Training With The Huntington Man

The Huntington Man, also known as David Warady, is a great man in so many ways.  He stands nearly six feet tall, his soft brown hair matted in curls and tufts of casual disarray caps a marvelous happy face.    His exceptional ability to run long distances quickly is only exceeded by his ability to consume enormous quantities of food in one orgiastic sitting.  The exercise of this talent causes his body to be chameleon like in that his weight can vary from a svelte 155 pounds to a jumbo 190 pounds in a matter of days depending on his recent eating and training patterns.

I'll never forget the first trail run I did with the Huntington Man.  We met at the San Juan fire station for a 28-mile run.  The plan was to run from the trailhead to Blue Jay Campground and back.  The trail climbs 2500 feet in the first seven miles. The landscape is mostly rolling hills from there to the campground.

It was a perfect September day, blue skies and unbroken sunshine.  It was only eight a.m., but already the temperature was near 80 degrees.  I anticipated the temperature would be in the low 80's for most of the trip out and in the high 80's or low 90's coming home.  The run switchbacks and winds through a semi-desert landscape where chaparral and sage brush cling to rocks and decomposed granite for sustenance.  It never rains in sunny California from April till October.  The soil is so dry and the plants are so thirsty in September that I can get dehydrated just getting out of my car. There is no water between the start and the turnaround.  Veterans never attempt this run with less than two bottles of water.

While provisioning my pack for the run, I noticed the Huntington Man was filling a shopping bag with fudge brownies.

"What are you doing," I asked.

Leaning over the truckbed of his pickup, he glanced back toward me. "I am packing my lunch," he said rather carelessly.

"In a paper bag," I said?  "Where's your pack and your water; you can't run these trails without water you know."

"We're only running 28 miles," he objected, "and any way, there's water at the turnaround; I can drink there if I need to."

"You'll be dead by then; take some water," I pleaded.

He stepped back from his truck and stretching to his full height he spoke with the sincerity of a man who knew first hand of what he professed, "Did Kuts drink water while training, what about Zatopek or Tabori?  No these were the great champions, they never drank water in training.  Water is for sissies and little girls, it makes you weak, and it thins your blood.  I eat only whole-wheat brownies when I run and that makes the difference.  When you are careful with what you put in your stomach you don't need to slop around in water."

I was astounded.  I had planned to carry four bottles on this particular day.  "It'll be a furnace out there," I mumbled as my mind threw up a picture of a dried up prospector stumbling around Death Valley with an empty canteen.  I was mortally ashamed of my weakness, but I never considered, not even for an  instant, attempting this run with no water.  I did consider
leaving two bottles in the car so as not to appear too weak.  In the end I took all four bottles, telling everyone, it was just a precaution against unforeseen difficulties.  Sometimes the forest rangers turn off the water at Blue Jay and never tell anyone.  If this should happen I would have water enough to share with all. I consoled myself with the thought that rather than think me weak, my friends should be thankful to have me looking out for them.

It was a good thing there was water at the turnaround as I finished all four bottles before I reached that point.  The Huntington Man plopped down on one of the picnic tables near the water. He proceeded to make short work of his bag full of brownies.  There was a small swarm of thirsty yellow jackets around the water.  When they caught a whiff of that fudge icing they were all over the brownies. I winced everytime he took a bite, but The Huntington Man scarcely noticed the bees. I was sure he would eat one or at least get stung on the lip, but faced with his gaping maw, the bees always managed to escape in just the nick of time.  The Huntington Man lives a charmed life.

When he finished his repast, he bent over the water faucet and took a hearty drink.  He caught a glimpse of me watching him from the corner of his eye and abruptly stood up.  Walking toward
me rubbing his tummy gently with his left hand he smiled, "Just a drop to wash down my lunch."

The Huntington Man left with the faster runners and was soon out of sight.  About six miles from the finish I saw the Huntington Man up to his neck in chaparral about 50 yards to the right of the trail.  I called out to him and he answered he was coming back to the trail and would I wait for him.

He arrived on the trail caked with dry salt and white as chalk.  His lips were swollen and white as well, except for a small piece of fudge still clinging to the lower one.

"What were you doing," I inquired.

"I saw this lake over there and I thought I would make my way to it for a swim, but that chaparral is incredibly sharp and tangled and I couldn't seem to find my way."

"What lake," I asked.  "There's no lake anywhere around here."

"Sure there is," he said pointing toward Sugar Loaf, "You can see it from up there when you're coming down.  It's quite large, I'm surprised you've never noticed it.”

Well I knew better, but what's the use of arguing.  "Are you thirsty, would you like a drink," I asked.

"Well I'm not real thirsty," he said, hesitating while giving me a thorough once over with his eyes.  He continued, "But then you are so loaded down, perhaps I can help you out by lightening your
load."

I handed him a full bottle from my pack and he drained it in two gulps.  He was thirsty enough, but these elite runners are so proud they'd die before they'd admit to being human. Sometimes they're just like peacocks the way they brag and strut around fluffing their feathers.

He wiped his mouth on his arm and handed the empty bottle back to me.  He stood in front of me with his hands on his hips.  He glanced briefly to his right; he glanced in my eyes; then he looked to the ground as he said, "It looks like you are pretty lonely out here, I think I'll keep you company as you run in.”

He didn't say much for the rest of the run, but he managed to relieve my burden by drinking every last drop of water I carried.

The following week he showed up for a similar run with his usual provision of brownies, but this time he carried two pint bottles with plastic straws in them.  The kind of bottles you see professional football players drinking from at games.

When I saw his bottles, I asked him what led to his change of heart.

"Well," he said thoughtfully, "I did some research.   It is true that the great champions, Zatopek and Kuts never drank in training, but they lived in cooler climates and seldom ran more than 10 miles in one run.  If the Refrigerator drinks in football practice, it's O.K. for me to drink too."

I asked him why, if he was going to drink anyway, he didn't purchase a running pack like the rest of us used.

"Running packs and bike bottles are for sissies and little girls.  Real men, like the Refrigerator, drink from bottles like these, with straws like so," he informed me holding up one of his bottles so I could see the unique configuration.

The run was completed without any incidents coming to my attention.  Something must have happened, because the following week Huntington Man leaped from his pickup sporting a spanking new ULTRA-LITE Training Pack.  The Huntington Man is exceedingly careful with his money, so I knew if he sprang for $50 for this pack something serious must have happened to change his mind.

"Hey Dave," I said, "What's with the new pack, I thought you
didn't drink water on training runs?" 

"I drink water because it has been shown to strengthen a man's will power and to build character.  I plan to be the man with the most character on these trails.  And anyway, carrying my brownies in this pack is much easier than lugging a shopping bag all over these mountains.  Although it does limit me to a dozen brownies at most," he added mournfully.

The Huntington Man is a prodigious trainer.  One hundred miles per week is his standard and one hundred thirty-mile weeks are not unknown. 

Last winter when Dave's company sent him to Saint-Louis for a few months, he rose every day at 4:30 to get his morning run in.  On Monday and Wednesday mornings he did his intervals in the dark on a nearby track.  This training was completed without regard to rain, wind, sleet or snow.

Dave complained that it was virtually impossible to record his times while running in the dark.  By the beginning of the third week he had formed such a strong liaison with a non-running local lady, that he was able to convince her to come out to time and record his workouts.  How's that for resourceful?  Elite runners never cease to amaze with their dedication and commitment to excellence. When Dave's company brought him back to California, he brought his newfound timer with him.  Her name was Kelly and when I was introduced to her, I was impressed with her
intelligence and her easy going style.

While at home, Dave does his interval workouts with me on Wednesday nights.  Kelly seldom misses a workout.  She comes straight from work and relaxes on a marble bench at the northeast
corner of the track.  One evening while she was watching Dave do his intervals I had a chance to ask her privately what it was she saw in such a workaholic dolt as Dave.

She looked me straight in the eye, and smiled broadly.  "He's positively incredible in bed," she said without blinking an eye.

I looked away for an instant and then I glanced back at her eyes.  Her eyes hadn't moved and her expression hadn't changed.   I looked away again.  Well there you have it; elite runners are beyond belief.

For the past year Kelly and Dave have co-habited in what I like to term a California marriage.  Last June they announced they were engaged to be married on May 28, 1988.  Along about May 1,
1988 I and many of their friends received what at first seemed to be a wedding invitation.  On invitation style card stock the following announcement was printed: "We eloped.”