The Flight of the Vampire

The Flight of the Vampire 5-K has been held in Brevard for many, many years, and the course has apparently changed every year.  Martha ran it several years ago just a couple of weeks before I was scheduled to run a marathon, so I sat it out and took photos.  Our friends Skip and Morris and Vicki also ran that year, and it started and finished downtown just below East Main Street.  I found a course map from last year which looked like the same course we had completed at the Firecracker 5-K in 2019, except that the start/finish was at the new Depot building on Railroad Avenue.

Rain was in the forecast but never materialized, so conditions were perfect for running, overcast and cool.  I had decided to wear my 2011 Boston Marathon shirt – why keep it hidden in the drawer?  We arrived a couple of hours early to pick up our race packets and drive the course, and we discovered that Halloweenfest was going on and most of the roads downtown were closed.  Costumed children were trick-or-treating as we made our way around the event and drove most of what we expected the course to be, always a helpful thing to do if possible.  We both remembered the long, steep hill up Tinsley Road halfway through the course, where there was a pasture below the road with cows grazing.  It was surprising how close this bucolic setting was to Main Street in a city the size of Brevard.

We parked at the Depot Railroad Avenue Park, a new facility constructed last year and used for many local events, including this one.  It was nicely situated at the end of the Greenway, which now extends several miles to the Davidson River, and it had clean, warm restrooms, always a welcome feature at a race.

We picked up our packets and wandered about for awhile looking at the costumes of the 150 or so participants who were vying for the Best Costume contest.  There were Cruellas and skeletons, a young man wearing a pink sailor’s uniform, and even a large white chicken.  We wondered how long some of these costumes would last going up Tinsley Road.

We lined up, not where the course map I had found indicated but on the Greenway itself, a little concerned at the close quarters with Covid still in our midst.

The man in front of me had a cap with a little propeller on top, and off to my right was a vampire with her bat wings floating out behind her.  After a soulful recording of the National Anthem was played, we were off, quickly winding our way past the walkers and young children who for some reason always line up in the front of some of these smaller races.  In no time, we were heading south on Railroad Avenue on a completely different course than we had driven, climbing a hill where we lost some of the walkers and children, circling over to West Main Street, down a steep hill, and finally making our way to the familiar Tinsley Road hill, the only feature of the course that had not changed.  I chatted with a husband and wife pushing a stroller for awhile, whose toddler passenger insisted on climbing out from time to time, then climbing back in again.  “Are you going to ride for awhile?” the mother asked.  “Daddy run!” the child shouted in glee, and Daddy did.  “Is that a motorized stroller?” I asked her suspiciously.  She laughed.  “No, but that’s an idea for next year!”

I felt strong, and apparently Martha did, too, because she was nowhere in sight as we climbed up that long hill, passing younger runners who had stopped to walk (always a treat these days for this old guy!), and then the fragrance of cow manure as a half-dozen of the cud-chewing creatures calmly watched us climbing toward them, and then circling around a small summit.  The view was glorious from up there, purple mountains off to the south, pops of brilliant foliage here and there along the way, and I felt suddenly elated, glad to be running on this fine afternoon in good company, with costumed runners and leashed dogs and children in strollers.  And to be going downhill at last!

It was a gentle descent, and then we were on the Greenway for the last quarter mile or so, wide and smoothly paved.  Comparing notes after the race, we both put the hammer down at that point, and our final mile was the fastest one as a result.  An announcer saw me coming and said, “That’s a Boston Marathon shirt, by the way, folks.  I think I’ve got one just like it,” which made me kick just a little harder the last few yards. 

We wandered around for awhile, cooling down and watching other runners crossing the line.  Unfortunately, there was no food or water for many runners.  Martha said she had grabbed the last water and had asked where the food was, and an official had told her, “We thought most of the runners would eat before they came.”  You can’t always expect these small races to have the same quantity of finish line food and drink we had found two weeks ago at the Walhalla Oktoberfest 5-K, but you would think Brevard’s Rotary could have sprung for a few more bottles of water.  (We later received an e-mail apologizing for the lack of water, which had been taken to the Mile Two water stop and remained there unbeknownst to the Race Director.)

A woman approached me and said she had been following me going up Tinsley Road hill.  “You were my inspiration,” she said.  “I thought, if you’re not going to stop, I’m not going to stop either!”  I thanked her and told her she had done a good job, too.  Just then, there were some cheers and applause, and that big white chicken came across the finish line, apparently having run the entire race inside that costume.

It had been another good day, and we talked about the race on our way home, stopping to pick up a pre-ordered pizza at Four65 Woodfire Pizza in Highlands.  The results were up by then, and we found that I had taken first place in my age group.  But Martha could not find herself in her age group. “They dropped me!” she said, before realizing she had been bumped up to “Top Senior Female Finisher.”  And best of all, we both beat that silly chicken.

Oktoberfest

Oktoberfest in Walhalla, South Carolina, has been taking place for a number of years.  There is even a website that describes in detail the Oktoberfestivities:

"Oktoberfest is a wonderful fall celebration of Walhalla's German heritage with something fun for everyone! Each year, thousands of people come to Walhalla to experience Oktoberfest!  Listen to the Little German Band while munching on a bratwurst with kraut. Enjoy a refreshing mug of cold German beer. Reunite with old friends. Join the dance floor for the always fun "chicken dance". Explore our amazing arts & crafts with vendors from all over the Southeast. And don't forget an apple dumpling for dessert!  The kids will love our carnival rides and games as well as a delicious funnel cake!  There's truly something for everyone at the Walhalla Oktoberfest!"

Nowhere on the “something fun for everyone” website is a race mentioned, although there has been a 5-K held every year for nearly as long as the Fest itself.  It is organized by the Rotary Clubs of Oconee County and seems to share the same date as the main event at Sertoma Field, a little over a mile away, but none of the other activities outlined above, unless this aging runner’s form has started to resemble a “chicken dance.”  The mug of cold German beer would have been welcome after the event, but alas was nowhere in evidence at the finish line.

It was a good race, though, and not only because the conditions were completely the opposite of those in our last race.  We encountered a few light showers on the 40-minute drive down Highway 28, the beginning of a cold front making its way eastward through our part of the country.  By the time we arrived, the rain had disappeared, leaving a sweet fragrance on the quiet streets and lawns of Walhalla.  There was bright blue sky overhead and a light breeze had dissipated the humidity – perfect conditions.  We had driven the course a week ago and knew pretty much what to expect, including a challenging hill at the 2.5-mile point. 

The race was well-organized, too, by a group of friendly Rotarian volunteers, and had all the hallmarks of the kind of event we like:  a USATF certified course, five-year age groups, relatively smooth paved roads through interesting neighborhoods, good traffic control by local police, and plenty of food and drink at the finish line.  We warmed up briefly and made our way to the start, where we heard a nice prayer by a local pastor and then pledged allegiance to the flag in front of the Oconee County Courthouse.  Miss Oktoberfest, a pretty young local girl, was there in her sash and crown, and she started us off down Main Street.  A person dressed in some ape-like costume, possibly Bigfoot, was also there at the start, but I don’t think he ran the entire way.

I watched Martha disappear ahead of me, and then shouted out support for her a mile later when she had circled a traffic barrel and returned on the other side of the road.  I ran for awhile with a man and his 10-year-old son, his first race, and chatted some with them.  It was nice to hear a Dad counseling and encouraging his son.  “Now don’t go too fast, we’ve got a little ways to go still.  We’ll take a walking break at that water station when we come back.”  They eventually disappeared ahead of me as Martha had, so his counsel must have been effective. 

I had fun during the race, as I usually do, asking volunteers at the water station if there was anyone behind me, or asking it there would be beer at the finish line.  It lifts everyone’s spirit, including my own, and makes us all run just a little faster to spread some laughter along the way.  I once ran a marathon – at Tybee Island, Georgia, I think – where I kept asking volunteers at mile markers along the way, “Mile ten!  I thought this was a 5-K!” It earned me the nickname “The 5-K Man,” I learned at the end of the race.  As we turned the corner at the beginning of the steep hill at the 2.5-mile mark, I made a police officer laugh by saying, “Hills!  It’s about time!  Now I can put the hammer down!”

It was a downhill finish and Martha was waiting for me at the finish line.  While we were waiting for the awards, I enjoyed watching slower runners (there are fewer of these in every race these days!) cross the finish line.  When we had turned around the traffic barrel on Main Street, I had noticed one very obese man who was right in front of the ambulance taking up the rear, walking steadily along, and now I saw him coming into the finish, running just a little down the hill.  “Let’s give this guy a cheer, guys,” I said to some others standing around, and he got a big round of applause and shouts of “Good job!”  A woman told me, “Thanks for reminding us to do that,” and I replied, “It’s easy for some of these thin 15-year-old cross-country boys, but it took a lot of courage for a guy like him.”  I used to be especially moved at marathons to watch those slower runners finishing, some of them so exhausted they could barely lift their feet, often breaking into tears.  They had to dig so much deeper than the fast runners.

Martha ended up finishing in 32:30 and taking first place in her age group.  It was a special milestone for her:  this was her hundredth race.  And if I am not mistaken this was her fourth first-place finish in the past four races.  I was second in my age group in a time of 37:35, my fastest time since we began running these races every couple of weeks since our hiatus of a year and a half.  Whether it was because of the better conditions and smoother course or not is something I will discover in our next race two weeks from now.

By the time we left Walhalla, the wind had begun to pick up.  We drove on country roads to the Chattooga Belle Farm, site of our race back on September 26 (see post of October 3), for lunch.  The parking lot was surprisingly full of cars for a Saturday morning just a little after 11:15, and we discovered that preparations were underway for a wedding that afternoon - big round tables with flower arrangements, and about fifty folding chairs set up.  The wind was really blowing by then, and we found a table that was in full sunshine but partially sheltered, though not sheltered enough to prevent the occasional tortilla chip from blowing wildly off our plates.

It suddenly seemed like Oktober!

Stonewall Creek Vineyards

We have not been to many Center for Life Enrichment (CLE) events this year, but one that we had signed up for was a tour of the Stonewall Creek Vineyards, located in beautiful rolling countryside south of Clayton in an area called Tiger.  I had always wondered about the origin of that name, and it took only a few clicks of the mouse to discover that it came from either the name of a Cherokee chief named Tiger Tail or the cry of roaming panthers.  Even more surprising was to learn that Tiger, Georgia, has its own Wikipedia page.

Rather than driving to CLE headquarters in Highlands, 20 minutes out of our way, we had arranged to drive straight through Warwoman Dell (named by the Cherokee after a Revolutionary-war era woman – and yes, there is a Warwoman Dell Wikipedia page).  We had never visited this area before now, even though it was not far away, and we learned that there were two other vineyards nearby as well, Tiger Mountain Vineyards and Noble Wine Cellar.  The vineyards are part of the Georgia Wine Highway, an August event that we now want to explore next year.

The area seemed to be a prosperous one, with nice homes and well-maintained yards, and we were surprised by the amount of grape vines, which we later learned amounted to seven acres, planted in the rolling fields. 

 
The main building, where the wine is fermented, had a tasting room and some outdoor tables in a beautiful setting overlooking the vineyard.  We were the first to arrive, followed shortly by another couple who had driven directly here as we had.  It was nice to finally be able to socialize, in an open-air setting, after being so confined by the circumstances of Covid. 

The owner, Mark Diehl, a retired orthopedic surgeon, had bought the vineyard in 2018 from the original founder, also an orthopedic surgeon who grew up in an Italian family that had always made wine.  It was obviously a labor of love for Mark and his wife Sandi, and he gave an articulate and informative tour of the vineyard and the winemaking process to 15 CLE wine enthusiasts.  We had visited big vineyards in Napa Valley in 2016, but it was nice to find that smaller vineyards like this were so nearby, and also that they were making good wine.  Most of the wines were varietals, chosen from French grapes specifically for the climate in Northeast Georgia, with its abundance of rain.  There was Chardonnay, Cabernet Franc, Malbec, and a wine I was unfamiliar with, Petit Manseng.  We walked down into the vineyard to see up close some Cabernet grapes behind protective bird netting, ripe and ready for harvest later in the week.

After the tour, which included tasting some Chardonnay straight from the barrel – fizzy and very cloudy, but tasting very much like Chardonnay should taste – we adjourned to the tasting room and then lunch out on the patio.

Each of us was given four wines to taste.  I chose reds and Martha whites, and while we are not wine connoisseurs, we have been to a number of wine tastings over the years and we thought they were all very good, better than expected for a region not known for producing wine.  We ended up taking home a bottle of the Red Velvet Ruby Port, made from a blend of Norton grapes fortified with American brandy (distilled just down the road a little) and aged in American oak for 18 months. 

Lunch was salad with homemade dressing and classic Quiche Lorraine, and for desert, wine brownies.  We shared part of a bottle of the Petit Manseng, which complemented the lunch perfectly.  We lingered a little at the table, as others did, reluctant to leave, enjoying these last days of an unusually warm October, the leaves just beginning to turn a little in the higher mountains in the distance. 

As we eased out of the parking lot, top down on our Mini convertible, I looked over at Martha and said, “Life is good, isn’t it?”

Autumn Breeze

It was raining when we left Highlands on Sunday afternoon to run the Autumn Breeze 5-K in Tallulah Falls, a scenic race that we have completed more than once over the years.  By the time we reached Clayton, it was raining more heavily, but by the time we arrived at Tallulah Gorge State Park, it had tapered off and the sun was shining.

Not that we mind the rain.  We have gotten very, very wet in past races, including one memorable Flying Pirate Half Marathon in 2012.  I remember that the previous time we had run that particular race, the weather conditions had been perfect, and we had lingered at the finish line for a long time listening to a live band and soaking up sunshine.  But in 2012, it was already raining by the time we lined up at the start, and it never relented.  When we crossed the finish line, we eschewed finish line ceremonies and made a beeline for our car, where we huddled with the heater on.  There is a “selfie” of us buried somewhere on my computer of the two of us, and I think I will keep it buried.

It had only been a week since our last race, so it would have been easy to have remained in Highlands, or even to have remained in our car once we had arrived.  Running in the rain in a half marathon or a marathon for which you have trained for weeks or even months is one thing, but getting drenched in a small 5-K is another.  But the sun was shining and we chatted with some friends at the start, including Anthony, who was not running the race because he had just completed a half marathon the day before and was planning to run the Boston Marathon in six days.  So it was partly a matter of not wanting to lose face, and partly a matter of having already pinned that race bib on our shirts (there can be no turning back after that point), that we lined up, while the rain (naturally) began falling again, heavier and heavier, as the race officials seemed to drone on forever about the course and the beneficiaries of the proceeds from the race.  “Come on!” we were all thinking.  “Let’s go!”  Just before the start, Martha looked at me and said, “Are you sure you want to do this?”  But, of course, we both knew the answer. 

After about a half-mile of running in that kind of rain, a runner simply forgets about dodging the puddles and keeping his shoes dry.  It’s too late for that.  And there’s really no sense in stopping and going back.  Being a DNS (Did Not Start) is one thing; being a DNF (Did Not Finish) is another, and neither of us has been the latter.  I watched Martha pull away from me until she was out of sight.  And then we just hunkered down and tried to avoid the deeper puddles, flinching as a loud clap of thunder echoed through the Gorge at about the One Mile mark.  The course is normally a fast one, following a gentle grade downhill and then crossing and running alongside the rocky Tallulah River, finally returning on a paved greenway trail.  Roots had pushed up the asphalt in many places on that trail and avoiding tripping on them consumed much of my attention.  Still, it was a beautiful day, leaves just starting to turn, and there is a kind of defiant bravado about running in truly horrendous conditions.  “Hey!  Can I borrow that umbrella for a mile or two?” I asked some bystanders.

By the time we crossed the finish line, the rain had tapered off again, and then while we waited for the results it returned, and 159 cold, wet runners huddled under a few sparse tents.  We were pleased to learn that Martha had taken first place in a time of 35:05, while I took second place in 39:19.  Not bad for these conditions!

Martha also got to select a hand-made piece of local pottery, which she learned had been made by someone named “Rayne.”

After the awards, we hurried back to the car, contorting ourselves comically as we stripped off wet shirts and replaced them with dry ones as best we could.  As we dried out and warmed up a little, we began to feel better and better about the day.  It was what runners like to call a “character building” run, and I suppose that even at our age we can benefit from some adversity.  “The greater the obstacle, the more glory in overcoming it,” Moliere said. 

And we had a plan:  take-out pizza from Fortify Pi in Clayton, called in just as we left the Park, and cold beer just around the corner at Currahee Brewing.

Now my shoes are slowly drying on the stone hearth of our fireplace, and it looks like it will be several days before that happens.

Race Recap – Chattooga Belle

Only two weeks after the Never Forget 5-K, Martha found our next race, the Chattooga Belle Farm Wine Run 5-K, and it sounded just perfect for our second race since an 18-month-long hiatus due to Covid.  It was to be held in Long Creek, South Carolina, a 45-minute drive on quiet two-lane roads at an orchard and vineyard which we had probably driven past over the years but never visited.  It was billed as a cross country race, and each adult participant was to receive a wine glass at the finish line.

Wikipedia defines cross country as “a sport in which teams and individuals run a race on open-air courses over natural terrain such as dirt or grass. Sometimes the runners are referred to as harriers. The course, typically 4–12 kilometers long, may include surfaces of grass and earth, pass through woodlands and open country, and include hills, flat ground, and sometimes gravel roads.”

The only thing close to a cross country race I remember running was way back in 2003, and I delved into my race book to help me remember it.  It was the Black Mountain Valentines Day 5-K which I ran with my daughter Katy and another friend from Highlands.  Katy and I had signed up in the Father-Daughter category in what was billed as a “Sweetheart Race,” but while my book recorded my time (24:27 – gosh, I was fast back then!) it did not record how we did in the category.  My race book noted:  “Tough course – snow, mud, grass, trails, hills, steps, etc.  A good day!” 

A good day!  While we did not expect snow, all of the other features I wrote about in 2003 were possibilities this morning.  We arrived early at the Farm, which was situated on a knoll surrounded by rolling countryside with acres of apple and peach trees and a small vineyard.  Its use as a wedding venue was apparent from the rose petals we noted on the grass near the start.  

The starting line was just behind the main building, which contained a store selling T-shirts, apples, beverages (including cold beer), and take-out food from a little on-site bistro.  Scattered out in the fields, we would soon come upon these sort of baskets made out of metal chains and mounted on posts, and we later realized that this was a disc golf course, and very likely the reason this “Farm” in the middle of South Carolina countryside could be dispensing beer and wine on a Sunday morning – as in North Carolina, that would make it a “sports club,” thereby evading the ABC laws.

The start was to be a staggered one, and the time we had signed up for was 10:00, but when we approached the inflated balloon-like arch of the starting line around 9:30, we were casually told that we could begin anytime we liked, so the two of us crossed the mat and began running.

Martha went out ahead, while I began navigating the first part of the course, a steep descent on which I was focused mostly on not falling down, let alone running competitively.

I saw up ahead that Martha had stopped to walk, too, and in only a short while, it became obvious to both of these "harriers" that running, as we like to think of it, would be a foolish thing to do.  The terrain consisted of all of the features of that race I ran in 2003, except that the wet grass had not been mowed, the hills were so steep and uneven that I was forced to pick my way gingerly down them at a walk, and at one point we even found ourselves descending into the woods and crossing this little bridge. 

We wisely decided to walk most of the course, as most of the other participants were doing, and the experience turned into a good one as we simply enjoyed this beautiful morning, winding through apple orchards, past some primitive camping sites (where we no doubt surprised some sleepy Sunday morning campers), and up and down the truly daunting terrain.  Climbing to the start-finish balloon, we had spectacular views out across open fields and woodlands to distant blue mountains all around.  We did a second lap around the course and were glad to cross the finish line, hand in hand.

We did, indeed, receive two very nice stemless wine glasses, and I even went over and had a small amount of Chardonnay poured into mine.  Then we ordered delicious sandwiches and cold beer from the bistro and sat out at a little table enjoying the morning and taking in the view out over the orchard, happy with the slowest finish time either of us have ever recorded in a 5-K “race,” which I shall neglect to record in this blog.

Race Recap - Never Forget

I don’t have many regular readers of this blog these days, I wrote in my last post, which was way back on August 13.  Lizette Pryor was a faithful follower, but mostly because she did not have a computer and I would print out a copy of several posts and mail them to her from time to time.  My little blog shows that I have nine “followers” other than people who might accidentally stumble upon it while surfing the internet and typing, say, “Race Recap” or “Never Forget” in their search engine for some reason.

I began this blog a little over ten years ago, a few months after completing the Boston Marathon, the highlight of my humble running career.  On August 6, I posted a picture memorializing that race, and I wrote:

"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."

It goes without saying that this blog will be about running, and specifically about running here in Highlands, North Carolina, where I live and run and have my being.

So I lace up my shoes and head out the door . . .

Over the years, while focusing on running and training and racing, this blog has also chronicled other adventures, such as a 2016 journey to California and back in our Mini Cooper with hundreds of other Minis. and a day-by-day account of our journey to England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland in 2019.  I have recorded the progress of several construction projects at our house.  I wrote whenever it could not be avoided about things like the January 6 Insurrection.  And I spent a lot of time writing about Atlantic Beach, mostly for the benefit of Lizette and in gratitude for her allowing us to spend winters there.

I have enjoyed looking back over the years at the many races and places to which we have journeyed, and for that reason it seems worthwhile to pick the journey up again after a laps of several weeks, if for no other reason than to create a record for ourselves.  This Race Recap begins again now because after eighteen months, we finally feel that it is safe enough to sign up for races again.  We have kept up with our running during the pandemic, but most races were cancelled or transformed into “virtual races,” where you signed up, ran a 5-K (or whatever) distance anywhere, and sent in your time in a kind of honor system of competition.  But that is nothing like the real thing.

 So on September 11, we toed the line at the Never Forget 5-K in Franklin, run 20 years after 9-11 and in memory of that terrible day.  Martha had not been running in some time due to problems with her asthma and allergies, and only began training a couple of weeks before the race.  I had been running pretty regularly, but work on our construction projects took time away from proper training.  The course was the old “Ruby Run” course that I actually ran on July 13, 1996, in a staggering time of 22:40, good enough for third place in my age group at the time.  25 years later, I was hoping to break 40 minutes, and be thankful for it.

There was a very moving ceremony before the race, which was well-represented by local fire fighters.  Scott Nelson, a Franklin Police Officer whom I knew when he worked for the Highlands Police Department, led the way with an American flag, and there were prayers and bagpipes to see us off.  Some participants wore full fire fighter gear for the entire distance.  Each runner had the name of a victim of 9-11 on his or her race big; mine was Kathryn Brandis, and I looked her up after the race – she perished on that day in the second tower, a wonderful woman by all accounts.

The Ruby Run course begins at the Franklin High School Track, goes downhill, and then returns uphill, which reminded us of many other hilly races we have run over the years.  It was a beautiful, cool morning, and we both got off to a good start.  The Race Director, who shall remain nameless, is notorious for dispensing with features such as accurate measurement of the course, and we were not surprised to find that it was 3.24 miles in length rather than 3.1 miles.  Adjusting for the distance, my time would have been 39:13, in keeping with my goal.  But Martha ran an even more amazing time of 32:29, on little training and up a long, steep hill.  We both took first place in our age groups (honestly, I was the only one in my age group). 

The next day we drove to Pisgah Inn on the Blue Ridge Parkway and then to Blowing Rock to celebrate Martha’s 66^th birthday.  And also to celebrate once again competing with others, striving together, and attaining a worthy goal however humble.