> Race Report: Chuckanut Mountain 50k, 2003
>
> The wind had howled and the rain had poured all week. Such weather is a
traditional part of this race, and I half relished the prospect of running for
hours in those conditions. After all, if it is going to be a long day anyway you
might as well push the limits, and the gnarled old hands I consulted assured me
that the full race experience demands putting up with some of Mother Nature> '>
s fouler moods. It was nevertheless a relief that Saturday dawned with clear
skies, gentle winds and mild temperatures, making my pile of waterproof clothing
redundant.
>
> I thought I was pretty relaxed about the whole affair, but after my fifth
visit to the bathroom before I had even left home I realized that my body
thought otherwise. Things settled down a bit once I mingled with the familiar
folk at registration. Having had a minor role in making the race arrangements,
mostly by electronic means, it was good to actually meet our new race directors
Krissy and Brandon in person. But they were far too busy to do much more than
shake hands and smile, and they were soon lining us up for the starting
announcements.
>
> As usual it was impossible to hear anything at the start other than my
neighbors asking each other what was being said. I lurked around at the back of
the crowd with the other also-rans, trying to avoid being trampled underfoot.
There was a ceremony thanking Doug McKeever and Richard West for initiating and
directing the race for all 10 years of its existence; formal recognition which
they richly deserve. Then it was time to go, and up the hill we duly went.
>
> The initial race limit of 150 runners had been increased to 200 due to very
high demand, but only about 180 actually started. The first mile or so of trail
was quite crowded as we sorted ourselves out according to pace. The colorfully
dressed column of athletes surging up the avenue of tall green trees made an
attractive spectacle from my perspective at the tail end. Soon the long file of
runners was snaking its way through the gloom of Arroyo Canyon, and by the time
we emerged onto the Interurban Trail proper we had pretty much settled into the
places we would maintain for the rest of the run. The flat Interurban provides a
gentle start to the race, and I felt relaxed jogging into the Clayton Beach
parking lot with just an hour gone.
>
> Perhaps my bright red top under the yellow sleeveless vest was a bit
flamboyant, or maybe it was my cool racing shades and headband that prompted
Steve Roguski to kid me about my sartorial elegance as I embarked on the climb
through the woods to Fragrance Lake. Anyway, our friendly exchange put me in a
good mood and accelerated my pace, leading me to overtake, with rather more zeal
than sense, several other runners on my way up the long winding trail. I felt
good as I trotted around the small dark lake, scrambled out of the bowl it sits
in, and began to make my way down the logging spur to Cleator Road. My pace down
that steep rutted spur was slow, favoring my left knee which had been hurting
for several weeks, so most of those I had passed going uphill got ahead of me
again. I was glad to emerge from the woods and grab some food, drink and good
cheer from the aid station before setting off in renewed pursuit up the wide,
smoothly graveled expanse of Cleator Road.
>
> My hiking ability and long legs stood me in good stead once more as we ground
our way up the three miles to the Ridge Trail. I put a fair amount of effort
into the climb, passing another handful of people on my way to the aid station
at the junction of Cleator Road with the Ridge Trail. This aid station was
particularly well and enthusiastically staffed, providing a warm send-off for
the long and challenging loop that lay ahead. Many runners were refilling water
bottles and replenishing supplies in preparation for this next arduous stretch.
I had no need for such restocking, since I had been carrying a full camelbak
from the starting point.>
>
> Since the going along the narrow ridge is very rough, and my highest priority
was to avoid injury, I ran the Ridge Trail very conservatively. Plenty of roots,
rocks and slippery soil lay in wait for the unwary, and I had forgotten just how
much uphill there is on this downhill part of the trail. My race had been rather
unsociable until then, so I was glad to acquire some female company. My
red-haired partner was also in no hurry, and exhibited a touching faith in my
ability to find the correct way. We made desultory conversation as we steadily
progressed northwards, stopping to take in the gorgeous views to the north and
east at one or two open rocky areas on the edge of the cliff before plunging
steeply downhill to Danny> '> s Bypass and the start of the southward trek on
the famously muddy Lost Lake Trail.
>
> The sun was high as we began the long gentle ascent to Lost Lake, with the
contrast between patches of blinding sunlight and the dark shadow of the forest
sometimes making vision difficult. We had been joined by another fellow and
trotted along companionably enough, with the odd (sometimes very odd) athletic
leap as we sought to avoid the increasingly numerous mud wallows. Soon the mud
was no longer avoidable, and we were reduced to just choosing the least messy
line. Naturally I made some bad choices, first winding up ankle-deep in the
slop, and then having a shoe sucked right off my foot as I high-stepped through
the bog. The resulting dance, which involved balancing on one leg in the muck
while waving the other soggy foot in the air and simultaneously trying to drag
my left shoe from the mud's gooey embrace, was a great hit with my running
partners. I got my revenge on the climb back over and down the other side of the
ridge, with my injured dignity spurring me on to enough efforts to pass several
more runners. I got to the base of Little Chinscraper / UpChuck, the last major
climb, 30 minutes ahead of my time last year and still in reasonable shape.
>
> This climb seemed much worse than last year. It went reasonably well until,
just after the first really steep section, I ran into Doug McKeever coming down
the trail, surveying his handiwork. Smiling encouragingly, he breezily told me
it was only another 600 yards to the top where the aid station volunteers were
standing by to cater to my every need. He failed to mention that his distance
estimate referred only to the vertical dimension, as my subsequent experience
amply confirmed. I was a wreck by the time I topped out, barely able to stagger
down the rough slope to the Cleator Road parking lot. At least the spectators
sitting in their deckchairs in the sun, sipping beer, were encouraging, their
cheers keeping me going those last few hundred yards back down to the Ridge
Trail aid station and its peanut M&M> '> s. I was a bit disappointed to find
they had run out of gatorade, with my brain being too addled by then to register
that I still had a goodly supply sitting right there in my backpack.
>
> The smooth open road down the hill provided a welcome contrast to the forest
trails, and with gravity on my side I made decent time back to the Clayton Beach
parking lot. But it is a long, relentless descent, very hard on the muscles and
joints, and I resisted the temptation to run fast, knowing I would pay a heavy
physical price for any indiscretions. Fortunately my knee had given up whining
by that point. My red-haired companion from the Ridge Trail caught up with me
just before the aid station, as did an elderly gent I had passed with great
disdain on the first climb to Fragrance Lake. I think he was singing as he
sauntered jauntily by. The aid station, glory be, had not yet run out of coke,
and I reached for their last bottle like a junkie in desperate need of a fix. A
couple of mugs went straight down the hatch, instantly restoring energy levels
and the will to embark on those last six or so miles home.>
>
> I decided that the best way to cover those last, mostly flat miles was to try
for a comfortable pace that, with luck, would induce a deep hypnotic trance.
Never mind that famous mind-body connection, this was one of those times when
being brain dead had become a desirable state. I tried my best to switch off all
inessential functions, reducing life to the simple process of steady mindless
forward motion. It worked well, though my trance was disturbed by the little
red-haired girl passing me at such a rate that I hardly had time to admire her
shapely bronzed legs. I was surprised to find her walking a bit further on, and
tried to encourage her by telling her that we only had about two more miles to
go. I knew I was lying - we were still at least three miles out - but felt for
her sake as well as mine that I had to pretend we were close to home. It worked
too well, or maybe she had just stopped to adjust the volume on her walkman,
since she soon passed me again, leaving me to share Charlie Brown> '> s pain as
she disappeared into the distance, finishing well ahead of me.
>
> Arroyo Canyon was mostly a walk, with a token jog or two, and by the time I
had climbed back up to the last flat stretch of the Interurban Trail my body and
mind had achieved total harmony: it was time to stop. It was only the ingrained
habit of countless lunchtime runs on that last bit of trail that made me break
into a vague semblance of a run. The autopilot took over, the familiar landmarks
slipped by, and I soon found myself trying to read the race clock as I trotted
down the hill towards the finish. A final sprint got me to the line at exactly
6:52.
>
> I felt quite drained at the end. Evidently running the occasional
half-marathon is not the best preparation for an ultra. Lying on the grass in
the afternoon sun, munching one of those delicious burgers prepared by Krissy>
'> s parents and watching a parade of friends come across the line, proved to be
a good tonic. It was especially good to see Alta Stauffer finish, when a year
ago we had feared she might never run again. Vickie Griffith (59) came in just
under the 8-hour cut-off, still looking strong, and Diane Palmeson (turning 65
the following day) paced the amazing Barb Macklow (68) to the finish not much
later. Their inspiring examples capped off another fine running of this
wonderful Pacific Northwest challenge.
>