A Runner's High

Older, Wiser, Slower, Stronger

Dean Karnazes

• Publisher: Allen & Unwin
• Year: 2021
• Print ISBN:
  9781838953843
• eBook ISBN:
  9781838953836
• Topic: Psychology
• Subtopic: Sports Psychology
• Index: Psychology

Dean Karnazes has pushed his body and mind to inconceivable limits, from running in the shoe-melting heat of Death Valley to the lung-freezing cold of the South Pole. He's raced and competed across the globe and once ran 50 marathons, in 50 states, in 50 consecutive days. In A Runner's High, Karnazes chronicles his return to the Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run in his mid-fifties after first completing the race decades ago. The Western States, infamous for its rugged terrain and extreme temperatures, becomes the most demanding competition of his life, a physical and emotional reckoning and a battle to stay true to one's purpose. Confronting his age, wearying body, career path and life choices, we see Karnazes as we never have before, raw and exposed. A Runner's High is both an endorphin-fuelled page-turner and a love letter to the sport from one of its most celebrated ambassadors.

1

ENDURANCE NEVER SLEEPS

Running an ultra is simple; all you have to do is not stop.

I’m lying catawampus splayed ass-to-the-dirt in the trail—one leg tweaked improbably beneath me—staring up at the afternoon sky seeing sparkles of light flickering before me like circling fireflies and wondering what the hell just happened. A sharp ringing in my ears perforates the otherwise complete stillness, a lazy film of dust rising indolently around my idle carcass. Inside the motor room my muscles and bodily organs register a dull tenderness, but it is the nausea that is most pronounced, a queasy sensation of being punched hard in the gut. What just happened?

Moments ago I was in perfect harmonic flow, bounding along nicely, cool and in control, step, spring, step . . . Then everything changed. I vaguely recall flight, weightless soaring, a defiant middle finger to gravity as time briefly suspended; my wings spread—fly, be free . . .

Until impact. Kaboom! Everything just exploded, like a skydiver whose chute failed to deploy. Now I’m heaped on the soil like Icarus, a lifeless, charred exoskeleton smoldering in ruin and wondering what just went down. A ticker tape of questions scroll across the screen of my mind: Is anything broken? Will someone find me? Where am I?

To answer that final question we need to dial back the clock to yesterday morning, a time when I had a sinking premonition: I shouldn’t be doing this. I REALLY shouldn’t be doing this. I know better. Then I shut the door behind me. I was doing it.

At least the timing of my departure seemed good. The merciless Bay Area traffic was showing its gentler side and I slipped through the busiest corridors with barely a tap on the brakes. Sometimes it takes hours just getting across town, and when it comes to sucking the living soul out of a creature, perhaps no human creation is more noxious than traffic (with the exception of TSA lines).

Still, despite the absence of congestion, it took nearly eight hours to reach my destination, the juxtaposed pastoral hamlet of Bishop, California. Nestled under the striking peaks of the Eastern Sierra Nevada mountain range, Bishop is something of a conundrum. It’s in a beautiful natural setting, though one oddly frequented equally by hikers and bikers (and the bikes they’re riding aren’t the kind with pedals). The main street through town has quaint galleries, outdoor mountaineering stores, a nature center, and an indie bookstore, things you might expect in a mountain settlement. But then there are rows of fast-food joints, seedy bars, a collection of budget hotels, and a Kmart, all of which thoroughly taper the city’s charm with a liberal dousing of contemptible.

I was meeting my father here, at one such establishment of lesser repute. Unfortunately, there was little choice in the matter; it was the only remaining hotel room in town. Reservations were made last minute and I booked what I could get. As would be expected on such short notice, there also weren’t many options for securing a crew to help support my endeavor, though I somehow snagged the very best (i.e., dear ol’ Dad). Who else would drop everything on a single two-minute phone call and drive six hours from Southern California to meet me? There hasn’t been a more loyal companion in my life than my father.

A spry eighty-two years old, the man bounced about like a loosely attached valence electron careening haphazardly around its outer shell. Sparks flew off him, a perpetual fission reaction capable of erupting with no forewarning. He was electric, charismatic, overwhelming at times, and wholly uncontainable. Every moment with him was slightly unpredictable. The older he grew the more lively his personality became. Laughter, angst, melancholy, joy—all of these emotions could be expressed within the confines of a single brief interaction. You never knew what to expect with Dad.

“ULTRAMARATHON MAN!” he boomed when he saw me (I’d asked him not to call me that a thousand times, but it was no use). A reporter had tagged me with that lovely moniker and I’d never felt comfortable with it. But over time it had taken on a life of its own, especially with my dad!

“Hiya, Pops,” I said, hugging him. “How was the drive?”

“Piece of cake.” He was fond of clichés.

“So you good?” I asked.

“Never had a bad day.”

Just wait until tomorrow, I thought coyly.

My mother was usually part of these far-flung escapades. The two were nearly inseparable. Sixty years of wedlock had brought them closer, two old-fashioned romantics clinging tightly through all of life’s crazy turbulence. Since their retirement they were in a state of perpetual motion. They’d toured just about every part of North America, Australia, and much of Europe. Sometimes on a whim they’d fly to Greece for a month or two with no fixed plans, no itinerary, no accommodations, nothing but a rental car (and rental cars in Greece are not always the most dependable machines). “Things work out,” my mother always tells me. She wasn’t here today because of a 5K she’d scheduled along the beach with her buddies, most of whom were decades younger. They still couldn’t keep up. She wasn’t fast, but my mother had the gift of endurance. From the Greek island of Ikaria—one of the fabled “Blue Zones” where indigenous people routinely live beyond a hundred—she is freakishly indefatigable, especially when it comes to outdoor adventures. Mom would certainly be with us today if she weren’t showing up those young lasses back home.

The air in Bishop is different than in San Francisco. In the Bay Area, even when you can’t see the water you can still smell its thick, salty dampness. In Bishop the air is hot and arid, a subtle hint of a smoldering campfire permanently hangs in the atmosphere. You could feel it in your eyes, the gritty dryness, and in your sinuses. Bishop sits in the high desert, in the lee of an imposing mountain range. Incoming storms lose their moisture as they sweep across California, and any rainfall left as they progress inland is mostly deposited along the western slopes of the uprising. Perilously little water makes it over the towering granite impediment of the Sierra Nevada. On average, Bishop receives about five inches of rainfall annually, and summertime humidity can drop into the single digits. Think of it as having a hair dryer ceaselessly blowing instead of an encroaching fog bank.

Although now well into the afternoon, the sun still seared my skin as I walked to the office to collect our room keys. The official start to summer wasn’t for a few weeks, but you’d never know it. The heat coming off the pavement radiated through my shoes, warming and swelling my feet. Tomorrow was supposed to be even hotter.

A small wall-mounted air-conditioning unit was noisily sputtering in the corner when I entered, but it was simply no match for the elements. It was stifling inside, even though the shades were drawn and it was dark. The innkeeper used a handkerchief to pat the sweat off his forehead. The place reeked of Lysol and dirty socks. I asked if there was an ice machine. “There is,” he told me. “But it’s busted.”

The elevator was busted, too. Thus we carried our bags up to our second-story chalet. “Sorry about these accommodations.”

“They’re fine,” my dad offered up, “just fine.”

Staying in the room next to us were two fully grown pit bulls. I was told the hotel was “pet-friendly,” but two adult pit bulls hardly seemed like sociable pets to me. The owners didn’t appear very genial, either. Standing outside having a cigarette, they looked us over with suspicion.

And we, for our part, were quick to get in our room and shut the door behind us. Once inside, the place was musty and dank. “We should probably check for bedbugs,” I bemoaned, hoisting our bags into the closet. But when I pulled open the blinds to let in some light the view out the dusty window instantly carried me someplace else, someplace special and expansive, a familial place that was part of my very constitution. Beams of late-afternoon sunlight extended heavenward, the jagged silhouette of the Sierra Nevada perched in the distance like an Ansel Adams photograph, towering columns of marble white clouds rising into the air and the sky so impossibly deep, dark blue. I’d been coming here most my life, since Dad and I first climbed Mount Whitney—the highest peak in the conterminous United States—when I was twelve years old. We carried heavy metal-framed packs and slept in a thick canvas tent, our hiking boots and wool socks left outside to air out. We cooked pouches of freeze-dried food over a small camp stove and rationed water from our canteens until we could find another brook to refill them. During the day we hiked, eating leathery beef jerky and trail mix, my fingers colorfully dyed with the melted coating of M&Ms. Sometimes we talked, but mostly we just hiked, swept up in the grand enormity of the surroundings, the brilliant artistry of Mother Nature holding us spellbound. When we reached the summit I humbly signed the logbook, forever marking my presence on this hallowed mountain peak.

I wasn’t a very good student, but my writing assignment about the Eastern Sierra trip with Dad got an A plus. It was my first A plus ever, and the teacher had plastered the report with a bunch of those colorful smiley-face stickers. They were stuck all over it, colorful little dots, and it made me joyful seeing all those smiley faces, a warm, flush feeling inside.

I loved those days, and I loved those adventures. I could let my long, wavy hair go uncombed. Nobody told me I couldn’t go there or I couldn’t do that; out here I was the master of my own destiny, free to wander as I pleased, free to explore. We didn’t have much when I was a boy, we had everything. We had the Eastern Sierra, Yosemite, and Sequoia. We had the San Gabriels and San Jacinto. We had Joshua Tree and Death Valley, Tahoe and Desolation Wilderness. We had Big Sur and the Pinnacles, Mendocino and the Redwoods in the north, Shasta in the middle, and Lassen to the east. We had California wild and untamed, and every summer vacation, every spring break, every school holiday and long weekend, we’d pack up the lime-green Ford Country Squire station wagon (replete with wood panels) and head for the trails. We were Outside magazine before there was Outside magazine.

Tomorrow I’d be setting out to relive some of those memories and to create some new ones. I’d returned to run the Bishop High Sierra Ultramarathon and my dad and I were together once again, a team reunited. Older now, yes, but still together. Still carrying on.

The Bishop High Sierra Ultramarathon offered four race distances: 20 miles, 50 kilometers, 50 miles, and 100 kilometers. “I’m not in any shape to run 100 kilometers,” I told Dad.

“So which race did you sign up for?” he asked.

“The 100 kilometers.”

Of course I did. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” I said to him. “I know better.”

“This isn’t your first rodeo, cowboy.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’ve done some stupid shit before.”

“C’mon, ultramarathon man, you know what you’re up against,” he said, patting me on the back.

“Yeah, I do know what I’m up against. And that’s what scares me.”

What I was up against was 62 miles of climbing and descending a narrow dirt path through the mountains and desert of the High Sierra in the blazing heat. I knew full well what I was up against. But another battle awaited me before I even reached the starting line.

“I’ll set the alarm for three thirty.”

“Three thirty! Why so early? The race doesn’t start till five thirty.”

“You don’t want to be late.”

“Dad, it’s a five-minute drive.”

“You want to have time to warm up?”

“Warm up? I’ll have 62 miles to warm up.”

“Suppose there’s traffic?”

“Dad, this is Bishop, population 3,760. The only way there’d be traffic is if there’s an earthquake.”

“Suppose there is?”

“AHH! You’re exhausting.”

Arguing with Dad could be more draining than running an ultramarathon. One of his most vigorously defended positions has to do with promptness. In my opinion he takes it too far. For instance, if he has an appointment scheduled—say, at the DMV—he would make it a point to arrive at least an hour early, just to be on the safe side. Now, I’m not sure about you, but if I found myself with a spare hour to burn, waiting at the DMV wouldn’t top my priority list. But there was no use arguing with the man.

“Okay, Pops, set your alarm for three thirty.”

“Great. We’ll have some coffee.”

We both looked up at the chintzy in-room coffeemaker. There were two Styrofoam cups, a generic Mylar bag sta...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• 1 Endurance Never Sleeps
• 2 Growing Pains
• 3 Why We Run
• 4 Follow the Path
• 5 Can’t Stop; Won’t Stop
• 6 The Aftermath
• 7 The Silk Road Ultra
• 8 The Long Run
• 9 Chasing Windmills
• 10 Friendship and Fatherhood
• 11 Lost in a White House
• 12 Just Did It
• 13 The Cavs and the Cavs-Nots
• 14 To Cut is to Heal
• 15 Back to the Start
• 16 Let’s Get this Party Started
• 17 Loose Lug Nuts
• 18 The Silly and the Sublime
• 19 The Meltdown
• 20 Head Fake
• 21 Embrace the Suck
• 22 London Calling
• 23 The Light
• Conclusion: New World Disorder
• Gratitude