A worthy journey

TRAILS

A worthy journey

Delma torres bartelme is pictured during a run at afton state park.

Photo by Carly Danek

Recalling a marathon in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan

BY DELMA TORRES BARTELME

The crowded ferry left before dawn, my fellow passengers shadowy ghosts in the cold darkness. It was almost August, yet we were trying to warm our bodies with our arms, wrapping them around our chests. Our destination was Grand Island, half a mile off the coast of Munising, Michigan, on Lake Superior. I had barely slept a wink the night before, nervous about island logistics. In a few hours, when the sun finally gave features to our human shapes we would try to run 13 to 26 miles of trails through the island wilderness.

The last time I had run trails was over five years ago when my husband Jim and I were still living in Michigan. Now, retired, we live in a cottage on one of Minnesota’s ten thousand lakes and my spirit was feeling restless. Perhaps it was the act of prioritizing the humdrum tasks on my to do list giving me pause to wonder. Who cares which one I do first or last? No one would suffer or die if I didn’t get around to doing them at all. Certainly, I had more important things to do. None of which, by the way, were to be done here at my cottage. If escape was what I desired then it had to be done with purpose. Only then would it be worthy.

“I signed us up for a trail half marathon for the last weekend in July,” I told my husband. “It’s in the Upper Peninsula. Right by the Picture Rocks National Lakeshore.” He knew seeing them had always been on my bucket list.

The entry fee would be the least expensive part of this adventure in what the website called a wild protected landscape/seascape. The only available rooms left were in a budget motel going for the same price as a four star hotel in downtown Minneapolis. The Yelp reviews had commentary about torn curtains, moldy tile in the showers and threadbare towels.

TRAILS

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Jim had asked me, as he read the reviews to me, knowing I only sleep on 400 thread count, 100 percent Egyptian cotton sheets.

Williams Landing, Grand Island

The fog horn signaled the full marathoners to start running. I watched the array of runners go by me and marveled at what they were about to do – 26.2 miles of technical trails. Sometimes, at home, when my running routes seem routine, I take a short drive to one of the trail heads of the Lake Wobegon Trail, a rails-to-trail conversion along an abandoned Burlington Northern corridor. Since it’s paved, it’s a road; technically not a trail. And it’s flat. For a trail to be considered technical, there have to be heights along the route, with at least one considered substantial. This island course had an elevation peak close to 1,000 feet. I hoped that was only for the marathon route. But if such a height applied to the half, I felt I’d be able to handle it. Somehow. I might end up crawling. I’d done that before.

Jim and I had another hour to kill before our race start. I headed back inside the covered structure where many others also chose to wait. Some were lullabying their jittery nerves, sitting on rocking chairs. I walked around the room, studying the history of the island told inside rustic framed boards: time lines, blown-up vintage photos, maps with legends looking more like works of art. My mind captured snippets of trivia I found fascinating. There were less than a handful of cottages on the island for seasonal residents, but one can always camp; no one lives on the island in the winter; it was once owned by an industrialist of the Cleveland Cliffs Iron Company; and on July 25, 175 years ago today, someone arrived – by invitation from Ojibwa chief Omonomoneea – to establish a trading post.

“It’s 15 minutes to start time,” my husband startled me.

I started my half marathon journey feeling weighed down by the two full water bottles on a belt around my waist. I shuffled and yawned and berated myself on my lack of judgment, thinking about how pricey this expedition had turned out to be. I could have done this at home where I have access to rural roads with scenic waterways bordered by deciduous trees. I could have just stepped out my front door and didn’t have to travel across two states. We were almost in Wisconsin when a reminder email informed me we had to have a 20 oz-minimum water bottle which can be refilled at aid stations. Furthermore, there were consequences. If you do not have a water bottle you will not be allowed to start the race. There will be no paper cups. Not even at the finish line. Pack in/pack out policy. No littering. You will be disqualified.

“That’s bullshit!” Jim had complained about having to exit the freeway and head to a sporting goods store to buy a water belt. “Who’s going to check. We can just carry any water bottle. We’ll get some at the gas station.” When I explained it had to have a wide mouth, he countered with, “Who said.” And when the cashier quoted the sum price nearing 100 dollars, I could feel his burning eyes on my body.

He had been right. I took note at how some runners were indeed carrying 16.8 oz water bottles they might have purchased from any vending machine for a couple of dollars. Violating the minimum 20 oz criteria! I bumped into the people in front of me and decided I would be safer if I focused on the ground and quit looking around, fussing about broken rules.

As the miles went by the bunched pack of runners turned into a line of runners. My body was warming up and my pace was picking up. My mind left my body. I felt no pain, no aches, no discontent. I was one with nature. Mother earth was pushing the soles of my feet off into the air. I was light again. I entered the island’s heavily wooded interior and congratulated myself for having doused my body with bug repellent. Instinct took over. I shifted to the left, to avoid a large boulder. I vaulted over a tree trunk. I pumped my arms as I ascended to the top of a hill. I let gravity pull me downhill, unafraid of falling, instructing my feet to land lightly.

I took in swigs of water while I kept running. I had managed to reach my arm around to my rear, remove one of the bottles from its nest attached to the belt, fumble around the opening area and pull out the stopper, without stopping to walk. And put it back. Good for me. I alternated between the right and left bottle, for balance. At the four mile aid station, I didn’t stop to add water to my bottles deciding I still had plenty to last me another six miles until the next one. I maneuvered two sharp left hand turns while going downhill. When I reached the bottom, almost blinded by the brightness of the sun, I entered what would be a mile long stretch of beach.

I danced with the waves while running on the wet sand not caring if my shoes got wet, doing speed play as I passed the single line of runners on my left struggling to keep moving on the soft sand. I guessed they didn’t want to get their feet wet.

Images of the last time I had been with my grandkids popped into my head as my toe touched the Lake Superior true blue water, creating spray. My ten year old granddaughter and I were at the Saugatuck Dunes on Lake Michigan running side by side holding hands. We laughed as we ran around the waves when they washed up.

Next time a wave rolls up, Theresa, jette over it. Just like in your ballet class. Stay in tune with the flow of the waves. Run, run. Jump. Run, run. Jump.

A small shadow appeared to the right, and I realized I was chasing myself. Crazy fun. A longer shadow joined mine and soon I was being passed by two shirtless men with full beards. I realized these two must be running the ultra or maybe they were late for the start. I had lined up at the rear of the pack for the start so why were these fit bucks passing me now? A breeze slapped my face, as if to wake me. This is now. Live this moment for it will never happen again. Focus. I picked up my feet higher as I rounded the orange and blue flags on the sand leading me away from the bay and into another climbing segment.

Back in the woods I pin balled around obstacles. Faster. Faster. Then it happened. I felt my toe catch on something. My balance lost. The palms of my hands touched the ground first and bore the brunt of my body weight. The runners behind me stopped and asked me if I was OK. I got up and reassured them I was fine. I always fall when I run in technical trails. It never fails.

I poured the rest of my water on my burning hands and started running again slowly, testing. I really was OK. I started laughing and picked up the pace, sometimes even sprinting on the stretches strewed with pine needles and small pebbles. Soon I was going by the 11 mile aid station. No stopping now. Only a couple of more miles to go. I pumped my fists up in the air. I felt alive.

Epilogue

After the nurse practitioner dug out the fine pebbles from my wounds, buttered antibiotic ointment on my palms and wrapped my hand with gauze; after I stripped my top off and walked into the clear waters of Lake Superior, oblivious to my exposed love handles; after I walked back to the start area and witnessed my Jim finish strong, arms pumping; after we satiated our hunger with organic fig, oatmeal cookies and turkey burgers; we stood side by side in line with other finishers, like Noah’s animals, holding hands, wearing our wooden finisher medal necklaces, waiting to board the pontoon boat back to the mainland.