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FLRC Newsletter - April 2005 |
| Through the Looking Glass and Out Again: Or, The Misadventures of Two Dion Bunnies and the White Rabbit | |
Every Fourth of July my husband Jeff and I vacation out “West,” taking in the sights at the Finger Lakes 50 miler. (How many “normal” people would consider a 50 miler to be a vacation?!) After a leisurely drive, we pitch our tent and then get busy with our usual prerace routine: carbo-loading at the Simply Red Bistro in Trumansburg followed by a few hydration stops at the local wineries. Our most crucial task there is to select postrace beer to share with our friends. But we have never been able to claim the “farthest traveled” title at its winter equivalent, the Finger Lakes Snowshoe Race, which usually falls on the day before our own Saratoga Winterfest.
But this year, the race calendar magically rearranged itself, opening up new possibilities. Since this would, in all likelihood, be a chance occurrence comparable to the canals freezing over, we seized the opportunity. Once we arrived in Trumansburg, events took on a dream-like quality. Familiar landscapes, transformed by the recent snowfall, looked somewhat the same, yet vastly different. White Rabbit was there at the forest entrance, timepiece in hand, chiding, “You’re late, you’re late, for a very important date….” We positioned George in the queue of cars quietly resting by the roadside, waiting patiently for their people to return. What we should have done was to grab our gear and our Bunny Shoes (go to www.dionsnowshoes.com to see the cute bunny logo) and bigfoot it over to the registration area. But lulled by our summertime trail memories, we ignored White Rabbit’s warning and dashed away to stake claim to our Red Newt T-shirts.
Wrong choice. The path took a lot longer to negotiate under ten inches of slippery snow. We stumbled along, creating large potholes across the very trail we would soon have to run on. Not too smart! We were then faced with the embarrassment of having to delay the race while we dashed back for our Bunny Feet. White Rabbit just stood off to the side with a disapproving, “I told you so” flip of his ears. Our Mad Hatter scramble back to the start was made even more difficult since we couldn’t figure out where to line up. Approved procedure dictates that you look for those you usually finish with and line up in close proximity. But there were no hot, drippy runners with naked arms and legs. Now those arms and legs were smartly wicked and faces were masked by hoods and neck gaiters. But what else can you expect when you have stumbled through the Looking Glass?
The first half of the race began normally enough, through wood and over dale, on trails I had never taken, bouncing along in search of White Rabbit. Halfway through, I spied him just out of reach, as I discovered myself heading backwards on the early portions of the 50s trail. At first, I had a vague, nagging feeling that I was venturing into familiar territory. A cow gate, this time unfastened—a major infraction of summertime rules—confirmed my suspicions. As I traversed the pasture, winter-named Siberia, I tried to reconstruct the remainder of the course. The “muddy” potholes around the fence, the spot where I always hear mysterious crackling noises, the dreaded downhill over speed bump logs, which now became the dreaded uphill back to camp.
At the top of the hill, White Rabbit vanished. But no matter, he had led me to the trail back to camp, back to reality, back to my friends, and back to a bottle of Red Newt and a stuffed penguin to add to my summertime cow collection.
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