if I would have a higher chance of encountering wildlife due to the lower volume of human traffic on the trail over the last few months.  It was important to stay alert so I could act accordingly if needed.  From Devil's Thumb,  the trail again began a sharp, twisting downhill into Deadwood Canyon.  During this descent, I was quickly made aware that the trail had not been maintained in quite some time.  I slowed down as I approached a stretch of trail full of overgrown shrubs that stood about five feet high, making the trail nearly invisible.  I carefully made my way through, hoping to not disturb the bees who were pollinating in the flowers that lined the sides of the narrow trail.  After descending about 1,700 feet in two miles, I arrived at the swinging bridge at the gorge of Deadwood Canyon and took a seat on a rock.  The bridge crossed the American River, and on the other side was another uphill climb to Last Chance, but I had reached the turnaround point, and would now go back the way I came.  Which of course meant that I would need to climb back up to Devil's Thumb.  

After taking a break and snacking on some trail mix, I began powering up the climb.  Within minutes I started to feel as if there were weights attached to my shoes.  I had been doing virtual utras during quarantine, but they had all been on paved, more gentle courses that had very little elevation gain.  I hadn't done any runs or hikes with significant climbing in the last three or four months.  I drank from my hydration pack, but I began to feel concerned that I would run out of water.  Since my body was working much harder than it was used to, I was sweating quite a bit, much more than I would have if I were better conditioned.  Temperatures in the canyons section of the trail can be very hot at this time of year, but it was unseasonably cool today, for which I was thankful.  Still, I continued to sweat and drink from my pack as I made my way up the ascent, one step at a time.  The climb was a 50-minute long struggle that left me huffing and puffing as I approached Devil's Thumb.  Passing through the two sections of overgrown shrubs on the ascent, which stretched along the trail for about a hundred feet, my pace was much slower and there were more bees.  I was surprised I made it through without getting stung.  Even though the trail was now following a gentle downhill grade, I walked, trying to regain my energy after the climb.  I was carrying Nuun with me, an electrolyte supplement that came in the form of a solid tab that is designed to be dissolved in water.  Because I was concerned about my electrolyte levels, I instead took a shortcut, and popped the tab into my mouth, chewed it up, and immediately washed it down with water as it fizzed up and expanded inside my mouth.  The flavor was strong, and I could feel the contents of the tab expanding in my stomach, but it seemed like an effective way to pump electrolytes into my system quickly.  As I ran downhill back into El Dorado Canyon, I heard the sound of a shotgun being fired in the distance.  This was a popular area for gun activity, and many of the signs along the trail were riddled with bullet holes.  After crossing the bridge at the pit of the canyon, I again took a seat on a rock to try to regroup.  At this point, even running downhill was becoming exhausting and I knew what was next.  I stood up and began the harsh, 2,000-foot climb back up to Michigan Bluff.  It was agonizing.  I wasn't hurting or cramping up, but I was so exhausted, I was barely able to lift my feet off the ground and my steps were short and labored.  My head hung down, facing the dirt, and I would occasionally look up at the trail in front of me.  I stopped to rest at several points during the climb.  Rather than walking up to a rock and sitting down, I would practically fall onto it and just sit there guzzling water as my heart thudded in my chest.  It seemed like nothing could restore my energy.  I tried eating more trail mix, but it was like dropping wood into a chipper.  I would push myself up off the rock and waddle uphill for another few hundred feet, only to have to stop again.  The climb just never fucking ended.  

I let out a big sigh of relief as Michigan Bluff eventually emerged through the brush.  As I strolled down the trail and onto Gorman Ranch Road, I took a seat on a wooden picnic table off to the roadside.  "Just six more miles to go" I said to myself.  The route back to Foresthill from Michigan Bluff was about a 10K distance.  Unfortunately, between those two points was a short uphill climb, a steep downhill descent into Volcano Canyon, and one final climb up to my finish line in Foresthill.  My remaining water had been consumed during the hellish ascent from El Dorado Canyon, leaving me dry.  I wondered if it would be smart to continue without any water.  But I was so exhausted, it seemed like a losing battle either way.  Should I try to find Dave and Carol's house and see if they could give me a ride back to Foresthill?  There were a half-dozen or so houses on this small stretch of road, and they probably lived in one of them.  My Strava indicated that I was twenty-five miles in, and I seriously considering downgrading to the marathon distance.  But I also didn't know if I technically could do that.  I thought about how much easier it would be if I just hobbled six tenths of a mile down the trail and back, and claimed the marathon distance instead.  Today just wasn't happening for me.  I had done this exact course a handful of times in the past and this was by far the toughest go I ever had at it.  I blamed it on the quarantine, the lack of mobility I've had over the last three months, and the fact that I hadn't done any runs or hikes with drastic elevation change in quite some time.  The Western States 100, my dream race, follows this exact same course.  Michigan Bluff is the fifty-five mile mark, and many runners are in rough shape when they arrive here, having just traversed through the canyons.  It's here that their psychological toughness really gets put to the test.  That was it, I'd had enough.  It was time to stop letting the negative thoughts influence me.  If you allow negative thoughts to consume your mind during an ultra, you're screwed.  In times like this, a positive attitude is your greatest asset.  I stood up, threw my pack on, and continued onto the trail from the road.  "50K or nothing!" I said out loud.  Over the years, I've learned my limits.  Yes, I was extremely exhausted, but that was all, really.  I was not in any pain, I was not cramping up, and I had peed a couple of times throughout the run, so despite being out of water, I decided I would try to make it the final six miles.  It was going to be slow, but I was going to do my best.  As Michigan Bluff disappeared behind me, I knew that I had no choice at this point except to get myself back to Foresthill.  There was no turning back now.  

Exhaustion set in pretty hard when I arrived at the creek at the bottom of Volcano Canyon.  I sat on a rock with my feet in the creek, shoes and socks included, which felt exhilarating.  I had about three miles left to go, but my mouth had become very dry.  As I sat there, I looked down at the flowing water.  The hamster in my brain began running on his wheel.  I had always been hesitant to drink water from streams or creeks for fear of getting sick from bacteria, but I had also heard that if the water was flowing, which it was in this case, it was safe to drink.  Should I do it?  "Screw it" I thought.  I might get sick, but it was a desperate moment.  I put my open palms together, dipped them into the creek, and began sucking in the cold water by the handful.  I drank a good six or seven handfuls of the creek water, which felt incredible, before standing up to conquer the final climb.  With some water in my system, I felt slightly more coherent.  The final stretch of the climb was brutal as I tried to prevent stumbling on the rocks, panting like a dog.  As I made my way back up Bath Road, I stopped, and sat down, legs stretched out, right in the middle of the road.  I had less than a mile to go.  "Get up!" I told myself out loud.  I thought about Dusty Olson when he was pacing Scott Jurek at the Western States 100.  "Come on Jurker, get up!".  "Let's go Jurker, you're not going to win this fucking race lying down in the dirt.  Now get up!".  I stood up and began walking up the road.  Before long, the street sign for Foresthill Road appeared in front of me.  I hobbled and walked the final stretch to the virtual finish line.  Once my Strava hit thirty-one miles, I threw my arms in the air in celebration.  I had started running at 7:15 AM that morning, and it was now nearly 6:00 PM.  The run had taken me ten-and-a-half hours, by far my slowest 50K yet.  After cleaning myself up in my car and leaving Foresthill, I stopped at the small gas station in town and bought water, Gatorade, and soda in an effort to restore my hydration levels.  By the time I made it to Auburn about twenty minutes later, my head was spinning, and I decided it was in my best interest to pull over and take a nap before driving two-and-a-half hours back home to the Bay Area.  After getting about an hour of sleep in my car, I woke up feeling more alert, but I abruptly let out a belch.  There was a brief moment of silence, but then my eyes widened, and I opened my car door, pointed my head towards the pavement, and let the puke come streaming out.  After a few hurls, I sat up and realized I felt much better.  The only problem was I was now even more dehydrated, but I would make sure I consumed a lot of liquids during the drive home.  The puke was mainly liquid, so it just looked like someone had poured out some water in the parking lot as I drove away.  I had never puked after an ultra before, but it was certainly a normal occurrence among ultrarunners.  I'm not sure whether it was the creek water or if I simply pushed myself too hard, but it felt like a rite of passage.  During the ride home I was able to restore my hydration and I felt much more coherent.  It had been one hell of a journey that day.  I wasn't exactly thrilled about how painfully slow my time was, but it was a virtual race.  No one was trying to set any records.  Overall, I was thankful for the experience.  Of course having a good race is awesome, but having a hard race really makes runners dig deep.  It makes us question whether or not we truly have what it takes to push through the misery and keep going.  It's good practice for not only getting through other long runs in the future, but also for getting through other mishaps in our personal lives.  I'm thankful that on this day, I was able to experience what I did.  It wasn't the first, and it won't be the last time I struggle.