From owner-ultra@caligari.Dartmouth.EDU Tue Aug 26 13:22:39 1997 From: Nikki Robinson Date: Tue, 26 Aug 97 15:21:55 -0500 To: ius-l@american.edu, ultra@caligari.dartmouth.edu Subject: Mt. Rushmore100: Night (long) The Spirit of the Place Frightens Me. -------------------------------------------------------------------- Black Elk, talking about the four quarters of the universe: "The black one is for the west where the thunder beings live to send us rain; the white one for the north, when comes the great white cleansing wind; the red one for the east, whence springs the light and where the morning star lives to give men wisdom; the yellow for the south, whence come the summer and the power to grow." (from "Black Elk Speaks" by John Neihardt) -------------------------------------------------------------------- My recollections from the first part of the race are crystal-clear. The night is a blur; the next day is a haze. I learned what trail 100's are about -- they are about fear and loneliness and pain. I lost contact with all other runners as night approached. However, the evening was lovely, and I enjoyed my solitude. The burger boosted my energy levels. And then the darkness came. I slowed down. I allowed myself long walking intervals. I carefully checked and rechecked course markings, terrified that I would get off course. I imagined how I would deal with being lost at night. I recalled the story of the runner who was lost overnight during the inaugural edition of the event. I slowed down. I grew angry about the course markings. There were not enough. I got really worked up. I grew even angrier as I approached a section that I had run three days previously. I knew it was tricky to follow during the day; I anticipated the difficulties at night. I snapped at my mother and sister as I approached them at mile 62. I told them I would be lost if I hadn't had some pre-knowledge of the course. They had met me at a strange aid station, referred to as "No-name." It was a spot on a gravel road leading to a campground area. It was here that Larry (the RD) had decided to add a two mile out-and-back section to avoid some tricky sections of the trail and to provide the added mileage. My mood grew fouler as my mother told me that runners were being told that they didn't have to run the out-and-back section if they had been lost on the course during the day. And we had heard story after story of folk getting lost, so I was feeling cheated. You see, I hadn't been lost. I headed out on this road section. I spooked a porcupine and my mood darkened. At the turn-around, I couldn't even muster a cheery greeting to the radio personnel. I just said "In, and out." My discouragement was transparent as I returned to "No-name." I plaintively told my sister, my mother, and Naomi (Larry's wife) that I was scared of the dark. Naomi -- God bless her -- calmed me. "Wait for another runner to come upon you on the trail. Stick with them. You will be OK." What she did brought out the competitor in me. Hey, that's right. There are other runners; they are behind me; they are moving; I better get going. So I did. My fear of the night subsided, and I pressed forward and left the aid station. Less than 5 minutes out of the aid station I heard an approaching runner from behind. How could that be? I had not seen anyone on the out-and-back. They must of not run that section. Up came Hammie, one of the two other women in the race, with her pacer. They were flying. Hammie had the good humor to remind me that I had threatened to hold onto her shorts. She gave me the option then of hanging with them. But I could not. They flew by. Kut-chew! Wham! The sky, filled with stars, lit up in the distance as sheet lightening flashed and flashed again. The wind picked up and rustled the pine needles. Grumble, grumble. Thunder in the distance. I began to climb a ridge. The storm hit full force when I was on top. Thank God, I was no longer scared of the night! I was just motivated to get off that ridge. The trail slickened into mud. My feet, which had been wet all day, began to slide around in my shoes. Pain intensified. I stumbled into the medical check at mile 67, 19 hours into the race, beaten and whipped. I figured that I would check out fine physically; however I also figured that the medicos would be checking out one's mental status. After getting weighed (down 4 pounds) and agreeing to eat some soup, I began to demonstrate my mental acuity. "Shelb, they don't sell beer in South Dakota on Sunday mornings, right?" She replied "No." (read "No?" with a puzzled expression) "Well, I'm gonna want a beer after I finish the race. Maybe y'all can drive to the cabin and pick some up for me. I'm certain that you can do that before the next aid station." Terry Smith and his wife stood there in silence. So I turned to them, "Terry, tell me about the next section," as I continued to demonstrate mental sharpness. Terry filled me in on the horrible things to come as his wife doctored my feet. I left the medical aid station after 30 minutes. The horrible things to come included a very steep rocky ascent, a long romp on an old logging road (where I flushed more porcupines), and a nasty steep drop to Dalton Lake. Just before Dalton Lake (mile 72), I was happy to be reunited with Chip Logan, the Colorado fellow I had seen go off trail. He told me he had taken a long detour but then found the trail again. He and his pacer went by, now even more brutally bad-mouthing the course markings. I ignored my mother's suggestion to sleep at Dalton Lake. The rest of the night resides in shadows in the dark recesses of my mind. I got terribly sleepy. I sat down, three times, in the middle of the trail and tried to sleep. It did not work. I would fidget for 5 minutes then get up and move along. Finally, the dawn came. I stumbled up another long climb being passed now by Cheri and a new pacer. I reached Wonderland Cave Road (mile 79) and fell into the car for a 20 minute nap. I was done with the Paha Sapa at night where the spirit of the place had frightened me. Nikki Nikki Robinson Chicago, IL nikki@meena.feinberg.nwu.edu