Dean Karnazes - A Runners High: My Life in Motion

Running an ultra is simple; all you have to do is not stop.

Im lying catawampus splayed ass-to-the-dirt in the trailone leg tweaked improbably beneath mestaring up at the afternoon sky seeing sparkles of light flickering before me like circling fireflies and wondering what the hell just happened. A sharp ringing in my ears perforates the otherwise complete stillness, a lazy film of dust rising indolently around my idle carcass. Inside the motor room my muscles and bodily organs register a dull tenderness, but it is the nausea that is most pronounced, a queasy sensation of being punched hard in the gut. What just happened?

Moments ago I was in perfect harmonic flow, bounding along nicely, cool and in control, step, spring, step... Then everything changed. I vaguely recall flight, weightless soaring, a defiant middle finger to gravity as time briefly suspended; my wings spreadfly, be free...

Until impact. Kaboom! Everything just exploded, like a skydiver whose chute failed to deploy. Now Im heaped on the soil like Icarus, a lifeless, charred exoskeleton smoldering in ruin and wondering what just went down. A ticker tape of questions scroll across the screen of my mind: Is anything broken? Will someone find me? Where am I?

To answer that final question we need to dial back the clock to yesterday morning, a time when I had a sinking premonition: I shouldnt be doing this. I REALLY shouldnt be doing this. I know better. Then I shut the door behind me. I was doing it.

At least the timing of my departure seemed good. The merciless Bay Area traffic was showing its gentler side and I slipped through the busiest corridors with barely a tap on the brakes. Sometimes it takes hours just getting across town, and when it comes to sucking the living soul out of a creature, perhaps no human creation is more noxious than traffic (with the exception of TSA lines).

Still, despite the absence of congestion, it took nearly eight hours to reach my destination, the juxtaposed pastoral hamlet of Bishop, California. Nestled under the striking peaks of the Eastern Sierra Nevada mountain range, Bishop is something of a conundrum. Its in a beautiful natural setting, though one oddly frequented equally by hikers and bikers (and the bikes theyre riding arent the kind with pedals). The main street through town has quaint galleries, outdoor mountaineering stores, a nature center, and an indie bookstore, things you might expect in a mountain settlement. But then there are rows of fast-food joints, seedy bars, a collection of budget hotels, and a Kmart, all of which thoroughly taper the citys charm with a liberal dousing of contemptible.

I was meeting my father here, at one such establishment of lesser repute. Unfortunately, there was little choice in the matter; it was the only remaining hotel room in town. Reservations were made last minute and I booked what I could get. As would be expected on such short notice, there also werent many options for securing a crew to help support my endeavor, though I somehow snagged the very best (i.e., dear ol Dad). Who else would drop everything on a single two-minute phone call and drive six hours from Southern California to meet me? There hasnt been a more loyal companion in my life than my father.

A spry eighty-two years old, the man bounced about like a loosely attached valence electron careening haphazardly around its outer shell. Sparks flew off him, a perpetual fission reaction capable of erupting with no forewarning. He was electric, charismatic, overwhelming at times, and wholly uncontainable. Every moment with him was slightly unpredictable. The older he grew the more lively his personality became. Laughter, angst, melancholy, joyall of these emotions could be expressed within the confines of a single brief interaction. You never knew what to expect with Dad.

ULTRAMARATHON MAN! he boomed when he saw me (Id asked him not to call me that a thousand times, but it was no use). A reporter had tagged me with that lovely moniker and Id never felt comfortable with it. But over time it had taken on a life of its own, especially with my dad!

Hiya, Pops, I said, hugging him. How was the drive?

Piece of cake. He was fond of clichs.

So you good? I asked.

Never had a bad day.

Just wait until tomorrow, I thought coyly.

My mother was usually part of these far-flung escapades. The two were nearly inseparable. Sixty years of wedlock had brought them closer, two old-fashioned romantics clinging tightly through all of lifes crazy turbulence. Since their retirement they were in a state of perpetual motion. Theyd toured just about every part of North America, Australia, and much of Europe. Sometimes on a whim theyd fly to Greece for a month or two with no fixed plans, no itinerary, no accommodations, nothing but a rental car (and rental cars in Greece are not always the most dependable machines). Things work out, my mother always tells me. She wasnt here today because of a 5K shed scheduled along the beach with her buddies, most of whom were decades younger. They still couldnt keep up. She wasnt fast, but my mother had the gift of endurance. From the Greek island of Ikariaone of the fabled Blue Zones where indigenous people routinely live beyond a hundredshe is freakishly indefatigable, especially when it comes to outdoor adventures. Mom would certainly be with us today if she werent showing up those young lasses back home.

The air in Bishop is different than in San Francisco. In the Bay Area, even when you cant see the water you can still smell its thick, salty dampness. In Bishop the air is hot and arid, a subtle hint of a smoldering campfire permanently hangs in the atmosphere. You could feel it in your eyes, the gritty dryness, and in your sinuses. Bishop sits in the high desert, in the lee of an imposing mountain range. Incoming storms lose their moisture as they sweep across California, and any rainfall left as they progress inland is mostly deposited along the western slopes of the uprising. Perilously little water makes it over the towering granite impediment of the Sierra Nevada. On average, Bishop receives about five inches of rainfall annually, and summertime humidity can drop into the single digits. Think of it as having a hair dryer ceaselessly blowing instead of an encroaching fog bank.

Although now well into the afternoon, the sun still seared my skin as I walked to the office to collect our room keys. The official start to summer wasnt for a few weeks, but youd never know it. The heat coming off the pavement radiated through my shoes, warming and swelling my feet. Tomorrow was supposed to be even hotter.

A small wall-mounted air-conditioning unit was noisily sputtering in the corner when I entered, but it was simply no match for the elements. It was stifling inside, even though the shades were drawn and it was dark. The innkeeper used a handkerchief to pat the sweat off his forehead. The place reeked of Lysol and dirty socks. I asked if there was an ice machine. There is, he told me. But its busted.

The elevator was busted, too. Thus we carried our bags up to our second-story chalet. Sorry about these accommodations.

Theyre fine, my dad offered up, just fine.

Staying in the room next to us were two fully grown pit bulls. I was told the hotel was pet-friendly, but two adult pit bulls hardly seemed like sociable pets to me. The owners didnt appear very genial, either. Standing outside having a cigarette, they looked us over with suspicion.

And we, for our part, were quick to get in our room and shut the door behind us. Once inside, the place was musty and dank. We should probably check for bedbugs, I bemoaned, hoisting our bags into the closet. But when I pulled open the blinds to let in some light the view out the dusty window instantly carried me someplace else, someplace special and expansive, a familial place that was part of my very constitution. Beams of late-afternoon sunlight extended heavenward, the jagged silhouette of the Sierra Nevada perched in the distance like an Ansel Adams photograph, towering columns of marble white clouds rising into the air and the sky so impossibly deep, dark blue. Id been coming here most my life, since Dad and I first climbed Mount Whitneythe highest peak in the conterminous United Stateswhen I was twelve years old. We carried heavy metal-framed packs and slept in a thick canvas tent, our hiking boots and wool socks left outside to air out. We cooked pouches of freeze-dried food over a small camp stove and rationed water from our canteens until we could find another brook to refill them. During the day we hiked, eating leathery beef jerky and trail mix, my fingers colorfully dyed with the melted coating of M&Ms. Sometimes we talked, but mostly we just hiked, swept up in the grand enormity of the surroundings, the brilliant artistry of Mother Nature holding us spellbound. When we reached the summit I humbly signed the logbook, forever marking my presence on this hallowed mountain peak.