On The Wasatch Back Marathon (Relay)

Somehow I've wound up in a family of runners.  That is to say, in recent years, a number of my siblings have taken to regularly running long, long distances and pretending they enjoy it.

And the effects of all this running haven't been entirely lost on me. I've been inspired.  So a few months ago, after settling on a summer vacation to Utah, I coaxed a few siblings to pair up and run the Wasatch Back Marathon Relay with me.

The problem for someone like me was, this was no ordinary marathon, since the race begins at 5,613 ft. elevation and peaks at 8,221 ft. by mile 7.  But even if it wasn't something entirely suited to someone with my frame (much less someone of my frame who had to train at sea level in San Diego), we pressed forward, since Bryan was willing to run up the mountain for the first leg of the event (12.8 miles).  Surely I could run down and around the the other side without much trouble -- even if my 13.4 mile leg did start at 7500 ft.  Besides, I would be wearing a Superman shirt.

 

Since I survived the endeavor (barely), I thought I'd share my running diary of the event:

June 29, 2012 (Race Day Eve):

• 6:45 p.m. -- A pot roast dinner, complete with mashed potatoes and rolls.  I pat myself on the back for only having 1 roll.

• 7:30 p.m. -- A rousing wiffle ball game (in which I strike out twice), which is my last ditch effort to acclimate to Utah's elevation.  I've been here two days, so I should be good to go. I repeat this to myself more than once.

• 9:00 p.m. -- The sun is still up, but I head to bed (and I'm the only one in house full of 25 people heading to bed that early).  The elevation, the ascent, the heat that awaits my leg of the race hold no sway over me, and I'm excited!  If a reporter interviewed me now, you might've sensed the same blissful, ignorant bravado of Apollo Creed just before he fought Ivan Drago in Rocky IV: "I'm in the best shape of my life!"  Yeah. . . sure you are Apollo.

June 30, 2012 (Race Day):

• 2:45 a.m. -- Up, and not for the first time. Well before the 3:15 alarm.  Did I sleep at all?  I don the Superman shirt, but I do not feel like running.   Not. At. All.  Why do people do this?  Why am I doing this? Still, I did only have one roll last night.

• 3:15 a.m. -- The rest of the racing crew rouses.  They're dressed like real runners in warm up gear.  I'm dressed like a guy in red shorts and Superman shirt that didn't think through things enough to pack anything resembling warm up attire.  And I'm already tired again.  Cold (it's apparently chilly even in June at 3:15 a.m.) and tired. 

• 3:45 a.m. -- The four of us start in on the 70 mile drive to Midway, UT.  Matt starts in on his pretzels.  He says the only thing he can eat the morning of a race are pretzels (the salt helps him stay hydrated).  I nod like I know what he's talking about -- like I've been there, too.  I'm pretending (again), and for no good reason.  They all know I've only run 1 half marathon before.  I'm also still trying to pretend I'm not cold.

• 4:15 a.m. -- We've talked for the 67th time about how tough the incline will be from miles 3-7 for the first leg runners (Matt and Bryan).  It never gets old.  Something like a 2,300 foot elevation change in that four mile stretch.  I kind of feel bad, but I'm mostly amused at this point.  I tell Bryan I only need 7 minute splits from him, and I'll carry our team the rest of the way.  I float the idea (again) that my mass will give me enough momentum on the downhill to average 7 minute splits of my own. 

• 4:45 a.m. -- We're in Midway, but there's no sign of a race.  It's still dark.  Things look dead. Wait . . . after a second pass around what looks to be the town square, we see a guy standing at a table lighted by the headlights of a truck.  We're here.  But it seems like we're the only ones.

• 5:00 a.m. --  We're not the only ones, but there aren't many.  And they don't have my race packet.  I'm on the registration, but either someone's already grabbed my number or they didn't make me a packet.  This annoys me, but it seems to annoy Bryan more.  He seems to want the guy to acknowledge that this mishap can't be my fault.  The guy promises to make it right somehow, but I already feel relegated to 2nd class racer status.  It doesn't help that I've already been up for two hours.

• 5:15 a.m. -- Not much else to do (especially for those of us running the 2nd leg of the race), so we huddle in the car. . .and turn on the heat.  Maybe I kind of drift off to sleep. 

• 5:25 a.m. -- They found my race packet; someone had taken mine by mistake.  All is right in the world.  Mostly.

• 5:35 a.m. -- No one knows where the starting line for the race is.  Someone says it's a block away from the town square near a stake center (LDS church building), and that we'll all walk over there together.  That seems a little odd.

• 5:45 a.m. -- The four of us follow a group of people over to where we think the starting line is.  Then the people we're following say they don't know where it is, so they hope we're not following them.  No, of course we weren't following you. . .

• 6:00 a.m. -- The race is supposed to start now.  But we still don't know where the starting line is.  Nothing's marked.  Lots of people mill about the church parking lot in confusion. 

• 6:05 a.m. -- The race organizers and a mass of people make their way over and delineate a starting line.  It's someone's birthday, so people start singing "Happy Birthday to You."  I'm not inclined to sing; I reason it's because I'm so focused. 

• 6:07 a.m. -- They've sung "Happy Birthday."  One of the organizers explains the course.  He reckons people should plan on adding an hour to whatever their normal marathon time is.  It's that tough.  He also tries to scare those of us running the second leg.  He says that the first miles of the 2nd leg of the race will have their own steep uphill challenges.  Nobody told me about this before.  Matt gives me a look that I'd later learn meant "Why did you do this to us?"

• 6:10 a.m. -- The runners are off.

• 6:12 a.m. -- Leanne and I and the rest of the non-starting pack meander back to the town square.  We've got to find some meaningful way to kill time.  Matt's letting me wear his purple Nike pull over that feels insanely comfortable.

• 6:40 a.m. -- Leanne and I get word that the transport to the relay exchange point will happen sometime after 7 a.m.  I wonder whether it's worse to be waiting around aimlessly or running right now.  Meanwhile, Bryan's in the middle miles 3-7, thinking unkind thoughts of me (since I suggested the race), and trying very hard not to swear.  Bryan would tell me later he had to walk just about all of miles 3-7.

• 7:30 a.m. -- We're on our way to the relay exchange point in a GMC Yukon, taking on a dirt road with lots of switch backs.  I don't really take note of just how high we're climbing.  One of the runners in the vehicle is 14 years old and (literally) half my size.  I decide that probably means he can take me -- even if I am wearing a Superman shirt.  We'd learn later this was his first half-marathon.

• 7:35 a.m. -- Leanne and I and several others are positioned at the relay exchange point, milling around again.  It's sort of a valley between two parts of a mountain.  The oncoming runners face a significant descent to get to where we're at (and you can see the trail wind down the mountain from about 1/2 a mile away).  Then our leg starts with an immediate, steep ascent.  That'll be fun.  Kind of.

• 7:45 a.m. -- Signs of the first runner.  He's moving fast and there's no one anywhere near him.

• 7:50 a.m. -- The first runner reach and passes us.  He had two pace setters waiting for him at the half-way point to run the rest of the race with him.  They all seem to be sprinting up the hill, so I figure I should be able to do the same.  Probably just like Apollo figured he'd be able to take Ivan Drago.

• 7:57 a.m. -- A second runner passes us.  Leanne and I wonder which one of our brothers will be the first to get here: Matt (seasoned marathoner with a killer time at the Utah Valley marathon weeks before, but who hurt is knee in a basketball tournament two weeks ago) or Bryan (in the middle of what he's deemed his "Summer of Thor" and a personal mission to fill out his frame to look just like Chris Hemsworth -- minus the long locks).  The odds on favorite among the family has been Bryan, particularly because of Matt's knee injury.  But I wonder openly if Matt's possibly played up the injury, and if he's not still got a few speedy tricks of his own.

• 8:05 a.m. -- The first relay runner reaches the exchange point.  He might be the 14 year old kid's dad.  Either way, the 14 year old is off and running up the hill.  In my heart I know I won't be able to catch him.

• 8:15 a.m. --  We see Bryan striding down the mountain in his Superman shirt.  He's running really fast. No sign of Matt and his bright yellow shirt.

• 8:18 a.m. -- Bryan reaches me. . .and keeps running?  We make him stop.  My Garmin GPS is ready, but my iPod's not set yet.  Ah, there it is.  The music's pumping -- a freebie song from the Avengers Assemble album I got after buying a movie ticket to The Avengers online a few months ago.  I don't really like the song, but I haven't gotten rid of it yet, and the beat helps me take off sprinting up the hill, pumping with adrenaline.  I'm only the 2nd relay person to set out, and there've only been a handful of runners that have come through at all.

• 8:19 a.m. -- I pass one of the marathoners.  He's walking up the hill.  I don't really want to embarass him by sprinting by.  Poor guy.  He's already run half the course.  But I've got a 14 year old to catch!  So I run past.

• 8:22 a.m. -- Still more hill?  Adrenaline is gone. My chest is on fire.  The incline is too steep.  I don't want to do it but. . . I'm walking.  Four minutes into the race, and I'm walking.  I didn't walk at all with the last half-marathon.  This doesn't bode well, in part because I don't have any "walk the hill" music in my playlist.

• 8:25 a.m. -- Steep ascents and steep descents one after another.  I've tried running some more, but the ascents put me right back to walking very quickly.  I honestly wonder if I can finish in the time allotted for the marathon (6 hours), and if I'm possibly in the middle of one of the most foolish things I've ever done in my life.  Random orange tape guides my way.  By the way, the walking marathoner passes me (running now).  He earns a gold star for not mocking me as he passes.

• 8:30 a.m. -- Chest still burns.  My ears hurt (the iPod is not helpful -- so I take the earbuds out).  I feel like I'm breathing smoke (there'd been a few fires in other parts of the state in the days before the race).  Walking suits me now and "running" seems like something I used to do in another life.  I wonder if I'll be walking the whole race.  Things flatten out briefly at the top.  No one is anywhere around me.  It seems like I'm walking the course alone.

• 8:35 a.m. -- The downhill starts in earnest, and the view is breath-taking (in more than one sense) with the Deer Creek Resevoir to the left, and Mt. Timpanogos to the right.  I want to take in the scenery more, but the trail is all loose rock, and I'm in serious jeopardy of spraining my ankle.  So. . .I walk.  Walking the downhill was definitely not in the plans.  Someone passes me.  I'd learn after the race that Matt finished his leg around this time, so Leanne was just starting out.

[One of the flatter, less rocky portions of this part of the trail. Photo courtesy of Amy Donaldson and her Deseret News article here]


• 8:45 a.m. -- It's hot now.  But a few bursts of a cool breeze bring hope and encouragement.  I'm able to keep something of a jogging pace, and that feels like no small miracle.  I'm also able to listen to my iPod again, and one of the songs that come up is "Burning Heart" from Survivor (part of the always relevant Rocky IV soundtrack).  Yep, "burning heart" about sums up my experience thus far.

• 8:55 a.m. -- I'm headed down the backside of the mountain now.  A man in a red shirt passes me and wonders if I'm part of a relay team.  He seems nice, particularly as he offers encouragement as he strides by.

• 9:05 a.m. -- Just about to mile 17 (mile 4 for me).  The terrain has (mostly) leveled out, and I reach the first water station (there were far too few water stations on the course).  I've survived the hardest part of the course and it's almost like a normal run again.  Things feel hopeful -- and by hopeful I mean "I think I'm going to survive." It helps if I try not to comprehend the 9+ miles I still have in front of me.  I worry about Leanne going up and then down that mountain, and I worry how she's going to survive it.  I wonder where she's at and what she's going through.  And amid my worries, a thought occurs to me that, in my current state, feels like it holds much deeper meaning: "I can't run Leanne's race for her.  No matter how hard it is and no matter how much I may worry, she has to run her own race. I can only run my own."

• 9:10 a.m. -- The course has evolved into rolling hills and a dirt road that winds around the side of the mountain.  To the right is Deer Creek Resevoir.  It's beautiful, but the sun feels hot, and there's no escaping it.  I pass the nice guy in the red shirt (who is walking), and he cheers me on as I do.  He gets a gold star, too.  He's the only other runner I see on the course.

• 9:25 a.m. -- Hot. The winding road only lets you see your path a few hundred yards ahead, and I start hoping more and more that on the other side of each bend is the end of this particular part of the course.  I'm several hundred yards ahead of the red shirt guy. But I don't have any water, and I've started having to walk -- even the small hills.  My face feels encrusted with salt, and I seem to have stopped sweating.  Oh, and my legs mostly feel like lead.

[Photo courtesy of Amy Donaldson and her Deseret News article here]

• 9:36 a.m. -- Still so hot.  I reach the mile 20 water station (mile 7 for me), and I feel like I've already given all I have.  But there are still 6+ miles in front of me.  The guy manning the water station calls me Superman, which I always appreciate.  I then indulge in several cups of water, including pouring a few over my head and arms.  With the refreshment, I start out again, catching the song "Hero" by Chad Kroeger (from the original Spiderman soundtrack) on my playlist.  The combined effect gives me a good boost of energy, so I run up the hill in front of me.

• 9:50 a.m. -- The miles have been coming much slower, and I'm still on this winding dirt road.  The guy in the red shirt now has a companion, and while they're still behind me, it's clear they're going to catch and pass me.  What would sun stroke/dehydration feel like?  Something's clearly wrong because Journey's "Send Her My Love" now seems like one of the most meaningful songs I've ever heard.

• 10:15 a.m. -- Completely, completely exhausted.  The end of the dirt road is just ahead, and I'm coming up on the mile 23 marker, a water station, and a small crowd of people.  Three cups of water are all I can manage, and I try taking one cup for the road.  It turns out that doesn't work out so well.

• 10:20 a.m. -- A long stretch of paved road that looks endless. The guy in the red shirt is now hundreds of yards ahead.  I have no energy for extraneous thought.  My whole world is the next 50 yards, or the next 25.  I find I can jog 100-200 yards, and then walk 100-200.  So it's slow going.  The guy in the red shirt and his friend are hundreds of yards ahead and doing the same thing.  That transition from a jog to a walk is painful now, and there's yet another timely song from the Rocky IV soundtrack up on the playlist: "There's No Easy Way Out."

• 10:43 a.m. -- Too tired to care about cliche, I'm on my last leg.  I turn a corner and unexpectedly see familiar faces: a niece, a nephew, and my kids start shouting for me, along with a hulking younger brother who is practically bursting through his Captain America t-shirt.  Before I'd seen them, I'd figured I needed at least one last walk, but I can't now.  They're all running with me (albeit in flip-flops) and carrying me to the finish line.  That kind of attention seems undeserved for a guy like -- a guy who had to walk so much.  But I relish it anyway.

[Not quite a sprinting stride, but it'll do.  Photo courtesy of Andrea Page Photography]
 
• 10:46 a.m. -- Finished.  

[This and the rest of the photos courtesy of Alisha Clark]

 

Team Superman finished with a time of 4:36:44.8.  My split was 2:28:13.5.  As it happens, this meant a second place finish in the men's relay (there were only three men's relay teams). 

In the aftermath, Bryan, Matt, and I would trade stories of our respective runs with doting family members while we all anxiously waited for Leanne to finish.  The race organizers scored extra points for having a bevy of quality donuts (among other treats) waiting for the runners.  Yes, I ate four of them.

[Chocolate cake donuts with toasted coconut?  How did they know?]

Leanne (running the anchor leg for Team Over the Top) would finish at 5:30:47, with a split of 3:05:10.8.  That's about the time I'd finally be able to bend my legs enough stretch my quads.   

[Team Over the Top and Team Superman]

The race confirmed a few things for me.  For one, I'll likely never attempt a full marathon. A 13.1 mile run (or in this case, 13.4) is already plenty long enough to push my body farther than it wants to run.  Doubling that distance (and training to be able to double that distance) strikes me as unnecessary insanity, especially for someone my size (and my knees).  But the race, as grueling as it was -- and perhaps because it was as grueling as it was -- also confirmed how much more enjoyable they can be when running with family and friends.  Not just because of the shared experience of the race, but the shared experience in the training and race preparation, too.  In the two weeks since the run, I've missed the email updates every few days between siblings about how the training runs are going.  I miss the connection it gave the four of us.  And I'm actually looking forward to doing another one.

All in all, the experience was unforgettable!

On Milkshake Contests

We Clarks often pretend to know a lot about things that don't really matter.  This blog is a reflection of that.  But it's best to not trifle with us on the subject of milkshakes. Take even more care if you want to talk about milkshake making contests.

I've offered up many of the details elsewhere, but as we near the 11th Annual Clark Family Milkshake Making Contest at end of the month, I feel like ruminating on and/or revisting a few highlights:

• The contest now enters its 13th year (11th actual contest). And it'll be the first contest since 2009 that we will all be together. What began as a simple post-mission effort to bond with family (and imbibe milkshakes) has evolved into an elaborate, creative, and often heated contest for the top prize. In other words, the days of the simple vanilla or chocolate shake are long gone.

How did it come to this?

• As the picture above indicates, Bryan took home the top prize last year (with "Orange Dreamsicle").  And he's obviously grown very fond of the trophy.  In fact, there are more than rumors that he's been carrying it around the BYU campus muttering, in a hissy voice, "my own. . .my. . .presshhious." 

• Of course, that's happened before:

Michelle and The Precious, circa 2007

• And then there was this back in 2005:

• With a record number of participants expected this year, we're now opting for a three judge format.*  It's doubtful the contest has ever been more anticipated, and it's almost certainly never been more competitive.  Planning among contestants for the next contest's entry often begins shortly after the last one ends as ideas are bandied about, embraced, rejected, and embraced again (all outside the earshot of the judges).  Hence, my family is holding a practice session tomorrow night for family home evening to test out our ideas.

May the best milkshake win (as long as it means the trophy returns to San Diego)!

* As one might imagine, being a judge is initially a great honor. . .until the contest is over.  A milkshake judge has to be prepared to engender controversy (whether or not it's warranted) and, for better or worse, be ready to be an object of scorn and ridicule for the hours, days, and weeks following the contest.  Indeed, some of us are still better at the 2005 milkshake contest judges for failing to address a certain contestant's use of illegal ice cream.

Nothing Bundt Cakes

Yeah, so it's been a year and a half.  Even longer since I've put out anything meaningful. 

Ah well.  It happens that way sometimes when you've been dabbling in the dark arts of chocolate chip cookies and molasses spice crisps, or working your way toward a new truth in homemade pizza margherita.  One simply loses track of time.

The truth is, I've had little intention of coming back here.  But here I am, drawn back in almost on a dare. 

I was contented enough this evening at a chili cookoff and pinewood derby for the Boy Scouts.  The company at my table was mostly pleasant, 'til the topic turned to cupcakes. 

The women across from me, respectable in every way, seemed to have lost their minds.  Somehow, someway, they scoffed at my affinity for Sprinkles cupcakes, claiming they could name a handful of superior cake/cupcake shops in San Diego.  Maybe.  Yeah, maybe.  I left open the possibility.

So on the way home tonight, we tried one: Nothing Bundt Cakes.   We bought two "bundlets" -- marble cake (particularly recommended), and pecan prailine, totaling nearly $9.

As with the donut tastes we've done in the past, Michelle divided up the bundtlets between the five of us.  My review needs only a few lines:  the cream cheese icing was completely unremarkable.  But I'd been warned of this -- it's the cake itself that was supposed to be amazing.*  And the cake was moist.  But my praise ends there.  Both the marble and pecan praline cakes were fine, but nothing much better than fine.  And nothing, really, that I couldn't have had at home.  So I paid $9 for two small, moist cakes -- with mediocre icing -- that I could've had at home at a fraction of the cost.

Ah well.  After putting the kids to bed, I made a quick trip to Sprinkles (fantastic strawberry and dark chocolate frosting, even if some of the chocolate cake was a little dry).  Yeah, those women, otherwise perfectly respectable, were out of their minds.



*I take issue with this concept generally.  The right kind of cake without frosting can be fine.  More than fine even (I'm thinking of a friend's chocolate hazelnut cake).  But a cake is not meant to outshine its frosting.  It's just not.  It sets up the frosting and creates an atmosphere in which the frosting can shine.  Deserved or not, when you frost a cake, you set up the frosting to be the star.  When this works properly, life is bliss, and all is right in the world.  But it's against the laws of nature to frost a cake and expect that cake to shine any more than it's frosting allows it.