Ultramarathon Man (6 page)

For the better part of my adult life I'd been making deadlines and chasing the next deal. It had been so long since I had stopped to reflect, I wasn't sure what was important any longer. Things were moving so fast that there was no time to look below the surface. Everyone around me seemed to be operating on the same level, and it just fed on itself. We were all caught up in a whirlwind of important meetings and expensive lunches, do-or-die negotiations, lucrative deals conducted in fancy hotels with warmed towel racks and monogrammed robes.

I had grown accustomed to the upscale lifestyle, the bonuses, the hefty options package. My future looked bright as the perks continued to roll in. But I couldn't ignore the nagging sense that something was missing. I was moving fast, that was for sure, but was I moving forward? I needed a sense of purpose and clarity—and, perhaps,
adventure.

Something snapped on the morning of my thirtieth birthday. It began pleasantly with Julie bringing me breakfast in bed.

“Happy birthday, darling,” she smiled, pouring my coffee. “Can you believe you're thirty years old?”

That simple question, which slid so innocently from her mouth, sent me into an absolute tailspin. For the first time it hit me—
I was thirty years old!
How could it be? I felt as though I hadn't even begun to live yet. How could I be thirty? Where had the years gone?

At that moment I realized that my life was being wasted. Disillusioned with the trappings of the corporate scene, the things that really mattered—friendship and exploration, personal expansion and a sense of meaning—had gotten all twisted around making a lot of money and buying stuff. I hungered for a place where I could explore nature and my capabilities, away from a corporate office in a corporate building in a big city with crowded supermalls and people judging me by the car I drove (which, of course, was a new Lexus).

What I needed was some breathing room to figure things out. Some space to determine what really mattered to me. I needed a chance to clear my vision and look at the world through fresh eyes.

“Honey, is everything all right?” Julie asked. “You look like you're a mile away.”

“No, it's not,” I replied. “I'm confused. I feel trapped by my routine of twelve-hour workdays. I'm not sure what's important anymore. My fear is that I'll wake up thirty years from now and be in the same place, only wrinkled and bald . . . and really fat. And bitter.”

“Wow,” she said. “Is the coffee too strong?”

“I read a story in the paper yesterday about the first mountain climber to scale Mount Everest without supplemental oxygen,” I said. “Nobody thought it was remotely possible to climb the highest mountain in the world without using bottled oxygen, but this guy went and did it anyway. A reporter asked him afterward why he had gone up there to die, and you know how he responded? ‘I didn't go up there to die, I went up there to live.'”

She listened politely, but I could see my ramblings weren't entirely clear.

“I miss my sister,” I said, “and the good times we used to have together. I want my family to come back together. I'm sick of work being the center of my life, it's just not doing it for me. Something's missing. Is thirty too young to be having a midlife crisis?”

We spent the rest of the day kicking around the city, not saying much. I picked at my food when we stopped for lunch at an outdoor cafe.

That evening we joined friends for drinks at the Paragon, a swanky nightclub in San Francisco's hip Marina District. The city was hopping, all the trendy bars mobbed with self-important young professionals like myself. Julie, who isn't big on nightlife, decided to walk home early. I stayed out with the boys and proceeded to get seriously loaded for the first time in years. At one point a beautiful young woman said hello to one of my friends, and he introduced her to me.

“This is Dean. It's his thirtieth birthday.”

It was an embarrassing statement, and I hoped that she would ignore it. But she didn't.

“Well, hello, Dean,” she said, squeezing my hand most pleasantly. “How's it feel to be thirty?”

Extremely troubling,
I thought. But I blurted out, “Great!” with a phony, drunken grin on my face.

She lived in San Francisco, too, and worked downtown. She told me that she rarely went to bars, which I doubted. I bought her a drink. And then she bought me a drink. We toasted my birthday. In the back of my mind, the part that was still sober, I could see where things might be heading, and I really didn't want to go there.

Then again, I was drunk. And depressed. And this girl was really cute. The bar was pulsing to a jazz band, and we swayed along, chatting away. Soon enough, she was rubbing against me, her face lit up by a seductive smile.

“I have a confession to make,” I managed to say. “I'm married.”

“I know,” she smiled. “I saw your ring. So am I.”

She held up her left hand to display a massive rock on her finger.

“So, can I buy you another drink, birthday boy?” She pressed herself against me again.

My mind was whirling. “Hold that thought,” I said. “Let me run to the restroom.”

As I worked my way through the crowd, my heart began to speak. When I reached the restroom, I didn't stop. I kept going, into the kitchen, where, behind the gas stoves and walk-in coolers, there was a delivery entrance. I pushed my way out through this door into the tradesmen's alley, then made my way among the food remains and rubbish to the street.

And kept walking.

The cool night air cleared my head almost immediately. The streets of San Francisco were quiet, except for the foghorn on the Golden Gate Bridge, reverberating off in the distance. Light trails of mist swept down the streets, and the moon appeared, and then disappeared, behind the clouds. It was late and dark, and very still once I got out of that bar.

When I reached my house a few blocks from the bar, I saw that Julie had left the porch light on. Our Victorian looked warm and inviting, and safe. I began walking up the stairs, like I'd done a thousand times before, but I only made it a few steps.

There was something transforming about tonight. A switch had been flipped inside me. I wasn't going to check my messages and then slip into the comfort of my warm bed. There was a determination to make tomorrow morning different, too. I wouldn't be showing up at the office as usual, only to exchange gripes with my colleagues about how our jobs had taken over our lives and how there was no time left for anything else.

I'd no longer stand for it. This was my life, and I was damn well going to live it on my terms. Over the years I'd softened, lost my edge. But that was all about to change tonight.

I went to the garage and cautiously made my way through the darkness to the back porch, where I kept an old pair of sneakers used for yard work. I deliberated for a moment about what else to wear. After some thought, I undid my belt and pulled off my pants. I had on a pair of loose-fitting jockey briefs, which would be comfortable enough. I took off my sweater but left my undershirt on. The socks were a problem. They were black silk knee-highs. I folded them down low around my ankles, then put on the sneakers.

In my pants pocket I found a twenty-dollar bill. It had started the evening as a hundred-dollar bill, but the bar had consumed the balance. Folding it up neatly and stuffing it into my shoe, I took a swig of water from the hose, and made my way back to the street.

As I started jogging south, I turned to take one last look at my house. Inside was my beautiful wife, peacefully asleep. I blew her a kiss and strode out of sight.

 

 

 

It was
tough going. I hadn't run any real distance in fifteen years. But I kept at it. That night I just
knew
I had to keep at it.

So I ran, and became filled with emotions and memories. I thought about my sister, Pary, and how much I missed her every day, even now, almost a decade after her passing. I thought about the time I had teased her about not liking ketchup, and wished that I hadn't. And I thought about the time Pary, Julie, and I had ditched school and driven to Disneyland, eaten cotton candy and gone on all the rides, joked with Mickey—because he knew we were playing hooky and didn't mind—and held hands and skipped through Tomorrowland, singing,
“Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me!”
and then snuck Julie back into her house afterward. Was I ever grateful for that day.

These memories carried me along pleasantly as I ran.

Three hours later, exhaustion set in. And hunger. Steady running requires an almost steady supply of fuel. My stomach felt like a deflated balloon. Happily, I saw the lights of a Taco Bell up ahead. My stomach growled and twisted itself into knots of anticipation as I staggered up to the front door. The sign clearly said OPEN LATE, but the door was locked. Bummer. I was sunk.

I sat down on the curb to catch my breath. My feet were swollen, and my left big toe was aching terribly. I pulled off that shoe. What I found was appalling. The front of my sock was discolored and soaked with pus. When I got it off, I saw the massive blood blister that had popped on the tip of the toe and had caused the stain.

Great. I'd covered only fifteen miles and already I was maimed. I should have known that my gardening sneakers weren't suitable for long-distance running. But I hadn't owned running shoes in quite some time, hadn't had much occasion to use them.

I was staring at this bloody mess when I heard a car pull around from behind the building and saw that food was being served through the drive-up window. Yes, they were open! I was saved!

My legs throbbing and cramped, my foot mangled, my body coated in a layer of sweat and road grime, I hobbled around back to the drive-through speaker. I stomped on the cord with my heel. “Can I take your order?” a tinny voice asked.

“Oh, yes!” I cried. “To start, I'll have two tacos, a burrito supreme, and two tostadas.”

“Will that be it?”

“And a large Coke and two bean burritos.”

“Anything more?”

“That'll do it.”

“Please pay at the window.”

Digging the crumpled twenty out of my shoe, I strolled joyously to the pick-up window. The girl up there didn't look so happy, however.

“Sir, do you have a vehicle? You cannot order food from the drive-through unless you're in a car.”

I studied her. She was just a kid. No doubt the manager had drilled this rule into her. And I couldn't have been a reassuring sight. But she was standing up there between me and my tacos. This was going to require some of the delicate persuasion skills I'd acquired at work. I tried my most winning smile.

“I understand what you're saying,” I said, calmly and agreeably. “But in this one isolated instance, could you just let it slide? I won't do it again, promise.”

She peered down at me, my sagging underpants fraying and tattered.

“Nice try.”

“Look, I've got the money right here, and I can see my order right there.” I was still smiling, and trying to keep the note of hysteria out of my voice. “Let's just make a quick transaction and we'll be done with it. No one will ever know.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but if we make an exception for you, we'd have to let everyone order from the drive-through without a car.”

What was she talking about?
I wondered. I looked behind me. Not a single other thirty-year-old man in his underpants appeared to be trying to sneak through the Taco Bell drive-through in the middle of the night.

I showed her the twenty again.

“Please. Let me have my order and you can keep the change.”

“Good night, sir.”

“But . . .”

She disappeared from the window.

“Food!” I moaned. “I need food!”

Just then a car approached the drive-through, a massive, late-model Oldsmobile. I hobbled over as the middle-aged Asian driver rolled down his window. He looked surprised but not frightened to see me, which was a good sign.

“Listen, I'm really hungry,” I told him softly, so as not to be overheard by Helga the Taco Nazi inside. “They won't let me order. I need to go in your car through this drive-up window.”

“Where your car?” he asked.

“My car is in San Francisco.”

“You want a ride to San Francisco?”

“No. I just go with you through this drive-through to get food.” He looked like a tough negotiator. “If you drive me through, I'll pay for your food.”

That cracked him up. “You pay? You crazy! You crazy, man.”

Still laughing, he waved me around to the passenger side. I didn't want Helga to see me next to him, so I slipped into the backseat and hunkered there, hopefully out of sight.

“We play taxi?” he grinned. “Okay, I taxi man. What you order?”

“Order me eight tacos,” I said softly.

“Eight tacos!” he cried. I motioned for him to keep it down.

Helga seemed very suspicious through her whole exchange with him, but he pulled it off beautifully. There was a touchy moment at the window when I passed him my crumpled twenty and he held it up to her. She furrowed her eyebrows at it, and I could see she was wondering if and where she'd last seen it. I held my breath. Finally, with measured reluctance, she took the money and handed over the blessed sacks of treats.

My driver was giggling delightedly as we pulled away. “You so crazy!” he kept saying. He pulled the car into a nearby parking lot and cut the engine. “We eat now?”

Who was this guy?
I wondered. How many nights had he eaten Mexican food alone in this empty parking lot? Did he have anywhere to go? Why was he so willing to pick up a stranger?