WARDEN
Know what you did when you turned down Dynanite Holmes’ boxing squad? You put your head in a noose. Things are soft for a boxer in his Company. Otherwise, you better know how to sol’jer.
PREW
I can sol’jer with any man.
WARDEN
This ain’t the Bugle Corps — this is straight duty.
PREW
I’ll take my chances.

A convertible, top down, drives by and pulls up outside the Orderly Room. KAREN HOLMES, a tall, lean blonde woman, gets out. Her skirt hikes up a little as she goes up the stairs to the Orderly Room. Warden and Prew stop walking and watch her. Karen stops, glances at Warden momentarily, then goes into the Orderly Room.

WARDEN
You’ll fight, Prewitt. You’ll fight because Captain Holmes got a bee in his hat he needs a winnin team to make Mayor. And if you don’t do it for him you’ll do it for me.  So we know where we stand, don’t we, kid?

… and now presenting, our Two Kinds of Men:

PREW
A man’s got to make up his own mind and go his own way.  If he don’t, he’s nothing.

WARDEN
Maybe back in the days of the pioneers a man could go his own way. But not in our time, kid. Today you got to play ball.

***

This is the critical twist in the Rubik’s Cube:  Do you go your own way? Or do you play ball?

This tension belies the churning of corporate cogwheels, joining the partnership track, or trying to move up to head chef. And it all comes down to one, simple, eternal fact:

There are the Two Kinds of Men. Men who forge a path, and men who follow the path forged.

The world needs them both. The Boss and the Right-Hand Man. The Partner and the Associates. The Chef and the Kitchen Bitch.

Let’s call these two men Initiator and Reactor. Under a rational choice analysis, Initiator plays a high-risk, high-reward game.  Initiator faces huge risks from adverse reactions when he imposes his will on an established environment. But if successful, the environment settles into his frame, whereupon he reaps huge gains from founder effects and first-mover advantage. In this way, Initiator is highly leveraged: both his gains and his losses are magnified. Initiator is risk-seeking, not risk-averse. He swings from monkey bars in a gunslinger’s playground.

Reactors settle into a low-risk, low-reward game. The leveraged positions of Initiators eats up most of the rewards of success (first to kill is first to eat) but cover most of the losses from failure. Reactors, therefore, are boxed out of big gains but kept safe from dangerous fall-out. Reactors’ risk aversion is associated with practical, commonsense decision-making (and, conversely, lack of confidence and limiting beliefs).  This behavioral choice produces a muted life experience. Their disposition attains security. But being only able to nibble at the low-hanging fruit, Reactors often lead quiet lives of desperation.

A common strategy by Reactors wishing to access the rewards of Initiators is to play Wait-and-See. The virtue of Wait-and-See is that a Reactor can safely “pay his dues” and follow an Initiator’s path until enough risk is covered that becoming an Initiator is favorable to his risk-reward profile. This is when the Beta decides the time is ripe to vie for Alpha status.

The  vice of Wait-and See is that the Wait period is often a soulless, subservient, jading process that sucks the life out of nubile ambi-climbers before they ever reach midpoint. Although secure in their essentials, Wait-and-See Reactors face a risk altogether foreign to Initiators: that their daily toil is meaningless; that they can do better. It is not uncommon for this group to lament from their armchairs that they did not, in their youth, grab life by the balls.

For many, being a Reactor is a good play. Initiators and Reactors need each other like yin and yang. Plus, some risk-reward profiles don’t suit moving boldly in the direction of one’s dreams. But it would be limiting for a man to accept the frame that he *must* be a Reactor, due to circumstance. Accepting this poison baton is more often an act of resignation than of conscious choice. Here’s a tip: if you’re quietly desperate, go out and do something stupid. It’s amazing what brass balls can do to remove you from the shadow.

Summiting Terrpain Mountain at Mile 22

Our destination was the foothills of the vaunted Blue Ridge Mountains, site of this year’s Terrapin Mountain Ultra-marathon. The race is a 7,600-ft climb up 31 miles of rocks, dirt, grass and gravel, up the mountain summit and then down to camp.

After settling in Friday night and discovering there was no lodging at the campsite, we decided to rough it and sleep in the grassy field nearby. Some folks muttered about “the forecast,” but, sensing adventure, we didn’t pay any mind. John went outside with a sleeping bag and I sacked out in the Jeep.

The race started on Saturday morning. But for John and I, the race started late Friday night. That’s when the temperature dropped to an insufferable 29 degrees. The Jeep got so cold I had to put my office-suit over my jeans, socks over my gloves, and my next-day’s underwear over my head to conserve heat.

waiting for the gong

John survived in the open air until 4am, when my teeth-chattering companion popped open the Jeep door, complaining of icicles in his sleeping bag. With my underwear still over my head and socks around my hands, we exchanged “this was a stupid idea” glances. We stole about 2 hours of sleep then hobbled up to the start line.

There were 148 of us running the course. Before I could stretch, the gong went off and we were heading up the country road to the mouth of the mountain trail.

For all my training, I was surprised at how hard the first 5 miles up the mountain were. With so many military types afoot, it dawned on me that as a mischievous attorney who just wanted to test my limits out of the office, I might be in way over my head. I was having doubts about finishing the afternoon and the sun hadn’t even started to come up.

Fortunately, I fell in step with a tough, awesome girl named Marianna and our conversations took my mind off any pain. With my legs back under me, I went on ahead and took in the sun popping through the trees. What a sight to see!

Miles 5-15 were fabulous. Gorgeous surroundings, babbling brooks beside the trail the whole way. Plus, enough flats and downhills to justify a really fast pace and get some confidence back after that first climb. I felt fortunate to be outside.

I caught up with John looking strong at mile 17, and we wished each other luck for the big climb from miles 17-22. At some point, I came across Sniper, who was ever the gentleman, and Abby Mendous, the ultra-mom who inspired me on at the Holiday Lake 50k last month.

the summit looms above the mist

The grade was very steep on the scramble up the summit. I was reduced to a humbling 3 mph pace for much of it, pulling on the trees branches ahead of me to hoist my way up.

But the view from the lookout made it all worth it. Standing on the boulders was a breathtaking view of the valley. One of those moments that sticks with you as much for what it costs you as for what its really its worth.

blue skies, smillin' at me

A long downhill section followed, and after getting to know a friendly runner named Cory from the Naval Academy, I relished the use of “downhill muscles” until the last set of switchbacks. One of the stream crossings had some powerful currents running over it. I’m sure whoever won “Best Blood” was the guy who misstepped over those rocks!

angry stream crossing

The switchbacks seemed to last forever. Uphill, downhill, stream-crossing, repeat. I ran out of water and when I ducked off the trail to “excuse myself,” the color was so neon Las Vegas could be lit for a week. Knowing this was a sign of dehydration, I put the burners on and cooked it home for the last 3 miles, very happy with my race pace and how much energy was in my heart and legs.

Corey crossing Fat Man's Misery

We ate like crazy people in the early afternoon, lounging out in the sun and in no hurry to leave Shenandoah Valley. The sense of community here has been truly inspiring. I’m excited for Promised Land next month and feel a tremendous gratitude to everyone who came out and made this event such a life-affirming experience.

finishing the terrapin 50k with Jobo

I was sure the blizzard would snuff the event, because doing it in the snow didn’t seem possible. But when a message came that the race was on, my parents bailed on their offer to drive me down to the Buckingham State Forest. So I checked the list of entrants for runners registered from DC. There were 4 of us. Fortunately, a poet and a warrior by the name of John Bocek said yes he’d let me hitch a ride on down with his brother, Rob.

first glimpse of the Appalachians in the distance

John is a financial advisor. Well, more accurately, he’s a jet-skiing, ass-kicking renaissance man who owned three nightclubs in Baltimore after graduating from the Virginia Military Institute. In 2008, he ran a 100-mile race up 23,000 feet of angry mountain in an impossible feat known as The Grindstone. His brother Rob is a Navy SEAL.

So there I was, in the back of the jeep, bumping along to hear John and Rob’s amazing stories, when we finally pulled up to the 4-H Center campsite. There, we were treated to the Last Supper, a carbo-loaded pasta and bread fest, while race director Dr. Horton went over the trail. At some point, the brothers Bocek and I went exploring to see what the course conditions might be like. In one word: WHITE. In three: REALLY F****** WHITE.

Dude, where's my trail?

After dinner, I dropped my bags in a nearby cabin to crawl off to bed.

I managed to get up a minute before my alarm and headed to the bathhouse to gear up. There, a man known only as “Sniper” approached me after spotting me as a newbie by the sheer volume of body glide I packed. Sniper laughed heartily when I told him my expected finish time, saying that in these conditions just finishing would be all I could hope for. That was somewhat deflating. Sniper is well-known in the community for some amazing feats, like completing three 100-mile races in three consecutive weekends. I was beginning to feel like Butch Cassidy holed up in Bolivia with the firing squad outside, asking myself, “Who are these guys?”

four star lodging, my cabin 'twas not

Finally, 6:30 am rolls around, Dr. Horton yells “GOOO!!!,” and we were off!! Well, actually, the other 243 runners were off, but I was still in the bathroom regretting how much pasta I ingested for the Last Supper. Damn.

After bursting out of the bathroom, I saw a trail of headlamps heading up the road in the distance. Dr. Horton was yelling something like “You! Get going already, will ya?” and so I flipped the switch on my headlamp and tried to follow the whooping of the runners up ahead.

The first five miles were slow and labored because of the snow. I tweaked my ankle about 6 or 7 times because the ground kept giving out when my foot would land. To boot, the narrow singletrack trail was made narrower by the footsteps we made, so my hip flexors were tight almost from the get-go. After almost taking a bad fall on my ankle, it occurred to me that one stride without focusing could very quickly end the race, so I stared at the ground for the next 2 or 3 miles, just trying to figure out the terrain.

I settled in stride with a girl who looked like a super-fit late-20-twentysomething, and we started gabbing. To my incredible surprise, this woman, Abby Mendous, was a 37 year-old mother of 8 who was known widely as “The Ultra Running Mom.” Abby is a firefighting, super-adventuring CPA who was running with a fracture in her back from a mountain biking accident last month. Thin and fit as a fiddle, she confessed she eats a full box of Cheezits every night before bed. I’m guessing she works it off.

"Abby the Ultramom" and me after the race

At mile six, we came upon some bona fide stream crossings. Fortunately, my shoes held up well after dashing through them, and I thanked my lucky stars for the DryMax socks I packed. Socks + Water = Blisters. Blisters would be a bad way to go, especially since my feet were wet and pruned up like dead-people feet by the end, anyway!

By mile 10, the sun was peeking through and the temp picked up to the high 20s. Around this time, I started getting careless and made way too many passes on the uphills, running up steep banks that I thought might be easy to tackle. It didn’t occur to me how dearly I would pay for those gallops later!

Sweet, beautiful Holiday Lake

Around this time, I passed a guy from the Virginia Tech marathon team wearing a kilt and a young woman in a skirt and sports bra. COME ON, PEOPLE, IT’S 20 FREAKING DEGREES OUT! Is there a sub-species of human that I don’t know about who can humanly survive in this temp in just a bra?

At the mile 16.5 turnaround, I was still feeling strong, but made a huge mistake by dropping my water bottle, jacket, and one set of gloves at the drop bags. The snow was taking about two minutes per mile off my pace, which meant the distance between aid stations kept feeling farther and farther. By mile 20, my hands were freezing and I was desperate to find a pack of people to draft off of, if only for warmth! I fell in step with some army guys from miles 20-24, and they basically saved me.

The pack began to dissipate and I found myself alone, so I finally put on my iPod. Girl Talk for beats, Van Buuren for tempo, Led Zeppelin for the hard stuff. It was working until the dehydration set in.

Sometime around mile 25, I started bonking hardcore. In my training marathons, I’d not yet been to the point where systems started failing. Now I finally understood what people meant by “hitting the wall.” My legs started feeling like 50 lb bricks, my throat was dry from not enough water, and the snow still felt relentless despite footsteps to follow from speedsters up ahead. Never thought I’d pray for mud, but when those patches came, I hit the gas.

Probably the funniest part of the race was around mile 28. I was trading positions with a fellow strapping young twenty-something, but our pace had slowed to such a crawl that we were literally speed-walking against each other. It was like that scene from “Up” where the Grandpa and the Old Bad Guy are fighting each other on the blimp with canes and their backs keep going out. Take 60 years off them, and that was us.

Just before the last aid station, I was alone and going through a serious low when a familiar voice shouted out “on your left!” It was Sniper! What a sight for sore eyes. Sniper waved me on and set the pace pretty much up until the finish line, shouting out encouragement. We talked about, life, girls, and running. It was a joy.

Advising me to sprint in and “empty that mother-******” for the finish line, Sniper pretty much shoved me into it. Crossing the line was an awesome feeling. After chugging about a liter of Gatorade and 4 PB&J’s back at the lodge, my legs came back to life (very slowly!). Pretty sure I ate a whole banana in one bite at some point.

The Bocek brothers celebrate their finish!

So John, Rob and I celebrated then jumped back in the jeep to head back to DC. I am super thankful to the Boceks, to Sniper, and to everyone who was so inspirational and helpful throughout the journey.

finishing the holiday lake 50k

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