As I run, it’s already dark, but the heat does not let go. It hangs in the air, lazily leans onto the buildings. As I recall similar runs, my mind heads across the border. Bright midday jog in Belgium – paving stone, white bridges, yellow pints of beer hanging out on cafe tables. Pre-sunrise run in India – overlooking a cliff, and racing eagles. Smoldering midnight sprint in Israel – darkness, silent boardwalk and crashing waves. India I stay with the run. As I settle into the discomfort, the street signs start flying by. And for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself… Coffee shop. Stop sign. Chinese restaurant. Korean restaurant. Japanese restaurant. Dry cleaners. The music in my ear is like a mismatching soundtrack to a silent film. The strangers I pass move their lips, and gesticulate, but no sound escapes. Israel At a turnaround point, I stop and pause my watch. The heat swallows me. I blink tears of sweat; cheeks pulsating into my skull. Every inch of my exposed skin is melting. Seconds fly by. Resting is almost more uncomfortable than the run itself. I turn around and charge. The air instantly cools the face. I feel myself slowing down. I’m tired. I’m floating above the asphalt and my feet drag miles behind. Helplessly. Ineffectually. Radiohead’s Karma Police does nothing to improve my pace. The body is protesting. Arrest this girl… I speed up in sheer defiance. I stay with the run. Street signs are flying by in reverse order. Dry cleaners. Japanese restaurant. Korean restaurant. Chinese restaurant. Stop sign. Coffee shop. A tiny valley breathes cool air as I pass, and I think of all things wet and cold. Water. Snow. Crisp apples- right out of the fridge. Ice cubes. Faster. My whole body is humming, pulsating. She buzzes like a fridge… My front door. Ripping off the wet clothing, I rinse the night city off me. The lights, the sounds, the smells slide down my skin and down the drain. But I still feel it inside. The street signs firmly lodged in my chest. The stop sign is the vibrating tightness between my shoulder blades. I stay with the run. Until the run stays with me. I’ve given all I can… Signing off, SOLO

Few months ago I found myself on a yoga mat, practicing, rather than teaching. A fellow teacher demonstrates a pose to the class. “If you are currently fighting an injury…”, she continues, and then proceeds to offer a modification. The words suddenly strike me. “If you are currently fighting an injury…”. Why would you ever fight an injury? What a silly thing that would be. It’s not like you could fight an injury and win! You will always lose that battle. Always. Fighting an injury is kind of like fighting the Italian Mafia. [You are more than welcome to replace Italian with Russian here. Or Korean. Being inclusive as always.] You don’t fight the Mafia. You respect the Mafia. Then, if you are lucky, they leave you alone. Mafia’s major business is providing “protection” for their client – your body. At any cost. Mafia communicates by dishing out pain, and dishing it out generously to those who do not listen. You don’t listen to the Mafia, you may end up hospitalized. They can take anything they want. They can take everything you have. So, don’t be a babbo, compare! Respect the mafia. Capisce? *** I finally met with an orthopedic surgeon regarding my wrist injury earlier in the week. I am thirty years younger than the youngest person in the lobby. I also seem to have full function in all of my four limbs. The receptionist must think I’m lost. The doctor looks at my MRI, ultrasound and x-rays. It has now been eight months since the injury, and the wrist feels significantly better. In fact, most of the time I do not feel it at all. In fact, if I was sitting on the couch, I’d never feel it. However, the cartilage tear is alive and well. So is the tendonitis in the wrist. I still cannot do narrow grip push-ups, and any lifts that require a sharp angle in the wrist (front squats, cleans, etc). Chaturanga and arm balances in yoga are out of question. Like human body does not have plenty of limitations as is. [Eye roll]. The surgeon says he does not want to proceed with any surgical treatment given the fact that the wrist is mostly functional and has been getting better. Conclusion? Meet again in three months. At that point, he may consider laparoscopic surgery to “clean up” the debris. It’d be really awesome if I didn’t have to hear the words “debris” and “wrist” in the same sentence. But hey, it could always be worse. That’s the spirit, right? Downward comparison all the way! My hamstring injury is still very much there. My chiropractor diagnosed a chronic irritation of the hamstring at the insertion. This thing does wonders for my speed. Not. The 5k timed trial few weeks ago did enough of a number on my hamstring for me to consider pulling out of the marathon (and the whole racing season) altogether. “Tell me what to do”, I say to Scott, my chiropractor. These words do not escape my lips too often. “If you think that it would be more prudent to pull out of the season now, take few months off and then start training for a marathon in May, then I’ll do that”. In fact, I’m almost hoping he would tell me to stop training and pull out. Because that would be an easy prescriptive course of action. “Well, things are not quite black and white”, he says. I HATE when things are not black and white. It would be so much easier if they were. Of course, they never are. Stupid things. Given that this is my first road marathon, I do not actually have a goal time in mind. Under four hours would be great, but whatever. At this point I’m simply concerned about doing more damage by training than by not training. Scott continues: “Will your hamstring get better, if you continue training for the marathon? Probably not. Will it get worse? Probably not. Can you run a marathon in October? Probably. Are you going to break any speed records? Probably not.” “The only way you can do more damage at this point”, he says, “is to rip the hamstring off the bone entirely. You are not going to do that in long runs. You can do that walking down the hill, and slipping. Or aggressively accelerating in a race to jump over an obstacle. Avoid speed work and running downhill. You’ll be fine.” Gah. So it looks like I’m running that marathon. So much for finding an excuse to pull out. Signing off, Solo

Tentanda via means The way must be tried in Latin. It’s the motto of York University, one of my alma maters. Last week I was able to spend a whole day at TEDx @ YorkU, an independently organized TED event with that very theme. The way must be tried. All the speakers and performers that day were accomplished individuals who have tried something new, something different at some point in their lives. And that something led them places. That something resulted in something remarkable, unique and awesome. Talks from the chief planner for the City of Toronto, CEO of United Way, and English professor were interspersed with break dancing, gospel choir, and spoken word performances. I left with my head buzzing. Good feeling. Every semester as part of teaching my Healthy Lifestyle Management college course, I assign my students a project that raises some eyebrows (well, at least until they receive their second project). The assignment is to try something new and hand in a written report about the experience. The rules are: it has to be something you’ve never done before it has to be done between the time I assign this in class, and the time it is due (I’m not interested in hearing what you did last summer, or what you are planning to do in the next year) it has to be planned and carried out specifically for this assignment (not something that would occur any way) it has to be legal and consensual (pretty obvious, but you’d be surprised) it has to promote one or more areas of wellness (e.g. physical, emotional, creative, spiritual) As I introduce this assignment, students are clearly divided in those who love it and those who hate it. I am especially interested in the latter group. After all, they are the ones who stand to benefit the most from this experience. We throw around some ideas in class. They have two weeks. No time to ponder, no time to overanalyze. The best part (for me) comes when the assignments are finally submitted. If you always thought that marking papers is boring, think again. This is a freaking blast. Every semester certain themes arise. FOOD Try sushi. Wasabi. Dim sum. Avocado. Green tea. Mussels. Dragon fruit. Durian. Snails. Make paneer (cheese). Bake a cake. Bake apple pie from scratch. Cook butternut squash. One student tries cooking for the very first time in his life. First, fried eggs. Success. Although it takes five eggs in order to cook two. No matter. Second – chocolate chip cookies. He eats half the dough, but the rest turns out ok.Success. He reports still preferring the dough. One student decides to make lasagna – she is South Asian, and this is definitely outside of her comfort zone. The family loves it. “After tasting the lasagna my husband said to me that “I like if you get this kind of assignments every week so we can try something new every weekend”.” However, it’s really not about the lasagna. “I felt that trying new things that you have never done before is not bad and not as hard as I thought. It was really fun and exciting.” Now, we are talking life lessons… This is a durian! SPORTS Go to the gym. Learn how to deadlift. Learn how to ride a bike. Try hot yoga. Indoor skydiving (what the heck is indoor skydiving?). Indoor rock climbing (ok, some clearly do not like the outdoors). Try Squash. Zumba. A student includes a detailed diagram, depicting herself trying Zumba. Join a kick ball league. Go hiking. Take a BoxFit class. Try Muay Thai. Tai Chi. Parasailing. Skiing. Snowboarding. Ice skating (yay, Canadian winters!). Quote from student: “When Ms. Kate, my cool and energetic teacher, asked us to try something we’ve never done in our life, few thoughts came to mind, such as skydiving, skinny dipping and ice skating. As you may know now is the middle of winter, and it’s not a good time for sky diving or skinny dipping, because I may get arrested while frozen. So I chose ice skating.” Wise choice. PERSONAL DEVELOPMENT Start learning French. American Sign Language. Playing guitar. Watch a curling game.Take public transit. Drive a car with manual transmission. Learn Majhong, a Chinese board game. Do a spell to lift negative energy. Operate a lawn mower. Teach a community class. Perform in front of a live audience. Read at a poetry festival. Volunteer to sing in church. Write a program in a new programming language. Watch a movie in 3D. Start praying in the morning. Participate in Free Hugs campaign. Celebrate Valentine’s Day. A female student asks a guy out on a date. Another student decides to foster parent a cat. Meditate. Donate blood. Get a tattoo. (Yes, really). Someone with fear of water enrolls in a swimming class. Someone with fear of heights climbs the CN tower. One student does his own laundry for the very first time. A guy experiments with make-up. Another guy gets a pedicure. Another guy learns knitting. A woman learns how to change a tire on a car. Another woman fixes her own plumbing. I love how there is a first for everything… You could try something new every day if you wanted to! In 2010, I learned how to put on a sari (badly), and climbed the CN tower. In 2011, I finished a race last. That was a first. It was an orienteering race, and I’m still immensely proud of that one. In 2012, I made podium at a Spartan Race. And then… I made podium again. And again. In 2013, I ran my first 30k road race. I announced starting my own business. The coolest thing is that you never know where something new, no matter how small would take you. I ran into a student few months ago. Her face looked familiar. I knew she took a course with me few years back, but did not remember her name. “Kate!”, she called out. We chat for few minutes. “Kate, do you remember that assignment you had us do? The try something new assignment?”. I nod. “I tried kickboxing for the first time. I’ve been kickboxing for two years now. I’m working on my green belt now.” The funny thing was that I didn’t remember reading that particular assignment. I read hundreds of them since then. However, that assignment – small task, few written pages – brought this woman something that she enjoys in her life every day. A hobby. A passion. And that is the coolest thing. After all, few years back, I found this crazy-looking race called Warrior Dash and drove out to Chicago with my dad and my brother. A little less than three years later, I have announced that I will be starting a life coaching business, with emphasis on obstacle racing. Imagine. [To my dad and brother – thank you, guys, for coming along on that crazy adventure. It still continues today!!!] On my list of new things to try in 2013: Parcour = a combination of street gymnastics and freerunning. Check out the wildest video here. These skills would definitely help with obstacle racing. Capoeira = a Brazilian martial art that combines the moves with dance and music (what’s not to like?) So… your turn. When was the last time you tried something new? Signing off, SOLO

"When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight." Have you ever read the consent form you sign at every obstacle race? Like actually read it? You know... how you are supposed to read everything before you sign it? I have. In fact, I keep a copy of consent forms from certain events, simply because they are so much fun to read. Here's an excerpt from a typical form: "I, , acknolwedge, appreciate (!) and agree that: The risk of injury and/or death from the activities involved in this event is significant including, but not limited to the following: 1) drowning, 2) near-drowning, 3) sprains, 4) strains, 5) fractures, 6) heat and cold injuries, 7) over-use syndrome, 8) injuries involving vehicles, 9) animal bites and/or stings, 10) contact with poisonous plants, 11) accidents involving, but not limited to paddling, climbing, biking, hiking, skiing, snow shoeing, travel by boat, truck, car, or other convenience, and 12) the potential for permanent paralysis and/or death." With a cherry on top. Now, snowshoes probably would not have helped in the Ultra Beast. And I didn't even know we COULD paddle or travel by boat in an obstacle race. But then, I didn't know that you could have two legs blown off while running a marathon either. A typical consent form for a road race seems more tame, with a sweeping statement releasing the race organizers from "any injuries or damages I may suffer as a result of my participation in the marathon and related events". In retrospect, the consent forms seem incomplete. Maybe now, we should add a section on accidents involving, but not limited to: intentional violence, acts of terror, and man made explosives. Because you know... it could happen. It has happened. ... Dear Ang Young Reynolds, Andi Hardy, Alec Blenis, Robert Blenis, David Mick, Olof Dallner, Junyong Pak, Ramona Gellel and all others - I'm so glad you are ok. My favorite band seems to know just how I feel. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q6MH2aGekgI Down, I am downOn the ground, sad and tiredI'm down, it's over nowYes I'm down, should I like it It's deep and darkDeep down in my heartIt's deep and darkSince we've been apart Is this love that comes aroundThat takes me up light years higher'cause I wanna feel love once again It's deep and darkDeep down in my heartIt's deep and darkSince we've been apart It's deep and darkDeep down in my heartIt's deep and darkWithout someone's love P.S. I was planning on a different post after Citi Field. I really was. But this blog writes itself, and I gotta respect the creative process. My muse... She's a finicky bitch. Signing off, Solo

Quiet week on the blog, but a lot has happened in the background. My second Goruck challenge. A trail run. Four CrossFit workouts. My Obstacle Racing 101 workshop. And perhaps, the most notably, my Death Race (DR) media challenge article has been published in the latest issue of Get Out There magazine. The media challenge is required for all first-time Death Racers – you must tell the world that you will be attempting DR by securing a media story about it in a local newspaper or TV show. The penalty for not completing the task this year is the 50,000 lb lift. Essentially, you will be required to deadlift 30-50 lb boulders 1,000 times in 5 hours or less. And if you do not complete the challenge, you will be eliminated from the event before it even starts. Without further ado… Read the issue in its entirety here. Signing off, Solo

Days until the Death Race: 2 Hours slept last night: 7 In the past month, the following quotes have been thrown around quite a bit: Banish the doubt. You have to know that you can do it. Otherwise, there is no point in even trying. If you think you are not ready, you are not ready. Fear is for the weak. You can’t afford any doubt. Whether you think you can, or you think you can’t – you’re right. (Someone quote Henry Ford at me during the Death Race. I dare you.) Do or do not… there is no try. (Yes, even Yoda has been dragged into this.) PUH-LEASE. I think self-doubt is underrated. If I only did the things that I was sure I could do, I’d never get off the couch. Clearly, I am missing that confidence-bordering-on-insanity gene. Unlike Muhammad Ali, I’ve never wrestled with an alligator, and I don’t know if I could throw thunder in jail. Instead, I spend quite a bit of my time scared shitless. I like this excerpt from the infamous Rocky Balboa monologue: [Son]: So you nervous about the fight? Scared to death? [Father]: Scared to death. [Son]: You don’t look scared. [Father]: Well, I ain’t supposed to. So don’t you tell me to banish doubt. It would be simply… rude. Self-doubt and I are very close friends. Doubt has done a lot for me. At times, it’s like a friendship you’ve been in for so long, you don’t necessarily know what you are getting out of the relationship. You are simply used to their presence. Think back to something you have done in the past. Something others may find challenging, but you never doubted yourself. You always knew you could do it. Did you feel accomplished when you finished? Sure. How about completing something you didn’t think you could do? But you did it anyway? How did you feel then? My very first endurance event lasted 8 hours. At that point my biggest athletic accomplishment was running a road 5k. There were four of us, in pain, and suffering. It took every last drop of my patience, kindness, strength and determination to keep pushing, and keep motivating my teammates. I’ve never cried as I’ve cried at that finish line, when it was announced that my team took first place. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done at that point. I have two university degrees, hanging above my desk, as I write this, and neither of them has given me that sense of accomplishment. Why? Because I never doubted my ability to finish. Years later, I’ve done events that do not even compare to that first endurance race. I’ve done races that were longer and harder. But.. they were easier. So, screw Yoda and Henry Ford. I’m with Eleanor Roosevelt: “You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, ‘I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.’ You must do the thing you think you cannot do.” Now, some well-wishers take another line of reasoning altogether… You are already a winner. You didn’t quit if you gave it your all. There is no finish line. The latter sentiment was expressed beautifully by Josh Zitomer:“In my book THERE IS NO FINISH LINE and there is no first place, second place, third place, fourth place, etc. Every single person out there won. Being a death racer isn’t about making it 45 hours or 60 hours or 67 hours.” Except there is. There is a finish line (however, arbitrary). And there is a first place. And a second. And while being a Death Racer is definitely not about making it to the finish line, being a Death Race finisher is. The post was signed: “-Josh Zitomer, 2012 Death Race Finisher, 1132″ After pushing so hard, for so long, you better believe that finishing matters. I want to finish the Death Race. Do I doubt my ability to finish the Death Race? Absolutely. [Like I said, self-doubt has taken me places, so I’m sticking to the methods that work]. Is there a possibility that I will finish? Absolutely. Is there a possibility that I will not finish? Absolutely. If the latter happens, will I be upset? Absolutely. Will it be the end of the world? Absolutely not. Will I be back next year? Probably. But if I choose to quit, then I will know that I have not crossed that finish line. And before I can tell you that THERE IS NO FINISH LINE, I’d like to cross that line first. The Death Race has begun… Signing off, Solo ******************************************************************** You can stay caught up on all things Death Race, starting tomorrow here: www.obstacleracingmedia.com/deathrace and here: twitter.com/obstaclemedia

You know what the definition of irony is? A yoga teacher getting a speeding ticket on her way to teach a yoga class. I mean… Right? I spent few minutes, ruminating about how I wouldn’t have ended up with a ticket, if I took a different route to work that morning… but then of course, it occurred to me, that I also wouldn’t have ended up with a ticket if I was… you know? driving the speed limit. And complaining about a ticket when you were speeding is kind of like complaining about the weather… not very intelligent. At the beginning of the yoga class, I asked my students if they ever found themselves teaching a lesson that they most needed to learn themselves… It’s like an overworked mom hollering at her kids to “stop running around”. Indeed. And so lesson? Slow down. At some point, faster turned into a synonym of “better”. However, there are just too many exceptions to the rule. Instant coffee. Microwaves. Speed dating. Fast food. Certain gyms offer “speed yoga”, for professionals living a fast-paced life, who wanted to salute the sun before work. Quickly. I was reminded of the interview on the radio few weeks ago with Carl Honore, one of the proponents of slow movement, a shift towards slowing down life’s pace. Honore talks about having an a-ha moment a number of years ago. At that point, his life was as fast-paced as ever. Even reading a bedtime story to his son turned into a race of its own, as he was speed-reading Snow White and cutting down the number of dwarfs. The moment of truth came as he was reading (skimming!) an article in the newspaper about time-saving tips, and one of the suggestions referred to a book of “One-Minute Bedtime Stories”. All the children’s classics condensed into 60 seconds or less. “What a great idea!”, was the first thought that occurred to him. Followed by “Wait a minute… “. [pun! get it?] And so, he set out to slow down. Enjoy life. Re-discover the beauty of “hanging out”. On that note, my weekend was… slow. Filled with snow, and solid nutrition of baked goods and ribs in Niagara-on-the-Lake… Awesome. Children’s book at a local gift store – highly recommended by Sigmund Freud… And, of course, for the other flavour of dysfunctional family dynamics… Wishing you some slow moments this week. Signing off, Solo.

“Life of Pi” was on my list of books to read for a while. Although the novel was first published in 2001, with the movie coming out in 2012, its popularity was revived somewhat - getting it at my local library would take months. I bit the bullet and bought an audio version. Written by Yann Martel, a Canadian author, who went to Trent University, and now lives in Saskatoon, the familiar names and locations are peppered throughout the book. Scarborough, Winnipeg, University of Toronto... Hearing about masala dosa makes me nostalgic, and I end up in Toronto’s Little India. I walk into a store, stuffed with statues of jolly Ganesh and eternally intoxicated Shiva. Another store - filled to the brim with mango pickle and Parle-G cookies. Walking around, I get an occasional whiff of familiar smells. Incense. Cheap saris. Spices. The smells are not pronounced enough, not obnoxious enough. At a lunch buffet, I pile my plate high with sambar, curries and snow white rice. At a table next to me a gay couple is discussing Fringe, the local theatre festival. They push pieces of food around on their plates and scrunch up their noses. I can smell street cars, and pigeons. Red Rogers truck drives by busily. We are still in Toronto. I try to make myself feel better with some butter chicken and savoury papadam all rolled up in a crunchy tube from the heat. The waiter brings chai. I take a sip and feel almost disappointed as I do not taste the cloying punch of sugar. Then I remember that I specifically asked not to put sugar in my cup. Not that it ever made a difference in India. Where are the masala dosas? Coconut chutney - spicy and gritty on your tongue? Idlis, made hot right on the street, and served in banana leaves? And a large cow, an impromptu dishwasher, licking the leaves clean, and then swallowing them whole? ... The novel wasn’t at all what I expected. After all, it was supposed to be a story of boy and his tiger, surviving a shipwreck. I think I wasn’t quite prepared for how dark it was. The scenes of dismemberment and cannibalism made me queasy. Not quite “The Neverending Story”, it was more Noah’s Ark meets Hemingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea” with a dash of Robinson Crusoe and a touch of Jack London’s “Love of Life”. Few lessons learned... you don’t have to pick I especially enjoyed the spiritual exploration of the main character in the beginning of the novel, as he is struggling to choose between Christianity, Islam and Hinduism. Indeed, why not have all three? Does each religion not suggest that there is only one God? After all, “Hindus, in their capacity for love, are indeed hairless Christians, just as Muslims, in the way they see God in everything, are bearded Hindus, and Christians, in their devotion to God, are hat wearing Muslims.” One of the most liberating truths of adulthood for me is realizing that we often don’t have to pick. We emphasize specialization in schools, we preach one religion, we insist on one partner. One correct diet. One way to live. We simply don’t know that NOT picking is an option. I have triathlete friends who “don’t do straight running events”. I know trail runners, who “don’t do road”. Spartans who don’t do Tough Mudder. Mudders who don’t do Spartan. And on. And on. I do them all. Because I don’t have to pick. “I just want to love God”, Pi blurts out at one point in the book, confronted with seemingly unnecessary choice between three major faiths. He goes on to incorporate all three into his life, visiting the church, the temple and the mosque. Prayer mat. Cross on his neck. The red dot of kumkum on his forehead. The perceived need to pick can cause much grief. There was a time in my life when I felt incredibly torn between yoga and running. I felt like I had to pick one and commit to it wholeheartedly. No cheating. Today I refer to myself as a recovering ashtangi. Recovering vegan. Recovering vegetarian. Recovering... in general. Moving away from dogma. Away from black and white. Away from wrong and right. moderation is a privilege In one point in the book, Pi describes the constant oscillation between the extremes in the life of a castaway: “When it is light, the openness of the sea is blinding and frightening. When it is dark, the darkness is claustrophobic. When it is day, you are hot and wish to be cool and dream of ice cream and pour sea water on yourself. When it is night, you are cold and wish to be warm an dream of hot curries and wrap yourself in blankets. When it is hot, you are parched and wish to be wet. When it rains, you are nearly drowned and wish to be dry. When there is food, there is too much of it and you must feast. When there is none, there is truly none and you starve. When the sea is flat and motionless, you wish it would stir. When it rises up and the circle that imprisons you is broken by hills of water, you suffer that peculiarity of the high seas, suffocation in open spaces, and you wish the sea would be flat again”. We often talk about moderation in food and exercise, and as I read this quote I appreciate what a privilege moderation really is. Eating in moderation is only an option when we are well off. When we do not have to worry about where our next meal is going to come from... Because food is always there, we only need to open the fridge. Yet we often feel deprived somehow by moderation. Moderation becomes not enough. Once not enough, it’s never enough. What a great shift in perspective. Moderation is privilege. some things are hard to believe … it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. Believing you can succeed is hard. Believing you can trust someone (again) is hard. Believing you can continue getting up after falling again and again is hard. Sometimes simply believing that you are decent human being is hard. “Don't you bully me with your politeness! Love is hard to believe, ask any lover. Life is hard to believe, ask any scientist. God is hard to believe, ask any believer. What is your problem with hard to believe?” Pi explodes, when the Japanese officials do not quite believe the fantastic story of his survival. They want “a flat story”, “an immobile story”, a “dry, yeastless factuality”. Believing in miracles is liberating sometimes to the most hardened hearts. But how do we believe? The Queen of Hearts from “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” has a solution... There is no use trying" said Alice; "one can't believe impossible things." "I dare say you haven't much practice," said the Queen. "When I was your age, i always did it for half an hour a day, Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast." Sometimes, the best things in life are quite hard to believe. It gets easier with practice. Signing off, Solo Other books I mentioned in this review: Love of Life by Jack London - read it online The Old Man and The Sea by Ernest Hemingway The Neverending Story by Michael Ende Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

Curiously, I am more sore today than I was yesterday – the infamous 48-hour post-event peak of DOMS (delayed onset muscle soreness). I do a little bit of waddling down the stairs, and getting up from my yoga mat is less graceful than usual. I realize today that one advantage to wearing very little to do an obstacle race (elite male obstacle racers, I’m looking at you) is less laundry. With a t-shirt and full length running pants, I’m absolutely exhausted from the amount of rinsing. Yes, yes, a cliffhanger. I know. I ended up racing. Obviously. WITH fuel. AND water. As Rihanna points out – “I may be dumb, but I’m not stupid.” The Spartan family came together as one. Yet again. Jeff has a hydration pack in the car, which he is not planning to carry. Boom. I have water. Next I pick up my racing kit, and go hunting for food. Shaun Provost generously shares some Gu with me. Finally I run into the Canadian Mudd Queens (represent!), and inquire if either of them have any extra fuel that they can spare. They look at me in amazement. “Solo, we all read your blog post on what to pack. You specifically said to pack extra fuel. So yes!”. Boom. I have fuel. My blog has officially paid off. Johanna, Jen, Tanya and Genevieve produce a small pile of gels, bars, baby food and jelly beans. Me thinks I now have enough sugar to kill this mountain. Now if I could only locate a cup of coffee… But it’s almost time, and we head over the start to watch the elite men take off. Wow, this year everything is a big deal. The caliber of athletes is blinding. Olympic athletes, obstacle racers, triathletes, runners. I’m just soaking up the energy of the crowd – my face hurts from smiling at all the familiar peoplez. I hand out hugs like candy, and warn the guys I know that I better not see them on the course. Women are starting at 8.20am, twenty minutes behind, followed up by the rest of the open waves, released every fifteen minutes. We mingle at the start line, while the race organizers are doing the PR thing – pictures, interview clips, announcements. I meet few people in person for the first time (hello, Janice Ferguson!). Strange, how in the age of social media, we sometimes develop a relationship with a person before we meet them face to face, no? The gun goes off, and we are running. The first obstacle is hay bales – these are the highest bales I’ve ever seen, and many women, including myself, are struggling to get over. The fact that the straw is still dry does not help – there is no grip at all. I am pleasantly surprised to see women help each other to get over to the other side. This is the elite wave, and the camaraderie is heart-warming. Couple of walls, over-under-through and a short net crawl are next, and then we are climbing. And climbing. And climbing. A brutal hill for miles. At least it seems like that’s how long it is. About half way through, as I’m huffing and puffing like a chain-smoking elephant, I hear a familiar voice behind me: “Solo! How is it going?”. I look around to see a huge smile – Juliana Sproles waves. “Oh, you know… Meditating.”, I reply. That’s really the only way I can describe my snail pace up the mountain. All of my road marathon flat pavement training is paying off. NOT. We chat for a bit, before Juliana blasts past me, walking like we were in freaking Central Park. I could never associate this radiant woman with her nickname – the Shark. I mean, look: I don’t see any resemblance. Although I did suggest that next year Juliana raced with the Jaws soundtrack playing loudly, wherever she went. Can you imagine? Talk about laying psychological distance onto fellow racers. When we finally make it to the top, a memory board awaits. We have to memorize a word-number combination, corresponding to the last two digits of our bib. Few people are writing down the numbers on their arm – intelligent, yes, and exactly what I’ve done last year at the Ultra Beast. This year I’m lucky to have gels. I borrow a ballpoint pen from someone, and try scribbling the number on my skin. Nope. The combo is not very long, but I know that we will have to recall it hours later. X-ray 137 8613 I give up on trying to write the damn thing down, and decide to put the years I spent in the education system to use. Finally! I pull up a mental file – Introductory Psychology, lecture on memory. What do we know about the way human memory works? Short-term memory only holds 7+- items. Rehearsal is the best way to transfer information from short-term memory to long-term memory. And the deeper you process the information, the better you will remember it. Thus, a best way to memorize random numbers and letters is to create a story, to make them less random. I make up a fictional baseball player named Juan X-ray. Don’t ask. He is currently 37, and he was born in 86. Again, don’t ask. His jersey number is “Lucky Thirteen”. X-ray, Juan. 37 years old, born in 86. Jersey – Lucky 13. X-ray, 137 8613 Next few minutes are spent thinking about Juan. I wonder what he looks like. Is he married? Does he have any children? What’s his favorite color? [Notice the delirium is already setting in. We are only a couple of miles into the race. Fantastic.] Sharp downhill and we arrive at the footstep of yet another formidable climb, close to the start line. It is the sandbag carry. Or rather… THE sandbag carry. As in… the mothership of all the fucking sandbag carries. A day before the Beast, Alec Blenis posts the following message on Facebook: “Walking around the spectator area in Killington. Just saw the sandbag carry. I’m terrified. Seriously.” Over sixty pounds of sandy goodness for both men and women have to travel up quarter mile up the hill. And back. Just to put things in perspective: a quarter mile is a FULL lap around the running track. Only this time you have a friend. And a small issue of verticality. In the next little while, many racers will find God. Or die trying. [to be continued] Signing off, Solo

That was the subject line of the long-awaited email I received this afternoon. Talk about cliffhangers… It’s funny how no matter how confident I was in what the email would say, I still got a little knot in my stomach, while the letter was loading on my phone’s screen. “Spartans, Congratulations! As one of the first-ever competitors in the 2012 Spartan Ultra Beast, you have been automatically accepted to compete again this year. While some of you were able to finish, there are quite a few of you that will be looking for redemption in September. Whether you were one of the members of the Lost Tribe, or you missed a time cutoff, trust us when we say that we’ve heard each of you loud and clear over the past 9 months! First, some important details: In order to ensure we can deliver the best event possible, we have decided to move the Ultra Beast to Sunday, September 22, 2013. Why Sunday, you ask? There are a number of valid reasons, but really it is pretty simple. Our 2013 Point Series ends with the Vermont Beast event on Saturday, September 21st. Hundreds of racers will descend upon Killington looking to stake their claim as one of the best obstacle racers in the world. We’re looking for an epic battle for the Championship on Saturday, and we don’t want to short-change competitors by making them choose between racing for points in the Championship Beast Event, or running the Ultra Beast. It is with that thought in mind, that we decided our only choice was to move the Ultra Beast to Sunday so that the best of the best could compete head-to-head in the Beast on Saturday morning to decide who the champion will be. Or maybe we just want to see who is tough enough to run the Beast on Saturday AND the Ultra Beast on Sunday. You wanted a challenge, and now you have it. By moving the Ultra Beast to Sunday, it will be considered the first event of the 2014 Points Series, so all competitors will be starting from a level playing field. All UB finishers will receive Beast points, as the Ultra Beast will NOT be heavily weighted. The Ultra Beast WILL count as part of your 2013 Trifecta, simply because “Sprint, Super, Ultra Beast” has a damn good ring to it. With that said, we’ve made you wait long enough. It’s now time to get registered for the 2013 Spartan Ultra Beast in Killington, Vermont. CLICK HERE to fill out a short survey and begin your registration process. You have 72 hours to submit your survey and claim your spot before we open registration to our second round of accepted athletes. We look forward to seeing you in September! Aroo!! -The Spartan Race Team” And now it begins… The hottest topic of discussion on the forums right now is whether people are running 3 laps of the Vermont Beast (regular Beast on Saturday, and Ultra Beast on Sunday), or 4 laps (2 laps of regular Beast on Saturday, and Ultra Beast on Sunday). Ironically, I remember the exact same conversations happening just over a year ago. And people weren’t so tough, once the race actually started. That lake kicked the bravado to the curb. Respect the mountain, people. Respect the mountain. And remember: “If you are faced with a mountain, you have several options. You can climb it and cross to the other side. You can go around it. You can dig under it. You can fly over it. You can blow it up. You can ignore it and pretend it’s not there. You can turn around and go back the way you came. Or you can stay on the mountain and make it your home.” [Vera Nazarian, “The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration”] Signing off, SOLO

“There are times when you reminisce about the things you’ve gone through before, and surely you’ll smile and say How the hell did I get through all that?” [Author unknown] September 22, 2012. Saturday. We are at the start about an hour early. Hustle and bustle, as Ultra Beasters were setting up their drop bins, and picking up their bright green armbands. Pre-race jitters. Pre-race bathroom line-ups. Wait... this was the first race I've even been to, where the line-up was at the men's bathroom, and not the women's. What the...? And then I realize that at this race, women are heavily outnumbered. For the Ultra Beast, the numbers are 1 to 5. "It's gonna be a sausage fest out there", a fellow male Ultra Beaster comments with a smirk. I'm snuggled up into my sweater - the morning is crisp - but Leyla peels off her top layers with steely determination. "Time to get used to the cold!". I groan! "You are only making it worse, Solo", she says. FINE! Shivering, I take off the sweater, rubbing my hands together to generate some heat. Bye bye, comfort until much MUCH later today. We get to hear the welcome speech from the race director as a huge camera snaps shots of elites lined up at the start. This is the championship race - all familiar faces are here. Hobbie Call, Andi Hardy, Angela Reynolds, Amelia Boone - I mentally check off the names. As we start running, my legs feel more tired than I would like. We get our feet wet exactly five minutes into the race. Despite the cold water, I am glad I stuck to my usual racing outfit (sportsbra + running capris). Many of the obstacles are harder than I grew accustomed to. I spent weeks practicing the monkey bars, and they have not previously posed a problem, but this time around the bars were wet and slippery - burpees for me. The horizontal wall climb takes me an incredibly long time for some reason, as I am really concentrating, trying not to fall. As a result, my hands and forearms are absolutely exhausted as I finally reach over and ring the bell. The next obstacle? Rope climb. Another obstacle that never really poses a challenge, but this time around, it is a real struggle. The very last pull that I need to ring the bell takes me two tries. Despite completing both obstacles, the amount of effort it takes really shakes my confidence. Swimming out into the lake, climbing the ladder and attempting the rope swing is also really difficult. I feel myself getting angry. "What the hell is up with these obstacles?", I tell myself. "I'd like to see a girl who completes these". Monkey bars, rope climbs, rope swings... you have to hold/pull your whole body weight. My favorite obstacle is the sandbag carry up the mountain. The weight of the bag is a joke, and I smile like a moron the whole way up to the mountain, chatting up the photographer. Shortly after that, the traverse... Ha! Well, I've never done this obstacle. Ever. I know the theory, as I try to hoist myself on top of the rope, and try to pull. Bare stomach and a belly button piercing do not help. At all. I sigh. The likelihood of me getting all the way across to the bell in the middle of the rope hanging upside down is very small. I start inching toward the damn bell, instantly wishing for longer running tights as my bare skin starts rubbing against the wet rope. About a quarter of the way in, I make an executive decision and let go. Burpees. As I leave the traverse, a volunteer calls out to me: "You are almost done!". It takes all my might to try and ignore the comment (and the rising urge to be violent). Note to volunteers: do not... DO NOT say "you are almost done!" to runners unless you are running the damn course yourself. That phrase is meaningless. And sometimes cruel... As I find out later, I am about two hours away from the finish line. It is the last climb, and it's brutal. We are weaving our way in the forest, up and up. And then up some more. It's a steep incline, and the race is now a death march. I stop few times to catch my breath. A close friend wished me luck shortly before the race. As we talk about my anxiety and (self-imposed) pressure to do well, he says he wishes I could do the race in my own little tunnel. Do MY best. "Athena, goddess of war AND wisdom. Be safe. Do well." says his text message on Saturday morning. Throughout the day, I remind myself... the tunnel. THE TUNNEL. There is a rope climb at the top of the hill, which does not pose too much difficulty. As I jog towards two eight foot walls, I see Goss, and tear up. She smiles and takes pictures. I give her a bear hug, and attempt to conquer the wall. No energy. Waiting for a Prince Charming. With some assistance, I drop over the walls with all the grace of a sack of flour. All those dance lessons finally paying off... NOT. For the first time, the view opens up, and we get to see the mountains around. I pause at the top, open my arms wide and squeal at the top of my lungs. It's quite a view. A view worth climbing a mountain for. After that, it's all downhill. And... what a downhill it is. I catch up with a fellow racer - John - near the end of the first lap. We were introduced the night before, and now running side by side we joke back and forth about having a cigarette and a coffee at the drop bin. First lap - done. John has a cigarette, and I do have a coffee (hail to the inventor of thermos). John prides himself on being the first (and probably last) person to smoke during the Spartan Death Race. :) I take my time at the drop bin, changing socks, munching on sweet potatoes and chicken, and having a chat with one of the photographers simultaneously. Angela Reynolds is nearby, already dry and dressed. It is from her that I first hear the tale of the Lost Tribe (a name Matt B. Davis coins for the group of Ultra Beasters who went off course). She opted not to finish the race, and will return on Sunday to race for the same amount of points. I later learn the same fate is dealt to Alec, another elite racer, who was one of the favorites to win the race. John and I take off for the second lap, and stick together all the way to the finish line. I do glance longingly at the finish line before turning my back to it, and heading in the opposite direction. Objectively, the second lap is easier. I stay MUCH dryer, as the lake swim/rope swing obstacle is closed (burpees!), and I decide not to attempt the rope traverse the second time around. Even though I get really bored with the race few miles into the second lap, the time goes by faster, as we chat. Topics vary from the bucket list (John has one!) to beer preferences. I find myself arguing in favor of ales over lagers, "the amber the better". The last hour of the race we spend in the dark. The headlamps come in handy, and with my sense of direction (or lack of thereof) I am thankful for steady stream of racers on the trail. All surfaces are slippery, and we have to watch our footing with every step. Finally, out in the open! This is it. As I cross the finish line, it starts to pour. I look around, searching for Goss and Captain Craig, the other two members of team Trifecta. Finally heading towards my drop bin, I find them both huddled together near my bin, completely soaked. It's an adorable sight, indeed. Dozens of amazing blog posts were published in the weeks after the Ultra Beast 2012, detailing the race course and the exact obstacles we have encountered. I'm happy to leave that to bloggers with better spatial memory than mine. Instead, 7 months after the biggest race of my life, I find myself reminiscing about the Ultra Beast. With another biggest race looming ahead, here are some of the precious moments of the Spartan Ultra Beast 2012: pasta dinner the night before the race beer rant on the second lap first sip of hot coffee between laps enjoying the sunrise in Killington (especially on Sunday) striking a pose for a photographer seeing Goss on course real food in my drop bin exchanging jokes with Andi Hardy under the barb wire realizing how idiotically happy I am to be on my stomach, crawling through mud (see the header photo of this blog) nailing the monkey bars on the second lap seeing the view from the mountain making the wall just before it was soaped up wearing a huge glowing in the dark medal to the bar that night Signing off, Solo

According to Facebook, every single one of my friends were “hiking” in Vermont this weekend [thank you, John H for the apt description from last year’s Ultra Beast]. Distance: 22.42km (13.9 miles) Elevation change: 15,500 ft [according to Alec Blenis] *Here numbers vary quite a bit. I have now seen the GPS stats from a couple of devices, and the elevation estimates vary quite a bit. Let me just assure you that it was hilly. If you were looking for your first DNF, this was definitely the place to do it. This weekend started and ended with Katy’s Perry “Roar”. The middle was packed with farm dinner, hugs, mountains, lakes, unexpected scenarios, some tears, a pull-up challenge, Switchback beer, coconut water and dancing the night away. The pre-Beast feast was held at the Amee farm on Friday night, and it was a great way to start the weekend – amazing food and familiar faces all in one place. Lots of hugs were shared over lasagna, quinoa salad and apple crisp. Most Spartan races feel like family reunions, and given the pre-event festivities this one felt even more so. “Are you doing the Beast or the Ultra Beast (or both – ha!) this weekend?”, was the most common question floating in the crowd. It got dark quickly, and racers started to head home to get some quality shut eye before the big day. I am staying at a cottage about half an hour away from Killington with a bunch of fellow racers, and after some introductions and reminiscences about the summer Death Race, I turn in for the night. My racing outfit is right beside my pillow, and I hang my hydration pack ready to go in the closet. The start is at 8am tomorrow, and the plan is to be up sometime before 6am to be at the start for just after 7am. I wake up because someone is talking to me. As I open my eyes, Jeff, my official chauffeur for the weekend, reports in a slightly panicky voice that it’s almost 7am. Neither of us has set an alarm, assuming we’d either wake up from the noise, or someone would surely kick both of us in the ribs. The house is empty. Bleary-eyed, I pull on my racing gear, spend some time frantically looking for race shoes, then finally grab my purse, and we are on the road. Jeff is desperately trying not to speed. We are few minutes away from the race, when I realize that my hydration pack is still napping in the closet, where I left it. I’m heading towards the start line of Vermont Beast without water, fuel, or salt. Nothing. I feel my heart rate starting to go up. I’m about to have a panic attack. Then I pause, and decide against it. A surprisingly calm internal dialogue turns on… Let’s consider my options. 1. I can choose not to race at all. This whole forgetting the hydration pack thing is clearly a bad sign. Pfffft. Right. 2. I can race in a later wave. Going back for my pack would take way too long, and I’ll be finishing after dark. 3. I can race tomorrow. No way. 4. I can race without water or fuel. Wow, now there’s a dumb idea. But I have done enough events in the past to make the decision to do something stupid consciously. You can be as stupid as you like, as long as you are aware and conscious of what you are doing. Let’s consider the worst case scenario. As a rule, I like to avoid doing anything with very high likelihood of death, simply because there is way too much cool shit that I still have to do beofre I kick the bucket (unless that cool shit inherently comes with high likelihood of death – bungee jumping and skydiving, I’m looking at you). There will be water on course (including a lake – ha!), I won’t die from dehydration. I’ll be hungry. I will probably bonk, but I’m stubborn enough to finish anyway – it will just take me a very very very long time. “Food is a crutch”, I remember one of the SERE performance instructors, saying as they take away our fuel at the beginning of the 16-hour event. I’ve never done an endurance race in a fasted state – this could be an interesting experiment. Besides, my coach always says that I should train my body to use fat for fuel rather than readily available carbohydrates. What better way to start than the Vermont World Championships? Right? My biggest concern would be muscle cramping – with no salt or electrolytes, this would be tough to battle. So the worst case scenario would be severe muscle cramping to a point where I would not be able to go on. But muscle cramps go away, and I’ve been looking for my DNF. This may be it. As we pull into the parking lot, Jeff looks at me, amused. “You are taking this really well”, he notes. “I know”, I state calmly. “I’ve been in therapy all year”. As we start walking towards the crowd, hundreds of racers are picking up their race packets, smiling and laughing. Many of them will not finish. [to be continued]