And Then the Vulture Eats You - Softcover

3.77

121 ratings by Goodreads

9780915297078: And Then the Vulture Eats You

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0915297078 ISBN 13: 9780915297078

Publisher: Cedarwinds Pub Co, 1991

The best writers in the sport of running take up a fascinating subject, the last frontier of long-distance events: races longer than a marathon .

Who runs these 50-milers, 100-milers, multi-day events, multi-event events? And why do they do it? And (okay, admit you're a little curious) what's it like to do one?

James Shapiro, a long time ultra-runner, whose Meditations from the Breakdown Lane is a classic piece of running literature, begins by relating with heart-rending detail his experiences in a 6-Day Race in Swifts on the Wing.

In To the Limit and Beyond, Kenny Moore takes you through a gut-wrenching experience in his first-person account of the Great Hawaiian Footrace, a horrendous 6-day ordeal that seemingly changes his life .

Don Kardong, one of the wittiest and most personable writers in the sport, in Le Grizz goes the 50-mile distance at the infamous race that gives this piece its name. Along the way this former Olympic marathoner, like so many participants in these events, makes startling discoveries about himself. Ed Ayres, editor of Running Times, takes on the Western States 100 in Wings of Icarus, and the event turns out to be a kind of catharsis in his life.

In Road Warriors, Hal Higdon's report on his group's informal attempt to run across the state of Indiana is another kind of ultra tale: a light-hearted, self-imposed challenge that turns, like most ultra events, into a revealing spiritual odyssey.

Tom Hart's self-imposed challenge, to run a solo 37-miler on his 37th birthday, is the basis for his ultra story. He finds out, as do the others, that an effort on the magnitude of an ultra is more than a feat of endurance, it is a journey into self .

John Parker ends with And Then the Vulture Eats You, an uproarious analysis of today's ultra runners (Mystic Ultras). Your sides will ache from reading his account of the war between the Track Men and the Mystic Ultras in the Jackson, Michigan Ultimate Runner contest, in which the entrants race a 10K, a 440, a mile, a 100-yd dash, a mile, and a marathon, all in the same day .

If you are an ultra runner, have ever been even mildly curious about such events, or if you are just a lover of great writing, you will greatly enjoy this book.

"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.

From the Editor's Introduction:

What manner of beast lurks in the sweaty ethers out there beyond the 26.2 mile post? What manner of rare enkephalin does your brain secrete in reward or dismay? And now that we've had any number of great grandmoms happily finish marathons, where, finally, are the real limits to what the human animal can persuade itself to endure on foot?

The writers in this book have done their best to find out some pretty difficult things and have come back to tell you about them. It cost most of them.

The only other thing I have to add by way of introduction is to mention that running my fingers lightly over the handiwork of these writers has been just about my happiest experience as an editor.

There wasn't much, honestly, to do, except occasionally shake my head and cluck, "Oh my, now that was certainly deft."

--John L. Parker, Jr.

P.S. The term "ultramarathon," the conceptual umbrella for this volume, is admittedly used rather loosely. Purists among the Ultranauts will probably insist that a true ultramarathon is a continuous footrace longer than a marathon. However, in searching for the highest quality material I could find for this volume, it became useful to also include stage races, multi-race events, and even one informal solo marathon-plus effort.

To those thus offended, I can only beg your indulgence. As a former miler with all of one marathon to his credit, I have to admit that I look upon ultras the same way I do mountain-climbing, which is to say with macabre fascination. It's all madness to me.

From Chapter 1, Shapiro's Swifts on the Wing

Most of us would be on the track 16 to 18 hours a day. Some would sleep in a trackside tent that swarmed with activity; others like myself would dash off to nearby hotels for a few hours of troubled sleep, tormented by burning feet, sore joints and overtired bodies. Some runners would say much later, when we emerged on the other side of this trial, that they didn't dream about the race while it was actually on but that they did during the first free night.

Certainly there was no way to escape the feverish intoxication of the race. Only once during those six days and nights did the number of competitors sink to just one. At every moment somebody or some bodies moved round the track, ceaselessly at work, so that no matter when you slept, the relentless advance of your competitors seeped through the chill night air, made you awaken with that sobering sense that not another instant could be wasted. It was like war.

From Chapter 8, And then the Vulture Eats You, by John L. Parker

Churney wandered around the field hospital, confused-looking, soaking wet, his entire body flushed red as a beet.

I don't know what the matter is, he said, looking down at himself.

You're sweating, man, someone offered, helpfully. Then it was over to the track for the day's first round of comic relief, courtesy of the Mystic You-Know-Who's. In this regard Charlie Trayer was much missed. In 1986 writer/runner Don Kardong wrote that Trayer looked like a cross between a leprechaun and Yosemite Sam. And if you've never had yourself a good belly laugh at the expense of another athlete, you should watch a Yosemite Sam lookalike sprinting a full-out quarter-mile in 64.4 seconds without so much as bending a knee. But Trayer is far from alone. All the M.U.'s can be identified on the track by a single distinguishing feature: Their form and pace look exactly the same whether they're running a marathon or a 100-meter dash. The only way you can tell they're sprinting is the fire in their eyes.

Oh, the Track Men try not be so crass as to actually laugh out loud, but you can tell it's not easy. Even the Mystic Ultras have to admit it's pretty amusing. And besides, they know who gets the last laugh: The Vulture.

From Chapter 3, To the Limit and Beyond, by Kenny Moore

I got a pretty good rhythm going, that sense of everything meshing, and somehow ignored the traffic on the hateful Farrington Highway. At the three-and-a-half-mile aid station, McCormack was within 50 yards. At seven he was still there. I got a good handful of ice under my hat and kept on. Cane smoke hung in the air, and the sun began to tell. I was on 5:40 pace by now and running emotionally. I was using my special, prideful past. I was an Oregon runner. I knew what it was to cast off all fears and blaze the last part of a race or workout as if it were the last you'd ever run.

I looked back at 11 miles and couldn't see him. I had near spasms in my back. But this was the chance I'd looked for, to really get some time ahead. I worked the hills and rolling road through the cane, fought the traffic into Ewa Beach and had the energy to sprint the last 200 yards.

I was weighed and had lost eight pounds, going from 151 to 143 in the two hours and 13 minutes, not an exceptional volume. But I didn't recover very quickly. I felt pretty rocky, and I kept feeling it. Dressendorfer, a medical physiologist, had me drink Coke, water and beer, and pointed toward a canebrake to give him a urine specimen.

I have a vivid memory of pushing into the scratchy cane. The stalks were an inch thick and purple, and the russet earth was muddy, and the urine filling the plastic cup was heart-blood red.

Review:

"Each story is different; each is good enough to stand alone; together each contributes to an outstanding volume. It won't matter whether or not you've attempted an ultra, or whether or not you even dream of one. If you enjoy running and reading, you'll want this book." -- David Meyers, Running Journal

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