The UltraRunning link for the U.S.

Crown King Scramble 50K/50M 1999 Report: Lynn Newton

March 20, 1999

THE EVENT
---------

Imagine -- it's 6:00 AM. You line up in the dark with a
few other people behind a line on a road in the middle
of nowhere. You start to run down the road. You turn
off the road and head up the side of a mountain. You
run and walk your heart out and don't stop for anything
except to eat and drink. When you stop you have been in
motion for over eight hours.

That's how I spent my day on Saturday, March 20, 1999.
The occasion was the 1999 edition of Crown King
Scramble 50K / 50M (CKS) ultramarathon, known by
insiders as "Arizona's cult race", sponsored by Arizona
Road Racers. This year was only the third running of
the 50-mile trek, but the fourteenth for the 50K, the
original race.

Some ultrarunners call CSK50K "the toughest 50K on the
planet." I didn't know that until I was on the course.
Whether that assessment is accurate I'm not qualified
to judge, since this was my first trail race, and my
first effort at any race longer than a standard
marathon. If it's *not* the hardest 50K, I'm not sure I
want to try whatever surpasses it.

Readers who are familiar primarily with the popular and
glitzy designer marathons that draw many thousands of
runners may be surprised to know that in the US an
ultramarathon with 250 runners is considered a *big*
race. This year Crown King Scramble had 51 finishers in
the 50-mile race, and 194 in the 50K.

The 50K race begins near Lake Pleasant, AZ, and winds
almost due north. It ends in the tiny town of Crown
King, AZ. In addition to the 50 kilometers of
horizontal distance, the course traverses an overall
rise in elevation from beginning to end of about 6,000
feet. That's more than four times the height of the
Empire State Building, including the antenna.


GETTING TO THE START
--------------------

Getting to the start of the Crown King 50K provides
logistical problems for most runners. ARR provided, for
a fee of $25, two circa thirty-passenger busses to
deliver runners coming from Phoenix to the start.

On the bus I met 64-year-old runner, Donald Lang, from
Glendale, CA, who wore a T-shirt testifying that he has
run at least two marathons in every one of the 50
states. Crown King Scramble would be his 189th
marathon.

The first bus arrived at Lake Pleasant barely twenty
minutes ahead of the early start, just in time to check
in, prepare, and line up. It felt strange standing by
the side of the road in darkness and cold, spreading
sunblock over myself. personally, i was glad not to
have to wait around for a long time in the dark getting
chilly and nervous.


THE RACE -- THE EASY PART
-------------------------

A couple of minutes before 6:00 AM the starter called
for all the early starters to line up behind a line
drawn across the two-lane highway we were straddled
across. We we about to get under way when, whoops! we
all had to dash to the side of the road to let through
a caravan of gawking bass fishermen on their way to
their own early start on a busy day of murdering little
fishies in the lake.

Despite the interruption, order was restored, and we
were able to start right on time. There was no cannon
or gun for the approximately seventy-five early
starters. Just a guy who stood up and shouted, "Ready
... Go!"

I realized immediately that I forgot to pull my running
gloves out of the pockets of my warmup pants. I'm glad
I did. It was chilly, perhaps below 50 degrees, but
within fifteen minutes I had no need of running gloves,
and didn't want to carry them all the way to mile 23,
where my drop bag was being delivered.

By the time we started the morning light was dawning
rapidly. The first 1.2 miles of the race is on that
comfortable two-lane highway. I felt very, very good
when I started. As I ran I made a few new running
friends.

That was the last pavement I saw until my return to
I-17 late in the afternoon. The course turns left onto
a well-maintained dirt road. It's hilly, but not bad.
For a while I ran with a woman who said she had run all
fourteen races, including the first unofficial run,
when it was just a bunch of people who got together one
morning to do it for fun.

The scenery in this part of Arizona is superlatively
beautiful. As we rose in elevation, it was possible to
look back over our shoulders and view Lake Pleasant.
Any runner who failed to hold his head up and look
around during this race was there for the wrong reason.

The CKS aid stations are the best I've ever seen in any
event, even better than the popular and well-supported
St. George and Grandma's marathons. Each one was
different, and I remember them all well.

The first aid station was at mile seven. I was made to
feel like a special guest at the Plaza hotel. A woman
rushed up to take my water bottle and fill it with the
drink of my choice. They were offering either plain
water, or Zing, a new hydration product. I had read the
data sheet they passed out on Zing at the packet pickup
dinner two nights before, and was favorably impressed.
So having never tried it, I decided to trust it. It was
a wise decision.

In past marathons I've had a problem with bonking
prematurely at the proverbial wall. It seems that my
problem has been with not eating and drinking enough en
route. This time I was determined not to make that
mistake again.

In addition, about two weeks ago I purchased a bottle
of Succeed! electrolyte capsules after reading a
convincing testimonial from Suzy Shearer on the Ultra
list. I stuffed eight in a little Ziploc baggie and
consumed one every single hour the entire course. I've
decided that I will do that in every long race I ever
run for the rest of my life.

They had laid out a table six or eight feet long filled
with enough food to fuel the army of Atilla the Hun.
Everything a runner might want was there: oranges,
bananas, Powerbars, Gu, gels, cookies, candy, plus
amenities like Advil and Vaseline. I was in a bit of a
rush, so didn't contemplate the spread closely enough
to remember everything. I grabbed some cookies (my
favorite food) and a miniature Powerbar and took off.

The road soon got rougher. Before long we passed
through an isolated area where there were a few
primitive homes. One homestead featured a large fleet
of dilapidated VW busses on display in the front yard.
A sign in front advertised rock art. I can't imagine
who would buy it. They appeared to be miles from
civilization, and the road was barely driveable.

At mile 15 we were entertained by attendants in early
western costume, including a couple of ladies dressed
as dance hall girls, or perhaps as -- ummm -- shall we
say G-rated ladies of ill repute? CKS is, after all, a
family event. We were told at the packet pickup dinner
that the site had at one time been the location of a
brothel.

Once again I was greeted by a personal attendant who
filled my bottle with Zing, and I stuffed more food in
me before heading off. I was beginning to feel like a
Conehead: "EAT ... MASS ... QUANTITIES!"

So far I still felt wonderful, not at all tired. I was
having way too much fun to trouble myself with being
tired. And then the real fun began.


THE RACE -- THE REAL FUN BEGINS
-------------------------------

At the mile 15 aid station the road heads off to the
right. This is where it ceases being a road and becomes
a real trail through the Prescott National Forest. I was
not expecting it to be as challenging as it was. Silly
me.

Sometime in the next eight miles it occurred to me that
Crown King Scramble is not exactly an ultramarathon. It
is more like a biathalon with a reasonable 15-mile run,
followed by a mercilessly grueling 14-mile uphill
endurance hike, with a two-mile downhill sprint to the
finish tagged on for those who manage to make it that
far. Looking at it in another way, based on average
finishing times, it's more like a marathon and three
quarters.

From mile 15 to mile 29 is almost all very steep uphill
on rugged trail that is difficult in places even to
walk on, let alone run. There may have been some heros
and heroines scampering up parts of those hills, but
there weren't many of them at my end of the race.

As I progressed I looked for every opportunity I could
to run. Even if the trail was going slightly uphill but
doable within reason, I ran it. But much of the way
from there on I was forced to walk.

Mind you, this was no case of moseying along, enjoying
a leisurely stroll and inspecting the scenery. Most of
the way I pushed as hard as I could stand it.

My hamstrings became fatigued. I didn't wear my heart
rate monitor, but at times I estimated my pulse to be
around 160 BPM. My maximum heart rate was measured last
October at 171. I was sustaining rates of over 90% of
my MHR for extended periods of time.

At the day went on the temperature went up. The sweat
poured off me in rivers.

The race rules require all runners to carry at least
one 16-ounce fluid bottle the entire distance. I
carried a 20-ounce bottle, and ran out of drink twice
between stations.

At mile 19 there was a water-only station. It must have
required considerable effort to get the truck carrying
bottles up there. A sign said the water was for
drinking only, not for bathing. They didn't want
runners grabbing a gallon and pouring it over their
heads.

The temperature may have risen as high as 75 degrees on
this last day of winter. All week I had been eyeing the
forecast nervously. They had been predicting cool and
cloudy, with a storm front expected to come through the
next day bringing rain and snow. As far as I know, no
storm front came through Sunday. And on Saturday the
sun was out all day long.

Remarkably, I continued to move along steadily, though
frustrated by how frequently I had to walk. After all,
wasn't this supposed to be a *running* race? But I
still felt just fine, thanks, I'm sure, to my
intelligent hydration, refueling, and electrolyte
replacement strategy. At no time during the race was I
in pain or unduly uncomfortable. Despite the amount I
drank and ate, when I got home my weight was down about
four pounds from the day before.


HASH HOUSE HARRIERS RULE!
-------------------------

Sometime after 22 miles, as a couple of runners passed
me, one said, "We're getting near the margaritas!"

Five minutes later I rounded a bend and descended into
a large flat clearing where they had bivouaced the
23-mile aid station. We passed beneath a large banner
labeled "Hash House Harriers", the curators of this
magnificent oasis.

I'm not aware of the exact makeup or purpose of this
group, aka the "Hashers", but gather it to be a
coalition of ARR members that one runner friend said
describes itself as "Drinkers with a running problem."
At the packet pickup dinner a group of them were
sitting at a nearby table and whooping it up. They were
having so much "fun" it was difficult for me to hear
the speakers.

The Hashers promised that at mile 23 there would be
margaritas and daiquiris for runners. Apparently they
actually made good on this promise in at least one
previous year. Whether this was actually available on
Saturday I did not find out, but I would not be
surprised if it was.

There was *definitely* some beer being handed out to
the volunteers. Just how many runners were insane
enough to swill booze at this juncture in the race I do
not know.

Perhaps it fortified the spirit of some runners,
enabling them to face the next part of the course.
Little did I know that by far the hardest part was just
ahead of me.

Once again I was greeted by a friendly personal
assistant who gave full attention to me and my every
need for as long as I remained there.

As usual, the first order of business was filling the
fluid bottle. This time I wanted some plain water. Lots
of it. I had run out of water well before the aid
station, and was obliged to swallow an electrolyte
capsule on the trail without water. It took a couple of
minutes to gag it down.

If you have ever eaten something extremely salty
without water, you know how a strong shot of salt can
produce a burning sensation in the stomach. It took a
couple of icy bottles of water to help dilute and
distribute the contents of the capsule.

Immediately I located my drop bag. My helper even
unknotted the top for me, since my hands seemed for the
moment not to be up to the task.

She probably would have dressed me if I'd asked. I was
wearing a long sleeve Coolmax shirt with a singlet
pulled over it, and wanted to shed the long sleeve
shirt. My drop bag contained a clean singlet. The
volunteer dug around and asked if I wanted to wear it.
I declined, because my number was pinned to the one I
was wearing. She offered to repin it for me, but I
didn't want to take the time.

I could have taken the time, because after slathering
fresh sunscreen on myself, there was still one more
task to tend to, namely to sit in a chair, take off my
shoes, and dump an accumulation of rocks out of them.

Next, I headed over to the food table, grabbed more
cookies, and drank and drank more water and coke, all
with the assistance of volunteers who grabbed for and
handed me anything I asked for. Finally, I filled my
bottle once again with Zing and headed into the
unknown. I must have spent at least eight minutes at
the aid station.

The last cookie I tried to consume was about as
appealing as sand and I nearly gagged on it. After
letting it sit in my mouth for a little while, I
jettisoned the offending glop with a noisy Bronx cheer.


THE LONG HAUL
-------------

The course description said that between aid stations
at 23 miles and mile 29, the road climbs approximately
2400 feet. Indeed it does.

From near this point on I encountered numerous washes
running across the road. If there had been more rain
recently, these would have been stream crossings. As it
was, not a single one had so much water that I was
unable to skirt around it or hop across it, so I never
got wet.

Before long I found myself on the stairway to heaven, a
series of long, straight, extremely steep switchbacks.
From various vantage points it was possible to see the
next aid station way up in the sky, with a stream of
ant-like runners walking toward it.

So far I had retained my good humor. After all, I paid
money for this experience -- why would I not make every
effort to have a good time? But it was becoming more
difficult.

At times I was mildly irked by yahoos who passed by on
vehicles, since I had to move over to the edge of the
road to let them get by. One particular 300-pound oaf
on an ATV gunned his engine as he went by. He probably
didn't intend to annoy me, but I didn't think kind
thoughts about him as he passed.

Somewhere in this segment of the course I saw a bright
yellow convertible jeep coming toward me on a very
narrow strip of the road, and knew I would have to step
up on the rocks along the side to let it by. As I was
about to start grumbling to myself, I saw that it was
carrying four pretty young women.

"Great job!" "Woo hoo!" "Looking good!" "You rock!"
"Way to go!" How could I possibly resent that? It
perked me up for almost five minutes.

The effect would have lasted longer, except that's when
I did a swan dive into the dirt. Yup, this geezer just
caught a rock with his right foot and went down to the
right side, landing in thick dust and raising a cloud.

This happens to me a lot on trails. It's sort of a
tradition. "Hey Lynn, don't fall down this time!" my
friends jokingly say to me as I head out for a trail
run. Hmmph.

I do a great deal of running on an indoor track. My
stride is efficient, which is a scientific way of
saying I barely leave the ground when I run. In all the
time I have been a runner I have *never* fallen on a
flat surface, but it happens often on trails.

At least no skin was broken and no blood was drawn. I
added a few scrapes among the still-healing scabs on my
right knee from the last spill I took, and also
decorated my right hip with a new bruise. My right hand
still shows some gravel marks. But I was not injured,
just humiliated.

Ten minutes later a runner passed me by. "Did you fall
down?" I thought he'd seen it. No, he could tell by my
brown badge of courage, the thick coating of dirt
clinging to my right leg, arm, and butt. At least I
didn't fall off the cliff nearby and plummet to my
death.

The segment from mile 23 to the next aid station was by
far the most trying part of the course. From about mile
25 to 27 there was no place at all flat enough to run.
Several people walked past me there and disappeared
quickly ahead of me. As one vibrantly healthy young
woman streaked by me, I commented, "I wish I could do
that!" She just laughed. I don't think she intended it
to sound like derision.

The view was magnificent all along the way. And the
higher I rose, the lower the temperature dropped. The
change was quite noticeable, and by this time it was
only about 12:30 PM, when one would expect it to be on
the rise.

The aid station was visible from a very long way down
the mountain. I heard periodic bursts of cheering and
encouragement as each runner approached.

Finally it was my turn. The station was nestled on a
steep incline at a turn in the road. Once again I had
magnificent personal service from everyone on hand who
did everything possible to get me fixed up and sent on
my way in blithe spirits. The slope was very steep, so
they had energetic young boys scampering about 25 yards
down the hill to greet each runner and get their
bottle, then running ahead to fill orders.

Meanwhile I had lost my mind and was Pollyannishly
thinking that this had to be mile 29, and that the
earnestly sought two-mile downhill to the finish was
right around the corner.

Bzzzt! Wrong! It was mile 27, and I had two more miles
of steady climbing to go.

At this news I nearly paniced, not because of the
anticipated exertion, but because of the time. My watch
said I had been on the move for seven hours and two
minutes. When I undertook this race, based on the
estimates of friends who had run it, I figured it would
take me more than six hours, probably six and a half,
maybe seven, or even seven and a half if it was
*really* rough and I was having a bad day. Here I was
looking at over four miles to go, two of them
impossible, with only 58 minutes left to get in under
eight hours.

There was *no way* I had anticipated a run time that
long. So from that time until the end I pressed on with
a greater sense of urgency because I *really wanted* to
finish in less than eight hours.


ON TO THE FINISH
----------------

Remarkably, I still felt strong, though tired. During
this race, I *never* bonked, and I didn't get sick to
my stomach, as happens to many ultrarunners, including
many who continue despite it. I just kept plodding
steadily until it was over.

The walking I did was not because I was too tired, but
because it was too steep for me to handle. Yes, there
are elites and specialists in hill running who are able
to run that sort of route. Any of them who were on the
CKS course that day were by this time busy relaxing,
celebrating, and enjoying the party at the top.

I am not one of those runners. I'm just a geezer with
gumption. And I still had a long way to go.

As I went I frequently eyed my watch, pushing hard as I
was able, even after I realized a sub-8:00 time was
hopeless. My only chance was if the alleged final two
mile run was *really* only two miles or less (and I
believe trail distances tend to be rounded down), if it
was *very* fast, and if I could muster up enough
strength at the end to run a couple of 8:30 miles or
faster. Ha! Maybe if a bear appeared out of the woods.

The air began to feel pleasantly cool. As I passed some
shady spots, I spotted patches of unmelted snow by the
side of the trail. I don't know what the peak elevation
is on the course, but it must be over 7,000 feet.

Finally, I came to the mile 29 peak! I was greeted by
an enthusiastic cheering squad who proclaimed, "This is
it, the top! Here's the hill you've been waiting for!
There's *no more* uphill from here on! Only two more
miles of easy downhill and you're done!" My watch said
7:49. I wouldn't make it under 8:00.

They offered water, but I didn't need it this time.
Food is unnecessary at this stage.

The volunteers enthusiastically explained for at least
the two-hundreth time that day that for the next
quarter mile the downhill was a bit rough, and after
that it would be gentle.

True enough, it was a course ending to die for. But
they lied about the distance. There was closer to a
half mile of very steep downhill to contend with which
I had to tread down gingerly.

Finally I came out on a real road, still dirt, and
still going downhill, but less so. A bored-looking man
wearing a turban was sitting there in a pickup,
presumably not lost on his way to Mecca, but stationed
there to steer runners who might be inclined to run the
wrong way in the right direction. However, the entire
course from beginning to end was very clearly marked.
There was no possibility of making any wrong turns
anywhere.

That's where I encountered a road sign that said it was
two miles to Crown King. Ha! I *knew* they lied.

Where I found the strength to kick out the jams and run
that last two miles as hard as I did I'll never know.
In truth, I did *not* run the whole thing without
stopping. I walked for about twenty seconds once,
partly out of frustration from knowing I could not
finish sub-8:00.

But the rest of the way I hauled some serious tush,
running harder than the last two miles of any marathon
I've ever done. As my watch rolled over to 8:00, I was
approaching a stop sign, and there was no sign of a
finish line nearby. The stakes indicated I should turn
left.

A couple of minutes later I saw cars, houses, and an
increase in the number of people. I encountered folks
by the side of the road who cheered wildly as I came
by. A woman told me I was only 700 yards from the
finish. It sounded so short, like it had to be around
the next curve. I wish she had said four tenths of a
mile, which is how far 700 yards is.

And then I was there. I rounded a corner and there was
the town and crowds of cheering and celebrating people.
I later learned that the previous runner finished over
four minutes ahead of me, and the next one was more
than a minute behind. A race volunteer stepped out into
the middle of the road, read my number, and called it
out behind him. The announcer on the PA system was able
to identify me, calling my name, and to reel me in, as
I maintained good form and speed for the last two
hundred yards, crossing the finish in the midst of a
great burst of cheering that was all for me! What a
kick!

I saw Suzy (my wife) immediately. She was standing
almost on top of the finish line. Then Cyra-Lea (my
daughter) popped out bewailing that she forgot to turn
the camera on and didn't get any pictures. A minute or
two later my brother Dean came around the corner, and
said that he'd gotten three pictures.

I had done it. My finishing time was 8:07:46.


THE PARTY
---------

I barely remember the first few minutes after I
finished. Somehow I acquired a tube of something called
Jog Mate, a muscle recovery supplement. I still have
it. I'd had enough of goos and gels and high tech
survival nutrition. I wanted some real food.

Fortunately, my wife had the presence of mind to go and
pick up our tickets to eat and my finisher's jacket.
There was no official around to hand me those items. I
was more in a frame of mind to stand around and gab
about my experience, but was so full of things to say I
was babbling.

Hot showers were available for runners. Unfortunately,
I didn't have time to take advantage of it. So instead
we just got in the food line, barely ten minutes after
I finished.

The party at the finish in Crown King is one of the
features that makes this race so good. The food was
excellent and plentiful. They offered hamburgers, green
salad, spaghetti, beans, soup, and a couple of other
items. You could have all of that if you wanted it. I
passed on the hamburger, having vowed a couple of years
ago that I'd never eat another one, but accepted
copious quantities of everything else.

Since I started training for longer distances, I've
found that a very long run of 25 miles or more can kill
my appetite. This has happened the last three times
I've gone that far. Despite this, I managed to eat most
everything, and continued to drink whatever was put
within arm's reach of me.

After eating we enjoyed just hanging out for a while. I
found a few people I know and chatted with them. Suzy
bought me a new long sleeve Coolmax shirt with ARR
stuff on it from the gear table.


GETTING HOME
------------

Sadly, it was time to go much too soon. Runners not met
by family or friends in Crown King needed to take one
of three 14-passenger vans back to Phoenix. My brother
brought Suzy and Cyra-Lea up in his pickup truck. There
was not room for me unless I was willing to ride in the
truck bed, which I wasn't. So I had to take the van.
They were scheduled to leave starting at 3:30. That
gave me barely an hour and twenty minutes to enjoy the
party.

The trip from Crown King to I-17, about four miles
north of Black Canyon City, took about an hour and a
half, including time for one roadside wilderness
rush-to-the-woods potty break. The trip is all on
rugged, narrow dirt mountain roads that you wouldn't
want to drive your family sedan over.

The experience was not unlike riding a stage coach. Our
chauffeur was a tough cowgirl granny who could not be
deterred from her mission of breaking the world record
for getting down the mountain. Drivers ahead of her
anxiously scurried for places to pull over and let us
pass. Meanwhile, her exhausted cargo occasionally let
out yelps of fear and groans of pain as they variously
clutched the upholstery and each other while veering
around the hairpin turns and bouncing their heads off
the ceiling.

When we hit the interstate a spontaneous cheer of
relief went up from all 13 passengers, and there was
additional applause, elation, and perhaps a bit of
prayer expressed when we finally arrived safely 35
miles later at the parking lot where we had left our
cars so early in the morning. Vanmates shook hands, bid
each other farewell, and disappeared into their
automobiles. Twenty minutes later I was home.


ANALYSIS -- PUTTING THINGS IN PERSPECTIVE
-----------------------------------------

Readers whose personal familiarity with distance
running stops with the standard marathon might be
inclined to think of a 50K trail race in terms of a
26.2-mile road race that goes on another five miles,
and to extrapolate estimated effort required and finish
times on that basis.

That thinking would be a mistake. A *big* mistake.

I believe that in my present condition I'm capable of a
4:15 standard marathon or better on a good day.
Recently I ran a 2:03 half marathon in training. My
finish time at Crown King was 8:07:46. And I had what I
considered to be one of the *best* running days of my
life!

What accounts for an additional 3:52 on a course that
is less than five miles longer than a marathon? The
difficulty of the course is everything.

Here are some miscellaneous factoids to help put things
in perspective.

o Only 5 runners of 194 50K finishers ran it in under
  five hours. I'm guessing that some of these runners
  are sub-3:00 marathoners on a flat course.

o My overall place was 175 out of 194 finishers,
  putting me in the 90th percentile. This is about 10%
  further back than I usually finish in marathons. (And
  I finished in the 73rd percentile in my most recent
  10K, a PR.) OK, I'm slow, and was slower than usual,
  but it was my first ultra. I'll work on that.

o My place in division (in ten-year brackets, 50-59)
  was 21 of 24, or 87.5%.

o Nineteen runners finished after me, 16 of them
  younger than me.

o The average age of all runners who finished after me
  is 47. I'm 55.

o One of those who finished after me (by 1:23) was Don
  Lang, mentioned near the beginning of this report,
  who completed his 189th marathon. He arrived just in
  time to pick up his drop bag and get on the van.

o Several people that I know or met had less than their
  best day.

 - A friend I see frequently at the gym, a man who
   regularly qualifies for Boston, ran CKS in 6:52 last
   year. This year he DNFed at mile 23.

 - The young (24) runner I rode to the start with told
   me afterward that he held third place until 13 miles
   and then disintegrated. He finished, but in 22nd
   place overall. He ran the Angeles Crest 100-miler
   last year.

 - There were three women riding in the van back to
   Phoenix. There were two married couples, both
   regular 100-mile race runners, and a younger single
   woman. She and one of the married women both DNFed
   around mile 19 because they couldn't stop throwing
   up.

 - Even Paul Bonnet-Castillo, the ARR Vice President of
   Ultra/Trail Events, who often wins the races he
   enters, cramped up early in the 50-mile race, and
   finished "only" fourth.

However, Paul's amazing 12-year-old son James,
Arizona's own genuine running prodigy, a.k.a. the
Pocket Rocket, finished the 50K 9th overall in 5:03. He
did it *despite* throwing up.

Remember that boy's name. You'll be hearing it again.

All in all I am not at all disappointed by my
performance, and view it as a quantum leap forward in
my running history. So then,

o Thank you ARR, for an incredible race!

o Thank you Paul Bonnet-Castillo for your part in
  putting on this event, and for suggesting that I
  ought to give ultrarunning a try!

o Thank you volunteers for the best roadside service a
  runner could ever hope for!

o Thank you Crown King, for letting your beautiful
  little town be used for this great race!

o And finally, if you are still with me, thank you
  reader for reading my story!

--
Lynn D. Newton
Phoenix, AZ
aka Geezerwanda
an old, slow, fat guy with gumption