Running Is a Kind of Dreaming

by J. M. Thompson

  Dedication

  For Shawn

  Epigraph

  See that all things are full of light. See the Earth, settled in the midst of the All, the great nurse who nourishes all terrestrial creatures. All is full of soul, and all beings are in movement.

  —Corpus Hermeticum XI: The Mind to Hermes1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  I: The Sun

  Why

  The Things I Carry

  II: Mercury

  Dreaming

  Hear the Clock Tick-Tock

  The Time It’s Always Been

  Ball, Book, Flag

  The One and the Many

  III: Venus

  Heat

  English Male, Disheveled

  Gravity

  The Dark Age

  Love

  IV: Earth

  The Mourner

  The Island of the Cyclops

  Hope Is a Hymn

  V: Mars

  Home, Safe, Warm

  The Hands of Thetis

  VI: Jupiter

  Remembering Everything and Nothing

  The Ground Does the Thinking

  VII: Saturn

  The Field

  Running from Birth and Death

  The Lost Men

  VIII: Uranus

  The Horizon

  Lines

  IX: Neptune

  Namu Kie Butsu

  Home Again

  X: Charon

  Desolation Wilderness

  The Enchanted Land

  XI: Dysnomia

  The Tower

  XII: The Oort Cloud

  Stay Awhile

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Resources

  Notes

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  I

  The Sun

  Why

  The trail leads into the quiet of the trees, the ancient ones, the womb of dirt and unseen birds, where no one knows my name: Welcome, injured pilgrim. Sugar pine, nuthatch, sierra juniper, the huff-puff of respiration, all the sad, mad, raging voices from the bad old days—everything transforms into the step before me and the instant I am in. Perhaps I have always been here, in this zone between the inner world and the outer one, where Earth in motion merges with mind and feeling and with all the times in memory and all the voids forgotten yet somehow sensed and known. The rhythm of my body, held within the blanket of the tree canopy, matches the music of the sparrow and the babble of the creek as all the mourning and madness turns into sweat and sunlight, and Earth moves under me and around me and within me. Hail, hawk and hummingbird. The leaves are whispering, Hush now, little one, hush. Hello, lupine, chickadee, thistle, blackbird, marten, nuthatch. Good morning, buttercup, yarrow, squirrel, robin, woodpecker. In the beginning there were no words, only sound and light and feeling, a rhythm of nothingness and being, and I feel it once more now in the sound of the wind, and in the pulse of sensing, again and again, the solid sentient core of an upright animal, accustomed to forest time. There is a path ahead of me. Nothing is ever altogether lost. There is a ground beneath us that never goes away.

  IT’S AROUND ELEVEN IN the morning on a sunny Friday in the fall. I’ve climbed above the tree line and reached the high country. I’m about 5 miles into the Tahoe 200, a 205-mile ultramarathon on the rugged mountain trail around the largest alpine lake in North America. I’ve been running ultramarathons for a decade, but never this far. Right now I’m running on a ridge about two thousand feet above the lake. The lake looks back at me with its sparkling turquoise eye. The land below stretches to a faraway horizon as my body floats down the trail. I can feel the sunshine warm my face and hear the trees dancing in the wind with a sound like the cosmos breathing life into the world. The land and sky are shining as if someone has turned up all the colors of the world. The flowers look as bright and cheery as a bunch of little munchkins. Seeing Earth at this scale does something to the eye. Your focus shifts from the world up close to a bigger picture. Climb a little closer to our friendly neighborhood star and the mind shifts out of clock time into a timeless way of being.

  I drove to Lake Tahoe with my wife, Miriam, and our son and daughter from our home in San Francisco around lunchtime yesterday. I love coming back to Tahoe. When I see the lake, I remember all the other times I’ve been here. The memories spiral on top of one another. Everywhere I look, now has then folded up inside it. Yesterday afternoon, gazing across the vast, still, blue surface of the water at the snow-flecked mountains on the other side, for a second I glimpsed the lake in my mind’s eye, the way I saw it for the first time, eighteen years before. As I kept staring at the water, my mind spun back and forth between two bodies of water, one in the present and the other in memory, like two circles overlapping and then merging into one. “You’re running around all of that?” my daughter said, looking at the lake and the distant mountains surrounding it. “Yes,” I said. “Why?” she said.

  Two hundred miles: it is the kind of distance you see on a freeway sign. Am I out of my mind? Not anymore. Ultrarunning can sound like insanity to people who don’t do it. But ultrarunners understand its mad logic: running for days and nights nonstop brings you right up to the edge of breakdown but also to the opportunity for breakthrough. It’s chaos, in a container: a kind of organized insanity that can help keep you sane. Still, I understand the optics of lunacy. I once heard a story about a group of runners in a café in a little mountain town. The runners were chatting about their plan to get up at four in the morning and run for thirty-six hours straight in the hills. A person at another table in the café overheard their conversation. “That sounds completely unnecessary,” he said. And so it is. On the surface, an ultramarathon is neither necessary nor reasonable. And yet men and women in the tens of thousands appear compelled to do such things, myself among them. It follows from the unreasonable nature of an ultramarathon that the ultrarunner’s motive must reside in a domain outside reason: the unconscious mind, the shadows of times forgotten, yet still felt.

  Life is movement. Even a leaf can turn toward the sun. As a child, I loved to read about the stars and planets. I knew they ran around in loops, driven by fundamental forces of physical being, like clock hands turning on a clockface. Matter isn’t free. Planets don’t get to choose their orbits. But people do. I do.

  Runners: You can see us on the street. You can see us on trails and tracks and sidewalks. Bodies surge forth, arms like pistons, feet kicking the ground, every push-off propelling our hard, sinuous limbs in hyperkinetic leaps that accelerate with every revolution—the movement of liberation.

  But there is another kind of runner. See the frightened ones, crouched in the alleys and doorways, faces wan and haggard. Perhaps you wonder where they came from, or what rage or madness brought them there, these wounded souls. Exiles. Runaways.

  Runners and runaways: life moves between these two poles of possibility, between what you choose and what gets chosen for you. One exists in conscious motion; the other follows an unbidden path on an orbit set forth by history or the structure of reality. The runner picks a point a hundred meters or a hundred miles away and decides to move toward it. The runaway feels the impulse in the background, the momentum upon which physics or history threw you into being, from the spiral loops of the galaxies and the orbit of Earth to the life cycles of cells in your body and the legacies of love and hate that loop across generations and centuries. To be human is to be a composite of both kinds of revolving cycles: conscious yet unconscious, a spirit at once free and determined, a rhythm between earth
and air, like feet leaving the ground and then landing again. I understand both kinds of running because I have lived them. I am a runaway who became a runner, a trauma survivor who became a trauma psychologist and an ultramarathoner.

  Two hundred miles: what an ordeal of such dimensions would do to my body and mind, I wasn’t certain. But I had an inkling. I’d been running vast distances for years. I had run in the blazing heat of the desert and across the Grand Canyon. I had run a hundred seventy miles of the John Muir Trail in five days and nonstop for thirty hours in the Wasatch Mountains of Utah until my feet turned into a bloody mess. Run far enough and things fall apart. The center cannot hold. Total anarchy is loosed upon the mind. In that state of breakdown, it’s sometimes hard for me to remember why running all day and night through the mountains ever seemed like a good idea. When I get done with this madness, I think, I’m never coming back. This is the last time.

  But it never is. Twenty hours into a run, alone in the dark, marching uphill through the forest, the finish line might as well be a million miles away. In that state of dejection, I can even find it hard to believe that the sun will ever rise again. The darkness feels all too familiar. Now and then I see others on the trail, their weary faces glowing in my headlamp with the spectral pallor of revenants, tired souls wandering in exile from some forgotten disaster, yearning to be led to rest.

  Then something happens in the sunrise. The dark horizon turns into azure. I feel the warmth on my face. All the color comes back in the world and I sense something inside me transform as the path ahead becomes luminous and the leaves wave at me in the golden dawn like a million little hands: Welcome back to life. The feeling that soaks through me when the darkness transforms into claps, whoops, and the clang of a faraway bell is something like resurrection.

  In the dawn, remembering the night’s dejection, I have an intuition that the darkness must have meant something: the cold and silence and endless trudging through the forest was all too familiar. But like the fragments of a half-remembered dream that fades upon waking, the meaning gets left behind in the dark. And that is the answer to my daughter’s question. I need to go back into the darkness. I need to hear the message in the darkness. I need to remember.

  MIDWAY ALONG THE WESTERN shore of Lake Tahoe is a ski resort called Homewood. The circular course of the Tahoe 200 starts and finishes there. I arrived at Homewood around noon yesterday. Inside the ski lodge an intrepid young woman in a trucker hat—Candice, the race director—sat behind a table at the front of the room with satellite images of the course on the projection screen above her. She and her young male colleague beside her then narrated every twist and turn and 40,000 cumulative feet of climbing over the 200 miles of our circumambulation around the lake. To be precise, the course is 205.5 miles. At mile 200, those final 5 miles will seem like another 200. I listened to the race director and her colleague as I stood in line for my medical evaluation. I remembered how when I started running trails a decade earlier I struggled to run for a whole hour, and this run took an hour to describe. I tried to remember all the details. I might as well have tried to remember a thousand digits of pi. I let my mind drift.

  I got chatting with a runner from Connecticut called Chris and a runner from Belize called Don. “There are a whole bunch of folks here from Connecticut,” said Chris. The coincidence struck all three of us as meaningful. The meaning itself eluded articulation. Don told me about the new trekking poles he was using. He had the poles in his hands. I admired their sturdiness. I knew almost nothing about these men, Chris from Connecticut and Don from Belize. Yet already they felt like brothers.

  I reached the front of the line. I sat down. A young woman with long brown hair and kind eyes introduced herself as Angel. She was a nurse practitioner, she said. She was the medical director. I understood that as a practitioner of the healing arts she had taken a vow to protect the living. To do no harm. And yet she understood that we ultrarunners are compelled to hurt ourselves as a hobby. She would indulge this strange passion, she said. But she wouldn’t let us die.

  Angel took my wrist in her hand to measure my resting heart rate. It was normal. She wrapped a cuff around my arm to evaluate my blood pressure. It too was normal. What a comfort it can be to learn that one is normal. “Have we met before?” she said. “Perhaps in Moab?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. We didn’t know each other. And yet I felt that we might have. Not that we had actually ever met or knew each other. But for a second, a dreamlike kind of space had formed between us, in which I could sense an aura of mutual recognition.

  “Ever run a two-hundred-miler before?” she said.

  “No,” I said. “Just a one-hundred. Four times.”

  “A two-hundred’s a different animal,” she said. “You have to sleep. Even just an hour every night. That’ll make the difference between thinking straight and totally losing it. If you start to hallucinate, lie down and take a nap. It doesn’t matter where you are. Even way out in the middle of the wilderness.”

  “Will do,” I said, counting myself a lucky fellow indeed to receive a lesson about sleeping and insanity from this Angel.

  At about 8:45 the next morning I saw the pack assembling at the start line. The race director called us to attention. “Repeat after me,” she said. “If I get lost or die . . .” If I get lost or die, everyone repeated. “. . . it’s my own damn fault.” It’s my own damn fault. I closed my eyes. I held my hands in prayer. I remembered what my Zen teacher, Shosan, had told me. I remembered my intention for the run. Namu kie Butsu, I said to myself: I take refuge in the Buddha. In the possibility of awakening. The possibility of liberation. Then I heard a countdown from ten to zero and started running. One step forward. Half a million to go.

  The trail led from the lakeshore up a grassy bank and into the trees. I settled right away into the kind of easy rhythm that, given enough snacks and a catnap here and there, I could maintain forever. The leaders charged uphill and vanished into the forest. One was a former United States Marine, another perhaps the toughest female trail runner in the world. She once ran 238 miles in the desert and won the race outright, beating the fastest male by ten hours. Another time she ran until she went blind. It occurred to me that her journey as a runner was in that sense the mirror image of my own. I started running afflicted by a kind of blindness. I ran until I could see.

  I made no attempt to chase either one of the leaders: Godspeed, warriors. I counted myself fortunate to be living and strong enough to relish the long hours of joy and pain on the trail. I didn’t need to be the fastest. I didn’t care about my time. I cared about time, about memory, about the way long hours on a trail seem to open hidden doors to a dimension of consciousness where present and past become one.

  As the pack of runners spread out, I observed the spaces that likewise emerged in between my thoughts. At first my thoughts jostled together for position, jittery with the nervous excitement of a huge experience imagined for months as an approaching horizon, like a faraway mountain of the mind. But then they settled into a calmer rhythm, opening gaps between them. The spaces filled with sensation and emotion, with the sunlit woods and the smell of fir trees and sunscreen and the feeling of strength in my legs, with the joy of being alive and moving on the ground. I had nothing to worry about. Nothing to think about. Nothing I needed to do except grip my left pole and plant it in the dirt a couple of feet ahead, drive my right foot into the trail behind me, push off and swing the right pole forward, plant the pole as my left foot thrust me forward, feel my breath moving in and out and in again without effort or strain as my thoughts . . . spread . . . out. The trail wound back and forth, rising three thousand vertical feet through the forest. The gaps between runners grew longer. I soon had the trail to myself, relishing a spacious feeling in my mind that stretched as wide as the mountains.

  And that’s how it’s been for the past hour. Once in a while I’ll pass another runner, or vice versa, and say hello, but the rest of the time I’m alone in
the forest and the free-flowing state of mind that I start to get into after a decent stretch of time on a trail.

  I pass a guy standing beside the trail, looking at the view. In almost any other sort of running event, you don’t see that many people stopping for more than a minute to snap a photo. That’s the kind of running in which most people care about getting somewhere. This is different. I could say we’ve got all day, but that’s not quite true. We’ve got a hundred hours. We may as well stop once in a while to smell the wildflowers and look at the view.

  Especially when we get a view like this one. It goes on forever, a vast green wilderness stretching about a hundred miles to a line of granite peaks on a remote horizon.

  “Is it all this amazing?” says my fellow runner. It’s his first time in California, he tells me. First time in the Sierra Nevada. First time in the mountains. Where he comes from, in the flatlands, the view is fields in every direction. Corn as high as an elephant’s eye. Not even a bump in sight from his front door to the horizon.

  “Yes,” I say. “It really is all this amazing.” Every last tree and stream and cloud and stone and sunrise. The kind of magnificence so immense you could stare at it for a hundred lifetimes. Some kinds of joy are so big, everyone on the planet could have their fill and there’d be infinity left over.

  “You’re in for the most incredible views of your life,” I say—which is just as well, I almost think to add, knowing how these crazy mountain adventures tend to go: before long, bliss turns into blisters and awe turns into Ow, but you suffer less when you know there’s always beauty somewhere around the next corner.

  The Things I Carry

  Run two hundred miles and you can’t think about the whole distance. Run twenty miles and you’re still better off focusing on the mile you’re in. But if you run a lot, twenty becomes the sort of feasible distance you can fit in your head. Get out the door early enough and you’ll be done before breakfast. For me, the same feeling of feasibility goes for fifty or even sixty miles, because I’m usually done by dinnertime. Beyond that dinnertime threshold, though, the enormity of the path ahead can start to boggle the mind. You think of regular people going to bed, while you’re still running. Sleeping, while you’re halfway up some hill, still running. Waking tomorrow morning. And so on. And that’s one hundred miles, which I’ve run four times; it takes me about thirty hours. If you think of running distances like arithmetic, you’d assume two hundred miles is twice as hard as a hundred. But the increase in effort as you ramp up the distances isn’t arithmetical but exponential. The actual energetic differences are hard to quantify, but in my experience a marathon isn’t twice as hard as a half-marathon; it’s five times harder. A hundred-mile run isn’t four regular marathons end to end; it’s the labors of Hercules—a whole lifetime in a day and a half. So heaven only knows what’s in store over two hundred miles.