insignificant by comparison. She also knew my history, including how my compulsion to keep going farther had contributed to the demise of my second marriage and still affected my relationships with all three of my children, Elaine, Taylor, and Ali. Extreme sports had been a wedge between my family and me, and it looked as if I was going to repeat that pattern all over again.
She fought me for a year. As plans progressed, she fought harder. She didnât understand why I was still so compelled to do this, and she wasnât buying any of what she called my âbullshit reasons.â She fought me right up until about two weeks before we were supposed to go to the San Francisco starting line, and then she finally acknowledged the inevitable: I was going to traverse the United States, from San Francisco to New York City, on my own two legs. Starting in mid-September, Iâd begin to run the equivalent of more than two marathons and a 10K every day, chasing autumn from west to east for at least six weeks.
3.
Itâs Just Who I Am
Some people find my feet fascinating because I have no toenails. Magazine and newspaper folk have interviewed me about them and photographed my toes, which friends have described as little bald-headed men, or ten nursing piglets. Why, reporters always ask, would a man go so far as to have his toenails surgically removed? What kind of person alters his anatomy for sport?
Look, the toenails are the least of it. The kind of sacrifices you make when youâre running hundreds of miles are considerably more profound than whether youâll ever get a proper pedicure again. But I understand the freak-show quality of my feet. Itâs like the Everest mountaineersâ blackened, frozen fingers that mesmerized me years ago: It symbolizes something, says something about a personâs commitment. What that something isâunlimited human potential and extraordinary daring, or something darker, like madness and obsessionâseems a mystery.
The real sacrifices? Family relationships often suffer in the ultrarunning community; clearly, mine are no exception. The time away from home, the solitariness, the stubborn self-reliance all take their toll. Marriages are ruined, children alienated. During the races themselves, people battle dehydration, salt loss, sleep deprivation, blisters that make the most hardened athletes buckle, trashed knees, pulled hamstrings, acute tendonitis, and more. In the face of all this pain, ultrarunners also tend to develop a morbid sense of humor. Dr. Ben Jones used to bring a coffin, fill it with ice, and submerge himself to cool off during the Badwater Ultramarathon. (Ben is a coroner, but still.) Actually, itâs rare for someone to die doing this sport, but itâs not at all rare to want to. Once, I asked a physician friend of mine, a cardiologist, if a person could run himself to deathâI wanted to know how hard I could push myself. No, he told me. Your body is smarter than you are and will âput you downâ first, meaning youâll drop from dehydration, or pass out or something, before you can run yourself to death.
Why do we go the distance? Is it a cult? An addiction? Some kind of penance? Do we have something to prove? What do we get out of it? The answers to these questions are nearly as individual as the runners themselves. Charlie Engle, for example, would say yes, itâs like an addictionâhe traded cocaine and alcohol for competition. Ray Zahab would tell you that he started running for his health, dropped a pack-a-day smoking habit, and then got hooked by the personal discovery that comes from covering long distances in exotic lands, and finding opportunities to connect with and contribute to people from different cultures.
As for me, sure, thereâs an underlying compulsion: survivorâs guilt and a need to punish myself, to prove myself, to face down my own mortality, to defy death. But my running is also a
She fought me for a year. As plans progressed, she fought harder. She didnât understand why I was still so compelled to do this, and she wasnât buying any of what she called my âbullshit reasons.â She fought me right up until about two weeks before we were supposed to go to the San Francisco starting line, and then she finally acknowledged the inevitable: I was going to traverse the United States, from San Francisco to New York City, on my own two legs. Starting in mid-September, Iâd begin to run the equivalent of more than two marathons and a 10K every day, chasing autumn from west to east for at least six weeks.
3.
Itâs Just Who I Am
Some people find my feet fascinating because I have no toenails. Magazine and newspaper folk have interviewed me about them and photographed my toes, which friends have described as little bald-headed men, or ten nursing piglets. Why, reporters always ask, would a man go so far as to have his toenails surgically removed? What kind of person alters his anatomy for sport?
Look, the toenails are the least of it. The kind of sacrifices you make when youâre running hundreds of miles are considerably more profound than whether youâll ever get a proper pedicure again. But I understand the freak-show quality of my feet. Itâs like the Everest mountaineersâ blackened, frozen fingers that mesmerized me years ago: It symbolizes something, says something about a personâs commitment. What that something isâunlimited human potential and extraordinary daring, or something darker, like madness and obsessionâseems a mystery.
The real sacrifices? Family relationships often suffer in the ultrarunning community; clearly, mine are no exception. The time away from home, the solitariness, the stubborn self-reliance all take their toll. Marriages are ruined, children alienated. During the races themselves, people battle dehydration, salt loss, sleep deprivation, blisters that make the most hardened athletes buckle, trashed knees, pulled hamstrings, acute tendonitis, and more. In the face of all this pain, ultrarunners also tend to develop a morbid sense of humor. Dr. Ben Jones used to bring a coffin, fill it with ice, and submerge himself to cool off during the Badwater Ultramarathon. (Ben is a coroner, but still.) Actually, itâs rare for someone to die doing this sport, but itâs not at all rare to want to. Once, I asked a physician friend of mine, a cardiologist, if a person could run himself to deathâI wanted to know how hard I could push myself. No, he told me. Your body is smarter than you are and will âput you downâ first, meaning youâll drop from dehydration, or pass out or something, before you can run yourself to death.
Why do we go the distance? Is it a cult? An addiction? Some kind of penance? Do we have something to prove? What do we get out of it? The answers to these questions are nearly as individual as the runners themselves. Charlie Engle, for example, would say yes, itâs like an addictionâhe traded cocaine and alcohol for competition. Ray Zahab would tell you that he started running for his health, dropped a pack-a-day smoking habit, and then got hooked by the personal discovery that comes from covering long distances in exotic lands, and finding opportunities to connect with and contribute to people from different cultures.
As for me, sure, thereâs an underlying compulsion: survivorâs guilt and a need to punish myself, to prove myself, to face down my own mortality, to defy death. But my running is also a
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