Time Heals All Wounds: A Story In Two Parts

Part 1: Sometimes You Need a Really Sharp Knife

On Monday, March 31, 2014, Dr. Anthony Schena received a call from a patient (let’s call this patient, oh, I don’t know, Josh).  A message was left that went something like this: “Doc, I know my surgery to remove the plica is on Wednesday, but, I’m not kidding, just two days after we finalized the date for this, the knee started to feel better, and, well, I don’t know.  I’ve been able to run to and from school this past week, and am just wondering what your thoughts are about this, if the surgery is really necessary.”  What I (I mean “Josh”) couldn’t articulate in the message was the feeling that, like my recent procurement of a new winter running jacket, having surgery at this point, after fourteen weeks of discomfort that had seemingly, miraculously healed itself (literally, two days after finalizing the date), was, somehow a “luxury.”  The pain was (mostly) gone, so why did I even need this?  Afterall, I was running again.  Each day that past week, I had made it to school and most of the way home.  Why would I willingly let Dr. Schena cut into my knee and put me back on the DL for several more weeks?  I couldn’t help but shake that feeling of being the impatient American, a consumer, looking for the “quick” fix that would cure my personal woes.  Because there was no pain when running, I started to think of this as “cosmetic surgery.” I started to think about the miles lost during recovery.  If the operation had just been scheduled for two weeks before, before I had been given the gift of pain-free running again, there would have been no question what the right choice would have been - cut this plica out!  It’s amazing how quickly we can ignore history when our present situation fits our mental model of what we hope will happen.

On Tuesday, April 1, 2014, Dr. Anthony Schena left a message for his patient Josh.  It went something like this, “Josh, you can always postpone surgery.  However, I think, as you’ve experienced and know, this is something that has already come back three times.  You may feel fine for a day or a month or a year, but then, one day it will bug you and you’ll be out again.  You’ve been out for almost four months already.  If you want to postpone, just call my office.  Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow.”  This was the reality: the plica wasn’t going anywhere, and it would become irritated again.  At some point down the road, I knew I would be facing this same choice again.  

Over the past year (perhaps starting at the Vermont 100), I’ve begun listening to both my “gut” and other’s advice more careful, more thoughtfully, especially those most important to me.  And so it was that I found myself on the morning Wednesday, April 2, 2014, shaving my leg before heading to the hospital (I was looking forward to the shaving of the leg part, because, really, when else would I have such a great excuse to do that?).  It was certainly not an easy decision (the surgery, not the shaving).  Of course Googling “plica surgery recovery” did not help make up my mind, as I soon discovered that the Internet is full of horror stories of people that, years later, still have pain.  A doctor was about to stick some rather invasive tools into/through my knee!  But I am learning.  I tried to not heed the words of anonymous users like DJBlueSKY1179 on random Internet forums and instead focus on the voices of people that know me.  After a couple of weeks of counsel from friends and family, it was the words of my father (a family doctor in Vermont who had happily taken my MRI to all of his orthopedic and radiologist friends, who had all graciously looked over it for me) and my wife (who was the one who was going to have to deal with all the post-op kvetching on my part) that truly helped me make up my mind.  First, my father and the several experts he had shown my MRI to had all seen the plica.  They reported that everything else in the knee looked great and that (in the universe of the knee), the plica was not near anything “of consequence” to the structure of the joint.  Then there were Liz’s words.  She has been patient with me these months, and truly understands how much of my personal identity is wrapped up in my ability to run long distances (not necessarily compete, but to be able to move, under my own power, where I choose.  She also has the distinct pleasure of knowing me well before I was a runner!).  She reminded me that another two to three weeks of recovery would pale in comparison to how frustrated and angry I would be at myself if I postponed the surgery, when the plica became irritated again.  I would have to start the whole process over.  It had taken fourteen and half weeks this time.  She was absolutely right.  Ultimately, this decision was mine to make, and, heeding the inner-voice, I knew I’d be going under the knife.  Time does heel all wounds, but, I realized, sometimes those wounds need to be made by a really sharp knife in an operating room.  

Just over 72 hours post-op, the procedure seems to have gone quite well, with the doctor telling us that my knee, “Looked perfect, and now the plica is gone.”  Liz and I actually got to have a little “date” pre-op, where we simply chatted for about two hours, interrupted only occasionally for IV lines and status updates (I also took great pride in setting the alarms off on the pulse-monitors, because my heart rate was reading 39 BPM.  After having run only about ten miles a week (if that) over the past fourteen weeks, I was sure my resting heart rate would have been much higher.  If nothing else, this objective measure made me think, “I’ve still got it,” which was a great boost of optimism before knowing I would be very limited in activity for a good chunk of time post-op).  When I removed the surgical dressing forty-eight hours after getting home, there was much less swelling than I had imagined.  The stitches certainly tug, my calf is a bit tight, and I am being super conservative in putting weight on the knee, but I’ve even felt improvements today - a more “natural” stride with the crutches and more confidence in placing weight on the leg.  Patience has become the name of this new game, and it is a patience tinged with an optimism I did not feel much over the last fourteen weeks: if I am cautious now, the bloody thing that bothered me is no longer there, so I’ll be okay!

This has been my biggest lesson so-far: be optimistic.  The days leading up to the surgery, I still couldn’t help but Google “plica surgery recovery”  (I’m still learning not to trust the myriad opinions/voices on the Interwebs - I’m not totally there yet!).  A fascinating article about Joan Benoit Samuelson (from Runner’s World) appeared in the search results.  Turns out she had the same procedure I did back in 1984.  “A few days later, she tested it to the . . . tune of 17 miles.” 17-days post-op, she won the first ever women’s Olympic Marathon Trials.  She then went on to win the first-ever women’s Olympic Marathon!  Her story certainly has given me a reason to be optimistic (and wise about recovery.  The article also explains how, following her “test-run” she had caused such damage to her leg muscles that she needed 14-hours a day of “microcurrent stimulation.” Sorry, I’ll pass on that).  Although I feel “weak” (mentally and physically) because I succombed to the knife, I am determined to enjoy the recovery and subsequent return to form.   Right now, when I am overly-conscious of every movement my knee makes, this process feels glacial, but, by the time summer arrives here in New England, and I am running pain free, it will be but a distant memory.  And, for years to come, each time I come home from a long run, the kind when you’re out so early that you experience that subtle transition from dark night, to gray dawn, to bright day, the kind where you’re so thirsty and tired, and it’s so hot you wanted to stop miles before, I will smile and likely not even remember that time, one April, when I was laid up on the couch for a couple weeks.

Part 2: In Which I Am Grateful For Having Written Part 1 Three Hours Earlier

“Patience has become the name of this new game, and it is a patience tinged with an optimism I did not feel much over the last fourteen week: if I am cautious now, the bloody thing that bothered me is no longer there, so I’ll be okay!”

Somewhere, in the deepest folds of my brain’s gray matter, those words, which I had finished writing just hours earlier must have been playing on infinite repeat, because the only thing that was really freaking me out was the fact that the nurse had just casually mentioned that I would have to self-inject the medication before he casually left the room.  And now, about twenty minutes later the doctor and nurse were back explaining that I would be starting Lovenox immediately and the nurse would be “teaching” me how to inject it into my belly every twelve hours.  And now, just seconds after that conversation, the nurse was grabbing a fold of skin and fat around my belly, saying, “This is going to burn and itch for a bit” and stabbing a needle into my gut.  It was 2:30 in the morning.  What in the hell just happened to me?

Shortly after finishing Part 1 of this story (which was supposed to be the only part!), I went up to bed.  It was Saturday night, about 10:30 or 11:00.  My calf (below the operated on knee) had been really sore since Friday morning, when I first tried to take some “substantial” steps (I mentioned it as “being a little tight” in Part 1.  That was like an ultrarunner saying they feel “fine” at mile 80 or so.  It really means things are not well).  It felt like it does after a really steep/long run.  I figured it was the stress of surgery and the fact that I had been trying to not move the leg much post-op.  It remained sore for much of the day, but I thought little of it, trying to stretch a little, even massage it.  Nothing seemed to help, but I thought little of it.  Saturday morning dawned and, getting out of bed, the calf hurt.  It hurt enough that I got a little nauseous and thought, “This isn’t right.  It shouldn’t hurt this much after a night of rest.” I laid back down and focused on my breathing, trying to push the “what if” thoughts out of my head.  The calf continue to bother me throughout the day, especially after it had been lying on pillows.  That really didn’t seem to be right.  When I got in bed this night  (again, minutes after finishing Part 1), the calf hurt simply resting on a pillow.  This is definitely not right, I thought to myself.  I lay awake for most of an hour, thinking that something was terribly wrong and that Liz would discover the worse in the morning.  It was about 11:30 PM when I got up and called the surgeon.  On the other end of the phone I heard the exact advice that, since Friday morning, I had been desperately trying to deny in my mind, “Go to the ER and be prepared for a long night.” I woke Liz up and refused to let her drive me, simply telling her I would hopefully be home by the time she woke up.

And so there I was, lying in a hospital bed, having an ultrasound of my left leg.  Perhaps it was a combination of fatigue or having already accepted that this is what was going on, but I was not too shocked or surprised to hear the ultrasound tech say, multiple times, “There’s a clot.  There’s a clot.  Here’s one.  Let’s just check here too.” I had had a feeling that this is what was happening, and just stared at the monitor.  The tech brought me back to the room - I tried to be gracious to her for a doing such a thorough job -  and I closed my eyes, and started meditating, focusing on my breath, letting thoughts roll in and out of my mind.  It served me well by helping to avoid the fears and anxieties that were starting to surface, from the question of what this meant for my running, for my post-op recovery, and, more importantly, for my family - was my telling Liz I would be home by the time she woke up a simple act of denial? - and ultimately the question of my mortality - could this kill me?  The short answer to that last question was, yes, especially if I had simply been my typical stubborn self and thought myself invincible.  The good news was that as soon as the nurse stuck that first needle into my belly, I was on the way to protecting against this worst case scenario.

The official diagnosis is Deep Venous Thrombosis (DVT), which is a fancy way of saying that there are a bunch of blood clots in my leg that shouldn’t be there.  These are possibly complications from surgery, especially of the knee and hip, and, if left untreated, can ultimately lead to a pulmonary embolism (PE), when a clot “breaks loose,” travels through the heart and into the lungs.  A PE is not good: an estimated 100,000 Americans die of PEs every year.  Perhaps it was denial, perhaps it was that I had already accepted the reality of this situation, but this was not one of the two things that really freaked me out.  Those were, first, fact that I was going to have to start injecting myself with “blood thinners” (which are actually anticoagulants, which limit the blood’s ability to clot.  A very good thing if you have congestive heart failure or DVT or PE.  A not so great thing if you are, say, running on a trail and trip and get a really deep cut (which I have done more than once)).  And second, that I would be on some type of anticoagulation medication for three to six months.  These two facts of my newly shaped reality really freaked me out - like sick to my stomach, dry mouth freaked me out (beyond the fact that these steps which I fear will likely prevent me from developing PE, another positive is they have helped me realize I will never become an IV drug user.  I’ve been able to do the injections, but there is no way to get around it except to say they are absolutely horrible.  I have a whole new level of respect and empathy for what diabetics must go through on a daily basis).  

Since that first shot at 2:30 Sunday morning, there has been one moment where I felt nearly completely overwhelmed and simply thought to myself, “FUCK.” It was Sunday night, right before I went to bed.  I was checking on my boys, who sleep in a bunk bed.  I looked at them and thought, “What the hell was I thinking?” I questioned, again, if the surgery was even necessary and felt like a horribly selfish person for doing something simply to be able to return to running faster.  It was a sad moment for me, where I thought about all the “what ifs”; and especially what this could have meant for my family.  And then, as I hobbled over to kiss both of the boys, the crutches clanking so so much I feared I’d wake them, I thought of a lot of the lessons I’ve tried to teach to my students this year: about acceptance, perseverance, kindness and strength of character, and the negative thoughts were fought back.  The reality of the situation, of the present, returned, and I stopped thinking of a past that I wanted to reinvent (not have surgery), or a future that I feared (all those what-ifs), or the “perfect” future I craved (a speedy post-op recovery).

As I got in bed that night, I focused on my breath again and just let my thoughts flow freely, not judging them, but observing them.  In the end, this new reality has not changed the lesson I learned when I thought the recovery was going to be “quick.”  It is still about patience, still tinged with optimism, albeit a bit different than before.  This optimism is less about my own ability to return quickly to running great distances, and is about something much bigger to me: an optimism for the good of humanity.  While my physical recovery will be longer, my mental and spiritual recovery has begun in earnest.  I feel so much gratitude for all the people (especially my family and friends) that have been so supportive and caring, listening to my bellyaching (literally - it’s from those injections!).  A gratitude for the surgeon, ER staff, ultrasound tech, and other medical professionals (especially old Dr. Dad Katzman, who has provided several hours worth of consultation already), who have helped me make sense of this situation and get me on the path to recovery.  It has brought a deeper gratitude at hearing the tales of friends who are running trails and winning races - something that, at times, had brought jealousy, but now just creates a sense of awe at what the human spirit is capable of (and offers some incredible incentive to heal quickly!).  It has even brought a deeper gratitude for my students, who, when I returned to school (a couple of days later than originally planned) for the first time today, treated me with a kindness and care that is not often demonstrated by teenagers.  I was so impressed with their concern and compassion that I joked with my fellow teachers that I was considering faking more surgeries in the future and showing up on crutches more often.  As for actual surgeries . . . I’ll avoid those as long as I possibly can!

A Boy. A Jacket. A Love Story (Or: A Review of the Inov-8 Race Elite 260 Thermoshell)

It was the winter of 1998.  It was the beginning of the online shopping boom.  I was eighteen, just days away from my nineteenth birthday, had a credit card, and had just discovered REIoutlet.com.  Seriously?  REI gear at way cheaper prices?  Uh oh.

. . .

As long as I can remember, my father has had a sweatshirt from a well known company (who’s name transports a person to the Southern Hemisphere).  It is black and zips up the front.  He wore it in the winter, often when we would chop or stack wood.  It had piled all over the outside, usually had little splinters of maple sticking to it, and I remember, when it would hang by our fireplace, drying after a snowstorm, I would collect those little “buttons” of fuzz, inhaling the years of carried wood and collected chainsaw exhaust, and look at the label on the left breast, picturing myself in those mountains that graced the logo.  Yes, this sweatshirt has a special place in my psyche.

So it was with a certain titilating nostalgia that, as I scrolled this newly discovered virtual world at www.rei.com/outlet that I saw it: for $22.73 a “wind blocking, lightly insulated shell for all your winter adventures.” It was blue, full zip, with a left chest pocket.  And, in my (nearly) nineteen-year old mind, most importantly, there was that beautiful logo above over the left breast.  Immediately I sent it to my “Shopping Cart,” clicked “Check Out” and waited.  Several days later, I was opening the package, figuring this jacket was, to paraphrase Macklemore,  so much more than just a jacket.  This jacket would give me the ability to climb the highest peaks in the world (regardless of lacking the requisite skills), would make me able to tell tales at bars that began, “As I crossed the altiplano of Bolivia . . .” (regardless of lacking the requisite charisma.  I was also not a runner at this point in my life, instead merely a Walter Mitty mountaineer).  These images rushed through my image-conscious, teenage mind.  There was great anticipation.

Utter and complete dissappointment.  This jacket, which I had come to see as a doorway to greatness, flat out sucked.  It was ugly.  It looked vaguely like a shiny track suit, minus the retro “cool” factor.  The outside felt like a nylon tarp, and the “insulation”? It wasn’t even Polartec!  In fact, it was so thin and light that I figured this jacket should only be used as a shower mat.  And that would be pushing its envelope of functionality.  Buyer’s remorse in full effect, the jacket got tossed into a pile of neglected gear I never saw but once a year when I added some other ridiculous purchase to it.  Shit.  How was going to reach the goddamn altiplano now?

. . .

It was late spring, at least a dozen years later, and I was summiting Bondcliff in New Hampshire’s White Mountains, with my great friend Sam Jurek.  We had been running in a steady, cold rain and bitter wind for about 3 and half hours, as we attempted a Pemi Loop.  Temperatures hung around 37 degrees, and when we had refueled at Galehead Hut, instead of warming us, as we had hoped, the inside of the hut simply reminded us of the cold – each exhale turned to mist, and we quickly began to shiver (a symptom that disappeared as soon as we started marching up the soaking “staircase” to S. Twin.).  This was Sam’s introduction to the Whites, and I, being the wise veteran, had packed my once-dismissed, ugly, blue “tarp” jacket (with the cool logo), which, despite being soaked, was keeping me warm and, as we cruised the exposed ridge, kept the constant wind at bay.

You see, once I became a runner I discovered this jacket in the back of a closet.  It was winter, probably around 2003, and I fancied myself a serious runner, so I needed something on a particularly cold and windy day, to keep me from freezing to death as I headed out the door.  I gave this jacket, which I had held such high hopes for when clicking “Check Out,” a try.  I don’t think I had worn it before that day.  To this day, it is my go-to piece of gear when it gets cold.  Now, like my father’s sweatshirt, the inside (which I am now convinced is lined with some unique, magic fabric, found in no other garment, ever) is slightly piled, the outside is stained with tree sap and road (and body) salt, the zipper is half-broken, the elastic around the bottom, that once helped seal out wind, is now a bit too stretchy, so the jacket wears a little bit like a zip-up poncho, the waist cuff often rolling up a bit, and it holds a very particular smell (after thousands of miles of running, not quite as nostagalic as the cut wood and chainsaw exhaust of my father’s sweatshirt, but nostalgic nonetheless).  Yes, I truly love this jacket of mine.  It has served me well .  I have come home from “blizzard” runs several times to have it completely frozen, a thin layer of ice around it that I have to break to get it off.  It hangs by the door in our house, at the ready,   from October to April (although this year, it may be June).  Putting it on is like going for a run with an old (and kind of smelly) friend. 

So you can imagine the great internal struggle, when, just a couple of weeks ago, I received a brand new, super-light weight (and sweet-smelling!), Race Elite 260 Thermoshell from Inov-8 (even the fact that this new jacket has a specific, technical name impressed me.  My jacket is called, I don’t even know what it’s called.  I guess just “running jacket”).  (FULL DISCLOSURE: I am sponsored by Inov-8, who, despite my being laid up with an injury for the past 12 weeks, has continued to show a great deal of support and encouragement to me).  When I first heard about the Thermoshell last year I was, to say the least, excited.  It is a very sharp looking piece, like a runner’s version of a puffy jacket (and I prefer to be warm and sweat a little (or a lot) on a run, than to be on the border of warm and freezing my privies off).  It packs down to about the size of a large orange (or, perhaps, grapefruit, if you are particular about the size of your citrus), and is designed for pure, athletic function: half-zip, with one chest pocket, single hand cinches around the waste.  It feels like air holding it. The real kicker?  The inside is made of a wind-blocking material, and the jacket is reversible, so if you flip it inside-out, for some reason, it’s actually warmer!  If my running jacket is a Chevy Nova, the Thermoshell is a friggin’ Ferrari.  On steroids.  (And yes, the whole flipping it inside-out to make it warmer thing is legit.  We’ve had plenty of days to test that here in New England this winter). 

The day I got it, I didn’t try the Thermoshell on until after my boys were asleep.  I think I didn’t want them to see me “cheating” on it.  And when I did finally pull it on, I felt guilty about how good it felt.  If you have ever changed into a puffy coat on a cold night to go sit by a campfire, you know what it felt like slipping the Thermoshell over my head.  “CURSES!” I thought.  The thing felt like Mithril from the mines of Moria, light, flowy, comforting.  (Yes, I know, I’m sponsored by Inov-8.  Yes, these thoughts did actually go through my mind when I put this jacket on).  I decided to give the jacket a real test the next morning, biking to school.  The temperature was forecasted to 1 degree by the time I would be biking.  After thirty five minutes pedalling through those temps, my core was totally comfortable (my hands however were not.  My hands were numb after about eight minutes).  The jacket works: it will keep you warm.  When I wore it on one of my “attempted” runs, (“attempted” because my injury allows me to run about 2 miles at a go), again, on a bitter morning, I actually had to use the small second zipper to let some air out (a nice feature – the half zip actually has a top and bottom zipper.  Once you zip the top zipper, you can pull the bottom zip to create a window of ventilation.  The jacket stays comfortable around your neck (I despise getting drafts down my back), but a lot of extra heat can escape out the front).  And, to top it all off, on the first day I wore it, I went to the grocery store.  Now, I am not one to get compliments on my style or fashion choices (see above description of my running jacket).  I kid you not, two people, approached me and commented on the Thermoshell.  One to say, “Man, that jacket looks really warm” and one to say, “That’s a really nice lookin’ jacket.” I felt like an absolute rock star.

Which is where I will end this tale.  A tale of a boy and his jacket.  A love story.  To be honest, I feel guilty: Since I got it, I have only worn the Thermoshell.  My running jacket still hangs by our door, but now it seems like one of those old dogs that can’t quite keep up with the new puppy and just sort curls itself up in the corner, looking annoyed by the young whippersnapper’s playful antics.  It’s more than a little sad.  I have honestly felt a bit of guilt in my move to the Thermoshell as well.  My running jacket was working just fine - I had yet to freeze to death on a single run.  Is this new choice of jacket (and willingness to simply toss aside such a faithful companion) not a simple choice of functionality, but more of a window into my soul and character?  Does it show a shallowness, only wearing this new jacket because I was complimented by those two people when I wore it to the store?  Does it reveal a hellbent consumer, fueled by the hungry ghost of materialism, creating an unethical demand on the world’s resources?  Gosh, I hope not, because if that’s the case, I’m gonna have a hell of a hard time saying goodbye to the Thermoshell!  And if it does, is there anyone out there who can provide a happy home to a 16-year old, blue, running jacket, with a partially broken zipper and unique smell?

Flat Tires

Rock bottom looked a lot like a flat front tire.  That’s because it was.  

Limping to my “dressing room” at school on this particularly frigid January morning, an hour before sunrise, I ebbed my growing pessimism about this day with one thought: at least I could bike home quickly after my meetings, about 13 hours from now, saving my knee (and spirit) the torment of not being able to run. Opening the door to where the bike is kept, my spirit collapsed: the front tire was completely flat.

Being injured is never fun.  At first it feels unfair - Why me? (Well, just maybe, it was the foolishly long back-to-back runs you did, even though your knee hurt at the start of the second one).  Then it is frustrating - I just took two days off!  Why the hell does my knee still hurt?  (Because you crossed that fine line between “just enough” and “too much” in training).  Then it is kind stressful - Am I losing all my fitness?  I’ve haven’t run for four days!  (Just relax, you’re being a headcase).  It is a vicious cycle, that I’m guessing most of us have gone through.  I’ve dealt with this specific injury before - plica syndrome (which sounds much more malevolent than it is.  I consider it the non-injury injury), but I still go through all these stages, until I finally come to acceptance (which usually looks like setting up my bike trainer in our living room and spinning during Downton Abbey).

A flat tire on a bike is usually not that big a deal - just a quick patch or change of the tube, put some air in, and you're good to go.  Usually it's no problem. This morning I had no patch, I had no tube, and I had a broken hand pump.  About an hour earlier, I had left my house, my knee feeling normal for the first time in three weeks.  Since December 22, in the midst of my build up for the Rocky Raccoon 100, the plica in my left knee had pained me with every step I ran.  It begins as a little pulling sensation on the medial side of the upper patella.  By about half a mile the tugging feels like a bee sting.  By a mile, it feels like a knife being stabbed into this spot each time the heel draws toward the butt.  By 1.10 miles I grimace with each stride.  Usually by 1.25 miles I stop.  This morning it was a mile with no issue.  At two miles it was a dull ache.  By three it just hurt.  By four I was hobbled, on the side of the road, the object of such abject pity that my school's librarian (who thankfully drives this route each morning), pulls over to offer me a ride.  I gladly accept, thankful for having left my bike at school the day before, knowing running home was not in the cards.  Then the discovery of the flat.  Rock bottom.

As I write this, it has been seven weeks to the day since my last substantial run and nearly eight weeks since the first symptoms.  The day before the symptoms emerged I had completed a run that had given me the confidence I could run sub-14 at Rocky Raccoon.  Today, after an hour and fifteen minutes of PT, I managed about 150 yards of pain free running.  In between, at different times, I had taken six days, then eleven, then five, off of running (I don't think I'd ever done that). This bout with plica syndrome has given me pause (and the time) to really think about my relationship to running. 

For several months I’d been thinking about this relationship.  Running, for better or worse, has become a huge part of my personal identity.  From long runs with friends, to exploring nearly every road and trail in a thirty mile radius from my house, to racing, to RDing, to the fact that nearly every person at my 1,000+ student school knows me as “that crazy guy who runs everywhere,” to my strange love of sporting indecently short shorts, clingy tights, and, yes, the truly beloved man-pris tights, running has opened many windows into myself that I never knew were worth exploring.  I relish the monk-like routine of training: waking up hours before sunrise, eating simply, reaching that moment when you feel you have nothing left, only to discover, from the deepest fibers of your being, a new, magical will to continue.  It is my moving meditation, when I think about everything and nothing all at once.  It is simple, it is challenging and it is easy.  And I take pride that only a real man, one so comfortable in his being and essence, would even consider wearing such ridiculous clothing in both running and non-running venues.

Yet, running is, in many ways, my greatest vice, my mistress, my addiction.  I sneak away (often at very odd hours) to meet her. I tend to get cranky and anxious when I can’t see her.  Yes, I could be addicted to much more harmful things (although, if you have ever seen me at the end of a hundred miler, it could very easily be argued that I might be doing much less damage to my body if I had a more “traditional” addiction), but my running can certainly get out of control at times - balancing weekend long runs and weekday workouts with meaningful family time is difficult when my thoughts center on, “when will I get these miles in?”  I may or may not have skipped work once (or twice. Or thrice . . .) to get a long run in.  More than once the first thing I’ve Googled when planning a family vacation is the local trails.  This latest bout with injury, which has, for the last 8 weeks, removed running from my daily routine, has thrown this relationship, this addiction, into sharp relief. I've come to realize that running ain't always as good to me (or more importantly, the people around me) as I've often told myself it is.

. . .

The closest bike shop to my school is about 3 miles away, but, after this impossibly long day, it didn’t matter because I didn't even have my phone or wallet.  In three short weeks I was to be competing for the podium at the Rocky Raccoon 100 - this year’s 100-mile national championship and a Montrail Ultra Cup event (which gives automatic entry to the Western States 100 for the top three finishers).  But right now I was hobbling my broken bike (and body), in the dark and bitter cold, over a mile to the bus stop.  The deflated tube made these sad little squeaks as it rolled along the iced-over sidewalk.  As I stood waiting for the notoriously inconsistent 89 bus, a stranger offered me the use of his pump.  We tried to give my tube just a little pressure to get me just a little closer to home with no luck.  After 26 minutes (it should have been 11), the first bus came.  It was the “other” 89, going to the terminus I was not headed to.  The second bus came.  It lacked a bike rack.  Finally, after more than 45 minutes of waiting, I hoped on different bus, which would bring me miles out of the way to a connecting bus, which would get me a couple of miles from home.  I had to get off that bus when another passenger got caught in the back door.  What the hell was going on here?  Two and a half weeks earlier I had completed a 57 mile training run with ease. I had been independent and free, literally able to run anywhere I wanted to, whenever I wanted.  Tonight I was a prisoner of bike parts, bus schedules and erratically closing bus doors.  Rock bottom.

As I fell asleep that night, five weeks ago, fingers blistered from the tire that simply did not want to mount on the wheel, I realized I had no business feeling sorry for myself.  I was letting this injury make me selfish, as I often felt my training did.  If I was not going to be able grow physically by training, I certainly wanted to make every effort to grow personally from this forced break.  I fully accepted the injury that night, and realized I would not be competing at Rocky.  I had been helped by a number of people that day - first the librarian, then the man who offered his pump, then lady on the bus who let me borrow her phone to call Liz, then Liz who dragged the boys out into the cold to meet me in Arlington Center (and, despite the pain in my knee, at least I hadn't gotten stuck in the bus's doors and had my glasses broken.  Fortunately, that woman was fine otherwise).  Sure, I can't run right now.  Sure, I haven't run this little in over thirteen years.  Sure, it's looking like the resolution will likely be surgery to remove the plica, and that likely won't happen for at least four or five more weeks.  Sure, I know getting back to the level I was will be a long journey.  But so what?  

The next day, after I had felt sorry for myself because my knee hurt and I'd had to wait for a bus, my wife's aunt died, after a life-long battle with disease. At her funeral services, the rabbi made me think of the lyrics from opening song from Rent: "525,600 minutes/525,000 moments so dear." He spoke of how Liz's aunt had lived, not letting her illness define her, and measured her life not in days or years, but in dinners with friends, trips with family, and birthday parties with our kids, her great-nephews. Later, we stood at her grave as snow fell on the freshly dug dirt, we shared in a Jewish mitzvah of shoveling dirt into her grave. I thought of how would I measure my life. In the end do I want to have measured it in the most basic, simple measure - with an obsessive attention to miles and pace?

I have accepted that I am losing my fitness, but know, when healthy, it can come back, albeit slowly (plus, Galen Rupp had the same surgery, and has done pretty darn well since!).  I can't join my friends for epic runs, but we still spent several hours clearing brush together at Hale Reservation (site of the TARC 100) this past weekend.  I haven't missed coaching a single game of my son's indoor soccer team (including the game when he scored his first goal (and then second!), which would have been the day of Rocky Raccoon).  My family and I have shared pajama mornings, and long-nights of reading Percy Jackson (somewhat unfortunately followed by really early mornings of reading Percy Jackson). Liz and I even went to a late-morning movie when I got a (silly) snow day (instead of me simply going for a three or four hour run). For the time being, it seems, my mistress, my running, has left me. I miss her, and will woo her back through PT and other medical means (and the use of a treadmill at 15% and around 4 mph). Until then, my life seems no worse the loss. Plus, there is always a spare tube (and patch kit) in my saddle bag.  There's only one place to go from rock bottom.

Reaching The High Country (At Sea Level)

The spell begins to break with the distant whirring of a plane’s engine.  As the season’s first significant snow begins to fall in ernest, seemingly captured in the small, silvery globe of my headlamp, I remain awed.  Each flake seems to chime off the bare branches, echoing onto the dried leaves on the ground.  The moment’s magic becomes ephemeral as my watch buzzes to tell me I’ve been gone for an hour.  It’s time to make my way home.

- - -

What does it take to bring 300 runners out on cold Friday night, in the middle of December, 99% of them not sporting form-fitting tights or a technical t-shirt?  A movie about running (although if you had reasoned free food, that would be completely understandable).  December 13, Trail Animals Running Club stalwart (and my erstwhile travel/racing companion) Michael Tommie McDuffie organized a screening of Joel Wolpert’s film, In the High Country (a movie filmed largely at 14,000 feet above sea level), at the New England Aquarium’s IMAX Theatre (a setting literally sitting on the sea).  As McDuffie introduced the film, he eloquently stated how there seem to be two types of running: the kind we practice individually, moving within a landscape and our bodies and minds; and, the kind that brings us into a larger community of runners.  So often our larger community only comes together at races, a very distinct form of communion, that seeing a huge number of friends “out of context,” and being reminded of this communal spirit was as distinct a pleasure as the film itself (honestly, there were a couple of people I had to do double-takes with because I did not recognize them with hair coiffed and jeans on!).  It was all the great energy of a race, minus the nerves and anxiety about the task at hand.  People simply were there to enjoy each other’s company and the IMAX’s massive screen, which even though it was not in true IMAX-size, from where I sat in the first row, definitely made the film’s two stars (the Rocky Mountains and Anton Krupicka) seem larger than life.

In the High Country is, ostensibly, about the epic runs and journeys that Tony takes.  Journeys that easily spark envy in runners – high mountain summits and alpine lakes, sinewy single track, an onlooker marvelling, as Tony crests the summit, “Did you run up here?”  The film inspires a sense of wanderlust, that sense of freedom and adventure that a new trail, or route up a mountain, can inspire.  Yet the film drives home a deeper point, a point espoused by both the filmmaker and star.  It does not seem that Tony reaches for a summit simply, as George Mallory stated, “because it’s there.” The drive to run to these peaks is more about the desire to find one’s place in the physical landscape.  To feel a part of the physical world, to feel familarity in the practice of being exposed to it, and still be awed by its changing colors, seasons and temperments.  In essence to connect and feel “at home.”

Before the screening, a number of Trail Animals took Tony on a tour of the Blue Hills, just south of Boston.  Between skyline views and hopping ice, the conversation ranged from trends in running gear, to our group’s oddly color-coordinated attire, to training methods, to race plans for the coming year, to our collective addiction to electronic devices and media, to if said addiction is altering our neural pathways, thus making us less intelligent, to the remedy for such devolultion (it was agreed that running in the woods is a fine place to start!), to David Foster Wallace’s 2005 Kenyon College commencement speech (alas, four years after Liz and I left) This is Water.  In this speech Wallace suggests “. . . learning how to think really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think. It means being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience.”  And this is what In the High Country drove home for me.  A connection to place does not necessitate the grandest vista or the steepest climbs.  It necessitates a choice in each of us to be aware enough to notice the landscape, be it physical or human, and to choose how we will experience this, both externally and internally.

- - -

As my watch’s delicate reminder of an hour’s passage stirs me from my wonder, I remember that sixty minutes ago, I dreaded this experience.  I was warm.  The thermometer was reading fourteen degrees.  Snow was falling.  I've been fighting a cold all week.  Rest is good.  Do I really want to wear a headlamp?  Is it worth it if I just go for 10 minutes? I donned my gear, and headed into the building tempest, chiding my own foolishness.  Slowly I become aware of place.  Each turn felt familiar, but strangely new.  The hard-packed snow from earlier in the week had changed the landscape.  The falling snow made the path different  within the hour I was in the woods.  How long had I just been standing there, listening to the snow fall?  Four minutes?  Two?  Thirty seconds?  I was not standing on some remote peak, above the clouds.  I was in a one-hundred-twenty acre parcel of conservation land, just minutes from my door.  As I began the last few minutes of running home, noises brought me back to my neighborhood.  A snow blower clearing a driveway.  A pickup, plow attached, its diesel engine rumbling to life.  Two kids laughing in their yard.  My footsteps making that perfectly muffled sound that only the first slight layer of snow can create.  Forty-two seconds from where the trail meets the road.  I’m home.

Perpetual Growth

I meant no harm. I most truly did not.
But I had to grow bigger. So bigger I got.
I biggered my factory. I biggered my roads.
I biggered my wagons. I biggered the loads
of the Thneeds I shipped out. I was shipping them forth
to the South! To the East! To the West! To the North!
I went right on biggering … 

- Dr. Seuss, The Lorax

As far as I can figure, the concept of perpetual growth is centered around economics and the belief that economies can just grow, and grow, and grow into, well, perpetuity.  As a runner, and especially as a runner who fancies himself being "competitive," this model of perpetual growth is something that I would like to achieve in my practice.  And, as a runner (especially as a runner who fancies himself to be "competitive"), growth is most easily measured in numbers, by the time on the clock.  For the clock never lies.  So what happens when the clock tells us we’re slowing down?

Stone Cat 2013 was a bit of a game time decision for me.  After putting myself in the hospital during the VT 100 in July, I didn't run much for about 5 weeks.  When I started training again, around the start of September, it was clear my fitness had taken several steps back.  My heart rate was spiking on easy runs, at paces that had been casual jogs.  My "workouts" were lackluster, and, what little speed I had built before Vermont seemed to have vanished in the Mt. Ascutney Hospital ER.  In 2007 Stone Cat had been my first race ever (a DNF after 3 loops), and each year I have returned with one intention: to run my heart (and legs) out.  It is the one race I consciously run to win.  It is the one race where I consciously strive for the course record.  I desire to run Stone Cat at such a high level that, when training started again, I was not confident I would be up to the task.  For the clock never lies.  And the clock told me I was moving slowly.

It was the end of September when things started to "click." I repeated a workout from the first week of my training cycle, and knew the cobwebs had been cleared (for the clock never lies).  My "speed" was getting back to where it had been pre-VT 100.  I became giddy thinking about running around Willowdale on November 2, picturing the start line, seeing the volunteers at each aid station (the cries of "BACON!" at Al's Aid Station!), the smell of the leaves on the ground, and my "special" section, the only one I remember from the first year, between Al's and Fast Freddies, running on pine needles by the water.  I began the pre-dawn, weekend sojourns to train on the course.  I had my nutrition dialed.  I figured the heart rate I should keep early on to run even splits.  I did long runs on the course, pushing hard the last hour, so the mind and body would know exactly what to do on race day.  I ran my fastest loop ever on the course .  I was confident because the clock never lies.  I began to visualize crossing the line on Nov. 2, the clock at 6:00 even.  

Following TARC's Fall Classic two weeks pre-Stone Cat, Jerimy Arnold invited a number of friends to his house to trade war-stories and talk smack about how we all ran.  Although we missed it ourselves, but liking the idea and ethos behind it, Liz (my dear and lovely wife) and I decided to make Stone Cat 2013 a social affair.  It began by inviting Sebastien Roulier (this year's winner and new course record holder) to stay with us pre-race, as he would be driving down from Quebec on Friday.  It ended around the fire pit in our backyard, with some incredible people, laughing at our collective eccentricities, sharing some great food, talking smack, and planning future adventures.  

In between these two social-bookends, there was the event that ostensibly brought us all together: the actual running of Stone Cat (a social event unto itself!).  Like the Onceler in Dr. Seuss's tale above, my approach to Stone Cat is that I always must be "biggering" (and by "biggering" I mean running faster, actually making the time on the course smaller . . .).  My first run in 2007 ended in a 3-loop DNF.  In 2010, I returned to get 2nd place, in 6:40.  2011, 1st, 6:29.  2012, 2nd, 6:18.  Since "returning" to the race, I had improved my time by 11 minutes each year.  Naturally, like the Onceler, I believed, ". . . I had to grow bigger . . ." I had put in the training.  I was ready to run fast (and shouldn't it be 11 minutes faster?).  Alas, this year, in addition to the (incredibly delicious and perfect) pumpkin pie at the finish line aid station, I got a decent helping of humble pie.  For the clock never lies.

Starting the fourth loop of this year's race, I knew three things for certain: One, Sebastien was running like an absolute madman.  Two, my third loop had been 9 minutes slower than my first two, and my legs were not responding to my mental drive.  And three, Sam Jurek was going to share these last miles with me.  Of these three, sharing the miles with Sam was the most important.  Sam and I have shared many miles over the years, and he's seen me at my lowest of lows.  He knows that my approach to running is about meeting personal goals and challenges more than anything.  Yet he still "gets" the special place Stone Cat holds in my running world and life.  Without any prompting, he said the four perfect words to keep me moving: "Think about the PR." I was still smiling on the third loop, and grunting on the fourth, but these words were the ones that made me try to push harder, even when I could tell the legs were not moving like I wanted them to.  As we approached the end at the edge of field, running that open stretch to the finish, I finally mustered some words to Sam, "I'd love a PR, but I'm not too optimistic." The clock never lies, and I crossed in 6:24:23, about 5:30 slower than last year.  

A couple of years ago, this result would have really bothered me.  At the time, even though I didn't (and still don't) race terribly often, I put too much stock in measuring growth by the clock.  A slower time simply meant a lack of growth.  The clock never lies.  But the clock only measures one aspect of our performance, of our running.  The clock doesn't measure the number of people who, as Diesel-san and I have discussed, "brought a chair" to hang out after their finish.  The clock doesn't measure the joy taken in the incredible November day, or the volunteers and supporters out on the course.  Don't get me wrong, I still want to come back and own the course record for Stone Cat, and the only way that is measured is by the clock.  But, I'm coming to realize it is not the clock that brings meaning to me, as a runner, and more importantly, as a person.  I will continue to train hard with the hopes of "biggering" my results.  In the hopes that the discipline and focus of the act of training will somehow help me become a more understanding and compassionate person.  But I will also recognize the absolute importance of embracing the experience with family and friends.  The Stone Cat experience began with Sebastien arriving Friday night.  The race began on a near perfect, pre-dawn morning, with 300+ souls entering into a great adventure and continued with me checking splits and heart rate.  The race concluded at a finish line with a clock and the pressing of "STOP" on my watch, but also in the company of great friends (especially Sam and Scott Traer, who had both helped crew during the run, and Steven "Sir Bard" Latour, who handed me the finisher's prize) and my family.  The Stone Cat experience finally ended as the last embers faded from the night's fire, and everyone said, "Adios" (or, as they apparently say in Germany, "CHOOOOOSE!").  

My take from this year's Stone Cat?  There's nothing wrong with seeking perpetual growth, nothing wrong with constantly "biggering" ourselves.  We've just got to keep an eye out for what, exactly, we are trying to "bigger."  Still, I won't feel too bad crossing that finish line with the clock reading 5:59 next year!

GEAR/NUTRITION:
- Inov-8 Trailroc 245s
- Tailwind Nutrition drink (AWESOME!).  ~275 calories/20 ounce bottle
- Injinji Trail Sock
- 4 VFuel gels

The Easiest Decision I’ve Ever Made

Being an ultra-running dork, my life was devoted to “watching” the Western States 100 on June 29^th of this year.  What stood out the most that day, despite all the incredible performances, was this image:

Most of the last 6 months of my life have been spent preparing for and imagining my run at the Vermont 100.  I asked (and got) a lot of sacrifice from my family: “Liz, I’ve got to get a 5 hour run in Saturday, and then a 4 hour run Sunday.”  “I am doing this race in a couple of weeks.” “I need to get a solid workout in tomorrow.”  Common theme here?  While there is a lot of good that comes from my running, it often comes to resemble that Toby Keith song, “I Wanna to Talk About Me”.  Don't get me wrong, it's a great song, but that's just not an ethos I want to live my life by.           

The Vermont 100 felt different.  It felt like running at home, the merging of my Vermont roots and my present life outside Boston.  I grew up about an hour north of the race, and Liz was going to crew for me (the first time she would see me during a race).  My family (siblings, cousins, parents, kids) would be there at the finish. My friends Justin Contois, Eric Ahern, Michael McDuffie, and Anthony Parillo had all volunteered to crew or pace throughout the day, and SamJurek was running his first 100K.  Justin arranged an incredible place for us to stay at Ascutney Mountain Resort.  It was a weekend event, a celebration of summer, friends, and running.  Competitively, I wanted to run near the front.  My ego wanted to win.  However, having approached a race like that before, I knew, for me, that would not make for a happy or satisfying day.  Ultimately, I was approaching this race as a recognition of all the sacrifices I ask of my family – a way for us to share the experience and to show them (and me) that it is worth it.  It was a celebration of the running community that has become such an integral part of my life.  As I told the eventual winner, Jason Lantz, when he asked me about my time goals during the early miles, “I’m less concerned with a time, and just want to run happy.”  And, even with the ultimate outcome of my day, that is exactly what I did. 

In late March, I decided to try something completely different in my running – I hired a coach.  Ian Torrence and Emily Harrison quickly changed my routine.  No longer did I just log as many miles as possible, but I had weekly workouts.  The results came quickly.  Minutes were shaved from my daily commute to/from school.  I became faster.  I was more confident on hills.  I actually felt energetic most of the time.  Things felt good.   As race day approached, my confidence built. 

The week before the race was spent with my folks up in Waterbury, VT.  I went gluten-free, as an experiment, looking to maximize my performance as much as possible (might be something there - the stomach seemed better than usual).  I did one last workout on the dirt track at my old school.  We celebrated my niece’s birthday.  I felt surprisingly calm, with only brief moments of that anticipatory anxiety/excitement that so often come with these events.  Not feeling over-confident, I simply knew I was prepared to run well.  I knew that I would be running 100 miles through my home state.  And I damn nearly did.

Fireworks announced our departure.  Real, honest-to-goodness, 4^th of July fireworks, lighting up the pre-dawn sky.  With each shell being launched the slope of the distant hill could be seen.  About to take my first step on a 100 mile journey I was transported to my youth.  The scene before me had been played out years before, on the River Road in Duxbury, Vermont, staring in awe not only at the explosion of colors, but at the lightning bugs answering the concussive booms in kind.  The sound of each shell echoed off the surrounding mountains then and now.  Calm.  “GO!”

Friday, pre-race, Jack Pilla, ultra-stud and former winner of the Vermont 100 had graciously offered to pick me up on his drive down to the race, where he would be pacing and crewing.  Jen Sorrell and Kristin Lundy (also driving with Jack) kindly offered up the front seat to me, and we spent the ride reliving those awful moments from races it seems only other ultra-runners can appreciate and understand.  I was able to hang out with the “Vermont Crew” for much of the afternoon, a testament to the welcoming nature of this community.  The vibe was rather relaxed for a pre-100 mile run, and, once I met up with Justin and Eric, we headed over to our luxury chalet and began settling in.  A few back and forths between there and the start/finish and before I knew it I was laying in a comfortable bed, alarm set for 2:23 AM.  One massive thunder storm and a surprisingly restful (half) night later, and I was up (as were Justin, Michael, and Anthony, who were generously coming to the start and crewing the early miles, especially since it turns out they basically didn't sleep that night).  We drove to the start/finish, which swarmed with excitement.

Running through Woodstock around mile 11, was a trip down memory lane.  I shared these miles with Ian Sharman and laughed as we went by the Billings Farm & Museum, site of many elementary school field trips for me.  I very nearly choked up as we ran near the Woodstock Inn Tennis facilities, site of many of my first tennis tournaments.  Running felt easy.  I had so many memories of this place.  I knew I could create some more incredible memories on this day.  I already had.  And I continued to do so.

My son, Cooper, was doing a sports camp with his cousins the week before.  We would pick up his cousins and then head up to Colchester, reversing the process on the way home.  On Tuesday we changed the routine and headed over to the Bolton “Pot Holes” a series of cascading swimming holes with cliffs to jump off.  As we got to the water on this 94 degree afternoon, it was clear many local youngsters had had the same thought.  A herbaceous smell wafted through the air.  Beer seemed to be flowing as quickly as the water.  Cooper jumped from an 8 foot cliff.  My 13 and 10-year-old nephews jumped from 20.  Not willing to let me them show me up (too much), I did something that my fear of heights had prevented me from doing the first 33 ½ years of my life: I jumped off a cliff.  From 26’ 4” above the water (and yes, I argue, being 6’4” makes it look that much higher), I felt oddly calm.  I simply knew I would leap into the water below.  No nerves.  I jumped.  It seemed to take longer to hit water than it should have.  I did it again.  I carried that calm into the race.

Mile 30 and I found myself still running with Ian and now Nick Clark.  I felt relaxed, the running was easy, and then it almost ended.  Leaving Stage Rd. Aid Station/crew access point, you run down the road for 100 yards and then take a right onto some mowed fields/trails.  There was a six-foot, wooden bridge to cross, which, with all the moisture in the air,  was very slick. My feet flew up from under me and I very nearly bit it.  Views of a cast to match Jacoby’s (my younger son) danced in my head (the poor guy broke his arm a week before and is in a full-arm cast for 3 -4 weeks).  I managed to stay upright and simply laughed, reminding myself to be present and appreciate every step.  I passed Ian on the ensuing climb and sort of leap frogged with him and Nick for the next many miles, sharing conversation which helped the miles click off.  Both were very friendly and it was fascinating to get their takes on the little race-within-a-race as they push each other in the Grand Slam.  I was running the race envisioned – controlled effort, feeling relaxed, not worrying about what other people were doing or how far back I was. I was present in the experience.  I was enjoying every scene, every step. 

It was amazing to see so many TARC folk at the pre-race meeting Friday.  I’ve come to realize that these crazy events are like a rolling family reunion, replete with everyone’s favorite uncle, Kevin Mullen.  You would be hard pressed to meet a happier person than Mr. Mullen, and his is an energy shared by most at these runs.  Even knowing what we were about to do the next day, it was relaxing to be in such good company.  Jill "The Cookie Lady" Puleo and Chris "C1" Haley lent me some duct tape for drop bags.  A 100-miler is truly a shared journey, as we all cover the same course and suffer the same struggles.  Knowing others are there supporting you, even in the smallest of ways, makes it possible to continue.

Pulling into Camp Ten Bear One, I saw our car.  Liz was there!  100 feet up, I saw her in the road.  She had timed it perfectly.  It was a great moment.  I ran up to the crew, weighed in, and gave her a kiss.  The Contois/McDuffie/Parillo pit-crew was on fire.  Everything ready, but I wasn’t in any great rush.  I was sitting in 6th place, but feeling super strong.  Some cold bandanas, another kiss to Liz, and I ran up the hill, out of Ten Bear.  My confidence grew – I had been running nearly every step, only hiking a few spots.  I caught up to Justin (Engle?) on the flat section about a mile outside the aid station. He had been ahead of me all day, but was starting to seize up.  I tried to get him to run with me a bit, but he graciously encouraged me to go on.  I did.  5^th place.  The crew had told me Sebastien (a wonderful person and great runner, who I have gotten to know) was in the lead, but looked like he was hurting.  Nick was just minutes up.  I opened my eyes to the scenery and soaked in the beauty of my home state.  One of the neighbors of the race was offering sprays from a hose.  I (literally) soaked in the beauty of the cold water.  I was running happy.

Brian Rusiecki is an awesome runner.  I look up to him.  A lot.  At my first successful ultra, the Fells 40 Miler, we tied for the win.  When I saw what he accomplished the rest of that year, I was humbled sharing that victory with him.  Whenever we toe the line together, I always joke (probably much to his annoyance) that my strategy is to simply hang with him as long as I can.  Pre-race Friday I told him this again and he said he would let me go on ahead this time.  I joked that he would simply be waiting to pass me at mile 95.  He did it a few miles earlier this year.

Right around the mile 50 mark, the course goes steeply up Keyes Mountain Road.  It starts out as a road and quickly becomes a jeep track and trail.  I decided to not run this exposed stretch, and conserve some energy for the later miles.  My quads were starting to ache, but I was still happy.  About halfway up this climb, Brian powered by me, looking super strong.  He claimed to not be feeling well, but certainly didn’t look that way.  I kept him in site for many of the ensuing miles, but, as we started the descent, I noticed the quads were getting very, very sore.  I figured this is what they felt like at the Vermont 50, and I had just run a bit more than 50 miles, so no great concern.  Just didn’t want to do anything foolish with just under half the race to go.  Brian left the aid station right as I pulled up.  Sebastien was there, and, smiling as ever, announced to me that his race was done and he was “simply going to finish.”  He was hurting.  He left the aid station before me, but I knew I would catch him.  I dallied a bit, icing the quads hoping to give them a rest and to see if Ian was still lurking.  Brian was a minute or two up the trail.  Ian wasn’t in site. 

I first met Sebastien at Stone Cat two years ago.  When Sam and I set a foolish pace the first two laps, he was right there the whole time.  He eventually finished second.  This past year, he set the early pace, and I only caught him with about 2.5 miles to go.  He came over for pizza and ice cream that night, as his wife and three kids had stayed home in Quebec.  By chance I saw him as he crushed the Boston Marathon this year.  When I caught him around mile 55 at the Vermont 100, I was running a hill he was walking, but smiling.  I told him to just jump in behind and stick with me and we could clip the miles off.  He did.  We pushed the up and then the down.  The quads were getting really sore.  No site of Brian.  We reached the unmanned Tracer Brook aid, and I told Sebastien we should skip it as it was less than 2 miles to the new Seven Seas handler station.  We started running up the next climb (the course is basically always going up or down.  There are very few actual flat sections anywhere).  We ran side by side, passing 100K runners.  I heard Sebastien offer some words of encouragement and then drop off.  I pushed on.  Toward the top of the hill I caught sight of Brian about 100 yards ahead. 

It was around this point that running the downs became more than unpleasant.  The quads, which I thought were well “seasoned” to the task, were barking loudly.  There had also been an odd “sloshing” in my stomach – not the typical sloshy stomach feeling, but something that was not right.  When I first heard it, it sounded a bit like my bib was hitting my shorts (it wasn't), or some sort of drum in my stomach (there wasn't).  I stopped at the aid station before Ten Bear Two to see if they had a port-a-potty.  No luck.  I ran up the road a ways and used the bushes.  Trouble: I couldn’t squat.  At all.  Figured out how to take care of business somehow and jumped back on the road.  Ian was 20 feet back. “Hey Josh.”

We shared the next couple of miles.  I mentioned my stomach and he helped me trouble shoot (although one of his suggestions was to moderate the pace.  My ego wouldn’t let me do that, especially since we both knew that Nick and Brian were just a couple of minutes up!  In retrospect, that may have saved my race).  I pulled a bit ahead and, as we began the long descent that eventually leads to the climb into Ten Bear Two, I began to grimace as the quads just flat hurt.  I was moving reasonably well, but a pebble got stuck in my shoe and I had to stop to adjust it.  When Ian passed he asked if all was good, and I said it was, just had to fix a pebble.  As I did, I noticed my right quad (the more painful of the two) was swollen pretty well.  At almost mile 70, I expected this, although perhaps not quite so bad, yet.  I took it easy on the rest of the descent.  I stopped at one point and walked a couple of steps.  “Just run, you’ve got the uphill soon.”

I was looking forward to the climb to Ten Bear Two since last year’s race. I spent a lot of time here last year and, when Justin Contois had rolled through, made him run it with me.  From the day I registered, in the back of my mind I wondered if I would be tough enough, like he was, to run this climb (in all honesty, I half expected Justin to be at the bottom to prod me up the hill).  One of my greatest memories from the day will be of answering this long-asked question in my mind, and running up this hill, and, in reality, not feeling completely horrible doing it.  The run down to the aid station?  Not as pleasant.

Liz, Anthony, Eric, and McDuffie were ready.  I told them the quads were really sore and Eric jumped right in to ice them down, apologizing to Liz for being so "intimate." I laughed (at least inside).  I hit the port-a-potty to try to settle the stomach.  I had decided to skip drinking for 25 minutes in an attempt to let things settle (took a gel instead) and it seemed to have helped.  My weight was down three pounds, right around where I wanted it.  Eric was ready for the task of pacing to Cow Shed (where, like the boss he is, he would then head back to Ten Bear to pace Frank Hackett for the last 30 miles!).  I was moving slowly.  I was tiptoeing the downs.  I could get some momentum on the flats, but I wasn’t even hiking the ups that fast any more.  Erik was great and helped me appreciate the beauty around us.  While I was still feeling good mentally, he definitely helped me keep the negative thoughts out as he proclaimed wonder at different views and sites, and showed a genuine appreciation for simply moving, through the woods and on these beautiful roads.  It was postcard Vermont.  We ran up the hill to the Spirit of ’76 where Liz and McDuffie met us.  TARCer Cesar captured the grunt with video evidence.  As we left the aid station, I started running up the road, hoping that there was more up, as it was less painful and I could still run that direction.  Alas, the volunteers caught me and pointed me down a trail.  Teeth bared, we plodded on. 

At Western last year, I felt sorry for myself almost the entire race.  I didn't have the day I had pictured because all I wanted was a top-10 finish.  I didn't appreciate the history of the race or the beauty of the trail and people out there.  I was there to beat the course, not embrace it.  It was rather pathetic and it had a huge negative influence on my performance.  Despite being in much more physical pain this year, mentally, I was embracing the experience, the journey, which was my goal.  I knew it was not going to be easy, but my mind was willing to accept the physical pain.  I was (with Eric’s help) remembering to soak in the scenery, the beauty that is Vermont, a place that will always be home.  I enjoyed pushing the negative thoughts out of my mind and, as they crept in with the mounting fatigue, forced myself to look at my surroundings and smile.  When Eric stayed at Cow Shed, I had 5 miles until I met Liz and McDuffie, who would join me for the final 11 miles.  I enjoyed those 5 miles tremendously.  There was a long, flat section, where, despite quads that now just hurt with every step, I ran, at a pace I thought might be making up some ground on Ian, Brian, and Nick.  I ran some hills.  I caught Sam, who was in a world of hurt, but mustered the energy to run with me for about a mile, at which point he told me to go catch Ian, and I set off with a mission.  The mission line loomed, but there were a couple runners up ahead I needed to catch.  It was beautiful.

And then, just as quickly, it wasn’t.  Coming into Bill’s at mile 89 I checked in with medical.  I was totally cohesive, and my weight was the same as my starting weight.  Privately, that caused some concern – I had just put on 3.3 pounds over the last 19 miles.  They asked how I was feeling. “Great, considering I just ran 89 miles.” A truth (even if the quads hurt like hell).  They asked if I had been peeing. “Yes!” A lie (I had peed twice all day, but, given what I had heard at Western last year, was not too concerned with this, and figured the medical team at Bill’s didn’t need to know).  McDuffie and I were on our way. We had 11 miles to catch Ian, Brian, and Nick (heck, even Jason and Chad!), and I was hell bent on catching at least one of them.  Liz set off to meet us at Polly’s, a mere 6.9 miles up the road.  And just like that, the wheels came off.

For the last 40 miles or so, any pause had led to a difficult restart, especially for the quads.  Torturously, leaving Bill’s is a fairly steep (albeit short) downhill.  I nearly walked.   With Michael in the lead we hopped a small, muddy pool, and I decided to stop to try to pee (I think the medical team’s question put this in my head). “FUCK!”  Michael looked back and asked what was up.  “My pee is really dark or bloody.”  In a second, all momentum was gone.  I was really concerned.  Why?  One: My weight was up, when I thought it should have been down about 5 or 6 pounds.  Two: Something that resembled coffee (or beet juice in coffee) had just come out of me!  Three: I remembered that picture from Western States about the color of your urine.  Mine was definitely in the “Guinness” category. 

We ran a little bit, mostly in silence, as we tried to figure out what to do. Finally I said I just needed to hike to wrap my mind around the situation.  Our conversation was a bit like stream of consciousness (it is probably pretty clear which parts I added, and which parts McDuffie added):  Should I not drink?  I mean my weight is up, so I’m not processing water.  Maybe that's why my stomach has sort of been sloshy?  You took one salt back at Bill's.  Okay, let's try one more.   Do I drink as much as I can?  I’ve only peed a couple times all day.  Maybe this is just a sign of dehydration?  Pee can get pretty dark.  But my weight is up.  FUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKK!  If it was blood, some times the bladder can just get abrasions.  Maybe we should try to run.  SHHHHIIIIIITTTTTTT!  What they hell are we gonna do?  Alright, let’s just run.  FUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKK!  What if something is seriously wrong?  What's that thing that Erik Skaggs had?

Being an ultra-running dork, I read a lot of blogs and reports, and have read several stories, including ones about Erik Skaggs, AJW, Diana Finkel, and other top-ultra runners developing rhabdomyolysis and ending up in the hospital with kidney failure for extended periods of time.  Skaggs' story in particular stuck in my head.  The one thing I seemed to remember being the common denominator was this super-dark urine.  Finally, I just said to Michael, “I’m freaking out about this” and we hiked it in to Keatings at 92.4.  The plan was to consult with medical and see if there was a course of action that could remedy this on course.  I was fairly certain what was going on, but had no idea what I should do to treat it.  We got medical on the radio and they advised aggressive hydration and an ambulance to the hospital.  It became a no-brainer for me.  I was in a spot where I could cause some serious psychological damage to my family.  I couldn't do that, not when they already give so much to let me pursue these goals.  At mile 92.4, my race was done. 

A crew of volunteers were able to drive me and McDuffie to the hospital, which, it turns out, was just a couple of minutes away.  They got word to Polly’s, where Liz was, and told her what was going on.  Fortunately my cousin was there as well and was able to drive to the start/finish to tell my parents and Cooper and Jacoby where I was and that they would not be seeing me at Silver Hill Meadow in triumph.

It took a bunch of fluid to get the pee flowing (and there was not a lot that came out at first), even though I wasn’t too dehydrated (and electrolytes were spot on perfect).  When I finally did pee it was like that Guinness in the picture above.  Admitted to the hospital, and got a night there.  Given my early and secondary numbers, they had told me to be prepared to stay through Monday.  Fortunately, the numbers all started improving pretty quickly, and I was able to come home after less than 24 hours.  When Cooper first came to see me in the ER he said, “You could have just hiked to the finish.”  I have to say, I was more than a little proud of him for thinking like that.  However, I told him that sometimes we have to make our decisions not based on what we want, but what is best for other people, and that it’s more important to think about those we love first (this said, stopping was also the best decision for me at this point, as continuing would have brought further damage and could have seriously complicated the medical situation.  As my father, a family doctor in Vermont, told me about my numbers, even my liver function, subsequent to my discharge from the hospital, "Jeezum Crow!").

And, in the end, that’s what made this a super-easy decision for me.  I knew, without doubt, that I could have finished, maybe even moved up a spot or two. I was satisfied with my physical effort, even if it came up a bit short.  But, thinking about those last 7.6 miles, and what further damage I could have done, I was, in no way willing to put my family through my experiencing kidney failure or worse.  I think we are attracted to these distances because they do, in almost every way, strip us down to the core.  In that moment, when all that stood between me and the glory of the finish line was the distance of my daily run to school, I based my decision not on my own ego, my own desire to achieve a goal, to feel successful, but on how my actions would impact those I love.  Crossing the finish line became a superficial pleasantry to the reality of the situation faced, and I am, perhaps arrogantly, proud of myself for not thinking from my ego in that moment, but being present enough to recognize reality and not merely live in the world and outcome that I had envisioned over the last 6 months.  A 100 miler is, ostensibly, a competition, but it is also, however clichéd this may be, a journey of self-discovery.  I often tell people that my family is the most important thing in the world to me, while, hypocritically, thinking about how I can squeeze my runs in around them or making them change their plans to fit my running schedule.  As I spent yesterday afternoon jamming with Cooper and Jacoby to some cheesy (but oh so wonderful) pop music, instead of still being hooked up to an IV (or worse) in a hospital, I like to think that, at least this one time, I got it right.  Maybe I will continue to in the future.  And maybe, just maybe, I’ll get to see those last 7.6 miles of the Vermont 100.  If the family is on board.