Intro Strength Training

It's official, I just bought a barbell, 300-lbs of weight, and Becoming a Supple Leopard.  Nagged by pain in my right arch, constant shoulder niggles, and the occasional finger injury, I've finally concluded that it's time to try something new... plus I get bored with just running and want something new, and olympic lifts look fun!

Having not truly lifted since high school, the first night of budging the barbell off the floor was an alarming experience for my shoulders, particularly the top backside of them.  Apparently 12 years of climbing does nothing to develop those guys.  Currently I'm drilling the heck out of technique... doing small things like learning how to actually do pullups, pushups, and squats correctly.  I always just assumed I knew what I was doing, beaming with pride when I could do 25 pullups and 50 pushups.  Of course now that I've turned 30, I've become secure enough to admit the hard fact that quality of movement actually makes you stronger than quantity-- not to mention it has the added benefit of not creating injuries!

Now having read more than half of my book about becoming a supple leopard, several movement faults which are contributing to my shoulder and arch problems are coming into view.  My lack of attention to keeping my shoulders back in their sockets as I do pullups, pushups, and bench press has likely not only caused some minor injuries, it has also trained my shoulders to move in injury-producing ways as I climb.  Interestingly, the good shoulder position mentioned in Supple Leopard is the same as discussed in professional climber Dave MacLeod's book Make or Break.

In regard to my arch problem, It's come to my attention that my right knee has a nasty habit of tracking inward, something that is a big "no no" when lifting.  Additionally, while trail running I sometimes have a hard time maintaining core tension and a neutral spine described in Chi Running, and core tension and a neutral spine are a cornerstone of good lifting technique.  Kelly Starrett points out in his book about supple leopards that by training good movement under the stress of lifting, then when I am bombing down a mountain side on a run I will naturally fall into good position, thereby preventing some of the common "owies" that pop up from my running.


So many people discount general lifting as unnecessary for climbing and running, and this may be true for genetic mutants who destroy in their single sport.  But for those amateurs who do multiple sports, work a full-time job, and are simply just not "built" for the sports we love, it makes sense that training good movement and general strength are a healthy component to our training routine.  I look forward to seeing what results I achieve, and hopefully I have a chance to post them here!

Discovery: I'm like a Tapeworm!

There’s this odd delusion out there that there is something we are meant to do with our lives, and when we find it, peppy, romantic-comedy-like music will begin to play as a the camera pans around our smiling face.  Bliss abounds, as we have just found that “thing” that we can devote our lives to, living happily ever after. 

Now, I don’t deny that there may be something that we are meant to do, but I’ve come to believe the romantic-comedy-like music and camera panning are not necessarily part of the picture.  For some of us, what we are made to do is more like the life-purpose of a tape worm… cling to the walls of the digestive tract of a cat while everything about the cat is trying to get rid of us. 

I knew right away when I first stepped onto the side of a cliff that I was not meant to be there.  Yet for some reason, something in my nature latched onto that place in sort of a joyously sadistic manner.  This first encounter with the vertical world was a rappel of about 30 feet.  My gloved hands gripped the rope with singular devotion to keep me alive.  I nearly froze with terror, but found in myself the courage to get down only so I wouldn’t have to be there anymore.  Of course, once at the bottom, through a combination of peer pressure and fascination with the idea of the vertical world, I quickly returned to the top of the cliff for another rappel. 

A couple weeks after my first rappel, I tried rock climbing.  We set a top rope on a really easy face in the Stillwater Canyon of the Beartooth Mountains.  I tied-in to the rope with a rewoven figure-8 knot I’d repeatedly practiced in the safety of my living room, and prepared to launch.  I started up the cliff confidently scuffing my ginormous Cabela’s hiking boots around trying to find foot holds. 

My second day rappelling.  Also the same day I climbed the first time, but on a much easier cliff.  The age of large boots, high-rise jeans, and leather gloves.

I soon would discover that there is a place about 8 feet up a cliff in which my subconscious gets wise that I’m doing something naughty.  Seven feet up, everything’s cool, I’m world-class.  Eight feet up, I feel a giant boulder get lodged in my throat, and every muscle in my body tenses.

Through the process of sitting on the rope a couple times, and cheating a bit, I finally made it to the top of the cliff.  It wasn’t pretty, but I got there.  My mind was electric with excitement and pride over my accomplishment.  Of course, a couple weeks later, my best friend’s mom and little sister climbed the same cliff with considerably more ease than I.  I silently coped. 

Despite the fact that I stunk at climbing, and that I was terrified of it, I kept coming back.  Repeatedly, I crossed from 7 to 8 feet up.  Repeatedly, I became paralyzed. 

Undeterred, and full of grandiose expectations of my future as a climber, I stuck at it.  Over the next three years, I finally got loosened-up enough where I was decent above 8 feet.  I started climbing in the gym at MSU in my first years of college, and before long I had become familiar with the movement of climbing, which bolstered my confidence, but there always remained a level of tension in my head that seemed to not be present amongst most “real” climbers. 

Early lead climbing (Note the lack of rope from above, I'm placing gear as I go to stop a fall).  I still have that look on my face a lot while leading.  Yep, didn't finish the climb that day, I turned around at that very move.  I'm proud to say I have since finished it though!

Over the last eleven years since I rappelled my first cliff, I’ve gone from barely being able to top-rope a route graded 5.3 to having lead-climbed thin 5.10 cracks on gear and a short, well-bolted 5.12 sport climb… a grade of climb which remains well-respected amongst even the best climbers.  I’ve gone from using my pencil-arms to squeeze off 5 pullups to using my bulging pencil arms to bust out 25.  At times, I feel weightless and confident on climbs… even hard ones, but frequently I feel terrified and look really stupid up there, even on some easy routes. 

I’ve gone through cycles where I’ve nearly had to give up on climbing… partly because I can’t handle the constant anxiety and the ever present chance I’ll look dumb on an easy climb, and partly because I feel like my once tiny arms and my always weak head are signs that it is something I’m not “meant” to do. 

Folks, I’m here to tell you now that not doing something because you feel you weren’t “meant” for it is about the stupidest conclusion that you can make.  Rock climbing has become part of my heart and soul.  It’s taught me to grow a backbone and learn to work with my fears… even if I look dumb sometimes.  It’s made my upper body several times stronger than it once was.  It is teaching me to be honest about my struggles, and to not pretend I’m better or more courageous than I am.  It sometimes frustrates the heck out of me, and makes me want to quit.

But it is important that I continue the struggle for all the other people who are destined to live the life of a tape worm, just like I.

Even if you feel that you lack the natural “giftings” of others in the activities that draw you, keep at them, and I will do the same.  The spirit of the struggle itself matters more than the results, and I personally will be inspired by your achievements!  

Having just lead my first 5.12 graded climb in Tensleep.  That route really played to my strengths, so I'm a long way from being able to do this on a regular basis.  But I'm going to keep at it!

The Official Record of My Ankle Sprains!

The following is an exhaustive account of all my ankle sprains that I can remember.  "Coolness" refers to the circumstances of the spraining.  A "5" means I was doing something at least mildly heroic.  A "0" means people in my group would act "un-associated" with me.

Regarding severity, A "5" means I walked like a pirate for a week; a "3" means walked like a pirate for a few days or less; and a "2" means I could walk normally, but athletic performance was compromised.

Generally, I would say the average person sprains their ankle doing something spectacular (Coolness 5 and up); but I'm not average.  Even my punt return at 15 involved me making a last minute decision to pick up a ball that I should have just let come to rest... but I panicked.  I probably should make it a Coolness 4 for that very reason, but I won't so that I can preserve my self esteem.

1st:  15 years old...  piled-on during a punt return                                                     
Coolness: 5       Severity: 4
2nd:  16 years old... stepping off couch at home                                                       
Coolness: 0       Severity: 2
3rd:  18 years old... playing basketball in "intramural" tournament                             
Coolness: 4       Severity: 5
4th:  19 years old... stepping off step in dorms                                                         
Coolness: 0       Severity: 2
5th:  20 years old... hopping over a ditch as a tourist in Yellowstone... off pavement  
Coolness: -1      Severity: 5
6th:  22 years old... stepping off of climbing wall... STEPPING, not even falling!       
Coolness: 1       Severity: 5
7th:  24 years old... longboarding at really slow speeds in the dark.                           
Coolness: 2        Severity: 3
8th:  27 years old... running off the top of Baldy Mountain... numb, cold legs             
Coolness: 5        Severity: 4
9th:  28 years old... 50 yards from trailhead after running 5th highest point in MT       
Coolness: 3 (50 yards?  Really?)       Severity: 3
10th:  28 years old... fell in TINY hole while running... 0.4 miles from house              
Coolness: 2        Severity: 2
11th:  28 years old... alone in empty hallway at school... FLAT and ALONE.           
Coolness: -1      Severity: 2


Sprain #5 takes the cake as the most ridiculous situation, especially given that I was in severe pain for the remainder of the vacation.  Thankfully sprain #11 wasn't very serious, but I was forced to flop on the floor right in front of the girls restroom at school to defend against a more vicious sprain.

What can we learn?

• Given the coolness rating average of just about 1.5... I think its safe to assume that I'm a complete dork.
• Online sprain rehab states that foot proprioception is the secret cure.  Apparently I need to spend more time standing around in the dark on one leg.

The 2013 Bighorn Mountain Run 50 Mile

Having ran 46 miles through the mountains, a guy can be left feeling a bit emotionally vulnerable. I suppose that's my excuse for my sudden welling-up with tears as I coasted down the Tongue River Canyon trail. It wasn't because I was in pain. It wasn't because I was having a tough day of ultramarathoning... it was because I was doing waaaay better than I had ever imagined I would ever do that day. Crying because something is going really well?! Men don't do that. What had caused me to get so weird?

The day began as usual, waking up at 3:30am and driving to the starting line at the top of the Bighorn Mountains. I was scared. I was sleepy. And I was drinking some chia seed concoction know as a “Synergy” drink (available in the hippie drinks aisle at your local grocery store). Having run an ultramarathon before, I knew what was coming for me. Even worse, I knew that I had forgotten a lot of what was coming for me, and that I would soon remember why I swore off ultrarunning for three days after the last one.

We arrived at the starting area and saw the scene... a bunch of people with fantastic calf muscles and running attire trying to stay warm. We pulled into a parking spot, and I initiated warmup-for-an-ultra routine... apply sunscreen, go tinkle a few times because I was cold and scared, then sit in the car and stay warm. You'll be pleased to know I executed a perfect warmup.

Then the call came for us to report to the start line. Two hundred or so of us crowded in behind an RV, myself gravitating toward the back of the pack because I intended on taking this one slowly and I didn't want to get in anyone's way. A bundled-up, middle aged man grabbed a microphone that was attached to a single speaker and belted out the national anthem. The field of runners counted down from 10 (well, except for us in the back who didn't know what was happening), and then the entire field began moving forward like a heard of cattle. Feeling equal parts excitement for the great trail running ahead, and dread because there was about 30 miles too much of it, I was now on my way to the mighty struggle that awaited me mere hours away. The key for the first part of the race was to attempt to keep the “mighty struggle” section of the day from coming to visit me too soon.

Hanging in the very back seconds after the start.

The first few miles of the course involved a number of bottlenecks that left me walking and waiting as the runners ahead of me cleared out. Having to stop and walk was not of real concern to me, as I welcomed the opportunity to keep it slow.

We proceeded from the starting line over a small ridge, and then down the Little Horn Canyon, splashing through mud holes and swamps, hopping streams, and generally having a lovely time in the mountains. I made sure to walk any uphills, and occasionally I even stopped and walked for a minute just for the heck of it. No need to get in any hurries this early in the game. I found that, even though I was walking at times, my overall pace was causing me to pass quite a number of people. I was moving up from the back of the pack, and I barely felt like I was exerting myself. The day seemed to already be going better than expected.

The first 18 miles of the the run go quite quickly. In a flash, we had gone from the top of the Bighorn Mountains (9000ft), down to the Footbridge Aid Station at the base of them(4200ft). Other than my expected flare-up of runner's knee, I felt great. In fact, even though I had been running like a slacker, I had covered the first section of the run in the same time as I had achieved last year... a somewhat puzzling finding.

At the Footbridge Aid Station, I popped some electrolyte tablets, restocked my pockets with gels, slapped a strap around my knee to keep the runner's knee at bay, and I set off to begin “The Wall”. “The Wall” was so named because it causes many runners to hit “the wall”. It is a section of trail the gains 2000 vertical feet over about 3 miles. During last year's run I was a victim of “The Wall's” uh... “walliness”. Last year, I tore into the climb lacking patience. I nearly puked as I approached the top of it. This year, I relaxed, pretended I was out for a hike, and set my burly mountaineer's thighs to work eating up the hill. This time, I felt great! The variation of getting to power hike for a while made me feel almost entirely fresh.

Over the course of my hike up “The Wall,” I had managed to pass a multitude of people. I saw others getting the life sucked out of them as had happened to me last year, so I encouraged them along and joked about the situation. Cheering on other competitors is a trait that makes ultramarathons the best type of runs out there, and through helping the morale of others through quips and encouraging words, I found that I began to enjoy the day that much more.

I arrived at the Bear Camp Aid Station and was met by a friendly volunteer who filled my water bottles. As I gathered a few handfuls of food, I noticed a woman who was doing the 100-miler doubled over in tears at the table. The 100-milers had begun the previous day and had been going all night. She was on about mile 70 of her journey. A man had his arm around her and was pep-talking her and helping her break down the remaining section of the course. I couldn't help but think about how bizarre of a sport ultramarathon running is. She had put herself into that “pain cave”. It was her choice to be there, at the end of herself, wanting nothing more than to be out. But given her position on the course, I knew that she had committed to at least another 13 miles that she would have to complete before she could get out. Even in her condition, she wasn't stopping anytime soon.

I had a great deal of respect for her. I knew well that I may end up in her same position in an ultramarathon someday... maybe even later that day. In fact, at about mile 40 last year, I was in a similar position in my own little way... tears welling-up in my “man eyes,” wanting nothing more than to be out of there. But stopping wasn't happening. I had to keep going... at least to the next aid station. I wasn't in great physical danger, but my mind had thrown-in the towel, and it wanted me to be done.

So why on earth would I come back for another round, even though last year ranked as one of the top 5 most horrifying (but strangely wonderful) things I had been through in my life?

Well, I really don't know. After wasting approximately 5 hours of my life attempting to write an adequate explanation this afternoon, I carefully crafted a pie chart and a thought map in hopes of expressing why I returned. Enjoy!

I made my way out of Bear Camp Aid Station and finished my snack on the move. My knee was twinging a bit more, so I tried to keep my right leg as relaxed as possible. I continued the process of walking the uphills and running the downhills and flats. The section of the course between Bear Camp and Dryfork aid stations measures about 13 miles. It is a beautiful section of course that crosses in and out of meadows, but it's uniformity makes it somewhat if an unmemorable place. What I do recall is that I continued to pass people. I started feeling a bit fatigued, but compared to the aching pains that I had around my chest, back, and the nausea from last year, I felt like a new man on this go around. I couldn't believe that I had already traveled 30 miles! My only developing concern (aside from my knee) was that I was moving too fast. I'd told my family that I would be at the Dryfork Aid Station at 1:00 at the absolute earliest. It was looking like I was going to get there at about that exact time. I hoped they weren't late, or they would miss the show.

As I hiked up the steep hill into the Dryfork Aid Station at about 7700ft in elevation, I spotted my dad on the road above. Whew! They had made it... barely. And if it wasn't for my dad's conservative “let's plan ahead” approach that caused him to walk ahead of the others to keep an eye on things, they may have missed me entirely.

The trail coming up to Dry Fork Aid Station.  The first 18 miles goes down a the valley cutting across the picture just below the horizon.  Then it's 16.5 more miles to get here.  

As I got my bottles refilled and had a snack, my wife, mom, and Grandma Mary showed up on the scene. I feel kind of odd when I suggest that people come see me at an aid station. I mean, it's not exactly like going to a football game. After driving an hour to a remote corner of the mountains, all they get to do is watch me eat, drink, and pop mysterious white pills containing electrolytes. Then after about five minutes, I'm off. At least we had a chance to snap a picture with me and a couple of my favorite ladies... my mom and grandma. Unfortunately, my wife was the photographer, so she wasn't able to sneak into the picture... darn.

Me, Grandma Mary, and Mom just as I was leaving Dryfork Aid Station.

As I rushed out of the aid station, I began to ponder something: There was a real chance that I would finish this thing in under 11 hours. “What's special about 11 hours?” You might ask.

Well, 11 hours just happens to be the fastest possible time in which I figured I could conceivably finish. In fact, I was actually a little embarrassed to admit my idea of crossing the line within 11 hours, because odds were that I would finish a lot slower than that, leaving me looking really silly. Beyond being the far reach of my own personal goal, 11 hours also happens to be a qualifying time that allows you to enter into the Western States 100, a legendary race that is the ultramarathon equivalent of the Boston Marathon. It's not that I actually want to enter into Western States at this moment in my career, but it would be fun to know that I could if I wanted to. To run a qualifying time on a course like Bighorn, which is more difficult than many 50 milers... well that would be one of my greatest personal achievements!

But it was too early to dream of 11 hours. I still had 16 miles and 3000 vertical feet of downhill awaiting me. It was during the last 16 miles that I blew my transmission last year. Would it happen again this year?

I continued to walk out of the aid station while I finish my cookies and my slice of pizza. Even though I could feel the time press, I knew I couldn't hurry and risk making my body fall apart on me. As I finished my pizza and cleared the ridge above Dryfork Aid Station at about 8100ft, I began running again. I had a nasty side ache springing up, and my knee hurt, but I generally felt pretty solid. I alternated running with a few stretches of walking to prolong my strength, and before long the side ache was gone and I was settling into a rhythm. I sailed down to the Upper Sheep Creek Aid Station, making quick work of the 5 mile stretch from Dryfork that seemingly lasted an eternity last year.

I didn't linger at the aid station, only stopping for a quick hit of Sprite before being on my way. I ran down the hill along Sheep Creek, and that is when I encountered the obstacle that was my undoing last year... the steep climb to the top of Horse Creek Ridge. I tied into the climb up the ridge and passed a man who was attempting to cut the size of the hill down through the use of some well-placed expletives. I gathered that it wasn't working for him, and gave him some space and let him know it was the last major climb as I went around him.

Everything felt so much smaller this year. I cleared Horse Creek Ridge with little exertion, and couldn't figure out why it was such a big deal last year. Perhaps it was because I was drinking more water. Perhaps it was my trail-heavy, mountain-loving training. Perhaps it was the sheer quantity of avocados I had consumed that spring (they're a super-food, you know).

Coming down off of Horse Creek Ridge involves dropping about 3000 vertical feet in four miles. This descent was the site of my breakdown last year, where I was reduced to a pouting little schoolgirl. This year my mindset was considerably different... I was on track for 11 hours, and I needed to finish strong. “Time to get 'er done, Nate.” I thought.

Horse Creek Ridge is the grassy one in the distance.  At mile 40, we cleared the ridge and proceeded down the canyon cutting across the picture just in front of it.  

As I chopped my way down the steep grade, my runners knee was loudly expressing its displeasure. I tried sideways, I tried little steps, I tried everything to make it happy. I was beginning to pass the back-of-the-pack 30k runners by the multitudes, and I could tell that most of them were in their own world of pain. To lighten the mood, I made it a point to speak for my knee as I passed them. “Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch!” I would report with each step. Most of them seemed pleased to hear that the guy passing was in considerable pain as well. Just doing what I could for the good of humanity, I guess.

Eventually the descent ended, and I was left cruising down the familiar stretch of trail in the lower reach of Tongue River Canyon, a place where I regularly go for rock climbs and training runs when I am visiting my wife's family in Dayton. With about 6 miles of relatively flat land to travel to the finish, the reality of the moment was upon me: I was actually going to finish in under 11 hours!

And that's when I suddenly found my eyes welling-up with tears in a way that shouldn't happen when you're a man. I'm sure it had a little to do with the heat and the 46 miles I had covered, but I suddenly was overcome with a deep respect for what the man in me was capable of accomplishing. We spend so much time watching reality shows and sports on TV, secretly wishing that we were those people, not our boring, normal selves. Being raised with the mountains central to my life, ultramarathon runners have become, in my mind, among the most elite of mountain people. They take week-long backpacking trips and multi-day mountain summits and turn them into single-day, or even just afternoon, jaunts. To become one of them is to change my entire outlook on myself. For whatever reason, my performance last year failed to allow me to see myself as a true ultramarathon runner. But this year, be it the speed or the style in which I was finishing, I found my view of myself to have changed. I didn't want to be someone else, someone famous and interesting on TV. I wanted nothing more than to be me. I was now a real life ultramarathon runner!

With renewed vigor in my step, I naturally stopped to tinkle for a minute. Moments later, as I finished the trail portion of the run, I found myself on the Tongue River Canyon Road... the home stretch for the finish line. With open road before me, I set to work eating it up as quickly as I could. Now that I had accepted myself as an ultramarathon runner, I was no longer merely going to survive the last five miles, I was going to attack them and log the best time I could!

Cruising down the Tongue River Canyon Road to the finish.

I took off town the road, mostly running, with the occasional walking break to mix it up. After a few miles, I met my escort to the finish... comprised of my wife, my mother-in-law, and my mom, all riding their bikes out to meet me. The last miles of gravel road can be a bit monotonous, so it was nice to have the entertainment and company. I passed a multitude of 30 and 50k runners, and maintained my place in the 50 mile race. My mom was engaged in her own race with my mother-in-law, Monique... only she never explained to Monique that the reason she was repeatedly speeding past her on her bike was because she was “beating” her. I guess now we know where my competitive side comes from.

Mom taking a break from her bike "races" with Monique to cheer me on with her little, plastic hand clapper.  

Passing some of the 30k or 50k runners on the final stretch.

I cruised into Dayton feeling good, and to commemorate my previous life as a hurdler, I sprinted the last 50 feet and leaned into the finish as if breaking the tape in the 110-meter hurdles. It was a perfect way to end, and it redeemed my finish last year, when I could do nothing but walk slowly across the line to prevent fainting. My finishing time was far beyond my wildest expectations: 10 hours, 35 minutes, 59 seconds (good thing I leaned!). I placed 26^th out of a field that I'm told was over 200 runners when the day began. Not bad for my second ultramarathon.

Coming into Dayton feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.

About to start my sprint to the finish.

Why one uses electrolyte tablets.

Gaiters off, burly dirt lines.  Go Altra Zero Drop Shoes!

The whole crew who turned up.  Monique's bike made the photo, but not Monique.  

Me, my wife, and the finishers shirt.  Sarah had the pleasure of waking up at 3:30 am to drive me to the starting line so I didn't have to ride the bus.  She also regularly makes heaps of great post-run food that greet me after long training runs.

The Secret Passion That Keeps Me Active... It's Not What You'd Expect

There I was in Tensleep Canyon of Wyoming, half way up a route, all handholds small and sideways, and a tiny foothold just above knee height that was just asking for my use.  I lifted my leg and touched it with my toe.  I gave my foot a wiggle to see what the hold could do.  Then, I proceeded to weight it.  The world stood still... it was last Tuesday, 4/2, at about 3:47, just in case you wonder why you suddenly paused and took a deep breath.  Alas, my foot held onto the tiny nubbin, and I moved upward. Of course I fell off about three seconds later, but that's not the point.

That moment, my friends, is one of the reasons why I love climbing so very much.  It is the relationship between a man and his climbing shoes and the mysterious capabilities of the material known commonly as rubber.  I find I am deeply fascinated by the way the soles of my climbing shoes mold around tiny features in such a way that it is "squeaky sticky", yet firm enough that the very thought of chewing on the end of my climbing shoe makes me drool.  Folks, for the first time in my life, on a blog that has been viewed across the world, I am coming out with a dark secret about myself.  I love rubber... I mean I really love it... a lot.

My affections for the remarkable substance don't stop at my climbing shoes.  My love of rubber doesn't discriminate.  A couple of months ago, we bought new tires for our car.  This meant we got to visit the tire shop at Costco.  Though my wife is sickened by the smell of tires, when I walked into that store I paused to snort-in a giant whiff of the glorious smell of tire.  I wanted to run around feeling every tire in the store, perhaps chewing on a few.  I particularly love the truck tires with the very deep tread.  I love the squeakiness.  I love the "sort of firm but not really" feel.  I love tires.



Have you ever noticed that, while you are riding your bicycle, you have a front row seat to the wonders presented by your front tire.  So the saying goes, "the wheels on the bike go round and round", and the whole time I'm riding, I'm watching (and drooling) with fascination over the show that unfolds before me.  I love how road bike tires are so smooth, yet very sticky, and how they develop a flat side after many miles.  I love the way mountain bike tires change colors based on the terrain they face.  I love how they mold around the rocks in the path, and how they gain little gouges as they wear down.  Mmmmm.  I suppose my deep love of tires was one of the contributing factors in our recent sale of our second car to buy my fat-bike.  Of course, I have to ride my bike to school every day, in wind and rain and snow, but it is a small price to pay for the privilege of getting to ride on those giant, squishy tires.



Let us now make one last stop on our exploration of the wonders of rubber.  It would seem that I'm becoming a bit of a trail runner.  In amassing piles of miles training for my 50-miler this summer, I've derived great pleasure in gazing at the soles of my shoes.  As the tread wears, it becomes rough, pliable, gooey, squeaky, ... Oh, is there enough adjectives in the world to describe its wonders?!  Like bike tires, as the soles of my shoes grip the dirt, mud, rocks, logs, and sand, they develop small scars and sometimes donate chunks of tread to the trail.  The bottom of my shoes tell the story of my improving running form as well.  They used to wear out at the heel, now they wear all across the bottom of my shoe, more so on the outside edge of my foot where I first make contact with each stride.

Like the famous fable of the tortoise and the hare, this tale of my secret love of rubber has a powerful moral as well.  There are a million reasons to stay active and healthy... not dying of congestive heart failure being one of them.  More often than not, though, it takes a lot more than fear of heart disease to get you outside and moving on those tough days.  Most of the time I get out because of my love of what I do and my desire to get stronger.  But on those days when getting stronger feels pointless, and not having heart disease sounds too far away, getting out takes a little something special.  That special thing, for me, comes down to enjoying a bit of drooling over a working bike tire or a climbing shoe edging on a small nubbin of rock.  Mmmmm, makes me want to get out there right now... or perhaps at least chew on my shoe.

Perhaps it's a vitamin deficiency???

Multiple Sports; Why Being Worse Is Better

Folks, I'm going to level with you... there's a wonderful, under-appreciated side effect of being a multi-sport athlete.  When I devote time to climbing, running, and biking, I find I'm much more capable at being worse at all of them.

It's true, if I were a full-time climber, I would be dang good.  You'd be amazed, I promise.  But I don't climb full-time, partly because I get bored with being scared all the time, and partly because I can't help hurting my girly fingers (which, unfortunately, happen to be paired with a set of quite manly thighs).

So when I'm injured from climbing, or I just can't handle the adrenaline anymore, I run... preferably on trails, but also through the dreary, nighttime streets of Livingston if time is limited.  If I ran full-time, logging the 70-100 mile weeks like a proper ultramarathon runner should, I'd be dang good at that too... I just know it.  But there's a problem:  as soon as the outside temperatures are mellow, and my fingers are healthy, I can't help but caress the beautiful face of any vertical surface I come near (even the odd bathroom wall).  Climbing becomes my mistress as I cheat on my ultramarathon training.  I'm a terrible person.

Of course, there's another complication.  All would be fine if I just climbed and ran... I'm certain I'd still be pretty awesome at both.  But I have really sweaty, greasy fingers when I climb on hot days, and I feel like my head is going to explode when I run in the heat.  My wife often explains that I could eliminate a great deal of my suffering if I went shirtless, but as my brilliant, white chest clearly demonstrates, apparently I'm still a bit bashful.

So what does a busy-body like me do when it gets really hot?  Well, I begin dreaming of sailing down trails and roads on my bikes while bearing a giant, bug-eating grin.   Naturally, I am aware that I'd be pretty formidable on a bike if I was a full-time cyclist; but I have a problem with the concept of riding wheel-to-wheel in a pelaton of 100 bikes all traveling at 25mph.  Also, as part of my religious belief, I don't subscribe to bike trainers... It is a must unnatural use of a wheel to make it spin in place.  Therefore, I refuse to train in the winter for races that terrify me in the summer.  I certainly enjoy my recreational rides on summer days, but it would seem that as soon as the temperatures plummet, I find myself forsaking my hard-earned, summertime butt calluses as I take to climbing and running once again.

Okay, so now that we've covered in detail why I'm incapable of being a single sport athlete, and why that makes me sub-par at a number of things.  Lets take a moment to address the main idea here... why being worse is indeed better.

Well, it's quite simple really.  If a guy does three different sports, his act of perpetually cheating on one sport with another sport leaves him fully aware that he'll never be remarkable at any of them.  That's when he gets to just shrug his shoulders, say, "meh," and forget about the pressures associated with constantly feeling the need to train and perform.  He is now free to aimlessly walk through the woods, caressing and fantasizing about beautiful boulders and cliffs.  He is now free to stop for a sandwich on a mountain top without the need for a better round-trip time.  His sports become his escape, his counselor, and his personal trainer.  He is a lucky dude.

Injuries Are Our Friends!

There I was, exactly 100 feet from the summit of Baldy Mountain.  My shoes were loose, my legs and feet were numb from post-holing through a couple of miles of snow, and then the inevitable happened:  my ankle rolled sideways, I felt a pop, and the dull pain and swelling began.  I immediately stopped, cinched up my shoes (as I should have done five minutes earlier), and kept moving.  I was looking at a snowy five miles and 4000-feet of downhill to the trailhead, and there was no time to stop and let the ankle begin stiffening any more than necessary.

The view of the ridge ahead from the site of the ankle sprain.
Still had to run to the furthest visible point on the ridge,
then begin the descent to the "M" trailhead.
I got some mental training in that day.  :  )

After a significant amount of whimpering, an incidental sunglasses-snapping while flailing through the snow, and a really tired right leg from compensating, I arrived back at the trailhead.  Having extensive experience with ankle sprains, I knew by that point that it was a fairly mild grade 2 sprain... not enough to threaten proper training for the Bighorn Mountain Run, but enough to cause about a month of mileage cut-back.

Ironically, my ankle sprain was well-timed with the return to full strength of my left middle finger from a ligament injury while climbing back in December.  Though my nightly runs are presently on hold, I feel like a model in a makeup store every time I get to go climb on my wall.  Two months of grabbing big holds and not being able to climb hard are done, and now I get to climb on whatever I want.  To make things even better, we are a mere few weeks away from the spring climbing season.  What timing!

It would seem there is something downloaded into us humans that causes us to desperately want exactly what we can't have.  As such, one of the best ways to curb our apathy and indifference that tends to grow toward a sport we love is to end up with an injury and have it taken away for a period of time.

It was just under a year ago when my training for my first ultra came grinding to a creep.  I'd had it with running through the dark, windy streets of Livingston.  I'd had it with the aching and nausea of the long training runs.  Aside from a medium to long run every weekend, which was largely motivated by fear, I'd nearly quit training during the months of April and May.  Boy, did I feel the effects during the ultra in June!

This ankle sprain comes at an opportune time.  I had really high motivation the two weeks before the injury, and now I can't help but sit here reading running blogs and watching videos of my ultramarathon heroes, all while thinking through my post-injury plan of attack.  I feel a bit like a caged beast, and I can't wait for spring break when, following a month of rehab and rebuilding my mileage, I lace up my running shoes for my first multiple-hour training run since the month of February.  By then the trails will be melting off, my motivation will be renewed, and I'll be ready for two great months of training leading up to my second ultramarathon.  It could very well be that this year will be a breakout performance compared to last, and it may have a lot to do with the renewal of motivation supplied by my fateful ankle sprain atop Baldy Mountain.