goofyguy1958
My son the dinoboy!!
- Joined
- Aug 8, 2003
- Messages
- 594
I did not want to post this longish race report on the weekly training thread for fear of hogging up too much space. Besides, I have been lame and too busy to actually post on a regular for quite some time now...
The Mt. Penn Mud Fest is hyped as the most popular rustic trail run in the eastern 2/3rds of the U. S. and judging by the turnout of 800 crazy mud-loving fools I would have to agree.
The temperature at race start was a balmy 33 degrees F with a nice north westerly breeze of 13 mph and gusts over 20 mph (read wind chill below 20). This is spring time, isnt it? As usual, the race director regaled the runners with his odd-ball wit and questionable wisdom and then started us off by tossing a toy pig across the front of the starting area instead of a gun or a horn, the race starts when the pig hits the ground.
The first ¾ to one mile of the race is on the road and therefore less than memorable. Then we turn onto the trails and let the adventures begin. As has been my motive for a lot of my races in the past year, I start all the way at the back of the pack and start picking off runners, walkers and wobblers (you know, the ones who obviously have little experience with trail running, who try and pick the perfect spot to place each and every foot plant with little luck before falling down). Since the race will rapidly turn into a single-track course, leaving little possibility for passing, I try and move up as far as possible as quickly as possible and then settle into a rhythm. Rhythm and trail running do not go together so I simply settle for whatever pace I can run on this hellishly rocky course.
The race director has planted Easter eggs along the course with prizes being awarded to anyone who returns with one. There is also 40 pounds of chocolate to award to those who register for the raw egg carry. To win the chocolate the racer needs to finish the race with theirs in tack egg that is. I actually attempt to look for any planted Easter egg but only locate a poor discarded purple peep chick did I mention that there was a large box filled with peeps and malted milk ball eggs at the first aid station.
At about the 3 mile mark there is a section of the course that looks like a giant game of pick-up-stix is being played and we need to climb over each and every fallen tree that makes up the game. Actually this was a bit of a welcome respite in that it gave the legs a rest from all the downhill pounding. Next is a welcome respite from this balmy day NOT we get to jump into calf deep freezing water and cross a 20 foot wide stream. Hey, at least it washed the mud off my shoes from that patch of shoe-sucking muck we just went through.
Now the fun starts. What goes down must go up and the climb starts right after crossing toe numb creek. Up up up up we go until the lungs are screaming for oxygen and the thighs, already sore from the downhill pounding, quiver with weakness. Then it is back to the frantic rocketing down hill. Then back up hill. Then well, you get the point. In between the up and down we get to cross the same creek, in 3 separate locations, a total of 4 times. On the last crossing one must slide down a very steep bank to the water on their tush and here I broke the band of my Garmin 201 banging into a tree good thing I ran with the old Garmin today. I remove the Garmin and place it in my shorts pocket - later this will prove to be a bad choice.
After the fourth shoe washing, across the road we go to what feels like the final scramble up a very steep climb that our lovely race director decides to regale us with some poetry that goes something like this Roses are Red Violets are blue This is the steepest section of the course I am glad I am not running it with you. Being in a state of oxygen debt I may have mixed up the wording but this is the general message.
Once we have crested the last brutal climb it feels like we should be almost done but down we go again. Here is where I start having troubles with the lack of foresight in the placement of my broken Garmin. You see, my shorts have no draw string to hold them up and before I know it my left cheek we aint talking facial here is exposed for all behind me to see. Oh well, could be worse I could have had a front pocket.
Now I am really ready for the finish and, wait, there it is, the park we started at, but hold on there partner, remember, there is a saddest who is our race director. Keep moving and make the left turn at the beer and margarita station. Thats right, beer and margaritas are served on this race course. I guess our saddest has a soft spot after all. However, I do not partake of the alcohol because at this point I just want to be done with this race.
We run on, those of us who bypass the drink that is, for about another mile down and up and twisting ankles (twice for me with one causing me to stop and walk it off for about a minute) and twisting and turning and then bursting out of the woods onto a baseball field lined with those red traffic cones guiding me on my sprint to the finish. Another trail race is history and I survived with only a bit of exposure and a couple of twisted ankles.
This was a good day considering what happened to my brother at about mile 7. He actually did not make it all the way over a set of logs and landed on his face literally. Looks like he took a header on a mountain bike with what I think was a busted nose and more trail rash than hills on the course. He finished in 23rd place overall and took 3rd master even with the tumble he is by far a better runner than I. And crazier too.
The Mt. Penn Mud Fest is hyped as the most popular rustic trail run in the eastern 2/3rds of the U. S. and judging by the turnout of 800 crazy mud-loving fools I would have to agree.
The temperature at race start was a balmy 33 degrees F with a nice north westerly breeze of 13 mph and gusts over 20 mph (read wind chill below 20). This is spring time, isnt it? As usual, the race director regaled the runners with his odd-ball wit and questionable wisdom and then started us off by tossing a toy pig across the front of the starting area instead of a gun or a horn, the race starts when the pig hits the ground.
The first ¾ to one mile of the race is on the road and therefore less than memorable. Then we turn onto the trails and let the adventures begin. As has been my motive for a lot of my races in the past year, I start all the way at the back of the pack and start picking off runners, walkers and wobblers (you know, the ones who obviously have little experience with trail running, who try and pick the perfect spot to place each and every foot plant with little luck before falling down). Since the race will rapidly turn into a single-track course, leaving little possibility for passing, I try and move up as far as possible as quickly as possible and then settle into a rhythm. Rhythm and trail running do not go together so I simply settle for whatever pace I can run on this hellishly rocky course.
The race director has planted Easter eggs along the course with prizes being awarded to anyone who returns with one. There is also 40 pounds of chocolate to award to those who register for the raw egg carry. To win the chocolate the racer needs to finish the race with theirs in tack egg that is. I actually attempt to look for any planted Easter egg but only locate a poor discarded purple peep chick did I mention that there was a large box filled with peeps and malted milk ball eggs at the first aid station.
At about the 3 mile mark there is a section of the course that looks like a giant game of pick-up-stix is being played and we need to climb over each and every fallen tree that makes up the game. Actually this was a bit of a welcome respite in that it gave the legs a rest from all the downhill pounding. Next is a welcome respite from this balmy day NOT we get to jump into calf deep freezing water and cross a 20 foot wide stream. Hey, at least it washed the mud off my shoes from that patch of shoe-sucking muck we just went through.
Now the fun starts. What goes down must go up and the climb starts right after crossing toe numb creek. Up up up up we go until the lungs are screaming for oxygen and the thighs, already sore from the downhill pounding, quiver with weakness. Then it is back to the frantic rocketing down hill. Then back up hill. Then well, you get the point. In between the up and down we get to cross the same creek, in 3 separate locations, a total of 4 times. On the last crossing one must slide down a very steep bank to the water on their tush and here I broke the band of my Garmin 201 banging into a tree good thing I ran with the old Garmin today. I remove the Garmin and place it in my shorts pocket - later this will prove to be a bad choice.
After the fourth shoe washing, across the road we go to what feels like the final scramble up a very steep climb that our lovely race director decides to regale us with some poetry that goes something like this Roses are Red Violets are blue This is the steepest section of the course I am glad I am not running it with you. Being in a state of oxygen debt I may have mixed up the wording but this is the general message.
Once we have crested the last brutal climb it feels like we should be almost done but down we go again. Here is where I start having troubles with the lack of foresight in the placement of my broken Garmin. You see, my shorts have no draw string to hold them up and before I know it my left cheek we aint talking facial here is exposed for all behind me to see. Oh well, could be worse I could have had a front pocket.
Now I am really ready for the finish and, wait, there it is, the park we started at, but hold on there partner, remember, there is a saddest who is our race director. Keep moving and make the left turn at the beer and margarita station. Thats right, beer and margaritas are served on this race course. I guess our saddest has a soft spot after all. However, I do not partake of the alcohol because at this point I just want to be done with this race.
We run on, those of us who bypass the drink that is, for about another mile down and up and twisting ankles (twice for me with one causing me to stop and walk it off for about a minute) and twisting and turning and then bursting out of the woods onto a baseball field lined with those red traffic cones guiding me on my sprint to the finish. Another trail race is history and I survived with only a bit of exposure and a couple of twisted ankles.
This was a good day considering what happened to my brother at about mile 7. He actually did not make it all the way over a set of logs and landed on his face literally. Looks like he took a header on a mountain bike with what I think was a busted nose and more trail rash than hills on the course. He finished in 23rd place overall and took 3rd master even with the tumble he is by far a better runner than I. And crazier too.
.
