Saturday, April 7th, 2007

We traveled this morning. We took the four hour drive from Syracuse down to Elkdale. Tomorrow is Easter and we are making what I like to refer to as a quick "surgical strike": in-and-out. Eight hours of driving during a 36 hour period for a holiday meal with family. It isn't really a killer trip. Other people make more hard-core trips than this one. It's just that I know I’ll be spending more time in the car than I'd prefer to do on a weekend. Normally we drive down Friday evening and head back out Sunday afternoon. That's a little bit easier than the surgical strike that we are in the middle of.

In addition to the quick turn around on this trip, the other thing about this trip is that I get to miss out on one of two running opportunities: either the third Mountain Goat training run or the first training session of the 1st Marathon season. You see, I'm definitely running the Goat this year. I missed last year due to my little pubic bone injury. The family and I did, however, get to man a water stop. It was the last aid station on the course and I enjoyed it very much. My daughter even admits that she enjoyed it. That is if you manage to ask her when she has her guard down and isn't a teen aged girl with raging hormones racing through her veins. But, even though I did enjoy handing out water, it just isn't the same as running it and I really missed it last year. So, come hell or high water, I'm running it this year.

And as far as 1st Marathon is concerned, well, let's just say that I'm thinking about it. It is really a wonderful opportunity for me to train with a nationally ranked, Olympic-class marathon runner: Kevin Collins. This weekend was the first of three free sessions that he runs prior to embarking on the twenty week training program. And I'm very seriously considering becoming a customer. The timing works almost perfectly for the Wineglass in September which would lead straight into the Ridgewalk (in Wellsville), one month later, a day after my birthday. I'm thinking that I need a better marathon performance than my last two. The Wineglass was my first and you know what they say about your first. The Ridgewalk is a day after my birthday. Last year Evan and I did a brutally cold, long run in the freezing cold with wind chills in the single digits (or less). It was an incredible gift to myself, if I do say so myself. This year, for my birthday present to myself, I'm thinking Ridgewalk: 14 miles of the best trails and hills that Western New York has to offer. So, with all this good karma pointing to towards the fall, I'm thinking 1st Marathon would be a great fit.

With all this running stuff circling through my brain, I knew that I would be running Saturday after we arrived at the in-law's house. I'd really been looking forward to it in fact. And the reason is the rails to trails (another link here) conversion that cuts across my in-laws dairy farm. It as an awesome location for a run. Flat, level, relatively straight, trees, corn fields, beaver ponds and streams, all nestled in "God's country". This area isn't heaven, but you can see heaven from here. After a winter of running (and once falling) in the snow, on the roads, I was eagerly anticipating a run on the trail. In my image of this run, I only neglected on thing - Mother Nature. She's a wicked mistress, Mother Nature is. She decided to dump a pile of snow on this region. Did I mention that this is Easter weekend?

Not one to let a little snow keep me from my appointed rounds, I suit up with my winter gear and take off down the road. From my in-laws to the nearest trail head, it is about a mile run down the road. The roads are all in good shape. Due to the recent warm weather, snow isn't really sticking to the roads. Everything else is a mess but the shoulders are fine. As I get to the trail head and turn off of the road, I see that the snow isn't really too bad. I've run in much worse over the years. And knowing that I won't have to wade through knee-deep water (like I have on a recent off-road run with Evan), I'm not at all concerned about things. After all, it is a very beautiful sight as I head down the trail. The trees along the side are pretty well mature, with an over-hang that canopies much of this section. With all the thick, heavy snow that recently feel, the trees are covered. The trail is covered. The bushes on the side are covered. The hills and fields are all covered. As a matter of fact, it looks like a postcard. Or a Christmas card. Have I mentioned that it is Easter weekend?

The snow cover on the trail is about four to six inches deep, depending upon the amount of trees above. About a half mile from where I hook up with the trail, there is an old bridge over a creek. It is a black iron bridge with the super structure criss-crossing up into the air. The rails to trails conversion covered the surface of the bridge with wood planks and placed rails on the sides. I suppose the wind blowing under the bridge keeps the snow on the surface from melting and when I hit it, I'm in about twelve inches deep. That will slow you down some. Even when you're not running fast, that will slow you down. Even with the extra snow cover, I really enjoy the experience. I feel like a Clydesdale in a Budweiser commercial for the holidays. I try to take in some of the scenery but when I do, I kind of stumble a bit on the uneven terrain. I decide that I need to concentrate more on my foot placement. As the snow is freshly fallen, each step creates a crunching noise as the pressure of my feet compresses the heavy, wet snow. Occasionally, I also hit a thin sheet of ice on top of a pool of water. Breaking through the ice is another crunchy sound as I lope down the trail. That’s a cool sound to listen to. Two feet, two different types of crunching.

About a half mile past the bridge, I come to the spot where the trail crosses my in-laws farm. The trail is above a meandering creek that flows in from the other side of the valley, flirts with the side slope upon which the trail is perched and then heads off into the brush and down the valley to the mighty Allegheny River. A dirt road comes up out from between the farm buildings, cuts across the creek, climbs up the slope, across the trail and out into the fields. Up past the fields, further up the side of the hill, is “The Sugar Shack”. Back when my wife was a kid, they collected sap and boiled it down in that shack. Later, when I came along, the shack had already become a vacation destination of some legend. We would convert an old hay wagon into a temporary RV by placing wood planks across from one side to the other, load it up with blankets, junk food and people. With a tractor, we would haul it out behind the barns, down the dirt road, across the creek, over the tracks (after checking to make sure that no trains were coming) and up to the shack. A large fire burned all night as we cooked hot dogs and s'mores, ate chips, drank pop, told scary stories, lit fireworks off and peed in the woods.

I only know the above mentioned distances because I've covered that portion of the trail so many times. I've covered many other sections as well, but since I've been on that section so frequently, the distances are finally starting to sink in. I am wearing my GPS, but I only glance at it occasionally as I'm still not sure how long I'm going to run today. I've had several runs this week that were over 7 miles, so I know I would like to do at least that much. I also know that I'm missing a Goat training run but I don't know how long that was scheduled to be. Based on last week, I suspect that this week's training run will be about 8 miles. And, so, shortly after the section that runs below The Sugar Shack, I decide that I might just as well do 10 miles. I haven't been up into the double digits since earlier in the year. Shortly after the last 10 mile run, my hip had a shooting pain, well, shooting through it. So I took some time off and cut back on the miles. But things have been feeling great the last couple of months, so I figure that 10 miles today sounds great. Plus, on the softer surface, my body feels like 10 will be fine. Plus, I am just having way too much fun to do anything less.

Once I decided that I'll head out 5 miles before turning around, I check my GPS only occasionally to see how things are going. I continue on the trail as goes behind the back of the state barns, through the pines and then further on up the trail to the horse camp before coming to the first road crossing on this section of the trail. After crossing the road (route 353, to be exact), the trail is pretty much in the middle of the village of Little Valley. Down to the side of the trail is a business that is owned by a man that I know. I look down into the back of the property and the building to see if I can see him and/or his sons working on their race cars. Which brings up an interesting thought: Even though I cherish the solo long runs, for some reason, during my runs, I also look forward to stumbling upon people that I know. I find myself with these thoughts frequently when I run. I haven't yet been able to put my finger on it. Is it basic human nature to simultaneously desire both solitude and companionship? Or is it that I simply want people to see me to more fully appreciate my insanity? If they see me and then later bring it up in a social setting, do I get some perverse pleasure out of their reaction to my long runs? And how is that all related to the enjoyment of sharing regular runs with my friends at work? Inquiring minds want to know these things.

I hit the 5 mile mark in the heart of the village and turn around and head back down the trail in the direction from which I just came from. On the way out, during the first half of the run, I stayed pretty consistently on one side of the trail and now, on the way back, I stay in the path I had made in the snow. As I look around the village (or more accurately, the back of the homes and businesses that make up the village) I quickly am reminded that I need to concentrate on my foot placement. Even with staying on my previously cut path, it requires me to think about my running slightly more than if I were running on the road.

I do think about how the train tracks (and I imagine the canals as well, in other parts of the state) cut through the villages. Or, maybe more accurately, how this village (as well as many others) grew up against the tracks. The tracks cut a different swath through a community than do the roads and streets. I suspect that it may not have always been this way. Maybe, back in the day, the best parts of the community faced the tracks. But that isn't the case today. Today, a community faces up to the roads. Train tracks expose the "under belly" of a town. The trash is out back, up against the tracks. The landscaped lawns are out front; the landscaping debris is piled up out back against the tracks. And this is a small village. Real small. I can't imagine similar rails to trails conversion cutting through a big city. Number one: it may not be too safe. Number two: it may be a little less than pretty back there.

Shortly, I find myself back at the road crossing and up against the side slope of the hill, heading back out of the village. As the miles pile up, I'm thinking about the wildlife that is probably keeping an eye on me as I cut through their dinner table. I know that they know that I'm here. The "intruder alarm of the wild" is going off nearly the entire length of the trail. Birds. They're sounding off their alarms, flying up unseen from the brush into the air above the trail and the fields. I enjoy listening to them and watching them as I think about how they are not performing for my benefit. They are doing their jobs without even knowing it; they are alerting all nearby wildlife of my intrusion. I'm sure a wolf, coyote or coy dog has his eyes on me at times. But nothing makes itself known to me. They stay hidden from my view. Maybe my smell is gross enough that they don't consider me a potential meal. Maybe my size makes me a threat to them. Maybe they are simply staying out of the weather. I don't know the reason why I don't see any of them. But what ever it is, I'll take it. I don't really want to see a wolf watching me on a run. I do have my pepper spray in my pocket but I really don't want to try it out on a desperate wolf this morning.

I feel myself getting fatigued as I get up somewhere near the eight or nine mile distance. I resist looking at my GPS because, well, it would do no good at this point. There are no short cuts. I can’t, nor would I, bail out. I'm heading back and that's that. However, with the realization of the fatigue, comes the reminder that I need to focus on my running again. I really can't afford to slip. Falling wouldn't be fun. Neither would be a strained pubic area. And before I know it, I'm back on the curve on the trail just below the Sugar Shack, above the creek and behind the farm. Getting to this point of the run and feeling like I do is a great accomplishment and I pick up a second wind.

At this point, I know I'm home free: two miles left, one in the snow on the trail and one on the road. If I can hit the road with something left in the tank, I can kick in the final mile on the harder surface but consistently smooth shoulder of the road. And that's what I do. At this point I'm soaked. I'm chilled. Trucks are going by too closely. I alter my course and go way over onto the dirt off of the shoulder of the road when any vehicle approaches. The wind is blowing white-out conditions off the fields and across my face and into the road. My nose is dripping snot down my upper lip and into my mouth. I'm breathing hard through my mouth. Spit, snot and who-knows-what-else is spraying out from my mouth with every deep exhale as I try to dig deeper. My lungs don't hurt but the feel full, like they are over inflating just a bit. My ears feel like they are just a few more gusts of wind away from being frozen solid. My legs feel like they forgot how to run on a solid surface. My thighs are quivering (wow, I can’t believe that I just typed that sentence.) My arms feel like they are pumping at twice the rate of my legs. I can see straight down the road for one mile. But I’m not making any progress. So I try to dig deeper and run faster. And finally all the extra effort starts to pay off as I feel like I’m getting near the finish. I round the final bend in the road, cross the bridge over the creek and come to a stop in the barn yard, across the road from the house. Chest heaving. Sweat dripping despite the bitter wind chill cutting through my soaked running clothes.

I'm done. I've done it. I've run my run. I've beaten the elements. I’ve conquered my own misgivings, concerns and fears.

Again.

I just can't wait for tomorrow.