Eat and Run: My Unlikely Journey to Ultramarathon Greatness by Scott Jurek, Steve Friedman
Authors: Scott Jurek, Steve Friedman
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glass bottles to a nearby farm and get them refilled with fresh whole milk. But the milk I was drinking as an adult was not from a nearby farm. It was more likely from a gigantic operation where cows were routinely injected with bovine growth hormone (rBGH), housed in cramped, unsavory conditions, and regularly dosed with antibiotics. No thanks. (I also cut out fish when I realized that unless I caught them myself in a body of water I knew was clean, I was likely going to be getting some hormones and other chemicals along with my salmon or cod.)
To my delight (and, I admit, surprise), subtracting some things from my diet actually allowed me to expand the number of foods I ate and to discover incredible and delicious new foods. My new diet included fresh fruits and vegetables, beans, nuts, seeds, whole grains, and soy products like miso, tofu, and tempeh. I sought out vegetarian cookbooks and ethnic supermarkets to expand my repertoire. Since I had grown up a reluctant vegetable eater in the homogeneous Midwest, I was blown away by the bounty of Japanese sea vegetables that I discovered when I later raced in that country, the simplicity of a homemade corn tortilla, and the complexity of Thai red curry.
I’m a serious vegan. (I usually avoid that word; to many people it connotes a certain crabby, self-righteous zealousness.) And I’m a serious athlete. But I won’t starve for my principles. Although I always have protein powder with me, there were a few times in Europe that I ate cheese out of desperation, and there were occasions in remote villages in Mexico when I consumed beans that I knew had been cooked with lard. I once took a snorkeling trip in Costa Rica and was assured that there would be a vegetarian option, but that turned out to be vegetables that had been grilled inside a giant fish! I was hungry and I had a race coming up, so I ate them. On the extremely rare occasions I’ve diverged from plant-based foods, it’s always been a matter of survival, never because I craved animal products or felt incomplete without them.
Those compromises would come later, though. I wouldn’t be faced with the difficult choices of a renowned ultrachampion until I became a renowned ultrachampion. That’s why I was lacing up my running shoes with the sheet metal screws on their soles.
I eased myself out the door into the frigid almost-dawn. I was aiming for the mountains, but now this gently rolling snowmobile path would have to do. It was late enough that the partiers wouldn’t be racing their machines, early enough that even the recreational users would be too hung-over to rev up. I took my first steps onto the path and sunk to my ankles. Good. Difficulty would help. It had always helped. I was finally figuring that out. All the whys in the universe hadn’t granted me peace or given me answers. But the asking—and the doing—had created something in me, something strong. I pulled my feet out, kept going, sucked in the last bits of night sky, and tilted toward the lunar blade low on the horizon as birch trees slid past.
After the Angeles Crest, I knew I had passed a test. And I knew what the next one would be.
I had heard about it the way minor-leaguers hear of Babe Ruth or teenage climbers learn of Everest, which is to say I don’t remember the moment someone said “Western States 100.”
People spoke of its difficulties, how it broke spirits as well as bodies. I wanted to train in the most challenging place I knew. That’s why I didn’t loathe returning to Minnesota for the winter. That’s why I was out in the snow, thinking of Northern California.
By the time I had decided I would conquer it, the Western States 100 was probably the most well-known ultramarathon in the world. The course had been featured on ABC’s Wide World of Sports twice in the 1980s. It had twenty-one aid stations and six medical checks (both high numbers among ultra events, indicating the course’s difficulty). Runners finishing in
To my delight (and, I admit, surprise), subtracting some things from my diet actually allowed me to expand the number of foods I ate and to discover incredible and delicious new foods. My new diet included fresh fruits and vegetables, beans, nuts, seeds, whole grains, and soy products like miso, tofu, and tempeh. I sought out vegetarian cookbooks and ethnic supermarkets to expand my repertoire. Since I had grown up a reluctant vegetable eater in the homogeneous Midwest, I was blown away by the bounty of Japanese sea vegetables that I discovered when I later raced in that country, the simplicity of a homemade corn tortilla, and the complexity of Thai red curry.
I’m a serious vegan. (I usually avoid that word; to many people it connotes a certain crabby, self-righteous zealousness.) And I’m a serious athlete. But I won’t starve for my principles. Although I always have protein powder with me, there were a few times in Europe that I ate cheese out of desperation, and there were occasions in remote villages in Mexico when I consumed beans that I knew had been cooked with lard. I once took a snorkeling trip in Costa Rica and was assured that there would be a vegetarian option, but that turned out to be vegetables that had been grilled inside a giant fish! I was hungry and I had a race coming up, so I ate them. On the extremely rare occasions I’ve diverged from plant-based foods, it’s always been a matter of survival, never because I craved animal products or felt incomplete without them.
Those compromises would come later, though. I wouldn’t be faced with the difficult choices of a renowned ultrachampion until I became a renowned ultrachampion. That’s why I was lacing up my running shoes with the sheet metal screws on their soles.
I eased myself out the door into the frigid almost-dawn. I was aiming for the mountains, but now this gently rolling snowmobile path would have to do. It was late enough that the partiers wouldn’t be racing their machines, early enough that even the recreational users would be too hung-over to rev up. I took my first steps onto the path and sunk to my ankles. Good. Difficulty would help. It had always helped. I was finally figuring that out. All the whys in the universe hadn’t granted me peace or given me answers. But the asking—and the doing—had created something in me, something strong. I pulled my feet out, kept going, sucked in the last bits of night sky, and tilted toward the lunar blade low on the horizon as birch trees slid past.
After the Angeles Crest, I knew I had passed a test. And I knew what the next one would be.
I had heard about it the way minor-leaguers hear of Babe Ruth or teenage climbers learn of Everest, which is to say I don’t remember the moment someone said “Western States 100.”
People spoke of its difficulties, how it broke spirits as well as bodies. I wanted to train in the most challenging place I knew. That’s why I didn’t loathe returning to Minnesota for the winter. That’s why I was out in the snow, thinking of Northern California.
By the time I had decided I would conquer it, the Western States 100 was probably the most well-known ultramarathon in the world. The course had been featured on ABC’s Wide World of Sports twice in the 1980s. It had twenty-one aid stations and six medical checks (both high numbers among ultra events, indicating the course’s difficulty). Runners finishing in
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