Mastondon 10ish Miler

Yes, it’s really called the Mastondon 10ish Miler. It’s never right on 10 miles. And we like it that way. SuperDave, the race director, keeps things casual and low-stress knowing runners will put enough stress on themselves as it is. The finishers’ prize was a logo branded pot holder, for goodness sake! It was a perfect environment to host one of the first races back into existence after a year of almost nothing. Ironically it was also the last event to happen locally before the world shut down entering what we now refer to as the Covid-era.

The Mastondon 10ish Miler had to be adapted given the current social climate and physical distancing regulations. Traditionally this race is a mass start that bottlenecks a half mile in and follows flowing singletrack the rest of the way around a loop. This year the event was arranged with a single runner starting every 15 seconds for approximately 20 minutes. I’ve never seen a running event do this, and definitely haven’t been a part of one. It was all very curious and enticing. I had to get in the mix.

The master plan was to use this as part of a buildup towards the Peterson Ridge Rumble 20 Miler, then eventually to a road marathon late spring. Unfortunately the world doesn’t seem ready for road marathons just yet, but it’s okay because the trails are in great shape! After running tons of roads this winter and sprinkling in more speed than usual, I felt fast. Faster over a short distance that I have in a long time. It was time to let it rip.

On race morning we assemble by the start, all curious about the starting system. Our bib numbers correspond to our starting place in the field. The first bib number, 151, was local favorite Max King. My bib number? 152. Behind me were a few other locals that I knew could move quickly, but my eyes were fixed on Max’s back. “GO!” The lone runner escapes straight onto the singletrack and out of sight. Adrenaline pumps through me as I have to watch my closest competition disappear in the distance. I felt like a bull fixed on his bouncing red shirt. Just as the anxiety of the situation was about to become too much, the announcer says “GO! Go get him!” and I jolted off the line eager to start making up ground.

Max is someone that I’ve long admired for his ability to be a top-tier competitor no matter the distance, field of competition, or even surface the race is held on. Over the last few years he’s put a hurt on me in a few different races both on a local and nationally competitive scale. But I’m getting closer. This was the day I was hoping to finally claw my way within striking distance and put my name on the map. As long as I could keep him close and finish with his shirt in sight, perhaps I would have done enough to make up the stagger! That was the tentative, optimistic plan at least.

We set out hot down the dusty trail, snaking through the desert landscape, my eyes still fixed on his back as if he broke the wind and I lingered in his jetstream. The bright red shirt made Max easier to track in the sepia-colored surroundings. It soon became clear that it would be a lonely race, regardless of if I could close the gap or not. The tricky element that pulled at my curiosity was if it would be motivating or discouraging to be chasing all the while, or if I would prefer to thrive off being in a tighter pack. It took a while to grasp this piece of it, but what I did learn very early on is that there’s a very different physical and emotional feeling between that of a hard workout and that of a race. I’ve been doing workouts pretty regularly for the last year but hadn’t stepped into a true race environment since January 2020. What a reality check! The tingling of your fingers and nose, the acute alertness and focus, the sudden realization that there isn’t enough oxygen in the world. I missed it all.

I watched the red shirt in the distance slowly fade just as the slight hills began. While the course is quite flat for a trail race, the middle few miles certainly have a couple little rollers. Enough to throw off a steady rhythm. But the realization that I was all alone became ever present. The urge to walk even crossed my mind.

It took a couple miles worth of dragging myself through the emotional mud before I caught a glimpse of what I thought was a red shirt in the distance. A total mental changeover occurred instantly and that bull mentality came back around. There was absolute doubt that I’d made up enough ground to be clawing my way back into the race, but there was still hope. Enough hope that dancing through the technical RockBar trail felt like a smooth path. The ebb and flow of the trail was a challenge but also became a fluid motion on the climb back out.

Knowing that all that was left was a couple long straight shots, the extra knee lift began and the darkness crept around my peripheral vision. A family out for a hike blocked part of the trail, which made for an interesting maneuver after mile 8, but the hard grinding towards the finish continued. Red-faced and panting, I lumbered on.

It felt amazing to race again. It doesn’t feel glamorous and it definitely hurt, but in all the best kinds of ways. As far back as I can remember, racing brought forward positive feelings of challenging myself and pushing others to be their best. While I wasn’t quite in Max’s class on this particular day I hope that somewhere my presence sparked him to run just a little faster. And that the couple athletes behind me ran even a little quicker knowing that I was never more than a few turns ahead. I’m super glad racing is back in at least a modified capacity. But now the floodgates are open. Let’s see what other kind of racing trouble we can get into this summer!