Wild Florida 120 - January 31, 2020

I haven’t written a true race report in over three years. This past weekend’s Wild Florida 120 presented a worthy opportunity to get back at it.

Twenty-one. Distance running is filled with numbers, maybe one of the reasons I enjoy it so much. What is the distance? What is the elevation change? What is the pace? How many runners were there? Where did you place? How many miles did you do in training? What was your long run? The list is nearly endless. There are two numbers I am particularly proud of. Coming into the Wild Florida 120, I had 131 ultramarathons completed and 31 times I have successfully completed 100 miles or longer. But the number that dances in my head regularly is 21.

Twenty-One times I have DNF’d a race. Did Not Finish. The dreaded DNF, the worst word in running. It is spoken of by many runners as a true failure, an unacceptable conclusion to be avoided at all costs. Some runners wear it like a yoke; even consider it a mortal sin. Not me. I still believe the experience of running these epic races is a great metaphor for life. I learn as much or more about myself from the failures as I do the successes.

I have DNF’d races due to injury. I have DNF’d due to being afraid of re-injury, especially post-Achilles rupture, I will never fully trust it again. I have DNF’d due to extenuating non-running circumstances over which I (felt like I) had little or no control. I have quit multiple races due to sheer lack of personal commitment and willpower. I DNF’d a race to drive a grieving friend home after receiving terrible news.

I don’t regret a single one of them. Not because I don’t wish I could have done something differently.  On most of them I wish I had made some different choices. But every one of them has reminded me of my (various and many, depending on who you are talking to) shortcomings as a person, the things I need to work to improve on, or the not-so-positive limitations I need to learn to accept about myself.   

“If you always put limit on everything you do, physical or anything else. It will spread into your work and into your life. There are no limits. There are only plateaus, and you must not stay there, you must go beyond them.” – Bruce Lee

I know with a permanently weakened Achilles; I am likely to find those limits much quicker and far more often than in the past.  However, I far prefer to be pushing past those limits than accepting the bland plateaus that are so seductive as I get older.  None of that means I am looking to embrace number 22 any time soon.

Having said that, I came into Wild Florida knowing it was a strong possibility. This would be my fourth 100+ mile attempt in 6 weeks. The first two ended the same, with me dropping at the 62-72 mile mark with sharp Achilles pain. I am gun shy about rupturing it again, I don’t know that I have the intestinal fortitude to go through surgery and a year-plus of rehab again. I definitely don’t want to spend that much time off the trails again. But the Long Haul 100 two weeks ago went really well and I came away feeling healthy; so here I was for Sean Blanton’s inaugural WF120.

Wild Florida is primarily run on the Florida Trail, between Okeechobee and Orlando. I have run numerous other stretches of the FT, especially the nearby Ocean To Lake extension of the FT, but never here. The start was quite nostalgic. After a 90-minute bus ride from where we parked at the finish to the start at Micco Landing, runners and their crews gathered on the grass under a canopy of live oaks. No tents, no booths, no music, no hoopla; just a great old-school trail vibe as everyone prepared for the seriousness of what they were about to take on.  I was thrilled to be starting the race in a custom-made tank from Brie Los.

Sean did a short talk beforehand, going over the history of the FT, how it got here, and thanking the numerous Florida Trail Association volunteers present for their support. He clearly has embraced them, as they have him, and is using some of the race proceeds to help fund additional trail improvements. Without much more ado, Sean gathered us up at a fence, called out the countdown and 75 of us were off at 3:00 pm. It was an odd start time for a 100, but I better understood why later.

I almost blew my race before it ever began. After seeing reports of copious water on the course, I had started the race in Salomon Amphipods, a great water shoe. They have served me well in the past in wet conditions and I planned to wear them here until the first drop bag at mile 35. But other than a wet slog the first mile, the trail had largely dried up. On the hard, choppy ground, these shoes were far more of a hindrance than help. I felt like I was getting no energy return on each step and working far too hard to keep the pace I wanted. Less than 10 miles into the race and I could feel the self-doubt of #22 creeping in.

Thank goodness, Andy Mathews was there to volunteer at an aid station. He mistakenly went to the first aid station at mile 12 and had an extra pair of Hoka Torrents I had dropped off to him earlier that day. The shoe change made all the difference. I came through that aid station in roughly 40th place and a not on the early pace I had planned. But from there I began to feel good and pick it up.

The course alternated between forest and open field. A number of early stretches were along fence lines, so we ran past herds of cattle as often as not. The ground was quite choppy in places from hog damage or otherwise. It wasn’t quite unrunnable, but you had to make a choice between walking over the uneven ground and losing time or trying to run and burning the energy candle down way too fast. I tried to be patient and just take what the course would give me.

As darkness descended, I entered the Kissimmee Prairie Park Preserve. The next 20 miles was open grassland with few trees in sight. I instantly understood why Sean put the race start in the mid-afternoon. With a traditional dawn start, we would have been running this stretch mid-afternoon. We had cool, wet, and almost ideal running conditions all weekend. But on a more typical Florida day, the afternoon heat and sun would have destroyed most runners on the winding trek across the prairie.

By Aid Station 3, at mile 35, I had moved up to roughly 26th place. Coming out of the Aid Station, a woman helped me with my pack as I changed from my tank top to a short sleeve as temperatures cooled. She encouraged me to catch her son Manny who had left minutes ahead of me and keep him company. Sure enough, I caught him within half a mile. We fed off each other’s energy and kept a solid pace for the next 9 miles across the prairie. I thought he would come out of AS 4 at mile just behind me, but I never saw him again.

From there I ran solo until the next afternoon. My headphones weren’t working properly so I took them off and kept my own company in my head. I soon entered that special running zone, the Runner’s High. It doesn’t happen every race, but when it does, it is magical. I get a sort of mental tunnel vision for the race; all other distractions disappear. There is no job to worry about in the zone, no personal finances to stress over, interpersonal strifes disappear. It is just me and the trail. And the next person in front of me I want to catch.  Every moment, every thought is geared towards success in the race.  These are among the precious times when I am truly living completely in the moment.  It is hard to describe as well as I would like, but I know no better feeling.

Through the night, we ran through spectacular scenery, I can only imagine what it looked like in daylight. There were amazing stretches of live oak hammocks, most covered in ferns or draped in Spanish moss. I ran across fields, I ran alongside streams or canals, I ran through cypress swamps on barely elevated trails. I saw dozens of deer, birds galore (even at night), and one lonely armadillo. I even thought I saw, but cannot verify, a Florida panther. It was dark, but the eyes looked right and it moved like a cat. And cattle, forever the cattle. It rained through much of the night, and I missed the orange trail blazes on several occasions, logging some bonus distance, but none too bad.

All through the night, I seemed to be making mostly good decisions. I was keeping my hydration up, I was forcing solid food, even when I wasn’t hungry. I went through cups and cups of ramen noodles at aid stations and enjoyed some delicious quesadillas. Everything tasted like one of Eddie Murphy’s Ritz crackers. Melissa came through with a much-needed sugar injection via Twizzlers on my first shuttle ride, and a complete stranger did the same for me later on.  Throughout all of this, I tried to balance my desire to catch the next runner in front of me against my fear bonking my way into number Twenty-Two.

At mile 59, I arrived at AS 5 at Packingham Trailhead and the first of the two shuttles. In this stretch of the Florida Trail, there are two places where the trail is essentially the shoulder of a country highway. Rather than risk safety later in a tough race where runners might not be making the greatest choices, Sean had arranged for us to be shuttled 5-8 miles by car to where the trail re-entered the wilderness. This was a first for me in a race but caused no disruption to my progress and a complete non-issue. The race time stopped for me when I entered the aid station and restarted as I was dropped off to commence running again. I took in nearly 1,000 calories of food while waiting for the shuttle to return and was pleasantly regrouped as I started to run again.

By morning, the long stretch of solid and consistent running had not wavered, and I had moved up to about 19^th place. I was pleased to have moved that far up the standings and was satisfied with holding on to a top 20 finish. That is, until I entered AS 7 at mile 77 where there were 6-7 runners recuperating in chairs. They all left ahead of me, but I knew I was feeling good enough to catch them. My friends Renee and Kurt were working the aid station and helped me gear up for the next big push.  A top-10 finish was now not out of the realm if I could stay strong over the final 33 miles.

With that remaining distance, I was confident I would finish unless I did something incredibly stupid. So, I allowed myself to push even harder. This meant I wavered frequently between strong running and feeling like I might drop on the spot. I caught Jim from Mississippi somewhere in here and we ran together and back and forth for a few miles until I pulled away from him as well. Just before the final aid station I saw a beautiful bald eagle swooping above and landing on a tree nearby. The wonderful scenery never ceased.

Coming out of the last aid station, with 6 miles to go a steady rain commenced.   The course veered out onto wet forest road and I was able to push even harder, splashing through the standing water on the road. I was really pleased to see afterwards, mile 110 was my fastest mile split of the entire race. The last mile crossed several streams on rickety bridges in the dark. I took my first and only fall of the race with less than a half mile remaining, as I tripped on a vine and went down hard. But by now, the specter of Twenty-Two had been vanquished and I shook that off and pounded into the finish where Sean and Jenn awaited.

27:22:00 for 111.5 miles, good enough for 6th place overall. My Achilles feels great, surprisingly great for how rough the footing had been. I loved being part of an inaugural race, especially one with the future promise this one holds. Sean has a great eye for challenging and beautiful courses, and this did not disappoint.  I will be back. I did not get number 22. Instead I checked off numbers 132 and 32 respectively. I go back to real life with the renewed confidence that if I can push through THAT, I can handle anything else thrown at me.  Screw the plateaus.

Western States / Yosemite 2016

Where do I start with the superlatives? This was simply one of my best running trips ever, and I wasn't even entered into a race.

The plan for the week was to help Andy Mathews complete his third Western States 100. It is such a hard race to get into (I lost the WSER lottery for the 7th consecutive year) and for Andy this might be his last hurrah at the granddaddy of all hundred milers. Not the toughest by far, not the biggest, and depending on who you talk to, not the best. But this is the original hundred-mile foot race ever, our Boston Marathon of ultras, and a really big deal. I flew in late Thursday night a day after Andy, and the rest of his crew including Amy Mathews, Luis Barrios, and Samantha Reilly had already arrived in Olympic Valley and the festivities began for me Friday morning.

I had tried to organize a group run to the top of Emmigrant Pass, but it turns out Altra sponsors a 6K along the same route, so we entered the free race and joined the crowd headed to the top at 10 AM. Rob Tucker, Luis, Sam, and I all stayed roughly within sight of each other on the 3+ mile 2,100’ constant ascent. Within minutes, I was quickly reminded of the challenge of running at altitude as my heart began to pound in my ears and my lungs burned. I settled in soon though and we trudged to the finish where the 4 of us rejoined to complete the remaining climb to the summit. The 360-degree vista at the top of the pass is worth every moment of lactic burn on the way up. To the east, there are great views of the range of mountains that make up the Tahoe Rim, and a good portion of the crystalline blue waters of Lake Tahoe itself. To the west, the ridge lines of the Sierra Nevada range cascade down and away, and I imagined we could see the area of the finish line for WSER some 96 non-linear miles away.

From there, Rob, Sam, and I descended into the beautiful backcountry on the Pacific Crest Trail for a couple of wonderful miles on perfect single track before returning to plummet 2,500 feet back into Olympic Village. For a couple of Floridians, running in the snow in late June was a rare treat. At the bottom, Andy and Amy already had a table for us at the Fireside Grill for lunch. Rob Tucker was here this year to pace his running coach, Ian Sharman, the former world-record holder at the hundred-mile distance. Ian, with 6 consecutive WSER top-10 finishes was here to challenge for the victory a 7th time. Rob, Ian, and his wife, Amy joined us for lunch, and we privately reveled in sharing our repast with running royalty. We idled the afternoon away with a trip to the Truckee River for an "ice" bath of sorts, back to the house and into the hot tub, and then a quiet dinner and early bedtime as we all battled nerves going into the big race day.  I would be remiss if I did not stop here and thank Scott Roberds once again for his tremendous generosity, not just this year but in 2014 as well.  Being welcomed into his house as race HQ has been a great resource to make these trips successful.

The buzz at the start of WSER is something unique, the anticipation and excitement hangs in the air around you as runners make their last minute preparations. Minutes before the start, Andy pulled his group around him, choking with emotion, and shared words of thanks and hope with us that I will not share here.  I don't think I know anyone personally who has given as much to the sport of ultrarunning as he has. With 26 Hundred-mile finishes including the coveted sub-24 hour silver buckle at WSER, and being the 2006 Florida Ultrarunner of the Year, he is an accomplished athlete.  As race director for numerous races at our Florida treasure called Croom, he has put on numerous quality events to an ever growing field of contestants. As one of the lightning rod personalities in FUR, he is a magnet attracting all those new people, and generally the center of every laughing conversation at most finish lines. There are no ads or postings to be seen' but Andy has probably coached and counseled as many ultrarunners as anyone, including me when I first started and ever since. I badly wanted to see this go well for him. Andy had a smart, conservative game plan to finish the race, and I never doubted he would do it.

The start itself was difficult for me in a way I did not anticipate. This day was all about Andy, and I was committed to doing everything I could for him to succeed. But as we gathered off to the side as the clock wound down, I was overcome with jealousy. Not of Andy, but of the other 369 runners there instead of me. I ran the 2014 edition, and desperately want to get back in again. And again. After the shotgun start, I had to step off to the side, away from our group, silently fuming, staring at the runners moving up the slope, willing Andy to the top of that first grueling climb, and re-committing myself (for about the 50th time) to get back here with my own race bib.

Andy's plan was for our first stop with him to be at Robinson Flats, 29.7 miles into the race. Those first 30 miles are (to me) the prettiest and the toughest. We arrived 3 full hours before Andy's expected arrival. Knowing one of the best views on the course was just down the trail, I took Luis and Sam on a 5-mile jaunt to a panoramic view of the mountains as we did long, slow switchbacks down the slope. On our return, we had to step off the trail every few minutes as the race leaders came by. We saw our new friend Ian Sharman looking a bit tired, but running strong in 10th.

We scouted out a spot on the far side of this large aid station where we would be able to spot Andy coming in. We planned to station a couple of us there so when Andy arrived, one of us could tell him where we were set up and ask what he needed, while another raced to our spot along the chute to help Amy be ready for his arrival. About 30 minutes before Andy's fastest expected arrival, we left Amy, as crew chief, at our spot and the other 3 of us took up watch on the far side. The next several hours were agonizing. We nervously bantered, all increasingly worried as his expected arrival time came and went.  I kept redoing the math on what his overall pace might now be.  I can't imagine Amy's nerves as she sat alone, several hundred yards away and out of sight, waiting on her husband. The once bustling and wildly energetic aid station with hundreds of volunteers and spectators cheering and clapping, grew increasingly quiet as most of the runners had passed through. Then the first air horn sounded 3 times, the 30-minute warning cutoff. Be through this aid station in 30 minutes or be pulled from the race. No excuses, no exceptions. The rocks and pine cones I had been idly throwing at nearby trees were landing with increasing force. The horn soon blew twice and our stomachs writhed. When the air horn blew once, we just stared at each other in stony silence. With minutes left, Luis and Sam dejectedly returned to Amy to help pack up our mini aid station. I trotted down the trail in reverse to go find my friend.

Less than a half mile into my trot, the final long air horn blast, signaling the cutoff and end of the race for Andy and others still coming in, hit me like a gut punch. Seconds later, I spotted Andy struggling up a steep incline towards me. He looked awful. We've shared many tough practice runs where we looked and felt like complete shit. But this is as bad as I had ever seen him. Yet the first words out his mouth as he saw me were, "Was that the 10-minute warning or the final horn?" As bad as he looked and must have felt, he was ready to sprint through the aid station and continue the race if there was time remaining.  I simply told him, "No, that was it" and moved in behind him, hand on his back to help push him up the hill as my assistance was no longer restricted.

I said little on the short return, struggling for the right words as Andy explained it simply hadn't been his day. He had struggled mightily on the uphills and just couldn't get a rhythm that allowed him to make up time on the cut offs. As we entered Robinson Flats, I was very thankful for Amy as she greeted him with a quiet, supportive calm I had no chance of mustering. The long drive back to Olympic Valley was difficult as everyone struggled with their emotions. Andy repeatedly tried apologizing to us, and we all insisted he had let no one down. But everyone's emotions were raw, and the remainder of our stay seemed much less lustrous with Andy's disappointing outcome.  After everyone had showered, eaten, and we had begun to lubricate, I proposed an idea to the group:  We not only had an extra day in our agenda due to the DNF, we also weren't worn out from spending 30+ hours on the course.  Let's use that extra time and energy to make a side trip to Yosemite Valley while we are here.  To my pleasant surprise, everyone in the group was immediately all in.

Sunday, we awoke not too early and headed over to the north end of Lake Tahoe to run on the Tahoe Rim Trail.  I am signed up to race the Tahoe 200 in September, and this was a chance to get acquainted with parts of the course.  Andy even joined us, with the intent of walking behind us while we ran.  We started at a place called Brockway and headed west towards Watson Lake.  This section of the course is pretty consistently up and down, but without anything super steep, and stays between 7,000 – 8,000 feet of elevation.  We were frequently treated to breathtaking views of the length of Lake Tahoe shining brightly blue below us. 

The trail rolled through heavy coniferous forest, interspersed with alpine meadows filled with wildflowers. 

As we would do all week, the group stayed roughly together, the faster runners backtracking to keep from losing track of the others.  We talked consistently during every run, vacillating from normal running banter, to exclamations of awe at the beauty of our surroundings, to serious life conversations, and back to the banter again. Not to be forgotten was Luis' excellent timing from the bushes off trail just as I told Amy & Sam the field we were in was great territory to spot a bear. Luis’ quick and unexpected shout from the bushes resulted in Sam jumping nearly out of her shoes.  After 7 miles we passed by Watson Lake

and soon thereafter reached our turnaround point where we sat and took in the 180-degree view of Lake Tahoe far below.  

We had just started back when Andy picked us up, having kept us with nearly the whole way.  Andy felt stronger and better than he had just the day before and was running well.  If WSER had started on Sunday instead of Saturday, he may well have been taking a buckle home.  Strangely, the events still taking place at the finish line in Auburn, roughly 100 miles west of us had taken a back seat to our new focus.  WSER was over for our group and we embraced the new opportunities presented.  The return trip back to the car had a long uphill climb at the end and we were all spent upon finishing.  After 15 miles on the course, I felt a little intimidated for the upcoming race, knowing I am far from being ready.  We drove straight down to the lake, looking for a very late lunch.  Our first stop was at a restaurant not quite open for business yet, but did give a couple of us a chance to jump into the lake.   Finally, we found a wonderful place right on the water, soaking up the views yet again.

Monday is when things really got interesting.  Andy dropped the 4 of us in Tahoe City on the west shore of the lake where we picked up another section of the TRT.  This run turned out to be nothing short of glorious.  After a slow steep start, we were once again treated to frequent views of the lake and then mountains beyond, then plunging back into deep emerald forests of towering spruces, pines, and firs. We only realized afterwards we had run the uphill sections nearly as consistently as the downhills.  The 10+ miles of beautiful single track here gave me renewed confidence for September.

While we ran, Andy went into Reno to get us a larger rental vehicle for the long drives ahead of us.  Our under-powered Dodge Grand Caravan minivan soon was named the “Silver Streak” in honor of its begrudging efforts to climb the numerous mountain passes on our way to Yosemite.  We drove around the east and south sides of Tahoe, stopping at the wondrous Emerald Bay along the way. 

From there we proceeded south, just west of the Nevada border through a number of mountain ranges, ooh’ing and aah’ing as each new ridge or valley swung into view, and eventually down and around Mono Lake.  There, to our amazement, we saw the remains of a large forest fire where the emergency workers had somehow saved a cluster of buildings from imminent demise, while everything else, in every direction had burned to the ground. 

Finally, we entered Yosemite National Park from the northeast through Tioga Pass.  We spent the next couple hours driving the backcountry of Yosemite between 8,000 and 10,000 feet.  Andy and I were the only ones in the car who eagerly anticipated me playing an audio book, “My First Summer in the Sierra” by John Muir as we drove.  Muir was the principal founder of the Sierra Club, and chiefly responsible for the preservation of Yosemite in a time when natural wonders were frequently considered natural resources for lumber and mining. 

His flowery language soon won over the entire van as we pointed at signs representing places Muir had talked to us about in his book only minutes before.  There was also no shortage of enthusiasm by the group to note how often he used the word ‘erect’.

After a plunging descent to 4,000 feet of elevation we began to enter the middle valley for which Yosemite is so well known for.  We hit each of the big attractions, first stopping to look at El Capitan before a short hike to Bridal Veil Falls. 

From there we drove further back in the park for a slightly longer hike to view Yosemite Falls plunging from 2,700 feet above. 

We took a third longer hike to Mirror Lake and stared up at the imposing cliff face of Half Dome, maybe Yosemite’s most impressive feature. 

Somewhere during the afternoon, Andy turned to us and pronounced this had been “the best DNF ever!”  None of us flew west expecting, nor desiring this outcome.  But Andy had led the way in making the most of what happened.  By now, it was nearly dark, we had hiked 8+ miles after the intense 10-mile morning run and a long day of driving, and the group was spent.  We ate an outstanding dinner at the Lodge restaurant with a prefect view of Yosemite Falls in the darkening gloom. 

Our day was not over.  From Yosemite we had an 80-minute drive to the nearest hotel where we could make reservations at the last minute.  I had found a place called Mountain Lodge which had a picture of a nice pool and plenty of room for 5 people.  When we got to the lodge with the nice pool, the manager gave me directions to where our room actually was, 3 miles down the road.  We turned on to some dark back streets and the group began making references to horror movies and determining which of us would survive the night (Sam was the odds-on favorite to make it to morning).  It turned out to be a dingy little house, which while clean, was nothing that we bargained for.  But much as we had done with the DNF, we made the most of the situation and sat together watching comedy videos on You Tube and telling jokes until we were on the floor laughing.  It wasn’t a great place, but we had a great time. Again.

As if the last several days hadn’t been fantastic, Tuesday topped them all.  We had a leisurely breakfast and headed back towards Yosemite.  As we got back into the outskirts of the park I chose to put on the playlist from Sandra’s and my wedding CD, which is largely movie show tunes.  Listening to Judy Garland sing ‘Over the Rainbow’ followed by Louis Armstrong’s ‘It’s a Wonderful World’ as we turned corners on one gorgeous patch of landscape after another set the mood early.  We passed through a tunnel, and as we listened to Israel Kamakawiwo’ole something told me to stop at the overlook just past the tunnel exit. 

The Tunnel Overlook defies reality.  The 5 of us drifted to the wall and dropped our jaws in amazement.  The entire valley was laid out before us, with El Capitan dominating the left, Half Dome off in the distance ahead, and Bridal Veil Falls on our right.  Sam kept asking, “Is this real?”  Andy and I were near tears as we read a John Muir quote from one of the plaques:

“This grand show is eternal.  It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never dried all at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor ever rising.  Eternal sunrise, eternal sunset eternal dawn and gloaming, on seas and continents and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls.”

I’ve been exceptionally lucky to travel to some beautiful places around the world.  But this spot takes the cake.  I did everything I could to commit that scene and that feeling to memory to bring back out in future days when life feels bleak or weary. 

From there we drove down into the valley with the intention of circling right round up the other side to head up into the back country again.  But I couldn’t resist stopping the car at the base of El Capitan for us to get out and stare up at the 3,000 foot wall of granite stone.

We headed uphill through the lower and then upper montane forests headed into Yosemite back country on Route 120.  Amy and I share a love for classical music.  To be clear, I love listening to it, but have no musical talent or training.  Amy is an accomplished musician and bandleader and understands the intricacies of the art we are listening to.  Regardless of the disparity in musical talent, we love the same composers.  So as we drove uphill, I put on Beethoven’s 9^th Symphony, the “Ode to Joy” and then the  magic really began.  It was if our drive had been choreographed.  It seemed that every time the music crescendoed we would turn another corner for a sweeping view that drew exclamations from everyone in the car. 

74 minutes later we pulled over, elated, and parked at a trail head around 8,000 feet and began a hike up towards Cathedral Rock. 

We had a couple of tweaky knees in the group and agreed this would be a hike and not a run.  Except for Luis who was pounding it hard all week preparing for the Vermont 100.  He would run ahead a half mile or more, double back, give us the scoop on what was coming, and then move back ahead again.  We climbed all the way past 9,600 feet until we reached the alpine meadows and a glacial lake below Cathedral Rock.  Andy and I stripped down to running shorts and plunged into the icy waters for a quick swim, and we all enjoyed the warm sun, soaking up the scenery. 

On the way back down, we noticed a storm approaching in the distance, and were soon double-timing it down the mountain to avoid being caught exposed to the rain and lightning.  Once in the van, by Amy’s suggestion, we played Gustav Holst’s ‘The Planets’.  It started with Mars, Bringer of War which will stir anyone’s soul.  Once again, it seemed our trip had been choreographed as the music complimented the dark clouds and distant lightning strikes that followed us out of Yosemite and back towards the Nevada border and north back to Olympic Valley.

We capped off our trip Wednesday morning with a 5K run up the Truckee River to a small café adjacent to the river where we had breakfast, coffee & mimosas.  The return 5K back to the house was considerably slower.  From there it was off to the airport and an end to our trip.

It is hard to sum up a trip like this without getting a bit emotional.  I have come to rely on running as an escape from the pressures of work and life, a way to let off steam, to keep myself sane.  But all too often, travel races have become more an instrument of implementation and not as satisfactory a release:  Get into town, Get ready, Get to the start line, Get to the finish line, Get cleaned up and rested, and then Get home.   This trip was completely different, a special, rejuvenating experience.  We raced, and came up just a bit short; we recovered and ran just as hard, just elsewhere; ate and drank and laughed until our ribs hurt.  I am immensely grateful to have shared it with my good friends Andy, Amy, Luis, and Sam.  Best DNF ever?  No doubt.

Nepal 2016

I just returned from one of the trips of a lifetime for me, 5 days in Kathmandu, Nepal.  I had to be in India for work for 2 weeks, and soon realized, Kathmandu was a short 90-minute flight away.  Much as I would have liked to turn that into an extended trek up to Mt. Everest base camp; I did not have enough time to acclimate to altitude or the closer to 10-day trip that would have needed.  So I planned to run in the mountains of the Kathmandu Valley rim.  I did some research, and reaching out through Trail Running Nepal, I was able to connect with Upendra Sunuwar as a guide.  Upendra is an accomplished ultra-runner, winning at least 9 mountain (all in the Himalayas) races that I know of.  His English is limited and very hard to understand; but we generally communicated just fine.  He spent all 5 days I was in Nepal beating me into the ground. 

The first day, we took a cab to Shivapuri-Nagarjun National Park just northwest of where I was staying in Thamel. 

Within seconds, we transitioned from a crowded, dirty, metropolitan city into deep forest inside the park. 

The first couple miles was rolling hills at 4,300 feet, but I was already breathing hard as he pushed the pace.  I thought I’d keep up fine, until he pulled a Karl Metzler and turned up a trail that went straight up the ridgeline.  I quickly realized that all my altitude acclimatization and elevation training from Utah last summer was long gone.  My heart rate was maxed out, sweat poured off me like I was in a sauna, and by the top I was kissing my knees every few hundred feet.   The peak is called Jamacho and houses a Hindu temple of the same name. 

We walked around the temple, and even went up the observation tower; only to find there was a heavy haze obscuring any distant views.  I was not to see the Himalayan peaks today. 

The route back down was just as difficult, as we descended nearly the entire 2700 feet via a route of steep stone stairs. 

Friday’s run was not long, just under 10 miles; but I was spent.  The elevation chart of my watch was representative of what I was to experience every day in Nepal.

On Saturday, we took a cab to a different section of Shivapuri-Nagarjun National Park to the northeast of Thamel.  Upendra proceeded to take us straight to the top of the tallest peak in the park, Shivapuri at 8,900 feet.  The entire 4.5 miles and 3,700 foot climb was long set of stone stairs. Something like 6,000 of them.

It was insanely hard. 1 hour, 40 minutes of quad screaming, heart-racing, lungs burning, step by step upwards.  The picture below of me washed out and soaked in sweat is about 500 feet from the top.

It was WORTH it!  As we passed 7,000 feet, we moved into cloud forest with giant trees of spectacular proportions covered in moss.

I heard a cacophony of bird calls the entire day, and we spotted a pair of langurs (a type of monkey) racing through the treetops.  100 feet from the summit Upendra detoured us up to a Hindu shrine (a large rock that is supposed to be Shiva's penis) with a clear view to the north. The whole way up that morning, I had kept scanning through the trees and seeing once again, heavy cloud cover and smog. I feared there would be no view of the bigger mountains. Alas, as we passed the rounded the shrine to the cliff’s edge, my heart sank to see nothing but clouds to the horizon.  Upendra pointed into the distance, naming 7,000+ meter peaks from memory.  Until my eyes adjusted, and I realized he was not doing this from memory, the tops of the clouds were not clouds at all, they were the Himalayas poking ABOVE the clouds. My hair stood on end and I just gaped. Upendra was thrilled when he found out it was my first view of them ever.  I just about danced a jig.

After seeing the Himalayas, the small, flat clearing at the summit, surrounded by trees with no view was anti-climactic.  From there, we began an 8.5 mile, 4,500 foot descent down the other side.  There were less stairs on this side, on which I was slow, but on the rooty, twisting, and uneven single track, I ran with abandon. We passed the headwaters of the Bagmati River, and numerous temples. 

At one point, passing through a mountain village with a large temple, we got caught in a procession of monks. Upendra had no patience, and led me around them, teetering on the precipice until we passed.  Finally, on a particularly steep and technical section, I took a spill.  I was wide-open, going way too fast for my downhill skills, when my shoe scuffed a rock and I pitched forward. And down. On the first somersault, I smacked my left calf (always the left, every fall I take seems to be to the left). On the second flip, my left forearm smacked against a rock. With the steep slope, gravity was keeping me from braking.  The third time over, my face was headed for a flat rock. I managed to turn and take a glancing blow only to the back of my head, at which point I had stopped, spread-eagled on the ground. Slightly stunned, I stood quickly to assess the damage and then looked up to see Upendra staring at me horrified.   I had no cuts or open wounds, giggled at my stupidity, and turned back down the trail, albeit at a more sedate pace.

From there, we soon descended into Kathmandu proper, passing by several larger temples. We ended at Pashupati where the Shivarti festival is taking place Monday with an expected crowd of 700,000. 


We ended the run with just under 19 miles and my first view ever of the Himalayas.  After a shower, I walked 2 miles down to Kathmandu Dhurbar Square where the king’s coronation takes place and where the ancient temples took the worst damage from last year's earthquake.  That evening I went to Everest Irish Bar, the only place I found Guinness in my 16 days in Asia; and hung out with a 22 year old Irish kid who was taking a year-long sabbatical to cycle from New Zealand to France.

Sunday I arose and my legs were jelly.  We took a cab to Pango on the southwest corner of the Kathmandu valley. From there we ran about 2 miles around farms and fields and then headed upwards.

Again.  The 2,800 foot climb to Champa Devi left me wasted and wobbly. I could feel the efforts of the previous two days in my legs the moment we turned uphill. But as always, it was worth it.  Thunderstorms moved through the area, and we listened to the thunder roll across the mountain tops. Beside a 10-minute light sprinkling, we did not get wet.  But my legs were so dead, I seriously considering turning back more than once. Towards the top, it was dark, windy, and cold. My hands were frozen and I had a real chill. Yet sweat was rolling off of me like I was at an 8 Hours of Hell event.  At the first peak, Upendra gave me the option to turn downhill and take the easy way home. I may never be back in Nepal again, that was not an option. So we traversed the ridge-line for about 30 minutes before turning up a steep set of stairs that climbed another 1,050 feet.    The higher reaches of the next peak, Bhasmeswor Danda are clear of high trees and I was almost immediately rewarded with a fairly clear view of the Langtang range of the Himalayas in the distance, with peaks reaching up to 25,000+ feet. Mt.  Everest was out there somewhere, but not visible from our trek.  The picture below is not great quality, but you can see the peaks in the distance.

I thought this peak was it, but Upendra challenged me to take on a third, which luckily involved only another 300 feet of climbing. I really like Upendra's choices for running. He avoids out and backs, calls them boring; he looked for loop or point-to-point routes every time.  He has taken me to a completely different area each day. And while I may not have hit the mileage I envisioned, it was more than offset by the quality of effort.  He has given me what Kathmandu offers best: steep climbs and descents with mind blowing views from the peaks and visits to temples and monasteries to see along the way.

We stopped on the way down at a villager's house, and had biscuits and Nepali black tea while he prepared his family's meal.

The balance of the descent was cruelly steep, with most of it tall, stone stairs that continued to crush my quads.  As we got back down into the valley we passed through farming villages, many of them devastated by last year's earthquake. In Kathmandu proper, most of the worst damage was limited to the old temples; the modern architecture had largely stayed standing.  But up in the hills, I would say 75% of the crudely built stone homes had collapsed, each now accompanied by a simple tin-roofed shelter as they rebuild.   We ended by dancing along the narrow earthen barriers between rice paddies before turning the last mile on pavement to where we could catch a cab back to Thamel.

14 really slow miles in just over 4 hours.  The next day, I knew we were headed southeast to climb Phulchoki Danda, the tallest mountain we would tackle.  I was seriously not sure if I could handle the 4,100 foot climb, and slept nervously.

Monday started a little differently as we did not take a cab.  It was a longer, 90 minute ride on 2 different buses (think van refitted with 4 rows of seats) to our run today. The second bus, when it left, had 22 of us stuffed inside. It stopped periodically to drop off or pick up more passengers, and at one point we grew to 29.  There are no pictures from this as I could not move my arms to grab the camera.  I now have a good appreciation for how sardines feel.  Finally we arrived at the trailhead in Godawari.  Before starting the run, we ate breakfast at a roadside stand; Nepalese creamy tea with lots of honey, and a bland donut type of thing.

I started at a fast walk uphill, pounding my hiking sticks into the ground to push. I could hear my friends chirping in my ear if I gave up and was determined to set a steady pace.  It had rained hard the night before. I was optimistic the smog would have cleared and there would be a much better view of the Himalayas today. I absolutely had to get to the top. To my delight, less than a mile in, Upendra pointed behind us and BOOM, there they were. White, towering peaks, too high in the sky to imagine. 

My heart lifted and I pressed upwards with even more vigor. Thankfully, there were no steps on this route, and I did my best running of the trip. I was steady throughout covering 8.35 miles, with just over 4,000 feet of climb completed in just 2:16.

We took a nice break at the top. Upendra prayed briefly at the Hindu shrine, and I took in the 180-degree view of the Himalayas.  I was awestruck. Away in the distance, hovering at the dim horizon was Mt Everest.  This was the highlight of my trip and a moment I hope to remember forever.  I high-fived Upendra and we took picture after picture. 

As we started back down, I told Upendra I was feeling great, and wanted to push the pace.

We were flying down the dirt road as fast as my feet would move when suddenly he turned us into some of the greatest single track I have ever run. Twisting, bumpy, rooty, steep, and technical; I took chances like I only do when trying to chase Andy Mathews downhill. 

We covered 9 technical miles to the bottom in just 85 minutes.  I was on such a high, I could have run another 10 miles. But I am glad we stopped when we did, it was a great day. We paused at another roadside stand for a bowl of spicy beans, hard boiled eggs, bread and mango juice (lunch cost me $4 for the both of us) before taking the sardine buses back into Thamel.

There were no mountains to climb Tuesday. Instead, Upendra took me on a 10 mile running tour of Kathmandu. We visited a number of temples, including Monkey Temple which was at the top of a ridiculous set of steep stairs.

Then we would run in between temples, moving on to another part of the city, finishing at Patan Dhurbar Square.

We ended with breakfast at another roadside dive eating spicy beans, rolls stuffed with some kind of sweet potato-like purée and several cups of Nepali tea.

Back at the hotel, I happily over-tipped Upendra; gave him my Hoka Clifton 2s which don't fit me well, and gave him my dirty Badwater crew shirt which he complimented several times the day before. We promised each other, when I come back, we will do the trek to Everest Base Camp together. I ate lunch at the Yak Restaurant, had water buffalo curry and more of my now beloved Nepali tea. Waiting for my cab to the airport, I went up to the rooftop cafe at the hotel, taking in one last look over the city before I headed off to the airport, and back to reality.

Completely unexpectedly, I got very emotional checking out of the hotel.  Gone 16 days, I was very much looking forward to coming home, seeing my wife and daughter, and sleeping in my own bed.  But this place affected me far more than I thought it would. It goes beyond the mountain adventures Upendra took me on. Amid the squalor that already existed here, and the ensuing devastation from the 2015 earthquake; the Nepali people show amazing resiliency and vibrancy.  They are unfaltering friendly, looking to help not just tourists, but each other at every turn. Monday on a larger bus riding home, an older gentleman boarded carrying what appeared to be his 4 year old granddaughter.  There was nowhere for him to sit and he appeared stoically prepared to stand and hold her for the trip.  The couple in front of me immediately offered to hold her on their laps, and what appeared to be total strangers carried on a lively conversation until he disembarked.  I was able to observe this, because Upendra was in deep conversation with the very pretty girl sharing a seat with us; I am pretty sure he was hitting on her.

Researching my trip to Nepal, I had read numerous accounts of others having an emotional exit; but had thought little of it.  After paying my bill at the front desk, I was presented with a scarf, and every member of the staff came out to bid me farewell with hugs.  I couldn't help but get choked up, it was an outpouring  of goodwill like I have never experienced traveling in the U.S. I am not sure when I will be back, but Nepal is only partially checked on the bucket list.