LAzarus Lake shifted in a straight-backed chair, searching for a suitable position to soothe his frayed nerves. After days of steep climbs and steep descents, West Virginia’s Capone Valley is a welcome oasis. Fortunately, the world is flat again, if only for a moment. Somewhere out there, the Allegheny Mountains await. But as the mastermind behind grueling endurance tests like the Barkley Marathon and the Backyard Ultra Rally, Raz doesn’t want to think about it now; the pizzeria is filled with smoke.
A 20-year-old hurried over from behind to apologize, while the man sitting next to us still stared at us. He had been speechless ever since Raz told him he had just walked 17 miles over Timber Ridge to get here. Pulling his farmer’s hat down beneath his narrowed eyes, the man grinned, rubbed his chin, and finally said, “Again?”
“Yeah, I started in Delaware.”
“I will,” the man said, adjusting his hat. “Then where are you going?”
“San Francisco.” Laz gives us a pause until the man’s eyes widen, then adds: “Don’t everyone travel across the country by the time they’re 70?”
Gary Cantrell, also known as Lazarus Lake or Laz, completed his first transcontinental hike in 2018. 126 days walking from Newport, RI to Newport, OR. This year, the day before April Fools’ Day, he embarked on his second transgender challenge, traveling from Fenwick Island, Delaware, to San Francisco. But now there’s a different tone; the walk goes against medical advice.
Last fall, a routine checkup revealed a 90% blockage in the carotid artery. Despite being warned that he could suffer a stroke at any time, he increased his training mileage. He was taken for a heart test before surgery, and he told doctors, “If I don’t pass, I’m just going to have to start walking sooner.” Essentially, nothing short of death can stop Lazcon 2024.
It’s now seven o’clock at the pizza place, and Laz has finally finished his 24-inch Meat Lover’s Pizza. I couldn’t help but shake my head as he walked out to smoke again. Having been there for 10 days and spending two years writing a book about him, I knew he had numerous health issues: fused vertebrae in his neck, Graves’ disease, ulcerated toenails, a blocked femoral artery in his left leg. But I also came to understand that he had never encountered a greater obstacle than the open road.
Back at the four-room Firefly Inn, he spent two hours methodically documenting Day 15 for his online fans. His posts include historical markers, geological formations and features along the way. One day a new pair of jeans appeared on the lawn—his size—and he kept them. Another day, he discovered that he had been wearing his shorts inside out since morning.
His followers also track his mileage and know his mileage is going down. Laz hopes to run 23 miles a day and complete it by his birthday in August. But the numbers now point more towards October. Oct. 19 was his Big’s Backyard Satellite Championship — a tough one in which he drew a walk. Earlier this week he wrote: “Can’t support it. I have to go faster or I will eventually have to stop.
Two days after writing this article, it seems likely that he will do just that.
Just outside of Berryville, Virginia, the day begins with a deadly dance on a shoulderless trail at sunrise. Raz was flying around the grass, dodging cars, and after 10 hours of battling relentless headwinds, he was only 15 miles off the road. It’s five o’clock – time has stopped – and I wonder if he’ll keep trying. Instead, he leaned back on his cattle prod—finished—his face a mask of dry, cracked leather.
That night, he groaned in pain and twitched under the sheets until the alarm clock went off at five o’clock. Pale and puffy, he sat staring blankly at his box of pedicure tools. He might as well take a day off, he muttered. It was the first time since I’d known him that he was quiet. We just looked at each other. Then the nerves in his back tightened and he stood up from his chair. Somehow, at this moment, he was reborn. His face filled with blood, his eyes brightened, and an hour later we were on the highway heading to West Virginia. He ran as fast as I’ve ever seen him run. “Somewhere out there lies ‘so-called Henry,'” he said, pointing upwards with his stick. Since we hadn’t discovered the majestic Allegheny Mountains, he joked every day that they probably didn’t exist.
The next morning, he felt better and almost giddy. It’s 5 a.m. and he’s shuffling and mumbling in the dark. “Feeling sleepy this morning,” he wrote in a brief post. “Oh no. Oh my gosh, I’m in West Virginia. A quick pee, and then he opened the Dr. Pepper. He took a few sips, took a drag on the cigarette, and then checked his left little toe. A throat diamond-shaped The same thick nails were purple underneath. (He cut a hole in the shoe so it could stick out.) On the ball of his foot, he taped a small gray neuroma pad the size of a dime. It relieved some of the pain, but when he put his socks and shoes on, “it fucking hurt.” In the car, he drank a Bang energy drink, 16 ounces of Speed, a legal, calcium-containing liquid.
But there are always surprises along the way. A quick left turn reveals the ground tilts nine degrees toward the sky. This is the base of a multi-level climb called Timber Ridge, where Raz stopped 10 times. “Oh my God,” he said, pointing to a fallen rock a thousand feet below. “When we started, I thought that was the top.” He leaned on his knees and stretched his back. He wanted to smoke a cigarette but refused, saying, “I don’t smoke in the mountains.”
The rest of the day went like any other: a sip of Gatorade at 10, a chocolate milkshake for lunch around two, about five cigarette breaks, and the grand finale at five with the coldest thing in the fridge Dr Pepper. Finally arriving in Capone Valley, our senses were filled with the smells of pizza and ranch. Raz looked up to the horizon. “Is this what’s called Henry?”
In his eyes, they were more than just a mountain range; they were a new physical geography province. He traveled from the coastal plains to the Piedmont Plateau, climbed the Blue Ridge, and entered the Appalachian Ridge and Valley region. Next up: Allegheny. If they exist.
In many ways, hiking this country is a journey through past and present, life and death. Rock cuts along the roadside reveal deep red bands of Devonian shale—remnants of a time when shallow seas covered West Virginia. Guardrail terminals range from early models that can puncture a car to newer versions designed to absorb impacts. Road dead matter decomposes and scatters in various forms, and wildflowers burst open to breathe on the pavement. The highway doesn’t buzz, but thunders – a rush of hot air as a semi-truck drives by – sometimes knocking you over, sometimes sucking you in.
In 2021, 7,443 pedestrians were killed by drivers in the United States. Raz was clearly aware of the danger. He walked around in a bright yellow vest, proudly waving to road crews who wore the same clothes — the “brotherhood of vests,” he said. He admits that the only thing that scares him is “not getting it done.”
This singularity of focus led to his most grumpy moments when movement and lost time caused him to stray from goal. The centerpiece of his walk, however, was an 18-mile detour south into Oklahoma to Oologah Lake, a memorial to Alluwe, a once-thriving oil town that sank into the water . As a young boy, he watched the Army Corps of Engineers flood the city and his parents’ and grandparents’ old homes. His earliest memories are of hunting arrowheads there with his father, Frank. Frank now rests a few miles away next to Raz’s mother, Erlene, who died in 2022. Although Raz spent most of his life in Tennessee, Raz will always be an Oklahoman. Country was branded into the leather of his belt.
On my last day with him, I couldn’t help but stand for a moment as Raz slowly walked up the ramp. He said he’s ready to take on West Virginia’s Corridor H, a raised four-lane stretch that climbs to the top of South Branch Mountain. Timber Ridge seemed like just a warm-up race.
The last pitch is so huge that it stretches like a highway to heaven until it gently winds around a grove of trees. I followed an old road that roughly paralleled the corridor and park for a few miles. From there, I can safely wait for a text message if he needs anything before the next close. Across six Central Park-sized patches of grass, the corridor guardrail forms its own gray horizon.
I sat there for an hour. Raz was nowhere to be seen. My stomach began to struggle. I realized this mountain was too much. After endless walking day after day, it was too much. It was too much for his condition. I started searching for maps. Maybe there’s a way around it. Then, there’s a seemingly motionless yellow blob, like tennis ball fluff cast across nature’s vast canvas of browns and greens. I narrowed my eyes. This is Raz, advancing slowly under the blue ocean sky.
It was almost five o’clock when he reached the top of the mountain. On the next 30 yards of descent, he paused twice, then limped forward until he braced his hands on the hood – head bowed – the tip of his cigarette glowing bright red in the wind . I grabbed the coldest Dr. Pepper from the slush in the refrigerator and watched his face as he sat down to take a swig. His eyes came alive like a child’s as he pointed west. “Look,” he said. “They are no longer charged.” In the distance, a faint mountain range cut through the sky. Allegheny family.
