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PHOTO BY SEAN DEAN

OFF AND RUNNING. Runners take off at the start of the Sound to Narrows race June 14.

Sound to Narrows: a runner’s view

By Dave R. Davison

It is Saturday morning – the day of the annual Sound to Narrows Race. The alarm clock goes off at 7:15 a.m. and I am soon out in the living room with a cup of coffee. After coffee and a shower, I get into my running shorts and pin my race number to the Sound to Narrows 2006 T-shirt that I have chosen for this day’s race. Soon I am in my truck and on the way to the big event. Along the way I eat a Cliff Bar and drink a small jug of Gatorade.

I’ve missed this race only once since 1994. My best time of 56:26 was set in 1995. I have more humble goals for this year. A few weeks ago my training regime was disrupted by a case of tonsillitis, and I was sidelined until I started up again just last week.  I managed to get four easy runs in during the week and thus recovered a little of my form. My goal for today’s race, however, is to simply complete the 12-kilometer course without having to walk.

Vassault Park is a beehive of activity. A lake of people are moving about. I strip out of my sweat pants and hooded sweat shirt and stretch out a little before it is time to move into the starting area.

The announcer is counting down and then an air horn signals the 8:55 a.m. start of the red wave – my wave – the slow wave. There is a traffic jam at the starting line as so many runners try to surge forward at once. Soon enough, however, I cross the blue pad and the chip that I have Velcro-strapped to my ankle starts my personal time clock. I am officially underway.

It is perfect weather for a race today; cool and with high overcast. It is not too hot or cold. It is not too sunny or rainy.

The early stage of the race is one in which things are sifting out as the faster runners squeeze past knots of slower runners. I find myself weaving in and out of pairs and clusters as I trot forward.

My rhythm feels off. I wonder whether or not this 12K-plod is too much for me considering my lack of training. Do I have it in me to keep pounding the pavement for over an hour? Gradually I fall into a rhythm. I exercise restraint, knowing that there is a grueling course ahead and I’ll need to judiciously shepherd my reserves of energy. The first mile, however, is a lamb - almost all downhill.

At the bottom of the hill, the course bends into Point Defiance Park and the first climb is upon us: an incline up to the zoo parking lot that has everyone breathing hard and a number of people off to the side walking. This transition from the long downhill to this sudden and drastic incline has always felt like having a sack of stones placed on one’s back. The force of gravity is no longer on one’s side.

I keep plodding along at a steady (if slow) pace – not pressing too hard, knowing I have a long, long way to go yet.

The zoo lot levels off and then there is another gentle downslope that brings some relief and recovery before we reach the foot of the first long hill of Five Mile Drive, “the monster.”

This is now the beginning of the real heart and soul of the race: the forested hills of the Five Mile Drive. I manage to hold a steady pace. I am part of a river of humanity. There are people ahead of me and behind me as far as the eye can see. Some run along and carry on conversations with their friends. Others listen to music on their headphones. Most of us run in silence, involved in our own task of managing the physical stress of running and rationing our efforts.

As we struggle up the long hills, I have an impression that we are like salmon – annually returning to this meat-grinder of a course to swim against the tide of gravity.

I am still feeling pretty good at the three-mile mark. By the halfway mark, however, I am beginning to feel pain in my upper thighs. The halfway point is always a psychological lift since now every mile is bringing me closer to the finish. We have now rounded the loop and begin to catch glimpses of the Narrows and the bridge through openings in the trees.

My legs are becoming very sore as the course goes past the logging camp and exits the park. The road takes a wicked incline before we reach the big dip of the North Vassault “canyon:” a steep downhill followed by a steep incline. This dip is a guarantee that one’s legs are turned into hamburger meat just in time to face the return journey up Vassault hill – the long climb to the finish line.

This last mile of the race – the final assault of the asphalt incline – is brutal. What was a lamb going down is now a lion, a beast. It is a steady incline with a steep section in the middle. Many of the red-wave runners are now walking. I, however, have held reserves so that I can keep running.

“Only a half-mile to go,” say some of the spectators to the side. What is supposed to be encouragement only threatens to crush the spirit. A half-mile more of this seems like an eternity. The road levels off and there still seems such a long way to go. It is as if the finish line is receding ahead of me.

With a couple hundred yards to go, my left shoelace comes untied and is flailing about. I have not stopped since the race began (even at the water stops I drank my water at a jog) and I am not going to stop to tie my shoe. With the finish line now close, I begin to increase my pace.

The final stretch is cordoned off with yellow tape that leads onto the grass and into the finishing chute. I can never resist the urge of a final kick. I open up the after burners as the course turns onto the grass and I give everything I have left for the final straight away. Running full stride and with my undone shoelace flapping about I pass a few people and finally cross the finish line. My time is 69 minutes and 31 seconds.

It is a relief to stop running at last. My legs are full of lactic acid. It is exquisitely painful to walk. I bend down to unstrap the chip from my ankle and deposit it into one of the bins in the finishing area.

The race is done for another year. I go off in search of food and water. Others continue to come across the finish line and they will continue to do so for more than an hour. But my annual odyssey has been completed.

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