Eat and Run: My Unlikely Journey to Ultramarathon Greatness by Scott Jurek, Steve Friedman Page A
Authors: Scott Jurek, Steve Friedman
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under 24 hours received a sterling silver buckle proclaiming 100 MILES, ONE DAY ; those finishing in under 30 hours got a bronze buckle. The male and female winners took home bronze cougars. Every year, the race attracted 1,500 volunteers and 369 long-distance runners who had completed at least one 50-miler in the previous year and who had made it through the Western States lottery system.
Since it began, the race had been a source of local pride. Only one non-Californian had ever won in the men’s division, and he was a secret hero of mine. In the past decade, as Northern California had become known as the hub of long-distance running, the race seemed to exude a kind of tribal turf protectiveness. A local (and ultra) legend named Tim Twietmeyer had won five times. People said Twietmeyer didn’t care what kind of lead someone might have on him—he knew the course and the course was his. But in 1997 someone took it from him. A navy diver from Maryland named Mike Morton had dropped out of the 1996 race, confirming to many the widely held belief that unless you trained at (and preferably lived near) the Western States course, you didn’t stand a chance. When he showed up in 1997, people admired his spunk, but many doubtless pitied his obstinance. Then he beat Twietmeyer by 1 hour and 33 minutes, setting a new course record of 15 hours and 40 minutes.
I wanted to accomplish what the diver had done. I wanted to use the Western States to prove to the Northern Californians and other ultra-distance hotshots that I was worthy of their fraternity. To prove to myself that I was worthy. I knew it would be difficult. Twietmeyer had come back and reclaimed his crown in 1998. But now that I knew the rewards of pain, I wanted more pain. I wanted to use it as a tool to pry myself open. Pitting myself against 100 miles of terrain and the best trail distance runners in the world would provide that pain.
The race had started in 1955 when a local businessman named Wendell T. Robie rode a horse 100 miles in a single day. Later, he said he did it “because he could.” Every year thereafter, horsemen and horsewomen from all over the area would gather for the Tevis Cup—named after another successful local capitalist, Lloyd Tevis. Anyone who finished the torturous path in 24 hours or less on a mount “fit to continue” would receive a silver buckle.
A remarkable man named Gordy Ainsleigh and his not-quite-so-remarkable horse inadvertently transformed the event into a footrace. Ainsleigh, a chiropractor, outdoorsman, logger, equestrian, wrestler, and scientist, was also a formidable runner. He had long hair, a shaggy beard, and a large, muscled frame that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a rugby player or linebacker. He once held the “Clydesdale division” record for the best marathon time by a runner weighing more than 200 pounds (2:52).
But Ainsleigh’s favorite race was the Tevis Cup. He had buckled in 1971 and 1972 but the same year gave his trusty steed to a woman he loved. She soon left him, taking the horse. He rode again in 1973, but his replacement steed pulled up lame about 30 miles into the race at a stretch of wood-enclosed meadow called Robinson Flat. The next year, because he didn’t want to injure another horse, the mountain man decided to travel the course on foot.
It was a particularly hot day. One horse died. Ainsleigh finished in 23 hours and 42 minutes. He received a buckle and a medical check from a veterinarian.
Another man tried to run the course in 1975 but dropped out after 96.5 miles. In 1976 another longhair, Ken “Cowman” Shirk, set out on foot and finished in 24 hours and 29 minutes. Then, in 1977, the Western States Endurance Run (commonly known as the Western States 100) was born. Fourteen men ran alongside their equine counterparts (three of the guys finished). The next year, the race organizers decided to separate human and horse and move the Western States earlier, to a cooler month,
Since it began, the race had been a source of local pride. Only one non-Californian had ever won in the men’s division, and he was a secret hero of mine. In the past decade, as Northern California had become known as the hub of long-distance running, the race seemed to exude a kind of tribal turf protectiveness. A local (and ultra) legend named Tim Twietmeyer had won five times. People said Twietmeyer didn’t care what kind of lead someone might have on him—he knew the course and the course was his. But in 1997 someone took it from him. A navy diver from Maryland named Mike Morton had dropped out of the 1996 race, confirming to many the widely held belief that unless you trained at (and preferably lived near) the Western States course, you didn’t stand a chance. When he showed up in 1997, people admired his spunk, but many doubtless pitied his obstinance. Then he beat Twietmeyer by 1 hour and 33 minutes, setting a new course record of 15 hours and 40 minutes.
I wanted to accomplish what the diver had done. I wanted to use the Western States to prove to the Northern Californians and other ultra-distance hotshots that I was worthy of their fraternity. To prove to myself that I was worthy. I knew it would be difficult. Twietmeyer had come back and reclaimed his crown in 1998. But now that I knew the rewards of pain, I wanted more pain. I wanted to use it as a tool to pry myself open. Pitting myself against 100 miles of terrain and the best trail distance runners in the world would provide that pain.
The race had started in 1955 when a local businessman named Wendell T. Robie rode a horse 100 miles in a single day. Later, he said he did it “because he could.” Every year thereafter, horsemen and horsewomen from all over the area would gather for the Tevis Cup—named after another successful local capitalist, Lloyd Tevis. Anyone who finished the torturous path in 24 hours or less on a mount “fit to continue” would receive a silver buckle.
A remarkable man named Gordy Ainsleigh and his not-quite-so-remarkable horse inadvertently transformed the event into a footrace. Ainsleigh, a chiropractor, outdoorsman, logger, equestrian, wrestler, and scientist, was also a formidable runner. He had long hair, a shaggy beard, and a large, muscled frame that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a rugby player or linebacker. He once held the “Clydesdale division” record for the best marathon time by a runner weighing more than 200 pounds (2:52).
But Ainsleigh’s favorite race was the Tevis Cup. He had buckled in 1971 and 1972 but the same year gave his trusty steed to a woman he loved. She soon left him, taking the horse. He rode again in 1973, but his replacement steed pulled up lame about 30 miles into the race at a stretch of wood-enclosed meadow called Robinson Flat. The next year, because he didn’t want to injure another horse, the mountain man decided to travel the course on foot.
It was a particularly hot day. One horse died. Ainsleigh finished in 23 hours and 42 minutes. He received a buckle and a medical check from a veterinarian.
Another man tried to run the course in 1975 but dropped out after 96.5 miles. In 1976 another longhair, Ken “Cowman” Shirk, set out on foot and finished in 24 hours and 29 minutes. Then, in 1977, the Western States Endurance Run (commonly known as the Western States 100) was born. Fourteen men ran alongside their equine counterparts (three of the guys finished). The next year, the race organizers decided to separate human and horse and move the Western States earlier, to a cooler month,
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