REACH THE BEACH!
An NHTI-Concord colleague named Fred King approached
me a while ago and asked if I wanted to run in a race. I pondered the invite. While
the years had taken a toll on my speed and stamina, I still had that competitor
gene.
“When is it?” I responded.
“September 12,” I was told.
“How long is it?”
“208 miles.”
“What?”
The race Fred referred to was the annual “Reach the
Beach” (RTB) Relay Race from Cannon Mountain to Hampton Beach.
“You only have to do three or four legs,” Fast Fred
explained. “Around 20 miles total. There will be eleven of us splitting it up.”
Despite some trepidation, I agreed to run.
So on to September 12. Two vans with eleven team
members pulled into the Cannon Mountain parking lot. It was 40 degrees with a
stiff wind. I’d travelled from summer to winter in one road trip. Brrrr!
We checked in and got an orientation. There were 520
registered teams—meaning approximately 5000 runners. Groups of runners
were released to run the first leg every 15 minutes. Our first runner, Bridget,
would launch with a dozen other runners at 10:15 a.m.
Our team name was “Run-a-Quickie-4-Vickie” to show our
support for Fred’s sister-in-law, who was recovering from a serious medical
procedure. We sized up our competition—teams that we’d be crossing paths with for the next
24-plus hours. They included Orthopedics Anonymous, Off Like a
Prom Dress, Agony of Duhfeet, Crouching Runner—Hidden Van,
the Channel 4 News Team, and the 12 Disciples of Pain.
Bridget went almost nine miles and handed the baton off to
Jeremy, our “ringer.” Jeremy passed 34 runners while doing his eight miles—“kills” in
RTB parlance. The sun came out and the weather warmed as we went through Twin
Mountain and down Crawford Notch. Scores of vans sped along Route 302 to
transition zones to exchange runners. Each transition area featured a festive,
carnival atmosphere, as RTB veterans decorated their vans with all manner of
graffiti. One van had a land shark on top. Another actually featured a hula
skirt. I’d never seen a van with a hula dress before.
Finally it was time for my leg. I warmed up at my transition
area a few miles north of Conway, awaiting teammate Tim and the baton. I took
stock of the competition. The Fat and the Furious. Girls Gone Coastal.
The Joggernauts. We Got The Runs. The Vermonsters.
Dave King, brother of Fred, gave me an incredulous
look.
“You’re not supposed to warm up! You need to save
all your energy for the race!”
Finally, Tim appeared. I took the baton and headed
south, looking for my first kill. Pumped up, I maintained a solid, steady pace,
but soon was passed by a speeding runner from The Flying Bandits. I’d been
killed. Despite my steady pace I was killed again and again as I approached
Conway. My teammates drove by and cheered from the van. I later passed them
when they were stuck in traffic.
“Don’t worry,” yelled Dave. “Fred got out and he’ll
meet you up ahead at the transition area in Conway.”
I pressed on, gaining on a runner who seemed to be fading.
I closed in on my first kill—a member of the Waltham Wussies. But he
took away my joy when he explained he’d slowed down on purpose.
“My team is stuck in traffic,” he explained.
“There’s no one waiting for me at the transition area.”
Soon I was in Conway. A cop held up traffic on
Route 16 and I ran across to a side road and the transition area. But as I
approached the hand-off point, I was shocked to see that Fred wasn’t there. I
waited at the line. What was going on?
Suddenly Fred burst out of a port-a-john, adjusting
his shorts and looking at his watch.
“You’re early!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t expect you
for another four minutes!”
Fred took the baton and headed south, chasing a
runner from The Last and the Furious, looking for his first kill.
Night Moves
And
so it went, as runners rotated legs until the sun set. Then a new, nocturnal
world beckoned. RTB is strict about participants being “lit up” as they run
down such busy highways as Routes 16, 25, or 3 during the hours of darkness. My
first night leg would commence at the Gilford High School transition point. Our
van pulled in around 1:30 a.m. and we awaited Tim’s arrival as he completed a
six mile leg from Laconia Ball Bearing. Runners tried to catch a bit of sleep
in the vans, but some had brought sleeping bags and were scattered about the
GHS campus. I adjusted my reflectors, my head lamp, and my tail lights. My legs
ached and I wondered how many times I’d be killed on my coming leg. Finally Tim
arrived and I took the baton and again headed south and eventually up into some
hills.
A
surreal scene unfolded as I left the hubbub of GHS behind me. Dozens of illuminated
runners ascended into the darkness ahead of me, flitting like fireflies along
the country road.
It
was cold, around 45 degrees, but there was no wind. I eschewed the bulky
sweatshirt other runners wore in favor of a t-shirt, knowing from experience
that my body would overheat while running uphill— which it did.
The
bounce was gone from my step. I sadly felt my age as I was killed time and
again. A woman from SISTAS WITH BLISTAS blew by me. The euphoria of the
afternoon was replaced by an exhausted melancholia that was relieved somewhat
by the intriguing scenario and all the bouncing lights.
I
passed a town marker for “Belmont” and soon saw a bunch of vans lined up ahead
of me near the transition point, where Fred would hopefully be waiting. As I
approached I saw an accident scene. A van ran nose down into a ditch, its tail-lights
pointing up at the moonlit sky. A wrecker tried to extricate it. Then I saw
Fred, handed him the baton, climbed into our van, and fell half-asleep while we
waited for the stricken vehicle to be rescued so we could catch up to Fred.
To
the Finish
If
you’re tired enough, you can fall asleep anywhere, and I nodded off
intermittently while awaiting my next leg. Dawn broke and with our van
temporarily being the “off” van, we made a brief pit stop at a private
residence. Then we headed to the transition point in Sandown, N.H., to meet the
other van. I’d never been to Sandown before. We went through another set of
legs and again Tim handed off the baton to me. Somewhere around Kingston, N.H.,
I handed off to Fred and finished my last leg. We returned to the van and
tracked our runners the rest of the way to Hampton Beach. All of us greeted the
runner doing the final leg on the sand and we finished together in triumph, 176th
overall, edging out some familiar faces from the Rosie Ruiz Fan Club—but just
behind the Nuts N’ Honeys. We got our medals, posed for pictures, and enjoyed
some libations in the vast beer tent.
The
newfound camaraderie boosted my tired spirits and I rethought the decision I’d
made during my final leg to never
commit to another 208 mile race. Fred asked if I’d do it again and I
surprisingly replied in the affirmative.
The
Nuts N’ Honeys need to be killed, in RTB parlance. We’ll get them in 2015!
