Ultrarunning Gets Younger – and Faster

Even by the standards of college students, Krupicka is more than a little different. He majored in philosophy at CC. And physics. And returned a fifth year to pick up another degree in geology. He had a prestigious science scholarship on the first go-round but was looking to save money that fifth year, so he ended up crashing in odd places. He slept for months under the half-lofted dorm bed of Julian Boggs, a cross-country teammate; second semester he moved into the closet of another friend. Campus gossip about such exploits is probably how the Krupicka legend got started, the lurid tales of this stripped-down, super-freaky neo-hippie who lives on air, owns no furniture and runs barefoot across the West, seeking to inspire the masses to rise up against the evils of the Industrial Revolution.

There are, Krupicka acknowledges, some misperceptions about him floating around. His minimalist approach to running, for example. He doesn't go in for a lot of gear or even socks, but that's a matter of common sense, not affectation: Who needs the extra weight? Most of the time, he doesn't even carry water on runs of three hours or less, because he doesn't want his body screaming for hydration every few minutes. Yes, he runs barefoot sometimes, but not as much as people think. Okay, five miles barefoot last night on a flat path, but that was after 23 miles shod, and not because of some crazy Tarzan image he's trying to promote.

"It strengthens the feet," he insists. "It allows me to wear more minimal shoes, which just feel better. I'm not anti-technology. Just anti-gear."

It's true that the crash pad he shares with ultrarunner Kyle Skaggs has a certain paucity of furniture — futon, no frame. But that means there's less to haul around when it's time to relocate. He's also been known to camp out before a major race, and he spent the night before his first Leadville 100 in a public restroom. But he's hardly the only ultrarunner to practice thrift.

"A long time ago, I decided there was no point in renting a hotel room when I'm traveling," he says. "There's lots of places you can throw a sleeping bag. Sleeping on the ground isn't a big deal for me. If you don't think it's going to affect your performance, it won't."

On close analysis, much of what passes for Krupicka's fabled whole-grain nuttiness — his love of simplicity and natural foods and minimalism, his fervent scrimping, his disdain for overstimulated joggers chatting on cell phones or wired into their iPods — turns out to be closely allied with the values he learned as a child in the self-reliant, rustic northeast corner of Nebraska. "The way you're raised ends up shaping your worldview," he declares, "and the way you live is how you act that ethic out."

Krupicka grew up outside Niobrara, on a small family ranch on the bluffs of the Missouri River. His mother, Liz, is a high-school teacher; his father, Ron, for many years directed small-farm energy programs for the nonprofit Center for Rural Affairs. Tony and his two sisters helped with all the chores, including gardening and stocking the root cellar with a dozen different crops.

"It was a simpler lifestyle, focusing on sustainability and living off the land," explains Ron. "We had a big debate, my wife and I, over whether we were going to have a phone. We emphasized reading, and we'd go on a major trip every summer, camping and hiking."

The elder Krupicka remembers his young son sporting a Huck Finn hat and building forts in the woods with an ax he received for Christmas. Then he started running. "There were trails all over the farm," Ron recalls. "He'd use his ax to clear them. He was in cross-country mode at a very early age."

Running was just something he always felt good about, Tony Krupicka says. At eleven, he ran a mile faster than anyone in his class and began scouring thrift stores for running books and magazines. He found a copy of Run to the Top, by New Zealand coach Arthur Lydiard, which advocates 100-mile weeks for serious runners. He also found a magazine that mentioned a marathon held in Okoboji, Iowa, just a few hours' drive from home. After a little wheedling, his parents agreed to let him enter the event.

"When you're that age, it's kind of awkward," he says now. "You're trying to find your place in the world. Anything that gives you any kind of self-esteem, you're going to latch onto it."

By the time he was thirteen, he was running a hundred miles a week. He wasn't quite 5'3" and weighed less than a hundred pounds. Over the next few years, he sprouted like a weed — he's now six feet, 150 pounds — and tried to keep up the same pace, resulting in a series of stress fractures.