In the past few weeks, I wasn’t the best version of myself. I let my good habits slide. I didn’t exercise for days on end. I didn’t write thank-you cards. I didn’t respond to texts. I didn’t vacuum the house or clean any countertops. I didn’t pay attention to whether or not the dog was fed. I didn’t wake up to my alarm.
I didn’t fail at all these things on a daily basis, but the trends were obvious. I’m grateful for my wife and my friends for being present and for understanding the grieving process.
Through Christmas day, I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect life. My wife and I had just returned from our once-in-a-lifetime honeymoon trip to New Zealand. We were in good health and good spirits. We were spending the Christmas holiday with family, my family, for the first time since we had started dating (2020 and 2021 had been canceled due to the Coronavirus pandemic). I had initiated my Boston Marathon training with a 17-mile long run on Christmas Eve. It was sunny and beautiful in Southern California.
I was behind on a few commitments (including a week’s post to this blog), but I had plans to catch up. As far as I was concerned, it was completely forgivable to fall behind during the holidays. Falling behind on my writing was, and is, completely forgiveable when the opportunity cost involves focused time with friends and family. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to me, I wouldn’t have a chance to catch up.
The news of Chris’s accident hit me like a bag of bricks after the bliss of my life in the prior month. I learned of the accident via text message. I was catatonic for a few minutes. It was the afternoon of my single day back to work during a solid month-long block of honeymoon-plus-holiday vacation. I hadn’t checked in for 3 weeks. I was supposed to catch up, respond to urgent needs, then check out for another couple days until the new year. I blocked my calendar for the rest of the day and set my Slack status to “inactive”.
When I get upset, I don’t talk. My wife was sitting at the kitchen table. She smiled at me. I couldn’t. Her smile faded. She could see the emotion in my face. I said four words. She stood up and hugged me, so tightly, and all I could do was breathe.
It took me a couple of hours before I could bring myself to communicate with friends. I broke the news to a close group of running friends - the group that had all stayed together, with Chris, when traveling for my wedding earlier this year.
One of our friends pushed for a video call that evening. Never in a million years would I have volunteered the idea to get on a video call to mourn a loss of a loved one; however, I was so, so glad that we did. I felt like I had no other option to share my grief. I felt like nobody that was physically close to me would understand what my friendship with Chris meant. Our friendship extended far beyond the historical context in which my wife and my local friends have existed. It’s weird that we live in a world where grieving might best be experienced with people who shared a stage of life thousands of miles away, with entirely different friend groups from our current day-to-day experience.
Chris and I were running friends in the purest sense. We met via the Motown Ann Arbor Hash House Harriers running group in Michigan. We grew to be friends when he crashed on my couch for a race weekend. The race was the local Woodstock series of ultramarathons, and he had entered for the 100-mile race. Even though he had planned to run the whole thing solo, I ended up pacing him in his final laps. It was just a few months after I had finished Western States, which was my first 100-mile race finish. Chris was thinking about quitting, but I convinced him otherwise (with some help from other friends). I started running with him for his final laps, and he ended up finishing his first 100-mile race.
We became good friends. We cheered each other’s progress in the ultra world. I got faster and he got tougher. Over the years, I won a couple of big races and he finished one of the toughest in the US (the Bear, 2016 edition), then one of the toughest in the world (the Tor de Geants). We ran Boston in the same year, and I helped him get home after a very, very rough race. He recruited me and another Bay Area friend to crew and pace him at the Rio del Lago 100-mile race in California, which he finished (of course).
We had a ton of mutual respect for each other. I wasn’t able to make it to his wedding because of life circumstances. He was able to make it to both my bachelor party and wedding, earlier this year, thanks to the incredible generosity of his wife staying home along to take care of their young son. My wedding was the last time that a lot of our mutual friends saw each other. We were going to see each other again this year at Western States. He had won the lottery after 8 years of bad luck, and I was looking forward to crewing and pacing him. Several of our friends were planning to support him.
One of the hardest things about processing Chris’s death is that he was hit by a car while he was out for a casual run. My 34-year-old friend, stoked on life, loved by friends and family, was suddenly taken from the world while he was doing the same thing that I, and that so many of our friends, take for granted as a safe, healthy, and life-defining activity. Chris finishes multiple efforts through the night in high-alpine terrain. He endured incredible physical demands on his body. Yet, he drew the short straw of life to find the end of the road in suburban Florida.
I struggle to process the loss of Chris’s life. Nothing about it makes sense. First and foremost, my heart goes out to his wife and son. I can’t imagine the pain that they’re going through now, and that they’ll continue to experience, as they live their lives without the husband and father that Chris was and would’ve continued to be. I feel so sorry for his parents and extended family for their loss. The friends and acquaintances of Chris with whom I’ve been in touch share my same feelings. The loss is incomprehensible.
Yesterday’s long run was the first time that I ran alone and didn’t get emotional as I reflected on the past weeks. Today, while out with friends that attended my wedding, I told them of Chris’s death without much difficulty. The grieving process is taking place.
In the marathon world, the Boston Marathon is the pinnacle of achievement. Chris ran Boston, and was proud of it, but he also had bigger aspirations. In the ultramarathon world, Western States is arguably the most-desired buckle to earn. Only two dozen runners have qualified for 8 years straight without having their chance to run, and Chris was among them. Chris would’ve crushed Western States, and I would have been so proud to see him achieve that lifelong goal. He will be missed.