Ultramarathon Man (10 page)

As you stand at the race check-in area, the bulk of the horizon is defined by colossal granite spires. To the east is KT-22 at 8,200 feet. Directly in your face is Squaw Peak at 8,900 feet. Slightly to the west is Emigrant Pass at 8,700. And Granite Chief commands the western skyline at 9,050 feet above sea level. It's an awesome sight to watch the gondola whisk up the steep cables toward the snow-covered cornice off in the heavens.

“That's where we go, you know,” a voice resonated from behind me.

I turned to see a brawny man of about fifty staring up at the mountain through a pair of aviator sunglasses.

“Pardon me?” I said.

“That's where we go tomorrow,” he said with a grin. I saw the hospital cuff around his wrist.

“You mean we run up to the top of the chairlift?” I asked.

“Hey-diddle-diddle, right up the middle,” he said cheerfully. “It's a full frontal attack. We start here at the base, run right up the guts of this valley, traverse that ridge,” he explained, pointing up at the ridge that defined the western horizon. “And then we crest the summit and start down the backside.”

It seemed like a cruel way to start a 100-mile footrace. Just running the four miles from the base of the mountain to the summit would be brutal. The pitch of this four-mile climb was nearly straight up in certain sections—not to mention the distress of high altitude, with the summit looming some 9,000 feet above sea level. The air would be thin, and the footing would be a lousy mixture of loose rocks, melting snow, and thick mud.

“The name's Rock.” He held out his hand. “At least that's what my friends call me.”

I introduced myself.

“This your first States, son?” Rock asked.

I nodded slowly. “How could you tell?”

“That's easy.” He lifted his shirt to reveal a shining silver belt buckle. It was beautifully ornate, with a golden cougar highlighted in the middle. Printed on it were the words: 100 MILES, ONE DAY. Like everything else around here, the buckle was huge.

“You're not wearing one of these,” Rock went on, “and you look damn capable, so I figured you'd have one of these bad boys if you'd done the race before.”

That was a fine compliment. To earn the Silver Buckle, you not only had to complete the course, but do it in under twenty-four hours. The silver belt-buckle prize was a carryover from the event's humble beginnings as a horse race. It was arguably the most cherished endurance running award on the planet. Only a portion of the starters tomorrow would earn one.

Two other runners strolled up and stopped abruptly in front of Rock.

“Sir!” they barked.

Rock turned to them slowly. “Hello, boys,” he said with a wide grin. They nodded to him sharply and then turned and continued on their path.

It was the pair who'd passed me on Lovers' Lane and inadvertently introduced me to this
sport.
We had
met
at the top of Lovers' Lane, exchanged pleasantries at the fifty-mile qualifying run (at least
I
had said hello), and here again they'd ignored me. I was beginning to feel more insulted by these guys. It must've shown on my face.

“Don't mind them,” Rock said. “They're just doing their job.”

“And just what job is that?” I asked.

“Well . . .” Rock hesitated. “Let's just say they're in the military.”

“So they can't introduce themselves?”

“Well . . .” Rock paused again. “Let's just say they're in a
special
kind of military. And they can't introduce themselves. Actually, they
could,
but they'd just give you an alias, so what's the difference?”

“You mean to tell me they can't even acknowledge my presence?” I smirked. “How they gonna make any friends acting like that?”

Rock grinned. “They already have all the friends they need, each other. Everybody else is considered a potential enemy.”

“That's comforting.”

“Don't take it personally. It's just how they're trained to think.”

Rock grasped my shoulder firmly. “Listen, stay focused on the task at hand. Don't get distracted by those other guys. You're not competing against anyone but yourself. I want to see you at that finish line with a buckle in hand.”

“Yes, sir!” I barked.

Rock smiled.

My parents
volunteered to help crew for me during the run and had made the nine-hour drive up from Southern California. The Western States Endurance Run would be an adventure for all three of us. Unfortunately, Julie couldn't be with us because her State Dental Board examinations fell on the same weekend. These tests would be the final hurdle in her quest to become a licensed dentist. She had been nothing but supportive of my own quest, and I had made my best attempt to be equally supportive of her dream to become a dentist. But this time there was, unfortunately, no alternative but for her to do her thing and me mine.

I met my parents in the lobby of the Inn at Squaw Creek, a beautiful resort at the base of the mountain. After my sister's death a decade before, our get-togethers could sometimes be strained. There were so many feelings, so many thoughts that were never expressed. But now, standing in this grand foyer with the mountains surrounding us, we were at ease with one another as we chuckled at the opulence of the surroundings, which seemed so incongruous with the journey I was about to embark on the next morning.

The full extent of my reborn passion for running had not been obvious to my parents until this meeting. News about my running came to them in sporadic phone calls and brief mentions in letters I wrote. We didn't spend as much time together as we should have. But now, as they saw me fit and focused, perpetually sipping from a water bottle, the scope of my transformation was evident.

“You look great,” my dad said enthusiastically.

My mom smiled. “This is so exciting.”

A black-tie event was taking place at the Inn, and elegant women and tuxedoed men filled the lobby. It was an older crowd, perhaps the retirement party of some elder statesman or local dignitary. A little stiff for my liking, but fun to watch from a distance. Suddenly, there was a deafening roar just outside the building. A woman shrieked and dropped her martini. The crowd went into a conniption, people scurried left and right, not sure whether to stay put or flee. I looked out and saw a huge green Humvee pull up to the front of the hotel. The thing was massive and roared like a tank. It was caked with mud and had a wheelbase that could easily have swallowed two or three of the nearby Jaguars.

The driver swung open the door and jumped down to the parking lot. He was dressed in a leather pilot's jacket—and running shorts. His legs were like gnarled tree stumps. He opened the passenger door and hauled out an alligator-skin briefcase. Then he reached behind the seat and pulled out a big rifle. And I mean a
big
rifle. He slung this over his shoulder and, with the engine still thundering at idle, strolled up to the reservation counter as though nothing were amiss. He rested one elbow on the countertop and chatted with the young receptionist. She said something that made him throw back his head and laugh—though you could barely hear him over his rumbling H1. She handed him his room key, and he walked casually down the lavish hallway, rifle and all.

Eventually one of the valets drove the vehicle off.

“That was one hell of an entrance,” my dad said.

“I wonder what he'll do for an encore,” I replied.

Later, we enjoyed a nice dinner on the patio. The night air was warm and still, which wasn't necessarily a good thing. Weather tomorrow would be a major factor, especially in the deep canyons along the middle of the course, where midday temperatures could easily hit triple digits. Along the course would be a series of aid stations and checkpoints, but most would be little more than a few guys handing out water and encouragement. Most runners carry food and liquid with them, an added burden but necessary to remain hydrated and nourished. Crunching a few pieces of ice on the patio that evening, I relished a luxury that would be in short supply the next day.

Sleep didn't come easy that night. I tossed and turned and was wide awake when the alarm went off at 3:00 A.M. My parents were soon stumbling around the room half-asleep, helping me go down my checklist:

 

That done, my parents went into the bathroom—trying to wake up, I presumed—until music filled the room. The theme to
Zorba the Greek
shook the walls, and my folks burst out in makeshift hotel-towel togas. They started Greek-dancing across the room and over the bed, whirling and cheering with zeal. I jumped into the fray, and the three of us danced like kids at our first pajama party. At the conclusion we let out a collective
“Oppa!”
It was the Greek version of reveille.

 

 

 

When we
arrived at the starting area, a pancake breakfast was in full swing. It felt odd sitting in a crowded cafeteria at 3:30 in the morning, mowing down a tall stack of pancakes like it was the corner IHOP on a busy Saturday morning. The peculiarity of the setting didn't dampen my appetite, however, and I scarfed down several mounds. Other runners filed nervously in and out. The coffee was black and thick as motor oil: perfect.

At 4:30, a horn sounded. I took one last gulp of coffee and we made our exit. The outside mountain air was crisp and laced with the scent of fresh pine. It was still pitch-black. Near the starting gate, racers and crew made the final adjustments to their equipment and went over their game plans. The crowd was primarily comprised of family, friends, and the occasional reporter. Beams from flashlights and headlamps haphazardly dissected the predawn sky like miniature searchlights. I checked in with a race official, who simply said, “Good luck.”

There was a string of Tibetan prayer flags hung over the start, and a long white ribbon was tied across the dirt trail. Staring up at the granite mountaintops now visible in the predawn light, I thought about my sister Pary and how happy she would be knowing that I was pursuing a dream, doing something I loved. I hugged Mom and Dad and took my place in the crowd of runners.

A loudspeaker crackled to life—
“Ten minutes until race start!”
—and the fidgeting, preoccupied crowd went absolutely berserk, whistling and howling like beasts. Runners bounced up and down, spun around, shook their arms wildly. The guy next to me started shadow-boxing with the mountains.

A man strolled out of the darkness in running shorts and a leather jacket, with a
big
rifle slung over his shoulder: the Humvee driver. He walked casually yet deliberately toward the starting line; it was clear the encore was about to begin.

He hopped up onto a large rock beside the starting line, and all eyes focused on him as he turned to face the crowd. His voice rang clear in the still morning air:

“First of all,” he said, “I want to congratulate every one of you for having the courage to be standing here at the starting line of this incredible event. To have made it this far, and to have had the dedication and drive to be at this point, represents a tremendous accomplishment in its own right.

“Many of you will not reach the finish line. I applaud your efforts and your determination. Even though you do not finish this event, you will walk away a winner for having the courage to have tried.

“For those of you who do make it, you will cross that finish line as a different person. You will be forever changed by the experience. You will learn more about yourself in the next day than you have previously known in an entire lifetime.”

My body may have been conditioned like a thorough-bred, but it was evident from his words that this would be more than a physical journey.

Over the loudspeaker came:
“Five minutes until race start.”

The man with the rifle unfolded a sheet of paper and began to read: “‘My fair cousin; if we are mark'd to die, we are honored by our country in its tragic loss. And if we live, the fewer men, the greater the share of honor.'”

The morning air swirled around the crowd and the sky seemed to rumble.

“‘God's will, I pray thee, not one more man. For I am not covetous for gold, nor care I for material flourishments. But if it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.'”

It was an excerpt from Shakespeare's King Henry V's rallying cry to his weary soldiers before the battle of Agincourt.

The loudspeaker blared:
“One minute until race start.”

The guy with the rifle continued: “‘He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, will stand a tiptoe above all others. Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, but he'll remember, with advantages, what feats he did this day. This story shall the good man teach his son, and forever in their flowing cups will it be remembered; from this day to the ending of the world!'”

“Ten seconds until race start,”
boomed the loudspeaker.
“Nine, eight, seven . . .”

The rifle-toting man pointed his weapon skyward.