Running on Empty

by Marshall Ulrich

  On day thirty-two, after running with some local schoolkids and their teachers through Riverton, I took my post-marathon nap, visions of Mayberry-style towns dancing in my head. Everywhere we went these days, I expected to see Sherriff Andy, Aunt Bee, Opie, or Deputy Barney Fife . . . We passed barbershops with candy cane poles out front, ran down quaint streets lined with tidy sidewalks and ribbons of flowerbeds, noted the churches with round and square steeples—painted and precisely shingled, occasionally topped with rusted, corrugated tin roofs—admired the squared-off storefronts and brick buildings with their mortar perfectly pointed and maintained. It was Main Street, U.S.A., a throwback to the days some people call innocent. Certainly looked wholesome to me.

  Shortly after I woke up and got back on my way, I saw the RV up ahead, which was odd so soon after I’d taken a break. When I got closer, I could see Kate there—also strange because she usually had a lot better things to do than hang out at the Starship. As I approached, she informed me that they’d determined it was time to send Roger home.

  Resigned, I told her that I wanted to tell Roger myself. I felt it would be wrong, somehow, to have anyone else break the news.

  Heather and I had discussed this before, seen it coming, as production had been pushing to get rid of Roger since Sterling, Colorado. They had their reasons, some budgetary, some procedural—some legit, some complete bullshit—and we’d seen the writing on the wall. The most ludicrous reason to let him go: “All Roger does is drive the RV.” Apparently, no one had noticed that he also prepared the daily planner and did most of the jobs no one else wanted: laundry, cooking, cleaning, and shopping. Although I’d insisted Heather negotiate to keep Roger when Kathleen was sent home, we’d known it was only a matter of time. Roger knew, too, and had told Heather to stop fighting for him; he could see it was a losing battle and it was eating her up. Still, we’d dreaded the possibility of losing our beloved neighbor, Heather’s main support system, and an important part of my crew.

  When I stepped into the RV and saw Roger there, I couldn’t keep it together. I wept as I told him what was happening, already mourning the loss and regretting that this was where our time on the road together would end. When my legs gave out, Roger lifted me up and held me like he would a child, trying to soothe me. Here I was, telling him he was let go, and in turn he was comforting me, which shows what kind of man he is. After ten or fifteen minutes, once I’d finally regained my composure, Roger gathered up his things, taking no time at all, as he hadn’t brought much with him, and he was gone.

  Good-bye, my friend. Now what the hell are we supposed to do?

  My feet dropped heavily onto the pavement outside the RV, and I pounded down the road, sobbing, my sadness masked by the rain. I wondered what was happening and could feel that I was being shielded from what was going on behind the scenes, and I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to know what that was. Numb at first, I went faster and faster as my grief turned to anger and indignation. Had this really just happened? How could they not know how absurd and difficult this is, what I’m doing, and how important Roger is to Heather and me? How could they not understand that simple comforts like having one of my best friends here make this bearable? Am I just a running machine without emotional needs? No!

  It was painful, but a moment of clarity and resolve. I am not just a running machine. My relationships sustain me. Thank God I knew my wife was waiting for me that night in the RV. When you’re desperate, a badger is a good thing to be. I’d just have to dig deeper, and go to the place I loved: Heather, home.

  Although Roger’s departure was a psychological blow, I was improving physically. The next day, I dipped down somewhere between eight- and ten-minute miles. My foot was still a mess, but it was the furthest thing from my mind; the road surface was good, and although my wife was still not crewing, I knew she was close by. They’d given me some cockamamie story about how tired she was—and I knew she was tired, but I also knew she wanted to be on duty. So she’d rest that day, but I was determined to talk Chuck into putting her back on the schedule soon, and I felt confident that he’d heed my wishes.

  Things were definitely looking up. Just as I finished my first marathon of day thirty-five, I spotted a license plate on the side of the road near the RV. It wasn’t anything special, but I thought I’d go take a look. What the . . . ? As I turned it over, I discovered it was a plate from Marshall County, Iowa, someplace far from where we were parked. It was out there on the road, nowhere near home, just like I was. A good omen! Smiling, I carried the beat-up, lucky plate back to the RV and put it just inside the door so it would be the first thing I’d see whenever I came inside. No substitute for Roger’s smile, but it would do. And although I’m not particularly superstitious, I enjoy celebrating coincidences and anything auspicious. Growing up, we’d made a big fuss whenever a cow would drop twin calves—not completely unheard-of, but rare just the same. It was like that, finding the license plate. You have to pick up good luck where you can find it.

  Later that same day, I reached the two thousandth mile, and we celebrated with cigars and cake. Charlie joined us and seemed in good spirits. He was now on a mission, going out every so often to make speeches in local schools, talking with kids, telling them his story of running America, and motivating them to pursue their own dreams.

  That night, as I was out in the rain again, I realized that the front of my right shin was developing tendonitis, the very injury that had put Charlie out of the race and that I knew all too well from the Badwater Quad. Crap! Was I going to have to disown my whole leg? I slowed my pace, running on the shoulder, distracted. In an instant, I caught the toe of my foot in a crack in the concrete and in an instant—splat!—down I went, flat on my face. All was silent around me. With no traffic and the crew van far off in the distance, I could hear myself breathing against the pavement.

  Suddenly relaxed, I thought to myself, It’s comfortable here. I don’t have to get up, ever, if I don’t want to. It’s just me and the road.

  So I lay there, and it felt good not having to get up ever again.

  After a couple of minutes, I rose slowly, walked back a few steps, and looked at what had toppled me. It was pathetic, the state of mind I’d been reduced to because of such a tiny imperfection, less than half of an inch difference in elevation. I turned and started putting one foot in front of the other again, thinking that I had to be careful of little things like that, small imperfections in the road, or in myself.

  9.

  The 400-Mile Workweek

  Days 35—38

  “I almost got hit!”

  Heather listened as I recounted the story, breathless and at breakneck speed. It was obvious I was scaring her, but I couldn’t help myself—the adrenaline and my complete amazement that I was still alive drove me to tell her the details, not just once, but at least four times, after each mile as I ran up to the van again during the next few crew stops.

  It was close to eleven p.m. the same day I’d belly-flopped on the pavement, but now I was running on the right side of the road, not facing traffic as would be safe (kids, don’t try this at home), but instead taking a chance with my back to the cars because I was nursing that sore right foot and shin, and the camber of the road on the right was more forgiving. We’d doused my leg with some holy water from Lourdes that a friend had given us. Again, I’m not one to buy into ritual and things of that nature, but I’ll take help wherever I can get it. Maybe it did some good, as I was moving down the road at a reasonable clip, wearing new Air-Drive headphones that allowed me to listen to music but also hear what was going on around me. It was reassuring when I heard a car begin to slow down, some fifty feet or so behind me—the headset was working perfectly—and I figured that the driver must have seen my reflective vest and flashing red lights. Even in the darkness, I felt safe.

  The car was getting closer and starting to pass me on the my left when, suddenly, gravel was kicking up on my right as I heard the roar of a second engine, and out of
the corner of my eye, I saw a vehicle accelerate—another car had come from behind the first one, and it was now attempting to pass on the shoulder, with me sandwiched between the two.

  There was little time to react, as both cars were traveling at something like fifty miles per hour. Instinctively, I stepped slightly to the left on the white line, and within a split second, both sets of taillights surged ahead, leaving me shocked that I was still standing. How had neither car hit me? Panting, I touched my chest and hips to make sure I was still there, completely shocked at what had just happened; it was as if I had become invisible, invincible, lifted out of harm’s way.

  I muttered something like the Buddhist prayer: At least I didn’t die, so let me be thankful. It came out as a four-letter word, but that’s what I meant, anyway.

  The driver who had passed on the shoulder sped off at a high rate of speed, but the other one stopped and turned around about a quarter of a mile ahead. Shaking uncontrollably, she came to check on me and was relieved to see me still on my feet, walking toward her. A young woman probably in her twenties, her eyes wide with disbelief, she gave me her view of what had just happened: Yes, the other car had zoomed by us both on the right, and she’d felt sure she’d find me lying dead or mortally wounded on the side of the road.

  “You’re really okay?”

  Grateful that she’d come back to see about me, and impressed with her sense of compassion and her courage to do so, I consoled her and complimented her character. As she left, she was still shaking.

  So was I, as I ran up to the crew van to explain what had just happened. I was sure there had been some kind of divine intervention. Maybe it was my father, Elmer, or Heather’s father, Rory, who’d looked out for me. Or perhaps God himself had lifted me out of harm’s way. I couldn’t help thinking about that holy water Heather had put on my shin, and the coincidence that this was the first time I’d worn those headphones. Who knows what had saved my life? Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. Maybe I was just one lucky bastard. For whatever reason, I was spared, and I vowed to stay on the left side of the road from then on. I wasn’t about to go all this way, cover all these miles, put my wife and crew through the wringer the way I had, only to get knocked off by a reckless driver and my own poor judgment.

  The following morning, we started in the fog, running alongside the Mississippi River through Fort Madison, Iowa. I was excited and, despite my personal admonitions after my fall, distracted again. Not only was I watching the slow current of the Great River (translated from the Ojibwe Misi-ziibi) and marveling at how expansive this waterway is, but I knew we’d be crossing it soon. Yes! This was, so far, the most significant milestone for me, because I knew that once I’d made it to the other side of the Fort Madison Toll Bridge, I’d be in Niota, Illinois, setting foot for the first time in the eastern United States. This bridge was not just a fantastic work of engineering—the largest double-deck swing span bridge in the world—but also a potent symbol for me, the meeting of east and west, a balance point and, I hoped, a tipping point. The run thus far had been filled with contradictions, seemingly opposing forces, complementary opposites, the yin and yang of ultrarunning: hot and cold, dry and wet, dark and light, suffering and joy, grandiose plans and humbling circumstances, noble aspirations and petty indignities. Crossing the bridge would mean that I was considerably closer to the end than to the beginning.

  Somebody handed me money to pay for my passage as I stepped onto the upper deck, but when I jogged across the solid steel floor of the bridge, I was too preoccupied to notice the tollbooth about a quarter of the way across. A hundred yards later, when I realized that I’d run right by it, I turned around and headed back. The woman in the booth was waving at me, smiling, trying to tell me it was okay, I could just keep going, but I really wanted to pay the toll. She thought it was funny when I insisted on giving her my dollar, and we had a good laugh about it.

  “We need to do the right thing, though, don’t we?”

  Already giddy, I felt happy to do what I knew so many other Americans had done. This place was steeped in history: Trains had traveled the lower deck’s Santa Fe rail line since 1927, and the river had been a draw for settlement from Minnesota on down to Arkansas, served as an inspiration to blues musicians, and provided a literary metaphor for independence and adventure to the likes of Mark Twain. It felt fantastic, trotting across that enormous bridge, and then once we were across, we followed the river for another seven or eight miles.

  Here again, once the elation of reaching this landmark passed, my mood sagged and I sank into another depression when I considered how far I had yet to go.

  Damn! Now I have another thousand miles to run.

  In training, I try to log about 120 miles a week to be in peak condition. At this stage of our trans-American crossing, I was putting in more than four hundred miles a week. To sustain this kind of effort, it takes the right amount of food and water, reliable gear, a few choice pieces of medical equipment, and key people to make sure all of it is available and ready as needed. It also requires a good deal of moral support and sufficient emotional resources to keep a runner in good mental health.

  Everything hinges on the crew. They make sure that:• The runner always has fluid to drink, in hand. Strangely, I consumed no water during the run across the United States, mainly because I needed all the energy I could get. Instead, I downed Muscle Milk (vanilla and chocolate), Red Bull, Starbucks DoubleShots and Frappucinos, Ensure, root beer floats, juice, soda, and O’Doul’s . . . anything tasty and full of calories.

  • A proper balance of electrolytes is maintained. We used Sustain tablets to help prevent heat fatigue and muscle cramps, with the amount depending on the temperature (more for higher heat). Not typically a sports supplement, Sustain is usually considered a first-aid supply, but I’ve been using it for years and have learned exactly how much I need. (You have to be careful with these, though, as they contain sodium and you don’t want to overdo it.)

  • There’s enough food and sufficient calories to keep running and avoid bonking. Most meals I ate on the go, either ripping open a package of something or sipping a blended smoothie of some kind as I walked. (That’s why I was so excited and grateful on the very rare occasions when I got to sit down with a hot meal and use a plate and utensils.) We had a terrific Vita-Mix blender, provided by the company, that would whip up just about anything into a drink. Most days, I ingested anywhere between eight thousand to ten thousand calories a day, a lot of it from a Muscle Milk/whole milk/ coffee concoction, drinking about six ounces every hour (that’s three hundred calories from the Muscle Milk, plus additional calories from whatever was mixed with it). In addition, grocery costs for my food alone were about $100 a day. What did I eat? A diet appropriate for the task: one higher in fat than would be advisable under normal circumstances, as I needed it to metabolize the rest of the food. Meals that were convenient to cook and portable. Not much in the way of vegetables, I have to admit. (Honestly, I would have had to eat a wheelbarrow of greens to get enough calories from them, and my leg and arm muscles would have been reduced to the size of string beans without the high amounts of protein I consumed.) This meant a big breakfast of eggs, bacon or sausage, toasted banana bread, orange juice, and coffee; a lunch of “real food,” like a grilled ham and cheese sandwich, tacos, or pizza; a dinner of more “real food,” like fried chicken, lasagna, or pork chops; and a fifty-mile snack of popcorn and O’Doul’s, along with some other hot food (soup, macaroni and cheese, some other single-serving frozen meal—anything that could be heated in the microwave). In between, it was one of my high-calorie drinks, along with snacks like granola mix, yogurt, deli salads, or cheese and crackers. I ate very little salty or sweet snacks, like chips or cookies, and almost no candy (except for the one time I bonked somewhere in Iowa).

  • Body temperature is maintained. Early in the run, it was important to offset the heat, which meant the crew occasionally sprayed me with a cooling mist in addition to making sure t
hat I had on lightweight clothes. Then, as it started to cool off in the heartland, we needed different material to keep me warm and dry(ish).

  • Medications and supplements are administered in the proper dosage and on time. This included my prescription medications for hypothyroidism, high cholesterol, and exercise-induced asthma, as well as pain meds as needed. Mostly, Heather kept track of all that, giving me my pills and inhaler morning and evening; doling out the supplements with breakfast (a multivitamin, a probiotic, a squirt of liquid B in my orange juice); and handing me an Ambien at night. The crew also added powdered glucosamine either with my breakfast or whenever I had a smoothie, and I took Endurox R4 twice a day. The pain meds were ramped up the farther we went, though we used over-the-counter ibuprofen exclusively. After the second foot flare-up, the crew would give me a prescription-strength dosage every six hours.