by Lisa Doucett
I choose my non-spike cross country shoes, encased up to their trademarked swooshes in dried Franklin Park mud. Sure, I regret exiling them for their misdeeds last fall, now that I need a crowbar to get the laces loose. I choose them because I think they can't get more wrecked. I am wrong.
I was looking forward to running the Merrimack River 10 mile Trail Race. I ran it little prepared last year and found it enjoyable, even though I was initially intimidated by the "No crybabies allowed...." T-shirt slogan and stories from race veterans. I want to believe the report that the trail is in good shape, but I know with the late snow, the weird warm weather and pre-race drizzle, there has to be an ooze factor.
At the start I see my friend Amy, who is returning to this race for the third time. Slightly paranoid that the T-shirt sayings are aimed at her personally, she claims she has overcome the emotional scarring of the previous years and will avenge herself today. Also in the crowd are newlyweds Bob Fitzgerald and Michelle LeBrun. Bob remarks that this will be a good first time distance event for Michelle, who has never gone 10 miles. They will run/hike the trail together. Persons nearby to them fall silent, unsure if they should intervene.
After a few instructions, we're off. Soon we reach the area race directors Dave Dunham and Steve Peterson refer to as "the dam." No runners ever notice the dam and so everyone else calls it "the-place-where-we-run-up-the- road-go-in-the-woods, cross-the-bridge-and- then-what-do-we-do? part. Though admonished at the start to "go straight" here (a relative term), the runners near me fan out in all directions, and the mud claims its first victim. Some guy steps too closely to the embankment and slips down the slope.
Before long the power line set of hills loom ahead. We start up the narrow and muddy path. Steve's voice is heard from the top of the hill, cheering and chanting. A voice behind me growls, "Somebody slap him." A runner stops mid-hill, halting everyone. I loose my balance and put both hands palm down in the thick mud.
The steep downhill after the power line proves daunting as a fallen tree has forced the creation of a new trail. The chosen route has become a gooey mess of leaves and mud. One man in front of me slips and grabs a small tree on the slope, and I do the same as the returning runners on this out and back course are coming towards us. I look over at the culprit tree and vow to bushwhack to the other side of it on my return. I slide around my sapling to ease my way downhill, its bark slicing my hand. Blood pools between the streaks of mud in my palm. I think of a few expletives.
I finally reach the turnaround point at 5 miles. It is very crowded on the way back, many more runners than the year before. I see Amy. "Oh, Lisa!" she says, in a weary, choked voice. Her eyes dart around and she says no more, like there is someone lurking in the woods to enforce the "no crybabies" rule.
Back at the steep hill, a few women have formed a human chain in an attempt to reach the bottom. Holding trees and each other, they are laughing about their predicament. I'm halfway up, slipping and losing ground when I realize I stupidly didn't remember to go on the other side of the downed tree. Steve Peterson's voice is heard again, he's ventured into the woods to yell at us. He should be back at the finish, making sure the disclaimers all have valid signatures on them.
Out to the power line and the trail has become an open trench of slime. As I peer over the top, I see Michelle, off to the side of the trail, clutching some former plant life. Bob is a few feet down the hill from her, perched on a rock. He has an amused look on his face and I can imagine what he has seen so far, as I myself am about to do a straddle dismount with a half twist, a la Dominque Dawes, unfortunately with 0% of the gymnast's flexibility. I try to uncommit my left foot from the trench, and lean to my right. Unable to stop my skid by either foot, I do what I can to remain upright while sliding to the bottom. I was going to warn Bob to turn around now, before its Divorceville, but I am unable to speak.
Bob yells that I am in 4th or 5th place for women, adding "definitely first MASTERS!" as I lurch by him. Definitely Divorceville, I nod to myself, as Bob must be looking way too closely at the women in front of me to see their age division on a color coded, 1" x 3" tag most of us have pinned to our waistbands. Michelle will be on a cell phone to her attorney by the turnaround.
For the descent out of the power line, I choose the grass vs. the trail and barely escape death in the trees at the bottom. Once in the woods, what had been decent footing heading out has now been churned up into shoe-sucking mud pits. As we run towards the drier trail next to the river, one huge mudfield is in between. The formerly exposed tree roots here are now unseen, though we all remember them. In military precision, runners go right or left in sequence. I trip at the last possible second, but land miraculously feet first on the drier part of the trail.
The clock says 82:51 as I chug into the parking lot. Over a minute slower than last year, I suffer the common runner' s malady of being happy at finishing but wishing the time was better. I turn in my place marker and tag. A fantastic array of food is available.
The results show Dave Dunham has clocked a course record in 56:32. Rows of names later, I find my lone purple colored name tag on the first board. I am still bummed out about my time, but at least I will get the first master's prize of home baked banana bread.
Dave comes by to look over the results. "I think this year's conditions were faster than last year's," he says. He sounds almost cheery. I look over to meet his glance, figuring he has mere seconds before he is hauled away and pummeled by those huddled around the finish times. "Oh really," I manage to say, as some of the previously unused expletives come to mind.
I join my colleagues who are in many stages of disrepair. Steve Vaitones, who ended up walking back after hurting himself within the first few miles, is trying to massage his aching leg muscles. In any other company, the police would have been summoned for indecency, but among runners he is ignored. Bob has been telling stories of his and Michelle's adventures of the day. Surviving the course in 1:58:22, Michelle is resting shoeless nearby.
After the awards, I see Amy standing next to her car. She is looking with disgust at a tangled mass of muddy shoelaces. I ask about her race. "I had a terrible day," she says. "I am supposed to run the Vermont marathon in May. I was going to do a few more miles today, but now..." She didn't need to finish her sentence.
Amy gazed out toward the river then brushed off a few dead leaves from her clothes. "I hope no one saw how intimate I got with a few saplings," she whispers. "I think there was a lot of that today," I assure her. "Well," she says with sudden resolve, "I had better improve NEXT YEAR!" With that she turns and marches back to her car, her shoes leaving perfect mudprints on the pavement.