Id’s Perfect Day: An Old Gabe story

Pre-race instructions

In a race like Old Gabe, put on by the Big Sky Wind Drinkers in mid-June each year, I have to believe that our psychological ids are in control.  Running an Old Gabe route satisfies cravings that few who aren't out there can understand.  You have two choices, 30K or 55K—pick your level of insanity. The start for both routes is at 6 AM and they trek 9.5 miles from the Middle Cottonwood Trailhead over Saddle Pass to the Truman Gulch Trailhead, then turn around and head back.  If you signed up for the 30K when you return to Middle Cottonwood trailhead, you can kiss the ground, you’re done; 55Kers have to head partway back up Middle Cottonwood then over to Sypes Canyon, and drop down to the trailhead, a 7.5 mile run, then turn around one more time and head back.  Each of the four sections climbs 2000-3500 feet before dropping back to a trailhead; each section of trail is rocky, there are numerous creek crossings, there are snowfields to be negotiated on north facing slopes, there is mud, and in some years there are downed trees with dagger like projections awaiting unwary runners.

Runners in Middle Cottonwood meadow (2024 race)

I mean, can you talk to any non-runner about Old Gabe and have them come away thinking That’s rational, I should do that.  Heck, even your average road runner will look askance as you fill them in on what the course involves.  I’ve got to tell you, that gleam you get in your eyes, the excitement you feel, when you talk about your favorite aspect of the course doesn’t translate. 

Those of us who are out there are under the influence of our ids, super unrelatable ids at that, at least while we run.  We may be perfectly rational in every other aspect of our lives, but not while we out running in mountain air, splashing through creeks and mud and sliding down snowfields on our butts; all with shit eating grins on our faces.  Our endorphin packages seem to have us craving what the egos, in other rational folks, would mightily resist. 

Saddle Pass in view (2024 race)

Working my way up from Middle Cottonwood drainage behind Maria, a Philosophy PhD student from University of Minnesota, got me thinking about id and ego.  The conversation began with me expressing concern that I am getting too old to be out here.  She shot back, “That’s your ego talking.  No one here cares how fast you go.  Just have fun.” 

If my ego is resisting my being out here, it must be my devil-may-care pleasure-seeking id that is driving me on.  But id is sex, id is wild crazy behavior, how could id also be driving something that takes as much discipline as mountain running?  Maybe because mountain running is fun.  It’s doing something elemental on a cool June morning among fields of flowers in pine forests climbing steep slopes with a self-selected group of other crazies that triggers a sense of fun that is rooted deep within each of us.  Mountain running is a selfish pursuit; we crave the beauty, we revel in the wildness.  There is pleasure in the pain.  We are out here because we choose to be, because we can be. 

There are also social aspects to this run that may be satisfying to our egos.  We push and support each other.  There are no throngs of cheering onlookers, no serenading bands, just us—and the few hikers caught by surprise at finding themselves in the middle of a race.  Surely it entices the social ego, and even the moral superego may find satisfaction in this community in motion.  In the end, they may both rally behind the id in approval, at least for the 30K; 55K runners may be need new psychological theories to support that level of effort.  I mean, that’s just nuts.

This cadre of id junkies contains some seriously driven folks. I ran with Maria for a few miles. I passed her as we climbed up Middle Cottonwood, she returned the pass on our way up Truman's. She said, "It takes me a few hours to warm up," and warm up she did. She doesn’t live at altitude, yet she put in a solid 55K. 

Adam is a survivor.  He is 43, with genetics that stuck him with severe arthritis in one hip.  He got it replaced two years ago.  His doc told him that he couldn’t run, but that he is allowed to hike.  Doc probably has no idea what Adam considers hiking, and damn can he hike. 

Eric found running about ten years ago after realizing that being a serious weightlifter led to health issues: intense anaerobic activity makes you strong, but not necessarily healthy.  

If I had gotten the chance to talk with twenty more folks, I probably would have found a lot more with interesting back stories or who had to overcome issues in order to hear ‘good job’ when racers pass each other.

There were many stellar athletes in the group.  Watching the lead runners racing up the switchbacks in Truman’s while I was still heading down was awesome.  Their uphill pace was faster than my downhill pace.  The course was in great condition this year and winning times were a full half hour faster than in recent years for both the 30 and 55K.  You don’t have to be all id to feel a moment of awe watching these athletes in action.

A quick perusal of the results shows that not all of the star athletes are young.  The fastest among us span the age spectrum.  They let us all know what is possible.  They give our ids ammunition in its battle with our egos: id can show ego the beauty, the thrill of speeding down a rocky mountain trail.  Those who took twice as long or longer than the fastest to cross the finish may deserve the most recognition.  The struggle increases with time spent pushing oneself; the slowest among us may have worked the hardest of all.

My battle between id and ego turned in favor of my id as the race went on, but there was one thing that heartened my ego, that maybe my days at such pursuits would soon end. A few passing runners glanced at me and said “you’re doing great, sir,” or some variation of encouragement that included ‘sir.’  I mean, they didn’t even have to stare at me for a moment, no turning their heads sideways to look under my hat.  I was immediately sir to them.  But sir is not encouragement, it’s a sharp pain in the chest, and a hit to my ego.  Maybe my hobbling and moaning tipped them off.  Could be they noticed that when I got to the top of Saddle Pass, I knelt down and pleaded, “Please Lord, send a helicopter my way.  Just a small helicopter, though make it big enough to hold a mattress. I could really use to lie down. Oh, and I could use something to drink. Just this once.  I’ll never ask again.  I promise.”  Okay, that’s an exaggeration.  I didn’t quite kneel; I would never have gotten back up if I had.

Our ids had their perfect day, but ego may have won the evening as our exhausted bodies felt the aftereffects of id’s party.  But a day or two later I expect id was back in charge, a gleam in its eye, preparing for its next perfect day.

Looking north from Truman Gulch