“We should all do what, in the long run, gives us joy, even if it is only picking grapes or sorting the laundry.”
You won’t be able to do that forever, you know.
You’ll ruin your knees.
You’re too skinny.
I’ve heard it all before. Keep running like you do and you’ll be sorry.
I’ll be ecstatic! And guess what… I am!
Before I found running I was an overweight, depressed young man with little to look forward to. I was wandering the earth (from my couch) lost, disconnected socially, struggling to define myself.
Getting off my ass saved my life and sent me on a journey that has taken me all over the globe. It led me to start my own successful business. It’s how I found my wife.
You won’t be able to do that forever, you know.
You’ll ruin your knees.
You’re too skinny.
I started this blog 5 years ago knowing on I was on the cusp of something special. The changes that were taking place in my body and in my mind were beyond positive. I was excited to wake up every morning, to see what great things I could do in my community, to see where the boundaries of limitations might be on any given day, only to push them back a bit further and transform into a better version of myself. I wanted to share my journey. I wanted to inspire others.
Though my posting frequency has dropped off a bit this year, I am happy to report that the journey is alive and well. In May, I accompanied my (now) wife, Edna Jackeline Vazquez, to Namibia as she raced another 250k across the desert. I tagged along as a race volunteer, much like I did last year in China, and once again, I was extremely impressed with the amount of love, strength and fortitude the ultrarunning community provides. The amount of individual accomplishments witnessed in just one of these 7-day stage races is enough to fill a lifetime. I have now been lucky enough to volunteer at two of them; and I must say I am now eager (and mentally prepared) to compete myself, someday soon. Meanwhile, my wife only has one more race to go, The Last Desert: Antarctica, before she becomes a member of the ultrarunning elite 4 Deserts club.
In June, with just one hour and two minutes to spare before the 32-hour cutoff, I crossed the finish line of the Mohican Trail 100, arms raised, legs shot, brain fried. It was a grueling, soul crushing challenge that I never gave up on, despite not being in the best mental space. A full report is certainly in order, but the short version is that I had to adapt from the original race plan and dig deep to finish all on my own, without a pacer, fighting an overwhelming desire to sleep and the urge to quit entirely.
I also sat in a hot tub in my hotel after the race which deserves a report of its own. I highly recommend.
In July, I got married! I married my ultimate pacer for life, Edna, whom I met through… yep, RUNNING… thus completing (and also starting anew) the continued life-as-an-ultramarathon metaphor. It was a glorious day filled with love, joy and Michael Jackson dance moves. Te amo, mi amor!
My business continues to make a difference in the lives of those looking for change. I am thankful to be witness every day to life altering hard work and dedication. Losing weight, getting stronger, being the best versions of themselves possible — my students continue to impress with their willingness to explore their limits on the paths of their own journeys. A young boxer I work with, Alex “The Bull” Garcia, is the epitome of such hard work and dedication. He comes to work hard every day, striving to be the best he can be, knowing that sport can be the door to an open mind and a brighter future.
My own boxing career continues as well as I prepare for an October 1 bout in Libertyville (more details to come). Meanwhile, Edna and I are planning to make a reappearance at the Evergreen Lake Ultra (51 Miles), a race we thoroughly enjoyed back in 2014, as well as run the 2016 Chicago Marathon, together. The latter will be the ultimate combination of my favorite race meets my favorite person. We plan to run side by side the whole way.
I look forward to celebrating in the streets!
So to my fellow run crazies, the next time someone says to you:
You won’t be able to do that forever, you know.
You’ll ruin your knees.
You’re too skinny.
It saved my life.
It brought me my wife.
It gave me a reason to get up and be the best version of myself possible, each and every day.
For 24 hours.
Go big or go home… that’s the most fitting cliche for the moment. I have a feeling that in a few hours I’m going to want to go home.
But I won’t. I’m here to move. For 24 hours. Whether I log 100 miles or 50, I won’t quit… unless a bone is sticking through my flesh. Please don’t let it come to that.
Think positively. 100 miles would be nice.
Last year, at this same race, I fought my way to 94 miles, something I felt really proud of. But the idea that I was only 10k shy of a century mark has been gnawing at my conscience for a whole year now. In my mind, 100 miles is definitely doable. In my body, hmm… not so much.
While I have been running regularly since my first 100 mile conquest, my training focus was on boxing all winter and spring. My “long runs” became 8-9 easy miles or a fast 10k with weights in my hands. The result was victory for my fight game, but when I started to stretch the legs out in May, my body had a hard time reckoning just how much work it takes to build up the endurance necessary for the extra far efforts. I got in few long runs with Edna on the weekends, then we went to China. My training stalled.
I have heard it from many before in relation to training, but this was the first time I experienced it in earnest: life got in the way.
So what!? Life rocks, man!
Indeed, it does. Life rocks. And if ultrarunning has taught me anything, it’s that the only limitations in life are the ones we put on ourselves. This maxim is not an invitation to recklessness, but rather a mantra for transcendence based on hard work, dedication and basic intelligence. Having already gone the 100 mile and 24 hour distance, I knew that even with limited training my brain could take over through any rough patch.
Ultras are mostly mental. I reminded myself of this. Training or not, I think I can get 100 miles. Let’s see what reality has in store!
Hours 1 – 7 (10:00 p.m. to 5:00 a.m.)
This feels weird. Even though I’ve done it before, starting a race at 10:00 p.m. still feels a bit strange, like putting on someone else’s shoes before running for 24 hours weird.
Nope, these are definitely my shoes. I look down and second guess my choice of year-old, 900+ mile Nike Vomeros. The tread is still intact despite a ratty affair of frayed rubber from the toes. I wore these in the second half of last year’s race after my beloved Hokas left me blistered. I love the Hokas, but my memory of maceration is hard to kill and on the roads for this long I’d rather just start with a sure thing.
The RDs announce something in a megaphone that I can’t quite understand, and to the tune of quiet lightning in the sky, we’re off!
Everyone starts fast, of course. It’s halfway decent out right now, with temperatures in the high 70s. The forecast for the daylight hours calls for intense heat and humidity, so all 67 of us starters go out with what I assume is the same mindset: bank miles now, while we can.
The course is a .97 mile loop, same as last year, only in the reverse direction. Right away I can feel that it’s a bit easier than last year’s, which had a little more uphill to its design. An easier course is not something I’m going to complain about, so I just put my head down and go into spin mode.
Bank miles, bank miles…
Trying to maintain a 6-mile an hour pace, at the lone aid station I grab water and something to eat (whatever looks good at the time) every loop or every other loop. The soft lightning in the sky offers a little entertainment and I start to wonder if it will rain. The forecast said only a 20% chance, so I’m thinking it won’t.
While I’m thinking about it, the course gets crowded as the 12-hour runners join us. Among them is my buddy, Adam.
Adam and I go way back. We met each other during orientation week of our freshman year in college (1997? DAMN!).
This is Adam’s first ultra. Having shared some training runs with him and watched his build-up for his first marathon some time ago, it’s a joy to share some miles with him now. We are in a groove, both trying to get in as many decent miles as possible before the wheels come off late, and the time is flying by.
Also sharing miles with me in this first part are Nate and Todd, both of whom I’ve known for a few years now. Our constant chatter is a good deterrent for my already tired and tight leg muscles. Already? Damn. Keep drinking water. Maybe it’ll get better.
I keep drinking water. It’s not getting better.
But oh look, now it’s raining, and that’s… something different.
Why not? Ultras are the ultimate test in chaos management. Always expect something to go wrong. Heat, rain, gastrointestinal problems… plan for the worst, hope for the best. I’m trying to find joy in the sloppy, slick conditions. The rain is nice and cool.
For a couple of hours it comes down hard, then lets up some, then comes down hard again. I just smile. Ah hell, going to be out here a long time, I think to myself. Might as well try to enjoy it.
I am. I am enjoying it. Finding out more about myself through intense, focused exercise is the cornerstone to my understanding of self. But 6 hours in and already it’s quite apparent to me that today is not going to be a day for 100 miles. My hamstrings and calves keep tightening up. I stop and roll them out with a foam roller a couple of times and do my best to stretch here and there, but the only real thing that stops them from seizing up is going slow. Or walking. And the sun is coming…
Hours 7 – 17 (5:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m.)
As the sun creeps up over Lisle Community Park, the rain has stopped, and we are treated to a picturesque suburban landscape of a happy little lake surrounded by lots of green. The strung up Christmas lights decorating the course give way to the inflatable snowmen, Santas and reindeer — just more reminders of the ridiculousness of our task. Run around a circle for a day! In July! With Christmas stuff everywhere!
I can’t help but laugh. This is ridiculous! Why are we doing this again?
My feet are squishy and soft from the rain, my stomach is growling from hunger and my legs are already shot… with just 17 MORE HOURS TO GO! WOOO HOOO!
“We forget the pain,” I say to someone. “We always forget the pain. When we sign up for these things the only thing we remember is the satisfaction of crossing that finish line — of putting our feet up at the end of the day knowing we did some epic shit. But we always conveniently forget about the pain.”
I won’t forget about what I’m feeling right now. This sucks.
BUT I’M SMILING! Edna taught me that.
“Always smile,” she says. “You’ll feel better.” She’s right.
“Mi amor,” I say, “I want to be with you. Is that okay?”
She gives me that look that says: Is that okay? Of course, it’s okay. It’s awesome! Where have you been?!?!
Good, it’s settled then. We go forth together.
Maybe she thought I meant for just a while, but no, I mean, for the rest of the race. If I’m going to continue suffering, I want to be next to someone I like.
Of course… you could just…. quit, y’know. Stop running. Stop doing this. No one would care.
I would care! Sticking with Edna will help me fight back the urge to go home early too. We don’t quit. We came here to move for 24 hours. We’re moving our asses for 24 hours. The best we can.
We put our heads down and go to work. Together.
Run for a bit. Walk for a bit. Run for a bit. Walk for a bit.
At some point there is bacon. And pancakes. I lose my mind. I eat as much as I can fit in my mouth.
Heads down. Going to work. Together. Run.
Walk. Run. Walk.
I’m… falling…. a… sleeeeeeeeeeeeeppppp
Time for a Red Bull, what Edna calls “El Diablo”. *CHUG CHUG CHUG*
Run. Walk. Shuffle?
Yeah, it’s a shuffle now.
It’s hot. We’re baking. Ice. We stuff ice in our hats, shorts, faces. I want to peel my skin off and put ice in my veins.
The 6-hour runners finished a long time ago. The 12-hour runners finished at 11 a.m., Adam included. He did awesome, logging 44.77 miles! His wife and kids come to cheer him on to the finish and in doing so, give Edna and I a much needed break.
Edna and I move the best we can. Sweating. Slogging. Surviving.
I keep moving… one foot in front of the other… but my eyes… they are getting heavy… and… and…
“MI AMOR!” I hear.
The scream snaps me awake and I find myself a footstep away from walking into the lake.
“Where am I?” I ask, momentarily confused, unsure of who or where I am and what I am doing. I look at my watch. It’s 2 p.m. I’m running for 24 hours.
“This is some crazy shit,” I say to Edna.
“Mi amor, tenemos que tomar una siesta.”
She’s right. Ordinarily I wouldn’t want to take a nap during an ultra. I would do my best to push through without sleeping. But during today’s contest I have had a ton of Red Bull and I still can’t keep my eyes open. The heat and humidity keeps slamming the door shut on my consciousness. I need a nap.
At 2:15 p.m. we sink into our camp chairs, feet up, hats over our eyes. I’m out before I can even — zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Hours 17 -24 (3:00 p.m to 10:00 p.m.)
I wake up to a violent gust of wind that knocks my hat off. “What the…”
The canopy tent under which we sit is trying its hardest to fly off into the distance. Luckily, it’s anchored well and we have a little cover from the choppy sprinkles of rain that follow the strong gusts. Is it going to rain again? I wonder. That’s just what we need.
As soon as my mind recovers enough to conjure up the worst case scenarios, the rain has stopped.
“I’m hungry,” says Edna as we cautiously find our way back to our feet.
“Me too. Let’s go to the aid station and see what they have.”
Before we can, Nate circles back around to us and asks, as if sent by the gods, “Are you guys hungry?”
How did he know? Was it our sunken cheeks? Our frail disposition? The fact that we’ve been running in circles all night?
Everything moves in slow motion, like a scene out of a Scorsese flick, when you know either something awesome or something awful is going to happen in the next few seconds. Nate walks over to his cooler, lifts the lid and reveals a home cooked Filipino meal of pork sausage, flavor-packed cured beef and sticky white rice. AWESOME!
I try not to shove it all into my mouth at the same time.
Is this an eating contest or a running contest? I’d be doing better if it were the former.
“This food is delicious,” I can’t stop saying. Edna loves it too. I have to check myself to make sure I’m not making hog noises as I (ironically) devour the pork sausage. It’s the perfect combination of salt and fat and flavor and… do we have to keep running or can we just stop and eat now?
Just a few bites before immobility, I manage to put the food away and get back to my feet. Edna follows suit and we head out to finish the rest of our pain-filled voyage.
Heads down. Going to work. Together.
We talk. A lot. We figure if we can get through events like this, we can get through life together. Right? It’s hard to not love someone who is there for you, blisters, chafing and all. Plus, we keep dipping our hands in the same jar of Vaseline (IMPORTANT MEDICAL ADVICE: don’t dip your hand in our jar of Vaseline).
The heat won’t go away. It digs deep into our bodies, slowing us, daring us to quit. But our goal is relentless forward progress and in this we will succeed. You’d be hard pressed to find two people more stubborn than Edna and I and there’s no stopping us today. Our minds are made up.
Someone, a spectator, randomly hands us two ice cream sundaes. It really IS Christmas in July!!! WOW!! We SLUUUUUUUURP the ice cream so fast that our mutual embarrassment for one another cancels out. Life is beautiful ain’t it? You go run in the sweltering heat for 24 hours and some random stranger gives you ice cream. What more do you want?
Heads down. Going to work. Together.
I have been reading “A Brief History of Mexico”, so now is a convenient time to discuss pre-Columbian Mexican history with someone close to the subject. Somehow our discussion meanders off towards Lady Guadalupe and all the iterations of the Virgin mother outside of Santa María.
Meanwhile, time ticks… and ticks… and ticks. There is more ice. More shuffling. Every once in a while we try to “run” but we quickly find ourselves back in shuffle mode. We don’t care. We’re all smiles.
What’s the alternative? Being pissy? Aggravated? We signed up for this shit, man! And we are going to finish. The sun is finally going down now and the remaining field of runners is scarce; but we have survived. We’re going to go the whole 24, which is exactly what we came here to do.
Damn it feels good to reach a goal. That’s why I do these things — these insane tests of endurance that call upon one’s mental and physical toughness to succeed. I love what they do to my mind, the conversations they start; and I love that I always leave them finding out something new about myself.
Today, as Edna and I approach the finish line of yet another extreme event — one that beat us down with intense rain, heat, humidity and and overall desire to bail — I realize that I am a better version of myself with her by my side. I know that I can trust her to help me get where I want to go, in races and in life. We are good for each other. We make a good team.
WE CROSS THE LINE…
I did it! I really, truly DID IT!
I’m not sure how many endurance athletes make the successful transition from all-day runners to amateur boxing champs, but I’m glad to say I can (and did!) do it.
Of course, I got some much needed encouragement from this raucous crowd of Iron Lung Fitness enthusiasts!
With a conscious effort to avoid hyperbole, I cannot help but admit: that was one of the greatest nights of my life. I was lucky to share it with so many awesome people. Special thanks to my family, to my fiancée, to my corner-man and to my hardworking Iron Lung Fitness athletes, all of whom motivate and inspire me to be the best ME I can be.
Every. Single. Day.
I wish I could give a detailed report of the championship bout, but to be honest, I only remember a few key moments: the standing eight counts and the first round knockdown. All the rest is a blur — an all-out, instinctual, anaerobic apex of a blur.
Luckily, we have the video:
And from a different angle, in the crowd:
At the end of the fight I took a deep look inward and asked myself: what’s harder, running a hundred miles or fighting for six minutes?
I still don’t know. A hundred miles hurts like hell, for a loooooong time. A boxing match only hurts for a little bit (one hopes), if at all, but then again, you have to deal with the fact that someone is trying to hit you in the face as hard as he can.
So while I may not know which one is the tougher test, the good news is I have plenty of time to keep up the experiment.
And you know I will.
More details to come…
Are YOU ready to train like a champion? Do you want lose weight? Get stronger? Do you want to build that dream body, improve your race times or qualify for Boston? Go to Iron Lung Fitness and start training with me today!
They must always stay in the moment.
They must face their greatest fears.
With all of the above, I could be talking about the long distance runner.
Or I could be talking about the boxer.
I’m talking about both.
For the last four years, boxing has been an integral tool in my long distance training kit. An all-body workout that requires combined leg and core strength paired with hand-eye coordination and mental toughness, the aerobic and anaerobic training potential boxing provides is as varied as its practitioner is creative.
And you don’t even have to take punches.
In fact, most people who train in the sweet science don’t take punches. They train to be in shape, to burn calories, to de-stress. I love running long, no doubt, but I admit, there is no stress reliever quite like punching something. Walk into any boxing gym and you will find people of all sizes — all backgrounds and states of fitness — doing just that: enjoying their stress relieving workout.
For the long distance runner, boxing is a low impact cross trainer that takes advantage of strong, seasoned legs. With proper technique, it also builds upper body strength with a conscious core and allows for increased blood flow during those “off” days where one would need to rest from pounding pavement.
For many boxers, the hardest part of training is conditioning. Sustaining an elevated heart rate with sudden bursts of explosive movement can prove difficult, even for seasoned vets. Long distance runners tend to have a lock on this aspect of training, and therefore set themselves up for success.
At some point the long distance runner who boxes may decide he or she is ready to spar. It’s not for everyone, I admit. I remember the first time I was hit in the face. I didn’t like it very much. But I didn’t like the fire in my legs at mile 21 of my first marathon either, yet I keep coming back.
And so here I am, 36 years old, a seasoned distance runner with two Boston finishes, a 100-mile buckle and a 3:03 marathon PR, signed up and ready to fight in the Chicago Golden Gloves boxing tournament. It begins March 4.
I knew sometime last year, during my training for Pinhoti, that the next big challenge would be to test my might against other boxers. I had been enjoying my sparring sessions over the last couple years, seeing them both as mental chess matches and larger tests of anaerobic endurance. But around mile 80 of my 100-mile trek through the Talladega Forest — my master class on pain management — it became clear to me, that if I could withstand 100 miles of affliction, something that would take me 28+ hours to complete, then I could certainly handle 6 minutes in the squared circle.
So I will.
Indeed, I, Jeff “The Iron” Lung, will get in the ring and let my hands go.
My training for this event began in earnest on January 1st. I have to make weight (fighting at a maximum of 139 lbs), so I decided to cut out all alcohol and as much sugar as possible from my diet. I keep a close track of my food intake. I make an effort to eat as healthy as possible, staying within 1-2 pounds of fighting weight while all the time living my mantra: the better you eat, the better you feel, the better you train.
Running (what boxers call “road work”) is the crux of my conditioning. I run about 30-35 miles a week. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays I generally run 3-5 miles as a warm up to my concentrated boxing training. I hold 2 lbs weights in my hands as long as I can during these runs, usually for 20-30 minutes.
On Tuesday and Thursday mornings I run 6-7 miles, whatever I can accomplish in an hour, but I mix in three or four intervals of 5-8 minutes of speedwork. On Saturdays I run longer, about an hour and 15 minutes or 8 miles, whatever comes first. I avoid the traditional long runs of distance training. I need to maintain my endurance, but I can’t afford to waste energy on additional miles when I will need that energy in the ring. Just as it can be for the long distance runner, overtraining is a real threat to peak performance.
In addition to the running, I do boxing-focused strength training on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays as well as technical boxing drills. I choose to work on different aspects of my game on different days. Like in any athletic discipline, variety in training is key.
On Tuesday and Thursday nights I spar.
On Sundays I rest. Completely.
I practice yoga. I get regular massage. I sleep a lot. I even take naps if I feel like it.
And I watch lots and lots and lots of fights, in person, on TV, on YouTube — wherever I can.
But like in my long distance training, perhaps the most integral portion of preparation occurs in my mind, usually just before I fall asleep. I envision myriad “if/than” scenarios in my head, calculating countermeasures for catastrophes and methodologies for exploiting weaknesses. Most of all, I try to embrace the nerves that I know are bound to come.
Even in the comfort of my own bed, I can close my eyes, hear the crowd, and feel the nausea that threatens to throw my concentration. It’s the same sick feeling I had before my first marathon, before my first ultra. It’s that same uneasiness I felt toeing the line for each PR attempt at 13.1 and 26.2 miles.
Pre-race jitters. Stage freight. Terrified of getting hit the face.
It all goes away once I’m in the moment.
And after all, that continues to be the thing that keeps bringing me back: living in the moment.
Whether it’s running for hours, working through a yoga practice or squaring off with someone trying to punch me in the face, the thing that keeps me coming back is the very real experience of the now. Nothing makes me feel more alive than being present.
And you can bet I will be present on March 4.
Hands up. Chin down. Mind focused.
We did it! We made it through another year!
I started it out by sacrificing my footing in a frozen tundra.
A couple weeks later, I “ran” 21k through knee-deep snow, in the time it generally takes me to run twice that amount.
In the spring, I re-lived a dream to run the Boston Marathon, this time with no tragedies, floating atop the endless love and compassion from the good people of New England.
Not long after, I got cocky, raced a teenager and had to pull myself out of the game, flexing those mental muscles.
I recovered in time to run mad, around a .97 mile loop in a municipal park, setting a new personal distance record and fighting to stay on my feet for 24 hours straight.
In September, I experienced three distinct seasons over 50 glorious kilometers in the heart of my home state.
And in November, I popped my century mark cherry by crossing the finish line of the Pinhoti 100, proving that through a sound, prepared and focused mind we can do anything we wish to do.
Throughout the year, I volunteered again at the Earth Day 50k/10k and the Des Plaines River Trail Races. I paced my good friend Siamak to a fierce finish at the Mohican 100 and Edna in her 100 miles at Potawatomi and 100k at Hallucination.
I also had the good fortune of getting another race report published in Ultrarunning Magazine (October issue).
I lived every moment, one footfall at a time, over mountainous trail and monotonous blacktop.
I ran. I laughed. I cried (more than you’d think).
I slowed down. I took it all in. I wrapped myself up in the trail, in the challenge of going far on foot, with pushing myself past any and all boundaries.
But perhaps most exciting of all: I got engaged! The thrill of sharing my life with the woman I love — a woman who shares my passion for adventure, for exploration, for making dreams come true — is more exciting than any race I’ve ever run. It’s a good thing we both love distance running, because life, my friends, is THE ultimate ultra run.
Happy New Year!
In the wake of running 100 miles on my own two feet, chilling out has been a high priority. Post-race, I took a full 10 days off from running, mixed with some light cross training and gentle walking.
I also made sure to get on the mat.
It was during the shavasana (or relaxation/meditation) portion of a recent yoga class that I began to wonder what it would feel like to do a yoga class every day, for a week. Surely, lots of yogis do this, I thought to myself. Why not give it a try?
So I did.
Before I report my experience, I should first explain my own personal relationship with yoga. I came to the mat a couple of years ago, as a grumpy, injured runner looking for healing, both for body and mind. Having recently explored the power of meditation, the in-the-moment connection to the breath was something I could easily relate to, and it wasn’t long before I found myself in a yoga class once a week. The more I practiced, the better I felt.
Part of that betterment was encouraged by the environment in which I was practicing. I was lucky enough to find Tejas (pronounced teh-jus) Yoga, in the South Loop. From the very beginning, the owners, Jim and James, were so warm and inviting, that one would have a hard time not wanting to practice there, if for nothing else than to hang out, drink tea and have good conversation.
Considering that foundation, it’s no surprise that the teachers there also carry the same spirited warmth. Contrary to my pre-yoga reservations, I never once felt intimidated or overwhelmed at Tejas. In fact, it seems to me the teachers there go out of their way to make sure each student is comfortable, that modifications are always accessible, and that each person is set up to succeed, whatever his or her goals may be.
For me, this is essential. As an ultrarunner, as a boxer, as a person who makes his living teaching and practicing exercise, I come to the mat for mostly gentle, regenerative movements. I come to wind down, to heal, to focus on the breath, one inhalation and exhalation at a time. For me, yoga is not about wrapping my leg around my head. It’s about connecting breath to movement and staying present, the same cornerstones of running 100 miles or answering the bell.
But a class a day for seven days?
*Correction: there was, at least, a little sweat.
– – –
Monday, December 1, 2014
Pranayama Class with Jim Bennitt
3:30 p.m. – 4:30 p.m.
Pranayama is described as the “extension of the prāna or breath” or “extension of the life force”. Simply put, this class focuses on different breathing techniques alongside a gentle physical practice. On this day, we held a bandha (physical lock) that seemed to get deep within my hamstrings, while also exploring meditative visualizations connected to the breath. Jim asked us to project any thoughts on a screen within our minds. I was quite amused at the random relfections conjured up from deep within my consciousness. Inexplicably, Roger Rabbit made several appearances.
Overall, I left this class feeling super energized and awake, acutely aware of my hamstrings.
– – –
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
Open Class with Adam Grossi
7 a.m. – 8 a.m.
Like I tell my clients all the time, I have never heard someone say, “Man, I really regret getting up and doing that workout.” The same seems to be true for the yoga practice. While getting out of my cozy, warm bed at 6 a.m. didn’t sound very appealing, starting my day off with the immediate boost of a yoga class was well worth it. While the open class offers more challenges than the classes I typically attend, Adam provided me with options and modifications to suit my own yogic level. It felt good to sweat and to use more strength and balance than I’m used to. But most of all, it was a real treat to watch the sunlight slowly crescendo through the eastern facing windows with the progression of our class. I left feeling like a rockstar — a very grounded, introspetive rockstar.
– – –
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Gentle Class with Monica Stevens
9 a.m. – 10 a.m.
Another great way to start the day, this gentle class is the type of class I typically attend at Tejas. The slower pace and focus on restorative poses is essential to my own yogic identity, offering the type of healing I need after running as much as I do. Monica’s clear instruction and warm sense of humor always puts me at ease, and she seemed to read my mind by getting us into a deep pigeon pose — indispensable medicine for my chronically tight hips and IT bands.
– – –
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Gentle Class with Marcelyn Cole
12 p.m. – 1 p.m.
Gentle classes on consecutive days? Thank you, sir! May I have another?
During my two years of practice, I have taken Marcelyn’s gentle class more than any other. Her calming voice and quirky sense of humor have been staples of my own yogic development, helping me heal, relax and grow to the best of my ability. This class was no exception as we explored familiar twists and deep connections to the breath. Despite my familiarness with this class, for the first time all week I did have a little trouble staying focussed and using my ujjayi breath. My mind was wandering more than usual, something I liken to bonking in the marathoning world. Luckily, I got it under control by the time we entered shavasana, my favorite pose.
– – –
Friday, December 5, 2014
Open Class with Zach Zube
12 p.m. -1 p.m.
Though small in size, this open class was a great mix of gentle and more advanced asana, with plenty of options for every practioner. There was a theme of groundedness, of forcing movement downward, as explained by our teacher, Zach. This meant plenty of forward folding and sequencing that promoted a sound connection with the earth beneath us. It was a pleasure to be back in a class taught by Zach. I took his Introduction to Yoga series a couple of years ago when I first started. His clear and thoughtful sequencing always puts me at ease, allowing breath and movement to flow naturally.
– – –
Saturday, December 6, 2014
Open Class with Adam Grossi
8 a.m. – 9:30 a.m.
My second open class with Adam this week, and again there were no regrets for getting out of bed early to attend. Unlike the Tuesday class, this one was packed! There were probably close to 20 people in attendance, and as such there existed a powerful vibe in the room. So many dedicated practitioners provided me with extra focus and a desire to be a part of the group mind, even as we were lead through more complex movements. I sweat more in this class than any other and I left feeling accomplished, strong, and ready to take on the day!
– – –
Sunday, December 7, 2014
Gentle Class with James Tennant
4 p.m. – 5:30 p.m.
I started this week of yoga by knowing exactly how I would finish. James was the very first person I met at Tejas and I remember how nervous and self-conscious I was entering those doors, only to have such feelings disappear after a mere two-minute conversation with him. His tangible, supportive spirit put me at ease and in a position to succeed with yoga. I never looked back. Since then, James’ teachings have been a regular and welcome exploration into my own higher being. Finishing the week with his gentle class was just an extension of that. The sequences flowed, my ujjayi breath connected me to the present, and time moved so quickly that I couldn’t believe 90 minutes had already passed.
When I got home that night, I was so relaxed and serene that I had no desire to watch a marquee NFL match-up on television — a rarity in its own right. I was ready for bed. Ready for peace.
– – –
While seven classes in seven days may be a lot more yoga than I am used to, one thing I did gain from this experience is the realization that despite not always being in a class setting, the yoga practice is deep within me, at all times. Over the last two years, I can’t remember a day where I didn’t do a forward fold of some kind. I can’t recall a day without invoking the ujjayi breath. There hasn’t been a day where I didn’t connect movement to breath, whether running, boxing or just working out.
It’s more than just attending a class.
It’s being present, connected to my body and its place among the stars.
When my running renaissance took form in early 2010, the allure of the ultra run pulled on my conscience like no other physical challenge. At the time, finishing a half marathon was enough to exhaust me, but I knew that if I just stuck with the training and applied the lessons learned during each phase of my distance development, someday, maybe I, too, would cross a 100 mile finish line.
Saturday, November 1, 2014
It’s dark. It’s cold. I’m in the back of my car, eyes shut, huddled close to Edna for warmth. My dad is driving and my friend, Siamak, rides shotgun as the four of us make our way from Sylacauga, Alabama, where the race will eventually end, to middle-of-nowhere Heflin, quaintly dropped in the heart of the Talladega forest, where the race is to start.
It’s a 90 minute drive, which translates to 90 minutes of mental unrest. My mind is racing before my legs even get a chance, full of doubt, full of wonder.
What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Jeff?
This familiar pre-race phrase attacks at will. Each time I do my best to let it go.
This is exactly what I want to do, I remind myself. This is the adventure I’ve been looking for.
I’m right about that. The years of slow build-ups, from 5ks to half marathons to marathons to 50 milers is over. My first hundo is on the doorstep. Time to let it in.
My half conscious battle with my own thoughts is interrupted by the intimidating shake and rattle of the gravel road beneath us. We have entered the official forest grounds, and as we slowly navigate the twists and turns of sharp climbs and descents, my stomach begins to churn.
Nerves. It’s just nerves. Chill out, man. Once this thing starts you’ll have 30 hours to wrestle with your nerves.
Finally at our destination, parked alongside a small army of vehicles housing anxious adventurers, I open the door only to shut it again immediately. “Wow, it’s cold,” I say. “And windy!”
The wind is going to be an issue today. So is the cold. It’s Alabama. I didn’t think it got cold here.
The temps right now are in the 30s, with winds swirling at 20-30 mph. Luckily, I came prepared, with lots of warm clothes and an organized system for my crew to help me find things as quickly as possible.
As we make the half mile trek down to the start line, the sun begins to rise and nervous energy fills me. I look around at my crew: Edna, Dad, Siamak.
Man, am I lucky, or what?
I couldn’t ask for better group of people to help me along on this journey. With over 17 years of experience in ultras, Edna knows every up and down possible and how to handle each one. As one of the toughest and smartest guys I know, Siamak as my pacer is like having Tiger Woods as my caddy. In fact, I know all I have to do today is get to mile 55, where Siamak will start pacing, and I’ll will get that buckle I came here to get. And my Dad… well, who knows me any better than he? He’s been at all my other firsts (first 5k, first half, first full, first 50). I can’t imagine breaking my hundred mile cherry without his company.
Today, the four of us run as ONE. On my legs, of course.
We reach the start line and I embrace the adventure at hand. I give final hugs and farewells, excited to test my physical body like it’s never been tested before.
BAM! We’re off!
Miles 0 – 6.7
Slow, slow, slow, slow.
Today I will run slow.
I will run for a VERY VERY VERY LONG TIME, but it will be slow. This puts me at the back of the pack from the very beginning, and as we enter on to the first of what will be 80-some miles of single track, I have no problem with people flying by me as if we were out for a quick tempo run. More power to ’em, I think.
My race strategy is to run the flats and downhills at a comfortable pace and walk each and every incline, no matter how slight. With over 14,000 feet of climbing and 28,000 feet elevation change overall, there will obviously be plenty of places to walk and lower my heart rate. I suspect there will be a point where I’ll be wanting incline, so I have an excuse to slow down even more.
Here in the beginning too, I try to focus on just keeping a constant rhythm to my breath, staying connected to the present moment. Meditation has long been a key training component for me, and its importance has never been greater than it will be today. Thinking about how far I have yet to go would just kill my brain, and thus send me into negative space — a place I cannot afford to be. Focusing on the NOW, for me, is the best way to avoid such peril.
And the NOW is so full of beauty, so full of life! Just look at this goregous forest! The fall colors of red, yellow and brown fill an otherwise green backdrop that, with each breath, sends me to a happy place knowing I, too, am a part of this grandness.
How lucky am I?
These same beautifully colored leaves blanketing the ground also hide insidious roots and rocks that lie beneath. In the first 6+ miles, it is already apparent that I am not going to win the battle against them. All I can do — SHIT! OUCH! DAMN IT! — is tread lightly and keep my toes/ankles/arches together the best I — DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT! — can.
“HOLA, PAPI!” I hear from up the trail, followed by excited clapping. It’s Edna — my dear, sweet Edna. She is heavily wrapped in coats and blankets to ward off the cold, but the temperature hasn’t cooled off her spirit as she gleefully cheers me in to the first aid station.
I smile big, give her a hug, ditch my jacket (I’m getting warm now myself), chug some Pedialyte and try to get some calories in me. Today’s fueling plan is, like always, the see-food diet: eat whatever looks good at any given time. I also make sure to eat at every aid station and to take a little with me in a ziploc baggie that I put in my pack for the trail. I’m wearing my trusty 50 oz Salomon S-Lab 5 hydration pack that I keep filled with water and plenty of goodies in the pockets, like trail mix, Ginger Chews and Ibuprofen. My crew has Pedialyte for me at every crew-accesible aid station. I make sure to chug this as opposed to the race offered Heed.
(Off topic, but can we all just scratch our heads for a moment as to why so many ultra races offer Heed at their events? No offense to Hammer products, as I do like some of their gels, but have the makers of Heed ever tried Heed? To me, it tastes like flat, chalk-flavored drink spiked with Aspertame.)
I try not to waste too much time at the aid station, a theme I aim to carry over the whole race. A quick kiss “adios” and I’m back on the trail.
Miles 6.57 – 13.27
Energized from seeing my crew, I get back into a running groove. For the first time today I look down at my watch to see how much time has passed. An hour and forty-five minutes!?!? Wowsers!
Time DOES fly when you’re having fun! It seems like the race just started; and relatively speaking, that is a true statement, but the fact that nearly two hours have gone by without me even realizing it, is a very good sign. It proves that the meditative mind is working. I’m in the moment.
In this particular moment I feel there are a lot of rolling hills early on. While I did glance at the elevation profile and aid station chart pre-race, I didn’t commit much of it to memory because doing so would only intimidate and haunt me. I know there is a big climb before mile 40 and another killer climb around mile 70, but other than that, I’m just going with the proverbial flow.
And the flow is good, because before I — SNAP! THWACK! DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT! — know it, I’m approaching another trail head and hear “HOLA PAPI!” from a smiling, cheering Edna.
This melts my heart, man. Every single time. How lucky am I!?
I eat and chug Pedialyte while Siamak fills my pack with more water. The crew is attentive and supportive, careful not to ask me “How do you feel?”, a question that anyone in an ultra already knows the answer to. While it may be early enough in the race still to not yet feel like absolute shit, we are fast approaching the 15 mile mark, a point where no matter what the race, I no longer feel fresh and ache-free.
My hips have been aching a little more than usual here to start the race, but I keep it to myself, expecting the feeling will go away. Besides, I have already tripped and stubbed my toes on unsuspecting rocks about fifty times, so the throbbing in my lower extremities does well to hide any aches above the knees.
Miles 13.27 – 18.27
Back out on the trail, I chat a little bit with Burt from Louisiana. He is running behind me the whole time, so I don’t get a good look at his face, but we pass the next five miles by chatting about ultras we’ve run and how hard this one is compared to the rest.
During our conversation, the first one I’ve had all day with any other participants, the ache in my hips magically disappears while — DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT! FUUUUUUUUUCK — I keep stubbing my toes like it was my one and only goal. The trail gods were smart to hide their deviousness underneath the beauty of colorful leaves.
Miles 18.27 – 22.71
“HOLA PAPI!!!” I hear for the third time, each one more pleasurable than the next. I stride in to Aid Station #3 knowing this will be the last time I will see my crew until I reach the top of Bald Rock at mile 41. I chug more Pedialyte, eat and relay to the crew that all systems are go. (I don’t mention the toe stubbing and ankle rolling party to them, as they appear to be having a good time. Besides, we made a pact prior: no negativity.)
Edna fills a Ziploc baggie for me with enough trail mix to feed all the runners! I consider having her dump half of it out, but in my haste, I just shove the big bag in my pack and vow to carry on. I give everyone a big hug — all this in-the-moment-mind-body-focus is making me quite the emotional sap — and Dad snaps a quick picture of the four of us before I head back out on the trail.
I quickly get myself back into a groove, something that becomes easier and easier as the race goes on. Other than those five miles with Burt, I’ve been running solo throughout; and since this is a point-to-point race I suspect there will be many more miles alone before the day is through.
Thinking about this, a group of three 20-something runners from Cleveland catch up to me. I offer them a chance to pass, but they like my pace and tuck in behind. I spend the next several miles listening to their hilarious banter, a welcome distraction from the — SNAP! THWACK! DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT! — that continues to terrorize my feet.
Miles 22.71 – 27.66
Aid Station #4 has two things I’ve never seen at an aid station before: Krispy Kreme donuts and Maker’s Mark whiskey. All things in moderation, I say, but I only have enough room for one guilty pleasure today. I devour the rich, fatty donuts and watch on curiously as the 20-somethings from Cleveland gleefully shoot Maker’s like it was a handheld of Gatorade.
Downing Maker’s Mark 22 miles into a hundred mile race? Now THAT is ballsy, I think to myself.
Back out on the trail, I again lead the way while eavesdropping on the youngsters’ conversation, every now and then adding my own chuckle or DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT!
Miles 27.66 – 35.16
At Aid Station #5 I stuff my face with all kinds of food: cookies, chips, peanut butter and jelly. Like usual, I’m starving, but the trail mix in my pockets just doesn’t sound appealing right now, so I do what I can to fill up here.
In doing so, I take a little more time than I’d hoped, and the youngsters from Cleveland kick off down the trail ahead of me. I follow a few minutes later but they are too fast and I don’t have any hopes of catching them.
Running solo it is.
Just me… and this grand… grand forest and all the beauty it has within it. My senses are on uber alert.
I feel the cold air on my skin like an end-swell on my slowly deteriorating body. My eyes sharpen on the lush, vibrant, varying colors. The fresh scent of dirt, grass and breeze fill my nose. The rubbery aftertaste of water from my hydration bladder sits on my tongue. The cool, incessant wind whispers in my ears.
For 7.5 miles I take inventory of these senses and — SNAP! THWACK! DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT! — give thanks to the running gods that I have the physical ability to be in a place where I can appreciate them all.
Miles 35.16 – 40.94
After such a long stretch without aid, I reach Aid Station #6 expecting to find a bounty of high calorie options to fuel what many would consider the hardest climb of the day: a 1600 foot ascent up to 2400 feet at Bald Rock, the highest point in Alabama.
Instead, what I find is a lone aid station volunteer with some water and a few packets of Hammer gels. There is nothing else.
“Isn’t there any food?” I ask, fearful of what I already expect is his answer.
“We ran out of food, I’m afraid,” he says. “I do have a couple of gels here if you want.”
I’m speechless. No food? It’s been 7.5 miles since the last aid station, with another 6 or so to go up a huge climb and there’s no food? What the — ???
Out of the corner of my eye I see half loaf of bread, sadly sitting idle on the ground. I grab a couple slices out of the bag and go on my way, trying not to think about how I might die of starvation trying to get up the top of this climb.
No negativity, no negativity, no negativity…
But… how does a race like this run out of food??? How can I go on with —
DING — A mental light bulb goes off.
Trail mix. Fucking trail mix. Thank the running gods that Edna gave me all that damn trail mix! YEEEEE HAAAAA!!! I got it! I got this thing! Yes!
The only thing that distracts me from my newfound excitement is the occassional SNAP! THWACK! DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT!, an issue that apparently isn’t going away anytime soon. I don’t even care anymore. I just want to get up to the top of this mountain and see what all the fuss is about. Having run this race himself in 2012, Siamak told me that the view at the top of Bald Rock is breathtaking, well worth the laborious effort to get there.
I focus on that while keeping my head down so I don’t have to look at how far up I have yet to go.
Up, up, up…
Up, up, up…
A few false summits… followed by some strategic trail mix breaks…
Up, up, up…
Hm…. this is going to last forever it seems… until…
“Hey, Jeff! You made it!”
It’s Siamak! I don’t know who’s happier to see whom, but we’re both wearing million dollar smiles.
“Hey, real quick, check out the view, man. This is so worth it.” He guides me to the vista I’ve been waiting for and my goodness, does it ever take my breath away!
WOW! I climbed up here! I did this! I am doing this!
“Okay, I’m going to run up ahead and to tell Edna and your dad that you’re here. We have some great stuff for you from Panera: hot macaroni and cheese, a turkey and bacon sandwhich, a rich chocolate brownie.”
Holy shit my head is going to explode. Hearing those food items roll of his tongue makes me want to cry from immense joy. He takes off and I labor on behind him, giving chase the best I can. My run is still a respectable pace. I’ve been running smart all day. Fueling, drinking. 15 more miles and I’ll have Siamak to take me the rest of the way.
And then I hear it: “HOLA PAPI!!!!”
Oh my goodness there she is! “Ednita! Mi amor!” I yell back.
“Ven, mi amor, tenemos macaroni and cheese.”
This girl certainly knows how to make me happy.
Miles 40.94 – 45.25
We get to the aid station #7 and for the first time all day I sit down in a chair and relax a little bit while stuffing my face with HOT FOOD! MMMMMM!! YUMMMMM!
In between shivery bites (the temp is dropping and the wind is swirling up here), I relay the story of the foodless aid station to my crew and mention how that trail mix saved my life.
“Well, that explains why so many people look so bad up here then,” says my dad.
Poor Dad. He’s freezing. Sometimes crewing can be harder than the actual running. Standing around and waiting all day in poor conditions for a (sometimes) cranky runner can be hard work. I try to smile and actively refrain from cranky behavior, as much as possible. After all, I’m feeling relatively AWESOME and I’m having a fucking blast.
“This is real adventure!” I say.
Siamak hands me my headlamp and reminds me to hurry up so I can make the descent before sun down. We are losing sunlight quickly, and the next four miles are a very technical, treacherous, rocky plight down the mountain. Warmed from the hot food and the love from my crew, I grab a jacket and get on down the road.
The only thing that really hurts right now are my cheeks from smiling so much.
Of course, the smile wanes some as I begin the descent from Bald Rock. Each foot fall has to be carefully planned. There is no running here. In fact, I use my hands as much as my feet to navigate the guantlet of loose rocks and sharp drop-offs.
Ahead of me is a group of three who slowly plot a line that I follow the best I can. With so much concentration being exerted, the time passes quickly, and by the time we reach the bottom, the sun wanes with only minutes left before dropping off the horizon.
Whew! Close call! That would have been a real bitch going down in the dark! I think to myself.
Miles 45.25 – 52.07
It’s a dark night now, I flip on my headlamp, and not long after that, I reach aid station #8 where Siamak is anxiously awaiting. He asks if I need anything.
“Nope. All good here.” I quickly eat, drink, give everyone a hug, and I’m off.
I’m in a groove. Other than general accumulative soreness, the body feels good. Mind is good. All is good! I try to remember what I’ve been thinking about all day and I can’t really recall — a sign that I’ve been in the moment throughout.
And this moment.
And this one… uh-oh.
My head lamp dims. A couple of minutes later and it dims again, barely illuminating anything in front of me.
PANIC. STRESS. FUUUUUUUUUUUCK.
I turn the lamp on and off (probably not a good idea) and my assumption is correct. Dead batteries. And I’m not carrying back-ups. I was going to ask Siamak for them at the last aid station. But I forgot. And here I am in the middle of a technical gauntlet, in pitch black, helpless against the inevitable darkness that will soon consume me.
DING DING! My back up flash light! I asked for it back at mile 18, the last time I saw my crew before the 20 mile stretch without them, just in case something happened, and now it’s going to save my life.
Whew, dodged a BIG bullet there.
I spend the next few miles cursing myself for making such a rookie mistake. I changed the headlamp’s batteries to fresh ones after I used it last (in September) and it never occurred to me that they could drain even when not in use.
Lesson learned! Of course, the lesson keeps on being taught, as this small handheld flashlight doesn’t put out much of a beam. And on this — SNAP! THWACK! DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT! — tough, unforgiving trail, every ill-illuminated — SNAP! THWACK! DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT! — step is a dance with potential danger. I have no choice but to slow down. I won’t see my crew for another 10 miles, so I am going to have to make due.
Adapting, on the fly, is something one learns to do fairly quickly in the ultra game. In my experience as a pacer during 100 milers, the perfect race is a sort of unicorn. It just doesn’t exist. Something is bound to go unaccording to plan, at some point. Being able to adapt is key.
Miles 52.07 – 55.34
I roll into aid station #10 and refuel more quickly than usual so I can tag onto the back of a group of three just leaving. They have some of the brightest headlamps I’ve ever seen and I don’t care what their pace, I’m sticking with them as much as I can.
There is a lot of tough climbing in this section and I’m lucky to be the caboose of this group. I just cling on, focusing on my steps and their conversation. It’s a mile or so before any of them notice enough to ask me my name.
“Jeff, from Chicago,” I say. “This is my first hundred.”
Hearing myself speak, I sound winded, anxious.
“Well, Jeff from Chicago,” says the leader, Jason, up ahead, “you get up and over Pinnacle under the cut off time and you’ll finish this race.”
He goes on about the challenges of the race, how people tend to go out too fast, how people don’t fuel properly. But he seems intent on the idea that once we get past Pinnacle, it’s easy running from there on out. The other two echo his thoughts, so I put this in the back of my mind for later.
Pinnacle is the treacherous 1600ish foot climb from approximately mile 73 to 74. It’s too far off in the future for me to think about it now.
Just follow these guys to aid station #10, get some new batteries, and let Siamak take you home.
Miles 55.34 – 65.44
I roll into station #10 and immediately see my green Sable. Edna, Dad and Siamak pop out of it, ready to wait on me, whatever I need. “HOLA PAPI!”
Ay… mi corazon.
I get new batteries and then change into a dry, skintight baselayer top. I chug my first Red Bull of the race to chase two Ibuprofens. My body is pretty achy all over, and now seems like as good a time as any to shut it up, at least for a bit.
I down some more Pedialyte, tell Edna and Dad to stay warm (they are both shivering in the dark cold) and hug them before I set back out on the trail, this time with Siamak.
“Boy am I glad to see you,” I tell him. As much as I hate race cliches, I can’t help but utter “It’s all downhill from here.”
Siamak ran this race in 2012, as his first 100 mile race, and is one of the main reasons I sought to conquer the course myself. He has told me much about the trail already, but I knew if I had him pace me through the night, he would get me to the finish. You won’t find many runners tougher than Siamak. That I know. Oh yeah, he’s also the 2014 Midwest Ultra Grand Slam Champion.
I keep good company.
He leads and I follow. We spend the next 10 miles catching up on the day’s action, talking quite a bit about everything that has happened to us thus far. Just us two Chatty Cathies, running wild through the woods, trying not to — SNAP! THWACK! DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT!
“Oh yeah, the leaves are covering all the booby traps on the trail, so be careful,” I advise too late.
We fly through aid station 11 and continue on, still talking the night away. The Red Bull is working. The Ibuprofen is working. We are cranking on the flats and downs, hiking the ups with a purpose. The temperature is dropping quickly. We both agree we need to keep moving at a brisk pace to keep our bodies warm.
And tights. I want my tights.
Miles 65.44 – 68.78
As we approach aid station #12, we come up on the back of my Sable, the Illinois plates reflecting brightly from our headlamps. The windows are fogged from my sleeping crew. I guess we got here faster than they expected. Not bad! Siamak taps on the doors and Dad and Edna quickly jump out and spring to action.
I am lucky to have these two crewing for me. Their love and dedication is beyond words and every time I’ve seen them throughout the race they have lifted my spirits, just by being here.
“Gracias, mi amor,” I say as I sit down in the chair she provides for me. “I need my tights.”
Dad grabs them from my bag and helps me get them on over my big, clunky Hoka Rapa Nuis. “You need to change socks or anything?” he asks.
“Nope, all good.” Surprisingly, my feet haven’t been wet all day long. No blisters. No issues whatsoever, unless you call generally sore feet from running all day an issue. Most ultrarunners would just call that part of a day’s work.
With warm legs now, Siamak and I get back to work.
The conversation falls off some, but both of us remain focused. We have run together a lot the last couple of years, so there is a mutual comfort in the silence.
Work, work, work. Run, run, run.
Miles 68.78 – 74.53
We get to aid station #13 and Siamak suggests we Red Bull again in preparation for the big push up Pinnacle. I take this opportunity to down another two Ibuprofen and chase it with some bean burritos.
Siamak reminds Dad and Edna that we won’t see them for a while now, that we have a really tough section coming up, and to be ready for whatever when we see them again at mile 85.
Another round of hugs and we’re gone.
There are quite a few downhills here, with a continued bevy of ankle breaking traps springing at inopportune — SNAP! THWACK! DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT! — moments.
But then, we start up. And up. And up.
Switchbacks, switchbacks, switchbacks.
Looking up ahead proves too nauseating for me. As my quads, heels and lower back scream at me for all the contracting and flexing, I can’t imagine having to do any more climbing. All I can do is keep my head down, stare at the ground, and follow in Siamak’s wake, one step at a time.
“This is it,” he eventually says after what feels like forever, “we’re at the top!”
Siamak points to a sign that says we have reached the Pinnacle aid station. It is accompanied by a menu — yes, a menu — of food items available up ahead. Siamak and I both have grilled cheese on our minds.
Miles 74.53 – 85.63
“Grilled cheese it is!” says the volunteer who greets us at the top of Pinnacle. Up here it’s a an outright party, as everyone seems to be having a gay old time. Loud music, bouts of laughter, hot food and aromas galore.
Siamak and I take an extra few minutes to gather ourselves. “Yeah, now that you made it up here,” says one volunteer, “you’re gonna finish. It’s all downhill from here.”
That cliche again.
It doesn’t take too long out of the aid station to find out it indeed is NOT all downhill from here. There are plenty of rollers to keep us occupied, but now the challenge shifts from tough climbs to tough conditions. The temperature has dropped into the 20s, both of us fight sleep deprivation and now we battle 30 mph winds on a completely exposed ridge that seems to last forever.
For the first time in the race, I start to lose my heart. Instead of SNAP! THWACK! it’s now every, single, step that hurts. The pristine feet I boasted about earlier now reveal budding hot spots, and every time I step on wobbly rock or root it sends burning pains up through my skin.
I start to say this a lot now. Sometimes I say it to coax myself away from falling asleep. Sometimes I say it because I hurt. Sometimes I say it just to see if I’m still alive.
Aid station #15 has bacon that I believe came from a pig who was breathing this morning. I’ve never had fresher, better tasting bacon in my life. Or maybe I just think that because my body has deteriorated into its current state of zombieness and all my basic cognitive skills are short circuiting.
Siamak is doing something. I don’t know what. I sit down for a second and try not to fall asleep.
He must have said something to me because suddenly I’m back on the trail, though I don’t know how I got here.
“This is gonna be a hard time, but the sun will be up soon,” he encourages as we take off back down the ridge, fighting a relentless wind and despicable cold.
The next 6 miles are a complete blur: running, OUCH, sleeping, NO, drinking, FUCK, following, “COME ON, JEFF, YOU LOOK GREAT”, liar, SHIT, ouch, sleep, sun? death… RUN JEFF RUN.
We continue on, but it seems like a dream. I try to talk but nothing comes out. Even my curses stick in the back of my throat, unable to follow through. It takes every ounce of listless energy I have left to move one foot in front of the other. Luckily, that’s all that’s necessary.
And then the sun comes up.
“Hey, we’re gonna see Edna and your Dad soon,” says Siamak.
Between the prospect of seeing them and the sun coming up, I can’t help but cry.
Miles 85.63 – 89.63
“HOLA PAPI!” I see her. Dad is next to her. I’m bawling like a baby. I feel weak, exhausted. All I want to do is sleep. As I hug Edna, I feel myself wanting to collapse into her arms and hide my tears.
Why am I crying? I think to myself. I have no clue. Running exposes my feelings. Crying is inevitable.
Somewhat embarrassed by my tears, I refuel some before Siamak encourages me back onto the trail, which is now mostly road. Flushed from emotion, we start picking up the pace, cranking on the downs when possible.
It feels really good to be running like this 85 miles into the race. I wanted to be running til the end. It’s happening!
Miles 89.63 – 95.21
At aid station #17, there is no crew access, but there are homemade oatmeal cookies that I want to eat for the rest of my life.
NOM NOM NOM.
Whoever made these needs a statue dedicated in his/her honor!
Full of oatmeal cookie goodness, Siamak and I put our heads down and attack the road some more. The road is awesome. The road is great. There are no sneaky, leaf covered traps for my bludgeoned feet here. I hope the rest of the race is on roads (it’s not).
Miles 95.21 – 100.59
We approach aid station #18, the final aid station, and I am welcomed with one last “HOLA PAPI!”
If my heart could melt any more it would fall right out of my chest.
We have plenty of time to finish now, over 70 minutes ahead of the cut-off, so I take the time to sit down and slip out of my tights. Now that the sun has come up, I am warmer than I’d like to be, so any little comfort will help deter my mind from focusing on the pain that throbs throughout my entire body.
I didn’t want to admit it, but miles 75-85 almost killed me, and the fallout resonates in every nerve ending.
I eat some more, drink some more. My goodness, I’ve probably eaten and drunk a bazillion calories, and I’m STILL HUNGRY!
In my delirium, I ask Edna, “Are you going to be there at the finish?”
“Of course we will be there at the finish.”
Why wouldn’t they be at the finish? I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now. Just hurt. Hurt just know I… bleh bleh bleh. What?
When I get up from the chair, I hurt even worse.
Pain in my medial right knee. It’s stiff. I can hardly bend it. This has to be a casualty from the umpteenth trip, stub, roll I suffered over the last 95 miles.
Oh well. With only five to go, I ain’t stoppin’ now. We’ll just wobble until we warm up and truck along to the end.
Dad hands Siamak a walkie talkie so he can alert him of our arrival at the high school track and then the two of us head back out knowing the next time we see the crew will be there at the finish.
Yes, yes… the finish. I’m going to finish. Holy shit.
Every step is a killer now. I shuffle along the best I can. We hit some more trail, some more road.
FUUUUUUUCK, SHIIIIIIIIT, DAAAAAAAAMN.
I wonder if my incessant cursing is annoying Siamak yet. If it is, he doesn’t let it show. For that I am grateful.
Head down, arms pumping, we get through some trails and pop out on a road. Not a jeep road, not a dirt road. No. This is a good old fashioned proper highway!
We’re in Sylacauga! The track is near! The hotel is even closer! A bed! WOO HOO!
It’s happening. It’s really happening. Holy moly this religious experience turned sufferfest turned religious experience is really happening!
I hurt, but I don’t hurt! I don’t hurt, but I hurt! I don’t know what’s going on! I’m floating! I’m dead!
NO, I’M ALIIIIIIIVE!
Siamak and I run on the road for what feels like forever until finally, FINALLY…
YES. FIIIIINNNNNAAAAAALLLLLYYYYYY we turn right and I see the track entrance.
Siamak says some things to me but I can’t hear him clearly because the crowd in my head is roaring out all other thoughts.
My feet hit the rubber track and suddenly all pains drift away. All there is is blue sky, a rush of blood to the head and 200 meters to victory.
I cross the finish line in 28 hours, 51 minutes.
I collapse into Edna’s arms. Tears roll down my cheek. I hug Siamak, collect my buckle from the race director and then fall into my dad’s arms before I find myself in a chair.
Finally. In a chair. And I don’t have to get up and run anywhere.
I did it. I really did it. I ran 100 miles, on my own two feet, from the town of Heflin, to the city of Sylacauga, proving that with a little hard work and dedication, nothing is impossible. Up and over the mountains, through and between the trees, this was the experience of a lifetime — one that I will think about often, in times of darkness and times of joy.
You live and die your entire life in the span of a 100 mile race.
If you’re lucky you survive to be born again.