It was wet. It was cold. It was wet and cold. Muddy too. Miles and miles of the Lost Lake Trail were nothing but a long gooey trough of slop and standing water, more fit for pigs than runners. Even hard-packed Cleator Road was gushy, like trying to run through butterscotch pudding.
It was an odd day. Throughout the race, I didn't see a single runner I knew. Not sure if it's because a relatively smaller number of B'ham folks did the race this year or because it's become more popular with the Seattle-Vancouver crowd. (Because of injury, the group of 10 I regularly train with was reduced to four.)
Ran with an iPod this year. Which I think kept me going through some pretty demoralizing conditions. Think it might've also gotten on my nerves a few times. All right, shut up, Metallica, I get it. Your Sandman guy is scary. Enter night, exit light. Oooohhhh. Whatever. (Perhaps my bad; I had "Enter Sandman" three times on my playlist.)
Tried something else new this year. Grew a little facial hair doodad to give me a badass mien. A combination mustache-and-soul patch affair that made me look dashing and manly, like Johnny Depp. (Methought.) To my wife however, and as confirmed by race day photos, I looked more like some sloppy middle-aged schlub who’d dribbled soup down his chin.
What do you think of the pink hat?
Photo by Glenn Tachiyama (http://www.pbase.com/gtach/chuck07), who took a ton of great shots. As did Rick Hill (http://www.gbrc.net/c50k_photos.php).
HERE'S WHAT I WROTE FOR THE CASCADIA WEEKLY (3/28)
Mud Run
By Mike McQuaide
The morning of this year’s Chuckanut 50K seemed perfect for running. Temps high 40s, a gentle drizzle not likely to last, no wind. I’d trained hard this year and as we 273 runners headed down the Interurban Trail after the start, I felt confident I could deliver one of those breakthrough performances. The kind that make folks who care about this sort of thing shake their heads in wowed disbelief.
Yea, that didn’t last.
Out on the course four hours later, I was a cold, soaked miserable mess whose legs were cramping up with alarming tenacity. Creativity too. My hamstrings. My quads. My calves. (No surprises there.) My socks. My shoelaces. My leg hair. (?!?). The Muscle Cramp Monster had dug in its claws and wasn’t letting go.
But at least there were still 12 miles to go!
***
This year’s 50K will be remembered as the Mud Year. Turns out, the drizzle didn’t last; it became a downpour. One that didn’t let up for, oh, seven, eight days.
Miles and miles of the Lost Lake Trail were nothing but a long gooey trough of slop and standing water, more fit for pigs than runners. Even hard-packed Cleator Road was gushy, like trying to run through butterscotch pudding.
A charming complement was the wind. At the top of the seemingly vertical mile known as the Chinscraper, it whipped and howled, all the while lowering our core body temperatures to about 47.3 F. Or so.
At least we runners were running (kinda) which, theoretically, should’ve kept us warm. The aid station volunteers had no such luxury. They stood basically in one spot all day, wrapped tight in Gore-tex, while handing out energy foods, drinks and encouragement. Bless them.
***
This year in training, I’d taken a more aggressive approach. I ran with an iPod to psyche myself up, and even grew a little facial hair doodad to give me a kind-of badass mien. A combination mustache-and-soul patch affair that made me look dashing and manly, like Johnny Depp. (Methought.) To my wife however, and as confirmed by race day photos, I looked more like some sloppy middle-aged schlub who’d dribbled soup down his chin.
But I finished the race. Set a personal record too. (Albeit by a three minutes.) Best of all, I crossed the finish line with my son, always a thrill.
Right after the race, though, I vowed never to run the Chuckanut 50K again. It was too hard. Too painful. I was done.
Except that … that night, when the Muscle Cramp Monster had long gone and I was basking in a low-grade glow of having run my best time ever—I mean, wow, imagine what my time would’ve been if it hadn’t been so muddy!—I got to telling my wife how, if I ever did this race again, say next year or whenever, I’d train differently.
More speedwork on the track. More repeats up the Chinscraper. More Metallica on the iPod.
“Less facial hair,” she chimed in.
Yea, that too.
By Mike McQuaide
The morning of this year’s Chuckanut 50K seemed perfect for running. Temps high 40s, a gentle drizzle not likely to last, no wind. I’d trained hard this year and as we 273 runners headed down the Interurban Trail after the start, I felt confident I could deliver one of those breakthrough performances. The kind that make folks who care about this sort of thing shake their heads in wowed disbelief.
Yea, that didn’t last.
Out on the course four hours later, I was a cold, soaked miserable mess whose legs were cramping up with alarming tenacity. Creativity too. My hamstrings. My quads. My calves. (No surprises there.) My socks. My shoelaces. My leg hair. (?!?). The Muscle Cramp Monster had dug in its claws and wasn’t letting go.
But at least there were still 12 miles to go!
***
This year’s 50K will be remembered as the Mud Year. Turns out, the drizzle didn’t last; it became a downpour. One that didn’t let up for, oh, seven, eight days.
Miles and miles of the Lost Lake Trail were nothing but a long gooey trough of slop and standing water, more fit for pigs than runners. Even hard-packed Cleator Road was gushy, like trying to run through butterscotch pudding.
A charming complement was the wind. At the top of the seemingly vertical mile known as the Chinscraper, it whipped and howled, all the while lowering our core body temperatures to about 47.3 F. Or so.
At least we runners were running (kinda) which, theoretically, should’ve kept us warm. The aid station volunteers had no such luxury. They stood basically in one spot all day, wrapped tight in Gore-tex, while handing out energy foods, drinks and encouragement. Bless them.
***
This year in training, I’d taken a more aggressive approach. I ran with an iPod to psyche myself up, and even grew a little facial hair doodad to give me a kind-of badass mien. A combination mustache-and-soul patch affair that made me look dashing and manly, like Johnny Depp. (Methought.) To my wife however, and as confirmed by race day photos, I looked more like some sloppy middle-aged schlub who’d dribbled soup down his chin.
But I finished the race. Set a personal record too. (Albeit by a three minutes.) Best of all, I crossed the finish line with my son, always a thrill.
Right after the race, though, I vowed never to run the Chuckanut 50K again. It was too hard. Too painful. I was done.
Except that … that night, when the Muscle Cramp Monster had long gone and I was basking in a low-grade glow of having run my best time ever—I mean, wow, imagine what my time would’ve been if it hadn’t been so muddy!—I got to telling my wife how, if I ever did this race again, say next year or whenever, I’d train differently.
More speedwork on the track. More repeats up the Chinscraper. More Metallica on the iPod.
“Less facial hair,” she chimed in.
Yea, that too.
