The latest issue of the Sugarloaf Mountain Athletic Club (SMAC)'s newsletter celebrates all aspects of "Service" in the running community, from volunteering to crewing and more. This baby is basically a mini-magazine about running in this region. Enjoy!
The dream is always the same.
Or at least it starts out the same. I’m running in the woods. On a trail. A really gnarly trail. “Technical” is the term for it (one of several apt trail-running terms borrowed from the mountain-biking community). In fact, it’s one of the most technical trails I’ve ever seen. Lots of bare rock ledges and giant, heaving roots and steep drop-offs to navigate and scramble over. In short, it’s an absolute blast. There’s so much hands-on jungle-gym jumping and leaping around required that the experience starts to feel less like trail running and more like a new running sport: woodland parkour.
Instead of turning right onto that trail less travelled, though, I veer left. Onto a path that’s soon quite obviously even less travelled. The greenery closes in, whelms and then overwhelms, and finally dominates entirely. The trail turns into a notion of a trail, and I wing it by feel, unable to conceal my delirious grin.
Soon, though, the intensity increases. The ground starts to slope precipitously downward, and the pace quickens. I notice other racers around me, some surging ahead and others falling behind. The chase is on. One or two even come up the other way. It’s like some kind of crazy motocross competition, except on Hokas. We’re swooping, banking, and roller-coastering through the forest like dogfighting fighter-plane pilots. X-Wings evading TIEs inside the superstructure of the second Death Star. The adrenaline is thrilling. Intoxicating, even. I’m right in my wheelhouse and I’m loving it.
The terrain gets even wilder, and the pace escalates. Imperceptibly at first, the grade steepens, and the moves of the descent grow ever more challenging. Ledge drop-offs lengthen and leaps become the norm. Eventually I need to start grabbing dangling vines and loose roots to guide my controlled plunges. It’s a full-body effort.
The “trail” has now become a rock-climbing route on a bottomless forested cliff. I’m picking my next landing spots in mid-air, and never staying grounded for more than a second. It’s barely running anymore; it’s really more like basic flight. I know I’m in over my head but it’s past the point of no return. The route is more or less vertical, and I’m not a very good rock climber. It’s down or bust now. There are occasional slips and slides... and suddenly the first pangs of fear show up.
I’m not really afraid of heights. Not in the normal, paralyzing way. I can stand at the edge of mountain cliffs, or blissfully run along the steep ledges of Mt. Tom and enjoy the thrill. But some drop-offs wreck me. My friend was building a house once and we climbed the unfinished stairs to a second-floor landing overlooking his living room. There was no railing yet, though, just a 12-foot drop to the hard floor below. In that kind of situation my gut drops out and in my mind I feel my neck break on the hard floor below. THAT’s where I’m terrified of heights. That and slippery rock ledges.
And then it happens. Overhang. The next move requires descending to a ledge that isn’t just below me, it’s actually technically behind me. Tucked under the ledge I’m dangling from. And this is where I seize up. I know I can’t do that, especially not at this accelerated pace. I’m panic stricken and my body betrays me. My grip on the vine or ledge edge I’m clinging to starts to slip, and every fiber of my being realizes that this is it. I’m not going to make it. The Porsche is totally going in the lake.
That’s more or less where I wake up, of course.
I have died in dreams before, but it’s usually some form of getting fatally shot and then wondering why I’m still conscious. I don’t think I’ve ever literally fallen to my death in a dream. I’m glad I haven’t; I don’t think I’d like that. So the sudden return to consciousness feels like a fierce blend of anxiety and relief. But not here. The violent expulsion from my initially fun little woodland parkour session usually leaves me literally gasping, and preposterously tense.
So I always wonder. What if I jumped? What if I take that leap and there’s more to come. What if I just say… what the heck? Is there a satisfying ending to this tangerine dream? The answer is perfectly clear: yes, no, maybe. Ah, what the heck. It’s time to leap.
On a chilly afternoon in late February, I set out on snowshoes at Northfield Mountain (in the northern part of the Pioneer Valley in western Massachusetts) with the goal of just seeing how the conditions were and getting a little exercise for the day. The trails weren’t groomed this year due to the pandemic so there’s been no charge and very few other people around most times I’ve gone. This time there were only six cars parked in the spacious lot. After following others’ tracks up the Hidden Quarry and Porcupine trails, the signs of fellow people out there diminished until all I saw were a few sets of Nordic ski tracks along the access road. I tromped through light powder alongside the tracks to the top of the mountain where the snow-covered reservoir gave me that vaguely sinister feeling that it sometimes does (somehow it just feels… unnatural up there). The sun felt good, though, and the exertion from climbing kept me just warm enough. With sunset approaching, I looked for a good return route, and found one. Descending the Bobcat and West Slope trails, gravity did its thing and tugged me into a run. Boisterous puffs of snow kicked up around me as I leap-jogged down numerous fun little drops and flung myself around twisty turns. Late-light sun filtered through the tree trunks, but the day felt fresh... and I looked forward to the future.
