Why I Run

As a regular reader of GZ’s blog, I admit that some of his recent posts have caused me to think in depth about my life as a runner, my motivations and, simply put, why I do what I do. Runners—especially ultrarunners—have a lot in common. Go to just about any race in the US and you’ll see a bunch of like-minded people all getting along pretty splendidly. Most runners run with a goal of finishing. Others have their own unique goals, such as celebrating life, raising money for a charitable cause, setting a new PR, qualifying for an event (e.g., Boston, Western States, etc.) or competing. Whatever the motivation, it’s not unusual for us runners to gather after a race, with beers in hand, and tell war stories while howling at the moon.

I can say with certainty that I run because it’s what I love to do. The desire to run is innate to my being. I’m sure it’s the same way with artists (which I was as a child), musicians, writers (which I am) and the like. If running weren’t in my blood, there’s just no way I could have finished a marathon, much less “graduated” to ultras, enduring crushingly hard efforts such as 131 miles in 24 hours and the last 13 miles of the 2010 and 2011 Leadville 100 races (I'd also be remiss in not including the last 10K of the 2008 Cleveland Marathon, a ~38-minute stretch where my life flashed before my eyes because of the pain I felt trying to get into the finish under 3 hours, which I did). Without love for running, I never could have pushed myself to get better or gotten through more than a few dark moments, much less wake up every day before dawn to train.

My motivations continue to evolve. It all started with my goal of finishing the Ogden Newspapers 20K in the spring 2004—which I did. Then it turned to finishing a marathon, which I did in the fall of 2004. Then it evolved into a quest to qualify for Boston, which I did in the spring of 2005 and have done many times since. Then I turned to finishing my first ultra, which I did in the summer of 2005. Breaking 3 hours in the marathon was a huge goal that I finally accomplished in the spring of 2008. My big goal of finishing a 100-miler soon turned into a goal of winning a 100-miler. I checked both off the list. Check. Check. Today, my two big goals are a new PR in the marathon and to break 20 hours at the Leadville 100. While my goals have certainly evolved, what hasn’t evolved is my constant desire to accomplish new things in this sport.

And yet I’ve tamed quite a bit in recent years. From 2007-2009, I was dialed in—logging triple-digit weeks left and right—and would have run on broken legs and through a brick wall if that’s what it took to achieve my goal. Today, maybe because of the humility living at altitude has forced upon me, or maybe because of an aging body, or maybe because of—dare I say—a little more wisdom, I’m not quite as competitive as I used to be, but I’m still driven and I’ll lay it on the line if I need to (and also bust my ass to hold off a surging competitor). Whereas I used to focus on competing against other athletes in ultras, today my focus is more on competing against the course, the conditions and maybe a specific time (like sub 20 at Leadville).

A life dedicated to running is, in many respects, a life of sacrifices and choices many non-runners just wouldn’t make. Maybe this is what makes us runners odd birds. When not with my family, my idea of a good time is going for a new PR on the Manitou Incline, or running 100 miles through the mountains surrounding Leadville—whereas most other people have a good time by going bowling, watching movies, and stuff like that. I sometimes feel guilty about the selfish nature of what I do. On Saturday mornings, when many dads are eating pancakes with their kids or taking a walk with their wives, I’m out on my long run…logging the miles by myself (which means pancakes with Noah come at lunch, and that walk with Anne often happens in the afternoon). I’m usually asleep by nine ‘o clock every night, when many people are just getting into a groove. And I’m up before dawn every day of week getting in the miles even if it means sacrificing sleep and drinking too much coffee. Every August I drag my family up to Leadville to follow me around for 20+ hours while I try to achieve a personal goal. And I’ve been selfish in what I’ve asked of my body. I’ve run and raced despite severely sprained ankles, blown-up knees, a torn ligament in my foot, bloody blisters, pulled muscles, frayed tendons, black toenails, fevers, altitude sickness, near-hypothermia, the flu, GI issues and other ailments that would have most folks at home in bed or at their doctor’s office. At the end of the day, it’s all about choices.

I think my family supports what I do because they, too, see that it’s in my blood. Discouraging me in what I do would be like taking a brush from a painter...or a surf board from a beach bum.

Maybe I’m a selfish prick for doing what I do and how I do it. It’s entirely possible that I justify it by saying things like, “Well, I’m setting a good example for Noah,” or, “This makes me a better person for my family.” Whatever the case, I don’t think I’ll ever stop running—even when the day comes that I’m barely able to make the cutoffs because I’m too old or broken down. Yeah, I know that one day I’ll be standing in an aid station at the Leadville 100 when the cutoff volunteer has to have that dreaded “come to Jesus” conversation with me. And that’s OK. But for now I think I’ll go for a run.

Watching Kilian Jornet Run

Continuing my previous post on "heart" and "head" runners, one of the great pleasures of being a part of the ultra scene these days is watching 24-year-old Kilian Jornet of Spain do his thing. Over the past few years, Kilian, who anchors the Salomon Running team, has accomplished some incredible feats, such as resounding wins at Ultra-Trail du Mont Blanc, the Western States 100 and many European mountain races. But with Kilian, the incredible goes way beyond his resume and even his freakish talent. The way he runs can be described, at least in my own mind, in the following ways: beautiful, like a child full of excitement, passionate, with his heart.

Watching Kilian run is like watching my son, Noah, or my nephew, Alex, run. They run with passion. With nothing holding them back mentally or physically, Noah and Alex tear down the hallway, down hills and across the grass. They don't hold back; they're all in with each stride and living the moment for all it's worth. There's no jogging with them! That's what I think of when I see Kilian run. His mind and body are both fully engaged--he's a part of the environment. See for yourself:





I watch the many videos of Kilian that are on YouTube and I can't help but think this is the way one should run--and live. For many of us, something happens over the course of our lives that takes the inner kid from us. Maybe it's the stresses of adulthood--a mortgage and bills to pay, schedules to juggle, "stuff" to buy, a house to clean, putting food on the table, job worries, shrinking 401Ks, etc. A lot of that, I think, weighs us down, squelches our spirit and effectively kills our ability to truly live free. Life becomes almost a coffin. I have to think this all spills into running. As I asked in my last post, is going all out--like a child full of excitement--and risking spectacular failure in pursuit of great achievement really all that bad? I think if you asked that of Kilian, he'd say running with unbridled passion, regardless of what happens, is the only way to run. Maybe that explains why he loves it so much.

I think what holds of back isn't the physical or even the environment around us. What holds us back is ourselves--what's in our mind! I'll be telling myself that the next time I'm running up a 13,000 or 14,000 foot mountain and questioning whether I can keep going. I can!

Heart Runners and Head Runners

I had the pleasure of interviewing Eric Clifton for my upcoming story about Mike Morton, set to appear in the March 2012 issue of Ultrarunning magazine. Yes, the same Eric Clifton whose 17-year-old record at the JFK 50-Mile went down over the weekend when David Riddle, 30, of Cincinnati, Ohio ran an amazing 5:40 at the 49-year-old race. Eric, in reflecting on how he and Morton used to train together, said something that really got me to thinking. He said that at the pace they often ran together, a runner either breaks down or breaks through.

Eric also described himself as a "heart runner." Here's how Eric characterizes "heart runners" and "head runners":

"To me, a heart runner runs races for the joy of pushing their limits. Winning is not so important, except for the effort it takes to win raises one to a higher level of speed and performance. Times also are not that relevant. What's important is the run. To run freely, smoothly and strongly: that's what it is all about. They do not go out and calculate a predetermined pace to net them a certain time or performance; they just run their hearts out every race. Heart runners are not consistent with their races, no matter how talented they are, simply because they do not worry about saving energy for later. They are going for broke every race and, if the bodies hold up, they have awesome runs. If they tip over into the red zone for long enough, they have spectacular failures. I think both outcomes are great. Head runners are nice guys (and gals) but I truly love and respect heart runners."

In his prime, Eric was well-known for going out hard and staying at a blistering pace. That's what got him all those course records and wins, including his amazing 5:46 course record at the JFK 50-Mile--a record that stood for 17 years. (Eric is perhaps best known for his prominent role in "Running on the Sun," a fascinating documentary about the 1999 Badwater Ultramarathon, which he won. Click here to watch the entire documentary.) But it's also what led to a number of DNF's. From what I've learned and been told, in a race Eric Clifton either did something amazing, or he crashed and burned. There was never a middle ground with him. I admire that.

I think there's a connection between being a heart runner and reaching that point where you either break down or finally break through. This raises a whole bunch of questions. Is it worth it to throw 100 percent of yourself into your runs--every ounce of your heart and soul--even if it means breaking down and/or not reaching the finish line? Yeah, the risk of failure or injury is there, but there's also a huge potential payoff. Of course, you have to put in the necessary training, or else your hopes will be dashed almost every time. But what if we all trained with 100 percent of our heart, never going through the motions, and always went out guns blazing in races? What if we all risked spectacular failure in a quest for the ultimate race? Do we train like zombies and race "carefully" because we are afraid of failure? And is going out hard, only to crash and burn, really failure?

I think to be a heart runner and to run with guns blazing, you have to train hard and believe in yourself. When the gun goes off and you explode out of the gate, running those early miles with the field behind you, you have to believe in your heart that you will succeed--through the good moments and those awful dark moments. If you don't believe, or if you have ever faint doubts, you will fail, or change your approach to a "safer" strategy. But is "safe" really fulfilling?
 
Are you a heart runner, or a head runner?