Up Hills and Through Woods, Ultramarathon Is One Bear of a Race

While all those around her gushed, Pat Johnson played the part of a lone, unimpressed voice in the wilderness.

Tending to her duties as an aid-station assistant during Sunday’s San Juan Trail Fifty ultramarathon in Cleveland National Forest, Johnson listened while participants discussed the aesthetics of running through the wild.

As she filled runners’ orders for food, water and dry clothing at Blue Jay campground (elevation 3,387 feet), Johnson heard participants feverishly describe the utter thrill of such mad adventures as brushing against a pine tree or hurdling a squirrel.

Finally, having heard enough, she wryly put the race in perspective.

“Yeah, running in the wilderness is all right . . . if you don’t get eaten by a bear.”

Johnson, who lives in Dana Point, is one of many who believe these ultramarathoners are, uh, a bit unique in their recreational preference.

“Personally, “ she said, “I think they’re crazy.”

Odds are that Pat Johnson will not be receiving an all-expense paid trip to Geneva courtesy of the U.S. State Department.

Ultramarathoners are used to enduring the slings and arrows of those who do not run. Or even by those poor souls who do run, but must do so in the asphalt jungle, inhaling the fallout of the modern city.

Let them eat exhaust, the ultramarathoners say.

“I wouldn’t run if I had to do it sucking car fumes,” Dan Bergar of San Luis Obispo said.

No, he and the rest of this bunch would much rather climb 4,000 feet of mountainous terrain, battling cold, hypothermia and, just maybe, bears.

But an ultramarathoner figures one person’s hazard is another’s paradise. It just depends on what side of nature’s fence (paved or unpaved) you prefer to lean on.

“This is my church out here,” said John Dinmick of Wilmington. “This is as close to God as I’m going to get.”

For Dinmick and the others, the climb to salvation begins at 6 a.m. at San Juan Hot Springs and ascends 3,869 feet to a top altitude of 4,604 feet at Trabuco Peak.

The Blue Jay camp marks the 15-mile mark of the race. To get there, one must endure a steep grade, pot holes, jagged rocks . . . Universal Studios should have such special effects. Funny thing, this is the main road utilized by cars on their way up.

Who knows where the runners come from?

Like gophers, they just seem to appear out of the earth, bursting from a thick forest to the cheers of friends and family.

But the thin, dusty vein that leads to Blue Jay is a city boulevard compared to the route through Holy Jim Canyon.

You see, Holy Jim hasn’t been pruned in years. Maybe centuries. It’s hard to find good help at 4,000 feet.

“I was talking to a guy who ran up there a couple weeks ago,” said Ron Lowy. “He said when they got to Holy Jim, they had to go through it crawling on their hands and knees.”

From there the racers head toward Trabuco, back down through Blue Jay and into the stretch back to the hot springs.

John Loeschhorn won the race in a nifty 6-hours 44-minutes. The average runner finished somewhere between 10 and 12 hours.

You definitely don’t run the race with something cooking on the stove.

But to win here is secondary. Most of the runners got involved in ultramarathons when they found marathons too highly pressured, too fast-paced.

“I don’t wear a watch when I run. I want to enjoy what’s around me,” said Melda Dean of El Segundo. She was one of 25 runners in the race over over 50 years of age, and one of 30 women.

Not many seem in a rush to finish. At aid stations, runners stop and chat while they munch and swallow nourishment. One runner, after grabbing a banana, ran up an embankment, pulled a small camera from his pouch and told everyone to smile.

So what’s a split time?

The runners’ attitude is casual--almost too casual for the treacherous deeds they do.

So , Bob how was that 3,000-foot climb over rugged terrain?

Just fine , thank you. Hey, is that a new shirt?

Why , yes.

Gee, it looks great. Oh, by the way, if it isn’t too much trouble, may I have a bandage, I believe my leg is bleeding.

No one is more casual than race organizer Barry Hawley.

Meeting Hawley is a very uplifting experience.

How uplifting? Oh, about a foot and a half.

To Hawley, a handshake is a cold shoulder. If someone is worth knowing--and everyone is to him--they deserve a kiss, hug and lift-off. This goes for men and women. The whole unisex thing. When it comes to hugging Leo Buscaglia has nothing on Hawley.

Hawley started the race last year and had 106 people start the race--the most for a first-time ultramarathon in America.

An engineer by trade, Hawley, a British citizen, has at various times been a professional soccer player in Australia, the road manager of a pop group named the Twilights (they later became the Little River Band) and a professional boxer.

“I won my first three fights,” he said.

Then what made him quit?

“Number four.”

The boxing career ended at 3-1.

But an hour before the start of the race, in the dark and chill of the hot springs, Hawley seems the furthest thing from a fighter. He hugs, he jokes, he jibes and is jibed. All participants know him, and treat him with the amount of respect a man of his experience and stature deserves.

They pelt him with paper wads, pinch his derriere and shout various well-meaning obscenities at him. Truly, here is a man who loves and is loved.

Come race time--that’s 6 a.m. to you and me--Hawley assembles his flock at the starting line. A single light shines on his face as he informs the group of race conditions through the use of a bullhorn.

“Can everyone hear me?” he says.

“We can hear you, we just can’t understand. Speak English.”

Laughter abounds. Hawley, challenged, launches into a 10-minute monologue and takes on yet another hat.

Barry Hawley. Wilderness Comedian.

“See this guy. His wife just gave birth to their tenth kid. No wonder he wants to run alone.”

Barry’s got a million of ‘em, folks.

But there’s a race to be run, and believe it or not, these people can’t wait to get climbing in the mist. They can’t wait to endure nature’s elements as the rest of our animal cousins do.

Yes, even bears.