Don't Forget To Laugh

Running long distances can create a plethora of feelings and emotions.  Everything from feelings of excitement, exhaustion, and pain, to anxiety, optimism, and accomplishment.  While running a marathon, runners often experience a whirlwind of emotions that leaves them feeling like they lived a whole year in just a few hours when they cross the finish line.  In addition to abundant training and conditioning, there is another action that is required by runners to be successful in long distance running; they need to laugh.  Anyone who has been a long distance runner for long enough knows that there is no shortage of funny moments in the sport.  A key element in running is experiencing the humor and creating fond memories with friends and family that can be shared and treasured for a lifetime. 

On the morning of July 4^th, 2017 Janet, Brady, and I ran a fourth of July themed 10-K with some of Janet’s coworkers.  To our delight, we noticed that there were a lot of older people who looked to be in their seventies and eighties participating.  They weren’t all moving swiftly, but they were out there making it happen.  Seeing them also triggered funny memories of how we saw so many naked elderly men when we ran Bay to Breakers six weeks prior.  When the post race email from the Bay to Breakers organization was sent out to the participants advising them that the race photos were available, Janet and I were appalled, but then we were laughing like hyenas when we saw the action photos of her during the race.  There she was, dog leash in hand, and standing behind her to the left in plain view was a gentleman who looked to be in his mid-seventies in his birthday suit, full frontal, looking on as if nothing was amiss.  We couldn’t stop laughing.  If we had tried to share that photo on Facebook or other social media sites, it would have been flagged and removed immediately.  Later that day on July 4^th, we congregated at Janet’s mother’s house.  We’re always thinking of clever ways to mess with Mom so we decided it would be hilarious to show her the outrageous photo of Janet from Bay to Breakers.  She immediately began laughing which made us laugh along.  We then proceeded to watch TV and looked back at Mom a few minutes later to find that she was still staring at the photo.  We just looked at her until she looked up at us and we began laughing hysterically.  Mom loved it.  We did too!

I too have had my fair share of botched race photos.  Sometimes I’m not ready for the camera and a picture will be taken of me with my eyes closed or my tongue out.  The funniest race photo I’ve ever had was when Janet, our friend Anthony, and I ran Revel Mount Charleston, a half marathon near Las Vegas.  We arrived the night before, had a delicious dinner, and woke up at 3:45 AM on race morning.  The course was primarily downhill and followed a mountain road from part of the way up Mount Charleston down into the city.  Janet, Anthony, and I split up throughout the race but during the last mile, I spotted Anthony in front of me and pulled up next to him.  He was hurting but he was still moving pretty good.  We shuffled along together towards the finish line and just as we crossed, a photographer was on the sidelines.  As we ran by, I smiled and threw my arms in the air.  I didn’t think anything of it until a few days later when the race photos were posted online, I saw myself with my arms in the air smiling, but Anthony was right next to me in the photo with a look on his face like he was about to cry from excruciating pain.  In a comical way, this photo did a perfect job of capturing all the emotions felt from opposite ends of the spectrum.  Late last year a few of my co-workers and I ran a Tough Mudder race in Temecula.  The Tough Mudder is not your average foot race.  The course is ten to twelve miles long and contains several army style obstacles.  Getting through these obstacles requires a team effort, and when the photos were posted, I noticed that as I was helping my friend Zach over an obstacle, my palm was right on his rear end.  “Looks like someone is trying to cop a feel” he said to me.  “What can I say?  You’re sexy” I joked.

I’ve also had moments where I’ve been “that guy” while running.  One summer morning, I was on my way down from Cucamonga peak on the Ice House Canyon trail when I spotted a group of hikers about a hundred yards in front of me down the trail.  In a flash of distraction, I tripped over a rock and came crashing down on the trail right in front of them in the midst of saying hello.  The damage was nothing more than a few scrapes and cuts and I got right back up and continued onward.  The hikers were speechless and looked at me as if they had just seen a space alien.  I ran by them grinning letting them know that I was okay, trying to lighten the tone.  Throughout the rest of the run, I laughed to myself at my clumsiness and made jokes to hikers who inquired about my bloody knee, saying things like “Tell the kids this is what happens when you’re not careful” and jokingly explaining that a hiker had tripped me because it angered him that I was going faster than him.   

Last July, I was finishing up my last leg of a relay trail race near Lake Tahoe.  Janet, myself, and three of our friends were a five-person team participating in an eight-person event known as Ragnar Tahoe.  I was finishing my thirty fifth mile of the race and although I was having a blast, the cumulative miles and high altitude were taking a toll on me.  With a quarter of a mile left to go, I ran past spectators cheering me on and someone cracked open a Coors Light, handing it to me as I ran by.  I ran for about fifty yards before taking a pull from the can when a guy who looked to be about eighteen said “Chug! Chug!” I knew he was poking fun but in my discomfort from the altitude sickness, I didn’t quite share this same attitude and I got a little annoyed.  “Dude, seriously?  I just ran thirty-five miles I can’t chug right now!”  The guy laughed and apologized.  “It’s okay man, I’m just not feeling my best right now” I sounded like a whiny teenager riddled with angst and regretted getting so worked up.  After crossing the finish line, I finished the beer and although I felt a little sick and light headed, I was overjoyed that I had just finished my last leg and that we as a team would soon be finished.  I laughed to myself about my grumpy response to the kid on the side of the trail and the ridiculousness of how I got annoyed over something so silly.   

Between the signs created by LA Marathon spectators that read “If Trump can run, so can you!” and being crammed into a two-person tent with two other guys on Mount Shasta, I’ve had plenty of laughable moments throughout my many adventures and I look forward to more.  Humor is a key factor in developing an attitude towards running.  If you want to have a good outlook on running, it is important to laugh at not only the funny moments but also at yourself sometimes.  Running can be, among many things, painful.  When we push our minds and bodies to their limit, it isn’t always fun and we need the comedic moments to help make it all worthwhile.  Just like any other hobby, it’s important to have fun while doing it.  Having fun and laughing creates a positive experience, an optimistic attitude, and keeps us coming back for more.  So, when you’re out there and hurting, feeling like you can’t go any further, try to laugh and smile.  It goes a long way and may be the key factor that gets you to the finish line!

Dream Big: The Domino Comparison

In 2011 I read “Ultramarathon Man: Confessions of an All-Night Runner” by Dean Karnazes, one of my running heroes.  Although a very inspirational read, there was one section that especially intrigued me; his detailed account of running his first Western States 100 in the summer of 1994.  In the book, he recounts the race from start to finish, describing in detail the course, terrain, and the highs and lows he encountered along the way.  The Western States 100, officially known as the Western States Endurance Run, is a one-hundred-mile foot race held every year on the last weekend of June in Northern California.  Beginning at the base of the Squaw Valley Ski Resort, the course is held entirely on trails and traverses the Sierra Nevada Mountains across rugged terrain.  Runners ascend just over eighteen thousand feet, descend nearly twenty-three thousand feet, pass over snowy peaks, descend into brutally hot canyons, and cross several streams and rivers before arriving at the finish line on the Placer High School track in Auburn, California.  At one point, it was considered to be one of the most grueling foot races in the world.  Most people can’t imagine the idea of running one hundred miles.  As I read Dean’s memoir, I must admit, I fell into this same category with the non-believers.  I recall thinking “this Western States 100 sounds really fun but there is absolutely no way I could ever do that”.  Hell, I had just run my first Marathon six months prior.  The thought of running beyond twenty-six point two miles baffled me.  How is it humanly possible to run one hundred miles?  How is this guy not dead? How did he make it all that way without his body experiencing a complete meltdown?  As exciting as that section of the book had been at the time, I dismissed the possibility of running a one-hundred-mile footrace as something that simply would never happen for me.  Sure, it was possible for some people but I was certain that I would never have the bio-mechanics, physical strength, and mental grit to run even beyond a marathon.  In my mind, the marathon was the ultimate running challenge.  I could go twenty-six point two miles but anything beyond that was completely unworldly.   

As the years went on, I read Ultramarathon Man several more times along with Dean’s other books, and my curiosity began to get the better or me.  More specifically, I began to take a particular interest in the Western States 100.  I read about the race on Wikipedia and on the official website, and viewed race photos of runners passing over the summit of Squaw Valley, through the beautiful forests, and through the notorious canyons.  I watched youtube videos and began learning as much about the race as I could.  By this time, I had finished nine marathons and was capable of running fifteen or sixteen miles on any given day.  I had also moved to Southern California and, through an unlikely series of events, had taken up trail running.  Instead of strictly running along the city streets of my neighborhood in Los Angeles, I also ran on trails in Griffith Park and the San Gabriel mountains.  I loved the thrill and excitement that these trail runs brought me and I wanted more.  In search of a more adventurous race, I came across the Bulldog 50K while surfing the internet.  The race looked exciting, but still, fifty Kilometers is beyond a marathon.  Would I be able finish?  I had finished nine marathons and was running on trails regularly, but would my endurance be able to carry me through thirty-one miles?  After pondering the idea for a little while, I signed up.  The race was four months away.  “No turning back now” I thought to myself.  When race day came, I was ready.  I had run the LA Marathon earlier that year and done lots of training on the trails in preparation for the race.  I stood at the starting area trying to alleviate the butter flies in my stomach.  “It’s just a little trail run” I thought to myself.  “We’re just going to go for a little run on the trails.  Don’t worry about how long it will take or how hard it will be.  Just go.”  When the gun went off, I took off slowly, taking a steady and reserved approach to the early stages of the race.  The course was completely enclosed within Malibu Creek State Park in Calabasas, California.  I ran up and down hills on exposed hiking trails, through tree lined paths, and over rocky passes.  I hiked up the steep inclines, ran on the flat sections, and tore down the descents.  All was going seemingly well until I began to hit a wall around mile twenty-seven.  I began feeling loopy and my breathing became staggered.  At mile twenty-eight, my leg cramps abruptly became so painful, I was forced to stop and stretch on the side of the trail for a good four minutes.  There was an uphill climb during the last two miles, something I could normally do without too much effort, but after running nearly thirty miles, it was beating me into submission.    It was slow going but I persevered and shuffled my way to the one hundred yard stretch to the finish line.  I began sprinting in excitement and came bursting across the finish line, throwing my arms in the air in celebration.  Moments later, I received a commemorative belt buckle, which is often the prize for finishing an ultra.  When the volunteer placed it in my hands I was beyond overjoyed.  I felt like I was Mario and I had just saved the princess.   Two years prior, I never thought I would be capable of running beyond a marathon.  I never thought I would have the courage to test the boundaries, push my mind and body to new limits, and dream bigger.  The realization was like stepping into another dimension.  I had now crossed into a world where so few people ever set foot in life.  I never truly believed that I could do it until I crossed the finish line and that belt buckle was placed in my hand.  “Sir? Can you please keep moving so the other finishers can come through?” In the excitement of the moment, it dawned on me that I was still standing right in the middle of the finish area.  I looked up and saw a volunteer standing in front of me “Yes!  No problem, sorry” I grinned.  I was so excited I felt as though I was walking on a cloud as I made my way back to my car. 

After finishing the Bulldog 50K, the thought of running Western States seemed more practical.  Sure, I had only completed thirty-one miles, about one third of the length of Western States, but I began to wonder if, with some training, I would be able to gut out those one hundred miles.  Getting into Western States is no easy task.  The first step is to qualify by completing a race of their choosing, which is almost always a 100K or a 100 miler.  If you qualify, you must apply for the lottery within the seven day application period, and cross your fingers that you get selected.  The race website has a list of qualifying races from which applicants can chose to enter.  I chose The Canyons 100K which was to be held in Foresthill, California in late April, on the Western States Trail.  If I finished within the eighteen-hour cutoff time, I would qualify for Western States, however I looked at it more as a new adventure and challenge.  I made it to mile forty-eight before I had to be pulled from the event due to not making it to Rucky Chucky by the cutoff time.  Although I did not finish or qualify for Western States, I had a chance to race on the most challenging section of the Western States Trail and enjoyed the experience immensely.  I promised myself that I would return to Foresthill the following year after more training to seek redemption at the Canyons 100K.  When I take a moment to step back and look, even though I didn’t finish, it’s alarming to me that I would attempt a 100K.  This wasn’t even a 100K on paved roads, it was on mountain trails with several thousand feet of elevation gain and loss on rugged terrain.  If someone had told me two years prior that I would be attempting a 100K footrace someday, I would have looked at them sideways.  How did I go from running twenty-six point two miles and calling it a day, completely dismissing the idea of running further to attempting to run sixty-two miles?  This analogy can best be compared to a set of dominoes.  You can stand one two inch tall domino up that weighs an ounce next to another domino that is a foot tall and weighs two pounds but it is impossible for the small domino to knock the big one over.  Now, if you put several more dominoes in between the two with each one slightly bigger than the previous one, you can tip the small one, momentum will build up, and eventually the big one will fall.  When I had finished running my first marathon on paved streets, running one hundred miles on a trail seemed impossible.  I had taken baby steps by finishing several more marathons, taking my running from the flat streets to the hilly mountain trails, logging more distance, completing a 50K race, and finishing forty-eight miles of a 100K race.  Each of these elements had represented a domino in my line.  I have since made it a goal of mine to finish the Western States 100.  How am I going to do that?  More dominoes.  The next domino in my line is to complete more 50K races, complete a 50 miler, complete the Canyons 100K, complete at least one other 100K race, and run Western States, the final domino in my line.

 

I have applied this domino theory to other aspects of my life including my academics, making the move from the Midwest to California, holding on to relationships, and most recently, the development of my career.  If something seems impossible or unattainable just think of the domino scenario.  Achieving goals is not just about striving to achieve the goal itself, it’s about taking the right steps to get there.  Applying the domino theory and taking baby steps will help you realize that you can achieve so much more than you ever thought you could and nothing is impossible.  So, as those legendary Boston rockers say, “Dream on, dream until your dreams come true!”.   

The Shasta Connection

It was approaching 3:30 AM on Saturday morning as I attempted to turn my body over in my tight quarters.  I was wrapped in a sleeping bag, wearing a pair of snow pants and a fleece jacket, sleeping between my two friends Nick and Scott inside a two-person tent on the snow covered ground, 10,400 feet up the side of Mount Shasta.  As I turned, I felt my foot lightly strike Nick in the head.  Or maybe it was his face.  “Sorry Nick” I said.  No response.  He was knocked out and apparently didn’t feel or hear a thing.  What a fun night this was!  I closed my eyes in an effort to get a little more sleep before it was time to start climbing again.  I began cracking up about my current predicament knowing that without a doubt, Scott, Nick, and I would become best of friends amid this experience of being crammed together in a tent all night on a mountain, barely able to move.    

My adventure began at 4:00 AM on Friday morning.  I began stumbling around my apartment trying to wake up, getting my gear together for the upcoming adventure.  As I gathered my equipment I took mental inventory of everything I needed: Mountaineering boots, snow pants, ice axe, gloves, helmet, headlamp, goggles, bandana, warm clothing, tent, sleeping bag.  Scott and Jose arrived a few minutes before 5:00 AM.  I said goodbye to my wife and dog, crammed my gear into Scott’s trunk, and we hit the road.  It was a nine hour drive from West LA to Mount Shasta.  We made our way up the 5 freeway through the central valley past farms, ranches, small outposts, and distant mountains.  After passing through the town of Redding, the flat, featureless land gave way to rolling hills filled with Douglas Fir trees and granite mountain peaks.  As we crossed the bridge and passed over Shasta Lake, we watched the jet skiers and wake boarders on the lake below.  A warm summer day was in progress in the Northern California mountains.  Our destination came into view as we descended a hill on the freeway.  Part of the southern Cascade range, Mount Shasta is a free standing mountain rising 14,172 feet, towering over all of the surrounding peaks in the area.  The mountain is so prominent, it can be seen up to one hundred and twenty miles away from the freeway.  Even in June, it was still covered in snow, completely white.  “Can’t wait to get up there” Jose said as we all fixed our eyes on the mountain.  We were going to be climbing with a group of thirteen people up Avalanche Gulch to the summit.  Due to its elevation and towering prominence, Mount Shasta tends to draw in extreme weather, the conditions having the potential to deteriorate sometimes within an hour.  We had all heard stories about this mountain.  About climbers being forced to turn around because they became so ill with altitude sickness, they could barely move.  About how people had gone back down alone and had gotten lost.  A few weeks ago, a friend of ours had climbed up eleven thousand feet before having to retreat back to camp for fear of heat stroke.  While the climb isn’t technically challenging, it is steep in certain areas and requires the use of crampons and an ice axe.  This expedition was going to be about one thing; working together as a team.  We all shared a common goal of reaching the summit and we would help each other along the way to accomplish that goal. 

When we arrived into town we made our way up the windy, tree lined road through the Shasta-Trinity Forest to the Bunny Flat trailhead.  Once the rest of our team arrived, we greeted each other with hugs, high fives, and handshakes, made our final preparations and began climbing around 7:45 PM.  The plan was to climb up the mountain side (there was no trail) in the snow to Helen Lake High Camp, rest for the night, and begin our push for the summit the next morning at 6:00 AM.  We made our way through the forest, single file, with the tree lined path soon giving way to the exposed mount slopes.  After a mile of climbing through the middle of the giant U shaped gulch, we turned around as the sun was setting.  The sunset was spectacular and various hues of purple, blue, and orange hovered over the horizon above the tree line and mountains in the distance.  We stopped at horse camp, elevation 7,900 feet, to de-layer and use what was by far the cleanest outhouse restroom I had ever seen.  As we continued to make our way up the steep mountain side, the sun was setting and soon fell below the horizon.  We switched on our headlamps, and although it was now dark and the temperature was in the 40’s, I hardly felt cold.  The steps up this steep climb were keeping my blood flowing and keeping my body warm.  Hours passed, distance was covered, and by midnight we were ascending a particularly steep climb, about a thousand feet below camp.   During a brief rest break we turned off our headlamps.  With no light pollution to dilute the atmosphere, the sky was absolutely stunning.  A million stars sparkled brightly down on us.  If we had looked long enough, we could have identified countless constellations.  As we pressed on, exhaustion began to set in.  The steepness of the climb, altitude, and the weight of my pack were taking a toll on me.  Still, I kept moving forward, periodically slipping in the uneven snow.  We climbers exchanged few words with each other along this challenging section but we were all focused and determined.  My world was confined to the light of my headlamp, the snow on the ground in front of me, and the footprints of Rigo, our leader, who was in front of me leading the way.  I was trying my best to climb in his steps to prevent stumbling.   “Man Rigo, your footprints sure are a nice view” I joked with my head down looking at the snow.  I occasionally looked up, hoping to see a horizon where the whiteness of the snow and the blackness of the starry sky came together, indicating that we were approaching the crest of the hill where we would arrive at Helen Lake, our destination for the night.  I stopped, looked back, and saw a long string of headlamps down the mountain.  Our group had become spread out.  Our other guide, who was in the back, had notified us via walkie talkie that a couple of our team members were having some cramping issues.  We decided it was best to stop and wait for a few minutes while they caught up.  We soon resumed forward progress, step by step, and I could now detect a line in the distance where the snow met with the sky.  “We’ll be there in seven minutes if we keep moving” Rigo said.  I kept climbing, feet sliding down in the snow occasionally, and soon we heard the sound of flapping tents.  As we crested the hill, the tents came into view.  Several of them were set up in the small, flat area, some of them next to snow walls or in holes to mitigate the strong winds that were rushing through.  One guy was in a down sleeping bag sleeping on top of a sleeping pad in the snow with a make shift circular wall built around him.  By the time everyone arrived, it was very windy and we struggled to get our tents set up.  Mine almost took me away like a kite while I was trying to slide the pole through fasteners on top.  After several minutes of trying and getting nowhere, I laid the tent in the snow and laid down, deciding I would go “cowboy style” i.e. sleep in my sleeping bag on top of my tent under the stars.  Nick offered to let me sleep in his tent so I helped get it set up.  When it was time to crash at around 1:30 AM, there were three guys including myself, crammed into Nick’s two person tent.  Laying right between Nick and Scott I said “Wow, I feel like a hot dog.  You guys are sure going to keep me warm tonight!” We had a good laugh and drifted off to sleep.  The wind below our tent around all throughout the night and it was difficult getting to sleep. 

I managed to sleep for a couple of hours but was wide awake when my rooster alarm went off at 5:30 AM.  After climbing over Scott and getting my boots on, I unzipped our tent and crawled outside.  The morning air was cold and refreshing and the sunrise was breathtaking.  A few people at the camp were also awake and admiring the view.  The only problem was the wind was still blowing and it was blustery.  I turned to face the mountain and watched a line of climbers pushing for the summit.  A few minutes later, Rigo emerged from his tent.  We exchanged pleasantries and watched the line of climbers.  “Half of those people won’t make it” Rigo said.  “Yeah, this wind is kind of brutal.  Hey, what do we do if we need to take a wiz?” I inquired.   He pointed to a small hill of snow next to a line of tents.  “Go up there and aim away from the wind”.  I had to wait a few minutes for the wind ease down but I did my business and remained dry.  Returning to my tent, I reached into my pack and pulled out a small pack of donuts and a granola bar.  The donuts had been dehydrated and were crumbling as I picked them up but they were still delicious.  I was feeling optimistic.  “we got this” I thought to myself.  All we need is the wind to dissipate.  Thirty minutes passed and the wind still howled.  Now, the people who were climbing to the summit were coming back down and running for cover.  The wind picked up and began blowing snow and ice.  Scott emerged from our tent in the middle of the chaos.  “Good morning buddy!  Welcome to summer camp” I said.  Tents were flapping everywhere, gear was being blown around, and people were trying to shield themselves from the blowing ice and snow.  Two hours later, the forty mile per hour constant winds had not let up one bit.  We had a group gathering and the unanimous decision was to head back down to the trail head.  No way we were going to be able to climb another 3,500 feet to the summit with forty mile per hour winds blowing snow and ice straight into our faces.  After a long struggle, we were able to pack all of our gear up and we began our decent back to the parking lot.  A few minutes after leaving Helen Lake, the wind had subsided and we could now enjoy the scenery.  It was a beautiful sunny day with clear, cool air and blue skies.  A few of us adopted a method of getting down the slope by taking off our crampons, sitting in the snow, and sliding down on our butts.  Not only was it lots of fun but it was faster than walking down.  Scott and I hiked down together for a while.  We chatted about how nice the mountain was, how crazy the weather had gotten, and how we would come back for redemption.

Eventually we made it back to our cars and once everyone arrived, we congregated at the Black Bear Diner for a meal around 1:30 PM.  During brunch, our guides congratulated us on our impressive feat.  As we ate, Ronald went around the table to each of us, pointing out what he viewed as our best quality.  He then went on to say that we were all winners, thanked us for showing up, and reveled in how much he loved the experience.  There was lots of laughter, smiles, and everyone seemed lit.  This adventure as a team had brought us all closer together and connected us all in ways we had yet to understand.  We finished eating, paid our tabs, and Scott, Nemo, Jose, and I bid the rest of our team farewell and began our journey back home.  After nine hours, I was dropped off at my apartment and hauled my gear inside.  Walking through the door, I gave my wife and a dog hugs and kisses, told them how much I missed them, and began sharing stories.  It was great to be home, but a part of me didn’t want this trip to end.  Even though the rest of the team and I had only been together for thirty-six hours, I missed them already.  We started out, all connected by one goal: reaching the summit.  If someone was struggling, we would give words of encouragement or physical assistance.  We were all in it together.  This ran deeper than sitting around, drinking beer, watching TV, and having meaningless conversations.  These were true friendships with a purpose.  This sense of togetherness and teamwork has created strong friendships within the running and hiking community.  Sometimes I won’t see these guys for a few months at a time, but when we reconvene, it’s as if we never missed a beat.  We pick up right where we left off.  In addition to hiking and climbing, we also participate together in several running events.  With each adventure, our friendship evolves and our respect for on another grows stronger.  I will be forever grateful to the friends I have made in the running and hiking communities both in California and in Chicago.  These are the friends in my life with whom I connect on the highest level.  We all share a hunger, a sense of adventure, and we revel together in our accomplishments.  Thank you for everything you guys are awesome! 

Pain? To hell with it. Bring it on!

“I think I’m going to quit.  I don’t think I can finish” That was the text message that I had just sent to Janet, my then girlfriend.  I was dehydrated, hot, miserable, and hurting like hell.  People along the street were cheering and showing great enthusiasm but all I could do was force a smile and stumble past them.   The weather in Los Angeles in March can range from 60 degrees Fahrenheit and rainy to 90 degrees and sunshine.  Since the Los Angeles Marathon typically takes place in March, weather can make or break many of the participants.  Every year racers take a gamble, hoping for the best and making the best of how it turns out.  In 2015, it was 88 degrees and sunny.  Bummer.  For the last four miles, my legs were sore and cramping, I was hot, out of breath, and my progress was painfully slow.  I had just passed the mile twenty-three mark and hobbled barely another thirty feet before I was forced to stop and sit on the curb.  I tried to sooth the pain and cramps coursing through my legs by massaging them and stretching them out.  After a few minutes, just when I thought I had rid myself of this nuisance, I slowly stood back up.  A few seconds later I began moving, but the cramps returned with a vengeance and I only made it another hundred feet before I had to sit down again and repeat the process.  I still had three miles to go.  How was I ever going to make it to the finish line at this rate?  In an all-out attempt to suppress the pain I stood up and started sprinting but only made it another fifty feet before my legs screamed at me once again.  People were asking me if I was okay as I sat back down on the curb side.  I forced a smile and said I would be fine.  The pain was excruciating, and no matter how hard I tried to abate it, nothing worked.  This was my eighth marathon and the first one that I had ever considered quitting.  It was a desperate moment.  I sat there, utterly defeated, ready call it quits, completely incapable of covering another mile, let alone three.

 

You either learn to be successful in distance running or you never finish.  Unlike school where you receive a grade based on your quality of work, there is no partial credit given for making it to mile twenty-three of a marathon.  The rules are simple and clearly defined; If you reach the finish line, you succeed.  If you don’t, you fail.  In times like this you ask yourself the same question that you ask yourself when “life” happens.  When your relationship or marriage is troubled, when your job is not going well, or when you’re having family for friend issues: Do I stop, or do I continue?  Is this the end of the road in my relationship, marriage, or job? Or can I overcome this and keep it going?  I was asking myself that very question sitting there on the curb.  Like life, long distance races are filled with highs and lows.  There are euphoric moments of excitement along with miserable moments of despair.  Dealing with the fatigue and physical pain while running a race is, in many respects, just like tackling the day to day problems we face as human beings.  You can either succumb to the pain and let it beat you down and withdraw from the race, or you can stand up, let out a grunt, keep moving, and say “to hell with the pain.  Bring it on!”.  My mind was all but made up.  “twenty-three miles is pretty good” I thought to myself.  “Most people never even run this far.” I thought about what I would tell all the people who were tracking me.  How I would have to explain to them that I had to stop at mile twenty-three on account of my sore, cramping legs, heat exhaustion, and mental instability.  I thought about looking at the results on the website and seeing blank spaces when I looked my name up, indicating a DNF (Did Not Finish).  I only had three more miles to go, a distance I could normally cover easily.  But I was so spent, covering three miles seemed impossible.  My thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of my cell phone.  Janet had replied to my last text message where I told her how dismal things had become and how I wanted to quit.  “Come on keep going!  You can do it.  You’re almost there!”.  I pondered her response for a moment.  Do I stop, or do I continue?  Maybe I can do it.  Maybe instead of letting this race leave me in a heap on the curbside, I should grab it by the horns, endure through the pain, and gut out those last three miles.  “Pain is temporary, quitting lasts forever” as Lance Armstrong said. The emotional scars of not finishing the LA Marathon seemed more demoralizing than the temporary physical pain I was feeling.  That settled it.  “You’re right.  I’m going to do this shit!” I replied.  It was as if I were injected with a serum of hope.  Janet had provided the right words at the right time and the answer was now crystal clear.  The race would go on!  

I peeled myself up off the curb, slowly but surely, and began moving. “Don’t think about the pain” I told myself.  To my delight, the cramps had somewhat subsided.  I took deep breaths and limped down San Vicente boulevard, hobbling when I could.  It may not have been a pretty sight, but at least I was moving and that’s all that mattered.  People have finished marathons by literally crawling across the finish line.  It’s like Dean Karnazes says “Run when you can, walk if you have to, crawl if you must.  Just keep moving forward and don’t ever give up”.  Approaching the aid station at mile twenty-four, I gulped down a couple of cups of Gatorade, poured a cup of water over my head, and continued down the road.  I made my way to the next aid station at mile twenty-five and about a half a mile later I saw Janet on the sidelines.  I immediately ran over and gave her a hug.  Seeing her when I was in such misery was extremely uplifting.  “You only have a half a mile to go!” she said.  “Go!  I’ll see you at the finish line”.  “Alright let’s do this!” I yelled.  And I began running as if I were on fresh legs.  The pain had numbed and that last mile seemed effortless at times.  I stumbled through the finish line and threw my arms in the air in celebration.  It was my slowest marathon yet but I overcame the pain, broke through a horrendous wall, and pressed on when I didn’t think I had the strength to even go another half a mile.  Despite my snail’s pace, I felt like a winner. 

    

I have had races before where similar situations had transpired and each time, when things looked grim, I decided to keep moving forward, coping with the pain as best as I could until I reached the finish line.  These moments have taught me valuable life lessons and have given me more mental strength that I ever thought I could have.  Like everyone else, I too face challenges in my relationship, my job, and my personal life.  Distance running has taught me that no matter how hard life can be, there is always a light at the end of the tunnel.  It all comes down to a simple choice to be made:  Do I stop, or do I continue?  If it weren’t for the pain and suffering I’ve endured during long distance races, I would never have had the mental strength to overcome the lows of my relationship, my career, and various other aspects of my life.  Whether it be my job, relationship, or a race, I have always chosen to keep moving forward, never taking the easy way out.  And what a difference it has made!   You can spend your whole life and a whole marathon trying to repress the pain and suffering or you can accept it, keep moving forward and fight back.  Life is a series of obstacles but if you overcome them, you are truly living life to the fullest and how it was meant to be lived.  So, live it up!

The Seed of Excitement and Adventure

“Wow that’s a lot of kids!” my wife said as I showed her photos of the 5-K race that Brady and I had participated in earlier that morning.  A friend of mine from a local hiking group was an avid supporter of bringing sexually exploited women and children to justice and had signed up for a 5-K to support the cause, recruiting others within the group to join.  Not only was it a great cause, but I viewed it as a great opportunity to run with some old friends and meet some new people.

The race was held in Glendora, about forty minutes east of our apartment in the Palms neighborhood of Los Angeles.  I leashed up Brady, grabbed my Vibrams, and a cup of coffee and hit the road.  Janet would have joined us but she wanted to focus on her CPA studies so we could kick back together later that day.  Upon arriving, we rendezvoused with our friends, took some pictures, and caught up.  One of our runners, Denis, had brought along his son, Michael.  This was going to be Michael’s second 5-K.  “How old are you, buddy?” I asked as Denis introduced him to us.  “Ten” he answered quietly, smiling.  He had an athletic build, was tall for his age, and bore a strong resemblance to his Dad.  “And you’re running your second 5-K?  That’s awesome!” I liked this kid already.  The average ten-year-old would dread waking up early on a weekend morning and running a 5-K race but here he was doing it for a second time.  One of the race directors held up a megaphone.  “Two minutes until race start!” he announced from the stage.  We made our way to the start line and began when the gun went off at 8:00 AM.  Our group disbursed, the faster runners charging ahead, the slower ones staying behind.  Brady and I hung in the back and jogged along the street up a gradual incline facing the San Gabriel Mountains.  Confused by the presence of the large crowd and commotion, Brady didn’t know what to make of the situation at first, but he soon began to hop along with his tongue out, basking in the experience.  At the one mile mark we came up behind Denis and Michael.  They were moving at a modest pace and Michael looked determined and focused.  “You go, guys!” I shouted as we jogged by.  Denis was an avid outdoorsman and had participated in numerous running events, climbed several mountains, and hiked several trails in and around California.  It was clear that his passion and drive was having an impact on Michael.   

My Dad never ran with me as a kid.  He appreciated the strength, grit, and determination that one must possess to run long distance but it wasn’t something he was into himself.  Neither one of my parents were runners but they both had a zest for life and living.  They weren’t the kind of parents who would sit my sister and I down in front of the TV on the weekends or shower us with unnecessary gifts so that we would leave them alone.  My Dad taught me how to ride a bike, played catch with me, played tennis with me, and got the two of us involved in Indian Guides, a YMCA program that consisted of year-round weekend group outdoor activities and camping trips with other fathers and sons around my age.  My parents also owned a small sail boat, taking my sister and I sailing almost every weekend during the summer.  My mom would also take us on camping trips and would often accompany my friends and I on overnight snowboarding trips.  I had learned to ski from a family friend of ours in my early teens and crossed over to snowboarding a couple of years after.  When I encountered setbacks and challenges as young kid, my parents constantly encouraged me to not dwell on the problem, but solve it.  “Shake it off” my Dad would always say and “Think positive, not negative” my Mom would tell me. I Live by these life lessons, and to this day, it is the best advice I have ever gotten from anyone in my life.  Every summer my Dad would go on an overnight sailing trip with his friends from Lake St. Clair near Detroit up through the St. Clair River, continuing into Lake Huron all the way up to the town of Presque Isle, Michigan for a boat delivery.  That weekend every summer, my dad would pack his bags and sailing equipment leaving me intrigued and curious.  When I was thirteen, he invited me to join.  I was thrilled and had an absolute blast!  I loved exploring areas of the lake I hadn’t seen before and sailing up the river through Lake Huron.  This was uncharted territory for me and it forever changed my attitude towards sailing.  We were on the water together all day and all night enjoying the peaceful surroundings.  I relished the experience so much that I joined my Dad and his friends on these trips every summer after that until I moved to California in my mid-twenties.  My favorite part of the trip was sailing at night.  We were in the middle of the lake and the sky was often filled with shining stars.  My dad and I would sit outside and have meaningful conversations, tell dirty jokes, and talk about “guy stuff” while enjoying the starlit sky, the lake calm and still except for the occasional passing freighter.  We would often catch the sun rise together in the morning.  Seeing the sun firing vivid light across the lake was a gorgeous sight and reminded me how awesome life was.  Before long, the sun would make its way into the sky, the other guys would wake up and we would enjoy the rest of the day out on the lake.

Whenever I have a big race, event, hike, or snowboarding trip coming up, I find my mind consumed with excitement during the days leading up to such events, looking forward to nights under stars and days under the sun.   This is the same feeling of excitement I had as a kid during the days leading up to the summer sailing trips with my Dad, the weekend camping trips with the Indian Guides, and the snowboard trips we took in Northern Michigan.  My parents planted a seed in my mind as a kid, watered that seed, and steadily it grew into a strong appetite for excitement and adventure that lives with me today.  

We crested the hill, running past some volunteers handing out water and made our way down a gradual decline back towards the park where the race started.  Along the course I saw several more kids that were out running with their parents and family members.  This inspired me, knowing that a seed was being planted in these kids minds by their parents just like my parents had done for me.  I had encountered similar situations during hikes and other races.  One time when I was hiking in Yosemite, we were at the end of the trail about to begin the climb up Half Dome when a father and his two sons came up behind us.  Chatting with them, we found out that his sons were fourteen and eleven and it was their second time doing this monster hike!  In the six years that I’ve ran the L.A. Marathon, I’ve seen thousands of students of all ages running the race, some for the first time, others for the second or third time, all of them displaying tremendous physical and mental strength to reach the finish line.  It’s evident that someone in these kid’s lives, whether it was their parents, mentors, family members, or whoever had planted the adventure and excitement seed in their minds and it was taking root. 

Brady and I soon crossed the finish line and met up with our friends, high fiving and congratulating each other on finishing.  We stood on the side of the street waiting for the last runners in our group when a girl who looked to be about eight appeared before us panting, drenched in sweat, bottle of water in hand.  “Congratulations!  You look awesome” we said to her.  “Thanks!  I’m going to go wait for my mom now”.  “You beat your mom to the finish line?!” Taking a drink of water and catching her breath, she smiled and said “yep!” and ran off.  Denis and Michael had just crossed the finish line moments earlier and Michael was now collecting his second 5-K finisher medal.  We all asked him how he felt and he stood there smiling, medal around his neck, looking like 100% pure energy.  “You’re going to be running marathons before you know it!” I said.

It was a great race and very inspiring to see so many kids out there running with their families and getting involved.  These kids, from my perspective, are much more vibrant and full of life than kids who stay inside all day and watch TV or play video games.  As they get older, those qualities will only strengthen with age.  When I become a father, I will simply set the best example I can, hoping that the seed of adventure and excitement will take root in my kids’ minds.  Because once that seed takes root, there’s no limit to how much it can grow if it is watered properly!   

My Eternal Running Partners

The sun shined brightly, the sky was blue, and the colors of the trees and plants were vibrant as I ran down the winding trail.  I began earlier that morning at the Sam Merrill trailhead in Altadena, ran up the trail towards Echo Mountain, proceeded through Castle Canyon, stopped at Inspiration Point for a quick break, and was now on the return trip back down to Lake Street.  It was a beautiful Saturday morning in the San Gabriel Foothills.    

These weekend morning trail runs have become the norm for me.  There is nothing more exciting than waking up before dawn and embarking on a trail running adventure through the hills.  Due to my hectic schedule, my weekday mornings consist of running along the bike path on Exposition or on the trail at the Baldwin Hills Scenic overlook before taking a shower and heading to work.  While these routes are not particularly long in distance, they are enough to provide a daily dose of adventure and leave me feeling accomplished, energized, and relaxed, ready to start my workday. 

My music choice for today’s run was Motley Crue, my favorite band and the soundtrack to all my adventures.  The song “Without You” began playing as I came around a corner in the trail.  Although a love song and power ballad, it often triggers thoughts of influential people in my life that have since passed away, especially my mother, who died 11 years ago.  It’s a great song but I often skip over it while running, preferring to run to songs with a faster tempo.  But this time I decided to just listen and let the thoughts trickle in. 

On Christmas Eve 2015, Janet and I brought home Bear.  A four pound, three-month-old Pomeranian, he was the newest addition to our family and our first dog.  From the very beginning he was energetic, playful and loyal and we instantly fell in love with him.  Over the course of the next year and three months, we took him on several adventures including Mexico, Sequoia National Park, Whitney Portal, Big Bear, Death Valley, Mammoth, Malibu and several others.  He also ran, hiked and kayaked with us enjoying every minute of all of it.  He was the perfect pooch and brought so much happiness to our lives.  Then one Friday night, I laid down to go to bed after what had been one of the worst days of my life.  Earlier that day Bear had gotten loose and was hit by a car and killed.  It was two days before our wedding.  The blow to my wife and I was huge and beyond brutal.  We were completely devastated.  One moment, he was a healthy, happy, vibrant young dog the next, he was gone.  It happened so fast.  The rest of that day was spent mourning and comforting each other as best as we could.  Fortunately, we were able to put our grieving aside for a couple of days and enjoy our wedding and the festivities with all of our friends and family.  The wedding was fantastic and the happiest day of our lives but it soon ended, our guests returned to their respective hometowns and Janet and I were again alone, reverting back into a state of despair.  It felt as though our family was ruined and we would never be happy again.  As time went by, things got easier and eventually the feelings of sadness and anger began to dissipate and I adopted a new mentality; even though Bear was physically gone, he was still with us in spirit all day, every day.  Now he could watch over us with my mom and take care of us just like we took care of him.  It was a comforting feeling and we realized that life goes on.  We soon brought home our second dog, Brady, a three-month-old Pomeranian mix.  While no two dogs are exactly the same, the similarities between him and Bear were undeniable.  With another energetic puppy running around, a sense of joy and happiness was restored in our household and our relationship with Brady has since flourished.  As much as I love Brady, I still think about Bear all the time.  Whether it’s laughing about his silly quirks or reminiscing on a trip we took, not a day goes by where he doesn’t enter my thoughts.  He was the original pooch and no dog will every truly replace him. 

Many things, most often a song I’m listening to, can trigger thoughts of Bear, my mother and other deceased family members and friends while I’m running alone.  This particular instance mostly brought on memories of Bear due to his recent passing. I began to smile.  “Run with me Bear!” I said out loud “Run with me!”.  Of course, he wasn’t physically there but his spiritual presence was steadfast.  My mind wandered and I began thinking of other people, most notably my Mom.  Her spiritual presence was also felt and I knew she was giving me a push to help me run faster and stronger.  These feelings carried me pleasantly as the song played on.  By the time the song picked up around the three-minute mark, I could now feel not only my Mom, but my grandparents, cousin Doug, Great Uncle Bill, and all the other deceased people who had a positive impact on my life running with me giving me a push with Bear leading the pack, running in front of me happily, looking back every few seconds to make sure I was still coming.  The moment was euphoric and my pace quickened as I shed a few tears of joy out there alone on the trail.  As the song ended, the moment passed and “Same ol’ Situation” began playing jolting me back into rock and roll mode. 

These profound moments are part of reason why I love solo running.  I may be alone but I know that I am never truly running alone.  It’s only fitting that Bear died doing what he loved to do (running around like a maniac) and he will always run in front of me in spirit just like he did in life.  There is a line in “Without You” that goes “I could face a mountain, but I could never climb alone”.  These words ring true in so many ways.  I know, without a doubt, that I could never run the way I do without the spiritual presence of my loved ones.  They are always running with me; their presence is just subtler at certain times than others.  So, to all who run with me in sprit: I can’t thank you enough for your guidance and encouragement. Without you by my side I would never be able to make it.  I love you all.  And Bear, run free up there, buddy!  Where the trail never ends and no leashes are needed.      

Better In Numbers

In addition to exploration and exercise, another highly valued asset that I gain from running is alone time.  Whether it is on city streets or on trails in the wilderness, putting on my headphones and escaping into my own world where I can follow my own course and just think about things is incredibly liberating.  Thus, many of my running sessions are done solo.  We all face every day issues at work and in our personal lives and running is my way of recharging my batteries so that I can tackle these issues with a fresh, positive, can-do mentality.  This mindset also trains me not to take the good things for granted and relish the pleasures in life more than I would otherwise.

As much as I love my solo runs, I always find myself feeling more energized and excited when running with other people.  This is true whether I’m competing in a race, or going for a run accompanied by friends or my wife and our six-pound Pomeranian mix, Brady.  Feeding off other people’s energy and enthusiasm fills me with excitement and adrenaline. 

As an early birthday present, my wife signed the both of us up for an annual race in San Francisco called Bay to Breakers.  The race, a favorite in the Bay area, is a 12 kilometer course across the city from San Francisco Bay on the west side of town to Ocean Beach on the east side.  Although a footrace, Bay to Breakers is widely known for its party atmosphere.  The number of racers often tops the 40,000 mark with many participants sporting costumes, some wearing barely anything or in some cases, nothing at all.  Bay to Breakers is one of the oldest and largest foot races in the world.  Conceived to cope with the hardships that plagued the city after a devastating earthquake in 1906, the race has been a local tradition since 1912 and has become nationally known throughout the years.  Bay to Breakers had intrigued me for quite some time.  I had read stories and heard of the madness (i.e. the costumes, the naked people, the crowds, the house parties along the course) and I was ecstatic that I was finally going to get a chance to see for myself. 

Janet, Brady, and I and arrived in San Francisco the day before the race and met up with some friends, spending the day hiking the trails of Land’s End and the Golden Gate Recreational Area before having dinner and calling it a night.  Relaxing in our hotel room that night, which was located right next to the start line, Janet and I discussed what we were going to do with Brady while we ran the race the next morning.  I had gotten word from the security guys setting up the barricades on the street that dogs were not permitted on the course.  But I didn’t want to leave him all alone in the hotel room for three hours.  Our only two options were to bring him along or leave him in the hotel.  We decided that we would bring him along and just hope that no one would make a fuss over it.  I mean, come on.  People run naked for goodness sake!  Having a small dog accompany us shouldn’t be an issue.  The next morning as we were getting ready, we heard the crowd roaring and the race announcer right outside our hotel down on the street.  At 8:00 AM the first wave of runners took off.  Our plan was to go downstairs and join one of the later waves hoping that there would be less of a crowd and Brady wouldn’t be too overwhelmed.  We exited the hotel and casually wove our way into the crowd of runners waiting to begin the race.  After an hour of waiting, our corral finally began at 9:30 AM.  During that hour, we were able to observe the creative and outlandish costumes and chat with some of the other racers.  Luckily, no one had given us a hard time about Brady.  Tortillas and beach balls flew and everyone was in good spirit.  Since we were in the second to last corral to leave the start line, we would be moving at a pretty modest pace.  Most of the folks back here were essentially participating to walk, have fun and people watch.  Due to the substantial amount runners, the race directors staggered the start, letting a corral go every fifteen minutes in an effort to not overcrowd the streets.  We were walking at a brisk pace, running occasionally.  Brady was having an absolute blast.  He was so intrigued by all the people and hopped along gracefully with his tongue out.  We occasionally had to pick him up in some areas where it was condensed to avoid him being stepped on or kicked but mostly he was on foot enjoying the new territory he was exploring. As we made our way down Hayes street, we encountered a pair of naked racers.  Janet got out her phone and snapped a picture.  “Let’s send this to Mom” she said.  “It will be priceless” We both laughed hysterically at the thought of her mom opening that text message only to see two older men bearing it all among a handful of racers clad in costumes and running gear (The photo was only showing their rear ends so it was a PG-13 photo).  Around mile 3 we scaled a steep San Francisco hill known as the Hayes Street Hill where Alamo square rested at the top.  The going was slow and the crowd was condensed so we carried Brady up this climb.  We as we carried on, we saw several house parties along the street with crowds of people, beer in hand, cheering us on from their balconies and front steps.  Several onlookers were also playing games and blaring music.  The scene was like a bunch of runners and speed walkers racing through an outdoor fraternity party along a city street.  We crested the hill, passing Alamo square and made our way downhill, entering the Gold Gate recreational area where the street widened and it was less populated so we could let Brady walk more freely and relax a little more.  We were now away from the building lined city streets and in a more nature oriented area where there were small fields, hills, trails and lots of trees.  We came upon a small waterfall with a creek rolling parallel to the sidewalk.  A group of guys wearing space jam themed costumes strolled by, one dribbling a basketball and another, a soccer ball.  Since the beginning of his short life thus far, Brady relished any opportunity he had to chase a bouncing ball.  So naturally, he went nuts at the presence of the bouncing balls, barking and trying to run towards them.  Upon witnessing this, the dribbler of the soccer ball, bearing a Taz costume, handed the ball to me.  “Here you go he can have it.  We found it along the course” he explained.  “Wow, he’s going to love you for that!” I responded.  We thanked him for his kind gesture and began kicking the ball down the road watching in amusement as Brady chased it trying to bite and jump on top of it.  Both feats were hopelessly impossible given the size of the ball and the fact that it kept rolling whenever he jumped on it which make it all the more entertaining to watch.  As we made our way down John F. Kennedy Drive towards Ocean Beach, the temperature cooled and a thin layer of haze began rolling in.  It had been warm, almost hot in the early stages of the race and the cooler temperatures felt refreshing.  The rest of the race was filled with smiles, laughs, crazy costumes, more naked people, beautiful scenery and positive energy.  This race offered the best of both worlds i.e. a little city, a little nature and I was loving it.  Janet and I were having a great time but Brady was having the time of his life.  He was all smiles.  After we ditched the soccer ball he ran up behind a girl wearing a tutu, jumped up and tried to yank it down.  We laughed hysterically, although the tutu wearer didn’t quite share this same sentiment, and I took off the bright orange bandana that was tied around my wrist and held it out.  As Brady jumped up trying to retrieve it, I would run with him in hot pursuit hopping along trying to grab the bandana from my outstretched hand.  As we approached the finish line near the beach the three of us picked up the pace and all crossed together.  The volunteers were even kind enough to give Brady a finishers medal.  After all, 7.44 miles is quite an impressive accomplishment for a little pooch!  It was our first race together as a family.  Looking at the pictures of the three of us on Janet’s phone during the Uber ride back to our hotel, I smiled widely.  Janet and I laughed as we looked through the photos.  Meanwhile, Brady didn’t waste any time curling into a comfy position and promptly passing out.  I had realized earlier on that it was his six-month birthday.  What an awesome way for a puppy to celebrate his birthday by running/walking 7.44 miles! Not only was the race tons of fun, but the three of us experienced it together as a family, and I couldn’t have been happier.

Later that afternoon after indulging in some delicious pizza in the Italian neighborhood of North Beach, we headed back home to Los Angeles.  Brady continued to sleep on the way home and we shared stories and laughed about our race experience.  These are the types of races I have grown to especially love.  Sharing the experience with other people with a common goal of completing the race.  As much as I love embarking on a solo endeavor, nothing can compare to participating in a fun run with your loved ones, feeding off their excitement, and creating new memories.  I promised Janet that we would do these types of races more often.  I was excited about what the future held.  We were just getting warmed up!