The Megatransect Race - A trail marathon with several twists

Sometime late last year, I came across the website for the Megatransect Race in Lock Haven, Pennsylvania. I don't recall the circumstances that surrounded my stumbling across it. It may have been a fellow runner's suggestion or a googling of the phrase 'batshit crazy running ideas,' but I discovered this race that took place in the mountains of central Pennsylvania a short drive from my childhood home in Carlisle. It was of a slightly undetermined length (the website gives the rather vague description of a 25+ mile race), largely due to the fact that it can't be compared to any other race out there, marathon or otherwise. The route changes year-to-year, though several highlights are included in each running, so even comparing it to previous Megas is not an apples-to-apples type thing.

It may be marathon length, but calling the Mega a trail marathon is to completely ignore what makes the Mega... the Mega.

I tried to sign up last year. The race was in September. It was July. I was about 7 months too late. See, registration opens for the Mega on Jan 1st at noon... and is full by 1:30. The field is extremely limited thanks to the trail restrictions, and it's an extremely popular race. So, I set my phone to remind me on New Year's eve to not get so wasted that I couldn't fill out a race form at noon the next day.

The 2012 race filled up in 30 minutes, but I was in. Some friends weren't so lucky. So, as the 2012 calendar slowly clicked toward September, I alone waited for the trip to Pennsylvania.

I flew up on Thursday, choosing to stay the night in my old hometown and cruise past the few places I could remember from my youth. The house I grew up in looked exactly the same. The streets were familiar... but so much smaller. The early fall weather was amazing as I walked down High Street past Dickinson College and an intersection that makes an appearance in my book coughGetitHerecough. My elementary school looked completely different. The hamburger that I had for dinner (and the one for lunch the next day) at Scalles was blessedly the same. It reminded me of what fall seasons were supposed to be like and gave me hope that the weather would be ideal for the race that Saturday.

I spent Friday night in State College, a respectably-sized town about 30 mins south of Lock Haven that is known for being the home of Penn State more than anything else. I had an early morning, so I didn't get to experience the thrills of PSU partying. But, I found myself wondering what brings out-of-staters to the college. It's a nice place... but it's in the middle of nowhere.

The Mountain was angry that day, my friend

The next morning, I was on the road early and arrived at the Castanea Picnic Grounds to find a growing mob of camelbak-wearing hikers and runners. The Mega is an odd race in that a wide spectrum of competitors crawls out of that early morning fog. You'll see your singlet-wearing road runners lined up next to full-spandex suited trail runners. Mountain climbers trot out from the starting line as the distance runners pull away. Each competitor had their strong and weak points, and it made for an interesting day.

The first three miles were on a gently sloping road. Here, the lithe distance runners pulled away. I kept a steady pace thanks to concerns over whether or not I'd even be able to finish. Two weeks earlier, I had been diagnosed with giardia (mountain water stomach fungus, for you laypeople), and the pain and discomfort I felt was only amplified by the antibiotic regimen I had to endure. Suffice it to say, I did not train in the final two weeks and my body was so racked with trying to heal itself that keeping my legs in running shape was not high on its priority list.

I wasn't sure I could climb a ladder much less a mountain. Still, I stepped off and finished the opening road section at about a 9 min/mile pace. Not my fastest, but I wasn't sprinting. I was simply dreading what the rest of the day had in store. As a show of camaraderie with my growing GORUCK family, I wore a GRC shirt and my GR1 ruck with some snacks and a water bladder. I can say with all honesty that it was nice to hear periodic comments about GORUCK and people running next to me asking about my challenges.

We GRTs are everywhere. After 3 miles, I turned with the pack of runners into the trees... and stopped.

Trail run my backside.

The trails comprising the Mega route are thick, steep, and rocky. About 50% of the trail is actually 'runnable,' and only half of that is safely runnable. You're taking your life (and your knees and ankles) into your own hands if you run many of the sections. That's not to say we walked... we climbed. Fast.

The first trail section was difficult in that the 700 or so runners were still largely bunched up. With different skill sets, some people hiked up the hills faster while others excelled on the road work. This meant many people had to fight past the slower climbers for miles 4-6. It was painstakingly slow, more so than any race start I can recall. Most runners know what I mean when I say that the first mile of any major race is a stutter step/slalom exercise as you dive around other runners. This was ten times worse than that.

It was at around Mile 5 that I came upon what I'll call the Mega Mantra. Other racers understand that some people (largely rookies) start out the Mega fast and hit a wall thanks to the rigorous course. Or, they assume these people that sprinted by them on the road will get caught on the hills. Or, the hill-climbing speed demons will be caught and passed once the pack emerges from the trees. So, the mantra I heard every time I passed someone...

"Heh... we'll catch him on the flat sections."

About halfway up the boulders. Great view. Awful trail.

With the questions surrounding my stomach and overall body weakness coupled with my lack of knowledge about the Mega, I feared they were right. What did I know about what I was getting into? As it turns out, they were wrong and likely just projecting. But, more on that later.

Because, at Mile 6, we hit the boulder field. This is the epitome of the Mega. If you've seen any albums of Mega pictures, 3/4 of it is this. It's beautiful, and from the top you can see out over Lock Haven and much of the river valley below. But, it's about 2/3 of a mile straight up and over boulders. It taxes the calves and quadriceps as well as whatever mental preparation you were able to bring. Still, taking a break every few hundred feet to turn around and take in the view is a great way to recharge the batteries. Fortunately, I had scaled similar boulder fields in Colorado only weeks earlier. I pushed through...

Yea.. this is a 'trail' race

Across the boulder field, I met more GRTs and we tackled Rattlesnake Ridge. A couple miles further, we reached the Mile 10 (and, eventually what would be the Mile 17) aid station. Peanut butter sandwiches. Gatorade. Chocolate. Peanuts. It was heaven.

And, as I refueled, the leader came into the aid station. Only, he was at Mile 17.

Damn it.

I plunged back into the woods, alone and determined to run the section I could... even the rocky sections that had me bounding down the trail more than running. It was parkour in Pennsylvania, wooded with a roof of reds, yellows, and greens. Leaves fell around me as I ran, skipped, and bounced through the trees.

It was pretty damn cool.

I reached a small creek. It was about 1030 in the morning, but the trees kept the sun at bay. Only a cool, muggy breeze sneaked past the denuded trees. I crossed the slippery rocks and found the section of the race evilly referred to as K2 in reference to the soul-sucking mountain on the border between China and Pakistan that is the Earth's second tallest.

They use this picture in ads to imply you
can actually run a good portion of this race

This section of the race included rope work to keep you from killing yourself. Using the thick blue line, I pulled myself up the 30 feet to the ridge and tip-toed along it. With some places only 8 inches wide, the trail had a steep dropoff to the floor 50 feet below. It was technical and tough. I hated this part and found it the most difficult of the entire route. It seemed unending.

But, end it did. The trail opened a bit and I ran. Miles 12-14 disappeared beneath my feet. The field of runners was so disperse now that I could go 5-10 minutes without seeing another competitor. Breaking into the open at 14.5 miles, I found the 'midpoint' aid station. I call it that because it was actually more than halfway, but the mountain only allowed for aid sections to be placed at certain spots. I took a break here for several minutes, even 'ruck flopping' on to the ground to relax. Much peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were enjoyed. There was much rejoicing. Racers drifted in and rested.

I heard horror stories. The race organizers had placed ATVs at sections along the route and all were equipped with radios. Other racers had overheard the support crews talking.

One woman had cracked her skull open and had to be carried out. Another had dislocated her wrist. Yet another had a broken ankle.

As my GORUCK family would say... this race wasn't nothin'.

As I watched people drift in, drained and dehydrated, I realized that I was gaining nothing by sitting. I stood up and started walking to the trail. I started jogging. I started running. Another mile down the trail, we once again cut into the trees. Up and up and up... I came across a guy that recognized my GORUCK shirt, though he hadn't done one. Brad said his brother-in-law had. We passed the next several miles talking about why we wanted to do something so stupid. Together, we made it to the Mile 17 aid station.

We were back at the top of the mountain. It had to be downhill from here, right? I was so excited to reach the aid station - knowing I had a chance to tend to a growing blister on my right foot had driven me for the last few miles - but I stayed there mere minutes. I apparently reboot quickly... I was once more in the trees, this time with my eyes set on the Mile 22 aid station. Maps were hanging at the stops, and I thought it was fairly level through to 22.

The Rote Overlook: A race highlight

My legs were burning by this point, so I took the opportunity to break into a trot and stretch them out. I passed handfuls of people stretching out sore muscles in the thick underbrush. They appeared thankful to have a wide enough trail to pull off to the side. We dipped slightly and then rose once more, reaching the Rote Overlook. I stopped here for the view of the valley. Most impressive and beautiful in the early afternoon sun. Sadly, I couldn't stay long as a group of racers were coming behind me, and I feared being stuck behind them should the trail narrow. I ducked into the trees and left the clearing behind. And, we descended.

Down to Mile 22's station. "Only four more miles," I heard. One up, three down. "Yeah," another worker said, "He says that, but I'm not sure it's true."

Well, the initial run to the mountain was 3 miles of open road. I can't be that far from breaking out of the woods, right?

To you, mountain,
I wave two middle fingers

Oh, yes. Yes I can. Cuz Mile 23 was straight MFing UP. The 'K2' section was technically difficult... this part just sucked. It was demoralizing to have just run down the mountain for two miles only to have to go back up. The trail narrowed to shoulder width, and passing anyone was out of the question. Unfortunately, though we started this section spread out, it was inevitable that people would get eaten for lunch here. All it took was one person to start bonking, and we piled into each other like a folding accordion, forced to slow to our leader's pace.

No one complained.

I had reached Mile 22 at 2PM and been on the course for seven hours. Given my health leading up to the race, I was just hoping to get in under 10 hours. I had nothing to compare the race to other than some GRTs' times from the previous year. I figured I could beat them. My stomach left that question up in the air. But, with 4 miles to go, I was 7 hours in. Hell, I thought, I can do this in under 8 hours!

Hell no, I couldn't. Cuz Mile 23 sucked a big ole bag of excrement.

Though it wasn't raining as it had been in 2011 (I heard horror stories of that race the entire day), the trees kept the moisture on the trails. Dirt quickly turned to mud and people slid all over the mountain. We crept towards the top of the hill only to come face to face.... with more gawdam boulders.

A boulder field, evilly reminiscent of Mile 6, stretched out before us. It was here that people's souls died. I actually saw it happen. The color drained from people's faces, and I saw some of them get that look in their eyes like Bill Paxton's character in Aliens.

Game over, man.... GAME OVER!

If I still had any hope for an 8 hour finish after the climb up, those boulders ground it into dust and spit all over it. Thirty frustrating minutes later, I crested the top of the field. It wasn't nearly as high or long as the first boulder section, but it was so demoralizing after believing yourself to be on the home stretch. Plus, my legs were jello. I compensated by placing my foot on the next boulder and pushing on my knee, upward on my hands. It gave my upper legs some rest, but it was exhausting.

Cresting this section, we smelled the open air. We found an open section of actual, vehicle-capable trail and begin running. I passed exhausted hikers ("Bah! He'll wear out... we'll pass him once we get out of the trees!") and was passed by a blur as a runner, barely in control, sped down the trail. I darted past the spot where the Mile 3 water stop had been hours earlier and broke into downtown Castanea (Note: I use the term 'downtown' extremely loosely here). Blessed downhill sections spread out before me and I ran a solid, steady pace for a mile and half.

Then, I came to the infamous green mile. This final section before the turn back to the start/finish runs parallel to the elevated roadway and between it and a sprawling field of corn. It's essentially a grass-covered path along the spillway, and it's beauty was offset by the fact that you could see the end of it... and it appeared to be 8 miles away. By this point, racers are spread out every few hundred feet, and passing is rare. Most at this point are concerned less with their time than they are with ensuring their place in the finishing chute. People glance over shoulders regularly to see if they are being chased. If you look and the person behind you is running... you start running. It was comical in its own, sadistic way.

The road cut back under an overpass and passed some old houses... and more corn. Up one more low hill, and the finish line appeared in the distance. I picked up my speed around the parking lots and lined myself up for the sprint to the finish... The smell of pizza and signs for beer gave me strength I didn't know I had, and I dashed through the archway. 8:21. Eight hours and twenty one minutes. Ho-Lee-Crap.

They had BBQ for us, but I went straight to the pizza and smoothie. That banana smoothie (and the two that followed it) were pure heaven. I admired my Mega X medal (it was the tenth anniversary of

It's like a pot of liquid gold at the end
of a rainbow of tortuous water-boarding

the race) and marveled at the people around me. It was quite the gathering of old and young, men and women. The Lock Haven University running teams helped along the course - high off in the mountains - and they drifted in to grateful applause and thank-yous. I caught up with Brad, who finished about 20 minutes behind me with his brothers-in-law. I found several GRTs and traded stories and came across other people that recognized my shirt and asked me about the Challenge.

I was nauseous and weak. Exhausted and exhilarated. I recovered quickly - quicker than I expected - and completed a half marathon the next weekend. I can now honestly say that I have completed a trail marathon (the final race distance was 26.7 miles according to several GPS devices), but the Mega is anything but. It can only be compared to itself, and only then with a grain of salt. It poured down rain in 2011. The route was a mile and half longer in 2012. Aspects from year to year are the same, but it's always a new path.

Always a new path.

Any competitor - GRT, runner, swimmer, or similar - is always looking for a new path. Whether its a muddy trench carved by those that are ahead of you... right around the corner.. or a leaf-covered path that seems to have been undisturbed for eons, we are always looking for new paths.

People ask me why I do this crazy stuff (often with a rucksack full of bricks, though I smartly opted out of that for the Mega), and I am pleased to know that I've found others that share my own personal brand of competitive psychosis - not with each other necessarily, but with ourselves. People ask why I do it, and all I can think to say is that I am always looking for a new path.

Old paths are boring and commonplace. I've been down those. What's over there... what's on top of K2 or Mount Yale, or across the finish line at the Vermont Death Race? Those are the paths I want to see...

 

Active MLB Park #27: Citi Field

As part of my continuing efforts to hit every active Major League Baseball park, I'm getting down to the bare minimum remaining. I've tried to isolate those into manageable groups that will allow me to cross a couple off at a time during my travels, but it's to the point that I don't have much leeway in that regard. Given that I'm a Dodger fan living on the east coast, I found it somewhat interesting that the first division I was able to completely cross of was the American League West.

Now, I can cross off another - The National League East.

Sadly, though there are 32 parks in the Majors and I've been to over 32 in my life, the trend toward building new stadiums means that I've had to play catch-up with teams Ive already visited. The New York teams hit me twice by opening new parks for the Mets and Yankees in the same year. Suddenly, I was down two.

The facade of the park is, sadly, the best part

I rectified part of that a couple weeks ago when I visited Citi Field for a game between the Mets and the Nationals. The Mets lost and lost badly, and I'd love to say it was because they were out-classed by a team that would go on to win the division. But, the Mets lost because they are a horrible team. They dropped popped foul balls. They threw the ball around the infield time and time again, resulting in zero outs and a carousel of baserunners. The team was awful.

The park was only marginally better.

I had heard such great things about Citi Field and was genuinely looking forward to visiting the park. But, though the layout and atmosphere in the concourses was intriguing, there was little else that I found interesting. The fans were obnoxious and loud (not in a good way), but I chalk this up to not only being New Yorkers but being Mets fans. They have reason to be surly given the team's recent performances.

The food was lackluster and the location of the park (right near the old Shea Stadium) wasn't ideal. That being said, I enjoyed my time at the game I saw at Shea and (be prepared for hypocrisy), I much preferred the old stadium to the new. Shea was a cool place. Citi Field is not.

But, I was able to cross off another stadium and check off the NL East. Surprisingly, though I only have 5 active parks left to see, they span all four remaining divisions. This will make it hard to hit multiple stadiums on one trip.

Those remaining:

Chase Field - Phoenix (Diamondbacks)
Petco Park - San Diego (Padres)
Miller Park - Milwaukee (Brewers)
Comerica Park - Detroit (Tigers)
Yankee Stadium - New York (Yankees)

GORUCK Challenge - 9/11 Tribute

This one was my own fault. I mean, I volunteered to fly up to New York City mere days after climbing mountains in Colorado. I could have stayed home and enjoyed the first weekend of the NFL. I had tickets to an FSU game that would have been fun. It's my own fault. But, when a pretty girl tells me she has a place to stay in Hell's Kitchen only a few minutes' walk from Times Square... and it's $60 a night... I can't rightly say 'no,' can I?

Not when it's the GORUCK Challenge 9/11 memorial ruck, I can't.

View from the apartment

I've been to NYC several times, but experiencing the city (a city I LOVE, by the way) during 9/11 tribute time is something special. I landed on Friday afternoon and did what GRTs (Goruck alumni, for you lay-people) are wont to do. I met up with others to drink. This would be something oft-repeated over the course of the long weekend.

Eight of us (I think...? Was it more? Seeing double makes it hard to count.) joined forces to rent an apartment on the 44th floor of a nice complex, and it worked out great. We drank. We ate. We napped (some of us). And, then we met up near the NY Stock Exchange with three full classes of ruckers intent on showing their respect to those that perished 11 years earlier in the only way we knew how: We would punish ourselves for no reason whatsoever.

Oh, it made sense. Don't look at me like that.

About 90 ruckers stepped off at Wall Street (mere feet from where George Washington took the first presidential oath of office) and headed toward the East River. There, on the side of the syringe-laden waters, we did PT for about an hour. Bear crawls. Push-ups. Inchworms. Squats. 403.... 403... 403.

Welcome party along the East River

403. Four-hundred and three. That's the number of first responders that entered the twin towers that day and never made it out. As we held that push-up position, and GRC cadre barked out abstract terms like respect, honor, and commitment, I thought about those 403 and what they were thinking as they ran inside.

Push-ups are nothing.

We were sticky, sweaty, and emotionally drained... perfect time for some water PT. In the East River. This was healthy. We also found a log that NYC bums appeared to use as a toilet. Also... very healthy. This log was then lugged all over lower Manhattan.

Seriously, stop looking at me like that. It totally makes sense.

For 8 hours, we fought the night, our cadre (Chris), that log, and drunken New Yorkers. Then, the rains hit and hit hard. We handed off the log to another class and took their coupons (sand and plywood) in exchange. Good riddance to the craplog...

We jumped in the Hudson River. We buddy carried through a neighborhood comprised largely of people with chauffeurs and expense accounts. We played the most insane, sadistic version of Duck, Duck, Goose around the Washington Park fountain that I have ever seen. We blindly ignored the "Don't Get in Fountain" signs as we bobbed up and down reciting the Spongebob Squarepants theme song (okay, you know what? Fine.. it doesn't make sense.) It was exhausting and inspiring. We fought our way back to Ground Zero only to be detoured by Chris after he found a flooded and muddy baseball field.

The 9/11 patch

We split into teams and crawled, crab-walked, and bear-crawled around the bases. It pays to be a winner. It also pays to cheat... which means it devolved into a disastrous, disgusting mud fight on the banks of the lower East Side. To think, if Chris had been arrested earlier that night (a distinct possibility given the night's events and the cops' warnings), we would have missed out on that lovely event.

We had time hacks to the end point. Casualties mounted as we neared... Chris wasn't happy with our pace even though we were moving faster than we had in the past 12 hours. We had all of our coupons and six casualties to carry as we made the final push.

We survived. Chris, a sadistic bastard that I had met over beers after the July 4th ruck in DC and who had led our climbs out in Colorado, handed out patches to some desperately thankful new GRTs and alumni alike. The special 9/11 patch we received will always remind me of the 403...

Class 238 - Hoorah

The 9/11 ruck wasn't more difficult or crazier than the others I've done, but it meant something different. That's for sure. Several of us went down to Ground Zero on 9/11 to 'feel' the atmosphere. Not knowing what to expect, I braced myself for a solemn morning.

O'Hara's Bar at the foot of the Towers on 9/11/12

Instead, we found laughter and friendship. Firefighters from all over the country converged on local bars amid the bonds of brotherhood. They'd never met each other, but they shared something... much like GRTs that have never met. Having someone stop me because I am in a GORUCK shirt and talk to me like an old friend is oddly calming. And, this is coming from someone that hates talking to other people more than he hates eating green peas. [Note: I really hate green peas.]

On 9/11, there are cops everywhere. Ostensibly, it's to secure the area and prevent anything dangerous from happening while keeping the thousands of on-lookers at bay. But, I talked to several of these guys and saw it in their faces. They weren't there because they were working. They were there because they wanted to be. They were making pilgrimages of their own, even if it was on the clock.

New York is a great city. The traffic is horrible. The people are aloof and largely dispassionate to those around them. But, that's because they have to be. There are just too many of them walking around. I ran around Central Park in the days following the ruck and had a great time. People were everywhere, but I might as well have been by myself (or, at most, with my running buddy, Cary). It's amazing to be surrounded by people and feel so independent.

Some people hate the big city... if my job allowed me to live there, I would in a heartbeat....

It's worth noting that I deleted about 1500 words from the end of this blog that went into some detail as to how the rest of the long weekend panned out. As I reread it, the stories of friends ripping off their pants in bars, getting roofied and wandering the streets until 8AM, and passing out face-first on an Ottoman didn't come across as 'high culture.' Plus, I would have felt bad identifying them (especially the one that decided to sleep walk and urinate all over the apartment).

But, they know who they are...

It's worth noting that we DID go see Phantom of the Opera. Yea, that's right. It wasn't all about the drinking.

I'd seen the play before, but it was quite good.

Then, we went drinking.

Lower Manhattan from the deck of the Empire Sate Building

GORUCK Ascent 2012- Resentment to Redemption

"Hey, let's go climb some big-ass mountains!"

There was a time (I call these years my "smart years"), when I had those stupid conversations with friends in bars... and they stayed there. I'd wake up the next day and ignore the fact that I'd promised my friends - mere hours earlier - that I'd drive to Vegas with them next weekend or pool our money for a jetski. When you're drunk in a bar, everything asinine sounds like the best idea you've ever had. If I followed through with any number of inane plans, I'd be living in Key West and running a bar that sold only Pina Coladas, tacos, and fortune cookies. The Hunt for Red October and the Back to the Future trilogy would be played on a loop over the bar.

Don't judge me.

Back then, my friends and I would never bring up our convoluted, drunken plans the next day for fear that one of us may have actually been serious. Ah, the good ole days.

Now, when I come up with something stupid to do... it only makes MORE sense in the morning. Stupid alcohol... killing brain cells and whatnot. Sadly, my travels have introduced me to others with similar failings, and we egg each other on.

"Yea, filling a beer bottle full of tequila and chugging it DOES sound like a good idea!"

"Well, I suppose you COULD do that, but why not do it while carrying a huge rucksack full of bricks?"

Yea, why not...

So, as a graduate of the GORUCK College of Poor Decision-Making (read about some of my poor decisions in Savannah, Washington DC, or the GORUCK Challenge in general), I latched on to some of these buffoons for some jackassery in the Collegiate Peaks area of Colorado where we would be climbing 14,000 ft peaks in a masochistic ritual that has become known as GORUCK Ascent.

This exercise in insanity began (for me) on the Thursday before Labor Day at Cadre Brian's place near Nederland, CO. I say "for me" because I opted out of the optional Gun Day on Wednesday. Though the opportunity to fire off hundreds of rounds of ammo with America's Special Forces was enticing, the price was a bit much for my tastes. Plus, since I have a standing invitation from a friend (when we doing that again, Geoff?) to go back up to Quantico and play war with the USMC Competitive shooting team, I have been wholly spoiled. In one day last year, we blasted through thousands of rounds of ammo thanks to the SVT, AK-47, M110, A5, PKMs, M4, MP5... No offense to the GORUCK folks, but you can't compete with that.

So, we arrived Thursday and spent it learning rope skills and applying them. We built tag lines and come-alongs... and we rappelled off the face of nearby cliffs. It was pretty bad-ass. I can honestly say that I learned stuff that has come in handy since. That's something that I can't even say that about college, though one would assume math would be useful at some point...

Repelling
I can honestly say I kicked ass at this

Then, at 10PM, we piled into the buses for a 3-hour drive southward to the mountains. Now, I should take a moment here to discuss my packing list. I wore TAC pants, compression shorts, boots, a t-shirt, and a hat. In my pack I had:

- two pairs of socks
- compass
- headlamp
- change of compressions
- fleece
- wind/rainbreaker
- Gloves
- Knit cap
- my tent
- sleeping bag
- lickies/chewies
- toothbrush
- Advil

There ya have it. I used it all, though the fleece would be a bit of a burden until the last night. My pack wasn't overly full like many others. (Cadre Chris spent an hour systematically destroying the rucks of others. "What's this? You don't need eight pair of underwear!"). I returned a couple things to my car (like a spare pair of shorts and my bulky DSLR camera), but I used what I took.

And, we were off... The Collegiate Peaks range gets in name thanks to the apparent competition of early explorers to claim the peaks for their Alma Maters. It was like us planting our flag on the moon... but with beer instead of Tang. The range has impressive peaks such as Mt. Harvard, Mt. Princeton, Mt. Oxford, and Mt. My-Daddy-Paid-for-College-Thanks-to-Oil-Money.

We arrived at 0100 hrs and started to climb Mt. Yale, a quite lovely hike that we were told would put us at the summit around sunrise. There were 37 of us at the start. One dropped out almost immediately. Chain-smoking at the trailhead prior to stepping off is not recommended.

The peak of Mt. Yale (14,202')
[Note: Awesome pics by Mike Petrucci]

The trail led us up to about 11,000 feet through some beautiful - if dark - countryside. A full moon was right around the corner, so we had a nice view even at that time of the morning and kept most of our headlamps off. Eventually, we broke from the trail and took a short break while we waited on some of the trailing hikers to catch up. We were blazing our way across the East Ridge. At night. This wasn't hiking, this was bouldering, leaping from ledge to ledge and struggling around narrow-to-non-existent paths. After the 8th false summit and thousandth expletive (it's amazing how they echo around a canyon's confines), we could see the end. The route, hazardous and steep, claimed more of our number including two cadre that had apparently failed to recon it. They brought their dogs and couldn't negotiate the trail with them. They had to turn back.

We reached the top of Mt. Yale (14,202 ft) and waited on others strung out for a half mile behind us. Of the 37 that started, 31 reached the summit... impressive when you consider that we hadn't made camp, yet. We still had all of our gear, including tents and sleeping bags, strapped to our rucks.

We started down and got lost. Even with a cadre. I won't go into details, because the 6-hour trek down the mountain turned into a huge goat-screw. This was the 'resentment' part of the trip. The lack of route recon coupled with the inability of our team leads to get us off the hill was extremely irritating. I voiced this opinion frequently and loudly. Others shared my discontent but not to the degree that I did.

I was annoyed.

We eventually reached camp, but I was ready to call a taxi for home. After setting up tents, we were treated to a mix of burgers, MREs, and stew. I understand this was different from the previous year in which food was harder to come by. Well, 2012 was essentially a camping trip with good people and not an orchestrated event with time hacks and cached food. I was okay with that.

Land Nav Instruction

The next day we spent the morning learning land navigation (MGRS) from Rob, and I can confidently say that I will be okay in the middle of nowhere with a map and a compass. Very interesting. The afternoon was spent with Matt learning emergency survival skills. Again, great stuff. I could do an entire blog just on what these two guys taught me. But, I digress.

While we were learning how to build shelters (ours was awesome... I'm just sayin'), Cadre Brian came around asking what we each wanted to do on Sunday. We could leave right after dinner and - staying up all night - attempt a double climb of Mt. Harvard (the highest peak in the local area) and Mt. Columbia. Or, we could set out early the next morning for an attempt on Columbia only. A third option had us maintaining the camp.

People were tired. No one jumped at the double peak.

Except me. I went there to climb mountains, and I wasn't going to miss the daddy of the local scene. Through some lobbying, I was able to increase the number of poor decision-makers. Like I said, all we need in order to be convinced to do something is for a person to ask us. We're idiots.

The top of frozen Mt. Harvard (14,402')

We ate a brief dinner of cardboard and smoke and made our way into the night. No offense to the others that were at Ascent, but this team was awesome. We tore through the night and were hours ahead of our pace. We'd hoped to make it to the roof of Harvard (14,402 ft) by 5AM.

We were there at 0230.

As the highest point for miles, the wind was howling. We were cold. We took a quick picture, then damn near jumped off the side. At 5AM, we took a well-deserved break at 12k ft for 45 minutes. It was cold. I'd have rather we kept moving. We assaulted Mt Columbia.

The scree face of Mt. Columbia
looking back at parts of our team

We went the wrong way, blazing a trail up a 60 degree, scree-covered slope. This surpassed the cascading boulders of Mt. Yale as the 'Bad Idea' champion of the trip. In the winter, I'm told that the route we took is a class-4 climb requiring ice crampons. Yea... so that happened.

After a brutal climb in which we leaped up three feet only to slide back two... over and over... we reached the ridge. Mt. Columbia was within reach, and we were still ahead of schedule. Of course, we went the hard way, so finding either 8-year-olds or geriatrics that had summited (14,079 ft) via the 'easy' way was slightly strange. But, we bagged both mountains.

Adding in the ascent of Pikes Peak that I completed with my buddy before the formal GORUCK Ascent began, it made for four 14ers in five days. Having come from sea level only 16 hours prior to my Pikes summit, I'll call that impressive.

The 'A' Team at the top of Mt Columbia (14,079')
14er #4 for the week

We returned to Cadre Brian's place on Sunday, all of us asleep as the bus driver careened along mountain roads, to find beer and a pig roast waiting for us... as well as the GORUCK Trek team that had just completed Boulder. It was drunken, exhausted, hungry hilarity, and I found it hard to leave my new Ascent comrades.

Redemption.

Would I do it again...? Probably not. It was a good time but a bit pricey when you consider flights, hotels, car, and gear. This is especially true when one considers that I've done the Collegiates. Admittedly, there are other 14ers in the range, but I don't think I'd be jazzed about heading back there. Now, if someone pulls together something similar for another Colorado area or something up in Alaska, I can be down with that.

But, if any GRTs out there are considering Ascent, it's worth your time.

Yale looking East

Descending Columbia

Active MLB Park #26: Marlins Park

In my unending quest to do everything... everywhere... I am working my way through all 32 active MLB parks, enjoying a ballgame and stadium concession offerings. Baseball has been a passion of mine for as long as I can remember, having played when I was younger and continuing with amateur ball in Gainesville, Austin, and Orlando. Most of my trips involve baseball to some extent (see my two-week road trip from a couple weeks ago as an example), and I slip references of it into most of my fiction. It plays a not insignificant role in my novel, Number 181.

I soon found that my random treks to the stadiums that work and personal travel placed me near was adding up to quite the tally, so I took it upon myself to hit all the active parks in Major League Baseball. It's been a great ride given that it's led to me visiting a couple cities I wouldn't normally have taken the time to stop in (I would have avoided the Ballpark at Arlington, for instance, due to my general disgust with Dallas-Fort Worth). The plan was to hit 5-7 parks a year, but this has made for some re-visits given the trend toward building new parks that has flourished in recent years (AT&T Park, Citi Field, Turner Field, Target Field... Marlins Park).

I'm over 32 parks now. Unfortunately, it's not the ACTIVE 32. Well, I crossed off Marlins Park this weekend thanks to the Dodgers yearly visit. It's a shame that Dem Bums only visited for one, 3-game set this year. Being so far from Dodger games is frustrating. The off-year trips to Tampa Bay are few and far between, but I'm hoping the league reorganization that leads to more inter-league play will result in more LA-TB games on the bay.

But, as to Marlins Park, major props to the city for the retractable roof. Evening monsoons are quite common in Florida this time of year, and last night was no different. Thankfully, it was a cool, dry 80 degrees inside the dome. Very nice. The stadium is laid out nicely, and I love that they use real grass. Turf, even the new stuff, is horrible to play on. It just feels wrong.

Batting Practice at Marlins park

Speaking of wrong, I'm going to go off page here a bit and repeat an oft-discussed irritation I have. Full length baseball pants. It used to be that nearly everyone wore the 3/4 pants and flashed stirrups or stirrup-socks. That's extremely rare now, and it sucks. The long pants look horrible, and I'm convinced their parachute-like qualities slow down runners. I blame Manny Ramirez... a detestable man (who played for my Dodgers for a time... and played reasonably well) whose attire put fans more in the mind of MC Hammer than a baseball player. The guy looked like a flying squirrel in those pants. I believe they were 5 sizes too big... maybe to allow room for rapid growth due to performance-enhancing drugs...

Anyway... Marlins Park. Well laid out... nice fans... everything is in Spanish. Not as a second language... it's literally in Spanish. Fortunately, 80% of my teammates are Hispanic, and I've picked up the baseball slang. Still... it was off-putting.

But, the food... my God the food. Hands down, Marlins Park has the best food in Maor League Baseball. The Taste of Miami area behind the left field bleachers may be the best food in all of Miami. Get a pork sandwich and thank me later. The selection (though expensive) is great. I ended up grabbing a hamburger after that.. just to gauge how they do with the more common ballpark fare... and it was amazing. Topped it off with a soft pretzel that was excellent (and second only to the Wetzel's Pretzel at Dodger Stadium), and you've got a nice showing of all the major ballpark food groups.

Go for the food. Stay for the baseball.

All in all, a great experience. Marlins Park wins the #1 spot for food, but it doesn't do quite enough to crack the top 3 of the parks I've visited. The weather (even in the dome) may have contributed to that given that the city skyline in the distance was clouded over. Regardless, the top three still sit as this:

1. Fenway Park - Boston Red Sox
2. PNC Park - Pittsburgh Pirates
3. Progressive Field - Cleveland Indians

I've still got one more park lined up to visit this year, but the list of those left is getting shorter and shorter.

Petco Park - San Diego Padres
Chase Field - Arizona Diamondbacks
Miller Park - Milwaukee Brewers
Comerica Field - Detroit Tigers
Citi Field - New York Mets (soon.....)
Yankee Stadium - New York Yankees

And, the winner is.... um, no one?

Well, given the number of texts I received in recent weeks, it's clear that a good number of my readers and blog followers put forth a respectable amount of effort toward determining what the (easy) answer was to the (complicated) question posed during my TwitOnARoadTwip2012 (trademark pending) roadtrip.

Sadly, no one answered the question correctly. The answer would have been the easy part. It was finding the question that was more difficult. But, as time has passed and I've received a good number of 'ugh, I give up' texts - I'll spoil it for everyone.

It's worth nothing that one person was almost on the right track. But, since her on-the-right-track guess was one of a dozen that essentially parroted my blog back to me, I couldn't give her the benefit of the doubt.

So, what's the question?

Step 1: The clue is in the hint

Notice the underlines? There was a reason for that. Also notice that the statement begins with an underlined question mark.

Step 2: Find other underlined text

The reader that came the closest recognized the underlined 'A' but didn't take it to the next step. Here, it helps to know two things.

1) I have a history minor. It's military history. I love codes. But, I recognize few others do... so I would use the easiest one to identify.

2) I take a lot of pride in my writing, so if something seems jilted or unnatural, it's worth noting.

So, what did I do? Well...

Step 3: The question revealed

So, if you read the first letter of each paragrpah, the question presents itself. I had to use unusually stilted language to start a few of the paragraphs, and I hoped that (along with the underline) would draw attention. It apparently did not.

The question? Average race time. The answer (thanks to some simple math and my two race reports)?

1:54:34

No soup for you. You come back, one year... cuz then I'll be doing another road trip and you can try again!

First Look: The sequel to Number 181

It's been a busy several months putting pen back to paper (or, in this case, fingers to keyboard) trying to write down Shawn Kidd's next adventure. I'm through the framework of a first draft, though I know that I still have more to go back and add. I was in such a rush to get my thoughts down, I put placeholders in some areas... Strange, I know. But, Shawn wasn't going to wait on me before he started making waves. He pulled me along, so I had to go.

But, since things are beginning to come together, it seemed appropriate to give you guys a bit of a peek at the sequel to Number 181. The excerpt below is from word 1 of the sequel.

Paraguay

Raul Rojas felt exhilarated as the car bounced down the rutted road. Nearing seventy years old, he found that few things in life coaxed any real emotion from him anymore. Yet, he found himself badgering his driver with repeated entreaties to hurry as the caravan made its way along the rough roads of eastern Paraguay. Rojas had lived his entire life within a day’s drive of where he now sat, and he could find their destination blindfolded.

Still, he asked once more how long they’d be.

“We are nearly there, jefe,” came the reply. The young man behind the wheel didn’t turn as he answered, choosing instead to keep his eyes on the dark road in front of him. The thin shafts of light that traced outward from the lead car twenty yards ahead of them helped, but the beams of the pick-up trucks that trailed behind slashed across the car’s mirrors and blinded him every few seconds. The effect was harrowing in the midnight fog and exacerbated by the incessant prodding by Rojas. The elderly man still instilled fear in his men, though. If he wanted to risk blowing a tire or striking some wandering goat, his men would press on.

“Yes, yes, Manuel. I’m certain you find my badgering annoying, but this is certainly a meeting for the ages.” The sedan rocked as one of the right wheels dropped into a deep cut caused by the early spring showers. Manuel’s foot bit down hard on the pedal and forced the car to bounce wildly back onto the comparatively-level dirt road. The jostling slammed Rojas roughly against the sedan’s roof, but as he had the previous times, he simply ignored the impact.

A soft glow formed off to the right as the crumbled road began a lazy turn in that direction. Though they were only ten miles from Foz de Iguaçu, a tourist destination just over the border into Brazil, no light from that city reached the quiet plains. Instead, the squat buildings that served as Rojas’ family business appeared around a sharp bend and the trio of vehicles passed a long, low metal sign.

Rojas Agrochemical.

Born into family money, Raul Rojas leveraged his land holdings and government contacts to establish a sprawling agricultural empire with his chemical plants at its heart. The business was lucrative to the point that he and his two sons could live in luxury, but they padded their profits by devoting any unused factory space to the low-tech processing of drugs. What started as a hobby, an experiment in chemistry, had turned into the largest production ring in the region. And, it had turned Rojas into an unlikely kingpin.

Rojas had a nervous disposition and was quick to anger, two traits that did not mesh together well. His reputation as a just and fair employer among his agricultural workers was offset with his brutal and impulsive nature with the employees of his illegal ventures. Retribution was severe and immediate. Men had simply disappeared. At the heart of it stood this short, balding man whose suits appeared two sizes too large as they hung from his wiry frame. The wisps of gray hair that remained may have indicated an aging businessman, but many a missing person had underestimated Rojas or assumed he had softened with age.

Still wary of drawing the attention of local and regional law enforcement, though, Rojas tended to avoid high-profile dealings and the transfer of large amounts of product. But, tonight, he was making an exception.

“This is thrilling, Manuel,” Rojas said as the car turned toward one of the darker buildings in the back, a lone floodlight marking a rusted metal door.

“What is, jefe?”

“Our organization has been evolving and making its presence known on the global stage. Tonight, we will be doing business with one of the foremost men in his field and securing our future. It is truly a great time for us.”

The cars came to a stop, and the three other vehicles poured out their passengers into the small clearing near the doorway. The seven men took up protective positions between the sedan and building, one of the larger men forcefully directing them. They were armed with a mix of available weapons, and Rojas scoffed at the image for a moment. Except for his lieutenant, the men were dressed sloppily and showed little professionalism, any sense of order and discipline failing them immediately after exiting the car. The various firearms they presented swung randomly through the night searching for nonexistent targets.

The guns.

Sadly, each man carried a different firearm, and Rojas took it as a the clearest sign that his organization would never gain the respect it deserved if he didn’t take a more active role. One man spun a Baretta 9mm hand gun on his finger. Another awkwardly cradled a Soviet-made AK-47 on his hip. Still another stared down the sights of a SPAS-12 shotgun. It was a formidable display to be sure, but it also reeked of amateurism and chaos. Order and symmetry commanded respect, and Rojas’ team was as asymmetrical as one could be. This meeting would help change that, though.

“Hector!” Rojas yelled as his driver jumped from the car to open the door for his boss.

The burly lieutenant turned from directing the men and stomped back toward the sedan. He was well over six and a half feet tall and nearly 250 lbs, but he moved deliberately. The 38 year old had been in Rojas’ employ for the better part of a quarter century but had the misfortune to be cursed by bad luck for nearly all of it. Even so, it appeared the cloud was now long gone. In recent months, he had begun to dress better and stand taller, his wardrobe having slowly improved to match his buoyed demeanor. Rojas was pleased with the change as it played well into his ideas for a more professional force.

“Yes, jefe?” The man’s voice was low with a tinge of exasperation in it, but Rojas didn’t notice.

“We are certain he is here?” Rojas attempted to straighten the suit’s soft wrinkles that he had received during the hour-long drive from his home. He ran his hands down over the sleeves to ensure none of the dust they had kicked up upon their arrival had settled on them. His heart raced as it had years ago when he first entered the drug business. He felt alive.

“We are, jefe. Diego is inside with him even now. They have one of the weapons for our… evaluation. Diego assures me he has seen ten others and believes there are considerably more.”

“Excellent! This will indeed be a big day for us. Let’s get inside.” Rojas strode purposefully toward the door and rapped loudly on the metal frame. He pressed it open without waiting for an answer, and his men followed him silently inside.

The walls of the interior were lined with empty crates and rotted boxes, the forgotten trash of Rojas’ legitimate business dealings. Each crate had held tanks of chemical fertilizing agent or test crops at one point, but the frames were all aged and thoughtlessly discarded in the dimly lit room. All, that is, with the exception of one crate that had been upended in the center of the room to form a table of sorts.

On it sat the most beautiful thing Rojas could remember seeing. The compact submachine gun seemed to pulse under the single, overhead light and his eyes remained locked on its sleek lines. Heckler and Koch designed the MP5 decades ago, but dozens of military groups around the world still used the weapon, many exclusively, thanks to its reliability, light weight, and abundant supply of ammunition. Even the lowliest of groups had boxes of 9 mm rounds lying around. The gun appeared to be in pristine shape and was, in fact, brand new. It, along with a significant number of others like it, disappeared from a transport truck in Germany ten months earlier and had somehow ended up in the hands of the man that stood across the crates from Rojas.

Rojas fascination with the gun distracted him for a short time, but once his eyes fell on its seller, his heart jumped. The man was well-known in mercenary circles for being both brutal and fair, two characteristics others might find at odds with one another. Rojas saw it for what it was. If you dealt fairly with the man, he would do so in turn. Cross him at your own peril.

Rojas had never met him before, but the shoulders were broader than he’d expected. The dark thermal shirt and chest gear he wore tapered to a thin midsection that disappeared into black cargo pants. Though his arms were crossed, the man held them in a way that allowed Rojas to make out the handgun and knife blade stored in the folds and hooks on the man’s vest. It was the eyes, though, that sent Rojas’ mind reeling. Bright blue eyes sparkled through the black mask and bore down on the Paraguayan. They were the only exposed skin on the man’s body, but even the tiny amount of light in the room caught them dancing evilly.

Rojas had met the Norwegian.

Twit on a Road Trip [Finale]

As the sun rose on Thursday, my TwitOnARoadTrip2012 time was winding down following the events of  GORUCK DC. Though we were drained from the previous day's efforts, we were able to make our way to Dupont Circle to throw back drinks with Brent, Lou, Jason, and assorted GORUCK family at James Hoban's Irish Bar. Fatigue and alcohol quickly took their toll on our ragged group, though, and we slowly broke apart to our homes, hotels, and squares of carpeted floor. July 4th, 2012 was in the books.

Very few people would be able to function after the day we had, but we awoke and made our way to the National Mall and Smithsonian Museum of American History - an impressive home to war artifacts, the fabled Star-Spangled Banner from Fort McHenry, and the Gunboat Philadelphia. Any grand plans we had to further investigate our nation's capitol disappeared at the first mention of finding a bar. This is not an uncommon occurrence when GRTs congregate in large numbers. Hell, it's usually true when we are wandering the streets alone, too.

Elephant & Castle. The sign across the road called to us, so we opted for an afternoon of rejuvenation and cellular repair, drinking up a storm and causing a general uproar. We were loud and slightly obnoxious. I say 'slightly' in reference to our own scale. When compared to societal norms, we were off the chart.

Relaxing together offered the chance to experience the best aspect of GRCs and the GRT family. Sharing stories and drinks, we talked the afternoon away. It's impressive how quickly people that you've just met can become like old friends. Sweating together during a challenge - any of life's challenges - has the strange ability to add depth and respect in any relationship. Friends, both new and old, bonded to bring the conversation to hilarious and felonious levels.

As a starter, I told the story of my epic 1988 National Spelling Bee victory and ensuing controversy.

Going back to the night before, Chris repeated the hilarious and extremely disturbing way Cadre Lou hoped to create a "T-1000 baby."

Your argument is invalid

Eventually, we started discussing when we'd get together again and talked upcoming GRCs to choose from. Kevin erupted in annoyance. "We don't have to do a GORUCK every time we hang out!"
  
Recounting the horrors and heroes from the day before, we enjoyed the A/C while the sun marched across the sky. Drunken discussions were had on the acceptability of hand-holding during a GRC. The topic of disease-infested ponds was touched upon. I blame the previous day's GORUCK and dehydration for the disaster that followed.

A fuzzy fifteen minutes later, we had women exchange an orange peel from mouth to mouth... followed by two guys doing the same thing. We then requisitioned a shopping cart and proceeded to roll all over Pentagon City. One of us did handstands on the bike rack outside a Costco.

Crazy. At 3PM... on a Thursday. We are not well in the head.

Ending up at one of the bars near the mall, we waited as one of our number attempted to get a new phone. [NOTE: Don't trust a pelican case in your ruck to protect an iPhone during GRCs. Just in case you were considering it...] Doing so, we ran into some GRTs from another July 4th class (remember.. there were five) and chatted up the differences in our experiences. At least, I think that's what we did. We were getting smashed.

To bring it all together, we headed out to GORUCK HQ in DC and threw back some beers with cadre. It was nice seeing some of them in their native habitat, and since none of my past cadre were in

GRHQ: Behind the Curtain

attendance I had a unique relationship. No one in the room had yelled at me to do divebomber push-ups or pick up an effing log. We all hit a couple Georgetown bars and closed out the night as friends.

It was a great bookend to my road trip, so after breakfast with my GRT family, I jumped in the car and made the executive decision to push on toward home for the night. It made for a long drive and I didn't get to the house until after 1AM, but it was worth it. I was going to need the entire weekend to relax and get myself in some semblance of order for Monday.

Monday... Work... I did it up hard for over two weeks and came out of it with a ton of new memories and more than a few new friends. I came up with ideas for future vacations and found new people that shared my passion for stupid crap that would be willing to do them with me. That's the best you can ask for, and I can't wait until the next one. It's only been five days, but I'm having GORUCK withdrawal. I'm having GRT withdrawal. And, I can't wait for the next trip.

Eagerness is one thing... but where to? I heard Jason Aldean's "Fly Over States" several times over those many miles, and it really hit home with me how little people in our big cities know of our country and how much we take for granted. When I drove to Florida from San Francisco, I was struck by how far apart people were. Hundreds of miles separated cities and homes. The west-east trip showed me how big our country is, but this trip showed me how close together we are. I visited Civil War sites and realized how near everything was - even 150 years ago. Louisville, considered by most to be in a culturally 'southern' state, was a Union bastion. The two capitol cities, Richmond and DC, were 90 miles apart. I left Washington, DC at nearly 1:00 PM and was in my Florida bed that night. We are so much closer than we think. We think in terms of 'here' and 'there,' but we share the same land and air. I could have spent days in some of the cities I blitzkrieged through on my drive - Louisville, Nashville, Chattanooga, Lafayette, Cleveland. This country is full of amazing places and fascinating people. My trip gave my dozens of ideas for future travels. If I do half of them, I'll see more of this country than 95% of Americans, and that's too bad. Go check out your country - not in pictures or television... GO - and let me know what you think.

FIN

Twit On A Road Trip: By The Numbers

Miles Covered: 5309
Days on the Road: 15
States Visited: 16 (plus Washington, DC)
New states checked off the list: 3 (Indiana, Iowa, Minnesota)
Countries Visisted: 2 (Canada is a country... for now...)
Half Marathons Completed: 2
Bricks purchased: 16
GORUCKs completed: 1
Patches earned/received: 4
ToaRT2012-Related Facebook Updates: 181 (I'm not joking. I counted. Irony... or destiny?)
ToaRT2012-Related Tweets: 94
Blog Updates (including this one): 11
"Halls of Fame" visited: 3
 Oil changes: 1
Highest Mileage Day: Day 15 - 852 miles from DC to Florida
Most Expensive Gas: $3.67/gal (New York)
Least Expensive Gas: $3.04/gal (Georgia)
Gallons Purchased: 134
Average mpg: 39.6
Baseball Games attended: 7 (4 MiLB/ 3 MLB)
Active MLB Parks left to see: 7 (down from 10 pre-trip)
Most nights spent in one city: 3 (tie; Buffalo and DC)
College Campuses Visited: 9
People Convinced I was David Boreanaz: 4 1/2*
Beers drank: Countless. And priceless. And now I'm even more senseless.

*One woman asked if I was the actor  on 'that show.'

Knowing my Boreanaz history, I asked, "Bones?"

She said, "No... that's not it."

? - For those of you still following along, the prize is up for grabs.
Both the question and answer are out there somewhere.

 I'd like to give to thanks to my 2007 Honda Civic for making all of this possible. She was a champ.

5309 Miles of the eastern United States

Race Report: Finish on the Fifty Half Marathon [New York: State #7]

This is going to be short and sweet... mostly because there is little good I can say about my experience with the Rapid Running Buffalo Half Marathon.

"But, wait, Russ. This says you ran the Finish on the Fifty Half Marathon."

Exactly.

I registered for the June 30 race about two months prior to the date, willing to pay the high entry fee ($85) since I happened to be in the area during my road trip. Since the time of my arrival in the city was questionable, I opted to pay an additional $20 (seriously?) for race-morning pick-up. Total rip off.

Well, on June 21st - the day before I left on my drive and only 9 days before the race - Rapid Running sent out an email postponing the race to an unspecified fall date. I was miffed because there was no way I'd make it up there in the fall. They offered to transfer registrations to another RR event, but none fit my schedule or were anywhere near me. I emailed asking (politely) for a refund knowing it was a lost cause. I've come to find out thousands of others did the same (some not so politely). Apparently, RR's excuse was that they hadn't prepared for so many entrants. Well, how about you cap the entry number then, geniuses? STOP TAKING ENTRIES.

Rumors swirled that they didn't have a sponsor and that was the problem. Regardless, I was annoyed with the lack of customer support (a constant diatribe I have about America in all industries). So, I was prepared to adjust my drive accordingly when visitbuffalo.com went WAY out of their way to put on a comparable event.

Visit Buffalo recognized the smear that RR placed on the city and in 8 DAYS got sponsors, community approval (including cops), and Buffalo Bills front office concurrence to run the race. In 8 days. Now, it wasn't perfect, but I give them total credit for pulling this off.

About 500 people showed up to race. Where were these thousands that RR claimed? Admittedly, the experience left bitter tastes in the mouths of many, but only 500? Visit Buffalo was able to get t-shirts for us (sweet!) but no medals (a disappointment to many... especially those that had signed up with RR for this event as their FIRST race).

We met early in the morning at the Bills clubhouse for packet picket. The indoor practice facility was impressive, but I've seen much better facilities on college campuses. Oh, and the Bills play in Orchard Park, NY. It's a nice area with rolling hills and... cows. But there is absolutely nothing out there but the stadium. Why Buffalo chose to build their stadium in BFE is beyond me. Why a professional football player would choose to play for Buffalo is similarly confusing.

The bare-bones organization made for a hectic start, but we were quickly off and running through the pastures of eastern New York. it was actually a nice run but not at all what I expected. The field was minimal, so long stretches would go by where I would be near no one. A few overpasses and culverts produced hills, and it began to rival those I saw in Tennessee. I started fast (something unusual for me), and I felt it as I toured the marshes and cattle fields of miles 10 and 11. But, I fought forward because of what was coming.

RR had promised a finish on the 50 yard line of Ralph Wilson stadium, and Visit Buffalo had matached the promise. We turned into the tunnels and emerged under the goalposts for a mad dash through the dozens of spectators to the 50 yard line. It wasn't as grandiose as I had imagined weeks earlier, but it was certainly a memorable experience. Even better? I set another PR (my second for the trip) in 1:54:17.

Rapid Running's complete disregard for its customers made a large hill for Visit Buffalo to climb, but they did it well considering their resources. And, the Finish on the Fifty was certainly one I will remember.

I can't post a picture of a non-existent medal, and my distance from Buffalo makes it unlikely I'll run another race there. So, I can't recommend this race. But, given what they pulled off, I'm sure that next year (Visit Buffalo enjoyed the 8 days of confusion and was considering making it an annual, better-organized-with-more-time event) it will be an improvement.

However, I won't be running another Rapid Running race (they aren't a fly-by-night operation... they have a somewhat large presence in racing) again.

July 4th, 2012: GORUCK - Washington, DC

This is long. Sorry. But, take 10 minutes and read it... 

and then let me know which GORUCK you want to do...

and I'll be there.

Those of you that have been following my road trip reports (many thanks for that... if you haven't, you can start here) know that by the time I reached Washington on Tuesday afternoon, I was 12 days and over 4000 miles into the endeavor. Other than some time spent with a GORUCK brother in Minneapolis, it was largely a solo endeavor. So, I was looking forward to meeting up with some of my buddies from my first GORUCK (073 in Savannah) and meeting new friends. Some of you may be asking what a GORUCK Challenge is... well. I have done three now and I haven't the slightest clue. Read this and it might help. Or, not.

The reunion was happy but brief, since our first obligation was to reach the RuckOff and alcohol rumored to be awaiting us. This is one of the ironies of GORUCK: We pass on overindulging in beers at the RuckOff in an attempt to stay hydrated. Meanwhile, we will grab a drink from anybody passing by during the challenge itself. And, since this unique Independence Day GORUCK offering was stepping off at 5:00AM on July 4th, dehydration and heat stroke during the event were distinct possibilities.

Still, we met up with our fellow ruckers (there were five separate classes poised to step off the next morning, so there were an abnormally high number of participants) on top of Balance Gym just off the National Mall. Many thanks to those fine folks for allowing us to use their roof. As opposed to my Savannah and Austin challenges, I wasn't surprised to find that the 7/4 DC challenge brought people in from all over the eastern seaboard. We ate, we drank (sparingly alcohol... liberally water), and we chatted.

And, I'll be damned if one of the guys standing next to me didn't say, "Aren't you the guy that wrote that book?" Now, I may pretend to be a respectable bad-ass and all-around Renaissance Man, but I am continually amazed to find out that anyone knows a damn thing about me. He complimented me on it and asked about the sequel, and my spirits were buoyed by the conversation. The book's genre (have you read it? No, well check it out!) is fairly niche in that it's The Red Badge of Courage for the Bourne generation. But, that fits perfectly with the GORUCK personality and interests. GORUCK alumni (GRTs) are certainly in the target demographic's wheelhouse... mostly because I wrote it for me, and we share passions for the same crazy undertakings. Like a GORUCK.

I met over 40 people at the RuckOff, most very cool, but the core group of us that were traveling and rooming together broke off to go get some dinner. Cary, Chris, Denise, Kevin, Kayla, and myself (yes, that's six in a room), grabbed a couple others (we absorbed Amanda, Sarajane, and Andrea into our drunken collective for much of the trip) and headed out in the general direction of the Metro looking for food along the way and opted for Stan's Restaurant, a decidedly... 'dark' establishment near Dupont Circle. The place was packed... wall to wall customers... and we were the only white people in there. I distinctly heard the staff refer to 'los blancos' as we made our way through the place. Damn good food and service.

Following that, we made our way back to the hotel where I claimed my warm section of thinly-carpeted floor and fell asleep to the dulcet tones of a late night showing of one of the Final Destination movies accompanied by Kevin's snoring. It was a forced sleep, as we were rising at 2:30 AM to meet the shuttle for the short ride to the Lincoln Memorial, but the night passed quietly. I was just happy to have a 5AM start time for this ruck when compared to the usual 1AM start. I awoke refreshed, and we disappeared into the dark morning...

THE CHALLENGE

Recognizing the exhaustion and heat I was in for, I took advantage of the minutes leading up to the challenge by dozing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Laying there as the sun crested over the distant Capitol building was a memorable sight, and I'm sure the few normal people around the Memorial at the time were wondering why all these people with rucks full of bricks were lounging around Mr. Lincoln's steps.

The day begins at the feet of a legend

Our numbers quickly grew as five classes worth of participants scribbled out their signatures on death waivers. We were quickly isolated into predetermined teams and introduced to our cadre, Brent, a recon Marine that is more California than Capitol. Understanding the nature of the heat we would be experiencing during the day (it topped 100 degrees by 11AM), he had a much more relaxed attitude than my previous two GRCs. This was more out of a desire to not see us die than to give us any sort of break.

We started with PT as the sun crested over the distant trees, completely failing in our attempts at inchworm pushups. I've seen teams begin poorly before, but we were depressingly pathetic. Lunges and buddy squats followed. Carrying a ruck full of bricks... and your partner and his bricks... and squatting. Again, we failed horribly as a team to do this as many of us stood - brothers on our shoulders - as we waited for our team to get together.

Inchworm Fail

I blamed the heat.

Our cadre blamed upbringing and maternal lineage.

Pondering log strategy (yea... I said 'log

We left the lawn and moved to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Beams of sunlight began slicing across the dark rock, and I teared up. I have been to the Memorial a few times previously, but I do have an actual family connection to the War and being there on July 4th surrounded by so many of our current servicemen and my GRT family... it was pretty damn emotional. And, I was far from the only one.

From there, we rucked east toward the capitol, stopping briefly to grab our first downed tree of the day. The recent storms left many coupons littering the roads, and we were 'blessed' with three separate logs and a handful of branches. We were very blessed... very... very blessed. After a photo op, we turned up Pennsylvania for lunges and buddy carries... while gaining strange looks by all those we passed with our log.

Many poor decisions are made in this building

The beauty that is Aids Pond

Our cadre then came to the conclusion that we were both hot and uncomfortably disease-free. So, we low-crawled through the pond (and I use that term loosely) at Pershing Park. The neon green water made for a slick surface to slide across and allowed for rapid absorption into our degrading immune system. Push-ups in this newly-dubbed "Aids Pond" followed, and we were given the option of either dragging our battle buddy back through the water or carrying them. The surprising number of pairs that decided to go the 'drag' route is proof positive that the green fungi's assault on the decision-making sections of our brains had reached critical levels.

The draggers were either lazy or sociopathic

The lime Powerade that each of us sported on our person (the guys with beards were particularly gruesome), stayed with us for another mile until we reached Georgetown Waterfront Park. It was here that we began to worry that the fungi included hallucinogenic compounds. Before us was an arching water fountain cascading cool, refreshing (and CLEAN) water 6 feet in the air. Brent decided it was a good place for some flutter kicks and push-ups. I would have cut off my arm to get in there, so PT was a minimal sacrifice. It washed away most of the grime, and we were feeling confident.

It's like being watered down with liquid Heaven

Unfortunately, this confidence caused elements of our team discipline to waver, and the fallout was bear crawls up a hill. At this point, another aspect of the GORUCK came into play. We are often running right behind each other with little knowledge of what's in front of the group. It leads to many shouted warnings such as "Curb!," "Stump to the right!," and "Watch out for the hobo!" The numerical superiority and overall nasty appearance that a GORUCK team usually carries with is also means that we are more immune to rucking through dangerous areas and disgusting conditions than we would be on a regular day. But, it was still strange to be crawling up a steep hill and hear the shouted "Dead Rat!" warning echo over Georgetown. Even more strange? We didn't go around it. No one did. We just went over it. The warning was simply to make sure people didn't grab it for leverage. Yea... we are those kind of people.

"Crab walk, you lazy bastards!"

By this time, the sun was nearly overhead, but we found refuge in the shadows of a secluded staircase... that I came to find out was used for one of the deaths in The Exorcist. The steep and tight nature of the staircase made it perfect to throw someone down in the movie. Well.... shit.

These steps (there are 9,413 of them... I counted. Pretty sure that's accurate) supported our class's box jumps from bottom to top. Once at the pinnacle, we were rewarded with a waterfall of sunlight that nearly melted my face off. Here, we waited while a downed airman (i.e. log #3) was located. Four people were parceled off to get the 'airman' while the rest of us were told to descend the steps. Upon arriving at the bottom, Brent screamed that the airman needed more support. Back up the steps. We met the log team and proceeded to carry this log back down the Exorcist steps.

I was jealous of the actor lucky enough to fall DOWN the steps

Being at the leading edge of the log, the image of it slipping from the hands of those in the back flashed through my mind. I wouldn't have even had time to cuss them out before my face was goo. Good times.

It was near this point that we took a break and one of the class shadows (usually a photographer and/or GRT not actively participating) performed the admirable duty of restocking our beer supplies (Thanks, Dan!). At this point, dehydration was about #4 on the list of "Things likely to Kill Us Today." The list was a bit fuzzy by the afternoon, but I'm pretty sure "Skittish DC Cop with a Gun" and "Water-Born Parasite" were on there somewhere.

We turned across Key Bridge, a heavily trafficked area at this time of day, with our 'airman' and discovered that the bridge apparently led from Georgetown into Hell. I'm pretty sure flames were dancing across the far end. It was hot, is what I'm saying. And, we were carrying a log. Next to traffic. The image of the log slipping over the barricade and flying through someone's windshield flashed through my mind on several instances. Instead of coming up with a way to keep it from happening, I spent the trip figuring out a good excuse.

"Who? Me? What log? Surely you must be mistaken. I am simply on my way to market for fresh fruit."

"Yea, right! That forest over there threw it? It just barely missed all of us... looks like you weren't as lucky."

"Si! El arbol!" ***point at the rest of my team*** "Los Blancos!"

However, we made it across Key Bridge and made our way down to the Potomac River. This tributary, a bubbling waterway full of history and national significance, was about to be violated in a way few could fathom. As Brent dove into the cool waters, we stepped off in full view of stunned kayakers and paddleboarders (our trusty S-4 Logistics shadow that had provided alcoholic sustenance swam out and shanghai'd one of the boards from an unsuspecting young woman... it wasn't pretty). After some more water PT, we low-crawled through the mud and muck to evade the "entrenched snipers with lasers." Apparently, this force we were tasked with avoiding was significantly advanced. In true Schwarzenegger fashion, we arose from the muck completely unidentifiable, covered in black mud and foliage. If the locals were confused by us before, they were afraid now.

Covert Ops
You can't seeeeeeeeee us

But, onward we went to Roosevelt Island. Never having been there, I didn't even know Teddy had a huge statue on the mid-river dirt. It is a strange honorific, but Teddy is a certified bad-ass. He deserves his own island. We performed a recon mission of the surroundings. We ran. We ran some more. Fortunately, Teddy is located in a (mostly) shady spot, and we were spared the blazing sun.

Back off the island, we were momentarily spared the Key Bridge exposure (think that scene from the Chronicles of Riddick where the sun is literally rolling toward you like a wall of fire) and instead turned south toward the US Marine Corps War Memorial and Iwo Jima statue. There was no way a Force Recon cadre was going to let us sneak by this. Of course, it was July 4th and security was monumental. Having 25+, mud-covered pseudo-paratroopers walk up with rucks on their backs gave them pause, but a quick explanation and what appeared to be sympathy for our sad state got us through... after a bag check.

"Sir, what are these things wrapped up like kilos of cocaine?"
"Um... bricks?"
"Roger that.. carry on."

It was at the USMC War Memorial that we were able to rest our bodies but not our souls. Staring up at the Memorial (another that I had not yet seen even though I had visited DC many times) and hearing Brent tell us some stories of comrades and friends he had on deployment can take just as much out of you as inchworm push-ups. With a sober air, we pressed our way back across Key Bridge, somehow oblivious to the heat as we were reminded that it really was July 4th and that there were worse things than wandering through the nation's capitol on a beautiful, hot day.

Respect

We made quite the impression on the families now enjoying Waterfront Park, and our co-opting of the same fountain from hours earlier without any semblance of restraint showed how happy we were to get the mud off. Let me be clear... we destroyed this fountain. Men and women alike stripped down to get the mud off and out. I believe everyone kept their naughty bits covered, but who knows. We wanted cool, clean water, and clothing was a deterrent to that at this point.

It was here that Brent snuck away to GR Headquarters ("I'll see you guys there... move it!") and left us to find our way to Montrose Park and the challenge's end. Though mostly an uphill trek, we were numb at this point as the sun had already crested hours earlier and begun its way to the west. It is tradition to buddy carry across the finish line - one last show of teamwork and togetherness. So, we steeled ourselves for it as we rounded the hedges after the mile ruck from the waterfront.

Oh ho no. We came around the corner and Brent waved us toward him... and we ran. Down.. down... D- O- W- N into the bowels of Montrose Park. I think we passed a town in China. Murlocs (high-brow literary reference!) blinked as we passed. It was far, is what I'm sayin'. And, the whole way... we rued the return trip, because we knew we'd have to come back up. After having thought that the end was nigh... our spirits deflated.

We reached the bottom and splashed into Rock Creek. Flutter kicks followed. Seal crawls after that. Then, the worst thing of all happened.

A friendly chocolate lab hopped from the bushes.

To the end

I can't tell you how much this upset us all. Few things frighten ruckers (by nature, we are a 'screw you' group that is content to punch ourselves in the gut, literally and figuratively, in order to challenge ourselves), but seeing a chocolate lab bound toward us gives us chills.

Because, this is Java... and it means Jason isn't far behind.

Jason McCarthy is one of the coolest dudes you'll meet.. friendly and loves chatting with GRTs. But, he's also the founder of GORUCK and has ground more classes into the dirt as cadre than can be counted.

Buddy carries to the top. Up loose gravel.

Time Hack.

Go... now.


And, so we went... over rocks and stones and twigs and steps. I worried over the steps, but fortunately only half of us had to negotiate them. The other half simply laid over our shoulders. Screams of encouragement echoed in the park. Sweat, washed off only moments ago in the creek, returned in buckets. Up we went, past the Chinese and cave people, to the crest of the hill. And, as a team, we made it.

GORUCK Class 200

GORUCK Class 200... complete.

Brent talked about how the past 12+ hours (it was nearly 6PM when we finished) were as tough as anything Special Forces had to do over similar times. He looked us each in the eye (always a nice touch and something I'm sure Jason reinforces with cadre) and handed us our patches. I gave him a NASA coin that had survived the ruck with me. People drifted away, but the six of us stayed and chatted with Jason and the remaining cadre. It was still 99 degrees out, but we didn't care. We enjoyed the post-ruck relaxation. We had beaten the ruck once more.

When I first researched GORUCK, I thought GRTs were insane. Why do this? To challenge yourself? Prove yourself to others? My first GRC in Savannah was frightening in its unknowns. I told myself I wouldn't do another. But, the GRT family won't let you do just one. I now have thousands of friends all over the country (I didn't know Justin in Minneapolis through any mechanism other than the alumni website) that have gone through similar experiences, and we share the same perspectives on a multitude of issues. And, we are all bat-shit insane. But, we come together for great things. We carry logs, yes, but we organize mini-rucks to raise money to fight leukemia and cancer. We play in the mud and grime, but we find organizations that need support. Brent is one of the driving forces behind the Silent Warrior Scholarship Fund (www.silentwarriorscholarshipfund.com) that supports college-bound family members of Recon Marines. In the days following the challenge, the GRT community pulled together over $1,200 in donations.

Being part of the GRT family is amazing, and THEY are why I keep coming back to do challenges. The first was to challenge myself. Now, I know my team will succeed... and I show up to help them make it happen.

GO!...... RUCK!

What the GORUCK Challenge is really all about