Matt Fitzgerald - One Summer Living, Training, and Racing with a Team of World-Class Runners Half My Age

RUNNING THE DREAM

Pegasus Books Ltd.

148 W. 37th Street, 13th Floor

New York, NY 10018

Copyright 2020 by Matt Fitzgerald

First Pegasus Books cloth edition May 2020

Interior design by Maria Fernandez

The poem Start Close In by David Whyte is reprinted with permission from Many Rivers Press.

David Whyte, Star Close In, from David Whyte: Essentials Many Rivers Press, Langley, WA USA.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.

Jacket design: Brock Book Design Co. / Charles Brock

Cover photo: Jay Farbman

Author photo credit: Tom Hood

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN: 978-1-64313-514-4

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

www.pegasusbooks.us

For Mom

Theres something about living the grind and getting up in the morning and putting in the mileage and running the workouts and doing all that stuff that is just so satisfying. Theres something about getting the absolute most out of yourself that I think is admirable, regardless of where the ceiling is.

Nick Hilton, an unsponsored 2:16 marathoner, speaking to letsrun.com in 2018, six years after he packed all his possessions into a Volkswagen and moved to Flagstaff

Nine sets of (mostly nonmatching) running shorts and tops. A rainbow assortment of running socks. Running tights in two thicknesses and an old pair of half-tights worn down to gossamer in the seat area by unnumbered washings. Running gloves, running arm warmers, and a thermal running hat for cold days and a performance rain jacket for wet ones. A couple of warm-up suits. Three pairs of size 11.5 running shoes. Eight or nine running-themed T-shirts, some of them mementos of past races, others bearing the Hoka One One Northern Arizona Elite professional running team logo. Seven pairs of Runderwear brand athletic boxer briefs.

I stuffed these items into the larger of two well-traveled Samsonite suitcases when I packed last night, having waited until my afternoon run was out of the way to do laundry. Into the smaller suitcase went an assortment of other essentials: energy gel packets, gel flasks, a canister of powdered sports drink mix, effervescent electrolyte tablets, a handheld drink flask, energy chews, energy bars, a hydration belt, an iPhone armband, wireless sport headphones, sport sunglasses, a roll of kinesiology tape, and a GPS running watch with charging cord.

Lacking both space and need for much else in the Fun Mobile (my wife Natakis name for our Mazda crossover), I crammed the gaps around our bags this morning with a few more items I wouldnt dream of leaving behind, including compression boots for post-run recovery and a vibrating foam roller for the same use. Oh, and our dog, Queenie.

We hit the road at eight oclock, right on schedule, traveling precisely one block before I realized Id forgotten my driving shades. Annoyed beyond measure (time waste is a trigger for me), I pulled a violent one-eighty and sped back to the house, stopping hard at the curb instead of pulling into the driveway. Id just succeeded in fumbling the house key into the front door lock when, hearing my name, I turned around to see Nataki gesturing casually in the direction of the garage, which was blocked from my view by a corner of the house.

Garage is open, she said.

Moments later I was back in the driver seat, buckling up with the forgotten eyewear perched on the crown of my head.

We dodged a bullet there, I said.

Indeed we had. Nataki and I were leaving home for thirteen weeks, an entire summer, to fulfill a dreammy dreamof living the life of a professional runner. Thats an awful long time to leave your garage door open.

Driving off again, I pressed the Fun Mobiles voice command button and recited the home address of Matt Llano, a member of NAZ Elite and my teammate for the next three months. A vaguely feminine humanoid voice informed me that the drive from Oakdale, California, to Flagstaff, Arizona, would take ten hours, thirty-one minutes. Matt rents out rooms in his house to athletes visiting Flagstaff for high-altitude training. Most if not all these folks are not middle-age amateurs like me but real pros like Sally Kipyego, an Olympic silver medalist from Kenya, who recently slept in the same bed Nataki and I will share during our stay. It is unlikely that a slower runner than me has ever lain on that particular mattress.

Obeying our android guide, I headed south on Geer Roada two-lane country highway choked with trucks driven by agricultural workers on their way to an honest days laborto Turlock, where we picked up Route 99 and continued south through the Central California eyesores of Fresno and Visalia and Bakersfield before bending east. The dashboard temperature reading rose steadily as we pressed inland, peaking at an astonishing 122 degrees in the town of Needles on the Arizona border. We then began to climb, reaching 3,000 feet on the approach to Kingman, 4,000 feet near the Yavapai County line, and 5,000 feet as we skirted Seligman, the mercury falling in proportion to the Fun Mobiles ascension. Between Ash Fork (5,160 feet) and Williams (6,766 feet), our rocky brown surroundings gave way to the lush verdure of the Coconino National Forest, in which Flagstaff nestles like a jewel on a bed of green velvet.

A pale late-afternoon sun was dipping languorously behind us when we hit the city limit. Canceling the navigation, I skipped Matts exit, took the next one, and cruised along South Milton Road, Flagstaffs main drag, until I spied a Chilis restaurant on the right. Minutes later we were enjoying an early dinner of burgers and fries (and beer, for me)a sort of last hurrah. For the next ninety-three days, until the Chicago Marathon on October 8, I will do everything the real pros do and make every sacrifice they make in pursuit of the absolute limit of their God-given abilities, dietary sacrifices not excepted. From what Ive heard, Matt Llano himself eats like a saint and has never tasted alcohol in his entire life. I dont know if I can match his standard, but Im going to try.

At six oclock, our promised arrival time, I rang the doorbell of a newish home in the upscale Ponderosa Trails neighborhood, sucking on a breath mint. The door swung open and Matt appeared at the threshold. If I hadnt known he was a world-class runner, I would have guessed it just by looking at him. His twenty-eight-year-old body has an avian economy, a built-for-flight appearance that is only hinted at by the tale of the tape: five-foot-nine, 125 pounds, 6 percent body fat.

You made it! he said, exposing a set of almost luminously white chompers. Come on in.

We brought pluots! I blurted in reply, handing Matt two large cloth bags filled with the ripe fruit Nataki and I had pulled off a tree in our backyard yesterday. Taken aback by the near-industrial volume of produce being foisted on him, Matt stared at the bags for an awkward second before accepting them.