My idol Scott Jurek and me

So I've finally got a running idol. His name is Scott Jurek and he's an ultrarunner.

For those of you in the dark, an ultrarunner is anyone who runs distances farther than a marathon. Fifty, 60, 100, 150 miles at a stretch, these men and women take extreme sports to the extreme. They run races like the Badwater, a 135-mile race that starts in Death Valley, CA (200+ feet below sea level) and ends at the Portals of Mount Whitney (8,000+ feet above sea level) in July (average temperature, 115 degrees). Or the Western States, a 100-mile run that takes place on trails in California's Sierra Nevada mountains. That ultra starts at the base of the Squaw Valley ski resort and ends in Auburn, CA. Runners climb a cumulative total of 18,000 feet and descend a total of 23,000 feet on mountain trails before they reach the finish.

But what makes Scott Jurek cooler than most is not that he's won those races multiple times, which he has (he won Western States seven consecutive times and Badwater two times). No, I admire two other qualities that Jurek possesses that go beyond his unbelievable endurance - his tenacity and his sportmanship.

Granted, I've never met the man and probably never will (though it'd be really cool - Hey, Scott - can I call you Scott? - we're about the same age. Wanna go out for a drink sometime?), so this is all based on accounts I've read, including Born to Run by Christopher McDougall and an article by Steve Friedman in the April 2010 issue of Runner's World.

First, his tenacity: By all accounts, Jurek was never the fastest guy growing up. Yes, he was fast, just not as fast as his teammates, who used to call him "The Jerker" because of his slow speed. As he moved beyond high school and college, though, Jurek realized, while he wasn't necessarily speedy, he could keep a good pace for a really long time. That tortoise and the hare wisdom certainly applies here; Jurek still holds the course record for the Western States with his 9:20 pace over 100 miles. I can run a 9:20 pace. Hell, I can run a 6:30 pace, but not for 100 miles. That's insanely awesome.

Second, and perhaps more important, Jurek's sportsmanship is above reproach. It seems "Jerker" only applies to Jurek's running style. The man is most certainly not a jerk. Quite the opposite, in fact. According to every article I've read about Jurek, at the end of every race, whether he wins or loses, Scott Jurek waits to cheer on every single finisher, no matter how long that might take. Think about that - every single finisher. That's a hell of long time, especially in an ultramarathon, which might take a couple of days to finish. Are you kidding me? I don't care how fast or famous you are, that kind of regard for his fellow athletes makes Scott Jurek top-notch in my book.

So there you have it, Scott Jurek, my running idol. I thought about him today as I ran - a 17.5-mile loop where I averaged 8:40 miles. I was burned out at the end, though, nothing left in the tank. That run made me think about the feats of endurance that Scott Jurek completes on a regular basis. And when I was done, I just wanted to go inside, ingest about a gallon of fluid and take a nap. I couldn't even imagine staying out there for who knows how many hours waiting for my fellow competitors to finish. I admire Scott Jurek for his athleticism. But I admire him more because he is a good representative of the sport.

Run on, Scott Jurek. Run on.

Happy running.

Slow and Steady

We made it. Better yet, we made it together.

As I previewed a couple of weeks ago, this weekend, Sean, my college buddy, and I completed the ING half-marathon in Atlanta, GA. For me, it was my 10th (or 11th, or 12th - I've lost track) race of that distance. For Sean, it was his first. Granted, he finished a full Ironman a year or so ago, but he admitted to me at the starting line that he'd never signed up for just a run before.

I'll admit the race was a different experience for me for two reasons. First, for all the races I've run, I've never run one with a partner before. I'm used to sticking in the headphones, cranking the tunes and going. On Sunday? No headphones. It was just me and Sean and 16,000 other runners.

Second, I'd never run a race at that pace before. While I'm not as fast as I used to be, I can still average an eight-minute mile or so for 13 miles. Sean, on the other hand, cannot. The cancer he had more than 10 years ago left him with poor circulation in his legs. He explained that when he exercises, the blood in his legs starts to pool and his heart starts to pump harder to push that blood through his body. If he's not careful, his heart rate can spike to an unsafe rate. He takes beta blockers about an hour before he works out which helps to regulate his heart rate, but the medicine only works to an extent. Sean wears a heart rate monitor, and I found myself constantly asking him how his heart was doing as we ran. If the pace was too fast, we'd have to walk for a bit. Once his heart slowed below 120 or so, we started to jog.

At first I thought the slower pace (about an 11:30-mile average) would be a problem for me. I wasn't used to it. I hadn't prepared for it. And I worried about Sean. Would I just arbitrarily start going too fast? Would Sean, being the competitive person he is, try to work too hard to keep up?

Turns out, those worries were for naught. In fact, I found the pace to be liberating, even exhilarating. See, the thing is, it turns out people who run 11:30 miles are way more fun than people who run eight-minute miles. At the faster pace, it's all business. No one talks. No one smiles. It's just running, running, running for 13 miles.

At 11:30 there's a lot of chit-chat. There's a lot of camaraderie. At an 11:30 pace, there's time to slap fives with the kids who line the road. There's time to say a genuine "thank you" to the volunteers who hand out Gatorade and water. There's time to actually enjoy the scenery (including the really hot woman we ran behind for some time - thighs so tight you could bounce quarters off of them) and appreciate the spectacle of 16,000 people bobbing along a street at the same time.

Along the way, I met people and actually had conversations with them, like the group of barefoot runners who talked about remodeling their Web site (the address of which escapes me at the moment) and the guy who saw my 1993 Ball State Bike-a-Thon T-shirt. "You from Muncie?" he asked in a race in the middle of Atlanta, GA. He'd run the Muncie Endurathon, which, according to him at least, is the longest running half-Ironman in the country.

We cheered at each mile marker as we neared the finish line. Or, well, I cheered. The people around me weren't quite as rousing at that point, but I think they appreciated my enthusiasm. And when we reached the finish line, Sean and I crossed it together. Sean said he was pleased with his time (about two and a half hours). Me? I was pleased with the time I had, too - not clock time, mind you, but a great time just the same.

In the end, that race made me realize something pretty important about life. It made me realize how valuable it can be to slow down from time to time, to appreciate the little things, to not constantly worry so much about what's around the next corner. That race reminded me that it's not the finish line that's the most important part of the experience; it's the journey to get to there that matters.

And it made me remember how important it is to have good friends. I'm glad I ran that race with Sean. I think he was glad, too.

I can't wait to do it again.

Happy running.

The agony of da feet

It's a good thing my wife hates feet. She always has, which is helpful because if she married me based on the current quality of my dogs, she'd be running for the hills as we speak.

Bottom line: While running may be good for a lot of things, it isn't good for the tootsies.

I don't mean to be too graphic here, but I can't avoid it; my feet are disgusting. At present, I have the following ailments: three black toenails, several big calluses on the tips of my toes, some thick calluses on my heels and a Band-Aid covering a blister on my Achilles heel. Don't get me wrong, my feet feel just fine, they just look gross.

I'm not alone. According to an October 2009 New York Times article, "Most runners end up losing a toenail from time to time. It is called onychoptosis, which means 'falling nail' in Greek, and is typically caused by injury or stress to the nail." Additonally, an article in the January issue of Runner's World indicated black toenails are a badge of honor. "Congratulations!" the article states. "These bruised nails are tiny trophies conferred upon you for roughing it out." In a strange way, then, I should be proud of my damaged feet.

Still, I'm glad the problems are confined to my feet and not, say, my forehead. At least I can keep my toes covered. Then again, summer's coming soon, which means flip-flop weather.

Sorry, honey.