Finger Strength, Core, and Movement: The new cornerstones of my climbing training.

As a full-time math teacher plus graduate student, it's impossible to take the prescription of so many top climbers-- to get better at climbing, climb a lot!  Further complicating my ambitions of sending my goal V7's and 5.12's is the fact that climbing is not the only sport I do, as trail running is and equally important focus of mine.

Through reading the Rock Climbers Training Manual and articles such as this one by Sonnie Trotter, I've come to realize that given my limited training time for climbing, I need to focus on the highest priorities-- 1)Finger Strength, 2)Core Strength, and 3)Efficient and precise movement.  Connecting these priorities, it is important to decide on the climbing style I enjoy most, and keep training specific to that.  For me, this means terrain with small holds up to slightly overhanging.

Over the last year and a half, I've settled on a training routine for climbing that involves the following:

• A new garage climbing wall with a 30-degree overhang and a slight overhang which is full of smaller holds, especially little feet that demand precise foot movement and core tension.
• A hangboard with a pulley weight system to remove weight as I work holds which are too small for my full body weight.  Additionally, I also add weight to my harness as I exceed body weight.  I stick to smaller holds, and less weight, as those are characteristic of my goal routes.  
• Variations of leg lifts (hanging and on floor), working towards a front lever to build core strength.  

The routine roughly goes like this:

• A few weeks of light lapping on the wall for a bit every day, focusing on precise movement, good body positioning.  I tend to pepper in some harder moves these days, but don't get to power crazy.  
• A 3-4 weeks of hangboarding.  I do 7 second hangs with 3 second rests. I rest 3 minutes between sets, and do a set of 7 reps and a set of 6 reps for each grip.  Then I take 2 days off between workouts.  Generally, I follow the prescription in the Rock Climbers Training Manual.  I really like how systematic it is and how easy it is to progressively push to new loads while controlling to prevent injury.  I do about a 30-minute warmup of light lapping and lifting before.  I stop hangboarding and shift onto the next phase when my weights plateau.
• A few weeks of limit bouldering and some occasional campusing to build power.  Strength is only so useful in climbing, as quick recruitment of muscles (aka power) is key to actually sending hard moves.  I do these power workouts about 3 days per week.  
• A few weeks of power-endurance-- which is basically just making my forearms burn as much as possible.  I try to pick holds similar (or smaller!) in size to the 5.12's I want to send, and climb until I fall off, take a short break, then get back on!  I vary time between sets to mix up the stimulus, and I also practice clipping as I do these workouts.  

Though I don't make specific mention, I tend to use a 4-5 mile run, some lifting, and some lapping to warmup for these workouts.  The "lifting" also includes regularly core work which I do a few times per week.  I try to position my longish runs so that they are not before a strength workouts, as more endurance-related activities diminish returns from strength training, and they take the edge off of the maximum strength I can recruit during the workout (unfortunately, I know my 5 mile "warmup" runs are hurting my strength gains... still working scheduling this into my training routine!).  Also, whenever possible, I take my climbing workouts outside, although with graduate school, getting out has been a bit more challenging.

As a final note, I'm very curious to see how my new Olympic and power-lifting routine will affect my climbing.  So far I've been surprised by the level of core recruitment in barbell lifts, and the quality opportunities to work on good movement position.  My plan will be to run a bit less, expand the workout slightly, and hopefully get a more durable and powerful physique.

Optimism

One of the greatest climbers on the planet, Tommy Caldwell, frequently cites how important optimism is in accomplishing big, intimidating, and awesome goals.  He even talks about it as a theme in his Ted Talk.

It is so easy to fall into the rut of sympathetically complaining with other people.  My teaching job is full of opportunities for frustration and disappointment, and too frequently my coworkers and I get beat down and allow negativity to overtake us.  We complain, stress, dramatize, and just generally work ourselves up into a tizzy.  I don't see the problem with the occasional venting session to get stuff off my chest, but complaining daily (or even several times per week) can't be good.  Reading this great article The Science of Happiness: Why complaining is literally killing you, along with any Cognitive Behavioral Therapy book, it has become clear that we become our thoughts-- the more we think negatively, the more burly those thought synapses become, and the easier it is to fall into those thoughts.

So, back to optimism.  It seems that the world has challenges and disappointments, and I've noticed that when I get negative and pessimistic, I do nothing to change the problem.  In fact, when I step back and see myself whining about an unmotivated student or an injury or fear I have, it's as if I'm punching a rock-- it hurts me a lot and does nothing to the problem.  It's better to just look at the problem as an opportunity to become stronger, more experienced, and more crafty.

Life is like a boulder field, and some people choose to walk through it angry about all the rocks, punching them, yelling, and cussing.  By the time they get halfway through they are bloodied, sweaty, and looking of demonic possession.  Generally, outsiders look at them with fear, pity... or they just think they're crazy.  Other people walk through the boulder field climbing the boulders that make for a good challenge and an opportunity for growth, and side-stepping others when necessary, not allowing the boulder to get the best of them.  An outsider would look at these people and see someone with elf-like agility who is enjoying their time in the boulder field.

As the next year comes my way, I know that to accomplish my long-standing goals as an athlete, and to become a generally happier and better teacher, I need to look at the boulder field of life as an opportunity to gain experience, craftiness, and strength; and to generally become better at mastering my own emotions.

Tommy Caldwell began as a self-proclaimed dorky kid who was bad at sports and became possibly the most incredible all-around climber to walk the planet.  His dad so strongly believed that his son was capable of the impossible, and this spilled over into Tommy.  Something that separates him and makes him world-class is is ability to take a seemingly impossible task and believe that he can accomplish it, even when progress moves at a creep.  He takes on the most difficult boulders in the boulder field of life and uses them to better himself, always believing that he can overcome the improbable.

I want to make it a point to take on the challenges I face believing that I can overcome them, even when progress is slow and frustration is vying to overtake me.  I want to become better at avoiding negative talk, hard-wiring myself to be happier and un-phased by the challenges of my daily life.

Goals for the New Year!

A guy always becomes a bit reflective as the New Year pops up.  After missing the Rut 50k due to my freak fever and stomach ulcer, then fighting-off nagging arch and finger injuries, I've been left feeling like a bit of an invalid during the last year.  Proudly, I was able to achieve my 2015 goal of consistently (as I could with my finger problems!) training finger strength on my hangboard.  I was also able to improve my computer programming skillz, finish the Park High Bouldering wall, and I unexpectedly began my MS degree in Mathematics Education.  Oh, and I finally sent my first legit outdoor V6 boulder problem, the Pulaski on Cedar Mountain in Cody, WY.

For the new year, I have full intentions of finally breaking past a few of my lingering barriers, partly to prove to myself that I can break through extremely difficult, long-term plateaus, and partly because it's a lot of fun to inspire myself by accomplishing things that seem impossible (or at least are very hard!)

My top concrete goals on my list are:

• Finally climb one of the V7 boulder problems I've been battling with for the past 4 years! 
• Finally climb China Crisis (Bozeman Pass) or Winds of Deception (Natural Bridge).  Both 5.12a.  Although I'd also take climbing one of the technical 5.11's a Allenspur as well! 
• Lead climb 30 pitches in a day to celebrate being 30
• Run another Ultra-Marathon (I hope I can get into The Rut 50k and redeem myself!)

My process-oriented goals on my list are:

• Continue consistent finger-strength training
• Condition myself to become more optimistic and positive, both as a teacher and as an athlete.  I've grown weary of falling into the rut of the negative Neds at work and in my own mind.  

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.