I am face down in a creek. The water is rushing past me at 14 times the speed of my grandmother on one of her good days, and it's so cold, it actually feels good. How I got here, I'm not entirely certain. The last thing I remember was bounding downslope towards this water crossing, wondering why all those people to my left were tip-toeing across such a simple looking creek. I didn't so much fall as the surface of the Earth leapt up to meet me when I somehow missed the ground.

Knowing that I've got about 10 seconds before hypothermia sets in, I jump up, look at the line of people headed up the long climb before me, and take off before the pain has a chance to tell my brain how badly hurt I might be.

There's no way I'm stopping now - I'm having way too much fun.

The Mt. Penn Mudfest is a 15k Trail Race located on Mt. Penn (duh), which is a large pile of cheese-grater like rocks gathered about outside of Reading, PA. I had never run a trail race before, but when someone showed me the application I just knew that I had to abandon my attachment to the road and give the madness a try.

I sent the application to the TRI-DRS list, and at the end of one dizzying February day, it seemed that there were 15 people headed up to my neck of the woods to run this race (or to help locate my body and tell St. Lynda where to find me once I'd augured in for good). With a flurry of planning that would have made NASA proud, Dave Decker opened his house as headquarters and hostel to Steve Smith, Katie Hobson, Doug Walsh, Doug Johnston, Eric Weiss, Stephen Dragoni, Trevor Shand, Scott Rosen, Michael Parente, and myself for a weekend of training and decent company (Weiss notwithstanding). It quickly became the most talked about thing on the list, Oprah, Lifetime television for women, and The Drudge Report.

We all met up at Dave's on Good Friday morning with the plan of heading out on a nice, easy, leg-warming ride through the endless hills of the Lehigh Valley. Following low-traffic roads on a sunny afternoon, getting to finally know people by face that I'd known as "@.com" for months, It was nice to just forget about office-cube life for a few hours, and I soaked in every minute I could. Well, that was after I'd shown up and realized that I'd packed my super-tricked our gear bag (complete with super-tricked out Saucony Triathlon Checklist on the inside) before I'd had my first cup of coffee that morning. I had thought about putting shorts in there - I really had! But I'd somehow gotten distracted by the Weather Channel, the CNBC Squawk Box, or Michael Parente...and said shorts never made it out of my mental checklist and into the bag.

I realized this as soon as I went to get dressed. Thankfully, Dave Decker and I are roughly the same size...and emergency shorts were supplied by 10:05am. This Dave guy - really on the ball, I must say. He took us through some really nice rolling countryside, and even foolishly answered me when I spotted a cell phone tower way up on some ridge and asked, "So, can you ride up there?" He told me that is was possible, and also added how mean and nasty it was. Steve Smith looked over at me with the same maniacal "YES." grin I must have had...and before I know it, the first annual TRI-DRS King of the Mountain Competition was under way.

Of course, have I ridden hills this year? Sure. Maybe 10 of them. Slowly. Is Steve about 45 pounds lighter than I am? Only if I skip breakfast - usually, it's 50. Before I had a chance to settle in, Doug Johnston went roaring by on the right like he'd been shot from a cannon. I guessed that the road would go up a LONG way, so I let the rabbit go. Sure enough, Doug's brain caught up to his legs and simply yelled, "DUDE - It's March." and he stopped. Steve, Doug Walsh, and I were left to take on this evil grade for all the marbles.

I sat back and waited for Steve and Doug to crack, but they just kept getting farther and farther away. In my mind, Phil Liggett quipped "So now on the early slopes of this surprising climb, Mina has been shown a clean pair of wheels by Smith and Walsh. Smith and Walsh? It's more like Smith and Wesson, as they have blown this fat bastard apart now! He should have known better than to take on the pair of eagles soaring ahead of him now...."

At the top high-fives were exchanged, and we circled to see what other fools would take on the climb. Not surprisingly, most of them did. Weiss, Parente, Decker, one by one they all came up the ridge, cursed at us, and headed back down.

Once the ride was over, Dave took us on a neat little 4 mile loop around a Country Club across from his neighborhood. I hung on to the back of the group looking at the scenery, chatting a bit, and wondering why my legs felt like complete and utter trash...when I remembered that this was my first brick workout since leaving T2 at Ironman Canada in August, 2001. The others ran 5 and change - I ran 4 and walked the last bit with Katie, Michael, and Scott. No need to trash the legs before tomorrow - who knew what kind of trashing they'd be getting then?

Dave provided a sumptuous feast of cookies (home-baked by the family Decker), bagels, fruit, and cheese, all while we chatted like a triathlon coffee klatch for about 3 hours. It reminded me of being on Spring Break at college without a care in the world, even if it was only for a day or two. I headed back home that night smiling, knowing that the next day promised to be equally as entertaining, and probably a heck of a lot more hilly.

550 runners had entered the Mudfest, and as we all gathered in a wide-open field for the pre-race briefing, I could feel the electricity in the air - the excitement, the dizziness; But then I realized that was because I'd put my Tigger ears on too tightly, so I took them off until the start. Why was I wearing those Disney ears to a trail race? It just seemed like it would be a good way to warn people that I really wasn't taking this whole event too seriously without having to say a thing. I had no idea how hard the course would be, I just knew that it was promised to be hilly, rocky, muddy in places, wetter in other places...so I was prepared for taking things slowly.

I lined up near the back with Dave Krieger and Lynn Kapusta. It was Dave's first ever race - period! Since it was sort of my fault he was here in the first place, I had planned on staying near the back with him since I'd run the Ocean Drive Marathon only 6 days previously, and I figured I could keep him company if he needed it. Lynn said she was just going to take this day easy, so I figured she'd win her age group by about 45 minutes (the usual). After a 1/2 mile warm-up on the road we all queued up to enter the single-track of Mt. Penn, and my initiation to trail-racing began.

I carried a small disposable camera with me to document the whole race, or to give the person that would eventually find my body enough evidence to figure out what I was doing when I finally died. I figured that a body found in the woods, dressed in a neon green jersey from the early days of triathlon, wearing a set of Tigger ears? That would just leave too much to the imagination of my discoverer. As the field lined up single-file, I learned my first lesson of trail etiquette: Warn when passing.

The RD had told us to warn "Passing Left!" when going by someone, and I warned a group of three as I bounded through a gap (that quickly closed and sent me off into the woods, high-stepping like a football player running the tires) only to be scolded by a woman at the back, "Look out! Tigger passing left!" I made a note to myself to warn early and warn often, and settled back in line. Already I could tell that trail-runners were different than road runners - they were polite!

The terrain wasn't too bad in the opening mile or two - I had a chance to take some pics, warm all the way up, and get ready for the hills to come. I wasn't scared of the climbs - I was scared of going DOWN whatever we went up. Through a long and unbalanced career of falling off things ranging from stages to staircases to curbs, my ankles possessed all the stability and balance of a drunken, blindfolded penguin. I knew that it would only take one misstep to send me tumbling down the face of Mount Penn in a non-glorious, neon endo, sweeping up innocent runners in the Bobalanche. I planned on running the uphills as hard as I could, and descending as slowly as I could get away with, making sure to leave room for anyone braver than I.

We crossed a road, and as we made the entrance to the woods on the other side, I somehow snagged my jersey on a metal post (with a rough bolt sticking out of the side). With my jersey caught while I still moved forward, the result was predictable: It stretched out 3 feet behind me...and just as I turned to see what was grabbing me - it let go. The camera I was carrying in the pockets (now possessing great energy) slapped me on the back with a good, solid "WHACK!" causing the folks behind me to all cringe, and step slightly to the left when they passed through. (Katie Hobson would later gain the admiration of the group for being the only member to have road rash from the same offensive post).

After the first long climb, I moved right and got ready to take it easy on the way down...when a funny thing happened: My brain whispered to me, "Go for it. Pretend you're skiing." I focused on the pair of feet before me, watched the terrain, and let it fly. I could never do it on my own in training, but there I was - hurling myself in line with the rest of the group, skimming off rocks, bounding off roots, and whooping like a kid on a roller coaster. I had my arms out like I was planting and turning on skis, and before I knew it the descent was over. My HR was HIGHER at the bottom than it had been at the top, and I was shaking with nervous energy at having made it down in one piece. Sweat was pouring off the brim of my hat, but I was loving every second of it.

"Nice fall line, Tigger!" I heard from behind me. What? Someone had followed ME downhill? My confidence grew a little bit - this was turning into serious fun.

I stayed in line for the most part, watching where the people before me stepped so I could pick a good line when I got there. I found that trail running wasn't so much physically as it was mentally tiring - the constant concentration about every footfall was something I'd never experienced. When a section would come along where I could look forward and down the trail and just rest my eyes for a bit, it seemed so EASY. I made sure I relaxed my arms, my shoulders, and my legs when cruising on the few non-rocky sections we crossed while getting psyched up for the next section.

I had never run through a water crossing before, so when we got to the first one I whooped out again, "Look out below!" It was a short one - while people lined up to the left to pick a potentially dry line, I just jumped out to the right and in one step - BLOOSH! - bounded in and out without even getting my left foot near the drink. At the other side the trail wasn't really a trail, but a slick, muddy wall that had been shredded into a tractionless scramble. People were slipping, sliding, and trying to find places to get up the face anywhere they could. I heard someone yell, "You don't have to stay on the trail! Climb anywhere!" Before me was a tangle of branches and roots, so I just grabbed hold and hefted myself up the wall to the next climb. I had no idea at the time that I'd just gone on all-fours through a thicket of poison ivy...but at least I'd picked up 5 more positions, right? (Please pass the Rhuli, eh? ScratchScratchScratch....)

I caught up to Katie Hobson and said, "Hey there!" as I snapped a picture on the way by. She told me, "I want to see that picture before you show it to anyone else, okay?" I did, so here you go (Katie's Pic)

Once more I worked as hard as I could sustain on the uphills. By now I was passing more people than before during the climbs, and holding my position on the descents. I was feeling better and better about my ability to handle this trail-running thing as I approached the second water crossing - a longer, rockier one than the first. People were tip-toeing carefully across the rocks, so I saw lots of room to the right and dove for it.

Of course, it never occurred to me exactly WHY there wasn't anybody to the right.

While folks made their way across to the left, I came into bounding towards the creek with the ease and grace of a 747 making a wheels-up landing. I hit the water, and watched surprisingly as my leg disappeared up to the ankle...then mid-calf...then knee deep. I bounded to the right leg, and that one immediately slipped off a moving rock. I lunged wildly with my left leg and immediately rolled that ankle hard left. With both arms waving above my head and my legs headed in very different directions, I yelled the battle cry of those suffering a sudden loss of balance around the world ("Oh, sh*t!"), and took my header like a man: Knee first into a rock, and then face-first into the water.

Somehow, the ears stayed on my head, and above water. I would have paid cash money for a picture of that scene.

For a moment, I thought, "Well, that's it then. I'm broken. That had to have broken something. At least I had fun." But then my brain remembered, "Dude! This is a race! Get up!" and I replied, "I can't get up - I'm hurt, you fool. Nice driving, by the way." But then my brain counter-quipped, "Hey - you don't feel any pain yet, right? Maybe if you get up and run really fast before the pain gets here, you won't know you hurt yourself! Get moving!"

In my hypoxic (and rapidly developing hypothermic) state, it made perfect sense. I stood up, took off up the other bank. In a few steps, nothing hurt at all! I knew my pain was probably not too far away, and I was right - the next 3 miles was all uphill back up to the summit of Mt. Penn. My shoes went "squish, squish, squish" all the way up that climb, but my knee never faltered. Everyone around me was walking, but I refused to stop running - it was the only place I could move up, and I knew even if I ran little Baby Steps(tm) I'd be faster than people walking.

I was glad that the camera had survived my unexpected splashdown, and took more shots on the way up just so I could show people how totally friggin' insane this race really was. The climb went up, and up, and up, and up. Someone asked, "Are we above the treeline yet?" We passed a sherpa. I watched planes fly below us. Angels cheered us on, and the clouds parted as we hit the summit of the climb, where a beer and margarita aid station awaited the brave and crazy that had made it this far.

(* Note - Maybe I DID hit my head on one of those rocks, now that I think back a bit. The sherpa looked a little tall, and the angels?)

Well, the beer and margaritas were there, and so was a big bag of M&M's - I snagged a handful for the sugar.

As I took a quick sip of beer I thought, "Drinking a beer while dehydrated in the middle of a race, with only the long downhill left to the finish. THAT plan won't win a Nobel prize anytime soon." I skimmed down the rocky descent towards the finish line, making sure that I descended in a straight line in case I was running in front of a State Trooper or something.

As we left the woods and headed back onto roads that felt like whipped-cream after an hour and a half of endless rocks, there was a lone male figure ahead of me. For whatever reason (testosterone, hangover, root-goggling, concussion, the ears were too tight) I decided I needed to chase him down. I slowly reeled him in, and set up a pass right before the turn into the home-straight. Suddenly, my target looked over his shoulder - it was Dave Decker!

His family was there watching: His wife and daughters were cheering like mad for him in his moment of pride, and here comes this day-glow, concussed, muddied and bloodied weirdo in Tigger ears, ditching him for all his hosting efforts with 50 yards to go.

I felt like a total goober, but hit the gas. I thought, "If I beat him by enough, maybe I can get a picture of him when he hits the line! That would be neat!"

I opened my stride even further, tripping seismic alarms from UCLA to Tokyo in my Clydesdale rush to the line. I crossed in 1:39:somethingorother, and spun on my heels while I reached for the camera...

...and grabbed a big handful of the wrong pocket as Dave raised his arms, smiled to his family, and crossed the line about 1 second back. Damn. I apologized for making the pass at a bad time, and he told me it was nothing at all to worry about - he'd had a blast! We both walked over to the main pavilion where they handed out the finishers schwag: A beautiful leaded, one pint beer glass. I laughed out loud, knowing full well that everyone would ask me, "So why is this better than a mug?" after my Blackwater Eagleman Finishing Coffee Mug of last June...but I didn't think 9.3 miles was worthy of a medal, so this was just fine by me.

We all gathered on the field and sprawled out under the sun for the next 2 hours, swapping war stories, comparing wounds, and trying to figure out a place to go eat where we wouldn't be too offensive. We followed Eric to a Pizza place, downed two pies between us, and came up with the consensus that we all needed to gather like this more often - it was just too enjoyable not too.

We shook hands, we went our separate ways, and we all slept soundly (and perhaps a bit sorely) that night.

As of Monday I had a mammoth purple bruise on my right knee, a wickedly turned left ankle, poison ivy on both legs, quads so sore I needed to walk stairs backwards, a bruised thigh (don't know where I got that), 1 giant blister on my foot, and a sunburned nose.

I signed up at 10:20am for the 2003 Mudfest. Anyone else coming out to play?

Hurricane Bob

* Taking a Header! *

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