The Best Laid Plans (Western States Diary)

I had a pretty rough time this weekend.

When the initial news about Western States came down, I tried to put a brave face on it, and keep things in perspective. Cancellation was the right choice. There wasn’t anything anybody could have done to prevent it. I’d move on and find something else to focus my attention on.

Then race weekend came, and it was a whole different story.

On Saturday, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to be running. All day long, I pondered what point I would be on the course at that particular time. When I climbed into bed, the place I really wanted to be was approaching the Rucky Chuck river crossing. Sunday morning, I kept wishing I was in Auburn, squeezing in a short nap before the awards ceremony.

Of course, none of that happened. And the more I thought about it, the more bummed out I became.

To make matters worse, I had to write a Monterey Herald article, explaining to all of my readers - about one dozen at last count, but they’re an inquisitive bunch – precisely why this event I’d spent six months writing about wasn’t even going to happen. It had all the makings of the most anticlimactic ending to a series since The Sopranos.

The article I submitted was basically a reworking of my previous two blog posts, polished up a bit with some Robert Burns and Mick Jagger quotes. I e-mailed it to my editor, along with an apology: I’m sorry this story didn’t have a better ending. Even though it wasn’t my fault, I honestly did feel bad for anyone who might have been reading along about the way everything ended.

Remember – my original intent was to capture the appeal of ultrarunning in general, and the Western States 100 in particular, to an audience that might not otherwise ever learn about it. The guy at the donut shop, the high school kid looking for baseball scores, or the soccer mom at the health club. Now those people probably think that not only are ultrarunners crazy, but their labors are potentially fruitless. And I’m the poster boy for unrequited ambition.

Nevertheless, it seems like a logical stopping point for the series – but as for me, I have no idea what to do next. There are a few upcoming 100-milers I’ve considered, all of which require a significant revision of previously scheduled family plans. I’ve also found out that everyone from this year’s WS race has an automatic entry to the 2009 event, but even that isn’t a certainty for me.

The buildup to this race was difficult, to put things mildly. I was really looking forward to accomplishing the goal, then shutting the training machine down for a while, and making up for lost time in other aspects of my life. The thought of starting the whole process over for next year’s race seems more than a little daunting.

For now, I’m making like Al Gore after the 2000 election: I’m dropping off the grid, growing a beard, gaining a lot of weight (that part was inevitable after fasting for so long to get to race weight), mourning what might have been and contemplating what still might be. Right now, the option that appeals most to me is to do nothing. After feeling sorry for myself all weekend, my motivation to do anything in the near future is nearly nonexistent – it’s like I caught all of the symptoms of post-race depression, without actually doing the race.

However, I’m fairly certain that I’ll snap out of it soon. Hopefully by next week, I’ll come up with some answers for which way to go from here. Until then, here’s my final Monterey Herald article for this year’s series.

**

Journey of 100 Miles: A Western States Training Diary

Part 8: The Best Laid Plans

*
“The best laid plans of mice and men go oft awry”
- Robert Burns, from To a Mouse


So, about that last article I wrote – the one where I said that today I hoped to be across the finish line of the Western States 100, resting easily with a sub-24 belt buckle in hand? Remember that one? …

Well, nevermind. It's not happening. For the first time in its 35-year history, the Western States Endurance Run has been canceled.On Wednesday evening, as I was packing my bags to leave, I received the following e-mail:

Dear Western States Runners,
It is with deep regret that we announce that the 35th running of the Western States 100-mile Endurance Run has been cancelled, due to the unprecedented amount of wildfires that have struck northern California in recent days and the health risks associated with these wildfires. We apologize to our runners for any inconvenience this decision has created.

Needless to say, I was stunned. This is the runner’s equivalent of being left at the altar: all that planning, all those hopes and dreams, all vanished with one heartless Dear John letter. And like a jilted fiancee, the only thing I could think to do that evening was make myself a large bowl of ice cream to smother my remorse.

The race was a victim of last weekend’s freak electrical storm that blew across Northern California, leaving hundreds of fires in its wake, further deteriorating what was already a widespread state of emergency. At the beginning of the week, there were more than 800 active wildfires in California - so the initial e-mail from the Western States committee warning that the race was threatened didn’t exactly come as a shock.

However, I tend to be an optimist, so I held out hope that something would be worked out, that weather conditions would settle down, and we would all be that much more grateful to participate in the event because we appreciated the possibility that it almost didn’t happen.

And then they cancelled the race.

Wednesday afternoon and evening were a bit surreal: within the span of a few hours, my emotions went from anticipation, optimism, excitement and joy, to … nothing. It all simply vanished.

Although this is a heartbreaking turn of events for everyone associated with the race, I certainly can’t say I’m upset – because I know that cancellation was probably the right thing to do. I know that the Western States committee exhausted every last possibility to make the race happen, and their decision wasn’t made irrationally.

These wildfires are seriously scary; their destructive power is rapid and unpredictable. There’s absolutely no way to assure the safety of runners, pacers, crew members, volunteers, aid station workers, and spectators across one hundred miles of mountainous terrain under the conditions we’re currently experiencing.

Besides - staging a trail race shouldn’t be anyone’s top priority right now. Not when thousands of Californians are evacuated from their homes, and hundreds have already lost everything they own. Not when every firefighter in the state has worked overtime for the past month, traveling from one hotspot to another to keep the threats reasonably contained. Sure, Western States is prestigious, but under the circumstances, it seems awfully selfish to get worked up over losing the opportunity to run it this summer.

Also, there’s this: remember all that stuff I wrote in my last article, about how the satisfaction is in the journey, and how most of us already have the self-realization of ultrarunners even before we stand on the start line? Well –I know this might sound strange – to a large extent, I actually believe it. Even without Western States happening, I’m quite satisfied with where I’m at right now, and with the trails I’ve covered to get here.

And yet … it all feels so incomplete.

There’s something undeniably uplifting about actually crossing a finish line, and having a tangible accomplishment for all of that hard work. It’s like a validation of everything you believe about yourself – a validation that right now is somewhat lacking. Not having that “100-mile finisher” label on my resume will probably be a source of frustration from time to time, especially at those times when I question precisely why it is I put myself through this crazy training regimen in the first place.

Finally – and least importantly, in light of everything else - I’m also sad for missing out on what promised to be a fantastic experience. Part of me feels like Charlie Brown standing on the pitcher’s mound in a rainstorm, lamenting the game that will never be. All I really wanted was to play - and now the opportunity is lost.

I might make up for those last two items by jumping into another 100-mile race somewhere, but for many reasons, that’s not such an easy thing to do. I’m a bit of a rudderless ship right now – but over the next several days I’ll start evaluating my options. One likely scenario is to do nothing, and try my luck at starting this whole process over again next year.

Despite our best laid plans, the things we hope and plan for sometimes don’t materialize. Or as Mick Jagger said more simply, you can’t always get what you want. That’s just the way life goes.

On the other hand, maybe I’ll find a race to complete this journey more rapidly, to more quickly satisfy my 100-mile itch – but it should go without saying now that any plans from this point on should be considered tentative at best. In January of this year, when I started telling people about my race calendar for 2008, I usually prefaced the schedule with the following quote: If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans.

Little did I know how prophetic that would turn out to be.

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Good Grief!

In hindsight, I was a witness. I saw the beginning of the end.

Last weekend, our kids were in a swimming pool with some friends, enjoying the ideal remedy for a freakish heat wave of three straight 105-degree days gripping our area. Normally under these conditions, the air is remarkably calm, to the point where even the leaves on the trees remain perfectly still. But for about 30 minutes on Saturday afternoon, everything changed.

Sitting beside the pool, I felt a hot breeze on my skin, then spotted a huge, dark cloud formation approaching over the hills on the horizon – and I immediately made the same “Whoa, this is serious” face that Obi-Wan Kenobi had when approaching the Death Star for the first time. It was only a few minutes after pulling the kids out of the pool that the electrical storm passed overhead, and we stood on the grass watching the lightning strikes travel further down the valley.

I didn’t realize it then, but I was also watching the demise of this year’s Western States 100.

The storm that passed over our house eventually caused hundreds of fires throughout Northern California, and further deteriorated what was already a widespread state of emergency; at one point, there were more than 800 active wildfires in California. So the initial e-mail from the Western States committee warning that the race was threatened didn’t exactly come as a shock.

However, I tend to be an optimist in these situations, so I held a firm belief that something would be worked out, that weather conditions would settle down, and we would all be that much more grateful to participate in the event because we appreciated the possibility that it might not happen.

And then they cancelled the race.

Believe it or not, my initial reaction was embarrassment. On Wednesday afternoon, I had posted my farewell thoughts before heading to the race - I wrote about how good I felt, how happy I was with my preparation, and how confident I was that I’d have a good outcome. All of which was now completely meaningless.

I briefly considered taking that pre-race post down, but decided to leave it alone. I figured that post in combination with the cancellation notice succinctly illustrated the range of emotions I experienced in just a handful of hours: from anticipation, optimism, excitement and joy, to … nothing.

Although this is a heartbreaking turn of events for everyone associated with the race, I certainly can’t say I’m upset by the cancellation – because I know it was probably the right thing to do. As much as I was looking forward to it, I’m sure that nobody loves Western States more than the race committee. They undoubtedly exhausted every last possibility to make this event happen, and their decision wasn’t made irrationally.

These wildfires are seriously scary: their destructive power is rapid and unpredictable. There’s absolutely no way to assure the safety of runners, pacers, crew members, volunteers, aid station workers, and spectators across one hundred miles of mountainous terrain under the conditions we’re currently experiencing.

I haven’t seen the sun clearly in two days. A few weeks ago, we woke up to ash on our cars and doorsteps, blown from prevailing winds near a local blaze. And – this isn’t an exaggeration - it’s been like this in almost every area of the state this week.

Thousands of Californians are evacuated from their homes right now, and hundreds have already lost everything. Nearly every firefighter in the state has worked overtime for the past month or more, traveling from one hotspot to another to try and keep the threats reasonably contained. In light of these things, it seems a bit selfish to get too worked up over missing out on a trail race, regardless of its stature.

Also, there’s this: remember all that stuff I wrote in my last Monterey Herald article, about how the satisfaction is in the journey, and how most of us already have the self-realization of ultrarunners even before we stand on the start line? Well - strange as it sounds – to a large extent, I actually believe it. Even without Western States happening, I’m quite satisfied with where I’m at right now, and with the trails I’ve covered to get here.

And yet …

There’s something emotionally uplifting about actually crossing a finish line, and having a tangible accomplishment for all of that hard work. It’s like a validation of everything you believe about yourself – and that’s what’s lacking right now. Not having the “100M finisher” label to attach to my resume will undoubtedly be a source of frustration from time to time, especially when I question precisely why it is I put myself through this crazy training regimen.

Finally – and least importantly, in light of everything else - I’m also sad for missing out on what promised to be a fantastic experience. Part of me feels like Charlie Brown standing on the pitcher’s mound in a rainstorm, lamenting the game that will never be. All I really wanted was to play - and now the opportunity is lost.

I know I might make up for those last two items by jumping into another race somewhere, but that’s not such an easy thing to do. Right now, I really don’t have any other ultras on my radar, but I’ll evaluate my options (of which the primary one will be to do nothing) in the next few days and keep you posted.

It should go without saying now, but any plans from this point on will be considered tentative at best. Back in January, when I announced my race calendar for 2008, I introduced the post with the following quote: If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans.

Little did I know how prophetic that would turn out to be.

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Up in Smoke

So, about that previous post I just published ...

Nevermind. It's not happening. For the first time in its 35-year history, the Western States Endurance Run has been canceled.

A few minutes ago, all participants received the following e-mail:

Dear Western States Runners,

It is with deep regret that we announce today that the 35^th running of the Western States 100-mile Endurance Run has been cancelled, due to the unprecedented amount of wildfires that have struck northern California in recent days and the health risks that have been associated with these wildfires. The Board of Trustees of the Western States Endurance Run has consulted with many of our local and state race partners, including the U.S. Forest Service and the Placer County Air Pollution Control District, in coming to this decision. We apologize to our runners for any inconvenience this decision has created.

As you can imagine, I'll have more to say about this tomorrow or Friday. For now, I'm looking to for a large bowl of ice cream to smother my remorse.

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Off and Away!

“Congratulations! Today is your day.
You're off to Great Places! You're off and away!”
- Theodor Geisel (Dr Seuss), from Oh the Places You’ll Go!


At this point, there’s not much left to say.

After months of training - not to mention years of anticipation - I’m finally on my way to the Western States Endurance Run.

I’ve been replying to a lot of “good luck” e-mails from friends this week, and in almost every one of them, I’ve written something like, Thanks – I feel really good about everything.

The most surprising thing to me about this whole training period is how uneventful it’s been. Usually when I’m building up to a major race, there are all kinds of crisis periods due to illness, minor injuries, or the sheer panic of missing workouts due to unforeseen circumstances.

This spring and summer, everything clicked along more or less the way I wanted it to. Sure, I would like to have logged more mileage from week to week, and I’d like to weigh a little less than I do, but I think those feelings are inescapable; I suspect nearly every endurance athlete comes into races wishing he was 10% lighter and had done 10% more training. Otherwise, I have no complaints about how the story has played out so far.

A few weeks ago, my 7-year-old daughter told me she wanted to make me a bracelet to wear during my big race. (This was completely expected, as she’s something of a beading fanatic. I’ve got enough bracelets and necklaces to complement a dozen different outfits – but that’s a separate post someday.) So in addition to all my lightweight fabrics and technical gear, I’ll be sporting this accessory on my journey from Squaw Valley to Auburn:

You know how it sometimes takes me entirely too many words to explain my mindset (like this post for example, which I introduced with “not much left to say …”) or get a particular point across? Well, my daughter basically summed up my approach to this race in two little words. (Sure, she gets high marks for efficiency – but she’d be a terrible blogger.)

My plan is to just run. Not to worry about the course or the heat (or, with increasing prominence, the smoke) or specific split times or any of the other potential pitfalls that may befall me. I’ll just run whenever I can, walk when I can’t run, and – hopefully this won’t be necessary - crawl when I can’t walk. As long as I keep on moving, I’m fairly confident that other considerations like finish times and belt buckles will fall into place.

If you’d like to follow my progress this weekend, use the Western States webcast and click the “Where’s my runner?” icon to search for me by name, or by bib #128. Start time is 5AM on Saturday, and the site is updated based on reports from 20 checkpoints along the way.

When it’s all said and done, I’ll post a brief announcement as soon as possible, but I’m not sure what kind of wi-fi access I’ll have at my disposal, or what kind of condition I’ll be in to attempt typing a post. In other words, the webcast is definitely the fastest way to find out how my race went.

In light of those factors, here’s a final suggestion: If anyone out there sees something definitive (a finish time or … something else I’m not willing to mention) posted on the webcast, feel free to use the comment box below this post to notify others. That way I won’t feel so rushed to drag myself to the blogger dashboard while my body is fighting off a multi-system shutdown.

Thanks again to everyone who has followed along. It’s been a great journey thus far. See you in 100 miles.

“You're off to Great Places! Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting. So ... get on your way!”
- Dr Seuss

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Affirmation (Western States Diary)

“Over and in, last call for sin -
While everyone's lost, the battle is won -
With all these things that I've done.”
- The Killers, “All These Things That I’ve Done”

I don’t know what it is about tapering that makes me turn into Hamlet – but invariably, whenever race week rolls around, I become the most irritatingly melancholy and philosophic guy you’d ever dread to meet.

The combination of forced rest and impending challenge are a natural time for reflection, to contemplate the larger meaning of both the trails that have been traveled as well as the task that remains ahead. For me – for better or for worse, I haven’t quite decided - it also stirs up feelings of second-guessing and remorse over whether the reward of the accomplishment is worth the various costs (in time, effort, mental focus, etc.) of the preparation which precedes it.

Part 7 of my Western States series for the Monterey Herald started off in precisely this fashion – me bemoaning all these things that I’ve done, wondering if there was some crucial component missing from my life that compels me to chase after one crazy goal after another. The Don Quixote analogy I used in my pacer article seems more appropriate with each passing week: some delusional guy charging faraway windmills, to triumph in some imaginary crusade of no importance to anyone but himself (and even that part is questionable).

But as I was polishing off the article, I had a change of heart. All things considered, the good people of Monterey County probably don’t need to hear about the impact this Western States buildup has had on my family (which, for a newspaper article, felt too intrusive), or hear me lamenting a lifestyle that I’ve enthusiastically pursued for several years now (seemingly hypocritical).

So I quickly changed direction, and wrote one of your standard pre-race countdown articles, trying to maintain an upbeat vibe throughout the entire piece. And since by this time I was about 2 hours from a deadline, I ended up rehashing part of a blog post from last week to conclude the piece. The result is what you see below.

Finally - I hope to have one more post this week before heading off to the race, with my race number and information about athlete tracking and post race follow-up. Assuming that I’m not too jittery to sit for long enough to type, that is.

**

Journey of 100 Miles: A Western States Training Diary

Part 7: Affirmation Bombardment


Western States is right around the corner – by this time next weekend, I’ll be somewhere in the vicinity of Auburn, CA, recovering from the efforts of what promises to be the longest, most difficult effort of my life.

Hopefully, I’ll have a belt buckle in my hand to show for it, but that’s almost a secondary concern. When I initially sat down to map out my goals for this race, the list looked something like this:

1) Survive
2) Finish the 100 miles
3) Earn a sub-24 hour belt buckle

Needless to say, priorities come into sharp focus when preparing for an event like Western States. What’s especially worrying is that from this point on, there’s really nothing more I can do to help attain those goals.

The last week before a major race is always quite nerve-racking. All the training has been done, and the hay is in the barn; any strenuous workout efforts from this point on would simply be counterproductive. These last several days of rest allow the body to recover from the hard training it has endured, and to stockpile energy reserves for the challenge ahead.

So as race weekend draws nearer, the number of miles I run gets progressively smaller. Unfortunately, in that same time frame, the number of hours I spend thinking about the race grows exponentially. And with my normal mechanism of releasing nervous energy – namely, running – eliminated as an option, I inevitably become a bit of a basket case counting down the days and hours until the event starts.

It’s somewhat ironic, in that I’ve always felt that ultrarunning isn’t so much about the races themselves as it is the process to get there. The manner by which the body and mind is gradually built up to attempt something once considered unfathomable is a remarkable transformation to experience. Like many other things in life, there’s as much satisfaction drawn from the journey as there is at the destination.

In fact, by the time we stand on the start line, most of us are already fully aware of the physical ability and psychological resolve we’ve forged within ourselves. Race weekend is simply when we put those qualities on display for the rest of the world to see.

The funny part is that, as a general rule, I don’t give much thought to who might be watching. But over the past several weeks, I’ve realized that there may be more people watching than I ever imagined.

From the beginning, this series has had the working subtitle “A Western States Training Diary”, and for the most part, that’s exactly what it felt like: a place to write my thoughts about where I’ve been, where I’m going, and what I have to do to get there. And like any other diary, I figured that the things I said wouldn’t be of much interest to anyone outside my immediate circle of acquaintances.

At least, that’s what I figured until all of the well-wishes started pouring in.

Recently, and with increasing frequency, I’ve been on the receiving end of e-mails and comments with words of encouragement for Western States. What’s more, many of them are from random people I’ve never met before, or who I hadn’t realized were following my little adventure, either through these Herald articles, or via the Internet.

Several years back, I participated in a high school ministry program. One of the coolest things we did occurred whenever a senior left the group for college; it was something we called “affirmation bombardment”.

The student sat in a chair in front of the whole group – then one at a time, each person in the room told that kid something he (or she) liked about him (or her). The comments typically started with trivial thoughts, like admiring the kid’s haircut - but as the session continued, the sentiments invariably grew more profound, speaking to the person’s personality and character, and his or her ability to succeed in the larger world after leaving the comforting surroundings of home.

It never failed to be an incredibly uplifting scene: some anxious kid preparing for an unimaginable adventure, having his spirits boosted by a group of people who care about him, gaining confidence for the journey ahead. Those nights were my favorite part of the ministry – and they’re a memory I’ve been reminded of with all of this Western States business over the past couple of weeks.

Soliciting encouragement from others was never an intent of this series – but now that it’s happened, I admit that it feels pretty darn cool. With a challenge of this scope, it’s definitely nice to know that a group of people are cheering for you.

So if you’re one of the folks who has unexpectedly dropped me a kind word lately: thanks very much for the affirmation. You’ve boosted my spirits in a hundred tiny doses, and given me increased confidence for the journey ahead. All of these things will definitely come in handy on June 28th.

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The Heart of an Ultrarunner

A couple of administrative notes before today’s post …

*I’ve been tagged twice now to do that “describe your running” thing that’s going around. So that item has moved up about 5 slots on my list of future posts – but needless to say, you shouldn’t hold your breath waiting for it.

*A friend of mine is involved in a filmmaking contest featuring short videos on various aspects of running. I have to admit that before he pointed it out to me, I had no idea that such a competition even existed - but apparently it does, and the stakes are enormous. Remember when I won that blog contest, and the reward was the gold ribbon picture you see on my sidebar? Well, the winner of this contest gets a trip to Beijing. All of a sudden, my victory seems remarkably insignificant.

Anyway, when you get a minute, go to this website and check out the videos. My friend did the steeplechase video, so we’d appreciate your vote for that one – but honestly, they’re all pretty good.

OK, let’s move along …

**

Although I try not to place additional value on my friendships based on people’s occupations or skills, I’ll admit this much: sometimes, it’s nice to have friends who are physicians.

It’s especially nice if your friend is a prominent cardiologist with advanced training in diagnostic imaging, who just opened a clinic featuring a new multi-million dollar non-contrast time-spatial labeling inversion pulse (I know, I know … I don’t understand all those words, either) magnetic resonance angiography (MRA) machine, and is in need of volunteers for cardiac scans so that he and the clinical staff can get accustomed to instrumentation and calibration of the machine.

As you can imagine, it took me about 0.002 seconds to say “Where do I sign?” after the doctor asked if I was interested in volunteering – and that’s how I found myself getting prepped to undergo a free cardiac MRA earlier this week.

The nurses even shave your chest for you, so that the electrode contact surfaces are clean. I swear, sometimes I wonder how I luck into these things.

The procedure itself was uneventful, with the exception of when the imaging tech had to stop the test and extract me from the machine to shake me awake. (I’ve mentioned before that I have some sleep deprivation issues, haven't I?)

I wasn’t sure what to expect as far as results go - but leading up to the exam, two conflicting scenarios battled back and forth in my mind:

1) My doctor friend would sit down to review the images on the screen, and excitedly exclaim, “Whoa – that heart can definitely run for 100 miles!” Or …

2) He’d sit down and immediately say “Hmm – I think I see something here.”

Obviously, I was pulling for the first scenario over the second. But the official verdict was relatively anticlimactic: he sat down, spent a few minutes clicking the mouse and taking various measurements, and nonchalantly said, “Looks pretty normal.”

A normal heart. I’ve been running my butt off for the past several months so I can be normal. Needless to say, I wasn’t overwhelmingly flattered with the preliminary reading. However, with further discussion, the “normal” label took on greater significance than I initially thought.

It turns out that my friend has recently reviewed several journal articles discussing heart failure among athletes – in particular, the cardiac abnormalities that led to the sudden deaths of high profile athletes such as Hank Gathers, Reggie Lewis, and most recently, Ryan Shay.

Many of these athletes shared a specific variety of cardiac abnormality called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, which is a fancy term for an unusual thickening of the heart wall. While it’s normal for elite athletes to have enlarged heart muscles, with state of the art imaging techniques, this ominous type of cardiomyopathy is more easily distinguished from the relatively benign hypertrophy (muscle thickening) often referred to as “athlete’s heart.”

State of the art imaging techniques, such as my friend’s new MRA. In light of that, “normal” is actually a wonderful diagnosis to hear.

So now I’m reasonably certain that I won’t drop dead during Western States – at least, not from a heart attack. As far as lions, rattlesnakes, heat stroke, dehydration, or a myriad of other things are concerned … I suppose the jury’s still out on those issues.

Finally, in a related story … my friend’s not the only one interested in examining my heart lately. At Western States, I’ll be one of many subjects for a study of cardiac function during prolonged endurance exercise. I’ll have an electrocardiogram to assess the increase in cardiac stress levels, and the depression in cardiac function. The tests will be administered one day before the start, and again after the race.

At the post-race testing area in Auburn, I’m not exactly sure what a “normal” heart would look like – but as long as it’s the heart of a 100-mile finisher, I know that mine will be a happy one.

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New Acquaintances

Western States is right around the corner – which means I’m having trouble putting intact paragraphs together, let alone writing an entirely cohesive post. Accordingly, all I’ve got today are a few loosely organized thoughts related to the upcoming race …

**

Several years back, I participated in a high school ministry program. One of our coolest activities occurred whenever a senior left the group for college; it was something we called “affirmation bombardment”.

The student sat in a chair in front of the whole group – then one at a time, each person told that kid something he (or she) liked about him (or her). It could be something minor, such as having a nice haircut, but usually the sentiments grew more profound, speaking to the person’s personality and character, and his or her ability to succeed in the larger world after leaving the comforting surroundings of home.

It never failed to be an incredibly uplifting scene – watching some anxious kid preparing for an unimaginable adventure, having his spirits boosted by a group of people who care about him, gaining confidence for the journey ahead. Those nights were my favorite part of the ministry – and they’re a memory that’s been on my mind for the past couple of weeks.

Recently, and with increasing frequency, I’ve been on the receiving end of e-mails and comments with well-wishes for Western States. What’s more, several of them are from random people I’ve never known before, who have approached me on the street, or dropped unexpected e-mails to my inbox. I guess I've never fully appreciated how many people were following this little adventure, either through my Monterey Herald articles, or via this blog.

I’m not sure how everybody’s finding me, but I know one thing: it sure feels nice to know that people are cheering for you. So if you’re one of the folks who has encouraged me with a kind word lately: thanks very much for the affirmation. It will definitely come in handy on June 28th.

**

Speaking of people coming out of the woodwork … if you ever want to increase traffic to your website, here’s what you do: find some way to get yourself mentioned on Scott Dunlap's blog. He was gracious enough to promote one of my Western States articles last week, and my hit count shot through the roof like Willy Wonka’s Great Glass Elevator. That dude wields some mighty impressive web muscle – he’s the Original Gangster of running bloggers.

I know there are a lot of newcomers who found me from Dunlap’s site, so for their benefit, I thought I should clarify a few pertinent issues:

1) First – you know I’m not nearly as good as Scott, right? I don’t yo-yo with the frontrunners in trail races, and the only time I see the elite runners is when I’m secretly taking their pictures from a distance. I just figured I should lower that bar of expectation right away. Also …

2) The whole ultrarunning vibe you feel here is prominent now, but after Western States is done, it will go back to competing for recognition against triathlon, spelling bees, reality TV, kid stuff, and whatever other nonsense comes to mind. I’m the first one to admit that it gets pretty silly sometimes. But if you'd still like to stick around, I'd love to have you. On that note …

3) Subscription info is on the right sidebar. And if you sign up within the next 30 minutes, I’ll throw in an extra month of posts at no additional charge. Welcome aboard.

**

This last item relates to something I mentioned in my previous post, about how Western States is consuming my thoughts with nearly every waking minute nowadays. Normally in these circumstances, I do a decent job of maintaining my focus at work, but now that mental compartmentalization is being challenged by, of all things, an interior decorator.

Periodically my company will reassign staff members to different offices based on shifting roles and responsibilities; and occasionally when this happens, the décor of particular locations will be altered to suit the tastes of the new occupants.

My little corner of middle management recently underwent this sort of makeover - and as a result, this is the painting that greets me every day on the way to my office:


Now … it is just me, or does this lion look strikingly familiar? Does it remind anyone else of the logo for a certain footrace that takes place in the Sierra Nevada Mountains on the last weekend in June? A footrace that I’m already driving myself crazy thinking about with each passing moment?
I mean … what are the odds that this kind of thing would happen two weeks before my race? There’s got to be some symbolism involved, wouldn’t you say? When the Western States mountain lion shows up unannounced in your place of business, it sure seems like there’s a larger force at work, or some sort of message to be heard – although exactly what that message says, I’m not certain.

I’m also conscious of the fact that after the race is over, when I eventually return to the office, I’ll have to look this lion in the eye and answer for my performance. Furthermore, I’ll most likely be reminded of my participation in Western States for every single day of my employment from this point forward. As if I needed any more pressure.

I’m not sure what story I’ll have to tell once the race is said and done – I just hope it’s one I can be proud of. While the anticipation is killing me, the good news is that I won’t have to wait much longer to find out.

And if you'd like to stick around these parts, you'll find out very shortly thereafter.

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