Garrett 9T

Nine Trails 2004
Garrett Headley

The 9 Trails run began for me 3 days before the actual start time. That was when my anxiety started infiltrating my dreams. First I would appear at the starting line without my shoes. Next I was wearing cotton. Where are my polyester running shorts? I'm SURE I grabbed both of my bottles this morning. Patsy tells us to get ready... And GO! What's the matter? Everyone else is moving, except me. My legs appear to be made of rubber. Then I wake up. I'm so relieved. This goes on for the next couple of nights. The night before the run, I'm really too nervous to get much sleep, so there is no need to endure any more of the anxiety dreams. I ease my way out of bed around 4:30 am and out to the kitchen. I remember someone telling me to just eat as much food as you can possibly hold down before that run, so I graze through some spaghetti leftovers and a couple of slices of peanut butter toast. A cup of green and black tea, and I'm ready to go. It's a beautiful day, some clouds, and not nearly as cold as the last couple of mornings. After the last minute pre-race instructions, Patsy leads us down the hill toward the start. She seems to be revelling in the power she wields to make 100 people follow her lead. And we're off.

I was chatting with a friend at the time, and didn't really hear Patsy, but everyone started moving and I followed. The first couple of legs were uneventful. I positioned myself behind a couple of other runners and enjoyed the scenery while trying to remember to drink electrolytes, even though I didn't feel the need for them yet. Soon I found myself on my own. I am reminded by someone's comment after the race (Noah), "I'm surprised at how much of the run I ended up doing on my own." Well, that's what you get for running at the front of the pack, Noah. Actually, that's pretty much the way the 9 Trails is for most folks. A very personal journey that is dependent on finding your own inner strength to be able to finish. And of course, with the help of some very dedicated volunteers at the aid stations! Anyway, another runner caught up to me just before Gibralter. We were greeted with a spectacular view of the mountains, and clouds covering most of the city. You could just barely make out the tip of the highest peak on Santa Cruz island. We both had a little laugh over how ridiculous the forcast for rain sounded at that time. There was NO WAY it was going to rain today.

Four hours later I was laughing again, though it was more of a crazed laughter, as I was running through extrememly thick clouds on Gibralter going the other direction. One could almost run right past the aid station without seeing it if you didn't know it was there. With the help of a volunteer, I found the jacket I had discarded earlier, and poured a couple of handfuls of rock salt down my throat. Grasping as many pretzels as I could while carrying two fresh bottles of "sports drink," I headed off into the clouds on my own. After a couple of turns, I hear a van coming from behind. Stu Sherman is driving up the road to fix the Rattlesnake marker. He's leaning his head out the window for better visibility, or maybe just to get his hair wet, and yells some encouraging words to me as he passes. "Only 9 more miles. Bring it home!" Yeah. And I've already run a marathon. A little while later, Stu is driving back down the road. He cheers for me once more, but I can't really hear what he says because there's so much water in my ears.

I get to the marker left behind by Stu and head down Rattlesnake. Suddenly I realize I have told my wife, Mari, to meet me a little too early at the starting line. And she's 8 months pregnant and will be responsible for minding our 5yr old daughter, Kinsey, who will probably be getting bored after waiting around for awhile. Then I remember, "It's raining! There's plentry for her (Kinsey) to do!" With that little mess off my conscience, I start to think about how incredibly fun this run has been. And how I wish it didn't have to end so soon. My last stop through the aid station at Tunnel, and up again to Inspiration point. I am in awe of all of the volunteers still out braving the weather to make sure the runners are well fed and hydrated. I still feel some energy left, and do some slow jogging up the hill, but every couple of minutes or so, the cramps in my quads force me to walk. Up and over Inspiration point, and down Jesusita, better known as "The Mudslide from Hell" after about .01 inches of rain. Actually, if your goal is to finish a run covered in mud, Jesusita is the best place to go in the rain. By the time I got to the stream crossings, I wasn't even bothering to hop over the rocks. Just run right through. Up the hill, and through the parking lot into Patsy's arms for the traditional post-race hug. My daughter ran the last 25 yards with me. Afterwards, Kinsey says "Daddy, you looked like you weren't really running very fast. I could even run faster."

Several runners finish within a few minutes after me. Mari comments on how "everyone has such a huge grin on their face. You'd never guess they just ran 35 miles in the mud!" Kinsey has befriended Patsy's granddaughter and is now passing out the finisher ribbons as the runners come through. Such exitement! Drinking my soup, watching my daughter hand out ribbons, I think back to some of the chance meetings and short conversations I had along the trails. I feel an emotional bond to some, who I met only briefly, but shared a difficult journey with. I want to watch everyone cross the finish line, but eventually the word "hypothermia" comes to mind. I am freezing. Next year, I'm bringing extra dry clothes. As we get in the car to leave, Kinsey says, "Patsy has to stay here until 9pm! She can't leave until the last runner comes back!" Once again, I am so grateful to the experience that Patsy has provided us, along with the many brave volunteers along the route. I hope to see them all again next year!