Abandoned in Calico Ghost Town 50 km

Calico turned out to be a golden run in a silver mining camp of the Old West, but it wasn't without its flaws. It was my first Ultra. My Garmin said 32 miles, the distance advertised was 50K, and the RD said it was 33 miles. Whatever it was, it was everything it needed to be - a real Valley of the Dirt People run. Everything one would expect from an ultra held in San Bernardino County, California, in January; lots of sand, dirt bikes, quads, a cold wind (yup, it was blown out), shotgun-shell covered trails, abandoned appliances, and nary a living thing to look at except for the other runners and the aid station people in a very expansive area of the austere Mojave Desert.
I had the opportunity to meet some really cool ultra runners, including Lori H-C, Rob Cowen, Eric Clifton, and Vinnie, an assortment of family members and friends, including Darlene and the rest of the Fortini clan, the Koster clan, and Wendy-Lady's little Tiana, and see some of my rad SoCal Trail Headz buddies, including Michelle M, Keira, Kirk, Alexa, iMichelle, Wendy, Charlie, Eric K, Skip, Jenn F, and lsdchris. Yeah, we saw you cross the line Chris. Sorry I didn't come over to shake your hand. My VDP manners need some work. Actually, my legs were having some difficulty responding to simple commands like rise, walk, etc. When I find the bug in the code I'll let you know. I also had the opportunity to meet some cool aspects of myself and hang out with some others I'm already well acquainted with.
Trail running sometimes resembles driving a carload of kids around. You know, one complains about the other poking them. Another has to go potty. It can be a rough and noisy trip. As long as the driver doesn't fall asleep or get in a wreck I guess all is well. This run was one of those. Unfortunately, one of the kids was ill, my rolled right ankle, and wanted to whine and complain. I was ready to pull over and give it a good spanking (not really), but, it settled down when I gave it a stern warning (please stop whining) and it let me finish the race to meet all of my goals. My first goal was to finish, followed closely by injury-free. If those two goals were met I really wanted to finish inside of 6 hours. Since my ankle was actually injured on a previous run and this one only seemed to irritate it a bit, this run's going down as a complete success. My time was 5:48. What more could a guy ask for in his first ultra? I hadn't even left the site and was already excited about my next run. That's like a new mom lying in her post-op maternity room talking about when her next child will be born. If anyone could say I wasn't hooked on running before, yeah, good luck finding someone to say that, there definitely couldn't be anyone to say it now. I'll have a little more of that cool aid in my bottle please. Thank you.
I had arrived long before sunrise, stumbled around in the dark because the lights on the stairwell leading up to the registration table were not functioning, got my goodie bag and number, and went back to my truck to wait for it to get closer to start time and for the sun to come up. I wandered back up an hour later, went for one last trip to the men's room that was heated of all things (who says we don't have modern amenities out here in the 909) and the next thing I know I hear, "five minutes until the start." Lots of people were milling about the start area where I saw many of my fellow SoCal Trail Headz members. Very punctually and rather unceremoniously we were off on the word go at 7 a.m. The temperature was in the lower 30's. The first portion of the run led us away from Calico and down the highway. After that it was miles of slightly uphill sandy jeep trails. It seemed to warm up and I recall really looking forward to getting to the 17.1 mile aid station where our drop bags were waiting so I could take off my long sleeve shirt. Mile 17, 18, and 19 came and went. Finally, on a cold and windy ridge somewhere between mile 19 and 20 I spotted my little green high school PE bag. When that bag was new it never once held a dirty pair of shorts worn on a one mile run. Now, here is was holding my goodies for my first ultra. The plan was to dump my long sleeve shirt and gloves in it. It was a good thing that they moved, misplanned, or "whatevered", this point. At mile 17 I would have gotten half undressed and would have gotten here very much unprepared. I now wished that I had put more clothing in the bag to put on. In any event, I kept the shirt, dumped the gloves, grabbed my goodies, filled my bottles, and was off again into a nasty, bitter-cold headwind. Then, of all things, I came upon a cliff. I've been running in the 909 for almost ten years so I'm used to jumping over and dodging abandoned couches, old washing machines, trenches dug to keep out dirt bikes and four-wheelers (had a hawk jump up out of one of these on me once), and running along steep mountain trails (anyone ever run the Desert Divide?), but this was actually the trail becoming the cliff. I was ready to turn back, obviously I had missed a turn, when I noticed fresh smears of blood and a massive assortment of torn and abandoned running clothes and hand-held bottles. This must be the right way. I'm always fighting off cramps and when I placed my left foot fully extended over the side of this steep embankment my left calf pointed out to me that it was in a position it simply did not want to be in and how long overdue I was for a gentle reminder that it was there and was not to be ignored. It was like the kid that decides without warning to puke in the back seat. Rolling over quickly, embedding my fingers deep into the rocks, and letting out a yell that let anyone within a quarter of a mile know that I was going into labor, I did all I could to wait for the muscle to relax. I couldn't turn around and finish my descent, it simply wouldn't allow it. Of course, the injured ankle on my right leg wasn't too happy about this either. You know, one of the other kids in the back who doesn't appreciate his sibling puking all down the side of his leg. Right about the time my cramp was subsiding and I was working my way to the bottom of this horrible thing cursing the rope and belay that were obviously missing on this mission, some young woman ran past me too busy laughing at me to even ask if I was OK. In retrospect I think she saw the whole thing. Thank you, sweetheart, for pretending you didn't witness this terribly embarassing predicament. Unfortunately, there were, to my dismay, several rangers and ham operators down the hill openly amusing themselves at my expense. They did, however, with straight faces, ask me if all was well as I passed by them on my way out into the badland style hills that comprised the last few miles of the course. The trail in this area was a real tease. Just when you thought you were almost there you had to go about a half mile East and return. Then, when you thought you were almost there again you had to go a half mile West. Did a finish line really exist or was it like some kind of sick math nightmare with an asymptotic ending? It was somewhere in these detours that the familiar, "this run's almost over" feeling crept in and it was just a matter of minutes until I had passed through the First Circle of hell, also called Limbo - my first ultra. The journey is underway.
We were reminded at the finish that this was an official VDP run when they handed us a leather key ring as our finisher's medal. Those who had placed high were generously rewarded with huge crystals that according to the description we were given were grown locally. I thought pot was grown and crystal was cooked in the 909. Maybe they had been out in that Mojave sun for too long and had this part slightly confused. Those who placed nearly as high were rewarded for their efforts with saw blades. 'nuff said. It's too frightening to even begin discussing. Isn't there a horror movie called "Saw?" Congratulations to all those who achieved their goals at Calico. Personally, I love running in the desert and will definitely go again. Maybe the RD and crew will get their ducks in order next year or should I say meatballs. Don't they know that half the ultra world is vegan or vegetarian? I eat lots of meat, hence the forward pointing eyes, but the last thing I wanted after a long run was a gravy-laden line of microwaved meatballs in a big whitebread roll. The last time I had a bag of chips was around the time that high school PE teacher tried to get me to run a mile, and thank you very much, I don't drink cola, either.
Lastly, to add insult to injury, and add to the ambience of being in an abandoned ghost town, we were left abandoned in the throes of dying from hunger for hours waiting for them to return our drop bags. At least my pusher was there with the promised drugs. That's some good stuff. Did I mention all in all this was a golden run? Check out my Google Mashup of the Calico 50K and the Official Calico 50K page.

XTERRA PMS on Boney Mtn

It's called the XTERRA Boney Mountain Trail Run in Point Mugu State (PMS) Park. It could also have been called, "LT chokes on a bone!" Where does one even begin with such a name? Several members of the SoCal Trail Headz had decided at a previous XTERRA run that these strangely named events would be themed in honor of the 80's cult classic Top Gun. Several others were not so enamored with this theme. Greg, for example, must have been having flashbacks of old TV shows when he decided to give this run the BoneyBrushOff and escape to Fantasy Island for the weekend to run a 50-miler with the other Brady kids. He mumbled something about having a low tolerance for the salacious. A salactose intolerance maybe? Salactic acid removal issues? Reminds me of the Gregis and Bonehead cartoon. "He said boney, hehehe, hehehe!" I'll bet he wishes he'd taken "de plane" after spending all that time on "Das Boot" out to the island. Hmmm, now there's a special combination, a U2-boy in a U-boat. Achtung, runner!
Wow, and he wasn't even at the run. Those who were have read this far and are already filling sandbags and purchasing named peril disaster insurance for the impending storm. Sugar's got Google Desktop Search working on overtime looking for more pictures in preparation for the storm. Remember, its blackmail value is lost once it's been published. Besides, what could possibly be worse than DNSing your first run of the year? I mean it's not called Boney Mountain because of all the drying bones of those who DNFed on the mountain last year. It's a half-marathon for crying out loud. But, not wanting to take a chance of racing too early on a healing ankle, I got bigger fish to fry at Calico next weekend, I was replaced by a pinch runner, Alexa a.k.a. Sunshine. She went out there and lit up the course. She came in at the finish with such a huge smile I just stood there grinning until somewhere in my brain a voice said (did I just admit to hearing voices?) "raise camera and take picture, remember?" Oh yeah, did I mention I can't walk and chew gum at the same time much less smile and take a picture at the same time? Michelle A.K.A. Sweetness had to run the gauntlet twice before I did my job correctly. We'd just met before the race and already I knew that her alias was a good one. I'd buy drugs from her any day. No wait, she promotes the use of drugs, not the sale thereof. "Just say yes!"
As I stood near the finish line waiting for SoCal's finest to arrive, I imagined myself a Boney Picker (sometimes known as Breaker Boys), separating the good stuff from the bad stuff that came down off the mountain. I managed to scare off a few runners I didn't recognize as they attempted to get to the finish line, thus ensuring the better placement of SCTH members in the results. You weren't going to find any of us in the Boney Pile, either. We kicked butt and took names. Hey, we may not be the marines but we can always look for a few good runners to join our ranks. Jessica A.K.A. Dizzy flew in with landing hook extended, "Any of you boys seen an aircraft carrier around here?" Come to find out she had brought along a crew member of her own, Nickie. I wish I'd have known. Gosh, that's three hours of "behind Jessica's back time" lost. Imagine the recap dirt I could have collected.
Then there were the sonic booms. It was believed that all pilots flying in the vicinity of Boney Mountain were properly briefed on US Navy Regulations which prohibit supersonic flight over land. Eric A.K.A. Goose must not have gotten the memo. DARPA has already provided for a solution that will prevent all future occurences such as these, a nose job. The Shaped Sonic Boom Demonstration program has already shown that about a third of the pressure buildup that leads to sonic booms can be released with this procedure and Goose will be flown out for a retrofit at the first opportunity. I contacted them and was assured that only the best will be performing this delicate procedure on him, Doug Malewicki A.K.A. Rocketman.
Skip A.K.A. Viper came in singing verses from a Bright Eyes song, "do you like to hurt? I do, I do, then hurt me..." Eric heard him coming and you could see it in his eyes that he wanted to hurdle the bushes and run out to sing with him. Is Skip cool or what? He got on the phone shortly before the race to talk to someone called Mom and told her to come along with someone called Dad to meet us out at the race. Sugar suspected this was some secret code for a rendezvous with an Islamic terrorist group, maybe he's using the club's financial account to clandestinely funnel funds to them. I'd make references to the Soviets, but Abbie keeps reminding me that half the club isn't old enough to remember the Cold War. If this is what actually happened he's darn good at what he does because two of the coolest people showed up to cheer their son on as he ran in the hills above where he grew up. It was a very believable cover. It was also easy for one to get the impression that this group was low on operating funds because the one called Dad was using the same disguise as Skip only they weren't able to spend as much on his height. This man won me over when he passed on the post run vegetarian lunch plan. He muttered something about going home to barbecue a good rib eye. I mean come on, when did vegetarians corner the market on the term "healthy food?" I only eat healthy chickens. At least they were healthy when they met their fate. How do you know that celery stick wasn't battling a nasty cold when it got yanked out of its bed to be sold? It reminds me of the phrase seen on buses in Riverside. This bus runs on clean natural gas. Yeah, well my truck runs on clean natural gasoline. You don't think I'd put dirty gasoline into it do you?
I did finally get the chance to meet Pete and Kalea, but didn't get a whole lot of quality time in with them. They're sighing with relief. Not to worry, now that I know who you guys are I'll be gathering dirt on you; trail dirt that is. That would make a great title for our newsletter - Trail Dirt. I was a little disconcerted by all the smiling faces I saw coming in at the end. I mean, if you have enough energy at the end of a race to smile you apparently didn't run it hard enough. I find it simply unimaginable that a member of SCTH could be happy that a run was over. There must have been something really fun that preceded that final quarter mile.

The journey begins

Sigh, a blog. Most of the time I can't even remember to wake up in the morning, much less report for duty to a blog on a regular basis. I have this huge alarm clock that has to remind me of something that happens at the same time in the same place each and every day of every week of every year, duh, "Get up dude!" They say that young people think they know it all. I'm beginning to believe that maybe it's possible that I did know it all when I was younger. I've grown so forgetful over time that maybe all those things that I know for certain I don't know are things I've forgotten along the way. Speaking of getting older, there comes a day, long after twenty-somethings start calling you sir, you know they only do it to bother you, the little buggers, when someone points out to you that you are over the hill. Is that really necessary? More importantly, I wonder, did I miss the day I was on top of the hill? I certainly don't recall a day when someone exclaimed "Hey man, you're on top!" or "Excuse me, sir, were you aware of the fact that you are on top of the hill today. I just wanted to make sure that you were aware of that and I'll be around again tomorrow to point out that you are now over the hill." Of course, maybe it did happen and I just don't remember.
Where was I going with this? See what I mean? Oh yeah, someone asked me to blog my journey into insanity. They pointed out that I seem to have mashed up almost every journey I took over the year 2007, so why not mash this one up as well. Since I use Google for trail mashups I decided to use Google for this mashup as well. I am going to call it my mental mashup because in spite of my posterior vehemently opposing this view, one very often hears it being said that running is all in your head.
So, what is this journey I speak of? First, a little background. Over the last twenty years I have developed this uncouth habit of putting on a pair of running shoes, finding a trail somewhere, usually in the mountains and not necessarily nearby, and running around half naked and alone on it for distances of up to 25 miles. "Sick!" is what my family, friends, and coworkers call it. My uncles, who used to run marathons in the seventies, would ask me when I was going to finally do the marathon thing. "Never!" was my pat response, "they're not held on trails." Of course, they didn't know any better than I did how wrong I was. I was also to discover that I did not have to limit my adventures to under 25 miles. Do you know what wet cotton can do to an exposed perineum over the course of 25 miles? HMOG! Bodyglide and fancy schmancy running shorts made from wicking materials are your friend. I also discovered, among other things, that there are numerous events held in the darndest places, run by the darndest people, and for the darndest distances. There are even clubs that cater to this subculture of uncouth sickos, in which I seemed to fit right into, such as the club I recently joined, SoCal Trail Headz.
Someone once told me that tact is the ability to tell someone to go to hell in such a way that they are actually looking forward to the trip. The journey I begin is a tactfully charted one that will take me, a trail runner, into the insane, hell-inspired world of ultra running. I'm looking forward to the trip!
Bring it, Let's Trailrun!