Aside from being all things Hemingway, Key West is where I lived for a few years, it’s where I studied writing for many more years, it’s where I reflected for endless days and nights of my life and made some key decisions, and for the past eight years, it’s the destination that I have run to each May, during the Keys 100.
While the runs to Key West have never gotten easier, year after year, they have been a critical passage in my life, a moveable feast in the most literal sense, during which I have thought and wondered and suffered and prayed while in motion, which is when I tend to be most thoughtful and creative. Back in May of 2011, after stopping to visit my mom while she was undergoing her 70-something round of chemo, six years into her journey with cancer, she and my dad had shooed me away, insisting that I drive down to the Keys, and partake in the 50-mile race I had signed up for. I was still a newbie to the ultrarunning world at that time, with perhaps half a dozen ultras completed, and had no idea of the role that long-distance running would play in my life, the catharsis and healing it would bring me, the clarity and strength it would afford me. At the time, I was afraid and vulnerable; I was losing my mom and didn’t know what the future held for me. I felt my life shifting, regardless of how hard I held on to what was. When I ran the 50 miler that first year, I felt her leaving me, and after some rough patches crossing Seven Mile Bridge, I resolved to keep going, to keep pushing, and to cross that finish line – because I understood that there was nowhere for me to go in my life, but forward.
win the 50 mile race on the Men’s side
Loss in May
When I returned home from Thailand in late April of this year, I learned that Lee K. Abbot, one of my most cherished mentors, was entering hospice. The next day, he passed. Lee had been diagnosed with Acute Myelogenous Leukemia, the same cancer as my mom, over a year back. I had written a tribute to Lee K. Abbot years back; he was one of the best writing professors I ever had, not to mention how his own fiction, with its crispness and full-bodied characters, positively impacted my life. Lee’s blend of tough, open, honest, and thoughtful helped me to transform as a writer. Once, many years back, Lee K. Abbot pressed me to consider what my candidates did for a living, and it was obviously impressionable, as many years later, vocations became a critical focus of my novel, not to mention that my own career pivoted to exploring vocations and careers with professionals, deciphering what made people tick, how they spent their days, and how that informed so much of who and what they were. Lee also taught me about prolepsis, the power of flashing forward in a story, which reinvested me in the art of storytelling, reminding me that as an author, I was portraying characters whose lives existed beyond the pages of my stories.
Then there was my birthday, and the next day, on May 7th, I learned that Walter Bortman had died suddenly. I read the notes on social media over and over to try to understand why he took his life. The Walter I knew was upbeat and fun and inspirational. I had met him in 2017 at Javelina Jundred. We shared the same coach – the amazing Lisa Smith Batchen – and her sense of community always led her to bring her athletes together. In the middle of the night, exhausted at Jackass Junction Aid Station, where the disco music blasted all night, I had climbed into a cot in the medical tent right next to Walter, who was sitting on a cot resting, talking to another guy. I told him I was going to sleep, and asked him to wake me up in ten minutes. He could not seem to fathom the fact that I was able to just lay down and sleep and that I would then get up and run, but he soon learned this was reality, as once he woke me, off I went. Later, we laughed over it, and the fact that although we were both broken, we finished the race in great spirits. Ultrarunning is a community of believers, of people who get it done regardless of pain and suffering; it’s a community of athletes who dig deep, who know we are in it together, who are not afraid to laugh at ourselves, and are always ready to support and cheer others on. I later learned that Walter struggled, but I am not sure that I know anyone who doesn’t struggle in some regard. Losing Walter reminded me of how important it is to be kind to others, to check in on one another often, and also to remember and accept that regardless of us all being in life together, we each largely travel our own journeys unseen and unknown to others.
A week later, on May 12th, I learned that an ultrarunner friend I know for years – one of the original crew I started running ultras with – was in a car accident. The next day, he died. It didn’t seem possible. Dave Carver was fun, kind, driven, successful, and a heck of a great runner. I thought of Peanut Island 24 hour runs over New Year’s Eve, Beast of Burden 100, and the Keys 100. He was a staple, part of the Badwater family, too. He was here with us, and just like that, he was gone, the rest of his life a void.
The losses piled up. May 22nd was the 8th anniversary of my mom’s passing, which always hits me hard. I didn’t know what to make of all of these new losses in May. Sometimes you look for the messages in things, but often, life just is. For the past eight years, prior to every ultra-race I partake in, I read an article by Tracy Baldyga that was published in Running Through the Wall. In it, Tracy shares her insurmountable battles with depression, her suicide attempts, and how ultrarunning helped her to move forward in life. The article was written over a decade back. I don’t know if Tracy is out there, but I want to believe that she is, that she’s a survivor. Her story has taught me about courage, resilience, losing excuses, and keeping going. She has taught me about fear and moving past it. That is the power of writing – if it’s honest enough, it connects people and emblazons us in one another’s souls. Tracy has taught me that I can, that I will, that moving forward is all there is in life, and she has taught me about the granite within, me, which I uncover during each race. Reading Tracy’s article prior to running the Keys, I thought about my mom, about Lee, about Walter, and about Dave. I thought about strength, and will, and survival, and that although one day we will all be gone – that’s our collective fate – while we are still here, we have to live our lives intentionally and not just for ourselves, but for those who don’t get to have another day on this earth.
Keys 2019
Last year, in 2018, with six Keys 100 finishes accomplished – one at the 50-mile distance and five at the 100-mile distance – I pulled out of the Keys 100 at 62 miles. I hadn’t felt right from the first mile. By mile 62, although I couldn’t place it, I knew that something was wrong. I was betting that my anemia was back in full swing, but later learned that my heart wasn’t cooperating. I spent months working with an array of doctors trying to right what was going on, and eventually, began to feel like myself. This year, due to work travel and my overall hectic schedule, I opted to run the 50-miler, as I had that very first year in 2011. It gave me more time to rest, hang out with my dad, and take it all in versus rush through it.
I won’t dwell on the rookie mistakes I made of not having calories with me during the race, but the overall situation was that I was great across the span of the Seven Mile Bridge until I wasn’t great. Sometimes all the movement in my life doesn’t let me plan, and without a bit of planning, races don’t always work out so well. With no crew and only water and electrolytes, I was flat more often than not. When the sun was clouded for an hour or so late in the afternoon, I was able to shift and begin to move again with some regularity. Then, at twilight, I felt almost fully recovered, regardless of lacking calories. As much as I like to be uncrewed and choose it 95% of the time, in very hot races, having friends there to supply cold drinks and ice and support is probably a safer choice. In the 100-mile race, I tend to know most runner’s crews, and have never had to worry – whenever I need something, someone knows me and is there to help. This was a learning experience for me; at this here and now of my life, ten-mile intervals to Aid Stations without any calories was too far to go.
This year, there was no catharsis for me – I think I like the struggle that 100 miles or more imposes – but the hours on the road provided time for me to think. About my life, about the world around me, about about the flow of life, about how we are here and then we are gone, and there is nothing much we can do about it but try to enjoy our journeys. I thought about a section of Ram Das’s Experiments in Truth, in which devotees don’t want their guru, Maharajji, to die. They plead with him not to leave them, not to die, and he says, “Don’t be silly, where would I go?” A premise that even when we leave our physical forms, we are all always here, that our spirits remain intact regardless of death. And yet, when the gravity of my mom not being here in her physical form for eight years hits, it knocks me over sometimes.
I thought about how nice it was to be out under a full moon, moving forward towards what is both familiar and the unknown. I thought about how nice it was to know that something hard was about to end – prolepsis let me see into the future, when I would be done, in my hotel room, resting. I was grateful for my legs to move me forward, my mind to keep me sane, and also its creative power; I was grateful for my dad, and his pushing forward with his life, making his days count as best he can. I was grateful to be on a journey, as imperfect as it may have been, and to have the ability to laugh and love and hope and pray and dream, too. I was grateful because even when I am tired and sometimes defeated, I am always hopeful and open to the future.
The races sometimes matter to me and sometimes they do not. What I love is to be out for endless hours while in motion, and to witness the day transform to night, and to be out at night, under the stars, under the moon. I like the feeling of moving through and towards; of struggling but also having the sense to remind myself that this is self-imposed and that if I cannot find the fun in it, or the value, that I need to stop. I love that five miles in a race feels impossible, and then as I accomplish it, not only is it possible, but I am that much closer to the finish line. I like feeling the air as I am on my way, passing over the bridges, and looking out at the water, which seems to go on forever, still and yet flowing. I like knowing that nothing in my life really depends on that finish line, that it’s a choice, that I am choosing forward motion, that I believe in the next step and the one after that in life. I crossed the finish line in twelve hours and change this year; adequate time for me to think, process, to fall apart and put myself back together; adequate time to reflect on the past weeks of my life, the past months, year, and to consider where I wish to go.
I am always grateful for the Florida ultrarunning community and the laughter, good cheer, and friendships amongst us. I came to ultrarunning in Florida at a time of darkness and loss in my life, and somehow all of those miles out there with great folks lifted me up and reminded me of not just the joy in life, but the laughter and the beauty, and the transformation that comes with sweat and hard work and grit and staying with it. Everything in life shifts – the good and the bad – and knowing so is perhaps the greatest knowledge to keep with one, and to remind us all to really enjoy and cherish the good times.
I cannot imagine a year without the Keys 100. Without the hoopla of arriving in Key Largo and seeing everyone at race check in, of taking off running in the insane heat and humidity come Saturday morning, and beginning the journey down to the Key West alongside some really amazing human beings. The whole adventure is reminiscent to me of a Jack Kerouac novel yet to be written – Passing Through Hell’s Tunnel – which to the rest of the world would be a cool title, but to those of us who have journeyed through the Keys, know it’s reality. May we all log a lot of miles, and keep moving forward, until we meet again next year.