Running Wild

explorations in wilderness running

MG50- “The Hardest Single Day Race in the Country.”

The Marji Gesick 50 mile and 100 mile race held in late summer in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is as unique as it is difficult.  A self-supported race, no aid stations or outside help, that requires runners and bikers to share the starting line and navigate the miles of single-track mountain trails.  The race has established an identity, and truly prides itself, in toughness.  The terrain is as rocky and uneven as any trail that could possibly be run, with ascents and descents that are not only steep but seemingly endless.  The 50 mile race, begins at the base or Marquette Ski Mountain and climbs and falls for a total of 18,200 ft before ending in downtown Ishpeming 55.2 miles away.  Most racers never get that far and the high rate of “quitters”, as high as 70% in some years, is boasted of by the race organizers in much the same way a parent might brag of their honor student.  It is a test of endurance in every sense of the word, and that is what drew me to this race.  I wanted to see If I could survive; to see if I could keep going beyond what I have done in the past, beyond what I have trained for, and beyond what I believed I could do. 

The weather was fittingly harsh when I landed on Friday afternoon, the day before the race.  The temperature was on it’s way down to a low of 36 degrees and the wind was howling with gusts of 40 mph.  I had planned to stay in a tent near the base of the mountain that would be my first climb the following day, so my first task was to find enough fire wood to keep me warm and brace my tent for a rough night.  I actually enjoyed my night in the woods, though, and although the idea was to toughen up for the race by sleeping on the hard ground, I was surprisingly comfortable.  The morning came quick but the best decision of the day was to take time to rekindle the fire and warm up with a hot cup of coffee and my breakfast of a peanut butter bagel, banana, and an avocado.  I layered up for the initial climb up Marquette Ski mountain, filled up my pack with 2L of water, and 700 calories of nutrition to last me the first 19 miles.  Although the race stresses the self-support ethos, they graciously allow racers to access a drop bag at 19 miles and again at 40 miles.  The only thing left to do was run… all day long.

Over and again I told myself not to run too hard up the initial climb, which consists of a very steep ascent straight up the ski mountain, then back down.  Unfortunately, adrenaline and a congested pack of eager racers rendered that strategy moot.  Regardless, I felt great as I finished the first hurdle, shed my layers, and crossed over a short pedestrian bridge that led to the next mountain, then the next, and the next.  For the next 18 miles, I would run up the ascent until the pitch was too steep to maintain a descent pace, then I would power hike.  The descents were fast and I just had to keep my feet moving quick enough to keep up, that and not fall.  One aspect of trail running that I thoroughly enjoy is the ruggedness of uneven and rocky ground that requires constant attention to where the foot falls.  This 18 mile section, and the entire race really, forced me to focus on every step as I scurried from rock to rock avoiding the loose ones.   My pace hovered around 9:30 min/mile even though several steep ascents felt more like climbing than running.   Still, I cruised into Jackson Park where I could access my drop bag feeling great and as one of the top three runners. 

I planned on staying for about ten minutes but I felt so good that I simply refilled my pack, ate a little food, and took off.  My water pack had sprung a leak, the only real hitch of the day, so I had to carry a one-liter water bottle and I reloaded my pack with another 800 calories of food.  The second leg was a 27 mile stretch that was truly cruel in the way it twisted up, down, then back up the mountain. This was the point that in the race that tested me the most, and it did not take long.  Around mile 24, I began to feel the twitches of impending leg cramps.  I decided I had to push through them, but the precarious situation I found myself in reminded me of a specific road trip from my college days.  I was driving late at night through the smoky mountains in North Carolina with two friends when we found ourselves in the middle of a blizzard.  As the roads became covered in ice and snow, my SUV would fishtail as soon as we hit 30mph, but I feared that if we stopped the car might not have enough traction to start up again.  That was how I ran for the next 10 miles; too fast and I would cramp, and I knew that if I stopped and I would never finish the race. Amazingly, pushing through worked and my legs began to feel better the longer I ran, with one big exception.  I had read about DOMS (delayed onset of muscle soreness) that comes from the eccentric pounding of downhill running, but training in Florida just didn’t give me much of a chance to experience it firsthand.  At mile 30, we became well acquainted. 

Suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped, my legs would not release to allow me to run downhill.  I had to catch myself with each descending step, further exacerbating the pain.  It occurred to me as I painfully, and slowly, descended a steep section of trail, that although I had already covered over 30 miles but still had more that a marathon left.  I had been told that the last 15 miles bordered on demonic, so suffice to say the mental challenge began here.  I told myself I had to get to Jackson Park, mile 40, before the sun got too low.  This was more than just motivation, though, because my pace was so fast in the first leg that I decided not to bring my headlamp for the second leg.  I reasoned that I would be back well before dark.  Unfortunately, my pace slowed to 13 min/mile, then 15, and finally settled at 18 min/mile as the downhills took their toll.   In this stretch, I passed perhaps half a dozen racers that had quit but had no choice but to continue because they were over ten miles from the nearest road crossing.  I turned to God, literally, and asked for the strength to take one more step.  Then I asked again.  The spiritual aspect of running for me is two-fold.  I feel God’s presence when I am disconnected from the world running through remote areas of wilderness, and I can feel His spirit in the creation all around me.  I also turn to God when I am faced with my own weakness and limitations.  As the sun moved lower, driven by desire and faith, my legs moved faster.  I had to finish.

I did reach my drop bag before dark, but of course this just meant that I now had to tackle 15 miles of ridiculous terrain by the light of a single headlamp.  I stayed in place for just minutes, afraid my legs would get used to the rest, and headed out for one last leg.  In an unexpected blessing, I was joined during this last section by an old friend that heard I was running and found me at a road crossing to act as a pacer.  My pace was slow and steady and unchangeable, though, so he ran by my side adding light to the trail and keeping my mind distracted from the constant pain of each step.  When the last mountain was crested, we emerged from the dark and headed down the homestretch of main street Ishpeming.  I crossed the finish line as the 8th runner, but way behind the elite few, and graciously accepted a handshake and smile from the race director.  In this war of attrition, it was a victory by sheer persistence.  I would say it was a refusal to surrender, but in truth I think the key is to surrender to the pain but to continue running nonetheless.  I thoroughly enjoyed the challenge and difficulty of this race, and I was overjoyed to have finished.  In the end, this race was a matter of getting to the point where I truly didn’t feel I go any further and just taking another step.  That is the beauty of running ultramarathons and the key to completing them.  It is also the lesson I take from this race into the rest of my life. 

Lost in the Ocala National Forest

    The Appalachian Trail is otherworldly, a window to the soul of nature as it was meant to be, but I live in Florida.  That makes any AT adventure, even a short weekend trip as I’ve done before, a long, complicated affair.  So with spring break approaching and very little free-time during that week to set aside for a run, I set my sights on a more local destination- The Florida Trail.  With 1,300 miles of trail to choose from, and habitat varying greatly from one end of the state in the Everglades to the panhandle, I chose a section that was both challenging and beautiful, wild and accessible; the section that precipitated the formation of the trail back in 1966, and traverses the Ocala National Forest.  

    From the northern edge near Lake Kerr the trail is unbroken and remote, with the exception of a few brief road crossings, to the southern edge 60 miles south at Clearwater Lake.  I planned to spend one night on the trail and pack light, covering 30 miles each day.  As the trip approached, however, some challenges naturally arose.  First, I had to take my two kids to school in Tampa the morning of my trip.  Second, the weather forecast called for freezing temperatures that night so I had to pack a tent and sleeping bag and warmer clothes, all heavy items I was hoping to leave behind.  Finally, I had figure out a way to get to the trailhead at the northern section and get home from the southern one.  Simple solutions, I know, but still it made for some last-minute drama during the planning stage.  I ended up taking a bigger pack, weighing 20 lbs with all my supplies, using Uber to get to the 88 store near Lake Kerr, and starting my run at the peak of the day instead of first thing in the morning, but it all worked out in the end.  

    I stepped out of my Uber ride, tipped the driver generously considering he drove me to a remote dive bar despite not speaking a word of English, and walked into the store that I thought was a popular hiker supply stop.  I felt a bit out of place as two people at the bar barely looked up from their drinks, and the bartender glanced my way as if to say, “are you lost or do you want a drink?”  The truth is I felt lost before even stepping foot on the trail.  I found a path leading back away from the store and soon enough saw an orange blaze that would send me on my way. I never actually strayed from the trail or even had to consult my GPS for directions but that feeling of being lost stayed with me for several hours.  I think in retrospect I needed to find myself deep in the woods before this adventure truly seemed real.  

    I began with a light jog, feeling the weight of my pack and the soft sugary sand under my feet.  My pace quickened as I lost sight of the road and began to embrace the challenge of what lay ahead.  My goal was to cover 30 miles while the sun was still up and find a good spot to set up camp, and despite the late start I was moving fast and covering a lot of trail.  The northern part of The Ocala National Forest oscillates between longleaf pine and sand pine scrub, and both were equally inviting.  The former consisted of towering Pines spaciously arranged with open grassland between allowing for clear views in every direction for as far as you can see.  The latter was a different world of stunted and compact trees and shrubs, dotted with small ponds and exposed to the sun’s glare.  I ran for several hours enjoying the islands of tall pines surrounded by seas of scrub, and barely felt the weight of my gear or the miles ahead.

       A little over ten miles in, the trail emerged from the forest and entered a sprawling prairie ecosystem that seemed too grand and pristine to be hidden so well in the middle of a tourist state.  The lakes were very large, but probably rather shallow and the trail lazily meandered around each one for another 10 miles.  It was beautiful and peaceful, but there was no hiding from the sun and the miles began adding weight to my pack.  I decided at hidden pond, a natural spring with deep, cool water to drink, that I didn’t need to be carrying 2L of water and instead began stopping to drink using a life straw and carrying just a small emergency ration.  I decided to camp just shy of the Juniper Prairie Wilderness, at about 30 miles for the day and right on schedule, except the light was already getting dim and it was dipping below 40 degrees, which by Florida standards is almost unbearable. I built a nice little fire, put up my one-person tent, and sat down for a well-earned meal. 

       Unfortunately, in my zeal for minimalism and efficiency, I had packed meager rations.  So far I had eaten two energy bars, and one Epic brand dehydrated meat bar.  For dinner, I had packed two more meat bars and a Cliff bar, and for breakfast a small bag of oatmeal with almonds.  After that feast, I would have just two more energy bars to last me the rest of my trip.  I still don’t remember how that made sense to me in the planning stages, but I wasn’t about to go foraging.  My tent was covered in ice by morning and the best decision I made that day was to spend 20 minutes getting a little fire going again before breaking camp. As I slowly hit the trail again, back sore from sleeping on the ground after 30 miles, and 30 more miles ahead with no way out but to keep going forward, I felt truly alive. 

       The hardest part of this day came relatively quickly as I left the embrace of the prairie and entered Big Scrub, the heart of Ocala national forest and the largest area of scrub in the world.  The trail was white sand, the vegetation desert-like and offering no shade, and the rugged but featureless landscape acted like a maze of thorny walls that stretched and twisted for nearly 15 miles. My strategy of saving pack weight by not carrying water seemed quite foolish at this point, but I knew a large spring was somewhere just around the next clump of wild rosemary, so I pressed on. As it turns out, Alexander Springs was about a mile up a side trail that climbed away from my ultimate destination, but at this point thirst prevailed.  The two-mile detour left me cleaner, more hydrated, and motivated. Actually, the thought of a fresh brewed cup of coffee was my biggest motivator.  Either way, I ran through truly stunning hydric hammocks, and more upland longleaf pine forest until I completed the 62-mile run to Clearwater Lake. 

My body was worn but defiant; my spirit was lifted.  I had lost myself in some true Florida wilderness and found a resilient and appreciative runner emerge from the scrub. The landscape will likely never make the final cut for a postcard or billboard, but this area of central Florida, dwarfed for attention by Disney and the coastal beaches, offers a glimpse of the beautiful complexity of creation.  Every step is an ecosystem in transition, and every step helped change me as a runner.

How to Lose an Ultramarathon

        Let me start by clearly stating, or perhaps confessing, that I do not have the experience in distance running, or the ability, to write about how to win an ultramarathon.  Consequently, this is not an attempt to outline the missteps or errors in race strategy that can cost a legitimate contender a chance to cross the finish line ahead of the pack.  As valuable as that information might to be to a very few select people that can run 7 minute miles for 30 or 50 straight miles, it doesn’t necessarily help someone who, let’s say, signed up for an ultra despite not having run anything longer than the Disney 15k over 10 years ago, whoever that may be.  What I desire to share with you, however, is the preparation, execution, and overall mindset that helped me successfully, and thoroughly, lose two ultras this year, with more to come I’m sure.

It is difficult to explain exactly why I decided to attempt my first 50K trail run, but it undoubtedly started with the book, “Born to Run” and naturally descended from there into a labyrinth of ultra-running personalities, such as Scott Jurek, Dean Karnazes, Charlie Engle, and Rich Roll to name a few.  Even this incredibly nice and hardworking guy that was part of the crew building my house turned out to be a world-class ultramarathon stud (I’m not making this up; his name is Mike Morton and he has records and wins at nearly all the top races in the US and around the world.)  The underlying goal of mine, however, was simply to find remote trails that lead to unspoiled wilderness and be able to run them for as long as I am able: to push the perceived limits of my body while exploring nature in the manner that it was created.  The races gave me something more tangible to work towards, and a schedule more rigid and demanding.  I had three months to prepare for the first, then two months to recover and get ready for the second.  The results, well, they speak for themselves.

I began training in October for a January 1st 50K trail run in Brooksville, Fl.  I was able to carve out one day a week for a long trail run, usually between 8 and 12 miles, and another day to run at the track for about 30 minutes.  I made progress but the miles were not enough to suddenly triple the distance my body could cover on race day.  As I entered December, one month before my first ultra, desperation overtook common sense.  I chose one day a week to run the 10 miles to work at five in the morning and 10 miles back home at three in the afternoon.  After three weeks, I felt ready to tackle this beast of a race (and yes, I know it’s the shortest ultramarathon and it is relatively flat and simple.)  My race strategy was to run the first 10-mile loop very conservatively, then try to pick it up to my normal running pace for the second loop, before finally gutting out the third loop at whatever I can muster.  My goal was to finish without walking.

Everything went swimmingly until at mile one, I noticed I was actually in the lead group with the obvious contenders and quickly opening a large gap between us and the rest of the runners.  I also reasoned, very logically, that since the first few miles were on pavement and sloped gently downward, it made sense to allow myself to open up and run fast.  I had plenty of time to slow down later.  Of course, once we hit the single-track trails, my competitive nature and pride pushed me further and faster than my pre-race strategy had planned.  In fact, I was still in the top group, and passing a few people, as I blew through the aid station at the end of the first loop twelve miles into the race.  I held my ground, just barely, as I fought through the second loop but at mile 22 my legs, my pace, and my position in the race took an unstoppable nosedive into the abyss of ultra-running.  I quickly slowed from 8 minutes per mile to nearly double that, while shuffling through the sand and over roots for the last 10 miles.

Soon after that began the humbling and quite interesting parade of runners to pass me by, all politely telling me how great I was doing.  First came the group of leapfrog runners that would fly by at double my pace, then slow to a walk after a few minutes or on the uphill sections, then take off again.  It was equal parts frustrating and impressive to watch them disappear into the woods ahead of me using their run/walk strategy.  Next to wish me luck on the way by was the slow and steady pacers that both started and finished the race with the same steady gait and relaxed demeanor.  I envied their smiles while grimacing through cramping legs and heavy feet.  In the end, however, I finished the race without walking, achieving my goal.  I gained a feeling of perseverance, a humility beyond anything experienced in triathlons or shorter races, and a unique and valuable perspective on how to lose a 50k ultra.

As I prepared for the second race, another 50k through similar terrain in Ocala, Florida, I considered the three methods utilized by myself and the other non-elite racers.  The leapfrog strategy seemed to offer the best chance for me to achieve my fastest time, but slow and steady pacing would probably be the most manageable.  To my surprise, truly, I found myself two miles into the race and already passing a dozen people that would, in all likelihood, finish ahead of me again.  I kept a nearly 8 minute per mile pace for 24 miles before crashing down to reality, but I was quite content with my sluggish finish.  That is simply my way of losing an ultra.  We can call it an unrealistic, or even foolish, way to approach a race and I would agree with you.  But running hard, pushing the limits, and accepting the results, as humbling as they were, is worth more to me right now than a PR.

My mantra throughout both races proved prophetic and ultimately very useful. I repeated, over and over again, Philipians 4:13 saying, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”  What struck me about this verse as I ran is that it is often used by many people, me included, to inspire confidence in achieving greatness.  The preceding verses, however, make it abundantly clear that Paul was extolling God’s faithfulness in granting perseverance and endurance through life’s ups and downs.  In life and in ultras, I can endure every challenge that comes my way by staying connected to my purpose in Christ Jesus.  I can finish the race and be grateful for the beauty of the woods, the difficulty of the run, the accomplishment of reaching the limit of what my body can do.  And in that, be content.

 

Art Loeb Trail in Pisgah National Forest

Total distance: 17 miles          Total time: ~3.5 hours                  Pace: ~12 min/mile

Wilderness ranking: 4.5/5        Ruggedness ranking: 5/5       Enjoyability ranking: 5/5

Wildlife: several deer, birds, signs of bear, one large black dog

 

Wilderness is not a luxury but a necessity of the human spirit.

Edward Abbey

 

My Greatest Challenge Yet

 

Every facet of this endeavor was a challenge unto itself. From the logistics to the execution, the planning to the actual doing, nothing was easy.  Perhaps that is partly why it meant so much to complete this trail run.  But only partly. The run itself was rugged, wild, and beautiful; unlike anything I had ever done to date, and exactly what I have been searching for.  It began last august after serendipitously coming across an article in Runner’s World called “The 20 Best Trail Runs in the U.S.” (http://spr.ly/60118vR9d). One of the trails described seemed to leap off the page as it was described as one of the hardest trails in the southeast US.  I was in the process of planning a trip to Charleston, South Carolina so my wife could spend a weekend mentoring with a premier newborn photographer. As good as she is already her desire to improve her craft is limitless, and I wanted to run trails while she worked.  The Art Loeb Trailhead in Brevard, North Carolina is a mere 4 hours away, but my window of opportunity was only Saturday morning through Sunday evening.  I began plotting my potential demise…scratch that, adventure.  I left at 5 a.m., arrived at the Hub and Pisgah Tavern for a trail map and my last coffee for about 36 hours, then parked at the Davidson Campground and loaded up my pack and running gear.  My exact plan was still uncertain, but I knew that to get back to my wife on time I would have to return to my car by late afternoon the next day.  Despite my desire to travel light, my North Face 65L pack was bulging and heavy.  Fortunately, the adrenaline and excitedness I felt outweighed the strain on my shoulders, at least for a while, and I darted across the paved lot and down the hard-packed trail towards the Davidson River.

I had decided to hike as far as I could go on Saturday, my sights set on Deep Gap shelter fifteen miles away.  This particular section of the venerable Appalachian Trail is not particularly picturesque in its views, but the setting itself is truly captivating.  Dense green tunnels of vegetation open sharply to towering hardwoods and rocky ascents.  A mere hour from the campground and I barely crossed paths with another hiker for the remainder of the day. In fact, after passing a young couple and their friendly yet somewhat unnerving black dog that leaped out of the woods to greet me, I hiked without any signs of life until coming to a junction at Cat Gap loop trail.  A small group of southbound hikers were resting and my antisocial tendencies got the better of me as I very quickly passed by with just a nod and slight smile.  It wasn’t until I had descended about a half mile that I realized I must have taken the loop trail instead of staying on the ALT and I had to back track and return to the trail crossing, where of course they were still relaxing.  This time I stopped to talk, as a sort of penance, and they pointed out the steep incline where I should have turned to continue my climb.  I paused every hour or so for a quick snack, but otherwise hiked continuously and rather briskly for about ten miles, and I admittedly felt quite accomplished for an inexperienced hiker.  All that changed as I began to tackle the ascent to Pilot mountain.

I had already breezed through twelve or so miles of trail and several smaller peaks, but the seemingly never-ending climb to reach this summit was harder than I expected.  Still, I pressed on and pushed through the tiredness to accelerate to the top, where I was abundantly rewarded by the 360 degree panorama of the Pisgah Forest, Nantahala, and Smoky Mountains in the distance.  I lingered long enough for a few pictures and a smoked meat snack, then continued down to finally reach Deep Gap shelter and spring, where I found a nice secluded area to set up my tent.  Fifteen miles of constant elevation change carrying a heavy pack was as much as I could imagine doing in a day, so my plan for a trail run finally came into focus.  The next morning, I packed up, ate some less than appetizing yet very fulfilling freeze dried granola cereal, and continued on for two more miles up and down one more small peak until I reached the point where the ALT crossed the Blue Ridge Parkway.  I left all my gear except a hydration belt, and prepared to run 17 miles back over Pilot Mountain and the other smaller peaks and shoulders down to the trailhead where I had begun the previous morning. I had three snacks, three 8 oz water bottles, and my life straw mini to help refill the water bottles, except I actually didn’t have the water filter.  I didn’t realize that omission until I reached the first spring back at deep gap.  Luckily, that spring was running very cleanly right out of the mountain so I felt comfortable drinking it unfiltered, but I knew after that I wouldn’t be able to refill anywhere else.  I was finally running wild.

It’s hard to describe the feeling of pushing up a mountain, then almost uncontrollably flying down the other side except that every sense you have is both supremely focused yet let loose to simply be in the moment.  I ran every step that the trail allowed me, slowing to climb up or down the steep, treacherous boulders dotted throughout.  I didn’t travel very fast overall, but it felt great to just keep moving for so long.  I never felt truly tired or sore, much less so than hiking the previous day at least, and my anticipation of the accomplishment kept pulling me along the trail.  There was less time to take in the beauty of my surroundings and more focus on the task and my purpose, however I felt just as connected to the mountain.  It felt great to keep up some speed and it definitely helped that the trail was overall a descent from the peak of Pilot mountain down to the campground.  Sometime around 3:00 p.m., much earlier than my deadline, I finally reached that same cold river I had lightly bounded across the day before.  This time I stopped, found a good entry point, and waded out for a celebratory ice bath, nature style (fully clothed for the record).

In all I had hiked seventeen miles, ran seventeen miles, camped deep in the wilderness, and emerged from the shallow river about 28 hours after I had first crossed it’s footbridge.  I still had to drive up the parkway to get my pack, then make it back to Charleston to pick up my wife so we could drive back to Tampa.  I also had to shower before she would even think about giving me a kiss.  Upon reflection, it’s difficult to separate the enjoyment of simple immersion in such a pristine area of wilderness and the pleasure of overcoming such a difficult challenge.  Perhaps both were integral for me.  What I can be sure of is that the experience was simultaneously the climax of my entry into trail running, and a stepping point for everything yet to come.

 

Between Trails

”God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks to us in our conscience, but shouts to us in our pain: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.”  C.S. Lewis

I managed to complete my first trail run the day before I left with my family for a week in Alaska followed by a week on Little Gasparilla Island (tough life, I know). When I finally returned home, my farm needed some serious attention, and considering I only had a couple weeks before I would leave for my annual pilgrimage to northern Minnesota, I put aside any hopes of serious running, or so I thought. My wife was making dinner, a very involved meal of roasted pork and vegetables, when I got the urge for a quick run.  I threw on my trail shoes and asked how long I had before dinner: 30 minutes- perfect.  I ran about a mile down the road, a quiet country road winding between cattle and horse farms but bookended by new housing developments, until I found a trail that led into a massive preserve called Triple Creek.  I’ve attempted this trail twice before, with toddlers in tow however, and never managed more than 1/4 mile.  I calculated that I could run for about twelve minutes and still make it back before my half-hour cutoff, so off I went.  I was running fast to cover as much distance as possible, and although nothing was marked, it seemed like an easy out-and-back trail to follow, that is until I came upon a gorgeous stretch of pine flat-woods with a soft, winding path that looked to curl back towards the entrance.  This must be a loop, I thought, or at least pretended to think, as I bounded gleefully down the sandy trail.  At the first fork I veered left, then right, then I took the middle path.  It didn’t take long for me to admit I had no clue which path to take next in order to make it home in time for pork.  The sandy path became a flooded swamp, and a seemingly infinite number of diverting paths left me squinting at the setting sun attempting to navigate my way home.  Nine miles later, I stumbled onto my porch,  covered in sweat and mud, and peered through the window to see my wife cleaning the kitchen, clutching her phone as she debated calling the police.  I truly felt bad, though I have to admit, it was a good run.

About a week later we decided to go out after dinner for ice cream, and I figured it would be the perfect time for another run, this time with my xero running sandals.  We drove to Jeremiah’s for some tasty dessert, and then my wife drove the kids home and I took off down the road feeling like one of the Tarahumara, with nothing between me and the road save for a thin slice of hard rubber.  At mile three of this eight mile return home, my right calf tightened like a slow cramp that had no intention of ever stopping.  I slowed but kept running, feeling the pain and marveling at how quickly my homeward-bound journey had gone from care-free and fun to grueling. I decided to push through the pain, embracing it less as an inconvenience and more like a right of passage.  Mentally, that worked, and after a couple miles I was able to speed back up to my normal pace.  I finished the run but was left very sore and full of knots.  After a couple days of rest and stretching, I decided to run five miles to pick up my bike at a cycle shop and ride it back.  To my delight, the right calf felt pretty good; the left calf, however, did not.

This was actually 24 hours before a sprint triathlon I had signed up for a few months prior, and although I had already decided to focus on running more than the tri, I still wanted to perform well.  That night and the next morning I could barely walk without wincing, but again, it loosened up after some good stretching.  I had the fastest swim time, the third fastest bike time, and the run… a disaster.  After thirty or so good strides my left calf grabbed hard and held on tight.  I limped through two miles as if I were a soldier still fighting after being shot in the leg.  My grit did pay off, though, and I was able to open up and run hard for the last mile plus.

I would have been justified feeling frustrated or disappointed by the painful experience, but surprisingly I did not.  Quite the opposite really.  I felt more like I was being tested, or perhaps a better word, prepared for something greater.  God has been at the very center of this adventure into trail-running, and when God is involved, everything has a purpose.  I’m not suggesting that God reached down and afflicted my calf with painful soreness, just that pain is not without its value.  Pain shapes our character in a way that nothing else can.  It sharpens our focus, hardens our resolve, and yet most importantly highlights our weakness.  Pain awakens us to our absolute reliance on the only one that can take away our pain, or at least help us bear it.  God doesn’t cause pain, but He uses pain to call us to Him where we will find true comfort.  In the end, pain will make you stronger.