The Pig Run Recovery, Or Not

The Rest of the Story.....

So as I reflect on what went wrong, I must re live the 48 hours that followed the now infamous "Pig Run". As I punched the button on my watch officially terminating the mental and physical beat down, surrendered my bib tag, and wandered toward the hydration table, I once again contemplated over what could have been. The post race chatter always bores me, as the athletes roll up and lay out a laundry list of justificatory logic that thwarted a PR longer than a 5 year olds Christmas wish list. If you can't trump an all night bender, a 120 mile week, a 46 year old broken body and a pair of shoes closing in on 1700 miles, Get Outta My Face!!
Back to the Jeep for a quick gear transfiguration, and the big question. Do I hang for the award ceremony, or do I just bolt? Normally a fourth place finish is reason enough to hang my head and head home, but as i scan the award table I am transfixed on the hardware that is the winners spoils. A sweet Brass plated swine trophy sparkling under the mid day sun. Trophy's, mugs, medals, hell even sneakers just plain suck. Cash is a whole different story, however that was not part of the booty. I graciously accepted the sparkling swine, the "chump for finish" medal and the cheesy short sleeve tek shirt, grabbed another banana and bounced.

The Afternoon Regrouping

An uneventful ride home, a most excellent invigorating shower followed by a rice load and it was off to the Brew Fest. A power nap was going to have to wait. After about 2 hours of beer sampling, and senseless chatter with friends, I was ready to crash and burn. The lazy boy chair was heaven like, as I spilled into a fetal position and drew the down comforter to my neck. The New York football Jets were crushing the hapless Vikings as I drifted into an exercise induced coma. I woke to the vibration of a cell text as my dear friend JSA, who had just completed a 6 hour bike ride for MS, asked, "howd it go?".

The Sickness That Is

I woke Saturday morning feeling like I had been chained to the back of a pick up truck and dragged across a dirt parking lot for days. My god, I had slept to nearly 8AM!! Had I missed a local 5K, or a group run, I needed to jump online immediately. Nothing, crickets. Fully aware that I was likely born with a terminal affliction of having the lines of communication between my brain and body severed for life, I needed another fix. A 3200 foot ascent up Mt. Greylock, a punishing assault on Berry Pond, didn't matter. My body was busted up and I wanted to finish the job in fine fashion. Had I known where those loose screws in my head were, I would have tightened them down years ago. Being a nut case can manifest itself in many ways, the guy who pushes the shopping cart full of empty Mt. Dew cans for miles, or the dude who only ventures out when it rains is not a life one would hope for. These social maladies are personally harmless. The physical assault that I steadily apply to my failing body is nothing short of a slow and certain premeditated suicide.

Starting the Recovery Process

A day of light exertion and stretching followed by hydration and nutrition while the broken body attempts to heal makes too much sense. With no races on the radar screen, and a PRC board void of any plans, I promptly text one of a dwindling collection of sure bet running partners. Knowing full well that Ms. Peeps would be involved in some sort of rec. ride or run, I thought I would at least see what was up. True to form, an almost immediate response indicating a bike riding plan was already in motion. My instincts were screaming not to engage, but I had to at least pry for a bit of insight into the details. The core elements of this agenda will be as predictable as the rising sun. Starbucks, time delays and plan changes by the minute are implicit.

The Un-Complicated Bike Journey North

In an attempt to ignite a volley of texts that would take hours and lead to utter chaos, I opted to go the old fashioned route and establish direct contact by dialing her cell. The fish tank water is starting to look more like a solid than a liquid, the lawn is going to require a combine soon, and I'm not missing an entire slate of games, so this ride can and will not be an all day boondoggle. No sooner did we terminate our conversation outlining a ride on the bike path and back, an un-complicated 20 mile out and back, my cell jumps to life as an incoming text is in queue. It was too good to be true!! Johnny A. is now involved meaning this is likely going to force myself to eject gracefully from the outing. As I read along plodding through sketchy details involving a motorcycle event, a route down Dalton Division Road, down Hubbard Ave. through the death tunnel and a trek through Coltsville, I can see that this again will evolve into a texting marathon.

The Biker Motor Cade

Bare with me on this one folks, this is one of those treats in life you just have to be there to even begin to comprehend. The plan is to be in Adams at 11AM for the Biker thing. Those of you not from the Berkshires, This is the Westernmost portion of Massachusetts. Yes, Mass does border NY., and for you Bostonions who keep our taxes and insurance rates up, not only is there life beyond 495, there is 70 more miles of the Mass turnpike west of 495. Now Berkshire county has a reputation of being a mecca of culture and arts with the likes of Tanglewood and Williams college to name a few, however as you make the trek north along the main thoroughfare known as route 7 from the CT. border to VT., the cultural landscape begins to erode. Not only does the IQ start to descend at an alarming rate, the gene pool becomes mighty shallow and lets just say, the family tree loses a few branches. So as our fearless leader is barking commands in an effort to get to "the right spot" and hook up with "some friends" by 11AM. After nearly an hour of rural landscape, the three amigos bank a hard right onto Rt. 116, and Golly Gee whiz kiddos, you better brace yourself for this spectacle I will try to recount. Now I have never been to a tractor pull, or a pre NASCAR tailgating shindig, hell I'm city folk venturing into north county. My first thought was that there was a parade fixing to roll on through. County route 116 was overflowing with scores of people lining the curb nearly 12 deep. Corn fields and meadows were filled with on lookers clearly feeling it. We're talkin circa 1970 folding lawn chairs, pick up trucks, hay wagons and enough Monte Carlo's and Trans Am's for cruiser night. If I only had a vendor's license and a wagon stock piled with fresh John Deer mesh hats, plaid shirts, (complete with cut off sleeves), shelled peanuts, and a few bags of Kingsford Charcoal, I would have been a rich man.
The deep heart thumping rumble of the approaching stream of motorcycles had the sense of an approaching freight train. The crowd had steadily worked itself into a fever pitch and nearly erupted into a frenzy as the succession of bikers rolled on by.

The Let Down

This disturbing event lasted about 2 minutes, that seemed like 3. When the crowd finally dispersed after gathering peanut shells, empty Bud bottles, and folding up the chairs, we got back on our bikes and headed home. What the hell was that? It was like some bad dream, or a regrettable movie rental that was finally over. The ride home was uneventful other than the occasional downpours from the remnants of hurricane Kyle as it pulled away toward the gulf of Maine. Alas, I finally returned home, soaked, covered in mud, tired as hell and attempting to shake any memory of that thing that occurred in Adams. A shower, and again I found myself surrendering to another exercise induced coma in my throne, that is the Lazy Chair.

And You Thought I had enough Exercise
Guess again!

The Hog's Back Half Marathon

The Lead Up

OK, Here we go again. Another race another frustrating finish. I have heard for years how the Hog's Back Half Marathon was the hidden jewel of half's right in our own back yard. Well I gotta tell ya, I don't need a whole lotta arm twisting to get down with a half marathon. After last weekends horror show that was, the collapse on Route 20, I needed to rebound big time. Not some Carny Atmo. 5K, or another bug infested life threatening trail run. No, It was going to be on pavement, at a minimum of 10 miles. So as Wednesday rolls on in, I scan the running circuit for what's out there, and my freeking god, the Hog's Back, (which from this point forward will be known as the Pig Run) was this Saturday. So it's Wednesday, the Pig Run is Saturday and I gotta see if this thing passes the stink test. With literally thousands of runs commencing everyday, only a fraction of these will get past the first cut, and move on along down the stink protocol.
So what is the stink checklist? This will be the deal killer 90% of the time.

1. Does the race have race day reg? Check
2. Will I have to wake prior to 4:00AM to be there for the gun? No
3. Is there a family conflict with enough significance to derail this? No again
4. The "Fish Tank" cleaning, although at Sunday night at 9PM is still not done, shouldn't be a problem
   

So the Pig Run is a go. Now the minor details must be ironed out. Weather forecast, injury report, social schedule. The forecast was for Hurricane Kyle to creep up the Eastern seaboard sending feeder bands of tropical moisture and rainfall rates of 2 to 4 inches, high winds and perhaps the only silver lining, warm temperatures. Clearly a forecast that sucks with a capital S!

The grass in my yard approaching ass level, a Beer Festival on Saturday afternoon, and a Friday night at full throttle were just mere details that would have no bearing on derailing the Pig Run. Here's the real beauty of this plan that is coming together very nicely. A Saturday start at 10AM, and less than a 45 minute drive. Perfectamundo!!

The Night Before

I have never let a race get in the way of a full fledged bender the night before, and I wasn't about to start on September 26th, 2008. As far as the taper goes, it didn't. I woke Friday morning to the rain drumming on the the roof top and a nice stinger from closing the Mission Bar and Tappa the night prior. A laborious 8 miler in a drenching rain storm was followed by an evening 7 miler with the lovely Ms. Sweet Peeps. I was dragging ass so bad, that I barely could execute 9 minute miles, and after about 6, I was reduced to having to pull the plug and walk it in. My body was busted up, under nourished and on the brink of another shut down. At nearly 47, this would frighten most from attempting, let alone engaging in a half marathon. This will be yet another attempt at mind over matter. I have said it before and will say it again, when the body is telling you something, Ignore It!! It is almost a certainty that I my existance on this planet will come to a close in a complete and proper manner during a race in wich my body will fail to live up to the other end of the bargain that my brain has set forth.
The thought process for this pre-race evening was simple, and not any different than any other. Hit it hard Friday night, mix in some water between beers, throw down a banana, and an 800mg Motrin by midnight and shoot for a 1:25 for the race. Somewhere along the way the freight train jumped the rails and the only part of that plan that went down was the beering it up hard and the 1:25. A bar placement that was resting on grade. This would be a sub 1:25 or a complete and utter un raveling culminating in the E.R or a euthanization right on the course.

The Ride In

For reasons even a seasoned road warrior such as myself can not discern, I thought it imperative that I be on the road by 7AM. A one hour plus ride in, a coffee stop and a margin of error of 30 minutes. That means 9AM for a 10AM start. The usuall restless and fitfull nights sleep on the couch led to a 5:30AM wake up and a 6:20 departure. After an epic 32 mile excursion to the venue sporting a blinding headache and a BAC that still would have netted a day in jail and likely a year of license revocation, I arrived at the race 2 and one half hours early. It was 7:30 and the registration table guy wasn't even there yet. This little glitch in the event time line afforded me a most excellent opportunity to cash in on a power nap. Knowing full well that without a fool proof wake up strategy in place, the potential to sleep for half the day was more than a good bet. Ah, the cell phone alarm! When I awoke to the blaring distortion radiating from the cell phone at 9AM, the lot had transformed from a vacant desolate area to a bustling bee hive of pre race activity.

It's Show Time

I stumbled from my jeep, wiped the drool from my face, and ambled over to the registration table, scratched a check and began to get my game on. Within seconds, the boarding shorts were on, sneakers laced, and the #89 bib pinned down. I grabbed my good luck poker chip, stroked it with my thumb and fore finger and placed it in my back pocket. A quick stretch to the edgy sound of Seether and I was already feelin it. It was time to case the field. This is perhaps one of the most intriguing pre race rituals that I take very seriously. The logic behind this is two fold, how accurate will my assessment of the top 10 or so athletes be, finding a source of potential pacers, and an ancillary role on unfamiliar tracks such as this, a resource for the course profile. The search for suitable pacers proved to be an integral component in determining my number on the clock at the finish line. Before the process could completely unfold, I was approached by Matt, who had recognized me from the Greylock Half 3 weeks prior. Although I didn't recognize him myself, we quickly engaged in thorough personal race resumes and projections for the event at hand. Matt at 28 was more of a trail guy, and at 23, based on a synopsis of his running history, seemed like a potential pacer. A brief study of his build and running mechanics as we did a quick warm up, were reason to believe his aspirations of a 1:25 or better projection was a bit lofty. I had already floated out my 1:25 which was a worst case scenario, and began to look for more realistic pacers as we were nearing 10 minutes until the gun. As we assembled at the start jockeying for position, Matt's friends, Bill, Henry, Mike and Bob at ages 23, 18, 27 and 36 respectively, began throwing out projections and other assorted idle chatter. These guys were all very tight friends and a sweet group of 6 was ready to roll.

The Gun Sounds

The race began with a fast down hill mile at a nice 6:02 pace. Mile two went right to plan as well as we continued to cruise down hill nearly open throttle, rolling on through at 12:08. My goal of a 1:25 required a pace of sub 6:30's. My more realistic aspiration of a sub 1:23 demanded a sub 6:20 pace. By the midway point in mile 3, we were going to clearly be battling it out for third as the two leaders were well below sixes and pulling away. The eventual winner and runner up had projected sub 1:20's and they appeared well on their way to executing these lofty aspirations. Now Matt, I had a pretty good fix on, but the other four needed further assessment in determining how this thing was gonna unfold. The 18 year old looked like a track guy more than capable of a sub sixteen 5K, and perhaps a 36 10K, but my take was that sixes for 13 miles were way out of reach. He ended up nailing down a very respectable 1:26 while keeping his gums from bumping the entire time. Now Bill was bumping his gums the entire run, as he was more concerned with place than pace, a philosophy I disdain. The few times that I looked into his eyes as the race pressed on, I sensed more confidence than arrogance. This was creating a dichotomy of emotions, I can't let this arrogant little shit half my age beat me, but I can't get sucked into a race recking ego trip keeping pace with a better athlete either. The group began to break apart at mile 8, when Bob, perhaps the most annoying athlete I have ever run with completely unraveled and dropped back. As we hit mile 10, Mike began to come unglued and fell off the pace as well. Mile 11 began with a race pace of just under 6:15's, right where I and the remaining two wanted to be. Matt was hanging tough, and keeping his chatter at bay, while Henry was starting to burn up. Bill was looking as strong as ever, although his constant comments of the competition thinning as our group unraveled, was wearing thin. By mile 12, Matt and Bill were pulling away from me, as Henry finally gave in and fell back.
Mile twelve proved to be the decisive leg of this final press toward the finish. I was in a zone, my rhythm and cadence were working and I could feel a good kick down the stretch. Not knowing the course, I was blindsided by a steady climb that would foil any ambitions of a sub 1:23, which I was right on pace to shatter. The crippling climb through mile 12 destroyed Matt as he was hanging on for dear life. I was beginning to reel in Bill, but time was running out, and his nearly 90 minutes of a 3rd place finish rants were about to come to fruition. Bill was feeling the heat of dangerous dan bearing down turning back several times to assess the gap as it collapsed.

The Final Push!

The strobing lights atop the county cruisers at the final turn across the dam to the finish were in full view. I was not catching Bill down the stretch. I went wide open 15 seconds behind him as the clock at the finish line came into focus. 1:24 was now clearly in jeopardy as I read the display roll past 1:23:45, 46, 47... I crossed at 1:23:58, 15 seconds behind Bill after a smoothe 6:55 minute pace for mile 13.
The Pig Run results are what they are.

One Day Closer

A Tumultuous Tuesday

To me, Mondays are a day of reflection and recovery both mentally and physically. Because I drain every ounce of pleasure that life can possibly serve up in the 48 hours that are Saturday and Sunday, the first segment of the day is a mix of physical revitalization and a psychological transition. The mental transition is perhaps the most strenuous, it is for the most part an intangible feeling of emptiness. A cleansing of the mind that has left a void that was filled with the weekends excitement. The physical beat down that the barrage of vigorous competitive activity has dealt my body will taper over time. As the day marches forward, and the usual repercussions of reality start to eat away at my very fiber, I start to plan the evenings activities and beyond. By mid day Tuesday, I am already starting to feel that postal switch start to toggle. I am closing in on 48 hours of aimlessly walking through that mine field that was Monday and Tuesday.

So Tuesday Rolls on in

Because it was the evening that bears full disclosure, the usual AM run and mundane events of the day will NOT be relived.

The afternoon started Parking at Onota Lake under the warmth of the late day brilliant September sunshine. The lakes are my sanctuaries, there’s a vibe, a radiant sensation of peace and tranquility. I immediately get energized by the run out over the causeway with the warm glow of the sun still abundant, the ducks fleeing from the rocks as I pass by and the scores of fishermen basking in the simplicity of life. On this day, a Great Blue Heron suddenly descended from the sky and gracefully settled down onto the marshy waters that border the causeway. The causeway serves as the last outpost of structured life that borders that safe haven I call nature.

Entering the State Forest has that unmistakable sense of leaving civilization embarking on that connection with nature. The trek up the access road en rout to the summit is when the mental cleansing begins. All of the pain and stress of reality melt as the physical burden of the vigorous ascent take hold. As I broke free of the tree line and was drenched in sunshine once again, The jubilation of reaching the summit culminates in a breath taking vantage point high above the Mohawk Valley. The clear sky and sinking sun were majestic. I walked over to berry pond and just sat on a rock and watched as the tranquility of the still water was enhanced by the shadow of the dense tree line gaining momentum. I tossed a stone out into the water and watched as the glass like surface surrendered to a cascade of ripples that emanated from the impact and slowly dissipated back into its original state of silence. If only I had that special friend to share in the moment. The moment was suspended in time. To have shared the transition into darkness sitting on that giant stone next to a close friend. The beauty of being alone had it's own special significance. My thoughts were mine, and they were free to run wild. Not to be obscured or manipulated by the possibility of the incongruousness of another. It was so wonderful.

Returning to the Jeep brought back that sense of societal disorder that I had vacated for what seemed like eternity. The Jeep however is not only my functional vehicle of necessity, but my vehicle to once again escape reality, this time not by way of foot travel.
Potter Mtn. Road has become a refuge of escape lately due to it’s proximity to the PSF and its inherent lack of the general public. A large part of this is due to its extreme rough terrain rendering it impassible by anything other than off road vehicles and occasional hikers.
The time was fast approaching sunset and the dense canopy of thick Forrest made any viewing of the setting sun nearly impossible. I promptly engaged the 4 wheel drive and made a westerly course up and over a power line easement to a clearing overlooking the entire Taconic Range just as the sun was sinking below the horizon. Bruce Springsteen was playing streets of Philadelphia as this solar marvel unfolded before my very eyes.
The crisp grapes and Pinot were the perfect compliment for this spectacle of nature.
There was only one thing missing....

On The Brink of Synchronicity

As the sun lost it's inevitable battle to the horizon giving way to nightfall, a new day was breaking in the Western Hemisphere. A sunrise of 6:43 and a sunset of 6:47 was a sure sign that the planets were nearing that point of equilibrium and balance when the source of all being makes its journey to that path that nearly traces the equator. As I stood looking out over the lush spring fed gorge that carved a deep valley through the heart of the mountain range that earmarked the Pittsfield State Forest, dusk began to settle in. The dry autumn air that had bathed in a sun drenched clear autumn sky began to fall prey to a cool crisp northerly whisper of wind. The atmosphere was drawing every last ounce of mid level warmth that was available. The moisture radiating from the lower levels of this great divide rapidly condensed in the dry air mass creating a subtle mist that grew denser as it cascaded through the valleys and snaked it's way across the entire valley. It was time to leave.

Balance

Equilibrium

Very few things in life are constant. The everyday grind is a melting pot of tumultuous activity that seems to consistently lack any sense pf predictability. Certainty and life are so incongruous that on those rare occasions that they should cross paths, reality seems stand still. The ultimate highs are inevitably trumped by lows that strike with no rhyme or reason. If only the euphoria of those special moments were counterbalanced by equal and opposite forces, that elusive feeling of balance would be in striking distance. When this feeling of turbulent forces begins to drive me toward madness, I turn to the only sources of stability. These stable entities are essentially void of emotion and lack any sense of clarity that I can firmly latch onto. Time is perhaps the essence of stability. Time has no emotion completely void of any outside influences. Although time provides a benchmark of sorts, it lacks any components capable of providing a source of inner peace or balance.

The one Constant

Perhaps the most influential source of both physical and psychological balance is the constant perpetual celestial motion. The rising and setting sun, the constant tidal patterns and the phases of the planetary alignment press onward with precise tempo and indisputable predictability. As the Earth and its Moon press onward in that precise geosynchronous motion about the Sun, twice a year they settle into that Vernal position providing balance to all things.

The Vernal Equinox

For those of you who haven’t noticed, we are fast approaching the first day of fall. A time of year clearly filled with mixed emotions. On or about the 21st day of September the sun assumes a position directly over the Earth's Equator creating a balance of daylight and nightfall.
A significant celestial spectacle known as the Vernal Equinox. This Autumnal marvel will be enhanced when the lunar cycle will also culminate in a harvest moon at 6:47PM this evening. As is the case every 12 months, once we cross this astronomical equilibrium, the daylight hours begin to lose ground to the span of darkness.

The Spectacle That Is

With a forecast for a crisp clear evening, tonight will be ripe for a sequence of breathtaking solar and lunar events. As the sun recedes into the Western hemisphere taking a strikingly southern track, we will be greeted by a nearly simultaneous full moon rising.

The proper vantage point to observe this splendid event is critical. As the Moon rises out of the East at 6:57PM, the sun will recede into the Western horizon at 7:02PM.

I plan to view this marvel from the lookout atop the PSF. Although the view
to the west as the sun sets across the Hudson Valley fading through the Catskill Range will be perfect, the view to the East will be obscured for a time by the tree line canvassing the October Mountains. Once the moon breaks free from the highest tree tops and climbs high into the late summer sky, I will watch as the this bright beacon casts its reflection and sparkles
across Berry Pond.

A Tuesday Nite Recovery Run

The Preamble
Dateline Pittsfield, MA. T. Plus two days since the 13.1 mile trail thing, and my body was feeling the full wrath of a major physical beat down. Monday morning, less than 24 hours after the blast that was Curly's Half Marathon, I was making every attempt to drag my sorry ass out of the rack at 5AM for the early morning 7 miler. On this day we're talking no trivial endeavor. The toll that the previous days physical assault had beset on my body was massive. Summer was losing its grip at a rapid pace and the pre dawn hours of crisp autumn air and total darkness were sapping any trace of motivation that my body could muster.

The evening Recovery Run

So my most dearest friend, as has been documented time and time again. The dainty Ms Peeps, who I believe is a descendant of royalty, wants to go for an evening run. The absolute idiot that I am will certainly entertain that idea. The running plan, and I quote" Let's do something of low mileage and slow"

Johnny A. Gets Involved

The planned run is a done deal. We meet somewhere nearby and go for about an hour at most easy run. As is the case whenever Ms. Peeps gets involved, a last minute text flies in. Johnny A. wants to go and I need to sit tight and let things unfold. OK, now we have a casually planned easy hour at most tandem run turned trio. No biggy you say. I love this Johnny A. guy to death, well I don't really know him, but he seems OK. Now the simple plan starts to involve Starbucks, cars and complication. I am not down with this latest development. I am sore, I got limited time and I've had better attitudes than the current one that is building momentum. So We have a nice simple 6 miler planned, but no. JA wants to Fuck the whole thing up. Neither Laurie nor I want a thing to do with cars, complicated plans or indecisiveness. We just want to run and we wanna run now, and get it over with but good ole Jonny A. wants to complicate this whole thing.

Screw Him

It's been a long day and I am not dealing with this crappola. Lady Laurie shows up at my house and is about as decisive as the weather. As is usually the case, I take this train that is starting to jump the rails and get her back on track. Two words flew out of my mouth "Let's Go", and now.

Johnny A takes the Wheel

So now that we have to go Dalton Division Road, I suppose we can figure some sort of compromise. It's perhaps 6:30 by now, about an hour at most of daylight and I'm ready to knock out a 6 mile cookie cutter loop. I would even entertain a 3 mile out and back. God no, that would be too easy. The fact alone that JA is wearing a reflective vest is already making my hair hurt. So the 10 minute miler says, lets head over Hubbard and out to Dalton. Hubbard Ave. is about as runner friendly as O'Hare runway 5A, complete with guard rails, a single lane underpass and an industrial park. This little stretch of running bliss is followed up with possibly the busiest, six way intersection in Berkshire County. So now our options are narrowing down to 2, neither of which are going to get us home before 7:30. Double back for a repeat performance of the worst running stretch in North America, or an additional 6 mile loop through Dalton. The latter seemed like a more than acceptable option, even though I am saddled with two companions not only capable of walking 2/3 of the route, but a duo of speedsters that will turn this loop into an all nighter. Even that made too much sense for our fearless engineer who was determined to test my waning patience, and fragile friendship that was hanging in the balance. Brilliant boy wonder now floats out an even more brilliant plan than I thought was humanly possible. What you are about to read is not a typo of sorts, not a fictional enhancement, not my my mind running wild. Johnny boy wants to run through the dump, yes the landfill, that place you go for one reason, and one reason only. To bring your trash. Well this was quite the dump, complete with methane vents, oil burning furnaces and here we go again, a swamp.

It Gets Worse

So let's recap, The Plan: A recovery run, (a slow low mileage workout). The Status: An hour and one half later, it's dark, getting cold, it's late, we're dangerously close to being lost, footing is going from pavement to dirt to sand to standing water to a freeking swamp. As we're crashing through lacerating brambles, biting flies and seemingly headed nowhere, the egg head engineer says, " There's a path somewhere that takes us right out to High Street". Needless to say, his credibility has vaporized and I'm gettin pissed. Keep in mind, Ms. Peeps is just plugging along like she was pushing a cart through the produce isle at Price Chopper. But hell, she's gotta be beat as hell and ready to pick up a stick and crack this goof ball over the head and dump him in the muck. Now it's approaching 8:30 and even a med-evac wouldn't get us back before 10. Just when the patience rod was bent to a point that both ends were touching and that unmistakin creaking sound that is followed by a sharp snapping noise seems imminent, streetlights appear out of nowhere.

The Run Home

That feeling of pavement under foot never felt so sweet. The damage was done. Soaking wet mucky shoes, mosquito ravaged skin, about 6 miles home as the crow flies and a bad ass attitude. I'm thinkin 6 minute miles, wide open throttle on a B line back to 85 Leona. Johnny A. can call a cab for all I care, but my dear friend Laurie, clearly gassed and ready for an air conditioned ride home, is testing my confidence that she has the will to complete this disaster by foot. Well, I am just gonna have to find out later what kind of gile and mental fortitude she can muster up, cause I ain't doin 9's back.

We Made It

I arrive at the Aldridge estate at about 9:00 or so and figure if they unravel so bad and have to walk, I'll just high tail it home and worry for a minute or two and pound a couple ice cold beers. But alas, round the corner they come. A couple comments about his vertical well grounded mailbox, the fresh coat of driveway sealer and edging and the cordial offering of some tap water. Just like mom back in the 70's, the bumbling bachelor returns with a couple of crystal/ plastic tumblers, round ice cubes and freshly drawn tap water. Not quite a BBQ with honey ribs and a pint of Guinness, but well, that's JA, and that's why he's still single.

Curly's Half Marathon Trail Race

Another Trail Race
I think by now, I have laid out my position on trail running. The connection with nature, the lack of carbon monoxide emitting vehicles and the somewhat more gentle pile driving of the knee’s all make this seem, at least in theory, as a much more appealing alternative to pavement.

So Why do Anything Else?

Like almost every other enjoyable activity in life, there is the inevitable downside. To me running in the woods on a bright sunny warm summers day, is the equivalent of being in your moms basement. Because basking in the warmth of that cosmic solar glow is so invigorating, the thought of hiding beneath a canopy of dense forestry is almost sacrilege. Couple this with the massive assortment of biting insects, ankle deep muck and potential season ending stumble over trail debris, and the enjoyment factor is vaporized.

The Racing Circuit
As this most wonderful summer has begun to wind down and transition to fall, the racing circuit is making its transition to the fall slate of events as well. Planning the events that I will partake in is certainly not a daunting task, as my resources, transportation and array of events is limited. Every season has that handful of showcase events where a strong contingent of elite athletes from out of town descend upon the Berkshires to embark on a local event. The Josh Billings Runaground Triathlon, is clearly at the top of this select list. Since the other event on the 4th of July was my chance to showcase my stupidity and compete less than 24 hours after a week of hospital incarceration, the “Josh” is going to be my chance for redemption.

The Lead up to the Josh
With the Josh merely two weeks away, and my training absolutely cresting, the stage is set for a showcase indeed. OK, what’s the hitch? Curly's Trail Marathon and Half-Marathon, A half marathon killer trail race involving multiple thousand foot ascents, ridiculous downhill cliff like descents and a plethora of season ending disasters waiting to happen. My total and utter disdain for these things would have clearly been enough incentive to scratch this off the schedule, not to mention the strategic positioning of the event being 7 days prior to the Josh. As is usually the case, ego brain also known as Dangerous Dan is always looking for an opportunity to beat an already broken and beaten body further into submission. As I contemplated participating in this insane endeavor at the Pittsfield State Forrest, I enjoyed a week of 138 miles of road work. You would have thought that if the Thursday night 20 miler (plus 10 at 5AM) didn’t seal the deal on bailing on the Half on the mountain, then the 14 on Saturday followed by an all nighter complete with copious amounts of booze and no dinner would have been the death blow.

In fact, as I sat with a dear friend sipping hi octane iced coffee, I believe I said,

"there's no way I can do that thing tomorrow"

Sunday Arrives
As hurricane Hanna is barreling up the eastern seaboard surely rendering the course a swampy catastrophe waiting in the wings, I look at my watch through my blurry eyes to see that it is now 5AM. It is dark, I have a bad ass hangover of epic proportions, a throbbing head, and feel like I have just traversed the Sahara Dessert void of water. Registration starts in one hour! Damn, I had better throw back some Advil, pound a pitcher of water, gear up and get a move on if I’m gonna be there for the starting gun. So after I reviewed my health insurance policy, my employee handbook section on short term disability, and any loop holes in my life insurance policy, I headed out.

The Race
As is the case every time I participate in one of these crippling trail half marathon's, I think to myself, why the hell do I do these things. And I can never really come up with a good reason. I got no sleep, my body was aching, and it was pouring rain. A half dozen trips to the outhouse, a layer of bug repellent, a 3X caffeine Goo, and a diet coke and I was starting to feel it. This was to be another mind over matter endeavor of monumental proportions.

Scanning the crew of bad ass trail runners that frequent this circuit is a sight to behold. Not only do I know none of these freaks of nature, if I were to find out that they were all related, it would come as no surprise. To be fair, they are the most wholesome, down to earth people you will ever want to meet. Ego’s are clearly checked at the door. The usual road racing egotistic blather regarding splits, PRs, training programs and footwear is not part of this posse’s vernacular. We’re talking bandanna wearing, backpack toting folks that looked like they live on the course. Who the hell would care about pace when your sailing along up a washed out river bed at an 11 minute clip, then cruising down a cliff at a 5:30. So there I stand, finger ready to engage my timing device, clad in my usual attire. Boarding shorts, road racing shoes and a pair of hole laden damp socks. That's it, no water belt, no gators, no hat or fuel pack, shorts, shoes n socks.

The Gun, (whistle) Goes Off!!

The first half mile or so went pretty well, nice grassy field, fairly flat and the rain starting to taper. The next 2 miles can only truly be appreciated by those on the course. If you've ever tried to run up a ski trail, you may be starting to catch my drift. Other than the dude with the tail and webbed feet in the lead, the entire field was walking. I didn't pay 50 bucks to drag my ass out of bed and go to a race to walk. To be fair once again, 15 minute miles is not exactly running, but hell, I was NOT walking! As I crested this first behemoth of an ascent, I was perhaps 2nd or 3rd. Lizard man was likely at the 5 mile aide station already. The core of the race from miles 5 through 9 were pretty uneventful, I was keeping pace with the top 4 or 5 runners. Now the dude I was trying to reel in for what seemed like eternity, was toting a full sized back pack. Now I never asked, nor did I even want to know what the hell was in that thing, I just could not imagine what equipment would be so vital that it would require a back pack. He did know we were doing a half marathon, not a trek to Canada. Mile 10 proved to be the glimmer of hope I had prayed for. As the course twisted and turned through thickly overgrown terrain, I found myself stepping out into the bright sunshine staring right at Potter Mountain Road. Not exactly highway 101, but a more conducive surface for kind of training. I peered ahead at about a 1 mile stretch of a crippling climb of what I would estimate at 600 to 800 feet. The throttle was wide open and by the time I crested that bad boy, I was less than 50 yards out of the lead.

So What Happened?

It was now mile 11, and the sprint was on as we re entered the woods once again. In an effort to not mis lead anyone into thinking I was closing in on man beast who had already completed the half on his way to a smooth 3:37 Marathon, I was part of the halfers running our own race. That being said, mile 11 was a steep descent down a washed out riverbed snaking through a sparsely wooded area as we made our way toward the base of the mountain. This is perhaps the most psychologically tormenting element of these races. My adrenaline was peaking, my tank was far from depleted, but I was ill equipped with the technical skills required to descend this wide open. The trio of experienced trail runners pulled away.

4th place, 2:05:05