Monday, May 29, 2017

True North by Amy Clark

"Okay, so this is where we sing," I announced. Lynnea and I were at that iconic spot, where the endless drive north of the Cities finally branches off onto Highway 61, the "Scenic Drive/North Shore" option. For as long as I've been going up to the Superior Hiking Trail (about 4-5 years, although I'm hazy on the exact date), I've shamelessly broken into "Girl from the North Country" as soon as I hit this stretch. I mean, why wouldn't you? Bob Dylan wrote this song for Suze, the girl in the coat with her arm around him on the cover of "The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan." Usually I belted this out alone, but the last few years I'd been lucky enough to have company, starting with the inimitable Dr. Reed as well as the lovely Lynnea F. Lynnea was with me again on this trek, and kindly agreed to film the sign sighting and musical accompaniment in all its glory. If you know us, you likely saw this on social media; if you don't, you've been spared.

But truly, who wouldn't celebrate the SHT? So much beauty, so much mud, so many rocks, such unforgiving ascents, such breath-grabbing wild perfection and soul-restoring views. I'd spent time here alternately pacing and racing, depending on the distance, and it was all marvelous. Fall was for pacing (categorically my favorite gig in the known universe), while spring was for slapping on a number and going head to head with the trail gods.

After a few grindingly rough 50k finishes (oh, the indignity of the Total Body Shutdown at mile 21!), I had a Come to Godfather moment with the world's wisest coach, Kurt Decker, last year.  I was presented with the paradigm-changing concept of If it Always Sucks for You in the Second Half, Why Don't You Just Try to Run the First Half Faster and Stop There? I received this truth with heartfelt clarity, realizing that, despite the fact that all of my friends do 50s and 100s like they're walking through a barn door, I may not be cut out for those distances and--PSA!--that's really okay.  This year was declared the Year of the 25k, after 2016 yielded two decent runs at that distance at spring Superior and Afton.

So here I was, pulling into Caribou Highlands Lodge, after a lot of TC Running Co. team road racing and Zumbro pacing (Mr. McCarty! Mr. Pittman! Sound the trumpets!), to see what my trail held for me this merry month of May. Last year's race conditions had been, in my opinion, perfect--shorts and bra weather, an exceptionally clean and dry trail. This year, I had no idea what to expect. Life had been crazy-busy, sleep was at a premium, I'd just come off a very stressful time at work. Kurt's plan had suited me down to the ground, featuring lots of high miles (60-75 miles per week, on average) and plenty of hill repeats. (If you haven't done Kurt's Hills in Minneapolis yet, talk to me. They are wonderful.) But the SHT, of course, doesn't care what you've done from November to April. She is as fickle as an ocean breeze. What happens on race day is only revealed the moment you start.

After a lively Friday night selling swag and greeting friends ("Of course you need to buy this buff...look, it works as a skirt!"), Lynnea and I crashed early under the watchful gaze of Moose Mountain out our window at Eagle Ridge. We awoke before our alarms for coffee, peanut butter, and incantations to the trail deities to keep us always in their care. (This is the word of the trail; thanks be to mud.) The scene at the start is always hopeful for me. The waiting's over, spirits are high, and you've just got to do it.

Swag girls moving the merch

Of course, the SHT delivered. From the first moment of singletrack, I was happy. I got to see this beautifully messy, root-filled place I'd been missing for 8 months. I got to see familiar faces running alongside me at every turn, including the marvelous 9-year-old Hadley Knight, cool as a cucumber in her little blue hat, cranking out the miles under the watchful gaze of the amazing Alisha Janaszak. I got to witness the early 25k leaders coming the opposite way from the turnaround, including my happy November Project girls Sarah and Helena. Most incredibly, I had the privilege of watching the eventual 50k winner and course-record-smasher Ben Cogger on his way home, running as if lifted by sails on the wind.

I was lucky enough to revisit Moose and Mystery, those all-seeing twins of the wilderness, their purple shapes so comforting when seen from afar, yet so unrelentingly, unyieldingly present when attacked up close. (I had "Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me" in my head for this race, which I changed to "oh these hills won't let me be; Lord have mercy on me.." as I ascended; this was infinitely better than that year at Wild Duluth 50k when I had to live with a "Stacy's Mom" earworm for the better part of 7 hours.)

And so it unfolded, just as I had imagined it would. I ate vegan peanut butter-chia seed-chocolate balls (Joe O! Thinking of you!), I did my awkward gallop-y thing on the descents (Kilian! Please don't watch! Ever!), I wore my gold skirt, and (perhaps most remarkably of all), I DIDN'T FALL ONCE.

As I rounded the last turn by the swimming pool, after wondering, as I always did, why it took at least 5 miles to get to that overpass by the gondola thing, I heard the cheers and cowbells of the waiting crowds. My early-a.m. Hyland trail peep Dave had finished just ahead of me, and I heard his name, but then I thought I heard something about "grandmaster female" as I came in. And sure enough, there stood the wonderful Rob "Angus" Henderson, my 2016 Zumbro pacee and all-around traill rockstar, laughing and holding out not only my wooden medal but the signature framed Rocksteady award.

"Wait..what? What?" I said, looking around for that other fifty-something chick who must be waiting to claim it.

"What's this about not having any chance at winning anything?" Rob teased me, handing over the plaque and snapping my photo. My time was 3:05, which made me very happy, given the mud and all of the challenges of my life in March and April. And it would have been a euphoric end to a joyful day, grabbing my snacks, watching my friends finish, clutching my framed RSR square for dear life.

With 50k grandmaster champion Dan "Captain Speedy" Quiggle

But it wasn't long before news began to filter back to the finish line that something had happened on the trail, that a runner had collapsed, that his fate was unknown. And then it was known, and it was devastating. For a while we all sat in disbelief, unwilling to accept that this had happened to one of our own trail family, young and fit and full of joy in life and running. We continued to cheer for all the 25k runners still streaming in, and for the 50k leaders as they crossed the line. Their accomplishments were no less heroic, their struggles no less real, in the face of this tragedy. If anything, each finish bore a heightened sense of privilege at simply being able to do this.

That night, there were no big noisy group outings, but smaller gatherings of friends, sitting together, sharing stories, holding each other up, and reflecting on the pain, loss, and utter randomness of the morning, of the vibrance of a runner who left the world in the full exuberance of doing what he loved amid the eagles and the pines and the endless sky.



A week later, I helped my older daughter Emma triumph over exhaustion and stomach issues to triumphantly complete her first half marathon. She is 17, applying to schools, an unwritten canvas, full of dreams, on the brink of her amazing life. Two days later I was with my friend Kristine and her children at Fort Snelling National Cemetery, where we served as "flag runners," placing flags by the graves of fallen soldiers for Memorial Day. I looked at all the names there, Kristine's father among them, and thought of both the grand heroic acts and the little daily moments that define a life.

Every deed has an impact. The years are short, the moments are long. Make the connection; squeeze the meaning from every encounter, be it with nature or your fellow creatures. There isn't every answer out on the trail, but there is forgiveness and solace and acceptance.

Go out and run today. Grab a friend. Grab your child. Grab your dog. Go forth, and be all in with it. For right now.



Dedicated to John and Cheri Storkamp, who live each day with joy.

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