Ultramarathon Man

by Dean Karnazes

  Until Gaylord passed me.

  “Where’d you come from?” I shouted.

  “That doesn’t much matter, Karno. All that matters is that I’m in front of you!” he crowed.

  That was it. I began sprinting after him, and we hobbled down the highway like a pair of geriatric patients trying to reach the bathroom first. It was insanity to be running so hard at this stage of the game. Then again, none of the events over the past two days seemed particularly sane.

  “Okay, gentlemen,” my wife chided as she pulled up to us on Gaylord’s bike. “Let’s come to our senses.”

  “He started it,” I whined.

  “But he kept it going,” Gaylord whined back.

  “Now, children,” Julie interrupted, “keep it together. We’re almost done.”

  She rode along behind us on Gaylord’s bike, keeping close tabs.

  “Honey,” I asked sweetly. “Did you happen to bring any food?”

  “I found this bag of pretzels sitting on the counter.”

  “Hey, those are mine!” Gaylord protested.

  “No way!” I slammed back. “Once it enters the Mother Ship, it’s community property.”

  “Whose rules are those?” he questioned.

  “I just made it up right now, but it sounds pretty good.”

  “Enough, you two,” Julie weighed in. “Neither of you will get anything if you keep acting like this.”

  Gaylord made it about another mile. His fortitude totally impressed me, and I was grateful for every step he had taken by my side. The kid was tough, all right, with a spirit that didn’t seem easily broken. He had the makings of an ultra-endurance runner. I hoped he would pursue it, because I now saw the value of having the right training partner. Misery loves company.

  He and Julie climbed aboard the Mother Ship and it drove off, leaving me running alone, and largely no longer at the controls. My body was now on autopilot. At moments like these, the slightest physical or mental countercurrent can have seriously debilitating consequences. It becomes critical to believe in your ability to keep going, even if all indications are to the contrary. And all indications began turning to the contrary. I looked down to discover my quadriceps radically engorged and my calves bulging wildly. Sweat streamed down my face. Another meltdown seemed imminent.

  The meltdown/euphoria cycle had become so compressed that it was now nearly impossible to distinguish between the two, as if some third mutant state of emotion had polymerized. However I wanted to characterize it, it wasn’t good. I was losing control of my body and, worse, my mind. Two days of running was doing weird things to me.

  Until I looked up and spotted the blue Pacific on the horizon. The beach was near. Santa Cruz was drawing me in. I thought of the times Pary and I had sat at our kitchen window and looked out at the ocean, and I was suddenly infused with hope. A hundred and ninety-five miles down, five to go.

  Somewhere inside I found the fortitude to ignore the physical deterioration and keep placing one foot in front of the other. I willed myself to do so, blocking out all extraneous input and listening only to my heart.

  A party was in full progress as I limped up to the final relay exchange station. With just one short leg left, many teams were already celebrating the finish. People danced by the side of the road to loud music. As I drew closer, two of the dancers looked familiar. Holy shit, was that my mom and dad . . . doing the macarena?

  It was. The sight of my dad hip-swinging and hand-jiving with a loony grin on his sunburned mug was mortifying. Where did he learn to move like that? I felt a great sense of urgency to run on as quickly as possible.

  “Aren’t you going to stop?” Julie asked from the curbside.

  “Are you kidding?” I responded. “Do you see that over there?”

  “Yeah,” she smiled. “Your folks have lost it.”

  “Aren’t there laws against things like that?”

  “We’re in Santa Cruz. They could be dancing naked and no one would give a hoot.”

  “Let’s not give them any ideas.”

  “Sure you don’t want anything?” she chuckled.

  I gave her a peck on the cheek. “For those two to stop dancing would be good.”

  “Can’t help you there,” she said, smiling. “We’ll see you at the finish, Team Dean.”

  Chapter 17

  Run for the Future

  You only live once, but if you work it right,

  once is enough.

  —Joe Louis

  Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk Sunday afternoon, October 1, 2000

  The last 4.7 miles were considered flat and easy—relative to some of the other legs of the route. But after 195 miles of running, nothing seemed particularly flat and easy to me. Where did this zest to keep going come from?

  Running has taught me that the pursuit of a passion matters more than the passion itself. Immerse yourself in something deeply and with heartfelt intensity—continually improve, never give up—this is fulfillment, this is success.

  Running into Santa Cruz, I was wholly fulfilled. Most people never get there. They’re afraid or unwilling to demand enough of themselves and take the easy road, the path of least resistance. But struggling and suffering, as I now saw it, were the essence of a life worth living. If you’re not pushing yourself beyond the comfort zone, if you’re not constantly demanding more from yourself—expanding and learning as you go—you’re choosing a numb existence. You’re denying yourself an extraordinary trip.

  As a running buddy once said to me: Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming: “WOW!! What a ride!”

  Endurance running was my passion, my ride. So here I was, in the driver’s seat, running for two days straight, pushing the mental and physical limits, striving to be better, to go farther, to give more. Excelling at my craft meant breaking through psychological barriers and having the guts and resolve to keep trying, even in the face of inexorable pain and menacing hopelessness.

  It had been terrifying facing this challenge, there’s no denying it. Standing in Calistoga two days ago, I had shuddered with apprehension over an undertaking that could easily obliterate me. Yet I grappled with my fears, stepped over the edge, and engaged in the battle; and forty-six hours later I was still standing. In the world of Team Dean, it’s as good as it gets.

  Until a delivery truck nearly ran me down.

  “Look out, you crazy-ass runner! Watch where you’re going!” the driver shouted out the window.

  But I was in a crosswalk. I just smiled, however, and waved, incapable of anger. My blood-endorphin level was too high for me to be irritated by something so minor as being run over by a truck.

  It was nearing three in the afternoon, and the sun shone brightly overhead as the course wove through the streets of downtown Santa Cruz. A few pedestrians and shoppers waved encouragement, but most had no idea a race was in progress. How funny I must appear, beat to hell and gleaming with sweat, running down the street like Pheidippides—the original Greek ultrarunner—trying to deliver news to Athens about the victory on the Plain of Marathon. Only we weren’t in ancient Greece; we were in the shopping district of Santa Cruz.

  With a mile and a half left, the road intersected a popular footpath above the beach. It was crowded with beachgoers, dog-walkers, tourists. I’d moved well beyond runner’s high at this point and casually floated along, beaming at the sunlit scene, entirely weightless from the neck down. How it was that a person who’d just run 198 miles could be feeling no pain was inexplicable.

  With 1 mile left, my heart started racing—with joy now, not overexertion. There was no containing my elation, and I began sprinting at top speed.

  The footpath continued to parallel the beach on the bluff above. Off in the distance I spotted the famous roller coaster of the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, the amusement park that marked the end of the course. Tearin
g toward the finish, I wove wildly among the surfers with their boards and the errant beachball or two. People let out small hoots and praises as I blasted by, but their faces were just smiling blurs.

  The roller coaster drew nearer. I ran toward it. A chute of well-wishers had assembled along the footpath and down to the official finish line on the beach. Other runners studied me quietly, appraising me as I came bounding in, seemingly unsure of how to respond to a man who just spent two days running.

  “How ’bout a little cheer?” I goaded the crowd. “I just ran from Calistoga.”

  They went berserk.

  As I hit the final stretch of beach, my family and Gaylord joined hands with me and we all crossed the finish line together as a team, just the way I had hoped. If my sister could have seen me, I knew that she would be smiling. I couldn’t have been any happier.

  What had begun as a jog through the Napa Valley forty-six hours and seventeen minutes earlier had ended with a dream coming true. Miraculously, I’d covered the last mile in under six minutes—a pace that I’d find strenuous even on fresh legs. Standing proud at that finish line, I oddly wasn’t even winded.

  In the ensuing pandemonium, a young child was placed before me. Her dark brown eyes were wide and beaming. I instantly recognized little Libby Wood. Her mother placed her in my arms, and I cradled her fragile body. Although the doctors had said she was nearing death, to me she looked like she was filled with life.

  Holding Libby Wood at the finish

  “We’re so thankful for what you’ve done,” her mother said.

  “I’m so happy we could meet here, this is wonderful.”

  “Team Dean,” a reporter called out, “would you mind turning around for the cameras?”

  The barrage of flashing cameras scared Libby, and she twisted and squirmed in my arms with amazing strength.

  “She’s going to be a runner,” I announced, trying to keep her from wiggling free.

  Someone put a medal around my neck, and they snapped some more pictures of us together. Then the questions began:Q: “Did you sleep?”

  A: “Just once, but it wasn’t very restful.” (I didn’t mention that I was running at the time.)

  Q: “What did you eat?”

  A: “Anything I could get my hands on.”

  Q: “Where did you go to the bathroom?”

  A: “In the bushes. I looked for dry ones that needed watering.”

  Q: “What kept you going?”

  A: “This little future runner right here.”

  I held up Libby, who was smiling but still kicking away. The crowded laughed.

  Like me, Libby had a wonderful family to support her on her journey. They had all come to Santa Cruz—aunts, uncles, grandparents—and the bunch of us spent the rest of the afternoon celebrating together and cheering like crazy as the other teams came running in. We promised to meet up here again next year—a pledge we devoutly hoped Libby would be able to keep. But the sad fact was that the odds were stacked against her.

  As the sun began to set and the crowds drifted away, Alexandria took my hand and said, “Daddy, can we go now?”

  “Of course we can, dear.” I was sweaty, filthy, and light-years beyond exhaustion, dreaming of a bath and bed.

  Then she enthusiastically proclaimed: “Look at all the tickets we’ve got!” She was clutching a full deck of amusement-park tickets in her hands.

  My legs after running 200 miles

  “Where did you get all those?”

  “Dr. Shapiro gave them to us.”

  “That Dr. Shapiro,” I mumbled under my breath, “what a guy.”

  “What, Dad?”

  “I said . . . ‘That . . . rollercoaster, what a ride!’” I turned to Julie. “Hey, Mom, coming with us?”

  “You kidding?” she replied. “I’m going to sleep in the campervan.”

  “Where are the folks?”

  “Asleep in the campervan.”

  “Gaylord?”

  “Asleep in the campervan.”

  “Come on, kids,” I perked. “Last one to the rollercoaster rides in back!”

  The three of us went sprinting toward the Boardwalk, fistful of tickets in hand. No time to waste resting; one endurance event had just ended, and another had just begun. I loved it. What better way to spend our Sunday evening; what more fitting conclusion to a glorious weekend. Brutalized, hobbling, and running from one ride to the next on sheer adrenaline, I was the happiest man on earth.

  By 7:45 the next morning, I was back at my desk, preparing for our weekly eight o’clock meeting. There was a lightness in my step this morning, even though it had taken me three attempts to drag my battered body out of my car. Luckily our offices were on the ground floor; stairs would have presented an insurmountable obstacle. It would take months to fully recover from the run, but it was a good hurt.

  I was now working in the marketing department of a software company. Ron from the research department approached my desk. “Can you help me move these tables around? I’ve got a client coming in at nine.”

  “Sure.” I pried myself up entirely by arm strength.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Yeah, just a little sore.”

  “Weekend-warrior syndrome?”

  “You could say that.”

  Back to work the next morning

  “Softball? I threw my back out a couple weeks ago playing a game.”

  “Actually, I did it running.”

  “That’ll do it. My doctor told me not to run. It’s tough on the body.”

  “I’ll attest to that. But I can’t seem to give it up.”

  “Whatever flips your switch,” he said with a shrug.

  We moved the tables and I hobbled back to my desk. My fifteen minutes of fame were yesterday’s memory. Today I was back to Dean down the hall in the office second from the left. There was glory in running, but there would never be fame and fortune. I wouldn’t be giving up my day job anytime soon.

  Happiness, though, cannot be measured in monetary terms. My job paid the bills; my running satisfied a deeper passion. Limping into the weekly meeting, dehydrated, stiff, and on the verge of collapse, my heart was fulfilled. I couldn’t ask for anything more.

  Chapter 18

  The Gift of Life

  Runs end. Running doesn’t.

  —Unknown runner

  2000-2004

  A week after The Relay, a miracle occurred. Libby received her organ transplant. She had run the race of her life, and she had won.

  Playing a small role in helping to save Libby was one of the most enriching accomplishments of my life. If I could use my running to benefit others, it gave new meaning to the pursuit. I wanted to do more.

  I ran The Relay solo again the subsequent year, this time for a little boy named David Mehran who, like Libby, needed a liver transplant. Despite improbable odds, young David also received the gift of life a week after The Relay. I wanted to run more.

  The next challenge was even grander. Valeria Casterjon-Sanchez was just six weeks old and suffered from a failing heart. The probability of her surviving was very poor. My only recourse was to try harder, to push even farther. So after running 200 continuous miles to complete The Relay, I turned around and ran an additional marathon, making the entire journey 226.2 miles. My toughest challenge to date.

  Libby Wood, post-transplant

  A week passed after The Relay. No change. Two weeks passed, still nothing. Three weeks, only despair. The magic that had astounded us in previous years seemed gone. Valeria was slipping away.

  Then, on the fourth week after The Relay, it happened. Valeria received a new heart.

  That string of miraculous outcomes left me with an eerie sense of providence, as if it were somehow my calling to be involved. I’m not getting saccharine here, and believe me, I’d probably be running like a wildman no matter what, but thinking about my sister, and being able to help others, has given me a greater sense of purpose; it has allowed me to think of so
mething, someone other than myself, in what can often be a solitary and selfish sport.

  Yet there are no free rides. Just like the loneliness and desolation long-distance running can inflict upon a family, organ donation presents a similar conundrum. Dr. Shapiro, who has become a dear friend, once said to me, “The gift of life is always bittersweet,” meaning that with organ donation, for one life to be saved, another must slip away.

  The weight of this paradox troubled me for some time—until I met Greg Osterman. Greg exuded energy from every pore, as if each second of his life was a precious gift meant to be savored and lived to its fullest.

  We ran across the Golden Gate Bridge together, and I learned his story. Greg held the world record for the most marathons completed, post-heart transplant. He had finished a remarkable eight marathons after receiving a new heart, and he was gunning for more. Yet he hadn’t always been a runner—quite the opposite, actually.

  A commercial plumber, Greg led a sedentary life until age thirty-seven, when he was diagnosed with cardiomyopathy and eventually given only twenty-four hours to live. He received a new heart from an eighteen-year-old girl who was the victim of an automobile accident. Pary had died in an automobile accident on her eighteenth birthday.

  Greg is forever grateful to his donor and her family, and he has vowed to run eighteen marathons, one for each year of the life of the girl who saved his.

  The grieving family and loved ones of organ donors are often sustained by knowing that their loss has saved the life of another. Which ultimately made me wonder: Could Pary’s tragic death have saved someone else’s life? Organ donation wasn’t as widely practiced at the time of her death as it is now. But what if it had been? Could she have passed along the gift of life to someone else?