To most Americans, D-Day is June 6. But to a small group of people, the real D-Day is the second Sunday in June - Dipsea Day. A day when the assault on the beach comes from the inland side, rather than the ocean, and a day which today, for me, ended in glorious triumph.
The Dipsea is the second oldest running race in America. It started in 1905, predated
only by the Boston Marathon. The race starts in Mill Valley, in the heart of Marin
County, and heads over Mt. Tamalpais to the ocean at Stinson Beach, 7.1 miles away.
Besides for its tradition, the race has three distinguishing characteristics. First,
the course is open, with certain restrictions, so racers can take various routes
which differ in length, steepness, footing, etc. Second, the race is handicapped
by age and sex, so that men 72 and over and women 60 and over (and 8 and under) start
in the first group, 71 year old men and 59 year old women start one minute later,
and so on down to the "scratch" runners, men 19-30, who start 23 minutes
later. As a result, the race is won each year not by the best young male, but by
the best runner of any age or sex in the race, be they an older women or man, a young
child, or anything in between. And third, the course is interesting from start, where
the course goes up 676 steps, to the finish, where it plummets down the twisting
stairs, rocks, and tree roots of Steep Ravine on its way to the ocean.
One more thing about the Dipsea is important - it's very hard to get into. 3000 applied
last year, only 1500 are admitted, 750 to the "real" race (the "Invitational"
secion), and 750 more to the "Dipsea Runner" section who start later. Those
who finish in the top 420 get automatic admission to next year's race, but everyone
else has to go through a complicated system of first-come first-served, auction,
and random lottery to get the remaining spots. As a result, finishing in the top
420 is my goal for the race. In five tries, I've qualified twice, and failed three
times. Truly a man "On the Edge" (the name of a movie about the Dipsea
starring Bruce Dern, himself a one-time Dipsea runner). Last year I finished in 484th
place, 2 minutes off the mark. I have to do better this year.
I take this race seriously, as you know...
By race-day I was ready; the main factor left was probably the mental component. Investing so much of your yearly preparation on a single event is a dangerous proposition to say the least. If you race every week, you can shrug off a bad race. If you only have one important race a year, it has to be right.
I got up early, ate an Odwalla Bar (great stuff!) for breakfast (mainly to stimulate
the inner workings) and headed north. I don't drive a car regularly, and am not fond
of driving, but driving along 280 at 6 in the morning with no cars on the road and
the low rays of the rising sun filtering across the hills is definitely one of the
side benefits of doing races (I might ever be on the road at 6 a.m. otherwise!).
By the time I arrive in downtown Mill Valley, it's 7:15 and I get to park only a
block from town. Volunteers are just unloading the portapotties from a truck so I
guess I'm early. Just what I wanted, no pressure. Pick up my race number, find a
bench right in the square, and sit. The race starts at 8:30, my section at 8:47,
so I've got lots and lots of time and that's just the way I want it.
As the morning warms up the clothes start coming off - first a sweatshirt, then the
warmup jacket, finally the warmup pants. Before 8:00 a.m. it's already hot and getting
hotter. I'm not a great heat runner but I can't let that worry me; the nice thing
about the Dipsea is that you're not racing for time, you're racing for place, so
if it's hot and everyone suffers, times will simply be slower.
At 8:30, the race starts, and it's time for emotion. In the first starting group
is the immortal (literally!) Jack Kirk, the 93-year-old 2-time former race winner
racing in his 65th!!!!! consecutive Dipsea (a record that actually dates back to
1930 since the Dipsea missed a few years during the war). No one in any other sporting
event, even Johnny Kelley at the Boston Marathon, has ever or will ever come close
to that record.
Everyone else in the first group stands on the starting line, waiting to start. Jack
jogs in circles in the start corral, burning off some excess energy. The gun goes
off and he takes off running, slowly, but faster than plenty of noontime joggers
you see on the streets. Tears come to my eyes and to many around me. You have to
remember this isn't a 10K race; it's a brutal trail race with 2000 feet of ascent
and descent, gnarly tree roots, bad footing, shortcuts involving ducking under tree
limbs and crossing streams, and more. Jack is easily the most awe-inspiring athlete
I have ever, and undoubtedly will ever, see. If I'm fit enough to WATCH this race
when I'm 93 (or even 83!) I'll be thrilled.
I watch one more group. When the second group starts, Shirley Matson, a former winner
and probably the best runner of her age (59) in the country, takes off like she's
running a 5K. I turn to the person next to me and say, "There goes the winner."
As it happens I'm right. :-) It happened that I saw Shirley training on the course
the day I went up to do the same, and she looked very good. On race day she looks
even better. I'm spotting her 16 minutes; it turns out she could spot ME 9 minutes
and still beat me. Sigh.
Now it's time to warm up. Here's an observation which will tell you something about
the Dipsea. If you go to your average local 10K, you'll see a few handfuls of runners
warming up before the race. A few elites, some of those who think they might win
their age group, and a small number of others. Most people are just standing around.
Now go to the Dipsea. You'll see EVERYONE, or darn near, warming up before the race
starts. This is a VERY serious crowd. I confine myself to a 2-block stretch near
downtown which is flat; I don't see any point in stressing my hill-climbing muscles
at this point. But most of those warming up (even, it is reported, Jack Kirk) are
running up and down the hilly streets surrounding the town. It's unreal.
Finally the letter "U" (my group) is hoisted over the "Slash Corral",
the ante-chamber to the start corral, where your number is "slashed" with
a marker to show you were at the race start (originally this was the only course
requirement other than arriving at the finish; now there are many restrictions).
I duck in, get slashed, and a few seconds later my group advances to the starting
line. Except for one young kid (my group is 50-51 year old men, 13 year old boys),
no one other than me carries a water bottle. But I do my own thing, which especially
on a hot day includes carrying water. It's not going to slow me down, and it IS going
to keep me from being slowed by dehydration. No point in that.
Finally it's our turn, the rope is dropped, and off we go. The race goes slightly
uphill 3-4 blocks about 0.3 miles to Old Mill Park, where you hit "the stairs".
As my group heads out and hits the park in a little over 2 minutes, I find myself
DFL - Dead Last, out of the 30-35 runners in our group. Now some people might get
discouraged by this fact, but I know my abilities, I know the course, and I'm running
my own race. Sure enough, when we hit the stairs plenty of people (in my group and
the previous ones) start walking, and I "run" (ok, slowly jog) on by. Despite
the heat, and the sweat pouring off me by the time I get to the top, I manage to
run almost all the stairs, only walking intentionally in certain sections where there
are really small steps but running two at a time is too exhausting for me, so instead
I walk two at a time. By the top of the stairs I'm feeling very positive about my
race. A glance at my watch shows 8:31, which is EXACTLY the time I did last year,
but I don't get discouraged because I "know" I'm having a good day, so
far at least. By the time I reach the top of the first climb at Windy Gap, I'm still
moving well, and (although I don't know it), 8 seconds ahead of last year.
A few seconds later it's time for another encounter with Jack Kirk. Younger, faster
runners have been passing me for some time now, with the usual cries of "On
your left!". Like any good Dipsea runner, I try to make room when I can. But
now, as I hear the cry, I look to my right and there's Jack. If I move right, I'm
going to run right into him; not a good thing. :-) So I stick my arm straight out
to the left to prevent passing, shout "Hold on, Jack's here", and move
back to the right and allow the pass only after I'm well clear of Jack. Crisis averted.
At the bottom of the first hill we hit the road for a fast downhill road sprint.
On this stretch, the faster runners really start moving by me. Andy Black is one
of them; a short while later, there's Brad Smith as well. Just to goad Brad on I
shout "Andy's right ahead, go get him", but I really know that isn't going
to happen; once someone (and especially someone of Andy's caliber) has gone by you,
your chances of seeing them again are slim.
I hit Redwood Creek in 21:31, 8 seconds up on last year. Again, I don't know this
exactly at the time, but I do know I haven't made any significant dent on last year's
time, which was too slow by 2 minutes. But the real race occurs from here (Redwood
Creek in Muir Woods) to the top at Cardiac. It's time to kick it in gear! The climb
out of Muir Woods, known as Dynamite, is a killer climb, and the last couple years
I've done a lot of walking up the very steep hill. But today the gears are meshing
and I run steadily forward. I'm passing people steadily, not as many as a few years
ago when I could really bound up this hill, and I'm being steadily passed as well,
but still I feel great when I get to the top having run the whole way. Now there
a more gradual, but still steadily uphill climb known as the Hogsback. I can't say
I'm firing on all 8 cylinders, but at least 6 or 7, as I run on. My biggest problem
is my fellow man (and I do mean "man" in this case). For about a mile I'm
stuck next to the loudest-wheezing, foulest-smelling guy I've encountered in quite
some time (actually I think I ran next to the same guy at the Boston Marathon). This
guy is REALLY annoying, and I just can't shake him for the longest time. I'm tempted
to drop back just to get away, but I can't do that, so I tough it out.
One of the neat things about this race is your ability to spurt. In a road race,
you pretty much run a constant pace the whole time near the same people. Here, I
gradually catch one or two people, run with them for a while, then put on a spurt
to leave them behind and move up on the next group. Of course, others are doing the
same to me. :-) Finally the last major hill, Cardiac, is upon us, and once again
it's me "running", others walking to the top. I surprise myself by never
having the slightest doubt about my ability to run the whole way.
My goal has been to hit Cardiac in 50 minutes; if I do I know I'll qualify for sure.
I haven't made that, it's 51+, but as I go through an unofficial counter calls off
371...372...373 (me) and suddenly a wave of adrenalin washes through me - I've got
a chance at 420!! As others pause for water at the only water stop on the course,
I run through, and actually discard my disposable water bottle, which is now empty.
From here on out it's mental torture. My mind is engaged in a constant 374...375...
as people pass me and 375...374 as I pass others.
My strategy from the start has been to give it a good go on the uphill to Cardiac,
and then count on this relatively flat section to go absolutely flat out, and I'm
carrying out the plan to a tee. On the trail across the top there is one final 20
yard hill, which I run up at a dead sprint, passing three people as I do. In the
Swoop I arrive with clear running ahead of me and fly down. Then into Steep Ravine
where I amaze myself by passing quite a few more people, using my course knowledge
to stick to the minuscule trails adjacent to the stairs rather than the stairs themselves.
Others are still passing me, though, and I'm up to the 380's now. I tell myself there's
no way 40 people are going to pass me between now and the finish but anything can
happen. Someone who is 61 seconds faster than me and started one minute behind me
is going to pass me one second before the finish! Someone who is 121 seconds faster
than me and started two minutes behind me likewise! So there's still plenty of hard
running to do.
At the bottom of Steep Ravine we hit the final uphill, Insult, a hill I've walked
more than run in the past. But this year with those magic numbers providing extra
inspiration, that isn't going to happen. I run steadily up. At the top in past years
has been another informal counter, but this year there isn't, so I get no validation
of the 385 or whatever it is I think it is at this point. Starting out a gravelly
road on the first of the "lower shortcuts" out to the road, I try to pour
it on and pass some more people. Unfortunately I'm watching them and not the surface,
because my foot catches a rock and down I go on one hand and two knees. I bounce
back up, knowing I'm probably bleeding, but also knowing it's pointless to even look
down to see. I have more important things on my mind!
Out to the road, down through the shortcut, back to the road, down through the next
shortcut, and finally the shortcuts rejoin the main trail for the final 1/2 mile
or so to the finish. Someone is there counting, and I'm still around 390, I'm gonna'
do it! But there's no relaxing, I've still got people to pass, after all, and others
are still thinking the same, so I race though the final section, drop down on Rt.
1, and begin the final all-out, downhill 3-block sprint to the finish line. Despite
my flat-out running, I'm still being passed; "flat-out" to me is probably
6:15/mile and there are plenty of people (and evidently still some behind me) to
whom that's a pedestrian pace. By the time the finish line is in reach I think I'm
heading for spot #400, but I'm pipped at the line and it looks like 401st! But who
cares? Woo-hoo! I made it! For the record, 1:14:15, 2 minutes 21 seconds faster than
last year, with almost all of that coming on the all-important Muir Woods to the
top of the Swoop section, but 30 seconds of it came in the very final stretch from
the bottom of Steep Ravine to the finish, where this year's enhanced conditioning
really helped.
[Jump ahead here to the postscript - either the unofficial counters weren't accurate,
or I wasn't (actually because of the shortcuts it's impossible for me to be accurate),
because in the final results now up on the web at www.dipsea.org, I'm actually...#411.
Yikes! One heck of a lot closer than I thought! Just 17 SECONDS ahead of #420. Heck,
I qualified for the Boston Marathon by a bigger margin than that (36 seconds!). Dang
that was close!]
[Postscript 2 - a rough count shows I was 20th out of 34 in my starting group. So
I was right not to be worried about being last after the first 2 minutes]
[Postscript 3 - months later, the Dipsea mailing arrived, and I find out that for next year they've increased the qualifying spot to 450, so I actually had a "qualifying margin" of 1:35, not 0:17. Still too close for comfort!]
What a high! Months of pointing to a goal and all I feel like doing is going "YEEESSS!".
Get the finisher's medal and T-shirt and hold on tight! Head straight to the first
aid area where for the first time I look down and see both knees bleeding, although
not really deeply cut, but I figure I'll let someone professional clean my wounds.
After spending several minutes doing so, he vainly attempts to apply bandages, which
because of a combination of sweat and the location (on the knee!) fall off within
two seconds of me standing up. Oh well, at least the wounds are clean. Run into Brad
and chat for several minutes about our respective races, pull out the Palm VII and
send Debi an email to let her know what's happening (she's busy hiking the Skyline
to the Sea trail from the ocean to Big Basin), then off to the changing room and
then the bus back to Mill Valley (time doesn't permit me to hang around for the awards,
much as I'd like to).
And...one final encounter with Jack Kirk! As the bus rose up from the Pacific, who
do we see just emerging from the trail onto the road (just a few feet from where
I had my fall) but Jack! The bus slows to a crawl as the entire busload erupts in
sustained applause. Jack is on his way to #65! (the results show him finishing in
a perfectly respectable 2:54:55 (2:31:55 with handicap), ahead of 7 other runners).
One more Jack observation - in year's past (ever since I've been doing the race),
Jack has been accompanied by a course monitor with a sign reading "Caution -
Dipsea Demon (Jack's nickname) ahead." Just a few weeks ago a new issue of "Trail
Runner" magazine appeared with an article about Jack, in which he complained
about the monitor, which was forced on him by the race committee. He didn't want
a monitor, all the monitor does is talk, and he's not exactly likely to get lost
on the course since he INVENTED many of the shortcuts that people now take for granted.
Anyway...this year, no monitor! Jack is alone and loving it!
Needless to say, the rest of my day is anticlimactic, but the pleasant glow of success
stays with me for a long time (and even now!).
Haven't run a step since; certainly picked a good week for my off week (100+ temperatures
not exactly my favorite thing). Now all I have to do is sit around until next year,
wait until the entry blank arrives, and LEISURELY send it in by the deadline, with
a check for the minimal amount, and I'm in. PLUS not that I'm looking forward to
getting older but 52-year olds do get an extra minute handicap - Dipsea runners are
VERY attentive to these details!
YEEESSS!
Steve "On the Edge" Patt
in broiling hot Cupertino, CA