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Santa Claus could use a gift from you. And I’m not talking about milk and cookies.

Bill Lee (better known to Denver mallgoers as Santa Claus and better known to me as president of the Western Pack Burro Ass-ociation and Red Tail The Mountain Man) has been in an intensive care unit for the past two weeks. On April 8, Bill was at the vet when his truck and trailer started to roll away. When he ran to stop the truck, he stumbled and was run over by the trailer. He suffered broken ribs, a fractured sternum, and his lungs collapsed.

Fortunately, Bill is slowly getting better. According to world champion pack burro racer Hal Walter, Bill is now breathing on his own.

Of course, Bill will still be in the hospital for an indefinite time, leaving the care of his donkeys, reindeer, llamas, and other critters to Mrs. Claus (his wife Carol) and volunteers. But even if you live nowhere near the Laughing Valley Ranch, you can make a PayPal donation to Bill and Carol via their website. As Walter notes on his blog, even a small donation of $5 can go a long way towards buying bales of hay for the animals on the ranch.

Bill Lee and Jon Page

One year ago today, I published my first post here on Anyone Can Enter.

In the 12 months that followed, I’ve stuck to my mission of competing in at least one offbeat, obscure, wacky, or just plain ridiculous event each month, so long as anyone can enter. Along the way, I have succeeded (winning a national championship in egg tossing) and failed (in nearly everything else). More than anything, I’ve had fun at every step. Even when I was earning the title Last Ass in a pack burro race in Colorado or listening to my friends crack on me for failing to complete the Krispy Kreme Challenge.

The way I see it, this occasion deserves a professionally baked cake. It may seem crazy—buying a cake to celebrate the anniversary of a blog—but is it really any crazier than jumping into a freezing cold lake on New Year’s Day or throwing yourself down a hill after a wheel of cheese? I don’t think so.

Plus, this blog is responsible for more than a series of wacky adventures. Back in that first post, I set a few additional goals. One was to lose about 20 pounds. The other was to run a marathon. I’m happy to say that I have exceeded my weight loss goal and that in four days, I’m running in the Tobacco Road Marathon.

As for next year, I doubt I can stand to lose 20 more pounds and I’m not sure I can continue competing in one event each month. But I do plan to maintain this blog. Sometime after the marathon, expect a more sentimental retrospective, complete with a year-in-review video and a more detailed plan for the future of Anyone Can Enter.

For now, let’s take a look at the first year of Anyone Can Enter by the numbers…

11,975—All-time blog views (not including my own views)

8,667—Miles traveled to and from events

6,913—YouTube views

1,776—Stairs climbed at the CN Tower Climb

725 Tossing For Hunger YouTube views

650—Approximate number of people who endured my attempt to holler at the National Hollerin’ Contest

365—Days my awesome, beautiful wife Carie has had to put up with all this nonsense

350—Most blog views in one day, largely thanks to @darrenrovell

349—Second-most blog views in one day, largely thanks to Penn Holderness

335—Comments you’ve made on the blog

253—Miles I’ve run since October, when I started training for the Tobacco Road Marathon

149—Votes I lost by to the eventual winner of the News & Observer’s Ugly Sweater Contest

145Tweets posted

86—Percentage of people who voted for me to shave my head for the Warrior Dash

73—Twitter followers

62—Feet between Mike Hepp and I when we completed our winning toss in the National Egg Toss Championship

50—Approximate number of people who jumped into a freezing cold lake with me on New Year’s Day

42—Stone skips registered by Russ Byars at the Pennsylvania Stone Skipping Tournament, 27 more than my best effort

25 (and counting)—pounds I’ve lost since starting this blog

15—Trees we planted during the Asheville Idiotarod

10.5—Doughnuts I managed to eat at the Krispy Kreme Challenge, 1.5 less than the necessary dozen to complete the challenge

10—Men, including me, who entered the Idaho Springs Pack Burro Race

9—Men who finished ahead of me in the Idaho Springs Pack Burro Race

4—Orange habanero peppers I ate during the Bailey Farms Chile Pepper Eating Contest before bowing out to the Toothless Pepper King, who ate 14

3National champion coaches who declined my request for advice leading up to the National Egg Toss Championship

1—National championship won without the help of national championship coaches

 

If you followed my pack burro racing adventures, then you may remember that my racing experience conveniently occurred one week before the 29-mile World Championship Pack Burro Race.

Now that the results are in, it’s time to make some dummy calculations to determine how long it would have taken me to finish.

In my race, the 4-mile Idaho Springs Pack Burro Race, the winner finished in about 40 minutes while I finished in one hour and 15 minutes.

In the world championship, last year’s Triple Crown winner Bobby Lewis crossed the finish line in five hours, 56 minutes, and 23 seconds. Based upon an elaborate system of complex equations, I can confidently say that my world championship race time would be 23 days, 17 hours, 59 minutes, and 45 seconds.

Maybe I’ll get a chance to prove I’m better than that next year.

Half a mile up Oh My Gawd Road, my ass is quitting on me.

For the past five minutes, I’ve tried everything to motivate my new running partner up this terrifyingly steep Colorado hill that some locals refuse to drive, let alone maneuver on foot.

First, I pepper him with the appropriate verbal commands.

“Heeee-yipppp! Heeee-yipppp, heeee-yipppp! Heeee-yahhhhh!”

I even mix in a fair amount of the more aggressive nonverbal cues involving the butt end of a thick rope. But no matter how loud I scream or how hard I whip him, he won’t budge up the steep incline. Not when it’s much easier to nudge me aside in favor of the delicious weeds and grass lining the road.

After exhausting all the proven methods, it’s time for a new approach. I take the lead and literally start dragging my ass. But not before giving him a piece of my mind. On a road that takes the Lord’s name in vain, it feels appropriate.

“Dammit, Firecracker! Stop being such a stubborn ass and pull me up this ****ing hill!”

And just like that, I break the cardinal rule of pack burro racing—I let my ass get the best of me. Worse, I’m taking it out on the burro when it’s really all my fault. I’m supposed to be in charge, but I’m clearly incapable of rising to the challenge.

Oh, and we still have 3.5 miles to cover. That may not seem far, but trust me. When you’re pulling an extra 300 pounds up a mountain, it’s a long-ass way.

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One month ago, the grand sum of my equine experience amounted to a childhood horseback riding excursion, a Mr. Ed marathon on Nick at Nite, and an ill-plotted step on a trail near my home in Raleigh, N.C. My lack of experience only added to my curiosity when I heard about the Western Pack Burro Ass-ociation (WPBA), which honors 19th century Coloradoan gold prospectors who packed their mining equipment on their burros. The gold rush is long gone, but men and women have been teaming with burros for the past 60 years to run in WPBA races, some of which cover dozens of miles over rugged terrain at high altitude.

The rules seemed simple enough. Each burro must be equipped with a saddle packed with prospector’s paraphernalia including a pick, shovel, and gold pan. The pack must weigh at least 33 pounds. The runner may push, pull, drag or carry the burro, but riding the burro is not allowed. Firearms are not permitted.

I had to enter a race.

Luckily, the 4-mile Idaho Springs Pack Burro Race fell on the same weekend Carie and I had already planned to visit Colorado. A week later and we could have caught the first leg of burro racing’s triple crown, the World Championship Pack Burro Race at Burro Days in Fairplay, where racers and their asses run a thigh-wrenching, altitude-defying 29 miles.

I liked my chances much better in Idaho Springs.

Of course, I’d need some help. And a burro. Fortunately, the race organizer is also the WPBA president, and he was willing to offer me a burro rental and some guidance. His name is Bill Lee, but he also answers to Red Tail (his mountain man storytelling persona) or Santa Claus (he’s one of the most sought-after Santas in the Denver area). Weeks before the race, we worked out a deal over the phone. For $30, Red Tail promised me a crash course in burro racing and a burro for the race—although he wasn’t making any promises about the cooperation of his burros.

“You’ll finish the race,” he said, “but you may be dragging ass quite literally because you may not know how to handle the burro.”

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When we arrive at the Laughing Valley Ranch—Red Tail’s picturesque, sprawling estate and animal haven near the Arapaho National Forest—we’re rewarded with a stunning view of the countryside and a warm welcome from Red Tail and Brad Wann (the WPBA’s media relations director).

Two of Red Tail’s 30 burros—Amos and Nestor—are already on leads outside the fence. The sight of this makes me anxious, but not because of my limited experience level with burros. In the weeks leading up to the race, I had reached out to champion burro racers for advice, and I had even practiced running with miniature Sicilian donkeys at Noah’s Landing, my mother-in-law’s children’s zoo. As zoo fixtures, her donkeys have barely worked a day in their lives, unless you count begging for carrots from school children as gainful employment. I doubt Red Tail would. Attempting to run with the minis was fruitless, but I suppose it was better than running with my dogs. At least it gave me a taste of burro racing.

No, I’m nervous because I know that Red Tail’s donkeys are probably in far better shape than me. They’re really not much bigger than my mother-in-law’s minis, but they’re conditioned to run. I’m confident that I can hang with one uphill, but I’m convinced that it will bolt for freedom on the descent. The last thing I want is to cross the finish line without a burro and explain myself to Red Tail. Except it’s not just Red Tail, it’s Santa Claus. I imagine that Rudolph is a donkey, I just lost him, and it’s time to fess up to the big jolly guy.

“Uhhh, sorry Santa. I totally lost your ass. … I’m still getting presents though, right?”

Speaking of Santa, Bill looks every part of the character from the neck up. His soft blue eyes peer out from above a thick curtain of arctic white facial hair. His voice is deep, but welcoming. Throw him in a red suit, hand him a candy cane, prop up a Christmas tree, and you’d gladly let your kids sit in his lap for a few minutes on a cold December’s eve. But unlike the real Santa, Bill doesn’t suffer from a Chips Ahoy addiction. From the neck down, he’s all Red Tail—an ass kicking, Colorado mountain man with the body of an ultrarunner and the soul of a frontiersman.

Red Tail schools me on the basics of burro racing history. As he holds the lead to Nestor in his right hand, he explains that multiple prospectors often discovered gold at the same time. In order to stake their claim, the miners would race back to town. Since their burros were weighed down with equipment, they had to run next to the burro instead of riding it. Red Tail also offers some racing tips and explains the language of burros, but I barely retain a word he says. Once I learn that staying in front of the burro on the downhills will prevent them from running ahead without me, I’m eager to steal the lead and finally run with a proper burro. After all the anxiety, I’m ready to give this a shot.

Minutes later, I get my chance. Red Tail and I jog away from his ranch at a casual pace. I’m with Amos and Red Tail is with Nestor. Amos, unfortunately, doesn’t share my newfound enthusiasm and refuses to break into a sprint. After trotting up and down a few hills, Red Tail and I swap burros. Nestor is a formidable partner, but Bill worries he might be too headstrong for me.

“We could try Firecracker, instead,” Brad says.

Now, I’m scared again. Nestor was too fierce, so you’re giving me a donkey named Firecracker? I try my best to pretend like this is a good idea.

“Um, OK,” I reply. “Firecracker. Yeah. Let’s try him. Great.”

But moments into our first run, I can already tell that we are a perfect fit. Firecracker doesn’t want to run too fast, but he’s willing to push it when I ask him. Later, I learn that his namesake has nothing to do with his demeanor. The gelding was born on the Fourth of July.

Since Red Tail has to leave for a storytelling gig, I’m now in Brad’s hands. Although Brad is only in his second year on the burro racing circuit, it’s clear that he’s in this for the long haul. In addition to training for each Triple Crown event, he’s also reviving a push to make pack burro racing the official state sport of Colorado. With Republican support, Brad believes it will be impossible for the Democrats to block a bill promoting their mascot.

Atop a steep hill, Brad explains that running downhill with a burro is actually his favorite part of racing. That there’s no bigger rush than haulin’ ass down a mountain. This, I have a hard time believing. Running downhill with a burro is supposed to be the scary part. The part where you fall on your face and your ass runs over … well … your ass.

But then I watch Brad disappear down the mountain with Nestor, and I’m a believer. I give it a go. With the lead looped around my waist, I zip in front of Firecracker, scream “Heeee-yipppp,” and we’re at the bottom of the hill in a flash.

“How was it?” Brad says.

“Ho—lee—crap,” I say, fighting to catch my breath. “It was… incredible. Like, getting shot out of a cannon… and going down a rollercoaster… at the same time.”

“Running downhill with a burro is the most fun you’ll ever have,” he says. “Except for college.”

We race up and down the hills for another 30 minutes. Later, Brad tells another racer that watching me run with Firecracker is like poetry in motion. I probably wouldn’t describe it with such lofty admiration, but I allow my mind to wander. I remember my conversation a few days before with six-time world champion pack burro racer Hal Walter.

“You really never know what’s going to happen,” Walter said. “There’s always a chance. If there weren’t a chance like that, none of us would show up for the thing. Everybody goes there with a chance of winning the thing.”

I’m not actually trying to win, but placing in this race no longer seems like a Disney-made, fairy tale ending. At the very least, I shouldn’t finish last.

I have the desire. I have the determination. I have great teachers. And now, I even have the perfect ass.

What could possibly go wrong?

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It’s the morning of the race, and I’m struggling to embrace the day. After two nights of camping at 10,000 feet, an altitude-induced headache is crushing my skull. The elevation in Idaho Springs is just 7,540 feet, but that’s still 7,000 feet higher than my training grounds in Raleigh. I chug 24 ounces of water, scarf down a Cliff Bar, and pop 500 mg of ibuprofen. I can hardly concentrate on driving our rental car down back down the mountain to Idaho Springs. At this point, I can’t stomach the idea of riding a burro. Running with one might as well be suicide.

Whether it’s the hydration, the carbs, the drugs, or the 3,000-feet elevation drop, I’m feeling much better when we arrive at the staging area for the race. For the next two hours, I try to be helpful. Red Tail has five burros running in the race, so there’s a lot of preparation work ahead. The burros must be brushed. Saddles must be packed, weighed, and strapped to the burros.

Fortunately, there are multiple volunteers who are better equipped for this work, so I mingle with other racers. Among them is Bethany Buchanan, a fellow novice. Unlike me, however, she’s been training with Red Tail’s burros for more than a month and she’s run the course. She answers a few of my last-minute questions.

Even though I enjoyed running downhill with Firecracker in practice, I begin to worry about losing him again when Bethany shows me some scrapes on her arm. After all her training, she recently took a spill while losing a burro. She reminds me that before I can worry about the downhill portion, I’ve got to tackle Oh My Gawd Road.

Hoping to solidify our bond from two days before, I stroke Firecracker’s mane, tug his ears, and rub his nose. He ignores my signs of affection, choosing to continue his hay and weed demolition. I decide not to bother him again before the race.

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I’m cautiously optimistic as all 17 racers begin the pre-race procession down Miner Street. Even in this small, charming town where George Jackson was the first person to discover a substantial portion of Coloradoan gold in 1859, pack burro racing is an obscure sport. Bewildered motorists watch as if they’ve never seen a grown man walk down a street with a burro. Children stare wide-eyed. A pedestrian asks me what this is all about. I respond as if I’ve been doing this all my life. It feels good to be part of the spectacle. I feel like I belong.

Meanwhile, in his role as the WPBA’s version of Don King, Brad passes out his business cards to anyone showing the faintest sign of interest and repeatedly screams the same message.

“Pack burro racing! Colorado’s oldest sport! Check us out!”

During the procession, I bump into world champion pack burro racer Barb Dolan. She’s not racing (most of the top runners actually stay away from the smaller races, probably because clueless folks like me are running), but she’s come to cheer us on. She asks if I’m ready.

“I guess so. I had a pretty good training session the other day, but I’m not so sure about this Oh My Gawd Road. It seems pretty steep, but I guess lots of people walk up it?”

“Not really,” she says. “I usually run up those hills and let the burro do the work pulling me up. But just stay in the back and have a good time.”

This seems to be the one common link in every bit of advice I received from pack burro racers—play it safe and start in the back. Burros are herd animals, they all said, and my burro might run too fast for me if I start in the front with the stronger runners and bigger burros. Not that I have much of a choice. As we walk down Miner Street, I have to stop Firecracker from eating the flowers at each street corner. By the time we reach the unofficial start line at the base of Oh My Gawd Road, I’m starting the race dead last.

Red Tail addresses the crowd to detail our route. After a vigorous climb, we’ll race downhill for a mile. Another uphill road awaits. That will funnel down to the former site of a tent city where miners would camp before striking it rich. The next half-mile veers off down a gulch that features a fallen tree and one extremely dicey descent. The race ends at the Argo Gold Mine and Mill on the outskirts of town. Flour on the ground marks the turns and orange and pink caution tape will guide us through the gulch.

Just before the race starts, I remember my initial phone conversation with Red Tail. I asked him if there was an official race t-shirt.

“This isn’t exactly the Boston Marathon,” he said.

He wasn’t lying. There’s no actual start line. No PA announcer counting down the time. No giant clock. No grandstand with adoring fans. Instead, the race officially begins when Red Tail announces, “On your mark, get set, go!”

I’m pleased to see that Firecracker is jogging along at the pace of the other burros. For the first 100 yards, he closely follows another team. Then, for what seems like no reason, he stops and veers left.

Of course, he’s just a hungry ass, and our battle is only beginning.

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By the time I pull Firecracker to the top of Oh My Gawd Road, I’m drenched in sweat and wishing I brought more than one water bottle along on this journey. Luckily, Carie is waiting with a bottle of Gatorade that I suck down like a tequila shot.

I’ve been in the back of the pack with a middle-aged woman and another guy who’s also participating in his first race. No worries. This is the downhill portion. This is where I blow past them and maybe make up some time on the frontrunners. Except that I can’t see another runner in front of me.

I wrap the lead around my waist, loop it over, and run ahead of Firecracker, just like Brad showed me. For the first 10 yards, I’m pulling Firecracker until he begins trotting. We’re almost running, but not really. Not like we did in practice. And only in 50-yard increments. We continue this game along the switchbacks, jockeying back and forth between our lone male competitor.

On the final uphill portion, I’m forced to pull Firecracker to the top once more. But it’s all worth it when we reach the gulch. We’re slightly ahead of the competition when we reach the downed tree. I take the lead and leap onto the tree and bound down. I turn slightly to watch Firecracker. Given his lack of cooperation to this point, I’m certain he’s going to give up and lie down when he sees this 3-feet tall obstacle. He might even try to eat it. I’m surprised to see him gracefully leap over the log. I’m absolutely exhausted after all our tussling, but this glorious sight refuels me. I decide to seize this momentum and start running as fast as I can. This time, he’s matching me pace for pace. We’re in a full sprint before I realize that this is the last part of the course that I’d want to be in a full sprint. In fact, this is a stretch of gulch that Bethany warned me about. It’s steeper than Oh My Gawd Road, and we’re blazing downhill on a path no wider than a sidewalk, flanked by trees and littered with jagged rocks. But there’s no stopping. I nearly lose my footing but the tension in the lead corrects my stride. Firecracker won’t let me fall. Finally, our training is paying off and my goosebumps are sprouting goosebumps. I can honestly say that I’ve never felt a greater high from running. Together, Firecracker and me are an unstoppable force.

Until we reach the bottom of the hill.

At the sight of a nearby patch of undisturbed grass, Firecracker once again refuses to run. My competition soon emerges from the woods and I’m forced to pull Firecracker again. Down a gentle driveway and around the bend, we can see the finish line. Our burros feed off one another. On the final downhill, I have a slight lead. In the flat straightaway to the finish, he and his burro pull even. I’m yanking Firecracker’s lead harder than ever. So hard that the rope nearly cuts my palms. With 10 yards to go, I turn to Firecracker and pull the lead closer to me, as if we’re playing a game of tug of war. Unfortunately, Firecracker is winning, and we’re about to lose to our rivals.

With only one more female runner on the course, Firecracker and I finish last in the male division. Back at home, without a donkey, I can run 4 miles in a little more than 30 minutes. In Idaho Springs, with an unwilling ass, it takes me 1 hour and 15 minutes. Nearly 40 minutes behind the winner and a pack of racers that includes two kids under the age of 15.

At the finish line, Brad asks me how we did.

“He didn’t want to run!”

That’s when it hits me. Of course he didn’t want to run. None of these burros probably wanted to run in the 90-degree heat. The problem wasn’t Firecracker. It was me. It was my job to convince him to run, and I failed miserably. Instead of getting creative, I screamed at him and drug him around. Now, I feel like a proper ass. I kneel down and ask Firecracker to forgive me for swearing.

Then I realize that we’re in the middle of the road. For the first time all day, I intentionally lead him to some weeds. I owed it to him.

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At the awards ceremony on Miner Street, Red Tail gives the top finishers an assortment of prizes, including rare coins and gift certificates to nearby restaurants. But first, he presents a goody bag to everyone who finished the race. Even the sorriest, most hopeless excuses for pack burro racers. Like me.

Less than a month before this race, I won a national championship in egg tossing. But here, Red Tail announces that I am the Last Ass. No joke. This is an actual title. It’s a tag designated for a loser. But I don’t feel like one. Not even close.

That’s because pack burro racing isn’t about an end result. It’s not about statistics, trophies, prize money, or endorsements.

It’s all about the moments. Like the first time you get your ass going. Or the first time the two of you sprint down a mountain trail. Or when you cross the finish line in last place but would hardly know it because all of your competitors are cheering you on, as if you’re the winner.

It’s about the people. About forging instant friendships with former strangers crazy enough to join you and a bunch of donkeys on a mountain run.

Ultimately, it’s about perseverance. About fostering a unique bond with an animal, and summoning the patience to stay positive when that bond is broken at the sight of green grass.

Even if that makes you the Last Ass.

Special thanks to everyone who helped me out before the Idaho Springs Pack Burro Race. Especially Bill Lee, Brad Wann, and Bethany Buchanan. Good luck to you all in Fairplay. Also, thanks to world champions Hal Walter, Barb Dolan, and Curtis Imrie for their encouragement.

Most importantly, thanks to Carie for running parts of the course with a camera and for being so eager to turn our summer backpacking trip into a burro racing extravaganza. I’m one lucky ass.

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IDAHO SPRINGS, Co.–Less than a month ago, I won a national championship.

Today, I’m the Last Ass.

I wish this new title, in some sort of ass-backwards way, is somehow cooler than it sounds. It’s not. I finished in last place in the Idaho Springs Pack Burro Race. Technically, I was the last male runner to finish, a full 10 minutes ahead of my female Last Ass equivalent. Not that I’m bragging about that.

I might have had a better chance of winning if my burro, Firecracker, had lived up to his name. Instead, my hungry ass was more inclined to clear the 4-mile course of weeds. It also might have helped if Firecracker and I could have trained for more than 1 day. My national championship in egg tossing, after all, wasn’t the result of a mere hour of practice.

Last Ass or not, this has been an amazing weekend. I’ll post a more-detailed report, along with video, sometime soon.

For now, my ass needs some rest.

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IDAHO SPRINGS, Co.–Despite my initial fears, running with burros in the Rocky Mountains is nothing to fear. In fact, it’s quite fun. Honestly, it’s a blast.

This morning, thanks to Bill Lee (aka Red Tail) and Brad Wann (media relations director for the Western Pack Burro Ass-ociation) I learned more about pack burro racing than I’ll probably be able to remember for the Idaho Springs race on Sunday.

Awesome fact No. 1: it’s good practice to whip other people’s asses. Who would have known?

I’d love to share more, but this is a vacation, and we’ve got some exploring to do. I’ll be sure to give an update on Sunday after the race and a full report early next week.

By the way, in that picture, that’s me with Red Tail and Amos.

DENVER–The Idaho Springs Pack Burro Race isn’t until Sunday, but I’m already nervous. And not just because I’m out of shape. Or because I’ve never gone on a 5-mile run with a donkey at 7,000 feet.

I’m nervous because tommorow might be more important than the actual race day. Carie and I will head to the Laughing Valley Ranch near Idaho Springs to meet Red Tail, who will introduce me to my burro. That’s assuming that he knows which burro he’ll loan me (he’s got 30 of them). I don’t know if he’s got one picked out for me or if he’ll let the burro pick me.

If it’s up to the burros, what if none of them will have me? What if they refuse to run for a guy from the city? What if they’re all smart enough to plainly see that running with me would be a dumb ass decision?

The only thing I do know is that Red Tail won’t be outfitting me with one of his swiftest burros. When I recently asked him if he knew which one might be a good fit for me, he said I will not be running with a champion.

“Well, I probably won’t give you Bullwinkle,” he said. “That’s my triple crown winner.”

Fair enough. After all, I did tell him that I run 10-minute miles. While I’m actually more of an 8-minute guy, I figured it might be better to surprise him with my speed rather than explain later why his prized burro ran away from me, escaping into the Rocky Mountains forever.

Plus, there’s the altitude, which I couldn’t prepare for in Raleigh, N.C. The more that I think about it, I might need a burro that’s perfecly happy jogging along at a 12-minute mile pace.

Hopefully, there’s an ass for that.

In the world of pack burro racing, Hal Walter needs no introduction.

For the rest of you, I’ll give it a shot.

Walter is a six-time winner of the World Championship Pack Burro Race, a 29-mile race in Fairplay, Co. In addition to running with and training burros over the past three decades, he’s also run the Leadville Trail 100. When he’s not running his ass all over the backcountry, Walter is probably writing about his adventures. He is the author of a soon-to-be-released book called Wild Burro Tales, a collection of stories chronicling his experience training and working with burros.

Walter’s greatest skill, however, might be the power of persuasion. Somehow, he convinced me that I have a chance of finishing better than dead last in the Idaho Springs Pack Burro Race this Sunday. One day after our conversation, I now realize how crazy that sounds. But it’s fun to dream.

Anyone Can Enter: Tell me about your training routine. It must be pretty intense, right?

Hal Walter: I’m so old, I don’t have a real routine anymore. I turned 50 this year and I have more of an intuitive type of training regimen—I do as much as I feel like doing, when I feel like it. I think people get themselves injured and burned out trying to follow a training program on paper when their body doesn’t have any concept of following these schedules.

Anyone Can Enter: What about your pre-race routine?

Walter: The races usually start kind of late, so I think it’s important to have a decent breakfast and get your blood sugar stable. I usually eat a hearty breakfast, relax, and get there. You don’t want to get yourself in a big rush. One of the big things that’s a stress on the morning of the race is equipment. If you can have your equipment ready when you go and it’s dialed in to the right size of the animal then you’re way ahead of the game.

Anyone Can Enter: What’s one important piece of advice you can give to a first time pack burro racer?

Walter: Just try to have fun and just be careful at the start. Generally speaking, in those short races, the first mile is a little bit crazy. Watch your footing, keep your eye out for the other burros. Sometimes, one will move across the road and they don’t care, they will run you over.

Anyone Can Enter: If I run into a problem, is it considered bad etiquette to kick your own ass?

Walter: I think that’s physically impossible.

Anyone Can Enter: Oh, right. Sorry. What I actually meant was—is it bad etiquette to kick your ass? And by ass, I mean burro.

Walter: I’ve never known anybody to do that. So, yes, I guess it would be bad.

Anyone Can Enter: So do you think I’m going to finish dead last, or do I have a chance of placing?

Walter: Of course, you’ve got to figure that the team with the most experience and the best training and best game plan is generally who wins. But you really never know what’s going to happen. There’s always a chance. If there weren’t a chance like that, none of us would show up for the thing. Everybody goes there with a chance of winning the thing.

Hal’s book, Wild Burro Tales, will be available soon on Amazon.com. He will also be featured in an upcoming documentary, Haulin’ Ass. For now, you can find him at his blog: Hardscrabble Times.

At the age of 16, when most kids are fixated on getting their first cars, Bethany Buchanan was dreaming of an entirely different form of transportation.

She wanted to run with donkeys.

Ten years later, her dream is coming true.

The Dillon, Co., native is training for her first pack burro race this weekend in Idaho Springs. Actually, Idaho Springs is really just a trial run before she tackles the World Championship Pack Burro Race in Fairplay on July 25. There, she’ll run the short course; although it seems ridiculous to call a 15-mile run in the Rocky Mountains, short.

The race is part of a festival called Burro Days, which Buchanan and her family have been attending for a decade. After all those years of watching, Buchanan decided that she would finally give it a try for herself. Unlike my preparation for the Idaho Springs race, this is no half-assed effort for Buchanan. The recent recipient of a Master’s degree in English Literature from Boston University, she is dedicating her summer to the endeavor and postponing a PhD program in the process.

It was nice to chat with a fellow novice, even if Buchanan is already far more experienced than me.

Anyone Can Enter: What inspired you to do this?

Bethany Buchanan: I’ve just always wanted to do it. The people that do it are so hardcore and it’s hilarious to see the donkeys and the humans interact. I just got my Master’s degree and it was a really intense program. I felt like, if I could get through that, I could get through a 15-mile race and reward myself by taking the summer off and training with the burros.

Anyone Can Enter: Most people reward themselves with a trip to Cancun or a shopping spree. You chose burro racing?

Buchanan: I think it also has to do with growing up in the mountains. Growing up a mountain girl, I have a little different mentality. The winters are so intense—there’s snow on the ground 9 months out of the year. I think it’s just a little different mindset.

Anyone Can Enter: What did your friends say when you told them you were doing this?

Buchanan: Mostly, it was a lot of ass jokes. People don’t understand why I would want to do it … but for me, this race is bigger than getting my Master’s. I think a lot of people have a hard time understanding the attraction. I think my future mother-in-law thinks I’m crazy.

Anyone Can Enter: You grew up in Colorado, but you’ve been going to school in Boston. Now that you’re back, you probably have a good understanding of what it’s like to adjust to running at such a high altitude. Since I’ll only have a few days to adjust, am I going to die while running up these hills?

Buchanan: You won’t die. The truth is that not everybody runs up the hills. I don’t. I walk up them and run down. But (adjusting to the altitude) is tough. You feel like you can’t get enough air. It just feels like your muscles are OK, but your lungs are screaming.

Anyone Can Enter: So far, what’s your favorite thing about this sport?

Buchanan: That it’s not just about who’s the fastest runner. It really has to do with the dynamics of the human-burro team. It’s not just about who has done the most training. It’s about who’s getting dragged and who’s dragging ass. These burros have such a sense of humor and you just have to laugh at them and yourself because they’re so unpredictable.

These big goofy animals teach me so much about myself. They teach me about patience and persistence and, without waxing too sentimental or metaphoric, they teach me about life. About getting through the tough spots and being stubborn and going through with it anyhow. They teach me about the encouragement necessary to go uphill.

Plus, they are always good for a long hug and an ear rub that is sure to bring your blood pressure down and leave you, not only with dirt under your fingernails, but a smile on your face.

Follow Bethany’s journey on her blog: Getting My Ass Up the Pass.

In less than a week, I’ll compete in my first pack burro race. For those of you who were hoping that I might follow up my national title in egg tossing with another victory, think again.

Check out this video to see my lame ass skills.