Middlebury Musings

Under the bluest of Saturday skies, our drive past Lake Champlain and Vermont’s vineyards and orchards led to Middlebury. A more perfect New England town could not be plotted, from its maze of small businesses (even a Ben Franklin store), its small pubs and its institutions (the namesake college, and buildings aged a century or more). The Middlebury Inn might not handle stagecoaches anymore, but its original building dates to the 1820s, and sported all the elegance one expects of an old inn, plus a portrait of Robert Frost behind the counter.

Our room was simple, but quite nice and modern where necessary (the television hid in an armoire). Bookshelves lined the hallways, and little parlors broke up the suites. A gusting wind that ran between the hotel’s two wings had an unshakable ghostly feel. After all, someone probably died there. But it soon faded, and we ventured into the town. Eschewing pre-race pasta, I went with the local shepherd’s pie and a few Otter Creek brews. Later we strolled the square and the bridge crossing Otter Creek Falls (see above). The temperature dipped with the sun, and matters of race day became impossible to ignore. Poor training or not, the Middlebury Maple Run arrived in the morning.

The shuttle ran us to the start/finish/staging area, and immediately I knew where I would finish in this pack. But it was my own fault- due to being tired all the time and not committing to a training regimen, I put my faith in muscle memory, and muscles which had gone no further than a 15K in the year since the last half-marathon.

We spring through downtown, crossing the pedestrian bridge again and heading for some rural roads. Alicia sped away after the first mile; I knew I traveled at a pace suitable only for me. At Mile 2, racers crossed the state’s oldest coverage bridge and turned away from the city. Miles 4 to 6 went by smoothly, without any paved road and plenty of shade. Then we entered Middlebury College campus. I admired the observatory-crowned science building from a distance and couldn’t imagine we would pass it. How wrong I was.




The race turned steeply uphill and I had to walk, wondering how fit I would be had I gone here (and poor, since Middlebury is considered Little Ivy League). We returned to the starting road and embarked on an even more rural down-and-back. Here my legs caved in to walking long stretches. My inner thigh muscles fire off their usual volley of spasms, and I ran when they allowed for a few fast strides. No shades and farm smells helped even less through the series of inclines that were repeated before the finish line. At 2:46:53, I finished far from my best time, but not near my worst.

Rather that take the shuttle, we walked the full distance back to the hotel, and my legs failed to stiffen. Driving would be difficult later, but for now, I had survived, and my friend had thrived, almost beating 2 hours. We cleaned up and left the inn, which would easily be the best we stayed on the journey. The staff hoped we would return for the next Middlebury Maple Run, a promise I know I can’t keep 365 days out. But it was so picturesque, even if it was the toughest half-marathon I ever ran.

We ate at a nice restaurant on Otter Creek, the swollen creek almost sloshing against the windows at times. Grilled chicken and a beer suited our muted post-race celebration. We had plenty of Northern New England to see, and first we trekked south to Rutland before heading into the Green Mountains via U.S. Route 4.

The mountain road reminded me of my trip through the Lewis & Clark Forest on the way through south-central Montana. We twisted past towns which barely bothered to exists, little rows of hotel that earned addresses, and ski lifts rises through bare land streaked with fading snow. Minus the lifts, it had a singular beauty, and I was happy to travel it between the throngs of seasonal tourists.

The most tantalizing of the crossroads was Bridgewater Corners, home of Long Trail Brewing. Originally I wanted to hit the former Catamount Brewery now owned by Harpoon, but the local brewery won the day (more here).

I wanted to view the Quechee Gorge before we broke for White River Junction or its New Hampshire superior, Lebanon., across the Connecticut. Fortunately, U.S. 4 cross over the most spectacular portions of the rushing water. The river broke across amazing rock formations, and in white crests turned through one bend most canoers would have trouble with. White River Junction only had the Hotel Coolidge as a lodging option, so we crossed into Lebanon and picked something more mainstream.

After a quick dinner at Lebanon’s Salt Hill Pub, we were ready to crash. A lifetime passed since the Maple Run, even though we moved only 80 miles from Middlebury to Lebanon.

Then a news bulletin announced a presidential address at 10:30 p.m. Eastern, no subject released. Fox News speculated bout Libya, CNN and Wolf Blitzer – for some reason, I could not stop calling him ”Wolf Blister.” Maybe that owed to the condition of my feet after the race. But I digress. CNN stuck to actual news and Blist ... Blitzer knew what was coming and telegraphed it the best he could without saying anything.

As a former reporter who knows the rarity of Sunday night news conferences, I immediately speculated it had something to do with bin Laden. Short of a presidential resignation, you have to shoot big when forcing the American public back to the TV at that hour. You know the rest of the narrative, unless you believe the conspiracy theories, in which case you can claim the mantle of pure idiot. He’s dead, folks.

Americans will remember where they were when they heard the news, and I can remember the night at the Lebanon Days Inn.