Every race I run these days seems to be slower than the one before, and this fact was never more apparent than in my running of the Firecracker 5-K in Bryson City on the Fourth of July. I have run this relatively easy course seven times over the years, with various running friends, and watched my finish times plummet every year. And since I am an obsessive runner and have been recording my races on a spreadsheet for 216 races, I can share the dismal reality:
2004 22:10 2nd Place
2007 22:30
2009 23:01 3rd Place
2010 23:44 2nd Place
2012 25:23
2013 26:16
2018 32:37
I told Martha – whose training has not been going well and who wisely decided not to run this race – that my only goal this year was to beat my time in 2004 . . . times two.
The traditional pasta loading took place at Anthony’s – a child’s portion of plain spaghetti with marinara for me, hold the meatballs. Our Cherokee waitress had a tattoo over her right eyelid that read Relentless. As always, we asked her about it, and she sat down and told us her story. She had struggled with mental health for a long time, she said, and finally gotten through it. “When you’re at the very bottom there is only one way to go,” she said, and she raised two thumbs. Congratulations to this courageous woman! And a good word to remember the night before a race.
We spent the night in the Stonebrook Lodge in Bryson City, probably the nicest hotel in that city these days and only a half-mile from the starting line. I set the alarm for 5:00 a.m. and woke a half-hour before then, which is what usually happens on race mornings. I know I am no longer a competitive runner, but still it is satisfying to go through the same familiar preparations that I have for many, many races over the years, from one-mile runs to marathons: the careful pre-race breakfast, the appropriate clothes laid out the night before, dressing and going outside to “check conditions” a few minutes before run-walking to the starting line. It was warm and humid, but not as bad as it would have been had I chosen to run the Peachtree Road Race in Atlanta. Our friend Anthony reported that the Atlanta Track Club had gone to a “Black Flag” warning due to dangerous heat and humidity and had suspended the race.
I had not pre-registered, which in past years meant you would be given a paper form to complete and hand in your registration fee, at which point a race volunteer would enter the data on a laptop and give you your race bib while you warmed up. But this morning I realized I was in the digital age when I was directed to one of three laptops and asked to enter said data myself. I did not have my reading glasses with me (another handicap we aging runners face) but I managed to squint at the tiny screen as I completed data entry instead of warming up on race morning; with the help of a volunteer I managed to register and finally obtain my precious race bib . . . one minutes before the 8:00 a.m. start of the race.
I sprinted to the race start, where 300 other runners who had sensibly pre-registered were already gathered, found a place toward the rear of the pack, and then found myself waiting for another fifteen minutes for the race to start, delayed I suppose by runners like myself trying to negotiate the race laptops. Suddenly, following the usual inaudible instructions of the race director through a bullhorn, those of us in the back of the pack noticed that everybody up front was moving forward. The race had started, as T. S Eliot would have said, not with a bang but a whimper.
And they’re off! It was relatively cool despite the humidity, and the course is a beautiful one, going by the Great Smoky Mountain Railway and then out of town, up one side of Deep Creek and then back on the other side. A woman was out lazily watering her flowers, and there were picturesque kudzu topiary statues everywhere. My goal was merely not to walk, to keep up what you might call a relentless pace. I realized once again how satisfying it is for an old runner like me to find myself passing younger, inexperienced runners, the kind who sprint a hundred meters, and then gasp for air and walk before sprinting again. Surprised faces said, Look at that old guy passing me! I had the usual fun, laughing with fellow runners and meeting fast friends who I would never see again, like that blond mother of three with two other little ones in tow who kept urging her little herd of five to catch me again and again (she finally did), and that young man in red whose Dad was trying to urge him forward (“All right, we’ll walk to that white truck and then start running again!”), and that young women whose mother kept telling her to believe in herself, because she believed in her, she only had to believe in herself. It can be a very instructive thing to run your first race, and I was glad to be a part of all of the other encouragers out on the road this Fourth of July morning. “You can do it!” I confidently said in a quiet voice, as I passed her yet again. And she did, just before the finish. And perhaps she will go on to run other races, to go on other adventures, to continue to believe in herself.
It was pretty hot by the time the finish line appeared, and I was happy with a time of 43:22, which I realized was indeed faster than my time twenty years ago . . . times two. Martha was waiting at the finish, and after chatting with some of the finishers, including one old friend from Franklin I had known for over 30 years, we made our way back to the hotel through a street full of crafters just setting up for the crafts fair that day.
Today’s race marked the beginning of a weekend at Snowbird Mountain Lodge to celebrate our 45th anniversary. It is a special place not far from Bryson City at the beginning of the Cherohala Skyway, and this would be our fifteenth anniversary we have celebrated there since our first time in 2003. The former Innkeeper has retired and it has been bought out by a corporation, and although it has retained much its beauty and charm we noticed that his personal touch was missing in some of the details. But it has been a quiet sanctuary for us over the years, and we savored once again the natural beauty, the rocking chairs, the delicious food and drink, and its proximity to nearby places that we have loved to visit over the years (plus some new places), like Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest, the Cherohala Skyway, the famous “Tail of the Dragon,” Fontana Village, a mead tasting at Wehrloom Honey, a Lavender Farm, and the Historic Tapoco Lodge, all of which we managed to fit in at one time or another over the next three days.
Our stay at Snowbird was highlighted by dinner on the terrace, good wine, a competitive game of scrabble at a table in the bar, a Fourth of July barbecue, and on the night of our final stay live bluegrass music by the exceptional Carolina Bluegrass Boys, who played until it grew so dark they could no longer see their instruments. We enjoyed their easy-going, witty repartee as much as their music, and among the many things we learned was the difference between a mandolin player and a large pizza (a large pizza can feed a family of four). It occurred to us once again (we have heard bluegrass at Snowbird in past years) that this was the only way to truly enjoy bluegrass, outside on a terrace with the band gathered no farther than ten feet away.
A race, a visit to Snowbird Mountain Lodge and environs, and some special time spent with my lovely and adventurous wife: a good way to celebrate 45 years of marriage. And on Saturday morning, we did not forget another tradition that we have celebrated on every anniversary spent here by walking out to the nearby overlook at Sunrise Point and ringing the huge gong there 45 times, one for every precious year of marriage, the deep resonant sound echoing out over Lake Santeetlah and into the valley below.
