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valeptraglia · 3 years

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The Chronicles of Narnia: The Battle of Calormen

Chapter 10: "More questions than answers"

I hurriedly walked through the dark halls of the castle. Lately the weather made Cair Paravel seem like a gloomy place. The sun was setting, or so I supposed as there was no sign of it in the sky, not even patches of light coming through the clouds. Just dark mantles of condensed water glided over the narnian sky. It looked like spring had turn into a storm season.

The humidity was unbearable. The floor was sticky, the walls were sticky, I was sticky. Barely livable and because of the breeze coming from the windows of the castle.

I kept walking down the halls, occasionally tripping over my long cape, I have clumsy feet. Allyri was meant to pick me up on the kitchen's back door I was invited to participate on full moon spring harvest. It was actually an herbs harvest, we were picking up herbs on the night of the first moon of the season, and I'd heard that the herbs harvested on this particular night are magical.

I think it's supposed to mean that the herbs that we collect tonight have a more concentrated essence, they will be great to use as a base in medicinal concoctions. I believe it's because we will be collecting the ones that survived the winter, therefore the strongest ones. Allyri laughed when I voiced this conclusion.

Allyri, the centaur. Who lives near a castle in a land inhabited by talking animals, humans and what I used to believe that were only mythical creatures, like Allyri, the centaur, or Bavra, the faun, or the minotaurs, or the giants, or the dwarves, dancing trees, and the list can go on and on. Did I mention that I stumbled on this land when I crossed the street going for groceries with my brother in London? A year ago?

Maybe they were magical herbs after all.

I heard hushed voices coming down the corridor and as I turned the corner I saw the emitters of the voices. Susan and Edmund. Susan was talking heatedly, I couldn´t see her face, her back was turned on me, but I could see her moving her hand frantically and I could see Edmund's astonished face.

I didn't want to interrupt what seemed a very important conversation, so I hide in the darkness of the corridor, just behind a tapestry. I hide to be found like I was eavesdropping the conversation between two monarchs. Great idea. Yep.

But although my mind kept telling me it was a very silly thing what I was doing, that I just had to keep on walking down the hall, do a little courtesy and continue on walking to the kitchen where I was being expected, my body decided otherwise. And it was often that my body decided for me let me tell you. And it didn't have extraordinary ideas as its clumsiness had attempted against my life on several occasions.

"We are not supposed to be here Edmund. We weren't coming back. This was over" Susan's anxious voice came to my ears.

Don't. Anne, don't eavesdrop, this conversation was not meant for your ears. Don't.

"But aren't you happy to be back? We are in Narnia" asked Edmund with incredulity.

I contained my breath, afraid that it would be heard in the silent corridor.

"Ask yourself this same question once this is over and you are back in your Cambridge room preparing for exams, pretending everything is normal when two days before you were a king" Susan sounded very distress . "Edmund, can't you see? This won't last, soon this will all disappear as if nothing ever happened. And at what cost? This is a war Ed, anything could go wrong, a poor shooting and someone could die".

This last sentence rumbled in my brain. A shiver went down my spine. She had just voiced what I had tried to bury in the depths of my mind a while ago.

"How can you go back from an experience so splendid as it is Narnia to England and being no one?" she questioned intently.

I poked my head, just a little from behind the tapestry. Susan's back now looked so small to me. So vulnerable and I guess Edmund saw her that way too as he held his sister in his arms in a tight embrace. I watched his face. A dim light illuminated it. His gestures were severe, but for a moment his shut his eyes tightly and the show sorrow. Just for a split second.

I hide behind the tapestry again. I was right. This moment wasn't meant for me to see or hear. I kept my eyes closed and my back glued to cold but pleasant stone wall. The rustle of their robes signaled me when they passed my tapestry in a silent walk and as I stepped on the corridor they turned the corner arm in arm, unaware of my presence.

A thunder outside made me jump, I was still standing in the dark corridor. I decided to reflect on what I have just heard when I came back. Now I had to get to Allyri.

Soon I arrived to the busy kitchen where a not very pleased centaur greets me.

"You are late" she states.

"I'm sorry Allyri" I apologized smiling hesitantly up at her.

Allyri was a beautiful female centaur. She stand tall in her brown horse legs, long upper human torso, she had a swarthy, earthy complexion and green piercing eyes which were now looking down at me, burning a hole in my face.

"You live here, how can you be late?" she asked me.

"Well-" but before I could answer, probably with a very bad lie, unless I wanted to confess that I was too busy eavesdropping a conversation between the king and queen of old, Hazel, the badger, my dear and savior friend interrupted what would be a dreadful stammer.

"Anne! Do you have your cape? Yes yes, you do" she was asking and answering herself checking me up and down with a motherly eye if I may presume. She was such a nice badger, she worked at the kitchens of the castle.

Allyri watched the exchange with a disapproval face, slight shaking her head while rolling her eyes. It always amused me to see her or the other creatures make such trivial expressions.

"Alright, let's go" she said pushing me out the door before Hazel could stuffed some food on my pouch.

Warm breeze hit my face as we walked through the garden.

"We have quite a long walk ahead of us Anne" Allyri said when we reached the long dry grasses that surrounded Cair Paravel, the trees that gave way to the forest just a few meters away.

Her long legs made it easy to walk for on the grass but I struggled hard to follow her long strides. My skirt and cape tangled in my legs, the effort was making me sweat a lot under my clothes. It reminded me of two days ago, this same situation, except for the wind and that a young king had to grab me by the waist when I fell face to the ground. I had the feeling that Allyri would only laugh if I fell.

"Where are we going?" I asked trying not to sound too agitated.

"Dancing Lawn" she simply answered.

I tried to put together what I recalled a map of Narnia looked like. It was far. I looked up at the sky. Lightnings were dancing on it.

"Yeah, we might not make it there before it starts to rain" Allyri commented looking at the sky too. "Here, grab my hand and mount on my back" she offered me her hand.

I looked at her in surprise. I have done that. A horse, yes, but mounting a centaur seemed like such a disrespectful thing to do.

"It's proper if I asked you to" she reassured me sensing my discomfort.

Hesitantly I reached for her hand and she pulled me into her back. I embraced her hips and she galloped out. She quickly reached the tree line and I hold on tight as she galloped rapidly in the woods.

She was such a beautiful and noble creature and everything that surrounded her and her people was just magical. I had already grown to love Narnia. Its kind inhabitants, majestic landscapes, culture, everything.

I sometimes thought of home, back in England, but the memories were fuzzy now, I could not remember very well. I was forgetting the meaning of things back at home, some names, the sounds of a busy street, smells, and family too. But I don't exactly feel sad. Narnia fulfilled all my needs. I felt complete here.

But then again, Susan's words made my fears resurface. We are at war here. Anything could happen and I couldn't nor wouldn't afford that. My mind went to Bill, my not so little brother who, since we arrived in Narnia, had developed such a strong character, but his gentle nature was what had me worried.

I was afraid that in a desperate attempt to help he would grab onto something that's bigger than him and that he will go down with it. He is my brother and it's hard for me to see him as a soldier. We suffered war back at home, we lost uncles, friends, and our dad lost part of him in that hell. I am not willing to lose my brother here. We are going back home together. I would make sure of it.

And this leads me to another big question, when are we going back home?

From what I've learnt in my time here the Pevensies spent fifteen years the first time they got here. Fifteen years, and that was over a thousand years ago, and they went back home to their own ages and then they came back, and then back to England, and then Lucy and Edmund came in a third time and got back to England, and now they are all here again. Back and forth through thousands of years, yet the oldest of them is twenty four.

How crazy is this? Funny thing time.

I understand that our arrival here has a purpose. But a year later I still don't know what that is, I was hoping to meet Aslan, The Great Lion, I hoped he would tell us what are we supposed to do here, because fighting a war and dying in it does not sound like a logical purpose to get us out from home. There has to be something else.

So, since we arrived I pushed myself to learn everything I could, maybe it will help me find an answer. I was lucky enough that the centaurs took me in and taught me their beliefs, it's an honor for me. And this made me welcome to the community of creatures that live here in Narnia. Beautiful souls they are.

And if we are here to fulfill a purpose, why did the Pevensies came too? Apparently they don't know either.

In my search for answers I find myself with more questions than responses.

"We are almost there" called back Allyri interrupting my unstoppable train of thought.

I looked around it was very dark now, night time, only trees surrounded us.

Soon we started hearing noises, voices talking actually. And as I dismounted Allyri in the Dancing Lawn where the other centaurs were gathering a deafening thunder rumbled across the night sky.

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centralparkpawsblog · 4 years

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2020’s Best Large Dog Houses for Big Dogs

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Our Pick: Confidence XL Plastic Dog House

If you’re looking for a dog house for your big dog, we think the Confidence XL Dog House is your best choice.

It’s durable, somewhat insulated for those colder months, and plenty big enough for your oversized pooch.

That being said, not everyone wants a plastic dog house or needs space for two dogs. Or maybe blue just isn’t your color. If this sounds like you, keep reading to find the perfect dog house for your large pup!

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Best Extra Large Dog Houses for Sale

Updated 6/26/19

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Our Top PicksSize (W x D x H)MaterialReviewsPrice Petsfit Wooden Dog House45.6" x 30.9" x 32.1"Wood4.2$$ Check Price Confidence Pet XL41.3" x 38" x 38.7"Plastic4.5$$ Check Price Duplex Wood Dog House73" x 39" x 42"Wood3.6$$$$ Check Price Ware Premium A-Frame Dog House28" x 35.5" x 31"Wood (Fir)3.7$$$ Check Price TRIXIE Pet Products Dog Club House45.5" x 31" x 32.25"Wood (Pine)3.7$$ Check Price Suncast DH350 Large Deluxe Dog House33" x 38.5" x 32"Plastic4.0$ Check Price

Big Dog = Big Dog House

Your dog loves you and your home, but sometimes, much like a young adult, they just need their own personal space that comes in the form of a dog house.

If you have a larger breed dog like St. Bernard or any type of mastiff this presents a particular challenge as average dog house isn’t going to cut it.

Choosing a dog house is more than just aesthetics and price, and the data shows that. The pet product industry is big – very big.

Annually, as of 2015, the American Pet Products Association reported its value at over $60 billion which means people are spending tons of money on their dogs, what they eat, and where they sleep.

A normal crate or washable mat will work for short term issues like housebreaking or discipline, but won’t serve as a long term solution even though everyone thinks it will.

Upset canines will often cry or moan throughout the night if left in their cages which should be enough for you to consider custom or pre-built dog houses that are more comfortable and suitable.

You’ve spent tons of time and money on everything from collars to chew toys and of course the right type of food – don’t skimp on your dog’s nightly home.

Sizing up Your Dog’s New Home

Obviously the big issues (pardon the pun) with choosing a dog house for a larger breed is exactly how big is big enough.

The ideal size is one that allows your dog to turn around comfortably but not too big that a draft makes them cold or uncomfortable.

Also if you have a dog bed, make sure it’s appropriately fitted to the interior and can be removed without problems and be cleaned.

Failure to routinely disinfect a loose-fill dog bed for example can lead to the growth of fleas and other pests which can make your dog uncomfortable.

Ideal Material for a Larger Dog House

While you can buy a pre-fabricated dog house or indulge in building your own over a weekend, understanding the different material options and what’s best for your dog’s comfort is definitely something you won’t want to ignore.

Plastic

Ideally, you’ll want to avoid the large plastic style dog houses as the plastic retains heat way more than wood and can cause the interior to become very hot in the spring and summer months.

Keep in mind that your larger breed mastiff already has a big coat to keep itself warm and any extra heat can become quite uncomfortable.

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Wood

Wood dog houses are also more resistant to the effects of the elements, and can be easier to clean if your dog has an accident or a mishap.

On the downside, they can take quite a bit of time to assemble and need to be put together where it will sit as they can be quite cumbersome and weigh upwards of 100 pounds.

This can be annoying, but it is still a better option than a flimsy plastic dog house that won’t be the most hospitable for your dog, especially during those muggy summer days.

Plastic construction, while not ideal does have its advantages. It is relatively inexpensive compared to wood, easier to move around, and much less of a pain to put together.

You can usually just snap them together in a few steps whereas it would be a more committed process with a larger wood unit.

More Wood Dog Houses

Key Features for Larger Breed Dog Houses

If your dog isn’t sleeping on your bed or in a crate, you’ll want to make sure the accommodations you choose for them are suitable year round.

Assuming your dog house is outside, perhaps in your backyard, look for features such as a proper overhang or space on the front so it provides shade and a means for rainwater to be funneled away.

Space

Additional space is also great as it allows room for a large dish of water or food which larger breeds need to stay hydrated constantly.

The inside should be kept dry at all times, not only for the comfort of your pet but also to prevent the growth of mold or fungus which thrives in dark and moist environments.

Raised Flooring

Raised flooring is also a feature you should consider making a priority when looking at potential options.

This allows air flow to remain uninterrupted and assist in keeping the area cool and dry.

It also does a good job of preventing pests, fleas, and other bacterial infections from getting into the bedding and interior of the structure.

Wheels

Some dog houses even come with optional wheels (usually they can be detached) which can be used to move the unit easier, and adjust how high above the ground it sits.

Water Resistance

Water resistant sealant is also a feature you should not overlook, especially if you live in an area of the country with heavy precipitation.

The exterior of your dog house will likely take a beating and the wood or other material should be properly treated with a sealant that prevents precipitation from leaking into the interior.

High-quality dog houses will be treated with a non-toxic water resistant sealant that is more importantly safe for your dog to be around each night.

Etc

Before you commit to a certain type of style of dog house, consider checking online for reviews from owners of similar breeds to your own.

Of course individual dogs have their own preferences, but in general, larger dogs with similar coats and ingrained habits prefer a certain space for napping and sleeping.

Ideally, your dog will have this for years to come, so it’s best to see it as an investment rather than an impulsive one-off purchase.

See More Large Dog Houses

Extra Large Dog House Reviews

Confidence Pet XL Waterproof Plastic Dog House – Best Dog House for Tall Dogs

Specs

Material: Plastic

Interior: 41.3″ x 38″ x 38.7″

Entrance: 14.1″ x 24.6″

The Confidence Pet XL Waterproof Plastic Dog House is a solid entry level dog house that is easy to assemble and easy to clean.

The elevated floor keeps your dog’s new home from flooding and the ample room and tall entrance make it great for tall dogs.

Don’t let the “vents” on the front and back fool you, though. They are not functional.

This dog house isn’t insulated either. It can withstand light to moderate wind and rain but don’t expect your pooch to weather a blizzard in it.

Pros

Easy to clean

Easy to assemble

Easy to move around (31 lbs)

Good for warm (but not HOT) weather

Raised entrance

Cons

Not insulated

Not ventilated

Review Summary

If your dog tall enough for you to pet him without bending over, the Confidence Pet XL dog house is a good choice. As long as you live in an area with temperate weather and/or bring your pup inside during the winter, you shouldn’t have a problem with the lack of insulation.

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Ware Premium A-Frame Wooden Dog House – Best Dog House for Older Large Dogs

Specs

Material: Fir wood, sealed

Interior: 28″ x 35.5″ x 31″

Entrance: 15″ x 21.5″

As far as dog houses go, this is one of the better looking ones. And it performs pretty well too.

The Ware is elevated on adjustable feet so your pooch can have a level place to sleep off the ground.

The entrance is a pretty generous size so if your dog is of the larger breed or just really likes Beggin Strips, getting in and out shouldn’t be a problem.

The real shingles are a nice touch and if you live in an area with fairly mild weather, it’ll probably last a long time.

Pros

Solid wood contruction

Shingled roof

Adjustable feet

Stainable/Paintable

Easy to assemble

Cons

Heavy

Not insulated (there is optional insulation available)

Not ventilated

Can warp or crack in extreme weather

Not the highest quality

Review Summary

This is a very good option if you’ve always wanted a log cabin but could never get it past your HOA. The spacious entrance and raised floor make this a great choice for older dogs who might have trouble bending or getting up and down.

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TRIXIE Pet Products Dog Club House – Easiest to Clean Large Dog House

Specs

Material: Pine wood

Interior: 45.5″ x 31″ x 32.25″

Entrance: 13″ x 20″

Weight limit: 95 lbs

Though it may look like a chicken coop, the Trixie Dog Club House is actually a pretty great wood dog house.

The offset door actually helps keeps your dog more protected from the elements and helps trap in heat during the cold months.

The panels are stainable and paintable so if you don’t like the color, it’s pretty easy to change it.

The best feature of the Trixie is that the roof is hinged with locking arms, which makes cleanup a breeze.

While there’s plenty of room inside, the floor is not the sturdiest. If you’re a “handy” man/woman, you might want to reinforce the floor panels with cross beams or support posts.

Pros

Hinged roof makes for easy cleaning

Raised floor

Adjustable feet

Waterproof sealer

Removable floor

Fairly easy assembly

Stainable/paintable

Cons

Not suited for bigger dogs (>100 lbs) like Great Danes

Not insulated

Not ventilated (unless you open the roof)

Review Summary

The hinged roof is the real breakout feature for the Trixie Dog Club House. Even the plastic dog houses that you can simply spray out with a hose aren’t this easy to clean. Forget ever having to crawl into your dog’s house to retrieve a toy or a pup who doesn’t want a bath.

Update: After doing more research and getting some advice from readers, we’ve found a better alternative to the Trixie Dog Club House, the Petsfit 45.6 x 30.9 x 32.1 Wooden Dog House. The Petsfit’s arms are pneumatic so no need to lock them and the floor is reinforced. It’s is constructed from cedar, which repels fleas, and it comes in a gray and white color scheme.

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Suncast DH350 Large Deluxe Dog House – Best Plastic Large Dog House

Specs

Material: Plastic

Interior: 33″ x 38.5″ x 32″

Entrance: 13.75″ x 19.5″

Weight limit: 100 lbs

The Suncast DH350 is one of the best plastic dog houses we’ve seen. Even though it’s plastic, it’s actually pretty sturdy. And it’s also the least expensive dog house on our list. Plus it comes with a free door flap to help with insulation.

And the set up is a breeze. It took us less than 15 minutes to snap it all together (don’t forget to assemble it outside or it won’t fit through the door).

Since the base only has a little lip to keep the water out, you might want to put it on a pallet to raise it off the ground. This will also help with keeping it cool in the summer.

As long as the floor is fully supported, we don’t think you need to be overly concerned about the weight limit.

Just make sure your dog can fit comfortably since the entrance is rather short.

The DH350 has some nice touches like the faux windows, included door flap, and name plate (with included letter stickers!) above the door.

Pros

Easy to assemble (<15 minutes, no tools needed)

Includes attachable door

Fairly inexpensive

Easy to move (27 lbs)

Waterproof

Pretty durable, even in extreme weather

Cons

Not suitable for larger dogs (>100 lbs)

Low door frame isn’t great for taller dogs

Not insulated but stays pretty warm due to the door flaps

Not ventilated

Review Summary

If you’re on a tight budget and your dog can comfortably fit through the door, we’d recommend giving the Suncast DH350 a shot.

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Duplex Wood Dog House (For 1 or 2 Dogs) – Best Dog House for Extra Large Dogs

Specs

Material: Wood

Interior: 73″ x 39″ x 42″

Entrance: 18″ x 24″

The Duplex wood dog house is the largest one on our list. It’s so big, it can easily fit two large dogs or one extra large dog and a couple of Chihuahuas.

There’s a removable partition in the middle so each dog can have their own space or, if your pooches love being next to each other, you can leave the partition out and have one giant canine crash pad.

The wood panels don’t seem to be sealed so you may want to do that yourself. You can also stain or paint it to match your own home.

Think of it as your pool house.

The construction of the Duplex leaves a bit to be desired but there aren’t many dog houses this spacious so if your pup is large enough for your kids to ride, you don’t have a lot of options.

Pros

Can be used for one dog or two (includes a partition)

Includes 2 door flaps

Removable roof and floor panels for easy cleaning

Cons

Not waterproof

Pieces may not fit perfectly

Not insulated (though the door flaps help)

Not ventilated

Review Summary

There aren’t a lot of dog houses that can fit a Great Dane or Newfoundland sized dog, and out of them all, this is one of the better choices. You’re going to have to put a bit of elbow grease in as far as sealing the wood and reinforcing the floor but this is a solid option for you XXL dog owners.

Check Price

Conclusion

So there you have it, the best large and extra large dog houses on the market today. If you have any feedback on these houses or feel that we overlooked a diamond in the rough, leave a comment below!

The post 2020’s Best Large Dog Houses for Big Dogs appeared first on Central Park Paws.

from https://www.centralparkpaws.net/dog-houses/large-dog-houses/

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thejustinmarshall · 5 years

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The Bighorn 100: A Race Report

Here’s something you don’t really want to hear the week before you run a 100-mile race you’re not sure you can finish: The course has so much mud and snow on it this year that the race directors will give everyone an extra hour to complete the race.

Also, the night before, at the pre-race meeting: The section of the trail they usually say has “shoe-sucking mud” is now being referred to as “horse-sucking mud” because they almost lost a horse there a few days prior when the horse plunged into the mud up to its belly.

The Bighorn 100 is known for a lot of things: beautiful scenery, wonderful organizers and volunteers, lots of elevation gain (somewhere between 18,000 and 20,000 feet of climbing), and sometimes, slick mud. I signed up for the race back in January because a) it was in June and I wouldn’t have to take up my whole summer training for it, b) it’s in northern Wyoming, only about six hours from where I live, and c) I had a fuzzy memory of my friend Matt Trappe telling me it was fun when he ran it four or five years ago. At least I think he said “fun.”

The night before the race, at our Airbnb in Sheridan, Wyo., about 30 minutes from the race start near the town of Dayton, I was more worried about overdoing it in the heat than about the mud. “Mud, I can handle,” I foolishly told myself, popping a melatonin and lying down for what I hoped would be 6.5 hours of sleep.

The next morning, we drove to Scott Park in Dayton and boarded school buses taking us up the Tongue River Canyon to the starting line, and stood on the gravel canyon road for a few minutes awaiting the 9 a.m. start. I stood near the back of the pack and reviewed my goals, in order of priority:

Don’t die

Say thank you to all aid station volunteers you encounter

Don’t complain

Finish the race before the 35-hour cutoff

If possible, finish faster than 35 hours

Don’t sit down at more than five aid stations total

Don’t sit down for more than five minutes unless you’re changing socks

Run all the downhills until at least Mile 70; hike the rest as fast as you can

Don’t get hungry

Avoid serious injury

We jogged and walked up 1.25 miles of road to the Tongue River Canyon trailhead, where we switched to singletrack, and I ran into a couple local guys I know, Chris and Steve. I hiked and chatted with them for the entire first climb up the canyon, 3,300 vertical feet in seven miles. I had told myself that if I soaked the front of my shirt in sweat in the first climb, I would be screwed, as it would be impossible to replace all the fluids I lost. And of course, hiking fast to keep up with Chris and Steve, I was very near soaking my shirt in sweat. Thankfully, we dropped downhill at about 7,500 feet and I cooled off a little bit, and went off on my own pace. The people who said the course was beautiful were right—the route is essentially a tour of canyons with high limestone cliffs dotting the sides, and alpine meadows. Lots of it is open and exposed to the sun until about Mile 30, but breezes and a couple rain showers and thunderstorms kept me cool.

At about mile 9, I started jogging down a faded two-track road and all of a sudden felt the left side of my running vest become really loose, bouncing every time I took a step. I knew what had happened: Several weeks prior, I’d noticed the cord holding the left side of the vest together fraying. The core of the cord had remained intact, and I, an idiot, had figured it would be fine. I also didn’t bring another vest, even though my crew (my wife, Hilary, and friend Jayson) would be meeting me at Mile 30 and 66. I kept walking, pulled my vest off and tried to juggle it and my trekking poles as I figured out how to jury-rig the whole thing to last another 91 miles. After trying to tie it together twice, I looked down and realized my race bib was pinned to my shorts with four safety pins, which have heroically been holding things together since 1849, and, it struck me, might be able to do the job here in the Bighorn 100 as well. I pinned my vest together, ran about a quarter-mile, and forgot about it.

I rolled through the next few aid stations, stopping only to fill my bottles with water and Tailwind, always checking my watch to make sure I got in and out in less than two minutes. At about Mile 14, the course jogged up and down small inclines for about 10 miles, and I hiked the uphills and ran the downhills, chatting a bit with a few runners, including Sergio from South Carolina, who was running his first 100-mile race, and Larry from Pennsylvania, who had been running competitively since the 1970s and has done dozens of ultras. For a solid hour, we were harassed by rain and increasingly loud thunder, which got as close as about two miles away, and then moved away.

At 25 miles, the trail started to drop, gradually and then steeply, losing about 2,500 vertical feet before Mile 30. Up until this point I had seen little mud, but knew the forecast called for more rain, and wondered what the steep downhill section would be like on the way back the next morning.

I jogged into the 30-mile aid station just under the eight-hour mark to meet up with Hilary and Jayson, wipe off my feet and change my socks. My list of “Things I Need You To Make Me Do That I Might Not Want To Do (Or Remember To Do) at the 30-Mile Aid Station” read:

Eat a banana

Drink a protein drink

Refill food in vest (5 waffles, 6 bloks, 2 pie bars)

Pack two slices of pizza in vest

Put extra headlamp in vest

Put pants in vest

Put wind jacket in vest

At 30 miles, I felt OK. A headache from dehydration (took off too fast on the first sunny climb), but no major aches and pains, no hot spots, and no chafing. As I took off from the aid station, it started to downpour, soaking me through as I started a steady, 4,200-foot climb over the next 15 miles. Soon enough, I passed the Cathedral Rock aid station at Mile 33.5, then the Spring Marsh aid station at Mile 40, as the sun set and the light slowly dimmed around me.

A mile or two after the Spring Marsh aid station, the trail entered an aspen stand, the entire floor of which seemed to be mud. I picked my way around, trying to keep my shoes clean and dry, succeeding for the most part. Almost out the other side, a runner came back through the forest toward me—he was near the front of the pack, headed down already. He saw me tiptoeing through the muck and said, “Don’t worry, there’s plenty more of that ahead.” Foolishly, I thought, “How bad could it be?”

At the Elk Camp aid station (Mile 43.5), I filled my water bottles and continued up, clicking on my headlamp. I suppose you could say this is where the bullshit started. When you think of mud, you probably think about it being messy, wet, maybe even sticky. The mud of the Bighorn Mountains is not sticky. I had actually read about it on the internet before the race, while doing a little research on what to expect. People said it was slick. People were right about that.

Most of the way up, it wasn’t that horrible. I had read previous reports of people saying they took two steps up and would slide one step back—at the time I was headed uphill, it wasn’t that bad. I slid around a bit, lost my footing a lot, and in general used way more energy than I would have if the trail was dry, or even less wet. My shoes and socks got completely soaked, and it was getting colder as I gained elevation, but I figured I’d be OK if I just kept moving.

The route between miles 43.5 and about mile 45.5 was mostly just a quagmire, a 10- or 20-foot wide path of marshy, muddy footprints. I gave up and started plowing through the mud, having given up on dry feet or clean shoes. Then some snow started to appear, and for the most part, I could trod across a dirty path where others had already tamped it down. But then I stepped shin-deep, both feet, into icy water that couldn’t have been warmer than 32.1 degrees Fahrenheit. I paused, shocked at how cold my feet were now, and wondered if the rest of my body would follow suit. For about 60 seconds, I was pretty sure I was fucked. I had no dry shoes or socks until Mile 66, which, at my pace, was six hours away. Unable to do anything else, I shrugged and kept plodding uphill.

Eventually, I came to a man holding a flashlight in the middle of nowhere, and he told me to continue across a dirt road, where I’d see the rest of the marked trail. Then another man with a flashlight, and a few minutes later I arrived at the heated tents at the Jaws aid station, Mile 48, at 8,800 feet above sea level, 11:15 p.m. If I wanted to, I could sit next to a heater, dry my clothes, eat a ton of food, get really comfortable, and take a nice nap. Also, I could quit the race—because after I did all that nice stuff and got comfortable, if I didn’t quit, I’d have to go right back down all that mud and snow I just wallowed through.

I sat down for four minutes, a saint of a man brought me a cheese quesadilla, I fished around in my vest and found my beanie, filled my water bottles, and got up and left. It was cold, and I was in shorts, a wind jacket, and a rain jacket, with both jacket hoods up and cinched, and it was just enough clothing to keep me warm if I kept moving. My headache from earlier in the day had disappeared, thanks to drinking lots of fluids, so on the spectrum of Feeling Like Shit to Feeling Fine, I was just over the halfway mark, slightly closer to Feeling Fine.

I started to gradually descend, and the course markers led me back into the woods, the mud, and the snow. I postholed in some of the same places, sort of flash-freezing my feet in the icy water again, and clenched my teeth for a second while I kept moving. I slid all over the place, worse than going uphill, at times feeling like I was wearing penny loafers while trying to walk down a ski slope. It sucked, but it was just going to suck as long as I was in it, so I kept going.

I kept thinking of the Russian spy character in Bridge of Spies, when Tom Hanks keeps asking him if he’s worried the Russians will kill him. He replies very calmly more than once, “Would it help?” as in, “would it actually change anything if I worried?” Complain, get mad, get sad, cry, whatever—none of it was going to dry the mud, or my feet.

I passed a lot of runners on their way uphill as I made my way downhill, wondering if they were thinking the same thing I was on my way up: that I would have to go right back down through this mess in a few minutes. I was solidly in the middle of the pack, so I’d been passed by 100-plus faster runners going the other way on my way up, and I passed 100-plus runners going the other way on my way down, as well as a handful of their pacers.

Probably around Mile 51 inbound/Mile 45 outbound, as I was negotiating another slick/steep section, I slipped, barely catching myself without falling, probably looking very much like a cartoon character. At the exact same time, an uphill runner about 15 feet from me slipped and fell into the mud, catching herself on one arm and narrowly avoiding a total mud bath. As she got up, she yelled, “Jesus Goddamn Christ, Shit, FUCK!” Which is basically the same feeling I was having, and probably almost everyone else in the race was too. I told her there was more mud ahead, but a nice warm tent at the top of the climb. Not that that helped our current situation, I guess.

I eventually made it through what I thought would be the worst of the mud, popping into the next couple aid stations to refill my bottles and then jogging and hiking the rest of the descent to the Mile 66 aid station, where I would meet my crew. I had lofty hopes of arriving there while it was still dark, but the sun came up in the last hour of my descent, gradually lighting the canyon around me as I shuffled along next to the Little Bighorn River. A lot of people say the night is the most depressing time of a 100-mile race, but I actually hate the sunrise the most—probably because I’m slow and it’s a sign that I’ve already been going almost 24 hours but still have several more hours to go.

I jogged into the Sally’s Footbridge aid station, Mile 66, at almost exactly 5:30 a.m., and sat down for about 15 minutes to change socks and shoes—my shoes, socks, and lower legs were now coated in mud a few millimeters thick. My list of “Things I Need You To Make Me Do That I Might Not Want To Do (Or Remember To Do) at the 66-Mile Aid Station”:

Eat a banana

Drink a protein drink

Refill food in vest (5 waffles, 6 bloks, 2 pie bars)

Pack two slices of pizza in vest

Apply sunscreen

Take phone charger + cable

Ditch pants and wind jacket

Ditch headlamp

I would not be the first person to say that people who pace and crew ultrarunners are heroes. By the time I jogged into this aid station, Hilary and Jayson had been awake for two and half hours, getting up at 3 a.m. just in case I was having the race of my life and managed to get from mile 30 to 66 in 10.5 hours. That didn’t quite happen.

But Hilary was waiting, standing at the check-in tent looking up the trail for me when I got there, and Jayson was ready to start running because he knows showing up is 75 percent of friendship. We started the steep uphill climb out of Sally’s Footbridge just before 6 a.m.—hour 21 for me. I trudged up the trail, dry at first. Then there appeared sections of mud that weren’t there the previous day. Then more mud, then very nearly the sort of fuck-this-shit mud we had wallowed through the night before, though not quite wet enough to submerge a whole shoe.

Here’s a neat thought process you should never start if, like me, you’re not a fast ultrarunner:

“Wow, I’ve been going for 22 hours now.” “If I were fast, I’d be done now.” “I’m not fast.” “How many miles do I have left?” “Wow, that’s a lot. How long will that take me, if I keep going the pace I’ve been going?” “Oh wow, that makes me kind of sad.”

Instead of doing that, I recommend finding a friend to pace you who cares enough to do things like:

Take over for the part of your brain that is responsible for self-care and ask every few minutes if you have been eating and drinking, and if everything feels OK

Make you “run” downhill and flat sections, even if you can’t jog faster than 14- or 15-minute miles

Talk to you even though you’re the worst conversation partner ever

Keep you moving no matter what you say

Make you eat food at aid stations even when you repeatedly say, “No thanks, I’m fine.”

Put up with all this for 8-12 hours and still be your friend afterward

We trudged onward, thankfully in the shade for most of the morning climbing, leapfrogging with a few people including Katie, a young woman from southern Utah, and her pacer, exchanging wisecracks. The runners of the other Bighorn races, the 50-mile, the 32-mile, and the 18-mile, gradually joined us and shared the trail. Every once in a while, someone would glance over and see my 100-mile bib and offer encouragement or congratulations. At least I think they were looking at my bib to see if I was a 100-mile runner. They may have just assumed by my glacial speed and posture that I had to be running the 100-mile race.

The hours began to drag, and the pain in my feet and legs kept growing and growing, a steady ache that began as a whisper saying “Stop. Sit Down.” It got louder and louder from Mile 70 onward, until it was basically grabbing me by both shoulders, shaking me and yelling, “SIT DOWN.” I don’t know what other people think about to deal with this kind of thing, but nothing really works for me: not thinking about the food I’m going to eat when I finish, not thinking about seeing my wife, not even thinking about sitting in a chair. Usually I just hike and jog with my mouth hanging slightly open, trying to keep moving as quickly as possible, because there seems to be very little difference in the amount of pain in walking or running this late in the race, and as my friend Brody has kindly pointed out, you might as well shorten the time you’re in pain.

One other thing that’s neat about ultramarathons is that sometimes when you’re so fatigued that you can’t imagine bending your knees any further than about 45 degrees, you will probably have to take a shit. If you’re lucky, you’ll be near a port-a-potty at an aid station. If not, well, here’s what I recommend: Have a latex glove in your race vest, with one or two sanitary wipes in it. Go off the side of the trail and dig a hole with a stick or find a half-buried rock you can pull out of the ground so that you leave a 6-inch-deep hole under it. Put the glove on, squat down, do your thing, and clean yourself up using your gloved hand. Bury your poop, pick up your wipes with the gloved hand, and pull the glove off with by the wrist so that the wipes stay inside it. Tie off the glove at the wrist so your hazardous waste is neatly sealed off inside the glove, and put it in a vest pocket to throw in the trash at the next aid station. This way, you can continue to eat cookies without eating your own, well, you know.

By Mile 82.5, I was dragging ass up the hill into the Dry Fork Ridge aid station. At the aid station, I negotiated with Jayson to let me sit in a chair for five minutes. Being the friend he is, he not only agreed, but also somehow found a slice of hot cheese pizza somewhere at the aid station and delivered it to me. We hiked uphill out of the aid station and continued on, jogging some downhill sections of road on the way to the next aid station. I pointed out where my running vest had broken almost 80 miles back, when I was a much younger and more spry man, the morning before.

In my previous two 100-mile races, a similar thing has happened: Around Mile 80 or 85, I encounter another runner who wants to talk about how bad things are. A couple years ago, it was a guy who said he was trying to think about how he could get disqualified so he didn’t have to finish the last 20 miles. During my most recent race, it was a guy who was mad that the previous aid station was out of cheese for quesadillas, and that the volunteers told him he was in the home stretch, despite the fact that he had a 5,000-foot climb and a long technical descent remaining. Thankfully, in the Bighorn 100, this didn’t happen. I have a hard enough time keeping the negative thoughts in my own head quiet, let alone trying to drown out someone else. I mean, nobody’s making you do a 100-mile race. What am I supposed to say? “You’re right, Bob, this really is unjust. How dare the forces of the universe conspire to make us do such a painful thing to ourselves.” A few days before this, I was listening to a podcast about prison life, and to the stories of men who had done more than a decade in solitary confinement, and how they’d gotten through it. In our situation, in which we volunteered for and paid good money to attempt to find meaning through physical pain, I’m pretty sure we can make it to the finish line despite the lack of cheese, or whatever. (Not that the Bighorn aid stations ran out of cheese, to my knowledge.)

At Mile 87.5, we hit the Upper Sheep Creek aid station, and I grabbed a fistful of bite-sized candy from the tables and ate it while hiking away, with a fervor reminiscent of 9-year-old me on Halloween night. My first Butterfinger in 15 years or so was quite disappointing, but several bite-size Twix bars boosted my morale a little bit. We chugged up our final 500-foot climb, a steep half-mile I had sprinted down the day before, and popped over the top to look into the rolling descent down the Tongue River Canyon, which was larger and longer than I remembered. We jogged a little, but mostly hiked down the steep singletrack. I kept scanning the end of the canyon, looking for a color other than green or brown, an aid station tent that must be just around the corner. I did this for approximately 8,000 downhill steps.

Eventually, a tent and some really nice guys appeared. I negotiated with Jayson for one more five-minute sitting session and had a rather glorious time in a camp chair before we headed out to finish the last 2.2 miles of singletrack.

At the Tongue River Trailhead, our singletrack ended on a dirt road, and the aid station volunteers soaked our arm sleeves and hats with cold water for the sunny final five miles. Apparently someone had tried to drop out of the race earlier at this aid station, five miles from the finish line, and the folks there convinced him to keep going, with a volunteer walking him in.

We walked a lot of the final five miles, me doing the math in my head: If we ran, we’d only cut about 20 minutes off my final time, and I just couldn’t motivate to do it. I swear the road was slightly uphill most of the way into town, but that may have been a slight hallucination. We passed a boom box playing the theme from Chariots of Fire, and then the theme from Rocky (Rocky II, I think), and eventually the houses got closer together and we were in town. We jogged the final half-mile into Scott Park, around the perimeter of the park, to the finish line at Mile 100. Jayson was smiling and laughing, and I was just relieved to be done.

Hilary led us over to a camp chair and some pizza, and we sat for a few minutes and didn’t run or walk, finally off the clock after 32.5 hours. It was difficult. But we all signed up for it looking for something difficult, didn’t we? I guess I got my money’s worth. And hey, a free belt buckle.

—Brendan

[For more: We talked about the Bighorn 100 on last week’s episode of Off The Couch. Click here to listen to the episode.]

The post The Bighorn 100: A Race Report appeared first on semi-rad.com.

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olivereliott · 5 years

Text

The Bighorn 100: A Race Report

Don’t die

Say thank you to all aid station volunteers you encounter

Don’t complain

Finish the race before the 35-hour cutoff

If possible, finish faster than 35 hours

Don’t sit down at more than five aid stations total

Don’t sit down for more than five minutes unless you’re changing socks

Run all the downhills until at least Mile 70; hike the rest as fast as you can

Don’t get hungry

Avoid serious injury

Eat a banana

Drink a protein drink

Refill food in vest (5 waffles, 6 bloks, 2 pie bars)

Pack two slices of pizza in vest

Put extra headlamp in vest

Put pants in vest

Put wind jacket in vest

Eat a banana

Drink a protein drink

Refill food in vest (5 waffles, 6 bloks, 2 pie bars)

Pack two slices of pizza in vest

Apply sunscreen

Take phone charger + cable

Ditch pants and wind jacket

Ditch headlamp

Here’s a neat thought process you should never start if, like me, you’re not a fast ultrarunner:

Instead of doing that, I recommend finding a friend to pace you who cares enough to do things like:

Take over for the part of your brain that is responsible for self-care and ask every few minutes if you have been eating and drinking, and if everything feels OK

Make you “run” downhill and flat sections, even if you can’t jog faster than 14- or 15-minute miles

Talk to you even though you’re the worst conversation partner ever

Keep you moving no matter what you say

Make you eat food at aid stations even when you repeatedly say, “No thanks, I’m fine.”

Put up with all this for 8-12 hours and still be your friend afterward

—Brendan

[For more: We talked about the Bighorn 100 on last week’s episode of Off The Couch. Click here to listen to the episode.]

The post The Bighorn 100: A Race Report appeared first on semi-rad.com.

0 notes