The Next Generation

By Rebekah Trittipoe

            One Saturday in July of 2002 proved to be a very special day in my life.  I found myself in the car heading for a run in the mountains.  I had done this particular run a number of times before, so it was not the uniqueness of the run that was so cool.  What was cool was that I was not alone in the car.  In the passenger’s seat sat my fourteen-year old son, Caleb Joshua Trittipoe.  On a whim, I asked him earlier that day if he wanted to come run with me.  He contemplated his answer only for moment before answering in the affirmative.  Since this would be his virgin venture with me, I mentally changed our course from a twenty miler with no views to a sixteen miler with spectacular views.  I gathered our packs, made the Conquest, and gathered up towels and extra clothes.

            As we drove along, I noticed that Caleb was a little more quiet than normal.  He had this expression on his face that suggested deep introspection.  “Are you a little nervous?”, I asked.  No vocal response was necessary. My son simply nodded his head.  I took the opportunity to tell him how nervous I was before my first long run.  It was December of 1993 and David Horton was going to take me along with him.  The farthest I had ever run was seven miles. The thought of running twenty was daunting.  Nonetheless, I got out of the car on that frigid early morning and followed Horton down the trail.  We ran just a little way until the terrain turned upward and I was a little surprised to see him start walking.  It was also surprised that I could barely keep up with him.  During the course of that morning I would run if Horton ran and walked if Horton walked.  I would listen intently to his incessant babble and banter since speaking was not an easy option for me.  I made it through that run and fell in love with trail running that very day.  But now, the tables were turned.  Caleb walked when I walked and ran when I ran.  I talked, he listened.  We both had a great time that day.

            A number of months have passed since Caleb’s virgin run in the woods with his Mom.  There have been other runs with Caleb, some along mountain trails and some along country roads.  His athletic ability continually amazes me.  He is a talented soccer player, using his incredible speed to be a very effective striker.  However, though he has a soccer ball on his foot most of the time, he is definitely not driven to run daily.  Five miles once or twice a week is standard.  And most of the time, those miles are ticked off on the treadmill watching soccer.   But even with his limited training, he runs off and leaves me on descents off a mountain.  My only chance at holding him at bay is on those long, relentless climbs.  It’s not that I’m fitter, he just hasn’t figured out how to walk fast.  Besides, he doesn’t really like the ups as well as the downs.      

Now, fast forward to February 15, 2003.  It is dark, wet, and early.  Caleb and I are dressed in running clothes, both donning Montrail/Patagonia look-alike shirts.  It’s not as cold as we had anticipated and only the soggy ground betrays the rain of the previous night and day.  I know he didn’t sleep very well, having heard him toss and turn all night on the crinkly bunkhouse mattress.  I take his picture before the start of the race, noting that same nervous expression I had seen on his face last July.  Before we knew it and rather unceremoniously, we made our way to the starting line of the 8th annual Holiday Lake 50K++ race, bowed our heads for prayer, and then took the first of many steps.I hadn’t been this excited or relaxed about a race in a very long time.  Due to a number of circumstances, the last several years have been very frustrating for me.  I’ve had a number of health issues that have made it difficult for me to train well and race competitively.  However, I am enough of a competitor that I have continued to try.  More honestly, I have enough of an ego that I have continued to try. I’ve worried about who was in front of me and who was behind me.  I worried about not being in the hunt at the front of the pack.  I worried about feeling disgraced by a sub standard performance.  I worried about never being able to return to my glory days.

                       But I had none of those worries on February 15.  It was so very different.  My only goal for the race was to see my now fifteen-year-old son through all 35 miles of it. 

            Caleb and I found a spot in the middle of the pack, making our way up the road and onto the single-track trail.  Soon enough, the masses of runners were reduced to smaller packs of runners, perhaps four or five moving along together.  Chatter was lighthearted as we covered those first few miles.

            As we turned off the single track and onto the first of many service roads, we got a feel for the terrain- literally.  Mud; as far as the eye could see and the feet could slide.  We almost felt as though we were standing still.  Progress was a little on the slow side but it was fun when we joined up with our friends Charlie Hesse and Kevin Budd, a.k.a “Bud Boy”. 

For many miles Kevin played the part of the goof-head, Charlie was the straight guy, I was the chatterbox and Caleb was, well… mostly silent.  This was not particularly surprising since it can be difficult to get Caleb to talk about anything other than soccer.  But it didn’t matter.  The four of us moved easily along the course, exchanging quips and good-natured barbs with just as much ease.  Each aid station was enjoyed for a minute or two, a luxury I had never known in the past.  Shortly after passing the last aid station before the turn-around, the first runner, Clark Zealand, cruised passed us in the opposite direction.  I commented to Caleb that he was only eight or nine miles ahead of us.  We shared the laugh and enjoyed seeing other runners coming back.  We counted off places of the top men and women just for the fun of it.  Before long, we found ourselves at the start/finish, turning back to retrace out steps.

Now, every step that Caleb ran was further than he had ever run before.  Feeling renewed, Caleb, Bud and I got a little jump on Charlie and started back. Our pace was smooth and relaxed, allowing us to actually pick up the pace a bit.  A few more miles of running caused Bud to drop back just a little.  However, we fell in with David Grider, a long-time friend from North Carolina.  With the temperatures dropping, the wind becoming brisk, and the rain turning off and on, David was particularly encouraging to Caleb, who by now was growing a little weary.  Along one particularly cold and windy  stretch, a blazingly bright yellow-vested runner came sprinting up from behind, carrying his momentum up an incline.  Momentarily startled, we all laughed as it turned out to be David’s best running buddy, Michael Bowen.  Now we had a foursome again.

Caleb hung back just a little on the uphills, struggling with a hamstring that was threatening to cramp.  We all eased up on the pace but not on the chatter.  I rubbed Caleb’s leg, got him some ibuprofen and had him take in salt and fluid at the next aid station.        As a number of female runners went by, I was pleased that I only momentarily thought about my rank among the women.  I was with my son and that was all that mattered.  As the rain came harder as we passed by the middle aid station, Charlie and Bud came up from behind.  Now, we had a pack of six muddy, dirty, but happy runners.

As is often the case in ultras, a down period seldom lasts forever.  With somewhere around six miles to go, Caleb visibly lightened his step.  Though he never once complained throughout the day, he seemed to be relieved that his hamstring stopped hurting and his legs came back to life.  The six of us probably sounded like a gaggle of geese moving through the course.  We overtook a handful of runners, all of them slightly startled at this very loud train of runners coming up on their heels.  Without exception, each relinquished the trail to us.  Now, with only moments left in the game, we joked about what we could do to confuse the race officials as we finished.  We decided we could get a rise out of Horton by locking arms and crossing together to establish a six-way tie.

As we stepped onto the pavement for the last 300 yards of downhill to the finish, we began a series of train whistles, shouts, grunts, and other bizarre noises.  I don’t believe that anyone still standing in the rain could have avoided seeing or hearing us.  We crossed the line in unison, breaking arms only then to give each other congratulatory hugs and well wishes.  I hugged my son and gave him a kiss on the cheek.  He seemed rather relieved that is was over.  When pictures had been taken, he stepped to the food table and started eating.  Then, he headed to the showers, happy that the two-minute water rule did not apply away from home.

I also headed to the showers, meeting a number of other women in quest of a mud-free body.  So many throughout the day had told me how envious they were that my son would run with me.  Hearing them say that struck me as better than receiving cudos for winning a race.  Our entire family joined up again in the dining room, thankful to be warm and dry and eager to eat some hot food, but very, very tired.  It was fun to see other runners and their crews give Caleb glances of admiration or words of encouragement.  I could not have been more proud.

A lot of people say their first ultra was the most memorable.  I don’t know about that.  I think that perhaps an ultra run by a forty-six year old Mom along side of her fifteen year old son running his first ultra might take the cake!  I am still moving forward so I know I’m not dead in the sport – yet.  But, at least for one day the baton was passed to the next generation.