Chapter 1 Pot Makes Exercise Fun: The Secret Trend of Getting Lit and Fit Long distance runner, what you standing there for? Get up, get off, get out of the door. -Grateful Dead, "Fire on the Mountain" An Open Secret It''s 2016, six months after the Colfax Marathon, and I think I finally found a sporting event I belong at. After discovering I perhaps wasn''t the only person in the world who enjoyed running high, a quick Google search of the subject revealed there was actually an upcoming gathering of red-eyed athletes in nearby Boulder, Colorado. Well that was easy , I thought to myself. Founded by Jim McAlpine-a man who once gobbled a 100-milligram edible before swimming from San Francisco to Alcatraz-the 420 Games seeks to unite all those lonely stoners who thought they were the only ones who liked to blend weed and workout. It''s also part of a concerted campaign to rebrand cannabis users as healthy and active, instead of the ubiquitous perception that we''re all paralyzed trolls subsisting on 7-Eleven snacks and role-playing video games. In a few years the 420 Games will blossom into a lucrative corner of the industry, but today, in 2016, it''s a simple 4.2-mile "fun run" around the Boulder Reservoir (followed by an avalanche of samples from cannabis companies promoting infused salves, tinctures, and transdermal patches geared toward athletes in need of recovery).

In addition to the 420 Games, the name that keeps popping up in my research is ultramarathon runner Avery Collins. The twenty-five-year-old runner and cannabis enthusiast-known for slaying 100- or even 200-mile footraces across uninhabitable terrain and insane vertical gain-was like catnip to the scores of editors out there looking for clickbait marijuana stories. Ever since Colorado became the first state to legalize recreational cannabis in 2012, the struggling journalism industry discovered readers were hungry for cannabis stories that went beyond "Just Say No" hysteria. At the same time, few journalists knew anything about the plant, or the culture and science surrounding it, so the reporting often skewed toward novelty over substance. As the first (nonretired) professional athlete to proudly admit he regularly consumes cannabis-and to be sponsored by newly legal cannabis companies-Avery Collins''s phone was blowing up with messages from journalists eager to tell the world about this freak of nature. Nearly every story on him carried the sensationalistic tone of Can you believe this person exists?! For most people, Avery''s habit of loading up on weed and running up the side of a mountain for thirty-six hours was as inconceivable as an astronaut eating peyote before liftoff. Admittedly, this is my angle when pitching the story to my editor at The Guardian . I''d been reporting on cannabis for years while pin also balling between topics as a freelance journalist (science, arts, politics, crime, economics), but this will be the first time I''ve come anywhere near a story about sports.

I''ve been an avid runner for three years now, but-even though I had a blast at the Colfax Marathon-I am still very suspicious of the competitive world of pro sports. Part of me is still convinced that the pleasure of running conflicts with any documentation of time, distance, or pace-especially when comparing them with other people''s numbers. Running is my primal playground, and I have been so protective of this space that I rarely even speak about it to anyone, lest they ruin it with talk of weight-loss goals, Instagram selfies, or, dirtiest of all, competition . My joy in discovering an event full of stoner athletes helps me push through these concerns, and I find myself driving out to Boulder to cover the 420 Games, which featured Avery Collins as its special guest athlete, for The Guardian . Like nearly any other day in Boulder, the sky is clear and sunny, with birds singing and a gentle breeze rustling the prairie grass surrounding the reservoir. While there is no on-site consumption allowed, plumes of smoke escape several of the parked vehicles, and no one is shy about eating edibles or hitting vape pens as they attend a pre-run yoga class. My editor wants me to frame this as a new fitness trend, and while it''s certainly increasing in popularity, I quickly discover the word "trend" isn''t appropriate to describe the stoner athletes at the 420 Games. Most of the people I speak with say they''ve been employing a few bong rips or potent edibles as part of their training regimen for years but had no idea anyone else was doing it.

None of them had heard about this on some podcast or blog, unlike barefoot running or parkour, and therefore can''t be accused of jumping on a bandwagon. Though I will eventually learn that, in nearly every sport, cannabis is as commonly consumed as ibuprofen. I spot Avery Collins at the front of the crowd just before the "fun run" begins, his Nordic blond curls framing a bright, smiling face as he waves to the cheering crowd when his name is announced. Though I lose sight of him once the race begins, and despite being in the front of the pack, I never come close enough to even spot Avery until the run is over. Afterward I try approaching him for an interview, but a thick crowd of fans-many of them young women, likely enthralled by his Tiger Beat blue eyes and sharp dimples-have encircled Avery, and I have to wait another two hours for him to meet me at a local brewpub. Sitting across from him, I quickly realize that Avery is nothing like the thick-necked jocks shouting the word "fag!" while tackling me in the high school locker room so many years ago. With his long, unkempt hair, genuine smile, and snow-bro drawl, he would fit in better at a Burning Man dance party than an ESPN awards show. Though we share a counterculture connection, it quickly becomes apparent that we''re freaked out by each other''s lives.

"I rarely leave the mountains, and am almost never in the city," he explains to me, sipping an IPA and watching shoppers pass by on the busy Pearl Street pedestrian mall. "I feel withdrawal if I go more than a few days away from the trails." Despite being surrounded by the gorgeous Flatiron Mountains, and loaded with trails where some of the best runners in the world train, Boulder, with its 107,000 population is still a little too urban for Avery''s taste. Ever since dropping out of college to move to Colorado and become a professional ultrarunner, he and his girlfriend, Sabrina Stanley, an accomplished runner herself, have lived in a trailer home outside the hamlet of Silverton, Colorado, where they maintain a monastic devotion to trail running. For me, running is the treat I reward myself with at the end of a hard day''s work (which mostly involves sitting on my ass and typing). But for Avery, it is the work. On an average day he''ll spend at least two hours stretching and strength training, followed by another six to eight hours running, most of that on rocky trails and some on an inclined treadmill. Along with the time spent preparing and eating three enormous meals, and another two hours of digitally coaching athletes around the world, followed by ten hours of sleep, there really isn''t a minute of Avery''s day that isn''t devoted to the sport of running-the vast majority of which is done in silent isolation.

Noticing my raised eyebrows, he asks me, "Why, what''s your day like?" While Avery enjoys total isolation for weeks on end, I live in a cooperative house with ten roommates in downtown Denver, and will often have dozens of conversations before I even get to my office, where I edit and manage a small arts and literature magazine. In the afternoon I switch to freelance journalism, where I''ll sometimes work until dawn reporting on some political rally or mass shooting, waiting for an editor in London or Australia to give my story a thumbs-up so I can shut down my computer, take an edible, and go for a run. "Man," he says, staring at me with unblinking eyes, "that stresses me out just hearing about it." This takes me aback, considering it''s coming from a man who regularly, voluntarily, inflicts a transcendent level of physical pain-not to mention psychological torture-on himself, running hundreds of miles with no sleep over the course of days, often powering through injuries, hallucinations, and the paranoia of being lost in the wilderness while surrounded by parasites, predators, and the ominous threat of exposure. And he thinks the life of a writer is stressful? Avery says he never feels more balance, peace, and safety than during the hours he spends alone scrambling up the side of a mountain. In fact, in the early days of his racing career Avery would push himself to first place not for competitive reasons, but merely so he could have the woods all to himself. "There''s no other feeling like it in the world," he tells me, his face lighting up when asked to describe the experience of running in nature. "It''s a drug, really.

I recently took five months off from running and experienced the darkest depression of my life. Once I started running again, the feeling was fuuuuuuuucking unreal. I actually cried, it was so beautiful." Though this experience does not encapsulate Avery''s life as a runner. Like anyone who decides to turn their passion into a career, Avery found that a whole lot of baggage comes with the privilege. To attract sponsors, Avery (and any professional runner) must maintain vibrant and popular social media accounts. To do that, he must not only.