Ultramarathon Man

  The track coach, Mr. Bilderback, was abrasive and domineering. During my interview, he made several offhand remarks about the cross-country team that seemed to cross the line from a healthy rivalry to outright jealousy. The cross-country coach, Benner Cummings, insisted that I call him Benner, unlike the track coach, who didn’t seem satisfied with me calling him anything short of God. Benner talked with me instead of down to me.

  He was short, maybe five-feet-six, and energetic for a man in his sixties. He had an infectious smile and a full head of naturally dark hair. His skin was radiant and smooth, and he had large, fluffy eyebrows that moved as he talked.

  For high school kids to respect anyone, let alone a teacher, is unusual, but every single member of our team respected Benner. He functioned more as a guru than a coach, using training methods that were unorthodox but indisputably effective. Year after year, his cross-country team placed at or near the top of the league.

  Benner himself was a terrific runner who liked nothing more than to work out with his team. He frequently had us run the mile from the high school to the beach, where we’d stash our shoes in the bushes and run barefoot along the seashore. Growing up in Southern California has its advantages. Sometimes we’d run single-file in the soft sand, following each other’s footsteps and rotating the front-runner at every lifeguard tower. Other times we’d mix it up, running side by side in groups of two and three.

  My favorite beach training run was “chasing the tide.” This was Benner’s answer to wind sprints, which the track runners did obsessively with a stopwatch on hundred-meter straightaways. Our routine consisted of running along the waterline and chasing the water down as it receded, and then running away from the water as the waves washed back in, staying just inches from the tide line. We would do this for miles and miles, hardly noticing how physically demanding it was because we were so caught up in the natural rhythm of the game.

  Most of the cross-country guys ran in baggy surf trunks. This was a marked departure from the traditional running shorts with their tight internal jockstrap. One of my teammates told me that he preferred wearing loose-fitting surf trunks because “the boys appreciate the fresh air.” This made sense, so I adopted the practice.

  Cross-country was, in many ways, a paradox. Though our approach to running may have seemed nonchalant, we still took winning seriously. If we won, our unconventional methods and beach escapades would be viewed as brilliant training tactics. If we lost, we’d be considered a bunch of freaks.

  After the workout, we’d always go for a swim. Benner loved to swim. Actually, he loved to float. He would swim out past the breakers, roll onto his back, close his eyes, and hang out for an eternity. Some of us thought that he napped while floating.

  It was an exciting time to be a runner. Running was experiencing a huge spike in popularity, and Nike forever changed the sport with the introduction of the first air-sole cushioning system. The waffle tread had been the gold standard in trainers, but air-sole technology ushered in a whole new level of comfort and pizzazz. I remember my first pair of Tailwinds like I remember my first crush, the way they felt in my hand, the smell of the rubberized outsoles. Watching Gilligan’s Island reruns in the evening, I’d spend the entire episode twisting and crunching the shoes to break them in.

  In junior high, the long-distance course had been one mile; in high school it was 2. 5 to 3, so I had to quickly improve my stamina and endurance. My build was far from ideal for a runner, compact and stocky rather than lean and tall. What I lacked in archetypal runner physique, however, I compensated for with a resolve to work harder than anyone else. I was always first to arrive at practice and last to leave, and I frequently didn’t get home until after dark, which was just fine with me—both my parents now worked, and they got home late as well.

  As the season progressed, my hard work began to pay off. My finishing times were consistently at the front of the pack, and I even won an event or two. My teammates began referring to me affectionately as “Karno,” and a spirited camaraderie developed among us.

  The culmination of cross-country season was the league finals. Our school was locked in a three-way tie with Mission Viejo and Laguna Beach. Adding to the pressure, Benner announced that he would be retiring as cross-country coach after this season. We would be his last team, and we wanted to make sure he ended his career with a championship.

  Benner asked me to race on the varsity team for the finals, even though I was just a freshman. I accepted this invitation with honor, even though it meant I would be racing against much older and stronger runners. Some of my classmates thought I was blowing it by forgoing the possibility of winning the freshman league finals only to likely finish mid-pack in varsity. The cross-country guys, on the other hand, seemed to respect my sacrifice for a higher cause, the Team.

  The event fell on a Saturday morning that was unusually cold and foggy for Southern California. My dad, who had once been an accomplished high school runner himself (albeit as a sprinter, the quarter-mile being his specialty), dropped me off at the UC Irvine outdoor field. He had followed the progress of our team throughout the season, though the poor guy was commuting three hours a day and didn’t always have time for all the details. Dad did know that I loved Benner’s creative coaching techniques and that I put Benner and the rest of the team on a pedestal.

  Our team joined together, as usual, in our little “pod” where we’d spread out beach blankets and lie around like a pack of wolves before the race began. Sometimes we’d tell jokes and have a laugh, other times we’d just stare up at the sky. That morning we told stories about Benner. My favorite was about the time Benner showed up late to a staff meeting that was being chaired by Bilderback, the track coach. Benner quietly slipped in the back door and took a seat. His appearance was disheveled and his face was flushed. Bilderback stopped the meeting and inquired, in front of the entire staff, why Benner was late.

  Benner lived on the far side of town and he explained that the power in his neighborhood had gone out.

  “So you overslept?” Bilderback probed, trying to get a rise out of the crowd.

  “No,” Benner replied, “my electric garage door wouldn’t work, so I couldn’t get my car out.”

  “So how did you get to school, Ben?”

  “I did what I could,” Benner said. “I ran.”

  Bilderback went slack-jawed.

  I never got tired of hearing that story.

  The sun was just beginning to break through the morning fog as Benner herded us to the starting line. Some runners mumbled prayers or made the sign of the cross on their chests. I just bit my lip.

  I’d been too nervous to eat for the last twenty-four hours. Now I was feeling nauseated, and my muscles were tight. I had to get advice from Benner.

  “Something’s wrong with my legs!” I told him. “They don’t feel normal. What should I do?”

  “Go out there and run to the best of your ability,” he replied. “Don’t run with your legs. Run with your heart.”

  On some level, even as a high school freshman, I got his meaning: the human body has limitations; the human spirit is boundless. I didn’t need a wristwatch to set the pace; I needed to run with my heart. I walked to the starting line focused and composed. The next few miles would influence the course of my life.

  The gun fired and the race was on. Initially the course went straight on a well groomed and relatively wide grass path. My two strongest teammates, Fogerty and Fry, took an early lead. I settled into a secondary cluster of runners and tried to find a clearing among them. But the more I jockeyed for position, the more compressed the group became. The runners surrounded me; I had to break out of the pack or risk running at a tempo dictated by runners on the opposing team.

  There is always tremendous risk involved in a “breakaway,” especially at an early stage. It means temporarily pushing at an unsustainable level and hoping that the energy you expend won’t prevent a strong finishing kick. It was a risk I had to take. I picked up
my pace dramatically and pulled ahead of the majority of the pack, but two runners chased after me.

  They began to draft off of me, hiding in my wind-shadow and using me as a blockade to cut the air. I didn’t mind having one runner behind me, but two of them was too much. I kicked up my pace another notch and was able to drop one of them, but the other held tight. We came around a tree-lined bend in the course and encountered a brisk headwind, which made me feel the weight of the other runner, who stuck to my back like a lamprey, drafting so tightly I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. I slowed, tactically, hoping he would pass me so that I could draft off him for a while. But he was smarter than that. He slowed right down with me, staying behind me. And now, since I had reduced my speed, I could hear the pack we had just pulled away from catching up behind us.

  The course dropped down a small embankment and narrowed. It was time to make another move. Just as the pack reached the back of the runner behind me, I turned on the afterburners. This time when I blasted out into the open, nobody followed me. I put my head down and plowed into the oncoming wind with all my might. The runner who had been behind me couldn’t keep up, and now he had the entire pack drafting off him. It was beautiful!

  Could I possibly sustain this margin for the rest of the race without blowing apart? With about a mile left in the course, I started to have doubts. My heart felt like it would pound right through my chest. My breathing was shallow and erratic, and every muscle in my body screamed in agony. I was forced to slow down to avoid blacking out, so I pulled back and plodded painfully along, waiting for the pack to rocket by me. I’d blown it; I’d pushed too hard too early in the race. Man, was this going to be humiliating.

  But the pack didn’t roar past me—apparently we had all gone out too hard. The path underfoot had become wet—clumps of grass and debris flying out from under my shoes—when suddenly the finish line appeared in the distance. If I could just hold on, this would be the best race of my life. I discovered a will to push harder than I’d ever gone before. I needed to hold my position; it meant the world to me. I couldn’t let anybody pass.

  In my peripheral vision, I could see three or four runners coming up quickly. They were now less than a pace behind me. Then two of them began to pass me, one on either side. Their arms were pumping and their necks craned to pull in front of me.

  They pulled ahead by a step or two, blocking me out—a solid wall in front of me. Then another runner began passing me on the right. I glanced back to see four or five others right behind him. Shit! It was time to dig deeper, to give it everything I had, so I started sprinting at full speed.

  Even then, I couldn’t manage to break through that two-man wall running in front of me. I tried to pass on the right side, then the left, to no avail. The runners seemed to be working in unison to block me out.

  The finish line was now 300 yards away. People on both sides of the course were yelling, “GO, KARNO, GO!” To hell with their blockade, I thought to myself. If they won’t let me pass, I’ll run right through them.

  For a moment the two runners separated a notch, and I rammed myself between them. As I did, the guy on the right swung his left elbow high and caught me squarely on the bridge of my nose. The pain was a shock, but I wouldn’t let it slow me down. I shook my head sharply, crammed my shoulders deeper into the gap, and forced my way through.

  Grass and mud were flying everywhere and I could feel warm liquid pouring down my mouth, chin, and jersey—maybe sweat. Through the scattering debris, the banner above the finish line came into focus. In a mad dash, I pumped my arms wildly to try to pull ahead of my adversaries. The three of us burst across the line like battling racehorses.

  I was hunched over with my hands on my knees, gasping for air, not knowing who’d won. That’s when the dog-pile started. Someone jumped on my back, then another, and another. With my face pressed to the grass by the weight of at least six people, and someone’s knee in my jaw, I heard one of them yell, “We won! We won!”

  We had just become the champions of one of the toughest leagues in Southern California. I later learned that a handful of rival runners had finished within seconds of my time. If even one of them had been in front of me, we would have lost.

  Struggling to my feet, I wiped my face and was shocked to see that the back of my hand was bright red. The blow I’d taken while busting through the two runners had resulted in a radical nosebleed; the entire front of my shirt was soaked with blood.

  “Whoa,” I said to Fogerty, holding out my jersey.

  He chuckled. “Yeah, you ran the last hundred feet covered in blood. The crowd was going wild!”

  When my team stepped up to the podium to accept our medals, it was one of the proudest moments of my life, rivaling the ten-hour bike ride to my grandparents’ house a few years back. My head could be battered and bloodied, my muscles could ache for weeks, but nothing could replace the feelings of pride that came from physical accomplishment, feelings I carry to this day.

  Coming home and sharing my medal with the family was glorious. They were so proud, and I felt as though I’d done my family right. Pary marveled at the colorful steel adornment but knew that it wasn’t the medal that mattered; it was the sweat and blood that went into winning it that was the real prize. She looked at it, then she looked at me, and said, “This is so cool.”

  The season concluded with a celebratory banquet, at which I was awarded the “Most Inspirational” team member. I wasn’t entirely sure how to interpret the award. “Most Inspirational” could mean that I’d displayed exemplary courage and determination. Or it could mean, “This crazy sonofabitch was willing to subject himself to more punishment than anyone else, so we had to give him something.” I guess both were accurate.

  Benner’s retirement neared, and many of the team members drifted off. Occasionally I would run into some of the guys and we’d talk smack, but it just wasn’t the same. Together, we’d shared an incredible moment, but life moves fast, especially in high school.

  Later that year, I bumped into Benner one day at the beach. He was just coming in from the water. The shriveled skin on his hands and feet meant that he’d been out there a while, perhaps napping. I thanked him for the advice he’d given me before the league championships. Benner had instilled in me a passion for running, and his lessons on life were just as valuable. Running is about finding your inner peace, and so is a life well lived. “Run with your heart,” he had told me.

  I ran my first marathon later that year. It wasn’t an organized race, but a fund-raiser for underprivileged children. We students collected pledges for each lap that was completed on the high school track. Donors typically pledged a dollar per lap, and most of my classmates ran between 2.5 and 4 miles—about 10 to 15 laps.

  I ran 105. It took almost six hours to get through it, but I simply wouldn’t stop until I’d completed the equivalent of a marathon. It was dark and deserted when I finished, except for a few die-hard friends who were blown away by my persistence.

  You should have seen the look on people’s faces when I told them they owed $105. Shock, mainly. A fair share of congratulatory gestures. And a few brow-raising disbelievers, who quickly paid up when I removed my shoe and showed them the blisters.

  There had been a girl on the track during the run earlier in the day who had intrigued me. She was stunning, and even more so because she was covered in sweat. Most of the “beauty queens” at our school would have nothing to do with running or sweating in public. But she was a beauty who didn’t seem to mind. I dug the way she looked, all flushed and exhausted, trying to complete another lap around the track.

  I found out she was a freshman and that her name was Julie. Eventually I got up the courage to ask her to a movie. Grease? Saturday Night Fever ? I can’t remember. All I remember is her—that she was next to me, that she was on a date with me. I mean, the seniors and star jocks wanted to go out with her. Sure, I was an athlete, but an offbeat one. I didn’t play baseball or football; I went run
ning and surfed. I thought she belonged with the varsity quarterback, and there she was with me.

  It was my first date ever, and I fell in love—not just some fleeting high school infatuation, but genuine, head-over-heels in love. Reflecting back, that is how I did things. Either a 100 percent commitment, total unwavering devotion, or nothing at all. Falling in love was no exception.

  The two of us became inseparable. In keeping with Greek tradition, Julie became part of our family and didn’t seem at all uncomfortable with the custom, even though she was a reserved WASP in a house full of boisterous Greeks. She seemed at ease during holiday gatherings filled with bantering relatives, flowing ouzo, broken plates, and living-room dancing.

  Like my sister, Pary, Julie was the only girl in her family, and their friendship grew exceptionally strong. The two of them seemed to share a particular poise and composure, even in a room filled with domineering Greek men. Julie could hold her own against any ouzo-influenced chauvinistic uncle, in a spirited and fun way. Her quick wit won us all over, as she learned a couple of choice Greek words and would humorously spring them on unsuspecting assailants at the most opportune times.

  Now that the cross-country season was over, there was only one organized option to keep me running—join the track team. Track season began after cross-country season ended. It was almost like defecting to the enemy, but I let my love of running get the better of me.

  Bilderback, the track coach, put me on the team without a formal tryout, which was nice enough. But my first encounter with him as a coach was disastrous. I showed up for practice on the first day and, as usual, wasn’t wearing a watch. He had me run a series of time-trials. As I completed each lap, he looked at his stopwatch and yelled out the times, banging on a clipboard with his pen as he screamed.