Catching A Tiger By The Tail

I’m almost there.  Again.  I’ve been a part of it since the beginning; the inaugural year being 2018.  For that reason I love it.  Well, actually I love it for a lot of different reasons, but consistency is probably a key point; being a bit of a traditionalist.

Of all things it’s a trail race.  A running race through prairies, oak savannas, and forests; often stretched along seemingly endless ridges with amazing views, or down through dark ravines under the canopy of hardwood trees.  I stumbled upon the brochure for this race while at the Runner’s Image shoe store in Rockford.  The rest, as they say, is history!

The Early Morning Drive To The Race.
A Sunrise Over The Rock River.

But this race is much more than beautiful vistas and overlooks of the Rock River Valley.  The Tiger 10 Miler Trail Race is held in the Byron Forest Preserve; across the river from the small town by that same name.  The race is both heavenly and hellish, depending on your training and where you are on the course route.  Although advertised as 10 miles, if I remember correctly, it’s technically 10.1 if you care, or like to keep track of such things.  More importantly, the race director makes no apologies about the fact that if there’s a hill nearby - and there’s no end of those - you’re going to be running up it!  It’s a testament to the race that it’s been held for 8 straight years; including the year of the pandemic when most things were being canceled.  The evidence is in the runners who sign up again and again, in addition to newbies who want to be a part of it all.  And although the colors of the restored tall grass prairie along the course are spectacular, make no mistake that the steep sloped hills don’t care, and will take any opportunity to kick your butt when you least expect it!

While running the race, you find your inner voice battling back and forth within your conscience about how tough it is as you gasp for breath, all while marveling at how the Forest Preserve District has managed to reclaim vast acres of old farmland.  The thin layer of soil is held tight once again as the roots of indian grass, big bluestem, compass plant, and cone flowers grip the dolomite limestone just below the surface.  Occasionally the rock peaks through worn sections of dirt to remind you of its presence.  Of course many other species of plants are found in the preserve too, but it’s hard to notice every one of them while racing by; it’s enough to know they’re there as they give you the feeling of running within a grassy canyon.  The only thing missing are the bison I guess and the thunder they produce; pounding hooves shaking the earth.  Instead there’s the sound of runners and whatever shoes they’ve tied to their feet.

I’ve run countless road races; a few that are my favorites.  I’ve run a plethora of half marathons, 25 K’s, and marathons; having specific favorites there as well.  I’ve even ventured several times into the realm of ultra marathons, and enjoyed each one of those because of their location and the courage it took to prepare.  But the Tiger 10 Miler is hands down one of my favorites of any kind of race; easily in my top 5 if you’re into such things - which I’m not.  I just know that I still love to run and train at this point in my life.  And why not while I still can?  I figure that if I’m going to train, then I might as well make it worth my time with weekly long runs; the precursor being intermediate distances that are laced with hills, intervals, or a slow slog at a steady pace.

That mentality and training is the foundation of what I lean into for the Tiger 10 Miler.  I like to put my best foot forward, so to speak, for this particular race.  It’s the least I can do for such a worthy route.  I'd say for such a worthy adversary or foe, but like those who connect with the natural land, the Tiger 10 is not something that needs to be conquered or subdued.  It’s not even something that needs to be endured.  The race itself is difficult enough; when you’re pushing hard and tackling the hills.  And while you might find yourself questioning life choices in the midst of the run, it’s hard not to marvel at what it took to get there and what you’re in the middle of at the moment.  More than once I’ve told people, “It’s the race you love to hate…with the balance tipping more on the side of love!”  After running it once, you’ll most likely sign up to run it again the following year.

My training for this year’s race has been a little more unique than usual.  Back in July I ran the Dances With Dirt-Devil’s Lake half marathon.  It was slick from recent rains in addition to being technical and challenging, but I did well, and loved the steep climbs and plummeting descents on the single track trail.

In August I ran a lot with my son Todd in Kenya, Africa.  The elevation where my wife and I live is around 750 feet above sea level.  In Africa Todd and I ran at 4,500 feet!  Although it’s been a few weeks since my shoes were dusted in Africa’s red dirt, I’m hoping that experience strengthened my lungs.  It surely strengthened my understanding of the community surrounding Kijani Farm where my son Todd and his family live.  One of the goals he’s running for has been labeled, “20 for 20 on 20.”  He’s running 20 kilometers for $20,000 on September 20th; timing his run for the afternoon on the flip-side of the Earth so we’ll be roughly running at the same time - with an 8 hour difference.  As I run the prairied hills of the Tiger 10 Miler in Byron, Illinois, he and many of his friends from the Maasai community will be running the dirt roads and trails at the base of the Black Mountain.

Todd, Richard, And Me The Black Mountain In The Background.

They’re running to raise money for a local primary school (named Enchoro).  Right now the students from that school find themselves in an old, ramshackled building or outside under a big acacia tree.  The Kijani Farm work crew is steadily raising the new school structure, from the foundation on up, using hand bent re-bar, cement, and welded metal.  Their craftsmanship is next to amazing!  The new school will be something that termites can’t destroy, with windows that allow light for students to see while working and learning.  Check out the 2:36 video that explains the purpose of Todd’s run, in addition to an attached link in the video’s description: Todd's 20K For 20K.

The Present Enchoro Primary School
And Outside Classroom Under The Tree

Frank Bending Re-bar That Will Be
Set In Cement For The School's Foundation

That area of southern Kenya is such an interesting blend of natural beauty and basic needs.  A kinder and more gracious community of people you’ll be hard pressed to find.  At the same time, while running together last month, Todd and I saw impalas, monkeys, guinea fowl, three species of gazelles, zebras, and ostriches.  In addition, while running on his own last week, Todd had to stop for a pair of giraffes.  Welcome to Africa!  Todd’s run will be an interesting comparison of similarities and differences to the race and route of the Tiger 10 Miler.  If nothing else, I’ll surely be running this year’s race with a different mindset and perspective.

Each year I’ve run the Tiger 10 with friends; often after I’ve talked it up to them - many of them being former students as well.  While we have each run our own race over the years, we all meet up afterwards for a group picture, catch our breath, and then head to the after race party at the Hairy Cow Brewing Company.  It’s one of the best awards ceremonies I’ve been a part of, as almost everyone comes away with a door prize of some sort.  And if you miss out on an age group award, there’s the camaraderie of fellow runners, and the delicious after race pizza provided by the Hairy Cow kitchen.  It’s a perfect way to finish the morning as you sit under the awning on the giant deck overlooking the Rock River.

So I’m on the brink of Byron, Illinois’ Tiger 10 Miler Trail Race.  It’s a chance to set an annual benchmark for myself within one of trail running’s best courses.  I’d say I’m running to try to catch a tiger by the tail, but that probably hints at the race being unexpectedly difficult.  And while the race is indeed tough throughout its entire 10 miles, I know what I’m getting into and I want to run it anyway!  “Why?” you ask.  Because it’s beautiful, challenging, and a race I simply can't wait to run each September!

See you along The Way…

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A PICTURE GALLERY THROUGHOUT THE YEARS

Inaugural 2018

Louie, Me, And Former Student Zach

Total Time 1:22:10 - 8:12 Average

2019

Stretching & Warm-up Area With The Rising Sun

Doug, Justin B, Amy, Andy, And Me

Total Time 1:19:33 - 7:57 Average

2020

Me, (And Two Former Students) Sean & Amy.
We're Spaced Apart Due To The Covid Pandemic
But at Least We Were Able To Run!

Total Time 1:18:28 - 7:51 Average

In 2020 The After Party Was On-line.
My Wife Cindy & I Sat On The Back Deck
And Watched It While Making S'mores.

2021

Andy, Me, Justin K, Allison, And Amy

Total Time 1:20:55 - 8:06 Average

2022

I Got My 5 Year Award!

Allison, Amy, Andy, Me, And Justin B.

Total Time 1:24:06 - 8:25 Average

2023

Due to what would be later diagnosed as Lyme Disease (in addition to a minor injury), I had to bow out of 2023's race. It almost killed me (missing out on not being able to run the Tiger 10). BUT, because I had already signed up, I got the shirt, and when I was able to run again, I wore the '23 Tiger shirt for the Abominable 5K trail race that I ran in November with my son Todd. The race director, Chris Remhof, was there too, so I showed him that I was still spreading the love for the Tiger a couple of months removed.

Me & My Son Todd On A Freezing Cold Morning

2023 - I'm Back!

The two sisters & my former students
Allison, Amy, And Me

Total Time 1:28:58 - 8:48 Average

2025

A Practice Run On The Course
Before The Tiger 10 Miler
Allison, Me, Joe, And Louie

Post-Race:
Allison, Me, Louie, Brian, And Joe

Random Thoughts And Those On Swimming

The time at the moment was Pi.  You might remember the sign for Pi (𝛑) from school, especially if you had a kid in class who had memorized the digits for Pi out to a hundred decimal places and spewed their brilliance for the admiration of your teacher and anyone else who cared about math and numbers.  Perhaps you yourself were that kid!  If so, let’s just be honest and say that it’s a remarkable feat and pretty darn impressive to recall so many numeric figures!  Or maybe you use Pi on a regular basis and in various formulas while calculating the area and circumference of a circle; as an engineer or landscape architect might do for their next project.

I had a circle garden in the backyard of the first house that Cindy and I ever owned.  It was a good excuse to be creative and make use of the old rotten stump that used to be there on a slight slope just off the northwest corner of our brick bungalow.  I was able to level off the soil by building a retaining wall on the lower end; using a double layer of broken up concrete chunks from a motel in Machesney Park that was redoing their sidewalk.  I used Pi to calculate the fencing needed around the perimeter to keep rabbits out while still allowing chubby little fingers access through the rectangular wire holes to grab delicious cherry tomatoes and fistfuls of chives.

Sometimes in the middle of a junior high boy’s or girl’s basketball game, back when Cindy and I coached together, we’d notice when the clock on the scoreboard stopped at 3:14.  One of us would bring it to the other’s attention by exclaiming, "It's Pi!"  The first three digits to the Greek Symbol of Pi are 3, 1, & 4 (three and fourteen hundredths - 3.14).  It comes from the 3 plus a smidge more times that a circle’s diameter can be wrapped around the perimeter of that same circle.  It’s a decimal number that in reality extends infinitely, because well, you can technically always cut a piece of the pie thinner; even if it is microscopic!

Anyways, the present time was 3:14 when I started writing this entry aboard a Boeing 787-10 aircraft.  Ironically my wife and I were flying from Amsterdam and southeast off the tip of Greece on our way to Kenya - where we would eventually drive down into the bush country where my son and daughter-in-law live.  At that moment, far below the 35,000 feet we were flying, I could see the western tip on the island of Crete and sandy Elafonissi Beach.  In fact, I could see whitecaps rolling in along the shoreline from the Mediterranean Sea.  Imagine the height of those rollers for me to see them from tens of thousands of feet above them in the air!

Having grown up in Michigan and surrounded by the freshwater sea of the Great Lakes, I hold a personal attachment to water being whipped by the wind into whitecaps.  I absolutely love the thunderous roar of waves crashing on rocky outcroppings or pounding sand laden beaches.

I’m also terrified of them.  I know the seductive power behind those waves!  I almost drowned as a child; strangely enough while attending our community swim lessons at Otsego County Park.  It was within big waves, that were building from an oncoming front, when I decided in my little brain that I needed to learn to swim on my own right then and there - without a paddle board and in the deep area between two rafts.  It was also when the lifeguards earned their keep.  Somehow they noticed me in the waves, and pulled me up from below as I was going down into the bluish-gray abyss.

Isn’t it ironic how the waves that can be so fun and exhilarating to jump in when it’s only knee deep, can paralyze you when you have a near death experience?  Once I had recovered to their satisfaction, the director of the program drove me over to the other side of the lake; to the State Park where my Dad was a seasonal ranger when he wasn’t teaching middle school math.  It would be a couple of years until I could comfortably swim in water that was dark and over my head.  The traumatic experience hadn’t planted a seed of fear.  It was more like a backyard shade tree!  Who knew at the time that I would return years later to swim from that community park, nearly to the other side of the lake, and then back - while participating in what used to be the original distance for the Mark Mellon Triathlon.

I think about that near drowning sometimes, and try to mesh the fear I suddenly felt for deep water with the stories my parents tell of how as a toddler I would crawl fearlessly down sandy beaches and straight into the lake without even stopping!  My Mom said she had to watch me like a hawk, because I apparently could crawl pretty darn quick.  I do remember wanting to be “one with the water” when I was in middle school; wishing I could breathe like the character in the TV show from the late 70’s entitled, The Man From Atlantis.  I often mimicked the way that he swam, but unlike him, my lungs demanded air!

Part of the initiation strategy Dad used to rebuild my confidence in swimming was for him to hold me as he walked out to where he was neck deep and definitely over my head.  In that environment he would hold me out at arms length, briefly let go, and I was to swim back to him.  I remember clinging to his head and shoulders, and I think it took everything in his power to pull me away - both literally and figuratively.  Literally because of my gripping fingers, and figuratively because I was his son and he wanted to help me; in addition to the fact that he had grown up on a lake and was himself half fish.

One such time stands out vividly in my mind when we drove down to a lake somewhere in the middle of lower Michigan to visit family friends.  As kids we had fun playing together, picnicking, and searching for fresh water clams in the shallows.  When it came time for Dad’s attempted swim lesson, however, I wanted nothing to do with it and held on for all I was worth!  And while I trusted my Dad, I didn’t trust the water.  More importantly, I didn’t trust myself and my ability to swim when I couldn’t touch the bottom of the lake with my tippy-toes.  Fear like that was a real thing for a kid who only ever swam in lakes that got mysteriously deeper, darker, and muckier the farther you went from shore.

The opportunity that slipped through my fingers, and still haunts me to this day, was when I lost out on diving from a raft belonging to long-time friends who lived down on Heart Lake.  Those who know me now are familiar with the fact that I could dive off any sort of structure all day long.  I simply love the exhilarating feeling of slicing into water.  My dives themselves aren’t pretty, and on an Olympic scoring system…well, they probably wouldn’t even register on a scale of 1 to 10.  But, that doesn’t take away from my love to do so, even if my feet often come over too far and cause an unnecessary splash!

On that day, plain and simple, I didn’t get to share in the joy that my younger sisters and friends were able to have.   Granted, the littles probably jumped in with life jackets. And although I don’t remember all of the specifics, I know that I wasn’t able to submerge into the depths unencumbered and do what I saw some of the older kids doing.  What does come to mind is that the water was intimidating, and although the raft was not very far from shore, it was anchored out beyond a steep drop-off.

In the dive position I posed at the raft’s edge, but was frozen from entering the water.  It was regretful, especially when our friends moved soon after that to the Upper Peninsula town of Negaunee.  Fortunately I was able to come back to that same lake a decade later and swim at a resort just across the bay from where our friends had once lived and even took a group of middle schoolers water skiing there after my freshman year in college.  It helped rectify the earlier situation.

I wish I could recall when and where I got over my fear of deep water and not being able to see or touch the bottom.  I suppose it would help wrap the story into a tight little bow.  Like many things in life, time erased the memory of bravery as time erased the fright.  Perhaps I swam in water over my head on beloved Clark Lake where my Dad had grown up and we still had family.  Perhaps it was in Pickerel, Big, or Otsego Lake near our home outside of Gaylord, Michigan.  Maybe I swam in dark water in one of the Great Lakes - like Michigan or Superior.  The specifics will remain a mystery, but this I know; I love water and being engulfed in its fluidity.  Yet, from that frightening experience I also have a healthy dose of cautious respect; always checking for submerged debris before jumping in moving water, wearing a life jacket while kayaking or canoeing, and being aware of my surroundings and the weather.

If I have the opportunity, I’ll swing from a rope or dive off a dock into deep water again and again; it’s a joy and rush I rarely get tired of doing.  I usually only quit when I run out of time or something else catches my attention.  In fact, I’m always looking for the next watering hole where I can wade, swim, paddle, or dive.

It’s random memories, stories, and thoughts like these that I find rattling around inside my brain while flying out over the Mediterranean Sea; now long past the number Pi, the time of 3:14, and the white caps crashing onto the island shores of southern Greece - as we travel the long journey to the flip side of the Earth.

See you along The Way…