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!!

Back From The Barrancas

I had a weird summer, you know. Between hard personal decisions and a nagging little injury, my spirit was weighed down by many thoughts and questions. A lot of those gravitated around a place I love, a place I had come to consider a second home; Urique. I spent many moments wondering how my friends were doing, how the overall situation was and about what the future would hold for this running paradise.

So when the opportunity arose for me to travel back down to the Barrancas, even though for a very short trip, I packed my bag in a heartbeat.

On the road with a truckload of giggling chicas :)

Ever since Michael Miller and I drove out of Urique with heavy hearts, we both swore we would be back no matter what. As the year was slowly nearing its end, Michael told me he had received some positive news from the other side of the border and that there was a window of about a week where not only we could go, but we would also be joined by our good friend Patrick Sweeney, who’d just finished another awesome feat of endurance by running the Chicago Marathon, then running to New York City and running the NYC Marathon as well, Forrest Gump-style.

The positivity started from the get-go. Seeing Sweeney was a real treat, and getting to road trip with two of my best running friends put a huge smile of my face. Even though we red-eyed it all the way, there was still room for happy-hour shenanigans, breathtaking runs and hot pepper shopping.

Beautiful morning run atop Creel

Everywhere we looked, traversing Mexico’s northwest from the Arizona border all the way down to Creel, things seemed pretty quiet and relax. There was only a single roadblock on the whole way, which can only mean that things have cooled down quite significantly.

The magic of the Canyons started for me as soon as we reached Mario’s cabins, nested on a magnificent promontory in San Isidro, where our Raramuri friend Horacio was waiting to take us on an evening run to the rim. Although I have traveled to many places in the Sierra, the canyon top is one of the places I have been the least so I was delighted to discover the trails that lead to Cerro Gallego, the Urique overlook, as well as the gorgeous creek trail that descends into the village of Porochi, where both Miguel and Horacio live. We came back at sunset, just in time for drinks by the bonfire Mario had lit for us. It was perfect.

Cabañas San Isidro, our friend Mario's gorgeous ranch

We set out the next morning, on foot, and descended unto Urique through rugged, ancient trails that are sometimes etched into the boulders by centuries of travel. I was shocked at the amount – and steepness! of the climbs that lead to the rim before the descent begins. On the way, Horacio was generous with information on local farmsteads, connecting trails and meaningful landmarks. Our spirits were high and we felt how specially meaningful it was for us all to be coming again to Urique, on foot, together, using the ancient trails of the People we respect and celebrate.

On the way down to Urique

After a rather difficult hike, we emerged in Urique to the symbolic chant of mourning doves. It brought me a sense of peace and closure, and a strong feeling of being back home. We met with our friends in the government and exchanged meaningful words, united in wishing to perpetuate the running tradition Caballo Blanco created.

Walking to the gate at Entre Amigos almost brought tears to my eyes. The place looks as beautiful as ever, and our friends Maruca and Tomas were waiting for us, all smiles, like they were welcoming their own family. Seeing that beautiful garden once again, and the trees loaded with fruits, was a true joy.

And just when things couldn’t get any better, our friend Prospero and his wife Sabina showed up to give us great news about the Caballo Blanco Trail Project and share even more ideas for the future.

We will be back, Barrancas!

Of course, things are not perfect in the Barrancas. They never were. There are crimes committed frequently all over the Sierra. The people’s struggle with violence is very real and must not be forgotten. But as things stand right now, relative peace appears to have returned, people are back to their daily occupations, and life seems to go on.

Although the race we’ve known and loved will now be an event organized and promoted by Urique, as a runner and as a friend of the Running People, I will be back in March. And so will others.

And that’s a really good thing.



You can follow our work at Norawas de Raramuri on our official website, www.norawas.org

Finish With Us America : Raw Inspiration

Patrick Sweeney - Credit: Stan Evans

Jup Brown

Jup Brown put his feet in the water next to Patrick Sweeney’s on Huntington Beach, California, last January and took a little sample of the water in a tiny tube. Next time he’d open it, he would be all the way across the United States, some 3,425 miles east from California, in Boston.

And just like that, both runners took a first step in a running journey too great for most people to even fathom.


As ultra runners, we sometimes have to deal with the awe and amazement of others when they discover we run distances of 50, 60 or 100 miles. Last Saturday, the one in awe was my own self. I’d traveled overnight to get to Boston to run the very last 50K segment of their epic adventure, to cheer them on and to witness something truly unique; the last step the two friends would take, this time in the Atlantic Ocean.

I stood there all jittery in Hopkinton, at the Boston Marathon starting line, staring at Jup Brown with a million questions bouncing around in my head. He, on the other hand, just sat there and smiled, relaxed, sharing some anecdotes that happened on the road.

“One night, I wanted to sleep in a little park kiosk just like this one”, he said. “It was at some church, so I really thought it’d be OK. Well would you believe it’s the only time I was refused to spend the night somewhere, and it wasn’t even inside! And the guy had the audacity to tell me ‘May God help you in your journey’. I told the guy *he* was supposed to be the closest contact I had to God!” he said, laughing.

I was Sweeney's breakfast surprise
Saturday morning :)

I knew Sweeney from before, of course, but it was the first time I was meeting Jup in person. I’d heard about him from friends who hosted the Run with us America team on the road, but in this first moment in his company, I was really struck by his humble sincerity and his friendliness.

“I don’t do all this for the sport, you know”, he added. “I do this to meet people like you guys, fellow humans I wouldn’t meet otherwise, and share part of the journey.”

In my opinion, Patrick Sweeney and Jup Brown are heroes. Not because they accomplish incredible human feats, but because their attitude, their outlook and their values raise the bar on all of us. Two guys performing an act of endurance beyond any comprehension, but insisting that what really matters in the connections they made with people all along the voyage and the kids they run for.

Start of the Race Across USA

See, Sweeney and Jup started their journey with Race Across USA because they had decided that the true meaning of their endeavor would be to support a great program called The 100 Mile Club, which encourages kids from all over America to walk or run 100 miles during a school year. While doing so, they would go and personally talk with those kids, in their school, along the way and share some inspiring moments.

Two more friends, Shacky and Vanessa Runs, offered to join in as the official crew for the long road ahead, volunteering the famous Summit Seeker they live in as a mobile house and aid station.

Somewhere along the way, their run morphed into Run with us America, in a more intimate setting following a route of their choosing. The two friends would run the rest of their adventure on their own, at their pace, sharing some of the segments and parting during others. And, of course, always running for the kids.

The Run with us America crew : Jup, Vanessa, Shacky, Sweeney and Ginger

Kara Lubin, 100 Mile Club

When asked about Patrick and Jup, Kara Lubin, founder and CEO of the 100 Mile Club, gets emotional. “Patrick and Jup are two incredible friends to the 100 Mile Club program. There are no words to express the amount of gratitude I have for what they have done and for the funds that they have raised for our program”, she says. “Every dollar that they have raised will go to fund the participation of students in need. Teaching kids to love exercise at an early age is essential for creating a healthier world. The 100 Mile Club is doing just that with the help of incredible people like Jup Brown and Patrick Sweeney. We are grateful to have them in our family”.

Sweeney totally thought
I was a Wellesley Girl

Last Saturday morning, however, you had to look very hard to find the heroes in our little group of runners. Both guys are so humble and unassuming, that every time we’d cross someone and tell them what was going on, they’d ask “So, which two guys are doing this?”. Sweeney was his usual, joyful self, joking around and playing his invented little games, such as “Crap found on the side of the road that isn’t fecal” which garnered an old lady’s wig, a porn centerfold and a skull-shaped fence segment, among others.

As the miles passed, I couldn’t help but notice how both Jup and Sweeney, even after putting their bodies to such extremes, looked healthy and solid. Aside from the obvious wear-and-tear, neither runners seems to suffer any particular damage, nor fear long-term effects. They noticeably covered the distance with incredible ease and good spirits (it’s 50K after all, a distance for which most people would train over substantial time and still be nervous about), smiling along and stopping to chat up passersby.

I told them both how I’d feared for them at first, when they announced their crazy journey. My only point of reference was Marshall Ulrich, who suffered terrible physical consequences from his transcontinental run, including some freaky permanent damage. Now, all I could notice was that both of them seemed to have become rock solid, zen and happy… while I was hobbling along with a bum knee, feeling half-broken and sorry for myself.

Our happy little group - Complete with little K-taped
ugly duckling in the back

I dropped out at one point, jumping in our crew Robin’s car for a couple miles. I didn’t want to slow everybody down, so I reluctantly stopped running and figured I’d just be at the beach to see the guys finish. They wouldn’t have any of it. A couple stops later, they told me they wanted to finish all together, and that they’d walk if it allowed me to tag along and be with them. It touched me in a way impossible to put in words. Here you had two guys finishing a 3,500-mile run, totally willing to make the last stretch longer and slower just for some dude to be able to share the experience. So I jumped back in, running 400M stretches and then walking, yo-yoing at the back of the group but somehow, somewhat able to keep up.

We finished the Boston Marathon course under a blue sky and a shiny sun, and simply kept going a couple more miles until, as Sweeney put it, they would literally “run out of country”. We meandered through downtown from Boylston street to Boston’s Long Wharf, through a neighborhood that much reminded me of San Francisco. At the end of a long street, finally, a beautiful patch of deep blue appeared.

Two happy, happy kids

And, just like that, just like a bunch of kids from the same block would run down to the beach to play in the sand, our little group made it across one last street and into the soft sand.

Two of the kids took their shoes off and unceremoniously walked into the ocean, then dove in. Something about their smiles, however, hinted that this little dip might have had some special meaning, maybe. Jup Brown opened a second little tube, filled it with ocean water and then mixed a drop of each into the other tube.

Both kids walked back on the beach, we opened the long-awaited box containing tequila-soaked water melon lovingly prepared by Robin, joked around and rejoiced for a little bit, then Sweeney and Jup simply said “Let’s go for a beer.”

Celebratory Sunday-morning mimosas, the day after

Patrick Sweeney and Jup Brown ran across the United States to raise funds for the 100 Mile Club. If you liked this story and are inspired by their adventure, please consider making a cash donation by following this link.

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 :)

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.

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.