The e-mail innocently intoned, "Hey - there's a trail race this Sunday I'm doing. Want to come?"

"Sure..." I asked, tentatively. "Where is it?"

The response arrived at my inbox so quickly, I suspect that it was being sent well before I'd agreed to anything. I skimmed the Race Directors advice on the state of the course. "WARNING: This is not a walk in the park. Lots of the course is very isolated and has true trail hazards, as in rocks, roots, downed logs. itchy plants, bugs, snakes, stream crossings, insects, mud, hills, a gunning club, and more bugs. Also included is a mile and a half back country road section with more hills.

You race at your own risk, and are solely responsible for your well being at all times. If you get lost, injured, or romanced along the way, it is your responsibility to find your way to the finish area, hopefully, before the pool and bar closes. Because of this gut wrenching responsibility, we cannot allow runners who are under 18 years old, consider lane 3 at the local bowling alley to be rough terrain, or are unable to follow trail markings easy enough for a second grader. All other come prepared for a challenging fun day."

Right. Not again. I wrote back wth all the diplomacy I could muster. "NO F@*#&! WAY." This was Tuesday. For whatever reason, the idea was firmly planted in my head, however. I could feel my resistance slipping with each passing day. "How hard can it REALLY be? I ran Mudfest. That was about this hard, right?" Friday, my tune changed. I wrote to Dave Decker (pusher emeritus) and told him, "Screwit. Count me in."

The Charlie Horse 20K is a fundraiser for the Berks County Special Olympics, held every Memorial Day Weekend for the past 6 years. It starts at French Creek State Park, and then wanders through the countryside to the Horse Shoe Trail, a 127-mile ribbon of roots, rocks, and mud that connects Valley Forge to Hershey, Pennsylvania by trying to stay on one continuous ridge, plus or minus 50 or so valleys along the way.

We would only be covering 10 or so miles of the HS Trail, but from the portion I'd run last year in prep for the Mudfest, I was fully expecting to be slip sliding away in no time. Compounding my fears of the trail was the weather that we've been having here in the Northeast. As I wrire this race report, the temperature in Philadelphia has been above 80 a total of 5 times in 2003, about 1/3rd the norm. It has rained 22 out of 30 days in May. It snowed through half of April. Essentially, even though Mother Nature is supreme in her love and care of the planet, I seriously think she's trying to kick summer's ass.

It rained all day Friday, Saturday, and more rain was forecast for Sunday. I wasn't sure if I should bring skis or sneakers.

I met Dave in the parking lot, and we walked down to registration. I made my donation to the Special Olympics, and noticed there was a table of red, white, and blue ribbons. Puzzled, I picked one up. Attached to each ribbon was a small paper tag with a picture on it. Mine said, "Sgt. Donald Edwards." I looked to the right side - more writing.

"Killed in action, March 23, 2003 during ambush of convoy in Iraq."

The table was covered with names and faces who went away, and never will come home. I asked the woman, "Can I take 2? I'm a big guy. I can carry them." She told me to help myself to as many as I wanted. I grabbed about 10 - I'll take 1 or 2 of these guys with me for the rest of the season. I was embarassed that in all the hubub of training, bad weather, work, and life, I'd forgotten that it WAS Memorial Day. Not just a day for the Indy 500 and cookouts, but for remembering those passed in service to country.

Suddenly, running 12 lousy miles in the rain seemed pretty wimpy.

Dave and I took the bus ride to the start, joking that it was pleasantly shorter then the endless bus ride to Boston's start line. I also noticed that we were driving uphill all the way to the start line, which made NO sense as we'd be clearly headed uphill back to the finish once we started running. M.C. Escher does trail races? Who knew?

The start was delayed for about 30 minutes while the last buses of would-be muckers arrived and lined up for the start, which gave Dave a chance to be scoped by people as he was proudly wearing his Boston Marathon shirt and looking pretty smart. I was dressed in my traditional all-black, trying to think about being as thin as possible (in order to be light on my feet, see?).

We lined up on the dam, and received final instructions: "We aren't coming into the woods to get you, so make sure you can find your way out if you leave the trail!" The race director from the Mudfest made a quick cameo to apologize for the delays, but assured is, "Don't worry - even with all this waiting none of the mud has dried yet."

With the blast of an airhorn, another adventure started writing its own script with me as a somewhat willing passenger. Dave immediately set the throttle to "Full Tilt Lambada" and began to work his way through the crowd. I was somewhat more relaxed (read, slow as molasses off the line) and asked him, "Save me some snacks when you get done, eh?"

The field entered the woods, exited the woods, then re-entered the woods again. The trails in French Creek were already slick, muddy, and it was almost impossible to tell rocks from mud - everything was shiny and wet, with leaves tossed over the undulations for extra fun. I found that I wasn't so much running at first as I was skimming along from step to step, probably looking more like the hippo that does ballet in the "Dance of the Hours" segment of Fantasia then a trail runner.

I was fine on the early uphill grinds - the pace was good, and I could work as hard as I dared. The mud made everyone slower then they thought, and it felt to me more like a cycling climb where you had to 'pedal' your legs around to get the power to the ground. However, once we crested the first ridge, I could see this was going to be a scary day.

My first 4 steps resulted in 4 long, one-footed slides, complete with arm-waving and the compulsory exclamation: "Whoa, whoa, aah - AHH!" I think I closed my eyes on step #3, and was really surprised to have not biffed when I opened them back up. I immediately stepped to the right of the trail, and waved the entire universe past me. There was no way I could descend with footsteps right behind me - I felt like I was holding up the world, and I wasn't going to risk my season to stay ahead of anyone. My ankles (each with 3 severe sprains in their history, and thus, the lateral stability of wet tissue paper) would dictate my risk factor here.

Once the majority of the field was ahead, I settled back into my tippie-toe descending down the slick ridge. I marveled at how people could really RUN something like this at a pace I struggle to maintain on the road. It takes a certain type of bravery to descend well - bravery that I was lacking, or maybe it just takes the fearlessness to do it once to prove that it CAN be done? Dave Krieger did that at Mudfest, and learned a lot. He also learned that Aikido skills are good when you go @ss over teakettle at speed, so I carried on - content to be the biggest chicken in the race.

There was a wonderful sense of solitude out there. Since I was so far behind, all I could hear was my own breathing, the wind and rain in the trees, and the sounds of creeks and rainfall runoff all around me. In those moments I wasn't holding myself together on descents or grinding my way up the early climbs, I understood why trail racing could be so addictive - but I still couldn't wrap my head around going 50 miles or more on something like this. At my current rate of plod, I expected to be going through ups and downs for two and a half hours. I think if I had to endure nearly 10 hours of this stuff? Maybe if there weren't roots and rocks and mud...

Around the 4 mile mark I actually began to close up on a woman ahead of me. I heard her say something that sounded like, "Trail goes to the right!" So I made sure to note where she turned, and follow her line. It was a real shame that what she had said was, "I've got to pee right now!" as she ducked behind a tree. When I turned the corner, I just saw these garbage can lid sized eyeballs looking up at me. She immediately covered her own eyes and yelled out, "THAT WAY!" using a trick known to those who have read "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" in that "If I can't see you, you're not there!" I spun a 180-turn fast enough to effectively spin-dry my clothes, and got back to the trail...apologizing over my shoulder as I rumbled away.

In about a half-mile, Little Miss Pee-Break caught me and hurtled past feeling MUCH better. I apologized again, but she wasn't upset at all. "I was afraid you were going to jump over me - it wasn't like I could move!" Soon she pulled away from me, and I was back to running solo once more, trying to cover the distance without hurting myself too badly. My quads were starting to burn from the endless slipping in the mud that had been chewed up by 230+ runners ahead of me, so I thought of it as a strength workout whenever it really started to sting.

Past 7 miles, I found myself on a long, steep, and unrelenting climb. The grade was well over 10%, and I could barely keep my feet underneath me. I took smaller steps, and tried to keep my weight centered over my constant slipping, just trying to make progress. Behind me, I heard a chase group closing in! This was a surprise - who in the world could be slower then me today? I decided to try and beat the group to the top if I could, and worked even harder. I got my arms working, and really started breathing like I was running on the track.

I could hear heaving and panting behind me, and at least 3 pairs of legs. They were working as hard as I was - who would beat whom to the top? The breathing got closer and closer, but I didn't dare look back - I had to watch every step. It would be too easy to miss a rock, break my ankle, and end the year. I dug deeper, and the ground fought back. My teeth started to go numb from breathing so hard, but the group was only 5 feet back now.

I still couldn't see the top...but I could suddenly feel warm breath on my neck. I'm 6 feet tall. If something is breathing on my neck, it has to be taller than Shaq! I was caught. It was over. I waved to the left, stepped to the right, and surrendered to the chase. I yielded the trail, and looked back to see just what had caught me - Two horses happily trotted past, their mud-covered hooves not slipping an inch as they made their way up to the summit. "There goes the Clydesdale hardware..." I chuckled to myself.

I walked the rest of the climb, completely torched from my attempted escape from the equine chase. "They've got (pant) twice as (gasp) many (hack) legs! No (sigh) fair." Even the horses dropped me - soon I was last once more. I was sure of it. Coming in last didn't bother me - I'd done it in bike races, my first running race, most of my college swimming career...at least the miles were quality!

At mile 10, I exited the trail and joined the only roads of the entire race. We'd have a mile of steady climbing on pavement, and then the last 1.5 miles were savage ups and downs to the finish. I took the pavement as a welcome mental break - I could just RUN without fear on every step. As I started to get into my stride, I found myself catching someone walking on the long climb. As we chatted I mentioned to him, "At least the worst is behind us, right?"

He looked at me with that look you NEVER want to see in the late stages of a race when you're ready to be done. It was the look that was a combination of, "What'choo talkin' bout, Willis?" and "You've never been here before, have you?" He shook his head and said, "Dude, if you think you've seen mud, just wait." He winked, and started running again.

I thought I was scared. I'd been suffering from @ss cramps because the pucker factor on each downhill was an 11 in my book, and I'd been running with the brakes on nearly all day. Now it was going to get WORSE? That was impossible. It was raining, I was running 12 minute miles, I was tired, sore, I'd nearly stepped on someone at the WORST time you can step on them (not like there's good time to be stepped on, but I digress), and I just wanted to be done. I looked down at the two Marine pictures hanging off my number and said, "Sorry guys. I reckon I should shut up and run, eh?" I put it behind me - mile and a half. How bad could that be?

The course took a hard right, and plunged down a grassy field into the woods. The mud in the woods immediately took over my shoes and went ankle deep. I "splorfsplorfsplorf-ed" my way downhill, knowing that if I lost it here, I might be stuck in the quagmire until July (or whenever the sun decided to come back out in Pennsylvania). I fought with both arms out at my sides, and half-skied, half-slid downhill...

...to the first water crossing of the race. I didn't see a water crossing on the map, but here it was. There was a 2-foot dropoff to the creek, which was about 5 feet across and moving from left to right with a whole lotta' authority. I checked left and right - no easier routes to be seen. If it was dry, I might have thought about taking a running start and leaping for it, but with the muck as deep as it was, my takeoff plant would probably render me stuck to the surface of the Earth for keeps - that was out.

I took a step, and immediately started sliding to the drink. My legs splashed in, and the cold water sucked what little heat was left in my body right out with a gasp. The water was grey - flush with silt and sediment; I could feel particles of rocks and mud whipping against my skin. My legs kept on sinking - I kept trying to plant, but this was no little crossing. Past my knees, time was moving in slow motion now - I was in trouble. I was willing my feet to find the bottom, but it wasn't coming. The water rushed past, and I sank to mid-thigh, getting ready to hand-plant and scramble for it...when I finally hit 'bottom.'

The riverbed was as soft as marshmellow, and moving with the current. As I struggled to step forward, I could feel the cold air from the rushing water whipping through my shorts, way too close to home. Certain parts of me that still weren't all the way recovered from Columbia simply disappeared, again. I trudged across the creek, and used a tree to pull myself out on the other bank. My shoes were full of miniature rocks and sand now - it felt like every step was on sandpaper.

I splish-splashed along the riverbed, watching mud and brown water fly out of my shoes with each step. Blister city, here I come! I glanced at my watch - 2:20 and counting. This was now officially a long run in my book, for sure.

The trail turned sharply uphill for one final time, and I knew the end had to be coming soon. As I made my way up the climb, volunteers at the top cheered me on. "1 mile to go from here - good job!" 1 mile more? WTF? I guess I shouldn't have been taking the previous mile markers as accurate...

This section of the course was called the "Rock Garden" and was simply un-runnable. There were about 20 boulders about the size of cars, some like small houses. You had to jump, step, scoot, and sometimes just sit and shuffle on your booty to get across them. To cover the 200 yards of bouldering took me nearly 4 minutes, and the craggy edges left my hands raw. When I could 'run' again, I came to the last descent of the day - a hair-raising (even for me) switchback'ed plunge down a 15% grade, root-covered, and slick. I just hung on trees, and took it one baby step at a time. I knew I was tired now - REALLY tired. The kind of tired where lapses of concentration come easily, and bones break.

When I entered the final 400 yards of dirt roads, I almost started laughing with relief. I just had to get around 2 more corners, and I'd be done. I'd be nearly last (if not DFL) in a trail race that I wasn't going to run, but miles is miles - and miles without breaking an ankle are even better, especially when it seems that all the trail wants to do is cripple you at every turn. Most of all, I was really looking forward to a nice, warm shower. The RD advertised showers at the finish, located at the Sleepy Hollow Athletic Club. I'd brought a nice change of warm, dry clothes...just the thought of rinsing the muck off and getting clean was nearly heavenly!

I came around the corner, and was pleased to see most of the field still waiting. Dave spotted me, and yelled out "Bob-bay!" I waved, watching the ground every step of the way. I finished in 2:41:09, for a smoking pace of 12:48...a mere 30 minutes behind Dave, who has suddenly decided that trail running is really his bag, indeed!

I apologized for being so late, and asked him "So where's the shower? I can't wait..." He pointed to a line of people on the lawn, queued up. At the head of the line was someone with a garden hose, rinsing off their feet. You could hear my expectations shatter like glass as my jaw hit the ground. Dave tried to console me, "Hey, we can get in the pool. It's not heated - the water is about 58 degrees...isn't that like Columbia?"

I wept openly, and without shame. I'm not proud.

However, all was not lost. We picked up our finishing schwag - a nice pint glass with the race logo on it, and lots of food was to be had. I grabbed a burger and some of the * 75 POUNDS * of chocolate donated by Hershey's for the race, and headed for my car. Dave was as muddy as I was, but we were both grinning like fools. I said to him, "The next time you come up with an idea for a race? Don't come up with any ideas for a race, okay?"

"No wait - there's this marathon on trails in September. Good training for Baltimore!" He grinned. "Hey, maybe the sun will be out by then, you know?" He knows I can't say no. He knows that even though I'm still sore from this escapade, I can't say no. That which does not kill you while covering you head to toe in muck, tossing you up one side of a mountain and down the other repeatedly, drenching you, soaking you, breaking your heart, mind, and spirit, but giving you just enough hope to believe that you can finish it and come out stronger?

That's what this is all about.

Hurricane Bob
* Uphill back to the finish, eh? *

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