Eat and Run: My Unlikely Journey to Ultramarathon Greatness by Scott Jurek, Steve Friedman Page A
Authors: Scott Jurek, Steve Friedman
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masher or wooden spoon until they are thoroughly mixed and form a feta-like consistency. Set aside while you make the sauce.
Sauce
1
6-ounce can tomato paste
1
teaspoon onion powder
½
teaspoon garlic powder
1
teaspoon Italian seasoning
1
teaspoon sea salt
¼
cup water
½
teaspoon crushed red pepper (optional)
In a small bowl, combine the tomato paste, onion powder, garlic powder, Italian seasoning, salt, and water, and mix well. Add the crushed red pepper if you like a spicier sauce. Set aside.
Crust
Use any fresh or day-old bread of your choice (my favorite is olive bread).
1
loaf bread
Slice the bread into ½- to 1-inch slices.
Toppings
The vibrant color and pungent flavors make spinach, sundried tomatoes, and olives a favorite combination. Feel free to substitute any 3 to 5 of your favorite veggie toppings.
1½
cups chopped fresh spinach
¾
cup chopped sundried tomatoes
¾
cup chopped kalamata olives
Preheat the oven or toaster oven to 425°F. To assemble the pizza, spread a thin layer of sauce on each piece of sliced bread. Next, add a small amount of the spinach, followed by the tomatoes and olives. Last, crumble the tofu “feta” on top. Bake 10 to 12 minutes, until the bottom of the bread and the toppings are very lightly browned. Leftovers can be cooled to room temperature, placed in small plastic bags, and refrigerated overnight for the next long run or lunch.
MAKES 4–6 SERVINGS
6. The Wisdom of Hippie Dan
MINNESOTA VOYAGEUR 50, 1994
The more you know, the less you need.
—YVON CHOUINARD
People are always asking me the same question. Why, when I could stay in shape with a 25-minute jog, do I train for 5 hours at a time? Why, when I could run a perfectly civilized marathon, would I choose to run four of them back-to-back? Why, instead of gliding over shaded tracks, would I take on Death Valley in the height of summer? Am I masochistic? Addicted to endorphins? Is there something deep down inside that I am running from? Or am I seeking something I never had?
At the beginning of college I ran because of Dusty. It was the summer after my freshman year. Dusty was living with guys in a place they called the House of Gravity. One of his roommates was a champion downhill skier, another was a world-class mountain biker. Dusty was bunking in the attic, where the temperature could drop to –20 degrees, and slept in a down winter sleeping bag from the army surplus store. They called it the House of Gravity because they smoked from a gigantic bong so often that much of the time they couldn’t get up. They decided the field of gravity was greater in that house than anywhere else. They even attached the bong to a rope so they could swing it from one person to another.
Meanwhile, I was staying with the Obrechts, the family that had re-formed the Proctor High School boys’ ski team. To see my mom and little brother and sister, I had to sneak back to the house when I knew my dad was working. Dusty and his housemates lived day-to-day. I couldn’t stop thinking about the future. I knew my skiing career was coming to an end; I didn’t have Dusty’s talent, and while I could hone my technique until a casual observer would think I was born in Norway, I also had figured out that guys like Dusty—and there were a lot of them at the upper levels of cross-country skiing—could almost always sprint faster than I could. No matter how hard I worked, I could never attain the pure speed that others could. I think whoever—or whatever—gave me determination and a good work ethic forgot to throw in fast twitch muscles. Then Dusty called and told me he had won a 50-mile race called the Minnesota Voyageur. He said he was going to run it next year, too, and asked whether I wanted to train with him. Of course I said yes. (I always said yes to Dusty.) I told myself it was to get in shape for the next ski season. But in reality Dusty was living the life I envied: free, fun, and fast. He was a
Sauce
1
6-ounce can tomato paste
1
teaspoon onion powder
½
teaspoon garlic powder
1
teaspoon Italian seasoning
1
teaspoon sea salt
¼
cup water
½
teaspoon crushed red pepper (optional)
In a small bowl, combine the tomato paste, onion powder, garlic powder, Italian seasoning, salt, and water, and mix well. Add the crushed red pepper if you like a spicier sauce. Set aside.
Crust
Use any fresh or day-old bread of your choice (my favorite is olive bread).
1
loaf bread
Slice the bread into ½- to 1-inch slices.
Toppings
The vibrant color and pungent flavors make spinach, sundried tomatoes, and olives a favorite combination. Feel free to substitute any 3 to 5 of your favorite veggie toppings.
1½
cups chopped fresh spinach
¾
cup chopped sundried tomatoes
¾
cup chopped kalamata olives
Preheat the oven or toaster oven to 425°F. To assemble the pizza, spread a thin layer of sauce on each piece of sliced bread. Next, add a small amount of the spinach, followed by the tomatoes and olives. Last, crumble the tofu “feta” on top. Bake 10 to 12 minutes, until the bottom of the bread and the toppings are very lightly browned. Leftovers can be cooled to room temperature, placed in small plastic bags, and refrigerated overnight for the next long run or lunch.
MAKES 4–6 SERVINGS
6. The Wisdom of Hippie Dan
MINNESOTA VOYAGEUR 50, 1994
The more you know, the less you need.
—YVON CHOUINARD
People are always asking me the same question. Why, when I could stay in shape with a 25-minute jog, do I train for 5 hours at a time? Why, when I could run a perfectly civilized marathon, would I choose to run four of them back-to-back? Why, instead of gliding over shaded tracks, would I take on Death Valley in the height of summer? Am I masochistic? Addicted to endorphins? Is there something deep down inside that I am running from? Or am I seeking something I never had?
At the beginning of college I ran because of Dusty. It was the summer after my freshman year. Dusty was living with guys in a place they called the House of Gravity. One of his roommates was a champion downhill skier, another was a world-class mountain biker. Dusty was bunking in the attic, where the temperature could drop to –20 degrees, and slept in a down winter sleeping bag from the army surplus store. They called it the House of Gravity because they smoked from a gigantic bong so often that much of the time they couldn’t get up. They decided the field of gravity was greater in that house than anywhere else. They even attached the bong to a rope so they could swing it from one person to another.
Meanwhile, I was staying with the Obrechts, the family that had re-formed the Proctor High School boys’ ski team. To see my mom and little brother and sister, I had to sneak back to the house when I knew my dad was working. Dusty and his housemates lived day-to-day. I couldn’t stop thinking about the future. I knew my skiing career was coming to an end; I didn’t have Dusty’s talent, and while I could hone my technique until a casual observer would think I was born in Norway, I also had figured out that guys like Dusty—and there were a lot of them at the upper levels of cross-country skiing—could almost always sprint faster than I could. No matter how hard I worked, I could never attain the pure speed that others could. I think whoever—or whatever—gave me determination and a good work ethic forgot to throw in fast twitch muscles. Then Dusty called and told me he had won a 50-mile race called the Minnesota Voyageur. He said he was going to run it next year, too, and asked whether I wanted to train with him. Of course I said yes. (I always said yes to Dusty.) I told myself it was to get in shape for the next ski season. But in reality Dusty was living the life I envied: free, fun, and fast. He was a
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