Bloody Face

My chin was dripping blood when I crossed the finished line of the ``Double Trouble" 30K trail race on Sunday, greeted by runners from my club and a new friend met on the race. The moment encapsulated the spirit of trail running: a shared experience with friends and strangers alike of nature-loving, exhilaration, sweat, scrapes and in my case: a bloody face.

(Comparing battle scars. Photo: Helen Horn.)

My longest trail race so far, at 18.6 miles, started fast in the beautiful French Creek State Park. My friend Bill, who just two weeks earlier had run a marathon, told me that the trail was narrow at the start and that I needed to get out of gate fast to avoid getting stranded. On my feet were my first pair of trail-running shoes, which let me navigate through rocks and tree roots in a much smoother way than I used to with my less sturdy, regular running shoes. On my left wrist was a Garmin watch bought the day before. I had hesitated for about two years before investing in a watch that, through satellite connection, tells you how long you've run and how fast, among other things. I had a girly moment at the store: I picked the gray version with a pink lining rather than the plain black.

The advertised trouble started when I found myself behind the only female ahead of me -- she was wearing a pink top that was easy to spot amid the male runners. I was almost sure I'd seen her at the 15K race start --Ron Horn, the race organizer known for his sense of humor, had split us in two starts a few yards away from each other to separate the men from the boys.
My brain was tricking me into thinking that maybe she was doing 30K after all. Regardless, it was no excuse for not trying to catch up if I could. After the biggest hill of the loop, I lost sight of the runners ahead, including the pink-top runner. That's when I started to take my tumbles.

After a few near-misses and ankle twists, I took my first spill, landing on my left arm. A few minutes after getting back on my feet, I was down again, on the same side, now covered with dirt and bloody scrapes.
``Are you OK?" asked the runner behind me. Yes, I was. My one-day, girly pink watch, however, wasn't: the glass was shattered, along with my spirits. It was the equivalent of crashing a new Ferrari on the garage door on the first day out.

(`Honey, I crashed the Ferrari in the garage door. How was I supposed to know it was closed?')

Pink Top reappeared in the distance. She was slowing down and I caught up fairly easily. ``Come on!'' I said when I passed her. I don't know why I would say such an arrogant thing: Had I hit my head during the two falls? Was I upset about my watch? The kind explanation is that I meant to say ``Come with me" to kick her competitive spirit. She could easily beat me in a sprint and she shouldn't have allowed me to pass her -- and eventually she did win the 15K in what I fancy was a faster time than if I hadn't been around poking her. The unkind explanation is that I am ridiculously, needlessly and pathologically competitive and wanted to prove myself that I could race with her. The very unkind explanation is that I was being arrogant.

The start of the second loop was much more peaceful. I was alone among the trees, relaxed. Except I seemed to have lost gravity: my upper body felt strong, while my feet were left behind. Was it the shoes? They felt great but no matter how much I concentrated, the left foot especially kept dragging and twisting. I was caught by a runner who'd been ahead of me during my second tumble and we ran together, chatting. I thought he was brave to stay behind me given my inclination to go down but he said he liked being paced by me.

The third fall was the worse by far. My chin hit the ground so hard it resonated through my head. I could feel a rib or two were bruised, hopefully not more, under my trapped arm. I got up and asked Aaron, my new running friend, whether I still had all my teeth. He said yes, but my chin was badly scraped. I felt good enough to carry on. We had about three or four miles left, according to my watch; it was hard to tell through the shattered glass. When we reached the final water stop, I was all dirt and blood. Aaron told the volunteers we'd been running together so at least I wasn't alone.

``We just met and already he punched me in the face!'' I said. We had just a mile or two left and Aaron took off for a strong finish while I tried to stay on my feet; my balance was getting worse. I didn't want to get caught at the very end the way I'd been at the Pocono Marathon two months earlier, when a runner passed me in the final 100 yards to take third place. This time I looked back a couple of times to make sure no one was behind, and won the female race in 2h42.

(You should see the bear's face.)

My friends from the club surrounded me after the finish, offering support, water and congratulations: Janet and Mike, who had participated in the 15K only three weeks after running an amazing 100K race, and Kelly and Katie. We waited for Bill, who finished the two loops after twisting his ankle around the first mile, a ``silent'' injury that was less showy but probably more painful than my shredded chin.

Upon giving me the award for first female, Ron Horn said: ``She was a mess when she arrived, but now she's cleaned up.'' It took a hose to recover my natural skin color.

Once home, I watched a rerun of the Tour de France's stage 9 on my French cable channel: Sunday July 10 was crash carnage, with four riders sent to the hospital. A rider was hit by a television car in a crash that sent a second rider into a barbed wire fence. They continued the race with what appeared to be a dislocated elbow for the first one and injuries that required 33 stitches for the other. Professional riders go through hell on grueling races such as the Tour: They crash at high speed and continue riding for hours with injuries that none of us could bear for two seconds on a bike. They know pain.

I'm only an amateur runner with scraped chin who will avoid mirrors for a few weeks.

 (Post-hose cleanup: Showing off my award and my new Franken-face. Photo: Helen Horn)

Why We Run

At 7:33 a.m. last Sunday, my father sent me a text message -- ``Maman 3h56 moi 3h46'' -- announcing my mother's and his time at the Nice marathon in the south of France that morning. My program for the day was to run to the local park to compete in a 10-mile trail race and run back, for a total of about 21 miles. With hindsight, my plan to run long that day wasn't a coincidence.

For his book ``De Rennende Hollander'' (``The Running Dutchman,'' published in Dutch last month and hopefully soon available in English), my friend D. asked fellow runners including me a simple question: Why do you run? My answer concluded this way: ``It’s like asking me why I breathe: I just do. It’s part of me. Maybe I run because my parents run, quite simply.''

It's difficult not to be inspired by parents who not only run competitively at age 62 and 63, but also do it in the most unassuming way. I got the chance to train with them for two weeks in September, while they were visiting me in the U.S. They stuck to their training plan -- for a 3h45 finish time -- even through downpours. They followed each run with 30 minutes to an hour session of stretching, abs and core exercise.

(``Let's go running in the rain!'' The Daurat stick to their training plan. Simone borrows a Phillies hat that matches her outfit.)

My parents, who started running in their mid-30s, are as driven as they ever have been: Perhaps more so now that they've both retired.
My mother got sick with a sore throat during her visit and took one day off running. The following day, while she was still feeling poorly, she accompanied my father and me to the park, where we would run his so-called tempo run of the day (6 miles including about 4 miles of progressive acceleration). She said she would walk. About 20 minutes later, I left my father and ran back to my mother to tell her where he planned to go. I saw her before she saw me. She was jogging: I knew she would.
My father kept track of all his runs thanks to his Garmin watch, which gives him distance and speed, among other data. Every day, I would pick roads that would fit their training plan and accompany them. On a day that called for an easy run of 10 kilometers (6.2 miles), I elected for a road I'd never tried myself. When we arrived at what I had chosen as the return point, my father looked at his watch and said: ``It's only 4.8 kilometers, let's continue a bit more: an easy run has to be 10 km. I'd rather make it longer than shorter.''

Sunday was my father's 19th marathon and my mother's 17th, and their time 1 minute faster than in the text message after checking their real time online. As rigorous and motivated as they are in their training, they're also realistic. My mother was disappointed by her time, 7 minutes slower than last year. She says she peaked two weeks too soon. Four days before the race, she also caught a bad cold that floored her. My father says he was happy, even though he secretly hoped to do better than last year (he was 2 minutes slower). Both tell me they don't push as hard as they used to. They're content to still be running. Hours after the race, my mother said she didn't know whether she'll do it again. Two days later, she said she might do three more to round up to 20.
``It's a nice number,'' she said. She says she'll stop when she doesn't want to run anymore, when the desire is gone. Clearly, it isn't.

(The Daurat, enjoying a post-club run slice of watermelon on a warm September night, pose with Delco RRC's Byron.)

On Sunday, after texting back to my father that I was proud of them both, I ran to my own race. I had no particular expectation, except having a good time on the trails, enjoy the beautiful weather and log in a 20-plus mile run.
I arrived just in time before the registration ended, signing up at the same time as two tall, blonde women who looked very strong: I was relieved when I heard they would run the 5-mile race, not 10 miles like me.
The 200-runner race started nicely, on an easy path patted with fallen leaves, but soon turned technical, to my disadvantage. Even though I felt like I was at my maximum speed on the steep downhill -- the skin of my cheeks flopping at each step -- I got passed by runners: only males, to my relief. After taking advantage of a small hill to pass a couple of women, I moved behind one of the two blonde women I'd spotted at the start. She was going at about my pace. I stayed behind: in the back of my mind there was a little voice that called me a slacker for not trying to pass -- just because I knew she wouldn't compete in the two-loop race. The second part of the 5-mile loop was very steep and around mile 3, I managed to pass her.

At mile 4 or so, one of the female volunteers said: ``That's what I wanted to see! First female!'' I finished the first loop in first place and set up for the second loop, not knowing who was behind me, or how close. I couldn't see anyone ahead of me either: Was I alone? On the steep downhill, I came across runners who were making their way up toward the end of their first loop. I got distracted, tumbled, fell (on my face, literally, as I had to remove dirt from my right eye), got back up on my feet with surprisingly limited damage and continued right ahead.
After a short moment, I heard: ``Wrong turn! Wrong turn!'' I had to go back up. Two men who were behind me were now ahead. I had no idea where the next woman was. The second portion of the loop felt much harder than the first time. My thighs were burning. I reminded myself that it was also hard for the others. Twice, I had to stop for a second to recover. The man just ahead of me was now walking uphill: I passed him. ``Hey, but you were ahead of me before!,'' he said. In fact, it turned out that at a few other runners had also missed the turn and, unlike me, only realized it once at the bottom of the slope. I'd lost just a few seconds.

I crossed the finish line as first female, ninth overall and got a nice trophy. I ran back home with the trophy in my hand, smiling to myself at the thought of how ridiculous I must have looked. It's the second time in four months that I won a local trail race. Winning is fun. But that's not why I run.

 (Bringing home my trophy. Merci papa, merci maman.)