Ultra Running Imitates Art Imitates Life

-Ultra Running Imitates Art Imitates Life-

 

Driving home from the last of a pair of 50k’s aptly entitled “Rocks & Roots”, I let my thoughts wonder. In that euphoric, post-race state that only lasts a few hours (or until I crash into exhausted sleep), I often stumble upon significant questions, and, somewhat less frequently, answers.

After a much longer day on the trails than I had hoped for, missing my kiddos like crazy, I was ready to be home. My body ached in new places, I shivered as the breeze cut through my sweat-soaked clothes, and some kind of wild animal growled deep in my guts. Both my mental and physical capacities were fried. So it was a pleasure to let the natural high drift me off into the wonderland of my own head.

Race morning started out as near to perfect as I could ever hope for. I woke up early, had a great breakfast of eggs (sunny-side up), Angie-Bars (my wife’s awesome concoction) and a small glass of milk. My bags were all prepped from the night before. I was out the door uncharacteristically on-time, and pulled into the start/finish area with a full thirty minutes to shit, stage and stumble to the start.

My bib number was 34. Being the OCD-ified guy that I am, numbers are a thing with me. 7 and 11 are da bomb, and anything that reduces down to 7 or 11 is, well, the next best thing. 34 reduces to 7, so there you have it! A sign that my day was destined for greatness.

The day was unseasonably warm, with temps at the start already approaching thirty degrees! I was able to stage my drop-bag and do my bih-ness in the port-a-john without freezing my sexy (if not hairy) ass off.

I corrected a couple of mistakes I had made during the Jan edition of Rocks & Roots. First, I pre-opened a couple bottles of Pedialyte. That delicious sweat-juice works wonders on my always-slightly-dehydrated ass, but damn…those spill proof tabs are a pain! Fitzing around with those tabs cost me a good minute at each aid station stop during the first race. I was determined to keep my stops to under a minute each for this one. Also, I staged all my food in an orderly fashion right on top; grab-n-go style! In addition, I opted to carry an 8-ounce handheld flask of water, utilizing the two 8-ounce flasks in my vest for Coke and Pedialyte. This saved me from the necessity of stopping to procure these items for the entire race.

Interestingly, after a couple of last-minute gear adjustments and an unscheduled shit-stop, I still ended up rushing to the starting line. I missed the pre-race meeting all-together, leaving me a smidge worried. The January course was a 10k loop. The February route was ten miles, with all the additional stuff tacked on the end of the 10k trail. Theoretically I should be OK on the portion I’d been around five times previously (though I can and do get lost on the most well-marked trails). I galloped to the start, hoping there was nothing I had missed regarding tricky turns or intersections, or off-limits areas with wild boar or horrible vicious canids roaming in them.

Another adjustment I made from the Jan edition was to my pacing. For Race #1 I employed a much more aggressive pacing strategy, starting at a mid-range pace, and then working to go just a bit faster as the day progressed. For Race #2 I decided to stick with a consistent- and more moderate- pace throughout the day. I would rotate in sets of three miles.

Mile 1- 10:00

Mile 2- 9:30

Mile 3- 9:00

This point was rendered somewhat moot when I discovered, much to my chagrin, that my damn Garmin wasn’t going to cooperate again. This same phenomena occurred at the January race. I’m not sure why, but the Alum Creek woods seem to be a black hole where my GPS is concerned. It was able to track distance OK, but it just wouldn’t keep up with my pace. So I ran by feel as much as I could, doing the math as the miles beep-beep-beeped off.

I took the early start option again, so I cruised along all by my onsie for the first loop. I had that sluggish, tight, first-mile feeling…for about five miles. Though the temps were coming steadily up, much of the course was still covered in ice. Fortunately for this old man, daylight broke not long after the start.

Izabella, my beautiful daughter, continued her new tradition of giving me a small hair barrette to clip on my vest for good luck :) I gazed down at it often throughout the day- instant smile-maker!

At the 2.5 mile aid station I was surprised when the crew (many of whom worked the January race) proudly announced that they had coffee for me this time! I had requested a cup in January and they were so disappointed to not be able to offer it to me. They promised to have it next time. They even had lids so I got the added pleasure of not burning the shit out of myself as I stumbled along, drinking as I went. What an amazing crew! Thanks guys!

Coming in to the February edition of Rocks & Roots, I still held out hopes for a sub-5 hour finish. See my Rocks & Roots January Race Report if you care about reading any more about my 50k goals, as well as a bunch of much-deserved praise to Jeff Henderson and the entire Rocks & Roots crew for hosting two amazing events. As I took my first steps onto the new section of the course, around mile 6, I knew this was not an option. Not even a pipe dream. In fact, even my secondary goal of a PR (around 5:38) was probably out of the question. Why, you might ask, my dear brother’s and sister’s? I can sum it up in one word. Mud. Now allow me to embellish. Hellish, slickery fucking mud. I’m pretty sure that race RD, Jeff Henderson wanted to pay me back for the mud that Momma brings with her to Circleville every year at 50s For Yo Momma.

Practical goals of time being off the table, I settled in to have some fun playing in the snow and mud. And that, my dear readers, is exactly what I did. Embracing the adventure, I slipped, skied, skidded along as best I could, waving and chatting as I passed friends and acquaintances, and as they passed me. 

I came in around 1:48, and was through the start/finish aid station in less than a minute, stopping only long enough to dump my flashlight, headlamp and top layer of gloves. Boo-yah! One goal accomplished damnit!

I had brought along my son’s “Go-Pro” style camera (which is really not a Go-Pro but I haven’t the slightest idea what the brand name is). My memory card was only big enough to capture about an hour of the day, so I opted to go for every other mile during the second loop. This is still a work-in-progress project for me, having only ran with it twice. The footage was still a bit bouncy in spots, but all-in-all I was happy with it. I really enjoyed talking to the camera about the course. Anyone who knows me will completely get this :) My memory is such a sack of mushy shit that it was nice to be able to record some details as they played out.

Another change I made for this race was my caffeine intake. Drinking little caffeine regularly, I cut it out completely the week before a race. Then I call it forth like a frickin’ power pellet when I need a wee boost on race day. In January I waited a bit too long to hit the juice (aka: Coke and coffee). Adjusting accordingly, I began small on the second loop, hitting a shot of my flask of Coke at the start/finish aid station. Coming in to AS#2, my pals had a cup of coffee waiting for me! (I opted out on the first loop.) The pop had just started to kick in when I was downing the coffee. BAZINGA! Now that was a caffeine buzz!

Getting my tunes playing, I cruised through the rest of the loop to the soundtrack of Avril Lavigne, Jay Z, Garth Brooks, and whatever the hell other random awesomeness wafted out of my I-Pod. It’s always fun to get that, “Seriosuly, YOU like Avril Lavigne”, look from folks as her vocal stylings float to their ears.

Sometime on this loop a bit of gas pain snuck up on me, so I popped a Gas-X and felt better within 15 minutes.

Second loop time in- 3:43.

Once again I was able to get in and out of the start/finish aid station in about a minute. Wonderful friends and volunteers came from all around me to fill my bottle and bring me coffee. I also dumped my top shirt, as the heat and humidity were still rising. I was even able to ditch my gloves for the last loop! Woot!

Only a mile in to the final loop, something crappy happened. I was walking/slipping/stumbling up a particularly treacherous icy/muddy incline, when I felt a…well…a tweak in my left calf. It wasn’t painful, per say, but it had the potential to be painful. It was like that “pain” where someone attempts to kick you in the balls. In that moment where you aren’t sure if it connected or not, it still kinda sends a jolt of pain-like signals to your brain. (Sorry ladies, I’m not sure what the female equivalent of this analogy is :) Just a smidge to the left or right and that coulda been really bad, ya know?

At any rate, something felt really off. From that point on, every little slip sent that same, prophetic tingle up my calf. It soon became apparent it wasn’t going to let up; in fact, it seemed to be getting tighter and tighter. So I stopped to attempt to stretch it out. Yikes! Boy, was that the wrong idea! Immediately my muscle “locked up”. It felt right on the verge of the worst charlie horse of all times. In the immortal words of a Boy Named Sue, “What could I do?” I moved forward.

Needless to say, this affected my pace- not in any really good way. For the next four miles I could run for long spurts, until a slip this way or that would send another shiver through me. By five miles I was reduced to walking any and all inclines. If it was a mole hill- fuck- an ant hill, I had to walk it. The flats and downhills were OK, as long as I exercised caution in my foot placement.

Coming up to one of my heretofore favorite places along the course, I may have frowned for a split-second. Or two splits. At this place there was a creek crossing. In the creek bed lay a bridge. When I say IN the creek bed, I mean just that. It wasn’t across the creek, it was IN it. I love this spot. It epitomizes the spirit of trail running. Come to an obstacle, and show it who’s boss! Undoubtedly this bridge had been washed downstream from where it had once lived a nice, level life. Currently it stuck up at a bizarre angle, like some crazy, half-sunken ship. By clambering carefully across it’s icy surface, and hop-scotching along a couple of rocks and the steeply cambered opposite bank, one could cross with dry feet.

Moving gingerly to the creek edge, leading with my right leg, I softly placed a foot upon the bridge’s declined surface and….WHAM! I went down like a fucking sack of potatoes :) It wasn’t ice or mud. It wasn’t my damn left calf, either. It was the right one!

Bizarre! I had absolutely no hint of a problem with the right calf. Then, suddenly it seized up into a charlie horse-type cramp that dropped me like a bad habit. Unbelievably, I collapsed onto the bridge. That would have been quite a cod dip in the creek. Brrrrrr!

Had someone come along at that moment they would have gotten quite a show. Writhing in pain, massaging my calf frantically, I must’ve been a scary site. Flexing my foot so that my toes pointed up, thus relieving the pressure on my calf, took the pain away. Mercy! I sat there for several minutes, wanting to be absolutely certain I wouldn’t collapse again before continuing my cross-creek trek. As I sat there, still massaging my rock-hard calf, I began to assess my situation. Less than four miles to go. I could pull my shit together for that long; no problem. My best guess is that all the bitty little slips throughout the day had put extra stress on my calves, while the unusually high temps and humidity, plus my extra caffeine intake had left me a “tad” dehydrated. So I would begin by walking the next mile. Then I’d reassess and run what I could.

Standing as slowly as I possible- with what some may call a wobble- I placed weight first on my left leg, then my right. Okie-dokie. So far so good. Truth-be-told, my calves felt noticeable looser. Cautious hooray!

Off I went, power walking and power hiking. Just before I started running again, some more gas crept up on me so I took another Gas-X as a precautionary measure. Didn’t need any more problems at this point.

As I tentatively started to run again, I began smiling. It just happened. I couldn’t help but be pretty damn happy, in spite of, and perhaps because of, the way things had gone down today. I got to thinking about the fact that thing’s rarely go the way we plan in our lives. Life doesn’t give one hot shit about our plans. Life just moves forward. We can move with it, or we can get the hell out of the way. I have an amazing family who supports this crazy journey I’ve found in ultra running. I have the ability to take part in this twisted sport. My legs and back are strong. My heart tick tocks like a good little clock. My lungs suck in sweet oxygen and fuel me along my path. My brain, though not-so-great in the remembering dept, gets the job done. I’m one helluva lucky dude, and I know it. Thankfully, as happens so often in ultras, something in a random moment out there on the trail reminded me of all I have to be thankful for.

One thought leading to another, and then another, frolicking like bunnies through the whacky jibberish jungle of my mind, eventually I landed on a thought that sort of brought me up short. It began with a seemingly random idea for a painting.

If you ask me to describe myself in only a few words, my reply would be something like this: Father. Husband. Artist. Ultra Runner. Comfortadore. Adventurer. Nerd. In that order. Creating art is something that comes from way down in my deepest depths, and from all around me. It comes from a place of both total darkness and brightest light; it’s a have to and a want to in that pure and awesome way where I will explode into a masterpiece of gorgeous, flowing pinks and blues if I don’t let it out. Creating art is one of the fundamental building blocks of what makes me me.

So when inspiration struck at the lowest point of my racing day, I drifted away on its current, welcoming the idea as well as the distraction. Spurring off of this brainwave was a thought that frankly, I can’t believe I’ve never thunk before:

Running ultras is a lot like creating art.

Perhaps it’s my dual nature as artist/ultra runner that allows me to see through rose-colored glasses, but as I slip-slided my way along those last few muddy miles, it all became so clear.

The acts of creating a work of art and running an ultra are both a journey. In each case, it’s the journey that is most important. The finished product- whether a painting or a medal- is something beautiful to commemorate that journey; it is a valuable part, no doubt, but only one part in a much larger, more fulfilling whole. (Also, you can hang them both on your wall :) All of my life’s experience goes into my art and my running. Everything that I am. Everything that I could be. It all matters…and it’s all mine. I make all the decisions and I have to deal with all the consequences.

So many others play a role in my journey- as an artist and an ultra runner. Everyone sharing the trail with me during a race; they are all part of it. Every person I meet between now and my next creative burst of imagination made solid. My amazing family who support and encourage me along all my crazy adventures. Yes, many others are a part of the journey….but at the end of the day, it is up to me to get it done. All the support in the world means absolutely nothing if you aren’t willing to push through the tough times and re-make yourself into that tougher, extra bad-ass version you’ve always dreamed of.

And isn’t this like the big mud-pie we call life? In life we are constantly presented with obstacles- with choices. Sometimes those of us with years of experience at our disposal are at an advantage; sometimes that experience- that thinking that we know what the hell is going on- it holds us back. No matter what, we use everything- all of it- to create something that is uniquely our own. Occasionally, life smacks us down. When it does, we have two choices- get up and kick back, or lay there like a bitch. If we lay there, we again are presented with two options. Live with it, or don’t. I choose the latter. This is not to say that I can’t deal with failure; quite the contrary. I am a dreamer. When you have huge, whacky, adventurous dreams, you develop a pretty thick skin for rejection or, as I like to think of it, a bunch of idiots who don’t recognize your awesomeness :)

What I can’t live with is the knowledge that I could have done more. That I had some scrap of a spark left inside me and didn’t use it. That I didn’t put everything I am into the trying. Creating new limits. When I push through the toughest spots and stumble into even tougher ones and then push through those- that’s when I see inside myself. In those moments I see what I can be.

Ultra running imitates art imitates life. As this thought skittered into my head, I smiled, and slid across the finish.