The very long version:
Laban told Isaac’s son, Jacob, to make his terms.
“What’ll ya do in exchange for my Rachel?” Jacob promised seven
years in service to Laban for Rachel. She was that lovely. Shined like maybe a
silver buckle might shine. Probably more even. Still, make a deal with Laban,
and you better dot your I’s and cross your T’s.
Down to just a couple of minutes now and I’m
looking around at my brother and Bill, and we’ve used up all our nervous
chit-chat and I tell you it’s time to go. Time to get up the first mountain.
We’re starting at 6,200’ and going up even from there. It’s
dark, and in spite of a forecast calling for triple digits later in the day, we’ll
shortly be traipsing across snow at 8,750’. I want it behind me, perhaps
need it so. I need the whole of the high country at my back, now I think of it.
I don’t race well on unfamiliar ground, and my head is throbbing with evidence
I’ll do poorly at this altitude. Unlike so many runners here at Squaw Valley
this dark morning, I can’t wait for the canyons—they’ve got
actual oxygen in them, even if it is a superheated, combustible thing. But we
do have the start to get on with. My brother is a proud man, but in a discreet
and quiet way—prefers the thing done to the thing talked about—silently
thumbing his nose at ostentation. The Western States Endurance Run is an event
fully aware of its place in the pantheon of endurance events, and he was never
too keen on running it for that reason. Being a fan of the smaller, lower-profile
races, he said something mildly scornful about a race vain enough to commence
with a starter’s pistol in lieu of the less formal, “Is Joe back from
the bathroom? He is? Okay, go.” I see no starter’s pistol, but I do
see Dr. Bob Lind over there with a shotgun. I figure there’s two, maybe
three reasons for that. Gets us going in the first place. Probably they want to
wake up the bears also. But really, I bet Dr. Bob Lind just enjoys pulling the
trigger of a shotgun and seeing 399 fools head off up a mountain in the dark because
of it. Hell, I would.
We got up that mountain, bumped our heads
on the sky it seemed. My brother’s not a sentimental guy. More of a gruff,
shaves with broken glass and wipes his hands on nearby cats kind of guy. Not the
guy to stop and admire sunrise on the Sierra, but that’s just what he did.
He looked not so much smitten, but definitely invested. We slid down snow banks,
did some more climbing, did some more slipping, did some dancing in streams and
bogs, surrendered to entirely wet feet, and got to generally wanting that change
of shoes and socks waiting for us 20 some odd miles hence. We climbed through
Duncan Canyon, finally reopened after five years. It’s rough, new cut trail,
and exposed. The dirt itself seemed to still simmer with the heat from the fire
which destroyed the area in 2001. Estimates were that the reintroduction of this
section would add 30 minutes to everyone’s race. I struggled a bit with
the thin air, but the heat had not put a dent into us yet. I’m not any quicker
than anyone else in the heat. I just don’t mind it as much. In the summer
months, a lot of my mid-week mileage is in 90+F. Brother didn’t have to
run in the heat to prepare, he just had to go to work—he’s a fireman.
I drank a lot, ate a lot, felt a little on the full side. Not comfortable, really,
but kept going. Sometimes well, sometimes not so well. I forget which aid station
it was, but just before one of the early ones, we passed a volunteer on the side
of the trail. He’d been checking the temperature for posterity’s sake,
announcing it to all concerned: 95F. Not even 11:00 am yet.
Arriving at Robinson Flat (mile 29.7) in unison,
Brother and I handed off our Camelbaks to two volunteers, and as they went to
fill them, we weighed in (171, down two pounds), grabbed two chairs and sat down
to change shoes. Missus leaned over from behind the yellow tape and told me Young
Master O’Connor had bumped his head. Thinking she wouldn’t have mentioned
this if there wasn’t some caveat to it, I asked if he was okay. “Well,
yes and no.” Turns out, the young man had a nasty lump, but had been declared
fit for service. For the time being, however, he was displaying some odd behavior.
Somewhat afraid of the answer, I timidly asked her what kind of behavior, exactly.
“Well, as near as we can tell, he thinks he’s that angry chef guy
from that angry chef show. You know, whatsisname.” Someone next to her volunteered
that it was Gordon Ramsay. Someone else offered that, no no no, it was the Iron
Chef. “Can’t be. Iron Chef is Japanese.” That prompted an argument
about the word, “oeuf,” which a delusional Young Master O’Connor
had mentioned and which is apparently French for egg, and if it was ever something
a Japanese chef might say, it was probably only just after dropping a big can
of beans on his Japanese foot or some such. The question was asked whether or
not Ramsay wasn’t one of those pretentious bastards inclined to ponce about
with a French word when an American one would do. I guessed the implication there
was that Ramsay’d be more likely to use French for egg than would the Iron
Chef, who might just point at any particular egg with one of those swords, his
intention thus mortally obvious. It seemed to hardly settle the matter, at any
rate, as several others joined in the discussion about which chef currently possessed
the body of my ten-year-old son. While they argued, I heard a commotion over by
one of the aid tables. A small, familiar voice over there was loudly demanding
to know how he was expected to work in such-and-such conditions and with these
simpletons as assistants; shouted something more about rank amateurs, about paper
plates and pine needles, then still something else about cilantro and not basil,
you wankers. That’s when I knew it was Ramsay. I looked over at Missus and
she nodded in the direction of the commotion. “He’s preparing omelets.”
“With what, exactly?” I asked.
“Near as I can tell, GU and watermelon slices.” Ramsay’s uncle
looked at me and said, “You know, I am pretty hungry.” We
finished changing our gear just as a volunteer came over with our Camelbaks. I
gave my wife a kiss and apologized in advance for the very long day she was going
to have with the hypertensive young chef. “Something 14 carat, and if you
go over 24 hours, you can throw in a trip to Paris.” was all she said. Well,
that and, “You ass.”
Off Brother and I went, with me not realizing
that in the commotion, I’d forgotten to grease up my feet. This turned out
to be an oversight of some consequence. We tumbled on down the trail, my brother
carrying a curious looking omelet on a paper plate, eating as we went. It looked
like there were pieces of bark sticking out of it. “You know, it’s
not half bad, really,” was his only comment for the next five miles. We
noodled around another summit of sorts, descending on the barren side of Little
Bald Mountain, making our way down to Miller’s Defeat. The mercury’s
up but good now. Passing through there in a rhythm, we landed in Dusty Corners
(mile 38) in search of the foot fixer. Brother’s feet had taken a turn for
the worse, and most aid stations had on hand, if not an actual podiatrist, then
someone familiar with all manner of foot mange. I waited as they tended his feet,
and he ran like a new man as we left. On to Last Chance (mile 43.3.) Finally,
we were on familiar ground. For the next 60 miles, I could mentally break the
sections down into training runs. Shortly before the aid station, I could feel
a familiar sting in my feet. No sooner than my brother’s feet were fixed
did I need my own repaired. At Last Chance, I weighed in (172.5, recovered all
but a half pound of my starting weight), and sat down to get my feet fixed. “Hello,
Mr. O’Connor,” came a familiar voice. Looked to my left and there
sat my friend, John, recovering from retching half his body weight onto the trail.
It’s a bad day, I think, when I catch John. He’s one of the local
studs. “Tell me you didn’t have one of the omelets at Robinson, man.
Just tell me that.” Seeing him there, I realized the day was something of
a crapshoot. I was hoping he’d regroup by the time we were ready to go.
He’s a smart guy, got a wicked dry sense of humor, and he’d make for
premium company in the canyons. He needed a few more minutes after we’d
left, somehow wrestled his way to Devil’s Thumb before conceding the day
had got him.
Brother and I left Last Chance feeling good
as we tipped ourselves down the throat of the furnace. We’d entered the
canyons. The dirt here is just the accreted dust of so many ancient miners’
bones. This place has a weight to it, a gravity all its own. It was hereabouts
the Donner Party was waylaid trying to get across the Sierra in a blizzard, rather
famously running out of even GU omelets before finally reconsidering the word,
“omnivore.” We’re behind the 24-hour pace, but hoping to get
back inside it, sweaty alchemists trying to convert a bronze sub-30-hour buckle
into a silver sub-24-hour one. We set our jaws tight, hammered the first downhill
section. Owned it, really. Said, “Who’s yer daddy?” to it outloud
and with hot blood. Got down to the river and started up Devil’s Thumb.
For comparison, consider the famous L’Alpe D’Huez of the Tour de France:
it climbs 3,600’ in nine miles. At 1,400’, Devil’s Thumb is
less than half that, but it does it in about a mile and a half. It forgives nothing,
overlooks no weakness. Depending on how you count ‘em, there are as many
as 36 switchbacks. It comes in the heat of the day for most people. I’ve
been up it in 45 minutes. I’ve been up it in 35. I gave myself an hour on
race day, wanting to crest it with something left in the tank. I did not. It took
me 75 minutes to get to the top. I’ve slept faster than I made that climb.
It kicked my tail. Brother got up four minutes quicker, looked fresh as a daisy
at the top, and somewhat annoyed by the fact that there was a volunteer assigned
to him, positively hovering around his every move. Those folks are awesome.
We stayed only long enough for me to look
around and see the carnage of the day thus far: Bodies crashed on cots, heads
hung in dejected defeat, vacant stares. History will remember these as victims
of an exceptionally hot year. I know otherwise. This is the work of a ten-year-old
making omelets out of GU and ingredients which should not ever be mixed with GU,
which is itself, Genghis Khan rendered as paste. I learned later he’d also
added to the menu something called a “Gufflé,” the recipe for
which I have included here so that readers will learn to recognize it should it
attack them from the pages of some cookbook:
“A Classic Aid Station Souffle, flavored
lightly with things on hand.”
1/2 cup powdered energy drink mix
2 tsp baking powder if they have it, if not, just grab something the same color
1 cup melted jelly beans
4 packets of coffee-flavored GU
miscellaneous items from aid station bowls (pretzels, watermelon slices, candied
oranges, peanuts, boiled potatoes, etc.)
Preheat nearby rock to 375F
Beat GU, adding powdered energy drink mix and baking powder slowly to make roux
(foamy and frothy), turning slowly with a spatula. Slowly add the jelly beans
and miscellany, turning with a spatula. Grease a souffle dish with vaseline/bag
balm. Bake on rock at 375F for 30 minutes. Serve.
Intoxicating at first, obviously, but a gastrointestinal
apocalypse when the body gets to finally consider the components. There is some
argument between Jewish scholars whether the ancient mitzvot making up what we
know as the kosher laws are beyond human understanding, instituted to instill
obedience, or had some practical purpose in ancient times to protect folks from
eating unsafe food—kind of an Old Testament FDA, if you will. Poll any of
the near-corpses at Devil’s Thumb—those lucky enough to survive their
ordeal—and I’m sure they’ll insist the answer is no mystery;
so obvious in fact, that even asking the question borders on unendurable insult.
There are some dishes which no matter how captivating they may seem at first,
are inherently unholy.
We left. The next section was a lot of down.
In training, I’d always found this stretch to be highly runnable and we
approached it thinking it was an opportunity to regain time lost on the Thumb.
For about a mile, that seemed likely, but then the wheels came off my wagon properly.
My head gasket blew. I threw a rod. The transmission lay in pieces scattered over
some 200 yards behind me. I actually stopped and sat on a rock for a moment, hopeless
and bleak. I had no spark. Even motionless, I could feel my heart fluttering in
an alarming way. I managed to get up and continue on a kind of autopilot, a Gallowalking
death march. I was aware I had new blisters on both heels, but they weren’t
really bothering me much until a few hundred yards from the aid station at the
bottom of the canyon, when I felt a nauseating rip on a sharp footstrike. It’s
a strange thing to know as I did, but I could actually feel the thick, calloused
skin of my heel tear from one side of my foot, all the way to the other side.
It changed things. I limped into the aid station, sat down and with an unspoken
exchange, Brother and I agreed to finally separate. He’d go up Michigan
Bluff by himself. I’d sit here and try and collect myself. While I was worried
about my feet, the aid station folks were worried about my color. I was wrapped
in a cold wet towel to bring my temperature down. I was ordered to sit, cool off
and eat. After a few minutes, the foot fixer looked at my feet and told me he’d
do a quick patch job to get me up to Michigan Bluff, two-and-a-half miles and
2,000’ up the trail.
Sporting half a jar of vaseline on my feet,
I slid out of the aid station at El Dorado Creek and began the climb to Michigan
Bluff. It’s a dull and seemingly endless thing. What sucks about it is that
it’s borderline runnable, tempting you to kill yourself on it when you really
ought to be preserving yourself for the next 45 miles. About 10 minutes up the
trail, a guy turns to me and points to my right, “See that?” says
he. “What?” says me. “That!” About 10-15 feet to my right
is a bear cub, looking mildly distressed. The guy ahead of me thinks it’s
cute. I think it’s a bear cub looking distressed and I’m deeply concerned
about what I don’t see, which is mama bear. “We should go now,”
says me. I have a highly developed fear of bears. Finely tuned, you might say.
Under the best of circumstances, I can string out my death-by-bear a good 30-40
seconds, but here’s me, all blistered and 50 hard-miled and generally in
poor condition, morbid and morose. I give me about five seconds with a tired bear,
no seconds at all with a fresh one. Let us perhaps away up the hill, you bear
cub admirer man.
A few hundred yards out of Michigan Bluff,
I see my brother coming back the other way. He’d had his feet patched up
again and had come down to bring me in. What he said to me was this, “We
need to be careful in Michigan Bluff.” “Young Master O’Connor?”
says I, and he nods back. He filled me in as we made the approach to the aid station:
The Angry Chef Gordon Ramsay had dwelt in my son’s brain for most of the
day, lingered long enough and with enough ferocity that several race volunteers
found themselves piling into a car and heading into Foresthill with orders to
get some sea bass, and not any of that canned crap either. The aid station captain
was livid. The people from Zagat Survey were on their way to rate the aid station
and he thought fish a poor choice, expected the greatest effect from something
like Beef Clif Bar Satés with Peanut Sauce, but Young Master O’Connor
insisted on his old stand-by, “Sea Bass Marinated in Mountain Dew, Served
on Braised Nearly-Stale Pretzels and Garnished with Half a Payday Candy Bar.”
By the time the people from Zagat had got there though, his curious malady took
a turn, and Gordon Ramsay took flight, leaving my hapless son to improvise with
some baked Clif Bar dusted lightly with trail scree. The people from Zagat tried
to arrest him for unlawful use of a cooking utensil, but by then he’d already
been fully possessed by yet another personality, and slipped away. As we shuffled
slowly past spectators, my brother described having earlier seen what looked like
my son racing by, bare-chested, a sweatshirt wrapped around his waist, kind of
in the manner of a kilt. His face had been painted blue and at the very top of
his lungs, he was shouting something about a free Scotland. Still more startling
was the horde of similarly attired youngsters racing behind him in an apparent
skirmish line. One of the spectators commented that it was nice to see so young
a man leading capably, re-enacting Guy Fawkes’ famous attempt on King James’
life. The woman I guessed to be his wife cuffed his head, called him idiot, called
him fool, said he wouldn’t know Guy Fawkes if the man crawled up his ass
and died there (again, as it were), said it was obviously a restaging of Pickett’s
Charge at Antietem. Someone nearby said, “Gettysburg,” and the woman
said, “What?” and that nearby guy said back again, “Gettysburg,”
and then added, “Pickett’s Charge was at Gettysburg, not Antietem.”
Then that woman hit that guy, and also her husband again, apparently because it
was in her nature to do this from time to time. My brother said back at them that
the key to my son’s identity was in the speech he made to rally his troops.
He’d referred to the Zagat people as “Longshanks,” and that
and the blue paint and the kilt and the freeing of Michigan Bluff/Scotland narrowed
it all down rather handily. “How’s he doing?” I asked my brother.
“Pretty well, I think. Looked like he’d flanked the Zagat people and
it was probably just a matter of time before they asked for terms.”
Jacob’s seven years ended and he must have been
nervous or seven-years’ tired or something, on account of he didn’t
notice he married the older sister, Leah, when he thought he was marrying his
Rachel. That Laban was an oily character and on a technicality, swindled Jacob.
I’ve looked and I can’t see where anybody asked Rachel or Leah about
any of this. Anyway, the swindling thing was mentioned a bit to Laban at breakfast.
That Laban said he’d give up his Rachel if Jacob’d give him another
seven years. Jacob agreed. Jacob’d be awful tired at the end of all this.
I slipped into Michigan Bluff, fully intending
to drop out of the race. I’d started the day, ready to spend just so much
of myself, and when that was done, I’d have my buckle. I’d spent that
much and then some, and now I wanted my prize. Gimme my buckle. Here, at mile
55.7. It’s okay, I’ve declared myself due. And not one of those bronze
ones either. Silver. With diamonds even. Swindled, it turns out. I had to go all
the way to Auburn for my buckle. Bastards. People were dropping from this race
like flies and my feet were no longer anatomically correct. Weighing in, I learned
that after more or less maintaining my body weight for 48 miles, I’d lost
four pounds in seven miles. Brother had anticipated my mood and prepared my family,
sans the young William Wallace, to dote on me for all of five minutes and then
kick me out of the aid station, cajole me into heading out again, “Just
for six more miles, honey. Honest, you can quit there.” I had fresh coffee.
I had a hamburger. I had an Ensure. I had a saint of a man lancing this and that
and applying all manner of ointments, salves, balms, bandages, duct tape, etc.
to both feet, put fresh socks on and squeeze my swollen paddles back into my shoes,
even having to endure a kick in the chin as my right foot snapped into place with
a spasm. Before I knew it, Brother and I were headed to the one place on earth
I did not want to be: the trail to Foresthill. You bastard! I thought. He smiled
quietly to his sadistic self, proud he’d managed to hoodwink me into six
more miles at least…that is, until he saw my best approximation of a forward
gait. We weren’t twenty feet down the trail and he looked down and said,
“You gotta go back and drop.” Naturally, I began to run to Foresthill.
My brother thought he’d goaded me into it with the suggestion to drop, soon
realized I was trying to get clear of a volley from my son’s archers.
The trail between Michigan Bluff and Foresthill
has two long climbs, but somehow I managed to recover again and actually pick
up steam. I was back in the game by the time we hit pavement at Bath Road and
after a quick hike to the top of a long hill, startled my brother with a hard
pace. “You’ve got happy feet” was what he said as we raced down
to Foresthill, a major way station at mile 62, where we’d pick up our pacer,
Steve. We got a cheer from Sarah, who’d learned I was wobbling at Michigan
Bluff and had come out to kill me if I did not exit Foresthill à pied,
and from her sister, Elizabeth, waiting to pace Bill in the last 38 miles. “Dad,
I’m leaving with Mütti and Pa,” said a tired and altogether-himself-again
Young Master O’Connor. Little Miss O’Connor handed her uncle and me
a fresh cup of coffee and in keeping with her policy of no smooches on Dad’s
stinky head after 30 miles, shook my hand and departed. I checked in with Steve
and Missus and Lori, my brother’s wife, as Brother had his feet worked on
again. Thanks to his Blackberry, Steve was apprised of our “progress”
and had some sense of when we’d be arriving in his hometown of Foresthill.
Whereas he’d originally planned on pacing just me, he got the two-for-one
deal they were having on O’Connors this day. Without comment, he accepted
the full freight of the Brothers Dusty.
“All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard
masks. But in each event—in the living act, the undoubted deed—there,
some unknown but still reasoning thing puts forth the mouldings of its features
from behind the unreasoning mask.”
—Moby Dick
And here really, is the moment I’ve been
waiting for; the reason 100 miles holds such appeal for me. It actually has very
little to do with running. You pound out hour after hour under the sun, each mile
like a small, poison sting adding to a toxic reservoir slowly building to critical
mass, when it paradoxically reaches a therapeutic level. The magic thing I’ve
been waiting for happens: Nightfall. All around us, California winds down its
circadian gears, and as we push deeper into the night, it settles in, unremarkable
and ordinary mostways, but on this night, a fatigued mind can reach down to find
the tear in the seam of its soft sheet—the elysian rip through which all
precious things eventually slip, and with which the 100-mile runner is granted
a brief visit. I don’t need to list here how I spent that gift, just that
it was spent well and completely.
I came alive again when it went dark. The burst
of energy I had in approaching Foresthill stayed with me for miles yet. But even
as my legs faded again, my mind seemed engaged. I felt animated. We weren’t
about to outrun the short reach of our headlamps, but the three of us managed
a workman-like pace, and jabbered away the hours. At points, the reality of the
condition of our feet forced the Brother and me to a very slow shuffle. At others,
we’d get going at a fair clip. Running came and went like a bizarre tide.
We’d move along like that for an hour or so and suddenly out of the pitch
black wilderness, Christmas lights and happy sounds would announce an aid station
was imminent. It’s 16 miles between Foresthill and the river crossing at
Rucky Chucky at mile 78. I don’t think there’s a more apt description
of it than my friend Bill gave, both in context and in accuracy: arriving at the
river crossing was like a scene from Apocalypse Now. It seemed a small,
manic city had sprung up in the middle of Kurtz’s dark river. Runners could
not wade across this year, were ferried across, four or so at a time. As we stood
on a narrow plank at the river’s edge, waiting our turn, I started to pitch
back and forth, dizzy. There was nowhere to sit. I saw the guy counting heads
to go across and felt under my tongue for the coin I half expected to be there.
Seeing this, he became irate. He said something about too much Greek crap already
and something else about not being named Charon, but actually Todd, pointed to
the river and called it American not Acheron, then his helper said something about
me mixing my tenses, and then things got ugly. Someone from up the riverbank yelled
down that the mixing tenses was bad, yes, but not so bad as the mixed metaphors—hadn’t
I been working some cute little Old Testament angle for the last 78 miles? Wouldn’t
Moses and the Red Sea be more appropriate? I said Moses came some time later than
Jacob, really, but then I got told to shut my pie hole. Then the boat guy started
up again, mostly just talking to himself, grumbling about having already ferried
over two Persephones and three Orpheuses in the last hour as it was and he was
just up to here with the Greek mythology and couldn’t ever a damned one
of us just be a regular runner in a regular race? The guy up the bank added that
Orpheus and Persephone or any of them others never did wear big floaty orange
life vests on their journey either, thereby challenging our legitimacy as myth-bearers.
I got told to get my wobbling, bony ass on the boat already. And with that, we
were ferried across to the aid station, where another change of shoes waited.
Brother had his feet fixed again. Past fixing, I just added another layer of duct
tape to mine. Steve and I had some soup as we waited for Brother, and then we
were off again. We’d slowed considerably at this point. I had no idea what
time it was, save that it was a few hours yet before we’d see the sun again.
We made it to the next aid station, saw the wives, had pictures taken, moved on.
The wives had another five or so hours before they’d see us again, so they
planned to sleep in the back of the truck for a bit. We carried on, numb at this
point, but fixed on Auburn to the southwest, closer with every step.
Somewhere before mile 90, the sun came up
and we switched off our lights. The women were waiting for us at the highway crossing
at mile 93.5, where my brother’s wife would join us. She’s an accomplished
trail runner, rested and on fresh legs. My instructions were to go on ahead to
the finish and let him come in with Lori. In that twisted, foggy 90+ mile logic,
Brother’s actually concerned about pushing her too hard. He reasoned that
her legs are shorter and our curious pace might be in that uncomfortable zone
between a walk and a jog for her. I thought she’d manage a 10k quite a bit
better than the three of us at this point, and I tried to say something to this
affect, but after a long day and night in sadistic temperatures, my brain was
baked. What I tried to say was, “She’ll be fine, Brian.” What
came out was probably, “Mashed potatoes are poison to cattle on Tuesday.”
He nodded agreement. Shortly after Lori joined us, we separated for the final
miles. Crossing No Hands bridge at 96.6 miles, it began heating up. Steve and
I have one last ugly climb to make and we wrestled through it, pass the final
checkpoint at Robie Pt., hit the pavement and move up the hill to where the final
mile waits for us.
…All that most maddens and torments; all that
stirs up the lees of things; all truth with malice in it; all that cracks the
sinews and cakes the brain; all the subtle demonisms of life and thought; all
evil, to crazy Ahab, were visibly personified, and made practically assailable
in Moby Dick. He piled upon the whale's white hump the sum of all the general
rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if his chest
had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart's shell upon it.”
—Moby Dick
Damn the disappointment, wherever it is. We had one mission left
to us, me and Steve. As we were cresting the hill after Robie Point, I told him
I wanted to run. Not jog. Run. Steve grabbed the point, and hurtled off with me
tumbling behind his tracer’s arc with all the grace and malice of an unrifled
bullet. This was my anger mile. I missed my silver buckle. I missed my chance
to run a well-executed race. I had broken in the one place I had expected not
to—the canyons. I was not giving up this last raced mile. It started out
rough, well below pace, but aided by the downhill grade, we picked up steam, getting
faster and faster. Just before we entered the Placer High track, we startled a
spectator wandering across the street with the easy waltz of a person accustomed
to being avoided rather than avoiding, and she said something not altogether friendly
to our backs. We hit the track, still pressing. Rounded the track, still pressing.
Gasping yes, but now across the finish line. 27:58:38. Brother followed about
20 minutes later.
Laban ended up getting even a few more years out of
Jacob, but Jacob finished up there in Haran, left with the gals, only to find
Laban chasing after him, all angry and whatnot. Jacob got away, though. He got
away after all that.
Throughout the previous 28 hours, I’d periodically imagine
the finish line, wondering about the buckle I wanted versus the buckle I’d
earn. During Saturday’s daylight hours, the thing was about that buckle.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, it ceased to be a matter of a buckle. I
love ultra marathoning because it distills a person to some basic needs. Taxes
are a hard thing to worry about when you are having a religious epiphany about
a glass of cold water. And as magical as cold water can be—and I do believe
it is magical—it pales to insignificance next to the sight of the most beautiful
woman in the world, waiting just the other side of the finish line after 100.2
miles. That’s the prize, you know. Right there. A woman named Deanne. |
