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If you’re from Southern OC and have never visited Silverado Canyon than join the club. This isolated community is only 25-minutes from Fashion Island but makes you fell like you’re two hours away in Lake Arrowhead. Comprised of an eclectic mix of houses, shacks and trailers, they actually boast their own “Silverado Canyon Library”; wonder what % of the town can actually read? I only saw one inhabitant the entire time and I swear it was David Koresh!

Everyone arrived at the designating meeting area pretty much on time. I zipped in before Wendy which is like reaching a sacred fishing spot before the other anglers. You have to pull an all-nighter and leave the house in total darkness but the victory is bitter sweat.

It was windy. It was cold. No, it was really cold. No, it was flippin cold. No, it was frigid. No, it was Wendy. No, it was freezing. Stepping out of my Jeep, an Artic chill vice gripped my chiseled face. The atmosphere reminded me of Dave’s run on Mammoth Mountain and peering up the canyon walls, I began scanning for hi-speed chair lifts.

I must be honest, without Skip running full trail support the going was tough. Wendy had no GU and started eying my toothpaste and Preparation H. Marisa resigned herself to her kid’s 100% cotton gloves and with no blue exercise ball Greg looked incomplete. Skip, your buddy was murdered and I’m sorry for that. I have an alibi but what about Paul A? Next time use technology and log onto eLastRespects or eBuryMe and come spend the daylight hours with the living instead of the dead. Some of us are trying to kill themselves (me) but the OCTR is very much alive. Did you drop your signature apple in the casket?

At approximately 7:15 a.m. we take off. The group comprises the elite ultra runners Mark, Paul and Art. The other honorable mentions were Greg, Marisa, Wendy and I. Kyle isn’t to be found but nobody panics. Kyle could sleep in, have breakfast, do a load of laundry, take a bus to the trailhead and still catch up with us, run 10 miles further and still return first.

Marisa (former winner of the SJT 50K) joined us for her inaugural OCTR Saturday long run. Originally from South Africa, most of her training was done in Johannesburg where she had to keep moving to avoid being killed.

Did I mention it was sub-zero out there? About four miles into the steep, wind blown single track, I happened to pause and look back down the trail below. That’s when I spotted a green object about 1 ½ miles into the distance. All one could make out was a florescent green dot steadily moving our direction. It wasn’t the bright color but the velocity of the object that caught my attention. I deducted it was Kyle or maybe Eric on crack. It turned out to be Kyle and he was moving as fast running a steep incline as most folks run down hill. Kyle is truly the human gallstone; eventually he’s gonna pass.

Five miles into the run, Wendy’s Thomas Guide had her off page 32 square D5 and she headed back in solo mode. Like an abandoned child, she wondered off as Greg, Marisa and I hummed the theme song from the hit show “Lost”. We have plenty profile pictures of Wendy for fliers or milk cartons so we weren’t too concerned.

Marisa, Greg and I continued for another three miles up the Main Divide. The views were stunning. You could clearly see downtown LA, Palos Verde, Fashion Island, Catalina, Russia and the Inland Empire; all from one stationary spot. We waved to Natalia and Lori on Catalina but they were too busy grazing the aid stations to notice. Looking up, you could see snow on both Modjeska and Santiago Peak. Rumor has it that ice slush formed in the hydration packs of those who managed to summit Modjeska Peak that day.

We did try and catch Wendy on the return but the attempt was futile. One mile from the cars, things get fuzzy. This particular section of single tract is gnarly; loose rocks are everywhere, jagged and generally nasty. Personally, I couldn’t think of a better spot to test out my new downhill technique which features no breaking and an exaggerated forward lean. Math Quiz: Ignorance + Excessive Speed + Shoes too Large + Down Slope + Sharp Rocks + Incredible Looks = ??? The correct answer = Disaster. Running a ridiculous 8 minute pace, I suddenly found myself airborne. Everything shifted into slow motion as I launched a solid 10 feet into the cold thin air. I felt like Keanu Reeves, in “The Matrix” where he leans back slowmo to avoid projectiles. However, two major problems with that visual. I’m not gay and the projectile quickly approaching was Earth.

Greg and Marisa were the first to locate me staggering down the single track. They were both great and offered unbridled assistance but frankly, when you climb Everest, you have to get down on you own volition. Dazed and queasy, it was difficult to talk so I motioned them around and stumbled the final ½ mile to the car. At the vehicles, trying to be helpful, Greg pressure washed my arm wound (oh, that felt good) and Kyle applied Neosporin directly on the exposed flesh. I’m a wimp and started to get sick and light headed. At that point, I should’ve gone to the ER but decided to go party at Greg’s place instead. Good thing I’m 26, no kids and still living at home.

Driving one measly mile to Greg’s pad was brutal. I couldn’t apply any pressure on the break pedal and the power steering felt like it had gone completely out. Using my only functional arm, I reached over and shifted into low gear hoping I wouldn’t hit any Amish horse drawn carriages characteristic of the area. Hobbling up the stairs, I laid down on Greg’s futon couch which would be my cot for the next two hours. I wondered if I would get crabs.

Greg’s domicile deserves a full page write up but I’ll condense. If he had used an interior decorator it would have most likely been Snead O’Conner or Cher. With a string of chili pepper lights in his bathroom, I couldn’t decide to pee, dance naked or ask for a “happy ending”. Greg was a fantastic host offering Advil, ice, booze, burritos, cokes and a thong. Under my torn running gear, I was already wearing a sports thong but was forced (against my will) to wear Greg’s dating thong on the outside of my running pants. And, if you’re wondering, the answer is still “No.” Two thongs don’t make a right.

The entire group ate Greg’s famous fire-mouth burritos and socialized for around an hour. Jessica, now sponsored by some soon to go out of business water company, showed up fashionably late and made us refer to her as Ms Deline. I can barely walk and she’s pestering me to move furniture back in Sea Country land.

All in all, it was a great run with a crappy landing (just for me). I recommend this track to anyone who has never visited the area (that’s everybody). I may need to start running with a helmet and pads but that could make me look like a mountain biker to cheap to purchase wheels.

Everyone better hope I recover fast. There’s no way you’ll want to deal with a jealous and bitter aid station volunteer during the Twin Peaks Ultra. “Hey there tired sole, can I help you out with a nice jalapeno energy shot or some invigorating Tabasco Gatorade?” 

Today, from bed, I’ve been physically forced to switch my tune. Oh, I’m definitely feeling it.

Charlie