The Air-Conditioned Nightmare: Injuries, Running & Priorities

Hat's been on the hook for almost three weeks...

Hat's been on the hook for almost three weeks...

Injuries hurt.  Literally.  But they also hurt in a non-literal sense.  When I try to list all the positive effects that running has on my life, it becomes hard to believe that people exist who don't run at all.  Put simply, running makes me happy.  It makes me happy in a sort of unquantifiable, visceral way.  But it also provides me the proper brain chemistry to actually be happy, in a very scientific, quantifiable way (i.e. dopamine and serotonin release).

I ran for the first time today in almost three weeks.  It was a blissful, glorious release after 19 days of pure hell.  My injury kept me from running, hiking, biking—essentially experiencing the mountains in any way possible.  It even kept me from commuting to work via road bike.  I spent an inordinate amount of time sitting behind the wheel of a car.  Sitting inside.  Breathing putrid, conditioned air.  A lot of time spent just staring at the mountains longingly; an absurd amount of time spent foam rolling.  Not writing.  Barely reading. Languishing in my sorrow... Oh, and way too much beer.  What can I say? I was depressed. 

My excitement and joy up on the trail today was palpable.  It felt so good to be outside, moving through the mountains, feeling the sun on my skin, letting the sweat pour off my body onto the dirt beneath my feet, testing my agency against the mountain.  Basically just doing what I am supposed to be doing—what this endurance machine I call a body is designed for.  To be outside, moving efficiently through the natural terrain, felt doubly amazing after such a long hiatus (relatively speaking).  

Despite my elation, I wasn’t going to let this injury be forgotten without learning all that I possibly could from it.  By nature, overuse injuries (as opposed to an acute injury) usually point to an imbalance somewhere in the body.  Something isn’t working properly in relation to something else.  In my case, a weakness in my right hip (namely glute medius and my TFL) was causing my left leg, which was already much stronger, to overcompensate, particularly coming downhill.  I kept trying to run through my weakness issues that were beginning to manifest in the form of a knotted IT band after the Zion 100. 

It was something of the perfect storm for me:  A 100k (which was also loaded with super steep downhill sections) that I failed to fully recover from and Suunto partnering with Strava.  Sure, Strava has its redeeming qualities, but promoting rest isn’t one of them.  Suddenly all of my runs—complete with segment splits, pace information and vertical gain data—were being posted online and compared with all the other runners on Strava (which in Southern California seems to be a crapload).  I was pushing the pace when it didn’t feel right.  I was running when I should have been resting.  It wasn’t just me anymore on my runs; it felt like I was dragging the whole Strava social media network along with me on my back.  I needed to be faster! I needed more weekly volume!  And I needed it now!  So my body shut me down.  As much as I hated to hear it, I need to rest and I really needed get my hips figured out. 

What can I say?  I love it...

What can I say?  I love it...

Tony Krupicka was writing about being injured recently, “An unsolicited bit of advice: don't construct your coping-with-life mechanisms around something as capricious and physically abusive as running up and down mountains.”  When I first read that line, I wasn’t hurt and I was getting up in the mountains everyday.  I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself at the facetious nature of the comment.  Obviously, Tony wouldn’t have it any other way.  Then, thinking back on the quote a couple weeks into my own interruption from mountain running, I couldn’t help but completely agree.  I went to a dark place.  It wasn’t fun for me and I probably wasn’t any fun to be around. 

 Then today, grunting up the side of the mountain, a surprising amount of spring in my under-used legs, taking in the scenery and actually feeling like a runner again for the first time in almost three weeks, I had an epiphany.  Life is all about balancing priorities.  There comes a time when we all have to decide what’s important.  Then we have to make sacrifices to support that decision. 

 To me, just being outside, moving efficiently and exerting myself is what matters.  It doesn’t matter that someone might look at my Strava profile and see that I only ran 50 miles this week.  Or that I took a day off.  Worrying about these things puts my first priority in jeopardy. There needs to be a balance.  Time needs to be sacrificed doing meticulous, boring exercises in an effort to balance things out.  More speed work on flat terrain, more barefoot running.  More activities that support my continued ability to run my choice of terrain, as much as I can.  

 I’m done taking my ability to run in the mountains for granted.  Never again. Sure, it may be a capricious and physical abusive act, but I love it.  I will sacrifice to keep it a reality.  I will learn from my mistakes.  Priority number one.   

Grand Canyon Rim2Rim2Rim

Crossing the Colorado for the second time

Crossing the Colorado for the second time

So it basically went down like this- I got a call from my buddy Sean on a Saturday afternoon. He came right out with it-“Bro, I haven’t been training at all but I just got a call from my old scoutmaster and we are doing the Grand Canyon rim to rim to rim next Saturday. You in?” I was in.

We left the Wasatch around 6:30 PM and didn’t make it to the north rim until just after midnight, pulled a tarp and our sleeping bags out of the car and crashed under the stars. It was pretty chilly, around 30 degrees and I bundled up in my nano-puff jacket (Yvon and Patagonia always coming through for me). The alarm was set for 3:30 AM shooting for a 4:00 AM start down the north rim.

When we got to the rim it was still dark but packed with cars and people getting ready to make the attempt. My group consisted of 4 people. Sean, Brian, Lance and me, the plan was to hike the first half and then I would leave the group and run the second half and wait for them at the car. When we got to the edge of the trailhead I let out a scream and took off down the trail for about 200 yards. That’s when Brian, who is about 55 and in great shape flew by me. He apparently wanted to run and I was all about it. We ran the first 14 miles to Phantom Ranch and waited there for the rest of the group. It took us just under 2 hours and at 6:00 AM it felt like midday at the bottom of the canyon.

Looking back on the north rim from one of the many switchbacks on the south rim.

Looking back on the north rim from one of the many switchbacks on the south rim.

We hiked together from Phantom to the south rim, enjoying the amazing views of the Colorado and of crazy tourists hiking down from the south rim with no water. Honestly, hundreds of people without water were descending into the 105 degree heat. Seemingly oblivious to the fact that people die in the canyon despite the incredible amount of rangers you see. . The climb out is about 5’000 vertical feet over 8 miles it is a long, brutal climb and being able to see 30 switchbacks above you makes it seem much longer.  When I crested the rim I ran into a gift shop and bought Mrs. Wasatch a magnet, filled up my bladder, emptied my other bladder and then laid in the shade and waited for the rest of the group.

As I started down the south rim about an hour after I got to the top I saw many people I had passed on the way up were still climbing.  It seemed like every time I passed a switchback the temperature rose, getting hotter and hotter as I neared the Colorado. At Indian Garden a few squirrels attacked what little food I hadn't eaten when I left my pack unsupervised. The animals in the canyon are the farthest things from wild, they literally will eat from your hand.

Reaching Indian Garden for a second time a ranger stopped me and asked if I was staying hydrated in the 105-degree heat. I wasn’t. Water didn’t taste good and I didn’t have any cash on me to buy some ice to cool it down at least. At this point I determined that no matter what, I had to drink water every couple of minutes. I left Indian Garden and ran the next 5 miles at a pretty good clip until I ran out of water, my pee was dark brown/red and I was beginning to become really worried.  Hearing the stream off to my left, I bushwhacked over to it and filled my bladder up with creek water (syphoned through my backcountry.com got sleeve) and two iodine pills. Feeling somewhat relieved, I began checking my watch every 10 secs in anticipation for the iodine pills to do their job. Cottonwood campground couldn’t come fast enough.

As the sun was now hidden behind the huge walls of the north rim, the trail became significantly darker. Along with that, I had been alone for the past 2-3 hours. I don’t know if it was the heat of the fact that most people don’t attempt R2R2R but I hadn’t seen anyone since the Phantom Ranch.  I’ll be honest with you, when I am alone in the woods and the sun is setting I get spooked. I was hearing noises, I could see things moving above me on the canyon walls and I am pretty sure that there were some Navajo spirits watching me as well. It didn’t help that I had just listened to a Dirt Bag Diaries podcast with Joe Grant telling a story about getting stalked by a lion on his run around Mt. Hood, I am positive a lion had eyes on me from Roaring Springs to the top of the rim.

My heart was beating hard inside my chest as I power hiked out of the canyon and with each passing moment it got darker and darker. That was the best motivation I could have asked for. I did not want to be in the canyon alone (apart from my friend the lion) in the dark. As the smell of pine filled my nostrils I knew I was close to the top and I started to push it pretty hard. I could not wait to get to the truck and the cinnamon rolls waiting there.

I did the canyon in 12 hours. Nothing to be super proud of but about 3 ½ of those were spent hiking 7 miles so I feel good about it. I slept in the truck for 6 more hours before the rest of my group got out. I was tired, they were tired and a tarp, sleeping bag, jetboil and ramen never sounded so good. 

Next year, Bobby G and I are going to do the whole thing in sub 8 hours. That seem like a good goal. Right Bobby?

Running - The Cure for Everything

Yesterday I was having a shitty day.  I woke up with all the makings of a head cold—feeling stuffed up, congested and extra drowsy.  My eyes were refusing to open.  Then I went running.  I got up in the mountains, sucked my lungs full of that clean mountain air, blew a couple hundred snot-rockets into the dirt and watched the first few rays of sunlight trickle down onto the Pacific Ocean.  Head cold averted.  Things were looking up. 

Then I got to work and my boss started bitching.  Why was I thirty minutes late?  Did I have a chance to do all that work that he asked me to do even though it was way outside the scope of my job description and he wasn’t paying me for it?  When was I going to cut my hair?  Any chance I could stay late today?  Was I really wearing sweat shorts at work?  I started getting a headache.  My stress levels were rising.  Cortisol began coursing through my veins.  I could literally feel the muscle fibers on the right side of my neck binding themselves together into a gnarly cramp. 

So I went running.  I ran away from everything and everybody.  I charged up the trail listening to the pace of my stride increase with every step.  My heart began pumping, sending large quantities of blood surging into my muscles.  They loosened.  My cramp was gone.   As a topped out on the summit, thoroughly exhausted from the effort, I glanced back down at the city street I had left far behind.  It seemed my problems had stayed down there too.  They couldn’t chase me up the mountain.  Unnecessary stress averted.   Things were looking up again.   

I won’t bore you with all the mundane details of the rest of my day, but by about five o’clock I had accumulated a little IT band tightness, some dry skin, an allergy-induced sniffle and what seemed to be a mild case of constipation.  I needed to go running. 

When I did, it fixed everything (especially the constipation, that was fixed with a vengeance).  And it came with the added bonus of allowing me to witness the sunset from about 2,000 feet higher than anyone else around.  Running had singlehandedly turned my no-good, very bad day into a pretty damn good one. 

Ok, so running may not be the cure for everything.  It’s probably not going to fix a broken toe or help much with a rattlesnake bite, but roughly 99.6% of the time, I choose to prescribe myself a good long run for whatever seems to ail me.  And I’m rarely disappointed. 

Rolled my ankle playing hoops?  If I go running for an hour after the game, the next day I won’t even be able to tell it happened. 

Fighting with my significant other?  After a run I’m ready to admit I was wrong, even if I wasn’t (but let’s face it, I probably was). 

Hung-over?  Just gotta get on the trail and sweat it out.   

The Lakers lost again?  Hill repeats. 

Feeling fat?  Time for a long one. 

Tired?  The mountains have an energizing effect. 

Depressed? Anxious? Broke?  Horny?  You get the picture.  Running; it’s good for… well, everything. 

Can't be that bad...

Can't be that bad...

The Best Kind of Fun


RPSummitSun.jpeg

A few days ago as I was run-commuting home from work, I happened upon an old episode of the Dirt Bag Diaries, Fun Divided by Three.  Let me just be clear: out on the trail, in the mountains, I would never attempt to distract myself with music or a podcast.  Running home from work on the street, it suddenly becomes a necessary diversion from the traffic.  Judge me if you will. 

Anyway, there I am running along the Pacific Coast Highway, staring longingly up at the mountains to my immediate left, when Fitz Cahall starts talking about the different types of fun. 

According to Fitz, all the “fun” experiences you have fit into one of three distinct categories.  I’d like to think there’s a little more grey area in there but essentially Fitz describes this sort of (reverse) correlative scale between how much fun something is during the planning and execution stages and how much fun it is to talk about afterward.  I was intrigued.  I kept listening. 

At the bottom of the scale you’ve got the type of fun that sounds like a good time during planning, is a good time in actuality, and is fun to talk about afterward for fifteen minutes or so  (i.e. a leisurely four-mile hike you planned with your significant other along an idyllic single track as the sun sinks low on the horizon, culminating in a summit/sunset picnic and a bottle of expensive Malbec).   Just regular old fun. 

Then about halfway up the scale you’re getting into the fun that sounds like fun when you’re drawing it up, is mostly fun while you’re doing it but definitely includes pain, moments of sincere regret and a lot of expletives, and makes a great story to tell over a beer for the next couple years (i.e. a 20-mile mountain run you plan with your buddies for a sunny Saturday morning that ends up being 35 miles because you got lost, were almost hit by lightning and forced to cross multiple chest-high rivers while possibly being stalked by a cougar. Oh, and the dude who was supposed to bring the S! Caps forgot them in the car). 

Then all the way at the top, you’ve got the type of fun that isn’t really fun at all until it’s over.  The type of fun that sounds miserable while you’re planning, you’re lucky to make it out with all limbs intact, and makes for one of the best stories you’ll tell for the rest of your life.  Fitz says something about post-holing at 25,000 feet through four feet of fresh powder when he’s describing this top of the scale or “type three fun”. 

If you’re an ultra runner, a trail runner or even someone who spends time in the mountains, you likely have your own version of type three fun.  We all have those experiences.  Running along the beach that day, my mind started to wander to my first 50 miler… or that time that Wasatch Willy and I decided to run the 14-mile trail to the summit of Mt. Timpanagos the day after we ran the Skyline Mountain Marathon (and two days after I flew to Utah and left my sea-level apartment) with nothing but a couple of 20oz handheld bottles and two Larabars (apparently all the vomiting the day before didn’t fully hammer home the need for some basic acclimatization).

Almost at the Mt. Timpanagos summit.  Not feeling that great. 

Almost at the Mt. Timpanagos summit.  Not feeling that great. 

I love telling the stories from those experiences.  There were serious moments of doubt.  Serious moments of pain.  For a while, I didn’t think I would finish that first 50 miler.  It hurt more than anything I had ever done up to that point.   And there were times when I didn’t think I would ever make it off Mt. Timp (and I may not have if it wasn’t for Wasatch).  There were definitely times when sitting down and giving up sounded like the most reasonable option.  So why do these experiences, the hardest and most trying times, become the best memories and stories later? 

In my opinion, these raw, visceral experiences are the only thing that makes us feel truly alive.  Our daily lives aren’t doing it.  How alive have you ever felt staring a TV or computer screen? Without pushing ourselves to find our limits, we can never know who we truly are.  It’s in these times of self-doubt—where we find ourselves stripped of all pretense—that we discover who we are and what were capable of. 

We accept challenges and we conquer them.  We push ourselves to those deep, dark places we thought we were never capable of getting out of.  And then we get out.  And we can’t wait to talk about it.