Stupid Human Tricks: Back in my college years, my friends and I had a saying we used anytime we saw someone do something particularly moronic. It was reserved for someone - often one of us, mind you - that was doing something that was destined to show up on America's Funniest Home Videos (aka old-school YouTube), and pretty much any act preceded by the phrase, “Hey, watch this!” After observing the entertaining, yet often painful, event one of us would calmly deadpan, “Huh. That's a special kind of stupid right there.”

Toeing the starting line of the 2010 Voyageur prepared to run 50 miles, I speculated for a moment just what my old Gopher alumni pals would think of the idea. But as I looked about at the other runners, it appeared that everybody around me was a well-adjusted, seemingly intelligent human being. I mean, this couldn't possibly be a silly thing to do. Right?

And don't forget the BBQ sauce: So, how do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time, of course. Thinking of 50 miles as one large chunk of running, or even two 25 mile legs seemed a cruel trick to play on the mind - enough to leave you muttering like the old man in the park who talks to the pigeons. So, I decided to mentally break the race up into more manageable pieces. Carlton to Forbay, Forbay to Power Lines, Power Lines to Fond Du Lac, etc. – work on each 5 mile niblet, rather than the whole flank steak all at once.

Understanding the ups and downs of each section from running the NMTC trail series, the ½ Voyageur, and many training runs certainly didn't hurt, either. To wit, it was easier to push the Power Lines a bit; knowing that nice drop down to Fond Du Lac was coming. All of this made pacing my first 50 miler feel less like groping in the dark. Never underestimate the value of the home court advantage.

Manna from Heaven: It’s amazing how quickly the runners get strung out in a long trail race. Before you know it the starting line jumble has disappeared, you’re twisting through the woods and out there running mostly alone. The nice thing is, every once in a while, the solitude is broken up by these friendly people that seem to drop in out of nowhere – and they bring treats. I can't say enough about aid station volunteers – friends and colleagues, all so cheerful, supportive, and incredibly helpful:

“Fill your water bottle for you, Ron?” (Why, yes.)

“Care to sample from our fabulous array of hors d’oeuvres?” (Oh... if you insist.)

“May I recommend the Pinot Grigio as a nice compliment to the Fig Newtons?” (Absolutely.)

OK, I made that last one up. But I'm certain they'd offer a good Pinot if they had it. They're that kind of people.

Flying the friendly skies: The first half of the race was remarkably uneventful, which was the way I wanted it. It was like a good plane flight that way – no running equivalent of turbulence bouncing the ice out of my gin and tonic – just smooth, steady sailing. I ran into the race leaders as I passed through Magney. I have to say, it is impressive watching Chris Gardner coming at you, running like a linebacker – knowing that he’s been barreling like that for over 25 miles and will do the same for 25 more. I saw fellow blogger Connie as I dropped down toward the Zoo. She was motoring up the hill, and also looking fantastic.

At the turn-around I finally took an earnest look at my watch, pondering my split. And... my goals changed. Going into the race I had figured somewhere between 10 and 11 hours would be a nice run – get me into the top 3rd of finishers, maybe. Doing the mental math – I realized that it was not unreasonable to slip inside the 10 hour mark, as long as I paced diligently on the return trip. A nice, refreshing rain was falling, but it was a mixed blessing – muddy trails would be a challenge, especially at the Power Lines. But you can't worry about things you can't control – all you can do is run. So I set off, feeling a fun sense of urgency.

Food your Mom won’t let you eat: Fellow blogger Eve had promised me Twinkies at the turn-around. She delivered and they were delicious – a big step up from GU gel. Funny though, juggling and eating Twinkies while running in the rain soon left all of my fingers covered with mushy, sticky, orange sponge cake. I'm pretty sure I could have used them to climb a wall like Spider-Man, given the chance. On the plus side, having to gnaw off the remaining bits made the enjoyment last a little longer.

Release the hounds: As I ran through the Fond Du Lac Aid Station, Ethan was manning the check-in board – and he mentioned that I was running about 21st. In hindsight, I don't know if he meant overall, or amongst the males - but it didn't really matter. I was somewhere near the top 20 - and pleasantly surprised. The information served as a nice motivator, especially a few miles later as I stopped for a moment at the Seven Bridges Aid Station. Looking back down the stretch of Munger Trail I had just covered, I saw them. From out of the woods runners were emerging, and pounding resolutely in my direction... 1, 2, 3, 4... like ants on the way to a picnic. Right about there I quit counting and started running.

The Power Lines on the return were slippery in spots from the earlier rain. On one nice downhill I decided to slide down sideways like I was on a snowboard (mudboard?). It wasn't entirely graceful - Shaun White really has nothing to worry about - but it got the job done. Overall, it was all pretty manageable.

And now for a bit of family time: I had estimated the time my wife and son should meet me at the Peterson Aid Station (at approx. 41 miles), and was looking forward to seeing them there. But when I arrived, they were nowhere to be seen. I checked my watch. Doh! 40 minutes early. Leave it to a guy to screw up the schedule.

But all was not lost. Rolling into the Forbay Aid Station a short while later, there they were. I learned later that I had missed them by mere minutes at Peterson's, so they had plenty of time to zip on ahead. My son wanted a hug, which I obliged. To his credit he didn't even cringe. Given my sweaty, muddy state, in his place I might have opted for merely a firm hand shake. Of course, 9-year-old boys are of the type that have no problem with storing frogs in their pockets, so it probably wasn't a big deal.

The end of the beginning: Turning the corner off the Munger trailhead in Carlton, I saw the blue finish arch. It had been a great day of running, and I had thoroughly enjoyed myself - but that was a truly welcome sight. As I crossed the line, the clock read 9 hours, 41 minutes. To say I was pleased would be a gross understatement.

So, my first 50 miler is in the books – and it was a grand experience. Now I get to turn my attention to the next one, which is looking like it will be the Superior 50 Mile come September. Just promise me you’ll hold your tongue when I step to the starting line and say, “Hey, watch this…”

“It’s not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game.” An old, well-weathered quote to be certain – and leveraged often when we work with our youth in their many pursuits. But I wonder if the quote’s originator ever had to try to raise the chins and dry the eyes of a dozen 9 and 10-year-olds that had just lost the championship game of the Little League county tournament. Such was my experience this weekend as our team’s glorious run through the playoffs came to a screeching halt.

Kids at this age know full well the difference between holding the trophy high at the end of the day, and what it means to sit on the bench and watch the other team do it. Knowing this, coaches try to walk a fine line. You want your boys to desire victory, yet be able to manage defeat. Not accept defeat, mind you. Losses need to be a bit uncomfortable. In this discomfort lies the seeds of drive and perseverance that keep the shoulders square and the chin set when the going gets tough.

But in the end, these are still kids. Channeling disappointment and turning it into a motivator is a skill that is still very much in development. So as a coach and a father you point out the positives from a long, successful season, and provide a shoulder to lean on should they need it.

We have different sorts of opponents as runners, of course. In reality, the foes we choose to battle are as varied as the racers that show up to any given event. Perhaps it's a fellow runner, our age group colleagues, a personal best time, the weather. Even if our goal is simply to finish the race, we are still by definition battling the very course itself. But the lessons found in balls and strikes are no less tangible.

I'll loosely paraphrase our head coach this year, who once said to the boys, there are two ways you can lose a game. Sometimes, you play your hardest – but the other team just gets the extra hit, or makes the crucial catch – and you simply get beat by the better team at that moment. The other way to lose a game is to actually “lose” it - stop working as a team, stop communicating, stop performing. You can deal with the former. The trick is to not allow the latter, no matter the adversity.

I talk about this at times with my son – as it relates to the games we play, and other more important endeavors. I often invoke that peculiarity of runners... that they continue to run for the finish line, even if someone else has crossed it first, or their personal best time has long since passed. A race may not go our way - like baseball, someone or something may have gotten the better of us for the moment. But we continue to move forward, relentless.

This weekend I'll put those words into action again, stepping out there and running more miles than I have ever run in my life. I'm going to dedicate this year's Voyageur to my son and his young colleagues, the Esko Dynamite Minors Little League team. You made me proud this year, boys.

These 50 miles are for you...

Saturday morning. And I was feeling lucky. The legs were fresh, the weather perfect, and the Pound the Pavement for the Playground 5K was setting up in Esko, MN. With a number of competing races in the region, the talent was well distributed about the land. Racing in my own back yard, in a small town race. Perhaps today would be my day to shine. Feeling confident, I cased the competition...

Hmmm. That 9-year-old looked ready to go – and everyone knows if you could harness the energy of a 9-year-old you could power a city the size of Proctor. Still, I was the wily veteran here. I'd leverage my vast racing experience – I figured I could take him. I looked around some more. Middle aged man with running stroller. He'd have the advantage on downhills. But this was a flat course. Still good.

Overall, the field was sizing up well. 150+ participants, a good mix of runners of all ages. But I had been training hard and was feeling loose. Maybe I had a shot at Esko fame and fortune. But little did I realize as I did my mental calculations, that I had neglected to account for one critical thing. The Return of the Legend...

Suddenly, the crowd seemed to hush, and parted like the Red Sea as he strode through. Maybe it was the quiet confidence in his stride, or perhaps his dashing, Brad Pitt-like good looks, but women seemed to swoon as he passed by.

“Is that...?” a boy said, hushed quickly by his father.
“Yes. That's him.”
“Oh, I just want to touch him,” said a woman in the crowd.
“Me, too.” said her husband.

I looked up, knowing what I would see. It was true. Bigger than life. NorthlandRunner.com entrepreneur and legendary Esko runner, Kris Glesener was in the house. It was at that moment that I knew what Lex Luther must feel like when Superman arrives.

With the crowd settled and the pleasantries over, it was time to race. The gun (whistle) went off, and a myriad of youngsters shot to the front – burning their energy candles like a sparkler on the Fourth of July. They faded quickly and I found myself at the front, save for one runner, who was gliding effortlessly in front of me.

Tenaciously, I tried to keep pace. At about the 1 mile mark Kris was feeling his oats and looked behind. “C'mon, Ron!”, he taunted. But I had no answer (and contrary to rumor, no, I did not make any obscene gestures). I was running with such velocity my cheeks were flapping like a dog with his head out the car window, and yet Kris slowly drifted further away. I pushed for the next couple of miles, to no avail. I just hoped I could get to the end before Kris was already in his car on the way home.

I hung on to finish third, passed by Tonya Thompson in the last mile – who was running barefoot. I was satisfied with my time, one of my faster 5Ks in a while - yet I stood in awe of the greatness I had seen today. The murmur can still be heard around town about this once-in-a-lifetime experience. Perhaps we'll get another glimpse of him, they say - maybe at the Kristen Burkholder 5K in August.

Maybe then I'll be ready. Maybe then I'll hang with the Legend. Dare to dream...

In all seriousness, the turnout was great for this fundraising 5K. Over 150 runners and walkers hit the course and over $6000 was earned toward the new playground to be built at Winterquist Elementary School in Esko, MN. I wish a heartfelt thank you to all Northland runners and walkers who stopped out for the morning.

Overall, the race went quite well – here's a few bits and pieces:

Things to do on a Saturday: Standing at the start of the Superior Trail 50K race in Lutsen, MN this weekend, the course map was running through my head. Let's see... Mystery Mountain, Moose Mountain, Oberg Mountain, Leveaux Mountain, Britton Peak, Carlton Peak. Then turn around and run it all back again. It was when this mental geography tally started sounding more Himalayan than Minnesotan that I thought, “You know, fishing would be such a nice hobby...”

Ships that Pass in the Night: A good piece of what I enjoy about these races is their gypsy-like nature. Different runners drift into your little world for a short while, you share some trail, perhaps some conversation; then they drift away, ahead or behind, to be replaced by another. I have noted that it is best to get any good discussions in early when conversation is comfortable and easy, as one tends to descend gradually to something more akin to Neanderthalic grunts as the miles pass, making mile 23 more suitable for, say, politics.

Cue the Band: The night before the race I had met Leslie Semler's friend from the U.P., Ian, and his compatriots Carl and Margot. Pausing from his pasta, Carl had asked me if I had any advice for Ian, who was running his first 50K. I thought for a moment and simply replied, “Run like your hair is on fire.” (For those of my running peers that think I pull that line out of the holster a little too often... Sue me, it was a new audience.) As I passed by Ian mid-way between Oberg and Sawbill, I jokingly asked him if his hair was still burning, receiving a somewhat reserved response. Hmmm. Perhaps not everyone appreciates me going David Letterman on them during a hill climb. Cut to commercial...

A Fool and his Money: Shane mentioned in his blog that I offered a crisp Benjamin Franklin should he break the 5-hour mark in the 50K. I would like to publicly state that I would never actively root against any of my running peers / pals in any race. After all, we're all in this together. However, I have no problem with throwing down the gauntlet. Next time I might want to remember that Shane does possess some of those Freak-of-Nature Olson Running Genes, as he made an excellent run for my money. 5:22, nice run Shane.

Meeting the Guru: At the top of Carlton Peak, the turn-around point for the 50K, stands race volunteer (and multiple Superior 50K winner) Charlie Hubbard. Next to him is a table he has hauled up there, laid out with a spread of refreshments liquid and solid. “I believe I'll take the Porter,” I requested. As I enjoyed a swig of that fine ale it dawned on me that I apparently could combine beer drinking with my current hobby, making any switch to fishing unnecessary. Cheers, Charlie.

Waiting for the NOVA Special: I'm going to have to talk to some of my geologist friends about the curious phenomenon of alpine expansion. This is the process by which certain geological features, such as Moose Mountain, grow longer, taller and steeper over the course of the day. The process appears to happen quite rapidly, sometimes occurring within the span of a mere 5 to 6 hours. Interesting. Must be the heat.

Youth is on our Side: As I approached the finish chute, a young boy of about 4 years saw me coming and decided he was going to lead me in. He zoomed out in front of me, his short legs a-churning. (I wondered if I should be concerned at all that I couldn't seem to catch him.) After a stretch, his older brother shouted, “Get outta the way! A runner's comin'!” I felt bad when he stepped aside. He was enjoying his run as much as I was enjoying mine. Next time, my little friend, you go ahead and keep on runnin'. We'll finish 'er up together.

For the Record: 5 hours, 40 minutes – a mix of aggressive and steady as the situation merited. Satisfied all the way around.