Ultramarathon Man

by Dean Karnazes

Chapter 14

  The Relay

  Start slow, then taper off.

  —Walt Stack, Bay Area running legend

  Marin County, California Saturday morning, September 30, 2000

  Seven hours had transpired since I’d departed the Mother Ship back in Napa. My family was asleep, camping for the night, as I continued running onward. It had taken some searching, and creativity, to find something beyond Badwater, but eventually I’d uncovered the ultimate challenge.

  As the name would imply, The Relay is just that: a relay race. In my quest for the next adventure, I’d overlooked that central point. This 199-mile footrace starts in Calistoga and ends at the beach in Santa Cruz, the course being divided into thirty-six discrete legs of about 5.5 miles apiece. All members of each twelve-person team are responsible for running three of these legs at various points along the way, their crew van transporting the others up the road to the next exchange, where the baton will be passed along to a different runner.

  For them, in other words, it was a relay race.

  I’d opted to run a slightly different race, attempting to tackle the entire 199 miles by myself. A team of one.

  When I first contacted the founder of The Relay, Jeff Shapiro, M.D., he probably thought I was nuts when I explained that since I couldn’t find eleven friends to run with, I’d do the race solo. When I persisted, even as he offered to try and help locate eleven other runners, he clearly thought it was a prank call. “Suuure,” he said.

  I took his response as legitimate, sent in my entry form, and here I was, running The Relay, solo. I was even leading the pack, figuratively. Race starts were staggered based on the projected speed of your team, so that all teams would finish roughly at the same time. Since I was certainly the slowest “team” of all, my start time was set the day before the others. I had left Calistoga at 5:00 P.M. on Friday after work; the teams didn’t start until Saturday morning.

  In my pocket was the picture of a little girl, Elizabeth Wood. I pulled out the picture and looked at it again. The edges were getting tattered, but the image still stirred me. It was obviously taken at the hospital, but she looked filled with life, despite being in critical condition. She did not look ready to leave this world, and I was committed to doing whatever I could to help keep her here. I tucked the picture back in my pocket for safe-keeping and continued running along.

  After having the existential pizza-delivery dude (he’d asked me “Why?” I do what I do) deliver that roadside supreme pizza, cheesecake, and coffee, my spirits and energy level soared, and I ran along at a decent clip. Having passed through the town of Petaluma, the road meandered west into the rural ranchlands of Marin County, and I kept running, well off the beaten path.

  The Relay course didn’t follow the most direct route to Santa Cruz but opted instead for a safer back-country alternative to the heavily trafficked main thoroughfares. Besides being safer, it was also more picturesque. The light of the full moon covered the hills in a silvery varnish. It was 3:00 A.M., and although I was equipped with an LED headlamp and a halogen hand-held flashlight, that brilliant moon rendered them unnecessary.

  Dr. Shapiro planned The Relay for a full moon; it was safer. Come sunrise, some two hundred teams of twelve runners would start in Calistoga and follow me along this 199-mile route to Santa Cruz. They would run all night and reach the beach in Santa Cruz on Sunday afternoon. I would run all night two nights in a row and reach the beach in Santa Cruz around the same time . . . if everything went as planned, which was pretty wishful thinking.

  The buzzing of my cell phone cracked the silence.

  “Karno!” my friend Scotty screamed. Other voices yelled in the background. “Karno, where are you?”

  “I’m just past Petaluma. Where are you?”

  “Doing the city, buddy, as you should be on Friday night.” I heard a voice call out, “’Nother round!”

  “You still going to meet me in the morning?” I asked.

  “Yep,” Scotty answered. “Got to get in my exercise.”

  “Don’t forget, it’s a buck a mile.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just keep that cell phone on, I’ll track you down.”

  Behind him voices cheered, “Go, Karno! Run!”

  A call like that could carry me five or six miles before the struggling to keep running resumed. I’d been running now for ten hours straight since departing Calistoga, and the going was getting tougher. People think I’m crazy to put myself through such torture, though I would argue otherwise. Somewhere along the line we seem to have confused comfort with happiness. I’ve now come to believe that quite the opposite is the case. Dostoyevsky had it right: “Suffering is the sole origin of consciousness.” Never are my senses more engaged than when the pain sets in. There is magic in misery. Just ask any runner.

  Time passed and I kept running. Two hours elapsed, and there was scarcely another sign of civilization. Sometimes I’d hear a cow moo. Occasionally I’d be surprised by the skittish eyes of a deer or raccoon crossing the road. Otherwise the world, at three in the morning, was still.

  Running straight through the night, I’d watched the bluish moon rise, grow big and bright and white in the sky, crest midnight, and then begin its yellowy descent to the distant horizon. All the while, I ran, stopping only to retie my shoelace.

  Dawn emerged strikingly clear, not a cloud in the morning sky. I carried a lightweight jacket with me, but there was no need for it. I’d run through the night in a short-sleeved shirt, which was all I needed to stay warm—almost too warm. As the sun rose, the air around me quickly began heating. It was going to be a very warm weekend, with temperatures likely reaching the 90s. Bummer.

  Heat is the runner’s enemy. Running generates tremendous internal heat and forces the body to work doubly hard to keep the muscles cool. When outside temperatures rise, the stress on the body is multiplied.

  For me, heat is particularly menacing. Living in San Francisco limits one’s exposure to warmth—hypothermia is a more likely concern. Complicating matters, I’m bulky. Muscles produce heat, and since I’m into a variety of outdoor sports, my upper body is pretty well developed. Carrying that extra bulk is not a good quality for a runner; a wiry body produces less heat. Yet some things in life are worth the sacrifice. I wasn’t about to stop doing the others sports I loved just to drop some upper-body mass.

  I combed my fingers through my short, dark hair, which was a different sort of sacrifice. Given my druthers, I’d wear it longer—I’d let the stubble on my face flourish for a few extra days before shaving, too—but my lifestyle had already deviated sufficiently from convention. I couldn’t control my impulse to migrate like a wildebeest periodically, but I could keep my hair neatly trimmed and my face cleanly shaven. Probably best to maintain at least the overt signs of corporate conformity. After all, I did have a wife and family to support.

  The first round of teams had left Calistoga by now. Every half-hour throughout the day, a new round of teams would leave the starting gate and begin the trek south. It was difficult to conceive that these same desolate back-country roads I had just traversed would soon be crowded with hundreds of runners and crew vehicles, all 199 miles to Santa Cruz. The Relay bills itself as “California’s Longest Party.” If your idea of fun is running all weekend and sharing a crew vehicle with eleven stinky teammates, it probably doesn’t get any better.

  I was running through the Nicasio Valley, leg 14 of the course, when my cell phone rang again.

  “Hello, son,” my dad said. “How are you?”

  “Just fine. It’s a magnificent morning. How did you guys sleep last night?” I asked.

  “Really well,” he said. “We found this great little campsite up in the hills above Napa.”

  Pulling an all-nighter had become routine for me. The first time I’d attempted to run all night, it was a battle to stay awake and coherent. Subsequent outings proved progressively less traumatizing. Now I was conditioned to the point where running straight through the night wa
s standard operating procedure, and an experience I quite enjoyed, actually.

  “How are the kids?”

  “They’re cooking breakfast, having a ball. Where you at?”

  “I’m heading for San Geronimo. Want to meet in Sausalito for lunch?”

  “Sounds good,” he said. “We’ll call you soon.”

  San Geronimo is some 20 miles beyond Petaluma. The sun crested the horizon as I made my way into town. One of the beautiful things about approaching San Geronimo from the west is that the first commercial enclave you come to has a 7-Eleven. It was time to refuel.

  With a grande microwavable burrito, a bag of Doritos, two cinnamon buns, a massive cherry Slurpee, and four packets of salt in hand, I exited with a wide smile. Sitting on the curb in front of the store was the first time in fifteen hours I’d been off my feet.

  The first order of business was sugar. My normal training diet was a strict regime of slow-carbohydrate foods, high-quality protein, and good fats. Since becoming a devoted endurance athlete, I’d followed what could best be described as a slow-carb diet, consuming only carbohydrates that were metabolized slowly and provided lasting energy. All simple sugars had been completely eliminated; a single jelly bean could send me into a glycemic tizzy.

  But on these extended outings, my body craved sugar. My system was like a steam locomotive: the more fuel that was dumped into the boiler room, the greater the output. I found it difficult to consume enough calories by eating healthy foods alone. My calculations were that I burned 600 calories an hour. If I were to run for forty-eight hours, I needed to consume a whopping 28,800 calories to match my expenditure. Healthy foods are typically less calorie-dense, because the natural fiber is left in place and not stripped away. Given this additional bulk, it would be impossible to stuff 28,800 calories of healthy food into my gut. The sheer mass would bloat a hippopotamus! So I resort to eating highly refined, richly sweetened, calorie-dense foods. Pastries, doughnuts, candy; the more calorie-packed, the better. (A food log is posted in the Appendix on page 293. Needless to say, don’t eat like this unless you’re running for days on end.)

  You also deplete your system of sodium when running long distances, especially when it’s hot. So, along with the sugar for energy, it’s crucial to replace the lost sodium. I dumped four packets of salt into the Slurpee and stirred it all up. A sweet ’n’ salty elixir.

  Sitting on the curbside enjoying this saline treat, I looked again at the picture of Elizabeth Wood, or “Libby,” as I had taken to calling her. The idea of running to help save a life came to me from Dr. Shapiro. He spent many years on the front line of organ donation and transplantation, and The Relay was a benefit for this cause. The head nurse at Stanford Children’s Hospital had told me about a little girl with a failing liver in desperate need of support. I made several attempts to visit Libby in the hospital, but she remained in intensive care and off-limits to visitors. So I was living off that picture and the deep emotional connection of being the brother of another beautiful young girl, who was now lost forever.

  I had run for charity many times over the years, raising money for the Leukemia Society, the Special Olympics, and various environmental causes. But this was different. There was a face with this cause, a child dying in a hospital bed. It seemed much more intimate. I was no longer simply collecting pledge checks, putting them in an envelope, and mailing them off to a corporate donation center. I couldn’t hold Libby at arm’s length.

  I put the picture back in my pocket, slung the bag of food over my shoulder, and started trucking down the road once again. It was Saturday morning, so the traffic was light. Some people actually waved as they drove by. I guess it’s not every day you see a guy running down the street, chowing down a huge burrito at seven in the morning.

  At just after 11:00 A.M., I reached Sausalito and was greeted by my family. They had attempted to hide the Mother Ship (our VW campervan) and ambush me from the bushes, but with two energetic kids to synchronize, their plan was far from flawlessly executed. Still, I acted startled as the children jumped out.

  “Hey, you monsters!”

  “Hi, Daddy, we miss you. Where did you go last night?”

  “Just out for a little stroll,” I said. “Come on, let’s go running.” And off we went down the footpath.

  Alexandria had long, flowing brown hair, and a long, graceful stride. She made the motion of running look elegant. Nicholas took short, choppy, and powerful steps, more like a charging bull.

  As we ran, the Mother Ship pulled up alongside and my wife stuck her head out. “Can I take your order?”

  “Why, yes. I’ll have a peanut butter and honey sandwich with a side of trail mix.” I looked over at the kids. “Can I treat you guys to lunch?”

  “Water would be good, Daddy. It’s hot,” Nicholas panted. The sun was now directly overhead.

  “Coming right up,” Julie replied.

  We continued jogging along as our meal was prepared and delivered out the window. Casual as I probably looked, running along with my peanut butter sandwich and kids alongside me, I was hurting. Ninety-five miles of running comes at a price, even if you’re in great shape. I did my best to put up a spirited front, but underneath it was an extreme concentration and focus. My mind was continuously scanning the systems, looking for potential points of vulnerability, searching for subtle signs of physiological weakness that could grow into major issues farther down the road. I was holding my heart rate within a consistent range to avert the development of lactic acid—I’d trained using a heart-rate monitor for so long that I could now pinpoint my heart rate intuitively. Meanwhile, my stride was forever being adjusted to distribute the load evenly to all muscle groups. And I was keeping close tabs on my electrolytes by frequently replacing lost sodium and potassium. One hundred and ninety-nine miles was the farthest I’d ever attempted to push my system. Attention to detail was critical. My body needed to operate perfectly to make it, so I monitored the controls tightly.

  The kids jumped back in the Mother Ship as I began an ascent out of Sausalito. It was just a 225-foot climb, nothing major. That incline, however, combined with the heat, zapped me. My energy waned, and I found it difficult to keep the feet churning forward. I was hitting the wall.

  Time is wildly distorted in these dark moments, and my entire world shrank to the space three feet in front of me. Nothing beyond that mattered. All thoughts were directed toward the seemingly impossible task of covering the next several steps. I’ve learned not to check my watch at such moments. Seconds turn to hours. You just have to put one foot in front of the other and keep pushing yourself onward. Either things will get better . . . or you’ll black out on the pavement.

  And this time, fortunately, things eventually did improve. The funk dissipated, the mood lifted. I’d broken through the wall.

  Pulling out of the downward spiral, I found myself approaching the Golden Gate Bridge. There was a delightfully cool breeze blowing across the expanse and the view was striking, the San Francisco skyline off to one side and the shimmering aquamarine Pacific on the other. My pace sharpened, and my arms began pumping more steadily. The pain was gone. At least for now.

  Chapter 15

  Crossing Over

  When you’re going through hell, keep going.

  —Winston Churchill

  San Francisco Saturday afternoon, September 30, 2000

  Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge marked the halfway point in the race. It had taken me nineteen hours and forty-four minutes to run here from Calistoga. Another 100 miles lay ahead, but I’d just take it one step at a time.

  A small brigade of friends and co-workers were waiting to greet me at the other end of the bridge. They carried flowers and handmade signs that said things like RUN, FORREST, RUN!

  That they’d taken time out of their day to greet some maniac on the road to self-annihilation really touched me. There were embraces and pecks on the cheek, even though I must have smelled like a moose after having run all night withou
t a shower.

  In the crowd were two co-workers, Valerie and Neil, who’d volunteered to run this next leg of the race with me.

  “You guys good to go?” I asked as I trotted by.

  “Yep, let’s get after it,” Neil replied. The three of us started off, to cheers, hoots, and clapping from the small crowd.

  “This is amazing,” Valerie commented as she ran beside me. “You look so fresh.”

  “Well, I’m only halfway there. I’m sure things will deteriorate from this point on.”

  “Have you talked with Libby’s parents?” Neil asked.

  “I’m going to run by the hospital tonight and visit them when I get to Stanford.”

  A local TV station was taping a special segment on the story of me running for Libby, and a reporter had visited our office earlier in the week. Neil had watched the interview. Stanford Children’s Hospital was along The Relay route, and the plan was for me to visit Libby while running by, presuming she was well enough to accept visitors.

  We ambled along together steadily. My fund-raising tactics were straightforward. Besides soliciting straight-up contributions, I’d invited volunteers to run any portion of the 199 miles with me, at a buck per mile. Cable has pay-per-view; Karno devised pay-per-torture. Valerie and Neil would only run 8 miles with me, but they contributed a lot more than eight dollars (they made me promise that if they contributed more, they wouldn’t have to run the additional miles).

  My pal Scotty, who’d called from the bar the night before, chipped in a few extra dollars as well. He linked up with the three of us as we reached the San Francisco waterfront at Ocean Beach.

  “I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it,” I told him.

  “You kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he replied.

  “How’s the hangover treating ya?”

  “Hangover? That won’t kick in for a few hours. I barely finished my last cocktail.”