Two of my favorite things in life are running and appreciating national parks. My idea of heaven? Running in a national park, as a fundraiser for my local school, with spring wildflowers blooming like madness, a mountain lion on the prowl, and -- most important -- finishing with a smile!
The Great Race of Agoura Hills is now in its 24th year. I've been running the 5k or 10k every year since 1997. This year for the second time, I've trained for the Chesebro Half Marathon (13.1 miles), in which about half the course is through the nearby Chesebro and Palo Comado canyons, part of the Santa Monica Mountains National Recreation Area.
Chesebro/Palo Comado Canyons are unique in that they're the only part of the SMMNRA north of the 101 freeway; most of the SMMNRA is the hills above Malibu, with a few slices of Los Angeles city-proper canyons. The SMMNRA is the world's largest urban national park. We've had one big bad mountain lion, P-1, roaming from Point Mugu to Tarzana (estimates are of 5 to 10 mountain lions total), but he might have been taken out by P-12, a mountain lion who's learned to cross the 101 freeway, in the last few weeks. I've never seen a mountain lion, although I've seen bobcats (rarely), coyotes and deer.
I start my run in suburbia. The first mile passes through soccer-mom-heaven, then changes to horse country, a small neighborhood with zoning laws designed to preserve rural flavor (unfortunately falling victim to McMansionization). At mile 3, we enter the park itself. The first couple of miles of the park are along a wide, flat fire road on a wide, flat canyon bottom and a narrow, flat stream meandering nearby. The landscape is dotted with ancient gnarled oaks. Bush lupine,
blue toadflax, and blue dicks (the name of a plant, not an essential part of Watchmen) bloom along the trail. At mile 6, we cross over a sulphur spring -- only a slight unpleasant odor -- in a small heavily wooded oak glen. I take a cup of water and am careful to discard the cup where volunteers can pick it up easily (some runners are not so kind, alas). Within a few yards, we're back in open chaparral: sage scent, bees, no shade. And rocks. We've abruptly gone from a shady, cool oasis to arid semi-desert with red sandstone cliffs. Biodiversity, anyone? The species list for the SMMNRA has 1716 different critters and plants on it! The trail narrows to single file. Everyone slows down to walk up rock staircases. The wildflowers in this section are more adapted to heat: orange monkeyflower grows near water, and California poppy is starting to bloom. We pass through Shepherds Flat, an old rancher's natural corral. Then I see The Hill.
Everyone who's run this race knows about The Hill. At Mile 8, it goes up 600 feet in a half-mile -- that's steep for a hiker, let alone a runner. My coach has told me to walk. However, this year I'm prepared! I delude tell myself I can handle it! I start to run up it, but soon slow to a hiking pace. Oddly, it's shorter than I remember it -- or am I just in better shape? I get through it, and suddenly I'm on the downhill side with two glorious miles that I know like the back of my hand. The only drawback to running down a steep fire road is a fear of tripping and falling. This is my own personal running trail, the place where I connect with things that matter: magnificent old oaks, grasses, a small stream, and perfect blue sky with redtail hawks wheeling above. This was also going to be a golf course and 3,000 homes, until some local activists got organized.
Other runners joke about spotting civilization as we crest a small hill at mile 10.5 -- the last hill of the course! At the park boundary, I once spotted a horny toad (insert your own joke here) and protested, successfully, a boneheaded decision by my local water supplier to locate a water tank. At mile 11, back in soccer-mom-suburbia, I'm very tempted to go straight, back to my home (half a mile away) instead of turning left, but I've come too far to say I couldn't finish. Just after I make that decision, disaster strikes! My knees have been sore for several miles now, but now I twist a foot and a knee pops. I can't run! I'm reduced to a slow walk! Arggh! But I can't stop now. I walk to mile 12, then pick up to a slow jog. And as I enter the finish line chute, my kid and his friend are waiting to cheer me on. They rush to pour water all over me. I've finished!
My time? Uh, never mind. I'm a slow runner, always have been, always will be. This is a hard run; my time is a good 40-45 minutes slower than other half marathons I've run on flat, fast roads. I finished, and took 10 seconds/mile off my time from last year, so I'll count that as a win. Group training was a great motivator (and for more on motivation, check out digitalmuse's excellent Fitness Monday story, including a loss of 70 lbs and an upcoming 5K!). My knee injury seems to be a simple matter of rest, not arthoscopic surgery. Next year I might even run again.
The National Park Service has a deservedly strict limit on the number of runners who can trample all over the canyon. By others' popular demand, race organizers created a road race, but I have no interest in trying it. I'll stick to my canyons, and thank the activists who saved them.