Even cyborgs bleed on Crow Pass

And, provided my usual contributions repeat, also a steady supply of whining, self-loathing, self-pity, sniveling, second-guessing, misery and perhaps even a culminating crying jag executed from the fetal position.

This race from near Girdwood to the Eagle River Nature Center amounts to paying $60 -- the entry fee -- for the privilege of enduring a monumental beat-down.

Good times.

Actually, there already has been blood on the trail -- mine. Left a little of that and some skin there about 10 days ago after tripping on one of the 423,571 raised rocks or tree roots devilishly positioned along the torturous trail. An acquaintance e-mailed to report a friend recently took a 10-stitch fall on the trail, which doubled my thread count.

(Memo to self: Your job constantly puts you in the company of hockey players and they don't really count stitches until they hit double figures, so always downplay an injury around those guys. When Alaska Aces coach Brent Thompson recently asked what happened to my leg, center Brian Swanson helpfully chimed in: "Doyle got a boo-boo.'')

In any event, it's not just us back-of-the-pack plodders who take headers on Crow Pass. The super-fast guys and gals also furnish falls, which is what they get for showing off. On the other hand, when we mortals see the speedsters actually bleed, it grants us comfort -- turns out they aren't the cyborgs we suspected.

You race Crow Pass, odds are strong you're gonna eat some trail. First time I "raced'' it, I was on a perfectly innocent stretch of trail about two miles from the finish and approaching a woman walking with her young son when I suffered a full-on pratfall. Sprawled on my back, unmoving, physically fried, emotionally emasculated, I heard the little boy issue his race report.

"Mommy, the man fell down,'' he said.

He walked up beside me and stared down wide-eyed, like I was his first dead body.

"Hey, buddy,'' I croaked.

"You fell down,'' he said.

"Yes, I did,'' I said.

Thus concluded the witty repartee with my intellectual equal.

If the rocks and roots don't get you, the crossing of Eagle River midway through the race will practically make you scream like a little girl. That water is colder than an ex-girlfriend's heart, and some years that glacial current is just about the height of one's, um, reproductive gear.

Before you get in the river, a race official hands you one of those rubbery wristbands popular with non-profit causes. Officially, you're supposed to wear it to prove to race staff at the finish that you crossed the river in the correct spot. Unofficially, it feels like the wristband might serve authorities in narrowing the field when trying to identify your body.

The race is both daunting and taunting. They used to call it a 28-mile race, which sounded about as fun as being stuffed through a wood chopper. These days, they call it a mere 24-miler, which not only downgrades the difficulty -- hey, you're not that awesome, back-of-the-pack boy -- but ignores that my internal odometer clocks it at 32 miles.

And UAA -- the event is a fundraiser for the running programs' Milers Booster Club -- always includes an unintentionally (I think) hilarious sentence in its press releases about the race: "For more information, please call race director Michael Friess at 786-1325.'' Best of luck with that -- the bet here is Friess' standard response when he hears the word "Crow'' on his answering machine is to stab the delete button with glee.

That's cool -- don't make it easy on racers. After all, the location of the building for the mandatory pre-race meeting is listed on the race application, but not its address. Hence the note, "DON'T CALL US FOR DIRECTIONS. HOW CAN WE TRUST YOU IF YOU CAN'T FIGURE OUT WHERE THE MEETING IS LOCATED?''

If you can rub together a couple of brain cells and get yourself registered and in attendance at the pre-race meeting, the fun begins early on race day -- 7 a.m.

You start with a climb 2,000 feet in elevation up Crow Pass and barrel down snow and scree on the other side just to get to the basically flat terrain along the river. By the time some of us get to the river crossing nearly three hours into the race, the leaders are only minutes away from finishing and beginning to scarf all the good eats.

For us stragglers who can barely beat the six-hour cutoff to be an official finisher -- you clock 6:00:01, you're dead to Friess -- a few fans are sometimes still gathered atop The Perch, a small riverside outpost in the latter stages of the race. They hand out little candy bars or pieces of chocolate -- trust me, at that moment a mini-Snickers tastes as savory as a New York steak from Club Paris (or, as my boss calls it, her "favorite French restaurant.'').

After The Perch, it's just a four-mile slog to the finish. Of course, you have to negotiate one particularly stumble-bum stretch sometimes called The Rock Garden. And, naturally, the race ends with one last climb up to the Nature Center.

But, as two-time Crow Pass winner Eric Strabel recently noted in a magazine story, "If you're a Crow Pass finisher, you can feel proud of that and call yourself a great Alaska mountain runner.''

To which I say, Eric Strabel for Governor.

Fortunately, the finish area behind the Nature Center is flat.

That makes it an ideal place to assume the fetal position.

This column is the opinion of Daily News reporter Doyle Woody. Find his blog at adn.com/hockeyblog or call him at 257-4335.