There's something about a weekend without a trail race, or trail run for that matter, that pales in comparison to last weekend. While I look forward to the preschool bake sale and all its preparation for Saturday and Sunday, knowing I won't be heading to the Whitewater Center for some running in the woods makes me feel a bit glum.
Last Friday, I wasn't the least bit glum. Trail Pal and I headed to back to the mountain cabin for a Saturday morning 25K at W. Kerr Scott Dam & Reservoir Visitor Center in Wilkesboro. It was around 6:30pm when we arrived in the foothills of the NC mountains, but we decided to do a quick race site drive-by. In the dark, we could hardly tell what we were in for, but we had a good idea of where we would be heading early in the morning. Getting lost, or sidetracked, on our way was not going to happen.
We made a quick pit stop at the Lowe's grocery store, the last possible place to pick up anything we might need. With much of the parkway closed and its amenities shut-down for the winter, it truly is the last place to stop before winding our way up the mountain to the cabin. We got the essentials. Pasta, sauce, salad, muffins, and ice cream. A pint per person is most necessary for pre-race eating.
We carbed and ice creamed up, then headed to bed. Actually, let me back up here a minute.
The cabin. Since our last race visit a few things had been added. A fully usable potty. Running water for the sinks. And a family of small critters. At some point during our pasta dinner a tiny mouse scampered his way from one side of the kitchen to the other, then hunkered its body down to slide under the stove. I had my back to the open area, so I missed the whole episode, but I felt its creepy wake for the rest of the evening.
Including when I went into my room to bed down for the night. As I tried to enjoy a quiet moment of reading How to Generate Values in Young Children by Sue Riley, I was interrupted by a more than faint scritch scritch scritch on the closet door. At first I tried to imagine it was simply a tiny mouse, more frightened of me than I could be of him, no worries. Then I thought about his entire family living in the closet, so very hungry from the lack of food as cold weather had officially rested upon the area. Then I thought of the mouse family, so very hungry, and so very angry that they have been disturbed, and they were fervently trying to claw their way out of the closet. To get me. I couldn't seem to shake the idea that I was going to be awakened in the middle of the night by a pack of wild-eyed mice on my face.
So I moved to the couch.
Before I knew it, alarms were chiming and it was time to get ready. I ate my Grape-Nuts, drank a reasonable amount of coffee, and dressed in my colorful layers of hodgepodge running gear. The temperature in the car read 26 (snowflake light clearly lit). I believed it. It was C.O.L.D. Too cold to belabor the point that I was a bit out of whack, bodily, from having slept like a coiled snake on one end of the sofa. So cold in fact, picking up the race packet and having a brief wait before start is a bit of a blur. I remember the porta-potty. I remember thinking, man, I can't stand using a porta-potty. But not a lot of other facts were committed to memory. Too cold to create a new brain wrinkle, I suppose.
Except one particular moment. About a minute before the race started, the Race Director mentioned the trickiness of measuring a trail. Our 15.625 miles is actually 17.25. Miles. I'd pretty well wrapped my head and body around 15ish miles, but 17.25. I thought, well, I have a choice here. I can obsess over not being prepared for 17ish, or I can run along and know that 17 is 26.2 preparation. (Not that I'm preparing for that.)
And then it was time to go. And I forgot about the surprise additional miles. And I ran. And I do mean, ran. I was pleased with my speed. Pleased with how well I felt. Pleased with the invigorating chilly air. Pleased with having trained on a comparable trail. Pleased with the woodsie smells and the fallen leaves smattering the trails. Up and down they rolled. Before I knew it, the 10Kers broke off, and I kept running. And then it happened.
Somewhere around 9 or 10 miles, there was a turn around spot to head back on the same trail. At this point I tried to open my Clif Bloks. My fingers, gloved the entire time, were still so cold, I could barely get a grip on the package. After far too many moments of struggling, I finally got it open. I also decided to add to my frustration by trying to remove my top layer--a zipped jacket. My hands, still paralyzed by the cold, fumbled with the zipper. By the time I got it off, I decided I was now sweating and cold, so I wanted it back on.
As much as I tried to pick my pace back up, it seemed my momentum and sheer drive from exhilaration was not coming back. Heading on the same trail I had blazed through going the opposite direction, seemed harder to run, and harder to find a rhythmic steady click. So I ran in quick bursts, then slow-running trudgery. Speed bursts, beat-down trotting. Back and forth, up and down.
Finally, like music to my ears, I heard the sounds of cheering. The trails were not marked, so there were no mileage signs, no white flags to indicate go this way. So I have little comprehension of where I was or when I was there. But I heard the voices and figured we were within 2 miles of the end.
We were. And then the trail snaked back into the woods for another three miles. The sounds of cheering, fading fast. At the last aid station they said we were two miles to the finish. I don't think they were telling us the truth.
Last Friday, I wasn't the least bit glum. Trail Pal and I headed to back to the mountain cabin for a Saturday morning 25K at W. Kerr Scott Dam & Reservoir Visitor Center in Wilkesboro. It was around 6:30pm when we arrived in the foothills of the NC mountains, but we decided to do a quick race site drive-by. In the dark, we could hardly tell what we were in for, but we had a good idea of where we would be heading early in the morning. Getting lost, or sidetracked, on our way was not going to happen.
We made a quick pit stop at the Lowe's grocery store, the last possible place to pick up anything we might need. With much of the parkway closed and its amenities shut-down for the winter, it truly is the last place to stop before winding our way up the mountain to the cabin. We got the essentials. Pasta, sauce, salad, muffins, and ice cream. A pint per person is most necessary for pre-race eating.
We carbed and ice creamed up, then headed to bed. Actually, let me back up here a minute.
The cabin. Since our last race visit a few things had been added. A fully usable potty. Running water for the sinks. And a family of small critters. At some point during our pasta dinner a tiny mouse scampered his way from one side of the kitchen to the other, then hunkered its body down to slide under the stove. I had my back to the open area, so I missed the whole episode, but I felt its creepy wake for the rest of the evening.
Including when I went into my room to bed down for the night. As I tried to enjoy a quiet moment of reading How to Generate Values in Young Children by Sue Riley, I was interrupted by a more than faint scritch scritch scritch on the closet door. At first I tried to imagine it was simply a tiny mouse, more frightened of me than I could be of him, no worries. Then I thought about his entire family living in the closet, so very hungry from the lack of food as cold weather had officially rested upon the area. Then I thought of the mouse family, so very hungry, and so very angry that they have been disturbed, and they were fervently trying to claw their way out of the closet. To get me. I couldn't seem to shake the idea that I was going to be awakened in the middle of the night by a pack of wild-eyed mice on my face.
So I moved to the couch.
Before I knew it, alarms were chiming and it was time to get ready. I ate my Grape-Nuts, drank a reasonable amount of coffee, and dressed in my colorful layers of hodgepodge running gear. The temperature in the car read 26 (snowflake light clearly lit). I believed it. It was C.O.L.D. Too cold to belabor the point that I was a bit out of whack, bodily, from having slept like a coiled snake on one end of the sofa. So cold in fact, picking up the race packet and having a brief wait before start is a bit of a blur. I remember the porta-potty. I remember thinking, man, I can't stand using a porta-potty. But not a lot of other facts were committed to memory. Too cold to create a new brain wrinkle, I suppose.
Except one particular moment. About a minute before the race started, the Race Director mentioned the trickiness of measuring a trail. Our 15.625 miles is actually 17.25. Miles. I'd pretty well wrapped my head and body around 15ish miles, but 17.25. I thought, well, I have a choice here. I can obsess over not being prepared for 17ish, or I can run along and know that 17 is 26.2 preparation. (Not that I'm preparing for that.)
And then it was time to go. And I forgot about the surprise additional miles. And I ran. And I do mean, ran. I was pleased with my speed. Pleased with how well I felt. Pleased with the invigorating chilly air. Pleased with having trained on a comparable trail. Pleased with the woodsie smells and the fallen leaves smattering the trails. Up and down they rolled. Before I knew it, the 10Kers broke off, and I kept running. And then it happened.
Somewhere around 9 or 10 miles, there was a turn around spot to head back on the same trail. At this point I tried to open my Clif Bloks. My fingers, gloved the entire time, were still so cold, I could barely get a grip on the package. After far too many moments of struggling, I finally got it open. I also decided to add to my frustration by trying to remove my top layer--a zipped jacket. My hands, still paralyzed by the cold, fumbled with the zipper. By the time I got it off, I decided I was now sweating and cold, so I wanted it back on.
As much as I tried to pick my pace back up, it seemed my momentum and sheer drive from exhilaration was not coming back. Heading on the same trail I had blazed through going the opposite direction, seemed harder to run, and harder to find a rhythmic steady click. So I ran in quick bursts, then slow-running trudgery. Speed bursts, beat-down trotting. Back and forth, up and down.
Finally, like music to my ears, I heard the sounds of cheering. The trails were not marked, so there were no mileage signs, no white flags to indicate go this way. So I have little comprehension of where I was or when I was there. But I heard the voices and figured we were within 2 miles of the end.
We were. And then the trail snaked back into the woods for another three miles. The sounds of cheering, fading fast. At the last aid station they said we were two miles to the finish. I don't think they were telling us the truth.
And at this point, there was an us. Me. The guy with the iPod (don't know that it was an iPod--we'll just call it that. What I do know is it was music, and it was loud.) in front of me. And the guy in the orange jacket behind me. I was desperate to pass the iPod guy. At every burst of energy I would work very hard to get around him, and he worked very hard on not letting me.
I don't remember when it happened, but it finally did. Orange jacket and I got around iPod, and I started to recognize the area. We were about a mile from the finish. And then it really happened. I tripped on a root. It was a trip that 2 miles into the race you have all your faculties and balance. At 16 miles, I had nothing. So I tripped, thinking, Uh-oh, I'm tripping. Uh-oh, I'm falling. I landed on both knees and both palms, and just as quickly as I fell, I got back up again. And within a few feet, it happened. Again. Root. Trip. Uh-oh. I'm falling. Orange jacket helped me up and said, There's no way I'm passing you, go!
So I went. Just before I emerged from the woods, Trail Pal came running along. Having had a super-speedy run (and placing 4th overall!), she was finished. She took the picture of me above. So glad I still felt like smiling. I think I smiled all the way to the finish.
I don't remember when it happened, but it finally did. Orange jacket and I got around iPod, and I started to recognize the area. We were about a mile from the finish. And then it really happened. I tripped on a root. It was a trip that 2 miles into the race you have all your faculties and balance. At 16 miles, I had nothing. So I tripped, thinking, Uh-oh, I'm tripping. Uh-oh, I'm falling. I landed on both knees and both palms, and just as quickly as I fell, I got back up again. And within a few feet, it happened. Again. Root. Trip. Uh-oh. I'm falling. Orange jacket helped me up and said, There's no way I'm passing you, go!
So I went. Just before I emerged from the woods, Trail Pal came running along. Having had a super-speedy run (and placing 4th overall!), she was finished. She took the picture of me above. So glad I still felt like smiling. I think I smiled all the way to the finish.
And every time I've thought about it since, I can't help but grin.
17.25 miles in 3:16:21.9.
17.25 miles in 3:16:21.9.
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