Race report: Whiskeytown Trail Runs 8M

[Brian]

Date: 10/24/2009
Location: Whiskeytown Lake, CA
Subtitle: In which I crush 82.5% of the field.

The day found the lake socked in by a cloud bank which, coupled with
the huge thermal mass of Lake Whiskeytown, made for an odd combination
of chill and mugginess.

I arrived 12 minutes prior to the 9am gun, readied my energy gels and
deliberated over equipment choice. Sunglasses? Even if the sun broke
through, we would be in the trees most of the run. Running cap? See
previous. Sweat gutter? Unfortunately, the sweat gutter is best worn
with the cap to provide effective concealment. Very few can pull off
the sweat gutter on an otherwise bare head. "Travel light," suggested
the Voice of Wisdom. And so the gear remained in the car.

8:56am. Do I have time to go to the bathroom again? Of course. When
they see I am not at the line, they will delay the start.

8:59am. I emerge and take the start, allowing the colts ahead of me.
The gun is fired one minute later and we're off, climbing out of
Brandy Creek Marina. The young scholar athletes distance themselves
almost immediately, sprinting uphill as if the grade were reversed.
All are years, decades younger than myself so I give the gap no
further thought. In the meantime I have carved out my own gap rather
quickly and settle into No Man's Land.

My legs and stomach are heavy, the result of no taper--this is a
training race--and a large burrito the night prior. Curses. I may have
to phone this one in.

Almost a mile in and the course, primarily paved to this point, is
back down at lake level where a kindly marshall waves me up to the
Davis Gulch Trailhead. The legs have loosened up, encouraging me
toward the twin goals of a 1:10 overall time plus a negative split.

Davis Gulch Trail immediately calls these into question, as there is
no flat whatsoever. Up, down, sideways, with a possible roller coaster
loop at one point, there is no way to keep any sort of pace or enjoy
recovery here. Footing is uncertain with surface roots, ruts, rocks,
and fallen leaves covering the trail. My almost rabbit, a skinny
student a few bends ahead, disappears quickly. One of those tough-as-
nails-60-years-old-and-still-killing-it-runners scrapes past me a mile
or so into the trail.

Curses. I am truly alone now.

The course is a pilates and plyometrics workout. Only the Tuesdays
spent doing Z-Killer intervals prevent the legs and core from turning
into jelly.

Up, down, and sideways. Up, down, and sideways. One mile after
another. Just as I'm wondering why I'm not at the turnaround, the
pointy end of the race starts passing me coming the other direction.
Skinny, happy kids with their Good Jobs and Keep It Ups and You're
Almost Theres and twice the power to weight ratios. Why is this field
ignoring the triple responsibilities of Facebook, online gaming, and
cigarettes?

The last scrabble up to the turnaround aid station, which is a serve-
yourself, don't-think-of-chucking-your-paper-cup-on-the-ground-without-
breaking-your-stride affair. OK, I need a tiny break anyways. Before
hitting the water, I click the watch to get a split time, hydrate, and
kill 20 seconds seconds trying to figure out where the garbage is. Bye
bye negative split.

Perhaps a half mile into the return I'm ascending and descending like
a mountain goat, when I come upon my onetime rabbit like a stalking
wolf. He's taking things slowly. Is the kid injured? Bonked? Did he
get a text?

No matter. I mark him for a minute or so, approach a suitable hill,
then power past him. He offers words of encouragement. I headbutt him
to reinforce my dominance and remove any ideas of a comeback from him
his brain.

Pounding, pounding, pounding. This trail is punishing, but the soft
tissues are holding steady. It strikes me that I have not rolled an
ankle since the previous year, and that I am long overdue. OUT,
INFERNAL DOUBT.

The boy I passed 5 or so minutes prior is now upon me. What?! TRICKERY
AND INSOLENSCE! We reach a terrible runup and I waive him past. He
ascends it like a Saturn V rocket.

A few more minutes and I come upon the old timer who passed me on the
way out. He's hobbled. "Hamstring," he explains, "I got a flat tire."
I quickly push him to the side of the trail and kneel down to his neck
to drain a bit of life force.

Energized, I press on. I'm passing those still on their way out.
Barreling down descents directly at them presents a bit of unease. One
mis-step and I will collide straight into them. Fortunately, this
never comes to pass.

Finally, the Davis Gulch Trailhead beckons once again. Under a mile
left, the only climb remaining is a vicious dirt runup to the Marina
Road. Elapsed time is closer to 1:10 than 1:05, so one of my goals is
out of reach.

I have no kick at this point. The lungs and heart are there, there is
no cramping. But the legs won't turn over any faster. The trail beat
them into submission. In the finishing straight, the clock ticks
toward 1:13. 1:12 and change is within grasp, so I ease in to the
line. Discounting the time wasted at the aid station, it was probably
almost an even split.

My seventeen year old rabbit/nemesis floats over and we discuss his
slowing after the turnaround. "Just trying to take advantage of the
downhills." Which made little sense, because I had him dead to rights
on the downhills and gave up a 40 pound advantage to him on the
uphills.

No matter. I still had my sites set on an age bracket victory. Nearly
everyone ahead of me was a high school or collegiate runner by my
estimation. "First place men 30 - 39 ... " I tiptoed toward the awards
table " ... Jesse Sankey of Redding!"

IMPOSSIBLE, thundered my ego. That kid is barely out of high school!
With his Paul Bunyan beard ... and smile lines in the corners of his
eyes.

Well, all right. But he was 6 years younger. Almost in another
bracket. I will accept the second place and take a virtual first in
the 35 - 39 bracket.

In the end, 2nd of 3rd in the bracket, and 11 of 63 overall. A good
day's work.

http://www.sweatrc.com/Results/Ultra/8M/2009.txt

Next year, perhaps the 30K race. That would require more ... what is
the term? ... running. Surely 30K is right at the limits of human
capability, and to contest it would be a risk to health, and in turn
to the fate of the country. But if they can split the atom and send a
chimpanzee into space, perhaps it's my destiny to run 30 kilometers in
2010.