Newsletter - Summer 2005

Horror in the Hills by David Altschuler

Running in Central America by Jim DesJardins   

Horror in the Hills

a true story by David Altschuler

Why did he do it? Why did David try to touch the snake?  Many Pacers have asked these questions of me, Jennifer Leslie and Melissa Neal, since our run on that fateful Sunday morning in Palos Hills in June. Some questions are simply not meant to be answered, and some answers will never be satisfactory enough while the true significance of this event may in fact lie elsewhere.

After all, this was hardly the first time the group of us (including Mike Ward), which ventures out early most Sunday mornings to meet the challenges of Palos Hills, has been confronted by harsh and unforgiving "local elements." Our legs and feet have been left drenched, and muddied frozen by an incorrigible creek. Our pace and patience have been tested by confrontations with untethered dogs and indifferent dog owners. Our curiosity has been piqued by rumors of coyote sightings. Our agility has been challenged by century old and utterly dilapidated stone stairs and our goodwill by an extremely persistent activist trying to preserve them. Our notions of sanitation and decency have been violated by some of the most foul bathroom odor imaginable. And, our sociality has been stretched by the motley crew from a Chicago area running store that likes to pick on "the slow Irish girls," and let us not forget the cast of characters from dear old Sammie's, who have left us flummoxed and glutted. In hindsight, it seems as if mighty Palos herself has been sending us not so subtle reminders us of her awesome presence all along.

Were it not for David, her latest gesture may have gone unheeded.  I was content to take the solemn, motionless figure, measuring a solid two feet in length and of substantial girth, spread across the path for an old branch. But our Farley immediately saw it for what it really was and within a few moments the group of us had crowded around the poor creature for a round of discussion and debate over its status (dead or alive), type ("it doesn't look like a Garter!"), and whether or not it was poisonous ("how can you tell?").

Those of us who know David will not be surprised to hear that his voracious curiosity would not be sated without further inquiry. After all, he has been passing along those trails for years, and had a legitimate reason for wanting to understand the local elements. Fueled, perhaps, by a deep sense of camaraderie with the natural world and its critters (a sense usually reserved for the more fuzzy variety but in a way also reminiscent of a prior outing during which a Pacer grabbed a snake without incident), David motioned towards the snake. In the blink of an eye, the serpent's wrath became fully apparent, as it coiled up and darted at his hand, leaving what appeared to be three discrete marks on David's finger - depositing a memento under his skin - before thrusting itself into the brush alongside the path. As David, now entering a mild state of shock, calmly (the shriek evidently came from Melissa) searched our eyes and expressions for signs of what had happened to him, the group had busily resumed its debate and discussion about the snake - gaining certainty only on its status ( alive!) - as well as the outlook for the remainder of our run.

Yet we as a group already knew that Palos works in mysterious ways, at once protecting and challenging those who trespass her borders. After all, the snake was placed next to a parking lot! Could there have been a more propitious location? And just as a couple with a Rottweiler and Chihuahua was parking their SUV! With cell phone in purse and a will to serve! With the same zip of the snake did the sirens of the forest preserve police and ambulance whine, and the good men of Palos deliver our stoic David to a swift recovery.

Now confident about the snake's status (alive) and toxicity (apparently non-venomous), we were still left wondering what type it was. "Long, about two feet long!" we cheered. "And quite thick! Dark brown with tan markings! Or was it the other way around!?" As neither the woman with the cell phone and Chihuahua, nor the local officials could reach any certainty on what kind of snake it was, we once again trudged towards Sammie's for a bit respite and to ponder the mysteries of Palos.

Running in Central America

by Jim DesJardins

Over the years, I have read briefly about the Coban Half Marathon in Guatemala, and knew that it was a major international race. I have been told that it is the largest race in Central America. Still, it was not a race on my to do list; this changed when my significant other moved to Guatemala.On a Friday evening this past May, Debora (now my wife) and I, drove her well used VW Golf from her home in Guatemala City to the city of Coban. Coban is one of the larger cities in Guatemala and is located in an area often referred to as the Highlands. As the name of the area implies, the town is located in a hilly area that is approx. 4500 feet above sea level. Our first stop in town was at a newer shopping center to get our race numbers at the "Expo." The Expo consisted of going to various booths to get goody bag items. As we settled into our 175Q (about $ 20.00) motel room, I could not help noticing the festive atmosphere around us.

We purposely got into town on Friday, instead of Saturday, to provide us time to go to the renowned waterfalls and natural pools of Semuc Champey. Unique to this body of water, is a fast moving river with unusual aquamarine colored water that goes under a land mass for about 300 meters, and then comes out and plunges about 50 feet creating a very elegant waterfall. On top of the land mass are various natural pools that are feed by small streams coming down the mountain side.

Getting back into town early Saturday evening, I could see that the fiesta was picking up steam. Right next to our motel room, a sound check was going on in preparation for a large outdoor dance party. I was somewhat relieved to find out that our room was on the other side of the courtyard from the dance party. However, my relief was short lived, as after going through both of our very generous goody bags, I discovered that they were lacking the following: map of the course, place for start and finish, and safety pins for our race numbers. Our lack of safety pins was remedied by going to a tienda (small store), and purchasing eight individual safety pins. Talking to others, we identified the location for the start of the race, but never did get a map of the course.

The morning of the race, after getting dressed, including my wearing of a "Vertels Chicago" singlet, Debora and I walked to the start line in the center of town. The streets were full of runners in a variety of outfits. Once we got near the start line, Debora and I became separated.  I then noticed the density of people (estimate about 10,000), and the barricades, and realized that it was going to be very difficult to get a position by the start line. Determined to get a decent start, I climbed over one of the barricades, about thirty to forty meters from the start line, and stumbled into a couple of people in the process. 

Following this rather barbaric act, an older male runner wearing Converse gym shoes with broken laces gave me a piece of his mind in Spanish. A few minutes later the crowd roared, and pumped their fists in the air, as a helicopter flew overhead. This incident briefly interrupted the many shouts for the Spanish speaking crowd that I interpreted as requests to start the race.  I briefly spoke with a Guatemalan runner that spoke English, and we shared our mutual goal of running the race under 1:30. Then the race started, and as I was afraid of, there were a lot of people running in front of me, but what a beautiful site, running down this narrow street lined with people in this older Central American colonial town.

I soon realized that my legs wanted to go faster than my lungs would allow. This cardiovascular limitation I attributed to the altitude of Coban.  The winding course went through the city, and into a semi-rural area that connected us to the sister town of Coban, called San Pedro. As the race progressed, a number of things became apparent. First of all, the crowds were massive, and very supportive. However, most of the shouts of encouragement I did not understand. The exception was "Chicago" that people yelled as they saw the print on my singlet. I also noticed that there were no mile markers, or splits. This combined with the fact that I don't wear a watch, and had not received a map of the course, made it difficult to gauge my progress in the race.

Debora had warned me about the water on the course. I was advised that the water would be in baggies, with the official water (presumably the good stuff) would be in baggies with writing on them, and the unofficial water (the bad stuff), would be in plain baggies.  I was told to avoid the plain baggie water.  Not use to having to make this type of differentiation in a race, the first water I drank was from a plain baggie. After this, I only used the plain baggie water to douse myself.

After approx. half hour on the course, or so it seemed, we turned around in the town of San Pedro, and headed back towards Coban. Having run many road races, I have found that there are two basic types of courses: out and back, and point to point.  Therefore, as I approached the center of Coban, I assumed that I would be finishing soon, and I prepared for a final surge towards the finish line. 

Although I had been told by one of Debora's friends that the finish line was quite a ways after the big hill in the center of town, I was not prepared for what happened next.  Just as I was cresting the large hill, I saw one of the lead Kenyan runners running towards me. Knowing that the lead group would be finishing over twenty minutes in front of me, I immediately realized I had quite a ways to go before finishing, and that there must be another section to the course. My heart sank, and I was emotionally devastated – I figured that I had about another three miles to go. At this point, I lost some of my concentration and focus.  After about a mile and a half, I hit the second turn-around, and was now more mentally able to run the last part of the race.

Running back towards the center of Coban for the second time, I was now re-focused, as I felt that I understood where the race was to finish. It was in this part of the race, that I saw Debora going in the other direction. I also saw her two friends, Jodi and Delsey, running near each other around the same time.  As I got into the center of town, the crowd was especially thick and with-in a few feet of the runners. Cresting up the same hill I went up earlier, the course angled to the right, and there was the finish line about 50 meters in front of me. I finished with a time of 1:28, having run what I thought was a poor race, but relieved and happy with the time. Debora finished around the same time as her friends with a time just under two hours. Before I had a chance to sip some water, I was handed a plate of rice, beans and tortillas that I found be rather tasty. The only thing missing was some Gallo (watery Guatemalan beer). 

Welcome to racing in Central America!