Turkey Strut

I missed the opportunity to run the half-marathon I had trained for in mid-October, so I had been searching race calendars for another race.  Last week, Martha stumbled upon one in WNC Magazine that sounded interesting, the Cherokee 5-K Turkey Strut.   The entry fee was inviting, only $5 for children 12 and under and for “elders” over the age of 59.  Elders!  I loved it already.  And it turned out to be one of the most interesting races we have entered, on a course that took us around the Kituwah Mound between Bryson City and Cherokee.

The place, I learned, is a sacred and historic site to the Cherokee Nation and once sat at the center of the first Cherokee village, Kituwah, often referred to as the “mother town of the Cherokee.” Archaeologists date the site back nearly 10,000 years.  The Mound itself was protected by a low split-rail fence and those who were not Cherokee were asked not to walk on this holy ground behind the fence, which reminded me somehow of God's commandment to Moses in Exodus: "Do not come any closer," God said. "Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground."

I am not a cynic, however, and surely all of us who return again and again to nature to find strength and peace come to know that there are indeed special, holy places in the world like this.  That's why we seek out the fog-shrouded peaks of Mt. LeConte, the long winding trail climbing higher and higher and the endless vistas opening up; or the crimson sun rising from the ocean on a sweet lavender morning as gulls wing overhead.  And truly this place seemed filled with that same sense of wonder and holiness, these flat fields along the broad, winding Tuckasegee River with dry brown field corn still standing here and there where it had not yet been harvested, the crinkly rustling stalks, the cobs scattered along the trail.

The course was entirely on gravel roads - I said in my Newsletter account that a more accurate name would have been the Turkey Stumble - and I was worried for Martha, who has had some hard spills in recent years and resulting injuries from which she is just now recovering; this was her first race since March.  In some places, it was a matter of choosing between the left rut, the right rut, or the short blond-colored grass in between.  My legs were shredded after a mile or so; they felt about like this:

But the final half-mile of road seemed to be smoother, the pieces of gravel smaller, and I was able to muster up a final kick at the end, enough to catch one woman and pass her but not enough to catch the "elder" in my age group who would take second place (in the 61 and over age group) to my third (32:49)  I had almost hoped that Martha had gone in early (it was a figure-eight course), and looked around briefly to be sure she was not nursing a bleeding knee in the car.  But she has never had those initials "DNF" next to her name in any race, and sure enough I saw her coming around that last big sweeping curve around the field, pumping her arms and kicking hard at the end as I had, and missing first place in her own age group by only eight seconds (34:04).  It was nice to be running races with my FRP (Favorite Running Partner) again!  And to see her so completely recovered.

My watch showed a distance of 3.16 miles, but I am not a snob when it comes to small non-certified races like this.  It was a laid-back affair, after all (although computer-generated results were available promptly after the race), with strange age-groups that varied from ten years to four years, and with only two porta-potties available and minimal post-run nourishment (water and bananas).  We gathered afterward in a big open tin-roofed building where big carts of harvested corn were parked at one end, lots of children milling around in between (taking advantage of that $5 entry fee), and a display of interesting awards at the other end:

A wagon-load of butterball turkeys for first-place overall winners, bags of potatoes, and jars of home-canned green beans and tomatoes - a complete Thanksgiving Dinner!  The awards took a long time, as proud parents gathered around with cell-phone cameras and took many pictures.  We had the feeling that this was a community who knew one another well and took pleasure in gathering for this long-standing holiday event.  I suspect most of them knew by name the woman who had put up those green beans.

So it was a good day, there in this beautiful and sacred place where the Cherokee Nation had gathered and camped and grown corn for thousands of years, the smoke from their campfires rising up into a cloudy November sky like this one to Unetlanvhi, or the Great Spirit, the Creator who presided over all things and created the Mother Earth.