A Wild Way To Become More Active

Have you ever watched a giant, grey squirrel eat a chicken strip and chase it with a French fry?  Well, I don't mean to make you jealous, but I have... and it was the darnedest thing I've ever seen.  My wife and I were on the deck outside of a grill in Yosemite Valley, and I must admit that it was an afternoon to remember.  Cuteness abounded as its little nose wiggled away as it chewed on the enormous chunk of chicken.  Yet for all the cuteness, I felt a bit of a disappointed feeling in my stomach.  There's something kind of wrong as you watch a creature go against what it was born to be.  That squirrel should be bouncing around in trees and eating acorns, not dragging its haunches across the deck while scavenging from the grill.

I'm sure that for that squirrel, when the peak tourism season comes to an end, it is a real bugger getting back up into that tree and having to go back to being a real squirrel.  I have a feeling that to be a wild animal, it's a lot less stressful to just stay one than to toggle back and forth like that.

Just in case you don't know where I'm going with this, I shall now translate the above metaphor.  I've found that when it comes to staying wild, it's been a lot easier for me to just learn to be wild all of the time.  I think we all know several people who have tried to start exercising and quit within a few months or less.  Indeed, back during my days at college I used to do a fair amount of toggling myself.  Eventually, as I ran further and further, and climbed harder and harder.  I began learning that to run further and climb harder, I had to eat things that made my tummy feel better and muscles feel springier.  I also learned that to keep doing fun things without hurting myself, I had to keep at it even at times when I wasn't feeling it.  Before long, my wild side was feeding off of itself.  Eating better made me feel better which made me want to get out and play and then playing made me want to go home and eat better so I could play better the next day... whew!  The cycle continued (except for the occasional breakdown like those three s'mores I "found in the forest" at last weekend... oops).

If you want to be a lightweight, strong, and just generally lean machine, then you need to eat like you're wild and move like the animal you want to be.  Personally, I want to be a land endurance animal who can also scale cliffs.  So I try to eat food that's reminiscent of what is in the wild, and I spend a lot of time on mountain-like terrain so my body adapts to it as if it's my natural habitat.  It's a lot easier to come home from an exhausting day teaching and go for a run or get in some climbing if I am a wild animal who teaches math, rather than a domesticated teacher who sometimes goes into the woods.  The more the outside feels like my home, the more I go to it.

Almost everyone wants the lean body of the wild animal that they were made to be (yes ladies, you can still be wild and shave your legs).  The difficulty is that many people identify themselves as domesticated creatures who belong in houses and think that "sweet" and "fat-alicious" are the only flavors that their tongues are capable of tasting.  In my experience, remembering that my body is no different in its makeup than any other wild animal in the world is a fun reminder that successful trail running and climbing really come back to letting my inner wild animal in me be free.  It's been a process of several years, one that is still not complete, but I am learning that the more real food I eat and the more I spend time moving, the easier it is to keep moving.

Remember, don't immediately throw yourself into the wild and come whimpering back home.  Take it easy, find stuff to love about it and remember that, just like a grizzly bear, your body was originally made to be wild.  Try to enjoy an apple instead of a snickers bar.  Try having one more active night a week.  If the occasional chicken strip falls into your path, go ahead and eat it.  Just don't be like that squirrel and permanently hang out at the Yosemite Grill eating French fries and being pitied by tourists.

PUT DOWN THAT LAPTOP AND GRAB A LOINCLOTH AND A SPEAR!

Did you know that you could accidentally kill your dog by taking her for a 20 mile run on a hot day?  I just read yet another book on our human roots as endurance athletes in persistence hunting.  It got me thinking...  

I'm getting the message from the new research loud and clear... I am a hunting and killing machine.  Though I've only caught a couple of fish and shot a bird with a BB gun when I was nine (and I personally didn't eat any of them), the only thing separating me from embodying the savage cruelty of a lion is the simple fact that I don't wear a loin cloth and carry a spear.

You know Newt Gingrich, the Pope, and even that pasty white computer whiz from your dorm back in college?  Merciless predators!  Members of the large brained, persistence hunting top of the food chain species known scientifically as Homo Sapiens.  Given a pair of moccasins, a sharpened stick, and the need to survive, Mr. Gingrich would throw aside that tie and penguin suit and take down a large bull elk with nothing more than a bit of tracking and a quick stab with a sharpened willow branch.  Can you imagine the excitement and the primal power that you could feel radiating from Newt after watching him slay his prey?

If that little mental video of Newt you just watched is an image of what we humans are made for, then the question looms in my mind:  What the heck?  The Newt Gingrich I know would look terrible in a loincloth, may die of a heart attack after three miles of a persistence hunt, and would get a sunburn so bad that it would give skin cancer to any innocent victim so unfortunate as to look upon it.  Come to think of it, most adults I can think of would be in a similar situation to Newt if they were required to go back to our persistence hunting roots.

So here's where I'm going with this.  Unless some remarkable Armageddon-like situation strikes, we humans won't be going back to our persistence hunting roots.  In fact, the closest thing to a persistence hunt that most of us will ever experience is walking to the meat section at our local grocery store.  But I don't think that hides the fact that our bodies are designed for more.  It would seem that the intelligence component of our makeup has taken over, leaving many people with stressed-out, overworked brains and atrophied, yet strikingly plump, bodies.

Most people think I'm kind of a nut. I run or bike or climb for several hours most days (although it is less during the school year when I'm teaching).  I'm sure that some would argue that I'm obsessed or addicted.  Yet for me, my life has never made more sense.  I really dislike the stresses of our modern world.  We are required to keep track of several bank and loan accounts, pay five or ten different bills every month, mow our lawns, fix our houses, maintain cars and computers and toilets, raise children, maintain contact with friends from all over the world, and on top of all that we have to keep up with a job and its multitude of tasks.  I wonder why it is that the National Institute of Mental Health reports that more than 1 in 4 Americans suffer from a diagnosable mental illness? 

Personally, I think our mental illness issue is a consequence of our minds being overworked, while our bodies remain under-worked.  The more "intense" I become in my outdoor sports, the more I realized that they inspire me toward simplicity.  When I begin to enjoy three hour runs, having a pimped-out ride becomes less of a priority and just having water and good food becomes my focus.  When I spend more time outside working toward my next ultramarathon, owning a nice, expensive house begins sliding down my list of priorities.  When I long to be moving in the mountains at the end of the work day, suddenly negotiating for a 1% raise at work becomes of little importance.  With less to worry about, and more time moving and exploring, I am just flat out, way happier.


Even though our intelligence as humans has created a society that has almost no demand for using our physical prowess, I believe that movement is still an essential aspect of what it is to be human.  In order to counteract the constant mental demands that we face from our world, we have to find ways to move and use our God-given ability as endurance athletes.  By finding a love for something involving movement (even if it kind of hurts), I think it is possible to begin to eventually diminish the importance of some of the stress makers in our lives.  Perhaps there will even come a time when more of us will once again look sensational in a loin cloth and spear as we chase a large herbivore across the prairie.  

Mentally Coping With Long Runs

It was last year at about this time, and I was out for one of my first 15 mile runs I had ever done.  I had maintained my composure well, but at about mile 10 I had a mini mental breakdown.  Apparently the heat and leg fatigue had finally cut through my aluminum foil-like mental armor.  By the time I had made it back into town, I had sworn off any hope of ever running that far again.

Fast forward six months, and I was signing up for an 50 mile run, and the terrible thoughts from that 15 miler during the previous summer were haunting me.  Certainly, I would fail.  Little did I know, but a great power was building within me.  A force that would shield my fragile mind from the horrors that sometimes must be confronted on a long run.  Now I come to you, dear reader, for I desire to share my new knowledge of this force.


So here's how it works!
  
Guy A goes for a run.  Guy A starts thinking about how great it will feel to be done with that run.  Guy A starts fantasizing about a couch and that tasty pizza that Guy A will have when he completes that run.  It is then that the full gravity of the situation falls upon Guy A.  Guy A wants pizza and a couch... now, and the rest of the run is dumb and in the way of said pizza!  Running is now Guy A's punisher, his obligation, and his enemy.  Guy A shortens his run to be done with it.  Guy A weeps.  Guy A's pizza tastes of ash.  


Let's now contrast that with Gal B.  Gal B goes for a run.  Gal B leaves thinking about her favorite parts of the route that Gal B will travel.  Gal B brings money and a small snack.  Gal B thinks about how cool it will be to have run the distance before her, but relaxes and lets her mind wander and is in no hurry to finish.  If Gal B starts feeling too much pain, Gal B slows a bit for a while because she has the ability to ignore her ego.  If Gal B ends up longing for food, she has a snack or has a chocolate milk at a gas station.  Gal B ends up running three extra miles and enjoys her post-run pizza, made tastier by the pride of knowing what she was just able to accomplish.  


So here's the summary for bullet-list people:

• Find the least painful route possible if there are none you totally like, and think about your favorite parts of it.
• Bring money and/or a snack so you can stop cravings that come up.  
• Relax and don't dwell on being done.  Try to enjoy being out there.
• Let your mind wander and don't be afraid to think about how cool what you are accomplishing is.
• Let go of your ego.  It's better to be running slow that not running at all.  Speed can come later when your more callused to the distance.  

Keep in mind that you will get better at these the more you run.  It takes time to be able to relax and not think about being done and eating pizza.  Some days are just mentally better than others, and that's okay.  The key is getting better over time and learning to love running and not just see it as a punishment or self-inflicted boot camp.  I've ran for over four hours on many occasions, and I still have the occasional breakdown on runs that are less than ten miles... but I'm getting better all the time.

The Path To My First Ultramarathon (ATTN: Less Training Needed Than You May Think)

To me, the training guides are a little over-the-top, and I tend to wonder if a lot of people are discouraged from trying runs (whether they be 5k's, Marathons, or Ulramarathons) due to the fact that the training programs look like too dang much time and running.  My experience, along with other people I know who have trained for shorter distances, suggests that you really don't need to follow the full programs to complete an event. 

Here's the data on what got me to and through my 50-mile mountain run.  For much of the training I did, I skipped much of the mid-week runs that I was "supposed" to do so that I could go rock climbing.  I only focused on completing the long weekend runs, and I never did a full 30+ miler as the plan suggested.

The Base:

• Active childhood riding bikes and running around
• Played Football and was a Montana all-state hurdler in high school (never competed in anything over 800 meters)
• Began hiking frequently and then summiting 12,000 ft mountains when I was about 16
• Never really ran more than about 5-6 miles at a time until a couple of years ago.
• Never regularly (more than once every couple months) ran 10 or more miles until last fall
• Had ridden my bike 60 or more miles on less than 10 occasions
• Had never run a marathon.

The Training:

• Decided to sign-up for the 50 miler in early January
• Began by running several times a week with a long (10-15 mile weekend run) for just over a month.
• Began running 20 miles for my long weekend run after about a month. They hurt quite a lot in the last 5 miles.
• Began losing interest in running and nearly ceased running mid-week (partly because I was rock climbing a lot) during the months of April and May.  Continued to run 20-25 miles every other weekend during that time. 
• The long runs in May were trail runs (which I quite enjoyed even though they still hurt).
• In early June, I tapered back from 16 mile long runs to an 8 miler the weekends before the event. 

The Run:

• First 18 miles of trail downhill went well
• Began to get tired in nauseous on powerhike/run section for next 17 miles
• Most of body was stiff and achey and slight nausea continued for next 5 miles.
• Had to walk last major downhill due to leg muscles and knee being sore.
• Mostly walked last 5 miles (no longer on trail... on road) as dehydration, faintness, and exhaustion overtook me... but I did finish.

The Recovery:

• 2 days of sore leg muscles and somewhat sore knee and ankle joints that caused me to walk like an old man.
• muscles seemed mostly recovered and full strength within about 5 days.
• was back doing difficult mountain bike rides a week later. 
• Avoided running due to a slightly sore knee and heel until 2 weeks after event
• Began easy runs with some ankle and knee stiffness which is not getting worse.

The Conclusion:

• I didn't finish as fast as I would have liked, so for future 50 milers I plan on increasing the volume of trail runs and to run more mid-week so that I can maintain a higher intensity for longer. 
• I need to practice keeping hydrated and feeding myself during these long events...  something training plans don't work into the schedule. 
• I don't regret failing to run as much as I "should" have according to the plan.  I feel that my lighter training approach allowed me to not get burned out.  Having completed the event, I now feel that I have matured and that I mentally can handle more training than before as I attempt to run a faster time. 
• I believe that this more layed-back approach to training can work whether you're a former athlete attempting an ultramarathon or a non-athlete or out-of-shape person attempting a 5k. 
• For me, the key to becoming a stronger runner is to train my mind to be able to train!

My First Bighorn Mountain Run (50 Mile)

Here follows the account of what it's like to do your first 50 mile mountain run.  Includes some rather unprofessional clips of video for effect.  

Crossing the Little Bighorn River (mile 18)

Let's first clarify that this event was actually 52 miles. A point that may not matter to some, except for the fact that it was during the last two miles of this run that I was finally forced to resign myself to full-time walking. Dehydration had taken hold, and I had recently slowed down enough to lower my circulation and thereby make myself feel like I was about to faint... and puke (not necessarily in that order). Fifty miles had passed, but there was still a question mark floating before my fuzzy mind as to my ability to complete the last two miles. Bighorn Mountain 50 Mile??? No, it was definitely 52.

The whole story officially begins with me rolling like an egg beater in bed. It was the night before the run, the party that had been thrown in celebration of my bold undertaking was over, and now I was alone with my thoughts. I was confronting the reality that I was about to wake up at 3:30AM for the purpose of traveling twice as far on foot as I had ever gone in a day. I tried to comfort myself, but that voice of reality kept reminding me just how far 52 miles is. It's the distance from Billings to Absarokee, from Livingston to Gardiner, 208 laps around a track, exactly two marathons. No matter how optimistic I began to feel, I knew that the next day I would experience a level of pain, struggle, and doubt that was of a higher order than I had dealt with before. How would I handle it?

By a miracle that should not be overlooked, I was finally able to doze off to a night of shallow sleep (“night” here meaning 2 hours). I awoke about 5 minutes before my alarm with a sense of delirium, and then suddenly felt the urge to start sucking my thumb upon realizing that I would not feel the warm and gentle hug of a bed again until after I had been through 10 or 12 hours of aching, nausea, and mind games.

Getting up in this kind of situation is mostly fueled by the idea that once you're out of bed, you won't have to do it again for quite some time. Under a mix of emotions that were a combination of total excitement and nauseating fear, I prepared myself for battle... a process that lingered through breakfast and halfway through the dark drive to the starting line.

We arrived at the Medicine Wheel Ranger Station at 9000 feet, atop the Bighorn Mountains and stepped out into the 35 degree air. My Northern Cheyenne father-in-law, who had been through several, multiple day fasts atop Bear Butte involving no food or water, recognized that a run of this magnitude was as much a spiritual endeavor as a physical one, and took a moment to bless me with Sweet Grass. We then wandered up to the starting line to shiver for a half-hour or so as we waited for everyone to get checked-in and the race to begin.

It was 6:02AM and after the national anthem and a quick countdown, the herd of about 200 runners were off. We ran a mile or so up a narrow road and soon cut across a trail through the frosted grass of a meadow, and then spent several miles hopping snowbanks, prancing through mud holes, and popping in and out of groves of pine trees. We ran at an easy pace and I stayed light on my feet with a nice, quick turnover to conserve my muscles and joints. There was a fair amount of talk amongst us runners as we descended into Little Bighorn Canyon. I ran with people from all over Colorado, Missoula, Dayton, Bozeman, Pennsylvania, and places that I didn't know. We chatted about who had done 50 milers before, what the trail running scene was like in our respective communities, and about how nice of a day it was for running.

It was about 8 miles in when I got the first twinges reminding me that what I was doing was much more than prancing down a trail in the glistening grass and rising sun. My legs gave me a couple twinges of fatigue from the 2000 feet of downhill I had covered, and a blister was forming on one of my big toes. As we continued lower and lower into the Little Bighorn Canyon, I could feel my lower back and hamstrings getting tighter, and the first pulses of discomforting heat. Just as things were hinting toward the unpleasant, the Footbridge Aid Station (mile 18) popped into view.

I sat down, was handed my drop bag by one of the amazing volunteers, and immediately got to work taping my blister, changing socks, and re-lubing my feet. My sister and mother-in-law were planning on meeting me there to help me out and encourage me along, but they had not yet arrived. I knew the drive there was dicey, so I wasn't that surprised when I didn't see them. Conveniently, I had no more than pulled one shoe off and they appeared out of nowhere and helped me get myself gathered. Even with their help, I took a ridiculous 10-15 minutes to get myself sorted and back on the trail. I was definitely glad to see them for the familiar faces and to help me get organized more quickly.

From the Footbridge Aid Station, you travel less than 100 yards before the gnarliness of the climbing begins, and for the next three miles, it's nose-down power hiking up a pretty steep trail with limited flat sections to run. It was during this climb that the run became an ultramarathon. At only about 20 miles in, legs beginning to ache and the subtle hints of nausea forming up, I began to reflect on the fact that I still had over 30 miles left. The feelings of being overwhelmed by the task ahead fuel the fatigue and nausea, and I was forced to try to find a happy place. I thought only of the fact that it would flatten out soon, and focused on any cooling breezes that came up. I told myself that I could quit if I wanted at the Dry Fork Aid Station, now 14 miles ahead. One step at a time. I passed some of the trailing hundred milers and reminded myself that no matter how bad I felt, they probably feel waaaay worse.

Eventually the climb did level off, and I stopped at the Bear Camp Aid Station for a brief moment to have a few pretzels and a Hammergel, which settled my stomach nicely. I kept marching on, running downhills and flats that I came across and walking any significant uphills. Mile after mile I kept at it. My lower back got tighter, the aches in my legs made me feel more stiff, and the typical slight feeling of nausea returned and remained. Eventually the muscles in my upper body began to tighten a bit, with an annoying side-ache coming on every time I ran a stretch.

I reached the Cow Camp Aid Station (mile 28) and nearly wanted to cry and hug the volunteer who was handing out the watermelon. I had tried to eat the granola bars I had along, and they just wouldn't swallow with my parched throat and alarmed digestive system. The watermelon was like an encounter with the Lord Almighty Himself. I had several pieces, chased it with a few cups of 7UP, chatted briefly with another runner who looked like he was about to cry over the watermelon as well, and soon set forth on my quest for the Dry Fork Ridge Aid Station that lay six miles ahead.

We were now off a single track trail and onto an ATV trail. The uphill continued, and the “run the flats and downhills, walk the hills” continued. I passed back and forth with another runner who, in an exasperated voice, slightly raised his water bottle and said, “Good job”, every time we saw each other. I remember that fine man so vividly because I feel that he embodied the ultramarathon experience perfectly... totally exhausted, but still encouraging others along. Though levels of “peppiness” varied, the same encouraging attitude was present in the majority of the runners I came across that day. Honestly, it is something that gives the ultramarathon an endearing quality. Amongst many ultramarathon runners, the “races” are not so much races as they are quests. They are very hard, and everyone who is on that trail knows that the others are dealing with something so difficult that it isn't atypical for even experienced ultra-runners to drop out on a remarkably frequent basis. In that, I think that many people out there know that the true competition in an ultramarathon is between each individual and the doubts and weaknesses within themselves. How could we not want to encourage each each other?

When I had finally arrived to the cheers of my sister at the Dry Fork Aid Station (mile 34.5), I was at a point in which I would normally go to great lengths to quit. I felt more played-out than I had felt at the end of nearly all of the biggest hikes and runs I had ever accomplished. I downed some mountain dew and some more of the succulent watermelon and tried to be as chipper as possible with the crew that had met me. I laid down, stretched myself a bit, and reflected on how easy it would be to quit. Even though the idea of quitting sounded like the best thing ever, I knew that it simply wasn't an option that day. I could finish, and I knew it. I also knew that if I didn't continue, I was going to miss the best part of this ultra... the last ten miles of soul searching and wanting to cry.

After a 10 minute break to recharge and have my lovely wife refill my backpack with water, I set off down the road. Folks, my body did not want to run. So I decided to walk for a spell to get things working again. Eventually, I got back into my “run the downhills and flats, walk the uphills” routine, although now I had to take the occasional break in the middle due to my horrendous side ache that started every time I ran ( must have been due to the cumulative dehydration I was working on). After five miles, I arrived at the Upper Sheep Creek Aid Station and I, of course, enjoyed some more of that sweet nectar of the gods, known commonly as watermelon.

 

I finished the watermelon, and set forth, knowing that the five miles to the next aid station was going to involve a real “son of a gun” of a downhill. The downhill would come in a mile or so, though, as the first order of business was to get my sorry hind end up a 400 foot tall hill with a real blast of a steep trail straight up it. Folks, normally I tear into uphills with the enthusiasm of a prancing gazelle, but after the last 40 miles of mountain trail, I quickly learned that the prancing gazelle within had been replaced by a pregnant, obese Wiener Dog.

I willed my way to the top of that hill with every ounce of my being. The watermelon within had grown legs and was crawling up my esophagus. I prepped for the first upchuck since I was in the 8^th grade, but was saved by a cool breeze and a brief rest. I took a quick video as I gathered myself, and soon set forth down the ginormous, 2500 feet of downhill that was taunting me from below.

That's when things got bad. A knee pinch that I had been feeling since before Dryfork was not impressed by the downhill, and to make matters worse, both of my quads began feeling like the muscle cells were separating from each other. I gingerly made my way downhill, hoping the tearing and twinging feelings would go away. Alas... they didn't. Folks, I was movin' slow! I got passed by the multitudes as I picked my way down the 3.5 miles of hill at a speed that was probably less than 2 miles per hour. The only people I passed were a group of older people who were hiking the 30k race that was being held at the same time. Between the continued feeling of nausea, the aching legs, and the realization that several of my ailments were being caused by the dehydration I had inadvertently allowed, I had a major soul searching session take place. I realized that I had at least five miles to go before I could quit, and that it would be tricky and embarrassing for me to stop and to have to be rescued from my current location.

Holy smokes I didn't want to be there! At that moment, my legs were acting so messed up that I figured there was no way I could finish, so I just set my mind on getting out. As far as I was concerned, I would get to the Tongue River Canyon Trailhead over the course of the next few hours, and then I would quit.

Well, let's just say that I was a bit of an alarmist (as usual???). After picking my way down for an hour our so, I began to realize that, though I was moving embarrassingly slow, I actually was doing okay. It wasn't too long before I made it to the Lower Sheep Creek Aid Station (mile 44ish), and the terrain leveled out to a much more manageable downhill. My legs loosened up and my knee felt better, and I was even able to run a bit again. By the time I had arrived at the Tongue River Canyon Trailhead Aid Station, the tone of the day had changed for me, and I was pretty confident that I could finish!

I said hello to my wife, Sarah, who had ridden her bike up to meet me, got sprayed by a nice man with a water sprayer, and grabbed a couple more slices of friendly watermelon. I didn't linger, because I really was excited about the idea of being done, so I set off down the five miles of gravel road to Dayton. Sarah rode along beside me, which was a real nice boost for morale. Then, I rounded a bend and my mother, who had apparently walked four miles up the road to meet me, suddenly appeared charging up the road in her power-walking mode. I have to admit that part of me was not the least bit surprised to see her walking up that road... when she gets excited and determined about something, it's remarkable what she will do. The situation that presented itself that day of the ultramarathon was the optimum conditions for seeing something impressive emerge from Mother Marilyn.

The boost of getting to see both Sarah and my mom got me back to mixing in some running again, and before long I had emerged from Tongue River Canyon and had made a friend named Brad who was also 26 years old, but who had completed almost 40 ultramarathons. I got in a couple of miles of power-walking with Brad and found out that he had ran some pretty high profile Ultras, including completing the legendary Western States 100 in 26 hours. He hadn't trained much in the last month, and was just doing the Bighorn Mountain 50 Mile for fun... hence why he was back in the middle of the pack with me rather than busting the run out in eight or nine hours. Regardless, I enjoyed gleaning some good information out of him.

Before long, I was at mile 50, the location of the last aid station, and the home of the notorious Otterpops. I took an Otterpop, had several succulent bites, and then the bottom dropped out (of my performance, not the Otterpop). As I previously mentioned, I like to emphasize that the Bighorn Mountain 50 Mile is actually 52 miles because those last two miles were probably the worst all day. Between the Otterpop and a bit of a slow down in pace, I suddenly became extremely light-headed and nauseous. I ended up with so little energy that all I could do was walk, and I could barely respond to what people were saying to me. I began to realize that dehydration was the culprit, as my now molasses-like blood was probably not making it to where it needed to go (my brain) after I had slowed the pace and lowered my heart rate. I sprayed water on myself and drank at least a bottle during the last stretch.

I wish I could have been more exciting when I saw my family (including my mother who had hitch-hiked back), but I was so tired and worried that I was going to pass out and puke (again, not necessarily in that order), that I could barely acknowledge their presence. I really wish I could have ran into the park and across the finish line, but I was a bit concerned that if I upset the current balance, I might suddenly be down and out... 100 yards short of finishing. Boy, that would be a disappointment!

With almost no reaction, I walked across the finish line 12½ hours after I had started. I really have no idea if the people were cheering for me or for someone else, but I do remember people cheering and clapping as I came down the last stretch. All I did to acknowledge was grin a really dumb-looking grin. After crossing the finish line as one of a group that would become about 140 finishers (~60 dropped out), I was asked whether I wanted a medium or large finisher's coat. Boy, that was a monumental decision. When I stopped, my head was spinning. Someone handed me a cup of water, and I drank a drink, and then I think I dumped it all over my head. I began looking around the park for somewhere to sit in a reasonably graceful manner, before I passed out and was swarmed by paramedics... that would cause undue panic in my mind. Soon, I found a picnic table and I could barely get to it quickly enough. I sat down and almost immediately my entire body began tingling like crazy. Within just a couple of minutes, I felt entirely better. I suppose that it makes sense that when your blood is the consistency of honey, your heart would have a little more manageable job when sitting down.

Eventually the tingling ended and Sarah went and fetched my family. Finally I could talk to them and actually acknowledge their existence! We hung out and chatted for a bit, got some video and pictures of my gray-looking face, sunken eyes, and bizarre smile, and I got some good drinking in to begin the road to recovery. Finally, now that I was feeling a bit normal again, I was able to begin to fully appreciate what I had accomplished.

Given my dehydration issues, my less than optimal training, and the fact that I had never consistently ran even as far as ten miles until 6 months ago, I hadn't finished as fast as I had hoped. Quite frankly, I can try to go for my arbitrary time goal some other time. In my mind, I had achieved something of much greater value to me. An ultramarathon is something of legend to me... it's something I've fantasized about doing for the last three years. I've read about them in books and watched videos and read blogs about them for quite some time. I always had the lingering question in me... could I keep going past that point at which everything in me is screaming to stop? Could I complete a distance that I couldn't even conceive of as possible only five years ago? A distance that many people still view as impossible?

I guess the answer is yes, and now when I look in the mirror, I see an entirely different person. I look forward to seeing what it's like to be him.

It's Gettin' All "Spiritual" Now

Almost every time I step outside these days and feel the breeze, see the stars, grass, or mountains, I feel a presence of God. It often drives me to want to move. Through movement and physically challenging myself outside, I feel like I am a part of something much bigger than myself. I feel this amazing sentimental attachment to the rocks I climb, and I marvel at the boulders, cliffs, and handholds as if they are a sculpture by an unrivaled artist. When I move my body to climb the rock, it almost feels as if the rock is teaching me the moves to a dance... every climb having its own unique choreography; some light and beautiful, others aggressive, powerful, and sometimes frightening. I love how it smells so good and how nature is often so pristine, but also dirty, dangerous, and asymmetrical. I do get really angry out there at times, I even have yelled out sonnets of unfriendly words at God when I've gotten stuck in a blast-furnace headwind or freezing rain. But at the end of the day, the passion and imperfection of the whole experience just makes me crazy for more. 


I realize that this movement and dance with the natural world I get to experience connects me to something fundamental about how God made me... with ability to move and sense nature. The passion I feel challenging myself in the natural world is unrivaled by anything I ever experienced in church, and I often wonder how many people are like me.  For years, they try to make themselves feel a connection to God in church but always feel a bit off-kilter.  They wonder how it is that others* love the singing, sermons, and Bible verses.  In their own thoughts, they daily question whether God is real because they secretly feel as though they have never actually encountered Him in a way that they can understand.  They await miracles... will them to happen to confirm God's existence, but always come up short.  To them, church feels like a game of pretend, but they stick with it.  They talk the talk to be accepted because there is nowhere else to go.  Eventually, some do leave, and sometimes they leave God behind when they go.  


I remember when I was a regular church goer**, I used to experience a great deal of fear and guilt over my inability to "share my faith" with "non-Christians".  I was awkward when I tried, but now I can unashamedly say that there is something in the fabric of nature that awakens something in the fabric of me.  I can't fully describe it, but I love it.  Without giving it a second thought, without the need for philosophy and theology, I call it God and start talking to it.  It makes me want to let go of resentment and guilt and just live.  It makes me want to share it with other people.  It gives me confidence that helps me be a better person. 

So I guess my question is... what awakens something in you?  Acting, science, building???  May I propose that it is God interacting with you  in a way that is truly special for you?  Do you feel your problems and resentments shrink away as you do it?  Whether you think I'm nuts or not, I suppose it's worth considering.  I sure think it's neat.  

*It is important for me to emphasize that I have known many people who I fully believe experience and interact with God through the happenings in church.

 **It is also important for me to note that I desire to be connected with a church, it's just I can't seem to avoid ending up confused and depressed as a consequence of the common church songs and sermons.  

Barefoot vs. Moonboots

Alright, so there is a raging argument between which is better: barefoot running or running in super-technical running shoes with microchips and stuff. (Seriously, Adidas came out with one a few years ago that would adjust cushioning for different runners.)

A couple of years ago, I was running in a pair of Five Fingers, and I was told by a non-runner who had read a few articles on the matter, that barefoot running would destroy my arches. When the book Born to Run came out, running barefoot became such a big deal that you'd have thought it would cure cancer. It seems like there are a lot of people that feel very strongly on this matter either one way or the other. It's not hard to find comments online where people are dropping F-bombs back and forth at each other over their certainty that one form of footwear is superior to the other.

Let me shoot for the middle here. I have tried barefoot running and I have also spent considerable time running in techy, very cushioned shoes. Here is what I have found.

1. Barefoot running makes you feel like either an indigenous man in a loin cloth or a varmint running the streets and trails. Either way, it is smooth, quiet, and a lot of fun, but...

2. Barefoot running can be painful, especially at first. Your lower calves will scream at you and the bottom of your feet will get worked-over pretty well. You'll also run a bit slower and need to shorten and quicken your stride, as hitting your heel with those big, long strides from high school track will really smart. But within a month (even a couple of weeks), it isn't too bad at all, especially over shorter distances (<7 miles for me).

3. If you dive into barefoot running too quickly, you will likely get injured... duh. This idea seems to allude many people, especially those who swear by their cushy shoes. I would expect that a break-in of several years would be necessary to become injury resistant at distances that one used to do in their cushy, supportive shoes.

4. I have a feeling that some people may just have an anatomy that will never allow them to barefoot run for very long. It stinks, but it is true. Being raised with your feet living basically in the casts (fancy, supportive shoes) may make switching very difficult.

5. Barefoot running teaches you to run in such a way that your knees, hips, lower back, and shins will thank you. This means your feet don't strike out in front of you and you strike mid foot. You will have to shorten and quicken your stride to do this, but it is actually way more efficient anyway. Here is the truly novel thing... you don't actually need to have barefoot running shoes on to run this way. Especially if you can find a shoe that doesn't have too big of a heel rise in it.

   
   

   So, which is better? BOTH!!! They are each good for different reasons, and both have their issues. Personally, I use bigger shoes when I am pushing my distances, running in the winter, and running rocky trails. I use my more minimalist shoes when I'm running for fun on warmer days and sometimes just for the heck of it other times as well. I would like to be running exclusively in minimalist shoes in the next five or ten years, though, as I just really like the idea of it.

Periodization

Beginning the HIT strips as well as several injuries have taught me the importance of varying the intensity of training. Basically, all serious athletes do it if they have a clue about how their body works. When I do the weighted HIT strips more than 5 times in a row (~2 weeks when the mandatory 48-72 hour recovery is included), my fingers begin to feel a little tweaked and my weights begin to decrease slightly. This is known to some as cumulative fatigue.

It's then time to take an extra day off and then climb without weight for a while in sets that are long enough that they make you want to whimper over how bad your muscles are burning (called power endurance training). I usually do this for about 2 weeks as well.

After the power endurance, it's time to take a few weeks to climb some endurance (the fun climbing on easy routes that allows one to work on coordination and never be in much pain).

After the endurance weeks, it's time to take a week off and then hit the really intense strength training again, starting the cycle over.

This periodization principle, is one of the keys to increasing injury resistance and to avoid plateaus. Plus, the varying intensity can be synchronized with another sport (running in my case), and during the less intense phase in one sport, you can schedule the high intensity time in the other. This is one of the things that is allowing me to train for an ultramarathon while still not seeing a crash in my climbing strength. It also keeps me from growing to passionately hate one of the sports.

HIT Training is Working Stupendously!!

I find it a little frustrating how very few people seem to post on what they do in their training that is working, so since I've tried a few things that have really worked recently, I thought I should share. A lot of the stuff I have learned will translate well for people in other sports besides climbing and running.

HIT Strips

As shown in the picture, these are basically just big climbing holds that have pocket, crimp, and pinch options. The workout I'm doing (as per the instructions that from Eric Horst, the inventor) involves doing two sets of up to twenty hand moves with each grip with exactly a three minute rest. To keep reps under twenty, you add weight to yourself.

Results:

I really started counting the weight increase after I had done it for two weeks, as the first couple of weeks involve a rapid increase due to training muscle coordination so that you can pull harder with the same muscles. This continues to happen after two weeks, but to a much more consistent and less wildly rapid degree.

When I officially began recording weights I could not complete twenty reps with the following weights for each grip:

Pinch: 5 lbs

Open crimp: 25 lbs

Closed crimp: 0 lbs

Index/middle finger team: 5 lbs

Middle/ring finger team: 0 lbs

Ring/pinky finger team: Not doing due to injury

Just this last week (4 months of training), my weights had risen to:

Pinch: 35 lbs

Open crimp: 55 lbs

Closed crimp: 35 lbs

Index/middle finger team: 55 lbs

Middle/ring finger team: 50 lbs

Ring/pinky finger team: Still not really doing due to injury in forearm.

I can say that a bit of the increase in weights can be attributed to whole body muscle memory making the HIT strip climbing process more coordinated, but a recent change to some really crappy shoes that coincided with weight increases even with my feet occasionally popping off show that the strength increase I have seen is very legitimate.

One other note that I should make is the even though the HIT strips are designed to target finger strength, I have noticed that my pullup test has gone up more rapidly since beginning HIT training. I had been working my pull muscles consistently since the beginning of 2011, and I have gone from ~16 to ~25 ( taken post workout, so some fatigue existed) at a time. My pullup ability seemed to plateau during the spring in the upper teens, but then jumped to ~25 in the late fall.