Great, now I was representing all of America. Too bad I was quitting. I pulled up after crossing under the banner and helped myself to some cookies and water. I could relax now. I watched runner after runner come through, grab some food and water, and continue. One was a young woman, maybe nineteen or twenty years old, who was limping badly. She had blood running down her legs from mud-caked scrapes on both knees. I figured that was it for her. But she wasn’t stopping. She just smiled and kept running. Wasn’t anyone going to wave her off the course? She must be delirious.
“Heading back out?” someone at my elbow said. It was the girl from the registration table.
“Short break,” I said, my mouth full of cookie.
“Good luck.”
The way she was looking at me, I knew I had to pretend to start running again. I figured I could begin the second loop, veer off near my car, and split. No worries, mate.
I sheepishly acknowledged the cheering spectators as I returned to the course. When I was close to the parking lot, I looked around. Perfect—no one nearby; I could escape. But as I headed for my car, I remembered my backpack—which contained my keys, which was in a pile of runners’ bags right at the feet of the announcer. Now what? I could feign an injury, limp back to retrieve my pack, and pick up some undeserved sympathy. I could go back and fess up to misunderstanding the race distance. Or maybe I could just keep running and see what happened.
Approaching the start/finish area at the end of the second lap, I heard the announcer’s voice again.
“Here comes the Yank, here comes the Yank! He’s gaining ground. This guy is for real. He could win this thing!”
I passed a clump of cheering spectators and gave them a wave. I had covered twenty-one miles—eighteen more than I had expected to run when I got out of my car this morning. I was sunburned, blistered, dehydrated, and seriously chafed. But I was still going. Twenty-three miles, twenty-six, twenty-seven—this was new territory. Now every step was the farthest I had ever run. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Something remarkable was happening. I was suffering, yes, but this was not the kind of pain I was used to, the kind that implored me to stop. This pain told me to go on. Feel the pain, welcome the pain, use the pain, transcend the pain.
At a little after noon, under the blazing Queensland sun, I crossed the finish line. Someone put a sash around my neck and slapped me on the back. I had won the men’s division. I’d run 32.3 miles in five hours, three minutes, and ten seconds on a tough, hilly course—and I had done it with little preparation. I was shocked that I’d done so well—and even more surprised that I felt pretty good after all those miles. I would never have entered the race if I had known how long it was. Sometimes the universe does for you what you are unable to do for yourself. I remembered that line from AA. And now I wondered, How much farther could I go?
CHAPTER 6
It is not down on any map; true places never are.
—HERMAN MELVILLE, Moby-Dick
I returned from Australia feeling that inspiration was all around. On a chilly February day, I ran the Charlotte Marathon, a race that was the US men’s qualifier for the Olympics. I was thrilled to be in the company of the country’s best runners, especially Bob Kempainen, a twenty-nine-year-old medical student from Minnesota, who won the race despite vomiting six times during the final five miles.
Two months later, I was part of the biggest field ever to run the Boston Marathon. I relished every minute of it. I high-fived kids along the course, snapped pictures, and upheld a Boston tradition by stopping to kiss a few cheering coeds as I passed Wellesley College. Near the finish, I searched the crowd for Pam. I spotted her in the front row shouting and clapping for me. I was touched by her pride. It was the happiest run I ever had—and while I was having all that fun, I even managed to finish in less than three hours.
That July, the Summer Olympics came to Atlanta. I’d grown up watching the Olympics on television and, like a lot of kids, dreamed about competing in them myself. That was never going to happen, I knew, but I still felt a deep connection to the Games, maybe because my grandfather had coached many Olympians in his day.
I bought a ticket that allowed me to attend every track-and-field event and parked myself in Centennial Olympic Stadium. I saw Donovan Bailey break the world record in the 100 meters, Michael Johnson scorch the 200 and 400, Carl Lewis win his fourth long-jump gold, and Haile Gebrselassie, one of the greatest distance runners of all time, take the 10,000 meters. The last event was the marathon, which started and finished on the track. After the start, the crowd followed the action on a JumboTron TV. The stadium erupted when the three lead runners came off the city streets and onto the oval for an epic fight to the end and the closest marathon finish in Olympic history. I left the stadium in awe of what I’d seen and inspired to train harder, push myself farther, and seek out bigger challenges.
Not long after the Olympics, I turned on the television to watch the Discovery Channel’s Eco-Challenge, a five-part series about a three-hundred-mile, nine-day team adventure race in the backcountry of British Columbia. The opening footage was of snow-covered peaks and fast-moving rivers, set to a slow aboriginal drumbeat and wavering eagle-bone-flute music. Eco-Challenge founder and producer Mark Burnett would use the same kind of introduction when he went on to create Survivor for CBS four years later. Slow-motion shots showed competitors pushing themselves to the limit as they rappelled, rafted, cycled, and ran through the wilderness. And a member of the First Nation Lillooet tribe spoke in his melodic native tongue, with this voice-over translation:
“Push yourself until the pain comes, until you feel you cannot survive, and then go on. Here the ego will let go, here you will be purified.”
I felt as if he were talking directly to me.
That episode and the ones that aired the next four nights riveted me. What those competitors were putting themselves through—the danger, the exhaustion, the breakdowns, the puking, the disorientation, the fear, and the sleep deprivation—it looked like absolute hell. Sold.
I requested an entry form for the next event, which was being held in Australia in mid-1997. But when it came in the mail, I discovered you could register only if you had previous adventure-racing experience—and paid part of a $10,000 team entry fee. I could come up with the money, but the experience requirement was a problem. I had never ridden a mountain bike, been in a kayak, or rappelled off a cliff. And I had never navigated anything other than my way home from the gym or the grocery store—and that hadn’t always gone so well. I could run and swim, and I had proven many times that I could go for days without sleep, even without chemicals in my bloodstream, but if I was going to compete in one of those races, I had a lot to learn.
I bought a mountain bike and started riding the trails near my house. I studied books about map and compass navigation. I went kayaking a few times and eventually figured out how to stop the thing from spinning around in circles. Clearly, though, I needed some expert help. I found an Eco-Challenge four-day training camp in Los Angeles, but the week after I signed up, it was canceled.
I had to put my adventure-racing ambitions on hold then because the hail season had begun. I hit the road, setting up jobs and shutting them down when the damaged cars stopped coming in. I filled my limited time off with running and AA meetings and, when I was home, hanging out with my boys.
Though I was making good money, the pressure of running my own business started to feel overwhelming. Eventually, I decided to partner with a large dent-repair company in St. Louis. Pam wasn’t happy about moving again, but she agreed it was for the best.
One day not long after our move, I was reading a magazine and I noticed an ad for the Presidio Adventure Racing Academy in San Francisco. They were holding a camp for aspiring racers, coached by elite competitors. I signed up that day.
- - - -
Twenty of us gathered late in the afternoon for orientation in an
old Army building in the Presidio, overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge. Among us were two San Francisco–area cops, a firefighter, a navy fighter-jet pilot, and several type A businessmen. I got the sense as we chatted that most were there because they thought the camp sounded like a cool way to spend a long weekend. A few thought they might try some short local races. Not me. I was there to become a bona fide adventure racer. I couldn’t wait to push myself to the kind of extreme limits I had seen on TV. I felt certain it would be powerful and life altering and illuminating—and would scrape away that last scuzzy layer of my past.
After we signed a long release form, we were welcomed by the director of the academy, Captain Duncan Smith, a charismatic, square-jawed retired Navy SEAL and ex–investment banker. Smith had been a top finisher in the Raid Gauloises, the world’s premier adventure race, which was held annually in different remote corners of the world. After his introductory remarks, he told us to grab a jacket and a headlamp. Our first task would be a navigation hike in the woods above the Army base. I practically jumped out of my chair with excitement. I couldn’t wait to get started. Climbing that trail in the dark, with the smell of the ocean and the eucalyptus trees in the damp, cool air, I felt I was right where I was supposed to be.
My primary instructor was Michael Lucero, one of the racers I’d watched in the Eco-Challenge British Columbia broadcast, who was also a successful hip-hop music video producer. In our first classroom session the next morning, he drummed into us the importance of choosing your team wisely. Watch out for muscle-head warrior types, he said. One of his teammates in British Columbia had been a yahoo who listed as a hobby “boar hunting with a knife.” Soon after the race started, he dropped out.
“Remember,” he said, “you are only as fast as your slowest team member.”
We spent several hours learning how to use compasses and altimeters, discussing group dynamics, and taking notes on practicalities such as how to seal a flapping blister with Super Glue, how to duct tape your nipples to prevent chafing, and, my personal favorite, how to use a condom as an emergency water bottle.
“Go with unlubricated,” he advised, trying to keep a straight face. “No aftertaste.”
Michael mentioned that he had a team entered in the upcoming Raid Gauloises, which this year was being held in Ecuador. I decided that I had to get on his squad. I started dropping not-so-subtle hints to him about how much I wanted to do that race. It was ridiculous to think I might have a shot at joining his team—it was as if I expected to win a starting position on a Super Bowl team without having played a single peewee football game. But my desire to do it made me bold.
On the second day of camp, I was paired in a kayaking exercise with Austin Murphy, a senior writer on assignment for Sports Illustrated. After an hour of drills, the group paddled out into San Francisco Bay, fighting chop, headwinds, and a powerful ebb tide. We whooped as we made our way under the Golden Gate. The Pacific was wide-open to us. Then we realized that we’d all paddled into the path of a massive Hanjin container ship. The freighter narrowly missed us, but its wake flipped several of the kayaks like bath toys. The Coast Guard had to rescue them. Somehow, Austin and I had stayed calm and kept our boat upright. I hoped Michael had noticed.
Later, we were divided into groups of five for a twenty-four-hour practice race. We would start on Angel Island for the hiking/running leg, then we would kayak across the bay in the dark and finish on mountain bikes in Mount Tamalpais State Park. Physically, my team was tough, but we had little confidence in our orienteering skills. We agreed that I might be the least lousy at navigation, so I became the compass handler and de facto leader.
Michael shadowed us to ensure our safety. I had learned from him that the navigator must make firm decisions. Confidence was key.
We got through the hiking leg fine, then we did okay in the kayaks—despite the fog and strong currents. Somehow, I got us to Sausalito, where we would be getting on bikes. As the sky started to lighten, I spread the map on the ground, placed the compass on the map, and tried to get my bearings.
“That way,” I said.
Michael gave me a slight smile. I interpreted this as approval of my decision. It was not.
We started pedaling. Periodically, we stopped so I could look at the compass. During one of these breaks, Michael suggested that I take a few minutes to be certain about where we were. I felt something was off. Once more, I got out the map and the compass. This was strange; we seemed to have exited the map. I looked at my compass and at Michael. Then it hit me. I reached down, picked up the compass, and spun it around. It had been upside down. Michael grinned at me and nodded.
“Shit,” I said.
My team laughed and I had to laugh, too. We turned around and pedaled back onto the map. Despite our detour, our team finished second. Michael even complimented me on my leadership and teamwork. I went home fired up about my performance, in love with adventure racing—and convinced that I had found my calling.
Later, Michael and I talked on the phone and I told him again how much I wanted to do the Ecuador race. He was polite and said I had great “potential.” That was not what I wanted to hear. Still, I kept training. I focused on becoming a better navigator, especially while kayaking and biking. I spoke to Michael a few more times, telling him all the things I had been working on. He remained noncommittal. I hoped he’d come around, that he’d call one day soon and tell me I was in.
Then, in early May, I got terrible news. On his way to a race in Colorado, Michael Lucero had been killed in a car accident. I couldn’t believe that someone so strong and fearless was gone. How senseless and unfair. I could only imagine how devastated his family was.
With a heavy heart, I continued to train. About six weeks after Michael’s death, I got a call from Tony Green, one of Michael’s Raid teammates. He said that Michael had been impressed with me, but didn’t think I was ready for the Raid. Still, they needed to fill Michael’s slot with a fifth team member right away. Did I want to do it? Without hesitation, I said yes. It wasn’t how I wanted to get on my first team, but I felt sure Michael would have urged me to go. I said a silent thank-you to him and vowed to make him proud. Then I pictured him giving me a nod and saying, “Be careful what you wish for.”
- - - -
I had planned to sleep on the flight from San Francisco to Quito, Ecuador, but had been too amped up to even close my eyes. It had been a dizzying couple of months. I’d completed certification courses in sea kayaking, canoeing, and white-water rafting; practiced ice climbing with cleats and mountaineering in roped progression; and taken the requisite hours of riding lessons—even though horses scared the hell out of me. I’d gotten vaccinations and filled our den with piles of new gear. I’d also undergone a hypoxia test to determine if I was prone to altitude sickness. I wasn’t: excellent news, since one stage of the race required scaling Mount Cotopaxi, a 19,347-foot active volcano.
The baggage claim was swarming with Raid Gauloises participants in team jackets, shouting at each other in languages I didn’t understand. The Raid had been started by a French journalist and most of the forty-nine teams were European. My team was known as Team Charles Schwab thanks to being underwritten by the brokerage firm. We elbowed into the throng as a steady stream of backpacks, duffel bags, and huge plastic trunks started moving along the conveyer belt.
Tony was our team captain. Though his orienteering skills were limited to what he had learned many years ago as an Air Force Academy student, he still had the best credentials to be our navigator. The rest of the team included Scott Williams, a former all-American collegiate swimmer who coached a top masters swim team in San Francisco; Steve Hilts, a superb kayaker who worked for a vegetable packing company; and Nancy Bristow, a mountain guide and Mammoth Mountain ski patroller. Steve and Nancy were highly accomplished adventure racers. Tony and Scott were almost as green as I was.
We also had a two-man support cre
w, who would handle our equipment during the race and take care of us at transition points: Rolf Dengler, a former US Navy diver and ex–New York nightclub bouncer whom I had met when he worked at the Presidio Adventure Racing Academy; and Kurt Lawrence, Scott’s easygoing, athletic brother-in-law. The last member of Team Schwab was Rebecca Ranson: my mother.
After running it by my teammates, I had asked my mother if she wanted to accompany us to Ecuador as our team reporter. Raid organizers encouraged journalists to follow teams. My mom was a great writer and had always talked about traveling to exotic places. I was sure she would jump at the chance. I warned her that we wouldn’t have much time together. She’d be traveling by truck and I’d see her only at race transition points. She’d probably be wet and cold and miserable—and the altitude could be a problem. I also told her that she might be seeing me in distress.
“Remember how upset you got when I went into shock after the Napa Valley Marathon?” I asked her. “There could be that kind of thing—or worse.”
She promised me she would be all right and said she had been craving a challenge. I was happy I could offer her this opportunity and that she would get to see me doing something big. I also hoped this might motivate her to get healthy. I had been trying for years to get her to quit smoking and start exercising. We planned to meet at the Raid headquarters hotel in Ibarra, forty-five miles outside Quito, in time for the pre-race orientation.
Earlier in the week, I’d said good-bye to Pam and the boys. I felt guilty leaving them; we were getting ready to move again—this time from St. Louis to the Monterey Peninsula, where I was going to go back into business for myself. Pam would be handling the boys and the movers by herself. She didn’t complain. I knew she was excited for me—and much preferred this version of her husband to the one she had lived with before I got sober. But I felt uneasy as I drove to the airport. I’d left my family many times—for work, for marathons—but this time, I was intentionally putting myself at risk in a way I hadn’t since I had gotten sober. In recovery, I’d built a safe and comfortable life. I had two great kids, a nice house, and a supportive wife. Why didn’t that feel like enough?
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