60 Miles to Butterbeer

A few weeks ago we bought annual passes to Universal.  We’ve had ‘em before, but a couple years have gone by since.  We haven’t seen The Wizarding World of Harry Potter yet, or tasted Butterbeer!

We get to the Econ often enough that as long as we are in the area and have passes, we can justify dropping by Islands of Adventure for a few hours after a mountain bike ride.

If we were paying for a one day ticket, we’d never go. We just can’t get up early enough, or withstand crowds long enough, to justify a single all day excursion.  But give us a year and a few hours per weekend. That we can handle.

As usual, a good lunch is the magic formula for recovering from the early-up of the Saturday morning ride.  By afternoon, we have run the search for satisfactory theme park outfits - quick dry shorts, and sandals that strap securely - and head for Universal. 

(The sandals are especially important.  Can you imagine how many flips flops they find under the roller coasters at the end of the day?) 

By the time we pull into the last row of the King Kong lot, it's late, but there’s enough time to purchase our passes and get in for an hour or two.  I am anxious to see the Wizarding World of Harry Potter.

It's not summer yet, but the skies are rehearsing for July. As we step up to leave our fingerprints at the gate, thunder rumbles, and the first big fat raindrops begin to fall.

Slipping expertly through the stream of exiting people we head for the back of the park, where the dragons fly and Butterbeer is served.

Only the dragons aren’t flying. They are shut down. As is every other roller coaster and outdoor ride in the park.

Now sometimes, just watching a Harry Potter movie can make me feel like I am back in upstate New York with the gray skies, and the snow that just keeps on coming even after your Easter candy is long gone.  On the big screen in a dark theatre, a winter scene in a Harry Potter movie can set my teeth to chattering.

So real is the backdrop for this area of the park, and so gray is the sky, that disbelief is nearly suspended. Snow clings to the steep, slate rooftops of Hogsmeade.  The Three Broomsticks is doing a booming business.  Gringotts is right down that alley.  It is the perfect illusion. 

Or it would be, if it weren't for the multitude of drenched muggles in bad shorts.

Ok, so we were drenched muggles ourselves.  Drenched and re-drenched as it turns out, as we people-watch our way through a 90 minute line for The Forbidden Journey, the only indoor ride.

The ride was pretty good, but it was the reward of a butterbeer afterwards that left an impression. We raved about it all the way home. What’s in it? How can we make some?

Butterbeer, draft or frozen.

Old habits die hard.  We choose draft.

Another choice is Pumpkin Juice.

Thanksgiving in a bottle.

Back at home I go immediately online.  It seems we are not the only ones with home brewing in mind.  But no recipe (and there are many) looks even close.  

My eyes wander from the screen in a potential sugar daze.  Mmm, maybe that foam was butterscotch blended with whipped cream…

My gaze lands on a little black notebook next to the computer, a notebook I’d been keeping for a few weeks, since I started watching “Addicted to Food”.

Brewing Butterbeer for home consumption is a singularly bad idea.

Usually it takes some form of chocolate to make me forget all about how much I hate carrying around extra pounds.  It’s taken a month just to lose five.  Do I really want Butterbeer available in my own refrigerator?   

I close the computer.  It’s bad enough that it is available 60 miles away.


The Butterbeer has cast a powerful spell.  If only I had Harry’s potions textbook right now, I'd look up a counter-curse.


I pick up my ink laden wand and open the little black notebook, reluctantly starting a new page, hoping that a self-intervention will work some magic of its own.


Can the curse be reversed?

Sure hope so. There’re a lot of weekends in an annual pass. And we’ve got some dragon riding to do.

A Day at the Park: Wickham Park Marathon, 50, 100, and 200 Mile Fun Run

Boom BOOM!

"What the... ?"

Oh yeah, ok. Endeavour's back.

Might just be the last time the sonic boom of a returning shuttle ever knocks me out of bed.

So, once again, the first words of the month were not "rabbit, rabbit".  But then, it is always a wish fulfilled whenever a space shuttle returns home, safe and sound.

It's amazing how soundly one can sleep even three days after the longest run of the year.

There was a time when I considered "just a marathon" to be a short race.  But rocks happen, menisci shred, and age groups sneak by, chipping away at the old gung ho. Which leaves me in a strange place. In my mind, a marathon is a completely doable, ho hum distance.

In the real world, you probably should train.

Popeye's longest runs since the last time we did Wickham Park (2 years ago) were his one 11.7 mile training loop of the Econ, and running the 10 mile Claw.  My longest run in the last two years was the result of missing a course arrow at the Richmond XTerra in 2009 for a 7+.

Yep, a tad undertrained.

Ok, I'm speaking for myself.

Popeye was obviously trained just right. He flew around his seven loops of the Wickham course, with no problem and no stopping, except to snag Gatorades from the cooler we left at the car.

Wickham is the most convenient marathon ever.

Not only is it local, it starts at a decent hour (for a marathon).

Plus there are real bathrooms.

The distance is done in 3.75 mile loops, allowing participants to be self supplied with sustenance of their choosing. Knowing I can swing by for a drink, dry shoes, or even a sit in the shade if necessary, is a huge mental bonus.

We arrive 20 minutes before start. Plenty of time to find a parking spot under a big oak, close to the top of the 3.75 mile loop.

Setting up home base.

Then we mosey over to sign in. The wait is short, the runners jovial, and the line moves quickly.

The Race Instigator - I mean, Director - has placed a clipboard on the hood of his car. His watch is next to it. Write your name on the sheet, go run a loop, run back by his car, and write down your loop time according to the watch. No fuss. No muss. (And no fee.)

Everyone hustles to sign in. An on-time start is crucial for the fifty milers to be done before the cut off time of 8pm. Latecomers are welcome to sign in at the end of their first loop.

Precisely at 7:30, The Director leads out, carrying a huge sack of white flour. He drops it by the handful to mark the trail the first time around. After that, we are on our own.

My inner tortoise was happy enough to stand to the side, taking pictures of the other 77 people lined up for the 7:30am start.

7:30 seems plenty early enough to me.

I take a few pictures tagging along behind, until I come even with our car under its oak tree. Tossing the camera into the front seat, I click the lock, and trot myself back to the starting line where I began again, just to make my distance official. Wouldn’t want to short change myself on mileage.

So, it’s a typical start for me. A few minutes late, padding down the road after the stragglers, and dead last by the time we turn onto the trail.

I love the conversations of the ultra distance crowd. I love that there is conversation. I think of the serious starting-line faces at the dozens of triathlons I have done, and eavesdrop shamelessly.

See the guy on the left, in the yellow shirt?  He is chatting, in full paragraphs, with the fellow next to him:


"Oh hey, was it still dark when you left your house?  But you remembered everything all right. Well, almost everything. Let’s see. Hat, camelbak, shirt… Oh, whoops, you forgot your shoes.”

Shoeless Runner comes back with, “Yeah, it was pretty early. I didn’t want to wake the kids, so I sneaked out barefoot.”

A little later, settling into my slow, steady, I-hope-I-can-hold-this-for-a-while pace, I pass a tall young man obviously steadied into an actual all-day pace. He asks, “Going for the fifty?”

“The fifteen maybe.”

"All right! Fifty or until we drop, whichever comes first.”

Fifteen. Fifty. Sounds alike, I guess.

“Yep,” I say, thinking distance is relative anyway. "Until we drop. The next guy will just have to roll the bodies off the trail and keep going.”

“Nah,” says another guy, catching up to the conversation, “The Director says to leave any dead bodies we find on the trail. They make good obstacles.”

Popeye and I have run Wickham Park before, so I try to call people back on trail whenever I see them heading off. This happens pretty much every loop. There is a lot of joking among the pack about bonus miles. At first, anyway.

“Thanks, you probably saved my life,” says one man when I tell him he’s about to go the opposite direction from the one and only water fountain on course. I laugh as if he’s joking, but it’s quite possible he isn't.

A lot of runners listen to music. I have no room for extra noise in my head. There is a mental checklist in there long enough to last all day.

I take notice of spots that might make good pictures for a loop once I'm walking.  (Hopefully at least 12 or 15 miles from now.)

Then there’s stuff to remember that is absolutely essential.

As in: Do not forget to drink, it’s always hotter than you think.

Plus the stuff that simply makes the journey a lot more comfortable.

Prep is important. There are no bottle hand-offs here at Wickham. There is no smorgasbord every mile like an ironman event or a road marathon. At Wickham you are on your own. And even though marathon distance is considered short by this ultra crowd, it’s not every day for Popeye or me, so we came well supplied.

Back at the car there’s a cooler with sushi rice bars, PB and J’s, grapes, water frozen in bottles, and Gatorade.

I have a second pair of dry shorts and another shirt on standby. And a spare pair of run shoes, more cushioned than the Nike Free’s I start out in.

I must remember to drink, and eventually eat, and keep the load of sand I am carting around to a minimum.

So. Here we are. This is it. The long awaited Wickham Park Marathon, 50, 100, and 200 Mile Fun Run. And ha! I am still running. And, by golly, I am going to last as long as I can.

It's my second loop and hallelujah, the Nike Free’s are still dry. Not for much longer though, so I sit down on a log to dump out the first round of sand while it's still dry enough to pour out of my shoes.

On the next loop, I happen to be trotting around the end of this same log, when a young fellow swoops in from behind and leaps up and over rather than slow his pace or crowd me off the path. Wow. Nice! I am guessing from the speed (and the leap), that this is probably not a fifty mile guy.

We did this race two years ago, in 2009. Wickham Park was Popeye’s first marathon. He flew by me then, on his final loop, like I was standing still. Only I wasn’t standing still, dammit. I was one mile from the end of my fourth loop and walking just as fast as I could.

In 2009, Popeye finished his 26.2 miles of trail with a time of 4:07.  I finished 15 miles in 4:17.  It was considered a cool year, in the mid 80's, I think.  I remember there was a free foot wash (very warm standing water), so it must have been a wet year as well.

My main goal for this toasty, dry 2011 race, is to finish 15 miles in less time than it takes Popeye to run his 26. Any mileage I can manage beyond that will be gravy. I expect to have to walk some, but that's ok. When it comes to that, I'll take my pictures.

Perhaps it was a mistake to make my notes mental. I probably should have had a visible check list at the cooler for the essentials.

Dump the shoes once a loop. Drink a Gatorade. Bring one with me. Eat a sushi-rice bar after two hours. Change shoes after three.

It was all good until early along loop 3.

Near the top of my third loop, a photographer was taking pictures. This is the link to my photo, but I expect you can view all of them if you want to. (Hey, it says free.)

http://www.yourphotosnow.com/Sports/Wickham-Park-Marathon-And-50/17289678_MV5fJc#1312230921_qFmzDMv

That's me, in blue. Smiling. Soaked in sweat. Typical Wickham run.

About a quarter mile later, at the bottom of the soccer ridge all-sand descent, I trip and do a body roll in the sand.

A runner right behind me stops and offers a hand up, but when I yank my hands out from their wrist deep holes in the Wickham dirt, and lift one up to him, I withdraw it quickly.

"Thanks, but I really don’t think you want to touch me,” I say.

I stand up. I am plastered.

I am one great big Sugar Cookie.

So distracted am I by the flapping wet, sandy shorts and shirt, and my sugarcoated legs and arms and face, that the mental checklist goes all to hell.

There is only one thought left, and it takes on a rhythm of its own.

Dry Shorts.  Dry Shorts.  Dry Shorts.

Long runs can sometimes be made or broken with a single turn of events. And sometimes that turn is as simple and quick as a sprawl in the sand.

And so, what I appreciate most about Wickham, the short loops, and a well stocked car, leads eventually to an unintentional, premature ending.

If this had been an ordinary single-loop run of 26 miles, I would have had to get over it and get on with it. But seeing as I had a dry outfit in the car…

I flap my way around the rest of the loop and back to the car.

Dry shirt. Dry shorts. Dry shoes. It feels Awesome!

I run out for loop number four, thinking only of the incredible lightness of dry shorts.

What I do not think of is Gatorade. Or the sushi rice bar I was supposed to eat to prevent an hour-three bonk.

A mile down the trail, my right calf fires it's first warning shot, and I realize my mistake. But I am a mile down the trail. Turning around isn’t appealing. There’s a water fountain in a couple miles. I’ll be fine.

But long before the water fountain, I give in to the calf’s request for a bit of walking.

And suddenly, it is over.

I try repeatedly, but I cannot get back the rhythm of my slow, steady trot.

All my run has run out.

Passing the 2 mile marker (a paper-plate on a stick) for the fourth time, I walk as fast as I dare. The calves are mooing. The water fountain isn’t far, it just feels like forever.

A few more lost souls head off for bonus miles. The effort of a loud shout brings them back on trail, and I get a start on my list for next year by wishing I had my hash whistle.

I near the fountain. Looking back from the turn I see a man, running with his arms out, flying, like a kid playing airplane.

Or Superman.

Bonk or no, I am so glad to be here.

And it looks like I’m not the only one.


Post Script:

I meet my goal. Popeye comes in from his marathon about ten minutes after I manage my fifteen miles. In first place! He beats everyone else’s full marathon time with a 4:10.

Of the 78 starters, 44 do the marathon and 13 go on to finish 50 miles, thereby becoming eligible to go on to the 100 on Monday.

Full results for all four days:
http://mattmahoney.net/wickham/11wpmar.txt

I end my 15 miles in 3:58, by signing in my time, then walking straight from the Director's car into the lake.

Post, Post Script:

We both feel like slackers, hanging out in the shade, having only spent four hours on trail.

Ah.

So, what to put on the mental list for next year?

A bit more training, for sure. Popeye might even give the fifty a try.

And for me? A hash whistle. An actual checklist. A new goal.

OK, I am not likely to ever make 50 miles by nightfall. 50k, maybe?

 Oh yeah.  Add bandaides to that list.

In case Popeye gets another marathon-toe.

Tristan Jones and the Blog Neglected. Richmond XTerra 2011.

In a simpler time I had three possessions.  A guitar, a typewriter, and the boat I lived on. 

I manage my shyness a little better now.  But I still remember fighting the fear, the pounding of my heart, as I worked my way through the crowd gathered around him after his speech at the local college.

How I managed to introduce myself to Tristan Jones, sailor, story teller, author, I will never know.  But this man had sailed the world and told the tales I read each night by lanternlight, in calm and in storm.  I had to say something or forever regret the opportunity.

I don't remember exactly what I asked, but I remember exactly what he answered.

"Writing is the easy part.  It's deciding what to leave out that's hard."

According to WendiLore, Bike Eat Sleep Repeat blog posts are just too long.  I'm sure a lot of folks agree.

Personally, I have an appetite for reading up on other people's lives.  Super short posts are just plain unsatisfying.  Crackers without the cheese.

Like a good meal, a good story has some meat to it. I don’t like to be left with bare bones and no details. I want to know all about it - and all about you - whatever you’re writing.

My only explanation for a long posting absence is that I have been treading a Drunkard's Path. This Drunkard's Path.  Over and over.  Trying to get it right.  I'm on the wagon now though, at least until it comes back to me from Irene The Quilter, for binding, gift wrapping, and the flight to Philidelphia.

But excuses are for weenies. 

So, if you are curious about the Wickham Park Marathon, Butterbeer, or the scariest looking roller coaster ever, know that there are four or five posts still in the queue, waiting to be deboned for publishing and a more palatable consumption.

Because Tristan was right.  Writing is easy.  Deciding what to leave out is hard.

So. 

Here's the bare bones on Richmond.

The trip was short, too short.

My attempt at the XTerra East Championship there - even shorter.

Any triathlete will tell you it is foolish to expend too much energy in the day or two right before a key race.

But to race off road without pre-riding the bike course is just begging to have your hat handed to you. There is nothing to be gained by saving a day of energy only to be blindsided by big surprises on trail.


I admit it.  This bike course kicked my butt.   

The narrow ledges kicked my butt on Friday, with Popeye returning again and again to see where I was. 

The hairpin turns and no-restart climbs kicked my butt on Saturday when I rode it with Scrub Jay.  

One loop (the race would be two) had me more red-lined than, oh, fifty loops of Graham's Swamp. 


And that's just the bike.

The swim depends mostly on how well you guage your mile of current and submerged rocks.  Then, it's 20 edgey-ledgey miles on the bike, and out for 10k of urban, deep woods, rock-hopping trail run.


The cut off time for finishing the bike portion is noon.  As I wobbled to the end of our 10 mile pre-ride on Saturday, some dizzy calculating tells me I might have fifteen minutes, maybe a half hour, to spare before being pulled from the course on Sunday.   


The tipping point for a back of the pack'r like me, was this year's change in the bike course.  It went from a single 18 mile loop to 2, 10 mile loops.  Not only could I expect to spend a good chunk of my first loop moving aside for every experienced pro, but it was likely I'd have to jump off trail completely for plenty of the more excitable amateurs too. 


I had a decision to make.

I knew in my churning gut, I should go straight to the registration tent and beg to switch to the half distance sport race.  But old Coach Griffen always has his say inside my head.


"You can always do more than you think you can."


The trouble was, I probably couldn't.  Not this time.


What it came down to was, which form of DNF to choose?  Not finish the XTerra East Championship by defaulting to the shorter sport race?  Or not finish by failing to make the bike cut off?


If you don't try, there's no chance at all, argues the Coach. 


I pedal on past the registration tent, whipped for the day, but resolved for the morning.


In the end Popeye (in the Championship race) and Scrub Jay (in the sport race) both did well, their runs enviably complete before I finish my bike. 


Although I don't make it in time for the noon cut off, it was close enough that the XTerra transition staff gave me my choice.

"Do you want to go ahead and do the run?" 


The Coach started to speak up, even as my legs buckled in the dismount.  He was, for once, squelched by a louder, wiser voice.  Mine.


"No thanks, I don't think so."

A peek at the swim start under the tracks.

  Crab the current, and don't bang your knees.

The big 8 flight stair climb is gone,

but there are still a few steps to get up.

Popeye has no trouble.

The bike route takes a bridge back across the river.

Guess what - the run doesn't.

There is a smooth section right before the end.

And everywhere you go in Richmond, a train...

some sort of bridge...

or a tunnel.

Looks like I'll soon have another scar for my collection.

If only there were a way to practice for the fast guys coming through.

I know.  Go faster, right?