I first learned of the Colorado Relay last year when my colleague, Gordon, burst into my office a few days after the event. He was exhilarated and nonchalant about its level of difficulty. I thought about it for all of five minutes before saying, sure, it sounds like something I'd like to do. I returned to my arduous task of hunting the pesky bugs that were invading my software and promptly forgot about the Colorado Relay. Months and months later, the email arrived, jogging my memory. It was time to make a decision.
"Do you really think I could do it, given my current level of conditioning?" I asked my husband one evening over a glass of white wine.
"Of course you can," he said, smiling. We clinked our glasses. He was probably right. I mean, I was running regularly. Four and a half miles, most days. Some days I would even run as far as six miles. But this was different. This was a 170-mile 10-member team relay race, where each team member was responsible for running three legs of varying lengths and difficulties within a 24-hour time period. The course winds its way up and down through the Rocky Mountains where oxygen would be but a memory.
"But the altitude," I said between sips. I had no idea what to expect, living in Northern Virginia. And I didn't have time to fly out to Colorado two weeks before the race for acclimatization purposes. He told me not to worry about it. That I could just run slower. Slower than usual? Oh boy, they're gonna love me. Okay, I'll do it! We finished the bottle of wine and I jumped on the Internet to order my airline tickets. The last time I made a decision under the influence of wine, I ended up with my husband and his biology professor nephew, huddled under mosquito netting, watching male hummingbirds defend their territories with one eye while keeping the other eye open for the fer-de-lance (the deadliest snake in the western hemisphere). What was I getting myself into this time?
"Runner coming," shouts one of the race volunteers. Please, God, don't let it be Gordon. I'm not ready. I don't know how I am going to run eight miles in the dark. Whew. It's not Gordon. I look toward the horizon and see the white dot of another runner's flashlight bobbing in the distance. I look at my watch again. It couldn't be Gordon. It's too early for it to be Gordon. The bobbing white dot gets bigger. The figure gets closer. The gait looks familiar.
"Runner coming!" It sounds like an echo. "What's you're team number," the volunteer yells once the runner is within earshot. I close my eyes and cover my ears - I don't want to see or hear what I already know.
"Team 57," Gordon yells back as Ross gently nudges me onto the official patch of dirt where one runner hands off the baton, or wristband in our case, to the next runner. Summers at the Jersey Shore fill my head in the seconds before the handoff. As a kid, I would lay on the sand close to the water. Inevitably, the tide would come in and I would get wet. Nothing could stop the tide from coming in. Nothing could stop the waves from crashing all around me. Gordon becomes a wave, crashing into me. My legs start moving. I am running.
My eight-mile chunk follows Highway 6 through a place called Wolcott. The nearly full moon is only missing a small slice, and is quite bright, but I decide to use my flashlight anyway, even though the bouncing circle of light makes me dizzy. I hold the flashlight off to the side so I don't have to look at it. Puffs of mist rhythmically fly out of my mouth. I smile as I watch them disappear into the cold, thin air. I guess if I can see my breath, I must be breathing. I suck in a hefty gulp of the elusive stuff to test my theory. I smile bigger, because I can actually fill my lungs -- something I couldn't quite do on my earlier legs.
I feel very alone out here in the middle of nowhere. I talk to myself. I talk to God. I sing the Beatles' entire "Help!" album. I recite "The Cremation of Sam McGee" at least four times.
It's really cold, but I'm well bundled. The crisp air splashing my face reminds me of early morning fall runs back home. I like to run through my neighborhood and pick out houses with warm yellow light pouring from a window or two. Now I am looking for houses but there are none, only mountains on my left, and mountains on my right.
Highway 6 curves and the shoulder narrows. I decide to run in the middle of the road, as there are amazingly few cars at three o'clock in the morning. The highway continues to curve, and then I spot him. Another runner! Yippee! He looks very small against the wall of mountains and I hope beyond hope that I can catch up with him. He must be running awfully slowly, because I do indeed catch him. We exchange pleasantries, but my hope of making a new friend diminishes due to his turtle-like pace. I teeter on the edge of wanting to run with him, and not wanting to run slower than I am already running. The thought of making my precious team wait a moment longer than necessary doesn't sit right with me. I have only known them for 20 hours, yet in that time, I have grown very fond of them. Thus, I bid my fleeting friend adieu.
I enter a bit of civilization. There is a one-pump gas station, an inn, and the Wolcott Post Office. I have no idea how long I have been running, because I refuse to look at my watch. By now, I am enjoying myself. I don't want to know when it will end because I am in no hurry. There are two cars parked at the inn. I wonder who the people are and what brought them to Wolcott, Colorado. I think about my trip to Wales last year. My husband and I rented a car and worked our way up the coast, hopping from one little harbor town to the next. We stayed at inns. Did anyone look at our little car parked at the inn and wonder what our story was?
Civilization doesn't last long and I'm amongst the mountain walls again. There are so many stars. I have never seen so many stars. They remind me of bubbles in a glass of champagne. I can't believe how beautiful it is here. I remember how the mountains looked during my earlier legs in the daylight. They had so many faces. One moment I might be looking at a mountain carpeted in dark green pine, punctuated by clusters of bright yellow aspens. And a moment later, I might be looking at a naked mountain, chiseled and jagged. Now I feel sentimental, creative, and spiritually charged. I want to quit my job and move to Colorado, just so I could stare at the mountains all day, and gaze at the stars all night.
I see the I-70 overpass in the distance. Now I know I am getting close to the end of my run. After this, my portion of the Colorado Relay is over. I will ride in the van and support my fellow teammates. I will jog in with the team when runner #10 crosses the finish line. But my individual running is almost over. I am disappointed. I want to run another eight miles. I want to run until the sun comes up. I want to run until my feet fall off. I run under I-70 thinking that I have another mile or so to go. I am wrong, because I see the runner exchange point right away. Dave is standing on the official patch of dirt where I will pass the baton. Gordon is walking around, wrapped in a blanket. It's over. I crash into Dave and his legs start moving. He is running.