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Baldy Peaks 50K 2000 Report: Shannon Lyons

As dawn cracked a smile over the looming shoulders of Mt. Baldy, I and
various other unfettered souls clamour like crows for position,
pattering down the paved road from Icehouse Canyon to the start of the
singletrack leading up to Baldy Peak.  (Notice carefully in 10/2000 UR,
pg. 61,  how RD JED describes this course "...through forests and over
some hills...") Being overly familiar with this section, I take little
notice of the "fern glades and streams", & mainly concentrate on the
jelly-like substance that used to be my legs. At a strategic location
(i.e. a level place where both my feet are on the same plane), I am
greeted warmly to tasty apples and persimmons with which double crown
winner SB and Company are greeting the undead.  But how long can you
pretend to chew on an apple?  No way out of this situation but climb up
and then down to the "notch".

On Baldy's shoulders the switchbacks come and go, like rocks to land on
in a stream but finally a dry portal - Uncle Baz and his never ending
supply of good humor, "hi mates", jokes, hugs, liquid libation...its
enough to raise the spirits of the undead and solidify the jelly legs.

Now I remember why I have always loved Baldy's trail...from the top down
little ball bearings (or snow, depending on the season) burrow into your
socks like chiggers on a dog & the humps along the "Devil's Backbone"
seem to swell as you pass over, rising like ridges on a dragon's tail,
bumping and grinding, threating to toss you and all your ultrafit
acoutrement into the airways of Baldy's vultures. Around switchbacks and
hikers you spin, leaving them grappling for balance with their jaunty
hiking poles extended, looking askew, asking why you run (because I
can)....

Arriving at the Notch the first time is like skiing into the gate of
heaven because Bruce, Lorraine, Larry and others are waiting with a
tremendous assortment of fruit, sweets, sandwiches, liquids and  KK caps
to assist you in making your adventure complete.   And you know there is
no turning back because the weather is still perfect (at that moment) &
the next 4 or so miles is down. Hence you know the climber muscles will
forget the tortured existence they have led and so at this point there
is no need to drop, this will be a piece of cake and then when the quads
start to echo the screams at Manker Flats you can have peace.

From the Notch down to Manker is mostly a two lane gravel chute (I think
of ice) for vehicles.  I find I could more easily have skiied down as my
legs soon begin to feel like two wooden poles atached to some slick
boards with fish scales on the bottom to hold me upright.

Finaly the flats approaches and instead of shouting "15 Drop", my tongue
twisted out the words "15 In", then "15 Out" before I could drink a
coke!  Only the Gods of ultrarunning know why that happened. (OK, so I
was beginning to feel a bit better.)  But here's the catch.  A slow
meander up the road again brings me to a small and little used (I know
why now) trailhead providing an excellent shortcut up Baldy to visit
Uncle Baz again.  That phrase comes to mind as I again recall the words
of JED, "with fern glades and hills..." and my fellow runners provide me
with vividly clear comprehension of what is runnable (to mountain sheep
& lions, is).

On the way to my second sighting of Uncle Baz I visit Sierra Club's
green cabin and as Chaisson takes a snapshot of this occasion from hell,
I wish I had brought along a 500 Shure-shot; that would mean at least an
hour rest while he used up the film on me.

After the second comming of Uncle Baz a cloud which has all along been
threatening my heels imminently awaits my pleasure along the dragon's
tail. The green jelly that has been my legs now turns numb and they
freeze into position like popsicles on sticks but the interesting
obscure effect the cloud has on trail visibility gives me little time to
explore this phenonomen. As I wind my way down this little "hill" to the
notch for the second time I wonder if I can take the tram back.

I swear that cloud is holding a poisonous white atmosphere that is
threatening at any moment to eject me from the mountainside but then the
notch comes into view and before my frozen fingers can take a number for
the tram or my frozen lips form the words, "15 Drop", Mr. Trail Safety
magicaly appears out of the swirling matter and thrusts into my hand a
cup of evil looking brew which I down rapidly, then ask for more.  Thus
fortified I know the saga will have to contine.

The traverse to Thunder is a death march I am all too familiar with on
hot days but the frigid skies now make it a different matter. The ghosts
of lost runners are looming behind every bush.  But it is  marked
prolifically with loooonnnggg strips of yellow tape to keep you on trail
even through the thickest of pea soups. Finally arriving at the orange
fence line marking the ski safety boundary and after searching around in
the cold and gloom wetness I find THE MARKER, appropriately orange
colored, with which I am to mark my number to prove I had been there.
Only my hands are too numb to get the number out so the best I can do is
mark my numbly blue wrist with one short streak that promptly fades into
yellow.  On on.

Meeting other undead in the cloud is cool; at least I'm not the only
frozen soul left on this icy planet.  Not a minute too soon the notch
appears for the third time before my blurry eyes and it is "15 In, 15
Out" without a moment's hesitation.  And as I position myself for a slog
down the two lane ice chute, the hands disassociate from the wrists.
So, with the handheld jammed into my belt, I tug  windbreaker sleeves
down to cover the dead limbs and begin to flail like a windmill.
Suddenly a tailwind designed to freeze the rest of la cuerpa jump starts
me, the downhill gears shift from slog to lope position and am off like
the Mad Hatter.

It turns out I don't need my flashlight after all.  Some 12 hours after
all this, JED's crew forgets to ask about the orange mark on my race
number (I find it later, attached to some other dead part) and serve me
whatever in a cup and my truck drives itself with me attached down to
the 210 and back to Los Angeles in time to salvage a long planned
arrangement with my partner in crime only to find he is too tired after
a long two-day business trip to San Francisco.

Shannon Lyons