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Checking in with Running

Checking in on my relationship with running is something I have done in the past, something I will continue to do, and something that feels good to do right now. I just ran my first race since the Bear 100 at the end of September - the White Pine 55km Solstice Run - a grueling, vertical, and remote 55km race that runs through the Oquirrh Mountains just west of Salt Lake City.


The race is slow moving, with roughly 3700 meters of climbing (12500 feet) and something around 8 km (5 miles) of exposed traversing along the White Pine ridge. This ridgeline separates the two canyons we spent most of our time "running" through; White Pine Canyon and Settlement Canyon. It was my first time exploring both of these canyons, and I did my best throughout the race to enjoy this new place the same way I would during a ski tour or an exploratory run.


There were very few aid stations over the course, and this added to the remote sensation it gave off. After going out rather quickly, I settled in to my own pace and ran by myself for nearly 45 km - a very cool experience to have in a race environment! Along the way I battled bouts of dehydration, nausea, and all the typical pains that come with kilometer-tall climbs. Despite these moments of discomfort, I found ways to enjoy the terrain I was in and appreciate all the work that had got me here.


Since May 1, I have averaged 89.8 km a week with 3611.7 meters of climbing. (That's 55.8 miles per week, with 11,850 feet of climbing). This is the most volume I have put on my legs since being injured at the end of September, and it is most certainly the best running has felt since that time too. In that same 6 week period, I have done efforts of 51.25km to celebrate my birthday, 34.47km to celebrate my mom, and 40.53km to spectate the beautiful Scout Mountain race course in Pocatello Idaho. I have also done seven trips up the West Grandeur trail; something I am very proud of. When I look back on this block of time, I appreciate all of the ways which running has given me comfort.

On top of Grandeur Peak, after having ascended the West Face

Four of these six weeks have been defined by something much larger than running however. On May 15, my mom suffered an aortic dissection in her 5th grade classroom while her students were out at recess. Luckily, a neighboring teacher, and a friend of my mom's, walked over to ask how Mother's Day went the previous day. This teacher found my mom in an immense amount of pain, called for help, and my mom was rushed over to a close-by hospital for further clarity of what had occurred. Once the aortic dissection had been determined, she was quickly sent into surgery, and an open heart surgery began.


The aorta is a large artery that arches around your heart and is responsible for delivering oxygen-rich blood that our bodies need to function. It is the largest blood vessel in the human body, and branches off to several other vessels that deliver blood to parts of the body such as our muscles, nerves, and organs. It is quite literally what gives our bodies life.


I got the call soon after the incident had occurred, and it was unlike anything I had felt before. I couldn't move. I couldn't think straight. I felt very, very small. I flew back to Boston the following day with my brother Sloan, knowing a long week for my family awaited. We received word that the surgery was a success, but still had very little idea of what this all meant. Where did the dissection come from? Why did it occur? How will my mom's body recover?


Some of these answers are still not known. We're not entirely sure why the dissection happened, what caused it to happen at the exact moment it did, or if there was anything we could have done to see this coming. What we do know is that my mom has responded tremendously. Her vitals remained strong during post-surgery as she made her way through the various levels of the hospital. She was conversing even after having 10 hours worth of anesthesia in her system. She was delighted to be surrounded by family.


She is now out of the hospital and home with my dad after doing in-patient rehab at a facility outside of Boston. In many ways, this is when some of the hardest work will begin.


During the two weeks I was in Boston, I spent each day with my dad, two brothers, sister-in-law, and grandmother. We had friends stop by the house some of the nights, but for the most part, it was just the six of us (seven when you include my 18 month old niece Eloise). Each day I'd show up to the hospital dressed in what I called my "armor" ready to step into battle. It was as if I was stepping up to a marathon, except one that lasted all day, all night, and continued into the next. I needed to eat food and drink water just like during a long run, except this one was entirely emotional. I'd get back home at the end of each day feeling utterly wrecked.


These hospital hours exposed our family to some of the biggest challenges we'd ever been faced with. Each day brought new unknowns about my mom's health, less hours of sleep, and an accumulating sense of worry and exhaustion. Throuhg this, I was also learning how to communicate and expose my deepest fears to those cloest to me. I had days of feeling guilty, worthless, and selfish. There was no choice but to be vulnerable, and to let those around me know exactly how I felt. Talking about these things, and crying about these things, really helped.


I'll never forget the first day I really hit a wall. My dad and I were the last two to leave the hospital, and it was a particularly hard day to say goodbye. My mom had just begun conversing in a real way, and she could describe the discomforts of being in a hospital for the first time. It made the idea of going back to our comfortable house, to eat a home-cooked meal even more difficult. As my dad and I drove away, I could feel some sort of tension between us. It felt like we were both holding something back, something we didn't want the other person to know. When we arrived back home, as we sat in the parked car, we both started to cry. We were tired. We were scared. We felt like we should be doing even more for my mom.


Amongst all of these emotions, this shared moment with my dad felt special. It demonstrated the love we share for one another, mom, and our family. It broke down any remaining barriers, removed the day's armor from our chests, and allowed us to connect in a very special way. We concluded with a hug in the car. I suddenly felt so much lighter.


When I got back into our home, I hung my armor on a coat rack, put on my running clothes, and stepped back outside for a run. I was once again comforted with the joys of running.

Me and mom, at her favorite knitting store in Salt Lake City


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