The Dumb Things We Do With Our Friends

Don't you think sign like this really should show up 

well before Mile 12? It could prevent people from

doing something dumb, like running another 38

miles after you see a sign like this.

I honestly debated whether the title of this entry should be "The Dumb Things We Do Because of Our Friends," but after reading this you will hopefully agree with my decision to go with the title that I did.  And it should come as no surprise to anyone that this blog entry will deal with running.  You know, just like both of my posts from last year (see here and here).

It's not like any of us have never been in trouble or have done something stupid made some poor decisions because of our friends.  You know, like a 15-year old kid getting kicked out of Timpanogos Cave National Monument because of something dumb his friends did and his youth leaders decided he was guilty by association.  But I'm not talking about something hypothetical like that where you got in trouble or did something foolish because of your friends.  I'm talking about the things we do with our friends, knowing fully well ahead of time that it might be difficult, dirty, and perhaps even painful.  You know, like a Tough Mudder.  Or a 50-mile ultramarathon.


That's right, earlier this month, I attempted and completed my first 50-mile race, all because a friend suggested it.  By a lot of measures, 50 miles in one day is a pretty dumb thing to do.  Even after I swore off ultramarathons immediately after finishing a 50K trail race in April, I trained through the disgustingly hot summer months so that I could run the Pilot Mountain to Hanging Rock Ultra in the beautiful mountains of North Carolina with my friend.  Yeah, some of my friends and family would say this was a pretty dumb thing to do.  They're entitle to their opinions, we can debate the merits of their arguments later. :-)

I thought a bit about this particular subject during my training runs--I've had some interesting thoughts while running before--and I realized that I started running races twenty-two years ago because of a friend.  Way back in 1995, I had a PE class at BYU that required I run a mile-and-a-half for my grade.  Throughout that semester, my roommate and longtime friend Rob and I ran together because I wanted to get an A and Rob was getting in shape for soccer tryouts.  Two weeks after the semester ended, Rob called me and asked if I wanted to run The Salt Lake Classic 10K.  I didn't even know how long a 10K was--Rob's answer when I asked was, "Uh, it's like five miles or something like that"--and I said, "Sure!" and I've been running races of varying distances ever since.  For the record, that first 10K still stands as my fastest time at that distance so far.  Probably always will be, but that's not the point.


Remember that 50K back in April that I mentioned earlier?  It was a miserable second half of the race for me, and immediately after I texted my friend Kenny and said there was no way I would even consider another ultra ever, let alone the PM2HR race in October.  I'm not totally sure, but it might have had something to do with puking on the school bus that was taking me back to my car.  That same night, after a delicious and necessary recovery meal at Five Guys (where else?) and a plethora of text messages back and forth, the last thing Kenny texted me before I went to bed was, "When you wake up tomorrow and come to your senses, go sign up for Pilot Mountain."  And because my dear Mali was in Utah for a wedding and wasn't there to talk me out of it, I signed up.

I'm grateful that Mali went down with me; driving to North Carolina by myself would have been incredibly boring, and there was always the possibility that I wouldn't be able to drive myself back home the day after the race.  She got to hang out in Winston-Salem while we were running, but I think it's still an open question as to which one of us had more fun that Saturday.  I'll say it was probably me, but I think Mali might say that she had more fun.  She might be right, but I got a hoodie for the race, so in my opinion I came out ahead on that argument.

Kenny motoring up the steps up to the peak of
Pilot Mountain.  It felt like one of those Escher
prints with the neverending stairs.  And I kept
waiting for an army of Uruk-hai to come charging
up thehill from the cover of the fog.

The story of the race was the same story of so many ultras.  There was some weather to deal with: we started in the dark, ran through the fog at the top of Pilot Mountain, had some long stretches of sunshine with little shade and finished in the dark (at least there wasn't rain, snow, and sleet like I had at The North Face Endurance Challenge 50K last year).  There was physical adversity: Kenny got stung on the leg by a yellow jacket before we hit the first aid station and that caused a bit of discomfort.  Add to that, Kenny wasn't able to train as much as he would like because life got in the way and he also ended up with hyponatremia--ask me about that one, I know far too well how that thing works--meant he had to drop out after 50K.  This race had two serious climbs that reached upwards of 2,400 feet.  Each.  The total elevation gain for this course was officially over 5,200 feet, but we think it was closer to 6,000 when you factor in all the smaller ups and downs.  And you had to come down from those heights, too, which can be just as taxing on your quads as the climbs and are undoubtedly harder on the knees.

And before anyone, especially Kenny himself, thinks anything less of Kenny for dropping out at 50K, I want them to think about it: he had only run twice in the month preceding the race because of family and work obligations, but he still completed 50 kilometers.  That's THIRTY ONE MILES.  Seriously undertrained and Kenny still finished thirty one miles.  Kenny is a beast.  This is the same guy who finished a 50K with me back in 2014 while suffering the effects of Lyme disease (he didn't know he had it).  I would have tapped out at 10, maybe 12 miles.  He also deserves kudos for recognizing that pushing any further would have caused him injury.  I sincerely appreciate his encouragement for me and insistence that I push forward and finish the 50 miler without him.  I've been where he was, and it's not easy, especially when you have the fire in your belly to finish the race.  There is no shame in a DNF* for an ultramarathon.  Anyone who says otherwise is a fool.

I told you I finished in the dark.  And I have a hoodie just
like Kenny's.  Pretty stinkin' awesome, and because I've
worn it pretty much every day since the race, it's now just
pretty stinkin'.  And that's awesome.

So I finished the race, and I had told my wife and my friends and my coworkers that this would be my last ultramarathon.  Yeah, I know, I've said that before, but this time I really meant it.  I really meant it right up until Sunday morning when Kenny and I were doing our usual post-race postmortem and talking about what we would do differently next time.  Kenny told his wife that he wants another crack at the race because he wants redemption.  I told Mali and I want another crack at the course because I want to finish the race before the battery on my Suunto Ambit dies (I have never been fast, but I think I could shave a couple of hours off this race).  But I also recognize that I have some other pretty serious obligations coming up, so I got Mali's permission to try PM2HR again in 2019.  That gives me two years.

Bring it on.






*DNF = Did Not Finish.

What I Did This Summer

I know that someone out there is thinking, "Really?  It's the second week of October and you're just writing about your summer now?"  My response to that is, "Yeah, I am."  For starters, we just got back from a quick family trip down to the lake, and even though it's early October, it was in the 80s and felt like early September.  And second, look over to the right and notice when the last time I actually posted to my blog; it's been more than TWO YEARS.  It's practically a Halloween miracle that I'm writing at all, so thank the Great Pumpkin and let's move on.

 May: I went to the Outer Banks with some good friends to celebrate one of those friend's birthday with some fishing in the ocean.  I only got marginally seasick, but I didn't puke.  For the record, I caught a 40 pound amberjack.  It was delicious.

Yeah, I caught that.  It was exhausting.

Typical hot, sweaty American in Bangkok.

June: As much as I hate to, I had to go to Thailand and Laos for work.  Should I have put something in there to indicate that the previous sentence was supposed to be sarcastic?  Because I actually love going to Southeast Asia.  Anyway,  I have a separate post to write about that adventure because it's Thailand and Laos.

July: We spent some time at a friend's place up in the hills of West Virginia. True to West Virginia traditions, we shot stuff.  It was pretty awesome.

It's important for your ear pro to match your outfit.

That's my girl!

Katniss Everdeen, eat your heart out!

Trophy shot.

August: My daughters dyed my hair at girls camp, because blondes are supposed to have more fun, and because I made a deal with them.  We also hung out with our awesome friends and had an awesome time because our friends are awesome.

See, I'm literally having more fun, you can see it on my face.

This is a seriously shady lot.  Trust me.

September: I took Anne back to BYU-Idaho for her junior year of college.  When did I get old enough to have a junior in college?  While I was back in Utah, I went golfing with my dad and brother.  Just as important, I got to spend some time in my beloved Utah mountains.

Bell Canyon waterfall and some dork from Virginia.

Beautiful mountain lake--how did I not know about this place when I was growing up in Utah?

Last, but certainly not least, we got a dog.

Well, hello there!