The Dirty Dash 2011

I'll let these pictures speak for themselves...

The Inaugural Mt Nebo Half Marathon

He awoke with a start and reached for his phone. Had he slept through his alarm? No. It was 2:50AM. The alarm on his phone would not go off for another ten minutes. He rolled over in the hope of getting a few extra minutes of sleep. He had not wanted to get up this early on a Saturday morning, but the packet pick-up for the half marathon had been in Provo on Friday. He did not want to drive all the way down there from Sandy to pick up his packet, drive home. And then have to drive all the way to Payson the next morning for the run. They were offering race day pickup, but you had to be there by 4:30 to get your bib and shirt.

He rolled out of bed just a few minutes before the alarm was to go off and staggered toward the kitchen. Usually the night before an organized run he went to bed early. This week was an exception. He and Kate had tickets to see the play ‘Mary Poppins’ the night before and he wouldn’t miss the chance for a night out with his wife. They felt like real boors, sneaking out as soon as the play ended, without staying for the curtain call. But Kate had to be up by 5 for work, so they both had an excuse as to why they needed to beat traffic and get home.

He stood in the kitchen and downed a couple of bread slices and some chocolate milk. He was not a morning person, and rarely ate breakfast. But he had learned the hard way that he needed a lot of fuel to cover the 13.1 miles that were ahead of him.
Quietly he crept back into the bedroom and switched on the closet light. He had packed most of his things the night before, and was able to quickly dress and slip in his contacts. He carried his gym bag and shoes down to the living room, where he spent the next ten minutes stretching. Flexibility was a problem for him, though it was getting much better since he started seeing a physical therapist after injuring his knee three months earlier.

By 3:30 he had extinguished all the lights in the house and quietly locked the front door behind him. The morning air smelled of rain, and he took it in as he walked to his car. The gas light came on when he turned the ignition, and he cursed himself for not remembering to fill the tank the night before. At the 7-11 he filled the tank and bought a doughnut and Gatorade.

As he turned off the freeway in Payson he noticed that he was ahead of schedule: it was 4:15. Halfway down Main Street he found the high school. He had not encountered another set of headlights since he turned off the freeway. He pulled into a parking stall and turned the engine off. The full moon was out, and everything was still and silent. The Gatorade had been the last step in a week-long hydration process. Now he realized that his bladder was full, and there were no restrooms in sight. He quickly ran across the school ground and found a dark place behind one of the buildings. It wasn’t until after he had voided that he realized that he had urinated on a seminary building. He silently asked forgiveness for his blaspheme as he retreated to the car. A slight breeze had picked up, and it was chilly.

By 4:40 he could see signs of life. Cars were one by one filing into the parking lot and soon he saw someone set up a table. He got out of the car and stepped into the line that was forming.
“Hi. I am Chris Shirley.” He said to the woman behind the table. She scanned her list for a moment.
“I am showing that you picked your packet up already.” She replied. He stared at her for a moment.
“No.” He said slowly. “I didn’t.”
“Well, you’re going to have to talk to my husband.” She said. “He’ll be here shortly, so just hang tight.”

He stepped off to the side and watched others pick up their packets. Eventually the husband appeared, and she motioned him over. The man scanned through his lap top computer and assigned him a new bib number. This meant that whoever had his packet probably didn’t know, and would look for his name on the official race time list after the run, unable to find himself. This also meant that Chris would not be listed on the official race time list.

He climbed on to one of the yellow school buses that had appeared and found a seat. He wasn’t upset about the bib mix-up. This was the first year of this run. There were bound to be minor problems. He leaned back against the window and closed his eyes as he listened to the groups of people in the other seats sharing stories of other running experiences. He had almost dozed off when the engine rumbled to life and began its ascent up the canyon.

It was 5:40 when the bus pulled off the road into a small clearing among the trees. The moon was now obscured by clouds, and he could see nothing outside the bus. As he filed down the steps he saw a flash. A young man had just started a fire. He watched as the man walked from fire pit to fire pit, dousing each set of logs with gasoline before igniting them. As the flames roared up he made out a line of port-a-potties and realized he needed one again. He had been on the first bus, and there were just a few people in line ahead of him.

As there were only a few dozen people at the start line it was easy for him to find a spot near the open flame. He wore an old sweatshirt, but still shivered. The starting elevation for this run was over 8,000 feet and the September chill was getting to him. He listened to the conversations around the campfires, wandering from one pit to another. They were all the same. People were sharing experiences from previous races, laughing at each others’ anecdotes. Sometimes a person would make the mistake of admitting that this was his or her first run. Inevitably one of the experienced runners would start to give unsolicited advice about how to run properly.

By quarter to seven there was enough light to appreciate the scenery. It was spectacular. He looked down the canyon at the countless trees, most of which were still green, with small patches of yellow creeping in. He slipped away from the crowd and found a spot to stretch one more time. Then he went through his last pre-run checklist. iPod and earphones: check. Knee brace tightened: check. Running belt with supply of Gu: check. Nipples taped: check. Bodyglide: no.

Damn, he thought. Oh well. He was ready.

He filed in with the other runners near the gate. There were only 350 runners for this event, and he enjoyed that fact that it was small. He was used to the masses at the Salt Lake Marathon. Before the horn was blown they were given their last set of instructions. The canyon was open to cars, so they had to watch their step. It was a 3,500 foot elevation drop, so they needed to be careful with the steep downhills. The organizers did not want any injuries.

Finally it was time. Just before the horn was blown he peeled off his throw away sweatshirt. He filed through the gate and immediately saw a woman ahead fall hard. As he approached he saw that she was holding her right forearm and wincing in agony. Something about the arm was askew. He thought about how best to help her. But before he could approach, an army of fellow runners and race organizers swarmed her. For better or worse, he left the injured woman behind, hoping he would not be the next.

As he came around the first bend he saw a woman dressed in orange hunting gear walking up the road. She held a crossbow in her hand. He had not expected that.

It didn’t take long before he felt the effects of the downhill running. A dull ache began to form in his shins. He did his best to shut it out. He was doing everything right. His physical therapist had shown him how he was placing unnecessary stress on his hips by crossing over as he ran. She made him run with his head down so he could see what was happening on the ground. He visualized a line on the street, careful to make sure his feet did not cross over it. He was also careful to ensure that as he kicked out his feet didn’t cross over behind him. Ever since the PT had suggested this, the pain he felt in his knees had dissipated. He wondered if he even needed the brace any more.

No…one’s…gonna….STOP! Perry Farrell wailed through his earphones.

He put his head up just as he rounded a corner and found himself face to face with the largest black bovine he had ever seen. The cow stood stock still, regarding him as he ran by. Another sight he had not expected that morning.

He was surprised as he reached the second mile marker. Usually he was able to know his distances based on the number of songs that filtered through his iPod. Generally two songs equated to one mile. He had been near the end of a Soundgarden song when he passed the first mile marker. As he reached the second, he was only through one more song. He assumed that it was simply due to the fact that the most recent song was a long version from Tool. By the time he reached the third mile marker he knew that he was running at a faster pace than his norm.

Fuel was foremost on his mind. He had had problems with running out of gas on previous long runs, and knew that by the time he felt hungry it would be too late to catch up. He had studied the map prior to the race and knew where the water stops were. He planned the Gu packets just before the water stations, so he could wash it down with some PowerAde and a water chaser.

Big wheel keep on turnin’…John Fogerty sang out Proud Mary keep on burnin’…

His running playlist was an eclectic collection of song that ranged from The Kingston Trio to White Zombie. He made a mental note to remove Social Distortion’s “Ball and Chain” when it came on.

When he passed the six mile marker he knew that he was going to set a personal record. He felt great. But he resisted the urge to reach out and slap the mile marker as he passed, something he had started on his first marathon. During the Mt. Timpanogos half marathon he had slapped the 11 mile marker as he passed it, accidentally knocking it over. He had stopped to right the marker, which did not want to stay up. He wasted more than a minute with it, which proved costly. He had missed his goal of a 2 hour half by a lousy 7.5 seconds because of it.

Fly away on my Zephyr…I feel it more than ever…

The sun had not been able to reach the bottom of the narrow canyon, and a slight breeze was all that was needed to keep things cool. He was a sweater, and had never been able to figure out why. No matter how well conditioned he was for a race, he always felt that he was sweating more profusely than anyone else. He passed a spot where a small waterfall came right near the road. The spray of the water felt great.

Just past the 10 mile marker the canyon mouth opened up, and the ground leveled out. He usually began to hit his first wall at this point, but not today. Things were going well. However, leaving the canyon also meant leaving the shade. The direct sunlight was a sharp contrast to the coolness of the canyon breeze. The road soon became a long roller coaster. The uphills were not steep, but each one seemed to get longer than the last.

He could tell that he was slowing down. His steps were shorter. He debated about whether or not he should power through, stretching his gait and racing the last couple of miles. He decided against it. He had made decent time, and didn’t want to risk injury.

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right. Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.

The last water stop was at the 11 mile marker. After the PowerAde he sipped a bit of the water and poured the rest down his shirt. It was a nice jolt. Fatigue was setting in and though the ache in his shins was gone, his quadriceps and hamstrings were getting tight. He began to do the math. Even if his pace was down to 10 minute miles, he was still only 20 minutes from the finish line. 20 minutes? No problem. Nothing lasted 20 minutes. Muscle pain was no problem. Joint pain was. And his joints were not signaling that they were in distress.

A policeman directed the runners from the canyon road to a residential neighborhood. He was all but there.

I would walk 500 miles, and I would walk 500 more just to be the man who walked a thousand miles to fall down at your door…

He looked above the rooftops of the homes and saw the light posts for the baseball field. That was the finish line. He was all but there.

A rogue drop of sweat dove from his brow, hesitated on his eyelash, and before he could wipe it away splashed into his eye. He squinted and rubbed the eye. He hated when the salty sweat got into his eyes, stinging and blurring his vision. During the cold months he ran with a cap, which served to keep the sweat out of his eyes. But he couldn’t bring himself to wear a sweatband. Something about the image of a bald thirty-something running down the road with an 80’s style NBA headband did not appeal to him.

He rounded the last corner and saw a crowd of people at the finish line. It was the first crowd he had seen. His vision was blurred enough that he couldn’t make out the time clock, other than the ‘1’ at the beginning. He had done it. He had broken through the 2 hour mark. That had been his only goal. He trotted along down the last passage as the crescendo of cheering became louder. As he passed the finish line he saw the clock: 1:49:20. He had been hoping to beat his previous best by 5 minutes. He ended up doing it by nearly 11.

He bent down and accepted as a young girl placed a finisher’s medallion around his neck. Another passed him a bottle of water.

He paced back and forth along the outfield wall, sipping the water and cooling down. After a time he sat and stretched. The elevation loss on the run had been nearly 3,500 feet. Discounting the last couple of miles that were fairly even, the grade had been better than 5%. Fairly steep.

He hadn’t broken any land speed records. He didn’t finish first. He did feel great. He had set a personal record, and done it without injuries on the most beautiful course he had ever seen. Yes, he felt pretty damn good.

Ninety Years Young!

Labor Day weekend was a little extra special this year. As most of the family was going to be in Idaho for the holiday weekend, Aunt Jan decided to coordinate a little early birthday party for Grandma Shirley, who turns 90 this year.

Jan worked very hard to ensure that the party was a surprise. Grandma knew of the party, as we have one for Labor Day every year. She was more than a little surprised when a birthday cake with her name on it was brought out with candles alight.

Jan also hit a home run with the birthday gift. She had each of Marge’s children and grandchildren write a special reflection about Grandma. She then printed them and arranged them in a book with a picture of the families on a background themed around the writer. It was touching.

Though I can’t remember word for word what I said in my reflection, I can reflect on some of the things that make Grandma special. Some of my earliest memories of Marge relate to summers spent at her home, where we would get eaten alive by mosquitoes. She always had a small green bottle with some salve with a sharp smell. She would gently dab our affected skin with the ointment, which made the itch disappear. She would take us to the St. Anthony sand dunes and stand atop the hill as a sentinel, guarding against any dune buggies that might come our way.

Marge has one of the warmest spirits I have ever encountered. I cannot recall a time when I felt that I was in trouble, though there were many times that I should have been. When as kids (and later as adults) we would do something naughty, she would just purse her lips together and raise her eyebrows. She even did this to me this weekend, when I told her I would be driving home at night, something she does not approve of.

Her mannerisms are quite unique. She has a deep, hearty laugh that Mrs. Bird (now deceased) used to imitate. And whenever we tell her something of import, she gives her famous phrase “Well for Heaven’s sake.”

I remember times when we were out hunting Christmas trees until well after dark, and returning to her house to see her standing out front, on patrol with her hands on her hips. And regardless of how late it was, there was always a hot meal served to us.

It is no secret that I still look up to my father. And when I reflect on the person he has become, I have to take note of the kind of person who raised him, and the wonderful attributes he inherited from her, as well as the hard work ethic that was instilled in him. I am grateful for the influence that Grandma Shirley has had in my life, and I am thankful that my children have had a chance to know her and spend some time with her.

Happy Birthday, Marge Shirley!