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Show PAGE 2 THE ZEPHYR APRIL 1994 the morning of the Half Marathon, Although the river road is dosed to regular traffic on what reoqnw nw dozens of buses make their way up Rt 128 to drop off the runners at the starting lines (there is a second race, the 5 mile run that starts a half hour earlier). The Sweat Trucks fell in behind a procession of yellow school buses and we all waited patiently as they discharged their loads. There really were thousands of them. there was a plethora of color out there. For a quarter mile, file river road from If nothing a distance looked like a field of wildflowers. We inched the trucks part way through the crowd and somehow managed to turn them around on the pavement without squashing a runner or tossed them going off the cliff into the river. The runners slowly stripped off their sweats and to do athletes for these into the back bed, but mostly my Sweat Truck became an anchor point their stretching exercises. It was truly like watching poetry in motion. But as the starting time for the race approached and the need to move the truck became crucial, these stretchers refused to give up their grip. And so as I pulled away from the crowd, I think a couple of those guys did splits for the first time in their lives. I felt awful about it. I drove a mile or so down the road and stopped to watch the first wave of Half Marathoners come over Salt Wash Hill In a minute or two they appeared, like a great speckled, brightly colored serpent winding its way down Utah State Highway 128. 1 jumped in die truck, shoved it into gear, and left the giant lizard behind me. I never looked back. I dropped off the Sweats Bags at the Qty Park, which already appeared to be packed to capacity, left the keys with Charlie, found my Volvo, and went straight home. I'm still waiting for someone to tell me iPs safe to go outside again. !, About a year ago, a friend of mine called me to task for bashing the sport of mountain biking while never having actually participated in the sport. He was right of course; I had no right to curse the activity out of sheer ignorance and the fact that Lycra annoys me to tears. So I went far out of town, where I was sure no one would see me, climbed atop the mountain bike I had secretly purchased and kept under the house for years, and prepared myself to be embraced by this wonderful, healthy sport I almost killed myself on several occasions and at foe end of the day, bruised and in severe pain, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that all my previous skepticism was completely justified. So when another friend suggested (you can never have too many friends) that I give the Half Marathon a try, I laughed heartily and dted the aforementioned experience...I'm dumb but I'm not stupid. Still, it occurred to me that in the 19 years the race has been held. I've never even gone dose to the Big Event. I've seen pictures. I've read accounts, and it all sounded horrible to me, but again, my information was secondhand. So when one of the race organizers, Charlie Peterson, asked me on the eve of the race if I'd like to be one of the Sweats Drivers (I'll explain in a minute), I reluctantly said yes. This year's race was a nightmare months before the starter told file runners to start their engines, or whatever it is they do. From a handful of runners in the early years, this event, like everything else around here, has swelled in size beyond belief. Almost 2000 runners participated in file race this year; hundreds of others were turned away after the cutoff date. And one man from Provo who did not get to run and who feels he was shabbily treated by the race organizers, the Rimrock Roadrunners, is actually taking the dub to court. According to an affidavit filed in the Fourth Circuit Court in Utah County, Mark Ensign is demanding $681 in "costs incurred due to defendant's negligence and unwillingness to remedy." And those Bosnians think they have it tough. Anyway, I felt it was time to see what made this race so special that spumed partidpants were prepared to go to court So I showed up at HMK School on Saturday morning to assume my duties as Sweats Driver. Apparently most everyone in the big race warms up in their sweats (in a rainbow of colors), but what do they do with this stuff when the race begins? For the actual running of the race, the partidpants, who take all this very seriously, want to be as aerodynamic as possible. And the starting point is more than ten miles up the river road They can hardly abandon their sweats. Well, the Rimrock Roadrunners, Cod love 'em, for all their faults, have taken care of the problem. Each runner is assigned a number and a plastic bag. The bag has a number on it too. The runner puts his or her sweats in the bag and throws it in the Sweats Truck. We drive the Sweats Trucks (it takes four trucks) to the finish line, where another group of volunteers removes the bags and sorts them. Easy. . have probably driven the river road a thousand times or more since I first came here. I drove it when it was mostly dirt, I've driven it all times of the year. I've seen it during floods, and I've seen it during Easter Week. But I was not prepared for what I saw on this particular morning. I "All the news that causes fits." THE CANYON COUNTRY ZEPHYR P.O. BOX 327 MOAB, UTAH 84532 (801) 259-777- 3 publisher & editor Jim Stiles political specialist & features Ken Davey contributing writers Jack Campbell Jane S. Jones Cherie Gilmore T. Scott Groene . Mary Grizzard Hank Rutter historical photos Herb Ringer food editor Willie Flocko ROVING REPORTER Robert Fulghum production, circulation, subscriptions Karen Downey Neils Adair Jan Peterson photographs and art are by the editor unless otherwise noted. THE ZEPHYR, Copyright 1994, all rights reserved The Canyon Country Zephyr is a monthly newspaper, published eleven times a year at Moab, Utah. The opinions expressed herein are not necessarily those of its vendors, advertisers, or even at times of its publisher . Where's Waldo? The April issue of the Zephyr, and this column in particular, has made a tradition out of lamenting the biker invasion and the ever growing influx of tourists into Grand County. It has become almost fashionable for all of us in the community to complain about our yearly dose of Spring Madness and the inconveniences wemust all endure until late May, when the thermometer hits 90 degrees, the bugs come out and the bikers go home. And yet I am almost resigned to the fact that we can expect numbers in the do. no matter The tourists come and they go. But we sometimes forget what we years ahead, Tourists come come here. to Moab in the first place to buy don't or Southwest why they or of of for come this here the or jewelry, copies cups espresso, newspaper. They scenery. For better or worse they come to recreate, and whether we look at some of these outdoor activities as nothing more than shallow, forays into narcissism, it doesn't matter. They like to experience these sports on our rocks, and it's not likely to change. What worries me more than anything, more than the hundreds of thousands of people who already come here to visit, is the fact that to some, there can never be too many. It's not the tourists that will change the face of Moab; it's to what lengths we will change to accommodate unlimited numbers. We who live here must deal with the changes every day of the year, while the tourists for whom the changes were made, are in and out in a matter of a few days. Any community that determines to base its economy on tourism must, obviously, cater to the needs of those visitors. Moab businesses have risen to the task of providing these goods and services over the last five years, and the downtown district seems to be prospering. There is now a variety of restaurants that did not exist in 1989. Galleries, jewelry stores, southwest art, shops, outdoor equipment stores are all doing a healthy business. But for how long? How many more restaurants can open their doors before everyone starts to suffer? How thinly can the pie be sliced? What I hear at the coffee shops these days: that Moab could easily grow to twice or three times its current size, is some peoples' way of dealing with the too thinly sliced pie crisis. When the pieces get too small, the response is to get more tourists. Promote! The numbers rise, more businesses are built, and the pie shrinks again. And on and on and on. The fact is, Grand County is just about back to where it was, population-wisin 1980. It's ever-increasi- ng ts, self-indulge- nt T-sh-irt e, true, there are not the high paying jobs that could then be found in the energy industry. But barring a dramatic turn of events, those days are not likely to return. What we have seen in its place is a growing number of individuals who have established businesses of their own, and have found it's the most rewarding kind of employment of all. When you think about it, there are a lot of satisfied Grand County residents who may not make as much money as they might have in a salaried position at Atlas, but who are their own bosses and who have a feking of ' independence. And yet, the Travel Council continues to promote and promote an area that has been discovered beyond our wildest dreams and nightmares. While the Chamber of Commerce or the Travel Council may argue that you can never promote a place too much, unlimited promotion can ultimately damage the small businesses that are thriving today. Consider Telluride for a minute. A few weeks ago, my friend Sam Taylor, publisher of the weekly Moab suggested in his editorial that Telluride really hadn't rhamgtvi all that much in 20 years. He pointed out that there are no malls, no McDonald's, and no stoplights. Even its population has stayed fairly stable, around 1300. He got his information from the Telluride Chamber Resort Association. Well, the reason file population hasn't increased much in 20 years is probably because hardly anyone can afford to live there anymore. A house in Telluride that might have sold for $30,000 in 1975 can go for half a million in 1994. Flipping through the real estate listings in a recent Telluride paper, I found a three bedroom, one bath house, not much larger than my own Hwle Moab bungalow, selling for $232,000. And how does this sound? Four beds, three baths, garage, and a jacuzzi...only $785,000. 1 think I'll buy two. Times-Independ- |