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.

I had a Robert Frost “two roads diverged” moment this week-end.

‘Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
and sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood”

Well, I actually didn’t stand that long because it was cold as crap on Saturday.

Here’s what happened … I had signed myself up for a 9-mile race (to begin at 9:00am) and my daughter was to run the 5k race on her own at 10:00am – after I was already on the trail. Stupidly, I didn’t allow for enough time, got lost, and ended up screaming at my kid in the car on the way to the race. Four minutes before the 9-mile start, I frantically laced up my shoes, pinned my race number on – crooked, squatted to pee (in nearly full view) by my car, then sprinted to the start-line without attending to my daughter or the needs of her race. I just left her standing there beside the car.

On the line, as everyone was bobbing up and down to stay warm, blowing on their hands, stripping off their sweats, etc. … I half-heartedly participated in all the last-minute rituals. I looked around to check out who my competition was, chatted nervously like I’ve done in countless races over the last 25 years. It was no different. I would have run hard and stayed focused and beat everyone I was supposed to beat. I would have done my running job well. It was no different … but I was different.

I was here with my daughter! I had signed my sweetie up for her first 5k trail race so I could share my love of the trails with her, yet I left her alone in a parking lot after having just screamed at her in the car. I turned to my friend, Julee, and said, “I think I’m going to switch to the 5k and run with my daughter.”

Julee, also a mom, didn’t miss a beat, “You should do what you need to do. How old is your daughter?”
“Twelve,” I said.
“She’ll be fine by herself.”
“I know … but I won’t.”

I ran back to the car. My girl was still standing there – in her striped winter cap and gloves, with her number pinned on (crooked) to an old sweatshirt of mine. She looked so much younger than she did just four minutes ago. She looked like she still needed her mom.

“Why’d you come back?” she asked.
“I wanted to run with you.”
“Oh, good.”
“I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“It’s okay; you were nervous about your race.”
“That’s no excuse,” I declared … then said, “Its freezing; let’s go see if they have any hot coffee.”
They did! And some cocoa too… which made me smile when I saw the faintest hint of a chocolate mustache on my little girl/big girl’s face.

When will she be too old for me to wipe it off?

(more…)

Do many of you have races out there that “you’ve always wanted to run?” I do. The London marathon is one of them [which I'll never run, because I found out the hard way that I am no marathoner]; Bay-to-Breakers is another [which I do intend to run someday ... in a costume]; Joan Benoit-Samuelson’s race up in Maine [out of sheer respect for my hero]; the world Master’s track championships [maybe at age 50, so I can have something to look forward to]; and the Hood-to-Coast relay … which I did do, finally, this past week-end!

What a spectacular event it was. For those of you who don’t know of this race, let me explain. Beginning early Friday morning from the base of Mount Hood in Oregon, 1,000 teams of 12 runners start the race in waves going off every 15 minutes. My team, The Roosters (comprised of mostly UNC alumni), was in the “fast” wave because they were 4th overall last year, which meant we began our odyssey at 7:00pm on Friday night. As soon as runner #1 is off the line, the 6-runner vans zoom down the highway to the first exchange zone (van #2 heads down further to the 6-7 exchange zone – some 2 hours away). Are you with me so far? The logistics of this race are mind-boggling. After all 6 runners in van #1 complete their legs, of distances varying from 3.3 to 7.8 miles, they hand-off to van #2’s first runner [the 6-7 exchange]. Next, van #1 drives on past the 7,8,9,10,11,12 legs and parks at the 12-13 exchange in order to rest, refuel, use the porta-potties [called Honey Buckets in Oregon], and hopefully catch a few crucial Z’s. Here, at midnight, you will see hundreds of runners curled up in cramped carseats or camped out in sleeping bags; we called it the Refugee Camp.

Throughout the race, night-runners are required to wear reflective vests and headlamps but the roads are not closed to traffic … so, in addition to sleep deprivation and hammered quads from the steep descent down Mount Hood, you have to contend with oncoming headlights and mack trucks roaring by, inches from your left shoulder. But you don’t care. You’re in the zone. You’re coffee-buzzed, team-jacked, zombie-like … “Must. Beat. Rabid. Dog.” (a team of mostly Wake Forest alumni).

This goes on throughout the night and into the next morning until each team completes 36 legs covering a total of 197 miles and ending in Seaside, Oregon. It took The Roosters 18 hours, 28 minutes and 44 seconds (with a team average of 5:39 per mile) and we were 5th overall … beaten in the home-stretch by a very rabid dog … grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! I do hate to lose – hate it – especially to a team who paints, “Carolina Sucks” on their windows … but I loved every minute in the van and on the road with those guys, my fellow roosters. You might not believe this, but at the exchange zone of my last leg, as I was waiting to get the stick (a plastic slap wristband) I heard a Rooster crow at a nearby farm seconds before I saw my runner on the horizon. “Err e Err er Errrrrrrr!” it crowed. We’ll get you next year, Rabid Dog.