He was born on a little farm in Wisconsin, a surprise as much to him as me.
He picked us, and that was the beginning and end of everything.
He went amazing places, and none of them mattered.
It didn't matter what we drove, where we slept, where we were going, or what we wore.
It only mattered that he was with us, and not without.
He taught us that happiness isn't a place, it's not a destination, or a thing, but a journey, only defined by who you travel with.
Travel anywhere, or nowhere at all, but do it together, and you have everything.
Tucker Sandor
December 5, 2004 - October 29, 2015
I wrote the below in September, after we learned we were losing him.
I'm thankful for every moment.
He was born on December 5, 2004.
He picked us in February, 2005; he wouldn't let us leave without him.
We walked him off leash right away, before he could even get away if he'd wanted to; he's never needed one since.
We learned quickly that he can't do kennels, but that hardly ever mattered.
When he was 2, he got a brother.
When he was 7, he lost him, and it was heartbreaking; he didn't understand what happened, and for months, he looked for him everywhere he went.
When he was 9, he got another brother.
He started as our pet, became our son, and over time, has become something even more than that; he's given us more than we've given him.
He's better and more compassionate than I am; I still learn from him every day.
He loves to travel, and hates being left behind.
He's been to 29 states.
He's seen Yosemite, Mt Whitney, and Death Valley.
He's been to Frozen Head in Tennessee, to Arrowhead and Tuscobia, to Leadville, Hardrock, and Western States.
He's climbed mountains, and strolled through Central Park.
He's seen Gettysburg, Niagara Falls, and Zion.
He's swam in Lake Tahoe and Superior, the Colorado River, Mississippi, Minnesota, and St Croix.
He became the wary acquaintance of a buffalo in Yellowstone, and picnicked at Jackson Lake under the Tetons.
He's hiked the Badlands, and Arches National Park.
He's walked through Times Square, and been on the Las Vegas strip.
He's run on the salt flats in Utah, and hung out in Colorado bars.
He's paddle boarded, kayaked, canoed, and boated.
He's spent countless nights and weekends with me in my office at work.
He knows when we're sad, and when we need someone to just be there.
He's the best friend I've ever had.
And he's dying.
And there's nothing we can do.
We've always known we wouldn't get to keep him forever.
Like everything else, he was never really ours.
But even though we know we'll have to say goodbye, we don't want to.
We never want to.
But he has an aggressive form of cancer.
It's everywhere.
And he's tired.
And he's scared.
And soon, his pain will be heavier than his hope.
And we'll have to let him go.
We don't know how much time he has left, when the days will become more bad than good.
But we do know how much he means to us, and that we owe it to him to keep his best interests in mind, and not be blinded by our own.
And we are sad.
And we are heartbroken.
And we will get worse.
And we will eventually be OK, but right now we're not.
We just want his last few days, or maybe weeks, to be wonderful.
Because what he's given us is beautiful.
And we wouldn't trade it for the world.
For me, it was never really a true contest. I don’t mean that I didn’t intend to go out and give it my best. It’s just that I knew enough about the course, about the event, to truly convince myself that this year, I didn’t have a shot at the whole thing. In that way, the Barkley beat me before I started. I never wrapped my head around the thought of 5 loops.
14 finishers in 26 years.
The Barkley Marathons, as we currently know it, started in 1989. It beat everybody that tried it until 1995, and then everyone again until 2001. The finishers are legendary. And each time the Barkley does not win, it gets harder.
It took me three years to get into the race, but it’s consumed me longer than that. My obsession started in 2011, the year of Brett Maune. I devoured everything I could find about the race, its director and participants, and especially those hallowed few finishers. I was hooked, but the more I learned about the race, and the more I learned about those finishers, the more the race intimidated me.
I learned how to enter in 2012 from one of those few finishers. And no, I will not share that secret with you. I still don’t feel worthy to do so. This race is special. It took me months to scrape together the courage to submit my essay, and even longer to admit to others that I’d registered. I mean, who am I to think that I should be selected to run the Barkley? In the end I realized that it’s not my job to question whether or not I should be selected to run. That’s Laz’s job. My only my job is to decide if I’m ready to apply.
I haven’t yet figured out if I was right.
My wife, my pups, and I got to Big Cove on Thursday evening in the rain. I slept in as much as I possibly could on Friday morning as the masses started arriving, but time crawled all day.
“Remember to check your manhood at the yellow gate,” Laz joked as I checked in. “You assume I brought mine with me,” I replied. He put the map out late in the afternoon. I took pictures and marked my maps at camp.
Stu Gleeman laid it out for me nicely, “Just follow the ridges.” If only it were that simple.
I slept horribly. The Barkley starts with the ceremonial lighting of an unfiltered Camel cigarette sometime between 12:01 AM and 11:59 AM Saturday morning. Only Laz and Raw Dog know the start time in advance, which Laz announces with the sound of a conch 1 hour prior. Knowing this, I was dressed, in bed, and ready to run by 9 PM Friday night. I woke out of a deep sleep at 2:59 AM with two successive identical hooting sounds. Worried that was the conch, I headed up to check. False alarm. Frozen Head’s owls apparently have quite a sense of humor. Sleep was pretty horrible from there on. Daylight came, but still no conch. Finally, at 10:22 AM, that unmistakable sound echoed through camp. T minus 60 and counting, and I was as giddy as a schoolgirl.
The race started, and I found myself climbing Bird Mountain behind Rob Youngren and Jamil Coury. The pace wasn’t too strenuous, and I chatted with Jamil a bit until he stopped to shed some layers. At the top of Bird, I let Jodi Isenor and two women by. Jodi asked about my last name, and we briefly chatted about our shared Hungarian heritage. I followed Jodi at a distance down to book 1, where I grabbed my page and handed the book to Jamil. Here, two groups broke off going in two vastly different directions, which prompted me to stop and consult my map and compass. As I was doing so, Hiram Rogers happened by, and I followed him East a bit before dropping off Jaque Mate Ridge. I had a compass bearing, and descended past Hiram down to the valley floor, where people were descending from all directions.
“Do you have book 2 yet?” I stupidly asked another runner, quite loudly displaying my complete lack of course awareness. “You have to climb Jury Ridge and descent before book 2,” he kindly answered. My virgin status was firmly cemented.
I slowed a bit on the candy-ass switchbacks up to Jury Ridge, letting a few runners by. At the top, I stopped to consult my map and directions with Charlie Taylor when Jodi happened by again, pointing me in the right direction, and down we went. Jodi took off a little farther East than I wanted, and Charlie and I let him go. I wouldn’t see him again until camp. Charlie and I hit the bottom of the hill too far North at the wrong creek and had to wander a bit to find book 2. As I grabbed my page and some cookies out of my pack, Frozen Ed Furtaw and four followers happened upon us. I grabbed a compass heading and started up the ridge as they grabbed their pages, but soon, Frozen Ed scampered by me up the 40% grade. I couldn’t hang with 67-year-old Scampering Ed up that grade.
Back up on the candy-ass trail, I passed Frozen Ed and his pack, caught up to Joe Kawalski, and let Rob Youngren and Jeremy Ebel run by before Son-of-a-Bitch Ditch, but every time I stopped to consult my map and directions, Frozen Ed was back on me. When Joe realized we’d gone too far on the switchbacks up to the Garden Spot, we turned around to see Frozen Ed climbing up the right spot, where he led us to book 3. Here, I made the decision to follow Frozen Ed for a while, because I simply couldn’t run and navigate faster than I could follow and learn from Frozen Ed.
Frozen Ed’s navigation to Bobcat Rock, down Leonard’s Butt Slide to book 4, and up to Fyke’s Peak Crater and book 5 was spot on. In his 19th trip on the course, Scampering Ed was one hell of a tour guide, and he straight out kicked my ass up the 80% grade on Leonard’s Butt Slide and 70% grade on Fyke’s Peak Crater. Rob Youngren also happened by again in that section, as did Jeremy Ebel, only confirming my decision to stick with Frozen Ed.
Eventually, as Jeremy went by on the ridge up to book 6, our group became 4: Frozen Ed, myself, Michelle Roy, and Chris Gkikas, and we were having a blast! The conversation was light-hearted, and we were on course and making seemingly-great time. Frozen Ed led us perfectly to book 7 and to Rat Jaw, where we saw Hiram and Julian Jameson on their way down. Towards the tower, Jeremy climbed by again for the last time. Everyone beat me to the top, where Alicia and my pups were waiting. I got some kisses, filled my bottles, grabbed my page at book 8, and started down with Ed, Michelle, and Chris.
The trip under the prison and to book 9 was pretty special, and the climb up Bad Thing in the dark was something else, but Frozen Ed put us on top right next to book 10. The descent down Zipline was insane, but again, Ed nailed it, and we collected our page at the Beach Tree without issue. I finally realized, climbing up Big Hell, that even if I left Frozen Ed at the top of Chimney Top, I wasn’t going to make it to camp in 13:20. Like the others, Ed led us right to book 12 and back onto the candy-ass trail. At that point, a sub-6 min pace would have brought us to camp in time, which was well beyond me.
I quietly made peace with my failure, and continued to enjoy the hell out of the journey back to camp, where Michelle, Ed, and I snuck up on the yellow gate in the dark and collected our “Taps”. I hadn’t even earned the right to have Laz count my pages. There is no page count for failed loops at the Barkley, and I had failed. I yearned to go back out, but I could not.
In spite of my failure, I’d received the course education of a lifetime from Frozen Ed on his 19th and possibly final attempt at the Barkley. I can’t thank him enough. I even joked about providing him the standard 20% gratuity for his guidance. He laughed at the $0.32 offer, and kindly asked if I had a beer instead. It was well deserved. Even now, the only thing I can’t close my eyes and picture is a backwards turn off the candy-ass trail down to book 2. Everything else is vividly rooted in my mind.
Now I’m stuck, knowing I can go faster, that I can go farther, but without the ability to do so for at least another year, but maybe two or three, or even more. This event, these people, the history, the stories, it’s all surreal, but I've left feeling incomplete. I can do more. 60 hours is not beyond me. This course, though. The climbs: 1700 feet in a mile; 1300 feet in half a mile; 2000 feet in a mile and a quarter, and none of that on “trail”. They just go on and on. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced. It’s bigger than anything I imagined; so much bigger. As Chris said, he hates the saying, “you have no idea.” It can be dismissive and lazy. But with the Barkley, you truly have no idea.
We stayed all weekend, through Tuesday morning, following the comings and goings, listening to random “Taps” being played throughout the night and next day, taking in the drama of not knowing where Jeremy Ebel was on loop 2, of Johan Steene missing on loop 3, of John Kelly and Jamil Coury in camp after their Fun Runs, of not knowing if John would go back out, then Jamil’s 21-hour loop 4. Eventually, Monday night came, and Laz’s white van disappeared from the campground. The Barkley was over, and I was sad. I didn’t want to leave, but leave we must.
I feel unfulfilled. I thought starting this event would ease my obsession, but it’s only fueled it. It’s bigger than I imagined, but the course isn’t so mysterious anymore. I have to go back. I have to try again, not because I’m sure I can finish, but because I don’t feel like I’ve given it my all. I could have gone faster. I could have gone farther. Should I have left my guide? Would I have been faster alone? I honestly don’t know.
But I am certain of two things: Next time, if I’m lucky enough to have a next time, I won’t be afraid to go at my pace, and I won’t be afraid to go alone.
When I started running ultramarathon distances, I had no idea what it would take to be successful in this sport. After a few years of these things, you have no idea how gratifying it is to truly understand that nobody really knows what they're doing.
For everyone fabulously chasing things that scare them, here's a few tips I've picked up along the way:
1) Training and recovery are nice to minimize the suffering of a 100-mile race, but if you're willing to suffer a bit, neither are required to actually finish. Worried that you're undertrained? That you didn't taper enough, or tapered too much? Stop it. Worrying can't help you. You are where you are. No matter where that is, know that you can finish. Be confident in that fact.
2) If all else fails, when you can no longer run, a brisk hike and limited aid station time will get you to nearly every finish line in time. No joke.
3) During the race, only think about the distance to the next aid station. Once you're at that aid station, only think about the distance to the next aid station. If anyone ever tells me, "You're halfway done!" at mile 50 of a 100-mile race, I'm going to punch them in the nuts. The thought of doing ANOTHER 50 miles after you've already done 50 miles is horrible, but thinking about going 5 miles to the next aid station feels like an easy, daily run. You can always go 5 miles.
4) Throwing up, alone, should never end a race, and actually gives you a nice few-minute endorphin rush. Sure, if you're not processing anything, your top end may be gone, but you can still run downs and flats. A bad stomach just makes things uncomfortable — not impossible. People go days without drinking and weeks without eating. You can make it 30 hours.
5) Most pain isn't real. It's merely your body telling you that it doesn't think you can sustain what you're doing. Don't listen to it. You can ignore that kind of pain. Jared Campbell gives that pain to an imaginary friend. I've convinced myself I didn't have feet before. This stuff works.
6) Accept your current conditions as they are, then make the best of things. That's the key to happiness in life, and it works beautifully in these events. It's raining? So what? That's just how it is now. You've been wet before. You dried. Keep going. Things aren't going the way you planned? So what? Change the plan. Keep going. Fallen off your pace? That wasn't supposed to be your pace. You have a new pace now. Keep going. Feet hurt? That's just how they are now. Keep going. Quads shot? That's just how they are now. Keep going. Adopt the mantra, "This isn't hard; this just is." Unless there's a significant risk of permanent damage, keep going. You'll figure it out.
7) Fake it until you make it. If you pretend like you're having a good time, pretty soon you'll find yourself having a good time. When people ask you how you feel, and you actually feel horrible, lie to them. Tell them you feel great. Smile a lot. Offer encouragement to others. It all helps.
8) Get all negative thoughts out of your head, and distance yourself from everyone that's being negative. Constantly remind yourself how awesome it is that you're doing a 100-mile race. Someone around you talking about dropping? Get away from them. Negativity is more contagious than yawning.
9) If you're falling asleep, sprint for 30 seconds. Seriously, the momentary rise in blood pressure will wake you up, and engaging different muscles for even a little bit will loosen you out of that 100-mile shuffle you've been suffering at all day/night.
10) Remember that we're the lucky ones that even get to attempt these things. There are people that would kill to be able to take 3 steps on their own, let alone run 100 miles. If you can take one more step, take one more step. To not take that step is an insult to everyone who physically can't. Do it for them.
11) Never make decisions during the race. Your brain wants you to stop. Of course it'll come up with 1,000 reasons to quit. Don't give it the opportunity. If you're not cut off, keep going. You will always eventually find a second wind. Things never always get worse.
12) Don't ever do math during the race. You're probably wrong, and will just scare yourself. If you can keep going, keep going. Simple as that.
13) Remember, at the start of the race, that you're entering a tunnel, and there is no way out other than the other side.
14) "Courage. We all suffer. Keep going."
"The greatest battle is not physical but psychological. The demons telling us to give up when we push ourselves to the limit can never be silenced for good. They must always be answered by the quiet, steady dignity that refuses to give in. Courage. We all suffer. Keep going." — Graeme Fife
15) You are marvelous. These things we do are fantastic. We're choosing to live life, to cheat death. How can we not laugh, smile, and giggle the entire time?
"Your life is your life,
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
Be on the watch.
There are ways out.
There is a light somewhere.
It may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
Be on the watch.
The gods will offer you chances.
Know them.
Take them.
You can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes,
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
Your life is your life.
Know it while you have it.
You are marvelous.
The gods wait to delight
in you."
— Charles Bukowski, The Laughing Heart
16) You are so much more than the outcome of any race. Don't ever forget that.
"I have learned to take the falling short with the successes, and no longer let this sport so narrowly define who I am. I am so much more than that." — Jason Husveth
Registration periods for the big 2015 winter ultras have long passed, but the rest of the 2015 season looms. If you're anything like me, keeping track of registration procedures for my must-do events is difficult. If you weren't aware, you've already missed your chance of registering for Angeles Crest 100 for next August. Before you miss any more...
My big list of interesting 2015 races and their application procedures:
The "You're already too late" races: HURT, Race January 17-18, Application July 20-27, Lottery Aug 3 Arrowhead 135, Race January 26-28, Registration Veterans Sept 1, Rookies Oct 1 (don't ask) Angeles Crest 100, Race Aug 1-2, Registration first-come, first-served (FCFS) starting Monday following the previous year's race (sells out in minutes)
The "There's still time" races: Tuscobia 150, Race Jan 1-3, Registration open until Dec 24 Barkley Marathons, Race March 28-30, Application ???, Condolences ??? Zumbro 100, Race April 10-11, Registration Nov 1, FCFS Trans Iowa, Race April 25-26, Applications (Vets) Nov 3, FCFS Kettle 100, Race June 6-7, Registration Jan 1, FCFS Bighorn 100, Race June 19-20, Registration open, FCFS Western States 100, Race June 27-28, Application Nov 8-15, Lottery Dec 6 Black Hills 100, Race June 27-28, Registration Dec 1, FCFS Hardrock 100, Race July 11-13, Applications through Nov 23, Lottery Dec 6
(The August/Sept GLUT) Bigfoot 200, Race Aug 7-11, Registration Nov 2, FCFS Fatdog 120, Race Aug 14-16, Registration Nov 1, FCFS UTMB, Race Aug 24-30, Application Dec 17-Jan 6, Lottery January 14 Cascade Crest 100, Race Aug 29-30, Registration Jan 1-Feb 12, Lottery Feb 14 Superior 100, Race Sept 4-5, Registration opens in March Plain 100, Race Sept 11-12, Registration opens this spring (capped at 35) Pine to Palm 100, Race Sept 11-12, Registration opens this spring The RUT 50k, Race Sept 12, Registration opens in Jan IMTUF 100, Race Sept 19-20, Registration opens this spring The Bear 100, Race Sept 25-26, Registration open, FCFS
The "Someday" races: Iditarod 350 2016, Race Feb 28-March 8, Registration Vets April 1, Rookies April 8 ($1,400 application) Tor des Geants 2016, Race Sept 6-13, Registration Feb 1-14, FCFS (capped at 660)
If I ever get into Western, or into Hardrock right off the draw, the additional silliness of race series becomes a question. There are three big series:
The Grand Slam, consisting of: Western States 100, Race June 27-28, Application Nov 8-15, Lottery Dec 6 Vermont 100, Race July 18-19, Registration Jan 5, FCFS (sells out FAST) Leadville 100, Race August 22-23, Registration Dec 1-Dec 31, Lottery in Jan (Grand Slam priority) Wasatch 100, Race Sept 11-12, Registration Dec 1-Jan 4, Lottery Feb 7 (Grand Slam priority)
The Rocky Mountain Slam, consisting of 4 out of the following 5 races: Bighorn 100, Race June 19-20, Registration open, FCFS Hardrock 100, Race July 11-13, Registration open through Nov 23, Lottery Dec 6 Leadville 100, Race August 22-23, Registration Dec 1-Dec 31, Lottery in Jan (no priority) Wasatch 100, Race Sept 11-12, Registration Dec 1-Jan 4, Lottery Feb 7 (no priority) The Bear 100, Race Sept 25-26, Registration open, FCFS
The Original 6 Hundred Challenge, (must decide more than a year in advance due to Angeles Crest 100 registration) consisting of: Old Dominion 100, Race June 6-7, Registration open, FCFS Western States 100, Race June 27-28, Application Nov 8-15, Lottery Dec 6 Vermont 100, Race July 18-19, Registration Jan 5, FCFS (sells out FAST) Angeles Crest 100, Race Aug 1-2, Registration FCFS starting Monday following the previous year's race (sells out in minutes) Leadville 100, Race August 22-23, Registration Dec 1-Dec 31, Lottery in Jan (Grand Slam priority) Wasatch 100, Race Sept 11-12, Registration Dec 1-Jan 4, Lottery Feb 7 (Grand Slam priority)
Before 2015 rolls around, though, don't forget the crown jewel of the 2014 race schedule, the one and only December 6th Donut Day 25k!
If donuts and running alone don't excite you, the Donut Day 25k has a history of getting its runners through the Western States 100 lottery, and this year, Hardrock's lottery also falls on December 6th.
Last year, Joseph Altendahl and I pulled tires for the 25k. I'm considering a 50k, donut-decorated, tire-pulling effort this year.
