This Running Life

Pinhoti 100–The DNF that was an epiphany. We are measuring ourselves by the wrong metrics.

This was my third and likely final time trying to get a Pinhoti buckle. I was convinced that this was the year it was going to happen. I was running with my best friend, my accountability partner, the person who I’ve known since 2008, who actually got me running crazy distances. Over the last year both of us fought through some personal struggles. I had some mental health issues to deal with and she discovered that some great new friends were actually major league pricks.

We lost track of who we were and what we were supposed to be as humans and as runners. This past June we agreed to get our collective shit together. We both had gained weight. In August 2022 family crises led me to weighing 204. Spending time in prickville caused her to gain weight and feel preyed upon and unsupported. We both needed our best friends to remind us who we really were. We have been friends for 15 years but drifted apart last year. We renewed the friendship And rekindled our love of trail running and our discipline to be as fit as possible. I lost 40 pounds and she lost 25. We remembered what it was to feel joy while running. To feel the pain and euphoria of a hard ass day on the trails. We pushed each other to work harder, climb higher, and run happier than we have in years.

We finally had returned to our leaner and meaner and happier running selves. Our friendship grew to its past strength as we disposed of the pressure, sadness, and pricks in our lives. When she got covid at the Bear 100 I entered her in Pinhoti 100. We planned to run together like we trained all summer: smiles, laughs, more than a few “fuck this shit!”, and great conversation.

We had it all going for us. We had worked harder, climbed higher, and lost more weight than in the past 8 years. but this race is a weird one. The race starts with a bottleneck of 300 people trying to get onto a single track trail that has no space for you to pass for at least 3 miles. By the time you get on the trail, you are 5,6, or 7 minutes behind the pace. For the rest of the 10 or 12 miles after that, you are struggling to get back on pace in the dark over rooty leaf-covered trail. It is not fun but that’s the game. I was convinced we would claw back that time and get back on pace for our Finish. But the more we ran, and the harder we worked, we kept losing time. For some reason we could not catch up on the pace. We got to mile 13 and then my friend tripped and aggravated her back, which slowed us down a bit.

For close to 20 miles we barely said a word as we hustled to catch up on the pace. We did not dawdle, we spent less than a minute at aid stations, we ate on the run, we did everything the way we were supposed to do. And we certainly were not chatting, laughing, or enjoying this day. But we never clawed back any time because of that bottleneck. She was miserable from pain and from fighting against this race. And I was miserable because I wasn’t having fun. This became a job, a chore, something that felt like pressure. It felt like an obligation rather than a choice. I am not afraid of hard work. If you know me then you know that by now. But this race became a chore.

We were 15 minutes ahead of the cut off at mile 21 when we made a decision to call it. Her back was getting worse. We were both miserable. The fun we imagined when we signed up never materialized nor would it. There was no joy in looking at another 78 miles of misery and having no fun. We would have been cut at some point later down the line I’m sure. We slowed down. and walked the next few miles as we talked about goals and the type of runners we want to be and the type of races we want to support.

We called it quits. We went back, cleaned up, and agreed that we weren’t the type of runners who wanted to chase cut offs because that was no longer fun. We have enough shit in our lives, we have enough pressure in our lives, we have jobs already. It’s not right to make trail running a chore and a job and misery. So we’ve decided that we only will run those races that have generous cut offs that are long and tough. Let’s have fun while working our ass off.

But let’s have time to enjoy being out there. Take in the views. Remember why we do this. We will run together in our races. We’re going to smile, have fun, and work our asses off. The most fun we had this year was at our own training camp where we ran and climbed our asses off for three days. We worked hard, but we smiled and laughed, and we got to enjoy amazing Colorado scenery. We want to run the races that don’t get the attention of mainstream trail and ultra media. The races that don’t give you a lottery ticket for one chance in 25,000 to enter a race that you’ll never get into. The races that don’t have 3 times the amount of film crews as runners. The races run by small families or companies that don’t offer prize money, don’t appear on the big podcasts, that don’t have golden tickets. But they give their runners a great time, they appreciate each and every one, and they make you feel like part of a family. Those are the races that we will sign up for.

We want hard work, but we also want to have joy while working hard. I’ve only got so many days left on this earth and I don’t plan to spend them being miserable doing the thing that I adore and look forward to. Some people might call this quitting, and some people might cry “death before DNF”, but I think that’s bullshit. Where’s the nobility in forcing yourself to finish and feeling miserable the whole time just so you don’t have a DNF? I no longer will do things that aren’t fun. I’ve had enough misery. I’ve had enough pressure.

My mental health depends on trail time where I feel safe and welcome and joyful. I will not make myself miserable in pursuit of something shiny that I will rarely wear around my waist. Racing is not about the fucking buckle. It’s about what happens to your mind, body, and soul as you run on dirt. Trail running is supposed to be fulfilling, enriching, empowering. Trail running is supposed to be fun. Shiny metal objects do not define trail runners. Finish lines do not define trail runners. Lottery tickets do not define trail runners. The last weekend in June does not define trail runners. UTMB stones do not define trail runners.

What defines trail runners is loving life on dirt. Of smiling at the end of a long and damn hard working day on the trail. Of looking at a friend and saying, “hey, we did a damn hard thing! Let’s do it again tomorrow!” And looking at that friend again saying “I’m damn proud of you”. It’s not about a buckle. It’s not about a finish line. It’s about what it does to our spirit. We made the decision to call it at mile 24. We sat at the aid station, and we finally ate the food that we had packed to nourish us during the race. We hung with the aid station workers while waiting for a ride, and we were at peace for the first time all day. And that should tell you something about how that race went and why we pulled the plug. The only time we were happy the entire race was after we let it go.

There’s been a lot of good, frank talk about mental health and trail running the past couple of years. We sometimes forget that we put pressure on ourselves and damage ourselves in the pursuit of something that other people think we should have. The only thing that we should pursue is joy on the trail and the happiness of a day spent outside.

I suffer from anxiety and depression, and something called cyclothymia, a mild mood disorder that has mood swings like those with bipolar disorder, but not as severe and not as long-lasting. Getting a handle on what I have, and how to treat it was big for me. it took a while to acknowledge that I needed help. It almost destroyed a beloved friendship. And it made running hard because in my low swings, I wanted to do nothing especially not run.

We spend our life striving in the things we do for the things we buy or for the jobs we have. But sometimes we make our beloved activities and hobbies into chores and jobs. And we never find the happiness that we’ve been pursuing since we were children. I want to work hard in races, but I want to be able to stop and look over the landscape and marvel at the gift nature has given us.

In some races I barely can look around because I am focusing on my feet and the trail 5 feet ahead of me. I’m too busy trying to get across an arbitrary finish line, get a buckle, gain a qualifier, earn tickets for race lotteries. We are measuring ourselves by the wrong metrics.

We have turned trail and ultra into a transaction. Give the RD money and you get to qualify for Western States or Hardrock, or whatever popular race that we’ve been taught to revere as if it is the end-all, be-all of trail and ultra where nothing else matters—certainly not races that don’t earn you a ticket or “stones” for entry into a lottery for a race that you’ll likely never run. We chase “qualifiers” like hamsters on a wheel. We forgot why we run. We forget why trail and ultra speaks to our souls. We’ve made trail running a process of consumption, accumulating lottery tickets, kudos, stones, buckles, sponsorships and ambassadorships.

I just want to run on dirt and climb mountains with my friend. I want to look over magnificent mountain views, take in all that nature has given us, and realize that I am but a speck on this big blue marble. But I am one happy speck because I run for joy, and I run for smiles, and I run for myself, and for no one and nothing else.

I have now only three goals for every run and race that I do: Did I work hard? Was it an adventure? Did I smile and have fun?Those are the runs for which I’ll get up at 4 on a Saturday morning. Those are the runs that move my soul. Those are the runs worth running.