My First Ultra!

Be warned, new runners. 7 years ago I struggled and cramped my way through a 10k race and finished feeling like I had just climbed Everest. A few weeks ago I found myself standing ankle-deep in a puddle in Bellingham thinking it was reasonable to run 50k in the rain, snow, mud, and wind. It will happen to you.

I mean, if you can do 6.2 miles, why not 13.1? And certainly if you can run 13.1 miles once, you can do it twice. So why not sign up for a marathon? And so it goes.

When I ran my first marathon I really didn’t even know that there was such a thing as a longer distance than that. I crossed the finish like feeling like I’d just climbed Everest and figured I’d done it. All that was left to do was run 26.2 miles faster.

Then a funny thing happened. Every time I tried to get my body to go faster, it just broke. So my marathon times never really changed. Well, I said to myself, if I can’t go faster, I can do more. So I set goals of doing more marathons. Two things happened with that plan. One, I went broke paying entry fees and booking hotel rooms. Two, I got hurt more often.

On a doctor’s advice, I started running on “soft” surfaces more often to reduce the impact injuries I was suffering. I’d be out running 4 miles on the trails and groups water bottle carrying athletes would bound past me and bounce uphill over the rocks and roots. These strange creatures are ultra-marathoners.

Ultra-marathons? I didn’t know there was such a thing. But once I knew there was a distance goal above 26.2, I just had to have it. Because I’m an idiot. And I hang out with idiots who think such things are reasonable.

So back to the starting line. I was trying to be serious about what I was about to do, but I looked around at the 300 other people in my starting group and noticed that they all had silly grins on their faces. Some of them were even laughing and joking around. Are you people insane?

Yes, they are insane. And I was now one of them. So I grinned and made a lame joke to person standing next to me. And before I knew it, Scott Jurek was telling us to have fun out there…Fun?

Running any distance is ultimately about seeing what your body can do. It’s about testing your fitness and your mental toughness. I was about to find out what I could do. I had never run anything over 27 miles in my life, let alone with thousands of feet of climbing on muddy, snow-covered trails and fire roads.

A mile into the race I started noticing a few things. In most marathons, we all queue up and put our heads down, waiting for the starting gun. Then we huff and puff our way quietly through the first few miles. In an ultra, people are smiling, patting each other on the back, talking about training, asking about friends. Someone running near me noticed that my shoes were the same brand he wore. Cool man. Nice kicks.

At the second aid station – which emerged out of the snowy forest like some sort of frozen, tented oasis, one of my ultra-running friends was manning the water pitchers. He couldn’t run this race, but he came out anyway to be a part of it. He recognized me as I came in, gave me some advice about the course, smiled and kicked my butt out of the aid station and up the hill. That doesn’t happen at your local 10k.

In the middle miles I fell in with a small group of men and women and we ran together for a while. I slowed down a bit on a steep climb (it felt steep to me, anyway) and a woman I don’t know and had never seen before the race stopped and kicked my butt to keep running. You don’t get that in your average half marathon.

And eventually my watch ticked over 26.2 miles. Then over 27. 28. I was in new territory. My longest ever run, and it didn’t kill me.

I dragged myself across the finish line, eventually. Two more of my ultra runner friends who couldn’t run this race were there, directing traffic, high fiving finishers, and basically hanging out having a good time. I dwelled on the fact that I had just finished an ultra marathon for roughly 30 seconds before one of these “friends” asked me when I was going to sign up for a 50 miler.

Be warned. It will happen to you, too.

How to Die in the Woods

Back in my more adventurous days I was unfortunate enough to spend several unplanned nights in the wilderness. These were usually mountaineering efforts gone awry, long approach hikes washed out by bad weather, or rare instances when a climbing partner got hurt. But that was mountaineering, and we openly talked of that risk. It was a known entity. Climbers dismiss such nights as a quick “bivvy.” It’s part of the adventure, and over time you learn the difference between an inconvenient night on a rock ledge and a life-threatening situation.

Having given up any real vertical aspirations, I assumed I was pretty much done with the unplanned wilderness overnight adventure. But on a recent trail run, as things started to spiral out of control, I was smacked in the face by the reality that running in the wilderness is no different from climbing in the wilderness. Things can go wrong, and if you make enough mistakes, you can die on a trail run just as easily as you can while climbing a mountain…Using my recent experience in New Zealand to illustrate, I’m here to tell you how to do it:

1.     Go alone. This way no one will be there to see those embarrassing last moments as you slowly die from exposure or a head injury.

2.     Ignore the Weather. The run in question was in a national park known for being both the rainiest and the sunniest place on the north Island of New Zealand. As weird as that sounds, it should have at least registered in my brain as a variable in my plan. When I woke that morning, heavy rain clouds were racing in from the ocean. The mountain I intended to run the flanks of was shrouded in mist. But instead of using my actual senses to assess the situation, I looked at the online weather report, took the optimistic high temperature, and dressed for that.

3.     Don’t research. I had already glanced at a 100 word description of the track I was going to do. Most of the trails I’d been on in the week or so before this had been very well marked and logical. I hadn’t once used one of the maps carried. And I was still riding the high I was on from the day before, where I just randomly happened upon a brilliant track that wasn’t on any maps or in any guidebooks. Just go for it! So I left for the mountain with no maps.

4.     Be in a hurry. This is important if you want to die, because when you’re in a hurry, you forget things. You forget to charge your GPS watch, for example. Or you forget to refill your hydration pack. Heck, you even forget to grab a fresh pair of shoes because you know there are some shoes in the car already.

5.     Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. The very kind woman at the parking lot near the trailhead was a little concerned about my plans. I was going to do what they considered to be a 2-3 day tramp in 3-4 hours. As I stood there shivering in my shorts and tank top (see #2) she asked whether anyone would miss me if I didn’t return. That’s exactly how she phrased it. Umm, yeah. Eventually. If I don’t get off an Air New Zealand flight in a week, people might miss me. But no. I hadn’t told anyone my plans.

6.     Be cheap. The well-meaning ranger suggested I purchase the official topo map of the mountain before I set out. These maps are unbelievably good and are produced by the New Zealand government to keep people from dying in the woods. But fourteen dollars? I’ll be fine with this promotional map I got from a brochure on guided summit expeditions, thank you.

7.     Be proud. A mile into this trail and I knew it was going to be a struggle. Steep climbs, slippery descents, treacherous stream crossings, and waist deep bogs were the order of the day. When my under-charged GPS watch died at mile 6 (see #4) I had already been struggling on this trail for almost 2 hours. Do the math. But rather than turning around, I kept pressing on, and before long I was past the halfway point. I think. I didn’t have a map (#3, #6).

8.     Take risks. Sure, there’s an easier way to cross that river about a half mile upstream, but this is a more direct route. This is the logic that almost did me in. Leap to one rock. Solid. Breathe. Leap again. Miss. Slip and fall into the freezing river. Narrowly miss smashing your skull on a rock. Watch in slow motion as the rock you jumped to starts rolling toward you. Think about 127 Hours. Panic.

I eventually dragged myself out of the forest and back to my car, of course. But I spent over half of what turned out to be 21 miles talking to myself like a crazy man, worrying that I was hopelessly lost, and cursing myself for being a moron.

Be careful out there. I need both of my readers to keep this thing going!