Finding Ultra (19 page)

It was time to honestly evaluate how I spent every minute of every day. I scanned for wasted time, inefficient hours, and
activities that failed to meet the litmus test of
mission critical
. Utilizing many of the tools set forth in Timothy Ferriss's
The Four-Hour Workweek
, I made some drastic cuts, eventually creating a lifestyle template that forms the underpinnings of how I live and manage time today. On the professional front, I did away with all nonessential networking and business-development lunches, events, and meetings, a favorite Hollywood pastime that always sucked up precious hours and rarely led to new business. Unless it was crucial, I politely declined meeting with clients in person, forcing conversations to the phone. And anything that could be done via e-mail replaced lengthy conference calls. High-maintenance clients who represented low revenue were let go. Hours spent on the freeway commuting were traded whenever possible for the home office or the local Starbucks. I went digital on all fronts, untethering my business from location and always having handy my laptop or iPhone.

And because I was self-employed—admittedly, a crucial component in my success equation—I could make creative decisions about when and where I worked, giving me the flexibility to train into the late morning and sometimes mid-afternoon without suffering professional consequences. It was a bargain I generally repaid by drafting deals late into the evening, sometimes pulling all-nighters. And come “rest day” Monday, I typically used the extra time to cram three days of work into one.

Because we live in a very remote and rural area far from the locus of my profession, my base was—and to this day remains—my truck. In the run-up to my first Ultraman, my old orange Land Rover Discovery doubled as a mobile office, traveling multisport training unit, and wandering vegan commissary. With a precision that bordered on compulsiveness, each day I packed the vehicle's rear with all of my work and fitness equipment—my bike attire; a plastic cabinet stocked with cycling parts; a tool kit for repairs;
a few pairs of running shoes and my swimming gear; a duffel of clothes to meet any professional, social, or training occasion; a cooler stocked with all the food I needed to fuel my training; plus large jugs of water and sanitary wipes for an impromptu shower after a trail run. Some days it appeared as if I were headed out of town for a week. And I can't tell you how many grungy gas station bathrooms I used for a quick post-workout wash, changing clothes like a fugitive in preparation for a work meeting.

On the mental and spiritual front, implementing a consistent meditation practice became paramount. Whether early in the morning, during a free half hour during the day, or even while out on a run or ride, I strived to set aside a few daily moments—not a lot, often a half hour but sometimes just ten minutes—to go
inside
. Putting into practice tools I'd gleaned from yoga, as well as Julie's experience in such matters, I became increasingly adept at gaining the upper hand when it came to persistent negative internal chatter. Meditation became a powerful tool that calmed my nerves, relieved my anxiety, and diminished the fear and pangs of self-doubt threatening to capsize my fragile ship (for information on recommended meditation programs, please refer to
Appendix III
, Resources, Jai Release Meditation Programs).

Yet the challenge of governing my schedule nonetheless remained Herculean. Many days I felt like I was spinning plates while tenuously walking a tightrope. My phone could be counted on to ring repeatedly with urgent business matters while I was out on the bike or trail, forcing me to pull up and sit in the dirt for sometimes upward of an hour to hash out deal points with talent agents and lawyers on a client's movie deal. Sweat drenching the phone, I often thought to myself,
What would these people in their suits in Beverly Hills think if they could see me right now?
My clients had no idea what I was up to—and for quite some time, I encouraged their ignorance out of fear of losing precious business.

I soon came to realize, though, that as long as the work got done, properly and on time, nobody cared where I was or what I was doing. And as my meditation program continued to develop, I eventually mustered the courage to let go of the fear. Coming clean, I learned to speak honestly with colleagues regarding the reality of my shifting and ever-evolving focus.

With respect to family, on weekends it was typical for Julie to immediately hand me a crying baby or two just as I haggardly returned from a very long ride or run. “Your turn,” she'd say, smiling as she headed to a yoga class or elsewhere.
Fair enough
. Several hours later it wasn't unusual to find me juggling children, awash in mayhem, my legs cramping and my still-unshowered body clothed in a sweaty cycling bib—not advisable if you're prone to saddle sores like I am.

When something had to give, it was usually sleep. And the rest of the time, more often than not, it was a workout cut short. In turn, Julie supported me by managing the lion's share of household responsibilities.

But let's be honest. Juggling twenty-five-hour training weeks while trying to work full-time as a lawyer meant more hours away from my family than I care to admit. Most Saturdays, hours into an absurdly long ride and often so delirious I'd actually lose mental track of which canyon I happened to be climbing, I'd think to myself,
You could be at the park right now with the kids like a normal dad
. On cold rainy nights when I ran drenched and corpse-like through the dimly lit neighborhood streets, that questioning voice would return:
Why are you doing this to yourself?

I wish I could say I had the answer. Compensation for my awkward youth perhaps? An effort to manifest swimming dreams unrealized? I'd like to think I was taking middle age to the mat and pinning it into submission. Maybe it was all these reasons. Or perhaps none. The only thing I knew with clarity was that a
voice deep in my heart continued to chant,
Keep going. You're on the right track
.

Come autumn of 2008, four months into my training for Ultraman, I was amazed at just how quickly I was improving. Every Saturday now involved a ride of no fewer than one hundred very hilly miles, followed the next day by at least a marathon distance of running. Then came the first of four progressive race-simulation weekends in which I approximated the Ultraman distances Friday through Sunday, growing longer each weekend. In the first week of October, I completed approximately 80 percent of the Ultraman overall distance, culminating in a forty-mile run along the Pacific Coast Highway from Venice Beach all the way to Point Dume in Malibu. And back.
A forty-mile run!
It was, without a doubt, up to that point the greatest physical achievement of my life.

However, accomplishing these athletic benchmarks came at great cost. My butt ached terribly from saddle sores, undercarriage infections that became so painful I could no longer sit on my bike saddle. After Sunday runs, it took minutes to climb the stairs to my bedroom. And plenty of days I could barely drag my creaky bones out of bed.

But the biggest obstacle was only starting to come into focus. Despite my intense efforts to keep all parts of my life working in harmony, our finances began to suffer. Too much focus on Ultraman. Not enough emphasis on generating new business. For the first time in my marriage, the bills began to pile up. Mentally, I began to flog myself.
You're dropping the ball, Rich
.

The crisis crystallized during my final race-simulation weekend, in early November, just weeks prior to Ultraman. Setting out
at 4
A.M
. on Saturday for a 130-mile ride, I froze for four hours, until the sun came up, because I couldn't afford to buy the proper cold-weather gear. And miscalculating my caloric intake, I became delirious just outside Ojai, with no food left when I pulled over at a rickety hamburger stand on a country road in the middle of nowhere. Not only did I not have any cash on hand, my bank account happened to be overdrawn at the time, rendering my ATM card useless.
Idiot!
Sixty-five miles from home, starving and worse than penniless, I was forced to improvise, my shaking arms dumpster-diving in the garbage bins behind the restaurant for something,
anything
—to resuscitate my failing body. Rummaging, I inhaled a mélange of old french fries, half-eaten onion rings, and discarded cheeseburgers. A very rare stray from my vegan regime. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

In retrospect I should have just asked for some free food, but I was more than embarrassed. Mortified, in fact. The journey home was a meek crawl, requiring every synapse just to remain upright as cold darkness fell and the shakes resumed. But the intense fatigue was nothing compared to my sense of shame. I was in deep despair over how I could have let things go so awry.

I'm done with this ridiculous fool's errand
, my brain shrieked as I inched my way home, depleted. I couldn't bear the thought of my family suffering so I could complete a silly race. We had real-world problems, and as the man of the house, it was up to me to solve them.

Then the oddest thing occurred. Pedaling in the dark just miles from home, I began to lose the feeling of the road beneath me. Suddenly my wheels spun freely, and as if Newton's law of gravity had been revoked, I felt my body effortlessly angle skyward until I was enveloped by nothing but an expansive darkness. At that moment I had a sense of unexplainable oneness with the universe and, also, a sense of joy and gratitude. More than that, actually: a sense of love. I was in a deep meditative state in which my mind became
absolutely still, liberated from thought, at peace. It's what the yogis call
samadhi
.

Later, my gray matter convinced me the experience was nothing more than an exhaustion-fueled hallucination, a delusion precipitated by low blood sugar. It happens. I've since been regaled with similar stories from many an ultra athlete. But I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd experienced something more. Something profound, even.
But what did it mean?
Julie didn't hesitate with her perspective.

“Can't you see?
You're being called to step into who you really are
,” she whispered, holding my weary head in her warm hands that night. “Money comes and money goes. That's not the issue. We'll get through this. But you have to let go of old ways of thinking. Surrender your ego. Because the solution to our problems is in
faith
. Nothing else matters. Stay strong. And just keep doing what you're doing.”

With those words, Julie gave me a rare and beautiful gift, a potent reminder that when purpose aligns with faith, there can be no failure and all needs will be met—because the universe is infinitely abundant.

The next morning I woke up and ran. Forty-five miles.

And the following week, more than enough money arrived to pay our bills and finance my excursion to Hawaii for the big race.

I'm ready for Ultraman
.

Just finish
.

In 2008, this was my only goal for Ultraman. I'd pushed my body as far as it could go in the six months of prep time. And I'd trained my mind to overcome fear and welcome the suffering I'd soon face. But I was also a realist.
Remember, two years ago you struggled to make it up the staircase. Don't do anything stupid. Be conservative. This is just a celebration of your life-changing journey. Enjoy the ride
.

Nothing left to do but show up. So I arrived at Kailua Pier in the dark predawn to ready myself for the three most challenging days of my life, Day One kicking off with a 6.2-mile ocean swim followed by a rigorous ninety-mile bike ride. Absorbing the nervous energy of my competitors' final preparations, I felt the familiar butterflies that preceded the swim races of my youth. With the moment I'd worked so hard for finally upon me, suddenly finishing didn't seem enough.
I wanted to race
.

But I couldn't do it alone; my success relied heavily on my crew. Unlike most endurance events, Ultraman is a completely self-supported adventure. From a van that was packed floor to ceiling with spare bicycle parts, tools, food bins, canisters of race nutrition, coolers of ice water, overnight luggage, and enough race apparel to suit all weather conditions, it was up to my crew to not just cheerlead, but monitor my hydration and caloric intake,
manage unforeseen obstacles like equipment failure, and navigate the many tricky turns necessary to keep me on course.

Of course, nothing ever goes according to plan. But I'd assembled a great team that was captained by my cyclist friend Chris Uettwiller. Also helping out: the Buddha-like L. W. Walman, and my dad, who'd flown in from Washington, D.C., and was thrilled to be handling driving duties.

Later, Chris would tell me that as my dad stood on the pier watching me ready myself for the 10-kilometer swim, he got choked up.

“Dave, are you okay?” Chris asked.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, my dad composed himself with a broad smile and a lighthearted chuckle. “I'm fine. It's just that, you see the way he's swinging his arms like that? It's what he always used to do as a little boy before every swim race.”

Soon, I was wading gingerly into the water and lining up next to my thirty-four fellow racers for the impending start. And before I knew it, the gun fired and we were off.
Steady as she goes
. Managing an even and sustainable stroke cadence, I steeled myself to relax, making a point to enjoy the sunrise off my left shoulder and the colorful marine life peppering the reefs below. A tidal chop jostled me about, pushing me backward at times, but you can't fight the current—better to
surrender
to its overwhelming power.

Next up on the list of challenges were the jellyfish. Ripping through a swarm of them around the halfway mark, I suffered more than a few stings across my arms, shoulders, and face. The shocks to the system sent my heart rate soaring and forced me to harness maximum mental composure to avert panic. Luckily for me, my stings were relatively mild in comparison to those suffered by Australian Kelly Duhig, who was pulled out of the water and rushed to the hospital in anaphylactic shock.