on the moving of mountains: an interview with gary robbins

I first became aware of the name Gary Robbins in the Fall of 2010.  A shoe junkie, I'd caught wind of the soon to be released Montrail Rogue Racer, a stripped down offering from a brand that hadn't rolled out anything even remotely "minimalist" before.

I asked the internet to tell me more and YouTube introduced Gary's grinning face after a few moments of ridiculously demanding Northwestern uphilling.  Gary, then sponsored by Montrail, offered up his first impressions of the Rogue Racer before bombing back down the 3,000 vertical feet he'd just climbed.  The terrain revealed by the headcam that he was wearing was a preposterous tangle of roots, ruts and rocks that almost required a redefinition of the term "technical".

Forget the Rogue Racer.

I didn't know who this guy was, but I sure liked his style.

Six months later while visiting Escalante, Utah and nursing a minor Achilles issue, I discovered that Gary Robbins was in town too and just getting over an injury of his own.  He'd suffered a Jones fracture in late October and it had laid waste to the tail end of his very successful 2010 and all of 2011 up to that point.

It was April.

Basically, he hadn't run at all, much less tackled anything like the trail I'd seen on YouTube, since that Rogue Racer video had been filmed and posted.

I'd never heard of a Jones fracture.  As a textbook would report, it is an injury to the fifth metatarsal bone (located at the base of the small toe where it meets the foot) and occurs on the top of the bone in the midfoot.  More simply, it's more or less a runner's worst nightmare in that it is located in an area of the foot that is greatly impacted by any and every given footfall.  Worse yet, this type of break can show a stubborn unwillingness to knit.

But the fracture had, at last, healed and as I sat and talked with Gary he was beaming with the anticipation of his first post-break long run that very next day and the looking forward to training for and racing the Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc (UTMB) in the Alps that August alongside a field that was already stacking up to be the strongest assemblage of North American, European and other international runners to ever toe a 100-mile starting line.  His relief was evident and, even having just met the man, I was immediately excited for him and sure I'd be rooting for him later that summer.

In some small way Gary's enthusiasm and optimism on the immediate heels of the challenges he'd faced over the previous months of rehab made my injury seem insignificant and completely manageable.  I'd been feeling pretty low as I'd been unable to run during the couple of weeks leading up to the trip to Escalante and even my activities while there were limited by the very strong suggestion of my physical therapist.  My spirits were lifted after just a few minutes of getting-to-know-you with Gary.

In the days after I'd returned to the East Coast and Gary had made his way back home to North Vancouver, British Columbia, I decided to reach back out to him to see if he'd be willing to let me interview him regarding overcoming injury and remaining hopeful during rehabilitation and periods of not being able to run and, after the fact, coping with the lingering memories of having been let down by one's body.

He agreed, but completing that interview took a lot longer than either of us expected.

You have brains in your head.

You have feet in your shoes.

You can steer yourself any direction you choose.*

Gary Robbins does not possess an ultrarunning background.  He doesn't even have a running background.  None at all, in fact.  As he told me, "it was 2009 before I had even done a 100-mile running week ever in my entire life and, prior to 2004, I had run less than 100 miles in my then 26 years on the planet."  That last bit might have been an exaggeration, but, based on the sound of the voice on the other end of the telephone, I didn't think so.

Regardless, by 2007 he'd run a handful of ultras and won North Vancouver's Dirty Duo 50K that May.  In August of that following year, having switched gears to make ultrarunning his primary training focus, he won the first 100-miler that he entered, crossing the finish line of Squamish's Stormy Trail 100-Miler in a blazing 17:39:03.  Several 50K and 50 Mile podium finishes followed over the next year-and-a-half and the only performance that really fell short of his expectations came on a tough day at the 2009 Western States Endurance Run.  He'd become one of the top ultrarunners in British Columbia and the Pacific Northwest but needed a breakthrough performance to bring him broader recognition.

You won't lag behind, because you'll have the speed.

You'll pass the whole gang and you'll soon take the lead.

The H.U.R.T. Trail 100-Mile Endurance Run, more commonly referred to simply as the H.U.R.T. 100, is a notoriously punishing race that takes place in the tropical, volcanic mountains above Honolulu, Hawaii.  Consisting of five 20-mile loops, the course touts its roots, rocks, puddles and "mud wallows" (yes, mud wallows) and 20 total stream crossings.  The trails are narrow, sometimes treacherous and teeter along exposed ridges and dizzying vertical drops.  The highest point on the course is only 1,800 feet above sea level but the total elevation gain is an intimidating 24,500 feet.

Long story short, it's a beast of a course and has been won by some big names since its inception back in 2001.  In 2009 eventual Ultrarunner of the Year-winner Geoff Roes had shaved an astonishing 15 minutes off of the previous fastest finish, lowering it to a 20:28:00, a time that still very much confirmed how H.U.R.T. stacked up against other storied 100-milers with significantly faster course records.

As evidenced in the footage I'd seen, Gary liked technical courses and he loved attacking downhills.  There's just as much "down" as "up" at H.U.R.T., so Gary liked his chances.

He should have.

He found a way to peel another 16 minutes off of the course, blowing away Geoff's one-year old record with a 20:12:00.

"I flew to Hawaii and at that point I was a relative unknown.  I was known in my local community but I wasn’t even the favorite to win the race and I broke Geoff Roes’ course record.  Personally, that was my goal.  That’s what I went there for and I believed I could do that, but, I remember that people weren’t picking me."

That June Gary returned to Squaw Valley for another crack at Western States.  On the historic day now memorialized in J.B. Benna's film Unbreakable, Gary avenged his disappointing performance the year before with an impressive 6th place finish of which he remains extremely proud.

Photo courtesy of Glenn Tachiyama

"It’s funny, because I actually remember it more like a victory than I do a 6^th place finish and part of that was because the year before I went to Western States all piss-and-vinegar having done one 100 miler and tried some things and blew up and walked the final 20 miles to the finish line to finish 49^th.  A year later I went back with the desire to improve upon a mistake that I’d made and that 6^th place...I remember speaking of it numerous times, and my brain going 'you didn’t win that race, it just feels like you did because you won something  in yourself'."

Shortly after Western States, he established the fastest known time (FKT) on Canada's West Coast Trail and followed that up with a corresponding FKT of the East Coast Trail in his childhood home of Newfoundland.  While doing so, he raised $5000 for Right to Play, an international organization that uses sports to educate and empower children facing adversity.

http://www.righttoplay.com/International/Pages/Home.aspx

"I was really just on top of the world in terms of where I wanted to be and how I wanted to go about things and I was building continually on successes."

Those successes had garnered several sponsorships, most notably that of Mountain Hardwear/Montrail.  In October, Gary was flown to Oregon as part of a Mountain Hardwear running conference and learned that the company had decided to include him in more of their advertising and better promote him among their retailers.  It was the first real evidence of his increased exposure, the success of his running and the fact that he was being rewarded for it.

"I was in with Max King and Geoff Roes.  They’re buddies of mine but at the same token I have such a massive level of respect for them as runners.  Geoff was THE man…I mean he was undefeated in 100-mile races.  It was just a culmination of a lot for me and I felt like it couldn’t have gotten any better."

Wherever you fly, you'll be the best of the best.

Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

Except when you don't.

Because, sometimes, you won't.

The very next day, October 26, 2010, Gary broke his foot.

"It was such a weird experience because I was running with Max and Geoff and didn’t want to be the weak link.  I slipped on a snow covered rock, folded my foot in half and was in excruciating pain but I didn’t even make a peep.  I ran another 2 miles with them before we stopped.  That was supposed to be our turn around and Max said 'I think we should go a bit further' and I said 'I think I broke my foot'.  And I remember Geoff just looked at me and was like 'what do you mean you THINK you broke your foot?  You haven’t even said anything?'"

At the hospital in Bend, x-rays were taken and a nurse confirmed that the foot was broken.  Her exact words were "and it's kinda bad."

Well respected orthopedic surgeon Dr. Dory Boyer made it clear that the healing and recovery period for a Jones fracture could be lengthy and strongly suggested surgery.  After initially leaning that direction but reading conflicting reports that raised concerns about issues with the screw and the flexion point of the foot, Gary chose to go the route of immobilization until the two break points united.

"As a teenager I always felt that surgery and war wounds were cool but now as I was getting a bit older I was like 'no, I have to think this through, this is my body and I need to prevent anything foreign from going in it if I can.'  It’s not cool to be able to say I have a pin in my foot if I don’t need it in there.  So, I was adamant about not getting surgery if I didn’t have to."

That decision would be questioned throughout the process.

"Even when I broke my foot, I thought  'oh, whatever, it’s October, it's November, I’ll take a couple of months off.  It sucks but I’ll get through this.'" 

Gary prepared to be on crutches for 6 weeks, but repeated x-rays showed no healing and crutches remained a necessity.  Six weeks crept to eight weeks, two months became three.

He'd embraced running late in life and had never had any intention of it being his sole identity.  The severity of the Jones fracture and its refusal to improve made it that much more imperative that he not lose himself to the disappointment of not being able to run at all much less competitively in the short term. To stay positive and reconnect with a life not defined solely by sport, Gary reached back out to friends and family that knew him as far more than just a runner.

"Basically when I first was sidelined, I made a list of all my very good friends that I hadn’t seen, had not taken the time out of my training, out of my day, out of my life to spend time with.  I made a list of all the people that I truly have great friendships with and I went 'I’m gonna see every single one of these guys in this process.'"

He revisited Banff, where he'd lived for several years, and caught up with a number of old friends.  He flew home to Newfoundland and spent Christmas with his family.  The human interaction pulled him through and helped keep him from focusing solely on his injury, his not being able to run and his loss of fitness.

But he still longed to get back at it.

Though it took far longer than predicted, the non-union finally did begin to take and on February 1, 2011, Gary was off of crutches and back on his own two feet.  He was still registered for both Western States (June) and UTMB (August).

Having gone from a non-runner to a successful, competitive runner in such a short period of time to begin with and possessing a mentality that allowed him to go far and fast, he jumped right back into training and training hard.

"I didn’t contemplate getting injured again.  I was told that pain should be my only indicating factor of if I’m doing too much and, realistically, I didn’t have a lot of pain in my foot."

Immediately, he was consistently doing more sooner than the timetables provided by his doctor would have suggested or advised.  He ran a 10K four weeks earlier than the doctor said he should.  He logged a 20+ mile run the day after we first met in Escalante and finished 3rd at the Capitol Peak 50-Miler in Olympia, Washington the following week.  And did it all pain-free. 

He was back.

You can get so confused

that you'll start to race

down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace

and grind on for miles cross weirdish wild space,

headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.

"And people around me who were outspoken were saying the same thing:  'I don’t think this is smart.'  And then I think a lot of people were biting their tongues because they didn’t have the place to say that.  But the people that had the right to say that to me said it.  More than once."

But he didn't have pain in his foot and he shelved all of the other advice and input and clung to that one easy-to-measure guide given by the doctor, "if you have pain in your foot, slow down and don’t run."  He didn't, so he didn't.

Two weeks after Capital Peak, Gary and his girlfriend and fellow ultrarunner Linda Barton flew to Hawaii for a mix of vacation and training.  The plan was simple;  get up early every morning, log 10-20 daily miles of technical, mountainous running with a goal of 100 miles for the week and then retire to the beach after training each day for relaxation and recovery.  They stuck to the plan and it was everything they'd hoped it would be.

On day 6 of their 7 day stay, Gary and Linda were running separate sections of the H.U.R.T. course that Gary knew so well.  In the midst of his 85th mile of the week, Gary rolled his foot and quite literally heard the bone snap.

And this time the diagnosis wouldn't be a surprise.

"I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt, I KNEW it was the exact same fracture line."

But getting to that diagnosis would require some significant work.  He didn't have his phone and he didn't know when or even if Linda would pass through that section of the course.  He wasn’t even certain that there was anyone else in the vicinity so all he could do was begin inching his way toward the nearest trailhead.

Crawling and hobbling, Gary needed 45 minutes to navigate a single mile.  Reaching a main intersection, he was finally able to call out to some volunteers who were busy with trail maintenance.   The volunteers called search-and-rescue and Linda was contacted.  There'd be no ambulance waiting to whisk Gary away from this remote section of the island.  He was shuttled instead by a basket dangling beneath a helicopter that evacuated him to a point at which an ambulance could then transport him to the hospital.

Gary had been wearing his GoPro when the injury occurred and he'd kept right on filming.

"I went through a period of almost shock and I actually had to delete a lot of the video footage because I could only watch it once and I didn’t want anybody to see some of the things that I went through because what happened at that moment wasn’t just the pain of breaking my foot.  It was the overwhelming, flooding knowledge of what I was gonna be going through again and I was watching all my running dreams just dissipate and disappear before my eyes and the biggest and hardest thing to take in in those nano-seconds of processing what’s happening was having to ask 'how can I ever trust my own body? I don’t know if I’m ever going to get past this.'”

His first thought was UTMB.  The race that he'd been dreaming of for a couple of years, the race that was being billed as playing host to perhaps the most competitive 100-mile field ever, a race that he'd intended to train for specifically and single-mindedly in the hope of having another one of those magical days that met his expectations and far exceeded the expectations of others, was gone.

And that was only the most immediate of the dreams that had slipped away.  For all Gary knew, he'd never race competitively again.

After flying home to B.C., Gary paid an all too familiar visit to Dr. Boyer.  Surgery was again prescribed and even scheduled before Gary decided to forego it for a second time.

"I was going to give it one more shot and I was really going to rehab it properly once it finally healed."

Once healing occurred, it could be determined if competitive running would be possible.  The doctor had planted the seed that Gary might eventually need to revisit what he'd been doing, consider lower-impact options like cycling and possibly even avoid mountain running entirely.  The reality was that the type of technical downhill running that he loved the most delivered a tremendous amount of stress on joints, tendons and ligaments and his foot had obviously given beneath the strain of that punishment.

The second x-ray, taken a few weeks later, was worse than the first.  Deja vu.

Getting a non-union Jones fracture to "take" is not a guarantee.  Gary knew this, perhaps better than anyone.  He still wanted to avoid surgery but he was going to need help.

Dr. Boyer suggested that Gary try Orthofix, a bone stimulation healing device that introduces an electro-magnetic current to trigger both "sides" of a fractured bone to begin to fuse.  It basically serves as a mediator between two non-communicating parts of the body and gets the healing process back on track.  It wouldn't necessarily be quick but it was progress and non-invasive.  Another x-ray, taken a few weeks later, showed improvement.

The physical process was underway, but there was psychological healing required too.

This second go-round really made Gary question his running mortality.  Had he given too much to a sport where success can be fleeting even without injury?

"As much as I’m passionate about it and I love it, I didn’t even have this in my life in 2003.  In 2004 I got into it and now, in 2011, I’m struggling to remember who I actually am without being a runner .  I decided that I was going to have something positive, long term, that came away from being sidelined. I was going to focus my energy toward something else and accomplish something else and utilize the time so that I could eventually, hopefully, look back on it and say 'this positive came from this negative.'” 

He still very much loved running, loved trail running, loved mountain running and knew that he wanted to be a runner, in some fashion, for the rest of his life.  But even if he could get back to performing at a high level, he understood that at best he likely had a 3-5 year window of  strong, competitive running ahead of him.  He intended to stay connected to running far longer than that.

He accepted a course management role with Five Peaks, a regional trail running series.  He soon began doing the same for MOMAR, an adventure racing series.  That led to the decision to start a 50-mile race of his own (along with co-Race Director Geoff Langford), the Squamish 50.

http://www.squamish50.com/

He turned to a mentor, John Salmonson, the RD at H.U.R.T., for race directing advice and received far more than that.

John had run a staggering 95,000 miles over many, many years of ultrarunning and had done so at an extremely high level.  After a major knee injury, he had been told by doctors that surgery was required and could not wait.  John figured he could sneak in one more 100-miler, did so and was then told by doctors that there wasn't anything left of the knee to salvage.  He never ran again.

“His advice to me was simple, ‘Don’t fight this…let yourself heal and take the time you need.’"

A much needed fork in the road had been reached.

Gary was still working toward a return to elite racing but was gaining perspective and fostering and nurturing a long-term connection to the running community.

I asked if that would have been possible or, at the very least, infinitely more difficult if his prognosis had been as final as John's had been.

"It’s almost impossible to answer because I wasn’t actually confronted with that reality. I never entirely lost faith in the idea that I would get back to where I was.  Ever.  It was never a question in my mind no matter what I was hearing from doctors or anybody else that I would get back to where I wanted to be.  I was just realizing that the process was incredibly longer than I ever gave it credit for initially."

This time around he had spent 4 months on crutches and a couple of additional weeks in a walking boot.  All told, his ankle had been immobile for 8 months of 2011.

Stepping out of the boot and setting aside crutches in October, Gary emerged far more wary.

"I was on edge all of the time, I didn’t trust my own body.  I was hyper-sensitive, hyper-aware.  I didn’t want to chance anything.  It really was the polar opposite of the first time around."

His confidence was shaken and his body was going to struggle to heal the rest of the way without it.  Enter Luke Nelson.

A competitive runner, a ski mountaineering racer and a physician's assistant well-versed in Jones fractures, Luke offered to review Gary's x-rays, give his second opinion and help develop a rehabilitation program.  The plan he mapped out was slow and conservative, but Gary knew that it came from a fellow endurance athlete and a kindred spirit who fully understood what Gary aspired to at the end of the process.

He was allowed to run a single kilometer in the first week of physical therapy.  The second week he was allowed to run a single kilometer twice.  For an ultrarunning champ, it was a maddeningly slow build, but Gary stuck to the plan.

Finally, on January 1st, he ran a full 10 kilometers.

"I customized the distance in a local 50K race that happens on New Year's Day that I had done 5 times and had won once before.  That for me was one of those celebrations…even though I ran 10 while everyone else ran 50, I ran 10K and I felt like I had finally gotten something back at that point."

With Luke's continuing guidance, Gary slowly tacked on mileage and received regular follow-up x-rays.  Those films, thankfully, repeatedly confirmed healing and his body sent nothing but positive reports to support those assessments.

Surely Gary would have liked a do-over for 2011, but he'd gained an immeasurable amount of perspective over the full course of sustaining and fully rehabbing his injuries.

Both he and Luke made it to the Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc this past August.  Linda came along too and high up in the Alps the week before the race, she answered "yes" to a certain popped question and made the trip, race or no race, one to remember.

Photo courtesy of Gary Robbins

As has happened on several occasions during its short history, the race was modified just before the start due to nasty weather predictions, especially at the highest elevations, and subsequent concerns for the safety of its participants.  A hundred miles was reduced to 104 kilometers and a couple of top registered runners, frustrated by the decision, even pulled out of the race.

But Gary had overcome too much and traveled too far to NOT run.  Nearly 14 hours after starting from the French village of Chamonix, he crossed a finish line that he'd dreamed of for so long.  He wasn't standing on the podium, but sometimes dreams-come-true are sweet even if different than first imagined.

And, after all that had transpired, "there's always next year" probably has a pretty nice ring to it.

"There was an appreciation through being sidelined that I never would have possessed otherwise.  I always would have slightly taken it for granted without ever realizing it.  I always appreciated it, it was never lost on me, but you really don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone and when it was gone I just realized that this was a true love of my life, running, and it came to me late in life and I don’t ever want to be without it and it’s not lost on me now that I am incredibly fortunate to be able to run.  Period."

Welcome all the way back, Gary.

Kid, you'll move mountains!

------------------------------------------------------

*During the weeks that I was transcribing my phone interview with Gary and doing my best to properly tell his story, my girls pulled Oh, the Places You'll Go from their bookshelf and added it to our nightly before-bed reading rotation.  It's a book that I can't remember NOT remembering, but the words took on new meaning in light of Gary's journey and begged to be included (or maybe I begged them).  My thanks and pleas for forgiveness to the timeless Dr. Seuss for letting me repurpose his words here. 

the sea level blues.

Twice a year, I board a plane for Salt Lake City to attend the Outdoor Retailer trade show.  If you like backpacking, mountain biking, climbing, trail running, paddling, camping or just about any other activity in the great outdoors, each January and August, the Salt Palace serves up a head-spinning carnival of "what you'll have to have six months from now."

OR (pronounced oh-are), as it's known affectionately, also happens to be a great place to make and/or reconnect with like minded friends who've found ways to forge out a similar work/play hybrid career.  Each time I go, I've got more faces to look forward to seeing and more difficulty freeing up the time I'd like to catch up with everyone.

As a key component of a retail operation that works hard, hard, hard to continue carving out a place in the outdoor industry, I am often overwhelmed by how much actual work we cram into just a couple of days and I should be thrilled that we find anytime at all to socialize.  And we do.

For the past three or four years, while at OR I've run the Wasatch Wobble, a 5K put on by Montrail/Mountain Hardwear up in Red Butte Gardens above the city.  The event is a non-timed focused-on-fun event but at 5,000+ feet of elevation it's always been a good test for me too.  This year, though, I'd learned about the Jupiter Peak Steeplechase that takes place in Park City each August.  Beginning at 7,000 feet, stretching for 16 +/- miles and having a gain of over 3,000 feet, this race promised to be a big step up from the Wobble.

On the first day in town, I got up early to sneak in a run and breath the fresh air before sucking in the artificial air at the Salt Palace all day long.  I was also looking forward to seeing how my legs and lungs felt a few thousand feet higher than back home.

We were staying south of the city just a short drive to the foot of Big Cottonwood Canyon.  Unfamiliar with the area and starting before sun-up, I opted for a paved pedestrian trail until it conked out and left me climbing alongside the road toward the top of the canyon.  Not being on single track didn't dampen my spirits, as there were no cars on the road and the soft grit that ran parallel to the road felt great underfoot.  As the sun rose, I plodded steadily uphill as the sun began to peak over the Wasatch Mountains.

Not even the birds were stirring and the only sound was the creek crash, crash, crashing its way down the canyon.  My camera complained about the lack of light and an inept operator who couldn't find a mechanical compensation.  All the same, it did its best and captured a few memories.

I was on the verge of daydreaming my way up into the mountains and away for the day when I came to and realized I needed to get back to the car.  I tucked the camera into my waistband and quickened my pace.  I'd managed the climb nicely and was able to really push on the descent.  This made me hopeful for the race on Saturday morning even though I knew I'd be at twice the elevation.  I'd hiked above 10,000 feet but never run up that high.  It was safe to expect that I wouldn't manage the sub 7:30 miles I'd just logged, but, I was still encouraged by my effort that morning.

The next two days were a blur of backpacks, socks, tents, sleeping bags, trekking poles, waterproof/breathable jackets, headlamps, doodads, whizzywhats and shaboozles.  Business was talked, talked, talked, talked, talked.  Thankfully, there were also a healthy number of warm handshakes, hugs and laughter wedged in between all that talking.

The hours and days flew by and it was Saturday morning.  True to its calling, the alarm alarmed me that it was 5:45.  A little over an hour later, after dropping my boss off in downtown Salt Lake for a pre-business business-breakfast (talk, talk, talk, talk, talk), I coasted into the lower parking lot of the Park City Mountain Resort and stared past the windshield at the fittest bunch of pre-racers I can remember seeing.  A little gasping-for-air voice told me I was in my over my head, but my eyes followed the chairlifts upward and I wondered where out there was the top of Jupiter Peak.

I had to go see.

There was one last moment of trepidation when I realized that Lindsay's phone number was printed right on my bib.  So some kind passerby could give my wife a courtesy call upon stumbling on my corpse?  Yikes.

Clearly I was over thinking things and just needed to get my feet underneath me.  I wedged in with some 300 other runners as someone muttered inaudible instructions through a megaphone.  A signal of some sort, again unheard by me, sent the pack slowly shuffling up a steeply sloped service road before funneling us onto the start of endless (and glorious) single track that would wind its way all the way to the top of the mountain.

I'd decided on a modest goal of 4 miles an hour on the ascent, expecting that the severity of the grade and the altitude were likely to make my usual pace impossible to achieve.  If I could top out in 2 hours and have legs left beneath me, I hoped to let gravity whisk me the full 8 miles down to the bottom at a much faster pace.

I fell in stride with a number of runners who seemed to be of equal ability and condition

Somewhere soon after mile 5 the grade steepened and I could sense unfamiliar physiological demands.  I was struggling to pull enough oxygen out of the air and my legs reported corresponding heaviness.  Feeling a little lightheaded, I decided it was time to peek at the GPS and learned that we'd now climbed over 9,000 feet.  There were less than 3 miles left to the top but another 1200+ feet of elevation to be gained.  Needless to say, I was no longer running 12 minute miles when I looked up to see the ridge just below Jupiter.

To give some scale to the photo, note the "runner" at the very lower right and keep in mind that the tufts at the top of the ridge are full grown trees.  I couldn't help but notice that not a single person ahead of me was actually running.  In fact, some of them were on all fours or at least appeared to be.  Loose rock added to the challenge and I was relieved to find that the stubborn grass growing on the ridge held my weight as I clutched at it.

Topping out, I glanced at my Garmin and was surprised to see that I'd only covered 7 miles.  I vaguely remembered hearing that there was more work to be done after Jupiter's Peak and after a quick two hundred yards of downhill, the track led upward again to the top of Tri-County Peak.  At last the climbing was done and the smooth winding downhill single track led off into the distance.

It was right around mile 10, probably while my mind wandered off into another patch of aspens, that I fell and fell hard.  I took the brunt of the fall on my right knee which was now bleeding but also banged my right side just above the hip and dragged my right forearm and elbow.  A couple of runners hopped over me, offered words of genuine encouragement and then disappeared down the trail.  It took me a moment or two to get back on my feet and I was, admittedly, shook up.  I traversed the next few miles very tentatively and did anything but barrel down the mountain.

Eventually I shook off the fall and got back to running but I never work up to the pace I'd hoped for on the return to 7000 feet.  My head, however, did begin to clear with the downward progression and I reached the bottom feeling good.  Good and tired.

I can't speak for any of the preceding 18 years, but my GPS confirmed that this year's course was a full mile short of 16.  My exhausted lungs and legs didn't seem the least bit disappointed.  Those 15 miles had taken me just over 3 hours (more than an hour behind the winners), but, coming from a home elevation of 400 feet, I'm holding my head up high...and looking forward to next year.

the higher the bounce (week 15).

The day before heading to Clinton County for the Hyner View Trail Challenge , I sprung for Chinese and was greeted with the following fortune:

Considering the questionable state of my Achilles, the demands of the Hyner course under the best of conditions and the horrendous weather report for the weekend ahead, I didn't like the sound of falling or bouncing.

My legs actually felt quite good and the right Achilles seemed to have quieted down during a low mileage week and with the aid of diligent icing and heating.  I'd managed a fairly demanding (though not long) run in the rain on Tuesday, clambering up and down Mole Hill in the closest mimic of Hyner I could find within easy striking distance.  Steering clear of my most stripped down footwear, I stuck with my relatively burly Montrail Mountain Masochists.

I sometimes forget how much I genuinely like these shoes and I definitely appreciated the extra support during this forced taper.  Eking out sub-10 minute miles on Mole Hill with recovering legs left me hopeful for Hyner.

Chris and I pulled up in front of the start/finish around 9:00 PM on Friday night and found few inhabitants.  The National Weather Service had issued a wind advisory for much of Pennsylvania and heavy rains were projected for Saturday morning and afternoon.  Temperatures hovered just above 50 degrees Fahrenheit but threatened to plummet.  We spent little time considering putting up a tent and agreed that Chris's minivan had ample room for both of us to sleep comfortably.  Listening throughout the night to the van bracing against the increasing gusts, I felt thankful to be "indoors" and wondered what sunrise would bring.

We awoke an hour-and-a-half before the 8:30 AM start to find participants starting to assemble.  Twelve-hundred runners and hikers had signed up for the 16-mile event but we wondered how many would show with the forecasted conditions.  The start was pushed back nearly a half hour due to overnight winds that had toppled one of the support tents.  It was apparent that many who had signed up stayed away when we saw volunteers with fistfuls of unclaimed race bibs.

Knowing that we had little more than a mile before the course settled into climbing single track, Chris and I inched up in the pack.  The maneuver paid off as we left the road behind with no more than 40 or 50 runners ahead of us, all of whom were holding a steady pace.

The first climb up Humble Hill came upon us almost immediately and I was thrilled to find that I felt strong.  I wasn't strong enough to run much of the climb (few were), but strong enough to maintain forward progress on the ridiculously steep pitch.

Just over 3 miles into the race, we'd climbed 1200 feet and reached the first top out at Hyner View, a popular launching point for hang gliders.  The wind was whipping and I was shocked to see my mother, stepfather, aunt and uncle waiting with Lily and Piper.  I knew they'd planned to attend the event but thought the weather would keep them away.  My initial excitement was immediately tempered by the realization that Lily was visibly shaking in the cold.  I spent several minutes with the kids before continuing on my way.  Chris had trucked right through the top out and was long gone.  I wouldn't see him again until we were both done racing for the day.

I was feeling some stiffness in the Achilles but nothing too concerning. Overall I felt solid.  The next 3 miles consisted mostly of downhill running which saved my lungs but had me second guessing my footing.  An extended section of side hill running found the trail basically disintegrating underfoot,  putting undue strain on my outside leg (which just so happened to be my already strained right leg).

 "Nothing too concerning" suddenly seemed a premature determination.

The upside was that this section included frequent creek crossings that allowed me to continuously dunk my right foot and enjoy the on-the-fly icing.  I hoped that this might keep any swelling at bay.

The climb out of Reickert Hollow seemed gradual in comparison to Humble Hill and I hit the 9 mile aid station surprised to learn that the first two major climbs were now behind me.  Though I now knew I was going to be hurting at the end of the day, I was pleased to know I was past halfway both in terms of mileage and required climbing.  I couldn't remember the description of the next section but was initially relieved to see that it was downhill.

That relief vanished quickly as I found myself tiptoeing between the rocks that littered the next mile of trail.  I was getting caught from behind with regularity and kept an eye out for places to step out of the way to let fresher runners pass by.  Despite the raw weather, I could feel heat emanating from my right shoe and wondered if my Achilles was going to hold up.

At Cleveland Hollow, just ahead of the final climb, we passed by two volunteers in pick-up trucks and I considered hitching a ride back to the start.  I was already past 10 miles, however, and expected I could claw my way up the S.O.B. and hobble through the last 4 miles if it came to that.

A mile later my day was done.  My toes stopped responding and I'd progressed to actually feeling pain with every step.  Jesse had sent me an e-mail on Friday with a warning about attempting the race if things weren't in working order.  The words "you'll be out the entire summer" were rattling around in my head and I worried that I'd already accomplished that setback.

Disappointed, I began creeping back the way I'd came, struggling at this point to put weight on my non-responding right leg.  I eventually got back down to the Hollow and commandeered the ride I'd skipped over in the first place.  I was on the way back to the start with my first DNF.      

Chris ran incredibly well and was still looking fresh at the finish.  He was good company and I was in relatively good spirits considering my wounded pride and my swollen leg.  I'd get to see Chris the next day too as he was the attending physician in the emergency room on Sunday morning.

X-rays were negative and I was further relieved to find that I didn't appear to have any tears.  Chris did confirm, however, that my tendinitis was very much for real.  At least in the short term, per my new physical therapist, here's what my workouts will look like:

So there's my "hard fall".

Nearing a full four months into the year, I'm heading in the wrong direction.  The first two of my "goal" races resulted in one missed event due to scheduling conflicts and a did not finish.  I can't even think about the races I'd planned to run later in the year when I'm not even able to log short runs without repercussions.

Here's hoping for one hell of a bounce.

shoes.

At some point late this past summer I got it in my head that I wanted to run my first 50K.  The longest events I'd ever taken part in were 10 milers though I had run slighter longer distances without the fanfare of an offical start/finish line.  Years of ankle injuries and poor rehabbing of said injuries have led to some odd issues when I push road mileage.  So, even though the jump past half marathon and marathon distances seemed a bit daunting, being able to do it on a less demanding surface seemed possible.  Plus, in recent years I've also discovered how much more joyful trail running can be in comparison to road work.  I'd never manage to go quite as fast, but I don't ever have to worry about vehicular threats (save the occassional mountain bike) and the quiet and beauty of the surroundings trump most any road run I'm likely to find locally.

Maybe I can't match road pace because I'm not in as much of a hurry to be done!

After scouring race calendars for a target event, I settled on the 2nd annual New River Trail 50K (http://www.ncnr.org/nrt50k.html), hosted/directed by Montrail UltraRunning team member Annette Bednosky in tiny Fries, Virginia.  The race date of October 10th was far enough away to allow me to train but close enough to feel relevant each day I woke up and considered whether to run or not run.  Even Annette's event description was written as on open invitation for first-timers.  As a newbie, I happily accepted.

As I began increasing mileage and slowly developing an understanding of just how far 50 kilometers actually is, I realized I needed footwear that was up to the challenge.  I'm sure there are barefooters out there who'd scoff at that claim, but I invite them to wear my feet and ankles for their next run.

To be fair, convincing myself that I needed new shoes was hardly a challenge.  While I'm not much of a hoarder (am I?), I do love shoes.  Sneakers, that is.  I love sneakers and, specifically, I love rail running shoes.  I already owned several pairs, but they'd been purchased or received as gifts because I believed they looked good not because I actually expected to log serious running miles while wearing them.  A few long runs definitely revealed that the shoes in my possession fell into the fashion-over-function category.

The obstacle in my need for new shoes was my father-of-two/homeowner wallet.  Thankfully, working in the outdoor industry does have its advantages and I didn't end up needing to spend the dollars I might have if I was in another line of work.

Once I had obtained a few likely candidates, I needed to test them and do so in a manner that fairly pitted one pair against the other so I could make an informed decision on which would serve me best.  To get right to the point, I never developed the required methodology.  I just ran in one and then moved on to the next.  Anyone who runs with any regularity knows that energy levels and strength can vary drastically from one day to the next and I knew I was passing false judgment based on tired legs that had little if anything to do with the shoes I was wearing.

Still, as time rolled along I found myself reaching for certain shoes more frequently while others began collecting dust or wordlessly made the conversion to everyday wear.

In the last weeks before race day, I narrowed it down to two finalists, Vasque Celerators and Montrail Mountain Masochists, and did a better job of putting them through similar paces.  The Masochists won out and did everything that was asked of them on October 10th.

Of course, shoes are still just shoes and they didn't make up for my usual lack of discipline in setting too fast an early pace. They weren't any protection against the aching shoulder that stems from continuing to hold my hands too high--as though I'm Carl Lewis instead of Plodder Lutz.  And, the Masochists brought no relief from the eventual spasming of my inherited bad back that came on shortly after mile 21 and accompanied me, off and on, for the remaining 10.1 miles.

Regardless of my other shortcomings, the Masochists provided the support and cushioning that I needed to get close enough to the finish to hear Lily cheering and see her "Go!!! Daddy,  Go!!!" sign.  At that point, flip flops would've been sufficient to deliver me across the line with an exhausted (but satisfied) smile.

Shoes, you gotta love 'em.