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FLRC Newsletter - April 2005 |
| Snowshoe Race | |
On January 29, 2005, with a lot of trepidation, I decided to attempt the "real" snowshoe race (7.6 miles as opposed to the 1-mile Fun Run I'd been contemplating). The decision to attempt the whole banana was based on several considerations: on coach Diane's thinking that "sure, you can do it" and telling me that she'd been on the course the day before and it was beautiful, on running partner David's saying (with some hesitancy) "yes, I think you can" (which he admitted later was stretching the truth some, but I guess he was counting on the search-and-rescue team), on a misguided sense of optimism (or masochism), and finally on the realization that this is the first event in the year's trail-running series, and as a stonehead wannabe I'll need all the points I can get.
It was colder outside than I'd expected, so I was freeeeeeezing before the start. The whole deal takes place in Hector, starting and ending at the Potomac (that's POTomac in upstate-NY-ese) campground. I started off at noon amidst a big crowd that quickly thinned as the racers sped away. Once I got out of the initial press I set a comfortable short-stepping jog pace, just like I'd done at the Mendon Pond race last fall (my first trail race, 10K, where I wasn't racing, but just wanted to complete it for fun). I felt loose and relaxed, began to warm up, and, although the snow was pretty deep, in following where so many had already trod it was loads easier than breaking trail in the backyard had been. I had the feeling that I could clop on forever. I began to actually pass a few people.
We circled around the small ponds, and then crossed Potomac Road and came past the first water/Gatorade/cookie stop, which I passed by. Then down by Foster's Pond, and over to a looooong downhill. Clop-clop, as after each step the snowshoes came up to slap the back of my shoes; it was kind of like walking in flip-flops. I looked at my watch, doing a little mental arithmetic: Worst case scenario (other than getting lost or dying outright) was that I'd walk the whole 7.6 miles, so I figured on about a mile every 20 minutes. Ah! 20 minutes, a mile done, the sun was shining and I still felt great.
Next the trail turned onto a wider path that had been somewhat groomed by snowmobiles. A breeze! I clopped along, walking a little here and there to stretch out the injured hamstring insertion that has plagued me for months. Down another hill to a creek crossing, and I came upon another snowshoer. To my surprise, it was none other than coach Diane! We chatted and clopped on together for a while.
Soon I could see a road crossing not too far ahead. I knew this was the Red House Inn (you know the road—Picnic Area Road—it goes right past the Blueberry Patch). Oh joy, oh radiance! I knew that this was about halfway through the race, and I still felt great! YES!!! I would make it!! I stopped for a little water at Frank and Sally's aid station, chatted briefly, then forged on ahead to the tough part. The arrows pointed off the road and up a steep, narrow trail in the woods.
Up, up, and up I went, except for when I fell down tripping over logs in the path. And up some more. Then up further, but this time across a long open field. That field was endless, up and up and on and on. Thank goodness there was no sharp wind—it would have cut like a razor blade. Somehow I finally made it to the end. More search-and-rescue guys were posted there. They asked for my race number and I flashed it out from under my jacket, saying, "I wouldn't do that for just anyone!" "Thank you, ma'am."
Across the road at the top of the field, then back across the field, but this time going down. Coming back into the woods, I stripped off the Goretex shell and was down to my UnderArmour. I felt great. Passed another guy. Another water stop—Frank and Sally again; how did they get there so fast? [editor's note: it's still Picnic Area Road, this time by the picnic area]—where I actually glugged down a little red Gatorade and didn't even gag. Life is sweet! On through the woods. By then it was around 1:35, and my steam was getting a little low. I could happily have ended my trek then and there. The Gatorade must have helped, though, and on I went.
The next bit is not clear in my memory, but I sure remember getting to the last road crossing and spotting a sign that said 0.5 miles to the Potomac campground. I couldn't believe it! I'd expected it would be two more miles. I could have jumped for joy, but saved the energy for the rest of the race.
Through the woods, another stream crossing (no way to avoid wet feet), up a hill, and there was a fellow who'd clearly finished the race and had come back to cheer the rest of us on. Race Director Joe Reynolds had told us before the race that the course ended with a Big Hill. I was climbing away, but it wasn't all that formidable, so I was looking forward (hah!) to the Real Climb ahead to the finish, when the cheering fellow called out, "Only about 50 yards more of this hill, and then just a quarter mile to go!" Well, that put rockets in my soaking socks! I could already hear the voices of folks at the finish pavilion, and adrenaline was running high. I clopped a little faster to the finish, Chris called out my time, and I'd done it! Flushed with exertion, and exhilarated beyond belief. What a great trip…and was immeasurably easier than the Pancake Run.
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