Yukon Orienteering: Relay

6:30. Sit-ups in bed to wake up. Un-prop my swollen feet from the pillows, find my uniform.

In the kitchen, there’s the rest of the big fattoush salad I made for dinner, Rick’s oatmeal from yesterday. I shovel some of it into my mouth, pack the rest in plasticware. We have to get going.

I wince as I pull on my orienteering shoes: the back of my right heel is pretty torn up. The stiff rubber cleats give great traction, but the padding on the back pills and rubs. But this is what I’m wearing. It’s this or my rain boots, and I can’t run in those.

The air is cool on my bare arms. The yellow of sunrise makes the mountains extra blue.

It’s a holiday here, so there’s no bus. We’re walking to the shuttle stop: around the airport, down the big hill from the cliffs, across town. I dodge the path, take the mountain bike shortcut around the stairs. Habit: save my joints the shock of pavement. I’ll ask a lot of them later.

“Certainty,” I mutter to myself. It’s been my watchword on this technical terrain: if you lose contact with the map, you find yourself in some vague patch of woods, thick running, identical litte hilltops and depressions in every direction.

If you lose track, you have to bail out: find some trail, power line, big hill, attack back in again. You’ve lost if you have to bail– it takes too long. But the only thing worse is not bailing out, continuing to poke around and hope and wander.

I haven’t run clean races the last two days. Sometimes I’m on, but I’ve had to bail out on several controls, get certain again. I have to do better today; I’m running for the USA. I have second leg on the national B-team, so everyone’s watching. The third leg runner will be waiting for me.

Keep your head. Focus. Slow down if you have to, just stay certain.

My muscles are sore but not tight: I waded into the lake after yesterday’s Middle distance course. The cold water numbed my ankles, calves, thighs, all the way deep enough for those little muscles by the iliac crest. I stood there, soaked, stretched: recovery.

We make it to the 8am shuttle, set up on the bleachers. It’s a stadium setup; our map is the site of the biathalon trials. We’ll be running around ski trails, and the start/finish area is the rifle range.

This place is also a bowhunting range, the course notes inform us. There won’t be anyone shooting, but there will be life-sized plastic animals in the woods: bears, turkeys, dinosaurs, and more. They’re on the map; use them for navigation. Don’t get distracted.

The team meets on the far side of the finish chute: three men and three women for each of the under-20 (junior) and senior A and B teams.

Everyone is taping feet, warming up, drinking water. The juniors have brought cheek tattoos with stars and stripes, which they share around. Coach tells us: run clean. Stay out of the woods when you have a choice; the running is slow. Run steady for your teammates.

I’m not fast. My teammates and me, we’re the B team by a long measure. I’m not going to win a running race in this company. What I can do is run reliably. Don’t mess up. Keep my race clean and make safe choices, because I’m gambling the team’s time.

The first leg runners line up. Maps are handed out upside down: can’t look until time starts. The airhorn blows, and they’re off. Soon, they’re out of sight, and the rest of us are waiting. Hoping. Trying not to warm up too soon.

It’s a full-length course for the national teams. Everyone else is running on club teams. They have short 1–3 kilometer courses. They start first legs, and fifteen minutes later, their finishers are coming in.

A wall separates finish and start chute. At numbered places along the wall, maps for the next legs are stapled. Each finisher punches finish, sprints to their bib-numbered place, and hands the next map to their waiting second-leg runner. Map in hand, leg two blasts down the start chute.

The wait is interminable. How’s she doing out there? I pace the arena. I watch finishers, cheer my club. I jog around, stretch, go too early to my place by the wall. Guess timing. Speculate. Warm up. Watch the woods.

And there she is.

My runner is coming down the chute, and I’m ready. I’ve been standing here in the start chute, stretching against the wall, bouncing on my toes.

She punches finish, drops her map, sprints to me, rips the map from its staples, throws it over to where I’m waiting. I orient the map, find the start triangle symbol, and I’m already running.

I run clean. Finally.

The ski trails curve inefficient loops over unnecessary hilltops, but I know it’s faster than crashing through deadfall. So I keep my course, stay out of the bushes.

I’m tempted to get clever, cut distance by crossing swathes of vague forest, but I restrain myself. Pick a route I can’t mess up. Execute: certainty.

Painful as it is, I run the uphill road to avoid the spongy, uncertain forest. I pick attack points, pause for second checks at decision points. Err on the side of caution. And it works. My race is fast, clean. Exactly what I needed today.

A couple of last controls. Foot of cliff, turn and run the path back from the hunting target. Left on the main trail, over this hill, right, left again. Last control. Finish chute. Punch, and run to my third leg runner. Hand over the map.

I’m smiling, breathing hard at the end of the finish chute. A volunteer hands me water, offers pretzels, watermelon. I high-five my teammates; it’s done.

We hitchhike home.

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