Sunday, November 11, 2018

Athens - The Original Marathon

In 490 BC, Persians landed at the Marathon plain with the intention of attacking through to Athens. Heavily outnumbered, the Athenians waged battle and against all odds, emerged victorious. As the legend has it, a messenger named Pheidippides was dispatched to cover the roughly 25 miles that lie between Marathon and Athens. He covered the distance on foot, and arriving at the Acropolis, announced "Nenikikamen" (Rejoice, we conquer) and dropped dead. 

Of course, this legend is riddled with skepticism as I have long known as a runner and have further confirmed after a visit to Greece. It is almost certain that Pheidippides did exist - he was a hemerodromos: a military member trained to run long distances and deliver messages. It was, after all, the 5th century BC. Every indication was that another runner delivered the news of victory in Marathon. Whether he dropped dead or not is unknown, but it adds a certain flare to the story now, doesn't it? In the meantime, we should not discount Pheidippides who is said to have run from Marathon to Athens to Sparta in an effort to rally the Spartans to come to the aid of the Athenians.  When it was clear that they would not reach Marathon in time, Pheidippides turned and ran back to inform the Athenians (a round trip of 300 miles in about 4 days) who lead the charge. It is in his honor of this journey that the Spartathlon was created. Read Dean's account of it here.

Either way, this folktale is why we, today, run the marathon and why I am sitting on the cold track of the Marathon town stadium, a short bus ride from Athens, Greece. We will (roughly) retrace the route run by the messengers to Athens.  The course itself is unimpressive; it runs between two iconic stadiums but every bit of it is just a paved suburban highway.  Historic sites are off the path and the hilltops and valleys could be many places. But it is the novelty we seek: paying homage to the original route that started this madness. For me, it will be my 75th open (non-ultra, non-Ironman) full marathon.  It is a loose milestone, not like 50 or 100, but the 75th has a bit of a draw. 
On the way to Marathon for the marathon with the Ropers

Marathon Stadium - pre-race

We almost didn't make it here. Our plan was to do some white-water rafting and trekking in Nepal. All plans were made, but in September, I felt the marathon calling again, and decided to make a trip of it. Never have I planned such an endeavor so close to the date.  Our travels took us first to Athens and immediately up to the ancient site of Delphi. Feta cheese, pork souvlaki, tzatziki, and wine fueled our travels. We then flew to beautiful Santorini for more indulgence. Seafood, wine tasting, horse riding, and hot tubs occupied our time. Back to Athens for a tour of the Acropolis.  Running was rough: short jaunts with huge climbs and descents. We walked everywhere, adding many miles to the legs. But this trip was more about the run. It was about seeing an amazing country that should be on most anyone's bucket list.
Red Beach

The view from our lodging

Sunset on Santorini

Santorini
The sun slowly warms runners in Marathon though the air is chilly.  A stiff tailwind promises a benefit on the course but causes problems during the 1.5 hour wait for the gun.  Despite the rigorous seeding process, unwelcomed people still make it into my corral - the front one after the professionals and invited runners. We make our way down the road, but I have to jump on to the cobblestone sidewalk to get around people, dodging metal barriers along the way.  We make a slight detour at 4km to loop the graves of the Athenians site (which I doubt is the route the ancient messengers took) before plowing on.  Most of the first 12km is downhill and I got out pretty fast.  Originally, there was no plan for this race. My recovery from the R2R2R kept me slow.  I figured a 3:30 or so. But then I did a half marathon in 1:28 flat and felt like I had some potential back.  I only did one 20 miler this fall, and even that was earlier than I would have liked. But overall, I was running more miles per week than I was last winter, so I felt better going into this run, minus the week of travel and gluttony. 

Having committed to a faster pace in the early miles, I stuck with it.  The net decline of the first 10km was met with some very difficult uphill.  From 7-20 miles, I only remember going uphill. Despite the trend, I tried to keep a similar pace, but the consistency was difficult over the varied terrain.


Image result for route profile athens marathon

We passed through the area ravaged by forest fires earlier this year. It was well lined with supporters and I could taste the charred wood in the air.  It was sad that such a landscape was destroyed.

The climbing continued until about 32km where it was, literally, all downhill from there.  I paid for my early pace, the net downhill start, and the difficult climbs.  My knee began hurting and I just grew tired.  However, after running 75 of these things I have a point where experience takes over from training, and I began getting consistent again. While I can't say I felt good, I kept it together.  The last 10km of the run were constantly downhill, so much so at times that it hurt. I grew very tired of the run but was determined to finish in a similar pace as I set out.  We dropped down the final hill as crowds lined the street. The final stretch angles into the Panathenaic Stadium, site of the original (modern) Olympics.  I crossed in a little over 3:13 which is the 2nd fastest I have run in 5 years (but a solid 16 minutes from my best, set just 5 years ago).

I would love to blame the post race beers, dash to the airport, two long flights and a layover for my sore legs, but they hurt pretty damn bad right from the finish.  Perhaps it was the training, the lack of training on hills, the week of walking around a lot, or maybe just the early pace. It doesn't matter. One thing remains true, whether it's your first or 75th, when it is done, it is done, and it cannot be taken away from you.

Very tired at the finish
Laurel wreath, sparkling wine, 75

Temple of Poseidon

Temple of Zeus

Parthenon


Sunday, October 21, 2018

Running Angry

This is India. I was supposed to play in a nationally televised, promotional ice hockey game Saturday night against the Indian Police.  Hours before game time it was called off. Never mind that I rearranged my entire weekend to make this happen.  Oh well, shit happens in India.  At least I got to watch MSU play that night...except that after nearly two hours of broken internet viewing, weather delays had ensured that I had a choice to make: watch the whole game and end up with about an hour to rest, or go to bed around 11pm and rise at 3:45am for a half marathon....I hit the sack.

Two weeks ago I finished work and headed out for an evening run, angry with things. I just needed to get out and run and with no plan, I headed toward Lodhi Garden.  My first mile was fine, but the next a big drop. Then again. By halfway I was humming along, running harder until the pain went away, and then a new pain came, different this time, but it beat the feeling from before. So I pushed.  I dropped every one of those 6.3 miles faster than the last, and still had room to go. Then a funny thing happened: I started running faster on all of my subsequent runs without having to try harder. It was suddenly easier to run a faster pace on a normal run.  This is the point in the season where a runner has a "rust buster" - the run that moves him from that stagnant pace of training into the realm of control. At a month out from Greece, I now knew I would be ready.

Pollution headache aside, I felt fine (considering the hour) heading to the race on a slightly warm Sunday morning. We wandered through the throngs of humanity and I tried to poop in the bushes but the result was minimal and disappointing. As we jostled to hold our position in the corral, more people bumped passed but the race went off right on time. Unfortunately, narrow roads and too many ignorant people meant the first mile was a disaster.  I weaved and bobbed through, passing people walking at 1km and those destined for a 3 hour half marathon. It had a few choice words for these folks.  Soon the crowd thinned and I settled into a pace.  My friends were off ahead, both of them eyeing 1:28-1:30. I had not been running fast and with a softball game just a few hours off, and a marathon in a few weeks, I decided not to push. But the miles came quickly and easily as I passed person after person and soon I was locked in.

Delhi, like many parts of the world, is strange for running - or by that definition, maybe it is on par. I saw shoeless people, those that started too fast, and those that went by in sub-6 min miles at the 8 mile mark (must have been asleep for the start). I passed a man who was belting out "huh-huh" on 5 second intervals.  He was wearing headphones but that didn't stop me from saying, "You know you are making that noise out loud, right?"  He either ignored my chirp or was too distracted from his 50 Shades of Grey audio book to notice. Must have been the good part by the way he was huffing. I moved ahead, but soon ran into a woman steadily moaning as she rolled past 4 miles.  I thought, damn, she must be a firecracker in the sack, but then thought, no, she expends too much energy on the run...


Luckily, I didn't encounter any running/sexually confused participants again. I did roll by some aid stations sponsored by Nature's Valley but instead of delicious granola bars, they had pork rinds. I passed. With about 6k to go I caught and passed my buddy Michael who runs steady but tends to go out faster than I. I rounded India Gate and headed back, content not to push the pace, never feeling like I was really getting after it. I crossed in 1:28:01 which is just on 6:40/mile.  I had run about 10 of the 13 miles faster than all but any two miles during training this fall (see earlier paragraph on angry running). I have done no speed work in the past 7 months and still ran a decent time.  Sure, it's about 10 min off my best but any day you can show up and lay it down way outside of your training pace is a winner. In fact, it must be one of the fastest half's I have run in many years since I haven't been racing much the last 5 years and we used to do these things as post-marathon recovery runs or as part of long runs in Joburg. But it's not always about the time...

The negative splits and consistency speak to experience

I regretted not waiting for Michael and the amazing Mercedes that would have been my ride home had I not hustled out of there and grabbed a tuk tuk. Sweat drying, I started to get chilly in the morning air - air that was no doubt slowly killing me, which I tried to ignore as my driver, who tried to rip me off on the price before I lost it on him, drove up the wrong way of a highway off ramp and nearly killed me. Home and a shower. I absolutely hammered two breakfasts at ACSA before going 5-for-6 at bat in our 9:30am softball game (we won 18-10). Of course, I indulged in the post-game beers to cap it off, before heading home to watch the replay of the MSU game. There was foul language hurled at the television in the loss. I hate Michigan!  However, despite the loss, all in all, not a bad day.  I should run angry more often. 

Tuesday, July 3, 2018

Mountains - Part 1: Elbrus (Russia)

This post is the first in a two-part series where I recap climbs from the past that was never posted.  The first installment is going back exactly 3 years ago to 2015 where I ventured alone to Russia to scale Mt. Elbrus, the highest peak in Europe, and one of the Seven Summits.  They are posted in the present so they do not get buried under previous posts. 


June 27, 2015
This rich, prep-school kid next to me with his Rolex Submariner is nice enough, but he wont shut up about vacation homes, collecting cars, and the string of hotels his daddy owns back in Mother Russia. Luckily, I am on the nicest flight of my life from London to Moscow - Business-class seats that are wide and recline, and I sleep the whole way there, a nice rest after toting the kids around London for the past week. My reward is 12 days alone in an attempt to tick off my 2nd of the 7 Summits: Mt. Elbrus in Russia.

The bliss is over when I touch down and have to make my way across the city from one airport to another. On my puddle jumper from Moscow to Mineralnye Vody, all of the announcements are in Russian. A mighty cheer goes up upon landing and I think, I have heard this on risky landings but on a nice day? Perhaps a safe landing is not a foregone expectation of purchasing a flight ticket in Russia, or maybe the landing gear was broken, how am I supposed to know?

I load into a van with a group (unsure if they are climbing partners as I cannot understand them) and travel 3 hours north to Elbrus region. The drive is flat save a few mining piles. I arrive and thankfully find a single room waiting for me (the rest have doubles) as no one else speaks English. They try to engage me, the obvious foreigner, in a bit of chit chat but it soon dies out and they return to themselves, which suits me just fine. I prefer to be left alone and focus on my goal. I do need to walk across the street to rent some gear as my down jacket is in the USA and my crampons and trekking poles are not up for the task anymore.  Returning I try to call home but it won't connect and the power is out. My shower will have to wait.

The next day we took a chairlift up to 2500m for an acclimatization hike. It was immediately clear many people had never done this. One guy asked, "What are crampons?" and I had to show another how to use trekking poles.  We went up very slowly and stopping too often for too long. The weather went from fair to poor with rain and sleet. We finally crested Mt. Cheget at 3400m.  Down in town, though I only needed two items, I had to wait while almost ever other member of the group was fully outfitted for gear.  I should have been done in a few minutes but instead watched the entire movie "Brave" in Russian before my turn. Only one other member of our group is experienced, and the lone female member looks fit, but I am concerned about this squad as the mountain sees 15-30 deaths a year due to the quick changes in the weather. Our weather has been poor and we have yet to see the sky.

Vladimir, our guide, takes us up the mountain to practice ice techniques. No one but I has used an axe before, but we don't do crampons because he says it will be too hard for them to learn both at once...We rode a chairlift up today that was 60 years old. If I hadn't seen a scrap pile of old chairs, I would have sworn we were riding the originals.

On the 27th we headed up Elbrus for the first time. The chairlifts take us from 2350m to 3400m just like that.  When then hiked up snow nearly 3 hours to 3900m as slow as possible and then worked on technique. It was a good refresher. My reward was purple chucks for dinner....beets.  After that was beetroot soup.  If there is a worse food out there, I don't want to encounter it. I managed to get through it by mixing them all together and adding tons of salt, pepper, and butter.

July 1: We are up the mountain for good. Chairlifts and a snow cat get us to our huts at 3900m. We have wifi and toilets! We had heard horror stories of the huts on Elbrus but ours were plush with its own dinning room.  We left at 11:15am to head up to the famed Pastukhov Rocks at 4600m, got into crampons, and then climbed 200m more to the top of the ridge. It took 4 hours round trip and most of it was in a cloud with swirling winds. Others struggled but I ran down the final few hundred meters feeling good. Then I felt horrible. I had a splitting headache, my stomach was off, and I stepped out to puke. I didn't have enough water for the altitude and paid dearly for my aggressive descent. Some meds from the guide sorted me out. 

Our home on the mountain

The view from my bunk

July 2: Climbed up just 200m today and sat for a while on the memorial rock, watching the mountain. Then our group got into the snow and built a snow woman, boobs and all. I guess a bunch of Russian men are longing for more women out here.  I sit at dinner and watch as people take the communal bowl of sour cream and eat from it with their spoon, or individually eat the veggies out of a bowl of salad.  I get translated to me about 25% of what the guide instructs, and about 1-2% of what is said at dinner but I manage to be ok.  It is lonely on the hikes with no one to just banter with.
Do you want to build a snowman?
July 3: Midnight. Summit day. After little sleep, I rise and get ready in the vestibule, trying not to wake the others. I shovel a quick breakfast because, as the Russians say, "No porridge, no summit." By 1am I am in full gear, including crampons, and take a 10 min snowmobile ride (that costs me $100) to the top of the Rocks at about 4800m opting for a long climb than my team. I feel this is criminal but it is the way of the mountain. Most of the lower slopes are as wide as a football field and during the day, climbing with snowmobiles and snowcats plowing by is like finishing in a canoe with jet skis all around.  I begin hiking with a new guide who says nothing during our hour and a half together. We stop only once for a break but otherwise we inch up, step-by-step, the steep face. I feel terrible and once at the top of the ridge, we sit in the snow, freezing, until the rest of our party is brought up to 5000m by snowcat. They arrive but mill around, and I am eager to leave.

We plod in a line up the ridge of the East summit, mostly in a cloud but occasionally a break in the sky showed glimpses of the impending sunrise before stealing it away again. Eating and drinking is near impossible as the slope is about 45 degrees and the blowing wind threatens to pull us off and freeze our extremities in minutes.  We are not roped (nor would I want to be to these people). Eventually, in the light, we dropped down into the saddle between the summits. The wind was so strong we had to hunch down to speak to each other, like the army under the blades of a helicopter.  We dropped one trekking pole in exchange for our ice axes and faced the West summit. The climb was unbearable. The wind would yank someone off the mountain so we threw ourselves forward, buried the axe, hunkered down, and took a few steps when it abated, only to repeat frequently. 

At this point several of our party decided to turn back. We almost lost another when his hat blew off and he tried to run after it across the slope. He tripped in the snow and on his crampons and started to skid down the mountain before he slowed and the guide dove on him. After pushing on in the hurricane, we hit a fixed rope and clipped in.  Halfway across the traverse of the face the guide pulls his head from the radio and yells "Turn around!"  What?!?!  The winds are punishing on the top and the final ridge is unclimbable.  I beg him to proceed to the turn and just wait and see and we do.  We are at 5555m and the summit lies at 5642, just 87 vertical meters above us, over a few rocks, all fixed rope. But it is clear we have no choice. We must turn after 6 hours of effort to get here.  The summit is 20 minutes of climbing (on a good day) away, but today is not that day.

Instantly we are in trouble.  The wind, which has been awful the whole time, now is raging in our face. I am wearing glacier glasses but can't see anything as specks of ice blast me in the face. Thankfully the guide swaps me for his ski goggles and that part improves. The wind has turned the snow into balls so it is like walking on Dipping Dots. The footprints in front are blasted away instantly so footing is difficult and the going is slow.  What should have been a relatively quick jaunt down is hindered by exhaustion, bad weather, and the fact that we have been climbing for hours and have no summit to show for it. During some of the more technical portions there are a few slips and lucky catches. Once on the main slope I would walk until collapsing in the snow, wait for others, and plod on, over and over. I crash into camp with 15cm of snot hanging from my nose and I am too tired to change out of my wet socks and pants.

A day of hydration, rest, and refueling still leaves me smashed and I know that there is no chance of a repeat attempt, and no one here wants one. The next day we pack out and return down the mountain.  My day gets weirder from there. We males head to a Russian mineral spring. During the 2 mile walk, we follow a garbage-lined path in the woods to a market where Gypsie woman are selling goods. I am told to sip water from a pump spewing water out of the ground. I do so reluctantly. In the banya, we strip and enter a sauna that is between 80-100 degrees Celsius. I can only do about 5 min in there before stepping out. My choices are to jump into a small pool or go to the shower. I choose pool and instantly bolt out of it. It was ice cold.  Back in the sauna and I come out to the shower, pull a cord, and a bucket of ice water falls on me. We repeat this charade. Back in the sauna I meet Sasha, a man who makes me lie down, bare ass in the air. He takes a branch of leaves from a bucket of water and starts smacking me with the branch up and down my body.  When I don't think I can take the heat and pain any more, he tells me to flip over. No Way!  I eventually do, balls to the sky, and he beats me again. Thoroughly sore and somewhat embarrassed, I leave, into the ice pool, and onto the bench for hot tea again. They ask me (I assume), "How was it?" and I tell them they are all crazy and sit down with welt marks in the shape of oak leaves on my back.  I decline a repeat round of the torture, convinced it is a prank on the American. I then turn down a chance to do it to someone else and learn I got to go first as I was the guest.

Team votes to go out for dinner. I did not, as it meant spending more money and having no one to talk to but majority rules. I enjoy a few beers, lamb, veal, and even tried liver (of what animal I cannot say).  I get my t-shirt and certificate and walk home.  I awake about to burst. Convinced I ate too much I try to sleep.  Nope. I vomit in the toilet and spend the next 4 hours doing so every 30 minutes. It stopped at 530 and by 7am I was showered - weak legged and bubbly stomach. No breakfast for me. I said goodbye to the team and tipped Vladimir 4000 Rubles and left in a van, solo. The driver seemed to think it was a challenge to double the speed limits and take lots of chances on the curvy mountain road going down the valley. Dehydrated, nauseous, and with no air con, I was in pain for all 3 hours of the drive. I spent 3 more sitting on the floor or standing in line in the hot, noisy little airport before my 2.5 hour flight to Moscow.  From there I had 2 hours transferring by train and wandered with this big pack to my hotel where I ate crepes, my first meal in over a day. I slept 11 hours.

My trip capped off with a self-guided tour of Red Square.  I wanted to see Lenin but it is closed on Tuesdays, the only day I was there. Figuring out the subway was an ordeal as the stops are all in Russian characters and don't go in order on the signs. It is difficult to be a stranger in a strange land.


A subway sign


Subway decor in Moscow


Red Square

Red Square

Kremlin

Lenin's Tomb
I am disappointed to not have made the summit and know I can climb these peaks. However, I survived an exciting , solo trip to Russia and have the story to tell so I am eager to do more.


Mountains - Part 2: Illimani (Bolivia)

This post is the second in a two-part series where I recap climbs from the past that were never posted.  This installment is going back 1 year ago to 2017 when I ventured alone to Bolivia to scale Mt. Illimani and Sajama, the two highest peaks in Bolivia.  They are posted in the present so they do not get buried under previous posts. Much of the language comes from my journal at the moment.

June, 2017
This trip started in the worst way possible. We didn't get the house we made an offer on. Then I dropped my phone, cracking it.  We drove to the airport and got stuck in 1.5 hours of traffic, only to find my flight delayed, then delayed again so that I would miss my connection.  I flew to Miami on a later flight and missed departing to Bolivia by 15 minutes.  I was put up in a terrible airport hotel for 24 hours until the next plane left.  Little did I know that check-out was at 11am, so by the time I got there and laid down, I had to leave and park my butt in the airport for most of the day.

Upon arriving in La Paz, I made my way to my hotel, albeit a day later than planned.  Thankfully, they amended the reservation and didn't charge me for it, which was nice, and warranted since the room didn't have hot water, an English-speaking television channel, or decent wifi, but they did have an ok breakfast. The elevation of La Paz is around 3,500m, which meant I had to arrive several days before my climb to acclimate. On my second day, I wandered the streets up to the highest ridge around town, and scrambled over crags, nearly falling to my death on the rocky outcroppings before heading back down, avoiding hordes of stray dogs.

The next day I walked about 3 miles to the minibus station and figured out how to get on the right bus that took me to La Cumbre, a high point about 15 miles from the city.  The elevation there is 4,400m so it was a good chance to acclimate some more.  The bus was crammed with people, babies, and supplies, we headed up, stopping for food for most just outside the city. 30 min later we arrived and I was dropped at the side of the road with odd stares. I hiked up for about 5 min but the wind was hammering and the temps far colder than I anticipated so I basically sat huddled for an hour before deciding to go back down.  I had a hard time hitching a ride back but a guy finally stopped and took me to town, for a fee, of course.


I walked 5k back to town and stopped in Wild Rover, this "Irish" hostel where I was to stay the days after my climb. It was gross: a bunch of 20-somethings all drinking and trying to hook up. At 1:20pm. On a Monday. They had no rooms for earlier than my date but I stayed for lunch anyway, getting through a BBQ burger and a salad as I hadn't had vegetables in three days.  Tomorrow, we go up.

June 27
With the anticipation finally over, I packed up my gear and met my guide. We threw my bags into the car and piled in with a driver and headed out of tow.  Long, winding roads took us up and out, some of them dirt, some of them paved, all of them with dangerous curves that every driver felt entitled to hug as tight as possible.  I remain entirely convinced the greater danger in climbing mountains is the trip there and back. It took several hours, all of it with Illimani in the distance, to reach the massif itself.  Luckily, there was new road put in due to some filming and research in the area.  Otherwise, the climb would have taken an extra day and a hike of about 4 hours from the road.

Instead, we pushed on, crossing not-so-small streams and weaving through some hefty rocks.  We bottomed out many times, scraping the car all over the so-called road.  But eventually we made it up to the fast plain that is base camp, just at the foot of the mountain peak itself.  There is not a prettier sight in the country, I am sure.

Base Camp 4,400m
Our driver dropped our gear and took off down the mountain with a promise to return several days later. After unpacking the loot and setting up the tent, there really wasn't much to do but drink tea and stare at the mountain.  I took a wander down the road and headed up a valley lined by rock walls.  There were llamas everywhere and waterfalls coming off the mountain.  I went up for quite a while, scaling some rock walls and hiking far, hoping to push acclimatization.
View of base camp from higher up

Looking back down on my hike

Temps dropped rapidly as dusk drew closer, and after glancing at the lights of La Paz and El Alto in the distance, I retired for some rest, of which I could get little of in a tent.  My borrowed sleeping pad had a hole in it so I felt every rock of the plain.  We woke early and tried to get warm as the sun was still working its way up.  Breakfast and a late start with a full pack up the trail. My guide and I shouldered decent-sized packs, but a porter grabbed the bulk of our load.  I cannot believe how much weight I still had and it was a good thing I could carry some. These guys show up from miles down the valley, come up in sandals, shoulder huge weight, and still beat most people up the mountain.  A ranger showed up at the last second and collected the climbing fee, which was about $3.

Our route traveled up and right across the mountain. The going was easy at first but became more and more steep as the day went on and the heat increased. More rests were needed as we inched our way up the difficult and sandy single track toward the high camp.  Moments of doubt began to creep in as the mountain loomed high above us; I looked back down and was amazed at how far we had come, but looking up, there was much more to scale.  Since we didn't have our tents in our bag, there was no sense in going higher without the porter.  We paused just shy of the high camp and rested until the porter arrived.  Other than being hungry and thirsty, I was feeling alright and not effected by the altitude. Usually, within 2 min of stopping, I had my breath and was itching to go. The stopping and waiting was the most frustrating. My endurance is good but my patience is not.  I just want to plow on and get it done.  This, however, is not a hurry-up sport.

High camp was a sketchy place.  Not bigger than about 30-40 feet wide and long, it was perched on the ridge just at the snowline. We were at 5500m (18,200ft), the Nido de Condor "Condor's Nest" and it was a precarious situation.  My tent was on a shelf not wide enough to hold it, and ropes were strung to keep it tied down.  A strong gust of wind looked to pull it down the huge gully to my left, with me wrapped inside. The entire place smelled of fecal matter and urine as there were no other options for doing your business. I had a pounding headache that abated after some hydration, Tylenol, and rest. Our time here was brief; we would make dinner and try and sleep, but we were leaving at midnight.

I, of course, could not sleep.  My Swiss cheese Thermarest was worthless and I felt every one of the rocks. My rest on the tundra last night was a gift compared to this place. My head is pounding and I have a 12-14 hour trip ahead of me when today's 3.5-hour trip was enough to put me in this state.  I think about the mountains as Cheryl Strayed said in "Wild", you may come to find yourself, and find meaning, but what you find, at least initially, is nothing but suffering. The summit may be bliss, but the journey is ripe with discomfort.  If it wasn't the rocks beneath me keeping me awake, it was the flapping of a tent-like kids' with a parachute in gym class - that sealed the deal. I stayed warm with two hot water bottles tucked in my bag, but no rest for me, again. At 1am the alarm went off and I pulled on whatever clothes I was not already wearing. Getting plastic boots on in a tent is a chore.  I choked down "breakfast" which was basically chocolate and tea.  Crampons, helmet, and 2:05am - we were off.

The route starts from high camp by hugging a rocky ridge. It didn't seem like it at the time, but this was some of the most difficult footing, as I would see coming down in the light. Instantly I was too hot and stopped to pull off my Goretex jacket, which was under my impressive down jacket. I ate some Gu and drank water but Andreas kept chirping about the power of cocoa leaves and how they make you strong and help stomach issues and headaches.  I took a couple of rounds just to appease him. I don't buy it, and it feels like you are chewing a handful of leaves you have raked in Fall time only you have to hold them in your lip, like dip. It tastes like sucking on an unused tea bag.

On we slogged making switchbacks across the mountain face, though it was hard to gauge distance when only 3 feet in front of me was illuminated. But it was probably best, because as I would later find out, the route is surrounded by cliffs and crevasses, and it was terrifying. After about 2 hours we were going well but my new crampon popped off. This was not a problem as it was not too steep, but elsewhere this could be an issue. Then it came off again!  Andreas helped me get it on, which was nice, but I felt like a bit of a wad. Would you believe it? My other crampon came off. I don't know if I was having a boot or crampon issue but it wasn't good.  Andreas checked his watch and it was 5:00am. He said we would be on the summit in 1 hour. This was good news but since the sun rises at 6:30, it would be hard to get a good summit picture.  My mistake, like in an ultra, was taking this opinion as fact. Spurred on by the finish, I felt good, yet after an hour I could now see the peaks across from me, and they were higher yet - a problem since I was on the tallest peak around.  My hopes sank, the headache peaked, and my stomach went south. I couldn't go 5-10 min without needing a rest. "30 min" Andreas would say, and then 15 min later, "30 min."  I started to bonk hard; his concern started to rise. We rounded a corner and popped out onto the summit ridge. "30 minutes," Andreas said. I sat in the snow.  "Todas bien?" he asked. No, I said, feeling poor.  I considered turning around at this point. The summit was only halfway (and since we had to go to base camp, not even halfway). I decided to press on.  We arched around the dome in a cloud, with a swirling wind obscuring the view.  Eventually, it relented and we stood, unceremoniously, on the unassuming summit, 6438m (21122ft). Andreas hugged me and I posed for a picture.  We left quickly with me in the lead and on belay.  However, the wind obscured the view, and not wanting to walk into a crevasse, I sat in the snow while Andreas wandered around for 10 minutes looking for the route.

I felt good heading down for an hour or so. My battery died so I took no pictures of the amazing ice walls.  I grew tired and started tripping on my own leg often and would sit in the snow to recover. We could see high camp but it never seemed to come.  The last hour was painful and riddled with stops. I crawled in and the waiting porters laughed at me while I stripped off each piece of clothing an chucked it aside.  Sweaty and exhausted, it was 9:45am. It took 5:35 to get up and 2:05 to get down to high camp but I swore it was twice that.  We were hustled out of there within a half hour for the long, dusty descent to base camp.  The craggy rocks and precarious footing were made all the more tenuous by wasted legs.  The extra weight on my back made cutting switchbacks difficult. I was roasting from wearing my fleece and Goretex pants still.  We were down in about 2 hours but it was a tortuous route that felt like it took all day.

We drove downhill on twisting, rocky roads for about 4 hours.  I faded in and out as it was too bumpy to drink.  We had to switch cars once and then drove around downtown for about 40 min. I thought they couldn't find my hotel but the cab was restricted from certain roads (traffic control rules). We ended up at the company headquarters and switched cabs again. 25 minutes later I was at my hotel and on the phone with Expedia for the next 2 hours.  On the Illimani, I had made the decision to leave Bolivia without climbing the second mountain, Sajama. Each call would drop; I would call back and repeat my story to a new representative. They would ask me for a number to call back, just in case, and I would repeatedly tell them I was in Bolivia. They called my mom (the number on my account) many times. $725 later I got a new flight, 3 days on. I just wanted to go home. The summit was bittersweet; I made it but felt disappointed with the adventure.




Thursday, June 7, 2018

There and Back Again - R2R2R


Someone should run across this thing

It's midnight on June 7th, and a chill runs through my bones despite being in a desert.  It is anticipation - the feeling of excitement I get when I know what I have to do will not come as a given. That scene from Shawshank Redemption materializes in my head, where Red says (ah, Morgan Freeman's voice can inspire anyone), "I find I'm so excited I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it is the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain." I glance out, but my headlamp only illuminates the next 40 feet, and I know what lies beyond it cannot be seen by a mere torch. If I could see it, in that moment, I might turn back to the comfort of a bed.  But I am not here because it is easy. I am here because of what Emerson said about "what lies behind us and what lies before us are small matters compared to what lies within us." And I never hoped that to be more true. Because out there in that vast void, the darkness more than night, lies before me the Grand Canyon of the United States, and I am about to run across it - in summer - and turn around and do it all over again. 

18 months earlier:
Long-time running buddy Michael, as is his fashion, sends me a note about some big runs he wants to do. I have retired from the ultra, but my interest piqued at his plans, and we said, let's run across the Grand Canyon, in the summer, and then run back again - the runner's classic Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim (R2R2R).  The thought of this bucket list run kept me going for many months while I struggled to deal with pollution, living in India, and finding a purpose in running.  Michael, meanwhile, flirted with elite running while coming dangerously close to not running at all, then broke his foot at the end of the year.  Our goal was now in jeopardy and Michael wasn't able to train. We pulled the plug, but something in each of us did not want the dream to die. I tried to recruit another guy but he couldn't make it. So, March 1st came and went, our drop dead date, and I sent a hard message to Michael, one that said we can do this. His reply was, "Let's go" and it was on.

True to the title of this blog, we did not plan well.  We didn't want this huge reconnaissance of a mission down to every last detail.  We just wanted to run, and when it hurt, slow, and eat and walk when we felt like it, on our terms, not driven by competition or the clock. Our agreement was to high five at the start and head down the trail, and we would take it from there. Some say that's ill advised on a 50 mile foot journey in harsh environments like the Grand Canyon.  Others call it adventure. 

I ran two marathons in February and completed my third Two Oceans Marathon (56km) down in South Africa at the end of March. I found 35-45 mile weeks again and got very strong in the core. I padded my days with 15 milers on the weekends and threw in two 20 milers for that added push. It was the most amount of running I had done in a year, and probably years. But no training in India was really going to save me from the vicious pounding of the downhills, the uneven terrain of the trail, and the relentless uphill climbs of the Grand Canyon. I figured it didn't matter as Michael and I would just survive it together. Then I got the call.

Michael freaked out. He had done some running and put in some really significant weekends. But he struggled on a 50k and decided he was not ready.  I felt like I had talked him into this twice already and I would not be responsible for a third time. What if he got hurt? What if he needed to be hospitalized? What if he fell and died? I didn't want that hanging over me.  I told him to call it off.  But I was still going at this (after all, I bought the ticket and the hotel).

It made all the difference. Perhaps because I wasn't motivated, or maybe because someone would be there, I wasn't giving the R2R2R its fair respect. I figured we would just make it.  But when I was suddenly on my own, a fire sparked inside that I had not had for a long time. I started running. I put in a 20 miler. I upped my weekly mileage consistently to 50+ and then I turned a corner. I started running more (went 9+5, 10.3, 7.3+6, and 11+4 in just 4 week days), put in my 2nd run of the day in the Delhi heat (100-108 degrees F) and hit the gym for leg presses, weighted, lunges, and squats. I averaged a half marathon per day for a while, and hit 72.6 miles in a week (my most since South Africa four years before).

My journey begins on the South Rim at the Bright Angel Trailhead: elevation 6,860 feet (2,093 m) and descends for 9 miles to a low point of 2400ft.  After that I climb for more than 14 miles up to the North Kaibab Trailhead: elevation 8241 feet (2512m).  When I get there, I will turn around and do it all in reverse.  My body will experience 21,100 feet of elevation gain/loss over 47 miles (to put that in perspective, the Leadville 100 has 15,600 ft. over the total distance).
Survival kit - to be carried into the Grand Canyon
My watch ticks midnight and I start down the trail. In the first half I'm only worried about two things causing me a problem: mountain lions and falling off the trail. Within steps of starting I stumble and find myself dangerously close to an edge that leads into blackness and certain death. I proceeded down the twisting, turning Trail past 1 1/2 Mile Resthouse and stopping only briefly at 3 Mile Resthouse house for some water. It is very difficult going downhill this much and by the time I reach Indian Garden Campground, I have lost 3000 feet in elevation in under 5 miles. It is like doing a road race if the course was all sand and down a set of stairs.  I run into a couple of hikers almost immediately from the top and after that a guy looking for his sons who went to the river hours before. I eventually crossed them and I don't see another soul for almost three and a half hours. Just after Indian Garden, I am able to run a little bit better as the trail somewhat levels. Despite being all downhill, I am trying to save my legs and the difficulty of the course still has me running between 10 and 12 minute miles. It feels slow but I cannot see more than a few few ahead, the trail is rough, danger is high, and I know there is work to come.

Although it is dark I can still see tremendous rock formations and rivers winding their way down with me.  I make my way to River Resthouse which is about 8 miles down from the trail head, but I don't know this. I have left the map and the passenger seat of the car at the trail head, my first big mistake of the day. My memory tells me that the bridge is somewhere around 7 miles but in fact it is much further. I pass the last point and start to work away from the river, convinced that I am on the wrong trail. As I start to climb again, panic sets in. The 7th, 8th, and 9th mile pass and I am certain that I am going to run 15 miles, turn around, and head back up without completing my journey.  However, out of the darkness the river returns and I cross Silver Bridge, avoiding the murky waters of the Colorado River below.

At Bright Angel camp I refill water and I'm startled by deer who are mesmerized by my headlamp. Now starts a significant climb from the river's bottom and the lowest point on the course 7.2 miles up to Cottonwood Campground. It is the longest stretch on the course. However, there is only 1600 feet of elevation gain in this long stretch and I am able to run nearly all of it. With the threat of falling off the edge now removed, I turn my attention to avoid stepping on hairy spiders and scorpions. When I'm not fearing being poisoned from below, I fear disease from above. Moths are attracted to light, and and what human orifice lies just below a headlamp? I ate more than a few months. But what eats moths (besides me)? Bats. They continuously dive-bombed right in front of my face catching whatever bugs I wasn't already consuming. Since you can't see them coming, the gush of their wings inches from my nose is quite a shock in the darkness.

Just after Cottonwood Campground (~17mi) I encounter a creature on the trail, its eyes gleaming off the light from my headlamp. It is a skunk, and I throw rocks at it trying to scare it off the trail but it only becomes more aggressive, inching towards me, hissing, and turning around to spray. Not wanting to spend the next 30 miles - and several days - smelling like a skunk, I relent and climb the scree, through the cacti and around to a further point on the trail. Skunk wins this round.
Sunrise on the climb to the North Rim
The temps at the start were cool and I have left my long sleeve shirt in the car, along with my gloves. It pays off in the canyon, with temps reasonably warm (85 degrees), even at 2am.  But as I climb higher towards the north rim, the temps drop quickly and I find myself starting to get chilly, even though the sun is starting to rise. This will mark my second major mistake of the day. My GPS watch tells me that I am nearing the top of the North Rim; however, I have yet to reach the tunnel and I know this is more than 1.5 miles from the top. The trail is very sandy and difficult to walk up. I stop for water and my fingers get wet as does the cloth on my water bottles. The temps have now dropped back to almost 46 degrees Fahrenheit, and my fingers have gone numb. After 5 hours and 42 minutes, with hands freezing, I crest the North Rim at 8241 feet, having covered between 23.5 to 25.1 miles, depending on the source. My hands are shaking so badly I cannot open my pack. I quickly eat and refill my bottles. I beg a hiker to loan me his gloves which I will return as I start down the trail and catch him. While they provide little help I make a phone call home checking in with Sarah. It has taken me longer to get here and it was more difficult than I anticipated. I am at a low point and my voice crumbles in dismay. She encourages me to start down the trail where it will be warmer and mostly downhill. I do so.


The morning view coming down the North Kaibab Trail
Within 2 miles of heading down, my fingers start to recover, temps rise, as does the sun. I pass many people who have started their journey from the North Rim that morning. They give me encouragement, baffled by the distance I have come already as nearly all of them will stop at the bottom of the canyon to camp for a night. Some say, "God bless you," others "Way to go," and my favorites are the ones who say nothing. The good part about this stretch now that the sun has come up is that the entire 13 miles down to the river is runnable. I question whether this is a good idea as there is still much left to do but I am okay with walking up the last part if needed. The trail winds down with high, red cliffs and green valleys lining rivers. After several hours of continuous running, my legs are growing tired, but the river marks a major milestone. It just never seems to come. By the time I pass Phantom Ranch I have had enough. The heat is excessive and my body has done its job. Refilling my bottles at Bright Angel, I make a decision. It would be my next major wrong choice on this journey, and a costly one.

I opt to carry on and go up the South Kaibab trail. I am tired and I know it is about 2.5 miles less than the route I came down, and I am now at 9.5 hours and have many miles left to go. What I don't consider is the following: 1) it is steeper with a higher elevation, 2) it is more exposed, 3) there is no water (damn map in my car), and 4) there are far fewer people on it. I cruise across the Black Bridge and BAM! I am done the moment I start the climb. Just like many times before (see TRT, Comrades 2014, and 2nd Leadville posts for the same situation). I am done running, my head spins, and I think I am going to pass out. I sit on the trail. It is about 100 degrees, and there are 7 miles and more than 5000 ft of elevation gain left. A group of guys offer me Gatorade and salt tablets which I take willingly. It is about this time where I realized that my packet of e-caps that I had with me fell out of my pack around mile 1 and I have not had any additional electrolytes other than food in 38 miles, despite hydrating well. After they feed me and put a bandanna on my head, I struggle up the hill to search for shade of which there is little. When there is some, I sit in it. Another family fills me with e-caps and water (which is gone within a mile). I manage to walk about 100m at a time before sitting when I find a shaded rock. By sit I mean crumple into a ball in the dirt with my leg muscles in full spasm. I take out my phone (no signal) and leave a final message to my wife. I feel passing out or seizure are likely outcomes and no one is here to help, not like they could do much. I fear death and get scared for the first time in any race or on any mountain. But the thought of seeing my family spurs me on and I pick myself up out of the dirt, over and over again in the hope that I will get home. The idea that I'm going to get home in time to take a shower before I need to check out of the room as long left my mind. However, I still can catch my flight home so I work my way up the hill. More than I want to shower I want to catch that flight and get home.

No refuge in the Grand Canyon
After 2.5 miles from the river I arrive at a place called Tip Off (4.4 miles and 3200 ft from the top). There is an emergency phone and I go pick it up. 911 connects me to search and rescue and I explain that I am in bad shape. They encourage me to walk briefly up the hill to a toilet shed, where there are provisions stashed. I am unable to open the box and I sit in the shade until some German hikers come. They go back down and call search and rescue and get the instructions to open the bin. I eat chips and electrolyte drinks trying to recover while lying under a toilet shed. The ranger advises me to stay there for the rest of the day until it cools down. It is about 11 o'clock so it will be many hours before that time. After a long while, I locked the crate and started up the mountain. The going was steep, the sun blistering hot, and I needed many breaks in the shade. Simply stopping, standing, or sitting would lead to muscle cramps and dizziness so I ended up laying on the rock or the dirt. My legs would often cramp and I would sip water rations knowing that there was not other water on the way up. I could take slow steps for 2-3 minutes and then rest for 5 minutes or more.  After what seemed like an eternity I reached Skeleton Point. I had 3 miles to go and another 2000 ft to climb.
The view far below Skeleton Point and just above my first respite point at Tip Off (visible in lower left)

I beg a hiker for a bottle of water which he relinquishes. I am only able to make it a minute or two at a time without stopping. It is a long, relentless climb to the next point which takes me about an hour and 40 minutes for one and a half miles. I reached Cedar Ridge which stands just 1100 feet below and 1.5 mi from the top. However I am absolutely destroyed when I get there.  No amount of reflection on past races, reading, or training can prepare you for when things go wrong.  The pain and hurt inside cannot be envisioned or shared. It remains only for the one in dire need. Empathy is not an attribute to be wasted on the ultra runner. No matter who is out there on the trail with you at any one point, when you run the ultra, you are alone. Utterly, unequivocally alone.

Sign on the trail - too real
Collapsing in a heap, I am unable to go any further. Another German couple takes interest and watches me throw up everything I have drank in the last half-hour. They consider this to be enough and walk out to the edge of the canyon and make a call to search and rescue (my phone would never work on this run other than at the North Rim). There is another dropbox and I am encouraged to drink water and eat salty snacks but I cannot do either. Instead I lay on the dry, roasting ground for two hours while flies attempt to lay larvae in my mucous membranes and ants bite me relentlessly. The couple call Sarah to tell her I am okay but struggling - the first she hears of me after being overdo in the canyon by 7 hours. It is now clear to me how people die on mountains: When the body shuts down, it seems so simple for us to say, "Just get up and move" but for the person in dire straits, it does not happen. On the mountain, wind and temps will cause a person to slowly die (perhaps oxygen too). Out here, I have never been so thirsty - I felt as if I was shriveling up, yet no water would go in.  The heat was relentless and sucking the life from me. In a few hours it would be more than 50 degrees colder than it was in the afternoon, and the exposure would surely have caused hypothermia. A body too destroyed to move would be too beaten to fight the chill, and I suspect death would follow far before the next sunrise.

The couple goes for a hike and when they return I throw up again, unable to have eaten or drank anything in my time there. They call for rescue again and the Rangers agree to send someone down. It will take 2 hours. I decide that two hours is far too long. It will be dark by then and cold and once the ranger gets there I will only be prompted to get up and walk out anyway. After arguing with the German man who claims I can't even stand, let alone walk, I get vertical and hobble up the trail. I figure 2 hours of moving closer to home is better than two hours of sitting there and still having a climb left to do. I am so close to finishing the run that with all that has happened it is the only saving grace I can muster. Never in the history of running has 1.5 miles seemed so long for me. Although it takes me a long time, I reach the top of the South Kaibab trail head as the sun sets. My GPS watch has long stopped working but my distance is around 45-47 miles and I have been out here on the trail for 19 hours and 39 minutes. I feel nothing - not joy or pain. I feel like the ride is still moving but I have stepped off. But I did R2R2R, even if it took me 8-9 hours longer than expected. (The first 38-40 miles took about 9 hours 10 min.  The last 6.9 miles took 10.5 hours.)
Don't just do it for yourself; run for a cause
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-VPwwnucE4

The ranger that was dispatched to get me comes to the trail head a moment later and I introduced myself. He asked to check me out and my vitals, although low, do not alarm him. He phones in the results and the supervisor suggests we do more tests. After sitting in his car and warming up for a while, I give the Rangers a bit of more of my history. The combination of past and present suggest to him we might need a little bit more help and soon an ambulance arrives. They are reluctant to hang an IV bag but my blood test comes back and immediately they go into action. I have hyperkalemia, and they need to get me to the hospital to avoid heart attack. I am to be airlifted to Flagstaff but before we can take off my symptoms stabilized somewhat and the paramedics opted to drive me (I think they were happy to get the overtime). I have now been awake for 24 hours; we arrive at 11pm to the ER where I spend 4 hours before being admitted. Although my potassium has stabilized, my ck levels (measure of muscle breakdown in the blood that causes kidney issues) is at 11500 (just 230 times over the normal of 50), a problem called rhabdomyolysis. Over the course of a day and a half I get vitals once an hour and take more than 10 liters of fluid via IV. I sleep less than 6 hours in 3 days.
ER visit
That's Grand Canyon tan right there
The major problem is my vehicle is at the Grand Canyon, 1 hour and 45 min away. With it is my wallet, so - once released - I have no transport and no funds to get there and back. Just a guy covered in dirt with 11 bandaged holes in his arm from procedures, stinking to holy heaven, begging for a ride.  Luckily, my world travels never has me far from connections; my old friend Joe from Johannesburg popped over from his home in Flagstaff.  In between hikes he went out, retrieved my car and brought me clothes.  Why did I need clothes? Oh, that's right. All my stuff left in the hotel was missing. Sarah called and they claimed I requested a late check-out (I didn't) and was gone by noon (I never went back). Yet my items were nowhere to be found. Park Services is investigating it with a string of robberies. Items missing: 2 charger connectors and cords, Garmin charger, 4 port adapter, Timex watch, MSU Track bag, headphones, Ipad, Reef sandals (my favorite kind with the bottle opener in them), Columbia trekking pants, my shirt from climbing Mt. Elbrus in Russia, and a brand new, never worn pair of underwear.  For some reason I put the rest of my items in my car before running - I can't say why. And, thankfully, I made a last-minute decision to throw my wallet in the car before going to the trail head - otherwise that would have been a serious problem in getting gas, food, and a plane ticket home.

37 hours after pulling into the ER, I am busting out of there, against the wishes of my medical care team but no longer able to sit in a bed, pee in a cup, and be limited from the IV's in my arms.  I head south, trying to make a flight that afternoon. I call to have a friend book it as I am driving.  He does.  As I stop to enjoy an In-n-Out burger, I get the email confirmation of the flight - 7 weeks from today.  Luckily, Sarah is able to call and get this canceled, just as she was the other flights she had booked to get me out of there before knowing I was destined for the 3rd floor of Flagstaff Medical Center. After eating the price of the original ticket, we ended up paying a whopping $560 for a one-way flight out that night (again, Sarah had to get Expedia to refund me the $40 insurance I inadvertently booked), and a day and a half extra on the rental car. I had 8 hours to kill in Phoenix airport before an overnight to Chicago and a puddle jumper to GR.

What was supposed to be a scant 48 hours after I left Michigan ended up being 4.5 days, the wheels touched down again in Grand Rapids, and I had flown 3001 miles, driven 470 miles, and run 45 miles (and sat in an ambulance or hospital bed for 39 hours).  But I saw every inch of that Grand Canyon - twice - solo, in summer.

Epilogue

1 week earlier - I work all day in India, load 7 suitcases into a van in 118 degree heat, and commence to fly 20 hours with kids, plus an added layover of 7 hours plus a 4-hour drive from Chicago - I arrive beat. Jump into a hockey game - my first in a year - that night, and roll into my new house extremely sore the next day.  I move furniture and boxes for 36 hours before driving to the airport to fly out.  I forget car seats in the car. Then realize I have no wallet. Then no paperwork for the trip. I get all this and try to start the car - it wont start. I am taken to a shop for coolant. After two hours, I am finally more than 10 min from my house.  The flight to AZ is delayed 3 times (inside, at the gate, and on the runway). I am hardly able to walk at more than a limp and I have less than 14 hours till this run. Not an ideal start.

2 weeks post race - My recovery was slow. The pain in my back from the hospital bed turned out to be the worst of my "injuries" with my legs bouncing back more quickly, though attempting a 1.5 mile run 12 days post still was indication I am not back. My energy is low and I will need weeks to be back to normal, if not longer. I am, however, very glad to be alive considering how this could have ended.

People ask if it was worth it.  The answer is not simple.  No run is worth risking your life over. I should have never been in real danger - popular trail, access to water, fit enough to do it - but if the body goes, it goes. People drown in 2 inches of water and die on jogs around their neighborhood.  And make no mistake about it - it wasn't the heat, the pace, the elevation, or the distance that did me in - I have been there before. It was my own body. I have a clear pattern of my body responding this way, no matter my preparation or pace, the altitude or the distance, and the result has been the same. It wasn't always that way, but it has been for quite some time.  I can keep doing this and the result will be the same: I will end up going from running well for hours to complete shutdown in a matter of moments.  The only question is: will I need medical care to survive the outcome? And that is not a good conundrum to be in. While I am glad I completed this epic run, I am not happy with what it took to do so.  One day, the levels will spike and I won't bounce back, and I do not choose to push that envelope anymore.  I am retiring, again, from the ultra, and I am very happy to do so. There are many other adventures out there.