Deep Calls

I'll admit, my back porch is a little overkill for who it's for. Since moving here nine months ago, I've added but one addition to its vast square footage, a well-used smoker, while the rest of the space begs for accoutrements. While the constellation of will, money, and time haven't quite lined up to provide the stained planks with their complementary furniture, I have lately found one nice perk to the space. 

Now that the sun is setting sooner, getting dark at least an hour before bedtime, I've started going out to the porch in the evenings to simply stargaze, to drink in the night sky, maybe providing my nearby dreams with sustenance. It's curious how long the deep dark can hold my attention. Every night, it's the same array, with a satellite here, a helicopter there, but largely it is the same. The most exciting thing to happen is a planet appearing just slightly brighter than usual, as Jupiter was a few weeks ago, but you wouldn't know it if NASA didn't tell you. 

And yet, we still stare for hours without getting board. When something endless calls, our gaze is never quenched. 

* * *

The evening before my ferry ride from Anacordes, I was strolling along the bay—or was it a sound? a fjord? There are so many features here, it's hard to keep up with the classifications (even Fidalgo "Island" was connected to another landmass)—and noticed the lives that go on totally outside my awareness, people's lives that spend the vast majority of their existence focused on a locale and tasks that I know nothing of. You witness a local practicing their craft and it satisfies a wonderlust at least as much as a new mountain vista, but one you didn't know you had before your arrival. The human stories are at least as interesting as the geological. 

And there the fishermen sat, staring into that vastness of water, with a sailboat here, and a blue heron there, thinking about their next foray into the chaos, voyages that commence by an inevitable passage by the marina's memorial to all the souls lost to the deep. 

To each their own abyss. 

* * *

I made landfall on Orcas Island Friday morning after a ferry ride over the depths of the Resario Straight and through fog so thick, you couldn't tell you were near except by one's perception of the quieter humming of the massive intakes below deck. For about the first mile of my drive north toward the quaint island town of Eastsound, the fog wasn't giving way to much scenery, but the nine a.m. sun finally started to peak over the effluvium, revealing a well-watered countryside that made my stomach flutter. 

I've always been especially fond of the transition from September to October, and some of my favorite races in years past have been around this time. After a quick stop by a coffee shop and a random run in with the Race Director, I spent the rest of the day driving around the area and previewing tomorrow's route. 

With two and a half years past since the last time I attempted the 50k distance, and with only about two and a half months since I was able to get a consistent training block together without too big a risk for re-injury, my performance was very much in the air. While I was confident in myself as an athlete in general, I haven't proven the namesake of my Instagram account handle in quite some time, let alone had a "season" which consisted of regular ultras since my time way back in college. By the time race day morning came, I was relying as much on my personal pedigree as I was on my three good VO2 max track workouts I snuck into the late summer training regime. That, and a little luck.

Regardless, I knew that no matter how good or bad it was, that calling to make it way up here to this humble little island, that desire I'd been possessed by to add this race to my calendar, would today be satisfied, as we plumbed the depths of this ancient island forest. 

I rolled out of my campsite, only about a quarter mile from the race start, at 0545 after some of the best sleep I've had before a race. Last night's stargazing was particularly good, here on the shores of Cascade Lake. It's funny how sleep while camping tends to either be the best or worst sleep you'll ever get. A little luck to start the day.

Today's adventure through Moran State Park would feature three climbs up three different sides of Mount Constitution, which, at its peak, features the highest point in the San Juan Islands. The first climb began at "GO!" Up we went along Mt Constitution Road to the trailhead at Little Summit. There was a group of five of us within eyesight of one another as we were all getting a feel for an appropriate amount of effort this early. Two others within the first mile or so had already set their paces high enough that none of us would see them again for the rest of the day. We jockeyed a bit here and there; my strategy involved measured power hiking with poles and a bit of steady jogging in between until I got to the top, while others settled into a sorta run-shuffle all the way up. 

By the summit, I was in fourth and the immediate trip back down the other side of the mountain was the first test of my quad resilience and foot placement skills. If I rolled an ankle today, it wouldn't be the first time in recent memory a run was cut short by a poorly placed foot. Fortunately, the only roll I did have wasn't quite enough to break anything. 

Things seemed to be going well as I rolled into the first aid station; I know I'm not the fastest descender in the world, but the effort over the last two miles was enough to bump me up to third place, a position I would maintain the rest of the day. A quick bite of watermelon, and I was onto the loop around Mountain Lake. 

I past auburn leaves, poled my way through the old forest canopies, and endured another few rounds of hill climbing before reaching the next aid station around mile 14. I wouldn't see another racer for the rest of the day, but the knowledge that someone might be just ahead or just behind kept the fire burning. There's just a different spirit that expands and contracts the lungs when a race number is pinned on one's shorts.

One strategy that's always stuck with me when faced with a race of so many miles is to stay willfully ignorant of the exact distance. It's quite the opposite with triathlon where everything is measured, precise, engineered. On trail, I know only approximations. I only have a general sense of judging where I am on the map and roughly how many more climbs I had left, but psychologically, it's always better for me to not know and ingest the course just as it is, not as my measurement devices tell me. Besides, those numbers can only go so far. They don't tell you when you're about to hit a slump in energy. They don't tell you what your attitude is supposed to be. They don't tell you to be grateful for the pain. They don't tell you that the trough you're in will pass in less than half a mile. 

Odd how I embrace that mystery and am so very content with the vicissitudes inherent with this sport, yet I have such a hard time generalizing this to life. How often do I maniacally check my "metrics" to see how I'm doing rather than letting life be life and realizing that the present moment is always the best moment? Even when the present moment is miles past your longest long run, and the incline has pitched up to over 15% grade at mile 22, and that decision to not refill both of your bottles back at mile 14 is starting to catch up to you, and you realize the finish line is still at least another hour away with another thousand feet of climbing, the present moment is still the best moment. Ultra running is my best form of living.  

Back on the north side of Mount Constitution, with some of the worst most fun climbing behind me, the trail traced around the edge of this massive piece of earth through some of the most beautiful wilderness you've ever seen. The views of deep, dark forest ahead continued to call me forward down mossy single track and to my delight, my legs responded well. I was now an hour beyond what I'd done in my longest training run this year—and in that run, I remember feeling completely spent by its end—yet I was still turning my legs over and maintaining my speed. With the exception of a very transient left hip flexor cramp along the first quarter mile of the final climb, the body was holding up splendidly. At no point did I feel my form sag, and the final four miles screaming back down the mountain toward the finish line proved to be some of the funnest running of the day.  That half sleeve of Oreos I demolished at the final aid station at the summit lookout probably had something to do with that. 

Rounding one last switch back, circling 'round a 600 year old tree whose trunk would have required several human hugs to surround, I saw those beautiful red digits on the time banner, indicating my journey which first called to me three years ago had come to its culmination.