Ragnar: Part III

At this point, we’re all pretty much zombies. I mean, we’ve had two hours sleep, more or less, followed by driving back and forth along I-70 in Glenwood Canyon in a cramped mini-van, and running 3-6 miles somewhere in there. Then, the sun starts to come up, and the circadian rhythm doesn’t know whether to do a jig or a waltz. Mostly, we want to crash. The plan: drive 35 miles up to my house, and rest there for three hours before speeding back down to Basalt, site of the next Grand Exchange.

Steph is driving, as I just finished my second leg thru Glenwood Springs. Suddenly, Carrie blurts out, “Al, can we stop for some chocolate milk?” She sounds exactly like one of my kids on a long car trip, and I know better than to try and inject something like, “We’re going to be at my house in 45 minutes, I’ve got chocolate milk there.

But being a Zombie, I go ahead and say it anyway. To, of course, no avail, as the sleepless child combined with the need for re-fueling clearly outweighs any thoughts of time efficiency. So we pull into the nearest convenience store. I go in and grab 4 bottles of Nesquick (it had to be this brand), and we’re back on the road.

We’re all very quiet during the drive – so quiet, Steph seems to be nodding out, and weaving a bit. Luckily, she notices this and pulls over in Basalt, where I drive the last little bit. At home, I’ve got no clue what the others did, as I immediately went to bed with ear plugs in, getting 2+ glorious hours of uninterrupted sleep.

I’m ready to slam my last leg, along the rim trail above my house, but first we’ve got to get five other legs done, churning up the Rio Grande Trail in the valley of the Roarling Fork. The two toughest legs this time belong to Kurt and Carrie.

Kurt gets to do a 10 km segment from Old Snowmass to Woody Creek. The trail parallels River Road, and we leap frog with him, providing car door pounding encouragement in between stops to offer water and positive reinforcement. During some of these stops, we encounter “Slow Children At Play”, and start to ramp up the competitive juices a bit. They are ahead of us by 5 minutes at Holland Hills, but between Kurt and Josh, we’ve overcome that deficit, and are leading them by a bit. I scout them out to see whom I’ll be running against during my leg.

Most of the Slow Children appear to be in their mid-thirties, and just out for a lark. Not truly portly, they are certainly not lean. But one young lady stands out, in a pink tank-top, long blond pony tail, and lean calves – a sure sign of a real runner. Sure enough, she’s the one they assigned to the final lap. She’s 28, and admits to being on the cross country team in college. Well, at least I’ll have somebody to provide a theoretical challenge so I don’t stop and walk on the first 2.75 mile upward grind from 7900′ to 9000′.

Carrie gets to run a 4 mile segment from Woody Creek to the Intercept Lot. They could have routed this along River Road, so that there is only one short but very steep hill at the end. Instead, they stay on the Rio Grande, which turns to gravel at this point, and starts to rise at a 3-5% clip. Up above the highway, the route plunges back down to Wink Jaffee Park by the river, only to sadistically take the AspenMass trail back up, which maxes out at 18% near the top.

I challenge Carrie by telling her I don’t believe she’ll be able to run up the whole way (I know I certainly couldn’t.) Carrie asked for a lot of work in this relay, and she has received one of the three toughest assignments. Starting with nearly nine miles into the twilight, then 4.6 miles in the dead of night, finishing with this killer leg of gravel and ups and downs.

While waiting for her in the Intercept Lot (where buses from Aspen change for Snowmass or downvalley), we take special notice of the antics performed during the exchange by the other teams. Some have perfected the bracelet exchange, passing each other by at full speed while slap the bracelet from one to the other.

Other teams take time to engage in Signature Moves. One couple (hopefully an item) exhange big wet kisses with a hug during the handoff. Others have a little dance with hand slaps, body bumps, the whole nine yards of athletic camaraderie. And some just look resplendent in their special outfits, like the Big Hat crew (they have 50 gallon black cowboy hats on while waiting, but not while running), or the Caped Crusaders (who DO run with the cape flying behind them.)

“Next year, we’ve got to get our exchange act together,” Scott muses.

“What, like wear aero helmets or something?” I think.

So Scott takes over here, and we have 30 minutes while he runs the 3+ miles up to the Snowmass Rec. Center. I left the house with my clunky Asics trail shoes on, thinking I’d need them on the gravel, dirt and steep shale slopes along the Rim. But trying to run in those boats proved un-nerving, so I force everyone to ride up with me another 3 miles to the house and back, so I can pick up my Kinvaras, which will feel lighter on my toes.

Back at the Rec Center, I carefully place my Casio watch inside the left Asics shoe, strap on my Garmin wrist GPS pace watch, and get ready for this run I’ve been dreading for months.

Because I know the Rim Trail. It’s a biking/hiking trail, 8.1 miles from here to the Village, and there are almost NO flat sections. Walking from my parents’ house out to “Mung Lake” was usually a half-day affair. A mountain bike trek might take 90+ minutes. I can’t imagine trying to RUN on the thing, but that’s what the organizers have decided to make us do, after the preceeding 35 legs on bike paths or back roads, with little off-camber challenge.

Going up the first segment, I settle in at a humiliating 12 min/mile pace – granted, the gradient is about 9% – but still manage to pass about 4 people on the way up, some walking, some in a desultory jog. Up near the top, the open sagebrush give way to a flatter area with small Aspen groves. In one of them, deep in the shade, I fail to notice a root across the track, it it with my right foot, and go flying.

Normally, I’d be able to rotate to the side, and take the fall with my hip. But I’m carrying two water bottles, and trying to hold onto them while braking my descent proves, well, impossible. So I take the dirt on my right elbow, skinning it a bit, and dirty up the front of my shirt and pants. I grumble and curse, try to wipe myself off a bit. As I’m gathering my wits, a young runner in a black Ragnar shirt, who’s been dogging me for the past mile, comes by, and hits the root himself. He stumbles on slightly, though. I mumble, “You didn’t it either, huh?”, and give him a slight shove on his shoulder as he trundles past.

At this point, the track turns to a nice downhill for about a mile. I go flying down, to the intersection with Sinclair Road. If I turn left, I could be at my house in two minutes. But I have to go back up, along the razorback ridge I stare at anytime I’m sitting in my hot tub. The route skirts the shale slope, so steep nothing will grow here, and the snow won’t stick in the winter. I pass more people, and see Black Ragnar shirt in front of me, walking up some of the steeper bits.

By this time, I’ve given up, and have started walking up the same steep bits, while continuing to fly down hill. I try to open the gel packet I’ve brought, but my new teeth are just not close enough together to bite it open, and my fingers are too weak to rip. So I go without.

The view up here is awesome. Down to the right, Wildcat Valley on to Sopris. Straight ahead, the Elk Mountains, with Capitol, Daly and Snowmass Peak all prominent. And to the left, down into Brush Creek Valley, with the homesites of Snowmass, the Golf Course, and of course the massive ski area laid out just like on a trail map.

With about two miles to go, I trip again in a flat area, this time among some evergreens, whose shade hid another root. By this time, I’ve stuffed the second bottle in my back pocket, and only suffer the ignominy of a little more dirt on my torso and legs. A fork in the trail appears, and I take the wrong one, going an extra quarter mile up to the hang glider take off pad. Damn! I’d almost been up to re-catching Black Ragnar guy, but it seems I’ll have to re-pass someone I just went by 5 minutes ago. Total for the leg: 12 kills, one killed (which I don’t count, as I would have pased him again without the wrong turn.)

The final mile downhill goes flying by, and I pray at each hairpin turn that I don’t keep goiong straight down the hill and really bugger my race in Hawaii. But I’m having too much fun doing 6 minute miles, and really want to get this over with, so I just keep the pedal down. I make it to Brush Creek Road, where the route is not clearly marked. We’re supposed to go down to the trail across the creek, then back up a steep hill (stairs) to the bus station. But I just cruise around the gentle grade of the road, and probably save a bit of time that way.

Next, they have us go smack through the middle of the Mall, with tourists looking dumb-founded, not knowing which way to jig as I go flying by. It seems a little stupid to run through this mess. But worse is yet to come.

I may have skied down Fanny Hill at the base of Snowmass literally a thousand times. It takes all of 45 seconds. But the finish line is down at the bottom – for the benefit of the Base Village restaurants, I suppose – and we have to snake through 8 more hairpin turns on a service track. It is very frustrating, and I’m wondering why I can’t run downhill as fast as I ski.

FINALLY, the IWT/EN team appears, hollering for me to slow down so they can run in with me. I try, but the brakes don’t work, so I barrel on over the finish, and get directed to the Photo Flag, where they all appear behind me, freshly showered in their grey team shirts, while I’m layered in Rim Trail dust with a bloody elbow. I smile anyway.