The old runner drove up the hill and up the hill and up the hill. Then he got out of the Jeep. And invented a new sport – high altitude standing.
“It’s all I can do, honey. You keep shopping.” And he sat down.
The past hour, he’d been telling total strangers about his last visit in 1973. Place hadn’t changed much. Still high up. Still sparsely populated. Officially, two-hundred residents.
Packed now with tourists. Last visit, one place to get a cup of coffee, another place for a beer. Pottery. Hippies in a hazy daze curbside selling each other handmade baubles.
Galleries now. The young redhead, a.k.a. “The Jewelry Monster”, disappeared. Expect a up-blip in the local economy.
The old runner had been telling tales about this race – 1973 Jerome Ghost Town Hill Climb – for decades. Even faded by time, the recollections remained vague but consistent.
“I’d been in northern Arizona just a month. I remember fighting for second and third place with this guy in dusty high-top Converse sneakers.
“I couldn’t keep up.
“After the race, saw the same guy leaning up against a big old Toyota four by four. He was smoking a Lucky Strike.”
The old runner couldn’t find his notes from last week. But….
Actual contemporaneous diary entry. September 3rd, 1973. Labor Day Monday. Weight 161/Pulse 41.
10 a.m. Ran the Third Annual Jerome Ghost Town Hill Climb. 5.1 miles.
Finished 11th of 25 finishers in a time of 37:10. Temperature at start approx. 85 degrees.
Climbed from about 5,000 feet to almost 6600 feet above sea level.
Walked two or three times for short distance. Did not push at all until the last mile. Felt kinda bad, headache and chills at finish.
Race has the greatest scenery! What views!!
The old runner was still sitting on the bench outside the fancy bauble store.
Something ironic, having originally moved so many decades ago to Flagstaff for altitude training.
And now he couldn’t get off the bench.
See that truck? That’s how I feel.