Whip-sawwed in SLC

So it was another week up City Creek canyon for our long run. It’s a great run because traffic is limited (cars one day and bikes every other), there is drinking water up the entire canyon, and you have shade from about 5 pm on. We had a great workout but we didn’t get 20 in like we hoped. It was, “a mere 16.5” as Fatso would say - but it was at a good pace.

We planned on meeting the Old Man somewhere in SLC. He had a meet with the Syracuse XC team at Sugar House Park and figured the bus would be rolling through SLC about the same time we were headed north. The plan was to connect via cell phone and he would have the bus driver drop him off on an off-ramp and we would pick him up. You can probably guess, that didn’t work out. The meet lasted a little longer than expected and we set off earlier than expected. When I reached the Old Man via cell phone he was waiting for his last runner to finish the final race. We were only about ten minutes from SLC so we decided we better just go pick him up. We must like the Old Man because it was unanimous - if it was anyone else in the group we would only meet them half-way and they would have to run the other half.

After making a few wrong turns, the navigation system in the Delta doesn’t work all that well, we found him fairly quickly. The Old Man was happy to see us, until he learned he would be buying ice sodas for everyone for the extra work. We made our way downtown and began our run.

I think Fatso needs a little more “guy” time. He couldn’t stop singing all these teenie-boper songs. “Tonight, Tonight” by Hot Chelle Rae and “That’s not my Name” by the Ting Tings. That’s pretty much radio Disney at its best from what I hear. Of course he had his own versions. Something like, “they call me Fatso, they call me ______ . . . That’s not my name. That’s not myyyyy . . . name.” It’s a good thing we go running. Well good for him. The rest of us were a little embarrassed to be seen, er heard with him.

We held a decent pace going up the canyon. The more familiar we get with all the twists and turns the easier going up becomes. There’s “the gate”, “soap springs”, “Stewart’s crack”, “the apple tree”, the treatment plant, the two little downhill sections, “snake root”, “rotary park”, “the pavilion”, and “three bridges”. Each of these little landmarks tracking our progress up the mighty hill. We reached the top at the third bridge and turned around. It feels so good to run downhill. Back at the pavilion we take a short break to choke down some Gu and chase it with water. Once the gag-reflex subsides we are on our way.

Now we’re cookin’, maintaining a wicked pace. We’ve run this fast plenty of times but this time we are determined not to stop. We have tried to focus on eliminating the “breaks” in our runs. You know, walking for 30 seconds while you get a drink or after you choke on a bug. The run down the canyon gets quieter, a little less “tonight, tonight” and “that’s not my name”.

Finally we are back in the city with only a mile or so to go. The streetlights and storefronts are a welcome addition; the condition of the canyon road can use some improvement and it makes you nervous running it in the dark. People are the new obstacle and we have to make our intentions clear as we move into single file and indicate the side of the sidewalk we are heading for. 

As we approach a young man in a wheel chair, Fatso takes the lead and moves to the right. Our focus is on the wheelchair operator as we try to make eye contact to ensure our intentions are understood. He doesn’t move to either side but he does slow down enough that we are confident in our direction. Just before we pass him Fatso runs into a low-hanging tree branch. Before I realize what has happened the branch whips off his face into mine; punching me in the cheek and mouth before scratching it’s way across my neck. I reach for the branch, my reaction way to slow to soften the blow or slow it down for the twin. It whips off my face and slashes across his face and neck with increasing force. By now, Fatso is holding his face, I’m yelling at him for intentionally whipping the branch into my face, the twin is trying to figure out what just happened, and the Old Man is enduring the same humiliating and painful fate. The intensity of our run has instantly been diverted from pushing hard through the last half-mile of “a mere 16.5” to immense anger. We’re clutching our faces, yelling at each other, and trying to figure out what just happened. We may have been confused, but the guy in the wheelchair and the lady following him were not. It was all they could do to unsuccessfully hide their amusement. It only took us a few seconds to see the humor in their faces and decide it was time to go. We finished the last half-mile in silence.

After resting for a few minutes and trying to shake off the blow. We begin to realize that all four of us have scratches in the exact same places on our face and neck. Our tempers begin to ease as we begin to see the humor in it. It’s nothing an ice soda, some salty snacks and a luxurious ride home in the Delta can’t fix.