I had been thinking about entering a trail ultramarathon – a race longer than 26.2 miles – but I wondered if it would be a meaningful thing to do. I asked inwardly for guidance, and I sensed that the “meaning” would emerge from the doing.
For my first ultra, I chose a 50K (31.1-mile) race in the Sierras that was considered difficult, with 8500’ of climbing, at 6500’ to 9200’ altitude.
The race started in Squaw Valley. I set the alarm for 2:30 to allow time for breakfast and the 70-mile drive. On the way, I prayed again for guidance.
When I arrived in Squaw Valley at 5:30 a.m., it was below freezing. Mingling with the other shivering runners, I wondered what lay ahead. The gun went off, and we set off on the initial 3000-foot climb to the crest of the Sierras.
The trail was beautiful and rough. It passed through swampy meadows and horse-churned trails, then ascended over giant slabs of granite. When we finally crested the ridge, the runners whooped and hollered at the sight of the beautiful valley beyond. An hour into the race, we began a long climb toward the high point of the course at 9200’, just below a peak called Tinker’s Knob.
Most of the runners had entered the 25K event, on the return leg I was virtually alone, the nearest runner a speck on the horizon. Setting out from the aid station, my energy seemed fine, but I had developed eight large blisters. I’d wrapped them in duct tape at the turnaround, but they were painful.
Toiling up a treeless ridge at 8200’, with a hard wind blowing and 50-mile views in all directions, my mind was unsteady, the result of taking supplements I unwisely hadn’t tested in training. I was also dizzy with dehydration.
Ten years earlier, I might have felt that it would be no use asking for God’s help in such a situation – not until I had “earned” His approval by “rising above it” with my own power. I would have assumed that God wouldn’t bother to help me until I was in a state of perfect mental purity and goodness. But in the intervening years, I had begun to discover God’s kindness and compassion.
In any case, I had precious few resources for manufacturing real or pretended “goodness,” or for formal prayers and spiritual practices. So I simply began talking with God from my heart. I said, “I’m feeling pretty disoriented, and I could use a friend.” I said, “There must be some way we can turn this into a meaningful experience together. Will You help me discover the meaning of this experience?”
I was still hours from the finish, with thousands of feet of climbing and descending ahead. For the remainder of the race, I held an unbroken conversation with God. I cracked stupid jokes, made up silly songs, and blabbed whatever came into my mind, very plainspoken and self-accepting.
At one point, I said, “I don’t think it would be meaningful if I were to put out big will power and go faster, because then I wouldn’t be able to keep part of my mind on You. It seems better to do my best and finish cheerfully, with a sense of inner communion and control. In fact, I would like to finish not thinking about myself and my blisters and personal feelings. I would like to be able to give to others and forget myself. As You are always telling me, expansion is the inner portal to joy.”
The answer came as a silent, very real sense of a friend who was running beside me. God didn’t take away the physical pain – I still felt as blistered and battered as ever. But having a friend run along with me made all the difference in the world. With God beside me, I felt that I could win the battle.
About two miles from the finish, a runner passed and made a sly remark: “Hey, I didn’t think anyone else was still out here!” Retorts popped into my mind: “Some victory – you’re not exactly in first place.” But I realized that God was testing me, to see if I would summon the energy and grit to hold expansive thoughts all the way to the end. I shoved those resentful feelings aside, and with all my energy and determination, I prayed for that man: “Bless him! Bless him! Bless him!”
Just before the finish, I told God that I would like to avoid the usual wisecracking banter that runners engage in after a hard race. I asked Him to let me find the race director and thank him personally, as a final act of inner expansion.
Dropping off the last section of trail into Squaw Valley, I saw the finish line two blocks ahead, with tired runners sprawled along the sidewalk, cheering the late finishers as they passed. The race director was standing at the end of the finish chute, and as he pulled off my number, I grabbed his hand and shook it. I said, “I want to thank you for putting on such a beautiful run in such gorgeous surroundings!” He was visibly moved; I don’t think many runners had expressed the same sentiments. He shook my hand and said, “I want you to go over to Squaw Valley Inn and put a beer on my tab, then go have a hot tub on the deck.”
I knew my friends wouldn’t forgive me if they learned I’d turned down a hot tub at Squaw Valley Inn. So I pulled off my shoes and washed the trail grime from my legs in a nearby stream, then hobbled through the Inn and eased my weary body into a tub on the rear deck. It was inexpressibly lovely to loll in the steaming water after a long and difficult race, with views of the High Sierra peaks all around.
My feelings about running changed subtly as a result of this race. I emerged feeling only joy and gratitude. Despite the physical pain, I knew I would happily do it all over again, with God as my running partner.
