Into a Grey Sky Morning

The mix of leaves and snow sound cold as they are crushed. The stones underneath are packed hard and interspersed with shallow valleys of white. All but the oaks have shed their leaves, standing throughout the endless tangle of naked branches of the lesser trees. The birch stand stark white against the brown-grey backdrop of the dead and dying flora of late autumn. The mixed hues of grey obscuring the sun this morning reflect in the unusually calm waters of the lake, giving the illusion of a billowing sea on the glass surface.
The stillness of the morning is broken only by the sharp calls of communicating crows and the ruckus of a solitary goose that feels its space has been invaded and must take refuge further from the lake shore.
It is the same old loop that has been traveled many times before. The small inclines and delclines are a welcomed respite from the tarmac. The dam provides a sweeping view of the small lake, the bridges crossing her and the backdrop of the mountains to the north.
There is nothing special about the day, nothing new about the route, nothing to lock one's attention onto. That is what makes it perfect.
It is a late fall morning in Pennsylvania. The sun is still brightening the disgruntled sky and will set again in a few short hours. The furncae at home is roaring to life with flames from the fuel mined from the very core of the earth.
The work day is an hour away yet. At the present there is not another soul to share in the November morning.
It is unadulterated and an unmatched experience.

Seeing Isn't Always Believing

I know what I look like now. I know that the man in the mirror isn't the one that looked at me with distraught eyes covered up by an ever present smile and self-deprecating jokes. The ability to laugh at one's self is an important character trait; we should never take ourselves too seriously. However, the kind of laughter that I forced upon myself wasn't healthy. I was the first to laugh at and point out my flaws to ensure that no one else had the chance. I was hiding behind a facade of happiness as thick as the extra insulation layer covering my skeleton. Unfortunately, the former was fake whereas the latter was a very real, very dangerous thing.
The first I had weighed myself in years was one evening after boxing and sparring with some of the Criminal Justice majors at Waynesburg's mat room. We had been going up there in the evenings a few times a week to work on strength training and preparing ourselves for the physical aspects of the jobs that we were studying for. When I stepped on, the scale read 310. Do you remember that feeling that you got when you were a kid and your parents found out you had lied to them? That cold chill that spreads through your chest and paralyzes your lungs momentarily? That is what hit me square in the sternum that evening. I never made any plans to do what I did. I never voiced my determination to anyone, including myself, but I found myself at the gym in the evenings befriending the elliptical trainer and stationary bike. Soon thereafter I found myself out in the dark streets of Waynesburg, shuffling around the .8 mile loop around the parks. My lungs burned in the early spring air. It hurt and was miserable. I hated it.
I then found myself continuing this ritual around the back roads of Willards, Maryland. I was either wasting time on a four day off stretch or trying to tire myself out enough to sleep after a long night on third shift. I took to the bike as well, once riding 32 miles, geocaching along the way. I would take the ride in to Ocean City on route 50, 16 miles out to visit my friends and 16 back to the house. I remember distinctly when 3 miles became my easy run. I remember the routes, I remember the landmarks, I remember the awful smell of chicken farms, the horse that would run along the fence with me and the oppressive heat of a noon run. I remember that running 12 miles took me so long that my parents were almost home from a visit by the time I returned to my house. It's a five and a half hour drive from Duncansville to Willards, and I left as soon as they pulled out of the driveway. My neighbors thought I was insane, as did my roommates.
My calorie deficit was so large that I lost roughly 90 pounds of blubber in three months time. I mistreated my body along the way and I may pay for it later, but at the other end of that very long, dark tunnel, I wouldn't change what I did.
When I got home, folks I knew who hadn't seen me since I left for my internship thought I had cancer. I had an unhealthy obsession with my bathroom scale. I was fanatical about portions and calories, measuring everything and running until I had a zero or negative calorie intake for the day. My body ached, my muscles in my upper half disappeared. My family was worried, and although I told them nothing was wrong with me, that I was just driven, they had every right to be concerned.
 In our engagement photos I look like a holocaust victim. There was a serious disconnect in my brain that was controlling my life. I thought that I no longer cared for the classes I was taking or the major of study I had chosen. Unfortunately, this mindset prevailed throughout my last year of college. I had found something that had transformed me and I was utterly and completely hooked.
I had lived by myself for 3 months time. When you are on your own, you can convince yourself that what you are doing is the correct way. I went from living one lifestyle to another, a life dominated by two polar extremities. It took me a long time to come around to a healthy lifestyle.
If you have ever been significantly overweight, I guess you could relate. I had worked so hard to get to where I was at that I was terrified that I would immediately revert back if I changed anything. I didn't see the person others saw. I didn't see my pointy angles and gaunt features. I was still seeing the "Old McGinnis", as my friends refer to him. He was a fun guy, I'm told. I guess the one that replaced him is somewhat older and less exciting, but at least, God willing, this one will live to see his kids grow up and be able to play tag with them.
Fortunately, I have since straightened out. I haven't truly weighed myself in a very long time; I don't even own a scale. Sometimes I go to far and hit my "Dessert Periods" where I eat sweets by the truck load. However, I then revert back to eating clean and eating enough, and the pudge goes away. Weight, as with life, is a balancing act. Neither are as hard as we are led to believe.
 This post is not an airing of dirty laundry or a ploy to derive sympathy from you. This is a word of motivation and a cautionary tale to any and all. The moral of this story is twofold. Firstly, I pulled myself up from grotesque obesity by the shoe laces. Running was my constant, and running has literally saved my life. I guarantee you that is a fact. It took discipline, hard work and an iron determination to get from A to B, and I may not have taken the safest road, but it is possible to change the things in yourself that you do not like.  Just as I say life is a balancing act, life also has no shortcut. There is no easy way. That is why achievements are so special: YOU achieved it through hard work. This isn't limited to weight loss, this is a universal rule.
Secondly, be very careful in your travel from A to B. Realize that life has other aspects and that your task is probably not as important as you feel it is at the time. Enjoy the road and the moments along the way, because they are quick to come and pass.

Visiting Old Acquaintances

The faded blue track has lost its cushion after years of wear and apparent little maintenance. With every slow footfall the white track markers came and went as the straights curved and straightened again. The cold strained the lungs as the muscle fibers lengthen and fell into a rhythm. The faded orange hat that has accompanied me over mountains and through city streets collected the sweat forming underneath it as we circumnavigated the turf.

Today's run was a relatively short one. 5x800 with a one mile warm up, roughly 4.5 miles total with the cool down. It was the first I had visited this particular oval and the first I'd set foot on one in months. I was alone in the cold but my mind and body were nervous. The line came closer, my leg muscles twitched, tightened and drove my foot into the ground. The steady white plumes of carbon dioxide and condensation became shorter and increased with the footfalls. Months of LSD (long, slow distance) abuse left me slower than I'd like, but I felt exhilarated. I moved around the track, my lungs burning, my feet making momentary contact with the track as my legs propelled me through the headwind on the back side of the home stretch. I crossed the line, marked the lap and slowed for recovery. I felt the best I had in a long time. I felt fast, I felt free and I felt like the upcoming 50 miler would be a tangible goal.  

To the kids inside the classrooms, though, I looked like a idiot.

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.