MCRRC
Greenway Trail
Marathon
March 1, 2008
Damascus, MD

Runner Report

Madness March by Lyman Jordan

March.  The word, unattached to anything, typically inspires thoughts of early spring, warming weather, strong breezes, college hoops playoffs, maybe John Phillips Sousa music.  OK, maybe not Sousa if you’re not a musician.  This year, it conjures thoughts of the new change to daylight savings time.  “March” wouldn’t bring thoughts of a marathon or 50K race for most of us.  But march it was for many of us in the March 3rd, 2007 MCRRC Greenway Marathon and 50K races, at least across large portions of the first 13 miles or so. 

I regard running this “race” with a weird mixture of dissatisfaction with my performance and with parts of the course, yet with an odd sense of pride at having finished.  As I think back to this challenging day, certain impressions dominate my memory.  Here’s how they unfold.

These concurrent MCRRC events the Marathon and 50K, beautifully conducted by Trail Guru Ed Schultze and Company, begin early on a cold Saturday morning with the unfortunate course condition of ice over most of the first half of the marathon.  Above-freezing days the week before the race do little to dissipate the thick, hard trail coating in a stream valley that receives little sunlight.  Rain a few days before and the nighttime freezes ensure long stretches of path covered in a thick, smooth glaze.  As the race leaves the road at the start and enters the trail in Damascus Regional Park, I see where here and there a little sun finds its way to the path.  In these places, week-old footsteps in the snow have become packed down, re-frozen slush, slick and craggy as a D.C. lobbyist.

As I slide up and down the first section of our beautiful, wintry, Greenway Trail, moving sideways more than forward, I realize that I am instinctively looking for the fall line – as though I were skiing.  I run – fall - down this path of least resistance to avoid skidding sideways, scout the best tree at the edge of the path, or any tree completely off the path which will, once grabbed, discontinue my out-of-control motion, and I just bang into it.  All around me, “runners” are doing the same.  Then, it’s shuffle down a little level stretch, and get ready to find some way up the next small rise.  I find one way to progress is to grab small trees on the side and pull myself up.  Another way, seemingly a little more effective, is to bushwhack.  Yep, just run parallel to the trail, where the ice on top of the snow is thinner.  My feet sometimes crash through the ice, sometimes slide, but there are more trees, stumps, logs, and branches here within easy reach to stop the slide – as there are thorn bushes which offer their unwelcome help by digging into my legs.

About 2 miles into this dubious adventure, as I look down at my feet slipping apart sideways on either side of the camber on a short nearly-level trail section, I am amazed to hear a gaggle of chatting competitors approach and chug by confidently.  Their smug tone, Cheshire cat smiles, and kicked-up spray of ice particles can no doubt be accounted for by their YakTraks, firmly bound to their running shoes with heavy straps.  I look down at my bowling-shoe-tread road running shoes and wonder why I am still here.  In my embarrassment, I suspect I am a subject of one of their shared chuckles.  Perhaps the source of entertainment was their passing motion pulling me into a pirouette that Barishnikoff would be proud of.  Later I learn that Monika Bachmann, two-time winner of this marathon, leaves the trail at the first road crossing, near this spot, removes her bib number, and puts in a long training run on the roads.  Smart lady.

An hour more of this, and I crest a small, glassy hill, wondering how and why the race organization was able to get a Zamboni so far out in the woods.  A runner in front of me slides down the slick side hill on his side towards Seneca Creek, which, incidentally, is running faster than any competitor I have seen all morning.  Just before going airborne over the embankment and into the drink, he grabs a small tree at the edge and hangs on.  I hear later that another runner misses the little tree here and takes the plunge.  Most slide down on their butts, a few inches at a time.

On we trudge.  Runners wearing trail shoes get a little bite where the ice is broken up, but progress at jogging pace.  My “fall line” strategy is keeping me on my feet, though I start feeling like a giant human pinball in some perverted engineering collaboration between John Muir, Hieronymus Bosch and Rube Goldberg.  I decide to pass the time with some music – in my head – so what should come to mind?  Waldteufel’s “Skater’s Waltz”.  The ¾ meter is somehow appropriate to my spaz dance over the frozen crust.  If I could only keep my footsteps up to tempo.  I decide that I now hate Sideways more than any unrepentant merlot-quaffer.  (Q: How does one train for this?  A:  Experience a Grand Mal seizure).

I get to learn some new techniques I would have never though of on dry land:

• The “step-whiz”:  for some stretches, a dry strip of ground a few inches wide parallels the ice trail.  There is just enough width to put my right foot down in the dirt here and get some running traction.  The left foot remains on the ice.  Step, whizzz; step, whizzz…
• The Balance beam toe-line:  in places, the thoughtful Park Service has placed large wooden beams on the side of the trail to prevent it completely washing into the stream.  Runners to a person elect to tiptoe across the narrow beams, one foot in front of the other.
• Balance beam step-whiz:  some stretches of the beams are partially covered with ice… you get the picture.

I bushwhack on, occasionally passing over the trail on my fall line tack.  I look for footsteps in the crust, where it is usually easier to break through.  I try to remember to look for trail markings and keep my balance.  Now I encounter something new to me – brown ice.  It’s like black ice.  It is a thin, transparent coating over dirt.  I did not know it existed until I found myself skating on bare dirt. I momentarily questioned my sanity until I inspected closely.  Not sure if this is worse than another new-to-me iteration of irritation I encountered later: a thin dusting of brown dirt covering a smooth, flat stretch of you know what.

Around mile 12, my right foot crashes through the ice covering the forest floor beside the path and lands in a small hole.  I’m moving semi-respectfully now, so I keep going.  Problem is, my foot is stuck and elects to stay where it is in the hole.  Not wanting to leave my foot behind in the hole, I wrench to a stop – I still have not fallen somehow – remove it, and resume my leaden slog, now with knee pain – no additional charge – at least until the doctor visit a few days later.

The cool, cloudy weather, as forecast, quickly gives way to bright sun, quickly-rising temperatures, and no breeze deep in the woods.  A beautiful day, but too warm for me.  I don’t believe in Hell, but I have plenty of time for my mind to wander as I watch every monotonous step.  I imagine for a minute that I am Satan, gleefully about to introduce the lost soul of Lyman Jordan to the Underworld by having him endure the most twisted, sick torture I can think of:  first, I entice him into a point-to-point trail marathon by describing the beautiful trail and perfect late winter weather.  I don’t tell him about the ice, so he wears his usual street shoes.  After I get him out on the ice, “running” his slowest pace ever, I cut off the breeze and jack up the temperature.  I laugh as the sinner spins and trips over mile after mile of frozen footing, surrounded by snow and ice, sweating profusely in the heat.  Hell on Ice.  Bwahahah.

Then they appear.  The signs.  Excuse me, the stupid signs, as the last of many to come self-admits.  Tofu.  A non-MCRRC runner near me asks “what the hell is that?”, pointing to a small sign stuck in the mud advertising “Tofu to come – mmm”.  I explain that I do not really know, but I suspect that a bored race volunteer with a clinically abnormal sense of humor is advertising the goodies to come at the Sugarland Aid station.  This station is MILES away still and soon we are on another sign advertising the fruit of the bean curd.  Tofu torture.

Now we’re in the mud – mud that I had been wishing for so fervently for nearly the entire first three hours of today’s slopathon.  Mud alternatively so slippery you travel backwards with every misplaced step, so thick and deep it stops you and abruptly stands you upright like a Bozo punching doll.

At 20 miles, runners around me are walking.  This should not be happening this soon in the race.  One runner asks me “how are you feeling?”  “Beat up by the ice”, I reply.  “Me too”, as he slogs by.  I grab small chunks of frozen slush from the side of the trail, brush off the leaves and mash them into my water bottle, where they quickly turn to cold water.  I chug this makeshift pastoral potable as fast as I can to cool down and hydrate.  50K runners start to pass as I head towards Berryville.  Inexplicably, one of the apparent leaders is dressed in black tights, black jacket, black gloves, and a red watch cap.  He seems comfortable as I drip sweat.  He is friendly, and we chat for the brief time I can keep up with him.  Same for a few other 50K runners who trudge by.  We try to shout words of encouragement to each other, and something slightly more audible than a mumble emerges from our mouths.  It doesn’t matter, we all get it.  The legendary trail runner etiquette and camaraderie are evident as I stand to the side when they eventually decide to pass, and they all manage a “thanks, good running”, “hang in there”, or something similar.  Then, there are no more.  22 miles or so, and no one around.  Not a sound except my breathing and faint chirps of Juncos in the trees.  It seems like hours pass with no company, no breeze, no aid.  Will Berryville ever come?  I would say it never did, except that I must have arrived at the aid station there.  I know because caffeinated soda, poured over my forest-harvested ice chunks, revives me enough to make it to the finish.

The finish – finally.  MCRRC stalwarts are everywhere, cheering me, congratulating me, slapping my back.  It is my slowest marathon by over 2 ½ hours.  I am momentarily overcome by unexpected emotion as so many kind volunteers make me feel like I just won the damn thing.  They hand me drinks, food, give me a moist towel to wipe off my mud-coated legs and tell me how great I did.  Takes a while for the lump in the throat to go away and for the eyes to dry out.  Darned running club, trying to embarrass me like that.  I love them all.

On the long trudge back to my car, I wonder if this race, flawlessly organized and supported as it was, should have been held today under these trail conditions.  Now, it is well known that a race day forecast of a hundred-year flood, golf-ball-sized hailstones, and an impending asteroid collision would not deter trail runners from starting any trail race and, most likely, not from finishing it were these things to actually occur.  These runners would just say “the course was tough, dude”.  But this ice, this was crazy.  It is just irresponsible to subject oneself to any hazard this dangerous.  Never again. 

Still, you know, it was amazing how well those YakTraks worked…