19

Red Faces on the Canyon Rim

WHEN THE Legend People were bad, Coyote turned them to stone and, at the place the Paiute call Angka-ku-wass-a-wits (The Place of the Red Painted Faces), they stand forever petrified, crumbling slowly in the desert sun. I hoped that the fate of the Legend People did not await me. Incorrigible as ever, I had entered a five-mile race at The Place of the Red Painted Faces, over 2,500m up in the Utah desert: the Bryce Canyon Rim Run.

The canyon consists of a 20-mile wall of cliffs that has been eroded into a vast rock amphitheatre. Within the bowl, the multi-­coloured rock has been weathered into all sorts of fantastic walls and pinnacles. Teetering monoliths such as The Sentinel and Thor’s Hammer rise hundreds of metres above their bases, while narrow canyons such as Wall Street burrow 500m deep between the formations to form virtually subterranean tunnels.

Some of the exquisitely sculpted pinnacles look uncannily lifelike. The more you stare at them, the more the Paiute legend explaining their origin seems credible. Elsewhere in Utah they are called stone babies, and to the national park rangers they are mysteriously known as hoodoos. Their spectacular colours come from minerals in the rock. Here you will find pink, orange and red blended with white, grey and cream, with occasional strips of lavender, pale yellow and brown. At dawn or sunset the canyon is an extraordinary and awesome sight, and it was here that I intended to run, along the rim of this fairyland of rock.

Now, I’m no runner. I’ve been known to bunny-hop down gentle hillsides and can semi-jog by leaning forward and willing my legs to keep up before I fall over. But a race? For which I was ‘unacclimated’ both for heat and altitude? Obviously, the challenge was too great to resist.

At 8am on race day, Ruby’s Inn was a hive of activity. It was here, at the historic ranch on Bryce Canyon rim, that the adventure was to begin. ‘Here’s the man from Scotland,’ announced the official who handed me my race number, and all at once I was the centre of attention. ET would not have attracted more curiosity. It was as if no one had ever seen a man from Scotland before, while the notion of an Englishman from Scotland was obviously going to be too complicated to explain. I could only hope I wasn’t expected to run in a kilt. Being a standard bearer for my adopted country would only lead to disappointment for all concerned. There were 288 other runners and I would be content simply to complete the course.

‘What altitude do you normally train at?’ someone asked me.

‘Train?’ I thought. ‘Zero,’ I replied.

Along with my number I received a commemorative t-shirt, which I carefully folded and packed away in the car, saving it for bragging rights back home… should I survive.

My fellow competitors were from all age groups, from kids to supervets, and were evenly split between the sexes. The main objective seemed to be to have a good time, and that suited me fine. There was a carnival-like atmosphere as we assembled beside the horse corrals and the petting place (where you can stroke tame goats).

And then we were off. Past a row of reconstructed Wild West buildings that included shops and a jail, past the building where you can buy ore and pan for gold, and out into the woods. It was a beautifully clear day, the sun had not yet risen high enough to make overheating a problem, and the altitude caused sweat to evaporate almost before it could form.

Bryce is officially classified as a ‘Class 1’ air quality area, with visibility often exceeding 100 miles, and the high, clean air was a joy to breathe. Despite the fact that I was soon struggling to inhale enough of it, the heady combination of thin air, striking scenery and sustained effort induced a trance-like state that made all the pain disappear. It was a phenomenon I have experienced on several disparate occasions, when the desire to savour a once-in-a-lifetime experience, to take in every sight, sound and smell, overcomes any physical discomfort.

The route led along forest trails through quaking aspen trees to the canyon rim, where a large pocket of hoodoos appeared below. We thinned out into a long line, a ribbon of humanity caught between the crumbling red abyss below and the achingly blue sky overhead. Gradually the route climbed uphill and for once there were more red faces on the canyon rim than there were among the hoodoos.

The trail eventually looped downhill again and levelled off through such beautifully dappled woodland that I didn’t want it to end. I crossed the finish line in 39 minutes 36 seconds. Eight-­minute miles may be a tad short of Olympian standard but, like I said, I’m no runner. I felt elated. The marshall who took my number wore a stetson and only needed a silver star to look like Wyatt Earp. ‘How’re ya doin’, Ralph?’ he asked. Throughout my life, I’d always wondered if my ‘15 minutes of fame’ would ever arrive, and here it was.

After recovering my breath, I moseyed across to a row of tables piled high with freshly cut melons and oranges – now that’s a sight you don’t see at the end of the London marathon. In the now hot sun, the juice-heavy fruit tasted exquisite. No less than 72 medals were awarded, three for each of 12 age groups for each sex. I managed to avoid one by coming sixth in my own group. The male winner clocked 26.58, while the top woman was fifth in 28.44.

The medal ceremony was preceded and followed by a country and western singer and a cowboy poet who told the tale of how the first Bryce Rim Run took place when Adam chased Eve through the canyon. How he managed to rhyme ‘Eve’ with ‘fig leaf’ is still a mystery to me. A free lunch ended the morning’s festivities, but all runners were offered free tickets to the evening’s rodeo. I declined.

Back on the familiar hills of home, I often recall my Bryce Canyon Rim Run with fondness. I bask in the knowledge that I am the fastest ever (if only) British entrant and, as I’d hoped, the envy on the faces of my walking companions when I don my t-shirt is usually sufficient to sustain me for another mile or two.