Eat and Run Part 10

The Spartathlon, first run in 1983, was the brainchild of Wing Commander John Foden, a native Australian on the verge of retirement from the British Royal Air Force. Foden's forty-year military career included service in the Korean War, the Suez Crisis, the Brunei Revolt, and the Turkish invasion of Cyprus, but he was also an avid amateur athlete and a student of the cla.s.sics. One day, while rereading Herodotus, he started wondering if Pheidippides' legendary run was something within a modern runner's power.

John and four buddies from the RAF decided to make the attempt. In the words of the Irishman John McCarthy, "We established a credible and historically correct route using ancient military roads, pilgrim ways, dry river beds and goat tracks, taking into consideration the ancient political alignments and enemy states to be skirted." The five runners set off from Athens on October 8, 1982, and the "three Johns" succeeded, arriving in Sparta in front of the statue of Leonidas on October 9: John Scholten in 35.5 hours, John Foden in 36 hours, and John McCarthy in just under 40 hours.

They decided to establish a yearly run that, in the Olympic vein, would offer no prize money or commercial gain but would instead promote a spirit of international cooperation and fellowship. Indeed, the Spartathlon is one of the best values in the world of ultrarunning. The entry fee of $525 gets you lodging and meals for six days as well as two of the best awards ceremonies you'll ever attend, museum tours, bus transportation, and ample food and water at the aid stations.

In 1983, 45 runners from 11 countries competed. In 1984, the International Spartathlon a.s.sociation was founded to manage the race.

After he retired, Foden stayed active in the ultra community, promoting races all over the world. I found his booklet, "Preparing for & Competing in Your First Spartathlon," very helpful my first year. He continued to break age group records into his seventies, and in 2005 he was the oldest partic.i.p.ant in the 300-km Haervejsvandring Walk from Schleswig in Germany to Viborg in North Denmark in seven days.

In the Western States and other ultras, I had battled the best long-distance runners the United States had to offer. The Spartathlon attracted the finest in the world. When I showed up in 2007, I faced the 2001 champion, Valmir Nunes from Brazil. He had just broken my Badwater course record and held the third fastest 100-km time in the world. There was an impressive number of other former champions: the 2000 champion, Otaki Masayuki, and the 2002 (and eventual 2009) champion, Sekiya Ryoichi, from j.a.pan. Markus Thalmann, the 2003 champion from Austria, was there, too, as well as Jens Lukas from Germany, who had won in 2004 and 2005. When I had won the previous year, I was the first North American to do so. The greatest Spartathlon champion was-and probably always will be-homegrown. Twenty-six-year-old Yiannis Kouros was living a Spartan lifestyle as a groundskeeper near Tripoli when the Johns undertook the first Spartathlon test run in 1982. Hearing of their mission to resurrect Pheidippides, the literary-minded Kouros was entranced. He had run twenty-five marathons at that point, with some modest successes and a personal record of 2:25; he was about to find his niche. In 1983, Kouros burst onto the ultramarathon scene with a Spartathlon and ultramarathon debut in an astounding 21:53. His margin of victory was so great-more than 3 hours ahead of the runner-up-that the race director refused to award him the trophy for two days-until it could be proven that he had not cheated.

He went on to win the Spartathlon three more times, and these remain the four fastest times ever for the course, ranging from 20:25 to 21:57. Pheidippides couldn't have done better. I've chased many a record, but my best times are in fifth, sixth, and seventh place overall, 23 minutes behind his slowest time.

Now semi-retired from ultras, Kouros is undefeated in any continuous world-cla.s.s road ultramarathon compet.i.tion beyond 100 miles, and he still holds world records on the road and track for almost all distances and durations beyond the 12-hour event.

Kouros is a philosopher-athlete in the ancient Greek tradition. His results seem to stem from an overflowing energy of spirit. He paints, writes poetry, records songs, played the role of Pheidippides in the movie A Hero's Journey, and delivers motivational talks "to get people inspired and alert, so they can discover and utilize the unconditional abilities of human beings, in order to bring (beyond personal improvement) unity, friendship and harmony to the world."

He has certainly inspired me to push beyond the limits of form. Kouros is not much to look at as a runner, with his boxy build and choppy gait, although little is wasted on his runs, and he keeps moving even while he eats and drinks. His upper body is remarkably muscled. When you look at sprinters, you see those developed upper bodies, too. I think Kouros has found an extra energy source up there in those powerful pectorals and deltoids. Many runners have learned that a strong upper body helps with technique and speed. Kouros, though, seems to have discovered a secret about transferring propulsive power from the arms to the legs.

Ultimately, Kouros teaches us that the ultra is an exercise in transcendence. He explicitly defines it as a test of "metaphysical characteristics," as opposed to inborn athletic gifts or level of conditioning. Only a continuous run of 24-plus hours will do, "as a runner has to face the whole spectrum of the daytime and nighttime and be able to continue. Doing so, he/she will prove that he/she can run beyond the effectiveness of genetic gifts and fitness level, as these elements will have gone from the duration of time and the muscular exhaustion." While respecting the athleticism of such events, he disqualifies 50-milers and stage runs from the category of ultra, as they will favor athletes who are well trained and gifted. The true ultrarunner must endure sleep deprivation and complete muscular fatigue. Only then can he or she "find energy after the fuel is gone."

Reflecting on Kouros's message and thinking about the bliss that awaited those who could push through an ultramarathon's pain helped me when, nine days before the event, I woke in the middle of the night and, on my way to the bathroom, stubbed my pinkie toe. The next morning it was black and blue and just hanging there. I was pretty sure it was broken. Over the next week, I tried to tape it against the toe next to it. I tried walking on the beach, bracing the toe with taped Popsicle sticks. I tried a stiffer insole. I told myself that I had almost nine days, that the body could do miraculous things.

At my second Badwater Ultramarathon, in 2006, I experienced the most grueling finish of my running career. I'm grateful that Dusty was with me, making me realize that yes, I could go on.

Before heading into the depths of Mexico's Copper Canyon, in 2006, to race the Indians known as the "running people," I met the mysterious race organizer, Caballo Blanco (White Horse). Here we discuss the wondrous properties of pinole.

The Tarahumara are known for their grace and speed. The fastest and most graceful of them all is Arnulfo Quimare, and to this day I consider him one of my n.o.blest compet.i.tors.

I stay at the finish line to show respect to fellow runners, and because it's a blast. At the conclusion of the 2006 Copper Canyon Ultramarathon, I'm with (L to R) Arnulfo, Manuel Luna, Silvino, Herbalisto, and a local child.

The Hardrock 100 takes runners up 33,000 feet and over eleven mountain pa.s.ses. In 2007, two nights before the event, I tore the ligaments in my right ankle. The Hardrock suddenly got harder.

At the Hardrock 100, runners encounter snow, ice, rain, sleet, and lightning. I'm not sure I ever felt quite as small, or as humbled. If you're an ultrarunner, you can fight nature or embrace it. I suggest the latter.

In 2007, in my second Spartathalon victory, as I pa.s.sed the ruins of Corinth I imagined Pheidippides at my side. Running has taken me places.

Most times, sunrise in the Italian Alps would cheer me. In August 2008, though, I was in third place in the Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc, nursing a b.l.o.o.d.y knee.

In 2010, New York Times columnist Mark Bittman interviewed me. Before any questions, he opened his fridge and asked me to prepare a meal. I whipped up a veggie and tofu stir-fry with homemade Indonesian almond sauce and quinoa.

My mother struggled with Multiple Sclerosis most of her adult life, and her last few years were filled with pain. Her response to my concern was always the same and it still inspires me: "Don't worry about me. I'm tough."

Mountains, deserts, and canyons bring with them fiendish challenges, but nothing compares to the monotony and mental strain of a 24-hour race. In 2010, I traveled to Brive la Gaillarde, France, to see if I could set a national record.

I met Jenny Uehisa in 2001 through the Seattle running community, and I was taken with her kindness, adventurous spirit, and infectious smile. Today, there's no one I depend upon more.

In September 2010, I went on a USO tour in Kuwait, where I ran alongside 1,400 soldiers in a 9/11 memorial event, signed autographs, and swapped stories. I consider the trip one of my greatest honors.

I love eating healthy food, but like my grandma Jurek, I find preparing it for others is almost as gratifying. In 2010, I cooked Thai curry and brown rice for fifty in Chamonix, France, a few days before the Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc.

Popsicle sticks. I tried a stiffer insole. I told myself that I had almost nine days, that the body could do miraculous things.

Finally, I reminded myself to be grateful for my latest injury. It helped me remember why I ran ultras in the first place. It wasn't for the chance to best a record. It wasn't for simple physical pleasure. It was for something more profound, something deeper. To run 100 miles and more is to bring the body to the point of breaking, to bring the mind to the point of destruction, to arrive at that place where you can alter your consciousness. It was to see more clearly. As my yoga teacher would say, "Injuries are our best teachers."

I'm convinced that a lot of people run ultramarathons for the same reason they take mood-altering drugs. I don't mean to minimize the gifts of friendship, achievement, and closeness to nature that I've received in my running career. But the longer and farther I ran, the more I realized that what I was often chasing was a state of mind-a place where worries that seemed monumental melted away, where the beauty and timelessness of the universe, of the present moment, came into sharp focus. I don't think anyone starts running distances to obtain that kind of vision. I certainly didn't. But I don't think anyone who runs ultra distances with regularity fails to get there. The trick is to recognize the vision when it comes over you. My broken toe helped me do that.

By the time of the race, my toe still hurt with every step, but I was trying to ignore the pain. I had other things to think about-Nunes, for example. Masayuki and Ryoichi from j.a.pan, Austria's Thalmann. The only other runner I paid some attention to was Polish, and he had run to Greece from his country, pushing a modified baby buggy that he had rigged to carry his goods and gear. Piotr Korylo had stopped in Rome to see the pope. I admired his single-mindedness, but figured he had to be exhausted. I didn't see him as serious compet.i.tion.

The Spartathlon course is hilly but not steep, which presents problems of its own. Even the fastest ultrarunners in the world are forced to walk steep sections of the Hardrock, for example, but in the Spartathlon the only excuse for walking is weakness. So I ran. Thalmann and Nunes went out first, as I expected. The Pole overtook Nunes after a mere 20K and was building a huge lead.

With no pacers, the first time you see your crew is 50 miles in. I kept a steady pace, occasionally downing some gels, potatoes, bananas, and energy drinks, willing myself to stay in the moment, to concentrate on the next step and the step after that. It was about five o'clock in the afternoon, the temperature was in the mid-90s, and I had climbed away from the sea, had woven in and out of orchards of orange trees and through the ancient, column-filled city of Corinth. I was running toward the sun, which was setting behind a great hill in front of me, turning everything a misty, thick red. I tried to not think too much; in a race this long, at a moment this hot, with lips this parched, thinking could be dangerous. It too easily led to a calm, rational a.s.sessment of where I was, how far I had to go. Rational a.s.sessments too often led to rational surrenders. I tried to go to that place beyond thinking, that place that can bring an ultramarathoner such happiness.

People always ask me what I think about when running so far for so many hours. Random thinking is the enemy of the ultramarathoner. Thinking is best used for the primitive essentials: when I ate last, the distance to the next aid station, the location of the compet.i.tion, my pace. Other than those considerations, the key is to become immersed in the present moment where nothing else matters.

But I was struggling to hold on to third place, and I was so thirsty. Every time I saw someone-a villager, a vintner, an old lady sitting in a patch of shade-I yelled, "Paghos nero parakalo," which means "ice and water, please," but no one seemed to understand. Finally, emerging from a chalky, lonely taverna, a bent old woman in a long, navy blue dress shuffled toward me. "Paghos nero parakalo," I called, and miraculously she seemed to understand. She yelled something to a man standing in the doorway as she mimed drinking.

She had thick arms, thick ankles, and a rough, weather-beaten face. Her husband handed her a large gla.s.s of water filled with chunks of ice, and she gave it to me. The ice could have come from keeping freshly caught fish cold. I could not have cared less. To me, the chunks were more valuable than glittering diamonds. She also picked a handful of basil leaves from the garden at her feet and thrust them into my hands. I was trying to drink and thank her at the same time when I saw her motioning to the basil leaves and then to my small waistpack, where I carried my gels and food. She was telling me to put the basil in there. When I took the pack off, though, she pulled one of the leaves out and stuck it behind my ear. Then she kissed me on the cheek.

Suddenly I felt a lightness and a strength. Whether it was her kindness, the water, or the basil (which I discovered later is the king of herbs, the word basil deriving from the Greek word basileus, which means king; it is revered as a symbol of strength and good luck in Greece), my mind shifted. It was the moment in an ultramarathon that I have learned to live for, to love. It was that time when everything seems hopeless, when to go on seems futile, and when a small act of kindness, another step, a sip of water, can make you realize that nothing is futile, that going on-especially when going on seems so foolish-is the most meaningful thing in the world. Many runners have encountered that type of crystalline vision at the end of a race, or training run, that brings with it utter fatigue and blessed exhaustion. For ultrarunners, the vision is a given.

I was the same person, mildly dehydrated, hobbled with a broken toe, hot, fatigued, with quads and calves that felt as if they had been beaten by baseball bats. But I was a different person.

I picked up my pace. Nunes and Thalmann had fallen behind, and the Polish guy was in front. An inexperienced runner who took the lead in a race like this after 10 miles was self-destructive. One in front after 25 miles was self-destructive but very, very determined. The same man leading after 50 miles was insane-or he wasn't as inexperienced as I had thought. Either way, he was dangerous.

I ran through more vineyards, but I knew Korylo was still leading. He was so far ahead I couldn't see him.

I had to beat him, but I couldn't obsess about him. In the same way, I had to claw my way to the finish line with everything I had, but I couldn't think too much about that line. When I got to the 50-mile mark I couldn't think that I had 100 miles to go. I had to remember and forget. We move forward, but we must stay in the present. I tried to do so by breaking races into small, digestible parts. Sometimes I focused on the next aid station, three miles ahead. Sometimes I pictured the next shady spot down the road, or the next step.

Did "Sometimes you just do things" really mean "Try not to think about consequences, just trust in your body and yourself and the universe"? Was my dad not just a harda.s.s Minnesotan but a mystic? It made me smile to think so. At 70 miles, Nunes pulled up to me and I gestured toward the front, raised my shoulders. Who was that buggy-pusher?

Nunes didn't speak much English and I didn't speak any Portuguese, but he said, "Scotch, you strong," and took a few steps in front of me, waving with me to keep up. We ran together for 30 miles, chasing the Polish guy. We ran over dry, baked earth and past ruins and through dusty villages where little kids materialized from dark pa.s.sages and ancient doors and ran after us, shouting and laughing. I didn't know if they were making fun of us or exhorting us to go faster. I thought of my days on that dead-end dirt road and wondered what I would have done if a bunch of men ran past my house. I wondered if any of these Greek children climbed the hills nearby and wondered why things were.

At 100 miles, a man gave me a flower. He was crying as he handed it to me. Almost every person I met in Greece seemed to radiate a pa.s.sion for life. I think it was inextricably linked to the land, the water, and the plants. There's a myth that when Athens was founded, the G.o.ds argued over who would get to be the patron of the beautiful new city. It came down to Athena, G.o.ddess of wisdom, and Poseidon, G.o.d of the sea. Zeus declared that the two should each create a gift to give to the mortals of the city, and whoever gave the better gift would be its patron. Poseidon made water gush out of the Acropolis, but it was salty and so not of much use. Athena invented the olive tree, which could give the people fruit, oil, and wood. As a plant-based athlete, it was moving to see a culture where plants retain symbolic power and where people still use herbs to heal. It's in their history, after all. Greece was the homeland of Hippocrates, the founder of modern medicine, who singled out diet and exercise as important components of health and wrote "let food be thy medicine." In On Ancient Medicine, he wrote: "It appears to me necessary to every physician to be skilled in the ways of nature, and strive to know, if he would wish to perform his duties, what man is in relation to the articles of food and drink . . . And it is not enough to know simply that cheese is a bad article of food, as disagreeing with whoever eats to satiety. One must know what sort of disturbance it creates, and why, and with what principle in man it disagrees." To be fair, Hippocrates wasn't advocating giving up cheese entirely; he goes on to say that some people tolerate it better than others. Maybe he knew about lactose intolerance.

In Greece, I filled up on pomegranates and figs, wild greens from the mountains called horta, and lots of olives. It was a foraging paradise. On almost every training run I pa.s.sed through vineyards of grapes and almond and citrus and quince trees (often grabbing fruit and eating it as I went). The Greeks had a simple diet-and an exceedingly healthy one.

At 107 miles, I churned over the pa.s.s where Pheidippides saw an apparition. Scientists today might say it was a hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation and fatigue, but there was something haunted about the rocky mountaintop. Bonfires glowed at the pa.s.s, and dozens of villagers cheered as I crested the top and descended to the town below. I had a little less than 50 miles to go. I had never felt better.

I didn't notice my broken toe anymore. The rest of my body ached, but I didn't care. That's one of the many great pleasures of an ultramarathon. You can hurt more than you ever thought possible, then continue until you discover that hurting isn't that big a deal. Forget a second wind. In an ultra you can get a third, a fourth, a fifth even. I still had more than 40 miles to go, but that's a second wonderful thing about 100- (and plus) milers. You can trail, and despair, and screw up, and despair more, and there's almost always another chance. Salvation is always within reach. You can't reach it by thinking or by figuring it out. Sometimes you just do things.

At 120 miles, I pa.s.sed through Tegea. Someone there said that the Polish guy had left just a minute earlier. I grabbed an energy drink and several Clif Shot energy gels. I saw a pulsing red beam ahead of me. It was the police escort that stays with the leader throughout the race. Salvation smelled like dust and crushed grapes and history. It glowed. I ran toward it. When I pa.s.sed Korylo, he seemed to barely be moving. I ran as hard as I could.

"Good job," I said, and tried to run even harder. I couldn't keep this pace up for long, but I knew how demoralizing it was to be pa.s.sed by someone moving at a pace you knew you couldn't match. I was sympathetic to him and admired his courage and tenacity, but when you have a chance to demoralize a compet.i.tor, you take it. I took it.

I ran hard for another mile or so and then looked back. Nothing. The escort was with me now. Some 5, 6 miles later, still nothing behind me. Then, from out of nowhere, a headlamp moving fast, swallowing distance. I tried to speed up but couldn't. I looked back again. I thought, This guy is tough. I've got to put the hammer down, now. I went all-out, as hard as I could, for 3 miles. I was putting down 7-minute miles. No way anyone could keep up with that. I looked back. The light was closer. I ran harder. I found the inner reserve that most of us never have to look for (another gift of ultramarathons), and I kept pushing until a car pulled up alongside me. It was one of the race officials.

"Scott, do not worry," he said. "This runner is not to be worried about."

I was thinking, "What are you talking about? That guy behind me is one tough Polack." I pushed hard for another 2 miles, and the race official drove up again. This time he said, "Scott, do not worry, this runner is not in the race," and again, my reaction was, "What do you mean, he's right there!"

At the next aid station, I learned the truth. The headlamp behind me belonged to a "bandit" runner, a guy who had jumped onto the course at 120 miles. I had just run an intense 15K after 130 miles, and I still had 22 to go. It was time to pull out the four-step checklist. Number one: I was exhausted. I let myself feel that and I acknowledged it. Number two: I took stock. I was slightly p.i.s.sed off that I had just expended so much energy, all to put distance between myself and someone I needn't have worried about. And I was still exhausted and upset. But it wasn't life-threatening. Three: I asked myself what I could do to remedy the situation. I could stop, but that wasn't an option. The answer: Keep moving. And four: Separate negative thoughts from reality. Don't dwell on feelings that aren't going to help. I kept moving.

Was perseverance that simple? Was will that reducible? Certainly I wasn't the only one with a checklist. What kept me going while others stopped?

Recent research suggests that it's not just the brain that differentiates those who continue from those who stop. It might be the chemicals released by the brain.

Dr. Andy Morgan at Yale Medical School studied the brain chemistry of soldiers subjected to mock interrogation techniques at Fort Bragg's Resistance Training Laboratory. As a group, Special Forces soldiers released a greater amount of a chemical called neuropeptide Y (NPY) than did the regular infantrymen. NPY is an amino acid that helps regulate blood pressure, appet.i.te, and memory. It also buffers the effects of adrenaline, preventing high energy from turning into wasted mania.

Not only did the Special Forces soldiers release more NPY during the interrogation, but, twenty-four hours later, their levels had returned to normal, whereas the regular soldiers showed significant depletion.

Other research has shown different, less chemical variation between the hardy and the truly exceptional. In Surviving the Extremes, Dr. Kenneth Kamler studied the factors that separate winners from losers in the world's toughest environments. He examined the cases of Mauro Prosperi, a compet.i.tor in the 1994 Marathon des Sables, who survived nine full days in the Sahara, and the Mexican prospector Pablo Valencia, lost for eight days in the Mojave in 1905. When they were found, both Prosperi and Valencia had lost approximately 25 percent of their body weight to dehydration, an amount that would normally prove fatal.

Kamler concluded that four factors contributed to these men's almost inhuman ability to survive: their knowledge; their conditioning, which in effect "inoculated" them against the desert; luck; and-the factor he saw as by far the most important-the will to survive. Prosperi, a highly compet.i.tive athlete, had an uncommonly strong survival instinct. Valencia was filled with murderous rage toward his incompetent guide; the intensity of his desire for revenge spurred him on, even through a near-death experience.

I wasn't that angry at the bandit runner. I wasn't sure if I was juiced up with unusually high levels of NPY and DHEA. But I had come this far, I was in front, and I aimed to stay there.

The last 30 miles of the race follows a narrow, two-lane highway straight into Sparta. It climbs for half that distance, then plunges downhill into the city. As I climbed, the police escort was behind me, and in front was absolute blackness. Every so often I'd hear a growling and snapping from a dog or feel the hot wind of a diesel as it roared past. I had never felt so tired. Several times I found myself dozing off as I ran uphill. I slapped my face to make sure I stayed awake. Then I saw the photographer, squatting on the double yellow line in the middle of the highway, snapping pictures of me as I approached. It worried me, because semi-trucks were splitting the night more often, and I thought he'd be killed. I waved at him to move, but he kept clicking. I noticed the two cameras hanging around his neck, the long lens on the one that he kept clicking, and even his stubble. The closer I got, the more clearly I saw and the more he clicked until I was upon him, which is when he disappeared. It took me a moment to realize: He had never been there.

When I crossed the finish line at 23:12, the mayor, surrounded by a group of young women, placed a wreath on my head, and someone draped an American flag around my shoulders. I had finished 20 minutes slower than my victory the year before, but still, no one had ever run the course faster except the great Kouros. No other North American had ever won the race. I hung out in the medical tent for a little while, got some sleep, greeted finishers, and then slept some more.

Later, I went over the race in my mind and thought about the things many ultrarunners think about. Chief among them is how to go on when you feel you can't go on anymore. The Yale study demonstrates that Special Forces soldiers are different than regular ones but not how they got that way. Did they obtain the required stuff of super warriordom through a lucky draw in the genetic lotto, or did it develop through training? Are elite athletes born or can they be made? More to the point: What were my limits? And how could I discover them unless I tried to go beyond them? The last was a question I asked myself each time I ran an ultra. It's a question that every ultrarunner and anyone lucky enough to reach for something outside her comfort zone can ask-and answer-herself. It was a question I had come close to answering in my second, grueling Spartathlon. I planned to keep asking.

WHEN YOU'RE IN A FUNK Almost every compet.i.tive runner I know goes through a period when he or she feels like quitting. I certainly include myself in that category. What's ironic is that the tools that help make an elite athlete-focus, effort, attention to the latest technology-definitely do not provide the answer to getting out of a funk. I find the best way to get your running mojo back is to lose the technology, forget results, and run free. And forget that running needs to be painful or that it's punishment. (Definitely get rid of those echoes of countless coaches ordering you to "take a lap" because you dropped a pa.s.s or double-dribbled.) Run for the same reason you ran as a child-for enjoyment. Take your watch off. Run in your jeans. Run with a dog (does he seem worried?). Run with someone older or younger, and you'll see running, and the world, differently. I know I have.

Run a trail you have never run before. Pick a new goal, race, or a large loop that keeps you motivated to get out on those bad-weather days. Do all and any of these things often enough, and you'll remember why you started running in the first place-it's fun.

Kalamata Hummus Trail Wrap This amazingly simple and portable meal and trail snack combines olives from Greece with Mexican tortillas and Middle Eastern hummus. I learned about hummus when I first started reading vegetarian cookbooks and studying world cuisine, and I started making these wraps for my long training runs in the Cascade Mountains. The sesame b.u.t.ter provides a smooth texture, and combines with the chewy tortilla and salty olives to create a nuanced, multilayered meal from a decidedly multinational but very harmonious dish. If you are making this to eat on the trail, you may wish to omit the garlic.

3 cups cooked garbanzo beans 3 tablespoons tahini 2 tablespoons tamari, 2 tablespoons miso, or 2 teaspoons sea salt cup freshly squeezed lemon or lime juice garlic clove, chopped (optional) 1 teaspoon ground c.u.min Black pepper teaspoon cayenne pepper (optional) 8 flour tortillas Chopped kalamata olives Place the beans, tahini, tamari, lemon juice, garlic, and c.u.min in a food processor or blender. Process until smooth. Add a small amount of water to keep the mixture moving if needed. Season to taste with black and cayenne pepper.

For each wrap, spread a thin layer of hummus on a tortilla and sprinkle some of the olives in a line down the center of the tortilla. Roll the tortilla into a tight wrap and cut into two or three pieces, depending upon the size of the tortillas.

Pack the rolls in a small plastic bag and refrigerate overnight so they are ready for the next morning's long run. For a more substantial lunch, add lettuce, red bell pepper, and tomato before rolling the wraps. Hummus keeps refrigerated for 5 to 6 days or freezes well for several months.

MAKES 810 SERVINGS.