In Our Real World

     My realization that I had been living a proverbial dream life came months ago. My acceptance of the relinquishment of this life came slowly and painfully. Even still I try to capture and hold onto the slightest remnant of what I used to have. 

    In my early adulthood, I had fostered a sort of free-wheeling, fulfill your every dream mentality that led to the creation and destruction of many good things. I had bought into the rhetoric that you'll hear at any institution of higher learning; the pump-up song, if you will, that keeps you paying the exorbitant tuition.

     Currently, my time is split between my work and my home life. Mind you, I love them both very much. The latter, of course, more than the former. Unfortunately, this leaves very little time for the other life I left behind.

     Having the opportunity to spend the day at the DK trail race yesterday left me with that empty feeling of an ended relationship. I was able to be there, to spectate from a slight distance, but I was unable to immerse myself like I once had. I saw the suffering and the hard work that went into the planning, execution and actual participation in the event; for the first time, I felt the disconnect. The mud, the cuts and the pain belonged to everyone else. My only discomfort was a slight chill from the incessant wind. I captured some pain and joy in pixels, but the translation didn't quite reach through the filters and lenses of the camera. 

     For the time being, I know this is how it has to be. I hold out hope that I'll get back into it eventually. My dreams and plans for both the local running community and Fox Trot continue to grow, but for now I am a bystander.

     I miss it. I miss you all very much. 

A Lesson

"It's been a long time." I said as we were climbing past the mile 21 marker. I hadn't been in the woods for more than 7 miles in more than half of a year and my body was beginning to realize it. I felt fine mentally and knew pushing through wouldn't be a problem. It was only 17 miles up to Windber from Burnt Cabins near the base of Blue Knob, a distance that hadn't posed a real problem in years.
     The plan was to run to the top, where we had our mountain bikes stashed, and ride them back down to the bottom. 17 miles or so each way, using the two basic forms of human powered movement. Truly, I wasn't here for the run. I recently bought myself a new fat tire mountain bike, a Surly Pugsley, and I was ready to put it through it's paces on one of my increasingly favorite trails: the Lost Turkey. The run up was Joel's idea, and I eagerly agreed that it would be a great adventure.
     The trail itself is mostly double track, something you don't realize in the summer when the grass and ferns grow up and close off all but a skinny sliver of dirt. This made running pretty easy for most of the way. It is a steady climb the whole way up with only a few short, steep climbs to challenge your legs. We had made all the correct turns for roughly 3/4 of the trip, until I spotted a red marker I supposed to be the LTT. It wasn't, and my mistake led us a little over three miles out of our way, round trip. There was also a pretty awesome powerclimb involved in the extra curricular miles which was a nice way to get in some extra elevation.
     When we took this short detour, we came down off the ridge to a tar and chipped road where a few guys with a backhoe were cutting down trees. I'm sure the sight of two grown men, one big and one little, wearing tights and popping out of the woods with no idea where we were gave them some interesting dinner conversation for the evening. "Okay, there's no trails down here, but where are we at right now?" I asked the second man we made contact with. He seemed especially bewildered as to why we were out there. "Well this is Lovely (a small village close to Osterburg). Winber is that way(pointing in the opposite direction of our current route of travel), Blue Knob is the way you're going now." Well we didn't want to go back to Blue Knob yet, so we thanked them, declined their offer for a ride to the ranger station to obtain maps and headed off back up to the top of the ridge. As soon as we saw the orange markers I knew I had led us wrong. I wasn't sure until I saw the mile 19 post, but all was well.
     Self assessment is an important part of participating in any outdoor activity. I had slowly made the climb up to the top of the ridge near the trail's terminus, but my legs were no longer cooperating with my mind even when I tried talking to them to get them to move. This slowed me to a crawl. I'm not sure of the air temperature where we were at, but I know it was cold; much colder than the hollows we had climbed out of. My face was going numb and when I spoke I sounded as if I had recently experienced a stroke. My hands, which is the weak point in my chain of mental capability, were blue. A very stark blue, and that freaked me out. I also, by this time, knew that I wasn't going to be able to pedal back to Burnt Cabin. I had come out on this adventure very much out of distance shape, and I was paying for it with every step. A few phone calls led to voicemails and I as becoming convinced that we would freeze to death on the mountain. Not truly, but I was worried about frost bite.
     I called Joel, who was at least a mile ahead of me at the bike stash, and told him, "This is not an exaggeration, this is a realistic assessment of this situation: I can't get back off this mountain." Joel is a very understanding, easy going guy with the mental and physical endurance of a world class athlete and warrior. Where I falter, he never does. He's truly an amazing example of an athlete and person. I don't remember what he said but the gyst was, "Okay, let's get a ride." Each time a phone call went to voicemail, I worried further. Not only had my current lack of ability put myself in danger, which I can deal with, it had put Joel in danger as well. I broke out my emergency blanket that I carry in my hydration pack and we wrapped up in it, shivering and cramping on a log.
     Finally, Charles, my father in law, called me back. After some coaxing and assuring him that the roads were clear of snow he agreed to come and retrieve us. "Charles," I said as we hung up, "Please hurry, we might die."
     Like a couple of vagrants, we waited ten minutes and began walking Rt 56 toward Bedford to make us easier to find and stay warm. Charles, who must've been boogying to get to us, picked us up in his little green Subaru and took us back to humanity.

     The moral of this story is don't overestimate your abilities, especially when it's cold. Lesson learned.

Death, Life and the Run

   As it always seems to happen, the threatening sky held off until I was a mile away from the homestead. At 35 degrees, the torrent that was unleashed started out as heavy sleet and freezing rain and slowly transitioned to a steady drizzle. It's times like these, when I'm outside during adverse conditions, that I feel the most human. Everything is stripped away from you, and you can feel your helplessness in the cold as it tightens your muscles. Every step becomes harder and the hills steeper.
     However, this is also the time I feel the most invincible. While cars drive by me spraying me with castoff from their tires, I am the only human truly out in the elements. My feet move across the ground, my legs pulling and pushing them. My lungs burn with the cold air, supplying my body with oxygen necessary for locomotion. My legs turn red from their exposure to the ice and cold, but with all of this I continue moving. I don't turn around, I don't ask for a ride back. I'm enjoying myself.
     Enjoying the sport is something that I had lost for a time. It took six months of waking up every day in hell to bring back my appreciation for it. Not only for running, but for life as a whole. Every single moment I missed out on. Morning coffee with my wife, taking the dog out in the woods, helping customers at the shop and every event, simple or grand, that I have not been here for.
     When I wake up, I enjoy it. When I lace up and head out the door, I enjoy it. When I am given the opportunity to sleep in my own bed with my wife and two dogs crowding me out to the edge, I love and appreciate it.
     For 27 weeks I was dead in that, in my absence, life continued without my input. Now that I've been given my second (third, really) birth, I waste as little as I can.
     For the purposes of this topic, I'll keep the conversation focused on running. I find that there are no junk miles, I enjoy every single time I go out whether it be paved or dirt. I appreciate what I can make my body do and thank God for every opportunity I have to challenge myself. I am less concerned with the quantity and focus on the quality, and there is quality in every outing.
     I speak from being on both sides of the grave. Everything and everyone I have is precious, and I am thankful for all of it, the great and the less so. 

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.