Watch out for Flying Monkeys!

I knew this one was going to be different as soon as we pulled up to the motel.

The drive down from Indianapolis had been about as painless as it gets, but both myself and my driving companion were tired and ready for bed. Due to the time change, it was only 9:00pm in this suburb of Nashville, but we had both already had a long day. We pulled up to the motel lobby and parked and just sat in the car, taking in the apparent party that was going on inside. "Are those people running tomorrow?" Dezra asked, somewhat nervously. "Ummm, I think so. Sure hope they quiet down and go to bed soon", I said.

Suspicions were confirmed as I was checking in. Several times I heard the word "monkey" dropped (loudly) in conversation, and I spotted a couple of shirts with the Flying Monkey logo on them. I also saw a few stray beer bottles. Definitely not the typical endurance event crowd that goes to bed with the chickens the night before a race. Thankfully the Monkeys quieted down and went to bed around 10pm local time, and we all got some sleep. I was excited to see what this crowd would be like in the morning.

The run is held on paved paths in a beautiful park about 10 minutes southwest of Nashville. It's known for being crazy hilly. Trent, the organizer, enjoys the sadistic aspect of the entire event, threatening a painful end to your day if you get caught by a Flying Monkey. The race is entered by lottery to keep the numbers down, and you make your case for wanting to do something so stupid. Those who are accepted get an apologetic email warning them of their selection, and chiding them for being so irresponsible. Any follow-up communications continue this delightful combo of concern and scorn, and end with, "We got hills."

This race is small enough that they ask runners to bring something for after the race, a large potluck after-party. Sunday morning I dropped off my contribution and joined the variety of people milling about waiting for the start. One woman has run the race every year (seven so far) dressed as Dorothy. This year was no different. Another runner wore a hat that looked like it had wings, and his face was painted green. There was lots of laughter and chatting, and a general festive atmosphere. The race start was the most casual I've ever seen: while people were standing around in no particular order, Trent said, "Let's start this race!" That was it. We were started.

Somewhere around mile 2, at the top of one of the easier hills, was a small sign. "300 feet climbed. 3200 to go." What have I gotten myself into? I was grateful for the little bit of trail running that I have done, as it taught me how to run down hills without hurting myself. I would fly down the hills, then walk up. After we leapfrogged each other a few times, one woman told me she was going to watch my form. "Lean forward just like you're skiing, and let gravity do the work. Take smaller steps to slow down instead of leaning back. You'll trash your legs if you use them to brake." "I'm trying, but I feel like I'm going to lose control!" She ultimately passed me once and for all around mile 23, despite having taken a fall and banging up her knee and wrist. She definitely qualifies for BA (badass) status.

It was a spectacular day for running, starting in the 30's and warming up to 50's, sunny and clear. Despite all the hills, the miles seemed to slip by more quickly than they should have. I was thrilled to hit the halfway point at 2 hours 29 minutes, and be passing the mile 20 marker at four hours. I had estimated six hours due to the hills, and was clearly going to be much "faster" than that unless I had a complete meltdown.

It was a good thing I carried my little camera, too. The park was so beautiful that it was impossible to get frustrated by the hills: they were part of the beauty. If a particular hill was getting to be a pain, looking around at the scenery made you forget all about it. There were also very entertaining and sarcastic signs all along the course. Before we even hit mile 1, there was sign that said, "Trent sucks". I laughed out loud when I got to mile 21 or so and started seeing signs that said "Idiot", "The beer is gone", "The winner has already finished", "I hate Trent", "I really really hate Trent", and so on. I stopped numerous times to take photos of the signs, the scenery, and the outstanding volunteers.

I think the volunteers have as much fun as the runners. They were tossing sock monkeys ("Flying Monkeys"), holding funny signs, and very encouraging. At one aid station, they were even providing leg massages with the Stick. The volunteers were greatly appreciated by all of us, and were good at making us smile.

My second half was slower than my first, but only by 15 minutes or so. I trotted across the finish line at 5:17:01, a time I was pleased with. Thankfully my calves waited until I was finished to completely seize up. I thought I drank enough, as I had stopped at every aid station, but apparently hadn't had enough electrolytes. A pint of Gatorade later, the legs finally settled down. The sun was pleasantly warm, so Dezra and I enjoyed basking for a while, sampling the free local brew, and checking out the potluck selection. We eventually climbed back in the car and came home to the not-so-hilly cornfields.

Course: Hilly but beautiful. Lots of trees.
Support: Plentiful. They even understand that you need fuel well before mile 18, and start offering gels, bananas, pretzels, whatnot around mile 4 or so, early enough to help.
Volunteers: Can't say enough good things about them. Super supportive and fun.
Swag: Best ever. Personalized bib, personalized tech shirt, t-shirt, weird flexible plastic pint glass (filled with local brew), cool wooden medal
Would I do it again? Absolutely. I can see why locals do it every year.

Gratitude

This wonderful video of Louie Schwartzberg's TEDx talk sums up how I feel when I am "suffering" through a long workout or race. But it's bigger than that.

Of course, in the moment, my gratitude is primarily of the physical variety:

I am healthy.
I have all my limbs.
I can feel pain.
I can control my body.

However, as a lifestyle, I think endurance sports transcend the simple physical existence and seeps into other areas. There's an empowering component in the quest of mastering something, of tackling something that initially looks insurmountable, no matter what that something happens to be. It can be playing a musical instrument, learning 60 seconds at a time how to navigate in freefall, landing an airplane 100 times before finally getting it right, learning how to lead and inspire others while managing them, admiring the view after climbing several hundred feet of ice, making the change from being primarily a weightlifter to primarily an endurance athlete. I've been blessed to be given the opportunity to do all of these. How many people get to take on so many fun and amazing challenges?

Intense study of any art form broadens the horizons the way nothing else can. It requires a different mindset than simply learning something very thoroughly. One must also learn to communicate through their art (drawing or music or dance or...), and put away the rational chatter of day-to-day living. Even those of us who are camera-shy learn to love being on a stage, performing. Odd, that.

Words can't describe the feeling of looking out the open door of an airplane, ready to throw yourself out and give yourself over to the laws of physics. Even better is flying on the outside of the plane, with only the toes of one foot inside. Utter physical freedom.

Brutal winter temperatures lose their sting when standing in a small crevice partly up a steep cliff, clipped in, resting and admiring the view after literally picking your way up the ice to get there. Winter's beauty is rarely seen from the comfort of our daily lives, and is well worth the effort to find.

Realizing that you are now enjoying the challenge of doing touch-and-goes on the numbers, remembering the fear you felt the first time you pushed the nose down in the landing pattern, is one heck of a kick. Successfully landing on the numbers is an even bigger kick. Doing a touch-and-go on Martha's Vineyard on one of your first solo flights, in squirrelly crosswinds? Indescribable.

Fear and uncertainty are familiar companions when you manage to get selected for Chief early, after only a few years of service. You wonder if you just got lucky and how you could possibly have deserved such a thing. Learning through intense testing that you did indeed deserve such a thing and legitimately earned it, albeit quickly, also meant getting used to stepping out of the comfort zone on a regular basis. Hmmmm, that's not such a bad thing, to be shoved out of your cozy little box. And damn, those khakis felt good.

So now, it's seemingly crazy things like completing an Ironman, running multiple marathons, tackling long bike rides, going longer, longer. Learning to spend time in the pain cave and "embrace the suck", sharing the suffering with other restless fools who just can't get enough...I can't explain it.

What connects all this rambling? A steady undercurrent of gratitude. Grateful I am physically able to try new things. Grateful I have the mind and physical health that enables me to organize life to find room and allow for a wide range of experiences. Grateful that I haven't had to face major obstacles, unlike many people I know. Grateful to know some of those people and be inspired by them. Grateful in more ways than can be enunciated here.

Just...grateful.