One More Mile - Cape Cod Athletic Club

Cape Cod Athletic Club - July/Oct 2007
but by god I can climb mountain trails. I just keep passing
folks, try to stay Zen-like in my "keep it in the now" like the
good Sri Chinmoy people taught me in the 6-day at New York
in May.
The mountain shrinks, becomes my friend, my ally. I'm doing
good. Soon I come upon the llamas grazing the upper
slopes, burping and yawning in their comfort, welcoming me
to their Hopeless village. I stroll though, grab a couple of gels
(only have chocolate? ugh!). Then I see Jim O'Neil sitting in a
chair, resting. I know he wants to finish this race, and how
hard he has prepared. Perhaps he is just taking a short break?
But somehow I get vibes that things have begun to turn the
other way for him. It is a worry.
There is just about 15 minutes climb left to the top, the trail
serpentining switchback-style to the summit, and I am feeling
so strong that I can actually jog up a bit. No Shortcuts to the
Top is this year's race motto, and it is so meaningful to me,
having read Ed Vestiurs book on mt . climbing by the same
name.
It was very inspirational to me, and I ant to meet him. In it,
he says, "Getting to the top is optional, getting down is mandatory."
Well, okay for mountain climbing, not so good for 100 mile
foot races.
Finishing is the deal here.
I rapidly descend the back side of Hope and greet some of
the front runners already on their return trip. Each grunts out a
"good job!" like they really are impressed by this white haired
dude. (Do I really look wicked old to them?) The Winfield
Road is all uphill, not flat as I remember it, but I am just taking
my time, understanding that I have a full hour margin, and
that I want to save something for the climb, perhaps impress
my new-person pacer with my studly climbing muscles. Hah!
Coming into the ghost town of Winfield is another of those
riotous conglomeration of huzzahs and good feelings that
make this race so special. Everybody is most definitely on
your side. T om waves me over to meet Joanne. She already
has my water belt on, as well as her own back pack with her
gear. She looks like she has the goods for the Himalayas...and
we're off! For once in my everlovin ultra life, the rest of the
race is fun. Pure fun. I am in the very best of company, and
feeling strong and loved every inch of the next 50 miles.
Joanne proves to be a brilliant person, one of these multidimensional
folks who has had a diversity of jobs and interests
that range from high tech medical engineering to samaritan
trips up the Amazon. And she likes opera! And she's done the
IronMan in Hawaii. And she tells me about her kids, and she
wants to know about mine. This is the stuff that ultra runs are
made of every bit as much as figuring m.p.h. averages. Ultra
folk are just that, special people that become my friends because
of who they are, not just what they do.
We zoom up the mountain passing people like they're perhaps
in a different race, and when I throw caution to the wind
and tell Jo that I will just pass through the aid station and she
can refuel and catch me on the down, it seems like a good
idea. Trouble is, she's got the gear (including lights!), and
little do I know that I'm about to thrill to the best downhill run
of my life, and I soar. I mean I just let 'er go and swoop down
from the clouds like some wild eland.
After about 45 minutes of this plunge, I realize it is getting
dark, and the trail is beginning to need a bit of illumination to
tell the shadows from the bumps. Whoa!! Where is my pacer?
Solitude can be overrated!
Yet right as if on cue, as i get to the river, Joanne magically
and breathlessly appears, present and accounted for, and we
laugh and chortle about my flight from 12 thousand feet. Evel
Kenievel revisited.
We travel into the lights of Twin Lakes after the welcoming
cold splash at the river. Tom has the new pair of Inov-8s for
me (thanks, Tom & Lisa Mikkelson) I favor on this course, I
dress for the night, hug superstar Jo "merci for the escort,"
and we are off up the hill.
It is dark. We are at work. Trudge, trudge, stay in the moment.
Chop the dragon down chunk by chunk. He is beginning
to topple. Tom is a meditator, knows what we are about
here. He even met the Dali Lama last year when that exalted
personage visited in Colorado and had an audience.
This sixth leg has more than once been my Achille's heel,
but not this time. We are old friends just doing our job, men at
work. We travel inexorably by night to the Half Moon campground,
then proceed out to the road. But before we leave the
shelter of the tents, Sandy the cutoff lady has a moment, a
laugh and a reminiscience with me over last year's debacle
where I ended up underclothed and shivering at that post. This
time, she did not have to get her dreaded shears out! ("I could
see she had a kind face, she did not welcome her task." I had
written 12 months ago)
And in the darkened gloom of night how did our fair Barbara
figure out what might be a good identifying means to let us
know which car was hers? Auditorially, that's how. Aye, more
than that -- musically! For she had "La Boheme" ringing out
into the night air through open window, having been apprised
that I was an opera lover. Tom applauded the idea, knowing it
would be greeted enthusiastically, being of a like mind. (He
had even attended La Scala in Milan a couple years ago with
his wife when they toured Italy on bike, the lucky dog.) Barbara
was ready for her 5 1/2 mile stint to the base of Sugarloafin,
having "qualified' for this flat stretch of highway
through the Fish Hatchery and on to the mountain, where
Tom would again take over. She did just fine, as her practice
run at the Leadville High School track had indicated she
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