It was a schizophrenic existence—renegade extreme athlete on one hand, corporate loyalist on the other—but I was willing to do whatever it took, and I spent the balance of a year largely concealing my behavior from co-workers. Running was a passion; work paid the rent and Julie’s dental-school bills. There would be no sacrificing my “company man” reputation for running. So I downplayed my running, uneasy that others might interpret an extracurricular interest of this intensity as a softening of my devotion to the company. A kink in the corporate armament.
Yet in my heart, my devotions were indeed shifting. Completing the Western States Endurance Run had become a goal as meaningful to me as any other in my life. Never before had I been so challenged by a single pursuit. Nor had I ever been so captivated and engaged. The training continued more fervently than ever, and I continued treading the delicate line between recklessness and responsibility, never letting on how much time and effort were being poured into this single dream.
Because of the demands of my work schedule, I trained primarily alone. It was too difficult to coordinate with other athletes, and training solo was actually enjoyable. Although I generally kept to myself about my running, I was beginning to get something of a “hell-man” reputation among my closest friends and colleagues who knew about my behavior. It’s difficult to keep such obsessions completely under wraps. Many of my nearest acquaintances were convinced that I was losing it, and subtly my circle of friends began to shift. My interests had changed, and I started meeting other ultra-athletes, like Pete Athens, who could empathize with my plight and who ultimately provided the inspiration for me to pursue my dream with total commitment.
Pete had scaled Mount Everest an unprecedented seven times, and he was preparing for his next expedition. No other Westerner had matched this feat. Though tougher than an ox, Pete was one of the most unassuming and humble individuals I’d ever met. His years of living so close to the edge had left him with a shaman-like wisdom.
In talking with Pete, it became clear to me that the Western States Endurance Run would be primarily about one thing: not giving up. It really didn’t matter how long it took to get the job done; what mattered was getting it done. This was an exploration into the possibilities of self. Being a champion meant not quitting, no matter how tough the situation became, and no matter how badly the odds seemed stacked against you. If you had the courage, stamina, and persistence to cross the finish line, you were a champion.
The one dynamic that never got discussed with Pete was the question of “Why?” Why did he feel compelled to scale the highest mountains? What, exactly, was going on inside his head?
For that matter, what was going on inside mine?
For me, I knew, running great distances was a release; and, on some level, my boundless energy needed an outlet. The average obsessive-compulsive takes seven years to get help. The average runner covers 10,920 miles in that time. Whether my affliction was clinical is anyone’s guess; I never did submit to testing. Some seek the comfort of their therapist’s office, others head for the corner pub and dive into a pint, but I choose running as my therapy. It was the best source of renewal there was. I couldn’t recall a single time that I felt worse after a run than before. What drug could compete? As Lily Tomlin said, “Exercise is for people who can’t handle drugs and alcohol.”
I’d also come to recognize that the simplicity of running was quite liberating. Modern man has virtually everything one could desire, but too often we’re still not fulfilled. “Things” don’t bring happiness. Some of my finest moments came while running down the open road, little more than a pair of shoes and shorts to my name. A runner doesn’t need much. Thoreau once said that a man’s riches are based on what he can do without. Perhaps in needing less, you’re actually getting more.
But this goes way beyond running. There are deeper forces at play, darker and mysterious elements that are not so easily articulated.
When you get right down to it, the answer to “Why?” is a complex one. Why do people drink? Gamble? Fall in love? Short of psychoanalysis, I’m not sure how to get at these answers. Why my thing is running, I’m not certain. Plenty of people are discontent with their lives, but not many come to the conclusion that running for twenty-four hours straight will solve the problem.
Clearly it wasn’t for the glory that I ran. The Western States Endurance Run was unknown to the general public. Unlike a typical big-city marathon or 10K, there would be no cheering fans lining the course, no corporate logos plastered along the way. At the Western States, I would spend most of my time running alone in the mountains, far removed from the fanfare and hype of a typical organized athletic event.
Why was I so compelled to push beyond all plausible limits of physical endurance to complete an endeavor that seemed so obscure and, some might say, irrational? I wasn’t entirely sure myself. It’s not that extreme athletes lack introspection; most whom I’ve encountered are quite reflective. It’s just that the question of “Why?” is not a simple one to answer. The mechanics involved are complicated.
More often than not, the person asking “Why?” is looking for a brief psychobabble cliché to adequately explain the phenomenon, something like: “I run because when I was a kid, my father chased me out of the house and down the street with a belt in hand.”
To those who asked me “Why?” I would frequently offer up some shallow explanation like “I enjoy running.” What I guess I should have said was, “Go out and run fifty miles, then you’ll have your answer.”
Because I was still searching for mine.
Chapter 7
Over the Mountains and Through the Woods
Adventure is worthwhile in itself.
—Amelia Earhart
Lake Tahoe Summer 1994
My mind was spinning during the days leading up to the Western States Endurance Run. Did I train hard enough? Should I have done more hill work? Damn, I forgot to submit that expense report. What was that odd sensation in my quad muscle? Wasn’t that budget due tomorrow?
But then everything that was extraneous started to fade before the event itself. All of the external clutter, hurry, and noise started to melt away, and a radiant clarity began to emerge. With that came a singularity of purpose that is rarely experienced in our busy world. There are accounts of mountain climbers who encountered similar feelings. While preparing for the expedition, their mood was often frantic and disjointed. But once on the mountain, a lucid focus emerged out of the chaos. There was one clearly defined goal: making it to the summit.
One either made it to the top of the mountain or failed. Simple as that.
Life is rarely so neatly defined. Goals are often ambiguous and elusive. Seldom do people know exactly what is required of them to succeed. Often we think we’re moving in the right direction only to learn that the rules have changed.
As daunting as it would be to run for twenty to thirty hours straight, at least I knew what was expected of me. There would be a starting line, and 100 miles from that a finish line. All I needed to do was run from here to there. No ambiguity about it. “We are at home in our games because it is the only place we know just what we are supposed to do,” Albert Camus once said.
Although the task seemed incredibly difficult, at least the rules of engagement were clear. There were no hidden meanings or mixed messages. Just run, and don’t stop. If I made it 100 miles, I’d succeed. If I didn’t, I’d fail.
The Western States medical check-in
This revelation was going through my head as the medical assistant took my vitals. Medical check-in for the Western States takes place the day before the race. It was mandatory for all participants to have their weight and vital signs recorded. The information is printed on a hospital cuff that’s attached to the runner’s wrist. It cannot be removed until he or she either finishes the race or drops out from exhaustion (or is helevac’ed out by emergency rescue services).
The check-in was conducted at the base of the Squaw Valley ski resort. The scene was abuzz wit
h energy as runners and crew scurried around making last-minute preparations for the race. Squaw Valley was the site of the 1960 Winter Olympic Games, and a regal aura still surrounds the resort. The Olympic torch is kept burning at the entrance. Everything at Squaw Valley looms larger than life. The trees are huge, the peaks massive, the Olympic rings are two stories high, and the flame of the torch burns like a bonfire surrounded by towering mountain ridges in every direction.
As you stand at the race check-in area, the bulk of the horizon is defined by colossal granite spires. To the east is KT-22 at 8,200 feet. Directly in your face is Squaw Peak at 8,900 feet. Slightly to the west is Emigrant Pass at 8,700. And Granite Chief commands the western skyline at 9,050 feet above sea level. It’s an awesome sight to watch the gondola whisk up the steep cables toward the snow-covered cornice off in the heavens.
“That’s where we go, you know,” a voice resonated from behind me.
I turned to see a brawny man of about fifty staring up at the mountain through a pair of aviator sunglasses.
“Pardon me?” I said.
“That’s where we go tomorrow,” he said with a grin. I saw the hospital cuff around his wrist.
“You mean we run up to the top of the chairlift?” I asked.
“Hey-diddle-diddle, right up the middle,” he said cheerfully. “It’s a full frontal attack. We start here at the base, run right up the guts of this valley, traverse that ridge,” he explained, pointing up at the ridge that defined the western horizon. “And then we crest the summit and start down the backside.”
It seemed like a cruel way to start a 100-mile footrace. Just running the four miles from the base of the mountain to the summit would be brutal. The pitch of this four-mile climb was nearly straight up in certain sections—not to mention the distress of high altitude, with the summit looming some 9,000 feet above sea level. The air would be thin, and the footing would be a lousy mixture of loose rocks, melting snow, and thick mud.
“The name’s Rock.” He held out his hand. “At least that’s what my friends call me.”
I introduced myself.
“This your first States, son?” Rock asked.
I nodded slowly. “How could you tell?”
“That’s easy.” He lifted his shirt to reveal a shining silver belt buckle. It was beautifully ornate, with a golden cougar highlighted in the middle. Printed on it were the words: 100 MILES, ONE DAY. Like everything else around here, the buckle was huge.
“You’re not wearing one of these,” Rock went on, “and you look damn capable, so I figured you’d have one of these bad boys if you’d done the race before.”
That was a fine compliment. To earn the Silver Buckle, you not only had to complete the course, but do it in under twenty-four hours. The silver belt-buckle prize was a carryover from the event’s humble beginnings as a horse race. It was arguably the most cherished endurance running award on the planet. Only a portion of the starters tomorrow would earn one.
Two other runners strolled up and stopped abruptly in front of Rock.
“Sir!” they barked.
Rock turned to them slowly. “Hello, boys,” he said with a wide grin. They nodded to him sharply and then turned and continued on their path.
It was the pair who’d passed me on Lovers’ Lane and inadvertently introduced me to this sport. We had met at the top of Lovers’ Lane, exchanged pleasantries at the fifty-mile qualifying run (at least I had said hello), and here again they’d ignored me. I was beginning to feel more insulted by these guys. It must’ve shown on my face.
“Don’t mind them,” Rock said. “They’re just doing their job.”
“And just what job is that?” I asked.
“Well . . .” Rock hesitated. “Let’s just say they’re in the military.”
“So they can’t introduce themselves?”
“Well . . .” Rock paused again. “Let’s just say they’re in a special kind of military. And they can’t introduce themselves. Actually, they could, but they’d just give you an alias, so what’s the difference?”
“You mean to tell me they can’t even acknowledge my presence?” I smirked. “How they gonna make any friends acting like that?”
Rock grinned. “They already have all the friends they need, each other. Everybody else is considered a potential enemy.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Don’t take it personally. It’s just how they’re trained to think.”
Rock grasped my shoulder firmly. “Listen, stay focused on the task at hand. Don’t get distracted by those other guys. You’re not competing against anyone but yourself. I want to see you at that finish line with a buckle in hand.”
“Yes, sir!” I barked.
Rock smiled.
My parents volunteered to help crew for me during the run and had made the nine-hour drive up from Southern California. The Western States Endurance Run would be an adventure for all three of us. Unfortunately, Julie couldn’t be with us because her State Dental Board examinations fell on the same weekend. These tests would be the final hurdle in her quest to become a licensed dentist. She had been nothing but supportive of my own quest, and I had made my best attempt to be equally supportive of her dream to become a dentist. But this time there was, unfortunately, no alternative but for her to do her thing and me mine.
I met my parents in the lobby of the Inn at Squaw Creek, a beautiful resort at the base of the mountain. After my sister’s death a decade before, our get-togethers could sometimes be strained. There were so many feelings, so many thoughts that were never expressed. But now, standing in this grand foyer with the mountains surrounding us, we were at ease with one another as we chuckled at the opulence of the surroundings, which seemed so incongruous with the journey I was about to embark on the next morning.
The full extent of my reborn passion for running had not been obvious to my parents until this meeting. News about my running came to them in sporadic phone calls and brief mentions in letters I wrote. We didn’t spend as much time together as we should have. But now, as they saw me fit and focused, perpetually sipping from a water bottle, the scope of my transformation was evident.
“You look great,” my dad said enthusiastically.
My mom smiled. “This is so exciting.”
A black-tie event was taking place at the Inn, and elegant women and tuxedoed men filled the lobby. It was an older crowd, perhaps the retirement party of some elder statesman or local dignitary. A little stiff for my liking, but fun to watch from a distance. Suddenly, there was a deafening roar just outside the building. A woman shrieked and dropped her martini. The crowd went into a conniption, people scurried left and right, not sure whether to stay put or flee. I looked out and saw a huge green Humvee pull up to the front of the hotel. The thing was massive and roared like a tank. It was caked with mud and had a wheelbase that could easily have swallowed two or three of the nearby Jaguars.
The driver swung open the door and jumped down to the parking lot. He was dressed in a leather pilot’s jacket—and running shorts. His legs were like gnarled tree stumps. He opened the passenger door and hauled out an alligator-skin briefcase. Then he reached behind the seat and pulled out a big rifle. And I mean a big rifle. He slung this over his shoulder and, with the engine still thundering at idle, strolled up to the reservation counter as though nothing were amiss. He rested one elbow on the countertop and chatted with the young receptionist. She said something that made him throw back his head and laugh—though you could barely hear him over his rumbling H1. She handed him his room key, and he walked casually down the lavish hallway, rifle and all.
Eventually one of the valets drove the vehicle off.
“That was one hell of an entrance,” my dad said.
“I wonder what he’ll do for an encore,” I replied.
Later, we enjoyed a nice dinner on the patio. The night air was warm and still, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Weather tomorrow would be a major factor, especially in the deep canyons
along the middle of the course, where midday temperatures could easily hit triple digits. Along the course would be a series of aid stations and checkpoints, but most would be little more than a few guys handing out water and encouragement. Most runners carry food and liquid with them, an added burden but necessary to remain hydrated and nourished. Crunching a few pieces of ice on the patio that evening, I relished a luxury that would be in short supply the next day.
Sleep didn’t come easy that night. I tossed and turned and was wide awake when the alarm went off at 3:00 A.M. My parents were soon stumbling around the room half-asleep, helping me go down my checklist:➤ Fill water bottles
➤ Put on sunscreen
➤ Band-Aid nipples (to prevent chafing)
➤ Sprinkle baby powder on the feet (to prevent blistering)
➤ Drink eight glasses of water (to superhydrate)
➤ Take 1,000 mg of vitamin C (no particular reason, just seemed prudent)
➤ Apply lubricant to critical areas
➤ Prepare fanny pack with food and supplies
That done, my parents went into the bathroom—trying to wake up, I presumed—until music filled the room. The theme to Zorba the Greek shook the walls, and my folks burst out in makeshift hotel-towel togas. They started Greek-dancing across the room and over the bed, whirling and cheering with zeal. I jumped into the fray, and the three of us danced like kids at our first pajama party. At the conclusion we let out a collective “Oppa!” It was the Greek version of reveille.
When we arrived at the starting area, a pancake breakfast was in full swing. It felt odd sitting in a crowded cafeteria at 3:30 in the morning, mowing down a tall stack of pancakes like it was the corner IHOP on a busy Saturday morning. The peculiarity of the setting didn’t dampen my appetite, however, and I scarfed down several mounds. Other runners filed nervously in and out. The coffee was black and thick as motor oil: perfect.
Ultramarathon Man Page 7