Chuncheon Chicken Loop full report

In three hours, I'm setting off for, literally, the hardest physical feat of my life until now. Robb Kerr, Katie Tibbetts, and I are heading into the mountains to circumnavigate the mountain trail systems that make a giant 80+km (50+ miles) loop around the city that is currently our home. This feat has been, as far as we know, accomplished only once, by another foreigner named Mark Jolin, who did it with what seemed like minimal preparation and very little fanfare (other than his GPS track found here).

While the distance will be the most I've ever done, that is not what I'm particularly worried about. It is more the elevation that has me a little anxious. We will be gaining a total of about 21,000 feet or 6500 meters of elevation gain, and that is in a mountain range where we never reach 1000 meters. This means a lot of up, down, up, down, up, down, and then some really big ups, and downs.
While Jolin, who clearly must be a badass, did not need to prepare, we have gone to great lengths to run sections of this, think about routes and directions, sort out areas of the trail where we might get confused, and basically try and minimize anything that will sap any additional energy from us on this journey.
Yesterday the three of us were up at 6AM driving around for 4 and half hours to do food and water drops, and even that was tiring! Meticulous thought went into these drops, and I tried to make it so, given a 24 hour time, I am consuming close to 300 calories an hour. Here is the list of things in each drop: I tried to imagine myself in the frame of mind I will be in as we make our drop bag pick-ups over the next 24 hours.

I've kind of adapted a strategy of not viewing it as a long mountain run, but more a food pickup mission  on foot. I have roughly fifty bucks worth of groceries that my wife would be disappointed in me if I didn't retrieve and consume!

Other factors:
Last Wednesday, about nine days ago, I was jumping over a highway median as we were out on a night run, and I tweaked my ankle. Didn't roll it, but just came down on it hard enough to hurt something. I thought I might be able to run it off, but couldn't. Ended up turning around, but still ran 6 or 7km's on it, got home and iced it, went to bed. The next morning it was swollen and hurt to walk on!  My heart sank as I realized that this would probably be the death of this run, but I have managed to heal pretty much fully. But, and this is a big but and I cannot lie, I have not run on it in nine days! My first run back on it will be this 80km! My plan is to evacuate if it starts acting up in the first 10km, but I am optimistic that it is strong enough.

I sliced my finger to the point of needing stitches while I was trying to make a drinking tube hole in the top of my backpack. I didn't go to the hospital, but cleaned the cut and super-glued it. I'm just hoping it does not bust open on the trail.

This morning I was doing some house duties and managed to inhale too much bleach, which made my eyes sting and gave me a dull headache all day, and I feel slightly short of breath (not a good sign when the first 3km of our run will have a 400 meter climb!

So, basically, I'm making this harder than it needs to be. Please pray for us!

Gear:
I've decided to leave the Nathan pack at home and go with my bigger 25 liter pack made by Bailo. The Nathan pack would, I fear, leave me a little too at mercy of our speed, and I really don't want to be pressured by conservation, especially on a really hot day as it will surely be tomorrow. The Bailo pack will let me carry extra water and extra food, and I've run in it plenty and know its comfortable.

Compression socks and shorts: never know if it works but if I think they are helping me, then they will be helping me. Placebo or real, I'll take it.

Shoes: Hoka One One Stenson Evo B. 3 pairs of socks: One Smart Wool, one pair of cycling socks from The Sock Guy, and starting off with some tri socks from Primal. I'm planning on using them all.

Headwear. Just a Salomon visor for the sunny sections, and a bandana for the rest of the time.

Clothing. Mountain Hardwear "Way to Cool" shirt, love this amazing wicking garment, and Patagonia Strider shorts, the shorts that you literally forget you are wearing.

knick-knacks: pocket knife, headlamp, 2 liter water bladder, extra water bottle, superglue, ibuprofen, bandaids and bandages, Koday Playsport video cam, Body Glide.

Man, do I have the butterflies. I was going to try and nap before but now I'm just getting amped. Think I'll just listen to this instead!
I'm just psyched to get to try this! Thank you God for making creation Good and giving us your mountains and forests to play in and enjoy. See you all on the flip!

Update:
We did not finish. Made it through a good portion of the night, everyone feeling good, my ankle proving it would be strong enough for the journey, and we set into a nice pace through the night. But everyone became aware of the intense humidity and the presence of a heavy, gritty pollen in the air, and it started to work pretty hard on our breathing, enough to render it impossible for Robb to continue. But Katie and I, with heavy hearts, decided to keep going.

At first I couldn't appreciate what I was feeling, a definite sadness that Robb was out-- but it dawned on me that it was deeper than that, something that was inextricably bound with our motivation, excitement, and joy for setting out on what was definitely going to be a punishing journey. The suffering would all make sense and even be redeemed in the light of the ties that we shared as a group, as friends. And as both Katie and I pushed up more climbs through the dark, this realization seemed to set in and take hold. If we are not all going to finish, then why are we doing it? This is a deadly thought at 2AM, but I don't think, even now, that it was inauthentic.
This journey was about friendship, it was never only about the run. This was definitely distinct from a race in this respect. In a race, the finish line beckons, talking you through the rough patches. In this case, it was three friends-- it was the spirit of interdependence-- which we would rely on. And when three became two, it was too much to recover from. The only word I could use to convey this to Katie was heartbreak. Not heartbreak from not finishing, but heartbreak that we were not all there together, getting ready for the next section, laughing and joking, and sharing our tiredness to make it less, to make it better.
In this respect, while I am disappointed, I do not regret our decision. If anything, I am only hungrier for the relationships that something as raw and intense as trail running rewards us with. I think this is my take away from this: to be thankful for such friends. Hmm, I think I just felt a tiny, almost imperceptible, itch for another long run with my crew!

KimYuJeong to Soyang Dam

It is 4AM, you find yourself standing on the corner of a city street with a guy in spandex, a visor with a protrusion of blond fro exploding from it, and a headlamp. What the heck is going on? you ask yourself. Did I just come from a rave? Did I just break out of a mental hospital and this is my cohort? And then a sip of coffee brings you back: Oh, yeah, I'm going trail running with Robb!

Robb, looking ... tight!

Today, the plan was to do a 33km mountain run from Kim Yujeong Station just outside of Chuncheon and traverse the mountains and the main ridge on the Chuncheon circuit trail over to the bottom area of Soyang Dam. To date, I am pretty sure that this is the furthest we have been on any one section of this trail, and today was gonna be epic!
The reason for the early start was two fold: first, we would finish before noon and have the rest of the day for family and "major errands"; or, in my case, a long nap, and scarfing a plate of nachos while parading around in my apartment in compression gear (the stuff works!). The second reason was to beat the heat, and thus, require less hydration. These spring days are starting to warm up considerably and the signature mugginess of the Korean summer is starting to emerge. There is, as far as we know, no water or springs on this track without a significant detour and backtrack, so we both set off with the two liters in our Nathan packs and a handheld water bottle. This proved sufficient-- I finished my water right in the middle of the last climb, and nothing was left but a fast descent to the joys of the 편의점 (convenience store). Conserving water can be a bit tricky, especially when hydration is absolutely crucial to get tired legs up and down climbs safely, but the more time I spend out there the better I become at knowing what I can get by on.
We started slowly up the first section of the day, a climb up GeumByeong-san. To get there, we had to weave through winding farm roads, our headlamps bouncing reflections off the submerged rice paddies and the glowing eyes of growling 진돗개 (Korean breed of hunting dog and protectorate of farms). Robb had to deuce, so I continued up through this enchanted grove of trees alone, turned off the headlamp, and felt the forest come alive with birds and little critters stirring up the dawn. It's reassuring knowing that you get to trade a few hours of sleep for this! The trail, in typical Korean fashion, started to shoot straight up the mountain, and we were digging in and climbing. We reached a ridge soon enough, and started running the rollers, still climbing towards the top. The azaleas were everywhere, and Robb noted the strong smell of honey in the forest. We passed by a tent, nestled in a sweet little spot of the trail, and then a small tent village near the peak (금병산 630m). These folks had the right idea. The could sleep and enjoy the honey-smelling forest simultaneously. We snapped some quick photos and began our descent, and it wasn't even 6 o'clock!

Our next section takes us over our familiar 수리봉 (Soori Peak) and 대령산 (Daeryeong-san), and we climb up through the forest, rolling over lesser peaks that offer picturesque views of Chuncheon in the morning. We reach Daeryeong-san, and it is only 8 o'clock. It is one of the more popular peaks in Chuncheon, and there was no one there. We became very self-congratulatory at how bad ass we think we are, but moments later as we began our descent we passed an elderly couple, smiling as they climb a steeper section of the trail towards the peak. Yep. Gotta love Korea. We make our way down, get to Myeong-bong and hang a right to go to Neuratchae, where we hit some great rolling but runnable sections of trail. At about 23km in, I start to feel the telltale signs of a bonk coming on- dizziness, wobbly legs, a strong desire to stare at the moving patterns on the ground; so as soon as we hit the connecting fire road at the top of 느랏재 (Neuratchae), we scarfed down our peanut butter sandwiches and I threw down a Gu for good measure.

Add caption

Spring has come to the mountains!

Robb speeding along the quick single-track.

We get to our last section of trail, an 8.3 km section that should easily follow a ridge down to Soyang Dam, and we think we can make pretty good time if we can get some good running in. But about 2km into this, we get lost (you can see a long line jutting out on the Strava track), and of course the section where we get lost takes us down, and down, until we realize we have to turn around and climb back up to find the track again. Pretty demoralizing and energy-sapping. But it gave birth to a great maxim from Robb: "If the trail looks shite, it ain't right!" We got back on the trail and made our way through some beautiful, lush green sections of forest, much of it runnable but sprinkled with some leg-murdering steep climbs, quite a few which stopped me in my tracks, and with hands on my knees I again and again took to my intricate study of the forest floor. A study in dirt, if you will. Soon, again, we are heading down, down, and the trail starts to take on a more "shitely" veneer. I bring this to Robb's attention, and again we backtrack, up, of course, and find the trail, a little more deflated. Then we descend some really steep stuff through a particularly lush section with lots of ferns popping up out of black soil. That levels off, and then we see another peak in the distance, and as Robb told me we have to climb it, my heart started to sink. I have an pervasive tendency to go negative in the face of adversity, and the trail is a place where I can see this firsthand and actively work through it. I reminded myself of the absolute blessing that God gives of nature and health, and the gift that we have to play and enjoy it. And, to boot, I still had power in my legs, something I forget when I go into complaining mode. Robb always provides a positive model, as well, because the more suffering there is, the more he relishes it. So, I ate my final Clif Bar, sucked down my water, and actually started to move up the mountain, Robb being an uncatchable rabbit (jackrabbit) to chase, and before you know it, we are at the top peering down on the reservoir of Soyang Dam.

Soyang Dam, here we come!

This song came to mind and we started belting out the few lyrics we both knew.  We make the final descent, hit the pavement where we try and stretch out our legs with a pretty good pace, and find ourselves in "civilization". I joke to Robb about what the Saturday, Soyang Dam crowd must think of the likes of us. Having no idea what we had just been through, I'm sure we looked like we hadn't made very good life decisions, like we don't have it together very well, and we freaking stink! And perhaps they are right on all counts, but none of that matters as we clink our cans of Pilsner Urquells and grins spread wide across greasy, salty, sweat stained faces. Great run, dude!

Chuncheon Dam to Samak-san: The Dragon's Back

Robb cresting one of the many knolls in the fog.

A good view of what's to come.

In 2011, Robb and I set off to backpack the Chuncheon circuit trail, about an 85km trot that covers every single mountain of note in the Chuncheon area. But a rough day two sent us home licking our wounds. The problem being that on this particular section of the Samak to Chuncheon Dam route, we had to traverse about 8km of a completely exposed spine. There is a section cut out about 20m across (you can see in the photos), and the brush and thorny bushes, heavily aided by the monsoons of mid-summer, had grown ferociously tall, razor sharp, and so thick that you could not see your feet, but knew they were there because they were attached to the ankles and calves that were getting cut to shreds by sharp thorns. We navigated about 5km of this, up and down, up and down, until the string of profanities that flew out of my mouth was longer than the trail itself. We ended up coming off the mountain, cried in our beers, Robb lost a cell phone, and the trip ended. We ended up completing the rest of the sections as day hikes.

Robb looking strong on the dragon's back.

This un-slain dragon of a of trail has haunted me ever since, but for whatever reason, I was never able to get back out there and finish it until yesterday. Looking at the numbers, the dragon doesn't look so formidable: 22km according to my conservative Garmin numbers, or 26 on Robb's friendly android GPS, and 1500 meters of vertical gain. But memories of suffering can project their own shadows, and in this case those shadows hold a bit of truth.
The day began with a beautiful early morning jog along a creek, through green ferns and oak trees with a smattering of waning cherry blossoms. One kilometer in, we veer away from the creek and start the climb, a straight shot up 500 meters, and we dug into a hiking pace. As we summited, we were totally hemmed in by fog, so no stellar views, but it lent a kind of cool, eerie tenor to the trail. Perhaps just as well, too; a clear view would reveal two giant twin peaks about 180 meters higher than where we stood that we needed to traverse. A short reprieve ensued before climbing the first of these twins, and as we summited I felt jubilant, still unaware that we would descend 180 meters only to climb it right back up again. In the first 7.5km, we'd already done half of our elevation gain for the day.

Just beginning the descent after 11 kilometers. 

At this point, I felt pretty good, having done a good portion of the day's work early on (ha! foolish optimism). We hit the open spine that previously had brought so much misery, and thankfully, this early in the season, there are no biting thorn bushes waiting to cut us up. So we started the up and down, up and down that gives this section the appearance of a dragon's back as all one can see in the distance are these green undulations. This section makes for some fantastic running, and the views all around are pretty epic, except we were mostly still in the fog. But on legs that had just climbed over 800 meters, these undulating mounds started to take their toll. By the time we reached the big descent at about 11km, my legs were feeling pretty trashed. But the sun began to burn away the fogs and clouds, and we could see the expanse of the valley and the rise of Samak-san in the distance-- truly stunning. After we dropped another 300 meters, we veered back into the forest, and started another fantastic running section of trail winding and rolling through a thick forest of birch trees and oaks. I was feeling pretty dreamy as an evil stump materialized out of the leaves and reached up to trip me, sending me in a horizontal catapult over the forest floor. Look ma, I'm flying! I got up after a couple of stunned moments, walked off a slightly tweaked ankle, and right as I got to running again I found myself at the bottom of another 100 meter climb. Perfect.
At about 18km in, we crossed a fire road, and then began the last climbs of the day, a total of 200 meters, no easy task after three and a half hours and 1300 meters of vertical gain. At the foot of the final climb, I sat down and vacantly chewed down the remainder of a Clif bar, trying to summon the will to make the final ascent. Tagging far behind Robb at this point, I finally made it to the top, absolutely gutted. Looking at the clock, though, we decided to try and clear 4:30 for the day, and so Robb set off at a fast downhill pace, nimbly dancing off a rocks and roots and quickly cutting his way down the tiny switchback descents through the observing eyes of the birch trees. We passed a mountain temple, a sure sign that we were close, and hit the rocky, fast-dropping canyon path that became more and more cluttered with hikers. Navigating the rocks, roots, and hikers became quite a chore at high speeds, and my vision started to take on a sort of psychedelic glare, so I slowed down, deciding to forego a broken ankle for the day. Robb burled on, flying down the path that wound through the rocks, over bridges and waterfalls, and dropping 200 meters in the final half kilometer.
I finished at 4:37, Robb some minutes before, and our total moving time of the day was 4:07. At the end of the day, as I sat and stretched out my tender hip flexors and sore quads, we decided that we hadn't quite slain the dragon, but rather placated her just enough to gain permission to scale her heights and cross her long, rippling back. Rather than the dejection with which she sent us packing two summers previous, she had rewarded our fortitude and sent us away with a profound respect. Definitely the hardest 22km run I've ever done!

Thoughts on the Yang Yang Song-I Ultra-Marathon

Our race mascot, the wild mountain 

mushroom famous in Yang Yang. The 

race was actually a small part of a larger

annual festival in honor of this tasty 

fungus.

Race: The 60km group started at the 40km at 5am, but we had to be at race headquarters at 3am to pick up bibs and catch the shuttle to the start. I woke up at 1:30 in the morning, on about one and a half hours of true sleep. Nothing like starting a race when you're that tired-- it's almost like finishing said race, albeit a little more grumpy. We sat in the shuttle bus for a while, and most were able to catch a few more good winks while we waited until five. At about 4:55, the race director climbed on and gave some last minute instructions, then the group of forty runners poured off the bus into the dark and chilly morning. We were pointed down a dirt road that led up into the darkness, there was a quick ten second count down, and we're off!

What was my race strategy? Hang back, start super slow, keep the money in the bank and let it develop interest until I could withdraw it later in the race when I was down and out destitute. What did I do? I found myself running with Jared and Katie in the very front, and putting a large gap between us and the field in the first few kilometers. I don't think it was a mistake, though. We were still running pretty conservatively early on, and all of the climbing that we have been doing in training just made it easier to keep a decent pace. And climb we did. Right from the start, we climbed a long and winding 16km that took us up to 850 meters, about 700 meters in elevation gain. Nothing dramatic, but a great way to start a race. We continued up, talking away, staring at the circles of light as they bounced up the gravel and dirt surface. I kept glancing back, and only saw the bouncing lights receding away into the forest. Feeling like a kid shoplifting candy, I wondered when we were gonna get caught. Among the forty five  runners in the 60km, I suspected that a large handful were going to show us a thing or two about how to run in the mountains. Still we climbed, and the bouncing lights faded away. And then, out of the dark there appeared a solitary beam emitted from the headlamp of a middle-aged Korean man. This is where it begins, I thought, as we continued up the mountain, about 8km into our run. I thought that more headlamps would appear and swallow us up, but we went a couple of kilometers more with our new group member. We were still chatting away, and finally our new friend quietly turned the burners up a little pulled away. Katie, too, silently slipped off in pursuit, until it was just Jared and I. Now, instead of looking back at the colony of headlamps ascending though the trees behind us, we gazed at the two lights as they sped up the mountain and distanced themselves from us.

Eventually, the sun came up, and we were just about to reach the top. The sunrise revealed the heights to which we had climbed, layer after layer of high ridge lines, orange and red smatterings of foliage, and cloudless sky. Taking a quick break, Jared saw that two runners were catching us, only 200 meters back. They continued to gain on us, but we were determined that we would at least be triumphant on the first climb, and so we kept them at bay until we hit the summit and ran into the first water station, where I quickly filled my handheld bottle, drank a quick cup of Coke, and then was off down the descent. Drunk with competitive spirit, I was still determined to not get passed. But I'm a pretty slow downhill runner, and even though I thought I was pounding my way down, I was soon taken by one of the runners. I tried to remain unperturbed, and threw in my earbuds and continued the long descent. Jared and I hit the 24km checkpoint in just under three hours, and enquired about Katie, who was in the lead and about 20 minutes ahead of us. Just as were ready to pull out, five or six runners pulled up looking strong. We started our next climb still feeling fantastic. We had pretty much stopped talking and both had our ear buds in. I usually don't listen to music on runs, but it was a nice distraction. We climbed past 30km, 35km, and the then the exhaustion started to set in. In the beginning of the race, the distance markers posted every 5km were rewarding, but now the space between 35 and 40 took way too long, what I felt like was at least an hour, though it was probably more like 40 minutes. I had thought I would be so happy to see the 40km marker as it would be close to marathon distance and a full two thirds to home, but the 40km never seemed to come, and by the time it did, I was pretty demoralized, realizing that I had four more of those increments ahead and each one would more than likely take longer than the one preceding it. 

One of the early runners from the 100km
who ran with Tibbs early in the race. Great soul!

Jared and I leap-frogged each other quite a bit, but we pulled into the 85km checkpoint together, where we sat down and chatted with the volunteers for a few minutes, enquiring about Katie, who was now 40 minutes in front of us and well in first place. We joked a bit with the volunteers and ate some peaches, and then I slowly and stiffly stood up. We thanked the crew and slowly began our final 15km, knowing that it was going to be rough. I was feeling pretty down, and I was stopping a lot to pee or grab something from my pack, but mostly because stopping felt better than running. I lost sight of Jared and figured I wouldn't see him again, me being in a crummy place and moving really slow. I got some dried mangoes from my pack and dived into them, and that seemed to help. I began to move at a better pace, and I tried to forget about the 90km marker which never came (there wasn't one!) and instead concentrated on visual landmarks to serve as small goals that seemed to lift my spirits up a little bit. Then, as I rounded a corner, I saw something peculiar-- our first runner friend, the Korean man who passed us in the dark and whom Katie chased, was sleeping in the dirt, his pack lying beside him and his hat over his eyes. I asked him if he was okay and he woke up dazed, as if he were unsure where he was. I asked again if he were okay and he smiled and waved. I offered him some water and food but he seemed to be in good supply, so I continued on. I finally caught up with Jared, and we both commiserated on the pain of the final descent and the 90km sign that never showed. At this point, we were so tired and run down that we thought it entirely possible that we hadn't made it five kilometers even though it had been nearly an hour since we pulled off from the 85km. I tried to just focus and move relentlessly and excruciatingly down the mountain, and eventually I could see the road, which I knew to be 6km from the finish. What relief as I realized that we were at 95km and the elusive 90km was long, long in the past. But at this moment another unexpected character made their entrance into the unfolding drama of the day. It was Sonya, another runner from our group, who came flying up on me and smiling. I was surprised, as I really had no idea what a strong runner she was. Her and her husband Steve had signed up for the event on a whim, and did very little specific training for the event, although they were experienced runners. Still, they had never done more than a marathon and here Sonya was, blazing by me on the asphalt, slowing down only to ask me the meaning to that horrible song by the Killers, Somebody Told Me. She was utterly confused by the arcane lyrics suggesting that a new boyfriend of the singer's ex-girlfriend is actually the former ex-girlfriend of the singer... Anyways, as my mind was occupied with the somehow putting one foot in front of the other for 6000 more meters, her mind was completely focused on unlocking the key to a pop song of questionable quality. And she was smiling! I tried to keep up with her, but she was moving like she had just began a quick 5k run to squeeze in during lunch time. It was a wondrous sight to see a fellow HKA member doing so strong, but I began to wonder what kind of performance enhancer she was on and perchance if I could get some. Not long after she disappeared from sight, and it was a protracted, flat road where you could see everything for miles and miles. Seeing Sonya so strong in the last 5km of the race was inspiring, and also led me to consider that had I started even slower, maybe I could have those kinds of reserves nearing the end of the race. But I didn't-- I merely shuffled along with the knowledge that this 5km was going to be drawn-out.

Katie Eichten, who after being lost for twenty

minutes, still managed to win by over six 

minutes in the 60km event. 

The 95km marker was correct, but we had failed to realize the course was 61km, not 60; and so around 4 kilometers I began to become fairly certain I was lost. I stopped a car and asked for directions to the Arts Hall where we began, and they weren't certain but directed me to continue in the same direction. I came to a bridge, and started to make a right, but then thought better of it and stopped. Looking back, I saw another Korean runner who had eclipsed Jared and was making his way towards the bridge, so I crossed to meet him and he guided me in the right direction, which was actually left. With only a kilometer to go, I felt like I had a lot of energy and picked up the pace along the course, which led us through the Songi festival. The race, being as grassroots as it was, led us right down the main thoroughfare of the festival-goers, so the last half kilometer involved dodging strolling pedestrians who eyed us with quizzical stares and amusement. I finally saw the yellow balloon of the race banner and picked up my step and raced in to finish at 7:30, good enough for fourth place. Sonya and Katie were there, Sonya had finished in third, Katie had won the race by 6 minutes, and she had been lost for nearly twenty minutes at the same place I had been. Her time was 6:31! Jared came in four minutes later looking happy to be finished. We all were-- it is amazing how those lingering last kilometers of a race can expand in psychological distance. But here we were, and we didn't wait too long before the others from HKA rolled in-- Steve, Andy, and Aaron.

Mental: I've been listening to a ton of podcasts and reading up on ultra distances a lot, and what I have heard is that the ultra is a 90% mental feat. The other 10 is training. I found this to be unvarnished truth. I tend to get pretty dark on long runs, and once my mind goes south I usually don't pick myself up too quickly. On both of the 50km training runs we did in spring and summer, I went dark half way through and really did not enjoy the runs, but was just too focused on the pain and exhaustion. On long bike rides I get the same-- in a Granfondo 200km event in the spring I fell to pieces and was off the bike several times, cursing the ill-placed mountain climbs, the race organizers, and my own stupid life choices that brought me there. Like I said, once I go south, it gets dark and stays dark. So, for this race I really tried to keep those negative thoughts from developing into the tsunami that they may become.

I went through some dark times, no doubt; but I tried to concentrate on the fact that I have been looking forward to this for months, that I was in excellent company, we were all going through the same thing, and that I had actually paid money for the privilege of being here. When the 5km markers failed to be goals that could keep my spirits up, I began to pick out natural landmarks, telling myself I would keep running until that tall pine or that rocky outcropping ahead, and then pick the next thing to reach. This really helped to break up the race and get my mind off the endless gulf between myself and the finish line. When you begin to hurt and then you realize how much you have left to go, it can be extremely demoralizing, so these small, attainable victories became crucial to keep me going. At one of my darker moments, I had a mini-existential crisis, where I kind of stepped out of body and looked at myself, and my gear, and my ridiculous looking Hokas, and I asked my myself how in the world did I find myself doing something so absurd? I then was able to laugh at myself a bit, which is always a helpful trait in most situations.

The last 5 kilometers being as hard as they were, I needed some stronger, more direct disassociation from the act of running, so I began to think of Jina and the baby, and I began to visualize actually being in the room helping her give birth. I don't know, but going through a long, physical stress had made me so emotionally raw, that I began bawling at this thought. Literally bawling. Just letting the reality of that event touch me was too much, I was overcome by the beauty, the fear, and the frailty of life and love that we have in store with our child. It was deep, psychological catharsis, and the running seemed to fade behind this vision. I went from weeping to making vows and promises to what kind of a father and husband I want to be, and the next thing I knew, I was coming up on the city of Yang Yang where the race finished. I was still so raw when I finished the race, that when I called Jina minutes after I finished, I started bawling again just simply hearing her voice. If we run long enough, the weight of our blessings and the depth of our relations are veritably revealed at the surface. For the remainder of the day, tiny thoughts and thanksgivings brought moisture to my eyes.

Yours truly coming to the finish.

Community: We had a big showing from our HKA (My Hobbies Kick Ass) group. We had ten runners, family members, and friends all show up on the Friday night before the race and stay through Sunday morning to support, to run, and, best of all, to celebrate the event that has been months in the making. It is indeed a special group of people. One of the attributes that most of us have in no modest amount is the desire to complete challenges. As of May of this year only one of us, Robb, had completed an ultra. But once the germ of the idea of the Yang Yang ultra was planted, it grew quickly into an idea, and then into training runs, and weekend meet-ups and camping trips. We all had a wide variety of training plans-- Mike 3.0 Kim with his usual approach of running himself completely ragged week in and week out; Andrew "Von" Howrath chose to stick to his first passion of climbing, occassionally dressing up as furry creatures, and shark diving to get himself ready. Katie Tibbets cycled through Turkey for three months and returned a mere month before the event and immediately was crushing 50km mountain runs. Jared and Katie tackled trail runs around Bundang. Steve and Sonya did not even know they were signing up until two weeks before, and then came in with some super fast times. Robb and I stuck mostly to the mountains around Chuncheon, doing lots of climbing and hiking and some fire-road runs. I can count the number of times I've run on road in the past 3 months on one hand, and let me assure you, I don't miss it. Our main meet-up spots were our Gangchon course, which is a 28km fire road run through some beautiful mountains, and the option of tacking on an extra 12km of flat road run, or of an out and back that brings it to a 52km run, which several of us did. That was probably the best training for the type of running that Yang Yang would require. Another spot is in NamhanSamSung, a fortress wall area right outside of Seoul and not far from 3.0's house.

The 60km crew all bright eyed and bushy-tailed at 3am.

The best thing about having this group of nutters working towards the same goal is how supportive everyone is. It seems like trail-running, with all the other endurance sports out there, is the one most conducive to being joyful of one's surroundings and enjoying company. I could be wrong, but the trail runs are less type A in their approach to speed (although we have some that are plenty fast) and discipline (although, we have a fair share of that, too, even if it involves shark diving). The long runs are mostly about community. Running, laughing, struggling, swimming, eating, post run beers-- these are all par for the course on any given training day, and at the end of the day it is just as much about building relationships as it is logging miles. All in all, definitely blessed to be a part of such a crew. The best part of any race should be the food and the beers, the stories and the laughter that all come after. And we certainly had a great post-run night, even with rain dampening our outdoor barbecue we had a proper feast and celebration indoors. Katie Tibbets, who is one our genuinely elite athletes, regrettably had to drop from the 100km race after 40 huge kilometers due to injury. She was gutted about it, but nevertheless stuck around to watch and cheer in every singer runner, including running out and bringing in MK as he finished his 100. These are the kinds of people that I've gotten to know through trail running. I was also given a Rogue Dead Guy Ale when I finished by Steve and his wife, Sonya, who brought a case to share with everyone... Word!

HKA represent!

Miscellaneous: Eating: I stuck to my guns on eating during the run, and it pulled me through and kept my energy from plummeting. I ate a little bit every 20 to 30 minutes and I never bonked! My race food was three Clif Bars, of which I only ate two (and I didn't eat my favorite- Chocolate Mint! Note to self- the Peanut Butter ones are great but that was the hardest to go down in the middle of the race. The Chocolate Brownie, on the other hand, went down quick!) I had a big bag of gummie bears, a bag a dried mangoes, some peanuts and Craisins (didn't touch that), and some thick, dark chocolate, which was awesome towards the end of the race. For hydration I drank about 5 liters of water from my hydration pack (I filled it at 24km and the 2/3rds at 45km and finished it). I also carried my handheld in the front pocket of my vest and I dropped a Nuun in every time I filled it up, probably 5 times. I think I was pretty well hydrated because I peed 10 or 15 times over the day and it was quite clear. I ate some peaches and soup at the aid stations, and I drank a little Coke every chance I got, which for me really helps settle the stomach and gives you plenty of sugar and sodium to go with all the water that I drink. The plan seemed to work- I didn't get nauseous and I was able to eat later in the race.
Gear: Love the Nathan Endurance Vest. It has a way of making you forget it is there, and the front pockets are indispensable for keeping things in reach on the run. I wore some Nike Compression shorts under my running shorts, and I honestly don't know that they helped. My hip flexors were just as painful as they always are. But I didn't chafe, thanks to Body Glide. I wore the Salomon calf compression tights, which seemed to help. I had no problem whatsover with shin or calf pain. The Hokas: This was my first, real long run in the Hokas, and I have to say that I loved them. I will say, however, that they weren't as protective as I thought they might be when charging the down-hills. But I suppose they helped cushion the descents better than my other shoes would have. And my toes hurt by the end of the day, due to the downhill. I wore a really thin pair of Defeet wool socks and I think I would have been better off in a slightly thicker pair of Injinji's. I started the day with a spandex long sleeve top on under a Mountain Hard Wear, super light running top, and half way through, I took off the spandex shirt, although I probably could have kept it on. It was nice to have any change in sensation at that point. I also went from bandana to my Salomon visor to keep the sun out of my eyes in the late hours of the morning. Small changes that I can make on the trail help. I did have an extra pair of socks, but I never felt like I had the time or desire to change them so I didn't. I think if it were a longer race I definitely would.

Tibbs looking good in the early stages of the 100.

Thoughts on the 100: My heroes of the weekend are pretty much everyone-- but I must give special props to Robb and Mike who ran 100km. That was a whole different kind of race. Think about it: when I was at the 40km mark and just beginning to really struggle with myself, they were just getting to the beginning of my race. Psychologically, it has to be a whole other kind of event. I think I ran my race as fast as I could, and took minimal breaks and hardly walked at all. But for the 100, I think the breaks would need to be a bit longer, and there would necessarily need to be some walking to conserve energy for the entire day. I don't regret not signing up for the 100. I was not mentally ready to be out there for the extent of agonizing time that they were, which was not too much less than double. Mike had a really tough and dramatic day and wanted to drop several times, but pushed through. Robb seemed to have the solid companionship of experience on his side, and he certainly knows what needs to be done to get through this. He finished strong and feeling good. Tibbs dropped after 40, but not for lack of courage or strength, but just a bum case of piriformis syndrome. No one doubts her triumphant come back really soon.

The boys making friends on the 100.

Mike Kim and his 50km angel. 

Future runs: Jeju is definitely in my sights in April of 2013. It is an 80km race that goes over the 2000 meter Mount Halla two times. Barring any circumstances that should arise, I will definitely be doing it. Less distant in the future is a sort of crazy event that we are organizing here in Chuncheon, which is essentially an attempt to complete the Chuncheon circuit trail in one go, an 84km loop through the mountains all the way around the city. We still haven't crunched the numbers on the real elevation, but my conservative guesses are around 5,000 meters of elevation gain for the whole trip, or about 16,000 feet. We are thinking that the trip should take anywhere from 24 to 36 hours, but, again, we do not really know. I have hiked and ran many sections, and I know how shattered I am after 25km to 30km on some of that steep terrain. So this is clearly the most insane thing that any of us will do for a long time to come, if this injudicious idea should come to fruition.

Reasons to Run?

A common question that any runner usually gets is “why?” An expression I have heard multiple times is “I don’t run unless it’s from the police”; and it’s a valid point. There are few situations in which most of us need to run for life or death, or freedom or safety. So the question “why” does merit some thought, and there a myriad of answers that one might hear. For me, I might answer that running is like a drug. The more I do, the more I want to do, and the only diminishing return stems from the fact that my body is physically equipped to do more and more. There’s also a very spiritual element to running in my case. It’s a chance for thinking, meditation, and a place I go for continuous discussion with God about the general concerns and issues of this thing called life. I feel filled-up after a run. There's resolution and resolve.

            There’re plenty of other reasons I can think of, but for now I will refrain from that discussion to ask the same question, but in the context of the ultra-marathon. Because that really becomes a different thing, doesn’t it? Where most of the general public can understand the cost/benefit of running, say, 10k’s or even marathons, this logic quickly breaks down once we move into that weird land beyond 26.2 miles. The former answers to the question why, while they may still be true, are no longer sufficient on their own to account for why someone feels the need to run really far. I mean really, really far. The answers to why are, at this point, going to make less sense.

            In the past seven years since I ran my first marathon, I have been all over the board in regards to my approach to running. After my first marathon, which I enjoyed immensely, I decided to never run another. Once was simply enough. I achieved a life goal, and I did it pretty well (3:45) and now, I thought, I can spend my time on other avenues of life. But less than three years later, I was at it again. It stemmed from a deep desire to get back to that level of fitness that I was in when I ran the marathon, which had slipped over the couple of interim years. But it was more than that. I missed, really missed, those long runs. It is, like any drug experience, hard to describe just what happens to someone on a long run to the uninitiated. Call it runner’s high, if you will, but it is ultimately more than that. It is the whole ritual of it, of laying aside a good chunk of time on the weekend to go run for three or four hours; of making sure you have enough fuel and water, of planning out breaks and refueling. It was feeling exhausted to the deepest of my core-- but in a way that was somehow affirming. I felt better running. I felt even better when I was doing long runs. This carried over into everything in my life—work, relationships, and overall mood.

Getting ready for a trail run in Gangchon, Gangwon-do, South Korea

            In 2010, I had a stress fracture on the metatarsal of my right foot. I was overzealous after reading Born to Run about the barefoot movement, I bought me some Vibram Fivefingers, and I just ran, and ran, and ran. And then bam! I couldn’t run anymore. I could barely walk for weeks. And it was all taken away from me. I feared that it was forever. A doctor told me that I should never run again given the lack of arches and the poor padding on my feet. Maybe he was right. I started cycling and tried to forget running. I tried a couple of comebacks, but the pain in my foot would flare up again, and I would be frightened out of any further effort. Life was, truthfully speaking, not the same without running. Not that I couldn't find equal happiness in other pursuits, but that I hadn't found any other pursuits that gave me as much as running did. So, in October of 2011, I gave running another go. Slowly and painfully, I started introducing the idea of running back into my life. My injured foot was seemingly fine, but my hips were in pain, I had piriformis syndrome, my lower back hurt, and I was (still am, but dropping) 20 pounds heavier than I was when I was forced to quit running.

            So maybe not the prettiest comeback. But the odd thing is, that as soon as I started running again, the desire for the long run was there, just like a relapsed junkie. Except this time I have been running mostly on trail. I don’t know why or when, but among my group of peers the faint whisperings of a trail ultra-marathon could be heard, until the volume and frequency of the discussion led a few of us into signing up for an 80km mountain run in Jeju-do. Here I was, freshly back from an injury that kept me off my running feet for more than a year, and I had it in my head to do an ultra. So I began ramping up the miles in January, and, not surprisingly, had another foot injury by February. Nothing too serious, but enough to knock me out of sufficient training for the Jeju Ultra. In fact, only one of our group made the intrepid journey down and ran the 80km and finished before the cut-off (Kudos, Robb!). I was disappointed and frustrated, but weeks later I was at it again, this time slowly ramping up miles and doing a lot of cycling in between.

            Now, it is August, and two months out of a 60km mountain ultra in Yang Yang on the east coast of South Korea. I’m about 8 pounds down from my weight in December of last year, injury free, and feeling really good about the prospects of running 60km. Why? I don’t really know. To me it seems like an authentic goal. It is one of those things in life where no solid reasons are needed, and the lack of a reason doesn't make it any less meaningful. It seems like, given the way we work and operate here in the 21^st century, with all our gadgets and rich foods and sedentary lifestyles and cars and convenience—it seems like running 60km is a pretty good idea.

Tour De Korea Part 2

One of the first lovely roads that we would hit was the 403, just north of Chuncheon. The small road wound its way through farmland and along a stream, and there was very little traffic. The joyful realization that we were hitting the road was fully recognized, and Gravy and I were in high spirits. But the 403 began to rise, and directly ahead of us were mountains. We realized that there would be no circumnavigation of these mountains, as the grade began to steepen and the switchbacks began. Before long, I was off the bicycle, limping and pushing my beastly cargo up a hill. Gravy, who was significantly lighter packed than myself, was still pedaling up the monster, but that too would soon stop. At one point, about 30 minutes in, the road sign indicated...; no, boasted, that the grade was now 13%. After seeing this, I pushed my heap past a snake, dead on the road, having died presumably from trying to climb this wretched mountain.

Then there was a sign saying that the top was 2 km away. Now, 2 km usually isn't much. But when every step you are taking is up a 13% grade, and you are carrying, among other things, at least 1000 pages of written word in your bulging panniers, then each meter is a monumental feat. Now, multiply that by 2000 and you get the idea.

Everything that goes up must come down, and with cycling this is a very, very, good thing. Usually every climb is rewarded with a generous recompense of downhill riding, which usually triggers immediate amnesia to the struggle that came just before. But this particular hill was so nefariously steep that going down was almost as hard as going up. We had to ride the brakes hard, until the muscles in my hands were screaming. To add to this, they were also profusely sweating. In the event that my hand slipped off the brake, it may just be sufficient enough time for the gravity of the 13% grade to propel myself and my preposterously loaded bicycle right off the mountainside.

After making it down safely, we rode into the city of Hwacheon, and had lunch by the river- a veritable feast of string cheese, beef jerky, corn on the cob, and lemon ginger cookies. I figured the more I ate, the more weight I would lose in the awesome parallel universe of cycle touring. After lunch, we picked up a pair of expensive cheap sunglasses (15,000 Won) for Gravy, and hit the road, the summer sun beating down fierce in the early afternoon. We were cruising along this path along the Bukhan-gang (North Han River) that went for miles and miles, and the heat forced us off the bicycles and into the water in the first of what would become the daily swimming ritual. The swim was like a baptism, a sloughing off of sweat and toil and entering into a new pact, a new covenant, with creation. All of the day's difficulties up to this point only make the water that much cooler and that much sweeter, and the experience that much more profound.

And that is the crux of the bicycle trip. It's a microcosm of life. Moments of misery and suffering juxtaposed by the sweetest redemption of rising beauty and playful joy. It's a real live reminder of God's promise of redemption- to take the worst of life and to make it good, no, great! Better than we could possibly fathom. Beauty is only there after the testing fires of life.

On the bicycle, this happens multiple times throughout one day. In one moment you may be struggling up a hill, rivulets of sweat stinging your eyes, wind in your face, cars screaming by, shotgunning you with exhaust. The next moment you're flying down a mountain, taking in layer upon rich layer of green mountains adorning billowing clouds like a deep jungle forest. The sweat is dried by a refreshing wind, and even cars fall behind as the country side welcomes you to its bosom, whispering its ancient melodies into your ears. And later, when trying to convey this with Gravy, we realize that no words are needed, the communication becomes extremely high context, written in the crinkles of smiles and satisfied sighs- the bliss of just being out there and on bicycles!

Tour de Korea Part 1

About twice a year, I have to get out. I have to physically remove myself from my surroundings, go some place new, have an experience, and do something. It's ingrained deep within my spirit, a rising temperature that reaches its pinnacle and forces me into unknown territory, adventure, and discomfort paired with wonder and awe. These adventures are often flavored with an amount of challenge, suffering, and joy. I've chosen the perfect line of work for this particular need, the university teaching position in Korea, where we are awarded with two long and generous vacations each year- one in summer and one in winter. In the past 5 years, I've always gotten out by literally getting out of Korea, going abroad, traveling, going to Georgia, San Francisco, southeast Asia, Mexico and central America, Japan, anywhere. As most expats in Korea will tell you, getting out is essential for mental and physical health. Korea is a lovely place, I assure you. But there is a sense that one needs renewal, that the batteries can only be charged once you've left the peninsula, surrounded on all sides by water but the one that is North Korea, and that sanity can only be maintained by these periodic sabbaticals far away from kimchi, far away from the dense population, far away from the balli balli (fast, fast) life, far away from bowing when I greet someone, far away from all the strangely endearing customs of life here that I have grown to love and at the same time need a break from.

Now that I'm married to my amazing Korean wife, Jina, the frequency and duration of these various sabbaticals has had to be recalculated and renegotiated. She's a full time government employee at a national university here, and while its a secure job with relatively good hours and pay, the vacation time is extremely limited. In relation to my own vacation time, its barely a wink. I'd love nothing more than to wisk us both off on these saabaticals-- go to, say, Europe, or take her on a road trip in the States, or travel around Argentina; but alas, Jina is only given about ten working days off a year, and we have used those to visit my family in the States and take small vacations around here. So now I'm left with an internal dilemma- part of me still needs to get out. But another part of me, more importantly, wants to be near my wife, not too far away and definitely not for too long. Really, I have no business nor the desire to take off on a long journey just to straighten out my head while leaving behind my family. But there still is the problem- how do I get out? How do I maintain my sanity and recharge my batteries?

This year I concocted a plan: I decided to get out by plunging even further into Korea. I know that sounds silly, but let me explain. I've been in Korea for six years, and I've done quite a bit of traveling here. But its always been on shorter trips, weekend excursions, going with friends, family, co-workers. I've always been more of an expat here, and not just a full-on tourist experiencing the country through pure traveler's eyes. So, with my newly hatched plan, the idea was to get away from home for a couple of weeks, be a true tourist in my adopted country, and to do it all on bicycle, the way God intended for us all to travel.

Ever since I did a cycling trip in New Zealand in 2008, I've had the idea planted firmly in the deep recesses of my brain to buy a touring bicycle and make cycling a primary mode of travel. I've thought about doing it here, and now, being married, I figured that this would be the perfect trip to execute. I am getting out, but I'm not leaving Jina behind, not really-I'm still in the country, just out for a bit on my bicycle. And, to make the distance and length shorter, we made a plan to meet on the two weekends that I would be cycling in spots that we've been wanting to go and that would make for good stops on my “Tour de Korea”.

I bought a new touring bicycle, some panniers, and began mapping out my route. My good friend Gravy even signed on to go the first few days from Chuncheon out to Donghae, Korea's East Sea (By the way, you probably won't find East Sea on the map. Most world maps show the body of water as The Sea of Japan, and for many a reason I won't go into here, that just doesn't fly with the Koreans. Although in all fairness, the only country that it is east of is Korea, which makes East Sea also a bit ethnocentric of a name. Perhaps one day a more egalitarian title will arise, but I wouldn't hold my breath). I had to finish up some work I was doing, and the week finally arrived. On Tuesday, the day before we would leave, I went for a short run on the trail wearing the Vibram Five Finger shoes as part of my recent shift towards “barefoot” running, and a sharp pain shot through the top of my foot midway through the run. I tried to ignore it, but eventually had to stop and walk back home. Hours later I was limping, and by night time my foot was slightly swollen and I could barely put weight on it. Stress fracture. I'd been reading the warnings about being overzealous in the barefoot transition, but had continued to shun the shoes for all of my runs, including the long ones, apparently in love with the barefoot freedom and sensation. Now I was feeling the full measure of my heedless, headlong fall into barefoot running.

Surprisingly, riding a bicycle did not hurt at all. In fact, riding a bicycle was preferable to walking. If I was being taught a lesson here, then, this lesson was lined with a generous helping of grace and mercy. I would be on a bicycle for the next two weeks, so the stress fracture would just be a minor detail, something to heal up while I was continuing training for the marathon on my bicycle. Although it would definitely prove to be a nuisance at times, the foot never bothered me while pedaling. And so we got to pedaling.

I woke up on the big day with a sore foot, and had to limp up from our yeo (pronounced yo!, this is the floor pad that Koreans have been sleeping on for centuries. We've been sleeping on this all summer out in the living room because that is the most ventilated room). My foot was hurting worse than when I went to bed. Great... and on this auspicious note, I made a strong cup of coffee, stared at the piles of not yet packed cargo strewn about on the floor in our bedroom, maybe supposing that the caffeine that would soon enter my blood stream and my brain would endow me with the power to think the contents into the panniers. This didn't happen, so after a while I started packing them up, manually. We went to retrieve Gravy from the bus station, then dropped Jina off at work, got back home and were ready to go.

Once we got outside, I got the panniers on the bike, and all the other things: tent, sleeping pad, etc. bungeed onto the racks. I became painfully aware of having broken a cardinal rule pertinent to all varieties of self-propulsion: I overpacked. The bike looked as if it were pregnant, and when I tried to lift it I could barely, just barely, lift it off the ground. Meanwhile, Gravy was getting pumped, already having mounted his bike and riding around in circles. I limped around the bike, decided that four flights of steps was too much to limp up to get rid of items, and signaled to Gravy, whose eagerness was rising to a level of frenzy, that we were ready. So, we set off. Should've unpacked some stuff.

What did I pack, exactly? I'll tell you if you promise not to laugh. I packed three novels, one Korean language textbook, two moleskine notebooks, and a bunch of pens. I wanted to get reading, studying, and writing done along the way. Hey! you never know when you may be confined to a coffee shop in the middle of a typhoon. I also packed a 200 page Korean road atlas that weighed at least two pounds. A camping stove, two fuel canisters, a tea kettle, a hand held coffee drip, a tent, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, two spare inner tubes, cleaning supplies, chain grease. As for clothes, I packed two pairs of cycling shorts, one pair of board shorts, one pair of gym shorts for sleeping, one pair of cotton shorts, five pairs of underwear and the same number of socks, three polysynthetic running shirts, one collared dinner shirt, and one cotton t-shirt. For food I brought one large package of beef jerky, a zip lock chock full of gorp, six granola bars, one package of Carr's Lemon Ginger cookies, and a container full of ground coffee. For my dob kit I stuffed it with deodorant, toothpaste and toothbrush, face cream with spf, Dr. Bronner's peppermint all-in-one freaky soap, and some sun cream. Basically I felt like my mother, who, like most mothers, is a notorious over-packer. She would usually take two suitcases to visit my relatives 3 hours away for the weekend. And yet, here I was. What can you do? Its hard for me to conceptualize what I will and ultimately won't need before a trip begins. The clarity comes only once we've departed, thus rendering the epiphany useless.

Oddly, I had the JJ Cale song “Traveling Light” humming away in the back of my mind as we pulled off, perhaps a signal from deep down in my subconscious telling me to unload stuff. Not registering this as a signal, I just hummed along and got moving. The bicycle seemed to just shrug when I put the weight on it, and when I got to pedaling, the bike didn't seem to mind the weight at all. It moved steadily and smoothly, and I was confident that I had made a good, albeit expensive choice in bicycles.