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FLRC Newsletter - August 2004 |
| The Last Mount Washington, for this year | |
| Laura Clark |
Sometime after Christmas, when parties and presents have lost their allure and we are confronted with three solid months of icy roads and indoor treadmills, we find ourselves scanning running magazines and race flyers in much the same way as gardeners hunker down with Burpee seed catalogs. Unless, of course, you choose to become proactive and strap on your Dions. But there comes a time when even Bob Dion begins to plan his summer adventures…
Many, especially the young and fleet of foot, set their sights on a 5K PR. For others, distance beckons. By February it is rare to find a runner without a fresh Plan in place. Except, perhaps, for me. I am extremely loyal. Once I latch onto a race, I feel a certain obligation towards the event. I might add one or two new races, but then they too tend to attach themselves to next year's calendar.
So this year I decided to step outside my box. This risky thinking was not a conscious decision at first, but took on a life of its own after I wrangled Boston press credentials. Further armed with a lottery bypass from the 2002 Mt. Washington halfway-only race, I was on a roll, with two unlikely-to-be repeated races already firmly anchored onto my 2004 schedule. I soon discovered, however, that lottery bypasses are not necessarily a free ride but require a large measure of determination. Rather like ascending the mountain itself. After a 12-hour epic battle with my computer and lengthy emails to Bob Teschek of Granite State Race Services, I had fully explored every registration glitch possible and was now officially in the running.
My fascination with uphill running began when I moved to upstate New York from a flat Pacific island paradise. After adding Prospect, Whiteface, and Greylock Mountains to my calendar, I had no place else to go but farther up. Unless you are a national class runner, frequent age group winner, Mt. Washington streaker, or very lucky, winning this particular lottery is a lot like, well, winning the lottery. On my third try, I was finally deemed worthy of participating in the 2002 edition, only to find myself, like Christopher Robin, "halfway up the stairs." The only silver lining to the winter storm cloud that hovered above the Northeast's highest peak that day was the fact that I realized I hadn't trained nearly enough. So this year, I toed the line with at least a partial idea of what I was getting into and a reasonable strategy in place.
Incredibly, this 7.6-mile road to the clouds was completed in 1861 when the nation was in the throes of the Civil War. Presumably, New Hampshire was then safe from Rebel attack. It takes 99 turns to reach the summit with 638 feet of climb per mile at an average grade of 11.5%. During my first aborted attempt, while I was gasping for breath, I did notice that the climb was frequently punctuated by brief stretches that appeared to be downhills, but were, in reality, more like normal hills. My 2004 strategy was targeted towards survival on the theory that every Mt. Washington survivor is, in fact, a winner. So I ran as long as I could, took a few steps when my quads began to tighten, and pressed on. I timed my major bursts of "speed" for the easier sections. By great good fortune, the mountain smiled tolerantly at my foolishness and placed me behind a tall, windblock sort of guy who clung to the right side of the road, where we were one step away from sudden death. He was the engine and I was the caboose chugging persistently behind.
At mile five, as we entered the Krummholz Forest with its stunted and twisted trees, Mt. Washington's notorious weather joined forces with the incline to beat both us and the trees into submission. It was at this point, buffeted by wind and swallowed by clouds, where I lost my engine as well as the last remnants of strategy. I felt fortunate whenever I could see my feet, let alone any normal hills where I could, theoretically, pick up the pace. Like Dorothy in an unfamiliar Oz, I concentrated on following the yellow brick road, or, in this case, the yellow lane divider, hoping my middle of the road strategy would save me from an untimely plunge, or worse, a DNF. At the prerace briefing we learned that 131 people had died on Mt. Washington, holder of the overall award for the world's worst weather, with 231-mph winds, snow every month of the year, and a Mt. Everest-level wind chill factor. I was determined not to give Mt. Washington the satisfaction of carving yet another notch. At the "Welcome to Mile Six" sign, the clouds thinned and I successfully aimed my water cup into the open trash bag held by an unbelievably cheerful volunteer. The usual littering rules did not apply: any trash not immediately bagged became a lethal weapon in the 50-mph gusts. It was at this point that my mind cycled through its usual "Never Again!" routine, the only difference being that this time I actually believed myself. Still, I plodded on since going up was definitely preferable to the alternative. Eventually I rallied when I realized that those around me were feeling even worse. Runners who had sped by me before were now reduced to a crawl, and even at my incredibly slow hiking pace I passed quite a few people. That is, until a particularly determined gust of wind captured my cap, hurling me against another runner, causing him to slam into some unfriendly rocks. Ahead loomed a 22% grade. Incredibly, this was good news since it indicated the final push to the Finish. I looked up and noticed a solidly built NYPD runner staggering under the ferocious wind. I dared not glance up again until I was over the hump and into my husband Jeff's arms. If he weren't there, I probably would have fallen down and frozen to death—victim #132.
At the prerace briefing Dave Dunham reminis ced, "This is a great race once you finish." One of those moments came that night as the survivors gathered around the TV screen at the Eagle Mountain House to view the race video. Serendipitously, I joined the group at 1:52 race time and all of us there had clocked in around the two-hour mark. So we proudly announced our finish times and then proceeded to cheer for each other as we crossed the line. This was not as simple as it sounds. Because of the wind, rain, and clouds, it was difficult to focus on the clock, let alone the anonymous runners with obscured race numbers. We became armchair athletes, reliving a great moment, yet not experiencing any of the pain. Our true challengers were not our fellow competitors, but the weather, the incline, and our own mental focus. We pulled each other up the mountain.
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