How to Train For and Run a Marathon Poorly, Part III:
This is a Lot of Work for a Free Banana
Heather and I had decided to run the Humboldt County Redwoods Marathon, deep in the heart of the Redwood National Forest in northern California. If you’re going to expend the kind of work a run like this takes, I highly recommend finding a fun route to slog. Sure, we could have waited two months and run the Dallas Marathon but schlepping past the Grassy Knoll where a man’s life ended is not the most zen of routes.
We flew into San Francisco and took the airport train out to the rental car area. During the tram ride, we chatted with a man who grew avocados. Apparently, there’s a whole sub-industry of avocado police. He told us a story about how the government of California has a DNA database of produce, and if they come across someone selling avocados, they can test the product to see if it’s stolen merchandise. True story.
We had reserved a car, one Chevy Cruze or “similar make and model.” The Avis agent, one Vincent Vega (ISYN, I couldn’t make this up), inquired as to our plans, and finding out that we planned to do a fair amount of driving, “upgraded” us to a Toyota Prius. He wrote down our names and told us he would check the race results to see how we did on the marathon, which we thought was nice. He also told us not to “f**k with another man's vehicle. It's just against the rules,” which I thought was unnecessary. It took us 30 minutes to figure out how to start the Prius, only to realize it was already running. So that cliché is true.
About two hours up the 101 past dozens of vineyards, we stopped at Healdsburg to eat at The Shed. The Shed, despite its trendy industrial/provincial name, served a salad that was “assembled” vs. tossed, vinegar drinks called shrubs and an excellent charcuterie, which, to this day, Heather and I haven’t gotten over. I mean, who doesn’t adore a good charcuterie? Little baby pickles? Pickled…anything? Cheese and crackers? Food for champions.
After several hours of heading north into mountains with perilous drops and stunning scenery, we saw our first redwood tree, arrived at the Redwood River Resort (“Wedwood Wiver Wesort”) and checked into a cute little A-frame lodge with a balcony. The weather was crisp, sunny and perfect, and we unpacked before dining out on the balcony with our own version of charcuterie. Same name, but not the same when the fixings come from a Wal-Mart and one of the assembled ingredients is “sweet midget pickles.” No complaints, though. A charcuterie is a charcuterie.
One slight hiccup: neither Heather nor I had been able to get a mobile phone signal for at least an hour before arriving at the resort, and the resort itself was a “geographical oddity” (name that movie!) that had no WiFi or cell signal, so we couldn’t tell anyone we’d gotten there safely or to check in with anyone. Being single, I had no long list of people to notify where I was, but Heather spent a fair amount of time walking over the resort and striking some interesting poses trying to get a signal. No deal. We were flying blind for the weekend. What else was new?
