Aside from the intimidating elevation profile, relatively long finish times and scary race reports from last year’s race, my first real clue as to the beauty and difficulty of this race was driving the hairpin turns that wind up the mountains as I made the trip west out to Davis, WV on Route 50. Topping out at 40 mph, I had to apply the brake going UP around these turns, as thunderstorms rolled across the peaks. I knew it was going to be a challenging race to say the least.

The night before the race, RD Dan Lehman held a pre-race dinner (complete with ziti & spaghetti with both meat and plain marinara sauce, garlic bread, salad, cookies, whole fruit, and his son’s micro-brewed beer!) at the Canaan Valley Resort, where the race also ended the next day. I felt a bit amateurish as I dined in the large facility surrounded by people like Dan, the incredible David Horton, Annette Bednosky, and many others sporting gear from Hardrock and Leadville and talking about MMTR and other monstrous races. The meeting made me a bit anxious, as several people told me that the race “runs more like a 50,” meaning the mountainous course was so hard it felt more like 50 miles than 40. I returned to my tent at Blackwater Falls State Park and fell asleep after the final gear checks, organization attempts, and reading a little from my library book.

My alarm went off at 4:00am, I got my gear and, as quietly as possible for consideration of other campers, drove out and down to Canaan Valley. I changed into my race clothes in the CVR lobby’s bathroom and climbed aboard one of the 2 school buses used to haul us from the finish area at the resort to the starting line. I thought a lot about mental preparation and the importance of attitude during the 25-minute bus ride, firming myself in my resolve to continue walking even if I found thoughts of defeat creeping into my head during the race.

A quick trip to the port-o-potty behind the cabin at the start and I stood around with other runners with my two water bottles in hand, funny green hat on my head, orange trail shoes on my feet, bib pinned to my shorts, and ready to go. I tossed my drop bag into the van, which I’d see again at mile 19.7, and paced in anticipation. RD Dan climbed his wiry frame to the top of a small knoll (he had planned on running WS100 until it was cancelled this year) and from behind his bristling beard said something very close to, “Hi everyone! Come up close – here’s the starting line. I hope it doesn’t rain on you too much. Everyone ready? Go!” Quite truthfully, he just said “go” without so much as an “on your marks” – which really would be dumb, anyway – or an airhorn or anything. It was so anti-climactic that many of us laughed as we just started running.

The first couple miles were an easy downhill (mostly) on a back-country road, though paved. I just tried to keep moving along slowly, starting with the back of the pack, and wait for the eventual single-track. I ran most of this just behind Willy, Dan’s son and the brewer of the “Cold Trail Ale” and oatmeal stout I sampled the night before at CVR. Willy’s about 6’5″ and easily recognizable by, in addition to his height, his two braids of brown hair that hang down in front of his shoulders. That was the last I saw of Willy; he probably finshed an hour or more ahead of me….

After the road stretch, we entered a field with a brisk uphill through damp grass and then into the woods. The muddiness of the course became apparent immediately, which is always a factor – someone described the course to me the night before as “perpetually boggy with innumerable rocks” – but this was aided by the thunderstorms of the night before. I ran for a few hundred yards with a young woman who was tackling her first ultra but was woefully unprepared (cotton socks, no drop bag, etc.), but lost her when she fell victim to the shoe-sucking-mud (it sucked her shoe off). Then I caught up to a group that was walking the switchbacks that climbed up the mountain in our first long ascent. Without even planning to do so, I caught myself whistling “Whistle While You Work” as we walked and occasionally ran up the mountain through a tight single track hemmed by stinging nettles and carpeted with rocks and mud. Check the official race site, but I think this uphill lasted for over 2 miles.

Once up ontop of the mountains (or near the top), the air was clear, cool, and sweet with conifers. Some of the bushes had pink, others white, flowers. There were 2 or 3 small trees along the course that stood out with brilliant orange blossoms in full bloom; I have no idea what they were. For the majority of the course, sight-seeing was limited by the necessity to constantly watch one’s feet or else suffer a twisted ankle or worse. I did, in fact, turn my ankles a few times but never fully rolled them and managed to stay upright the entire day. Any aspirations for dry feet were cast aside by this point by those who, unlike me, managed to stay dry through the muck leading up to the mountaintop.

Between the first and second aid stations was a long enough gap, which included the first large ascent, that I was out of fluids despite carrying two Nathan hand-helds, so when the 2nd aid station appeared around another muddy, rocky bend on the ridgeline, it was a welcome sight. I was staying well ahead of the cut-offs despite the copious walking on the initial climb and was feeling good.

The next few sections of the course are a blur right now, but at some point the craggy puddle-splashing shifted to limestone pebbles, allowing for a brief look around the woods. After about a half mile or so, we made a left and crossed a creek that was coppery brown with what I suppose was high metal or mineral content in the surrounding terrain. This was followed, eventually, by a tremendously long and, at times, steep downhill section that must have gone on for about 2 miles or more. I could feel some sliding in my shoes and worried that the skin of my heels had blistered up and was coming loose under the friction of rock-jumping and downhill running while being soaked with stream water and mud, but as I found out later, this was thankfully not the case. The extreme downhill was followed by a lot of flat and gradual uphill with plenty of rocks, then even more uphill and stream crossings. I no longer bounded from rock to rock but just plowed through the deepest section of chilled mountain stream I saw, enjoying the coolness on my feet and legs even as most of the water squished out after emerging on the muddy banks.

Eventually we made it to mile 19.7, the drop-bag location. I stripped down my hat, shirt, and shoes & socks, applied Vaseline to high-friction zones and feet as a blister-prevention measure, donned fresh (dry!) shirt, socks, and hat, and laced up my same trail shoes. Some more supplies from my bag were added (Perpetuem powder in one bottle and some Gin-Gin Boosts for down-times to come), I scarfed some boiled (and peeled!) potatoes dipped in salt along with some Pringles and perhaps a section of PBJ before topping off the water bottles and heading out along a section of the course that claimed the morale of many – a roughly 10-mile (?) section of nearly arrow-straight dirt-and-rock road that gently rolled along the top of the ridgeline. The road was, as one woman remarked to me on our way out of the aid station, “a nice reprieve from the rocks,” but, as another seasoned ultra veteran told me on our way several miles up the road, “there’s just something about this road that gets to me.” Perhaps it was the fact that, at times, you could see runners power-walking up hills that you yourself wouldn’t get to for another 15 minutes. I think nearly all ultra runners love the variation that comes with single-track, and roads are almost the antithesis to this freshness (the true antithesis being treadmills, in my opinion). Despite these comments, I felt good after eating and drinking more – my urine output was colorful and sparse, so for the rest of the race I tried my best to drink a lot. I power-walked many of the uphills and slowly ran as much of the rest of the road as I could, eating a Gin-Gin Boost at one point, which uplifted me. By the time I got to the merciful left turn off the road an onto the Denali-like high plains that covered this section of the ridge, I was over an hour ahead of the cut-off.

Several miles of running on this plateau, sprinkled here and there with heavily rocked and marshy mud-bogs, I kept making decent time, feeling good and passing a few people. My energy never waned in this race, and I attribute this to good nutrition, fluids, and electrolytes; training with 50K races; and adequate mental preparation – I did not underestimate this course. Some of the views of the Dolly Sods from these ridge lines were so impressive that it was worth walking on runnable ground (pine-needles over gravel single-track!) just to gaze at the mountaintops in every direction.

As I navigated the fun boulder-hopping section around mile 31, the gray-and-white boulders set an ominous contrast against the darkening skies. Thunder was rolling in from the direction I was headed, and a storm was imminent. I caught two others who were happily pointing to the next peak. When I looked up, I saw that it was aid station #7, the second-to-last on our journey – a tent in a clearing at the top of the next peak. We ran down, then up, the small saddle between the peaks and were greeted by a kind boy of about 9 or 10 who took our fluid refills (“What can I get for your bottle? We have water, Gatorade, Heed, Coke, Mello Yello….”) and told us, in the food tent, that he hoped we made it out before the rain. We laughed and headed out, me about a bit ahead of the others.

Thunder boomed in all directions, but mostly right where I was heading, and I was still climbing towards the rumbling sky. The rain first hit as I was running alone through small grassy fields that wound through the occasional wooded patches up on the mountain. After a few long, gentle downhills that were very runnable, I emerged into a large open field and the rain was coming down hard. Lightning was flashing in the sky as I realized that I was running up a ski slope! Attempting to avoid being struck by lightning, I ran parallel to the marked course that went straight up the middle of the exposed slope, instead running through the tall grasses that hugged the wood line. I saw one other guy up ahead of me trudging straight up the slope, so I focused on powerwalking up to try and catch him, which I did about 2 minutes after leaving the slope alive as we veered mercifully left into a thick forest not quite at the top of the ski slope. By now the rain was pouring so hard that it came running off my hat in a stream rather than droplets, and my technical t-shirt was sticking to my belly. I passed the other runner, made some sort of remark about being grateful to be in the woods, and continued on under the cover of trees as the rain and thunder continued. I’d occasionally glance at my watch, and I think by now it was around 7 or 8 hours.

A long and extremely downhill section, referred to as the “butt slide” by some, followed. With the turrential rains, it was very slow going. My feet faced sideways in one direction, perpendicular to my descent, in order to help prevent a mudslide. I was very surprised not to fall here, but came close on several occasions as the rain continued all around.

After the long downhill and a gradual downhill run through slippery, muddy farm roads, I got to the last aid station, 4.1 miles from the finish. I was just under 9 hours at this point so knew I had a good shot at breaking 10 hours. The fact that most of the remaining running was on a paved road was unappealing but promised a decent time. A time of 10 hours on this race (at 40 miles) is 4mph on average. This seems ridiculously slow to any road runner who is used to hitting their splits for 5K, 10K, and marathon distances but who fails to consider variables such as over 5000 feet of elevation gain, descents where holding onto trees is necessary to remain vertical, stops for aid and to “water the grass,” boulder hopping, gear changes, and others. However, I was confident that, with 4 miles to go on mostly flat roads, I could easily powerwalk that without running in less than an hour, as I was feeling pretty good despite the resurgence of lightning just as I caught up to a couple other guys on the open road.

The rest of the race I switched many times between powerwalking and running to maintain a good pace, keep energy and enthusiasm high, and because trying to kill myself by running the rest of the way in wouldn’t be worth a finish time of 9:35 versus 9:55. In the end, I avoided getting struck by lightning, caught up to a guy I met at the pre-race dinner, of all people, and finished the race running the last half mile or more of trail after crossing the road and running the driveway of the Canaan Valley Resort. The race ended between the lodge (where we dined the night before) and the swimming pool, with my official time being 9:47:38. I met all of my goals for this race and had a fantastic time. Dan was a gracious RD, greeting each finisher as he or she crossed the finish line, as he stood there in his rain coat. He even took our photos; I think he missed me, but that’s okay. Race volunteers also gave us our finishers’ shirts as we crossed the line – Patagonia capilene long-sleeves, a great gift. I snagged a can each of Barq’s and Dr. Pepper (might have had a beer if they had any, but really didn’t miss it) and a Zone bar, stuffed them into my drop bag (now conveniently placed on the floor of the pavillion near the finish), hosed off my shoes and legs, and hobbled back up the hill to my car to head back to camp. I decided to forego the post-race meal, which I had already paid for, as well as the second night of camping (ditto) in order to shower at camp and drive the 4 hours back to Burke, VA. In the end I’m glad that I drove back through the rain to stay with my family and friends in their house in Burke rather than camp, uncomfortably, alone in a thunderstorm.

This race was one of my best, hardest, and most fun, and the recovery time afterwards was both much needed and well earned.

The first half of Highland Sky was uneventful. Just nice smooth running in good weather. I traded positions with Yassine Diboun and Zach Irelan over the first six or seven miles. When we hit the flat and fast trails of the Roaring Plains, I felt good and eased ahead.
The race wasn’t much of one until Aid Station 6. By the end of the Road Across the Sky, I was nursing a little bonk. I rolled into the aid station needing something. Adam was coo-ing around like a protective hen, clucking encouragement and touting my prowess. I drank some coke and filled my water bottle. Poured numerous cups of water over my head. To Zach’s credit he hammered away to close the gap over almost 20 miles. So when I was leaving Aid 6 he was just arriving. About a minute down the trail onto the North Sods I realized I hadn’t taken any gels or food. So it was just me, a bottle of water, and salt with 7 miles to the next food. Already starting to bonk, this was a mistake.

A couple miles into the trails Zach caught and passed me. It flashed through my hazy mind that I might not be able to keep up. But I’ve learned not to let my mind decide those things. That is for the legs to decide and when they fail, the heart. Across the Sods I tripped on every rock as I clung stubbornly to the shadow of Irelan. I tried to conserve energy, run as easily as possible, hang onto Zach, and make it to Willie’s Aid Station.

Which I did. Stumbling along. A couple times Zach asked if I wanted to lead… this question was usually prefaced by the grunt, ‘I hate these ——’ rocks’. I politely declined until I accidentally passed him on the Boulders. To my advantage, I put on the brakes and gently picked my way across them, running at a very easy pace. Later, Zach would ask how I was able to run so quickly over those boulders! But I was stalling, hoping that some restful pace would work to my advantage. Mentally, I started picking off landmarks to get me to Willie’s aid station. Zach took the lead on the final climb to the bastion of hope and calories. I had nothing and did what I could to shuffle up the hill. He put 17 seconds on me in those few hundred meters and tried to bury me by not stopping at the aid station. I stopped. I had no choice.

Got two hammer gels, a cup of Gatorade, and filled my bottle with Gatorade. I was so out of it mentally that I didn’t even recognize RexRode. He might have even been the one who filled my bottle. I cannot recall. The only thing I knew was that I had to eat and I had to surge down the hill to catch Zach. As I was leaving the aid station, Juli Hooks said to me, “You can catch him, he’s not that far ahead.”

Looking back on it, those two nasty banana Hammer Gels could not possibly have taken effect so quickly. It is more likely a mental-chemical change (read: placebo effect) that reflects the supreme confidence that I have in the power of food. I headed down the trail and sprinted down the single-track. I flailed my way down the wall of tears at a dangerous rate. For once I didn’t think about where I would place my feet or which rocks to avoid, but only faster…faster…faster.

Coming into the clearing and trail that leads onto the ski slope I heard a mysterious whistling. Sharp, short, and piercing. Huh? I broke through the trees onto the ski slope to see a sight as sharp as any in my memory. Zach, only a short way up the hill, was walking and looking over his shoulder directly at me. The source of the whistle was a couple walking with an unleashed black lab. I walked for about twenty seconds to catch my breath. The lab trotted through the haze and nuzzled my right knee. In the fog, I saw snapshots of Zach up ahead and looking back at me. So tired from the long bonk and the sprint downhill, but frustrated at the walking, I sucked it up and started running. Everytime I blinked, sleepily, languidly, Zach was walking up ahead but always looking at me. It was surreal.

Towards the top, the trail levels out. The stress got to be too much for him, watching this zombie eat up his lead. He started running. He ducked left onto the single-track trail and was gone from sight in the conifers. I kept pumping my arms and inching up the little rolling hills. I decided then that I’d catch him on the buttslide … and I did. After that long surge I was back in his shadow, stumbling and bouncing off trees down the steep hillside.

Then I stepped awkwardly on a rock or a root and my left calf seized. Like someone stuffed a grapefruit between the muscle and my shin. SALT! I had a couple e-caps in my water bottle pouch. They had exploded in my ziplock baggy. I popped one in my mouth–nastiness– and slugged it down with Gatorade. The cramp loosened for a minute or so before it spasmed again. Emotionless and still running, I got the other salt pill, swigged it, and kept on his heels. Sometime in there he muttered that he was ready to be done with these trails. I said nothing. We hit the motocross trails and on a big sweeping left-hand rutted turn I squeaked by him on the inside.

Until this point I had been trying to plan the end. Thoughts flickered about outkicking him down the finish hill, but I had made my move without thinking. So I went for it. Just tried to keep the legs moving. At one point I tripped. There was no saving this one so I pulled my arms in, barrel-rolled down the dirt and came up running. In the midst of the roll, I looked straight back up the hill. No Zach. I just kept pumping my arms, hoping my legs would follow. Sometimes they did and sometimes they didn’t.

Out onto the roads I tried to find another gear. Cruising past the last aid station I recognized Chip Chase. I yelped at him. He turned to look at me. “You WILD MAN!” he shouted as he flashed the black pride fist. Then I was on down Freeland Road, running hard, running slow. I kept looking over my shoulder expecting Zach, but I couldn’t see him. Run hard, run smooth. Feel the rhythm, feel the ride … Off and on my left calf would lock up and I’d be on my toes, running like a ballerina. Far from pain, I felt only a mild disembodied frustration that I was falling apart. I’d reach down, manually flex my foot, and start running again. Though I kept looking back, I still tried to stay out of sight of him … thinking that this might break him. But as my legs were failing, I didn’t particularly trust my eyes, so I kept looking and looking.

Onto the grassy path along Route 32 I slogged. And onto the driveway of Canaan I tiptoed and shuffled. I counted down the turns to the finish. I pumped my arms. I saw, off in the distance, a shirtless runner ahead. Who’s that I thought? He’s moving fast? Why’s he running on the wrong side of the road? [turns out it was Adam] And there was a woman in blue running towards and then away from me. I was ready to collapse. Just before the grassy trail leading to the finish, I caught up to her. “Good job”, she said. “How do you feel?” As I recall, I grimaced and shrugged my shoulders.

Then onto the grass trail, through the woods, and down to the finish.

I recall Dan cheering and exclaiming about a course record, but I didn’t see anything. Not in focus at least. I knew I was through the finish and then I crashed on the grass, head downhill, calves locked in spasm. Dan and Jody sponged ice water on them and each wrestled with a calf trying to get it back to a more realistic shape. Good race.

PR. Personal Record. I guess it’s a runner thing. To some of us PR’s matter and yet others really don’t care about them at all. We note our personal records for different distances or different races. But it’s just what it says it is. Personal. No one else cares or even notices for that matter. Running ultras is after all, an individual pursuit. For those of us who will never finish at the front of the pack, our competition many times is nothing more than ourselves. Can I do it faster than I did it before? Can I get a PR?

The Highlands Sky 40 miler has become just like Thanksgiving and Christmas; a tradition for Pam and me. If it’s Father’s Day weekend, then we have to be out in the Canaan Valley of West Virginia. Regardless of the race outcome, it has always been a rewarding experience. Race headquarters is the Canaan Valley Lodge where the pre-race and post race festivities take place. Plenty of time over several days to visit with likeminded souls. It is a great weekend year after year.

Busses carry the runners over twisting back roads through the pre-dawn darkness to the race start about 10 miles from the lodge. 6:00AM. Dan says go and we’re off. Already one new PR of sorts as I realize I’ve never started this race without Pam right beside me. The climbs come early in the race and the effort to push over them in a timely fashion is, doctors orders, not allowed for her at this point. Pam will be getting a little bit of running on her own over these spectacular trails and then helping at the third aid station and the finish line today.

Although the sky is partly clear it’s partly cloudy too, humidity hanging heavy, mist floating, dark formless billows. With the cloud cover the forest is dark. And wet. Mud and standing water are the order of the day as we make our way up and up, getting steeper, temples pounding pulse, going higher. Twenty three hundred feet. Finally. The rocks. The course winds over Roaring Plains, sometimes in the open, sometimes with a little tree cover, very technical rocky running here, mud and water too. The sun is out and the beauty of this place vibrates I go splashing merrily along, slop, slip, sliding on my way, sun out now and then, laurel just beginning to bloom but azaleas bursting with color. Occasionally I get the feeling that I should be moving faster but I remind myself that it’s only been four weeks since my 100 mile run at MMT, and I’m more than content to take whatever the day offers.

Second PR today. Never got to the second aid station in under two and half hours before. Satisfaction. A little more technical stuff and then the course plunges steeply. Seventeen hundred feet down. The forest is thick and dark and the wet trail is rocky and slick. Making good time here. Lush dank forest, murky and dismal. Rushing streams discolored by the vegetation of the area tumble over the rocks, then I’m climbing once again, up and up, old rail bed, then up once again, high humidity, sweat pouring out.

I arrive at aid station #3 and Pam is there. I remember waiting for her at this very spot three years ago when I was injured and couldn’t run. Other way around today though. I feel fine and soon I’m on my way. Up steeply once more, and then out of the woods and into the open passing through pine thickets every now and then. Stop for the view. Take a moment to let the diversity of this place sink in. I must take some of this back with me somehow and so I let the beauty of this place carry me along, sun and clouds playing tag.

As I make my way along the seven miles of that miserable gravel Road Across The Sky, the sun begins to warm things up. There’s a pretty god breeze blowing up here as I make my way along the road through Dolly Sods, but I’m thinking that if the sun comes out any stronger and heats up all this humidity, surely thunder storms will soon be a reality. Finally the turn that will get me off this road appears. Hmm. Another PR as I realize I’m at aid station #6 almost ten minutes earlier than ever before. As I leave aid station #6, crossing Dolly Sods, I’m on the most beautiful part of the course crossing heath barrens and open meadows, with pine and spruce scattered about, and views in all directions. Normally when I get to this point I’m so relieved to be done with that seven miles of road and finally crossing open ground that my spirits begin to soar and some of my energy so easily sucked out of me by The Road Across The Sky returns. Well not today as all my vigor seems to evaporate, the stiff breeze eerily spiriting my energy away. But as always happens, slowly the bad patch ends, energy returns and the spirit renews. I begin to feel better and quickly pick up the pace. Moving well once again, probably better than ever before. As I thought it might the sun comes out hot and within an hour I can hear the thunder. Really moving well now with the thought of being out on this open ridge in a thunderstorm pushing me forward into the day.

The rain begins lightly, and I’m out of aid station #7 in short order. The sky is black and as I hustle along the ridge, lightning flashes in my periphery. Focusing on the rocks I’m finally going downhill and I know it will be only a short distance until I’m back in the woods, a little safer from the lightning crackling all around. Just before I gain the woods the heavens open. I’m thrilled to be moving so well at this point of the race, and the downpour doesn’t bother me at all. Running water in the trail rises instantly. Soon I’ve made the turn and as I hike up the ski slope, the rain subsides to a more moderate level before finally stopping all together. Through the woods, I’m excited to be running really well, and I begin to think that despite my earlier slowdown during my bad spell, I just might be able to get to the finish in less than ten hours and the thought of that gets me going with even more determination. Until I get to The Buttslide.

This muddy, wet, greasy near-vertical pitch is death defyingly steep straight down. Hang ten. I almost dislocate my shoulder as I attempt a self arrest by grabbing a tree while surfing a wave of mud sliding out of control to what at that moment had all the appearance of certain death. Well almost. I try to tip toe through the woods beside The Buttslide, grabbing onto trees for support and after what seems like forever I’m delivered out on to an ATV trail that is so wet and covered with grease-like mud and standing water that running is really out of the question. And it’s raining again. Simply staying upright takes all the talent I have and after creeping along through that slop for way too long I finally come out of the woods and onto some grass and at last I can run once again.

A quick check of my watch and I realize my hope of breaking ten hours has, quite literally, slipped away. Well, maybe if I have the energy to run the last 5 miles I can come close. So I focus and try to get it done, which is something I’ve never been able to do this late in this race.

This is my fifth run at Highlands Sky and always in the past when I hit the last four and a half miles of roads to the finish I’m just too out of gas to really run very much. Oh, I shuffle along going through the running motions, but the feeling of needing to walk soon overcomes me and it seems I just shuffle and walk for the entire distance to the finish. But, for some reason or other, not today. Maybe it’s the light rain keeping me cool? Don’t know, but I’m running. OK. Well maybe it’s a slow run but it’s more than a shuffle. Check the watch again. Hmm. Maybe sub-ten hours is in the cards after all. I try to pick up the pace. At last across Route 32 and into the Canaan Valley Park entrance. I’ve never been able to run very much here but today I’m running every step. Finally up a small grade and from somewhere comes the energy to begin to really run. Faster. Check the watch. Can’t tell if I can make or not. Faster. Not sure how far I have to go. Faster and it’s starting to hurt. Off the road and onto the trail through the woods that leads to the finish line. Can’t remember how far it is. Faster and now it does hurt. Check the watch. Oh well. Ten hours on the nose. Oh. Maybe the race clock and my watch are different. Faster and it really hurts now. A couple of turns, up the final hill, out of the woods across the grass, there’s the finish, let-her-rip, I’m flying now across the line in 10:01:49. Not under ten hours. But 2 minutes 42 seconds faster than last year. And last year was my fastest run ever at this race. Hmm. A PR.

One of the many great things about Highlands Sky is that the awards aren’t given out until after the post race dinner. On Saturday evening, everyone together, sharing lies and enjoying fellowship in the afterglow that only comes at the end of the big adventure. We visit with friends old and new, I receive my five year finisher’s award, we try to express our thanks to everyone, and with darkness approaching, Pam and I turn the car toward home.

A good friend and fellow ultrarunner recently asked me, in surprising seriousness, why I ran ultras. Fumbled around with that one for a while, but really couldn’t distill the ingredients into anything remotely resembling a valid answer. I know that part of the reason is just to get out there and see what I can do. And what I can’t. But to go out there and at age 58 run a course PR four weeks after doing well at MMT with minimal training, well, that must be a huge part of whatever the answer truly is and a lot of what keeps me coming back. And who really cares but me? After all, it’s personal.

“But every year you need to flush out your system and do a bit of suffering. It does you a power of good. I think it’s because there is always a question mark about how you would perform. You have an idea of yourself and it can be quite a shock when you don’t come up to your own expectations. If you just tootle along you can think you’re a pretty slick bloke until things go wrong and you find you’re nothing like what you imagined yourself to be. But if you deliberately put yourself in difficult situations, then you get a pretty good idea of how you are going. That’s why I like feeding the rat. It’s a sort of annual check-up on myself. The rat is you, really. It’s the other you, and it’s being fed by the you you think you are. And they are often very different people. But when they come close to each other, that’s smashing, that is. Then the rat’s had a good meal and you come away feeling terrific. It’s a fairly rare thing, but you have to keep feeding the brute for your own peace of mind. And even if you did blow it, at least there wouldn’t be that great unknown. But to snuff it without knowing who you are and what you are capable of, I can’t think of anything sadder than that.”

– Al Alvarez