The dogs of North Carolina

My first assignment in the U.S. Air Force was in the Midatlantic State of North “Kack-a-lackey,” as some of us airmen stationed in North Carolina used to jokingly refer to it. Why we called it that, I have no idea. Regardless, it was a beautiful place for enjoying outdoor activities, like running, and I was in my running prime back then at the very start of the 1980s.

I’ve run back roads, trails and streets in lots of American States, many of them breathtakingly gorgeous to behold—and I well remember that North Carolina is definitely one of those. But, it was not without its drawbacks. For instance, I found that without a doubt NC was also the worst in terms of “mean ass dogs per mile."

It was my experience that NC dogs were bigger, toothier, fiercer, and more aggressive than in anyplace I’ve EVER lived, bar none. To make matters worse, all those nasty Carolina canines were also THE most unchained and untied, also bar none. Even so, that didn’t stop me from venturing away from the comparative dog-free safety of Seymour Johnson Air Force Base, my home.

In the style of those “ancient” bygone days, I hit the streets wearing little shorts, a tight tank top, baseball cap and running shoes. With so little on, I was as vulnerable to a dog attack as I possibly could be; and I wasn’t the only one to feel that vulnerability. Rick Chandler, a shopmate whose disc-jockey name was “Slick Rick,” was a 6-foot African-American. He loved riding his 12-speed bicycle long distances over the rolling North Carolina country roads. After suffering several scary “chasings by dog,” he began to ride with the protection of a heavy chain linked with a bike lock around his shoulders and neck. During an attack he could wield it to deadly effect against almost any dog foolish enough to nip at him. It wasn’t long before I learned for myself how crazy-mean the dogs were in that area.

Being in pretty good running shape meant that I could cover some pretty long distances, and like Rick, I disliked doing all of it within the confines of the air force base. I could run 15 miles easy on a long slow day and I did exactly that 3 or 4 times a month; but usually, I did more prudent runs of between 6 and 10 miles. It was on one of these shorter routes that I found myself in mortal canine combat.

One spring afternoon, after my shift at the component repair shop, I headed out on a run from our place at 206 Kenly Road in base housing. I started off briskly, and in ten minutes I was through the back gate and heading straight up the road to East Ash Boulevard, as I remember, a 4-lane major thoroughfare about a mile up from the gate.

Twenty or so minutes after the start of my foray, I popped down, into and through a 6-foot ditch, across the busy 4-lane East Ash, and into a gas station lot that may or may not still be there some 25 years later. Just behind the gas station was a low rent trailer court. My plan was to cut across a gravel access road that teed off of one from the trailer court; and then I figured to jog across an open grassy field into a large municipal nature park, which was actually my ultimate objective all along. The park, a favorite of mine, was all trees and grass, laced with plenty of trails, and absolutely perfect for what I liked more than anything, cross country running. However that’s not quite how it turned out.

“GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!”

My spine went cold and my legs weak at a sudden fearsome rumbling coming from my right and slightly behind me. It was a deep angry reverberating growl, and whatever its source it was approaching fast. I knew that because upon snapping my head around I saw that the growling snarl was issuing from the throat of a large and charging German shepherd.

I had a life and death decision to make, because that mad dog monster was sprinting right at me up the middle of the gravel road from the trailers. 10 feet of chain snapped wildly behind it from its thick leather collar; he must have snapped the chain with a mighty lunge upon seeing me. Some dogs see a runner and its chasing instinct kicks in; it’s the wolf genetics, and in this case, I was irresistible fleeing prey. Well, this was one human “deer” that was going to fight back.

I knew not to try to run away; all that would do was inspire it to tear out the backs of my legs. No way! Not my legs! A runner’s legs are his life. My brother claims that all anyone has to do in that situation is to point forcefully at the charging animal and yell as loud as possible at it, “NO!” That might well have worked in this case, but by the time I saw it, the dog was almost on top of me. And besides, I had never seen anything like this crazily intense animal. He wasn’t barking, he wasn’t blustering, his only intent to close with and kill me horribly. I knew this instantly; I FELT it in my gut.

Skidding to a stop on the gravel and turning quickly to face it, I had only a moment to assume a classic fighting stance—legs apart with the right foot slightly behind as a brace, body crouched, and fists held high with the right one pulled back. In this case, I also pulled my chin as far down to my chest as I could get it—I’m sure I did this because I could feel its intense gaze locked onto my throat.

In far less time than it’s taken to read this sentence, the deeply growling animal swiftly closed in. I was shocked that he continued his furious charge, as most dogs will check up and cautiously circle before coming in for the first snapping bite. I think this one had some training though, because there was no pause in him at all; he was a freight train and I was Pauline atrussed upon the tracks. Like a Looney Toon animation character, the rampaging beast’s scrabbling paws and claws threw a shower of gravel and dust behind it.

Five feet to my front, it gathered itself for the final leaping lunge and threw itself headlong, paws first, up and at my face. I noticed things in that split second that still spill into my memory—its chest broad and muscular, the fur there a lighter brown than the shoulders, legs and body; glittering dark eyes half-closed in a black face; teeth yellowed and glistening with saliva, every single pointed one of them; and at the end of the attack, I recall a mouth as gaping as a hippo’s, apparently to facilitate the ripping out of my windpipe. I observed too that it cocked its head slightly, exactly like a person does to adjust for biting into a taco. Funny the things one notices in stressful moments.

In an instant, all traces of trepidation disappeared from my trembling gut. I became as enraged as my attacker. I WANTED him to attack. I pulled my right fist back a little further to create more leverage and threw the hardest twisting punch of my life. It was a right cross, and it was perfect.

In golfing and baseball the most powerful hitting and driving strokes feel absolutely effortless when performed. It was like that with that right cross. I caught that shepherd directly on his gaping lower jaw and suddenly his world flipped upside down. The rumble in his chest turned into a whimpering shriek, as my crashing right fist unexpectedly unhinged and dislocated his lower jaw. Of course it was a lucky punch—a dog’s jaw muscles are some of the strongest of any creature its size.

The yelping would-be-assailant collapsed in a thumping crash to the ground on his broad furry side; his dislocated jaw stuck over a good inch to the right. His pain must have been enormous. However, I wasn’t done with him. I roared obscenities at the stricken animal and kicked and stomped its struggling body as it lay writhing in agony. I really wanted to kill it and I was dead set on accomplishing that task when a plaintive voice in the most exaggerated southern black accent I’ve ever heard interrupted me.

“Whet yo dewin ta MAH dohhhg?”

It was the fallen dog’s owner, an ancient black woman in curlers, slippers and a bathrobe, and none too happy with my treatment of her “pet.” Anyway, her question brought me out of my berserker rage and back to my senses, slightly.

At that moment I was surprised to hear cheering and horns honking from a multitude of cars. All four lanes of traffic on the busy avenue had halted upon seeing the huge animal bearing down on me. The drivers must have been amazed and probably relieved at how quickly the tables had turned. Many of them, broadly grinning, pumped their fists at me, while others waved, nodded approvingly and gave me the thumbs up. Some had even gotten out of their stopped cars right in the middle of the avenue, probably to lend assistance if need be. Still stunned, I just stared at them and gave them a feeble return wave. I can imagine the stories told around some dining tables that night.

Adrenaline still coursed through me like a freshly injected speedball, and turning back to the old woman, I answered her loudly and angrily, “I hope I hurt your damn dog BAD lady, because he was trying to KILL me! You’d better keep him chained up, or next time I WILL kill IT!”

I spun around and continued my run, not waiting for her response. I really didn’t care what she had to say anyway.

But as I said, there were lots of mean dogs in North Carolina…

Later that winter, on a bitterly cold and windy day, I found myself jogging in a part of Goldsboro where I’d never been before. It was semi-rural, with widely spaced houses built well back from the road. Passing a split-level, I heard before seeing an outraged dog, another shepherd, which soon set itself upon me. It had charged, barking irately the entire time, across a large expanse of snow-dusted yard; and it paused only momentarily before trying to bite my legs through my sweat pants.

I tried kicking at it while continuing a running escape, but it was almost impossible to make any headway, so unremitting were his snapping attacks. I could hear the alarming sound its teeth made as it repeatedly strove to snap them shut into me. In a moment my baggy pant legs had several tears and rips from the effects of the toothy attack.

I had retreated to the center lane of the road when lucky for me a Good Samaritan in a sedan slowed down and yelled at me to use his car as cover. It worked. I was able to keep the slowly moving vehicle between the dog and me until I could make good my withdrawal. The man saved me from a sure mauling. I gave him a heartfelt high sign as he drove away.

But, now I was pissed! I wanted revenge. I planned another run for the following weekend that would once again pass by that spiteful animal. Only this time I was determined to turn the tables like I had done with the first evil shepherd. I owned a knife that looked like a stick when sheathed. The 5-inch blade was sturdy, pointed and sharp and it had one good cutting edge. For a week I dreamed of exacting some payback. The idea that I should have to suffer an assault while running on a public road was not something I was willing to accept, from neither man nor beast. That dog would have to pay—by bleeding, and hopefully, dying!

My goal was to draw it in close before jumping on it, grappling it and stabbing it repeatedly in the chest and head. I figured I was going to take some damage as well, but I accepted that as part of the wages of war, a war that it had started and one that I was “doggedly” determined to finish.

It was a Sunday afternoon; I found myself almost to the house of my four-legged enemy. I slowed down at the place where its owner’s yard first came up to the road and pulled out the knife. Removing the wooden sheath, I hid the knife up along the inside of my left arm. Then, I heard the dog take up its mad bark and start its charge.

‘Yes! Here he comes!’ I thought eagerly. ‘Come on! Come and get your medicine!’

I slowed down even more, feeling a jolt of thrilling energy surge through me. I was ready for Freddy! ‘Come on Freddy!’

Then, suddenly, it stopped. I glanced to my right to where I thought the animal would be and it wasn’t there. The dog had stopped about 20 feet from me and was just barking weakly, refusing to come another step. I stopped and turned toward the now cowardly beast.

“Well, come on you piece of dog sh*t!” I yelled goadingly. I even took a step or two out onto the brown winter-dead grass of its yard, but it only retreated. It looked like the same dog, but it sure didn’t act like the same snarling snapping creature of only a week earlier. My long imagined fantasy of being locked in a death struggle with it was not to be. I think I was disappointed AND relieved, maybe mostly relieved.

The shepherd must have smelled or sensed something different about me. I had never shown it even a glimpse of the knife, but it knew something was up for sure. I carried that knife with me on all my runs for the rest of my Air Force tour in North Carolina, always hoping that I might someday get a chance to use it. Only problem is that every time a dog seemed willing to come at me it would suddenly stop its attack, look confused and skulk away.

Well, maybe not every time….

There WAS another terrifying time that my little sheathe knife would have done me very little good. It was a balmy Saturday morning, and I had asked a buddy to drive me out to a State park some 15 or 20 miles out into the countryside so that I could run back on the straight.

Less than three miles into my return and I saw something in the distance that made me sick with dread. Way off to my left, out across a field planted thick with tobacco, was a pack of about a half-dozen farmer’s dogs. I could see that at least two had the distinctive shapes of Dobermans, while the others were just BIG.

‘Oh SH*T! I’m dead!’

I pulled the sheath off my knife, but I knew it wouldn’t do squat against a pack of those baying wolf-like creatures. My only chance was to GO! I kicked into the fastest gear I had and began to pump out a fear-powered mile that I hoped would put me out of whatever territorial range they had.

I knew I couldn’t outrun them if they were determined to catch me, even though they did have a very steeply inclined slope to negotiate to get to me. I looked down that slope to my left and saw them begin to lope across the field in my direction. Apparently they had done this before, because they weren’t running directly at me, but were angling towards the place they figured I would be once they got to the road. Smart creatures.

I put my head down and ran like the wind. I continued to take the occasional leftward glance as they drew ever nearer, but stopped looking for them after a half-mile when I came to the end of the expansive tobacco field where a long patch of thick woods crowded both sides of the two-lane country asphalt. I could still faintly hear their excited howls, but I began to relax when I realized they probably weren’t going to catch up to me. Nevertheless, I continued a fast pace until I was sure I had gotten away. Thank you God!

Anyhow, running in North Carolina is like that—lots of big mean dogs with rows of sharp teeth in their loudly barking salivating mouths.

Run there at your own risk—and if you must be on foot, carry a weapon.

Believe it or not, as a kid, I loved dogs. That changed when, as a youngster, I took up the “double dog” whammy of both running AND delivering newspapers. From harsh personal experience I can say positively that dogs don’t like runners and they HATE paperboys even more. So, I learned to hate them right back. In fact, when it comes to dogs, we’ve been mortal enemies for a long time. Of course I realize that there are a lot of dog lovers in the world, and if you are one, lets agree that if you keep your animal away from me then I won’t fight to the death with it!

I should have entitled this post “Man Bites Dog!”

Barefoot Runner

It’s time for another runner’s tale.

It was the early summer of 1980. I was but 22 years old and impatiently waiting to get into the Air Force. During the 7 months it took me to transfer between the Marines and the Air Force I lived with my parents in our home on Beyer Road in Birch Run, Michigan. My wife and baby daughter were visiting family in the Philippines and I was missing them. They had been away for weeks.

To while away the days as I looked forward to my family’s return, I ran the rural roads of the area, feeling nervous about my forthcoming transition to my new service branch. My weight was down to less than 130 lbs, but I was feeling pretty good. I was lean and mean, and in pretty good running shape.

I don’t know if they still do it, but the old hometown used to have a homecoming celebration every year at the Buster Brown Memorial Park just up Beyer Rd from our house. Unfortunately, the park doesn’t exist on that site any longer. Now, that area and much of the fields and woods around it are no more, covered completely with concrete and hundreds of outlet stores. Truthfully, I hate it. As far as I’m concerned, Birch Run sold its soul for a buck. For me, it’s no longer my home; I don’t know the place anymore.

But back then the park was still just a large grassy area with some playground equipment. It also had a double wooden pavilion on a concrete slab, a pair of tennis courts and a couple of softball fields. Its parking lot was nothing but a square of blacktop and a whole lot of dusty gravel. They had advertised for weeks all the fun and competitive things that were going to happen at that year’s homecoming (actually, my brother informs me that it must have been the 4^th of July); good clean family stuff like horseshoes, tennis, softball, and a foot race. I thought the race would be fun to try, so in preparation I mixed in a little speed work with my distance runs, but nothing special.

Most of my family showed up early that sunny Saturday morning so they could see me run. My dad had worked the nightshift at Saginaw Steering Gear during the four years I had competed in high school in the early 70s so this was one of the only opportunities he ever had to see me race. Actually, I’m pretty sure he had missed everyone of my track and cross-country meets. The fact that he was there I thought was pretty neat. It kind of felt like it used to when my parents came to see my all my little league games back in the 60s.

I signed up at a folding table and noticed that I seemed to be the only adult meaning to run. Most of the other racers were just kids—girls and boys aged 10 and up. One older teenage boy with a shock of blond hair caught my eye because he was warming up barefooted. I wandered over in his direction and listened to him talk to some other interested bystanders. He was 16-years-old and was bragging that he had trained for months without shoes; and according to him, the soles of his feet were as tough as leather. Just the same, I had a hard time believing that he would be able to run like that for long, since Beyer Rd was not a smooth blacktop, but pebbly surfaced asphalt. I was sure his feet were going to rip to shreds. His braggadocio rubbed me the wrong way. I was going to have to do something about that.

The organizers called us all out to the road to get the race started. I lined up behind the passel of excited kids and that young blonde-headed barefoot fellow. I was completely unconcerned with my so-called competition—in a word, I was overconfident. When the starter’s pistol went off I even lingered a few seconds to let the little mob of racers take off at what I knew was an unsustainable sprint. In no time at all, they were strung out in a line of 20 or so struggling “amateurs,” as I thought of them. I did notice however, that Mr. Barefoot was way out front—he was a good 60 or 70 yards ahead of me by the time I started to actually race. Seeing him so far out in front I figured it was time to get serious.

A mile—that’s all the race was supposed to be, so I knew I’d better start reeling in some people, especially Mr. Barefoot. Less than 100 yards into it and I had passed all the others but one—Mr. Barefoot. I concentrated on quickening my pace, and slowly but surely, I pulled him back to me. By the way, that’s runner’s talk for “I caught up to him.”

The turn around point was at a little bridge just past the Baylor’s house, which was the very next house after ours. Sheriff Cramer, driving the town’s cop car, was down there waiting for us. You know, I think he might still be “the top cop” in Birch Run even until today. If so, he must be in his 70’s by now. Or maybe they passed the position on to his progeny, kind of like the royals do with the succession of their crown.

I was only 20 or so yards behind the running barefoot boy when he made the turn just past the bridge. I studied him closely as we approached each other. I took some satisfaction in seeing that he was mincing along on what looked to be very sore feet. I smiled at him and waved, making sure to show him absolutely no fatigue, no weakness. In truth, I was beginning to feel a little pain myself, but I wasn’t going to show him that. My plan was to defeat his confidence before soundly beating him to the finish line.

I made the turn at Sheriff Cramer’s car and kicked my pace up a smidge to catch Barefoot Blondie. I was at his side by the time we passed my house about 100 yards from the bridge. For a moment, I stayed just behind him on his right shoulder and observed him. I was correct about his feet; he was stepping on them pretty gingerly. Still, I was amazed that he was able to continue running on them. He was in pain and it was affecting his gait—he was definitely slowing down. I thought I’d try to get into his head a little before crushing him physically.

“How you doing buddy?” I asked him without a trace of effort in my voice.

“Terrible!” he gasped.

“Oh really? …Good.” I smirked and took off in front of him in a spurt of speed.

“What!” I heard him say in an exhalation of outrage. At the same time, I heard his feet pick up his pace as he too kicked up his speed a notch. I cringed just listening to the fleshy padding sound that his unprotected soles made against the rough asphalt. Now, it was his turn to run just behind my right shoulder. I began to think that this kid was the real deal. He was showing a lot of moxie.

We practically sprinted as we passed the Stainforth’s place and then the Totten’s. Back then, a large block of woods several hundred yards long still existed from there up to a modest cabinet factory. We battled along back and forth along that wooded stretch right up to a little strip motel called the Cardinal Inn just after the little factory. After that, we were back to the edge of the park.

A wide sweeping curve in the road formed the northwest corner of the park; as we approached it I could hear the spectators start to shout encouragement at the two of us. Upon hearing them, Barefoot Boy made his move to go around me. I could hear his family and friends well over my own family members, and the juvenile egomaniac striving to pass me was obviously receiving inspiration from his enthusiastic vocal support. Damn it!

By then, both of us were breathing raggedly. He came abreast and I merely pumped my arms faster to stay slightly ahead. I had learned long before that the legs follow the arms. He was unable to get past me—I wouldn’t let him. I thought for sure he would start to cave, but no, he continued his charge.

As we came through the broad bend and into the last 150 yards into the homestretch I found another gear and kicked into it. Unbelievably, the kid sped up right along with me. By this time the onlookers were screaming at us. It was a blur of sound that worked to drive the two of us into new levels of effort. If I hadn’t been racing him, I would have been very impressed with the kid. Thing is, you can't beat someone while feeling "impressed" with them. I began to realize that I shouldn’t have taunted him. This young fellow was tough! Still, I knew down in my guts that I WOULD beat him.

The finish line was more than halfway to the top of a man made upgrade in the road that ultimately led to the I-75 overpass. As we got to the bottom of that hill we were side-by-side and panting like steam powered locomotives. The finish was the entrance to the park up the hill and to the left. It was going to make for a very awkward race conclusion, but all I could think of was getting there first. Mr. Barefoot, to his credit, had the exact same thing on his mind.

Reaching the bottom of the hill, I was slightly ahead of him. To my surprise he was able to find the energy to surge ahead of me. I was shocked and enraged. With only 15 yards to go I forced my feet to almost double in turnover, again by using my arms. For that last 10 yards I ran as fast as I EVER have in my entire life, before or since. I flashed past the kid, bolted to the left and across the finish just 3 or 4 feet ahead of my fierce competitor.

Improbably, that little so-called fun-run turned out to be the most aggressive race I’ve ever run.

After the race notes:

While I was bent over holding my shorts at the knees I was amused to hear Barefoot Boy’s mom complain bitterly that I should not have been allowed to compete in the race against her "little boy" (He was actually physically bigger than me.) It reminded me of my little league days when my own parents became incensed because of an over-sized 12-year-old player, a catcher, on the other team. Parents WILL do and say those things I realized. I shook my head and smiled at their sour grapes.

Once I could speak normally again, I went over to the kid and shook his hand. His feet were hamburger. How he raced so strongly like that I have no idea. I told him that he might well have beaten me if he had worn running shoes.

Life is a funny thing. That was a mere pickup race, a throwaway run, and yet it turned out to be one of the defining memories of my racing career—and all because some young showoff was determined to win a little race in front of his family. Sorry, but I couldn’t let that happen, not with my own family watching!

I’m sure we both learned something from our experience—overconfidence (not curiosity) can kill the cat.

24 Hour Relay Race, The End

Part VI – The Definition of Agony

I had drifted off to sleep without realizing it, probably for 15 or 20 minutes, maybe longer. I tried to sit up and then roll up to my feet, but it wasn’t possible at first. My legs had turned to pain-wracked stone. Gasping, I struggled to my feet and took some wobbly, uncertain steps toward the track. All the muscles from my “glutes” down were stiff and they hurt beyond belief when I tried to work them in any way. The pain of trying to walk over to the start line caused me to pant. I was glad it was still too dark for anyone to see my wretched agony. I cursed bitterly under my breath at myself for having fallen asleep.

In all my years of running I had never experienced leg muscles so stiff, not even after my first day of track practice during my freshman year of high school, and that had been pretty bad. Just the same, my guy was already in the far bend of the last turn, and I was going to have to take the baton from him. There was nothing to do, but give it a shot.

I tried to jog in place to start the loosening up process, but managed only to shift awkwardly from foot to foot. I forced myself into a walk toward the onrushing runner barely visible in the early morning night, now chugging into the beginning of the final straightaway. I stopped 20 yards from the start and began a pitiful jog, back toward the start. The runner went into his finishing stride; with my back to him I heard his approach, his deep rhythmic breathing and urgent footfalls acting as sonar, letting me know the approximate rate of his progress. In utter dread I turned to take the baton.

With me hardly moving during the transition, he placed the baton into my outstretched hand, and for the first time, he practically had to come to a complete stop to do so. It startled him since I had taken off like a man on a mission during each previous handoff. Actually, I WAS still on the same mission, but now it was much modified.

I cannot come close to describing the sheer torment of the next few minutes. It hurt so bad that if I had been in any other situation I surely would have stopped and quit, but quitting was not an option. I felt like I was representing the entire Marine Corps, and quitting is not something marines do just because of a “little” pain. The USMC does a very good job of programming young minds when it comes to instilling the concepts of duty, honor and loyalty it seems. It worked on me. My fellow runners were depending on me just as I depended on them, so even the thought of trying to “walk it off” did not occur to me. No, I would “run” the entire relay and that’s all there was to it.

My gait finally began to resemble an actual jogging stride by the time I got to the 220-yard mark on the opposite side of the track. The toxins that I had allowed to settle into the tiny capillaries of my leg muscles were slowly being flushed out with every beat of my pulsing heart. Fortunately, they did not go into spasm, also called a “charley horse,” an agonizing contracture of muscle tissue that can cause even a full-grown manly man to fall to the ground and scream like a baby.

The first quarter mile was finally behind me and my split was dismal, almost 30 seconds slower than I would have otherwise hoped for. Still, as my legs began to loosen up I began to hope that I could salvage something from that infernal mile. I forced my pace to quicken, and then to quicken still more. To my relief, the pain and stiffness dissipated all the more, almost proportionately to my efforts to go faster. Even so, the damage had been done, and no amount of speed and willpower could totally force my legs back to normal. On the upside, I managed to put together a pretty good last half-mile, and finished the mile with an almost decent time of 6:21. As I handed off to the next runner, the sun peeked its way above the eastern horizon.

Looking now at the 29 year-old chart showing the mile times of all the 8 finishing runners of that relay, I feel the proudest of that 6:21, even though it was my slowest. I say that because when I woke up on the ground and found my legs paralyzed with pain, I forced myself to reach deep down for resources I didn’t know were there. Exhausted, famished and in agony, I kept going. For years, that nightmarish moment is what defined me; I compared it to all other tough times and nothing ever came close. Even my most difficult instance in bootcamp before my "hell mile" did not come close, since what happened to me in basic training was a dispiriting event, a time when I completely broke down – something I strove to forget rather than a time to be proud of. Still, I think I might reexamine it in a future post.

For me, the rest of the relay was humdrum, pretty much uneventful. I had experienced the roughest it could throw at me and survived. We were all going so slow from that point that I only had to run 5 more times before noon. In fact, my last mile ended just after 11 a.m. My times remained mostly faster than my running mates, and happily, they continued to call me “the machine.” A title I most certainly had earned since my average mile time over my 28 total miles was 5:44.2, a time that should have been closer to 5:30 if not for my "blowup" from falling asleep. Oh well, as I said, that “mistake” caused me to have to do something that became very important to me, and strengthened me for most of the rest of my life.

George, always the showboat, saw to it that he ran the last mile, and he did it with the same flare that he had run the first one 24 hours before when he had kicked off the relay. Incredibly, he managed to dig deep and ran a very fine final mile, everything considered, in only 5 minutes 18 seconds. You gotta LOVE those Ortega’s!

After the relay I completely sagged. Back at the Ortega house I could only eat a little and fell asleep for a time on their living room floor. Ray wanted to get started back to Alameda, but before we left I copied all the times into my running journal and have it to this day. Blessedly, I lapsed into unconsciousness and didn’t have to experience any of Ray’s crazy driving while awake. In less than a month I would pack my bags and leave for another difficult experience, Marine Security Guard School, but that is another story.

24 Hour Relay Race, Part IV

(This story is getting a bit long, so time to break it up. Folks are always complaining how long my stories are. I apologize ahead of time, but just try to think of it as several stories in one, as most tales are anyway).

Part IV – In the Heat of the Night

After the first mile, only two things concerned me: staying cool and maintaining the pace. In order to do the second, it was imperative to do the first. With nine of us running, we had very little time to get our core temperatures down before the next run. We were averaging less than 6 minutes a mile, so basically we had just over 45 minutes from the end of one mile to get ready for the beginning of the next. The most efficient way to do that was through the strategic application of ice on those areas of the body where the blood is the closest to the surface with the most flow. Thus, we discovered that the wrists and the neck are the best places to cool off the quickest. Also, I found that putting ice cubes inside my hat and letting them melt down my face and neck was exquisite. Without ice, we could NOT have continued past the first three miles. No way.

It seemed I had just started to feel almost normal again when my name was called to get ready. My running mates had all managed to continue their quick times, so it seemed that in spite of the heat we were going to be pushing each other to keep on keeping on. I recognized that that was the true nature of a relay race like this – athletes pushing each other, for the “team” and for personal satisfaction. It was a beautiful concept and all, but we were basically at war, and as such, we continued our individual battles against the sun’s blaze as we fought to keep our paces from flagging.

My second mile passed, about as effortlessly as the first; in fact, it was a second faster than the first at 5:15. What was missing after mile number one was the surge of energy we had previously picked up from the initial excitement of kicking off the relay. There was very little fanfare after that, so from mile number two on, it was all legs and lungs.

The afternoon passed mechanically. Each runner fell into the routine that best suited his makeup. As for me, immediately after each mile, I went to the coolers full of ice and water and chilled off. While icing down my neck and wrists, I guzzled water and Gatorade to replace the gallon of sweat I had just lost. Normally, in any other competitive race, after running a mile or any distance for that matter, I’d simply rest and THAT would be the primary consideration. Not so in a 24-hour relay in the height of summer, because there was a whole lot more to think about.

This morning I spoke to my brother on Yahoo Messenger asking him if he had read anything yet on this post. He had, and being a damn good runner in his own right back in the day, he remarked that he didn’t know how he could possibly have kept himself loose for each mile for that long. He hit the nail on the head. THAT was one of the toughest considerations of the relay, and because of it, I could never really rest between each grueling mile. I’d drink and ice down and then I’d walk around to stay loose; we all did. Every other mile or two I’d mosey over to the nearby college gymnasium to visit the restroom, which by the way, was air-conditioned. Needless to say, we took a lot of potty breaks.

The hours and the miles rolled on. The heat took its toll on all of us, but after 8 miles, one of the runners had to pull out. I was surprised that he lasted through the hottest of the day, and it was only as the sun finally winked out that he called it quits. If you look at the mile times, and I will include them in the next post, you might be surprised that he was the only one to fall out. Heat prostration is deadly, and even when it doesn’t take you down all the way, as it begins to roll you up, it tears away the will to do anything but lie down. The primary symptoms are queasiness, then nausea and absolute weakness and malaise. Go back and look at the ages of these fellows; most were between 14 and 16 years old! I doubt if I could have found 9 runners in my squadron of marines who could have done what we were doing, and these guys were young kids, although obviously pretty amazing ones.

After 10 miles, just five of us were maintaining paces in the sub 6-minute range. I was managing to stay around 5 minute 15 seconds per whack, only George and Jesus were close to me, although not quite as fast. The other runners began calling me “the running machine,” because I kept pumping out almost identical miles. I liked the nickname and I wanted to live up to it. I knew I wasn’t the best miler out there, but I wanted to establish myself as the most consistent. Even after 15 miles I was still “the machine,” but as the clock counted down into the very wee hours, I made a serious mistake.

24 Hour Relay Race, Parts I, II and III

Part I – The Ortegas in Modesto

How disheartening is it to have to write a story twice? That’s what I’m doing now, and I have only myself to blame. Its happened to us all, the computer crashes and takes out the entire manuscript, one completely and frustratingly finished. I should have blogged it as a draft, or I could have saved it into an email, but after three years of no problems whatsoever I let my guard down. I should have known that Microsoft would eventually screw me – THAT is the moral of THIS prologue. Anyway, on with the show.......

It was mid-June 1977 when Ray Ortega, a fellow marine in my squadron, asked if I wanted to run a relay race with his twin teenage brothers in Modesto, a small city about two hours southeast of us. The prospect of such a thing intrigued me. It would be a 24-hour relay with nine runners doing a mile at a time. I had never heard of such a thing, but it sounded like a great way to test one’s will and endurance. It took me all of 5 seconds to agree to do it.

Ray drove me out to Modesto the following Friday. We got a delayed start, so by the time we got out on I-5 it was late evening. Ray and I were not close; we had very little in common other than being members of the same squadron on Alameda Naval Air Station. We served in MAG 42, a composite outfit with two very different types of aircraft – heavy lift helicopters called CH-53 Sea Stallions, and single seat attack aircraft, the venerable A-4 Skyhawk.

What I remember most about that Friday night is my relief that we made it to Modesto without dying or ending up in jail. Ray had a late model silver TransAm and he flew it more than drove it. I spent much of the trip scrunched down in the bucketseat with my eyes closed or looking anxiously over at the speedometer, which mostly showed us going well over a 100. At one point I peered over at the dash and could see nothing but darkness. A sick realization came over me, and I confirmed my suspicions asking him, “Ray, did you just turn off your headlights?”

He answered matter-of-factly, “Yep, that way the cops can’t see me, and if they can’t see me, they can’t clock me.”

I suppose it made sense to him, and I must admit that it did get us there a few minutes faster than otherwise. THAT was Ray.

I felt like I had returned from the Twilight Zone once I entered the normalcy of the Ortega home. They were a wonderful family, originally from Guatemala, but you would never know it to be around them. They lived in a typical American split-level house in an ordinary American subdivision. It was warm and bustling and I was immediately made to feel quite at home.

I met most of the other runners including Gus and George, the Ortega twins. They were a breath of fresh air, not at all like crazy Ray. In just a few days they would head down to San Diego to submit themselves to the rigors of marine boot camp, an ordeal only slightly tougher than what was to come the next day. They wanted to be marines just like their brother; well, I hoped not EXACTLY like him.

Actually, I was the one who wanted to be like THEM. They were quite the ladies men. Both had bookend little blonde high school sweeties that followed them around like lovesick puppies. On second thought, I DIDN'T want to be like them, I wanted to BE them. I had turned 20 just two days before and still hadn’t been on a date. I know, I know, it’s hard believe!

We ate lots of spaghetti and drank lots of fluids to get our bodies' reservoirs stocked up for the next day's "impossible" exertions. Even so, I knew no matter how much I ate that it could never be enough, but I gave it a shot and shovelled it down. It was after midnight before the place quieted down some. It was a very lively household! With the race not starting until noon, there was no need to get to sleep early, the plan being to sleep in as close to the start as possible. That sounded fine to me; I love my sleep.

Part II The Ordeal Begins

As planned, we got up late the next morning. For breakfast we continued where we had left off the previous night, eating heaps of pancackes, eggs, bacon, toast, jelly, and washing it all down with quarts of milk and orange juice. Our tanks were definitely topped off as the time to head out to the track approached.

Most of the 9 runners were soon regathered there at the Ortega house. In the naked light of day I watched them scope me out as I did the same to them. All athletes do this. Put more than one in the same room and watch them size each other up. All they knew about me is what Ray had told them and I think he had bragged my running abilities up pretty good. My impression of them was that they all seemed to be in strong lean shape. I judged myself to be in the company of some fairly serious runners, although they sure looked young.

With just over an hour before the crack of the starter’s pistol, we loaded up the vehicles and caravanned out to the college track. I helped unload coolers of food, ice, water, and drinks. Soon, we had an out-and-out camp on the grassy infield area just on the other side of the pole vault lane. We had everything we needed to make us and our camp followers comfortable for the next full day: Three or four beach umbrellas, a couple dozen different types of lawn chairs and recliners, folding tables and chairs, and a dozen blankets spread out on the thickest grass.

Being an outsider, I hung back and tried to figure out what was expected of me. I pitched in where I could, but mostly I stayed quiet and observed. To everyone’s credit I was rarely left by myself for long; folks were always coming up to me and introducing themselves and wishing me well. Everyone asked me about my being in the Marines and how well I knew Ray. Mostly I got lots of “good luck out there” concerning the relay, and “is it hot enough for you?” concerning the weather. My impression: Modestoites are nice people.

Speaking of the heat! If you have ever been to the valley areas of Central California in summer you know how intensely hot it gets. The sun is a fearsome blast furnace and clouds, when they dare to make a showing, are soon reduced to hazy wisps. Being outdoors in Modesto in late June causes the human body, even at rest, to give up its moisture by the gallons per hour, and by midday, a normal person’s energy level is about the same as that of a lifeless rag doll. Rational people swim in their pools or stay indoors huddled around their air conditioners, but not us!

It was almost 12, and despite the heat, quite a few spectators came out to support us. Admittedly, most of them were parents, friends, and girlfriends; although a reporter from the local newspaper showed up. I began to feel like I was a part of something noteworthy. Here’s a portion of the article he wrote entitled “World’s Record Effort…” It was published on June 27, 1977, in "The Modesto Bee" the Monday after the run.

“What is this compulsion to set a world’s record in long-distance skateboarding, raw egg eating, see-saw riding and telephone booth stuffing?

Whatever it is, the season has started and for many, the Guinness Book of World Records can be credited, or blamed, for the inspiration that can lift an ordinary person into fame, however fleeting.

As the weekend heat pushed above 100 degrees, nine Modesto runners kicked their heels into the cinders at the Modesto Junior College track…Calling themselves the Modesto City Runners, they are Rick Simental, 14; Philip Spear, 20; Steve Hurst, 14; Jeff Pezniak, 16; Rick Salas, 16; Tony Bettencourt, 16; Jesus Alberto, 18; and twins Gus and George Ortega, 19.

The running was almost upon me and as always in similar situations, I became edgy with nerves, my stomach jumping and bobbing from proverbial butterflies. All nine of us anxiously kicked our legs out, first one, then the other, all while shaking loose our arms at our sides. I’ll bet Neanderthals did the same thing tens of thousands of years ago as they restlessly prepared to run down and spear to death wooly bison. It seems to be the natural action of any man before attempting something extremely physical, especially when it involves running.

The first man to toe up to the start line of course was one of the twins, George. The boys' high school track coach called down the time and when it reached exactly noon he pulled the trigger of his starter’s pistol. “Crack!” George was off and the 24-hour relay had begun.

Part III – Nine runners On a Quest…

George set an amazing initial pace for such a long-term endeavor. I’m sure he was showing off for our little crowd of spectators, and as one of the primary organizers of the event it makes sense that he wanted to set the bar high for the rest of us runners. The heat seemed to have little effect on him as he just about strutted his 4 laps around the track. He passed on the baton to the next runner with an impressive time of 5 minutes 10 seconds. I nodded approvingly and applauded his effort thinking, ‘Okay, I can do that. No problem, ….I think.”

The other runners sought to continue to run with George’s élan and their times were also all under 6 minutes. When it came time for Jesus to run I took even greater notice. I had been looking forward to watching him run; the guy just looked like a natural. Sure enough, he flew around the track, throwing cinders behind him with every muscular stride, and passed off the baton UNDER 5 minutes at 4:54:6. ‘I wonder if he plans to run many more of those over the next 24-hours?’ I thought.

I was eighth in line to go and my guy was out on the track. “Spear, Phil Spear! YOU are next up!” one of the moms was keeping track of the rotation and calling out the names of the next to run. I soon saw that a lot of logistics – thought and planning went into something like an officially timed relay race. Without all the volunteers, there was no way we could have done it. We needed people to man the stopwatch, to log our times and yell out lap splits, to keep us stocked in snacks and drinks, to watch the runner’s order, and to make sure each finishing runner was not in physical distress. The runners needed to concentrate exclusively on running, and all those people made it possible for us to do exactly that. On that note, my first time in the relay barrel was fast approaching.

When the 7th runner started into his “bell lap,” I took my place out on the cinders about 10 yards before the start line. My butterflies immediately exploded into full-blown adrenalized eagles. I couldn’t wait to get that baton and do what I’d come there to do. It was time to earn my free victuals and drinks. I bounced around on my toes, adjusted my glasses and reset my baseball cap low over my eyes. When the 7th runner was half way through the final turn I became stationary for him to see as his “target.”

I held my left hand directly out behind me, toward the approaching runner, his grimacing face a vision of concentration and pain. My fingers were tight together, my thumb stretched out from them to give him the ideal receptacle for him to slap the baton into. When he was almost upon me, I took off into a run with my arm still stretched toward him. I could easily hear his rapid and noisy breathing. I kept my position to the outside of his so as not to interfere with his finishing strides, all the time trying to match his pace. He slapped the baton into my hand just as we crossed the finish/start line and I began the first of my many miles.

Even now, 29 years later, I recall the joyous feeling of being in perfect shape and taking off powerfully into that first of many miles. The track was wonderful – not too soft with just the right amount of bounce. I breezed through the first lap in 68 seconds; in awe of my own speed, I realized that it was much too fast. Excitement and adrenaline was doing its work well, so I decided to let it. My half-mile split was quick too, on pace for a 5 minute mile. By then, I knew I was going to have a decent first mile time, so I decided to “float” through the last two laps. With my pace in energy saving “overdrive,” I easily loped through the final half-mile and handed off the baton to Gus Ortega with a respectable time of 5:16.

My straining stride turned into a stiff-legged amble as I watched Gus dash off with the baton around the first turn, and THAT is when the full impact of the 100+ degrees of heat beat its way into my senses. As my breath came under control I made a beeline for the hose and its cool stream of water. Two other runners were still taking turns under its gentle splashing flow. I knew from our times that our physical shape was not going to be the question, no; it was going to be the insidious heat. Whoever managed to deal with the heat would manage to finish the relay. I realized then that we would never have a shot at any record times, and instead we would be lucky to simply finish the thing as a team.

Part IV.... To be continued....

Running Scared -- A Hashing Story

Before checking out the following little adventure, you might want to read my original post about “hashing” here first.

Starting my own Hash

I had always dreamed of starting my own Hash House Harriers club, and I finally did so in 1989, a few years after arriving in Arkansas. My harriers and I met mostly at my home in base housing on the Air Base. I tried to run a “hash” every Saturday, weather and work permitting. I built up my club from a nucleus of a half-dozen or so steady participants; these hard-core devotees were mostly guys from my unit, the 314th Avionics Maintenance Squadron.

It got easier to get other guys to come out and run with us after the Quality Assurance Office picked me up as an Avionics Inspector. All of a sudden I was the boogey man, a fellow with some “power” and a little influence. Now, when I went on my inspection rounds and asked folks if they wouldn’t like to come over and try a hash run, often some felt pressured to do it. No one wants to make the QA guy mad – after all, they never knew when it would be their time to get an “over the shoulder.” Not coming out wouldn’t have affected my assessment, even a little bit, but I wasn’t going to tell them that. Besides, once they tried it, they were hooked.

On Being the "Hare"

After a year of organizing hashes, I began to search out new and more challenging hashing routes. I took my turn as hare, or "wabbit" as Elmer Fudd says, more often than the others, mostly because I loved the test of being chased. I spent hours exploring and mapping out possible sites that would make the perfect places to “checkpoint” and “false trail.” The important thing for a “rabbit” making a trail to keep in mind is to avoid running through an area where the chase runners can see you from a long way off. If they can see YOU, that means they don’t have to follow YOUR “tracks.”

I was a sassy brassy rabbit. I loved doubling back and going to ground, so I could watch the hounds from up close as they intently strove to run me down. It gave me a strange feeling of power, and it was just plain fun to watch my hounds from as close as possible. Once, I circled around and buried myself under a pile of leaves, and watched barely stifling giggles as the dozen hounds trotted by on both sides of my hiding place. One guy even stepped on my hand as he jogged past my prone concealed body. It was deliciously exciting being invisible like that. Several times they tried to outsmart me by leaving one guy back to try to catch me when I circled around. It was a chess game I almost always won, mostly by just running fast when they got close until I got away. In hashing, being quick is better than being cagey!

Most Memorable Hashing Moment Ever?

I have many pleasurable memories from those days, but perhaps the most memorable of all came about one Saturday when I ran my hounds around the outside of the base golf course. I knew it was going to be risky, because I was going to be visible from a long way off from where I took them past the base’s main gate before ducking back into a large plot of woods. By doing so, I was breaking one of the most important rules of being a hare. When I hit the long scary open area, I ran as fast as I could while still laying spoor, but I wasn’t quite quick enough. For as I made my way, almost at a sprint, halfway to the safety of the woods on the edge of the golf course, I heard someone yell from 100 yards away, “There he is!”

Dang it! I had needed only about 10 more seconds and I would have been out of sight. Now, they were taking a direct line RIGHT at me, and the bad thing is they were running diagonally across the 6th fairway to do so. None of them was a golfer, so they didn’t understand why that was such a big no-no. Some disgruntled linksman, probably an officer, was going to scream bloody murder for sure.

Never mind. Getting away is all I was concerned with at that point. I sprinted into the obscuring safety of the big rectangular patch of woods. I stopped leaving spoor until I was in the trees, since they knew where I was anyway. As soon as I hit the woods line I began tapping my dust sack against tree trunks, rocks, and on the ground every three or four strides. Knowing they were right on my tail, I wasn’t nearly as careful as I usually was about leaving detectable bright white splotches from my sock full of hydrogenated lime dust. Truthfully, I was in a mild panic. After all, the hounds were right on my trail and I could feel their breath on my neck. Awesome! I was in my element. That’s what I lived for!

My plan was to take them all the way up the long side of the woods plot to a paved golf cart trail, and even in my hurried state I kept on that strategy. From there, I stayed on plan and turned right so that I could quickly get The Hash back off the golf course. I knew I was taking a dangerous chance cutting across the course anyway, but what’s life without taking a few risks? I did my thing and continued to lay my trail.

I Zigged, They Zagged

Once I was safely off the golf course, I took an immediate right behind a ridge running parallel with the plot of woods through which my hounds then struggled. I went to ground on top of that ridge, and from my position behind a fallen tree, I could see directly across the 8th fairway at the extensive copse where my hounds had faltered. I could hear them calling to each other unseen in the densely leaved trees. From the sound of it, they had lost the bright white lime dust spots I had quickly left in my wake. In their excitement to catch me they had outrun the trail, so that where I had zigged, that’s probably where they had zagged.

A party of four golfers was just making their way up to take their second shots after teeing off from the 8th tee box. Two of them were riding a golf cart and the other two were pulling their clubs with handcarts. I smirked watching their consternation at all the noise in the woods to their left. Suddenly a raccoon burst out of those same woods and skittered crazily between the golfers toward the far side of the fairway towards me. That crazed coon was merely a foreshadowing of what was to come.

I could hear my dozen confused hounds yelling at each other:

“You got the trail yet?”

“NO! How about any of you over to the right? Can you guys see anything?”

“Not yet! Still looking!”

They Were NOT Amused!

The golfers looked disapprovingly at the trees to their left toward the unwelcome loud voices of my hashing “troops.” One fellow even stopped pulling his cart and walked to the edge of the thick line of trees trying to catch a glimpse of the “big mouths” – I KNEW we were going to hear about it now (and BOY did we EVER!). The angry duffers looked like officers or senior enlisted guys; either way, neither group tends to have a sense of humor – a trait this “foursome” was about to have put to an “extreme” test in just a few more seconds.

My naughty and annoying hounds were now on line trying to find a single lime splotch so they could get back to following my trail of splotches. I cringed as I heard them yelling back and forth, along with the cracking break of branches and twigs as they made their way through the thick foliage.

Then one of the hounds screamed, “Hey, I’ve got the trail! On! On! This way boys!”

About then I heard my guys make a series of excited whoops, and then a God-awful crashing noise as all of them took off at once into the same direction.

No Way! It Can't Be!

That’s when the REAL show started! And I couldn’t BELIEVE what I was seeing – was I REALLY seeing this? EVERY type of forest animal I’d ever imagined living in the State of Arkansas began to pour frantically from the woods across the expanse of fairway to my front. An avalanche of creatures swarmed from out of the tall grass and undergrowth, all of them spooked to flight by MY noisy hounds. I was amused realizing that not one of my harriers was even remotely aware of the mayhem they were causing in that small corner of the animal kingdom.

Amazingly, one of about a half-dozen stampeding deer, a buck with a beautiful six-point rack of antlers, bounded straight out of the foliage. One of the pull cart golfers was directly in its frenzied path. The panicked deer got to within 10 feet of the man before noticing that a human being was right THERE! Once the buck saw the man, it put on the brakes only as a deer can, or maybe an NFL hockey player. Only instead of ice chips flying, a hefty five-foot long strip of sod and dirt was thrown high into the air and all over the startled golfer.

Seeing a 190-pound white-tailed deer bearing down on him, the shocked man cowered, crouched low and covered his head with both arms. The heaving deer fell heavily on its side within a couple feet of the screaming golfer before scrambling back up in a flurry of legs, antlers and hooves. Regaining its feet, the buck continued on its original course, bounding away in incredibly long 15-foot leaps. After seeing that I can assure you that the definition of “fear” is most certainly the sight of a frightened deer! Or, is it the sight of a golfer being frightened by a deer in fear?! Either way.

Furry and Feathered...

For a few seconds, my attention had been completely taken up by the dramatic interplay between the golfer and deer. Now all the other beasts, large and small, mesmerized me. I never imagined that so many critters could live in such a small area. These furry and feathered beings literally streamed in their scores across the short-clipped fairway grass, all of them trying to escape from my hounds. I tried to gather in and catalogue the unlikely hodgepodge of fauna before me – mice, fox, squirrels, opossum, lizards, skunk, deer, a couple of armadillos, even snakes and birds issued forth, and all because of my hounds and me. Cool!

In less than a minute it was over. The torrent of animals gushing across the fairway greenery, through and around the startled golfers, ended as quickly as it began. Even the snakes quickly found new hiding places. The first of my unsuspecting pursuers burst forth onto to the cart trail, and the sight of them only a couple hundred feet away knocked me rudely from my dazed trance. I jumped to my feet and went back to work. I had a trail to put down. There were hounds within sight, I was a rabbit, and within a half hour we’d all be drinking cold beer and I’d be telling them an unbelievable story . . . . About a bunch of other animals, besides me, that they had put on the run … On! On!