Tjalling Ympa - 3/24/07

This was my sixth successive running of this race, so I know the course, I know the physical and mental trauma involved, and I should have known better than trying to do it with my even-less-than-usual minimal training. At my age this clearly constitutes willful (as opposed to youthful) stupidity, but at least it got me out of the house on a cold and soggy March morning that otherwise had very little going for it.

The forecast was for rain, so I was pleasantly surprised by the absence of pitter-patter on the roof when I woke up on race day. But I wasn’t fooled, and I recognized that my pace was unlikely to generate much heat, so I went with a couple of layers of polypro on top and the ratty old tights with the thru-flo ventilation at the knees down below. I stuffed battered Superfeet into newish Beasts, loaded a liter of Gatorade and some tasty treats into a Camelbak, snapped my number onto a racebelt, and was ready to face the future.

That future looked very damp as I cowered in my van awaiting the start, watching the steady rain as the runners assembled on the line. I decided to abandon my specs, and I added a jacket to my ensemble before joining the milling masses. The usual entirely unintelligible instructions were issued, with something that may have concerned timing chips being helpfully translated by my neighbor as something about knowing your shit, and then we were off. I had no ambitions at all beyond reaching the finish with as little suffering as possible, so I let the pack have a headstart before getting underway myself.

Those first six miles out to Clayton Beach were rather pleasant. The light but steady rain brought a calming mistiness to the forest, and the atmosphere amongst us spread-out tail-enders was very relaxed as we trotted along in amiable conversation; my only concern was to stay out of the way of faster runners. I was being ultra-conservative, maintaining an unhurried jog which shamelessly degenerated into an even more leisurely amble whenever anything vaguely resembling a hill came into view. Despite my best attempts to be a slacker I found myself at the first aid station after barely an hour, completely fresh.

Since nutrition has often been my downfall at endurance events I took the time to down a couple of mugs of electrolyte and a handful of M&Ms before proceeding. I would have lingered longer were it not for the repulsive stench of the neighboring outhouse; I pitied the volunteers who would spend all day in its odiferous vicinity. The short return trip up the trail confirmed that there was almost nobody behind me, so there was absolutely no pressure to perform as I commenced the steep hike to Fragrance Lake. I like uphills, so my stride became rather more purposeful than before and I soon found myself edging past other participants. This became the pattern of the day: from that point all the way to the finish my entirely unhurried progress resulted in steadily passing one athlete after another, all presumably having gone out too fast or eventually being worn down by the cold, wet, mud, distance, or lack of consistent nutrition. There is a lot to be said for the slow old tortoise approach to endurance racing that I was practicing that day.

I was glad to reach the tranquil waters of Fragrance Lake, with the easy jog on the trail down to and around the lake providing a welcome break from the climbing. The little scramble out of the bowl containing the lake brought me to the top of the Two Dollar trail; I always take it easy on that long steep drop, since the path is rutted and stony and my knees and ankles are distinctly past their prime. A few youthful types I had passed on the way up took the opportunity to regain some lost ground, but I missed the kamikaze downhill stunts I had seen here on other occasions when I was nearer the front. The rain wasn’t letting up, the path was getting muddier, and I found myself constantly brushing against the cold wet vegetation that lines the narrow path; I was glad I was wearing tights and that I had several warm layers on the top to keep me comfortable.

Towards the bottom of Two Dollar I had my first encounter with the new detour which avoids the heavily eroded gully that leads straight down to Cleator Road. The first part of that detour is very pleasant, even though it climbs a bit and adds some distance to the course, but the final winding drop to the road had been trampled into a glutinous slip-‘n-slide of tractionless mud by the time I got there. With flailing arms and legs I slithered my way down from tree to tree, managed to avoid embarrassing myself in front of the photographer lurking in the hairpin bend, and miraculously reached the road unscathed. Time for a few more drinks and goodies in the continuing rain before heading up the gravel of Cleator Road.

The three miles up Cleator Road are largely a boring drag. There is a flatter section that even us wimps can comfortably run and which breaks the monotony, and my easy pace allowed me to catch a few other runners, but it is uninspiring terrain so I was glad to top out at the aid station and tank up on some coke before embarking on the Ridge Trail. A glance at my watch showed that I was still on my regular schedule despite my total lack of effort. It was cold up there, with the rain beginning to verge on sleet and a chilly wind blowing, so I was eager to be on my way back downhill and into the shelter of the trees.

The rocky rooty Ridge Trail was even slicker than usual with all the rain and the passage of many muddy feet, so I took it very cautiously, protecting my fragile old joints as best I could. It was really no more than a relaxed jog-hike, with the odd moment of excitement when the slope and the mud conspired to provide treacherous footing. The continuing rain seemed to emphasize the silence and isolation, while the usual grand sweeping views to the snow-covered Cascades were replaced by gloomy vistas of grey clouds swirling over soggy forests. I carefully picked my way along the ridge top and around the logs and other obstacles, with my desultory pace still good enough to continue making steady headway through the field. The final drop down to Dan’s Traverse was not as slippery as I had feared, and there I was launching myself into the mudpit of the Lost Lake Trail.

This back stretch of the course, just past the halfway mark, is where the race casualties usually begin to accumulate, and I soon found myself passing the walking wounded. I still felt really and inexplicably good, and probably annoyed many stragglers as I loped cheerfully past. I asked one girl whether she was doing alright, and got a pained “Yes – sort of ” in response. I rather like that bit of trail because it’s largely flat so you can make good time with little effort, but the down side of the flatness is that it doesn’t drain well. Some runners were obviously struggling with the mud, which got softer, deeper and ever more plentiful as we progressed towards Lost Lake. There was no point in trying to stay out of the mud or even paying any attention to it, but judging by the comments of those I passed it had a depressing effect on some. Just before the junction at Lost Lake a woman splashing through the stuff asked me whether there was much more of it (yes there is), does it get any worse (yes it does) and how can it possibly be any worse (just wait and see); I heard her muttering loudly behind me as we plunged into the inescapable muck on the hillside contour behind the lake. Eventually the trail turned skywards and the mud was replaced by the climb back up to the ridge, inflicting a different kind of pain on the runners. I consumed the last contents of my backpack as I crested the ridge, providing another welcome energy boost before I headed down the slippery mud-covered curves and long descending traverse to the base of Chinscraper in the ever-present rain.

Chinscraper seems to get longer every time I go up it; somebody needs to stop whoever it is that keeps shifting those tectonic plates around. The thing starts relatively innocuously, and then you hit that first very steep eroded scramble which I always pray is the last one, but the gods never sympathize. Fortunately there is some relatively easy going before the second steep pitch, after which I usually indulge in a bit of wishful thinking, namely that the hard part is behind me. In fact the steep winding trail after that scramble is the hardest bit, and even Chris Ashby rolled her eyes and groaned “This will never end” as I dragged myself past her on the relentless climb through the woods. I passed a trio of girls in blue just before the top, the junction onto the easy contour over to the summit parking lot did eventually appear, and when Ken Klepsch saw me emerge from the trees and mist and expressed surprise at the fact that I was still running I had to admit that I was still feeling awfully good and was having a thoroughly good time. The elapsed time when I hit the aid station was 4:45, and the competitive juices began to flow as I smelt a possible PR.

More coke and handsful of trail mix went down my throat, and I pretended that I didn’t see the aid station volunteers pouring discolored rain water off the bowls of soggy food. I was infinitely grateful for those wonderful volunteers, still providing support and good cheer despite standing in the cold and rain and muck all day and having to deal with tired dirty runners suffering race-and-distance-induced tunnel vision. The three girls in blue arrived and took off while I was still feeding, and my newly-awakened racing instincts led me to follow in hot pursuit. It didn’t take long to pass them, but knowing they were just behind spurred me to cover those long downhill miles at a more urgent pace than I might otherwise have adopted. In the last year I had focused on changing my gait to a shorter stride with a higher cadence, and that now paid dividends in terms of getting me down the hill quite rapidly without putting much stress on my muscles and joints. All systems felt just great as I rolled into the last aid station, where that still-lingering heavy outhouse stench now heralded a very welcome transition to the fast flat final miles home.

I was still downing coke when the three blues sisters passed through without stopping; that seemed like a recipe for the big bonk on the homeward stretch, so I let them go as I refueled. I expected to see them in the distance when I got back on the trail, but they were moving at a good clip and were well out of sight. I just got myself back into my smooth rhythm – that effortless run that I’ve been trying to perfect for years – and commenced eating up the miles and a multitude of fast-fading fellow runners. The field was quite dispersed, but every few minutes I trotted past tired folk who were clearly just holding out to the finish. One guy tried to hang with me for a bit but couldn’t hold it, and the rest kindly murmured ‘good job’ as I came by. The wet, muddy trip through Arroyo Canyon slightly disrupted my metronomic progress, but it was a nice break, and when I emerged onto the last sweeping gravel climb up to the Interurban I finally saw the girls in blue up ahead. Behind me I saw a girl in black who had been dogging my footsteps all day and even seemed to be gaining on me now, and I decided that I wasn’t going to tolerate that. So I put on a bit more speed over the top and set my sights on the bluesies, who in turn were catching up fast on John and Emily Schick. I really didn’t want to get involved in a drag race to the finish, so I accelerated as I caught up on the crowd and then pushed the pace to open up a gap. When I got to the Rotary Trailhead I saw that I was well clear of them and relaxed a bit, though I was still breathing hard enough that a woman with a stroller felt moved to reassure me that I would be home and dry in fifteen minutes. “No,” I gasped as I turned up the final short gradient, “less than five! ” At the top I saw a guy in brown ahead of me; evil competitive thoughts erupted in my brain and I launched a final sprint, but he saw me coming and made it over the line with just two seconds to spare.

I had a wonderful day and came within a minute of my PR for the course despite minimal training and effort and despite conditions that many found hard to handle. While my time (6:23:28) is certainly not impressive, it far exceeded anything I had expected, and was all the more surprising for coming so effortlessly and painlessly. I had thought this might be my last Chuckanut 50 for a while, but it was too much fun; I’ll just have to do it again.

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