"You can come in, but I should warn you the drains are blocked" said Roger as he loomed up out of the dark. Me and Nick shrugged and went in to what we had nicknamed "Roger's Hut". We had travelled to Furnace Creek the day before to compete in the Death Valley Half Marathon, and now it was race day and we were ready to go. Furnace Creek has two places: Furnace Creek Ranch and Furnace Creek Inn. It's the only inhabitation for about 50 miles in each direction and is collectively known as Furnace Creek "Resort". We were taken in by this description when we booked, imagining luxury and pampering before and after what promised to be a gruelling event, but it seemed the owners had taken full advantage of a monopoly situation. The Ranch and the Inn were separated by about a mile, and $200 a night. We were all booked into the cheaper Ranch, which is where the race started, but Nick had booked the wrong night and we had to switch to the "luxurious inn, with its spring-fed open air pool, spa and 5 star restaurant". Despite the fact that we were $200 down, Nick and I laughed heartily when we saw Roger's hut at the Ranch. "Basic" is how IKEA would describe it. "Luxury" is how 1960s Butlins would have described it. From the Ranch you could look up at "The luxurious Inn and Spa" and very splendid it looked too. It had Palm trees, and a burned out building opposite. As we turned in and parked there was a welcoming tunnel through which we walked, Alcatraz-style, to the elevator that whisked us to reception. A smiling and jovial hick welcomed us: "I bet your rooms aren't ready, h'yuh, h'yuh!" I'm not condescending, I'm really not. But if you want to challenge me on this, go there. There isn't another word to describe him, and I'm not knocking him, honest. And I don't want to use stereotypes, to make assumptions, but I genuinely doubt that he'd ever been out of Furnace Creek. Furnace Creek really is one of those towns from the Spaghetti Westerns. "Furnace Creek - population 36." "BANG!" "Population 35" "Waaah! Waah!. Congratulations Mister Walton." "Population 36. Oops, sorry Mrs Walton. Twins! Well I'll be darned! Population 37." Indeed, the room wasn't ready. It was after 4 in the afternoon, and the hick and another guy were getting hell from everyone. We just said OK we'll come back and went out on the terrace. Nick and Roger got beers, and I had water with a hydration tablet. It was pouring with rain! Not at all what we were expecting, and it looked pretty bleak. Added to this, we hadn't seen anyone who looked remotely like an athlete. Maybe they were all down at the Ranch, or camping in the desert.
The night before, we had envisaged that there would be a lot of athletes in town for the big race, but apart from a chance meeting with John and his girlfriend who were from the Pasadena Pacers, . Pasadena Pacers had brought a decent sized team, and John was pretty full of himself. I determined there and then (we were in the sauna following a swim in the "guaranteed 85 degrees spring-fed pool" in which we had lost a fair bit of body temperature) that I would have to take him down, and - if at all possible - all his bloody team mates too. I started off with a bit of gentle mind-gaming. "Your club sounds amazing. Obviously ours in the UK is smaller. How many members have you got?" "About 200," he said proudly. "Yes" I replied, and I think I may have managed a small genuflection. "Much bigger, as I would expect. My club only has 150 or so members." Pause for effect.... "Probably because of the invitation system" Boy, did he snap onto that hook! " what do you mean, invitation?" "Oh, my club only accepts members on ability and racing performance." (Obviously I didn't mention Tony and his random methods. I let him assume we were an elite, invitation only club. Nothing to to with being female and blond at all.) As I hoped, he went straight on the back foot. "Invitation only? Wow!" I let it linger, didn't elaborate. I left then, knowing I'd got a head start, or a gain in a sprint finish. Round one - mine! Sadly, dinner was expensive and poor. A bit like a student evening meal, in terms of quality. I'd already had a Woppa! for lunch, given the complete lack of choice on the journey from Las Vegas to Furnace Creek, and I really needed something decent but it was like going back in time. It could have been a Bernie Inn (young people - look it up, you will not believe it). Anyways, it was what it was, and I cursed myself for assuming the "resort" on a race day would have decent food. I had brought a contingency pack but I didn't think it would form my main diet. Since it was already a complete write off nutritionally, I had a beer and then a glass of wine. I understood that nutrition wasn't going to win me anything in this race.
beers from the bar, I had tea, and we chilled for a bit, watching the weather. Bear in mind, we had entered this event to give ourselves a big challenge, racing in the heat. It was raining, and cold. And
windy. I asked the waitress how often it rained. She thought about it for a while and then said. "Let's
see, I've been here 3 years....." I judged that this was unusual, but it's OK, we are tough northern guys, bring it on. "I've brought a hat and gloves." Said Roger, I thought a little smugly. "I've only got a t-shirt" said Nick. We really hadn't come prepared for rain, or cold. Well. To be honest, I didn't say
anything but I - as usual - had planned for every climatic condition known to man. I had every combination of every piece of sprint attire you could possibly need. At a push, I could probably have done a triathlon with the kit I had at my disposal. And I had a hat and gloves, but I didn't say it.
The night before, we had envisaged that there would be a lot of athletes in town for the big race, but apart from a chance meeting with John and his girlfriend who were from the Pasadena Pacers, . Pasadena Pacers had brought a decent sized team, and John was pretty full of himself. I determined there and then (we were in the sauna following a swim in the "guaranteed 85 degrees spring-fed pool" in which we had lost a fair bit of body temperature) that I would have to take him down, and - if at all possible - all his bloody team mates too. I started off with a bit of gentle mind-gaming. "Your club sounds amazing. Obviously ours in the UK is smaller. How many members have you got?" "About 200," he said proudly. "Yes" I replied, and I think I may have managed a small genuflection. "Much bigger, as I would expect. My club only has 150 or so members." Pause for effect.... "Probably because of the invitation system" Boy, did he snap onto that hook! " what do you mean, invitation?" "Oh, my club only accepts members on ability and racing performance." (Obviously I didn't mention Tony and his random methods. I let him assume we were an elite, invitation only club. Nothing to to with being female and blond at all.) As I hoped, he went straight on the back foot. "Invitation only? Wow!" I let it linger, didn't elaborate. I left then, knowing I'd got a head start, or a gain in a sprint finish. Round one - mine! Sadly, dinner was expensive and poor. A bit like a student evening meal, in terms of quality. I'd already had a Woppa! for lunch, given the complete lack of choice on the journey from Las Vegas to Furnace Creek, and I really needed something decent but it was like going back in time. It could have been a Bernie Inn (young people - look it up, you will not believe it). Anyways, it was what it was, and I cursed myself for assuming the "resort" on a race day would have decent food. I had brought a contingency pack but I didn't think it would form my main diet. Since it was already a complete write off nutritionally, I had a beer and then a glass of wine. I understood that nutrition wasn't going to win me anything in this race.
When we went to our room, we realised we had been stung. It was, basically, just like Roger's hut, regardless of the pool and restaurant. But we'd come to race, so we just got on with it, and then went over to the poor cousin - The Ranch - in the morning. And there we are back at the start of this tale. Roger had been up to reception to complain about the drains when we saw him and invited us in. As we sat around in his hut chatting Roger commented that the toilet "might have room for just one more", and shortly after that I got the call. I suppose I could have gone out to the Ranch toilet block, but there had been a bouncer on the toilet in the Red Rock Saloon, stopping any of us runners using it. I'd never seen a bouncer on a toilet door before, and I didn't really fancy a fight over a toilet so I reminded Roger of his earlier comment. "Roger. Do you think the toilet will take it?" "It should do. It's been getting gradually worse but it should be OK." I hoped he wouldn't regret it, but we were leaving straight after the race anyway. I don't want to go into any further detail here, but this was the scene after the race
beers from the bar, I had tea, and we chilled for a bit, watching the weather. Bear in mind, we had entered this event to give ourselves a big challenge, racing in the heat. It was raining, and cold. And
windy. I asked the waitress how often it rained. She thought about it for a while and then said. "Let's
see, I've been here 3 years....." I judged that this was unusual, but it's OK, we are tough northern guys, bring it on. "I've brought a hat and gloves." Said Roger, I thought a little smugly. "I've only got a t-shirt" said Nick. We really hadn't come prepared for rain, or cold. Well. To be honest, I didn't say
anything but I - as usual - had planned for every climatic condition known to man. I had every combination of every piece of sprint attire you could possibly need. At a push, I could probably have done a triathlon with the kit I had at my disposal. And I had a hat and gloves, but I didn't say it.
What happens in Vegas
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