Tracing Steps: Pinhoti 100, Part 2

If it was the falling of darkness that marked the emotional height of my race experience, then it was the heart of darkness that marked the lowest emotional period of the race. Though I kept a smile on when passing through aid stations and seeing other runners, as had been my plan from the start, the race was certainly no longer "fun". I was managing to keep up a decent walking pace, all things considering, but had succumbed to the zombie-like state of existence that infamously befalls most ultramarathoners during the darkest parts of the night. My mind was numbed by the ever present thought of pain and discomfort while my body simply plodded on and on. My spirits would rise and fall with certain songs and elevation changes, as the race director had prophesized at the pre-race meal, but I was generally in a pretty low place overall.



Night falls on the Pinhoti trail.

To make matters worse, I made a critical mistake. Though I had been told numerous times and had known full well that I would not have crew assistance (i.e. see dad/have access to my gear) between miles 67 and 85, and would just have access to staff-only aid stations, when I left the aid station at mile 67 and said goodbye to Dad, I was under the delusional idea that I'd be seeing him next at mile 75, rather than 85. I can't explain why I was thinking that, as I remember in my mind at the time wondering why people had made such a fuss about the stretch of time between crew contact when it was only 8 miles, hardly longer than the otherwise longest gap between aid stations. Maybe it was because we'd all be walking much slower, I thought. Doing the math in my head, which was a feat in itself, I figured I'd see Dad in about three hours or so, as I was averaging about 20 minutes per mile and assumed that my pace would continue to bleed down to 25-30 minutes per mile.

So how did this misunderstanding hurt me? Well by this time, it being around nine o'clock or so, I had just donned a skin-tight long-sleeve layer and was feeling plenty warm. I imagine it was still over fifty, and I felt that my body would do just fine in that single layer for a while yet, certainly for the next two or three hours. Thinking along those lines and figuring that I'd see Dad at mile 75, I decided that I didn't need to pack any extra layers or pants. To add insult to injury, I also ended up failing to pack gloves or a stocking cap - things I had actually been intending to pack when I arrived at the aid station

Off I went into the night then, like a lamb to slaughter, with just my long-sleeve compression top and short running shorts, not having a clue that this would be all the clothes I'd have for the next nine to ten hours, during which I'd face the coldest temps of the night. Please keep in mind, as I mentioned earlier, that my cognitive processes left much to be desired while all of this was occurring, so don't judge me too harshly. It wasn't like I was hallucinating or anything nearly that severe - I still had a sense of humor, could paint a smile on at the aid stations, hold a short conversation, and generally hold myself together - I just couldn't think clearly enough to make sound decisions, couldn't remember anything to save my life, couldn't do basic math, and was generally well distracted by my pain.

Wildly enough, I was oblivious to this impending crisis all the way up until the point at which I crossed the 75 mile mark and realized that I had been wrong about the mileage gap, and wouldn't see Dad until at least the next aid station, which was at mile 79. This sparked an understanding of the vulnerability of my situation, which was certainly disappointing to say the least. The walk to that station was a long one; every step was painful, with more and more steps involving twisted ankles and/or stumbling. At around one o'clock, I first remember the discomfort of cold coming to the forefront of my thoughts, and dealt with chills off and on for the next two and a half hours after that.

So here comes the third and final critical mistake (I count my feet problems as mistake number one - whether due to shoes or some unknown factor). During the last hour of walking before reaching the aid station at mile 79, I came to the conclusion that the only thing that I hadn't tried yet for my feet was rest. I was desperate for a solution, as they were in really bad shape by now. Because I was having to stay off my arches, walking on the outsides of my feet to control the pain, I couldn't seem to keep from rolling my ankles on the rocky path. They were twisting at the rate of once every fifty steps or so, to the point that it didn't even really hurt anymore - it was just really frustrating and getting under my skin. Since I knew that I had a good 90 minutes to rest at the aid station before having to leave in order to stay ahead of the cutoff times, I figured this was the smartest (and really the only) thing I could do to stay in the hunt for a finish.

Arriving at the aid station and seeing a crackling fire ablaze with chairs around it, I felt that my decision to take a break for a while had been divinely affirmed. After checking in and snagging a token piece of bacon from the delicious spread of goodies that the volunteers had so kindly provided (this aid station was apparently the infamous "bacon station", a sure hit among their zombie patrons), I found myself a seat by the fire. The warmth was heavenly and I was able to gather myself together enough to recognize my priorities. Taking care of my feet first, I pulled each one out and massaged them with an analgesic gel. I could see a little swelling at this point, but they really looked far better than they felt. Once the feet were done, I knocked out ten minutes of seated stretching, and then set my alarm for twenty minutes later, when I'd reevaluate the situation and decide for how much longer I should rest.

As it turns out, this rest was probably the worst thing I possibly could've done. While my head rested in my hands and my body rested in that chair, two very unfortunate things were occurring in my body that I had failed to consider. Because I was so wrapped up in getting my feet into functional shape, I was oblivious to the fact that: 1) all the lactic acid which my body had developed over the course of 22 hours of repetitive movement was pooling in my seated muscles, creating the potential for debilitating cramps, and 2) the time I spent resting allowed inflammation to attack my feet, speeding up the process of swelling already occurring. After twenty minutes had gone by and my alarm had sounded, a runner who was seated next to me got up to continue his race, and I was forced to reflect on the status of my own race.

As I shivered from the cold gusts of wind that would occasionally steal the fire's heat from me, it dawned on me that the longer I sat, the colder the night (and I!) was getting. Watching the other runner make his way back to the trail, I felt a "now-or-never" conviction that if I was going to finish this race, I was going to have to dig deep and suck it up, because it would only get worse if I continued to put the moment off.

Easing myself out of the chair, I literally hobbled my way over to the rocky path that I was to follow. My feet were unimaginably painful to walk on, far worse than their state when I had arrived. I don't even know how to describe that pain to you; it just hurt really, really badly. Not even twenty seconds had passed however before I literally doubled over, surprised by the power of the cramp in my right hip to fold my body in half. I let it pass and sort of straightened up, taking another ten steps or so, but each step brought an equal, unsubsiding pain, both in my feet and hips. Of course, violent shivering also began about then from the cold, less than a minute from leaving the fire, and it suddenly struck me that I was done.



I probably looked something like Nicolas Cage here at mile 79.

This is the end of the road for me, I thought. My math skills came flooding back to me as I forced myself to consider continuing on. At slower than a 30 minute/mile, could I actually last for the three hours of walking it would take to get to the next aid station? I realized that there was simply no way I could do it. As hard as it was to stomach that decision right there, I still believe it was the smartest decision I made during the entire race. I honestly don't know what would've happened if I had tried to continue on at that point. I doubt I could've made it a quarter of a mile, but let's say that I had made it a full mile before I simply couldn't take another physical step; I would've been stranded, helpless, dangerously cold (I think it was around 40, and I might as well have been naked, given my outfit), and likely in shock. I would've either had to plead a zombie runner to turn back however far they had come for help, or more than likely I would've had to wait for a couple hours for them to travel the five miles to the next aid station, while I would've rolled into a ball and tried to wait it out somehow. It kind of scares me to think about what could've been if I had decided to force myself onward.

So there you have it. After 79 miles, 22 hours, and almost 16,000 ft of climbing, my Pinhoti 100 attempt ended in a pathetic finale. I turned around and hobbled back to the aid station, and what followed was an ordeal that embarrasses me as much now as it did then, and I don't really desire to elaborate on it. Essentially, I told the aid station volunteers that I was out; they figured out the logistics of getting me back on four-wheeler of questionable mechanical integrity; I was wrapped up in sleeping bag that someone miraculously had brought and was seated side-straddle on the metal rack behind the seat, and clung to my bearded hero as we raced to the aid station at mile 85. The four-wheeler quit on us twice, but we eventually met up with another four-wheeler, which had just taken another runner back, so we swapped out rides and made it to the aid station in good time.

Once there, I required help walking around the aid station area searching for Dad, who was waiting vigilantly among the crowd of crew members who were cheering their runners into the aid station from off the trail. He was undoubtedly surprised at the nature of my arrival, occurring nothing like I'm sure he had been imagining over the last few hours, especially given our light-heartened interaction and my joking around at mile 67, the last time he had seen me. But bless his heart, he got right to work, helping me over and into my truck, covering my shaking and broken body with another sleeping bag, packing all of my gear, and basically assuming the role of dedicated, loving caretaker for the next 24 hours.

The next day brought forth a residual pain unlike the sort I've ever felt before. It felt like I had gotten hit squarely by a truck, to the point that I literally spent all but perhaps an hour of it in bed, constantly dreading the next time I'd have to move an inch of my body. Two weeks later, while nearly all of that pain has resided, most of it within the first three days of recovery, I still remember the Pinhoti many times a day when I walk, thanks to some persistent soreness in those arches. I like to think of them as reminders of lessons learned the hard way though, of which there were many. So what then did I learn? While I wont recount every idea I've gleaned from the experience, nor would you want me to, there are several things that I'll pass on to you.

Firstly, when attempting any seriously physical endeavor, don't aim to beat the minimum when it comes to the essentials, in training or otherwise.  While I figured I was smart enough to make the judgment call that my shoes were good enough, I should have recognized that for the gamble that it was. Feet are to a runner what hands are to the craftsman/craftswoman, so they must be looked after with great care.

Secondly, I would have been well suited to have completed an intermediate race or two, or at least done more and longer "long runs". I was so intent on testing my personal limits with this exact race, that I was under the foolish impression that any real testing I conducted prior would tamper the results of my Pinhoti experiment. Well, I discovered that my limit was 79 miles, which may or may not have been the case if I had decided to complete a 50 miler or 100k race before.

And lastly, since everything good comes in threes, I learned how absolutely essential it is to have someone around to catch you when you fall. This is the lesson that I stand to gain the most from in life, as I tend to be a very independent person by design. I honestly have no clue as to what would've happened had I not had my dad there to save me. I was in absolutely no condition to drive for at least 24 hours after arriving at that aid station, and was essentially helpless during that period. While I figured it would be helpful to have my dad around as a crew member, I had originally planned on running the race solo, without a crew. Looking back on that idea scares me into evaluating in what capacity I am isolating myself in my current and future endeavors, and is something that I will try to keep on my radar for years to come.

This picture says it all. I don't want to know where I'd be without this guy in my life.



To sum everything up, though I know that "Part 2" of this recap likely came across as a pretty dark recounting of my Pinhoti race attempt, I wouldn't give up that experience for all the gold in China (which I'm pretty sure is a lot these days). To prove it, I'll admit that I was already looking online for 100 milers early next year. Though I'm not saying that I'll do one then, the question in my mind is a logistical one rather than one of desire, as I definitely want to knock a 100 out, what with having the Pinhoti stuck in my craw and all. Adding it all up, the time that I got to spend with my dad, the memories we made, the lessons that I learned, and lets not forget the incredible fundraising effort which was always at the heart of it all - the whole ordeal is truly surreal to me in such a deep and beautiful way. Though it ended up looking nothing like I had imagined, in the end, I'd say much good was made.

Tracing Steps: Pinhoti 100, Part 1

Having started this recap a couple days ago, I've had some time to come to a more enlightened perspective on the whole thing. Instead of jumping into the post and talking about what happened here or went wrong there, it has become abundantly clear to me that the most important thing that can be said is that, in total, we have raised over $12,500 for Habitat for Humanity and The Alexander Capelluto Foundation! That's an amazing $2,500 over what I thought was an already lofty goal!

Folks, this is simply incredible. Though I initially felt like having raised these funds made my failure to finish the race all the more difficult to accept, having had time to process it all, I now know that having raised these funds made my race a success no matter how I fared. Finished or not, the race was always a personal experience of little real impact to any beyond those immediately involved, whereas the effects of our fundraising drive will touch the lives of many. So a huge thanks and congratulations goes out to all of you who've helped make this effort become what it is. We've accomplished a great thing, and we deserve to be proud about it!

Now with that said, I must admit that the cynical part of me was tempted to title this post "Pinhoti 100: What Went Wrong." Though I know that that wouldn't be a fair assessment, as most of the race actually went according to plan, with the worst of the residual pain behind me, I feel that it's safe to retrace my steps and give an account of both how the race went and what I've learned from the experience.

Things began two days before the race, with the joyful occasion of picking my Dad up from the airport in Birmingham, Alabama. He had agreed to be my "crew" for the race, which entails racing around to most of the aid stations along the racecourse with all of my gear in tow, making sure that I'm set for the next leg(s) of the race. We were both very excited about the prospects of this father-son experience, and it certainly wound up being one of my favorite aspects of the whole ordeal. Little did I know how essential his presence would be in the coming days though.

Picking up the old man at the airport (haha love you, Dad).

The next day, after getting a morning and afternoon to ourselves, which allowed for some much needed catching up, as well as some gear preparation, we headed off to the registration event. This is where I got my registration number, turned in my drop bags (bags of gear that would be taken to certain aid stations that crew members couldn't access), and enjoyed a wonderful dinner that was ripe with carbohydrates. The race director and another ultrarunner, who was Pinhoti-tested, spoke about the upcoming race, offering much advice and wisdom about how to go about things. Leaving the event, I felt very at peace with where I stood with my race plan and preparation, as it had largely mirrored what had been advised that evening.

Boiled down to the basics, the plan was this: See how long I can keep a smile on. Play the long game (i.e. do whatever it takes, however slow, to get across the finish line). Be tough, but be smart.  Walk the uphills, jog the downhills, and listen to my body on the flats. Remember that this is what I signed up and paid for, and remember that I'm running for a lot more than just myself. As for speed, I intended to stay behind gray hair for the first 50 miles, treat miles 50-75 as a litmus test (46 miles was my longest run prior to the race - everything beyond that was the great beyond), and either crawl or sprint the last 25, depending on how I was feeling at that point.

Well, at 3:00 the next morning, it all began. With everything set out the night before, we ate a little breakfast, downed some coffee, put the gear in my truck, and took off to the starting line, roughly 100 miles away. Sans a single missed turn, we got to the starting line with plenty of time to spare.  (As it so happened, the wrong turn wound up being a hilarious happenstance, as I ended up climbing the major elevation gain between miles 35-40 paired up with the fellow who had been directly behind us when we incorrectly turned off. He was telling me about the truck with the California license plate that had taken the wrong turn, when I informed him that it had been me! It's a small world...) Once at the starting area, I signed myself in, but realized that I hadn't filled my water bottle for the first leg of the race. Doh! Luckily, Dad found a camper who was awake and had water, which was incredible because that ended up being the only water available at the starting area.

Right at 6:00, with all the cold runners huddled together under the Pinhoti 100 banner, the race director hollered from the bed of his truck, "Let's goooo!" and with that we were off!  Having heard that the race quickly transitioned from the campground road to a single-file trail after a couple hundred meters, I made sure to be in the first third of the pack. This proved to be a smart decision, as I heard from so many runners later in the race that they had gotten stuck in a big stand-still pileup right there, forcing them to hoof it early on to stay ahead of the cut-off times. Only a few miles in however, I realized that the group of runners I was with along the single-file trail were aiming for a finishing time of between 20-21 hours. This was much faster than the pace for which I was aiming, so I just hopped off the trail and stretched for a few minutes, waiting for a gap in the winding trail of runners where I could jump back in.

That little stop-and-go routine wound up being a consistent theme for me throughout the whole race - running with a group for a while, but then making the call to listen to my body and drop back/stretch. More often than not, the runners I had been with and the ones that would pass would ask whether I was alright. Early on, then, I developed my little response; "I'm good. Just playing the long game, baby. Keep it up!" This helped me remember my primary goal - stay cool and in the hunt for the finish line.

As the race wore on and the first few aid stations went by, mile after mile, I found myself having the time of my life. While the fall foliage and Alabama hilltop vistas were every bit as stunning as I had hoped they would be, I found myself joyfully captivated and enamored by something entirely unexpected, this being the social aspect of the race. I can only attribute this to the unique combination of the wild personalities and backgrounds of the individuals I met, the free-spirited vibes generated by the communal act of running in nature, and the interesting sort of short-term relationship that develops after everyone has put a marathon under their belt.

The scenery I had the pleasure of passing through.

First, there was Bartholomew (these aren't their real names, by the way), who was a long-time counselor for Upward Bound, and had tons of quality advice for me regarding working with serious juvenile offenders. I can't say I've met anyone else who has volunteered their time to go hiking with and mentor kids as young as 14 who have killed. It was a pretty eye-opening, though also affirming, conversation to say the least. Then there was Dolly, a sustainable farm manager who was moving to the part of N. Carolina I had just left in order to work for a new farm there. Naturally, I was in an uncanny position to advise her on agriculture in the Piedmont region, and our hours of conversation flowed from organic growing and homesteading to religious defection and everywhere in-between. There was Bart, who provided a fun hour of spirited discussion about my football team, the Oakland Raiders, and sports more generally, which was delightfully refreshing. Then I took a jaunt with Darnell for awhile when he came through. He had only participated in twelve 100 mile races this year, with this being the third time he was competing in the Pinhoti 100. He was such a boss, going line for line to Eminem's track, "Lose Yourself," at a small, staff only aid-station early on, downing a handful of candy corn, while giving me the best advice of the day: "Don't let anyone keep you from running your race. You do what you need to do." Did I mention that he was 57? (I told him about my "grey hair plan," which he found hilarious, and said was right on point.) Of course, there was Dusty, the fellow I mentioned who had watched me and my Dad take the wrong turn, and there were many others as well.

Amidst and between these conversations and relationships however, the miles were quietly adding up. At the aid station around the 27 mile mark, I decided to take a slight risk and change into a pair of shoes that Dad had brought. They were the same make and model as the ones I was currently wearing, except that they were about four years newer. Yes, I had been running in a pair of four-year-old shoes. Having spent a good deal of my life as a competitive runner, and having historically amassed a strong knowledge base on running shoes, I felt confident that these shoes had enough mileage left on them to safely handle the majority of the race. I had a pair of newish road shoes that I'd planned on using for the 20 odd miles of dirt road that I'd see, so I thought myself set for the race. By the time that first marathon had passed however, I was starting to second-guess the integrity of my trail shoes and decided to quit being stubborn, averting any potential damage by jumping into Dad's newer trail shoes. Though they hadn't seen many miles, I knew running shoes these days were basically good-to-go out of the box anyways, and since it was essentially the same shoe, I figured it wouldn't be an issue.

I'm giving you the background of the shoe story because I largely blame my feet for my "DNF" (did not finish) of the Pinhoti 100. Though I'll continue to tell my tale and not jump to mile 79, I feel very strongly that if my feet had not been the issue that they were, my body would've handled the 100 miler to the end. Anyways, between miles 35-40, I became mentally aware that my feet were feeling a new kind of sore - a sore I hadn't felt on my previous long run of 46 miles. It certainly wasn't bad, but it also certainly didn't feel very reassuring that I had something new to deal with this early on in the race. Ironically, though I was expecting all sorts of unexpecteds, I just imagined that they'd all come after mile 60 or so - in hindsight, this was truly the unexpected.



Culprit #2 - the new trail shoes. Culprit #1, the old trail shoes, faced an immediate wastebasket execution post-race.

Though I had to look at pictures to be sure, as my memory is kind of fuzzy for certain parts of the race (there are definitely some memories between mile 75-79 that my subconscious has blocked out), I decided to change back into my old trail shoes at the mile 45 aid station. At this point, it was on my mind that my feet would likely be a determining factor in the race, and because I started to feel them acting up after having put on the new shoes, it seemed my older trail shoes were the safest bet. The miles that followed this change were some of the most hopeful, exciting miles of the race for me.

Evening was approaching and I was in the zone. I had been looking forward to the falling of darkness before the race even started, and I was ready for it. All of my longest training runs had gone into the midnight hours, and as these hours had been my favorites by far, I had built up a near giddy anticipation for the strange experience that I knew was in store for me. This excitement was only the greater because I had been hearing from other racers how often the night hours are dreaded by ultrarunners, as mental strength typically falls and later rises with the sun, and I just knew that my alternative training practices had left me unusually well prepared for the challenge. Besides (as I joked with several runners), fresh out of pulling countless all-nighters for papers in college, I was in the best shape of my life, sleep-cycle-wise, for such an ordeal.

In hindsight, I think this excitement for the night helped me not think about my feet as much, which was a welcome mental relief. At that point, they were nagging (the pain was stemming from the arch, especially my left foot, though the pain quickly shot to the whole of both feet after the concrete that was to come), but I was still confident that I'd find my way across the line. By the time I saw Dad at mile 50, I informed him that the feet would basically be our main focus for the remainder of the race. Though I had mentioned them at mile 45, and we'd broken out the Ibuprofen for them, the five miles since then had been downhill and mostly on concrete, which had made things a bit worse.

This is the part of the story where I have to stop and simply state that my dad deserves a Nobel Peace Prize or something. Maybe a Purple Heart would be more fitting, because every time I saw him from mile 50 and onwards, I would give the aid station director my number and then walk directly to my truck, where I'd plop down on the tailgate, pull my feet out of my shoes, and...gulp...have my dad massage them with an analgesic ointment and Vaseline. All I can say is what a trooper that guy is. He didn't even bat an eye, probably because he knew that I wouldn't be asking for it if it wasn't absolutely necessary. As he would work one foot, I'd be loosening the other and then prepping my bag for the next leg of the race.

While I'd been able to jog the downhills up until this point, it was a couple miles past the 50 mile mark that I got the feeling that my running miles were over. I'm proud to admit that, oddly enough, I wasn't really phased at being relegated to walking for the remaining 48 miles of the race. Because I had plenty of time, I knew that finishing within the 30 hour cutoff wasn't going to be an issue; I just would need to focus on getting in and out of the aid stations more efficiently, so as to leave as much time for me to walk as slow a pace as I might have to, if it came down to that at the very end.

To be continued tomorrow...

100 Mile Race for "Team Capelluto"

 

Hey folks!

Me again with another big update that will likely come as a shock to some and a mild surprise to others. While I've mentioned my intention to run a 100 mile race to several friendly ears, what has developed from this intention is a far more meaningful task which will require your help (and the help of everyone you know!) to accomplish.

On November 2nd, I will attempt to finish the Pinhoti 100 - a demanding 100 mile trail race in Alabama that features over 16,000 ft. of elevation gain (and subsequent loss) - in order to raise money for Habitat for Humanity and the Alexander Capelluto Foundation. While you are likely familiar with Habitat for Humanity, an incredible aid organization which has worked tirelessly over the years to address the world’s need for shelter, it is the namesake of this latter foundation that has inspired me to take on this task. 

Though I never met Alex, he was a member of my rowing team several years prior, and he left a legacy of spirit, work ethic, and values on the team that impacted me deeply. During the spring of 2006, while he was training to bike across the country to benefit Habitat for Humanity by cycling back and forth to rowing practice, he was tragically struck and killed by a truck. This happened less than 48 hours before the league championship and only a week before he was set to embark on the cross-country ride.  When I decided to run the Pinhoti 100, I realized that this was an opportunity to continue Alex’s mission of caring for others and enacting positive change in a world that's in desperate need of it.



Alex was known and remembered by all for his indomitable spirit, kindness, and terrific sense of humor.



My goal is to have raised $10,000 before the start of the race, with 75% of the proceeds going to Habitat for Humanity in honor of Alex, and the balance going to the Alexander Capelluto Foundation – an organization that funds the educational pursuits of college students in financial need, and also funds an annual competition among high school students to enact community improvement projects in their local areas.

Would you like to join me on "Team Capelluto"? If so, I encourage you to consider making a tax deductible donation by going to my fundraising webpage. You can also make a huge difference by sharing a link to the page on Facebook and sending it out to your email contacts. To stay in the loop on the fundraising progress, as well as news regarding my training and race preparation, please continue to visit the site where I will be posting regular updates (as opposed to this blog, where I can fairly well guarantee that irregular postings will continue to be the norm).

Thank you very much in advance for your time and consideration, and I look forward to the great things that Team Capelluto is set to accomplish with your help!

Living a Dream

Well, here it is! This is the post that I've been simultaneously looking forward to and dreading since I got the blog started. While there are a number of things I'm looking forward to talking about, many of them just won't make sense until I first lay out a sketch of where I'm going and why.

I imagine there are a number of people who are wondering why exactly I'm working on a farm and, more generally, what my "plan for life" is. It's a topic that grates the ears of nearly every recently graduated college student, and yet it's the same topic that's fueled my thoughts for the last seven months, ever since I came up with an answer to that question. Now there are some people who've already heard my spiel (and it's definitely a spiel in every sense of the word, as you're about to see), but because there are many more who haven't, without further adieu, here's...

The Dream

Note: If you're in a rush or daunted by the length of this post, the stuff in bold will get you by.

When I grow up, I want to run a juvenile detention facility on a sustainable farm. Basically, for lack of better terms, I want to set up a youth farm prison. Why, you ask? There are tons of reasons actually, but here are the two biggest ones:

1) Juvenile prisons aren't working.

See, the difference between the juvenile justice system and the adult justice system is that, while the adult justice system is punitive (meaning: you're an adult, so you should've known that was wrong and we're punishing you for it), the juvenile justice system is rehabilitative (meaning: you're a child, so while we're telling you that you should've known that was wrong, our purpose in punishing you is to change you for the better so you can make the most of your second chance once you're out). The former is retributive while the latter is theoretically forward-thinking. For better or worse, that's the current status quo.

The problem is that juvenile prisons simply aren't any different than adult prisons. Really, they aren't. Adult prisons have all the same GED courses, therapy programs, and other amenities that people imagine sets juvenile prisons apart from the rest. And juvenile prisons have all the same gang problems, drugs, and violence issues that make the adult prisons so ineffective. The culture is the same, and the effect is the same. Out of every ten kids that leave a juvenile detention facility, seven will go back into the system (recidivism). Yet can we really expect a change when we're locking up thousands of criminal children underneath the same roof, letting them create their own Lord of the Flies-esque social order, and leaving any hope for correcting this culture and their lives up to the classes and programs that are offered?

Currently, the only existing alternative to a youth prison is a military-style boot camp. The hope here is that, through building self-esteem (by completing the camp), discipline, and teamwork/social skills, the child might be changed and the prison system might be avoided. Unfortunately, the boot camps haven't proven any more effective than the prisons, with a recidivism rate of 70% as well. Another problem with the boot camps is that they don't actually divert kids from prisons. Instead, there's a net-widening effect where a still-increasing number of kids are getting sentenced to prisons, and the kids who might've otherwise received community service and continued to live with their families get sent to the boot camps. That's why I want to pull juvenile inmates out of prison, as opposed to working with delinquents who are at the cusp of entering the system. We don't need any more net-widening, we need to change what's already there.

All that to say, a real alternative is desperately needed, and I think a farm might be just the ticket. As you can probably tell by now, I can (and will) write for hours as to why, so I'll leave some explanation for later posts. Okay, moving on...

2) In ANY prison, there are those who would ultimately do good if given the chance.

While the percentage may be tiny and certainly unknowable, the fact remains that in any prison (if not all prisons) there are those who regret what they've done and would do more right than wrong if released. And I believe this percentage would literally jump if we added the caveats of a correctional program that was actually effective and real life-opportunities upon release. Unfortunately, if the design and recidivism rates of these institutions is any indicator, especially considering the juvenile system, they don't seem to be focused much on an inmate's life after release, beyond the basic courses/programs prisons are required to offer by the state. This is a major problem for a system that claims to be rehabilitative, as nearly every child will be released at some point - ready for the world or not. And it would seem that most are not.

So now you know the problem that I want to address, and the belief that inspires me to address it. Basically, I believe that there are kids sitting in prisons that have the potential to change the world for the better, and that that potential is being rotted away due to a lack of any viable alternative.

The Plan

To be perfectly clear, this whole farm prison thing is still years away from reality (I imagine at least 11-15 years out). But what's the point of deciding to pursue a destination without a way of getting there? As it turns out, my map has four basic stages, and I'm currently on Stage One (and loving it!).

Stage One: Spend a year WWOOFing

On average, I'd say my most critical audience has been the farmers with whom I've talked. They're naturally skeptical of a 22 year old who says he wants to operate a major sustainable farm operation, with juvenile inmates no less, and I don't blame them - work doesn't get much harder or more humbling than farming! That's exactly why I wanted to spend a year getting my feet wet in the trade though, because if I don't like it now, I can't reasonably expect myself to spend the next ten years preparing for a venture that I won't be able to handle. Besides, I haven't left the country since I enrolled in college and my feet have started to get itchy! As it turns out, the WWOOF (Worldwide Opportunities on Organic Farms) organization has provided the perfect platform for my first stage of the journey.

My plan is to spend my first six months of WWOOFing in the U.S., working in regions where I'd actually consider setting up my future farm. Because many aspects of farming involve a knowledge specific to a locality, that's why I'm being particular about where I've been and where I'm going. I spent my first two weeks in rural Virginia where I had a wild and mildly unfortunate time, at which point I decided to move on to greener pastures. I learned two important things on that farm; that farm work was for me and that that farm wasn't! I'm now in North Carolina, having a much better time, and will be here through October. I'll likely end my U.S. WWOOFing experience with a few weeks in Missouri, on a farm that specializes in greenhouse production (allowing them to grow all winter long!) before going home to California for Christmas.

After my six months of domestic farming, I'll be traveling abroad for at least another six months. This is as much a treat to my traveling taste buds as it is an opportunity to continue my agricultural education and experience. Though I haven't bought the tickets yet, I think my first stop will be Argentina, which is the world's mecca for grass-fed beef and rotational grazing. Hopefully I can take advantage of their thousands of years of sustainable agricultural expertise, and plant myself onto a large cattle ranch. Working with cattle has been a real joy for me (a couple of my steers are more fun than the ducks and little pigs, which are by far the most entertaining groups of animals to work with on the farm), so I think three or four months on a big ranch would be a perfect fit for me.

After Argentina, I'll head to New Zealand for another three or four months. If Argentina is the mecca for pastured beef, then New Zealand is the mecca for sustainable agriculture in it's fullest scope. Pretty much every big idea currently put to use on sustainable farms in the U.S. has come from somewhere or from somebody in New Zealand. While I can't wait to travel the countryside and take in the culture of the country, I'm also looking forward to seeing and understanding how they create their agricultural systems. See, each farm is a system of inputs and outputs. It's just that some farms are much more efficient, effective, and ecological-friendly to the earth than others. The Kiwi's are masters at creating systems, so I'm hoping the experience will plant a few system-seeds in my own head for future use.

Stage Two: Join the Military as an officer.

Did this one shock you? While it very well might have, it wouldn't if you had lived in my head the past ten or so years. If you'll humor me, I'll explain this stage a little more thoroughly than the others because I think it deserves the explanation. Ever since I was little, I have always been fascinated by the military. Before I was ten, I was captivated by books like Johnny Tremain and The Red Badge of Courage. When I was in middle school, I was checking out encyclopedias on weapons and military strategy. In high school I was planning on enlisting in the Marines, even after applying to colleges. The military has been on my mind for reasons that have always changed as I've matured, so the fact that it fits into my plans now doesn't surprise me in the least.

For what it's worth, and it probably won't mean much to veterans or those who are currently serving, I intend to join the Army Rangers. This is a stage that I haven't researched as much as the others, so the plan may change in time and I understand that, but for now, that's where I'm headed. Why join the military instead of continuing with farming or working with youth? The reasons are as much personal as they are preparatory.

Partly, I plan to join for the development that I'll undergo as a person. If I'm going to pull this whole gig off, it will require levels of discipline, self-control, determination, strength, endurance, and work capacity that I currently don't possess. Even if my plans were to change entirely, these are skills that are universally applicable to life in general. And while there are other ways of building these qualities, none serve my purposes in all the ways that I think the military will.

Also, having served in the military (and the Special Forces more specifically) will be crucial in developing my relationship with the youth I plan to work with. Prisons, gangs, and the street all operate on the common currency of respect, which is closely tied to issues of authority and power. I've talked with several individuals who wanted to be teachers and started off, fresh out of college, in tough inner-city schools. Their experiences were frustrating and sapped their desire to work with older children, mostly because they weren't respected by many of the students. Kids who have grown up on the street and in gangs, struggling to survive, are a lot like sharks who can smell blood in the water. Any weakness will be exposed and capitalized upon, as many have gotten by on this knowledge, and I know that I just wouldn't be very effective if I tried to start this farm as a 20-something year old. It could take years before I built the relationship necessary for them to respect me, and I would likely lose many of these boys along the way before I could ever get through to them.

And to be honest, they'd be right in knowing that I can't yet relate to their struggles. I didn't grow up around violence, and frankly, I don't really understand it. Not that I don't think I could, but I just haven't spent any time in that environment and would have little credibility in their eyes.  If I don't know violence and chaos, and if I haven't myself risen above it, I sincerely doubt my ability to relate to the places they've come from and to teach them that they can rise above it as well. In addition to the position of authority I think I'd gain with the boys is the position of authority I'd gain among the crowd of state, legal, and correctional figures with whom I'll be interacting. Because this plan of mine doesn't currently exist beyond the few "at-risk ranches" that work with troubled youths (as opposed to actual inmates), I'll have to do some serious convincing of some skeptical people who have the authority to say "yes" or "no". Yes, an Ivy League degree is a great start, but I'll need to construct any overwhelming resume if I'm to have them believe that I'm the type of person who can actually pull this off. Having led up to 200 elite, testosterone-crazed, young men in high pressure situations will go a long way in proving that I can handle working with 25-40 juvenile inmates.

Beyond these reasons, and to address the concerns of those who distrust the military as an institution, is the belief that I can affect some good in a system that probably needs it more than any other. With great power comes great responsibility, and the U.S. military is a power here to stay. Though it's design certainly constricts personal freedom, every order that's passed down is subject to interpretation, and I plan to interpret these orders to the most effective, efficient, and good ends that I possibly can while keeping within the bounds of the system. I've talked with several Rangers, and all have said that autonomy actually exists to a large degree in the military, especially in the SF and as one's rank increases, so I believe there will be opportunities to do right where there might otherwise have been done wrong.

Finally, speaking as an idealist, I believe the military works best as a scalpel that sharply and precisely cuts away as much evil as it can while leaving as much of the good intact as possible. A smart-bomb that is sent on bad intel and kills an innocent family can easily create a much bigger problem than the one that it was intended to solve. And while there is certainly much political influence that goes on behind the scenes of the military, I adhere to the philosophy that some of the greatest evil is good left undone. If the system is corrupt in various ways, I see that as all the more reason to try to change it for the better.

Like it or not, I truly believe there is a need for military power in the world. Fear can and should be an effective tool for immobilizing evil, and there is definitely evil (an evil that I believe can be seen by both U.S. military personal and villagers with family members in the Taliban, for example, if only a tactful dialogue could be had) in this world that doesn't belong. The hammer of justice has always seated itself behind every law, lending weight and authority to the rules, whether political or religious, and this social law won't be changing anytime soon.

So there you have it; a brief (yes, brief) introduction to Stage Two. Assuming I survive this stage and am fit to carry on with my journey, I'll move onto Stage Three. (Don't worry, Stage Three and Four will be much shorter.)

Stage Three: Degrees, certifications, experience, and the like.

As I mentioned earlier, I'm going to need an impressive resume to convince the necessary people that this farm can be functional and effective. After completing my military service, which will take at least six (though probably more like eight) years, I will re-start my hunt for more directly applicable education and experience. Since the crossing of this bridge is years away, I've given it the least of my attention so far, but I imagine I will seek a couple of masters degrees, as well as a host of certifications. The G.I. Bill will hopefully ease this process, and I can easily see myself studying any combination of the following fields; criminal justice, criminal law, corrections, juvenile justice, psychology, law, juvenile law, therapy, education, business management, agriculture, agribusiness, school administration, and the list goes on. Some of these field may just require a couple classes, while others will get a degree or a certification. In all likelihood, I'll have to get a majority of these fields on the farm by way of the staff that I'll eventually hire.

In addition to the formal education I'll be hunting down, I will certainly need to spend more time on farms and ranches before I am ready to start one of my own. So much of farming knowledge is developed through the learn-by-doing method, otherwise known as the "school of hard knocks", and anyone who ignores this does so at their own peril. Thus, I could see it working out quite nicely if I could find a farm or farms to work on part-time, perhaps for room and board, while I continue my studies in the nearby area. I would hope that over the course of four or five years, maybe more though probably not less, I would finally be ready to consider launching the beginning of the real-deal. Though plenty of people, especially in the last decade and from the city, have jumped into farming on an ambitious whim, influenced by the imagined sanctitude of country-living and a few how-to books on the subject, I would rather be over-prepared than left grasping when shit will undoubtedly hit the fan.

This stage may also require that I work in the juvenile justice field, whether in a juvenile detention facility or in some other form or function. I'll only say that I'm hesitant about heading in this direction simply because I'm concerned I'll be tainted by the system. As awkward or pretentious as that may sound, sometimes I think it's worth making a few bone-headed mistakes if it's done to avoid getting caught in all the same traps that currently cripple the status quo. And lastly...

Stage Four: Starting the Farm

This is the stage that has really gotten my juices flowing - having kept me up for so many nights and distracted me for so many days, pondering the countless aspects of how I'll do this or that. Just like a farm, what I ultimately have in mind is the construction of a grand system of multiple intertwined operations, built of layers like an onion, where the more I peel back and uncover different ideas or areas that will have to be addressed, the more I'm captivated and motivated to do it better. I could go on and on, sharing the concepts and ideas I've developed or come across out of the various notebooks I've filled on the subjects. The fact that it has only garnered a larger share of my mental energy since starting Stage One is one that I find very affirming and exciting!

How exactly I'll start the farm is a plan that will have to be developed in due time. I'm sure there are a number of ways to go about it, some better than others, but for now, I won't waste your time theorizing about this method or that one. Just know that I literally spend every day thinking about it, so that, if and when the day finally comes, I'll be up to the task.

Passions are a funny thing in that they are a lot like a person's tastes. They aren't really something that can be controlled per say, as they seem to have a life and a mind of their own. That's probably why I feel so grateful for having stumbled upon the passion of agriculture. The way I see it from my current perspective, if I wind up realizing this dream of mine, the farm will be the passion and the changing of boy's lives will be the purpose. No doubt, in every aspect of the farm, the kids will always come first. It couldn't and wouldn't work any other way, and I foresee great satisfaction and happiness resulting from seeing the good that I know many of these boys will create in the world. However, the fact that I can mesh a purpose with a passion is, I think, the grease that will make all the gears turn smoothly.

The End(ing)

Welp, if you've actually made it this far - congratulations!! You're truly a trooper! Either that or you're just plain stubborn and/or bored. Regardless, I hope that you feel thoroughly informed as to where I'm going and why, and now you'll also have a much better understanding of why exactly I'll be posting on such a wide, and otherwise random, assortment of topics and ideas. I can only imagine that you have questions, thoughts, or advice for me, now that you've committed half your day to reading this novel of mine, so I'll equally commit myself to responding to anything that you'd like to discuss, on or off the subject. While I can't guarantee expediency due to the current nature of my work and lifestyle, if you'll comment below or email me at scottyale13@gmail.com, I will guarantee a response (assuming you want one) as soon as I'm able.

Thanks again for soldiering through my spiel (see, I warned you it was a spiel!), and I'm looking forward to keeping you all updated as I wind my way along this journey!

Make some good out there,
Scott

A Parable of a Purpose

I've always tried to sleuth out what my purpose in life might be. This is a story that came to me at the beginning of the year and helped me understand "purpose" to be something that exists in nearly every moment - something dynamic, not static. While I wish I could say this knowledge has influenced my every interaction since then, it did certainly change my metric of success and functions as the grounding philosophy of my plans for the future.

A Man, the Sprouts, and the Rock

Over the course of a life, there was one who was seeking, and he once happened upon a body of water in a mountain valley.  The body of water was bordered on all sides by a rocky berm.  On an outer edge of the berm lay a small indent in the earth, within which several sprouts had taken root, but were sickened due to thirst.  Because the seeker sought goodness, his heart was filled with compassion for the dying sprouts and he committed himself to their healing. 

 

Though he tried cupping water in his hands to quench the sprouts’ thirsts, the seeker’s efforts were futile, as the water simply ran through his fingers.  After much thought, the seeker at last exerted what seemed the whole of his energy and lifted up a great rock that sat atop the berm between the water and the sprouts.  At the very moment the seeker’s strength was sapped, he heaved the rock into the water, and with a magnificent splash, the rock pushed wave after wave over the berm and into the dry cove with the sprouts.  Even as he collapsed from the immense strain, the sprouts began to liven and grow, shading the seeker, who had fallen beneath them, from the heat of the day and the predators of the night. 

 

Later, when the man awoke, he was delighted to discover that the sprouts had matured into trees that bared much fruit.  The seeker took and ate fruit from the trees, replenishing his body from the costs of his sacrificial deed, and he knew that he had done what was right.  He then drank deeply from the pool of his own doing, in communion with the trees, and he knew that this was good.

 

In his satiation, the man pondered in his heart the whole of the experience, and his mind’s eyes were opened to the good of which he had been a part.  He then realized, with his newly found insight, that it was his commitment to the good of his part which brought about that which he sought.  And with this understanding, the man went on his way, so that the trees might benefit all else, and so that he may live the goodness that he came to know.

 

Now hear this interpretation: The seeker is the self, and the man is you.  The mountain is the hardships of life, and the valley is the pleasantness of life.  The body of water is a life’s potential, the rocky berm is life’s limitations, and the indent is inequality of life.  The sprouts are all others, and their thirsts are the needs of others.  The man’s hands are intentions, and his spilling is failure.  His strength is the willingness to pursue good, and his effort is the pursuit itself.  The rock is action, and the waves are the effects of action.  His collapse is the cost of giving, the heat of the day is the pain of truth, the predators of the night are those who pursue wrong, and the night itself is ignorance. The eating of the fruit is the blessing of karma, and the communion with the trees is the blessing of friendship.  The awareness of his part in the whole is true clarity, and that which he gained is a purpose, truly understood.

               

Kickin' things off

Disclaimer!

As my first attempt at blogging of any sort, I first ask for your patience and understanding as I battle the blogging learning curve and figure everything out. I imagine I'll be boring at first - kinda like now - but that I'll find my flow as I start begin to use it more. This should not be misinterpreted as a promise of regular and/or frequent postings or anything (as anyone who knows me knows that radio silence and I go hand-in-hand). Rather, just rest assured that I've got quite a bit of stuff I'm looking forward to saying through writing, though I might post a lot of stuff that's boring (at least to you) initially.

The Blog Itself:

While I'm sure my usage of the site will organically develop to suit my taste and style, I hope the main premise stays the same - that you will ultimately be given a portal into my life, through which you can better understand me and how I see the world. While I hope a majority of the posts are NOT about me but instead address things or thoughts of use, I'll certainly make it my goal to always post what's honestly on my heart or mind.

Also, about the title of the blog... I have by no means always, or even with any consistency, lived hard or made good happen, so I don't want people to think that I feel like that when it may sound as though I'm preaching in some post or another. It is, however, a personal philosophy that I've ascribed to as my ideal, since the beginning of this year, with a redefined passion, and has become even more strongly on my mind over the past few weeks. Thus the title, and probably my corny, concluding benediction of a catch-phrase.

What, did you scroll down to see it? I really patted myself on the back when I had the idea, but it looks pretty stupid in practice. Oh well, I'm committed.

What Do I Have to Say?

A lot, really! The problem is that I know I simply won't have the time on my hands necessary to magically cook up a post every time something post-worthy comes my way. Hopefully though, I can create a format that both captures your occasional interest and effectively organizes my ramblings. It'll probably be at least a month or two before I've established all the different topics I'll mainly cover, but not to leave you in the lurch for a month until my next post (fingers crossed that I was kidding), as a general rule you can expect me to post about...

Where I've been:

Teaser: California to Connecticut (roadtrip!) with a special "family stop" in Kansas, and also Maine and Virginia

Where I am:

Straight answer: Efland, North Carolina - working as an apprentice at Fickle Creek Farm

Where I'm going:

Teaser: The only "knowns "so far are Alabama and Missouri in November, as well Kansas for Thanksgiving and California for Christmas. After Christmas, I've got my eyes on a few months in New Zealand and Argentina, but the tickets have yet to be purchased so the itinerary is not yet set in stone.

What I've been up to:

Teaser: Farming, Working, Running, Reading, Cooking, Staying Awake for Hours at Night, Learning, Criticizing Myself, Judging Others, Thinking/Dreaming/Imagining, Studying, Moralizing, Observing, Realizing Stuff, Solving the Problems of the World, etc. You can also take a look at my "interests", which may point to some of the stuff I'll cover.

Why this or why that:

Teaser: Yikes! That's a can of worms that I'll leave closed for now, but I'll start spilling beans soon. Just know that answers do exist.

Final Note:

I've really got to get to bed, as I'll be getting up in 5 hours for a day of managing the entire main farm and one satellite farm (where I currently reside). Last week I gathered 835 eggs from the nether regions of the farm, and that was just one example of countless chores that I'll handle tomorrow before my day is through. I've also got all manners of cows, sheep, pigs, ducks, meat birds, and chicks to look after, as well as our grass, soil, crops, and facilities to manage. I will in fact be going out for a night of car racing at the local oval track tomorrow, so don't feel too bad for me. And if I've got you envying my day's work... well, I don't blame you. Until next time!

Make good,
Scott