Suffering and the Beauty of Failure

I've found that I don't write about successes nearly as often as failures. In truth, I don't like the successes as much--they're not as inspiring as the failures. Failing means I stuck my neck out; I tried something beyond what I "should have" tried. Failing means I pushed my boundaries, not just beyond what I perceived I was capable of, but beyond what I actually was. I like that.

“The Edge...There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. The others-the living-are those who pushed their control as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between Now and Later. But the edge is still Out there.” -- Hunter S. Thompson, Hell's Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga

When I succeed, it means I didn't think big enough--that I wasn't willing to find the edge, I only know that it's still Out there, somewhere "further"--and all I've done is figure out that I need to find something bigger to fail at. But everything Out there takes so much time, or carries some deeper intrinsic risk, so instead, I try to make the old stuff just a little bit harder.

Which is all a way to say that I'm not training much.

I mean, I never trained much to begin with, honestly--but now I train even less (Scott Kummer and I talked about this in our nearly-4-hour nobody-will-listen-to-the-entire-thing episode of Ten Junk Miles). The surprising thing: I haven't found not-training to be overly burdensome. To the contrary, it's quite freeing--enjoyable even.

2017 was my year of no training. I don't know that I can push it much further. Granted, I failed at Zumbro 100, but I finished Tuscobia 160 (twice, technically), Superior 100, and the Barkley Fall Classic--none were easy, but they weren't supposed to be.

A friend suggested we run a race, then grab a chair right before the finish line and sit there, just outside the timing mats, until cutoff--just to highlight the absurdity of it all. It's taking power back from these events, which isn't so different than doing a course within race rules and under cutoff, just not on race weekend--the polite bandit (the only way some get to run certain events).

'Postmen of the Wilderness' by Arthur Hemming

I've found that I like people that do winter events. I don't mean, like, go out and do a 10-mile run at -20F. I mean those that voluntarily go out and suffer for 3 days in the cold and snow, pulling an absurd (yet possibly quite necessary) amount of survival gear, for little to no actual reason. There's something about this silly amount of shared voluntary suffering that brings people together, even more so than in long summer events.

I've also found that every Calvin & Hobbes sledding strip is directly applicable to winter ultra events.

The best and kindest people I know have all suffered--be it voluntary or involuntary, physical or mental. I think suffering (voluntary or involuntary) makes people more attune to others' suffering (voluntary and involuntary). (Anecdotally, there are more vegans/vegetarians in this sport than other cross-sections of society.) I often say that, to finish these events, you have to find meaning in the suffering. There's a race (that shall not be named) with the motto, "Needless suffering without a point"--but maybe there is (or always was) a point. Maybe we're all better for it. Maybe the suffering makes us better people; not better than others, but better than our prior selves (or prior notions of self).

27 people started the 2017 v.2 Tuscobia 160 on foot. There were 47 registered, but the forecast turned cold, and a lot of people didn't show up. 6 finished.

Dare I say--it was a bit routine.

I mean, it was hard, but it was supposed to be hard. I'd gone over all the possibilities in my head prior to the race, and had either accepted the painful and terrible things that were going to come, or had prepared a solution for them (everything but beyond-basic injury). My hands were cold, but they're always cold. My feet hurt, but they always hurt eventually. My legs were cold, but that hardly matters. It took a long time (61 hours), but it was always going to take a long time. I wasn't going to win, but that's OK. The end seemed to never get there, but your brain does that at all of these races.

I never got too cold, or too far down. I could have run if I needed to--but I didn't need to. I could have stopped and eaten warm food that last possible time at Gateway and warmed up inside, but my kindred companion was too low to leave the trail, fearing never coming back out, so we kept on.

The thing I didn't expect: my deep and still-growing appreciation for these fellow sufferers, gracefully persevering right along with me--for seemingly no reason at all.

Why did we climb it? Because it was there.

But really, Paul Schlagel was in front of me, and not only did he do the Order of the Hrimthurs last year (and is 2/3 through again this year), but he did Moab 240, with ITI 350 as his reason for doing so (I too have ITI 350 in sight, but I doubt I want it more than Paul--the event, and the required time off from work, still scares me--maybe another year). I was in no hurry to try and catch him (not that I could have). And when I caught Dominique LaSalle after he stopped for 2 hours to take care of a biker in trouble at -25F just before the third morning, I wasn't going to leave him. That's my race. Simple as that. Dominique and I got 2nd. (I love that man. He said he's going to volunteer next year, but I don't believe him.)

You first, Paul.

The highlights of the race for me were arguing with Dominique and Logan Polfuss the first morning of this pointless thing--Logan and me screaming back and forth about tyranny, human behavior, and the common good--listening to Dominique belt out "I am the Model of a Modern Major General" at -20F in the middle of the second night, and Logan taking a 3+hour detour on his way home, just to have lunch with us. It all runs together--as if time floats away. We remember the highs and forget the lows, much like in life. We wrestle with our existence, and our reason for being. It changes us, or rather, we're the same people--the world is as it was--we just see it differently.

"People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." -- Maya Angelou

I think what draws and keeps me is the suffering, and the time devoted to a single task, where everything else in life doesn't matter--it all disappears. I only want to see my people, not because I need them, but maybe just to know they exist--that they're still here--that I'm still here. Because there is no guarantee they will be, or that I'll get there.

I've had this same conversation with Alex, but lying on the back of her sled.

You can't lie to yourself in these events. I know I've said that you should lie to others about how you feel ("When people ask you how you feel, and you actually feel horrible, lie to them. Tell them you feel great."), but I don't think that's actually lying to yourself--it's more just shifting your perspective. We have a normal range of comfort, and these events don't fit in that normal range--which actually means that, in your daily life, what you find uncomfortable probably isn't discomfort, in the grand sense of comfort. It's not that others have it worse, or have suffered more, but that your perspective is incomplete. These are paradigm-shifting events, and we're better for them.

We're better for the suffering--that shift in perspective expands your capacity for compassion, for kindness. Do enough of these, and your ego will be beaten down to the appropriate level of nearly non-existent. The hard, cold truth of the matter is that we're not special--we're not superior athletes, gifted with anything extraordinary--most people could do these things--we just suffered, and kept going. When we fell, we got back up. We've tried things above us, and we have failed. Then, we figured out why we failed, and tried again--and that's beautiful, but it's not unique to this sport.

"When I was young, I admired clever people. Now that I am old, I admire kind people." -- Abraham Joshua Heschel 

All the best people I know have really suffered.

"What matters most is how well you walk through the fire." -- Charles Bukowski

The better you know it, the more you appreciate the suffering of others. You know that sometimes you can overcome it, but other times it'll be too much, and you'll fall apart. And the harder you hold on, the harder you'll fall.

"Everything I've ever let go of has claw marks on it." -- David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

Because we didn't fail today, doesn't mean we won't fail tomorrow. There's an amount of arbitrariness in life that we cannot escape. There's only so much we can control. The rest, we give into. We're just along for the ride. Appreciating that, the arbitrariness of it all, is humility. The world needs more of that.

We just get it in 100+ mile chunks.
 

Sadistic Asphalt Sprints & Such

I started this post in October, right after TC, but didn't finish before Chicago.  Then, after Chicago, I started writing a bit more, but Wild Duluth happened.  Then, after Wild Duluth, Surf the Murph and JFK happened, and I got so far behind that I just sort of gave up.

For what it's worth, here's what I had back in October, and I'm going to at least give it a shot at putting up my 2012 race schedule and maybe even writing a thing or two.

From October...

So LOTS has happened since my last race post (Sawtooth).  I started drafting the below right after TC (which I killed, btw!) on October 2, but since then have run Chicago on October 9 with my beautiful wife, Wild Duluth 100k on October 15, and I scaled back a 50 mile race at Surf the Murph today, October 29, after missing a flag and getting in some bonus miles (you don't even have to pay extra for them!) on the first lap and turned it into a nice 36 mile training run for JFK 50 coming up on November 19.  So, first the marathons, then the trail race.

I am hereby referring to marathons as "Sadistic Asphalt Sprints".

I'm not trying to make a statement about the TC marathon or Chicago so much as marathons in general.  Everyone is just in such a hurry and so much pain during marathons, or any road race, that it just takes some of the fun out of what I know as "running".  Not to mention that no matter how nice the TC and Chicago courses are, the streets and houses and and city and cars can't come close to comparing to the beauty of a trail race, where, if you're lucky, you don't even have to run on anything that resembles a road.  There really is no better running than a peaceful, scenic piece of singletrack.  But to top it off, during a trail race, I never feel like I'm out there competing against the other runners, but rather that somehow we're in this shared journey to the finish together.  In a marathon, the runners have more of a "every man/woman for him/herself" mentality.  One of the most beautiful things about trail running is the sense of community felt between the runners, the crew, the volunteers, the trail.. really, everything and everyone involved.  You don't see people talking too much during a marathon, whereas it's as constant as can be during an ultra.

Steve Quick summed it up really well, saying "If they could find some way to combine the marathon spectators with trails, it'd be a perfect world."  Indeed it would, Steve.  The crowd at TC and Chicago is really, really great.  The energy at both of these races was much better than at Grandmas in June (even though Grandmas is a great race).  I do wish there was some way to harness that energy for trail races.    

Dad, Andy (spectating this year), and Me before TC

For me, my first TC Marathon went great!  I killed it as much as I could have hoped to kill it.  I started at the back of corral 2 with my dad, making this the third race of the year we've started together.  In May, I pulled him along at Fargo for his first marathon finish, just like my brother pulled me along for mine the year prior.  In July, we started Voyageur 50 together, but I left him right before the Jay Cooke aid station and didn't get to see him again until after I turned around.  This one was even more brief.  We slowly walked with the rest of the runners from the back of corral 2 towards the starting line, and when we crossed, I was gone.  I had business to tend to.  I thought I could reach for a 3:30 marathon.

Starting out, the road was tight.  I was weaving in and out trying to keep my splits low.  I got a little worried when my first mile chimed off at 8:17.  It wasn't that I wasn't running fast enough, I just couldn't get through the damn crowd.  Luckily, things opened up on Hennepin Ave. and I got to push a bit.  From there things were a blur.  I was passing waves and waves of runners, even taking to the sidewalk when there was no path through the crowds on the street (not sure if that officially DQs me, but hell, I don't really care).

Ridiculous!  I love it!

Right away, in the first 3 miles, I actually ran into a few familiar faces, finding triathlete and virgin marathoner Brian Behrendt on Hennepin Ave (who, unknown to a lot of people, was carrying an engagement ring for his beautiful, now fiance, Carissa, in the pocket on his shoe at the time!), seeing someone who reminded me of an old high school classmate on Douglas Ave (who turned out to be my old high school classmate Katy Berquam, now Katy or Katherine Vrieze .. small world), Sadly, these were the only runners I recognized, but I saw a ton of familiar spectators.  Thanks to everyone who came out!

4:24!  Not too bad for an old guy!

Well, I was able to hold a pace in the 7:40's or below until mile 18, where I started tapering off, climbing above 8:00 on mile 20, actually walking up a "hill" during mile 21, and just barely holding on to finish with a 7:59 overall pace and a 3:28:47 finish, a 15-minute PR!  I knew I was going to hit the wall somewhere.  I really haven't done enough "marathon" training to know what pace I should be running, or even what I'm capable of, but damn it's fun to find the ends of where you're at!  This was a fantastic run, and I even got to hang around at the finish to watch my Dad finish his second marathon with a new PR of 4:24!

Fast forward a week, and Alicia and I took off to Chicago for her first ever marathon!  She got to run the TC 10 the week before as a nice little warm up, but this was going to be one hell of an adventure!  Even though it was Chicago, and I'd never ran it before, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to run with her and take pictures throughout.  She really did get sick of my endless pointing and shooting of the camera every mile, but I got some great shots of her powering along.

Before the start

One of the fantastic things about Chicago is that we were able to grab a hotel literally across the street from the start line, which made race morning such a breeze.  We didn't leave our room until 15 minutes before the start, and then just walked into the gates and as far up as we could.

Alicia in her "Superhero" outfit!

Wow do they know how to pack them in at the start.

There's no "waves" at Chicago (like Disney, which gives each corral it's own firework-aided start), just one big slow walk once the gun goes off.  Our walk to the start took over 20 minutes, but seemed even longer.  The crowds were amazing throughout, though.  There was never a spot without cheering spectators.  If you feed off a crowd, this is the race for you.

"F---ing golden" indeed

Thrilled to be done!

Big smiles for her first marathon!

Long story short... Alicia had a great first marathon, and I had a blast chasing her around for it.  I can't wait for her next one.

The rest of October brought Wild Duluth 100k in Duluth, and Surf the Murph 50-mile, which I turned into a 38-mile 50k after a wrong turn on lap 1 of 3 and decided to save the legs for JFK 50 mile with my cousin Jim 2-weeks later.  

Below are some pics of Wild Duluth, which I clocked at 15:59.  If I find more time to write about it, I will, but for now just know that this is a fantastically challenging 100k.  If you've run Voyageur 50, please remember that this is nothing like that.  Here, we all start in the dark, and all of us mortals finish in the dark.  It's a long day out there on the trails.  I was ready to give up after mile 40 or so, and literally the only thing that kept me going was there only being 3 miles until the next aid station.  The mental aspect of it getting dark again was really getting me, that and the mental stress of knowing that I had to go another 15 or 20 miles before the finish, but it all got extremely manageable when I just broke it down to making it to the next aid station.  Just 3 more miles.  In fact, I'm thinking that, from now on, I might just have lap distance between aid stations as a display, that and total running time so I know when to force myself to eat.  This just highlights the fact that as you tire, your mental grit goes long before the physical.  Your body can go a lot farther than your brain thinks it can, and that's partly because we turn off the brain long before the body quits.  

Sunrise over Duluth

Nice, smooth trail

Gorgeous singletrack

Yes, this is the race course

Seems easy enough, right?

I'm just happy to be here

Surf the Murph followed Wild Duluth, and JFK followed Surf the Murph, and that closed my 2011.  2012 started with the Goofy Challenge at Disney again, where I ran a 1:38 half and a 3:42 full--making some mistakes during the marathon, including no salt and no calories during the full ("i'm an ultrarunner" arrogance blowing up on me) a day after a decent effort at the half.  But still, I was in the top 4% of Goofy finishers, so I'm happy.  Unfortunately, I left Disney injured, and that slightly set me back for my Zumbro 100 training.

At Zumbro, though, I'm going to avenge my DNF from last year.  I don't know how fast it's going to be, but I know I'll finish.  First goal is to finish.  Second goal is sub-30 hours.  Third goal is to be healthy enough to run by the following Thursday.  It's a long year, and this is not a fast 100 mile race.  I'll save any attempt at speed for the "easier" 100s, which this year, might only be Kettle.  

In any case, I'm going to try and put up a 2012 race schedule, and maybe even write a thing or two in the near future.  In the meantime, see you out there.