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Salida, Colorado

The day began with a deer with one horn chomping leaves outside our window, it looked at me leaves falling out it gaping snout when it caught sight of me then deciding I was no threat it kept on chomping. Its tail wagged and it didn’t get hit by the early morning cars zooming down the street, I took it as a good omen.

The morning air was straight from the freezer and runners were waiting for the first person to derobe down to short shorts and t-shirts, it seemed no one wanted to take the plunge into bare skin and icy air. Then minutes before the horn marathoners were jumping and dancing to keep warm, puffs of condensation hovering around white faces and red noses dripping.

They began a colourful herd hoofing it up the mountain. “It’s always worse for the spectators” a comrade in cold commented. We got chatting as we waited for the runners to resurface and Stephanie told me about her own running aspirations and her boyfriend Mike’s struggles with always coming so close to the top, but not quite gripping the leader’s shoestrings, the heartbreak of not now, not yet. Living in Leadville, but not born there the altitude was taking its toll, sickness you can’t quite kick, anemia and exhaustion spinning you downward, down the plug hole. But beautiful mild summer, made up for heavy, harsh winters, hopefully it would come soon enough for fragile spirits to heal and not break. The runners began to ant up the single file track and out of sight.

Stephanie’s companion, Bill, mountain tough, Leadville bred in bright red running shoes, hair whispy white was ready to move. Like a mollusc I latched on and up the mountain we drove, past cows and endless mountain vistas. We stopped at the 8 mile aid station, volunteers huddled in the shadow of the hill. they joined us on the sunnyside of the road, we waited, their sweet spirits a warming brew for the soul. Then a shout, the first runners. Old Bill, identifying them on sight and then the next ten more, he probably could keep going, he brought smiles to those who watched him, “they don’t make them like that anymore”. The untarnished enthusiasm of age, constant and limitless.

Nick Clark and Josh Arthur in green and grey sped by, faster than a claps could reach them, we waited some beats after they vanished, then black, orange, green and finally red with bright yellow arm warmers. Dylan was coming in 6th. Trying to avoid disappointment he had spent the last few days speculating that top 10 would be a dream, but who knows in a foreign country with tough competition it might be top 50 and dreams of ultrarunning might be a pleasurable outlet now a way of life. I knew Dylan, bred like a racehorse, competition and endurance in his blood, anything less than top 10 would be a blow. It was early though so top 10 was not a certainty at mile 8, the only 4 winners of this race were competing today, this was no club race, if it was top 10 it would be a glorious one.

We snailed after the lead runners up 5 miles of unyielding climb. Pain amplified in faces the further back they went, a drudgery of one foot in front of the other, not even half way, just keep going. For some it was a physical race, but even though this wasn’t an ultra race it was grueling, for some a mental race of one. Keep those internal demons at bay, trust the body it’s been here before however many generations before across the plains and up the mountains to survive!

At the top we waited, then the leaders came by making it look easy. Nick and Josh, the last two year winners for them it was a race of two. 5-10minutes behind Timmy Parr, then Marco Peinado, all four mountain men. Then the red and yellow, Dylan Newell had moved up a spot in front of Ryan Burch. Moments before the two had been yapping about the after party, now things were getting serious. It was time to descend, I had mental images of Dylan rolling down the steep and rocky trail, I put them aside and cheered the next twenty or so runners. The first female runner all in purple, began her descent, face a mask of determination. The wind picked up, the clouds rolled over and there was definitely snow ahead of our runners. We fled to the car and began the creeping descent, runners became walkers, faces were set, these marathoners had hours ahead of them. Some smiled, but more had the ground in front of their feet for companionship and eyes only for it.

Back at the start we watched the last half marathoners making their weary way down the hill. Then the rhythmic line was broken two faster specks were packmanning through procession. It was our leaders, first Josh then Nick past us cheering on the bridge. The 5 seconds between them was an eternity on Nick’s face, Josh had this one. Then 10 seconds later we could see more marathoners picking off the halfers. Orange, black, and my heart ruched to my throat, a red with fluoro arms swinging. Not until over and under the bridge could I relax. Not only top 10, but top 5! And second in his age group, despite his training constantly being interrupted by my constant hungry baby bird chirping for entertainment he was alright at this trail running thing.

When I saw Dylan he was already busy analysing, “typical ultrarunner” Stephanie laughed, they just never stop. I left the top 10 be, and watched the rest trot in, all in various states of exhaustion: red eyes, watering, legs like new born calves, gasping, groaning, but victorious. They all made it across the line, what a freaking achievement, legends.

Later that night in the “man shed” of a spectacular two storey Salida residence, filled with painting and trophies and assorted cushions I felt a rush at joy at our unique journey. This was not the average Aussie traveller’s American experience. Surrounded by passionate ultrarunners and friends, back slapping and goodnatured teasing, with our homemade luck pizza disappearing satisfyingly to the last crumb, this was a kind of warmth and sense of belonging that you just don’t get in a hostel or hotel common room.

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Salida, Colorado

And then we finally found it: a fast flowing river, trails winding over rolling hills, snow capped mountains in the distance and a gorgeous historic town – finally a place we could imagine calling home.

Under the giant S, scrambling and rock hopping the hills were giving me flashbacks from the opening credits of MASH, brains like to spit out the most incongruous comparisons don’t they? Dylan ran, whilst I watched blue birds cavort in the evergreen trees. Later lying in the sun we felt so lucky to right here, right now, carefree and doing what we wanted me taking photos, Dylan living his dream a trail marathon race against some of the world’s best the next morning. I picked up a bright hand knitted and a secondhand cashmere scarf in psychedelic colours from a thrift shop. Then as setting sun bounced of the rapids we made a rafter self conscious watching his every move from the rocky river bank.

An early night, a race in the morning…