If being ignored is negativism, I experienced a certain amount of that in my travels. A typical example: on Highway 76 going through the hamlet of Panama, New York, I passed the Needles Propane Service and a young guy working there. I, ever the brilliant conversationalist, greeted him by saying, “Good morning. How are you doing?”

The guy said nothing and looked at me as if to say, “Get lost, you kook!”

Just a short way down the same road when a farmer driving a tractor passed by, I waved to him. He acknowledged my presence in no way. I was beginning to conclude that the natives in these parts were not sociable.

In Bayport, Michigan, starting our run across the state, we encountered one of the nastiest people we met in all our travels. We had driven to the water’s edge, this being the eastern extension of Highway 142, and had just started running west on 142 when a guy in a van came speeding toward us and yelled, ““You’re on private property. Get out!”

“That’s what we’re doing,” I said.

“Well, get moving,” he yelled.

“Look. I’m just starting to run across the state and I’m moving as fast as I can,” I told him.

Elaine, seeing and hearing all this, slowed the motor home to the point where I was right behind her. The guy started edging his van toward us.

Again he yelled, “You’re on private property. Private property. Get your ass outta here!”

“Are you the police?” I replied.

“No. I’m the shift supervisor, and I’m telling you to get off private property,” he blustered.

I looked around, expecting to see a plant in operation and a number of cars belonging to workers. The only car I saw was his, and I concluded he must be supervising himself.

He tailgated us during our entire quarter-mile exit and a couple of times more yelled, “Private property. Get the hell outta here!” He was typical of the type that has a private’s responsibility and exercises it with Napoleonic zeal.

So much for negativism. On reflection, and considering that in all our travels Elaine and I were on the road just over a year (558 days to be precise) and that we had so few negative encounters, I concluded that experience with people approached the Ivory soap standard as being 99 44/100 percent positive. Or was it 99 44/100 percent pure? i

A Solo Attempt at a First Ultra Borders on Madness. Part 1

NTRODUCTION

Not everyone can be an Indiana Jones when running in Australia. But in the Indian Himalayas, it is possible every day. Here the intrepid athletes must overcome the short-breath effect of high altitude, be constantly alert for local buses that swing rapidly around blind hairpin bends, and watch their footing as they cross landslides brought down by earthquakes. They must also avoid forest fires and be sure not to lose their concentration as they gaze at the beautiful snowcapped Himalayas, as one false step can mean certain death on the steep mountain trails. Not only are there these natural elements to deal with, but everywhere there is a hint of religious forces at work. Yes, running in the Himalayas is exhilarating, exciting—and dangerous.

Australian marathoner Peter Lane took on the challenge of the highest mountain range in the world while living in the hill station Mussoorie in north India for six months. His daughter, Joanne Lane, reports on his experiences.

“Allah-hu-Akbar. Allah-hu-Akbar.”

The mullah at the Muslim mosque faces west toward Mecca as the dawn breaks. With fingers in his ears, he cries out in wailing, sonorous notes to call the faithful to prayer. “God is great. God is great.”

The prayer call also awakens 59-year-old Brisbane marathoner Peter Lane. As he runs off in the early morning from his home in Mussoorie in north India, he wonders whether the mournful cry is prophetic. He certainly receives no encouragement from the first person he sees: an Indian man sitting outside the house laughing and muttering to himself.

“T felt doomed from the start,” says Peter, “with the prayer call, the crazy man, and then 10 minutes later when two very fierce-looking buffalo with huge horns blocked my running track. I carefully jogged around them. Then the next minute the bag carrying my water and food broke! So I did some hurried repairs.”

Personal fact file

Peter Lane, age 59; born in Northampton, England; lives in Toowong, Brisbane, and Mussoorie, India; trains with InTraining, Brisbane. Best ultramarathon time (68K): 8:30 (May 28, 1999, Mussoorie, India). Best marathon time: 3:07 Brisbane, 1997. Best half-marathon time: 1:28. Noosa, 1998. Best 10K time: 44 minutes. Number of marathons: five. Most recent endurance run: 34K in atrocious conditions, Chennai, India, October 2005.

Nota good start to an ultramarathon—a round trip of 68 kilometers to Surkhanda Devi, a Hindu temple on the Tehri Road in the Himalayan foothills, the highest mountain range in the world.

According to Hindu mythology, Surkhanda Devi is the mythological site where the head of Shiva’s consort fell when it was cut off to stop his tantric, cosmic dance, which was rocking the universe. Thousands of Hindu pilgrims visit the temple each year. The temple constitutes the highest point in the vicinity of Mussoorie (2,000 meters or 6,500 feet).

The temple reaches up to the gods at a height of 3,048 meters (10,000 feet), far higher than Australia’s biggest mountain, Mount Kosciusko at 2,228 meters (7,310 feet). So for Australian-based Peter, it’s definitely new terrain. From the hilltop the temple is supposed to offer peace of mind and a fantastic view of 200 miles of snowcapped Himalayas.

A FIRST ULTRAMARATHON

Peter had contemplated the challenges of this 68K run: “I had never run an ultramarathon before, there would be no backup for me, and I had to carry all my water. I couldn’t help but call this the “Temple of Doom Run.’”

He also had to climb over 2,000 feet in altitude to reach the temple, and the thin mountain air would not be conducive to running. The first few kilometers did nothing to relieve his feelings of doom as he passed through the charred, smoldering, blackened remains of fir trees that littered the hillside from recent fires. Their smoke, combined with the fires from villages and mountain-stream mist, filled the valley, blocking out the early morning sun.

“Out of this haze at 8K emerged my first water stop: a chai [tea] stall perched perilously on the mountain range where I bought two liters of water for 36 rupees (USD $0.80). The problem was that what I didn’t drink I would have to carry. The next minute I narrowly avoided running into the local milk van—a herd of buffalo that with bells tingling and huge hips swaying, gracefully ambled past.”

Even after a short distance out on the Tehri Road, civilization was sparse. Mountain ranges soared above, while valleys plunged below into unknown depths, with the holy Ganges River winding into the plains thousands of feet down. Until now shops selling chai, water, and goods had appeared every few kilometers. But soon after, the road plunged around a corner and ascended 7K to the top of the range (18K). There was little promise of human or plant life.

Suddenly a tourist bus appeared from nowhere with horn blaring, belching black diesel, and covered Peter in dust. Choking and coughing, he looked up to see some tourists hanging out of the overcrowded vehicle laughing at him. Others looked astounded to see anyone running—especially on a mountain road. For even in India, the land of bewildering contrast, some things are unusual.

Even the monkeys in the trees had stopped chattering to look in wide-eyed wonder as Peter wound his way up here. Now a local dog, neither intimidated nor impressed by his presence, came snarling at him. But a well-aimed stone sent it scurrying away.

ATOP THE RIDGE

After 1% hours and 18K, a relieved Peter reached the top of the range: “I was relieved that I got there on time: about 7:00 a.m. Next was a gradual downhill 6K stretch into Dhanolti, in which I found the only mountain stream in the entire 68K. As I splashed off and looked up I saw, in the distant hills, my goal: Surkhanda Devi.

© Joanne Lane

A Typical landscape on the road to Surkhanda Devi.