Introspection of the DNF

I was fine. Absolutely fine. Nothing was wrong, and that was what was wrong. My feet were tired, sure, but my legs had a lot of bounce left. I had at the very least another loop in me. 31 miles passed by in a relatively short, uneventful 7 hours. It may have been a little under 7 had the bottleneck of folks resigned to walk every hill not started on the bicycle path. This is the nature of the beast though. I've destroyed myself many a time by running the hills I should have been walking. Ultras are a very, very different beast.

Folks who ask and receive my disheartened answer say that my bravery alone sets me apart from the masses. I toed the line with some great runners and amazing people. People who, I found, had more tenacity and grit that I have yet to harness. Roughly 50% of us wouldn't make it to the end, but few ended the suffering where I did: loop 1, 31 miles in, 69.6 miles from the finish. Bravery's definition has limitations, and I'm fairly sure merely showing up and going for a moderately long run whilst falling 2/3 short of your goal distance isn't covered, even in the most extreme of cases. We don't say the same of those who make it to Everest base camp and turn around. "Ah, well at least you paid the money to climb the mountain. That counts for something!" No, it doesn't. This was my Everest, and I did just that.

We who partake in these long distance endeavors know that there is something wrong with us. The issue can be debated as to where exactly the disconnect within our psyche is, but we've all got it. There is a short list of things that one must be able to do to successfully complete an ultra-distance run. Luxuries such as mental clarity, foresight and reasonable doubt have no place on an ultra course. I've taught myself to be a proverbial goldfish on the trail. Thrive or survive aid station to aid station. Break the distance into many smaller distances. Divide and conquer like a true warrior. You have to remember to forget what you've just seen and done or you are in for a bad time.

Even with this ability, forgetfulness, I mean, I still get myself in trouble. It was at mile 55 of Laurel Highlands 70 mile that I first met myself. I'm an ugly person, deep down. I have a terrible defeatist attitude, a dark, scathing glare and the whine of a 4 year old girl. What finally brought me face to face with myself was what pulled the plug at OC: foresight. Laurel is a beautiful hell. The first 20 miles consists mainly of all the elevation gain that is acquired throughout the entire 70 mile course. Once you reach the top of the ridge it is nothing but gorgeous, secluded wilderness trail and rocks. Rocks. Rocks. Rocks and more rocks. They tax your body and your mind equally. I can remember the trail very vividly. My surroundings, however, were a giant green and brown blur. (Eventually, I will give this trail the attention it deserves and take a few days to backpack it.) At mile 46 I was tired. I sat so long eating soup that they threatened to charge me rent for the chair I was occupying. At mile 46 I was also very scared; the next stretch was 11 miles of the same beautiful bleakness we'd just been traversing. At mile 54 I read the mile marker as "55". At mile 55 I read the mile marker as "55" and I lost it. I walked the next mile, listening to disembodied runners mumbling behind then beside me. I sat to let them pass, and 15 minutes later a lone Canadian came to my aid. He was hurting very badly. I can't remember if he truly was using a stick to walk, but in my memory he was laboring along, using it to take the weight off of his legs. Talk of Canada and their eventual takeover of America spurred me on to the aid station at mile 57. I had called my wife to tell her that I was dropping. I couldn't move faster than a crawl, I told her. I was well ahead of the cutoff, but had nothing left. This was the truth. I was tapped out. I sat at the next aid station where I wasn't allowed to drop until I sat and thought. The gentleman who had pulled me out of my stupor had moved on, hobbling as he went. I sat eating Ramen by the cup, sucking down chocolate milk and water. 13 miles remained, and between my fellow ATR member Ben Mazur showing up and the aid station crew pushing me along, I set my mind to finish it. It hurt. A lot. I've never been so angry at an aid station crew in my life. Even the downhills were uphills at this point, and his insistance that the rest of the way was downhill when, in fact, there were 3-4 tiny uphills in the last 6 miles made me furious. The end came, I received my mile marker, watched Ben and Todd do the same and went home. My knowledge of pain until this point was nothing. I thought I knew what it was to hurt during a race. I was naive. It was the knowledge of the agony of finishing that brought me to my knees. Foresight.

I'd like to think that this newly acquired knowledge of suffering had no bearing on my decision to remove myself from the OC course at such an early stage, but I'm sure it did. I also knew it was 85 degrees out with no air movement in the woods. The humidity had soaked my body in the first 5 miles and the chafing was unbelievable. I'm not a heat runner. I avoid it, both by choice and necessity, from late Spring to early Fall
by training in the morning. This is a habit that I will change. Heat did me in on my Lost Turkey Trail training run and it was working on my body and my mind now. I know for a fact that I had one more loop. I should have continued. I will never know now what would have happened over the next 70 miles. I was thinking mainly of myself, but also of my wife and my pacer who had and would have to drive 3 hours only to have me swept or drop. I thought about my dog who was at home in her cage all day because I was here, doing this stupid repetitive activity. I thought about the 50 miler I have on tap for November. This was the sole problem: I THOUGHT. Running is a selfish sport. Ultra running is borderline personality disorder type selfishness. You disregard the thoughts and feelings of your loved ones as you train for and run these races. The foresight to know, even if I just wanted to believe it, that I would not survive the next 70 miles given the conditions, coupled with a very rare unselfish thought process is what did me in.

Or is that even the truth? Maybe DNFing is the single most selfish thing I have done and ever will do in my lifetime. Self preservation defined in one solitary action.

There is too much raw emotion entangled with my decision to sit and dwell. What I have decided is to offer up no excuses. It was hot? I could've gotten over it. My feet hurt? Could've gotten over it. My brain was ablaze with self doubt? Easily conquered. It was my decision. I own it. I pulled myself out of a situation that, ultimately, I didn't want to be in. I am choosing to avoid the rabbit holes and stay on a level plain.

This is where the ultimate truth resides.

As ugly as it is, I must admit to myself that I simply didn't want it. That's it. That's all.

Nostalgia

     This post is in no way running related. Today, a yearning in my heart for bygone days is leaving me with a nostalgic, happy heartache. While not a good verbal communicator, I feel the need to express this tugging instead of repress it. Writing is my chosen medium, you my unwitting, unlucky audience.

     Houses and apartments mean nothing unless they are filled not by things, but by those you love and even some you cannot stand to be around. Human interaction, good or bad, is the driving force of our world. Without it, nothing would get done and there would be no need for it. Living would become a bleak existence, composed of a relationship with one's self and (hopefully) God. However, even God would frown upon this mode of survival. As Christians we are to be interacting with folks, speaking and proclaiming His salvation from our sin nature. There would be no purpose to His creation. We would founder and disappear.
     Extended periods of solitude are used as punishment in most societies. Leaving one alone with himself often leads to derangement and, in the worst cases, suicidal tendencies.The need for human interaction is programmed into our DNA. What else would cause a governing body to utilize such a cruelty against an offender?
     Luckily or unluckily, whatever stand you take, we have the opportunity to interact with other humans every second of our waking lives. Even in our sleep. Interaction does not solely include verbal and ignore all others. Touch, sight and even taste are included, of course the latter in the more romantic of settings.
     I count myself lucky, or more truthfully: blessed. The interactions I've had throughout my short lifespan have given me so much and taken absolutely nothing. Whether it be nonsensical blabbering between friends, holding of hands, a hug, a deep, meaningful conversation or silent respect for the individual you are with, it is all a way to give and to share. Even arguments, ugly and unseemly as they often are, do not take anything. You may leave damaging scars, both physical and emotional in nature, but nothing ever leaves you. Nothing is taken. Ideas are shared, love is shared, hate is shared, a touch is shared by the invasive fingertip and the receiving nerve ending.
     I have shared much. I have doled out ideas, stories, laughter, facts, hugs, touches and far too many scars. However, no matter how much I have given, I have received ten-fold in return. I do not speak in respect of hurt; that is not my chosen perception of life experiences. I speak in terms of all the good that those whom I have had the pleasure of knowing have bestowed on me.
     My memory is filled with people I love and have loved me in return. Even those who would not share air with me have given me much. Most of those individuals don't know the impact they've had on my everyday existence. All I can do is reach out and thank them. That won't be nearly enough.

An Education

Johnson's Hollow was there before I knew it. We had already slogged up the side of Humble Hill and torn down the other side in the worst, quad-pounding descent of the day. The switch backs towards the top help to condition your legs and rest your over stretched calf muscles, but quickly give way to a straight drop half of the way down. Under the downed tree, up and down the unrealistically difficult knoll, across the downed trees and here we are. The hollow was a welcomed reprieve from the wind and intermittent snow flurries that welcomed us at the gates of the blustery hell we had entered.
Compared with last year, the creek was the perfect height. Compared with the Year of the Monsoon, water levels were down. I am a firm believer that every trail should include at least one good creek crossing. Given the right sock/shoe setup, it can be a great cool-off for wrecked feet. Thankfully, Hyner provides its runners with enough that I lose count trying hard not to end up belly down in the cold stream.
Aside from the View, Johnson is the most scenic section of course. If you have the good fortune of being alone, if only for a few moments, running through Johnson, you can truly experience the trail. The roots dug up by the spring snow melt, the moss and the rocks amalgamate into a gnarly, somewhat treacherous welcome mat to the woods. The steep walls and pines of the hollow give you the altruistic feeling of solidarity and smallness that great forests unrelentingly provide to any lucky enough to find themselves in the midst of endless old growth trees.
The 2013 Hyner is my third foray into the course. My first assault came my senior year of college. I had never before so much as touched a trail with more than a 2% grade. This fact, coupled with my $30 pair of internet-bought, clearance Sauconys led to a bad time. Not in respect to hours and minutes, but to mental and physical duress I hadn't experienced up until that point. The rain, the snow, the wind, the cramps and the rocks must have awakened the masochist inside of me however. It took two weeks, but it finally hit me that underneath all of the relentless pain I had enjoyed every second of the race. Except for Post Draft. I still hate Post Draft. There is nothing redeeming about that section of trail. By that point, even the fact that it is a downhill grade is utterly discouraging. Throw in the most unseemly gaggle of odd shaped and loose rocks, and you have what I consider to be the worst section of trail I've come across. It's placement in the middle of the Hyner Challenge is perfect.
The second year I was cramping so bad by the top of Johnson Hollow that nothing I took in and no amount of static or dynamic stretching helped. I missed my time goal by 2 minutes. My legs would seize and hold for 1-2 minutes straight. I couldn't even make it up the little step from the jeep road on top of SOB back onto the single track without two minutes of gut wrenching cramping. Dry heaving, holding onto trees is an embarrassing way to finish a race. Even so, I probably would have made my cut-off had that little devil of a hill before the finish not sent my whole body into panic mode again. "He's trying to climb again! Stop him!"
With marriage, a home purchase, a 3rd trick job and small business ownership comes greatly reduced training opportunities. My take on training has greatly changed from what it was in years prior. I am now a quality v. quantity runner. If I get off of third shift and feel like a run, I'll go and enjoy every second. If I go and feel like garbage, I'll turn around. Many times I don't even try. However, I believe this has led me to a great place! I no longer do "junk" miles. There are days I sleep in with my wife until it is time for her to go to work. I'm not out doing the same course I hate every morning. When I go for a run, I go. What I mean by this is that I am totally IN to the run. I enjoy it again, something I had feared I lost.
I delve into this to explain my race strategy for this year's race: I had none. I wanted to have fun. I wanted to enjoy the scenery, get a little wet, a little chatty with the other participants and enjoy every second. I did this, to surprising result. At the top of Johnson, i felt great. At the end of post draft, where I locked up for 5 straight minutes last year, I felt even better. I was even running up the horseshoe and switchbacks to SOB. Well... sort of, kind of. It was a Hyner sort of run/hike interval.
The aid station at the top of SOB held some much needed cheering, a fill up of the handheld and the most savory, melt in your mouth of trail foodstuffs: PB&J. On white bread, it always has to be on white bread. This is the food of kings!
The jeep roads were all covered in double time, and even the problem spot from last race was no issue. It was smooth sailing until the last knoll before the trail drops back onto the hardtop. That, coupled with a few calf teaser cramps and a full on abductor lock up, induced a slow traverse of the bridge and the uphill to the finish. Still, all in all, I was very happily surprised that the third number on the clock was not a 4, but was indeed a 1, followed by a 2. I had bested last year's finish of 3:32 by almost 20 minutes exactly.
I do not say this as a pat on the back or to brag. There are men and women twice my age finishing this race in under three hours. Race times should be nothing but a personal watermark to further self determination and betterment. I tell you this to relay to you a simple revelation that I have proven, in anecdote, to myself through my last few race endeavors.
Whether it be a 50 mile that you only trained up to 18 miles for, or a 16 mile after a very harsh winter of almost no trail running and very few road miles, it is true that mental preparedness and a good attitude are pertinent to finishing and finishing well. I am not saying don't train, I'm saying don't train to exhaustion. Don't turn your hobby into a job. Don't let it bother you that you missed your morning run because you slept in beside your wife. The trail will be there tomorrow. Life is experienced both on and off the trail. During a run and during an injury. Balance is key.
In all things, enjoy every second. The moment of silence observed at the start of the race speaks volumes that no words could as simply and extensively convey. Our bodies, although tough, are fragile, as is the line between life and death. It is easily traversed in the hardest and easiest of circumstances. Don't live in fear of this fact, but live with a passing awareness of it. Know your opponent but keep him at a distance.
That is the point of this. It is not a report, necessarily. It's a look back at the growth of a trailrunner.

This is my last Hyner 25k. From here on, I will either be taking on the 50k or providing the PB&J for others taking on their challenge. The Hyner helped to solidify an idea in my head. It rounded out my education. The challenge is no longer their. The trails are just as rugged, the hills as steep, but I have learned what I can from them.

For that, I thank God and his amazing creation, the directors and volunteers of every capacity. Thank you, I owe you.

A Dissertation

If you haven't heard it already, you will hear it eventually. "No more races for you, huh?" "How do you think those runners feel? Losing their family members because they were running a stupid race?" "You better not go  to (enter spring marathon here) in a couple weeks!"

What utter cowardice.

Who do people think we are? One (or possibly more) disturbed individual wreaks havoc at our most prestigious race and we are expected to simply quit? To hang up our shoes in defeat? Quite the opposite!

We don't back down from 20 milers in the freezing cold. We don't back down from speed work and hills. We don't back down when every sinew in our bodies scream "STOP!!" If torn muscles and a hard case of runner's knee doesn't keep us off the road, no much will. For many, running is not just a sport or a hobby. It is a part of our lives. It is a way to cope with stress, family and work. It engages our creativity and makes us happier, gentler people. For many, running is as essential to daily life as driving to work.

We will not be forced into submission by this one event. It defines neither the marathon nor the general population. Before the dust had settled, bystanders were applying tourniquets and running to donate blood. That is the type of people we are.

Let the few live in fear. We will show up, band-aids on our nipples, Body Glide on our thighs and a prayer in our hearts and minds. Defiant to tyranny. 

Healing

Generally, you will find me waxing poetic on trailrunning, its difficulty and its beauty. It is where I prefer to be: in the mountains, by myself, suffering up the climbs for the view and downhill on the other side. Scenery and topography are two important parts to enjoying the outdoor experience, but more often than not you'll find me on a back road, dodging school buses and befriending curious dogs. Although the deeper connection that nature brings to a run is diluted on the road, hitting the pavement is not to be ignored for its simplicity and allowances.
I do not know many people who began their running career climbing the sides of mountains and bombing down sun-soaked, rooted switchbacks. Treadmills and paved routes make up the majority of a beginning and experienced runner's repertoire. The road is a readily available, generally forgiving entity. It can provide anything you want: challenge, easy miles, a place to vent or some time to relax.
I have recently had the opportunity to meet a runner who used the road as a form of mental and emotional healing. A tragedy occurred and the road was where he went to make sense of it all, if indeed we can make sense of such occurrences this side of Heaven. His music and muscles moved him through towns and quiet country roads, expelling tension, anger and pain through every footfall. It seems to me, although I'm sure there are times of questioning, that he has at least caught a glimpse of what he was looking for when he first laced up.
This is not a rarity. Many runners I've spoken with about their draw to running site a personal or family event that sent them looking for a release. I believe it is not where you run, your gait style, the clothes on your body or any other outward force that contributes much to a run; it is the simple act of forward locomotion. It is releasing the constraints of not only your own inhibitions and insecurities, but also that of the society we live in. It's the rhythm of feet hitting the pavement, even breathing and personal, physical exertion. Making it farther today than you could last week, climbing that bastard of a hill without walking; little victories. A calm mind and tired muscles go hand in hand.
For this gentleman and countless others, the most basic survival instinct of our ancestors has become the most effective form of survival in our modern world.

So, are you having a bad day? Month? Year? Lace up and get out the door, there is peace out there on the road. You just have to go far enough and often enough to find it.

Summer arrives with a length of light

What we are witnessing outside are the first blows of Spring being delivered to Winter. They are slow, methodical body shots of a welterweight meant to weaken their opponent. You'll see only a quick evidence of them in days like today when you can smell the mud and hear the water from melting snow banks making their way to swell the rivers. Rivers that, unfortunately, will be frozen again by the weekend. 

Winter is a heavyweight and won't go down easy. He is tall and thick and limber and hits like the devil, looking for his young opponent to drop his glove. Right hook, connect, 19 degrees with snow. Spring stumbles back, dazed and shaken.

It is the classic underdog story though. Eventually the Cinderella of the Seasons will land the hits he needs: jab, cross, uppercut, body, body, uppercut. Winter's down for the count.

Not today, however. Today Spring has capitalized on Winter's cocksure winner's attitude that has been built up over the last few months of snowfall and sub-zero temperatures. He underestimated Spring's right cross, left hook combo and took it straight on the chin. A mistake he won't make again soon.

So get out today. Go for a run, take a hike, get a little muddy. Quickly, before Winter has a chance to recover. 

The Wind in the Hollow

There are generally very, very few things that will keep me in. Growing up living on top of Valley Forge Rd in Duncansville, I am very used to the wind coming down through the hollow. Especially in Winter time. However, living on top of the hill in Pensyl Hollow is a different beast. 

I've been woken every morning at 5:30, my normal weekly run time, and then pulled immediately back into bed by the wind actively trying to huff and puff and blow the house in. Wind is the enemy, especially at these temperatures. Obviously, while thunder and lightning, heavy snow storms and other natural disasters (I swear to you I ran through a tornado once whilst in college! It was Spring though, so the wind was welcomed then... I'm a bit of a hypocrite.) don't keep me in, cold + wind does. Do you share my hatred for frozen face masks/buffs during the run? The group run through the Cove on Saturday was a perfect example of the conditions I despise. 

Now, you may ask, how much of that is actually the wind and how much is Wintertime Blues? And on top of that, how much is it Adam just being a REAL big baby? I'm still trying to figure that out myself. I'd say equal parts Blues and Baby. The wind has always been, it's just recently I refuse to play outside in it. Being the beginning of February, and having run and survived the past few weeks in single degree, negative wind chill conditions, I believe I may just be tired of this white stuff crap. 

My affinity for sweet things has not dwindled, however, and so I earnestly await Spring. Spring with all her mud and water and birds and trail runs and cool mornings warming to beautiful afternoons. A perfect time of year for a campfire, second only to Fall when we foolishly welcome the chillier months back into our lives. (Summer really is too dang hot for a fire; I blame movies for making this foolish practice seem like a good idea.) 

So here I sit, mapping out a run through some new territory. I'm praying there's trees up there to break the wind this evening.