Chris Wristen

A week has passed since the Free State Trail Races, and the trails of Clinton State Park have not healed.

Steps have been taken to lay the foundation for recovery, however.

I have confirmed with the Kansas Trails Council that a meeting has taken place to develop a plan to repair the trails after they were mangled when a thunderstorm soaked the trails after the races began. The KTC will announce those plans soon, and as soon as they are announced they will be reported on this site.

Additionally, reporting on the trail repair effort at Clinton State Park will take place on this site, so stay tuned. There is plenty of repair work to be done.

A brief reconnaissance of the trail damage today, April 25, provided a glimpse into the work that lies ahead. Portions of the trail that I observed that more naturally drain and have rocks mixed in with the dirt are in decent shape. A majority of the portions observed revealed varying levels of devastation.

Some parts of the trail are noticeably wider from the foot traffic, apparently where runners tried to avoid areas that had become trashed, ultimately ripping up the trail’s edges.

Some portions of previously smooth single-track now appear to have been trampled by horses. Picture the Wyandotte County Lake Park bridle trails when horses have gone through after a thunderstorm, and the resemblance is similar.

Water is pooled in some of the foot holes, incapable of running off and extending opportunities for extended damage.

If you click on the photos below you can view larger, more close-up versions to get a better idea of the current conditions.

There is a lot of work to be done, and it’s not just going to go away on its own. It’s going to take time; it’s going to take people; and it’s going to take effort. Be on the lookout for more details soon.

The Kansas Department of Wildlife, Parks and Tourism held the 31st annual Clinton Lake Community Cleanup on Saturday at the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers Park.

Nearly 20 Lawrence Trail Hawks and their family members represented the trail-running community and encompassed more than half of the event volunteers. The group picked up trash, much of it from behind the boat docks, an even removed the remnants of a collapsed picnic table from the woods while cleaning up approximately four miles of trail.

Woody, the park mascot, also made an appearance to thank the Trail Hawks for their service.

A portion of the Lawrence Trail Hawks gather before picking up trash on the trails.

Trash bags and remnants of a picnic table.

Hanging with Woody after the cleanup.

I have a confession to make: I used to hop the gate at Shawnee Mission Park to run the trails when they were closed. Not all the time, mind you. If the trails were a soupy, soggy mess then running was not a consideration, but if they were simply damp then I’d take a look around to ensure no park rangers were present, and then slip past the gate and head down the trail. If the ground was simply tacky and didn’t stick to the soles of my shoes, I’d keep on going. If my feet sunk in, then I’d bail out of the woods and opt for the pavement instead.

The gates at the trailhead really were closed to keep the mountain bikes off the trail… at least that’s the rationale I told myself. It sounded like a good excuse, even if it wasn’t honest. It was behavior that I learned from others as a trail newbie, and it let me get away with doing what I wanted to do. I told myself I was really being a responsible trail user; mountain bikers who hopped the gates and left muddy treads were doing the real damage.

I don’t hop the gate anymore, and I haven’t in a few years. During my nearly five years in the sport I’ve seen some of the damage that I’ve caused, and I’m disappointed in myself. I run there now and see the erosion on the Violet Trail, and it makes me sad because I know I probably caused some of it. I’m thankful that wiser, more experienced trail-running friends – some of them who built the very trails that I love running on throughout the city – have educated me about the amount of time that volunteers spend building and maintaining the trails. They’ve educated me about how the type of soil we have in Kansas is different from other places, thus it is more easily damaged. They’ve taught me how to be a more responsible trail-user, and I’ve been able to absorb that knowledge and grow from it by putting my pride aside and not being too damn stubborn to admit that I can sometimes be the problem.

I’ve also done a trail work day at Clinton State Park, so I’ve put some sweat equity into those trails and learned that it’s not as easy as it looks. Far more, I’ve frequently seen trail maintenance volunteers – mostly mountain bikers – out working on the trails while I’m enjoying my Saturday long run. I make a point of telling them “thank you” as I pass by because I realize their volunteer efforts are allowing me to enjoy my passion.

I’d like to think that I’ve come full circle as a trail-runner, having transitioned from doing as I please while blaming trail damage on the mountain bikers, to becoming someone who stays off the trails when they’re sloppy, chats with mountain bikers on the trails, and readily acknowledges that the bikers put in far more maintenance work than the runners. But the reality is that I can do a whole lot more. I can volunteer my time and sweat to trail work, and I can do a much better job of communicating with other branches of the broader Kansas City trail community. Saying hi and telling a mountain biker to “have a good ride” as our paths cross is polite, but it isn’t exactly a deep conversation full of substance and understanding.

That lack of meaningful communication between trail-runners, mountain bikers, and other trail users is a problem. It has been a lingering problem within the Kansas City trail-using community since before I started running the trails, and last weekend it was the worst that I’ve ever seen. A storm has been quietly brewing for a long time, and in the aftermath of Saturday’s Free State Trail Runs at Clinton State Park it finally erupted in a way that was far more destructive to the community than it was to the trails that were so badly damaged.

Our community is in crisis mode now. How we respond to it will have a profound impact on the future of trail relations and all trail activities in the area. Regardless of our activity of choice, all of our respective trail user groups are to blame for this in some way, and we all bear some personal responsibility for it, including me.

The question now is whether we’re finally ready to grow up, expect better of ourselves, work together, and treat each other with genuine respect?

TRAIL DAMAGE

The Clinton trails were badly trashed on Saturday at the Free State Trail Runs. That’s not debatable. The destruction was unintentional, and it is important to recognize that the trails were dry and rain was not falling when the races began. A storm popped up mid-race, with runners already scattered throughout the 20-mile loop. If runners had been pulled from the course at that point, the trails would still have sustained damage – maybe not as much, but arguing about that at this point is a waste of oxygen. What’s done is done.

The race continued, and the trail conditions continued to deteriorate beyond recognition in some parts.

It must have become apparent quickly that a huge effort would become necessary to repair the trails. From various reports, during and after crossing the finish line numerous runners at Saturday’s race talked amongst themselves about what they could do to repair the damage that was done. They cared about what had happened, and they wanted to be a part of the solution.

That effort would require the man-power and woman-power of the massive Kansas City trail-running community, and it also would need the experienced leadership and instruction of mountain bikers and other trail users who do the bulk of the trail maintenance, possess the most tools, and can best instruct on proper trail-building technique. In short, a unified effort was necessary.

Instead of communication and unity, however, some people turned to social media and let their true colors shine. An inferno of distrust between trail-users was unleashed.

Our community’s dirty little secret was out of the box and on full fiery display.

DESTRUCTIVE REACTION

The Free State Trail Runs were not yet complete when the social media venom started flying. It began with a passionate but civil inquiry about the plan for repairing the damaged Clinton trails. It was met with positive responses – at first – with runners inquiring about opportunities to donate time and/or money to the repair effort.

Civility didn’t last long, however. It quickly deteriorated into a quagmire of angry mountain bikers finger-pointing at runners; defensive runners dismissing the accusatory language; runner-on-runner shouting matches; and a few out-of-town runners who don’t know our dirt or care about our trails (some of them; not all, of course) insinuating that protecting trail quality is a sign of personal weakness.

There were even threats of physical violence between individuals should they cross paths on the trail in the future. It was shameful, disgraceful, and embarrassing.

Sweeping generalizations about entire groups put everybody on the defensive against each other as all sorts of good, well-intentioned people were labeled as destructive, insensitive vandals. Some who claimed to want to repair the trails gave their target audience plenty of reasons to stay away.

Some people pleaded for civility, but most were met with snark.

Many long-time trail stewards, some who built much of Kansas City’s trail system weighed in on Facebook with concern and constructive input. Others didn’t post anything but “liked” a constructive comment. Most of them soon found themselves kicked out of the Kansas City Trail Nerds’ Facebook group – myself included.

I reached out to Ben Holmes, the Free State Trail Runs race director, Trail Nerds boss and moderator of the Facebook page to inquire why, and I was told it was accidental. I was promptly reinstated, although others have not been, which I’ve made clear isn’t helpful as it silences important voices and creates unnecessary division in our community at a time when unity is needed most.

I was informed of vandalism to Ben’s vehicle, and that he received threats after the race. That’s disturbing to think about, but given the tone of some individuals on social media, it’s not hard to believe. Such behavior is damaging to our greater community. Ben deserves better that; we all do.

What was lacking during all of the weekend uproar was respectful discourse. It seemed nobody took a moment to put their rage aside and try to understand the circumstances of what happened, why it happened, and how it could be fixed. Everyone had a right to be upset, but not to be disrespectful.

Runners were blamed, yet it was not raining when the race began. Volunteers were blamed – as though it would be acceptable to abandon their post and put others in danger. Ben was blamed, yet few of us are willing to bear the pressures of being a race director, and even fewer of us would want to be faced with halting an event once it was well under way. That’s not a burden I’d want to bear, and I can’t honestly tell you what my decision would have been had I been in his shoes.

Discourse can be difficult. It requires us to actually talk to each other, try to understand each other, show respect for each other – and maybe even work together. While difficult, discourse is a far more effective tool than joining the Facebook lynch mob. It doesn’t solve anything. It just adds kindling to what ultimately will become a raging bonfire.

AN OPPORTUNITY TO COME TOGETHER – IF WE DON’T SCREW IT UP

Amid all of the ugliness that was unleashed following the Free State Trail Runs, there is a flicker of opportunity in our community. It’s hard to fathom such negative discourse could spark such glimmering hope, but it’s there if we choose to capitalize.

I’m talking about all of us trail-users.

The trails that have been damaged can be repaired if we put in the time to fix them. In that same vein, our damaged trail-using community doesn’t have to erode away. We can fix it if we all work together, and that is starting to happen.

As the social media blaze has smoldered and the heat has cooled, the last 72 to 96 hours have seen more discourse between the trail-user groups than I can recall witnessing ever before. Some of it has taken place on social media, but much of it is happening offline via email or actual human-to-human conversation. Imagine that!

The Lawrence Trail Hawks are in discussions with the Kansas Trails Council and have volunteers lined up and ready to work on the Clinton trails once KTC sounds the horn. Ben Holmes said he has a meeting set up with KTC and the Park Director at Clinton State Park to ensure the Trail Nerds do their part to repair the damage. Cliff Jones from the Trail Masons has coordinated a work day this Sunday at Wyandotte County Lake Park, and a few trail-runners have answered the call to “earn their dirt.”

I’m also seeing more inquiries than ever before from people wanting to know where trail work day notices are posted and if they can be better cross-promoted across trail-use groups because so many folks want to give back.

Last weekend opened a lot of eyes to some of the negativity that has been hidden within our community, but it gave us a tremendous opportunity to rally. I am incredibly encouraged that so many folks seem intent on not wasting this moment.

We all have a role to play in this, and it starts with treating each other better.

Ask yourself: Why do you run? Why do you ride? Why do you hike? What is it that draws you to the trails? If you participate in trail maintenance, what is it that you love about manipulating the dirt into a sustainable source of outdoor adventure?

What is your true motivation?

Chances are, your answers are very similar to just about everybody else out in the woods who shares the trails with you. That can be a powerful bond, and it can be a tremendous opportunity to do a whole lot of good. Let’s stop screwing it up.

We all can do better.

The downside of the Kansas City trails being in freeze-thaw mode all winter long is that most of my winter running got pushed inside to the dreaded treadmill, but the benefit of that – I’ve believed – is that it made me faster.

Last weekend’s snow, followed by this weekend’s 60- and 70-degree temperatures, meant that all of the area trails were again closed with the hope that runners and riders would respect the trails’ need to dry out without getting trashed.

The inability to access dirt this weekend led to a great opportunity: the Great Plains 10K road race.

I signed up Friday night before crawling into bed, and then had a lazy pre-race Saturday with little more than an easy three-miler around the neighborhood to keep the legs loose.

Given that I signed up 36 hours before race time, there wasn’t any training plan for this. In fact, I haven’t had a real training plan for any race since over-booking my race schedule in 2013. The approach of building a strong mileage base and then just winging races has worked out OK. I had my biggest January/February mileage ever this year and ran a 20-mile long run a couple weekends ago, so my base is good.

My race approach was simple: trust my base, and don’t burn out early.

I woke up at 6:30 this morning, had a quick shower and downed a cup of coffee and bowl of oatmeal. I made the easy drive to Kemper Arena and arrived 45 minutes early in order to avoid unnecessary stress and have time to warm up. After a little stretching and an easy mile to get the legs warm, it was time to start.

More than 750 runners packed into the starting chute, and then we were sent on our way.

We headed out of the Kemper parking lot and ventured north through the West Bottoms for about three quarters of a mile before working our way back south and behind Kemper. The first mile and a half was completely flat until heading up the American Royal Drive ramp to Cesar Chavez Ave., where we crossed over the railroad tracks before cruising a nice downhill on Allen Ave., which led onto Southwest Blvd. and into the Crossroads Arts District. A quick loop by the Freight House restaurants and then up past Town Topic took us back onto Southwest Blvd. and all the way back to Kemper.

I maintained a fairly consistent pace through all of that, with my miles ranging between 7:27 and 7:54. I focused on picking up my knees rather than doing the ultra-shuffle that I’ve become accustomed to. That made a big difference. I also carried my hand-held Amphipod bottle, which I believe made me the only runner in the field to carry a water bottle rather than utilizing the aid stations (my trail-running influence at work).

The gradual climb up Allen Ave. to Caesar Chavez was the final hill on the course, and it led to a refreshingly fast trip back down the American Royal Drive ramp that allowed me to build some momentum that I was able to ride for another quarter-mile.

My calves felt wobbly for the final three quarters of a mile but the flat terrain made it manageable, and I tapped into my ultra-running experience to remind myself that the pace was fine and my legs could handle it for a little bit longer and push to the finish line.

All in all, the race was a resounding success to kick off the 2015 race season. It marked my first race for the Honey Stinger Hive, I nailed a strong personal-best time for the distance, and I got to take a two-legged tour of part of our beautiful city on an unexpectedly warm late-winter day. I hope this is a sign of things to come this year!

Running through the Crossroads Arts District around Mile 3 of the Great Plains 10K.

Fuel:

Honey Stinger Cherry Cola Chews

Water

Final Stats:

Place: 108/753

Age Group: 18/38

Time: 47:43 – A new personal best

Old PR: 49:57 at Pilgrim Pacer 10K on Nov. 13, 2010

Elevation Gain: 171 ft.

Elevation Loss: 144 ft.

Weather: mid-40s at the start; low 50s at the finish.

Splits:

Mile 1: 7:27.7

Mile 2: 7:54.9

Mile 3: 7:38.9

Mile 4: 7:56.1

Mile 5: 7:40.8

Mile 6: 7:35.5

Final .2: 1:32.2

The folks at Journeyfilm are at it again.

JB Benna, a visual genius whose productions inspire many a trail- and ultra-runner (see: “Unbreakable: The Western States 100“), is in the final stages of preparing to release a new film: “The Long Haul: John Muir Trail.”

I first saw this promo a few months ago, and it’s more than enough to entice runners and outdoor enthusiasts alike to want to watch the film and then go explore the JMT.

I absolutely can’t wait to see this film, and Journeyfilm hopes to have it available for release in May if enough funds are available. They’re looking for help, and an easy way to chip in is to go ahead and pre-purchase your copy of the film now. Other support options are available, too. Check out this link to see the various options to support the production. I’ll be advance-ordering my copy, and I hope you will, too.

My 2015 race calendar still needs to be determined, but I’m excited that as races come onto my radar I’ll be running with the support of Honey Stinger. Last week I was accepted into the Honey Stinger Hive sponsorship program.

My gels and chews of choice during the past few years have been Honey Stinger products – the Orange Blossom chews, in particular – so it’s a natural fit.

Today’s 20-miler was my longest run of the year, and I’ve already logged my most January/February miles ever, so my base is ready to jump into a race.

Lots of happy trail miles are ahead this year. It’s a good year to Sting or Bee Stung!

Regret takes on many forms.

For a baseball fan in a city that has endured the longest postseason drought in major professional sports, regret most likely looks like having the World Series come to town, not going, and then having to wait 29 years for the opportunity to come again.

Twenty-nine years is how long Kansas City waited for postseason baseball to return after winning the 1985 World Series. Twenty-nine long years of mostly uncompetitive baseball; mostly embarrassing baseball; mostly baseball played so poorly that the franchise became a punchline for futility.

Sometimes when the baseball gods give you a miracle, a fan base is destined to pay for it tenfold – or twenty-nine-fold.

Postseason baseball returned to Kansas City this year thanks to the best Royals season in a generation and, understandably, the city went bonkers. The Royals treated fans to one of the nuttiest postseason baseball games ever played to upend Oakland in the American League Wild Card Game and ensure that October Baseball would be played at Kauffman Stadium.

Then they swept through the Anaheim Angels in the ALDS, rendering their best regular-season record in baseball meaningless, and followed that up with a four-game sweep of the Baltimore Orioles in the ALCS to claim the American League pennant.

The eight straight wins to open postseason play was a first in baseball history.

The World Series was back in Kansas City for the first time since I was 5 years old. I needed to be there. This had to happen.

MISSED OPPORTUNITIES

Purchasing a ticket to Game One of the World Series wasn’t realistic. At one point, the cheapest seats cost more than $1,000 on StubHub, and standing-room-only floated around $400. The enthusiasm for the first-game-in-a-generation World Series ticket drove prices to a point that was far too steep for my budget. Not that I would have made it anyway. A last-minute urgent request at work kept me at the office late, so I missed the first pitch of the game driving home before I could plop down on the couch and watch what ultimately was a 7-1 Kansas City loss.

Sensing that the Fall Classic might not make it back to Kansas City, I nearly dropped $325 on a standing-room-only ticket to Game Two the following morning. I hesitated to complete the purchase, however, since a proposal had to be shipped out that day. Our office’s computer system shut down for two hours that morning, and the print center’s primary machine shredded a belt, rendering it inoperable. Thus, a nightmare scenario unfolded. Game Two began with me at the print center helping to troubleshoot system problems. We assembled binders as the first few innings ticked away.

Thanks to the technological glitches, an airport run was in order. That allowed me to hear a couple innings in the car while making the 35-minute drive to the FedEx Shipping Center at KCI where I heard FedEx employees celebrate Salvador Perez’s two-run double that padded the Royals’ lead in a series-evening 7-2 victory.

The next three games took place in San Francisco, with Kansas City winning Game Three 3-2 before dropping Game Four, 11-4, and Game Five, 5-0.

That brought the World Series back to Kauffman Stadium in a win-or-go-home situation. It provided me with one final chance to see the Royals play in the World Series in person. Game Seven – if it happened – would be far out of my price range, I was certain. If I truly wanted to get to the World Series, Game Six was the opportunity.

A FRUITLESS SEARCH

October 28, 2014.

Game Six. Game Day.

A wasted day at work was about to unfold. The World Series was back in Kansas City, possibly for the final game of the season and certainly for the final game that might possibly be in my price range. An airline ticket to Scotland for Thanksgiving had wiped out any pay-any-price baseball budget that previously existed, but I was willing to dig a bit into my finances to try to make this happen.

If it was going to happen, this was the day.

I arrived to work early, anticipating leaving early to head to the ballpark. The next eight hours consisted of refreshing the Royals’ website to try to purchase tickets through the franchise which allegedly were available, as well as unflinchingly monitoring the fluctuating prices on StubHub.

I’d determined I had $240 to spend on a ticket; not a realistic price for Game Six by any means, but a guy can dream, right?

My hope was that I would snag one of the standing-room-only tickets that the Royals were selling through their website for $165, but I could never get through the poorly designed tickets.com-managed site thanks to a foolishly nonexistent waiting room feature. My other hope was for a StubHub miracle, either that somebody would unload a single ticket for relatively cheap or that prices would plummet within an hour of the game’s scheduled first pitch.

The hours ticked by, and no ticket was purchased. At 3:45 p.m. I left the office, hopped in my car and headed for the Truman Sports Complex with no ticket in hand, just a whole lot of hope that some magic would take place, a ticket in my price range would appear, and I would find myself inside Kauffman Stadium to bear witness to whatever mystery or magnificence Game Six had to offer.

THE SCRAMBLE

I pulled into the Kauffman Stadium parking lot a few minutes after 4 p.m.; a full three hours before Game Six. The plan was simple; check with the box office to see if they would have any standing-room-only tickets available at any point for purchase in person (I’d heard these had been available at previous games, despite what the Royals’ website advertised); keep refreshing the computer on my wireless internet in the car; and then troll around for some family with a spare ticket – rather than a sketchy scalper – to buy from.

Option one was eliminated within 20 minutes when I walked to the ticket window and was told all tickets had to be purchased through the Royals’ crummy website that hadn’t let me through during eight hours of trying.

Option two occupied the next few hours as I stood behind my car with the laptop on the trunk, repeatedly trying – and repeatedly failing – to get through on the Royals’ site while keeping an eye on StubHub.

Finally, 6:15 p.m. arrived – less than an hour before first pitch – and StubHub began to show movement. Ticket prices dipped to $325, then to $310 and $300 … $299. Opportunity seemed to be unfolding.

Suddenly, a standing-room-only ticket appeared for $202, but it was gone by the time I entered my payment information. Same with another that popped up for $203. I tried to snag an upper-deck seat for $225, but alas, that didn’t last long enough for me to buy it.

During the final half-hour before game time StubHub turned into a ticket fire sale as those with extras sought to unload them rather than eating the cost of the ticket. Tickets dipped below $200, but each of my efforts failed as my laptop loaded slowly and others purchased the tickets I’d hoped to procure.

The final eight minutes before game time were a disaster. So many people sought tickets; the computer connection was slow; it was a flurry of frustration. And then it was done. 7:07 p.m. arrived and StubHub locked up, as it does once the scheduled event begins.

I sat in my car in the mostly people-free parking lot, 150 meters from a packed stadium where the crowd was roaring as the Kansas City Symphony was introduced to perform the National Anthem.

I was so close to the World Series, but so far away. My efforts had been for nothing. I’d failed.

PERFECT TIMING

As the National Anthem played and the ensuing fireworks popped and colored the sky, I opened the car door, stepped out and began drifting toward the stadium ticketless.

All I could do was hope.

I hoped I’d stumble upon a trustworthy family running late to the game; a family who happened to have a spare ticket; a family who would happily sell their spare ticket to a stranger for face value or just a bit higher.

I wandered past about a dozen scalpers lurking around the stadium, all of who offered to sell me tickets, but none whom looked trustworthy. Two of my buddies were screwed by scalpers at Game Two for $500 a pop, so these sketchy fellows wouldn’t be my lifeline tonight.

I looked around, and no good ticket opportunities presented themselves, so I headed toward the ticket window for no particular reason. A young couple was talking to the person behind the glass, and they were turned away ticketless as I approached. We began chatting, and I learned they’d been told to try the Royals’ website – so, basically, go home and hope for better luck next year.

The top of the first inning was under way, and we were outside – probably for good.

As we spoke, another guy – dressed in black jeans and a jacket and probably in his 30s – strolled past us and asked if we needed an extra ticket. He didn’t stop for a response, continuing on toward the Will Call window.

I asked him how much he was selling for. He shrugged and said “$150,” and continued to the window where he gave his name.

About five seconds passed before I connected the dots and figured out he wasn’t just another scalper. I watched as the Will Call attendant took his name, thumbed through a stack of envelopes, and then slid one under the glass to him.

“Do you mean your spare ticket is one that you’re just now picking up from Will Call?” I inquired.

“Yeah,” he replied while thumbing through his tickets.

“Sold!” I told him, handing him $160 and not expecting him to make change. I didn’t know where in the stadium I’d be, only that I’d be inside the stadium. After all, I’d just watched a Royals representative hand him the ticket, so I knew it was legit.

I bolted toward the gate as the top of the first concluded. I had my ticket scanned, and raced to the escalator to the upper deck where the ticket told me my seat was.

I was in. I had a seat. I’d made it happen!

Shortly after I settled into my seat – right next to a couple that informed me they’d paid $320 per ticket for the same section and same row – the Royals unleashed a vicious seven-run second inning and rode rookie pitcher Yordano Ventura’s three-hit masterpiece en route to a 10-0 victory.

It was a historic thrashing; the biggest World Series blowout since the Royals’ Game Seven 11-0 shutout against St. Louis in Game Seven of the 1985 World Series.

I can’t say that it was a crazier atmosphere than what I witnessed at the Wild Card game a few weeks earlier, but it was close.

Kansas City had been on the brink of elimination, and responded with pure vengeance. After being forced to play the Wild Card game on the final day of September in hopes of playing some real October baseball, the Royals ensured that baseball’s final game would be played the next night right here in Kansas City.

What a trip.

THE RUN ENDS

The Royals’ World Series dream ended one night later with a 3-2 loss to San Francisco in Game Seven at Kauffman Stadium. I watched with friends at a local sports bar, and I monitored ticket prices on my phone as they rose above $800 for standing-room-only admission in the final minutes before game time.

It was a bittersweet conclusion to a roller-coaster ride that ended fittingly with Alex Gordon standing 90 feet away from home plate with the tying run in the bottom of the ninth.

Kansas City waited so long for this moment, a lifetime for most, and we were rewarded with all of the drama we could handle including numerous first-time-in-history moments.

It’s easy to be disappointed that the Royals didn’t win the World Series, but I’m thankful that my city got to experience so much long-awaited magic and I’m thankful that I got to be there in person for the Wild Card and Game Six of the World Series. These are moments I’ll never forget.

I don’t know what Charlie Womack was up to for the past decade. I have no idea what he did for his professional career, what street he lived on, the name of his favorite restaurant, his favorite beer, or how he spent his weekends.

We last spoke briefly at a house party in Lawrence. It was 12 or 13 years ago, in a living room with young 20-somethings crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, everybody in everybody else’s way. Charlie stopped in to make a quick appearance before hopping in his black Mustang and rolling out to the next social stop of the night. Charlie and I rode the same bus to campus during freshman year at the University of Kansas, but after that our paths mostly crossed in these passing settings; a handshake and pat on the back at a downtown bar, or grabbing a bite to eat on a whim after bumping into each other at the Student Union.

College does that to people: you don’t stop caring about your friends, but life takes you in different directions and you fall out of touch. It happens to all of us.

There’s plenty about Charlie that I don’t know from the past decade-plus of time, so I certainly didn’t know he was battling kidney cancer until I found out it took his life on Tuesday at the young age of 35. I don’t know anything about his adulthood dreams and aspirations, trips he’d planned on taking with his wife of 8 years – Jennifer – who I’ve never met, or youth sports he planned to eventually coach for their 2-year-old twins and 8-month-old daughter.

1990 MKC Electronics baseball team; Johnson County 3&2; fourth grade.

I never knew Charlie the grown-up. The Charlie that I knew spent summer days hooking his baseball glove on the handle bars and riding his bike to the park where for hours he’d hit pop flies with his buddies, making up games and conjuring up dreams of being diamond kings. The Charlie that I remember threw harder than anybody at Johnson County 3&2, but with questionable accuracy that made him both a monster and a menace to our opponents.

Yes, the Charlie that I knew was a baseball player. He loved the game, and he was a hilarious, hard-working teammate from fourth through eighth grade on an MKC Electronics squad that was mostly middle-of-the-pack good. We all dreamed of being great, and one day Charlie got his chance.

On one scorching summer afternoon in 1993, Charlie Womack was a baseball hero.

IN NEED OF AN ARM

All baseball franchises face their share of internal challenges. For the boys of MKC Electronics, the yearly challenge was Boy Scout Camp. The team was based out of Holy Spirit Catholic School. As the lone kid from Cure’ of Ars, my Boy Scout troop went to camp a few weeks earlier. Most of the 18-player MKC roster was in the Holy Spirit troop, however, so each year half the team made a 10-day pilgrimage to Osceola, Mo., and H. Roe Bartle Scout Reservation around the Fourth of July. Strategic scheduling with the league office usually offered the good fortune of a bye week while the other boys were at camp.

In 1993, we weren’t so lucky.

1991 MKC Electronics baseball team; Johnson County 3&2; fifth grade.

That season, our schedule included a mid-afternoon game in the middle of the Boy Scout Camp session. Ten players were gone; only eight remained in town to play. We needed an extra body and, specifically, we needed a pitcher.

Charlie fully understood the magnitude of the situation; a chance to crack the top three in the league standings could be lost with a forfeit; this was a big deal.

Charlie agreed to pitch.

On game day, his parents made the two-hour drive to camp, and at the crack of dawn they picked him up. They drove right back to Kansas City, weaving through endless miles of construction zones as Charlie ate in the car and put on his uniform. They headed straight for the ballpark.

Sleep-deprived, malnourished from days of surviving on stale camp food and candy, and having not thrown a ball in nearly a week, Charlie climbed out of the car, tied his cleats and headed to the field.

For the 13-year-old little leaguer, this was a Curt Schilling and the bloody sock moment of the 2004 World Series. This was Randy Johnson coming out of the bullpen in Game Seven to collect his third win of the 2001 Fall Classic a night after throwing 104 pitches in victory. This was Madison Bumgarner throwing five innings in relief after already collecting two victories for San Francisco in the 2014 World Series.

In little league terms, this was a legendary moment in the making. This was Charlie’s chance to be a diamond king.

FROM “WILD THING” TO SURE THING

Nobody knew what to expect when Charlie lumbered from the dugout to the pitcher’s mound that cloudless, blue-skied afternoon. How would he shake off the lack of sleep and the cramped legs from hours spent in the car? What impact, if any, would the time off have on his arm angle and release point? And perhaps the biggest question of all – the question every time he ever took the mound: Which Charlie would it be?

1992 MKC Electronics baseball team; Johnson County 3&2; sixth grade.

We jokingly nicknamed Charlie “Wild Thing,” in reference to Charlie Sheen’s “Major League” character, Ricky “Wild Thing” Vaughn.

Just like the movie character, Charlie threw hard.

Just like the movie character, Charlie threw all over the place.

To let former teammate Ryan Noonan describe it: “The memory I want to hold onto forever is him standing on the pitcher’s mound at 3&2, beaning two batters in a row to put fear into the other dugout before striking out the next three.”

Charlie’s walk to the mound was familiar, the standard “Womack Strut” with one leg seeming to drag the other along. His jersey was untucked as always, pants sagging just a bit, as he took his warm-up tosses on Field 8, and then the umpire motioned for the first batter to step into the box.

The strong right-hander wound up, cocked back and fired a strike right down the middle, setting the tone for a day when “Wild Thing” was more like a sure thing. He retired the side quickly, and then ambled back to the dugout.

The theme continued inning after inning. Our offense built him an early lead, and Charlie strolled back to the mound to deal some more.

I watched astutely from my post in center field as Charlie unleashed fastballs that whizzed just above the knees and sunk into the catcher’s mitt for a strike. He hummed high heaters to keep the batters off balance. He peppered the inside and outside of the corners of the strike zone with well-placed pitches that left the opposing batters baffled.

Sizzle. Snap. Strike one!

Buzz. Pop. Strike two!

Zip. Poof. Strike three! Yer out!

The temperature soared into the upper 90s as the innings ticked by. My toes felt like hotdogs on a grill inside my black cleats as the scalding sun beat down on us, and Charlie went from dripping with sweat to drying out with dehydration. During the middle innings he walked off the mound and behind the dugout, threw up a fountain of orange Gatorade that splattered into the dirt, and then stumbled back out to pitch some more.

1993 MKC Electronics baseball team; Johnson County 3&2; seventh grade. Charlie is at the far left in the front row.

There was no replacing him, and had we had an available substitute he surely would have refused to leave the game.

Charlie’s barf was like Schilling’s blood; we all fixated on it and understood his agony, and because of it we were awestruck by the way he continued to blend sheer power and crafty placement around the strike zone so effectively.

Inning after inning he roasted in the sun, suffered both mentally and physically, and performed at a level never before witnessed in his career. He scattered a handful of hits, maybe walked a batter or two, and was absolutely dazzling.

Charlie rose to the occasion when his team had no other options, and he put the teammates on his back and carried us to a victory.

As vividly as I still remember Charlie’s relentlessness and precision that day, I also remember seeing him sink into the dugout bench a minute after the final out was recorded. An air-conditioned car ride straight back to Boy Scout Camp awaited him, but for a few minutes his shoulders slumped, his head drooped down, and a relieved, toothy grin stretched from ear to ear.

This was his moment, and he delivered.

Charlie Womack was a baseball hero.

RAISE A GLASS AND TIP A CAP

Johnny’s Tavern was largely empty Thursday night when I walked in and grabbed a seat next to Chris Carmody. The Kansas City Royals, Charlie’s favorite team, had electrified the city in the weeks prior before losing Game Seven of their first World Series in 29 years on Wednesday – the day after his passing. The city was recovering from the playoff-induced hangover, so the bar was quiet. That made it a good place to catch up. Ryan Noonan wandered in a few minutes later to join us.

1994 MKC Electronics baseball team; Johnson County 3&2; eighth grade. The final season of summer baseball. Charlie is third from the right in the second row.

It was good to be among friends.

None of us had seen Charlie in years. Life happened, and it took us all in different directions. Just like Charlie, Chris and Ryan have young families of their own that understandably are their No. 1 priority. Just like Charlie had become, they are loving fathers and now spend their time changing diapers, reading bedtime stories and trying to create a better future for their children. I’m in a long-distance relationship and run an obnoxious amount of miles most weeks. All of us have steady careers that keep us busy. A look back at the old MKC Electronics roster will reveal similar stories for everybody.

Chris and Ryan are now 35, and I’m 34. Time has gone by so fast. It seems like just yesterday that we were 13 years old, pulling on our jerseys and stir-ups, donning our rally caps when necessary, and laying it all on the line on sunny afternoons and cool evenings under the lights as the boys of summer.

Bruce Springsteen calls them the glory days for a reason. They pass you by, all right, and they leave you with nothing but stories. Fortunately, when it comes to Charlie, they are good stories; happy stories; memories that make us smile. He was our friend, a great teammate, and – for a day at least – a guy who got to live his dream a baseball hero. We spent two and a half hours reminiscing, laughing, and sharing stories about Charlie before midnight drew close and we decided to call it a night. We’re old now, working stiffs, so it was past our bedtime.

No membership card was awarded when I became an ultra-runner three years ago. No permission was granted to join the club. The decision about whether I belonged was up to me. If my mind was strong enough to force my legs to push through fatigue and pain and continue to the finish line of my first 50K, then I was in. It really was that simple.

I was my own gatekeeper to the ultra-running club.

Or so I thought.

On Thursday I received an email invitation to sign up for an ultra race that will take place a year from now. The price – if I sign up immediately – is $110. Wait a week and it will cost me $140 if it isn’t sold out by then.

That’s ok. It’s a risk I’m willing to take. I made the same choice when I didn’t register for this year’s event last year. Life can be unpredictable, and there are other life events that require financial resources, too. No airline has agreed to give me free flights to visit my girlfriend while she’s finishing grad school. Electricity isn’t free. I enjoy meals. There are other expenses too, but love, warmth and nourishment are important priorities.

Apparently – in the eyes of some – my priorities are misplaced, at least if I want to continue being an ultra-runner. I was informed by the race invitation that “if you are one of the types of individuals that won’t take a chance this far in advance with $110 bucks because you are not sure what you will be doing a year from now and are concerned you might not be able to make it and don’t want to ‘waste’ the money, you really shouldn’t be participating in our ‘beloved sport’ in the first place.’”

So there IS a membership fee to be an ultra-runner? Why wasn’t I given the memo three years ago? And why wasn’t I given my membership card?!?!?

I understand some events, such as this particular one, are for-profit. As such, the race director is motivated at least in part by runners giving their money for the director’s livelihood. That’s his right, and it’s totally fine. What’s not OK is suggesting runners don’t belong in this sport specifically if they won’t give their money – and GIVE IT NOW!

It’s disrespectful to the sport and, more important, is disrespectful to the runners in our community who all are facing their own daily challenges and personal obligations while still making in a personal priority to run – whether it’s at this race or any other of the wonderful events available locally or nationwide.

To suggest that a father who knows he might be volunteer coaching his son’s youth soccer team next fall has no place in our sport if he won’t give his $110 now – hoping that a particular weekend next year might be free – is not selfish of that father.

To suggest that the mother of a young daughter is wrong for wanting to reallocate her $110 for K-State football tickets to take her daughter to a game – exposing her to the college atmosphere and planting the seed of higher education at an early age – is not selfish of the mother.

To suggest that someone doesn’t belong in our sport because there is a different race they’d like to run at the same time of year is not selfish of the runner.

All of them belong in our “beloved sport” as long as they choose to participate. In that same breath, those who choose not to run ultra distances but give so much of themselves serving runners at aid stations also belong in our sport.

Just as I am my own gatekeeper, they are their own gatekeepers. Nobody determines if we belong in this sport other than ourselves.

I was fortunate on Saturday to reach my ninth finish line at a trail ultra. It wasn’t my day, and some technical trails with shoe-sucking mud trashed my legs pretty nicely. But I got to run some new trails. Plus, I got beautiful weather, numerous frigid water crossings, cheerful and encouraging volunteers, and a few quality miles with friends. They also gave me a shirt, travel mug and gloves. All of this was for a bafflingly low price of $35.

Between my entry fee, hotel room, tank of gas, and laughter-filled hours at dinner with friends the night before, I spent a total of $150 for the weekend. I signed up eight weeks in advance.

Many folks will respond to the emailed race invitation and sign up instantly, and that’s just fine. If they want to, then they should. It’s their $110 (or $140), and they can do with it whatever they want. If they sign up, then they absolutely will be treated to a race that is extremely well organized, where all of the little details have been thought through, and where the volunteers are superb. They will get their money’s worth from a rugged trail that absorbs each step and bites back.

But there are other folks – like myself – who are going to hang onto our $110 for now and reallocate it to some of life’s other priorities. Mine went toward a plane ticket to Scotland where I look forward to running through the Scottish Highlands next month with my girlfriend and another good friend of ours. Other runners might be reallocating their $110 to buy a new coat for their kid this winter, or for Thanksgiving dinner, or their child’s gymnastics class, taking their kids to a Royals playoff game (since that only happens every 29 years) or medical bills from a running injury, or – gasp – registration for another bucket-list trail race.

Whatever the reasons, they’re all valid, and registering for a specific race is not mandatory to belong in our beloved sport. Going the distance is all that’s required, whether it’s at an official, organized race with an entry fee, or at a free fat-ass-style event organized among friends.

You belong in this sport no matter where you choose to run. You are your own gatekeeper. Don’t let anybody tell you different.

It took an hour to make it out of the Kauffman Stadium parking lot Tuesday night. The traffic jam snaked past empty grills seven hours removed from tailgate party use, and past packs of fans swigging one last beer. A light drizzle glistened in the headlights.

It was well after midnight, and chants of “Let’s go, Royals!” echoed from the stadium concourse 200 yards away as a few thousand fans collected a couple more memories from a night unlike any this city has seen in years – if ever before.

Josh Vernier, host of a post-game radio show, implored listeners to call in and try to explain what had just happened. Numerous callers tried; none could find the words to do it justice.

Some nights are simply beyond explanation, but I think the answer goes something like this: Baseball took one final shot at keeping the Kansas City Royals out of October, and after 29 years of futility Kansas City refused to be denied.

A CITY OF HOPE AND HEARTBREAK

Kansas City sports fans are well versed in disappointment. It’s an unofficial rite of passage if you grow up here. The Chiefs and Royals – the heartbeat of the city for generations – make sure of it.

The Chiefs’ string of 20 seasons without a playoff victory is the third-longest in the NFL (Cincinnati Bengals, 23; Detroit Lions, 22). They can compile the best regular-season record in the league, steamrolling opponents along the way, but without fail they will unveil their signature move when it matters most: the postseason meltdown.

Royals playoff tickets were available for the first time since 1985.

Ask any Kansas City native who Lin Elliott is, and they’ll quickly inform you that he missed three field goals in a 10-7 home playoff loss to Indianapolis after posting the league’s best regular-season record in 1995.

Ask them about how far the NFL’s most explosive offense got in the postseason in 2003, and you will learn quickly about how the Kansas City defense didn’t make a single stop in a 38-31 home loss to Peyton Manning’s Indianapolis Colts.

And don’t even bring up last year when they blew a 28-point second-half lead in an eventual 45-44 loss to the Colts in the playoff opener.

Meanwhile, to grow up a Royals fan is to live a lie; forced to defend the indefensible; letting unbridled hope stand in the way of harsh reality: Your team stinks.

Our friends remind us, and deep inside we know it’s true, but we can’t help it. We love this team. We grew up with the Royals, dreamed of playing at “The K,” and rooted for up-and-coming stars like Johnny Damon, Carlos Beltran and Zack Greinke before they went on to greener pastures and fatter paychecks on a better team that could afford their talent. And lest we try to argue to the contrary, the facts always stand in our way: 17 losing seasons in an 18-year stretch and four 100-loss seasons in five years are a recipe for irrelevancy.

Irrational optimism is strong in Kansas City, perhaps one of our most endearing traits, and there has been no better focal point for irrational optimism than the Royals and their largely uncompetitive existence during a 29-year playoff drought that represented the longest postseason absence in the four major American sports (the Buffalo Bills had the second-longest current drought at 14 years).

The beauty about irrational optimism, of course, is that every once in a while it pays off. Usually the rewards come in small doses … upending a heated rival, knocking off a division leader, or playing the spoiler to another team’s playoff dreams. Even Royals fans have had our share of small doses, as every team is bound to have during the course of a 162-game season, and those tiny shots of optimism have kept our hope alive for nearly three decades.

At some point if you are patient enough and wait long enough, the odds have to turn in your favor whether it’s through bold personnel moves and breakthrough performances, capitalizing on an opponent’s shortcomings, or some combination of the two. At some point, even if for just a fleeting moment, a tortured fan base is bound to be rewarded for its unrelenting loyalty.

Even in Kansas City.

KNOCKING ON THE DOOR OF OCTOBER

Through 29 years of futility, Royals fans fantasized about October baseball. October, we’re told, is when the game changes. The intensity is turned up to 11. Baseball becomes more than a game; it develops a pulse that you can feel radiating through your body with every pitch, every crack of the bat and every ball smacking into the mitt. October, we’re told, is magical.

Blame television scheduling or just some cruel bit of irony, but Kansas City’s season-long quest for that coveted thing called October baseball was not rewarded when the Royals secured their first playoff berth since 1985 last week. Instead, their American League Wild Card contest against the Oakland A’s was slated for September 30, less than five measly hours from October. Maybe this was one last taunt to a franchise on the cusp of shaking its reputation for failure.

The sun sets behind the Royals Hall of Fame on September 30, 2014, a few minutes before the first pitch of the Wild Card game.

You can have your playoff baseball, Kansas City, but you’re going to have to do just a bit more if you want to join the big boys in October.

Kansas City was in the playoffs, but its Hunt for Blue October required one more win.

Royals fans understood that challenge. The moment we’d waited nearly three decades for was upon us. A standing-room-only crowd of 40,502 of us piled into 37,903-seat Kauffman Stadium on September 30 and did not emerge until October 1. What happened during the 4 hours and 45 minutes of baseball in between was beyond magical. The one-game elimination match turned into a 12-inning, heart-pounding masterpiece that played its way into baseball’s 145-year-old history books.

Shortly after the 7:07 p.m. scheduled start time, the opportunities piled up for Kansas City to fold. Time after time the ghosts of Kansas City’s past crept back up, that bitter chill of disappointment that we know far too well.

Nobody headed for the exits when Oakland’s Brandon Moss belted a two-run home run off of Royals starter James Shields – the man who General Manager Dayton Moore mortgaged the future of the franchise to bring in specifically for nights like this.

The playoff virgins didn’t fold under the pressure of facing A’s starter Jon Lester, one of the most lethal postseason pitchers in baseball history. Oftentimes the goat for his hitting woes, Billy Butler smacked a base hit for a run in the first, and Lorenzo Cain and Eric Hosmer tapped Lester for two more runs and a 3-2 lead in the third.

Young brothers watch the first Royals playoff game of their lifetime from the standing-room-only section in left field.

Royals manager Ned Yost yanked Shields in favor of rookie Yordano Ventura for a situation he was unprepared for in the sixth inning and Moss jacked a three-run homer. Oakland added two more runs off of reliever Kelvin Herrera as the deficit balloon to 7-3 after six innings. But here in Kansas City where irrational optimism springs eternal, hope remained.

From the seats behind home plate to the highest nosebleeds in the upper deck and the folks beyond the outfield fountains, Kansas City stood up to will on the Royals one more time. October was less than three hours away.

History said the game was done as soon as the Royals went quietly in the bottom of the seventh. According to ESPN, no team in baseball history had ever won a playoff elimination game when trailing by four or more runs in the eighth inning or later. Why should the Royals — who finished last in the league in home runs and walks – become the first to pull off such an offensive feat?

Still, as cruel as history has been to Royals fans for the past three decades, we continued to hope. There were six more outs to work with. October is close! Find a way! Get there!

The worst postseason start of Jon Lester’s storied career came to an end when the Royals tagged him for three runs in the bottom of the eighth. They stole four of their MLB postseason record-tying seven bases during the inning, tempting fate in the process while daring to do something great.

October baseball isn’t given; it must be taken.

Bottom of the ninth; one out; Nori Aoki smacks a deep fly ball down the right-field line for out number two. Jarrod Dyson – who stole third moments earlier – sprints home to tie the game. A high-fiving, stranger-hugging, beer-spraying frenzy explodes throughout Kauffman Stadium.

Kansas City had waited 29 years for a playoff game. Now it was getting bonus innings. It’s after 10 p.m. October is ticking closer.

Ned Yost hands Kansas City’s hopes to Brandon Finnegan, a rookie pitcher that was the Royals’ top draft pick this spring. Finnegan retires six of the seven batters faced during the 10^th and 11^th innings with an ice-in-the-veins cool about him that isn’t supposed to be seen from a kid less than five months removed from college.

The Royals’ offense feeds off of Finnegan, pushing the game-winning runner to third during the bottom of the 10^th and again in the bottom of the 11^th, both times failing to score. The 11 o’clock hour has come and gone. Hope is alive. October is minutes away.

History, it seemed, was poised to rip Kansas City’s heart out when Alberto Callaspo drove in Josh Reddick for an 8-7 lead in the top of the 12^th. So close, but so far away.

ROYAL REDEMPTION

One of the great things about sports is that history doesn’t always repeat itself. On a wild Tuesday night in Kansas City, on the brink of October and after 29 years and three extra innings of waiting, a new chapter was written.

Lorenzo Cain’s leadoff ground out didn’t send anybody to the exits; it brought fans from their feet to their tip-toes. Eric Hosmer’s opposite-field triple banged off the wall as Oakland outfielders Jonny Gomes and Sam Fuld collided in midair, a crash Fuld later attributed to the deafening roar of the Kansas City crowd. Hosmer scored moments later on Christian Colon’s infield single, tying the game.

It was 11:52 p.m. when Colon stole second, moving into scoring position with two outs and Salvador Perez – hitless in five tries – standing in the batter’s box. Then, with one swing of the bat, Salvy’s line-drive skipped just inside third base.

The celebration was in full force well before Colon crossed the plate. There would be no close play, no instant replay needed, and a city that had waited so long for this moment couldn’t wait for him to take the final steps. Four hours and 45 minutes of shoulder-to-shoulder cheering, chanting, cursing, standing, drinking, shrieking, hugging, crying and altogether hoping beyond hope paid off with a 9-8 victory and the assurance of a playoff series.

We entered Kauffman Stadium in September and emerged in October with more baseball to be played.

A NIGHT FOR THE AGES

Some nights are simply beyond explanation, so maybe there’s no point in trying to make sense of it. Maybe it’s better to let it stand on its own, just enjoy the moment and savor the sights and sounds from inside the stadium and the parking lot after-party.

On some nights crazy, unexplainable things happen that you know you’ll talk about for the rest of your life. That certainly is what we do here in Kansas City where nights like this simply don’t happen, save for once in a generation or so.

Celebrating a Royals playoff victory for the first time since I was 5 years old. The ticket was money well spent.

Nights like this are why we know Don Denkinger’s name and wax poetically about 1985. It’s why Len Dawson remains so revered after leading the Chiefs to their lone Super Bowl victory in January of 1970, and it’s why we worship Joe Montana who guided the Chiefs to the AFC Championship game and their last playoff victory in 1993.

Nights like this just don’t happen in Kansas City, so we savor those rare, magical moments when they actually do.

I know what I think I remember about the 1985 World Series as a 5-year-old kid, but I wanted to remember without a doubt what playoff baseball was like as a 34-year-old. That’s why I had no problem spending $120 for a standing-room-only ticket to see the city’s first playoff baseball game in a generation.

I might not be able to explain what happened Tuesday night, but years from now I’ll always know where I was when people ask: “Where were you in 2014 when the Royals earned their return to October?”