We sat along the north side of the long, polished bar of First Street Pub, some of us still suffering from a hard Wednesday evening version of “The Hill Loop,” including the Robinhood Road add on, cold 16 oz glasses of Red Oak Beer in our hands. Playful banter from the group rose above the rest of the steady din in the bar, as we all compared notes about our own personal experiences for the run earlier that day, perhaps to discuss a race the previous weekend, or even, (and I know this is hard to believe) to relive some running glory from up to many years past.
The cast of characters was similar to the previous week, names like Gasman, Stoneman, Bubba, Moonman, Bennet, Norris, Ponder, and of course The Sandman. I was relatively new to this group, having only found this running community the previous August, and here we were moving toward May, the azaleas along Reynolda Road in full bloom. I had been a welcome addition to this grizzled clan of running tars, fresh meat for “Wednesday’s story time” and after about eight months of group runs, races, and get-togethers, well, I was hearing much of the same lore on some sort of repeat loop, and yet each story was growing with sometimes exponential exaggeration, as greatness seemed to abound around me.
Tonight, as I sat by The Sandman and waited for my burger, his topic was this ridiculous race in late June called “The Ultimate Runner.” He’d been in my ear for four or five minutes about this event as Bubba leaned forward from the stool on the other side of the Sandman, and Stoneman stood behind us, all offering quips and opinions about the “coolness” of the race. It was all starting to run together as I was being gently strong-armed into signing up.
“Dude,” Sandman said with a twinkle in his eye and a little bit of beer foam on his lip, “can you imagine how great you’ll feel knowing you’ve pushed yourself to run 5 races in one night?”
“Little guy like you, I bet you’ll break in half in the 800.” This from the Stoneman. Bubba nodding.
“Shoot, I bet he’ll go out too hard in the mile, then won’t have anything left for the 400, that’s what happens to all them newbies,” says Moonman on my right.
“Matter of fact, I’ll bet you a beer I beat you in the mile!” Bubba snorts, adding “tell you what Moonman, my money is on young Mr. Wells here in that first race. But I wager he can’t beat ol’ Bubba in that 800. Ol’ Bubba will be on his toes!”
Norris sticks his head into the group, “It’s the hundred, it’s the hundred, that’s what makes the difference. I remember running at High Point and my friend Jimmy Stoolish …” and our group is suddenly off on another tangent.
At that point, I’d heard about the mile, the 400, the 800, and the 100-meter races. Funny, but no one had mentioned the 5k to finish out the competition. An afternoon and evening of racing on the track in the heat of summer. By the time the second round of beers had arrived, the Sandman had managed to convince me that somehow my life was not complete unless I had this race on my resume, and I had capitulated, promising that I would be there. Let the side betting begin.
The birth of a legendary race
Ten years prior, Sandy Wetherhold (aka “The Sandman”) had been rehydrating at Shrock’s, a now long-gone bar under the Baptist Hospital Bridge, when he floated his idea to his then group of misfits to hold a track competition that required the participants to take part in all events, not just picking and choosing an event for a particular running strength. Apparently, there was enough jocularity and maybe inebriation that night to consider this to be a fine idea, and the Ultimate Runner, Winston-Salem style, was born.
That first year there would be six events, the 100, the 200, the 400, the 800, the mile, and the 5,000 meters, enough gut-wrenching track work to test the bravest of souls who would sign up to compete (the 200 would be dropped after this first year as it was deemed to make the race too advantageous to the speedsters, and too detrimental to the hamstrings). Fifty-two brave and adventurous runners would toe the line that first year, most of them there because the Sandman had worn them down through some form of begging, pleading, and cajoling to come join the “Coolest night of running in June.” In those early years, it was Sandy’s persistence and love of the event that kept the event from folding up its table and being placed on the heap of defunct running events.
I met Sandy 30 years ago on a Wednesday night run in Buena Vista. I had heard about this running group from a friend, and when said friend didn’t show that evening for our intended workout, I saw this rather large group standing outside of the downtown Y, looking like they were about to jog somewhere. I approached and talked briefly to someone who said “sure I could join them,” then the whole bunch moved out in masse as they worked their way toward that first hill up Buena Vista.
I latched onto three or four guys who ran at a pace similar to mine, and by the end of the 9 miles, had met Moonman, Bennett, Bubba, Stoneman, Hammer, and The Sandman. As the run ended, I was invited for a “beer with the boys,” and, although I couldn’t make it that night, I was back the next week for the run, and then the occasional Wednesday night post-run refreshment session. As I stayed active and engaged with this band of brothers and sisters for several years, you couldn’t help but notice that Sandman was a big part of the epoxy that held them all together. Quick witted, sometimes snarky (some might consider some of the banter a little acerbic), and always looking for that well-delivered zinger, Sandman would often hold court with a sparkle in his eyes, a half grin on his lips, and move his arm about like an untethered piston as he worked toward the apex of some story that needed passing on to his group. Sandman’s passion for his sport and his people kept many of us coming back to run with the bunch as he helped weave us all together into a community.
His enthusiasm for his pet project, the Ultimate Runner, was the foundation for this being one of the longest running races in North Carolina, these some 40 years now. At the end of the event each June, Sandy would collect his race paraphernalia, wait a week or two, then start planning for the race the following year. He would spend months practicing his poem that he would recite before each race, a poem steeped in nuance and flowing with artistic prose. Let’s set the scene – its ninety-some odd degrees out, people are jogging around in as little clothing as they feel comfortable wearing, sweat trickling down everyone’s back. These runners are antsy, full of pre-race jitters, and just wanting to get started with the event. Sandman grabs the bullhorn from the starter (Sandy always loved to talk into the bullhorn) and would begin. “Attention! Attention everyone. Welcome to this year’s Ultimate runner. Before we get started, we have some business to take care of. As you all know, you have to complete the Ultimate Runner to get your coveted T-shirt. You don’t finish; you don’t get it! (cue the Sandman laugh). Not only that, but we burn the darn thing for everyone to see!” And with that he would pull out one or two t-shirts, and attempt to light them on fire as he recited his poem to the masses:
Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust
Your T-shirt’s in flames
When you’re an Ultimate Bust
Cackling, and delighted with the results, he would he would leave the ashes on the track to be trod over by all the runners. I’ve heard that in ensuing years, he would pre-burn the t-shirts (for safety you know) and bring his jar of ashes with him, scattering the remains of someone’s uncompleted Ultimate from the previous year as if it was a final wish of a loved one to become one with Lane 1 of the track at Hanes Park. His laugh could be heard a hundred yards away. That bit of business done, it was time to get serious.
The Mile – run in heats of about 10 people, this first event takes a while to complete and accommodate the 110 plus runners that have showed up to test their mettle. Go out too fast in the mile, and the rest of the night will be a long one. Go out too slow, and if you had hopes of beating a few people that have also showed up to hammer down, those hopes could be lost in that first event. After the mile, it gets interesting.
The 400 – oh my hamstrings. This is a super hard effort, especially the last 100 to 150 meters as you try to edge out the others in your group. A difference of a few seconds here can make a big difference in the final standings.
The 800 – this one is about pacing, and trying not to have a big old bear jump on your back in the final 400. In my years of racing in the Ultimate, I lugged that Grizzly for about 300 meters more than once.
The 100 – if you are a sprinter, then you are in luck. You can make up a lot on the field in this short little race. If you are a plow horse like many of us, then try not to do too much damage to the legs as you ooze down the track. I’ve witnessed more than one injury in this quickie.
The 5K – as if running these other events isn’t enough to test your resolve, this little double loop 5k through Hanes Park makes you seriously question just why the heck you signed up for this sadistic event. Then you remember the poem from the start of the race, and there is no way you are not finishing this darn thing. The sun is setting, and the temperature is dropping a little, but there is absolutely nothing left in the legs as you near the finish … or is there?
Post Race Party – Beer, pizza, and camaraderie. Sandman holding up his bullhorn, and giving out T-shirts one at a time, usually with some quip that lauds the efforts of the individual. The smiles as people come to grab their “never to be turned to ash” T-shirt shows how much they appreciate the effort Sandy is putting into recognizing everyone, and how glad they are to be done with this race, at least for another year. We wind down another successful Ultimate as prizes are given to the winners, but just the fact that we are all there, having participated in community with many of our friends and running pals, makes us all on the winning side of the evening. T-Shirts slung over our shoulders, we limp out of the venue to find our way home and to a much-needed shower.
Post Race Week – walking for the next few days can best be described as painful.
That’s how I remember my Ultimate experiences, and I’ve only done the race five or six times. What about that Ultimate Stud, Bill Gibbs, with some 30 or more Ultimates under his belt, what keeps bringing him back for more? Or Betsy Armentrout, a veteran of a countless number of Ultimate Runners. Dan Besse is another of our perennial performers, having done this race year in and year out for as long as I can remember. And let’s not forget Jack Ibrahim, who had run every Ultimate runner until he passed away several years ago.
I believe the Ultimate helped keep Jack going for a long time. Thinking back on the last 40 years, we could fill pages of stories from this last Saturday in June, but almost every one of those stories would likely have Sandman somewhere in the credits.
Passing the torch
This year will be Sandman’s last Ultimate Runner. The consummate coordinator has decided its time to pass the reigns to someone else, and hope they have the energy and fortitude to keep this race going another 40 years. Who better to take the wheel than Kyle Armentrout, a veteran himself of many running events and with running accolades that go back years. He is no stranger to a microphone (he’s probably too young to have ever used a bullhorn, more likely a cordless mic and some sort of Bluetooth speaker) having announced multiple races, including the Ultimate for years. Outwardly quieter and more soft-spoken than the Sandman, Kyle, a.k.a “Puddin,” possesses an inner fire, fortitude, and wit that will serve him well as he deals with the multiple personalities involved in successfully holding this yearly event.
When asked about taking the helm from Sandman, Kyle responded, “I’m doing it to honor the commitment of the Track Club for these many years, what they’ve done for the community, and how they want to continue with the tradition of this race.” He also went on to add, “I’m no poet though …” and he laughed. It wasn’t the Sandman type of laugh, that garrulous bellow, more of a good chuckle that pulled me into the joke. Yes, different than the founder of the race, but just as committed!
My advice to “Puddin” is that he bone up on his Robert Frost or his Lewis Carrol, and maybe come up with a little ditty of his own, something that will have the effect of motivation when its hot, and the legs have decided they’ve had enough:
When you feel you can’t go on
Your legs are aching and sore
The Ultimate T-shirt waits for you
If you’ll race a little bit more
Good Luck Kyle!
Thank-you Sandman!