I prefer to write about the races where everything goes wrong instead of right. I don’t know why. Through extensive psychoanalysis I could probably figure it out, but my self-prescribed and very effective mental health regime consists of two (or more) daily hours of running, plus regular trail races. This means I have no spare time, or spare money, to spend on therapy. It also means I never seem to run out of interesting writing material in the form of twisted ankles, shredded quads, a revolting stomach, added miles spent lost in the mountains, the detrimental effects of extreme heat, or of extreme cold. Hallucinations. Bleeding knees. Bruises. Gross GI issues. And so on. Ultras are unpredictable because of all the ways a well-planned day can unravel.

Yesterday was not one of those days. The Cedro Peaks 45-miler was a race where, remarkably, everything that can go wrong went smoothly for once. This is a very short, very unusual race report.

On Friday, my husband David, our friend SP and I were off to a good start: we got off work on time to actually pack our bags, rather than just throw random items into the car like bank robbers on their way out of town. We arrived in Albuquerque, where we met a couple of running buddies for a sensible pre-race plate of pasta at the sensible time of 6 p.m. We did not overdose on pre-race alcoholic beverages. We packed our drop bags, pinned our numbers, and charged our watches before 10 p.m instead of at 4 a.m. Then we actually went to sleep. On race morning, the alarm went off on time. We woke up without hangover symptoms. I did not forget to bring body glide, sunglasses, my lucky bra, or any other essential item.
We did not get lost on our way to the start. It was cold, but not freezing, and when RD Kim King sent us off into the dawning day, I did not forget to start my Garmin.
No one vandalized the gorgeous course, which was marked so well with ribbons, flags, arrows, and signs that even notorious airheads like me managed to stay on it as it wound its way through the Manzano mountains on rolling singletrack. The views from Cedro Peak and several other spots made my heart sing. Aid stations appeared at regular intervals, veritable gourmet buffets in the middle of the forest. They provided everything a hungry runner could require, i.e. all basic food groups, plus chocolate easter eggs, beer, and so much friendly encouragement that even the grueling climb up the powerline trail seemed worth the effort.
No dirt bikes or four-wheelers ran anyone off the trail. Mid-day temperatures never climbed above the low seventies. The gentle, pleasant breeze that developed in the afternoon did not turn into a gale-force head wind. My stomach happily digested clif bloks and a couple of Fig Newtons. My feet remained blister-free. My knees did not crash into any of the 100 000-plus pointy rocks on the trail. I ran strong for the entire 45 miles, walking only the steep and/or super technical uphills.
I crossed the finish line smiling, tired but not totally exhausted. I did not barf, nor did I bleed profusely. And I won.

It was a perfect day for me. It was an almost perfect day for David, who finished the 50k, and for SP, who ended up second overall.
Perfect days make boring race reports. They don’t happen often. But for now, I am basking in the happy afterglow of a rare and beautiful experience. Or maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe I’ll wake up injured, or suffering from DNF syndrome (a condition common among ultra runners, similar to PTSD). But for now, I am enjoying unmitigated post-race bliss, even a little post-race run, since I’m not even sore.

Perfect days also don’t happen by accident. I may have finally learned a little from all the silly race day mistakes I’ve made in the past, but I have also learned that race management is the most important factor in race-day success, or race-day failure. Cedro Peaks is a meticulously organized event, with a rare combination of of old-school friendly vibes and 21st century efficiency. Kim King and her team really know what they are doing, and they do it with a smile. The course is spectacular. Aid stations are well placed, well manned, and well stocked. The finisher awards are handmade tinwork plaques, unique and beautiful. Even the t-shirt is functional as well as pretty. And it fits.
One suggestion: please remove at least some of the 1000 000 000 pointy rocks from the trail. Other than that, Cedro Peaks can’t get much better. I want to thank Kim, Erin, Nick, Ken, Margaret, Kathy, and everyone else who helped make this experience so beautiful. I also want to apologize for boring my readers. Chances are, my next race will be full of the usual mishaps once again.

Confession time: I’m an advice column addict. The problems anonymous strangers deal with fascinate me, plus they make my own issues seem trivial in comparison. The exact topic doesn’t matter. In every new Runner’s World magazine, ‘Ask Miles’ is what I read first. Running etiquette conundrums other people experience always sound a lot more interesting than my own, which I tend to resolve by trying to think what Miles’ answer would be. I tend to get pretty close, or imagine I do. Miles doesn’t read my blog, so I’m free to make things up, usually while running.

Question: Is it ok to yell at barking Chihuahuas who try to sink their pointy little teeth into my ankle?
Answer: Yes, absolutely, though it’s probably more effective to make growling noises and scary facial contortions while squirting the annoying rat-like creature in the face with a water bottle.

Question: Is it bad manners for a woman to pee trailside when no one is looking?
Answer: Of course not. We’re living in an age of equality, and in a drought. Besides, no one is looking.

Question: Does it mean I’m an obsessive-compulsive weirdo if I run twice around the block after my long run just so my Garmin says 22 miles instead of 21.4?
Answer: It probably does, but aren’t most ultra runners obsessive-compulsive weirdos? And more importantly — so what?

Even more intriguing are relationship issues. Their potential consequences are a lot more serious, up to and including death by an overdose of Ben and Jerry’s Karmel Sutra. Nonetheless, many wise and thoughtful columnists from Dear Prudence to Dan Savage dole out advice on how to negotiate the mine field of life’s sources of frustration, anger, and all related negative emotions. But since I started running ultras, I find myself disagreeing with some of their answers.
We are as wise and thoughtful as those other people commonly referred to as “normal.” Many well-meaning fellow humans give us unsolicited advice. Without being asked, they point out how running so much will damage our knees, hearts, and sanity. They predict, in a patronizing tone, that we’re destined to be lonely in our old age because we alienate all our friends and family members, or that we’re headed for a premature and lonely death in a mountain ravine. But they rarely ask us for our advice in return, maybe because they think we’re obsessive-compulsive weirdos. This needs to change. We have valuable insights to offer. Here is a typical example of a distressed woman turning to the Agony Aunt, and the response an Agony Ultrarunner would give:

Dear Happy Dirtbagger,

I’ve been married to “Matt” for over two decades. During that time, I raised five children, completed three university degrees, and supplemented the grocery budget through selling home-knit dog sweaters. I hold a PhD in astro-chemical engineering and a full-time job that involves interplanetary space travel, cook three meals a day from organic, locally grown vegan ingredients, keep our home sparkling clean, and volunteer at the local shelter for abused pet tarantulas in my spare time.
Lately, my husband is more interested in a twenty-year old cheerleader whom I’ll call “Susie.” She leaves suggestive texts on his phone, and parades around our front porch wearing nothing but a pink string bikini, even in winter. Matt only has eyes for her. He and I haven’t had sex in months. Yes, my body doesn’t quite look like it did twenty years or all those pregnancies ago, but I’m in decent enough shape. However, my physique does not compare to Susie’s, whose BMI is in the low teens, as is her IQ. I feel very depressed, but want to save our marriage. Should I ignore his behavior? Should I confront him?

Crying Buckets

Dear Crying,
there is no need to confront him. Instead, you should lace up your shoes and go for a run. And then another one tomorrow, and another one every day after that. And then you should register for your first 50k. I guarantee that after a few months, you will feel happy again. I also guarantee that your house will be a chaotic mess, and that your husband, who will learn to cook his own meals, will ignore Sally and slobber over you like a dog. But unless he gets with the program and decides to either take up running himself or agrees to spend his weekends crewing for you, you should dump the ingrate anyway. Husbands can be such time-consuming, unnecessary distractions.

Happy trails,
Dirtbagger

Or:

Dear Dirtbagger,
I am a 35-year old graduate student in his 27th semester. I live in my parents’ basement, eat their food, and generally feel ok with this arrangement. The only issue is that, for some unfathomable reason, my parents have started pressuring me to get a job, and to develop some kind of plan for my future. I don’t see why I should. Do you?
Bummed

Dear Bummed,
I get it. All that growing-up stuff is overrated. You could escape the unpleasantness by going for a run. In fact, the more time you spend running, the less time your parents would have to nag you about trivial stuff like employment. Of course, the more you run, the more high-quality calories you’ll need. Once you go all-out paleo, the contents of your parents’ refrigerator will seem more and more inadequate for your nutritional needs. At this point, finding at least a part-time job might not be such bad idea, especially since you will also begin drooling over the latest model of hydration pack, compression sock, or Garmin,
On the other hand, if you follow the current fashion of ultra beards, shaving supplies will no longer be an expense. Nor will video games, netflix subscriptions, or extensive bar tabs. You will have neither the time nor the energy for such types of entertainment, so there’s no need for a soul-killing full-time career.
Also, once you run your first 100, your parents will express concern about your mental state. They will also feel concerned that you don’t eat enough, and will pressure you to resume the less active, more slug-like lifestyle they used to disapprove of. You could, at that point, go back to being a lazy freeloader, But you probably won’t want to.

You see? Varied, nuanced, practical. We ultra runners are capable of a balanced outlook on life. Not all of us are single-minded introverts who suffer from FOMO and OCD simultaneously. We are also inspiring our fellow humans with helpful hints:

The possibilities are endless:

“I’m in the 8th grade, and the other kids bully me all day long.” —
“Go run. The bullies won’t be able to keep up with you.”

“My manipulative sister-in-law constantly expects free babysitting and makes me feel guilty when I refuse” — “Go run. She won’t be able to track you down so easily.”

“My boss despises me, belittles me, and makes my workday miserable.” — “Go for a run, ideally headed away from the office. Don’t return. Ever.”

“I am addicted to nicotine/alcohol/cocaine and it’s wrecking my life.” — “Simple solution: every time you feel like having a cigarette/tequila shot/other drug fix, go run until the urge passes.”

“I feel so much anxiety about the doomed state of the world and the lack of meaning in the human existence. I can’t sleep, and my nails are bitten down to nothing.” — “Stop reading books by depressed-looking French guys in black turtlenecks. Instead, go run. Life will still be as meaningless as before, and the world will still be doomed. But you will feel much more at peace with all that.”

I think the world is ready for our wisdom in the form of a regular column. Maybe a podcast, too? Maybe a YouTube video channel? I’ll now go for a quick three-hour run to ponder these questions.

Ultra running has its challenges. It’s a jungle out there. Not literally, at least not here in the high desert of New Mexico, but metaphorically, when trying to determine what food to eat and what not to eat.

In my teens, healthy eating was not something I thought much about. I grew up in Germany, where bread, rolls, and pastries beckon from bakeries everywhere and chocolate comes in so many varieties that it takes up an entire aisle in any supermarket. When I moved to the Southwestern US at age 19, I missed these treats, but quickly learned to appreciate other sources of empty carbs.

During my twenties and thirties, I watched my weight but not my well-being. The number on my scale was much more of an incentive to avoid artery-clogging fried creations like mozzarella sticks or onion rings served with bowls of additional fat in the form of ranch dressing. In 1995, fat-free cookies, and fat-free salad dressings were everywhere. I lived on fat-free pretzel sticks and gummy bears. My career involved working long hours on horseback. A physical job meant that I burned a ton of calories, and never really had a weight problem. I thought I was healthy because my clothing size stayed a 4, but my diet would make anyone who knows anything about nutrition recoil in horror. The more sugar I ate, the more I craved. I once survived an entire horse show weekend on a family-size bag of Swedish Fish.

Now, I’m much older and maybe just a tiny bit smarter. I didn’t seriously start running until I turned forty. I never thought of myself as a runner until I podiumed at an ultra for the first time. But looking in the mirror and seeing an athlete meant reforming my disordered eating habits. Athletes don’t nibble a few baby carrots at lunch and then scarf down half a pound of twizzlers while driving home. Athletes don’t starve themselves until dinnertime just so they can indulge in a double serving of chocolate brownie hidden underneath a mound of whipped cream. Athletes eat to help their hard-working muscles perform better. I started reading Michael Pollan, Matt Fitzgerald and Phil Maffetone. I also started reading labels and listening to my body. I was surprised to find out that a Venti White Chocolate Mocha from Starbucks has more calories than a large bowl of oatmeal and fruit, or that a handful of nuts (full of fat!) would keep me satisfied for much longer than a candy bar. And so I changed my ways, at least a little. I went on a sugar detox for three weeks, which stabilized my energy levels. I found out, to my surprise, that a banana with some greek yogurt, cocoa powder and cinnamon would satisfy my sweet tooth as much as a handful of Hershey’s Kisses. A light bulb went on in my head. Epiphany time.

The reformed me tries to nourish her body with healthy, nutrient-packed foods. No refined sugar, no processed stuff with weird chemical ingredients, no . . . ok, a few . . . well, ok, on most days not too many refined grains. One glass of wine with dinner. Well, ok. Sometimes more than one. But on the plus side, I now drink a concoction of apple cider vinegar and lemon juice every morning. I serve it to myself in a martini glass to make it look more appealing. It tastes so awful that it must be good for me. I hope it makes up for the second glass of wine at dinner, or the extra hunk of sourdough bread. I try to eat lots of green veggies because everyone — i.e. followers of paleo, vegan, low-carb, raw food and other diets — agree that they’re magic shaped into leaves. At times, I write down everything I eat. These pages sometimes read like the diet journal of a dedicated athlete, someone serious about eating for optimal health and performance rather than fleeting enjoyment:

“Breakfast: half a cup oatmeal (cooked with water), dash of cinnamon, banana, unsweetened coffee with half and half.Lunch: salad, boiled egg, chickpeas. Dinner: grilled chicken breast, veggies, quinoa. Calories: 1728. Servings of fruit and veggies: ten.”

On days like that, I feel virtuous, Righteous. Resisting the siren call of empty carbs and comfort foods full of added colors, flavors, and trans-fats is easy. My nutrition halo glows in a serene but not ostentatious shade of gold as I glide past the chocolate display at Walgreens from where Mr. Lindt and Ms. Godiva call my name in seductive tones. Take that, middle-aged spread. I’m smarter than you!
Other times, like on many long-run days, my log reads like an excerpt from Bridget Jones’ diary, which means it’s more embarrassing, but also much more entertaining:

“Miles run — 20. Calories consumed: lost count after second glass of Pinot Grigio and third slice of pizza, but well before I opened the container of Ben and Jerry’s Caramel Sutra. Likely more than calories burned.”

The struggle is an ongoing one. Almost every day has its little success moments, and its setbacks. Though the taste of kale still makes me shudder, I now actually like spinach, cooked with a little olive oil and garlic. l. At the supermarket, I make an effort to walk past the candy aisle, like a horse with blinders. When I do wander in, I reach for dark chocolate instead of Sour Patch Kids. Small victories.

Compared to many of my ultra friends, I still treat my body more like a theme park than like a temple. I don’t share the sentiment that carbs and gluten are villains. Though I’ve tried, I can’t follow the paleo diet, or any low-carb diet. No grains, no pasta, and no potatoes make me cranky, to the point where I say things I later — i.e. once I’ve eaten some carbs — regret deeply. The people in my life deserve better than the kind of person I become without carbs.
Good bread is not something I’m willing to give up. But at least I’m more conscious of what I put on top of it. I have replaced Nutella with all-natural almond butter.

And yes, there are times when I backslide severely, like when I run-commute without taking any food along for a post-run snack. Once my glycogen stores are depleted, I resort to — and I’m not proud of this — scavenging at work. Desperation leads to lower standards. No candy jar on anyone’s desk is safe from my roving fingers. I’ve been known to beg my colleagues in a whiny voice for any granola bars or breath mints their purses might contain. I’ve contemplated snatching baggies of half-eaten animal crackers and fruit roll-ups from their hungry children, especially from those who can’t speak coherently yet. I’ve learned that a handful of leftover fortune cookies can be a feast, and that a seemingly empty jar of peanut butter (ok, it was already in the trash can) will yield one more spoonful if you scrape diligently enough. And yet, I haven’t learned to keep a few emergency Clif Bars for such occasions in my desk drawer.

All the rules change, of course, while actually running an ultra. Paradoxically, I know I should eat candy-like things like clif bloks, but find it difficult. My husband, whose trail name should be Ultrapanza, has no such issues. He views aid stations as all-you-can-eat buffets and consumes everything on the table, without regret. Pizza? With pepperoni? At mile 45? The thought alone makes me dry heave, but David will accept everything an aid station has to offer, including beer. Or tequila shots. The lucky man has never barfed during an ultra. Rumor has it that some women feel penis envy. Stomach envy is much more common among female ultra runners.
So, unlike David, I don’t eat that much while I run, or immediately after finishing. But a few hours later, it’s a different story. The funny thing is, my paleo/low carb/gluten free friends get off their saintly clouds and join me. Allen (aka Mr. Paleo) and Rachael (who normally leaves the bun on her plate when she eats a grilled chicken sandwich) ran the Bryce Canyon with me, a gorgeous but tough, relentlessly hilly course without a level spot anywhere. The host hotel is Ruby’s Inn, a large, touristy place with a large, touristy buffet restaurant. After finishing, showering, doctoring our injuries, and napping, we hobbled over there to refuel.

We inhaled the wholesome aroma of frying grease that wafted through the swinging doors. The dining crowd consisted of overweight tourists and a smattering of scruffy, emaciated ultra runners barely visible behind enormous mounds of sausage, scrambled eggs, and bacon glistening with saturated fat. We piled our plates high with similar items, adding ham slices, chicken drumsticks, hash browns, biscuits, and elbow macaroni smothered in bright orange cheese. The lone token vegetable was limp broccoli swimming in gravy. We sighed in contentment as we worked our way through this feast that we washed down with red wine that tasted like an exquisite French vintage. We wondered aloud how the exquisite vintage had found its way into Ruby’s Inn, or – an even bigger mystery – the Gallo jug on our table. We complimented the crispness of the bacon, the fluffiness of the scrambled eggs from the industrial-sized metal containers, the velvety consistency of the bright orange cheese. We felt protein rushing back into our depleted muscles, and sodium back into our bloodstreams. We agreed that this was a gourmet meal, possibly the best one we had ever eaten.

In retrospect, this seems a bit unlikely. And on normal days, when I righteously munch my spinach and kale, orange cheese (ok, it was more likely hydrogenated vegetable oil combined with some carcinogenic artificial color) would not look, or taste, appealing. But I still remember their amazing flavor and texture on that particular Sunday morning. Particularly while run-commuting without an emergency Clif bar in my desk drawer.

In the early nineties, an anti-drug organization released a series of anti-drug ads beginning with a close-up shot of an egg and a frying pan. The shell cracks, the contents spill and begin to make sizzling sounds. But instead of zooming out to show the bacon cooking to a crisp on the next burner, the egg, sunny side up, fills the screen. A stern male voice admonishes:
“This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs. Any questions?”
I don’t know how effective this campaign was. The image has stuck with me for over twenty years, more because it makes me salivate in anticipation of a post-run breakfast than because it makes me ponder the dangers of heroin use. But I am thinking of using these ads in a training manual for 100-mile runners and their pacers, with one small change to the catchy slogan:
“This is your brain. This is your brain on ultras. Any questions?”

It’s true that we run the first 50 miles of a 100 with our bodies and the second with our minds. Maybe the mental strength we need for these races is so great that it redirects all our mental resources to putting one foot in front of the other, long after the body has given up. Maybe this explains ultra logic. It’s an altered mental state, a new dimension of human consciousness. It’s different from the runner’s high, but worth experiencing. And it’s worth scientific research.

“Human beings, who are almost unique in having the ability to learn from the experience of others, are also remarkable for their apparent disinclination to do so.”
Douglas Adams

The Chimera is a monstrous creature from Greek mythology. Equipped with sharp fangs, pointy horns, and deadly venom, she intimidates even courageous souls. The Chimera 100 is a race that takes place every November in the Saddleback Mountains near Los Angeles. It’s named Chimera for a reason: 22 000 feet of elevation gain, technical terrain, sparse course markings, 13 hours of darkness, and the likelihood of extreme weather conditions. Of course, I couldn’t wait to sign up for this monster of a run. My husband can’t take time off work, so I have made the courageous decision to face the beast alone, without crew or pacer or other support. Wait, this is not entirely true: Rachael StClaire, my friend and training partner, is also running the Chimera. We will share the experience, the pain, and the hotel room.
I am paranoid about flying to ultras, mostly because I like to pack for all possible conditions and emergency situations. My foam roller, my sleeping bag, my rain gear, 15 different warm layers, 5 different head lamps requiring three different types of batteries, three stashes of extra batteries, a large duffel bag full of nuun, clif bloks, water bottles, stinger waffles, traumeel, ice packs, etc etc. The prospect of stuffing this pile of items into two regulation-weight suitcases is too daunting to consider. Besides, airlines lose luggage all the time, which would spell disaster. No, a road trip is the way to go.
I set out on my solo expedition on Thursday after work, heading South and then West. The drive takes 13 hours. I make it to Holbrook, Arizona before stopping for the night. On Friday, I arrive in Lake Elsinore at 4 p.m, in time to meet RD Steve Harvey, a few of his friends, and his pet skeleton at a biker bar named Hell’s kitchen for packet pickup. The evening is filled with familiar pre-race rituals. Like two seasoned gladiators preparing for the arena, Rachael and I know what to do. We pack, then re-pack our drop bags, color-coordinate our outfits, charge our Garmins, and study the course maps and the turn-by-turn directions.
After a few hours of sleep, we head on up the Ortega Highway. Bluejay campground is our home base. From here, we will face the beast. At 6 a.m., under 111the first light of dawn, we head out the first of two out-and back sections. Down to Cocktail rock, where enthusiastic volunteers offer, among other assorted goodies, the best homemade pumpkin pie ever tasted at an ultra. I devour two pieces, which gives me energy for the climb back up to Bluejay.
The good (or not so good) thing about out and backs is that I know how many women are ahead of me. Nikki Kimball is in the lead, no surprise. Then no three, no, wait, four more. I get ambitious and pass two of them by mile 15, before the sobering realization that we still have over 80 miles to go slows me back down. It’s better to conserve some energy. But back at Bluejay, the fourth place woman leaves just as I arrive. I am in such a hurry to catch her that I head back out after refilling my camelbak, and realize about a mile later that my salt tabs, and my clif bloks, are still in the drop bag, where they won’t do me much good. No nutrition for the next ten miles. Not smart. I briefly debate turning around, but my beast mode is in high gear. A familiar silhouette moves in my direction. Rachael, finishing her first loop, behaves like a true ultra friend. She hands me four of her salt tabs, without expecting an explanation of why I need them only a mile out of the aid station.
I pass another woman, then a woman passes me. It’s Nikki Kimball. A bummed Nikki Kimball. What? Why is she not miles ahead? She explains that a #)*&%$-hole has moved the course markers at an intersection, an intentional act of trail sabotage. She has run quite a few extra miles, and intends to drop out at Candy Store. I commiserate, and I’m beginning to see Steve’s point. It’s better to have no course markings than to have course markings leading in the wrong direction. Matt Gunn catches up with me a few minutes after Nikki does. He is in the same situation. We arrive at the Chiquita Falls aid station, which supposed to be water only, but — bless their hearts — the lovely volunteers have hauled in some food. I am saved from looming starvation! I don’t have to pay for my Bluejay stupidity! Relieved, I fill a ziploc baggie with assorted goodies and leave, mumbling sincere thank-yous with a mouth full of pretzel stix. Interesting conversations make the miles fly by. Matt and Nikki eventually take off at lighting pace, but on the way back from Candy store, I chat with Saravanan, originally from India, who is running his first 100 and is bubbling over with energy. Later, I catch up to Matt Smith, still holding back wisely at this point in the race. He later finishes a smoking fast third. And I catch up to the second-place woman, who is feeling ill and has slowed to a walk.
I reach Bluejay around 4 p.m., feeling strong. It’s still pleasantly warm, but it’s also November, and the night will start very soon. While a kind aid station saint doctors a blister on my left foot, I contemplate continuing in my skirt. We’re in Southern California — how cold can it get? Another saintly Bluejay volunteer (my brain is mush by this point, and I can’t remember names, otherwise I would thank specific human beings) tells me in a stern voice to put on the warmest layers I brought: tights, gloves, hat. She sounds like she knows what she is talking about, and in spite of — or maybe because of — my mushy brain, I comply. A smart decision, as it turns out. The toughest part of the course is still to come. I head into a leafy tunnel on the way to Holy Jim. Twilight envelopes the trail. Time to turn on my head lamp. The trail ends, and I backtrack for a few minutes, until I find the corresponding spot in the direction sheet. The missed turn only sets me back a few minutes. Animals rustle in the dense forest. I imagine deer, birds, even bears and mountain lions. It’s a consolation that ultra runners smell so rank after 12 hour on the trail that no self-respecting predator would be desperate enough to put one of us on the dinner menu.

I am alone now, in the cool, dark evening. 55 miles are behind me, but the long night still lies ahead. The dying light feels peaceful, serene even. I settle in for the long climb up Santiago Peak. A cold wind blows on the mountainside, and I mentally thank my guardian angel from the Bluejay aid station who insisted I put on long sleeves, and long pants. Mile 65. There are headlights up ahead, and as I come closer, I realize it’s Sada, the leading woman. Her knees and elbows are bleeding from several falls, and she looks like she’s in pain, but, tough cookie that she is, she marches on in spite of it. I’ve been in that situation, when bruises settle in, making each step a little bit more of an effort than the one before. We exchange greetings, and I move ahead, aware of the 35 miles left to cover. A lot can happen in 35 miles. The wind is howling. My stomach is still cooperating, but it’s getting tired of clif bloks, no matter the flavor. I decide to be adventurous and replace them with much more varied and interesting aid station offerings: potato chips and ginger ale at Bear Springs, quesadilla pieces at Maple Springs, chocolate chip cookies and ramen noodles at Indian Truck Trail. Against all odds, my stomach stays happy. Maybe it remembers my undergraduate student diet from over two decades ago. Maybe it feels nostalgic. Whatever the reason, I feel great — moving through the cold, blustery darkness, following the beam of my head lamp. The night is clear: a sliver of waxing moon, stars dotting the black sky. Against this backdrop, the views of the LA metro form a spectacular contrast. Millions of people live down there, in that glittering ocean of orange light. Most of them have no idea that a few crazy ultra runners are climbing around on Santiago Peak, just a few thousand feet above them. My Garmin has died, and I have no idea how many hours have passed, but even that doesn’t matter. Time is irrelevant. I run, left foot, right foot. What else do I need? Oh, yeah, my turn by turn directions. Very handy. I’m still on the right trail, from what they say.
On the long downhill toward Corona, I fall, but land in a sandy spot. Other than looking like I’ve been dusted with flour, I continue unscathed. Mile 84. Corona aid station, a cheery spot in the darkness. The seven-mile climb back up to the main divide seems to take forever. Fatigue settles into my legs, which begin to feel heavy. But only a few miles are left. Nine more from Indian Truck Trail. One more big uphill. It’s still dark. It’s still windy. Another aid station, in a tent perched on the hillside, hardy volunteers braving the elements. It looks like it will blow them away any minute. Three more miles. I make a deal with myself: walk all uphills, run everything else. I imagine Sada, not far behind me. I also imagine what my husband, an excellent pacer, would say right now: “That’s not really an uphill. Run! That’s almost level. You call this an uphill? Nope, it’s not. Stop arguing.” I keep running. I begin to fantasize about the finish line. Just a couple more miles. There’s a paved road. The campground entrance. The first hint of dawn on the horizon. Wait, where is that finish line? The road ends. I pull out my turn-by-turns one more time. “Finish on paved road in Bluejay campground.” This doesn’t help. I turn around. There are orange flags leading down a narrow path named Falcon trail. Relieved, I follow them for a few minutes. They seem to be leading nowhere. It’s another case of trail vandalism, surely. A cruel trick at mile 99.5. No, I’m smarter than that. I turn around, back onto the paved road. I backtrack for a while, looking for directions, reading and re-reading the last of the turn-by-turn instructions. A mystery. I explore another paved road. Doesn’t look right. The early morning light brings no enlightenment. The driver of white jeep finally does. Lady, you need to backtrack and go down the Falcon trail. Didn’t you see the flags?
Oh. Duh. Just another case of 100-mile paranoia. I’ve been known to suffer from delusions involving not just moved trail markers, but conspiracy plots, axe murderers, and piles of severed heads. I back-back track, follow the bright orange ribbons, finally reach familiar ground, and eventually the finish line. To my surprise, I’m still the first woman to run across it, in 23:48, extra lap around the campground and all. Steve, more sleep-deprived than any of us runners, looks remarkably alert as he hugs me and hands me the gorgeous Chimera buckle.
Nothing compares to the feeling of weary, deserved exhilaration that comes with crossing the finish line of a 100-mile race, especially one as tough as this one. Except, possibly, seeing other people cross it, which is why I love hanging around until the last runners finish. I listen to their stories, and share mine. We bond over the world’s best cheeseburgers and beer. Matt is basking in his top-three glory. Sada perseveres to a strong third-place finish, bruises and all. Saravanan comes in, slower than anticipated, but beaming. Rachael finishes in 31 hours and change, looking strong. Steve hugs every sweaty, stinky finisher. I’m not given to sentimental episodes, but come close to feeling emotional. I’ve come to California, knowing a grand total of one other person in this race. 31 hours later, I’m among friends, among people who share a crazy dream, and maybe a tad of OCD. Others may not understand us, but we sure understand each other.
Thank you, Steve and Annie Harvey, for making this race come alive. Thank you, everyone who graciously donated their time, their sleep, their sanity to work at an aid station. Thank you, all the runners I shared miles with, for making the miles fly. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I am a lucky woman, and it’s a good time to be alive and running.

Every ultra runner’s dream: the Western States starting line.

Last December, my friend Rachael and I entered and won the Western States lottery. After the first wave of excitement had passed, we did our homework. We read piles of race reports. We watched Unbreakable over and over. All this research told us exactly what the Western States website says: it’s a downhill race, and it can be a very hot one. In early June, we decided to meet in Moab, Utah, for one last weekend of heat training before it was time to taper.

Ultra friends are the best friends

On Friday evening, we set up our tent, then decided to carbo-load for the next day with a couple of beers. Alcohol helps people come up with ideas that seem smart at the time. We looked at the weather forecast, which promised 104 degrees.

“I know a canyon a few miles away. How about we run in that tomorrow?”
“Cheers!”

The next morning, only mildly hung over, we waited until 11 a.m., then drove to the edge of the canyon. There was not a tree in sight, and not a breeze anywhere. The red rocks glistened in the sunshine. We parked the car and headed down. The plan was to cover twenty miles today, ten out, ten back. Simple. We reached the bottom, and looked at the spot where the car perched on the rim. It seemed very far above us. Something occurred to me:
“We’re gonna have to climb back up at the end.”

Rachael grunted. We slogged along a rocky doubletrack, dodging cactus spines. Red dust covered us from head to toe. Our sweat evaporated as soon as it seeped out of our pores. Salt formed a crust on our bodies, where it mixed with the layer of dirt. A large black bird flapped its wings above our heads.
“Is that a vulture?” Rachael asked.
I wasn’t sure. Birds of prey are not my area of expertise.
“What’s the difference between a vulture and a buzzard?”
” Not much. They both eat dead things.”
“So we stay alive?”
“Good plan.”
I tripped over a rock and fell. I got back up. We slowed to a walk. The water in our packs was hot enough to make tea, which we hadn’t brought and didn’t want. We fantasized about large buckets of ice. The vulture had left. He was probably calling his friends, inviting them to a feast in a few hours. Or maybe he was taking his pre-dinner siesta. We kept moving. My Garmin said we had gone nine miles. It seemed a lot further. We decided to turn around. The valley floor felt like a furnace. Our ground speed slowed to a crawl. Our conversation slowed to an exchange of “grmmph” sounds. The canyon wall did not come any closer. The vultures were probably getting their napkins and silverware ready.

An engine sounded in the distance. We stopped and turned our heads. The salt that seeped into our eyes, and the dust on our sunglasses, made it difficult to see. But we both heard it. This meant we were not hallucinating. We recalled that Moab is an off-road driving destination. A red jeep made its way toward us. It slowed down, then stopped. The window on the driver’s side rolled down. A round, pink face appeared in a cloud of frigid air. We moved closer, eager to benefit from the unexpected whiff of air conditioning.
“Can we give you ladies a ride?”
We made efforts to straighten our backs. Indignant, Rachael answered:
“No!”
“Of course not!” I added.
What made this ignorant person think we needed a ride? Just because we were two women stumbling around in the middle of nowhere? In the desert, in the mid-day heat? Just because we wore running skirts and hydration packs and not much else? I realized that we looked like a pair of hookers past their prime, preying on innocent tourists.
I felt a little more explanation was needed.
“We’re training for a 100.”
The smile under the grey crew cut changed to a bewildered, even concerned expression.
“A what?”
“A run. An ultramarathon. It’s 100 miles long.”
Another pleasant, round face, this one female, with a head full of tight iron-grey curls, leaned over from the passenger side to see what was going on. Clearly, both of them thought we were incoherent. Maybe they thought we were insane.
“Is there anything we can do for you?”
Rachael and I looked at each other.
“Do you have any ice?”
“We sure do!”
Both doors opened. The pleasant elderly couple, plump and rosy in their spotless polyester shirts, bermuda shorts and sensible sandals seemed happy to help. A large cooler sat in the back of the jeep. We felt ecstatic, but didn’t want to scare them away.
“Nice day to be out in the desert, isn’t it?” Rachael said in a chatty tone. Her braids, caked with dirt, stuck out from the side of her head at a ninety-degree angle.
The tourists nodded, happy to revert to conventional discourse patterns.
“Where are you guys from?” I inquired, encouraged. I could feel blood running down my shin, from the fall I had forgotten about until then. Some sand was stuck between my teeth. I spit it out, making an effort to be discreet.
“Tulsa, Oklahoma. How about you?”
“Las Vegas, New Mexico” I said, prepared to launch into the usual explanation of how this was a very different place from Las Vegas, Nevada. But now Mr. Tulsa was opening the cooler, which looked to us like a treasure chest in a pirate’s cove. It was filled to the brim with ice. Much better than gold coins. Our eyes lit up. We abandoned further attempts at small talk and grabbed handfuls, stuffing it under our hats, into our sport bras, down our skirts. We discovered cans of soda underneath the ice and guzzled a couple of them, refined sugar and all. I considered taking an ice bath in the cooler, but didn’t want to appear greedy, or uncivilized. Our core temperature dropped. Our heart rates slowed. The ice that remained in the cooler had taken on an reddish tinge, but our hands had returned to their normal color. We looked up.

The woman with the neat perm held an iPad in our direction. We were being filmed.
“So, what do you ladies do when you’re not running?” She asked.
“Um, I teach literature.” I responded.
“I’m a psychologist.” said my friend.
Mrs. Tulsa smiled. Her vacation movie promised to be a good one, full of local wildlife in funny outfits. I’m not sure she believed us. But we felt refreshed. It seemed like  fair bargain. Our entertainment value made up for the damage we had inflicted on the contents of the cooler. We thanked them, and with the help of all the melting ice in our packs, made it back to our car.

Back at the campsite.

I still wonder about the video from this encounter. Has it inspired curiosity? Intrigue? Interesting conversations? Has it contributed to the growth of our sport? As far as I know, it has not gone viral on YouTube, but then again, I haven’t checked. Thank you, dear couple from Tulsa. We will never forget you, or your cooler.

Yes, the heat training did pay off.

The end of the trail at Winfield.

I have never DNFd before, and I hope I don’t DNF ever again. It feels awful.
The letters DNF should be stamped across the back of my hand, for the world to see. I want to wear a T-shirt that says I QUIT in large, bold caps. And someone should tattoo LOSER on a conspicuous place of my body, like my forehead. Last year’s sub-25 hour Leadville buckle remains in my closet for now. I no longer feel buckle-worthy.

I know it was the right decision to DNF. But knowing something is very different from accepting it on an emotional level. My head and my heart are at odds with one another.

How could this happen?

It probably began with a transatlantic airplane trip on June 30. On these long -distance flights, gazillions of germs, viruses and other nasty little buggers circulate around and around the cabin for hours and hours. Getting sick afterward is something I’m familiar with.
I woke up on August 1st with an incredibly sore throat, a pounding headache, a fever, and lymph nodes that had swollen to grotesque proportions. My neck looked deformed, with a large lump protruding on its right side. I rested, drank tea, and took it easy for a few days. I used Vicks vapor rub. I consulted with the herbalist at the health food store. I took echinacea, and homeopathic remedies. I swallowed Vitamin C by the handful. I gargled with salt water. None of these tried and true methods worked this time around. By August 12, with Leadville only four days away, I seriously worried about not being able to run. I consulted with a couple of friends who work in the medical field. They said it sounded like strep or mono, and described, in great lurid detail, the potential for dire consequences of running Leadville if that were the case. I could develop permanent heart arrhythmia. I could rupture my spleen and die.
Leaving dead bodies on the trail is littering — a no-no for ultra runners. And having to haul my decomposing corpse back to New Mexico is not something my husband looked forward to. He said it would take ages to get rid of the smell in his car.
I promised to be smart. I promised to consult a doctor, in spite of my life-long phobia of doctors. After spending most of Tuesday afternoon sitting around waiting rooms at health clinics, reading outdated celebrity magazines, getting sneezed on, and for all I know picking up more assorted viruses, I finally got to explain my symptoms to a young woman in scrubs.
She proceeded to swab the back of my tongue with a wooden stick. I almost barfed on her. She told me I didn’t have strep, but sent a culture to the lab anyway to figure out what I might have. She gave me some pills and sent me home.

“Can I go for a little run if I feel better in a couple of days?”
“I don’t see why not.”

Reassured, I went home. My little run was set to begin at 4 am on Saturday. By Thursday morning, I did feel better. Not great, but better. I headed out to Leadville, where the air crackled with pre-race excitement. I checked in, packed my drop bags, and dropped them off. On Friday afternoon, when I had already decided on my race-day outfit, the doctor left a couple of urgent-sounding messages on my voicemail. I called her back.

“Your lab test came back. It’s positive for strep. I gave you the wrong pills. They will make the symptoms better, but they won’t kill the bugs.”
Like the guy in Monty Python’s Holy Grail who insists on not being dead yet, I disagreed.
“But I’m fine.”
“Maybe you feel better right now, but you need to be on a ten-day course of antibiotics. I’ll call it in to the pharmacy.”
“I’m, um, I’m out of town. I can’t pick them up until Monday.”
“Well, get them as soon as you can.”

What to do? I was ready to go. And I did feel more or less ok by then, mostly because I wanted to feel ok. The mind is a remarkable thing. I wanted to run. Maybe these pills worked on my strep infection, even if they didn’t on other people.
This phone call scared me into remembering all the dire warnings and gloomy predictions from people who know something about infectious diseases. I doubted the wisdom of starting. But the wheels of the race were moving. My number was pinned on my skirt, a point of no return. It was easier to go with the momentum than to resist it. So I lined up with everyone else at 4 a.m. and took off down 6th street into the dark unknown, hoping for the best.

The morning turned out to be gorgeous. I wanted to run well, and I I ran well for almost eight hours. I was close to my goal splits, climbing Hope Pass and had worked my way up to 8th female when my stomach stopped cooperating. Then my legs started cramping, which they never do. I was dizzy. I blamed the altitude. I’m normally a strong climber, and just a month ago, the succession of mountain passes while pacing at Hardrock didn’t bother me. My whole body did not feel like it normally does. More like hostile aliens had hijacked it. No, this wasn’t just altitude. Nothing improved on the trail to Winfield. Instead, my throat became sore again to the point where swallowing became an effort. My lymph nodes swelled up. My head was pounding.
All the dire warnings about running with a fever, or running with strep, swirled around in my head. By the time I got to Winfield, over 45 minutes off my goal time, I had made up my mind to do the sensible thing and turn in my number.
David agreed, and so did the doctor in the medical tent. I was done.

I collapsed on a chair, guzzled fluids, put my head between my knees, and felt sorry for myself. But while wallowing in a puddle of self-pity, I began to feel a little better. And as I felt a little better, I wanted to go back out there.
By the next morning, I was not so sure it was the correct decision. The DNF blues is worse than any strep infection.
Now, a week later, I’m still not sure whether I could have made it to the finish without suffering permanent bodily damage. Yes, my strep symptoms came back, but not in full force. This might be because I’m taking ten days’ worth of amoxicillin. But still, a part of me wonders: could I have gone on? Would I feel worse or better now if had?

I find it very difficult to be mature, or rational, or zen-like about this. I want to scream and cry and pout. I want to be irrational. I want to turn back the clock. But this is not likely to happen.
What can I learn from this miserable day?

Every ultra, and especially every 100, reveals hidden sides of who we really are. The experience of running past our physical limits will strip us raw. Once the pain and suffering has destroyed every last trace of our egos, every last bit of pretension, there is nothing left but our real, authentic core. Most of the time, this process reveals positive things. We find reserves we didn’t know we had. An untapped reservoir of strength and resilience. We truly are tougher than we think we are. And yes, we can do more than we think we can.
But Other times, what we glimpse deep inside ourselves is less pleasant. What I saw there, on the back side of Hope Pass, was naked fear. A scared and vulnerable little self, crouching, cowering, trembling. Not the tough chick I try to be. But a part of me nonetheless, a part I usually ignore.

I will get over the DNF blues. When I run another 100, at the latest. And I will emerge from this pit of misery a stronger,smarter ultra runner,both mentally and physically. I will not wait until three days before an important race to get medical help if I need it. I will listen to my body and not start races unless I’m truly fit. I will not be in denial.
“Fear is the gateway to a stronger me” — I forget who said this. But it will be my new mantra.

Allen and I at mile 60 of the 2012 Leadville 100.

I’m lucky to have found Allen Wrinkle, a seasoned veteran of many 100-mile runs and a few even longer adventures. He is my mentor in the world of ultramarathons — a deep well of training advice, nutrition tips, and confidence-boosting conversations, and a good friend. We met a few years ago while carpooling to the starting line of the Zane Grey 50, and when I mentioned that I was contemplating Leadville as my first 100, he encouraged me. He also agreed to be my pacer.

I signed up the following week. I knew nothing about running a 100. Neither did my incredibly supportive but somewhat worried husband, who had agreed to be my crew. We read about llamas and Hope Pass, altitude sickness and hypothermia. I was feeling apprehensive, and didn’t seriously think that someone we had met a grand total of once would go through all the trouble of coming to Leadville. Little did we know. True to his casual promise, Allen took off work, flew out, and, without complaint, shared our impossibly cramped quarters (one of the many things we didn’t know as that hotel rooms during the Leadville 100 sell out eight month in advance). Allen also shared his vast experience, his blister kit, his wisdom. He told David where to crew, and what to carry in the crew vehicle. He convinced me to eat, listened to me whine, and paced me to the finish. Humbled, and appreciative, we asked what we owed him. Allen’s reply has stuck with me ever since:
“Just pay it forward.”

That September, I did. Lara, a woman I had met only once before asked me to pace her at the inaugural Run Rabbit Run100. Her first 100. Fresh off my first 100, I felt qualified and agreed. I was excited to do it. Allen had been right: I didn’t think twice about taking Friday off and driving eight hours each way to Steamboat Springs. The course was about 106 miles long, and confusing. Tons of runners got lost. At several points, I thought we were too, but we managed to get back on track every time. Lara was a trooper. At one point, she wanted the next aid station to appear so badly that she imagined it right ahead of us. Her descriptions were so vivid that I saw and heard it, too.

She made it, after 35 or so grueling hours. I had an epiphany then: paying it forward has its own rewards. Helping Lara cross that finish line felt almost as good as crossing the Leadville finish line had felt. We shared an experience that pushes a human being to her limits, physically and emotionally. The bond between a runner and a pacer can last a lot longer than the race that forges it. Lara and I started out as strangers but finished as close friends, which we still are.

Asking someone to be your pacer for a 100 is a little bit like asking for someone’s hand in marriage. It’s serious business, worthy of serious consideration. Emotions run high during an ultra. Fatigue makes them more intense. Pain unleashes them from politeness and social convention. You may be tempted to kill your pacer for shoving another bite of peanut butter sandwich in your face every fifteen minutes. Then again, your pacer may be tempted to kill you for complaining nonstop for forty miles. You will be stuck with this person on a lonely mountain trail, often in the dark. Trust is essential, as is compatibility — of pace, of core values, of sense of humor. You have to know yourself, and the possible dealbreakers in a pacer — pacee relationship. For me, it’s out of the question to be paced by someone one who will try to convert me to the paleo diet. Or to Christian faith. On the other hand, I’m ok with pacers who don’t find Monty Python as funny as I do, though they may look at me strangely when I start quoting random lines from the Flying Circus.

Like your spouse, your pacer will end up seeing sides of you that usually remain hidden, sometimes for good reason. Extreme exhaustion will strip you raw. I pride myself in being a tough chick. But at the infernally hot 2013 Western States, my quads seized up in the later miles. The pain was intense, and my sub-24 goal evaporated into the warm night air between Foresthill and the river crossing. For . . . ok, I admit it, a very long time, I became a whining, blubbering pity party of one, crawling forward at a ground speed even a geriatric tortoise would define as slow. My pacer was kind enough to not abandon me to the cougars, and to never tell anyone.

Sometimes, even if your pacer and your spouse are the same person, he will see an entirely unfamiliar version of you, even after twenty years of marriage. Once, David paced me for ten miles. It was three in the morning, and I was hallucinating. Trees and roots were moving. Glowsticks were talking. I was convinced we were off trail. I was also convinced that axe murderers lurked in the bushes. A psychologist I know explained to me later that these were paranoid delusions, rather than hallucinations. I have since learned to not let my blood sugar levels drop to zero, but my poor, somewhat freaked-out husband was very happy to be done with his pacing duties later that morning.

A pacer can’t be too nice. My stepson Bobby has paced me a couple of times. He’s one of the kindest, most considerate people I know. While I love and adore him for those qualities, they also make him a lousy pacer. He says things like “Do you need to take a break?”, which is the wrong thing to say at mile 80. No, a good pacer must be a good liar and heartless manipulator.

My husband David excels at both. Before anyone suggests divorce or marriage counseling, let me explain that he is a defense attorney, capable of making a jury believe anything. Normally, he is sweetness personified, but in his trial mode, which is also his pacer mode, he shrinks his heart to the size of a raisin, and throws out any respect for factual truth. He often appeals to my competitive instincts, telling me that I can catch up to the woman in front, or that someone behind me is gaining ground. After running for twenty-plus hours, it never occurs to me that he may just be making these things up. Once, we agreed that he’d let me walk all uphills, but make me run everything else. He then narrowed the definition of “uphill” to “almost vertical” and made me run all the way to the finish.

Crossing that finish line together: one of the highlights in our twenty-plus years of marriage.

Last December, I felt bummed. After much anticipation and nail-biting, I ended up getting into neither Western States nor Hardrock. But a month later, I still got lucky. Suzanne Lewis, whom I barely knew at that point, offered me the next best thing to running Hardrock, which is pacing someone at Hardrock. I didn’t have to think twice about what my answer would be. Saying that enthusiastic “Yes!!!” cured my seasonal depression in an instant.

On July 12, I picked Suzanne up Saturday morning at mile 70. She had been on her feet for over 24 hours already. We ran through lightning, thunder, hail, and hypothermia. We didn’t take lights with us from Sherman, for reasons that seemed logical at the time. We had to push our pace to reach Cunningham before dark. Suzanne, exhausted but tough as nails, kept going. We made it at dusk, picked up headlamps and warm layers, and headed out into the second night.
One of my favorite moments of that epic weekend happened during that second night, something I had not been able to imagine until then. We had climbed out of Cunningham. Silverton was just a few miles and no more mountain passes away. Suzanne knew she would finish. She found a burst of new energy, from where I have no idea. We paused at the top, on a narrow, rocky ridge. A full moon reflected on patches of snow. We suddenly felt euphoric. Intensely alive. Out there, in the middle of the night, on top of a mountain, was the best place in the world right then. We descended, sliding on our backsides part of the way. We laughed about that. And we kept laughing, for no particular reason, other than because we were happy.

Suzanne ran to an impressive finish. We are friends now, and not just on Facebook. I already know I will say yes to the next pacing request I hear. There is no better way to spend a weekend.

The Language of Ultra running

So you want to run more than 26.2 miles at a time. And you want to do this on trails, in remote locations, on crazy difficult terrain. Good for you! Getting started is easy. There’s lots of helpful advice for you on the Ultra List, Ultra running Magazine, and irunfar.com. about topics like shoes, gear, and nutrition. Measuring your progress is easy, too. You can use gadgets like a heart rate monitor, but the reaction of those around you is much more reliable. If most of your friends and family members are concerned about your sanity, it means your training is on the right track.

The real challenge is acclimatization — not only to unfamiliar altitude, but to the unfamiliar culture of ultra running. You will find that becoming an ultra runner involves more than logging miles. It means venturing outside the mainstream, where conversation topics include TV shows, celebrity pregnancies, and bargains at WalMart. Instead, you will find yourself among people whose customs, clothing, and dietary habits may seem very alien to you at first.

This is no reason to feel apprehensive. Ultrarunners are a friendly, welcoming tribe, and if the thought of running 50 or 100 miles without stopping appeals to you, chances are you will feel right at home among this group of introverts suffering from OCD. But because the scattered bands of the tribe live in obscure isolation for most of the year, often in mountainous places that are difficult to find on maps, its language has evolved into a dialect that can differ quite sharply from normal English. Misunderstandings are common, which can lead to mutual frustration. But this is unnecessary. Like any foreign language, speaking and understanding ultra takes practice. Spend as much time as possible in the company of your new friends. When you can’t, listen to podcasts like trail runner nation. In no time at all, you will communicate effectively. Here are some additional hints:

1. Etiquette and conversational practice

Ultra runners are introverts by nature. If you’ve been running with one of your new friends for a few hours already, and he or she has stopped responding (or is just using the above grunting sounds to communicate), it may be time to abandon all attempts at conversation for a while. Don’t take it personally. It just means that your conversation partner needs to recharge. He or she might be ready to talk again in a few more hours.

One more word of advice for those of you just getting started: the question “Why would anyone run 100 miles?” or observations like “I don’t even like to drive my car that far!” are considered rude. You may get a blank, uncomprehending stare for an answer, or you might hear a logical explanation, like:
“How else am I going to reach the finish line?”
If you’d rather not offend, the polite thing to do is to just accept running 100 miles as normal behavior.

2. Pronunciation

Ultra-lingo is an intricate, complex dialect on the phonetic level. It can be especially difficult for the novice to distinguish the many nuances of grunting. “Ugh” or “hmph” can mean many things, from “yes, I’m ok” to “You might want to step aside because I’m gonna puke.” or “I just tore my achilles tendon and it really hurts.”
Many neophytes do not realize how a difference in pitch, tone, or duration can transform a breathless articulation of bliss into an expression of real distress. Only practice will help you improve. Listen closely, take notes, and pay attention to subtle nonverbal clues, like dry heaves, bleeding knees, or body position, e.g. horizontal vs. upright.

3. Grammar:

Sentence structure disintegrates relative to the duration of an ultra. The longer the mileage, the shorter the sentence, until one-word utterances become the norm. The following exchange illustrates this inverse correlation:

Mile twenty, one runner gets ready to pass another:
“Hey, beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, gorgeous. How are you feeling?”
“Great so far, but it’s still early. Mind if I squeeze by on your right?”
“There you go.”
“Thank you! See you at the finish line!”

Compare this to a similar situation at mile ninety:

“(Grunt) . . . you okay?”
“(grunt) . . . ”
“(grunt) . . . See ya.”

There is lots of guess work involved in deciphering these cryptic lines. Again, nonverbal clues, like projectile vomiting, can be helpful.

4. Vocabulary

The ultra runner’s vocabulary sometimes diverges quite sharply from that of mainstream English speakers. This can lead to puzzling questions for the novice, who struggles to remember the exact meaning of the tribe’s dazzling array of acronyms like DNF and DFL. You may want to keep a cheat sheet. Be sure to use a sweat proof marker.
Also, the the meaning of certain basic English words has changed from their original semantic field among ultra runners. Do not be alarmed by exchanges like this one:

“My bladder has a layer of green gunk in it”
“Yeah, I scrub it with bleach when that happens”
“I’ve been keeping my bladder in the freezer. Best place for it!”
“My bladder is fine, but this isn’t a good nipple. Sucking on it takes too much energy.”

Soon, you will be a member of the tribe, and the challenge you face will be re-entry into everyday life. But that’s a separate topic.
Good luck!

Kendall Wimmer’s photography captures the beauty of the desert.

Monument Valley, March 15, 2014.
In the desert straddling the Arizona/Utah state line, the night before the inaugural Monument Valley 50-mile ultra run, three friends are packing their gear in a hotel room inside the airplane hangar. Rachael and Paul have driven south from Denver, I have driven north from Las Vegas, New Mexico. We are excited, and we are a little apprehensive. The weather forecast predicts wind gusts up to 50 miles per hour. What have we gotten ourselves into?
A cacophony of pre-dawn alarms chases us out of bed and into our running clothes. We are so wired, we don’t even need coffee. It’s freezing, and already breezy, a taste of things to come. We meet the 50 or so other intrepid souls inside the tribal park, where a traditional Navajo prayer ceremony sets the tone for a unique day ahead. We offer corn pollen to the sun rising over the red rocks, and we’re off.
Soon, runners are spread out along the various trail segments that loop back to a central aid station by the Dine’e trailride corrals. The horses watch us with mild curiosity as we stumble in, more and more disheveled each time. It’s too windy for the aid station tent, but the hogan makes a handy substitute: a sturdy, warm shelter, filled with laughter and food. Fry bread and mutton stew join the more conventional aid station snacks. It’s tempting to linger.
The landscape is surreal. Beyond words, really. The route takes us past rock formations that defy gravity. Dainty rock fingers point up to the sky, elongated arches and cubes inspire the imagination. Is there a rock giant buried under the desert, with only his nose and toes sticking out? Is there a crying face in the wall of the red mesa? A guide on a bay horse directs us into the Big Hogan, a giant upside-down rock bowl with a perfectly round hole in the middle. I stare up at the sky, as sure as I will ever be of the meaning of life. We are here, alive and running in this amazing place. Overwhelmed by gratitude, I run on.

The climb up Mitchell Mesa is steep and technical, but the views that greet us at the top are worth the effort. I am no longer sure which planet I am on. The wind blows clouds of red dirt around the jagged silhouettes of rock formations on the valley floor below us. A Navajo guide directs runners to the turnaround point. We exchange greetings. He introduces his beautiful horse, Cochise. Words seem unnecessary. The panorama speaks for itself. I finally remember that I’m in a race, and should get going.

It is afternoon by now, and the wind gusts have reached peak speeds. Sand finds its way between my toes and teeth, into my ears, and all over my camelback mouthpiece. Breathing against the wind is a chore. New dunes form at a rapid clip, erasing the tracks of the other runners. On the dirt road sections, tourists in vans press their faces against the windows. I can almost hear them: Who are these crazy people? Why are they out there, getting sandblasted, instead of inside a vehicle like normal humans? Happy to provide entertainment, I wave, lean forward, hunker down, and plod on among the tumbling tumbleweeds.
The hogan beckons, offering warmth and shelter. I resist. I won’t stop until I’m finished. And even the sandstorm is beautiful. I feel tough, and I feel happy. The desert is a force to be reckoned with, and I am lucky to be out here. One more loop. A herd of wild horses crosses a wash, oblivious to the conditions. Five more miles. Keep running. My feet sink into the dirt with every step. The gusts are so strong now that there are times when I have to turn around and walk backward to keep moving forward. Is this the right way? Looking for yellow flags is difficult through mostly closed eyes. A couple of other struggling runners appear in the dust cloud ahead. A good sign. Three more miles, then two. One more mile. Exhaustion starts to settle in. My lungs hurt, as do my ankles. One more uphill. Yes, the finish line, and the trailer. I can stop. Matt offers congratulations. I accept my beautiful, handmade trophy and sink into a chair. Fry bread with salt may become my new favorite post-race snack. One by one, other runners stagger in, covered in red dirt but glowing with accomplishment. Paul finishes twenty minutes behind me, Rachael a little later.
Yes, I won. But today was not about winning, or losing. Today was a journey into who we are, what we’re made of, where we belong. The Navajo tribe graciously shared their land, their trails, their food and their culture with the ultrarunning tribe. A beautiful, tough, exhilarating day.
Thank you, Matt. Thank you, Rachael and Paul for sharing the experience. Thank you, Navajo Nation. Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who helped make this beautiful day happen. I missed the sweat lodge on Sunday morning, but even so I feel cleansed, refreshed, and ready to deal with anything the world throws my way.