Katy
Trail Stage Run 2008
Shannon, Bart, and I left
for Missouri on Tuesday, May 20. The
just-completed academic year had been miserable, another new low in a
continuous string of bad years, and I was still feeling surly as we waited
through the seemingly endless number of stoplights between our house and the
edge of town. I had planned to run the
Katy trail, spanning 225 miles from St. Charles to Clinton, last spring before
an achilles injury left me
unable to make the attempt. My physical
condition seemed only slightly better this year. I had been fighting soreness in my knees all
spring. Now, just a week before the run,
my right heel had locked. A chiropractic
adjustment had freed the heel, but my plantar fascia was still tight and
sore. A massage the evening before
departure reduced the tightness but I still felt like I had a nerve pinched in
my foot. Although I was looking forward
to the run, I secretly wondered if I could even make it through the first
stage. At least I was away from work and,
if I could get a few stop lights to cooperate, this town.
Mental wounds still screaming, driving
me insane
I’m going off the rails on a crazy train
--
Ozzy Osbourne
The drive to St. Charles went by
quickly enough, but my foot was aching when we arrived at the hotel. Shannon and I studied the maps, attempting to
figure out the roads that would lead to the first crew spot. We made a short drive to find this place and
then headed into historic downtown St. Charles for dinner. Knowing that Bart was bored, we took him for
a short walk at the nexus of the Katy trail before turning in for the
night. I snapped at Bart for pulling on
the leash. The stress of the last nine
months, or maybe it was the concern about my foot, was nearing a breaking point. Time to get some rest and onto the trail.
Stage One, May 21: St. Charles to Treloar (47.03 miles; Total Time 10:52:50)
She caught the Katy and left me a mule
to ride
My baby caught the Katy, left me a mule
to ride
The train pulled out, and I swung on behind
I’m crazy ‘bout her, that hardheaded
woman of mine
-- Taj
Mahal
The Katy trail is an old railroad
bed for the Missouri/Kansas/Texas line (referred to as the MKT or the Katy
railroad) made into a trail. The surface
is gravel and limestone with the old cinder bleeding up to the surface. Much of the trail has a significant crown
that, while aiding with the drainage, would eventually wreck havoc on my legs. Shannon and I were unable to locate the exact
starting point of the trail from St. Charles.
The trail now unofficially extends back to the east toward Earth City
and onto Machens.
Bart and I just picked a spot and started at 7 am. The day had broken clear and cool. Bart was excited to be running. Before we had covered a half mile, he jumped
into the air three times to express his pleasure with being on a new running
adventure. We soon settled into an easy
pace with Bart trotting along at my side.
I stopped twice in the first three miles to adjust the laces in my shoe,
but my foot continued to throb.
On the way out of St. Charles, the
trail passes the Ameristar Arena. Beer
cans and other trash that had blown from the arena parking lot littered the
trail. This would be the only trash that
I would see in the entire length of the trail – trash from other sporting
endeavors. Rail trails have not been
able to gain traction in Kansas. One
complaint by the landowners adjacent to old rail beds is that rail trails would
bring trash and vandalism. I saw no
signs of either the entire length of the trail, only economic development that
saved many small towns from becoming nonexistent.
Traffic rolled quickly along the
road next to the trail as we moved deliberately toward the first crew spot on
Greens Bottom Road. At about nine miles,
Bart and I met Shannon. I took a seat on
the tailgate of the Honda. Bart sacked
out in the shade under the tailgate. He
downed a bowl of GoDog sport drink while I did the
same to a bottle of G2 and snacked on a banana.
Based on the trail mile makers, I noted that the starting point that we
picked for the run must have added an extra mile. The Missouri Department of Natural Resources
has placed mile makers the entire length of the trail, an amazing undertaking. I found most to be accurate. The few that were misplaced were ridiculously
off. I would mysteriously add another
extra mile before the end of the day without leaving the trail.
The next section of the trail winds
through the Weldon Springs Conservation Area.
This part of the trail is shady and scenic with a number of interesting
bridges, several ponds, limestone bluffs, and the Femme Osage Slough. This area would be beautiful in the fall, but
I would not want to spend too much time around the Slough as the summer wears
on. I could envision mosquitoes the size
of birds. Bart was more interested in
the wildlife. He saw a variety of birds
and lots of rabbits and squirrels.
I stopped several times to adjust my
right shoe. My heel was no longer
throbbing, but I was not running comfortably either. My doubts about failing to get through the
first stage were growing.
Bart and I met Shannon at the Weldon
Springs Trailhead. The sun was beating
down in the parking lot as I assumed my spot on the tailgate. I consumed a can of FRS and several handfuls
of potato chips. Frustrated with my
foot, I removed my shoe and massaged my arch.
I pulled the laces out of the shoe, re-stringing it to be looser.
Shannon topped off my bottles as I grabbed my iPod and waited for Bart to
finish more GoDog. As I started back
down the trail, my foot felt remarkably good.
It would not bother me the rest of the run.
Over the next three miles, I began
to relax. I felt the toxins of the last
nine months oozing from my pores. With
Bart’s enthusiasm as a guide, I was letting go of the past, choosing to live in
the moment, gaining confidence that I could make it all the way.
Shannon and I had made plans to meet
again in Matson, 4.6 miles from Weldon Springs, bypassing the Defiance
trailhead. My foot feeling better, Bart
and I made good time to Defiance. As we moved
through the small burg, I felt Bart jerk on the leash and move quickly behind
me. I took the earbuds
from my ears as I questioned Bart about his maneuver. As I looked back into town, I saw Shannon
waving at me from Terry and Kathy’s Inn.
Bart had paid no attention when Shannon yelled my name, but when she
called to him, he quickly perked up and turned his attention to her. Realizing that no food was available in
Matson, Shannon had returned to Defiance to order me a hamburger. We were fortunate that she saw us passing while
she stood at the bar waiting for the food.
Bart was interested in a German shepherd
barking at him from the balcony of the Inn as we made our way into the large
covered patio. On this bright, sunny
day, the shade of the patio created a welcome respite for enjoying a tasty
hamburger and a Pepsi. Shannon commented
about the huge beehives that were used as decorations in the bar. Bart had some GoDog
and then crashed in the shade. The owner
coming down the stairs from the balcony startled him and caused him to bark,
but he quickly moved to wagging his nubby tail.
This suggested to me that it was time to get running again.
Daniel Boone had settled in Missouri
near the town of Defiance. A spot along
the trail marked the “Judgment Tree” where court was held to settle disputes
between the white settlers and Native Americans.
We met Shannon in Matson just long
enough to top off the bottles and then headed on toward Augusta six miles
hence. Bart and I passed numerous vineyards along the
way. The mid-day sun was beating down
hard by the time we made it to Augusta.
The sky was a perfect blue, not a cloud to be found.
Bart and I found Shannon in the
trailhead parking lot. As I removed my
headphones, she pointed back over my shoulder at a small fox that had the
attention of the town’s people. The fox
had stumbled into the restaurant, weaving and bobbing. He had stumbled down the hill and was now
standing at the opposite end of the parking lot from where we sat. From my vantage point, I suspected that he
was looking for a place to die. The
restaurant owner was on a cell phone trying to get wildlife rescue to pay a visit.
Augusta is a quaint place with a
population around 200. Shannon had
enjoyed a homemade root beer from the restaurant while waiting for Bart and me
to appear. The cool breeze as we sat in
the shade felt wonderful. Knowing that
much of the rest of the stage would be run through wide open farmland, I was in
no hurry to move on. This is the joy of
stage running – the clock is irrelevant; I just need to cover the distance by
the end of the day. I took the
opportunity to treat and tape a couple of small blisters starting on my feet, re-apply
sunscreen, and get rehydrated. Bart used
the time for a short nap.
An historical marker as we
approached Augusta stated that Lewis and Clark took 10 days to get to this
point after leaving St. Charles in late May 1804. Bart and I had taken 6:36 including 90
minutes for breaks. I guess it helps to
not have to row a raft up stream and bushwhack around on the shore to make
camp. Maybe Lewis and Clark would have
made better time if they would have had technical fabrics and iPods.
Knowing that we couldn’t put it off,
Bart and I headed back out into the sunshine to complete the remaining 18 miles
of the stage. This area was originally
settled by Germans who compared the area to their native Rhineland. The seemingly endless expanse of bottom land
wasn’t all that interesting to me. For
an old dirt farmer, this must look like heaven.
I could envision Fred Hampel drooling like
Homer Simpson at a bakery rack filled with sprinkled donuts. A tractor seemed to move off to my left in
the distance for what seemed like four miles.
I began to wonder if I was on a treadmill. Fortunately, the iPod and short conversations
with Bart made the distance pass on by.
About midway to the next trailhead,
Bart and I came to a spot on the map called Nona. We found a dilapidated building and an old
grain bin. Every town along the trail in
this area had a grain bin or elevator.
Some looked useful, some looked forgotten. All are signs of the bygone importance of the
railroad. I couldn’t see a road into
Nona, making me think that the area was deserted. Just then a dog, probably a retriever mix of
some sort, came bounding up to the trail to great us. The dog was in good shape and sported a
bright collar with several tags, obviously not a stray. He checked out Bart, took a treat from me,
soon became bored with us, and wandered back to the building. I looked around but never saw a person. I looked at Bart, who glanced at me and then
looked longingly toward the building and his new friend. “Nona. Population one dog. Salute,” I said. I gave Bart a long drink and on we went.
After nearly eight sun-drenched
miles, Bart and I stumbled into Dutzow. I was glad to see Shannon and to catch a
little shade. The trail book noted that
the town was called Deseau in the 1830s. Shannon and I speculated about the current pronunciation. One thing we learned from living in Missouri
is that the names of the towns are never pronounced as one would expect. I could tell that Bart was tiring from the
sun, so we took a 20 minute break to fill our bottles and rehydrate.
As we marshaled on toward
Marthasville, Bart started to run in what grass he could find next to the
trail. I couldn’t tell if this was
because he was trying to find what little shade existed along the trail or
because the gravel was starting to take a toll on his feet. With slow, purposeful motion, we made our way
the four miles to the next trailhead.
Marthasville is one of the nicer
spots along this section of the trail. A
town of more than 600, this hamlet sported several shops and places to
stay. Nearby is believed to be the
original burial place of Daniel Boone (rumor has it that he was dug up and
moved to Kentucky). I was feeling good
and was glad I wouldn’t be joining ol’ Dan on that
hillside. Prior to our arrival, Shannon
had enjoyed the shade here while watching two Akitas
going for a walk.
Bart and I didn’t stay long. He had another big bowl of GoDog. I did my best
to rehydrate and ate a pop tart. Pop
tarts, while crap, are amazingly calorie dense.
That’s why I use them. These, by
the way, were whole grain pop tarts, giving the illusion of healthy
eating. Bart seemed eager to go with me
but also hobbled a bit as we started down the trail. I didn’t think too much of it because I had
stiffened up a bit too. Nevertheless, I
kept an eye on him as we moved the four miles to Peers. Our pace had slowed. Bart alternated between the trail and what
grass he could find next to the trail. I
wondered if the sun, straight in our faces all afternoon, was getting to Bart;
I know that it was wearing on me.
Despite our sluggishness, Bart and I
made good time into Peers. This was more
like a Trans-Kansas stop – nothing much here.
We filled the bottles and hopped back onto the trail. Bart seemed sluggish. I speculated that he was getting a bit
dehydrated. His back legs seemed
stiff. We alternated walking and
running. About halfway through the final
three mile stretch, Bart stepped off in the grass and stopped. He gave me a look that I did not
understand. “Buddy is just up the
way. I think we should keep going. Are you up to it?” Bart looked at me for a moment, and then
started running. We covered the last
part quickly, meeting Shannon in Treloar.
Clouds blocked out the sun, just as we
hit the finish. Shannon was parked next
to two horse trailers. One of the horses
was loose. Across the road was a
bar. A sign in front announced, “Bean is
graduating,” whomever in the hell Bean is.
Two German shepherds and an old collie mix came across the street to
greet us. After the sniffing routine,
the dogs wondered back across the street, much to Bart’s chagrin. I happily pulled my shoes and replaced them
with sandals. As I prepared to change my
shirt, the collie mix came back across the street. Bart tried to engage her in play, putting his
paw up on her back. The old gal didn’t
want anything to do with this, wheeling around and giving Bart hell. The owner had been across the road at the bar
and came over to us to apologize. I
explained that 13-year-old was well within her rights to tell off Bart. Approaching Bart from the behind, the
Collie’s owner questioned us about his breed.
Once Shannon informed her that Bart was a shaved Aussie, she looked at
his face and said, “Sure. I didn’t
recognize it at first since he doesn’t have his shorts,” a reference to the
long fuzzy fur that grows on his backside that I say looks like a sheep
butt. When shaved for the summer, Bart
gets confused for a Rottweiler mix or a Doberman mix because of his colorings. He suffers from what I have seen referred to
as “Black Dog Syndrome.” When we are
running or walking, most people will give Bart plenty of room and look at him
nervously. They don’t realize that Bart
is far more interested in them than Miles ever was, but people tended to freely
approach Miles.
We loaded up and made the drive to
Washington. We snacked on pizza, and I
put bag balm on Bart’s sore feet. Mine,
in contrast, had come through the day relatively well. Bart seemed really tired. During the night, he made a funny howl,
leading me to believe that, despite the ample amount of GoDog
he ingested along the run, he dehydrated during the first stage.
Stage 2, May 22: Treloar
to Tebbetts (47.20 miles; Total Time 10:56:02)
I awoke a little stuff, but feeling
remarkably well for having run 47 miles the day before. Bart, however, was hobbling. No choice but to hold him out. I was disappointed because I looked forward
to his company for all five stages, but I was not about to risk his
health. I suspected a combination of
soreness from dehydration (boy, do I know that soreness) and scraped up paw
pads. I sat next to Bart and gave him a
hard time. “So sissy
boy, you not going to run with me today?” I quizzed him. Bart gave me a look back that said, “Eat my
shorts, Homer.”
After breakfast, we drove toward Treloar. Shannon and
I speculated that the town name was Missourian for mobile home, but the
guidebook indicated that the town was named for a person.
The day stated overcast with rain in
the area. Not surprisingly, the
trailhead was empty. I prepared my gear,
while Bart slept in the backseat. He
clearly had no interest in joining me today.
I, on the other hand, was feeling a sense of relief from my work
burdens. I couldn’t wait to start
running.
Why don’t they ever listen to me?
It’s just a one-way conversation
Nothing they say is gonna
set me free
Don’t need no mental masturbation
Too many religions, but only one god
I don’t need another savior
Don’t try to change my mind
You know I’m one of a kind
Ain’t gonna change
my bad behavior
All my life I’ve been over the top
I don’t know what I’m doing
All I know is I don’t wanna stop
All fired up, I’m gonna
go ‘til I drop
You’re either in or in the way
Don’t make me, I don’t wanna stop
--
Ozzy Osbourne
The
first official trailhead on this stage is McKittrick,
16.4 miles away. Shannon and I had
studied the maps and decided that she would try to find the town of Gore,
making the first section nine miles and reachable with two water bottles. I walked briefly to start the day, stretching
out my legs and taking inventory. I soon
adjusted to a jog and then to a run.
About a mile or so past Treloar, the trail
joins back up to and runs beside the Missouri River. This section seemed very remote with big
bluffs to my right and excellent views of the river on my left. I could hear the train whistle from the Union
Pacific tracks on the other side of the river.
I moved quickly toward Gore arriving in 90 minutes.
As expected, I found Shannon parked
next to the trail at Gore. She stated
that not much existed here – a vineyard, a Labrador Xing sign, and abandoned
houses. Next to the trail was a house
that didn’t look too bad with a “For Sale” sign in the yard. Bart was sacked out in the grass next to the
Honda and mostly uninterested in me.
Breakfast had been light and I was feeling calorie deprived. I ate a couple of pop tarts and downed a can
of FRS. Three bikers passed by heading
east, startling us. Given the pending
weather and this remote area, we were surprised to see anyone.
After a 20 minute break to refuel, I
began the 7.5 miles to McKittrick. The trail leaves the river again at
Gore. This section alternates between
tree cover and open views of bottom land.
Much of this section rolls steadily down, making for some easy
running. My mile splits were all between
9:00 and 10:00. Despite the threatening
weather, numerous bikers streamed past me heading east.
I arrived at McKittrick
just as it started to rain. I found a
seat on the Honda’s tailgate beneath the protection of the raised back door. I pulled on a raincoat to protect me from the
drops and the cool wind. McKittrick seemed to be a sad place with most of the
property in various rundown states, probably a stark contrast to Hermann across
the bridge on the other side of the river.
Hermann has several wineries and is home to numerous festivals during
the year.
Bart was a sleep on the front seat
and didn’t care to acknowledge me.
Shannon stated that a trailer had unloaded a number of bikes for riders
in raincoats, explaining the traffic I had navigated on the way in. As I sat refueling, a college-age, young man
rode up and dismounted. He was part of a
group riding the trail from west to east.
He indicated that they were doing reconnaissance with the plan of doing
an out and back ride at some point in the future. He sported a nasty abrasion on his chin, the
result of a crash while riding 22 mph the day before. I thought him lucky that some skin off his
face was all he was missing. We
exchanged well wishes and off he went.
It was time for me to do the same.
I made the uneventful and somewhat
uninteresting 4.2 miles from McKittrick to
Rhineland. I was running well during
this period with my splits between 10:00 and 10:30 with the walking
breaks. The sky continued to spit and
occasionally rumble. The worst weather
seemed to be lingering off to the west.
As I traded bottles with Shannon in Rhineland, I wondered how much
longer it would be before I had to get really wet.
Rhineland is an interesting
place. The entire town was moved up the
hill in 1995, a response to the old town being six feet under water after the
1993 flood. The spot of the old town was
made into a park and baseball fields.
The trail diverts from the old rail bed here, crosses the highway, makes
its way through the park, crosses back over the highway and rejoins the
original path. I guess if you go to the
trouble to move the entire town to create a space for a baseball field, you
want to show it off.
As I pounded on toward Bluffton, the
sky grew darker and the rumbles continued growing closer. I hoped that the weather might pass to the
north. At Bluffton, the trail crosses Highway
94. I found Shannon parked just on the
other side of the road. About a mile
back, I heard what I assumed was the noon whistle from Rhineland. Since the lunch bell had sounded, I figured I
might as well take a break to eat.
Shannon had searched for a sandwich for me at McKittrick. In this German-dominated area, the choices
were interesting. I ended up with a
bologna, salami, and cheese on a white bread bun. Although a bit odd, the sandwich tasted quite
good and reminded me of my college days.
Shannon indicated that a B&B
existed just around the corner. A truck
stopped to ask us if we were taking a break, then turned into the driveway of
the B&B. Three bikers hit the end of
the trail and turned out onto the highway screaming toward Rhineland. That they chose the roads rather than the
trail struck both of us as odd, until a few minutes later when the skies opened
up and the rain began falling in buckets.
We quickly threw everything inside and piled into the Honda. I stretched out in the back seat, finishing
lunch, and watching the radar on my Blackberry.
Lightning flashed all around us.
The radar suggested that the storm would not last long, but was sitting
right on top of us. Nothing I could do
but ride it out. I was happy to be in
the car and not out on the trail looking for cover.
I might as well admit it,
there’s been a time or two
When I contemplated retirement for a
while
But one hundred years from now, they’ll
be asking how
As they gaze upon my taxidermic
smile
Want to be the last man standing
Got the devil at the crossroads, wolf at
the door
But the last man standing is singing
Bring on a little bit more
--
Jimmy Buffett
Lunch
had taken 15 minutes. The rain delay
consumed another 55 minutes. When I
finally fell out of the Honda, I had 20.3 miles to go to finish the stage. After 27 miles, a bologna sandwich, and
being folded into the backseat of the Honda, I found myself shivering and achy
as I left Bluffton headed for Portland.
I really questioned whether or not I was going to be able to get myself
moving again.
Fortunately, the trail drains well
so the footing was good. I really
enjoyed this section of the trail.
Towering bluffs and fascinating rock formations lined the path. I walked the first quarter of a mile to get
loosened up. I then covered the next
mile in 9:50. Despite gawking at the
rock formations, I covered the five miles in just over 54 minutes.
At Portland, I added some tape to
the blisters starting to form on the second toe of my left foot. The trailhead sits across from the River
Front Bar and Grill decorated with a Schlitz sign. They still make Schlitz? One wonders if the large amount of parking is
there for the trailhead or the bar. I
downed plenty of Gatorade and Pepsi before departing. The sun was breaking through the clouds and
it was getting steamy.
The 5.5 miles to Steedman
were uninteresting. I felt like I was
running in a sauna. I alternated between
running and walking, trying to slow a little bit to save what I could for subsequent
stages. Steedman
is not a formal trailhead, just parking at yet another bar, Steedman’s
Only Bar or SOB. It looks like the kind
of bar one would name SOB. I think this
might be where Patrick Swayze filmed Roadhouse. Highway CC intersects with Highway 94
here. The town seemed dead, but cars
blazed past on the highway. One can only
wonder where they may be headed. Bart
was up and moving around and seemed to be feeling much better. Shannon said that he had consumed a couple of
bowls of GoDog since lunch. He seemed to be catching up but his paws
still seemed sore.
Only 3.6 miles separated Steedman and Mokane. I must have been anxious to get there because
I ran the first mile in 9:07 and the second mile in 10:13. I don’t even remember the trailhead at Mokane. By then I
was just ready to finish the stage. The
last 10K, however, turned out to be a bit of a struggle. I had not consumed enough calories during the
course of the day. About two miles into
the final section, I bonked badly. I
sucked down a Stinger gel and drank a fair amount to activate it. I walked for an extended period, waiting for
the gel to take effect. Once it did, I
ran strong over the last 5K and felt well when I reached the trailhead in Tebbett.
Tebbett
was a circus. Three generations of
hounds were chasing each other around and soon came over to greet us. A younger one was a total clown, barking and
baying at us. Bart, forgetting for the
moment that he was sore, managed to play for a bit with his new silly
friend. We finally had to run off this
dog so that we could leave.
We drove ahead to Jefferson City for
the night. Our accommodations were a
marginal Super 8. Although better places
exist, we had to take the place that would allow us to have the dog. As we cleaned up to go to dinner, a school
bus full of kids unloaded and doors began slamming all over the hallway. I hoped it wouldn’t be a long night. As we left the hotel for dinner, an
African-American man approached us and began telling us a hard-luck story about
being left behind by the carnival. He
needed $4.95 to catch the train. As he
rambled on, I looked at Shannon and asked her to give him $5. I’d like to say I was being nice, but I
really wanted him to shut up and go his way so that I could get to dinner. My gel had long since worn off and my
patience wasn’t far behind. As we
climbed in the car, I made reference to what had taken place near the homeless
shelter in Wichita during Trans-Kansas.
“Too bad Jim and Marc aren’t here to make him a sandwich,” I muttered.
After a good meal at a Mexican
restaurant, I downed a large Pepsi while I treated and taped blisters. The doors in the hallway continued to slam so
I put in ear plugs and went to bed, grumbling about the paper thin pillow.
Stage 3, May 23: Tebbetts
to Rocheport (48.69 miles; 10:52:16 Total Time)
Although I didn’t sleep too badly, I
woke with my neck frozen. I could not
turn my head to the left. I struggled to
eat some cereal. My running clothes were
still in the car so I took some other stuff down to the Honda, but returned
without the running clothes. I grumbled
to myself about needing to wake up as I made a return trip down the stairs to
the car, extra hill work I didn’t need.
Lightning flashed off in the
distance as we left Jefferson City and headed east to Tebbetts. By the time we reached the trailhead, the sun
was out. The hound dog emerged shortly
after our arrival and brought along a furry black and tan dog with him. The new dog tried to get onto the tailgate to
get at Bart so I ran him off. I had
Shannon put her elbow into my upper back trying to free my neck to no
avail. Tiring of the dogs and the chaos,
I grabbed my bottle and started walking down the trail to warm up.
Soon after I started running, a
black dog, a mix of several breeds I would guess, came charging out of the
weeds and snarled at me. I turned toward
him, puffed out my chest, and started walking deliberately at him. As he circled me, I walked toward him
continuing to claim the space. He
finally backed off so I turned and started running again, but the dog wasn’t
through. He snuck back up behind me and
stared snarling. This time, I turned and
ran at him as hard as I could. Shocked
by this treatment, the dog let out a scream and took off across the road. That was the last I would hear out of him.
I felt sluggish moving the first 6.4
miles of the stage. The trail moved in
and out of trees but mostly just followed along the highway in an uninteresting
fashion. The blisters that I had
repaired last night were groaning and my legs seemed heavy. As I approached the crew spot, I found
Shannon sitting in the Honda studying the maps.
She was concerned about being able to find the next trailhead in North
Jefferson City. The trail guide provided
a series of slightly different maps, confusing the situation. We debated their meaning while Shannon filled
my bottles.
Three miles down the trail, I had an
amazing view across a field of the state capitol. I was still feeling sluggish, hoping that I
would smooth out soon. As I approached
the North Jefferson City trailhead, I passed an industrial manufacturing
operation. Near the fence along the
trail were two signs: Evacuation Rally Point 8 and Evacuation Rally Point 9. I’m not sure what they were making in that
plant, but I was pretty sure I didn’t want a whiff.
I passed under the highway and on
the other side I found Shannon sitting in a chair in the shade with Bart
relaxing in the grass next to her.
Shannon indicated that the trailhead had not been hard to find, although
she missed it the first time by on the highway.
Bart seemed to have his personality back today, but his feet still
appeared to be sore as he walked along the gravel.
My
blisters were bothering me, so I removed my shoe to find new friction
issues. More time with the needle and
more tape had me ready to run again. By
now the clouds had rolled in on us and thunder was rumbling off to the
southwest. The radar suggested that the
storm pushing through wouldn’t last long, so I finished a pop tart, spent a few
more moments to rehydrate, and was on my way.
The trail moved closer to the
river. Big bluffs spanned the area to
the right of the trail. My toes felt
better so I made good time in a light rain.
As I moved closer to Claysville, it became obvious that it had rained
harder here. The trail was wet and
spongy in places. The brief storm past,
the sun came out causing steam to rise from the trail.
Claysville is not a trailhead so I
found Shannon parked on a road next to the trail. She and Bart had spent the wait watching
cardinals and blue jays. Bart seemed
full of energy when I arrived. Almost 19
miles into the stage, I was hungry so I ate some ham and cheese and some potato
chips. I downed a can of FRS. Because the distance to the next trailhead is
only 3.8 miles, I didn’t wait long to get going again.
The trail was open, passing through
pasture land. The sun was beating
down. The humidity made it hard to
breathe. A family on bikes passed
me. I attempted to turn my head to the
left to see them. My neck still frozen,
I nearly screamed as the pain hit me.
The rest of the day, I would turn at the waist when I needed to see what
was behind me. I followed the family
most of the way to the next trailhead.
They were not moving much faster than I was. I enjoyed seeing the young kids out in
nature, pedaling along in an attempt to keep up with the adults. It occurred to me that this was the first set
of bikes that had passed me from behind in two days. Nearly all of the bike traffic moved from
west to east.
As I pulled into Hartsburg, I saw
Shannon and Bart walking back toward the Honda.
Shannon had gone to Dotty’s Café to get us
burgers for lunch. While there, she
signed their trail register and listened to a very young local try to talk the
owner out of $10. In the end, he settled
for a milkshake. Shannon informed me that the bike shop renowned in the trail
guide had gone out of business. As we sat and enjoyed lunch, two beagles
stopped by to serenade us. What started
out as funny soon became annoying so we yelled at them to move along. They did so but not without making as much
noise as possible.
Working on digesting lunch, I chose
to make unhurried progress toward the next crew spot. The sun was beating down, making advancement
difficult. I concentrated on the music
spilling from my iPod and the views of the river. I soon encountered Shannon at Wilton. She was parked on a dirt path leading from
the gravel road. Up the road was the
C-Store and Campground. Shannon hadn’t
seen it on the way in, but later remarked that the place was scary, like it
belonged in a Louisiana swamp.
Sittin’ in a teepee built right on the tracks
Rollin’ them bones ‘til the foreman
comes back
Pickup your belongings boys and scatter
about
We’ve got an off-schedule trail comin’ two miles out
Everybody’s scramblin’,
running about
Pickin’ up their money, tearing the teepee
down
Foreman wants to panic about to go
insane
Tryin’ to get the workers out of the way of
the train
Engineer blows the whistle loud and long
Can’t stop the train, gotta let it roll
on
--
Chuck Berry
The next five miles to Easley runs
through bottom land, meaning no shade.
The air was humid and heavy. The
trail seemed rougher, with more cinders and some rocks. My feet were taking a beating as I tried to
move steadily toward Easley, covering each mile in around 11:30 in a run/walk
manner. Not far before the crew spot, I
came upon two people, one walking a Labrador and the other walking a
Rottweiler. They were being greeted by
two red golden retrievers who appeared to reside at a nearby cabin. As I passed them all, one golden, who had
obviously been swimming somewhere, broke off to make my acquaintance. He wiggled around me, his plume tail
swinging back and forth. I stopped to
scratch him behind his ears. He soon
grew bored with me and took off after his companion. I made my way around the group and soon met
up with Shannon at Easley.
Upon reaching the tailgate, I pulled
my shoes and socks to reveal several new blisters. I popped and drained a couple and re-taped
everything. I changed my shirt hoping
that dry clothes would re-energize me. I
spent some extra time to rehydrate. Only
one more crew spot remained. I would get
aid in seven miles. From there I would
have to cover nine miles to complete the stage.
I was standing by the bridges
Where the dark water flows
I was talking to a stranger
About times long ago
I was young, I was foolish
I was angry, I was vain
I was charming, I was lucky
Tell me how have I changed?
--
The Rolling Stones
As I left Easley, I gazed up the
long hill on Highway N that leads back to Columbia. I smiled thinking about the number of times
that I have run up that hill, leading to the midpoint of the Heart of America
Marathon. This marathon is one of the
oldest and more challenging marathons in the U.S. The next event on Labor Day will mark the 49th
running. I reflected on my first running
in 1981 when, at 18, I ran 2:49:10 to finish 15th. I pondered my running in 1996, my first
attempt at a long race after being diagnosed with Interstitial Cystitis. I really struggled that day, especially on
the hills leading from here back to town, but I managed to finish in
3:57:05. I ruminated on my most recent
voyage in 2003. After running 19 miles
on Saturday, with interval work of three miles in 17:35, two miles in 11:23,
and three miles in 17:38 at the end, I drove to Columbia for the marathon. Suffering a bad IC flare, I ran 3:02:55 to
finish 3rd overall, passing several runners in the later miles. I was one of only two runners that day to run
a negative split, no small achievement given that the second half is nothing
but hills. I smiled and whispered, “This
flat run to McBaine will be a lot easier than
that.” I reminded myself that I needed
to make the trip here for the 50th running.
Soon after leaving Easley, I came to
Cooper’s Landing, a store and campground.
The campers were descending on the area for the weekend. As I passed through I looked to my left just
in time to see a man in jeans and white t-shirt who resembled Hank Hill. He was standing in front of a camper with
three other guys, each of whom was drinking a beer. I found myself channeling Hank’s neighbor
Kahn, nearly saying, “Hello stupid hillbilly
rednecks.” Fortunately, I caught
myself. I was too tired to be chased
down the trail by a pickup truck full of agitated hillbillies. Instead, I just waved and kept on moving,
just in time to see Boathenge, a line of boats their
hulls planted in the ground reminiscent of the Cadillac Ranch in Texas. In my best Hank Hill impression I said,
“Maybe that Kahn knows what he’s talking about.”
The trail was shady most of the way
to McBaine allowing me to make good time. I found Shannon and Bart sitting under shade
trees near the trailhead. I took an
extended break to consume an FRS and a bottle of G2. Then I ate some chips and a pop tart. I grabbed a couple of Stinger gels and stuck
them in my pocket, concerned about having enough energy to cover the last nine
miles to Rocheport. Clouds had rolled in
while I was resting. I wasn’t about to
complain.
Just past McBaine I
came to the junction with MKT trail that runs nine miles into Columbia. We used to live near the trail, long before
it was extended out to here. I thought
about Shannon bringing Bailey, our first dog, back from the trail covered in
fleas. Glad I was covered in bug spray.
The scenery from McBaine
to Rocheport is dazzling. The trail
offers excellent views of the river. Tall bluffs with some fascinating rock
formations and caves span the entire length. But the best part of the section is that most
of it slopes gently downhill. As I
feared, I bonked about halfway, but a couple of gels and an extended walking
break allowed me to regain my energy. I
raced the last three miles at about 9:00 pace per mile to find Shannon and Bart
waiting for me.
The downhill running had not done
much for my blisters. I could feel all
of them as I slipped on sandals and prepared for the ride into Columbia. Shannon had already checked us into the hotel
before coming to Rocheport to retrieve me.
After a quick shower, I fetched us a pizza and salads from Shakespeare’s
Pizza while Shannon did some laundry at the hotel. As I remembered, the pizza was awesome!
After dinner, I turned my attention
to my mounting blister problems. As I
went to take the tape off the second toe on my left foot, the blood blister
exploded. The skin peeled from the back
to the front of the toe, taking the toenail with it. I used scissors to cut the skin loose in the
front to finish off the nail. I dumped
New Skin on the open wound. I could have
sworn my toe was on fire. I rocked in the
chair and cussed for a few minutes until the throbbing stopped. After that I drained the other blood blisters
and taped each wound. Half of my toes
were now covered in tape. The throbbing
resulted in a fitful night’s sleep.
Stage 4, May 24: Rocheport to Sedalia (47.61
miles; 11:17:31 Total Time)
The alarm came quickly Saturday
morning. We turned on the Weather Channel,
only to be surprised to see a squall line running from Kansas City to
Joplin. I stayed in bed pondering yet
another rain delay. The meteorologist
suggested that the rain would pass through soon and would only last 20 to 30
minutes. I made the decision to start
the run. Sluggishly, I got dressed,
choked down some cereal, and winced at the sting of my battered toes sliding back
into shoes.
The sky looked ominous as we drove
toward Rocheport. Bart was moving around
well at the trailhead. He seemed to be nearly
recovered. He was still tiptoeing around
on the gravel, but otherwise he seemed himself.
He and Shannon would go for a short walk on the trail once I departed.
The
first section of this stage would be long, 10 miles from Rocheport to New
Franklin. I took my rain jacket and two
bottles. I told Shannon not to worry
about me. I’ve been in far worst
weather. At least I hoped I wouldn’t be
a future Storm Story on the Weather Channel.
I walked slowly struggling to get my
gear organized and my head together. I
passed through the old train tunnel that had been built in 1893. In the flood of 1993, four feet of water
filled this tunnel. I’m glad it hadn’t
started raining yet.
Shortly
on the other side of the tunnel, two runners passed me. Not long after, a flash of lightning and clap
of thunder had them wheeling around and sprinting back at me as they raced toward
Rocheport. “Time to head for cover,” one
shouted my way. I laughed at their
cowardice after they went by. “Yeah, I
will… in about 45 miles,” I expressed to myself, an evil grin on my face.
The bluffs disappeared quickly,
replaced by fertile farmland as the trail turned east and headed toward New
Franklin. My covered toes felt
reasonably good. I settled into a
pattern of running for most of a mile and then taking a short walking break. About halfway, I passed a fascinating grain elevator
built entirely from brick. As I stopped
to study it, the rain started falling, light at first, but growing to steady
and cold by the time I reached the crew spot.
At New Franklin, I wondered into the
bathroom. While there I started thinking
“150 miles or so isn’t so bad. I could
just stop now and head for home.” “Quit
it,” I snapped at myself out loud.
Physical limitations are not usually what end my ultraruns. What stops me is negative thinking. I came to conquer the entire trail; the
weather is just part of the challenge. In
the words of Jimmy Buffett, “Wherever you go, you always take the weather with
you.”
Shannon put on her rain coat and
came around to open the back door of the Honda.
She did her best Bill Murray impression from Caddyshack, “I‘d keep running. I don’t think the really hard stuff will come
down for some time.” I laughed as
Shannon handed me the Blackberry. The
radar made it appear like it might rain all day. So quoting Lewis Black, I responded, “The
Weather Channel, that bunch of assholes!”
Shannon tucked up onto the tailgate to avoid
the rain while I stood outside and drank an FRS and ate a pop tart. I growled at the frigid rain, stuffed my iPod
into two ziplock bags for protection from the
elements, took my bottles, and prepared to maneuver the 3.8 miles to
Booneville.
Show me yours and I’ll show you mine
Take me back to the days full of
monkeyshines
Bouncin’ on a bubble full of trouble in the
summer sun
Keep your raft from the riverboat
Fiction over fact always has my vote
And wrinkles only go where the smiles
have been
Barefoot children in the rain
--
Jimmy Buffett
As I struggled down the trail, the
next three songs that shuffled onto my iPod all made reference to rain. “Smartass,” I grumbled looking up into the
sky. The song that followed my retort was
Sympathy for the Devil. “Cute,” I mumbled.
As
I neared Booneville, the trail exited out onto a paved road that appeared to
dead-end. I stopped and looked around in
the rain, unsure that I was heading the right way. I followed the road to the end, discovering a
left turn that had been obscured by bushes, and climbed up to the bridge. I ran along the pedestrian walkway of the
bridge, being buffeted around by the wind.
To my right, upstream was the old draw bridge. I remembered the scary experiences of driving
across this open-grated, narrow bridge.
Although the new bridge lacked the charm of the old, safety had clearly
been improved.
A brightly colored, dare I say
obnoxious, casino sits at the bottom of the bridge. This would be my last view of the river as
the trail and the big muddy part ways here.
Signs directed me through town and to the old depot where I found
Shannon waiting for me. Bart, not
anxious to get wet, was sitting in the backseat, resting his chin on the top of
the seat in a demeanor that said he was bored.
I stroked his nose while I downed a Pepsi, visited with Shannon for a
few minutes, but quickly became cold. I
shivered as I shuffled down the trail. I
never thought that being cold was an issue that I would have to confront on
this adventure. Yet I wasn’t
surprised. Ultrarunning seems to bring
extremes, often in close proximity.
I
slowly warmed up as I passed through a residential area and into pastoral
spreads. My pace was incredibly slow, and
I walked more than I liked. I had not taken
a seat on the tailgate during this stage.
The rain kept me moving so I had not taken in many calories. Shivering caused tightness and added to my
feelings of depletion.
About
two miles into this section, the rain stopped and allowed me to pull my rain
jacket. I crossed a bridge over I-70 and
stopped to look at the traffic moving on the wet highway. The interstate told me that the next crew
spot would be arriving soon.
The
stop at Prairie Lick resembled a Trans-Kansas spot. Shannon was parked on the road that crossed
the trail. The guidebook said parking
and bathrooms. We saw neither. I joked that for a male trailrunner,
any spot next to the trail is a bathroom.
Shannon concluded that the trail map should have little pictures of
Calvin, from the Calvin and Hobbes comic strip, with his evil look peeing on
the trail.
Soaking
wet and cold, I did my best Mark Henderson impression, stripping down while
standing in the road, toweling off, and changing clothes. I pulled on a sweatshirt and did more repair
work on my feet. Running on scree in the
rain had created some new blisters.
Patched up, I climbed into the front seat for lunch. A pickup truck sped down the road, giving us
an evil glance as he nearly tore the driver’s door off the Honda. This is one of the few pissy
moments that we had with the locals. I
received many friendly waves and acknowledgments from farmers and ranchers
along the trail. By and large, most seem
to embrace the trail.
I
devoured a huge sub sandwich and some chips, while Shannon and I studied the
map. She started the Honda and ran the
heater for a bit. I wasn’t sure which I
needed more, the calories, the warmth, or the rest. The break stretched on for 45 minutes. Although I really didn’t want to leave, I
still had 28 miles to go to complete the stage.
The trail had rolled between
Booneville and Prairie Lick. Between Pairie Lick and Pilot Grove, the trail seemed be in steady
decline. Despite moving through farmland
and pasture, the trail is flanked on both sides by trees providing a pleasant canopy
of shade for the trail. After a slow,
walking start to this section, I used the down grade to pick up the pace,
covering the 6.3 miles to Pilot Grove in 75 minutes.
Shannon commented that Pilot Grove,
with a population around 700, was a decent town, especially in the parts beyond
the trailhead. Across from the trailhead
I noted a respectable-looking grocery store.
I sat on the tailgate for about 15 minutes, taking in food and
liquid. I also took this opportunity to
ice massage the inside of my right calf just below the knee. I suspected that the crown of the trail was
starting to get to me. I felt this
muscle tightening and grabbing as I neared Pilot Grove. It would only get worse as the day wore on.
As I left Pilot Grove, the mile
marker next to the trail made me realize that I had about 100k left to complete
the entire trail. I smiled at the
realization that I had whittled the distance down to running measures that made
sense to me. Shortly after the mile
marker was remnants of a railroad signal marker. Like the railroad that had disappeared, the
marker had seen better days. It was
rusted and the hinged door at the base was open exposing that the guts were long
gone.
The sun began to filter through the
clouds causing steam to rise from the trail.
Being cold was now a distant memory.
I was sweating profusely. I
followed the undulating old rail bed through the trees as the brush next to the
trail became thicker. The trail crossed
bridges over streams and passed underground through a few tunnels that looked
like giant culverts.
After five-miles of inconsistent
running resulting from the heat and my calf screaming at me, I came out the
brush to find Shannon parked at what is labeled as Pleasant Green. The stop was on a gravel road that dead-ends at
the trail. As I sat on the tailgate
facing a ramshackle mobile home rubbing ice on my aching calf, a little dog
came out in the road and yapped at us.
As I gave up on the ice and moved toward rehydrating, that little dog
went back around the house and second one appeared and began woofing at
us. Apparently, the miniature dogs tag
team strangers on the trail as a means of maintaining the intensity of their
barking. As I prepared to leave, the second
dog stopped probably in response to the appearance of a large, elderly
African-American woman who shuffled around in the yard in front of the
home. As I walked down the trail, I
thought to myself, “I understand where the green came from; something must have
happened to the pleasant.”
I felt good leaving Pleasant Green and ran a
strong pace for the first three miles, covering the distance in just over 30
minutes. The sun was now shining
brightly. Although the temperature was
still in the mid-60s, the humidity was stifling. The remaining three miles to Clifton City
were a struggle. My calf was
throbbing. My energy was low, and I
began to bonk. Reminding myself that I still
had more than 12 miles to finish this stage and a long day in front of me
tomorrow, I injected more walking into the process.
Clifton City is an odd place. Shannon was laughing as she met me at the
trailhead. She pointed to a huge junk
pile next to a building. Before I
arrived, Shannon and Bart had walked past this place only to hear a man yell to
them from the midst of the junk. When he
emerged, he looked like he had fallen off of the Mountain Dew bottle. He questioned Shannon about Bart’s breed,
wondering if he is part Rottweiler.
Given this strange looking character, my response probably would have
been yes along with a warning that Bart is unpredictably mean. The man turned out to be friendly enough,
wanting to know if Shannon was interested in buying one of the many slipshod
bicycles that he had thrown together from various parts. Shannon politely declined. I laughed and said, “Besides Bart doesn’t
ride.”
The guidebook indicates that the
service shop across from the old man’s junk pile burned down in 2005. Shannon said that a volunteer fire department
was located three doors down from the burned out building. The trucks, she stated, looked very antique
and probably were not much help in battling the blaze, if any battling took
place at all. The old service shop used
to have an honor-system refrigerator stocked with pop, but that was now
unplugged and part of the junk.
As I sat attempting to refuel from the
bonking, some bikers approached from the south.
Seeing them approach, the old man hopped on one of his cobbled-together
bicycles and peddled down to play tour guide.
He was amusing himself, fortunately for me, at someone else’s
expense.
I removed my saturated shirt,
replacing it with a lighter one. I
removed my shoes, letting my aching feet dangle from the tailgate. As I rubbed ice on my aching calf, I noticed
the Katy Trail Church sitting between the old man’s junkyard and the
trailhead. Conspicuously placed next to
the building was a port-o-john, a mere 50 feet or so from the more formal
trailhead restroom. Although redundant,
the johnnie seemed to fit
with its surroundings.
Bart was moving around well and
seemed to be enjoying himself. I told
him that he was a sissy boy and a weenie for not being on the trail helping
me. My taunts did not bother him. He was proving my axiom that one cannot make
a dog run if he doesn’t want to do so.
As I prepared to leave Clifton City,
I noted that I had taken 9:17:55 to cover 38.8 miles including slightly more
than two hours sitting on the tailgate or in the car. I was averaging 5.5 miles per hour (11
minutes per mile) when I was moving, but I was obviously making the most of my
opportunities to rest. Stage running is
not racing. Stage running is about
covering ground, taking in the local culture, and letting go of stress. In my odd pattern of progression, I was
meeting the objectives. I have been a
much better ultrarunner since the Trans-Kansas stage run. Stage running has taught me to be more
patient, do a better job of proactively taking care of issues such as blisters,
and be more diligent about fueling and hydrating. Although the time I spend in a race is not as
pronounced as has been the case in this stage run, I finally figured out that
if I spend more time at the aid stations to take care of all of my issues, then
I can move much more quickly between the aid stations resulting in a better
overall time.
The next section of the trail is
primarily downhill. The bike traffic was
picking up as I moved toward Sedalia.
Within the first mile, I realized that I was still feeling depleted so I
ingested a Stinger gel. The sweet honey
flavor made me gag but I managed to keep it down. I added more walking, running about a half
mile and then taking a short walking break.
I still managed to run 12-minute miles on the way to the next crew spot.
Shannon had parked next to the trail
at Beaman. The
pasture near the trail was a brilliant green.
A nice brick house stood near the trail.
The barns up the hill were immaculate.
All are clear signs that I was getting nearer to civilization. I spent about 10 minutes on the tailgate,
trying to coax a finishing effort out of me.
I had Shannon retrieve another Stinger gel, this time banana
flavor. Still not a pleasant experience,
I choked this gel with less effort. I
could feel the gel I had gulped earlier starting to kick in. Deciding I was ready to be done for the day,
I grabbed my bottle and told Shannon and Bart that I’d see them in Sedalia.
Feeling reinvigorated by the gels, I
managed to run 11-minute per mile pace or better the remaining four miles to
Sedalia. Shannon and Bart met me at the
edge of town on Griessen Road. According to the trail maps, exactly 40 miles
was left for the final stage.
Since the guidebook was written, the
trail has been extended a short distance into town from Griessen
Road. We followed the map through town
seeing how the roads are used to connect back to the trail at the depot in the
middle of town.
The hotel was abuzz with reunions of
various sorts sending people scurrying around like ants. I was mildly irritated to have to tote bags
from the back of the hotel to the front.
I hoped that the activity would die down by the time we were ready to
get some sleep.
After cleaning up, we made yet
another salad and pizza run, this time at Mazzio’s. Back at the hotel, the parties started to
break up and I started in on my nightly ritual.
I worked on a big Pepsi while draining and trying to figure out how to
cover my blisters well enough to get through one more day. I did some stretching attempting to regain
some flexibility in my hamstrings and calves.
Despite my throbbing toes, I felt reasonably well as I climbed into to
bed. I quickly drifted off to sleep.
Stage 5, May 25: Sedalia to Clinton
(43.38 miles; 10:18:29 Total Time)
Your body will argue that there is no
justifiable reason to continue. Your
only recourse is to call on your spirit, which fortunately functions
independently of logic.
--
Tim Nokes
I awoke groggy and tired. I struggled to eat breakfast. My toes hurt in sandals. I couldn’t wait to put on my shoes. As I readied my gear at the trailhead, I
reached into the back of the Element, hitting my head on the raised back
door. This set me off on a cussing jag,
not exactly the way I wanted to start the day.
I was hoping to get by with blister band-aids and without tape, but I
quickly began questioning the merits of this strategy as soon as I put on my
shoes. My toes, especially the second
toe on my left foot, burned and throbbed.
I struggled to walk, let alone run.
This had the makings of a long day.
I sought to change my attitude by forcing a little run, hoping my toes
would become numb.
The mile or so of trail that had
been added into town suddenly stopped at a road. Train tracks came out from under the trail
and curved off to the left. In the
distance, I could see rail cars sitting on the tracks. I stopped and looked behind me wondering if
the tracks had merely been covered up with gravel or if the rails had been
removed.
I ran with a shortened stride
through town, still struggling to get comfortable. I took a short break to check out the old
depot, which now houses a museum and the local chamber of commerce. I made a good decision to take a bathroom
break here as I would not see plumbing for another 12 miles.
I moved slowly and painfully the
rest of the way through town. Six miles
into the stage, I met Shannon at the equestrian trailhead near the State
Fairgrounds. She was walking Bart and
seemed surprised when I arrived.
Temporarily turned around, she had been expecting me to approach from
the opposite direction.
I was relieved to be at the crew
spot. I immediately kicked off my shoes
and grabbed the Elastikon tape, going to work on
covering my blisters. I downed a Pepsi
hoping that the caffeine might jar me awake.
I let a couple of bikes and another runner pass before I rejoined the
trail. Looking over my left shoulder to
see traffic was still impossible.
Letting traffic clear was the best alternative.
The sun was up and blazing. The temperature was already in the 80s with
high humidity. Hydration was going to be
more of an issue today. I took two
bottles and set out on the next seven miles.
Fortunately, the tree cover was good
along this section of trail.
Unfortunately, my blisters were still squawking. The trail rolled but was mostly
downhill. I could feel my feet sliding
in the shoes as I did my best to let gravity pull me down the slight
grade. About a mile before the crew
spot, I grew frustrated. I stopped to
loosen my left shoe as wide as I could, hoping the expanded toe box would give
me some relief. Surprisingly it did and
would allow me to move much better for the next 10 miles.
I met Shannon at Camp Branch, named
for the stream that I had just crossed.
With no formal parking here, Shannon was forced to park on the edge of
the trail in front of the gates that block motorized traffic from entering the
trail. I spent about 10 minutes to eat a
little and consume a can of FRS. I was
hoping the B vitamins and caffeine would pick me up. The liquid had the desired result, allowing
me to cover the three miles to Green Ridge in 33 minutes.
Clouds were building as I approached
the Green Ridge trailhead. Before taking
a break, I wandered into the restroom. I
no more than closed the door before I could hear the patter of rain on the
roof. Exiting the facilities, I jumped
into the back seat of the Honda to sit out another rain delay. As lightning flashed, I was again glad to be
inside the Element, safe and dry and where I could be refueling. Despite the rain, the steam inside the
Element required us to open the little side windows to let in some air.
As we waited out the rain, Shannon
told me that she stopped at the Casey’s General Store on the way into
town. She had the opportunity to see a
drum of donut glaze being unloaded from a delivery truck. Immediately, a drooling Homer Simpson came to
mind. “Alalalalalah, donut glaze drum. Alalalalah.”
After a 20 minute rain delay, I
stumbled out of the car and back onto the trail. The next three miles would be wide open. Signs indicated that the land around the
trail was part of a prairie restoration project. The midday sun was pounding down and the
headwind, now with no trees for a break, was blasting me. The trail was climbing steadily approaching the
high point of the Katy trail. I was
having Trans-Kansas flashbacks. A couple
on their bikes would pass me, but then would have to stop to take a break from
the wind. We leapfrogged each other a
couple of more times before reaching the marker for the high point, at which
time they decided to take a break and let me go on. Shortly before I reached the marker, I felt a
sharp pain in my left shin. I could tell
it was not a cramp, but it stopped me in my tracks. The muscle running down my
shin had locked and was so tight that I could not move my foot. I kneeled down on my right knee, my left leg
stretched out in front of me. I pressed
my thumb into the muscle with all my might and ran it up and down. The tightness relented enough to let me
stumble the next mile downhill to the crew spot.
Shannon had skipped the muddy Bryson
Road indicated by the trail map and, instead, chose to meet me at the point
where Highway B crosses the trail. As
before, I found Shannon parked on the edge of the trail. No shade was to be found anywhere. A few bikes passed while I spent 10 minutes
ice massaging my shin. I chewed on a
tasteless gas station sandwich while I pondered whether my leg was going to
allow me to finish the run. The thought
of dragging my leg for 21 miles depressed me, so I leaned back on the tailgate,
extending my break.
After a little stretching, my shin
felt well enough to continue. I walked
to the edge of the road and was waiting for traffic to clear so that I could
cross. Suddenly, a car screeched to a
stop next me, startlingly me and causing me to back up. The passenger rolled down the window and
abruptly said, “Problems?” as she looked in the direction of the Honda. My mind was racing. “Hell yes I got
problems. You should see these nasty
blisters. And don’t even get me started
on this damn muscle in my shin.” Recognizing
that this was too much information, I, instead, just informed them that I was
merely waiting to cross the road and thanked them for stopping. After they pulled out, I looked back at
Shannon who was looking at me quizzically.
Nodding toward the departing car, I yelled in her direction, “Get the
hell out of the way so I can cross the road.
Goddamn good Samaritans, haven’t you ever seen a crippled idiot runner
before?” Smiling and shaking my head, I
crossed the highway.
On the other side I started to
run. The muscle in my shin was tight,
but didn’t bother me nearly as much when running on level ground. I took my time the next two miles in the bright
sunshine, but was able to cover the last 2.2 miles into Windsor more
comfortable once trees reappeared bringing the welcomed relief of shade.
Windsor is a tidy little Amish
community. The trailhead provided plenty
of shade near the old caboose. When a retiree,
who had worked for the MKT railroad for 42 years offered to redo the caboose,
he sandblasted the green and yellow paint off the old car finding stars and
stripes underneath. This caboose, car
number 76, had been decorated appropriately for the Bicentennial. The old guy realized that he had pictures of
himself and his granddaughter taken in front of this very caboose during 1976,
some 15 years earlier. He encountered
few problems raising the money to restore the “Spirit of ’76” caboose, making it
a permanent fixture in the park next to the trail.
I was enjoying a comfortable spot in
the shade, when the foldable chair I was sitting in gave way and dropped me on
the ground. Apparently, that last gas
station sandwich had put me over the chair’s weight limit. Shannon had to grab my arm and drag me out of
the mangled metal and fabric. I stumbled
over and found a new home at a picnic table.
I continued to ice my shin and drink as much as I could. I petted Bart for a while as he lay at my
feet. I contemplated the last long
stretch, 7.5 miles, to the next trailhead.
“If I can make it to Calhoun, I should have it made,” I stated frankly
as I prepared to leave.
Shortly after leaving Windsor, the trail moves
back into shade and begins to drop. I
ran a good pace for about two miles before the downhill running cranked my shin
muscle tight as a rod again. I sat on a
bench and attempted to determine ways of stretching it with limited
success. I cursed my predicament as I
alternated between short runs and walks.
I waited for a couple of horseback
riders to pass before crossing a bridge.
As I stood waiting, I noted that the humidity was stifling. The temperature was in the upper 80s and the
dew point could not be far off. Trying
to breathe this air made me feel like I was at 11,000 feet instead of a mere 800
feet. I would run a half mile and then
walk briefly. I had to keep the walk
breaks very short because walking created far more pain in my shin than did
running. I stopped two more times to massage
the tight muscle. The second time, it
allowed me to find a decent running groove again. Looking behind me, I realized that I was
benefiting from the trail flattening out.
I was finally running well as I
approached Calhoun. I saw a marker
signaling my arrival in town, but I did not see a trailhead. I continued running, viewing the town off to
the left and passing by an old grain bin.
Still, I saw nothing resembling a trailhead. Soon I reached a bridge crossing a
stream. I stopped to stretch my calf. Looking back at where I had come, I concluded
that I had to have missed the trailhead.
I was out of water. I had no
choice but to double back to see if I missed the stop. Looking both directions and seeing nobody, I
yelled, “Son-of-a-bitch!” out of frustration.
This was not the point in the run when I wanted to be adding distance.
I trotted back toward town, dragging
my spirit behind me like a stone. Near
the grain bin, the trail had crossed a road.
The street sign said “Depot Road.”
I stopped and looked around. I
did not see Shannon or anything marking a trailhead. “Shit!” was the curse I chose for this
spot. I turned right on the road and ran
down to the highway and then left into town.
I figured my best chance for finding the trailhead I missed was to locate
the sign pointing to it from the highway.
If nothing else, maybe I’d find some water. I stumbled most of the way through town when
I came to a sign pointing left to the trailhead. I moved up a short hill and could see the
Honda in a parking lot next to the large trailhead map. Shannon was shocked to see me coming up from
behind. “The trailhead is off the trail,” She explained, “They have this big
parking lot for equestrian parking. A
sign at the bottom of hill points up here to the trailhead. Bart and I came up to the car for only a
minute. We must have just missed
you.” I sat down exasperated that I
could have missed the sign. I iced my
shin while trying to get over being pissed at myself. Shannon questioned whether she could give me a
ride down the trail. I declined. I made the mistake. The code of the trail required me to just
absorb the distance and time. I worked
at regrouping and preparing myself mentally to finish the final nine miles.
I walked down the hill back to
trail. Once there I stood and looked at
big sign that pointed me off the trail to the trailhead. “How in the hell did I miss that?!?” I
exclaimed. I looked at my GPS watch and
decided to measure the distance back to the bridge to see how much extra I had
added to this stage. The distance turned
out to be exactly one mile. “Great, I
added two miles. That’s what I get for
not paying attention,” I grumbled. I
stopped on the bridge. I looked forward
down the trail and took a deep breath.
“What is done can’t be changed,” I reminded myself, “Get over it and get
moving.”
Shortly after the bridge, the trees disappear as the trail passes
through another prairie restoration project.
The heat was brutal and the wind impeded my progress. Two young women on bikes passed me. They would ride a short distance and then
stop, worn down by the wind. Each time I
would nearly catch up. I tried to focus
on them, using the target to pull me down the trail.
Shannon was parked next to the trail
at Lewis. She said the gals on the bikes
informed her that I was coming. They
speculated that I was going to catch up to them. Lewis was shady, but Shannon was
exasperatedly pulling ticks off Bart and trying to keep him from lying down in
the grass again. I flicked a couple of
ticks off my ankles while I rubbed ice on my shin. I cursed my shin. “Come on dammit, give me five more miles and we’re done.”
I could tell that Shannon wanted to
get away from the ticks and I was ready to be done, so I downed a gel, took my water
bottle, and got moving. I continued to
run a half mile and then walk briefly. I
was still amazed at how much worse my shin felt when I walked. I pondered what caused my lower leg muscles
to be such a disaster. It dawned on me
that the problems started after I had loosened up my shoe. About halfway to Clinton, I stopped and
pulled the laces on my left shoe tight.
My blisters didn’t appreciate the attention, but instantly my shin felt
dramatically better. Newly energized I
ran the next 1.5 miles in 16 minutes. I
could see the bridge for Highway 7 and recognized it as the end of the
trail. I put my head down and pushed
hard into the wind, hammering out the last mile in 9:34. As I approached the trailhead, I yelled to
Shannon and Bart. Shannon was busy
checking Bart for ticks. I must have
startled him because he barked, causing Shannon to laugh at him.
The trail complete, I dumped water
over my head, toweled off, changed clothes in the bathroom, and climbed in the
Honda. Three hours later we arrived at
home, just ahead of a storm. I was so
achy when I got out of the car, I wanted to cry. I sat on the couch and rocked. My feet were placed on top of an ice pack with
another ice pack pressed down on top of the toes. I was awake until about 4 am. I made a note to stay in a hotel at the end
of the next stage adventure -- should there be one. The car ride did more damage than the trail.
The next day I got a massage. Although I was in extreme pain, I had to
laugh while Doug was working on me. It
was quite a sight to see him leaning forward, his heels wedged against the wall
for leverage, his right forearm on my left quad, and his left elbow pointed
into the muscle on my shin. For some
reason, the muscle gave in and lengthened back out. My neck was another story. That took some time in Monday’s massage, a
chiropractic adjustment on Tuesday, and another half hour massage session on
Wednesday. I forgot how neat it is to be
able to turn my head to the left.
On Tuesday, I pulled a tick off my
butt. I made a trip to the doctor to get
Doxycyclene as a precaution. The thrill of victory!
Summary (233.91 Miles; 54:17:08 Total Time)
The trail map suggests that the
trail covers 225 miles. I am confident
that I added a mile to the start at St. Charles. I added two more miles by failing to find the
trailhead at Calhoun. I cannot account
for the other six miles I added according to the GPS. I suspect that some of it comes from the few
extra steps here and there to the car for aid, but I doubt this accounts for much
of it.
Once again I am indebted to Shannon
for her world-class crewing. I never
doubted that she’d find the trailheads, even the obscure ones. Her patience in driving across Missouri a few
miles at time is unbelievable. I would
not have blamed her if she had said to hell with me, driven off and left me to
fend for myself. Instead, she was always
quick to fill my bottles and search for whatever else I needed. In addition to making it possible, she made
it enjoyable.
As I set out on this adventure, I
was incredibly frustrated with work. The
last six years have been a steady downhill slide. I still enjoy being in the classroom, but the
remainder of the experience is closing in on intolerable. I felt the stress fade away the first day. Having nothing but running to focus on is
cathartic. By the end of the run, I was
still happy to have the summer to avoid the office, but my outlook had improved. The modified lyrics of yet another Jimmy
Buffett song seems to capture the situation:
Never wanted to be
A part of history
I have my days in the sun
An ultrarunner, a man for all trailheads
Guidance counselor said
Your scores are anti-heroic
Computer recommends you take up long
running and ethics studying…
We had plenty of doctors
We had plenty of lawyers
We had people to make us things
We had people to sell us those things
We didn’t have enough room for those
things
We build lots of self-storage
Trail runnin’,
accounting ethics prof shortage
Trail runnin’,
accounting ethics prof shortage
If it all falls down, falls down, falls
down
I’ll have filled that role whether they
want me around
I’ll have spent my money and taken my
bows
I’ll have had my fun if it all falls
down
If it all falls down, falls down, falls
down
If they solve my life, if they find me
out
Never thought to keep all I have found
I have had my fun if it all falls down
If it all falls down, falls down, falls
down
I can teach real well, my research is
sound
I can juggle verbs, adverbs, and nouns
What I’ve built with tools makes me
proud
I can rebuild it all if it all falls
down
Like a long stage run, life works out. We can get what we want if we are patient and willing to make adjustments. Limitations are what we place on ourselves or allow others to place on us. They are meant to be shrugged off. I hope that life at K-State can someday return to an acceptable level, but I have no faith that the place will ever return to its previous glory. Still the relationship affords me certain opportunities. The reflection time, granted to me by five days on trail, reminded me again that if it all falls down, I can figure out something to do with myself. I am a man of many talents, not the least of which is the ability to run very far.