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I’d mastered “conventional” ultrarunning and was ready to break previously conceived barriers, to prove that the body—even a middleaged one—could go farther and recover faster than anyone else had thought.
    So I devised combination challenges no one had ever tried before and few others were likely to attempt after me. Running the Pikes Peak Marathon four times in a row. Doing the Leadville Trail 100 and Pikes Peak Marathon in the same weekend. Completing the Badwater solo, self-contained and unaided, hauling my water, food, clothing, and medical supplies in a cart that weighed more than two hundred pounds.
    All these unusual accomplishments garnered recognition from others in the ultrarunning world; the invitational Badwater, in particular, became a kind of homecoming for me every year. Early on it was just about a dozen runners who’d show up, and each time about half came back from prior years, and there were always more, a growing number of us ready to kick up some dust across Death Valley, to test ourselves against uncompromising desert heat, extreme elevation changes, and the punishing distance. I found friends there, people driven by their own demons and dreams, men and women of extraordinary grit and drive and determination.
    Despite my achievements in business and sports, my family life remained challenging, owing mostly to my unresolved grief and the ripple effects it caused in my marriage. Continuing to use my athletic endeavors as an escape and proving ground, I was convinced that the best way to prevent getting crushed by another tragedy was to achieve greater and greater self-sufficiency. I guarded against intimacy to protect myself from the pain of losing anyone I loved again. Ironically, though I suppose predictably, Danette and I divorced when I was in my early forties. Elaine and I moved out, and a joint custody arrangement dictated that Taylor and Ali lived with their mom but stayed overnight with me every other weekend.
    In 1995, I started adventure racing, participating in team expeditions that took me to remote jungles and deserts in Africa, Australia, and Asia, as well as here in the United States. Yes, I would finally explore the outback, paddle in Patagonia, trek the Himalayas, but my first experience with one of these multidisciplinary, multiday sporting events was an Eco-Challenge in Utah. Created by Mark Burnett, it required a five-person coed team, and by the time we were done, two other racers and I were calling ourselves “Team Stray Dogs.” It turned out to be fitting; in adventure races we entered after that, we’d pick up one or two other elite athletes with the right skills and temperament to round out the group. These contests require diverse skills: some combination of endurance disciplines like trail running and hiking, climbing with fixed ropes, riding a bike (or a horse or a camel), swimming, and paddling, so you want teammates who are strong in the areas where you aren’t.
    Adventure racing provided opportunities for me to conquer old obstacles, particularly my fear of heights and water (not phobias, but definitely weaknesses), as well as a contrast to ultrarunning: with the team, it was better to be less intense, have a sense of humor, try to relax and enjoy what we were doing. I didn’t train specifically for any of these events, and instead relied on my endurance and my team to carry me through whatever we might encounter, wherever we might go. As amazing as most of the locations turned out to be, these adventures weren’t vacations in a traditional sense (and we sure as hell were not catered to in any way—think Survivor without the amenities), but they were about working together, having a good time, trying new things. The looser we were, the more we seemed to do well.
    In time, when we started posting some respectable finishes in or near the top ten, Team Stray Dogs attracted a sports agent to represent us, which meant