Friday, December 21, 2007

13.5 on the Treadmill

20 December 2007. Bronx, New York.

On this cold and wet night before Christmas, six members of the Westchester Track Club gathered, as they do most winter nights, at their local Bally's Total Fitness club on West 231st Street in the Kingsbridge section of the Bronx.

This was their second workout of the day; earlier, they met at Central Park to run long. They were here to run fast, and to find an alternative to pounding it out in the snow for their daily double workout.

Genna Ketebo is preparing for his next marathon in January in Carlsbad, California. Abiyot Endale and Kassahun Kabiso areplanning on taking a road trip to Boston over the next weekend to run a 5K and half-marathon, respectively.

If you've ever been intimidated while running on a treadmill, you can imagine how the other locals might feel when these sub-5-minute milers are training next to them. In case you wondered, they're doing above a grade 13 on the treadmill (as in, 13 or more miles per hour!), and they do it for a l-o-n-g time. Remembering my spin class earlier in the day, it dawned on me how that would be a warm-up for these guys. Let's just say I was glad to have my photographic responsibilities to tend to when they asked me to jump on a treadmill too.

Before they could finish their workout, a heavyset guy in one of those latex "fat suits" that help you sweat more came over, stared at the guys for a few minutes, and then used his fist to hit the "stop" button on one of the Ethiopian's treadmills, in the middle of a 4:38 mile. He simultaneously shouted that it was his right because the African runner hadn't signed up for the equipment...even though there were at least ten other treadmills open. The guys, without so much as a word, simply moved on to weights and bikes at that point. Again, good thing I had something else to be doing or I would have pulled the plug on that guys run in no time. Jerk.

More photos can be found on my flickr page.

Sunday, December 2, 2007

Andy LaVerne at the Kitano




Andy LaVerne's Piano/Organ Trio played at the Kitano Hotel in New York City on Saturday, 1 December 2007. Joining Andy were Anthony Pinciatti on percussion and Gary Versace on organ. It was a great night in an intimate setting. If you've not been, you've got to go. It's owned by a Japanese firm, as reflected in its style and sensibility. Elegant, clean, lines with a mix of marble and mahogany in its lobby and bar. I haven't been to one of its guest rooms yet, but they've received high praise from what I've read. The jazz series run throughout the year, with shows Wednesday through Saturday nights. 66 Park Avenue, Murray Hill (just downtown of midtown and within walking distance of Grand Central Terminal). More photos on my flickr page.

Sunday, November 18, 2007

A Lesson in Humility

Bringing it Into Perspective With the Help of Olympic Runners

Like the student who graduates valedictorian yet finds herself as simply average once she arrives at Harvard, if you’ve ever run a marathon the size and prestige of the annual race in New York City, you know firsthand the contrast between the months of training and marking of personal achievements, and the humbling experience of race day among 38,000 runners just like, or even better, than you.

At your job as a nurse, a trader on Wall Street or math teacher in the public schools, among a circle of non-running friends and family, you stand out. People who know you are impressed by your discipline and commitment to fitness. On those dark, pre-dawn runs in rain and cold or after a long day of work facing the heat and humidity of summer in the city, you feel strong and proud, invincible even; you're a running warrior. You feel powerful and on top of the food chain.

But on race day, among the herd of other runners – men and women (even the occasional adolescent), of various shapes, sizes and walks of life, all of whom have run long miles and faced the same weather and suffering as you - suddenly you are not so singular or warrior-like.

You console yourself with the thought that you’ll finish hours before some of them, especially the ones who do more walking than running, but that consolation is, you realize, limited and embarrassing in its effort to soothe your ego when another large group of runners not only matches you but surges past before you’ve covered the 26.2 miles of the race. Face it: you are what the running community calls a middle of the pack runner. Not humiliating, but certainly not your proudest acknowledgment.

For those who run for a living, literally paying their bills off the quick pace of their steps, a race of the caliber of the New York City Marathon reinforces the experience of their countless hours of training. Unlike middle of the packers, the fleet-footed get a week’s stay in the official race hotel, the New York Hilton. The elite receive free meals, private tours of the Museum of Modern Art, free massage and personalized services.

Lest jealousy creeps in, feel assured that you too can share in this prize. You just have to be fast. Very fast.

If you can average sub-five-minute miles over the course of 26, you too can be shuttled on chartered bus to the race start and enjoy a ratio of 1 port-a-john to every five runners (as opposed to the rest of the pack, who suffer a ratio closer to 1:300 in the cold, anxious hours on Staten Island). If an elite woman, you get to start the race 35 minutes before everyone else, and if male, you line up at the front, separate from the general population, and actually race when the start gun fires.

Go ahead, log 125-plus mile weeks, all year long, make running the highest priority of your life, more important than obligations to family and friends, with the definition of “party” meaning going to bed at 10pm instead of 8. Then you can run on a course lined with hundreds of thousands of spectators cheering “Paula” or “Go Meb!” When you're a pro, your singularity extends to the name emblazoned on your race bib, replacing the five-digit numbers the anonymous thousands wear.

And when you break the tape in 2:09 or, if a woman, 2:23, you, too, can take a victory job back across the finish line cloaked in the flag of your country that has been draped across your shoulders by admiring fans.

Even if you place second and your name is Gete Wami, you can celebrate in the knowledge that in clinching the inaugural World Marathon Majors you have a cool half-million to take back home with you. Mayor Bloomberg will meet you at the winner’s podium where you’ll be handed keys to your latest prize of German engineering (Benz, BMW) or a Prius while wearing a crown of ivy and Tiffany trophy held high you smile for the one hundred reporters and photographers.

The shimmering space-blanket, distributed to keep runners warm after their race, is one of the few things you share in common with the other 38,000; only yours is perfunctory as you quickly re-suit in your sponsor’s (Nike, Adidas, Brooks, Asics) branded uniform, are handed a snack bag and quickly chauffeured back to the Hilton.

You have no time to catch a chill or stiffen up, for the next few hours include a shower, nap and massage. If not elite, you and the other 38,000 hug your space blanket close to your shivering body as you shuffle through yet more corrals to find your New York Road Runner-supplied plastic drawstring bags labeled with that same anonymous number that matches your bib. If you’re lucky, you’ll not have stiffened so much that you can still navigate the stairs at Columbus Circle down to your subway track, where hundreds of other pedestrians are also wearing a medal necklace and silver blanket, equally exultant.

Those who have traveled from various states or points on the globe (this is one of the most international fields in the entire sport, with runners representing more than 50 countries) will gratefully order room service when they finally get in from the cold. Locals might find a home-cooked meal waiting for them back in Brooklyn or Queens, prepared by their adoring I-could-never-have-done-what-you-did fan club.

Meanwhile, the elite, many of whom were not only invited but were also paid to show up on the start line, will attend a private award ceremony (more Tiffany plates in the iconic blue boxes) and then be chauffeured, yet again, to the VIP dinner on the waterfront in Chelsea.

At table with fellow Olympians, dining on caviar (try explaining the appeal and expense of caviar to an African) and filet mignon, a handful of marathoners with body fat percentages lower than the number of fingers on one hand, take a few sips of wine and a few bites of chocolate cake to celebrate another day on the job.

In the flickering light of candles around an elegantly laid table, a mere eight hours after racing through the streets of the five boroughs, the elite have one thought in common: “Tomorrow I’ll jog easy for a couple of hours, and maybe the next day too, but then it’s back to work. I’ve got another marathon to do.” And so continues the humble but gifted life of an elite long-distance runner.

Friday, November 9, 2007

Street Art in Long Island City

"Mine is the largest art project in the world - bigger than Christo and the Gates in Central Park," Richard tells me on a street corner in Long Island City.

Unlike the 7,500 orange flags hung in Central Park in 2005 that Richard is referring to, his canvas is the City's streets, his broom his brush, his palette the color of people's lives.

A transplant from Brooklyn, Richard derives his inspiratin from a friend, a woman he couldn't help who died at the hands of her abusive boyfriend.

Speaking of the tears he shed over her death, he laments, "I could have filled the East River three more inches." Out of that loss, he decided a few years ago to create and man a telephone hotline for women who might be ready to leave violent situations.

The Sky Blue Foundation, as he's taken to calling his project, has a staff of one without an office, promoting a hotline that doesn't always have a phone connected to the number. The last time it was disconnected, Richard was laid up in a hospital bed for injuries sustained during a fall while working as a window washer.

While the lawsuit is pending, Richard sweeps the streets of this industrial neighborhood sandwiched between the East River and Newtown Creek, which separates the area from Greenpoint, Brooklyn. In an effort to beautify the neighborhood and draw attention to his domestic violence project, he sweeps, cleans windows, even paints the parking meters bright, decorative colors. This last artistic act rewards him with fines from the Department of Transportation, which cites him for defacing public property.

The streets are his urban garden and the work, he says, "fuels my spiritual growth" while helping him maintain his sobriety. He's entered into a symbiotic relationship with the owners of the local bodegas, mom-and-pop bakeries and gas station who in exchange for his cleaning-up the streets and beautifying their neighborhood provide him with windows, walls and fences to hang his hand-lettered posters advertising his hotline. They also give him hot meals, a couch to sleep on and, most importantly, a phone to go with the domestic violence call-in number.

In the past two years, Richard has fielded a handful of phone calls, often from the same women, one of whom has successfully left her abusive partner. He hopes to continue the trend, and believes that if he had a larger pallette to work from (more publicity and larger bilboards), he'd help save even more women. He says it's the least he could do for his friend who didn't make it out alive.

Monday, November 5, 2007

Perfect Day for a Marathon

The 2007 ING New York City Marathon
[note: these and more photographs by Courtenay Morgan Redis can be found on my flickr page]


It is a morning that runners call perfect: crisp autumn air smelling of bengay under sun-filled skies. It must be the first Sunday of November in New York City, as there are more than 38,000 of them lined up on the entrance to the Verrazano Narrows Bridge in Staten Island.

First run as laps around Central Park in 1970, the now famous race spread out from Manhattan's center stage to wind its way through all five boroughs beginning in 1976. While the claim is ubiquitous in the race's promotion, it's a bit of a stretch to say the ING New York City Marathon travels through all five boroughs considering the visit to Staten Island is really all in the pre-race. Here the army of runners, volunteers and sprinkling of spectators stretch, wait to go to the bathroom, get chilled, get anxious, wait to get bagels and coffee, pace, go to big-tent church services, and then wait some more (even after the start gun fires) before finally stepping across the start line. Very little marathon running goes on in Staten Island, but the longest time in the marathon is spent there, it's true. Time spent waiting to just get on with it.

Some of the most famous photographs of this great race are taken from helicopters and other high vantage points as the mass of runners fill the Verrazano left to right, front to back. When was the last time you saw over a mile of runners, six-lanes wide, crossing a river at once? It's a grand spectacle, and one I've only seen from the runner's perspective...one day I'll make sure to shoot from the bird's eye view.

This year, I skipped the early morning bus ride to Staten Island, skipped the long warm-up along 4th Avenue in Brooklyn, toyed with the idea of catching the elite runners in Williamsburg (which reminds me of that great ad Asics created of the marathoner getting his cup of water from Orthodox Jews...see a blog I found that contains a photo of this "NYC is my running partner" ad) and joined the race in my beloved Queens. Exiting the 7 train at Hunter's Point at around 9am, I catch the majority of the wheelchair and handcycle racers (a division of the race that was introduced in 2000) come through at about the 14 mile mark.

While there hunting for a good vantage point, I record an interview with a local who, while pulling his own life together, has a mission of helping women in domestic violence situations. His method: he cleans the streets. Claiming that his is the largest work of art in the world, "bigger than Christo's," referring to self-financed artist millionaires Christo and Jean-Claude who in 2005 staged a public exhibition in Central Park called The Gates. By sweeping and hosing down, and decorating parking meters, Richard makes friends with local merchants who then allow him to advertise a domestic violence support telephone hotline (which he mans and a local grocer pays for). Look for a future post about Richard on this blog.

It is working to photograph the wheelchair and handcycle racers as they rolled by the subway entrance, since both the subject and the context work close to the ground, but I know I wanted something else for the elite runners. Something quintessential Queens. There isn't a ton of diverse-looking people on the sidewalks since there aren't a whole lot of people on the sidewalks in that part of Queens, period. I get a few shots of runners approaching the Citicorp building in Long Island City (the tallest building in this county), and a few with the Con Edison powerplant smoke stacks in the background. All in all, though, I am disappointed not to have a better idea of how to capture the marathon in my favorite borough.

Before long, an entourage of flashing lights and sirens on both two and four wheels blasts through and soon the unmistakable sound of a helicopter overhead alerts that the women's race leaders are fast approaching. My heart begins to race with excitement and suddenly I am second-guessing everything: did I pick the right spot? should I go shallow to blur the background or deep to capture some of this industrial neighborhood? shoot from the street or find a high platform? I can vaguely hear the band playing in the distance, so the women must be practically around the corner. No time for indecision. I kneel down, focus into a shady part of the street and choose an aperture of F4.

The women's professional field, which starts 35 minutes before the rest of the pack, includes two-time defending champion Jelena Prokopcuka of Latvia, and her nearest rival for the inaugural World Marathon Majors title (and a prize purse of a cool half-million), Gete Wami of Ethiopia.

It is thrilling to be within a foot of Olympians like world marathon record holder Paula Radcliffe, and close on her heels the great Gete Wami, who blaze past me on 44th Road where I am the sole spectator. Following close behind come a pack of three including two-time defending champion Jelena Prokopcuka of Latvia, World champion Catherine Ndereba of Kenya, and two-time Russian Olympian Lidiya Grigoryeva.

In my love of the sport and admiration of the women, I almost miss out on the photography side I am so busy cheering and clapping! Since I am making confessions here already, I'll admit that I greedily pocket the discarded arm warmer of Grigoryeva and glove of Ndereba. I may not wash these...ever.

Radcliffe, in her first race since giving birth to daughter Isla in January, finally shook off Wami in the final 500 meters when, after attempting a number of surges broke free after Wami made one attempt to surge and faltered. Radcliffe earned $130,000 for winning, plus another $40,000 for a time bonus. Wami won $65,000 for second place plus a $35,000 time bonus.

Wami's loss today is cushioned by her clinch of the premier of the World Marathon Majors, for which she earns an additional $500,000. [The World Marathon Majors is a championship racing series that is points-based, awarded every two years and includes marathons in Boston, London, Berlin, Chicago and New York (and the World Championships an the Olympics, depending on the year.]

After the professional women pass through, I know I have a short while to find a new vantage point before the elite men will come by. Walking just a few blocks further up course towards the Queensboro Bridge, which marks miles 15-16 more or less, I find a mailbox to stand on and a view of the smoke stacks in the background.

This Sunday is no different than the previous 36 years of the race except for one mark of distinction: the nation's top distance runners raced the day before in the U.S. Olympic Trials - Men's Marathon from Rockefeller Plaza through Times Square and five times around Central Park. The field does not lack for talent, however, both local and international.

Kenyan Martin Lel would later outkick Abderrahim Goumri of Morocco, 2:09:04 to 2:09:16. Lel and Goumri had dueled similarly in April at London, when Lel sprinted past Goumri (in his first-ever marathon) to win by three seconds.

But at the time they speed past me (at a pace of about 4:25/mile) they are still surrounded by a group of about 15 runners that includes Kenyan Rogers Rop, South African Hendrick Ramaala plus New York first-timer Kenyan James Kwamba. Olympic and World Marathon Champion Stefano Baldini of Italy, also in the pack, would later place fourth in the day's race. The defending champion, Marilson Gomes dos Santos (Brazil), hangs on to the back of this prestigious pack who go by so quickly I only know what I've seen when I later review the images stored in my camera.

I catch the first pack of men here, and then climb down (as difficult as climbing up given that my left foot is stuck in a boot cast while my fractured heal heals) and clumped across the street to a clear-view corner. I kneel down on the curb just in time to see the chase group of four Ethiopian runners who train with the Westchester Track Club, including Demesse Teferea, Genna Tufa, Kassahun Kabiso, Worku Beyi and Derese Deniboba.

Close to 11:20am and I've already seen the best of the best fly through Queens. At the rate they're running, I may not catch them again if I try to make it to the Bronx, which was my rough plan going into the day.

Hopping on an E train into Manhattan, and waiting an interminably long time for a 6 train uptown, I decide to cut my losses. By the time I head out of the subway at 86th Street, I know I've missed the leaders running on the east side and, instead, head west to Central Park so I can have time to limp over and maybe even find a clear shot at around mile 24. To the Aussie I meet on the subway, hats off. Your encouragement allowed me to make the right choice and I only missed Paul and Gete by the time I made it to the park.

I most want to cheer on Ethiopian Atalelech Ketema, running her first marathon, and in contention to be the day's fastest female New Yorker (she lives in the Bronx with her husband Fitsum and 20-month old Nathaniel). She ended up the second local female in a time of 2:45 and change. Not bad for a first timer!

In addition to Ketema, I caught all of the lead men and my pals from the Westchester Track Club who placed 1-4 among locals. Tefera, Tufa and Kabiso won some decent wages for their high showing. With their top placing, the men defended their club title; and the women's Westchester Track Club placed third in their club competition with the help of Ketema, Brooke Garden and Cindy Pomeroy.

A perfect day for a marathon, indeed.

Saturday, November 3, 2007

"Triumph and Tragedy" at the Men's Olympic Martahon Trials, NYC

Hall's Trials record marred by death of friend Shay

By Joe Battaglia, NBCOlympics.com

These and more photographs by Courtenay Morgan Redis

He has been called the next great U.S. marathoner. Now he can be called an Olympian.

After running with the pack for 17 miles, Ryan Hall pulled away en route to winning the U.S. Olympic Team Trials marathon in a record 2:09:02. The time by Hall, who had never run a marathon before April, shattered the previous Trials record by one minute and 17 seconds.

Dathan Ritzenhein, a 2004 Olympic in the 10,000m, finished comfortably in second in 2:11:07, a personal best by over three minutes. Brian Sell placed third in 2:11:40 to grab the final qualifying spot for Beijing. It will be the first Olympic marathon for all three.

Their jubilation was soon replaced by sadness when it was announced that Ryan Shay, 28, had died. Shay, a 2002 Notre Dame graduate running in his second U.S. Olympic Marathon Trials, collapsed just 30-minutes into the race, and was taken by ambulance to Lenox Hill Hospital where he was pronounced dead at 8:46 a.m.

"Today was a dream come true for me," Hall said. "I've been dreaming about this moment for 10 years. But as great as the moment is, my heart and my thoughts are with Ryan Shay and his family."

Shay collapsed on the second lap near East 75th St. on the East side of Central Park, about 5 1/2 miles into the race. At the 5k mark (3.1 miles), he was in 21st place, part of a large pack between 16:44 and 17:02.

"We have absolutely tragic news confirmed that Ryan Shay passed away today," Mary Wittenberg, CEO of the New York Road Runners Club said. "We ask you to join us in extending our very deepest condolences to Alicia, to Ryan's family and the Notre Dame running community. It's certainly not the way we expected any part of the race to go."

According to Runner’s Gazette photographer Clay Shaw, who was nearby, emergency medical personnel responded swiftly, using a defibrillator to try to revive him.

"He just hit the ground," Shaw said.

Wittenberg said Shay received immediate medical attention.

"There were several layers of medical response," she said. "It was very quick."

A recreational runner died during last month's Chicago Marathon. This death, however, was especially startling considering Shay was an elite athlete.

USA Track and Field CEO Craig Masback called Shay's death a "tremendous loss for the sport"

"We all are devastated over Ryan's death," he said. "He was a tremendous champion who was here today to pursue his dreams. We are heartbroken."

Shay, a native of Ypsilanti, Mich., won the 2001 NCAA 10,000m title at Notre Dame, the first national individual title won at the school. He was a favorite going into the 2004 trials but was hampered by a hamstring strain and finished 23rd. He was the 2003 U.S. marathon champion and was third at this year's U.S. 25K championships. He also won the U.S. half marathon in 2003 and 2004, and took the 2004 U.S. 20K road racing title, making him a four-time national champion.

It was in New York two years ago while watching the marathon that Shay met his future wife, Alicia Craig, also an elite distance runner. Alicia was a two-time NCAA champion and the collegiate 10,000-meter record-holder during her days at Stanford, and was hoping to make it to Beijing in the women's 10,000m.

Shay and Craig were married on July 7. Sara Hall, Ryan Hall's wife, was a college teammate at Stanford with Craig and was a bridesmaid in their wedding.

"He had an incredible ability to push himself to the limit," Sara Hall said of Shay, with whom she and her husband used to train.

"It's a big loss for the running community," said 2004 women's marathon Olympic bronze medalist Deena Kastor, who once trained with Shay. "It's a day we should be celebrating. It has cast a pall. The distance running community is very close."

"If you probably asked him if there was any way he wanted to go, it was out on the race course," said Terrence Mahon, who coached Shay in Mammoth Lakes, Calif.

Shay had high hopes entering these Trials. In 2004, he ran a personal best of 2:14:08 while finishing ninth at the ING New York City Marathon, and was looking forward to running in blustery conditions.

"The heat and I do not get along," Shay said. "Now if it’s cold that day, then that works to my benefit. I know a lot of runners who don’t like the cold, but I love the cold. Hopefully, the weather will be beneficial. If it’s weather that I can run well in, 2:11 or 2:12 is not out of my range."

Hall, 25, had no problem getting under that time range. Hall broke away from the leading pack of five runners with a 4:32 18th mile, believed to be the fastest ever run in Central Park. Hall continued to run sub-five minute splits the remainder of the race. He looked relaxed and fresh the entire race, pumping his fists, high-fiving spectators, and bellowing as he drew closer to the finish.

"I'm just thrilled with the day the Lord gave me and thrilled to be part of this Olympic team," Hall said. "I was thinking about the Olympics when I was out there on that last lap and the fitness it will take. The last mile, I knew I was going to be OK. I know I can run considerably faster. There's definitely more gears in there. I'll get to test those in Beijing."

When Hall made his move, none of the other five runners was able to go with him. Although he couldn't keep Hall's blistering pace, Ritzenhein was able to separate himself from the remaining runners over the final eight miles, building a 30-second lead over the third-place contenders.

"My hat's off to Ryan," Ritzenhein said. "That time is amazing on this course."

Brian Sell was unable to keep up with the race leaders early in the race and it appeared his hopes of making the Olympic team were slim. But Sell, who said before the race that he would quit competitive distance running if he did not qualify for Beijing, surged passed Daniel Browne with about six miles to go to punch his Olympic ticket.

"The original plan was to let the field determine the pace for the first couple of miles," Sell said. "When we were out in 11 flat for two miles, I knew I Had to keep it honest to have a chance at all. Honestly, I was trying to run around 5 flat [per mile]. I didn't have too many miles above 5 flat. That tells you how fast these guys were up front. I was just fortunate to pick up the carnage from (Hall and Ritzenhein)."

Khalid Khannouchi, the 35-year-old former world-record-holder who has never made an Olympic team, finished fourth in 2:12:34, nearly a minute behind Sell. Khannouchi, who has battled injuries, could still earn a spot on the squad if Ritzenhein later qualifies in the 10,000 meters and chooses to compete in that race instead in Beijing.

Meb Keflezighi, who won silver at the 2004 Olympics in Athens, was in contention for the third and final qualifying spot for more than half of the race, but faded late and finished eighth in 2:15:09.

"It was rough," Keflezighi said. "I would like to have made the team. At about 1:19, both of my calves cramped up. My breathing was great, but I couldn't go on."

Alan Culpepper, the 2004 Olympic Trials marathon winner, was forced to pull out of the race with cramping in both hamstrings.

"Within the first four miles, both of my hamstrings had the same sensation I usually get with 4 miles to go," Culpepper said. "I was baffled. I kept trying to work through it, but I just never felt right."

The Associated Press contributed to this report.

Monday, October 29, 2007

More Than One Winner at the 5th Avenue Mile

On Saturday, 29 September more than 4,500 runners competed in the 27th Annual 5th Avenue Mile in Manhattan. While the men's winner was the fastest miler in the world this year, Alan Webb (who also happens to be the American record holder at this distance) fast times were recorded by people of all ages and abilities.

The oldest runner, Abraham Weintraub of Greater New York, finished the mile in 18:49 at a mere 98 years old. He beat out a younger man, David Gerli, 96, of Manhattan, by almost two and a half minutes!

Joan Rowland, 81 finished in ten minutes and change...faster than many women half her age. Was she happy? Well, according to the New York Times, Rowland said, "''I feel O.K.'

She added: 'I’ve run this almost every year except when they didn’t give out awards to people my age. Next year, if I’m alive, I’ll run it again.'

Rowland said running had been a tonic.

'I’ve had heart disease, cancer of the arm and several ministrokes,' she said. 'I started running when I was 71 to help me recover from cancer. Running is my medicine.'"

After the age-group races finished, the championship and invitational events were run with great fanfare and superb talent.

Coach Mike Barnow's Westchester Track Club fielded some of the best local talent, if you consider local to be Ethiopia and Kenya by way of the Bronx, where man of the club's African runners live and train.

In the women's New York Road Runners Championship, WTC runner Atalelech Ketema (Ethiopia) finished second in 4:42.8 after leading for the first part of the race. This was a great run for Ketema, having spent the better part of the year coming back from having her first child, Nathaniel, in 2006.

In the men's race, WTC teammates Stephen Chemlany (Kenya) and Demesse Tefera (Ethiopia) lead the final kick to finish first in 4:05.6 and third, respectively. They were separated by Plattsburgh, NY resident Matt Deshane (US).

In the men's invitational, Webb, 24, beat the defending champion, Kevin Sullivan, in a time of 3:52.7.

The women's race was exciting all the way from the start at 80th Street to the finish at 60th, with the lead changing hands multiple times in the four-plus minutes it took to run the mile. Meskerem Legesse (Ethiopia) and Molly Huddle (Providence, RI) battled it out from the start, with New Zealander Kim Smith taking over at the half-way mark. In the final stretch, the 2005 winner, Canadian Carmen Douma-Hussar, 30, won in 4:22.8 - the fastest time on the course since 1998. After the Canadian broke the tape yet another dramatic change of hands in the final yards resulted in defending champion Sara Hall (Big Bear Lake, CA) and Amy Mortimer (Providence, RI) placing second and third, respectively.

Saturday, October 13, 2007

Donna Ferrato LIVE Online


Check it out...Donna Ferrato has a fabulous new website live and ready for your viewing! Having briefly interned with Donna almost a year ago, I know firsthand what a labor of love (and trial!) this baby was, and I have to say I'm really impressed.

The site, donnaferrato.com, totally speaks to who Donna is as a photographer, a woman, a documentarian, an observer. It highlights her humor, her grittiness, her love of the raunchy and the beautiful.

I'll be eager to hear more about her Ironbound Workshop in Newark with Philip Jones Griffiths. The two will be living and photographing with their students for the week, 17 - 21 October, out of Donna's warehouse loft in the neighborhood of Newark, a working class neighborhood featured in the New York Times in 2004.

Donna Ferrato has spent the past 30+ years showing us close-encounters with domestic violence, love, sex and intimate views few other photographers have captured. Her books include: Living with the Enemy; Love and Lust; Amore; and Honeymoon Killers. Donna's books are available through many bookstores, as well as at Amazon.com

Philip Jones Griffiths has been a member the Magnum photo agency since 1966, where he was also President for five. Griffiths is best known for his images of Vietnam, images that showed the trauma of war experienced by the Vietnamese - a perspective overlooked by many photojournalists and, certainly, publications during and immediately after the war.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Epic Bike Tour with Black Sheep Adventures

Imagine a travel agent advertising the following:
"Climb over 35,000 feet in elevation and scream down another 40,000 in elevation loss over six days in Northern California! Plan to eat a lot of Gu, Cliff Bars and bags of peanuts and M&Ms. Blister in the hot sun, soak in yellow-colored hot springs, and spend countless hours fighting your inner demons through the Sierras!"
I admit, spending a week grinding gears over intimidating terrain, and paying for it (even flying me and my bike all the way to California...) wouldn't have been my first choice for a vacation. I'm nearly broke and coming off a four-month stint in a difficult work situation. But, it's the year that Bubba turns 50 (and I turn 35!), and I agreed that this, the 3rd Annual Epic Bike Tour of California, hosted by Black Sheep Adventures, would be our joint birthday celebration. Truth be told, I'm more of a runner than a rider, and I was a bit anxious I wouldn't enjoy all that time in the saddle.
Let it be known, however, that the week was fabulous and far exceeded my wildest dreams.
Albeit physically and psychologically challenging at times, but sooooo worth it. Some nights I went to bed so tired I couldn't hold up my "bobblehead" at dinner, or skipped dinner completely. But that was my loss, because dinner was a great time to reconnect with the other 17 members of the Tour, recount the glories (perceived or real) of that day's stage, replenish the tank for the next, and simply enjoy the company of new friends.

DAY 1: Davis to Oroville (89 miles, minimal elevation change)
After a short drive from Berkeley to Davis, during which I get to spend time with Morgan (hey, that's my middle name!) who is a writer in job transition (yeah, me too), we get our "rules o f the road" speech, fill up our bottles and head out for Day One.

Traveling from the flatlands and headwinds of Davis (a great, bicycle-friendly college town that even has a bicycle in it's city logo, and is located just outside of Sacramento) up to the gold-rush town of Oroville (which is known as The City of Gold) on the first day, the mantra of the group is, "oh, no, not another right turn!" Every left translates to a tailwind, as in, "ahhhhh, push me along mighty wind!" and every right turn the opposite. Except, a headwind feels unequivocally harder than the simple opposite of a gentle push - more like riding into a wall. I am always dead last, barely able to hold the wheel of a generous rider, Andrea, looking out for me.

I am so excited to be done with the wind on this first day that I head straight to the pool in full cycling kit. Okay, I remove my helmet before diving in. This antic will become both my nightly reward for finishing and an easy way to rinse the salt and sweat out of my clothes, shoes and bike gloves. Chlorine = sanitation = clean laundry, right?

We finish the evening with a trip to one of two dining choices in Oroville. If you've seen the 1976 western, The Outlaw Josey Wales, which is filmed here in Oroville, then you have a good sense of the slim pickings in this quaint, but quiet town. At one point in time, there was a population of 10,000 Chinese living here; by 2007 the choices are more reflective of its wild west roots. We were lucky, then, to steer toward a small Thai restaurant in a strip mall.

The Thai buffet is a hilarious and tasty decision, and a profitable one for the owners given our numbers. Speaking of numbers, they instruct us to order our entrees by number, but they then deliver them by name (which, more often than not, does not correspond to the entree we had actually ordered). This mishap works in favor of Fred (our fearless Tour Leader, and founder of Black Sheep Adventures), who manages to gobble down all of the misplaced meals and then some. At 6'7", his voracious appetite can be forgiven.

DAY 2: Oroville to Quincy (73 miles, 10,300 ft gained, 7,100 ft lost)
I wake on the second day eager to run. It is in the low 50s and there is a park with two lakes just steps out of our hotel. I discover the park after running in circles trying to lead a kitten back home (it's 4:30am and I can't even see what house the cat has come from). The kitty finally tires out, and I find the park. It is a glorious reminder that my body can do what I want it to (unlike day one!). After changing into my cycling shorts, refilling the tires and refueling my inner tank, I am content to jump back on the bike a bit before 7am.

Running on the morning of what turns out to be the hardest day is not the wisest choice, perhaps, but ignorance can be bliss. My bliss, though, diminishes significantly as we climb out of Oroville along logging roads that seem to only go upwards toward Quincy. My only time in Quincy before this trip was back in 1997 when I suffered at a triathlon in the cold of nearby (alpine) Lake Almanor. I'm hoping for better memories this time around.

The drive (and ride) to Quincy is gorgeous, but filled with a lot of climbing and few places to stop and replenish. Good thing for the sag vehicles...we need the water and the food on this hot, hilly day. Whether we eat out of the back of Fred's van, or the rented Jeep Commander driven by our Counselor-In-Training (as it did feel a bit like an S&M Summer Camp), Mike Logsdon, we are grateful for the food! Although his expression lies, Himgan never tasted a better power bar. The crew is super supportive, even reapplying sunscreen to the blistered back of poor Sarah.

I thank God that when we finish a refreshing descent into Quincy (with a surprising and F-L-A-S-H-Y show of hospitality by Mike the C.I.T.), the great organic, locally-grown food and multitude of draft local beers awaits us at the Pangea Cafe and Pub.

For a population of just around 2,000, Quincy boasts a selection of high-quality restaurants and a lovely bed and breakfast, appropriately called The Sporting Inn. My week-long roomie, Laura, and I share the Kokopelli-themed room. One of Laura's favorite memories of the trip is, I think, the plush terry robes waiting for us here. They're nice robes, but come on, we've got to get this woman out more.

After a shower and nap, we move on to dinner and a much entertaining story of bear evasion and other antics experienced on Mike's 13.5-month fundraising cycling trip from Alaska to Argentina (16,000 miles over the length of the Americas). Mike and his brother, John, have a great site called Spinning Southward, where you can learn more about the trip, their mission, the need for greater brain tumor research (the loss of their mother, Jean, to a brain tumor was the inspiration of this journey) and the National Brain Tumor Foundation, where Mike now works.

We all hit our lovely beds good and tired while the proprietor of the B&B gets busy preparing a sumptuous breakfast for the next morning.

DAY 3: Quincy to Tahoe City (87 miles, 7,400 ft gained, 4,600 ft lost)
Not knowing the worst is behind me, I admittedly wake in, to quote Phil Liggett the famous cycling commentator, “a spot of bother” wondering how I will fare on this, our third day. (I grew up in a neurotic family. Sorry.) The day ends up being one of the most glorious. Still challenging, but my legs are finally adjusting to the terrain, my sit-bones seem to be responding to the ibuprofren more readily, and the alpine vistas up Highway 89 are absolutely breathtaking.

Bubba and I experience our first above-the-tree-line ride as a team, creating switch-backs (which she likes to call figure-8s). Lucky for us, the roads are mostly empty and we can meander across the double yellow (when there is one). While the riders at the front of the pack just hit the hill straight-on and make faster time, our switchbacking method saves our knees, backs and spirits. Theoretically, anyway. You wouldn't know from my whining...and I'm the younger one of us two. Pathetic.

Mark (a masseuse, swim coach and all-around great guy) and Himgan (you'll meet him later) play a most insane game of tag while ascending the hills today. You've got to be kidding me, chasing each other up the mountains trying to tag other riders. Glad someone is enjoying the climb!!!

Overall, day three is a gorgeous and pleasant day in the saddle. Coming into Tahoe City, I feel strong and excited knowing the next day is our "play" day to do with as we will. My reverie is temporarily hampered by a merciless headwind that makes the final miles on Highway 50 past Squaw seem like the longest, sloggiest miles of the day.

But we survive (you already knew that) with a bit of cursing and grunting (that may come as a surprise unless you know my penchant for the f-bomb) and are rewarded with a smooth four miles on bike path along the Truckee River to our hotel just off the west shore of Lake Tahoe. That jump into the pool post-ride is by far the best yet. And Judy's (Wendy's partner, who is a medical doctor with great hands) massage is too decadent. Life is, indeed, good.

A little background here for those who are not familiar with Lake Tahoe and the Tahoe Basin region that straddles northern California and the Reno area of Nevada:

The area was formed by a combination of earthquakes (two major fault lines run north/south underground), volcanic eruptions and glacial formation millions of years ago. There is an abundance of fascinating geologic history of Tahoe online.

Lake Tahoe is 22 miles long and l2 miles wide with 72 miles of shoreline. It is the third-deepest lake in North America, tenth-deepest in the world, and has an average depth of 1,645 feet. In the summer, parts of the lake warm to about 70 degrees farenheit, but at depth, the lake is a constant 39 degrees! It is surrounded by pristine wilderness and a multitude of ski resorts that are great for hiking and mountain biking in the warmer temps.


DAY 4: Tahoe City Play Day!
Good morning happy day! You know that feeling you have after a really grueling experience…whether from exercise, an arduous day at work, or a day spent with someone that drives you nuts…and you finally get to rest, to breathe, to be free? That’s how I feel waking on day four. Don’t get me wrong, the previous days of riding were not to be missed and I would do them all over again in a heartbeat. Yes, I’d pay to do them all over again! But there is something so extra sweet in the joy of the day after a hard-won accomplishment.

Waking early on Wednesday with an instant awareness of what I want to do with my rest day, I head out into the mid-40-degree morning to find it. My wish: to conquer Squaw. On foot, in the summer. No skis, no chair lifts, no downhills until the end.

Taking that lovely four-mile stretch of smooth bike path along the Truckee River back to the base of Squaw, my cycling legs become running legs once again, finding their old-familiar groove and stride. At first my lungs strain a bit under the assault of the altitude (or maybe it is the cold), but even they soon adjust. This is my rest day and all, how dare they complain?

Squaw is a ski resort where the winter Olympics were held in 1960. Considered one of the more gorgeous and challenging of the Tahoe peaks, Squaw tops out at just under 9,000 feet. The famous Western States 100 Mile Endurance Trail Run starts at its base each summer, taking some of the fittest and most inspiring and inspired athletes south to Auburn, California. One day I hope to claim to have run the full Western States race, but for now I am hoping to settle for the peak that rises above it.

Without a map, I simply follow what looks to be the right trails. The deer seem to like the path I am on, and it is certainly going in the right direction longitudinally. After more than an hour of vertical climbing that at times requires me to squat down and hold onto the hillside lest I fall backwards from the dizzying altitude gain and loose-dirt terrain, I reach some peak. What peak? Turns out I’ve run up Red Dog Face and along Red Dog Ridge to the top of KT-22 at 8,200 feet. I learn this after straining to read the Squaw ski map standing at least 15 feet overhead (normally closer to eye level, but I lack all those feet of packed snow to serve as raised platform).

Hey, this is pretty cool, me and the top of the chair lifts that didn't carry me to this height. I’ve always wanted to navigate KT-22, but as a novice skier I know I'd likely not come up here on skis anytime soon.

Bad news: there is no obvious lateral path to my Squaw Peak destination. It may be only 700 feet higher than where I’m at but, Damn! I’ll need to go back down some before I can ascend my goal.

After much sliding down on my butt (to save turned ankles on the falling dirt and rocks beneath me), and climbing back up another, longer, steeper slope, I overshoot Squaw by going too far east. How the heck did that happen? I mean, how does one miss the highest peak? Leave it to me. For a really cool 360 degree view from on top of the mountain, go to Squaw’s map page.

Damn twice! Now out of fluids and without much desire left to slide down the mountain two more times, I decide to cut my losses and head toward high camp. Yes, on my ass, but at least it’s for the last time today.

At high camp in the winter I’ve enjoyed the beauty of an alpine Olympic ice pavilion and the views of snow-covered peaks for miles around. On this trip, I’m the only person not paid to be there, and either because they want to keep a close eye on me or because they take pity on me, the cable car operators offer me a free lift down the mountain along with the park police and their bomb-sniffing shepherds. This is America today - even the ski slopes in winter are bomb-patrolled, but the guys are friendly to the dust-covered running girl.

At the ski village below, I’m rewarded with stares and pointing of fingers by the well-heeled (also a comment on the American non-appreciation of the outdoors-type) who can afford to stay at (or, even more impressively, own) a Squaw property.

More my speed is Jake the shuttle driver who strikes up conversation while I’m refilling my water bottle. Born and raised in Brooklyn, we fall instantly into easy report, trading insights of life near Manhattan versus life in northern California. Not surprisingly we come to similar conclusions – the City is great to visit, and we’re proud to say we’re “from there,” but California is paradise.

Just a bit over five miles back to the hotel, my tightened chest and legs relax a bit on the rolling terrain home, glad to have claimed I ran Squaw, and equally glad to know the rest day will now be doubly sweet.

Back at home, most of the gang has by now left for lunch and/or a long hike along the west coast of Tahoe (Rubicon Trail to Emerald Bay). The few of us who are left behind decide to drive over to Incline Village and check out a dining spot Doug and I have been to on a few occasions. The Lone Eagle Grille at the Hyatt Regency Lake Tahoe sits right on Crystal Bay, with cathedral ceilings and multi-story windows. The menu is diverse enough to meet most needs and the ambiance is warm and romantic on a winter evening with the indoor fireplace or outdoor beach fire pit aflame. (The photo below is from the Hyatt's website.)

On this summer day, the sun bounces off the water outside, with the wood beams of the dining rooms glowing to create an altogether different but singularly pleasant experience.

Our lunch crew includes: Mike, our trusty C.I.T.; Himgan, the group’s light and quick King of the Mountains (had we bestowed such a title, it would be all his), is a creative guy who designs the consumer interface for technology companies like Sony; and Andrea, his girlfriend, who offered me her draft on day-one and who, when not on her bike, is pursuing a PhD in biophysics at UC Berkeley studying the immune response to the Herpes virus; and Becky, a massage therapist specializing in eastern practices like acupressure (who met Fred on the previous year’s Black Sheep Adventures epic tour and they have been dating ever since).

Becky is training to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro over New Years 2008. The trip is being organized by Alice Hiatt, who created a non-profit organization called Hope Through Opportunity that will be sending its 5th 40ft container to the Huruma Hospital in Tanzania, East Africa. The money and material items raised by Becky and the climbing team will help the hospital serve the sick, injured, and dying as well as provide for about 400 orphans. To find out more about the effort and what you can do to help, go to Becky’s donation page.

After lunch, we head back along the north shore to Kings Beach, where we eat gelato and take naps under the redwoods by the beach. I receive an extra creamy blessing from a bird that decides to plant one on my forehead. This makes for a lot of laughs, most especially by me. I am disappointed it isn’t messier in the photos. It felt messier, let me tell you.

We briefly consider renting one of the beach/water "tricycles" just so we can claim we've ridden bikes even on our rest day, but the inspiration is fleeting (and pricey).

As the day comes to an end, the crew gathers out in the parking lot to perform some basic maintenance many of us have neglected (like cleaning and re-greasing the chain, dealing with derailleur issues), while we review the next day’s adventure. Each night (and often again at breakfast), Fred leads us through the directions and ride profile so that we can minimize as many navigational challenges as possible. Also, for those not riding (like Bubba’s partner, Judy), it’s an opportunity to check out the hiking options and make plans for when and where to meet up with the Tour staff.
What’s a rest day without a lot of food? So we finish it all off with a community meal at a Tahoe City Mexican joint called the Blue Agave. Fun and festive, we eat heartily knowing that we head higher into the Sierras tomorrow.

DAY 5: Tahoe City to Markleeville (64 miles, 5,100 ft gained, 5,800 ft lost)
Heading south on an extension of the bike path paralleling Highway 89 we skirt the western rim of Lake Tahoe. With the sparkling blue water, moored boats and private beaches sometimes just 10 feet to our left, and under gently undulating path canopied by redwoods, it’s like nowhere I’ve ridden before. By far the most pleasant and easy start we’ve had yet, this is a good re-introduction to the bike after our day of rest.

The climbing eventually starts up again as we near the southern tip of the Tahoe, climbing up above Emerald Lake to an incredible vista that floats above the water. On one side, hundreds of feet below we see Emerald Bay and the expanse of Lake Tahoe, to our right another drop-off to Cascade Lake. Riding on this ridge between the two bodies of water, the road - narrow but wide-open under a blue sky - becomes one of the most awe-inspiring and memorable aspects of the week’s journey. The descent on smooth road with mostly-visible turns is fast and steep – thrilling, to say the least.

Bubba, Jerry (who works for NASA and loves to ride motorcyles, but owns more REAL bikes than a small-town bike shop) and I stop in South Lake Tahoe at a coffee shop and Internet café so I can finalize my negotiations with my new job back in Manhattan at Meredith Corporation, a magazine publisher. Jerry disdainfully rejects his mocha (hello, we are not in Berkeley anymore, Dorothy) and we soon cross the state line into Nevada. My Nevada welcome present comes in the form of a staple through my rear tire, but I've got a spare tube so no big. Of course, I initially put the rear wheel on backwards and wonder why my chain won't catch. I've now admitted it to the world (or that part of the world actually reading this). Don't worry, I got my wits about me and put the wheel on properly.

Heading east on Route 207, we climb out of the congested and casino-laden, high-traffic downtown and begin our climb into the Eastern Sierra Nevada foothills. Fred has warned us that there is some steep climbing ahead made further challenging by the lack of shoulder and activve road construction to come. Fearing we may need a lift in sections where the narrow road would inhibit our switch-backing (Bubba’s “figure 8s”), we are pleasantly surprised to climb without issue and reach Daggett Summit (7,334 feet) unassisted and in great spirits.

After an 8-mile descent lays Carson City, Nevada and a mostly-flat finish into Markleeville after crossing back into California. A shorter day in the saddle of just 64 miles and not too many hours, today’s ride feels to many of us like an extension of the rest day prior (how soon we forget that while climbing to Daggett Summit, it didn’t feel very restful).

Unless you’ve ridden the infamous Death Ride you probably have never visited Markleeville. A town of under 100 households, founded during the silver-rush in the mid-1800s, it is a one-block town, quaint and far removed from cell and Internet service. What a blessing! We are further rewarded with a trip to Grover Hot Springs State Park, just a few miles from our very lovely cabins at Creekside Lodge.

After soaking in the hot springs (oscillating between the truly-hot tub to the more moderately-warm pool), Fred and Mike usher us back to Markleeville, where many of us gather for a pre-dinner story-telling session in the breezeway between our rooms. We eventually meander all of ten feet to the only restaurant in town, the Wolfcreek Restaurant and Cutthroat Saloon next door to our lodge. Fred’s dad, a former park ranger who lives in nearby Carson City, joins us for dinner and we all shower him with praise for raising such a great kid. Laura loves the mashed potatoes. I have to say, I ate portions of the spuds off multiple plates.
The only downer to this great day is, for me, the discovery that my bike can go no further without serious surgery. The shifters have broken and although Fred valiantly drives it to various far-off mechanics, it needs more attention than we can give it overnight. Before heading to bed, I resolve to turn bike despair into running glory and face the devil of Ebbett’s Pass on foot Friday morning.



DAY 6: Markleeville to Murphys (74 miles, 7,100 ft gained, 10,400 ft lost)
First off, if you haven’t visited Alpine County, add it to your list. According to one website, "Alpine County has no high schools, fast food restaurants, convenience stores, or theaters; no hospitals, no dentists, no resident physicians, no supermarket, no malls, no automobile service stations, and no traffic lights." It has the smallest population of all counties in California and is as gorgeous as its Alpine name would suggest. With snow-covered high peaks for a good half of every year, Alpine County is rugged and remote – an oasis from what many of us face in our day-to-day lives. On Friday, day six, we are going to reach for some of its highest peaks and make our way through Bear Valley (another popular ski community, although much smaller than Tahoe) toward Murphy's.

Today’s plan: head up State Route 4 from Markleeville at 5,550 ft to the top of Ebbett's Pass of Death Ride fame at 8,732 ft. Just a few thousand feet, no big deal, except that we’re already at altitude and we have nineteen miles between here and there. Fortunately for me, this is the only pass I’m climbing today. My cyclist compadres, after a fun descent into Hermit Valley, are continuing on up the even steeper Pacific Grade (which tops out at lower elevation than Ebbett’s, but has a steeper gradient over a shorter distance). Seems to me that by running, I’m getting off easy.

I’m so restless with anticipation of today’s big run I catch only glimpses of sleep, woken from dreams of running with animals and swimming in rivers. A bit of anxiety weighs on me, as well – wondering what I’ve forgotten to plan for, wondering if the ever-aggravating plantar fascitis in my left foot will become debilitating. Anything I haven’t thought of before going to bed, oh well. It’s too early to wake up the crew for Gatorade at 3:30am and, oh yeah, I didn’t think of needing a flashlight.

I grew up in the suburbs of New York City and thought I knew what a summer night in the country meant: the sound of crickets, a starry sky and warm, moist air. A summer night in Alpine County, California is darker, more mysterious and certainly not as warm or moist as I anticipated. Without any street lights within an hour’s drive, at least, it is dark. It’s so dark that I can’t even make out the double yellow down the center of State Route 4. The sound of the creek running to my right keeps me from falling off the side of the road, and as I get within a few feet of the boulders to my left I manage to find a path running against traffic (as if there were any). The sounds of my feet thuck, thuck, thucking (flapping from my heavy footfalls and altitude-ascending effort) drown out the crickets and any other wildlife I might hear. Having seen a bear and its cub in town the evening before, I am reminded that it’s best to make a lot of noise and seem big when encountering such animals. Being that it’s so dark, I am hoping that my thucking footsteps, the sloshing of water in my hydration pack and my labored attempt to sing scare off whomever is out there watching me.

Within a couple of miles, I become lost in my own world and stop singing, stop thinking about the bears or the drop-off. The darkness of the night is a gift, really. I am transported to an inner quiet without conscious thought or effort. My body just moves, and my breathing and running carry on without me. Feelings of gratitude, sadness, joy, doubt, pride all pass through. Prayers for my friend, Marian, who lays dying in Oakland, pass through my mind.

Logistically, my immediate plan is to get as far up the pass as possible before C.I.T. Mike and Judy (heading out for her hike) come driving by. For I know that once they pass me, it’s after 7am and the cyclists will begin heading out from breakfast. I figure it will take me at least three hours to climb to the top, but the cyclists can do it in an hour and a half. I want to reach the top either just before them (so my sweat doesn’t begin to chill me while waiting) or just after them, so that the support crew (Fred and Mike) don’t have to wait for me.

Did I mention I don’t have a watch with me? Yeah, I own this great Suunto Advisor with the standard capabilities like time (what will they think of next?) and stopwatch, but it also has an altimeter with descent and ascent rates, a barometer, compass and heart rate monitor. I forgot to bring a replacement battery and the watch has been dead since day one in Davis. Mike and Judy passing me by in the Jeep Commander will have to serve as my guide.

My second goal is to let my riding partner Bubba know I’m with her all the way, even though we’re not riding together today. The fallen granite at the side of the road serves as an imperfect writing tool to mark up the road like on all great mountain passes cyclists traverse. I estimate that I can give away two ten-minute stops toward writing my encouragement on the road as long as I squat, not bend over. My blood pressure tends to run low as it is, and I don’t need to add the dizzying effect of bending over and standing up repeatedly to my potential for fainting.

After passing the intersection with Highway 89, I know that I’ve gone about 5 miles and it’s still pitch-black, so I must be making decent time. Once light comes, I can afford my first sign-making venture.

As the morning’s dawn begins to light my way, it's time for the first rock-writing session. The writing is harder than I think – both not to keep from getting dizzy and to use the stones as chalk. By the end, my hands are raw, my knees are mottled from leaning on the gravel road and I’m not even sure the "BUBBA” is legible. Oh, well. I tried.*

By the time I begin running again, I slowly regain my stride and soon I can see the faint outline of the white line on the side of the road. Not long after, I can see the towering granite outcroppings, volcanic peaks and giant sequoias pass by. I realize what beauty I am running beside and wonder wistfully what I have missed by heading out so early.

The first car of the day drives by and I notice a sparsely occupied campsite to my right. I pass by a sign marking the 7,000 foot elevation mark and I still feel really good. This is going better than I anticipated! Of course, just when you think that way, the universe bites into your pride and I hit a humbling switchback up which I am tempted to walk. The sun is now above the horizon and I can see the glory of the peaks and woods all around me. Wow. This is incredible. I’m grateful I’m on my feet, going slowly, so I can really enjoy the view.

Fortunately it’s during one of these highs that I hear the Jeep Commander following behind me, which I turn to greet and run up backwards for a few steps smiling and waving. Mike and Judy slow down long enough to see if I need anything (“new legs?” I ask) and for me to ask how far up we are. “About 13 miles,” Mike replies. I’m happy and sad at the same time. Grateful to be almost three quarters done because it means I’m running the pace I had hoped, but sad because it means it will soon be over. I warn them that the next time Mike comes by, as he drives back to the start to support the cyclists, he may find me walking. I say this to give myself permission to walk if necessary, but also as incentive not to walk. I'm a bit crazy that way. Later when Mike drives back down, luckily for my psyche, I'm not walking.

My run has now shifted back into more familiar territory. No longer a solitary, into-the-dark-night-of-the-soul journey, it is now of bright sunlight, hunger and sweat as the miles start to take their toll. My focus becomes less interior and more on how my camelback is rubbing my shoulder and my left foot is throbbing. The miles become more laborious and I start to doubt I’ll make it to the top before the crew arrives.

Just when the questions begin to infiltrate, I pass by a lake to my right and know this is my sign it’s only a mile or two to go. Amazing how this knowledge shifts everything – doubts fade and my legs pick-up pace. I become aware of how far I was leaning forward and regain a more upright posture. My feet shuffle less and actually completely leave the ground at times.

Before I know it, I see the Ebbett’s Pass Summit sign. Wow! That wasn’t bad at all!

Now, if only I knew what time it is. I better get going on that second road sign for Bubba. “Go, Fat Ass!” seems to take forever to write, but it’s on the last climb so I’m sure she’ll be going slowly enough to read it.* I have more time than I think, and since no one has yet come riding up, I head over to a sunny spot to stretch and drink the last of my water. (*Note: I found out later that Wendy did not see either of my signs. Oh, well, it's the thought that counts!)

A few hikers approach me from one of the Pacific Crest Trailheads and inform me it is only 8:15am. I have been at the top for at least fifteen minutes, and I’m not expecting the first rider until 8:30, probably. I made great time, that's the good news. However, I’m already starting to shiver from the sweat on my clothes freezing on my skin. So much for the high-tech wicking fabric I’m wearing.

In time I hear, “hey, Courtenay,” shouted out by an image in the sun that I can’t quite make out but I take to be the voice of Himgan cresting the hill. Yeaaaaaaaah! And good ol’ Bubba is not far behind. We’re usually the last riders on every day, but today we’re happy to be at the front, albeit one of us on foot with a significant head start. As I run behind Wendy to give her a big hug, I misstep in the cattle guard (see photo) and twist my ankle. Great. Himgan heroically picks me up from the side of the road and takes me to a rock outcropping, then carries over a small boulder on which to rest my aching foot. He even wraps my ankle in his arm warmer. Andrea, he's a keeper!

C.I.T. Mike and his high school crew buddy, Chris, pull up and throw some warm fleece and blankets around me, ply me with Nutter Butter cookies, Advil and water. Fred, too, arrives with good cheer and praise. Other than the ache of my ankle, I’m thrilled to be with my pals again and, now for the first time all week, have the chance to ride on the other side, participate in the behind-the-scenes efforts of the support crew and photograph everyone while they’re riding. These are the perks of having a bummed bike and ankle…you've got to look on the bright side.

Pacific Grade chews up and spits out a few of our riders on the next and (probably) toughest section of climbing we’d seen all week. My roomie Laura swears she was “going to arrest” while climbing and took away from the experience that “oxygen is overrated.” She survives, they all do. At the top, we enjoy majestic Mosquito Lake (which Fred suggests got that name to scare off all the tourists, as though the high Sierras are ridden with tourists…). Wendy's pal Marc is jolly as usual, the only one not to use an expletive in describing the gradient just conquered. He works for San Francisco's Department of Public Health - you'd think he would be a little jaded. But no, he's just jolly. The n-oyve!
The ride continues to Bear Valley and down into the little town of Murphy’s, which is one of my favorite places to eat ice cream in all of California. You’ve got to eat at the mini-50s-esque Peppermint Stick Ice Cream Parlour on Main Street. More importantly to us Black Sheep Adventures campers, our namesake winery is right in town. I bail to nurse my ankle, but from the looks of it, the gang has a great time tasting the Black Sheep wine and posing in compromising positions with the mascot sheep outside. I must point out here that some images in this blog were not taken by yours truly, but by the budding photographer and roommate Laura Walpert who likes to claim she takes better images than me. Ha! I think it's all the fairy dust I've left on my camera that she's absorbed.

We finish out our evening, the last one together as a team, with dinner at Firewood followed by more ice cream at the Peppermint Stick. A few of us stay out talking (good to begin getting to know you, Mike!) and enjoying the warm evening while others collapse back in their rooms at the Old Murphy’s Historic Hotel.

And evening cones on the sixth day.

DAY 7: Murphys to Davis (change in plans...you'll see why)
Boy am I glad my bike pooped out on me when I begin following in Fred’s van the final morning of our ride. Crossing the street out of the hotel in Murphy’s, they immediately begin an ascent up a damaged, narrow, winding road. Jackets and arm warmers immediately peel off as the riders twist and turn, rattle and shake their way out of Murphy’s.

A flat tire sidelines Bubba temporarily, while the flies that were supposed to be at Mosquito Lake the day before have flocked to the faces of our riders today. We’re not talking an annoying bug here or there – we’re talking swarms of gnats surrounding their faces, flying in their noses and mouths. I have newfound appreciation for what farm animals put up with day in and day out. Poor, sweet Bambi lay (no, not asleep, Fred) on the side of the road, and at another spot I have to hike up my pants in haste as a local farmer comes out of his house to greet us. It's a nastily hot and sticky day with trouble in many directions...

There is already much cursing and gnashing of teeth on this day, a day that becomes only more wild and hairy as Fred’s fifteen-passenger van falls ill behind the majority of riders at about the fifty-mile mark. It’s only about 100 degrees and AAA takes its sweet time (a few hours) to come to Fred and Sarah's (one of the riders who happens to be near Fred when they go down) aid. A local guy helps tow the van off the road, and, long story short, it turns out a bee has flown into and expired in the van’s air filter, throwing off its electronic sensor. I’m telling you, it’s a wild world out there.

The crew hunkers down at a roadside gas station, huddled in the shade we can find on the asphalt under the front awning. What a site. Us and the bike (as in motorcycle, not spandex-wearing) club and ski-boat towing locals drinking beer and eating watermelon to pass the time.
The proprietor attempts to soothe my aching foot by vigorously rubbing an herbal balm from his country (India) on my ankle, I revert back to icing and whimpering. The "campers" do what any smart cyclists would do - buy beer, peanuts, velveeta and other junk and start playing card games and arm wrestle. Their good humor helps distract me and passes the time rather well.

While the day's ride is cut short by the bee's attack on the van, it is in some ways the most fun for many of the riders. Cards, Coronas and watermellon; nothing to do but get to know each other and make the best of the situation. Fred, Mike and Sarah take care of the van and of us, and the drive back to Berkeley is quiet only in that we're all sad for our trip to come to an end. Until next year, then...thank you all for a great week that went beyond expectation!