I’m a summer person. I like part of fall and much of spring, but this time of year is tough for me.
See, I’m a Southerner by birth. Winters where I grew up lasted about a week, or maybe two weeks, during which we’d get a quarter inch of freezing rain and entire cities would shut down. Everyone would go to Wal-Mart and buy all the bread and milk. We’d venture outside clad in enough layers to significantly inhibit movement.
One time at my college in Arkansas, classes were cancelled before any snow fell. What a party we had that night! The cancellation turned out to be a good idea, because overnight a foot of snow fell, and the campus turned into one big snowball fight. Then we partied more. The snowballs hurt less after a couple of beers.
For several winters I worked at a ski resort in Colorado, and those are among the most miserable times of my life. But it sure made me appreciate spring! There is nothing like seeing green grass after crunching through snow for five or more months.
Because I’m a permanent career seasonal (my actual job classification), I have winters off. I usually go on furlough in October or November, and start again in March or April. I get my year’s worth of work into 7-8 months.
These months are when I go into my own kind of hibernation, where I get to work on myself. I meditate, I physically train twice a day six days a week, I go to yoga, I read, I write, I cook supper for my wife, and do more normal things that firefighting doesn’t allow me to do.
Winter is a season of restoration, and the problem I have with that is that restoration takes patience. Working on myself is a daunting proposition, especially when I’m trying to balance the physical, emotional, and spiritual aspects of my life. Stuff that I can bury during the summer comes bubbling up when I have more free time to be me.
So my winter work is an inside job. It takes a lot to deal with the junk that builds up over months of being away, working long hours.
But I’m grateful to have this time. And though it tries my patience, I try to make the most of it to become a better me. I always come out saner and a bit wiser.
So, on this first day of winter, I wish you the best in your own life and in your own inside job.
Last time you heard from me, I was recovering from knee surgery. So let’s talk about the adventure since then.
It took about a month for me to start running again. My first run in physical therapy was across the famous blue turf at the Boise State Football Stadium. It was a warm spring day and for a few seconds I pictured myself running in the winning touchdown for the Arkansas Razorbacks in the Rose Bowl.
There was a decent amount of pain around the incisions, but as the swelling was still going down, my physical therapist said the pain would decrease and probably disappear.
In the meantime, I tried to keep my cardiovascular system in shape by doing sprints on the exercise bike at work. That also helped with range of motion and mood. The post-operation blues were a lot easier to handle when I could exert myself.
My first run out on the trails was rough, though. I picked a route with easy terrain and a gradual climb for the first mile, figuring that would give me time to warm up and get my running legs back. I was wrong. It was much more painful than I figured it would be, and I struggled to get a mile in. Then I walked back to my truck. My dog was with me, and looked at me in bewilderment.
Hiking proved to be an easier transition. And while I was slow, I found I could carry weight without much discomfort. This was great for me, as it meant I could get back to my job.
And almost five weeks to the day after surgery, my doctor released me back to full duty at the end of June. I felt ready, especially since my squad was leaving the next day for a fire assignment in Utah. I did not want to be left behind again.
That fire, the Brianhead Fire in southern Utah, was the high point of my career. Literally. My first day we were sent up the town of Brianhead to work at over 10,000 feet. I’d never fought fire that high. My previous high point had been at around 9600 feet in the Frank Church Wilderness in Idaho.
It had been months since I’d been anywhere higher than Boise, 2753 feet, so it was quite a challenge for me. But what a beautiful place! The alpine scenery and the view of the basin and range country to the west was impressive. Being an employee of the Bureau of Land Management, we don’t often get to work in the woods. I think we were all glad to be in a beautiful place, helping out the Dixie National Forest with the fire.
In the months since, I feel that I’ve completely recovered from the surgery. The pain has gone away on the runs, and I feel no weakness in the knee. I am grateful for the medical staff who have helped me through this, as well as my wife, who had to put up with my moodiness during those early frustrating days of recovery.
My friends have asked me if I’ll do another Spartan Race. Even though this was all caused by an injury in a race, I do want to do more of them. Better preparation on my part would have prevented the knee injury in the first place.
And speaking of physical preparation, I’ve been back at it for over two months now, since fire season ended. I feel I’m stronger than I was at this time last year, and have some challenges in mind towards which I’d like to work.
Though I’ve pushed myself hard over the years, I feel that with smart training, I can set the bar higher. I believe that my fittest years are still ahead of me.
I was halfway through a 10-mile Spartan Race in Washington, walking with a sandbag over my left shoulder. Hiking along on the uneven terrain, I felt a pain on the inside of my left knee when I fully extended my leg.
Gutting it out on the course, around the time I injured my knee.
I paused for a moment to assess: was this a muscular issue, or had I injured the joint? I limped along to the end of the obstacle and considered my options: I could quit now, or keep going and see how it felt.
For a test, I jumped up and down a few times. No pain. I began walking again, then started to jog. No pain. I wasn’t quitting. Time to keep going.
But later in the race, as I was carrying a bucket of gravel uphill, it came back. Shit. I finished the obstacle and repeated the tests. No pain. I jogged back down the hill, and forgot about it the rest of the race.
At the finish, I mentioned it to my wife, but being beat up all over, I didn’t worry too much. Besides, my hamstrings were cramping and a cold wind was blowing over the course, and I was wet and shirtless.
After several hours spent recovering, I felt I was ready to get after it again. For that evening I’d signed up for a Hurricane Heat, which takes place at a Spartan Race, but is focused on group exercises. That lasted four hours, much of spent lugging a 20-pound medicine ball. And despite the exertion, I didn’t notice anything further wrong with my knee. Perhaps it had been a fluke, a strain of tight muscles.
The next day we drove back to Boise. During that drive that knee became painful, and I had a sneaking suspicion that I had done some damage to my knee, beyond a strain.
Several days later, the pain hadn’t subsided, so I went to an orthopedist for a professional opinion. An x-ray revealed no joint/bone injury, and in fact showed the cartilage in my knee was holding strong, despite years of running and hiking.
It had to be something else: a torn meniscus. An MRI later that week confirmed it. I talked to two different doctors and their opinion was the same: have the torn section removed, to avoid further problems.
Surgery was the last thing I wanted to do. I even looked into stem cell injections, but it didn’t look promising to heal my torn meniscus. It did promise to relieve me of $4500.
The second doctor I talked to, specializing in sports medicine, made a good case for surgery. The loose section, on the very inside of my knee, would continue to tear through the entirety of the meniscus and might abrade the cartilage, thus hastening arthritis, unless it was trimmed. He said it was a routine operation, one that many athletes had done with good results. I believed him, so I told him I’d undergo surgery.
About two weeks later I went under the knife. The operation went smoothly, with my doctor removing about a third of my meniscus. I was on crutches for about a week, then started physical therapy once a week to get strength and range of motion back into my knee.
A day after surgery. This was almost too scary for me to look at.
Last week, I ran for the first time since my injury, with the help of a special treadmill. Despite the discomfort of the support, I felt great. Though I’d been riding stationary bikes for several weeks, it was different. I felt like a runner again. I started to feel like myself again. It had been nearly two months since I last ran: the longest break I’ve taken from running in years.
Being injured just isn’t a physical issue, it’s also a mental one. I make a living on my feet, hiking on wildfires. I also love to run, at least on trails. It’s a stress reliever for me, as well as kind of moving meditation. It’s also exercise for my dog, who doubtlessly misses our outings.
Not being able to run or hike, or fully do my job, put me in a big funk. My crew left for an assignment in Utah several weeks ago, so I had to stay back and do office work, alone.
That run last week was the first ray of sunshine through the bleak clouds.
This week, I decided to run on my own. Four weeks to the day after my surgery I ran a lap around a track. The first half felt great, but the during the second half the still-healing incision sites began to ache. Still, I made it.
My first run since surgery. Not much to shake a stick at, but it was the first time I’d run in two months.
It’s a long road back for me, though. I hope to get cleared for full duty this next week, but I know it will still be several weeks before I can start running strong again.
I know this: I will never take walking or running for granted again. And I can’t wait to get back out there.
It usually takes an hour or less. I do it nearly every day, and sometimes my wife comes along if she’s home. And I find that not only do I feel better doing it, I feel better afterwards.
I’m talking about walking my dog.
My dog is an 8-year old Catahoula Leopard Hound named Scout. Scout is also my running partner, and has what I like to think is an impressive amount of mileage on him.
This winter has been the wintriest I’ve experienced since I moved to Boise in 2007, with lots of snow and subfreezing temps for a month straight. For him, these winter days consist of laying on a bed or couch and sleeping for much of the day. In fact, as I write this I can see Scout twitching in his dreams under a net of covers he pulled off the back of the couch. It’s hard for a thin-blooded Southerner in this cold climate.
Because of the inactivity, the Daily Walk is the highlight of his day, and often mine. It never fails to amaze me how excited he gets when he hears the jingle of his collar or the sight of me picking up his leash. I have to smile when I see him impatiently waiting by the door while I put on my jacket and pull on my boots.
And off we go into the neighborhood. The street and most of the sidewalks are frozen, which makes for tricky walking. With four legs and claws, Scout has no issues slipping and falling.
It still is a bit strange for me to walk with just one dog—until last summer my daily walks had been with two. This past August we had to put our older dog, Shoban, to sleep. He was 13, and a variety of maladies had reached the point where he was no longer comfortable.
Shoban looking serious at the Columbia River Gorge.
Shoban always seems to be on a mission when we headed out the door. I don’t know if it was his eagerness to pee on everything or just sheer exuberance, but even at 13, he pulled a lot. In fact, I think the Daily Walk was the one thing that kept him spry those last few years. I think of him every time we walk out the door.
Scout is a good walker: he stays by my left side and doesn’t pull, except when he sees other dogs or people who might give him treats. He is people-oriented, and enjoys the praise I give him when he behaves himself. He’s developed quite the white beard this past year, which fools people into thinking he’s old. He’s not, and he certainly doesn’t act like it.
Though he tends to sleep more these days, his energy level is still high. He still runs circles around me when it’s not icy, and he has lately taken to playing tug-of-war in the evenings. I’ll never forget a moment from three years ago, after a 14-miler run in the Boise Foothills with 5000 feet of elevation gain and loss. I was beat-up, having run farther than I ever had in my life, but when we got home he ran from the car into the house. I’ll never forget that. I limped.
Our walks have not been without danger. Twice in just the past year, unleashed dogs have attacked us on our walks. One necessitated a trip to the vet for stitches (for Scout). But no matter, we go anyway.
Though the walking is slippery, my neighborhood looks beautiful in the snow. One of our walking routes takes us to a magnificent view of the city and the mountains beyond. I’ll stop and take it in, while Scout smells around for other furry friends who have been there.
Scout humors me when I look for birds, and I humor him when he stops to pee for the tenth time. I’ll point out a Merlin and he’ll look at me as if he’s thinking: “Cool bird. Let’s keep on going.”
These walks are a great idea time for me. I even bring a small notebook and pen with me in case I think of a story or blog post I can write (you can guess where I came up with this one). Scout is used to it, and knows to stop when I pull the notebook out of my back pocket.
Once we’re home again, Scout will sit proudly in front of the bookshelf that has the treat jar and wait to be rewarded. Then he’ll slink off to the couch or his bed for a quick nap before his next adventure.
Well, he just woke up from his nap. He is stalking around the living room, looking alternately at me and then my boots. I suppose I know what time it is.
The car began sputtering and slowing down as we approached an exit from the Interstate. I looked at the fuel gauge, which showed the needle above the E.
It sure feels like its empty.
My wife and I were on the road to Seattle for the weekend, so I could run in a Spartan Race. I’d only signed up three weeks before, eager for a physical challenge to test my limits. But right now, I wasn’t sure we’d even make it.
I tried accelerating, but the car would only lurch as I took the exit. No other lights showed on the dash, so I figured it was either fuel or the fuel pump. It was great luck to happen where it did, so that we could make it to a gas station before the car died. Still, it was a troublesome omen.
A thorough check under the hood showed all was in good order. I was mystified, but figured a full tank of gas couldn’t hurt. Several hours later we were at the hotel northeast of Seattle. I saw a Bald Eagle on the east side of the Cascades, which I took to be a good omen. Still, I slept fitfully the night before.
There are three different types of Spartan Races: a Sprint ranges from 3-5 miles and has 20-25 obstacles; a Super is from 8-10 miles and has 25-30 obstacles; a Beast is from 12-14 miles and has 30-35 miles. I signed up for the Beast.
Despite having run little during fire season (but still running nonetheless), I felt I could handle the running part, though probably slowly. And having already done a Sprint in June, I was familiar with most of the obstacles. Failure to complete any obstacle results in the penalty of 30 burpees. My only failure in the Sprint had been the Spear Throw.
My start time was 0830, so my wife and I arrived at the complex an hour early. Because the venue was next to the Skyhomish River, a considerable flog blanketed the racing grounds. However, the sky showed some promising breaks of dawn’s early light that I hoped meant good weather for the day.
The temperature hovered around 50 degrees, which in Boise felt positively warm, but in 100% humidity of Washington felt much cooler, almost cold. I had hoped to run shirtless for convenience sake, but my Southern blood is much too thin to keep me warm in those conditions, particularly since I knew there’d be a lot of water obstacles and mud to negotiate.
After registering and getting my timing chip and number, we retreated back in the car so I could stay warm until starting time. I also drank some strong, hot tea for an extra energy boost, though my nervousness was such that I barely noticed. I was excited, but daunted.
By 0815 I couldn’t stand being in the car anymore, so we went back into the venue and I did some cursory warm-ups before entering the race gates. I watched the 0815 wave take off into the fog, noticing that they were slogging through water right after the start.
There was a course map posted nearby, but I barely looked at it. I figured I’d have the next couple of hours to figure out the course, so there was no use to me for fretting over what was ahead.
After taking off my light jacket and kissing my wife, I climbed the barrier into the gates and lined up with the other racers. An emcee got us pumped up, as we chatted nervously, yet excitedly amongst ourselves. The energy was very high, and very positive.
Before I knew it, we were off into the fog. As I had already seen, there was a small slough right after the start which most people tried to avoid. Being on the side of it already, I managed to keep my feet dry before heading into a second slough, which I simply ran across. I had already accepted that my feet would be wet for much of the race, so I got it over with then.
There was only one hill on the property, and we were soon heading straight up it. As to be expected, it was more of a muddy mess than a proper trail. I managed to work my way through the thickest of the pack and power hiked the slickest sections. I was surrounded by a chorus of heavy breathing, which I could barely hear over my own.
It took me a while to warm up, so I ran only on the flats and downhills, and walked the uphills. No sense in burning out early, especially since this would be the longest run I’d done in over two years. But up on the hill in the mud, it was more of a slog than a run.
Much of the early route was in the trees, huge spruces and firs with ferns and blackberries covering the ground. It was beautiful, like nothing I’ve ever run through. The fog shrouded the tops of the trees, and for a few minutes I could only see a handful of other racers. It was peaceful, until I reached the first obstacle.
With my lower body covered in mud, it was time to get my upper body dirty, too. A spiderweb of smooth wires (as opposed to barbed) lay low to the ground, so I crawled as low as I could. Another racer, carrying a small hydration pack, kept getting snagged on the wire, which would slap me on the back every time it released. I was thankful there were no barbs, and was able to go around him and on to the next obstacle.
My memory is a bit fuzzy from there, but next I recall a sandbag carry for several hundred feet, partway down and back up the hill. I’d actually practiced this with a 60-pound punching bag, so the 40-pound sandbag didn’t feel so bad. The hardest part was trying to stay upright on the steep muddy incline.
Looming somewhere on the course was the Spear Throw, the one obstacle that I didn’t train for and had failed before. And unlike my first Spartan Race, this one came early—about Mile 2.
On the outside, I may not appear competitive, but inside, I fiercely love competition. And when I reached the Spear Throw, I saw a lot of people doing burpees and was determined not to be one of them. I found an empty station, reeled in the spear, and straightened the point to improve my chances. I glanced down the line to see other racers setting up, then took a deep breath, exhaled, and threw.
It stuck.
Not a bulls-eye, but definitely not a dud. I yelled, I jumped, I danced. Then I got back to running. That huge hit of success gave me a boost of confidence that stayed with me the whole race.
But the greatest part of the race was the people. I ran with several other guys at different times, commiserating with them as we carried buckets full of gravel and waded through waist deep water with sandbags on our shoulders. One guy was even running the race barefoot! There was so much energy in the other racers that it helped feed me, and I hope mine fed others in turn.
If there was one common thread on the course, it was water. There were puddles everywhere, and the course designers seemed to steer the path through every imaginable stream, puddle, and pond out there. The mud, too, seemed endless at times.
It seemed that every time I emerged from the water I had to do something that involved leg strength: jumping up and over 8’ walls, carry heavy logs, and so forth. It’s tough enough when you’re warm and dry, but far moreso when you’re cold and wet. I knew the course would be tough, and I was not disappointed.
The last few miles of the course consisted mostly of running. By then, the sun had broken through the fog and the day was turning absolutely beautiful. The fall colors were at their apogee, which made the running beside the river that much more lovely. And at one point, I could see a small sliver of the Cascades in distance across one of the open green meadows. With the sun shining down, I felt like I could run all day. But there were still a few more obstacles between me and the finish line.
Despite feeling good inside, my hip flexors were smoked from having to stabilize my torso through all the mud and water. My arms were tired as well from two separate bucket brigade carries, monkey bars, and the many other upper-body obstacles. So, when I got to the Hercules Hoist, I was not in ideal shape.
The Hercules Hoist involves lifting a weight using a rope and pulley to a specified height, then lowering it down under control. I don’t know how heavy the weight was, but it must’ve been somewhere not far under my bodyweight because it was all I could do to move it. After two lengthy attempts, I finally gave in and did the 30 penalty burpees in the mud and sand. I could see the Finish Line not far away.
One of the last obstacles was a crawl through the water under wires. Earlier I’d waded through waist deep water, which took my breath away. This was worse, much more painful, as the water covered everything below my neck. I stopped twice to stand up between the wires, but the thawing just made it hurt more, so I pushed through all the way to the end.
At the end of the water crawl. The reason for the smile is likely that my teeth were chattering after all the cold water.
After emerging from the water, I went up and over another obstacle, then jogged to the flaming logs just before the end. I was still shivering as I ran, but so excited to be finishing that I didn’t mind. However, my left calf minded very much, cramping terribly after I jumped over the logs. I almost wiped out right at the finish line, but managed to make it upright and walk away.
Excited to be at the Finish, though when I landed on the other side my left calf would be cramping badly.
A friendly volunteer gave me a finisher’s medal and I went straight to the food tables to get some bananas. As I ate and stood in the sun, I watched more of my fellow Spartans come in. Despite the exertion, nearly all were enthralled and all-smiles as they finished. It was awesome to watch.
Before I started I didn’t know how I was going to get through it, but I knew that I could. That was the challenge of it, and the reason why I did it. It was the funnest race I’ve ever run because it was so difficult, and forced me to dig deep at times to make it through.
I’ve always been interested in my personal limits, and testing myself to see how far I can go. After this experience, I know I can go further than I ever imagined.
I couldn’t stop shivering. The wind was whipping over the knife-edge ridge that I was supposed to traverse in order to make it to Idaho’s highest peak, and I was unenthusiastic about continuing.
In fact, I was terrified. I hadn’t been on such high, exposed terrain in years, and the steep terrain on either side of this, Chickenout Ridge, gave me second thoughts about my bid to summit Mount Borah.
Looking up Chickenout Ridge in much better light than I had seen it in the morning. My route was along the top of it.
Up until that point, I’d felt good and confident. The higher altitude (the summit tops out at 12,662’, while I live in Boise at 2753’) wasn’t troubling me, nor was the steady uphill grind. The only reason I needed to stop was to pee. Until I reached the crux, that is.
As I slowly scrambled up the first pitch and looked over, my breathing and heart rate sped up instantly. I could see no safe or sane way forward. The cold wind buffeted me as I clung to the rocks. And on top of that, my hands and feet were painful, almost numb.
I found a small nook to sit it, hoping it would shelter me from the wind. That’s when the voice started in—the voice of doubt. And once I started listening to it, it’s amazing how loud it got. Any time I dared to glance up and look at the route to the peak, it chimed in.
It’s too cold. It’s too windy. You’ll fall off the ridge. You’ll panic at the exposure. Your hands are too cold to grip the rock. You can be sipping hot tea in your truck in 90 minutes if you leave this godforsaken place now…
And on it went, in various loops. As I got colder, my decision-making ability also froze. I could see a few people hiking towards me, and thought they might know the ideal route through. From my perspective, they were the size of ants, and watching them, they seemed to move even slower. I considered pulling out my phone and looking up route advice, but I didn’t think I could stand the exposure to my freezing hands.
After a few minutes, I knew I couldn’t stay where I was. I had two choices: up or down. I ate a snack and decided to go up.
As I worked my way up to my turnaround point, I tried some deep belly breathing—the same breathing I use during my daily meditation. The cold fog in my mind started to clear, and the energy from the snack began to give me the energy and focus I really needed. Looking for the next step, I noticed a route that required only about 10 feet of side-shuffling on a ledge that would get me past this choke point.
Thus resolved, I made my way across and picked up a loose walking trail marked by cairns. Up ahead I could see the sun shining into a golden layer of sandstone. Still shivering, I couldn’t wait to reach it.
The same spot later that day, when I was coming down. In the morning my hands had been too cold to take my phone out for a picture.
Standing in the sun for those first few moments was a huge morale booster. Combined with exertion to get there, I was starting to get feeling back into my hands and feet. But, I still had to negotiate the next section of the ridge, which looked to be as daunting as the section through which I’d just passed.
Again, I looked at the top of the ridge to see if it would go, but was daunted by the exposure. I tried traverse routes along either side, both of which petered into nothing. So the ridgetop it was.
By this point I was feeling warm and confident again, though the going was slow and careful. Soon I reached the notch which separated the ridge from the main part of the mountain. I had to downclimb a slick pitch of rock (slick from all the traffic it had seen over the years), thankful for the plentiful handholds. An old rope hung down there, but I refused to use it, unsure of its age and ability to hold weight.
At the foot of the notch was a short stretch of snow, dropping away steeply on either side. In a few steps, I was across it and on to a much easier, nearly flat traverse over to the base of the summit. I high-fived rocks along the way as I stepped carefully into the postholes made by a previous hiker in a recent snow. The summit seemed close enough to touch.
After I traversed the trail over to the next saddle, I realized the summit was further away than I thought. I still had several hundred feet of elevation to gain, all of it in snow. I was wearing my thin trail-running shoes, so my feet stayed cold. But now that I was fully in the sunshine, I was warm everywhere else, so I didn’t mind.
With an empty belly but high spirits, I reached the summit around 10:45. I’d left my truck about 7:00, and despite the considerable delay at Chickenout (I guess about 90 minutes), I felt I’d made good time. More importantly, the view from the top was incredible. It took several minutes just to take it all in.
The view looking south from the summit.
My heart was full of gratitude to be there: not only for overcoming the doubt, but for everything else. Everything that had ever happened in my life, all the good times and all the bad shit, added up to right then.
I laughed at myself for so serious a thought, but felt I had a good philosophical point to ponder on the way down. In the meantime, I snacked, drank a bit of water, and gazed at the 360 degree view that I, the highest human in the state, was fortunate enough to experience.
Grateful to be on the summit.
About 1130 I decided it was time to head back. After one last look around I started down. The sun was thawing the snow enough to make a slushy mess that made footing slippery, but not especially dangerous. Nonetheless, I was glad when I reached the flat traverse and had easier terrain on which to walk.
In quick succession I met a father and daughter hiking, as well as a trio of women headed up. They all seemed in good spirits and I stopped to chat with each of them. I simply couldn’t contain my excitement.
Soon I stepped across the notch and started back down Chickenout Ridge. In the dazzling light, it looked formidable, but much less so than it had that morning. After a deep breath I started moving, and I felt the doubt and fear leave again. Movement felt natural, so much so that I made it through the trickiest part in a matter of a few minutes. I let some hikers pass before I started the lower section, stopping to take a photo of the spot where I’d first felt the sunlight. It still looked golden and beautiful. I felt beautiful, too.
With the rock scrambling over, I started jogging down. The loose scree made for some interesting moments, but I thoroughly enjoyed the total focus it required to run through it.
During the flatter, easier sections my mind wandered back to the day, recapping what I’d experienced and what I learned. I came up with these two pieces of advice for myself:
Ideas are weak. Actions are strong.
Action is the cure for fear and doubt.
I thought about it the whole 4-hour drive back to Boise, and couldn’t figure out a better way to say it.
There’s no shortage of great books about running these days, and it seems that most every great runner of our age has written one or is in the process of writing one.
My reasons for choosing each of the following were numerous, but the most common theme is ultra-running/endurance. As a wildland firefighter, I’m highly interested in stories of human endurance, and the list has no shortage of that. Additionally, I’m interested in human transformation and realizing potential, of which there is also plenty.
If you’re a runner I think that each of these books will speak to you in it’s own way. Because I feel each book tells it’s own story so well, I’ll try to summarize as concisely as possible each one, so that you might be interested enough to read them on your own.
Lastly, I’m breaking convention of a round number because I felt I had to include all these. I know I’ll be adding to it in the future.
The title really hooked me when I first saw on it for sale, and seeing the all-star list on the cover sold me. My favorite section was David Horton’s account of the notorious Barkley Marathons. Ann Trason’s “Growing Up at Western States” was also fine reading.
Favorite Quote: “What do you think Ernest Shackleton would have done?”
This book is a fictional account of a real race across America in the 1930s. I first heard about this book on a podcast with legendary ultrarunner David Horton, who noted that it was a big inspiration for him. That’s saying a lot, as Horton went on to run both the 2100-mile Appalachian Trail and the 2700-mile Pacific Crest Trail, in addition to a slew of first-place finishes in major trail ultras.
This book is on the longer side, but is so absorbing you’ll be flying through the pages.
This is not just a book about running, but about dealing with and overcoming multiple addictions. It’s a compelling and inspiring read, the story of someone who changed their life to tap into the true power of the human mind and body (helped by a plant-based diet, no less). I loved the story of what he calls “The Run”, and I’m sure most of you long-time runners can relate in some way to it. I’m an avid listener of his outstanding podcast and am also a big fan of his newest book, The Plantpower Way.
Favorite Quote: “…there’s only one cure for fear. Faith.”
Scott Jurek is probably the most well-known vegan ultrarunner in the world, and one of the most legendary ones. This book is an account of his life, starting with his childhood in Minnesota and takes you through his many races and running achievements, among them 7 consecutive Western States 100-mile Race wins and the grueling Badwater 135 Ultramarathon. He also includes some tasty recipes in between chapters.
David Clark has written one of the most honest and searing books about addiction and recovery I’ve ever read. Driven nearly to death by food and drinking, he completely changes his life, in part through running. He now uses his long runs to raise money for a variety of causes, including a 300-Mile Run Across Colorado for Sobriety, and more recently, a Quad-Boston Marathon to benefit victims of the tragic bombing there in 2013.
“Inspiring” feels almost too weak to describe the depths he overcame to be the ultrarunner he now is. Honesty bleeds from these pages. I can’t imagine anyone being the same after reading this book.
Favorite Quote: “I knew this was my moment, this was it. The time had come for me to fight or die.“
Running in America hasn’t been the same since this book was published. I know my running changed after reading it. From human movement science to minimalist shoe design to the rise of ultra-running, this book covers a lot of ground in a well-written and evenly paced style. I bet I’ve read it at least 3 times, in addition to flipping through it on occasion. If only I could’ve invested in Vibram before it came out…
Whereas Born To Run is action-packed, this book tends to stay on the more mellow side. Nonetheless, the story of these monks is truly inspiring. On a sparse vegetarian diet, these men put in some serious miles, with some completing a 1000-day Mountain Marathons (more like a double-marathon of 52.5 miles) over seven years, in 100-day stretches. The simplicity of their running, and their devotion to it, is what struck me. The picture of one of the monks after 700 days is etched in my memory.
Favorite Quote: “The path of a marathon monk is never-ending.”
On Day 31, Scout and I in front of what was the largest Ponderosa Pine in the World.
This morning I ran for the 31st day in a row. Wow, why did I do that?
In mid-December I picked up the book Living With a SEAL by Jesse Itzler. I’d already heard an interesting interview with the author on a podcast and was really excited to read the book. To say I was entertained and inspired by it is putting it lightly; I wanted to bring some of that determination into my own life.
Though I consider myself a runner, at that point I’d barely run for seven months. I tore the meniscus in my left knee in May, so for a while after that I was reluctant to put on the shoes and head out the door. My dog was not happy about that decision.
Running has been a good stress-reliever for a long time, so forsaking it caused the stress in my life to build to nearly unbearable levels for much of last summer. Thinking about not running was even stressing me out. I was having a bit of an identity crisis.
But after reading the book, I realized I had no excuses not to go out and do a 10-minute run. 10 minutes—I definitely could spare that much time. 20 minutes if you include getting dressed and getting the dog ready. Not a problem.
I was only a few days in when I felt an immense sense of momentum. Once again, I looked forward to heading out my door each morning. I was becoming a runner again.
I quickly made a short set of rules:
Run a different route every day. Before, I had two routes in my neighborhood I would generally run. Part of the challenge every day is figuring out where I will go.
Run by feel only, not time or distance.
No matter the conditions, I’m out the door. I should note that my dog was excluded from this on two occasions: sub-20 degree temperatures and the morning after getting into the trash.
I ran on Christmas morning and I ran on New Year’s morning. I ran when it was 8 degrees out and I ran when it was 40. I ran on sunny mornings and ran on rainy mornings. I ran for 10 minutes and I ran for 40. I found that no matter what the conditions were, just stepping out the door made me feel better. In fact, the worse the conditions, the better I felt. It was the act of doing something that I truly enjoyed that brought that warm fuzzy feeling over me even when I couldn’t feel my fingers.
I know that a lot of you reading this blog may not be runners or may not enjoy running, but here’s the lesson I learned:
Doing something you enjoy and love makes anything seem possible.
I didn’t think at the start I would go a run for 31 days in a row. Still somewhat deterred by the condition of my knee, I would’ve doubted I could do it. But now I know that I can. And by the way, my knee is fine.
Furthermore, I feel like I’m only just beginning. 100 runs in 100 days is starting to sound appealing. I don’t know when I’d hit 100 days (late March?), but I’ll worry about that when I get closer. I want to enjoy every run between now and then.
It’s easy to delay or deny yourself the things you love when things get busy or get tough. I understand that. But forever delaying the pursuit of your passion can only lead to unhappiness and frustration. And that’s no way to live.
So, your assignment this week to actually do something you enjoy. Don’t just think about it, but do it.
If you’re interested in following my 100 days of running, here’s where you can find me:
For you data geeks, here are some numbers:
Date started: December 20, 2015
Days so far: 31
Total Mileage: 57.4
Avg Mileage/Day: 1.85
And I know there are plenty of other runners out there who’ve run farther and for longer than me. I admire them all, but especially Catra Corbett. She’s such an avid runner that her dog did ten times more mileage last year than I did. Probably more.
3. 
Matt Dunn Online 