By Heidi Skildum

This past year, I have reflected most on the two most important relationships of my life: running and my partner, Andrew. To begin, I started running as a seventeen-year-old mainly to hang out with my twin sister and best friends on the high school cross-country team. This led to competing in college, then running marathons, to finally finding my spot in the ultra-world. The second relationship also started shortly after I began wearing buns on the cross-country course.  Andrew and I met in college and stayed friends for over a decade before we started dating. Now, four years, one dog, a cross-country move, and an engagement ring later, I’m stoked to say that I’m in this relationship for the long run. I hope we all end up with partners who love us because of our imperfections and faults. Admittedly, I know exactly where my “area of growth” is in my relationship with my fiancé:  socks. And no, I am not talking about wearing socks in bed or during (ahem).  It’s just that I never wear socks except for the hours that I am running.

In fact, I hate wearing socks so much that I take my shoes and socks off immediately after I get done with a run. As soon as I hit the “stop” button on my Timex (old school here), I immediately get the itch to abandon my shoes and socks. As a result, there are normally a half dozen pairs of socks of various shapes and sizes in piles all over the apartment: wool, cotton, ankles, and of course, my Territory Forest Socks from a couple of years back. 

The action of abandoning my socks as soon as I get home from a run is so second nature to me, I don’t even realize that I’m doing it. Socks are small markers of an accomplished run, taking up less physical space than a pair of shorts or a rain jacket. A sprinkle of socks around the apartment here and there can’t be that noticeable, right? Then suddenly, at the time of an impromptu porch beer or dinner with friends, I have to make a mad dash to pick up every damn sock from all over my home. I find them in shoes, under the couch, next to the stove. There is a pile near my yoga mat and weights. Another pile is near the front door, in the bathroom, right next to our bedroom door. With moments to spare, I collect a Mt. Fuji amount of socks to throw in the laundry basket. And you’re right, I am disgusted with myself as I write this confession and feel pretty darn lucky to be with a person who loves me besides this smelly habit.

Then on March 22, 2021, my relationship to socks changed drastically. After spending the majority of the winter season skiing nordic and uphill, my partner and I decided to enjoy a blue-bird day skiing inbounds at Mt. Hood Meadows. Despite thirty years of experience on the slopes, I fell harder than I had ever fallen halfway down the mountain. My knee and ankle hurt like hell and I found myself with the irrational conclusion of getting back to Andrew as soon as possible. Forgetting cell phone service and extremely friendly ski patrol, I took it upon myself to ski one-legged towards the chalet after the most horrific fall I had ever experienced. Later, I would find out that I had torn my MCL and sprained my ankle on my right leg.

For the next week, my sock pile problem was non-existent because my ankle was too swollen to even fit any sort of toe cover.  Even after the swelling went down and the weeks passed, I resorted to wearing a pair of Birkenstocks for the independence of slipping on footwear without Andrew's help. Trading socks for a knee brace is not how I had imagined my spring, especially after races got the green light and wait lists were being lifted. Instead of preparing for a 50k, I found myself pretending to stay positive between PT exercises, icing on the couch, and solitary bike rides. Puppy snuggles helped but honestly, I visited some pretty dark places during this transition.  In the end, I missed my socks.

Transitions are hard at any point in a person’s life. Personally, I have relied on running to be my constant North Star during the opening and closing of chapters. Changes in jobs, unhealthy friendships, new relationships, stolen bikes, moves across the country, whatever it may be: I could always navigate the unknown a little better after a ten-mile run. It’s as if each pair of socks marked not just a good run but an “ah-ha” moment or a sense of release. And just as I stopped wearing so many socks this past winter, I found myself in a whirlwind of life questions, new opportunities, and a few goodbyes. Change certainly is constant.

Without those dozen markers of a good run littering my apartment, I started to wonder: how was I going to get through this chapter and what version of me would come out of it?

The transition was slow. There would be exactly one pile of socks near the front door because I’d wear the same pair of socks for a week. Yes, that sounds disgusting but trading 30 miles for 30 seconds felt pretty deflating. I ran for so little time that it felt blasphemous to (sniff) put a perfectly clean-ish pair of socks in the hamper. I didn’t consider myself a runner but as a person “trying to run.”  It socked. 

As the weeks and months passed and spring turned into summer, I slowly started to gain more ability and confidence to try running again. Despite more runs and less walks these days, it took me a while to realize that I still need to wash my socks. The minutes that I clock do not determine how much of a “real” runner I am. In the end, I’m still a runner despite the piles not piling up around the apartment. Even our most important relationships need to change every once in a while. I’ve been in this sport for over eighteen years and can say with the utmost gratitude that running is the longest relationship I have ever had in my life.  I also can’t expect running to stay the same when I have changed so much throughout the last two decades. Like any long-term relationship, there are going to be ups-and-downs. In the end, I choose to run in love: the payback is worth the investment. Love makes us capable of any turn and triumph in the upcoming season as well as be ready to tackle the world after breaking the final tape. 

Editor’s Note: Heidi is currently up to running multiple days in a row and is trying on a new habit: putting my socks in the hamper immediately after she gets done with the run. Find her on instagram @heidizandell.

By Aaron Burrick

 In the months leading up to my first ultramarathon, training often felt like riding a roller coaster. Some weeks were steady and strong, while others felt slow, stressful, and disappointing. I struggled to find consistency in my busy schedule and high expectations. But, as time passed, I found ways to build a steady, healthy running practice. The following strategies improved not only my weekly mileage, but my entire outlook on how running fit with the rest of my life.

Start small

As a new trail runner, it can be easy to feel intimidated by other athletes’ training volumes. But remember: one hundred, fifty, and even twenty mile weeks aren’t built overnight. No single number can capture the commitment and routine required to lace up day after day. As you start your running journey, consistency matters more than total mileage or time on feet. Find an achievable and fun starting point, and dial it up from there. Maybe try twenty minutes a day, three days per week. Or find a run club for some mid-week motivation. If you’re extra pressed for time, try running to work on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings over the summer. Whatever you choose, keep your schedule achievable and finish feeling excited to get back after it tomorrow.

Embrace recovery

After passing through the initial stage of  “why have I chosen a hobby that gives me blisters,” many runners want to increase their training load. And when we’re focused on doing more, it can be easy to forget that rest and recovery are two of the most important contributors to consistent, healthy running. Rest days allow our bodies to rebuild and rejuvenate. They replenish our energy stores, and give us time to embrace other aspects of our identities. New runners can sometimes be susceptible to labeling food, naps, and Netflix as something “earned” after a good run. But all of these, from Hawaiian pizza to the latest David Attenborough series, are essential for prolonged and happy running. As you build your practice on the trails, never forget or underestimate the value of recovery.

Stretching and strength

During my first marathon training block, I often joked that “most of running is lying on the ground.” As my apartment filled with different rollers and resistance bands, I began to notice the benefits that came from more stretching and routine strength work. I slept better if I loosened up before bed. Aches and pains disappeared as I toughened up muscles that, prior to running, I didn’t know existed. On days where I warmed up, the miles felt, and were, faster than on the days when I started cold. Basic strength work, which many runners don’t incorporate until after they’ve been injured, doesn’t have to be fancy either. Body-weight squats, a whole bunch of lunges, and balancing on one foot can make all of us more resilient runners. As you build your running routine, make time for the floor. Find yourself a foam roller, and believe that small habits can make a major difference over time.

Find your people

Trail running can, at times, be an isolating sport. While many of us love the solitude of the trails, we also crave the connection and support required for a sustainable future of movement in the outdoors. With this in mind, it is essential for newer runners to find people who understand their experiences. Local running groups, the neighborhood shoe store, and weekend trailheads are all places to connect without being asked about when your knees will give out. Many running brands also offer community through ambassador programs that connect over Facebook and Instagram. Social connection helps us feel seen, and sane, in our commitment to steady and consistent running. Trail friends can support us when we’re feeling low, inspire us when we’re unsure of ourselves, and remind us that we aren’t alone in our running goals.

Injuries happen

Almost every runner, from first-timer to international competitor, has been or will become injured. While many injuries can be prevented with rest and maintenance, it’s healthy for new runners to view these temporary roadblocks not as signs of failure or incompetence, but as byproducts of pushing our potential. They’re also learning experiences that highlight imbalances in our bodies or errors in our planning. As we develop more consistent running, it can be helpful to create an “injury plan” that keeps us feeling positive even if we’re taken off the trails. To start, we can find a physical therapist in the area who specializes in working with runners. We can take an inventory of not only other sports, but other interests we can embrace during time away from running. We can ask ourselves: If I can’t run, how else can I manage stress and practice self-care? With the right preparation and mindset, injuries can be seen as only slight detours on the broader road, or trail, of progress.

Trail running can redefine one’s sense of adventure. Multi-day trips and all-day efforts will always be exciting, but there’s something unique about discovering a new trail in your own backyard. Building a healthy, consistent running practice provides almost daily opportunities for this type of exploration and adventure. Regular running can empower us to return home with renewed energy and curiosity, and an adventurous spirit that lasts far longer than any single run.

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By Brett Farrell 

I’m hiking up a steady incline, haggard, hands on knees, feeling like I can barely move forward.

“WTF is happening to me? Am I sick? Oh shit, is something wrong with me?”

My quads are burning with lactic acid, they feel heavy, lethargic; not a typical feeling this early in a race. I’m getting passed and my mind continues with this sob story that is borderline hypochondriac. 

“My body can’t do this.. Why do I try?  Why don’t I train more? This is brutal. Why do I even run these races? I never feel this bad. Maybe there is something really wrong with me and I should stop.”

These negative thoughts take over my mind and body like a toxic virus further depleting me of energy, confidence and helpful endorphins.

Then, I remember an old mantra that I used a few times the year before. I dig it out of a back dusty corner of my mind and brush it off. I make a decision to lock it in place while I run, put it on repeat and see what happens. 

I begin. With each breath out I say it. It takes over my mind. There is no room for the negative because this is all I am saying. 

And in moments, everything will change. Part animal, part machine and only one thing is on my mind;  

I am the lion.  

( I borrowed this mantra/visualization after seeing this interview (fast forward to 2:50) with Lauren Fleshman years ago)

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There have been a few times in my life where I reflect on the mind and its ability to change our place in the world. We have heard it before, “we can be anything we want to be as long as we put our mind to it.” 

But come on, that really isn’t true…is it?  

Most of the time, I don’t believe the statement. My mind’s autopilot in a low quiet voice is stating, “you can’t be faster, you can’t find time to travel more, you don’t have enough money.”

But the times in my life where I decided to believe that I can do, whatever it is I want to accomplish, I do it.

It is a shift in perspective in how we decide to view our world. It is everything. Our perception is our lens and when we modify it, the world changes around us. 

Our biggest threat working against us is the flow of life. It is not working for us- to remind us to say our mantras today, or meditate to build up the powers of our mind and instead it is saying things like; work, make money, take care of our responsibilities, there isn’t enough time!

But what if we did take care of our mind everyday like the ritual that we established when we were children of brushing our teeth? What if we start to believe what we thought was impossible?

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My mantra is now on autopilot. I no longer need to remember to say it over and over again. It's just happening and I start to notice something. The people in front of me are getting closer, slowing down. 

No wait, I am getting faster.  

Fuck yes.

I keep going, keep reciting. 

I am the lion. 

I pass one person, another and another.

I am on a ridge now above the clouds and I am ecstatic. A total endorphin rush has kicked in.  I am flooded with gratitude, I’m hooting and hollering at my mountain surroundings as I start to descend the rocky ridge.  

I finish the race in a time that I believe to be far faster than I would have achieved without that mantra.  

What would have happened if I didn’t dig out that mantra? Would the whole race have been a slog? 

I can’t know for sure but I am further convinced that the mind has powers over our body that we do not fully understand. 

I have heard stories of people who are told they will never walk again that are walking because they meditated on it everyday and Tibetan monks who can raise their body temperatures while meditating in cold environments. 

I wish to see the world through a lens that is positive.

I wish to believe that statement we have all heard too much, “we can be anything we want to be as long as we set our minds to it” 

It is a matter of putting in the work each day like it is a part of my training or just like brushing my teeth.

Why wouldn’t I try? 

After all, when I am alone on a climb and starting to struggle, I’d rather be the lion.

Photo courtesy of Steven Mortinson + Daybreak Racing 

By Brian Grissom

It was still dark outside and the coffee had just finished brewing. My weekend ritual of putting on my running clothes, getting a cup of coffee and then sitting on the couch was in full swing. 10 years ago I used to be able to roll out of bed, put on my shoes and hit the trails without a thought to things like “stretching” or “warming up”. But it’s different now, and the couch plays a big role. I only sit for a few minutes. Once the coffee hits the system, I’m awake and head out into the pre dawn. But it’s those few minutes on the couch that can sometimes make the difference. 

I think I’m like most people. When I have a few minutes of downtime, my first thought is to open up my phone and get some thumb exercising in. Part of that rhythm is going to your favorite platform to...I don’t know...see what’s up? I’m a runner, so most of the people that I follow are also runners. I love the sport and love keeping up with races locally and internationally. So most days when I look at images, it’s beautiful vistas accompanied by impeccably in shape athletes. Their strides...perfect. Their kit...on point. Their physique...every runner's dream. And,while some of the time I can appreciate the image for what it is, there are other times that, well, I can’t. As I open the door and start my morning shuffle those images that are meant to inspire can do quite the opposite.

Someone asks me recently if I thought that men had the same body image issues as women and I replied, rather quickly, “I don’t think so.” But the times that I spout off an answer so quickly, it’s either because I’ve thought about it a lot or, I haven’t at all. In this instance, it was the latter. Also, just a quick reflection of my last weekend's run could have told me otherwise. So I started digging, and what I found was eye opening.

According to a recent study, “95% of college age men are dissatisfied with their bodies on some level” (Daniel & Bridges 2013). Another study suggests that “over 90% of men struggle in some way with body dissatisfaction and negative affect and emotions towards one’s body” (Castonguay et al. 2014). I’m no mathematician...but that’s a lot. When I see numbers that high I instinctively reflect on my experience. Am I part of the 90%? If so, what is fueling that negativity? And most importantly, why haven’t I ever felt the need to talk about this if I’ve felt this way? 

If I’m honest, just reading those statistics gave me a sense of freedom. I’ve never struggled with an eating disorder, but I know men who have. That said, I’m not sure you have to have an eating disorder to suffer the effects of negative body image. Because body image can be a voice that we’ve become so accustomed to listening to, we can forget that it’s a negative voice. 

The trail running community is a beautiful mix of people. That’s one of the reasons why I love it so much. When I completed my first 100 miler, I ran with all kinds of people from all walks of life and all looked completely different. It was amazing. But just like any community, it’s so easy to compare ourselves. Whether that be wishing you were 10lbs lighter to wishing you were 10 years younger to wishing that your knees didn’t pop so much (I’m totally speaking from experience). But it’s what the comparison can do overtime that can lead to unhealthy choices and toxic thoughts about our bodies. Teddy Roosevelt said it perfectly, “Comparison is the thief of joy” and isn’t joy one of the feelings we long for when we run in nature? Joy is the manifestation of what a healthy body and healthy community look and feel like. Joy isn’t just a happy face, it’s a deep peace and full understanding of where we are in the moment and the gift of life we have.

This even connects with nature. Think about this for a second. Nature is infinitely honest. It can only be what it is at that moment and in that season. Maybe that’s why we all love running in it so much. It constantly reminds us what honesty looks like. It reminds us that we have an infinite amount of possible versions of ourselves, but today we look like this. It doesn’t mean we’ll always look like this and that’s not a bad thing. But in order to get from one version of ourselves to the other, we have to be honest with ourselves...now. That’s the heart behind this. Honesty. Just because male body image isn’t talked about doesn’t mean it doesn't exist and as a trail running community this dialogue is vital because our body types are so diverse. Because the more honest we are with one another the more healthy we can become and as we become a healthier community, joy is bound to follow. 

By Ian Ramsey 

-Inspired by Brian Doyle’s Credo   

Recently, I was telling a friend about how great it was to be on the side of a mountain, six hours into a long run, during a thunderstorm: how cold and wet and shivering and intimidated I felt as the booms echoed off the ridge as I slipped on wet rocks, and huddled here and there under krumholz before scrambling across the exposed ledges, scared for my life but also overjoyed. My friend-who doesn’t share my sense of adventure- asked me what makes me do such unnecessary, dangerous things. I made a joke about poor judgement and being crazy. My friend was satisfied and we ended up talking about the Red Sox, but as I reflected back, I knew that I had done a disservice to myself by reducing my love of such adventures to simple hubris and poor choices. So I started to think about the real reasons why I run.

I believe that we as humans are built to run and move in wild places. With the same bodies and minds that we had twenty-thousand years ago, we didn’t evolve to sit in front of zoom calls under fluorescent lights and to drive on freeways. Our glutes, one of the muscles that distinguishes us from other primates, only switch on when we run or trot, an inheritance of millennia of foot travel and persistence hunting. My experiences-and neuroscience- teach me that our senses, our emotions, and our bodies switch on when we are moving through dynamic environments like trails, forests, and mountains. When we’re in big, wild places and there are consequences like falling or getting stuck in storms, we pay attention. We feel a sense of wonder and connection to something larger and we rub shoulders with animals and weather and our own personal limits. Of course, even if all of that is true, not everyone feels this pull to long, dusty days on trails. Yet I feel this pull, for reasons I do and do not understand.

Some of those reasons I can articulate. I grew up in a semi-wild landscape of forests, lakes and pastures in the foothills of Maine’s Appalachian mountains, and I learned early to love exploring the forest, to run on the old logging trails and to explore old stream beds. In those days of three TV channels and an open landscape, my friends and I were bound as much by the cutover forests as we were by our common spirit of adventure.  I have countless memories of scrambling around on rocks, running through the woods, watching bears and moose and deer, and getting dirty, wet and tired. My Norse and Gaelic ancestors in Scotland, Iceland, and Ireland certainly lived their lives in the same kind of cold, damp open landscapes that attract me. My grandfather, who just passed away at the age of 96, was a marathoner and naturalist, and his example showed me that it was possible to stay fit well into old age, to keep exploring wild places and learning about your home ground. After I went through testicular cancer a decade ago, I started running on trails, and my life was reborn, and every time I run, I feel reborn again.

But I love trail running for muddier reasons. Sometimes I desperately need to lean on the quiet solitude of the forest. Sometimes I need to disrupt the addictive patterns of social media and the 24 hour news cycle. Sometimes the stress of 21^st century disruption makes me long for something more archaic, more perennial than cryptocurrency headlines and climate emergencies. Sometimes, when I’m stuck in my head, I long for the simple idiot joy of flying down a hillside without a care in the world. Sometimes, when I come around a corner to surprise a deer or a fox, I feel like a wild animal myself. And sometimes, when I finish a run and my mind and body are deeply quiet, I feel strong and healthy, which is not the case for many of my friends my age who do not push themselves into the same kinds of discomfort.

But I also have running friends who do push themselves into discomfort, who share my love of wild places and health, and I want to meet more of those souls. I want to meet people who take unexpected left hand turns in their lives, who live simply and have adventures, who get outside, who are not bound by society’s rules, who are healthy and fit and comfortable in their own skin and in mud, bugs and weather. I want to climb trees with wild joy like I did when I was six years old and feel like Geronimo, Pablo Neruda, and Pre. I want to meet other crazy souls who have agency in their own lives and know how to push through hard things.  I want to run forever, or at least well into old age-like my grandfather-and I’m inspired by the septuagenarians and octogenarians who I see staying vibrant by exercising outside.

So I am a trail runner, for many reasons. Sometimes, I’m also a sea kayaker, which is a bit like being a trail runner on the ocean. In the winter, I’m a Nordic skier, where I fly along on the same trails covered in snow. And sometimes I’m a poet, which can be just as wild and mysterious and adventurous, in its own ways. But the trail running is my language. Trail running is the shoe that fits, the tent I sleep in at night.

It’s a big tent, full of 5k’ers and pimpled X-country teams and moms pushing strollers and hikers and barefoot hippies and GPS’ed triathaletes and intense ultrarunners. And it’s a tent that needs to recognize its privilege and responsibilities, where equality and inclusion and climate awareness and reparations all need more attention. But it’s also a tent where beauty lives, and inspiration, and community, and the full range of emotions and expression. And beauty is as necessary as food or water. When we run, we move in beauty and touch a deeper current of the human experience. We laugh, we cry, we yell, we reflect, we run, run, run.