Make a Wish- Hellgate 100k

When you see a shooting star, it is usually tradition to make a quiet wish to yourself. The Geminid meteor shower, caused by debris from object 3200 Phaethon, gave runners on a certain magical night plenty of opportunities to make such wishes. Of these, some included just wanting to finish the Hellgate 100k, finishing the Beast series, wishes to the family of a fallen soldier and friend, or the simple wish to make it through another journey. Like Cinderella once said, a dream is a wish your heart makes.

It was a late autumn eve, and one could say it was the kind of night that could bring back the nostalgia of childhood campfires, scary stories, and smores. The time was moments after midnight in a silent stillness that only a secluded mountain forest could provide. It was chilly, but not cold, and actually a bit warm compared to other years. The only noise to be heard was the frantic and excited clammering of 148 hearty souls and a cluster of volunteers and crew people. Though being dropped off in the middle of the night, in the middle of Nowheresville, VA could be hauntingly ominous to some, for me it was a warm homecoming to the Blue Ridge mountains that I called home for over one third of my life.

I've run over 100 marathons and ultras, but none of them were the Hellgate 100k. I've been a sweeper at Hellgate, a crew member and pacer at Hellgate, and I've even applied twice and been accepted twice to run. However, twice I've had to withdraw before even starting the race. Deep in my gut, I knew 2014 would be the now or never year for running this fabled race. Of course, I had not run a mountain trail in over a year, and two, I lived in arguably the flattest part of Virginia. Not the best training for a race with 13,500 feet of climbing.

If you wanted a race report full of details about what food was eaten, what clothes were worn, or what the splits were, this probably isn't the report for you.

I will say that my Hellgate experience was much like the pursuit of a beautiful woman. A beautiful woman named top 10 male that is. At first she was the unapproachable beauty across a dimly lit ballroom. We exchange quick flirtatious glances. Surely she's out of my league, but I've never been one to shy away from a challenge. However, the crowd between us was far too dense and there were far too many eligible suitors to make any kind of move plausible. I could only admire her from afar as I became a second tier bystander to the symphony of roots, leaves and rocks. Behold, a serpentine trail of lights leading up to Petite's Gap. This orchestra is just tuning up. The dances and partners were many and the element of the dance floor ever changing. With the bitter windy chill of Floyd's Field she takes a step back. A brisk Paso Doble over leaf strewn rocky trails, a slow Mambo with the a gentle climb, and a Rumba with the dipping and sweeping trails entranced by the curvature of the mountain. 37 miles in and the sunrise reflects a familiar twinkle in her mysterious gaze. "13th male" she whispers to me, but laughingly taunts with a "But, you are still a distant arm's length away." I work to find the footing, to find a groove, and never once unlock eyes with the dame so close.

Sacrebleu!? What dost appear before thine eyes but the beauty herself. 46 miles into this dance and she has shrugged off not just two, but three bachelors. From far across the room she has made her way through the masses and into my arms. I finally have her. 10th male. For the next hour we float along in a harmonious Tango. Up close there's something unique and a bit off from what I had previously pictured. I could see it in her eyes that their was a vacantness, a lack of empathy, and she was beginning to distance herself from me. Though we continued to Waltz hand in hand, I knew I was losing her. Over 11 hours on our feet, and just as swiftly as she swooped into my arms, another man had just as easily stolen her away. Beauty can be both cold and fleeting, and perhaps more so when so unceremoniously left for another.

And just like a banshee in the night, the mystical temptress of a men's top 10 dissipated into an ephemeral mist. The multitudes came and went, and by multitudes, I mean 9 people. My energy was still surprisingly strong, but the legs had grown weary. Up a final mountain and down a final hill. The orchestra was now playing its final notes. One last stretch of road into Camp Bethel and into the outstretched arms of the composer himself, Dr. David Horton. The dance was over.

As I looked back at the night and day, I realized that like Cinderella at the royal ball, it was only a matter of time before my chariot turned back into a pumpkin. I also realized that while I was momentarily enamored by the deceptive charm of a top 10, that the only dance that really mattered was the 66.6 mile duet with myself and the Hellgate 100k. She was the real beauty on that Van Gogh(esque) starry night, and one that never left my side no matter what mountains were crossed, what streams were waded, or what cold mountain roads traversed.

But who was she? I'd like to believe she is many things. She's the culmination of a year's worth of running, races, life, and the people who make it. In future years I look forward to spotting Hellgate at the royal ball and asking for another dance.

(Photo credit Frank Probst. Finishing my first, but not last, Hellgate 100k)

10 Years- There and Back Again

Today marks the 10th anniversary of my first race/ultra. Wow. Part of me clings to the notion that it feels like it was just yesterday, and part of me knows just how much life has happened in those ten years. Where does the time go my friends?

On November 20, 2004 I completed the JFK 50 miler having never run more than six miles. Though it occurred exactly one decade ago, I remember the day quite vividly. In all honesty I had no idea what I was doing, or getting myself into. My freshman college roommate, Matt, dared me to do the race with him in September of 2004, and a few weeks later, for reasons still unknown, I signed up. This gave me, a beginner recreational jogger, a whopping two months to prepare for running 50 miles. Gulp. Matt had already been training for six months at that point, with 20 mile long runs, and in the past year I had only just started running a couple miles per day.

In October, my grandmother, whom I was very close to, was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. The news was numbing, as well as the fact the doctors said she only had about a month to live. On that timeline, she would be lucky to still be alive on race day. For obvious reasons running took a back seat to frequent trips to help take care of my grandma, in addition to working over 50 hours a week at my stressful first post college job. Every now and then I would make it out the door to run, but it provided more therapy than training. Eventually, I did manage to build up to one six mile run, which took me a sluggish 67 minutes. Needless to say, I was as physically and woefully underskilled and untrained as one could be. My co-workers semi jokingly and semi seriously placed bets on how far I would make it on race day. The overall consensus was if I made it more than 25 miles they would be pleasantly surprised.

When race day finally arrived I was relieved to have the wait be over. My grandmother was still alive, but just barely hanging on at this point. What started out as a silly dare to run 50 miles became a solitary mission of dedication. Race morning was a bit of a blur, but I do recall never feeling so out of place as I did at the start of JFK. It was cold and I had on a long sleeve shirt with black fleece sweatpants and $40 running shoes. I didn't even know to carry hydration and food. I remember being told to walk the first big climb and then running out of pure excitement to be doing my first ever race. I recall how surprisingly light and fresh I felt for the first 10 miles as myself and Matt found ourselves passing many people on the Appalachian Trail. Then, I also recall how reality hit as I reached the C&O Canal towpath in 3:17 and began to feel a heaviness that my legs had never felt before. My hydration and nutrition started to fall behind from not carrying anything, and rapidly my easy jog turned into walking with intermittent spurts of running. My body was hurting and I was in over my head. Mile 25 came and went, and soon I reached the "marathon" distance of the race in 5:16. "Holy sh*t" I thought to myself. I just ran a marathon!? Normally, the completion of such a bucket list item would be accompanied by celebration, but not when there's still 24 more miles to go.

By mile 30 my body and mind started to slowly descend into the deep dark pain cave. That's when I started thinking about my grandma and her battle. I realized nothing that I would experience on this day would hold a candle to the hell she was currently going through. My mantra became "She fights, so I fight. I am enduring, but she is enduring more." One foot in front of the other. Though I was surrounded by fellow runners, much of my time on the 26.3 mile portion of the C&O Canal was spent alone in thought. For some reason the physical pain I was experiencing created a spiritual bridge to my grandmother. In this brief place in time, on this chilly November day, we were united in our suffering, yet in a way that was emotionally and inexplicably empowering.

42 miles had gone by and the night was ushered in by a bitter cold rain. The soft flat towpath turned back onto rolling country roads signifying the final chapter of the race. Oh the sheer brutality of the sensation of hard pavement under weary legs. I had now gone seven times farther than I ever had and each step ached that much more than the previous one. My body was no longer just in the pain cave, but deep into its darkest bowels and depths. The darkness of nightfall balanced harmoniously with the battle raging in my mind. Just. Keep. Going. All I wanted to do was be done, but the torment of the final miles were not done just yet. My grandma occupied my mind as much as she could, but even so I could not block out the stinging numbness in my hands and swelling in my feet and calves. The mile markers counted down to the finish in a most mocking fashion. 5 to go. 4. 3. 2. Oh, thank the heavens, just ONE more mile.

I turned right. I could hear a voice over a loudspeaker in the distance. Cars filled with cheering friends and family members became more plentiful. This had to be it! I crested one more small hill before seeing the illuminated finish line. After 49.8 miles of the worst beating my body has ever taken I found myself accelerating. My lungs and legs engaged and for the briefest of moments my body felt no pain. I was grimacing, floating, my heart pounding towards that clock. 10:39:32.

My brain could barely assess what had just transpired. I had just run, walked, slogged, and sprinted my way through 50 freaking miles. The elation was short lived as my body started shutting down to a nearly catatonic state. My mind was buzzing, but my body now hardly able to move. It didn't matter though. I was a marathoner. No, I was an ULTRAmarathoner and my grandma was with me the entire time. WE did it.

A week later, during Thanksgiving, I saw my grandma and showed her my/our finisher's medal. I thanked her for being with me, both in spirit at the race, and in person for one last holiday season. She passed away two months later, but survived three months longer than the doctors said she would. That is what fighting the good fight looks truly like. That is real endurance.

After my 2004 JFK 50, I swore I would never run another ultramarathon ever again. Apparently, never again means 85 more ultras and 15 more marathons in the following decade. In 2010, I returned to the JFK 50 and ran over three hours faster than my time from 2004. I have to admit, when I showed up to that starting line in 2004, little did I know what a wild and crazy adventure that was beginning.

100 Marathons and Ultras in Perspective

I will start by saying, I'm not taking any of this too seriously, and neither should you. I'm also not saying that reaching 100 marathons/ultras isn't something to be proud of. It is, but on the grand scope of things, running statistics, key word statistics, are trivial. It's like asking someone on their birthday if they feel older. Fair warning though, you'll get to see a bit of my analytical nerdy side in this post.

At an age of 33 years 119 days, I am now officially a member of the 100 Marathon Club of North America. Yes, it's a real club. I am also, unofficially, the 12th youngest North American ever to reach 100 marathons. My first marathon/ultra was on November 20, 2004, and my 100th on October 18, 2014. It took 9 years, 10 months and 29 days. The moment came to fruition at 11:45am on a beautifully verdant, albeit unseasonably warm autumn day in Hollister, NC. The site was the Medoc Trail Marathon, a delightfully fun, smaller, and yet incredibly charismatic event. In retrospect, it was a far better setting than some larger race with more fanfare.


The 100 Marathon Club of North America currently has 450 members. However, I know there are more because I know a handful of others who qualify, but probably don't know, nor care, to be in the group. Safe to say there are probably 10% more people then what is listed, so roughly 500 total.

The top 12 youngest Americans to 100 currently looks like this, but I am sure in the next few years I will get bumped out, not that it really matters.

1) Brenton Floyd (18)
2) John Lui (24)
3) Laura Skladzinski (28)
4) Ian torrence (reached 100 ultras by 29, probably much younger to 100 marathons/ultras)
5) Justin Gillette (29)- Has the fastest average time for his 100 marathons
6) Steve Walters (30)
7) Matt Jenkins (30)
8) Hideki Kinoshita (32)
9) Leslie Miller (32)
10) Jonathan Young (32)
11) Keith Knipling- I have no idea where he would rank, but I'm fairly sure he's in the top 5-6
12) Me (33)


I will also note that one distinct difference, again it really doesn't matter, is that a majority (86 out of 100) of my marathons occurred while completing ultra distances of 31 to 103 miles. Only 14 were actual races of 26.2 miles, whereas most of the 100 marathon club members totals are soley from marathons. Based on the statistic of having ultras comprise over 50% of "marathons", only Ian Torrence and Keith Knipling completed their 100 faster. That's pretty good company.

One final crazy statistic is that in 100 marathons/ultras I completed a total of 4,198 miles, or an average race distance of nearly 42 miles. What is the significance in that? If I had run exclusively marathons, like most of the runners in the 100 marathon club, my 4,198 miles would actually be equivalent to running 160 marathons. Since 100 marathons, for most folks occurred at 2,620 miles (26.2 x 100), I was curious to figure out when I may have reached that total.

As it turns out, to the exact mile, I unknowingly reached 2,620 miles at the Crooked Road 24 Hour on December 6, 2011. The funny thing is the distance I chose to do that day was completely arbitrary, and I chose to run 62.7 miles because I had never done a 100k. Thus, I completed the equivalent of my "100th marathon" at age 30 years 168 days, which in 2011, would have made me the 5th youngest American to 100 marathons. Subsequently, after 2011 a handful of younger runners hit their 100 marathon milestones, hence why I am now 12th on the list.

I will say for certain that running as many marathons and ultras as possible has NEVER been my objective, nor ever will be. I simply run to have fun like anyone else, sometimes to push myself, and other times just to enjoy the freedom of the outdoors among friends. If I had really wanted to, I could fairly easily run a marathon, or two every week (like the Marathon Maniacs Club) and be somewhere around 400-500.

In all honesty, not that it isn't a big deal to do something like 52 marathons in 52 weeks, but most fit and experienced distance runners could trudge through a marathon any given day or weekend, but choose not to. Like me, they have a life outside running, and can't afford, or don't want to spend that kind of money constantly traveling and paying entry fees. They would probably also rather select a few focus races per year and keep the emphasis on quality over quantity. I also don't encourage, believe it is healthy, or admirable to run too many races. Running too much, especially before we physically mature in our early 20's, and even after, will no doubt lead to unforeseen health risks years down the road.

That being said, I've had tons of fun along the way and shared the miles with many cool characters. I'm looking forward to the next 100, but alas, as I alluded to before, it is JUST running ;-)

Reaching 100

When I graduated from college in 2004, I could jog 2-3 miles, and on a good day I could push it for 3 or 4. At the time my only real bucket list item was to finish one marathon in my lifetime, but given my personal best for distance was six miles in an hour and seven minutes, it was a longshot. However, I figured if I kept at it for enough years or decades, I’d eventually get there and it would be something I could tell my grandkids about.

This Saturday I will be running my 100th marathon/ultramarathon. It is a statistic that caught me off guard as it had arrived one month shy of the 10 year anniversary of when I ran my first ultra. Sometimes I am humbled when examining what a span of a decade truly looks like. I am no longer the over whelmed, clueless college graduate toeing the line of his first ultra. In the following ten years, that clueless guy who only ever wanted to run ONE marathon ran 86 ultras, 13 marathons, and enough total miles to circle the earth. Life, in a similar fashion as the many miles on trail, has transformed me in those years. Running has become like clothing in that it has come to mirror my trends, my mood, my culture and my expression. A hobby fit to be worn on the sleeve. As the athletic world, and running in particular, is enamored with numbers, times, and totals, it occurred to me that there was something drastically different about reaching 100. I don't really care about it....

For some reason, we always seem to have some grandiose idea in our minds of what it will look like, and what we will be like, when we reach a specific milestone. Will we celebrate it with a bucket list race, maybe among friends, perhaps try to PR a certain distance, or maybe have it align with an event that holds some special place with us?. We can often lose ourselves in believing we will ascend to some higher level of runner nirvana once we finish a certain race, complete a certain number of races, or run a certain distance. I, myself, would like to believe that after running as much as I have, that surely I would walk away from it with some profound new understanding of myself and the world. And yet, at best, in brief and fleeting flurries we will attain moments of clarity that only running can provide, but at the end of the day I am the same person with the same doubts, strengths and flaws. Maybe running just makes them clearer without the clutter of life’s peripheral caterwaul. However, arriving at the point of 100 marathons/ultras, maybe with some enhanced maturity, I’ve come to the realization that 100 is just a number. And running is just a hobby.

Don’t be mistaken, hobbies are important, and at times they can define us. They tend to embody the ideals that we strive for, ones that by their very nature are unattainable in the frenzy of the mundane daily grind. For the personality types that the lure of running attracts it can offer us everything that our wild at heart needs desire; adventure, danger, testing limits, comraderie, or just being outdoors. For those of us who have been fortunate enough, our hobby has grown to a place of such significance that it transcends the conventions of everyday life and forms a symbiotic relationship with life itself. Sometimes the boundaries of life and the “the run” dissipate into a place as blended as the horizon line of the sea and the sky.

As I type this, it’s become evident that maybe I have actually learned a few things. Do I attribute them to running, or just getting older, or perhaps the combination of both? Either way, here are a few simple things.

1) Failure is just as much a choice as success. Nobody’s definition of either matters except ours.

2) In the end our successes and failures matter only to us. I’ve never once thought differently or disparagingly about a friend, or stranger, because of how poorly, or well they ran. When I run poorly, or well, I need to remind myself that others view me the same way.

3) Appreciate what your body can do. Sometimes our accomplishments get so dilluted and lost in the deluge of what other people are doing that we can forget how special they are. Remember that our friends who reguarly run 100 milers and a dozen ultras a year make up an incredibly small percentage of athletes, let alone runners. Remind yourself that completing the distances and races you do is incredible, no matter how many times you've done it. Some people struggle to run a 5k, and others a few steps. Keep the perspective. Keep the appreciation.

4) Running will provide as much companionship, or solitude as you seek.

5) Running will not fix anything.

6) Sometimes running is the problem. Realizing it can be both sobering and scary.
a) Running should never be your only source of fulfillment, because the ability to run/walk can be taken away any given moment.
b) Running should never be your constant escape. We run ridiculously hard races to prove to ourselves that we can take on all life's challenges, so why not have that attitude with things outside of our running life (ie. Marriage, work, sickness, family). Don’t be afraid to bring the heroics into your everyday life.

7) Your body speaks to you all the time. Listen to it. I have only reached 100 marathons/ultras because I did a majority my races in my 20’s when my body was much more resilient. If I want to run until I’m 80 years old, I need to be a smarter more balanced runner now.

8) Keep it fun. Nothing sucks more than when the hobby you are most passionate about begins to suck.
a) Slow it down. This is doubly necessary for faster runners. Not every race has to be raced. Run a couple races just to have fun and enjoy the simple nuances that you might miss when in competition mode. Get to know your fellow runners and meet the volunteers. Plus, you’ll finally get to try some of that home cooked aid station food you were always curious to try, but skipped in favor of more gels. Doing this can make an event you’ve “raced” many times seem like a whole new event.
b) Speed it up. If you always tend to run easy, and know you can go faster, try running an entire race at full effort. You might be surprised what you are capable of.
c) Try something new. Getting a 10 time finisher’s award might be cool, but take the time to try out new events. Some of the best events are small grassroots efforts.
d) Volunteer

9) Have a bucket list. Don't do it all at once.

10) You will always run the way you train.

11) At some point we are all going to get older and get slower. We have no choice in that. However, how gracefully we do it is our choice. The ability to inspire is ageless.

12) It’s just running. Keep a healthy perspective on it. Running should help make life easier, or at least provide more clarity. It should never make it tougher, or less enjoyable, especially for those closest to you. The wide expanse of life will always entail triumphs and tribulations far greater in meaning and purpose than running.

Belmead Trail Fest

(Some of Belmead's lush greenery courtesy of Belmead Trail Fest)

A common theme that I have adopted over the past few years is trying to get the word out about smaller local running events. I have also gotten a lot of joy out of spontaneously showing up to first year events that nobody really knows anything about. I find that it keeps the running hobby fresh, full of zeal, and often directly supportive of the local community.

Belmead Trail Fest ended up being a delightfully low key and fun event with all the charm of a local race. The late September date means it likely won't be blazing hot, nor cold, and there's still ample sunlight to keep the 50 mile cut off time at 12 hours. Race day weather was in the high 50's at the start and hovered near 80 all day. While it felt plenty warm in the sun, about 70% of the course is on shaded single track trail, so it was quite comfortable most of the day. The event also boasts three separate race distances of 26.2 miles, 50k, and 50 miles that have a group 8am start. The 8am start is great for people like myself who don't necessarily like, or can't because of family, to get up at 4am to start a race in the dark at 6am. It's also nice to finally have an ultra option where you don't need to wear a headlamp for the start, though 50 milers who might take 11-12 hours would need to carry a light at the end.

As for the course, all three race distances run the same 10 mile loop with various add ons for the marathon and 50k. The 50 miler was simply five loops. The trail itself was both very runnable, but also surprisingly technical. Per other's gps accounts the 50k had roughly 1,840 feet of gain, which meant nearly 3,000 for the 50 miler. While the elevation gain for the course is fairly benign in comparison to a Mountain Masochist, all the twists and turns, roots, snakes, corn, and short little climbs made it slower than a course like JFK 50 where the elevation gain is about the same, but you have long flat sections to stretch out the legs. Still, on the grand scheme of things, I'd say the course is on par with running trails at Bear Creek Lake, Holiday Lake, Prince William Forest, Bull Run, or Lake Anna, all home to a lot of local ultra events. The course was also very well marked, though it didn't prevent myself and three others from going a mile off course.

The course itself race could be broken down into two main parts. Miles 0 to the 3.7 mile aid station (more like 3.0 miles?) were are on bridle paths that circumnavigated rolling corn fields. It may very well be the only race where the possibility exists to roll your ankle on the many ears of corn strewn on the bumpy grassy horse trail. In all honesty, while scenic, this was probably my least favorite part of the course and the only place where you are out in the sun. However, later in the day the sun shifted enough so that there were sections around the cornfield that became shaded. It should be noted that this 3 mile section will probably be replaced next year by trails that go down to the James River and the Belmead estate. Miles 3.7-10 were mostly singletrack through the woods and some wider service roads. These 7 miles were by far my favorite of the race as they brought you into some wonderfully green wooded areas with enough variety in the trail to keep it exciting, even after 5 loops. At the end of each loop you had access to aid and drop bags, so you never had to go more than 4 miles without support.

My personal experience at Belmead was very positive. I like the fact you feel like you are entering a civil war battlefield just driving to the start. The morning mist rising up from the fields served wonders to transport us back in time 150 years, even if for only 4-12 hours. In addition, I spent most of my day running alone and never really knowing who was running what particular race. In essence, it allowed me to let go of the race vibe and feel like I was on a nice long solo run in the woods. Since moving in January, I've only had limited access to trails, and run almost exclusively on roads, so for me a day in the woods was just what I needed. The finish was just as low key as the rest of the day. By the time I finished the 50 miler almost everyone doing the marathon and 50k had completed and gone home, and the only people remaining were still out on the course. So, it was definitely different to come in with just a handful of folks, but I didn't really expect otherwise. I loved the finisher's medals, which were hand crafted cross sections of wood. It was a pleasant deviation from the standard race medals, though I suspect next year they'll have something else unique and cool for finishers.

All in all, I definitely suggest giving this event a try. The entry fees are cheaper than most races, the course was fantastic (if you don't mind loops), and it's a great time of year to work it in as a fun run, or training run for a fall race. I hadn't intended on doing any more ultras until at least 2015, but the proximity and forests were just too tempting, and I was able to register on race day. The best thing is that all proceeds from the event benefit Francis Emma, the non-profit organization that maintains Belmead. The best way to keep history alive is to support it!

Ironman Final Thoughts

It's hard to believe the Ironman has come and gone already, but it has. In the past ten days I have thought a lot about what I experienced during my 13 hours and 45 minutes at Ironman Louisville, as well as the months that lead up to race day.

The big question, will I do another Ironman? The quick answer is yes. I really loved the experience and given the growing number of sanctioned Ironman events in the US, there are plenty of amazing new courses I would love to tri...um, I mean try. Lol. That being said, Ironman Panama City Florida and Beach 2 Battleship are likely the best fits for my next triathlon since both courses are flat and best suit the fact I cannot hill train where I live. There are certainly some trade offs with doing another Ironman, but mostly due to costs and the time of year. Ironman Panama City is in November, the heart of fall marathon/race season, and the total cost to participate (including entry) will again be close to $2,000. However, Beach 2 Battleship, in late october, is only five hours away in Wilmington, NC and costs $200 less than an Ironman, though it is also full distance. In official Ironman events, you are literally paying extra for the title, which I already have. Beach 2 Battleship is known to be a very fast course (the run was 0.7 miles short, unless they added distance since 2012) and typical race day temperatures should be about 40 degrees cooler than what we had in Louisville. I also have to consider the fact that qualifying for the Boston Marathon is now higher on my bucket list then a second Ironman. If I am capable of running the same time I did in my last road marathon (3:07:17) in two years, I will qualify for Boston and most likely get entry into Boston 2017. But, that's still a fairly long way off.

What I learned about Ironman training: Despite being a three sport event, the bike is the most important portion by a long shot. For most people, including elites, the bike makes up roughly 55% of the total time out on the course, the swim compiles 10%, and the marathon the remaining 35%. Despite a five hour time gap, these percentages were nearly identical for myself, as well as the top finishers at Ironman Louisville. Being stronger on the bike allows you not only the ability to finish the bike leg faster, but also have more muscular reserves leftover for the run. In the case of Ironman Louisville, where it was 103 degrees and likely hotter on the pavement, less time on the bike meant less time for the heat to effect your hydration and overall fatigue.

I also learned that the difference between tri bikes and road bikes like mine isn't just cosmetic, but rather they are designed to use less of the muscles needed for running and thereby allowing you to be fresher for the marathon. I had always wondered how the top triathletes could still run sub 2:50 marathons after a knocking out the bike at average speeds of 25 mph. I figured they must all be be capable of sub 2:20 marathons, which some are, but I later found they were mostly running within 15-20 minutes of their marathon PR's. The key was simply very dialed in muscle efficiency on and off the bike. I've also done some research to see what I "should" eventually be capable of by reading a bunch of Ironman race reports. To my surprise, there are a lot of 3:20 to 3:30 marathoners (somewhat "bigger boned" ones at that) who are doing sub 11 hour and sub 10:30 Ironmans, which seems super fast in relation to their running ability. In my case, I can outrun most of them by 15-20 minutes in a marathon, probably get close to their swim times, but these guys absolutely kill it on the bike, often going under 5:30 for 112 miles. Their Ironman run times aren't terribly fast either, usually in the 3:50 to 4:00 range, which is within 30 minutes of their PR's, meaning I could potentially get my run down to the 3:40's. However, once again, we circle back to the fact that being very strong on the bike basically establishes the framework for most of the event.

So, since it's been determined the bike dominates the Ironman, I can safely say that too much focus on running and swimming is not a good strategy. For someone like myself, 2 to 3 swims of 1 to 1.5 miles per week was adequate, as well as running only 30 miles per week. For someone that was used to running 60-80 miles per week on a regular basis for much of the last five years, it was difficult for me to understand that dropping to 30 miles per week for Ironman training was enough. I even tried to rationalize that since the Ironman's run was 26.2 miles that I had train like I would for a marathon in addition to the swimming and cycling. The bottom line was that training for the Ironman's marathon meant spending more time on the bike. Twilight Zone stuff, right? I mean, I was riding a bike to get faster at running a marathon, but that's the difference between just a road marathon and the Ironman. Some elites don't even exceed 10 miles for their long runs prior to race day, so in essence I had to throw out everything I thought I knew about marathon training.

Future goals: I will be the first to admit I played it safe at Ironman Louisville. Don't get me wrong, I was still plenty tired from the race, but I didn't want to risk going 100% either and end up like the other 250 DNF's. My only goal was to secure an Ironman finish, and due to some very real IT band issues near race day, I was forced to take the bike portion very easy. This was coupled with the fact that I was learning everything for the first time and the extreme heat slowed everyone down, especially during the run. My initial time goal for Louisville was to break 13 hours, and possibly 12, but both of those went out the window with the heat forecast and my IT band problems. I am fairly confident that with significantly more than the 3 months of bike training I had, and sans IT band issues, I should be able to cut a solid hour off my monstrous 7:31 bike time from Louisville. On a flat course in milder weather, a 6:15-6:30 bike time looks even more plausible.

For the swim, it's tough to tell how much room for improvement I have. Louisville was aided by 1.5 miles of down current swimming and has to be one of the faster swims. Typically, I'd consider my 1:11 swim surprisingly fast, especially considering it took me a good 15 minutes to get my act together, but it may have only been average. I think in the same conditions I could do the swim closer to 1:05. As for the the run, I think in more seasonal weather I could have gotten much closer to my goal time of 4:30, but, that is still much slower than my marathon time. As I get stronger on the bike, and perhaps if I eventually get a tri bike, I would like to get the marathon down to the low 4's, and potentially under 4 hours.

Lastly, my transitions were slow simply because it was the first time I have ever done a triathlon transition. I could probably cut that time in half just from what I learned the first time around. So, what does this all project out to? It means, I am pretty sure that I should be able to take two hours off my rookie Ironman time. However, it also means, even if I trained full-time ( which I can't, nor want to), I will probably never be able to break 10 hours which is necessary to gain a Kona qualifying spot for my age bracket. It would appear my best chance for Kona is either the lottery, or to the compete into my 80's and 90's where I will gain entry due to lack of anyone else in my age bracket.

Forged in the Furnace: Becoming an Ironman

The road to the Ironman was truly a trial by fire. I was a novice swimmer who hadn't swam in five years. I was novice cyclist who hadn't been on a bike more than three times in the past decade. I had never completed a triathlon of any distance, let alone a full Ironman. The task at hand was daunting and loomed large, but the task was simple. As a child growing up, and even as a young adult, I had considered athletic feats like the fabled marathon and Ironman to be in a realm far beyond my natural abilities. But, as I got older and took on endurance challenges head on, I realized how false my misconceptions were about my own personal limits. After years of setting aside the notion of attempting an Ironman, I decided that 2014 was the year I was finally going to make it happen. In February 2014, I took the plunge and entered Ironman Louisville.

The training for an Ironman was a much needed reality check, and due my spring running schedule, I only had four months to spare. In the early stages, the idea of completing a 2.4 mile swim seemed overwhelmimg as I struggled to swim even a couple laps in a pool before needing to rest. Learning how to ride a road bike wasn't much better as I found myself stiff and sore from riding only 30 minutes. For the first time in a long time none of my running experience mattered, none of my marathon times matter, and none of my ultras mattered. Swimming and cycling were completely different beasts, and they couldn't care less how many races I had run. This was not running, and at times I wondered if I was in over my head.

But.....I was patient. I picked up good advice, practiced, and kept practicing. I went at it day after day, week after week, and month after month. Slowly but surely I could ride 30 miles comfortably, then 40, 50, 60, and 70. My swimming efficiency also improved as I increased my workouts from 500 meters, to 1k, to 1 mile, 1.5 miles, and then 2 miles non-stop. But, it wasn't some amazing overnight transformation. After grinding it out for months and months, I could start to see the triathlete being born, and eventually witness myself becoming more than just a runner. All was going as well as I could have planned, and then on one of my final long rides my IT band completely gave out and forced me to cut my ride short by 30 miles. One of my big fears had been realized as I was now only two weeks away from the Ironman and my IT band was shot. The doubts began to rear their ugly heads, and I began to wonder how on earth I could complete Louisville's notoriously hilly 112 (actually 115) mile bike course, when I couldn't even do half the distance without pain on a flat bike path. I trained my ass off for four months and it came down to this? The questions mounted. Did doing the rim to rim to rim at the Grand Canyon three weeks earlier jeopardize my chances at completing my Ironman, and did I virtually sacrifice one bucket list item by doing another too close? Only time would decide, but one thing was for certain. I owed it to myself to at least show up to the starting line.

On August 21st, my dad and I made the long 700 mile drive from Virginia to Kentucky. The hustle and bustle of race weekend could have been a blur, but I took the time to enjoy it and enjoy some quality time with my dad. The weather forecast was ominous as an unusually hot heat wave was predicted to blanket Louisville through race weekend. On top of that, race day temps looked to be the worst, as the heat index would reach 103 degrees with very little shade. In the mean time, I shifted my focus to doing last minute gear adjustments, trying to relax, and also enjoy a bit of the town.

Race morning was a bit surreal to wake up knowing what would transpire over the next day. In that sense it was much like any other race morning trying to absorb the great expanse of physical and mental things I knew I would experience by the time I would be back in my hotel room. From a race perspective, I had waited six months to do this event, and it always seemed that race day was some far off event that was just out of reach. The reality sank in as I acknowledged that that very day had arrived, and in essence it was a day that I had been waiting not just six months for, but rather many years.

The early morning was still dark, but alive with energy from the spectators, athletes, crews, and thousands of volunteers. I made my final round dropping off gear bags and walked to the swim start with my dad. The sky was beginning to lighten and the energy was building up to a palpable frenzy of focus and nerves. The only real glitch of the day occurred when I was misdirected as to where to line up for the swim which cost me 2 miles of walking and also had me being one of the last athletes in the water. I shook off the incident, made my way to the dock, and waved to my dad one last time before jumping into the water and officially starting my Ironman quest.

I knew the swim would be the toughest leg of the race mentally, and I was right. Having never done an open water swim of any kind, I freaked out as soon as I hit the water. Visibility was non existent and I was experiencing the bumping and nudging notoriously associated with triathlon swims. This was made considerably worse knowing that it was the point of no return, and there was only one way to go, and that was forward. For some reason, it brought me back to learning how to swim as a child. I would stand at the edge of the pool, my dad would hold out his arms and tell me to jump, I would take a leap of faith, swim as hard as knew how, and eventually get scooped up in my dad's arms. This, by comparison, was like the first time I had to jump in a pool without my dad there. I knew I could swim, but the proverbial safety net was gone. The Ohio river was not a pool where I could rest at the wall every 25 meters if I had to. Somehow I quickly collected myself and remembered to apply the smooth swim techniques I had practiced over and over in the pool. My breathing calmed down, my muscle memory found itself, and soon I was passing a number of folks in the water. At the turn around I took advantage of the generous current and gained some much needed time before the crux of my day, the bike portion. I popped out of the water, ditched the wet suit, waved to my dad, and made my way into transition one.

I knew the bike was going to be my weakest link. IT band issues had cut several important long rides well short of their intended distances. I had also feared the rolling hills, which I couldn't train for on the flat Dismal Swamp bike path, would flare up my already iffy IT band. Conservative would be the name of the game, but I would learn that even a conservative 112 mile ride is still hard work. The first 10 miles were fairly flat and sufficient cloud cover meant the temps rested in the mid 80's. However, the comfort was short lived as the sun would come out for the remainder of the day and the hills would begin and not relent for another 90 miles. Per usual, the beginnings of Ironman carnage began to show as bikes began to break down and then the athletes themselves. Two loops of the bike course meant you knew what hills to expect the second time around. Both good and bad. For most of the bike portion I was passed by quite a few folks. For most sports, I believe the gear does not make the athlete. An expensive pair of running shoes, or golf clubs mean nothing if the person using them has no skill. However, though I have a fairly nice bike that retailed for $899, there was absolutely no way I could compete with folks on triathlon bikes that cost upwards of $2,500-$5,000+. One sad reality of triathlons, and specifically Ironman events, is that they cater to an audience that has a high level of disposable income. I would have to make do on my bike, and realize that sometimes you can't always have what others have, and that's the way the playing field goes at triathlons. Much to my chagrin, my bike was going to take an hour longer than my goal time, but at least the final 10 miles back to transition two was flat.

Finally off the bike, I was now in familiar territory. The run. From here to the finish, those fancy $5,000 bikes no longer gave an advantage, and the only thing we had to project us forward were our feet and a pair of shoes. I welcomed back the even playing field, but alas the 103 heat was undeniably present. While the bike provides a constant breeze, running the downtown streets of Louisville was unforgiving. There was no shade, no wind, and only the heat resonating from the pavement and buildings like a furnace. Water stops were plentiful, the course now flat, but the toll was heavy on many of the weary athletes. I was only managing a light shuffle with walk breaks to hydrate and fuel, but it was still faster than many of the folks reduced to a lethargic 26.2 mile "death march". After reaching the outbound turn around, I made my way back to the city and to the end of loop one. In a most cruel fashion the end of loop one literally brings you a hundred yards from the finish line cheers and coveted Timex finish clock, but then directs runners to veer right to endure another 13 miles of pavement.

Those last 13 miles are a gut check, and for many it's where Ironman dreams either live or die. As the sun set, the temps remained in the 90s, but even the slight cool down gave me renewed energy. If anything, I wanted to make sure that I finished my Ironman experience feeling strong and looking strong. I found my stride and passed mile markers 20, 21, and then 22. It was the homestretch with less than four miles to go, but with persistent heat even at night there was still no room for error. I continued to hydrate, take my gels, and dump water on my body as I had the entirety of the run. With 5k to go I accelerated, with a mile to go I pushed even harder, and with a half mile to go I flipped the switch to a full out sprint. I negative split the marathon by 11 minutes. A quarter mile from the finish I saw my dad, made a left hand turn, and finally a right toward the electric 4th street finish pavilion. I blasted down the final hundred yards, urged the crowd to make some noise, and arrived at the finish line in a place I had envisioned being for many years. As I crossed under the clock a voiced boomed over the loudspeakers "Mike Bailey, you are an Ironman!".

It had happened, and it happened on a day that saw the most DNF's ever at Ironman Louisville. One of my lifelong dreams had finally become a reality. I WAS an Ironman. While it was a sweet victory in itself, it was made even sweeter by having my dad to share it with. While my family hasn't had the opportunity to witness many of my running events, it harkened back to a time where they saw me become a black belt, play baseball, win my first ultra, and finish with my sister at her first marathon. While in duration, the road to the Ironman was only six months long, with four months of training, it was a road far longer in length. Thanks to the many volunteers on the course and my #1 support crew, my dad, for being there the entire way. Here's to many more adventures along the way.

Afterthoughts: In 2005, a friend of mine discussed which was harder, an Ironman or an ultra. Having now done both, an Ironman is much harder than a 50 mile ultra, or even 100k ultra. However, it does not beat you up nearly as much as a 50 miler, and definitely not as much as a 100 miler. Ironman training is more demanding and stricter as you are training for three sports. When doing solely running, you can have high mileage weeks and still work in rest days. Rest days are almost non existent in triathlons because you are always rotating sports. The only real soreness I have from the ironman is in my glutes, neck, and shoulders, which is entirely from the bike portion. My quads only have moderate tiredness from the marathon, and it doesn't appear the swim caused any soreness.

Inya'a, Hala, and Aha- A Journey of Rim to Rim to Rim

For nearly a millenium the Havasupai Indians have inhabited and wandered a place of ancient marvels and lore. For much of the world the Grand Canyon only exists as a photograph in a magazine, or as a photo op on along a bustling tourist route. But, long before Europeans stumbled through the great red sandstone rocks, the Havasupai graced a landscape that mirrored the meaning of their very name which is translated as “the people of the blue green-waters”.

For me running and hiking rim to rim to rim was not about conquering a particular distance or terrain in a specific set time frame. In the world of running, we all too often limit our experience through the gripping confines of clocks, splits, placement, and competition. The Grand Canyon, as I perceived it, was far too venerable and noble to reside within the cages of the race environment. And as I would learn, the greatness of the canyon in its own expansive form, does not allow itself to be held on a level so miniscule as to be cluttered with races. The Grand Canyon is above racing, and although the Rob Krars of the world have run it in 6:21, and maybe one day under six hours, the expanse of the canyon is bigger than any FKT and any one athlete. I believe anyone who has ever completed R2R2R, no matter how fast, how slow, or what utter lack of reverence they began with, ultimately climbs out of the canyon knowing this. The Grand Canyon serves as a warm womb where a metaphorical rebirth tends to occur as people incubate within the living breathing hearth that is the red and verdant canyon walls. While I personally did not experience anything like this, I ascended out of the great canyon knowing that I was tied to a place and experience that few humans on earth would ever know. Part of writing about this is that some people by choice, or by circumstance, will never have the opportunity to see what I have, and reading this is one way I can grant to others some level of empathy of the rare things I have enjoyed.

It is August 4th, 2014. Along the South Kaibab trail a dark glittered night sky turns to navy, and then a spectrum of deep reds and light blues. On this particular dawn, I am going to complete a solo self supported double crossing of the Grand Canyon. Flashes of fiery orange give way to the golden sun and then the light begins to dance around the seemingly endless miles of the canyon walls. Myself and a handful of others, some turning back after just a few brief miles, are just visitors among a primitive world forged from the forces of the earth over the past 40 million years. As I drop lower and lower into the canyon I am simultaneously traveling back in time mimicking the colored transitions and textures in the rock faces. Intense beams of sunlight radiate into the dark confines of the canyon and make the early morning shadows retreat with the evening. I pass through sandstone, limestone, shale, and the myriad of paleozoic elements that remind me just how small of a speck the human life span is on the scale of earth's own creation.

The trail seems to have a rhythm of its own as it snakes around the bends in the rock. It creates an aesthetic pattern of switchbacks down to the river floor and serves as a gateway to the Colorado river. After seeing a few dozen folks near the South rim, there are but only a handful of hikers on the trail scattered once every few miles. After seven miles and 4,800 feet of elevation loss from the South Kaibab's 7,260 foot rim, the river signifies the end of the first, and easiest, leg of R2R2R. After crossing the Colorado river by way of bridge, in its own way symbolizing my crossing of the Grand Canyon, I am welcomed by mules trains en route to nearby Phantom Ranch. It is here I leave the South Kaibab trail for good and unite with the North Kaibab trail that will bring me to the North rim in 14 miles.

I am now at the geographic low point of the day, as in the lowest elevation of the R2R2R route. After Phantom Ranch I enter The Box, which is narrow section of the canyon that follows along the light chocolate colored Bright Angel Creek. It actually reminded me a lot of the chocolate river from the movie Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, though the last thing you would want to try and drink would be that. For the next five miles the canyon rose straight up thousands of feet to my left and to my right. I was taken off guard by the pleasantly surprising abundance of lush greenery that coated the basin with a quaint floral aroma. In contrast, the steep walls of The Box were an ominous presence as I knew they concealed the enormity of the task at hand. After several small bridge crossings, and just beginning to feel acquainted with my new friend Bright Angel Creek, the trail pops out into an exposed valley of cacti and shrubs. It is here, near Cottonwood Campground, that the identity of the North rim comes into view and you realize just how far a mile of elevation gain looks when you see it from below.

The climb up the North rim keeps you honest. The bright white colored granite near the top of the rim served as a constant reminder how far you still have to go. The trail here could be defined by one word, majestic. Though it starts off rather benign, the North Kaibab trail has been known to make even the heartiest of souls feel a little queasy in their stomachs. At certain junctures the trail is only several feet wide and right along sheer cliff drops, and yet I felt fairly relaxed. My mind was simply more occupied by the beauty of my surroundings, and though I exercised good judgement, my brain had no vacancy for irrational fears. Nearing the North rim, as expected, I began seeing a lot of people, and again it was a great reminder that most people don't get to experience much more than 1-5% of the Grand Canyon. But not me.

As I reached the North rim, there was no celebration, but rather a brief moment of pause to rest and have a quick lunch. Though 22.8 miles were completed, more than half of the adventure still lay ahead. The trip down North Kaibab was energizing as I passed many of the hikers I had seen in the previous hour. I passed through the narrow ledges, down the mule worn rutted steps, and as time seemed to float by I was already back at Cottonwood campground. Once again I refilled my pack with the most vital nutrient I could have on this long journey, and that was water. Though only 54 degrees at sunrise and high 70's at the North rim, the temperatures of the canyon floor had gradually risen to 110 degrees. The "dry heat" is deceptive, and I knew it. It can lull people into a false sense of comfort, they push hard, and then before they realize it they are broken down. The heat is why over 200 people are rescued in the canyon every year, why even elite runners have died there, and why many choose the early spring to attempt R2R, nor less R2R2R. Though water was available roughly every 7 miles, I still chose to fill my 3L hydration pack to full capacity. My logic was simple. I'd rather carry more weight and move slower, 16 lbs total, than not enough and end up in deep deep crap.

From here, I retraced my way back through The Box, which I could have then aptly been named The Oven. The red rock acted like a heat conductor and even in the shade it radiated the absorbed warmth from the intense afternoon sun. Fatigue is starting to set in, as expected after nearly 6,000 feet of quad jarring descent wearing 10x more weight than I would normally carry during a race. But, again, this was no race, and I had to remind myself that in this place, where you are now is just as important as where you will end up. The time it took was not a relevant matter in this excursion, and in a world fixated on speed and instant gratification, I wanted to savor this. With a few hours of sunlight left I arrived back at Phantom Ranch and now made a right hand turn back over the Colorado river, but now on the Bright Angel Trail. For the first few miles the trail falsely climbed a few hundred feet, only to drop back to the river. This was a bit unsettling since I knew I would soon be making up all the elevation gain at some point. On paper, the climb to the North rim is said to be steeper, but in reality the net gain from the base of the South rim climb is actually more. Eventually the climb in earnest began and the miles got slower and slower. 20 minute miles gave way to 30 minute miles, and 30 second rest stops become several minutes. But again, time need not exist in this place, or at this moment for it held no value amongst the composition to earthen hues.

In the reverse order as they had appeared in the morning, the bright blue sky became yellow, then amber to rose to blush. Night had fallen on the great Grand Canyon. Now instead of being able to see for endless miles, my world had shrunk down to the 50 feet illuminated ahead of me by my headlamp. The South rim, which had seemed unreachably far like the unreachable star was now shrouded in black. I was Don Quixote slaying windmill giants, but now the giant existed on as the small lights of grand canyon village in the distance. The trail continued into the night, one turn followed by another, then another, and another. This continued for hours and then I could hear the faint chatter of tourists and the clamouring of cars and children. Out of the dark a single bobbing headlamp arose from the mighty canyon and back into a modern world of gift shops, restaurants, post cards, and hi speed wi-fi.

I was done. Rim to Rim to Rim. Solo.

As I reflected on the day's events it reminded me how small of an expense humans choose to live in comparison the large literal expanses like the Grand Canyon. Part of me knows the Grand Canyon, among many other places, are the physical and geographic representation of what some like myself embody in personality. It's why we are drawn not necessarily to the challenge, but also in knowing that we are seeing the natural world not just from a lens, but from a more complete perspective. My relationship with the Grand Canyon will always be shaped after events like my R2R2R experience, and I hope to continue this paradigm shift in a culture increasingly diluted with "technologies" that suffocate the human experience. Though somewhat curious, I don't think I would ever want to see how fast I could run R2R2R, as I believe it would negate the value of such a magnificent place. I wouldn't sprint by Michelangelo's David, the Pieta, or the Mona Lisa with just a quick glance would I, so why do the same with nature's most impressive art?

One of the great ironies is that during the hottest and toughest parts of my R2R2R all I could think about were luxuries like having an ice cold drink, being back in my air conditioned apartment, and having a cool comfortable place to sleep. In the ensuing days, once I was back at my apartment with the amenities I had day dreamed about, all I could think of was being back in that beautiful hot abyss of the Grand Canyon. But, as I sifted through my dirty laundry from the trip, I could still smell the canyon as I shook the red dust from my clothes. As much as the bright red dirt had encrusted my shoes and clothing, I realized that the Grand Canyon as a whole had soaked into myself just as much. Even 1,800 miles away, I had brought the canyon back home with me.

The Road to the Ironman

Over the past 10 years, I have completed many distances, but all by way of foot. It wasn't long after completing my first 100 mile race in 2007 that the notion of moving onto other sports came to mind. After all, I had just completed a 100 mile run, and though there were certainly longer and tougher races, I had basically decided it was the most I'd ever want to do. My bucket list for running feats up to that point was fairly slim. Within my lifetime I had wanted to complete a marathon, a 50 miler, a 100 miler, and run 100 miles in under 24 hours. While none of these individual tasks is terribly difficult on their own, for a middle of the pack runner, they still stood as decently imposing challenges. Thus, in 2007, my third year as a runner, I had checked off my entire short list of running goals. The big question then was what was next?

Before I was ever a runner, I had set goals for a multitude of other sports and wanted to revisit that. I became a tae kwon do black belt at age 9, bowled my first 200 game at age 12, climbed my first 5.10 at age 24, and threw a baseball from home plate over the outfield fence of my old high school baseball field (308 feet). It seems that setting and achieving goals has always been a part of my nature, hence after my first 100 miler, I decided that the Ironman was the next big fish to catch in my sports life. I was Captain Ahab and the Ironman was my Moby Dick.

However, the years shuffled by and it never happened. I never caught the big fish, or even cast a net. Much of this was due to the fact that the lure of trail ultras kept calling me back, and the fact the cost for training for an Ironman was extremely high. Even after I finished the Western States 100 in 2011, my all time bucket list race, I continued to postpone my Ironman aspirations. Understandable since, in the sport of running the only major cost is shoes, which can be bought for very cheap, and race entry fees, which compared to the $625 for an Ironman looked much more wallet friendly. The third major drawback of pursuing the Ironman was knowing how much work lay ahead. It was a road I knew would be paved with more dedication and focus than any of my ultramrathons. Consider I had only marginal experience in one of the three athletic disciplines needed for just a general triathlon, no less the full Iron distance, one could empathize the monumental task at hand.

In February 2014, after seven years of procrastinating and making excuses, I finally made the leap and signed up for Ironman Louisville. With only a handful of spring races on the calendar, and nothing beyond April, I knew that 2014 looked to be the ideal year to make my attempt at the elusive Ironman. Louisville was the best fit for event since it did not require air travel, was not until August, and the climate would be the most similar to the Virginia climate I would be training in (ie hot, humid, not in the mountains, or at altitude). It was logistically also the easiest way for my dad to join in the adventure, which will be very special for the both of us. Lastly, the timeframe also gave me six months to prepare for the event, though I did not intend to begin triathlon training until the end of my spring races, which gave me a full 16 weeks to train. The big question remained, would 16 weeks be enough for an experienced runner who had essentially no experience in swimming, or biking? I suppose, that will be answered in two months.

So, going into the Ironman my only "strength" was in the running discipline.....but, I had never run 26.2 miles after swimming 2.4 miles and riding a bike for 112 miles. Then there was the fact that I hadn't swam in nearly five years, and nothing longer than 500-750 meters in a pool compared to the Ironman's 3,840 meter open water swim. The funny thing is, I had always regarded myself as a decent swimmer. I mean I did lifeguard (cough, cough....got paid to twirl a whistle and tan) for 7 years, so I had to be a good swimmer, right? Um, no. In my 7 years of lifeguarding I never had to swim more than 50 feet to rescue anyone, and in most cases I was saving small kids who were drowning in shallow water I could easily stand up in. So, in reality was I a good swimmer? Not by a long shot. Oh, and then we have the sport of cycling that I have to learn. Yeeaaahh. Bikes probably make up 90% of the cost to participate in triathlons. There were literally so many things I had no clue I had to buy in order to use a bike for a triathlon and to not look like a total idiot on a bike. The latter is still up for debate.

So, how would I describe my biking experience? A tad more than zero sounds accurate. I did have a bike in college that I road maybe 2-3 miles per week to class, and I also remember going on an epic long bike ride with a couple friends which turned out to only be 7 miles when we finally measured the route in our cars. Yup, 7 miles was my longest ride ever from 2001 until 2011 when a friend dared me to do a century ride with him. A week before the century ride, on a my friend's borrowed bike, we did practice rides of 8 and 14 miles so I would be familiar with the bike and gears. Then I rode 100 miles to PR my distance ridden on a bike by 86 miles. It also took me over 7 and a half hours, and I definitely can't afford to be that slow for 112 miles. In reality it wasn't much different than how my first ultra went, and it's very similar to how I'm going into the Ironman. Go big, or go home, then figure out proper training later. Motto of my athletic life. However, now 3 years later, I have not been on a bike since.

Well, it's now been over five months since I signed up for Louisville and I am 10 weeks into my training with 6 weeks to go. I had decided early on that despite being a beginner cyclist and swimmer that I wanted to train the best I could and go into the event somewhat prepared. My respect for triathletes has grown tremendously and especially for Iron distance triathletes. The time it takes to learn three skill sets, no less master them with any speed, is an immense undertaking. As a novice, I am not only learning two new sports, but also having to build up endurance at the same time so I can conquer the full distance.

Thus far, it's been trial by fire, but well worth it and humbling. I finally bought a bike, a wetsuit, tri gear, and pretty much exhausted whatever money I had set aside for upcoming running events for the sake of the triathlon. The total cost for the Ironman including entry fee, bike, bike accessories, tri gear, motel, and travel has been exactly $2,000. The cost could have been $1,000 more had I not bought most of my items on ebay (ie. $899 bike for $479, $100 aerobar for $50, $250 wetsuit for $35, $150 tri suit for $75 and so on). I also learned that triathlons are significantly less forgiving for the ill equipped and unprepared. More so than in ultras where, as long as you keep moving forward, you can be untrained and even out of shape and still finish well within the cut offs. Training schedules are also much more demanding, whereas potential rest days are often replaced with works outs for swimming and cycling, since each sport requires several days of training any given week. With running your off days are off days, but in triathlons an off day of running means you are either on the bike, in the pool, and vice versa. Interestingly though, while my overall training routine is more structured and stricter than running alone, I find that I don't feel nearly as worn out as when all my mileage is solely running. I suppose switching up the muscle groups really does lessen the singular impact of just doing one sport all the time. That being said, I am trying to get used to the fact that my weekly running mileage may only hit 30-40 miles per week, low by my standards, but that the addition of 100+ miles of biking and several miles of swimming takes up about the same amount of time as a 75-85 mile running week would.

In the remaining six weeks the plan is to refine my race strategy and to gain some speed. I have mostly been training to become more efficient in the water and on the bike, and often focusing a lot on technique versus trying to go fast. Trust me when I say my first swimming and biking workouts were rough. I was stopping every couple of laps in the pool to catch my breath and I couldn't ride a bike for more than 30 minutes before my neck, back, hips, butt, and legs got sore. But, I sought sound advice, was patient, and tried to improve just a little bit more every time I got in the water, or hopped on my bike. I had also intentionally made workouts harder by swimming in non streamlined gear and waiting to use clip in shoes on the bike. I figured if I increased my efforts without any performance aids, then it would make me stronger, albeit slower in the early stages of training. Now that I can confidently knock out a 2 mile swim and a 70 mile ride any given day, though not fast, I think the time is right to start using cycling shoes and a wetsuit to see what speed I can gain from here on out. If I had relied on these things from the beginning of my training, I would have worried that they may have become a security blanket and I would rely on them too much. I still have a lot to learn, but gains are gains.

Finally, I decided to set some goals, which was something I was hesitant to do early on. Obviously, the primary objective is just to finish. Given that it is my FIRST triathlon, and it just so happens to be Iron distance, I am not putting a ton of pressure for a particular time. Realistically, even if I improved a good bit on the swim and the bike, I probably would not cut more than 30 minutes off my total time at this juncture in my triathlon life. I do think I can break 13 hours, probably 12:30, and on a good day perhaps go under 12 hours. But, like any long distance event, there is a lot can happen in the 140.6 miles that we will cover. As long as I can cross that finish in under 17 hours, I will be an Ironman.

(Ironman Louisville finish line)

Commencement

"You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself."
-Walt Whitman "Song of Myself"

(College graduation with my late grandparents. May 7th, 2004)

Like the great tower of Babel, the languages of the world, what we hear and choose to hear, scatter with the sands. We ebb and flow, and those languages lost and retrieved. They are the languages of our dreams, our doubts, our courage and fears. Time is an ephemeral gift, but that which we all too condescendingly take for granted. It effervesces into the singularities of the cosmos, and yet we are the dot on the line in the cube. We fill our brave new worlds with makeshift goals and aspirations, and as the zealous years dwindle and race by we find ourselves walking across stages, stages of life and learning.

May 7th, 2014 marked the 10th anniversary of my college graduation, and I somehow can't always grasp that a decade has passed. Five years before that I graduated from high school, a period of time in its own right that encapsulated a full quandrant of my life. Each graduation was marked by its own pomp and circumstance, and purposefully seguewaying into another realm of adulthood. Adulthood, nor maturity, however, can be simply stamped onto a single sheet of celebratory paper that we call a diploma. No, the diploma is not an ending, but rather the symbolic ticket of the beginning of a paradigm shift into the world of self sufficiency and self reliance. Ironically, we move along from one system of institutionalization to another, all at the risk of losing grip of why we pursued higher education in the first place. Was it because it was what was naturally expected of us after high school? Was it to eventually land us the highest paying job, or perhaps it was to fulfill obtaining a job placed upon us by the most altruistic intentions. Above all these, did we really study countless hours to do what we wanted, to discover what really wanted, and just as importantly discover what we thought we wanted. My own contentions fall into the latter.

In truth, life after college is the real classroom, and all our scholarly endeavors are no more than a preamble to the lessons that lie ahead. But, sadly I feel education leaves its hosts desperately unprepared to tackle the onslaught of a world that does not care about what you've learned in a book. I will spare you the details about all the crazy odd jobs, all the places I've lived, all the people I've gained and lost, leaving home, and now calling home all the once foreign places and faces. And, I could pretentiously romanticize my post collegiate world glowing in the golden hues of 1980's Hallmark commercial, or pair it with the surrealistic oddity of a Salvador Dali self portrait. But, as there is a grace in the demure workings of ten years of living, growing, and aging, life's occurrances are only counted at face value.

So, where did I see myself five years after college? Well, I went to college and initially studied quantitative finance in order to become a stock analyst on Wall Street. Not because I thought I would enjoy it, I was sure I wouldn't, but because I was enamored with the idea of making a lot of money. My shameful naivety as a late teen and early twenty something at that point still associated wealth with success, but that would soon change. Then on the morning of September 11, 2001 the notion of being a stock analyst literally and metaphorically came crashing down with the World Trade Center. That was the fall semester of my junior year, and the end of my pursuit of a lucrative corporate life in quantitative finance. My studies shifted towards more humanitarian interests, and long story short I found myself with a degree in political science instead. Five years after shaking the Dean of my school's hand, I saw myself working as a political advisor in the Virginia capital, and then moving on to the federal government, and maybe even the White House.

Nope. The first gubernatorial candidate I had planned to work for missed delivering his campaign petitions by several hours, and was deemed ineligible to run for office. Well, great....So much for where I saw myself in five years, no less ten.

The moral of the story, not that there even is a moral, is that life is almost guaranteed to not go as planned. They never tell you in college how hard life can really be, but conversely they also don't tell you the great rewards that are birthed from great risk. The world does not revolve around our schedules, though the scale variance in our finite minds ignores this. There is no crystal ball, no warning, but simply life evolving at its constant rate of seasonal change with us at the mercy of the winds, winters, and springs. My life did not go as I had expected, and yet the surprise of the myriad of twists and turns has compiled itself into a wondrous book better than any I could have written. Along the classroom of life 101 I've learned to let go of that which we cannot control, which is the lion's share of life, and to know that these elements are greater and finer than what we can truly see. That which we can control we should embrace with humility and generosity as it often finds itself growing as the seed of someone else's uncontrollable world. There we can find clarity and solace in the things that we perceive as not going as planned. Humans by very nature do not have the complete foresight to comprehend in all necessary fullness the truths that are self evident.

I dare not think I would have done all that I have done, if I had done all that I had sought to do. As a 21 year old holding a diploma, I would have never dreamed I would see the places I have seen, done the things I have done, nor do enough to even merit such pastimes as keeping up a blog like this to log some of my life's adventures big and small. I think as younger people we do a great disservice to ourselves by limiting our parameters and definitions of success and abundance. To understand that wealth is not money, and luxurious things are not luxury I think frees us to find more fulfilled countenance in vast other treasures of the world. Where did I see myself 10 years after college? Not where I am, or have been, and all the better for it.

Sometimes the life you didn't plan ends up being better than the one you did.

Minority Report and Ted Corbitt

(Ted Corbitt circa 1957)

If you were to ask relatively new ultrarunners who the pioneers of American ultrarunning are you might get some varied answers. While most younger people in the sport, perhaps my age and younger, would have a hard time naming anyone before Dean Karnazes' book came out in 2005, some might still be able to identify Scott Jurek, or David Horton. I, myself, must admit that I did not realize people were already accomplishing great things internationally in the world of ultras long before it became more mainstream in the US in the mid 2000's. If you were also to poll a large group of ultrarunners and ask if they knew who Ted Corbitt was, they likely wouldn't know, and would probably be even more surprised to find out that he was an African American.

Ted Corbitt is to American ultrarunning what Yiannis Kouros is to European ultrarunning, and yet so few people know this. Mr. Corbitt's accomplishments include competing on the US marathon team in the Helsinki Olympic games and having the athletic range to win road marathons and also hold national track records in almost every conceivable distance from 25 miles to 100. Corbitt was also notorious for his intense 30 mile training days, 200 mile training weeks, and sometimes running as much as 300 miles per week. But, unlike some runners who peak and fade within five to ten years, he remained competitive into his 50's and even completed 68 miles at a 24 hour event at age 84. So the big question is why, despite Corbitt dominating the long distance scene from the 1950's to 1970's, did American ultrarunning fizzle out? Was it because of the resurgence of the popularity of the road marathon in the 1980's, the rise of European ultrarunning on the shoulders of greats like Kouros, or simply the fact that Corbitt's feats slowly became forgotten in the dusty lore of ultrarunning cannon?

In case you were wondering, here are some of Ted Corbitt's personal bests: Marathon 2:26; 50 miles 5:35; 100 miles 13:33, 24 hours 134.7 miles(at age 54). It's amazing to think with all the faster times we are starting to see as runners are specializing in certain distances that Corbitt was able to run a 13:33 100 miler in 1969.....at age 50.

For some reason ultrarunning continues to associate the Western States 100 as the birth of North American extreme distance events, but it's far from the truth. The first years of Western States running events were held on an 89 mile course, and did not become an official 100 mile event until 1985. Thus, the Old Dominion 100 in Virginia is technically the oldest true 100 mile course, given that it's measured distance of 100 miles came six years before Western States . But, again people like Corbitt had already been running fast 100 mile events several decades earlier without the pomp and circumstance of some more current athletes who would have you thinking nobody has ever done the distances they have.

This brings me to my second thought.

Where are the minorities in our sport? Is it on par with the ethnic breakdown of Americans as a general population, or is it less? Road running, while dominated by mostly African Americans, attracts a fairly yuppy demographic. Even more specifically with ultras I see more of the same kinds of people. Most are college educated, have better than average incomes, and are also most likely to be upper middle class Caucasians between the ages of 35 and 60. While I agree the personality types and sociopolitical beliefs of ultrarunners is quite diverse, the trend is that regardless if they are bearded long haired, craft beer drinking hipsters in Boulder, or suit toting lawyers in DC, they will probably be white. And in terms of growing up in an urban environment and possibly living in a lower income area, I don't see that as a barrier to running ultras, which from experience tend to be one of the least expensive sports to have as a hobby. Another unique aspect of ultras is the plethora of "fat ass" events and bare bones events that cost anywhere from under $50 to completely free. If you can afford shoes, you can participate, and due to the growing popularity of barefoot running, you may not need shoes either. Ultras are also growing in number and are more accessible than ever to people from various localities.

But, alas in my ten years running I rarely encounter more than a handful of minorities at ultras. There might be a couple Asians, a couple black people, maybe a Latino, or Indian, but in a race of 300+ runners, I would be shocked to see more than 10-15 minorities combined. Per 2010 census data, 72.4% of the US was classified as white, which means if a 300 person race held the same percentages there should be roughly 82 non white runners. I'm sure I could write extensively on the cultural attraction, or non attraction to the sport, but it seems like minority participation has grown in almost every major American sport, except running/ultrarunning. Football and basketball are inversely majority African American now, baseball has attracted more Asians and Latinos, soccer globally attracts all ethnic groups, and even golf is more diverse now than it was before Tiger Woods. So if breakthrough minority athletes like Tiger Woods, boxer Joe Louis, Yao Ming, Jeremy Lin, Hideo Nomo, the NBA's Earl Loyd, Jackie Robinson, Fernando Valenzuela, and many others have opened the gateway to other minorities entering their respective sports, why didn't it happen with Ted Corbitt? It's most likely that as gifted and respected as he was, the sport simply did not have the mainstream limelight to make any resounding noise between cultural barriers.

I certainly hope we can see minority participation increase, or at least see some elite minorities enter the fold. Unless they travel from other countries, it seems the US doesn't really have any elite minority participants aside from maybe Joseph Gray, Yassine Diboun, Jorge Pacheco,David Goggins, Oswaldo Lopez, Jorge Maravilla, and maybe Sage Canaday who is half Asian. If we look to elite female minorities the numbers are basically non existent.

Speaking of elite female ultrarunners, I have witnessed a dramatic decrease in the number in the mid Atlantic. Not to take anything away from the women that are winning local ultras, or ultras in Virginia, but the talent pool has shrunk dramatically in the past 7-8 years. Some of this is due to the top runners leaving for the West coast like Amy Sproston and Jenn Shelton, but others seem to have fallen off the grid entirely. In the mid 2000's the mid Atlantic had both Amy and Jenn, Justine Morrison, Annette Bednosky, Anne Lundblad, Michele Harmon, Regan Petrie, Bethany Patterson, Sarah "Space Cadet" Johnston, and a slew of other fast ladies. A lot of these women were competitive on a national level and could show up to any given race in the country and win. While some of the women still make appearances at races, and still do very well, the overall depth of women's competitive fields has decreased. For every new fast female like an Eva Pastalkova, Holly Bugin, or Martha Nelson, it seems we've lost several others. While the decrease in top female runners is not in the same category as the low number of ethnic minorities, it does make you wonder why the mid West and West coast own most of the female ultrarunning talent in the country.

The Art of Pacing

(pacing my friend Ryan at the Old Dominion 100)

The art of being a effective pacer is a very unique craft. It is entirely different than being a good runner, a good crew member, or even a volunteer. Since my first pacing assignment in 2006, I have paced roughly 20 runners of varying ability and experience at distances ranging from 10 to 100 miles. In the many hours spent on roads and trails, I have found that there things that make a good pacer, and things that make make a bad pacer. Good pacing can save a runner's race and enrich the experience, and bad pacing can destroy it. I've seen plenty of both over the years and have made numerous notes about what it takes to be a good pacer, and what to avoid. This is a little long, but I think it's worth the read.

1) The skill level of a pacer- Your speed should be not significantly slower than the person you are pacing. If you decided to pace a faster runner, oh let's say the final 30 miles of a 100 miler, it's probably not a big deal that you are slower than them. Even very fast runners will be significantly slower in the final miles of a long ultra. However, you still need to know you can hang with them if they get a sudden burst of energy, or if they are going to be pushing hard to have a competitive finish. If you are pacing someone the last 50 miles of a 100 miler and they intend to run it in 10 hours, but your 50 mile personal best is 12 hours, it's probably best you leave the pacing up to someone else. Getting dropped by your runner does sometimes happen, but it can be avoided if you plan accordingly. After all, it's your job to look out for your runner, and not the other way around. Lastly, though not entirely necessary, it does help if the pacer has run the same race, or distance the runner is doing. Having a shared perspective of a race can pay dividends.

1a) Inversely, if you are significantly faster than the runner you are pacing, realize their "fast" may still be slower than your slow. Allow your runner to dictate the pace, and don't push them unless they ask you too in order to achieve a particular finish time, whether it be a PR, sub 24, or just breaking a certain hour mark. Also know that if you are not used to jogging at someone else's slower pace, it may be very uncomfortable for you. Sometimes it can actually be tougher for a very fast runner to run with someone much slower. If that may be the case, give the duty to someone who is feels better at the slower speeds.

2) Listen to your runner- This means listening for both verbal and non-verbal commands. The verbal commands will be easy to understand, but it's the other signs you need to notice. Body language will say a lot about your runner's energy, level of fatigue, and general attitude about how the race is going. Know that runners tend to put on poker faces, and though they may say they are doing alright, their body will show you something else. A pacer needs to be able to read the bluffs. If your runner is acting very differently than their typical behavior or personality, something may be up. It could be general tiredness, which is to be expected, but it could always be something more. Pacers aren't substitutes for doctors, but knowing what to look for can help your runner.

3) Know your runner- Most people we pace will be friends of ours. If you have run with them before, then you probably have a better idea how the distance will effect their body and demeanor. If you are pacing someone you don't know (or know well), be sure to use those first few miles, or hours, to get a read on their personality. If somebody really enjoys talking during races, then be sure to engage them in conversation. If you are a super quiet person, pacing a very social runner may not be a good idea, and vice versa.

3a) Know your runner's preferences- Learn what your runner's preferences are, and if you don't know, simply ask. Figure out what clothing makes them comfortable, what foods they enjoy, and what foods they are still able to eat if their stomach goes bad. If your runner is comfortable in cold weather clothing when it is 80 degrees out, just roll with it, and if they like going shirtless in 30 degree weather while eating nothing but avocados and listening to Pearl Jam, then so be it. Just keep an eye out for what is practical, and if their preferences are adversely effecting their performance.

4) Be the backup brain for your runner- Runners are entirely responsible for themselves and the predicaments they end up in, but the presence of a pacer can alleviate much of that. Understand that a tired runner usually does not think as clearly, and sometimes they are working through numerous thought processes to the point they may overlook seemingly simple details. Know what your running will be needing in the near future in terms of both gear and nutrition. Ask if they are hungry and thirsty because even basic things like eating can slip a runner's mind. If our runner's strategy is to eat and drink at certain time segments, be sure to remind them, but also know when to tweak the plan if it isn't working well. Don't force your runner to eat, or drink, unless it is vital to them finishing a race. If you can, try to know what items are in your runner's upcoming drop bags, or what items their crew and/or aid station may have. Keep an eye on the environment, research the forecast, and track the time of day so you can effectively prepare night gear and clothing for potential shifts in weather.

4a) Know the race- If possible, find out what you can about the course. Know the distances to each aid station, time cut-offs, and where drop bags and crew access may be. If you've run the race before it's an even bigger bonus. Some runners don't like being told every upcoming turn, or climb on a course, and some will take whatever advice they can get. Be familiar with turns and areas where it may be easy for runners to go off course. Remember, your runner is tired, and may not be looking where they should for markings. Also, though rare, course flagging goes missing. Sometimes locals remove markings by accident, sometimes it's just plain vandalism, and sometimes wind and storms rip down and wash things away that were there earlier. Know the course, as your runner should as well, but also keep a turn sheet available for a back up.

5) Keep moving forward- This is as simple as it gets. Most races are made, or broken in the second half. If your runner can keep moving in the latter parts of a race, then they have the opportunity to finish well. Motivate your runner. Tell stories, use tough love, and remind them why they are out there. If you know your runner can handle you being a drill sergeant, then I have no problem pushing buttons to get them fired up. After all, if tough love is the only thing that can light a fire in your runner, use it.....but, ONLY if you know them well enough to know it will work (see part 3). The last thing you want is to say something that makes your runner feel worse, sad, or guilty that they are going so slow. Otherwise, our main goal is to get them going in a forward direction in however small increments they can manage. Set smaller goals. Perhaps try to cover a particular stretch of the race in a certain time. Urge your runner to only think about getting to the next aid station, the top of the next climb, or just making it to a tree a few hundred feet away. Every step gets your runner that much closer to the finish. Encourage your runner, and tell them they are doing well. Novice runners may not be used to shuffling along at a 13-15 minute mile, and may view it as a failure. Let them know that what they may perceive as agonizingly slow, is actually a very good pace late in a race. If your runner needs to lay down, set a goal time for how long they can rest, then get them up as soon as possible.

6) Don't take things personally- Your tired runner may not have much to say to you. They have just run 80 miles, and still have 20 to go, so forgive them if they don't jump into your conversation with elated enthusiasm. They may snap at you for something as simple as putting Gatorade in the bottle they only wanted water in, for not closing the lid on their camel back correctly, or for not grabbing ice when you passed the last aid station. Toss it all out the window. What people say in ultras, stays at the ultra. A very tired runner can often act exactly like a drunk person, so don't take what they do, or say personally. It's your job to keep everyone's heads level, and if needed, just let your runner vent and get it out of their system. I have only ever had one runner who never thanked me for pacing her, but 99.99% of everyone else will be grateful as soon as they are back to their normal selves.

7) IT IS NOT ABOUT YOU!- This is the most important aspect. I have heard pacers grumble about how slow they had to go, how it took 15 hours to go 20 miles, and how all they did was walk and stop every ten feet. When it comes time for someone to pace your tired and beat up ass for 40 miles, you'll be thanking them for the company. Deal with it, and know that signing up to pace could be a crash course in patience. Your pacing duties should not be part of your training. I've seen this scenario play out as well. The pacer was going to do a 30 mile long run anyway, their friend asked them to come pace, and they figured it's the same distance, so why not? Then, they get upset because it wasn't as quality of a workout as they had hoped. Pacing is not your workout, it's not your training run, and it most likely won't be up to par with the training you had hoped to do. NEVER take on a pacing job, because you see it as a way to kill two birds with one stone. It should always be about helping the runner, and not you. Don't project your goals onto your runner. If your runner's goal is to run 100 miles in 25 hours, but you want them to break 24, stick to their plan, not yours. I'm sure if they realize a sub 24 is in reach, they might be willing to go for it, but respect the game plan that is already in place.

7a) Though pacing is not about the pacer, remember to take care of yourself too. Some pacers can get so unselfishly focused on their runner, they forget to take care of their own needs. When Geoff Roes won Western States in 2010, his pacer, elite runner Dave Mackey, had to drop out for a while because he did not watch out for himself. You need to be healthy enough to stay with your runner and think with enough clarity for the both of you.

8) Get your hands dirty- Fact. Runners will be very dirty and gross, especially given the distance and terrain they must cover. You need to be okay with touching your runner's sweaty dirty packs, slimy gel covered water bottles, and salt drenched clothing. The idea of blood, sweat, and tears is often just a cliché, but in ultras you will likely deal with all of it. While you are not expected to do surgery, though you may have to pop big juicy blisters, you can't be fussy about dealing with the grime that comes from another person's hard effort. When you are in their position, you won't want your pacer being afraid to touch you. You will also deal with your runner's other bodily functions. Some people will have bad body odor, they will fart in front of you, pee on themselves, shoot snot rockets, and many other things you tend to not see in every day life. Be cool about it. Whatever keeps them comfortable is what is important. Sometimes runners just need the physical reassurance of a pat on the back, a hand shake, or a big hug. They deserve better than you wanting to stay clean. Remember point number 7. It's not about you.

9) Celebrate your runner- It may be their 800th race, or first ever. Celebrate their journey and the fact you had such an integral part in it. Celebrate if your runner achieves all their goals and more, and if not, celebrate them overcoming their obstacles to still finish. Succeed, struggle, or fail, embrace the time with your runner as they experience a special part of life. When the day comes for you to be paced, celebrate the fact that somebody is willing to join you on your journey as well.