Arrowhead 135 Ultramarathon...2014 race report

The view out the tiny commuter plane window set the tone: Dark. Snowy. Windy. Isolated. All these could accurately describe the landing in International Falls, Minnesota, commonly called “Frostbite Falls” for its record low temperatures. And they also could apply to the challenge at hand, the Arrowhead 135 Ultramarathon, a human-powered (run, bike, or ski…I would be on foot) race on the Arrowhead State Trail from International Falls to Tower, MN.

During the boarding of the flight from Minneapolis, a nice woman had seen my big mittens and correctly surmised I was an Arrowhead participant. She kindly offered a ride to the motel, saving me a 2-mile walk in VERY cold weather.

Sunday’s gear check and pre-race meeting/dinner went smoothly, but with the weather forecast pegging start temps around -20 F, there wasn’t much hearty laughter in the room…at least among rookie entrants, I think. My own demeanor was one of caution and awareness. I didn’t want to miss any information shared by the race director or course marshals that could prove fatal in the following few days. But dining with “Epic” Bill Bradley provided some light moments and helped me calm my nerves.

Back at my hotel, I readied my sled and its contents, trying to balance weight with necessity. If something wasn’t part of required equipment, I tried to leave it behind, making concessions only for extra food, a few extra articles of clothing, and backups for critical pieces of equipment, such as a spare headlamp. I estimated my final sled weight to be just north of 30 pounds.

Race morning dawned as promised: -23 F at the start. In the hockey rink lobby at the race check-in, I noticed an old Galaga arcade game and challenged a few guys to a quick game to lighten the mood, but nobody took me up on the offer. My bravado was just a façade for the anxiety I was experiencing.

Just before 7am, we headed outside and started promptly behind the 100+ cyclists and the TWO xc skiers. Once on the trail, I settled into a steady early pace as I watched the sun rise to my left. Purples and pinks faded into yellow, oranges and red before flooding the trail in daylight. So beautiful.

One thing I had forgotten about the bitter cold was how sound amplifies and travels. Especially in the early going, when I shared the trail with bikes, the squeaking of the feet and tires on snow seemed so loud, almost drowning out all other sounds. When I would stop momentarily, the air around me was devoid of all other sound, as if even the wind blowing through the spruce and fir trees made its passage with great stealth.

The first of many sets of wolf tracks appeared on the trail after a few hours. Initially I mistook them for dog tracks, but then realized no domesticated canine would in his or her right mind be outside in weather like this. When it’s too cold for a husky, it’s just too cold, period.

My drinking and eating settled into a regular pace. I loaded food into the outer pockets of my jacket and sipped steadily from my Camelback, remembering to blow the water back into the tube after I was done drinking to avoid a frozen drink tube. That strategy worked for quite a while, but would eventually fail completely and put my entire race in jeopardy.

Solitude started to factor into the race after the first 10 miles, and I realized pre-race advice given to me would prove valuable: At Arrrowhead, long stretches of being alone are punctuated with brief encounters with other racers and the occasional snowmobile. At times, I was solo for many multi-hour stretches—up to 5 hours at one point. But is one truly alone when the sun, the trees, the wildlife, and the wind are constant companions? If being alone means “in the absence of other humans,” then, yes. But I wasn’t “lonely.”

Around noon, I had my first racing companion: Aaron, a train engineer from St. Paul. A rookie like me, Aaron found himself struggling early in the race and pushing his bike. I coaxed him along and he rode slowly while I trotted alongside. The death of an infant son just a year earlier brought him to the race, and although he wouldn’t reach the finish line, he made a valiant effort in one of the first big steps, as he put it, to “start over.” Indeed.

A wee bit chilly.

More miles passed as we crossed desolate, wind-swept roads. Snow and trees, snow and trees, snow and trees. I watched as shadows changed length and direction, trying to reconcile my inner compass despite constantly changing directions on the trail. An eastbound course was firmly set in my mind; destination: Checkpoint #1 at a small convenience store/gas station named Gateway, where warm food and a seat awaited.

After checking in with timekeepers, I plopped into a chair graciously vacated by a cyclist who was on his way back onto the trail. John Storkamp, Ray Sanchez, Alicia Hudleson, and a few other early leaders in the foot category all were taking care of business: Drying clothes in the dryer, filling bottles, warming their feet, and chowing down every manner of convenience store food (including a tasty mac n’ cheese!). After a bit of rest and unceremoniously spilling some water from a bottle all over the carpeting, I took a hasty exit, knowing that each minute I’d spend at Gateway would make it more difficult to depart.

One of the curious sights at Gateway was watching runners (and a few cyclists) remove their layers of clothing. The intense cold had an odd effect: Each athlete would peel off their outermost shell, revealing an icy, heavy frosted layer underneath…breathable shells be damned. Each subsequent layer of clothing revealed a mini-permafrost. And watching the removal of rock-hard frozen balaclavas, neck warmers, and hats was surreal.

Darkness. A darker dark than simple night. Now back on the trail, I welcomed the first evening of the race. No longer did I have the luxury of trailside trees and winter vegetation to contemplate and break up my views. Only the tunnel of light from my headlamp, which flooded the snow ahead in bright white.

And the stars. Billions and billions (in my best Carl Sagan impersonation) filled the inky black sky, which I stopped to enjoy every now and then. I had watched the tilt of Orion over the previous few weeks, noting here in northern Minnesota its position and lean was just how it had been back in Oregon…a short, but satisfying reminder of the home fires burning. Betelgeuse was there, and although the Unicorn had faded a week earlier, other familiar constellations watched over my progress. Apologies for the astronomical geekiness.

Alone again…naturally. Storkamp cruised by again soon after I departed Gateway, and it would be hours before I’d see another soul. I had taken the advice he gave me at Gateway and harvested two worthy trekking poles from the forest—maybe the best decision I had made all day. “Stan” and “Ollie,” as I named them, helped push me along when I needed the push. Perhaps they were good for only a 1% improvement, but over the course of a few days might make quite a difference. Pulling the sled I had christened “The Minnow,” (think Gilligan’s Island), I had a highly-trusted inanimate support team of three for the entire race!

A gentle fatigue crept into my cold bones, but with water in the bottles and snacks at hand, I can’t say I was “tired.” I moved along at a good clip, running when I could, and walking when the hills tipped up or I needed a change of pace.

And then…the tent.

Was the darkness/weariness/cold aligning to play its first tricks on my brain? What the…? I saw what appeared to be a glowing dome. As I approached, I realized it wasn’t a mythical Norse god’s throne fire or the colored portal-unlocking rocks from the Land of the Lost. It was a tent, illuminated from within by a headlamp and a portable heater. Parked outside was Ray’s kick sled.

“Ray?” I called out. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, man. I’ve got frostbite on my toes and I can’t thaw them out. I think I’m done.”

I felt bad for Ray, one of the great warriors of the Arrowhead and a veteran of multiple 135-mile races worldwide. The Californian had moved at a terrific early pace, but would be counted as one of the MANY upon whom frostbite would take its toll. I shuddered and wished him well before carrying on, praying to the forces of luck and circumstance that I would be spared from the frightening malaise.

I plowed on, past numerous wolf tracks, following the trail of bike and shoe tracks. Route finding was simple: Head down, follow the tracks. I played mind games to stay alert, counting the different types of shoes and trying to discern their models based on the tread patterns. Combined with mathematics (trying to calculate square roots), singing songs (at one point, I completed a Glenn Campbell five-song medley), and trying to predict my pace and subsequent arrival times at checkpoint #2, I occupied the time as best I could.

One of Minnesota’s favorite sons who hailed from just down the road in Hibbing had once written, “They say the darkest hour is right before the dawn.” That’s where I found myself somewhere around mile 60, deep into the early morning and struggling with the endless hills and solitude. The temperature seemed to have taken a dip (which I didn’t think possible), and I felt the cold in my marrow. Insulated water bottles that had been fluid just hours before were frozen solid, and I looked for a sturdy tree or metal signpost to smack them against in vain attempts to lodge the ice free. Chemical hand warmers were no match for the cold, useless and serving only as extra weight in my sled. Mercifully, my feet and hands held strong, buffered by wise pre-race choices of great mittens, shoes, and socks.

My strategy for protecting my face had failed miserably just hours after the start. An older pair of goggles iced over immediately, rendering them worthless. My exposed eyes froze whenever I blinked (all the time) or had moisture in my eyes (all the time). Thawing them out so I could see became as constant a task as the use of windshield wipers in an Oregon rain shower.

Checkpoint #2 at MelGeorges Resort began to occupy all thoughts. Where the hell is it?!? I thought over and over for a few hours. I knew the trail turned southward at some point, then crossed Elephant Lake to the west. My internal compass had stopped working, and I moved forward only on fumes. The cold, a lack of energy, an intense sleepiness, and a thirst that couldn’t be slaked all conspired against me. With (hopefully…hopefully) just a few miles to go before MelGeorges at mile 72, it wasn’t looking good.

Just when I thought I couldn’t sink any lower, the wind started to swirl and grow with brutal intensity, bringing stinging, blowing snow with it. The dermabrasive sand of the Sahara had nothing on this exfoliation. Although I knew I had reached Elephant Lake (good), I had lost the shelter of the trailside trees (bad). I leaned into the headwind, looking through the slits known formerly as my eyes, as I tried to spy the next, and the next, and the next reflective stick that marked the way. Tracks had been blown over, so each tiny stick was my only lighthouse.

As the line of sticks ended, I saw it: The resort. After a bit of confusion about which building served as the time station and GLORIOUS HOUSE OF GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICHES AND BLANKETS, I stumbled upon a jumbled heap of fat bikes and a few runner’s abandoned sleds. Halle-fucking-lujah.

I untied the bag from my sled and climbed the short staircase to the cabin, nearly collapsing just inside the door, where I was met with the most miserable stares of despair and curiosity. I absolutely LOVE these people…my people, the dirt bags and toughest of the tough…but the looks on their faces were the most hilarious combination of fatigue, nausea, misery, forlorness, and despondency. An occasional smile would crack, but nobody really seemed to feel much humor; weak, yet sincere attempts at gratitude were offered to the wonderful women who cheerfully made grilled cheese sandwiches (seasoned with unicorn pate?), served heavenly Coke, and wrapped WARM TOWELS around our necks. Warm towels? It could have been confused for a European spa!

After stripping off the wet and frosty layers and shoving any and all food down my gullet, I stumbled up another flight to the upper deck of the cabin where a spot on the floor was calling my name. I was asleep in moments, but awoke with a start 45 minutes later, then stumbled around like a drunk sailor until some guy caught me before I took a hard fall. Thanks, brother!

Now nearly two hours into my stay at the checkpoint, the sun had just risen and I was a new man, hydrated, rested, warmed, and fed. I layered up for the return to the trail and casually asked the ladies how many athletes had dropped out to this point. “Oh, I’m not sure,” said one gal. “I haven’t really been keeping track. But I CAN tell you how many runners have checked in and out of here.”

I paused, not certain I wanted to know how far back of the field I was. “O.k.,” I replied.

“Let’s see…one, two….FOUR.”

Four? Four?? I was dumbfounded. How could it possibly be that only four runners had gone out before me? “Well, let’s make it FIVE,” I said. “Number sixty…checking out.”

To the (very) small chorus of cheers I left the building, not wanting to congratulate myself this early in the race. By the math, I had gone over halfway, but in this race, halfway was NOTHING. I had at least another full day and night ahead of me, filled with brutal weather, more fatigue, more hills, almost certain dehydration, a 30-pound sled to haul, and definite doubts. As the door closed behind me, I questioned my motivation and sanity as I felt the sting of the overcast morning cold smack me hard in the face.

PART II

In brutally cold conditions, a few degrees of temperature fluctuation can mean all the difference in the world. A few hours after leaving MelGeorges, those few degrees started to feel like the warmest tropical breeze, even though the temp couldn’t have been more than 10 or 15 degrees below zero.

But the sunshine of a new day energized me, and I ran steadily, alone again on the trail, nobody in sight. A few early steep hills gave way to miles and miles of flat terrain, which then (of course) tipped up and down relentlessly. Checkpoint #3 (“Ski Pulk”) was my target, but mile 110 was nearly 40 miles and half a day in the distance.

Eventually, my solitude was broken by the arrival of four-time race veteran Alicia Hudelson, who pulled her tiny sled with a steady pace. Nearly crippled to this point by a really bad stomach, she slowed so we could engage in conversation and break up the terrible monotony. I learned her husband was also running, now an unknown distance behind us. Originally from Duluth but residing in suburban Atlanta, Alicia had returned to her homeland with the women’s course record in her gun sights.

Sure, I could have found conversation with a French mime stimulating at this point, but Alicia’s insights into race strategy really helped get my mind off the bitter cold and the other tasks of moving forward that continued like clockwork: Eating, drinking, and monitoring all body systems.

Eventually, her pace (and downhill sledding ability) outstripped mine and she pulled ahead. But then I saw her bivvied at the shelter near mile 100, so I passed in turn. The second night now started to descend, and I passed the 34-hour mark where I knew hallucinations were likely to come a-knockin’.

And they came with gusto. I’d need an entire notebook to catalogue them all, but there were highlights. Massive oil paintings hung in the trees. Snow people lined the trail—families, groups of office workers, store clerks, and other random folks—their heads made of snow, their bodies of trees and branches. The surface of the trail miraculously transformed into a 3-D surface, rising up a foot or so above the ground and producing small landscapes that included live animals which would change from second to second. A small deer became a lizard became a dog. Miniature versions of the Eiffel Tower seemed popular.

Then, the ferocious animals appeared in my visions. First, a killer skunk hell-bent on leaping upon me and biting my neck. A weasel was particularly fierce, crouched and ready to pounce. The weasel actually stopped me in my tracks and I moved to the far side of the trail, yelling at it. “Go away! Go home!” I screamed as if it were a rabid stray alley dog.

Tricks of the light wreaked havoc with my sanity. My headtorch beam bounced wildly with any movement, passing shadows across my limited field of vision and eliciting gasps of surprise when I thought someone (or something) was crossing the trail directly in front of me.

Obviously, I had gone mad. I tried to convince myself these were just temporary states of mind, brought on by the extreme conditions and accumulated fatigue. But I began arguing with myself, sometimes aloud, cursing the fact that I had signed up for another nutball ultra, when I should have learned years ago that staying home would have been much more comfortable and warm.

Yeah…right.

Despite the temporary insanity, I found that I could still could move forward pretty well. I ran when I could, walked when I had to, and found myself mired in another bout of mental math, desperately trying to judge distance based on my running and walking paces.

I could now add another challenge to the list (in ultramarathons, there’s always something to deal with): Severe and painful chafing (thighs; butt) had become part of the equation, so I did what I could do—that is, just suck it up and move forward.

A passing snowmobile gave me news I didn’t want to hear: I was still 8 miles from the checkpoint. I pressed onward, thousands of steps away.

First, a light, then…a cow bell. Ski Pulk, a.k.a. the Teepee of Despair, had been reached. I unhitched my sled poles and ducked into the warmth of the ice fishing tent. “I just need to lie down for 5 or 10 minutes,” I said as politely as I could to the aid station guy.

“Sure,” he said. “Do you have a sleeping pad?”

“Don’t need one,” I replied, and commenced to dropping down on the most foul looking piece of cardboard I’d seen in some time. But oh…was it heaven on earth. After 5 or 6 minutes of shuteye, I wrenched my aching bones to a sitting position and accepted a cup of warm cocoa, my hands shaking as I tried to sip the liquid without burning my mouth. Into the tent came runner Matt Long to join me, followed shortly by Alicia, whose bivy had obviously paid dividends. With hot water poured into the bottles to melt the ice and give me something to drink until the finish, Alicia and I headed out together to face the final leg of the journey.

Soon after departing, we climbed “Wake Em Up Hill” a steep climb with a long, steep descent, and plowed forward. Alicia still wanted that record, and didn’t know how far behind the next female was running. Moving scared and still nursing the bad stomach, she was motivated.

I felt the cold becoming part of me as the wind swirled between the trees. Endless, long stretches of spruce led us through a low-lying bog where the chill permeated every inch of me.

I noticed my headlamp starting to fail, and switched it to the red light (map reading) mode. Now it was stuck in this low light mode, giving me very little guidance on the trail. Alicia had moved ahead of me again, and the tracks on the trail became faint. My eyes had frozen to slits and I could soon see no headlamps ahead or behind. With only a few footprints and one set of tire tracks to follow, I moved forward on faith and hope alone, as my confidence had faltered and I approached the moment where nothing at all was certain. Even my existence at this point had me curiously wondering. “I think I’m here, but I’m not sure. I can see, but barely. I hear nothing except my footsteps. I smell nothing, and can feel nothing through the numbness of the cold. Am I really here? And where, pray tell, is HERE exactly?”

On some level, I knew I needed to find my spare headtorch but was repulsed at the mere idea of stopping and the resulting effects the cold was sure to have on me. But I needed that boost of light, if only to help one of my senses recover and give me some glimpse of hope in a finish. I stopped and dug into the bag on my sled, frantically pawing through layers of food, clothing, and kit in search of a small lamp that lie in her depths.

It was here I had what I call my “Jack London moment.” To wit, a few passages from the classic short story “To Build a Fire”…

The man looked down at his hands in order to locate them, and found them hanging on the ends of his arms. It struck him as curious that one should have to use his eyes in order to find out where his hands were. He began threshing his arms back and forth, beating the mittened hands against his sides. He did this for five minutes, violently, and his heart pumped enough blood up to the surface to put a stop to his shivering. But no sensation was aroused in his hands. He had an impression that they hung like weights on the ends of his arms, but when he tried to run the impression down, he could not find it.

A certain fear of death, dull and oppressive, came to him. This fear quickly became poignant as he realized that it was no longer a mere matter of freezing his fingers and toes, or of losing his hands and feet, but that it was a matter of life and death with the chances against him. This threw him into a panic, and he turned and ran up the creek bed along the old, dim trail. The dog joined in behind and kept up with him. He ran blindly, without intention, in fear such as he had never known in his life.

As proof my fate wasn’t the same as the old trapper, I lived to tell the tale. But had I not found that damn light in the bag…

A new light, a new outlook. The cold was the same, the wind worse as I crossed unsheltered fields. The trail became even more confusing with no ambient light to offer perspective. At times, it seemed to wind back on itself until my direction, yet again, was unknown.

Still, I ran, now pushed by the clock and the fantasy of breaking 48 hours. Although I had no visual clues, enough time had passed to tell me I had to be getting close to the Fortune Bay Casino finish line.

Ahead…what’s that? Ah, it’s just a hotel guest out walking his dogs. What?? Who the hell would walk their dogs at 5:30 in the morning in this weather? No, it was another racer (Mike) whose flashing LED lights were playing more tricks with my mind.

The visions hadn’t stopped, and only changed forms. Sprinting in an attempt to break 48 hours, I thought I saw the finish line banner appear…only to vanish into thin air. A neon light above the casino building? No, that’s the moon, buddy, and that street lamp…a distant planet. Cheering spectators lining the road into the casino grounds? No. Trees, branches, posts. “Are you a real person?” I asked aloud three or four times. No answer must mean that in fact, they were figments only of a very tired athlete’s imagination.

Reality started to creep in as I saw the sign: Welcome to Fortune Bay Casino. Around a few bends, up a slight rise, and there it was. The finish line banner. As I crossed underneath, I yelled, “Anybody here?” My question was met with silence, then a woman on a hotel balcony appeared and shouted, “Great job!” I yelled back my time (48 hours, 24 minutes) so at least I’d have one witness, before the finish line guy showed up in short order and led me inside to the warmth of a heated building.

The race, the cold, the mind-bending reality…they were all complete. The fatigue would continue for an undefined amount of time. But the memories of the trail, the snow, the effort, and the journey of what might very well be the toughest race I’ve ever faced, will continue on until that day I meet the old trapper in a hunting lodge far removed from here.

The race’s finisher shirt might summarize the experience most succinctly. ”Arrowhead 135 Ultra—STRENGTH / ENDURANCE / SOLITUDE / SURVIVAL,” and adds on another line, “Cowards Won’t Show and the Weak Shall Perish.”

The words, especially the latter, border on arrogant. I cannot speak for those who make the wise decision to stay home or simply test themselves in other venues. But I can speak as one who did show up and managed to survive. Despite a small amount of pride in finishing, I cannot and will not thump my chest, but rather, thank my lucky stars and the forces of the universe that I simply made it through to the end.

Postscript: I’ve been asked if Arrowhead was the toughest of the physical challenges I’ve experienced (Badwater, Marathon des Sables, Ironmans, other 100-milers, etc.). It’s still a difficult question to answer. But in the words of “Epic” Bill Bradley a true modern-day Shackelton, Arrowhead is like “Badwater without the support vans.” He’s right…the cold and solitude are great equalizers and layers on top of the difficulty of traversing 135 miles. In Death Valley, you’re never very far from ice cubes, a friendly smile, a shoulder to cry on, or a lift home. At Arrowhead, there’s plenty of ice to ease your swelling. But the friendly smiles and sympathetic shoulders are reserved only for checkpoints and the finish line. A lift home is a very cold ride on the back of a snowmobile. And your momma? She’s not here to help you, either. The hardest? Perhaps. One of the toughest out there? Definitely. Mad props to the warriors who have gone before me at this race and who joined me in battle this time around.

Separated at design?

With the whole Peyton Manning/Tim Tebow thing recently, coupled with a drive from Portland to Seattle where I saw a sign for a train station...got me thinking about these two logos:

Subtle, perhaps. I'm just sayin'.

The Church of Sport

Something I wrote a few moons back...enjoy. g.

THE CHURCH OF SPORT

Someone I highly trust offered me some sage advice years ago. “Never talk about politics, money, or religion with people who you haven’t seen naked.” Although I didn’t know it then, his words to the unwise have kept me out of trouble on more than one occasion.

Along the road of life, I’ve taken a more dim view on the taboos we’ve placed on the discussion of certain topics. As long as our thoughts are carefully constructed, our words well formed, and our general intent is not to slander or hurl insults, I think that frank discussions of what makes the world go ‘round are healthy.

The “separation of church and state” is a hotly debated topic, but isn’t it curious that almost no one brings up the topic of the “separation of church and sport” at the dinner party table. Allow me to stir the pot a bit, and share some thoughts about one of my favorite religions, the Church of Sport.

We’re a non-denominational organization, open to people of all creeds, genders, colors, VO2 max measurements, and shoe sizes. Welcome to the service.

One thing you’ll probably notice here is that our doors are always open, and we don’t have a set time or day of the week when the festivities begin. You can decide when to come, and when to go home, and you don’t need to be here for exactly one hour. You can stay for 20 minutes, a few hours, or a few days. Your choice.

To say that our dress code is liberal would be an understatement. No suit and ties or dresses here. Functional would be the rule. Need to come in running shoes? No problem. Is it o.k. to bring your bike? Sure. Need to come in shorts? Come on in.

We accept donations, and you can choose which currency to pay them with. A long distance run, a tough game of pick-up basketball, or scraped knees while rock climbing in pursuit of a new peak will all suffice for our offering plate.

If you’re looking for a “spiritually uplifting moment”, the Church of Sport is a great place to start your search. Ask any of our congregation who have seen the sun rise (or set) while hiking or running on a remote Northwest trail. Talk to the guy or gal who has just pushed through the final miles of a marathon and can now see the finish line and hear the roaring crowds. Ride along in a kayak as you glide over calm waters that are suddenly broken by a whale dancing to the surface.

A sense of community can also be had here at the Church of Sport. Most of our members will eagerly assist you with a new sporting pursuit, show you the ropes, and lend you some company while you’re at it. If it’s solitude you’re seeking, you can find that, too. Most of the sports we enjoy can just as easily be accomplished solo.

One area where the Church of Sport comes up a little lame is in the food department. I mean this from the standpoint of “smorgasbord = wonderful.” We don’t have any little old ladies with aprons in our basement whipping up pies and other assorted pastries. You’ll have to fend for yourself and make your own dietary choices, although we will help counsel you to steer toward lower fat, healthier alternatives to donuts and coffeecake.

The leaders of the Church of Sport don’t sit on any lofty thrones or in glass palaces. The leaders of this faith are the congregants themselves—those who enjoy their sports with a passion. We encourage the members of the church to take initiative, and to steal the words of a famous footwear manufacturer, to Just Do It.

Still floating aimlessly about out there on the sea of faithless upheaval? Confused by all of the beliefs available to you and still haven’t found one that lights your path? Can’t decide which karma to drive to chase down your dogma? Don’t worry.

The Church of Sport is waiting for you with open arms.

Four Days to Furnace Creek

Four days until the Pheasant wheels past the starting line of the Furnace Creek 508!

I'm as ready as I can be. Logistics have fallen into place, and all there's left to do is ride 508 miles and climb over 35,000 feet.

I had a wonderful show of support today from a local Portland business, Tri-D Fitness. Owners, brothers, and Holdingford, Minnesota natives Brad & Scott Berscheid are doing some amazing things in their space off Beaverton Hillsdale Hwy (near Jesuit H.S.). In addition to their personal training and group fitness classes, their bootcamp classes, held in a remarkably cavernous den of pain and suffering, are a certain pathway to the best fitness of your life. I really enjoyed talking with Brad today about his plans for expanding his business and learning of the brothers' vision for shaping the fitness futures of Portland's west side. Thanks, Tri-D, for sharing my vision of endurance sport achievement...I look forward to a long relationship with you!

A reminder...here's the link to the webcast for this weekend's race.

Many thanks for all of your support!

The PHEASANT

Furnace Creek, here I come!

Thanks to those of you who found your way here via the Portland Monthly, a must-read magazine for Rose City residents in-the-know. Ramona DeNies, Zach Dundas, and the crew at PM did a very nice job with the short feature on yours truly. My biggest concern in submitting to the interview was coming across as too crazy or arrogant, and I think they presented my quest for the Death Valley Cup in a very kind manner. As for the crazy part, even the finest wordsmith can't do much to justify my often questionable decisions when it comes to the world of endurance sports!

My training for the Furnace Creek 508 bicycle race has been progressing very well. Last Friday, I managed an epic 192-mile training ride that took me from Portland, through Tillamook, Grand Ronde, Sheridan, Amity, St. Paul, Newberg, and back to Portland. It was a great test of my riding fitness and I felt very strong. As strong as I could feel, that is, with an annotated version of bike training that accompanies a Spring and early Summer preparing for a 135-mile footrace through Death Valley.

Do I wish I had another month of training time available? Sure. I think there are precious few times in a person's life when facing a big event where more preparation isn't desired. But sometimes, we have to know when to trust the preparation we have done, and boldly move forward with confidence. It's in that moment of realization ("I've done all I can do") where mental training marches to the front lines and gives us the power to trust in our innate ability to perform, excel, and endure.

A 508-mile bicycle race, synthesized down to its essence, is a fairly simple affair. Begin riding at the starting line and stop when you've reached the finish. But that's a gross oversimplification of the event, the months of training notwithstanding. Each rider's support crew, a dedicated bunch of comrades who support the cyclist's every turn of the cranks, are invaluable to helping us reach our end goal. Over mountain climbs, through desert heat and nighttime cold, fighting brutal winds, suffering sore muscles, and enduring abject fatigue...the constant through it all is a 3-person team in your corner, delivering food, encouragement, and advice by the bucketful. Their contribution to my own race effort cannot and will not be overlooked.

In two weeks, along with Mary Betts, Dan Jensen, and Danny Westergaard, I'll be shooting for a successful completing of the Death Valley Cup. The Badwater Ultramarathon and the Furnace Creek 508 bike race done in the same calendar year. By accepting the challenge, I've already "won." Finishing in Twentynine Palms will simply be the acknowledgment of a goal envisioned, accepted, pursued, and completed.

Whatever your own goal, whether athletic, professional, or personal, my wish for you is as much enjoyment and excitement that I've experienced in the pursuit of the Death Valley Cup.

Halfway to the Death Valley Cup

Late last Tuesday evening, I became a two-time finisher of the 135-mile Badwater Ultramarathon.

But crossing the finish line, a silver finisher's belt buckle, and a listing on the results sheet don't tell half the story. To me, Badwater ("BW") is an adventurer's tale; a journey filled with peril, emotional highs and lows, and physical malaise. It is a quest to find something lost for years in our modern world--mostly, ourselves. It is an exorcism of inner demons who cook us from the inside while the Mojave desert cooks us from the outside. It is a love story, a drama, and a comedy, not so neatly rolled into one play of 135 separate acts and not nearly as ordered as any famous poetry or prose. It is, rather, an unordered lot of limericks, a hodgepodge of Haiku, and a stockpile of sonnets, all weaving the narrative into something that anyone can read, try to comprehend, yet not fully understand. Unless, of course, you were there.

And yet, to some, it is just a run. A damn long, hot, tough run...but just a run, nonetheless. To those, I nod and will quietly acknowledge their assertion. It is, on one hand, just a run. On the other hand...

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The story is difficult to tell--or at least, to tell well--but in the interest of time and readability, I'll stick to the basic details, despite my desire to write a string of ultrarunning-related sonnets or stupid limericks.

But I didn't say anything about avoiding Haiku:

Hands warm, feet warmer
Sun radiates from the road
Forward run and walk

BW began long before I toed the starting line. Months of training, both on the road and in the sauna. I started to feel like the king of my health club sauna, noticing miniscule temperature variations and even recognizing some of the hot box regulars from time to time. Training sessions consisted primarily of moderate-length mid-week runs and stacked long weekend runs, often reaching over 50 miles for a combined Saturday/Sunday. To combat the horrific springtime weather we experienced in the Pacific NW, I ran dressed in multiple layers, even on the rare pleasant days. Laundry time from February through June was a killer (thanks, Stace!).

When it was time to start the race, I had the best support crew in the business. I've always been an advocate of traveling light, so it was a crew of three for me: Tracy, Paul, and Jennifer, the two former of whom had helped me get through the 2007 version of the race. They would shadow me throughout the day and tend to my every need: Water, drinks, food, massage, psychiatry, and most importantly, cracking the whip when needed. Before I go any further, they were the chief reason why I finished this race. Left to my own devices, I shudder to think what might have been.

Support team of three
A trio beyond friendship
Getting my mind straight

Lining up for photos near the starting line, I moved to the side of the "Elevation -282 ft." sign and looked up to see my former colleague and Ironman Hall of Famer Bob Babbitt! It was the first of many pleasant surprises during the race. Bob and his wife Heidi's support were invaluable at many points in the first part of the race. At BW, the smallest things make the biggest difference, and his cheering certainly buoyed my spirits.

10am, Monday, July 11th. The first steps were filled with relief, as the waiting and preparation were finally done and I could focus on getting down the road. I turned and said to my friend Gerhard Lusskandl (Austria), "Finally!" He just smiled and laughed nervously as we passed the parking lot and deposited ourselves onto the first lonely stretch of road.
I use "lonely" lightly. At no time is a BW runner ever truly alone, save for in his or her head. The carefully orchestrated dance of support vehicles, officials, and fellow runners is a sight to behold...that is, if you're able to see through salt-caked eyes and the waves of heat coming off the road surface.

A light tailwind helped as I matched strides with Gerhard, who had informed me he, too was shooting for a sub-30 hour finish. In his third attempt at a BW finish, I was confident that he was the right train to board, so while I made sure to focus on my own effort, I tried to keep Gerhard and his crew in sight. Plus, he's such a nice guy, our occasional banter made things more interesting, he in his halting English, me in my bad German.

The hills are alive
With the sound of my heartbeat
And dreams of bier steins

As I ran through the first checkpoint at mile 17 (Furnace Creek), my pace, temperature, calorie intake, and feet were all doing well. Tracy had produced a chair for me to visit, but I saw no need and continued down the road, mentally checking off the first 'stage' of the event and prepping my mind for the heart of Death Valley in the next 25 miles. The temperature had slowly risen, and if you talk to 10 people you'll probably hear 10 different max temperature readings. Suffice to say that any time the mercury crests 115 F, it's a pretty warm day. I do know that when I would reach my arms out to the side, palms down facing the roadway, it hurt my hands; it was as if I was reaching inside an oven to retrieve a pan of brownies (sans brownies and glass of cold milk).

The next pleasant surprise of the day soon appeared on the horizon: Friends Bob Lynes and Anna Bates had driven from Oregon to climb Mt. Whitney, and had come out onto the BW course to lend their support. I was blown away! Just seeing another familiar face felt like the greatest gift in the world.

They call him The Beast
It's not just his running chops
Big laugh, bigger heart

The horizon also held a few more surprises in store for me, this time, not welcomed. The heat and a brutal headwind started to take it's toll, and I needed a brief stop in the van around mile 35. Five miles later, I was helping 'give back' to the desert by emptying the contents of my stomach, which removed any semblance of wind in my sails. Staggering, dead man walking, I stumbled in the lonely outpost of Stovepipe Wells (mile 42) for the second checkpoint of the race, unsure of anything other than I needed a serious break and a mega-dose of soul-searching. Withdrawing from the race was never an option, but what now? My 30-hour goal started to fade, running through my fingers like a handful of fine desert sand.

Loneliness of the long-distance runner? I contend that there never is, and never has been, any loneliness inherent in long-distance running. A person is only alone as they create in their mind. Like Andy Dufresne said in The Shawshank Redemption, "There are places in this world that aren't made out of stone...there's something inside...that they can't get to, that they can't touch. That's yours." If you can tap into those places that belong only to you, I think you're never alone. Still, those first few miles after leaving Stovepipe Wells felt pretty damn solitary. I couldn't summon the beautiful places and orchestral music, so I looked to my shoes, where I had printed in large letters, "LIVE NOW." By embracing each moment and focusing on the spaces between each breath, I moved slowly forward.

Live in the moment
Not then, not another day
Only now matters One more break in the van a bit further up the road, and I felt my stomach woes starting to fade, slowly, as the sun dropped over the mountains to my right. Another devil had now replaced my sour gut--the hot pavement had again wilted the soles of my feet, which had also happened in the 2007 race. This time, however, the pain was already searing, and I hadn't even reached the 50-mile mark. Once I got my stomach right, I became acutely aware of the fluid squishing to and fro on my feet with each step, and it burned like fire. This was going to be a long race.

Reminding myself to focus, I soldiered on, paced at various times by all three of the crew. Tracy would walk with me for a while, then Paul, then Jennifer. Sometimes it was their bad jokes that helped, and other times, just their presence. At the top of the 15-mile climb of Townes Pass, I took a food and rest break, and continued down into the Panamint Valley on the sharp descent. Just before the checkpoint at Panamint Resort, I was able to push aside the pain in my feet and actually make some good time. But lights started playing tricks on my eyes at this point. Coupled to the wacked out brain train of pain and the stain of my energy drain, the trippy-dippies started to kick in big-time. By the time I was back on the road after a short break at mile 72, I knew I was just hanging on.

Hallucinogens
Usually cost thrice as much
But here they are free

The second major climb of the race was now staring me in the face, but the rising morning sun helped my mood a lot. With feets afire, I tread on, trying as best I could to push through the pain. Around mile 80, I couldn't take it much longer and had Doctor Tracy Medicine Woman lance the blisters to alleviate some of the pressure. Much of the next 10 to 15 miles was a blur, punctuated by an attack of a large bumblebee and the discovery of $0.34 on the ground, which I gave to Paul to see if he could parlay it into riches a few days later in Vegas. With the $0.05 that I found in Lone Pine and gave to Jennifer, it was a real money-making affair.

At the Darwin turnoff checkpoint, fellow runner Luis was having foot surgery courtesy of foot doc John Vonhof. As I checked in, I'll never forget yelling my number and last name, followed by John not looking up from Luis' feet and asking, "How are the feet, Greg?" It was as if he knew...they were toast.

The 100-mile mark came without fanfare, but I did mark the occasion with a bit of caffeine to boost the mind and spirits. 35 miles were all that stood between me and the finish.

One hundred miles down
Just a marathon to go
Plus a measly ten

A death march ensued. Try as I might, it's tough to find an upside to miles 100 through 120. Perseverance? Toughing it out? Death before D.N.F.? Adjectives escape me as I try to explain my fatigue and the pain in my feet. I teetered on the brink of sorrow as the tree-lined town of Lone Pine seemed to purposefully elude my arrival. It almost danced on the horizon, never coming nearer, teasing me with her promise of fast food restaurants, convenient laundromats, and a cheese omelette.

As I finally passed the Lone Pine checkpoint and made the last turn toward Mt. Whitney, I knew the finish was inevitable. Basic math, however, wrapped me in the cold, wet blanket of disappointment as I knew I would be hours from my pre-race goal. I had reached the threshold that so many athletes have faced: The moment where sucking it up is not an option, but a requirement; the point where pride must be swallowed, pain suffered in deafening silence, and a smile forced, not for those on the outside or for the camera, but for oneself, if only to convince the body and soul that you are indeed doing the right and noble thing.

Creator help me
I surrender my body
Help my mind find peace

The road from Lone Pine tilts up sharply for the final 15 miles of the race. My mind, by now so exhausted, could barely process the images my eyes captured. As darkness descended, rocks, sage, and various roadside plants transformed to people on lounge chairs, children playing, and large, Carnival-ish paper mache heads. Cracks in the road were albino snakes, jumping to bite my ankles. A flashing light ahead beckoned me; and I tried in vain to convince Paul that we were DEFINITELY not on the correct course...that we needed to turn and take the special 'runner shortcut' that I'm sure they had for us. At one point, my crazy babbling got so bad that Jennifer delivered a forceful face slap to knock some sense into me...or so she says. I frankly don't recall a moment of it.

Live now. Through the haze that had enveloped my head, I focused on my breath, knowing that the mind-games were simple by-products of a long day and a half. When deep breaths came, a calmness overcame me. I knew that the miles were short and the finish was at hand.

The final miles gave me time to reflect...the sacrifices my wife and kids had made for months while I disappeared for hours at a time to pound the pavement...the evenings when the couch or bed called, but I could be found in a blistering hot sauna for an hour...the social commitments delayed or canceled due to a training schedule...the heart and soul Tracy, Jennifer, and Paul had poured into this race...

So many people
Give of their time and heart
So I can finish

As the finish tape appeared at the Whitney Portals parking area, I had no emotion left to release. My body, mind, and spirit had used up every ounce of energy in getting me across valleys and mountains, that I broke the tape, smiling, so ready to finally stop. The contrast between the start and finish was so distinct...38 hours earlier, I couldn't wait to start, and now, I couldn't wait to just get in the van and drive back to the hotel in Lone Pine.

The blur of the post-race festivities further spun my head on its axis. That warm, warm feeling of being part of the fraternity of BW finishers is a glow that won't escape me any time soon. But just as soon as I find myself reveling in the energy of finishing BW, I'm sobered by another thought: The prospect of facing the 508-mile Furnace Creek 508 bicycle race in October. If I successfully finish it, I'll be only one of eighteen or so folks to ever have done both races in the same calendar year. It was motivation enough to get me off the couch and onto the bike saddle less than one week removed from finishing BW (a painful one-hour ride, if you must know).

There's another thing I carried with me during the entire BW experience: My love and admiration for my younger sister Amy, who is battling demons of her own, albeit of a different sort. Now a breast cancer survivor of a number of months, her courageous head-to-head battle with the disease has been met with grace, dignity, and power...a power that Amy never has had in short supply. As proud as I am of finishing a silly footrace, I'm tenfold proud of Amy. As I traversed Death Valley, I threw Amy's cancer to the mesquite tradewinds of the Mojave, which carried away any whiff of the disease into the ether. Begone.

This race effort is dedicated to Amy, to the spirit of those who have traveled these roads before me, and to those who shall follow behind me.

If I shall be so lucky as to live another 20 or 40 years on this earth, perhaps I will be able to look back and remember when I played a very small role in the drama, comedy, and tragedy known as Badwater...and smile.

Smile today, all day
For tomorrow may not come
Until winter calls


Remember to love the ones you love.

Famous feet

Thanks to photog extraordinaire Ron Jones for including my now famous foot in a slideshow at Competitor.com. HERE is the link.

Badwater, redux: 2011

In July of 2007, I finished what was the most difficult endurance event I had ever entered, the Badwater Ultramarathon. For 135 miles through Death Valley, California in the searing heat--where temperatures crest 120 degrees F--I made my way from the dry lake bed of Badwater to the slopes of Mt. Whitney. I had a good day and finished in 13th place.

Now, four years later, I'm ready to do it again. In two weeks I'll be joining some of the world's best ultrarunners (or, craziest, at least!) as we start another version of the race.

Training has gone very well, minus one small tumble I took a few weeks ago where I banged my knee hard on the pavement. My long runs, heat training, core strength work, and mental preparation have all progressed just about as well I could have hoped.

But Badwater, I've found, isn't just about exceptional physical, and even mental preparation. It's about one's willingness to endure discomfort and pain. It's about one's ability to stay in the moment, even in the darkest hours (literally and figuratively). It's about being able to surrender to the forces of nature--the heat, the wind, the burning sun--and continue to move forward regardless of the challenge. It's about being able to surrender your entire being for a short passage of time--around 30 hours--to achieve the simple of breaking the finish line tape.

Simple, but not easy.

Layer on the fact that I'm adding a brutal challenge to my Badwater goal this year: Three months after Badwater is finished, I'll return to Death Valley for the Furnace Creek 508 bicycle race, a 508-mile test that is considered "The toughest 48 hours in endurance sports." If I am blessed (and lucky) enough to finish both races, I will have completed the Death Valley Cup, an honor reserved for those who do both races in the same calendar year. Seventeen or so folks have done this, and I'm trying to add my name to the list. (More on the new PHEASANT image--designed by my buddy Jason Walton--in a later post...the bird being my animal totem for the FC 508).

At my side during Badwater will be my 3-person support crew: Tracy, Paul, and Jennifer, a dedicated group of individuals who will feed me, ice me down, water me, and yell general nasties in my direction (or do whatever it takes to get my sorry ass down the road!).

Also supporting my race efforts are a number of companies who have offered their money, time, and products...and boy, am I ever grateful for their support!

Greenlayer Sports, a company I'm proud to be associated with, is comprised of a dedicated, smart, and hard-working people who have a simple mission: Offer high-end performance running apparel--comprised of recycled polyester materials--at affordable prices. If you're going to be at the Outdoor Retailer expo in Salt Lake in August, check out their booth at PV305. Or, if you have more questions about the company and its products, just ask me! I'll be wearing the Evolution series shirts at Badwater--the perfect shirt for the tough conditions.

When the heat is 'turned up to eleven' (obligatory Spinal Tap reference), there's not other cap I want on my head than one offered by my friends at Headsweats. I'll be wearing the Long Bill and Protech versions in the heat of the Mojave. Most comfortable hats ever! I forget it's even on my head...that is, until the sun is cranking down and I need life-giving shade!

Foot care isn't just a 'good thing' at Badwater...it's life and death! That's why I'm trusting my feet to Drymax socks. Their technology stands feet and feet above the rest. For Badwater, I'll wear the Maximum Protection Running sock.

Our shirts will be have a special logo this year: As the sole entrant from the great state of Oregon with an all-Oregonian crew, I thought it appropriate to show a little love for the place I love. Over my heart, I'll be wearing the Heart In Oregon logo, a nod to the Beaver (and Duck) state. If you're at the race, look for our crew handing out small Heart In Oregon stickers.

So...here I go. Two weeks from today, and counting. Thank you all very much for your support, thoughts, prayers, good vibes, chants, music, and love.

Vive Le Tour!

Out for dinner with friends on Saturday night, and my mobile rang. It was my buddy Steve, calling from Paris: “If you can get here by noon tomorrow, you’re going to have a great day,” was all he said.

It didn’t much prodding from my dinner companions to decide. I hit the road at 5am, southbound for France. As the sun rose over the Dutch and Belgian countryside, I got another reminder of Europe’s beauty.

Finding a parking garage was pretty easy, and I made my way toward Steve’s hotel near the Champs de Elysees. It was a very warm day to be wearing a suit, but since I had a few “official” duties with Steve’s firm (he manages the hospitality for the Cervelo cycling team’s supporters), it was the least I could do to (try to) look sharp. My job was to simply assist Steve and make sure that the guests were well-cared for (escorted here and there, etc.).

Exiting at the FDR metro stop, I saw that the boulevard was already humming with activity at 11am, over five hours before the riders would arrive. Lunch was a splendid affair at one of the nicest hotels in Paris, period: The Hotel de Crillon, overlooking the Place de la Concorde (the location of the Obelisk that the riders encircle during their 8 laps of the Champs. After a very leisurely lunch, we took the short walk to one of the guest pavilions near the finish line on the Champs. The location was incredible--located directly across from a massive jumbotron, the riders passed us seconds after crossing the finish line on each lap. The shade offered by the canopy above us was quite welcomed, as temps were characteristic of the hot weather that had plagued the Tour for the previous 3 weeks.

Every time the small breakaway group and the peloton crossed in front of us, I almost had to pinch myself to make sure that it wasn’t a dream. I’ve been fortunate enough to see many incredible sporting events, including some of the classic cycling events in the world. But there’s certainly something to be said about being on the Champs de Elysees for the finish of the Tour de France.

After the race, with the green points jersey firmly attached to Cervelo rider Thor Hushovd (yes!!), it was time for the awards ceremony. Remarkably, the podium was located just off to our right, and we had a clear shot of the proceedings. Andy Schleck (2nd place overall plus winner of the white best young rider’s jersey), looked ecstatic. Alberto Contador (race winner in the yellow jersey), was obviously thrilled with his second TdF victory, though I don’t care much for the finger “pistol” salute that has somehow become his trademark touchdown dance. Lance looked...I’m not sure. It was mixture of one part disappointment at not being able to win, one part contentment of making the podium after one of the greatest retirement/comebacks in modern sports history, and one part classic Lance “I told you so” to his French naysayers.

A shot I did like was one of Lance in a tent after coming down off the podium with him and his three older kids and his new baby on his lap. Very nice.

Interesting side note: Over the course of the day, I randomly saw three Americans whom I know!

Finally, the parade of teams wrapped up the amazing day. Smiles all around.

As a cherry on top of the dessert, as I walked out of the pavilion area to catch the metro back to my car, I walked past three men--one of whom was Bernard “The Badger” Hinault, one of the greatest cyclists in history. I turned toward him, smiled, gave him a bon jour and a merci, and shook his hand. Excellent.

Thanks to my buddy Steve for the invite! Thanks to Paris for...well, just being Paris. And thanks to the cyclists of the Tour de France for giving us one of the greatest displays of sport on earth. I’m so glad I was there to witness the finish in person.

A Month of Lasts

Well...we knew the day would come: The day that we would be faced with leaving our home in Amsterdam and making the journey back to America. Without going too much into details, we knew for some time that it would be this autumn, but the exact date was in question. Now, we know--after some final European travel, we’ll be landing on U.S. shores on the 1st of September.

Visiting somewhere and actually LIVING there are two completely different things. Even extended visits in a location can’t give you a complete picture of a place. Only when your mail, your garbage, your water bills, and your grocery stores are tied to a postal code can you actually get a sense of what your home is really like. And that’s exactly what we have done during our nearly two years in Amsterdam.

As an expat, you make a very big investment in attempting to gain some level of “bi-culturality” of your new location, and I feel that our investment has been large. Learning the language, navigating the cultural waters, adjusting to a different type of lifestyle all take serious time and effort.

But for us, like many expats, the return on investment has been staggering. Travel has taken us to unbelievable destinations. Digging deep into the local culture has taught us more about ourselves and our perceptions of the world than we ever thought possible. And the friends we’ve made are much more than just casual acquaintances--they’re true friends for life.

A goodbye to Holland wouldn’t be complete without a huge note of thanks to our Dutch neighbors and the many Dutch people who have helped to make our short stay in this country a good one. It’s funny...some people make fun of the Dutch, calling them rude, insensitive at times, and closed to possibilities. Our experience has been to the contrary. Warmth, sensitivity, and a fun-loving sensibility have been the defining qualities that we’ve experienced with the Dutch. The world could be a better place if we could all take a little bit of The Netherlands with us.

Before we depart, we’ll visit the fjords of Norway and the sun-drenched beaches of the Greek isles. It’s a great way to wrap up our European journey. For now, it’s a few week of “lasts” in Amsterdam.

Edinburgh: Much more than tartans and bagpipes

Sorry for the delay in posting about our last international journey, a trip that dad and the kids took in May to Edinburgh, Scotland.

What a wonderful city! Edinburgh and it's beautiful streets, buildings, places, and people will remain as one of the very special destinations we have visited during our time in Europe. Three days of exploring were our agenda, and the city had plenty to keep adults and kids alike engaged and interested. Well done, Scotland!

Click HERE for a link to our photos from Edinburgh.

Disney!

After a trip to Disneyland in California a few years ago, I (Greg) swore that I'd never visit the “friendliest place on earth” ever again. But what is a parent to do when two sets of young, sad, cute eyes look up at you and plead to visit the European version of Mickey's home? Relent, I guess.

So, with a school holiday in store for the kids, we set off southward for the Parisian suburbs that house the magic kingdom. After an early departure and a 5-hour drive, we arrived as fresh as 2-week old milk, ready for spinning teacups, spacey mountains, and sightings of Pluto.

Stacey stayed with us for the first day before jumping on the train to the center of Paris to join up with some friends. We took advantage of every moment within the park, hitting the rides, watching the parades, and enjoying the experience that only Disney can deliver. One of the highlights for dad was sitting between the two kids on the “Big Thunder Mountain” roller coaster, listening in my right ear as Maya squealed and laughed with delight, then looking over at Cole with a look of sheer terror on his face. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

I thought for some time about who he resembled with his face, and a few images popped into my head: Those of Chevy Chase and the teenager in the movie Fletch, when Fletch "borrows" the car to escape from the bad guys...Here are the pics:









Mickey delivered on his promise to show us a good time. I only wish he could have made the drive home (plagued with traffic jams and highway accidents near Brussels) as fun as the time within the Magic Kingdom.

Back home in Amsterdam, we cooled our jets for a full day before heading out on ANOTHER trip that would take us through the remainder of the kids' week holiday from school—but you'll have to read the next blog installment for the details.

The Classics of Spring

Last April, I treated myself to a trip to northern France for the venerable Paris-Roubaix bicycle race. It was an experienced that I'll never forget...the legions of screaming (mostly Belgian Flemish) cycling fans, huddled along the brutal cobblestone roads in the middle of the countryside, screaming their collective drunk asses off as the riders streamed by. It was almost as if I went to a Flemish street party and a bicycle race broke out.

This year, I made plans to replicate the journey, adding another race or two to my schedule. The Tour of Flanders was out (holiday in Portugal). Fleche Wallone (a mid-week race) would not be too feasible. That left Paris-Roubaix, Amstel Gold, and Liege-Bastogne-Liege. Any 2 out of 3 combo of these races would thrill me. I chose the first two...a return to P.R. and a view of the biggest pro cycling race in the Netherlands (A.G.).

Joining me for PR was a fellow British School parent, Kris, who happens to hail from Seattle. We had our own little corner of the Pacific Northwest set up alongside the cobbles of France, ready for action. Kris offered to drive (with his Washington State license plates), and the comments we had from other race fans were interesting. The plates opened up a number of conversations with interesting people who were amazed that we had driven “all the way from America” to watch the race. Funny.

The flags of Flanders flapped in the wind as the all-night/all-day party roared to life. Depending on your point of view, the weather held out, too. I say “depending” because many PR purists love the challenging weather conditions for which the race is so famous. The “Hell of the North” as it's sometimes called is notorious for rain-slickened cobbles and mud that blackens the riders' faces and clogs their brakes. But the light overnight showers ended early and would not be a factor. In dry years, the dust can be as bad (or worse) for the riders than the mud, but the light precip eliminated even that as a factor. Just the distance of the race, the brutality of the cobbled sections, and the riders' legs and lungs would determine who would arrive first on the velodrome in Roubaix.

A late crash very near our location on Le Carrefour de Arbe (just 20km from the finish) would have a huge outcome on the result. Two-time champion Tom Boonen took advantage of the crash by his opponents, throwing in a surge, and vaulting into the lead that he would hold to the finish. The Belgians were overcome with joy at Boonen's third win! American perennial favorite George Hincapie never got it together and would finish back in the pack.

As for us, we enjoyed the day with a few eats, a few drinks, and soaking up the unique atmosphere. The trip home and following four days weren't too pleasant for me—I had contracted a stomach flu—but the fond memories of another day on the “kinderhoofd” (Dutch for cobblestones) will linger forever.

One week later, I embarked on a 2-hour train ride for Maastricht, in the far southeast corner of the Netherlands. After perusing the maps of the Amstel Gold race, I determined that with a little fancy footwork and help from the regional train network, I might be able to see the race pass by FIVE times. I managed to catch the start in Maastricht, then jumped on the train for the first stop in Meersen, where the riders were faced with a steep, short climb about 38 km into the race. Already, a breakaway group of 5 or 6 had formed and held a 6 or 7 minute advantage on the peloton.

At the top of the climb, I met up with Kris and his family, who were catching more cycling action after a week holiday in Germany. They gave me a lift to the town of Valkenburg, a short drive away after one minor wrong turn (my navigational skills might have been compromised by the excitement of the day). We parted ways as they headed out of town to a major climb and I parked myself on the side of the legendary Cauberg hill in Valkenburg. Over the course of the afternoon, the race would pass my location three times.

The scene in Valkenburg was no less of a party than the nutty Flemish scene in northern France a week earlier. Cafes overflowed with patrons getting in their early-morning, mid-afternoon, late-afternoon, and early-evening cold adult beverages. There might have been some food served, too, but I didn't see much of that. I talked with a number of keen cycling fans from many lands: Netherlands, Belgium, Germany, France, Italy, England, and Luxembourg. To change the scenery a bit, I situated myself in 3 different spots on the Cauberg. On this day, I welcomed the sunshine and clear blue skies as I lounged about in the town, trying to soak up every last bit of cycling ambiance...and it felt SO good.

At the end of the day, Russian rider Sergei Ivanov would prove that previous high finishes in the race were no fluke as he sprinted away from the Dutch rider Karsten Kroon for the win with just 200 meters remaining before the line.

As the crowds screamed their support for the riders over the last kilometer, I knew that my Spring Classic experience was coming to a close for the year. But I couldn't help smiling knowing that I had been a witness to something very special on two consecutive Sundays.

(The beautiful painting above is by Gregory Allen Page...visit HERE to view this painting and his other works.)

Sunny Portugal

Our European adventure continued in early April with a trip to a long-anticipated destination: Sunny Portugal.

After an early-morning arrival in Lisbon, we grabbed a cab to our home for the next 3 days, a beautiful apartment in the city center. We've stayed in some hard-to-find locations before, but this one took the cake—even the cab driver, a 30-year veteran, had to consult his maps. But we were again pleasantly surprised with the digs, a beautiful 2-story flat with views of the old castle.

And the Castelo de Sao Jorge would be one of our first destinations in Lisbon, a city teeming with history, culture, and residents proud of their city's rich legacy. Everywhere we went in Lisbon, hand-painted tiles covered entire building fronts, their bold colors dancing in the sunlight. An old tram line carried us up the steep city streets...the creaking wood of the tram car a tourist sight unto itself. The castle provided great views of old rooftops, the Tagus River, and the various majestic structures of Lisbon. But the early morning travel and day of exploring Lisbon sent us back to the apartment in search of dinner.

Day #2 was another full day of Lisbon sightseeing, including the Elevador de Santa Justa (a cool old elevator), the Rossio square, the Torre de Belem (tower), the aquarium, and the Expo '98 waterfront area.

The following day, we ventured out of Lisbon to the scenic town of Sintra, where we were treated to a magical visit to the Palacio da Pena, which appeared to be a royal residence straight out of a Disney fairytale. Absolutely stunning!

A stay at a beautiful country inn about 1.5 hours south of Lisbon near the town of Cercal would be our next destination. In this area, we basically explored the beautiful beaches and coastline, sometimes accompanied by our new friends Francisco, Emma, Zachary, and Annabelle, a lovely family from Geneva, Switzerland. Fran's Portugese heritage and command of the language helped considerably, and our kids fell immediately in line with the other two as if they had been friends for years. Two days in this countryside were filled with relaxation, sunshine, and fun times.
We pointed the rental car north of Lisbon for the final leg of our journey. Obidos, a beautiful old fortress town was our destination. If you're planning on visiting Portugal, be sure not to miss this great town. A walk on the sentry paths of the battlements gave us an incredible view of both the town and the surrounding countryside. Off and on rain in our last two days couldn't dampen our spirits, nor take the shine off of our great journey to this marvelous country.

See all the photos of our trip to Portugal HERE.