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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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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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“Pushing your body past what you thought it was capable of is easy; the hard part is pushing yourself even further … past what your mind wants to let you. That’s what ultrarunning is all about; introducing you to a self you’ve never known.” – Rex Pace
Lap 6: Miles 76-90
Shacky wanted to quit. He was a walking zombie, his chaffing was intense, and if he dropped now he would still be credited for finishing 100k. It would still be a distance PR for him and there would be no shame in DNF’ing his first 100-mile attempt.
Our friend Rachel decided to DNF. Her feet were so swollen, she could no longer walk. Shacky was thinking about joining her.
Knowing Shacky was ready to drop out made me stronger. I knew that if I showed any sign of weakness he would make up his mind to stop. He was just waiting for me to say the words, “I’m done,” so he could breathe a sigh of relief and fall sleep in the car. I wouldn’t give him the pleasure.
I had run 100k before, and I wanted to push further. This was all new territory for me and I wasn’t ready to stop yet. I grabbed some food for both of us while Shacky went to the car to generously lube his chaffed parts. He wanted to sleep so badly, so I told him I’d wake him up when it was time to go. In seconds, he was out like a light.
I took 20 minutes to take off my shoes, rub my aching feet, eat as much as I could, and drink some Rockstar. “Just one more full loop…” I told myself. I was anxious about spending too much time here.
If I didn’t get back out on the course soon, maybe I never would. I was afraid to sleep because I didn’t think I would ever wake up.
I woke Shacky. “It’s time to go!” … but he didn’t want to. I set his alarm for another 30 minutes of sleep, and told him that I was heading out. I instructed him to catch up to me after he woke up, and we’d finish this together. He nodded.
I believed he’d come. My best card to play at this point was his sense of competition. I knew he didn’t want me on the course putting up miles without him, and I knew that would eat him up. I was sure he’d catch up to me.
I stepped out of the car and headed to the bathroom for one quick potty break before I started walking. My plan was to walk slowly and let Shacky catch up. I didn’t care about time, but I did want us to finish together. I was feeling better, and I felt like he might need me before the night was over.
I walked slowly. It was really cold, so I wore two sweaters and wrapped a blanket around me. My jammie pants were keeping me warm, with my skirt underneath.
I felt much better, but I didn’t want to move any faster. I imagined that every second Shacky walked by himself would be a nightmare for him. I remembered my own desperation, fear, and paranoia at being left alone in the dark, and I didn’t want him to experience that.
In the meantime back at the car, Shacky decided as soon as I left that he didn’t want to sleep. He jumped back on the course while I was in the bathroom, already running to catch up to me. He didn’t realize I was still behind him.
For several miles, he’d run faster to catch me, and I’d walk slower to wait for him. We would do this until we were hopelessly separated. And when we’d find out what had happened, my heart would drop to a new low.
I looked at my watch and estimated approximately how long it would take Shacky to catch up to me. I walked and walked, but he never seemed to come. Where was he?
The sun would be coming out soon and I was already at the second aid station. I was starting to get worried. Did he even wake up? Would he finish?
Just as I was starting to wonder if he quit, I saw Shacky coming back towards me from the turnaround point. I blinked my eyes and stared. Was I hallucinating?
When we reached each other, I was still confused. “Did you pass me??” I asked. When Shacky explained what must have happened, I didn’t know what to say.
He was running at a steady pace and he said he felt good. He said he would run to the finish, then maybe if he was feeling good, he’d run me in for my finish. Then he took off.
I just stood there with my mouth open. What was happening??? I looked back at all the time I had wasted walking slowly, and I suddenly realized how much distance he had gained on me. I wanted to cry.
MAYBE run me in for my finish?? Fuck that. I wanted to finish together.
I was at mile 80. The sun was coming out and I was still in my jammies, two sweaters and blanket. I was tired. I hadn’t slept at all and I was still a little delusional. But suddenly all I could think of was catching up to Shacky.
We hadn’t talked about finishing together, and catching up at this point seemed impossible. I knew he wasn’t slowing down, which meant I had 20 miles to run FASTER than his already-fast pace. Oh, and did I mention I had 80 miles on my legs?
It was insane, but I didn’t care. After the initial shock of watching him leave, I grabbed some food at the halfway point and took off from that aid station like a bat out of hell.
I didn’t know I had any strength in my legs. But they moved. I didn’t know I had any breath left in my body. But I inhaled. The faster I went, the better I felt. I was flying.
I remembered my Asian mentor’s words, “The race doesn’t start until mile 80.” This was it. This was mile 80. And the chase was on.
The runners that I passed would turn to clap or shout encouragement. Their surprised faces reminded me how insane my pace was. Nobody was moving this fast. Nobody was running the hills. Was I being reckless? Stupid? It didn’t matter. I had to find Shacky.
My single-track mind made the time go by quickly. The sun was coming out and I was started to get very hot in my layers. I took off my jammies, two sweaters, and blanket and tied them all around my waist.
The layers made me look like a round, chunky ball, but they didn’t slow me down. I was on a mission and failure wasn’t an option. I was running this loop faster than I had run at any point during this race.
About three miles from the start line, I still hadn’t seen Shacky. That’s when it started to occur to me that maybe this was stupid. Maybe I’d never catch him. I stopped to walk and for the first time, think about what I was doing.
I heard a car honk and turned around. It was Jeff. He was headed to the start line to pace, and seeing him immediately perked my spirits. If Jeff caught Shacky at the start, they might stop to chat and give me a brief window to make up some ground. I started running again. Maybe I could do this after all.
Steps away from the start line, I saw Shacky running back with Jeff. They were on their final 10 miles, and my heart sank. What was I thinking, I’d never catch them. I would finish alone.
When I passed Shacky, I didn’t even want to talk to him. I was too tired to explain what I wanted, plus I was afraid I would burst into tears.
But I didn’t have to say anything for Shacky to figure out what I wanted. He sent Jeff to pace me, and he said he’d walk until I caught up. So Jeff and I turned and headed back to finish my loop.
Lap 7: Miles 90-100
“When you are 99 miles into a 100-mile running race, your brain is not the same brain you started with.” – Paul Huddle
I didn’t waste any time at the aid station. I dropped the layers that I had tied around my waist, filled my water bottle and took off again, barely even slowing down.
Just 10 more miles. It was so close I could taste it. It was a relief to run with someone again, and Jeff was an amazing pacer. He made sure my form was good and ran ahead of me to all the aid stations so I didn’t have to stop. He was surprised at how well I was doing and he thought we might even catch up to Carlos.
But as it turned out, Carlos kicked it into high gear himself and basically sprinted the last 10 miles. When I saw him on the home stretch, he was flying.
There’s something incredibly inspiring about seeing someone who has run over 90 miles, who has been out there for almost 30 hours, and who can still sprint to the finish with a smile. It’s a true testament to the wonder of the human body.
I smiled to see Carlos whiz past with his pacer behind him, huffing to keep up. We are so much stronger than we imagine.
As for myself, I wasn’t even sure why I was still running. Shacky would be waiting for me, so there was no need to chase. There was no time goal we wanted to meet. And before long, this would all be over.
Looking back, this was probably the most pure stretch of running I have ever experienced. There was no reason to run, but I still did. My brain was fuzzy, my belly was empty, and my legs were tired. But I ran because it was all my body knew to do.
For a long time now people have been trying to answer the question, “Why do you run?” I imagined that on this race I would have a breakthrough or a vision that would make it clear to me exactly why we DO run. And suddenly now it was obvious: There’s no fucking reason.
That’s why people come up with cheesy one-liners like, “Because I can.” Because really… there’s no reason to run at all. It’s completely senseless. And I was about to senselessly run 100 miles. It felt awesome.
Maybe we don’t always have to do things for a reason. Maybe we shouldn’t try to explain everything. Maybe we can just run fast every once in a while for no damn reason. And if people don’t understand, well that sucks for them.
When we caught up to Shacky, we all started running together. We hit 95 miles, and I was starting to cramp up. Just 5 more to go…
I had to start taking walk breaks, especially on the hills. My feet were starting to hurt and things were getting ugly fast. Whereas in most of my races I gain motivation this close to the finish, this time I broke down.
About three miles to the finish, I started to cry. I just didn’t even want to finish anymore. My body hurt and all I could think of was how much I wanted to stop. I didn’t care when I crossed the finish line or who I crossed it with.
Jeff ran ahead to announce our arrival, and I tried hard to pull myself together. My nose was running and when I blew it, it started to bleed. I was falling right apart.
As my pain grew, so did my anger. Why the hell did I run so fast back there?? I wanted to kick myself.
Shacky walked me in to the finish, and when I crossed it there was no sense of triumph or pride or satisfaction. Just an overwhelming urge to lie down.
Shacky hugged me hard and then I had to pee. I was holding it in for the past 3 miles, so I headed straight for the bathroom. Plus my nose was also still bleeding and I wanted to get cleaned up before any pictures.
When the race director came over with my buckle, I wasn’t there. So Shacky took it for me. Until the ride home, I didn’t even remember there was a buckle. I wouldn’t even look at it until I was home. It didn’t seem to matter at the time.
As soon as I stopped and sat down in the car, the pain was overwhelming. It hurt more to stop than to continue. I was hungry, sore, and sleepy and I didn’t know what to take care of first.
Trying to figure out what to do next was enough to send me into another fit of tears. I couldn’t think straight. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep. I was hungry but I couldn’t get up to find food. I just sat in the car and cried.
Shacky came over to check on me and I was so mad at myself for pushing hard in the last 20 miles. I told him that it wasn’t worth it. That I should have just run my own race and finished alone. But he said he was glad we finished together, and after Jeff and Terry went to get me some hot chocolate, I felt a little better.
I was so appreciative of everyone’s support at the finish line, and I was sorry to be in such a poor state. Days later I would come to see photos of other people’s feet and realize how lucky I was to come out of this with so few battle wounds.
Later analysis with the Robillards would convince us that it was probably our minimalist/barefoot choices that has strengthened our feet enough to take this type of beating. There aren’t many people who finish 100 miles. And out of those, there are next to none who can finish without supportive shoes.
Final Thoughts From a 100-Mile Finisher
“I have met my hero, and he is me.” – George Sheehan
The day after the race I asked Shacky if he felt any different now that he had finished 100 miles. He said no, and neither did I. I feel like the same old girl. The same old runner.
I think that’s a good sign. I feel like it means this is who we were all along. This is where we belong.
For me, it was almost like a coming out. Now I have nothing to prove. It was a validation. A declaration that this is who I am and this is what I can do. And I’m going to keep doing it. Senselessly.
I don’t really know why I run. But I don’t have to explain it.
Now registered for: Nanny Goat 24-Hour & Chimera 100 Mile
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“I still cannot define precisely my joy in running… Who can define happiness? To some, happiness is a warm puppy or a glass of cold beer. To me, happiness is running in the hills with my mates around me.”
- Ron Clarke
One hundred miles. This distance that has been on my mind ever since I started running. Years ago, I was a newbie taking on my first race, but I was secretly thinking about this day. The 100.
In fact, every race and every distance I’ve climbed has been with 100-mile intentions. But I was always afraid to talk about this goal because:
- I didn’t always have a strong support system.
- I knew it sounded stupid for a newbie to be talking about 100 miles.
- None of the other newbies could relate to me.
- Nobody really believed I could run that far and I knew there was nothing I could say to convince them.
I was intrigued by distance, not speed. But because I wasn’t fast, nobody took me seriously as a runner. Here are my unimpressive stats:
- I have never run a 5K faster than 25 minutes.
- I have only raced three half marathons.
- My half marathon PR is about three years old at 2:04.
- I have only raced three marathons. Total.
- My marathon PR is only a 4:20.
- Out of the first three ultras I raced, I DNF’d two of them.
- I have never raced a 50 miler.
My point is: I can run ultras, so you can run ultras.
I have seen people finish ultras who are overweight. Senior citizens. Children. Teens. People who haven’t trained at all. People who have never run a marathon. People who registered by mistake. Sometimes people who don’t even really LIKE running.
We idolize speed more than we should. Speed is nothing without endurance. We admire the stereotypical “runner’s body” and we know in our hearts that we may never look that good. So we resign ourselves to shorter distances, shorter training runs, and a defeated approach to running. That is a mistake.
The ultra is an equalizer. It strips away the mystery surrounding the athletes we love, and it puts us on their level. It lets us shake their hands and pace alongside them.
Where marathons force you into corals based on your speed, the ultra slaps you on the back and says, “Stand wherever the fuck you want. Your chance is as good as any of these other poor suckers.” And when you believe that, you know you’re an ultra runner.
My love for distance was something I fed privately at first. Unlogged, unaccompanied long runs by myself. I’d disappear while it was still dark and everyone was asleep, sneaking back in as they were just waking up.
Nobody really knew how long I was out there. I’d run marathon distances on my own, or I’d cover 10K loops over and over. Or I’d disappear into the woods for hours.
When my ex-partner heard that I wanted to run my first ultra followed by a marathon the next day, he looked at me visibly upset and said, “What do you want to do, run 100 miles someday??” I was taken aback because I hadn’t discussed that distance with anyone. I didn’t even know he was aware of 100-milers. But he said it with such disgust that I knew it was a goal he would never support me in.
Still, 100 miles seemed like an unreal fantasy for a long time, kind of like the way we think of winning the lottery. It was a daydream. I wondered what kind of person I would have to be to complete 100 miles. What kind of mental focus I’d need, what kind of endurance, and what kind of people I would have to surround myself with.
In San Diego, I met the those people. Other ultra runners, other trail runners, and other 100-mile finishers. People like the Robillards and Shacky and Pat Sweeney all saw it as the next logical step in my running career. And so I started believing in myself.
This weekend, I wanted 100 miles for validation. All that time training in “secret” made me feel underestimated. I wanted to prove that I WAS the runner I imagined myself to be. That I wasn’t being reckless or “over my head” – that I really had it in me to do this. I wanted to prove that my years of running injury-free weren’t a fluke. That I knew my body, and I wasn’t a newbie anymore.
Although I’ve felt like an ultra runner for a long time, I didn’t have the stats or races to back me up. I was ready to show what I could do.
As race day approached, my confidence in finishing this distance grew. I expected that it would be more of a mental challenge than a physical one, and I expected that I would struggle with sleep deprivation. Neither of those things were true.
In fact, nothing that I expected to happen actually happened. And the things that I never saw coming were what I struggled with. Here is my story:
The Course
The Rocky Road 100 Miler consisted of seven loops: six loops of 15 miles total, and an additional 10-mile shortened loop. The course was an out-and-back in a well-groomed gated community.
The trail was a wide gravel walking path running alongside the road, separated from the street by a pretty white fence. Gorgeous homes towered over us on the opposite side.
The course was mostly flat, with small rolling hills. The hills closer to the turnaround point seemed to get steeper. Every block, we’d have to step off the curb, cross a road, and hop back on the curb onto the trails. The trail remained open to the residents.
There were three aid stations, each about 2.5 miles apart. Two along the course, and one at the turnaround point. There was one more aid station at the start line, along with most of the drop bags.
Lap 1: Miles 1-15
Shacky and I gathered at the start line chatting with a lot of great runners. We were thrilled to see so many familiar faces. I met the record-setting Yolanda Holder and Xy (Dirty Girl from Dirty Girl gaiters), a few other blog readers, some prominent Marathon Maniacs like Ed, and many of the runners we had seen at Across the Years. It was like a big reunion.
The race started in the dark. I wore my VIVOBAREFOOT Neo Trails (my favorite trail shoe) and my InknBurn Out-n-Back shirt with a black tennis skirt (cheaper than running skirts). Shacky wore his Luna sandals and his kilt. He got a ton of attention and comments about his footwear and outfit.
I stuck with Shacky for the first few miles, and then I let him drift ahead. We were both excited and although I was conscious of starting out too fast, I didn’t feel exerted by our speed. We were running steady, even on the hills. I carried a handheld and was careful to keep drinking.
Both Shacky and I had a big early dinner the night before and had been up since 3 a.m. Neither of us had been hungry in the morning and I was afraid that if I forced myself to eat, I would feel nauseous. So I figured I’d rely on the plentiful aid stations at the race to get some food into me in the early miles.
I focused on paying attention to my surroundings. I noted every curb, every street sign, every landmark that I could remember. I wanted to know when I was nearing the turnaround point, when I was close to the finish, and where the aid stations were.
Sharp right turn. Barking dog. Orange grove. Big mansion. More oranges. Pillars.
On an out-and-back, landmarks are a strong motivation for me. I run from one landmark to the next, and when I see something familiar that I know is close to the finish, that motivates me to push harder.
To be honest, I didn’t even know this was an out-and-back until the race started. And I thought it was six loops instead of seven. I actually didn’t know much about this race at all. While some runners like to plan out every detail of their races, for me it’s better if I know nothing at all. It only causes me to stress about things I can’t control and plan for things that will never turn out.
Instead, my training for this race consisted of learning to fly by the seat of my pants and adapt to anything. I’d wake up in the mornings, grab the doggie leash, and run outside with Ginger just as I was. No shoes, no bra, just jammies and dog.
I wanted running to be as natural to me as breathing or peeing in the morning. I didn’t want to overthink my running, and I didn’t want to overthink this race. I just wanted to go out and do it. My only strategy for this race was:
- Finish.
- Keep moving.
- Don’t sleep.
I don’t know that it’s a strategy I would recommend for everyone, but it’s one that worked well for me on this particular race.
I had never really experienced a gated community before. I wondered how the race director managed to have a race put on here every year. It seemed like it would be a tremendous inconvenience to the residents. Extra garbage, tons of traffic, people invading their pretty path and making their dogs bark at all hours of the day and night.
Shacky and I tried to imagine under what circumstances the race director might have been able to secure this location. Maybe he lived here. Maybe he had a secret lover who lived here. Maybe he had an ex-wife who ran off with his entire fortune, then felt bad about so she let him have a race here every year. Because she bought the mansion on the corner with his money. Yeah, that was probably it.
Shacky saw one real estate agent posting an Open House sign and I chuckled to think of the poor prospective buyers who might be under the impression that this was a community full of insane ultra runners who never sleep. The real estate agent didn’t know there was a race going on, so Shacky inquired whether the property had a pool, and told the agent that if it did, he would be interested in a tour. Sadly, no pool.
I got to the first aid station. A porta-potty and a little table with drinks and cookies and chips. I glanced over, looking for the sandwiches and generous buffet-like spread that I was used to. But all I saw were cookies, M&Ms and chips. Hm. Maybe they had all the good stuff at the next station. I kept running.
Two and a half miles later, I saw the second aid station. I stopped to drop off my sweater since I was working up a good sweat, and I also wanted to look at the food. That’s strange, no sandwiches here either. Just more cookies. I grabbed some Oreos and headed back out, a little confused. Where was all the food?
At the turnaround, I was starting to get hungry. And worried. I knew I need to eat, but there was no real food here. Chips, M&Ms, and cookies. I felt a slight panic. I didn’t bring any food. I just assumed that all ultras had…. you know, food.
I was drinking a ton but that was my main source of calories, and it wouldn’t take me through 100 miles. Would it be like this the entire race? After the panic, a twinge of frustration set it. What kind of lame-o ultra was this?? And how the hell hard is it to slap together a PB&J sandwich?
I grabbed chips, cookies, and bananas. I couldn’t force down any M&Ms – candy and running don’t mix for me. I wanted to kick myself for not eating breakfast, but I felt the race had also let me down.
I worried about Shacky because he hadn’t eaten either, and I knew he hated the cookies and chips even more than I did. As it turned out, he choked down “a really disgusting bar” back at the end of the first loop when he realized there was no food he could eat. This would not be the first issue I had with the aid stations.
Since the path wasn’t closed to residents, we saw several locals walking around and asking what we were doing. One lady caught me as I was about to turn to finish a loop, and asked how long the race was.
“Um… one hundred miles.” Her response was a blank, wide-eyed stare.
“Well, I think there’s a 50 miler and a marathon as well,” I tried to make it seem more normal
“Which one are you doing?” she asked.
“One hundred miles.” Blank wide-eyed stare again.
“Do you sleep??”
“Um… no, I’m going to try to stay awake.” I shrugged. There was pretty much no way to make this sound normal now.
“I ran a marathon and I thought I was awesome!”
“That’s great!” I tried to sound enthusiastic, but I don’t think she believed me. She wished me luck, and I think she walked away feeling less-awesome about her marathon finish. I hope she tries an ultra someday.
Read Part 2: Miles 16-30, minimalist shoe issues, and an experienced 100-mile finisher gives me a stern warning.
Like this:
This weekend, I am running the Rocky Road 100-mile race. It will be my first 100-mile attempt.
I’m at a point now where all the training has subsided, and there’s nothing left to do other than try not to feel anxious and take each day as it comes.
At this point, I’m more excited than nervous. I feel this is a race that could really validate me as a runner and help put me on a level where I feel I belong.
I’ve been impatient with the progression of my races. I can’t shake the feeling of restlessness, knowing that I have more in me. One more push, one more mile, one more sprint that I never got the chance to leave on the trail. There’s a mild frustration, knowing I’m holding on to potential the world hasn’t seen yet. Faster. Longer. Stronger. I’m ready.
Across the Years had a strong effect on my psyche. I saw so many unlikely runners put up jaw-dropping distances, including my baby sister. It really made me realize that I have been holding myself back. Not because I’m injured or because my body can’t handle it, but because I know I’m not “supposed” to be running that well. Because I haven’t followed an acceptable slow, cautious progression.
I went from running in shoes to barefoot/minimalist almost overnight. I went from only street running to only trail running from one day to the next. I went from zero elevation in Toronto, to almost exclusively elevation runs in the mountains from Day 1 in San Diego. My first day on a mountain, I ran 20 miles. I had never been on a mountain in my life. I’ve broken all the rules.
These past few weeks I’ve been fueled by great company. I’ve had the privilege of hanging out with great runners such as the Robillards, Paul Hasset, and I’ll be driving up to the race with Rachel Spatz. I can’t imagine a better possy to fuel a belief in myself. These are all runners who “weren’t supposed to.”
Paul was more than 300 pounds when he found running. Jason’s “authority” as a runner was questioned when he started writing a book. Shelly just keeps knocking out ultras quietly in the background and don’t even get me started on the awesomeness of Rachel who is the youngest and most inspiring 100-mile finisher I know.
These are the Honey Badgers I need to be hanging with. The people who don’t know they’re not supposed to run with extra weight, not supposed to write a book, not supposed to try a barefoot 100-miler, not supposed to recover so fast. So they do.
And now I’ve registered for my first 100-miler. Less than 12 months ago, this was a distance that seemed like a dream. Shacky and I even discussed at one point: What would we do after we run 100 miles? What else is left?
We imagined that at that point, we’d be near-elite status. We’d be at the peak of our physical conditioning. We’d be strong beyond belief. What other challenge could possibly be harder?
But now I know better. I know that 100 miles is not a distance that belongs to the elite. One hundred miles is just ground and earth and mud and space. It is all the things that I already know, and it belongs to all of us. We can walk it, we can run it, and with enough time we can cover it. It’s public domain.
Earth and space and time will always be there. What’s after 100 miles? More miles. In different places and in different ways. Each mile better than the last.
Some have questioned the wisdom in attempting this 100, and I get that. The same questions were there when I ran my first marathon. When I ran my first ultra. When I ran a marathon the day after an ultra. My point is, those questions will ALWAYS be there. And I hope I’ll always be around to answer them with, “Yes, please.” Because we don’t say that enough. If we did, there would be more 100-mile finishers in this world.
Coming from a background where I frequently heard negativity about how unsuccessful my running career would be, these are actually the comments that light a fire under my ass. They’re the attitudes that drove me to run in the first place.
Back in Toronto, it was a constant fight to convince those closest to me that I could be a runner. I knocked out my long distances, often running 26 miles around the neighborhood on my own, fueled by the anger and doubt of others.
Since moving to San Diego, I’ve been smothered in support. I’ve blossomed in this environment as well—feeling encouraged and welcomed into a community that I didn’t know I could be a part of.
But anytime I cross a line or take on a new challenge, there are skeptics. And hearing skepticism again this week, I’ve felt that familiar old rush of motivation to “prove them wrong”—more powerful than any of the encouragement I’ve received. I’m ready to start running NOW.
I try to internalize that motivation because I don’t want to come across as cocky. I know that each race has a mind of its own. Anything can happen out there and there’s always a possibility, due to injury or other reasons that I MAY not finish. But like Paul says, “I’m not afraid to fail.” Trying is just easier that way.
And yes. I CAN do this. I believe I will. When I do, I’ll be that girl who didn’t know she wasn’t supposed to.
(Note: I went on to finish my first 100-miler in 29 hours. Read the report here.)
Like this:
Six months ago, our dog Ginger couldn’t play for more than five minutes without getting winded and lying down for the rest of the day. Today, Ginger glides through 20-mile trail runs without a sign of fatigue. We can’t keep up.
I’m not a dog trainer. I’m an ultra runner currently training for my first 100-miler with a dog that loves trails. After searching for information on how to train my dog to follow me on my ultra-long runs, I found nothing. So I decided to become my own expert.
I started training Ginger the same way I train myself: back-to-back long runs, night running, trail running, elevation training, and hills. Below are the 20 steps I followed to transform Ginger from a couch dog to an ultra dog.
1. Assess your dog’s physical features.
We don’t know what Ginger’s breed is, so the dog articles that discussed breeds were useless. Ginger was adopted when she was just days old. She’s a mutt. Some people say she looks part Dalmatian or part German Shorthaired Pointer. We just say she’s Mexican (she was abandoned in Tijuana), and have no interest in learning her breed.
Ginger is physically built like a running dog. Her dog-care experts say she has the traits of a hunter. She’s quick, long, lean, and sharp. She’s an amazing sprinter, and her hair is short so she doesn’t overheat easily. Her size and shape compliment distance running.
If Ginger were smaller, or if she had thick fur, she might not have been able to run as long. Keep that in mind when establishing the limits of your own dog.
Not all breeds are physically built for efficient long-distance trail running. But then again, not all humans are training for ultras. So chances are there’s a happy medium where you and your dog can run together.
2. Establish an interest.
It’s easy to project our own interests onto the things or people we love. I love trail running, so my dog must love it too, right? Not necessarily. It’s important to make sure this is something your dog enjoys.
Does your dog like to run? Does your dog love trails? Much like humans, you’re not likely to convince someone to train for an ultra if they hate running. Dogs are usually great at showing us what they enjoy. Get their paws on a trail and see how they react.
Sometimes when we drive Ginger home from a trail, she doesn’t want to get out of the car. She thinks the next stop might be another trail.
Trail love
3. Start slow.
It takes time to train a dog. It took us six months to get Ginger in ultra shape, but it may take much longer. On a positive note, it takes a long time to train a human as well. So patience is important for you both.
Do not ever rush the process. Dogs want so badly to please their owners, and that’s a strong motivation for them. Don’t make your dog “push” to please you, or make them feel that they’ve failed you by not running far enough.
Your dog doesn’t need to be mentally pushed the same way that you do. Dog-hearts in it 100 percent and they always give their best. They’re not stressing over speed or goals or race fears. So if your dog is showing signs of wanting to stop, take it seriously.
4. Build a base with play-training.
Ginger loves chasing her ball, but six months ago she would get winded after five minutes. I started playing with Ginger until she got tired, then I would let her recover before playing again.
At first, it took Ginger half a day to recover and we’d only get in two or three play sessions. As time passed, her recovery times got much shorter. We play-trained for 30 to 60 minutes, two days a week until Ginger was able to play for one hour without stopping. Only then did I start to run with her.
5. Watch for cues.
Dogs are less complicated than humans. If they’re tired, they flop on the ground. If they’re thirsty, they drink. If they want to stop running, they will show cues. They may dawdle or just walk. Being receptive to their cues is crucial. Your dog knows what it needs.
My friend Cynthia recently started running with her dog. She knows when her dog Penny is ready for a rest when she stops often to pee:
For the past month, we have gone out about three to five times a week on this little 2K stroll and we do running pickups. Sometimes we do 2.5K depending on how she feels. If I see she is stopping often to do her business, I know it’s not a good day so we take it easy.
6. Start with short, local loops.
I started Ginger with a single run around the block, letting her rest when she got tired. When she recovered, we’d go back out. As time passed, her distances got longer (more loops, less recovery).
When we got to the point where she could run steady for an hour or more without getting tired, we started taking her out to the trails.
7. Keep track.
As silly as it sounds, Ginger has a Dailymile account where I track her mileage. This helps tremendously as far as knowing what she’s capable of and how far she’s come. It helps me determine what types of distances and conditions she’s ready for, and I note her mood and energy as well.
Every once in a while, tracking her progress also helps me call out and celebrate her milestones. We celebrated her highest elevation run. Her roughest terrain. We even note which wildlife she sees and how she responds.
I record Ginger’s mileage in “Ginger-speak,” typing about the run through her eyes. Here are some examples of her entries:
“I SEEN THE DEER AND I HUNT HIM. IMA WOLF.”
“I RUNNED FAST AND THEN I STOP TO PEE.”
“I SEEN A CAT I TRY TO EAT IT.”
“TIME TO GET SERIOUS ABOUT MY TRAININ….. SQUIRREL!!!!!!”
Ginger has had “Friends” add her and encourage her on her journey. I translate their messages by patting her head. You can add Ginger as a friend here.
All the benefits you get from tracking your own workouts apply to your dog as well. I strongly suggest keeping a log.
8. Open a line of communication.
The dog-master relationship is precious and your dog will often be bonded to you more strongly than what you imagine. Communicate with them about running, and you’ll be surprised at how much they actually understand and can share in your passion.
Tell your dog they’re going for a run. They’ll probably know exactly what you mean. This is my friend Cynthia’s experience:
I tell Penny the night before that we are going for a run in the morning and she knows what it means. Since (my husband) wakes up before me, she knows she still has some sleeping time until I wake up and we go.
When I get out of the bedroom, I ask her: ‘Are you ready for your run?’ and she gets so excited! Funny thing is she actually stretches before we leave. She does Downward Dog.
The book How to Talk to Your Animals describes how one dog owner started speaking English to his dog, and was shocked to find that his dog understood what he was saying.
“He speaks English!” he exclaimed to his wife. She looked at him in disgust, “Of course he speaks English! What’s he going to speak, German?!”
The author goes on to describe how many words dogs have been known to retain, and tells stories of dogs in Mexico who understand Spanish. According to this book, it’s easier for dogs to understand our language than for us to understand theirs.
Talk to your dog about running. This can keep you accountable as well. If you promised your dog a morning run the night before, you have to get up and do it.
9. Introduce trail running.
We started with a group trail run of 6 miles, then slowly incorporated other mid-week runs when we could no longer tire her out. Trail running adds a different dynamic to your dog’s experience, so it’s important to monitor this transition.
For Ginger, running in a group was a huge distraction. She hated to be in last place, and would often lunge forward to cut people off. It took some time for her to understand this was not acceptable.
There are also cyclists and wildlife to deal with. There’s a lot of stimulation for a dog. Take your time on this transition until your dog is comfortable with trails.
I found it helped Ginger to have some time off-leash (where possible) to sniff her new surroundings and explore a little. This prevented her from stopping dead in the middle of a single track trail to sniff some poop while tripping the person behind her.
We are still trying to perfect Ginger’s trail manners, especially when it comes to running with strangers and spotting other animals. She recently tried to take down an entire herd of deer by herself. Hunter, much? It’s an on-going process with her.
Some basic obedience training could go a long way here as far as following basic commands. Ginger is learning:
- “Slow down”
- “Stop”
- “Walking”
- “Come on”
- “Let’s go”
- “This way”
Ginger and I on the trails
10. Pick a side on pooping.
Ultra trail runners are well known for pooping on the side of the trail. In fact, I’ve heard people say that you’re not a true trail runner until you’ve pooped in the woods. I know that not all runners do this, but when you’re training to run 100 miles, any bush looks like a toilet.
The doggie bags I carry for Ginger are attached to her leash. On one trail run, it dawned on me: Why the hell and I shitting in the woods yet carefully carrying my dog’s poop around?? I picked a side: the Non-Doggie Bag Side.
Depending on your distance and your trails, you may pick the Doggie Bag Side. Maybe wood-pooping isn’t something you or your dog want to get into right now. It’s your call.
I always make sure Ginger goes off-trail and if she doesn’t, I’ll move it somewhere I’d poop myself, or slide it over the side of a cliff. She usually tries to bury it herself.
11. Train for danger.
Trail dangers include things like wildlife and rattlesnakes. We put Ginger through a rattlesnake avoidance training class once a year. It costs $70 and lasts under ten minutes. She learns to recognize and avoid snakes, and it gives us tremendous peace of mind when she’s out on the trails.
HERE is the training resource that we use, and below is a video of Ginger’s last training session. She’s great at avoiding snakes, but sometimes has trouble spotting them.
It’s best to do this at the beginning of the year, to coincide with rattlesnake season. It’s also best to refresh this training once a year. This is an important point to follow. One of our trail running friends lost her dog when it was bitten by a rattlesnake.
12. Make running fun, not work.
Dogs and humans both appreciate variety. On our shorter runs, I like to shake things up with Ginger. Sometimes we run “people pace”, and sometimes we run “Ginger pace”.
Ginger pace is where she gets a turn to lead. Instead of following me, I follow her. My pace is always steady and slow, but at Ginger pace we’re either running a mad dash, or stopping dead so she can sniff some pee-mail. This puts some fun into our routine, and keeps both of us engaged and smiling (yes, she smiles).
Does it get much more fun than this? Hellz no.
13. Leash wisely.
The leash that works well for road running with Ginger doesn’t work on trails. Most of the trails we’re running are single track, which means that if Ginger is leashed, she can’t run right beside me—she has be in front or behind. She needs a longer extension.
Also, technical trails can have sudden drops or rocks we have to scale. A shorter leash will start to choke her and severely limits her movement. If she has to leap off a rock and I’m still on it, a short leash is a disaster waiting to happen.
We have opted to let Ginger go off-leash as much as possible, and we often choose our trails based on their seclusion so she doesn’t bother anyone. Ginger is actually much better behaved and obedient when she’s off-leash than when I have her leashed.
If there’s a biker up ahead or another dog that might be aggressive, we’ll hold her until the threat has passed. If we spot other people on the trail, we’ll leash her until we pass them.
14. Trust your dog.
Letting your dog off-leash can be scary, but in some ways in comes down to trusting your dog. I knew that Ginger’s nature was very submissive, and she wasn’t one to run away. When we decided to trust her off-leash, we found that she became more protective of us and careful.
Instead of charging ahead like she tends to do on her leash, she would run close to the side of the person who was leading. Then she’d keep looking back to check that the other person wasn’t being left behind.
When we put enough distance between us that we could no longer see the next runner on the trails, Ginger would run back and forth to check on both runners. At one point, I stopped to take off my sweater and adjust my pack. Ginger sat beside me and nudged for me to catch up.
Last weekend Shacky hid behind a bush to see what she’d do if she lost one of us. She ran up and down the trail in search of him until he came out of hiding. She refused to leave him behind.
Miss Ginger checking over her shoulder for Shacky
15. Encourage hydration.
Your dog needs water just as much as you do. Encourage drinking at the end of every run and make it a routine. As your runs get longer, you should encourage your dog to drink mid-run.
We have Ginger drink every 6 to 8 miles, but some dogs may need to drink more frequently. When we’re on the trail, Ginger is great at drinking from creeks or streams when she needs it.
We keep an eye out for good water sources for Ginger and if there’s nothing appropriate, we pull out her collapsible doggie dish that hooks onto my own hydration pack. If we’re travelling long, she carries her own doggie pack with her own water dish.
Ginger has never gotten sick from stream or creek water, although if the water source doesn’t look clean, we give her water from our own hydration packs.
When we first started running trails, Ginger was so excited that it was difficult for her to settle down and drink. Now she is better at understanding when we want her to hydrate.
16. Do night runs.
Night (especially trail) running adds a different dimension. You may find that your dog behaves strangely under the moon. I have a small doggie light that I attach to Ginger’s collar when we run trails at night, more for my benefit than for hers. It doesn’t do much to light her way, but it ensures that I can spot her easily.
Running in the dark with a leash could take some practice as well. Your dog probably has better vision than you do, and it may take them some time to adjust to your more cautious form and speed. Humans should always wear headlamps.
17. Introduce elevation and hills.
This is the same process as introducing trails. Monitor the transition closely, and listen to your dog’s body (bet you never heard that one before). Stop if your dog needs to stop. Chances are your dog will probably adjust faster than you can.
18. Introduce higher mileage.
I used the same endurance-focused technique to build Ginger’s mileage. Speed didn’t matter, only time on her feet. When she got tired, we recovered and continued. We did this until she was comfortable running 20-mile distances without stopping.
19. Consider nutrition.
If you’re going to be on the trail long enough, your dog may need to eat. We are still experimenting with different foods for Ginger, but we try to give her some mix of carbs and protein. I have read of dogs eating anything and everything on a trail, from Cheezits to beef jerkey.
For the most part, we let Ginger tell us what she likes and doesn’t like. Interestingly, she loves pizza (hard to carry on a trail) but will also eat whatever we’re eating, from sandwiches to burritos.
On our last long run, I shared a bean and rice burrito with Ginger. At home, we feed her raw meat as well as high-quality, grain-free dog food. Sometimes Ginger’s diet is healthier than our own.
Mexicans love burritos.
20. Introduce back-to-back runs.
Back-to-back long runs were key for my own ultra training, so that’s where we headed with Ginger. Her recovery is impressive, and she has now caught up to my own training. We start to break down at about the same mileage, and we recover at around the same time. I’ve created the perfect running partner.
Immeasurable Benefits
1. BFF-status
Your dog can become your most loyal running buddy and bring out the fiercest loyalty in you. You’ll look out for each other and understand each other’s needs. I’ve passed up races because I didn’t want to put Ginger up in a doggie-hotel. Sometimes I’d rather bust out a long run with her.
2. Safety
Any run that I do with Ginger is safer. She’s not an aggressive dog, but I know that if danger calls, she’d step up and defend me. I also know that her mere presence is a deterrent.
I am never approached when Ginger is with me, whereas when I run alone I sometimes get comments, cars slowing down, or some lingering. Recently I was running in the dark with Ginger and I saw a man cross to the other side of the road to avoid us.
3. Fun and Enjoyment
Dogs know how to appreciate trails. They frolic. They sprint. They stand out over a lookout and gaze. Watching them teaches you to appreciate the trails. It reminds you where you are and why you’re here.
On roads, Ginger can be clumsy and careless (she once ran into a brick wall), but on the trails she moves with grace while I stumble along.
Here’s an exerpt from the book How to Talk to Your Animals, which outlines the similarities between wolves and dogs as far as movement and behavior in a natural setting:
In the woods I need not ask him to sit when we come to the top of the hill in view of the glorious Hudson. He glances at me, then the vista, sits down, and, like myself, gazes across the river valley. Only a few weeks ago we were on a new trail that opened up over a lake. Qimmiq lanced back at me, ran to the ridge, and sat down.
‘You’re right, it is beautiful,’ I said. He wagged is tail.
His wild kin, the wolves of Mount McKinley, dig their dens high on hills in view of gray-green valleys and snow-covered peaks. And they, like Qimmiq and me, sit and enjoy the magnificence.
At such moments the glance from either of us will say a volume, and the abyss between species is crossed from both sides.
If you’re thinking about getting a dog, please consider adoption
I cringe a little when people ask me how many layers they should wear in the winter. How the hell should I know how cold you feel??
I try to be helpful and polite and direct people to resources on Active like these great posts by Christian Peterson:
What to Bring on Your Winter Run
Your Guide to Winter Running Gear
I write and edit articles like this and I try to remember that when I was a newbie runner, I didn’t know a damn thing either. I’m also a huge consumer of running articles on topics that I have never experienced.
But ultimately, I didn’t start growing as a runner until I stopped listening and started doing. And neither will you.
So put down those running magazines and get your ass outdoors. Try a few layers. If you’re hot, learn something and do better next time. If you’re cold, learn something and do better next time.
Try everything. Run barefoot. Run in clunky shoes. Run in jammies. Run with your hair up. Run with your hair down. Run in the day. Run at night. Run without underwear. Run without a bra. Eat veggies. Eat meat. Eat junk food.
It doesn’t matter what you do, just try it differently. Become your own expert and don’t live within a plan that somebody else created.
This is not to bash the validity of training plans or expert tips. But every year I am more shocked by the ignorance of the questions that come through. Is there ANYTHING we do by ourselves anymore?
There’s a fear associated with going off on our own and trying something unusual, and that upsets me.
Don’t be afraid to switch up your diet. Or to run faster or slower or longer or shorter than what you’re “supposed to”.
There is no right or wrong. You’re not going to die at your next race. If you feel like crap or shit your pants, tweak your routine and learn from it.
I’m personally a knowledge-glutton. If I’m interested in a topic (like running), I want to read everything out there on that topic. But I also found that I was using research as a crutch for masking my fears:
Excuse: “I want to run an ultra, but I haven’t researched it enough…”
Truth: You’re just scared shitless to run an ultra. I’ve been there.
I recommend Jason Robillard’s recent post, Stop Letting Dumb-Ass Excuses Keep You From Your Dreams. It definitely inspired me.
So to practice what I’m preaching, I did something recently that I’ve been “researching” for a while:
I registered for my first 100-miler, Rocky Road. It’s only four weeks away.
I’m probably (ok, definitely) way over my head. I haven’t even raced a 50-miler (though I’ve run the distance at Across the Years).
I’m not 100% on nutrition or sleep or the mental strength it will take to pull past 80 miles. I haven’t read enough articles or asked enough questions. I don’t have any pacers.
Many could argue that I’m wasting my money. But goddammit, I’m registered.
Am I scared shitless? Hell ya.
Do I have what it takes? Who knows.
Will I learn something? Probably a thing or two…
Regrets? Ask me later.
But at least I’m not going to sit around asking how to wipe my own ass. I’m just gonna grab me some soft leaves and hope to God it’s not poison oak.
See you on the trails.
For many, the holidays are a time to feel pressured to spend time with family, overeat, and worry about weight gain. But not Jeff. Last year he used his Thanksgiving holiday to run from the Salton Sea to the Pacific Ocean. It took him three days. This year, he wanted to repeat that run and we planned to join him.
Shacky and I wanted to use the trip to practice fastpacking. We would run with our backpacks, carry our own food and gear, and try some minimalist camping. The preparations for this trip could be a blog post in itself. We weighed our food, counted the calories, and packed everything away as tightly as possible.
Instead of looking for healthy, low-calorie foods, we wanted to maximize calories so that we would have to carry less food, but still get the calories we needed. Essentially, high-calorie foods like sugary pop tarts and salty crackers. You truly learn the value of your food when you have to carry the weight of it on your back.
Packing was such a learning experience. I managed to get all the clothes I needed for three days into two large zip-lock bags. It’s amazing how small things get when you take the air out of them.
We started at the Salton Sea with Jeff and a handful of other friends. Then we started to run.
Running with trekking poles was a little strange and hard to get used to, especially since the first stretch was flat and we didn’t really need them. And the weight of the packs themselves was a challenge. My pack weighed 25lbs. It contained all the clothes, food, and gear that I would need for three days of running and camping in the desert.
Although I was proud of how little I had packed, 25lbs is still a significant weight to run with, and I felt it. The pack was a great fit and very comfortable. But I felt as though I had gained a lot of weight and I wasn’t used to carrying it.
Running was tough, but not impossible. Still, Shacky and I fell behind and started to walk when his calves tightened. Whenever we tried to run again, his calves got worse. After about 4 miles, it hurt him to even walk. Something was obviously wrong.
At this point, we were in the middle of the desert and the rest of the group was far ahead. We could see them as specks in the distance. I made Shacky stop and sit down. He wasn’t moving anymore and we had no idea where we were.
I threw off my pack and started to sprint. I had to reach the group to tell them what had happened. We needed a pickup, but I had no contact information for the vans. I was able to wave down Matt and explain the situation. Matt went ahead to tell the others.
It turned out that we had to walk about two miles back to a gas station for a pick up. So we hobbled along. Shacky was limping, and as soon as we hit the road he had to sit down.
We sat in front a house and before long, a dog came out and started barking viciously. When we tried to get back up, we found that Shacky could no longer move without intense pain.
I started taking off my pack to run to the gas station by myself and bring back help, when the lady of the house came out to see what her dog was barking at. We apologized and explained our situation. She kindly offered to drive us to the gas station.
Terry rescued us at the gas station and before long we had Shacky sitting down with his leg elevated and some ice on him. Our adventure was over.
I wasn’t too disappointed since:
a) I had already learned a lot in preparation for this.
b) We could still hang out and help crew the group.
c) We drowned our sorrows with Mexican food.
At the end of the day, we decided to drive home instead of camp. We spent Saturday recuperating, then by Sunday Shacky could walk again.
We met Jeff who was running his final leg, and I ran it in with him. It was so inspiring to be a part of this and I’m very much looking forward to it next year.
Here is a video I made of the experience:
And here’s what I put together for Active.com: http://www.active.com/running/articles/run-from-sea-to-sea.htm
Great job, Jeff!
I only just now read Born to Run.
I have known for a long time that this was the runner’s Bible, particularly barefoot runners. I knew what a big deal it was. I knew how many people it had inspired. And I knew that all my friends had read it. Yet I still hung back.
I got Born to Run when it first came out and everyone was reading it. I watched the hype and all the book tours. But I let it sit on my shelf. For weeks. Months. Until the hype was mostly over. Until people stopped talking about it. And everyone assumed that I had read it.
I have an interesting relationship with books. Books were my best friends all through childhood and adolescence. They’re what got me through life.
My dad used to always refer to his books as real people, and it was always clear to me that he loved his books more than he loved me. I wasn’t to ever harm any of his books. If a spine was bent, or if a cover was creased, I would have to face his consequences.
My dad’s approach to reading was extreme, but it did engrave in me a profound respect for books. I approach a book now with near-reverence.
I can read fast, but at the same time I read slow because I stop a lot. I read until I get a thought and then I stop to really think about it. Then I act on it. And I don’t come back to continue reading until I’ve done what I need to do. Until I’ve applied what I’ve learned.
I knew that Born to Run would take me a long time to read. I knew, deep inside, that it would somehow change my life. And I wasn’t ready for change when I bought it. So I let it sit.
I knew that I would love this book, because I love running. But I wanted to love running on my own terms. I wanted to tackle my first ultra before cracking the cover. I wanted to explore barefoot and minimalist running before turning any pages.
So much of my knowledge is book knowledge. But running is one of the few things that I can truly experience. I didn’t want to read about it. I just wanted to run.
I also didn’t want to be carried away by a fad. A quick barefoot run, and then back to normal life. I didn’t want anyone to say that I came to love ultras because of Born to Run. Or that I tried barefoot running because of this book. I wanted to love ultras on my own terms. And run barefoot for the sheer joy of it.
So I did.
I ran my first ultra and fell in love with the 50k+ distance all on my own. I took off my shoes and never put them on again, all by myself. I didn’t want to know the stats or the proof or the studies. I just wanted to know that it was right for me because it FELT right. I wanted to know, based on feel, that I could never run any other way.
Last month I finally picked up Born to Run. The time was right. And last night I finally finished it.
It was like watching the first movie of a series, when that movie was the last to come out. You already knew the ending. But you didn’t know the beginning. And suddenly everything makes sense.
Born to Run was exactly like that for me. I already knew that I loved ultras and I always would. I knew that running barefoot would always work for me. But I didn’t know why.
I’m not a better runner because of Born to Run. It’s not going to make me any faster or make me push any further. But I do feel wiser. I feel like I’m on the right track. And I feel that just because people don’t get what I do, doesn’t mean that it’s wrong.
I think this book strengthened my resolve to fully embrace who I am and what I love. I recently confided to a friend: “I can’t shake the feeling that my whole life is supposed to be about running. It’s the only thing that consumes me.”
I used to try to explain myself to others. I felt that I had to justify my passions. Why do I run barefoot? Why do I run so much? Why do I make running a priority?
But I’m done with that.
This book showed me the why behind a lot of these questions, but it also showed me something more important: That I don’t need to explain it. I can just know it. And I can just run.
To me, Born to Run will always conjure up the image of Caballo Blanco cutting through dips and turns and crevices too dangerous to speak of. A mere shadow slipping through spaces so narrow with drops so steep that it’s senseless. Life and death all hanging on a long run. And I want that. I have for a long time.
These aren’t risks that anyone can explain. According to the voices of reason, this is not what I’m supposed to want. Who wants to get lost? Who wants to get exhausted? Who wants to fall down?
I’m supposed to want to stay where it’s safe. To compromise my dreams of wilderness and wanderings, and while I’m at it – to put on some god damn shoes.
Except that I can’t. And I fear that the day I loosen the grip on my passions is the day someone pries them from my cold dead fingers.
They should look for me at the bottom of a canyon.
Like this:
A lot of my running friends have blogs where they regularly review minimalist footwear. Because of this, they get free shoes and running gear from various companies. Although I’ve dabbled in reviewing minimalist shoes, the result hasn’t been great for me. The first shoe I reviewed cut both my feet and that scared me off.
Although I prefer to run completely barefoot, sometimes that’s not possible. The terrain might be too rough, the sidewalks too hot, or my soles might just need a break. But I don’t want to stop running. So I really need something – a thin layer between my feet and the earth – to allow me to continue doing what I love.
I’ve had my Vibrams since October and I now have 1104kms on them. They don’t fit me anymore because my feet have grown longer and wider. I tried cutting off the straps as well as cutting slits into the sides so they will expand, but they’re still uncomfortably tight.
A while ago I was lucky enough to win a pair of Unshoes from my friend Christian’s blog, which I’ve been wearing as sandals. However, when I try to run in them, they just don’t work well for me. So I’m down to zero minimalist shoes.
Two weeks ago I took on a job where I was required to wear dress shoes. I thought fine, no big deal. I ransacked my closet and pulled out all my old pairs of shoes from before I started running barefoot. To my horror, it was a scene from Cinderella. I was the ugly stepsister who couldn’t get her fat foot into anything.
Suddenly it dawned on me: I have no shoes. I have NO SHOES I can wear outside. Literally zero. I’m like a real live hobo.
My employer already scolded me for wearing my Unshoes to work, so when I emailed him recently and told him I couldn’t meet the dress code again for my next shift because I had no shoes, he thought I was the weirdest female on earth. I later learned that my employer personally owns over 100 pairs of shoes. And he’s a dude. He shakes his head at my shenanigans and mutters, “You and your running…”
Somehow I manage to stumble through life without any real shoes. When I was in school, I’d run to class in my Vibrams. During class I’d throw on these dirt cheap slippers that looked like boots on the outside, but had no soles. So I couldn’t step outside for lunch or anything because it was winter and they’d get wet and everyone would see they were just slippers (not actually boots).
Then one day I gave a presentation on barefoot running in class, and after that I could get away with walking around in socks. By the end of the school year, a few other classmates were also walking around in their socks and I thought that was awesome.
For work recently, I managed to find a pair of black sandals I could slip into. I wore black socks underneath so they kind of look like a shoe, and nobody notices that they’re not. For running though, I still have a problem.
I wrote to both Merrell and Luna this week to see if they could send me some shoes to review. Merrell was pretty quick to turn me down in what looked like a form letter. It made me wonder whether anyone had read my email at all. But Barefoot Ted responded to me personally and generously offered to send the next version of the Original Luna Sandal – the same sandal that my uncle Pat Sweeney runs in.
I’m really excited about the Lunas because I’m going to be doing a lot of running in sunny California this fall, and I have a feeling the Lunas could be a perfect fit. Plus Sweeney is one of my idols.
I recently read my friend Christian’s incredibly detailed review on seemingly every minimalist sandal known to man and thought, what can I possibly say that hasn’t already been said in a shoe review?
I mulled on that question for a bit, and here’s what I came up with:
1. I can put shoes through hell and back.
I trash shoes. I run them on mud, through tall grass, on gravel, on roads, pavement, dirt, roots, I even climb trees. My feet are where shoes come to die. If a shoe can survive me for a week, it’s a damn good shoe.
2. I can put shoes through incredible mileage.
In a short time, I got my Vibrams up to over 1104 km and my mileage is only getting higher. I could run forever in a shoe and see if it actually holds up. I can take it beyond the shorter trots generally used for review purposes. I can test what it’s like when running for 5+ hours on rougher trails and uneven ground. I can tell you if it’s going actually stay on your foot for an ultra or if it’s going to break your heart at mile 30 (my last shoe review ripped and cut me at 34 miles).
None of the minimalist shoes I’ve tried have lasted very long when put up to the mileage and terrain that I really need them for. So I’m eager to test the new Lunas.
Yesterday Christian posted a review of the new Luna Equus sandal where he stated that Luna products get better with age. I want that to be true about my footwear.
If all goes well, I plan to use my Lunas to run the Noble Canyon 50k this fall, as well as to climb Mt. Whitney, just like Barefoot Ted did back in 2007.
I’ve admired Ted from afar for a while now, so climbing where he took some of his barefoot steps in his shoes (literally) will be an experience not lost on me.
I seem to be slowly finding my place as a barefoot/minimalist runner and I think Lunas might be part of my development. I’m lucky to be part of such an inspiring community.
HOLISTIC NUTRITION BOOK GIVEAWAY WINNER
The winner of last week’s Holistic Nutrition Book Giveaway is….. KRISTIN OVERTON!
Congrats Kristin! Email your address to vanessaruns@gmail.com so I can send out your prize!
