Getting High For The Holidays

"Running is your pulse, your heartbeat, your breathing. It's the rhythm of your life. It's an expression of love in time and movement, in the ups and the downs."
Recent Twitter post (Follow me at RunningDeeper)

As I write, the clouds are rolling in and I have just emerged from the jacuzzi, where I had been soaking with my family as we watched the fresh snow fall. Heaven.

Squirreled away in the mountain paradise of Idyllwild, our cabin sits at just over 6,000 feet. It's been a perfect spot to ease into my running again after an annual three-week hiatus to give my body a chance to recover from the last year's running, the half-dozen marathons and the beginning of prep for a year of ultra events. It has taken a fair degree of discipline to stay off my running feet, but now I am enjoying the fruits of my labor—or lack of it!

Originally, I'd planned to use my two weeks in the mountains to kick start my training for the Miwok 100k in May 2010. Having entered the lottery, there was little more for me to do than pray to the gods of running that my name would come out of the hat. The results were published a week before we were due to head up into the mountains.

My name wasn't drawn.

Disappointed as I was, I decided to initiate my training as if my name had been pulled. Then, a week later, I received an e-mail that 40+ people who had entered the lottery never followed up when their name was pulled, and so I had been added to the race list as one of the first 40 on the waiting list. Christmas came early this year. I swear, you could have heard my whoop of joy down on the desert floor, 6,000 feet below.

It's been a week of ups and downs. Literally. There's no flat running to be found here. My runs have entailed either 1,500 to 2,000 feet of descent, turning around, and climbing back up, or doing it the other way around—up and then down.

Feeling the crunch of crisp snow, hearing the sound of the wind rushing through the trees, smelling the fresh wood fires from deserted cabins, and carrying my pepper spray in case of hungry mountain lions, lungs burning for oxygen at the higher elevations, I have rarely felt so alive.

The ups and downs of these training runs are of my making—I choose into this mountainous terrain willingly and enthusiastically. I know it will grow me as a runner and prepare me for Miwok.

I could have used the initial news of my missed draw from the lottery as a reason to be down. And stay there. I chose to adjust, and live into my vision—and to act accordingly. I chose to make my down into an up. Hill training for the mind, for consciousness itself. Not only focusing on the law of attraction, which so often I see dissolving into empty wishing, but also engaging a greater law—the law of creation. Spirit, it is said, meets us at our point of action.

Time and again, if we choose it to be, running in the outer world can acts as an illuminating metaphor for what is possible as we traverse the inner terrain of our being.

Next time you encounter a "down" in your outer world, remember the value of hill training in your running life—and engage with your "down" form that perspective. Give thanks for the opportunity to build strength—developing your evolution into a true spiritual warrior.

PTSD: Post Trail Stress Disorder!

"If must doubt yourself, be consistent. Doubt everything. Doubt your fear, your perceived inability, your assumptions about what's impossible. Doubt the doubt."
A recent Tweet from RunningDeeper.

Just over a year ago, I lay on the ground, writing in pain. About 1.5 miles from the end of the Bulldog 50k, my body had shut down. My biggest fear, if I am honest, is that I would soil myself. Right there on the trail.

As other runners stopped on their way past, asking if they could help, I was mixed in my response. I was terrified by the intensity of pain and longed for support in getting through it. But if I was going to lose control of my bowels, I'd rather do it on my own. (You can read my race report for that event here.)

Since then, I had definitely been suffering from what I call the trail runner's version of PTSD: Post Trail Stress Disorder. In my work as a therapist, I work regularly with clients who suffer from the clinical diagnosis of PTSD (Posttraumatic Stress Disorder). Either recently, or in their past, these individuals have suffered significant trauma—events when they had feared for their own safety, even their lives. Often, these events are blocked out, memories are hazy, as a way of avoiding the physical and psychological pain that went with the experience.

Over time, we revisit the memories of those events. Slowly, patiently, lovingly, we journey together into the cauldron of their emotional memory. It is deep, healing work that requires courage. To return to a place in time, in consciousness, that we have hidden from because of overwhelming experiences takes great trust in oneself, and a willingess to accept support.

My 2008 Bulldog experience was traumatic. No doubt about it. With the help of my running partner that day, some nutritional help from fellow runners, and an amazing event crew to spur me on, I managed to hobble, shuffle, and eventually run across the finish line. And then, for the next year, I avoided the trail like the plague!

When the event came around again this year, in August, I ran one loop about two weeks beforehand, to see how it felt. I was doing OK until I came to the place I had gone down the previous year. To this day, I am not sure if it was physical or psychosomatic, or both. As I got to the same place on the trail, my legs locked up again. I was terrified of the same level of pain as last year. I avoided it. Narrowly. I inched my way up the trail. A few lighter spasms, but nothing that threw me to the ground. The trail got the better of me again. I skipped the event. She had me beat.

Last weekend, after a couple of month's of more intense training, I decided to take another run at the Bulldog trail. I had fine-tuned my fueling strategy. I had completed a 40-mile run two weeks previously. I arrived at dawn and set off into the morning dusk. Alone.

In the morning half-light, I found myself worrying about mountain lions, snakes, about running off the edge of the trail. Then I realized, here was my fear again, being projected onto these other concerns. I stopped and said a prayer.

I let go my goal of beating the trail, of overcoming it. Instead, I invited it into a dance. I thanked her for the constant challenges and the opportunities they contained. I let her be my coach, my inspiration, and my mentor. And dance we did.

I came to that final two-mile stretch (the Backbone section) and felt my heart race a little. Well-fueled with Hammer's Perpeteum and gels, well-hydrated, and well-paced, I felt ready. I moved through the section confidently and still with humility. As I ran, I imagined leaving a trail of Light in my wake, Light that reached all the way back to me as I lay screaming on the trail 16 months ago.

As I passed the spot where I had gone down, I imagined picking myself up, and the two of us, past and present, ran in to the trail end together. With practice, perseverance, patience, and pacing, we had made it.

Now, a trail that had once been a demon to me, is becoming one of my favorite runs—for its beauty, its challenges, its strengthening and humbling qualities, and our shared history. When we risk fully unwrapping any fear, any doubt that plagues us, we stand to receive some amazing gifts.

Happy trails—inside and out!

From 40 oz to 40 miles

"40 oz to freedom is the only chance I have to feel good, even though I feel bad."
Sublime, 40 oz To Freedom

I've crossed a couple of important finish lines in the last several weeks.

This last month, I walked across the stage at Royce Hall and collected a Master's Degree in Counseling Psychology from the University of Santa Monica. 5 years in the making, it has been truly earned. (That's me with my lovely wife and Drs. Ron and Mary Hulnick, founding faculty of the University.) Five weeks later, I received my formal registration with the Board of Behavioral Sciences in California as a Marriage and Family Therapist Intern. Next week, I will begin seeing clients in private practice. All of a sudden, my life is transformed and my long-awaited career in counseling has formally begun.

Of course, that's a bit like saying, "all of a sudden I crossed the finish line in a marathon." Sometimes it feels like that for sure. But the truth is there was a lot of training, commitment, and time to get to that finish line. There's an inverse relationship between preparation and how easy something looks. As the quote goes, the will to succeed is the will to prepare.

Over the last 15 years, underneath everything I have accomplished, inside and out, has been supported by two incredible blessings: the love of my wife and family, and the foundation of my running practice. Whatever task I have on my plate, the patience, perseverance, and pacing required to get it done has been born it, amplified by, and maintained by my running.

As I deepen in my work as a psychotherapist, I cast my mind back to the days when 40 oz of alcohol really did seem my only chance of freedom, of feeling good. To be drunk, high, often both, was to feel powerful, free, even at peace. Of course, as any addict knows, when the chemicals wore off, the mirage of those fantasy experiences quickly vanished.

This Sunday, I will run the Long Beach Marathon. When I get to the start line at around 7 a.m., I will already have run 14 miles. When I reach the finish line of the marathon, I will have completed 40 miles. It will have been my longest run yet, and a significant step in my training for my first 50-mile event.

When I get there, sure, I will be tired. I will also certainly feel powerful, free, and at peace. When the glow of the run fades, when the feelings pass, those qualities will still be alive in me. That's the essential difference between my 40 oz and 40 mile experiences.

With the drugs and alcohol, I sought to create the sensation of what I imagined those qualities to be like. With the running, through the running and all it requires to maintain an ongoing running practice, I connect with the place inside of me where those qualities reside. I experience them authentically.

As runners, in the qualities required to commit to, train for, and complete any event, we're connected. I firmly believe that every runner benefits from every other runners' dedication and practice. We are runners. We are a family. We are a tribe. We are one and we are greater than the sum of our individual achievements. We ARE running. Without us, there would be no running. By that, I mean that without runners to give life to running, there would be no running. We are the vessel through which the transformative energy of running becomes apparent.

Thank you for all that YOU do to keep that energy alive.

Of Bridges

"What kind of crazy nut would spend two or three hours a day just running?"
Steve Prefontaine's comment in Junior High when he saw the High School Cross country team running.

"Bridges!!"
My daughter's (age 4) response to the recent question, "What's your favorite thing about summer?"

In a few weeks, my running buddy, Todd, and I will be driving up to San Francisco to enjoy the unique setting of the city's marathon course. Naturally, one of the sections of the course I am most looking forward to is a first time run across the beautiful Golden Gate Bridge.

As regular readers of this blog know, I am a big fan of the spiritual metaphor to be found in the everyday. Bridges have to be one of the big five metaphors. How, for example, did Steve Prefontaine get from laughing at the thought of running and—what a ridiculous an idea that was to him—to becoming one of the running world's greatest practitioners, ambassadors, and legendary icons?

He crossed a few bridges—in his own mind, in his heart, and in his spirit. And he used his body as a means to effect and manifest those crossings.

And that's the beauty of running—by committing to a physical practice, each runner also commits to a program of emotional, mental, and spiritual transformation. You simply can't sustain one without the other. And then the cycle continues, with the multi-level changes being expressed through the change in physical level experience.

It takes courage and commitment to cross any bridge. I remember crossing some shaky looking bridges when hiking in Nepal, like the one on the left. It requires a sure foot, a lot of trust, and a clear focus on reaching the other side. Our "internal bridges" are just the same. There are, for example, a good number of shaky bridges crossed along the path from addiction to the land of sobriety.

It has been said that we are never given anything in life that is beyond our ability to handle. When life feels overwhelming, we can cross the canyon of doubt by using the bridge of faith. Whenever you hold a picture in your mind and heart of how you would like things to be in the future, the goal you are working towards, imagine a bridge connecting where you are with where you wish to be.

Imagine this bridge as an arc of golden light. This bridge is your faith, your willingness to hold a vision and move in its direction—even when the way may not appear clear. It is only when you are on the other side of the bridge that you will be able to look back and understand how you made the journey to your new life.

This is the very nature of faith. As you go through your day and beyond, keep this vision of the golden bridge of faith in your mind and heart. In times when your goals seem out of reach, recognize that these are the priceless opportunities for building firm foundations for the next bridge that will take you closer to home.

In my own life, it is a time of many different bridges. In three weeks, I will complete a Master's in Counseling Psychology form the University of Santa Monica and begin an Internship as a Marriage and Family Therapist. A bridge into a new career and out of what had seemed an endless path of schooling!

I have crossed a number of long and sometimes darkened bridges with my longtime running buddy, Todd, this year. He has been recalibrating his life after the unexpected end of an important relationship. We have run hundreds of profound and sometimes humorous miles together, wondering about the workings of relationship.

We have explored the nature of love, of integrity and honesty, and about the journey of the heart. It is a journey rich in beauty, and one that also has some rocky trails. Todd is a barefoot runner, so those sharper rocks can sometimes dig deep.

Even in the midst of the sadness, loss, and search for understanding, he and I have created something new and filled with hope: a deepening friendship that has become a strong and reliable bridge for us both—and one that has carried us both further into the beautiful landscape of trusted friendship. What a blessing!

The Hardest Part of Running

"Injury is a master teacher. Heed its lessons well and you need take the class only once. Remember—the goal is to graduate, not change the school." iRunInspired.com

For myself—and many runners I talk with—the hardest part of running has always been not running. However hard the long runs may be, the weeks of increased mileage, the mind-bending, quad-busting hill training, the marathons, the ultra distances, it is rarely the running that presents the biggest challenge. It's the NOT running.

Not running from choice is one thing. Developing the muscle of self-supportive discipline to build in rest days as a regular part of your running schedule is a foundational skill. You may not think you need it in your twenties of even thirties. But if you intend to still be running at 40, 50, 70, even 80+, you must develop it. Must.

Not running because you can't is quite another. There's really only ever one reason why I CAN'T run and that is because of injury. All the other can'ts that I might create are just that—creations, better known as choices. Work, time, busy-ness, etc, etc, these are all reflections of the things I might choose to prioritize over my running. But injury is different.

I've had my share of injuries over the years, the latest of which has been a bout of Achilles tendinitis. As I saw the swelling on my left tendon grow over the period of a couple of weeks, I watched my habitual mind jump in: "It'll go away on its own; You just need to run it out; it's nothing serious."

Now I've run "through" a couple of injuries in the past. The first was a hip strain and the second was plantar fascitis. I kept going as I sought to smother the wisdom my own body was seeking to share with me. In the end, my body had the final word in both situations. The hip thing sidelined me for 9 months. The plantar fascitis for 18 months.

I thought I knew better than my body. No longer is that deception running in my mind. Nevertheless, to take the recommended 10-12 weeks off for the tendinitis is a tall stretch for any runner. 3 months. Geez. After completing the Long Beach Marathon last October, I committed to do just that. I did not run again until December 23rd, for a total of just over 11 weeks.

There's only so much fun I can derive from stationery biking and I find swimming crushingly boring. I lifted some weights and worked on my core strength and slowly moved into rehab exercises, balance, stability, and the like. But all the time, whatever I was doing, I was NOT running.

For eight weeks, there were the mood swings, even depression, dark thoughts, introversion, an overall weight gain of about ten pounds. I was hating life. Myself. My world. No writing here either. Then I got the inspirational text message at the start of this entry and everything shifted. The funniest part about that was that I wrote it! I subscribe to my own service and it had sent me a message I had not remembered writing as part of a database of many hundreds of messages.

Some other, wiser part of me was reminding me that not running is always a part of running. And that injury, for almost every runner, is a part of our landscape. Hopefully, it is one that we do not visit too often. But the more prepared we are to find our way around in that landscape, and to listen to the professional guide of our body as we do, the less time we have to spend there. A sensitive, mature, patient approach to injury rehab is an integral part of the runner's toolbox.

I missed the rhythmic cadence of my foot fall over those 11+ weeks. I've missed the early morning sounds of my regular routes: the water birds along the LA River and the lapping waves along the beach. But there is also one sound I have not heard during that time that I do not miss—the sudden, shotgun snap of a tendon pushed too far. A sound that would have announced a minimum of six to nine months recovery.

I eased out on my first run, December 23, in the deep snow up in Idyllwild. What a way to return! Out in the wild, in the snow, at over 6,000 feet. Moving slowly, tingling with joy. I felt alive once again—and even more so as I came across the fresh mountain lion tracks in the snow. That wondrous blend of aliveness and fear that comes from recognizing that I am part of the food chain!

I'll be running the Surf City Marathon in 3 weeks— a wonderfully flat course, perfect for my evolving recovery and strength building. It has been a delicate balance to build up my mileage a little quickly, while still listening to the feedback from my body. So far, so good.

With continued care and the ongoing willingness to listen to what my body has to tell me, I will complete Surf City and graduate from injury school with honors!

Bulldog has Quite a Bite!

With 29 miles completed and just two miles to go, my calves cramped with such force that I was thrown to the ground. Writhing in the dust of the trail, muscles locked shut, I screamed with pain and frustration. So near and yet so far . . .

My day had started at 3 a.m. and preparation for the Bulldog Ultra went well. By the time Todd and Tiffany arrived to pick me up at 4:30 a.m. for the drive to Malibu, I was buzzing with excitement and apprehension. Six months of training were about to be put to the test.

There were plenty of nervous giggles on the way up, but predominantly we traveled in silence, each of us acclimatizing to the magnitude of the adventure we were committed to. "It's not too late to pull out," I joked. "Yes it is," came a unified reply from the front of the car. We were, clearly, in this together. It felt good to know we would journey our first ultra together.

All too soon we were gathered with a couple of hundred other 50k entrants, stretched, fueled, and lubed. I said a prayer of gratitude for the early morning mist that would keep us cool for the first 10 miles or so. After the first calf-crunching 7-mile climb, the trail broke through the marine layer. The view was spectacular, reminding me of trekking in the Himalayas, with numerous mini peaks jutting through the low cloud. Here, there were just a few hundred feet below the clouds, but it might as well have been several thousand. The trail was quiet, wildlife still waking.

A quad-busting decent took me back down to sea-level, and by the time I arrived at the half-way point at a little over fifteen miles, about three hours out from the start, I was ready for a major refueling stop. Fresh clothes, peanut butter and honey sandwich, fluids. I emerged from the aid station refreshed and ready for the real challenge of the second half.

First time around the two-loop course, I had run through the first aid station at four miles, chatting idly with other runners as we moved past. This time, temperatures now in the 90s, I stopped willingly. Ice was poured into my hat, freezing cold water sprayed on my body, my bottles refilled, and encouraging words thrown at me . . . "Just another 3 miles of unforgiving, calf-busting climbing to go!" they joked as three of us headed up the slope.

Although my legs had started to feel painful at about mile 22, making each step of the final descent uncomfortable, I kept taking in plenty of fluid and what I though was enough nutrients. As I came out of the last aid station with two miles to go, it was going to be hard, but not, seemingly impossible. And then it happened.

To be thrown to the ground by my own body was a new experience. And as I sat up to stretch my calves, my thighs cramped in response. I had never know cramps this intense, strong, or long lasting. When another runner stopped to praise open the muscles in my legs, I could see him sweating with the effort. As he pulled me to my feet, my body weight on my legs was enough to fire my calves into cramping again. For a moment, I thought the pain was going to be enough that I would soil myself. Right there on the trail in front of my fellow runners. This was going to be a day of many firsts!

That moment passed, thankfully, without becoming a first. But I was still just a mile and a half from the finish with not even the ability to crawl. I lay on my back and started to laugh. I started to think of all the stories I'd read in the last month of long distance runners in moments of bodily breakdown. Each one had survived by invoking the same ritual: focus on one step. Take just the next one step.

My running buddy Tiffany arrived up the trail and volunteered to gently massage my legs. When they cramped, I swore at her out of pain, imploring her to pull on my muscles harder to unlock them. Eventually, they stayed looser for several minutes. Another runner gave me some Endurotabs to swallow. After sitting for 15 minutes, I stood up. Ouch. Horribly painful yes. Throwing me to the ground. No. This was progress.

As I shuffled up the trail like a robot, wincing with each step, an EMT came running up the trail. "You guys seen a runner down? We have reports of a runner down." I think that's me. But I'm up, I'm OK. Behind him came the race director. I was getting the full experience.

She looked at me with concern. I could tell she was considering pulling me from the event. A little more than a mile to go and I was about to be pulled. "Who's running for President?" she asked. "Obama and McCain," I answered. "And who's going to win?" Obama of course. "Wrong answer!" she replied. And then laughed. "I don't think I can pull you for that though. OK, I want you to go in to the finish with these guys," she said pointing at a race volunteer who had been at the previous aid station.

I hobbled off the trail and into the last mile-long section of covered road that lead to the finish. On the flat, I was able to break into a slow run with Tiffany one one side and Deb, a longtime ultra runner at my side. When she heard this was my first ultra, she beamed. "Awesome! You're gonna make it, I promise you."

And I did. Eight and a half hours after starting, I cruised over the finish line, where my wife and daughter were waiting. Their homemade sign said, "Ultra dad. Ultra husband. Ultra marathoner." That moment was one of the sweetest in my 15 years of running.

Now Sheehan's quote had become more than inspirational. It had become a lived experience . . .

“If you want to win anything—a race, yourself, your life—you have to go a little berserk.”

8,000 — 32 — 100+

“Success means having the courage, the determination, and the will to become the person you believe you were meant to be.”
Dr. George Sheehan, Author, Running & Being

8,000 feet in elevation gain; 32 miles; heat in triple digits . . .

This year, one of my goals was to move beyond marathoning and into ultra-running. This Saturday, August 23, that goal will be realized as I, along with my training buddies Tiffany Forster and bare-foot running stud Todd Byers, will complete the Bulldog 50 kilometer event in Malibu State Park. (Todd will be wearing shoes for this event, the first time I will have seen him run in shoes in almost 18 months!)

While finishing the event will be a big accomplishment, it is the six months of training that are the real win. As a result of that success, this event will mark a new beginning as well as an end. Bulldog now also heralds the start of my year-long training for the Goretex Trans-Rockies Run, a 6-day, 125 mile event in August 2009.

My run at this new level also requires some thank-you's:

To my family: Teresa and Hayden, who have adapted to my training schedule, long weekend runs, and occasional (?) crankiness, while showering me with encouragement every step of the way;

To Tiffany: training buddy extraodinaire, for the joy, humor, and mutual support we have shared over hundreds of miles—and for reminding me that youth is a state of mind and heart;

To Todd: for an bottomless stream of tips, training guidance, and wonderfully bad jokes that have made the miles fly by;

To Drs. Ron and Mary Hulnick and the staff, faculty, and fellow students at the University of Santa Monica: after many years away from running due to injury, in 2000, it was what I learned in the M.A. Program in Spiritual Psychology that showed me how to get running again in a sustainable, enjoyable, and self-caring way.

To Spirit: I have shed so many tears of joy, gratitude, and humility on my runs. The gift of my running experience continues to grow, inspire, and open me to deepening levels of beauty in my life.

So, starting at 6:30 a.m. on Saturday morning, your prayers, blessings, Light, and/or general groovy vibes of your chosen persuasion are welcome for all the runners in the Bulldog events.

I'll close with words from the master, George Sheehan, once more, “If you want to win anything—a race, yourself, your life—you have to go a little berserk.”

PS: I'll be celebrating with two of my very favorite things:

• A weekend at Disneyland, (including several repeat rides on Space Mountain!)
• Attending the guaranteed-to-inspire Graduation ceremonies at the University of Santa Monica. These are held this Sunday, August 24, at 2 p.m. at Royce Hall on the UCLA campus. This year's speaker is the remarkable Roberto Assagioli.

PPS: Want an insight into the mental attitude that keeps me on track for six months of high-intensity training? Click here to find out. �