Be Careful That What You Claim Is Crazy Actually Is.

unning, for me, has been in large part about changing perspectives. As I

grow older and am exposed to more and more die-hard runners from around the country, I find that my threshold definition of “crazy” or “impossible” is continually redefined, often to my wife’s dismay. Things that I had once never even heard of, let alone imagined anyone could do, have evolved into things that don’t strike me in the least way as odd and that are, in fact, quite common in my current circle of friends.

Actually, it seems to me that people who currently find such things odd are the ones who, in fact, are odd. Distances that initially had me shaking my head in disbelief and awe (and with a sort of sad sympathy for the lunacy that would urge someone to attempt something so obviously impossible) are now the same ones that I find myself looking forward to on any given weekend. In fact, Ihave reached the point where I’m amused when people say, “A 50-mile race? That’s crazy!” I firmly believe that humans are meant to run and push themselves to new limits, and running has certainly helped me continually redefine my boundaries and my limits. This attitude has bled over into every aspect of my life, spurring me to try new things at work, on vacations, and in my interactions with people.

As a kid, I grew up running around for enjoyment and participated in track and cross-country. Mainly, I convinced the younger kids on our team that a good workout would be to run the two blocks to my house and go swimming, returning to school with wet heads that were ostensibly sweaty from our hard run. Amazingly, I couldn’t quite figure out why I was never very good in high school. I used running to stay in shape for playing rugby in college. Growing up, I never thought I would run a 10K, let alone a marathon, Ironman, or ultramarathon. I’m not sure that I was more than vaguely aware that ultradistance races even existed.

Fast forward to 2001: my wife is pregnant with our son, and I decide to get back in shape so that I’ll be able to enjoy being a father to its fullest. At this point, I hold the following truths to be self-evident:

¢ Running more than 10 miles is crazy.

¢ Running a marathon is crazy.

° Traveling to an out-of-state race is crazy.

° Doing an Ironman is definitely crazy.

What follows is an account of how my life has changed. My experiences and the people I’ve met along the way have changed my perspectives, propelling me to new heights.

GETTING STARTED

Growing up, I had always been fairly athletic and played many sports, and I was usually one of the faster guys on the team. When I got to high school, I was good enough to make the team, but I was no longer the fastest guy by any stretch of the imagination. My work ethic consisted of finding ways to persuade the coach to allow us off-campus runs, which usually ended in swimming or video game fests. The results of the game playing would haunt me in college, where I began to play rugby and ran mainly when the bigger guys (almost everyone) chased me.

One weekend, a good friend and I decided to see whether we could run a fourmile section of Town Lake Trail (a fantastic 10-mile trail in downtown Austin). When we got to the point where we could have turned off for the four-mile-portion, it started sprinkling, cooling us down, and we felt good enough to try a seven-mile section. Another mile down the trail, the heavens opened up on us and we found ourselves in the middle of the largest thunderstorm in recent memory. We kept running and splashing in puddles and wondering whether we were going to get hit by lightning. At that point, we had no choice but to try to make it back to my apartment. (I guess we could have stopped under an awning or gone into a store of some kind, but of course we never really considered that.)

Almost two hours after we started, we wound up back at my apartment looking like drowned rats. We had run a previously unfathomable distance: an amazing 10 miles. This was a run that would live on in our memories for years. Surely, no one ran this far on a regular basis. Once we had achieved immortal status, we quickly fell back to two- to three-mile runs every now and then. It would be six or seven years before I ran that far again.

This brings us back to winter 2001. I still wholeheartedly believe that 10 miles is really far and am still proud of myself for having run that distance one time many years ago. At a holiday party, a friend of mine mentions that she is going to run the Austin Marathon in February. I decide that if she can do it, then maybe I can do it as well. After all, I have run 10 miles before. This conversation takes place in late December, so I have roughly seven weeks before the marathon to go from two- to three-mile runs two to three times a week to running 26.2 miles. I decide to copy the parts of her training that I find convenient, which are three upcoming races before the marathon: a 25K, a 30K, and a half-marathon.

IGNORANCE IS BLISS—AT LEAST UNTIL THE STARTER’S GUN GOES OFF

The first race is a complete disaster. I have never heard of GU, proper clothing, or proper pacing. I start the race and think to myself, J am fairly quick; let’s see how this goes, and I bolt from the starting line.

The first mile goes by in about six minutes and I feel pretty good, but by mile two I am done and am beginning to think, / have to go how far? I struggle through the race, wind up walking a large portion of it, and finish with almost 11-minute miles. I’m sure anyone who saw me in the first mile was getting a good chuckle seeing me later, gasping my way to the finish. After the finish, I no longer think that 10 miles is far, and I no longer like running. I decide that running a marathon is crazy, and who really wants to do that? Luckily for me, runner’s amnesia sets in a day or two later (as would happen many times in the future), and the memory of the run was no longer that bad. I decide that I will run the 30K and that, if I do as poorly as I did in the 25K, then I’m done with running.

The next race comes and goes without incident. I have learned more about pacing. I still don’t really like to pace; I’m more of a dash-and-crash kind of guy. I finish in the same time as the previous race, having gone three more miles. This marathon thing is looking possible!

Soon enough, marathon day comes, and while waiting in line for the portapotty, I meet a gentleman who has traveled from Wisconsin to run our Austin Marathon. I’m confused as to why anyone would come all the way from out of state to run a marathon. That’s just nuts! After being informed that you can’t really have a marathon in the winter in Wisconsin because of the weather, I decide that it sort of makes sense that you would need to travel. Still, it’s kind of crazy that someone would travel so far to abuse himself for four or five hours.

The race starts and goes smoothly right up until mile 17, when the guy pushing the triple stroller (and what looks to be more than 120 pounds of kid cargo) passes me. Now, this just doesn’t seem right. I keep plodding along, a bit humbled, and I cross the line in 3:53 and mention to my wife that I probably could have gone faster. Current paradigm: running a marathon no longer seems crazy; it seems kind of fun, and the first glimmer of understanding about the urge to run marathons in distant lands begins to form in my brain. But nah, I would probably do that only if I weren’t lucky enough to live in the Sun Belt.

MORE CRAZINESS

After finishing my first marathon, I wanted to do something else, so I bought numerous books on marathoning and then scoured the Internet for the next race. I roped my brother-in-law Scott into my budding addiction, and we targeted the

During my research, I came across all kinds of seemingly ludicrous feats. My wife soon became accustomed to receiving e-mails saying, “Hey, honey, these crazy people are running a marathon in every state. That’s nuts!” Or “Hey, honey, look at the elevation chart for the Pikes Peak Marathon. They say to add an hour to your best marathon time and that will be how long it takes to finish the ascent. That’s nuts!”

TWO MARATHONS IN A WEEK? IN A WEEKEND?

At the Baton Rouge Beach Marathon that November, I met a gentleman who said he was running Baton Rouge that weekend and then the Suntrust Richmond Marathon the week after. So he would be doing two marathons in one week. As Baton Rouge was only my second marathon (and I spaced them almost nine months apart), this was flabbergasting. He told me that “you treat the first one as a long run and you can easily handle the second.” This is advice I would take to heart over the next few years, often running a marathon each month with no long runs other than the previous month’s marathon.

Iran Baton Rouge and missed my Boston qualifying time by less than a minute, so again, just following simple advice, I signed up for the Oklahoma Marathon in Tulsa three weeks later. I met several members of the 50 States Club before the pasta dinner. This was slowly moving away from craziness to something kind of interesting. After Oklahoma, I would have run marathons in three states. Hey! That’s 6 percent of the way to running all 50 states! Excellent.

= = = a SE SS + es ~ ser

A The author icing his legs after his second marathon in two days in Oregon.

As luck would have it, at the pasta dinner my wife and I sat with a man who was running the Oklahoma Marathon on Saturday and then the Gobbler Grind Marathon in Overland Park, Kansas, on Sunday. Two marathons in one weekend? I was, once again, floored. How can a body handle that? He told me that he lived up north, and it was hard to race in the winter months. This was the second person who had told me that you had to travel to do marathons in the winter. Now, being a wise, veteran marathon traveler (having run two out-of-state marathons), I was in agreement with both of them. But running two marathons in a weekend was still not computing for me. I was feeling under the weather, as during the drive to Tulsa I had started feeling sick, and that evening I had a full-blown case of the flu. My wife suggested that we just go home—no need to run when sick. I decided that since we were already in Tulsa, I might as well go ahead and see what happened; I still felt I was in good shape from the previous marathon. This would prove to be a disaster for me. I was fine through the first 13 miles, but then the wheels started coming off, and I struggled to a finish over an hour slower than at Baton Rouge. Current running paradigm: I’m no longer sure about multiple marathons in a month—let alone a weekend.

Marathon and returned to the Austin Marathon in February. I qualified for Boston in both races (although after that I would go more than two years and finish about 25 marathons before qualifying again), and we decided to go to Boston. My wife jokingly suggested that we also do the New Jersey Marathon the following Sunday, six days later. Boston was hot and miserable, and I plodded on to the finish. New Jersey, which was also hot, felt like a cakewalk in comparison. I was able to finish 20 minutes faster than at Boston, though on an easier course. After I successfully knocked off both of them, my perspective had once again changed: two marathons in a week was achievable after all, and it really wasn’t much harder to run both than just one.

PIKES PEAK? ARE YOU SERIOUS?

In early 2004, a good friend of mine, Abe Dashner, told me that he was going to run the Pikes Peak Marathon in August. I remembered coming across its Web site two years earlier and wondering why anyone would want to do this. The elevation change is insane; taking longer to get to the summit than my best overall marathon time seemed crazy.

Abe referred me to Steve Sisson, owner of the local powerhouse training club Rogue Training Systems. Steve was a three-time All-American in track and crosscountry in college. He has gone on to represent the United States in the world half-marathon championships, holds a 3:24 50K PR, and most recently finished 12th in the Pikes Peak Marathon in 2005. Like Abe, Steve had fallen in love with

Pikes Peak and is single-handedly responsible for bringing dozens of Texas runners to Colorado over the years. After continued discussions with Abe and Steve, I realized that running Pikes Peak was not really crazy—just challenging. Why bother running if you’re never going to do the hard races? It would take another year before Abe could get me on the bandwagon, but I had gone from thinking him crazy to thinking him brilliant and gutsy.

In 2005, Abe and Steve persuaded me and about 30 other Austin-area runners to head to Pikes Peak for the 50th anniversary of “America’s Ultimate Challenge.” Looking back, I think that many other races are tougher than Pikes Peak—including pretty much any race 50 miles or longer, and especially Badwater—but it definitely was the toughest of my 79 marathons. The scenery and the camaraderie of this race made me appreciate the people whom I would never have met without running. When 30 of your friends think running Pikes Peak is a good idea, you know your perspectives have changed.

IRONMAN? ISN’T THAT WHERE JULIE MOSS ALMOST DIED?

The earliest vivid memories I have of the Ironman were of Julie Moss leading the women’s race, then falling down right before the finish line and staggering, falling, staggering again, and then finally crawling toward the finish line on her hands and knees and getting passed right at the end to finish in second place.

I was amazed at her determination to finish and her drive to not give up. I also thought she was, along with everyone else who did Ironman races, quite crazy. This was a belief that I held onto for almost 30 years.

In 2003, several of my friends began doing Ironman races. Of course, I decided that if they could do it, then maybe I could, too. That November, I signed up for the 2004 Florida Ironman. (The secret to finishing is to pick an easy course for your first one.) I had the best intentions: I would train like mad and dominate the course. I consulted Mark Lindsey, another local legend who has finished 58 marathons, three 100-milers, eight Ironmans, and three Ultramans (a three-day triathlon involving a 6.2-mile swim, 261 miles of biking, and 52 miles of running). He has plans for two more Ultramans this year. Mark said it’s not that big of a deal; you put in the training, then you just need to control your heart rate and everything is possible.

I continued my marathon obsession, running six more marathons between the time I signed up for the Ironman and when I would get on the bike or in the pool. I decided that being in running shape was most important. I would hold off until after the 2004 Boston Marathon before getting on a bike. My training in the pool was less than spectacular. All told, I think I swam only five or six pool miles leading up to the race. I had even enrolled in a swimming class with Mark, in which the instructors said that I was basically hopeless. I managed to do one 100-mile bike

tide and a few 50s and 60s, but other than that, I never had weekly mileage over 60 miles. I managed to squeeze in two more marathons leading up to Florida.

Mark would go on to complete three Ironmans in three successive weekends, getting a PR in the final one. I figured that if Mark could do three in a month, I could complete one. I managed to complete the Florida Ironman in slightly under 12 hours, which was almost eight hours longer than I had ever exercised in one stretch before. Post-Ironman perspective: Ironmans aren’t crazy; they are kind of fun, and if you can make it through an Ironman, then surely a 40- or 50-mile race is doable.

50 MILES, 100K, 100 MILES?

Fifty miles? Surely you are kidding (and don’t call me Shirley). Over the last six years, the scope of my acquaintances has changed. Most of the people whom my wife and I hang out with are somehow involved in the fitness community. Most of us run marathons, though some do triathlons and some do ultramarathons.

Ultramarathons—what a title; anything that starts with “ultra” just sounds cool. When I think of ultramarathons, I think of the Hill Country Trail Runners, a local trail-running group founded by Joe Prusaitis. Joe is a machine. In addition to directing many races, he has an amazing running resume that includes over 40 marathons, 20 50-milers, 25 100-milers, several 24- and 48-hour races, many other ultradistances, and the granddaddy of them all: Badwater.

Joe is one whom everyone outside of running—and all but 1 percent of the people involved with running—thinks of when they think of “crazy.” Fifty-milers are nothing; Joe and crew do 50-milers as training runs. This surely is crazy. Over the last two years, I’ve gotten to know Joe and the other Hill Country Trail Runners. While I still lean toward considering 100-milers crazy, 50-mile or even 100K races seem almost reasonable.

Reading the race reports from my friends doing 50- and 100-mile races is very inspiring. It makes you think about how frustrating it must be to finish 26 miles and realize that you have to do that again, or possibly even three times, before you are finished. I read a quote that I believe is attributed to Pam Reed. Nearing the end of an ultra, she said, “It’s only a marathon to go, and anyone can run a marathon, right?” That puts it into perspective for me.

I believe that almost anyone can run a marathon and that the explosion of marathon participation in the last several years has been a great thing. I think a lot of the die-hard folks are now moving to longer distances because a marathon no longer has the “wow” factor that it once did. And isn’t that part of the reason why we run, just to see the looks on coworkers’ faces when we casually drop the fact that we ran 40 or 50 miles over the weekend, farther than they probably drove? It doesn’t get better than that.

To me, 100-mile races also have a certain mystique. Most people don’t like to drive that far, and even many cyclists never ride that far. So to run that far is crazy and amazing. As Gene Griffiths, a new friend of mine from Idaho Falls says, the secret to an ultra is “to start slow and then taper off.” (I think he stole that from Walt Stack.)

The 100-mile race is one of endurance and willpower. The hallucinations that come from sleep deprivation are almost embraced as a rite of passage. One of the most revered 100-mile races is the Western States, which adds a great wrinkle to the qualifying process because you have to complete eight hours of volunteer service. This is a great way to give back to the community and appreciate what race directors do. One day I hope to qualify for and complete the Western States. I still think that running 100 consecutive miles is slightly crazy, but check with me next week.

BAD WHAT?

Living in Texas means that during the summer, you are going to run in the heat. There’s no way around it. What could be worse than running in the Texas heat, you ask? Well, quite simply, Badwater.

Ilearned about Badwater through the documentary Running on the Sun. When I saw the way these folks trained, it put Texas heat in perspective. One guy trained by wearing a winter coat and affixing the exhaust vent from his dryer to the front of his treadmill to simulate the heat during the race. This is crazy. Badwater to me is an application to be committed to a mental institution.

After seeing the documentary, I wanted to know how the craziness got started. I found my answer by reading Marathon & Beyond editor Richard Benyo’s account of Al Arnold’s solo trek in 1977 in his book, Death Valley 300. Joe Prusaitis completed the race in 2003, saying it combined three of his hates—flat races, roads, and the heat. He figured it was all wrong for him, and so he just had to do it. Having completed it, Joe claims he will never go near that beast again. Badwater holds no interest for me, and it is currently the height of what I consider to be lunacy. Anyone who completes it, I will continue to believe, has many screws loose. I will always be impressed, but uninspired to join in the fun.

RUNNING ACROSS THE UNITED STATES?

Tread Ten Million Steps, by Paul Reese, in the summer of 2002, when I was just beginning my running obsession. Paul Reese was an amazing man, and I enjoyed reading about his accomplishments through his books and through the articles he wrote for Marathon & Beyond.

When I read Ten Million Steps, 1 was floored. While I realized that it was theoretically possible to run across the United States, it didn’t seem probable. Paul

Reese wasn’t the first one to accomplish this feat, nor will he be the last. What was most impressive is that he did it at age 73, running a marathon per day for 124 consecutive days. Why would someone do this, you might ask? According to Paul, it was with the purpose of “awakening people over age 65 to the fact that they have much more physical potential than they realize.”

Paul maintained a written log of his adventures with his wife, Elaine, while traversing the country on foot. It is fascinating and changes your perspective about what the human body is capable of accomplishing. I read this book a few more times as inspiration while I contemplated running a marathon every month, or two in the same week, or two in the same weekend. All of that pales in comparison with a marathon every day for over four months. The fact that Paul was able to do this and more at his age is truly awe inspiring and has changed my perspectives about what I think I can accomplish and what everyone is capable of doing.

who ever met him and for the running community in general. The things Paul was able to accomplish are amazing and, like Joe DiMaggio’s streak in baseball, may never be duplicated.

Frank Livaudais

The author enjoying the Rome Marathon.

CONCLUSIONS: MY CURRENT STATE OF MIND

My life has been immeasurably enhanced by the friendships I have made through running, the challenges I’ve completed, and the challenges I dream about taking on. I choose to surround myself with like-minded people who are committed to running. It amazes me that people can be complete opposites in politics, religious beliefs, or socioeconomic status, but on the trail or on the road, we are all the same; we are just runners, each with our own goals and dreams but united by our love of the sport.

As my friend Allegra Hobbs says, “No matter how stupid your ideas are, you can always find another runner to get on board with you.” Here’s to changing perspectives and continually pushing and redefining your boundaries. May the roads and trails take you where you want to go—and beyond. i