anonymous poster wrote:
Mean elevation in the state of Utah: 6100 feet. I think you've got some interesting ideas. Is Luke Puskedra LDS? I don't think so. I think Utah is just a great place to train, really.
The average elevation all along the Wasatch Front, from Logan down to Provo, Utah, is between 4500-4700 feet. So, less than the mile high of Denver and Boulder, Colorado, but definitely a nice altitude advantage. But whoever says the weather there is "mild" is wrong. Utah is a desert for the most part. It gets very hot (albeit a dry heat) in the summer, and very cold in the winter. Some winters it snows a lot, and the winter just seems to go on and on. Dealing with temperature extremes and elevation does make you tougher, though. And wherever you go along the major population corridor, you're within just a few miles of the mountains, where it's only a short drive to reach higher elevations. One of my most memorable runs was from Mantua, Utah to up near Willard Peak. Of course, I have so many great memories of growing up running in Utah, as I'm sure my high school idol Ed Eyestone does, as well. Conner Mantz, Utah's current best high school runner, and Ben Saarel, a recent Utah great surely have Utah running stories as well. If you live in a big city and have never had a run in the mountains of Utah, I can tell you what it is like. Maybe it's stretching the topic of this thread a bit, but I'd like to share something I wrote about one memorable Utah run back in the late 1970s, and I hope you enjoy it:
Hard-Boiled Owls
Rich and I wind our way up Box Elder Canyon in his cherry-red Dodge Coronet. The windows are down, and the warm, early summer air rushes through the car, blowing our hair around and buffeting our ears. But the wind can't drown out Van Halen on Rich's 8-track stereo. Not a bird, squirrel, deer, or anything else in this canyon could escape the sounds of David Lee Roth squealing and moaning his way through "Beautiful Girls,” Eddie Van Halen wailing away on a guitar solo, Alex Van Halen pummeling the drums, and Michael Anthony strumming out the low, bone-shaking bass chords of “Runnin’ With The Devil.”
Rich's Black Lab, Penny, stands in the back seat, her chin resting on my shoulder, her muzzle sticking out the window. Her eyes squint against the wind while her nose flares and snorts at every new smell.
At the church in the small lakeside community of Mantua (pronounced “manna-way” by the locals), Rich parks the car. We get out to stretch our legs and gaze up at the mountains. I figure it'll be about 18 miles round-trip from here to our destination at the top of the range and back—9 miles mostly up, and 9 miles mostly down, on a rough, bumpy, winding dirt road.
Before starting out, Rich and I take a few swigs of water from his Thermos, and Penny laps water from a Styrofoam cup. After stretching for a few minutes, we walk to where the paved church parking lot meets the dirt road, I start my watch, and we're off.
Across the mile-long flat leading to the mountains, Rich and I keep the pace down, just loosening up and saving our legs for the hills. Penny trots ahead, her lean dog legs pumping, seemingly without effort.
"God, you know this is crazy," Rich says, laughing. "Are we really gonna do it?"
"Yeah, let's go for it," I reply. "Just a few thousand feet rise, and we're gonna fly back on the downhill."
"OK, bud, but it seems kinda crazy. Have you ever run this far before?"
“No, I haven't. But I know we can do it, Rich.”
We wind our way up to “Dock Flat” on some rolling warm-up hills, and then we begin the long, winding uphill climb. We never run hard enough to really incur oxygen debt, but we don’t stop moving, either. The scenery gradually changes from blue sagebrush to white aspen to green pine. The air gradually turns thinner and cooler. The smell of pine is especially invigorating. One thing about running in the mountains: the air is so fresh and clean, and the scenery so fine, you can run for a long time without really feeling it.
When we reach the mountain top, we've been running for about two hours. Our thighs and calves feel burned-out—not just from the hills, but from running in the thin air. We decide to stop a few minutes, take a breather, and enjoy the scenery. Penny, her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth, heads for a patch of snow. From here we can see the blue water of Willard Bay, the low west mountains, and many miles of open desert beyond.
Although we passed only a couple of descending four-wheel-drives on the way up, we are now joined by an old couple in a big, jacked-up Ford truck with over-sized tires. They stop for a few minutes to share the view with us.
"You guys run all the way from Mantua?" the old man asks, looking us over with a mixture of wonder and disbelief.
"Yeah," we both reply.
"Goddamn, you guys gotta be tougher than two hard-boiled owls!" he exclaims.
Rich and I laugh—we like the description.
The trip back down the mountain is a long, wild plunge over ruts, through potholes and around winding turns. Although the old couple in the truck left ten minutes earlier, we easily catch and pass them on the way down. We're now running downhill so fast that even Penny has a hard time keeping up, but I'm sure her feet are sore. Rich and I will feel the effects of both the uphill climb and the downhill pounding for days, but for now we just cut loose and enjoy the flight.
We reach the car in forty-five minutes.
"Hey, I told you we could do it, Rich," I say as we get into the car and he pops another 8-track tape in the stereo.
"Yeah, you did," he says with a chuckle. “But what else would you expect from two 'hard-boiled owls'?"