For the past 33 hours, my dad ran through 100 miles of ankle-deep MUD in Wyoming. Yes, you read that right: MUD. This is two months after spending 28 days trekking through Nepal, and two months before running yet another 100-miler. A few days ago, I was talking to him about this race.
"Dad, are you feeling good and ready for your ultramarathon tomorrow?"
His reply was nonchalant: "Meh. Not really. But I'm signed up, so I guess I'll do it."
Meh. Not really. But I'm signed up, so I guess I'll do it. This isn't a 10K we're talking about, people! This is ONE HUNDRED FREAKING CONTINUOUS MILES IN THE MOUNTAINS.
He finished last night at around 8pm. I called him this morning to see how he was doing.
"My balls hurt!" he said.
"Dad! And you tell me not to use potty language!"
"The balls of my feet."
Throughout the years, I have paced my dad through the nights of his 100-mile races. In my opinion, you haven't seen true grit until you've seen a man trudging along a mountain pass 4am with muddy legs and bloodshot eyes. That's probably why I have such a low tolerance for sissies, whiners, and juiced-up, expensive-supplement-popping, protein-pounding posers who think they're hard core.
My dad rinsing off his feet in Garden City, UT after finishing the Bear 100 ultra.
My dad flipping off a blinking light "Mormon style" at the Hardrock 100--arguably the toughest 100-miler in the world. I was pacing him this night. The blinking light is at the top of Engineer Pass--a get-on-all-fours-steep 1000-foot climb in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado. The blinking light taunts you the entire way up, never seeming to get any closer. This picture was taken at 2am.
Lance Armstrong lookalike, much?!
Rappelling Geneva style on a family rock climbing outing.
In addition to his indisputable hardcoreness, my dad is my hero for so many more reasons. He's a fantastic provider, friend, Priesthood holder, confidant, and husband to my mom. I have been so blessed to have his example in my life!
Love you
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