The Frigid

They named the race The Frigid, and in the spirit of full disclosure, Carter Caves State Park in late January delivers exactly what's on the label.

This was supposed to be a coed run - KC and me. Then, days before the start: shingles. A genuinely nasty case, the kind nobody fakes. Although. I will note for the record that KC was the one who said this race called for crampons, bought herself a pair, but then when the date to race materialized along with the icy conditions, so did shingles... I'm not saying anything. I'm just saying it slowly.

So I raced it solo. Score format: six hundred points scattered across the ridges and hollows. My plan was modest and sensible. The terrain, it turns out, had notes.

I fell off a cliff. Then - and this is the part that elevates it from accident to hobby - I did it again. Two separate, fully committed arguments with Kentucky gravity, both of which gravity won on points. No worries, though: my butt softened the landing. Both times.

One hundred fifty points made it back to the finish with me, good for 18th of 21 solo men and 37th of 49 overall - which, considering I spent part of the race briefly airborne, I'm choosing to read as mid-pack with style points.

Carter Caves is gorgeous, brutal, and absolutely on the do-again list. Next time I'm back there in the winter, it'll be me and my own crampons taking charge of those trails. KC's coming too. She's out of excuses - we’ve got two pair of crampons and when that fails, her behind is arguably better prepared for those unplanned cliff jumps than mine.