Why run an ultramarathon?

I’m a runner. Just a few months ago, I would have written: “I run”, now being a runner is part of my identity, I think of myself as one, and that makes me part of a global community of millions.

I’m also an ultra runner. OK, that one I hesitated to write… After all I have so far only completed one ultra marathon (that is, a distance longer than the standard 42.2K marathon). Moreover, the label puts me in the same category as luminaries like Dean Karnazes, Scott Jurek, Pat Farmer or Lisa Tamati. Talk about daunting!

Yet I would indeed consider myself an ultra runner. Not a fast one, not an experienced one, but a normal guy who happens to have completed an 84K run and sees himself as an ultra runner.

Why run ultra marathons? On the face of it, it is a rather pointless activity. It is debatable whether it is good for your body, given the battering you go through, it certainly isn’t good for your social life, it is painful, exhausting, possibly dangerous, and does not carry high prize money, even if you manage to win races (the most you get in many cases is a belt buckle!) Yet many of us are addicted to running ultras. I can’t say whether it will be my case, I am too new to the sport, but I know I can’t wait for my next one (70K in New Zealand’s Coromandel Peninsula in November, hopefully).

My personal attempt at answering the question would start with what I experienced during that 84K run (which was itself part of a wider 250K multi stage race). It wasn’t exactly fun: I had really bad cramps in my calves, I had painful blisters on my feet, and I was totally exhausted at the end. Yet the feeling I had after crossing the finish line was one of pure joy. I felt a sense of accomplishment such as I had not experienced before. I had dug deeper than ever before, and come out victorious. I now knew I could achieve extraordinary things if I put my mind to it.

I didn’t do well that day. I completed the stage in around 16 hours: if you do the math, it’s not a great pace. In fact I probably did more walking (or maybe shuffling) than running. But that didn’t matter, I had gone deep inside myself and learned things about myself that I probably could not have learned any other way, and that alone makes the experience unique and worthwhile. It is not just the fact of being alone in the desert. I think it is the actual pain and exhaustion, the fact of pushing your body beyond its limits, that leads to such insights. When you reach that point, you don’t wear a mask anymore, you are totally yourself, and that can be scary because who you see may be a person you have seldom seen before. And what is more, other people see it too. During an ultra you get to see the true essence of a person, whether it is yourself or your running mates.

The fact that you see people the way they really are also leads to human relationships that are very different than can be built in other situations. The sense of camaraderie experienced in these events is truly unique. No one really cares who wins the race, it is more about ensuring that every last person gets the help they need to cross that finish line. Ultra runners form a community unlike any other, one that can only be understood by taking the plunge.

One thing is for sure, you’ll never run alone…

People think I'm mad

That has by far been the most common reaction to my Big Red Run adventure. Why would a 40-something man with no sporting history to speak of want to run 250 km across a desert? Most of my friends and colleagues would probably dismiss it as an extreme case of mid-life crisis, or as a bucket list item to be ticked and never given a second thought. But their first impression is always confirmed when I mention that I want to do it again (or something even more extreme next time). And, let's face it, they may have a point!

So why am I doing this? I don’t have a ready answer… Not for fitness, I would probably get better results by running around the block every morning, or by going to the gym. Not really for fundraising either: there are more efficient ways to raise money in terms of effort per dollar collected (car boot sale, sausage sizzle, you name it!) I believe the answer goes much deeper. In fact everyone at the Big Red Run had their own reasons for being there, and these had little to do with either fitness or fundraising. There were of course the type 1 diabetics, who wanted to prove to themselves and to the world that they were capable of exactly the same feats as the rest of us. There were those who had been battling alcoholism or addiction, those with family or relationship issues, those who had spent years struggling with depression. And then there were those who were there to inspire others, who had children or partners with special needs, or who ran in memory of a loved one taken away from them. For almost all of us, this event has some form of a spiritual significance.

In my case, I guess it is helpful to think back on why I started running in the first place. I never thought of myself as an athlete, nor was I heavily involved in any sport since I left school, apart from underused gym memberships. I first started running in 2009 as part of an attempt to get over a severe case of depression. I had noticed that running made me feel better, so I regularly shuffled around the block, probably never completing more than 10K. That first foray into running lasted for about a year, until I moved to Europe for work and found excuses to stop (too busy, too cold, too wet, etc.) My second attempt was in May 2012, when a colleague asked me to be part of a corporate team for the Luxembourg marathon. I reckoned I could handle 10K and started training again. Just two weeks after that I was offered an entry for a 20K race in Brussels, which I completed in 2:19. I started enjoying the feeling, and ran the Auckland half marathon upon returning to New Zealand (2:09). I even started toying with the idea that maybe some day I could attempt a full marathon.

As I have narrated in another post, everything changed after I bought Lisa Tamati’s book in early 2013, then started working with her as my coach. I still don’t quite understand how it happened, but she managed not only to help me achieve that goal of running a marathon (Christchurch, June 2013, 4:48), but also to get me through that gruelling 250K across the Simpson Desert. Over the period I worked with Lisa, depression had once again taken hold, so much so that I started seeing a therapist. The anxiety linked to the Big Red Run probably nullified any relief I got from running, to the extent that I almost dropped out of the event just hours before I was due to fly to Australia.

But then something happened out in the desert. It is not surprising that many of the world’s spiritual traditions began in deserts, there is something in that harsh but beautiful environment that connects to memories deep within us. Running on top of a dune looking at wide open spaces, with no sign of life in any direction, one usually ends up immersed in the present moment, where both the past and the future cease to matter. When the only sounds we hear are our footsteps and our breathing, running becomes a form of meditation, where conscious thought stops and where ideas flow into our minds, seemingly out of nowhere. Whatever questions I had been struggling with, the answers came to me quite naturally over the course of those six days. No one had to give me those answers, the experience made me remember or discover things I had known all along.

I am a different person today, and I believe that is the case for anyone who takes part in an extreme adventure. It looks like the depression is gone for good, and I feel able to handle life’s problems much better than I used to. I want the therapy to continue, that’s why I will do this again.

 

 

Inspired by weakness

 

 

A month ago, I embarked on what may have been the longest day of my life, two back to back marathons through Australia’s Simpson Desert as part of the inaugural edition of the Big Red Run. And that was after already completing three and a half marathons over the previous 4 days. But on that dark and cold Friday morning, unlike the Monday I turned  up on that first start line, there was no doubt in my mind that I would complete the day’s run. The fear was still there, no doubt, but so was the determination to finish no matter what.

A lot had happened since we ran out of Birdsville into the vast Australian outback: I had gone from utter despair to exhilaration and all the emotions in between, experiencing pain, exhaustion and bliss. I had met people who achieved incredible feats of endurance, like Pat Farmer who ran from the North Pole to the South Pole, and the Born To Run team who had just completed races through every major desert on the planet, including Antarctica.

Was I inspired by these individuals? Yes, but in a rather abstract way. I admired their accomplishments and looked up to them, but could not really relate to them on a personal level. They seemed out of my league, I did not believe I could ever come close to filling their shoes. Even my mentor Lisa Tamati, New Zealand's best known ultra runner, seemed head and shoulders above me, given all she had done. Their strength did not inspire me to go out and give it my all, because at the time I did not believe I could ever match it.

The determination I felt at the start of that long stage came from two encounters, neither of which were with people showing anything like Pat Farmer’s or the Born To Run team’s strength. The first was during that initial marathon with Mark Moala, a first time competitor who was clearly struggling. I doubted he could complete the full race, but he did inspire me to sign up for the 250K event, although I had only come to do 100K. Every single night Mark was the last one to arrive at camp, he spent more time on his feet than any of us, but he made it (and was cheered wildly for it).

The second encounter was with Lisa Tamati. She had made the decision to pull out of the race after the third day; I knew that this was a strategic decision for her, given an upcoming world record attempt for the highest marathon ever recorded, but it took a lot of the wind out of my sails. If this seemingly indestructible woman, with everything she has done, was not able to finish, whatever the reason, what chance did I have? Yet in the end, Lisa inspired me most when she was at her weakest. With her DNF, the realisation dawned on me that the heroes we all look up to are only human, with the same doubts, the same fears and the same struggles as the rest of us. At that moment I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that I was going to finish the race, even if I had to crawl across the finish line. What is more, I was going to do it for Lisa. And I did.

Strength alone does not inspire me. Neither does weakness, if one does nothing about it. But Mark and Lisa both rose above their limitations, Mark by crossing the finish line against all odds, Lisa by acknowledging her failure in her closing speech and by going all out on an even more ambitious project. Too many of us wallow in our failures and give in to our fears. Courage is not the absence of fear, not is pretending that the fear is not there. It is all about saying: “Let’s do this”, despite the fear. Witnessing weakness in others helped me rise above my own, my courage enhanced by their determination to bounce back.

To get back up after being knocked down, to keep going despite every cell in your body screaming to stop, requires not only personal courage, but also teamwork. Although we are alone on the trail most of the time, ultra running is a team sport. The determination to push through does not just happen in one’s mind but stems from the realisation that we are all in the same boat, that we rise or fall together. In that sense, ultra running is a great metaphor for life. I admire those who win races, but my real inspiration comes from the ones who come last, or from those who drop out but still sign up for the next big thing, and come out all the stronger for it.