update on how i like to make myself tired

Last week I went for a run at 7:39pm. I started from a trailhead I had never been to, almost two hours from Missoula. I got ready to run in silence, enshrouded in the lush forest of that sprawls on the east side of the Mission Mountains. Many miles down a dirt road, I was very alone. Soon I took off down the trail with bear spray and a headlight for a 12-mile out and back run in grizzly country. I never questioned whether or not I would do this run. Despite not much sleep the night before followed by a busy day, I knew I would run. Afterwards, I would have an hour-long drive in the dark to meet up with Monte and Adam to camp before a 23-mile, +7,000’ long run the next day. Another night camping would bring another run, this time a solitary 18-mile, +4,000’, fast-finish long run. After this weekend, I realized how I’ve unfaltering I’ve trained the last few months.

Never in my life have I run higher mileage, biked more, or surfed more than in the last 20 weeks. Most weeks I’ve done between 20 and 30 hours of these activities, plus working 30 hours a week. It’s been exhausting, I don’t sleep enough, and I’ve loved every second. When the coronavirus pandemic began sweeping the US, I leaned in to what I could control. Conveniently, that was running. Running was my escape from reality. Throwing myself at my training was my structure amidst the tremendous uncertainty we still find ourselves in. Running also became the space where I grappled with what was happening in the world – politically, economically, racially, and pandemic-related. Running was simultaneously my coping mechanism and the place I could challenge my own beliefs, privilege, and place in the world. I found myself becoming unwaveringly committed to running. Working with my coach (Ryan Ghelfi/Trails and Tarmac), the miles and vertical gain cranked higher and higher. I time trialed and PR’d in the half marathon, mile, and 5k. I ran a 50-mile “fun run” through the Yellowstone backcountry. Somehow, well over 2000 miles of running later, I’m still alive. Sometimes I don’t believe it’s possible. How have I been pushing so hard and still have it in me to push? Why do I want to grind until I’m utterly spent? I don’t know, but I can’t think of a better way to make myself tired.

The other week I found myself mildly hypothermic after surfing without my wetsuit. I was rather caught off guard, seeing as it was 80 degrees out. I realized there was a problem when I was shaking uncontrollably, couldn’t speak in complete sentences, and thought everything was wonderfully fine. In hindsight, I was basically wasted like I was hitting the dance clubs. I took a hot shower for 25 minutes and then sat in my kitchen for a half hour in sweatpants and a sweatshirt eating snacks. Once I stopped shaking, I put on my running shorts and left the house at 8:50pm to run for two hours, with a 45-minute hard tempo. I don’t know why I did that. I probably shouldn’t have. But I’ve been overtaken by this deep desire to dedicate myself to the pursuit of running. If anything, I continue to learn how to suffer. But what glorious suffering it is.

These past few months have been filled with sunrise and sunset runs through wildflower meadows. They’ve been so magical I started waking up as early as possible to journal about all the flowers I’ve been finding and learning. Far too many runs have been spent post-holing through waist deep snow until my shins bled. The miles are hard, hurt, and they’re awesome. A comical amount of runs were so overgrown that I kept comeing home with legs laced with cuts. But for every shwack, every slog, and every battle, there have been just as many miles of blissful dirt trail. Running has taken me deep into the most remote places in the Lower 48 with little more than a water bottle and snacks. Many nights, I’ve camped alone, far from home, then woke up to go on a solitary long run in the mountains. But even more nights, I’ve camped with friends and drank too many beers too late into the night before massive runs. This summer has been spent prancing along miles upon miles of ridgelines, scree fields, talus slopes, and craggy peaks. The pain and hardwork is forgotten amidst the laughter, smiles, and whoops of glee. Sometimes I think of this as “training.” But even with little to no objectives in the immediate future, I still found myself doing it. I keep sweating, bleeding, sitting alone around a fire, sleeping in my car, and having the fucking time of my life. Sometimes it sucks. But usually I feel so freaking alive that it scares me. I don’t know if I’ve ever been happier. It’s wild. The dance clubs are closed, but the party rages on.

So here I am, 20 some weeks into the biggest training block of my life. Never have I been more fired up. I want to run so god damn hard. I want to DANCE. Lucky for me, tomorrow (Thursday) I’ll chase the fastest known time (FKT, or speed record) on the Teton Crest Trail. 40 miles of singletrack bliss deep in the high country of the Tetons. I backpacked much of the Teton Crest Trail seven years ago after my freshman year of college while interning in Idaho. I can’t wait to return and follow repeat the route in a manner I never would have thought possible back then. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate the hard work of the last few months. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate the fleeting joy of summer in the mountains. Time to go have some fun and let out some pent up energy. YEEHAW!

Hurricane Pass while backpacking the Teton Crest Trail, late July 2013