To avoid a conflict of interest and to keep our re-caps objective we occasionally enlist a race-day participant to document the event. And so is the case with "the unknown ?k" 2008. You may recognize Kirk Fortini from this 1996 analog photo when he starred as DC Comics’ Aquaman. It’s been slow for Aquaman since the high-tech superheroes arrived. How do you compete with the Transformers, The Incredibles or The Power Rangers? Ah Kirk, we mean Aquaman, how much damage can those ridiculous water balls you throw actually inflict? Who are you planning on knocking out? One certain clown fish?

Anyway, Aquaman has time on his webbed hands and was kind enough to share his summary thoughts on the unknown ?k with our readers. As you’ll see, he writes well for being 2000 Leagues Under the Sea but then again he’s been swimming in a school his entire life. We told Kirk to try out for the lead in The Little Mermaid IV but apparently his sea horse blew a fin and he missed the tryouts; saga, drama…

The Run Down

unknown ?k 2008 Guest Re-Cap

DISCLAIMER: Any resemblance to actual athleticism on the part of the author is grossly exaggerated and purely coincidental. No guarantees as to the truth of reported anecdotes is given or implied, and neither should the reader assume one. So there.

Being a sea creature of habit, March 15, 2008 started out as essentially every day does: alarm goes off, swear a little, scratch, grumble at being awake. Swear some more, brew coffee and swear until I can pour the first cup. You get the general idea. To gain a little perspective on a day that was only in its infancy, I reflected on a couple of historically significant events that took place on this exact date:

44 BC – Julius Caesar, the Roman emperor largely responsible for the calendar that we use today, was assassinated in the Roman Senate in the Portico of the Pompeii Theater.

1970 – My oldest sister-in-law was born.

1981 –  Duran Duran is launched and I considered identity theft with Simon Le Bon; don’t have a sailboat and any loose-fitting pirate shirts, so scratch the lame idea.

1996 –  KFC biscuit honey packet is accidentally used by a bonking street runner and the energy gel is born.

Well, the Ides of March has definitely seen its share of tragedy and misfortunes unfold. But, then again, it seemed like just a good a day as any to go for a drive and a run off the South East side of Saddleback Mountain, California. Designated as protected wilderness in 1984 by President Reagan, this particular area spans some 39,000 acres and is home to more than 90 miles of hiking trails and a dozen streams. Maybe I’d even run into other like-minded souls, and we could enjoy a group run that would cover a fair amount of those miles. Remembering that the Forest Service and races don’t always read from the same sheet of music, any encounters would have to be treated largely as a matter of serendipity.

Out the door and up the infamous Ortega Highway, it was a pretty uneventful drive. That was good, I thought, and hopefully portentous of the day’s events. There was a brief scare, though, when a large black Jeep SUV swooped in behind me on the serpentine asphalt like Darth Vader’s TIE-fighter. Not giving it much thought at first, the instinct for self-preservation kicked in when I saw the red dot from their laser-sighted Glock dancing across my dashboard. Better to let this road-rager pass on by. I didn’t get the license plate number, but I saw the words "Trunk Monkey" on the license plate frame. Unfazed, it was not long before I pulled my orange Dodge Gremlin into a parking lot on Highway 74 across from a little place called The Candy Store. And, imagine that, at 5:30 a.m. there were other people milling about. They were trail runners, too. What a total coincidence; really! Even at this early hour, the senses were fired –mainly, the sense of smell. The olfactory assault mounted by those parking lot bathrooms forced the conclusion that time of day matters little as to their stench.

Alright, enough with the subterfuge. The one and only reason we runner-types were starting to assemble was that we were preparing to participate in a one-of-a-kind, uber-exclusive official (don’t know how I made the list), limited field event dubbed “the unknown ?k.” The Forest Service is the kind of humorless arm of the government that frowns on people conveniently misinterpreting the rules to hold events, preferring they navigate a labyrinth of permits, back-alley bribery and pointless insurance bonds. So, officially, today’s festivities would occur under the strictest code of silence. Naturally, the race and/or “ultra” would release the cloking device sometime after everyone had safely finished, packed up and left, and nobody was arrested. This last part was of particular interest to the man whose vision and energy gave birth to the concept; the unknown RD.

Those last hours and minutes of pre-event preparations are the same, no matter the name or distance. All of the electronica pours out. For all of our collective need to get away from it all, it would seem that runners are about as wired as the next guy. We have all manner of devices to measure heart rate, distance traveled, global positioning, PH balance, HIV status and the passage of time. Gone is the day when you’d have to endlessly flip bulky cassettes in a Sony Walkman. There are MP3s now. And, don’t forget your Web-enabled cell phone. Who’d want to miss an important call, IM or some SPAM while on the trails? Well, lacking all of these media things, I had planned for this contingency by sneaking into my son’s room before I left and stealing his Ben10 Omnitrix (those of you with kids will understand). A bulky little gadget, it could pass muster as a GPS on roids or even an avant garde wristwatch. Thankfully, the pre-dawn hour would spare me the humiliation of flash photography. Hair still in curlers, I wasn’t ready for the glare of camera flashes normally reserved for occasions such as the Oscars, or a typical day in the life of Britney Spears.

Being a slower-moving mammal known for drafting behind tortoises, I was slated to take an early start at 6 a.m., along with several others. Milling about, our athletic assemblage was geared up with time to kill. We all made idle conversation, greeted one another, hugged old friends, and shook hands with new ones. Pete Vara, Aquaphor poster boy, was generous in his dispensation of Eucerin and Aquaphor samples. In grateful acceptance, I assured him that I and my nipples were indebted to him and that next time, I’d really prefer applying the crotch lubricant myself. But, thanks. Man, his hands were cold. Talk about shrinkage!

As the last moments ticked down, and the start time drew near, we received our final pre-race instructions. They were the standard-fare admonitions against littering, not abusing the aid station
volunteers or each other, not following Kirk, and not soaking our grubby hands in the ice meant for consumption. If we were stopped by Forest Service personnel or Jason Bourne, we were to protect the RD from incarceration by maintaining silence and swallowing the cyanide-electrolyte capsules provided to us. And, I like to think that it was an accident, but why did the RD have to shine that headlamp of his into my eyes as he spoke? Did he enjoy seeing me squirm in my blindness? No matter. The start was imminent, and we had yet to receive our Pokémon card.That’s right, Pokémon card. If at any time another participant asked to trade cards with you, you had to oblige. One was going to be the money card, sought after because it was worth a new iPod shuffle. Two other cards were to be worth free entry into next year’s "supported group run." Hmm, it kinda reminded me of looking for the golden tickets hidden inside Willy Wonka Bars. Shortly after, I was narced out as having the iPod money card. We were led across the highway and then sent off into the morning chill, our covert endurance challenge beginning under cover of darkness.

Once on the course, it dawned on me that the trail wasn’t marked with traditional ribbons. The trail was, in fact, totally unknown. How would we find our way without ribbons or chalk? It was scary, yet exciting. The event name was starting to make sense. Or, nonsense.

Our progress slowed somewhat by the lack of sunlight, several runners started out with their headlamps. Partly because I was just too damned lazy to carry mine to our first aid station, I had left my bathroom tinkle light at home. Instead, as I followed the bouncing orbs of light, we marched upward for a mile or so on the B__r Ca_yon Trail and made small talk. Michelle "It’s For My Glaucoma" Mecham was a pharmaceutical representative participating in her first ultra. Just four weeks shy of her 30th birthday, she had the distinction of being the youngest member of our group, and of making me feel about two days older than dirt. I noted her for a potential source of Vicodin samples.

Lisa Kuecker (8:31:00) started out with a headlamp, but didn’t really need one. Her eyes held such a piercing, laser-like quality that not even the shadows dared obstruct her vision. Or, maybe she was just trying not to make eye contact with me.

Approaching legendary status Andy Kumeda, through judicious misrepresentation of the distance (told it was going to be a 100 miler), was on the course preparing for the Coyote 2 Moon 100-Mile; where he would finish overall 5th!!!

His better-half, Catra Corbitt, a veteran of so many 100′ that the list rivals the length of one of her sleeve tattoos, was there, too. For sheer grit and intensity, you’d be hard-pressed to find her equal. She first came to my attention at the 2006 Javelina Jundred, where she was pacing Xy Weis and I bore witness to her barking orders for the Dirty Girl to hurry up. Gulp. Unconfirmed reports place her and Greg Hardesty (6:31:00) at the scene of a tattoo comparison, he with his sissy shoulder tattoo against her Map Quest tapestry of ink that reminds me of the popular "I Spy" book series. For Catra, all course metal detectors were shut off and the TSA employees sent home.

Leigh Corbin and George Velasco moved along at their own pace with nothing to prove, just a scant few days away from departing for a grueling multi-day event in the Moroccan desert, the Marathon des Sables.

Eric Klingsporn, newly engaged, would be one of three people who would spend their time out front all day, and was the first from the early-start group to cross the finish line.

Robert Baird, a genuine pleasure to spend the miles with, was living proof that the biggest battles are often enough fought off of the trails, and not on them. A regular pillar of strength, he’s an integral part of supporting his wife on the road to recovery from breast cancer. Motoring along, nary a word of self-pity fell from his lips. He would also spend the day as one of the out-front three.

Kirk Fortini, long-haired reprobate and subject of a course-marking photo scandal, I was far removed from my element. Most of my races reflect firm back-of-the-pack status but, for most of the day, I enjoyed the fruits of the 1 1/2 hour staggered start by being the guy out front. Not daring to entertain delusions of even mediocrity, I knew without a doubt that someone could easily overtake me if they so decided. One slam of the Omnitrix could instantly end this SGR but would also be un-sportsman like maneuver.

After the initial few miles, we found ourselves at a clearing and headed right, toward the area called 4 Corners. The confluence of 5 separate trails, one could only assume that whoever named that spot was under the influence of alcohol or strong pharmaceuticals (don’t blame Michelle M.). After a brief pause, we headed straight over the numerically-challenged spokes of this trail hub, onto T_na_a Trail North. There was a brief portion of incline, to be followed by roughly 5 miles of descent. Here and there, it was impossible to miss the telltale signs that pointed to a serious lack of traffic. Moderately rocky in places, the slightly overgrown brush told you that there weren’t many intrepid spirits who ventured out there. Undeterred, we sacrificed ankles and my Flash Dance knee warmers to the trail gods and forged ahead, thinking that in some small way we were clearing the path for those who would shortly follow.   

For the effort, we runners were rewarded with what was a section of steep descent and some hairpin switchbacks. How there came to be two mountain bikes at the top, no owners in sight, we dared not speculate; no vehicles or mountain bikes are allowed in this sanctuary. Rather, we gave not into temptation, and spread out as we headed down. In brief isolation from the rest of the pack, I was privy to an explosion of color that would rival the palette of any renaissance master. Flowers gorgeous for their range of purples and oranges were set against a backdrop of every green hue imaginable. As they unfolded their petals to reveal their blossoms, they invited metaphorical comparison to the runners and the aspects of their respective personalities that would be revealed as the day progressed. Gently swirling, it seemed as if the breeze was carrying wayward souls to their destinations on spectral winds of propulsion. Not even the passage of time seemed to hold sway here, as feet didn’t seem to fall to soil so much as the soil rose to meet them. To gaze in awestruck wonder at nature’s majesty below, even the valley depths were dissected by a meandering creek; its shoulders lined with timber and rounded stones. Lost in reverie, I was brought back to reality when at last I reached the end of the descent and found myself at the San M_t_o Creek bed. Joined shortly by Eric and Robert, we three scrambled over the stones and headed for our next junction in the trails.

Aside from a few key rock stack pyramids, the course wasn’t marked. Did I already mention that? A detailed map with photos and transition descriptions worked beautifully. There would be no need to sweep this course since it wasn’t an “event”. Ribbon and chalk was replaced by personal navigational logic and runner intuition. Or, you could just follow the smart guy in front of you.

Shortly, we arrived at the intersection of the San M_t_o Trail and Te_a_a Trail South. A right turn up Te_a_a South began our first of two out-and-back segments and would ultimately lead us upward to our first aid station. By this time, our thoughts turned to when the first runners from the later-start group would be encountered, and just who would be out front. My money was on San Diego superstar Dean Dobberteen, notable as an upper-crust sort of runner absent of uptight pretense and about as nice as any you’d meet. More than Dean, though, I was concerned about being stampeded by the legions of groupies that were sure to follow in this chick-magnet’s wake. By the end of the day, I found out, Mr. Dobberteen still had to report for work as a rickshaw runner at Universal Studios. I guess that’s his version of a same-day recovery run.

Onward and upward we went, subjects of conversation ranging from the aforementioned to marriage, work, family, and that most mortal of all trail sins, "crop dusting." My spirits buoyed by perfect weather, a beautiful course, and the sort of synergy found only with extraordinarily good company, the initial 3.5 miles of this first out-and-back went by in a blur. In places, the wilderness closed in on us, forming a verdant canopy that allowed in just enough ambient light so as to illuminate the mossy rock faces on one side and fern-covered slopes on the other. In unspoken agreement, conversation had to cease while our senses were being thus engaged. Aside from the new indoor outdoor carpeting in my formal living room, this was some of the nicest single-track any of us had ever ventured onto.

In what seemed like no time at all, Aid Station #1 was in our sights, cleverly disguised as a group picnic complete with mannequins. The parking lot at the trailhead even boasted a couple of SUVs to lend itself authenticity. Wow, yuppie-flage! I was ravenously hungry by now, and all of the food looked like manna from Heaven. The ladies whose angelic grace was surpassed only by their selfless attention to the runners were ultra-marathoners Marisa Willment and Pam Everett. Both of these ladies were no strangers to the scene, and it was humbling that they would give up their time in service to us. Marisa will be remembered as the one who brought along what was to become the unknown ?k mascot: a little critter that looked like an alien, it gave musical accompaniment to the faux-picnic. Listening to the trance music, however, made me think that this party was missing some Ecstasy and glow-sticks. Nevertheless, I was starved. So, while my bottles were filled, I dislocated my jaws and started shoveling peanut butter & spun honey sandwiches into my cake-hole, followed by a chocolate-dipped strawberry, and washed it down with a couple of cups of Coke; Red Bull, Monster, Cherry Pepsi and Pepsi were also available. Perhaps sensing that I was going to continue feeding to the detriment of the other runners, the staff formed a plan to put a stop to it. In what could only be described as traumatizing, someone began dancing to the pulsating electronic beat coming from the mascot, hips undulating off beat like some bad dance show contest. My appetite effectively suppressed, it was time to go.

The retina burn subsided as we headed down what was once an uphill. It was going to be a relatively short 5.5 mile trip to the next aid station. Somewhere within the first 1 1/2 miles, we finally saw the contingent of fast-movers. Out front was Aussie Martin Brooks  (6:12:00). A lifelong runner and participating in his first ultra (can you believe that?), Orange County’s version of Paul Hogan would go on to win the whole shebang. Covering ground as fast and as lightly as a Jesus Lizard, his feet were never even moistened at the water crossings.

Willie Cooper was unknown (no pun intended) to me before today, but he would eventually go on to lock in a strong second-place showing. With an obvious affinity for exclusive events invitational in nature, he was also a veteran of the coveted Saltwater5000 (which he co-founded); Rob McNair has nothing to do with that run.

Robert Schipsi, despite not having felt well, showed up wearing gear of his own devising and would place 3rd overall. And, as though beauty had somehow been captured in stereo,

Team Fierce Michelle Barton & Keira Henninger ran in tandem. These two mileage queens are reverse- diabolical as they nice nice runners to death by lulling them into a sense of bliss with their enthusiasm, smiles, camera poses and overall gleefulness. Grinning so brilliantly as to be cause to avert your gaze, these two were decidedly loud this day in their celebration of life. If you were in earshot, it wasn’t unrealistic to have a contact high, of sorts. Make no mistake, though. Cross either one of these ladies on a trail, and they’d hurt more than your feelings. Despite resembling Hannah Montana & iKarly, Team Fierce protects a lead when racing like a mother bear standing up for her cub. You can try rolling up into a motionless cannonball but prepare for some GENr8 Vitargo spray upside your melon. Lick it up; you’re going to need its recovery attributes.

I had never been privileged enough to meet Gina Natera before today, but she was running with the proverbial big dogs. Finishing in the exact time as Michelle and Keira really says something.

Kevin Nasman is a guy so scary smart that I figured he was listening to an audio philosophy or physics book on his MP3 player.

Michael Crescenti, a coworker of the iMichelle at Fleet Feet Laguna Niguel, cruised along in complete control of his first ultra. No doubt, the guy will be more than ready for this year’s Leadville 100; Bad Water must have sold out.

Greg Hardesty, still longing after the experience that he had at  the Coastal Challenge in Costa Rica, glided over the terrain wearing his still unlaundered hydration vest (festooned with howler monkey crap). Let it go, Greg. Wash that thing and live in the now.

Dmitri Chechuy, whose vowel-deficient first name sends my spell-check into a fit, put in a strong showing despite having started out a little faster than might have been wise. More on Da-Mean-Tree later.

Robert Harris was definitely no stranger to the ultra circuit. Driving back and forth to the run, he would log the most time in transit, even more than he spent on the actual course.

Finally, it’s important to dispel the flurry of rumors about Bigfoot sightings. Singing loudly in order to practice his place-holder strategy, we could hear snippets of an Oingo-Boingo song, " I like little girls…." coming from Lambert Timmermans. Looking eerily like Tim Curry in his role for the Muppet Treasure Island, he was having a rougher than average day; pre-existing injury. A word to Lambert, if you get tired of singing, I hear that farting has been used with some degree of success. It was also during this downhill meet and greet that I crossed paths with Leigh Corbin and she demanded of me my Pokémon card. I made a show of being pissy at losing my chances at a new iPod, but in truthfulness wasn’t really bothered at all.

Having reached the bottom of the out-and-back segment, we headed across a clearing, crossed a creek, and headed down San M__eo / Te_a_a Fa_ls Trail. A short trail, it led to a double-wide creek bed which we then crossed to pick up the entrance to the T_n_ja F_lls Trail. Upwardly mobile for the better part of 2 miles, our group of three came to a T in the trail. We had encountered tough guy Leon Gray, of Badwater pacing fame, maybe 1 1/2 miles prior. Two hundred yards to the right was Aid Station #2 at 19.3 miles. No doubt a bundle of nerves from a harrowing ordeal involving confinement in a locked remote bathroom, Mari Russell would have us believe that she was actually grazing the potato chips. A little hard to believe once you’ve seen her abs. Not buying a single word of it, I plowed through the sandwiches which had been prepared by Mark Golledge, who also doubled as race-day photographer. Finishing the sandwiches and getting ready to start on the nearest ground squirrel, it was then that Jerry Armstrong, who had made the trip despite not feeling 100%, made a strong showing but opted out earlier to work security in case any Team Fierce fans starting getting out of line . Not seeing him since first meeting him at the Noble Canyon 50K in September, it was nice to catch up with Jerry for a bit. Along for the ride with the unknown RD, both were there to help navigate the next water crossing. Interested in his opinion, I asked Jerry what he thought of the course’s degree of difficulty. Not thinking it particularly rough (6,600 feet of gain), it was then that Jerry spoke the words of trail wisdom that would stay with me the rest of the day: "It’s a matter of perspective."

Leaving the aid station with these two, there was no way on earth that I was going to be ferried across a water crossing like some helpless damsel. I’d never be able to call myself a trail runner knowing that I had traveled even a short distance by means other than my own locomotion. One by one, Eric, Robert and I negotiated an obscure but much drier path around the water. It was sometime later that  Dmitri would come to this same crossing and carve his niche in the history of this event. Perhaps hoping to make millions in a market already glutted with sports equipment, Mr. Chechuy produced two drawstring trash bags, placed them over his little footsies, and went for it.   Hmm, maybe he had an aversion to the extra 13 or 14 inches that the dry path would have added to the course distance. He was heard to remark on how surprisingly warm and foamy the water was, but he obviously hadn’t seen Keira running away snickering.

Dignity intact and about 3/4 of a mile along in our trip to our final aid station, we were treated to a view of the Te_aja F_lls. At last, after spending the better part of the morning on trails that mentioned the damned thing, we finally got to see it. It was dry. As he had throughout the day, Eric would periodically get a handle on the trail rage stirring within him by pulling ahead for awhile. Apparently moving at a pace dictated by my forward momentum can wear on a guy’s nerves.  After about 4 miles, the landmark Dinosaur sign was a welcome relief, letting us know that the M_rg_n Trail was naught but 2 miles away. On this brief section, we came upon a Wally George understudy, in the person of Chris Diaz. He had started the day off somewhere between the first and second run groups, followed his own course (minus out-and-backs), and virtually assured himself of first pickings at the post-race food frenzy. Hey, Chris, I don’t care if you did share your jelly beans; I don’t mess around when it comes time to feed.

Reaching a dead end into the Morga_ Trail, we parted ways with Chris and made our way along the 2.3-mile out-and-back that would lead us to Aid Station #3 at 27.7 miles.   Along the way, we would cross paths with Rob (Robo) Cowan and his wonderdog, Brandi. If there was even a remote chance of a runner going astray, these two would help them find the right path.

Now, because this ended up being just a little bit longer a stretch, the distance had stoked the fire of my hunger. When the three of us finally emerged at the Mo_gan Trail head, we were told that some bikers from Hell’s Kitchen would be the volunteers. Now, I’m no expert, but that place is way too pretty to be a real biker bar, and I doubt any of the patrons would want to get any appreciable amount of dust on their babies. Ditto the ragtop 6 Series BMW seen in the place’s parking lot on the way home. Thankfully, however, it was our first two trail angels from Aid Station #1 that were to take care of us. To the horror of all those present, Mark’s peanut butter and spun honey sandwiches looked less like sustenance than they did gazelles being taken down by some ponytailed lion. After the unknown RD informed us of Martin Brooks’ intentions of catching up to us for the Pokémon card, none other than Martin himself emerged from the trail. So, being the pictures of composure, maturity and sportsmanship that we were, Eric and myself ducked behind a nearby BMW station wagon until he passed. Then, like a couple of giddy boys, we sprang out and ran back down the path that we had just run up. It didn’t matter that I didn’t still have that Pokémon card. My enthusiasm was due in equal parts to mischievously misleading Martin and jubilation at being close to finishing.

Less than 10 minutes out of the aid station, we again encountered the mix of first and second group runners. It was totally impossible not to feel the collective energy from so many rugged spirits and feed from it. Faces seen earlier in the day were every bit the pleasure to be seen hours later. The time and distance hadn’t softened our fellowship. They had made it more firm. Robert Baird, as had been his good-natured way all day, chided some of our fellow runners by greatly exaggerating the distance to the aid station. In the space of a couple of miles, Eric had finally had enough and moved forward, not to be seen until the conclusion of the run. Leaving Robert and myself on the M_g_n Trail, it wasn’t too long before we were caught by the day’s overall winner. No doubt sensing that we were distracted with the prospect of finishing, and certainly wanting a little payback for the parking lot stunt, Martin startled us as we ran along. After being scared out of my wits, and narrowly avoiding a laundry emergency of catastrophic proportions, I must have called Martin everything but his name/ Nimbly avoiding the F-bombs that I threw down, he took it all in stride, knowing that there was no real malice intended. Followed soon by Willie Cooper, the end of the run drew even closer. Almost home when we once again hit the Be_r Ca_yon trail, there was no way we were going to allow ourselves to be caught by anyone else. Picking up our pace, we finished the course up with a little something extra. Always glad to see the unknown RD, this was an instance where it was that much more pleasing.

For our reward, the runners were treated to post-run food so incredibly good that it was hard to believe; Broiled Salmon, Japanese noodles, couscous, hot turkey chili… Prepared and served by the unknown RD’s wife, Lisa, and her mom, Laura Inouyue. Everything was of gourmet quality. They fed us all like royalty and treated us all as the best of friends. How amazing it was to think that these ladies were so generous of spirit that they would give freely of their time and energy to be of assistance. Not just of their own personal pursuits put aside, theirs was a sacrifice of time spent quietly alone with family. Even Lisa’s adorable children (though locked in the car) lent their presence to the cause of our collective recovery, their boundless energy making it near impossible to feel anything but alive. Thus shrouded in layers of human warmth against the approaching chill, the whole lot of us sat huddled in a parking lot, eating and chatting, drinking thirstily the wine of good company.

Not having seen the lady since our first out-and back-stretch, I finally saw Jennifer (Jenn100) Forman as we sat and broke bread. A tough-as-nails ultra runner, she’s always a welcome sight. During this period of respite and regrouping, hugs flowed freely and many pictures were snapped.   And, in between mouthfuls of food, it was then that I heard a gentle voice call me by name. Somebody, it seemed, had a gift for me. Leigh Corbin, wonderful lady that she is, handed me the very Pokémon card that had been traded to her. It was the iPod card!   I had nothing to give in return, except for a big bear hug, which I did as I thanked her profusely. Thank you, Leigh!! I guess I better by a computer to load the darn thing.

Now, basking in post-race reminiscence, I’m certain that this was a special day. Sure, it was a topflight event, unmatched in its sense of organization. The combination of three out-and-backs with the staggered start guaranteed you would mingle with other runners a minimum of three times during the 31.8 miles. We normally see elite runners like Dean Dobberteen and Michelle Barton during the first 100 yards of an ultra and then later as they drive off with the trophies as we’re just crossing the finish line. The unknown ?k was everything that I wished for my first ultra, and every one thereafter, could be. But there was not one thing that could be removed from the day’s events and leave in its place a whole and complete experience. For the opportunity, we left all the richer. And, it’s an opportunity that I will hunger for and be hopeful of when it is next staged.

How does one get into the unknown ?k 2009? It’s unknown but one thing is for certain. Be an ambassador of trail running and not just a participant, the entry form will find you. And, for the record, the unknown ?k gives 100% entry fee refunds upon request; long story.

Cheers,

Captain Kirk