Running trails: Feels good when you stop
So you got a pair of running shoes for Christmas.
Cross-trainers, actually, so you feel as if there's no sort of training for which you are unprepared. You throw them on as part of a New Year's resolution, and after a week or two, it's common for your neighbors to see you trotting around the block.
One day, you run 4 miles. Then 6. And 8. You hit the 10-mile mark a few months after you got your shoes and start finding a reason to slip it into most conversations.
But then, after you run a few 5Ks, the accomplishment fades. No matter when you do it, no matter how far you go, it's just another run on Philadelphia's paved grid, as you dodge streetwalkers buried in their phones and blasts of the city's morning breath from the sewer vents.
You hear about people who run out in the woods, something you've never really looked into. So you look into it. And it turns out there's a group assembling in a park nearby to run the trails a couple of times a week.
So you trek out to the woods come spring, but the day is wet, rainy, and frigid - maybe today's run is canceled? But upon arriving, you see plenty of people in brightly colored sportswear at the starting line, apparently not realizing that it's horrible outside.
A woman stands on a bench, shouting instructions about the day's race, and gives some pointers to newbies in the crowd. She mentions that you'll be headed into some rather dense sections of the forest.
"So be careful," she warns. "I haven't done any pruning."
*
The Wissahickon Wanderers is the largest trail running club in Philadelphia, pulling in athletes everywhere from the suburbs to Manayunk, West Philly, and Fishtown. Their Facebook group boasts more than 1,200 members and their weekly runs on average attract 40 to 60 strong-legged, iron-willed souls. Members routinely train for and enter races all around the Philadelphia area, as well as in far-off locales such as Canada's Baffin Island for the Midnight Sun Marathon. Their spring race series of typically 3- to 5-mile runs through the Wissahickon recently concluded, but the 10th annual Wissahickon Trail Classic is scheduled for Saturday (spots are still available) and is a brisk, meandering expedition through one of the area's most treasured, beautiful natural reserves and benefits the Wissahickon Restoration Volunteers, who help maintain the park.
"But do not be fooled by the beauty," the Wanderers' website warns. "This is also a challenging course with numerous short but steep hills as runners navigate through the Wissahickon gorge. Lungs and legs will be tested equally."
Many will be up to the task. Trail running has had close to 5 million participants in the United States since the mid-2000s, according to a 2010 report by the Outdoor Foundation. Enthusiasts of hiking and jogging decided to put their differences aside finally and work together; by 2009, almost 83 percent of a total 4.8 million trail runners were converted (or still practicing) road runners, with around 13 percent of them being first-timers. Meanwhile, 98.4 percent of trail runners had come upon the sport through various other outdoor activities, such as camping or hiking.
In speaking with many of the Wanderers, runners expressed that they were growing tired of the blandness of an urban run and rumors of the small groups of their compatriots gathering in the forest for a scenic sprint had appeal. By 2013, there were too many runners on the trails to the point that experts were genuinely concerned about overcrowding. Now, Wanderers who have been around for years indicate that trail running isn't a sport for the fleetingly curious.
"Uphill running is certainly an acquired taste," Sean Reisman says. The 30-year-old record store manager lives 3 miles from a trailhead in Mount Airy, having infiltrated the Wanderers' ranks around two years ago in the same way many had before him – he asked to join them, and they said yes. One of the sport's distinct qualities is its informality compared to the somewhat more intense reputation awarded to street runners.
But for Reisman, trail running's gift is how quickly the city disappears behind layers of foliage.
"Most of the time you don't hear cars, you don't hear honking, you don't hear trains -- you don't get any of that," he says. "You're really only half a mile from a major road, but you can feel like you're in the middle of nowhere."
It's rare for a run to come down to a simple matter of speed and stamina. The Wanderers take turns giving tweaks to each race. Some weeks, they hunt for Easter eggs, which contain numbers they can subtract from their final time; others, they receive time bonuses based on how much litter they pick up while running through the park. (Environmental stewardship factors heavily into the Wanderers' usage of their home turf.)
"Each week is a different course set up in a different section of the park by a different person, so you'll never run the same course twice," Reisman explains. "They're typically just start and finish, but we like to encourage people to have gimmicks in their trail races to make them a bit more interesting. I don't know all the details, but tonight's race is being put on by this woman who is doing some sort of Scrabble thing."
The woman, an Australian named Joanna, has been out on her version of the trail with her daughter, hanging red plastic cups with letters written on them from tree branches. The game is to spot all the cups, write down or remember the letters, and receive a faster final time based on the number of words you are able to conceive with the letters provided.
"I've only been doing this a couple years, but that's the most creative one I've come across," Reisman says with a laugh. "I don't know if it will work; I don't know how it will be affected by the weather, but that's pretty good."
Ah, yes, the weather. This particular late-May afternoon has been stricken by steady rain that has turned to a fine mist. The leaves on the trees are waiting for the slightest bump to unleash a tiny deluge, like hundreds of tiny bucketfuls of cold water, overturned at once. The ground is saturated and the temperature feels as though it has been cut out of a November day and pasted haphazardly on top of us. Perfect Scrabble weather.
But it would take a lot more than unseasonable wetness to keep the Wanderers indoors, and as each arrives, it becomes obvious that today's race is happening.
"We ran all winter," Reisman says. "The only thing that's really tough is it gets really icy down here. Since we're near the water in a low-lying area, we don't get a lot of sun and it doesn't melt until weeks or months after everything else thaws."
"I can't imagine that," veteran Wanderer and organizer Bob Reynolds says with a laugh when asked what it would take to cancel a race. "We've run in snow. We've run in thunderstorms. That's probably not smart, but we still do it."
*
It starts quietly.
"This is nice," you think, just as the runners ahead of you bank a sharp right off the path and barrel into the woods.
The soft slaps of running shoes on wet gravel turn to muffled footfalls on rock and mud. Strong, confident strides turn to frantic scrambling up a hillside barely suitable for human travel. You begin to recall the warnings of another runner just before the starter's pistol: "Remember; it's OK if you're winded in the first two minutes."
For you, two minutes equates to an eternity out here. You drift to the side into what little space there is to allow more experienced runners to pass, but you don't stop moving. You vault over a rotted log and then immediately vault again over a pile of horse manure that in your delirium you suspect has been strategically placed in your path. The good news is that you didn't stumble and fall. The bad news is that you probably had about two vaults in you for this race and you just used both of them.
Runners give quick, sympathetic looks as they brush branches that swing back, delivering cold, wet slaps. You begin holding your arms up as if falling through the trees from above. With the footsteps behind you, you start to realize what the last character alive in a horror movie might feel like.
At one point, you're pretty sure you're running backward. A small group of Wanderers going the other way confirms this.
"On your second go-around already?" one of them quips, and you try to laugh politely but manage only an unhealthy wheeze. You debate the merits of waiting until all other runners have passed you, and then walking the rest of the way.
"You can do it," encourages a hallucination of your long-dead grandfather. The crows stalking you caw disagreeably at the encouragement, rooting for you to fail.
You run.
*
The Wanderers were born in 2000, in a process simple enough to reflect their current culture. When organizers were informed they would need insurance and a permit from the city to set up a 5K race, it was learned that costs would be fewer if an official running group was associated with the event, so the crowd gave itself a name and became one. And that group is still bringing down insurance rates to this day.
As members have come and gone and visitors have returned home, the Wanderers have lived up to their name, spreading across the country as well as internationally to far-off lands such as Canada and Scotland.
Bob Reynolds and Chris Moore are two of the longest-tenured members of the Wanderers, having roamed into the Wissahickon more than a decade ago. They embody the motivation of runners to move periodically, or permanently, off the roads and into the woods.
"I run everything I can find," says Moore, a middle-aged contractor. He's fresh off a 13-mile hill run earlier this morning, with a reminder to buy a certain type of screw written on the back of his hand.
With 15 years of Wandering behind him, Moore believes trail running can stretch a runner's peak distance, because of its more illustrious backdrops and pathways:
"I know a lot of people just run roads and do the same thing all the time, and they never get past 4, 5, 6, 7 miles because it's boring. [In the woods], there are things to look at; you have to watch where you're stepping, where on the road, or on the track, it's just left turn, left turn, left turn. When it's hot, you're in the shade -- there's water, there's obstacles, there's things to look at that aren't your normal cityscape."
In the trail-running world, Wissahickon is a specific draw. Reynolds doesn't have to work very hard to balloon attendance, thanks to the appeal of the park's winding, undiscovered passages. He has been showing up for runs here since he was a high schooler in 1971.
"A lot of folks run on the main trail here, Forbidden Drive," he says, "but we try to show people the upper trails. They're rocky and rooty, but we have a lot of fun up there. Philadelphia is one of the best cities for trail running. The Wissahickon is one spot, but there's probably 50 miles of trails here and that's before you get to the Pennypack or some other parks."
Running uphill and downhill over and through obstacles set by nature isn't for everyone, and the Wanderers know that. But anyone can make use of a burst of endorphins, and coming down after a race is often a moment of distinct, self-congratulatory reflection.
Reynolds gets called over to handle a few pre-race administrative duties, but before he goes, he explains the appeal of sprinting through the saturated undergrowth: "The old joke is: It feels good when you stop."
*
Running in the right direction this time, you jog down Wissahickon's wider main path, from which the run started hours ago (it will be explained to you later that only 45 minutes has passed). The fleeting glimpses of the runners ahead of you are your primary assurance that you're headed the right way.
And then, in front of you, bobbing just beyond the trees, the Valley Green Inn reappears, dotted with recuperating runners in colorful sportswear. As you cross the finish line, you are congratulated by nearly everyone, slapped silly with high-fives, and handed a piece of paper with your place – "46."
You log your time with a Wanderer volunteer, who asks if you have any words for the Scrabble game. Muddied and beaten up, sweat gushing from your head down your face, and wondering what sort of mythic forest beast you resemble most, you vaguely recall a red cup or two dangling from overhanging tree limbs and shake your head.
"How did you like it?" she asks of your first trail race. You respond with an adjective of some kind. It couldn't have sounded too bad because she gives you a pleasant smile and offers a cookie.
You lean on a fence post, catching your breath, enjoying your treat. Nearby, a goose is leading a swath of oblivious goslings for a nibble in some creek-side reeds. She eyes the heavy human population with unease. You watch her lead her brood gently back into the water. Your breaths slow. Your sweat dries. You look down at your deeply soiled cross-training shoes, and it is difficult to envision them as the crisp, new items they were on Christmas morning.
It feels good, now that you've stopped.