Running in Circles A 78-Mile Backyard Ultra Reflection

Well, hello world. Running in circles, a 78 mile backyard ultra reflection. So what is this? It's essentially a race recap. I've also written this and will be publishing it soon. So that's cool. When I do these, sometimes they go a little bit longer. They get stretched out a little bit more, which is cool. Listen, if you want, read it if you want. But I do really appreciate anyone that does listen to this. And maybe if you get something out of it, fantastic. So there's a paradox. You know, only runners would pay money to run in circles and call it progress. There's something beautifully absurd about that. Almost poetic in its pointlessness. But there I was on Saturday morning, telling a line for a race designed to break me one hour at a time, voluntarily entering a world where finishing doesn't exist. And the only way out is quitting. That's the paradox of a backyard ultra. You run the same loop over and over again. And somehow the person who emerges is not the same one who started. When I signed up, I didn't fully understand why. Another test to show off. Maybe I wanted to feel something honest. Maybe I just wanted to see what would happen when all the usual distractions fell away. And it was just me, my breath, my feet, my person, and the clock that didn't care about my feelings. The format is brutal. In its simplicity, you get an hour to run 4.167 miles. If you finish early, the left over minutes are yours. Eat, drink, change the socks, try not to feel. When the bell rings, it's got again no exceptions, no excuses. Have fun. I had ideas and loads of overconfidence. I didn't know how far I could go. I only knew that discomfort was guaranteed. And I was going to grow. That was possible. What happened over the next 19 loops, over 78 miles of repetition, darkness, connection, loneliness, suffering, and grace, became something much more revealing than a testament to her. It became a conversation with myself, one loop at a time. And you think I can talk aloud, out loud. You have no idea. This is the race story. Chapter one, the starting line, willingness. There is a unique quiet, before a backyard will spring in. Kind of communal shrugged acceptance. We sign up for this, and guess what we're really doing it. Runners build around, the starting chorale like coiled springs are waiting up top. Some stretching, some pretending to be relaxed, some cracking jokes, lots of air pods, nerves. I checked my bit. Very middle. My head felt strangely clean. Maybe that was willingness. Showing up without the promise of success, only the promise of effort. That might be the purest version of commitment there is. Not certainty, but willingness. You want to make recovery work? You need the former in-states, because the latter is never guaranteed. The race director gave a few final announcements, something about rules, something about backroom, something about suffering, none of us listened. We only knew the only instruction that mattered was this. Be back within an hour, or you're done. All back yard rules apply. The whistle blew when we started running. Chapter two. The first loops, honesty. The early loops felt almost too easy. The temperature was still forgiving. Legs were fresh, spirits were high. They were small talk, where were we from? How many back yard races we've done if we had any goals? The goal is gaining too much energy, it's the sizing up part. Someone said the trick is better to think about how many loops you might do. Someone else said, "Yeah, that's all I'm thinking about." I kept my face team. Consistency is the key for me to do the same thing every time. Run the downs, run the flats, hike the hills. Use the same visual cues every single time. I'm going to hike to that flag, then I'm going to run again every time. Fuel like a metronome. Back yard ulters are not about speed. They're about restraint. They're about listening to your body before it starts screaming at you. But it will. They're about not burning the house down in the daylight because the night will do that for you. On loop two, I met a runner who told me he'd made 30 loops at his last race. 30, I said? Yeah, he replied. Groups one at 29 were fine. Loop 30 was where I was questioning where I was. I said, "What happened on loop 30?" He said, "I had a conversation with somebody wasn't there." Honesty. It was already starting. By loop four, I had realized three things. One, I was going to be here for a while. Two, I was actually excited about that. Three, why is it so goddamn hot outside? Simplicity of this format stripped things down quickly. Day to day life, it's full of noise, emails, meetings, opinions, expectations, conversations. Here, the only requirement was forward motion and the willingness to try again every hour. And I could live with that. Chapter three, loops six to twelve. Connection. The first six hours I managed to run the same splits for each loop. Drinking the same three drinks between loops, eating the same foods, laying on the same cot, and lacing the same shoes and being encouraged by my crew. Let me slide into an aside here for a bit. Mandy Stockman, my partner, my girlfriend, my confidant, my love, was my solo crew for this adventure. Originally, she was signed up for this race as well with a goal of 50 miles. There are two things to know about that last sentence. First, she did not sign up for this race. I signed her up and told her it would be great trust me. Second, she has ran a marathon before numerous. But again, the idea of running 50 miles was my goal for her. I can still bulldoze a path in front of me, but often it pushes up more than it actually clears. Unfortunately for her, or maybe fortunately, she severely sprained her ankle on Wednesday before the race allowed running her dogs in the acorn walnut forest known as Brookside. I say, unfortunately, because now she'd be given the task of crimping me by herself. Not only that, but with a boot on her leg, and not actually agreeing to any of this. But she loves me. Why? I don't know. I think it's because even when she might see me on a bad day, she knows that my best is in there. And this event provides that entire circle. Thank you, Mandy. During the first 50 miles, it's about conversation. It was unseasonably hot, and it pulled a lot of people down earlier. We started with 59 runners and we're down to 20 or in the 20s by 50 miles. And Nightfall is a great equalizer in the backyard ultra. At lower temperature, it densed the world and turns the loops into this long dark alley. Shadows seem to come alive. Your mind gets weird. Every rustle sounds like something that's mean. And not to mention the quail or pheasant, or whatever ground nesting bird, just happened to be chilling in the path when I ran up on them. And then bolted into the air, and this would cough any of flapping and bullshit. It scared me to death. Maybe jump up like some pride and kid. I screamed a little. After myself trippin' such a baby and hope to God that no one saw me. My headlamp did not cut a narrow tunnel through that dark. More like a scattered beam of nothingness. I had checked my batteries, but the last day were fading. And much like my brain function. So instead of replacing, I asked Mandy for another one, and I just carried that one in my hand. I never felt alone because I always had someone there waiting for me, encouraging me. Energy came in waves, it surprised me at how physical it felt, like a warm hand pressed against the center of my chest. I recognized the thinking patterns, you got this, she sees you, she cares how you're doing. That's new wiring. The kind that's been growing for this past year, not the kind I carried long before drinking ever became a problem. Connections happen, quietly and unexpectedly, and around loop eleven, I had a burning along a guy named Nick, the eventual winner. We didn't talk much at her. Our breath filled the silence and then he said, "Hey man, if you make it to the slope, you can make it to the next one." It was such a simple sentence, maybe even obvious, but in that moment, it landed exactly where it needed to. That fog momentarily dissipated, not because he solved everything, but because he noticed, and that was not. Connection always is. Chapter four, loops thirteen to fifteen, responsibility. Around the fifty mile mark, the race changed. My legs stiffened between loops, my stomach revolved against anything that wasn't salty or banana. My knee down felt luxurious, standing up felt like a slog. The conversation in my head started to shift. Early in the race it was, relax, you got this. Now it was, get up this time. You get three whistles each loop, one at three minutes until the hour, two at two minutes until the hour, one with one minute before the hour. You have to be, you have to be, in the corral ready to run exactly the time, the starts each hour or you're out, no exceptions. At three minutes to go, I got off the count, but two minutes to go, I put on my shoes and tied them. At one minute to go, I took a gulp of water, carved drink, and rock star. Got a kiss from Andy, she told me she loved me. Let's go. Responsibility came to the theme of these loops. Nobody was going to drag me to the start corral, nobody was going to force me to care. Every hour, the whistle blew at the same end different tone, the world was saying you choose again and again and again. The loop started to stretch, demanded more honesty than loops before. I wasn't running anymore, I was managing, managing cramps, managing feet hurt, managing hope, managing, managing a brain that was starting to tell me, "Hey, then, you can make all the pain go away, just stop, take a break, lay down and sleep, no one cares." That's when I realized something. It's also a form of endurance, and I care. Chapter five, loop 16 and 17, the cracks forming. Everything got quiet during these loops. My breath, my thoughts, even the chatter of the race faded into a month of days. We were down to less than ten runners. Running at night is like dreaming while you're awake. Drift in and out of clarity, the trail becomes symbolic, each step of question, each hill and argument, each route and reminder that life is more complicated and dark, stupid ass rocks. My hips were screaming, my quads felt like I'd been beaten with a baseball bat, my feet were exhausted. I didn't even know that was possible. It was chafing in ways that defied modern medical classification. Nuts. On loop 17, I had a realization. I'm reaching today's limit. Not in a dramatic way, just a matter of fact, this is my truthway. There is a tremendous dignity in that moment. I didn't judge myself. I didn't try to conquer anything. I just acknowledged reality as keenly as I could. The cracks were forming, but I wasn't done yet. Seventy-five is a big nice number. Number six, loop 18. [BLANK_AUDIO] [BLANK_AUDIO] [BLANK_AUDIO] [BLANK_AUDIO] [BLANK_AUDIO] [BLANK_AUDIO] [BLANK_AUDIO]