Eat and Run: My Unlikely Journey to Ultramarathon Greatness (12 page)

We had returned to Minnesota earlier that month. I reunited with Dusty and Hippie Dan and we ran and occasionally skied together. Often joining us were Jess and Katie Koski, two other local athletes and, just as important to my future, both vegans. The Koskis knew about my Voyageur victories, and Hippie Dan had told them how much I read, how interested I was in nutrition and health. They gave me the book
Mad Cowboy,
by Howard Lyman, in which he argues that factory-farmed meat, fish, and dairy pollutes the earth, poisons the body, and sickens the soul. I thought, if this conservative third-generation Montana cattle rancher thinks plants are the best way to get clean food, then maybe I should take my plant-based diet to the next level. I stopped complaining to Leah about her buying organic produce. I considered eating well to be good, cheap health insurance.

I still worried about getting enough protein, but all the health arguments against meat seemed compelling enough that I thought I would chance it. The only obstacle to going totally vegan was the taste factor. I couldn’t imagine going too long without cheese, butter, and eggs. I had too much of a sweet tooth and loved my cheese pizza.

I dabbled with soy and rice milk and thought about the philosophical and nutritional reasons to stop eating animals altogether. Then one Sunday morning, after a 20-mile run with Dusty and the Koskis, I served them my first batch of banana-strawberry vegan pancakes (see
[>]
for the recipe). They were golden brown and sweet, dense, and hearty. The fruit flavors met on my tongue, then tangled together in a way fruit flavors had never done before. That’s when I decided I could live without butter and eggs.

Milk was a little tougher; I had grown up drinking it with nearly every meal. My Grandma Jurek would take her empty glass bottles to a nearby farm and get them refilled with fresh whole milk. But the milk I was drinking as an adult was not from a nearby farm. It was more likely from a gigantic operation where cows were routinely injected with bovine growth hormone (rBGH), housed in cramped, unsavory conditions, and regularly dosed with antibiotics. No thanks. (I also cut out fish when I realized that unless I caught them myself in a body of water I knew was clean, I was likely going to be getting some hormones and other chemicals along with my salmon or cod.)

To my delight (and, I admit, surprise), subtracting some things from my diet actually allowed me to expand the number of foods I ate and to discover incredible and delicious new foods. My new diet included fresh fruits and vegetables, beans, nuts, seeds, whole grains, and soy products like miso, tofu, and tempeh. I sought out vegetarian cookbooks and ethnic supermarkets to expand my repertoire. Since I had grown up a reluctant vegetable eater in the homogeneous Midwest, I was blown away by the bounty of Japanese sea vegetables that I discovered when I later raced in that country, the simplicity of a homemade corn tortilla, and the complexity of Thai red curry.

I’m a serious vegan. (I usually avoid that word; to many people it connotes a certain crabby, self-righteous zealousness.) And I’m a serious athlete. But I won’t starve for my principles. Although I always have protein powder with me, there were a few times in Europe that I ate cheese out of desperation, and there were occasions in remote villages in Mexico when I consumed beans that I knew had been cooked with lard. I once took a snorkeling trip in Costa Rica and was assured that there would be a vegetarian option, but that turned out to be vegetables that had been grilled
inside
a giant fish! I was hungry and I had a race coming up, so I ate them. On the extremely rare occasions I’ve diverged from plant-based foods, it’s always been a matter of survival, never because I craved animal products or felt incomplete without them.

Those compromises would come later, though. I wouldn’t be faced with the difficult choices of a renowned ultrachampion until I
became
a renowned ultrachampion. That’s why I was lacing up my running shoes with the sheet metal screws on their soles.

I eased myself out the door into the frigid almost-dawn. I was aiming for the mountains, but now this gently rolling snowmobile path would have to do. It was late enough that the partiers wouldn’t be racing their machines, early enough that even the recreational users would be too hung-over to rev up. I took my first steps onto the path and sunk to my ankles. Good. Difficulty would help. It had always helped. I was finally figuring that out. All the whys in the universe hadn’t granted me peace or given me answers. But the asking—and the doing—had created something in me, something strong. I pulled my feet out, kept going, sucked in the last bits of night sky, and tilted toward the lunar blade low on the horizon as birch trees slid past.

After the Angeles Crest, I knew I had passed a test. And I knew what the next one would be.

I had heard about it the way minor-leaguers hear of Babe Ruth or teenage climbers learn of Everest, which is to say I don’t remember the moment someone said “Western States 100.”

People spoke of its difficulties, how it broke spirits as well as bodies. I wanted to train in the most challenging place I knew. That’s why I didn’t loathe returning to Minnesota for the winter. That’s why I was out in the snow, thinking of Northern California.

By the time I had decided I would conquer it, the Western States 100 was probably the most well-known ultramarathon in the world. The course had been featured on ABC’s
Wide World of Sports
twice in the 1980s. It had twenty-one aid stations and six medical checks (both high numbers among ultra events, indicating the course’s difficulty). Runners finishing in under 24 hours received a sterling silver buckle proclaiming 100
MILES, ONE DAY
; those finishing in under 30 hours got a bronze buckle. The male and female winners took home bronze cougars. Every year, the race attracted 1,500 volunteers and 369 long-distance runners who had completed at least one 50-miler in the previous year and who had made it through the Western States lottery system.

Since it began, the race had been a source of local pride. Only one non-Californian had ever won in the men’s division, and he was a secret hero of mine. In the past decade, as Northern California had become known as the hub of long-distance running, the race seemed to exude a kind of tribal turf protectiveness. A local (and ultra) legend named Tim Twietmeyer had won five times. People said Twietmeyer didn’t care what kind of lead someone might have on him—he knew the course and the course was his. But in 1997 someone took it from him. A navy diver from Maryland named Mike Morton had dropped out of the 1996 race, confirming to many the widely held belief that unless you trained at (and preferably lived near) the Western States course, you didn’t stand a chance. When he showed up in 1997, people admired his spunk, but many doubtless pitied his obstinance. Then he beat Twietmeyer by 1 hour and 33 minutes, setting a new course record of 15 hours and 40 minutes.

I wanted to accomplish what the diver had done. I wanted to use the Western States to prove to the Northern Californians and other ultra-distance hotshots that I was worthy of their fraternity. To prove to
myself
that I was worthy. I knew it would be difficult. Twietmeyer had come back and reclaimed his crown in 1998. But now that I knew the rewards of pain, I wanted more pain. I wanted to use it as a tool to pry myself open. Pitting myself against 100 miles of terrain and the best trail distance runners in the world would provide that pain.

The race had started in 1955 when a local businessman named Wendell T. Robie rode a horse 100 miles in a single day. Later, he said he did it “because he could.” Every year thereafter, horsemen and horsewomen from all over the area would gather for the Tevis Cup—named after another successful local capitalist, Lloyd Tevis. Anyone who finished the torturous path in 24 hours or less on a mount “fit to continue” would receive a silver buckle.

A remarkable man named Gordy Ainsleigh and his not-quite-so-remarkable horse inadvertently transformed the event into a footrace. Ainsleigh, a chiropractor, outdoorsman, logger, equestrian, wrestler, and scientist, was also a formidable runner. He had long hair, a shaggy beard, and a large, muscled frame that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a rugby player or linebacker. He once held the “Clydesdale division” record for the best marathon time by a runner weighing more than 200 pounds (2:52).

But Ainsleigh’s favorite race was the Tevis Cup. He had buckled in 1971 and 1972 but the same year gave his trusty steed to a woman he loved. She soon left him, taking the horse. He rode again in 1973, but his replacement steed pulled up lame about 30 miles into the race at a stretch of wood-enclosed meadow called Robinson Flat. The next year, because he didn’t want to injure another horse, the mountain man decided to travel the course on foot.

It was a particularly hot day. One horse died. Ainsleigh finished in 23 hours and 42 minutes. He received a buckle and a medical check from a veterinarian.

Another man tried to run the course in 1975 but dropped out after 96.5 miles. In 1976 another longhair, Ken “Cowman” Shirk, set out on foot and finished in 24 hours and 29 minutes. Then, in 1977, the Western States Endurance Run (commonly known as the Western States 100) was born. Fourteen men ran alongside their equine counterparts (three of the guys finished). The next year, the race organizers decided to separate human and horse and move the Western States earlier, to a cooler month, and since then it’s run the last weekend in June.

The course begins in Squaw Valley, and the first thing any racer does is climb to 8,750-foot Emigrant Pass, an ascent of 2,550 feet in 4½ miles. She will spend the rest of the 100 miles climbing another 15,540 feet and descending 22,970. Racers follow trails once used by the Paiute, Shoshone, and Washoe, who scraped their living from the harsh land by scavenging nuts, berries, insects, and lizards, digging for tubers, trapping small game like rabbits and squirrels, and very rarely killing a pronghorn antelope. The Native Americans left, victims of smallpox, bullets, and other byproducts of a young nation’s Manifest Destiny. Next came the settlers and the gold miners. Not far from the course was Donner Pass, named for the unfortunate group of settlers who had also followed their dreams west, failed to finish their course, and in the winter of 1846–47 suffered fates much worse and more memorable than not getting a buckle.

The moon had set. A pale, watery gray sky promised a pale, watery winter day. I crunched on past more stands of birch and empty, barren fields. My feet sank. I pulled them out. I pumped my arms, sank again, and pulled them out again. Timeless silence, except for the crunching of my feet, the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the forest’s only moving creature—me. I would run an hour and 15 minutes this morning—10 miles at a 7:30 pace. I would run another 10 miles the next morning, and the next. Weekends, I would run 25-mile-long runs.

A few people who knew about my training and also knew what I was eating told me I was crazy. My dad—who had ballooned to over 280 pounds—suggested that if I was going to run long distances, I needed steak, and when I replied that his health might improve if he ate more vegetables, he told me to wait until I was forty and to see how I felt and looked. My grandpa Ed—my mom’s dad—told me no one could survive on “fruits and nuts” and that, furthermore, I would need new knees by the time I was forty.

But I felt better than I had ever felt before. I had always had pretty good endurance, but now the soreness I had always experienced after long runs was gone. The resting times I had always needed between hard workouts were shorter than ever. I felt lighter. I felt stronger. I felt faster. And I felt as young as ever.

When I returned to my doorway, the pale gray dawn had turned paler, but the sun seemed a vague memory, not even a promise. Wet little clouds of exhaust coughed from the cars of early shift workers. I would go in, stretch, shower, and change. Then I would start my day.

THE CORE

Your legs propel you, but it’s your back and abdominal muscles that enable a lot of the power. For the back, do pulldowns and rows at a gym, with your shoulder blades pinched together. If you practice yoga, concentrate on backbend moves like the locust, the bridge, and the boat.

For the abs, work exercises into your routine that involve keeping your pelvis still while moving your legs. Planks are some of the simpler and most effective of these exercises. For the front plank, lie flat on a mat, face down, then raise your hips and pelvis, keeping your forearms and toes on the floor with your body straight from head to toe. The side plank is the same, except the points of contact between the body and floor are the side of one forearm and the side of the same foot. These starter exercises can be made more challenging with arm and leg movements or by adding a stability ball or disc. Any yoga position will be of tremendous value to the runner if you make sure to focus on and engage your core. Any Pilates routine—which by its nature emphasizes engaging the core—will make you a stronger and more efficient runner.

8-Grain Strawberry Pancakes

I first cooked these pancakes after a 20-mile run in a northern Minnesota winter, and the experience taught me two things: first, that I could create a creamy, sweet texture without eggs or milk, and second, that there were an awful lot of grains in the world that I had never heard of. Whole-grain flours can be found in health food stores, or, if you have a high-powered blender like a Vitamix, you can make fresh whole-grain flour like I do. Grind together any combination of whole grains to make a total of 2 cups of flour.

The ground chia and flax act as a binder to replace eggs. In addition to tasting great, the pancakes contain plenty of carbs and protein. It’s the perfect food for a long morning run, both before and during. I often carry leftovers on the trail.