Move With Purpose Part 2

I can be a stubborn SOB. Learning things the hard way is my modus operandi, and that leads to failing often and experiencing a great deal of physical pain. Especially for a forty something year old father of two, training to run their first ultra marathon while simultaneously trying to build a new business. To call myself a runner would be a major disservice to actual runners, but I’ve grown to love the activity. It’s become my primary positive outlet and brings me a considerable amount of joy, second only to my family.

Last year I signed up for the Speedgoat 50K at Snowbird in the rugged Wasatch mountains of Utah. It’s known as one of the toughest, if not the toughest mountain 50k’s in the world. Clocking in around 32 miles and 11,000 feet of elevation gain all above an altitude of 7,500 feet, with four not-so-forgiving time cutoffs, you’d be hard pressed to find a more difficult race. There is also 9,500 feet of decent over steep rocky terrain. The race director, Karl Meltzer has a stern warning for people registering, “Remember this is a hard race, if you feel like this should be your first 50K, you are probably wrong in your assumptions.” As a frequent guest on running podcasts Karl often shares his opinions about training for mountain ultras. One of which is to not train for a mountain race in Florida. Sounds like a bad idea on paper, right? Don’t run the Speedgoat for your first 50K, and don’t train in Florida. Two strikes against me already.

(Side note) Besides winning more 100 mile races than anyone else, 5 of them at Hardrock and 6 at the Wasatch 100, Karl coaches runners of all abilities. All you have to do is email him when he has openings and commit to following his training plan (and pay his reasonable fee). Could you imagine emailing Michael Jordan to be your personal basketball coach and he accepts? It’s almost the same thing, okay not exactly. But it’s close enough to get that if you wanted to be trained by one of the greatest mountain ultra runners of all time, you can.

(Full disclosure) I started training to run an ultra marathon in 2020, and even hired a run coach for 3 months – it wasn’t Karl, but a British ultra runner named Kristian Morgan. I trained hard, following Kristian’s training plans to the “T,” signed up for my first ultra, and worked on my long distance fueling. Unfortunately my race was cancelled because of Covid. I kept running hard after my coaching block was finished and ultimately overtrained.

Overcoming Injuries, Setbacks & Training

I spent nearly all of 2021 hurt, trying to figure out how to fix the plantar fasciitis in both of my feet, upper ITB pain, and my wrecked hip flexors; $1600 worth of custom foot inserts, 3 months of intense physical therapy at the Mayo Clinic (an orthopedic surgeon found no acute injuries), strength training, mountain biking, swimming, yoga, foam rolling, spiky balls etc. Nothing seemed to really work, and I started feeling hopeless about completing an ultra.

If you read the first article in this series, you may remember that I worked on a documentary about Karl’s record setting attempt on the Appalachian Trail. Karl and I reconnected a couple of years later to collaborate on a new project, so we talked often. Frustrated with where I was in my injury recovery, I asked him for help. He said he’d coach me, but “he doesn’t do injuries,” because he’s not a physical therapist. He gave me some helpful advice though. He recommended 5-6 days a week of slow jogging, only on trails or grass, and for no more than 30 minutes at a time. He said “do this until your pain levels come down and then we can talk about a training schedule.”

After exactly one week of Karl’s prescribed light running, life got in the way. I only averaged 3 days a week for the next month. Then the holidays hit and I couldn’t seem to find the time for more miles. The last week of December was the worst, only two days and about 7 miles. I decided to treat the new year as a reset and jump back into the light training regimen. Turns out that the lower volume on the soft surfaces allowed my body to heal. When I started back on the trails, I logged 5 runs and 26 miles during the first week of January. The next week 29 miles, followed by a step down to  24, then back up to 26. I was feeling pretty good. The pain in my hips and feet had dialed down significantly. Then, the evening after a 5.5 mile trail run, I started to feel sick. The next morning I felt like a semi truck hit me. An ‘at home’ test confirmed it was Covid. 2 years into the pandemic and I finally got the ‘Vid. Not just me, but the whole family.

I could feel the virus moving through every cell in my body, and the pain I worked so hard to overcome returned full force. I couldn’t run for 8 days. My joints were screaming at me every time I moved, and the head fog was just crazy. It was the weirdest sick I’ve ever felt in my life. On day 9, I said screw it and ran for 30 minutes, and then ran again the next day for another 30. I could handle it. From then on I jumped back in, and slowly averaged back up to 15+ miles a week, followed by twenty+ miles a week, and then up to 30+. I stuck to the trails as much as my schedule would allow.

One day after finally feeling healthy again, I went for a run on the only real technical trail in my area. I got complacent on a downhill section, my foot caught a root and I crashed into the pine straw covered trail. The wind was knocked out of me, and it took a minute or two to recover my faculties. I was able to recover and finish my run, but I was reminded to stay focused on every foot fall.

I’m fully aware that what I’m dong is completely voluntary, but I have to find out if I can run 31 miles. Two projects I’m working on require knowledge of long distance trail running – – beyond tons of research, the best way I know is full immersion including participation. Plus, my physical therapist told me ultra runners were wired differently than he and I were. They didn’t experience pain in the same way, and I’d probably never complete an ultra. Yeah, okay buddy. I will prove you wrong. Some people’s shoulder chips come from being told they cannot do something. 

I tried to restrict my training to trails, but the heat and bugs came early that spring making it unbearable. I supplemented with a mix of bridge repeats, stair sets and hours on the treadmill. I needed the sustained vertical training and the treadmill was really the only option. To get my weekly mileage in, I had to return the pavement too. I threw in some beach runs before the sun came up to avoid the heat.

An opportunity to get two days of running and hiking on the Appalachian Trail presented itself and I jumped on it. My old run coach Kristian Morgan was 25 days into a speed record attempt, and I wanted to pay him a surprise visit. I found Kristian in New Jersey. It was the first time we’d met in person. All of our previous communications were digital or via video chat. We hiked, ran and walked for 25 miles together over really difficult terrain, catching up on life and his time on the trail. This was Kristian’s 3rd attempt at the record. We parted ways at the New Jersey and New York border.

On the way back to the airport, I called Karl to chat about my time on the AT with Kristian and share my weekly mileage for the last two months. He wanted me to average 35 plus miles per week and top out at 45. I didn’t quite get there. He said my time on the AT should help, and I could get the job done at the race. I sensed some disappointment in his voice.

Kristian would go on to record the 2nd fastest time in history on the AT (44 days 4 hours and 54 minutes). He averaged 49.8 miles a day for 44 days straight, and I went back to training in the Florida heat averaging about 15% of that daily mileage.

When I signed up for the Speedgoat, my wife and I decided to make a vacation of sorts around the race and bring the kids out west with us. When the day finally arrived, our bags were packed, and we flew from Jacksonville to Salt Lake. We spent the first few days in Sandy, Utah juggling naps/meals for the boys with hiking and exploring the Wasatch Mountains. The day before the race, I took my oldest son to Snowbird to meet Speedgoat Karl and pick up my race packet. That night I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned with anticipation, unable to turn my brain off. I finally gave up and got ready for the race early. I drove up Little Cottonwood Canyon in total darkness. I could just barely make out the intimidatingly steep peaks on either side of the road as they were illuminated only by the stars.

After parking in the lower lot, I walked around Snowbird to check out the pre-race scene. The previous February, I’d parked here to go snowboarding. The snow was now gone for the most part, and only tiny patches remained up high. The Wasatch mountains looked incredibly different in summer with exposed rocks everywhere, wild flowers blooming and fields of lush green grass covering the ski runs.

The Race

The parking lot was just as busy now as it was during the ski season. Music blared across Snowbird Resort while hundreds of super fit people were warming up, chatting strategy and prepping their race gear. Nearly everyone had hiking poles, and I felt way out of my depth. Despite all of that, I was still excited to spend the day running in the Wasatch mountains. It was a break from everything else going on in my life. Things at home had been pretty chaotic over the last year or so, following a tragic death in the family. We were still grieving and struggling to adjust to our new situation, but that’s a different article for another day.

I set a goal to finish in 10 hours, hoping to be done by 4:30pm, so my wife took the boys to the aquarium in Salt Lake for the day and planned to meet me at the finish line. Despite the lack of sleep I felt energized. With two kids under 5, you get used to sleep deprivation.

Karl’s voice came in over the music on the loud speaker and he announced that the race was starting in 10 minutes. I headed over to the starting area where hundreds of runners waited in front of me. The final countdown felt like an eternity and then suddenly we were off. It took over a minute for everyone ahead of me to clear the starting line and work their way up the first climb. I was the 2nd to last person through and established myself firmly in the very back of the pack. So much for arriving early.

The first cutoff was at 10:00 am, nearly 10 miles in with 4,500 feet of climbing. For me, only 1 mile of that stretch of the course was even runnable, the rest was power hiking and a couple of careful jogging descents. I saw Karl 7 miles in over by a ski lift and stopped for a quick high 5. He said I was doing great, but I better keep moving. The next few miles were brutal, and parts of the trail were almost indiscernible. You had to cross a snow banked scree field before climbing the backside of Hidden Peak which was over loose gravel with about 1,000 feet of vert before the first aid station. While traversing the scree field, I realized I dropped in over the same rocks on my snowboard, which at the time was pushing it for my skill level, now I was going the other direction on foot.

I took my time moving over the avalanche debris. This section was unlike any other trail I’d ever been on. No way was I going to try to cover this terrain with any speed and risk breaking an ankle. I checked my watch and felt good about my chances of making it through the first cut off, even with the slow pace.

When I reached the Hidden Peak aid station and first cutoff I had 20 minutes to spare. To my surprise, waiting there to help me fill my water bottles and grab something to eat was Kristian Morgan and his Mom. They had traveled to Utah after he finished the Appalachian Trail. We had lunch with them a couple of days earlier but I didn’t expect to see them at Hidden Peak. A runner from China who I chatted with on a climb a few miles back walked by and said, “whoa you have a crew?” “No, no, they’re just friends, I replied.” Filled with joy, rehydrated and with some calories in my stomach, I left the first aid station with some confidence. 

While making the descent to the ridge above Mineral Basin, I reflected on the stark contrast between the mountain ranges of the Appalachian Trail and the trail I was now on. Both are physically demanding, technical and challenging, but the rugged peaks of the Wasatch range towered above the valleys below and were all above the tree line. The Appalachians are covered in forests and provided much welcomed shade from the summer sun.

For the next 6 miles, I would have no shade and the surface under my feet was loose rock varying in size from golf ball to soccer ball. This section of the race featured over 3,500 feet of elevation loss down a winding ATV road. Everyone talks about the elevation gain in races like the Speedgoat, but for me the descents are the toughest. One bad step can ruin your day. You’ve got further to fall when you are going downhill plus you have the extra load on your quads and knees. My Florida training did not prepare me for this section. 

Down, down down I went. I used a combination of jogging and hiking, but just couldn’t find any rhythm. The descent was relentless, and then a parade of ATV’s started coming up the road, straight at me. There wasn’t room for the vehicles and me. I wasn’t quite sure what the etiquette was in this situation, but the looks on the driver’s faces told me I needed to step aside. This game of chicken continued for about an hour before I let the last ATV go up the mountain.

The trail finally flattened out and I was able to pick up the pace a bit. A sign for Pacific Mine let me know I was close to the next aid station. I’d fallen behind finishing pace when I reached aid station 2, and I was told I had 2 hours and 15 minutes before the next cutoff. After filling my water bottles and eating a few pickles, I grabbed a slice of watermelon and jogged out. I passed a few people before the next climb started. The smiles were gone off the faces of the participants in the back of the pack. The next section would take us 2,300 feet up Miller Hill over 3 miles of dirt road at 20 percent grade. I could not muster better than 26 minute miles on that stretch. Panic set in and the clock was now the enemy. At the top of Miller Hill I could see the Mineral Basin chair lift and some tents setup. I checked my watch, I still had almost two miles to go, but only 10 minutes until the cutoff. No amount of positivity or upbeat music could get my legs moving fast enough to cover the terrain in time. 

I called my wife and told her I wasn’t going to make the next cutoff. I jogged into the Mineral Basin aid station at 1:57 pm, 12 minutes past the cutoff. “I’m sorry, you didn’t make it, you’ll have to ride the lift up to Hidden Peak and take the tram back to the base and of the mountain,” said the volunteer counting runners. Damn, my first ultra marathon was a Did Not Finish, known more commonly by the acronym DNF. Forcing back a flood of negative thoughts, I tried to identify the positive take aways from my experience. This was my longest run ever, in one of the most beautiful mountain ranges in the world. I didn’t fall or get hurt. My wife and kids wouldn’t think any less of me. We had a whole week left to explore the Mountain West as a family. Was it really that big of a deal that I DNF’d? I mean, I certainly did not quit.

Before I got on the lift, I asked one of the volunteers about the parade of ATV’s I ran into. “Is that normal for so many of them and are they supposed to yield to the runners?” The response didn’t help, “we can’t do anything about the ATV traffic, but I can see how that would have soured your mood.” Oh man, for real? Thanks, now I am sour.

After drinking a Dr. Pepper and stewing for a minute, I hopped on the ski lift up to catch the Hidden Peak tram. When I reached the top, dozens of people in suits and dresses were exiting the tram, and I forgot about my DNF for a minute. Life can seem really strange sometimes. These people were headed to a wedding in their “Sunday’s best” on top of a mountain, and I was wearing a t-shirt and shorts covered in dirt and dried sweat going the other direction. Our reasons for being at Hidden Peak couldn’t have been more different. I emptied the rocks from my shoes before I got on the tram back down to the resort. Several other runners that DNF’d rode down with me. We all chatted about our experiences and how insanely difficult the course was. Everyone said something about those damn ATV’s too, so at least I wasn’t the only sour one.

Walking back to the parking lot, I was surprised to find that I still had some energy and life left in my legs. I thought about the time I spent taking pictures out on the course, the minutes I wasted letting the ATV’s pass me, and my overly conservative pace on the downhill section. There were my 12 minutes, and my first lessons for running a difficult mountain ultra race with time cutoffs. I looked for Karl in the finisher’s area, but he was busy and I didn’t want to bother him, so I got in my rental truck and headed back to our AirBnb.

Back at the rental after a quick rinse, I cracked open a beer and jumped in the hot tub. I sent a text to one of Karl’s coaching clients, who I’d met while filming Karl at a 100 mile race in Tennessee. I typed, “That didn’t go as planned, should have done the 28K instead.” His response, “No man, you did the hard thing. Now sign up for another 50k immediately. If you can make it through 21 miles at the Speedgoat you can finish any 50k in the U.S.” I took his advice and signed up for a 50k in Florida, the Blaze Pioneer Trailfest. By all accounts, a Florida trail race should be more my speed.

Before we left Utah, we had dinner with Karl and his wife Cheryl. They wanted to know what happened to me at the race. I mentioned the ATV’s and struggling with the loose rocks on the descent from Hidden Peak to the Pacific Mine aid station. It sounded like excuses coming out of my mouth for not making the time cutoff. Karl told me I should have run straight down the middle of the ATV road over the rocks instead of trying to avoid stepping on them. Karl has mastered this technique after decades of running the trails near his home in Sandy. His downhill running is world class. Mine wouldn’t even pass for junior varsity on a high school cross country team. After dinner we said our goodbyes, and I told Karl I’d be back one day to finish the Speedgoat. I also had to tell him he was right, you don’t want to train for a mountain ultra in Florida.

Try Again

Back in Florida, after feeling recovered from the Speedgoat, I started a new 12 week training block. This time there were two more setbacks. A staph infection from a bug bite on my right calf sent me to the hospital and kept me sidelined for 8 days. Then a bout with bronchitis turned into walking pneumonia (likely because I didn’t take any time off to rest). The training weeks leading up to the race were rough, and I barely averaged 30 miles a week before my taper. My longest run was only 11 miles. There were several mornings when I didn’t feel like getting out of bed, but there aren’t any sick days when you have kids. You don’t have a choice when it comes to taking care of your children, so I applied this mentality to my training. Just tough it out.

On December 10th I woke up at 4:30 am and still felt like crap. There was no backing out for me. Come hell or high water I was going to finish this race. I collected my race gear and drove an hour to Jennings State Forest in Middleburg, FL.

The Blaze Pioneer Trailfest is as grassroots as ultras can be. All of the proceeds go back to improving the trail system and only 30 runners were allowed in the 50k. The participants were relaxed at the start line, and there weren’t giant speakers blasting music or emcees commentating. I felt way more comfortable here.

Going through the starting line this time, I made damn sure I wasn’t in the back of the pack. I didn’t have to worry about climbing and descending huge mountains, cutoffs or altitude sickness, so I paced myself less conservatively. My main concerns were the leef/pine straw covered roots, slippery foot bridges, and cypress knees on the trail system. I rolled my right foot a couple of times early on in the race and that slowed me down a little.

I found a small group of runners to stick with a couples of miles in. We were together for about an hour before I eventually broke away and found myself enjoying the solitude of moving through the forest alone. Most of the course was single track and there was very little room, if any, to pass runners ahead of you. Eventually I started nipping at the heals of a guy that was going a little slower than I wanted to go. He must have felt my presence, because he told me I was going to have to work for it if I wanted to pass him. I waited for a wider section and made my move. I was alone again.

The majority of the race was on the Pioneer Trail which meanders through dense hardwood forest along the North Fork Black Creek and up and down a series of ravines. There’s almost 2,000 feet of elevation gain and loss. It was a far cry from the 11,000 to 9,500 of the Speedgoat, but by no means an easy course. Despite there not being any time cutoffs I sped through the aid stations and didn’t take many pictures. There were no ATV’s either.

At mile 17 I hit the aid station at the turn around. I refilled my water bottles, grabbed an energy gel and jogged down the forest service road back to the trail. I had a little over a half marathon to go and felt okay. Besides the occasional cough and my nose running, the pneumonia fatigue wasn’t enough to prevent me from finishing.

Around mile 21, I stepped directly on a cypress knee while trying to pass another runner. Pain shot straight through my left foot and I tried to jog it off like nothing happened. Then my hamstrings started cramping two miles later, and I had to slow down to hiking speed. I massaged the back of my legs with my fist while on the move, and it helped enough to where I could jog a bit. There were still some steep climbs and descents to manage (60-80 feet vs. hundreds though). I couldn’t run them now for fear of pulling a hamstring. The last 7-8 miles of the race were a slog as I fought through the cramps, foot pain and fatigue from being sick.

I skipped the final aid station to save some time and jog/walked the last 2 and half miles. My wife and two boys were waiting for me at the finish line. Jack, my oldest son held up a sign he made that said “Great Job Dada.” I finished the race in 6 hours, 45 minutes and 21 seconds. That was good enough for 12th place out of 30. I thought I would feel different crossing the finish line, maybe get a little emotional, but I didn’t. I was simply content and happy to see my family.

Jack rode home with me, and we FaceTimed my Mom, which was our normal Saturday ritual. We stopped at a gas station and I bought Jack a blue raspberry and cherry Icee, his favorite. He wanted to know why I didn’t miss the cutoff at this race. I told him there weren’t any this time. He said “good job Dada.”

I’ve had some time to reflect on both races now. Balancing the training and a busy life was no walk in the park, but I wouldn’t change a thing. I’d go as far as saying make sure you sign up for the Speedgoat as your first 50K. Do the hardest things first. Then everything else will feel easier.

We all know that our time is limited on this Earth. Even if running an ultra marathon isn’t your cup of tea, commit to doing something really hard every once in a while. You’ll learn so much about yourself in the process. My biggest takeaway is setbacks are inevitable when you attempt anything difficult. If you treat them as only that, and keep pushing forward undeterred, you will find out that you are capable of so much more than you could have imagined. Humans are resilient, adaptability is hard coded into our DNA.

If you read my previous article and made it to this comma, know that I am deeply grateful for your time. Try hard things, don’t give up when obstacles get in your way, and move with purpose. Cliches might be annoying for some people to hear, but that doesn’t mean they’re not true.

All of my best,

Justin Weber