Plattekill Mountain Race 2023

Three days afterwards, despite plenty of foam rolling and stretching, my quads were still sore.

With no Whiteface Sky Race this year, my focus turned to the Plattekill Mountain Race. Yes, that Plattekill, beloved mountain for so many readers of this blog. Saturday night after closing the wine store, I hopped into the Fortunate Son, my new used shooting brake, and lit out for Platty.

I’ve never been to that part of the Catskills. Driving west of Phoenicia on Route 28, I entered terra incognita. In the pitch dark, I began questioning the wisdom of my plan: leave work at 8:45, drive straight to the mountain, and flop in the parking lot. Maybe I should have done dawn patrol.

Finally, I arrived in Platty’s lower parking lot. Laid out my sleeping bag in the back of the shooting brake, and slept well. The morning was chilly as I had breakfast. Around 7:30, someone came and unlocked the gate. A few minutes later, the race organizers arrived.

Soon after I moved the Fortunate Son to the upper parking lot, a second runner arrived, and we shot the breeze about what to expect. His background was road running, this would be his first off-road race of any type, trail or mountain. We talked about race strategies. As other athletes arrived, we surreptitiously scoped one another out.

The Plattekill Mountain Race is new on the northeast trail running calendar. Total distance, 6.5 miles. In the first five miles there would be four big ascents totaling 3500 feet of vertical gain, dropping all the way to the bottom before going back up. The last 1.5 miles was downhill back to the finish.

Five… four… three… two… one. And off we went. Within 200 feet of the start, we went from running to power hiking up Overlook, the most benign of the four climbs. The pack strung out, and I completed for DFL honors with someone who turned out to be the only other 60+ man in the race. It’s OK: I don’t have the motor I had 15 years ago. We reeled in a couple of the runners ahead of us.

The information email had dire warnings about 40% grades on the downhills. When we turned on to Cat-Track to descend, I thought, oh, this isn’t going to be so terrible. Then Cat-Track emptied us out to Lower Twist, and I got my wake-up call. Still, with grassy descents, I moved faster than I’d moved on the scree fields at Whiteface the previous summer.

We turned and at the bottom and went straight up Northface, and I went by a couple more people. I couldn’t see the young bucks at the head of the race, I had no idea how hard they were going. The only advantage I had on the people immediately around me was the ability to just keep pushing it uphill.

At the top of the Plunge, the next descent, a woman paused at the top.

“Are you OK?” I asked.

“I’m nervous about this descent on grass,” she replied.

“Relax, you got this,” I said, as I dropped in. In my head, I wondered about the wisdom of sending runners downhill on a double black diamond trail. Even for those who used trekking poles, it would be rough. In front of me, one runner tumbled, fell on his back, and struggled up. I’d also caught up with my road running friend, who was negotiating this minefield in, you guessed it, road shoes.

“Tight core! Smear your feet, try traversing back and forth across the mountain to take some of the angle out!” I shouted as I went by.

The only good thing about the steep drops was recovery, as my heart rate dropped each time before the next big hill. I still felt good as we went up Freefall, the third climb. At 34.5%, Freefall wasn’t as steep as Northface. But you couldn’t see the top of the hill, and that played with my head as I struggled for secure footing. I began counting the snowmaking guns to gauge my progress.

At the top, I stopped at the lone aid station for a drink. The volunteer asked if I wanted to fill my hydration flask, but I declined. No need for extra weight at this point.

From the top, we went out of bounds with a gradual drop on a meandering fire road before returning to the ski mountain. Another drop. Last climb, Lower Face, a blessed intermediate after all the sick shit I’d been going up and down. Just keep pushing it: I worked to build a gap because I knew the people behind me had a shot at catching me on the final gradual descent.

Down Powder Puff, I kept looking over my shoulder, but I couldn’t see anyone. I kept telling myself to push the pace and not relax. One last turn, and I saw the finish line. Fifty meters to go, I had the gas to gun it into the finish. Oldest finisher, first male over 60. Even though I was near the back of then pack, I’ll take it!

There were only a few runners left as I’d finished so late. We chatted about our day and shouted encouragement as the final runners came into the finish.

I drove to my motel, stretched, and cleaned up. Dinner at the Half Acre Catskill in Stamford was great. Locally sourced ingredients washed down with a pint from West Kill Brewing.

The next day, I went to Mount Utsayantha, intending to drive up to the fire tower. But the road got gnarlier than I wanted to deal with, even with the low range mode of the Fortunate Son’s socialist automatic transmission. Walking up? NFW, my body’s had enough of going uphill for a few days.

Instead, for recovery, I walked 20 minutes on the Catskills rail trail before driving to Hobart. Ripitz dropped me some info about Hobart being a used bookstore mecca, and he’s right. Dude, I owe you a beer. A wide spot in the road, Hobart has eight, count ‘em, eight used book stores and no traffic lights. From antiquarian to recent editions, there’s massive variety. A six-volume original edition of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Byzantine Empire, asking price $3000.00, was not my tax bracket. I count myself lucky to have only bought three books.

An opportunity to send it, bookstores, good food and coffee. What could be better?

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* Thanks to CTW Endurance for permission to use photographs from the race

Race course map courtesy ultrasignup.com