Tjalling Ypma - 4/23/05

Explosions of sneezing and snot 24 hours before you are scheduled to run an ultra-marathon do not generally bode well. Fortunately this cold seemed to be confining itself to my sinuses and tear ducts, so that even though I found myself playing dishearteningly many encores of the Concerto for Schnozzle and Snot-rag I still felt well enough to make it to the start. One blessing of ultra-runs is that the plentiful distribution of bodily fluids along the course is an accepted part of participant behavior, and I would be exploiting this freedom to the full in my quest to clear those nasal passages.

The day dawned cool, dry and overcast; ideal conditions even though rain was promised for the afternoon. Fairhaven Park was abuzz in the early morning hours as lost drivers drove around in circles fruitlessly looking for parking while friendly familiar faces milled about in the start area. The general chaos slowly resolved itself as the start drew near and the runners converged on the line. The field was easily the largest ever for this event; the limit of 280 participants had been reached within a month of registration opening, some three months prior to the race. I heard from many disappointed would-be-participants who were too late to register; the race is achieving widespread recognition and the number of participants is destined to swell massively if regulatory restrictions permit.

Various semi-intelligible announcements were made at the start, there was a brief delay as last-minute adjustments were made to the starting list, and then we got the countdown and the mob surged forwards. It took a few moments for the dense pack to get across the line, and there was much jostling as we crowded onto the six-foot wide trail heading out of the park. Waist-high wooden posts line the center of this trail, carefully positioned to inflict extraordinarily painful punishment on the unwary center of any trio of runners in line abreast. Much dodging and cursing ensued as the pack flowed around the obstacles, but the posts did serve to disperse the field and open up gaps for the fleet and brave.

My favorite part of this race is the second mile, where the colorful, excited pack makes its way through the tunnel of trees lining the Interurban Trail and then snakes its way through the dark depths of Arroyo Canyon. The best part is just before the bridge, when you look up the heavily wooded hillside to see the trail dotted with moving runners in their bright outfits as they zigzag up the wall of the canyon. The air is always fresh and damp there, filled with the burbles of the creek and the excited chatter of the participants. The rough, narrow trail soon spits you out of the canyon and back onto the graveled Interurban where you can settle into an easy rhythm for the next four mostly flat miles.

I found myself running with a large pack, something I really dislike, so I accelerated off the front to maintain my own pace without worrying about others. There were quite a few biting comments of the “we’ll catch that guy later” variety as I went by, mostly entirely justified, but I was much happier by myself. I soon found myself in the company of Ken Klepsch, who is usually much faster than me; clearly I was going too fast, but I had caught the mob mentality and was making good time. Hitting aid station one in under 50 minutes confirmed my poor pacing and I paid the inevitable price later in the day.

The zigzag climb up through the trees to Fragrance Lake was the usual labored grind, deteriorating to a walk up the steeper bits. The large number of participants meant that there was constant pressure to maintain a good pace, since any slacking resulted in a long line of sweaty people trekking by, and it was hard to pass on the narrow twisting trail. The field dispersed as the climb went on, and the level of casual chatter had declined considerably by the time we broke out from the darkness of the trees into the sunlit lakeside clearing and its very welcome horizontal terrain.

The route goes almost completely around the small lake, and fellow runners were visible everywhere as I did the circuit. The rough little scramble out of the basin was a bit of a bottleneck, but the subsequent steep logging drag down to Cleator Rd gave the speed fiends an opportunity to fly by. I am usually very conservative on such narrow rutted descents in order to preserve my aged joints, but nevertheless found myself barreling along under the influence of the other bodies flinging themselves recklessly down the hillside. It was all rather exhilarating, charging down that loose steep path on the brink of disaster, but I was relieved to reach aid station two with all body parts still largely intact.

The grim prospect of a climb up Cleator Road now lay before us. It isn’t really all that far, nor is it particularly steep, but three miles and 1500 feet of climbing up a gravel road soon loses its appeal. Getting up it just involves some determination combined with a degree of willful stupidity, so for most of us it’s no problem. The exertions of the climb combined with the growing warmth of the day led to the gradual shedding of clothing, which in several cases I noticed added considerably to the charms of the surrounding scenery. Every now and then the road levels off enough to tempt one into the semblance of a run, but for the most part this is just an uninspiring hike you have to endure to get to the real heart of the course – the gorgeous Ridge Trail and its bastard cousin from the wrong side of the tracks otherwise known though not loved as the Lost Lake Trail.

The big loop around the tops of the Chuckanuts usually takes me a good two hours, so I fueled up thoroughly at aid station three before embarking on this adventure. When I could find no more good reason to dawdle I finally set off to grapple with the familiar miles of ankle-twisting slick rock, gnarled roots, mud and windfalls. Before long a young guy attached himself to my heels, while I again found myself treading in Ken’s footsteps. It really helped to have Ken ahead, since it saved me from having to do much in the way of route-finding and let me switch into my preferred mindless running mode. The fellow behind me provided endless entertainment since he seemed to have a talent for stumbling over obstacles in the way; every couple of minutes there was loud cursing and thrashing about in the bush accompanied by howls of pain and frustration as he fought to regain his balance and suck up the damage done to his repeatedly stubbed toes. I really felt for him; I have had days like that too.

The narrow, winding Ridge Trail is pretty tough going, with its treacherous footing, the huge vertical drop just off to its the right, and its many steep ups and downs. It is quite densely forested and affords few views until you near its northern end, where you encounter some rocky clearings and a stunning spectacle suddenly unfolds before you. You look eastward over the rolling forested interior of Whatcom county, a sprawling deep-green carpet of firs, to the distant snow-covered length of the Cascades dominated by the white-blue bulk of Baker with its glaciers reflecting the midday sun. If you need a break, and I did, this is a splendidly scenic spot to have a drink and grab a snack from your backpack. Stopping at this point is one of the great highlights of the event for me.

Quite a few people passed me as I lingered by the wayside, but there was still plenty of company as I dropped down the steep slippery trail to Dan’s Traverse and embarked upon the long slog back up to Lost Lake. The route description for this part of the race used to be something like “follow the road, which becomes a trail, which becomes ever muddier until it degenerates into a creek”, and that is pretty much the way it still is. It is a long, gradual ascent through the woods, getting wetter underfoot the closer you get to the base of the Chuckanut cliffs, until you get to a succession of big mud wallows where the main challenge is to keep your shoes from being sucked off your feet. I was once again on Ken’s heels and let him show me where to tread or, on those occasions where excessively muddy floundering proved his judgment to be faulty, where not to tread. I think I irritated Ken, because he knew he was supposed to stay ahead of me but he had to work harder than he really wanted to in order to stay there. It just wasn’t his day, and on that long uphill hike from Lost Lake back up to the Chuckanut crest I finally dropped him.

I wasn’t feeling too strong myself by the time I was jogging back down the west flank of the Chuckanuts. I was beginning to pay the price for those first fast miles. My spirits were greatly restored by a girl who ran past me with such a smooth joyful stride and spring in her step that distance running briefly regained some of its attraction. I trailed along in her wake, trying to soak up her youth and energy as I loped down the wide downhill path to the environs of Fragrance Lake before turning uphill one last time.

Though Little ChinScraper is not a bad name for the next stretch of the route, I really prefer the dual meaning of the alternative name, UpChuck; whichever interpretation you place on the latter is an accurate reflection of where the trail takes you. Much labor is involved in dragging the body back up to the top of the Chuckanuts, and it comes at a time when said body is no longer very receptive to the concept of laboring. Getting up those very steep sections is definitely a chore, and even when you have put that second near-vertical pitch behind you there is a lot more climbing to be done. I was amazed to encounter some mountain bikers heading down this suicidal track; I would assume that it qualifies for that ultimate accolade of the off-road fraternity: “radical, dude”.

I was relieved to reach the open forest crowning the top of the hill and embark on the downward journey. Aid station four looked like a scene from MASH; runners were sprawled all over the landscape slapping plasters on damaged appendices, rubbing ointment into aching muscles and chafed body parts, and sucking in liquid and calories as they tried to avoid thinking about what lay ahead. It sounds easy – four miles of downhill followed by six miles of flat – but that downhill can do a lot of damage to tired muscles and joints which then have to drag you all the way back to Fairhaven Park. I took a couple of shots of coke and M&Ms, then reluctantly headed on down the hill.

I took it pretty easy on that long downhill run, trying to preserve my body for the last stretch. A few people flew past me but by then I was so far back that competition was minimal. It seemed to take a long time to reach the Clayton Beach parking lot and the friendly welcome of aid station five, and light rain commenced just before I got there. Fortunately it was quite unseasonably warm and windstill, and the rain was not going to make my sweat-soaked clothing any wetter anyway. It was good to exchange greetings with those old stalwarts Barb and Vicki, both aged well over 60, who were helping the passing runners. For once they were not themselves running this race – they were saving themselves for an upcoming 24 hour running race, they informed me. As far as I was concerned the 5 or so hours I had just put behind me were plenty, thanks very much.

The rest of the trip was going to have to be in survival mode. I have perfected this technique, otherwise known as the effortless shuffle, over many painful miles: the trick is to maintain a very upright posture and take very short steps, barely lifting your foot off the ground and keeping the center of your body at a constant level – no bouncing. This is best combined with a complete brain shutdown, with the overall effect being that of a zombie motoring mechanically down the trail with only the bottom length of the legs swinging rhythmically back and forth. The scenery passed by in a slow-mo blur, my stupor only briefly interrupted by a loud Kiwi warning as former pro-triathlete and two-time Ironman winner Tara-Lee Marshall from New Zealand swept past on the descent into the depths of Arroyo Canyon. This is a girl who has a 3:09 marathon at the end of an ironman race to her credit. I was proud to finish only 5 minutes behind her.

One of the nice features of the course is that the last mile or so is all gently downhill. The magnetic attraction of the finish line combines with gravity to put a little speed in your stride and suck you home. It’s a great moment when you emerge from the bush at the top end of Fairhaven Park and see the finish at the bottom end of the curving stretch of black hardtop. There is just time to lengthen that stride and try to look good for the spectators, savoring the knowledge that you have done it, and then you’re past the race clock and they are tearing the tag off your race bib. My brain was too fried to give more than a barely civil response to those congratulating me and asking how it went; what I did know was that it hadn’t been pretty. The celebration would follow in due course, but for now getting rid of that disgusting sweaty clothing and inhaling lots of food and drink was the first priority. I had survived the Chuckanut Mountain 50K for the fourth time.

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