Red Rock Mountain Marathon : The Real Deal

Would you like a personalized engraved finishers medal? Artificial obstacles and pretend Special Forces Officers? How about a colorful custom gender specific tee shirt? Age group awards 10 deep? Spectators, awards ceremony and plenty of personal recognition? What about the respect and admiration of your friends and family? Sound good?

You will not find any of that stuff at the Red Rock Trail Run.



Do Not Attend.
As promised, this is an advanced run on a very difficult, remote, rugged and potentially dangerous course. This run is intended for experienced, self-sufficient distance runners only. Drop bags are not necessary. Drop bags are a frivolous waste of time and resources. Real ultra runners carry. Trail marking and support will be far apart and MINIMAL. No map will be provided.You will be completely responsible for yourself. If you are unsure or apprehensive, do not attend.

"Be nice,
or go home"

When you receive this kind of pre-race e-mail, you know you're in for the real deal. You know you've got to have your shit together. You know you're running a Luis Escobar event. The man's motto is «Be nice or go home».

The raw, gritty, real truth is, when you sign up for a Luis Escobar event, you're getting ultra running at its finest. Good, old school trail fun with like-minded people who won't frown on your pre-race strategy of beer, whiskey, hula-hoop or salsa dancing by the fire. You know you will be among the best crowd of grumpy, bitching half-awake ultra zombies at an ungodly hour in the morning, shivering before a race official who reminds you of the event's rules.

Hungover, pre-race zombies.

«OK guys. If you made it here, you know this is a difficult course. Follow the trail markings. If you see a white chalk line, don't cross it. If you cross a chalk line; turn around or you're gonna get lost. If you cross a chalk line and keep going, you're a triathlete.»

Go!

Luis convinced me to sign up for Red Rock the very next day after the Nine Trails Ultra, a nightmarish course designed to break your will and confidence somewhere along the up-and-down trails of the Santa Barbara mountains. Even though the run itself had me abandon at the half-way point crying for my mommy, I'd really liked the funky crowd I ran with and actually looked forward to meeting them again.

So after a long season of ultras and runs all over the Southwest, I thought it would be awesome to have my last official trail event of 2013 with my friends the Californian Coyotes. I packed my van full of Indio beer and drove from Phoenix to the beautiful Rancho Oso, following La Mariposa and Dave Bloom through a hellish rain storm for hours on end.

Since we were a day in advance, we decided to camp out at the aptly named El Capitan Beach, not too far. We got there too late to turn around when I realized that they charge FORTY-FIVE DOLLARS for one night of camping (I mean, seriously?!), so we relunctantly dished out the dinero and went to sleep. We woke up to a fresh, but sunny day out and spent some lazy hours strolling on the beach, cooking breakfast, napping and reading magazines.

Welcome to Mas Loco Town

We took off in the early afternoon to meet our friends at Rancho Oso, a beautiful property on the slopes of the Santa Barbara mountains. We got there about the same time Sweeney did, so we comandeered a great lot for all our friends to camp out together; we named it Mas Loco Village.

A couple hours later, the place was filled with laughs, hugs and bottle-clanging sounds as Crista Scott, Michelle, Bobby, Adrian, John and the Clemens brothers Chris and Tyler were pitching their tents and cooking a big communal dinner.

Way too much booze later, we slowly left the big campfire and many more friends who had joined the fun and we headed back to get some sleep before the big day.

East Coast,
West Coast
And North Pole.
Represent.

Californian nights in the mountains are usually pretty cold, but that one – and the following morning – were simply brutal. I found myself frozen to the bones, unable to warm up and I shivered all the way to the starting line, wondering how the hell Sweeney, who wore not much else then a pair of shorts and arm warmers, was not convulsing in hypothermia.

Dave Bloom, Tyler Clemens and I agreed that we would take it easy and start from the back of the pack. As soon as the go was given, however, Dave vanished ahead in his own version of slow, leaving Tyler, me and a fellow runner named Mary heading for the first big climbs together.

Tyler and Mary

It took some miles to warm up, but the arm warmers eventually came off somewhere along the first couple miles. The day was beautiful and the company great, everyone was in high spirits and looking forward to great trail running.

After about 5 miles out, there was a little orange sign with an arrow pointing... up. It was one of the little extras Luis had planned for us. An ultra-steep, 0.3-mile, 700-foot climb to a high ridge where volunteers were waiting for us with our finishers AKA amulet medals. The deal was, either you climbed, got your medal and presented it at the finish line, or you DNF'ed and had to mail it back to Luis – with your excuse for not finishing :)

The climb was great, the view greater and the volunteers simply awesome. I got my medal, a hug, good laughs and a fun scramble down. We picked up two other runners in our little group heading back on the main course, who entertained us with recipes and stories of cooking awesome pies and homemade cookies until we begged them to stop, drooling all over the trail.

The first aid station came pretty quickly. It was an important stop, however, because it was the only support we would be getting for the next 12 miles or so. The volunteers had done a great job of bringing more than the «water and not much else» promise we had from the race director, and I was delighted to pick up some PB&J's and a couple bite-sized Snicker bars. Awesome. As I was expecting mossy-green creek water and BBQ'ed squirrel, no need to say I was ecstatic.

We took off pretty quickly, but to my great dismay I had to let my friends go because of an urgent, unavoidable side-trail business. I was pretty bummed, but thought I could maybe catch up with my amigos later.

I got back on the trail and felt really, really good. Since the start, I had decided to heed to my friend the Red-Tailed Hawk's advice and eat 200 calories per hour, which means 1 shot of 100 calories every 30 minutes. Way more than I'd ever eaten, but it promised to keep me up, running and energetic for the whole day. I was determined to follow through and see if the strategy would work. So far, so good.

When the first switchback descents started, I found myself speeding down the trail with a grin wider than my face, dancing and dodging and jumping like a little kid. I came across many interesting features of a real, outback trail run; downed trees, muddy creek crossings and washed-out segments which made sure I stayed alert and focused.

I started crossing 50-mile runners, who were running the course from the other side first. Everyone looked really good, but this was early in their long day; still, it was awesome to side-step from the trail to let them pass, high-fiving and cheering. I realized I was on a runner's high while running, which both surprised and pleased me. I surfed that awesome feeling for long minutes, taking great joy in being outside, playing in such a beautiful environment.

The 12-mile segment, as expected, felt long and sometimes lonely, but rewarded me with beautiful landscapes and great running moments. My energy was steady and my feet felt great. It was difficult to eat every 30 minutes, but I managed to do it without getting disgusted by my food and I kept a positive attitude about it.

I emerged from the trail section onto a road, and cruised down at very decent speed to reach the second – and last – aid station. Since my early morning start, and knowing the trails from my previous experience, I had expected to run approximately 8 hours, double my road marathon usual time, if everything went well. Although I was wearing a watch, I wasn't bothered looking at it or trying to calculate; I just trotted along happily until the aid station, which was a little over 6 miles away from the finish.

When I reached it, other runners were there eating and chatting and I picked up a conversation. «Yeah, we're doing pretty well; if I can leave quickly, I might be looking at a sub-7 hour finish». «Really?!», I said, a bit startled. «well, do the math. It's about 6 miles away, and we're 10 minutes to 5 hours right now.»

My next idea came pretty quickly. «Well, then, let's get the fuck outta here!»

I picked a handful of chocolate-covered espresso beans (I shit you not; they had that, too!) and started a steep climb to the ridges. Quickly, I lost my fellow runner and was alone again, but that was fine. My legs weren't fresh anymore, but I had plenty of energy and was climbing steadily, then breaking into a nice little run on the downhills. I was really satisfied with my time.

The course climbed more than I would've liked, so it took me some time to go through the first half of the last stretch. When I finally emerged on the dirt road, I heard a quick-cadenced thumping behind me and was passed by a really fast dude, all smiles. «Yeeee-haaw! It's all downhill from here!» he shouted, over his shoulder. Man was I happy to hear that!

I let gravity do its work and picked up some speed. My legs didn't feel super solid but I had enough strenght to hold the pace. When I left the dirt road to enter the last trail stretch, I looked at my watch. It said 6:15. I really wanted to take a break, but the idea of a sub-6:30 was simply too sweet not to try. I kept going, fueled by my monstrous eating, and emerged at the finish line in 6 hours and 25 minutes! I was extremely happy with my run and even happier to reunite with my friends and a cold beer.

It was a great day to run among the coyotes, and a great day to be alive :)



The Red Rock Mountain Marathon and Ultra is another awesome race directed by Luis Escobar. For more details and sign-ups, go to www.allwedoisrun.com. But be nice. Or go home.



Courir Red Rock, c'est se brancher direct à la source de la course d'ultra. C'est laisser faire les artifices, les petites attentions et le chouchoutage, lacer ses souliers et s'élancer dans les trails, juste pour voir quelle genre de journée on peut en tirer. Juste pour voir quel genre de coureur on est.

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.

Race Report - Ultra Marathon Caballo Blanco 2013

I believe in shamanism.

I believe our world is not only the sum of its physical parts; that there exists a spirit world in and around us. We are not solely amazing flesh machines, we are also animated by a spirit, an unseen force and a presence that defines not only ourselves but everything else in the universe.

I spent the last couple years discovering my body. But what started out as a pretty straightforward plan to improve my health and my physical fitness has transformed into an amazing journey of discovering the marvels of my capabilities and the ones of others. Helped and inspired by fellow adventurers from all shapes and types, I’ve experienced moments of indescribable grace at the very edge of complete exhaustion, mere instants from rebirthing with a renewed will and an energy that can only be explained by some unseen source, by something more than what the sum of my body cells can achieve. I embarked on the journey of mind over matter; I entered the spiritual realm of endurance running.

While I was exploring this new path, I also started experiencing the world in a different way. I started connecting with others in a manner that is as hard to understand as it is to describe. Moments of grace at the brink of unbearable fatigue and pain create an invisible, unbreakable bond between those who share them, something akin to instantly becoming soul brothers and sisters. I have the privilege of sharing such bonds with numerous extraordinary people, and they have made me richer than I could ever have imagined.

Last year, one of these bonds was broken. It was a powerful one, too, and its severance hurt me in ways I cannot put into words. I had just spent a little over a month with Micah, I was not even completely back, mentally, from the Canyons when I learned he was gone. It broke my soul.

In the following days, I went to see my Medicine Woman. At least that’s what I call her. The papers on her wall say “osteopath”, “chiropractor” and many other things, but I know who she is. As I entered her little office and started my treatment, she gave me the strangest of looks.

“Parts of your soul are missing.”

I broke down. Unable to speak, I tried to mumble an explanation of what had happened, but she stopped me. She didn’t need it. She treated my body, that day, but she also started treating my spirit. She explained, and demonstrated, that these connections I described not only exist, but last forever. She comforted me in showing complete understanding of what I was going through, and she guided me on a path to realizing that the only thing that matters in life is connection.

This connection, this strange bond that I first observed in my ultra running experiences, is what makes us true humans. And it has become for me an objective, a guide for living the rest of my life.

I traveled down to the Canyons in February, just like I did last year. Only this time, I had to deal with the fact that I would not stumble on my friend, catch up to what our lives had been since we were last together and go for a beautiful long run in the Barrancas.

I am grateful for the long days spent all alone, in silence, between running, sleeping, cooking and reflecting. I was lucky enough to have all the time needed to do these things over and over again until, slowly, they started to make sense once more. Until I could realize that I still had purpose here, that I was still connected, that the pain I had been feeling for a year now was gradually making way for some measure of peace, gratitude and a yearning to keep going forward.

I was not forgetting. I was processing.

When the tribe of Running People started gathering, I was elated to see familiar faces and new ones, but most of all to feel available and eager for new connections; to not be shut, wounded and afraid. I was free, present and open.

Days of running free, laughing, cooking, sharing and connecting led me to race day, between bouts of frantic work and magical moments only the Canyons can bring. And on that unique morning, before first light, I stood there once again, surrounded with love, friendship and community.

I didn’t hit the road alone. I carried with me two very special connections, two unexplainable bonds to share the adventure with. Two souls also in search of meaning. I had the strength, resolve and determination of a Tiger and the reach, depth and expanse of a Tree.

 The magic of the day unfolded and rewarded me with joy, passion and amazing feats of will. My joy was sharing about 6 miles of running with Jovian, a young Raramuri from the Los Alisos region, and seeing my friends Augusto, Donald and Olaf running free in the Canyons. My passion was witnessing Michael, Stephanie and Zac enter the world of ultra running with such elation. The amazing feats were those of exhausted runners keeping on, among which my friend Scott, but mostly Tom who literally broke through shackles of despair and defeat to rise up again and triumph over everything, including himself. What an incredible day to be alive.

Being reunited in the spirit of the Mas Locos, under the lead of Maria and Josue and the watchful eye of my friend the White Horse provided much needed energy, inspiration and hope. But this time around, it provided one more thing, one I had direly needed and sought since that fateful day, almost exactly a year ago.

It provided healing.

Apache Tear

I laid an Apache Tear down in the forest

Inside an inukshuk I built under a tree

Like a little shelter for you to rest

In this place I call The Sanctuary

Throughout the mountain, this place is unique

With its cedar trees and tumbling rocks

Protected by the sharp winds from the peak

And speckled with evergreen moss

Heavy tears roll down my cheeks

As I recall how we had said

We would come here when we’d meet

And run together once again

It is hard to let you go

But your soul needs to roam

Of all the places that I know

This one’s the best to be your home

I laid an Apache Tear

With my eyes welled up again

But I know I will be back here

Filled with thoughts of you, my friend.