I leap off the rock where I am sitting and grab a large stone. Clutching it as a weapon, I scream at Shacky to come back, or for godsake’s—pick up a weapon. We are ¼-mile from the top of the Grand Canyon’s South Rim—just steps from finishing the R2R2R. It’s almost 1:30 a.m. and we started running at 5 a.m. yesterday morning. We are exhausted, and I’m a little delusional.

This is not our first encounter with wildlife. But it is the first time I feel compelled to pick up a weapon. Less than a mile ago, I was slogging behind Shacky when I heard him hooting, hollering and clapping. At first, I thought he had reached the top. When I realized that wasn’t the case, I worried he might have lost his mind. But as I turned the switchback, my blood turned cold when he told me to stand back—there was a mountain lion on the rock ahead, glaring and crouching toward us.

The switchback was set up in such a way that we would have to give our backs to the hungry cat in order to continue on the trail—something you never, ever do. So we tried our best to walk backwards up the trail, making loud noises to keep the animal away. Even after we had walked some distance, I was watching my back, certain I was only seconds from death.

And now this.

A few minutes ago, I had stopped dead in my tracks to see a huge deer staring into my face on my left hand side. It was so close I could touch it. It was a beautiful creature, and I yelled at Shacky to give me the camera. But Shacky didn’t think it was a good idea—the deer didn’t look too pleased and he said that they do attack if they feel threatened.

I immediately thought of the deer scene from The Ring 2 and backed away as quickly and quietly as I could:

As I turned away, I heard rocks fall behind me. I spun around and saw the deer had followed me, blocking the trail behind me and staring me down. Holy shit. We kept walking straight.

The next second, we almost stumbled into a deer blocking the trail right in front of us. The large animal stood defiantly and refused to budge. A deer in front. A deer behind. Both unafraid. There was nowhere to go.

Crazy ass deer on the path

I suggested we sit down and wait, to see if they would move. We sat. We waited. After what seemed like 10 minutes, it was clear the deer were not moving. I suggested we toss some pebbles at their feet, to make noise and hopefully scare them away. That’s when Shacky started throwing rocks right at it. I yelled at him to stop and hid my face, certain the deer would attack.

“What’s happening??” I asked, still too afraid to look.

“He’s not very impressed,” Shacky replied.

Dear God. This is how I will die, I thought. Death by deer. Only steps away from finishing our run.

Shacky finally got mad at waiting so long, and lunged toward the deer to push it off the trail. That’s when I grabbed the rock. I thought for sure, I would now have to bludgeon Bambi to death with my bare hands.

As Shacky approaches, the deer just grunts and bounds away. My adrenaline is so high, I just want to get the hell out of the canyon. The entire final climb for us has been in the dark.

We can no longer see the inspiration of the canyon, and although the moon is brilliant, the rocks often obscure it as we trudge through switchback after never-ending switchback.

We can see nothing ahead or behind us, so it is impossible to tell how much trail we have left. I think of Gordy’s story about Ron Kelley, who attempted to run 100 miles of the Western States course right after he did, and gave up after 97 miles. “He didn’t know how close he was,” Gordy said. And that’s how I felt now.

I know the end is close, but I don’t know when it will come. I hear Shacky yell ahead of me. “Come here! Hurry up!” Holy shit, I think, there’s another mountain lion. He’s calling me so we can die together. But it turns out to be the top. We made it! We are done! Over 20 hours later… we are done.

* * *

The morning started in much better spirits. The original plan was for our group to start at 3:30 a.m. to avoid the heat of the day, but Gordy thought that was a mistake.

Gordon Ainsleigh, the godfather of ultra running, had come along with us to run his first-ever R2R2R. Gordy was the first man who believed it was possible to run 100 miles in one day, and proved it.

Many on the trail recognized him from Unbreakable, or as the first man to run Western States 100. But really—he invented Western States 100. He pretty much invented long distance trail running.

Gordy looks over the trail toward the Colorado River.

Gordy and me

I have never seen Unbreakable, but what intrigues me about Gordy is his limitless spirit. He doesn’t see boundaries when it came to running. Not for distance, not for speed, and not for temperature. Gordy shrugged off the heat of the Canyon, and said he wanted to start at dawn. Gordy’s friend Ralph, who had run the Canyon before, strongly agreed.

The 3:30 a.m. group would be going down South Kaibab in the dark, missing some of the most breathtaking views of the Canyon. The climb up Bright Angel, Gordy argued, wasn’t as scenic and we wouldn’t miss much doing that in the dark instead. Gordy was here to experience the Canyon and he thought an early start would be a mistake.

He talked us into joining him. Shacky was reluctant, because both heat and elevation are what he struggles with. But I was eager to follow Gordy. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, running into the Canyon with a legend, and I wasn’t about to let it slip away for a few degrees.

South Kaibab trailhead in the daylight

Good morning!

Gordy looks down South Kaibab and decides we must run it at dawn

Gordy also convinced Christine to come along, so on Saturday morning Gordy, Shacky, Christine and I all hopped in the van.  Then we sat there as we realized that none of us knew how to get to the trailhead.

* * *

Gordy was not the least bit concerned. In fact, he didn’t worry much about anything on the entire trip. He munched on an orange and told us to just drive, and eventually we did find the trailhead. We’re still not sure how we got there.

When we arrived at the parking lot, we didn’t see the van of the 3:30 a.m. group, so that worried us a little. Gordy just shrugged and said, “Don’t worry about that.” As it turned out, the early group got dropped off and the van was driven back.

Gordy wasn’t worried about water either. None of us knew were all the water stops were, and we all carried a ton of water. Gordy just had two handhelds and didn’t seem the least bit concerned. After Phantom Ranch, he would even convince Christine to dump some of her own water to lighten her load and run faster. She was reluctant.

“But I need water!”

“You can get water anytime you want!” said Gordy.

“No! I cannot get water ANYTIME I want!”

“You can always just drink from the river. If you get sick, it won’t be until next week or the week after.”

All that matters to Gordy is today. This run. Right now.

Gordy and Christine running down South Kaibab.

“It is impossible in a few pages to do justice, in the smallest degree, to the great gorge itself, that sublimest thing on earth, or to the perils and adventures of our journey through it.” – Robert B. Stanton (1909)

“The spectacle is so symmetrical, and so completely excludes the outside world and its accustomed standards, it is with difficulty one can acquire any notion of its immensity.” – C. A. Higgins (1886)

Christine was not one to “drink from the river,” but she did dump some water, and it did help her run faster. In fact, she finished the run ahead of us all and even ended up sharing her water with Gordy when he took a fall and spilled his own supply.

Christine would jump up and down at the North rim, full of energy, and smoke Gordy on the final Bright Angel climb. Gordy would scold her for going up alone in the dark, telling her about the mountain lions in the area.

“They don’t like French chicks!” she yelled back, before disappearing toward the summit.

Christine running uphill

“You cannot see the Grand Canyon in one view, but to see it you have to toil from month to month through this labyrinths.” – John Wesley Powell (1909)

“The glories and beauties of form, color and sound unite in the Grand Canyon. It has infinite variety and no part is ever duplicated. Its colors, although many and complex at any instant, change with the ascending and declining sun.” – John Wesley Powell (1909)

Christine and Gordy did stick together for the most part, and Christine rolled her eyes every time someone would delay them to take a picture of Gordy or try to chat with him.

“Don’t you want my picture??” she demanded. “I am famous where I am from!” So they would take her picture too.

“Come on Gordy, time to go!” she would say when he stopped to sit or talk for too long. They were a good pair.

* * *

I took an early lead coming down South Kaibab. The stunning views made me catch my breath and thank God that we had the sense to start in the daylight. To say it was beautiful is an understatement. The Grand Canyon is not a place. It is an experience. It cannot be described. It must be lived.

“The wonders of the Grand Canyon cannot be adequately represented in symbols of speech, nor by speech itself. The resources of the graphic art are taxed beyond their powers in attempting to portray its features. Language and illustration combined must fail.” – John Wesley Powell

“A descent into the Canon is essential for a proper estimate of its details, and one can never realize the enormity of certain valleys, till he has crawled like a maimed insect at their base and looked thence upward to the narrowed sky.” – John Stoddard (1898)

The rock carvings descending for miles, with splashes of red and orange and brown against the sunrise can make you believe in God. Animals unafraid of human contact, fiery red sand slowly camouflaging your shoes and gear, cold caves and crevices offering the odd relief from the hot sun—it’s a different world. It’s a wonderland.

“When you sit on the edge of that thing, you realize what a joke we people really are. What big heads we have thinking that what we do is gonna matter all that much, thinking that our time here means didly to those rocks. Those rocks are laughing at me right now. Me and my worries.” – Simon, Grand Canyon movie (1991)

“You ever been to the Grand Canyon? It’s pretty, but that’s not the thing of it. You can sit on the edge of that big ol’ thing and those rocks… the cliffs and rocks are so old… it took so long for that thing to get like that. And it ain’t done either! It happens right there while you’re watching it.” – Simon, Grand Canyon movie (1991)

Every picture I took, I knew would not do the scenery justice. I couldn’t fit the entire landscape in my camera. I could focus on the runner, but not on the towering boulders above his head. I could focus on the rock, but not on the ant-sized conga line of runners traversing it.

“It’s like trying to describe what you feel when you’re standing on the rim of the Grand Canyon or remembering your first love or the birth of your child. You have to be there to really know what it’s like.” – Jack Schmitt

“I believe in evolution. But I also believe, when I hike the Grand Canyon and see it at sunset, that the hand of God is there also.” – John McCain

Maybe once or twice in your life, you experience a run this joyous. I couldn’t help but running down that canyon as fast as I could, stopping dead every so often to let the others catch up. Gordy would later tell me I had “the happiest stride in ultrarunning.”

Early lead

Love it here!

I felt like a bird who had just been set free. At one point, making the descent from the North rim, I was so far ahead of the others, it felt like I was all alone on the planet, just doing a training run at one of the seven wonders of the world.

Me running ahead down the North Rim

Checking out the trail up ahead

It is runs like these—not money, and not assets—that make me filthy rich. I felt like I owned everything around me. I was swimming in wealth. Running fast was an expression of gratitude and joy. Like a child dashing toward her favorite swing, this was my playground.

“We have an unknown distance yet to run, an unknown river to explore.” – John Wesley Powell

“Should you shield the canyons from the windstorms, you would never see the true beauty of their carvings.” -
 Elisabeth Kubler-Ross

Of course, the uphills weren’t as fast. I hiked many of the inclines, focusing on keeping a steady stride and a respectable cadence. If I looked up suddenly, the canyons would make me dizzy. So I looked down and tried to stay ahead of Shacky.

Shacky wasn’t having a good day. He wanted to turn back before reaching the North rim, but I refused to let him. I wondered later if I should have let him, since he was sick on the way back. He was having trouble with the heat and elevation, and had a rough time keeping any food down. A few times, he had to lie on his back to keep from puking, or put his head down in the shade.

Like here

And here

And here…

One more

I stayed with him until I was certain he would not turn back, and then let him make the last part of the final climb up to the North rim on his own. At the top, he was miserable and out of water.

* * *

There was no water source at the top of the North rim, unless you wanted to run a mile round trip to the ranger station and back. I knew Shacky was in bad shape on the climb, and would be out of water. I tried to preserve enough water for the both of us. When I realized I couldn’t do that on the hot climb, my plan was to give him my water for the descent and run dry all the way down.

I had almost half a liter waiting for Shacky at the top, but when I saw him I didn’t think it would be enough. I prepared to run over to the ranger station to fill us both up, just as a car pulled into the parking lot.

“Are you guys running R2R2R?” someone called out.

We looked up to see a young couple who decided to make a little trail magic happen by driving up with some water. They had enough for both Shacky and me. I thanked them profusely. We chatted for a few minutes—they were aspiring ultra runners, and they wanted their picture with Gordy as well. (Christine got one too.)

When we finally took off, I felt amazing and soon caught up to Gordy and Christine. I passed them and waiting at the next water stop for everyone to catch up. Shacky needed to lie down, so I waited with him while Christine and Gordy went off ahead.

After a few minutes, Shacky was feeling better and I hoped the worst was over. We agreed to meet at Phantom Ranch, just before the final climb, and I took off after Gordy and Christine. I was running at a good pace, and passed a handful of groups—two sets of runners and three groups of hikers. The stretch was long and desert-like, but I do well in the heat and I was still mesmerized by the glory of the Canyon.

“We do not see nature with our eyes, but with our understandings and our hearts.”
- William Hazlitt (1859)

“Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength
that will endure as long as life lasts.
” – Rachel Carlson

I pulled into Phantom Ranch not long after Gordy and Christine. They were filling up their supplies and getting ready to leave. Gordy looked roughed up, but Christine was still full of energy. Both were worried about Shacky, and seeing them worry made me worry even more.

Gordy walked around asking for “someone in authority” to possibly hook up a room in case Shacky couldn’t make the climb that night. I shook my head. Shacky couldn’t be THAT bad, could he? We’d make the climb, even if it took forever.

I watched Gordy and Christine take off and settled in for what I expected would be a long wait for Shacky. I had run the entire thing and Shacky was walking—I had no idea how far behind me he was. As it turned out, not that far. Shacky was hauling ass as best he could and arrived just minutes after me. But he wasn’t looking good.

He lay down in the dirt and I noticed he was shaking. His legs were shaking, and so was his head. I freaked out and brought up the possibility of spending the night at Phantom Ranch. He refused.

So we sat at Phantom Ranch until he was able to eat enough calories to make the climb. It took him a while to keep anything down. We were there for almost an hour. All the hiking groups and the runners I had passed came through and left before us.

One group of hikers were finishing the R2R2R—they had started at 2 a.m. that morning. They wanted to set the record for youngest and oldest to complete the R2R2R in one party—the boy was 17 and the oldest gentleman was 67.

“I dunno, I’m worried about that Western States guy,” the 17-year-old said. “He looks like he’s 95.”

“He’s 64,” I replied.

“Oh good.”

Before they left, he waved goodbye and said, “I’m pretty sure I’ll die out there.” They made it to the top before us.

I was really worried about Shacky, but as soon as the sun went down, he was ready to go. In fact, he was like a new runner.

Shacky is a moonchild. He comes alive at night. I’m the opposite—I die with the setting of the sun. I pulled out my headlamp and prepared for what I expected would be a long hike to the top.

We head out in the dark

“We’ll pray for you!” One of the campers called out behind us. I guess we looked pretty beat up.

But Shacky was picking up the pace, rejuvenated by nightfall. I tried to run, but realized I was tired. Too much fast running followed by long waits. I was burnt out.

There are two ways you can come up the South rim: via the Kaibab trail where we had descended, or via Bright Angel trail.

Bright Angel is longer, but less steep, and that’s what we opted for. In my mind, “longer but less steep” still meant that it would be a steady incline. I was OK with that. Instead, I found the trail relatively flat to begin, even making slight downhill descents for the first few miles. This irritated me because it was time on my feet without really getting me to my destination.

My fatigue translated into frustration with the trail and with my headlamp. Every time I looked, up, the top of the canyon looked no closer. Why weren’t we climbing?? I wanted to get to the top and be finished.

When the climbing finally began, my headlamp was playing games with me. I couldn’t gauge the depth of the path, so I’d find myself either stumbling, or expecting a big step where it was flat. I came down hard on my ankles a few times, misjudging my landings, and I was getting very irritated.

Halfway up, I remembered I had a hand-held light, and used that instead. I could finally see the shadows on the trail, and moving forward was much easier on my body. I kept my head down since I’d start to feel dizzy every time I looked up. I was worried about tipping right off the Canyon.

In the distance, we could see groups of tiny headlamps inching their way to the top. The last set of headlamps kept getting closer and closer, until they decided to step it up and put some distance between us.

It was impossible to judge how far we had left to go, and neither of us had a watch. When night came to the Canyon, all inspiration left me. I could no longer admire the rock walls. No longer see the rich ground at my feet. I wanted the sun to come back, or I wanted to be done.

I was holding Shacky back. He was full of energy and had to keep waiting for me to catch up. We both had trouble eating now, but Shacky faithfully stopped to get his calories in, while I blew them off. I wasn’t used to force-feeding myself.

The more time passed, the more miserable I felt. It was this final climb that made this one of the toughest runs I have ever done. A familiar feeling of exhaustion swept over me—it felt like the last 3 miles of my first 100. Pure torture.

This was slightly worse because there were scorpions at our feet and bats flying over our heads, making me jumpy. My nerves were shot.

Scrambling at our feet

That’s when I heard Shacky ahead of me clapping and yelling as if he’d seen a mountain lion or something…

* * *

Today, when I close my eyes to sleep, all I see is the Canyon.

Those red walls towering over me, carved to perfection with the sun travelling across the sky. In my dreams, I am still running down that dirt road. Still splashing water on my face from the Colorado river. I think a part of me will always wish for the Canyon. Until I can see it again.

See you on the trails!

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“Old Mt. Baldy (officially Mount San Antonio) stands as the grandest summit of the San Gabriel Mountains. No other peak in the range rivals its huge mass and lofty splendor… Old Baldy (10,064) stands as the third highest massif in Southern California, behind San Gorgonio Mountain (11,499) and Mount San Jacinto (10,804).” - Dan’s Hiking Page

Last weekend, Shacky and I attempted to summit this mountain on Saturday and again on Sunday. We reached the peak on Sunday only.

This climb was both the hardest physically (yes, harder than the Pinos hill due to elevation), as well as the most spectacular in beauty that I have ever experienced.

Reaching the top was an “AHA!” moment, and something I’ll never forget. Such a great sense of accomplishment, an elevation PR for me, and jaw-dropping views.

Here’s what we did:

Saturday

With the Robillards plus dog in tow, we headed out for the West approach from Mt. Baldy Village to Old Mt. Baldy Trail (aka Bear Canyon Trail, Bear Flat Trial, Mt. Baldy Trail, Baldy Trail). There are four ways to ascent the mountain, and this one has been labeled “The hard way to do Baldy”.

Where we started from.

Starting stats.

Here is a very accurate description:

“The no-nonsense trail begins at Mt. Baldy Village and first treats you to the woodsy charm of Bear Canyon with its gurgling creek and rich canopy of oak, bay, fir, cedar, and pine.

After Bear Flat it then emerges into open chaparral where numerous switchbacks steeply transport you to the ridge and an open conifer forest with expanding views.

You climb the ridge for miles and are treated with varied topography, shade and sun, sweeping vistas, remarkable rock formations, dramatic cliffs, mature forest, wind-swept bareness, and the top-of-the-world feeling as you conquer the highest summit in the San Gabriels.”

"The mountains are calling and I must go." - John Muir

“Knowing trees, I understand the meaning of patience.
Knowing grass, I can appreciate persistence. ” - Hal Borland

This trail is also rich in history:

“John Robison writes that this trail was built in 1889 by Dr. B.H. Fairchild and Fred Dell, who envisioned a great observatory on the summit. Their dream never materialized… With the extension of the road to Manker Flat and the construction of Devils Backbone Trail in 1935-36, Mt. Baldy Trail lost its place as the main route to the summit. But for many today, it is indeed their favorite route to Old Baldy.”

Source: Dan’s Hiking Pages

“I go to nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in order.”
-
 John Burroughs

“The lake and the mountains have become my landscape, my real world.”
- 
Georges Simenon

I was immediately mesmerized by the lush greenery along this trail. Thick, towering trees and hot, humid spots made me feel as though I was far from California and transported to a tropical, forest-like land. It was something I imagined I might see on a lush B.C. Canadian trail.

The trees seemed to envelop me completely with their thick, gnarled branches and curious formations. Instead of mostly rocky ground, there were patches of thick, dark, and rich earth.

“For in the true nature of things, if we rightly consider, every green tree is far more glorious than if it were made of gold and silver.” - 
Martin Luther

“We do not see nature with our eyes, but with our understandings and our hearts.”
- 
William Hazlitt

It was the type of ground where if you accidentally drop a seed, it wouldn’t surprise you to see it sprout immediately. I was in heaven and the dog was prancing like she had just come home. She would later throw herself across the creek and roll in the dirt.

“In wilderness I sense the miracle of life, and behind it our scientific
accomplishments fade to trivia.”
 - Charles A. Lindbergh

“When preparing to climb a mountain, pack a light heart.” - Dan May

It was mentioned that not many attempt this route, although we saw a fair number of hikers and one runner out there. It is approximately a 13-mile round trip with 5,744 feet of elevation gain. We spoke to one hiker, who described a way we could turn it into a 20-mile run, ascending and descending three difficult peaks. That’s now on our To Do List.

I was surprised at the lack of runners we saw, although at these inclines it was nearly impossible to “run” anything. Still, it’s grueling training for such a short distance, and I was surprised we didn’t see more athletes.

Ginger curious about Jason's camera.

We saw a ton of these little guys.

“Should you shield the canyons from the windstorms you would never see the true beauty of their carvings.” - 
Elisabeth Kubler-Ross

I was also surprised at how late the hikers were starting their trek. It seemed that most of them left around 8 a.m. or later. We started running at 7, but it would have been comfortable to start as early as 6 a.m. On Sunday, we started at around 5:30 a.m.

Since it was only about 6 miles to the top, I expected that we’d be finished this run in about 3 hours or less. Two hours later, we had only advanced 3 miles. And I was already feeling like death.

Jason Robillard was cruising on his mountain legs, bouncing along ahead of us and occasionally waiting in the shade for us to catch up. Shacky was next, but started slowing down and feeling nauseous until he was able to eat something.

Jason waiting for us to catch up.

Shacky pushing on...

... and waiting for us to catch up.

I was hiking with Shelly, and my legs felt like lead. I was taking deep breaths, and found it difficult to keep up a conversation. As soon as I’d stop to rest, I felt great and immediately wanted to continue. But five steps later, exhaustion would sweep over me again. I couldn’t believe how hard each step was.

Up, up, up!

Shelly, my faithful "running" buddy.

There was no level ground on this climb. It was up, up, up. In the first mile, I thought it was fairly steep. Then Shacky told us we weren’t at “the steep part” yet. The steep part was indeed an ass-kicker.

With only 2 miles left to the summit, we decided to turn back. I didn’t think I could go on one more step.

The turnaround point. Wiped!

Turnaround stats.

Running downhill was tricky, but insanely fast. I couldn’t believe it has taken hours to get where we were, yet the descent feel like mere minutes.

At the bottom, we decided to drive 5 miles to the waterfall and hike up near the trailhead we would be taking the next day. I was thrilled see snow on this trip, and by the waterfall I played in it with the dog.

Trek to the waterfall.

Ginger's first experience with snow!

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!

Crazy fun!

It had been over a year since I had seen snow. Back in Canada, I would wonder every winter how awesome it would be to have snow, but not the cold. Now here I was in the hot sun, sweating from a run, playing in the white stuff. It was everything I imagined it would be.

Waterfall

Shacky goes for a dunk in the cool water.

Family walk back to the car.

We finished the day with 10 miles, and completely wiped out. After a good meal, we turned in for an early bedtime and a 4 a.m. wake up call the next morning. Going to bed, I couldn’t imagine a more beautiful or rewarding ascent. I would be wrong.

Final data

Sunday

Shacky and I arrived at the new trailhead, just below the waterfall while it was still dark. Since we didn’t have headlamps, we waited about 20 minutes for it to get lighter, then set off.

We were ascending on the South approach from Manker Flats via Baldy Bowl. It was approximately 8.5 miles round trip, with 3,900 feet of elevation gain. The trail has been referred to as a “glorify use trail”, which means it was developed more by use than deliberately engineered.

The roads and parking lot were abandoned, except for one hiker—an older Asian man who started a few minutes behind us. We quickly ran ahead of him.

The turn off the road onto the trailhead was so obscure and difficult to spot, that we had to measure the exact mileage and squint our eyes to make out a near-invisible “trail” carving its way through the rocky gravel at a very steep incline.

The barely-there "trailhead"

We headed up, not even sure if it was the right way. Soon enough, we could soon see the trail more clearly and spotted a hiker’s log. I wrote down some motivating verses from memory, and we proceeded.

Thanks Trisha.

The trek was incredibly steep right from the start. It didn’t ease into an incline like yesterday’s route—one minute you were standing upright, the next minute you felt like you were scaling a wall. And that’s how it remained for the entire ascent.

“All good things are wild and free.
” - Henry David Thoreau

“Wilderness is not a luxury but a necessity of the human spirit.” - Edward Abbey

“There is pleasure in the pathless woods; There is rapture on the lonely shore...
I love not man the less, but Nature more.” - Lord Byron

I thought this would be the “easier” run based on mileage, but it basically takes the 6-mile climb from yesterday’s route, and condenses it to 4 miles by making it more steep, more technical, and more insane.

“Nature teaches more than she preaches. There are no sermons in stones. It is easier to get a spark out of a stone than a moral.” -
 John Burroughs

“I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits, unless I spend four hours a day at least – and it is commonly more than that – sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields, absolutely free from all worldly engagements.”
-
 Henry David Thoreau

Dan’s Hiking Pages summarize this route simply by saying: “It’s not for wimps.” Truer words were never spoken. Dan also adds: “Don’t attempt to hike in snow unless you are trained, equipped, and experienced in mountaineering. People die on this mountain.” This would be Shacky’s first running experience in snow.

The trail was much more rocky than yesterday, but equally lush with trees. We saw a green cabin in the distance which served as our 2-mile mark. It was built in 1937 and can be rented out.

Green cabin up ahead.

Just gotta get there...

Our trail instructions said that if guests were renting the cabin, they may invite us to “top off our canteen” with the spring-fed tap flowing directly into the kitchen. There were indeed guest in it, but they went inside and closed the door as we passed. We tried not to disturb their privacy.

Halfway there!

Shacky got there first.

The trail had more water access and small creek crossings than yesterday’s run. We could hear the waterfall below us and fresh, cool water trickled at our feet. The dog drank freely.

Occasionally, we would come across patches of snow. We threw it around with the dog to cool her off, as well as ourselves. I took handfuls of snow and washed my face, neck, and arms. I even let some trickle down my back.

“Two roads diverged in a wood and I – I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.” - 
Robert Frost

“Believe one who knows; you will find something greater in woods than in books. Trees and stones will teach you that which you can never learn from masters.”
-
 St. Bernard de Clairvaux

After we passed the green cabin, we came upon an incredibly rocky section. We were weaving through boulders, trying to make out the trail. We went off-trail several times, but as long as we kept going up, we were generally on the right track.

Soon, snow covered the ground completely and we were shuffling through it, trying not to slide straight down due to steepness. We lost the trail since all we could see was snow, so we just tried to make the best possible route for ourselves. It didn’t look like many people had been through here. On the entire ascent, we didn’t see a single soul.

Shacky had never run in snow before.

Finally reaching the ridge at over 8,000 feet, we saw a group of hikers packing their bags and getting ready to head down. They were surprised to see us and said we had come up “the hard way”—we didn’t know any better.

It seemed that a few people hiked up, camped at the top, and then hiked down the next day. That’s what these guys were up to.

We stopped at the ridge to eat. My stomach was growling and I was glad I brought a sandwich. We gave Ginger water, and she shared half my sandwich. I also had a Rise bar and Acclimate, a powder that’s supposed to aid in elevation issues. My only real issue was that it was hard as hell. After a few minutes of rest, we headed back out.

“Marry an outdoors woman. Then if you throw her out into the yard on a cold night, she can still survive.” - 
W. C. Fields

“Never measure the height of a mountain until you have reached the top.
Then you will see how low it was.” - 
Dag Hammarskjold

"Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience." - 
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Despite the steepness, we hadn’t yet reached “the steep part,” according to our instructions. I rolled my eyes and just couldn’t imagine what that steep part would look like. When we got to it, it was basically bouldering. I scrambled along after Shacky and Ginger, and had to stop a couple of times because my legs were literally shaking. I thought they would collapse right under me.

When it was over, we were so close to the summit, I could taste it. But first, we took a small detour through some deep snow and came upon a breathtaking lookout. The drop was steep and immediate, and I was nervous about Ginger getting too close and slipping off the edge. Shacky sat down and Ginger sat with him. I took their picture.

“The contented person enjoys the scenery of a detour.” - Unknown

Less than a mile to go. Shacky and Ginger went ahead, with me scrambling behind. When I turned around, I spotted the older Asian hiker right on my ass. I couldn’t believe it. How had he made it this far??

I pushed myself to get to the summit before him, where I was greeted by a happy dog and a tired Shacky. I was immediately overwhelmed by a sense of accomplishment, and ran to every corner to look at the views. The mountain is called “baldy” because of the lack of trees at the summit.

Summit!

No words

A California boy's best snow angel attempt.

WE DID IT!

Pretty freaking proud of us.

Stats at the top

I felt like I was on top of the world. There was nothing higher as far as the eye could see. We celebrated and Shacky attempted a snow angel. By then, the Asian hiker had reached the top and we chatted.

His name was Mr. Kim he had hiked to this summit over 200 times. He told us how he summits every weekend, rain or shine. He never misses a week. My jaw dropped. The dude made us ultra runners look like pansies. I still have no idea how he finished only minutes after us. Well done, Mr. Kim.

Mr. Kim, my hero.

Leaving the summit, I was refreshed and fulfilled. But what would await me was something I did not expect from a trail referred to as “the Devil’s backbone”.

I expected a treacherous and difficult descent. Something devilish. But the backbone was my best interpretation of what heaven must be like. The ground was solid and rich. The trees were immense and lively. The path was narrow and adventurous, with sharp drops if you’re not careful.

“The more civilized man becomes, the more he needs and craves a great background of forest wildness, to which he may return like a contrite prodigal from the husks of an artificial life.” - Ellen Burns Sherman

“Men go back to the mountains... because in the mountains and on the sea they must face up, as did men of another age, to the challenge of nature. Modern man lives in a highly synthetic kind of existence. He specializes in this and that. Rarely does he test all his powers or find himself whole. But in the hills and on the water the character of a man comes out.” - 
Abram T. Collier

If you looked to the right: snow-capped mountain peaks. To the left: postcard-worthy views to take your breath away. I ran fast and tried to understand what I had done to get so damn lucky. I felt insanely blessed.

“Now I see the secret of making the best person, it is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth.
” - Walt Whitman

“We simply need that wild country available to us... For it can be a means of reassuring ourselves of our sanity as creatures, a part of the geography of hope.”
- Wallace Stegner

It was over all too soon, as we quickly reached the ski lift. We didn’t have money, so weren’t able to buy a beer at the store. We won’t forget our money next time!

It’s also possible to ride the ski lift down to the road, but we opted to run to the bottom instead. There was a shortcut that followed the path of the lift, but it was incredibly steep with tons of loose rocks. However, it was only a 1-mile descent, as opposed to 3 miles down the fireroad. We opted for the rocky trail.

It took a minute to convince Shacky.

Start of the fireroad heading down.

I was scared going down the shortcut. With every step, I was sure it would be my last. Shacky threw caution to the wind and just flew down. I inched my way along.

All we had to do now was follow the road back to the car, another 1/4 mile or so. We finished strong, and it was easily the most memorable run of my life.

Final data

I was incredibly proud of Ginger, who had never run at elevation and had zero issues. We kept an eye on her the whole way, continued feeding and giving her water, and she thrived with every step.

On the rocky sections, Ginger would run back to check on me. If I heard her coming, I’d yell that I was ok. She’d peek around a boulder to make sure, then run back to Shacky.

Sometimes she went off on tangents that were even more steep than anything we climbed, and I couldn’t believe how strong her footing was on these crazy inclines. I had never seen her like this.

Was there ever a happier dog?

Leading the way

Ginger’s secret is out—she’s not a dog at all. She’s a mountain goat. And on this summit, I found my own mountain legs.

Life is better at elevation.

“May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds.”

- Edward Abbey

Cheers.

Photo Credits: Robert Shackelford, Jason Robillard

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Los Pinos Race Report

Why I Wander

Getting Lost on the Trail

Shelly Robillard and I are standing at a crossroads.

Again.

Is it just me or is this our third time through here? I swear up and down to Shelly that we’re not supposed to go straight. We’ve already been straight. But we’ve also been right… and that’s not the way either.

FML.

Unable to resist the lure of the flour arrow that was not meant for us, we drift to the right again. We end up back on the road leading to the finish line.

This is awesome, except we’re not sub-2-hour 50K finishers. Pretty close, but not yet. We must be missing something. We turn back.

I hear children in the bushes. I peek around the corner and I’m horrified to find the kids that we saw earlier by the rope swing, now appearing HERE out of nowhere, like crafty little troll spawns. Where did they come from??

“Is the rope swing around here?” I ask, as casually as possible.

Please God don’t let the rope swing be just around the corner.

“Um… yeah. It’s around that corner…” They start giving me directions to the rope swing.

But no, we don’t WANT to go to the rope swing, dummies. We’ve been there twice already.

“We’re not lost,” I lie to them. Then we start backtracking.

By our third loop around, we spot Jesse Haynes, currently in first place. Due to our fine elite bodies, Jesse does not flinch nor look the least bit surprised to see us. We are awesome and impressive in our strides.

Still, I feel compelled to let him know we won’t be beating him today, and I call out that we’re lost. Jesse stops dead in his tracks to give us directions.

“No, it’s ok! Keep going!” I am horrified he has stopped.

It really says something about ultra runners when the first place winner doesn’t think twice about delaying his finish to explain the concept of race markings to a couple of weirdos.

Jesse takes off and I realize there is nothing he can do for us. Besides, I have a suspicion that HE is the one who is lost, not us. We must be on the right track.

There’s nothing anybody can do for us now. Except maybe Pablo. Pablo always knows which color ribbon to follow.

I blame Shacky for this. At the race start, I wasn’t listening to Baz’s directions, and then Baz refused to repeat them in Spanish. After that I spent the entire first loop chatting away to Shelly instead of watching where I was going. All Shacky’s fault.

“Did Baz say to stay right or left?” I asked Shelly in the first couple of miles. I swear it was one of those…

Shelly and I decide that we should have been the ones in charge of the flour. One gazillion pounds of flour please! We’re drawing dotted flour lines through the entire course exactly two feet apart. Easy peasy.

Shelly and I have now been to the same crossroads three times. This time we try left, because I swear to God it’s not straight.

We come up on some new trails and are no less confused. I’m still trying to figure out how we can beat Jesse.

Three runners pass, but they are going in the opposite direction. Clearly we’re on the right track. I ask how far it is to the next aid station.

“One mile,” someone says.

A mile later, we ask another runner.

“One mile,” they say.

Crikey, this is going to be a long race.

The only really bad thing about getting lost is that there are no aid stations for you. Apparently, aid stations are only reserved for runners who are able to stay on course. Hardly fair.

When we finally do reach the aid station, it’s the water-only stop. D’oh. Thankfully, they do have some goodies that I munch on.

Shelly can’t have anything because of her dietary restrictions. I decide to give her my pack later so the next time I get her hopelessly lost in the wilderness, she can bring a sandwich.

A few miles back at the start line, we saw a couple of other runners who dropped after taking the same wrong turn we did. One of them had been right behind Jesse and had to give up second place. Totally know how that feels.

We stopped to chat with them for a while. Chatting is very important when you’re lost. It made me feel better that we weren’t the only ones who got turned around, and I secretly hoped that Shacky was also lost.

A few days earlier, Shacky had been studying the map. I made fun of him for being a nerd. Besides, the thing looked more like a map from The Lord of the Rings than a race course. Who the hell knows what all those little markings mean.

No comprendo.

Then Baz had to change the course at the last minute, so there was a brand new Lord of the Rings map on race day (read Baz’s awesome race report here). I chuckled at all the time Shacky had wasted on such a silly little thing like directions.

At the aid station, the volunteers nicely but strongly suggest that we turn back. Nobody trusts our asses on the trail anymore. Shelly and I discuss the option of dropping to our knees and begging to continue, but we opt for a hot meal from Hell’s Kitchen and a big hug from Baz instead.

I wasn’t smart enough to wear a watch of any kind on race day, so I had no idea what our final mileage was. Shelly was smart enough to wear one, but not smart enough to turn it on. Plus the time on it was wrong. Because we’re an awesome team.

Based on some simple math, our knowledge of time zones, and our best estimation from the placement of the sun and our shadows on the ground, we calculated that we had run 27 miles. We also decided that we beat Shacky. So whatever Shacky’s time would be, our time was a couple minutes before that. YAY us!

Sure enough, we had just crossed the finish line when we saw Shacky behind us. Sure, they forced us to turn back. Sure, we spent some time wandering aimlessly. Yet here we were now, ahead of Shacky. Just where the Universe wanted us to be.

Shacky was yelling at us as he ran in, demanding to know how we got ahead of him. He had spent the second half of his race looking over his shoulder, trying to stay in front of us, and he swore he never saw us pass.

Dude just can’t accept we’re a couple of stealthy trail ninjas. When we tell him about the crossroad, Shacky says we were supposed to go straight.

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A few days into April, I decided to take part in the April Burpee Challenge.

The goal is to complete 3,000 burpees in April, which works out to 100 burpees each day (that’s all the math I can handle for today, so moving on).

Although there is no daily limit, you will quickly fall behind if you’re not burpee-ing (?) each day. Usually, knocking out 200 or 300 burpees to catch up is harder than just doing 100 when you don’t feel like it.

WHY Would I Do This??

I wanted to try something that would be a huge challenge for me (I suck at burpees) and would also force me to face doing something I don’t particularly love (I mean hate).

What Is a Burpee?

A lot of people have asked me to define what types of burpees I’m doing. Here is the Wikipedia definition of a burpee.

And here is the more finely worded Urban Dictionary definition.

I have been varying the types of burpees I do, usually in sets. Sometimes I do the pushup, sometimes I do the jump, sometimes I do a plank, and other times I lay flat on the ground before getting back up.

There is no “easy” burpee for me, so I change it up. It’s also a real pain to do the same type of burpee over and over again, even if it’s the “easy” version. It feels better on my body to get in a variety.

What Does This Have to Do With Running?

Nothing really. Maybe cross-training. I still do my running on top of the burpees. For the last two Saturdays, I’ve raced a 50K (and did not do burpees on those days).

As of today, I’ve done 1,200 burpees and I’m still 500 burpees behind.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been experimenting with cross-training, which is new to me. Although I enjoy the fitness workouts I’ve been doing, I’m not entirely sure it’s done anything to improve my running. Maybe it will if I give it more time.

I have noticed that 300 burpees in a row feels about the same as a 40-mile weekend. So maybe it’s a faster way to get a good burn.

I also like the way the burpees make my core feel, and I’m pretty sure a stronger core will translate to stronger running (somebody less lazy than me should look up a credible study on this).

READ: Most People Think Core = Abs

This Sounds Pretty Dumb.

A few days ago my friend Christian (super fitness dude) questioned the physical value of doing the exact same workout over and over. His point was that the body would achieve a much greater benefit from a variety of exercises, not just one performed obsessively. I totally agree with him.

However, I’m highly unmotivated to get up and do “a variety of exercises” for a few minutes each day. Three thousand burpees is a number I can focus on, feel challenged by, and obsess over. Plus I know it’s temporary so it might be a good gateway to introducing other types of fitness into my life.

2 Things That Surprised Me

1. The Fun Aspect

I expected to absolutely hate every single burpee. Although they do collectively suck, there have been many sets that I’ve enjoyed.

My dog Ginger and I have made it a game when I come home from work. We head outside with her ball, and when I go down for each burpee, I’ll throw her ball. My goal is to come up from my burpee before she runs back with the ball.

This keeps me on track, forces me to knock my burpees out at a fairly consistent pace, and keeps both of us entertained.

Ginger usually beats me back, drops the ball, and stares at me while I finish my burpee. We’ve developed a good rhythm after 1,200 burpees.

At the beginning, she would charge back and knock my head with her skull because she didn’t realize I was jumping back up. We’re slightly more graceful now.

READ: Train Your Dog for Long-Distance Trail Running 

Yesterday I had a glass of wine, then tried to knock out as many burpees as I could, as fast as possible. I almost fell down. That was kind of fun. (I’m easily entertained.)

2. The Relaxation Aspect

Sometimes when Ginger decides she’s bored with me, I’ll pull out an audio book and listen for a bit while I burpee. Or I might just zone out. Or I’ll focus on something specific.

I’ve found I can relax my mind, even though my body is working up a sweat. By the end, although I’m tired, I generally feel more relaxed overall.

3 Things I’ve Learned

1. Time Management

Doing all these burpees on top of ultra training can be time-consuming. I was reminded of Jason Robillard‘s time management tip: He encourages people to train during idle minutes throughout the day, instead dedicating a huge chunk of fitness time all at once.

I’ve learned that by doing my burpees spread out throughout the day, it’s easier to get the numbers in. I’ve done burpees at work, in the morning, in the evening, at lunch time, and even after work while I wait for Shacky to pick me up.

Every minute is valuable. It doesn’t take long to knock out 10 burpees at random times throughout the day.

2. Illusion of Awesome

It’s very easy to make things sound harder than they feel by putting a big number on them. “Three thousand burpees” sounds insanely difficult, but when you break that up into days and hours and minutes, it’s not as daunting as it seems. I don’t particularly think it’s any harder than a “regular” daily exercise session.

On average, it takes me about 10 minutes to push through 100 burpees, including breaks. So in 70 minutes, I can meet my burpee quota for the week. Many of us run or exercise for much longer than that.

That’s not to say this is easy. Just doable.

3. Routine

This is much easier when you work it into a daily routine. My favorite time to do my burpees is right after work with Ginger and the ball. I get home and Ginger knows exactly what to expect. It’s a good routine for both of us, and strangely comforting.

I feel good about working up a sweat before dinner, I’m happy to be playing with the dog, and it works off some of Ginger’s excess energy as well. It’s a great way to end a work day.

The kitty glares at us from the bushes. She does not care one bit for burpees. She takes after Shacky.

Now I will leave you with this Burpee Fun Fact:

I always thought that burpees were named “burpees” because they made you burp. But they’re actually named after the man who made them famous, the 1930s American physiologist Royal H. Burpee. The H stands for Huddleston. This makes me wonder if I’m the only one who burps.

Burpee on!

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Credit: www.flickr.com/photos/akunamatata/

Shacky and I are engaged in an interesting debate today that I’d love to hear your opinion. It was provoked by an article by Geoff Roes, posted this morning. You can see the full text here:

Read: 100 Mile Ingrigue: Embracing the Unknown

Roes’ argument is that there is not currently, and may never be, a training plan for 100-mile races. In his opinion, the 100 experience is so unique to the individual, that it’s almost impossible to be guided with a training plan of any sort. Basically: Just go out, get the miles in, and do it.

I liked his way of thinking and very much agreed. It also reminded me of this other great post I read this morning, essentially saying the same thing in relation to barefoot running.

Read: Barefoot Running: TMI Problem

In the comments section of the irunfar.com article, Roes was asked about the value of an ultra marathon running coach. His response was:

I don’t think anyone needs a coach to reach their potential for running 100 miles, and in many cases I think aspiring 100-mile runners are held back by having a coach.

That said, I do think there are several basic things one needs to learn before they have the tools to be able to find what works best for them. In most cases, having a coach will be extremely helpful in getting you more quickly to the point of being able to figure your own thing out, but once you’re to that point I think you’ll just be holding yourself back if you continue to rely too strictly on the guidance of someone else.

It is worth noting though that I don’t think these same thoughts apply to shorter distances, and there are very few runners out there who are focused solely on the 100+ mile distances.

For most ultrarunners, I think it makes perfect sense to have a coach, but to be very aware that what your coach is having you do probably applies a lot more to shorter ultras than it does to 100s.

I found this intriguing but also a little confusing. What makes the 100 so different compared to a 100K or 50 miler? I do understand the difference in logistics (ie. sleep, etc), but wouldn’t the same basic “tools” apply?

I’ve only completed one 100-miler and my expertise on this topic is so low, it’s laughable. But I do love the 100 distance and I’m insatiably curious about it. I’ve never had a running coach for any ultra, so I can’t speak to their value either way.

My gut instinct is to think that an ultra running coach has little to offer for ANY distance. I would think that all ultra experiences are unique and therefore difficult to coach?

If that’s not true—if there truly is value in coaching a shorter ultra distance, why not coach 100 miles?

In my limited experience, I consider it an all-or-nothing type of deal. Either coaches are useful for all ultras, or they aren’t. Am I wrong?

Have you ever had an ultra running coach? What sorts of benefits do these coaches offer?

Is a coach perhaps only useful for competitive ultra marathon runners, whereas people who want to “just finish” don’t need to invest in a coach?

Would Shacky and I benefit from a coach (not competitive, but want to race a lot more 100s)?

Is this like the barefoot running coach debate all over again?

Read: Barefoot Running Coach Certification: Why It’s a Bad Idea

What are your thoughts/experience?

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My New Trail Running Life

This ultra snuck up on us. Until a week ago, we had planned on running the inaugural Hollywood Half since we had free entries, then at the last minute I decided I’d rather PAY to run on a trail than to run a free road race.

I’m ruined for road races. I literally have zero interest in ever running another road. As far as I’m concerned, a road race weekend is a weekend I’m NOT spending on a mountain. And where’s the fun in that??

I try to not be a trail snob, but I’m picky with my races now. I want all my mileage to go towards training for Chimera 100 this year, probably the hardest 100-miler known to man, and certainly the toughest thing I’ve ever done. I’m not sure if I’ll finish, but I’m sure as hell going to try. That means spending my time running vertically as much as is humanly possible.

The Oriflamme race director, John Martinez, was so accommodating and got us into the race even though we had already told him we weren’t coming. It was such a wonderfully organized event full of great friends and familiar faces, I felt like an idiot for almost missing out. Hollywood red carpet VS dirty trail ultra? I know where I belong.

Photo: Thanks to Greg Hardesty

Shacky and I got up at 3:30 am on race day and drove to the start. We overestimated how long it would take us to get there, so we showed up in time for the “early start” at 6 am. Darcy was starting with the early wave, and we were tempted to take off with her as well. But it was still dark, we didn’t have headlamps, and we figured we’d have more company with the normal start. So I took a nap in the car.

Shacky assumes it only takes me 3 seconds to get ready, so he didn’t wake me up. When I opened my eyes it was only 10 minutes to start time and Shacky was in the bathroom line. I stumbled out to go pee, get dressed, fill my water, and get to the start line. As soon as we got there, the runners had just taken off.

Photo: Thanks to Theresa Wheeler

I fell into the single track line and there was some walking for the first few minutes until the crowd started thinning. I had no goals as far as time, and I didn’t know the course. I thought I would just treat this as a long training run and enjoy the day.

A few people passed me in the first couple of miles and I finally settled into a comfortable, slow pace. Before long, there was a wide gap between the person ahead of me and the person behind me. I happily trotted along by myself, enjoying the trail and the scenery.

The first aid station came up quick. I didn’t need to stop, but I slowed down to say hello and grab a cookie. From there, it was all downhill.

I had a blast flying down the hill and ended up passing a few people. My downhill running skills have dramatically improved since running down the Los Pinos hill last weekend with the Robillards. Pinos is the steepest downhill I’ve ever set foot on (and most brutal climb). It made this downhill seem like a piece of cake.

The best thing I can do while running downhill is to relax my legs, go with the momentum, and not be afraid. When I get scared, my legs tighten, I slow down, and I’m much more likely to slip and fall on my ass.

When the road flattened out, I fell into my normal slow pace again and one of the guys I had passed caught up to me. We were running on sand now, which was hard to do in shoes. We’ve done some decent sand training, but always barefoot. I couldn’t believe how much harder it was to slog through the sand wearing shoes. But it wasn’t far to the second aid station.

I saw Desi and other friends at the next station, filled up my hydration pack with ice water, and took off again. It was getting really hot.

On my way to the turnaround point, I saw several more of our friends and they were going strong. It was great to see them all running together. I still wasn’t near any other runners, and I wondered at what point I would see Shacky coming back.

When I saw the turn, I realized Shacky was waiting for me, so I checked in at the halfway point and turned right around. Shacky’s shoes (New Balance MT 110s) were giving him trouble—he was getting too much sand in them and had to stop every few minutes to empty them out. We made it back to Desi’s aid station, where Shacky again emptied his shoes and I grabbed some oranges.

We hung out here for a few minutes longer than we really needed to, and started walking the sandy section back. Shacky was having a hard time running and I was doing a slow jog to keep up with his walking pace. At the bottom of the hill, I decided to push myself.

Photo: Thanks to Greg Hardesty

I’ve been trying hard to improve my hill running in preparation for Chimera, and I thought this hill would be a good test for me. Shacky later said I flew the hill, but it certainly didn’t feel that way. I ran as much as I could, and focused on a power hike the rest of the time. I had to put my head down and really concentrate on moving my legs forward as quick as possible. Otherwise I’d probably still be out there.

My “ultra walk” is pitiful. I’m trying to work on it. I run as much as possible because I know my walking pace is about as fast as slug. Jason once wrote that we shouldn’t walk hills as though we’re perusing futons at Ikea. That’s totally what I do. So I tried to imagine myself NOT at Ikea.

I tried to tell myself:

• This isn’t a stroll. This is a race.
• At least this isn’t Los Pinos.
• The faster you can get up this thing, the sooner it will be over.

I passed a lot of people who had been ahead of me, and it was obvious the hill was taking everyone out. Some people were cuddled under thorny bushes, seeking any sort of shade. Others were low on water. It reminded me of the Pinos climb on Keira’s race, where I basically lay down on the trail and prayed for death. But I wouldn’t lie down today.

I conserved my water and made it to the top with adequate supplies. As soon as the road flattened out, I happily started running again. I looked behind me but Shacky was nowhere in sight. Would I actually beat him to the finish?

I’ve never yet been able to beat Shacky in a race, mostly because he hauls ass and never lets me. But I knew he was struggling on the hill and that was my chance to slip past. He’s better than me on downhills, but I’m better at uphills over time. I’m also better in the heat. So on this race, I had advantages I could play.

On the way up the hill, I saw some Search and Rescue trucks and I wondered in the back of my mind whether Shacky would drop out. If he did, I could make fun of him for days. If he didn’t, I could beat him to the finish. WIN WIN!

At the aid station on the top of the hill, I felt like I was on the home stretch. My spirits were lifted, and I stopped for some watermelon and oranges. I considered waiting for Shacky, but then Christine told me Shacky had dropped.

NOOOoooo!

It never occurred to me that he might be hurt or dehydrated. I know he’s a hardass, so I just assumed he was being a wuss. I figured he’d be at the finish line, so I decided to haul ass to the end where I could make fun of him.

I ran the second half of the race much stronger than the first half. Usually, I’m giving it all I’ve got in the second half, but today I felt as though I still had a lot left. It was a good day for me. Part of me wondered whether I should have started faster, but I had a blast and I was really proud of my performance on the hill.

The last few miles were extremely pleasant. I was all alone, and for the most part couldn’t see anyone ahead or behind me. Every once in a while, I would come across another runner, greet them, and pass. I wasn’t going fast, but I was running.

Photo: Thanks to Rachel Hassett

As soon as I saw the finish line, I started to sprint and crossed with a big smile. Then I hung out and spread rumors about Shacky dropping out. I figured whoever finishes first reserves the right to spread rumors about the person behind them.

Shacky wasn’t at the finish line yet, and after 20 minutes I started to get bored and wish he had given me the car keys so I could at least change. You know, now that I’m the faster runner I should be the one to carry the keys. Thirty minutes later I wondered if maybe had had been hurt after all. Nah… he’s a hardass.

Then Julius told me that he hadn’t dropped after all—he was still on the course. Nice! I was proud of him for finishing, but was pretty sure he was still being lazy and walking. I thought about running back to scold him for taking so long, but decided to eat cake instead (Happy Birthday Carlos!).

Photo: Thanks to Carlos Quinto

There was a great crowd at the finish, and I had fun chatting with everyone. Shacky finally finished an hour later, pacing a girl who was running her first ultra. So it was hard to scold him for taking so long. I decided to get him some chili and pop instead.

Photo: Thanks to Theresa Wheeler

The next day, we went for a run with the dog on Mount Woodson where both Shacky AND the dog kicked my ass on the uphills. Pretty sure I’m still better at burpees though.

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Over the past few days, the running community has been swarmed with news of Caballo Blanco’s death (Born to Run star aka Micah True).

I won’t repeat how tragic this is, or how deep of a loss the running community has suffered. But I can’t help wonder how, going forward, this event will make its mark in ultra running. What will change? And how will we move ahead?

I never had the privilege of meeting Caballo Blanco, although we chatted briefly via Facebook. I can’t claim he was a close friend, but he was someone I followed, drew inspiration from, and very much admired.

Much good has been said about Caballo, and I won’t repeat his exceptional qualities here. But in addition to those great things, I was also drawn to his quirkiness and his slightly fiercer side.

I enjoyed watching Caballo’s hardass demeanor and the way his personality would sometimes clash with others. Caballo didn’t give a shit about a lot of things, yet he cared deeply about others.

He was his own man. He could not be bought out, compromised, or predicted. Some even wondered if his disappearance had been intentional or planned. Surely he was capable of anything? Did any of us really know him?

Now that he’s gone, I wonder about the future of ultra running. Here are four categories that I think will be touched by Caballo’s death.

1. What will happen to… the Copper Canyon Ultra Marathon?

This race was Caballo’s baby. It was his dream. North American ultra elites race alongside Mexico’s best Tarahumaran runners. The vibe is carefree and generous. Entries are not charged, but donations are given freely to support the local community. Caballo made damn sure of this.

But over the years, this low-key race has caught the world’s attention. Some have tried to use it for profit, or to push a variety of interests and agendas.

Caballo was the one who kept the integrity of this race. He viciously fought for the Tarahumara’s best interest and showed no mercy to those who might harm the culture.

What will become of Copper Canyons now that Caballo is gone? Will it be the next large-scale event, sponsored by big names and priced with a hefty registration fee? Will it be made more accessible to boost attendance? Will the course be simplified so more people can finish? Will the lure and magic of the Tarahumaran presence disappear?

2. What will happen to… the Tarahumara?

Caballo was the loudest and fiercest defender of the Tarahumara. He sheltered them like family and was skeptical of those who wanted to get close. He trusted few.

What will happen to the Tarahumara now? Who will fight for them?

3. What will happen to… the Born to Run brand?

All who have not yet read Born to Run are picking up a copy. They want to know who Caballo was and what all the fuss is about.

What does this mean for the Born to Run brand? Higher book sales? More Luna Sandals sold? A renewed interest in barefoot running?

4. What will happen to… the spirit of ultra running?

Caballo had a spirit that could not be matched. He embraced running in its purest sense. He ran for the sheer joy of it. Not to compete in races. Not to log his runs. Not to improve his training. He ran because he loved it. Period.

As our race schedules fill up and we pursue PRs, will we still remember the joy of bounding over a mountain for no reason at all? Will we forget how to run as Caballo did, or will his death inspire us to represent his spirit even more?

I don’t have the answers, but I hope for the best. I personally fear for the future of Copper Canyons and the Tarahumara, but am determined to be a small voice on Caballo’s behalf. I hope that you will too.

A Call to Action

In Caballo’s honor this week, I encourage you to run once without logging it as a workout, or thinking of it as training. Don’t track your mileage and don’t time yourself.

Pay attention to your surroundings, have compassion for the life around you, and work to protect and preserve your trails as well as the people who run them.

The spirit of ultra running must always embrace selflessness, generosity, adventure, and strength. These are things that cannot die.

Here is a poem my friend Trisha wrote for Caballo:

Run close to the mountains
Stay a heartbeat away
Cover the low moon with your wings
And walk tomorrow’s miles today

Watch the sun race the sky
And know you’ll pass her once again
When time frees your soul and you find
the fabled trail that doesn’t end

Dust ascends on the horizon
A deep, rumbling thunder without rain
The sound of rampant hearts, a legion
Earthly, feral and unconstrained

The search will end as it began
A trail of footprints, a bird and a feather
When a white horse dies on a sandy road
All wild hearts mourn together

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I Was Never Good at Staying Put

Everyone has experienced Second Wave Shit. Here is the official scholarly definition from a very reliable source:

Runners know all about Second Wave Shit. It can hit at any time.

You get up early for a race, take your dump, and wouldn’t you know it—at the start line you feel the urge to shit again. This is Second Wave Shit. It sucks.

You thought you got it all. You crossed it off your list. You’ve moved on. But dammit that shit is still in there.

Similarly, this is the time of year when thousands of people immerse themselves in spring cleaning. They do some organizing, throw out some clutter, and maybe get a haircut. Then they sit back and feel good about themselves for improving their lives.

But there’s still a lot of Second Wave Shit lying around. They didn’t get it all. Life still stinks.

As the years go by, our Second Wave Shit just sits there. Festering and poisoning us from the inside.

Every year, I’ve tried to tackle my own Second Wave Shit a little more aggressively. This year, I’ve gone all out and declared war on that crap.

If you’re serious about making a fresh start this spring and you don’t mind getting a little dirty, join me and tackle the Second Wave Shit in your life.

Here’s how:

3 Second Wave Shits to Ditch Immediately

1. 10-Year Success Plans

Also trash those five-year plans, 20-year plans, or three-year plans. Although this sounds like the opposite of what you should be doing to move ahead, plans like these have held me back.

My parents were big on five-year plans. I made my first five-year plan when I was 16 years old. “What’s on your five-year plan?” my dad would ask. And I’d recite the perfect life.

Do you know what a 16-year-old knows about their next five years? A big fat nada.

I would go on to make 10-year plans, 20-year plans, even one-year plans. In my head, I had it all planned out. I’d have all my babies before age 30, I’d be happily married, and in my plan I was never a runner.

Then life happened.

I got divorced. I realized I didn’t want kids. I learned that I loved running. I wanted new friends. A change of scenery. I wanted to move. I wanted to travel. I couldn’t find a job. None of these things fit into my plan.

Year-by-year plans have limited me in three major ways:

a. Yearly plans make it easy to postpone what you really want.

You really want to travel, so you put it on your 10-year plan, along with a few other things:

• SOMEDAY I’ll write a book.
• SOMEDAY I’ll hike the Appalachian.
• SOMEDAY I’ll train for an ultra marathon.
• SOMEDAY I’ll start my own business.

You feel good about yourself because you put it on the plan. That means something, right? Then 10 years down the road you’re still living the same shit-ass life, working at the same shit-ass job. Fuck that.

How about:

• Rip up your 10-year plan and use it as toilet paper.
• Then make a To Do List.

Not for ten years. Not for five years. Not for one year. For today. For right now. For immediately.

b. Yearly plans give you a false sense of control.

You think you can control what happens in your life? You’re lucky you didn’t get hit by a car this morning. You know nothing and you control nothing.

Maybe you’ll have a kid with special needs. Not in the plan? Maybe you’ll lose your job or the market will  crash. Not in the plan?

Life happens and will continue to happen. Instead of learning joy, contentment, and most importantly—flexibility, yearly plans drive you to force something that might not be in the cards for you. Everything happens for a reason. So roll with it.

c. Yearly plans give you a false sense of guilt and failure.

When your plan doesn’t go perfectly (and it won’t), it opens the door to feelings of guilt, or worse—failure. Even though you never had control, you feel as though you fucked up. Why couldn’t you find a partner in time? Why didn’t you have kids fast enough? Why aren’t in that house? In that car? At that job?

You wonder if it’s because you suck. You’re not good enough. You didn’t deserve it. You’re lazy. You didn’t work hard. You made stupid decisions. But these are all ideas that exist only in your head. They should never taint your self-esteem or your future decisions.

You may be on a different path, and that’s OK. Maybe you’re on a better path. Maybe… you’re exactly where you need to be.

What’s on your 10-year plan? That’s Second Wave Shit.

2. Paralyzing Fears

These are fears so big that you don’t even realize you have them. You don’t talk about them, because they’re not even real to you. Basically, these are the things that you KNOW you could never do. There’s no chance in hell.

And you’re right—because your fear has paralyzed the possibility.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard, “I could never run 100 miles.” And just like that, your fate is sealed. Paralyzed. That’s now something you will never do.

Or it could be other things:

• “I will never be happy in my marriage.”
• “I will never fit in.”
• “I will never see the world.”

But… what if you stopped believing you couldn’t? What if you MIGHT? What if… you could?

What’s your paralyzing fear? That’s Second Wave Shit.

3. Unused Possessions

Skip the pathetic spring cleaning of organizing cupboards and donating a single box of clothes. Walk through your house and take out EVERYTHING you have not used in the past 12 months.

Holding stuff in storage? Clean it out. What if you need it someday? You won’t.

We are so attached to our possession. Too often, they own us. They add to our stress and drain our time. They also play on our fears and force us to think in “what ifs”:

• What if this comes back in style?
• What if my kids can use this in the future?
• What if this becomes valuable?

(Hint: Your kids won’t want any of your old crap. It’s old people’s crap.)

If you are not using something in the moment, there is absolutely no reason to give it space in your home. No exceptions. Give it away to someone who will actually use it.

When we store things, they rot from misuse and we rot from hoarding them.

This is not thrifty. This is not frugal. This is not healthy. And guess what: This is not how happy people live. There’s a reason the most joyful people on Earth own nothing. It’s because they’re free.

Doing a hardcore cleanout is one of the most cathartic things I have ever experienced. It feels like you have a new life. New space. Room to breathe.

It also teaches you to let go. To live in the moment, and not worry about what might possibly happen under this obscure condition, or in case of that small chance. Remember, you control nothing. So you can’t prepare for it.

What possessions are collecting dust and space in your home? That’s Second Wave Shit.

How I’ve Spring Cleaned My Second Wave Shit and Started Living Life

I know it’s easy to say these things, but insanely hard to put them into practice. I get it. This is not a spring cleaning for everyone, and not everybody will be ready for it.

It’s scary as hell and it leaves you feeling helpless—like maybe you’ll end up homeless and on the street and nobody will love you. But change is possible. And BETTER. It’s not as devastating as you think.

Here are three things I’ve done in my life that scared me shitless. My intention is to show that:

a. Anyone can do it. I’m not a superhero; I’m a regular person. If I did it, so can you.

b. Sometimes people write off what I’ve accomplished and think, “Oh, it’s because she’s so brave and strong. Not like me.”

But I wasn’t always brave and strong. THESE are the things that made me that way.

You don’t make a change because you are brave. You make a change, and then you are braver. You take a risk, and then you are strong.

My three things to inspire you:

1. I got divorced.

Following my original 10-year plan, I got married early in my 20s and planned for kids. I immediately knew it was wrong for me. I lived with my ex for three months before I was completely broken. I had no future other than cleaning and cooking and scrubbing the shit stains off his underwear. I felt abused and unappreciated and starving for a better life.

I left.

My life was very different then, and divorce was simply not an option in my social group. I lost all my friends, my family, and my church. Everything I had ever known changed from one day to the next. It was hell on Earth.

I had the opportunity to go back. I could have said I made a mistake. Temporary insanity. A bad day. I was on my period. Whatever.

But I pushed ahead and believed that things would get better. And they did. Much better. I shudder to think what would have happened to me if I had lived out my original 10-year plan.

2. I left the country.

After I worked my ass off to rebuild my life, got myself through school with no disposable income, and found a job in my field, I realized I wasn’t satisfied.

It didn’t make sense. I had worked within my new plan. I had made it happen. But my heart wasn’t right. I was living in a city where I didn’t belong.

I left.

I said goodbye to my family, my job, my home, and my partner. I moved to a place I had never even visited, without a suitcase. I had no place to live and no job. I knew one person—Shacky.

Shacky picked me up from the airport on my first day in San Diego, and as soon as I breathed the San Diego air, I knew I was home. I just knew it. I got the sensation that for my entire life, I had been homesick for a place I had never been. And it was here.

This city spoke to me, and although I didn’t know how, I knew I would be OK. Immediately after that, things started falling into my lap. Within a month, I had a work visa, I had a job, and I had a boyfriend.

3. I quit my job.

I currently have a great life with nothing to complain about. I have a great job. I run beautiful mountains. I’m in an awesome relationship.

But this week I gave notice to quit my job.

From the outside, this is a pretty stupid decision. I have no real viable sources of income outside of work. And my company is a fast-growing one with opportunities for advancement.

Earlier I said I was doing an aggressive Second Wave Spring Cleaning, and this is part of that.

Previously on my 10-year plan:

• I want to write books. I have ideas for at least three books, but with my job I have no time to write them.
• I want to run the Appalachian and other multi-day trails. I don’t have enough PTO.
• I want to opt out of the 9 to 5 lifestyle.

Living for the weekends doesn’t feel right to me anymore. I want to be doing what I love at all hours of the day. I want to be active, and when I’m sitting down I want to be either writing or eating.

This is part of a greater retirement plan that I will divulge in the next few months. But it involves putting into motion all those things I’ve always wanted to do.

This is my way of living in the present, believing in myself enough to take risks, and going aggressively after the life I’ve always dreamed. Not in 10 years. Right now. This spring.

Will you spring clean your Second Wave Shit this year?

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You Asked, I Answer

Where to begin?

Here’s the apology I stuck up on The Marathon Show wall:

Hi all, sorry for the delayed reply. Yes, I took down the post because I didn’t mean it the way it was interpreted and it was just better to delete than to explain/argue on tons of separate threads. I’m sorry if anyone was offended, my intention was to spark some healthy debate which sort of got out of control. My main point was – I wasn’t offended by the ad campaigns, and if you’re a runner you know who you are. You’re not defined by campaigns/products, etc. But I either didn’t say it right, or something got badly misunderstood. I certainly wasn’t trying to call anyone a pussy. I’m trying to form a better apology/response on the blog, but in the meantime please accept my humble apologies.

In case you went to bathroom and missed my entire last post—I wrote a piece that I hoped would be an engaging debate on Pearl Izumi’s last ad campaign. It went viral immediately and in a matter of seconds I got a flurry of personal attacks. You guys are really fast readers.

I did not in any way intend to be:

• Offensive
• An asshat
• A jackass
• Shameful
• Stupid
• Immature
• A bad representative of ____ (insert noun)

Or any of the other things that were mentioned.

Although I didn’t mean any harm, I do want to take responsibility and apologize to anyone who was offended. I think “pussy” was definitely the wrong word to use here. (Title: Pear Izumi Separates the Runners From the Pussies… I Mean Joggers)

All who reacted negatively were people who don’t know me, whereas I got positive comments from those who do know and follow me. I hope this speaks to my real-life character and reflects the more-positive spirit of my blog.

• I do NOT apologize for my opinions—like the fact that I like the Pearl Izumi ads.
• I do NOT apologize for feeling out of place in the mainstream running community. Or being different.

Here is what I do believe, and failed at expressing:

Runners are runners. Runners KNOW they are runners. Runners are NOT defined by an ad campaign.

I also want to add:

In life, people are going to call you names. EVEN if I truly meant to call you pussy. EVEN if Pearl Izumi called you a Jogger. So what?

Know yourself. Be yourself. And own that.

Don’t waste anger or negative energy on what others are saying. Life is too short. And do not EVER let an ad campaign put a label on you.

Part of me died a little inside when I deleted my last post because aside from the misunderstandings, I do stand by my opinions. I’m a strong believer in free speech and I believe a blog should be place where people are free to express themselves, regardless of how stupid their opinions are.

That said, my blog has now grown to a point where people are actually reading and sharing it in larger numbers. People know where I work and ultimately I deleted this post because they were contacting my job and I needed that to stop.

I wonder if going out of your way to try to get someone fired is in line with the “spirit of the marathon”? Vindictiveness and rage are not qualities that I’ve understood to be part of the running community.

That said, I understand and accept my responsibilities as an employee. And I have to make some decisions as to where to draw the line between my own freedom to blog, your freedom to attack me at work, and my responsibilities at the office.

I’ve learned a lot today.

I’m also embarrassed that a lot of heavy hitters like Joe from The Marathon Show and Marathon Maniacs got a wrong impression of me. I’m a Maniac myself and worked hard to get there, and I’ve chatted with Joe and love him, although I’m sure he doesn’t remember me. Some of the runners I most admire are Maniacs, and I’m truly humbled by them.

But I’m also saddened by the spirit of hate and revenge that so many of us are still feeding online. It puzzles me as to how people can harbor so much resentment to do and say the things they have to another human being for ANY reason. I’m ashamed of us as runners or joggers or whatever we are.

I really struggled with how to react to this, and I have decided to paste below the raw text from my original post. I feel people still have the right to read it and reach their own conclusions. I’m sorry if you find this re-posting offensive, and I completely understand if I lose you as a reader.

I simply could not bring myself to censor this blog in any way. And I hope that those who do stay can trust me to always express my opinion, even if I’m imperfect in my presentation or being a downright asshat.

In the end, I AM young and inexperienced, as one person noted. I’m just a runner still trying to find herself, figure out her place, and set herself apart from the rest of the crowd. And that was really the spirit behind this original troublesome post:

***

“Last night I got home to find a box of Pearl Izumi gear on my doorstep. I’ve never tried this product before, but they emailed me last week to ask if they could send over some clothes and shoes. I agreed.

Afterwards I found out that this brand has been frowned upon and called out on The Marathon Show due to an ad campaign that seems to trivialize “joggers” and slower, non-competitive runners. I went online to see what the debate was about, and here are the ads I found:

[Ad photos here]

The Criticisms

• This campaign offends and trivializes slower runners.
• We should be encouraging all physical activity, even walking.
• Running does not have to be competitive.
• Finishing a marathon is a big accomplishment, regardless of time.

My Reaction

Are the critics justified? Should we be holding this brand accountable for marginalizing slower or non-competitive runners? God knows I can be pretty damn slow.

But when I see these ads, I don’t think about speed or ability. To me, they’re about an attitude toward running.

They describe a person who is committed to running. Running is a large part of their life. It takes up a great deal of their time. They make sacrifices to run. They plan their schedules around running. They are runners.

These products are marketed to athletes who crave the wilderness and remote trails. Runners who move like wildlife. Not joggers who huff around the block because they ate too much and feel guilty.

We crave running for RUNNING. Not for health. Not for weight loss. Not for recognition.

That doesn’t mean we’re not slow sometimes. It doesn’t mean we never walk. It doesn’t mean we don’t run for fun. But when we do all those things, we still feel like cheetahs.

Years ago, I was that huffing, overweight runner. But even in my worst shape, I never considered myself a jogger. I was always a runner growing into my own skin. Now physically capable of doing what I always knew I must. 

A Marketing Risk

If we analyze this from a marketing viewpoint, Pearl Izumi has been successful. They have gotten people to debate their product, and they have taken a risk to create a sense of elitism around their brand. Instead of trying to sell to anyone with a pulse, they have carved out a very specific target market and risked the disdain of everyone else.

How is this any different than Marathon Maniacs? Selling clothing as a status symbol only to those who qualify? Yet nobody gets offended when they see a Maniac run by.

Or back when INKnBURN was successfully marketed to only ultra runners, you couldn’t wear the brand unless you had completed an ultra. Aspiring ultra runners waited patiently and planned for the day when they could finally wear INKnBURN.

A very vivid and pleasant memory for me was when Shacky peeled off the INKnBURN shirt off his back and handed it to me, right after I ran my first ultra distance. It such a positive emotional experience that I’ve since driven sales to that company, recommended them, gotten to know the owners, toured the facilities, written reviews, and marketed for them.

Stepping out of the running world, we see car commercials associated with elitism and luxury. Brands that aren’t just for ANYONE: Wines. Gourmet food. Clothing.

The value of setting up your brand as a status symbol is immeasurable, and from a business perspective I applaud Pearl Izumi for setting themselves apart, for speaking to me and “my kind” directly, and for reaching out to me personally.

Yes, physical activity is important at all levels. I spend most of my day encouraging others to become more active, to eat healthier, and reap the benefits of running. But that doesn’t mean I have everything in common with anyone who runs.

At a marathon starting line, I never feel like the other runners. How many of them dream of running 100 miles? How many of them run 20 miles the day before a race? How many schedule back-to-back ultras? How many look for the hardest, most challenging race they can find—and immediately sign up?

The products marketed to ALL runners are not for me—the GUs, the supportive shoes, the foam rollers. I don’t carb load, I don’t taper, and I don’t stretch. I’m more of a slap- a-sandwich-together-at-the-crack-of-dawn-and-don’t-come-home-until-it’s-dark type of runner.

The truth is I’ve never been drawn to a running brand that targets the masses. In fact, anything targeting the masses is an immediate turn-off for me. I know I’m different enough that I will probably hate a product that works for everyone else.

But the Pearl Izumi ads talk about trails so remote you could dump a dead body. Mileage so high that you’re burning through gear. And movements so smooth that you feel like a wild animal. Not everybody runs like this. But I do. And I get it.

Thanks Pearl Izumi for noticing me, and picking me out from the crowd.”

An ultra can do a lot of things for a lot of people. But one thing it will always do is change your mind. It will focus your perspective and help you see things as they really are. Here are some lies that may be clouding your vision.

1. I can’t run an ultra yet—I’m not in my best shape.

I’ve seen some epic love handles and beer bellies cross the finish line at several ultras. And although not all runners are visibly out of shape, many do have a target area that is far from perfect—flabby bits or underdeveloped muscles. If you’re waiting to be in the best shape of your life, you will never run an ultra.

Running with extra weight is far from easy, whether it is bulky muscle weight or fat. But weight has almost no effect on your potential to cross the finish line. This finish line is about mental strength and raw determination. Don’t worry about achieving perfect fitness. The more you run ultras, the more your body will adapt to running ultras. Then before you know it, your body will be perfect for…running ultras.

2. My first ultra will be just like my training runs.

You haven’t the slightest clue what your first ultra will be like. Expect nothing. The veteran standing beside you doesn’t know what this race will be like either. Neither does the dude who has run this course ten times. He can tell you about his past experiences, but he can’t tell you what the run will be like today. That’s the beauty of ultra running: Anything can happen.

Simulate race day conditions during training, but never let it fool you into thinking that you now know exactly what’s coming. You have no idea. The weather could turn, your food could run out, or you could step on a rattlesnake. Who the hell knows.

Instead of stressing about it, take it as a relief. There’s no pressure to be completely prepared, because nobody is. The runners who thrive are the ones who can be flexible. Have a good base, don’t forget your nutrition, and know how to adapt. Be ready and willing to tweak your strategy at a moment’s notice, and never see a change as a failure.

3. I can’t run an ultra—I don’t have any support.

Support is a big deal among ultra runners (race crew, pacers, friends dragging your crap around), but it can’t be used as an excuse. Ultimately, only you are responsible for your failure or success. Yes, pacers and crews make things easier. They are convenient and invaluable. But you don’t need a small army to pull off a finish.

In fact, many newbies don’t have any support at all. It’s not until you start running several ultras and make friends in the ultra community that people become willing to hang out and support you.

Emotional and moral support are another issue. Never expect to go into your first ultra with the full support of all your non-running friend and family. Even your running friends may have a hard time believing in you. If you do have unlimited support, your friends are either great liars or you are a much better person than I.

Do you know when people start believing in you? When you prove yourself. When you finish. When you find success. So don’t sit around whining about how nobody supports you. Of course they don’t, and why should they? You haven’t done a damn thing. Your ultra is just crazy talk.

Know your potential and go after it with all your strength. When you believe in yourself and prove your ability to finish, others will start believing in you as well.

4. If I’m running in the back of the pack, I’m in the wrong training group.

Take it from this back of the packer—you’re in the perfect spot. When I first moved to San Diego, I was always in the back of the pack. As I slowly started becoming a mid-packer, I sought out stronger runners who would push me to the back again.

Many runners are embarrassed or ashamed to bring up the rear, to the point that they will switch training groups. But I’m not here to impress anyone—I’m here to get better, and I want to do it as fast as possible.

Struggling to keep up with a strong group is how I’ve grown. Fast. I’ve picked up tips and invaluable knowledge that might have taken me years to learn otherwise, and it also keeps me extremely humble.

Obviously there’s a limit—you don’t want people waiting forever for you to catch up. But your own common sense and/or pride will prevent you from hitting any extremes. I’m referring to runners who are only a few minutes behind the second-last person, assume the group is too fast for them, and leave.

I want people in front of me, driving me forward. I want to be friends with people who can kick my ass any day of the week, who are better trained, and have more experience. The rewards are far better in last place than in first. There is tremendous opportunity to advance. The day I’m the best runner is the day that I didn’t learn anything.

5. I’m too old to start running ultras.

At 29, I’m a newborn in this sport. I’m also one of the slowest, less experienced, and less accomplished. Ultra running is for an older crowd. The strongest runners tend to be in their 40s and 50s (women included), with a few in their 60s who can run circles around them. I’ve seen past-middle age men with abs more ripped than any teenager on the planet.

Age in ultra running means grace, wisdom, and respect. You are admired and consulted for advice. If you watch an older ultra runner, there is a calm and carefree aura around them. It’s like they know every step of every trails, what’s underneath every rock, and the location of every bug.

Their sense of direction is inhumanly sharp, and you get the feeling that if you were to ditch them in the middle of nowhere on the other side of the world, they would run back and ring your doorbell in about a week. Other sports cut you off after a certain age. In this sport, you become a legend.

6. After I finish an ultra, everyone will admire and praise me.

Ultra running is like a spiritual experience—you get the most out of it when you approach with a pure and humble heart. An ultra is something you can’t finish for anyone else. You have to do it for yourself.

The runners who give off a vibe of “Hey, look at me!” generally don’t stick with ultras. This is because if your goal is social acceptance and praise, there are much easier ways to get it.

When you run a marathon, all your non-running family and friends think you’re a superstar. They might meet you at the finish line, talk about you with pride, and tell you how awesome you are.

But when you run an ultra, you are out on those trails by yourself. You’re facing your demons alone on a terrain that is foreign. There are no motivational signs to lift your spirits. There are no cheering fans to scream your name. If you’re lucky, you may get some weak claps or cheers at the finish line.

But that finish is unlike anything else. It’s yours and yours alone. Nobody can know what it took for you to get there, and nobody can share in your glory. That finish line is where you first realize that you can do anything.

You’ll go into the world the next day to brag about your accomplishments, but instead of looking at you with admiration, people will look at you like you’re insane. Your non-running friends will not understand. Their first reaction will probably not be, “You’re awesome!”

If it’s a nod from society you’re looking for, run a marathon. But if it’s a life-changing experience of personal strength and perseverance that you want, finish an ultra.

7. It doesn’t appear that anyone else is struggling as much as I am. I must not belong.

There was a video I saw a few weeks back that completely changed my perspective on everything. I can’t remember where I saw it, much less the link. It was one of those things you watch casually, and don’t realize until weeks later that it was actually a turning point for you.

This video was an interview with a seasoned, elite ultra runner (don’t remember who) talking about a race. The distance was significant, I think it was 100 miles. He talked about finishing the first 26 miles, and feeling wiped. He casually mentioned being tired as if it was a normal thing, but I thought, “Wait a minute. He’s an ultra-elite. He gets tired after a marathon??”

When I get tired at 26 miles, I used to attribute it to the fact that I wasn’t conditioned. I was a newbie and probably out of shape. I was in over my head. But here was a veteran with solid races under his belt, still feeling tired at 26 miles. It forced me to change my perspective.

Around the same time, I read the book AWOL on the Appalachian Trail where David Miller recounts his experience hiking the entire Appalachian. He recalls a day when he was struggling up a hill, passed some other hikers, and was shocked to hear them admire his speed and agility. He felt like shit.

He writes:

Everyone sweats; everyone pants for breath. The person who is in better shape will usually push himself to hike more quickly and bump into the same limitations. But when a fit person is stressed, he is less likely to attribute the difficulty to his shortcomings… Obviously conditioning is advantageous, but the perception of disadvantage can be more debilitating than the actual disadvantage.

Ultras are hard for everyone. Ultras are just plain hard. Everyone struggles up that hill. Everyone has trouble breathing. Everyone feels the hot sun. Everyone is sweating. Everyone wants to sit down.

You—sitting at your computer and reading this—would not be any worse off than I am on a steep, rocky hill. Trails can’t tell whether you’re an elite or a newbie. They’ll kick your ass just the same. So you belong here just as much as I do. And I belong here just as much as the dude who wins first place.

The ultra distance is hard to get your mind around. That’s why people give ultra runners puzzled looks. But once you break down that wall, run your first ultra, run your second ultra, and then realize you’re hooked—all those lies you believed about yourself are exposed. And it’s easier to see yourself as you really are—strong, courageous, and able.

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