From: RenneGard@AOL.COM Date: Thu, 30 May 1996 23:55:35 -0400
To: ultra@caligari.Dartmouth.EDU, socalded-l@usc.edu
Subject: Western States 1993 (Long)

As the Big Event gets closer I thought some of you might enjoy a little
piece I wrote for the running club newsletter after my first Western States
experience as part of a crew. I enjoyed myself so much that I returned in
1994 to run it and am back again this year.

Western States 1993

It was our first time. Like other unforgettable firsts we anxiously wondered
if we really knew what we were doing and if we were adequately prepared. At
the very least we were prepared to lie: "You've done this before, right?"
"But of course." Unlike those adolescent firsts, however, during this
experience we had the benefit of a guide, one who had passed this way
before. He told us what to look for, what to do and when - he even cooked us
dinner.

Our first Western States experience was one of inspiration, awe and emotion
that only an event of the magnitude of a 100 mile endurance run could evoke.
It was gritty, it was exciting, it was heartbreaking and most of all it was
fun. And all we did was crew...hmm, I wonder what it would be like to run -
hey, snap out of it, Renne. Anyway, I'd like to thank Danny (and Kathy too)
for allowing us to be a part of the crew and Kent (and Loretta too for
allowing us to borrow Kent) for sharing his knowledge of the event, the
course and the running life in general.

We spent Friday morning in Squaw Valley where a skier in the parking lot
asked me if there was a marathon going on. I said yes - from here to Auburn.
She gave me a puzzled look until I pointed to the Western States banner
hanging outside the expo building. Then she looked at me as if I were crazy,
so I had to set her straight. "Hey," I told her, "I'm not running it!"

But over 400 finely-tuned and some not-so-finely-tuned endurance athletes
were. They brought their wives, their husbands, their friends, their
strategies, their special gear and food, their hopes and dreams and their
crews. And just about all of them were in the parking lot Friday morning.

We chuckled at the Cow Crew. The only entrant from Kansas brought a whole
herd with him - about 15 friends dressed in black T-shirts and black and
white cow pattern pants. We saw them again at Duncan Canyon, but did not see
them at subsequent aid stations nor in Auburn. Not enough mountains in
Kansas to train on, I guess.

We signed Claudia's T-shirt - a print of a water color her husband had done
depicting her running nude through a star-lit landscape. A prescient T-shirt
for she ran through the night (though probably not in the nude) and we were
able to watch her finish.

We ran the first 5 miles of the course from the Squaw Valley parking lot up
to Emigrant Pass (8700'). The trail led up to the top of one of the ski
slopes where we ran past bemused skiers and snow boarders. The pass itself
was still covered with snow and ice.

And we sat still - at least us first-timers anyway - for Norm Klein's trail
briefing and ultra-show extraordinaire where he introduced the top runners
including Freddy's legs and "the greatest runner in the world today", Ann
Trason.

A unique feature of the trail briefing proceedings is the awarding of the
Cougar Trophy to, I believe, pre-1984 winners of the race. Prior to that
year the Cougar Trophy did not exist. This year Sally Edwards, winner in
1980, received her trophy and shared an interesting and instructive anecdote
about her past rivalry with Bjorg Austrheim-Smith. In 1980 after a see-saw
battle with Bjorg, Sally was able to win the race by a narrow margin. When
Bjorg crossed the finish line soon afterwards she stuck her index finger in
Sally's face and without so much as a congratulations she angrily challenged
in her European accent "I'm going to beat you next year!"

Well, these two women resided in the same town, Sacramento, and did not
speak to each other, let alone train together, for an entire year. In the
1981 race, after what was initially a tight struggle, Bjorg was able to win
in course record time. When Sally finished several hours later, who should
come by flexing that very same index finger and directing it toward Sally's
face: Bjorg, of course. Expecting something similar to the previous year's
remark, Sally braced herself. Only this time Bjorg enthused, "I want to
thank you very much. Without you I could not have run as well as I did
today." A touching story about sportswomanship, competitive spirit and the
ability to recognize one's competitors as friends - they can help to bring
out the best in you.

As the temperature soared into the high 90s we were anxious to get to Duncan
Canyon which would be our first aid station for the next day's run.
Unfortunately, it only got hotter as we approached Auburn. Grass along
Highway 40 toward Foresthill that was green only a month before was now a
paler shade of brown. I was reminded of the Death Valley Marathon T-shirt
that claims "This Ain't No Wienie Roast." Well, I thought, unlike Death
Valley, this was gonna be a wienie roast, for sure. High pressure system
barbecue moving into the area to increase the normal canyon temperatures of
100 by many charring degrees.

We wound along the snake-like Mosquito Ridge Road through the heat toward
Duncan Canyon, mile 24 on the course. When we emerged from the camper we
understood the origin of the road name. Swarms of hummingbird- size
mosquitoes dive bombed our exposed flesh. In turn, we dove for the Deep
Woods Off and started bathing.

The next morning we prepared Dan's provisions and, because the program
listed 8 am as ETA for the front runners through Duncan Canyon, we arrived
at the aid station about 10 minutes till. 8 am seemed awfully fast given the
snow that still remained at higher elevations and the heat that even at this
early hour seemed to be increasing in intensity. I've learned since that the
front runner times were based on Tom Johnson's record setting pace of a
couple of years ago.

The aid station was cordoned off with yellow tape and looked like a crime
scene. Where were the bodies? I thought. They certainly weren't there at 8
am. Just cookies, cantaloupe and orange slices baking in the early morning
sun. Food that a little later would be sweat on and dripped on by weary
runners.

The front runners didn't arrive till 9. In first at this point and through
most of the first half of the run was an Alaskan by the name of Harry
Johnson. Johnson even left Foresthill (mile 62) among the top 5 - but
according to the finisher board in Auburn on Sunday, he scratched at around
mile 90. 2 minutes behind Harry was Eric Clifton with his flashy running
tights but sans water bottle. Though looking strong here, running without a
water bottle was probably his downfall. I watched him stagger into
Foresthill 8 hours later, dehydrated and spent. Tom Johnson, the eventual
winner, was third at Duncan Canyon, followed by Fred, then Tim Tweitmeyer.

To our surprise the first woman through Duncan Canyon was not Ann. In ninth
overall was Kathy D'Onofrio. Ann followed two minutes later.

It was exciting to see runners we knew and cheer them on and help where we
could. We could not help Earl though. He ran into the aid station still
wearing a long-sleeve poly-pro shirt. He stared straight at Lydia and me and
pleaded, "Kent, where's Kent?" Spying Kent behind us he insisted "Kent, help
me take my shirt off." Only Kent would be allowed to help Earl strip. Kent
performed like he'd been stripping runners all his life, pulling that shirt
off with swiftness and vigor to help get Earl off on his way.

We waited for Dan. Our hearts leapt as we jumped up for several Harshburger
look-alikes. He came in right on 24 hour pace schedule, though, and like a
pit crew working furiously to change oil and parts we got him watered,
sunscreened, provisioned and on his way.

Like Earl, Michael Monahan also seemed to have a physical thing for Kent.
Something about being strongly attracted to his body. Was this some Western
States dementia or disorientation? I took a good look at Kent then and I
didn't see the attraction. Would he be better looking to me after running 50
or 60 miles? I hoped not.

Anyway, after cheering Laura through (she did not ask us to take off her
shirt) we left to our next assignment at Dusty Corners, mile 40. Kathy and
Loretta were working the aid stations on the northern side of the canyon; we
had the south.

At Dusty Corners (also known as Deep Canyon II - I wish they'd make up their
minds) Harry Johnson was still leading, passing through the aid station at
about 1:30. Tom Johnson was now in second, 2 minutes back, followed by
Tweitmeyer, Clifton, Fred, Dow Mattingly and in 7th, Ann, with Kathy right
behind her.

The front runners spent very little time here. Twietmeyer got under the
shower briefly, wetting his shoulders. Clifton crouched beneath the
camouflaged canopy sipping Gatorade. When asked if she needed anything Kathy
D'Onofrio squeaked in her high pitched voice, "I'm fine... Thank you very
much." She ran through the aid station struggling to keep up with Ann. I
identified with the guy from San Diego, a middle of the packer, who got
under the shower and proclaimed to the volunteers, "Oh wow, I could stay
here for about 5 hours!"

At Foresthill, the local high school gals greeted all the runners Hawaiian
style. In grass skirts and leis they escorted the runners to the medical
tent. The top 3 at Foresthill would finish the race in the same order: 1)
Tom Johnson, 2) Tim Tweitmeyer and 3) Ann Trason, only 30 minutes behind at
this point. Word at the time was that Twietmeyer was looking the best here.

Pacers paced anxiously in the pacer area waiting for their runners. Many
would still be waiting as darkness fell. It looked like there was a concert
in town. Cars lined all the streets some double and triple parked. All the
good spots had been taken hours earlier. Though many cars were parked
illegally, no one would be writing parking tickets today. Friends, family
and supporters had their lawn chairs strategically located to get the best
view of the runners. Locals were barbecuing and selling sandwiches and
drinks.

When we got to the stadium around 12:30 am the front runners had already
finished, their exhausted bodies now prone on massage tables. One could
sense their relief at finally being able to lie down and the utter ecstacy
of having their leg muscles kneaded and massaged. We stayed up most of
Saturday night/Sunday morning and watched the remaining finishers. Runners
would enter the stadium and shuffle along three-quarters of the track toward
the finish line. The announcer would attempt to personalize some bio about
each of them: "A finisher of over 60 ultras, a resident of so-and-so City -
what's this about Wasted States?! This is so-and-so finishing his/her third
Western States in a time of..."

We watched Laura finish her first 100-miler feelin' good, lookin' good and
good, period, as Rico would say. Her first words to the assembled
well-wishers was a plaintive "It was so hard." No doubt. Congratulations
again Laura!

Though we had some doubts about Michael, he pulled something out from deep
inside - and it wasn't just vomit - to finish. Way to persecute, er,
persevere!

The last runner finished with about 5 minutes to spare. We heard the
announcer from the shower area near where a little league game was in
progress. 10 year old Auburn residents intent on throwing curve balls,
catching fly balls and fielding grounders and other more normal pursuits.

They seemed to be oblivious to the extraordinary proceedings a mere 200 feet
away. But I know - I just know - one of those kids who likes to run and
slide will one day ask his dad about the race that starts in Squaw Valley
and finishes up in Auburn in one day. And from such simple and unassuming
beginnings will develop the desire and dedication to complete the Western
States Endurance Run. This kid will find something pure, something noble,
something good about running 100 miles through the northern Sierra that will
transcend the pursuit of multi-million dollar contracts that a good curve
ball or an ability to hit a good curve ball could lead him to. He will run;
he will run long and hard. Instead of baseball riches he will pursue the
Silver Buckle.

NAAH!

Running Renne RenneGard@aol.com