Ultramarathon Man Read Free Page A

much of my life. I grew up the oldest of three kids. My brother Kraig is a year younger than I am, and my sister Pary came along two years after him.
    Some of my earliest memories are of running home from kindergarten. We were a working-class family living in Los Angeles, and my father worked two jobs to make ends meet. I didn’t want to burden my mother with getting me home from school every day, so I started running.
    At first, my route was the most direct path from the school back to our house. In time, however, I began to invent diversionary routes that would extend the run and take me through uncharted territory and new neighborhoods. Running home from school became more enjoyable than attending it. Running gave me a sense of freedom and exploration that school never did. School was about sitting still and trying to behave as someone explained what the world was like. Running was about going out and experiencing it firsthand. I watched buildings go up, witnessed the birds migrating south, saw the leaves falling and the days shortening as the seasons changed. No textbook could compare to this real-life lesson.
    By the third grade, I was participating in organized running events (some of which I organized myself ). The distances were short, often only the length of a football field. Sometimes it was hard finding other kids to run with, and I found myself constantly campaigning for classmates to join me. My relatives from the Old Country frequently reminded me that the Greeks were great runners. The marathon, after all, was conceived in Greece.
    â€œConstantine,” they would say, using my given name, “you will be a great Greek runner, just like your ancestors.” Then they would down another round of ouzo and seal my fate with a collective “Oppa!”
    Never mind that Pheidippides, the Greek runner who ran from the Plain of Marathon to Athens with the news that the Athenians had defeated the Persians, dropped dead from exhaustion after delivering his message. That part of the story never got mentioned.
    As I grew older, I became more passionate about pushing my small body to extremes. Advancing the limits of personal endurance seemed part of my hard-wiring; I found it difficult to do anything physical in moderation. By age eleven I had already trekked rim-to-rim-to-rim across the Grand Canyon, a weeklong journey carrying all my supplies on my back, and had climbed to the top of Mount Whitney, the highest mountain in the contiguous United States.
    For my twelfth birthday, I wanted to celebrate with my grandparents, but they lived more than forty miles away. Not wanting to burden my folks to drive me there, I decided to ride my bike. I had no idea how to get to my grandparents’ house. But I didn’t let that dampen my sense of adventure. I tried to talk Kraig into joining me, but there was absolutely no way. Even a bribe with allowance money didn’t work. So I stuffed the money in my pocket, told my mother I was going to the local mall, and set a course for Pasadena.
    I got a lot of confused and worried looks when I asked for directions.
    â€œThat’s gotta be over forty miles from here,” one gas station attendant told me.
    â€œWhich way do I go?” I asked.
    â€œYou can get on this freeway and go to the 210 North, I think,” he replied doubtfully.
    Of course, I couldn’t ride my bicycle on the freeway. I’d need to take surface streets.
    â€œAre you sure you don’t want to call your parents?” he asked.
    â€œThat’s okay,” I said nonchalantly, pointing at the freeway. “So you think Pasadena is that way?”
    He nodded, though not with a great deal of conviction.
    â€œThanks,” I smiled, and set a course for the closest surface street in the direction he had indicated. This was going to be good.
    Ten hours later, I arrived in Pasadena. The course I’d followed meandered haphazardly through the Los Angeles basin, and there was