Dana and Peter, carpenter and grounds manager respectively, planted some tree stumps in the sandy and mercifully shallow riverbed, connected them with some long planks and widened its berth by screwing on some plywood, all in the midst of the second most prolific snowstorm of the season. It held its own for several hundred crossings just fine. And sometime in the wee hours of the morning before the main snowshoe marathon, Death Racers created a nicely sculpted ramp climbing four feet to the top of the bank easing the way for the major part of the field who would start in a few hours. Hundred mile snow shoe participants commenced hours before this, but were capable of absorbing the added adversity. It was a comparative sliver in the range of difficulties they faced.
I set out to design the course with the aim of packing the most adventure that I could in a six and a half mile loop. (I had to guess at the mileage at first. Even with all the crazy athletes in town, no one seemed to own a hand held GPS.) So I utilized my thorough knowledge of the terrain to exploit bushwacks, impossibly steep forest roads, treacherous technical terrain until I had what I had in my mind something that would feel like an accomplishment whether a person was completing one lap or fifteen.
One of the last minute entrants to the 100 mile snowshoe epic was a thin, preternaturally chipper Bodhisattva of the ultra world named Courtenay. It's become de riguer for him to traipse into our races with little to no fanfare, and traipse out of them not only winning but demolishing the field. Not only dominating the race, but rounding his last laps as if the summit cabin were the temple at the foot of Nirvana. Half of the field of ten dropped before the halfway point. Only two or three even managed to finish the race.
The Race Director Andy Weinberg, who could've done just as well as ringmaster for a circus, somehow managed three separate races at the same time. It was the third edition of the Winter Death Race, a decidedly less formal race than it summer counterpart, but no less brutal. Prospective Death Racers are coming to utilize the event as a proving ground before the main event in the summer. I didn't follow it that closely, but it was mainly an affair of chopping cords of wood interspersed with mega sets of burpees, punctuated with hot yoga and running said wood all over Pittsfield and to the cabin at the 1800 foot summit. We won't want for warmth the rest of the winter here on the farm.
To make things even more bizarre Andy and Joe Desena pulled me over for an impromptu video taped interview. According to the interview, I live in a cave in the woods, feasting on porcupines and bartering while working on fifty miles of trails incessantly. Only slight exaggerations.
I drowsily noted the end of the race as several delirious competitors wandered into the barn at two in the morning, thirty hours from the start. A farm hand offered them uncooked ramen and sausage and a cot by the hearth. In my mind, the passing of these events always means spring is coming. And so it appears with the first foray with fifty degrees this week, and a meltdown of sorts which will lead to bare trail to be baked into rideability. Then the real fun begins.
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