Postscript: As part of
my duties as DBD Adventure Club Chronicler, I was recently charged with the
task of researching the social factors inherent within the long distance trail
running sub-group that seems to be thriving here in the Northland. The Club’s
leadership, lead mainly by the Mallory faction, has become concerned about a
couple members who seem to have been inexplicably drawn to these people and
their strange ways. Fundamentally my job was to determine whether our boyz were
being drawn in to a counterproductive cult or that these people have adopted
habits and traditions that may be advantageous to the pursuit of adventure and
thus should garner a more detailed study. The following is an abridged version
of my report as submitted to the DBD Honor Board during the summer of 2103.
Why do they run?
Why do they run?
In an effort to understand that strange subcultural set
comprised of long distance runners, two weekends past I covertly entered their
realm. My primary goal was to make an
effort to understand these people and their unusual ways. In other words, to initiate the groundwork to
begin an unbiased anthropological study of the long distance trail runner. Now
of course if you are an adventure cyclist, you are now asking yourself, “Why?”
Below I shall try and convey to you my reasoning and then submit a
justification.
To begin—Like you, Dear Reader, it is true that for the
first forty-five years of my life I simply dismissed these people as neurotic
and/or cautious skinny folk that ran out of sheer fright. Collectively, a subset
of shy persons that discovered early on that if they were to survive in an
often-nasty, “fight or flight”, aggressive world, they would have to learn to take
flight effectively, efficiently, and to run far far distances.
In my world, like yours, other than occasionally beating up
a flock of cross country runners on my way to football practice or duct tapping
a troop of them to a flagpole during summer camp, I never really took anytime
to interact with them. I vaguely
remember that a covey of these stick-people were allowed onto our track team,
but they were kept separate from the rest of us. While we all hung out on the track next to
our high school, lounging on the big puffy high jump and pole-vaulting pads or
played Frisbee on the lush grass infield, they were forced off campus,
relegated to actually running in the local neighborhood streets. There coach,
an English Literature major, too, was skinny and exceedingly shy. They all
seemed to run as perhaps a herd of terrified gazelles would run when exposed on
the grasslands of the Serengeti. That
is, they ran as if lions were chasing them.
Back then…I thought of myself as a lion. Of course I was a fool back
then…I am just now figuring that out. Such is the curse of wisdom. Most people don’t obtain wisdom and if they
do get a bit of wisdom, it comes when they are too old to apply it…
Essentially throughout my school dayz I came to view them as peculiar, but harmless, and so I
left them pretty much alone. Sure, standing in the lunch lines, I stole
their desserts off their lunch trays like everyone else did in both high skool
and college, but that doesn’t count as real interaction. So apart from a few indirect contacts during
my school dayz, my life’s path and that of the long distance runner was on
completely parallel tracks. Now it is true that relatively recently I have been
exposed to some impressive long distance “foot racers.” Especially when I first
began competing in the Arrowhead 135 some years ago. But these hardy men were often times former weapons
dealers (from France), wrestlers, or rugby players or the like that had simply
decided to essentially hike the Arrowhead because they couldn’t ski or they
didn’t have the right kind of bike. They
really were not runners per se or at least I convinced myself of that…
All this changed last February when I encountered Dave
Johnston of Alaska. Here was a true long
distance runner and yet he was nothing like the stereotype I had conjured in my
limited brain. Here was a Man’s Man that
had beer bottles stashed in his drop bags, ate frozen bacon by the handfuls,
and laughed a hearty laugh even in times of sheer exhaustion and desperation.
He opened my eyes, forced me to look with renewed perspective at these people. He
forced upon me the idea that perhaps I could learn something from these
waif-like bipeds? Now in fairness, the good Dr. Buffington, along with Mr.
Kershaw, have been extoling the virtues of long distance trail running in
developing raw toughness for sometime, and my friends at Esko including Mr. Hexum
and Mr. Smith were relatively honorable men and they ran long distances, but it
took my eye witnessing of Johnston’s amazing effort along that 350 mile stretch
of the Iditarod trail that forced me to seek a detailed and more studious accounting
of the sociological forces influencing this subgroup of enduro-athletes. Could it be that the DBD has been wrong about
this group all along? The aforementioned are all tough Hard Men as are the
likes of John Storkamp, Matt Long, and the Lonesome Luddite…Are we as an
adventure society missing out on a whole group of potential candidates for
membership?
Of course the only accurate way to begin to understand a novel
species is to live amongst its population.
Therefore I resigned myself to partake of the Eugene Curnow Trail Marathon
held two Saturdayz past. It is important
to note that apart from my scientific curiosity, I was fired up to partake in
this specific event because in doing so I would to be a part of the honoring of
Eugene Curnow (who has recently died), as I knew him to a fine generous man and I
greatly respected him.
Buffington and I met up ay my home at 4:15 a.m. and then drove
in separate cars over to the finish line in Carlton, Minnesota (about twenty or
so miles south of Duluth) with the idea that we would leave a car at the finish
and drive the other to the start. Of course, there existed a flaw in our plan
in that Jason would beat me to the finish by a couple hours even if I had a
good effort. Such is the generosity of this amazing character. But to our delight, a school bus was waiting
and so together we jumped on a bus that would ferry us back to the start @
Spirit Mountain, the ski resort just south of Duluth. This way, we both had cars waiting for us at
the finish. It had rained all night and during the bus ride over we encountered
torrential rains, but interestingly there was no talk of cancellation amongst
the riders. No whispers of closing the
trail were discernable, no laments pertaining to mud or slippage. No one seemed concerned about being fried by
lightening. I happily took note of the fact that on one seemed to find the
likelihood of sloppy, even grim conditions problematic. No one seemed
dissuaded, and no one seemed worried. In
stark contrast, had it been a normal mountain bike race in today’s era of
meticulously groomed and highly maintained courses (like golf courses really), the race would have been
cancelled and moreover, it would be likely that the manicured course would be closed
for a week or more until everything was just right again…Note: Just sayin' I wouldn't want to be a guy trying to sell mud tires into todayz world of mountain bike racing when even the threat of a downpour causes a race cancellation...
The scene at the start was very unrushed and casual. People waited in line to sign up. There was but one category consisting of a
26-mile race, unlike the modern phenomena in many popular events where there
can be a plethora of age (and even weight) categories, combined with different
distances and course configurations; all designed to make as many people as
possible feel like they are “champions.”
Highly fit, fluid, and sinewy athletic-types freely
interacted with aging folks with misshaped joints and broken strides. Although it was clear from my physical
attributes that I would bring up the rear, John Storkamp, a top notch runner
and 2nd place finisher later in the day, engaged the author in
unrushed, pleasant discourse ranging from our shared experience in Alaska to
the whereabouts of Pierre Ostor. I saw
many friends and acquaintances. People that I knew, but I never knew that they
were runners. I began to suspect that I
had been wrong about these people. I
began to feel not unlike that of the Grinch at the point of his rebirth. In
essence, young and old, fit and those in various stages of decline all seemed
fired up and ready to tackle the same challenge. I’d say there were some hundred and sixty at
the start. My heart grew three times in
size as the gun went off to start the race…
Prior to the race, I had set a strict personal protocol to follow,
which was based on two fundamental overarching rules: 1. Under no circumstances
would I allow myself to get some kind of long lasting injury, like a torn calf,
a twisted knee, or a blown Achilles Heel; 2. I would walk the steep downhills
so as to not unduly stress my fragile, worn-out knees. To bolster Rule #2, I used ski poles the
whole distance and found that they worked well in cushioning the impact during
steep descents and was actually an advantage on the steep clay and muddy ascents.
I have found that if I start off walking for the initial
twenty minutes of a trail running effort, my old joints tend to limber up some
and I feel much better during and after.
Therefore as the throngs of people took off from the starting line, I
was left alone to ponder my inadequacies and mortality. This was a bit humbling for me, especially as
a small group of well-wishers, perhaps half-a-mile from the start, cheered for
me with accolades designed for a man in my tenuous position. They yelled, “You
can do it!” and “All that matters is that you’re out here trying!”
After my warm-up period I began to do a bit of jogging. As the terrain became more rugged I began to
catch up to some of the ancients of the sport.
These were old old men and women.
Several had to be in their seventies and many were in their
sixties. One old codger’s legs were so
bowed, gnarled, fused, and otherwise disjointed that they reminded me of the antiquated
limbs of the famed Spirit Tree of Grand Portage. I felt inspired…for if he could do the miles
then so could I and moreover this man was out there doing it at an advanced
age…his love of the long distance game was uncomplicated and pure. “Unconditional love for a particular sport or endeavor speaks favorably of the pursuit,” I
noted in my research log.
As I progressed onward I came upon an overgrown boulder
field that they call Jarrow’s Beach, which is named after a long time and noted
local distance runner and athletic shoe storeowner. While the true runners apparently dread this
segment as it forces them to walk or risk a broken ankle, I liked it as it gave
me time to relax and to converse with a young guy that was also using ski
poles. He had been born and raised in
Gordon, Wisconsin and was using this race as a practice session to prepare for
the Superior 100 Mile race that commences in early September. Like me, he was quick to declare his
non-allegiance to the running community, but also like me, he seemed captivated
by the community’s zest for a good challenge.
He commented, “My plan is to see if I can do it.” I guess there is
profound honesty in such a statement. I
often tell my students that one of the great enduring questions in life is:
“How do you know what ya don’t know?” Motivation, thusly, can be defined as the
futile effort to continuously and proactively attempt to uncover things that
you did not know. Can I go 100 miles on
foot within thirty-eight hours? The
young man from Gordon will know the answer to that question come early
September and good for him. Yes or No— Either way he will be a better person
for trying.
Upon leaving the boulder field, feeling good, I began to
outpace the lad, so I bid him well and continued onward at about a thirteen-minute
mile pace. It went on like that for most
of the race. I felt much better than I thought that I would and since I had
started dead last, I had the benefit of the illusion that I was going somewhat
fast because I was passing a fair number of runners as I progressed along the
route.
Now of course the fact of the matter was that the majority
of the runners were ahead of me (I finished eightieth out of 150 or so
finishers), and some were a couple hours ahead of me. The winner finished in approximately four
hours while it took me six hours and twenty minutes. Another interesting aspect
of the race was the fact that women were very well represented and were also
very competitive (two were in the top ten).
I think that it is an accurate statement to proclaim that women are much
better represented in long distance trail running than in long distance
cycling. According to my calculations,
women represented about one-third of the total participants in this particular
event.
I continued on and was impressed by the enthusiastic aid
stations, where the runners were treated to a wide variety of foods, drinks,
and good cheer. Everyone that I encountered
along the trail was in good spirits as well, even those shuffling along displaying
the telltale stiff stride indicative of one suffering from the dreaded malady
known as “chapping.” I was one such soul and as the march extended onward so
did the flaming intensity of the rubbing away of my tender skin surrounding my most
sensitive private areas. Finally at the
second-to-last aid station, I asked matter-of-factly if there was a first
aid box available for my use. No doubt
sensing my discomfort, the volunteer, (a paternalistic, no nonsense looking
woman), handed me a huge jar of Vaseline and pointed me to a large tarp-like
structure that was stacked to the ground to form a shield. The application brought immediate, if only
temporary relief. Yet, I knew I could
make it to the finish, so I just resigned myself “to sleep in my bed.” The end
was near when I did start to experience some serious leg cramps, but such
issues are usual for me so I soldiered on walking with a broken gait the last
couple miles. At the finish Jake Boyce
was there to welcome me. Jake is a top-flight
cyclist, skier, rower, and I now come to find, a darn good albeit secret runner
as well. The very next day, he rode in a
local mountain bike race and did very well.
It was most impressive to me…
As implied at the onset, empathy, not sympathy, was my
quest. I am now confident to report that
these are a robust people not afraid of challenge and that we could learn from
them especially in their approach to completing long arduous travel over
terrain, the like of which will not afford the use of a bicycle or ski. Perhaps one measure of the quality of a trail
race is the degree to which the route is essentially unrideable or
skiable. This particular course would
have allowed one to ride substantial segments, but even so it would be a close
match between a competent rider paired against a strong distance runner.
Perhaps another one, may be a fifty miler, is in the cards
for the writer. All in the interest of
preparing to ski the Arrowhead 135 come early February 2014.
