Favorite Concerts 2007

In 2007 I was lucky enough to attend a lot of wonderful concerts, primarily in San Francisco, which is loaded with terrific venues that play just about everybody. At first I was planning on ranking the concerts, but with second thoughts, I just didn't think it was right to do that, since I had a lot of fun at each of them. However, I would like to like to point out 5 of them that stood out for me, with a couple honorable mentions. These are in no particular order:

The Weakerthans at Slim's

This was probably the biggest surprise for me and a very pleasant one. When I see the words "Reunion Tour", the thoughts of "We need money" or "We're feeling nostalgic" pop into my head, which doesn't always lead to a great concert. I don't have much of a feel for how this band performed prior to their reunion, but I thought they were awesome in the present. Their style is very subtle compared to the cathartic outpouring I've seen with many other bands on stage (see The Mountain Goats, The Hold Steady), but they're still powerful. I think this is due mainly to the compelling quality of their song lyrics, but I also thought that they had great chemistry on stage and came with a nice balance of crowd pleasing numbers from "Reconstruction Site" and some nice new tracks from "Reunion Tour". The sly smile from front man John Samson at the end of each set seemed to radiate a thought that his audience still gets it and his band has still got it.

Memorable numbers: Reconstruction Site, Sun in Empty Room, Psalm for the Elks Lodge Last Call, Benediction, Our Great City, Plea From A Cat Named Virtue

Great Lyric:
Buy me a shiny new machine
that runs on lies and gasoline,
and all those batteries we stole from smoke alarms,
and disassembles my despair,
It never got me anywhere
and never once bought me a drink.

The Frames with Marketa Irglova at Regency Grand Ballroom


As much as I loved the movie Once, which starred Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova, I was even more pleased to take in a live performance by these two, along with some Frames players at the beautiful Regency Grand Ballroom. After enjoying a delicious meal from Citizen Cake, my friend Frank and I just caught the start of the concert, which started with Glen Hansard on stage behind his holey guitar (It actually has big holes in it!), belting out Say It to Me Now. His lovely co-star joined him on stage soon after for a couple more songs from their hit movie, and then three more Frames members (a guitar, cello and violinist) entered to complete the group. What fantastic musicians they are. I felt some chills as they performed "Falling Slowly", especially when Hansard encouraged us to help with the chorus and was blown away by his solo performance of "Leave". Irglova is his secret weapon, sitting primarily at piano, but also taking his beat up guitar from him at times and coyly stepping into the spotlight. I loved her rendition of "All the Way Down". Hansard was hilarious and engaging between songs, describing the background of each one, some times rather clumsily, which made it all the funnier. While making references to Joyce and Wilde, as proud Irishmen tend to do, and interacting with a fairly Irish audience, I felt as if I was transported over seas to an enormous and elaborate pub. The concert itself was an enormous and elaborate treat.

Memorable numbers: Falling Slowly, If You Want Me, Lies, Leave, All the Way Down, Once, Star Star

Next time I hope they play: Everything they played the first time

Great Lyric:

Star, Star teach me how to shine, shine
teach me so I know what's goin' on in your mind
- Star Star

The Hold Steady at Slim's and The Mezzanine,

I received two doses of this Brooklyn based (yet heavily Twin Cities laced) band. The first was at Slim's and the second at the Mezzanine. They were supposed to play at The Warfield the second time, but I suspected that they hadn't quite built the fan base for that venue yet. Whatever the real reason, I was not disappointed in the move as I think they belong in a bar, performing for an intimate, standing crowd while knocking down a few cold ones. They perform at 100 MPH bringing a hard rockin', guitar slaying style to the Indie pop scene mixed with colorful lyrics from front man Craig Finn who mouths his lyrics on the side after spouting them into the microphone, both times at a fevered pace. The Mezzanine was an interesting new place to see a show, especially with their movie projector shining live footage of the band superimposed on different settings (e.g. on a beach at night) onto a wall to the right of the stage. Finn and his band mates ended both shows dripping in sweat and calling attention to the the joy they were feeling being able to do what they do best. You couldn't help but get caught up in the fun. Both times I felt as spent as the band looked as they staggered off the stage.

Memorable numbers: Stuck Between Stations, South Town Girls, Chips Ahoy, Chill Out Tent, First Night

Next time I hope they play: Arms and Hearts

Great Lyric:
There was a stage and a PA up in western massachussetts.
The kids came from miles around to get messed up on the music.
- Chill Out Tent

The New Pornographers at The Warfield

I was happy to see this Canadian band come south for a tour, fresh off of their new album Challengers, one which I enjoyed at first listen and even more so after frequent takes. Yes this will sound so cliche', but they sounded much better live, much more so than I could have imagined. Fronted by an amazing vocal trio of A.C. Newman, Neko Case and Kathryn Calder they tore through most of their latest album's best along with familiar favorites. Dan Bejar of Destroyer, who contributed to 3 Challengers tracks, added a nice change up to their repertoire. His cryptic lyrics and androgynous nature meshed beautifully with the pornographers leading to what I thought were the most fun parts of their set. Combined with Newman's lyrical magic and Case's astounding vocals, it wouldn't be hard to label them a "supergroup". There was a moment after their first couple of songs where Newman stared into the two-tiered audience and said something to the effect of "It's weird to be putting on a rock concert...Does this mean we're rock stars?" Yes, I think you are.

Memorable Numbers: Challengers, My Rights Versus Yours, Unguided, Myriad Harbor, Entering White Cecilia, Mutiny, I Promise You, Spanish Techno, Letter From an Occupant, Testament To Youth In Verse

Next time I hope they play: Adventures in Solitude

Great Lyric :
Complex notes inside the chords,
on every wall inflections carved
Deep as lakes and dark as stars
Remember we were the volunteers
- My Rights Versus Yours


The Mountain Goats with Pony Up! at The Independent and Bottom of the Hill

The Mountain Goats were probably my first Indie Pop crush, having heard an interview on NPR with them followed by performances of Love, Love, Love and Dance Music. After making a wise and important move of borrowing a couple big chunks of my friend Chris's CD collection (loaded with Indie Pop), my eyes grew wide when I saw four albums magic markered with their name. I was hooked. Soon afterwards I had the treat of seeing them at "The Bottom of the Hill" and vow to see them whenever they appear there. I received back to back doses of them in 2007, the first being at the Independent, which was a great show, but not quite like at the place front man John Darnielle calls his "second home", where I could lean up against the bar, with beer in hand and stand within 15 feet of the stage, caught up in the nostalgia of their music. Darnielle plays with his heart on his sleeve, nasily crooning his distinct lyrics almost seeming to relive the moments he's recounting, wide-eyed, seeming to be amazed at his own intensity. Side kick Peter Hughes is more subtle, strumming base guitar and providing some vocal harmony at times. They added drummer Jon Wurster to their 2007 tour, which I think was nice move. Though I saw them in 2006, I couldn't leave the Mountain Goats off of this list, definitely one of the more satisfying evenings for me in 2007.

I mention Pony Up! because I think they may be the best cover band I've seen. These four girls (check their ID!) from Montreal were a lot of fun. Part of the advantage of the back to back concerts for me, was that it gave me a chance to get familiar with their sound and songs, which I really appreciated. The two lead vocals complement each other well and the band seems to have a nice balance of taking their music seriously, but not themselves.

Memorable Numbers: Dance Music, Broom People, Palmcorder Ganja, Wild Sage, Get Lonely, Maybe Sprout Wings, Boys are Back in Town (cover of the Doobie Brothers)...Pony Up!: Dance for Me, What's Free is Yours, Truth About Cats and Dogs (is that they die)

Next time I hope they play: Linda Blair was Born Innocent and The Best Ever Death Metal Band out of Denton

Great Lyric:

Ghosts and clouds, and nameless things
squint your eyes and hope real hard,
maybe sprout wings
- Maybe Sprout Wings


Honorable Mentions:

The National at Regency Grand Ballroom - They backed up their wonderful album Boxer with an awesome performance, mixing in songs from this album with ones from Alligator. Matt Beringer's haunting yet melodic voice is surrounded by talented band mates that put on a great show to a receptive audience.

Tori Amos at The Paramount (Oakland) - My only "big name" concert of the year didn't disappoint. She was probably the most talented musician that I saw, some times playing two pianos simultaneously while using a beautiful voice to weave through an anthology of songs. The Paramount is a gorgeous, art deco styled venue, which almost made having no beers on tap forgivable.

Ohlone Wilderness 50K - 20th edition.

I took part in the 20th running of the Ohlone Wilderness 50K, the fourth time I had chosen to embark on such a daunting scramble. My crazy decision was made while running through Death Valley with the race directors, Larry England and Rob Byrne, who reminded me that it was the 20th aniversery of the race and they had plenty of "special surprises" in store for those who dared to enter. They caught me a great time. The run from Echo canyon to Slot was fantastic and I was intrigued as to what they might have in store. Sure, I'll sign up.

The day began with a little less than an hour drive from my apartment in Mountain View to Del Valle park in Livermore. I enjoy the drive due to the east bay foothills and lack of traffic at that hour (5:00 AM) and enjoyed it even more this time with my itunes piping "My Top Rated" songs through my Miata's stereo. The beautifully serene setting and the combination of bands like The Mountain Goats, Decemberists, Belle and Sebastian, The Hold Steady among others, made me wish the ride would never end. Maybe having to run 31 miles through hellacious fire roads and single track trails had something to do with it though as well. :-)

I parked my car at Del Valle around 6 AM and snoozed through a few more songs, enjoying the last few moments of a gently beating heart and gentle breath. A woman parked beside me and appeared to be doing the same as ultra runners collected around us. I could hear their laughter and lively conversations. These folks seem to have much more energy at 6 AM than most might have all day.

I finally pried myself out of the car to get myself ready. The air was cool, but not as cool as I had hoped. If you're about to start a long race, it's a great sign if you feel the need to say "Brrrr" when you first meet the morning air. If it feels comfortable outside at 6 AM, that can be a very bad sign, indicating some warm temperatures to come. The air was closer to comfortable than "brrrr"

I saw some unsual vehicles after locking up my car and making my way towards the public transportation. There were some luxurious looking buses parked and standing around them were some men dressed in suits. An SUV limo drove up and the driver asked a volunteer if he was in the right place. A runner in front of me took a step into one of the buses, then came right out. It was as if she had accidently gone into the men's bathroom. I took a step in myself and almost felt the same way. Inside were leather sofa-like benches. There was a stone-tiled floor and champagne glasses stacked against the wall. The ceiling was purple with funky disco-like lights. In the back were controls for the stereo. This was a party bus. It was our party bus.

I plopped down on the cushioned leather with a smile while other runners did the same. Unlike your typical two-to-a-seat bus that makes it easy to put your head against the seat in front of you to doze, this bus begged you to interact with the other runners that were seated across from you and two your sides.

"From Madison, huh?", the man to my left asked, who was with his wife, both running Ohlone for the first time. "Yes, at one time", I responded, realizing I had my typical red shorts on with "Wisconsin" proudly printed on them. It turned out he was from the twin cities with family that had gone to my fine alma mater. I caught his wife's attention when I said, "I usually do this one every two years, after I've lost my senses again". "So do you think we need two bottles?", she asked. You betcha.

A young asian woman sat across from us, looking bright-eyed an bushy tailed. She sat with just one water bottle, just bought from the store. From the sounds of things, she had only done a few half marathons and maybe a marathon. This was her first trail race. She sat wide-eyed, soaking in as much knowledge as she could as she engaged with other runners. At one point I heard her say, "I feel a bit out of place".

We arrived at the Stanford Avenue parking lot, which was filled with cars. Runners were ambling around, getting their last loose ends tied up before a call to the start would be made. A long line to the porta potties had formed, a very familiar sight at most races. I jumped in the queue as we were all getting a little pressed for time.

Rob Byrne spotted me while I waited and came over to chat. He was wearing a very loud orange volunteer t-shirt, loud because it's hard to believe that something could be so bright of an orange without having some sort of energy source. It's fun to know the race directors of a fairly well-known ultra. We chatted for a bit before he went back to his race duties.

It would not be a stretch to say that Rob is an elite ultra runner. He's not going to impress anyone with blazing speed these days, but his ultra resume' has very few peers that I know of. This year he'll be trying to complete his 10th Western States in under 24 hours (though this will be his 12th time doing it) and will also do a 7-day endurance run in Viet Nam in November. Competing in 100-mile races and navigating through foreign territory are common place to him and are what he considers to be fun. "He's living a great life.", his wife Chris told me, when we chatted after the race, adding, "as long as he stays alive" In the few times I have talked with her, I can tell she still hasn't quite come to grips with her husband's need to run outrageous distances in outrageous places.

The guy in front of me had a "2006 Boston Marathon" hat on, a good conversation starter, since I did my first Boston this year. It turned out he had done 4 in a row, including this year, which we agreed was a lot better weather wise than the media had claimed. He said this was his first ultra, which I told him was quite a race to pick, and wondered how marathon times would translate to Ohlone times. Though he blew me away with his P.R. of 2:52, I told him, "Walk every inclinde, including the one we see right here. This is a very different breed of runner that you're going up against." He seemed to take the advice well and I thought he was very well prepared with a camel back and a stategy of staying with the back of the pack at least for the first half of the race. "You'll be fine", I told him.

As I continued to step through the line, eyeing my watch, I spied my friend Jim walking around the parking lot, camera in hand. He said he'd try to come to the start and indeed he made it. Jim is one person that I typically associate the Ohlone wilderness with. He usually runs up to Mission Peak on New Year's day and I've had the pleasure of joining him a few times. He actually used to do weekly training runs up to the peak, which is astounding. The Ohlone 50K has conquered him with 90+ degree heat in the past and in turn, he has conquered the 50K, running a very strong 6:17 time in a year where we were all rained on through most of the race. He knows the wilderness very well.

We chatted for a bit and he wished me luck, then minutes later, I could hear the megaphone broadcasting Rob's voice, calling people to the start. We all moved through the gate like cattle into a realm where 31 miles beckoned. Rob gave us some simple instructions, mainly reminding us not to litter and to be kind to the volunteers, some of which had camped over night in the wildnerness for the sake of providing an aid station.

After a 10 second count down, we were off. Ultras tend to not have quite the explosive start of road races and given the beginning incline, most runners, including myself, began with a gentle trot at best. Unlike other races where the speedsters in the front are gone if you blink, the Ohlone front runners were visible for quite a long time as we scrambled on. They looked so close, yet I knew that they were traveling at speeds that would probably have my breakfast asking (actually, telling me) to be let out.

I could see the young asian girl I had seen on the bus, running free and easy up the incline, one bottle in hand. As I continued to march through the hills, the distance between us was shrinking. By the time she was 50 feet away, she had her jacket wrapped around her waist. I passed her about 2 miles into the run, then she skipped past me later as I decided to step to the side and start my GU schedule. About a half mile away from Mission peak, she stepped aside on the single track and urged me to go. As I went by her, I said, "Lots of climbing today", to which she responded with what I'd maybe describe as a sigh. It was a combination of confirmation and exasperation, mixed with heavy breathing. As locquacious as she was on the bus, Mission Peak had caught her toungue. "Get used to it", I added, and that was the last I saw of her. I wondered if she would survive.

Boston Marathoner was quietly losing ground behind me, following my advice of walking the hills. He seemed very focused and disciplined at this point in the race. As I ran on some of the flats and down hill, I wondered if he'd ever shoot past me. With a 2:52 marathon speed, I'm sure most speeds on this race would feel like a crawl to him.

At the mile stone of Mission Peak, stood the unmistakeable form of Catra Corbett, cheering on the runners. She appeared to be dressed to run, but I'm not sure what she was up to this time. There had been times when she had traversed the course 3 times in one running. She stood with her tatoos and piercings along with a partner that held a sign. Funny enough, I never even read it, I just wanted to get on my way down the other side of the peak.

After walking most of the first 4 miles or so, it was nice to be able to run hard again. The slope coming down Mission Peak is technically challenging at first, but then becomes smooth as you work your way down to Laurel Loop. There were some pretty single track trails to navigate through as we left the fire road. This is definitely one of the more enjoyable areas of the course.

I hit the Laurel Loop aid station at a 1 hour and 15 minute clip. The orange t-shirts nicely illuminated the respit and the friendly volunteers inside them were ready to serve. I saw my first familiar face in Valerie Doyle, a charter member of the Tullamore Dew Running Club. She was enthusiastic as usual and it was great to see her. My first and most impresionable memory of her is of a Benedict Arnold adventure through Yosemite on trails whose names elude me now. I do remember some incredible views of the Hetch Hetchy river and a very rigorous run which toasted all of us. Valerie, as a 61-year-old, dusted us all. It really struck me at the time that age doesn't have much affect on an ultru runner. She proved that.

I refilled my bottles and picked up some Succeed salt tablets (very good for ultras) before hitting the trail again. I was feeling good, but reminded myself of a time when I felt just as good and decided to pick up the pace, enough to catch the leading woman (What a mistake!). I ended up cramping at mile 14 and turned the rest of the race into a 17 mile death march. I was going to use some wisdom this time.

I continued onto Sunol, feeling fresh and enjoying the cool morning air. I encountered some hikers along the way who gave us ultra runners a second look. It was good to see people enjoying the Ohlone wilderness. As I was running through the course, I noticed the familiar site of golden poppies. It seems this part of the bay area tends to hold onto this California flower for a little longer than most. It must get a little more moisture somehow.

The Sunol aid station was one of the few that contained no familiar faces, but it made up for that with my favorite food of the day, strawberries. They had sliced up a big bowl of them and I was nearly swallowing them whole, they were so good. My favorite ultra food is water melon, but strawberries have just taken a close second. After squeezing a few GU's into your mouth, ripe strawberries serve as a nice way of rejuvenating your taste buds.

I continued on through the single track trails, encountering a boy scout troop, which was smart enough to realize that we bib-wearing folk wanted to get through fast and kind enough to oblige us. They looked a puzzled, but didn't question. Some gave encouragement in the form of a "good job".

The climbing was starting up again as I strode into the Backpack aid station, nearly 13 miles into the course. I heard the familiar voice of Debbie Mayhew pushing runners to eat everything that the table had to offer. She has been through many races like this one and knows what it takes to get through. Her aid station mates were none other than Ann Trason and Carl Anderson. As Rob Byrne is an elite ultra runner, this husband and wife are world class. They were an extraordinary pair to be filling up water bottles at an aid station.

Much walking took place between Backpack and Goat Rock, which stood at the half way mark. I found myself starting a game of cat and mouse with Don Lundell, co-owner of Zombie Runner, one of the race's main sponsers (In fact, our bibs said "Zombie Runner"). I passed him before coming to the Goat Rock aid station, but could tell he was still brimming with energy, seeming to be on a leisurely stroll. He blew by me at the aid station while I refueled and chatted with Helmut, who said, "I think you should stay with Don. That would be good for you." I had no idea of who he was, but sarcastically replied, "Thanks Helmut".

Goat Rock to Maggie's Half Acre is one of the stretches where you earn your finisher's plaque. You just keep rising and rising and rising. There comes a point where you wonder where the peak is, because it's fairly well hidden until the end. Where are you Rose Peak?

It was during this part where I appreciated how beautiful this wilderness is, maybe because I was fresher than usual and didn't have any running partner to talk to. The views of Mission Peak and the bay from the east side are spectacular. The hills are decorated with long golden grasses that move in waves through the cool breeze and the wild flowers up at that height have not given up to summer quite yet. As rigorous as the climbing becomes, that's my favorite part of the course. It's just gorgeous and you feel so far away from everything.

It was also during this time that took out the most road kill. Ultra runners are tough to kill though. In most races, even marathons, generally when you've overtaken a runner, you might see some fight from them, trying to assume your pace, but usually they will die within a minute and that's the last you'll see of them. Ultra runners are much more resilient. They may let you get ahead, even out of sight, but their second wind (or third wind or fourth wind or...) is coming and if you daudle at an aid station like I do, you'll see them again.

It felt like I had just gotten to Maggie's half acre when sure enough, a collection of kills that I had strung together came and went. This included Don Lundell (I called him "Zombie" to myself), who continued our cat and mouse game, which I think I'll rename tortoise and hare. But who was who? Only more time and more running would tell.

Coming out of Maggie's half acre offers runners a time to fly, repaying much of the downhill for all of that uphill. It took a while before I started seeing some of the bastards who gave me the job of passing them again, mainly because I think my strength that day was uphill speed. I took a cautious gate when navigating down the gravel frosted fire roads, choosing to save some energy and my knees.

After taking down a few runners and getting back to a world of climbing, I saw the zombie again. He was out for his afternoon stroll, looking like he just started. He uttered something along the lines of "nice job...lots of hills today" as I passed him for the 3rd time. "Yep...you too".

"This is my favorite part of the run", I heard a runner say to another as I approached the final ascent to the second last aid station. "Why is that?" the other responded. I feel the sarcasm from the 50 feet I was away. "You'll see", he replied. Yes he will, but will the joke be funny to him by then.

The "You'll see" is this ungodly part of the run where their a few false summits at the end of some brutally steep climbs. The air is so stagnant and hot as hell that you feel as if you're at the beginning of summer in Death Valley. I took my hat off and dumped water over my head a few times. I was amazed at how quickly my hair was drying.

I finally climbed out of the valley and into a nice down slope, seeing some familiar fluoresent orange shirts in the distance. This was Larry England's, aid station. He greeted me with his always friendly, "Mr Taylor!". "Mr. England", I said, as I had my water bottle refilled by Ian, another familiar running friend.

Another couple of runners came barreling down the hill, both of whom I had passed at one point. One of them had salt all over his face, which isn't usually a good sign. "What do you need?", asked Larry. "Everything", he said. He looked spent and I think "everything" included a new pair of legs.

Larry England is the other half of the race directing team and very accomplished as a runner in his own right. Four kids and some injured knees (this is an understatment...His knees are visibley mangled) have probably kept him from being at the same level as Rob Byrne, but his boundless energy has given him an accomplished running career nonetheless. He's done over 150 marathons, which is mind boggling and has a few Western States 100's under his belt. Probably the most amazing story I know of him, is when he kept his Big Sur Marathon streak alive (he's done every one) with a broken foot, doing the whole course on crutches. When he came into the finish after 7 hours, he went to the medical tent and asked for some band aids for his blisters. They asked him to remove his shoes. "No, they're on my hands", he showed them.

Without much further chatter, I continued on, ready to tackle the last 5-6 miles of the race, still feeling relatively good. I started down the slippery single track and quickly caught a woman ahead of me that was none to pleased to be passed. Usually when see someone closing on me fast, I step aside and let them through. She was having nothing of it and gave me an insincere "Nice job" (at least I thougt it sounded insincere) when I found a way of getting by her. C'mon lady, I'm working hard in this race too!

The slippery single track became and issue for me as I took a couple hard falls, bruising a hip on each. As I write this, my right hip looks decorated with some sort of abstract art, a collage of scratches and bruises. An ultra just isn't an ultra if I haven't gotten lost or fallen hard enough to come away with some souvenirs. My falling a couple times didn't allow that woman to catch me, but another runner did. I did practice what I preach and stepped aside for him. What's a few seconds when you're out there for 6+ hours?

I caught him anyway when we had our last round of tough uphill, which leaves everyone incredulous. As you're looking down on Del Valle park (which is a spectacular view, by the way), you're wondering if there's enough mileage left to get you down there or it someone will have a parachute waiting for you at some point.

I took down my last road kill not too far away from the last aid station. "This is just not my day, he said, "I just can't run uphill anymore", he said. I was able to amble by him and keep pushing towards the finish. The end was near and I was starting to think about a cheese burger.

I whizzed (ok, so it was a little more like "shuffled") past the last aid station, where I saw Lorri Paulsen, who reminded me the next day that I didn't even use the aid station. I had everything I needed and just wanted the last two miles to be done. "Thanks for being here", I yelled.

The last couple miles are were mainly steep down hill, navigating around hikers, who were using their poles to keep from slipping down the fire roads. A few of them encouraged me as I ran by. But downhill wasn't all that was left, there was actually still some uphill to be had. I thought the climbing ended after the 29th mile, but I need to amend that recollection. It's a little over 30 miles when you can actually stop using your calves.

It's one of the greatest feelings to finish a long race and see the finish line. I was through battling the beast of the howling Ohlone wilderness and saw Rob Byrne awaiting me at the finish line. "Mark! Good job", he said as I crossed the line, starting to zone out after being focused on running for so long. "Here, let me make it official" he said, handing me the wooden plaque that now sits two others on my bookshelf (my first one is at work). I was done.

I lightened my load, which included my pack, goodie bag, plaque and hat and headed straight for refreshments. I pounded a coke and then a water and sat in a fog for a little while. A way-too-fresh-looking finisher asked me if I was ok and told me to drink more. I was fine. Just give me space, lady. :-)

I filled my plate with a beautiful cheeseburger garnished with chips and water melon. What a wonderful lunch to enjoy after toiling in the hills. I sat back and watched others cross the line, sympathizing with that feeling of relief they were expressing. I wondered when the last runner would cross the line and how the others were doing.

Not one to let the grass grow under my feet, I took my wares and headed to my Miata, which was baking in the Del Valle sun. I cranked up the air conditioning and my itunes and made my way out the exit which carried a sign which said, "No re-entry allowed". Don't worry, I'm not coming back. See you another another time, Del Valle, perhaps. :-)

Epilogue

139 out of the 140 starters finished, including the Asian girl I was concerned about. Apparently Debbie Mayhew set her straight on eating right and grazing at aid stations, so I think that must have helped. Larry England said she told him that she had lost 3 toe nails, not realizing she needed some bigger shoes for trail running. She made it though and I give her a ton of credit. The Boston Marathoner finished at a time a little over 7 hours and I saw him basking in the sun, lying on the grass. He said he couldn't hold anything down, including GU, about 10 miles into the race, but rallied and recovered. He said the remaining 20 miles were a lot of fun and felt that he could get into ultra running. Good for him.

The Red Elvises

On Friday night (3/30/2007) I met up with my friend Vijay to check out a band called The Red Elvises It turned out to be a unique experience. They were playing at a venue called the The Blank Club in down town San Jose.

I followed my google directions to 44 Almaden Blvd, which is not too far from 87 and Santa Clara, and continued along Almaden to find parking. It was deadly quiet in that area, being mostly an industrial section of the city with high rise office buildings and hotels. I parked in a garage near Almaden and San Carlos that almost seemed completely empty and walked north along Almaden, which practically felt like I was in a modern ghost town. As I neared the double digit block of Almaden, I was wondering if I was in the right place. How could a concert be held in such a silent area?

But lo and behold I saw a neon sign on a beat up building that said, "The Blank Club". There was a line along the sidewalk fild with characters of all sorts. I was in the right place. I stood behind a guy in a red hat that looks a lot like the one drawn on the caricature that fronts their website He was also wearing a dark shirt that had "Staff" printed on the back (who knows what that really means) and last, but not least unusual, a black kilt (yes, a kilt). I had a feeling that I was in for an interesting evening.

After waiting in line for a while, I paid my 10 bucks at the door and stepped in. My first thought as I entered was, "why did they have us standing in line for so long?" There was barely anyone in the place, maybe 15 people. It was very dark inside, enough that you needed to let your eyes adjust before walking around. I'd say it's about half the size of Bottom of the Hill in San Francisco with a good sized stage in front and a bar in back, proudly advertising Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. It has a little more of the feel of a dance club given how dark it is and the fact that they eventually put on these twirling red disco lights that orbited the floor when the band came on.

A thinly dispersed crowd suddenly became quite thick when the band came on the stage, roughly an hour after I had entered the place and sipped through a vodka cranberry. They were a colorful collection of characters, led by their two originators Igor Yuzev and Oleg Bernov. Both appeared to be 40 somethings attempting to retain their youth by wearing outlandish pajama-looking outfits, completely ready to rock out. They started a set to warm up with that Oleg, in a thick russian accent, described as being "lounge style" music. "So sit back and sip your martini", he said. And so they traveled through a sultry song to loosen the crowd up.

The rest of the band consisted of a drummer, Adam Gust, from "sunny Minnesota", keyboardist Elena Shemankova from Moscow and two people whom I can't remember the names of but do remember where they're from: A female guitar player and vocalist from Texas and a tuba player from St. Petersberg, Russia. They were quite an eclectic mix of players as were some of the numbers they contributed to, some of which used the combination of an accordian, tuba and banjo.

The two women were memorabley adorned in form fitting leopard skin dresses that added some eye candy to the performance. Vijay described the way that Elena played as practically "making love to the keyboard", which is about as well as you could describe it. For some numbers she was tilting the keyboard off the ground and playing from the side in a very erotic way. I was amazed at how well she played despite the karma sutra style. The other woman was not nearly as provocative, but equally musically talented and easy on the eyes, pounding out guitar solos when called upon and switching to a banjo when needed. Vijay said they were additions to the band from the last time he saw them. We weren't complaining.


The band rocked out to numbers that were recognized by the cult following that surrounded Vijay and myself. Many times Igor would dip the microphone into the crowd, encouraging people to sing along, some times orchestrating vocal contributions from different areas of the club The songs were sung mostly by Oleg or himself with thick Russian accents and mostly comical lyrics, not taking themselves seriously, as one might expect. Before one song, Igor said, "Feel free to form a conga line for this one" and sure enough, a 30-person conga line was marching around the Blank Club. At the end of the first set, he said, "We're going to take a short break. Go get some alcohol and we'll sound much better".

The second set seemed to be pure encore with each song preceded by Igor belting out, "Do you want to hear one more?"..."Yeeeeeeahh!!!"..."Come on, you can do better than that. Do you want to hear one more?"..."Yeeeeeeeeeah!!!!!" And so they continued with several crowd favorites, each song seeming to be unique from the rest. At some point during their sets, Igor announced they would be continuing their "2000 City tour" by going to Petaluma and Sacramento, so we should "ask our grandparents to come watch". The guy was hilarious.

I really enjoyed the show they put on as much as they seemed to enjoy putting it on. Each of the players is exceptionally talented and they seem to allow for a lot of individual performances during the sets (Adam Gust put on quite a drum solo at one point). Oleg plays a guitar that looks enormous enough to be a prop, consisting of a huge bright red triangle and long shaft. The only down side I found about the show, is that it's very loud, which makes me sound like an old man. I found that my ears were ringing slightly as I left the Blank Club, not enough for me to not want to see them again, but not what I'm used to. I'd also like to learn their songs a little more so that I can join crowd next time.

Tips and Tid bits:

I'm now finding as I've gone to a few indie style shows that it's not necessary to show up on time. In fact, showing up on time or a little after can be very, very early, as bands tend to play at least an hour or two after the doors open...Pet peeve: This dude that seemed to be about 8 feet tall (probably closer to 6'3") with a ginormous (new word used by a friend of mine - giant+enormous) head that had its own gravitational pull stepped in front of me during the performance and was swaying from side to side (which caused me to sway from side to side). Folks, if you're that big, think about standing off to the side or towards the back. Of course, I'm tall enough that I may have been doing the same thing to some other poor soul, but I had established position for a good half hour before they came on...PBR Boy, one thing I'm noticing is that Pabst Blue Ribbon is showing up everywhere in bars across the bay area. I thought that beer had died, but its made a huge resurgance. Not sure if that's a good thing.

California International Marathon 2006

I "got up before dawn, went out to the race track". I had fifteen minutes before the 24th Cal International Marathon would be in "lift off" status, just having stepped off the bus and adjusting to frigid conditions that I had yet to grow accustomed to, even after doing this race for the 4th time. My teeth were literally chattering and I was lamenting the fact that I was deploying my usual strategy (or lack thereof) of not making use of the "sweats check". This is a typical amenity available at most marathons which allows you to throw your belongings, which are usually a sweat shirt and sweat pants, into a large plastic bag that they'll bring to the finish for you. But there I stood, in just my shorts and long sleeve running shirt, freezing my you know what off.

The night before I had set a new record for getting through a marathon registration, parking my car near the Sacramento Convention Center with only a quarter and fifteen minutes to spare. When I returned to the meter, with bib, chip and goodie bag in hand, there was still one minute left. I was hoping this P.R. for registering would be a sign of good things to come.

I had checked into the Travel Lodge, which was only a short walk to the shuttle bus, the morning of the race. There were no carpenter ants in the dresser and no flies in the screen. There were no cryptic messages at all to write about, which again, I was hoping would be a good sign of things to come.

Back to the cold morning of the race, with very little time to spare, I tried to warm up by heading to the food mart that we had used last year, but unfortunately they were limiting entrance to the heated oasis. "Sorry, we're limiting the number of people in the store at one time", an employee of the mart told me as I tried opening the door. I looked at the two people who I then realized had been waiting ahead of me. "Don't ask why.", one of them said, with an annoyed look on their face. I looked at my watch, which read that I just had ten minutes before race time, and decided that it wasn't worth the wait. I was probably better off continuing to move through the frosty air.

I stepped onto the road which lead to the starting line, just noticing a large divider that I could have easily tripped on. The incident sparked the memory of last year's marathon, where I witnessed a runner not noticing this same divider and going down hard on his shoulder. He was down for several moments and even when he was up, was still unresponsive to his friends. I still wonder how the rest of his day went.

As I walked towards the starting line I could see a link pink glow, a hint of a sunrise in the direction that we runners would be rambling in. Casting my gaze into no man's land, I wondered what layed ahead for me that day. I was taking a crack at Boston again, for the second time in as many months, and I wasn't sure if I was ready to pass the test. A few of my running buddies had given me some encouragement in the days before. They believed in me. I just wasn't sure if I agreed with them.

Regardless, I scanned the small running crowd near the start for my pace group. I could see a "3:00" sign and a "3:30" and then a "3:40", but "3:10", the time that was etched in my head as the one I needed, had yet to show itself. My watch told me that there were only 7 minutes left. Where was my pace group?

Suddenly, like a cluster of poppies (california poppies) exposed to sunlight, more signs sprang up from the crowd. "3:20", "3:35", "3:15" and oh yes, there it is, my "3:10" magnet. It would be the second time in my running career that I would try to keep pace with this sign. The first was a couple months ago in Portland, which ended at mile 19, where my ham strings stiffened with cramps and I started dry heaving (not a pretty sight). I wasn't sure what would be the result of hanging with this breed of runner again, but I was ready to give it a shot.

Soon enough, I heard the P.A. guy announce that the wheel chair division would be starting in a minute. Soon after we were all counting down from 10 to see them off. And soon after that, we were doing our own count down. It was time to run another marathon.

After the count down hit zero, I slowed myself down as much as I could, waiting until the last possible second before I crossed the starting mat, which would register the racing chip I had strung through my shoes. I wanted to have some buffer between what I saw on the official clock and what my actual time was. In the beginning of a race, 15 seconds is nothing to make up. At the end, it's a god send to strip that extra time off of what the clock says. 3:11:14 could be translated to 3:10:59 with one swipe of my shoe.

Despite the buffer I built up, my pace group was still within sight and with a few hard strides, I was right up with them. The pace felt good, with no need to catch my breath to catch them and my legs feeling nice and loose (and warm, finally). Then again, it was only the start. I quietly wondered how I would feel as the mileage broke into the 20's.

The darkness was broken by the dawning light and the still crisp air felt pleasant against my steaming self. As we came closer to the double digit miles, I still felt comfortable, but the pace was very fast. I needed a 7:17 pace to qualify for Boston, while my group was moving at closer to 7:07. I hung with the pacer, but was curious at that point as to what his strategy would be. He offered words of encouragement and advice to us, which was helpful. He said, "Let's slow down here, 3:10 group" a few times, but slowing down never happened. My watch still told me we were hauling from mile to mile.

We crossed the half marathon mark at a time of 1:33:59, which is identical to my split in Portland. To that point the pace groups (Portland and Can International 3:10) were employing the same strategy, one which I questioned. My best marathons were ones where I ran a slower first half than the second and I found myself second guessing my decision to stick with the Portalnd pace group. Would I be making the same mistake in this race? More time and running would tell.

Between mile 14 and 15, I decided to finally engage with the pacer. Maybe a little conversation would slow him up a little. I brought up the subject of Western States Endurance Run, a 100-mile race that he had done two years ago and one that I had paced on this year. He said that this race should be a "piece of cake" compared to that. Sure, if I actually ran the whole Western States course...pacing was actually the "piece of cake". At mile 16, he asked me how my legs felt, commenting that I didn't seem to breathing too hard. I told him the truth, that they were tight, which he had no response to. He was probably thinking, "Oh boy...this guy's dead". Eventually I weaved myself away from him, not wanting to talk anymore. I had to save my energy for running.

"Stay with me until mile 20", became the pacer's mantra, "stay with me until the bridge". I could start to feel some fluttering in my calf muscles, which is a sign that cramps may be on their way. "Stay with the group until 20" became my mantra. I wanted to push myself to at least reach that point, which would be an improvement from Portland. I felt I could do it, but wasn't sure about the cost.

As we came closer to 20, the pacer said again, "Stay with me until 20", then added, "then we're going to push. That's when the race begins." Huh? To that point, we were still under 7:10 minute miles. Why in the hell would we push harder after that point? Did he mean that it would feel like we were pushing harder, but we would be going the same pace? I didn't get it and I was getting a little frustrated.

The mile 22 marker was the beginning of the swan song for my story of staying with the 3:10 pace group. My legs were getting very heavy and tight and I could feel some light cramping. I fought to keep them near me, but knew that I couldn't stay. "I can't do this pace", I said to myself, getting more frustrated. The group was out of sight by mile 23, which is where I started some damage control as I could feel some spirit draining away and fatigue climbing in to take its place. A psychologic battle was beginning.

I immediately flashed back to the Portland Marathon, where I had lost the pace group at mile 19 and started dry heaving and cramping pretty noticeabley and was able to recover by walking for 10-20 seconds. While I wasn't feeling nearly as bad, I had given up on the idea of qualifying and was contemplating a plan for keeping myself going. I wondered if I needed to walk a bit and where a good point would be.

Several different goals came to mind for me to shoot for. I thought about going for a P.R. for Cal International, which would mean getting under 3:18. Then I thought that breaking 3:15 would be a lot better. I didn't want to fail at reaching two goals in the same race, but needed to find something that I could still push for and be happy with.

I started trying to pump myself up by making note of the fact that I had stayed with the pace group longer than I had ever had and could build on that for the next marathon. Next marathons starting popping into my head, if you can believe it. I was thinking about getting back on the horse again, even as I was still riding.

Disappointment kept lingering. I thought of the people who had encouraged me and thought this would be the day for me. I felt as though I was letting them down. What would I say to them? What would be my excuse?

But there was this little voice that each of us has a personal copy of that was speaking to me any time my mind became quiet. "You can do it", it said, "You can qualify". I didn't want to listen. At the same time, as I was contemplating when would be a good spot to walk, my legs just kept driving as if to say, "We're going to Boston with or without you pal". Especially with the gentle down hill grade that had made an appropo appearance in the final miles, I didn't have the heart to tell them to stop.

"Only 8 blocks to go!", a woman shouted as I sauntered past her. Is that it? I always hate it when people give the wrong distance to the finish, especially when they're short. Note to anyone that's reading this and will spectate or volunteer at a race: Be very accurate when telling runners how far they need to go, if you're going to tell them. Believe me, most runners can tell a big difference between a mile and 1.1 miles.

But I trusted her, and began the count down, saying the numbers out loud so that I could remind myself that it was almost over. In between corners I repeated a mantra that I've used in a lot of races with urban finishes: "street light to street light", "street light to street light". When you're running along a long stretch with no turns, it helps to pick out markers to shoot for. The street lights are what I usually go for.

I was down to "one" on my count down and could see the final turn coming up, accompanied by a beautiful "Mile 26" marker that every marathoner loves to see, almost as much as the finish line. As I crossed the marker and made a turn to the left, I pressed on my watch to get a 26th mile split and then took a glance. It read "8:08" on the split, which I was sorry to see. However, I also caught a look at the cumulative time, something I hadn't looked at the whole race. "3:08:58", it read. Oh my God...I'm going to Boston!

"Full speed ahead" was the command I gave to my aching legs which had found new life. I saw the finish line clock approaching in the distance and saw that it still had a 3:09 sitting in it. It wasn't until I was within a handful of steps that it turned to 3:10, which reaffirmed that I was going to do it. I felt as if I was "floating from branch to branch, lighter than the air." My day had finally come.

I quickly went back to my watch after I had stepped onto the red mat which would collect my chip time. "3:09:58", my watch said. It was nice to be able to peel 15 seconds off of the offical clock that I had just crossed under. Regardless, I had met my goal and pushed two clenched fists into the air as if I had won. I did. I was going to the super bowl!

As I walked back to my hotel room, with water bottles in hand and silver space blanket draped around me like a cape, I felt a zen-like calm inside, which was probably an indication of the weight that was off my shoulders. I have to admit that what I also felt, was surprisingly, a little tinge of sadness. The journey to 3:10 was over. I'd no longer be striving towards that goal in the same way and I can appreciate the fact that the juice was in the getting there, not in the arrival.

Still, victory was sweet and I'm thankful for everyone that encouraged me and belived that I could do it. That's what I think drove me most as I was pushing through those last miles. I received many congratulations from my running friends and some surpise decorations from my running partner Chris, his wife and my friend Antje. I caught them in the act as I came back home. :-)

The end.

p.s. Here are my splits...probably the most interesting thing about this blog:

1. 7:03
2. 7:16
3. 6:39
4. 7:12
5. 7:09
6. 7:18
7. 7:16
8. 7:16
9. 7:08
10. 7:01
11. 7:17
12. 7:19
13. 7:18
13.1 1:33:58 (first half split)
14. 7:11
15. 7:20
16. 6:54
17. 7:22
18. 7:10
19. 7:08
20. 7:07
21. 7:11
22. 7:25
23. 7:20
24. 7:34
25: 7:46
26: 8:09
26.2 1 minute

Hood to Coast 2006

In the last weekend in August, some running buddies and I took part in the 25th version of the Hood to Coast relay race. We had run the Providian Relay many times, but developed a strong interest in running the race it was modeled after. Unlike the Providian, we had to enter a lottery to get into this one and were actually turned down two years in a row before gaining automatic third try entry. Now was our chance to bring our running legs to a bigger stage. We we ready for the challenge and change of scenery.

By "bigger stage", I mean many more teams than we were used to. I'm talkin' 1000 vs 250, which was mind boggling to think of, coming in. Often times in the Providian, you'll find yourself running along stretches where you won't see another soul, much less another competitor. I had the feeling going in that this wouldn't be the case during this race. I was really looking forward to the mass of runners and teams as logisically complicated as it may have been.

My team consisted of several people from work and a few others that used to be from work. We formed a team called the "Barking Spiders", a name that we had used several times for the Providian, one which could draw chuckles for anyone who understands its meaning and curiosity from anyone that didn't. For those of you who fall into the latter category, consider a Barking Spider to be the imaginary scape goat for anyone who has distributed audible emissions that are gastrointestinal in origin. "Wow the spiders are really barking today!" you might say to fellow runners as you make your presence known. Feel free to try it on your next run.

The Barking Spiders descended upon Portland on Thursday and Friday before our time (5:30 PM on Friday) to begin the race, some by plane and some via road trip. I took the flight option, coming in with three teammates on Thursday morning. I wanted to do some exploring of the city before immersing myself into the 24+ hour relay that was ahead. I had last visited 6 years ago for a wedding and had enjoyed it. I wanted to take in some more.

We spent much of the morning exploring the Japanese Garden and Hoyt Arboretum, which are pieces to Washington Park. The Japanese Garden was peaceful to walk through, containing simple yet ordered arrangements that were pleasing to the eyes. There were sandy court yards with ripples coming from each of the objects contained within. There was a beautiful waterfall spilling into a small pond that contained many multi-colored fish. There were small bridges, switch-back walk ways and trees with branches which had been guided by braces to grow in interesting angles and ways. Supposedly this garden is one of the most beautiful of its kind outside of Japan (Afterwards I had asked some Japanese friends about the garden, who had visited it recently, and they claimed that it was authentic.


One of the Barking Spiders, Dick, was what I would call a "tree buff" and suggested we visit the Hoyt Arboretum. We were not disappointed as we ventured down some of the trails, named for the majority of the trees that we would see on them (e.g. fir trail, spruce trail). Each tree was marked with its english and latin names as well as its current home country or countries. Probably the most interesting tree that I saw was the "Monkey Puzzle". There was not explanation about its name, but it didn't need it as this prickly branched tree would clearly be a challenge to the most cunning of climbing monkeys.

After our day of visiting some of Portland's natural wonders and collecting more spiders from the airport, we were ready for a pre-race pasta feed. Almost every runner knows about carbo loading and we're not a team of newbies. After doing some Googling to see what Italian eateries were available in Portland, we decided to take a chance with Davincis Italiano Ristorante
It was a fairly classic Italian-American restaurant, nothing fancy with a very local feel to it and heaps of tastey Italian food. They had Fat Tire on tap, which we ordered several pitchers of. What else do you really need?

After stuffing ourselves silly, we got even sillier and capped off our night by watching Office Space, which we found among the DVD collection of the son of one the spiders, who was letting us use his house for relay as a crashing point and headquarters. I've seen the movie before, but it was fun to watch again. I think there's something cathartic about watching something that is poking fun at the corperate world that most of us toil in from time to time. The movie also provided plenty of laughter fuel for the relay itself as everyone in my van relayed impressions of the boss in the movie and and also used several expressions, such as "showing the 'O' face" and taking a ride on the "bone rollercoaster". We couldn't get enough of that.

After getting a full night's of sleep, something that would be lacking for the weekend, we all met up again in the late morning at Powell's bookstore in down town Portland. It's a wonderful place for anyone remotely interested in reading as it is a store which takes up a full city block (even has its own parking ramp) and is four stories high. I picked up a couple used books in the award-winning section, Life of Pi by Yann Martel and Charming Billy by Alice McDermott. It wouldn't be hard for most people to spend days in the store and not really cover it.

Afterwards, we ended up grabbing lunch from Whole Foods down the street from Powell's, joining a large lunch-eating crowd that had the same idea. We then went back to headquarters for the last arrangements before heading to Mt. Hood. We were quickly approaching race time.

Backing off for a second, let me try to describe the nature and logistics of this relay. The race goes from the top of Mt. Hood (well, as far as you can drive) to Seaside, which is a small town against the Oregon coast. The distance is 197 miles which causes most people's jaws to drop when you mention that to them. It's not as a bad as you think, since there are 12 people on a team, each taking on a share of course (comes out to about 16 miles per runner). The course is broken up into 36 segments of varying distances, called "legs" (not to be confused with the legs you run with). Before you start the race, your team decides who is going to run what legs, which must be run in a set order on your team. So for instance, the runner that takes on leg #1 also gets legs #13 and #25. That way, everybody gets 3 legs that are spaced 12 legs apart. To pull the feat of completing these legs off, each team is typically broken up into two groups of 6 that will share a vehicle (usually a mini-van) together. So vehicle 1 will transport runners 1-6 and vehicle 2 will do the same for runners 7-12. You basically drive ahead of the runner that's currently completing his/her leg and provide them support (water, heckling, etc.) along the way. You're also driving the next runner(s) that will need to be dropped off at exchange points, so that they can take the baton (which is a braclet) and carry on. Once you get rolling with the relay, it's amazing how quickly it goes.

We decided to drive both vans up to Mt. Hood so everyone could take in the view at the top, and view the teams that we would be up against. On the way, we saw several mini-vans like ours, some of which had absorbed a high level of decorative creativity from the team members within. We saw a familar team to us from the Providian relay in the form of "Snot Rocket". Snot Rocket promotes the use of what a midwesterner like myself might call a "farmer blow" (it's not as dirty as you think) Regardless, just imagine how you might cleanly clear out your nose without any handkerchief or tissue. Runners face this dilemma all of the time (and farmers too :-))

The view at the top was spectacular as we parked among the many teams that would be launching their races shortly before us, after us or even the same time. Every 15 minutes, roughly 25 runners would be flying down the mountainside after a count down initiated from the P.A. announcer and accompanied by the crowd. We were starting to feel the tingles of a running event form as we neared closer to our 5:30 PM starting time.







Compared to the Providian, Hood to Coast had a much bigger event feel to it, which isn't shocking given that it's been going on for 15 more years and they have almost 800 more teams (which is almost 10,000 more runners). There was a pretty good crowd there, with music blaring, teams with uniforms and vans dressed to the nines. A few of us spotted a couple teams dressed as French maids and cheer leaders, which are always head-turning sights to most of the male population. We were quite impressed.



Our lead runner Dennis lined up at the start with the group of 5:30 leaders. I was trying to enjoy the last few moments of sanity, though was ready for what looked to be a insanely fun race. The MC announced each of the teams, getting cheers from their respective teams on hand. He then had every lead runner shake hands and introduce themselves to each other in a gesture of good sportsmanship. With all of the formalities out of the way, all that remained was the count down to go time...10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1!!!!!


I was not envying Dennis as we drove drown the mountain, seeing the runners galloping down. He was practically pushed off of the top of Mt. Hood with almost 6 miles of down hill running ahead of him. For those of you who don't run as much as we might, down hill running may sound great, and to a certain extent it is, but the steepness of the slope that he was going down and the length of that slope is enough to given most people's knees and quadriceps a good pounding. Trust me, after doing a run like he was, I think most people would vote for doing an uphill climb instead.

But Dennis was up the task and came blazing through the exchange from leg 1 to 2. It didn't take too long to put one leg in the books as he passed the braclet to Jim, who had some tough down hill to tackle of his own. We now had a relay.

I was assigned to leg 5, which would continue along hwy 26, then parellel to it, up a country road at one point. I caught a glimpse of what I would be running on the way to peak, noticing that there was a hell of a lot of uphill to scale (maybe downhill running is not so bad. :-)). As Janna was completing leg 4 and after we parked at the exchange point, I decided to take a trip to the "Honey Bucket", which is an endearing term and company name for the port-a-potties (It reminds me of another midwest term "Honey Wagon", which is used in place of manure spreaders).

As I casually emerged from the honey bucket, Janna was practically right there. Thank goodness I had all my running gear with me because I actually needed to run from the bucket to the exchange in order to prevent her from waiting for me. That's something you generally don't want to do to a runner. Imagine running your guts out and not seeing your exchange partner waiting for you. It sucks.

But I made it and it probably provided me a little bit of a warm up as I snatched the braclet from her and let my legs rip down the road. I generally go out way too fast, emulating a bat out of hell. The adrenaline of a race often does that too me, but relays are especially the case because of the team element. I feel like I wanted to do my best for the Barking Spiders.

About a minute into the run, I found my first "road kill", which is a term often used by relayers when they pass someone. The second one wasn't too far away, but this guy sped up considerabley when I came within 5 feet of him ("no way you're passing me", he was probably thinking). Some people make it very difficult to pass them, which can be hard on your body for a little while. I just decided to settle into his pace for a spell and see if I could wear him down. A few minutes later, he was toast.

My experience in relays has usually been one in which I tend to always kill rather than be killed, so it was suprising to me to get passed about 2 miles into my leg as a guy came blowing by me. It wasn't quite the standing-still feeling, but it was close. This dude was booking and he wasn't looking back. I figured he was either his team's stud or on a stud team. After passing a handful more of people, I got killed again. This was a much different relay than what I was used to.

My run started in the twilight which became no light, other than the spread out beam of my head lamp. I veered up to the right, off of 26 and onto the wavy country road of cherryville lane. The tall trees with thick-leaved branches blackened my route and turned my race erie. I could only see 15-20 feet in front me and the bouncing ball of light owned by the racer who had passed me a few miles back. That would change slightly for a while as I came into a intersection that was lit by headlights and volunteers preventing runners from making a wrong turn without a mile left. "You've got one mile to go!", they said as I pressed on.

Up to that point, I felt as if the rating they gave that leg of "very hard" was not well deserved. Yes there was some climbing, but I felt as if I had been moving very well throughout. I felt as if I was sitting pretty until they threw a nasty climb in front of me. Ok, now I get it.

I huffed and puffed up the hill to the exchange. I could mark one leg down and two to go as I passed the braclet to Jacques, who was running anchor for our van. The air was cool and felt great against my heated and sweaty self as I made it back to van with Jim. There was a huge line of vans parked along hwy 26 housed with teams waiting for their runner. It felt great to have one in the book.

After we finished leg 6, we drove back to Larry's son's for a very brief snooze. The most challenging thing about relays like this is dealing with sleep depravation. Since it was only 10:00 PM when we ready to settle down, I found it impossible to do much more than lie down. At 1 AM, the alarm clock shattered all hopes of getting a night's sleep (I think I ended up falling comfortabley asleep at 12:30 AM!). Shortly after, we received a call from Larry, letting us know that their 6th runner, Tom, was running his leg. It was getting time to do it all over again, this time through the streets of Portland and the country side which beckoned from the west.

After much navigational folly, we found a parking spot by the Hawthorne bridge that Dennis would be running across, getting our team over the Willamette River. This would probably be one of the more challenging times for each of us to run as our bodies internal clocks thought we were scheduled to sleep. But that's part of the fun and the challenge of the relay is running at the small hours of the night.

Tom came flashing in with braclet in hand and transferred it to Dennis, who was off into the night. We briefly chit-chatted with our other van, asking them how their legs went and so forth. There actually isn't much time for conversation as we had a runner to support and they had showers and beds awaiting them. Time was awaisting.

Fast-forwarding to my leg, which is the most important one for me to describe here, :-), this time I had an "easy" one, complete with gentley rolling hills and pretty countryside that became prettier as dawn approached and I could see the morning star glowing in the western sky. The temperature had dropped to a comfortable 55 degrees, which is a lovely number to run in. I could see the steam coming off of me as I pushed through the early morning air, with a brightening horizon ahead of me.

Leg number two was in the books for me as I turned beside a church parking lot to where my exchange and Jacques were waiting. I found that no matter what a leg is ranked, whether that be "very hard" or "easy", I still feel about the same afterwards. "Very hard" means you're not going to be able to move as quickly, but the terrain should do a number on you. "Easy" just means should be pushing harder now because there are no mean hills to take you down. I ran my best pace on this leg and I was feeling it.

After a brief stop at a high school along the way, which provided us with showers and a pancake breakfast (wonderful), we took our sleeping bags to a open field near the next van exchange, which served as a parking lot and sleeping area. That combination is not a very wise one as Jacques can attest to. He claimed that several vans came within couple feet of my head and the heads of some of my van mates while we slumbered. He quickly gave up on sleeping and decided that living was more important.

Along with the traffic, I was eventually awakened by a very loud team by the name of "Hot Tamales". A few of their runners were standing about 10 feet from my sleeping bag and were speaking at such a volume that I'm not sure if I could yell at. Maybe the volume seemed higher than it actually was because I was trying to sleep, but I couldn't believe that someone could speak so loudly, especially when they see people sleeping around them. One of their teammates even tried to shush them, which worked for about 10 seconds before they resumed their ear-ringing and mundane conversation. At one point I just got up and thought, "Ok, I guess I'm up". They were another reason that Jacques had given up.

But that's part of the relay and our second van was on their way anyway, so it was time to go through the drill one more time. The time was roughly 10:00 AM when I noticed that the temperature was rising awfully quickly. We would be dealing with some semi-serious heat before our job was done.

All of us dealt with some heavy sun between the shady spots as we continued east through the beautful tree-filled landscape of rural Oregon. The weather had saved its toughest spells for last. Like all of my teammates, I would be carrying a water bottle this time, not so much for the intake, but to dump on myself to prevent overheating.

My third leg was the toughest by far as it started on a heavy incline and never quite leveled out until I hit the top after 3.4 miles. My road kill number was rising though as we were starting to come across some of the slower teams with runners who had had enough out there. I pushed myself to the top and then pushed harder on the severe downhill, just for the sake of getting my count up (my running buddy Chris had claimed 30 road kill on his run...I had to take a crack at it). All told, I took out 33 runners, which would sit as the record for a short while (Chris took out 45 on his next leg...bastard :-))

It's hard to find feelings that compare to having your last set of legs done. No longer would we be sleep-running through the mid-day sun. No longer would we have to watch what we ate, for fear of having an ill-timed accident on the course (we brought plenty of tums). Suddenly we didn't feel quite so travel-weary. We were ready for some well-deserved food and beer.

The perfect spot for this was at a place called the Portway, a bar and grill which had some marvelous microbrews on tap. We took down pitcher each of Black Hook and Alaskan Amber, which helped to wash down some tastey cheese burgers (all 6 of us had the same idea). I also had some clam chowder, which was delicious. I'd highly recommend a stop at the Portway if you find yourself in the area and especially if you find yourself in van 1 for the Hood to Coast relay. Though the food and beer amplified our growing sleepiness, it really hit the spot and the restaurant itself had a fun local feel to it.

Off we were to Seaside, the conclusion of our adventure. The town itself made me think of a combination of Santa Cruz and Palo Alto with a nice beach and ocean awaiting, yet a little more of a yuppified feeling to the down town. It was a nice place to finish. The beach was filled with tents surrounding a finish line that several teams were crossing as we approached. The atmosphere was festive and fun and quite a contrast to what I had seen in April at the scaled down Providian relay (you'd barely know that a race was going on).


Tom rambled into the beach over the finish line to capture our official time, then did it again with his team in tow. As hard as it was to get my legs going for a 4th time, it felt great to finish with the team. We collected our medals and posed for pictures, feeling like a group that had found its 15 minutes of fame. Sleepy smiles emerged on all of us as it felt so good to finish.





We gathered at tables strewn around the beach finishing area and grabbed some beers to cap off our weekend in style. Henry's was on tap and hit the spot as we toasted to our success. A bright white sun was slowly being swallowed by a lightly waving ocean, leaving a pink splash in its wake. Another night was coming upon us that would be full of slumber and recovering legs. We said our goodbyes and rode into the night towards sweet dreams in Portland.

The End.

p.s. The next day, Dennis and I tried a couple of great places to stop for eats and treats in Portland. We stopped for very good lunch at the Southpark Seafood Grill and Wine Bar on Salmon Street (very appropriate street for them to be on). I had Sturgeon over polenta cakes sauteed in a wine-based sauce whose names eludes me, but whose taste was memorabely appetizing. This is a nice place to sit outside for lunch. It's slightly pricey, but well worth it. We then resisted their dangerously-appealing dessert menu and headed to Mio Gelato, which is right across from Powell's book store on Brazee street. I've been Italy, tasting what Gelato is supposed to taste like and I'll tell you, Mio Gelato has done the job. I had some Nocciola which was heavenly. I'll be back there again when I complete the Portland Marathon in October.

Western States 100

The Western States Endurance Run (WSER) was always something of a myth to me. Of course I knew it existed and had even known a few people who had run it, but the experience had only come to me second hand. The distance seemed far too enormous to fathom and a paradox to picture. Imagine people running through snow and then through 100+ degree heat, all within a span of 24 hours or so (30 for those who wanted more hours for their buck). It was the stuff of legend.

That changed about a month and a half ago, when I had to make good on a commitment to pace Rob Byrne, veteren of the race, someone whom I had run a bit with before, but usually that's what it was, a bit. He'd usually tear up most Tullamore Dew Running Club courses that had been set before him, leaving everyone including myself in his dust. This time he "needed me" for an 18 mile segment of the the 100-mile course that he would be doing for the 11th time. I was game to give it a try.

His real goal was not to finish for this 11th time, but to break 24 hours for the 10th time, giving him the acclaimed "1000 miles in 10 days" belt buckle that repeat finishers envy and few have attained. So the 18 miles that I had signed up for took a little deeper meaning and I felt as if I had to some way help him make his mark rather than just getting him through another race. It was an honor to help him try.

The trip started via a ride with Larry England, a friend and fellow pacer, who would be taking Rob in for the last 20 miles after my segment. We drove up in his weathered Suburban and picked Rob up at a park and ride, just off of 580 . The weather was an ominous 111 degrees as indicated by the Suburban's thermometer. Actually, "ominous" is too soft of a word. How about hellacious? Either way, it was frickin' hot.

We made our way up to Auburn, town of the finish, a place which is conisdered by some, if not many, the "mecca" of ultra runners. It's got this very home town feel to it, with lots of pine trees sprinkled around and mountains waiting in the distance. The air is fresh and the area has a clean cut feel to it, perfect for those who enjoy putting their legs to the test.

The opposite of "clean cut" may have very well been the taco joint that we stopped at called "Jimboy's Taco", a place that Rob recommended and wanted to stop at for a bite to eat. Actually, it wasn't all that bad, just a place that I probably wouldn't normally venture into unless I was with a guy that was about to run 100 miles and wanted his burrito. It's his stomach and his race; let him eat what he wants. The food was as good as he had advertised, though there's no way you can eat their burritos with your hands as they pretty much fall apart upon contact. But that's what sporks are for.

After our respit, we continued on awhile to Squaw Valley, the site of the start. I had never been to Tahoe ski country in the summer, but I'd say it's just as beautiful seeing the mountains more green than white (though there was still a lot of snow up there) and not seeing my breath as I opened the car door and enjoyed the 70 degree temperature that the climate had settled to. The evening felt perfect.

The next morning led us to the WSER registration and check in, which started at 9 AM that Friday. There was a pretty good sized line of runners waiting to get registered. It is a little bit more advanced than your typical pick-up-your-bib-and-t-shirt type of affair. You actually have to weigh in at your hydrated weight. This is what they hope for, but supposedly some runners dehydrate themselves a bit so that they might catch a break on the course if they're caught a little under weight. The race experts do mention that this is a fairly stupid thing to do though, given that they've rarely had to pull a runner from the course due soley to a change in weight. It's usually just one of the symptoms they'll use to determine whether someone should be cut off. Anyway, along with the weigh in, the runners get their pulse and blood pressure checked and are invited to go further by offering a sample of their blood to help researchers get a sense of what this kind of activity does to folks. I don't think it's enough to say that 100 miles kinda screws people up.

While Rob went through his ordeal, Larry and I checked out the expo. We found that a lot of the things that the expo offered were exactly what Larry has offered over the years of running his Tullamore Dew Running Club. Every Death Valley and Benedict Arnold run that he's organized features a trinkit that he offers with the TDRC logo on it. He's had head lamps, t-shirts, map/scarves, blankets, gloves, bucket hats (kinda like Giligan wore, but beige), travel coffee mugs, wool jackets and other stuff I'm not remembering. WSER had all of that as if they'd been on the same page with him from year to year. They did finally trump Larry tough with a white pair of WSER briefs of all things. I hope he doesn't resort to copying them.

After the resigtration and the expo, we dropped off three camping chairs (two of them were TDRC chairs) in this grassy open area that would eventually serve as the pre-race meeting space. Obviously I was with veterens that had been through the drill a few times. After killing some time, lo and behold we were sitting in the shade, right towards the front, listening to all of the ins and outs of the race that would follow the next day. We were in perfect position.

Probably the most memorable part of the pre-race talk was the mention of all of the volunteer work that had gone in to clear out a new section of trail that was once overrun with trees, as well as all of the volunteer work that would be going into the race. Supposedly Tim Tweitmeier, the president of the race and another volunteer, whom I unfortunately cannot remember the name of, had spent 100 hours and 500 hours respectively using chain saws to work on the trees, even having to take a class on chain saw usage to get certified. They also mentioned that 1300 volunteers (not inclding crews and pacers) would be working the race, which is an astounding 3 volunteers per runner. I was beginning to perceive the magnitude of the event.

Another memorable part of the talk was seeing the top 10 runners from last year brought up to the front. Among the men was Dean Karnazes of ultra marathon fame through his book and many amazing running feats he's pulled (350 miles in last year's providian relay). But it was the women that impressed me the most. Larry leaned over to me as they assembled out front and whispered "Are these women buff, or what?" Yes they were. Their legs and arms had the appearance of being cut out of stone. I was delightfuly impressed.

The evening brought us a nice dinner at a bar and grill just above Lake Tahoe as we enjoyed the cooled temperature that duplicated the night before. We saw several people with green braclets on their arms, like Rob's, indicating that they were signed up to run tomorrow. The waitress became bug eyed as we told her what Rob was about to do. It's fun to brag about something that just seems so ridiculous and better yet, something I wouldn't actually have to do.

The rest of the evening was all about lounging and getting our running supplies in order. This is a ritual that all ultra runners seem to go through, spreading out their gu, salt, drugs (advil) , adhesives, lubricants and all that fun stuff. It's almost as if you're about to partake in some sort of strange orgy. I guess in some sense, that's what it is.

I took a walk outside of the lodge and tilted my head up into the night sky. Without any moon or major city lights to shade the stars, the view was gorgeous, and with the sounds of crickets coming from the grassy base of squaw, I felt a bit like I was back spending a summer night in Minnesota at my grandma's lake home near Mankato. I always enjoyed the intense feeling I had, staring up into the vastness of the illuminated universe, unhithered by anyone or anything. I need more of that feeling from time to time.

An altogether different feeling came about at 3:45 AM, one accompanied by a thought of, "Is it time already???", as I heard Rob's alarm go off the next morning. The man is deaf without his hearing aids so he continued to sleep soundly as the grating sounds spat out into the room. "Rob? Rob?"..."Rob!!!"..."Thanks Mark". What would he do without his pacer? :-)

Soon enough we were among the mass of runners that were making their way to the beginning of the madness. What we noticed right away was that the temperature was way too comfortable for 5 in the morning. It's not that it was really warm, but we weren't standing there with arms crossed and legs bouncing like most ultras and marathons begin. It was pleasant enough to cause worry about what the passing day would bring to this group of runners that would be toiling in the mountains and more importantly, in the canyons during the hotter hours.

I made my way up about a quarter mile past the starting area, so I could get a better view of the runners as they were rising up and passing by. I didn't see Rob come by in the rush. In fact, the only person I recognized was Tim Twietmeier, who was galloping among the front runners, racing up this mountain for the final time as a WSER participant. As I watched them disappear into the darkness that still enveloped the mountain at this hour, I thought about how fresh everyone looked and how long it would take before that freshness was gone. I was guessing one or two canyon's worth of heat may be all that it would take.

Now that Rob was off, it was time for Larry and I to begin a long day of "hurry up and wait" (Rob had told me that CREW stood for Cranky Runner Endless Waiting when it came to crewing for someone). We had several hours to kill before meeting him at Robinson Flat, the first major checkpoint for the runners at mile 29.7. We killed most of the time hanging out at a Starbuck's in Auburn, then taking a ride along Foresthill Rd., probably the main thoroughfare for pacers and crew as it ran paralell to most of the course after Robinson Flat (30 mile mark). It's a beautiful drive, complete with mountains and valleys of pine and the tallest standing bridge (Auburn-Foresthill Bridge) in California, 730 feet above the North Fork of the American River. Larry commented that it would be a better choice for a suicide jump than the Golden Gate Bridge with a chance of survivial being significantly slimmer. Thanks Larry.

We arrived to the chaos that prefaced Robinson flat aid station, which consisted of a lot of parked cars along the side of the road, lots of cars wanting to get parked and a group of volunteers with flustered yet cheerful looks on their faces. It reminded me a bit of some of the busier exchange points of the Providian Relay, though much busier. Larry ended up nudging me out of the car at one point so I could get to the checkpoint while he found some parking. I think he ended up finding something a half mile away.

A large crowd gathered around the premises of a large tent-covered aid station. A lane made by two parallel streams of caution tape was stretched out beyond the aid station to allow each runner a clear path to continue on after he/she had taken what they needed. Bags of all shapes, colors and sizes were neatly arranged inside the perimeter of another taped-off boundary, representing the drop bags that each of the runners can have left at 8 check points. Rob had this pink and yellow school-bag-looking thing that could have belonged to a 7-year-old girl. He actually was able to find 8 of them at a garage sale and scooped them up, thinking of WSER. There's no way they could be mistaken for anybody else's.

In Rob's bag, along with some snack items, the most important thing to him was a bottle of Ensure. It was this 350 calorie, milky, protein-fortified stuff that he claimed worked wonders for him as a form of runner gasoline. It tasted better than GU and went down much better, even as he got close to the end. He had one bottle in each of his bags that he would end up drinking religously. He even had one in the morning in the room.

I arrived to this site at around 9:30 AM, which according to the program is about 15 minutes after the front runner should have come through. Rob had predicted that he'd come through around 10 AM, though he scoffed at this goal the night before, thinking that the heat would prevent him from making such a time. The first guy that I saw come through was Jim Huffman, who ended up finishing 5th. He wasn't in until around 10 though, which is a sign of how hot it was out there.

I saw Dean Karnazes come through without a lot of fan fare, looking pretty heat-weathered himself. He put his singlet and hat into the bucket of ice water and took the sponge bath they offer. The third place woman from last year, a French citizen, came through soon afterwards and had to be convinced to not bow out (she did finish). "It's too hot", she gasped, as she stumbled into the station. Chikara Omine, a runner whom I've been following ever since seeing him be the first runner to ever break 4 hours in a Pacific Coast Trail Runs event, looked very worse for wear as he came in. As he stood on the scale, I noticed he was wearing trail shoes and socks, which are a far cry from the track shoes that he usually wears, sockless. He looked very pale and somewhat concerned. This is a guy that ran the Ruth Anderson 100K at 7:26 per mile pace. I mean, come on, 62 miles at that pace??? Robinson flat was where his finish was for that day. They listed "Metabolic" in parentheses when I looked at the updated drop list at the next aid station, which I guess meant he had stomach problems. It was a tough start for these runners.

Rob finally came through at around 11:40, which is about even with the 24 hour pace. He was in good spirits and seemed to be in decent shape at the time. He didn't complain about the heat in the canyon, though he didn't seem overly comfortable with the temperature either, spending some extra time hydrating and icing down. This seemed to do the trick for him though, as he came out a new man. We just walked walked him through the shoot and saw him off, nothing too demanding for this crew of his at this point.

We traveled back on Foresthill Road to Auburn to check into the Comfort Inn that Rob had us staying at. Afterwards we had some lunch at a nearby Denny's, where I think I had my third meal of the weekend that included french fries (great diet for a runner!). We were just killing time again before meeting him again at Michigan Bluff, another big checkpoint after a round of some serious canyon running and climbing.

On the way to Michigan Bluff, we picked up Rob's wife Chris, who came up from Oakland to join our crew. After many years of dealing with her husband's addiction to running, she still doesn't quite understand it and doesn't understand why we'd want to take the time to pace him. But she was appreciative of us being there. "So you run?", she asked me, as we walked down the hill to Michigan Bluff. "No", I joked, bringing in a bit of my midwest sarcasm. "I just thought 18 miles sounded like a fun thing to try."

Probably the most attractive part of the Michigan Bluff aid station are these burgers that I had read about in their program and saw first hand, being sold at a counter, completely smothered with fried onions. I have a weakness for hamburgers that I've never tried to fix, but I'm proud to say that I resisted the urge to buy one. Given that I'd be runing in a couple hours, I decided to stay healthy, opting instead for a orange-ice cream dreamsicle. Yes, I know this isn't that healthy, but it is a healthy alternative to a burger (I think). Regardless, I had to eat something fun.

As beat up as the runners looked at Robinson Flat, they looked more so, by a factor of 10 at Michigan Bluff. Several runners staggered in and had be physically guided to the scale and the refreshments. Several runners had to be strapped up to IV's, which essentially ended the race for most of them. To me this was the make it or break it point of the race. The weather was still warm but cooling, and the time spent toiling in the heat of the canyons was over. Yes, there was still that small factor of having 45 miles yet to run, but c'mon, the weather was now perfect. :-)



Chris, Larry and I arrived at Foresthill High School, the checkpoint where pacers could come into the game. As we rode by to hunt for a parking spot, we noticed a famous runner in the unfamiliar guise of a pacer by the name Scott Jurek. I had seen his picture in the WSER program in a few spots and his name by all of the records and first place finshes. I had also seen him at the inaugaral Bizz Johnson Marathon, where he had finished at a time of 2:56. Now he was pacing someone that was actually the front runner at the time until 30 feet from the finish, but more on that later.

I checked myself into Pacer Central, picking up my yellow bib that shared the same number as Rob's (48, the one he picked as it reflected his age). I filled a bottle full of water and the other one with sports drink. I was feeling locked and loaded. At that point, I started to feel the butterflies of being involved in a race. I knew I wouldn't be racing, but somehow I felt the juices flowing like I would be. Though Rob would be beat up enough for most runners to hang with him, I felt like I needed to be on my game to be a pacer to him and not someone he needed to worry about. As I pinned the pacer bib to my shorts and started to stretch my legs, I felt all of the elements of a race coming together. I love the feeling of being part of a running event. It was show time.



There were several runners whom we saw in the distance and spouted out a "Is that Rob?" in reference to. They were ones which either had the same hat, shirt or shorts as he did, but God help us we didn't learn our lesson at Robinson flat nor Michigan Bluff where we were confused by the same people. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me three times, please, have you figured it out yet?

A siren-blaring ambulance sped by in the direction that the runners were coming from. "I hope that's not for Rob", Chris said, then quickly apologized. She claimed that even after all of these years, she still worries about her husband, especially these days when she feels that he's "getting old". I think no matter what age you are, there's always a risk of something serious happening out on this course. An accomplished Iron Man triathlete had a heart attack 11 miles into the race. The winner-to-be (or not to be) collapsed 30 feet from the finish line. Every spouse and loved one related to these runners has the right to worry a little.

Chris's worry vanished, however, as we we saw Rob finally coming in. His energy level seemed somewhat low, but his spirits were high as evidenced by the smile he was still able to flash. Larry grabbed his running pack and proceeded to go get his water bottles filled. I walked along side of him as he appeared eager to depart. He called for a bottle of Ensure, which he downed and followed with a grimace (I think most people might have had that same look). John Medinger (Quad Dipsea director) reminded him that he was just on pace to break 24 hours, to which Rob responded with "I'm not sure if I can do it this year." A few people surrounding John shook their heads and yelled out words of encouragement. "C'mon, you can do it."

Speaking of Tropical John, as he's called or at least calls himself, I found that Western States is quite a who's who of the ultra running crowd. I saw Wendell and Sarah of Pacific Coast Trail Runs crewing at Forest Hill, Guy Palmer of the Marin Headlands 50K running the race itself, not too far in front of Rob, Ann Trason who had won the race several times, walking into Michigan Bluff to check out hte runners. Larry and Rob themselves are in that who's who list as well, being the race directors of the Ohlone wildnerness 50K. Several people recognized both of them, though Rob admitted to me that he recognized very few of the folks that said "hi" to him. He said he probably "handed them a plaque at the finish line" of his challenging race (by the way, if you're looking for a very challenging 50K, this it the toughest one of done...see abovethefog.net for details).

Without much ado, we launched from Forest Hill, taking advantage of the downward slope of the road to gain some momentum. We turned left at the next intersection and soon after, we entered a trail head that was marked with sign reading "Western States Trail" Ahh, so that's where the race gets its name.

From what little daylight we had left, I caught some beautiful views of a mountain ridge across a valley that dropped from trail. The ridge was catching the day's last rays of sun (a gorgeous affect) and below I caught green glimpses of the the American River, raging with a beautiful emerald glow. I'm glad the trail was smooth and fairly flat or I may have taken a header for all of the gawking I was doing at the infrequent vistas of these two magnificent sights. I now have first hand evidence as to why they picked this trail to host a race.

Rob, on the other hand, was not such a pretty sight. :-) Not that he's an unbecoming man, but this early stretch after Forest Hill found him in rough shape. He was battling the digestion of a turkey sandwich, which didn't quite want to go down without a fight. He slowed several times and finally just stopped to let go of it. As good as a turkey sandwich sounded to him at the beginning of the race, it had pretty much lost all of its appeal at that point.

After being doubled over for a spell and collecting himself, he rallied and we were able to pick up the pace again. His stomach may have been out of order, but his legs were working just fine as we came across some down hill and let gravity take on some workload. I could tell he still had that 24-hour finish in mind and was doing his best to keep it in sight. Though we got passed by a couple runners (and their pacers) who seemed as fresh as daisies, I felt like we were moving at pretty good clip.

The daylight started dimming as we approached about 5 miles (for me, 67 for Rob. :-)), dim enough to make the neon feature of an "Open" sign effective, a clever decore for the first aid station that we encountered. "Are you open?", Rob quipped. His sense of humor was still firmly intact. I sampled a few of the goodies at the aid station while Rob was getting his bottles filled. I felt a little guilty, given the fact that I hadn't beat up my body like Rob had, though I was appreciative of the attention that the aid station volunteers were giving me.

I was a little embarrased as I saw Rob in the distance looking back at me, already back on the trail while I was still grazing. I think I enjoy the ultra aid stations too much with all of their junk food and fresh melon. I quickly scampered out of there though and got back to work.

Twilight transformed into nightfall quite quickly as we continued along the trail. We put on our head lamps and flipped on the lights. Outside of running the Providian Relay, I had never done a race in the dark. The section of the trail that we were on was challenging in that there was a very steep and sudden drop off to our left. I kept wanting to look left, down into the darkness to see what perils awaited me, should I have any slip ups. This proved to be the exact wrong thing to do though, as looking left took away my light source on the trail, making slip ups more likely. I found that it was best to keep my eyes (and light) on the road.

I'm not much of a conversationalist on the trail (or off the trail for that matter), but tried to come up with some things to keep Rob awake. Mainly I got him to speak about other ultras and 100-milers he had done, which led to some pretty interesting stories. He told me had done a grand slam (four 100's in a year), which boggled my mind even more than it was. He said his favorite 50 miler is the San Francisco Fear and Loathing, one which follows the 49 mile scenic route through the city. His favorite 100 miler was the one we were running, of course, as he was doing it for the 11th time. Favorite 50K? The Ohlone Wilderness, of course, the one that he and Larry organize. :-)

We came into the next aid station, which was a welcome sight for both of us. For Rob, he was ready to try out his stomach again with something other than GU. For me, it was nice to be able turn off my head lamp and make use of another source of light as the station was well illuminated. One thing I discovered at this aid station were some bite-sized pieces of salted nut roll. I love that candy bar and found it to be a stroke of pure genius to see them incorperated into the junk food table.

Even though it was close to 10 PM, I dipped my hat in the bucket of ice water that they had. The temperature outside was not overly warm, but it actually never quite cooled down and the air even felt a little thick with humidity. This was an indication of what these runners had to go through during the heat of the day. If I was feeling a little warm then, imagine what they were feeling at noon time.

This time, Rob showed no anxiousness to hit the trails. "I need to stay here a little while", he said. I think the heat earlier was finally taking its toll on him. Several runners came through and were out as quickly as they had come in. This had no effect on Rob, he needed some time to feel human again. I needed some more salted nut roll chunks. :-)

Leaving the aid station was the start of what I would call a "death march". That's a point in a run where you're body has pretty much says "fuck you" to you and all you really care about is finishing before you become a casuality of the trails. It's no longer a race anymore, you just want to go home to your shower and bed. Rob was shot and anything that wasn't down hill, was time to walk, that is when he wasn't hunched over catching his breath. It was going to be a long time before we got to the river, which marked the 80 mile check point, where Larry would take over.
After slowly moving up through midnight, we finally did get to the welcoming lights of aid stations that stood on both sides of the American River. Usually runners would have to cross it on foot by this point, using a rope to ensure that they weren't carried away by the current. This time, however, we were aided by an inflatable rowboat, powered by a thick-armed, Austrailan-sounding bloke. "Climb aboard mates", he said (just kidding, he didn't really say 'mates', but he did have a thick austrailan accent...or maybe it was New Zealand). He swiftly brought us across the river, which was high and raging. There's no way anyone without fins could get across this thing.

We made a small stop at the aid station before starting an unfair 2-mile climb up hill to "Green Gate", which is where #2 pacers wait. We saw no sign of Larry, who said he'd come down. We figured he had given up and decided to hang with Chris (which he did). He did meet us with about a quarter mile to go and was in an excitable mood as usual. He had me undo my pacer's bib while he assessed Rob's condition, which seemed to be worsening by the minute. He had to stop several times on the trek up this unforgiveable hill. "Can I get you to do a power walk?", Larry asked. Hunched over again, Rob didn't even answer. I got the sense that whatever motivational powers which Larry posessed, which are many, he was going to try to use them.

We reached Green Gate, where Chris was waiting for us. She had a worried look on her face, which was eventually disipated by a sheepish smile from Rob. He comforted her with whatever kind words he had left. Larry was hopping to go, still hoping to push him across the finish line at a 24 hour clip. He was about an hour behind at that point though and had no second winds to speak of. I don't think Larry realized how spent Rob was, but was taking heed to Rob's words before the race started. "Larry, you're going to have to kick my ass when I get to you". I have a feeling he regretted saying that.

I wondered how those 20 miles would go as Chris and I ascended for another mile out of green gate to the parking lot. To be honest, as fresh as I still felt, that last mile was hell. It felt pretty much straight up and seemed more like 5 miles. She asked me to stop several times to catch her breath, which was reassuring and a good excuse to catch my own. We saw several crew members passing us, going down the hill, some carrying heavy coolers. I didn't envy their trip back up.

We rolled out of the parking area with Larry's suburban back to the hotel in Auburn. It was 1 in the morning and I was starting to feel the lack of sleep for the first time as the excitement of being part of the run wore off. The thought of a shower and bed was lovely even if it would only be for a few hours. I felt a little guilty that the race was taking its toll on me when I had only done a tiny portion of it.

After a wonderful, yet short refresh in Auburn, we were out again, looking to catch Rob and Larry at the Highway 49 crossing, which was 93.5 miles into the race. We took the shuttle to this point and plopped our camping chairs (and our butts) down and stared a slightly listlessly into what was quickly becoming dawn. I had tried to predict Rob's arrival, thinking he could do a 20-25 minute pace, which would place him there at 6 AM.

But that 6 AM arrival was not to be, as we checked several times with the aid station volunteers that had access to the internet and website that tracked runner's progress. The only information we could get is that he had left green gate at around 12:40 AM. C'mon, we could have told you that. After getting to the point that we were their number one pests, they finally gave us a better answer, telling us that he had just left a check point that was 3 miles away. Again the worry drained out of Chris's face and was replaced by relief.

She felt even better as Rob trudged into the aid station with Larry anxiously power walking behind him. He was still moving forward and seemed to have enough in the tank to get through a little over a 10K albeit at a slow walker's pace. He had had enough of aid stations, I'm sure, and mimized his stay there.

We stood at the very last aid station, Robie point, which was 99 miles into the race. One memorable part about standing there, was seeing Tim Tweitmeier drive up and drop something off at the aid station. He was bouncing around, smiling and exchanging pleasantries with the volunteers. Didn't you just run this race? It sure didn't look like it. Apparently he came in at around 20:30, which had been around 9 hours ago. I guess he had recovered.

Rob came through, looking like a man who was ready to finish that last mile. It was his worst finish ever, but one nice thing about it was that his wife could walk that last mile with him. It gave her a new perspective on the race and I think she really appreciated it. Rob asked me how I was. "I'm doing just fine...how are you?", I replied, followed by no response. I guess it's a bit rhetorical at that point.

We let Rob take the final quarter mile lap around the Auburn high school track while we waited at the finish. He posed for the picture, coming in at around 29 hours. There were a few others that came in closely in front and behind him. We found out later that about a quarter of the field finished in the 29th hour, the last hour you could officially finish at.

Not only that, but nearly half of the 400 competitors had dropped out, incuding a couple men and woman who had finished top ten last year. 77 dropped at the 30 mile mark. Later on, I had heard that the race course had been modified to what it was originally and a lot of runners felt that was part of the problem. I had also heard John Medinger made some comment that too many runners were winning the coveted 24-hour silver buckle and they had to do something about that. I think the heat helped keep the numbers down as well.

The biggest trivial (or not so trivial) bit on the race is that the front runner collapsed, 30 feet from the finish line and was recovering in the hospital at the time of the awards cermony. He was the one being paced by Scott Jurek. Sadly he'd only become a foot note for the race, having been carried the last 30 feet to prevent him from going into a seizure, which disqualified him. What a terrible thing to happen to runner.

On a positive note, Tim Tweitmeier was presented a plaque with all 25 of his silver belt buckles, indicating he had done his 25 Western States in under 24 hours. He promptly announced that he would be retiring and looking forward to life as a volunteer for the race. I was just blown away by his accomplishment and the fact that he looked so fresh.

And that, my friends, was the Western States 100. God bless you if you were able to get through all of this post which got completely out of control. For those of you who fell asleep, wakey wakey, eggs and bakey. Would I ever do this race? No way. I'm completely challenged by marathons and 50K's. Those who can complete this race are either not challenged by those distances through wonderful genetic dispotions to distance running or are completely out of their minds or perhaps have not found alcohol or Jesus in their life. I had a lot of fun experiencing what this race was all about, but that's as far as I want to go.

The End.