Perpetually Climbing Up at the 2018 CCC (Courmatour, Champex, Chamonix)

September 18, 2018

Getting In

I heard about the UTMB race a decade ago from friends in the running community. They described the steep climbs and scenic Alps with awe. The UTMB race loops Europe’s highest peak, Mount Blanc, and snakes through three countries—Italy, Switzerland and France. When the application period opened last December, I discovered that while I had run long and tough races that might normally qualify me for the event, not all of my finishes earned UTMB points (lesson: check the official list before running 100 miles). Because of this I ended up applying for the little sister of the UTMB, the CCC, a 100K variant.

A month went by and while I had the lottery date on my calendar, I didn’t pay it much attention. I knew that most runners take two, three or four attempts before their name is picked. Despite the odds, after coming home from work I brought up the UTMB website and plugged in my name. To my astonishment my status was “awaiting confirmation”—meaning that I was selected and just had to pay my fees and perform the other qualifying steps. Beyond excited!

For those unfamiliar with the UTMB process and are interested in applying, I recommend reading every single message the organizer sends. And of course, submit your medical waiver as soon as possible. Unlike many US races, UTMB requires you have a screening from a doctor before you toe the line. If you don’t submit the paperwork, you don’t run. Also, read the gear requirements very carefully so you have the equipment they require on race day. They can be military-grade strict.

The Race

The CCC is a very tough run. It’s not just that the event has over 18,000’ of climbing on a 62-mile course, but it was HOW the trail climbs, as in straight up. Apparently there isn’t a word in French for “switchback”.

The start was as I expected: thousands of runner toeing the line, instructions in four languages, and a course that weaved through the narrow streets of Courmatour, Italy before ascending the hills and transitioning from streets to single-track trails.

And then we just kept climbing.

Each aid station was packed with actual food. No Cliff bar or gu packets. Instead they had vats of cheese, meat, PB&J and soup. Every runner carried a bowl, cup and spoon that volunteers kindly filled with hot foot at each major aid station. Smaller aid stations had just water and electrolyte drink.

And then we climbed up.

The first thirty miles were as expected: hard. The only surprise was freezing fog at mile nine when we topped out at the highest point on the course, somewhere above 8,000'. While I didn’t feel the elevation, I definitely felt the chill.

It’s this cold now and its 11am?!?

Luckily, the freezing fog and a small amount of rain midway through the course was all the weather we got. It made a descent a muddy affair, but otherwise the weather gods looked kindly on us. From what I saw the previous few days in Chamonix, things aren’t always that pleasant as weather systems can sweep in and out of the valley by the minute.

I knew from the race timing of past years that most runners slow WAY down at night. This was exactly my experience. Once night hit, a combination of tough ascents and tired legs meant that my climbs were agonizingly slow. I recall one section between aid stations of just 5.5 miles. When I finally arrived back at the next shelter I was rendered exhausted. As a chorus, the other runners from Japan, China, France and England and I all complained about the brutal course. Suffering is universal.

How could such a short section be so hard?

My girlfriend Emily crewed me for the last 50k. She bused between aid stations and helped me change socks and get food at each stop. I complained. She kindly rubbed my back and helped me change shirts. I gulped down pasta and then headed back out into the darkness. At 55+ miles in, I knew I wasn’t going to be swept and would make it back to Chamonix. I just knew it would be ugly for the last two climbs of the course.

For me the end of the race was at dawn. While I had dragged for hours, by the time I got to the last 1k of the course in Chamonix I was booking it. My legs pumped as I weaved through old, narrow streets while locals and race volunteers cheered me on. I was tired, but I was hungry for a finish.

Emily ran and filmed these last steps.

We finished arm and arm.

The CCC was probably my hardest race, at least it felt that way when I was trudging uphill in the dark. I’ve finish six 100-mile races, and have done some other strenuous endurance events, but this 100k really took it out of me. Luckily, the sights, people, aid station food and sheer epicness of the course make it an event worthy of a return.

A giant thank you to the race organizers, volunteers, runners and trail gods.

The Finish: 24H:19M

The sunrise atop Mt. Constitution restored my faith, but I still looked like I'd been worked over a bit.

Joining the Tower Club at the Orcas 100

February 13, 2018

It was just before dawn when I summited the 2,398' Mt. Constitution on Orcas Island, it's highest peak of the island and a view I had already visited two times previously since I started the Orcas Island 100 the previous morning. The early sun rays cut up from just below the horizon and painted the sky pink and orange—contrasted the muted clouds and blue sky. Despite the light, my third visit to Mt. Constitution was not a hopeful one.

“Despite the light, my third visit to Mt. Constitution was not a hopeful one.”

While climbing the brutal and unrelenting Powerline Trail minutes earlier I had convinced myself to quit as soon I got to the next aid station. It was done and decided. I had no specific injury, but was defeated by the previous 20 hours of struggle. Throughout the night I shivered in the sub-freezing temperatures compounded by strong gusts of wind ripping across island lakes and hilltops. That, and I couldn't stay awake for the life of me. At one point I laid down at the Mt. Pickett aid station and napped for 25 minutes next to a fireplace to try to recapture my spirit. Unfortunately this did little to bring my body or mind back to life.

Apparently I don't look half bad while doing hill repeats on Mt. Si

"Maybe this race was just too early in the year?", I thought as I attempted to troubleshoot my failing body.

While I had run and completed 100-mile races before, they were all in the later summer. To train for my previous hundreds (and I've earned five buckles, ahem) I had competed in shorter races and ramped up my training to peak just at the right moment: August or September. As an early February race, my training for Orcas was entirely different.

Lacking the time or daylight to pack in many miles in December and January, I opted for a three prong approach to prepare my body and mind for the four 25-mile loops I knew I'd have to complete to earn my Orcas 100 buckle:

Log weekend trail miles in my local stomping grounds of Issaquah, including hill repeats and treks up and down Mailbox Peak and Mt. Si.
Ramp up my hot yoga from just a single class a week to 3 or 4 to build my core strength and maybe store some heat to use on race day (that's a thing, right?)
Watch inspirational videos on YouTube by the Mulligan Brothers and this Will Smith clip. I love when he describes not being afraid to die on a treadmill. Smith hypothesizes that if he and someone else got on a treadmill together that he has the will to get off last, or die. Wow. There is something that I love about his intensity and that fatalistic dedication. I want to feel that commitment and mission!

I stuck with my training plan through December and January, counting down the weeks until race day. I knew Orcas 100 was going to be hard as I've run and completed the 50k version on the island three times before, but I didn't know how deep I'd have to reach. That is, until race weekend arrived.

The night before our start, all the runners assembled for a briefing at Camp Moran at the very far east end of Orcas. Ninety two friendly faces surrounded me, and listened intently as the race director, James Varner, read out updates on trail conditions, "Your feet will get wet", and reminded everyone to keep an eye out for course markers. I felt surprisingly relaxed and ready. The next morning, Friday, Feb. 9th I'd meet my "treadmill" challenge.

Before heading to bed, co-race director Elizabeth asked if I'd be open to capturing some GoPro footage from the trails and to being interviewed by KUOW, our local NPR station. "Of course" was my reply, always passionate for advocating for the trails.

Kara, a Web reporter, filmed a brief interview and inquired about my training from the past few months and goal for the run.

"To finish in less than 36-hours." I replied, stating the race cutoff time allotment. I wasn't being pessimistic, I just knew my goal was to finish and earn a buckle. Anything else would be gravy, or, Orcas mud.

On race morning I assembled with the other runners in the cool pre-dawn air. After a few unceremonious words, the adventure began. The first forty miles went as expected. I was conservative with my pace and aggressiveness, and listened to what my body needed: water, pickles, ginger ale, protein bars and more pickles. I tried to tune out with some music stored on my phone but never got into the flow, something that normally comes easy. Weird, but not disruptive.

As always the climb up the Powerline trail was tough. While it was by no means balmy, the sun had warmed up the cool moss just enough to cause sheets of steam to rise up from the ground. It was beautiful, and the perfect momentary distractions from the ascent.

But the promises of warmth were short lived. A few miles on while descending on a thickly-forested trail I was shocked by how cold it in the shadows, even during the middle of the day.

"It is going to be a cold night" I thought. And it was.

This is the first mountain race when I had to wear two pairs of gloves while moving at night: regular running ones covered by heavy snowboarding gloves. And sometimes this wasn't even enough to keep the chill out. During the early hours of Saturday I also layered on tights over my shorts and a lightweight shell pant over those to keep out the wind, or at least to try to. These layers did little to block the chill. For the life of my mountain running career I can't recall ever being that cold for that long. Hours of trying to stay warm while attempting to build warmth inside of my core. While the thermometer only said 30°F at its coolest, it felt so much colder. Maybe it was the wind or my emotions, but I was couldn't warm up.

“I had hurt for the past 12 hours and I was just done. ”

By the time I got around to my third climb up Mt. Constitution, around mile 73, I had enough of the experience. I forgot all about Mr. Smith's inspiration, the steam I built up from hot yoga or my promise to NEVER come off the race course under my own will. I had hurt for the past 12 hours and I was just done.

But then something changed.

I saw Kara, the KUOW reporter, at the Mt. Constitution aid station where she had stayed up the whole night serving as the medic and capturing footage for her article. I saw my other friends bravely continuing down the trail from Mt. Constitution, starting their fourth and final loop. I saw the edge of the sun creep above the horizon and finalally light the sky after a long night. And I snacked on some jelly beans, too.

In that moment at the aid station my hope was restored. I would continue. I had 29 more miles to run, and 13 hours to do it. Even if I walked the entire thing. I knew my mission. But first I had to take my trek up the Tower Club.

You see in addition to climbing 26,000' while running the 100-mile course, the wild beasts at Rainshadow Running were inspired to add yet another challenge to the event. For those who chose, runners could climb up the medieval-themed watch tower on top of Constitution as an added feat. To prove that runners ascended all the way to the top, race organizers left a hole punch which each of us used to add a mark to our race bib. One climb. One punch. Four climbs: and you're in the Tower Club, earning a special, dramatic shirt and odd bragging rights. While I was slow and recovering from my sleepiness, I couldn't resist the additional challenge (or sweet shirt).

That last loop was fun. One runner told me a secret: to curse and bid farewell each rock and tree you pass on the final loop, and that's exactly what I did. "!%$@ YOU, BRIDGE!", "#$@. YOURSELF, TREE!" It was sillygame, but a fun one that helps my final miles pass by.

While my forth loop of the course, now in the daytime, was neither my slowest or prettiest, I made it back up to Mt. Constitution one final time, took aid and then climbed the tower. After grabbing my final punch, I descended and ran down the trail as the sun set for a second time. I made it the final four miles back to Camp Moran a little over an hour later earning a time of 33:59:23. To my surprise, everyone eating and drinking at Camp Moran paused momentarily to cheer when I arrived, one of the last eight out of a total 69 2018 Orcas 100 finishers.

After grabbing a beer, I did a quick interview with Kara, and then spent the rest of the night listening to the live string band perform at Camp Moran and nursing my sore feet. I had earned my buckle. I had achieved my goal. And most importantly, I had not betrayed Will Smith.

But in all seriousness, thanks does not go to YouTube motivational videos or celebrity rappers, but to the race organizers and volunteers who braved tough weather to host a challenging race for just 92 runners, and 69 finishers. You are strong, kind and caring people. Thank you for letting me touch the darkness and make it back.

A few days later Kara published her dramatically-titled KUOW article "What 100 miles of misery looks like" and video. While in truth for me it was probably only about 35-miles of true misery, I thought she perfectly captured the spirit of the event. I was thrilled to hear that Kara was so inspired by the Orcas event that within days she signed up for her first, trail race. Beautiful!

My goal was to finish Orcas and I was able to achieve that. Even more than gratified, I feel grateful to those who helped me make it back from the darkness.

Revenge at IMTUF 100 Took Exactly Three Years, 34:46:27

September 20, 2017

A rustic and electricity-free hot spring resort outside of McCall. Perfect.

Three years ago I was unemployed, my wife had just left me out of the blue, and my dog Luna was showing signs that her cruciate tendon was giving way, requiring her second surgery. She couldn't walk.

My world was on fire and I desperately needed a escape, even if it was for just a weekend.

That distraction came in Idaho.

Months earlier I had registered for the beasty IMTUF 100 trail race. While my spirits were crushed from the recent tailspin and my body was undertrained, I decided to catch a ride with my friend, Nick, who was registered as well.

"I need this for me" I thought.

Mega Swap Foot means I couldn't walk without suffering

Layers of tape did little to pad or protect

Nick and I met in Tacoma and started the long, winding eight-hour drive through Washington and Idaho to Burgdorf Hot Springs, a rustic retreat just outside of McCall. On race morning the first 25 miles on trail flew by. The second marathon included water crossings where my feet became bloated and worn down by the "moon dust"—silt piled high on the single track trail. I ended up getting a severe case of swamp foot and DNF'd at mile 52, just before the climb up Snow Slide.

I failed. I was a failure.

That's at least how I felt on the drive home to Seattle with Nick. My spirits were crushed, but I was at least grateful for the miles with friends and sights on the trail. It was nice to get out of the house and put my thoughts on something other than the weight I was shouldering.

Within two weeks I started my new job. Whew.

Over the next three years I healed, grew, loved and ran. Luna got her surgery and healed up 100%. I built the life that I desired and found new adventures—tough ones, too. I ran around Mt. Rainier on the Wonderland Trail, set a new PR at Beacon Rock 50K, and even participated in the first-ever Mt. Baker Ultra, a 50-mile run from Concrete, Wa to a summit of Baker and back.

After deferring my IMTUF race entry in 2016 due to a poor run at White River 50, I signed up for this Idaho challenge again in early January of this year. I had no idea where life would take me over the next nine months, but I felt like I needed to give that run a try once more. I needed an ending to my story, no matter what it said.

A chilly or hot race briefing (depending on what side of the water you stood)

September came around faster than I thought, and in a flash I found myself back at Burgdorf last Friday. While I hadn't ramped up my training like I normally would for a 100, I was healthy and in an entirely different place than I was back in 2014—a stronger place.

When I arrived at the hot springs and stepped out of my rented minivan I surprised to need a long sleeve so early in the evening. It was cold, but I saw friendly faces which calmed my nerves. The Seattle crew was in full force: Ben, Sudheer, Ely, Kaytlyn, and Katherine, and Linda from Vancouver. While the weather was cooler than I remembered, I had brought gear that I hoped would get me through the night.

At the race briefing the co-director Jeremy Humphrey warned us to descend the technical terrain slowly, else we'd need "Kilian [Jornet] skills, or pay hospital bills".

““You’d better have Kilian skills, or pay hospital bills””

After a quick dip with lovely Colorado peeps in the boiling Burgdorf pools, I retired to my minivan and called it a night. Tomorrow my future would be written. Or I guess, the next, next day.

On race morning I felt neither strong nor weak. I was just present. At 6 am, the race director Jeremey gave the signal and we headed out into the darkness. The air was freezing, but we moved swiftly, climbing up the ridge.

My plan was to take the race ten miles at a time. I wouldn't worry about the finish. I planned to run from aid station to aid station. Patience, combined with quality wool and poly blend socks packed in drop bags would get me there. At each aid, I'd then change socks, power my feet with talc if they got wet and manage my aches and bumps one step at a time. This was how I would combat the challenges I faced three years earlier.

Saving you from all the play-by-play over the next 98 miles, I'm choosing just a few moments to share.

Fall Creek Aid Station Mile 35

I'm doing surprisingly well. My body didn't hurt despite running at elevation and navigating what were previously described as gruesome obstacles like the Terrible Terrance Trail, a connector stretch of loosely defined rock and dirt connecting two proper trails. I felt fine as I climbed up past 7,500'.

Frosty trees and a cloud bank far below. Everyone just stopped, pulled out a camera if they were carrying one and captured the stunning view.

This steep monster was tough going up and down

Lake Fork Aid Station Mile 43.7

Nearly halfway done, I was proud of how I managed my clothing and nutrition and was prepared for a cold night. However I knew the next 11 miles would be a tough stretch. I climbed with other runners into the darkness, up, up and up for what felt like 10,000 ft into the sky on extremely rocky and wandering trail. The true ascent was only about 2,000' but we topped out at 7,800 in the deepest of night. The descent down to the Snow Slide Aid Station was nearly as difficult as the climb up. I even found a runner from St. Louis who was turned around, confused by a marker above and below.

"Follow me." I said.

Eventually I made it down. Snow Slide was the very place that I had failed three year earlier. That stretch of trail took a lot more than I expected, but I arrived with a spirit of defiance. I made it.

“You won’t break me.”

At this point we were deep into the night and my biggest challenge wasn't exhaustion, injury or busted feet. My malady was something more domestic: I was sleepy! Not exhausted. I still had the will and power to go on. I just couldn't stop yawning and my eyes weighed a ton. After taking a few steps, my eyelids would slide shut and I'd stumble off the trail. Coffee, 'No Doze' and food did nothing to shake me awake. Crap!

I ended up taking three or four micro-naps at aid stations over the next 10-15 miles. I'd lay in the heating tent and close my eyes for five or six minutes just to try to get past the sleepies and yawnies. After these micro-naps, I'd stumble on to the next aid and repeat. It was only the light of the morning that woke me awake with any permanently.

Now daybreak, it was at this time that I did the math and didn't think I'd be able to make the cut-off at Chinook at mile 86.3. I grappled with that reality for miles and came into Victor Creek Aid Station at mile 77.4 grumpy and defeated. I wasn't entirely broken, but I wasn't 100% either. I would soon have to make a decision on my future. Dark thoughts crept in.

"Would I fail again?" I thought.

"Would I embarrass myself in the eyes of friends and family?"

I soldiered on and walked/trekked to Willow Basket Aid Station at mile 83. When I arrived I had yet to make a decision on whether to try to make the Chinook cut-off of 12:45pm or not, 2.9 miles away. The wonderful volunteer helped me with food and water.

"Can I make it?" I asked her in a frustrated tone.

"If you run... maybe." she replied honestly.

...and so I RAN. I ran hard. I did some Forest Gump-style bolting.

The sun was out and I pushed up and around the valley, watching my milage and time. I knew it would be VERY close to making it to the aid station under the cut-off so I did everything I could to speed down the trail. For the first time in the race I put on tunes—Kanye—and tried to navigate the silty single-track while searching with my eyes for what looked like a check point.

I passed tourists who gave me beta. "About a mile away!" they shouted.

I continued to push, turn switchbacks and speed up and down trails. Finally I saw the aid station, and checked my watch. It read Sunday, 12:30pm—15 minutes before the cutoff.

“I made it!”

Volunteer Matt Stebbins helped me with my pack and provided me with food and water. I felt like I was almost back to Burgdorf. However, I had calculated the milage incorrectly. I thought I had a mere ten miles left. Matt corrected me. "You have 17 miles."

Ugh. F*ck.

While I made it to the aid before the cutoff, I now had to solider the energy to make it back to the hot springs. I harnessed my anger, frustration and disappointment to push down the trail. I now ran hard not because I HAD to, but because I was angry at the anthropomorphized-race. I hated it. And so I ran.

“Who needs Gu when you’re grumpy?”

We had to make a MINDLESS loop, grab an "x" on our bib with a marker, and then run back to the last aid. Joel = not a fan.

Working my another runner, Jenny from Mammoth Lakes, CA, she and I climbed up through the valley up to Loon Lake, an entirely unnecessary out-and-loop-and-back where we had to mark our bibs with a special red marker to show we did the full milage. We then heading back to the Willow Basket Aid Station. After a quick snack I headed out with a pack of six runners the last ten miles, climbing up and out of the wilderness. Feeling powerful, I pushed to the front of the group, and eventually sped forward alone.

At this point, I was incensed. I was going to punish my legs and give it all I could, or fail trying. I had about three hours to do the ten miles. It was doable, but I didn't want to lave anything up to chance. I climbed up on fire roads and ran down with intent. Eventually I made it to the Ruby Meadows Trailhead at mile 100.8, and connected with humanity again at the road.

“Now I had just two miles to Burgdof, and a beer, and a buckle. ”

The last two miles were on road. Trucks and cars passed and cheered us on. Some were race volunteers or family. Others seemed to be just visitors to the area who recognized something special was happening. The beasts made had made it through the darkness.

As I ran the last mile, my form tightened and I got a little emotional. I started to choke up. The feelings were flowing not for any one reason. I just needed to "feel" for a second. No tears came, but I felt quivers of emotions.

I passed the finish in 76th place, just an hour and quarter before the 36-hour cutoff. Of the 127 runners who started, 86 finished and 41 did not make it past the cutoffs or chose to drop, a DNF rate of 47%. Probably a common percentage for a Hardrock-qualifier of this caliber.

Surprisingly I wasn't hungry or hurt after the race. My little toes on each foot were worn into blisters, but other than that I was feeling fine. After a bath in the hot spring tub, I changed clothes, drank a beer, expressed my gratitude to the race directors Brandi and Jeremy, and then drove down to Boise making it to 10 Barrel Brewing by 9:45pm for dinner. It's back to the real world.

IMTUF 100 took me three years, 34:46:27 to complete. I am eternally grateful to the race directors Brandi and Jeremy, to the dozens of volunteers who sacrificed so much, to the sweeps who cleared the course, and to the neighbors who cheered on these mutants who visit annually to see just how TUF they really are.

Nailed it! My first 100 finish in four years. It didn't hurt. It hurt. And then it didn't matter.

Bringing Your Mental Game: My Battle at the Woolley 50K

February 20, 2011

I don't know who first offered this piece of wisdom, but it is something to keep in mind at your next competition:

"You don't win races with your feet, you win them with your mind."

I had heard this seemly trite quote before, but it wasn't until yesterday that the message helped me fend off a runner and earn a second-place finish at the Woolley Trail 50k.

At the mind-numbingly early hour of 5am, my girlfriend Sophia, friend Heather and I loaded our water bottles, spare clothes and trail shoes into Sophia's Honda Civic and drove north on I-5. The morning was frosty, with the thermometer hanging in the low 30s, but felt much colder. It would be a few hours before the sun would make an appearance.

At exit 232, we turned off the freeway and headed east on highway 20. Within a few miles we arrived in the sleepy town of Seedro-Woolley, temporarily inundated with 150 ultra runners for the Woolley Trails 50k, marathon and 1/2 marathon trail runs.

The course was an out-and-back route on a 15 mile section of the Cascade Trail. Flat as a pancake, the only obstacles on the crushed gravel trail were a few downed trees and a 200' stretch of the course intersected by a shallow stream pumping ice cold water.

Technically, this was just a fun run, not sanctioned by any racing groups, but when I lined up at the start at five minutes to 7, I felt a surprising hunger to compete. I had never finished a race in the top five before, and barely broke the top ten in previous competitions. However, today, the idea of pushing myself wandered into my mind. "Maybe" I told myself.

Following a briefing by race director Terry Sentinella, runners took off into a dimly lit and frigid morning.

The first 15 miles of the race were as I expected (with the exception of the buffalo and alpaca grazing next to the trail). A group of us, mostly men with the exception of the powerful Shawn McTaggart, pushed to the front and set a 7:15/mile pace. This was a little fast for me, so I dropped back and settled at a 7:30/mile, running alone in the cold.

Because runners were competing in 1/2 marathon, marathon and 50K distances on the same course, I wasn't totally sure of who was ahead of me until I approached the turn-around for the 50K distance. The 50k leader was a 100%-business looking runner in his late-30s who was dialed in and at least a mile ahead of me. I looked around but didn't see anyone else between me and the turn-around.

Wait! Could I be in second?

After grabbing half of a PB&J sandwich and refilling my water bottle at the aid station, I thanked the cheerful volunteers and started my return run. While catching the front runner was out of the question, if I could hold out, I could finish stronger than I've ever done before.

As the miles began to tick by...20, ...22, ..24, my demeanor changed from competitive fun-run to 100%-business, too. The morning felt bright and I just kicked one foot in front of the other.

Despite my determination, at some point in the last quarter of the 50k I gradually started to slow down. With no one around me, my pace slowed.

I didn't realize that I was being stalked.

At mile 28, the sound of foot steps came out of nowhere. I checked over my left shoulder and saw another runner, a male in his 40s with a high tempo gaining on me with what seemed like an effortless advance. Suddenly, he pulls parallel to me.

Shoot! I've got just three miles left, and he has more gas in his tank than I do! Wait, could he be running the marathon distance instead of the 50K?

"You're running the 50K, right" I asked.

"Yeah" he replied in a friendly, but focused tone.

"Same here" I replied, knowing that a duel was about to happen.

Grinning, he replied "I guessed that".

A moment after this exchange he begins to lead me by 10 feet. While he was the stalker for 27 miles, now he was the underdog hero coming to take what was his. I have to hold on!

Panicked, I thought back to a book I'm reading, Open, the autobiography by tennis great Andre Agassi. He describes tennis matches against pros who at the time were much better than him. Agassi described using mental games to take the wind out of competitors by making them think that he was stronger, even when he wasn't.

That's what I have to do.

With just three miles left, I had to make my move and I'd have to do it in a way that would make the other runner think I was stronger than I was--to take away his hope.

The mind game was on!

In a dramatic flair, I threw my hand-held Nathan water bottles to the ground, lightening my load, and began to swing my arms with full vigor. I quieted my breath to make it sound like I wasn't working as hard as I was. When the moment just right, and with only two miles to the finish, I pushed past him in one smooth acceleration, never looking back or checking my watch. My stare was fixed on the last two miles of the 50k.

After stepping through the stream that bisected the trail, I crossed the finish with a surprisingly quick time of 4:12:36, capturing 2nd, my best finish ever.

What mind games have you used to compete?

Carkeek 12 Hour: Scarier than Halloween

October 28, 2010

What's scarier than ghosts, goblins and the walking dead this Halloween? The mind of Sam Thompson: father, husband, Northface-sponsored ultra-runner and race organizer of the Carkeek 12 Hour.

As Sam states on the race site "The 2010 race will be very scary." No kidding.

The loop in Carkeek Park, located in North Seattle, is 1.93 miles. Competitors will run or walk the course over and over with the goal of racking in as many as many miles as they can during the 12 hour race. And unlike many time-based events, this course isn't flat. Not even close.

Each loop on the stone and dirt trail includes two bridge crossings and 430ft of elevation gain/loss.

This monster of the race kicks off this Saturday, October 30, 2010 at 6am in Carkeek Park. Have a tip for a time-based event? Add a comment below.

I'll be toeing the start line Saturday and this is my first time-based endurance event, so Wish me luck!

Full Circle in Philly

October 9, 2010

One year ago I ran my first race: the Philadelphia Half Marathon. The sea of 20,000+ competitors, the beautiful 13.1 mile course and the bins of freshly baked soft pretzels waiting at the finish made the experience a complete joy. While before the race I wasn't initially excited about the idea of paying to run ("Something I could do for free" I told myself), the moment I crossed the finish, I realized why these races were so special: the competition, cheering crowds and sight of people pushing themselves to accomplish something they hadn't thought was possible.

Racing is amazing!

From this experience in Philly last year, a passion was ignited and over the last 12 months I've toed the line at ten other races and competitions. From costume 5ks in Fremont to trail runs in Carkeek Park and 50-mile ultramarathons on Crystal Mountain, I jumped in head-first.

While I initially questioned my interest in competing in running races, I now get a little tingle each time I pin a bib number on my back.

It is only fitting then that this Sunday I will be coming back to where it all started, Philadelphia, and will be running the 2011 Philadelphia Marathon (the full one this time).

The course will be unchanged from last year and starts and finishes adjacent to the Philadelphia Art Museum (and just feet from the Rocky Statue). Wish me and the 23,000 other runners luck!

I'm Not An Athlete

June 17, 2010

I played two, terrible seasons of little league when I was in 3rd and 4th grade. My position was left outfield (or "left out" as my teammates reminded me).

All the youth helmets were too small for my oversized head, so I had to borrow a coach's helmet before meekly trudging out to the plate. I failed to hit the ball even once during any of my dozens of at-bats.

The only play I was ever involved in was when a ball was hit into the air, struck me in the head while I attempted to catch it, and bounced into the glove of my teammate. See, I told you. I was just terrible.

Despite the bribe of a post-game soda with the team, I told my parents at the ripe old age of 10 that my career in baseball was over.

"I guess I'm just not an athlete" I thought.

And with that, I said farewell to the dream of gracing the front of a Wheaties box. Sports were just not for me.

It took me almost 15 years to realize that I was actually wrong about this.

Nope, I didn't start playing Little League as a guy in my 20s. What I realized was that we are all good at some type of sport or activity. I WAS an athlete, I just needed to find the right sport.

I first stumbled upon this realization when I took up weight lifting in my mid-20s and became pretty good at it. Later when I was introduced to hiking, and found I could trek for miles, my sore ego from playing "left out" didn't hurt so much. Now as a runner, I am a fully-converted evangelist for this philosophy.

Every person has a sport or activity that they can excel at. You just need to find it!

So, the kid who never hit a single pitch in little league (me), just ran his second trail race yesterday, the 10 mile Grand Ridge Solstice Race organized by 4th Dimension Racing.

I took the race on a day's notice, and my body was still recovering from a fast and hard 6.3 mile run from the night before. Despite this, I put one foot in front of the other and pushed through 2,000+ ft of elevation gain.

To my surprise, I not only finished the race, but captured 5th out of 28 runners! This is the first time I've ever finished a race near the top! Despite the mud and tough descents, I felt amazing at the end of the race!

While I may live my whole without hitting a pitch thrown in baseball, I'm ok with that. I'll just keep running around in the woods, smiling and having fun.

As the familiar bumper sticker reads "Real athletes run, others just play games". For me, that sounds great.