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| Someone should run across this thing |
It's midnight on June 7th, and a chill runs through my bones despite being in a desert. It is anticipation - the feeling of excitement I get when I know what I have to do will not come as a given. That scene from Shawshank Redemption materializes in my head, where Red says (ah, Morgan Freeman's voice can inspire anyone), "I find I'm so excited I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it is the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain." I glance out, but my headlamp only illuminates the next 40 feet, and I know what lies beyond it cannot be seen by a mere torch. If I could see it, in that moment, I might turn back to the comfort of a bed. But I am not here because it is easy. I am here because of what Emerson said about "what lies behind us and what lies before us are small matters compared to what lies within us." And I never hoped that to be more true. Because out there in that vast void, the darkness more than night, lies before me the Grand Canyon of the United States, and I am about to run across it - in summer - and turn around and do it all over again.
18 months earlier:
Long-time running buddy Michael, as is his fashion, sends me a note about some big runs he wants to do. I have retired from the ultra, but my interest piqued at his plans, and we said, let's run across the Grand Canyon, in the summer, and then run back again - the runner's classic Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim (R2R2R). The thought of this bucket list run kept me going for many months while I struggled to deal with pollution, living in India, and finding a purpose in running. Michael, meanwhile, flirted with elite running while coming dangerously close to not running at all, then broke his foot at the end of the year. Our goal was now in jeopardy and Michael wasn't able to train. We pulled the plug, but something in each of us did not want the dream to die. I tried to recruit another guy but he couldn't make it. So, March 1st came and went, our drop dead date, and I sent a hard message to Michael, one that said we can do this. His reply was, "Let's go" and it was on.
True to the title of this blog, we did not plan well. We didn't want this huge reconnaissance of a mission down to every last detail. We just wanted to run, and when it hurt, slow, and eat and walk when we felt like it, on our terms, not driven by competition or the clock. Our agreement was to high five at the start and head down the trail, and we would take it from there. Some say that's ill advised on a 50 mile foot journey in harsh environments like the Grand Canyon. Others call it adventure.
True to the title of this blog, we did not plan well. We didn't want this huge reconnaissance of a mission down to every last detail. We just wanted to run, and when it hurt, slow, and eat and walk when we felt like it, on our terms, not driven by competition or the clock. Our agreement was to high five at the start and head down the trail, and we would take it from there. Some say that's ill advised on a 50 mile foot journey in harsh environments like the Grand Canyon. Others call it adventure.
I ran two marathons in February and completed my third Two Oceans Marathon (56km) down in South Africa at the end of March. I found 35-45 mile weeks again and got very strong in the core. I padded my days with 15 milers on the weekends and threw in two 20 milers for that added push. It was the most amount of running I had done in a year, and probably years. But no training in India was really going to save me from the vicious pounding of the downhills, the uneven terrain of the trail, and the relentless uphill climbs of the Grand Canyon. I figured it didn't matter as Michael and I would just survive it together. Then I got the call.
Michael freaked out. He had done some running and put in some really significant weekends. But he struggled on a 50k and decided he was not ready. I felt like I had talked him into this twice already and I would not be responsible for a third time. What if he got hurt? What if he needed to be hospitalized? What if he fell and died? I didn't want that hanging over me. I told him to call it off. But I was still going at this (after all, I bought the ticket and the hotel).
It made all the difference. Perhaps because I wasn't motivated, or maybe because someone would be there, I wasn't giving the R2R2R its fair respect. I figured we would just make it. But when I was suddenly on my own, a fire sparked inside that I had not had for a long time. I started running. I put in a 20 miler. I upped my weekly mileage consistently to 50+ and then I turned a corner. I started running more (went 9+5, 10.3, 7.3+6, and 11+4 in just 4 week days), put in my 2nd run of the day in the Delhi heat (100-108 degrees F) and hit the gym for leg presses, weighted, lunges, and squats. I averaged a half marathon per day for a while, and hit 72.6 miles in a week (my most since South Africa four years before).
My journey begins on the South Rim at the Bright Angel Trailhead: elevation 6,860 feet (2,093 m) and descends for 9 miles to a low point of 2400ft. After that I climb for more than 14 miles up to the North Kaibab Trailhead: elevation 8241 feet (2512m). When I get there, I will turn around and do it all in reverse. My body will experience 21,100 feet of elevation gain/loss over 47 miles (to put that in perspective, the Leadville 100 has 15,600 ft. over the total distance).
My watch ticks midnight and I start down the trail. In the first half I'm only worried about two things causing me a problem: mountain lions and falling off the trail. Within steps of starting I stumble and find myself dangerously close to an edge that leads into blackness and certain death. I proceeded down the twisting, turning Trail past 1 1/2 Mile Resthouse and stopping only briefly at 3 Mile Resthouse house for some water. It is very difficult going downhill this much and by the time I reach Indian Garden Campground, I have lost 3000 feet in elevation in under 5 miles. It is like doing a road race if the course was all sand and down a set of stairs. I run into a couple of hikers almost immediately from the top and after that a guy looking for his sons who went to the river hours before. I eventually crossed them and I don't see another soul for almost three and a half hours. Just after Indian Garden, I am able to run a little bit better as the trail somewhat levels. Despite being all downhill, I am trying to save my legs and the difficulty of the course still has me running between 10 and 12 minute miles. It feels slow but I cannot see more than a few few ahead, the trail is rough, danger is high, and I know there is work to come.
Although it is dark I can still see tremendous rock formations and rivers winding their way down with me. I make my way to River Resthouse which is about 8 miles down from the trail head, but I don't know this. I have left the map and the passenger seat of the car at the trail head, my first big mistake of the day. My memory tells me that the bridge is somewhere around 7 miles but in fact it is much further. I pass the last point and start to work away from the river, convinced that I am on the wrong trail. As I start to climb again, panic sets in. The 7th, 8th, and 9th mile pass and I am certain that I am going to run 15 miles, turn around, and head back up without completing my journey. However, out of the darkness the river returns and I cross Silver Bridge, avoiding the murky waters of the Colorado River below.
At Bright Angel camp I refill water and I'm startled by deer who are mesmerized by my headlamp. Now starts a significant climb from the river's bottom and the lowest point on the course 7.2 miles up to Cottonwood Campground. It is the longest stretch on the course. However, there is only 1600 feet of elevation gain in this long stretch and I am able to run nearly all of it. With the threat of falling off the edge now removed, I turn my attention to avoid stepping on hairy spiders and scorpions. When I'm not fearing being poisoned from below, I fear disease from above. Moths are attracted to light, and and what human orifice lies just below a headlamp? I ate more than a few months. But what eats moths (besides me)? Bats. They continuously dive-bombed right in front of my face catching whatever bugs I wasn't already consuming. Since you can't see them coming, the gush of their wings inches from my nose is quite a shock in the darkness.
Just after Cottonwood Campground (~17mi) I encounter a creature on the trail, its eyes gleaming off the light from my headlamp. It is a skunk, and I throw rocks at it trying to scare it off the trail but it only becomes more aggressive, inching towards me, hissing, and turning around to spray. Not wanting to spend the next 30 miles - and several days - smelling like a skunk, I relent and climb the scree, through the cacti and around to a further point on the trail. Skunk wins this round.
The temps at the start were cool and I have left my long sleeve shirt in the car, along with my gloves. It pays off in the canyon, with temps reasonably warm (85 degrees), even at 2am. But as I climb higher towards the north rim, the temps drop quickly and I find myself starting to get chilly, even though the sun is starting to rise. This will mark my second major mistake of the day. My GPS watch tells me that I am nearing the top of the North Rim; however, I have yet to reach the tunnel and I know this is more than 1.5 miles from the top. The trail is very sandy and difficult to walk up. I stop for water and my fingers get wet as does the cloth on my water bottles. The temps have now dropped back to almost 46 degrees Fahrenheit, and my fingers have gone numb. After 5 hours and 42 minutes, with hands freezing, I crest the North Rim at 8241 feet, having covered between 23.5 to 25.1 miles, depending on the source. My hands are shaking so badly I cannot open my pack. I quickly eat and refill my bottles. I beg a hiker to loan me his gloves which I will return as I start down the trail and catch him. While they provide little help I make a phone call home checking in with Sarah. It has taken me longer to get here and it was more difficult than I anticipated. I am at a low point and my voice crumbles in dismay. She encourages me to start down the trail where it will be warmer and mostly downhill. I do so.
Within 2 miles of heading down, my fingers start to recover, temps rise, as does the sun. I pass many people who have started their journey from the North Rim that morning. They give me encouragement, baffled by the distance I have come already as nearly all of them will stop at the bottom of the canyon to camp for a night. Some say, "God bless you," others "Way to go," and my favorites are the ones who say nothing. The good part about this stretch now that the sun has come up is that the entire 13 miles down to the river is runnable. I question whether this is a good idea as there is still much left to do but I am okay with walking up the last part if needed. The trail winds down with high, red cliffs and green valleys lining rivers. After several hours of continuous running, my legs are growing tired, but the river marks a major milestone. It just never seems to come. By the time I pass Phantom Ranch I have had enough. The heat is excessive and my body has done its job. Refilling my bottles at Bright Angel, I make a decision. It would be my next major wrong choice on this journey, and a costly one.
I opt to carry on and go up the South Kaibab trail. I am tired and I know it is about 2.5 miles less than the route I came down, and I am now at 9.5 hours and have many miles left to go. What I don't consider is the following: 1) it is steeper with a higher elevation, 2) it is more exposed, 3) there is no water (damn map in my car), and 4) there are far fewer people on it. I cruise across the Black Bridge and BAM! I am done the moment I start the climb. Just like many times before (see TRT, Comrades 2014, and 2nd Leadville posts for the same situation). I am done running, my head spins, and I think I am going to pass out. I sit on the trail. It is about 100 degrees, and there are 7 miles and more than 5000 ft of elevation gain left. A group of guys offer me Gatorade and salt tablets which I take willingly. It is about this time where I realized that my packet of e-caps that I had with me fell out of my pack around mile 1 and I have not had any additional electrolytes other than food in 38 miles, despite hydrating well. After they feed me and put a bandanna on my head, I struggle up the hill to search for shade of which there is little. When there is some, I sit in it. Another family fills me with e-caps and water (which is gone within a mile). I manage to walk about 100m at a time before sitting when I find a shaded rock. By sit I mean crumple into a ball in the dirt with my leg muscles in full spasm. I take out my phone (no signal) and leave a final message to my wife. I feel passing out or seizure are likely outcomes and no one is here to help, not like they could do much. I fear death and get scared for the first time in any race or on any mountain. But the thought of seeing my family spurs me on and I pick myself up out of the dirt, over and over again in the hope that I will get home. The idea that I'm going to get home in time to take a shower before I need to check out of the room as long left my mind. However, I still can catch my flight home so I work my way up the hill. More than I want to shower I want to catch that flight and get home.
After 2.5 miles from the river I arrive at a place called Tip Off (4.4 miles and 3200 ft from the top). There is an emergency phone and I go pick it up. 911 connects me to search and rescue and I explain that I am in bad shape. They encourage me to walk briefly up the hill to a toilet shed, where there are provisions stashed. I am unable to open the box and I sit in the shade until some German hikers come. They go back down and call search and rescue and get the instructions to open the bin. I eat chips and electrolyte drinks trying to recover while lying under a toilet shed. The ranger advises me to stay there for the rest of the day until it cools down. It is about 11 o'clock so it will be many hours before that time. After a long while, I locked the crate and started up the mountain. The going was steep, the sun blistering hot, and I needed many breaks in the shade. Simply stopping, standing, or sitting would lead to muscle cramps and dizziness so I ended up laying on the rock or the dirt. My legs would often cramp and I would sip water rations knowing that there was not other water on the way up. I could take slow steps for 2-3 minutes and then rest for 5 minutes or more. After what seemed like an eternity I reached Skeleton Point. I had 3 miles to go and another 2000 ft to climb.
I beg a hiker for a bottle of water which he relinquishes. I am only able to make it a minute or two at a time without stopping. It is a long, relentless climb to the next point which takes me about an hour and 40 minutes for one and a half miles. I reached Cedar Ridge which stands just 1100 feet below and 1.5 mi from the top. However I am absolutely destroyed when I get there. No amount of reflection on past races, reading, or training can prepare you for when things go wrong. The pain and hurt inside cannot be envisioned or shared. It remains only for the one in dire need. Empathy is not an attribute to be wasted on the ultra runner. No matter who is out there on the trail with you at any one point, when you run the ultra, you are alone. Utterly, unequivocally alone.
Collapsing in a heap, I am unable to go any further. Another German couple takes interest and watches me throw up everything I have drank in the last half-hour. They consider this to be enough and walk out to the edge of the canyon and make a call to search and rescue (my phone would never work on this run other than at the North Rim). There is another dropbox and I am encouraged to drink water and eat salty snacks but I cannot do either. Instead I lay on the dry, roasting ground for two hours while flies attempt to lay larvae in my mucous membranes and ants bite me relentlessly. The couple call Sarah to tell her I am okay but struggling - the first she hears of me after being overdo in the canyon by 7 hours. It is now clear to me how people die on mountains: When the body shuts down, it seems so simple for us to say, "Just get up and move" but for the person in dire straits, it does not happen. On the mountain, wind and temps will cause a person to slowly die (perhaps oxygen too). Out here, I have never been so thirsty - I felt as if I was shriveling up, yet no water would go in. The heat was relentless and sucking the life from me. In a few hours it would be more than 50 degrees colder than it was in the afternoon, and the exposure would surely have caused hypothermia. A body too destroyed to move would be too beaten to fight the chill, and I suspect death would follow far before the next sunrise.
The couple goes for a hike and when they return I throw up again, unable to have eaten or drank anything in my time there. They call for rescue again and the Rangers agree to send someone down. It will take 2 hours. I decide that two hours is far too long. It will be dark by then and cold and once the ranger gets there I will only be prompted to get up and walk out anyway. After arguing with the German man who claims I can't even stand, let alone walk, I get vertical and hobble up the trail. I figure 2 hours of moving closer to home is better than two hours of sitting there and still having a climb left to do. I am so close to finishing the run that with all that has happened it is the only saving grace I can muster. Never in the history of running has 1.5 miles seemed so long for me. Although it takes me a long time, I reach the top of the South Kaibab trail head as the sun sets. My GPS watch has long stopped working but my distance is around 45-47 miles and I have been out here on the trail for 19 hours and 39 minutes. I feel nothing - not joy or pain. I feel like the ride is still moving but I have stepped off. But I did R2R2R, even if it took me 8-9 hours longer than expected. (The first 38-40 miles took about 9 hours 10 min. The last 6.9 miles took 10.5 hours.)
The ranger that was dispatched to get me comes to the trail head a moment later and I introduced myself. He asked to check me out and my vitals, although low, do not alarm him. He phones in the results and the supervisor suggests we do more tests. After sitting in his car and warming up for a while, I give the Rangers a bit of more of my history. The combination of past and present suggest to him we might need a little bit more help and soon an ambulance arrives. They are reluctant to hang an IV bag but my blood test comes back and immediately they go into action. I have hyperkalemia, and they need to get me to the hospital to avoid heart attack. I am to be airlifted to Flagstaff but before we can take off my symptoms stabilized somewhat and the paramedics opted to drive me (I think they were happy to get the overtime). I have now been awake for 24 hours; we arrive at 11pm to the ER where I spend 4 hours before being admitted. Although my potassium has stabilized, my ck levels (measure of muscle breakdown in the blood that causes kidney issues) is at 11500 (just 230 times over the normal of 50), a problem called rhabdomyolysis. Over the course of a day and a half I get vitals once an hour and take more than 10 liters of fluid via IV. I sleep less than 6 hours in 3 days.
Michael freaked out. He had done some running and put in some really significant weekends. But he struggled on a 50k and decided he was not ready. I felt like I had talked him into this twice already and I would not be responsible for a third time. What if he got hurt? What if he needed to be hospitalized? What if he fell and died? I didn't want that hanging over me. I told him to call it off. But I was still going at this (after all, I bought the ticket and the hotel).
It made all the difference. Perhaps because I wasn't motivated, or maybe because someone would be there, I wasn't giving the R2R2R its fair respect. I figured we would just make it. But when I was suddenly on my own, a fire sparked inside that I had not had for a long time. I started running. I put in a 20 miler. I upped my weekly mileage consistently to 50+ and then I turned a corner. I started running more (went 9+5, 10.3, 7.3+6, and 11+4 in just 4 week days), put in my 2nd run of the day in the Delhi heat (100-108 degrees F) and hit the gym for leg presses, weighted, lunges, and squats. I averaged a half marathon per day for a while, and hit 72.6 miles in a week (my most since South Africa four years before).
My journey begins on the South Rim at the Bright Angel Trailhead: elevation 6,860 feet (2,093 m) and descends for 9 miles to a low point of 2400ft. After that I climb for more than 14 miles up to the North Kaibab Trailhead: elevation 8241 feet (2512m). When I get there, I will turn around and do it all in reverse. My body will experience 21,100 feet of elevation gain/loss over 47 miles (to put that in perspective, the Leadville 100 has 15,600 ft. over the total distance).
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| Survival kit - to be carried into the Grand Canyon |
Although it is dark I can still see tremendous rock formations and rivers winding their way down with me. I make my way to River Resthouse which is about 8 miles down from the trail head, but I don't know this. I have left the map and the passenger seat of the car at the trail head, my first big mistake of the day. My memory tells me that the bridge is somewhere around 7 miles but in fact it is much further. I pass the last point and start to work away from the river, convinced that I am on the wrong trail. As I start to climb again, panic sets in. The 7th, 8th, and 9th mile pass and I am certain that I am going to run 15 miles, turn around, and head back up without completing my journey. However, out of the darkness the river returns and I cross Silver Bridge, avoiding the murky waters of the Colorado River below.
At Bright Angel camp I refill water and I'm startled by deer who are mesmerized by my headlamp. Now starts a significant climb from the river's bottom and the lowest point on the course 7.2 miles up to Cottonwood Campground. It is the longest stretch on the course. However, there is only 1600 feet of elevation gain in this long stretch and I am able to run nearly all of it. With the threat of falling off the edge now removed, I turn my attention to avoid stepping on hairy spiders and scorpions. When I'm not fearing being poisoned from below, I fear disease from above. Moths are attracted to light, and and what human orifice lies just below a headlamp? I ate more than a few months. But what eats moths (besides me)? Bats. They continuously dive-bombed right in front of my face catching whatever bugs I wasn't already consuming. Since you can't see them coming, the gush of their wings inches from my nose is quite a shock in the darkness.
Just after Cottonwood Campground (~17mi) I encounter a creature on the trail, its eyes gleaming off the light from my headlamp. It is a skunk, and I throw rocks at it trying to scare it off the trail but it only becomes more aggressive, inching towards me, hissing, and turning around to spray. Not wanting to spend the next 30 miles - and several days - smelling like a skunk, I relent and climb the scree, through the cacti and around to a further point on the trail. Skunk wins this round.
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| Sunrise on the climb to the North Rim |
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| The morning view coming down the North Kaibab Trail |
I opt to carry on and go up the South Kaibab trail. I am tired and I know it is about 2.5 miles less than the route I came down, and I am now at 9.5 hours and have many miles left to go. What I don't consider is the following: 1) it is steeper with a higher elevation, 2) it is more exposed, 3) there is no water (damn map in my car), and 4) there are far fewer people on it. I cruise across the Black Bridge and BAM! I am done the moment I start the climb. Just like many times before (see TRT, Comrades 2014, and 2nd Leadville posts for the same situation). I am done running, my head spins, and I think I am going to pass out. I sit on the trail. It is about 100 degrees, and there are 7 miles and more than 5000 ft of elevation gain left. A group of guys offer me Gatorade and salt tablets which I take willingly. It is about this time where I realized that my packet of e-caps that I had with me fell out of my pack around mile 1 and I have not had any additional electrolytes other than food in 38 miles, despite hydrating well. After they feed me and put a bandanna on my head, I struggle up the hill to search for shade of which there is little. When there is some, I sit in it. Another family fills me with e-caps and water (which is gone within a mile). I manage to walk about 100m at a time before sitting when I find a shaded rock. By sit I mean crumple into a ball in the dirt with my leg muscles in full spasm. I take out my phone (no signal) and leave a final message to my wife. I feel passing out or seizure are likely outcomes and no one is here to help, not like they could do much. I fear death and get scared for the first time in any race or on any mountain. But the thought of seeing my family spurs me on and I pick myself up out of the dirt, over and over again in the hope that I will get home. The idea that I'm going to get home in time to take a shower before I need to check out of the room as long left my mind. However, I still can catch my flight home so I work my way up the hill. More than I want to shower I want to catch that flight and get home.
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| No refuge in the Grand Canyon |
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| The view far below Skeleton Point and just above my first respite point at Tip Off (visible in lower left) |
I beg a hiker for a bottle of water which he relinquishes. I am only able to make it a minute or two at a time without stopping. It is a long, relentless climb to the next point which takes me about an hour and 40 minutes for one and a half miles. I reached Cedar Ridge which stands just 1100 feet below and 1.5 mi from the top. However I am absolutely destroyed when I get there. No amount of reflection on past races, reading, or training can prepare you for when things go wrong. The pain and hurt inside cannot be envisioned or shared. It remains only for the one in dire need. Empathy is not an attribute to be wasted on the ultra runner. No matter who is out there on the trail with you at any one point, when you run the ultra, you are alone. Utterly, unequivocally alone.
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| Sign on the trail - too real |
The couple goes for a hike and when they return I throw up again, unable to have eaten or drank anything in my time there. They call for rescue again and the Rangers agree to send someone down. It will take 2 hours. I decide that two hours is far too long. It will be dark by then and cold and once the ranger gets there I will only be prompted to get up and walk out anyway. After arguing with the German man who claims I can't even stand, let alone walk, I get vertical and hobble up the trail. I figure 2 hours of moving closer to home is better than two hours of sitting there and still having a climb left to do. I am so close to finishing the run that with all that has happened it is the only saving grace I can muster. Never in the history of running has 1.5 miles seemed so long for me. Although it takes me a long time, I reach the top of the South Kaibab trail head as the sun sets. My GPS watch has long stopped working but my distance is around 45-47 miles and I have been out here on the trail for 19 hours and 39 minutes. I feel nothing - not joy or pain. I feel like the ride is still moving but I have stepped off. But I did R2R2R, even if it took me 8-9 hours longer than expected. (The first 38-40 miles took about 9 hours 10 min. The last 6.9 miles took 10.5 hours.)
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| Don't just do it for yourself; run for a cause |
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-VPwwnucE4
The ranger that was dispatched to get me comes to the trail head a moment later and I introduced myself. He asked to check me out and my vitals, although low, do not alarm him. He phones in the results and the supervisor suggests we do more tests. After sitting in his car and warming up for a while, I give the Rangers a bit of more of my history. The combination of past and present suggest to him we might need a little bit more help and soon an ambulance arrives. They are reluctant to hang an IV bag but my blood test comes back and immediately they go into action. I have hyperkalemia, and they need to get me to the hospital to avoid heart attack. I am to be airlifted to Flagstaff but before we can take off my symptoms stabilized somewhat and the paramedics opted to drive me (I think they were happy to get the overtime). I have now been awake for 24 hours; we arrive at 11pm to the ER where I spend 4 hours before being admitted. Although my potassium has stabilized, my ck levels (measure of muscle breakdown in the blood that causes kidney issues) is at 11500 (just 230 times over the normal of 50), a problem called rhabdomyolysis. Over the course of a day and a half I get vitals once an hour and take more than 10 liters of fluid via IV. I sleep less than 6 hours in 3 days.
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| ER visit |
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| That's Grand Canyon tan right there |
The major problem is my vehicle is at the Grand Canyon, 1 hour and 45 min away. With it is my wallet, so - once released - I have no transport and no funds to get there and back. Just a guy covered in dirt with 11 bandaged holes in his arm from procedures, stinking to holy heaven, begging for a ride. Luckily, my world travels never has me far from connections; my old friend Joe from Johannesburg popped over from his home in Flagstaff. In between hikes he went out, retrieved my car and brought me clothes. Why did I need clothes? Oh, that's right. All my stuff left in the hotel was missing. Sarah called and they claimed I requested a late check-out (I didn't) and was gone by noon (I never went back). Yet my items were nowhere to be found. Park Services is investigating it with a string of robberies. Items missing: 2 charger connectors and cords, Garmin charger, 4 port adapter, Timex watch, MSU Track bag, headphones, Ipad, Reef sandals (my favorite kind with the bottle opener in them), Columbia trekking pants, my shirt from climbing Mt. Elbrus in Russia, and a brand new, never worn pair of underwear. For some reason I put the rest of my items in my car before running - I can't say why. And, thankfully, I made a last-minute decision to throw my wallet in the car before going to the trail head - otherwise that would have been a serious problem in getting gas, food, and a plane ticket home.
37 hours after pulling into the ER, I am busting out of there, against the wishes of my medical care team but no longer able to sit in a bed, pee in a cup, and be limited from the IV's in my arms. I head south, trying to make a flight that afternoon. I call to have a friend book it as I am driving. He does. As I stop to enjoy an In-n-Out burger, I get the email confirmation of the flight - 7 weeks from today. Luckily, Sarah is able to call and get this canceled, just as she was the other flights she had booked to get me out of there before knowing I was destined for the 3rd floor of Flagstaff Medical Center. After eating the price of the original ticket, we ended up paying a whopping $560 for a one-way flight out that night (again, Sarah had to get Expedia to refund me the $40 insurance I inadvertently booked), and a day and a half extra on the rental car. I had 8 hours to kill in Phoenix airport before an overnight to Chicago and a puddle jumper to GR.
What was supposed to be a scant 48 hours after I left Michigan ended up being 4.5 days, the wheels touched down again in Grand Rapids, and I had flown 3001 miles, driven 470 miles, and run 45 miles (and sat in an ambulance or hospital bed for 39 hours). But I saw every inch of that Grand Canyon - twice - solo, in summer.
Epilogue
1 week earlier - I work all day in India, load 7 suitcases into a van in 118 degree heat, and commence to fly 20 hours with kids, plus an added layover of 7 hours plus a 4-hour drive from Chicago - I arrive beat. Jump into a hockey game - my first in a year - that night, and roll into my new house extremely sore the next day. I move furniture and boxes for 36 hours before driving to the airport to fly out. I forget car seats in the car. Then realize I have no wallet. Then no paperwork for the trip. I get all this and try to start the car - it wont start. I am taken to a shop for coolant. After two hours, I am finally more than 10 min from my house. The flight to AZ is delayed 3 times (inside, at the gate, and on the runway). I am hardly able to walk at more than a limp and I have less than 14 hours till this run. Not an ideal start.
2 weeks post race - My recovery was slow. The pain in my back from the hospital bed turned out to be the worst of my "injuries" with my legs bouncing back more quickly, though attempting a 1.5 mile run 12 days post still was indication I am not back. My energy is low and I will need weeks to be back to normal, if not longer. I am, however, very glad to be alive considering how this could have ended.
People ask if it was worth it. The answer is not simple. No run is worth risking your life over. I should have never been in real danger - popular trail, access to water, fit enough to do it - but if the body goes, it goes. People drown in 2 inches of water and die on jogs around their neighborhood. And make no mistake about it - it wasn't the heat, the pace, the elevation, or the distance that did me in - I have been there before. It was my own body. I have a clear pattern of my body responding this way, no matter my preparation or pace, the altitude or the distance, and the result has been the same. It wasn't always that way, but it has been for quite some time. I can keep doing this and the result will be the same: I will end up going from running well for hours to complete shutdown in a matter of moments. The only question is: will I need medical care to survive the outcome? And that is not a good conundrum to be in. While I am glad I completed this epic run, I am not happy with what it took to do so. One day, the levels will spike and I won't bounce back, and I do not choose to push that envelope anymore. I am retiring, again, from the ultra, and I am very happy to do so. There are many other adventures out there.
37 hours after pulling into the ER, I am busting out of there, against the wishes of my medical care team but no longer able to sit in a bed, pee in a cup, and be limited from the IV's in my arms. I head south, trying to make a flight that afternoon. I call to have a friend book it as I am driving. He does. As I stop to enjoy an In-n-Out burger, I get the email confirmation of the flight - 7 weeks from today. Luckily, Sarah is able to call and get this canceled, just as she was the other flights she had booked to get me out of there before knowing I was destined for the 3rd floor of Flagstaff Medical Center. After eating the price of the original ticket, we ended up paying a whopping $560 for a one-way flight out that night (again, Sarah had to get Expedia to refund me the $40 insurance I inadvertently booked), and a day and a half extra on the rental car. I had 8 hours to kill in Phoenix airport before an overnight to Chicago and a puddle jumper to GR.
What was supposed to be a scant 48 hours after I left Michigan ended up being 4.5 days, the wheels touched down again in Grand Rapids, and I had flown 3001 miles, driven 470 miles, and run 45 miles (and sat in an ambulance or hospital bed for 39 hours). But I saw every inch of that Grand Canyon - twice - solo, in summer.
Epilogue
1 week earlier - I work all day in India, load 7 suitcases into a van in 118 degree heat, and commence to fly 20 hours with kids, plus an added layover of 7 hours plus a 4-hour drive from Chicago - I arrive beat. Jump into a hockey game - my first in a year - that night, and roll into my new house extremely sore the next day. I move furniture and boxes for 36 hours before driving to the airport to fly out. I forget car seats in the car. Then realize I have no wallet. Then no paperwork for the trip. I get all this and try to start the car - it wont start. I am taken to a shop for coolant. After two hours, I am finally more than 10 min from my house. The flight to AZ is delayed 3 times (inside, at the gate, and on the runway). I am hardly able to walk at more than a limp and I have less than 14 hours till this run. Not an ideal start.
2 weeks post race - My recovery was slow. The pain in my back from the hospital bed turned out to be the worst of my "injuries" with my legs bouncing back more quickly, though attempting a 1.5 mile run 12 days post still was indication I am not back. My energy is low and I will need weeks to be back to normal, if not longer. I am, however, very glad to be alive considering how this could have ended.
People ask if it was worth it. The answer is not simple. No run is worth risking your life over. I should have never been in real danger - popular trail, access to water, fit enough to do it - but if the body goes, it goes. People drown in 2 inches of water and die on jogs around their neighborhood. And make no mistake about it - it wasn't the heat, the pace, the elevation, or the distance that did me in - I have been there before. It was my own body. I have a clear pattern of my body responding this way, no matter my preparation or pace, the altitude or the distance, and the result has been the same. It wasn't always that way, but it has been for quite some time. I can keep doing this and the result will be the same: I will end up going from running well for hours to complete shutdown in a matter of moments. The only question is: will I need medical care to survive the outcome? And that is not a good conundrum to be in. While I am glad I completed this epic run, I am not happy with what it took to do so. One day, the levels will spike and I won't bounce back, and I do not choose to push that envelope anymore. I am retiring, again, from the ultra, and I am very happy to do so. There are many other adventures out there.
