Chase The Passion

"I'm into creativity.  That's why I write books, that's why I do photography, that's why I write songs, that's why I do everything.  It's about being creative.  You have to chase the passion".

My creative side is often expressed through my writing and the races I run.  Running is my main passion and I am equally passionate about telling stories.  Writing this blog has allowed me to be creative by capturing the magic and authenticity of running, wild adventures, and life and putting it into words.  The way I see it, people can practice their passions all day long, but if they don't get creative once in a while, things can eventually grow dull and mundane, even if it's something they love.  That's why people who are passionate about cooking don't cook the same thing over and over again.  And why people who love painting don't paint the same picture over and over again.  Running ultras is no exception; I have to keep things interesting.  In 2020, I will be participating in a different kind of ultramarathon: The St. Croix Winter Ultra.  More details to follow in the race report, but for a quick overview, the race is run on a trail in rural Minnesota in the middle of January, through the night.  Runners are required to carry winter survival gear, and the temperature could drop to as cold as fifteen degrees below zero.  Needless to say, I've never done a race like this before, but it's all about being creative and keeping things interesting.  That's how I chase my passion.

Nikki continues to elaborate more on what kept his successful music career thriving for the last thirty-six years by explaining:

"You have to jump off the cliff.  You have to take a chance. Yeah, there's rocks below you, yeah, it's scary, but that's the joy."

If I didn't do exactly what Nikki said, I would have never advanced as a runner.  If I didn't "jump off the cliff" as he put it, I would never have been able move froward from running a 5K to completing a 100-miler.  I've taken several risks as a runner over the last ten years, but that doesn't mean I've been successful every time.  I've had my share of failures along the way, most notably when I attempted my first 100K.  The furthest I had run up to that point was a 50K eight months prior.  I was under trained and unprepared, and was forced to drop out at mile forty-eight due to not reaching the aid station by the official cut off time.  It wasn't fun, but it sure taught me a lot of lessons that set me up for success later on.

Nikki goes on to talk about his turbulent childhood living with his grandparents in rural New Mexico and on farms in Idaho.  As he endured more hardships with age, he said to himself:

"Life can't only be this"

To cope with the chaos in his life at a young age, he began writing journals, became a fan of rock music, and eventually learned to play guitar.  When I graduated from college, I shared a similar sentiment.  I was in a good place and I had a job, but I said to myself "is this it?  Is this how the rest of my life is going to be?  Am I going to wake up, go to work, come home, sit around, and go to bed, and spend my weekends sitting on my ass watching TV? There has to be more to life than that".  I wanted more excitement in my life, but I didn't know how to make things more interesting.  I responded by going for walks after work everyday.  After dinner I would grab my iPod and spend an hour walking around my neighborhood, listening to music, reflecting on things, and unwinding.  It was a good way to get some cardio in, but soon I grew bored with walking and it transitioned into running within a few months.

When asked about his early days in Los Angeles and the formation of Motley Crue, Nikki explains:

"I wanted more Sabbath, I wanted more Pistols, and more aggression. I was angry and I felt rejected at that time.  And my answer was Motley Crue"

He was referring to the music scene at the time in Los Angeles, which was the big heyday for new wave.  Hard rock was up and coming, but still largely confined to the underground scene.  Nikki was inspired by Black Sabbath and the Sex Pistols and formed Motley Crue to bring the excitement and energy of hard rock and punk rock to a wider audience.  As a kid growing up in Michigan, most kids around me played football and basketball.  Those were the sports to play if you were a kid in the Midwest and it was bred into kids by their parents.  I've never had any interest in playing football and I enjoyed playing basketball to a degree, but I was unsatisfied with the lack of fulfillment it brought to my life.  I wanted to have more fun and I wanted more excitement.  Running back and forth on a basketball court never gave me the thrill I was seeking.  My answer was I rode my bike a lot, played little league baseball, played tennis, skied, and snowboarded.  I loved being outdoors.  Getting into running as an adult was another way of adding more excitement to my otherwise ordinary life.

Nikki then goes into detail of some of the lyrics he wrote for Motley Crue's songs and goes on to say

"My intent as a lyricist was to take stories and bring them up to the surface so everyone could celebrate them"

My intent in writing this blog is to take my stories and my reality and put it all out in the open so people can maybe read it and become inspired to follow their more passions more seriously, whatever they may be.

At one point, the discussion shifts towards Motley Crue's decision to no longer tour after thirty-four years of performing in clubs and arenas.

"I like integrity.  I'd rather go out on my feet than my knees"

Nikki further explains that he and the other band members would rather end on a positive note after a long tour of sold out shows in arenas than touring for another ten to fifteen years and being reduced to "playing at the rib joint down the street" or as guitarist Mick Mars put it in a separate interview, "playing in front of twelve people in a dive bar".  When I ran my first hundred miler, I took it easy.  I took my time and I was cautious, perhaps a little too cautious.  I was probably capable of pushing harder, but when I finished, although I was a hot mess, I wasn't completely destroyed.  I would rather finish an ultramarathon feeling strong and energetic than push too hard and cross the finish line puking, collapsing, and having to be carried away by the medical staff, all for the sake of finishing thirty minutes faster.

"I take care of myself, and I eat good.  And I try to take care of my body"

At the time of the interview, Nikki was fifty-seven years old, and had survived unimaginable amounts of debauchery throughout the 1980's, including two heroin overdoses, and sporadically struggled to stay sober throughout the 1990's.  Despite his history with alcoholism and drug addiction, doctors have maintained that he is "like a twenty-six year old" in terms of the quality of his health.  Running has allowed me to develop and maintain great cardiovascular health and, like Nikki, I also eat as healthy as I can, and I try to take care of my body as much as possible.  I view life as a gift and I want to make it last.

As he continues to discuss the decades of life in Motley Crue and his side projects, Nikki touches on things he's learned over the years and mentions something that especially caught my attention:

"Your ego is not your amigo"

I learned this lesson the hard way at the Canyons 100K in April 2019.  I was feeling strong, but acted recklessly, and the heat forced me out of the race at mile forty-eight.  I have always tried very hard to not let my ego get the better of me in running, even if it's a short distance, but since that day, I believe now more than ever, to never take success for granted.  Green Day sings in the chorus of their song Nice Guys Finish Last "don't pat yourself on the back, you might break your spine".  The race isn't over until it's over.  I learned that day to always act responsibly and to never get ahead of myself until I have crossed the finish line.

As the interview comes to a close, Nikki is asked what advice he would give to young people trying to have a career in the music business.  He advises young aspiring musicians to listen to and copy great songwriters and personalize it by putting their heart and soul into the music.

"I copied my heroes, I made it original, and I injected something personal into it"

That's exactly what I do when I write this blog.  I have read several memoirs written by ultramarathon runners, musicians, business professionals, etc.  My goal when I write these posts is to put my stories out there for people to see with the hopes that they will read them, and take their passions and dreams more seriously as a result.  My inspiration draws from a large number of sources.  In writing these posts, I've copied the style and works of those who have written my favorite books, I've put my own twist on it, and I've made it more personal by injecting my stories, experiences, and adventures into my writing.




 

Just Give Me The Dirt: My Tahoe Rim Trail 100-Mile Endurance Run Story (Part 2)

I had been chatting with a young guy from Cleveland and as I jogged into the Stonehenge aid station near Spooner Lake at the fifty-mile mark.  We were having an engaging conversation, but my soul filled with joy as I ran down the approach and recognized some familiar faces.  They were my friends Edith and Danny, who had driven ten hours from Southern California to crew for me.  It also presented an opportunity for them to take a mini-vacation and for us to catch up while I took a much needed break.  A big smile spread across my face as I ran off to the side of the trail and gave them both a big hug.  Edith is one of the toughest individuals I know, both mentally and physically.  We've hiked several mountain peaks together throughout the years and she's run numerous ultramarathons in both the United States and Central America, where she is originally from.  Danny is also an avid runner and hiker, and although not an ultrarunner (at least not so far), being Edith's boyfriend, he's been exposed to the world of ultrarunning on several occasions.  There's an indescribable feeling that runners encounter after running fifty miles through the mountains and seeing not only people they recognize, but people who are their close friends.  It creates a sense of security and reassurance after spending nearly fourteen hours experiencing on and off feelings of self-doubt, exhaustion, and fatigue.  Knowing that my friends were here to support me and keep me going to the finish line was a powerful tonic.  After greeting each other, I stopped by the aid station and loaded up a paper plate full of cheese quesadillas and grilled cheese.  Edith and Danny escorted me to a small outpost they had set up where they had a few camping chairs and a cooler full of goodies.  As I sat in a chair enjoying my plate of cheese heaven, they asked me questions and we spent some time chatting.  "Things are going pretty well, so far" I told them.  "I've been trying to be conservative with my energy for the second half".  They gave me some coconut water and sprayed me with some insect repellent as I stretched my legs.  I felt slightly overheated and dry sweat coated my face, so the coconut water was helpful for re-hydrating, and I had a mild pain in my legs, but the level of hurt was not of major concern.  Overall, I was feeling good, but I reminded myself that I was only halfway through the race.  The second half would be a repeat of the loop that I had just traversed but I knew it was going to be tougher and, as I would find out, much more interesting, to say the least. Eating some hot food and having some time to regroup with some great company lifted my spirits.  Although I felt determined, I knew that I would need to take a cautious approach to the next fifty miles if I wanted to finish at all, let alone within the cutoff time.

It was 7:32 PM when I officially checked out of the Stonehenge aid station.  As I stood up to leave, the pain in my legs intensified, and it took a few hundred steps to acclimate to the discomfort.  "I hope I can do this" I said to my friends as I bade them farewell.  They supplied me with a hearty dose of psychological encouragement as I disappeared down the trail.  As I ran alone towards the junction that connects the course to Marlette Lake Trail, I realized I had made a major rookie mistake.  The one drop bag that I had for the race was at the Tunnel Creek aid station, eleven miles away.  Since the course passes through Tunnel Creek six times in total throughout the race, it seemed like an ideal place to leave a drop bag for additional supplies.  Even though there was still plenty of daylight, it would be well after dark by the time I reached Tunnel Creek, where I would have access to my headlamp and flashlight.  Until then, I had no choice but to find my way in the dark with no light source available, with the exception of my cell phone flashlight, which I was hesitant to use.  I wanted to save as much battery power on my cell phone as possible.  Shortly after picking up the single track trail that would eventually lead me to Marlette Lake, I caught up with a group of three runners.  The group consisted of Kim from Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, Chris from the Sacramento area, and Melissa from the northern region of the San Francisco Bay Area.  As we chatted and exchanged stories, I asked if I could hang with them until Tunnel Creek since I didn't have a headlamp.  They happily agreed.  "In fact" Kim said "I have an extra headlamp right here that I won in the pre-race raffle yesterday".  She took the headlamp out of her pack and handed it to me.  "Just give it back to me at Tunnel Creek".  "This is great, thank you so much!" I said gracefully.  As the sun set, and the evening turned to night, our group gradually disbanded and I switched on Kim's headlamp to light the way.  The headlamp was brand new, but because of the cheap batteries inside, the light that it produced was weak, but it was certainly better than nothing.  Kim's other light was much more powerful and she wore it around her waist to light the path more efficiently.  As I made my way past Harlan Peak, I slowed considerably after a few close calls from nearly tripping over rocks and roots due to the dim light of the headlamp.  As I ran down the switchbacks to Tunnel Creek, I decided to adopt Kim's method and wear the headlamp around my waist.  It helped a little and I was now able to see the path more clearly in the dim light.  Kim kept up a consistent pace and was a few hundred feet behind, creating an additional light source as well.  

Once at Tunnel Creek, I returned the headlamp to Kim and after a quick break, I took off for the Red House Loop, thankful that I now had my headlamp with fresh batteries to light the way.  After running downhill for a while, I reached the bottom of the gorge.  It had been an enormous winter in the Lake Tahoe area and the snow melt from the nearby mountain peaks had caused the area to become completely flooded.  I searched for a way around the makeshift pond in the middle of the trail, but blocking any potential dry paths were thick bushes.  As I had done earlier in the race, I decided to just run through the water, which was only deep enough that my ankles were submerged.  After powering up the climb with wet feet, I arrived at the disco themed Red House Loop aid station, which was now decorated with multi colored Christmas lights.  As I sat in a chair, sipping some hot broth with rice from a paper cup, Kim emerged.  "Hey Liam, I caught up with you!" I was again, happy to see a familiar face, even if it was someone I had just met.  We hammered through the rest of Red House Loop together before returning to Tunnel Creek, where she pushed ahead towards the Bull Wheel aid station.  The final stretch of Red House Loop is a difficult uphill climb, and by the time I arrived at Tunnel Creek, I had fallen into a low point.  The climb had consumed a substantial amount of my energy, and I was concerned about the remaining climbs that I would need to traverse between this point and the finish.  As I arrived, a volunteer named Casey appeared before me.  She could see that I was in a state of despair, so she offered an enthusiastic greeting.  I had seen her volunteering at other ultras I had done, but hadn't formally met her until this race.  I loved her enthusiasm and dedication to the sport, and the fact that she had been here in the middle of nowhere all day taking care of runners made me smile.  She brought me tater tots and pieces of cheese quesadilla before refilling my water bottles and sending me on my way to Bull Wheel.  Leaving Tunnel Creek and disappearing into the darkness with a full stomach and a psychological uplift from the volunteers, the feelings of despair were replaced with feelings of determination and hope.  I felt good at the moment, but as another runner pointed out early in the race, everything we experience is temporary.  As I pushed up to Bull Wheel, drowsiness began to set in.  It became difficult to focus on what I was doing and I debated on whether to keep powering through or to try to take a quick power nap at Bull Wheel to regain my energy.  I chose the latter, but after sitting in a chair at the aid station and trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep, I decided to carry on.  Departing Bull Wheel, I was seventy-two miles into the race, and it was just after 3:00 in the morning.  From there, things got pretty weird and after passing through a delirious, dream-like state, my mind was playing tricks on me and I was convinced that somehow I had gotten turned around and was going in the wrong direction.  After that rather troubling episode, I was feeling much more alert as I ran along the ridge admiring the view of Lake Tahoe and the lights of Incline Village under the star filled sky.  

By the time I reached Diamond Peak Lodge, mile eighty, just after 6:00 AM, the sun had begun to rise, and although I was drowsy again, I was in good spirit.  Here, I would be seeing my crew again, and accompanying them would be my friend Juan Carlos (JC), who would be pacing me for the final twenty miles of the race.  Pacers are not allowed to offer physical assistance, but they can provide a lot of psychological encouragement.  I had done the same for him at the Kodiak 100-miler in Big Bear Lake the summer before, and when I was pondering who I would want by my side during those last twenty miles, it was a no-brainer.  JC happily obliged, although due to a pre-scheduled family commitment, he wasn't able to join us during the first half of the race, and flew into Reno from Los Angeles the night before at 9:00 PM.  Edith and Danny had picked him up from the airport, and he was able to get some sleep in the hotel room that we were all sharing in Carson City before hitting the trail with me.  As I sat on a padded chair inside the ski lodge sipping a piping hot cup of coffee courtesy of the aid station staff, I kept an eye out for my crew, and they soon emerged through the door and headed towards me.  "You ready to be entertained?" I asked JC as the four of us sat in a circle, chatting.  "Just make sure I don't die out there" I joked.  "Don't worry man, I'm going to make sure you finish" he said with strong assurance.  After spending some time regrouping, I made my way back outside and Edith and Danny bade JC and I farewell as we began the notoriously tough climb up Diamond Peak together.  It was amazing to catch up with JC as we moved along, but the climb was beating me into submission, and I was barely able to keep the conversation going.  My answers and verbal reactions were delayed and weak and I puffed up the sandy climb.  Then I remembered how spectacular the view was, and would turn around periodically and admire the lake to take my mind off the anguish.  JC was also enjoying the view and began snapping pictures of us as we powered along.  After nearly an hour, we crested the climb and proceeded down the rolling trial back towards Tunnel Creek, once again.  Once we arrived, I gave Casey a big hug, and found out that the aid station was serving up hot breakfast burritos, much to my delight.  I wanted coffee again, so shortly after taking a seat, JC brought over a breakfast burrito and Casey hooked me up with a cup of fresh brew.  The burrito consisted of scrambled eggs, cheese, and avocado and it was really hitting the spot along with the coffee.  "Check out that sign over there, man" JC said.  "You only have fifteen miles to go".  For the first time in twenty-eight hours, I felt as if I actually had a chance of finishing.  "Oh man, this is definitely putting some life back in me!" I said as I we left the aid station and I continued mauling the burrito.  I think JC got a kick out of how excited I was over what is normally a simple breakfast food, but after running eighty-five miles, it was the most amazing thing I could have asked for.  

As we left Hobart aid station five miles later, the lively volunteers dropped ice cubes down our backs to keep us cool, and squeezed ice water over my head with a sponge.  "Now, get the fuck out of here!" one volunteer joked, as he gave us a knuckle pound and took an enormous pull from his cup of beer.  "Hey man, let's pick up the pace a little" JC advised as we made our way up to Snow Valley Peak.  "I want you to shuffle down the downhills so we can make sure we make it back with plenty of time before the cutoff."  Although it seemed difficult, I trusted JC's instincts.  He had run several ultramaratons before, and knew what I needed to do to push myself, but just the right amount, and not to the point of total breakdown.  I did as he instructed and began power hiking up the climb at a brisk pace.  "There you go, good job" he said.  I hoped that I was keeping a good pace, because I wasn't capable of going much faster.  My stomach was full and I didn't want to risk vomiting on the side of the trail, like I had seen other runners doing earlier in the race.  As I said, when we are running extreme distances, our bodies are using all of their energy to keep us moving forward, including energy that is normally used for digesting food.  As a result, I went through a redundant cycle throughout the race where I would feel full, then my stomach would abruptly start growling only moments later, after the food was quickly digested.  With seven miles left, I paused at the Snow Valley Peak aid station only long enough to refill my water bottles, before taking off for the final stretch.  The trail was mostly downhill from here to the finish, but after ninety-three miles, it all was beginning to feel the the same.  As we wove our way through the tall conifers, I was "leap frogging" with a handful of other runners, meaning I would pass them, then shortly later, they would return the favor as my pace slowed.  We highfived each other and gave kudos as we passed each other.  After what seemed like hours, JC and I were jogging along the winding, narrow trail, when suddenly, Spooner Lake emerged through the brush.  I knew what that meant.  I had less than a mile to go.  I could see the finish line across the lake and could hearing cheering in the distance.  "JC" I said, staring at the lake.  "We're going to do it.  We're really going to do it, man".  I said in disbelief.  "Yeah man! Let's do this" he replied.  But I wasn't ready to go just yet.  I stood still, looked at the finish area across the lake, and began crying.  I was sore, filthy, sleep deprived, and completely wiped out, but holy shit, I was actually going to finish.  It all seemed surreal to me.  "I love you, dude!" I said to JC as we took off towards the finish.  Emotions ran high as I ran the final hundred yards to the finish line with Edith, Danny, and JC at my side.  I had said "just give me the dirt!" throughout the entire race and that's exactly what the world had done.  Highs, lows, joy, pain, sun, heat, water, rocks, roots, steep climbs, breathtaking views, amazing aid stations, the whole ultramarathon experience.  I had lived an entire lifetime in a day and a half.  Knowing that JC, Edith, and Danny were there for me created an overwhelming feeling of loyalty and I would remember crossing the finish line with them for the rest of my life.  As I crossed the finish line, I completely broke down in tears as my crew and I embraced in a group hug.  I had crossed the finish line in thirty-three hours, zero minutes, and fifty-six seconds, two full hours ahead of the cutoff time. 

As much of a train wreck as I was, the post race party was tons of fun, and my crew and I celebrated our accomplishment over beers and delicious food from the nearby food truck.  As my we shared a laugh, I looked over and saw Kim approaching.  She had finished about an hour ahead of me and was looking fresh.  We congratulated each other, and I thanked her graciously for letting me use her headlamp.  I introduced her to my friends, and she went on to tell the story of how the headlamp later died, thanks to the weak batteries.  All the training had paid off, I overcame the setbacks I had experienced, learned a lot, and proved to myself that I was more capable than I ever thought possible.  This race had transformed me in ways I have yet to understand, but I knew one thing for sure right then and there.  My life would never be the same from this day forward.  Two hours later, I stepped out of Edith's car in the hotel parking lot.  Her, Danny, and JC needed to head back to Los Angeles, but I was going to be staying an extra night in Carson City, leaving early the next morning.  As we embraced in a final hug and said our goodbyes, I thanked them for their loyalty and support before heading into the hotel lobby, barely able to walk.  During the drive home the next morning and for days afterwards, I would reflect on what an amazing journey it has been, but I wasn't thinking too much about that right now.  I could barely see straight, and all I wanted was a comfortable bed, a shower, and another hot meal.      

Just Give Me The Dirt: My Tahoe Rim Trail 100-Mile Endurance Run Story (Part 1)

My mind wanted to sleep, but my body wouldn't let me.  It was 3:00 AM as I sat semi-coherently in a camping chair at the Bull Wheel aid station, hugging myself to keep warm, closing my eyes, hoping to squeeze in a fifteen-minute power nap and restore my mental clarity.  For the last twenty-five sleepless hours I had been traversing through the mountains of Eastern Nevada along with 254 other runners (probably less now since a fair amount had dropped by this point), hoping to arrive at the finish line at Spooner Lake prior to the thirty-five hour cutoff for this beast of a race that I was participating in, known respectively as the Tahoe Rim Trail 100-mile Endurance Run.  As I sat there trying to fall asleep, the cold temperature had reached discomfort levels and runners arrived, got what they needed, and pressed onward.  After ten minutes of trying, I became frustrated and stood up.  "Hey man, I'm outta here" I said to the guy manning the aid station, trying to remain optimistic.  "Cool, see you on the way back!" he answered.  Off I ran, into the night.  As I continued along the switchbacks, the mounting drowsiness transitioned into delirium, and my mind slowly entered a dream-like state.  The transition was not abrupt though, and things got more hazy as I continued onward.  Everything began to look the same to me.  The trail, the trees, the moonlit, star filled sky.  All of it was one big identical blur.  Movie scenes and bits of songs began playing in my head as I continued along the rolling trail.  I was moving forward numbly, completely unaware of my surroundings, and began singing softly to myself "give me the dirt, just give me the dirt.  Just give me what I want 'till it hurts".  Any pain I had been feeling was slowly melting away and my mind was on an acid trip of endorphins.  It felt as if I had stepped into a scene in Alice in Wonderland.  It was actually a pretty fun stroll, until I suddenly stopped in my tracks.  The Alice in Wonderland mind state had abruptly disappeared, and it felt as if someone had slapped me in the face and I had woken up from a dream.  About thirty feet up the trail in front of me, hanging from a tree branch right in the middle, was a florescent orange ribbon.  The course was marked with them every quarter of a mile to keep runners on the right path.  But this one was was brighter, shinier, and more prominent than the others I had recently passed.  I stood there and stared at it as it fluttered in the breeze in the midnight stillness.  Something was strangely amiss.  After a few seconds it hit me that something was very wrong, and I was in trouble.  I had passed by this exact ribbon thirty minutes prior.  Somehow I had taken a wrong turn and effectively traveled in a big circle.  Then I realized that I hadn't gone in a circle; I was going back the way I came.  I had been following the orange ribbons all along, but somehow I had gotten turned around.  I decided to keep going, but the further I progressed, the more disoriented I became.  I had no idea where I was going and the situation was becoming unsettling very quickly. Although the moon cast a silvery-white glow of light on the trail, it was still very dark and there were no other runners to be found.  To add to the chaos, I was now miles away from an aid station and going back for help wasn't an option.  "How could this have transpired?" I thought.  Did I somehow get turned around while I was in La La Land?  I certainly didn't remember turning around or veering from my course.  I finally decided to just stop and try to get my head straight.  Something just wasn't right and I had to figure out what had gone wrong before going any further.  I stood there for a good minute, my headlamp illuminating the trail with the help of the moonlight, and not a sound to be heard except my heavy breathing.  Then suddenly I saw something ahead of me that caught my attention instantaneously: lights.  Lights from other runners probably about a quarter of a mile ahead.  As I looked more carefully into the darkness,  I could see their shadows in their headlamps in the distance and they were moving away from me.  This was a good sign.  I warily began marching forward.  I noticed that they were not directly in front of me, but on an uphill switchback slightly to my right.  After a couple of minutes I arrived at the junction that connected me to this switchback and suddenly, all was good.  As my senses began firing, it occurred to me that I had been going in the right direction all along.  The sleep deprivation and exhaustion from running and hiking for twenty-two hours straight had caused my acute senses to malfunction, and my mind had been messing with me.  As I plodded along, the trail passed over the ridge and Lake Tahoe emerged below to my left, the lights of Incline Village illuminating the hill side that rose from the north shore and into the ink black mountains.  As I admired the night view, I slowly broke out of the delirious state that I had been in for the last several miles and was now feeling much more aware and alert.  I smiled as I approached the junction  where the course began a downhill twisting route to Diamond Peak Lodge.  "Only twenty-three more miles to go" I said. 

4:00 AM, Saturday, July 22nd, 2019, Spooner Lake - Lake Tahoe State Park, Nevada

Stepping off the bus that transported runners from the hotel to the race start, I inhaled a deep breath of the cool, crisp, refreshing Sierra mountain air.  One hour from then, myself and several other runners would toe the start line of the Tahoe Rim Trail 100-mile Endurance Run, along with the 50-mile and 55-kilometer races that were being held in conjunction with the 100-miler.  I had spent the entire year training for this race and although my mind raced during the days leading up to today, I felt ready.  The Tahoe Rim Trail 100-mile Endurance Run, commonly known simply as Tahoe Rim Trail 100 or TRT 100 is no ordinary 100-miler.  From the start at Spooner Lake, the course travels in two 50-mile figure-eight like loops through alpine wilderness and along mountain ridges near Lake Tahoe, climbing and descending a cumulative total of 18,000 feet.  And just for good measure, the course is run at an average of 8,000 feet in elevation.  Today, make no mistake, was going to be one of the most crucial and defining days of my life up until this point.  My physical and mental toughness would be tested like never before.  I had been longing for this day for quite some time and was looking forward to enjoying the highs I would experience and encountering the lows and having the strength to break through them along the way.  Earlier this year, my favorite band, Motley Crue, had recorded four new songs as a soundtrack to their movie "The Dirt" which had been released in March.  I really liked the new songs, but one of them really spoke to me.  The chorus of the song goes "give me the dirt, just give me the dirt.  Just give me what I want 'till it hurts".  I had adopted this song as my soundtrack to this race.  To the band members, "the dirt" is a two-word phrase that entails everything they've been through together over the years.  Their rise to fame, decline in popularity, return to fame, drug addiction, alcoholism, rehab, jail time, etc.  My meaning of the phrase would be slightly different.  When I said "just give me the dirt", it meant "give me the whole ultramarathon experience".  The highs, lows, joy, pain, elation, despair, feelings of self-doubt, feelings of determination, feelings of hopelessness, feelings of confidence, the whole picture.  I had experienced these emotions in ultramarthons many times before, but today was going to take all of that to the next level.  "Just give me the dirt!" I kept thinking to myself.  After walking down the trail and arriving in the starting area, I grabbed myself a paper cup of coffee and took a seat in an empty camping chair under one of several canvas tents that covered the area.  A steady cloud of steam rose from my cup and fluttered off to the right before evaporating in the slight breeze.  The morning air was chilly, but not cold, and although it was barely warm enough that I wasn't shivering, I knew that I would warm up when I began moving.  I admired the Christmas lights that hung from the canvas tents as volunteers prepared coffee and checked runners in.  As I enjoyed my piping hot cup of paradise, George Ruiz, the Race Director spoke over the loudspeaker:  "Five minutes until race start!  100-mile runners, please make your way to the start line".  I took one last sip of coffee and merged into the crowd as we made our way to the blue archway that marked the start line.  After the National Anthem and a few brief announcements, the final countdown began.  "And, go!"  George shouted into the microphone.  The crowd of volunteers and spectators went wild as the group of two-hundred and fifty-five runners charged forward through the start line at 5:00 AM on the dot.  The adventure had begun.  "This is going to be a great day, or day and a half for some of us" I said as I ran with the tight pack of runners.

As hours passed, the distance eventually totaled thirty miles as I rolled into Diamond Peak Lodge around noon.  We had traversed along the Marlette Lake trail, ran past Marlette Lake, and followed the Tahoe Rim Trail to the Hobart aid station which, to my surprise, was stocked with not only great provisions and awesome volunteers, but a full bar, even at 6:30 in the morning.  From there we ran along a ridge past Harlan and Marlette Peaks with spectacular views of Lake Tahoe before arriving at Tunnel Creek aid station and hammering through the notoriously challenging Red House Loop, which featured a disco themed aid station, complete with costumes, a disco ball, and a sign on the way out that read "as you pass, we're checking out your ass".  Once I'd survived Red House Loop, It was up to the Bull Wheel aid station, followed by an eight-mile stretch through tall conifer trees and along ridge line that offered more great views of Lake Tahoe and Incline Village, before a three mile descent to Diamond Peak Lodge.  Diamond Peak is a well known ski resort in the Incline Village area and the aid station was fully stocked with plenty of food, drinks, chairs for runners, and restrooms.  Looking at myself in the mirror in the restroom, I took mental note that I hadn't looked too beat up, but then again, I was less than a third of the way into the race.  I splashed some water on my face, headed out to the aid station to have some food, and soon began the arduous climb up the Diamond Peak Ski Resort.  This 1,700 foot climb over a span of just under two miles is the section of the race that many runners dread the most.  As I sluggishly made my way, step by step, up the steep, sandy grade, I looked on as other runners stood off to the side of the trail, vomiting.  It's not uncommon to see runners puking during ultras.  Often times, runners will either eat too much, eat something that doesn't sit well with them, or simply push themselves too hard, which can quickly result in their guts becoming unstable.  When running extreme distances, our bodies are putting all of their energy into keeping us moving, including energy normally used to digest food.  If too much food is consumed and our digestive systems can't keep up, it will come right back up.  Typically, runners will carry on after doing their business, however prolonged vomiting can lead to dehydration, cramping, and an eventual withdraw from the race.  Periodically, I would turn around as I made my way up this monster climb.  The view was the best I had seen yet.  The dirt path that I had just climbed disappeared below into the dark green conifer trees in the distance, and the horizon was dominated by the dark blue water of Lake Tahoe and the snow-capped mountains that rested along the shore on the opposite side.  The view made the brutal climb worth it, and after a fifty-four minute struggle in the sun and heat, I made it to the peak, where I scarfed down some watermelon and had some cold drinks back at Bull Wheel.     

I made my way through the mountain wilderness, passing through Tunnel Creek and Hobart aid stations once again, where I consumed smoothies, ample amounts of solid food, and kept my handheld water bottles full, thanks to the awesome volunteers.  Between my two water bottles, I was holding a quart of fluids, and I had been peeing throughout the race, so I felt confident that I was properly hydrating.  Every once in a while I would see peculiar squiggle marks in the dirt as I ran, and eventually it dawned on me that runners were peeing on the run rather than going off to the side of the trail.  The only logical reason I could think of as to why people had adopted this method was to avoid wasting time stopping to relieve themselves.  I wondered if I would get a chance to witness it first hand.  I was feeling the effects of exhaustion and fatigue as I arrived at the Snow Valley Peak aid station, mile forty-three, at approximately 4:45 PM.  It had been a warm and sunny day, and much of the course was on exposed ridge line.  After sitting in a camping chair eating fruit and drinking electrolytes for a few minutes, I felt slightly more energized.  Just as I was making my way to the exit, a runner staggered into the tent and collapsed into a chair.  She was barely able to speak and the aid station crew surrounded her, taking her blood pressure and asking her questions.  She said that she had been puking for the last couple of hours.  I gave her some words of encouragement as I headed out, fully aware that soon enough I could be in just as bad of shape.  Although the remaining seven miles to the halfway point were mostly downhill, I took a reserved, cautious approach.  Running a hundred miles was going to be a new experience for me and I wanted to make I was conserving energy for the next fifty miles.  I would need it.  The second fifty-mile loop would be a repeat of what I had just done, but it would feel very different.  I would be running through the night and into the morning, hoping to finish by the thirty-five hour cutoff at 4:00 PM the next day.  Covering the last few miles to the halfway point back at Spooner Lake, I was fourteen minutes over my projected pace, which wasn't of grave concern.  My projected pace was based on a thirty-hour finish, so I still had plenty of time.  The question was could I make it another fifty miles? Or would I crumble in a heap on the trail and be forced to quit?  Could I make it through the night on my own before my pacer joined me at mile eighty?  Could I push through the pain and despair that would be lurking in the miles ahead? I wasn't sure, but I hoped so.  There comes a point where physical endurance can only take us so far.  After that, it all mental grit and determination that gets us to the finish line.  Covering the last bit of distance to the halfway point, I had since passed this threshold.  From here on out, I would be relying on mental strength to get me the rest of the way.       

From A Spectator's Point Of View

Saturday, June 29th, 2019 8:30 AM Philz Coffee, Sunnyvale, California: With a full tank of gas, a peanut butter & jelly sandwich, a bottle of Naked Juice, a Ziploc bag full of peeled clementines, a liter of water, and a piping hot cup of Aromatic Arabic brew, I begin my drive to Auburn.  As I make my way out of the San Francisco Bay Area on the 680 freeway, the traffic gradually dissipates and eventually gives way to a wide open road along the northbound section of the 5 freeway.  I've made this drive numerous times since moving to the Bay Area and it never loses it's excitement.  The town of Auburn, California holds a unique status in the world of endurance sports.  Because of the large number of endurance events that are held in and around the Auburn area, the town is widely considered, at least in some social circles, to be the endurance capital of the world.  I've participated in several of these events, including the Canyons 100K, Overlook Endurance 50K, and the Western States training runs, and each of these experiences has their own unique story.  Because of this, the town holds a great vibe for me, and I consider Auburn to be one my "happy places".  When I was a kid, my family and I would drive down from my hometown in Michigan to a beach town along the Gulf Coast of Alabama to enjoy a vacation in the sun for a couple of weeks every year during the harsh winter.  As the years went on, I learned to enjoy the sixteen-hour ride in the car as much as the vacation itself.  When I wasn't interacting with my family I would put on my headphones, reflect on things, gather my thoughts, and reminisce on experiences during trips from prior years, which allowed me to build up excitement and anticipation for the adventures that awaited us when we arrived.  I could fill many pages of writing with the adventures I had during my winter trips to Alabama growing up, but the point is those same feelings of anticipation and excitement that I experienced during the long drive to Alabama still live with me to this day when I'm driving somewhere where I know adventure awaits. 

11:15 AM: I arrive in Auburn and pull into Black Bear Diner for a quick meal.  Today I will not be participating in one of the many endurance events held in Auburn, but instead, I will be a spectator at perhaps the most noteworthy event that takes place in the area; the Western States Endurance Run.  The Western States Endurance Run, commonly known as the Western States 100, or simply Western States, is held once a year on the third weekend of June, and is one of the longest standing ultramarathons held in the world.  Initially a horse race, it transitioned into a footrace in 1977 and covers rugged terrain along the Sierra Nevada mountains between the start line at the base of the Squaw Valley Ski Resort and the finish line at the Placer High School track in Auburn.  I've been heavily intrigued by this race for several years since reading about it in Dean Karnazes' memoir and have since made it a goal of mine to run it someday.  Finishing the race is difficult enough, but due to the level of prestige that Western States holds, just getting in requires a great deal of effort.  Before even registering, all potential entrants must complete a qualifying race.  There are several ultramarthons throughout the United States and the rest of the world that are Western States qualifiers, however the minimum distance is one hundred kilometers, and runners must finish within a specific amount of time.  Once runners qualify, they must also enter the lottery process.  Out of the thousands who apply, four hundred runners are selected each year, and even for runners who have multiple qualifiers, the probability of being selected for first timers is low.  It can take as long as seven years for some runners to get in.  I myself had been denied in the lottery this particular year even though I had earned a qualifier, but like everything else in life that is worthwhile, I must keep trying.

12:35 PM: After driving down a desolate stretch of road through the wilderness, parking on the side of the street next to a rock wall, and walking about a half a mile down the winding road, I arrive at the small outpost of Michigan Bluff, mile fifty-five of the race.  Several spectators line the sides of the street sitting on blankets and in camping chairs in front of small houses socializing and waiting for the leaders of the race to pass through.  I walk down the street towards the Michigan Bluff aid station which is situated at the junction where the course leaves the trail for the pavement and continues down the street for about a hundred yards before picking up the dirt trail once again.  From tracking the live results online, I learn that Jim Walmsley, a twenty-nine year old runner from Flagstaff, Arizona is in the lead and will likely be passing through within the next ten minutes.  After spending a few minutes chatting with a few people in the crowd and scoping out the scene, I walk past the aid station and down the trail, where several photographers are anticipating Jim's arrival.

12:50 PM: The small crowd goes wild as Jim emerges from the trail and comes cruising through the aid station sporting a white Hoka shirt, displaying not one ounce of exhaustion.  He spots his crew on the roadside and runs over to them, pausing for about ten seconds while they fill his hat with ice, before disappearing down the road and back onto the trail.

1:14 PM: Another round of applause erupts as second place runner Jared Hazen, twenty-four years old, also from Flagstaff, comes running through Michigan Bluff.  Rocking a blue Hoka shirt and looking strong, he drenches himself in ice water with the help of an aid station volunteer.  Temperatures at Western States can range from the high thirties at the summit of Squaw Valley early in the morning to the low hundreds in the notorious canyons section later on in the afternoon.  Because of its length, the race starts at 5:00 AM and continues into the night, and into the following morning, with an 11:00 AM, thirty-hour cutoff.  Michigan Bluff is nestled right in the middle of the canyons section and several runners are in dire need of aid by the time they arrive here.  Luckily, today the temperature is unseasonably cool and has hovered in the mid to high seventies throughout the day.  Despite the pleasant weather, Jim and Jared both opt for a cool down at this juncture to keep their momentum going.  After a brief pause at the aid station, Jared hops back onto the course and takes off past the enthusiastic crowd, his long hair and clothes dripping with water, as he disappears back onto the trail.

1:58 PM: As I mingle on the trail a few hundred feet ahead of the aid station, photographers on the trailside gear up for the arrival of the female leader of the race, Courtney Dauwalter, a Minnesota native now residing in Golden, Colorado.  Seconds later, she abruptly comes running through as cameras click and the small group gives her kudos on her performance.  "Great job, Courtney!" I shout as she glides by.  She replies with a "thank you!" and a smile as she continues to the aid station.  What stands out to me the most about her is not only the fact that she's an amazing runner, but the fact that she is always smiling.  Photographers have taken videos and pictures of her at start lines, finish lines, and even during the most difficult sections of races, and she always has a big smile on her face, no matter what.  This, to me, speaks volumes of her love and dedication to the sport of ultrarunning.  This encounter was no exception, and seconds later, another round of applause erupts at Michigan Bluff as she passes through and continues to the next check point.

3:20 PM: After spending more time cheering on runners and chatting with spectators, I decide to relocate to the next check point at Foresthill, a little over six miles down the course from Michigan Bluff, thirty-eight miles from the finish line.  Between the two points, the dirt road leaving Michigan Bluff rolls up and down, banks right at the intersection with Gorman Ranch road, and continues onto single track trail through pristine, alpine wilderness.  Once on the single track trail, runners drop 1,000 feet down the twisting course into Volcano Canyon, cross a small river, and climb up the switchbacks leading to another short section of road before arriving in Foresthill.  As I arrive back at my car to leave, several cars are now lining both sides of the road as far as I can see, as spectators walk down the road, heading towards Michigan Bluff.

3:45 PM: The crowd at the Foresthill checkpoint goes wild in the distance as I walk over from my car.  Upon arrival, I learn that the commotion was caused by Courtney's arrival, and that she had just departed.  Jim and Jared had passed through about thirty minutes prior and were already making their way towards the river crossing in the valley.  Foresthill's easy access by car and ample space for spectators to gather have lead to it being the largest and most popular check point of the course.  The aid station is situated in the parking lot of the local elementary school, which has served as the start and finish line for many of the ultramarathons that I have run in the area.  The school is located on a normally quiet two-lane road that passes through the heart of the town.  The check point comes at the sixty-two mile mark of the race before continuing a half a mile down the road and onto the dirt trail once again.  As I walk through the crowd of several hundred people, I recognize a group of runners from Texas whom I had met a month prior at the Western States training runs.  Among the group is Laura, who is participating in the race, along with her support crew including Brian, who I had also met during the training runs.  After we all greet each other, Laura informs me that she had to withdraw from the race after an unfortunate and painful accident.  She goes on by telling me that she had sprained her ankle in the snowy terrain during the early stages of the race and shows me the surgical boot on her foot to validate her injury.  Despite her bad luck, she remains optimistic, and Brian and I assure her that she can and should try the race again in the upcoming years.  Minutes later, I learn by checking the live tracking feed that Kyle Robidoux, the first legally blind runner to ever attempt the race, who was being guided by ultrarunning veteran Scott Jurek, had also dropped out in the early stages, as the snowy conditions had proved to be too much.  I think about how courageous he is for attempting the race and hope that he too will try again at some point.

4:15 PM: I catch up with Dusty Olson, who I had been hoping to meet at some point throughout the day.  Noted for his long hair, tall stature, and his light-hearted attitude towards endurance sports and life in general, Dusty has been a well known character in the ultrarunning scene for years, despite the fact that his main passion is skiing and he runs ultras as a form of cross training.  In the fall of 2002 he threw down an amazing seven hour and seventeen minute performance at a one hundred kilometer (sixty-two mile) road race in his native, Northern Minnesota.  The race served as the 100K national championships that year, and his time qualified him for a trip to the world championships in Taiwan.  Dusty declined the invitation, citing the fact that his passion is skiing and he would rather be knee deep in fresh snow on the slopes than competing in the 100K world championships.  I love this story because it proves that he runs because he loves the sport, not because of the fame, exploits, and other trappings that come with being an elite endurance athlete.  As we cheer on runners, Dusty and I chat about everything from ulrarunning to skiing to his struggle with Lyme Disease to the recent loss of one of his close family members.

6:20 PM: After a couple of hours of eye-opening, telling, and fun chit chat, Dusty and I part ways and I prepare to head off to the finish line at Placer High School.  As I'm walking to my parked car on a side street a short distance from the school, I check the live tracking feed again.  Jim and Jared are still in first and second place, respectively, and Courtney is still leading the female division, with Boulder, Colorado native Claire Gallagher following closely behind.  Jim had won the race last year and set a new course record, and the way things are looking, he seems destined to do the same again this year, but the race isn't over until it's over.

7:09 PM, Placer High School, Auburn, California: The bleachers along the high school track are occupied by a few hundred spectators, all on their feet, as Jim and his crew enter the track for the final lap to the finish line.  As I stand on the side of the track at ground level, Jim runs by high fiving spectators.  Approaching the finish line, he leaps in the air in celebration, waving his arms around, causing the crowd to go even more crazy.  He jumps through the finish tape, and as predicted, he wins the race for the second year in a row, finishing in fourteen hours and nine minutes, shattering the course record he set last year by twenty-one minutes.  Jared finishes roughly fifteen minutes later, also breaking last year's course record.  After their finishes, the local media outlets conduct interviews with each of them separately at the finish line.  Watching these two interviews from the sidelines, I learn that Jim and Jared are actually roommates and training partners together in Flagstaff, which was unbeknownst to me beforehand. 

7:30 PM: As Jared's post race interview comes to a close, I begin to walk back to my car and get ready to head home.  As I walk off the track, I find out that Courtney, who had been the female winner last year, and had been leading the female division all day, had dropped out at mile seventy-nine due to hip problems.  I'm disappointed to hear that her race had come to an end, but I also feel excited for Claire Gallagher, who is now leading the female division, and would probably be finishing in the next few hours.  As I drive along the westbound freeway towards home, I think a lot about some of the key points that Jim and Jared both touched on during their interviews.  "We live together and train together with a great group of guys.  He pushed me all day" Jim said of Jared.  "We hold each other accountable.  This is our life, and we remind each other that we can't slack off" Jared said in reference to Jim.  Although they did not explicitly say so during their interviews, I believe it's possible that Jim and Jared could not have accomplished everything they did if they didn't have each other.  This realization made me look at my training and the fact that I have always done it exclusively on my own.  Although I consider myself to be a good runner, I can't help but wonder about how much I could improve if I were to train with other people and let other people in, so to speak.  When I run Tahoe Rim Trail 100 in July it will be my first time having a pacer at any of my races, so that will likely be a great start to possibly training with others in the future.        







 

Hot Tub Time Machine: The Bishop High Sierra 100K Edition

Defeat is never easy to accept.  When we invest dedication, hard work, and precious time and fall short of accomplishing a goal, it can be demoralizing, and the temptation to give up rears its ugly head.  Such was the case with my failure at the Canyons 100K in April.  The days following my dropping out at mile forty-eight due to heat related nausea, exhaustion, and cramping, I had mixed feelings about what had transpired.  A side of me was remaining rational by reminding myself that not finishing a race once in a while is part of the sport of ultrarunning.  It presents a learning opportunity and proves that I am challenging myself.  But the other side was not so optimistic.  The other side of me took it hard.  I covered forty-eight miles which is no easy feat, but still, I didn't finish.  Something was missing and a part of me felt hollow.  After spending a week thinking and contemplating, I decided that I wanted redemption.  I knew I was capable of finishing a 100-kilometer distance race and I was determined to prove it to myself.  I had to get back out there and try again.

I left my home in Sunnyvale, California at 3:30 AM on a Friday morning, and after a six-and-a-half hour drive, I arrived in Bishop, California at the Looney Bean coffee shop.  It was a busy time of the month at work so even though I had taken the day off, I needed to hunker down for a bit.  I walked into the coffee shop, ordered some lunch, chose a small table near the window facing Main street, and opened my laptop to put in a few hours of work.  The remainder of the day consisted of checking into Motel 6 on Main street in the heart of Bishop, buying salt tablets, picking up my race packet at a local running store, eating half of a delicious, wonderfully crafted pizza at The Upper Crust, and a quick water purchase at the local grocery store before retreating back to my hotel room to get some rest.  The next day was the day that I was going to have the opportunity to redeem myself after dropping out of Canyons.  About a week after the race, I surfed the internet for other 100K races in California and came across the Bishop High Sierra Ultras.  Although the course did not appear to be as daunting as Canyons, it included 11,200 feet of climbing, most of the route was above 7,000 feet in elevation, and the terrain was almost entirely composed of 4-wheel drive dirt roads that ran into the scenic back country of the Sierra Nevada mountains for miles.  I decided that this would not only be the perfect race to redeem myself, but it would also be great for altitude training for the Tahoe Rim Trail 100, which is run at similar elevation.  The adventure would begin the next morning at 5:30 AM.  Sitting in my hotel room that night, I dissolved three tablets of Nuun, an electrolyte supplement, into a liter sized bottle of water, which I sipped as I lounged around.  We were going to have decent weather for race day with temperatures predicted to rise into the mid-seventies, partly cloudy skies, with a chance of rain in the afternoon.  Heat was what forced me to drop at Canyons, so despite the favorable forecast, I spent the week leading up to the race consuming ample sodium, and I made myself drink the bottle of Nuun-laced water in its entirety before going to bed.  As I laid down that night, I felt confident that I had done my best to prepare for the race.  All I could do now was hope for the best.  My alarm went off at 4:00 AM and as I finished my preparations and headed towards the door, I realized I had overlooked one particular detail.  What was I going to eat before the race?  It was the one thing I had forgotten to consider the evening prior.  Scanning the room, I saw the box from Upper Crust sitting on the table, which still had four slices of pizza from the night before.  I picked it up and headed out the door.  It was about a fifteen minute drive to the race start at the Millpond Recreation Area and after stopping for coffee at a gas station, I opened up the box and wolfed down a couple of slices.  Taking that first bite, I was delighted to find that the pizza was just as delicious as it had been the night before, despite sitting overnight at room temperature.  Pizza and coffee: breakfast of champs.  After arriving at the race start, choosing a parking spot, and setting my drop bag down on the tarp to be transported to an aid station, I walked around the crowded starting area.  As I scanned the surroundings, I spotted Catra Corbett and her boyfriend Phil near the tent next to the start line.  Catra is an amazing runner and I had the pleasure of meeting her the prior year at Ragnar Los Coyotes, where I purchased an autographed copy of her memoir.  I walked over and said hey to her and Phil and the three of us engaged in idle chat while waiting for the race to start.  When the Race Director got on the loudspeaker advising us that we had two minutes until race start, I gave them a knuckle pound and wished them the best of luck.  After a few brief announcements, the gun went off and the race was on.  Two hundred or so of us runners charged forward and made our way through the park to the entrance to the dirt road that would take us up thousands of feet into the High Sierra.  About fifty other people were running the one-hundred kilometer race, while the remainder of the field was running the fifty-mile, fifty-kilometer, and twenty-mile distance.  I admired the picturesque setting as we made our way along the dirt road through the back country.  The sun was making its way into the clear sky and the dirt road wound back and forth in front of me before disappearing into the horizon, which was dominated by towering, snow covered mountain peaks.

The first eleven miles went well.  I was happy, feeling good, and chatting with other runners.  The dirt road followed a steady incline that would take us up 5,000 feet over about sixteen miles.  I had eaten at the first two aid stations and was drinking plenty of fluids.  Between my two handheld water bottles, I carried a quart of fluids, and I refilled them at both aid stations.  Because the course traversed mainly through the Sierra high country, the route was very exposed with little shade to hide in, except for a few short sections where we traveled through alpine forest on single track trails and crossed a few streams.  At the thirteen mile mark, shortly after passing through the third aid station, the rising sun was heating up my back behind me.  As sweat dripped down my face, a wave of fear came over me.  It was 8:00 AM, I was already sweating, and it was only going to get warmer.  Despite becoming a bit shaken, I kept myself focused.  I drink from my water bottles and kept moving forward.  The aid stations at the race were providing an electrolyte replenishment drink called Tailwind, which was known to be quite popular among ultrarunners during warm races.  I was greeted by an enthusiastic crowd as I climbed up the hill to the Edison aid station, which I would be passing through three times throughout the race.  A volunteer informed me that from there, we would need to climb 1,000 feet over the next mile and a half to the turnaround point at 9,385 feet, where we would grab a sticker out of the jar at the turnaround marker and stick it to our bib to prove that we made it to the turnaround point.  After powering up the climb, the terrain began to level out and patches of snow began to appear on the trail.  I traversed through two snow fields and along some rolling hills until finally making it to the turnaround point.  The view from top was a stunning scene with sheer drops on all sides of the flat top of the hill, and snowy mountain peaks surrounding me in every direction.  I would have loved to enjoy the view for longer, but I was only a third of the way through the race and some dark clouds were beginning to roll into the area.  Probably best to keep moving forward.  After sixteen miles of steady climbing, running downhill felt great.  I had a nice cadence going back down to the aid station and felt good mentally, knowing that the hardest part of the race was now over.  I passed through Edison again and headed out to the next loop of the course, which would be a twelve-mile out and back, turning around at Bishop Creek Lodge.  The loop was composed of several rolling hills, many of them featuring abrupt ascents and descents.  About halfway to Bishop Creek Lodge on the way out, dark clouds had taken over the sky and I began feeling rain drops.  Within minutes, a steady downpour began, but promptly transitioned into a hailstorm.  Grape-sized hailstones pelted my arms and the brim of my hat as I ran.  By this point the field of runners had spread out considerably, and I watched as a few runners in the distance struggled through the stormy weather.  Fortunately, the hail only lasted about ten minutes and had dissipated by the time I reached the highway 168 crossing.  Shortly after, I reached the junction where the dirt road deposited me onto a back country paved road which I would follow for about a mile before turning around at Bishop Creek Lodge, mile twenty-nine.  Passing through the Intake Two aid station during the return trip, I was impressed with the provisions.  Not only did the aid station have typical ultramarathon aid station goodies (M&M's, chips, peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, pickles, etc.), but the volunteers were slicing up avocados, making guacamole, and serving up cheese quesadillas fresh off the grill.  Many of the volunteers at this aid station were older men from the Eastern Sierra Youth Outdoor Program.  The Bishop High Sierra Ultras were offered as a benefit to the organization so the men were enthusiastic and incredibly thankful that we were out here running.  After spending a few minutes refilling my water bottles, chowing down on some peanut butter & jelly and salty snacks, and chatting, I thanked them for their hospitality and continued onward.  About a mile up the trail, I had reached the thirty-three mile mark and took mental inventory.  Overall, I was feeling good, physically.  The weather had been warm, but not hot, I knew I was hydrating properly because I had peed a few times, and I had minimal soreness.  But I still had twenty-nine miles left to go.  "Oh, boy.  A lot can happen over twenty-nine miles" I thought to myself, remembering what happened at Canyons.  I attempted to restore my confidence by reminding myself that I was three hours ahead of the cutoff, meaning I could power hike the next twenty-nine miles and still finish.  It helped a little, but I remained wary.  I knew that soon enough I could be in just as bad of shape as the guy I had just passed who was slowly and painfully hobbling his way out to Bishop Creek Lodge to the turnaround.  At this point, I saw Catra and Phil coming the other way as well and exchanged words of encouragement with them as I passed by.

After passing through Edison aid station for the third and final time, I reached the section of the race that I was looking forward to the most; a twelve-mile steady downhill, going back the way I came earlier in the day.  I chatted with more runners and kept a strong pace going down the steady downgrade.  By this time the skies had become partly cloudy and the sun was warming up the trail again, but I kept moving forward.  At one point I was on my own and there wasn't a sound to be heard except for my feet hitting the ground when two mountain bikers passed me abruptly, zooming down the trail at warp speed.  About a minute later, I heard footsteps behind me, but they sounded too light and choppy to be from a human.  Before I could look back, an off-leash Black Labrador ran right past, startling me.  Thinking he may chase me, I ran off to the side of the trail and stopped, but he resumed his course, and kept charging forward.  "Wow, you scared the hell out of me, buddy!" I said with nervous laughter.  He disappeared as quickly as he came, but I was only alone for a few seconds when a second dog came running by.  I assumed the dogs belonged to the mountain bikers, which proved to be true a few miles later when I passed by them as they all rested on the trail side together.  It was a little after 4:00 PM when I arrived at the Buttermilk aid station, mile forty-three.  I retrieved my headlamp from my drop bag for later use during the night, wrapping it around my wrist.  Shortly after departing the aid station, I came upon a runner who asked if I wanted to pass by.  Even though I was feeling good, I wanted to maintain a modest pace, so rather than passing him, we began running together.  After some small talk about the course and the crazy weather we had, we introduced ourselves to each other.  His name was Robert, a thirty-year-old married man and father of four originally from the Bay Area but now living in Henderson, a suburban city in Nevada, just south of Las Vegas.  The distraction of chatting with him served me well, and my running at times felt effortless.  We shared stories and when I asked him how he got into ultrarunning, he explained that in his early twenties, he was overweight and lived a hedonistic lifestyle of drinking and partying while working as a bartender.  One night after returning home to his wife and two-year old daughter, he walked up the stairs to the second floor of his outdoor apartment building, but was shocked at how winded and exhausted he was after only climbing one flight of stairs.  Looking down and watching his daughter playing outside from the top of the stairs, he had a moment of clarity and realized that he needed to get healthy quickly not only for himself, but for his family.  He began running on the roads, but after meeting some ultrarunners through the local running community, he took the sport to the trails, and the rest was history.  Robert and I shuffled along together for the next several miles before arriving at Tungsten City, the final aid station, at mile forty-eight-and-a-half.  For the fifty-mile runners, it was only a mile and a half downhill to the finish at Millpond Recreation Area, but the 100K runners had to contend with a twelve-mile out and back through Sage Summit and return to Tungsten City and onto the finish line.  It was 5:47 PM when I began heading out towards the turnaround.  Robert had stayed at the aid station for few extra minutes to rest, but three miles later, he caught up and eventually passed me as I struggled on an uphill climb.  I wasn't too sore, but exhaustion had set in and I was out of breath, barely able to say more than a few words at a time.  The going was getting tough, but I kept moving forward, as Robert powered along a few hundred feet ahead of me.  Coming over the top of the hill, I was pleasantly surprised when a small outpost appeared in the distance with two men and a camping table full of provisions.  "Man, I'm glad to see you guys" I exclaimed cheerfully as I approached.  "I didn't think there was going to be an aid station along this section of the race and I was worried about conserving fluids".  The two guys manning the aid station had hauled the supplies into the area in a pickup truck and seemed just as happy to see me as I was to see them.  After refilling my water bottles, they advised me that it was another two miles down the switchbacks to the turnaround point, where I would again need to retrieve a sticker to put on my race bib to prove that I went all the way to the turnaround.  Shortly after taking off down the switchbacks, I passed by Robert and gave him some words of encouragement as I pressed on.  As I reached the bottom of the switchbacks, it was about three quarters of a mile up the dirt road to the turnaround point.  The pitch had a very modest incline and was almost flat.  On fresh legs this section could have been run easily, but I was too exhausted to run even at a sluggish pace, so I walked.  At this point in the race, even flat terrain was difficult to run through.  Just as I started wondering where the hell this turnaround was, I saw a post with blinking lights about two hundred feet up the trail.  If this wasn't the turnaround point, I was going to be pissed.  Thankfully, it was.  I joyfully peeled a sticker off the wax paper in the jar beneath the sign, applied the sticker to my race bib, and headed back the other way for the return trip.  I only had six miles left, but I would need to hike up all the switchbacks I had traversed down on the way out here.  I would just take it step by step.  It was 7:30 PM and I still had plenty of time to hike out and make the nineteen-hour cutoff.  A few minutes later, Robert emerged.  "Robert, how's it going dude?" I shouted cheerfully.  "Ugh, I'm in a deep low right now man" he grunted.  He was fatigued and not feeling good, but I attempted to lift his spirits by letting him know that the turnaround was only a few hundred feet ahead and then we only had six miles to go.  I continued on and began powering up the switchbacks, eventually arriving back at the two man aid station I had passed through earlier.  "Just four miles left man, you can't go wrong!" one of the guys said.  "Thanks man, I hope so, but the race isn't over until it's over".  Even with four miles left to go, I remained humble, knowing that anything could happen.  At this point, darkness had taken over so I switched on my headlamp to light the path.  I kept moving forward, encouraging oncoming runners, and after what seemed like an eternity, the Tungsten City aid station finally came into view in the distance.  As I passed through, the volunteers recorded my number and informed me that I only had a mile and a half left until the finish.  I thanked them, and shortly after departing, the realization came over me that I was actually going to finish.  For the last five weeks I had doubted my capability of completing a 100K distance race.  I was disappointed that I had to drop out of Canyons and I was annoyed that I had fallen short of my goal of reaching the finish line.  There were feelings of self-doubt, frustration, and emptiness.  But all that was about to change tonight.  For the first time in fifteen hours I knew I was going to make it.  I had climbed 11,200 feet, powered through a hailstorm, taken in beautiful mountain scenery, climbed up hills, ran down hills, made friends along the way, and now here I was, a mile from the finish line, on the cusp of finishing this epic journey.  The realization was electrifying and I was disoriented with euphoria and excitement.  At that moment it felt as if nothing else in the world mattered.  The epiphany made me loopy and I began singing out loud.  "You know I wish that I had Jessie's girl!  I wish that I had Jessie's girl!".  This particular song was burning through my mind because my thoughts had drifted to a scene in Hot Tub Time Machine, one of my favorite comedy movies.  In the film, three friends who are dissatisfied with their lives inadvertently travel back in time and are given a chance to change history.  One of the main characters portrayed by Craig Robinson had previously played a music gig at an open mic contest and gave such an awful performance, he chose to abandon his passion for music.  While reliving that same night after traveling back in time, he is presented with a chance to redeem himself.  This time, he regains his confidence and performs a cover of Jessie's Girl, winning over the crowd, and turning the tables for his future.  I felt as if I had just stepped into that movie and done the exact same thing.  As I tore down the trail towards the finish line, I looked down at my water bottle.  "There must be liquid crack in this Tailwind stuff" I said.  Eventually, the colored lights of the finish line appeared in the distance.  I ran towards them, crossing the finish line in fifteen hours and forty-nine minutes, clapping my hands in celebration.  "That was awesome!" I shouted.  Todd Vogel, the Race Director, draped my finisher medal around my neck and seconds later, a light from another runner approached.  It was Robert.  The two of us immediately embraced in a hug as he crossed the finish line and I gave him kudos for pulling out of the low point that he was in, and finishing strong.  I later found out that Catra and Phil had successfully completed the fifty-miler a little while earlier, and several other runners I had met along the way were now finishing as well.  After a celebratory beer and spending a few minutes socializing with other runners, I jumped into my car, drove back to my hotel room, took a quick shower, and promptly went to bed.

After a delicious breakfast at Denny's the next morning, I made my way back home along the scenic highway, completely wiped out physically, but wired mentally.  Those feelings of self-doubt and frustration that I felt after Canyons had now ceased to exist.  I felt like a new man.  Although I wished that I had finished Canyons, I wouldn't change a thing because I gained a valuable piece of wisdom through this experience: when you fall short of achieving a goal, if you want it badly enough, you must always try again.  A bad race does not make you a bad runner.  We all have setbacks in life, but if we live life the way it was meant to be lived, we don't let the setbacks beat us down.  We try again.  Even if we don't succeed a second time, we just keep trying.  I had set a goal to redeem myself after a bad race, and I had done just that.  It's like that Japanese proverb goes; fall down seven times, get up eight.

Mount Shasta Round Three: Frozen To The Core

It was as if I had stepped into an action/thriller movie that has viewers eager to see what happens next.  I was all alone, it was 3:30 in the morning, and darkness completely engulfed me.  The beam of my flashlight illuminated the white, snow covered ground and the tall pine trees surrounding the small clearing in which I was standing.  I had left the parking lot at the Bunny Flat trailhead thirty minutes earlier and was heading towards the base of Mount Shasta but somehow I had wandered off the snow covered path and was now lost.  I scanned the area with my flashlight in search of any signs that marked the trail but all I saw was snow and trees.  Backtracking wasn't an option because I didn't know exactly where I had gone off course and it would have only made things worse.  I had no idea where I was and the situation was becoming unsettling.  I turned around and shined my flashlight in the direction I had come from hoping to see distant lights from other climbers, but it was just me, myself, and I in this small wilderness clearing somewhere between the Bunny Flat trailhead parking lot and the base of Mount Shasta.  There were no lights from other climbers, not a sound to be heard.  "Oh man, this isn't good" I thought.     

I had been looking forward this weekend of adventure for some time.  Throughout the spring I had thought about when I wanted to make my annual attempt and climbing Mount Shasta.  I had thought about going solo, but when my friends Dave and Iris invited me to join them on their trek that they were going to be doing during the second weekend in June, I jumped at the opportunity.  When Friday evening came around, I left work after a very busy but productive week.  When I got into my car, I clapped my hands.  "Mount Shasta, I'm coming for you!" I said excitedly.  The plan was for me to go home, get a couple hours of sleep, wake back up around 9:00 PM, get on the road, get something to eat along the way, make the five-hour drive to the Bunny Flat trailhead, and start trekking around 3:00 AM.  The drive, which consisted of a stop at McDonald's early on, and a stop at a Valero gas station in the town of Red Bluff at 1:00 AM for some coffee and provisions, was fairly uneventful.  When I finally arrived in town, I began the eleven-mile drive to the trailhead.  This winding, uphill road on the outskirts of town that would eventually dead end at the starting point for the trek, is extremely remote.  It was pitch black beyond the beams of my headlights, and enormous pine trees lined the road on both sides.  When driving through such a desolate area all alone in the dead of night, your mind plays tricks on you and any little thing will make you jump.  Anytime I came around a bend and saw a reflector, road sign, or a parked car, I would be mildly startled.  I drove up the road with reserve, knowing that there were several animals in the area and they can appear in the road without warning.  I was the only car on the road, so when I came to a straight section that had adequate distance between bends, I slowed to a stop and shut off my headlights just for the fun of it.  "Oh my god!" I said with nervous laughter.  The no-headlight fun only lasted about five seconds before I got too freaked out, turned them back on, and kept going.  Arriving at the trailhead, I was surprised at the unusually large amount of cars in the parking lot.  I chose a spot further down the road and gathered my supplies.  Mountaineering requires additional gear that I had to rent, and as I made my preparations, I went through my mental checklist; helmet, ice axe, crampons, water, food, sunscreen, flashlight, bandana, snow goggles.  The thermometer in my car read twenty-nine degrees and as I stepped out, the chilling air came pouring in.  The night was filled with shining stars, trees, snow, and Mount Shasta rested majestically in the distance above the treeline in front of me.  Dave, Iris, and our two other friends Scott, and Tara had begun their trek on Friday afternoon.  They set up camp for the night at the Helen Lake camping area, elevation 10,460 feet, about halfway up the climb, and were planning on starting their trek to the summit at 3:00 AM, about the same time that I was going to be leaving the parking lot.  My plan was to hopefully catch them either on the way up or at the summit and we would hike back to the parking lot together.  

Things got pretty hairy early on.  It had been an extremely snowy winter in California, especially in this southern stretch of the Cascade Range.  No sections of the path that led from the parking lot to the base of Mount Shasta were visible; the whole trail was covered in several feet of snow.  I put on my crampons at the very beginning, but the left one kept coming off.  It took me several minutes, but I finally was able to secure it properly so it would stay on my boot.  I followed the signs and managed to stay on the path for a little while, but at some point I wandered off course and found myself in a small clearing in the darkness.  I had gotten lost and despite the large amount of cars in the parking lot and observing a few other groups preparing for the trek, it seemed that no other climbers were anywhere to be found.  Trying not to panic, I reminded myself that worst case scenario, I could wait here for a couple more hours until the sun began to rise, which would provide just enough light for me to navigate my way through the trees and get back onto the path.  Just as I began seriously considering that option, I heard voices.  I turned around and sure enough, there were lights from a group of climbers glowing in the distance.  "Thank God" I thought.  I made my way towards the group.  As I emerged in the beams of their flashlights, I asked "hey guys, do you know how to get back on the trail?"  It was a group consisting of one guy and three girls who turned out to be not climbers, but nordic skiers.  They were from San Francisco and planned to nordic ski up the mountain as far as they could, and alpine ski back down.  They were a friendly bunch and seemed as happy to seem me as I was to see them.  We made our way through the trees and crested some small hills as we followed their GPS directions back to the trail.  Eventually, the trees cleared, and the base of the mountain emerged prominently in front of us.  We all cheered and celebrated that we successfully navigated our way through the dark wilderness.  We stuck together for a little while and as the sun began rising, I thanked them for their help, bade them farewell, and pushed on up the mountain.  Trekking through the snow up the mountain face, I arrived at the Helen Lake camping area about an hour and a half later.  Arriving at Helen Lake was almost like stepping into a small village.  One minute I was alone on a mountain face with snow stretching as far as the eye could see, and the next, I came over a hill and there were dozens of tents set up with shovels, skis, and mountaineering gear strewn around.  As I passed through camp, climbers were outside their tents preparing for the push to the summit, and several climbers were on the slope making their way up already.  I assumed that Iris, Dave, Scott, and Tara were somewhere up the mountain, about halfway to the summit by this point.  The sun had now made its way into the sky and it was going to be a warm day.  Even though the temperature was twenty-nine degrees at the start, the effort during the demanding trek had my blood pumping, and I had taken off my fleece to keep from sweating.  I sat on a pile of snow admiring the spectacular view and ate some food to refuel.  As I prepared to head off for the climb to the summit, a blast of frigid air swept through the camp, flapping tents, and almost blowing me off my feet.  I decided it was probably a good idea to put my fleece back on as I began the steep climb to Red Banks.  Several other climbers were making their way up the route with me and it was slow going.  The slope was at a forty-degree angle and approaching 11,000 feet in elevation.  It was challenging to maintain anything beyond a snail's pace.  I watched as other climbers further up the slope had adopted a technique that entailed created their own switchbacks.  They were climbing in a zig zag pattern, about twenty steps in each direction, gradually making their way up.  This method was not only effective in conserving energy, but was also faster.  Going straight up was much more physically demanding and resulted in smaller steps due to the steep grade.  I decided to give it a try in an effort to make better time.  

Unfortunately, things got ugly pretty quickly.  That initial blast of frigid air at Helen Lake was only a prelude to the conditions I would face during the climb to Red Banks.  Seventy mile-per-hour winds howled down the gulch and blew ice and snow straight at us.  Every thirty seconds a massive wind gust would blow through, and we would have to get on our knees and duck to avoid being blown down the slope or pelted in the face by snow and ice.  By this point, I was about two hundred feet shy of Red Banks.  From there, it was about a 1,600 foot climb over about a mile and a half to the summit.  After being hit hard by a slurry of ice pellets from another seventy mile-per-hour gust and in need of a break, I turned towards the the downward slope and sat down on the mountain, pondering my next move.  Several other climbers around me deemed the conditions unsafe and were heading back down towards Helen Lake, which rested in the distance, about 1,400 feet down.  I grabbed the tube of the internal bladder of my backpack to drink some water, but as I bit down on the spigot, ice crunched inside;  The contents of my internal bladder, along with the water that was in the tube had frozen solid.  So much for being able to drink water.  I made another troubling discovery a few seconds later while moving my right arm in front of me to look at my watch.  Apparently while I had my fleece tied around my waist during the trek up to Helen Lake, water had leaked all over the right sleeve from the tube of my internal bladder; I had forgotten to seal the spigot.  The frigid temperature, which at this point was in the low teens, along with the overwhelming winds had frozen the water and created a thin layer of ice that covered the entire back of my sleeve.  I wore snow goggles for eye protection, and the bandana that I wore to protect my face was now also frozen solid from the condensation that was created from my breath making contact with the frigid air.  Scariest of all, I couldn't feel the tips of my two middle fingers on my left hand anymore.  I took my glove off, flexed my fingers, and touched them to my thumb, but they had gone completely numb.  I put them in my mouth in a desperate attempt to warm them, which seemed to remedy the situation after about thirty seconds and the numbness was replaced with tingling.  As I prepared to put my glove back on, another gust blew snow on my bare hand, turning my fingers red.  When I got my glove on, my hand was so cold, the pain felt as if someone had sliced my fingers with a knife.  I gritted my teeth and my left eye misted up with a few tears of excruciating pain.  This was the first time in my life that I was seriously afraid that I was going to get frostbite.  It was a desperate moment.  I decided that I simply could not continue in these conditions and began making my way back down the slope along with several others.  It was tough going back to Helen Lake down the steep slope and high winds, but I flexed my fingers as I made my way down, and was eventually able to restore the feeling in my hands.  I hadn't seen my friends yet and was unsure if they had made it to the summit, so when I got down to Helen Lake, I decided to wait for about thirty minutes to see if they would show up.  There was no cell phone service, so I decided it was better to get out of the bitter cold and make my way down to the parking lot where I could send the group a message and find them.  

Because Helen Lake is a flat surface followed by a hill, it shields most of the winds that barrel down from the summit of the mountain, so after I made my way down the slope from Helen Lake, the winds dissipated.  The mid morning sun had partially melted the snow, turning it soft and fluffy, so when I came upon a two hundred foot slope, I decided to glissade down to the flat surface, meaning I sat down with my legs stretched out in front of me and allowed gravity to take me down the slope, using my ice axe to control my speed.  It was a fun descent and I let out a hoot as I slid past a group of climbers going up.  As time passed and distance was covered, the daylight made it much easier to navigate the way back.  It was shortly after 12:30 PM when I arrived back at the parking lot, so the trek had taken roughly eight and a half hours.  As I changed into shorts and flip flops at my car, I took off my sock and saw that I had lost a toenail that had become loose during the previous weekend at the Bishop High Sierra 100K.  This was the third toenail I had lost in the last three weeks from all the training I had been doing lately and I was relieved that it was gone because it had been driving me crazy.  I still hadn't seen my friends so I messaged the group thread on Instagram and found out that they had also not made it to the summit, but they had made it down safely and left the parking lot ten minutes earlier.  They had just arrived at a pizza restaurant and I made my way down the winding road into town to join them.  Our post climb pizza and beer meal was full of laughs and story telling.  Iris had told me that when they woke up at Helen Lake at 2:00 AM to prepare for the trek, it was so cold and the winds were so strong that no one wanted to get out of their sleeping bag.  After waiting at Helen Lake for four hours with no signs of the winds calming down, they decided to pack up their gear and head down to the parking lot.  I was happy that we had all made it back safely and even though we didn't get to climb together, it was so great to see my friends, even if it was for a short amount of time.  They had come up from Los Angeles and were going to be spending the night in Sacramento and driving back the next day.  As we parted ways, we embraced in a hug and promised that we would make plans soon for some summer hiking in the Sierras.  Driving through the night and climbing into the morning was great preparation training for Tahoe Rim Trail 100, but I was pretty wiped out and needed to pull over to take a forty-five minute nap at a rest stop thirty minutes into my drive back home.  Other than that, the drive back was smooth sailing.  It was unfortunate that I was unable to summit this mountain yet again due to unfavorable weather, but the experience and time with my friends made it all worth it.  No summit is worth putting yourself at risk.  The great thing about mountain summits is they will always be there and there will be plenty more opportunities to climb them.  Mount Shasta doesn't have a history of having cooperative weather, but I will get out there and reach the summit eventually.  "Cheers, Mount Shasta, until next time!" I said, as I drove down the freeway and the mountain disappeared in my rear view mirror.