Solar Flare

Through the trees, the band of gneiss appeared seemingly out of nowhere. The cliff itself was not tall—fifty feet or so—and sat squatly in segments along the ridgeline. The tone of the crag resembled elephant skin—taught, grey, and striated with lines. At its base a half dozen people milled about, all wearing climbing harnesses and some coiling or uncoiling ropes. It was my sophomore year in high school and was the second time I had traveled to climb at Rose Ledges in western Massachusetts with the small, motley club from my high school. With a little less than a year of rock climbing under my belt, each new location and each experience was rapidly redefining my understanding of the sport. On the main wall a serrated, right leaning flake dominated the face. White chalk from dozens of hands had dusted its whole length indicating a clear and well defined path. For a while I stood there, sweating from the approach and watching a man step off the ground and onto the wall.

He was starting up this prominent feature called Tennessee Flake, leading as he went. About ten feet off the ground, he placed a solid cam in the first major horizontal seam to protect his ascent and kept moving up the route. I marveled at his fluid movement. Having top-roped the route that last time I was here, I knew that the climb was not for novices as the handholds and body positions were not always straight forward. About halfway up, he did something that I was not prepared for. He moved left and away from the security of the flake which provided both large handholds and plenty of opportunities for gear in the crack. He stepped gingerly out onto the face and transitioned to a thin, incipient seam which jagged leftward like a great leaning W.

This line had no chalk on it and therefore appeared to have never been climbed before. The fissure was barely wide enough for his finger tips. The climber stopped to coolly fiddle tiny stoppers into the fracture. Each thin wire bobbed maniacally as the rope slipped through the carabiner clipped to the loop, and this motion threatened to jostle them from their shallow and precarious placements. With as much composure as he had started up Tennessee Flake, he completed his ascent of this route called Solar Flare. At the top, he did not shake his fist in victory. The group below, which had watched tensely throughout the performance, did not applaud for him. They just turned back to their conversations. However for me, my paradigm of climbing had just been radically shifted. I stood there silently, probably jaw agape, studying the line the rope traced away from the common path and up a section of wall that I knew had a name but could not believe had been led so casually.

What does this anecdote have to do with running, scholarships, or college?

Just three months ago, I was standing at the base of an ice climb in Montana. I had not lead “real” ice in several years, having only climbed a little easy alpine ice and messed around seracing on local glaciers in the fall. The route was intimidating and long and steep. It was ridiculously cold; my fingers and toes were numb. My stomach churned with anxiety. My climbing partner looked me in the eye and said as simply as it could be put, “You can do this.” It was not intended to psych me up. It was hardly an affirmation either. It was a statement of truth. His words echoed in my mind, colliding with my own internal pronouncements of confidence. I slapped my palm against my helmet, clapped my ice tools gently against each other, and sent it.

One of the most valuable lessons that I have received during all my years of climbing has been the notion that the community you choose to associate with very closely correlates with the amount of success that you will achieve. There is no doubt that individual vision matters. In the end, you need to make the moves, control the fear, or handle the situation. However, it cannot be overstated how significant it is to have a group of people who are standing with you also saying, “This is possible”. That is not to say that every person may be able to achieve the vision. I doubt that anyone else watching the climber lead Solar Flare could have replicated the accomplishment. I also doubt that he required their collective support of his vision.

I think about my students and the community that they live in. I wonder what their collective vision is regarding their future, their opportunities, and their aspirations. I can tell you that from my own experience, my own choice to attend college was an easy one. The various communities of which I was a part made the decision a clear one. I was fortunate to have the financial, social, and familial resources to propel me in that direction. For me the route was already well chalked; for many of my students, though, college is a Solar Flare—light and energy arcing into the dark void of space. It requires a shift in the paradigm. The path is precarious. Strength of mind is a greater asset than the strength of the protection against failure. Those of you who choose to donate to this scholarship stand at the base watching tensely, hoping for the best outcome possible.

For my ultra-marathon two months from now, I have that base of support. Several friends are running the event with me. Others are crewing to provide support. An even greater number of people have told me that they stand behind the project and expect complete success saying through both words and actions, “This is possible”. By logging on to this blog, by sharing it with people who may be interested in the project, you too can expand that group of people who are sending the same message to those students who are struggling to get a college education. Yes, “This is possible!”

Recovery

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Rest is not laziness. Laziness is inaction when action needs to be taken. It is doing a task without awareness to detail or the desire to fulfill the goal. Any undertaking that is truly significant in scope and nature cannot be completed without rest. Knowing when and how to rest exemplifies attention to detail. Exercising discipline is the antithesis of indolence.

I have all of my long runs planned out between now and the ultra-marathon in April. Blocking these training events out will be a crucial component of being successful. However, I also have planned out weeks and weekends where the goal is simply to rest. Perhaps, the better term would be recovery. Long runs put an inordinate amount of stress on the body. Some schools of thought suggest that for every mile you race, you need to rest the same number of weeks. Accordingly this means that one should only race two marathons a year. Although my long runs do not incur the equivalent amount of stress that a race would, the impact on my muscles, tendons, joints, and immune system is still harsh.

After last weekend’s long run, I came down with a slight head cold including a runny nose, feeling of lethargy, and the occasional splitting headache; it was quite clear to me that I needed several days for my body to recover despite the fact that it was far from the epic. It would have been easy to continue training during the week. The “hardcore” might say I should have persevered and pushed through the discomfort. This type of philosophy seems stupid to me. Clearly, I needed rest. Taking the three days was not laziness. It was the wise choice given the circumstances. Besides, just because I was resting did not mean that I did nothing.

For those several days my focus turned to recovery. Fluid intake was carefully monitored; my consumption of fruits and vegetables increased. Perhaps most importantly, the work for that time became addressing the various knots and tight spots that had been accumulating in my muscles. Running enchains the muscles between the glutes and the Achilles tendon. As a result everything from the gastrocnemius to the hamstrings starts to tighten up. This reduces flexibility and in turn the ability to take long, efficient strides. Running turns into shuffling, which is a common occurrence on long runs. After ten or fifteen miles, a short squat to reintroduce full range of motion becomes a welcome thing. For those three days I worked on regaining range of motion while I rested. A rolling pin placed under my calf allows me to rock the knots out of those tissues. A lacrosse ball pressed between my hamstring and a chair creates targeted and effective trigger point pressure. While sitting and watching television, I would tuck one leg up, shin against the back of the couch, to lengthen the quadriceps and Sartorius muscles. The goal was regaining the mobility of tissue and joints.

The most important thing one can do while resting is to capitalize on the opportunity to take stock of the situation. For example, if I am using a rest day when none was planned, does that mean that I was doing something wrong? In this case, I firmly believe that I got sick, not because of the stress placed on my body by the long run, but because I was not diligently observing basic daily hygiene practices. February is a common time for the transference of cold and flu viruses. Most likely I was not washing my hands enough and picked up something from one of my students or colleagues. During the course of the day, I touch and share dozens of pens with my kids. Acquiring their ailment is simply a matter of numbers. Fortunately this has a simple fix.

Lastly I will reiterate that there is a significant difference between “I don’t want to train this afternoon” and “I shouldn’t train this afternoon”. The first is laziness. The second is wisdom. However for now, I am done writing. It’s time for a nap.

All The Way

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Yesterday, I was back on Wildwood in Forest Park with the goal for the day being a four hour run. At the Thurman trail head, I had laced up my shoes and strapped my hydration pack to my waist. Shortly after the quarter mile mark, I had banged a left at the port-a-johns and started climbing Wild Cherry to where it meets Wildwood. Although my legs felt great, I walked most of this section of trail. One of the goals for the day was to not run the hills, and although it may have seemed silly to do so, I was already walking three minutes into a 26 mile run. However I was alone and was running my own itinerary today, at my own pace, with my own objectives. No one was there to pass judgment on me or to whom I had to justify my actions.

Somewhere between mile marker eighteen and nineteen, a pack of about seven or eight women coming south along the trail approached me. Seemingly spontaneously they stepped to the sides of the dirt path and formed a bridge for me to pass through. With shouts and cheers and warm hoorays on their part, I ducked through the tunnel and emerged on the other side. Several strides down the trail, I turned and called back asking, “How far are you guys going today?” In unison they enthusiastically hollered back to me, “All the way!” I took this to mean that they were through-running the trail, a total of about thirty miles. I kept going my way, and they kept going theirs.

My turn around point, mile marker 20, was still at least ten minutes farther along. A small part of me hoped to catch them along the return trip. Their energy had lifted mine considerably, and I wished to surf their effervescence back to the trailhead. It seemed highly unlikely though. They would be more than twenty minutes ahead of me by the time I had simply returned to the spot where we crossed paths. They would most likely be miles ahead of me, unreachable. And there was the splinter in my sock.

At first it felt like a pine needle had slipped into my shoe and migrated downstream to lodge beneath my toes. With every stride, it pressed into my flesh. Stopping to fish it out would mean that that group of ladies would simply have more time to put an even greater distance between myself and them, so I doggedly pushed on. At my turn around point, I stopped to remove my shoe. The splinter was aggravating my foot, and it seemed stupid to end up with a blister with 13 more miles to go. Balanced on one leg on the side of the trail, I pawed through my empty shoe hoping to turn up the offending item, but nothing appeared. I laced back up and started south towards home. Within a few minutes, the phantom sliver reappeared, and I stopped again. However, again I found nothing. Twice more I laced up, started running, and stopped to remove both my shoe and sock. Twice more I found nothing. Twice more I allowed my wave to roll farther and farther away from me. Looking at my watch, it occurred to me that the chances of catching up with them had all but evaporated. As for the splinter, at last it too seemed to have vanished, and I was able to continue on uninterrupted.

I came to realize, though, that I didn’t actually need to run with them. I didn’t so much require their company but the idea of them. They were going “all the way”. Whether that meant thirty miles or five, it didn’t really matter. They were going to finish, and not only were they going to finish but it seemed that they were going to do so joyously. That is exactly what I needed: joy with every stride; joy with every mile.

Eventually I gave up trying to catch them, and instead I focused on just running my own route. On the hills, I walked briskly as I had planned. Along the flat sections between towering Douglas firs, I cruised; my mind was empty and calm. My footfalls filled that empty space between. Strangely though, after I came to grips with the fact that I no longer needed them, I caught up to them. The technicolor, sixteen legged caterpillar that they formed appeared on the opposite side of the ravine from me. Their singular pulsing form marched slowly but confidently southward along the trail.

When I met up with them, again they stepped aside. Again they cheered. Again my spirits were lifted. This time I just said, “Thank you” as I passed them by. Perhaps, they just thought me being polite in response for their considerate actions. With an hour to go on my run, however, they served up another wave for me to ride all the way back to the car.

Perhaps the point of all this is to illustrate the very simple notion that we often need the idea of something more than we need the thing itself. I did not need to run with these amazing people. Instead I needed the idea that running could be an act of joy. An idea is entirely portable; I can carry it with me, even as I run my own race wherever that race may be. As well I needed the idea that I should go “all the way” to the full completion of the plan. In anything that requires extra commitment or uncommon discipline, it is good to be resolved to do whatever it takes to carry through to the end… even if we need to walk the hills.

Lastly it is worth noting that the goal had changed. For me, all the way once meant completing a marathon. For my students, all the way means—for now—graduating high school. Four hours or four years, the distance can seem insurmountable. However now, for myself and for many of my students, all the way has come to mean something different—something grander. For some, all the way means college. As for me, 26.2 was just the warm up for something bigger than I ever imagined possible when I took the first step towards the finish line.

The Ghan

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I have had the chance to talk to about a half dozen of the students who have been applying for the scholarship because they have personally come in to get the application from me. In each case I explained to them that the amount of the award was not certain and that they needed to find people to make pledges. In each case I never saw concern in their eyes, only steely optimism about the future. This particular experience has been entirely motivating for me because I have been thinking, or perhaps worrying, about whether or not I will be successful on the day of the ultra-marathon.

I think about what would happen if something as simple as a cold hit me the day of the run, or perhaps I might turn my ankle on a root during the first few miles rendering me incapable of finishing. It could very easily ruin the day, but would it ruin the project as a whole? Yes and no. In truth I want to hand a student the largest check I can. I hope that the donations will spill over the $2,500 mark and fill the coffers for next year as well. What if it doesn’t though? What has been gained if this does not happen?

This blog is part of an alternative outcome. I suppose that I could simply write a check to the student from my own savings. However, I want to demonstrate to each of the applicants as well as other students who may stumble across this that I am trying to live the values that I espouse. There is often the impression among students that teachers “talk the talk” but don’t “walk the walk”: the writing teacher who never writes; the health teacher who drinks too much; the administrator who lectures on ethical actions and then deals in amorality. I do not want to be a teacher who instructs on the value of struggling to achieve goals and then cuts genuine effort from my own life. For this reason I am trying, through this blog, to expose the difficulties that I am dealing with as I prepare. I want my students and the applicants to come to realize that success is not certain for me and that the preparation is often grueling and devoid of appreciation.

In that vein, I have always hated the aphorism, “It’s the journey not the destination”, because it is both cliché and devoid of truth. Of course the destination matters. Of course the goal is important. The destination itself is a crucial component of the trip. But what if you never got there or the result was not how you imagined it? My father and I traveled in Australia several years ago. We met in Darwin on the north coast and then traveled by train to Alice Springs in the center of the continent. I suppose I could have flown directly to that small city which anchors the heart of Australia. I remember a fair amount of that city, but most of the images which were powerfully cemented into my memory are all framed by the window of the Ghan railway train. Alice Springs was washed out in drab desert colors while the desert from the Ghan was romantically wild, hostile and beautiful, as well as harsh but hospitable.

The Ghan now runs from Darwin to Aidelaide, three thousand kilometers away on the south coast. This railway, which was started in 1878, was not finished, though, until 2004. It took 126 years to achieve the goal of linking the polar ends of the continent. No one who first conceived of it lived to witness the completion. In fact flash floods frequently washed away portions of the original line. Service was notoriously unreliable. Eventually a large portion of the railway was abandoned. Now the old route is a sandy track through the desert, and innumerable, rusting iron spikes litter the route as a testament to the country’s long term vision and willingness to tear up a recognizable failure and move forward. Darwin, like Alice Springs, is not particularly remarkable. It is the parallel threads of steel which wend their way through the desert that stop a traveler in his tracks and cause him to wonder whether he need to ever get to his destination at all.

Yesterday I spent an hour on the bike to relieve some of the wear and tear accrued in the more slender and sensitive fibers of my legs by the many miles run so far. Even though it was a day for recovery, I pushed my lungs. For an hour I studiously monitored and regulated my heart rate. The target was 145 beats per minute. I know from experience that I can hang there indefinitely, while still exerting genuine effort. It is the target heart rate for the ultra-marathon. The goal for the day was not so much exercise as it was discipline. Resisting the urge to soft pedal or drive hard was the objective. Staying focused on the goal was the goal. At sixty-five minutes I plowed through the invisible tape at the end of the ride. However, there were no handshakes. No one dumped a jug of Gatorade on my head. As I gently pedaled through the cool down, my ten year old Siberian husky wandered lazily into the room, licked the sweat from my calf, and then ambled off. It was one more workout—an iron spike driven home—that anchored down future success. It was one more workout that pushed the tracks deeper into the desert—a place filled with unquantifiable uncertainty.