“Gatorade. Gatorade!” she gasps at the aid station volunteers. They’re
slow to react.
My bottle is already open and by the time she finds her Gatorade, I’m full.
A little voice whispers into my ear, “just
go.” I throw back a banana and take off. I snap the elastic. Charging the short climb leading back to Huddart, I get into the orange then red for the first time
today. I ran within myself all morning, ran smart. I ran to win.
She never saw me again.
The gun goes off and the pack races across the dead summer grass towards
a skinny gap in the wooden fence. A narrow single track leads half a mile down
to Richards Road, the first real chance to make a pass. I zoom ahead and find myself in the lead. I go through the gate first thinking, this is
weird.
I pick my way down the twisty trail and try to take it light,
adrenaline surging. I never go out in front. In fact, just before I broke
the plane of the fence, I glanced back as if to look for someone else to go
through first.
We plunge into the redwood canopy and out of the steadily rising heat. Richards is a wide, pine needle-laden path that winds along a creek for almost a mile
with some gentle downs, flats and very few ups. It’s a great way to start a
race.
I chat briefly with the other front-runner, only to find out he’s running
the 50k. I sheepishly admit that I’m running “the short one,” the 35k (22 miles).
As the rest of the pack catches up and I start getting passed, I remind
myself “you have a plan, run the plan.” Race plans are meant to be broken, but
if you torpedo yours before mile 1, what’s the point?
The first person to join our pair is a thin brunette, white singlet and
blue shorts. She runs well, with an efficient road-runners gait. She isn’t very
talkative but said says she's also running the 22-mile. I peg her as
competition, along with a shirtless, Hoka-wearing super fit
guy with a white running hat.
The trail winds uphill for the first time and several more runners pass
me. I let them go. We dip back onto single track and wind into the redwoods,
emerging briefly into the sun as if to remind us that it may not feel it, but
its going to be hot today.
The next four miles are a steady climb 1,400 feet or so to Skyline.
There are a few steep parts, especially in the final half mile, but for the
most part the trails are soft and runnable. Switchbacks give you good vantage
ahead. The elastic is long, but fragile. Ease up for too long and you’ll
quickly lose the group in front.
I settle into my climbing rhythm, which isn’t going to win any speed awards,
but I’m consistent and can now handle reasonably steep grades without too much
strain. Training mostly here and Mt. Montara, another long grinder, I can hold this
pace for several miles of climbing and preserve valuable energy.
All of a sudden it’s raining. As we rise into the mist, droplets appear
and land pleasantly, cooling my warm face. I look up and sunbeams blast between
the trees, reflecting off the pockets of rain. This is why I run. This is why I
run out here, for these tiny moments, these snippets of perfection with which every
once in a while nature blesses us.
I cruise into the King’s Mountain aid station in sixth place, grabbing
a banana and nothing else. I’m sticking to the plan. I have plenty of food and
water to make it the five miles to the next aid station. These few saved
seconds are the first step to reeling them in.
It happens sooner than I expect. In almost no time I pass one guy and have
fit Hoka guy in my sights. But the plan doesn’t say reel ‘em in the first two
miles of the ridge trail. The plan knows the first two miles are actually
uphill and going too hard here is a really good way run out of gas while you’re still on the ridge. The
plan says wait. So I wait.
But the plan doesn’t know that before I’ve gone much more than a mile,
I’ll come around a corner and catch a glimpse of the lead pack. I’m thrilled. I
took it easy on the ascent and now after not that time spent in my next gear,
I’m within striking distance. The elastic hadn’t broken and I’m back in the
race.
A moment to explain the elastic. KJ tells me that this is a cycling term describing your connection to the rider or riders (in our case runners) you’re
chasing. If the gap is small enough, you can pace off the group in front and
catch up with a short burst of speed. Visualize a rubber band pulling you along
the trail. But the rubber band is only so long. Don’t let it break. If the gap
grows too large, the elastic snaps and you’re all alone.
In other words, you just got dropped. You lose the mental benefit of
chasing and the group ahead can break away and you won’t have any idea. If the
elastic snaps, you’re then forced to either chase them down or just hope you
can catch them later. Hope is not a viable race strategy.
That’s when you’re behind. When you’re in front, you want to snap the
shit out of that elastic. But this comes at a cost. Your legs only have so many
bursts in them that you can use to try and gap people. Misfire
and you just wasted precious energy while they gradually reel you in, expending
much less to get to the same place.
So here I am, at the same place, running at a really smooth,
comfortable pace. I consider passing everyone, but for what? They’re generally
better climbers than me and there are enough rolling hills between here and
when we drop down off the ridge that I’d have to work extremely hard to actually
drop them. And this early in the race, a few would likely go with me so I’d
have to push even harder.
In short, not worth it. I settle into fifth place, sizing up the
competition in front of me. Turns out two of us are going on at
the turnaround to run the marathon distance, so I’m really in third. But I don’t
know that yet. The guy in front has long spandex sticking out below his shorts
and …
BAM! I’m down. I had drifted off into some vignette,
probably imagining my glorious descent at top speed, and lost concentration on
the trail. My right toe had clipped a root and I skidded into the dirt.
The guy in front of me, the strongest natural climber of the group,
whirls around to make sure I’m OK. I hop to my feet, dazed, and catch back up
with the group. I’ve started tripping more than I used to, especially in flat
sections where my mind can drift. It’s annoying more than it is painful, but
one of these days I’ll land on a rock.
We wind along the ridge just under Skyline Boulevard in single file,
each of us lost in our own thoughts. The occasional roar of a motorcycle interrupts
the tranquility, the long eastward vista popping into view as we wrap south.
As we near the aid station and turnaround, the group starts to spread
out. Long spandex guy and Brunette break away, as Hoka-fit guy eases the
pace noticeably. Climber and I are behind him and slow down in kind. I don’t mind
though, I know we climb up to the aid station and it gets a bit hectic with the
out and back. I’ll eat for real here with another quick stop at the final aid
station before the descent. I’m ahead of schedule anyway and happy to drift
behind for now.
Spandex and Climber continue on ahead, adding the four-mile loop to
make a marathon. It’s now just Brunette, Hoka thenme.
I stay within myself, gradually reeling in Hoka as we climb back up to
the ridge. I can tell he’s fading, and while I don’t feel amazing I go for the
pass anyway. I’m not worried about gapping him here though, since I can tell just
maintaining my pace will put space between us.
I now have five miles to catch Brunette and set up for the descent. I
catch glimpses of her up ahead as the narrow trail winds through redwoods,
poison oak and other runners. Until now we had the trail to ourselves, save
the occasional hiker. But now on the way back, we’re constantly having to weave
through oncoming traffic.
I pass Tyler, fist bumping and whizzing on. He
looks strong and there aren’t many places between us. My confidence grows that
he’ll actually enjoy himself and not swear off trail running forever after his first 20+
mile run.
With every turn, every slope, I close the gap. Brunette is running well
and I’m having to hustle to make up time. But I can coast on the downs and not
lose time. My legs are starting to tighten up a bit and are complaining, ever so
slightly, on the ascents.
I come around a corner and there she is. I’ve closed the gap and still
have two miles left on the ridge. I know that this is now my race to lose.
There’s no way she can keep up with me descending off Skyline and I should
be able to get far enough ahead that even if I fall apart on the last little
climb, I’ve got this so long as I don’t …
BAM! I’m on the ground again. Another loss of focus. I glance up
from the ground and blue shorts sail on, disappearing around the bend. No turn
around, no checking to see if I’m OK. Now maybe she didn’t hear me, that’s
entirely possible. But I am pretty sure she just kept running.
As we’re milling around the starting line, hopping up and down and
calming nerves before the gun goes off, pretty much everyone around me is my
friend. I harbor no ill will towards other runners. Until we start and one of
them tries to run faster than me. I’m a polite competitor, don’t talk shit and
remain respectful, but you also really don’t want to piss me off unless you are
much, much faster than me. I express anger, as it turns out, most effectively
through running beyond what should be my natural limits.
And now this chick had pissed me off.
I’ve done a lot of trail runs in the past four years, and not once
have I been so concerned about winning that it occurred to me unscrew the top to my water
bottle before I arrived at the aid station. You know, to save three valuable
seconds.
The last of my water sloshes out of the open top as we veer onto King’s
Mountain. I am right on her tail and for the past mile have noticed her
lagging. She kept pace, but you can tell when someone goes from running easy to
running hard. And after 17 miles, running hard is just a lot harder than it was
two hours ago.
Her gasping for Gatorade confirms my assessment. The plan calls for a
mellow climb to Chinquapin then laying down the hammer. I change the plan.
I almost sprint up to the trailhead, not looking back. I imagine her
seeing me leave and either chasing after, leaving before she wanted to, or
grabbing more food and losing valuable time. Either way, she’s about to get
dropped.
I should know: it happened to me.
The infamous Bernardo gapped me out of this aid station, at this same
race, almost two years ago. I never recovered. But I ran an altogether stupid
race that day. I went out and tried to win, but mistakenly thought that trying
to win meant trying be in front at mile 11 rather than mile 22. Turns out it’s the guy
who gets to the finish first, who wins.
KJ says that when you pass someone, crush their will. Take off hard
without warning, leaving them so hopeless, so exasperated, so sure they don’t
have a prayer of catching you that they crack. Or maybe it’s me who says that.
I hit the Chinquapin trail head panting, my legs screaming for the first
time all day. They can scream all they want, but I’m not letting up. I ease
into downhill mode, pass a few slower runners and release my legs.
My love affair with descents are as varied as the trails themselves. Some
are steep and technical where the advisable speed is just beyond out of
control. Others are gradual and wide where you can really move. This one is
amazing because it’s the perfect slope for running. To actually sprint
downhill.
I duck around trees, lean into turns and do my best not to fly off the
edge of the trail. I’m passing tons of people now, mostly without incident. I’m
very conscious of not being the A-hole fast guy blowing past pregnant women and
weekend warriors without regard for their safety. I’m too old for that shit.
But that doesn’t mean getting lost in your earbuds and losing awareness
of the trail is OK. I actually wish race organizers were stricter about
enforcing no-headphone rules on single tracks. It’s as much for their own
safety as it is mine.
“On the left!” I yell, in my most pleasant voice. “Coming up on your
left!”
Nothing. “Hello!” I scream, not as polite this time. I try again,
nothing. I’m now basically right on top of her and have to screech to a halt to
avoid bowling her over. Still no semblance of awareness. The trail is narrow,
with a ledge on one side and a mountain on the other. I can’t pass safely unless she pulls over – which is trail etiquette when a
faster runner wants to come through. But it’s also etiquette not to blow by
someone on a narrow trail if they don’t know you’re coming.
I can reach out and touch her now. “Hey! Take out your music!” I’m literally
screaming in her ear at this point. Exasperated, I tap her shoulder as delicately as possible while we run in sync and yell again directly into her ear. She jumps, I think more from how incredibly
close I was rather than the fact that I was there in the first place.
Blathering apologies, she moves over to let me by. “Pay attention!” I
yell, not polite at all, immediately realizing that even though she was in the
wrong here, I was still being the A-hole fast guy. The vast majority of the runners
here aren’t thinking about winning, haven’t been thinking about winning all
week and aren’t in the midst of some adrenaline-riddled sprint down a thousand
feet to crush the will of some brown-haired runner they don’t even know. And that's totally cool.
As I go past, I turn around, put my hands up and stammer, “I’m sorry.
Sorry. But please pay attention when you’re on the trail.” I turn the corner,
not waiting for a reply.
I take it easy for the next few turns and get back to my usual polite
passing of usually polite people who urge me on as I fly past. This is the tail
end of the half marathon and while no one is in any danger of winning, that
doesn’t mean they aren’t working as hard as I am. It’s the beauty of trial
running, that no matter where you are in the pack, you’re probably suffering
just as much as anyone else on the trail. Sure, as you become more serious
about the sport you learn to push past higher degrees of pain and discomfort,
but slower times are not synonymous with less suffering. Sometimes it’s actually harder to be out there for longer, going slower, than to just get it over with.
Chinquapin dead-ends and we veer left onto the Dean trail, wide by
comparison and littered with half-marathoners. I weave through and prep for the
final climb, which more than a few times has been my undoing on this course. It’s
not long, it’s not steep, but at mile 20 it’s an easy place to melt down, or at
the very least lose a bunch of the time you just worked so hard for ripping
down.
It’s over before I know it. “Wow, that was easy,” I think. I definitely
have more in the tank.
A few more twists and I’m onto the home stretch, about a mile and a
half of a crumbly road that’s part uneven gravel and part pockmarked pavement.
For as enjoyable as the first mile of this course is, the last mile is equally
unpleasant simply due to the crappiness of this road.
Thankfully its downhill and the road allows wide-berth passing
with no sketchiness to speak of. The bottoms of my feet start to hurt, the
downside of sporting my lighter, smaller Saucony’s over my bulkier and more forgiving Salomons. But this was race day, and on this track, this
distance, I wanted the speed and agility of the minimalist shoes.
The parking lot appears in the distance and I know I’m home. I haven’t
looked back since the top, but I don’t need to. If Brunette, or Hoka guy
for that matter, had managed to catch me then god bless 'em, I’d deal with it
when they passed. But they’re nowhere to be seen. I blend in with half marathon
finishers and quietly breeze over the finish line.
First Place.
