WHY NOT?

This will be my final update before the Headlands Hundred – the race is just 24 days from now!

Over the past two months since the Quicksilver 50 Mile, I’ve managed to maintain a fairly consistent level of training – as consistent as can be expected given that, on June 9th, my second child, baby boy Moss Emil Barad Thompson, came into the world. I have needed to juggle work and parenting of an infant and a four year-old daughter along with ultramarathoning – which has not been easy, although the impact of steadily enhancing my endurance and resilience has clearly paid some dividends, both as a parent and runner.

Here is an example of my Dad/ultramarathoner life, from yesterday, which I had dedicated to my last long run before race day. I was up at 4:00AM to give Moss a bottle. At 9:00 I dropped my daughter off at school. By 9:30 my wife dropped me off by car at the Golden Gate Bridge. I then ran across the bridge and along the Coastal, Alta, Bobcat and Marincello trails through Tennessee Valley and then via the Miwok, Diaz Ridge and Dipsea trails to Stinson Beach. The morning’s dense, cooling cloud cover lifted just as I was heading back from Stinson, 3hrs 30 minutes and 19 miles into the run. In the heat of the sun I soon drained my hydration pack. I don’t object to running in the heat, but over the past month I’ve had an issue with haematuria (red blood cells in the urine) induced by extreme exertion in high heat, so I was anxious to avoid running too long in a dehydrated state. The next five miles back up the very steep steps of the Dipsea trail to Muir Woods represented an emotional low point not only of this run but perhaps the entire six months of my preparation for the Headlands Hundred, and I briefly found myself doubting the entire enterprise. If I was feeling this bad after 19 miles, what hope do I really have of covering five times that distance on similarly tough terrain? And why subject myself to this degree of hardship? Those anxious thoughts were projections into the future, though – in the present moment the only choice was to keep moving forward…

A big factor in this little meltdown was an inadequate fueling strategy. My pack contained 10 carbohydrate gels (100 calories per gel), a powerbar and a chocolate bar, but my palpable sense of fatigue soon convinced of me the need for more solid food. Reaching Muir Woods, I went to the cafeteria there. I asked the server if she had any peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches left, rather than the hummus sandwich I could see she had already prepared on the counter. “No, but I can make you one in 10 seconds,” she said. In my famished state, the prospect of waiting that 10 seconds was more than I could tolerate, so I politely declined her offer and snatched the already-made hummus sandwich, wolfing it down with a can of organic pomegranate soda and a can of low sodium V8. (I would have preferred Mountain Dew and high sodium V8, but had no expectation that the Bay Area’s health-conscious gastronomic environment should necessarily cater for the bizarre nutritional vantage of the ultramarathoner). In terms of sheer calories, I felt much better after that little feast, but struggled with gastro-intestinal issues for the next 90 minutes. The trail back up the Dipsea and along Miwok seemed endless, my stomach and ankles were aching, and it soon became clear that a full out-and-back of my route wasn’t feasible in my time constraints, so at Tennessee Valley I took the road to Sausalito and finished at the ferry – for a total of 35.5 miles in 7hrs 6 minutes. After a ferry ride back to San Francisco and a BART ride to pick up my daughter at school, I walked six blocks home with a 35 pound four year-old on my shoulders, made dinner, did the dishes, read my daughter three books, pretended to be a horse so she could ride on my back from my room to her room, put her to bed, fell asleep around 10:00 and woke again at 3:30AM to feed Moss…

The lessons I take away from this last training run on an athletic level are that although it felt super-hard – maybe one of the hardest runs I have ever done – at least some of the challenge can be attributed to the mental isolation of a solo effort; the difficulties of getting the fuel strategy right when self-supported; and the absence of any sort of taper. I am trying to take solace from the knowledge that with decent rest over the next 24 days, plus all the excitement, support and camaraderie of race day, somehow I will it to the finish line.

On a philosophical level, the question of “why do this?” continues to be answered in great part by my awareness of how covering long distances by foot on steep trails -- ostensibly a solo endeavor -- connects me to nature, to you as my supporters, and to the clients of ATC on the streets of San Francisco. As Lisa Bliss, a top ultramarathoner and physician in Spokane, WA, reframes the issue of ultrarunning’s purpose, the salient question is not “why?” but “why not?” Yesterday I got to spend all day outside in one of the most stunning landscapes in North America alone with the coastal breeze and the bunnies: what could be better than that? If I had never embarked upon this campaign for ATC, yesterday would never have happened (at least, not the way it did.). So thank you all for yesterday. Thank you for your support over the past six months. I will be thinking gratefully of each of you at some point over the many hours it will take me to run those 100 miles on August 7-8.

ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY

Last month I read a comment (reported on an ultrarunning email list) from a non-runner who -- upon overhearing a conversation between two ultramarathoners about their plans to race one of the nation’s toughest and competitive 100 mile mountain race, The Western States – stated wryly: “that just seems absolutely unnecessary.”

This comment echoed in my head this past Saturday ten miles into the Quicksilver 50, a 50 fifty mile race with 8,530 feet of climbing in the stunningly scenic Almaden Quicksilver County Park south of San Jose, as I passed an older woman (in her 60s, judging by facial appearance) riding up a steep fire trail on a unicycle, fitted with a thick mountain bike tire. “I thought what I was doing was hard,” I quipped self-deprecatingly. “Oh, I could never do what you’re doing,” she responded in kind. We both smiled and exchanged the respectful nods of two people who had come in different ways to discover an existential necessity in embarking on “absolutely unnecessary” endeavors.

The first 20 miles of the run along the park’s steep wooded trails felt blissful and almost effortless. Then, at mile 27, I hit the heat of the day and the tough realization that I had run more than a marathon on steep trails but still had more than 20 miles to go. I experienced a sudden, whole-body weariness, to the point where even hiking felt hard. I concentrated on maintaining good form and the ultrarunner’s mantra: “It never always gets worse.” A mile later, I fueled myself at an aid station with two potatoes dipped in salt, half a PBJ sandwich, a cup of coca cola and an entire fistful of M&Ms (junk food never tasted better or more justified). Soon I was back to a decent running clip. For miles 30-50, the race was as much a mental challenge as a physical one. Similar to my experience of day-long Zen meditation retreats, I kept returning my awareness to the present moment and dropped thoughts spun from my mind’s tendency to project from the felt reality of that present into speculations about how I would feel later. At mile 40, a head-dunk in a cool stream, another cup of soda and the knowledge that the end was near propelled me into a near sprint downhill for several miles and a finish in 8:50 for 20th place.

I am sore but deeply fulfilled and grateful today: fulfilled by the afterglow of a long, total body-mind immersion in nature and grateful for the support of Vivian, Esther, Myles, my father; for all of you who have contributed so generously to my campaign, my friends at ATC, PacWest (especially Diane Ambrose and the Hawk Hill crew), and Martina at Psoas Massage & Bodywork; for the chance to have embarked on this adventure to find that somehow, with all your support, as my thoughts turn towards the last 12 weeks of training before the Headlands Hundred, that endeavor – once almost of absurdly ambitious -- has started to seem doable; and for the gift of a spiritual nurture borne from committing myself to an “unnecessary” goal. As Canadian ultramarathoner David Blaikie puts it:

“Perhaps the genius of ultra running is its supreme lack of utility. It makes no sense in a world of space ships and supercomputers to run vast distances on foot. There is no money in it and no fame, frequently not even the approval of peers. But as poets, apostles and philosophers have insisted from the dawn of time, there is more to life than logic and common sense. The ultra runners know this instinctively. And they know something else that is lost on the sedentary. They understand, perhaps better than anyone, that the doors to the spirit will swing open with physical effort. In running such long and taxing distances they answer a call from the deepest realms of their being -- a call that asks who they are.”

Thanks for helping me answer that call.

THIS INCREDIBLE EXPERIENCE OF MOVEMENT

4/20/2010

Thanks so much to everyone who has contributed to my campaign on behalf of At the Crossroads so far. This month’s update: this past Sunday, I ran my second 50K this year, this time in the Santa Cruz mountains (the “Skyline to the Sea” 50K organized by Pacific Coast Trail Runs). It was a tough course, with 3,000 feet of ascent and 5,000 feet of descent on a warm and humid day. But it was also incredibly beautiful, with spectacular views of the forest and ocean on a trail that wound through dense redwood forest, over fallen trees and past a majestic waterfall. I felt amazingly lucky to be experiencing these natural wonders through the primal simplicity of running. Unlike a road race, where I usually obsess over my pace, this felt more like an act of meditation, connecting me to the landscape, to my community of fellow runners, to a deep well of endurance and passion inside myself, to my awareness of all the supporters (YOU) who are with me on this journey. Some part of me still got a kick out of knowing that I pushed myself hard enough (in training and the race itself) to slightly improve my 50K time (4:49:23 -- a personal record by 13 minutes), finishing in 22nd place out of 191 runners. But the experience was so much bigger and deeper than those numbers could ever document – to the point where citing data almost feels like it trivializes the meaning of the run. I was reminded of the prayer created by Sakyong Jamgon Mipham Rinpoche, spiritual leader of the Shambhala branch of Buddhism and an accomplished marathoner, who teaches an approach to running as a meditative act. Describing his experience of running, he wrote:

Tantalizing, trepidatious

I move one foot in front of the other.

I am a runner.

There is no greater joy in the three worlds.

May this incredible experience of movement be the source of all happiness.

This morning, my quadriceps muscles are so shot I am walking like a drunk, and the nail of my right big toe has gone completely black, but I am wearing these ailments like badges of pride, and already looking forward to my next run in three weeks time – a 50 mile race in Almaden Quicksilver County Park near San Jose...

Thanks so much to everyone who has donated to my campaign so far – your support means a great deal to me personally, and will have a significant impact on At The Crossroads’ capacity to support young people in difficult and stressful situations. The $675 you have donated will pay for two housing assistance vouchers, one school application, and two meals. We are well on our way to reaching my $2,500 target. If you’re still considering a donation, please remember that the size of your gift is less important than the act of giving itself.

A quick training update: last Saturday (February 27th) I raced a 50K (30 mile) race in the East Bay (in Joaquin Miller State Park.) It was STEEP – over 5,000 feet of elevation change through the course. I had gone into the race with no big expectations, just planning to enjoy the scenery and practice pacing myself over an ultramarathon distance. In the two months prior, I’d focused as much training as possible on steep mountain ascents/descents, averaging around 35-40 miles per week with at least one (and often two) climbs per week of 1,000 feet or more on the steepest grades I could find. This set me up very well for the 50k, and I wound up finishing in 5:02:47 – good for 5th in the 30-39 age group and 11th overall (out of 125 entrants).

I seem to have recovered much faster from 30 miles on trails at a modest pace than a fast road marathon, and am already back to 8 mile runs less than a week after the race. So I am already setting my sights on another 30 miler in April, and then a 50 mile race in May…

Happy trails,

Jason

BACK ON THE TRAIL

I went back to the trail on Sunday before dawn. Not THE trail, where I ran into the lion -- but a trail. A 1900 feet ascent from sea level to the summit of Mount Montara, and back, starting in the dark and heading through thick mist along a narrow rocky trail. Over the past two weeks I’ve connected online to several other trail runners who have encountered mountain lions, studied what’s known about their behavior, and reflected on the risks. The fact is that between 1890 and 2004, there have only been 88 mountain lions attacks (and 20 deaths) in the entire United States. Compare those numbers with the annual rate of automobile fatalities (over 40,000; over two million injuries). My drive to the trail head is much, much more dangerous than the trail itself. So why have I been having traumatic flashbacks of that lion’s merciless eyes two weeks ago, and obsessing over whether I should go back to trail running, when I seldom think twice about getting behind the wheel of a car? And why have I been waking up at three in the morning, remembering that I committed to running a 100 mile ultramarathon for ATC this summer and thinking, “Oh God, what have I done?” The answer to these two, related questions, I think, is that emotion is a deceptive guide to reality. Encountering a lion triggers primal fears, while a car comes with an illusion of control. And committing to a 100 mile run is much scarier than choosing not to. Objectively, trail running is very safe – actually, it’s what keeps me healthy and sane. Mountain lions – in the flesh – SEEM incredibly dangerous. But the odds of my ever being attacked by one (or even seeing one again) are small. And while the Headlands 100 will hurt, it will not kill me. That said, it’s probably been good for me to realize that I’m not invulnerable. Death by lion may be unlikely, my emotions may be an unreliable compass of the real risks I face, but death itself is ultimately certain. Knowing that makes life -- and trail running – more precious. And more important to cherish, celebrate, share with others. As I skipped and tap-danced back down the steep trail descending Mount Montara, I felt like I was running the way I see my three year-old daughter run, with a joyous instinctiveness. I felt profoundly grateful for health, family, friends; that I had reached a crossroads, with one direction marked FEAR heading and the other marked LIFE and that I had run headlong down the latter.

My training for the Headlands Hundred started a few days ago with a narrow escape with a mountain lion. At around 6:30AM on Sunday January 4th, I was running in the dark with a headlamp along the Bobcat trail in the Marin Headlands when I saw a large animal standing on the trail about a hundred meters ahead of me. I have run this trail several times (and other Headlands trails many times) over three years of trail running and ten years of hiking in this area, so I am used to seeing deer, skunks, rabbits and other small animals while running, but I instinctively sensed danger in the animal I was now encountering. I have seen a bobcat at close range on a Marin trail; this animal was significantly bigger. I stopped and stood watching the animal to try and get a clearer sight of what I was witnessing. The animal’s eyes shone brightly in my headlamp. A moment later, it turned and walked slowly across the trail. In profile, I saw a large cat (its body spanning the width of the trail), moving in sinuous, feline motions exactly reminiscent of big cats I have seen in the zoo. I started to feel scared. The cat stopped and turned to face me, its merciless eyes still glowing in my headlamp. My level of fear suddenly spiked close to panic level. In this state of fear, I did not have the presence of mind to recall the instructions I have read regarding mountain lion encounters that the best mode of defense is to hold your ground, make loud noises and throw sticks and rocks, in order to communicate to the lion that you are not its usual prey and hopefully dissuade it from an attack. My instinct was to get away from the lion as fast as possible, not reflecting in that moment that a mountain lion’s top sprinting speed (40mph) eclipses even the swiftest Olympian. I decided that my best plan for avoiding an attack was to rely on my marathon endurance to put as much distance between me and the lion. As I sprinted away from the cat, I looked back to discover that it appeared to be moving closer to me. At this point, I realized that my illuminated headlamp made me an easy target for a pursuing lion. Turning off my headlamp, I continued running as fast as possible along a trail that turned steeply uphill for about 600 meters. I looked back again to confirm that the lion was no longer behind me.

While a lion-assisted sprint is probably good speed training, I am hoping for less eventful runs in the next few weeks and months!