It’s no secret that I love running. And I’m not using the word love in the hyperbolic sense meant to convey that I really, really like it. No, I love running. I don’t know how I’d keep my head above water without it. It grounds me and leads to such wondrous and astounding experiences.
Some of these inspiring experiences are purely external: a sunrise/sunset, a mountain view, a coastline, and the list goes on. I notice beauty when I’m running more than at almost any other time.
Some of these experiences, however, are internal: a new personal record, a profound revelation about life, that runner’s high, and the satisfaction of doing something difficult and crushing it. These experiences are sometimes less obvious, but happen on just about any given run if you’re paying attention.
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I ran one hundred miles last week. That’s roughly forty more miles than I’ve ever run in the span of a seven-day period. Here’s the crazy part though: just over sixty-nine of those miles happened in just three runs occurring from Thursday through Saturday.
Prior to last week, the most mileage I’d done in seven days was about sixty, maybe sixty-five, miles. I’m usually doing somewhere between forty and fifty-five miles on a weekly basis. So why did I make such a crazy mileage jump last week? There are a couple interrelated factors going on.
First, I signed up for a 50K race in October. (For those who aren’t down with distances and running events, 50K’s are basically entry-level ultramarathons.) Because of this, I’ve been strategically upping my mileage in careful increments for the past several weeks, taking calculated steps towards ultra distances. My goal for this past week was the next big step: back-to-back twenty plus mile runs on two consecutive days.
Second, I watched a documentary on Netflix called The Barkley Marathons and am now consumed by a desire to run them. Since the creation of this event in 1977 there have been a grand total of something like fifteen finishers. That’s less than one percent of all participants. It’s a brutal race of five loops totaling one hundred miles to be completed in under sixty hours, which is hard enough before you factor in the obscene changes in elevation and the unforgiving nature of the trail. You’re not even allowed a GPS. You’re given a map and instructions. Maybe I’m a masochist (I’m definitely a masochist), but as soon as I finished the documentary, all I could think about was running that sadistic race.
Third, I got curious. This last point is the one I want to focus on. Curiosity killed the cat, but it also made me run one hundred miles in a single week. So let me rewind a little here and explain how things went down.
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On Thursday, I planned to run a casual marathon. I wanted to do twenty-six miles. I warmed up, picked my playlist, laced my shoes, and hit the road. For the first and last segments of the run, I ran in town through the quaint neighborhoods of North Tacoma.
The portion of the run I was excited about, though, was the middle. There’s a park in Tacoma called Point Defiance. Even though it’s technically an urban park, there’s a relatively extensive trail system there (especially considering it’s neither a state nor national park). And for those of you who are not privy, trail running is life. It might be the best thing one can ever do.
Now, I don’t plan out most of my routes before they happen (for long runs, that is). I know about where I need to go to hit the mileage I want, but I seldom know exactly where I’m going. As such, it’s easy to over, or under, shoot. On this particular run, I did the former. I missed my target of twenty-six miles and instead went thirty.
Because of this, I had my doubts about Friday’s run. Those thirty miles beat me up pretty badly toward the end. I hoped I would still be able to hit twenty miles the next day, but I sure wasn’t counting on it. As I went to bed, I told myself I’d play it by ear. I’d only go as far as I felt I was able.
When I woke Friday morning, I discovered, to my great delight, that I felt not just adequate, but stellar. I set out for a twenty-mile run. I ran to the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, crossed, and explored the other side.
I’d never spent much time over there. The only other time I’d been in that area was the last time I crossed the bridge and I pretty much just crossed and returned. Today, though, I explored. I wanted to know if there were any good routes on that side of the bridge. Unsurprisingly, there are.
After Friday’s run, I’d hit my goal. That evening I told myself, “Tomorrow is a rest day. You don’t want to overdo it. No running tomorrow, Jesse. Tomorrow is a rest day.” I repeated that multiple times: “Tomorrow is a rest day. Tomorrow is a rest day…” I fell asleep, believing I’d convinced myself to take it easy.
When Saturday rolled around, I woke up and reminded myself, “Today is a rest day.” The week was over. I’d hit my goal. I was at eighty-one miles for the week. That’s so much more than I’d ever done before. I was satisfied. So I ate breakfast and carried on with my day.
But at some point in the early afternoon, I realized how nice a day it was outside. I also realized that I had no commitments for the rest of the day. I also felt incredible…invincible, even.
“I’ll just go for a shorter run,” I told myself. Might as well turn those eighty-one miles into ninety. A nice, round number is always better after all, right? So I quickly prepped for a short, nine-mile run, promising myself that I’d keep it casual.
I set out and immediately decided I wanted to run somewhere I’d never run before. I recalled seeing a paved trail just off 19th St. a while ago and wondered where it led.
I made my way in that direction, taking a mile or so detour to run the circumference of pretty little park. When I eventually reached the paved trail, I was at about three miles.
“Okay,” I reminded myself, “You have a mile and a half to follow this trail and see where it goes. You can always come back in the future if you want to go further.”
I continued on. A mile went by. Then another half a mile went by and I knew I should turn around. But just then, a thought occurred to me: “I spent about a mile running through that park. I’m really closer to three miles from home at this point. I can go one more.”
With justification in hand, I pressed on, but as my new turnaround point showed itself, I found that the last thing I wanted to do was go home.
“I really want to see how far down this trail goes,” I thought, “I’ll just turn around when it ends.”
I ran until the trail came to a stoplight. It was a busy intersection so I would have to wait for a while if I wanted to continue and I couldn’t tell if the trail even existed on the other side of the road so I turned and started to head home. Not too long after that, I came upon the trail’s exit…but what’s this? There was a fork in the path.
This presented me with a choice: 1) I could veer right and make my way home. I’d already surpassed my nine-mile target. There was no shame in calling it quits for the day. Or 2) I could turn left and see just how far down the proverbial rabbit hole goes.
Curiosity whispered promises of great wonders and new adventures awaiting me, but only if I took the leftward path. The closer I got to the fork, the louder curiosity grew, and the less likely a trajectory for home became.
By the time I had to actively make the decision, the choice had already been made. I wasn’t going home. I felt damn good anyway. My legs and lungs were firing on all cylinders. It would be criminal, sinful, wasteful, to go home now. I took a turn to the left and continued on, defying better judgment and daring myself to see how far I could go.
I didn’t recognize any of the path for a few miles. I saw exit signs and had a basic understanding of where I was in relation to street names and points of interest, but the area immediately surrounding me was entirely unfamiliar. It was all new and exciting for about three or so miles until I suddenly realized exactly where I was: “I’m really close to the Narrows Bridge!” I exclaimed. I had no idea this run would find me there again for the second day in a row.
I checked my mileage. I was already way past the point of no return. It would be absurd to come this far and not cross the bridge. Plus, crossing the bridge and back would put me really close to nineteen miles for this run which would put me right at one hundred miles for the week.
“Might as well,” I told myself, “I just hope I can make it back.”
At that point, I literally did not know whether I had it in me to make it back. I wasn’t sure if I’d have to stop and call an Uber or if I would be able to hoof it home on my own steam.
As I crossed the bridge and turned to make the return journey, I felt the run for the first time. I was tired. My knees were confused as to why they were still being forced to carry me. My lungs were struggling. My mind was faltering.
I entered survival mode. I was all business now. I set tiny goals: “Just cross the bridge.” “Ascend the hill.” “Get to the light.” “You can eat some more energy chews when you’re at the next crosswalk.” Each goal brought me the tiniest bit closer to home. After each little success, the overall success of the run felt more likely until I finally reached my front door, a conquering hero.
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If this were any other scenario, I would almost certainly have been more conservative. I would have played it safe and turned around where I should have miles ago. But if I have a day with no commitments and I’m running, I don’t behave like I would in real life. I’m entirely at the mercy of curiosity.
When I run, I’m subjected to the need to push boundaries and explore limits. I’ve found mine a time or two and it’s not fun. Exceeding one’s own limitations hurts. We like to say, “The sky is the limit!” colloquially implying there are no limits, but that is not at all true.
Everyone has a boundary past which they simply cannot venture. The exciting part of testing limits is not in discovering they don’t exist, but in finding your current restraints and seeing how far you can take them. Who will break first? You? Or the wall?
The risk of burning out is well worth the reward of succeeding. Of learning I’m more capable than I thought I was. Of finding out I should have turned around three miles ago. Of doing something I never thought I could do. Of discovering something about myself I couldn’t have known without failing.
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Be curious. You’ll surprise yourself. You’ll disappoint yourself. It will be beautiful and joyous as well as loathsome and hurtful. The good informs the bad and vice versa. Curiosity may kill the cat, but cats have nine lives. And what good are metaphors if you can’t combine them to make a point?
(Important note and disclaimer: None of the above is intended to be construed as encouragement to do anything that could put you or anyone else in mortal danger. Test your limits; don’t be stupid. Happy exploring!)