The Kalahari

I've traveled a long way on foot, both in training, and doing ultramarathons in remote parts of the world. And I've come to realize the most important aspect of the journey isn't the actual physical distance I cover. It's the emotions I uncover. Because when we're struggling, any of us, and on our own in the middle of nowhere, the facades--what we put on while others watch--come crashing down.

Adversity brings out the truth. It exposes the most raw, vulnerable and honest version of us. It can be unsettling, though, to look that deep into our soul and see who we really are. But it's also profound. In fact, I think it's necessary, because it's where we find our real voice. So we'd better come to peace with that version of us; and learn to respect and trust it. In the end, it's the only journey that matters.

South Africa, and the Kalahari Desert in particular, will always have a special place in my heart. It reminded me that there is beauty--so much beauty--in the struggle. I needed that reminder.

The Kalahari Augrabies Extreme Marathon is a self-sufficiency run held over six legs in seven days with set distances for each day, ranging from 28km to 75km.  Participants must carry all their supplies, clothes and compulsory safety/survival equipment for the duration of the event.

Still Running from Cancer

It’s been a few weeks since I finished the Atacama Crossing so this post is obviously overdue. 

But I wanted to wait, because in many respects I hadn't quite finished the journey yet.

The day before I left to fly out to Chile I met with my Oncologist. She said that there were some concerns about a recent blood test I’d done and the results showed that my CEA levels—one of their cancer markers—had risen pretty dramatically. She suggested that it could be an indication that cancer had returned. Mostly it meant I needed to go through more testing, including a PET scan, as soon as possible so we could know for sure.

I’m not going to lie… I was pretty freaked out… Maybe even VERY freaked out. I walked out of the cancer clinic riding an emotional roller coaster; my mind was all over the place. And for a few seconds I actually thought about not going to Chile.

But I did what I've so often done in my life; I put on my “stubborn” hat. I decided the freaking scan could wait until I got home, because I had 250km of desert to cross! In the grand scheme of things, waiting another few weeks for testing probably wouldn't make too much difference—and luckily the doctor agreed with me.

So off I went. Uncertain about what I was heading into, and even more uncertain about what was in store for me when I got home. One thing I did know, however, was that a week in the desert would sort out my head, and put things into perspective, one way or another.

The Atacama Desert is easily one of the most remarkable places on earth. It is beautifully rugged, almost to the point of being surreal. Trying to explain what it’s like to run across it is a bit anti-climatic, and doesn't give it the justice it deserves. But I will say the combination of endless coral-like salt flats, sand dunes, river cannons, and other general ass-kicking terrain, made for one of the most challenging adventures of my life.

I just tried to soak it all in. Day one of the race was a quick but brutal reminder of exactly that... Slow the hell down and take a look around you!  The altitude, the landscape, and what was weighing on my mind the most—do I have cancer again?—made my 8kg backpack feel like it weighed a hundred times more.

That’s exactly what I did. I slowed down, took some time to look around, to think, to breathe, and to enjoy the moment. It was the right decision. What I experienced from then on was absolutely beautiful, fulfilling, and life altering.

It also helped that the other competitors were amazing—and they inspired me every day. The race organizers, doctors and volunteers were so encouraging and helpful. These events are made that much more special by the people involved. And I did form a very special bond with the people in my tent. They helped me in a way that I don’t think I’ll even be able to fully thank them for—they were exactly what my soul needed. In particular my friend Matt—we met in the Gobi Desert back in 2011—because we spent so much time out on the course together; including almost the entire long stage (76km). It’s a day I’ll never forget, because it was so therapeutic for me. At that point in time it was probably the most beneficial place on earth I could be.

And believe it or not, by the end of the race I was actually feeling stronger and better than I had at the start. My mind was in a much better place, and I’d decided that I was ready for whatever life wanted to throw at me.

But then I got home.

I think there’s often a letdown after adventures of this nature. You invest so much time and energy into them and when it’s over, after the adrenaline high wears off, there’s almost a sense of loss. It’s a bitter sweet feeling.

Plus, I had other things to worry about. Like a PET scan. The scan itself is not a big deal; it just means not eating for a few hours and another trip to a hospital. The worst part is waiting for the results, which take another week to get.

So that’s where I was this morning... Meeting with my Oncologist again—to get the results from last week’s scan.

The first words out of her mouth were… “There’s no sign of cancer.”

THERE’S NO SIGN OF CANCER!!

I still have to do some a bit more testing over the next few weeks just to be sure. And I’ll have to visit her again sooner than planned, but it’s the best news I could have received today. I'm happy, I'm relieved, and I'm grateful.

And I finally feel like my Atacama Crossing 2013 is over.

Photos from Racing the Planet
by Shaun Boyte

Peeing My Pants and The Meaning of Life

Once upon a time I laughed so hard that I peed my pants. True story.

And in retrospect it taught me everything I’d need to know about life. It just took me three decades—because I was nine at the time—to realize I should share it with others.

My childhood was filled with the kind of lessons you can’t learn in school. The ones taught through real life, social economic education. We were dirt poor, and it was a daily struggle for us. We were often without power, heat, or food. By the time I was 12, and the house we were living in burned to the ground (luckily we weren’t in it, but my dog wasn’t so fortunate), I knew perfectly well how to deal with challenge... You just keep going.

My mom worked her butt off, in low paying jobs, to support me and my two siblings, but she was often on her own. My dad had a brain aneurysm when I was six, where he spent a while in a comma, and people said he was never the same after. He was a bit of a gypsy, coming and going, repeatedly in trouble with the law and occasionally incarcerated. And later on, despite how much I rebelled and got into trouble—which was far too often—I rationalized it by thinking I’d still never be worse than the old-man.

As I grew up I believed it was because of the adversity I’d become stronger—and made it out. But I’ve since concluded it was what others taught me during those struggles that really made the difference.

And that is no more evident than the time I wet my pants from laughter.

I was in the back seat of the car, my dad was driving and we were on route to my hockey game. That alone was cause for celebration, but the best part was that two of my teammates were sitting beside me. I was beyond ecstatic. And before we got to the arena the laughter flowed until, unfortunately, the urine did too.

I was mortified. I didn’t say anything, and at the rink I refused to get out of the car. My friends, who apparently hadn’t noticed, just looked at me. My dad figured something was up so took them in and passed them off to the coach. When he came back I finally broke down and told him.

This is the point where things could have unfolded in a number of ways. He could have been mad at me for potentially ruining the cloth seats. And he could have tried to make me go inside and play the game anyway—where my team would have figured out my shame. That could be pretty devastating stuff for a nine year old kid.

But he didn’t do any those things. Instead he kind of smiled and said something about how things like this happen in life. Then he got in the car, drove us the 15 minutes home so I could change clothes, and drove me back to the hockey game. We arrived just in time for the start. No one ever knew; he kept it to himself. And I don’t recall the outcome of the game, but I’ll always remember how good it felt to step on the ice that day.

What I learned from that has been part of who I am since.

One minute we can be laughing at the top of our lungs, thinking life can’t get any better. Then, the next minute, we can be sitting in a puddle of our own urine, utterly humiliated, thinking life can’t get any worse. But if we don’t let ourselves get bogged down during the hard times, then we can be up and playing hockey a half-hour later.

And that’s all life is for any of us. Good times. Tough times... And perspective.

What many people see in me as optimism is maybe just an inherent persistence—a stubbornness to never give in to adversity. Because I know that life isn’t always fair; but we can still have an amazing one. I know that life will knock you down; but you can decide to get back up. My folks taught me that. And it’s helped me get through cancer and every other thing I’ve dealt with.

The moments

I have the good fortune of being able to run through a country side filled with horse ranches. I love watching these beautiful animals in fields along the route. Usually they ignore me, and sometimes they stare; but recently two of them decided to join me. They galloped down to the fence, and raced alongside me, before sprinting ahead. Within a few hundred metres, however, they were forced to stop, because of another fence. As I passed them standing there, I could see by the look in their eyes how much they wanted to keep going.  Horses get it.

I’ll never forget that moment.

It was stage 5 of the Gobi March, which was an 80km day, and the fact I’d already covered the distance of a marathon was of little consolation. The intense heat of the Turpan Basin (also known in China as “the oven”) was causing some serious nausea. I had just thrown up for the second time in the past 20 minutes and was beginning to worry about hydration. Worse, it was making it tough to spot the small pink flags marking the route through this unforgiving desert terrain and I had to back-track on more than one occasion.  I needed to get out of this stuff and needed to do it soon.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I stumbled out of the heavy, flour like sand and onto a single lane gravel road. This meant I was less than 8km from the 55km checkpoint, but the surface heat was well into the 50’s (Celsius) and I could feel my swollen feet beginning to cook. As I shuffled down the road, cursing the sun, I approached a large group of local men who were watching me like I was the strangest thing they had ever seen. Despite how I felt—and I’m sure looked—all I could do was smile at their reaction, which then made them smile and laugh, too. Before I knew it they had coaxed me in amongst them by insisting (through gestures) that I eat some fresh cantaloupe they had. How could I say no?  So I made the sacrifice and agreed, then proceeded to devour the fruit as fast as it was handed to me. Suffice to say, it was the best cantaloupe the world has ever known. 

I’ll never forget that moment.

Yesterday was my 38^th birthday. Tomorrow I’ll be getting blood work for my three-month oncologist appointment next week. My mom is winding down her chemotherapy treatments and soon she’ll have surgery to remove the tumour. 

In THIS moment, as I’m typing, foremost on my thoughts is the importance of living in the here and now. As much as I love reflecting on wonderful memories, and about the amazing things I have planned for the future, I can’t forget about the present. Time, my friends, is a non-renewable resource and we are all way more precious than we realize.

I hope I never forget this moment. 

The Gobi

It was our last night in the desert and I was lying atop my sleeping bag, gazing into the starry unknown. My mind was occupied with musings of the finish line the next morning, a mere 14km away. Completing the Gobi March would mean the culmination of a journey that had begun months before the actual race did.

The midnight air had been eerily calm, but the wind suddenly stirred to life. And with it, my thoughts drifted to the previous evening and how it felt to bury my chemo port in a dune—the thing had weighed just a few ounces but afterwards my pack felt lighter than air. Right on cue, the wind whipped up with more ferocity and showed me the Gobi version of “lighter than air” by sending three sections of canopy (about 30 feet) sailing over my head.

Sandstorms can seem as though they’ve come out of nowhere, especially in the darkness, and this one hit like a freight train. Somehow it reminded me of my cancer diagnosis.

Getting back to the tent, and anchoring it down, is an adventure story for another day. But once I was inside, with a t-shirt turned sand mask over my face, I couldn’t stop smiling from ear to ear. I mean... a sandstorm, really!? The week long race had thrown virtually every weather condition and terrain possible for the desert—and some that weren’t—at us. And in many respects it had been a microcosm of my entire cancer experience. There were moments that pushed me to my limit, and then pushed me beyond. Yet, as tough as it was, there was never a moment when I thought I couldn’t make it; or that I should quit. I did the only thing I could; kept moving forward one step at a time.

I certainly don’t claim to be an expert on cancer survival, or how to run through a desert. It has been as much about good luck and fortune as it has about persistence and determination for me. I’ve fumbled and stumbled through both experiences clinging to the belief that I’m strong enough to face every challenge head on.

What I did learn out there in the Gobi is that I am strong enough—that we all are. The storms in our lives may last a night, a week or a year, but there are just some things that they can’t tear away from us.

As I ran that final 14km, through some absolutely beautiful and rugged terrain, my blistered feet barely touched the ground. It was a feeling that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to put into words; and maybe I don’t want to. Crossing the finish line didn’t feel like the ending of something significant; it felt like I was crossing into the beginning of something monumental.  



“Adversity is like a strong wind.  It tears away from us all but the things that cannot be torn, so that we see ourselves as we really are.”  ~Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha

Taking it to the next level

Here is my article from the February edition of iRun magazine.

So many of us runners get the calling; our inner voice tells us to stop thinking about it and do it already! Register for that 5k or 10k you’re considering; or the marathon or ultra you’ve been dreaming of.

For me it happened while staring at a picture of a silhouetted runner plodding through an imposing desert landscape. And when my calling came—which, I’ll swear was the voice of Yoda accompanied by the most majestic version of the Star Wars theme song ever—it simply said; “Jim, it’s time to take your running to the next level.”

Thank you… Yoda

The photo I’d been looking at was the book cover for ultra running legend Ray Zahab’s Running For My Life. The words resonated deeply with me because I was beginning a battle with cancer at the time. This was the guy who ran through the entire Sahara desert! So naturally I did what any confused runner-slash-cancer patient, seeking answers, bumbling through the seven steps of grief, and hearing Yoda in his head would do: I called up the dude who wrote the book. Ray was happy to talk to me so I decided to get in touch with top Canadian ultra runners, Stephanie Case and Ferg Hawk, and get even more advice. Since storming onto the ultra scene in 2008 by finishing as the top female in Racing the Planet Vietnam (a 250km stage race), Case has gone onto a multitude of other victories and top finishes at some very tough and prestigious races. Hawke, who is the subject of the running documentary Distance of truth, is a two-time runner up at the Badwater Ultramarathon (often deemed the hardest race on earth) and holds the second fastest time for a North American at the Marathon de Sables—at 243 km race in the Sahara desert.

What did I learn from Zahab, Case, and Hawke?

None of the three were running prodigies when they started. Until the late 90’s, Ray was a pack-a-day smoker, but since he’s quit and started running, he’s never looked back. Stephanie didn’t run her first marathon until 2005, “Back then I wasn’t really a ‘runner’. I dreaded almost every training run I went on and I couldn’t wait for the race to be over! If I hadn’t been running for charity, I don’t know if I would have made it to the finish line.” And Ferg only started running after a doctor’s visit. “I was overweight—too much beer and wings after slowpitch— the doctor told me my blood pressure was high, and I’d have to start taking medication. So I started running.”

My inner Yoda voice satisfied, I registered to run the 250km Gobi March through China’s Gobi Desert this summer. *gulp*.

Believe in yourself and spread the word

Although they came from humble running backgrounds, each has persevered and gone on to accomplish amazing things. Ray advised me to; “believe in yourself—no matter what. Selfdoubt will be there, but learn to push it aside.” Okay, I’m starting to believe, Ray. I’ve followed Stephanie’s advice, too. “Find a race that you think is out of your league and sign up before you have a chance to talk yourself out of it. Next, tell all your friends and family about it to make sure you won’t back out!” Check. I just told iRunNation, Stephanie!

Make like a Scout — be prepared!

These three individuals have had so much running success because they believe training is crucial. I regularly think about Ferg’s words: “We all have the ability to do these amazing things, but too often people aren’t willing to put in the hard work and sacrifice it takes to get there. For me it’s all about preparation.”

Add to that Stephanie’s advice; “Give yourself the time to train and everything is possible. And get advice. Building a support network around you is the best way to achieve your goals.”

Use the Force

While recently talking to Ray, he was firing off advice faster than I could process; “What is your ideal outcome? What is your secret goal; what do you really want out of this race?” Later, when I messaged him a thanks, I told him he was a running Jedi Knight. He coolly replied; “Learn to use the force, Jim. It’s strong in you.” And what is “the force,” really, but an internal strength and heightened mind-body connection? Maybe I do have it; maybe we all do. Maybe we can all use the force to take our running to the next level.