Last Call at Wakulla

From my experience I’ve known runners to be creatures of habit.  They find a brand of running shoes that provide the comfort and support they need and use them exclusively if not religiously.  They blaze a favorite trail known only to them and run it again and again until they’re able to know what time it is simply by realizing where they are on the route at any given time.  They discover a drink or a snack—sometimes both that has served them well during their runs and refuse to try anything else.  

And if that runner is anything like me, they find a race they really enjoy and die a thousand deaths when that race is no more. 

The first race falling into that category was the Olander Park 24-Hour Run, held on a shaded 1.09-mile asphalt path around a beautiful lake in Sylvania, Ohio.  Race Director Tom Falvey had the unique ability of making everyone feel like a champion: The runner who completed 50 miles in 24 hours was given the same accolades as the winner who ran more than 150.  Over time the number of entrants no longer supported the expenses for conducting the 24-Hour Run, so in 2003 it was turned into a 100-Mile event.  I ran it twice more and then—in the blink of an eye—it was gone.  However, the memories remain. In its 24-hour format, completing one hundred and twenty-nine miles in 2002 which helped me land an invitation to the 2003 Badwater Ultramarathon.  As a 100-mile event, running with my friend Gary Griffin in 2004 and seeing him finish his first 100-miler, and then Gary and I running it again in 2005 where we both saw mutual friend Susan Lance finish her first 100-miler.

The second race that fell by the wayside was the Atlanta Marathon.  Since 1981 I had spent every Thanksgiving morning lining up for ‘the South’s oldest marathon’ until it was taken away—cold turkey, no less—in 2010.  Out of respect I ran the marathon course on Thanksgiving morning for several more years after that until I grew weary of running on a route filled with unchaperoned holiday morning traffic in busy downtown Atlanta.        

Last year I said my goodbyes to the good people at Brooks Elementary School in Brooks, Georgia as their PTO put on the 31^st and final edition of the Brooks Day 10K.  I’ll miss so much about this quaint little race held in conjunction with the Brooks Day Festival on the second Saturday in May: Walking the halls of the school to use the restroom one last time before the race and seeing all the students’ drawings and paintings proudly displayed on the bulletin boards, attending the awards presentation and listening for the names of the runners I ran with every weekend as they were called to the main stage to receive their awards, and heading over to the festivities in the park afterwards to watch the youngsters play T-Ball while enjoying a hot, fresh funnel cake courtesy of one of the local merchants. 

This December I’ll be heading down to the Florida panhandle to run in the Tallahassee Ultra Distance Classic (TUDC).  Next year the race moves to a new venue and I want to enjoy the cozy confines of Wakulla Springs State Park—where it’s been held since I fell in love with it the very first time I ran it back in 1998—one last time.  The quiet seclusion and natural beauty the park offers will take a back seat on the second Saturday in December however, because that’s when the ultrarunning community gathers in Wakulla for its annual family reunion and ‘run through the jungle’ (as the event has been called in recent years) for the last time.

In my 17-year love affair with the TUDC the event has been directed by two husband-and-wife teams whose organization and attention to detail is surpassed only by their commitment to the sport of running and shared passion for making sure each and every runner has the best ultra experience possible.  (On how many race applications have you been asked to name your favorite aid station refreshments?)  I was welcomed to Wakulla by then-Race Directors Fred and Margaret Deckert that first time and when the event was passed along to current Race Directors Gary and Peg Griffin (that would be the same Gary Griffin who ran his first 100-miler with me back in 2004), I’m happy to report nothing was lost in translation.  (Next year when the torch is passed along to Jeff and JoLena Bryan I trust that will be the case as well.)  The TUDC remains a first-class event, but more importantly is continues to be a family affair. 

The host Gulf Winds Track Club always has plenty of members on hand to provide support.  Enthusiastically calling our your name as you finish a *lap and meticulously notating your split time on a clipboard, carefully filling your bottle full of your favorite sports drink or enthusiastically running a lap with you because you need an emotional lift, they do it all.  Hot soup, free massages and awards created by local artists are available after you’ve finished with your 50-kilometers or 50-miles (your choice!).  From my personal experience—10 trips to Wakulla and almost 400 miles of running—I can honestly I’ve never made a request that wasn’t granted (including the year I asked a volunteer to take down my Darkside Running Club banner because I’d just spent more than eight hours running 50-miles in monsoon conditions and 41-degree temperatures).

*Originally one lap was an intimate 2.07-mile route through the park. 

In 2010 it was modified to a 10-kilometer route, much of it outside of the confines of

Wakulla Springs State Park. 

The Tallahassee Ultra Distance Classic has a storied history (do yourself a favor and research it on the internet when you have some time) and is the proud home of numerous record-setting performances and countless first-time ultra finishers.  On a personal level I’ve forged many personal relationships at Wakulla that have stood the test of time as well as the  endless miles we’ve run together over the years.

I have many fond memories of my 10 trips to Wakulla Springs State Park.  When I return to the Wakulla Lodge this year to run the TUDC one last time I have no doubt that each and every one of them will run through my mind at some point during the weekend (I always make the TUDC a weekend adventure, driving down on Friday and driving home on Sunday). 

The memory that stands out most is that second Saturday in December in 2007.  I had just lost both of my parents within a period of six weeks prior to the TUDC and thought--although I wasn’t particularly keen on running 31 miles—that being around some familiar faces would do me good.  Fifteen minutes prior to the start, Race Director Gary gave his usual spirited and motivational pre-race speech and ended it by dedicating the race to the memories of my mom and dad.  Then once the race began I ran the first couple of laps with Amy Costa, who offered me an eight-mile-per-hour shoulder to lean on as she spoke about how much her father meant to her before transitioning to asking me questions about my parents.  I couldn’t have paid for better therapy.

Come to find out I was exactly right: Being around some familiar faces did me good.                       

Especially when the familiar faces are family. 

The Sidekick

My grandson Krischan has called me G-Pa since he learned how to articulate words with more than one syllable.

G-Pa can I have a glass of choklit milk?  G-Pa can we go running?  G-Pa let’s watch cartoons.  G-Pa why do deer live in the forest and not in a house?  G-Pa let’s hunt zombies.

G-Pa I had an ax-id-ent. 

That’s why Krischan caught me off guard when he referred to me as his ‘sidekick’ a couple weeks ago. 

We were out exploring in the woods behind my house when he said I needed to stay close to him because that’s what a good sidekick does.  ‘You know, like Robin is to Batman,’ he added after misinterpreting the reason I was rolling my eyes.    

I stayed close to Krischan as we got deeper and deeper into the woods, making sure no zombies, space aliens or wild animals were sneaking up on us from behind.  Don’t ever accuse me of not being a good sidekick; I know what needs to be done. 

While there are no written rules and regulations for being a good sidekick (I checked), I have accumulated a partial list of what Krischan expects from me.  After all, every Batman needs a good Robin:

·  Know the answer to any and every question.  Subject matter is irrelevant; just know EVERYTHING.  How does a chameleon know what color they should be?  Why are they called ‘stink bugs?’  I don’t smell anything.  Do trees hurt when you chop them down? 

·       Identify each of the Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtles by the color of their headbands.

·     Sit through numerous viewings of How to Train Your Dragon and pretend each time you’re seeing it for the very first time.

·      Be ready for any and every physical activity after a long drive in the car.  (The fact that the sidekick did all the driving while someone else was taking a nap has no impact whatsoever on this requirement.)

·      Always have tissues handy.  Even if caught in the middle of the woods during a heavy rain.  (Trust me on this one.)

·       Explain why ‘tenteen’ isn’t a number when it makes perfectly good sense to him. 

·       Hold your own in the more popular games available on tablets, like Fruit Ninja and Angry Birds.  That is, do everything you can to be competitive without actually winning.  (Save the winning for the teenage years when he’ll need to be taught a lesson or two.) 

·       Ensure he doesn’t lick the shattered screen on a cell phone because he believes it to be ‘covered in sugar.’ 

·       Provide reassurance that even the greatest basketball player alive couldn’t touch the rim at one time.    

·       Pretend to be amazed when he runs across the room and back, comes to a sudden halt and stands perfectly still while desperately trying not to breathe hard.  Then acknowledge he has proven he is indeed the Flash, the fastest man alive. 

·       Always have his back while hunting zombies in the woods, with Styrofoam sword held firmly in both hands.  Just in case. 

·       ‘Go first’ when entering a dark room.  If it’s nighttime, then always ‘go first’ when returning to the dark hallway. 

Krischan will be spending the next few days with Cindy and I.  That means I’ll be stopping at the grocery store today on the way home to pick up a bottle of Krischan’s favorite drink, chocolate milk.

Just like any good sidekick would do.

Aging Gracefully

It started over 20 years ago.  On my 40^th birthday I ran 40 miles.  On my 45^th birthday I ran 45 miles.  This went on for another decade until I decided that 55 miles on my 55^th birthday was a good place to call a truce—on behalf of my abused body--between running my age in miles every five years.  Or at least ‘convert’ to kilometers on my 60^th birthday (that would mean running 37.2 miles for anyone not fluent in metric). 

As I’ve come to learn, time has a way of sneaking up on you.  I’ll be 60 this December and it was time to make a decision.  It took all of 60 seconds:

I wanted to run 60 miles; kilometers are for wimps (sorry, Europe). 

The first thing I needed was an accomplice.  What’s that, Sarah?  You just ran your first 100-miler this summer, you’re hungry for more and all I have to do is say ‘when?’  Give me a couple of dates that work for you and I’ll see which days I have available and we’ll go from there.

Once Sarah and I agreed that Sunday, November 16 would work for both of us I got an Email with the volunteer schedule for church.  My wife Cindy and I were scheduled to work at Grand Central (the information counter) on November 16.  I asked Kathi the scheduler to swap me out with someone on November 23 and asked that she not tell Cindy about my plans to run 60 miles on the 16^th.  

So what happens next?  Cindy comes home one evening and says she saw a revised Grand Central schedule and that I was no longer scheduled to work with her on the 16^th.  I said I asked Kathi to schedule me for the 23^rd as I had something to do on the 16^th. 

Cindy: ‘Kathi said you were running a race.  Are you going out of town?’

Me: ‘No.  I’ll be here.’

Cindy: ‘Are you going to be running?’

Me: ‘Yes.’

Cindy: ‘And it’s going to take most of the day?’

Me: ‘Yes.’

Cindy: ‘Well, it’s not your birthday.’

Me: ‘But it’s almost my birthday.’

Cindy: ‘Oh Lord, please don’t tell me you’re running 60 miles.’

Me: ‘OK, I won’t.’

 

(Insert sound of lead balloon hitting the ground)

Cindy knows me all too well.  I think in her heart she knew 60 miles was inevitable, although she was probably hoping and praying I would convert to the metric system once I reached decade # 6.

As the date drew nearer the usual suspects lined up to run some of the miles with me.  Al, Susan, Val, Eric, Sarah and my son Josh said they’d be out to give me the best birthday gift they could possibly offer: Themselves. 

I laid out a flat (well, at least it seemed flat when I drove it in my truck), shaded 2 ½ mile route starting and finishing in downtown Haralson (Population zero, although it is a very familiar locale to anyone who watches the opening credits to The Walking Dead).  The plan was to run the loop 24 times counterclockwise beginning at 6 a.m.  My friends could join me any time throughout the day.  Their instructions: Look for my blue Gator truck in deserted, downtown Haralson and wait—I’ll be coming by about every 27 minutes for the first 35 miles or so, but after that all bets were off.  I hoped to finish up around 6 p.m. if everything went according to plan.     

Sarah and Josh started with me at (officially) 6:02 a.m.  Josh, getting his first exposure to an ultrarunning endeavor, studied the assorted food and drink I loaded on the back of the truck: Gatorade, water, soda, chocolate milk, ginger snaps and pretzels—all things I would be soon be sick of and wouldn’t eat or drink for weeks after today.   We used a flashlight for the first loop as we took note of the solitude and the incredibly great weather we were blessed with (40 degrees, slight breeze, overcast).  Josh ran 10 miles and then headed home as he was going to church with Cindy.  I made note that Josh stopped to answer Nature’s Call about every three miles, lending more support to the ‘apple not falling far from the tree’ theory.  Sarah held on for 25 miles before calling it a day, but by that time Eric had shown up wanting to run 20 miles so it looked like I’d have company for at least the first 45 miles of my run.

Now would be a good time to interject what didn’t happen during the course of the day:

·      I didn’t trip and fall.

·      I didn’t have to stop to answer Nature’s Other Call.

·      I didn’t change clothes (although I did remove my jacket after the first loop).

·      I didn’t change shoes.

·      I didn’t cuss (although Eric said I exhaled the word ‘sh*t’ every other breath).

·      I didn’t have any close encounters with mean dogs or hostile Haralsonians.

·      I didn’t quit.  (Wanted to, but didn’t.  More on that shortly.)

Al and Susan showed up for their 10 miles shortly after Eric started running with me.   Once Eric completed his 20 miles and called it a day, I still had six more ibuprofen remaining before my run was complete.  (Let me explain: I counted off 24 ibuprofen—one for each of the laps I needed to run—and placed them on the right side of the back bumper on the truck.  After each lap I would move one ibuprofen to the left side of the bumper; once all 24 had made it from one side to the other I would be finished.  My only concern was if someone showed up while I was in the middle of a loop, consume a couple of the ibuprofen and forget which pile they took them from.)

I ran briskly for the next three laps once Eric left (no one was with me, so yes, I RAN BRISKLY FOR THE NEXT THREE LAPS).  Towards the end of my 21^st lap I heard a car approaching me from behind: It was Val.  She was finished showing houses for the day and could go home (she lives about three miles away) and change into her running attire if I wanted company for the final three laps.  If she only knew what was running through my head during that 21^st lap (52 ½ miles isn’t bad, is it?  Who could fault me if I stopped?  Etc., etc.) she wouldn’t have needed to ask. 

Fifteen minutes later she returned and the two of us ran, walked, reminisced (Val and I have been friends so long that she was by my side when I ran my 40^th mile on my 40^th birthday, and I was by her side three weeks later when she ran her 35^th mile on her 35^th birthday) and laughed—yes, LAUGHED—until the last three ibuprofen made it to the left side of the bumper. 

I looked at my watch when we finished: 6:12 p.m.  We shared a couple of beers I had hidden in the cooler beneath the two 64-ounce bottles of Gatorade and 20 pounds of ice.  Pitch black evening (you couldn’t see the stars for the cloud cover), total silence, deserted town of Haralson—boarded up buildings everywhere—and two old friends sharing a beer after doing what they love doing most.  Val hit the nail on the head when she referred to it as ‘surreal,’ because it most certainly was.

I took the following day as a vacation day from work.  After all, I’m not a 52-or-52-year-old kid anymore (and the mere fact that I refer to someone 52 or 53 as a ‘kid’ sort of tells you something about me) and I knew I’d need the day to recover. 

That next morning—after my two cups of coffee, of course—I took a personal inventory of which parts of my body hurt.  Here’s a short list:

·      Everything.

Al has been encouraging me for years—starting about the time I was still a 52-or-52-year-old kid—that I should learn to cut back my mileage, stop running so hard and age gracefully.  Now that I’ve gotten this 60-miler out of my system I’m ready to do just that. 

Note to Val: Thanks for pulling me through those last three loops.  I don’t think I could have done them without you.  Honest in’jun.  I’m sorry I won’t be in town in a few weeks for your birthday.  That is, unless you’re ready to convert to kilometers.  Then we’ll talk.