The Great Man vs. Horse Race

The Annual Man Endurance Riders Challenge Marathon Runners in the Toughest Competition in These Parts

My destination was a cluster of lights shimmering above the desert floor. Holding the crumpled map I had drawn on the back of an envelope, I inched my truck down the dark, rutted road that would lead me to them. I recalled tales of men trying to outrun horses. Long ago, one story goes, George Warren lost his share in the Copper Queen Mine in a footrace against a horse. The mining interest would have made him a millionaire many times over. Instead he was left covered with dust and practically penniless on the streets of Charleston, Arizona. George Atkins, who owned and rode the horse, won Warren's claim to the Copper Queen. Now, more than 125 years later, I washeaded toward an elusive patch of twinkling lights northwest of Dewey to witness the same argument revisited. Who was faster man or horse? This time the contest would be fought by approximately 40 runners and 16 horses over 50 miles of rough Arizona backcountry. It would require speed, wit, and agility. My headlights shone on a hand-lettered cardboard sign. Base Camp. I had arrived. As I approached, I could see the shadowy figures of men and women tending their horses. The distinctive sweet smell of alfalfa hay blended with the beckoning aroma of coffee. People were scurrying everywhere carrying lanterns and flashlights.

I could see the outlines of four-legged beasts, and the angular forms of tents, trucks, campers, and horse trailers. Against the low drone of voices, I could hear the sound of water sloshing in buckets, the slamming of trailer doors, and the nickering of hungry horses. "May I have your attention, please!" a man's voice boomed out into the night. "If any of you have not checked in, please do so. The race will start at approximately 6 A.M." I parked my truck and walked toward the center of the camp. Runners, riders, and officials were already beginning to gather. A young woman in loose-fitting shorts and a blue twill parka jogged in place, holding herStyrofoam coffee cup in both hands. Steam rose from the cup in the crisp morning air. "Are you ready?" I asked. "Ready as I'll ever be," she responded. The woman had heard about the Man vs. Horse Race from friends in nearby Prescott. An experienced competitor in marathons, she had never run over rough terrain. The rocky, steep course that lay ahead would be a different kind of challenge. Behind her, a halo of light appeared over Mingus Mountain. By midmorning she would be winding her way up the treacherous 7,650-foot peak. "Good luck," I said. Then I wandered up to a square-jawed man in cowboy boots and jeans. "You must be one of the riders." "Not hardly," he answered. "I'm just one of the organizers. Those folks over there are riders." He motioned toward a group of men and women wearing white helmets, sweatshirts, and brightly colored lycra breeches. This wasn't exactly what I had pictured. The man seemed to read my mind.

vs. Horse Race

"The riders used to be cowboys on quarter horses and mules," he said. "They were range riders with heavy Western saddles and slickers. Now we get mainly endurance riders. They wear lightweight clothes and gear. They ride a different breed of horse, mainly Arabs and part-Arabs." The Arabian horse, he explained, is like a human marathon runner. "They're leaner and tougher. They have larger nostrils and thinner skin. On a fine-skinned horse, the blood vessels can rise to the surface easier. They can stay cool longer." The man with whom I was speaking was Gerald Brownlow, one of the organizers of the first Man vs. Horse Race in 1983. The event started, he said, with a conversation in a Prescott coffee shop. A horsewoman challenged a group of men to a race. She asked a couple of her female friends to ride with her, and a 60-mile course was set. The first race spanned two days. From snow-covered Williams down the steep 2,000-foot descent through Lonesome Pocket,the first day's ride ended in Perkinsville. The next day, the competitors followed the old Pipeline Road and crossed the mountainous backcountry into Prescott. That race was won by a horse, Brownlow said. "But it wasn't nearly as fast as today's equine competitors. Now many of the horses in the race are bred especially for endurance." "Can they outrun a man over this kind of terrain?" I asked. "I'd bet on the horse," he responded. The riders and runners were being called to a clearing behind the base camp. Highspirited and eager to begin, the horses pranced and jostled against each other. "Hey, you guys!" a runner yelled. "Is this the way to the start of the race?" "This is it," a cowboy on a black horse answered. "I'm going to lead you out about 150 feet. When I step aside, you take off." The black horse trotted ahead of the group. When he reached the edge of the clearing, the cowboy wheeled him around and held him back. The rest of the horses took off at a full gallop. Behind them came the runners.

Man vs. I orse

"Hee-ahh!" one of the riders yelled, standing up in her stirrups as her horse lunged forward. "Yip! Yip!" another sang to his mount. I checked my watch. It was 6:07 A.Μ.

From where I stood, the horses were a blur of brown, white, rust, black, gray, and yellow. It was impossible to tell who was in the lead. The runners had separated and fanned out. I listened to the pounding hooves and watched until both riders and runners disappeared over the crest of a hill.

The fading drone of galloping horses sounded like an ancient native drumbeat. With my eyes closed, I imagined young Apache warriors racing against horses. The Apaches would run 100 yards, turn a stake in the ground, then run back to where they started. The secret to winning against the horse was to gain enough distance in rounding the stake to make up what the animal would gain in the straightaways.

"On a straight, level course a horse can run about three times faster than a man," Brownlow told me, "but a horse can't pick through the rocks and brush like we can."

Separated from the galloping herd, the black horse was anxious and wild-eyed. White lather dripped like sea foam from beneath his breast-collar and reins. "If you want a ride to the 16-mile check, you'd better jump into that Jeep!" his rider yelled at me.

I hopped in and found myself headed for Mingus Springs Camp. On the way, I learned that my driver, Ron Barrett, is the only man who has ever run and ridden in the Man vs. Horse Race.

As we began to climb through the twisted pines, he explained the purpose of the checkpoints. "They're to monitor the conditioning of the horses," he said. "We don't want people getting so involved in the race that they're going to hurt the horses. The veterinarians check each horse's pulse and respiration against established guidelines. If a horse doesn't pass, it gets pulled from the race."

The runners don't have to stop at the checkpoints, Barrett continued. "A runner should have enough sense to know his own physical limitations. Of course we have doctors and emergency crews on hand to help anyone who is injured or fatigued."

We had pulled into a clearing where a stone barn and ranch house stood. The sun filtered down through the tall pines onto the lush green meadow. In this bucolic setting, it was difficult to imagine horses and runners toiling along a steep, narrow path less than two miles away.

Henry Dahlberg, owner of the ranch, was the first to hear them coming. "Get ready!" he yelled.

The front-runner burst into the meadow. A determined-looking man astride a dappled gray Arabian, he dismounted and handed over the horse to a young woman. Steam rose from the gelding's heaving sides and shoulders. His nostrils were pink

(PRECEDING PANEL, PAGES 12 AND 13) The 50-mile-long Man vs. Horse Race

He gets off to a quick start in rugged country northwest of Dewey.

(LEFT) Thirty miles into the race, Linda

McVehil on Reza Geyan leads Suzanne Ford Huff on Serinnak near the top of Trail 106, the longest and steepest climb of the race. nears the finish line as he perseveres through rugged Mingus Mountain terrain. He is the first runner to finish the course, beating all but four of the horses.

(BELOW, LEFT) Paul Carr of Gilbert (RIGHT) Dennis Berube, riding Bask

Firecracker, and crew Sue Jullian are the first team to finish the race. Berube and Jullian are among the country's top endurance-riding teams. and dilated. The assistant draped a blanket across the horse's back and haunches.

"Keep him walking," the man instructed her. She gave the horse a sip of water laced with electrolytes. Then she began to walk, while sponging the horse's neck and chest. "That's Dennis Berube," Barrett said, nodding toward the man. "He's one of the top endurance riders. You can bet he's out to win."

Other horses followed close behind, and the meadow was alive with frenzied activity. The left hind shoe on the second horse was hanging precariously by one nail. "We need the farrier!" somebody yelled as the rider dismounted. Behind her came a woman on a high-strung chestnut gelding. She pointed toward a gaping hole in her mud-stained breeches and laughed. "Low-hanging branch," she said.

A pair of riders from the Cinnamon Rose Ranch in Tucson arrived together. Neither seemed the worse for wear. One of their mounts, I later learned, had been a top contender in the Tevis Cup, a race known to be the most grueling test of equine endurance.

"She's holding up better than anyone," the mare's rider said. At first, I thought she meant the horse, but she gestured toward her companion, an eight-year-old girl on a black Welsh-Arab pony.

The first runner followed close behind.

"Where's the water?" he asked. "Right around the curve," somebody answered. The runner, a young man from Gilbert named Paul Carr, didn't stop. He continued to run toward the water station, wiping his sweat-drenched face with his shirttail.Berube's silver horse had passed the vet. check. He waited the mandatory 20 min-utes and headed off down the trail. Gradually the other riders followed. Ron Barrett and I climbed aboard the Jeep and headed toward the next checkpoint, a boul-der-strewn gap near the 32-mile marker.

When we arrived, Norman Aufman, the trainer from the Cinnamon Rose Ranch, was already there. "Dennis is still ahead," he informed us, "but his horse is getting tired."

Minutes later, Dennis Berube trotted into view. The horse moved with his head down, blowing through flared nostrils. His great sides moved like bellows, and his flanks were soaked with perspiration. Behind Berube came the horse that was running second at the first checkpoint. Suzanne Ford Huff had dismounted and was leading her handsome bay Arabian. There was a bloody six-inch gash above the horse's left knee. "He got kicked by the pony," she said.

The veterinary team gathered around the horse, examining the leg and washing the cut with antiseptic. "Trot him away from us, please," the doctor instructed Huff. As the veterinary team stood behind the animal, the rider tugged on the leadshank. The horse moved forward. He was unmistakably lame.

"I'm sorry," the vet informed her. "I can't pass him."

Huff sat down on a rock, holding the horse's finely chiseled head in her lap.

"Bad luck," Barrett said, shaking his head. "She gave Dennis a run for his money the first 32 miles. Her horse is in better condition. She could have won the race."

Other riders arrived and prepared for the vet check. There were no other eliminations. As they began to hit the trail, Barrett and I headed for base camp and the finish line.

In slightly more than seven hours, the first rider appeared on the horizon. It was Berube, riding his gray gelding. Within 30 minutes, three more riders followed: the woman and young girl from the Cinnamon Rose Ranch and Linda Damesek aboard her gelding.

After eight hours, no more riders - and no runners - had come in. Then a small dot began to move toward us. It was a runner, Paul Carr, struggling to make the final mile. Blood gushed from his nose, and his face was flushed with exertion. Onlookers gathered on both sides of the trail and cheered him on. He spread his arms and tilted back his head as he crossed the finish line. "I won," he said to himself. "I won."

In fact Carr beat all the runners and outran 12 of the horses. If he had been George Warren on that fateful day in Charleston, would he have won the wager?

Gail Dudley breeds and raises American Saddlebred horses at her Sweetwater Farms in Cave Creek, Arizona. She loves to ride in the desert, but not against a clock. Fred Griffin's idea of testing his endurance in rough terrain is days spent backpacking on foot, skis, or snowshoes.

WHEN YOU GO

The next Man vs. Horse Race will be held October 7 near Dewey. Take Interstate 17 to the Prescott exit. Follow State Route 69 through Dewey and watch for Fain Road. Turn right onto Fain and follow it for approximately 6.5 miles to the base camp. This is a dirt road, so drive with caution. Plan to arrive before sun-up if you want to see the race start. Wear warm layered clothing and comfortable walking shoes. The race begins at 6 A.M. and ends at about 3 P.M. You can make arrangements to stay for the evening cookout and awards presentation. For more information, call Gerald Brownlow at (520) 771-3206.