My First Run (pt. 3)

Okay, to continue with last week’s story, three of us are leading a hash run in a mountain forest near my house – we are the hares. Dave is back waiting at the beer check next to the beautiful Silver River waterfall. Ben is marking the Short route with flour heading up the hillside up to the crest of the ridge. I’ve just made my way up a small stream which dwindled down to nothing as I made my way up the hillside. I’ve just left the stream to go through a short section of forest that we cleared on an earlier trip.

The cleared section opened into a really weird farm field, there was no sense to its location. It wasn’t near the stream-trail, it wasn’t near the ridgeline, it wasn’t convenient for anything, though it was a big help to us. There was one small, rough trail leading away from it. It was probably the lowest grade trail I’d still be willing to take the runners on. You felt like the mud and earth was going to slide away from you on every step. Oddly enough, about ten feet from the ridge the trail just disappeared, like someone wasn’t interested in finishing it. But I had my bag of flour and I put down a check on the trail on top of the ridge.

I thought of that check as the best possible gift I could give to the people running the long. Simply put, the Mao Kong Ridge Trail is the single greatest place to run in the world. It has a bit of up and down, but you never lose momentum. It has some turns and some stones which makes it challenging, but still dynamic. There’s one fifteen minute section that’s pure running nirvana. It’s never slick, always fast.

Now, I thought that check on the ridge was a gift because it meant the runners could spend more time on the ridge. When the day was done, they didn’t see things that way. It turns out that after the check, I hadn’t dropped any flour for more than 300 meters. Our rule is first flour needs to be within 100 meters – there was some dissent over that problem.

The Long route crossed with the Short route once the Short came up to the ridge. Planning everything out, we were very worried about getting caught by the faster runners. We agreed that whoever made it to the cross first would mark the Long route and second would mark the end of the Short. I suspected I’d get their first because of my early shortcut, but, beforehand, I really couldn’t say for sure. On the day I arrived at the crossing point first, Ben got there less than 20 seconds later.

We didn’t stop to chat. I grabbed my flour and continued with the Long. Ben grabbed his and went to finish the Short. His trek was nearly done, but there was a tricky bit coming up. He had just come up to the ridge top and now he had to go down the other side. But that route is covered with the most slippery, dangerous, cursed stones I’ve ever tried to tango with. A friend that I brought down those steps begged me not to make anyone else try them. She was certain they were just too treacherous. But I felt boxed in and I couldn’t figure out another way finish the Short route. I put my faith in everyone’s sense of self-preservation and just hoped they would be careful. No problems, everyone got in safe.

But that was Ben’s work. I marked the long continuing up the ridge a bit further. It climbed up a bit to a minor peak and then it really got exciting. The week before our run, Ben had stumbled upon another trail to get off the mountain that I’d never seen before. At the last minute we decided to include it. The trail’s a real screamer. It starts high on the peak and drops all the way down to the stream the eventually becomes the big waterfall. It was steep and it was a muddy mess, but what a thrill. There were thick vines hanging all around that really helped, it was a full-body exercise.

I made my way down that section much faster than I should have and my heart was pounding, the whole world felt intense. But then I heard a noise. An unmistakable noise. It was Big John. He was shouting at someone else on the trail. That’s just how he tells jokes, he shouts – the punch lines at least. But this was bad. I was the hare. I’m not supposed to be seen. I’m not supposed to be caught. We had been marking for more than an hour. I never imagined that anyone would be left on the trail after all this time. Worse still, I was supposed to lead the Long runners down the middle of the stream. What could I do with people still going by on the far side? I hid. Quietly.

I really just crouched down behind some plants and telepathically urged them to hurry up and get moving. It actually seemed to work fairly well. I only had to wait for about two minutes. I was nervous about the fast runners coming up behind me, but I still felt I had some time. When I thought there was a gap on the trail across the stream I jumped down into the stream and marked down the stream as quickly as I could. Nobody shouted. Nobody saw me. I made it to the mini-waterfall – about six feet. I made an exclamation point out of flour just before the jump! I leaped and splashed down in the cold water, still flowing strong. All my flour got washed away, but I was prepared. I grabbed the last stash of flour and got up on the right side of the stream. I had to move quickly and carefully because there were still people on the far side of stream that I had to avoid.

I moved safely along a muddy trail and into some bamboo groves, I was nearly on the home stretch. I got back to the railroad ties that I had used as a shortcut at the start of the run. I was going to use them to finish the Long route. “Tuzi!” “Tuzi!” “Tuzi!” A nine-year-old girl was shouting, “The Hare!” over and over. I’d been caught by a nine-year-old girl. There was a group of Short walkers who had gotten confused at an early check, they were a bit behind. They caught me fair and square. I told them how to finish up and I went on my way. I marked the remainder of the run back to the restaurant without any trouble.

Most people concluded that the run was a spectacular debacle. A few sour notes along with some real high points. Nothing boring about my runs…I’ll never have it any other way.