Childbirth

Crazy Bob's Bairgutsman. Those words have taunted my fitness fantasies since I heard about this race 3 years ago. 11.5 miles. 6 up the narrow trails of Baer Canyon's 4,900 vertical feet and over Francis Peak. Then 5.5 down dirt road into Farmington Canyon. Carry your own water, energy supplements and first aid kit because race support consists of a standby search and rescue crew and a truck at the top of the mountain's dirt road with water and Swedish Fish. Oh, and you'd better be finished in five hours or you may not get a race shirt. That's right. You have to earn this shirt. They don't give you one until you cross the finish line.


In the world of tough trail races, it's low on the scale when you start comparing it to some of the ultra distance trail events out there. But for those of us who live in the world of half marathons, and marathons over paved roads with aid stations every 3 miles, it's a pretty big deal.

Frances Peak is just a few miles east of my home. The round, white radar towers built on it a fixture of my morning run and an icon for a competitive level I would always admire but never expected to be part of.


But after three years of running, my attitude had transitioned slowly from "Impossible" to "Maybe" and finally to "Let's do this". Lucky for me my friend Angie, who provided the inspiration that started me running, said yes when I posed the idea. "Okay", she erupted quickly over the phone, "but sign us up now before I have a chance to change my mind."


"Done", I announced as I started filling out the online registration. And the challenge began.


We headed out to meet the mountain for the first time on June 20 and our relationship with it ended on Saturday, August 7 when we crossed the finish line. But it's impossible to spend time on this unforgiving terrain and not come away with lessons learned.


Be Prepared Yes, I was a Girl Scout in my youth and pride myself on always being the one who has all the right equipment, everything I need, with enough extra of everything to assist those who forgot to bring the right stuff. So imagine my shock when I felt my backside getting wet near the apex of our first training climb 4 miles up the mountain.


Pack inspection revealed that my superior Girl Scout self had neglected to securely attach the drinking hose to my Camelbak water bladder and now had no water left because it was sloshing in the bottom of my pack or had run down my shorts. Luckily we were headed down the mountain and Angie still had enough water for both of us. Extremely humbling.


Our last training run slapped us with another realization; lack of physical preparation can get you in trouble in a hurry. Especially at 9,000 feet.


We found ourselves mired in the ugly mix of high temperatures, high humidity, not enough sleep, and inadequate pre-run nutrition. And of course the worst didn't hit us until we were four miles up with another mile to the top over the steepest terrain of the route.


Down is not an option. In steep terrain it's just as exhausting as going up. But 'up' meant another mile before we got to the road and neither of us had much left to give to get there. Slow going and abandoned goal times were the worst of our consequences. Under the circumstances, it was a lucky day and one we were fortunate to experience before race day instead of on race day.


Races Make Runners Stupid There is something about race day that transforms normally intelligent, sensible people into mob-mentality idiots. Like Rednecks to a bass boat, we are drawn to the shiny finish line banner and the highly-coveted Bairgutsman t-shirt with no concern for life nor limb.


Which is exactly why we were all at the start line on race day, ready to go at 6:00 am, while we watched dark clouds boiling overhead and lightening stabbing at the very mountain we are headed towards. A mountain who's top 1.5 miles is across an open, barren landscape that makes YOU the highest point at any given moment. Yes, we were eagerly running towards the chance to be a lightening rod.


But God looks out for children and fools, and allowed us our day. As we ran toward the mountain, the storm moved on and we were spared the humiliation of being killed while people joked about weeding out the gene pool.

Races are like Childbirth On race day, when you pound up this mountain, quads screaming and lungs searing, you are propelled by one goal and one mantra. "Get to the finish and NEVER do this again." It IS what keeps you going. Well, that, and the fact that you don't want to get stuck with the bill from search and rescue when they have to helicopter you out.


So here I am, digging in my toes as I climb up endless switchbacks, bargaining, always bargaining with myself, that it's going to be okay because I will NEVER do this again. I repeat this to myself over and over again as my legs twitch with exhaustion. NEVER. Never again.


And when I finally head down the canyon, pushing just to maintain a slow jog and fighting those twitching muscles that threaten to seize at any moment, it's those words; NEVER. Never again; that bring me comfort.


And during what I hope is the last mile, I strain to see around every curve, praying for a finish line while my legs weaken with every stride. NEVER. Never again.


At last, a turn reveals a crowd directly below me and I sob in relief at the site of the word FINISH. I am almost done. And then NEVER. Never again.


Clapping my hands then raising my arms I run across the line, so thrilled with the accomplishment and so relieved to be done. I've given birth to a new version of myself and I am elated. But NEVER. Never again.


It is Tuesday night. 3 days after the race. My quads are still rock hard and sore and I hobble around my kitchen making dinner, smiling to myself. Smiling because Angie just sent me a text. "I think I'm losing my mind. Just drove past the towers and started thinking...maybe next year....." Smiling, because I drove past those same towers just two hours ago thinking, "Maybe...maybe next year."