A Milkshake That Lasts Forever

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My field of vision – my vision of life – has narrowed significantly in this, my third consecutive 25-mile running day. Vaseline has proven useless. The blisters between my toes are bloody and rubbed Howard-Stern raw. A leak in one water bottle causes a constant spittle that oozes out of the top and drips from calf to ankle to trail.

Yellow ribbons that mark our route are my only link to the dusty trail, and they are up high, attached to overhanging tree limbs. Danger is down low, where ankle-snapping rocks and hidden tree roots lurk in the shadows. I try to balance my vision, to look high for ribbons and low for obstacles at the same time so as not to miss a turn. My synapses are at the ready and adrenaline is on call, standing at attention.

The real world simply does not exist in my mind at this point. Life is all too simple. Run a few strides, spot a ribbon, scan for danger, slurp some fluid. Repeat.

The idea was to give some of those less ambitious in town (namely me) the chance to run the Western States 100 with a touch of sanity thrown in. Instead of doing the deed in 24 hours or less, instead of enrolling in Sleep Deprivation University, we would camp out at night and have all of four days to finish the course.

Even with the luxuries of a tent and sleeping bag, we still have to navigate 100 miles of trails in four days. Work and cars and friends are replaced with a new focal point. The trail that stretches out to eternity in front of me is my only concern.

Halfway through day three, a ridiculous number of miles into our journey, my running partner and I are suddenly at the end of the trail. The dirt road connects to something we barely recognize. It’s called a street. On this street are people. Lots of sleeping-in, omelet-eating, football-watching, normal people. They are lined up 10-deep in front of perfectly manicured lawns and white picket fences.

Big trucks pulling big trees are heading down what looks like Main Street. What’s all the commotion?

After the flatbed lumber trucks come troops of cub scouts and boy scouts. As we walk towards downtown and parents scurry to save their children from the two dust-covered men who have stumbled confused out of the woods, it finally hits us. We were so out of touch, so into our own little running world, we forgot that this was the Fourth of July! Small children are up on their daddies’ shoulders waving American fl ags, dusty degenerates in bloody running shoes are wandering the streets… what could be more festive?

Fortunately, I am prepared for any eventuality. I had put a $5 bill in my pack about a month before and forgot about it. We find a Mr. Frosty and I treat us both to chocolate milkshakes. We grab a seat in the sun, stretch our legs out and sit back to watch the scouts and the rest of the parade meander by. Some time later, we find our trail and finish up our third and fourth days of almost-marathon running.

It’s the little things in life that stand out. Ever been in a long, hot bike race and get handed a really cold sponge? Or how about an ice cube at mile 20 of a marathon? You put it in your mouth, roll it around with your tongue, and it’s like the best gift you’ve ever received. Coming into Foresthill on a fluke and getting to see a small-town American Fourth of July celebration was like that.

I’ve searched worldwide to find a chocolate milkshake that tastes anywhere near as good as that one, but I don’t think it will ever happen.

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