The Demon Within: 2015 Prairie Spirit Trail 100

Success and failure are both difficult to endure. Along with success comes drugs, divorce, fornication, bullying, travel, meditation, medication, depression, neurosis, and suicide. With failure comes failure.

     -   Joseph Heller

Many times I have lamented my decisions, prefaced with the words, “What was I thinking?” Much to my chagrin, I wonder why I cannot learn without making mistakes, rather than make the mistake first and from the pain and failure rise up like a phoenix from the ashes. Yes, it is a beautiful entrance to rise from failure. Movies and books are sold by the millions on the subject. But no one notices the man who does the right thing the first time, graced with foresight even in prolonged moments of vague uncertainty.

And then comes failure beyond our control, like lung cancer to a grandmother who never tasted a cigarette. A victim of simple bad luck, bad timing, and the manifestation of irrelevant mistakes lending to inexplicable demise of something that could have been. It is an overly and irreverent encapsulation of missed opportunity, buffeted with tales of inventors and architects who failed 1000 times, and old Chinese proverbs.

This is what the stomach flu does to a runner. It makes him crazy.

On March 28, 2015, EPIC Ultras hosted the 3^rd annual Prairie Spirit Trail 100. It was to be my first race at the distance. I purposefully did not claim it as my first attempt, as the word implies a chance to not succeed. Just as a hand either holds the pen or drops the pen, there is no attempt. In the early morning hour of 6 am, Eric Steele (RD) sent us into the darkness just as the rain began to softly fall to the ground. The course takes a quick 1 mile out-and-back before leaving the town of Ottawa on the Prairie Spirit Trail, a rails-to-trails path stretching for over 50 miles south.

One runner jumped to the front of the pack, and soon was separated from us with only a faint flicker of his handheld lamp in a matter of minutes. I fell into place behind 3 runners for a brief bit, but after feeling the pace was too slow, began moving towards a rhythm and pace I felt was more comfortable for me. Soon, I found myself alone. Familiar. Typical.

I had planned to commit each hour to someone I loved. The first hour was to be for my wife. I planned to continue this for the entire race as motivation, and as a means to ground my personal desire for achievement with the things in life that really are more important. It is hypocritical, but I felt justified in the practice. Smooth and steady I ran, using the first two aid stations as my breakfast, and then second breakfast. It has been my plan to eat real food in this race, rather than subside on GU alone. So I ate oranges, bananas, and Nutella on tortilla. No coke or candy though…I gave it up for Lent.

As I ran through the first 25 miles, I felt as if I had only run 10. I was loose, easy, and calm. Well, maybe not calm, as the actual event of running 100 miles had been replicated in my head on nearly every run since November. I experienced no pain in my legs, arms, or head. This was already shaping up to the day I had actually dreamed of for months.

The Garnett train depot served as the nearly-marathon mark for the outbound portion of my trip. As I ran inside, as we had been strictly told we must, or face the wrath of a very tall, bald man who could certainly do damage to a runner the size of myself…but I digress. My water was refilled, food was presented, and a hand gently gave me a business card and zip-tie (for the aid station). Then in the most casual tone, I heard it. The lead runner was dropping. I was struck! It meant I was the lead runner now. But really, it meant someone much faster, more trained, more talented, and more deserving couldn’t go on. I was sad for him, genuinely. It is a hard thing to see someone wrecked like that. I couldn’t imagine what it felt like.

Until about 1 mile later…

…when all the food, the water, the GU, and quite possibly the greasy fish fillet, broccoli, and whatever else I ate the night before was forcefully projected from my stomach, burned past my throat, and out of my mouth and nose. What. The. Fuck. Just. Happened? I hadn’t thrown up in years. Although, I remember it with more disdain than being dumped on prom night, or kicked in the nuts, or really  all of my middle- and high-school years. I continued running, executing my flawless natural blow of vomit remnants from my nose.

Wait, you are running? I think I have something else for you. Oh, there it is! Oranges and bile. Yes, that looks nice in the grass.

Vomiting again? I immediately evaluated what I had been doing for the last 24 hours that could garner such a horrible experience. I determined it had to be the fact I was eating real food during a race…something I have never done before. Yes, everyone who claims to be an expert says never try something new on race day. But eating real food instead of just GU isn’t new…I do it every day…not when I run, of course.

As I continued past Garnett, and after the second trail deposit by my stomach, I began to quickly feel my muscles lock up. I was cramping already. Way, way, way too early for this. Now I was getting mad. I was in the best running shape of my life. I had trained better than I ever had before. To get cramps this early simply made no sense. I contemplated the vomiting had removed some hydration and salt from my body, but surely I had enough natural fuel to run at least another 15 miles without calories. Apparently not. I purposefully slowed down, but running slower seemed to consume more energy. In fact, I was working harder at this pace than I should be. Something was going wrong. Something was very wrong AT MILE 30 IN A 100 MILE RACE.

And then the demon jumped on my back.

Into the 35 mile aid station, I quickly strode over to the food table. I ate oranges, bananas, and a cup of potato soup. Now, I am a connoisseur of potato soup. And this soup was pretty freaking awesome. I especially liked the larger pieces of ham…that was unexpected surprise. Out of the aid station, I ran, only to Groundhog Day the events of the post-25 mile aid station. Vomit and more vomit. And more importantly, I was cramping so badly in places I have never cramped, I could only manage a quick walk. I was exhausted.

For seven miles I walked. Seven long miles of shame. Runner after runner passed. A couple stopped to walk with me. They were all gracious, and when they were done, sped up on their way to their reward. I vaguely remember a couple asking how I was doing. I told them I wasn’t able to keep anything down. One offered to walk with me to the aid station. I never got his name, but for someone to extend such kindness to a complete stranger, even if it didn’t seem like much to him, meant quite a lot to me. I find joy in seeing people treat others with kindness. It’s not something we see much of lately in our society. But in an ultra, you see it.

Perhaps more people should run ultras.

Just prior to reaching Colony aid station, near mile 41, I had decided my day was over. No calories, no salt, no fat means no running. I was in disbelief. It was considerably worse than a 16 year old being dumped on prom, because that kid can raise his finger, say “Fuck you”, and go on about his life. The same things were being said to me, but this time, I was the speaker and audience.

Now, during my long walk of shame, I was doing some math. I knew my dad would be there at a certain time. Now, if I stopped now, I would be lying there for 2 hours feeling like shit. Or, maybe I could get to the turnaround, be forced to run into Colony at 61 miles, and then maybe there would be a chance to regroup. But as soon as I saw the food, I knew.

In my head, I repeated one word over and over. Can you guess what it was?

Two hours later, my dad arrived to claim me. He had come to crew me into my first 100 mile finish. Instead, he was driving a very bad smelling son home. Well, we did require an emergency pit stop at Sonic, where I occupied a very nasty, cold, uncomfortable bathroom for an hour. And the rest of it is just a normal flu story.

So why dare write about a failed 100 mile race, ending after only 41 miles? I don’t want sympathy, or even empathy. I thrive on being independently strong. I don’t care what anyone says or does. But in this case, I do. I am sad from failure. And for a person with depression, it sucks. I am embarrassed. I am pissed. And I feel I let down a lot of people, who probably don’t feel I let them down at all. I am devastated my daughter thinks it was her fault I got sick. And I feel badly for my dad wasting his time all afternoon. So I write this for therapy…and because I enjoy writing (not editing, but writing).

Oh, and the reason everything went haywire…I got the stomach flu the night before, unbeknownst to me. My youngest daughter puked early at night, and my oldest daughter puked Saturday morning. So, it really was a simple matter of bad luck and bad timing.

Shit happens. And so does vomit.

And that demon, it loves a good failure. I guess I will just have to find a way to kick that goblin fucker to the ditch.

-M

Miss-Motivation

If I don’t run this morning, then I simply will not fit into the skinny jeans my wife bought me. If I don’t run and I wear the skinny jeans anyway, my stomach will hang over the unnecessary belt, my shirt will bulge in the middle, and my stomach will ache from the pressure. Conclusively, I will either find myself in the bathroom multiple times...a victim of a great ruse, or pissed off from my own slobbery.

So I ran this morning. But, the jeans were still tight. I decided to run the next day as well, and to be on the safe side, I will run the rest of the week. Seven days later, I find myself looking in the mirror, wearing the curious-looking skinny jeans, and at a pale muffin top trying to escape over the side of my hand-crafted leather belt.

Self-medication is the answer. The race director is the apothecary. “50 Miler” is what he prescribes, but I don’t think it is legal. It must be taken in a single dose, he says. Down the hatch, with effects visible in 8 hours. This is why I run.

After the prescribed term, I find myself looking in the mirror again, wearing the skinny jeans my wife bought. The side-effects from the medicine are sharp pains, mainly in my gut, mainly from the belt buckle stabbing my stomach, which is still grasping over the edge of my pant waist.

I am a broken man. I returned to my home, and stand in front of my wife, head down…solemn. This is as good as this body will get, I tell her. She looks at me lovingly with a smile, and says:

“Why are you wearing my jeans?”

Prairie Spirit Trail Fall Classic 50 Mile

The man’s hands tremble slightly upon his face, as he bows his body with arms on knees. There is no crying, no grimace of pain. Those have been shed over the long miles he has traveled. Sweat and salt-stained skin are his reward. And as he steadies himself upright, the last remnants of weakness abandon him.

The delicate combination of misguided exuberance, shiny awards, and celebration of a humbly accepted gift led me to ultrarunning. The latter is my impetus for running. All other elements prove less valuable and fall by the wayside, as pain is juxtaposed with spiritual awareness during a Saturday of fog and bright blue sky that was the Prairie Spirit Trail Fall Classic 50 Mile race.

Nervous energy battles with nature’s calm, dark morning as uniquely-crafted athletic bodies move toward the line. It is not the start, but the beginning of the end of months of training, procrastination, injury, and courage. Ten seconds of foreplay are more than enough before we plunge into what we believe we know, but are soon aware of which we know very little. There is no abstract thought to take my mind off what lies ahead. In fact, there is no focused thought at all. I spend five miles recalibrating for the unknown. It is foolish to jump into the ocean while wondering how to swim…unless you are a shark. Unfortunately, there are no mirrors for the shark to look into for confirmation – only nature’s assurance of an environment in which it belongs.

The light from my flashlight rebounds off the morning fog, but my legs pay no attention. Forward into the dark, I run alone. I am ill-prepared for the miles and pain awaiting me, but I am fully prepared to accept both. It is a concept easier said than done, as I will quickly discover. A mere fifteen miles after we start, a hiccup: my right knee begins to tighten, and then feel weak. It is not my foot, which was broke over a year ago. It is not my left knee, which was strained a few weeks ago. It is not my mental strength, which is regularly defeated. Something new…and unwelcomed.

Over the course of twelve additional miles I run with an altered gait, straying from a form as flexible as an oak tree. It hurts, to put it simply. It hurts badly. Aid stations provide the water with which I wash down the energy gel and salt tablet medicine. Apple provides the musical distraction. But none of this can overcome what I know lies ahead – untested pain. No, untested grit!

Through town and fields I run, just like everyone else. We are all on the same course, but with unique experiences, and toward unique ends. For some it is the finish line or a sticker on the car. For others, it is a battle with a private demon. For me, the end is unknown. Twenty-seven miles I ran to stand inside a building, to eat a snack and drink flat Coke. A warrior’s meal. But with a single step, my knee falters. Unbeknownst to the volunteers, I fall onto the bench. My mind is racing, determined to figure out a way to overcome what is a seemingly insurmountable obstacle…a leg that refuses to work. I am offered ibuprofen…I take four. And with an embarrassingly ugly limp, I return to the course.

Perspective is my enemy. But the enemy does not realize that while my body looks vanquished, my mind is hidden behind it, giving me strength that cannot be refuted. I grit my teeth, and I pray. Why I don’t pray for my knee to be healed, I don’t know. I pray to be a better person, to be the man God wants me to be. I pray for my family. I grit my teeth…and I just pray.

The man’s chin shakes and energy moves up from his feet and legs, past his hands and chest, and smashes into his face. The wave crests over the edge, and emotion floods into a new state of being. And he begins again.

It was only fifteen minutes ago I couldn’t walk. Now, I was running. There is no pain. There is humble joy. There is now a race! My hips begin to move in a way they have not before. If it was a dance, it would be laughable. This is not a dance, this is running. My head begins to bob back and forth and images of a Paula Radcliff appear. The form is ugly, unscripted, and strangely natural. With each step I feel strong…not stronger, but just strong. I don’t take credit for the transformation, for it was because of something much greater than me. Perhaps the medicine was the element, but God is the reason. I know people will discount my dramatics, saying the emotions of such a trial and tribulation cause a distortion of reality. I don’t care. I believe.

One might imagine the miles to just fly by, but for me they did not. Looking ahead on the Prairie Spirit Trail is like looking over Lake Michigan – you cannot see the other side, but you know it is there…somewhere…miles and miles away. I run now with greater ease of mind than I have in months. But now I run with purpose. I have been given a wonderful gift, the ability to run, and I intend to celebrate it. Over the immaculate trail, across a bridge, and past a farm house I continue to run. I am a hip-swiveling man! I keep reminding myself where I am place-wise does not matter. Finishing strong is what matters. It matters right up to the point where 2nd place is in my grasp.

Through a final aid station I take in more medicine and set off for the final seven miles. Time is against me. To finish less than eight hours will be decided now. I decide I don’t care…as much. No more music, no more daydreaming. Pure focus reigns supreme. Energy gels and water fuel my body, but faith fuels my resolve. I am running 50 miles today. I AM RUNNING 50 MILES!

The course has a little less than two miles to brutalize me with its pancake flat hills and bright blue sky. I am gently reminded of my knee again, nearly falling with pain. I grit my teeth and hobble back into a slow run. Again I stumble. But again I bear down, gather up all the anger and happiness, pain and ability, and run. Across the trail, turn the corner, under the bridge, past the back of a semi-trailer, over the concrete, and into view of those beautiful orange cones. I see a child sitting on a chair, ringing the warning bell…another runner has come home.

The man stands at the end, no different than when he started, but more aware of who he is. The purity to his new reality has already settled in, and a new balance must be struck. What might seem like bad timing, can be perfect timing. What might seem like bad luck, can be great luck. And what might seem like an absence of grace, can be grace manifested in both timing and luck.

“Get off my timing mat!” The words to begin a new chapter…

Notes: The Prairie Spirit Trail is a crushed limestone surface, impeccably maintained from Ottawa to Iola, Kansas. Epic Ultras hosted the Prairie Spirit Fall Classic 50 Mile race and is the premier ultrarunning event organization in the country.

Out of the Cave

For the first time since August 12, 2013, I ran outside. I wasn't overly nervous, but the landmarks highlighting the pre- and post-accident made me aware. Of course, it was all on the road before.

I recently purchased a pair of Luna sandals - Mono. I read the book, Born to Run, years ago, and have re-read it many times since. I wasn't pursuaded into running in sandals until the last go-around. So when the sandal company had a sale, I bought my first pair.

The reason I mention purchasing Luna sandals is not to undermine the real value of running. Rather, it is to highlight the ability of enjoying the experience of running. I have been injured every single year since I re-started running. Every injury has been in shoes. This last one, the worst of all...a broken 2nd metatarsal bone in my foot, happened while wearing Vibrams, See Yas. I don't think it was the Vibrams that caused the injury. I do think my inability to run correctly ALL THE TIME in them played a part.

So what is the necessary correction? Find a logical pairing of shoes and terrain, and include the time / access variables. Today, I had the time.

Over my lunch break while working from home, I set off in my Monos. I ducked through the neighbors side-yard, which backs up to acres and acres of farm land, recently plowed to the ground. It was soft from the rain and spikey from the shorn winter wheat or corn...I'm not a farmer, so to be sure is just a guess. I reviewed the potential route on Google Maps, weaving in and out around the tree line, across the road, over the stream and ditches, through the subdivision, and back through more acres of plowed farm land.

To say it was a challenge assumes a negative slant. It was a positive, adventurous run. Had I not taken it, I would have always wondered what it was like, and always assumed it would be the perfect forum for all my future running. As it turns out, running in soft, very muddy, and private farm land is not as productive as I would like. The Monos became laden with mud on the bottoms, but probably much less than if I had been wearing Vibrams or shoes. The laces (ATS) haven't been fine-tuned yet, so I stopped multiple times to adjust. After 4.5 miles, I came to a part of the farm where the subdivision was expanding. It was newly plowed mud...thick, wet, and uninviting.

In order to maintain the positive experience of running, running in Lunas, and finally being outside, I cut across a large mud field and got back onto the road. The subdivision road winded through to the main artery, and ultimatly back onto Pryor Road, where I would run all the way back to my own subdivison.

It was a glorious run. I am grateful to have a pair of sandals that felt SO GREAT on my feet. I am grateful to be able to run. I am grateful to have the time to run. I am confused as to what kind of running I am becoming.

Overall, I am quite happy with my Luna Monos...I am going to continue running in them. However, I might be back on the road full-time...maybe that is where I belong.

Peace,

M

3 Miles at a Time

Three miles at a time. On the treadmill. Slowly.

An old instict would be start running as far as I can, right back into the old routine. Maybe I am smarter now. Maybe I am fatter and can't run as far. Either way, I am running slowly, low mileage each week. As the weeks progress, I will add miles, until I can get into a program for a spring trail marathon.

Until then, I am on the treadmill, 3 days a week. 3 miles at a time. Hey, I ride the bike and workout at the gym, so don't judge.

The question is not how far. But do you possess the constitution and depth of faith to go as far as necessary?

Iah.

M

Since You've Been Gone...

It's been a long time, since you've been gone. Lyrics from an artist I don't know and probably don't even like...for some reason they are in my head.

In August (8/12 to be exact), I broke my foot. It came suddenly, quickly, and painfully. Mile 5, I felt great. Mile 6, my foot ached a bit. Mile 7, I stopped. Mile 7.01, two steps later, an audible "pop". 30 minutes later, after nearly defecating myself, I limped inside my house and erased the past several months of hard work.

Enough of the boring details...at least for now. I have been cross-training on the bike and in the pool. Something about October and the Ironman World Championships always does that to me. Do triathlon. Do triathlon. Then I get healthy, and back to running. Well, I started running this week...slowly, but not painfully.

I will do better about keeping a log. I will do better with writing well, and with a more artistic approach. This entry is to get me back into the car. The key is turned. Now, where is the damn map.

M

March Showers (Snow and Otherwise)

A running purist runs to run...

Do it for the medals, do it for the pesonal best times, do it for the t-shirts, or do it for whatever social / interpersonal reasons you have, but when you run, do it for the foundational reason that it opens your body and soul. And when you are open, the stress, frustration, and injury pours out of you, and is replaced by calm, peace, and appreciation. This is the method for running purity.

We are human beings, so we are littered and hampered by human desires. But when I run, I constantly focus on why I am running. It is a gift from God, and I am grateful for the gift. I am blessed to be able to run, and I intend to celebrate that gift as often as possible. So when I put one foot in front of the other, I pour out the bad...which can take a few miles sometimes...and take in the good. And when I am finished with my run, I am rejuvinated with a more pure body and soul. I include "soul" instead of "mind" because it is a religious experience for me. I pray before, during, and after a run. And through prayer, it centralizes the importance of peace and humility. And these elements are the key ingredients to being a successful runner.

I continue to be hampered by a stinging case of plantar fasciitis in my little toe, which precludes me from wearing shoes. Even to wear shoes for walking hurts. So, I am either barefoot, or in Vibram Five Fingers. I am not trying to convert fellow runners to VFFs, nor am I a die-hard natural runner, so they say. The simple fact is, this is the only way I can run right now.

I ran the Lucky 13.1 half-marathon at the beginning of March this year. I entered it on a whim after our spring break trip was cancelled. Wearing a pair of VFFs SeeYas LS, I took to a country road course, with absolutely ZERO spectators, in cold and windy conditions. Twelve miles was the longest previous run in my Vibrams, and my fitness was in line with the HM, so it was a safe gamble. The race went well, resulting in a 1:36 finish, 1.5 minutes faster than any previous HM finish, and just over a minute faster than any 13.1 split in my previous 2 marathons.

After a week off of running now (not because of the race, but due to severe strep throat), I am ready to figure out what kind of runner I want to be. Regardless of the conclusion at which I will arrive, I will remain a running purist.

M