First, let me start with a childhood story. Note: "childhood" for me was only about 10 years ago.
Growing up I worked at the Little League World Series complex in Williamsport, PA every summer:
Each year, before the LLWS tournament starts, there are five weeks of summer camp for kids to attend, ages 10-14. My first year I was a counselor - the trusted right-hand man of the coach. Every subsequent year I was a coach - one of the few promotions I have ever received. Some years I coached the 10-12 year olds, other years the 13-14 year olds. That is beside the point. The real meat and potatoes of this portion of the story derives from the activities during the recreational time during the camp. No, parents, no laws were broken, no kids were injured, no need to phone the police after reading this. Although, I think the statute of limitations would cover us.
During lunch the kids would have one hour to eat and one hour for some type of recretional activity - play a card game, watch ESPN, play ping pong, go swimming, etc. Let's focus on swimming for a minute. Keep this picture in mind while reading: (this is the actual pool, by the way)
My friend of 15 years, Josh, was also a coach at the camp. He would always volunteer to supervise the kids in the pool during recreation time. No, he was not a creep - is not a creep! Here is how it started.
The first week of camp Josh decided to do a belly-flop off the diving board in the deep end - a HUGE deal to a 10-year old kid. Shoot, it was a big deal to us coaches, frankly. They hurt, and not just your stomach. But the kids loved it! Josh always exited the pool in the shallow end, after swimming painfully underwater most of the way from the deep end, with the ugliest redish/purplish color on his stomach. The kids would chant "Bel-ly-flop! Bel-ly-flop!" at a slow and steady drum until Josh slowly made his way to the deep end and walked the plank all over again. This repeated roughly 3-16 times on a daily basis. Well, the funny thing is, each summer there was always one kid who decided, or his parents decided for him, that he was going to stay for all five weeks of camp. So when the next group of kids showed up we knew the word would spread fast. The first day of the second week the kids were chanting "Bel-ly-flop! Bel-ly-flop!" before Josh even entered the rectangle of pain. There IS a point to this story, and I will circle around momentarily to bring it all together. Let's press on...
I drove out to Holiday Lake the night before unaccompanied - Kari sat this one out. I did, however, link up with another gentlemen named Phil who also lives in Fredericksburg. Remembering that we were idiots and never reserved lodging at the Holiday Lake bunkhouse, we decided to drive separately and sleep in our cars - not such a bad idea, very cold but the hand warmers did their job and so much more!
On the way to the race we, well, um, got lost. The iPhone, although retailed at $600 or something, still cannot maintain service in the remote backwoods of Virginia. But we were smarter than the iPhone - we had directions in black and white! In the form of a text message from Snipes! After 35 minutes or so of driving in circles around the Holiday Lake State Park in the dark, Phil and I decided we had better re-read the text messages. Which we did, and we found a spot with shotty service and pulled up google maps, and finally we found the road to success. The bunkhouse and cafeteria were very well lit when we arrived, not sure how we missed them initially. I blame Phil.
We went inside the cafeteria, checked in, received our bibs and race packets, walked around aimlessly with our phones pointed at the sky, then retired for the evening. Phil brought a portable DVD player and went off to watch a movie. I brushed my teeth with my feet dangling over the back of my car, spread out my clothes for race morning, activated my hand warmers, and crawled inside my bag for one of the most uncomfortable nights of sleep in my life.
When I woke up there was a thin sheet of ice on the outside of the car...and on the inside. I layered up and brushed my teeth in a similar fashion as the previous evening, then headed back to the cafeteria to warm up and eat a clif bar. Inside I found nobody that I knew, so I made some new friends and chatted to the other runners. Many were running their first ultra, others were road runners trying to get into trail running, and some were there to volunteer at the aid stations.
The start was freezing, and dark, and freezing. We were encouraged to carry headlamps for the first few miles by the race director, Dave Horton, but I allowed everyone around me to light the way for me as I followed in trace. This is Dave Horton:
His name should ring a bell - if not then I recommend you do a quick google search.
I cruised in the back of the pack for a few miles until the sun came up. Here is a neat picture I found on google, since my personal photographer was not with me on this trip, but this is exactly what I saw from miles 8-10-ish as the sun crested the treeline:
Very pretty, and also very annoying when you are trying to dodge iced-over mud puddles. When I reached the next aid station I was ready for a refill of water in my hand bottle. That station was primarily run by college students - Dave Horton is actually "Dr." Horton, a professor at Liberty University, and he brought along some students who volunteered to work the race. God bless those students, but one of them must have skipped the "how to aim while pouring water" course offered back on campus. Without missing a beat, this girl said "Water! Here!" as she took the lid of her gallon jug and walked briskly towards me. I was in a bit of a rush so I took my lid off just as quickly and met her in the middle to execute the refill. Once my bottle was full, I said "when" to let her know to stop. Interpretations are the darndest, because the "when" moment came and gone in a hurry. She was on a mission to give me water! So she gave me water! In my bottle! All over my bottle! On my left shoe! And on my left mitten! Which froze my hand! All day! Yes, I wear mittens!
No worries, I am tougher because of it. Veterans Affairs benefits will hopefully cover frost bite 30 years from now.
So, after the tragic pouring incident and after running through a creek, I was a bit chilly. I linked up with a girl named Annie who I met on the course. We were running about the same speed (she is very, very fast) and we were both frozen, so we kept each other company for 10 miles or so to the turn around point and beyond.
Around mile 26 I was feeling good so I parted ways with Annie and took off. I was running faster than I had run all day. From miles 26-28 I passed a large group of 25-ish runners, then found myself all alone. I didn't see anyone for a mile until I passed another runner, a guy my age. Shortly after I passed him...this is where the Terantino effect comes in.
I made the pass, since he kindly moved to the side for me to go by - thank you Sir. A few seconds later, while I still hear the leaves swishing under his feet behind me, I got attacked by a monster.
Now, I have fallen down before. It's like when you buy a new kitchen appliance and you open the box to find all those papers written in 15 different languages - they just come with it, much like falling pairs with trail running. I have slipped and fallen, tripped and fallen, stubbed my tow and fallen, fallen and fallen, cramped up and fallen, scooted and fallen, tried to run backwards and fallen, jumped followed by tripping and falling...but never have I fallen like I did just then. Somehow, the monster grabbed my right foot with a gnarly root. As I attempted to catch myself with my left foot, the monster grabbed that one too. Airborne is a good word to describe it. Horizontal is also a fitting term. I hit the ground belly first, then bounced back into the air, followed inevitably by another belly flop onto the trail. The spout of my water bottle was covered in dirt, my knee was bleeding, and I was embarrassed. What was I to do? Well, as I was lying on the ground I looked back at the runner behind me, said "Good one, huh?", then got up and ran off. When I got up the runner in front of me was looking back and laughing. I assume he heard the antics going on behind him and wanted to check it out for himself.
Surprisingly, I ran the final four miles with ease and had a solid finish. But by far, hands down, without a doubt, the best part of the race was hanging around afterwards with Dr. Horton. Not because the race was over and there was good chow and gatorade, but because of Dr. Horton. Let me explain how genuine this gentlemen is. He shook the hand of every runner after they finished. Some runners cried as they finished so he offered a hug instead, which all of them accepted. He posed for photos with everyone. He ran around with a megaphone shouting the names of finishers as they crossed the line, congratulating them for their efforts. He handed out shirts and ensured everyone was having a great experience. He was all smiles and more positive than anyone I have ever seen at a race. And, what's more impressive, is that he just had open heart surgery a few months earlier.
Ultrarunning has introduced me to a world I never knew existed, and probably never would have found had they not told me I was crazy. More importantly, it is because of people like Dr. Horton that make this sport what it is. His character, actions, boldness, and humility all serve as the exception to the rule, and the sport is thankful to have him around. Grand ol' man of Ultrarunning - Hear Hear!
End of recount...
"Down goes Frasier!" Man I wish I would have seen that.
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