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I don’t own skis or a kayak or a mountain
bike. I don’t run anywhere, not even across the street.
I don’t know how to swim or ski (on any surface), and I certainly
don’t climb rocks. If I had to guess, the Western States
100* is a list of the most-wanted criminals on the lam in Washington,
Oregon and California. Moreover, skinny people irritate me.
Then why the heck am I living in Auburn, California, the self-anointed
“Endurance Capital of the World”?
When I first moved to Auburn nearly eight years ago, there were
many quality-of-life issues associated with this place about which
I was uninformed. What I had been told, over and over by real
estate people, was Auburn is “above the fog, below the snow,”
and while that sounded pretty good to me for some reason, I did
not fully understand the implications of the cliché.
Auburn looked like a great place to live, and it is, but after making
the move I came to the quick realization that for the most part
the population is uniformly white bread, Gentile and Republican.
Fully appreciating the absence of diversity here was akin to something
you discover only after the ink is dry on your new mortgage. . .that
your neighbor on left has eight Bose speakers in his backyard and
prefers disco music; while your neighbor on the right owns four
Newfoundland Sheep Hounds who bay all night and habitually relieve
themselves in your front yard during the day.
Who knew?
And to further enhance a disturbing sense of isolation, who knew
that people live here not because of the opportunity to view the
beauty of the foothills and the Sierra, but to actually go in there
and engage in activities that promote acute perspiration?
What’s that about?
When I moved to Auburn from Chicago, my prime athletic career was
behind me. Back in the day, I rode my bike 100 or more miles
per week, I played racquetball competitively five days a week and
I was in the pink. My fitness decline can be attributed to
two factors: I bought my first Harley and started riding instead
of pedaling; and I moved up in my career and found myself in airplanes
every week, eating rich foods and living large. Before venturing
west, the only running I did was to catch the 5:40 train out of
the city every night because it was the only one with a bar car.
When I moved to Auburn from Chicago my wardrobe was devoid of short-sleeved
business shirts, short pants, flip flops and Birkenstocks.
Now I am properly equipped and dressed for success here, with the
exception of the shirts. . .one must draw the line somewhere.
The problem is, as a short, bald, chunky fellow with a skin tone
two shades north of albino, I look totally ridiculous in California
couture.
With Anglo-Saxon and Scottish blood coursing my veins, it is impossible
for me to spend more than 10 minutes in the sun without burning
to a cinder—every square inch of bare skin must be covered.
My body has never been tanned; it burns and peels. If you
have never witnessed a full sheet of skull skin removed altogether,
it is a horrific sight and should be avoided, especially by women
and small children.
My first true outdoor experience here was one I dreaded—no
desperately feared—for weeks in advance. It was a whitewater
rafting trip launching from one of the 82 branches of the American
River, and I was fully confident my doom was assured. A non-swimmer,
I suffered nightmare visions of being sucked out of an overturned
rubber raft and being dragged down in a raging whirlpool of death.
As the icy water filled my lungs and I struggled toward the light,
I could clearly see thin people paddling away joyfully. Then,
mercifully, I sank helplessly into the frightful depths to keep
my date with Davy Jones or whomever it is charged with greeting
drowned tourists in El Dorado County.
The reality of the trip was a disappointment. Before leaving
home, I made sure my living trust was up-to-date; I paid the mortgage
and Visa bill; applied a final flea treatment to my beloved dog,
Willy Gee; and made peace with my God.
At the river, I took notes furiously as our river raft guide—after
first distributing helmets and paddles—explained the safety
rules. (A quick aside: rafting guides work many interesting
jobs during the off season, including snow ski instructors, drug
dealers and newspaper editors.) Then we were assigned rafts,
floated out to the middle of the river in approximately six inches
of water and awaited the daily release from an up-river reservoir.
Like clockwork, a wave—hardly a Tsunami—appeared and
pushed us down river, along with roughly 3,000 other rafts.
There were more little boats bobbing on the American River than
cars merging from I-65 on to I-80 during a Friday afternoon rush
hour. I had nothing to fear. If I was bounced out of
my raft, I had a 97% chance of landing in another craft without
even getting wet.
Thankfully, it was a tame experience, and I was able to purchase
a wonderful memento at its glorious conclusion. There is a
cottage industry of photographers who position themselves at key
locations to shoot tourists as they battle the mighty American River.
There’s me in a Pulitzer-quality shot, in the midst of the
deadly boulders of a Class -2 rapid, my eyes closed tightly, clutching
an oar to my chest (in a pinch they make a great flotation device).
My groin area is impressively soaked, inundated as I recall, by
a giant wave that broke across our bow.
* * *
For the first few years of living in Auburn, I was vaguely aware
of the fitness mania here, but it was not until we opened Carpe
Vino that its remarkable pervasiveness hit home. One Saturday
afternoon a middle-aged man pushed through the shop’s front
door with a very handsome bicycle in tow. He was clothed in skin-tight,
slinky riding togs, wore a pointy helmet with a cute little rear-view
mirror attached and he was sweating as profusely as a condemned
man standing on the trapdoor of a gallows.
He clomped in on his special cycling shoes and leaned his bicycle
on a wine rack.
Though Carpe Vino was still in its infancy and desperate for business—even
from people who exhibited peculiar odors—I was offended by
this intrusion. “Excuse me, sir,” I said,
“You can’t bring that thing in here.”
“I have to,” he protested, “It costs more than
$7,000. . .I can’t leave it outside.” Indeed.
* * *
For years now, I have perpetuated the myth that Carpe Vino was launched
because there was an impressive hole in the Auburn market for a
fine wine shop and for an upscale venue for wine lovers to congregate.
That is total baloney.
The real reason we built the place was to create a refuge for couch
potatoes. . .people seeking a dark, cool, quiet place to enjoy a
glass of fine wine without having to hear about anyone’s latest
P.B. (personal best time) or training regimens for the next triathlon.
And for an idyllic period, pleasingly plump patrons —those
who understood the value of non-activity paired with great food
and wine—populated our establishment.
All that came to an abrupt end when the City of Auburn sponsored
its first gala event in Old Town to position our fair community
as the “Endurance Capital of the World.” Whether
it is or is not is largely immaterial; the fact that we say it is
makes it so. To my knowledge, no other community has sued
Auburn to prove its claim, and I understand Seymour Hersh, the top
investigative reporter for the New York Times, has denied he is
planning to get to the bottom of the story.
On that fateful evening, hundreds of endurance athletes descended
on Old Town for an impressive technical program and to browse the
booths of vendors hawking energy bars, running shoes and other gear
essential for the production of endorphins (more about this later).
It was also an unprecedented opportunity to mingle amongst a massive
crowd of like-minded people with less than 2 percent body fat.
As the evening cycled down, many of the participants ventured into
Carpe Vino, including the Western States 100* founder, Dr. Gordy
Ainsleigh, whom we admitted only after he reluctantly agreed to
don shirt and shoes. The place filled up with as trim
a collection of human specimens as you could ever imagine. . .long-distance
runners, endurance equestrians, triathletes, biathletes, kayakers,
mountain bikers and plain old vanilla road racers. No NASCAR
drivers were immediately apparent.
For a committed non-athlete like me, this was an intimidating group,
and I must confess being overcome by a momentary wave of inadequacy
(and depression). These people all dedicate their lives to
the constant pursuit of elevating their heartbeats, a condition
that I normally experience only when wine distributors show up at
Carpe Vino with new pinots to taste. For the most part, I
have relied on the magical powers of Resveratrol, found in red wine.
It is a potent antioxidant that recent medical reports have credited
with helping prevent blood clotting that leads to heart attacks
(also thought to have anti-cancer effects as well).
After regaining my composure (and my confidence), I noticed some
startling similarities among the athletes congregated in the wine
bar: everyone was tanned to perfection, all of the women had
beautifully muscular ankles, the men had no asses and even the youngest
athletes sported enough wrinkles to qualify them for homeownership
in Sun City. Guess there is a downside to everything.
* * *
There is no question that the strategy to promote Auburn as the
Endurance Capital of the Universe is a good one, and it really does
illuminate a unique asset of our community. We are blessed
with being positioned on the doorstep of the American River Canyon,
a region whose rich recreational opportunities are enjoyed fully
by our residents as well as the tourists and athletes who visit
(bless their pocketbooks).
Auburn’s growing reputation as a siren for world-class competitors
can be attributed largely to the substantial marketing resources
applied to the job and the efforts of the hundreds of volunteers
who organize and administer the events. I gotta tell you,
though, the bludgeoning readers receive from the Auburn Journal
with pre-event information leaves me as nauseous as if I had just
walked up three flights of stairs.
Starting weeks in advance, the daily countdown to the big days of
the major races is as singularly ingenious as say, counting down
the 12 days of Christmas. Okay, okay we get the point.
Yeah, it’s a big story, but let’s put the world in perspective.
Just how big is Endurance reportage at the Auburn Journal?
How about this: News of the second coming of Christ would get bumped
to page eight if it came during Tevis Cup** week. If the specific
date of His glorious return was known with certainty, I am positive
it would not receive a similar Auburn Journal build up, unless of
course, there was an Endurance miracle attached.
* * *
Drugs are a major problem in our world, what with the frequent discovery
of clandestine marijuana fields secreted in Auburn neighborhoods.
We can all thank the good Lord that our police department now operates
a 150-mph Dodge Charger Stealthmobile to aid in the surveillance
and apprehension of the miscreants engaged in such activity.
My belief, however, is we have a much larger problem with which
to deal: literally thousands of mobile endorphin factories
are racing around our bike paths and hiking trails. It’s
our sordid little secret, and it starts in our schools with the
cross country and track teams.
As a committed couch potato, I was unaware of the existence of endorphins,
and I have only become more informed as a result of conducting research
for this piece. For the longest time, I was under the
misguided impression that our canyon was clogged with fitness enthusiasts
seeking to maintain healthy bodies and dedicated to pumping money
back into our local economy by spending thousands of dollars on
mountain bikes, running shoes, apparel and other essential gear.
Au contraire! These people are out putting on a good endorphin
buzz! Someone call the Stealthmobile, stat!
Endorphins are substances produced by the body that have a chemical
structure similar to morphine. According to the literature,
they act as an analgesic that naturally helps reduce pain.
They also make you feel great. The body releases endorphins
at interesting times: when we laugh, engage in strenuous exercise
and during sexual activity, especially at orgasm. This brings
new meaning to the phrase, “It hurts so good.”
Now it all makes sense to me. I never understood why people
would spend hours and hours running up and down the hills, enduring
the true pain of searing lungs and abused muscles. It’s
for the buzz!
The potential extension is equally of interest: If endorphin
release is associated with the ecstasy of love making, why go to
all the trouble and heartache of maintaining a relationship?
Just go for a long jog.
A conversation you don’t want to have with your mate:
He: “Hey Baby, what do you say we jump in the sack?”
She: “You go ahead, Sweetie, I’m gonna do Stagecoach.”
***
* * *
Now I have a confession to make. Since late October I have
been working diligently to shed my “couch potato” status
along with some major poundage. I started out slowly, walking
the 4.6 miles of Milltertown Road, stop sign to stop sign.
At first this gently rolling country lane offered its challenges,
but after returning from a trip to Italy (where I put on some serious
shoe-leather mileage) I started walking trails in the American River
Canyon. My current nemesis is the Stagecoach Trail (described
below), and its level of difficulty makes Millertown Road look like
a Kiddy Land attraction.
I began my pursuit of fitness for the same reason I have often manifested
irrational behavior: a woman. We match up on some very
interesting levels, but unfortunately for me, she owns a mountain
bike and knows how to use it. As a result, I felt the urgent
compulsion to get my fitness act together, recognizing that my obvious
charm and intellect might be of only passing interest.
At first I hated it. I had to force myself to go out the door
and hit the pavement. It took a lot of time that probably
could have been better spent watching Sports Center or even Oprah.
But I kept at it, and it wasn’t long before I started feeling
better and pounds started peeling off—20 big ones so far.
Now, I’m walking for my own reasons, though I still disdain
the notion of running. I enjoy the strenuous workouts, and
my introduction to the world of endorphins has been, well, addictive.
I’ve always been enamored with the American River Canyon,
but now I’ve fallen in love with the place. . .its stunning
views, tranquility and its incomparable beauty. (A note to
Mr. Doolittle: Over my dead freakin’ body, buddy.)
At the same time, I have witnessed many odd sights on Stagecoach.
First there was a man walking backwards—uphill—talking
to himself (which I admit to doing from time to time). Recently,
a young man was pressing what appeared to be two 30-pound dumbbells
while stripped to the waist in 50-degree weather walking, again,
uphill. And, I have heard snippets of some very interesting
conversations of people—especially women—walking or
riding in the opposite direction. Guess they thought I was
deaf.
To bikers, on the other hand, I sometimes must appear invisible.
They come screaming down the hill (fortunately they creep uphill),
exposing me to greater peril than if I were riding my Harley full-tilt
on Salmon Falls Road. Bikers can literally drop on to Stagecoach
from anywhere, so beware!
The nice thing about Stagecoach is that people are so friendly.
Just yesterday I was walking down to the Confluence when I heard
the voice of a woman running and closing quickly behind me.
“Hey, you are smoking a cigar. . .I could smell it all the
way down the trail.”
“Yeah,” I replied through a wispy cloud of Dominican
smoke. “Great idea, huh?”
*Western States 100: This is a 100-mile foot race that starts
at Squaw Valley and ends at Placer High School in Auburn.
It was founded in 1974 by Dr. Gordy Ainsleigh, a chiropractor who
was the first human to run in the 100-mile Tevis Cup equestrian
event.
**Tevis Cup: A 100-mile equestrian event founded by Auburn
horseman Wendell Robie in 1955.
***Stagecoach: A favorite trail among hikers and bikers that
offers great views of the Confluence of the American River.
Two miles in length, it climbs 800 feet and presents grades ranging
up to 23% (8% average). Currently the author’s punishment
of choice.
This column is dedicated to Beth White, one of Carpe Vino’s
finest. She competed in the 2006 California International
Marathon, finishing 138th among women with a time of 3:28, good
enough to qualify her for the Boston Marathon. All told, more
than 5,000 people were entered in the event.
You go, girl.
* * *
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