songs of experience

My husband, Dave, and I just regained our crowns as Uwharrie Mountain Run 8-mile champions. Of course, we both know this is the wimpy race - Uwharrie also offers a 20 and a 40-miler. Entering the eight is sort of like choosing to race the fun run (with the wee ones) in a road race. On the ride back home after the race, we decided we can’t really call ourselves trail runners until we finish a race long enough to require a fuel belt. Also, we don’t have the requisite gear. Neither of us own trail shoes (much less trail racing shoes, like the new Inov8 that Dave’s friend, Jason, was sporting on the start line). We don’t own any shorts with fancy, secret compartments - nor do we have the goo to put in them. We’ve never purchased a powdered drink mix (unless you count TANG when I made Russian Tea for Christmas one year) and the only wick-away shirts we have are the ones we get in our race packets.

I guess we’re just a couple of leftover cross-country runners. Inevitably, every year one of us will throw out the idea of running the 20-miler. We’re warm and dry in the car, heading out of the forest, our bellies full of trail mix and fig newtons … and we remember those 20-mile runners still have a dozen hills left to climb. The 40-milers have 6 more hours of daylight to complete. “Maybe next year,” we say, but both know we’ll stick to the wimpy race.

When I asked Dave why he prefers the 8 to the 20 or 40, he said, “I’d rather run fast than far.” Ideally, I’d want to run fast AND far … but there just aren’t enough hours in the day. We had to be back home in time for our 8 year-old’s YMCA basketball game. It was picture day. I guess the most important qualification for being a hard-core trail runner is time.

Maybe next year.