Running on Empty (15 page)

No one told me much about how Charlie was doing, but I knew he had to be at least thirty miles in front of me by then, September 25, just one day shy of two weeks since the start of our run across America. We'd traded places, and it was my turn to bring up the rear, but I was glad just to be back in the hunt. It wasn't so bad being behind: Out front, constantly being chased, I'd run scared of being caught, but in back, I could focus on reeling Charlie in. (Either way, it beat running beside him, as I could go at my own pace and make it a game of cat and mouse to keep me moving as fast as possible.) At the end of my first day out there with a bum foot, I stopped at about 12:45 p.m., having walked the entire fifty-one miles. When I stepped into the RV, Roger was waiting at the door, and we high-fived in celebration.

“I'm back.”

We both grinned as I made my way to the rear of the RV and my bed, and I thought to myself,
Yeah, I'm back. Now what have I gotten myself into?

In the days that followed, I felt as if I was coming alive again. We instituted a new ritual: When I finished the first marathon each day, I'd stop for a nap in the RV. This turned out to be a great way to ensure that I'd cover maximum miles and not reach that point of diminishing returns; it definitely made a dent in the sleep deprivation. (Another brainwave: I could take showers in the RV! Why didn't I allow myself to do this before . . . who knows? Now I wouldn't have to go to bed grimy anymore, even though most nights we didn't want to waste time driving to a hotel.) After leaving Delta, I consistently put in more than sixty miles a day, and my foot actually seemed to be recovering on the fly. Amazing what small comforts can do.

As we reached the western edge of the Rockies, and the Wasatch mountain range came into view, I felt more and more confident and even happy with my progress, getting closer and closer to my home state. The uphill climbs were welcome, too. They seemed to stretch the arches in my feet so that my running form began smoothing out. We were dealing with my plantar fasciitis by icing it regularly, and that was successfully keeping the worst of the pain at bay. Meanwhile, people from the peach and apple orchards along the side of the road occasionally brought me some of their harvest, and their kindness warmed my heart. Think of it! Some fella runs by, and they take a few minutes out of their day to pluck some ripe fruit from their trees to give him a taste of sweetness. They had no clue what I'd been through, no reason to feel anything at all for me, yet they were just friendly that way. They also had no idea how much that meant, a simple gesture to a stranger. God, I was grateful.

At the same time, I was becoming even more dependent upon Heather and would feel disjointed without her, if she had to leave to do errands or miss an RV stop because she had some other business to attend to. Around Provo, Utah, Heather took her first day “off,” heading into town to a Super 8 motel, where she stayed up most of the night paying our bills and attending to other personal matters, and then getting up the next morning to shop for my shoes, clothes, and socks. Her absence was completely disorienting to me. Every night before, she had undressed me, laid out my clothes for the morning, made sure I had my medication, and then crawled in next to me, waking up every couple of hours to ice my leg and foot. The rest of the time, she was there for me, my source of joy whenever I'd see her, a constant inspiration. Her devotion was unbelievable, and I could only imagine the sacrifices she was making to be with me and ensure that I was being taken care of. If I needed something, anything, I'd tell her and she'd handle it, down to the smallest detail.

“Make sure they put a straw in my cup, and don't give me too much ice or the drink gets too watery.”

“Keep the food in the Coleman thermos warm, for God's sake.”

“Don't do side roads if the slope of the hills exceeds a six percent grade or if a road winds around aimlessly without cutting the distance.”

“Stop
every
mile, on the mile, or I get off track. Tell them not to push it.”

“I need clean clothes.”

“Keep my Sirius radios charged—I need to have the other one ready to go when the one I'm carrying loses power.”

“Where's my popcorn?”

“Think ahead. Tell everyone to
think ahead.
Tell them to consider what I might be feeling out here. Wouldn't you be hot, cold, wet, hungry,
whatever
out here? Just think!”

They weren't unreasonable requests, and I made them politely, but they were also fairly frequent. Heather would listen and then relay whatever I needed. Early on, she'd seen herself as the “runners' advocate” and considered her job that of messenger, buffer, liaison, and consoler. She'd become much more than that, but still I complained only to her, and she always presented my needs as clear instructions to the crew.

Virtually no one but my wife understood how fragile and needy I was. With my world shrunk to the breakdown lane, a white line and the road's shoulder outlining my existence, my loneliness was intense. The smallest things made all the difference to me, and I craved connection. How different this was from the days when I'd run away from the women in my life! Now, I motivated myself forward with the notion that Heather was waiting for me. I knew that I'd come to a state of mind where I wouldn't be able to go on without her, and to lose her would be to lose myself.

 

The beautiful morning we arrived in Colorado, I'd been feeling small, insignificant, but in my proper proportion and place in the universe. Although several people were with me as I approached the state line, they all held back when I walked up to the Colorado border sign, and then came Heather, we embraced, and the two of us hung on each other, both crying as we set foot on familiar ground. We'd covered the first thousand miles together and found ourselves, home again, in each other's arms.

It got hot later in the day, over eighty degrees, but I was feeling all right. I'd been picking up the pace, as the altitude and hills were familiar, and my Achilles tendon and arch felt better than they had in a long time. The heat persisted into the next day, even at six thousand feet in elevation, and then out of nowhere, I found relief. Running down a back road, I crossed paths with a trucker, who saw me running alone and pulled over his big rig, stopping for a chat. Gerald Herst introduced himself as he walked toward me.

With the look of a trickster, he good-naturedly commanded me to bend over. Though it was a strange thing for him to say, and possibly more strange for me to hear, the guy seemed harmless enough, so I obliged and then felt a rush of cold on my back as Gerald splashed a big jug of water on me. Soaked, I came up howling with laughter, shaking like a dog shedding water, and told him that it was a great surprise. Thanks a lot! We stood there and talked a while longer, and another athlete rode up on a bike. (Strange how this hot, dusty, barren old road led to our meeting.) Brent Bardo told us he was cycling across the country, covering about the same amount of miles each day that I was.

So Gerald told Brent he should bend over, too.

“Go on,” I encouraged him, slapping him on the back and laughing.

Gerald dumped yet another jug of water on Brent, and we all cracked up. In about twenty minutes, the three of us said so long, Gerald returned to his truck, Brent climbed onto his bike, and I started hoofing it. Leaving them, I felt human, connected, appreciative of their company and the circumstances that had brought us together.

Charlie wasn't faring so well. He'd broken down in Utah, a couple of days before, stopped by acute tendonitis, the same injury I'd had during the Badwater Quad when I'd run with those ice bags on my legs. Holy hell. Dr. Paul would take Charlie for an MRI soon, and would be determining his prospects for continuing based on the results. Soon after he'd stopped, I'd called Charlie to reassure him as he'd done with me, letting him know that the road and I would be out there waiting for him as soon as he was ready to continue.

When I awoke from my nap on September 30, eighteen days after we'd started, Charlie was at my RV door, crestfallen. Devastated by the prognosis for his injuries, he told me he was dropping out.
Oh, Lord.
This would have been my worst nightmare, and now it had happened to Charlie, a relentless competitor who'd invested nearly a year into making this race happen, and now he wouldn't be crossing the finish line. He wanted to know if I'd keep going, and I told him that I would, of course. I'd champion our cause. So we discussed the arrangements to be made with the sponsors. Now they'd need to know more about me; since Charlie had downplayed my part in the whole thing, some of the sponsors had no idea that anyone else was running. And I'd have to talk to reporters from time to time, now that I'd be attempting to complete the course without him. The documentary crew might be spending more time with me, too. Fine, I said. You take care of yourself, Charlie.

Frank Giannino's story about his first attempt, how his running partner had dropped out and it had destroyed both their friendship and his chances of setting the record, haunted me as Charlie left. Later, when I was running again, I felt confused and alone in the middle of nowhere, memories of other losses in my life mixing with my new self-doubt and worry.
What am I supposed to do now? How will I do this by myself? Will I have to drop out, too? Is all this worth it?

Charlie, too, had to be feeling despondent, lost, and broken-hearted as I ran on without him. Probably worse than I was, but in some hidden corner of my mind, I envied him. No way did I wish to be in his shoes. Still, I did allow myself to fantasize, for a moment, about stopping. That was a mistake, as it just made me more dejected to be out there alone.

But there was a silver lining, a big one: Now I'd have Charlie's support, along with his crew's help, going forward. Both crews would get more rest once we combined them. All of us would draw much-needed energy from one another when we closed ranks. Besides, I felt physically strong, like I might be able to pull this off.

 

The day after Charlie dropped out of the race, conditions were the best we'd seen to date. Near Steamboat Springs, day temperatures were tolerable, and the willows and aspens were in full color. Brilliant yellow and red leaves cast a glow on the horizon as the clouds above reflected them. Nature painted a warm panorama in front, around, above, and behind me. For the first time, I turned off the pavement and onto something like a trail—sweet relief! The old dirt road cushioned my footfalls, and gave my legs a respite from all the pounding. The rocks, ruts, and mud welcomed my feet. That night, reaching 10,476 feet in elevation, I was in my element, home at last. I touched out at sixty-seven miles, having dipped down into an eight-minute-mile pace, a far cry from what I used to do in my prime, like my sub-seven pace during marathons and negative splits during ultradistances in my forties. But considering the more than one thousand miles that had passed beneath my feet, it seemed extraordinary.

Even the crew was having fun. A few friends had been to visit, and at Heather's request, some had come to help, too, so crew shifts had shortened a little. The line producer's assistant was also lending a hand, and we loved having her around whenever she came. Not only was she a great multitasker, she was also the one scouting the route and could help us stay on course. Soon, some people from Charlie's group would be integrated with ours, so we all expected the crew's stress level to drop.

If I continued to run well, we'd reach Fort Collins, close to where I grew up, just a couple of days later. On our way, approaching Cameron Pass, we had our first rain-and-snow storm—it crashed around us suddenly, with lightning flashing and thunder booming nearby. Drizzle and flakes scrubbed the air, and lightning split through the oxygen, producing that distinct smell of ozone. It was a familiar aroma, an old signal from my childhood that maybe we'd get a break—if enough moisture fell, we'd get to shut down the irrigation pumps and let nature take care of the watering. Now, nearing home again, I was eager to see friends and, most of all, my children. Elaine would arrive first, coming from Washington, D.C., where she was a legislative fellow with the U.S. House of Representatives' Science and Technology Committee. That's right, “baby” Elaine is brilliant, a physicist and Wellesley College alumna, just as her mother had hoped. And she was going to take time off to come see her old man trudge across Colorado, from west to east, a new endeavor, a new direction. Previously, whenever I'd run across the state, it had been north-south, or south-north. Now I'd be able to say that I'd crisscrossed it.

At about ten in the morning, Elaine drove up and yelled, “Hey, Dad!” We embraced and then looked each other up and down, scanning for signs of stress, checking to see if everything was okay. We were both satisfied with what we saw, I think. My daughter's face told me she was at ease, happy to be with her father. She looked beautiful to me, standing there on the side of the road with the green-golden trees behind her. As I peered at her through my sunglasses, she looked back at me through her own clear lenses, her hazel eyes so much like Jean's. She glanced at the support brace on my knee (something I'd been wearing on and off for a while), and took in the jury-rigging of my shoes, the toe boxes cut out to make room for my swollen feet, and the tongues hanging like an old dog's, as the sides could no longer be laced tightly enough to close over them. Though my skin was now darkened and chapped by so many days in the sun, I still looked all right to her. At least that's what she said.