A Century of Breath and Guts

Stories From the Road, Stories of Mount Washington

August, 2018

By 1pm, most race officials have left the summit of Mount Washington, the time clock is packed away and the finish strip folded up; most runners are already off the mountain eating turkey under a tent below.

But some hardy souls remain, bracing against the wind, hoods up, hands jammed into jean pockets. One man, a timer, stands near the finish with a stop watch and a finish banner, waiting for George.

The mountain, though, doesn't care how long it takes George Etzweiler to get to her top, she's patient.

Just below the summit, George doesn't care either. Surrounded by his little team, his breath coming in short, deep puffs, head down, yellow windbreaker flapping in the breeze, George carries on, like he always does, like he always has.

When George was born, The White Mountain National Forest had been established for only 18 months, the Observatory was still 12 years away from existing, one of the observatory founders, Alex McKenzie, was 11 years old, women could not vote and “The Great Gatsby” wouldn't be published for five more years.

"We're almost there," George's grandson, Bob, says to him, "How are you doing?"

"Am I dead yet?" George quips between breathes. Everyone laughs. If he's joking, he's fine.

All too often lately it feels like we don't have much to cling to in this world. But George is an anchor, nearly 100 years of flesh and blood, pure guts and drive, still running for his wife, for his children and grand children and great grand children, still running because his new sneakers impacting the tar at 6,000 feet are like his heartbeat, gutting out every second of life.

Every inhale is a dare, a proclamation; every exhale is an exclamation point.

Near the finish line, his team learns that he's ahead of his finish time of last year, he could beat his time. People start shouting, you can do it, you can beat your time. And there at the top, after four hours of running on 98-year-old legs, incredibly, George speeds up - you can see it, he jerks forward, sheer will alone driving his body to shave an extra second or two off that time.

The two dozen or so people at that summit, for a few precious seconds, pay witness to the infinity of the human condition; a split second of reaching for and then shattering limits.

George stumbles across that finish line and collapses into a chair. His family comes together around him like a protective wall, giving him time to be exhausted. In the end, he shaved one minute off his time from last year.

One year older, one minute faster.

The mountain relaxes, witnesses shake their head, wide eyed, grinning, like they had watched something remarkable, or miraculous. And they had.

After a couple minutes of water and deep breaths George jumps back up to accept his medal and the applause; the summit wind ruffles his shock of white hair, and he says "How'd we do?"

And everyone laughs, and cries.

From left, George keeps on keeping on just below the summit in 2018, George accepts a copy of The White Mountain after the race, George meets Little Bean in 2019 and it occurs to me that I’m about a half century younger than one and half a century older than the other.

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May, 2023

George Etzweiler came into my life at a time I needed him to. He honored me as a member of his running team when I was writing “The White Mountain.” That race took place only two weeks after my own father had passed and I was lost and depressed. George invited me onto his team in order to help him, but in the end he ended up helping me.

This week, George’s grandson, Bob, sent me these pictures of the now-103 year old rappelling down the outside Beaver Stadium at Pennsylvania State University to raise money for the United Way.

103 years old. Just let that sink in.

I sat looking at these pictures for a long time today, trying to get my head around writing about George. I’m trying to figure out how someone like him can even be. He’s so beyond the realm of what we are used to seeing in humans, like his life speaks so loudly for itself. He demands attention.

In my case, I intend to speak about him for as long as I’m able. Which is what I plan to do tonight in Littleton, NH at the Opera House. One of the stories I plan on telling in my presentation on Mount Washington will be George’s story.

And here’s what I’ll say: If you find yourself feeling down or discouraged about a challenge you think maybe you're not up to, think about 103-year-old George embracing every last moment of breath in his lungs and sliding down that rope.

You can do this. I know you can. Go get it.

I’ll see you tonight!