Post by MattCollister on Sept 26, 2009 12:26:26 GMT -5
This wasn't on the course last year.
The runners beside me hesitate. The forward motion we've enjoyed for the last 10 miles comes to a stop as we ponder our next step. We've reached the edge of a swamp. It's just after dawn and I'm looking down into this gooey black water. Here we go. I jump in with both feet and the mushy bottom immediately gives way. To my waist in gunk. I lean forward and try to move my right foot to step ahead. Grips my feet. The more I fight it the stronger it holds. Lurch forward, grab a branch, pull myself ahead. Slurp!
For a quarter mile or so. A bit at at a time, through the mud. The other runners are ooing and laughing and hollering. "So much for a 10 minute per mile pace." Finally, claw up some roots to solid ground. My legs are covered in black goo. It's in my shoes, my socks, my shorts. My hands and bottles are covered in the sticky stuff; I wonder if its gotten inside the bottles too. My shoes feel like they weigh 10 pounds as we start to move forward.
Almost two hours have passed since we started in the darkness at Half Moon Lake at Pinckney State Park, in Michigan. It's a beautiful late summer morning. The sun burns away the morning haze. I'm just beginning to get over that swamp, and think to myself, "another 20 miles!?" And then I think to myself, "I need a hose." The chatter that filled the air in the first couple hours is gone. The swamp sucked the life out of us.
Welcome to the dark side of running.
A message from Goat Quarters, Hell, Michigan:
Weak, wimpy, treadmill running pansies who are afraid to get some dirt in their shorts need not apply.
Expect to be scratched, muddied and bruised by the beauty of this unpolished gem.
Expect to get out near the edge where life is full color.
Expect a day that leaves you knowing you are fully alive, awake and crankin' on all cylinders.
Expect insanity, stupidity and nirvana.
I'm with three other runners. A guy with long hair and no shirt. A guy in a tri top and tri shorts. A woman in a black tank and shorts. We've been running together long enough that we've started to chat a little. The woman is from Chicago, she's a teacher, and she loves Chicago, but hates the traffic. Tri-guy is running the 50-miler. Shirtless guy has done this before, as have I.
So we're suddenly cursing when we realize we've lost sight of the course markers. We're not even on a trail. How the hell did this happen? This is crazy.
We keep moving forward, hoping we'll get lucky. I see a flash of pink ribbon about 25 yards ahead. A trail marker! We move forward. We must have gone straight off the trail where we should have turned. I was in the lead (sorry guys). We are in deep woods, and the briar is cutting into us. I catch a root with my toe and slam down on to the ground, via my left arm. The others ask me if I am alrght. I say "fine", but really I'm pissed off that I've gotten into this mess. We finally stumble back out on to the trail. There's blood running down my legs and crap all over my arm.
This is always my favorite part. A section they call "Styx: River of Death." Running straight up a river. The depth varies, but it goes as deep as my waist in some parts. It's hard to run here, but the water feels pretty good at this point. We follow the trail markers to a bank; grab some roots and pull ourselves up and out of the river. There's a couple dressed like devils. I tell them that cleanliness is next to godliness. 19 down, 12 to go.
I've swung through the last aid station at a place called Silver Lake, at mile 25. Six miles to go and I am just gassed. It's dry but hilly terrain; the Potto mountain bike trail. Just shuffling along, but moving forward. Rule #1: keep moving.
Nearly an hour and a half later, I trundle to the finish at Half Moon Lake. My feet are really throbbing. My time is nearly 50 minutes slower than last year. But I am fifth out of 14 in my age group, which surprises me a bit. Guess the swamp slowed down everyone.
Pizza, a nap and beer are waiting. I've now finished three DWDs.
The runners beside me hesitate. The forward motion we've enjoyed for the last 10 miles comes to a stop as we ponder our next step. We've reached the edge of a swamp. It's just after dawn and I'm looking down into this gooey black water. Here we go. I jump in with both feet and the mushy bottom immediately gives way. To my waist in gunk. I lean forward and try to move my right foot to step ahead. Grips my feet. The more I fight it the stronger it holds. Lurch forward, grab a branch, pull myself ahead. Slurp!
For a quarter mile or so. A bit at at a time, through the mud. The other runners are ooing and laughing and hollering. "So much for a 10 minute per mile pace." Finally, claw up some roots to solid ground. My legs are covered in black goo. It's in my shoes, my socks, my shorts. My hands and bottles are covered in the sticky stuff; I wonder if its gotten inside the bottles too. My shoes feel like they weigh 10 pounds as we start to move forward.
Almost two hours have passed since we started in the darkness at Half Moon Lake at Pinckney State Park, in Michigan. It's a beautiful late summer morning. The sun burns away the morning haze. I'm just beginning to get over that swamp, and think to myself, "another 20 miles!?" And then I think to myself, "I need a hose." The chatter that filled the air in the first couple hours is gone. The swamp sucked the life out of us.
Welcome to the dark side of running.
A message from Goat Quarters, Hell, Michigan:
Weak, wimpy, treadmill running pansies who are afraid to get some dirt in their shorts need not apply.
Expect to be scratched, muddied and bruised by the beauty of this unpolished gem.
Expect to get out near the edge where life is full color.
Expect a day that leaves you knowing you are fully alive, awake and crankin' on all cylinders.
Expect insanity, stupidity and nirvana.
I'm with three other runners. A guy with long hair and no shirt. A guy in a tri top and tri shorts. A woman in a black tank and shorts. We've been running together long enough that we've started to chat a little. The woman is from Chicago, she's a teacher, and she loves Chicago, but hates the traffic. Tri-guy is running the 50-miler. Shirtless guy has done this before, as have I.
So we're suddenly cursing when we realize we've lost sight of the course markers. We're not even on a trail. How the hell did this happen? This is crazy.
We keep moving forward, hoping we'll get lucky. I see a flash of pink ribbon about 25 yards ahead. A trail marker! We move forward. We must have gone straight off the trail where we should have turned. I was in the lead (sorry guys). We are in deep woods, and the briar is cutting into us. I catch a root with my toe and slam down on to the ground, via my left arm. The others ask me if I am alrght. I say "fine", but really I'm pissed off that I've gotten into this mess. We finally stumble back out on to the trail. There's blood running down my legs and crap all over my arm.
This is always my favorite part. A section they call "Styx: River of Death." Running straight up a river. The depth varies, but it goes as deep as my waist in some parts. It's hard to run here, but the water feels pretty good at this point. We follow the trail markers to a bank; grab some roots and pull ourselves up and out of the river. There's a couple dressed like devils. I tell them that cleanliness is next to godliness. 19 down, 12 to go.
I've swung through the last aid station at a place called Silver Lake, at mile 25. Six miles to go and I am just gassed. It's dry but hilly terrain; the Potto mountain bike trail. Just shuffling along, but moving forward. Rule #1: keep moving.
Nearly an hour and a half later, I trundle to the finish at Half Moon Lake. My feet are really throbbing. My time is nearly 50 minutes slower than last year. But I am fifth out of 14 in my age group, which surprises me a bit. Guess the swamp slowed down everyone.
Pizza, a nap and beer are waiting. I've now finished three DWDs.