Failure is an Option

Leadville results are in = DNF.

My 2009 race season is downright unimpressive. In three ultras, I posted two DNF's and threw in my timing chip less than half way through a 12-hour event. And you know what? If I could rewrite history, I wouldn't change a thing.

At the end of the day, it's not glory we're after on these race courses, but self-understanding. There's no doubt I learned a great deal of lessons this year; the sorts of lessons that only come with failure.

Looking back, I'm reminded that there are limits to what a person can do when that person is trying to do it all: There are no short cuts to the finish line. There is no such thing as success if success is not earned. Planning and preparation are important. And when there's not time to plan and prepare, a sense of humor is everything.

If there's one thing I remembered to bring to Leadville, it was a sense of humor. Both Johnny and I were woefully under-trained; neither of us had any business on the trail. But Johnny is one hell of a stubborn Irishman, so either we were going to run 100 miles at Leadville, or they were going to drag us off the course (which is precisely what ended up happening).

We arrived at the Mountain Peaks Motel on Friday morning, just in time to check in and participate in the hoo-rah pre-race meeting. Walking back to the hotel, I was singing the Leadville mantra: "You're better than you think you are and you can do more than you think you can!"

I sure hoped so, because prior to the meeting I wasn't so sure that I could even pack my race nutrition bags. Johnny collapsed for an afternoon nap, and I set to work with with a pile of gels, powders, salt capsules, and a whole lot of guesswork. 9 bags in all--one for each aide station that would be spread out along the course.

The first sign of doom came when we went to drop off our race bags. We'd been at the grocery store a couple of hours earlier, purchasing plastic baggies and inscribing them with permanent marker so they'd be identifiable among the hundreds of other bags at the aide stations. It turned out that wouldn't be a problem, because everyone else had prepared for war. There were duffel bags custom-stitched with aide station numbers, printed and laminated identification labels, and prodigous Tupperware containers with improbable selections of meticulously wrapped menu items. Johnny and I looked at our plastic baggies, shrugged it off, and shuffled over to Subway.

We settled into our motel room at about 6 p.m. for a few hours of serenity and good laughs. All of our gear was laid out in military fashion. Our insulin strategies were set and in motion. The training we'd found time for was complete. Best of all, the laptop was pushed aside. These are the moments I treasure most surrounding big race events. After months of stress and hardship, there is really nothing to do but enjoy the silence.

I suppose we were up at about 2:45 a.m. I don't recall exactly, but it was early. Within minutes of crawling out of bed, John's buddy Todd arrived at our motel door with an audacious smile and a thermos of hot coffee.

We went about the usual business of greasing our bodies down with anti-chaffing lubricant, placing band-aides over our nipples to protect them from abrasion, and blessing our feet as they were being donned with crispy new socks.

There wasn't much time to think things through. We walked to the starting line with about 3 minutes to spare, at 3:57 a.m. Todd wished us well and we started running.

I don't think either of us said more than a few words to each other during those first 13 miles. Most of the other runners were silent as well. Everyone was busy internalizing the gravity of their situation. "How in the world did I end up here? Can I really run 100 miles? What pain lies ahead?" For the few who weren't looking inward, there was a magnificent celestial display in the pre-dawn sky.

Gradually the sun inched its way toward the horizon. The contours of the 14,000 foot peaks grew in distinction. There are no words for moments like this.

My CGM had been reading steady at about 130 since the start of the race. I checked in at 200 during a stop at the first aide station, mildly disappointed because I was hungry. A little Lantus did the trick. That would be the highest reading I'd have for the next 27 miles.

Johnny wasn't as lucky. He was right around 300 for reasons unknown. He gave a healthy bolus. A half hour down the trail, his reading made it clear that there was in fact an issue with the pump site.

I took a seat on a stump. There was no longer any sense of urgency for us. We were in the midst of a game-time decision that might determine, not just the outcome of our race, but whether we'd make it home without a trip to the hospital.

Johnny took some rapid-acting insulin the old-fashioned way, through a syringe. Then he changed pump site (he'd learned through experience to have several sites already inserted on race day for instances like this). The trail couldn't have been more accommodating over the course of the next 6 or so miles--a steady and consistent climb, perfect for bringing a BG down.

I watched as Johnny literally came back to life on the way up the mountain. (It would be simple to chart a linear relationship between a person's blood-sugar and level of optimism.) Johnny stabilized just before mid-morning. At about 21 miles we were scrambling giddily down a steep descent, knowing that the mile 23 aide station was just around the corner.

At mile 22 we can upon an elderly runner who appeared to be struggling pretty hard. To our astonishment, it turned out to be Ken Chlouber, founder and race director of the Leadville race series.

Just 24 hours prior, Ken had been firing the crowd up at the pre-race meeting. He hadn't just invented this race--he'd competed in it more than 20 times, finishing more than 10. So if anyone had the right to talk about pushing through the pain, it was Ken.

(Below are some videos I took of Ken on my Blackberry at the pre-race meeting. Audio is bad, but you'll get the idea.)



We exchanged some words with Ken on the trail, asking him first if he was okay. "Couple of things going wrong, but nothing I haven't dealt with before." (I wondered if he'd dealt with cardiac arrest before, 'cause that's about how he looked.)

Then Ken got on to talking about the race. "We're all right for the aide station, but we're not going to finish the race." This was news to me! I had no idea that we were off pace, but the confidence and apparent indifference in Ken's voice left little room for doubt. Had anyone else in the world told us we weren't going to make it, I would have blocked it out. But seriously, this was Ken Chlouber.

I arrived at the aide station about a minute behind Johnny. I was really looking forward to a Diet Coke, but when I saw the anxious look on his face, I knew there wasn't time. "We have 30 mintes 'til this station closes," he said. That meant we had to pick up the pace over the next 7 miles if we wanted a fighting chance. So I went about the business of filling my Camelback as Johnny stood tapping his toe. As we stepped back out on the course, I heard one of the volunteers yell, "23 minutes!"

The next 7 miles were relatively flat, and very much exposed. The sun was abusive. The other runners had planned ahead and beat the heat by scampering into the tree cover. I took a mental note for next year, put the head down and picked up the pace. This was the first time I remember struggling mentally. I was getting tired, and still hearing Ken's voice echoing in my skull.

Johnny and I had both run thirty miles before, so we knew we could gut this section out. Actually, we ended up making pretty good time. But when we finally arrived at mile 30, the faces of volunteers said it all. We didn't stand a chance making it to the next station.

We'd need to cover 9+ miles at 10,000 feet with a significant amount of climbing in 90 minutes or less. After that it was said to be hopeless.

Neither of us was going to quit, but we knew at that point it was over. I could tell we were in agreement on the matter when I sat down to eat some aide-station junk food and Johnny didn't get after me. We joked around to lighten the mood for a small group of runners, who were still processing their reality.

I can't explain how much the next 6 miles sucked. It's one thing to suffer when there's hope that you'll reach your goal, but at this point we were just hanging in there for pride and self-torture. I started to test my blood sugar more frequently as an excuse to sit down. Sometimes I'd even lay there for a few seconds until Johnny would just pick up and keep going.

Ken passed us somewhere during this dismal stretch of miles. He was cheerful as ever, and looked strong as an ox.


Somewhere around mile 37, something really strange happened. Johnny and I had long since stopped talking (what more was there to say?), but suddenly our pace picked up and we were running again--at a good clip, I should add. The pain and fatigue disappeared, along with my thoughts. I found myself comforted by the rhythm of my stride, and was blisfully content to be running! I'd reached a state of zen. (To our astonishment, John had been experiencing the same phenomenon during that same final stretch. This is common among ultra runners, I'm told.)

The picture on the left shows us awakening from our moment of zen...to the unfortunate reality that we were about to face. We'd arrived at mile 40 just 9 minutes late.

So we didn't make it. Oh well. As Henry Ford says,

"Failure is only the opportunity to begin again, only this time more wisely."

Not sure about Johnny, but I'll be back next year. After all, I still have $9,299 to raise!

Thanks to all who got us off to a good start:)

Wave Selection

When I was in Costa Rica a few months ago, eating waves and sand from the sea floor, Matt Besley pulled me aside to offer me some sage wisdom. Matt happened to be an accomplished surfer, and noticed that I was in need of some coaching.

"It's not your paddling or balance that's off," he explained. "It's that you're picking the wrong waves. In surfing it's all about wave selection."

Like so many others who are new to surfing, I'd developed the bad habit of getting in the water, paddling past the break, and eagerly chasing the first wave that I saw. Meanwhile, the experienced surfers would casually wait through entire sets, patiently appraising each potential ride as it came to shore.

It turns out there's a lot more to measuring waves than one would think. It's not just one predominant feature that makes it surf-worthy, but a combination of various elements. I recently read a surfer's account of such a wave. This is how it was described: "A good solid ground swell, wasn’t too walled, had a nice tapering shoulder, and the tide was just right. So I knew it was going to break right over the shallow sandbar.”

Probably that's way too sophisticated. I prefer the abstract scientific approach:

* Research—study the weather, tides, swells; use LOLA if possible
* Anticipate—watch, try to calculate precisely where the wave’s gonna break
* Placement—look at where you are compared to where you need to be
* Wait—be willing to wait for the right one

So what does this have to do with ultramarathons? Well, I'm feeling like I choose the wrong wave with Leadville. After my last race, I ate sand from the sea floor. 45 miles and virtually no sleep, then right back to work and bad nutrition. I ended up miserably sick...again.

Can Leadville be surfed? I suppose races and waves are similar in that any of them can be conquered. But at what expense? Might I have enjoyed a different training regimen if I'd chosen a different race? Could I have escaped getting sick?

Maybe the science of wave selection can be applied to race selection. I probably should have researched Leadville a bit more, anticipated when the heavy training volume would take its toll on my body, placed certain periods of training strategically in relation to levels of life-stress. Maybe I should have done what sage surfers do best -- wait.

Anyway, I'm better now. I don't know what the future holds for me and Leadville, at least in 2009. Time will tell. I guess I'll just keep plugging away and tuck these lessons in my pocket for next time around.

Land of the Living

"Welcome back to the land of the living." These were the words that carried me through the through the last four of a twelve-hour race. Two hours earlier, I'd called it quits and dropped out of the event. Now it was as though I had a fresh set of legs and a brand new perspective on life.

The race was called Nanny Goat, put on by an older couple just east of Los Angeles. Their competitive 100-mile days had come to a close, but their spirit for the ultra community lived on through a humble race company called Old Goat Trail Runners.

Just before 9 a.m., sixty or so runners gathered at a one mile dirt loop on a private horse ranch. Our goal was to run as many loops as we could in 12- or 24 hours. 12 hour runners were given the option of running the first or second hours. Because I'd been in the market for some night-running experience, I choose the latter.

Just after sunset, I put strapped on a head lamp, laced up the shoes, and checked in with the race directors. I'd made up my mind that I by 9 a.m., I was going to have completed 53 loops, the equivalent of a double marathon.

My blood sugar was dead on and my body felt fresh. I'd run conservatively for the first 4 loops, knowing from experience that that I wouldn't be feeling so good after 8-9 hours.

As 10:00 approached, I noticed that the field of runners was thinning drastically. It suddenly occurred to me how small this race really was, probably due to its first-ever occurrence. It had been a hot day, and I began to wonder how many laps the first 12-hour runners had been able to do.

"I'm one of three 12-hour night-runners," I thought to myself. "I have the advantage of cooler temperatures + knowing how many laps I need to finish in order to come in first. I wonder if I could...win this thing?"

The thought consumed me. I hurried along through the transition area, grabbed a race official, and asked what was the mileage to beat. It was 66.

The next mile was filled with exciting calculations. By mile 6 I'd made a deal with myself: Complete 33 miles by 3:00 a.m. If I still felt good I'd push on for my first-ever win. If not, I'd still have plenty of time to shuffle on to my initial goal of 53 miles.

I ran possessed for the next 4 hours. Because my first handful of loops had been slow, I'd picked it up to somewhere around a marathon pace. As I whisked by the 24-hour crowd, many of whom had slowed to a walk, I could hear comments about "those new 12-hour runners." It was thrilling. I felt destined to own this race.

It was a totally new sensation for me. The best I'd ever aimed for is a personal best, which would usually put me in the top 25% of race finishers. All of my mental capacity was dedicated to "67 miles," which meant none of it was left to consider good diabetes management.

At 26 miles I was on pace to reach 33 by the half-way point. It was then I noticed that I was getting thirsty and lethargic. My CGM indicated that I was nearly 300, with two "up" arrows.

I knew I was finished for the next hour, at least. I granted myself "just one loop" of walking to process my new reality. It felt so good that I walked another, then one more.

At mile 29 my blood sugar was still on the rise. I sat down in the transition barn, completely demoralized. It was 3:00 a.m. and I had absolutely no motivation to carry on. It wasn't the diabetes that disappointed me, but my ego-driven stupidity for having tried to run so fast during an ultramarathon. I clearly had no business winning this thing.

I pulled out my insulin pump and cued up 4 units. "If I push this button," I said to the lady sitting next to me, "this race is over and I'm going to bed. If I don't, I'm going to get up and keep moving."

I felt nauseous and started rambling to no one in particular about ketones. Just as I hit the "act" button to deliver my race-ending bolus, a woman on the other side of the barn asked, "Did you just say 'ketones'? My 14-year old daughter has diabetes -- she's sleeping right over there!"

I felt like a complete failure. What kind of role model was I? How could I let diabetes be an excuse for quitting this race? Thinking about it made me even more tired, so I told the lady I was going to lay down for 90 minutes, and asked that she wake me up to check on my blood sugar.

There was a dirty cot in a goat corral, reserved for runners like me, who'd run themselves into the ground. I closed my eyes and conked out within seconds.

At 5:00 I was awoken by the dutiful diabetic mom. I immediately looked down at my CGM, which indicated that I'd come down to a normal level. Surprisingly (or maybe unsurprisingly), I felt great. "What now?" I thought to myself. "Do I just get in my car and start the drive back to San Diego...Do I lay back down and wake up a failure...or...

Looking at the clock again, I realized there were still 4 more hours to run. The sun was about to make its appearance for the new day. I felt renewed.

"I know you already cut off my timing chip," I said to the race director, "but do you mind if I re-enter the race--I don't even care if it counts. I just want to log a few more miles.

"Absolutely," she replied. "Just carry on and we'll track you manually."

So I bundled up and started walking mile 30, just after 5:00 a.m. That's when I passed Steve Harvey, the other race director. "Welcome back to the land of the living," he said.

By mile 31 his words had driven my pace to a trot. Within an hour I was back to a slow run.

I managed another 16 miles in those last 4 hours, a pitiful pace by some standards. But I'd never felt like such a champion.

Half the Trouble

Johnny and I got a chance for redemption in Colorado at the Collegiate Peaks 25 Mile. Note the smiles on our faces.

The hardest part about this race was getting up at 3:00 a.m. to drive to Buena Vista. Otherwise it was just a beautiful race. Blood sugars were perfect, the weather was nice.

I love this trail running stuff. Way better than urban marathons. Everyone is so polite and humble. They even excuse themselves as they pass by. Best of all, there's so much less abuse on the joints since you're not on pavement. I felt absolutely great after this event (at least until we choose Mexican for our recovery meal).

Madison, Johnny's boston bull terrier, kept my lap warm on the way home. Can't beat that for recovery.

Taking a step back, I realize I shouldn't get too excited about the day. This was, after all, only a fourth of the distance we'll have to cover in August. I fear that I'm not getting enough miles and catching up will be a trick because there's not really enough time remaining to build up to the training volume I need. To be sure, it's going to be a struggle from here on out.

But we'll take it for what it was, a fine training day with good company. Thanks to Johnny and Maureen for hosting me once again in Colorado! See you sooner and more often than you might wish:)

Half Century

Getting to the start line at the Desert Rats Trail Running Festival was a victory in and of itself. Granted, we arrived four minutes late. But unlike dozens of others who were stranded in snow on the westbound I-70, Johnny and I would get a shot at the 50-mile course.

Johnny, who had been through a few of these races before, did a great job setting the tone for the day. "There's nothing to worry about--just a long training run," he told me over a pre-dawn Grand Slam Breakfast at Denny's. Even as we were scrambling to find the race start in the remote Western Colorado desert, Johnny was cool as a cat. "It's gonna be a long day no matter what," he assured me.

We were still in line at the porta-potties when we heard the race official giving the hundred or so runners his benediction, countdown, and official send-off. "It's only four minutes," John said as we awakened our legs to the first few steps on the course.

At mile 1 we began our ascent into the scenic desert landscape. The sun was making its first appearance. We chatted and trudged along, passing a few runners who were in less of a hurry than we.

At mile 12 Johnny began using the word "nausea" enough to make me nervous. When he started sticking his finger down his throat a few minutes later, I knew we were in for a long day. It was way too early for dehydration or salt depletion. Johnny had a bug.

As the day wore on, our pace slowed as Johnny's condition got progressively worse. "Here's a guy who finished the Boston Marathon with pulmonary edema," I thought to myself. He'll pull through.

By mile 20 I wasn't so sure. The threat of missing the 25-mile time cutoff was becoming more and more realistic, and Johnny looked more wretched than I'd ever seen him. But we plugged along.

We staggered into the start/finish area (it was a 2-loop course) with just a few minutes to spare (6:15 or so). I encouraged Johnny recharge with some food and liquids while I made a trip back to the car, which was unfortunately far away.

I had noticed an uncomfortable sensation on the outside of my big toes during the last few miles of the first loop (symptomatic of blisters during steep downhill running). Closing my eyes, I muttered a "Please, God..." while peeling my first sock off. Sure enough, there was a half-dollar sized blister primed for popping. More of the same on the other foot.

Feeling the time ticking away, I scrambled for a sterile syringe and made haste to pop the blisters, dressing them with duct tape. Thankfully I'd thought enough to bring a change of socks and shoes, which felt about as good on my feet as a fluffy blanket coming out of the drier on a cold winter day.

John was smiling when I got back to the start. We still had 3 minutes before the cutoff and he was still on his feet. Realizing I hadn't checked my blood sugar in nearly 7 hours due to a meter failure, I looked down at my CGM to see that I was trending low. I'd grabbed a spare meter, but there was no time for a test. So I washed a handful of M&Ms down with a Dixie cups of Coke and stepped back onto the course.

Thirty seconds onto the trail, I heard the race director announce that the course was now closed to any 50-milers who were still at the start/finish. I nervously asked Johnny how he was feeling. "Much better," he said with Pizza, bananas, and peanut butter still on his breath.

At mile 26, Johnny was silenced during a complete stop. He was shaky and pale. I knew better than to keep encouraging him. I choose instead to sit down on a rock and let nature take its course...which it did.

Johnny was barfing the whole aide station onto the desert sand as a 25-mile runner passed by in the opposite direction. "Been there," she said. I watched him shudder and vomit for a few minutes before I could wait no longer; the next aide station was going to close and we weren't going to make it at this pace.

We both know that a decision needed to be made. "You need the miles," he said. "Go." Had it been anyone else saying it, I would have questioned their sincerity. But Johnny meant it, he was right, and I knew he'd be okay. I said my farewell and scurried along with a sudden sense of urgency.

The legs felt great, the feet weren't bothering me. I was a bit winded, but not too bad. In any case, it didn't matter. I had to hustle to get to the mile 31 aide station before it closed.

I was in such a frantic hurry during those miles that the details of body-assessment gradually lost their importance altogether.

I arrived at mile 31 to see just one man loading some things into a pickup truck. "Did I make it to cut-off?" I asked. -- "Yeah, you've got plenty of time." I was too relieved to be discouraged when it was confirmed that I was, in fact, the last runner on the course.

There would be plenty of time for this simple fact to settle into my consciousness. The next 8 miles were the loneliest I'd ever run. Just the sound of silence and the soft crunch of dirt under my tiring feet. I slowed to a walk as the daylight began to taper off.

Sooner or later I got tired of thinking about running, so I turned my attention to the prospect of getting eaten by a mountain lion. By mile 33 I was convinced I was being preyed upon, so I searched around for whatever weaponry I could find to fend off my imaginary predator. Yes, I lost my mind in an ultramarathon and carried two stones for 5 miles. Genius.

I was so thankful when I got to the next aide station that I wanted to cry. I felt like I'd been adrift at sea for the better part of a decade. It was difficult to pull away back onto the course--not because of fatigue or mountain lions, but because I'd so enjoyed the company of other human beings.

The next leg was actually fast by my steadily lowering pace standards. I'd learned that the second-to-last runner was cramping up, and I was making progress on her. It wasn't pride, but the overwhelming sense of solitude that pushed me along.

When I finally caught her it was 30 yards before the final aide station at mile 44. She was in tears at the sight of her children, who'd come to escort her off the course. It became official that I would finish last in my first 50-mile race.

I was over this race. I was tired as hell and everything hurt. I was worried about Johnny, and was starting to feel bad about abandoning him. I wanted some more Denny's. I wanted to go to bed. The sun was dipping below the horizon when I staggered up to the last aide station.

"Hey man," I slurred. "I know I'm not going to make the 13-hour cut-off, but I'd really appreciate it if you'd let me carry on and finish this race." -- "No worries," the man replied. "You've still got 5 minutes to spare. It's only 6:10. This station closes at 6:15."

I was under no illusion that I could climb the final pass and finish the last 6 miles by 7:30. But it didn't matter. I started off...in the wrong direction. Luckily I was steered back on course before I could wander off into the wilderness.

Johnny was running back up the course by the time I reached the final mile, still sick. We picked up the pace and ran across the finish line, where 5 people were clapping lethargically.

We got in the car and drove back to Denny's. I think I finished in 13:30 or so. I don't think I care.

Almost Half Way There

I was warned on Thursday by Sean McKendry, a Denver local, that I might have trouble with my next day's flight into Denver due to weather. It wasn't until I was packing my bags on Friday morning that I thought to call into the airline and check my flight status.

"I can get you in on Saturday," the ticketing agent told me.

Johnny and I were scheduled to run a 24-hour race in Moab, but as it often goes with these types of events, getting to the start line is often more difficult that getting to the finish line.

I told Johnny I'd set up my own aide station (my car) in the Fiesta Island parking lot, and run with him from two states away. He assured me that this was a great idea, knowing that this was meant to be a key training weekend as we prepare for Leadville in August.

The goal was to stay on the move for 24 consecutive hours and be on my feet when it was all said and done. At a brisk walk, that would come out to between 70-80 miles. My plan was to just exactly that (speed walk), taking a quick stop at the car after each 4-mile lap to fill the water bottles, change socks, etc. That should be easy enough, I figured...

I woke up at 5:45 on Saturday and packed everything I thought I might need in the car: 4 pairs of shoes and socks, many gallons of water, various sorts of foods, electrolyte replacements, extra diabetes supplies, several changes of clothes a headlamp. By 7:45 I was underway.

My roomate Nate came out to keep me company on my second and third lap. Things were going just great. Toward the end of his laps Nate warned me that the Santa Anas were here; it was going to be hot and dry. Before he left, he made me lather up on sunscreen and advised me to stay hydrated.

At mile 30 I reported to Johnny via text that I was still "feeling good". My urine was still clear so I must have been hydrated. No blisters and only a little discomfort in the feet. Muscles were fine, except maybe a little tension in the upper calves directly below the knees.

A few miles later, as the sun was beginning to set, my friend Sarah stopped in to check in. She was with her dog Charlie and a PB&J sandwich in her hand for me. She looked so fresh and lively. That's when I realized that my body was shutting down. My pace was slowing and my hope to finish was vanishing with the daylight. Suddenly I didn't feel so safe as I thought about the prospect of walking alone through the next 9 hours of darkness.

It was a totally new feeling for me. I'd felt like this toward the end of Ironman races or some of my faster marathons, but in all of these events the end was so close that it didn't seem to matter--just a few more miles and it would be all over. This was a whole new battle and it was all being fought inside my head. There was nothing to think about except putting one foot in front of the other.

I called it at 40 miles. It was a classic "bonk" and mental meltdown and, I think, a case of poor planning and execution. Though I'd been popping salt tablets all day, I'd been doing it at random and probably not often enough. The heat had taken its toll over the course of 13 hours. For the first time I can remember, I could actually feel pain in my kidneys. That's when I knew for sure it was lights out.

I went straight to bed. When I woke up today, there was a text message from Johnny, who was letting me know that he'd "Called it at 34 miles. Felt horrible all day." Later, he'd follow up with an email that said this:

"I need to brush some of that desert dirt off and get back after it...The key is to stay after it. Hopefully you are happy with 40 miles, that is quite a feat."

I can't say for sure if I'm happy with my performance, per se. But no worries, Johnny. I'll stay after it.

Official

My grandpa used to say, "The hardest part of a project is just getting started." Hopefully he was right...Somehow I doubt it.