UVRC Runners,
This offering is a sampling from a fictional novel I am in the process of writing entitled, The Winds of Change. It’s a story about running for runners. Below, I have included the drafts of the Prologue and the first two chapters entitled, 1. El Amuleto and 2. A Sacred Place.
In the story, runners from the Upper Valley and Puerto Rico converge to run the Vermont 100 Ultramarathon in 2025. It’s a tale about, endurance, resilience and persistence, but also about temptation, greed and loss.
I am happy to share more chapters during the next five months leading up to 2025 VT100 in July. I think some of our UVRC members will be running the VT100 this year. You may recognize some fellow UVRC runners in the story, perhaps even recognize a version of yourself, for better or for worse.
Feedback, harsh or generous, to jburnett551@gmail.com will be helpful to me as I write.
We can do this, right?
Run like the wind,
Jim
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The Winds of Change
Prologue
As the world spins, currents swirl. In the northern hemisphere, the Easterlies sweep into the Caribbean Sea and the Westerlies dust off the Great North Woods. Both part of a clockwise circle. A big watch face. Winds bring change and nothing is stuck in time. Everything is on the move.
As the Earth warms, ecosystems migrate and adapt. Cities once considered safe are now threaten by wild fires, floods, mud slides, hurricanes, rising sea levels and other unpredictable extreme events. Where once there was enough food and water, there is now barren land and shrinking aquifers. Plants, animals and humans are moving to temperate zones and into valleys in search of safe havens.
The Cordillera Central is one such nest, a volcanic ridge bisecting the Isle of Enchantment, Puerto Rico. The ridge stands tall and overlooks the tropical island and the dangerous Mano Passage, one bead on the necklace of islands that form the Caribbean Archipelago. The Taino, ancient ancestors of Caribbean tribes, sought refuge in the Cordillera Central and settled in the snug valleys nestled below its tall peaks. The village of Jayaya is one such haven cuddled deep in the densely forested mountains.
The White Mountains of New Hampshire and the Green Mountains of Vermont, born of shifting continental plates and scraped by receding glaciers, opened their arms to the Abenaki. In birch bark canoes, the Native Americans paddled the mighty Connecticut River and the streams and lakes of its watershed. They settled in villages along the river, a string of pearls from its headwaters to the vast sea. The town of Hanover, home to Dartmouth College, is one such pearl along the river, sheltered between the Greens and the Whites.
Eighteen hundreds miles apart, fate has connected descendants from the villages of indigenous tribes, Winni Moonflower, Chiqala Little Deer, Sophia Florbella (beautiful flower) and her younger brother, Santiago Osezno Curioso (Inquisitive Bear). Like the winds, they too are on the move – swirling, changing, running, exploring, seeking adventure.
Stoney, a retired forester living with his wife, Louise, in the Upper Connecticut River Valley, stills gets up early and goes for a pre breakfast jog with Mookie, his oversized Labradoodle. Although outdoor exercise isn’t as much fun or as easy as it used to be, Stoney stubbornly persists, in search of the aging runner’s Holy Grail.
1. A Sacred Place
His paddle probes, nudging the smooth skin of the headwaters, less than a mile from the Canadian border. The candy scent of wintergreen from the birch bark canoe subsumes Chiqala Little Deer into the mysterious yet peaceful surroundings of the Great North Woods, the sacred place of his Abenaki ancestors. The name Chiqala means “Little One.” Though short in stature, Chiqala is strong and runs like a deer and so, he is called Chiqala “Little Deer”. As he paddles and explores his natural surroundings, he vows that someday he will paddle all the way down the mighty Connecticut to the vast sea. Little Deer is in search of adventure.
2. El Amuleto
A race to run. Early morning. Late autumn – sun’s rays bombarding the green canopy. White blotches of light splattered on the forest floor. Clumps of snow watching. Slippery leaves and loose stones lolling, lying in wait up the trail. Eyes scanning, Snuffy leading, off leash.
Chilly-Chilly. Winni Moonflower whispers to herself between tight shivering lips.
Breathe, Focus…
Thick black glasses balanced on the bridge of her nose, Winni squints searching for friendly steppingstones – as her powerful legs spring forward from one to the next. Socks wet, treads mud clogged, following Snuffy’s fluffy flag, waving, guiding – in-and-out, side-to-side, up-and-over…
The Vermont 100 Ultra consumes her runner’s brain.
A few meters up the narrow running trail, Snuffy stops short and barks a warning. But Winni is talking to herself and it goes unheard.
You’re a Mudder, REMEMBER… she reassures herself breathing in deeply. Suck it up you WIMP. Get used to it!
“BE THE MUD.”
Running a single-track segment of the racecourse, one of the toughest she will face on raceday, Winni and Snuffy run in their forest. At first light they feel the energy starting to swirl. Weaving through the green corridor just the two of them. Soon the burning fireball will rise, energize the plants and warm Mother Earth.
Our star, our sun, the source of all life, Winni incants closing her eyes, inhaling deeply, holding her breath, counting 1, 2, 3, exhaling 1, 2, 3…
Be One. Memorize each step.
Snuffy yaps again,
ROOT-ROOT-ROOT…
SHIT…shit, shit, shit…
Winni hits the ground hard. Oooh, as her quick hands and strong arms cushion the impact of her fall.
Son of a B-i-i-i-tch, Winni mutters under her breath, spitting out bits of gritty trail dirt.
Winni props up into a plank, Snuffy circles back, licks her face. Mud oozes between her fingers. Lowering her dimpled chin, pressing it on the collarbone, her muddy t-shirt sticks to her breasts. Two chocolate circles.
Lips fluttering, Brrrrr…slowly rolling over, spreading arms wide, Snuffy dances around her panting, smiling, laughing. Through her thick lenses Moonflower peers into the blurred gray wash of clouds moving overhead.
Damn, she mutters as her outstretched arms droop to the ground, steam rising from her chest, eyes closing, brain churning.
Clear the mind, hone the body. Nothing is impossible. Win this race. Five months to go.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP “Emergency Assistance Alert Sent Press Disarm within 15 seconds to Cancel 14, 13, 12, 11…
Shit, shit, shit, Winni sputters again, eyes opening. Propping up on an elbow, reaching for her Garmin, pressing buttons randomly to cancel the emergency alert.
Snuffy barks, then playfully hops on top of Winni with muddy paws.
Pressing her hand to the ground to brace herself, unloading Snuffy from her back, she presses herself up slowly and feels a string of beads under her palm. She lifts the string and lets it unravel. It swings back and forth in front of her. She squints through her Roy Orbison frames. Trying to focus.
A string of red, white and blue beads. A necklace. An amulet to ward off evil spirits. And a pendant. A four-legged creature. A turtle? No. A sea turtle from the tropics…
To be continued…
ABOUT ME
I’ve been a member of UVRC for 12 years, served on the UVRC board for 6 years, 3 as President. I ran my first marathon in 1978, The Paul Bunyan Marathon in Bangor Maine and I’m training for the Detroit International Marathon in October of this year. If successful, it will be my 60th race over 26 miles long. Proud to say my list includes a 100K ultra in Miami in January 1980 in 10 hours and 18 minutes.