Category: Running

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The Flying Monkey Marathon

Wow.  This course ate up some very good runners, but everyone seemed to really love the Flying Monkey! This from the website: We will time and measure the distance, but the course will not be certified and it will not be a Boston qualifying event. If you get to the end and you (or your gadget) believe the route to be long, we won’t charge you extra; if you believe it to be short, just keep running. There will be no bands, cheerleaders, wave starts or crowds. We promise no marathon Personal Records, but we guarantee every runner a PR – a Permanent Remembrance of a well-earned marathon finish. We promise to give you approximately 26.2 tough and memorable miles, with a total of over 3600 feet each of elevation gain and loss, or over 7200 feet of overall elevation change.

I went out to take a few pictures and ended up taking hundreds, which I’ll post on Flickr sometime tonight.  In the meantime, congrats to everyone who finished one of the tougher marathons you’ll ever run!  East Nasty represented in a big way! 

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My Craziest Race Thought to Date

Armondo’s at it again.  Now, he’s trying to convince me to do an all night trail relay.  That might be easy for the Red Wolf, but I’m like the Purple Quail in this mix.

So, the route is 5 miles with 4 people.  It’s actually only 12 hours, but all night sounds more dangerous.  I hear there is a 24 hour run, but . . .

If you remember, this is the same trail that ransacked my IT band in the first place,

Chasing the Sasquatch

but as you know, I am not one to take losing lightly.  (Maybe you don’t know that and maybe it’s not even true but these are dramatic points of the story that just need to be inserted for suspense). I have been known to climb jagged rocks to bring supper back to my family (dog) and traverse miles of wicked hot terrain to secure a metal cupful of water.

Yeah, so Armondo’s all like, “We can rest in tents in between laps.”

Dude, it’s working… keep talking.”

“And eat hard boiled eggs in our sleeping bags.”

Wow, man!

“Cornhole, acoustic guitar and lots of bears.”

Okay, I’m sold!

Well, I’m not quite sold, yet.  Three 5 mile trail laps is a tall order for a man fresh off chicken knee syndrome.

I’m gonna kick the tires and see if I can get some more teams involved.  It’s lonely on that trail and Purple Quail is afraid of the dark.

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Running is King

I hated running and could fake a cry with the best of them if it would help me avoid jogging in gym class or later in sports.

But I loved biking, and did a bunch of mountain bike races, including Chequamegon Fat Tire 40 in Hayward, Wisconsin.  And while I have you, I’ll drop a reminder that I placed 1,500th out of 3,000 racers.  Exactly in the middle and 1,499 places behind Greg Lemond.

I swam a little bit, too.  My parent’s house was half a block away from the municipal pool in Beloit, Wisconsin and I spent loads of time hitting on girls and hiding boners in the shallow end. I love water, and while I was never a distance swimmer, I’ve always made time for a few laps at the local Y.

But running was a nemesis.

Frankly, it hurt.  My ankles have always been fragile and anything more than a dash to first base or out to play shortstop was too much.  In baseball we mainly ran sprints to loosen up and the teams I was on never overdid such tomfoolery.

Now, though, I realize that I missed the boat.  A little bit of distance running would have made me a better athlete, especially late in the game when the legs go south.  If I were ever a coach again, I would have to pull some hocus pocus out of my bag to convince the kids they need to run more.

Running is still hard.  It still aches the most of the three sports, but it is without a doubt the reason I have started triathlons.

Once I erased the mental baggage of running, everything else fell into place.  But I could have never done it without the Couch to 5K program.  I always went too far too fast and quit.

If you hate running, but have a perverted desire to do it anyway, I suggest you take it very slow and follow a Couch to 5K program to the letter.  No more.  No less.  Stay within yourself and let your muscles build naturally.

Without those seemingly inconsequential 60 second jogs back in January, Ironman Wisconsin never would have crossed my mind.  Running can be a bitch, but in my triathlete world, it is the real work.

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A Picture is Worth Dozens of Pounds

My good friend Roger is 5 weeks away from running his first marathon and has a photograph of me to thank.  Actually he was in the picture too, and what happened to us that blurry night was an undeniable catalyst for change.

Our friendship started innocently enough around two years ago when Roger and I (Both Wisconsin natives) hatched the grand plan for Badger Nation Nashville at the Village Pub in Inglewood, TN.  Wisconsin football was on a roll and we wanted to capitalize by using beer and cheese to seduce local residents into our social circle.  After several PBRs we penned these highly sophisticated, yet simple bylaws that have Constitution-like staying power:

Official Badger Nation Nashville Bylaws

1. No rooting against the Badgers.
2. Spread word of the Badger.
3. Don’t shoot badgers. (Ben’s Law)*
4. Don’t diss Jeffrey Steele.
5. Meet at Village Pub & Grill when you can make it.

Fast forward two years after the “bylaw meeting” to my house, where a nice group of Badger Nation Nashville kids are celebrating another big victory.  Roger and I had been drinking for about 8 hours and decided to give everyone a treat by singing Wisconsin’s Alma Mater song, “Varsity,” which was quickly caught on video.  The playback was astonishing.

I had always felt pretty good about my body, but when I watched the video all I could see was a blubbery seal flopping around on a leather sofa.  I begged fellow BNN member, Brian, not to post it on the web and thankfully he didn’t know how.  I went silent and may have even retreated to my bedroom to sulk. What I didn’t realize at the time was, the video had a similar impact on Roger.

It didn’t happen immediately, but our minds shifted to training mode.  Roger joined Weight Watchers and started running.  I laid around for a few more weeks before Jim convinced me to do Couch to 5K training.  I really didn’t want to run, but that video looped in the back of my mind. For the first time in my life I felt like a fat ass!  I had no choice.

I have told this story a bunch of times and I’m convinced that taking a picture of yourself is the best form of motivation.  Preferably late in the night after a drinking or eating binge.

Now, Roger and I are hatching different plans.  Five short months after that fateful photography, we did the Country Music Half Marathon together and the ante continues to rise.

What started as a 5K for me has turned into Ironman training.  Roger is ready for his full, with aspirations of a Half Ironman next summer.

It has been a dicey journey that started on a bar napkin and evolved into something etched in stone.  And even though the Badgers suck this year, I think Roger would happily join me for an encore rendition of Varsity after the last game of the season.

* Montana Ben is a Pub regular who spends his summers in Montana shooting badgers so they don’t fuck with his cattle.

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Nashville Ultra Marathon

They write books about this shit and several people I know have claimed to have done the deed, but until yesterday, I have never seen anyone actually DO an ultra marathon.  I was out there bright and early in effort to feel better about myself by volunteering.  My job on this day was to be a “bike monitor.”

I was supposed to show up at race time then sort of follow, or as it probably seemed “lurk” around runners for four hours.  I had no uniform or special sign distinguishing me from the other creepo bike riders, and i’m not gonna lie, it was a little awkward.

Me:  “Hey there, sorry for cutting you off, how are you?”

Random Runner:  “Urg!  I’m fine!”

Me:  “I’m volunteering, so I thought I’d ask.”

Random Runner:  “Oh, I wondered what the hell you were doing.  Thank you!!”

Me:  “Lookin good!”

The more I contemplated my task, the more I reasoned it was a little on the useless side considering I was monitoring Ultra Marathoners for their first 12 or so miles, which seemed a little like making sure a drunk can handle his first few beers.  But I kept focus and rode nearly 30 miles while peering into runner’s eyes for the slightest sign of weakness.

If there was hesitation I would cozy up close and point my water bottle toward their mouth.

“Sure you don’t want some water?!?”

“No, get the hell away from me.”

I decided the best thing I could do was make sure I knew where the last runner was and when I saw him, I had no idea who I had uncovered.  He had a big arch in his back and his style was unique to say the least.

I asked if he was doing okay, and he mumbled something about a “challenging climb” and forged ahead.  I rode away moderately confused and kept peeking over my shoulder to see if he was still standing.

When I got back to the start line (which all runners passed on their way to the other the back end of the race) I told organizers “There are 7 runners left on the course, including a guy that . . .”  And was interrupted with, “Oh, that’s Eugene, he’ll be fine.”

Eugene is 76 and was using an intriguing run/walk method where he’d run for two steps and walk for three or something like that.  I couldn’t quite figure out the strategy, but evidently it works because he has completed over 400 marathon or longer runs in his life!

If we put that into perspective and assume he didn’t start running marathons until he was 26, that’s eight marathons a year for 50 straight years!  Not only that, several of them were ultra marathons.  I noticed he was wearing a 50 States Finisher shirt and someone told me that he’s done that four times!  How’s that make you feel about your life experience?

If that wasn’t enough, I got to meet the 50K winner, who humbly knocked it out in three hours and twenty minutes (unofficial).  That’s about a 6:26 per mile pace and I’m telling you there were some bastard hills on this route.  My thighs were killing me and I was on a bike.

Ten months ago I could barely run to the mail box, and now, after watching an Ultra Marathon, I can see myself doing one at some point.  It won’t happen until after the Ironman, but it certainly seems possible.  Amazing what we can do if we put our mind to something.  If you don’t believe me, just ask Eugene.

Question of the Day:  I need to ask you all a question though.  There were several, I mean upwards of 25% of the people in this race that were walking often before mile 10.  I guess I don’t really understand why you would do an ultra when there are plenty of shorter races out there that you can run?

Ultra Marathon Day Diet:  Sun chips, mini-snickers (from aid station).  Grilled Cheese and potato tots from the Grilled Cheeserie Truck. Budweiser Tall Boy.  Fat Bottom Burger, 2 Pale Ales, Multiple Guinness, and a Schlitz in a bottle at Family Wash.  This must have been a cheat day.

Side note:  I Googled “Running Calculator” but typed in “Runny” by mistake and it led me to a calculator that tells you how you may have gotten your runny nose.

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Should the NYC Marathon Have Been Canceled?

The NYC Marathon has just been canceled and I’m not sure it’s the best call.  It was obviously a tough decision (and I realize I am commenting from the outside), but events like this can give community energy and help with the rebuilding process.  Not to mention there will be tens of thousands of extra hands to help out before and after the race.

This situation reminds me of a letter my old General Manager had framed on his wall when I worked for the Indianapolis Indians. It was written by FDR and sent to Kenesaw Landis, Commissioner of Major League Baseball at the time.  It is now called, “The Green Light Letter” and was in response to a question of whether or not MLB should cancel the baseball season during the war:

My dear Judge:

Thank you for yours of January fourteenth. As you will, of course, realize the final decision about the baseball season must rest with you and the Baseball club owners – so what I am going to say is solely a personal and not an official point of view.

I honestly feel that it would be best for the country to keep baseball going. There will be fewer people unemployed and everybody will work longer hours and harder than ever before.

And that means that they ought to have a chance for recreation and for taking their minds off their work even more than before.

Baseball provides a recreation which does not last over two hours or two hours and a half, and which can be got for very little cost. And, incidentally, I hope that night games can be extended because it gives an opportunity to the day shift to see a game occasionally.

As to the players themselves, I know you agree with me that the individual players who are active military or naval age should go, without question, into the services. Even if the actual quality to the teams is lowered by the greater use of older players, this will not dampen the popularity of the sport. Of course, if an individual has some particular aptitude in a trade or profession, he ought to serve the Government. That, however, is a matter which I know you can handle with complete justice.

Here is another way of looking at it – if 300 teams use 5,000 or 6,000 players, these players are a definite recreational asset to at least 20,000,000 of the fellow citizens – and that in my judgment is thoroughly worthwhile.

With every best wish,

Very sincerely yours,

Franklin D. Roosevelt

I lived through the Nashville floods a few years ago, so, on some level, I understand what the Northeast is going through.  Several people have lost their possessions, homes, and lives.  This is a brutal experience and I completely empathize for everyone who has been affected.  But as New York knows all too well, and we saw in Nashville, there is no choice but to move on.

New York’s race is the largest in the world, and if you’ve ever watched a marathon, you know how inspirational they are.  The Country Music Marathon ran by my house every year and after watching, I was always ready to tackle the world and change my life.

I really feel having thousands of runners and spectators embracing streets that were just ravaged by a storm is a symbolic way to say, “This is our home.  We will not give in.”

Marathon runners touch lives all the time.  They are people who have committed to a very difficult challenge.  I don’t see how it can hurt to have 40,000 people with that type of character on your side.

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A Runner's Conversation

You know, injury talk can be the worst.  I mean, if it bores me, then it must bore everyone else in the world.  It’s so self-serving, but I guess that’s what we do.  We talk about what’s on our minds and pain is important:

Me: “You’ll be happy to know that my knee is still a little jacked.”

You: “Well, this prick I work with is really getting on my nerves.”

Me: “Oh, wow.  Yeah, I haven’t been sleeping much lately!”

You: “Really?  Yeah, like today when he punked me right in front of my boss.”

Me: “Man, Yeah, I don’t know if it’s something I’m eating or money issue stress.”

You: “Sometimes I just feel like kicking him in the nuts!”

Me: “I’ve been meditating more and even thinking about going to church again because it’s wearing me down.”

You: “I called in sick today because I couldn’t face that asshole.”

Me: “I don’t know, maybe I just need to change my diet back to gluten free.”

You: “Speaking of gluten, I’d like to kick him right in the ass!”

Me: “Maybe I’ll just call my father and tell him he’s forgiven.”

You: “Well, I guess I’d better be going.”

Me: “I hear you.  Good seein ya!”

And so it goes.

I think this is why I like writing.  You either have to listen to what I’m saying or walk away.  Either way, I win!

So, last night was my first run in a while, and am happy to report, four miles with East Nasty and no knee pain.  In fact, I felt better after that run than I have after any run in recent memory.  I think it had a lot to do with rest, but mainly the strengthening exercises and an ongoing lust for my foam roller.

I had about 30 minutes to spare before the run, so I ran a little Jive Talkin‘ through the speakers and did a slew of warm-up work.  Everything from pushups and situps to running in place and jumping jacks.  I also did some hip flex and ass strengthening exercises (which are paying off nicely by the way).  By the time I left for the run I was sweating and wearing knee wraps.

This injury could be a blessing in disguise.  After powering my way from not running at all to a half marathon and eventually an Olympic Triathlon, I am finally getting a grip on balance and smart approaches, including the warm up.

In this way running is a lot like writing.  They tell you to sit down and write for ten minutes or so and that’s when you’ll actually be saying something worth reading.  In other words, warm up your brain. (In other, other words, I probably shouldn’t have published this crap!).

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Nashvegas Triathlon, Pt. 2 The Bike

This is Part 2 of my Nashvegas Triathlon experience, the bike.  The intro is the last paragraph of Part One, the Swim, which can be found here.

My bare feet glided down the slick pavement. The rain continued and I was suddenly freezing. I couldn’t believe God would put me through this and scurried to the bike transition in a daze.  I ran up to my row and looked down for my distinct white towel, but it was gone.  What the fuck?  I ran back and forth like a kid protecting his lunch money and completely lost my mind for the third time of the day.  Part of my strategy was minimalist and fast transitions.  Shoes . . . socks . . . helmet . . . gone.  But the only thing gone, was my bike.

Of course it was there and I retraced my steps and saw the lonely vessel crying in the rain along with my soaking wet shoes and socks.  Damn!  Why didn’t I think of that one? Not that it mattered. I made the split second decision to bike without socks.  I never thought about it ahead of time but it was clearly the right decision.  As I ran my bike out of its pen, I saw my screaming fan base and heard Heidi shout, “Wow, that was fast.” Maybe I was in a time warp.  Transition one – 1:45. Not too bad.

As I pulled away in the rain, my thought instantly transferred to the run.  I would be running sockless for the first time.  Then I thought about the pelting rain and how much this whole race was sucking balls at the moment.  I turned out of the park and headed for the Ashland City hills with the perfect competitive attitude.  Alone on a bike, soaking wet after a miserable swim, I yelled, “Fuck it!” and was instantly unstoppable.

One of my sure-fire strategies is to get mad at the world, David versus Goliath style, and embrace the obstacles.  In this case I knew the rain would fuck with people’s heads, make them cold and take away their edge, but mine was only sharpened.

While most triathletes ride with clipped pedals, I wore cages.  It is a distinct disadvantage that I used for motivation.

I took my time as I glided down Highway 12 on the flat section of the course. I passed several bikers, but kept myself in check for the long ride.  I drove the course the day before and knew that while the course was 25 miles, the last five were down hill.  I turned it into a 20 mile ride.

The first 10 were cake, but when the Olympic course turned of, the hills loomed. The first challenge was a steady two mile climb that started around mile 12. It weaved through the back roads of Ashland City and eventually dropped us into a makeshift sub-division that looked (and felt) like a disturbing place to spend your life.

With a 10K lurking, I didn’t want to burn the legs. I spun low gears and climbed at a moderate clip.  The rain lightened, but the roads were like oil.  I channeled Tour de France riders while imagining throngs of hungry fans grabbing for a taste of me.  Unfortunately the Ashland City populous had other plans that morning, though I did see one guy mowing his lawn and a couple dogs.

I always find the trust factor impressive at these races. At one point the bike course turned down a lonely country road and spun around about 200 feet from a true scene out of Deliverance.  I saw it the day before when I missed the turn.  It was a home so disheveled that I was afraid to approach the driveway for fear of staring at a shotgun.  I mean this place was literally covered in shit that nobody on earth would want, except this guy.  Just garbage and filth everywhere.  Broken windows, car parts, fallen trees, I mean, I can’t even explain it and I was going to take a picture, but figured that was a bad idea as well and got the hell out of there.

But back to the honesty. There was a simple cone in the middle of this road and it was the turn around point.  The cone sat in solitude and I could have easily swerved inside the mark to cut a couple feet off, or for that matter turned around in the middle of the block.  No one was there, and I assumed it was because of Deliverance guy.

I felt good and kept spinning my way back to town. I guessed there were 8 miles left and the last five would be like a bobsled course.  I kicked it in gear, pounding my way through the curves like Lance on ‘roids before I was rudely interrupted by a line of pick-up trucks waiting to turn onto “my” course.  I swerved around the gaggle of trucks and was oddly happy to see a cop waving me through to the main road, where more cars were waiting to make my blast down the mountain a nightmare.

Cars and more cars.  All going shopping or whatever cars do on Saturday morning in Ashland City.  They had no idea there was a race going on and I felt it was my duty to let them know.

I took over the lane as I saw the crest of the hill and prepared to scream downward.  I flew past a couple bikers sipping water and hammered the biggest gears.  I went to my lower grip and attacked the wet and windy road at 30 mph.  Speed picked up and I nearly lost it when my palm slipped off the wet handle bars.  One more mile to go and I didn’t let up, until . . . I saw the traffic.

Who were these people flooding the streets at 9:30 Saturday morning.  McDonalds, Walmart, Walgreens, all sucking the life out of people who moved to Ashland City to get away from such filth, but now they were trapped.  Lifelong country folk losing their roots to corporate America.  But worse, I had to negotiate through this mess.

At the bottom of the hill, another friendly officer waved me to the left.  Back onto the main road for a white knuckle battle with hundreds of shoppers, all clueless to the biggest race of my life.  I bobbed and weaved to safety then leaked down the right hand shoulder of the road with literally a foot between me and car mirrors.  No support, no signs, no friendly cops.  I thought I was lost and battled traffic like a New York bike courier with nothing to deliver except a fading dream.

My thin tire hugged the edge of the slick black top and I turned sideways to squeeze by the last pick-up blocking my way to glory.  I turned right and peddled down the exit street, drenched, cold, and convinced I laid down a good ride.  Official time was 1:20:35, nearly 20 mph.

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Friday Night's Alright for Writing

I used to get fired up beyond belief when I’d hear “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting” by Elton John.  I’ve always been a huge EJ fan, but at some point I discovered that Bernie Taupin was writing all the lyrics, and to this day, Bernie is the only person in music that I truly want to meet.  And why not when a dude is dropping this kind of ink on his tablet:

It’s getting late have you seen my mates
Ma tell me when the boys get here
It’s seven o’clock and I want to rock
Want to get a belly full of beer
My old man’s drunker than a barrel full of monkeys
And my old lady she don’t care
My sister looks cute in her braces and boots
A handful of grease in her hair


Somehow Bernie always knew what was going on in my life.*  Dad was drunk, mom didn’t care, and I did want a belly full of beer.

I grew up in Wisconsin, which is the Harvard of beer drinking states and my degree was far more potent.  Every college town in Wisconsin claims to have the most bars per capita on a certain street or 3 block radius or along a river and after a lot of research, I can honestly say they are all right.

I’m not certain it’s something to brag about, but my drinking people can stand toe to toe with anyone.  A negative split comes natural to a beer marathoner.  We start slow for a couple, level out for the next 18 or so, then kick for the final 6.2, leaving .8 sitting as a rock in the middle of all the empties.

What does all of this have to do with the Ironman?  I guess the fact that I am home on a Friday night, writing instead of testing more beer to make sure it still tastes like beer.

Nine consistent months of training has created better habits and over the last couple months my urge to drink has slowly faded.  I’m not saying I won’t drink or don’t want to, but it is getting really easy to pass up.  Even after a horrible week at work (when my car would typically steer itself to the local pub) I will come home with intention of doing something productive.

The workout is always waiting and when you’re talking about an Ironman, certain things have to take priority.  Two months ago I would have felt a little naked if I didn’t have a 12 pack on reserve.  Now there’s not even room for beer with all the rotting vegetables in my fridge.

That said, as a proud graduate of Beer Drinking U, I never say never.  Tomorrow is Saturday and I could easily be drunker than a barrel full of monkeys.  Maybe that’s why Ironman Wisconsin is the perfect choice.

*  It should be noted that these are not necessarily my favorite Taupin lyrics.  I mean, they are good, but Bernie can wrench your heart dry, then fill you with nectar of the Gods thirty seconds later.

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Chasing Sasquatch (and The Red Wolf)

I’m not sure why the idea of running a race called the Sasquatch Trot was so intriguing. Until now I have been fueled by high profile events with lots of energy and people, but the hearing myself breathe on an isolated trail was exactly what’s been missing.

I got up early and drove along one of those unfamiliar numbered highways which never seem like the right road.  About 40 minutes in, my breakfast and coffee had other ideas than remaining in my stomach so I pulled off at the corner of 269 and Statesville Road to introduce myself to the fine folks at Three Forks Express Fuel.  I got the bathroom key, left a memorable aroma, and set out for Peaceful Hill.

The winding roads away from Watertown, TN were replete with “He has risen” white crosses, tractors for sale, and roadkill.  I had once again left my comfort zone and only had a love for training to blame.

There was a lonely, hand written sign at the base of the long driveway declaring I was in the right place.  Hay rolls sprawled in perfect symmetry like an alien culture dropped in for a wild weekend. The gravel poked my tires and led to to a creek bridge so low it would wash out in a light rain.  That bridge would double as the start line and I couldn’t have been happier.

We parked in a massive field about 400 yards from registration and they shuttled us in the back of a pick up truck.  I forked over 30 bucks to a very personable race organizer, Cody, who pushed the edge of fashion in his 70’s retro racer style with a hint of Richard Simmons.  He was excited to offer me race number 99 and pull two dollars in change from his own jacket.

It was all good as the 60 or so racers took a relaxing driveway stroll back to the creek where we stretched for ten minutes before holding up our right hands and reciting the highly useful and mandatory “Racers Oath.” This was led by the other organizer, John, and spoken with passion, conviction, and hint of “we are kinda crazy mother fuckers.”

The Racers Oath

Do to the dangers of this course everyone was required to give the following oath.

Everyone raise their right hand look desperately deep into the eyes of one of the runners next to you and repeat after me

RUNNER
* Might I say that you are looking fabulous today
* I want to let you know that you are my Sacagawea to my Lewis and Clark.

RUNNER
* Take a good look at my face because it is the last time you will see it in this race. It’s all backside from here on out runner

RUNNER
* Take a look at your shoes because I have tied them together. Just kidding runner

RUNNER
* We may get lost, injured, or cry but I won’t tell if yo don’t runner

RUNNER
*If I see a Sasquatch chasing us in the woods please understand that tripping you is for the greater good.

RUNNER
* Lets do this

70’s Retro wrestled the megaphone from John and interlaced witty banter with an undertone of love for his baby.  Cody was determined to make sure the 5 milers followed the pink tape and the 12 milers concentrated on yellow.  They warned of loose gravel, slipper rocks, sink holes and an imposing hill at mile three.  I wondered what the hell I was getting myself into.

The first mile was a nicely cut trail along the creek which veered toward the farmhouse as we began our circle of the property.  I was breathing heavy and realized I was too close to other runners when I nearly wrenched my ankle on a log I never saw coming.  I carved out space and settled into a relaxing pace with nature.

It was my first race in Inov8 shoes and I liked how the soft ground felt through the thin soles.  My eyes were glued 10 feet ahead, engaged with my only competition, the relentless terrain.

I found a zone and took in scenery while trying to squeeze Cody’s reference to “Rattlesnake Hill” out of my mind.  Trees whizzed by and I was alone with my thoughts, pounding wet leaves and hopping imaginary snakes. It was no longer a race, but a stroll through peaceful woods.  Then, I saw another runner in the distance.

He was wearing a bright red shirt and my bliss was swallowed by a horror movie. I was chasing him and being chased at once.  Running to catch, running not to be caught.  The adrenaline spiked and I felt the animal inside dig in for Mr. Red Shirt.

I was closing in and plotting navigation of a small creek when out of nowhere I heard a scream or a growl or something that put me on the defensive.  I looked to my left and saw . . . Sasquatch!

It took me about point five seconds to realize it was a costume, but there was something about the creature that gave it momentary credibility.  Later I learned it was John’s dad in the suit and I surmised there must be something about experience and wisdom that shines through a fake fur.

Mile two was a bit dicey, but the Sasquatch touch left a smile on my face.  I weaved up and down small hills and followed the pink flags into dense woods.  The path led us back and forth over a small and muddy creek then served a slippery 8 foot creek bank climb before continuing to the perimeter of a field where aid station volunteers did us a solid.  And it was a good thing, because our lives were about to become hell.

John said there was a big hill waiting, but I don’t think runners really “hear” those kind of words.  I actually thought I had already run that big hill in the previous succession of smaller ones.

Nope.

My crosshairs locked on Mr. Red Shirt (who was now The Red Wolf) and I watched closely as he attacked the steep hill and hit a wall.  I was 20 yards back and stayed on pace as we crawled up the gravel slope.

About 50 yards up, I remembered the advice many trail runners have given me, “if you can’t see the top of the hill, walk.”  I’m not sure if this is true with great runners, or short runs, but for me, it sounded like a damn good idea.  I fell into a walk as The Red Wolf spun his wheels.

About 30 yards later, I realized my walk was nearly the same pace as his run.  It was almost like he heard me think because at that moment, The Wolf slowed to a walk and we observed nature for the next few hundred yards.

The scenery was magnificent as we closed on the glorious peak where event photographer, Stephanie, waited to immortalize the “hill misery” on our faces.

I laid in the weeds and smiled with Mr. Red Wolf in sight.  Just then I heard someone yell, “Hey, here comes the first female runner!”

Before I could look behind me, a woman in bright pink shorts blazed past.  I still had about 30 yards to the top, but for some reason this triggered my man-card and I put my head down to catch her, which proved to be a vital mistake.

I was strong and knew that, once I got down that hill, the final two miles would be mine.  But the instant I crossed the top of that mountain I felt a sharp pain in the side of my knee.  The IT band reared its ugly head again, this time on the left side.

I knew I was screwed and kept waiting for my right knee to join in the fun.  I stared at the steep, rocky downhill and hoped the injury was phantom and would magically disappear.

I couldn’t even walk down the hill.  I had to turn sideways and hop on my right leg, grimacing as I watched The Red Wolf vanish into the thick brush.

It was true, wolves are never hunted.  His victory was secure, and I wasn’t even sure I would finish.

One by one, other runners flew past me.  I swore and bitched with every step, mostly because I wanted tackle the downhill with reckless abandon.  I was built for fast, athletic challenges and now I hobbled like a man without his crutches.

As bad as the knee hurt, I had that sneaking feeling it wasn’t serious.  The downhill was broken by a few flats which I jogged without much pain, but near the bottom, I met my match.

The hill gained pitch and slowing was hopeless without falling to my knees.  While it was one thing to lose The Wolf, it was quite another to be spotted crawling backwards like a lost tourist begging forgiveness from a bear.

I couldn’t stop, and wouldn’t crawl, so I let out a trail scream and hoped for the best.

My strides grew and I was covering 10 feet at a crack.  I looked above and leaped like Tarzan for a hanging limb and flung airborne through the trees; a man possessed.  Bark dug into my hands, leaves slit skin like paper cuts, and arms burned as I grabbed the last tree branch and launched myself to safety in a 3 foot pond of muddy water.

Okay, that didn’t really happen, but somehow I stayed on my feet and made it through a treacherous rock bed before heading to the open field.  The knee held up and I pounded the grass in a last ditch effort to secure The Wolf.

The energy I saved on the hill was paying off and I methodically picked off three runners that flew past me on the downhill.  That’s when I saw the opening.  With a mile left, The Red Wolf was in sight . . . and walking.

I leaned forward in a controlled fall and blazed the edge of the woods with my eye on the prize.  He was out there, but the course was tricky and I couldn’t really tell how far ahead he was.

The trail swung out, around, then right through one of the red barns where I braced myself for Sasquatch or big piles of horse shit, but neither got in my way. I raced hard toward the lake and briefly lost sight of my prey as he ran into another barn.

I put my head down to close the diminishing gap.  The Wold was a couple hundred yards ahead, but his bright red fur seemed close enough to grab.

The trail weaved like an “S” and took me into the final barn.  As I got closer I noticed the sliding door was only slightly open, which triggered a Sasquatch warning.  I just knew that wild man/animal would, at the very least, stick out his leg and trip me.  I was braced for a surprise attack and barely noticed the massive pile of hay bails blocking my progress.  I suspended the Sasquatch fantasy and dove head first onto the pile of straw and climbed like a man possessed.  I rolled off the backside, through the front door, and surveyed the horizon for red.

He was gone.  The only red left was blood trickling from my hands.

I crossed the hay bail finish line and stood face to face with The Red Wolf.  He gave me an evil grin, stuck out his paw and started making the weirdest sounds.  I was like, “who the fuck is this guy and why was I chasing him?”  Not really, The Red Wolf was a true gentleman/wolf who spoke quite eloquently and deserved the victory.

In reality, he beat me by two minutes and I probably wouldn’t have caught him with a good knee, but all of this makes for a better story.

Somehow the Peaceful Hill Sasquatch Trot is the perfect course for beginner or expert trail runners.  There is true love cut into them there hills and it shows.  The sprawling acreage is a gorgeous setting and the inaugural running class was a great foundation.  Add the wood carved Sasquatch trophies, live music, beer, food, and hay bail podium and you can start to see why this run is destined to be selling out, and I will be making another trip to Peaceful Hill.

More Pictures Here