The Endless Mile
As night fell on the second day the rain on the pavement evaporated creating a contrast between dark and light. The streetlights illuminated the path casting a kaleidoscope of shadows and I began to see psychedelic shapes with every step. “Dog, cat, alien, robot," I recited on auto pilot in my head. If a runner’s high felt euphoric this was not it. This was a walker’s hallucination. I was 85 miles into a 100 mile running attempt and I felt like I couldn’t take another step. I was in unimaginable pain — it felt like I was walking on a broken shin, my feet hurt so badly they burned and itched, my ass crack was chafed raw and my mind was in another stratosphere oscillating between negative self-talk and feeble attempts at a personal pep rally. My ego was reaching for the ejection button, and my rational mind was trying to remind myself of how the hell I got here in the first place.
How exactly did I get here, October 18, 2019, at 8:30 PM walking infinite loops around a one-mile track? This question would haunt me — not only during the race — but in the weeks to follow. What was my ‘why’?
Analyzing your ‘why’ is a vulnerable task, and most people don’t take the time to delve deep into their psyche, brush aside the cobwebs of their soul and come out with a polished answer akin to finding a diamond in the rough. The path to my revelation began in 1987.
September 23, 1987, started out like any other day. Two parents getting ready for work and 4 sisters — in a cozy A-frame house set back amongst pines trees in suburban Birmingham, Alabama — getting ready for school. By the end of the day our lives would be forever changed. My sister Jennifer was 16 and while driving to attend a high school soccer game was hit by on oncoming car. She would never come home. A tragedy of this sort is unfathomable and almost impossible to grieve. My oldest sister Allison was 17, Susannah was 11, and I was 5.
Jenny was the type of 16-year-old that everyone loved, and she loved boldly in return. She was an artist, she was kind and she was beautiful. In almost every baby picture I have she is holding me. She loved me unconditionally. The ensuing days, months, and years were a blur — the loss of my sister had left an indelible mark on our family. Her memory still lives on within us in deeply personal ways even though decades later it is painful to discuss. For me, her memory is a framed picture in my house of me jumping into her arms from the side of a pool: it reminds me to be fearless, that I am loved, and that there will always be someone to catch me when I fall.
When my sister passed away my Dad ran a marathon every month for 2 and a half years to help relieve his grief and depression. At the time it was hard to find a marathon each month so he began running ultramarathons. Ultras are defined as any race longer than the traditional marathon length of 26.2 miles. He continued running ultras and marathons until 2002 and then took a 10-year hiatus. He reentered the world of ultrarunning in October of 2013 competing in the 24-Hour National Championship in Oklahoma City.
This time I decided to come along for the ride. I knew he had done a lot of races but I had no idea what they entailed. I actually thought people slept during these races. Prior to the OKC 24-Hour I had run 3 marathons and 2 ultras. I had dreamed of qualifying for Boston but missed the cutoff time by 37 seconds and 63 seconds which was heartbreaking. I decided to shelve the short, fast distance of marathons for the more arduous, dirty distances of ultra-trail races. I found ultras to be absolutely delightful. A marathon felt so solitary and competitive. A looped race was much more communal. You would see the same people — both spectators and runners — over and over and over again. And you could eat during the race: slices of pizza, soup, grilled cheese, brownies, and what my Dad considers the ‘original granola bar’ — Snickers. Running around a loop talking to people and eating, without the pressure of speed, but with the mental toughness of stamina — this could really be something I was into.
The OKC race went really well. Although I had lots of blisters I had interesting conversations with fascinating people and I managed to complete 58 miles even with a 6-hour break. I was sharing a hotel room with my Dad and Stepmom and exhaustion induced delirium was not a place I wanted to go. My Dad ran 87 miles and to his surprise won his age group of 75-79. His 10-year hiatus catapulted him into another age group and as it turns out he was pretty damn good in this new age bracket. That year his result was the best in the world and since that race he has been ranked number one in the world every year in either the 24-hour or 48-hour run.
Shortly after the OKC race I moved from Alabama to California and my running hobby declined sharply with the exception of running across the state of Alabama in 2015. A group of runners left Huntington Beach on New Year’s Day with the goal of making it to the White House by June. You could join their transcontinental race by running across a state with them. My Dad planned to run across Alabama and I was struck with worry. He was 75 and the thought of running on public roads, navigating yourself and carrying your own water seemed unsafe. If he was going to do it, then so was I. We ran 8 marathons in 8 days, roughly 209 miles from Mississippi to Georgia and I had the time of my life. I felt like I was in a cool ultrarunners club and for once I fit in.
“If I can’t run, I will walk, If I can’t walk - I will crawl”
We ran past the University of Alabama, we ran a lap on the Talladega Superspeedway — it was a Forrest Gump fantasy come to life. We ran backcountry roads, ran with world-class athletes, and we gave motivational speeches at elementary schools. Running across my birth state felt like a preordained rite of passage. I took turns each day running with a different runner — I picked their brains about their lives and their motivations. I learned invaluable lessons and made life-long friends. My friend Nancy, who would become the oldest female to cross the USA on foot told me “If I can’t run, I will walk, If I can’t walk - I will crawl”. I didn’t even pretend to resonate with what she was saying. That sounded absolutely crazy to me. My mind wasn’t an ultra mind — yet. Even the terror of getting bitten by a dog and a subsequent rabies shot didn’t damper the shine of this experience. I had my first experience with mentally pushing through pain that felt debilitating. And I had my second taste of the incomparable bond of achieving a goal with ultrarunners.
The final impetus to run my first 100 came about in April of 2019 during a solo hiking trip to the Havasupai Indian Reservation. Amidst those red walls and blue cerulean waters I met a lady in the bottom of the canyon who was training for a 100-mile run. She was from Tennessee and her syrupy southern accent transported me back to every runner I had ever known. She told me the name of the run she was doing and as soon as I got out of the canyon I researched it. I asked my Dad if he wanted to fly to Arizona to meet me for this race and he immediately responded “there’s a great 48-hour race the same weekend in Alabama — it’s a really good venue to try for your first 100 — you should come home and do it”. So the decision was set, I would go home in mid-October, and I would try for my first 100.
This all leads us to the present moment. Why now - what was the urgency? For some it happens without warning, but if you are fortunate, there comes in time in your life that you recognize the unavoidable loss of your parents. You can either deny it or face it head on but one thing is certain — we are all in this together and it is an inevitable law of nature. My recognition came at age 5. When my sister died I recited the exact same prayer every single night: “Dear God, please let me, my Mom, my Dad my sisters and my best friend Susan live until we are at least 80”. At various times I would throw in some of our house pets for good measure. I was terrified that someone I loved and in my immediate family was also going to die and this was a thought I couldn’t handle. If mitigating this by prayer would help, I was all in. I said this prayer from the time I was 5 years old until I was about 18. My Dad turned 80 in 2018 and as something I had recited thousands of times this milestone birthday was always on my mind. 80 - we made it. Thank you God. And I truly was grateful. I had experienced a lot of loss in my life, and here I was now staring down this arbitrary age of 80.
This was my ‘why’: creating a memory with my father that I would remember forever. The recognition the fragility of life has always inspired me to find moments that you can imprint into your soul. More memorable than any photograph — being fully present in a moment with someone you love is what I desired. For some that memory may be walking down an aisle on a wedding day, but for me the priceless memory I wanted to create came 100 miles deep on an asphalt track.
I had about 6 months to train, and I didn’t. Not even a little. I moved into my dream cottage. I got a new job. I went on a medical mission trip deep in Baja. I went on the trip of a lifetime to Brazil with my Mom. I fostered an infant abandoned kitten. One thing after another life was in a bit of a busy season, and it was October before I knew it. When I pushed the register button on the race the most I had run since exiting the canyon was 2-3 miles. I flew home and the funny thing about an ultra is no one asks you if you trained. I was delighted by this because I didn’t need the added guilt and pressure going into the race shaming me for my lack of preparation. In my mind it was futile to train for an ultra — shouldn’t you enter the race with fresh legs? You are about to run 100 miles or 48 hours how could you possibly train anyway? I have realized in retrospect that this inner self-talk is a defense mechanism to avoid the fear of failure. If you don’t train then you can’t possibly fail, right? And the fear of failure just might be the most terrifying thought for a human brain that is evolutionarily wired for survival.
“Do. Or do not. There is no try. ”
The race plan for an ultra is incredibly personalized. There is no ‘one size fits all’ strategy for pace, rest or nutrition. One motto for ultra strategy is: 1) decide to do an ultra, and 2) do it. Very helpful, right? It is reminiscent of Yoda’s immortal words "Do. Or do not. There is no try”. I asked my Dad to prescribe a strategy for me but it’s impossible to predict how your body and mind are going to react to this type of race and — when, not if — they will breakdown. You must somehow combine a chess match and a metronome, you have to be calculated and consistent. My strategy was to front load the beginning of the race. I knew my body would break down at some point and when it broke down I wanted to have as many miles under my belt as possible.
The day before the race my Mom, Dad and I drove to the race site which was a one-mile paved loop around a park. ONE-MILE LOOP. This is the part that shocks a lot of people, imagine 48 hours as a gerbil. This is a mental battleground because the loop that took you 12 minutes at the start of the race can take up to 45 minutes at your rock bottom. We took a reconnaissance walk to scout the terrain. The loop consisted of: two ponds, a fountain, a dog park, a disc golf course, a playground, a skate park, and baseball and softball fields. It wasn’t exactly floating down a lazy river with a tiki drink in hand, but I could think of worse places to spend 48 hours.
I set up a tent that I would use as refuge to potentially sleep, or maybe when I just needed a few introverted moments to be invisible. My Dad’s setup was that of a seasoned professional: an E-Z Up tent open on 3 sides, a large table for his nutrition and first-aid supplies and two zero gravity recliners. He had engineered his chair so that he didn’t have to squat or bend his knees to sit. The legs of the chair were nestled into a handmade wooden platform so that he could merely walk up to the chair and recline. It would prove to be a brilliant design when the reality of bending your knees, hips or ankles even a couple of degrees became excruciating.
The night before I anxiously prepared my supplies: three types of vaseline, lotion, essential oils, toothbrush, toothpaste, ankle wrap, heel inserts, massage tool, 6 pairs of socks, a bag of additional clothing, headphones, portable charger for my phone, hand sanitizer, baby wipes, and three types of chapstick. It was like I was preparing to hike the Appalachian Trail. I carb-loaded with my Mom, Stepdad and best friend Susan — pizza and a beer, why not?
The next morning, my Mom drove me to the race start, I received my bib and there was nothing else to do but get this thing going. My Mom, Dad, & Stepmom were all there. My parents divorced when I was 12 and my Dad married Deborah when I was 15. They have remained friends all of these years and we were a modern family before ‘Modern Family’ was a thing. Deborah has been a world class one-woman crew for my Dad and his successes would not be possible without her. She is there available and encouraging every step of the way. As a former nurse, she packs an extensive first aid kit, medications, and needles for remedying blisters which would come in handy during the midnight hours.
At 9AM on October 17, 32 athletes gathered at the starting line, the race gun fired, and we were off. My first dozen miles were 11/12 minute loops and they felt pretty good. I wasn’t going to get exhausted in a cardiovascular way, my concern was fatigue. I completed a marathon around 6 hours, and finished 45 miles by 12 hours. I ran with my friend Ray for a good portion of the first day. We had only met once before at the OKC race 6 years prior, but someone like Ray stays with you. He prances along the track, singing, reciting prose and chasing Pokemon all while making it look so effortless. He said his ‘why’ was to be the one having the most fun, and he certainly was. Ray is the kind of guy you can talk to about anything: grief, divorce, running a 50k at Burning Man, your purpose and passion in life. I lost Ray somewhere around sunset but he believed in me, and somewhere along the way I started believing in myself.
The sunset consisted of fiery reds and spectacular reflections on the tranquil ponds. The sky put on a free show for about an hour from beginning to end. Once the last of the reds and oranges faded and the overhead lights came on there was a noticeable shift in mood. It was dark. In the darkness there is less externalizing, more internalizing and a battle of decisions — some arbitrary and some crucial — set in. Should I take a break? Should I be eating more? Should I layer up or down? Do I have a blister? Should I stop and see or is ignorance bliss? At mile 50 I decided to remove my shoes and I did in fact have a sizable, tender blister on each heel. My Stepmom drained my blisters with a needle and carefully applied hot pink duct tape to each heel. The duct tape would stay on for the next 50 miles and I would add a new layer anytime it felt tender. I can’t see well in the dark so nightfall immediately transported me into an entirely different state of mind. It was eerily silent and noticeably desolate, although there was a distinct feeling of safety and security. My frame of focus became this little square in front of my feet and the only direction to look was down. I was completely immersed in an activity with a singular point of focus: the exact definition of a flow state. Instead of lasting briefly, it lasted for hours. This meditation was a feeling I never knew I was craving, and I loved it.
My goal was to surpass my previous longest distance of 58 miles before I took an extended rest. I hit the 60 mile mark around 2:20 AM. I was reluctant to take a break, but my body and mind knew it was time. I crawled into my tent, set my alarm for 6 AM and fell into a deep slumber. I slept for about an hour and then became restless, this was a race after all. When I got back on the loop at 4 AM, my Dad was already ahead of me on the track. I was impressed and inspired. This is how it was done — no rest for the weary.
“Don’t Put a Name to the Pain”
The second day was a blur. I hit 72 miles in 24 hours just as a new group of runners started that would be running 24 hours, 12 hours or 6 hours. This infused some life into the track, when the rest of us were just entering fortified zombie territory. A fellow runner passed me several times with the phrase “Don’t Put a Name to the Pain” on the back of her t-shirt. This became a bonafide motto for me. Henceforth my pain would just be labeled by a body part: right hip, left knee, right shin, feet-oh my god my feet, asscrack. But I tried not to name what was happening with those body parts. Was it fatigue, was it an injury? It wasn’t really the time and the place to suss out such inquiries. Mentally I was encouraging myself to get to milestones in chunks of 2 to 3 miles. Once I hit one milestone I would set a new one. Estimating my finishing time was a torture I put aside because it kept getting further away from the present moment. Each mile was taking at least 20 minutes and my feet hurt so badly that I would stop each loop and carefully remove my shoes and socks and massage each metatarsal to encourage blood flow and mobility into my extremities.
It rained almost the entire day but this was the least of my worries. My feet and my right shin were becoming real problems. My shin hurt viscerally — it felt like I was walking on a broken leg. Each time I moved my right ankle in forward propulsion an intense pain would shoot up my entire leg. I knew my gait was off and that I was making adjustments for the pain. But there are no mirrors around the track, so I didn’t know just HOW bad I actually looked until the sun set on the second day. As the sun set, I was able to see my own shadow and I was limping with every step. I recognized this limp — when an ultrarunner hits the wall they start leaning or limping. I had seen it before in other people and marveled in equal parts at their insanity and their determination. Now, 32 hours later I was one of those people. Reality started to set in: I was limping around a one-mile loop in the dark in a chilly 55 degrees. Why am I doing this? I was an emotional rollercoaster. Around mile 85 I had my first thought that I just might not be able to finish. On two occasions I bent over forward — tears streaming down my face — telling myself audibly to just keep going.
My rock bottom came during miles 89 & 90. Everyone on the track that passed me was encouraging me which I took as a tell-tale sign that I must have looked terrible. I may as well have been raising a white flag. My body felt like a pane of glass, if someone would have pushed me over I would have shattered everywhere. I couldn’t take another step, and then a mystery energy would come along and allow for movement. I started to bargain with myself — maybe I’ll stop now and finish the rest in the morning. The mind is a funny thing— it will think of any scenario to evacuate. I knew deep down there was no way I was leaving that track until I hit 100 miles.
As I rounded the curve back to the aid station after those two terrible laps, it finally dawned on me to ask for help. Maybe I would put a name to the pain and the name was shin splints. In reality I thought I had a stress fracture but I didn’t want anyone to make me drop out of the race. I told my Stepmom my shin was hurting really badly and she gave me 4 aspirin and a topical prescription ointment. It started to work. It was a miracle. My feet were still a problem and I was dreaming of other shoes, namely Crocs. I imagined walking in Crocs would be liking walking on fluffy clouds. That’s the exact moment my Ultra-angel ran by me and she was wearing Croc flip flops. In our delirious exchange I asked her if she had any additional pairs. Merely 15 minutes later I was the brand new borrower of size 10 hot pink Croc flip flops. I was beyond desperate and eternally grateful. I had 8 more miles to go and the Crocs gave me a new lease on life. 93, 94, 95, 96 — it started to look like I might actually pull this thing off.
My mom arrived and walked laps 97 and 98 with me. Her speedy steps and upbeat personality pulled me out of the hole I was in and improved my pace and demeanor. It was only fitting to walk the final two laps with my Dad. In the night hours around a pitch-black track it felt like two old friends catching up. We talked about our exchange student from Brazil, we laughed about our British soccer coach friends, and we talked about my sisters. This was the memory I wanted, this was my ‘why’.
Mile 99 felt like victory. Mile 100 a victory lap. I held hands with my Dad as I crossed the finish line. Cowbells clanged signifying another runner had finished 100 miles. I received a medal for the race and a belt buckle for completing 100. I hugged my Mom, Dad and Stepmom. I thought there would be a flood of tears, a catharsis and a release. I thought maybe crossing that finish line would solve all of my existential problems — but no, all I really wanted was a chair. It was over. 100 miles. An hour of sleep just shy of 10 PM on a crisp fall Saturday night. I felt comfortable although I was very far outside of my comfort zone — maybe this was my new comfort zone. I felt safe and protected because I was surrounded by the people I loved most in life. This 36 hour 44 minute meditation was done and I was quietly satisfied. The rest of the runners would continue until 9 AM the following morning. My Dad finished with 113 miles and came in 3rd place for males at the age of 81. The winners would complete 156 and 157 miles. While they were slugging it out the track I was having a hot Epsom salt bath and sleeping in a comfortable bed. There is always room for growth.
“In retrospect my ‘why’ had changed”
In retrospect my ‘why’ had changed. Initially my motivation was creating an unforgettable memory with my father rooted in grief, pain, and a curiosity to test the limits of human potential. But at the end of the day — and maybe this is the ‘aha’ moment — I actually enjoyed it. I felt freedom in those miles, I felt enlightenment in the pain. This is the ultimate gift Jenny has given me and that has become my life’s silver lining. The loss of my sister has led me to a path where I can walk in the pain and feel grateful. For 36 hours I felt no judgment and only support from those around me. It was a profoundly communal experience and in some humble regard I hope it inspires others. That’s all we can really hope for, and for me it starts one step at a time.
A few weeks after the race I asked my dad his ‘why’ and his response was “camaraderie”. He had it figured out all along and I had never thought to ask him. He added “plus in no other sport do you get to compete with the best in the world”. The humility of his last sentence struck me, because he is the best in the world. It dawned on me that you can push the limits of human potential while also exploring the depths of human connection — yet staying humble along the way is the most important part.