Timberline Trail Running Club, the novel

By Bryan Westby

This is a novel about running, racing, and event directing, an epic adventure comedy based on six characters in six relationships encompassing the fictitious Cascade Trail Challenge and Timberline Trail Running Club. Also, trail running in Oregon, and craft beer.

"Her legs ached.
Shifting focus between the rocky trail and the thin material of his running shorts a few feet ahead of her, Lucinda questioned herself. Had she gone out too fast for such a long run? More importantly, had she failed to attract his attention?
And why was he running so goddamned fast?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryan Westby
• Release date: Apr 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005491208

Bryan Westby

Bryan Westby lives in a suburban paradise on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon, and participates in the craft beer revolution. He writes comedy, humor, satire, and sometimes metafiction. Currently researching the spy novel, he is working on a trilogy of espionage thriller comedies, and produces Espionage Today, a newsletter based on a fake spy magazine. An award-winning author, most, if not all, of his awards are from athletic events outdoors, mostly running up and down mountains, and he dives into these races in his latest book, Timberline Trail Running Club, the novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Her legs ached.

Shifting her focus between the rocky trail and the thin material of his running shorts a few feet ahead of her, Lucinda questioned herself. Had she gone out too fast for such a long run? More importantly, had she failed to attract his attention?

And why was he running so goddamned fast?

Although she had to keep an eye on the trail so she wouldn't stumble, she decided she wasn't moving too fast for a training run; she was in great shape, even for her standards. It was too fast a pace to maintain a conversation, though, with him zig-zagging over the rocks, just a bit too far ahead. They had started out in the group at an easy pace, and talked together for an hour while running over the forested trail. But at the boulder-strewn clearing, he had bolted ahead, and she had to press on to keep up.

When the trail, turning soft and wide, moved back under the Doug fir, Ben slowed.

I love that section, he said. Was that too fast?

No, she said, breathing heavily.

Oh, I'm sorry, he said. I get carried away. It's beautiful, isn't it?

It was.

The scenery was beautiful, yes. At this altitude, the green and blue of the trees jutting into the sky were remarkably crisp and vibrant. Below, the ivory-wood earth tones of the weathered snags and ancient, bent half-trees cast shadows onto the rocks and sand. It was incredible.

But Ben was beautiful, as well. It was a strange paradox, where even the nerdy distance runners were exponentially more beautiful than they should be. All the cardio and raging hormones kept them healthy, youthful, sexually vibrant, and horny. And although Lucinda rarely admitted it, she fit squarely in that category.

At twenty-five, Lucinda was starting to realize she had spent too much time working the last two years since her MBA, and not enough time dating. As manager at Thompson Athletics, Portland's premiere running shoe store, she had accomplished a lot in a short time. But what she really wanted was to work for Nike, or perhaps Adidas or Columbia Sportswear. She had applied where she could apply, and talked to people she thought she needed to talk to, but she couldn't yet break into that exclusive level of corporate marketing. In the meantime, she led a marathon training group that met twice a week out of the running store, and she did what she could to network, which is how she ended up running on Mt Hood with an old friend and three attractive men.

Lucinda and Ben were both breathing full and heavy when they stopped, pausing where the trail crossed the path to the Lodge to walk in small circles with their hands on their hips, grimacing and smiling. It was a full two minutes later when George jogged into view, followed by Allyssa and Mack. Lucinda and Ben, having caught their breath, were chatting easily about nothing in particular, stealing glances at each other as they both cooled down in the alpine breeze. The other three approached, George and Allyssa a bit more winded than Mack.

Who's up for a beer? Mack asked, fist-bumping Ben.

Let's meet in Govy, George said.

Do we want to try the pub in the Lodge? Allyssa asked.

No, Ben said. The Lodge has the same food and beer, but it's overpriced. It's mostly for tourists and honeymooners renting rooms. The brewpub in Govy is just as good, and it's on the way back.

All five of them walked into Mt Hood Brewing Company in Government Camp and asked for a table outside.

It will be just a minute, the waitress said. Can I get a name?

We're the Timberline Trail Running Club, Mack said. After she nodded and jotted it down, he raised a conspiratorial eyebrow to the others, If we sound official, we'll get special treatment.

Of course, there was no club at that time. It was just a group run thrown together by Mack and Ben. But, it was a business meeting, of sorts.

Mack and Ben had met at Interlag, a Palo Alto startup. Software engineers with a dream of starting their own company, they met twice a week after work to run and grab a beer. Every week they came up with ideas, and then dismissed those ideas. Mack's ideas were more daring, Ben's ideas more cemented in reality, and the two worked well to counter each other. They successfully killed all of their proposals except for two: launching a brewpub, and starting an event timing company. When Mack's wife took a promotion that relocated them to Portland, Ben and Mack quit their jobs to work for themselves. They moved from California to Oregon and put their plan in motion.

The brewpub idea was put on hold because of the sheer volume of competition in the Pacific Northwest, but the other idea was easy. A timing system was simple to build, and computer chips embedded in bracelets were cheap if bought in bulk. Even better, they could print race bibs with metallic indicias, and then run their own software. Either way, a runner's time would start automatically when they crossed scanners at the start and the finish. They could have a couple laptops there, and print out results in real time, which no one was really doing yet. There were several more elements, but their successful business model ultimately came down to networking.

And that is what this run was, a networking opportunity. Mack and Ben had invited George, who they knew from running ultramarathons. At 40, George was the oldest in the group, although he still looked to be in his prime because he was a runner, and runners simply didn't age. He also owned a health store franchise, which they thought would make a great sponsor for their new event.

George was old friends with Allyssa, a 36-year old recycling coordinator with the City of Portland, and Allyssa had invited Lucinda. Through Allyssa, Mack and Ben hoped to find a non-profit to provide volunteers for their race; they hoped to get Lucinda and her running store on board with promotion. And they explained all this over applewood bacon burgers, homestyle fries, broccoli-cheddar soup, and smoked steelhead Caesar salad.

Mack poured another round of Cloudcap amber ale. We've named it the Pacific Ultramarathon, he said.

No, Ben said. Remember, we discussed this yesterday. There are too many races on the Pacific Crest Trail to use 'Pacific' in the name. There are ten in California, alone. We're going with Cascade Ultra.

It's kind of ridiculous, if you ask me, George said. And that's coming from someone who's finished ten ultras. Timberline Lodge to Sisters on the PCT? That's insane.

That's the whole pull, Mack said. That's our market.

I like it, Allyssa said. It's ballsy. You won't get a lot of people with a race that tough, but you could bring in some fierce competitors.

Ballsy? Ben asked, scrunching his face. He wore his blond hair short on the sides and longer on top, so it mostly stuck straight up in spikes. But at times the top of his hair flipped over, like an avian plume, and this was one of those times. Lucinda liked his hair, and wanted to run her hand over it to see if it was stiff or soft. Even with a scrunchy face, she thought he was cute.

I'm not sure 'ballsy' is what we're going for, Ben said.

Of course it is, Mack said.

No, Ben said. We want an event that will be an extreme adventure. But we want it to be inclusive.

Then do it as a relay, Lucinda said.

A relay? Mack said. You mean all the way down? A van relay?

I like it, Ben said.

Yeah, that would be good, Allyssa said.

If there's access, George said. How many vans per team?

Ben pulled out a wilderness map from his jacket pocket and unfolded it as the others cleared space at the center of the table. There is limited access, he said. But we could probably work something out, around six to ten miles per leg. I think one van would be complicated enough.

It's a hundred miles from the start, on the Pacific Crest Trail at the Lodge to the finish at Santiam Sno-Park, Mack said. Between Three Fingered Jack and Mt Washington.

Teams of six, then, with each member running two legs? Ben said.

We'd need a better finish, if we're going to do this as a legit race, George said. The best part of any great event is the finish line and the after-party. And sure, there's some parking there, but what are people going to do, just put up tents near the trailhead, alongside Highway 20, and throw a kegger?

Pine Lake, Lucinda said, pointing on the map. It's only, what, 45 miles down? Just west of Mt Bachelor. The PCT goes right through, right along the lake. My aunt has some property there. Cute little town. There's a campground, and a restaurant right there.

If we added another forty-five miles onto the race, that would be three legs per runner, six runners per team? Allyssa said.

If the course worked out that way, Mack said. Eight miles per leg, on average, and three legs per runner. Twenty-four miles in a day and a half?

You'd have your epic course, Ben said. That's tough terrain, and some of it in the dark, so maybe two days?

We'll have a lot of recon to do, Mack said. But if the course works, we can start planning for next year.

We were thinking of Labor Day weekend, Ben said. Of course, we'd have to put in for the permits this year to start the race next year, but that gives us over a year to plan and promote.

Is everyone in? George asked.

Let's call it the Cascade Trail Challenge, Allyssa said.

Lucinda invited Ben to her aunt's cabin the following weekend to scout out Pine Lake and take an assessment of the locals. It worked beautifully, because the others were too busy to come along, not that she'd asked them. There was a moment of insecurity as she wondered how to broach the subject of the trip down, but it quickly passed.

Carpool? Ben asked.

Sure, Lucinda said.

Cool, Ben said. I can pick you up.

And just like that, it was a date.

Chapter 2

After her bag was packed, Lucinda's mind drifted from her aunt's cabin to the prospective venue for the finish line of their new race. She wanted to prepare Ben for the small town they were going to experience, but how could she describe Pine Lake?

The lake, itself, was actually a reservoir created by building two small dams on the far side of the hollow, allowing accumulation of the mountain stream runoff. This development was possible because of a gutsy purchase of 2.5 square miles of private land adjacent to the state wilderness on the west side of Mt Bachelor. The main cause of this development was a cantankerous, yet well-admired retired rancher by the name of Dallas Hancock.

Dallas invested his family's fortune into the project in 1965, and by 1970, two bank loans and two irrigation dams later, he was the proud new owner of a reservoir and its surrounding land. And he immediately parceled the land out into lots, and put them up for sale. By 1985 most of the land had been sold to families and individuals looking for a summer home away from the crowds but close to the mountains, and Dallas Hancock became a millionaire twice over. The tough-as-nails, crotchety rancher who had built the entire community with his bare hands became Pine Lake's self-appointed mayor and everyone's favorite local celebrity.

Ten years later, when all his land had been sold, including the two-story lakeside restaurant with latticed decks and boat docks, the permanent residents created a neighborhood association for the unincorporated community, and pushed Dallas out of the board. He sold his own residence in a last act of rebellion, and moved to Redmond. By 2004, the restaurant and adjacent campground had changed hands, and the new owners were looking for opportunities to promote their slice of heaven in the Central Oregon Cascades. And the Pacific Crest Trail just happened to run along the east side of the lake, then south, passing between the lower deck of the Pine Lake Bar & Grill and the high water mark of the lake. Luckily for Lucinda, her aunt owned a cabin lakeside, directly across from the restaurant.

She heard Ben drive up, and pushed back a section of the blinds to peek out. Stepping out of his Silver Mazda RX-7, he pushed his sunglasses and hair back with one hand, looking out across her apartment lawn. Even lost, he was attractive. She opened her door and waved, sizing up his tall frame.

Sorry, he said, gesturing to his car. I forget if I mentioned, I don't have a lot of room for luggage.

No worries, she said, lifting her bag and locking the door behind her. It was a large bag, but it still qualified as a carry-on. This was when she thought she would get nervous, throwing her bag in the trunk and getting in his car, but it wasn't awkward at all, surprisingly. They didn't shake hands, kiss, or anything, although it was basically a first date -- a first date where they would be spending the weekend together in a cozy cabin. The reality of this would hit her at some point, but they started chatting and laughing immediately, and she was just enjoying herself too much to think about being anxious. There was a small moment as he turned onto the freeway when Nickelback came on the radio, but he quickly switched over to his CD player, and she loved his selection. Driving music.

Four hours later, they turned onto the two-lane road leading to Pine Lake, nestled in the western foothills of the Central Cascade mountains. The gray and white rounded peak of Mt Bachelor was clearly visible above the tree line, the horizon blanketed with the tops of giant fir and pine, with some spruce and hemlock mixed in. Too much altitude for productive farmland, yet low enough to not be covered in snow half the year, Pine Lake was a valley between places, a picturesque setting perfect for a weekend getaway. But unlike the old mill towns, Pine Lake never had an industry to draw permanent residents. Most of the landowners were only part-time, and those that lived there year-around were odd as hell.

Jesus, Ben said. It reminds me of Twin Peaks.

Yeah, it's beautiful, Lucinda said.

As they turned onto Sky Loop Road from the forest highway, they drove by the Pine Lake General Store, the commercial hub of the community. Across the street was an auto mechanic garage, an antique shop, and an abandoned one-room schoolhouse painted white with green trim for tourist photos. That was downtown Pine Lake.

Two miles down the road, alongside a sparse forest with a ranch house here and there hiding in the trees, Sky Loop intersected itself. The silver Mazda turned right, away from the campground, and toured around the lake.

Cabins and trailer houses were plotted out in one acre strips on each side of the road, and Lucinda caught glimpses of the lake all the way around to her aunt's house. It was a long gravel driveway leading up to a two-story, timber-framed cottage, with pillars of stacked stone along a high porch, and the blue of the lake in the background.

And then the RX-7 stopped in front of the cabin.

Okay, Lucinda said. Let me show you the house. They got out, shouldered their luggage, and walked up to the front door. Early autumn, the evenings were beginning to get cold and brisk, but the days were still heady with the perfume of Central Oregon, the wild pine, juniper, and mountain flora a stark difference to the dampness of Portland's Willamette Valley. It was altogether a different climate. They were both dressed in jeans, and as Lucinda had mentioned on the way down, it was the first time she had seen Ben in anything but running gear.

She unlocked the door, led him inside, and gave him a quick tour. The living room had a working wood fireplace. Romantic. The kitchen opened up to the back deck. Beyond the sliding glass door, a long ramp led from the red deck to a small rectangular boat dock floating in the lake. Lucinda caught the reflection of her and Ben in the glass as she slid the door open, and was struck by how good they looked together. Physically, they were a good match, and his hair was practically the same blond as hers. They stood on the deck and took in their surroundings, on the edge of the lake. It was about a half mile across, and they had a good view of most of the other lakeside cabins.

That must be the restaurant, he said, pointing across to the long building on the other side.

Yeah, we should check it out, she said. It's been here for decades, but they have brand new owners.

Maybe they'll be on board, he said. The race will be a great opportunity for them to bring in new business.

They were standing a little close, and she got lost in his eyes for a second.

Let's bring the bags upstairs, she said. The wood plank stairs creaked charmingly.

This is your room, she said, waving an arm inside the guest bedroom. He dropped his duffel bag on the bed, then took out a thick flannel shirt as she crossed the hallway to the master bedroom and lowered her bag to the floor. She realized she hadn't previously mentioned the sleeping arrangements, and wanted to see a reaction from him when she mentioned the guest room; there wasn't a reaction she could see.

I'll bring a flannel as a jacket, he said. Too formal?

No, she said. That should fit right in.

Should we head over? he asked.

When they went out, Lucinda left the front door unlocked on purpose, because they were out in the country.

Crime isn't really a thing here, she said, as they cruised in the Mazda around the lake. Everyone knows everyone.

Yeah, but just because everyone knows each other, that doesn't mean there isn't any crime, Ben said. It just makes it easier to find the criminals.

Well, that's true, Lucinda said.

They drove through the campground, with camping spots on each side of the road, just before they turned into the restaurant parking lot. There weren't camping spots right on the lake, as those parcels of land were sold off long ago, but the restaurant property owned prime real estate, with a shallow bay and a sandy beach. Most of the sand was ground pumice, lobbed this way from Mt Bachelor ten thousand years ago, and it was nice. The beach was light tan, the sand soft on bare feet. A wide dirt path came out of the forest from the north and traveled along the dike on the entire east side of the lake, turning south as it neared the restaurant. A plank deck in front of the restaurant started at ground level and reached up to four feet high as the beach sloped downward to the water's edge. The footpath on the dike continued where the dike ended, running along the high-water mark of the lake, along the sand, and along the edge of the deck. This would be their finish line.

After the deck, the Pacific Crest Trail continued on in a tangent away from the lake, along the edge of the restaurant's gravel parking lot, and back into the woods. Lucinda and Ben walked to the water and up the trail, looking over the restaurant and the adjacent deck as they passed. When the trail in front of them meandered up, along the path on the dike that wended around into the trees, they turned.

Imagining a finish line, they sized it up, with the lake on one side and the mountain tops above, Ben holding up two fingers of each hand in front of his face like a picture frame. It worked. They turned to each other, and smiled. As they walked across the lawn toward the front door of the Pine Lake Bar & Grill, Lucinda knew that, whatever happened between them romantically, this event was going to be epic.

We'll absolutely need them on board, she said. They don't need to be that involved, but they can't, you know, be against the race happening, because the finish is going to be right here.

I agree, he said. It's too perfect to be anywhere else.

And we'll bring them business, for sure, she said.

All we have to do, he said, opening the front door, is make sure they don't hate us.

The interior was clean, if you didn't look too closely, and vast, with rough-hewn timber spaced apart and stapled with iron knicknacks like an old pirate ship. It also looked very large because there were only two people at the bar, and no one seated at the tables.

At the far end of the bar, near the sliding-glass window leading out to the covered deck, sat a woman of indeterminable age, with too-straight dishwater-blonde hair, an alcoholic's nose, and a missing tooth. Her name was Ruthie. She was only 52, but looked more like 86, and walked down to the bar every day to drink Rob Roys and wait for her friends. If all three of her neighbors showed,