Old friends in new places

E has known me since I was six months old. Our close friendship is about twenty years old. He’s my cousin and soulmate, friend and brother I never had. A good guy, clearly.

E is old — younger than me, but old as in “been around, been around me as partner in crime”. Meanwhile, LA is still new, historically and in my life. The Santa Monica Mountains trails are pretty familiar, but still possess the newness to stir up excitement, a sense of exploring and discovering. When Miss Charlie and I disappear from the city into the wilderness just north of the city, it always feels as if we are forging new paths.

And so two worlds came together yesterday when E, visiting from Holland, joined me on the trails. We walked, ran, talked. He and M were amazed to see this raw and lovely bit of nature right there, a short hop north of the city.

It was good.

Happy little victories

I’m back. To me it means: I was forced to stop running for a while, I hated it, my body has been craving a run, neither bikes nor swimming water helped one bit, and I need to run. So when I’m back running again, the words “I’m back” signify a happy little victory.

This weekend my new running friend Sander and I explored the trails near the southern Dutch town of Vught. It was sweet. Sandy and soft. Sunny and cool. Quiet and light.

I’ve known this for a while now: running with a friend is different than any other way of sharing quality time. Dean Karnazes, speedy Eddie, superfast Chris, the amazing Cecile and Tomas and many other runners by my side have shown me how to run and chat, connecting in the movement. Maybe a running neurologist can explain to me one day why the brain opens itself the way it does while the body works in unison with a fellow runner in your footsteps, or leading the way.

In any event, to come back to running with a healed lower back on those trails —not far from the land my grandfather explored for years—was a gift on that sunny Dutch Sunday.

Watching you

These days I watch runners. The barefoot ones, battling the deep sand along the ocean. The quick-stepped sprinters on the track. And on the trails the steady warriors with hydrations packs and big smiles as they climb and descend.

Yes, it fills me with envy. Since a minor surgery a few weeks ago I can only walk — which is wonderful with my new buddy Charlie. Mostly, though, I watch and learn. When I run myself, the focus is often on myself. On my breathing, pace, thirst, joy, struggles, footing. While walking there is now room to watch and imprint on my running brain the things I want to remember and emulate: they way he leans in a perfect angle, her light mid-foot landing, his easy stride, her impressive arm swing.

Soon I’ll be ready again for my feather-light La Sportivas, my GPS watch and Nathan bottle — ready for the mountains I can see from our bedroom. A little later, Charlie will be ready to join me on some easy runs there.

For now, we happily walk, watch, and learn.

Charlie is here

This is Charlie. She was born in November and joined our home in February. We are just learning what she’s like, while she eats and grows like a rock star. So far we see a sensitive, loyal girl. With other dogs she is fun and playful and fearless – too much so, perhaps. Her mind likes to be active and she will crawl into small, low spaces just because it’s exciting to check them out. She can dig. Recently she discovered her bark, though she is not sure yet when to use it.

She is fast.

In full gallop there is no way any human could keep up. And that’s Charlie at just four months of age. I’m excited to learn how fast and far she will go with us, once the is grown and completely comfortable in her own body.

On the nearby beaches she has made many friends, canine as well as human. Her gentle demeanor and soulful eyes draw in old men, young girls and every one else. Her tail will wag as long as they give her some love.

The mountains are green, the running is exquisite

It’s not that I need a reason to get up at 5 a.m., hit the road at 6, and begin running at 7. But it helps when the air is crisp and cool. When the first light reveals colors not seen in these mountains for years. So Sunday’s 15-mile trail run in Sycamore Canyon was a gift. The rain has brought out grass, flowers, bushes, the sound of water in creeks, and animals. Two years ago it smelled like fire here. The landscape seemed like little more than a barren reference to Mad Max. How quickly nature recovers!

Sycamore Canyon, 2015

Sycamore Canyon, 2013

Fifty miles of joy

M i l e  0 . The headlamps of runners seem to be dancing in the cool, pitch-black morning. It’s 6 a.m. and there’s nervous tension, camaraderie between strangers. I fist-bump fellow runner Ann and wish her luck. I kiss K, my ride to the start who is also my love. Off we go. Easy up the single-track. We walk in the dark, up the steep hills. Ann is right behind me and she compliments me — for starting slowly, for not losing myself and my energy in those first adrenaline-fueled miles. Not this time.

M i l e  3 . I know this creek, but I have never passed it. There’s a road bridge a few hundred meters away! Whatever, they want us to cross though knee-deep, not-warm water. I worry for a moment: about cold, soaking feet and socks and shoes for the next 47 miles. Then I decide worrying is pointless. Onward.

M i l e  7 . Warmed up and excited I arrive at the first aid station. It was gorgeous getting here, on trails and fire roads I know so well, deep in the Santa Monica mountains. The rising sun blew my fellow runners and me away. It’s beginning to feel like a perfect day. I quickly eat some banana, the stomach feels surprisingly calm. K hands me a fresh water bottle. Another kiss. I am off again, into the wild.

M i l e  15 . A glance at my watch, a missed tree root, and down I go at a decent downhill speed. I roll, curse, jump up, check for any serious damage, wipe some blood off my knee. And… moving on!

M i l e  22 . How come I feel so good after what’s almost a marathon with huge climbs? I don’t wait for the answer and fly down the fire road toward the Bonsal Aid station, where my Trailrunners Club-mates and K will be waiting. But first I see my friend Matt and his friend Kristine on the narrow trail. This makes me happy. She is injured but he jumps on the trail. We run and chat. Matt’s a good guy, which I already knew, but he proves it, patiently waiting while I refuel and kiss K yet again. Then Matt runs another mile with me, nicely distracting me as a huge uphill section stretches out in front of us.

M i l e  26 . I know these trails very well. Still, this climbing is slow! If I don’t keep drinking, if I don’t keep thinking happy thoughts, I risk the all too familiar slide into self-defeating thinking. Instead I focus on the next aid station and the cup of coke I know will be there. Passing runners as we push uphill cheers me up; the coke at the station is even better than imagined. I also wolf down a piece of potato dunked in salt, some banana, and a piece of a PB&J sandwich. It fills me, but as I run my stomach protests. Oh no.

M i l e  32 . This is new terrain: I am wandering into the great unknown; I have never in my life run this far. The 50Ks I ran back in 2010/2011 felt short and easy. I realize my race really begins here, in the final 20 miles. Hey, there’s K. She has parked, walked up the trail and now she runs with me. Perfect timing. My GI issues were distracting and I was allowing some self-doubt. K forces me to focus, to talk, to smile. She gives me my new blue shell as it is now raining and misting and generally pretty miserable up here on the mountain. When she heads back to car I get yet another kiss. A runner behind me yells out: you should marry that girl, man. He has seen her caring for me. I tell him: you’re right, and I will.

M i l e  40 . Will my toe need to be amputated? The pain is excruciating, sending an increasingly fast moving series of SOS messages to my brain. I walk, drink, take some Aleve. The good news: I don’t feel my tight calves, burning quads or hunger pangs — just that toe. I imagine a bloody mess and decide not to take off the shoe and look. I imagine it would be the end of this adventure. Yay denial.

M i l e  47 . Where’s that creek? I know it’s around here. Turns out I missed a well-marked turn after a long, steep downhill. I had run down the last huge mountain. After many miles in the 11-minute, 15-minute, even 18-minute range, it felt exquisite to go down at a sweet 6:20 pace. That’s when I knew my training paid off: downhill running can be tough, even dangerous when you are not ready for it, which is the reason I saw so many runners walk down gently and smartly. My descent on slippery, rocky terrain must have worn me out mentally, though, missing that turn. A kind fellow runner calls out, I follow, we cross the water. Now it’s one final push the last hill they call ‘the chihuahua’: small but mean, with a real bite. Come on, move! I channel my late grandfather Opa and tell myself to toughen up, lummel. Lazy fool, I think it meant — in the most loving of ways.

M i l e  50 . One more sweet downhill on the slippery switchbacks of Malibu Creek Park. I can hear K before I see her. She is proud, she says. I can’t speak. I swallow hard and run through the finish. Years of injury and frustration have ended right here, in this rain, on this quiet road, back at the spot where the headlamps danced around me this morning. That’s a wrap: fifty miles, fifty joyful miles, leading me home.

UPDATE (by request): the toe was absolutely fine. Not even a blister or damaged nail. I have no idea what caused that blistering pain late in the race. Can the mind imagine such pain? Why would it? Feedback welcome.

Yes, now

Back to back long runs are, what’s the word, well, hard. Sorry to be banal about it, but 19.5 very hilly trail miles on Saturday tend to wear me out. When I wake Sunday at 5 a.m. things ache. Glutes feel tight. Lower back, too. Quads need stretching. I need coffee. I wonder: really? Another 15? Now?

Yes, now.

Sunday was Ernie’s Memorial Run. The Trail Runners Club went back to the place where our friend and leader Ernie Chalekson passed away on a gorgeous Sunday morning last Fall. A lot of people showed up by the trail hear near Calabasas. The new club president, Ann, said a few nice words and we quietly headed to the small shire at the spot were Ernie died. Some laid flowers. It was a perfect morning for running and remembering: cool, still, green, happy.

Then we were off.

It was time to shake off the back to back blues. Warming up, I began slowly, then let go and ran hard for 15 miles. Legs felt good, lungs too. I thought of Ernie as we flew down the narrow trails, right by the spot where I last saw him, running and laughing on that very similar, sunny, fateful morning in November.

Back home I put up my feet. I thought about it: consuming enough calories is challenging, the process of waking in between these long runs is tough, but doubling up in the weekend is ultimately pretty cool.

Alone in the wild

This weekend was unusual: soaking wet and highly social. The rain we needed came down for days, drenching the Santa Monica Mountains and pushing the green emerging everywhere to hurry up and keep growing. So Saturday and Sunday I ran and slipped for miles and miles, for a total of 43 miles.

Cold rain aside, it was great to share these hours on my feet with fellow members from the Trailrunners Club. I usually run with them on Sunday mornings only, but Saturday we hit the trail for 28 miles in a small group.

It made me realize once again how special I find the camaraderie found in moving and working together. Anne, Skye, Jimmy and I talked a little, but most of the time we simply ran near each other. Each of us enjoyed and struggled independently, while knowing the others were near, going through their own experience but sharing it at the same time. It is, in my view, one of the best ways to spend time together: doing what you all love and connecting through it, but leaving each other alone at the very same time. Paradoxical perhaps, but profound.

Most of my runs are solo events. Those can be special, too. Last week I drove by the Mojave National Preserve, and simply had to stop. Just a few miles from the I-15 I found magic. The air was cool and getting cold as the sun was about to set. Still, I ignored the warnings for rattle snakes, laced up, and hit a little trail for a few miles of total freedom and beauty. Exhilarated, I stopped for pictures, watching the world around me in awe. I wanted to share it —and so I do now— but I also realized that this moment, this stillness, only existed in this moment because I was alone.

Into the snowy silence

Snow silences everything. I have always loved the moment right after it has fallen. The bright light, the blinding whiteness, but especially the new silence of a familiar landscape. In that quiet world my footsteps and breaths seem amplified. While the inaudible wind blows flakes from the pine trees, creating the illusion of yet more snow, I feel isolated. I hear nothing — and everything. My light, quick steps on the packed snow seem to echo through the forest, like a muffled base drum.

Below me Big Bear Lake is bustling. The roads and ski slopes are packed with families. K. and I are visiting friends at their wonderful house here at the edge of the woods. On this last day of the year I had to run, of course, so I took off in 20-degree weather, into the fresh snow, wearing a few layers and my new La Sportiva Helios trail shoes. (Review to follow, but let me reveal now they are fantastic.)

For two hours I carefully chose my steps on the slippery hills. My mind drifted, exulted, and then it quieted, like the forest I was exploring.

As I passed vistas of the unquiet world below, a quote came to mind. Forgive me for paraphrasing and not remembering the source. It’s from a runner who wrote about running, and I quote it in my own book. The meaning comes down to this:

            He who runs is lucky, for he has found something in himself that is perfect.

I have always taken that to mean a combination of things: the urge to go and be outside often; an easy way to do the healthiest thing imaginable and stay young; the ability to see parts of the world one would otherwise miss. And the opportunity to be alone and quiet, surrounded by simple beauty, as I was today. I think that’s the perfection he was writing about.

A happy new year to all. May it be peaceful and exciting (and for those so inclined: speedy!)

Hello rain!

This is odd for a Dutch boy, but I’m not afraid to say it: I sort of forgot how to run in the rain. During my almost two years in Los Angeles I have run countless times. Heat, sand, dust, sun, wind, hills (and hills and hills), even the occasional bit of fog: I’m used to it . But the drought and I have been here at the same time. Rain has become like a distant relative you barely recognize.

Sunday it rained. It was pouring. New York in November, Holland any time of year: that bad. My shirt and shorts stuck to my skin. My Brooks trail shoes turned heavy, soaked with water and mud. My hands turned white (Raynaud’s disease is still here, jay!)

I was so happy to be wet. Battling serious rain adds an element of adventure and power, more so in the deserted hills, where trails wind up and down endlessly, testing your will and leg speed.

The dry sandy trails turned into muddy streams. I slipped on paths, wiped my eyes, wrung out my shirt at the end. The wild mountains and their trees by Thousand Oaks looked happy, too.

And how about the Venice canals that evening?