Saturday, September 14, 2013

GFH3 Run #1,716; 14 September 2013

What a very special treat for the runners:  Gurr's Hill and Oleta's Hill in the same trail.  "Ole Fud insisted we have both," Phoenix Rising explained.  "I don't know what it's called, but there was a hill that was really sucky and it really hurt and I thought I was going to pass out," Blow in the Hole reported.  "That's Gurr's Hill," Ole Fud said with confidence.

So O.F. and Strac insist the trail they set was about four miles, maybe a bit more.  PhR believes that, setting all the false trails, his total run this morning was about six miles.  Every runner who managed the true trail asserts, via GPS reading or just that unpleasant feeling in the lungs and quadriceps, that she or he slogged nine miles, give or take a few tenths.  The term "death march" rattled about the On In.  It was all great fun for the casual observer, heightened by the general gorgeousness of the weather and the specific gorgeousness of the Fuds' landscaping, which soon had even the most exhausted of the pack succumbing to the beauty of Great Falls in the sunshine.

It's a running club.  Someone run!

The group took a bit of time to gather -- this first Saturday thing is so confusing -- but once there were about 30 ready to go, O.F. offered a military brief, with comments on infantry and artillery, and wisecracks from draft-dodger PhR.  Then the pack circled about the first check, tried this way and that way, and eventually more-or-less headed down the driveway.  Chip Off the Old Dick rather brilliantly thought to ask for guidance, and subsequently headed straight out the back gate, shouting, "On on!" until a couple people heard him and the slow turning toward true trail began.  Suck Squeeze Bang leaped out of her car and noted that for once, arriving late paid off.  Through the woods, up the street, and to the third check, at an intersection, for several minutes' milling and jogging long ways in wrong directions and muttering imprecations, before they headed toward Runner Road and another eight miles or so to go.

They're so small.  How much shoulder do they need?

The walkers, meanwhile, splintered:  some headed down the drive and along the paved pathways; others followed instructions and the runners' trail as far as Arnon Chapel, whose dog-unfriendliness inspired a few 180-degree turns.  It took a while, but eventually everyone met up again, with a handful of sitters and latecomers, on the deck, where Felicity served up a perfectly-dressed quinoa salad and a pasta salad that were ideal for the weather.  PhR chose the beer, so it was heavy on IPAs and Yuenglings.

The Mufti called the roll:  double ones and double fours for Zipperhead (1144, you see), and 99 to the cup for John, Jay and Mike.  Politicking madly, the Mufti insisted his "and a great run"s were offered "with trepidation," but cheers resounded through the quickly cooling air.

Still figuring out the new camera; rather overexposed photos are on view here.

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