Subject: another HURT II report From: "Peter.Bakwin@noaa.gov" Date: Wed, 30 Jan 2002 17:35:00 -0500 HURT might set a record for the highest ratio of reports to finishers. Here's another one by the women's winner, Stephanie Ehret. You can reach her at stephanieehret@hotmail.com. *************************************************************************** So, here's my story of HURT II, a difficult and exceptionally beautiful course on Oahu, HI. The race is well organized, well marked, with fantastic aid stations (I ate 5 Kalua pig sandwiches!), great handmade ceramic awards and first-rate race management. Caution: If you're looking for a play by play of action on the course or a detailed route description this isn't the race report for you. I can't find my way around my own back yard with a map and compass. It's more of a chick empowerment piece morphed into a fable. BRING IT ON Two days before the race, my meteorologist friend and massage client, Dale Perry, says "Sorry to be the bearer of bad news Steph, but the weekend weather prediction for Oahu is intermittent heavy rain." I laugh, certain that Dale is joking. I've just spent 3 months training through cold Colorado winter weather in full arctic gear and two weeks sweating in a sauna. Moreover, this whole race thing is just a clever scheme to get Peter, my husband, to go on a tropical vacation (read: play on the beach in the SUN.) Dale isn't joking. That evening I share the bad news with Peter. "Bring it on!" he says with a big smile. He can be so infuriating. We arrive on Oahu on Thursday. It's raining. Okay, not constantly, but, it's raining. We decide to hike on the course a bit to get a feel for the trail. Unbelievably, I'm not feeling well. I've eaten something that disagrees with my stomach or maybe I'm just nervous. At any rate, I think I might throw up before the race has even started. The next day we attend the pre-race meeting. Everyone is looking very fit and fast. I am feeling bloated, sluggish and cranky. It rains. That night I sleep well, so well that I can't believe it when Peter expects me to roll out of bed at 4:00 a.m. "At least turn on the light," I say. "Can't" says Peter, "power outage." I look at the bedside clock in our B&B. I look at my watch. Sure enough. No power. Thank goodness for Peter's watch alarm, I think, as I root around for a flashlight. Half way through brushing my teeth my light goes out. I assume it must be the bulb since I'd just put in fresh batteries. I shudder at the thought that this is the light I'd planned to use at the start. Oh well, I'll grab the one in my drop bag. At the start I get the fresh flashlight from my drop bag, the one that has never failed me in the past two years -- but now has a bad connection. "Bring it on!" I grumble to myself while Peter changes the bulb in the original light. So there I am at the start feeling grumpy, hormonal and lethargic with exceptionally bad hair and probably a little dried tooth paste around my mouth. I'm pretty sure I'm going to get totally lost and eaten by a wild pig. Thankfully it's dark and, with some heavy rain, everyone will have bad hair. There's always a silver lining. After a short and poignant Hawaiian prayer and the sounding of a conch shell, the runner's are off. It's a relief to be running and I begin to feel a bit more cheerful. I find myself running with Matt Sessions, who, while keeping a good pace and chatting amiably, seems to be stumbling with regularity. Finally, a light goes on in my head and I ask "Matt, do you have a flashlight?" (He's running behind me.) He doesn't. Who knew it would be so dark at 6:00 a.m.? I try to help light the path for him. Soon, Greg Pirkle, joins us. He lights the trail for Matt from behind. The three of us continue in this fashion, chatting and focused on our feet, until, after a significant downhill, we realize that it's been some time since we've seen any white flags. "Oh jeez" says Greg, who knows the route, "we're off course." We hike back up the trail, come to the intersection where we made the mistake, and find ourselves at the back of the pack. Sometime early in the second lap a shift (karmic? hormonal? attitudinal?) occurs and things start to go my way. The rain and wind that have sapped my energy earlier now feel invigorating. I'm enjoying the challenge of the slippery trails. Fired up by my own frustration with having gotten lost, I begin running well. I pass Catra Corbett and Monica Scholz and have assumed the women's lead. And, despite myself, I begin enjoying the trail, the scenery and the company of other runners. I'm singing to myself, I'm smiling. Many of my worst fears have been realized (rain, getting lost, feeling hormonally crummy), and yet, I'm not much worse for the wear. Night falls and I look forward to the company of my friend Phil Mislinski for the 3rd lap. He and his wife Monique and their daughters Sammy and Kat have just moved to Oahu from Boulder where they counted among our favorite running companions. Phil is a terrific pacer, full of good stories, good humor, great energy and bad jokes. It is a delightful way to pass the time, catching up with and being entertained by my old friend. As Phil's pacing duty nears its end I begin to have visions of wild pigs and wrong turns, the latter of which is by far the most frightening. I ask John Salmonsen, one of the race originators and Aid Station Captain extra ordinaire, if he might know of someone who can pace me through the rest of the night. He says he'll see if he can arrange to have someone meet me at Paradise Park. I arrive at Paradise Park to one of the greatest gifts the race has offered up thus far -- Karmic payback, perhaps, for the "bad luck" of the early and pre-race phase. Her name is Crystal. She's a nationally ranked runner at the 2 mile distance and the race Director's daughter. She runs behind me offering up bits of encouragement, pointing out obstacles and keeping me on course. She seems to know intuitively when I feel like chatting and when I need to concentrate. She knows every turn and switchback on the course and when I grow weary on a climb she tells me exactly how many switchbacks to the top. She is a pacing superstar. She is a godsend. I grudgingly say goodbye to Crystal just before sunrise, at the beginning of my 5th lap. I've run well through the night but now I'm sleepy and ready for this race to be over. I trudge up the banyan root hogback fantasizing about lying on the beach with a good book in one hand and a Mai Tai in the other. I tell myself that Monica and Catra are right behind me (maybe they are) which motivates me to run when I feel like walking. Finally, I get to Paradise Park where I wolf down some corned beef hash and pancakes and spend way too much time making conversation with the friendly volunteers. Between Paradise Park and Jackass Ginger I have a bad patch and move slowly. When I get to JG I'm blessed with another gift. The race Director, Greg Cuadra, eager to stretch his legs, runs with me out of the aid station. It becomes clear where Crystal gets her expert pacing skills. Greg gets me into a good running rhythm, distracts me with conversation and amusing anecdotes and before I know it I'm at the top of the climb. Between here and the finish I do some of my best running of the race. I finish in 31:05, winning the women's race, and 6th overall. I have a big smile on my mud and toothpaste encrusted face and feel considerably better than I did at the start. The moral of this rambling tale? Beware the grumpy, bleary-eyed runner with exceptionally bad hair. She might be poised for a pretty decent race. Will I run this race again next year? Bring it on! Stephanie Ehret January 30, 2002