I still write to process things, but I miss this blog. If I were ever to write an autobiography, some good reference points would be from here—but I’ve neglected some key moments and didn’t want to miss this one.
If there’s one from last year that I should have written recently, it would have been the stage race I did for my 45th birthday. In a 6-day stage race, I did Stage 5 on my birthday—something I shared with friends as “Stage 5” of my cancer journey, getting at least five years past my likely won't make 40 diagnosis and celebrating it by running 120 miles in six days.
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I ended up loving the stage race so much that within a week or two, I had signed up for my second one with the same company—Run the Rocks in Moab, Utah. This time, though, there was extra good stuff to look forward to. I was going with a friend, Chris, who has been my most consistent running partner ever because we’ve been doing it for over a decade. We stepped it up during the pandemic and would often run almost every day. These days it seems we do it more days than not, and me—the guy who loves group runs—struggles with deciding between the party run scene or just one-on-one time with a good friend. If you’d told me a decade ago that was a decision point, I would have laughed (in full disclosure, I’ll often do both in the same day because I don’t know how to take it easy).
Anyway, we were in our mid-30s then, and now we’re middle-aged. The gray hairs have come in. While our times are still respectable, our PRs are behind us—neither of us having hit one in our 40s. But here we were getting ready for a 53-mile race over three days, and he was talking about his goals. I came back with mine: to beat him. We’re good but competitive friends, having bet on football picks, nerd games, races—and our wagers are almost always who’s responsible for the next meal or happy hour. We’ve both won and lost plenty.
As we headed up there, at the opening party they brought up an older gentleman who I had met at the previous race—but here he was doing it again for his 77th birthday. He was running serious trails with elevation at 77. When his story was being told and he was on stage, he said, “Don’t let the old man in.”
That really resonated. I think for most of us, as our bodies mature, we struggle with it because we get our first true awareness of our mortality. Getting cancer shortly after 30, I got that awareness when I was supposed to be building life, so the idea that I was dying was deeply embedded—but I didn’t have a vision of, and still struggle with, the fact that I’ll get old. The gray hairs on my head—I had none until Kiana was a teenager—but now there are plenty, and some on my face and chest. The eyebrows are getting too long for the first time. The muscles need more recovery time. I used to only go to a chiropractor or doctor as a reaction to injuries; now I do it as a regular practice (I let her know she’s abusive and a backstabber because she hurts me and does dry needling on my stiff back), and I do compression and rolling at home.
But I kept thinking about “Don’t let the old man in.” So on Day 1, I took off harder than I probably should have. For quite a while, I was in second place overall behind an Olympic-qualifying woman. Then I remembered I was a middle-aged man, slowed down, and got passed by a woman—and then another. By the end of the race, I had kept the male lead but was 6th overall, so I won Stage 1 for the men.
On Day 2, I took off a little easier but was still holding my place until about mile 9, when a couple of guys passed me. Day 2 was the longest day, so I settled in. Around mile 13, I started to click. They had told us the best part was this 8-mile loop, and it was gorgeous. The kid from the Chihuahuan Desert was loving the colors and handling the dryness. It was the longest stretch without a water stop, but when we got to mile 16, despite good directions, in my rush to catch the people ahead of me, I skipped water—knowing the next one was only about four miles away. Instead, I got onto the 8-mile loop and ran out of water. The weather was chill, but I made the decision to walk until I got back to nutrition and hydration. It was tough. I ended up just barely in the top 50—something I’m still not sure if I should be proud of or embarrassed by because of that mistake. I don’t have great spatial orientation anymore, but that one was on me. In my typical humor coping mechanism, I told the race director: he said that was the prettiest part, so I decided to do it twice. Chris would end up being the malestage winner for that day, also getting beat by those same 5 ladies who'd beaten me the first day.
Day 3, I went back and forth on whether or not to race it—since I was no longer a contender—or just party pace it and take in the Fireball shots that some fun spectators were offering. I started racing, then realized I’d left my nutrition behind. Chris caught me shortly before the first water stop, and then we parted ways. I took in M&M’s, electrolytes, and Fireball. Then I caught fire in the desert and started moving despite the sun-drained body and tired legs. To keep up the spirit, at the next and last water stop, I did it all again—and finished with conviction. I didn’t place on the stage or overall, but I finished smiling even if Chris finished in 3rd place male overall.
Each day, each hurting moment—and many since then—I keep reflecting on that statement: “Don’t let the old man in.” So I got up and ran the next morning. Then I did a Spartan Beast the weekend after. In two days, I’m doing a 5K, and next week a duathlon. I’m still regularly wearing my “make him work for it” shirt because the grim reaper eventually catches us all. I even connected with the friend who originally gave me that shirt—he’s prepping for his own big birthday event 62 miles for his 71st birthday—and he said, just keep saying yes.
I think many of us, when we aren’t as good as we once were—and these days I’m not even as good once as I ever was—fold the hand. But I don’t think I will. I don’t think I can. I think movement is the meaning, or at least the method, of my life.
When we were done, we went to Arches National Park and took a steep 5K hike to catch a wonder after 53 miles. At my part-time job, I’ve long taken the stairs—two flights—and said the day I start taking the elevator is the day I admit I’m old.
I hope I never take the elevator and I hope there are lots of days where I'm skipping the stairs to run the mountains.
