Ultramarathon Man (9 page)

With the third button, my upper body began to recline. Weird creaking and crackling noises resonated from my torso as I slid backward. As I approached horizontal, the pain began to ease. When the seat was fully reclined, I took my finger off the control and lay there motionless.

Now that I was in less agony, I could begin to assess the situation. Partially digested chunks of cantaloupe dripped from the steering column. I could sense dampness on my legs, but my entire lower torso was completely numb, so I really wasn't sure what was going on down there. I knew my next step was to get out of the car. Reaching up, I tugged on the door handle. At first it wouldn't yield, but with a more forceful jerk the latch unexpectedly released and the door swung open.

My upper body came flailing out of the car and my arms were too weak to buttress my fall, so I came crashing down face-first into the dirt. I lay splayed on the ground, half of my body outside of the car and my legs and feet still inside. My face rested in the dirt, and I watched little swirls of dust flowing out from under my nostrils with each exhalation. Though I must have looked utterly pathetic lying there, I could just as well have been standing on a podium having a medal placed over my head. After months of dedicated training and preparation, my goal had been achieved, my mission accomplished. It was a proud moment.

Eventually I was able to drag the rest of my body out of the car. My face was covered in dust and my clothes were filthy. My pride was intact, though, as I piloted the Lexus home, utilizing the cruise control to regulate my speed, too petrified to push on the pedals for fear that my legs would cramp again and I'd crash.

As for the car, it never was the same. But I began to appreciate the vehicle more now that it had been properly christened. We had lived through the worst, and our shared history brought us closer together. When my boss inquired about the rancid odor, I told him some fruit had rotted inside . . . which wasn't far from the truth.

Julie was thrilled to learn that I'd qualified for the Western States, although at first I didn't tell her about the little post-race episode in the car. She asked about the difficulty of running fifty miles nonstop, and I told her it was the hardest thing I'd ever done, by far. That's why I loved it.

When I told my parents that I was going to attempt to run 100 miles, their response was amazement. “Can you do it?” my mom asked.

“I'm not sure, that's why I want to try,” I told her.

They had all kinds of questions and we talked at length about running, and about life. It was our most spirited conversation in years. My newfound love of running seemed to awaken a sense of hope. There was something in our future to look forward to; something, perhaps, grand and monumental. Attempting to run 100 miles was a spectacular aspiration, and the pursuit of this dream seemed to transcend career goals and other ambitions. My parents could sense my enthusiasm, and I could sense theirs. A flame had been ignited.

—Robert Frost

To call running “fun”
would be a misuse of the word. Running can be “enjoyable.” Running can be “rejuvenating.” But in a pure sense of the word, running is not fun.

After qualifying for the Western States, I ran every chance I got. Mostly I ran early in the morning or late at night. Sometimes I could squeeze in a run at lunch. But just like most runners, running was something that had to fit around my hectic work schedule, so it would be a stretch to call it fun.

Now “entertaining” might more accurately describe things. Showing up for Monday-morning meetings after having run for the previous five hours was
entertaining.
Running a quick eight miles during lunch, and then changing in the backseat of my car, was
entertaining.
Running through places like Bentonville, Arkansas, and Lubbock, Texas, was, well,
entertaining
(and I'm glad to have escaped alive, given the many strange looks I received from people with gun racks in their pickups).

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.

—Amelia Earhart

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 with 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.