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Will's Quest - Running the Grand Slam to find cure for rare disease

Abby and Amelia - my nieces 

To My Blog Readers:

I’m asking for you help. Last week I launched Will’s Quest – my commitment to run the Grand Slam of Ultra running while raising money to raise awareness and find a cure for a rare disease my nieces suffer from. It’s called Tuberous Sclerosis, or TS for short.

If you don’t already know about TS, here is a snapshot:

It’s a genetic disease that affects 50,000 people in the United States, and even more around the world. TS typically means having noncancerous tumors in the major organs of your body – your brain, skin, eyes, lungs and kidneys. Tumors that form in the brain are the greatest challenge to quality of life and can cause uncontrollable seizures, autism, epilepsy, developmental delay, intellectual disability and depression. TS is also a progressive disease, which means that it can become more severe later in life.

Here is the thing. Running gives so much to us. More than we runners can really imagine. Once in a while it is important that we give back. I’m asking you to help me with whatever contribution you can make. My goal is to raise $15,000 from as many donors as possible. It’s not the amount that matters, it’s the thought that you took the time and made the effort. Click here to watch Julianne Moore Video describing TS. Click here to donate.

Lets help these kids and adults. The good news is research has uncovered new medications that can control the growth of these tumors. 

The TS families say they will “give everything but up.” And that is what I plan to do this summer running the Grand Slam on my quest for TS.

Bring it on vols. Let's get'r done!

Volunteering w Dev. C at Finish Line OC Marathon

This morning a glanced at my phone and noticed a friend request from the legendary Stan Jensen. Stan founded and still maintains one of the oldest and informative websites for ultra runners, www.run100s.com. The request was to join the Grand Slam of Ultra Running 2014 Facebook group. I started reading – or rather devouring - Stan’s site many years ago, well before running my first ultra. The invitation got my attention – shit, this Grand Slam thing is a big deal.

It’s taken several months, and now I’m officially qualified to run in the Grand Slam. The final qualification coming after submitting my $80 check to the director and seeing his email that my application was received. Wow. Now, as they say, the fun begins.

I’m not exactly sure why, but I’ve decided to attempt the Grand Slam without any crew or pacers. It just seems like the right thing to do. Maybe I’m being a little naive, but aren’t the hundreds of volunteers out there the real crew for us runners? I don’t know how this will play out, but I’m determined. And excited. And a little nervous,  but in good way. I need it to be this way. To rely less on others. And more on myself.

It was interesting to see the Vermont 100 just added a “solo” classification just in time for my GS. It allows no pacers and no crew. It’s also interesting that the European races generally are all solo races with no pacers permitted and crew highly discouraged. I got my first taste of this at UTMB in 2012, and came away with mixed feelings. Not so much because of how it impacted me as a runner, but more because of the impact it had on my family, who came a long way to see me run. The race officials were not accommodating to say the least.

I’ve come to learn in the months leading up to the GS that UTMB was a bit of a harbinger. Getting family, crew and pacers to four separate events taking place four different weekends throughout the summer some thousands of miles apart is, well, a bit daunting. And I need to take every ‘daunt’ I can out of the GS which is already daunting to begin with.

So, for the summer, it will just be me...and all my volunteers, or vols, as I'll refer to them in the coming months. What else is there to say? Bring it on vols, lets get’r done!

The Past Is Always Tense, and the Future Perfect

It’s now down to a matter of days. And the Grand Slam begins. Thing is the only race I’ve been able to think about is the first, Western States, which starts in two and half weeks. It’s kind of hard to think beyond this one. After all, it is the course that has yanked me around harder than a pit bull chomping on a rag doll. The descents, oh those descents. I cannot describe how they abused my body. And I went so willingly! Like a lamb to slaughter. I’m not going so willingly this time. Not this time.

Then Vermont. Yes, the deceptive little 100 miler in the Green Mountains. After getting lost twice last year and starting too too fast, I have learned my lesson. Right? No hammering down the 3 mile paved road. No coming in an hour faster then my plan in the first half. Not going to happen this time. Not this time.

I’m going to leave it at that. Leadville and Wasatch are taking place in another season, or so I am thinking. August? Way too far away to chatter on about. We must take these things on one by one. Live in the moment, because, as they say, the past is always tense, and the future perfect.

Keep it real runners.

Apples, Bodily Functions, and a Garden of Eden

Can you find the apple?

It’s called chunder, but when the natives say it it sounds more like chundah. In certain quarters it’s simply barfing, ralphing, yaking or even spewing.

Whatever the term, this bodily function is no stranger to ultra runners. The challenge for us, of course, is trying to identify all things that contribute to tossing our cookies, and avoid these things at all cost.

Of all the fruit in Eden, who among us would’ve guessed that the apple would be the forbidden one? The one fruit that describes the larynx in our throat (was it stuck in Adam’s throat?). Forgetting the religious connection, the apple has a metaphorical reputation that is, well, a little concerning. A reputation that became all the more concerning last weekend.

We were standing on the top of Mt. Baden Powell at the highest point of the Angeles Crest 100 mile endurance run, and we could see forever. When I looked around, everything seemed so surreal.  A gentle wind blew, and gliders soared in and out of the mountain’s contours. It was, at least from my perspective, our own momentary Garden of Eden.

That was the time Howard, one of the runners, pulled out an apple. Apparently not a good idea, as said by Rob M who remembered suffering by way of the apple on a run 40 years prior. But that bit of knowledge didn’t save the apple. It didn’t save Howard either. Eating the forbidden fruit in our momentary Garden of Eden had its consequences (please refer to the first sentence in this post now...).

Ok, lets forget the Garden of Eden for a minute. That apple was there just to lure poor old Adam to prove we humans are weak and will forever need redemption. Right? But why was Howard treated so poorly after eating an apple? Could it be the high fructose content in apples? Or could it be their high sorbitol content? Or could it be the fact that sorbital restricts the absorption of fructose, which can cause stomach issues even in people sitting on a couch at sea level?

One thing I’ve learned in the sport of ultra running is that there exists a tree of knowledge. Each branch on this tree is actually the knowledge of every individual runner. There are times we need to tap this tree of knowledge, and take notes. And there are times when we don’t. Which reminds me of a something Mark Twain once said: “man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can learn in no other way.”

Don’t eat what doesn’t fall far from the tree!

The Essence of Why

I've written recently about the why factor. Why it is that we do these things that we do. Things others might (and do) hold in utter despair and view as absurd. Now, well, I've recently stumbled upon a quote that kind of sums up what I've tried and failed to put into words. If you can look beyond the literal reference to Everest, and see that the author (Sir Edmund Hillary) is talking about life itself, well, then you will understand.

"If you cannot understand that there is something in man which responds to the challenge of this mountain and goes out to meet it, that the struggle is the struggle of life itself upward and forever upward, then you won't see why we go."

Edmund Hillary

Grand Slam By the Numbers

The challenge: run four one hundred mile races with three to four weeks between each one. Western States 100 (June 28), Vermont 100 (July 19), Leadville 100 (August 16) and Wasatch Front 100 (September 5).

The good news is I’ve run three of the four races already so I have some idea of what to expect on those. The not so good news is I have not run the hardest of the four, Wasatch Front. That this one is the very last of the four could be a blessing in disguise. I figure if I make it through the first three alive, someone will have to shoot me to keep me from the finish line at Wasatch. I might have to carry knee pads on this one. If have to get down on all fours to finish I’m not holding back!

Cumulative elevation gain of the four races is 74,611 feet. Cumulative elevation loss is 78,796 feet. These are just numbers, right? Not to be confused with things that are more important like.....umm.....well....maybe....nutrition! Or attitude. Or fear. I wasn’t a math major, but from what I can piece together on the internet it looks like I will be climbing a lot this summer. It turns out that, if I just kept going up, this would be enough climbing to put me 22.7 kilometers above the earth (14.1 miles up). Folks, the stratosphere begins at 18 kilometers. Everest tops out at 8.85 kilometers.

Another turd in the punchbowl is having to run 78,796 feet downhill. Have you ever run downhill for hours, or days, on end? This will be the hardest part of all.

Please, keep your fingers crossed for me, so this 51 year-old body can hold it together.

Keep it real runners.

Trail Running Becoming Too Commercialized?

Work with me on this. I’m trying to find an angle on the topic for this post, and I’m struggling. So I’m just writing now. It isn’t something I do often, but it seems to be working right now, to just start writing. The Banco de Gaia Pandora station playing on my headphones is helping, but the topic seems to be too big for my current lack of creative perspective. Ok. Whatever. Let’s just see what flows...

Let me start by continuing the conversation of a fellow blogger at nomeatbarefeet.com about commercialism and trail running. Where this is going I haven’t a clue, but it seems to be top of mind for me right now.

The question is real simple. Is trail running becoming too commercialized? If only the answer could be so simple. If the question elicits an increase in your heart rate, you have an opinion. This is good. No, this is great. Keep reading and, please, leave a comment at the end of this post.

First of all, “trail running” is a broad term that includes many types of running. Starting with the sport of cross country which has been around for over 100 years to the more recent and sometimes mass produced mudder, adventure and xterra type events, the sport attracts a broad range of participants. Throw in ultras and the spectrum now includes events of just a few kilometers to more than 100 miles.

Back to the question. Is trail running too commercialized? I don’t think it is possible to answer the question without identifying a specific type of trail running. Cross country, for example is huge high school and college sport. Is cross country too commercialized? I don’t think so. I think the sport has retained its well-deserved tradition of flying under the commercial radar where the big three – football, basketball and baseball –have flown for decades. I don’t think there will be any big money shoe or skivvy contracts for cross country athletes any time soon.

My only comment on the mudder, adventure and xterra type of events is that they are, in large part, nothing more than a commercial endeavor, with a profit motivation driving the proverbial boat. Whether this is good or bad isn’t for me to judge. The fact is we live in a capitalistic society and I have no qualms about people starting a business with the objective to make money. The entrepreneur spirit is, after all folks, how we became the most powerful country in the world. What we leave in our wake can be troubling, however.

This leads me to ultras, and whether “ultra” trail running is too commercialized. I’m on record of supporting the Leadville 100 which has fallen out of favor with ultra “purists” due largely to its bulging size and related challenges race organizers really need to fix. Leadville is probably one of the most “commercialized” ultras in the US. Is it over commercialized? It is getting close. But if race organizers follow through with their commitment to fix the challenges runners and crews have experienced, Leadville could set the standard for “commercial” races.

Here is the real beef. As long as trail running remains a sport you don’t regularly find on ESPN, CBS Sports or even your local news channel, chances are the sport will not become too commercialized. Will companies continue to bring new products to the sport? Will new events continue to sprout up around the country? Will races continue to fill up within hours or even minutes of opening? The answer to all of these questions is – absolutely. Blame it on the book Born to Run, Ultra Marathon Man or the internet, this is what happens in a growing industry.

As long as people are willing to write a check there will always be someone there to cash it. Welcome to the free market, for better or worse.  

 

Looking for Why

Why is an illusive word, especially for ultra runners, at least this ultra runner. It bubbles up at awkward times, only to fade away when I think I have found it. Then, out of nowhere, it jumps back up and slaps me in the face. That is when I wonder if I will ever learn why.

Though it hides from me when I’m on a solid run. Like last night, when I started my run wondering why. Then after 10 minutes it simply slipped away as I scampered 12 miles over one of my favorite trails.

As I neared the end of my run, and looked across the horizon and saw the sun setting. I was sure I had found why. But, as I learned later that night, it wasn’t to be.  

Whether I ever find it, I will just have to keep on looking for it. Maybe that is all there is to why. 

One Of My Favorite Places

Do you have a favorite place to run? This is one of mine....

The Road Less Traveled (by humans anyway)

Mountain Lion Print - Limestone Canyon today

When the gov said he didn't like running by himself out in these hills, I reminded him that when the cougar is in full chase mode all I have to do is run a little faster than him and its all over anyway. We turned north, toward Limestone Canyon, and came upon a prominent do-not-enter-trespassing-violators-will-be-prosecuted sign. It was the warmest welcome that I've seen in a while so we invited ourselves into a very remote and unused trail in heart of Orange County's Park system. This was virgin trail for me and I was loving every step!

photos courtesy of the gov

So much so I had to launch a roller just to make a point to gravity that we had climbed a pretty monster hill despite its stubborn resistance. "What are you going to do with that video?", my daughter Devon C asked me as I was writing this. "Its just a rock rolling down the hill," she says. "Yea, but it's a big rock," I replied. It felt good just to see gravity gobble this bad-ass rock up as the gov and I stood there wondering how much further we would wander into this scat riddled odyssey.

We continued into this lion's abyss and were reminded who's playground this really is. Apparently the big cats that roam these hills are not bashful about leaving their mark on trail. The gov kept his distance. 

Not our playground

The rest is just some really cool views by two runners seeking the road less traveled. 

Keep it real runners. 

This Thing Called Energy

It’s strange. This thing called energy. There are times when it enters you without warning, and bursts forth with all the power and resolve to lift you up and into a deep, icy river. Then there are other times. When it sits precariously near you. Watching you. Waiting for you.

It wasn’t something I could really predict. And if it were, it probably wouldn’t have happened on that day, when I was just like any other college boy foraging for a moment, a reason, to feel alive.

The door hadn’t even closed all the way when I started running. “Where are you going?” my friend yelled from behind me. But I couldn’t turn around to answer him. I just kept running. Away from the classroom where I had just completed my last final. I ran to release energy. I ran to gain energy. I ran because it just felt really good. I couldn’t stop smiling. I lifted my arms into the air and ran through the campus. I felt like a prize fighter who had taken the title from the champ. Now I was the champ! It was building up inside of me all semester. Now the energy wanted out.

So I talked my friend into driving down to the Potomac River. It was November in Washington, D.C. and the autumn days were turning colder. We got into his Ford Bronco appropriately nicknamed “Dino” with its bulging tires and gun racks. When we drove up to the side of the river I jumped down from Dino and ran to the seawall. It was a strange moment, to be overcome by pure exuberance like that, then to step off a ledge and into that dark brown river, fully clothed, not knowing the strength of its current or the temperature of its water.

There are certain moments in life that will never leave us. Moments when everything moving into and out of our conscious minds simply stops, and we find ourselves alone, with nothing else but the company of what is happening to us right then, right there.

The air in my lungs disappeared. And the muscles in my arms and legs went limp. The seawall that beckoned me just seconds earlier was now getting smaller as I drifted down the cold, dark Potomac River. It wasn’t fear or despair that had overcome me. It was just shock. My body had been reduced to a numb piece of flesh so quickly that I was just about helpless. Fortunately some of the energy that lifted me into this careless situation was still lurking somewhere, waiting. Enough, thankfully, to snap me out of the hypothermic stupor and get me back to that seawall.

Strange. This thing called energy.

Thank You Kind People - You're Key

The Key...Sitting, Waiting. 

By the time I’d reached the two women on trail my hope was dwindling rapidly. I was still hanging on to a glimmer of it though, because I could visualize the moment the night before when I felt something touch my leg while I was running along the trail, something that seemed to have fallen from above. It wasn’t until I arrived back at my Jeep after running 7 miles that it realized I’d dropped my car key on trail.

I realized at that moment I had pulled an Al. The good news was I knew, sort of, where the key became dislodged. But was it a key or a disoriented bug? I had it in my mind that it was the key, and so the next morning I chose to ride my mountain bike to work and put an end to this mystery along the way.

“Excuse me, did you happen to see a lost car key on the trail?”, I uttered without much enthusiasm as I rode by the two women. “Yes, there is key back at the Audubon house on the board,” one of them blurted out. “Really, I can’t believe it!” I replied. “Thank you!”

Thank you to the kind person, whoever you are, for picking up my key and placing it on the board. And thank you again to the two women who happened to see the key on the board, and be on the trail when I happened to ride through at 7:43 am Friday.

Trespassing In the Mountains

“Hey, hey!” I could hear him yelling behind me. I continued on, but he persisted. “Hey you...hold it!” So I stopped, turned around and watched the red coats come rumbling in the snow toward me. I half expected to be noticed and even stopped, but I acted like I knew what I was doing and just tried to blend in.

Was it my purple ski cap that sat erect on my head like a Norwegian birthday hat? Or was it my red Blackies sweatshirt? I’m pretty sure it was neither of these fashion statements that caught their attention. No, I’m pretty sure it was the snowshoes I was wearing at the top of the Snow Summit ski mountain. After all, who wears snowshoes on a ski mountain?

It was enough to convince a team of ski patrolmen to conduct a serious inquiry. “What are you doing up here?” one of them asked me accusatorily. “Well I’m snowshoeing, of course,” I replied. “Do you have a lift ticket? the other asked. No, I don’t have a lift ticket, I said. Looking bewildered, he quipped “Then how did you get up here?”

There was a brief pause. And I told him I hiked from the bottom of the mountain, and stopped at the cafeteria on the top mountain to buy a cup of coffee. Then the old one really burst my bubble. “You’re trespassing! You are not allowed anywhere on this mountain, including in the cafeteria, without a lift ticket.” Oh really! I replied a little miffed, “then why didn’t the cashier ask to see a lift ticket when I bought the coffee?”

Just then their radios lit up with an emergency and stopping this passing snowshoer lost all their unneeded attention.

I continued along my path and finished my "snowjourn", and even lived to blog about it.

Birthdays - Blessings and Burdens

There are moments. And then there are moments. Since this is officially a running blog, I’m going to describe this moment like it is…a bit of a runners high…only it didn’t involve any running.

It goes something like this. I’m in New York City with my family last week for my birthday. We go to this really cool/hip restaurant in Tribeca for dinner to celebrate. We sit down at a table and next to us are four people, and one of them looks really familiar.  I sneak a closer glance and realize its Smokey Robinson, as in Tears of a Clown and Tracks of My Tears Smokey Robinson. For those of you runners not musically inclined, it’s the guy who helped put Motown on the map. 

Anyway, after sitting there for a while I lean over and whisper to my wife and daughters. I tell them who I see. We all agree not to be star struck idiots and make a big deal out of the situation.

The night goes on and eventually the waiter brings out a birthday cake with a candle. Only it isn’t for me. It is for Smokey. It's his birthday too! His table begins to sing happy birthday. We and others join in. We all clap at the end. Then Smokey looks over at our table to thank us and he notices the card my oldest daughter drew for me. It reads Happy Birthday Daddy! He wishes me happy birthday and we shake hands.

No big deal? “I just shook hands with Smokey Robinson,” I keep saying while my girls laugh at me. I think back to the hundreds of times I’ve said “smooookeeey” with my good friend Lobster. I think further back, some 30 years now, and I remember the bass riff I used to strut during the song Tears of a Clown I played with my old ska band The Exceptions. 

Now the waiter brings out a cake and candle for me, and Smokey Robinson and his friends begin to sing happy birthday to me. What? Is this really happening? Apparently it was happening, because my daughters told me it did.

Next, the waiter brings a special desert to our table. “Wait, we didn’t order that” I’m thinking to myself.  “Special birthday gift from Smokey himself” the waiter announces. So I get out of my chair and walk over to thank Smokey Robinson for buying us a special desert for my birthday. He gets up, we shake hands, pose for a quick photo, and share a minute together talking about birthdays and such. I remember saying something about birthdays being blessing and a burden, to which his friend replied that the alternative is much worse. All I could think was this one was only a blessing. 

What can I say other than the evening really got a hold of me.