Korima Run Day 3 - Patrick Sweeney - Corona!

OK, I'd set out for my Korima Run with another friend in mind, but life seemed adamant on reminding me of another one. See, the day has been glorious here and the warm weather plus some heavy yard work made me pretty thirsty and running... for the fridge.

I grabbed a first beer, a suitably-named Corona, and a couple handfuls of nachos, thinking I'd get right back to work. But first thing I knew, I was two Coronas down and my pickax motivation had reached an all-time low.

"I better get my run in", I thought, knowing full-well that the best of my day was rapidly getting behind me. I found a pair of shorts, a t-shirt and my old beat-up Lunas and, as I was heading out the door, dragging my feet, my Karine asked "Does someone need motivation?". I knew she couldn't come because she slightly injured her left ankle running her first 5k earlier this week. "I'll just take my bicycle", she said, with that lovely smile. I was super happy.

A couple hundred yards in the run, my slouching belly full of beer started to bloat to maximum discomfort, and I was reminded of my always painful, but always fun, beer miles. So naturally, I started thinking of Sweeney :)

I love Patrick Sweeney because he chose fun and the enjoyment of life over material possessions. I love that he always wants to play something, to plan some shenanigans or to go out and do something fun. He is a wonderful chef, too, and a great friend.

Sweeney pretty much invented the beer mile, which consists of chugging a beer, running a quarter mile, then repeating that 3 other times to attain maximum stupidity. But he also invented the Leadville Rock Golf Invitational (I hope I got the name right) which consists of throwing rocks at various distances with an unclear purpose and following whimsical challenges along the way. And hundreds of other colorfully-named games like Shower Shots or Find The Chicken.

So as I was slushing around today, trying to look like a runner, I just did what Sweeney does and enjoyed the moment. And I almost heard him tell me "Corona? That's not beer! It's a yellow fizzy drink." And I smiled and I thought of my friend, who's always somewhere doing something fun. Run free, amigo, and see you soon!!

BTR 2014 - Whiskey Jerry, A Raramuri And The Marshmallow Man Walk Onto A Ranch...

The BTR Tribe

I woke up in my tent with a parched mouth and a terrible headache. The camp was still quiet, so I figured it was probably very early morning. Painfully, I turned over, opened the zipper door and fumbled out in the faint light to go get a bottle of water, kicking empty beer cans on the way to Sweeney’s car. My head throbbed and I couldn’t quite remember how the party ended the night before, aside from a vague memory of face-planting in the dark on my way to the Port-a-Potty.

Welcome to Born To Run, the Burning Man of ultra running.

This was the morning before my 50K, I couldn’t walk straight or mumble more than 3 or 4 relevant words in a row. Looking for some sympathy from fellow partyfaces, I stumbled to the Clemens camp to see if anyone had made coffee. Tyler handed me a Tecate, which I pushed back to him, gagging. “Are you nuts?!” I said, trying to keep my cookies. He broke the can open and handed it back. “It’s open now. Gotta drink it!”.

As more tent-zipper, groaning and can-kicking sounds arose, the camp slowly came to life on the glorious California morning of the Chamberlin Ranch. Everyone looked like shit, with some emerging out of tents that weren’t theirs, or others still buzzed from the craziness of the night before. If you’d taken a snapshot at that precise moment, no one would have ever believed you were among ultra distance runners, and some of the best ones at that.

Wheelchair-Racing-With-A-Wine-Drinking-Pacer
was not listed on Ultrasignup's event schedule.

I slouched down on a chair at Margarita’s camp with the most hung-over Josue Stephens I’d ever seen and we tried to slowly come back to life through excessive belated water drinking. On one of my first zombie pee walks to the Port-a-Potty, I came across one of my favorite running people. “Apache TONY!!! How’s it going, brother?” - The puzzled look on his face hinted that this maaaaybe wasn’t the first time I’d seen him during the past couple hours... “Hummm… you… don’t remember last night’s campfire much, do you?” he said, smirking. Oh man.

When your weekend of running includes half-naked men dressed like trees, archery runs, beer half-marathons and heavy metal mariachi shows, there’s no need to devise a hydration strategy or meticulously prepare your race-day food; your only job is to survive the party, surf the tidal fun wave and wait for the horrible Norteño music, 5:00 AM wake-up call and Luis Escobar’s broken voice over the PSA screeching “You have 15 minutes to show up to the starting line, dressed up and looking like a distance runner”.

Don't ask. No, seriously.

Seriously, though, what else could I expect? Born to Run 2014 was the literal gathering of everyone I love in the sport, with so very few exceptions that I could count them on the fingers of a single hand. Almost every person who’s made my life the homeless heaven it was this past year was camped out somewhere around me in concentric circles, starting from the “Mas Loco Village” established around La Mariposa’s car. It was a festival of love and a celebration of the running life.

Even our Raramuri friends were here, with Equipo Caballo Blanco running its first BTR-sponsored event. Despite grand fears that this whole freak show would terrorize them forever, it was delightful to see them walking around the camp, hanging out under the shade of trees and – yes, you read this right – smiling. They looked relaxed, perfectly at ease, in maybe what they might have interpreted as the gringo-style Tesguinada (traditional corn beer party) they are so familiar with as the landmark event before any big Copper Canyons running meet.

Surrounded by my whole tribe, I spent the rest of the morning trying to rehydrate and telling everyone who’d listen (read: nobody) that I wouldn’t drink another drop of booze until after my run.

BTR's idea of sticking to
a strict pre-race regimen

Since I chugged away my wise pre-race decisions at the Beer Mile just a couple hours later, I guess I didn’t deem it worthy to get my gear ready or to prepare a proper final meal before my 50K. I spent the rest of the afternoon sharing beers with Papa Jim and the Clemens Clan (kinda sounds like a rock band) and had a family-sized bag of chips for dinner with my friend Greg Lowe, while a very drunk Alejandro fell off his camping chair and was lovingly rolled onto a blanket in the shade. Then Metalachi showed up, so I *might* have had a couple shots of tequila and that god-awful Fireball crap, which seems to have become the official allwedoisrun poison of choice, while screaming along at “We’re not gonna take it” to the sound of distorted trumpets.

Soooo, as you can imagine, 5:00 AM came in crashing, with a vengeance. I’m not sure what was the hardest: finding my running clothes in the dark and something liquid that was not alcohol to fill my hydration vest, or keeping in an increasing need to puke. I managed to shove a Clif Bar down my throat and walked to the starting line. In the half-obscurity of the early morning, things looked like the police had just busted in the ranch and were rounding up a herd of half-drunk hobos to put an end to this debauchery. At least, I thought, everyone looked equally “ready”.

Somewhere between the Beer Mile and the rock show,
I was officially adopted by the Clemens Clan

I don’t know if I spaced out badly or if the shotgun misfired, but without much ceremony, we somehow just got moving out the gate and onto the course. And then something really weird happened. We started running.

Between awesome segments with kick-ass Jody and my buddy Jon Zaid from Nine Trails, the first loop felt like an easy 5K. Shortly after that, I played catch with Durango Mike for a bit, saw Benedict whizz by like there was nothing to it and then came across the radiating beauty of Amy, closely followed by the highly inspiring Dan. I completed my second third of the run with my girl Crista, chatting and joking the miles away until we crossed the gate for the second time.

I really thought things were going OK, considering, but it only occurred to me that I might be doing really well when I reached the last aid station before my finish, with about 10K to go. I got in to get food and was really happy to see Margarita… and casually smiled at Michelle and Bobby, who were- Wait. What the hell were Michelle and Bobby, by all means WAY faster people than me, doing at that aid station?

This one serves to prove there was actual running involved

After some moments sinking in the realization that maybe I should get my ass back on the trails and actually try and keep up with my friends, we all took off together and dropped the hung-over hammer to get this thing done, I guess, and maybe see who still had a cold beer or two? Margaret was in a lot of back pain, so our merry band stretched out a little bit on the last long downhill. I only started to feel the burn on that last 1-mile stretch where you cross the finish line, keep going a half mile out then turn back for the real finish because, in the RD’s own words, “You still owe me a mile”. The heat had risen and the shenanigans from the last couple days had left my reserves, well, depleted to say the least, but I still managed to drag my carcass to the finish chute. I ended up ahead of Michelle, who forgot to run under the gate and had to turn around, which is absolutely unfair. But really, I don’t think anyone was counting that hard.

After catching my breath a little bit, I started wondering if I could really have ran my best 50K ever, ill-prepared and badly hung over, or if this was all some sort of withdrawal syndrome, post-alcoholic hallucination. So I went back, looked at the clock and marveled at what I can only call the Born To Run magic.

6:16. Go figure.

Born To Run, C'est le Woodstock de la course d'ultra, un festival de la folle amitié qui nous unit et la réalisation incroyable que ça se peut, courir 50 kilomètres sur un lendemain de brosse :)

Bourbon Feet On The Leadville 100 Beer Mile

In the very unlikely case you wouldn't know who Patrick Sweeney, AKA Bourbon Feet is, drop anything useful your are currently doing and have a generous dose of his awesome :

You're welcome.

So whether you are roaming around Leadville or anywhere near my beer chugging, Running Lunatic friend from Manhattan Beach, and are tempted by his shenanigans, you've been warned ;)

Leadville 100 Beer Mile Race Report

“I can drink more than I think I can. I am drunker than I think I am. I will not puke.”

After the Beer Mile oath is taken, there is no backing out. I started regretting getting suckered into this after about 3 gulps of my first beer. See, I can’t chug, and I can’t run, at least not quite like Sweeney, Meissner, Powell, Tyler and pretty much everybody else in the field.

Everyone was on their way to their first lap, and I wasn’t even at half my can of Tecate. Luckily for me, this dude Leon couldn’t chug either, and a steady stream of foam was dripping down his long ZZ-Top beard while we were exchanging empathic looks of mixed amazement and pity.

I let out an obligatory loud burp, threw the can to the side and took off. My belly bloated so badly, I thought it would rip open and show everyone the ginormous burrito I had less than an hour before this, adding dumbness to my stupidity. I tried to start running, and my body rapidly reminded me we were in Leadville, at 10,200 feet of elevation, where running is already hard enough that you don’t need to make it any tougher. I slowed to a jog.

At 1/8th in the mile, I had already decided I wasn’t going to see this through. With great eloquence, a couple hundred feet from crossing the line for my second beer, I let out a loud “Fuck this”. However, I discovered that my refusing to quit is stronger than my common sense or my self-preservation. Before I even realized it, I was popping my second can open and making a mess of myself.

I semi-hobbled my way to the turning point, not even trying to look like I was running this. I turned around, already feeling sorry for myself because I had only half of the job done, and I was ready to check in at the ER, the AA or anywhere that would get me out of here.

It only got worse. At beer 3, my body simply refused to drink. Every sip I forced down seemed to pile up a couple inches below my throat, and it wasn’t long before I started gagging, spitting and doing other things better to stay unmentioned. I was getting ever closer to a dreaded, gigantic barf that would only have me drink an extra beer and run an extra loop. Yeah, these are the rules.

It was largely evident, at that point, that I would finish well behind everyone else, if I finished. But that didn’t matter. I kept drinking as best I could, threw the can to the curb and got on my way. This time around, there was no running for me. I could barely walk and had bloated to the point that my whole chest was hurting really bad. I needed to burp, but couldn’t. About half way to the turning point, I crossed my friend Mike Miller, who didn’t look like he was doing too well either. “How are you?” he asked, looking a bit concerned.

Instead of an answer, what came out of me was the most beastly, cavernous, gigantic, otherwordly mix of a scream and a burp. I christened it The Scurp. It was terrifying and amazing at the same time. It was humanity at its worst and its best, trash and art intertwined. It was beautiful. Trees around me fluttered. Time stopped for an instant.

Uplifted by this unexpected moment and by my newfound lightness, I resumed running. I turned around, got back to the line, popped open my 4th, managed to somehow gulp it down, then took off just when the last runner was making his home stretch. I proudly assumed my DFL status and hobbled along. Sweeney had long finished and decided to further torture my sorry ass by doing a live video interview, in which I hardly pronounced more than 3 words. But the finish line was coming, and I started savoring victory, added to the burrito-scurp aftertaste. I was cheered and welcomed, raised my hands up in the air like a true alcoholic champion and crossed that line for a final time, swearing I was never going to do this again...

... While asking when the next one would be.



The Beer Mile was performed by highly-trained professionals in a strictly-regulated environment under the supervision of international elite runners. Do not try this at home.