Nirvana at Olana
By Peter Masullo – May 22, 2001
Even the name is
heavenly, “Olana.” Quite a contrast from “The Devil’s Kitchen” that we
ran up a couple of weeks ago. I told you about that last time in the article
about my nose. But this contrast is in name only. You see, both races were
concocted by the famous artist/athlete, Barry Hopkins. Let me warn you to stay
away from this man. Although he may seem like the nicest guy on the face of the
earth I suspect he has sadistic tendencies. He gets off seeing us lesser
athletes struggle and stagger up his hilly courses. The hills at Olana are
nowhere near as steep as that mother of all hills up “The Devils Kitchen.”
However, to me, they seemed twice as long.
Speaking of hell, I passed by the “Devil’s
Addition to the irony: he was supposed to be attending a drivers ed class
at the time he was joy riding. Top it off with the fact that my daughter asked
if she could accompany him to “Big Rocks” (the local swimming hole) on that
sweltering summer day. For some reason, I adamantly refused. It was only a short
drive, in broad daylight, but something came over me. I don’t know if it was
providence, fate, or just dumb luck. Like a TV evangelist I pointed my finger
and pounded my fist on the table and said, “Absolutely not! Under no
circumstances are you to get into a car with John Jordan today!” I have been a
repentant, changed man since that day. I am eternally grateful to My Lord, or
Buddha, or Aphrodite, or whatever force it was that saved my daughter that day.
It is appropriate for me to share this tragedy with you now despite the
fact that it has little to do with our sport. I ask you all to take a moment to
consider how lucky we are to be here and still running. Let us also remember
those who have passed on, and touched our lives in one way or another. In
particular, let’s all take a moment to remember Trooper Michael Kelly. He was
killed in another horrific accident, on a curvy road, almost exactly one year
ago. I’m told it was Trooper Kelly’s inspiration and hard work that made
possible many of the races that I love to run year after year. For this, I
sincerely thank him. More importantly, Trooper Kelly left his mark as a man of
honor and integrity. I gleaned this by observing his surviving family at a race
run in his honor last summer. I was proud to have been granted the privilege of
wearing a black arm band in his memory.
OK, I want all of you to wipe the tears out of your eyes right now. Let
me get back to my story about the race. But before I do I’d like to share how
these and other tragedies have affected my running. It’s not that I could ever
find a silver lining in any of these unfortunate occurrences. However, with
these tragedies in the back of my mind I no longer take my daily run for
granted. I feel blessed to have legs. I take pride in my health and fitness. I
enjoy every step of every run. That speed work doesn’t seem so tough when
viewed in conjunction with these tragedies. Even the pain of Mr. Hopkins’
monstrous hills becomes bearable when compared to this other form of pain. By
dealing with pain in this way I have elevated myself to the front of the middle
of the pack (wherever that is). J
Now for the race, or at least my version thereof. There was the usual
collection of die hards who would not be deterred by the stormy weather. A very
friendly bunch. I think I exchanged greetings with each and every one of the
fifty plus race participants. You already know about the stellar performances of
Robert Muller and Sheryl Wheeler. All of the front runners looked very strong as
they came back toward me on their “back” parts of the “out and back”
sections of this course. Read that sentence again slowly. It really shouldn’t
be this hard for you to figure it out. If you don’t have time, take my word
for it, it makes perfect sense.
I did get a little taste of Heaven during the race. After an easy first
mile I felt great. I stupidly decided to speed it up during the second mile. I
was gleefully flying. Yes, it was Nirvana at Olana. I was oblivious to
everything around me and impervious to any form of pain. But this euphoria was
short-lived. I soon sensed the silent laughter of the handful of runners I had
just passed. “Didn’t anybody tell that fool there is another 4 miles to
go?” must have been their thought. Sure enough, I was required to do penance
because of this unwise and unworthy attempt to move up in the mid pack
standings. My payback started on the way up the hill to the castle. I gasped and
wheezed all the way up. I puked and heaved all the way down. I had a great time.
Now, I’m back in Purgatory.
Guess who I met on my way up the hill. That’s right, none other than
the infamous Barry Hopkins himself. He was all smiles. I was not. I should
mention that he was going downhill at the time. I was not. He tried to give me a
high five, but I missed his hand. He then exclaimed, “This is another race you
have to thank me for!”
Imagine that! This guy must think everybody is as masochistic as he is.
First he laughs at you as you struggle up his steep hills. Then, he’s got the
nerve to expect you to thank him for the privilege of experiencing this pain.
Well Mr. Hopkins, as we used to say back in the old neighborhood, “Thanks a
lump!”
I managed to shave ¾ of a minute off my time from the prior year to
finish in 49:40. This put me right at my proper place in the middle of the pack
as the 29th finisher. Last year I was 36th. Interestingly,
if I would have finished in 49:40 last year I still would have been 36th.
OK, maybe not so interesting. But this is what happens when you give a fanatical
bean counter a few statistics.
I commend Cody Vincent for an inspirational performance as the youngest
runner in the group. And lastly, to the 3 year old girl
I met at the “Mad Cow Juice” dispenser (that’s Mr. Vincent’s
Gatorade), you stole my heart.
