Ultramarathon Man (13 page)

Covering the last bit of distance into Foresthill, I found myself in a defensive, survival-like mode, stressing about my cramping thighs and dehydration, worrying about what the trail might throw at me next. The elements were beating me into submission. How was I possibly going to hold it together for the last 38 miles?

Fear,
I thought to myself, just another four-letter word; but now as great an adversary as any mountain left before me. From here on in, the battle would be within.

—John Short

Running into Foresthill
was like stepping out of a train wreck and into a raging party. The path was lined with people, many in costumes, beer steins in hand, cheering and dancing on every side of me as I hobbled down the approach.

Foresthill is the biggest checkpoint along the course. It's easily accessible by car, and people come from all of the small outposts around the area to join the festivities. There was country music blaring, high-octane libations flowing, and samples of PowerBars being handed out. It was a weird mix of superathletic types and boisterous locals. Everyone seemed lit, for one reason or another.

A volunteer led me over to the scales. “How you doing?” she asked.

“I've felt better,” I said, “but overall, things still seem to be working.”

She chuckled. “You look great. Let's just record your weight and we'll send you on your way.”

I stepped up on the scale.

“You're down almost five pounds,” she observed, without much concern. “You're really going to have to maintain your fluid intake to prevent further dehydration. Try to take in a good amount of cold liquid before leaving this checkpoint. It's gonna be real hot along the next section of trail.”

Like I've been running across Iceland,
I thought, as I walked back onto the course. People were shouting encouragements and trying to give me high fives . . . only I couldn't lift my hand beyond shoulder level.

Many of the athletes have pacers who run the last 38 miles with them, beginning here at Foresthill. Pacers are not allowed to offer physical assistance, but they can give a lot of psychological encouragement. I didn't know anyone capable, let alone willing, to run with me for such a distance.

A race official asked if I had a pacer that would be joining me.

“I'm going it alone, brother,” I said to him. “Unless you want to join me.”

“What, and leave this party?” he grinned.

My parents were waiting for me at Foresthill. They guided me toward a little chair they had set up. I plopped in it, arms falling over the sides, and let out a groan. It was only the second time I had sat down in thirteen hours.

“How's it going, son?”

“Oh,” I said, “it's going . . . it's going.”

They opened the family Igloo cooler to reveal a treasure . . . sandwiches, fruit, crackers, and jelly beans, all of which I mashed by the handful into my mouth.

It was approaching 6:30 P.M., yet the sun still shone brightly. I sat there wolfing down food and taking a mental inventory of my condition. Luckily, my guts were relatively stable—other runners had reportedly dropped out from heat-related nausea. My feet, on the other hand, were toast. They were battered beyond repair; I'd just have to deal with the discomfort for the rest of the race. Not a lot of options there. My neck and shoulder muscles were tight, though not to the point of grave concern. My thighs were a different story. The juncture where my quadriceps connected to my hip was extremely tender on both sides of my body. The simple act of sitting down in a chair was excruciating. I rubbed the area in hopes of getting some relief, but the slightest pressure increased the pain. When it was time to move on, my folks had to help me out of the chair. My mom stuffed a sandwich and the rest of the jelly beans into my pack, and my dad topped off my water bottles.

“I'll see you kids on down the road,” I said, trying to remain optimistic, and began the painful transition from standing still to once again running.

“We love you, son,” my mom said as I staggered off into the distance. “Good luck.”

My steps were short and choppy at first, but slowly I eased into a moderate jog. It took a good half-mile for my body to acclimate to the pain. Initially there was an uncomfortable tingling sensation in my feet and legs, but eventually it all just went numb.

The trail leaving Foresthill would drop 2,500 feet to a river crossing in the valley. Worried that my quadriceps would crumble under this downhill pressure, I slowed considerably. Maybe I was capable of pushing harder, but the prospect of a complete breakdown was of utmost concern. After running 65 miles, you begin to lose touch with your body. The normal systems that monitor and transmit critical data to the brain begin to disintegrate and malfunction. The body starts playing tricks on the mind. Important physiological information is often communicated in sporadic pulses of pain that show up unannounced. Under normal circumstances, you would have at least some hint of the mounting tension, but after running 65 miles straight, your early warning signals become useless. One minute you're running along feeling satisfactory; the very next you're abruptly delivered a life-altering muscle cramp without warning.

The next two hours were run solo; I didn't see another human. As the late-afternoon sun turned the tree-tops gold, I felt alone in the wilderness. Vulnerable. There were frequent mountain lion sightings around here, and earlier this year a runner had been attacked, dragged down a hill, and killed while training on the Western States trail.

I was in no condition to fend off a predator. My neck hurt, my shoulders hurt, my back hurt, my hips hurt, my knees hurt, my feet hurt, even the tip of my nose radiated pain. Every step hurt more than the last. At times like these you ask yourself the hard questions: How committed am I? How far am I willing to go?

There were only two people manning the next aid station at Ford's Bar. They had hiked in a considerable distance, carrying many of the supplies on their backs. Amazingly, they had hauled in a small camping table and had placed some chopped fruit and energy bars on it.

I sat in the dirt on the side of the trail. “Boy, am I glad to see you guys,” I said in a scratchy voice.

One of the guys had long, straight black hair and chiseled features, like an old painting of a Native American. When the Indian spoke, his words were clear and deliberate.

“This is a difficult part of the journey,” he said, finishing his sentence by gazing up to the sky. A hawk screeched off in the distance, and its cry resonated up the valley. It was like a scene from an old John Wayne Western, only with a runner lying in the dirt.

“Have you done this run before?” I asked.

He turned his gaze back down to me. “Oh, yes, my friend.” He nodded very slowly and went back to watching the sky.

“Do you know what mileage it is at this point?”

“This is mile seventy-three,” the other guy said. “The river's five miles down the valley.” The next checkpoint was at the Rucky Chucky River Crossing. “How are you feeling?”

“I was doing okay up to Foresthill, but I've entered a world of hurt since. The pain is getting intense,” I said.

There was a long moment of silence, and then the Indian chief began to speak. “That is to be expected,” he said, continuing to scan the sky. “Pain is the body's way of ridding itself of weakness.”

In my semiconscious and half-delirious state, it took a few moments to register. Even when I made partial sense of his words, I wasn't entirely sure what to do with them.
Wait a minute,
I thought.
What was it that Coach McTavish had said?
“If it feels good, you're doing something wrong. It's supposed to hurt like hell.” Perhaps I was doing something right here. Perhaps I was actually purging my body of weakness. Instead of trying to suppress it, maybe I should relish the pain, celebrate it. Maybe I like pain . . .

They peeled me up from the trail and, grudgingly, I readied myself to carry on. Shuffling out of the small area, the chief had one last pearl of wisdom, “You
can
do it.”

I looked back at him. “Thanks,” I said, “I'm certainly going to try.”

It seemed
the sun would not set today. Nearing 8:30 P.M., it was perfectly framed in the bed of the valley, and I was running directly toward it, squinting to protect my eyes.

Pary loved the sunset. She would stare out of our kitchen window, which overlooked the Pacific, and watch it, transfixed. Sometimes she would run and find me, “Quick . . . quick, we're going to miss it!” and we'd race for the binoculars trying to get the best view of the “green flash”—that elusive, magical moment when the sun temporarily appears green just before disappearing below the horizon. “That was a good one,” she would say. “The best one yet.”

Near the bottom of the valley, the trail ran parallel to the American River. Off in the distance, I could see a couple of runners making their way toward the river crossing in front of me. They looked to be about a mile away. My progress seemed slow and labored, so it surprised me when I caught up to them so quickly.

Behold, it was my two friends from the “special” military.

All along I had known they were somewhere ahead of me, but I hadn't expected to catch them, especially both of them at the same time. It's highly unusual for two runners to maintain the same pace for 75 miles.

As slowly as I was running, they were moving even more sluggishly. The shorter of the two was hunched over so severely that his chin rested on his chest. His muscular arms swayed randomly back and forth like a gorilla as he moved.

My initial thought was to blow right by them without saying anything, but that didn't seem like the decent thing to do. Instead, I pulled up alongside the pair and said hello. Surprisingly, they exchanged greetings this time and seemed almost happy to see me. The stout one was really suffering. It was clear he had been sick at least once; dried vomit covered his chin, and his legs were swollen and knotted. It appeared that there was blood coming out of his ear, though I tried not to stare for too long.

The taller guy looked entirely together—almost fresh, in fact. His eyes were clear and bright, and he still had a lot of spring in his stride. He looked like he could have been running much faster.

“I thought we might see you somewhere along the trail,” he said.

That's funny,
I thought,
I didn't even think you knew I existed.

We kept motoring along together for a little while. The short one was doing everything in his power to keep up with us, but I could tell it was taking a whole lot out of him to hold a steady pace without stopping. At one point he kicked a big rock in the trail and let out a bellowing groan.

“Listen,” his partner said, “why don't you keep powering along and we'll catch up with you later?”

“Ah, sure,” I replied. “I'll see you guys in a little while, at the river crossing or something.”

It seemed clear, though, that the way things were going, we probably wouldn't be seeing each other again in this race. The short one croaked, “Keep it tight, brother. You're lookin' solid.”

With seventy-five miles of torture to whittle away the defenses, they were revealed to be good guys at the core.

The sun had fallen below the horizon when I pulled up behind another runner some 45 minutes later.

“Hey, what up?” he said, without looking back.

“Not much. Just trying to make it to the river.”

“Yeah, me too,” he puffed. “I've got some tightness in my groin and I started pissing blood a few miles back. I don't know what the hell's going wrong. Guess I shouldn't be complaining, though. You see that poor bastard behind us?”

“You mean those two guys? It's kind of strange they're running together.”

“Yeah,” he said, “those Rangers are pretty fucked up, ain't they?”

Now I was totally confused. “I'm not sure I follow,” I said. “Are they in the Forest Service?”

“No, they ain't no
forest
rangers,” he said. “They're Army Rangers.”

The picture was becoming clearer now.

“They're trained not to leave their partner,” he went on, “so they do
everything
together. The guy who looks fresh won't leave his partner for nothin', even if it means dropping out of the race himself. They'll either finish the race together or drop out together. So if one of them goes down, they're both out. I used to train with an ex-Ranger. Those guys are pretty fuckin' psycho if you ask me.” He burst into a wry cackle.

As psycho as I was beginning to think this guy was, he was pretty engaging, and the distraction of running with him served me well. We ran together for the next couple of miles and he kept up a constant chatter.

We parted company at the Rucky Chucky checkpoint, where he was rushed to the hospital with acute renal failure. I guess having blood in your urine isn't a good sign.

A volunteer escorted me from the checkpoint down to the river crossing. He carried a pitcher of water and kept filling my bottles, urging me to keep drinking even though the sun had gone down. Just before crossing the river, I asked him if he had any last bits of advice.

“Yeah,” he said with a strange conviction. “Don't stop, come hell or high water. And it looks like you've got both in front of you.”