BOSS, the ultimate cross-training, part 4 (spiritual)

The marathon is a 26-mile journey towards rawness, as layer after quotidian layer gets peeled off.

Or, as others have expressed it, regarding marathons or ultra-marathons:

- "you're just beat up. It really strips you down to the core." - Scott Jurek, in an interview after his Appalachian Trail speed record.

- "The Marathon rattles you to the core. It deconstructs your very essence, stripping away all your protective shields and exposing your inner soul." - Dean Karnazes, in his piece, The Marathon.

- "They use their bodies to grow their souls." - Leah Jurek, the then-wife of Scott Jurek, in writing about Brian Morrison and the 2006 Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run.

Though it has been almost two years since I had completed that 7-day BOSS (Boulder Outdoor Survival School) Field Course in southern Utah, I still vividly remember the cultural shock when I returned home and then when I got back to the office. The desert still lingers. But, more, the feelings from that week, which were not specific to the geography and which have existed, for me, in one form or another going back decades; those feelings had become, as a result, perhaps more deeply internalized. Or, perhaps it's the converse. Perhaps those feelings had become more immediate, more palpable, because that week had peeled away many, many layers.

A BOSS course and a marathon are journeys, both literal and metaphorical. In the first three parts of  “BOSS, the ultimate cross-training,” I covered the physical and mental aspects of this journey (part1, part 2, part 3). In this part 4, I want to touch on the spiritual journey that is a BOSS course and a marathon.

What do I mean by “spiritual”? The Varieties of Scientific Experience: a personal view of the search for god is a posthumous collection of essays by Carl Sagan, based on his 1985 Gifford Lectures given at the University of Glasgow. The first chapter is “Nature and Wonder: A Reconnaissance of Heaven.” In it, Sagan said, “By far the best way I know to engage the religious sensibility, the sense of awe, is to look up on a clear night." (See Maria Popova’s digest of these Sagan essays.) I had noted in part 3 the awe-inspiring starry sky during that first shivering night of “Impact” of the BOSS course. I was struggling so hard with the cold that I didn’t even think to reach for my camera. But, here is a photo of the Milky Way over the Needles District of Canyonlands National Park (from the International Dark-Sky Association), which is not too far from where we had slept--or at least tried to sleep--that first night. Of course, the photo does not even come close to what I actually saw, but it does give an indication. Perhaps, it was precisely because I was shivering almost uncontrollably and, thus, was not thinking but rather just sensing that it had felt like being one with nature. Or, as William James defined religion: a “feeling of being at home in the Universe.”

That is why I so look forward to each of my Sunday morning, communing-with-nature, long runs. Unless it's actually dangerous out there (e.g., lightning), I pretty much follow that well-known though unofficial U.S. Postal Service creed, "Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night …” (well, minus the gloom of night part). That is also why running with a headset is, to me, oxymoronic.

Perhaps the second best way to Sagan’s clear night sky, to engage the sense of awe, is to look out on a clear day at the immensity of nature. On the last full day of the BOSS course, the 12 of us students group navigated to our final destination. The following photo shows one of our intermediate target locations, with the most spectacular view of the week, looking generally east into Colorado, some 200 miles away. We were all still looking at the maps and debating exactly where we were, when someone said, “Hey, guys, turn around and look!” I could have just sat there for the rest of the day and communed.

Thich Nhat Hanh, in his book, Living Buddha, Living Christ, wrote that monastic life should not be too comfortable, so as not to hinder spiritual growth. Really taking that to heart are the Tendai Buddhist monks of Mount Hiei of Japan, also known as the “marathon monks.” In their quest for enlightenment, these monks are required to complete a 1,000-day challenge (Kaihōgyō), at the end of which they “enter a darkened room where they spend nine days without food, water or sleep. The idea is to bring the body as close as possible to death.” (See Way of the Runner by Adharanand Finn.) According to one of these marathon monks, “the constant movement for 1,000 days gives you lots of time to think about this, to reflect on your life. It is a type of meditation through movement. That is why you shouldn’t go too fast. It is a time to meditate on life, on how you should live.” (See also Running with the Mind of Meditation by Sakyong Mipham.)

A bit less demanding (J) was that nine-mile "surprise" hike, at the end of our BOSS week, from where we had thought was the *end* of the course all the way back to BOSS in Boulder. Though our bodies were not quite as close to death, we were all deeply fatigued. Under a clear June starry night sky, those nine miles were borderline hallucinatory.

Emil Zátopek, a Czechoslovak long-distance runner, the only person to win the 5K, 10K, and marathon in the same Olympics (1952 Summer, Helsinki), once said, “If you want to run, run a mile. If you want to experience a different life, run a marathon.” Dean Karnazes later modified that to “If you want to run, run a mile. If you want to experience a different life, run a marathon. If you want to talk to God, run an ultra.”

I think my fellow students would agree with my modification: “If you want to hike, hike a mile. If you want to experience a different life, go on a BOSS journey.”

A BOSS course, a marathon, and life in general, they are all journeys, not destinations. Even in a relatively short 7-day Field Course, the BOSS journey that I took has been life-changing. I would love to someday go on the 28-day version of the course!

The desert still lingers. I can still hear Jessie shouting out to me, that clear southern Utah night, that I've gone past the entrance to BOSS.