Someone awesome I met while trail running?
Met?
Because one day, a couple of years ago, while roaming Prospect Park’s mini trail system, a bearded dude in split shorts and minimus literally FLEW by me. He winked and disappeared in the bushes. He looked like a hipster version of Tony Krupicka. I thought he was awesome.
How about that one? During my first trail race, a half marathon in Bear Mountain, I really struggled at the end. A nimble, almost ethereal young lady with a North Brooklyn running club shirt picked me up with 2 miles to go and said something like “come on dude, hang on”.
And I did. She paced me to a 2:13 finish. She was awesome!
Recently, I ran a tough trail race. It was harder than anything I’ve ever experienced, even child birth (I had two, naturally… well, my wife had two… but they’re still mine). At times, I wished a rattlesnake would bite me and end it. But there are no rattlesnake in NY state. It was a long race and it took me almost 6 hours to cross the line, battered and bloodied. A buddy of mine crewed me. Without him, I’m not sure I’d have finished.
Awesome.
You know, I could go on and on. Awesomeness is a fundamental part of trail running, whether it’s the act of running under a canopy of tree, or past it, or just the people, the shared love and mutual respect. It’s there. You can feel it.
Sometimes, it’s even contagious.

Let me tell you about this guy I know whose awesomeness was born on the trail.
He was a guy who used to cut corners. Diretto, as Rickey Gates was told many times. Except the guy I know didn’t cut corners to get faster to point B. He cut corners because it made the course shorter. The nuance matters.
The guy I’m talking about didn’t race. He didn’t even run. He only chased.
He was like mankind, sitting on a rock, falling fast. But the air flowing in his face led him to believe that, instead of falling, he was flying.
The horizon remained far away, but the ground was fast approaching.
The French, they say: “jusqu’ici tout va bien, jusqu’ici tout va bien, jusqu’ici tout va bien. Mais l’important c’est pas la chute, c’est l’atterrissage.”
The crash was unavoidable. Everyone knew it would happen.

[sound of a man crashing]

The guy survived. Barely. Got to go back to his wife and kids after all. But it took some serious work to stitch him back to life. The surgeons repaired the body. That was the easy part. The guy had something else to repair.
His mind.
The body is NOTHING if the mind is broken.

How many time one is given a real second chance? A chance to do it all over again, to do it right.

The guy went from walking backwards to running forward. Trails. Mostly Hills.
He saw the horizon, beyond. Sometimes, he would stop mid-run and stare at the thin line between the earth and the universe.

Stare at the limitlessness. At the possibilities…

The guy took the longest path. He got lost. But he stayed true to himself. Stayed on course. He reached within, tapped into a new sense of awesomeness. The thing with trail running, it’s an action / reaction game. The trail dictates. The runner reacts. It’s a good therapy for overblown egos.

Running along the spinning globe requires balance.

On the trail, he felt the earth beneath his feet.

Funny how nature has a way to teach you how to run… your life. It’s the great equalizer. It makes everyone awesome.

There’s no escaping the blank stare of the screen, the cursor’s impatient blink.
My hands settle on the keyboard. Left untouched for two agonizing days, the keys feel cold, unkind. Today, the words won’t come easy, if they come at all.

The unending story began six months ago, in the aftermath of the doomed 2012 New York City marathon, my first shot at a 42k race. Out of frustration, I made the boneheaded decision to register for the NY Endurance Challenge Series marathon, a technical trail race up and down Bear Mountain, NY. A marathon is a marathon, I remember thinking. And I figured it would take a perfect storm to flood a mountain.

I bought a pair of Salomon Mantra and home-cooked a training program entitled “Run, Not Too Fast, Mostly Trails”. Despite having a decent mileage base, I decided to start off with a 90 minutes long run, and work my way up to about 4 hours of continuous running. I sprinkled a few feel runs, speed work and hill repeats. I also aimed for a reasonable race goal based on my Bear Mountain Half-Marathon time from last year (2:13:27):

4:59:59

Then I went to work. I set up a Nikeplus account to go with my brand new GPS watch. I joined seven LinkedIn groups, and was voted top influencer twice. I commented heavily on trailrunnermag.com, posted frequent updates on Facebook, with links to my Tumblr. Daily. Often, twice a day. Sometimes more. I tweeted every workout, detailing bridge repeats (I’m live in NYC), speed sessions and tempo runs. @RickeyGates even favorited one of my tweets.

I choose to post my injury report on Pheed, so no one would know about it. Nothing major to hide anyway; a bout of plantar fasciitis during some stressful times at work, and a cracked laptop screen. I also struggled with my iPhone home button, but who doesn’t?

Over the weeks, I made hundred of “Friends”, some “Close”, some not so much. I gained over a thousand followers (while getting stuck following 976 of them). My circle grew. The CrowdRise page I supported benefited from the exposure. I raised $2’473 for an obscure Eastern African charity.
I even impacted Wall Street. I instagramed my muddy trainers so many times, no one’s saying it ain’t worth a $billion anymore.

Suddenly, there was meaning to my senseless running. Not only I ran, but also started to exist. I trained harder; tracked every mile, broadcast every step.

The social network had to be fed.

I won’t lie; knowing someone, anyone, was interested in my training made the strenuous work easier. Posting my pace on Twitter motivated me to push a bit more. Some days, I needed it. Despite the growing network, I always ran alone.

See, I’m a fully employed husband of one, and a dad of two. Finding four or five hours to jog every Sunday for three month (and report all of it on multiple platforms with multiple devices) required lots of bribing. And honestly, running hours in NYC isn’t always fun. The trails are few, and the fumes, the cars, bikes, tourists, stray cats and nasty rats are many.

Two days ago, I went for a bike ride. Just to move the legs, avoid the pounding. I wanted to keep the legs fresh for the upcoming big race. I rode around Brooklyn, to Clinton Hill, north toward Williamsburg, up the bridge into the City. Then, atop the Williamsburg Bridge, the chain snapped. My right leg gave awkwardly under my full weight. I flew off the bike.

Crazy bad luck.

The cursor blinks. Behind the screen, hundreds await, unseen but ever present, legions of insatiable gluttons waiting to devour my entire existence kilobyte by kilobyte. I’m sick of sharing my every thought, of being stalked, observed, and judged.

I’m not your friend. Nor am I a cult leader or the center of some circle.

The cursor blinks.

The monster must be fed.

I type: “Big race this weekend. Won’t happen. Torn hip labrum. Crazy bad luck…”

12 :35am

J’sais pas si c’est l’effet Zuckerberg (ou la pleine lune) mais j’ai bossé toute la soirée. J’ai enfin fini d’éditer la première version du premier chapitre de roman 2.0.1.
Trois semaines. Pour un truc qui risque de finir à a poubelle dans un mois.
Trop long, certes, mais j’peaufine encore les nuances of the voice. Je compte bien finir chapitre deux en moins de temps.
Bref, afin de partager ce mini succès avec tous ceux qui aiment ma nouvelle page facebook, voilà un bref extrait du susmentionné chapter zero-dot-one :

Le bailli relâcha le linceul. Il s’écarta du corps à reculons. Dans sa hâte, il manqua de trébucher contre le fourreau de son épée. Des hoquets saisirent l’assistance. Un sanglot déchira le hall.
La fille était nue. Une fine pellicule de sang et de terre enrobait son corps, teintant sa peau d’un ton ambré, presque chaleureux, plutôt que de celui, bleuté, du trépas. Elle était allongée sur le dos, ses bras rigides étendus le long du corps, les poings relevés au dessus de la table. Sa tête était tournée, le menton posé contre son épaule droite. Un sourire béant barrait sa gorge. La morte fixait Walter, l’horreur inscrite à jamais dans son regard diaphane. Des blessures profondes marquaient sa poitrine et son bas ventre. Ultime détail de son calvaire, les stigmates sanglants d’une lourde chaine autour de ses chevilles.
L’odeur de bois brulé s’effaça derrière les relents de putréfaction. La gorge de Walter se contracta. Il aurait préféré ne jamais revivre cet instant.

Cool ? Pas cool ? Laissez-moi un petit mot…

THUNDERHEAD MOUNTAIN, TN – The hills roll along the Tennessee–North Carolina border, a subrange of the Appalachian called the Smoky Mountains but commonly shortened to the Smokies. The name originates from the natural fog that often hangs over the range. Since the early days of the Prohibition, moonshiners have concealed their stills behind the thick veil of mist. But today, the Smokies are home to a new brand of outlaws.

“They think they can hide in the fog,” says Lt Skip Andersen. He aims his index finger at the wooded slopes. The Appalachian Trail emerges from the clouds, meandering around tall sandstone boulders. Lt Andersen quickly adds: “But no one can hide from the Law. Not even up in the Smokies.” He pulls an imaginary trigger as the thunder roars over the mountain pass.

A couple of AWD police cars are parked at the trail head, only a few yards away, rotating lights flashing. The suspect, a man on his mid-20’, sits on the wet ground, shivering. A Livestrong-like orange wristband spells his name, Stanley ***, along with a phone number. His face is gaunt. His painfully thin arms are wrapped around skinnier legs, chin resting on a wounded knee. Coagulated blood and dirt have formed a protective outer shell around a deep cut above the kneecap, but within the shell, the skin is raw.

Lt Andersen aims his flashlight at Stan. “We catch them in the woods, at night, just like wild game. Except we can’t shoot them.” He erupts in a thunderous laugh. “The kids don’t know it, but I’m just protecting them.”

Against?

“Against themselves.”

Stan looks up at the officer. He shivers, his teeth shattering the morning silence.

*******

Dr. Williams, 30, knows the Smokies like to the bell of her stethoscope. Resident at the University of Tennessee Medical Center in Knoxville, only a few miles north of Thunderhead Mountain, she is tall, fit, if not athletic. A runner. “With moderation. 10-12 miles a week, never faster than conversation pace. And mostly trails.”

“Running.” The word makes Dr. Williams smile. “Everyone has an opinion about the sport. And almost no one gets it right.”

Training, diet and injury prevention are the subjects of so many myths, it has become nearly impossible to sort out science from popular belief. On top of that, ultra running hasn’t been around long enough to really assess its impact on an older population.

But could trail running really be… unhealthy?

“It could be,” says Dr. Williams. “Because of bodily breakdown, long distance running can have deleterious effects on muscles, elevating C-reactive protein, an indicator of inflammation. Endurance runners face a greater risk of cardiac damage, outlined by the death of ultra legend Micah True last year.”

So why people run?

“People run for reward.” But not for the obvious one, such as weight loss or a race PR. The reward is mostly hormonal. “There’s a lot of data that your psychological health—anxiety, depression, all kinds of things—is so tremendously impacted by exercise.”

And just like tobacco products, illegal and prescription drugs, alcohol, fatty and salty food, the runner’s high can become addictive.

Can trail running develop into an unhealthy addiction?

“Exercise both protects and provokes cardiovascular events. But it’s important to remember that the overall benefits of exercise outweigh the risks. Other than moderation, prevention is the key, here. Anyone interested in long distance running should be carefully evaluated by a cardiologist before beginning an exercise program, no matter their age.”

Lt Skip might have been right after all.

*******

A few days after his arrest, Stan is sitting at a fancy coffee shop in downtown Chattanooga. He sips on a 32OZ Chia-Chai tea, while staring at the screen of a glossy MacBook Pro.

“I’m checking out races on trailrunnermag.com,” he says without looking up.
When asked on what charge he was arrested, he finally lifts his eyes above the screen. “Trespassing. That section of the park closes at sun down.”

How about running during the day? “How do you train for a night race in broad daylight?”

Touché.

Hiker’s permit? “Listen bro, I’m an outlaw, but I’m not a criminal. And I can’t afford the permit anyway.”

He shuts down the lid of the $1500 MacBook Pro. “The Mac is gift from my main sponsor, Chia-Chai Tea, an Oregon-based company with a great line of chia-based products.” He raises his cup and pours the content down his throat.

“As a matter of fact, Chi-Chai is my second main sponsor.”

Stan’s dad, a Brooklyn physician and 2:37 marathoner, pays for his son’s bills. “As long as I log 100 miles a week and finish at least 5 ultras during the calendar year.” And possibly graduate from college one day. But Stan feels constricted in the classroom. Trail running is trending. Sponsors are rushing in. Money is flowing.
“It’s just a start, man. I’m trying to go pro.”

Stan grew up on the Slope in Brooklyn, NY. He started trail running in 2008, up and around Bear Mountain, after reading Paul Gryson’s “A Walk In The Wood”. Five miles, then ten. Then fifty. Each week. In the Catskills, closer to the orchards than to the Big Apple, Stan met other runners, and more often than not, flew past them.
He says he isn’t much of an athlete. But on the trails Skinny Stan is light and nimble. And he can go all day.
“79 VOMax. Thanks for the genes, dad.”
Stan never joined his high school XC team. He didn’t mind racing, but the loner hated the team aspect. Instead, he kept running the Appalachian Trail. Relentlessly. After he graduated, he spent the summer racing in Europe. He made a few Euros and lots of pals.

“I got hooked, bro. Badly.”

In the fall, Stan flew back to the US, moved to Chattanooga, enrolled in a community college and started running twenty five hours a week.

Addiction? “Okay. I’d say obsession.”

Unhealthy? “I don’t run to be healthy. I run cause I freaking love it.”

His take on Dr. Williams warning about long distance running: “99% of the dudes who collapse mid-run are already damaged. They just don’t know it. Look at Micah True. Best shape on earth, bad heart.”

What if the leading cause of Caballo Blanco’s damaged heart was his running?

“Then he died of his unconditional love for trail running. His heart just exploded. Boom!”

Stan concludes: “Too much love, bro.”

Too much love.

Can love develop into an unhealthy addiction?

For once, I’m at a loss for words.

This is somewhat a work of fiction, and most of the names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously (kind of). Any resemblance to actual events or locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, slow or fast, is almost entirely coincidental.