By Dylan Brann
I fell down into the lawn chair that had been graciously placed behind me, and immediately felt the last 90 miles of pavement running hit my legs. Gary Allen shoved one of the mashed potato burritos I'd prepared for myself into my hand and told me to get to it. My father rushed over, and Gary told him to start massaging my quads, as I'd been complaining that they felt like solid cement. Without skipping a beat, my dad reached down and with all the strength in his hands, squeezed my thigh. I yelled out loud and dropped my burrito to the ground. The blast of pain was strong enough to make my vision go white for a split second, like a bolt of lightning had flashed right in front of me. The intensity of that pain was matched only by the amount of surprise shown on my dad's face, and he let go and jumped backward all in one motion. My head fell back, and I looked up at the sky. I like to think that what I was thinking at that moment was: "He just helped me more than he knows."
Bill Brann ran for Ellsworth High School from '74-'77, in an era that would see the burgeoning running careers of such legends as Chris Holt, and Mike Westphal and his brothers. In my dad's senior year of high school, his team was the fastest cross-country team in the state. A plaque still hangs on the walls of Ellsworth High with his photo, honoring his induction into their Running Hall of Fame. Chris Holt's eyes still get wide as he tells me, "Your dad and them, they were GODS!"
Bill Brann's Hall of Fame plaque
I began running in 5th grade for my grammar school cross country team. I had to be like him. Was it even an option? Like an arrow let loose from Apollo's bow, my mark had been set, and I followed my course with great determination. But even back at the age of whatever a 5th grader is, I also knew that in order to follow this path, I'd have to work very hard and run very fast.
For a little while, I did do so, but then I made friends with artistic, free-thinking weirdos. I had my heart captured by music and the performing thereof. I had my heart captured by girls and by boys. I understand now how continuing to run would have complimented my new self, but at the time, I didn't see where it fit in. I didn't want to compete in races on the weekends, I wanted to watch dark French art films with my friends, listen to Nick Cave, take psychedelics and write songs and poetry. This might sound like typical youthful faze stuff, but I've managed to carry on in this way until the present day, just with less poetry.
In my mid-twenties, I experienced some drastic life changes, and suddenly I was left with a certain void in my universe. My closest relative and closest friend, an aunt of mine, my Lori, saw to it that I not sit around staring into this void, and gave me "Eat and Run" by Scott Jurek to read. Read it, I did, and through it, I discovered the world of ultra running. I should stop writing at this moment and call the rest history, but I'd rather go on to explain how very, very deeply this new world impacted me. It was like hearing the Sex Pistols for the first time; I simply knew with absolute certainty that this is where I belonged. Bearded long-hairs ran practically naked over mountains for hundreds of miles. Women defied all societal expectations and oppressions to run freely PAST the men, roaring with perseverance in races that took days. Indigenous people ran for dozens of miles in celebration of the survival of their culture and spirit. Children joined parents as they crossed finish lines in tears, having achieved what they could never have been able to even dream of. Someone called "Jam Jam" wore hilarious outfits and reported on it all. Top tier ultra runners joined everyone else to run a mile whilst drinking beers at every quarter. The elders of our world, with wrinkled skin and gray hair, traversed mountain ranges I'd only seen in National Geographic. Split-based pavement pounding could be replaced by mountain running, a thing that attracts me the way a Hendrix guitar solo does. Radical notes of boulder-bounding and bombing down mountainsides ring in my mind like the screeching string-bends of the Star-Spangled Banner as "played" by Jimi and the Experience.
It still evokes emotions I can't even identify. The soul of ultra running is ineffable, and it brings tears to my eyes thinking of how fortunate I am to have been turned on to ultra/trail running, and to be able to participate in it. It is a world that blends my two selves, from past to present, with its soul, grit, and inspiration. A salient rendering of all I hold dear.
So it was that on August 17th of 2018, my father and I were able to join in mutual admiration for one another, celebrating so much of what we have been and had become. The Great Cranberry Island 100 Miler was a humbling experience, one I almost gave up on halfway through due to knees the size of grapefruits, but one that I will always remember as the time my dad got to be there for me yet again, encouraging me to do that thing so simple yet so meaningful… To run. And so I did, and so we do, onward and upward. Excuse us while we kiss the sky.
Love to all, and to you, Dad.
Great Cranberry Island 100
About the Author
Dylan Brann is a Mount Desert Island native, a trail/ultra runner, carpenter, burrito enthusiast, and 'The Office' addict.
