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.

Trashing the Trends

I have never liked trendy things. In middle school I wore silk shirts and jeans because it is what all other other kids wore. Keep in mind, just a few years before this I was sporting Starter jackets, Hypercolor shirts, and Zubaz pants. And now a days, it seems as though Uggs and North Face are the official sponsor of college females across the country. Every facet of life has accumulated its own trendy characteristics, and thus twenty years after middle school, within my own hobby of running, I am still fighting the trends.

Why do I hate trends? Well, first of all it seems like every day some doctor, or other professional is telling you about some research that profoundly changes the way you should live. Diets and exercise come to mind first. In the last 15 years we have all heard ad nauseam the various kinds of diets we should have, what we should eat, and what we shouldn't eat. The Atkins diet, low carb, paleo, vegan, South Beach, using fat for fuel, gluten free, wheat free, on and on, and on. It gets so convoluted, restrictive, and confusing, it's no wonder people jump from one fad diet to another. And although a lot of these diets are based in science, much of them contradict one another to the point of utter frustration.

The same goes for running gear and running techniques. Do I use pose method, chi running, to heel strike, or to land forefoot? Ugh. In 2009 a book about barefoot running comes out, bashes Nike's bulky shoes, and presto, you have a instant trend towards minimalist footwear. And again, minimalist footwear, like the diets, has some benefits proven by scientific testing (albeit potentially biased). The following years saw the shoe market explode with minimalist everything, and people flocked to the stores to buy them. Folks, it's all a marketing gimmick to make people money. For a few years, the shoe companies had everyone picturing themselves frolicking in the mountains like Tony Krupicka in a tiny little pair of six ounce shoes. The ensuing years, however, were followed by a lot of overuse injuries acquired by runners who were too overzealous in ramping up their high mileage running in shoes their bodies were not used to.

Enter Karl Meltzer and Hoka One One. Funny, just a few years ago people dreamed about scampering over rocks with nimble proprioception in their Vibram Five Fingers. Now, runners who have been dealing with years of aches and pains all of sudden find themselves floating along in the new "clown shoes". Recovery times have never been quicker, and the "time to fly" is now all the time. Now having a fully cushioned ride is all the rage, and people can't seem to get enough of the puffy stuff. So how exactly, in less than two years, did the minimalist movement lose ground to the current maximalist movement? Marketing strategy. Nothing more and nothing less. This doesn't mean minimalist and maximalist don't have scientifically proven benefits, but neither is the end all be all of shoes. People tend to dive 100% into the new fads, dump their money into unproven products and theories, which they will probably change in a year anyway.

(photo courtesy of Ultraspire)

Shoes and gear will not compensate for your genetics, or make you heal faster. Kids in Africa run barefoot all the same, but that does not mean you can. Most of us sit behind desks, go to work in dress shoes, and at best run on a regular basis. Buying a new pair of shoes will never compensate for a lifetime's worth of a style of life unless you can truly commit to years, and decades of going barefoot. On the other hand, bulky shoes like Hokas feel amazing, especially if you are someone who has had chronic injuries and are tired of feeling like running beats you up too much. However, your ideal stride is designed for the natural dimensions of your body. Adding another inch of cushion means you are very unnaturally altering your stride impact points, regardless of the heal to toe drop on your shoes. I believe this inhibition of the natural stride will cause hip, lower back, and other injuries. The fact that people practice little sense of moderation with new shoes will exaggerate this effect. Moderation does not mean easing into a pair of shoes in a few weeks, or even months, but possibly in terms of years. However, nobody is patient enough to want to comprehend that.

Other things I have learned:

1) Compression gear is a placebo. Wearing tighter clothes with specific pressure points has never been proven to promote better performance. The idea of enhanced circulation and oxygenation to the muscles doesn't add up. I could do a whole separate post about compression gear, which I do own (along with yes Hokas and everything else mentioned), but it will be for another day.

2) All bodies are not created equal. We all "know" this, but fail to practice it. What works for others may not work for you. The quicker you can be okay with that, the less money you will waste on things that will never benefit your body type.

3) Gear will not make you faster. Running faster will make you run faster. If you weigh 250 lbs and think dropping from a 9 ounce shoe to an 8 ounce shoe will make you faster, you might want to reconsider where your weight really needs to come off.

4) Gear will not increase your endurance. Running farther and at a higher intensity, as well as sound in-race nutrition is what will increase your endurance. Trust the training, not the product.

5) You will race the way you train. If you never run harder in training, it certainly won't happen on race day. If all you do is long slow trail runs, all you will be able to do is long slow trail runs.

6) Well planned use of gear and logistics can help cut time during longer events. Sometimes a good strategy can make up for speed. Just don't rely on it all the time.

7) Elite athletes don't need the gear they are sponsored by to be fast. Remember, they were fast first, sponsored second. It's never the other way around.

8) You don't need a long run every week. Runners can tend to be super OCD about training schedules and mileage. A solid long run every other week trumps a so-so, maybe fatigued and forced, long run every week. If you are tired 3 miles into a planned 20 miler, cutting it short is smarter than pushing to a crappy 4-5 hour slog. Despite what others may think, a long slog may actually hurt your training and set you back.

9) There IS such a thing as bad miles. A few good days of rest can do more for your training than a bunch of tired runs. We need to kick the idea that active always equals good and sedentary always equals bad.

10) More miles is not always better. Some of the best distance runners only run 50-70 miles per week (less than 3k per year), even when training for 100's. A well devised 60 mile week can provide better training than 100 mile weeks of constant slow stuff, and with a lesser chance of overuse injury. We read about elites and their sexy 150-200+ mile training weeks, and think surely bigger is better. Nope.

11) HAVE FUN! Running is our hobby, our privilege, our passion, but not our job. 99.99% of our elite runners have other jobs. A 15 minute 5k runner, a 2:20 marathoner, or even a sponsored ultra runner is not going to make much money off running. Lighten up and enjoy it!

Paved to Waves: Maysville to Macon 50 Miler

(Courtesy of M2M website. Race director Brad Mitchell on the M2M course)

One of my biggest desires in upcoming years is to run new unique and challenging events. I've never had a desire to be a 10 time, 20 time, 30+ time finisher of any event. With so many great concepts popping up in the running and ultrarunning world, I believe life is too short to do the same races over and over again.

That very idea is what got me to the starting line of the Maysville to Macon 50 miler. Initially, I saw that there was a brand new 50.3 mile race in North Carolina, it was reasonably close, inexpensive, and I would probably get to catch up with some of my runner friends. But, as I learned about the details of the race, that's when my interest really piqued. The event had a 12:01am start, just like the Hellgate 100k, and it would be run on 23 miles of roads (route 58) before turning and running up 27 miles of sandy beachfront (Emerald Isle). So much for the idea of a nice easy 50 miler....

On to the race!

After nearly a 5 hour drive through traffic, I finally arrived in Atlantic Beach, NC. When I got there, we still had an hour long shuttle ride to the cozy little town of Maysville, NC. I was pleasantly surprised how the town went out of their way to make us feel welcome. The mayor, the police commissioner (Dan Ryan, the man behind the idea of M2M), and a local mascot all came out to our starting point, a small diner in the middle of town. It occurred to me that this was my first 50 miler in about a year and a half, and only my second in the past three years. 50 miles is a fun distance because you can definitely blow up if you go out too fast, but you also don't want to go out too slow either.

12:01am. After the Pledge of Allegiance the race finally began. The 23 miles of roads were basically broken up into several segments. I ran the first couple of miles up front, but sure enough two other guys caught up and eventually passed me. The first 10 miles to the aid station went through dark county roads, but seamlessly passed by in an hour an twenty minutes. The eight minute pace was a bit faster than the 8:30's I had planned, so I backed off a bit more. By the way, we had a police escort that stopped oncoming traffic the first ten miles which was pretty awesome!

13 miles. I caught up with one of the guys who had passed me earlier, and he ran behind me for a mile, or so. His bright headlamp directly behind me was causing some awkward shadows so I picked up the pace just to get a little bit ahead. A few miles later I glanced back to see how he was doing, and didn't see a soul in sight.

ERROR number 1 (+0.5 miles, 5 minutes): At around 17 miles I realized I hadn't seen any signs for route 58, which is the road we were supposed to be on. Apparently, by running on the left side of the road, I naturally followed where it went and completely missed a fork in the road where I was supposed to bear right. It wasn't a huge mistake, but I added a half mile, and five minutes trying to find my way back.

About twenty five minutes later I crossed the only "hill" on the course, which was a pretty bridge going over into Emerald Isle. Though short, the uphill and downhill of the bridge was a nice change of pace for the muscle groups. From there we made a right turn and ran for three miles until we reached the oceanfront.

3 hours and 14 minutes. The 23.3 miles of road were done, and I can honestly say I was glad to be switching over to running on the sand. As soon as I passed through into the beach area I was welcomed with a massive oceanfront of white that stretched beyond the view of my headlamp. The area was so wide and open that it was a bit disorienting to figure out where you were supposed to be going. Since I knew to go left, I just followed that until the shoreline narrowed down to a more defined strip of sand with the ocean to my right. From this point to the finish the pace of running, aside from fatigue and weather, would be dictated by the type of sand we were on. It would either be very loose granular sand that you would sink ankle deep into, or wet packed sand that was ALWAYS off camber closer to the water.

The first "marathon" of the run went by in 3:43 as I arrived at the aid station overseen by RacENC mastermind Brandon Wilson and his son Andy. This was mile 25.8 on the course, but actually my mile 26.3. Subsequently, the lead runner already had a 12 minute gap on me, but I viewed the next 24 miles as either an opportunity to close the gap, or let it grow. The next six miles to aid station 3 were by far my sloppiest. I struggled to find good footing as the tide was a bit higher and shrunk down the running path options to mostly the deeper sand. My slow pace during this stretch was mostly due to the soft sand and spending too much time zig zagging from hard packed sand to the flatter stuff when the hard packed got too slanted to run on.

31.8 miles. I arrived in 4:50, which is a decent time (31 mile split of 4:42), but it looks faster than is was due to all the road running at the beginning. The slowest part of the course was still to come, and there were still 18.5 more grueling miles of sand to cover. From here, the next two aid stations were both 7.5 miles apart. I figured a 10 minute mile pace, which was much tougher than expected to maintain on sand, would get me through each segment in 1:15, and give me a good shot at breaking 8 hours. The passing of time through the night and early morning wasn't as bad as I expected. The dark beach was certainly quiet, but I had some good tunes playing on my headphones, and I just settled into a rhythm. Every mile or so I would take a moment to jog backwards and take the strain of my left side. Running on a constant angle can cause major muscle imbalance problems, so I figured to take some time to relieve the physical monotony.

6:30am. Almost 42 miles covered and the ambient light from the sunrise meant I could ditch the headlamp. However, a chilly rain was already beginning to fall, and made the 38 degree morning all that much cooler.

Entering Fort Macon: I entered the Fort Macon beach access at 7 hours and 30 minutes, and had a little over three miles to the finish. I knew if I pushed it, I could break the 8 hour barrier, which would have been a great accomplishment on this tough course. However, the last few miles of the course were not how I pictured, and I found myself rather uncertain as to where to go. I followed my gut and found both of the hole punches we needed to prove we ran around the outer most portion of the fort beachfront. As I made my way into the fort area, that's when I got confused.

ERROR number 2 (+1.8 miles, 18 minutes): When I arrived at Fort Macon, I had only seen one sign that said "this way", which was located in a parking lot. I assumed it was pointing me to run down the only paved road in the fort area. And so I did. After almost a mile I saw nothing and realized I was running AWAY from the fort. It didn't seem right, so I stopped, asked a few passing cars if they knew where the finish was, but they were all employees and didn't know. I then ran back up the road to see if I had missed any signs, and when I was almost back to the beach area, a volunteer told me to turn back the way I had JUST run. I was literally a quarter mile from the finish when I had turned around. (f-bombs everywhere)

Needless to say, I was pretty pissed off at myself for adding 1.8 miles and 18 minutes at the very the end of a 50 mile run. Had I just trusted my gut, as wrong as it felt, and run another 0.1 miles I would have seen the turn sign into the finish area.

Finish Line: 8 hours and 21 minutes. My anger over the added miles subsided quickly after finishing. The third place runner came in three minutes after me, which was way too close for comfort, given that I was 20+ minutes ahead of him at mile 49. The winner, elite Iron Man Rob Hilton, finished his first ultra in a blistering time of 7:36. Rob is a 2:30's marathoner with an Iron Man PR under 9:20 (beastly), which explains how he just floated by me with such ease. Anyway, given the added 2.3 miles over the entire course, and 23 minutes of lost time, I am certain I would have been under 8 hours. Why so much fuss about breaking 8 hours, you ask? Well, breaking 8 hours was my goal from the start, and although just a number, I really wanted to know that I could achieve a goal I set forth to conquer. The good news is, the added distance did not cost me the win, nor second place. In the end, sometimes you just have to laugh it off, and realize that 8:21 over 52.6 tough miles is still a solid day. Other than that, I essentially ran every step of the race, aside from a few moments where I walked a few seconds to eat something, which means my endurance has finally bounced back.

Final Thoughts: Thanks to race director Brad Mitchell and all the volunteers for putting on this event. Running in the rain, when temps are in the high 30's was cold enough, so I know standing out there all night and all morning to volunteer was even colder. It was certainly a unique and tough challenge. A 12:01am start, 23 miles of dark roads, followed by basically a 27 mile ultra on sand was definitely something I had never considered doing before this weekend. Congrats to all the other runners who endured hours and hours of freezing rain and wind, including my buddy Dave who gritted it out despite some muscle issues. Those conditions were just miserable, but the runners did what they do best, and that is endure. What an awesome day (or night) with a fun group of the toughest SOB's I know.

Thanks!

Mike Bailey