From owner-ultra@caligari.Dartmouth.EDU Tue Aug 26 13:19:41 1997 From: Nikki Robinson Date: Tue, 26 Aug 97 15:19:16 -0500 To: ius-l@american.edu, ultra@caligari.dartmouth.edu Subject: Mt. Rushmore 100: The First Day - part 2 (long) Paha Sapa: The Spirit of the Place Encourages Me. -------------------------------------------------------------------- "Every little thing is sent for something, and in that thing there should be happiness and the power to make happy. Like the grasses showing tender faces to each other, thus we should do, for this was the wish of the Grandfathers of the World." (from "Black Elk Speaks" by John Niehardt) -------------------------------------------------------------------- Leaving mile 19, the reality dawns on me. My sister has left me; I'm beginning to tire just a bit; there is a long way to go. Reality included a climb to the highest elevation on the course (to 5800 feet) over the next eight miles or so. Fortunately, reality has never discouraged me. The reality here only strengthened my resolve to run well and enjoy the trip. The views from the trail were absolutely wonderful; however, one could look up from the trail only with risk. Running down a short switchback section I met Chip Logan and his pacer, both Coloradoans. Chip did a nifty pirouette at one switchback suggesting to me it was a gift to the "Ankle Gods" as he was prone to twisting said joint. Shortly thereafter, boom!, down he went. Fortunately the ankle was spared. I told Chip I was the face-plant queen, and just to make him feel better, bam!, down I went landing on my left knee, then hip, then rolling over onto my CamelBak. Hee, hee -- no hurt, no foul! That was to be my only fall. I ran, on and off, with these guys all morning. They began referring to the race as the Hash 100. Major bitching and moaning about the course markings. They would get ahead of me, then I would catch up as they were milling about making certain they were on course. It became quite a game. I reached the 31 mile aid station, Dakota Point, after about 7 1/2 hours. I had no problem with the medical check -- lost a pound. The feet were beginning to get a bit tender, but I was still strong. The next seven miles meandered through open ranging lands. Small creeks provided water for cattle in the rolling hills. I dodged my way through herds, certain that a bull would charge. Chip and his pacer caught up with me, told me about a calf that had challenged them once, then ran away from me. I eyed the cattle warily. I came upon a cluster of ribbons (the convention of the trail marking was to put several ribbons together at crucial turns). I looked carefully, and a partially concealed trail marker pointed off to the left. About a quarter mile in the distance, I could see Chip and pacer headed down a false trail. I whistled and shouted but could not gain their attention. I knew I could not chase them and reluctantly let them go -- me following the correct route. I approached the next aid station, Brush Creek (mile 38) with anticipation. I figured I would be reunited with my crew -- my sister and now my parents. And it was so. My father hiked about a mile down the trail to find me. My mother expertly filled my CamelBak at the car. And my sister insisted that the baby would not make an appearance that day. Leaving that aid station, I was running once again with Cheri. She had picked up her second pacer; this time a guy on a mountain bike. She asked me if I knew if it was OK for a pacer to carry something for her. I replied that I did not think that the race director had set any restrictions on the race regarding pacers, and she could do as she wished. Que sera, sera. So the day proceeded. At one point I felt like Julie Andrews as I spun around in a large field filled with wild flowers, all yellow with the exception of an eight foot diameter circle of purple ones. I was at least vaguely familiar with the next 25 miles, so I felt comfortable. I knew, for example, that the tall grassy section ended around Pactola dam. So I stopped and took off my shoes and hopped in the creek for a bath right near where my sister had caught a huge brown trout the previous week. Leaving the Rapid Creek aid station, I knew to point out to Cheri and her pacer the big osprey nest on top of a telephone pole; we could see the nesting birds. I knew that the climb over to Jenny Gulch would be taxing, so I stopped there and did a major doctoring session on my feet (only mile 50, and they weren't pretty at all -- big blisters on the balls of the feet). I knew, for example, that wild raspberries dotted the course, so I ate a few periodically instead of stopping to gorge myself in a lovely patch (an equally lovely patch was around the next bend). And finally, I knew that I should pick up my flashlights at Pilot Knob (mile 56) -- my pre-race hopes of reaching Nemo (mile 67) before nightfall having been long abandoned. I was doing everything right; I was strong; I was just not moving very fast. It didn't bother me though -- my 13:05 into the 50 mile would have placed me 5th in the 50 miler -- no one was moving fast on this course. My crew drove up to Pilot Knob just as I was crossing a little creek a quarter mile from the aid station. It was 7 pm, and I began to psychologically prepare for the night. I asked Terry Smith, the pre-race favorite and co-RD, about stream crossings ahead (Terry had dropped at mile 38 and spent the rest of the race moving from aid station to aid station and assisting runners). He assured me there weren't any until after the medical checkpoint at Nemo, so I changed shoes. I also grabbed a cheeseburger that Shelby and my Mom had bought for me. I grabbed lights (newly outfitted with fresh batteries). And I headed out into the Paha Sapa, with dusk trailing, and the spirit of the place encouraging me. Nikki Nikki Robinson Chicago, IL nikki@meena.feinberg.nwu.edu