©2026 Anthony Tran Photography

Ever since this movie, I’ve marveled every time the sun finds its way into my apartment (or I like how I find my way to it, like a scavenger hunt). Coincidentally enough, there is a large glass building in downtown that reflects the sun rising in the East, right into my own home. Even though this happens every morning, I always feel lucky enough to witness it. My mind zooms out into the universe and I see the Sun, this red orange behemoth glowing in an infinite black space. And I think about how this light that I see has traveled 91.897 million miles to hit that building about a half a mile away from me, and back into my home.

And if that wasn’t enough. I get to see the sunset as it moves across the sky, into the West.

How could I not feel lucky?

These psychos are averaging 75 miles a week or whatever. And here I am piddling around with 6 mile loops at Griffith Park every other Sunday. Why did I even sign up for a 100K? Oh yeah, because I think Oscar has me on video literally saying “I AM GOING TO RUN THE SEAN O’ BRIEN 100K” (I did actually say “get this on video”). This declaration was of course made after Horacio also said he would run it. I thought to myself, “Well, I can’t let him have all the glory. And how fun would it be to run another ultra sort-of-together?” considering we’ve been unintentionally racing/running together for the past year. He abandoned the idea shortly after I signed up. Cool.

It’s a couple weeks away and I am feeling terribly undertrained. Everyone else is shredding dirt every other day and I’m here dodging people on a beach bike path, the closest thing I have to any rugged terrain, sidestepping folks like I’m on a downhill single track with a small ditch in the middle. I’ve already had a minor injury in my foot and another one is developing in my knee which is lowkey (highkey, actually) adding some fucking stress considering I have to be healthy enough to carry out my duties as a Pacer twice a week. Oh and an atmospheric river (a winter event that is quickly becoming a Southern California staple like our beloved palm trees and beaches) put a literal damper on any aspirations of training on the trails with whatever time I had left.

Then I got sick.

I got whatever virus that was ripping through friend groups as I had just wrapped up a 56 mile week (my first? How??). Although it physically took me out for only one day, mentally, I was done. I had approached critical mass. In other words, I was burnt out. Which is honestly embarrassing to say! Because why hadn’t I been burnt out before when I was running way more consistently just a year ago? All my friends who are doing 50-80 mile weeks are gallivanting around LA, smiling and high-fiving each other like a goddamn Lululemon ad, and here I am feeling absolutely drained after a few weeks of training (albeit, I was cramming). And it was a little more difficult because I resigned myself to thinking I just didn’t have what it takes to be like my friends who were out there dancing away in the mountains, gleefully picking flowers and splashing each other at every watering hole they discover (this is how I imagine them on the trails). But also, I realized perhaps this is also just a part of aging. After all, I am 41 going on 42 this year. Perhaps my body is finally telling me something? That this is not the same body it was five years ago. Hell, not even a year ago! Ever since I turned 40, I have fought the urge to use “age” as something to explain away a random ache, or why I’d fall asleep the minute I hit the couch. I refuse to say “Ha, can’t do THAT anymore on account of the knees!” (I don’t have any major knee issues). It’s a hard pill to swallow, one that is just sitting on the edge of my throat, gagging me, my body rejecting it as a foreign object.

I finally realized that I was committing the original sin to chasing ones own goals: I was comparing myself to everyone else. It wasn’t a prolific revelation. A rather silly one if I can be honest considering I was forgetting the old running adage that is staunchly repeated every training season: everyone is running their own race. And here I was, feverishly looking at everyone’s Strava (insert Matthew-McConaughey-True-Detective-Phone-Meme) using their data as the goalpost to my training completely ignoring the fact that people live closer to trails, people have different work schedules, people have different ages, etc. So with the help of my girlfriend and a pre-race hang with the LARP crew I dropped my 100k down to 50 miles the day before the race. It was an easy decision, but an important pivot for me and my mental. I felt myself MATURING! And by doing so, I felt like I had finally achieved the one thing I was originally aiming for: to fuck around (playfully!) and find out (what I was capable of!)

I approached race day with genuine curiosity and an openness to “failure” (whatever that looked like). It was going to be PLAY. And as my friend Kenzie would say, “K.I.S.S. - Keep It Simple Stupid!” So off I went heading to the Santa Monica Mountains at 3:30a, like a naively confident kid, to see how far I can run before I give up. And wouldn’t you know it, I wanted to give up immediately when I got out of my car because even though it was going to be the Hottest Day in January (California Winters I swear to fuckin GYAT), I completely forgot it was going to be 30-something degrees in the Santa Monica Mountains at 5am. “It’s cool, you’ll warm up real quick!” Oscar assured me as I could see his warm breath evaporate in the morning air, him frantically packing his belt before bolting to the starting line to begin his 100K at 5:30a. It was 5:28a. Fuck he’s so cool.

Starting out, I remember seeing headlamps bouncing in the dark like fireflies, zig zagging up the hill, the sporadic rhythm of lights revealing parts of the trail ahead of me in the black of the morning. “Here comes that crossing” runners would say as we heard the babbling of the creek get closer and closer, the obstacle that Keira warned us about in the email. “Hey, it wasn’t that bad!” someone behind me said, “It was surprisingly warm!” I replied to the void.

The sun and I met each other at the same time, both heading upwards, me on the trail, Her in the sky. I always like to acknowledge a sunrise when I can, I’m never not in awe that we get to witness this phenomenon every day (same goes for a sunset). I chatted with a few folks on the way up. Will, 36 year old white male, who just had a baby 10 months ago, highly recommended fatherhood (something he never thought he’d do. A sentiment I feel is common for most men who trail run in their 30’s and 40’s). He was also adamant about letting us know how he felt about ICE. “Fuck ICE dude. I just…I can’t believe what’s happening. I have a nanny and I’m so fucking scared what’s going to happen to her when she’s out with my baby. They’re just hard working people! They deserve to be here.” Angel, Hispanic male, 30, had three children(!). He was seemingly downplaying the difficulty of this climb, uttering common expressions like “One step at a time,” and “Just gotta keep grinding” in a deep voice that sounded older but held an air of youthful inexperience, also recommended fatherhood to me. Two men were chatting it up behind me. One of them was an older white man (late 40’s? Early 50’s?) from Long Beach (originally from Georgia?). Upon finding out that I, too, lived there, he proclaimed “Long BEEACH” as if he was throwing up a set followed by “LBC!”. He couldn’t see me scrunching up my face, rolling my eyes. I ran further ahead to distance myself from the posturing.

Later, after the first aid station, a woman who I ran behind through Corral Canyon, was yapping it up with me for 6 miles about her boyfriend that she just met:

“We met like 5 months ago. And honestly, I think he’s the one! We feel like we’re crazy because we haven’t known each other for that long!”, “Holy shit, yah yah! Me too!” I would repeatedly say back, referring to my own new relationship that also developed over the past year. She never once turned around in those 6 miles to see who she was talking to.

I saw her at an aid station later and said “Good job!” and she simply replied “Thanks” as you would to a stranger.

As I approached Bonsdall Aid Station, I realized it was at Mile 22 (this is special to me). As I’m trying to take it easy coming down Zuma (preserving what’s left of my quads knowing full well I have to climb back up this son of a bitch), I would see our 100K friends hiking back up. They were at Mile 27ish at this point. Armen was first. His LARP race shirt we made two nights ago, now had a design like a Strava trail map made of salt and sweat. “How are you feeling dude??” “I’m fucking cooked”. Oscar, in his fresh white tank, approached me like old friends do after years of not seeing each other. Not in an overly excited way, but in that familiar “There you are” way. He always has a smile on his face. “All of our friends are down there (at Mile 22)!” he said encouragingly, as if he was trying to offer me relief. It did. My soul lit up. My mind smiled. Once again, Mile 22 was going to come through for me (as it did in my first marathon). All I needed to do was make it there.

At Bonsdall Aid Station I saw, Cindy, Michelle, Kari, Simon, Andy, Angie and Cedric. All welcome faces as I was approaching fatigue. Before embarking on my death march up Zuma, there was a nightmarish out and back that I wasn’t mentally prepared for. On this section, I saw a few guys vomit their guts out. “Hey are you OK? Do you need anything?” “I think the heat is getting to me…” they’d painfully grumble. It was about 85 degrees out, approaching 12pm. They would give me the go-ahead to move along, that they were OK. Seeing this put the fear in me, knowing what I had to tackle: hiking 6 miles back up Zuma in the middle of the day on the side of the Santa Monica Mountains that the sun is cooking on the Hottest Day in January. On top of that, I had gotten terribly dizzy at the end of the out and back. A sign of dehydration. Perhaps heat exhaustion?

I thought about just quitting at Mile 26 when revisiting Bonsdall Station the second time.

I didn’t think a possible heat stroke was worth it if I could be honest. I asked Cindy “Hey so what if I faint in the next 6 miles? Nobody’s going to be around, right? Like there’s no medic or anything?” She lightheartedly replied “You got this. Want some ice? It will help!” And with that gentle, gleeful, semi-naive push (along with a shot of pickle juice, massive gulps of ginger ale, soda, water, electrolytes, some watermelon and potato) I made the decision to embark on the next 24 miles, almost another full marathon.

All you need to know about Zuma is that it is something you shouldn’t be doing in that weather, especially after 26 miles. It is a never-ending ascent in the First Circle of Hell. I saw more men stopping to vomit because of the heat. There were barely any breaks from leaning forward and climbing. Runners passed by me with their sticks to which I desperately yearned for like a thirsty traveler in the middle of the Sahara. However, at some point I thought my luck was going to change because a white butterfly had fluttered onto my lips. “A kiss from nature!” I proclaimed to myself. Or perhaps a psychic smooch from my girlfriend. Silly thoughts to keep me going. But I turned a corner and saw the trail winding upwards and I immediately got struck with an almost-panic attack. I thought I was going to die at that point, my heart pounding out of my chest, thinking that nobody would be around to help me if I did have an attack. I really felt the world closing in on me despite how open and expansive it was. But somehow I shut my mind off and kept it moving??

I kept telling myself it was OK to stop at each aid station. That with the (lack of) training I had, this could be enough. And I’d be OK with it. But each time I hung out at the aid station, I’d replenish my body with fluids and say to myself, “Well…the next aid station is only 6 miles away” followed by “At this point it’s only 2 miles over your first ultramarathon,” (which was 30 miles), “why not just go a little further?” and lastly at Mile 41.5 “Welp. You might as well finish”. In the last half of the 50 miles, when the race really began, my mind meandered between absolute nothingness, running blank miles (as I like to call them) to the silly goal of getting home at a decent time to Gianna to spend time with her before she flies back to Oakland the next day. But what I found myself ultimately doing, was staying present for the duration of the course. I was open to stopping, curious about how far I could go, but grounded in the moment without any stray thoughts that could deter me from movement. I never dwelled on how difficult it was, or the distance I had left. I was only concerned with seeing where I was going.

The sun was setting fast and my favorite time of day was coming up. The time where the moon and the sun share the same horizon, transforming blue skies into deep pinks and purples. A soothing gradient that stops me in my tracks and calms every nerve in my body, reminding me of how lucky I am, how lucky WE are, to be here on this Earth. This marks the start of a new chapter to my day, thus, a second wind to get my ass to the finish because “I might as well”. I got to the Top of Bulldog where the rocks stand like monuments that would compel someone to imbue some sort of spirituality unto them, kissing the dusky sky. I stood there breathing in the warm night breeze, seeing for miles around me the endless expanse of this celestial body. I turned on my headlamp for the second time that day and began moving. But like old tales where the sight of the moon changes humans into otherworldly creatures, I morphed into this Little Gremlin, breathing heavily, back hunched over, arms positioned like a T-Rex, shuffling along the last 7ish miles, making wild noises.

I saw a rattlesnake for the first time. Rather, it saw me and all I heard was a sudden rattle and the loudest hiss. Despite my legs being ground to dust, I did the thing that cats do when they’re scared, you know, when their whole bodies just lift off the floor? That was me. And I yelped. It’s rare for me to be scared, I’m typically good at keeping my cool until I have a private moment. But that encounter terrified me and woke up my body from autopilot. Now I had to soldier on with the added stress of being unalived by an ungodly serpent. How metal.

In my Little Gremlin state, I grunted and huffed with every painful step I took as the trail wound downwards into a steep descent. The creek crossing this time was freezing, but didn’t dampen my determination. I could faintly hear the people at the Finish Line hooting and hollering 2 miles away. As I reached flat ground I kept running towards the distant cheers, never stopping. “Straight ahead to those lights” someone in the dark said. “Make a right here” someone else said robotically. But as soon as they saw who it was they yelled “OMG IT’S ANTHONY!!!” It’s me! I’m alive! I’m alive?? Holy shit, the Finish Line is right there? The last time I saw it was at 6a. You mean to tell me, I’ve been on my feet for 13.5 hours with just the clothes on my back, this running belt with two flasks, battling the elements, touching trees (I touched so many), rolling my ankles, shooting pickle juice, stuffing my face with everything I could touch, having deep convos with complete strangers, staring up hopelessly at peaks, looking back at valleys I’ve traversed, fighting for every inch that my feet carried me over, missing my girlfriend a bunch, drew imaginary power from friends I saw for fleeting moments, thinking nothing thoughts, overwhelmed by everything thoughts, huffing, puffing, grunting, cramping, contorted, dizzied, hungry, burnt, sweaty, salty, cold, hot, and…and now it’s OVER?? Yes. It is me. That’s who I was for 50 miles. That’s who I was crossing the Finish Line as. Someone who was curious, someone who fucked around (playfully!) and found out (what I was capable of!), and someone who finally felt fully present in the moment which allowed me to accept the joy and pain of every step I took in those 13.5 hrs.

As if other races hadn’t already shown me who I was, what I could do, or what my body was capable of. This one brought me back to myself. It solidified my belief that I do my best when I relieve myself of the pressure. That my whole being expands in play. That I, quite literally, can and will be driven by curiosity. That there is no one else I should compare to other than an older version of me. And like that rattlesnake that scared the absolute shit out of me, I will continue to shed those versions of me and become anew with each new challenge.

I was having lunch with my mom which (predictably) devolved into us raising our voices at each other over a wild disagreement. And typically, whenever this happens, I get painfully upset. Any little argument with my mom generally brings up feelings of inadequacy and invalidation which leads to teeth grinding, jaw-clenching frustration (What was the relationship between you and your mom like growing up? A therapist would probably ask at this point). But this wasn’t the funny thing (despite me laughing hysterically at how absurd this all is; something I typically do like say when a very racist thing occurs).

No. The funny thing was this:

After venting to my girlfriend about all of this and saying “I love you” to practice gratitude, I did not feel the joy that I thought this would bring. And after going on a 6 mile run, an act that typically clears my head and provides some sort of somatic therapy, I also did not feel the joy that this would bring.

I was perplexed. And utterly bummed. I was so upset that this argument with my mom could render the two things I love absolutely useless when I needed it. I hated that she had this effect (Did you feel seen by your mom? inquires the therapist). My mind ran wild with self-pathologizing, immediately trying to suss out why I can’t get over this what is wrong with you, are you not being clear enough with her, are you enough, remember when you cried so hard when she left you with grandma for the week, remember when you fell asleep by the door waiting for her to pick you up but she never did, do you feel abandoned, is this why you’re getting so upset, what is wrong with you, you are an inadequate son, that’s what

However, after realizing how none of these things made me feel the least bit better, I looked at my girlfriend and said, “I feel so weird because the two things that would bring me joy: me loving you and running, does not make me feel any better.” And we both just looked at each other and agreed that “that’s OK”. And for some reason, after vocalizing this, I felt a great sense of relief.

Identifying my joylessness helped alleviate me of all the stress I was feeling from not being able to resolve my frustrations. The allowance I gave myself was empowering. It was like a switch turned on when I said this out loud. I learned something new about myself, a new method of dealing.

All it took was for me to say “it’s OK.”

P.S. Shout out to my girlfriend who did not feel any type of way when I told her that even an “I love you” didn’t make me feel better.

Ugh, I love her

.