Ultramarathon Man

  I made the introductions, and the four of us ran south along the esplanade, telling stories and laughing along the way. It made the running almost effortless. At such moments I felt as though I could run forever. I’d just covered 105 miles, and the grand experiment to see how much farther I could make it had begun. Just as a race-car driver pushes his vehicle to the limit, or a pilot tests the “edge” in an experimental plane, I wanted to see how far I could go. What I now realize is that the way other people seek physical comfort and blissful well-being, I seek extremes. Why run 10 miles when you can run 100? Moderation bores me.

  The obvious question I’m frequently asked: “Doesn’t it hurt?”

  “Yes,” I say. “But it’s a good hurt.”

  At points it’s excruciating, but ultimately it’s restorative. Not unlike electroshock therapy.

  Still, most people can’t imagine the levels of pain one endures running long distances. Most of us have run at some point in our lives and know how much it can hurt. And I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t get any less painful the farther you go. Quite the contrary.

  If running 10 miles hurts X bad, it might be tempting to think that running 50 miles might somehow hurt less than 5X bad. How else could someone put up with the pain? Truth is, running those 50 miles hurts more like 10X bad. Or worse. The pain at mile 40 is much worse than back at mile 30, which hurt a lot more than mile 20. Every step hurts worse than the last.

  How can the human body withstand it? I like to tell people that my “biomechanics” are “genetically favorable” for running long distances. They scratch their heads and nod, even when they don’t know what the heck I’m talking about. In truth, I don’t, either. I have no idea if it’s true. But people seem to need some explanation, because it doesn’t seem fathomable to run for forty-eight hours straight.

  There’s really no mystery to what I do, however. It hurts me just as bad as anyone else. I’ve just learned an essential insight: your legs can only carry you so far. Running great distances is mostly done with your head . . . and, as Benner taught me twenty-five years ago, your heart. The human body is capable of amazing physical deeds. If we could just free ourselves from our perceived limitations and tap into our internal fire, the possibilities are endless.

  My three companions kept up with me as far as Exchange 19, a relay point for team runners on the far side of Ocean Beach. Scotty invited Valerie and Neil back to the bar for celebratory Bloody Marys. I would have loved to join them, but I still had some unfinished business to attend to. We bid farewell, and once again I found myself alone on the open highway, the Mother Ship trailing not far behind.

  The road turned inland, and the temperature began to soar. Making matters worse, the highway was heavily trafficked along this stretch, and a thick layer of exhaust clung to the road. Breathing in the noxious fumes was unbearable. Sweat oozed from every pore in my body; even my feet sloshed in my shoes. The mid-afternoon sun was becoming unforgiving.

  Then, as if sensing my despair, the heavens parted, and an angel’s hand reached out to me with a miraculous offering.

  “Here, take it!” my wife hollered from the passenger window of the Mother Ship.

  It was a bottle of Pedialyte. I downed the whole thing in seconds, and she handed out another.

  Pedialyte is the secret sauce of electrolyte-replacement beverages. Designed for dehydrated children suffering with diarrhea and vomiting, it is the most effective isotonic sports drink known to humankind, the next level after Gatorade.

  “Hey, Julie,” I yelled, “when do we get off this road?”

  “It’s a couple miles up,” she called out. “We’ll meet you there.”

  With much more Pedialyte, I hoped.

  After 2 more miles, the course veered off the main highway and onto less-traveled suburban streets in the hills above the San Francisco airport. In the Mother Ship, my kids squealed with delight at the jets taking off and landing below. They could see it all through the big windows.

  The Mother Ship was the ultimate crew vehicle, and my family was the ultimate crew. Mom handed me another peanut butter and honey sandwich out the door. Dad yelled out the window that I was looking strong.

  “Don’t slow on our behalf,” he coached. “You’re on a record pace.”

  Record pace? What was the man talking about? I was just trying to get through this ordeal without self-destructing.

  They pulled over and the kids jumped out.

  “Daddy,” Alexandria called to me, “play with us.”

  “Yeah,” Nicholas agreed. “Let’s play baseball.”

  “Okay,” I panted, “let’s play catch.” And we ran down the road tossing a ball back and forth. A brief rest would have been nice, but playing with the kids was a better pick-me-up. I was always preaching to them, “Adventure happens the moment you step out your front door. Get outside and get going,” just as my mom had urged us kids when we were young.

  Well, here we were, practicing what I preached. We didn’t have to go to Nepal or Africa to find adventure. We could simply lace up our running shoes and embark on a mysterious and intriguing journey right from our house in the middle of San Francisco. We did it all the time, and the kids loved it. What Daddy was now doing seemed reasonable to them (hopefully). He was just stretching the boundaries a bit beyond Golden Gate Park.

  After ten minutes, the oppressive heat got to them and they boarded the Mother Ship for solace. In kinder weather, they would have lasted much longer. My kids are in good shape, thankfully—though I’d never pushed them to become fanatical about their diet and exercise, fearing a backlash. I simply tried to set a good example. Luckily, it worked. They are both healthy eaters and physically active. Watching them bound into the Mother Ship, huffing and puffing after running and playing catch with me, my heart swelled with pride.

  That upbeat mood carried me along nicely for about the next ten miles, but it ran out of gas by mile 130, and a bout of despair set in. Suddenly, nothing seemed to be going right, when hardly two hours ago the world was filled with promise. The sun was now sinking below the distant horizon, and I was running into a gathering gloom. I was alone, my family having stopped somewhere for dinner; where? I didn’t know. The pain wasn’t just confined to my legs any longer but had spread throughout my entire body. I plodded along in grief, barely able to lift my head. Twenty-eight hours of running can do that to you.

  As the pain intensified and my mood sank deeper, once again I began asking myself why I was doing this. The explicit answer was to honor my commitment to Libby and her family, to help a little girl in need. My struggle to run 199 miles was nowhere close to what they were enduring. It was the least I could do to help.

  Of course, there was more than altruism at work. My perverse curiosity to discover how far the human body could be pushed also drove me onward. How far could I go before crumbling? This 199-mile run was the ultimate test. The proving field.

  Or was it the killing field? “The natural situation for man may well be at war,” Emerson wrote. Did I run because I needed to be at war with something? Or with myself? The highest form of competition is self-competition, and I was proving to be the cruelest of opponents, ruthlessly demanding more of myself, relentlessly doing battle with the road, with my own body, with my mind.

  Pain was my weapon of choice.

  Yet even in the midst of the tremendous punishment being dealt to my body, I absolutely thrived on the raw intensity of this moment. Beneath the feelings of hopelessness and despair, never have I felt so alive, despite—or perhaps because of—the pain.

  The headlights of the Mother Ship approaching from behind shook me from this reverie. It was now almost completely dark out.

  Julie spoke softly as they pulled alongside. “How’s it going?”

  “There have been high points, and there have been low points,” I puffed. “This is not a high point.”

  She jumped out and started running alongside me. At my current pace, she really only needed to walk brisk
ly to keep up. I could see the kids in their pajamas staring out the back window.

  “What seems to be the matter?” Julie asked.

  “Basically, everything,” I said. “I’m worked. Not sure how I’m going to cover another sixty-five miles.”

  After a moment she said, “Don’t think of it like that. It’s too daunting. Remember What About Bob?”

  It was a comedy we both enjoyed in which Richard Dreyfuss plays the role of a psychiatrist treating a patient, played by Bill Murray, on his long road to recovery. “Baby steps,” Julie said, as Dreyfuss had counseled Murray. “Just take baby steps. Set your goal as that street sign sixty-five feet ahead, not the finish line sixty-five miles ahead. Just get to the street sign.”

  At times I couldn’t understand Julie, like the time she planted a coconut tree from Hawaii in our living room. At others times, like now, she made perfect sense to me. We seemed to connect best when survival was at stake. Running until I was on the verge of collapse stripped away all of the sappy higher-level needs—delicate things like feelings and esteem—and tended to make our relationship more of an instinctual union. Pushing myself to the brink of obliteration tore down the hierarchy of needs. We somehow loved each other more fiercely at these times, when primitive emotion was the main driving force. The goal was to get me to the finish line, alive. Simple. Straightforward. More powerful than you could ever imagine.

  My cell phone rang. It was LeAnn Wood, Libby’s mom, calling from Stanford Children’s Hospital.

  “I have good news,” she said. “Libby is doing better. She’s asleep right now, and the doctors say that if she gets a good night’s rest we can meet you at the finish in Santa Cruz.”

  “Nothing would make me happier,” I told her.

  With my vow to meet Libby and her family at the finish, my pace suddenly quickened. I could feel a tingling sensation in my muscles, as if my blood was once again flowing. The endorphins were kicking in. I was pulling out of the low. Sometimes you’ve got to go through hell to get to heaven.

  Baby steps, I kept reminding myself as I ran along, baby steps.

  It was after 2:00 A.M. on this second night of running when I reached Stanford Children’s Hospital. Probably best not to stop at this hour. They might have me arrested, or taken in for testing. I’ll be seeing Libby and her family tomorrow anyway. Right?

  The Mother Ship was hunkered down for sleep somewhere behind me, and I trotted along in the darkness alone. At the next intersection, oddly, I nearly ran into a young man out for a walk. He was nattily dressed, if somewhat disheveled; what was he doing out for a stroll at two in the morning? From the look he gave me, I could see he was just as puzzled by my presence in running gear. Then I noticed the lipstick marks all over his face and neck . . . ah, a young Romeo exiting a nearby club with a warm send-off.

  “You’re out jogging pretty late,” he said, stirring the silence. “What time’d you start?”

  Not anticipating seeing anyone out here, I looked at my watch. “Ah . . . let’s see: today’s Sunday, yesterday was Saturday . . . oh, a couple days ago.”

  He blinked. “Where are you headed?”

  “Well,” I responded slowly, “I’m trying to get to Santa Cruz.”

  “Santa Cruz! That’s fifty miles from here!”

  “I know it’s a long way,” I said. “We’ll see how it goes.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “I’m going to meet a little girl and her family.” The light turned green. “Take it easy.”

  “Yeah.” He waved, still staring at me inquisitively. “You, too.”

  Onward I continued, my thumping footsteps gradually becoming the only audible sound. The next hour was run with a mounting fatigue. I tried to remain alert, but the two nights without sleep and 155 miles of continuous running were catching up with me. My pupils grew so heavy that I couldn’t focus. Everything was blurry, like opening your eyes underwater. I continued striding forward, my eyelids becoming heavier and heavier with every step. Then came an eerie calm . . .

  Being awakened in the middle of the night by a loud noise is unsettling, especially when you’re running. In this case, a blasting horn jolted me out of slumber. It took a split second to realize what had happened, but the flashing headlights quickly solved the puzzle. I’d fallen asleep while running. And apparently I had continued sleeprunning merrily along into the middle of the highway. Now I was about to be run over.

  As the headlights bore down on me, I instinctively flung myself into the hedges like a human cannonball. The landing was rough, but the alternative would have been much worse.

  Shaken—Jeeze, I’d been sleeprunning down a highway!—I decided it was time to take a break. Crawling with wobbly legs out of the bushes, I wiped off the debris from my body and sat down on the curb.

  Unfortunately, sitting down wasn’t all that rejuvenating. It was as though my system had adapted to running constantly, and stopping was a foreign state of being. Pain flared through every inch of my body. I had to get up and keep going—it hurt too much to sit still.

  There was one slight problem, however. I couldn’t stand up. My body was simply too weak and ravaged. I made several attempts and failed each time, just couldn’t get up the momentum. It was hopeless. I was done. Cooked. Entirely spent.

  The notion of my covering another forty-five miles seemed a desperately forlorn hope. I couldn’t even get off the curb—how would I possibly run another 45 miles? The weight of this realization crushed me. Sure, I’d run 155 miles nonstop, no small accomplishment. But I’d fallen short of my goal. Succumbing to defeat is devastating to me. Rationalizations never worked.

  What to do now? The Mother Ship crew was down for the night and wouldn’t come across me until tomorrow morning. By that time I’d be incoherent. I thought about dialing 911. Surely over the years the police have encountered similar situations. Or maybe not.

  Screw it. I may have failed, but at least I’m going to preserve a little dignity and stand up. Let them find me comatose, but standing. If I can just rise to my feet, I’ll be satisfied. Baby steps, I thought. Just stand up.

  It took several attempts and plenty of bellowing groans, but finally I did it. I stood up.

  “YES!” I shouted, forgetting for a second that I’d just accomplished something most infants can do at twelve months. As I stood under the pale glow of the street-light, basking in my victory, my fighting spirit resurfaced.

  So I set my new goal of reaching the reflector some twenty feet up the road. If I can just reach that reflector, I’ll be satisfied. Although the going was laboriously slow and agonizing, eventually I made it and let out another triumphant yelp. Then I set my sights on a bush along the roadside some 50 feet up. Baby steps, I kept repeating to myself, baby steps. The momentum built, and gradually I found myself ambling along in something that resembled a patient in traction with two full leg casts. Both arms jutted forward to balance my lower torso, since neither leg could bend at the knee. It wasn’t pretty, but at least I had hope, which is more than what I had five minutes ago. Then, unexpectedly, the living daylights were scared out of me by a loud voice.

  “KARNO!” someone yelled from behind. I jumped in shock. “Karno, what are you doing? You look like Frankenstein.”

  It was my old friend Christopher “Topher” Gaylord. The cheeky little deviant had nearly given me a coronary.

  “Listen, you little shit,” I yelled back at him, knowing full well who it was without having to turn around, “I don’t care if I look like the Loch Ness Monster, at least I’m standing.”

  The headlight of his bicycle illuminated me from behind and cast a long shadow up the road. “What seems to be the problem, son? A little excess mileage on the chassis?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Real funny, buddy. I’m on the brink of destruction, and all you’ve got for me is a bad joke? Make yourself useful. Where’s the food?”

  He pedaled up alongside me and handed over a PowerBar.

  “That’s more like i
t,” I said. “Now liquid.”

  “Easy, homie. Don’t push your luck.”

  I reached over and snatched the water bottle from his bike holster. “I’m not beyond poaching at this point.”

  “You’re ornery, Karno. What’s gotten into you?”

  “Two nights without sleep, a hundred fifty-five miles of running, plus I haven’t had a full meal in at least three hours. It wears on a guy.”

  “If you were wise,” he said, “you’d be nice to me. I’ve got a pouch of kryptonite.”

  “Oh, dude, out with it!”

  “Not with an attitude like that.” He reached into his pack and pulled out a baggie of chocolate-covered espresso beans. He held them out in front of me and rode slightly faster than I could run. As I lurched at the bag and ran faster, he sped up, like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey.

  “Get back here, Gaylord. Gimme those things!”

  “Be nice, Karno.”

  I stopped running and stood hunched over in the road, trying to catch my breath. “All right, you win,” I puffed. “I’ll be kind and polite. Just get over here before I strangle you.”

  He rode back and handed me the beans. I popped a handful into my mouth greedily.

  “Thought you might appreciate those,” he said sarcastically.

  “I do appreciate them. Thank you. It’s just that I took a standing eight-count back there. These work better than ammonia capsules.”

  We proceeded down the road together, chatting as though we hadn’t talked in months, even though we spoke to each other nearly every day. He had called the Mother Ship earlier to approximate my whereabouts, then ridden his bike down from San Francisco. Alexandria had told him that Daddy didn’t look very good, hence the espresso beans.

  The hours seemed to pass more easily with a companion by my side. Misery loves company. There were still plenty of miles left to cover, but for now at least, the prospects were more encouraging than they had been an hour ago. As we began ascending what would be the highest climb of the course, the game was still on.