An Ode to Falling Short

As someone who partakes in solo adventures, I am in the unique position of controlling the narrative around my successes and failures. I am the one only one who gets to experience every step, every mile, every decision made along the way, and how I choose to communicate that experience can often be a direct representation of how I do, or do not want to be perceived. When failure happens, I think it is easy to mask your emotions with a combination of false positivity, what-ifs and should haves. It’s just as easy to paint a black and white picture of what took place, because the best way to stop receiving questions, is to answer them quickly or to simply not answer them at all. But a goal of any size, athletic or not, is an act of vulnerability; and to pursue anything great without recognizing that is a limitation in and of itself.

Over time, I have learned to acknowledge that failure and success live on level ground, and while that might sound counter productive given the nature of sport, it is actually what grounds me in the reality of my goals and gives me permission to let go of expectation and judgement. In other words, belief in an idea or belief in oneself is the ability to embrace positivity and doubt as it shows up, without holding onto either one for too long. To do this while actively chasing a result isn’t easy, but I believe, both in life and in sport, that the ability to let go of outcome not only allows us to make better decisions in the moment, but also gives us the capacity to hold disappointment and acceptance simultaneously should we not meet our goal, or should we have to move our intended target at some point in the process.

All this to say that within the last decade, neutrality is something that has become prominent in both my personal and athletic life. Not the absence of thought, but the acceptance of it. The ability to hold multiple emotions at the same time and being at peace with all of them, regardless of their complexity or contradictions. Going into my attempt on the Nakasendo Way, I was extremely aware that the level of unpredictability I needed to accept was far greater than that of my previous endurance pursuits. Throughout the calendar year of training, I ran with more excitement, (and probably more concern) than I ever have before. Not only was it going to be my biggest adventure to date, but I couldn’t reason a guess as to how my body and mind would handle the impact of attempting to run 350 miles over five days. 

In January of this year, I began to make adjustments to my training, with an emphasis on fatigue resistance, biomechanical efficiency, and strength. Although the philosophy was already in line with my conventional approach, I understood that my body needed to be more resilient at baseline, and the way I structured stress over the short and long term required slightly more intention. If we look at the year as a single ten month training block, January through August was unknowingly allocated to experimentation, while September and October served as the most consistent months in terms of programming and adaptation. Despite several shifts in theory throughout the year, I averaged 85 to 105 miles per week, barring any unforeseen illness or injury, and in conjunction with cross-training or strength work, my time spent training each week was continually between 14 and 16 hours, with some deliberately pushed over or under that margin. All this to say that regardless of what my workouts looked like during the year, my biggest priority was consistency. Not only was it a way to build fitness, but it also allowed me to operate within the confines of a loose structure without being scared to take chances, or make me feel like I would be at risk of losing aerobic and neuromuscular gains. 

I want to note that going into any experimental phase, it’s important to have an understanding, or at least a theory of how your body responds to stress. Although I currently coach myself, throughout my years as a swimmer, a triathlete, and a runner, I have been lucky enough to work with some amazing coaches and specialists who have helped me recognize, and dissect different aspects of my physiology, even as it has changed over time. In synchrony with my own observations, I can make anecdotal and educated guesses on what will have positive impacts on my training. For me, that means a significant amount of aerobic volume within zones one, two, and occasionally three, with roughly 5 to 15% of my time spent at high intensity, and periodic progressive efforts throughout the block. From January through October, I was generally able to stay within this physiological framework, as the real experiment became finding the best way to divide the volume in a safe and effective way, while implementing enough strength work and cross-training to adapt, without impeding my ability to run. 

The secret formula ended up being an emphasis on two runs a day, three to four times a week. This often looked like 90 to 120 minutes in the morning, followed by 30 to 60 minutes in the afternoon, all of which were run in the easy to steady range. Not only did this disperse the total amount of volume evenly throughout the cycle, but it also gave me more flexibility when it came to moving intensity or strides around should I not feel capable on the given day. I had one speed session each week, which would fluctuate between shorter, faster intervals to develop power and velocity at VO2, and slightly longer intervals to promote efficiency at tempo or threshold efforts. Due to the higher volume in my weekly structure, I kept my typical long run within the 18 to 22 mile range, and every three to four weeks, I would increase that to somewhere between 25 and 32 miles for a more significant aerobic and musculoskeletal stress. Even with periodic progressions on long runs, this allowed me to adapt to significant work throughout the block, without overloading the legs or the nervous system too much. Most of my training was done on rolling dirt roads and flowing trails to keep the efficiency high, and to ensure my body could handle long sections of pavement in Japan without breaking down. While I did include mountain runs intermittently for specific uphill and downhill adaptations, every long run was done elsewhere, which meant I had almost no runs over four hours during this block. 

In order to support the amount of running I was doing, I found that one hour of yoga on the days I did not have running doubles, in conjunction with moderate weight training once or twice a week kept my body the most resilient and flexible. Yoga helped me address weaknesses in my lower body, core, and ability to focus (don’t sleep on those mental gains), while the moderate weight training kept me explosive without adding consequential soreness. Equally, some additions that did not serve me this year, even though they historically have, included heavy weight lifting and time spent on the bike. I believe both of these options can enhance training a ton for individual responders, but I noticed my level of fatigue and injury risk was increasing from lifting too heavy, and I didn’t find that an extra few hours of easy to moderate work on the bike was aiding in my ability to adapt. In other words, I felt that my aerobic output was being developed and maintained enough from running alone, and I wanted to address other areas in my training that I felt were weaker. 

This was the first year where rest days were completely based on intuition, rather than a planned schedule, which gave me more freedom to experiment and respond to stress. Most rest days landed in the weekly or biweekly range, with the average time between them sitting at 10 days for the block. Some weeks I needed more, some weeks I needed less, but it was important to me that I managed my stress enough during the training cycle that it never felt like I was crawling towards a rest day. I could take one when my body spoke up, I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about it, and then I could continue building effectively. This block, unbeknownst to me at the time, quietly became all about strengthening the connection between my body and my brain. The step away from rigidity enabled me to be liberal with moving workouts, adjusting long runs, listening to the body, controlling intensity, and I was more kind to myself than I ever have been during the process. All training theory aside, being able to develop as an athlete within a positive environment, especially one free of self-judgement, can be the difference between progress and growth. Consistency can lead to confidence, but consistency without gratitude can often keep that confidence one-dimensional. Take it from someone who spent a majority of their athletic career over complicating the relationship between optimism and uncertainty, at its simplest, consistency creates confidence, gratitude and acceptance create belief.

So with both confidence and belief tucked away in my mental carry on, Reginald and I boarded the plane to Japan, nerves flowing and knees wedged into the seat in front of us. Ten days prior to my departure, I checked the weather. Temperatures were forecasted anywhere between 35º and 55º F depending on the region, with a decent chance of rain on one or two days. While that was no cause for concern, what did stand out was a wind warning starting on Sunday evening, that would persist through Wednesday Midday. A cold front was moving in from China, which meant all that wind was coming from the northwest. The direction I would be running for roughly 100 miles throughout the first day and a half. Living in Colorado, wind is a given. I’ve trained in it, I’ve raced in it, while it wasn’t ideal, I knew that regardless of how the forecast changed over the next ten days, wind was on the horizon and it was just going to be an added factor for the first two days of the run.

After landing in Narita, Reginald and I took the bullet train to Tokyo and wobbled in a half-sleep stupor to the hotel, about a mile from where we would begin our run. We had a buffer day between landing in Japan and departing on the Nakasendo Way, so one solid sleep, shakeout run, and exploratory session later, it was time for a final gear check, while attempting to find as much inner peace as possible before the big day. At 3:30am, we were up and made our way to the Nihombashi Bridge, where the route would officially begin. It was dark, cool, and the wind had certainly picked up the night before as predicted, but for a city of 41 million people, the streets were uncharacteristically empty and still. With a bow to the miles that laid before us, and a push of the watch, Reginald and I were off. 72 miles to go until the end of day one.

The first ten miles went quickly, twists and turns through the city, with countless crosswalks to traverse. Over the course of the first day, we would cross several hundred of them, and in a country that doesn’t jaywalk, that would prove to add around 90 minutes of additional time to the effort. The rain picked up as we made our way down the historic Sugamo Jizodori Shopping Street, before crossing the Arakawa River. An expansive view of Tokyo to the left and Saitama prefecture to the right. As I entered the neighboring city, a working population of 7.5 million people were starting their day, and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen people flow like water. Over the sidewalks, through the alleys, in and out of shops with hundreds of others, but doing so quietly, efficiently, unimpeded. In a sea of black and navy clothing, my yellow rain coat (and the bear bouncing behind me) looked like Where’s Waldo attending a black tie affair. I received a few stares, some points and waves from children, a “kawaii” or two, but in large part, people went about their morning unhampered.

After leaving the heart of Saitama, I continued to make my way through urban sprawl for the next several hours, passing schools, convenience stores, historic monuments, and chain restaurants. 40 miles in, the trail began to bounce in and out of residential areas on a raised path, which gave me my first view of the mountains that lay in the distance. The skyscrapers had started to recede, and although I would continue to work my way through populated areas, the next 20 miles offered a subtle shift to agriculture. Crossing expansive farms and golden fields as the sun sank low was uniquely beautiful after spending so much time in the city. When my watch rang out to signal 100 kilometers, I looked down and noticed something was off. Not with my legs or my gear, but with my vision.

At the start of the day, the wind speed was sitting right around 40 miles per hour. By 10:00am it had increased to somewhere between 50 and 60 miles per hour, where it would stay for the next 48 hours. At 4:30pm, a white vignette had formed around the periphery of my right eye, and while there was no pain associated with it, I knew that it wasn’t a good sign. I had experienced the same thing several years ago during a race in Arizona. It was a particularly windy day at the Elephant Mountain 50k, and within the last hour of the race, I went from a white vignette in one eye, to about half of my vision clouded in both by the finish line. Within two to three days it had improved, and because I did not wear glasses at the time, the eye doctor who I saw several weeks later assumed my cornea had likely gotten scratched in the wind, which proved to be untrue. Due to other problems related to balance, I’ve been wearing prescription glasses on every run since early 2023, and have had no similar issues, but for nearly 12 hours, I had been running through cityscape that was funneling all that wind directly into me. I’d soon find out that when a significant amount of elemental exposure takes place, the pressure in your eyes can change which causes swelling, also known as a Corneal Edema.

Whether it was some ADHD hyper-focus or the fact that I was already 62 miles into the day, my mind felt strangely calm, and I kept moving while discussing the options in my head. There were only two hotels between me and my destination, both of which were full, and the more time I spent in the wind, the worse it was likely to get. My options were limited, but I knew that I either needed to back track, or commit to getting to the end of the day in the safest manner possible. I strapped my headlamp on, tilted my nose to my toes, and pulled my hat down low to stop as much wind as possible from hitting my eyes. Over the next several hours, my right eye progressively got worse, and despite a couple missed turns, we marched our way through the final ten miles to Takasaki. Running was no longer an option due to a combination of skewed depth perception and the dark, but one step at a time, we made it. 

By the time Reginald and I checked into our hotel, I had lost total vision in my right eye, and about 20% in my left. I got in as much food as possible, sent an update to my wife in Colorado, and went to bed knowing I would have a bigger decision to make the next day. In the morning, my left eye had improved, and my right eye had not. I took some extra time, and studied the map, picking out several points where I could make the decision to end my day if necessary. There were two smaller towns before the mountains began, and I was very aware that some of the most technical sections of the route would be during the second day stretch. With an exit plan in mind and some eye drops in hand, Reginald and I started walking, legs feeling stiff, but strong. I quickly learned that while my depth perception was slightly better in the daylight, the best I could do was a light jog without risking a trip or fall, and it wasn’t too long before I began to feel the impact of the wind on my eyes again. As I approached my imaginary pin, I knew it was necessary to stop, reset, and adjust the plan. 

While I didn’t want my journey to be over, I was also reasonable with myself. Any hopes of running the entire route were fickle as long as my eyes continued to be an issue, and I wasn’t willing to put myself in a dangerous position to do so. As I sat on the bed in my hotel room, I knew the my legs felt good, the wind was calming down in about 24 hours, and that I could get to the second, less technical valley of the route via railway should I want to continue. I spent the rest of the day recovering, and took a train the following morning to the top of the Kiso valley with the intent to simply walk until I felt like stopping, and then repeat that cycle for the remaining days of the trip. The vision in my right eye was still completely gone at that point, and while it would take about eight days for it to fully return, I’m happy to say that my left eye had recovered and gave me no other issues for the remainder of the adventure. So as I moved down the valley, I did so with an open mind and an open heart, and can say now with certainty that one eye works as well as two when it comes to appreciating the beauty around you. 

Over the following days I got to see valleys, rivers, temples, and historic towns so divergent from my personal experience and expectations. I was given opportunities to communicate with local residents and business owners, to discuss the impact of Running with Reginald with backpackers from Austria and Australia, and to simply be mindful in what I was doing. When I look back, I will certainly remember both the adversity and the effort of the project, but I will also be left with details I couldn’t have predicted. The distinct color of the water and the way the trees moved. Moss covered shrines and the smell of rain. The sound of bamboo in the wind and the proper response to “would you like a bag with that” in Japanese. I think that regardless of your goal, an adventure of any size gives you the opportunity to experience so much more than just execution and adaptation. As far as the run is concerned, I was unable to achieve over half of what I set out to do, but for 120 hours, I got to be present. Not only in my mind, but also in the environment and in the decisions I was making. On day number five I began to exit the mountains, with half of my vision returned. As I approached a small train station that would ultimately carry me to Kyoto, I bowed twice. Once to the east, to the miles I had covered, to the experience gained, and to the wind. One to the west, to the miles remaining, to the history they held, and to the end of my journey.

In the past, I believe I’ve been afraid to show disappointment in the wake of falling short, but in recent years, I have found that my fear has become rooted in not seeming disappointed enough. I care deeply about the ideas and adventures I pursue, but in the case of defeat, I am not interested in finding ways to write off my failures as mild forms of success, or acting like the loss of one goal is cause for self-pity. Successes and failures can exist on their own within the same context, without causation, and they can do so beautifully. The ability to hold grief and happiness simultaneously is a uniquely human trait, and to assume that both cannot exist concurrently is to discourage your emotional potential. So when I say I’m okay with everything that happened, it is not because I don’t care, it is because I have allowed myself to accept that contradiction, and am at peace with what was and what is.

So what is? In the span of five days, we were unable to cover the length of the Nakasendo Way, or set a self-supported record on the route. During our attempt, we established a new FKT on the 70 mile segment from Tokyo to Takasaki, and set a record on the 32 mile stretch between Tokyo and Kōnosu. We found out what worked, and what did not when it came to training and preparation. We spent over 100 hours on a historic trail, traveling approximately 150 miles through massive cities, historic post towns, and beautiful mountains. We solved problems, made significant choices, met new people, and learned more about ourselves in the process. But most importantly, we collectively raised $3,000, allowing Running With Reginald to donate 250 stuffed animals to underprivileged children in Japan. Words cannot express how grateful I am for each and every kind word, positive interaction, and donation the organization has received this year. Your support is what drives the ability to give back, and within six months of its foundation, we have already far exceeded my expectations. Thank you to each and every one of you for making a difference in the lives of others. 

While Reginald and I certainly have other goals on the horizon, I feel incredibly content knowing that tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, as the mind and body permit, I will get out and run simply because I love to do so. I encourage you to set big goals, to be honest about them, and to put them into the world however you see fit. To pursue something great requires a willingness to be vulnerable and the ability to accept both failure and success, while attempting to move forward. No matter how far you get, be proud of yourself, be proud of your effort, and be proud of your ability to feel so many wonderful things in the process. That is what makes you human, and that is what makes you strong.

What a gift it is to feel, and what a gift it is to fall short.

Much love,

Chris and Reginald

*Pictures from our adventure on the Nakasendo Way can be found under the ‘Gallery’ tab*