The Pine-to-Palm 100 Mile Footrace
Trip Start
Sep 16, 2010
1
Trip End
Sep 20, 2010
Ashland, Oregon
Sunday, October 3, 2010
A symphony of alarms, watch timers and wake-up calls sound off at 4am to ensure that a failed first 100-mile attempt wouldn't be because of an overly-comfortable hotel pillow. Oversleeping is far from my nemesis, as last night’s slumber was pitiful at best. Anticipation, worry, excitement (and my father’s occasional snoring bouts) all danced to an omnipresence of neuro-noice, which I chalk it up to pre-race jitters. 100 miles is different though.
Bleary-eyed, I paint a bagel with raw honey and peanut butter while dark coffee burns me into alertness. The world sleeps, yet for 131 restless individuals and their crew, the journey begins here. I assess the condition of my crew:
- Jim Triolo – Father, Crew Chief. This man is a machine. Calm yet focused. Competitive yet compassionate. Couldn’t think of anyone better to lead the support team.
- Rory – Friend, Logistics – One my closest and most respected friends. A character cut from the purest stone, sensitive yet strong as an ox, The kind of friend who would take a bullet in the chest for you, then pull it out and chew on it. Boundless energy. Soul brother.
- Debbie – Girlfriend of Rory, Photographer – Sweet and spontaneous, persistent and methodical. To be with Rory says it all. Holds the team together with her unwavering organization and practical sensibilities.
- Aunt Jeanne, Uncle Rock – Support – Most loving family you could ask for. Drove up from California for the race. Always up for an adventure and there to support every decision I’ve made. Couldn’t have reached the start line without their love.
5:00am, time to get to Williams, Oregon for the start.
Stage I: Fireflies – Start to Seattle Bar (Miles 0-31)
Sleepy and serene, Williams, OR rests 30 minutes south of Grants Pass. Green fields, barns and pleasant country roads remind me of days growing up in the western slope of the Sierra Nevada foothills. The entire crew is there to see me off. We huddle around my aunt and uncle’s campervan, taking photos and quadruple-checking the gear. I prepare to enter the void. Having loving family and friends at the start certainly boosts my confidence and tempers my nerves.
Hal, the race director, summons the 130+ runners to the start line and I follow suit. The 6am start creeps up on me, as the beginning of any race seems to do. With such a momentous event, you would expect a drum roll, battle cry or national anthem. Not here. In the mere seconds remaining before setting off, I think about the journey taken to get here. I had dreamt about this moment, spent endless hours training for this opportunity. Its here, I’m here, healthy and strong. I did the work. Now let’s see what I can give.
3-2-1.
The journey begins and the tick starts tocking. The energy is lightning. A lead pack quickly forms and heads into the night, and the pacer truck’s rear lights lead the way down the dark road. I effortlessly find my way into the chase pack, alongside my friend Trevor and 8 others, and into a manageable pace that feels comfortable.
The first six miles are all road, making it a pleasant, stress-free beginning to what I could only imagine as being ultimately an overall pretty intense day. This slight incline gives me the necessary solitude I need to go through my mental checklist of mantras and a slew of advice extracted through friends and writings over the past year. I am whittling away at this 100-mile odyssey, a magnificent quest of exploration—both of inner and outer nature. The distance still feels like a fantasy at this point. It has been less than a year since my first ultra event, and as I glide on this preliminary section proud of my accelerated progress, I am also simultaneously concerned that I may have jumped the gun.
131 runners find their comfort zones in this gentle ascent leading into the mountainous terrain beyond. I peer back to find fireflies of headlamps bouncing, and I imagine all the interesting thoughts that undoubtedly sit just behind those bulbs:
What’s the deal with this little hip twinge, already?
Wonder if the weather’s gonna hold up?
Are these the right shoes for the job?
Am I ready for this?
I find myself next to a solid-looking athlete, someone who’s certainly looked down the barrel of a 100-mile gun before. Conversation eventually sparks as road meets gravel, and I learn that I am running with Ian Torrence, a prominent name is the ultra-community and assistant to Hal for course design, etc. As we work away at this first major climb together, a 10-mile ascent up towards Sugarloaf (6,500ft.), I fire questions at him about the course and attempt to extract any general wisdom for a first-time 100 miler. His response?
"Getting to Dutchmen’s Peak is going to be hard, the rest is pretty straight-forward."
He also mentions a relentless undulating section called the “Rollercoaster” up near Stein Butte that may cause some additional frustration. I put these in my pocket and continue, well…up.
This first climb feels good. All my climbing training is paying off and I approach this section with effortless movement, power-hiking when necessary. It begins to sprinkle at this point, but nothing too debilitating. An hour into the race, I feel mentally and physically capable of the task at hand. I dig into my gel cache and begin to fuel the fire.
After conquering this uphill stretch to fog-shrouded Sugarloaf Mountain, I float the downhill to O’Brien Aid (Mile 18), relishing in the victory of painlessly running up and over the first major climb. I find my one handheld bottle of water to be adequate but fairly skimp, as a consistent cycle of gels and salt require water to follow.
I respond well to the following road section winding slightly downhill through pastures of mist and evergreen, arriving at Steamboat Ranch (mile 25) feeling fresh and content. Tearing away from Steamboat on my way to Seattle Bar, I peer down at my 7-ounce Adidas Rocket racing flats and receive a smile in return. Very content in my footwear choice. Flat, super-light and efficient. The surrounding mountains slope inward to the agrarian dream below, providing moments of bliss during this cruising section.
My friend and training partner Trevor and I run the last road section together, both taking a collective sigh of relief when asphalt temporarily ends and a connector trail begins. As we approach one last turn before dropping into the aid station, my hamstring tightens up into a ball and I am forced to stop for a few seconds to let the cramp pass. Why must the body so rudely ask for more salt? An S!Cap quickly assimilates quickly and I make the last few strides into Seattle Bar.
My crew is here, all smiles and encouragement. I come in wet and ready to refuel. My first weigh-in determines a 6-pound drop, and I am encouraged to keep drinking and salting, which the recent cramp alluded to. Everything feels good. Not excellent, but good. The first 50K took longer than I had imagined, coming in a bit over 5 hours. All things considered (which I find to be a common prefix to nearly every sentence thereafter), things feel solid. First stage, check!
Stage II: Rollercoasting with Bears - Seattle Bar to Squaw Lakes (Miles 31-44)
I exit recollected yet still out of sorts from the a) weight loss and b) the sneaker cramp right before Seattle Bar. That combination somehow leaves me feeling flat. I start the inviting single track section upwards towards Stein Butte which sits at roughly 5,000ft. The weather remains wet but warm, soggy but tolerable. My singlet and shorts are already thoroughly drenched as I push forward.
Welcome rough patch one.
Power hiking much of this steep 2.5 mile uphill section, I watch as Trevor pulls away from my pace with ease, and I am left in the dust with what seems to be a slow slog. I begin to let the heavy weight of the 70 remaining miles weigh on my conscience and I shudder. Fortunately, as the food from the aid station and some salt kick in, my focus is restored and I return to the challenge at-hand with presence and determination. Forget about the entire course; just tackle this next little section. Section-to-section Nick. My mantra of choice:
Mind of a Monk
Power of a Mountain Lion
As I work my way through the Rollercoaster Ridges of Stein Butte (miles 35-40) I notice some strikingly large animal droppings discharged all-too-freshly and frequently along the trail. Quick arithmetic derives the unequivocal conclusion that, based on scat circumference, this was no small beast. Most certainly a bear, I pick up my pace and better attune myself to any future signs of non-human life roaming nearby.
In honesty, the prolonged absence of accurate trail markings on this section causes more alarm than any oversized dump. Faded orange flags pepper this section instead of the official pink ribbons, and strong runner Amy Sproston reinforces this anxiety as she makes the same observation in passing. When in doubt, just keep following steaming bear shit.
Though this section proves difficult to locate much rhythm with its sharp ups-and-downs, I revel in the undulating ridgeline single track and wish it persists. After replenishing at Stein Butte Aid Station (mile 36), a short uphill then floating downhill section raises my spirits, and I arrive into Squaw Lake (mile 42) feeling remarkably better. My crew notices this significant improvement as I exchange smiles and continue on to complete the short circumnavigation of beautiful Squaw Lake.
Before I left Portland for the race, a colleague from work (and Ashland native) informed me that Squaw Lake is special in that it harbors a unique silty sand that, when rubbed on skin, emanates a luminescence that can shine on your skin for hours. As I run around this beautiful lake, I imagine painting my body with this wonder mud to replace any need of a headlamp for the upcoming night section. I decide against it.
Returning to the aid station in great spirits, I quickly restock gels and grab a second bottle. My crew volleys strong words of encouragement and positivity, and I derive a strong boost from their support. With Dutchmen’s Peak over 20 miles away, I decide to stuff my headlamp in my shorts in case the summit didn’t actualize by nightfall. I head out for what my pre-race homework has concluded to be the crux of this course.
Stage III: Capture the Flag – Squaw Lake to Dutchmen’s Peak (Miles 44-65)
After a stout ascent through Kilgor Gulch, the trail opens up into a beautiful section, even when cloaked in fog and communist gray. Golden, exposed grassy rollers guide me through a wet traverse toward Squaw Peak. As I become lost in thought enjoying some of the best single track yet, I also begin to lose body warmth. The precipitation combined with an increasing wind chill laughed at my trivial singlet. Teeth clenched, self-talk now in full swing, I dip into a curious visualization of this ever-present fire flickering deep in my core, emanating outwards and warming every cell in my body. One of my best friends Joe Grant to thank for this mental trick. My body eventually calms and sits into the inevitable numbness. It is only going to get darker and colder, however, and all my cold gear waits for me at Dutchmen’s, 15 miles…up.
After this gusty, cold section, I finally reach Squaw Peak aid station (Mile 52), where aid volunteers offer some freshly fried quesadillas and broth, precisely what the doctor ordered. My body tempurature was not getting any better, so I ask if they could fashion a poncho out of a black garbage bag for me. They agree and say they will have it ready to go by the time I get back from the short out-and-back summit to Squaw Peak. I tear off towards the summit. Several strong runners, including Ian Torrence, are returning from the summit looking cold and happy to be on the decent. I power hike the entire push to the summit, where strong gusts and diagonal rain discourage any momentary viewpoint bliss. I grab a flag that confirms my summit and quickly turn back towards lower, warmer ground.
Although the out-and-back sections on this course are easy to despise and shrug off as just another masochistic addition to an already stout course, I actually enjoy these brief moments to give encouragement and be encouraged by runners as we pass eachother on our respective journeys. One of the main reasons why I chose this race initially was the aesthetic benefits of a point-to-point course. Of all the amazing attributes that such a course offers, something it misses is an overlap, an opportunity to support other runners often. In my short history in the ultrarunning community, this component of community and camaraderie is one of the strongest and most powerful pieces of the puzzle. So when a nasty, steep out-and-back is presented, I approach it with gratitude.
Returning to the aid station, I slip on my fashionable garbage bag, tuck it into my extremely short shorts (fail-safe way to make friends fast) and stiffly make my way into the early evening, for what I learn to be the “back 9” or second half of the race. This, I was told by many, is where the 100 mile race really starts.
My spirits rise with my body temperature, as the jerry-rigged poncho blocks much of the wind. I regain focus on breath and rhythm, something I can easily find on these long forest road sections. Though monontonous at times, one thing I can say about roads is you can find your groove. Whether tearing down a smooth flat section or having succumbed to power-hiking, the consistent terrain provides an ideal venue to dance with the meditative bodily rhythms. Breathing and stepping, moving forward. In all transparency, I am beginning to think the course description may have misrepresented the amount of road, whether pavement, forest, or jeep trail.
I reach Squaw Creek Aid Station (Mile 60) with 5 uphill miles remaining to the summit of Dutchmen’s. Light loses its battle with darkness and I begin to lose mine with warmth. I fish my headlamp from my shorts and it refuses to function properly. Of course it would. I lose some time fiddling with its electronic entrails, coming up short with frozen fingers. A helpful volunteer easily fixes the problem and I am on my way in no time, broth in belly and light in sight.
The five mile summit stretch Dutchmen's feels much longer, and my garbage bag begins to lose integrity in the presence of dropping temperatures, rising elevation and gusty winds reaching over 30 mph. I make the last push with some familiar faces, Geoffrey and Rick, and with a few expletives and grunts, we see the light at the end of the tunnel. Dutchmen’s Peak aid station (Mile 65) resembles a war triage tent, with a remarkable other-worldy energy.
As I arrive in a generally positive mindset, other runners are not looking so composed. Several runners huddle around the heater incessantly shivering, while the canvas shelter flaps violently with the swirling forces tormenting the summit. I spot my crew and they help me transition out of my homeless garbage gear and into multiple layers of warmth and dry. After a few bleary-eyed moments adjusting to the bright lights and a general sense of chaos, one volunteer comes up to me and exclaims,
“Gee, I gotta say you are in the top 3 best conditions of runners coming through here, yah know that?”
Encouraged, I look around to see other runners in dire shape. One lady shivers uncontrollably while wrapped in heavy blankets near a gas heater. Others are receiving extra care from their crews, in an attempt to raise both spirits and body temperatures. Somehow my beanie and gloves didn’t make the travelling squad, so my father, without any hesitation, pulls off his hat and gloves and relocates them onto my shivering body. Resourceful warrior that my father is, he immediately wraps my discarded garbage bag around his head, fashioning a windproof headpiece sure to make even Chuck Norris envious.
Intending on tackling this race without a pacer, I begin to understand the benefits of having another person with you along the journey. Ascending Dutchmen’s moments ago in the company of fellow runners, I conclude quickly that suffering when shared sometimes appears to make it much more palatable.
After getting to Dutchmen’s, my friend Nathan awaited my arrival and offers to pace me the last 37 miles to the finish. After one second of thought, I agree. Nathan is a solid runner and a class A guy. He had come to Ashland to pace another runner, who had unfortunately dropped earlier that day. Nathan was chomping at the bit to get some miles in, and my intuition immediately confirms his pacing would be an excellent decision.
We make a quick out-and-back bid to the summit, capturing another flag and returning to the aid tents, where I refuel with broth and bananas. Despite horrific conditions, the aid stations were some of the most well-stocked I’ve ever experienced. Gu flavors resembling every color of the rainbow, various warm savory snacks were provided throughout the night. I cannot express enough gratitude for having these soul-warming provisions readily available.
Stage IV – Dutchman Peak to Wagner Butte (Mile 65-90)
We set off into the darkness, and I feel solid. Multiple layers of Patagonia capilene and rain gear keep my inner fire burning nicely, and I feel a major boost in morale. I feed off of Nathan’s freshness and keep in stride with his ambitious pace. The next 11 miles shoots steadily downhill, and we find a nice groove. 70+ miles in, my feet are soft and sensitive. Blisters on my forefeet and toes rub at every single footstrike. I fight the urge to let this irritation seep too deeply into my mind. Every single runner, I recognize, must be dealing with a similar situation. I am certainly not alone! Addressing this collective pain eases my individual concern immediately. There’s a lot that goes on in the space between irritated feet and the brain, and I’ll be damned if a little superficial rubbing is going to take away from this amazing human experience. I simply recognize and let go.
The descent seems to drag, and I begin to attach myself to the rewards of reaching this aid station. I quickly become defeated in the moments where I lose focus and imagine what type of soup broth awaits. As far as my watch is concerned, we should already have arrived at this bloody aid station! I yell at myself. I realize that the aid station is simply where it is. It's not going anywhere. Its your mental disposition that distorts distance and perceives it as taking longer to arrive. Again, I remind myself to focus and relax, as the aid stations…they don’t move. You do. Lose presence and you forfeit the experience that has been given to you on this night. My mind is driftwood tugged at by some elusive current of convenience, the comfort of the aid station. It becomes an interesting mental test to minimize the drift.
We arrive at the Glade Creek Aid Station (Mile 78) in good spirits. Nathan and I are working well as a team and I feel fortunate to have him supporting me through this. Two headlamps, and someone more responsive to talk with then myself. My first experience with true sleepiness-in-motion sets in around mile 80, quickly fought off with a Roctane/S!cap combo. After a brief downhill road section and a few powerhiking miles up, we reach Wagner Gap Aid Station (Mile 83) where my loving crew greets us with shouts of support. The comraderie and familiar faces, most notabley my aunt and uncle who make it to this late-night rendezvous, injects my veins with renewal and I feel more than ready to tackle one last daunting climb and descent.
Stage V: Final Fantasy – Wagner Gap Aid to Finish (Miles 83-102)
Wagner Gap Aid station sits around 3,500ft and, though still raining, the air temperature is agreeable. This is significantly new temporal territory I am entering, and it hits heavily at this juncture. My pacer Nathan is running strong and continues to patiently adopt a slow-but-steady philosophy up and down this dark mountainous terrain. Getting a last “slap on the rear” from my crew before seeing them at the finish, I soak up every last bit of their energy before heading off into the last 19-mile stretch.
As we begin the 7 mile, 3,500ft climb ascent to Wagner Butte, I seek mental refuge by envisioning this final climb and descent on the elevation profile map. Innocently simple on paper, yet seemingly tricky on foot. Especially after 85 miles. At night. Pelted with incessant wind and rain for 20+ hours. Nathan and I powerhike most all of the ascent, finding a nice rhythm. I find myself stopping to urinate with alarming frequency, which I later equate to a tight waist pack and hyper-caffeinated gel choices to ward off fatigue.
As we meditatively work our way up Wagner Butte, the air begins to crisp. I catch Rick, another running acquaintance, in an exposed section of switchbacks, and the three of us plod upwards as the weather starts to sour. Reminiscent of the conditions found atop Dutchmen Peak (minus any steamy chicken broth), my gear and mental fortitude begins to surrender to endless hours of wet.
We reach the turn pointing us towards an uninviting 4 mile out-and-back section to Wagner’s Summit (mile 88-92) that I did not see coming. I find this section to be a significant challenge. Bitingly cold weather persists, and at every step the soles of my feet compress and shift with a stinging mess of rubbing blisters. Let go of superficial pain and just move. Runners returning from the summit look dazed, icy-cold and relieved to be going the opposite direction of us.
Though undoubtedly some epic single track during the day, this miserable section takes a serious shot to my energy system. Fast movement is your meal-ticket to staying warm here, which kept us moving. Taking what feels like forever, we finally reach the craggy crown to the butte and scramble up slippery rocks to retrieve my flag. I find a few other runners struggling with this tough assignment, including Trevor and his pacer. Wind howls at the top of its lungs up here, and no one spends a split-second enjoying the top. Somewhere in this delirious mess of a climb, my watch alarm goes off, informing me that I have officially been awake for 24 hours. I derive some sick form of comic relief from this as we begin our numb descent. The clock strikes 4am and I am far from finished. A quad-killing 12 miles remains, dropping more than 5000ft.
Just breathe.
Cold and shivering, I decide to run this section hard back to junction. Before I know it, we lace this section without stopping once, in a fraction of the time it took to reach the butte. My spirits are raised with successfully running a section 90 miles into the race, and we continue on through a sharp single-track descent. As I pass some wise old-growth trees, I wonder what their response is to a couple of bug-eyed humans stumbling down their mountain at 4:30 in the morning. Silly humans.
Clenching my summit flag as if I’m some demented patriot of pain, I wonder when this aid station will arrive so that I can discard the flapping accessory. “Gotta be right around the bend, right? They wouldn’t make me carry this thing too long.” Yet like a deceiving desert mirage, my headlamp’s reflection continues to dance with the foliage ahead, successfully fooling my vulnerable mind at every turn.
We finally make it to Road 2060 Aid Station (Mile 93.5), which confirms that I am within single-digit range of the finish. That last downhill stretch left my quads in poor shape, but I clench my teeth and persist. It’s in the bag, I tell myself. Nothing can stop me now from piecing this last downhill section together. Nothing. A deliciously hot hashbrown treat helps recalibrate the system and I am ready to tackle this last gentle, dirt-road section. It’s still raining (weird, right?) and the feet are absolutely destroyed. To add, my right ankle is beginning to swell and tighten up.
We continue on.
5 miles of meditative gentle downhill road and I find myself running most of this, with the occasional stop to regain composure. My form and mental toughness are seriously comprised. The sun begins to rise (again), and the cosmic cycles confirm elapsed time with grace. I derive strength from watching the world open its eyes a second time, and the headlamps are clicked off as we smell the finish.
The Hitt Road juncture (Mile 98) offers two miles of dicey, washed-out trail, yet we welcome the change in terrain over the monotony of Road 2060. With four miles to go, the weather gods congratulate me in my efforts with the hardest downpour of the race. Sheets of rain relentlessly hammer our already soul-soaked selves. Trail turns into creek as we negotiate this slip-n-slide with extreme caution. Running form flies out the window at this point, and my IT band screams at me in rebellion. I seek refuge in self-talk and mantra:
Just let go…let go of the pain, the cold and wet, and most importantly, let go of the finish. It will come. Relish in these last few miles, relax and just let go.
This helps fight through the absolutely dismal conditions, and we eventually pop out onto asphalt with a view of beautiful Ashland below. I made it.
The last two miles crushes the legs, with an asphalt descent rivaling the streets of San Francisco. Nearly 26 hours into the footrace, I find it almost comical, and I run the entire thing in complete surrender. As we run past warm, sleeping homes, I find solace in their innocence. Families waking up from a full night’s sleep, enjoying their slow weekend. Little did they know that a band of 131 crazy foot soldiers were steadily working their way through mountains toward their village all night. As if from another planet, we exchange an awkward “hello” with two teenage girls peaecfully walking their dogs and power towards the finish line. The rain is unrelenting, which doesn’t really matter at this point. Nothing really matters.
102 miles later, 25 hours and 55 minutes after starting the day before, I begin to spot cars and cheers coming from the near distance. I spot Rory and Debbie first, then the rest of my crew.
You are now entering Cloud 9.
Dropping into the Lithia Loop parking lot, I turn to see the FINISH banner and an airstrip of cones leading me to the end. THE END. This moment had been visualized several hundred times in the months leading up to the race. Crossing the finish line, I wear a grin easily reaching both ears and I stop moving. The vessel that is my body is supremely destroyed but my mind remains unusually strong. The gods above clap their hands and wring out their rags of rain even more heavily as I finally stop. I have arrived.
Closing
Post-race proved to be an eventful few hours. Accumulated fatigue and an overwhelming sensation of psycho-physical relief resulted in a fainting spell that left me unconscious for a few minutes. Finding myself on the ground surrounded by volunteers and crew, I was forced to spend a few hours regaining proper vitals and normal blood-sugar levels. My ankle also blew up to softball proportions and had to be wrapped and monitored. I look around to see what can only be compared to a battleground medical triage. Several finished runners lay motionless in cots, while others hobble around stiffly looking for food and warmth. A woman shreaks in pain as a medical volunteer lances a giant big-toe blister.
Dire conditions aside, we all collectively participated in a extremely difficult event in the most unexpectedly challenging of conditions.
Two ice baths, several fish tacos and some bad hotel T.V. gave me enough of a recovery and energy to get myself back to Portland by Monday night, after saying goodbye to friends and family.
As I sit and reflect on this amazing weekend, I ponder if another 100 mile race is in the cards for the future. I am certain of it. It was simply too much of an ego-stripping, consciousness-altering experience to not have it really tug at your toes for another round. There were innumerable things learned from Pine-to-Palm and I’d love another opportunity to make vast improvements in a future race at such a sacred distance.
In Numbers:
- 102 – Miles covered on foot
- 25hrs55min – Time to Cover 102 miles on foot
- 32 - # of total hours awake
- 40 – Number of gels consumed
- 4 inches – estimated diameter of the biggest bear poo along the course
- 1 – cramp (hamstring, mile 30)
- 0 – Falls (unless you count the post-race collapse.)
- 6 - blisters
- 131 – Runners started
- 70 – Finishers
- 23rd- Place overall
In the end, prolonged mountain foot travel provides an incredible venue to explore the inner and outer chambers of human experience. Stripped of most ego-based structures of modern living, the ancestral movement of long-distance wilderness running invites us to step beyond the fringe of our comfortable “village” of convention and convenience and to start discovering a seemingly numinous, wild self that surely harnesses boundless potential. I strive personally to never stop this odyssey of self-discovery, both of my inner and outer ecology. Ultimately, when mind authentically recognizes no division between the two, then a magnificent realization has been made indeed.
Comments
Nick-Nick
This is an amazing recounting of an amazing two days with you in Oregon on your incredible 100 mile trek. We shared your pain, ( literally a couple of times!), and your joy, but we probably never will know, or ourselves experience, the depth of this kind of commitment to a challenge such as this one. For the time being, though, we will be happy to participate in the process of rest and recovery of your body and soul...preferably running on the soft, warm, dry, sandy roads and beaches of Todos Santos! We love you BIG. GG and Uncle Rock.
Nick,
Such a great write up! You are a machine. It was awesome to be with you those last miles. Especially to see your determination, grit and appreciation for the experience no matter the pain. It is all about maintaining that fire within. I look forward to catching up with you soon.
There is so much to learn from, and rejoice in, what you have accomplished. Thank you for giving us a glimpse of your thoughts, feelings, and consciousness as you did what seems impossible. You write and speak beautifully, and I look forward to reading and hearing much more from you about where you went during that longest of runs, and how. To say that you are inspiring is a huge understatement. Thank you, Nick!
Thanks so much for sharing your incredible physical/ mental journey with us. Your beautifully written words depicted what goes on in the mind and spirit when faced with such a enormous challenge as the one you accomplished! The positivity and unattachment to comfort measures are huge lessons you are teaching all of us.
We love you!
Yuki, Paulo, Kai and Maya
A very intimate, and compelling account of ones beloved son, exploring the outer reaches of his mind and body. I have come to understand more fully, the epic proportion of his undertaking, as well as the man who fulfilled his dreams.
Love to the team, Jeanne, Rocky, Rory, Debbie and most importantly Nathan, who's powerful, yet humble spirit, guided Nick through the final challenging 37 miles!
"climb the mountains, and take their good tidings...the winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop away like the leaves of autumn" John Muir
Love ya Nick
Awesome Nick! What an amazing undertaking and a great account of it. Thanks for sharing. I'm sorry that I couldn't be there for it. I'll be there to crew for the next one! It is truly a small group of humans that ever tackle this feat and even fewer that are able to put the experience into words with your elegance. Proud of you bro!! Much Love, R
Dear Nick, Nate sent this to us at Animas and I have read your story over twice, both times I cried. I am honored to be invited to share in this amazing place of your life, and elated to think of this event on foot with humans. We do this with horses and I love it. Do you know the story of Point to Point races in Europe? I am sure you do, and it sparks the excitement of the stories of all the people who have carried through time, running stories, running life. Thank you for your precious life. Your story will now touch my 18 year old sons life. Run on!!
Awesome read. It took me a month, but what do you expect from a full-time working mother? Anyway, I really appreciate your insight, your humor, and your reflections. All in all, I enjoyed your description of your Dad's altruism the best. Good work, and belated congrats!
Nick, Nate passed along your account to me, and I am finally finding a middle of the night moment to read it. What a beautiful articulation of your 102 mile foot quest! Wow. Magnificent. Holy. Please accept my belated Congratulations. Big Love and Respect, Christina
Nick -
Your account of your race had me cheering out loud for you. You're an amazing writer, human being, and obviously an amazing runner. You are an amazing human being and always such an inspiration. I'm proud to know you.
Hope we cross paths soon brother.