As I do many mornings on the way to work, I stopped and ran. This morning, in another excellently clear demonstration of how I’m not quite right, I took advantage of the five or so inches of fresh snow to do a little trail boogying. That’s the proof of stupid. This picture is proof of beauty.

What a fantastic day to run: virgin snow (except for deer, fox, and a few bunny hops), muted crunchy footfalls, not another single living bipedal soul anywhere to be seen. Almost makes up for the fact that my 8-hour run this weekend has been postponed.

Almost.

Now that I’m running for fun as much as I am for anything else, I’m (re)discovering the joys of shorter distances. I’ve never been a 10-mile kinda guy, but the first Backyard Burn run of the quartet being held this Fall may change my mind. I had a superb time.

More to the point, as is almost always the point, at these sorts of events, the people were great. I mean, there was D back from the wars against evil; Bob too, and running also was the ever-lovely Kathleen, just off of a superb first half marathon. Amanda was out, spitting vinegar and ready to go despite a concerted effort to injure herself in almost every imaginable way (she quits running, again, down below). The family H was out serving as volunteers. And Mike came out for the sole purpose of doing a one man fireman’s carry of his wife back to the car. Yeah. It rocked.

Number 2 is this weekend. But first…some videos….

Here’s the thing: because I am slow, and usually come rolling in at the back of the pack, I never, ever, ever get to be one of those guys sitting in a nice comfy camp chair in my flip-flops cheering other runners as they come in. On Saturday, at about 4 pm, I was sitting in a nice comfy camp chair in my flip-flops cheering other runners as they came in.  Oh…and I was eating a hot dog (or two).

I signed-up to do the Triangle 12-hour adventure trail run mostly because I felt it would fit nicely into my training for my second 100 attempt in Feb. Instead, it convinced me that I could wait a bit on that hundred, that it wasn’t going anywhere, that I really enjoyed running and needed to get that feeling back without the pressure of the 100 sitting there. Staring at me. Unblinking. Like a raggedy-assed lycanthrope.  I didn’t hate the ten hours I spent out running this Saturday; I loved it. Those 40 miles seemed to just flow by. The lack of a particular distance, and the lack of a do-or-it’s-all-over mindset was wonderful. I found myself running just to run.

Yeah, I cranked off 40 miles in 10:07:36. Yeah, there were rocks and roots and a veritable hailstorm of acorns, and other things that make trail running fun. But, there was also the people – the wonderful fellow crazies that find the best thing – *the* funnest thing to do on a gorgeous Saturday in early fall – is to run around in circles in the woods. Amanda was there, banging out her longest run evar; Bob was there smoking between laps and trying to keep the sucking wounds in his side from being too distracting; Kate – whose pace is just like mine except she’s better at it, and who I discovered lives across the street from me – ran a couple of laps avec moi before digging in and smoking me; Patrick who just blew the field away cranking out 71 miles in 12 hours; the RDs Alex and Scott maestroing to beat the band, and all the incredible volunteers just made the day superb.

So…I’m taking time off from my fanatical pursuit of the 100 miler, and am going to focus on 50Ks, 50Ms, and other stuff that I find fun. First up? The incredibly fun-sounding Backyard Burn Trail Running Series: 4 races, 10M a pop, in 4 different NOVA parks.

Coming in at the end of the race from Peter Shoemaker on Vimeo.

Tom’s Run hurt. It hurt a lot. But, like everything but death, we humans have great capacity for getting over it and coming back for more.

I’m back.

In mid-September I’m going to wade into a 12 hour run with Bob (the intrepid 100 miler *finisher, btw* from Tom’s Run), Amanda (who crewed like a mad dog for me at Tom’s, suffering through those last 14 miles with me), and Dan (my equally intrepid business partner). It’ll be a funfest. Goal=live to tell about it. Subgoal (that I’m not telling anyone) = run 40 miles.

Woo-freakin-hoo (and stuff).

A week ago I finished my running of Tom’s Run – a 200 mile relay race hosted by the Coast Guard. It is run from Cumberland, MD to Washington, DC along the C&O Canal towpath. I had set out to run the back hundred – from Williamsport, MD to the end. I managed 63.8 miles over about 20 hrs. It is not the result I’d hoped for, nor the experience I’d prepared for, but it was unlike anything I’d ever done, and I’m thankful for it.

I don’t think it’s particularly useful to dwell on the pain – both of the distance and the injury I sustained. Yes, it eventually brought me to a standstill, sapped my strength, and overwhelmed me. But pain is part of this sport, and you either accept it or find something else to do with your time.

Nor do I think it is particularly useful or even cathartic to relive each leg of the run – not many people will run that entire distance, and experiences will vary so radically that a recounting serves only to document, not instruct. It is a beautiful run, punctuated by hordes of bloodsucking insects, breathtaking scenery, and miles and miles and miles of flat runnable trail.

Instead, I find myself returning repeatedly over this last week of introspection to two aspects of this run which have offered me insight into myself. And, although there is a risk of narcissism in revealing them, there is also much here that may resonate with others who’ve done, or will do, similar things.

I’d prepared myself over many long runs, through accounts of other runners, and through other conversations, for emotional intensity. I knew that as the miles and hours piled up, the regulating functions of the external self begin to break down. I’ve been there, I know this, and it is one of the aspects of this sport that fascinates me. This run was something different.

Partly because of the anticipation of running my first hundred, partly because of the injury I sustained early on, and partly I suspect because I simply anticipated it, I started to lose emotional control about 45 miles into the run. It was subtle at first, elegiac or nostalgic in turn, tempering my perception of what was going on. I tried to hide it – perhaps not as successfully as I thought at the time – from my crew.

As my time on the trail grew, I would find myself suddenly and completely lost in myself, tears streaming down my face, gasping for breath, before slipping as suddenly in the other direction – face and spirit hardened, focused, determined. It seemed as extraordinary then as it does now. I began to ascribe great value to little things, things that in the everyday world would mean nothing: the precise distinction between a half a mile and three quarters of a mile or the temperature of the air.

Everything became raw and unfiltered. It’s what I want from this sport; it’s one of the reasons I do it. But, faced with it – unrelenting, unmediated, pure – it is awesome.

By the time I stopped, at 3:15 or so on Saturday morning, I had nothing left. That too was a first, and perhaps the deepest learning from the experience. Rhetoric aside, humans do have limits – they’re not the ones we think, or even necessarily the ones we aspire to, but we do have them. The question always must be: have I found mine, and is there something even beyond that?

I had a four person crew on the trail with me. According to the rules of the run, I always had to have a biker with me, which left three people to pack and unpack, navigate to the next aid point, to provide medical help, nutrition, motivation, humor, and compassion. All this is fairly standard stuff for long distance running crews. Nothing in the actions themselves was unusual.

I am, by nature, an introvert. I gain my strength from solitude, and therefore ultrarunning is an ideal sport for me. I can spend many hours alone on a trail and feel energized at the end. So, running with a crew was a new thing for me. I had a little taste of it earlier on a fifty mile run, but with only one person and lots of time between meetings.

It is commonplace in race reports to praise one’s crew, their efforts, dedication, and sacrifice. All true for sure, and the depth of my gratitude is – currently – inexpressible. I hope that someday I’ll find a way to repay it. I truly hope so.

This run taught be something that I needed to relearn – about myself and those I’m lucky enough to call my friends. I rediscovered that there is a world of difference between the casual and the profound, the surface and the deep, and the ephemeral and the solid. I spent 20 hours learning anew how to appreciate friends – not as people you like and enjoy spending time with (as important as that is), but as fellow explorers of limits and extremes, as people who see what is really there, and to whom you have only your unvarnished self to offer.

These people now know who I am. For one whose relationships are guarded and few, this is – perhaps – the greatest gift the pain of those twenty hours could bequeath.

Long distance runners must run for themselves. There is no room for pretense otherwise. They must decide when to start, when to stop, how far to go. And only they know why.

This experience has added to my why. I strive not only to know myself, my limits, my mind, but now – also – to connect to those that matter. Like a fish suddenly released from an aquarium into the sea, it’s scary but limitless. What more could anyone want? Or need?