A Mountain Out of Nothing

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Hi, welcome to Exploits of a Nobody. I'm Andre. Here, I tell stories adapted from my journals about trail running, addiction, and sobriety. Mostly, they're about the parts we don't usually say out loud. The thoughts we edit, the questions that never seem to go away. So if something in here sounds familiar, maybe you've been there too. Or maybe you're still there now. Either way, I'm really happy you're here. And just a heads up, there's cursing in this episode. It was dark and humid, and the streets were dead. This morning was like every other. I pulled into the parking garage around 5.30 a.m. It was well lit with a few randomly parked cars and no one in sight. The parking garage had a unique odor I was beginning to get comfortable with. Cooking grease, bleach cleaner, and warm concrete. I parked in my usual spot. Sipping my coffee, I stared out the windshield at nothing. I'm so sick of doing these fucking stairs. I turned off the car and repeated the same morning ritual that had become familiar over what felt like an eternity. Lift the back hatch of my forerunner, sit on the bumper, stare at nothing, contemplating why I was doing the stairs, put my shoes on, hope I didn't forget anything, put on my buffs, sit a little while longer, close the hatch, followed by the alarm chirping, echoing through the hollow emptiness of the garage. I walked over the stairs, dreading what I was about to do. I had done the act so many times before, I knew what it felt like, and I knew what it meant to do it. I looked up, and there it was looming in the darkness, challenging me to take the first step, just as I had for the past 45 days. To anyone watching, it probably looked ridiculous. And you know what? It was absolutely fucking ridiculous. But in the summer of 2020, as the world shut down and runners everywhere watched their races disappear from the calendar, I was trying to figure out how to turn a parking garage stairwell into a mountain. Just a few months earlier, I had officially begun training for the Leadville 100. For over a year, this race had become my guiding purpose, leading me to sobriety and a new, healthier life. And then COVID happened. People were urged to social distance and avoid group gatherings and events. It's okay. This COVID thing, it'll clear. And then one by one, races were canceled. I remember being in denial. Leadville won't get canceled. That'll never happen. This event, it's worth too much money for Leadville. They'll hold on until the very last minute. I just know they will. And I remain positive and diligent with my training. Just keep training, dude. It'll clear by August. We have plenty of time. And just like every other runner, I watch my email and socials daily for any hint. I remember receiving the email, and my heart sank as I read the words declaring that the Leadville 100 was being canceled. Fuck. Can't they wait just a little longer? Man, it's still three months away from the race. I need this. I need this race. I don't want to wait a whole nother year. I was so depressed and disappointed. I felt lost. My purpose erased. What the hell do I do now? I need to do something, or I'm gonna go fucking nuts. Maybe I'll just go and run the damn course alone, even if there's no buckle. A few weeks later, race organizers created a virtual event. I received an email introducing the Leadville 100,000 foot challenge. Walk, run, or cycle anywhere in the world to gain 100,000 feet of elevation gain in 10 weeks. You receive a buckle and a custom t-shirt. And it could be done individually or as a team. Even if it wasn't the coveted Leadville 100 buckle, this one would do until I got the real one. But there was one thing I just couldn't wrap my brain around. Living in Southeast Texas, where it's flatter than flat, how the fuck would I get this done? I wanted someone to share the adventure with, so I called my brother, who was at that time a Navy pilot living in San Diego. He had pushed me to run my first half marathon ten years earlier, and now I saw this challenge as an opportunity to return the favor. We'd both be responsible for 50,000 feet of elevation gain. He agreed, and we officially joined the challenge as the Herman Bros. I began exploring my normal running trails and routes with a newfound curiosity to see what type of elevation could be gained. All of my regular trails became a new experience as I monitored every single dip in the trail. And after each run, curious how much elevation I had gained, I'd get frustrated at just how much running yields so little elevation. Only 33 feet? I just ran six miles. This is going to take forever. Okay. What else do I have? I ran a 26-mile route at Huntsville State Park, 90 miles away. Only 3,000 feet? And I have to drive three hours round trip just to get a substantial gain. I can't do this all the time. There has to be a faster way to do this with less effort. Now, it's not that I couldn't do this every day. It's that I didn't want to do this every day. So I limited the long runs to once per weekend. I started looking for local climbs everywhere nearby. There's a hill. There's an overpass. There's a stairwell. A stairwell. My first day at the stairs was around lunchtime. This parking garage had seven floors and was a boring utilitarian structure hidden in plain sight at a popular town square. I looked up at the looming stairs towering above me. I can't believe I'm about to do this. Dude, they're just stairs. And hey, it's something new. And just think, you'll get your first Leadville buckle. I didn't want to let my brother down, and the only other thing that truly mattered was getting that fucking buckle. I set my watch for hike and I started the activity. Okay, just go slow. Let's see how much elevation we can get out of this stairwell. At first, I stopped at each floor landing to look at my watch, excited to see how much elevation I was gaining. One flight, nothing. Two flights, nothing. What the fuck? Three flights, a few feet registered. That couldn't be right. It wasn't registering on my watch. What the fuck is going on? I stopped and fidgeted with my watch settings. Of course this wasn't going to be easy. And you thought it would be? Huh. Is there a way to track elevation gain? Then it caught up. It read 30 feet. I was only halfway up the stairwell. Is this for real? It can't be. I fidgeted some more. Maybe I'm on the wrong setting. I made it to the top of the garage, and once there, the signal cleared. 50 feet. Fifty feet? Only 50 fucking feet? This is gonna take forever, dude. While the challenge presented an opportunity to stay active, the monotony of repetition and not knowing the exact height of the stairs drove me nuts. Each day at the stairs began the same. Wake up at 5 30 a.m., argue with myself, skip today. You don't need to go every day, dude. No, I don't want to get behind. Dude, just go back to bed. Then there was the drive to the parking garage. Why did you sign up for this fucking challenge again? Well, it sounded like an adventure. To get a Leadville buckle? Well, what else was I going to do? Dude, these stairs fucking suck. I'm gonna go nuts if I have to keep doing these fucking stairs. Up and down, up and down. Fuck, I'd rather just run a hundred miles. Once there, I'd begin my two-hour session on the stairs. The first flight of stairs was different from the rest. It was taller with more steps due to the raised ceiling of the first floor. The next six floors were uniform in height and total number of steps. I was hoping to use my smartwatch to track my activity, but the inconsistent elevation readings were frustrating. I'd start my watch, do a few flights, screw with my watch trying to dial in readings. My $500 watch should be able to read elevation gain on fucking stairs. But it just wasn't working. I needed a precise number to eliminate the guessing. The need to solve this led to researching the building codes of commercial stairwells. What's the standard height of a stairwell? What's the height of a flight of stairs in a parking garage? This was taking too much time and going nowhere. And then I got a bright idea. I'd measure the stairs myself. The next day, I brought a tape measure with me. I measured the height of a step from the first flight and the second flight to ensure universal height. I walked up the steps, counting all steps in one ascent. I can't believe I'm measuring fucking stairs right now. I multiplied the height in inches by the total number of steps, then I divided by 12 to get the exact height and feet of the stairwell. I now had a fixed elevation gain that I could record for each ascent, and I would then use my watch and Strava to officially log the efforts. Within a two-hour time period, I could complete 36 ascents for about 2,300 feet of gain. And there was nothing fun about it. The stairs were becoming a daily chore. As the days blended into one another, I'd watch the random pieces of trash come and go on the stairwell. I began noticing the different textures, cracks, and scuffs of the stairs. Each step had a personality. I would use the marks to track where I was on the steps. I searched for ways to make the stairs more interesting or gain elevation faster. Some days I would slowly climb, touching every step. Other days I would lunge forward, skipping every other step. I experimented with hiking up the stairs and running down the ramps, and then running up the ramps and hiking down the stairs. God, I'm so bored. I'm so sick of these stairs. Just give me a break. I wish, I wish I was living in Colorado or California where I had mountains. I could have this done so much quicker. Now, while this broke the monotony, I lost time using the ramps. It was the same elevation gain, but took more time compared to the stairs. Fuck, I just want to get this done. In the beginning, I had been excited for this challenge. The idea of doing something different was intriguing. Now the journey was no longer exciting. Curiosity of who I might become after all of this was done and gone. One morning, I drove through the abandoned shopping center. I looked at the stairwell, preparing myself for my morning rounds. I felt exhausted. Nope, I can't do this shit today. And I turned around. Sick of doing sick of doing fucking loops, I gave in to quitting. I'll make up for it tomorrow. I'll do three or four hours. Yeah, you and I both know you're not going to do that. I went and ran in the park instead. To think, just a few days earlier, I had been talking to my wife about doing an all-nighter on the steps where I parked, set up camp, and just did the stairs straight from dust to dawn. I daydreamed of doing it. This'll be my self-supported endurance event, the likes of others I've read about. And yeah, that that didn't happen. Every activity I did was based on how much elevation it'd produce. Running started taking a back seat because it required just too much work to gain the same elevation I could get on the stairs. I let the thought of being at the stairs daily frustrate me. So much so that there were numerous times I'd leave the house forgetting something. My watch, phone, my headphones, my buffs. One day, I even forgot my fucking shoes. I was looking for any reason to miss a day, and each time I forgot something, I had to force myself to stay and work through the inconvenience. And just to note, while I made my best effort attempting the stairs and socks, I went home to get my shoes. Even though the watch was no longer technically needed for elevation, not being able to officially record my day on the stairs was enough to quit. If I can't record my steps today, then did I even do them? I didn't want to have someone call me out. I had no idea who that person would be, but I wasn't going to take any chances. I could not function without listening to something to pass the time. One morning I had driven the three miles to the parking garage to find that I had no music. The world practically came to an end, realizing I forgot my phones and I would have to spend the two hours in my head thinking. Do I stay here and work through it or go get them? And I knew damn well that if I went home, I probably wouldn't come back. During the Southeast Texas summers, June through late August, hiking stairs at 6 a.m. and 80 plus degrees Fahrenheit and nearly 100% humidity made the stairs miserable and sometimes feel impossible. After each ascent, I would stop at the top and ring out my buffs. The amount of sweat that would ring out, you'd think I had just got out of a pool. Forgetting my buffs, that thin material used as a sweatband, was a valid reason to go home. How will I keep the sweat out of my eyes? Oh so fucking miserable. Let's just go home. And there were many days when I didn't return. You can make up the day by doing a few extra hours tomorrow. This became my daily excuse. In doing so, I drifted away from my goal, kicking the can down the road. Dude, I only need to do 50,000. My brother will cover the rest. I can afford to take some days off. No problem. But nothing made these stairs as hard as the time I spent in my head. The stairs were becoming a daily argument I had with myself every morning. Every thought, every action was a battle determining whether I would stay or leave. The what-ifs and worrying about shit that had never happened was exhausting, and the stairs presented an opportunity to spiral in my head. I think about COVID. I think about work-related shit. I'd worry about my family and the stress that was being caused because everyone was at home under one roof due to COVID. And worst of all, I worried about who I might meet on the stairs and if they'd complain about me using the stairs and my activity posing a hazardous situation. Dude, just hurry up and get your session done before anyone else shows up. Just take your time. You're outside. No one's going to bother you about that. Occasionally, I'd cross paths with security guards patrolling the garage. I would quickly pull my buff over my mouth as we passed on the stairs. Are they gonna tell me to leave? But they'd never say anything but good morning. Every morning I began wondering when someone else would get the same bright idea I had and start showing up at the stairs. I would watch the stairs as I drove by in the morning. There had better not be anyone on my stairs this morning. Not seeing anyone, I felt relieved. I'd park and hurry over to claim the stairs before the mist that mysterious person showed up that I kept imagining. I had become so self-conscious of being kicked out, I began creating weird scenarios in my head. Every morning I imagined finding a newly posted sign stating the stairs are not for physical exercise due to COVID. All because someone had complained about me. But who would fucking complain in the first place? I was the only person there. Every morning I secretly wished to find that sign so I could have another reason to quit. And each morning the sign never appeared. I guess we're still doing the stairs. Right across the street, in plain view from the stairwell, was my old drinking spot where I had earned three plates for drinking beers. Every morning I was constantly reminded of how strong my obsession with drinking was as I challenged myself to hike the stairs. Dude, what a trip. A year ago you were waking up every morning wondering if you'd make it to your next plate. Now you're waking up wondering if you can make it through another two hours on these fucking stairs. But now you can't run the race that played such a role in your sobriety. So when are you going to start drinking again? Everyone else seems to be drinking to cope with COVID. Fuck, no, I'm not giving up my one year of sobriety. I kept marching up and down the stairs. It was the same parking garage, but now a different mountain. I often wondered how my brother was progressing, and every so often we'd check in with each other. Hey bro, how you doing with the challenge? I got a few thousand feet in today on a treadmill. And you? Oh, dude, I'm at the stairs, and it's hot as fuck right now. I'm wishing I was somewhere cooler with mountains. And whether he knew it or not, I was holding him to the same standards of dedication as myself. While I was hitting 50,000 feet, my brother was still at 25,000. I had since held up my end of the deal. I could stop now, technically. But as much as I wanted to trust my brother to reach his goal, I could see his efforts beginning to dwindle. Get any elevation in this week, dude? No. Family and work had my attention, dude, but I'll catch up. While I was expecting him to be dedicated to the challenge, unlike me, his priorities were elsewhere. We were living similar but very different lives. He was a pilot in the Navy, required to physically go to work every day. He was also married with young children. After work, he naturally wanted to go home to his family. On the other hand, I was working from home, my wife was working at home, and our kids were doing virtual schooling. I was doing whatever I could to make space for myself. While he was spending all of his time with his family, I was spending all my time trying to be alone and away from mine. But one thing was for certain, I was not about to DNF this challenge. I made it my personal responsibility to finish this for us. We were at 75,000 total feet. I only needed 25,000 additional feet to finish this for the team. But deep down, I knew the truth. Oh fuck no. I was going to do the entire 100,000 feet. I would do it until it was done. I felt an internal drive to do it all myself. This wasn't something that just magically appeared one day. It had always been there. Even when we agreed to do it as a team, my system already knew I'd be chasing the whole hundred thousand. The buckle just wouldn't be right without the entire 100K under my belt. On the other hand, I couldn't imagine doing another 50,000 feet on those fucking stairs or longer runs. But it had to be done. I had a month left and was now confronted by a new problem. I had allowed myself to take so many days off from being lazy or quitting mid-effort, knowing that my brother would carry his half, that now I had to play catch up and I was only halfway. Yet, for the record, I secretly kept my brother's 25,000 in mind as an easy out if time became strained. I kept another secret. When the organizers planned this challenge, they scheduled it to end 11:59 p.m. August 22nd, 2020. This was the official Leadville 100 Brace Day. I fantasized about finishing this challenge in Leadville on the official course. Now I had to convince my wife why I needed to leave for a few days on a solo journey to Leadville. This would allow me to finish in style in the mountains on the same weekend when the race was originally supposed to happen. I had already taken so much time doing these stairs for my own benefit. She had carried the load working from home, homeschooling both kids while I worked and ran. You and your brother have hit 100,000 feet collectively as a team. You don't need to do this. Yes, I do. I've gone this far, I'm going to do it all myself. I wanted to be like other endurance athletes that I had read about. This was my self-supported ultra-endurance adventure that I owned. I had to get it done. One more day. Fuck this. I just can't do it. I'm fucking done. When I heard the words, I realized I had broken a very important rule. No matter how much you hurt, no matter how tired you are, no matter how bad you want to quit, you never, ever, ever speak the words out loud. It's one thing to think it, but the moment those words materialize on your vocal cords, they become real. Just get to the truck, we'll sit down and have a drink and rest for a moment and then hike back up the incline again. This was my finish line. But now it felt like the finish line was being moved. Dude, can't we just tweak the numbers? Can we round some previous efforts up somewhere? Fuck no. It doesn't work like that. Maybe we miscalculated? No, we're not doing that. There has to be some extra feet hiding somewhere. Nope. We're not fudging the numbers. We're gonna keep going until we hit 100,000. I was afraid you'd say that. I realized something standing there on power line. I wasn't afraid of another climb. I was afraid of quitting. What would quitting say about me if I walked away with 99,300 feet? Who was I? Well, fucker, imagine if this was the actual race. Would you be giving up right now? No. Yeah. That's what I thought, dude. I drank my water. I just want to go back to my hotel room, shower, eat, and relax. It's only 700 feet. Figure it out. We're gonna hike up and down this fucking incline as many times as it takes to finish this challenge. We are not quitting. I turned on my headlamp and began walking back toward the base of the power line climb. The night was cold and the sky was full of stars. I looked up the incline at what appeared to be a vertical wall in the glowing spot of my headlamp. I slowly walked up, every step feeling like my feet were concrete. I anxiously watched my altimeter on my watch. I didn't mark the elevation at the base of the climb, so I had no reference to how much further I had to go. Each step felt like its own challenge, and the elevation of at Leadville wasn't helping. I'd take a step, hunch over my poles for a break. I'm so tired. And then I'd look at my watch, take another step, and repeat. It took forever to reach the top. And when I finally did, I looked again at my watch. I had only climbed 300 feet. Really? Fucking really? Only 300 feet? There must be a mistake. But there wasn't. The incline was in fact steep, but it wasn't very high. I turned around and walked down the incline back to the truck. I have to do this one more time and then some. I wanted to cry. While I was moving slowly, time was racing by. Can we just say we did and fudged the numbers? No fucking way. That'll haunt you forever, dude. Dude, no one's watching. Think about all the people who are probably adjusting their numbers just to get this buckle. That's not me. I'm gonna earn this. All of it. Yeah, but we already hit the hundred thousand mark as a team. Yeah, you're right. We did. But now we're doing this solo, and we're gonna keep walking this fucking incline until we cross that line. I began walking up the hill again. I nervously eyed my watch every few minutes to ensure we were gaining the elevation. Once again, I worked my way to the top, each step feeling heavier now. I reached the top 300 feet. I now had 150 feet. I slowly walked down, I got to my truck, this time, no brake. I turned around and I began walking up the incline again for a third time. Why do I do this shit? Shut up, just get it done. It was silent on the dirt access road that appeared to go straight up into the night sky. I slowly worked my way up. Standing there halfway up the incline, I stopped to check my watch. The elevation rolled over to 3,005 feet. Fuck yeah! I'm finished. I had two minutes left. When I got back to the truck, I sat down and shed my vest, had a drink, and made sure my time was uploaded to the tracking site properly. I had logged the entire hundred thousand feet myself. The buckle was mine, and I had done it. But something felt off. Man, why do I feel so disappointed as I sat there in the car in the cold night? I should be so excited right now. All I felt was loneliness mixed with a relief that this challenge was done. No celebration and no life-changing realizations. Just silence. For ten weeks, every morning, I woke up with a purpose. I had transformed an ordinary parking garage into a mountain. Every step became elevation gain, every hill became an opportunity, and every activity ended with the same question: how many feet did I climb today? For ten weeks that question quietly shaped my days. And then it was over. The next morning, I drove 15 hours back to Houston with one thought on my mind. What was the fucking point of all this? I just did something that most people would never care to do. And now I have a buckle to show for it that sits on a shelf. As I reflect on that summer, I wonder, is that what it was all about? A buckle? Or was a pattern beginning to present itself? And that's it for this episode, everyone. Thanks for listening. To see photos from the story of the parking garage stairwell, the buckle, and photos from Leadville when I went and finished the challenge, visit our website, www.exploitsofanobody.com. And until next time, happy trails.