Subject: RR100 story From: Joe Prusaitis Date: Sun, 10 Feb 2002 17:16:15 -0600 Rocky Racoon 100 Feb 2-3, 2002 Huntsville, Tx Joe Prusaitis Joe.Prusaitis@motorola.com The Horses of Huntsville Round & round, up & down, knees lifting, hooves pounding, surging forward endlessly hour upon hour into the night, under the stars. The lead horse dictates the pattern of speed, pace, and rest. The desire for a break requires that you lead and control it. To slow or stop while arrear is to loose the herd. All eyes are forward, none looking back. Might be a while before it’s realized that another is gone. Different stride, weight, size, energy, and style, yet the drive to remain together surpasses all else. What an odd threesome! Bound by faint hope to survive and a competitor’s camaraderie. Thundering from one watering hole to the next, stopping just long enough to drink and then renew the mad dash, each pushing the other. Any dalliance cause to be left behind, so there are none. On a 20-mile closed loop trail repeated five times across Texas swampland and rolling hills, which occasionally switches back on itself. It’s a beautiful day to run, dry and cool. A few move effortlessly ahead, very sleek and proud, the essence of grace, generous of spirit and good will. Others less generous grudgingly give way as we work round them into the rough and off the trail. No matter really! Good, bad, or indifferent, the bond keeps us together yet separate. There are others as well. All shape and size, with coats of many colors, and attitudes to mix and match. Some form their own bonds of two and four, while others remain alone. For this moment it’s a carnival of whirling chaos, a beehive of anxiety and high spirit: sounds, sensations, urges, and feelings intermix. Clomping loudly over a swamp boardwalk inches above still water, a muffled echo reverberates off into the trees. Warm breath steaming into the cold air, flanks scraping tree and branch, while shoes scrape root and rock. A woodpecker’s staccato reverberates through the treetops. The watering holes are every few miles and I rush thru all except my two favorites about 10 miles apart. I drink of a potion, which I have cached to keep my energy up. And for my pleasure, a hidden bunch of plump blackberries. Each time, I fall well off and have to hurry to catch back up the others. It’s an obscene waste of time and they give me no quarter to indulge. It is well as I get back on pace quickly. The herd is packed thick and runs hard in the early morning darkness, snorting and blowing, and splashing in mud. All the sleek sprinters quickly out front, followed by workhorses, young colts, and us Clydesdales. No race horses in our trio, we pound along well behind in worklike fashion, crushing roots and rocks while clearing the trail of debris. Many others we pass and some gallop alongside for a while, but none stay. A few go ahead, trying desperately to stay in front, while the rest fall behind. They think we are reckless and tell us so too. You will lose in the end what you gain in the now. Young and naive I am not, old and foolish maybe so as I don’t give a damn as I let my legs go. Having been here before, my companions and I, we know what we can and cannot do. We also know not to be so presumptuous as to predict how it will end. Mother nature, our stomachs, and circumstance all have plenty to say. We will play and have fun and take what we can. Pulse hurtling, blood churning, lungs burning, breathing so hard, my chest hurts from the inside out pounding. Can I go any faster and not burn out. Can I push any harder and not blow a muscle. Can I maintain any longer and not deplete to a worthless mess of nothing. Silence the questions, I tell myself! I have no answers, no excuses! Just shut up and run. The first 60 miles have been a mix of emotions. Overweight, under trained, out of shape, and mentally challenged, I tease my body with an aggressive stride, testing limits once more with a completely unplanned agenda. Well, lets see what will happen if I do this! I am insane, for sure, but a happy and cavalier equine at least. Give me a smile and a good attitude or send me home. The last 40 miles is where I pay for my foolishness. Let the payments come due. I am ready. After daylight passes and darkness hides the roots, our muscles tighten from work, cold, and tension. I expect us to slow for some or any of those reasons, but I am not in front and continue to pound out the pace dictated by our leader. My contradiction is that I hope for enough speed just so that I can get in front long enough to slow down. But this is not to be. I work hard only to stay with the others and just barely. Kev falls back quickly as the sun sits and we lose him. After many loops and hours as one, the bond is broken. Paul and I continue as before and in silence, the woods growing dark as we push between the darkened trunks and cooling air. And then he's back. Charging with more purpose and energy than seems possible. Kev's back, pushing us from behind and then in front, with us trying desperately to hang on. He’s possessed it seems. The darkness envelopes us soon after while on the long out-n-back. Kev's pounding ahead, charging uphill with new life, new drive, new passion. I desperately hold on, but Paul falls back and cannot gain. Further he falls until we reach the watering hole and joins us as we drink. Paul leads us out a bit more restrained, capturing the lead quickly and reining us in, and I am glad. We would have splintered and been lost had we continued at that pace. It was too much. Again we continue our gallop with an efficient and aggressive style, working together, to propel ourselves through the darkness endlessly onward. Efficiently, amazingly, we complete four in grand fashion and little waste. Our last loop round the perimeter is different than all the others. We run low and weary, sleep-deprived, and exhausted. More by circumstance than desire, each of us slipping into lead, with nobody taking charge. We slow but continue a moderate mild pace, intent on getting back to the barn and to sleep. The bright half moon peeks between dark branches, while bloodied roots hide under a coat of leaves. Bruised and sore from incessant trips and dead stops, every bone aches and every move costs. Panache simmers to silence and thoughts burn to a dull throb. It is a pretty night! Wish I could look up and see it, but I stay focused on the ground and the deadly roots. They continue to hurt me and my pace. Finally, we near the end and our energy returns, if only to take us home. In an easy cantor, all as one, we cross the line together, with bruises as bright as the twinkle in our eyes. Unlike the roots, this cannot be hidden.