Eat and Run Page 8
In 1984, finishing (but not winning) the Park Point Kids' Mile along the shores of Lake Superior, I discovered two things: I wasn't particularly fast, but I seemed to get stronger as the race got longer.
As an 18-year-old high school senior, I started placing near the top in open ski events. Skiing was my passion. Running was a means to stay in shape for that.
"Hippie Dan" Proctor was a local running legend when I met him in 1992, and he taught me about the joys of living a simple, attentive life. When I returned to Duluth in 2010, to visit him in his solar-powered house, I found he hadn't changed much.
The first time I beat my best friend and running mentor, Dusty Olson, was the 1994 Minnesota Voyaguer 50-miler. When I finished, I fell to the ground, convinced this was the hardest thing I would ever do. If only I had known.
I heard about the Western States 100 the way Little Leaguers hear about Babe Ruth. When I first ran it, in 1999, I decided if I didn't win, it wasn't going to be because I didn't give everything I had.
My dog taught me a lot about running. For four years, Tonto trained with me on the mountain trails of Washington and Northern California, preparing for the Western States 100.
Run an event enough times and you'll identify the spot where your race really begins. For me and the Western States 100, it's the Rucky Chucky river crossing, mile 78, a final chance to cool down before grinding out the last 20 miles.
Every summer, I loved living dirtbag style with the king of the dirtbags, the Dust Ball. We'd camp at Robinson Flat, just off the Western States Trail, and I'd whip up gourmet meals in my VW Westfalia.
Eating while running is a critical skill for any ultramarathoner. Here I am at mile 50 of the 2003 Western States, chowing down on a homemade burrito.
Running can be lonely, and ultrarunning can be lonelier, so when you can connect, you do. At the finish of my record-setting Western States 100, I soaked up energy from the cheering crowd in Auburn, California.
Finishing a 100-miler was great. Winning was greater. Setting a course record was greatest of all. At the 2004 Western States 100, I did all three. Notice the sky. It was the first time I finished the course in daylight.
In 2005, two weeks after my seventh consecutive Western States 100 victory, I set out to conquer the Badwater Ultramarathon, a 135-mile endurance slog through Death Valley. Mile 12, 120 degrees, and I'm leading. What could go wrong?
At 48 miles in, I was over 5 miles behind, ready to quit. Those who described the insanity of the Badwater were right.
Getting Enough Protein
One of the biggest questions I had as an ultrarunner contemplating a vegan diet was how to get enough protein. Here are a few of my tricks: In my breakfast smoothie, I add some nuts and a hit of plant-based protein powder (brown rice, hemp, pea, or fermented soy protein). I’ll also have a grain source for breakfast, such as sprouted-whole-grain toast with nut butter or sprouted-grain cereal or porridge. Lunch is always a huge raw salad—I love my Lacinato kale—and I’ll up the protein content with a soy product (tempeh, tofu, or edamame), a big scoop of hummus, or maybe some leftover cooked grain or quinoa. Dinner might be beans and whole grains, maybe some whole-grain pasta. If I didn’t have soy at lunch, I might have it with dinner. Add in some Clif Bars and trail mix as snacks throughout the day and some soyor nut-based vegan desserts and I get more than enough protein to maintain my muscle tone and help my body recover.
I seek out traditional whole foods rather than highly refined meat substitutes. I look for products that have been sprouted, soaked, or fermented to help break down the indigestible cellulose in plant cell walls. Among soy sources, I favor tempeh, miso, and sprouted tofu, which are all more digestible and have less phytoestrogen (a naturally occurring substance that some—in spite of medical evidence to the contrary—suspect might mimic estrogen’s effects in humans) than isolated soy protein. I eat sprouted-grain breads and tortillas, and at home I often soak my whole grains and beans before cooking.
Minnesota Winter Chili
The night I tasted this chili is the night I decided I could be a happy, athletic vegetarian. One mouthful made me realize that vegetarian food could taste just as good, and have just as hearty a texture, as meat-based foods. The bulgur wheat is a source of complex carbohydrates, and combined with the other ingredients, it makes a complete protein. There’s nothing like it after exercise, especially on a cold winter night.
2 tablespoons coconut oil or olive oil
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 cup finely chopped onion
8–10 medium mushrooms, finely chopped
½ cup finely chopped green bell pepper
½ cup finely chopped red bell pepper
½ cup finely chopped carrots
1 jalapeño pepper or other hot pepper, seeded and minced (optional)
1 cup frozen corn kernels
1 teaspoon ground cumin
½ teaspoon ground coriander
2 tablespoons chili powder
2 teaspoons sea salt, plus more to taste
½ teaspoon black pepper
1 28-ounce can diced tomatoes
1 15-ounce can tomato puree
1 15-ounce can kidney beans, drained
1 15-ounce can black beans, drained
1 15-ounce can red beans, drained
2½ cups water
½ cup dry bulgur wheat
Hot sauce or cayenne pepper (optional)
¼ cup minced fresh cilantro, for garnish
Add the oil to a large pot. Sauté the vegetables and spices in the oil over medium to medium-low heat for 10 minutes or until tender. Add a few tablespoons of water if the veggies begin sticking to the pot. Add the remaining ingredients except the cilantro and simmer over medium-low heat, covered, for 30 minutes. Stir and simmer for an additional 20 to 30 minutes until the veggies are cooked through. Season with salt and, if more spice is desired, hot sauce or cayenne pepper to taste. Serve, sprinked with the cilantro. Leftover chili freezes well.
MAKES 8–10 SERVINGS
9. Silent Snow, Secret Snow
WESTERN STATES 100 TRAINING, 1999
The mountains are calling and I must go.
—JOHN MUIR
I tiptoed up the stairs from the basement, careful not to wake the family still sleeping, pulled a curtain, and watched dry flakes glinting in the watery light of a crescent moon. It was mid-December, 1998, 5 A.M., no warmer than 10 below. I pulled on polypropylene long underwear, a windbreaker, and a fleece, then my warm-up pants and thick wool socks. The path I had chosen—the path I hoped would fulfill me—would eventually take me through canyons of 100 degrees, deserts so hot that scorpions scuttled for shade. But the path started here, now.
Another layer: Nordic ski hat, Finnish ski gloves. It was a path not many other people could discern. High school valedictorian, college graduate, licensed physical therapist, and husband, and I was back in Duluth, about $20,000 in debt, squatting in my in-laws’ basement, riding my bike 10 miles a day, five days a week, to Ski Hut. I earned $5 an hour. It was still warm inside my bed. Outside: black night, white ground. I thought it was my path. I laced up my trail running shoes. Shortly after returning to Minnesota, to help with traction in the snow, I had added sheet metal screws to the soles.
We had returned to Minnesota earlier that month. I reunited with Dusty and Hippie Dan and we ran and occasionally skied together. Often joining us were Jess and Katie Koski, two other local athletes and, just as important to my future, both vegans. The Koskis knew about my Voyageur victories, and Hippie Dan had told them how much I read, how interested I was in nutrition and health. They gave me the book Mad Cowboy, by Howard Lyman, in which he argues that factory-farmed meat, fish, and dairy pollutes the earth, poisons the body, and sickens the soul. I thought, if this conservative third-generation Montana cattle rancher thinks plants are the best way to get clean food, then maybe I should take my plant-based diet to the next level. I stopped complaining to Leah about her buying organic produce. I cons
idered eating well to be good, cheap health insurance.
I still worried about getting enough protein, but all the health arguments against meat seemed compelling enough that I thought I would chance it. The only obstacle to going totally vegan was the taste factor. I couldn’t imagine going too long without cheese, butter, and eggs. I had too much of a sweet tooth and loved my cheese pizza.
I dabbled with soy and rice milk and thought about the philosophical and nutritional reasons to stop eating animals altogether. Then one Sunday morning, after a 20-mile run with Dusty and the Koskis, I served them my first batch of banana-strawberry vegan pancakes (see [>] for the recipe). They were golden brown and sweet, dense, and hearty. The fruit flavors met on my tongue, then tangled together in a way fruit flavors had never done before. That’s when I decided I could live without butter and eggs.
Milk was a little tougher; I had grown up drinking it with nearly every meal. My Grandma Jurek would take her empty glass bottles to a nearby farm and get them refilled with fresh whole milk. But the milk I was drinking as an adult was not from a nearby farm. It was more likely from a gigantic operation where cows were routinely injected with bovine growth hormone (rBGH), housed in cramped, unsavory conditions, and regularly dosed with antibiotics. No thanks. (I also cut out fish when I realized that unless I caught them myself in a body of water I knew was clean, I was likely going to be getting some hormones and other chemicals along with my salmon or cod.)
To my delight (and, I admit, surprise), subtracting some things from my diet actually allowed me to expand the number of foods I ate and to discover incredible and delicious new foods. My new diet included fresh fruits and vegetables, beans, nuts, seeds, whole grains, and soy products like miso, tofu, and tempeh. I sought out vegetarian cookbooks and ethnic supermarkets to expand my repertoire. Since I had grown up a reluctant vegetable eater in the homogeneous Midwest, I was blown away by the bounty of Japanese sea vegetables that I discovered when I later raced in that country, the simplicity of a homemade corn tortilla, and the complexity of Thai red curry.
I’m a serious vegan. (I usually avoid that word; to many people it connotes a certain crabby, self-righteous zealousness.) And I’m a serious athlete. But I won’t starve for my principles. Although I always have protein powder with me, there were a few times in Europe that I ate cheese out of desperation, and there were occasions in remote villages in Mexico when I consumed beans that I knew had been cooked with lard. I once took a snorkeling trip in Costa Rica and was assured that there would be a vegetarian option, but that turned out to be vegetables that had been grilled inside a giant fish! I was hungry and I had a race coming up, so I ate them. On the extremely rare occasions I’ve diverged from plant-based foods, it’s always been a matter of survival, never because I craved animal products or felt incomplete without them.
Those compromises would come later, though. I wouldn’t be faced with the difficult choices of a renowned ultrachampion until I became a renowned ultrachampion. That’s why I was lacing up my running shoes with the sheet metal screws on their soles.
I eased myself out the door into the frigid almost-dawn. I was aiming for the mountains, but now this gently rolling snowmobile path would have to do. It was late enough that the partiers wouldn’t be racing their machines, early enough that even the recreational users would be too hung-over to rev up. I took my first steps onto the path and sunk to my ankles. Good. Difficulty would help. It had always helped. I was finally figuring that out. All the whys in the universe hadn’t granted me peace or given me answers. But the asking—and the doing—had created something in me, something strong. I pulled my feet out, kept going, sucked in the last bits of night sky, and tilted toward the lunar blade low on the horizon as birch trees slid past.
After the Angeles Crest, I knew I had passed a test. And I knew what the next one would be.
I had heard about it the way minor-leaguers hear of Babe Ruth or teenage climbers learn of Everest, which is to say I don’t remember the moment someone said “Western States 100.”
People spoke of its difficulties, how it broke spirits as well as bodies. I wanted to train in the most challenging place I knew. That’s why I didn’t loathe returning to Minnesota for the winter. That’s why I was out in the snow, thinking of Northern California.
By the time I had decided I would conquer it, the Western States 100 was probably the most well-known ultramarathon in the world. The course had been featured on ABC’s Wide World of Sports twice in the 1980s. It had twenty-one aid stations and six medical checks (both high numbers among ultra events, indicating the course’s difficulty). Runners finishing in under 24 hours received a sterling silver buckle proclaiming 100 MILES, ONE DAY; those finishing in under 30 hours got a bronze buckle. The male and female winners took home bronze cougars. Every year, the race attracted 1,500 volunteers and 369 long-distance runners who had completed at least one 50-miler in the previous year and who had made it through the Western States lottery system.
Since it began, the race had been a source of local pride. Only one non-Californian had ever won in the men’s division, and he was a secret hero of mine. In the past decade, as Northern California had become known as the hub of long-distance running, the race seemed to exude a kind of tribal turf protectiveness. A local (and ultra) legend named Tim Twietmeyer had won five times. People said Twietmeyer didn’t care what kind of lead someone might have on him—he knew the course and the course was his. But in 1997 someone took it from him. A navy diver from Maryland named Mike Morton had dropped out of the 1996 race, confirming to many the widely held belief that unless you trained at (and preferably lived near) the Western States course, you didn’t stand a chance. When he showed up in 1997, people admired his spunk, but many doubtless pitied his obstinance. Then he beat Twietmeyer by 1 hour and 33 minutes, setting a new course record of 15 hours and 40 minutes.
I wanted to accomplish what the diver had done. I wanted to use the Western States to prove to the Northern Californians and other ultra-distance hotshots that I was worthy of their fraternity. To prove to myself that I was worthy. I knew it would be difficult. Twietmeyer had come back and reclaimed his crown in 1998. But now that I knew the rewards of pain, I wanted more pain. I wanted to use it as a tool to pry myself open. Pitting myself against 100 miles of terrain and the best trail distance runners in the world would provide that pain.
The race had started in 1955 when a local businessman named Wendell T. Robie rode a horse 100 miles in a single day. Later, he said he did it “because he could.” Every year thereafter, horsemen and horsewomen from all over the area would gather for the Tevis Cup—named after another successful local capitalist, Lloyd Tevis. Anyone who finished the torturous path in 24 hours or less on a mount “fit to continue” would receive a silver buckle.
A remarkable man named Gordy Ainsleigh and his not-quite-so-remarkable horse inadvertently transformed the event into a footrace. Ainsleigh, a chiropractor, outdoorsman, logger, equestrian, wrestler, and scientist, was also a formidable runner. He had long hair, a shaggy beard, and a large, muscled frame that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a rugby player or linebacker. He once held the “Clydesdale division” record for the best marathon time by a runner weighing more than 200 pounds (2:52).
But Ainsleigh’s favorite race was the Tevis Cup. He had buckled in 1971 and 1972 but the same year gave his trusty steed to a woman he loved. She soon left him, taking the horse. He rode again in 1973, but his replacement steed pulled up lame about 30 miles into the race at a stretch of wood-enclosed meadow called Robinson Flat. The next year, because he didn’t want to injure another horse, the mountain man decided to travel the course on foot.
It was a particularly hot day. One horse died. Ainsleigh finished in 23 hours and 42 minutes. He received a buckle and a medical check from a veterinarian.
Another man tried to run the course in 1975 but dropped out after 96.5 miles. In 1976 another longhair, Ken “Cowman” Shirk, set out on foot and finished in
24 hours and 29 minutes. Then, in 1977, the Western States Endurance Run (commonly known as the Western States 100) was born. Fourteen men ran alongside their equine counterparts (three of the guys finished). The next year, the race organizers decided to separate human and horse and move the Western States earlier, to a cooler month, and since then it’s run the last weekend in June.
The course begins in Squaw Valley, and the first thing any racer does is climb to 8,750-foot Emigrant Pass, an ascent of 2,550 feet in 4½ miles. She will spend the rest of the 100 miles climbing another 15,540 feet and descending 22,970. Racers follow trails once used by the Paiute, Shoshone, and Washoe, who scraped their living from the harsh land by scavenging nuts, berries, insects, and lizards, digging for tubers, trapping small game like rabbits and squirrels, and very rarely killing a pronghorn antelope. The Native Americans left, victims of smallpox, bullets, and other byproducts of a young nation’s Manifest Destiny. Next came the settlers and the gold miners. Not far from the course was Donner Pass, named for the unfortunate group of settlers who had also followed their dreams west, failed to finish their course, and in the winter of 1846–47 suffered fates much worse and more memorable than not getting a buckle.
The moon had set. A pale, watery gray sky promised a pale, watery winter day. I crunched on past more stands of birch and empty, barren fields. My feet sank. I pulled them out. I pumped my arms, sank again, and pulled them out again. Timeless silence, except for the crunching of my feet, the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the forest’s only moving creature—me. I would run an hour and 15 minutes this morning—10 miles at a 7:30 pace. I would run another 10 miles the next morning, and the next. Weekends, I would run 25-mile-long runs.