Chasing Down Bigfoot: The Middle Miles

Darkness fell on the next segment. Riding the emotional high of the sunset and physical energy boost of a warm meal, I ran the entirety of the comparatively short (8 miles) and downhill segment to the first available sleep station. Very shortly, this would be a nearly race ending decision in hindsight...but at the time, it felt good to trot along with gravity on my side, listening to the chatter of the folks behind me.

Opting to keep moving though the next long and technical chunk of trail in the cool of night, I used the station to eat another meal and have some preventative foot care on a hot spot under my big toe. Before leaving the station, I excitedly grabbed a piece of black olive and pineapple pizza, hardly believing my good fortune as this is my favorite pizza topping combination, only to discover quickly that jalapenos camouflage as olives when illuminated by head lamp. Ouch.

A runner who I came in with agreed that we should take on the next segment together, so I headed out slowly into the night and waited to hear Todd's footsteps behind me. My left shoe felt tight and twinges of discomfort spread occasionally across the top of my foot and ankle. Loosening the shoe seemed to help a little, but I made a mental note to change shoes at the next opportunity. Todd rejoined me just before we began climbing to the highest point of the race. Though we kept enjoyable conversation about our lives and goals for the course, the climbing was steep and slick with false summit after false summit. The moon occasionally reflected off of water below so brightly that we confused it for headlamps in the distance. Though this is typically the type of terrain I enjoy, each small downhill became more uncomfortable, until I had to admit that something was seriously wrong with my left foot. By morning, we reached Mount Margaret, watching the dawn break over a pair of lakes and looking back at Mount Saint Helens. What should have been an easy jog down into the aid station was an excruciating, nauseating experience.

From Bigfoot 200 Endurance Run Facebook Page

 I arrived in a painful fog, about an hour past our goal for the segment, thankful for Todd's willingness to stay with me when my downhill pace started to resemble a disjointed shuffle. My GPS watch died not far from the station, but I no longer cared, fairly certain that my race would not last much longer.

I love aid station workers. The slower I go, the more I appreciate them. When I race for a placing, I tend to be so focused that I miss not only the people, but the drop bags and even stations themselves. People ask me after the finish what I though to the "amazing X at aid station Y" and I respond with a confused "they had that?!" Each time I race a longer distance or with a new injury, I hear more stories, see more people, and have the opportunity to thank more volunteers. This makes every pace enjoyable and, beyond the stunning views of the mountain runs, is a reason to keep competing regardless of imperfect training or circumstances.

I feel the need to proclaim this admiration before stating that this was the worst aid station experience I've ever had. Perhaps it only ended up that way because everything else was so well organized and I saw the experience through the eyes of hunger, cold, exhaustion, personal disappointment, and pain. Regardless, I had to find someone to check me in and much time was wasted while I sat in a dazed stupor in a wet hair until a fellow runner who was injured and dropping out of the race offered me some trail mix. There was no coffee, no warm food, no one to fill water packs and prod and poke me in the right direction to restart the journey. Over an hour of empty time. I finally crawled out of my stupor, refilled my bottles, and was offered some ibuprofen by Todd's wife...possibly my two people at the moment. As I wandered slowly to the bathroom, Luis (my fellow Tucson runner) came in and I confessed to him that I wasn't sure that I would be continuing much past the 100 mile mark.

The next segment was mental and physical agony. I watched many people pass without hope of catching or keeping up. Had it not been for Cody waiting at the next station, my race would have ended at Mile 75. The thought of hobbling for over 100 miles when I already felt this bad was just not tenable. Hiking 35 miles with a companion who had slept in his car so he wouldn't miss me coming in? Painful, but doable. I certainly had enough time to spare!

Before I get into Cody's segment of my Bigfoot journey, I should admit that I am a terrible person to pace. I love team sports, but endurance is a solo thing for me and even the most lovable people just seem to distract me from where I need to be in order to have my best race. I envy people who laugh and get energy from their pacers, joking the night away. I just leave mine at aid stations... My dear friend Shawn made me promise to be nice when he heard that a mutual friend had agreed to pace double the distance I had ever run with another person. How did Cody get himself into this mess, you ask? We didn't even actually run together when we lived in the same state! Truth be told, his name popped up with a "moved to Washington, the trails are great" Facebook status on a day when I was in the midst of an "oh my God, what am I doing and why am I doing it with no crew???" moment. I shot him a message and next thing I knew, I had a pacer and no clue what to do with him. You have to know all of this, because now I'm going to tell you why Cody almost single handedly saved my race and why I would travel anywhere in the world to pace for him.

Photo Credit: Cody Cunningham

Back to the Bigfoot. By the time I got to Elk Pass, the sun had burned off the chilly fog and had marginally improved my spirits, if not my pace. Cody and the aid station crew met me with infectious smiles, offers of quesadillas and ice cream (I accepted the first, not the latter, remarkably), and a covered place to sit and ice my foot and ankle. The medical team lead, Nick, wrapped me up and agreed that it was a painful but not unstable injury. I could continue forward as long as I wanted. And by now, I definitely wasn't ready to throw in the towel. I'd at least get a new distance PR out of this! Aid station magic at it's best.

Photo Credit: Cody Cunningham

Thanks to the wrap and time off my feet, I found it possible to shuffle the rare flat portions and more efficiently hike the ups and downs at a steady 2.5-3mph average. It's not racing, but it was more than enough for Cody to realize that I could finish if I just kept moving. So we began a new trend between stations: start off strong and happy, if not fast; develop shooting pains as the inflammation increased halfway to the next station; laugh and joke between long silent pauses and hyperventilating at the top of each hill in preparation for the descent; drag into the next station with gritted teeth; sit down, eat smile; repeat. What made Cody so remarkable as a pacer for me, I think, is that he never questioned the rhythm. He allowed the silences to be painful without trying to "help." He understood that there's a time to laugh at the pain and a time to just be. That, above all else, this was still my happy place. He understood because it was his, too, and no matter how tired he was or cold from the rain, there was always a "kid in a candy store" grin behind his eyes.

In our three segments together, I slept for the first time and awoke to steady rain in the dark, we climbed rutted and rooted double track that was determined to break quads of ankles, a drop bag disappeared, I had a mild panic attack that we'd somehow missed a turn after not seeing a marker for nearly a mile, and we enjoyed a beautiful six miles along the Lewis river, complete with waterfalls.

Photo Credit: Jerry Gamez

We parted ways at the Lewis river aid station, roughly 125 miles into the course. The well stocked station met us with grins, flamingos, and time and space for more sleep. When I woke from my two hour respite, I was ecstatic to find new socks, shoes, and batteries waiting for me. Cody had tracked down Allie's van and brought them back as his last vote of confidence that I would be moving on just fine on my own.  Fed, rested, and rebandaged, I bed the flamingo and his crew goodbye with a wave of my trekking pole. (Ok, maybe my aim was a little off the fist time...two waves of the trekking pole)

Photo Credit: Jerry Gamez

Chasing Down Bigfoot: Day 1...ish

The wide double track allowed us to space out in pods, all moving at a brisk hike or slow trot. I listened quietly to the Tahoe veterans, trying to learn by osmosis how to finish a 200 mile foot race. This race still didn't feel like mine, so I would have to create it along the way.

Photo Credit: Ross Comer

Quite suddenly, the trees ended and opened up into a wide expanse of talus boulders, a veritable playground of ankle-twisting cooled lava creations strung together with fence posts and flags to mark the general direction of the "trail." To call this section technical is an understatement, though it could have been more challenging if straight up hill in the dark on ice while chased by an actual Bigfoot. Without a doubt, this was an adventure, not a race, not even a run. After two large talus field crossings, we enjoyed a flowing downhill reprieve into the first aid station. Our line got caught in the beauty and easy trails, allowing ourselves to run faster and stretch through the switchbacks, just slow enough to continue conversation. The purple tank top and multi-colored shorts in front of me belonged to a woman named Tina. She was a finisher...Tahoe 200...Hardrock 100 (x4)...and about seventy other endurance trail races in the past fifteen years. Beyond that, she had a perfect record as a pacer, always getting her athletes to the finish line in time and in one piece. Listening to her stories, I heard my father's advice in my head. Emulate, Kate, emulate. 

Eating at the first aid station, it was a surreal moment when Candice, a living legend in my house since her record breaking Wonderland Trail adventure in September 2012 (check out her stories at wilddefined.com), asked how I liked her course so far and whether I needed any ice. "It only gets better," she promised, after I gushed about the technical and panoramic beauty of the first 12.5 miles. My mind was also eased as Allie, the other Tucson runner's fiance, met me with a grin and assured me that Luis had made it on the trail and I'd see her for refueling as planned.

So began our first long segment, a soul testing finish to the "warmup" 50K. It skirted much of the way around Mount Saint Helens, along the Lewitt trail, across rivers, up and down scree slopes with the help of a belay rope, and mile after mile of punishingly slick ash that saw me on my seat (sometimes voluntarily) more than once. This segment was hard, so early in the race, because of the forced slow going for everyone, ash-induced blisters for some, and my own personal fears about sliding. Where some embrace the uncontrolled downhill scramble, others of us put on the brakes as we lose more and more control. Physically, that doesn't really help, and unfortunately, the early stress of overuse of these "brakes" under the volcanic base would haunt me for many miles in the not-so-distant future.

Photo Credit: Ross Comer

I arrived at mile 32 to a hike-in aid station out of water, starving, and well behind any 50K pace I had ever run. That segment broke us in, for most, or merely broke us, for a few others. I remember smiling briefly as another competitor complained about the hot and dry of the ash crossing of the dead zone...not compared to the Tucson deserts this summer, was all I could think in reply. In a way, that section and the complaints were a comfort. Perhaps my training, though less than ideal for the scope of this adventure, had really just been for this one small piece of the race.

The next segment was my first completely alone. At first, it felt hard to move forward out of the ash, but as the trail climbed up Johnson Ridge and the sun began to turn the mountains a brilliant orange, I was filled with a combination of joyous energy and nearly tearful sadness that the impending darkness would block my view of the scenery. This same combination of primal joy and sorrow greeted me at each subsequent sunset. I laughed for no reason, running along the ridge to the observatory, passing "Very Dangerous" trail warning signs on feet that felt almost light. Veggie burgers with homemade guacamole rarely taste so good as when you're sitting in a camp chair with freshly cleaned feet, new socks, and a top of the world view before heading out in the very last ways of darkness.

Chasing down Bigfoot: Prologue

Writing about my Bigfoot 200 experience is a little like cleaning house. Look at any flat surface and you'd think I needed to relearn the definition of "organization." Open a drawer, however, and you'll see everything in perfect and repeatable order. Look in my closet, and you'll see every piece of clothing arranged by type and time of year it's to be used. Take a gander at the shelves, and you'll find the DVDs in alphabetical order and the books arranged by genre and author name. It's not that I don't like things to be in order (or at least that's what I would explain to my mother), it's that things are either put away or they aren't...no half way, no in between...and so things build up until I'm ready to put everything away the right way. And so it is with Bigfoot. I feel a responsibility to either write about it "right" or not at all...and since I work a full time job and happen to have a rather time consuming set of active, living in the moment hobbies, reliving it for you all at once may never happen. Instead, please bear with me as I follow the advice of those who excel in keeping a tidy house: Break it down into manageable pieces and the task won't seem so big. If I were creative and had it all written out to dispense in teaser bits, I'd start with Part 3 or something, just to make you all confused, yet engaged in true George Lucas style. Alas, I am not...and Star Wars did that better than I would have anyway. So, welcome to Part Zero. 

The magnitude of the Bigfoot 200 experience makes it hard to sit and write about. There isn't one single lesson learned. There isn't one single dominating feeling, though at the end all those emotions briefly faded in comparison to the joy of crossing the finish line. Most of all, it does not feel at all like the solo effort that races in the past have been at their core. 

This part of the story begins at the airport in Tucson, where thankfully I made it through two rounds of security with my expired temporary driver's license and birth certificate. From there, I took a plane to a train to a bus (Dr. Seuss would be so proud), to spend the next two days with my buddies Trey and Ryan in Issaquah, Washington. Within a few hours, I found myself caught up on all the Uphill Running gossip from my three month absence and in possession of 2.5 new pairs of shoes for the race. When you plan to be on your feet for four days straight, traditional rules for breaking in equipment tends to go out the window. Also, for anyone who hasn't been vertical for that many consecutive steps, gravity and the rules of circulation make things like feet swell over time. Why the half pair? Trey was kind enough to send me with an extra extra pair on loan, just in case. If you're ever in Issaquah, do yourself a favor and stop by the Uphill Running shop. Tell them Kate sent you, and they'll probably offer you a beer...or just be share your story and have a conversation and they'll probably offer you a beer anyway.

The next day, I hijacked Ryan and his car in return for a breakfast stop on our way to Monroe to pick up a car from my wonderful friends and former landlord/lady (is landpeople a thing?), Alan and Heidi. You may be able to get through airport security with an expired temporary license, but companies frown on renting you a vehicle. Grocery shopping done, bean burritos made, further visiting had. To add some functional component to the remaining day at my favorite bachelor pad, I cleaned the inappropriately green fuzzy things out of the fridge and made enough French toast, scrambled eggs, and sweet potato hash to feed a small army...because, let's be honest, that's the real way to show love to a bunch of people who run up mountains for fun. Before leaving, I promised Trey I'd share a beer with him as soon as I got done, however many miles I ended up completing, whatever time of day or night. His return threat to only partake if I crossed the finish line was probably an empty one, but I'm only a little embarrassed to admit how much it motivated me to keep putting one foot in front of there other in the coming days when I couldn't come up with many other reasons to do so. 

 Thursday afternoon was filled with race meetings in the little town of Randle at the White Pass High School. A pit opened in my stomach as soon as I parked the car, which only got bigger as I fumbled through my drop bags and cheerfully asked the pink trucker's hat wearing gentleman (Yes, Phil, you get to be a gentleman for my story) next to me, "Any second thoughts?"

"Nope, I just finished Badwater and the Colorado 200 last month. My feet are a little sore, but it should be a good time."

Oh...shit. I'm in a place where even the normal looking people are actually running gods. 

It's a good thing my response to fear is to become very quiet and still whilst considering my options, because otherwise I might have started running then...to a dark place to hide and say "Just Kidding!!" when asked about the concept of running 200 miles. Instead, I coerced my facial muscles to produce some vague form of smile or grimace by the time the pink hat turned back around. Then, all real prep work done, finding food to put in that ever growing pit seemed like the only reasonable task to keep from pacing in circles all night. Yep, food's a pretty big theme in my life. When in doubt, eat. Forty driving miles later, I was back at the campsite in possession of my Last Meal: a Subway egg sandwich and a bag of yogurt covered pretzels.

Nothing left to do, staring blankly at the Runner's Manual, I started writing down aid station distances and cut off times on my left forearm in permanent marker. I don't typically carry course descriptions, or even read them in detail before a race...something about taking the magic out of the exploration, I guess, but looking down at them, the task seemed just barely manageable. It reminded me of a chance remark from my first 50 mile race in December 2012. Trish turned to look at me as she paced the last fourteen miles of the course and said "you know, it's really amazing that even when you're coming off an injury or things don't go as you planned, you never have to worry about cut off times."

 Though I'd set up a tent, my anxiety of missing the early morning bus ride to the start had me trade a cramped position in the borrowed car for access to a cell phone charger for a fitful night of almost sleep, dressed in everything but my bib number (#73) for the next day.

Morning came, as it has a habit of doing, so cold compared to my desert training ground that it was hard to move in spite of my refreshed nerves. We boarded the school bus and began the winding drive to the start line. Conversation ranged from silent contemplation to booming and enthusiastic discourse of adventures past. The handful of 200 mile veterans were a welcome and stolid presence as well all wondered what the inaugural course would bring. The statistics alone set the Bigfoot 200 apart from all but the very most super human foot races, yet here we were, a bunch of very human folks without the benefit of morning coffee, ready to make an attempt.

At the Marble Mountain Sno-Park, we unloaded and dove at the provided spread of food and coffee (!!) with vigor that nearly matched the race's namesake. Resigned excitement began to join the knot of nerves in my abdomen...at least I had enough time to use the restroom before the starting gun, right?

"Luis Leon, please come check in!" Called Candice, the Race Director and living legend in my household for the past three years, naming the other Tucson runner.

No Luis meant no Allie (his lovely fiance who had graciously agreed to move some of my spare equipment between aid stations to lessen my self-crewed burden), so I said goodbye to my sunscreen and bottle of contraband ibuprofen, leaving the backpack I'd hoped to send with her with the pile of things to return to the finish. It was too late to worry whether I'd see the other resupply items (shoes, batteries, spare food, etc.) I'd left in her care. I'd simply have to adjust to whatever happened. Now that we were in the final countdown stages, it was all just part of the race experience.

Pictures taken, we counted down the ten seconds to "Go!" and trotted leisurely to the double track entrance of our Mount Saint Helens partial circumnavigation through a chorus of cheers and GPS watch beeps. A hairy fellow with large feet chased us out with a growl and a wave. Now, it was just a matter of one foot in front of the other. This was what we did. We were home.

The Taper

Relentless forward progress is the art of finding finding oneself by becoming lost to the world... 

The taper. The dreaded calm before the storm of your big goal, your day, your race. It's a terrifying and frustrating time in an endurance athlete's life when, instead of enjoying our reduced energy output and increased healing time, we put that energy into holding everything together as it seems to be falling apart.

We feel the physical pain of old and new injuries that come on without cause or explanation. My knee hasn't hurt this whole training season, yet I limped up the stairs while listening to it grind on Saturday night.

Our mental demons pop up and remind us how much that daily dose of endorphins helps us through the day. For me, it's a slide into the trap of diminished self-worth and self-love. It manifests with a need for companionship and spontaneous affirmation (my profound thanks for those who unknowingly provided just that over the past two weeks, you are a daily blessing in my life) , which I am objectively aware is a response to my rejection of myself. While I enjoy good company, I only crave it when no longer at peace with myself. In turn, I become someone who I respect and enjoy spending time with less... And the vicious cycle becomes hard to break.

Sometimes, luck and all things out of your control seem to take advantage of the fact that your guard is down. So while you use your suddenly old, aching, and fat 28 year old, 130lb, ultra runner and fighter body to stare down your self-worth demons, your truck breaks down, your clothes get stolen, and your replacement driver's license gets lost or delayed somewhere in the mail.

Tapering almost makes running a 200 mile race seem easy by comparison, right?

Last Tuesday, after the "Go get up and run you lazy girl!" voice finally won over the "Just stay under the covers... And maybe eat some cookies" intonation, I ran up the road to Mt Bigelow under brilliant blue skies does with white clouds. As I neared the crest, I could hear the faint echo of thunder. Staying at the top, there was a wall of black on one side, allowing me to have one outstretched hand and rain and the other in sun. It was like standing in a real life analogy of dark and light, if climbing a hill only to have a storm. And yet, all I could do was smile and turn my face up to feel the contrasting breezes of dry warmth and cool damp. You probably know by now that I love running in the rain. Especially in the mountains. It fills me with joy as each step feels like an accomplishment; as the tactile stimulation of each raindrop grounds me and tells me Be Here, Be Present, Just Be, This Is Real, You Are Real, You Are Enough, This Moment Is Enough. For an instant, for a series of moments, for a ten mile loop, the trail of the taper cycle is broken. Soaked to the bone and sliding along rocks, I am light and beautiful and alive and free.

Some day, I would like to say that I respond to the things I cannot control in the same way I do getting caught in a thunderstorm. Right now, getting stuck in the taper blues tells me I'm not there yet, but today it's raining hard enough that I can feel a smile building and am ready to make my own luck on the way to a great adventure.

Bigfoot 200, here I come!

Are your dreams big enough?

"Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing." ~Helen Keller 

Once the precedent of pushing limits is set in our lives, of identifying fears and facing them with a touch of masochistic glee, it is nearly impossible to remain content with remaining where we are, regardless of what we have accomplished. And so, it is only in natural progression that, having completed the once far off goal of running a 100 mile mountain race, this formerly red-faced and miserable Physical Education participant would train for a new race over double the distance (Bigfoot 200-August 2015). That is a long, long way to go on foot, and I am excited to learn whether this time I have finally chosen a physical challenge too big to finish the first time around.

To dream dreams with the understanding that failure is real option, and to strive forward whole-heartedly anyway, is one of the bravest (and possibly stupid) things humans can do. Evolution selects for those who avoid risk, who embrace the negative bias; joy and growth select for those who place the potential for more over survival. As a rational person, a scientist, a doctor, it is hard to make high-risk life decisions. Since last writing, an attempt to do just that resulted in two cross-country moves, bringing me back to where I started (fortunately physically, more than mentally) after an all too brief taste of the Cascadian wild. I’d like to believe that the search for physical failure is teaching me to be more accepting and loving of the professional and personal failures in my life, to view all aspects of life in the way I feel about a challenging solo climb with hail stinging my face and the rocks dissolving under me. Without my most recent “failure,” I may have never had the freedom to volunteer 50 hours of trail building time, eaten lunch on Mt. Rainier after learning to snowshoe, sang around a campfire with new and hopefully lifelong friends until well past midnight on New Year’s Day, or come back to the desert with renewed appreciation of the people and experiences here, but it’s never easy.

Another Tucson runner offered the following advice regarding my next race adventure “Just will and plain stupidity to finish is all it takes.” So cheers to dreams that are too big, to will, to stupidity, and to change!

Lifestyles

The title character in Life of Pi (my current Audible workout read) talks at length about his experiences with God and love in many religions. First introduced to that relationship through Hinduism, he sees through that lens clearest, yet appreciates that “Hindus, in their capacity for love, are indeed hairless Christians, just as Muslims, in the way they see God in everything, are bearded Hindus, and Christians, in their devotion to God, are hat wearing Muslims.” His faith grows and deepens as he finds brotherhood with wise teachers of each religion, even appreciating atheism, and is both troubled and confused by the need he sees in others to violently defend one belief over another. 

While less likely to lead to wars and political upheaval than religion, I see the same theme and challenges play out with many other "lifestyle" beliefs. When I say lifestyle, I mean a conscious deviation from passive existence, generally based on a core concept or value. Examples include abiding by a certain nutritional philosophy, being an athlete, and pursuing a vocation instead of a job. It could even be committing to being a certain type of partner or parent. When we embrace a lifestyle choice, it becomes part of our identity...you are an athlete, even when you aren't running...you are a teacher, even when you aren't teaching. A lifestyle isn't put away at the end of the day.

If you know me, or have read many of my previous ramblings, you'll know that I didn't intend to become a runner, let alone compete in 100 mile endurance events. Though exposed to a variety of sports growing up, I was a participant, never an athlete. Even today, amidst two-a-day workouts and a vague outline of future race plans, I consider myself more of an adventurer of the athletic (and possibly extreme) variety. For me, running was the introduction to the athletic lifestyle that enriched and expanded my desire and ability to say "yes!" to any adventure. Training is done with the aim to experience more and accomplish new things in the limited time I'm given, never to impose restrictions. That's not to say it's always fun, but even on the days it's not, I'm doing the work today so I can have more fun in the future. 

Unfortunately, once you embrace a lifestyle and experience the rush of positive self-changes, it's sometimes tempting to be overzealous, defensive, and even judgmental toward those who haven't made that same choice (insert born-again evangelist, recent Paleo convert, etc. here). It's all with the best intentions...clearly you just haven't found the true way to live yet and it would be irresponsible, even immoral, to not at least try to bring you along with them. As we settle into the lifestyle, giving into these tendencies can lead to alienation, a close-minded world view, or eventual disillusionment with the lifestyle itself. 

When we adopt a lifestyle, whether that of a Christian, triathlete, vegan, or writer we have a choice. We can use it as a lens to find brotherhood and connection with both ourselves and the world around us, or as a tool for separation that narrows our view of the world. Whether you look for connection or division, you will always find what you seek. 

June 8, 2014

Time passes, whether we want it to or not. In the good times, it seems to fly by and we wish the moments would slow down before they become memories. In bad times, minutes seem a torture of survival. Sometimes, goals and deadlines are upon us before we know it and we are caught unprepared. Time is so intangible, and yet, for right or wrong, we use it to value so many things…our maturity, our commitment, our worth to our employers. Every now and then, time becomes completely irrelevant; it ceases to lend meaning to where we are, who we are with, what we are doing, or where we are going. In those moments, we simply are… That is what it’s like to push the limits of ability, to go into the unknown separated from fear, to feel everything and nothing because past and future do not exist.

I could romanticize the bucket list achievement of finishing a 100 mile foot race, tell funny stories to make it seem like something anyone could do, drive up stupidity/bad-ass points for finishing in the face of low mileage, injuries, and long work hours leading up to the race, educate you in my nutrition/hydration/pacing choices, or scare away future racers by bringing everyone into the experience of running through hailstorms, sleep deprivation, and failing Achilles tendons. Instead, when asked about what it was like to run the Thunder Rock 100, it is most honest for me to say that it simply was. The rain was. The pain was. The cold was. The moment was. Time was not. Each moment was new and unique, no step like the last, yet not compared to any other step.

As humans, we are uniquely equipped to carry memories of the past and anticipation of the future with us. This gives us more capacity for hope and gratitude, but also for more stress and pain and fear. That, in combination with our opposable thumbs, allows our species to have more impact on the world and environment than any other. Detaching ourselves from time is not what we are taught or our natural state of being, but finding that detachment can give us new perspective on value. How much more could we do if we step back and see pain as just pain, without fear of whether it will continue? I don’t think you have to run for 27 hours to find that detachment. Each person has their place where it’s easiest to experience a moment as just a moment…in meditation, on the bike, performing surgery, painting, dancing, jumping out of a plane, etc. Spend time where time itself ceases to exist and work to bring those “timeless” lessons into ordinary life. Those lessons teach us that time and value, while sometimes related, are not synonymous, which frees us to endure more, love more, and live more than we ever imagined.