The Funkylegs Chronicles

Working Out The Kinks

2011-11-19T21:23:00.001-07:00

Two-mile training runs are the pits!

It's been seven weeks since returning to some semblance of a regular running routine. This brief daily escape has been terribly missed, as I climb back onto the wagon with the welcoming clasp of an old friend. But of course, it's not without its growing pains. I put on some sympathy weight (....OK, 20 lbs), including more than a few lbs of upper body muscle mass that pushed me into the 195-lb range. I attribute this to many long days of swinging a pick and shovel while searching out my most favorite crystal digs. My knees are definitely not getting any love from this fleshy backpack. Now that we're in the gemhunter's 'offseason', the ground is frozen and will not be accepting my hand tools anytime soon. Bye, bye, guns (kisses biceps). At the start of Week 8, I've already withered to a svelte 187, and looking to shave another five lbs from this frame by the New Year, especially after hearing that each lb of extra weight adds about 0:02 to each mile. So, imagine the hours I would sacrifice in a 100-mile race!

Rather than bore you with statistics or my paltry running log, I'll focus on what has changed for me as I approach the 2012 season. First thing to go was the Maffetone Heart Training Method. I recommend it as an initial means of building a strong aerobic base, but feel that the method is designed for the sea level runner training on little or no hills. I live on a hill at 8,700 feet, and there's just no easy way to keep your heart rate below, say, 140 bpm, without walking at some point. I was hiking at least one portion of every run, not realizing it was reducing me into a comfort-seeking, slow runner at race time. It eroded my ability to suffer, when suffering should be what drives me more swiftly to the finish line.

Instead, I've modified an existing training program to stack two long run days in a row, with a break on either side and then some shorter days throughout the week. It was tough starting from scratch. 'Hmmmm, let's see...Monday - 2 miles. Uhh, t-t-two miles???'. We'll see how that goes.

The next move was from the Salomon XT Wings 2 to a lighter shoe. I've found that the Wings are simply too beefy, and while I'm not yet ready to jump on the Vibram train, there is something attractive about running technical singletrack in a minimalist shoe. I'll stay with the already-discontinued XT Hawk 2 until I can't find any more in my size.

Finally, there's the heartfelt desire to cut down on Diet Coke and sweets, which has been surprisingly easy - especially the sugary stuff. It only took a few days for the cravings to dissipate, and the health benefits are already materializing in other venues (read:mood).

As I scan through the 2012 schedules, I realize what I missed most about the races was the camaraderie and competition, and honestly, being able help others along the way. In the meantime, I'm pining away as the mileage creeps forward. Maybe I'll be eating your dust on the trails next spring.

Call of Duty 4 - The Run!

2011-11-13T21:13:00.001-07:00

'I'll teach you not to steal my Shot Bloks!'

In the most recent Trailrunner Mag (December 2011), a runner from Las Vegas in the 'Letters' column boasts that he always carries a gun, a knife, and pepper spray on his runs, stating that 'it adds a little weight, but the peace of mind is worth it'.

Really???? Is he running down 'The Strip' at 3:00 AM?

It brought to mind the diversity in how we each manage our own sense of security. I live in the foothills of Colorado, where the most one should fear is a possible attack by a wild animal. Yet, I see the metal gates, home alarms and floodlights popping up everywhere. I remember having a discussion with a former FDNY firefighter and a rather large retired fire chief (also from the Big Apple) regarding the level of safety up in these hills. The FDNY guy said that he always packs heat and felt much more secure in the boroughs of New York than in the sleepy ascents of Conifer, to which the gregarious Chief replied, 'If someone breaks into my house, The first thing he'll see is my fist going through his face.' Ah, Chief. Good on ya, man. Maybe you should be joining me on my night runs.

In Other News...

2011-11-05T15:03:00.001-06:00

Carson at Costco Optical

I was trying to think of something clever to announce my brief return to blogland, but alas, nothing. Much has happened since January 2010 - We welcomed the birth of our second son, Carson Ray, just a few minutes into the new year, I left my job as a geologist with a large corporation and started my own consulting company, I discovered a large pocket of monster quartz crystals while on a training run which spiraled into a gem collecting obsession, resulting in a drop-off in my training mileage. Needless to say, the urge to run was always present, and I'm currently in the opening stages of a 'comeback'. I've signed up for a 50-miler in April 2012, and have struck a fragile balance between miles and stones. Much of this stuff deserves posts of their own and may get some extended treatment in the future.

Monster Smokies

In the meantime, loads of 'sorries' go out to those who commented on previous posts only to hang in limbo while moderation notices went to my now defunct corporate address. My music site is also a memory, but the free song downloads will soon find a new home, and I'll post a link when those are ready. (Edit: Here's the link!) Plus I need to figure out all of the new Blogger bells and whistles that have been added since I was away. Good times.

Looking forward to seeing you on the trails.

Kirk

The Dignity of Labour

2011-01-23T22:19:00.010-07:00

Ahh, yes. 2011. I haven't posted in a long, long time. I get it!

In a previous life I was a synthpop artist. Back in 2003 I was signed to a small independent label out of Utah, released a single, XRV, in 2004 and then a self-titled album in 2005. During the recording process, I agonized over every detail, and the finished product never really mirrored the image I carried in my head. Years went by before I could even listen to the album. But lately that dissatisfaction has mellowed. Sure, that mental red pen still clicks to life whenever one of those tunes comes up on my iPod. But these days I find myself enjoying the works for what they are - simple musical snapshots in time.

A long time ago, I came to the realization that the album was not going to make me the superstar I had once hoped to be, but it still has merit as a melodic, provocative effort. The disc sold well in the synthpop circles, via iTunes, Amazon, etc., but I haven't received a royalty check in some time. So why should I be hoarding something that devoured two entire years of my life? It's like stashing your paintings in a closet.

Well, the time has come to hang this one on the wall and move on. You can download the entire album, as well as some covers, remixes, and unreleased items here.

Download. Enjoy. Share.

On the Subject of Running

2009-10-02T14:48:00.003-06:00

(cough) May (cough) (cough)

2009-05-19T10:08:00.012-06:00

Yeah, I’m still kicking. Work is in the midst of a spring fury, and fire academy is in full swing (or in firespeak, 'fully involved'). The weather has been idyllic, and the long days beg for more grandiose impressions in this ball of clay I call our property. Oh, and there’s this little kid named unGuy pushing his truck up and down the cobbly paths I’ve created. Did I mention that I’m a trailrunner? These days my runs are few and far between, but stuffed with enjoyment and void of injury, forging yet a deeper appreciation for time I once took for granted. With a few exceptions, my racing calendar is a blank slate. Instead of jumping into the old standbys year after year, the idea of exploring new terrain, with no premise of what lies around the bend, holds a fair sense of wonderment. In place of mileage, pace times, and placement are music, vistas, and running to run another day. Only a select few are able to combine these successfully. A common question offered to runners is ‘Why do you run ?’, and I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard the same answer twice. When asked, I’m also likely to give an indefinite response, and I assume it’s because the nature of my love for running ebbs and flows with my current state of mind. When running becomes a chore, the culprit is usually some other aspect of my life that has gone amiss. But there are times when I’m traveling some unfamiliar terrain and everything appears to be in sync. If only I could eke out a few more minutes in my day so this feeling would linger for just a little while longer.

Moabilization

2009-02-20T10:02:00.007-07:00

I'm back on the wagon with the latest race report from the Moab Red Hot 50K. The race marked a marginal shift in my priorities as a trailrunner. Stay tuned for a contemplative account of this Valentine's Day adventure.

Needles District, Utah

Sliding Down That Pole Will Be Fun

2009-01-05T20:36:00.007-07:00

My 2009 race schedule recently took a bit of an interesting turn when I joined the local volunteer fire department. Basically, my Wednesday nights and many of my Saturdays will be spent at the academy tying knots, climbing ladders and putting out fires in fake buildings until the end of June, which means Fruita, Gateway and Kettle are out this year and Ice Age, Big Horn, and Silver Rush are in! I'm already there.

My goals for the year are to stay healthy, enjoy my family and take in the scenery. I hope your 2009 is a prosperous one, too.

Aspen, unGuy and Kirk at the Elk Creek FD Open House

Facing The Wind

2008-12-22T14:36:00.005-07:00

Lately, I’ve been getting a lot of Facebook requests, mostly from friends and relatives who are embracing this latest social networking craze. I’ve never quite forced my finger to the fad pulse, unless I felt it was beneficial to do so. Those close to me will attest that I’ve always followed my own path, anyway. As a youngster, when kids my age were playing football at the local park, I was home scheming a go-cart that ran on the nearby abandoned railroad tracks. While my high school classmates were pumping their fists to AC/DC and Ozzy Osbourne, I was nodding to Depeche Mode and Tears for Fears. Instead of the obligatory Colorado skiing and mountain biking, I took up snowshoeing and trailrunning. I sold all of my ski equipment, and my bike continues to collect dust in the garage.

Aspen recently invited me to join her group, but the folks at Facebook deemed me ‘ineligible’ for membership. Uh-oh, did my hard time at San Quentin raise some red flags? I may never know. Regardless, the denial was enough of a deterrent for the time being. I’m content with blogging for now. And when the inevitable question comes up, ‘Hey, have you been to Grandma’s Facebook page?’, I’ll know I’ve made the right decision.

Catching Up With Depressed Mode

2008-08-18T23:26:00.006-06:00

Ahhh. I know I owe you guys a couple race reports. They're coming - I promise! Hope you're having a great summer!

funky

Race Report: The Leadville Trail Marathon

2008-08-15T14:07:00.021-06:00

Sorry about the delay in race reports and the like. The weather's been great, and Aspen and I are usually out working on the yard until dusk. Anyway, I suppose I should briefly recap the Leadville Trail Marathon and then my most recent race, the Pikes Peak Ascent. During the Fourth of July holiday we camped near Twin Lakes with our friends Mike, Sasha, John and Ann.

Is that the Big or Little Dipper? I forget.

The mosquitoes were terrible and seemed to prefer fresh blood. I came into the race with about 20 miles of training over 5 weeks, suffering a nasty case of ITBS that mangled my performance at this year’s KM100.

Hoofin' it up 6th Avenue. White visors anyone?

I started out in the back of the pack and picked my way through about 200 competitors, taking numerous pictures and dispensing S-Caps and Advil to struggling runners along the way.

Avoiding those abandoned mines for a change

I arrived at the first aid station in 72nd place and finished 29th out of 244, and it may have been my most well-executed and uneventful race yet.

First brutal climb about three miles in.

Not me, but nice vest, dude!

That scintillating climb to Mosquito Pass.

Chilling at Mosquito Pass (No skeeters were present, by the way).

Ahh, pavement. Soft, forgiving pavement.

.....aaaand the obligatory course map.

Getting One's Bearings

2008-07-24T08:33:00.004-06:00

As I strolled in from a run on a typically cool and quiet evening, I thought it odd that the lights were on at our neighbors Gary and Kim’s, especially this time of night, but I coasted up our driveway and a flight of stairs to slip quietly into the house. Aspen had long been asleep and the dogs were closed in with her. As I was hanging my running clothes I could hear the mutts making a commotion in the bedroom. I let them out, as not to wake her, thinking they were excited to see me. Once I opened the door, they bolted towards the patio, but I had closed the screen door, preventing them from going any further. They paced excitedly from the front to the patio doors in almost a frenzied state, the tempered ‘mruff…..mruff’ warning barks threatening to rouse Aspen from sleep. Finally, I flipped on the outside light, slid open the door and watched as the dogs peeled out, their nails treading in vain to turn the corner towards the patio gate. Fortunately for them the gate was closed, because on the driveway below was about a 400-lb black bear, dragging a full bag of trash away from the house. I had forgotten to close one of the garage doors for the night and he snuck in for a late-night snack. When the lights came on, he scuttled toward the nearest tree and attempted to climb it, before abandoning the idea and galloping down the driveway, claws clicking on the asphalt. The dogs were frantic by now, and Aspen stepped out on the porch, rubby-eyed and confused. I looked across the street to see the outlines of Gary and Kim, and I discovered that the bear had also paid them a visit. Apparently one of their burros, Mikey, spooked him over to our place. The encountered occurred so swiftly, I didn’t have time to get the camera. But the ensuing adrenaline rush will not be hibernating anytime soon.

Painful Lessons in Humanity

2008-07-15T22:23:00.006-06:00

Note: I’m still working on the Leadville Trail Marathon race report, but in the meantime I offer this short anecdote. Enjoy.

This past week Aspen and I celebrated our 9th wedding anniversary, and unfortunately most of the events surrounding this commemoration will not be remembered fondly, rather with disgust tempered by resolve. This year’s occasion loosely coincided with the grand opening of a sushi restaurant in Conifer. We had been salivating over the prospect of such an establishment in our own town for months, after years of frequenting various sushi dens throughout metro Denver with no clear favorite (ok, Osaka Sushi is mine). Of course, jamming a piece of raw fish in my mouth at $2 a pop does not sit well with a guy who used to eat an entire meal for that amount, so we only indulge on special occasions and during happy hour when prices are relatively cheap.

This was our Plan B. My tragic Plan A was to surprise Aspen by arranging a candlelight dinner at one of our most favorite Chinese restaurants. The place is a bit of a dive, but the food is great, and the owner always greets us at the door and routinely sends a complimentary glass of wine or dessert to our table. However, I assumed he would only recognize me by face, so I drove to the eatery a few days before the magical date in hopes of presenting him my idea in person. I had called ahead to confirm that he would be there when I arrived, only to find that he was out making deliveries and would return shortly. In the meantime, I sat in the waiting area and chatted with his ten-year-old son, a bashfully friendly kid tending to the few customers dining nearby. I asked him about school and his outside interests as the time whiled away. After about thirty minutes I began to look at my watch, since Aspen would soon be expecting me at home. Around then the conversation drifted to a subject I was not prepared to explore, involving him being physically abused by his father. I fidgeted uncomfortably as the boy matter-of-factly alluded to an incident when his dad punished him as a five-year-old (and this was much more than a spanking). I continued to ask questions, while secretly fearful of their replies, until I could no longer justify the wait. I excused myself and made a hasty retreat to the car. My thoughts raced as I sped home in disbelief. Did I misinterpret the boy’s story? Is this commonplace or even accepted in Chinese culture? Should I say something to someone? For the next few days I struggled with the idea of this man with an outwardly kind and caring demeanor, hiding the soul of a coward. I questioned what would provoke a father to strike his five-year-old son and wondered if I could be capable of carrying out such a shameful act.

That Friday, around 6PM, I pulled into the parking lot at the new sushi place with a half-hour of happy hour to spare. Aspen had just arrived and was relaxing at a table on the patio, while Nick dined on one of his favorite meals of shells and cheese. I noticed two other couples with young children, including one seated at the table next to us with two girls about two and four years old, along with a man who looked to be their grandfather. It was a typical cool summer day in Conifer, and everyone appeared to be relaxed and in great spirits. As Aspen and I have enjoyed some of our deepest discussions at restaurants, I felt comfortable disclosing the events that had unfolded a few days before. The experience had taken its toll on my disposition, and I needed to tell someone. I expected she would then understand why my initial plan fell through. What I didn’t expect was that I would break into tears after relating what I had learned, as if the weight on my conscience had suddenly been lifted. Once I regained my composure, I apologized for my terrible timing, and we talked briefly about it before moving on to another (and more cheerful) subject. I had effectively destroyed the mood, and it was only a glimpse of what was to come.

A teenaged boy filled our water glasses, and I asked him to send out the waiter. Aspen was already enjoying a glass of wine, and I needed some alcohol in my system to temper what had just transpired. We soon became aware that something was amiss with the wait service. First, we were informed that the happy hour prices would not take effect for another few weeks. My beer showed up about fifteen minutes later, and we weren’t able to place our food order until we had been seated for about thirty. We both chalked it up to ‘working the kinks out on opening day’ and made the best of it by entertaining Nick and eavesdropping on the other patrons dining on the patio. It was obvious that the mother of the two girls at the table next to us was becoming increasingly irritated as time wore on. Eventually, I sensed the same frustration in a few of the other customers, as the wait staff continued to bungle orders and make repeated apologies for the delays in the kitchen. After about an hour, the waiter brought out a portion of our meal. His hands were visibly shaking from the verbal onslaught of disgruntled diners. Then the manager made an appearance to reassure a couple that they would shortly receive their meal, offering to comp their drinks. The grandfather stood up and muttered something about ‘going to the kitchen to see what’s taking so long’ and disappeared. The father of a family seated behind me held out a plate of sushi and proclaimed loudly that he didn’t order it and anyone was welcome to it.

By now, it was getting past Nick’s bedtime, and we were struggling to keep him entertained, allowing him to splash his hands in our glasses of water and taking him on short excursions away from the patio. The woman next to us was getting more vocal in her displeasure with the service and took every opportunity to justify it to all within earshot. Her behavior was making Aspen visibly upset. We looked at each other, and I said calmly, ‘Let’s go.’ The waiter passed by as we gathered our things, and I politely explained to him that we hadn’t received our entire order but needed to get our son home to bed. Aspen offered him some words of encouragement as she signed the credit card slip, and we stood to exit the restaurant. Against my nature, I dealt some parting words to the obnoxious woman:

‘It’s only a meal.’

She sat there in disbelief as I repeated myself, and then some. 'It’s only a meal. It’s not worth embarrassing yourself’. The waiter was standing next to the table, and his eyes grew large as I unleashed my brief but pointed reminder. Not to be outdone, the woman replied with some fallacious statement about us leaving because we received our order before anyone else. I had already said my peace, so her counterattack was fruitless.

As we walked to the car, I noticed that Aspen was in tears. I drew close to console her, underestimating the impact this woman had made. Sobbing, she exclaimed, ‘I’m so glad we’re not like that.’

‘Me too, Babe. Me too.’

Getting the Pb Out

2008-07-07T14:32:00.003-06:00

For those of you expecting another crash-and-burn trailrunning tale from the newbie world that is Funkylegs, I regretfully report that you’ll find no such account. However, if you’re interested in a crazy 4th of July holiday weekend camping trip that coincidentally included a trail marathon, I have just what you’re looking for.

Little Dipper mosquito bite patterns, head-scratching shrines to mystical deliverance, and unsanctioned Heinz 57 dog fights are an inkling of what’s to come in the next installment of The Funkylegs Chronicles.

The ' Miracle World of Resurrection and Salvation Museum' - Leadville, CO

Race Report: Mt. Evans Ascent

2008-06-23T20:42:00.038-06:00

One of my first races in 2007 was the Mt. Evans Ascent, a paved 14.5-mile race to (almost) the summit of one of Colorado’s 14’ers. I had run the course two weeks before, with conditions deteriorating as I neared the top. I ran a respectable 2:25 that day and was confident I could trim another 10 minutes in the midst of 300 other competitors. However, race day weather proved to be some of the mildest in years, and my performance suffered in the heat of those closing miles, leaving me with a disappointing 2:33.

As the 2008 event approached, I was anticipating the opportunity to apply all of the knowledge and fitness I had gained in the last year. But, as I mentioned in my previous post, I underestimated the time required to recover from a brutal 100K. I did a short trial run on Father’s Day, six days before the race, and would determine after then if I was healthy enough to compete. The run did not end gracefully. I decided to sell my entry but was chagrined to learn that the transfer deadline had expired, as pain shot up through my legs and into my wallet.

Predawn registration near the Echo Lake Lodge

Nevertheless, I wanted to be involved in the event and enlisted as a volunteer. My Saturday started around 5:30AM as the Racing Underground crew prepared to register those who had arrived as early as 4AM. I jumped into my role as a shuttle driver, whisking runners from satellite parking areas to the starting line in my father-in-law’s Dodge Caravan (The Babe Magnet), toting first-timers and old hats to and fro. Race day pressure was off, tainted with the slightest hint of envy.

Just before eight, I scrambled to a perch facing the front line, as Race Director Darrin Eisman scattered last-minute instructions with a bullhorn. I recognized Matt Carpenter and a few other runners shortly before Darrin shouted ‘GO!’ and the entire group made their way up State Hwy 5 toward the summit. Once the last runner disappeared around the opening bend, I darted back to the Babe Magnet and proceeded to creep up the right-hand side of the highway to catch the frontrunners in action. The first mile effectively thinned out the masses; some were holding steady at a seemingly comfortable pace, others were already laboring for oxygen with 14 miles to go.

I recognized my friend Woody, all 6’8” of him, running solo in the upper reaches of the field. ‘This is awesome!’ he exclaimed as I motored by. I approached the 3-mile aid station and decided to lend them a hand, collecting discarded cups, Hammer Gel packets and banana peels, while cheering on the competitors. I waited for the last runner to arrive (coincidentally, a woman I had met during Sunday’s test run) before moving on. I then decided I would make a push to the summit parking lot, where I hoped to watch Matt finish and snap some photos of him. My afternoon volunteer duties were to shuttle finishers from the parking lot down to Summit Lake, where school buses were staged to take them the rest of the way. The switchbacks from Mile 9 to the finish were too tight for one of those monstrosities to navigate the full route.

Once I passed the lake, runner density thinned to about one per every hundred yards, and I expected I’d catch Matt shortly before the finish. But when I arrived at the summit lot I was dismayed to learn I had missed his arrival by only a few minutes. In fact, he had crossed the line and continued up a bouldery singletrack to the actual summit, bagging the 14’er in style.

Matt returns from the summit

I waited for him to descend, snapping this incredible but lo-fi photo, with a frosted range splayed out in the background. Carpenter had not only won the event in 1:37:01 but surpassed a 31-year-old course record of 1:41:35 set by John Bramley in 1977. His pace calculated out to an incredible 6:42 mile! Finishing 12+ minutes behind him was Adam Campbell from Victoria, British Columbia, then Cornelis Guijt from Colorado Springs only 2.5 minutes later. The women’s winner was Naoko Takahashi of Longmont (2:06:22, 12th overall), besting the previous course record of 2:07:14 set by J’ne Lucore-Day in 1990. Naoko is a 2000 Olympic gold medalist in the marathon and the former marathon world record holder (2:19:46). It was humbling to have a personal account of the records as they fell, rather than read about it online the next day.

L to R: Adam Campbell (2nd/1:49:29), Matt Carpenter (1st/1:37:01), Cornelis Guijt (3rd/1:52:04)

Given the limited area of the summit parking lot, the goal of the support staff was to get the runners down the hill to the buses as quickly as possible. At first, it was difficult to pry anyone from the fantastic views of the surrounding ranges. But, by the third trip there was a line of people patiently waiting their turn to catch one of three shuttles, and each of us couldn’t carry more than 7 or 8 people. The half-hour trip provided me the opportunity to hear various race reports and other bits of runner conversations, including a passenger seat tell-all from Matt’s wife, Yvonne. I also noticed that the first couple of trips were quite lively, as the younger, more spirited runners spoke excitedly about their races and upcoming schedule, while the slower runners on subsequent excursions appeared to be more passive or simply exhausted.

My last descent from the summit included only one rider, Steve Sirockin from Boulder, who spends some of his summer Saturdays on 8-12-hour runs through the most scenic of Colorado’s Front Range backcountry. He invited me on a future jaunt, and I eagerly accepted the invitation while unconsciously massaging my left knee. The promise may have been as empty as the space reserved for my 2008 Mt. Evans Ascent finisher's medal.

Course Overview (USGS Aerial photo - Google image had too much snow.)

Benchwarmin' It @ Mt. Evans

2008-06-20T16:49:00.012-06:00

I must’ve been overly optimistic when compiling this year’s race calendar, scheduling a 14.5-mile road race to the top of a 14’er, two weeks after a 100K. Real smart. Last Sunday I did an out-n-back test run of about 7 miles from the Mt. Evans toll gate to the Upper Goliath parking lot, which was enough to warn me that I wasn’t ready for the ascent. Instead, I contacted the race director and volunteered for the event, so tomorrow I’ll be shuttling runners back from the top in my father-in-law’s wood-paneled Plymouth Voyager. Sweet.

Getting involved in a race as a non-competitor will be a welcome change, as I’ll get to see Matt Carpenter, Lisa Goldsmith and several other mountain goats in action. Plus, I’ll be able to take more pictures this time.

One confused mountain goat

Race Report: The Kettle Moraine 100K

2008-06-18T15:26:00.126-06:00

There’s a popular tiding shared by those who have completed a long ultra with those who are considering one: “You're never the same again”. If being reduced from a confident skyrunner to a blubbering mass of sweat and drool qualifies, then I suppose the message was received loud and clear. The disintegration took place at this year’s Kettle Moraine 100 in La Grange, WI. Several factors reinforced my decision to tackle such an extraordinary event: The race start was only a few miles from my childhood home with the race date coinciding closely with both my son’s first birthday and a memorial service for a loved one. Aspen and I decided to take some vacation time and spend it with family, while touring the scenic byways of NE, IA, MI and WI. This trip alone deserves its own post, but I’ll reserve that discourse for another time. Nevertheless, the events leading up to the race would resurface as I considered the miles ahead of me during some of the most dire mental and physical challenges I've ever faced in my forty years of life.

Our first destination was a small country church in Reading, MI to attend a memorial service for my nephew Rowan, who was born prematurely on February 17, 2008 and died the following day. The service was brief and subdued, and the weight of cradling my own healthy son while my sister and her family openly suffered over the loss of theirs once again brought forth a flood of mixed emotions.

We were able to spend some time with my family before moving on through MI, with Mom joining Nick in the backseat and providing limitless entertainment for the little guy at every waking moment. Our travels brought us to Holland, home of my alma mater, where we spent a couple days with my Auntie Ann and Uncle Gary and family, marking the last day of pleasant weather for the entire trip. Eventually, we made our way north along the Lake Michigan coast, into the Upper Peninsula and then south into WI to my hometown of Elkhorn, where my parents still reside.

Unmanned aid station? Nope, it's a self-serve asparagus stand!

On Friday afternoon, the day before the race, I was posting Kettle webcast info on my blog when I received a somewhat frantic cell call from last year’s 100-mile winner, Mark Tanaka. I had offered him a place to stay while seeking a repeat win, which he unexpectedly accepted. He was still at O’Hare Airport and itching get to WI and into race mode. Shortly after the call, the wail of a tornado alarm plastered the neighborhood. I hadn’t heard one of these since I was a kid!

Mark arrived around dinnertime, and immediately asked for a glass of water, then a refill. I was thinking, ‘Wow, this guy's really thirsty’. I soon learned about his version of heat training, which involved a 2-hour drive in a Jetta with the heat on, dressed in heavy sweat clothes. Given the recent work schedule he had posted on his popular blog, it appeared he was preparing for this race like a student cramming for a test. Items succumbing to Mark’s ensuing caloric free-for-all included a couple grilled Sheboygan brats and a hefty slice of ice cream pie. For a little guy, he had quite an appetite! I broke my ‘No Spicy Food before Race Day’ rule and enjoyed a brat, too. Oh, so fatty and wholesome. After the meal, Mark, my Dad and I drove up to the La Grange General Store to collect our race packets, where Mark was instantly transformed into a celebrity by Race Director Timo Yanacheck and several others involved in the registration process. It was great to view first-hand the positive impression he had made in the 2007 event and how warmly they received the reigning champion.

We made a brief visit to the Nordic Hiking and Ski Trail to survey the race start before the mosquitoes forced a hasty retreat to the car. Casing my last race involved sand, cacti, and exposed bedrock cliffs; this was chest-heaving humidity, poison ivy and skeeters. What a contrast, and an extreme I was willing to accept. Once home, the night ended quickly for us trailwarriors, I to my old bedroom, and Mark to one of my sisters’ bedrooms, since converted to a sewing niche. I hoped the dolls and frilly dresses didn’t overly threaten his masculinity.

Just after 5AM, Mark and I left the house for Nordic, the morning’s glow heavy with water vapor. The race was still an hour away, and I already felt as if I were breathing through a wet sock. Upon reaching the parking lot, the pre-race furor was in full swing. I emptied my race bag, slipping on my hydration vest and loading it with Shot Bloks, Vitalyte servings, and the BlackBerry. I had decided to spare the iPod and place all of my music on the BB, thus ridding myself of few more ounces of redundant weight. My Dad arrived in an RV shortly before 6AM, and I handed him what was left of my race supplies, including a printout showing my expected times of arrival at each of the crew-accessible aid stations. Just in case, I had also prepared two drop bags for the Emma Carlin (Miles 15.5 and 47.3) and Scuppernong (Mile 31.4) aid stations. Mom, Aspen and Nick were to arrive later at Emma Carlin.

The race kicked off amidst a chorus of cheers, and a mass of 100K and 100-mile runners made their way through a grassy area, slightly more treacherous than a local farmer’s back forty. I took a few minutes to find my stride, which was metered by a Podrunner mix that may have been too aggressive for these conditions. After a couple miles, the hills began to take on a more distinct shape, for which the acronym PUDs (pointless up and downs) proved to be an accurate descriptor. Pointless or not, I enjoyed this section since it culminated many miles of training in the foothills where I live. The downhills were carefree, and to the average flatlander I may have looked like a crazed lunatic, flailing down each hill as if trying to outrun a landslide.

This unfettered behavior would not pass without recourse, however. Around Mile 3, I felt a twinge of pain on the outside of my left knee, and I remembered having this same sensation a few days after Gateway. I had been tending to this other hotspot on the inside of the knee, which magically disappeared a couple days before the race, and I wondered if they were somehow related. Nevertheless, I ignored the issue and carried on.

(Note: Until the splits are posted on the race website, times are approximate)

I arrived at Tamarack (Mile 5.1) at 44:22, already 10 minutes ahead of schedule. A short while later I reached Bluff (7.4) with a few more minutes in the tank. My Dad was waiting on the back end of the aid station, along with another dozen or so spectators. ‘Sixth place!’ he shouted as I strode by.

Since I was carrying about fifty ounces of water in my pack, plus twenty more in a handheld, I didn’t spend much time at either Tamarack or Bluff, topping off my bottle at each oasis, including the unmanned Horseriders (12.3). From here to the next aid station, I passed a few more runners, including Charles Corfield from Boulder, who is known for his well-paced, intelligent racing style, and Dave Wakefield from Topeka, KS and Paul Schoenlaub from St. Joseph, MO, who appeared to be running together. Dave mentioned they were sponsored by Salomon, and we talked shop for a while. I was silently envious of their sponsorship since I run in Salomons but may no longer be able to afford them.

I cruised into Emma Carlin (15.5) at 2:24:30 (-15:00), and as I expected, I had arrived before any of my family. I was so distracted by their absence that I forgot about the drop bag waiting with fresh supplies, and I passed through the aid station without stopping. I must have triggered an exodus because four or five runners appeared behind me as I left the area. All of them had been somewhat rested and easily passed me, including brothers Joel and Mark Dziedzic, of West Bend, WI. As the others pulled ahead, Joel and I exchanged the usual pleasantries, before I felt I should back off of my pace. I watched as the 'peloton' assumed various incarnations for the next couple miles until it permanently disappeared into the foliage.

Around Mile 18.7 I entered the prairie. I had been warned about this section, that there’s no shade and the sun’s heat forces humidity into unbearable digits as it evaporates the headwaters of the Scuppernong River. It was painful to learn that the warnings were quite accurate. The humidity was so harsh that my cache of Shot Bloks began to ooze through the mesh pocket of my vest. The only redeeming qualities of this no-man’s land was its uniformity and views of the adjoining forest. Soon I began to recognize my surroundings and realized that I was now running on a section my Dad, Nick and I had snowshoed the previous Christmas. That day, the snow was heavy and wet, and we returned to the car thoroughly soaked. I was sopping wet on this second visit, too, but not in the manner I would have preferred.

The familiar terrain signaled that I was nearing the Highway 67 aid station (23.9). I caught up to Joel, who complained of feeling tired. I urged him on and then attempted a strong clip into the parking lot at 3:53:23 (-20:00). But the wind left my sails once I realized I had missed yet another family connection. I grew frustrated and almost angry at the time. I deeply needed their involvement, if only something as simple as an encouraging shout or familiar face.

I took some time at the County ZZ aid station (26.5, 4:20, -17:00), eating bananas and other fruit as a kind elderly gentleman filled my hydration bladder. Charles arrived shortly thereafter and spent little time at the sanctuary, wishing me well as he moved on. I turned to follow behind him when a sharp, searing sensation stopped me in my tracks. I could not bend my left leg. Then it became painfully clear, the twinge I felt at Mile 3 had morphed into something serious, only I hadn’t stopped long enough at any of the aid stations for it to take hold.

I decided to limp forward, every other step forcing me to grunt loudly and absorb incredible pain. Eventually, the debilitating feeling retreated to where I could manage a slight shuffle. However, the downhills were filled with more limping and grunting, and reaching the base of each hill felt like coming to the water’s surface after a turn on the high dive. It was exhilaration, not in a delightful way, but a twisted, panicked way.

Around Mile 28, the first of the relay runners came into view, looking strong. He had covered only about three miles, so it was to be expected. A couple more passed, and I cheered them on as my own form quietly unraveled. My pace had slowed in the heat, and the knee pain started to creep into other parts of my body. At Mile 29 I came to a complete stop. The throbbing was such that I didn’t know how I was going to make it to the next station, much less another 34 miles. Instead of getting customarily angry with myself, I broke down. As the tears began to collect and merge with the rest of the fluids that were rapidly leaving my pores, I once again forced the stricken leg forward to emulate some sort of walking motion. On a short straight section of the trail I turned to see Joel slowly approaching. When he came alongside me, I explained my predicament, and he offered up a couple ibuprofen tabs. I took them gracefully and thanked him in the most convincing manner I could muster. Little did he know that those two little pills literally carried me into the next aid station.

I arrived at Scuppernong (31.4) at 5:29, coincidentally close to my predicted split time of 5:30. My family was there, as were many others, cheering the incoming runners. Mom was sitting with Nick, who broke into a smile when he recognized that the raggedy-looking corpse kissing his forehead was his father. I tried my best to collect myself in view of so many strangers, although I was a bit disoriented and couldn’t convey to Aspen what I needed. She attempted to get me on a scale, and if it had been working properly I may have realized that I was severely dehydrated. I walked over to the aid station table shirtless, unaware that I was wearing a heart rate monitor that had been modified using a couple of my wife’s bra straps! Despite my incoherency I was able to scan the aid station table for anything that looked appetizing, settling on a handful of bite-sized PayDays, I inhaled these and grabbed some more, then returned for a third serving. (Note to self: PayDays). A lively aid station worker suggested putting ice in my pockets, and I thought, Why not? Into my pockets it went.

During this time, I could feel my composure returning, and the ibus continued to do their job. I slipped on a dry shirt and replaced and refilled all of my gear, including more Shot Bloks (in a Ziploc this time) and a new set of Vitalyte servings. As this course was an out-and-back, I had resolved to revisit the County ZZ aid station, where I would reevaluate my condition before deciding if I should drop out. Aspen asked ‘So where do you want us next?’ to which I blurted, ‘Every aid station you can get to. Please.’ I wasn't thinking clearly at this point, and I needed someone to carry a bit of my mental load.

I grabbed a handful of ibuprofens before I left, downing a few before staggering back into the woods. The mosquitoes were becoming an increasing nuisance, and I expect that they were always there, only I was now moving slow enough for them to catch me. About thirty minutes into my return trip, that first dose of drugs began to wear off, and the last tenuous layer of comfort would fall away. The miles were slowly tearing me down again and I felt I had nothing left to prevent the slide. Then, in a brief moment of clarity, I decided I was going to finish the race. I thought of my sister and her husband, the intense grief they were enduring, and I knew that my suffering was nothing compared to what they were going through. I could manage a few more hours of this and be able to celebrate at the end of the day, while their struggles would last a lifetime.

At around Mile 34, I returned to the rolling singletrack section before the County ZZ aid station, complete with the only true switchbacks of the entire course. I began to experiment with the downhills by pointing my left toe outward and using the bad leg as a crutch. This seemed to alleviate the impact somewhat, although I was still clenching my teeth on every other footfall. The second helping of ibuprofen had yet to engage my nerve endings, and I concluded then that I would never use those generic orange ones again.

I arrived at ZZ (36.4) at 6:47 (+27:00), to the concerned smiles of Aspen and Dad. Aspen was starting to get the hang of this crewing thing and immediately took my pack and refilled the hydration bladder. I settled into a camping chair and drank a couple handhelds-worth of ice water, while chatting with a few of the race supporters. One of them was a man waiting for the pastor of his church to arrive. He said he was pacing him for the final 38 miles in the 100-mile event, and I wished him and the preacher well. What I would give for a pacer right now, I thought to myself. I handed Dad my Blackberry; the battery was about dead and the sweaty headphone cords were becoming a distraction. Easing out of the chair, I turned to Dad and showed him the names of my sister’s family I had written on my bib the night before. I could barely utter the words ‘I’m running for them', before my emotions forced me to turn away. Leaving the aid station, I passed the pastor’s pacer and asked him to pray for me, knowing he’d understand exactly where I was coming from and where I was headed unless things started to turn around.

A few minutes later I caught up to Laura Waldo from Ludington, MI, one of the cities we had just visited the week before. She joked that her hometown wasn’t much of a tourist attraction, and I struggled to recall anything remarkable about the area, possibly confusing it with Harbor Springs or Manistee. Regardless, it was a relief to have her company, and it distracted me from my other issues for a couple miles.

I rolled into the Hwy 67 aid station (39) at 7:26 (+31:00). Aspen was waiting with supplies, while Mom and Dad attended to Nick. I pulled off of the course and made my way to the aid table to research alternative fuels. As I collected a few chunks of fruit from one of the serving plates I told Aspen that if I had to eat one more Shot Blok, I was gonna barf! Mom and Dad showed up with Nick, and Dad remarked about how much better I looked than at the last aid station. Mentally, I was already at the finish line, accepting my kettle; physically, I was just a shell, hiding a temple that continued to crumble.

Exiting the Hwy 67 area forced me back into prairieland, and that’s when the incessant tune popped into my head. Over and over it played, and there was nothing I could do to ignore it. I tried singing another song out loud, hoping to cancel out the offending melody, only to stand by helplessly as the passage worked its way back into my psyche. I was missing the iPod terribly.

The open fields temporarily gave way to a short forested section, and a few spectators relaxing in lawn chairs started cheering as I passed by. I assumed I was at the Antique Lane station, with only three miles to Emma Carlin. I would be cruelly mistaken when I approached the real Antique Lane aid station (44.2) thirty minutes later. Defeated, I remembered that the previous station (Wilton Road, 41.5) had been added shortly before the race and after I had taped my splits to my handheld. Emma Carlin was still another three miles away.

I stopped to fill my bottle at one of the water containers. Bleccchhh. The water tasted terrible and smelled like a bayou. Were my other senses beginning to fail me now? Who spiked the punch bowl? A few more runners passed through briskly, and my surroundings began to take on a pleasant fuzzy white outline. I thought for a moment, ‘This is it. This is the best I can do’ and looked for a place to rest a while. There were no chairs and no shady spots in the grass, so I huddled under the table for a few minutes, contemplating my not-so-graceful exit. An SUV parked about a hundred feet down the road started and slowly drove away. In my altered state I assumed they were my last lifeline, and I would have to cover these next three miles on my own if I wanted to drop out of the race.

Around Mile 45, I caught up to a man who was moving much slower than I. As is customary when I approach someone late in a race, I asked if he was OK, and he implied having some chest pains, wisely deciding to take it easy into Emma Carlin, where he was planning to drop. I asked if he’d mind if I walked with him, remembering the tragedy that had occurred at this year’s Collegiate Peaks. Not that I was in much better shape at the time, but I couldn’t leave him behind with good conscience. I learned that his name was Craig and that he had turned in a few strong 100-mile finishes in previous years, but today was just not his day. We conversed in typical trailspeak – jobs, kids, weather, etc. Weather. The clouds were beginning to muddy the skies in the direction we were walking. The occasional muffled thunderclaps countered our conversation, and behind them, an ominous dull rumble like the sound of an avalanche under a blanket. The murmur created this swirling, cows-flying-through-the-air image as I recalled yesterday’s tornado alarm.

Craig and I rolled into the parking area at Emma Carlin (47.3, 10:08:21, +1:43), where my cheering section had grown to include my sister Amy and two of her kids, Summer and Emma. I made my way to the aid station, where my split time could be recorded. ‘Do you want some meat?’ Aspen asked meekly as she held out a pre-packaged slab of sliced turkey. ‘Meat. Yes!’ She started rolling each slice into a cigar and I ate three or four of these like a wedding crasher mobbing a tray of hors d’oeuvres. I spent a few minutes chatting with my family before the impending storm began to tug at my attention, indicating it was time to go. I said my goodbyes and reaffirmed to Aspen that I needed her at the remaining accessible aid stations.

I returned to a wooded, singletrack trail on the heels of Drew Waddell from Arlington Heights, IL. After chatting a while we learned that we were both in the middle of a year’s worth of firsts: first trail marathon, first ultra, first 100K, and so on. I eventually backed off of his pace and forged my own. By now the rainfall was penetrating the canopy, and the thunder grew increasingly unmistakable. The rain should have provided relief but did nothing more than drench me even further, as initial precipitation simply released more heat from the ground. Eventually the temperature began to wane, and I could feel my core coming back to life. Only, the storm continued to build in intensity, gathering moisture from some giant atmospheric sink. Just when I thought the downpour had peaked, the valve was opened another turn. Lightning punctured the deluge, sporadically striking the earth only yards away, causing me to instinctively shield my head from the impending impact.

I reached Horseriders (50.5) just behind Drew, and by now the rainfall was cascading from the skies in unbelievable amounts (subsequent weather reports estimated an incredible 11 inches per hour!) I moved on past him and the unmanned aid station into more undulating singletrack, overtaking a couple more runners along the way. The downpour was making navigation quite difficult for one bespectacled gentleman, and I was grateful to be wearing contacts at the time. Runoff was assuming the route of least resistance – the trail. At first I tried to thread my way through the less impacted terrain along the path, but after a while even that became a futile effort.

The worst of the storm eventually moved on while I made my way toward the next aid station. I noticed at about Mile 53 that my Garmin was dead. I had outlasted yet another gadget. As I feared, once the showers subsided the mosquitoes returned with a vengence, and every walk break was spent defending my last untapped liquid. The trail would take my sweat, my tears, and eventually the contents of my stomach, but it would not get my blood.

Around 7PM I trickled into Bluff (55.5) with Aspen and Amy waiting for me. The aid station was now almost completely covered with a tarp, and as I lingered inside to escape the assault of the Wisconsin State Bird I sensed that my body temp was beginning to climb again. I stepped outside and asked one of the volunteers to hit me with some bug repellant. He sprayed a little bit here and there before I told him to just baste me like a turkey. (Note – Garmins do not like bug spray.) Drew arrived at the station shortly thereafter and moved through quickly, while Adam Blum from Los Gatos, California rested in a chair within the tent. I wasn’t feeling particularly competitive at the moment, only more determined to finish the race and get that little kettle in my sweaty grip. Aspen said ‘Only 8 more miles!’ ‘7.5 miles’ I corrected her. Mentally, I was not gonna give up that half mile.

I had spent too much time standing in one place at Bluff and paid for it as I tried to exit. My left leg was almost incapacitated at this point. I yelped out loud during those first few hundred feet, then gradually focused that energy into a loping gait. It was only 2.5 miles to the next aid station, and by now the race had become a handful of bite-sized pieces. I entered another open grassy section and noticed a couple of the 100-milers making their way towards me. The second one was Mark, shirtless and running strong. I wasn’t expecting him on this part of the course and assumed he must have had some trouble. We exchanged a few encouraging words in passing, and Mark went on about the lightning storm. ‘I got kids, man! It’s not worth it!'

I reached Tamarack (57.8) around half-past 7, to the applause of a very friendly and able aid station crew. We traded some wit as one of them snapped a photo of me, my weathered form pacing back and forth in front of the aid table because I was afraid to stop. I downed a few banana pieces and proceeded along a tree-lined path, knowing the finish line was now within reach. ‘Five miles. I can do five miles’, I convinced myself aloud, over and over. ‘Four miles. I can do four miles.’

I struggled through the final PUD section, walking the downhills with my left leg straight as a kickstand. With two miles to go, the terrain began to soften, and I continued with my vocal self-encouragement. At this point, it felt almost natural to talk to myself. I had no music or companionship, only some rhythmic respiration and a few babbling words of support from my imaginary pacer. With about a half mile to go I instinctively turned around to find Adam closing in on me. I simply dropped my head and laughed. It was a fitting conclusion to a frustrating day. His fifth gear was spinning nicely, and he soon disappeared into the woods ahead of me.

I began to hear voices other than my own, hinting that I was closing in on the finish. I rounded the last corner to find Aspen standing there holding Nick, and I immediately burst into tears when the weight of what I had just accomplished struck me like a trunk. I crossed the line with virtually nothing left in the tank and struggled to maintain my poise in the face of unfathomable exhaustion. The man I had asked for prayer was there, congratulating me on finishing the race, and I thanked him for remembering me.

The skies slowly reopened to unleash a final watery onslaught, and I lay on my back in the grass, offering my remains to any moisture I could absorb while others sought shelter. I closed my eyes for a moment and sensed the ground beginning to spin. Aspen helped me to my feet, and I made my way to my parents' RV, where I sat on the steps in a stupor with a bag of ice on my head and a couple bottles of water to empty. Gradually my condition began to worsen, and my teeth and fingers started to tingle. Recognizing from past experience the impending signs of heat exhaustion, I asked Aspen to find someone to help me before things got out of hand. She returned with a registered nurse who introduced herself as Ann. I asked her last name and she said ‘Heaslett, I’m Timo’s wife.’ I replied in a grateful haze, ‘Ah, I know you; you’re a legend!’ She chuckled bashfully and proceeded to carry me through the aftermath by returning with a cot and a blanket. I lay there as wave after wave of heat trauma coursed through my body. On the peaks I was craving a fat slice of pizza; in the troughs I wanted to throw up. Eventually, Aspen had to leave to get Nick to bed, and Dad helped me into the RV, where I lay down on a foldout bed. Ann returned later to check on my recovery, and I related that I hadn’t yet received my kettle. She excused herself and returned moments later with Timo, who ceremoniously presented me with the distinctive award like a general bestowing a Purple Heart upon a dying soldier. I smiled incoherently, cupping my trophy like a magic lamp. I’m not sure what I said in response, unable to fully express my gratitude with dialogue, but I remember managing a few words about returning next year. Was I that delirious?

It was dark when we pulled out of the Nordic parking lot, and I hoped for as much straight road as possible. I lay there under a sleeping bag with the kettle in my hands, knowing I had squashed the voice that begged me to quit several times during the race. The triumph was not in this trinket-sized goblet of copper, but in finally confronting my weaknesses. Even in my battered state, I felt stronger than I had in years. I had received the kettle empty, but it was now full.

For those interested in the race stats:

Finish: 13:56:31 [Officially 14th out of 38; much deeper in the field of all 100K finishers. Many of the 100 milers dropped at Nordic (Mile 62.9) and were given credit for 100K.]

100K

Entrants: 72
Starters: (will update when info becomes available)
Participants reported at Scuppernong (mile 31.4): 59
Finishers: 38
Percent Finished: (will update when info becomes available)
Winner: Christine Crawford, 38, Whitewater, WI, 11:08:12

100M

Entrants: 123
Starters: (will update when info becomes available)
Participants reported at Scuppernong (mile 31.4): 114
Participants reported at Nordic (mile 62.9): 81
Finishers: 37
Percent Finished: (will update when info becomes available)
Winner: Joel Eckberg, 37, Downers Grove, IL, 18:10:07 (Mark Tanaka 2nd, 20:39:37)

Weather (highs for June 7, 2008)
Temperature: 88˚F
Humidity: 86%
Dew Point: 70

Course overview: Caution, it's a big 'un!

The Half-Full Kettle

2008-06-12T20:52:00.003-06:00

Crazy. Brutal. Exacting.

I hope my upcoming post will be able to capture the essence that is Kettle. I know what they mean now.

Currently compiling various photos of the event and will have the adventure online soon.

Webcast from Kettle Moraine 100

2008-06-06T13:00:00.013-06:00

In my last-minute preparations for tomorrow's 100K, I discovered that the race committee is providing a live web feed with current standings, checkpoint updates, blog entries, even photo galleries! With a forecast high of 88 and humidity around 85%, you can watch me crash and burn in real time!

This year's 100-miler sets 2007 winner Mark Tanaka against runner-up Joe Kulak. I can't make any predictions on that one. However, I'm fairly confident that the overall winner of the 100K will be Whitewater's Christine Crawford, who placed fourth overall in the 100-miler last year. She had a 100K split time of 10:50:50, much faster than my own estimated finishing time of 11:30. Last year's 100K winner Kevin Setnes (9:56:08) hasn't shown up on the entrants list, but he may be an unpublished entry. After all, he did create this race.

As I sit here sweating at the desk of my parents' computer, I wonder how my desert-tuned body will handle this soggy air. I guess the webcast will let you know before my race report will. See you on the other side. (Hmmm, the town's tornado alarm just sounded. Interesting.)

Race Report: Getting My Money's Worth at Gateway

2008-06-01T14:25:00.061-06:00

Getting ‘Rev. A’ of a product is like a double-edge sword. You’re the first on the block to have a ‘whats-it’, but you’re also the guinea pig upon which all future revisions of the gadget are built. The same could be said about the first draft of the Sky Pass Trail Marathon in Gateway, Colorado. I signed up on a whim and was unsuccessful in luring any of my friends to tackle the long drive for an unprecedented trail marathon. The race was sponsored by Gateway Canyons Resorts, a burgeoning getaway about 45 minutes southwest of Grand Junction. Race Director Luke Reece built this one from the ground up, supplying prospective entrants with detailed course maps and profiles, barely 2-D facsimiles of what was to come.

I made the solo trip from Denver on a bunch of podcasts from Endurance Planet and a gutful of pre-race jitters. The sun had dropped behind the cliffs of Unaweep Canyon before I could reach the sleepy town of Gateway, a smattering of tired cabins and other relics from a bygone era. Just downstream were the resort grounds, oddly modern and amenity-rich, ripe with optimism.

I had booked a room at the Gateway Trading Post, and made several passes through the old town at a decreasing rate of speed, finally parking in front of what appeared to be an antique shop with a gaping front door and the lights on inside. Before me was a row of four rooms, possibly a couple mobile homes connected end to end. A Trans Am was parked in front, doors open, and fiesta music blasted forth, amplified by the cliffs surrounding the town. ‘This cannot be the place’, I muttered to myself. This was the place. As I prepared to write off a good night’s sleep, a middle-aged man standing at a campfire near the rooms started in my direction. As he got closer, he called out, ‘You Kirk?’ ‘Yeah!’, I replied. ‘Runnin’ kinda late aren’t ya?’ I explained that I left Denver in the middle of rush hour and didn’t expect the trip to take me this long. ‘Well, I got the room all ready for ya’. He directed me where to park and how to get there, right next to the Trans Am. Several RVs, whose occupants appeared to be stoking the campfire, were scattered about the property. I’ve since forgotten the gentleman’s name, but I solicited from him a brief account of the town, which involved uranium mining, an Indian school, and a trading post that survives as the only business in the old town. He then invited me to join him and the other tenants at the campfire, who had been here a month or so, cashing in on the rapid expansion of the resort. I politely declined and retired to my room, while the thirsty traveler in me wanted to christen the next round of beers.

The room was like any other $50/night stay I’ve experienced: Lots of paneling, mismatched shag carpeting, and a resident daddy longlegs in the bathroom sink. To my relief, once I arranged my gear on the second bed and slipped into my own, the outside ruckus disappeared behind the wall-mounted AC. Since the race was to start at 8AM, I set my alarm for 4 and lined up my customary breakfast on the nightstand. When the time arrived, I even managed a photo, despite several previous unsuccessful undertakings where I looked like hell.

As expected, I was the first to rise in the hodgepodge camp, and I made my way to the resort, about a mile down the road. Registration was swift, but the race was to start another ten miles further south. I had given myself a fair amount of time, so the drive was leisurely and without sound. A couple tents on the left signaled the close proximity of the starting line, and I made a right turn toward a minor commotion in a rudimentary dirt lot.

Immediately recognizable on the side of the dusty two-track was Bernie Boettcher, squatting precariously close to a desert wildflower, digital point-and-shoot in hand. It was only fitting that while everone else stood nervously in line at the single porta-potty, Bernie was taking pictures of flora. I pulled in behind another car and slipped out to survey the scene while squeezing in a couple last-minute stretches. I looked up for a moment to catch Bernie admiring my ‘TRLRNNR’ license plates. ‘Nice plates. Mind if I take a picture?’ ‘No, go ahead! By the way, I’m a big fan of your writing.’ I say this because I know he has many fans, but all may not know he is also quite a gifted color writer, most notably for Trail Runner Magazine. Someday, maybe I’ll get a ‘Hey, Kirk! That raggedy red bandanna you always wear to races is a real inspiration to me’. Maybe not.

Kirk and Bernie - all smiles before the race

As is customary, I sized up the competition. Hmm, the guy standing near the water cooler tent looks pretty fast. I exchanged greetings with a few runners, although Bernie was the only guy I recognized at first. The actual start of the race was 0.2 mile up the road, and Luke periodically interrupted the reggae music blasting over the portable PA to ensure that we were ready when the race was to start. I chatted briefly with Scott Shine from Montrose, the guy whom I remarked earlier as ‘looking fast’. The race was shortly underway, and Bernie broke out to an early lead, with Scott on his heels. I hung around the middle of the pack, testing the waters as the hierarchy began to take shape. The course followed Salt Creek with an average grade of about 3%, perfect for a slow-starter like myself. Looking at the final standings and then remembering who was in front of me, I’d say that the positions for the faster runners of the group were cemented within the initial mile of the course, although I did my best to mess with the mix. At about Mile 2, I caught up to a shirtless Jim Mykelby, a 63-year-old legend from Leadville. We ran together until the first aid station at Mile 4.2. I noticed that a handful of runners were making gains on us, including Meg Tomcho, so I wished Jim luck and moved on. I started pulling away from this ‘chase group’ and had my sights set on the runner in front of me. At this point I had 5th place in hand and made strides to catch the 4th place guy.

The segment between the 1st and 2nd aid stations was a gentle two-track stretch with a grade of about 4%, transitioning into a cobbly climb up a wash pointing toward a distinct cliffline. Unlike Fruita, where I was in ‘conservation mode’ from the start, I allowed my heart rate to climb into the 170s, running with almost reckless abandon. That Coke I chugged before the race probably didn’t help! I wondered how long I would be able to redline in this environment, especially since I’m no ship of the desert. I reached the 2nd aid station at Mile 8.2, signaling the onset of an atrocious climb. This section was about the width of an ATV, with a small gully bisecting it into two clumsy paths. I chose to hike this leg, bouncing from side to side, whichever offered the least resistance. Soon I reached a flatter section rounding a hillside, and I could hear the gnashing of gears as an elderly gentleman maneuvered a tricked-out Jeep in my direction. I offered my standard ‘I-can’t-hear-you-over-my-iPod’ greeting as I started a welcome descent. The man said something at the end that I didn’t quite catch, but as I was already enjoying the downhill, it registered only as an afterthought. As the slope continued, I noticed that the prints I had been following suddenly turned from shoe to hoof, and by the time I had realized I missed a turn I had already dropped about 300 feet and covered 0.8 mile. I retraced my steps in disgust, certain I had mangled my odds on a top-5 finish.

A while later, there it was, the right turn I had missed because I was more focused on the oncoming vehicle. I joined a group of several who were laboring up the next steep section. I passed seven runners in this short span and wondered how many lie ahead. At this point my current self-depreciating frame of mind pushed me to the apex of the course, with the promise of an extended downhill section. At the top was an aid station at Mile 10.7 (12.5), manned by a trio of obliging volunteers, including the older four-wheeler guy. As I was filling my handheld, I playfully interrogated him with ‘You were telling me I made a wrong turn, weren’t you?’ ‘Yep.’ He stated with a wry grin on his face. I asked the aid station registrar for my current place. ‘11th, and there’s a few just in front of you’.

I thanked them and darted off along a wiry singletrack through a grassy meadow. By then, I was thinking a top ten finish would be nice. Within a few minutes I could see Jim making his way up a short ascent, within striking distance of two more runners. He was a bit surprised to see me, and I explained my temporary spaceout. We then struggled to negotiate a section of the trail that crossed private land, where the landowners had converted several hundred yards of this former thoroughfare into an obstacle course, forcing us to hurdle deadwood like steeplechasers. After leaving Jim, I passed two more runners, landing me in 8th place, before the course began its decline toward the finish. The next few miles through lush greenery were to be the most enjoyable of the entire race. My legs were literally flying from beneath me as I clicked off a few sub-7:00 minute miles in succession. Several times I struggled for control in the most deceptive of muddy sections, where balance was frequently interrupted by slippery sidesteps. Still, I picked up two more spots during this time - 6th place. The end of the gravity cruise came too soon, however, forcing me once again into the throes of the high desert.

The course followed a semi-improved dirt road through sagebrush and juniper, the ambient temps climbing in earnest as I crossed a mild highpoint with a view of the bluffs cradling the Dolores River below. Again the familiar race flagging disappeared and the shoe prints were replaced by critter tracks. I stopped and spun wildly, searching in vain for another runner, surveying the surrounding hillsides for any sign of movement. My gaze soon became fixed upon a runner further down the road. It was Meg, performing the same fruitless act of desperation. I scurried to meet her, and we commiserated for a moment or two, deciding to press forward in the supposed direction of the finish line. In retrospect, the smartest course of action probably should have been to return to familiar terrain, but at the time the thought of moving anywhere but downhill was not a very convincing one. Meg was noticeably frustrated and rightfully so; she had the women’s win in the bag. My placement hopes disappeared quickly after this second mishap, so my objective at this point was to find the finish line intact. The pressure was off, and I welcomed a new adventure.

We decided to stay together until rejoining the course, further straying from the proper route. Eventually, we found ourselves off trail and making our way through an old burn area, the carcasses of thousands of trees strewn about, preventing any kind of rhythm. At the time I thought our best strategy was to follow a drainage which appeared to lead in the direction we should be traveling. I gradually banked to the right toward a ridge, and beyond it lay an improved dirt road, painfully separated from us by a 50-ft cliff! Undaunted, we decided to stick to the cliffline as we descended toward the river valley below. We would revisit this ledge once more before abandoning our attempts to travel south. Instead, we followed a cluttered drainage that funneled into a short bouldery section. Once beyond the rocks, that same road came back into view, and about 100 yards later we were embracing it like two seasick boaters stepping onto a pier. However, our adventure was far from over. A pickup truck was parked about 200 feet to the south, and I ran towards it, hoping to find the owner inside. No such luck. Returning to where Meg was standing, we decided to head north, alternating between a slow jog and power hike. The road began to pitch to the left and climb steadily back toward the cliffs we had just left behind. Finally, our bearing just didn’t ‘feel right’ and we started to second-guess our decision to travel in this direction, retracing our route back to the south. By now both of us had run out of water, and I had taken the last of my S-Caps. My confidence began to deteriorate when I began to consider the consequences of continuing without precious water, having suffered miserably in the wake of previous miscalculations. Then, as if a prayer had been answered, a pickup truck appeared, pulling an empty horse trailer in our direction. I flagged down the driver who turned out to be a local guy named Dave tending to some livestock with his young teenage son, Caden. I told him we were looking for Gateway, and he replied that we were going the wrong way. He offered us a ride, not entirely to the town but to a junction where we could continue on our own. In my desperation, I eagerly accepted his offer, looking to Meg for confirmation. She seemed equally grateful to be rescued by these Good Samaritans.

Life Savers - Caden and Dave

Each of them offered their canteens to us, which again were gladly received. The vessels were covered in a variegated cowhide and filled with the sweetest nectar I had tasted in a long, long time. As we bounced around in the back of the pickup, I figured we had strayed only a mile or so, until the second, then third mile ticked off. ‘Wow, we were really off course!’ I remarked to Meg, and we occasionally exchanged incredulous glances as the ride wore on. Finally, after four or so miles, Dave pulled over and we jumped out, eyeing a couple runners to our left, descending a roadcut from the ridgeline. I had long since emptied Caden’s canteen, and apologized for returning it to him empty. We thanked these trail angels profusely and then made our way toward the junction that Dave had promised, thinking we were in a stone’s throw of the finish line. I noticed a vehicle parked there, and then the familiar blue of large water containers on a collapsible table. ‘Uh, I hope this isn’t the 19.5-mile aid station.’ It was the 19.5 mile aid station! We still had almost seven miles to go! I looked at my GPS – 28.5 miles!

A couple runners were refueling here, with the help of a friendly volunteer named Pearl. We began to relate our incredible tale while tanking up for the last arduous drop into Gateway, with no particular haste. The wind had long left my sails, and the only comfort in continuing was knowing that the last seven miles would be downhill. I asked Meg if she was able to finish on her own, and upon her go-ahead, I took off toward the finish. Only, the first few miles were not ‘cruising-with-a-smile-on-my-face-downhills’, but feet-slapping, brake applying, quad-blasting downhills. I simply had nothing left for those kind of slopes. I passed a couple runners on my way down, but in the wake of the preceding taxi ride, the victories were small and empty. The grade began to mellow, and I took the opportunity to coast into the finish.

With about two miles to go I caught up to Beverly Carver, a 49-year-old road runner from Colorado Springs. I decided I would stay with her until through the end of the race, hoping I could be a good motivator. We completed the course together to the applause of the finishers lounging in the grass beneath a grove of behemoth cottonwood trees. Once word got around that I had just completed a 35-mile marathon, Luke walked over and I shared my two miscues in mock frustration. I could tell he had already been compiling a mental punchlist for next year. After a few more runners crossed the line, he announced that we would be getting a reduced price for next year’s race. No matter. I would have paid full-price for another chance to also make things right. Besides, I figure I’ve already gotten my miles at a discount!

Race course details - Wait, you said this was a marathon.

Missed Turns: The New Gateway Drug

2008-05-18T21:41:00.002-06:00

Everyone was tiring of my 'things-went-perfect' race reports, anyway. Stay tuned for the details on one of my most adventurous trail races ever! The wheels never fell off, but the steering went bad. Coming soon.....

The Circle of Love

2008-05-15T13:41:00.019-06:00

As Nick’s first birthday approaches, I’m increasingly reminded of how blessed I am to be a father. I was reading Aspen’s note in her Mother’s Day card, confessing that “I didn’t realize how much you loved me until I became a mom”. I’ve been repeatedly playing that profound line in my head for the last few days, confident that no greater compliment could be made to one’s parent.

Being a dad has broken me as a once selfish and independent spirit. I used to snicker to myself seeing Aspen getting all choked up over some couple having a baby on the Discovery Channel; now I am sharing the Kleenex, reliving Nick’s first cry (‘un-Guyyyyyyyyy, un-Guyyyyyyyy’) like it was yesterday. I can finally appreciate the connection between us and these unknown parents in their time of bliss.

My transformation to fatherhood was much more natural than I had expected, and I attribute this to age (40) and maturity (for the most part), as if the years of independence were preparing me for something greater than I could comprehend. The bond between Nick and I was instant, like two childhood friends reuniting for good. It grew into something even greater, and I’m not sure if my love for this little guy will ever be matched with words.

Sometimes the simple thought of him brings grateful tears to my eyes, and there are nights in the dim light of his room as he’s cradled in my arms, when the joy of having a child becomes almost overwhelming. It is during these moments I pray that no harm ever comes to him, or that I'll always be able to protect him. Now, I know that being an omnipresent father is unrealistic, because he will undoubtedly inherit the scrapes and bruises of his dad. But in those times when he stumbles, I will be there to apply the band-aids.

Here, Keety, Keety.

2008-05-13T09:38:00.011-06:00

The following YouTube video was filmed in 2004 by a tourist named David Budzinski while on safari at Kruger National Park in eastern South Africa. Normally I’m not into natural selection cinema, which is why I can’t watch most episodes of shows like Planet Earth. But this vid was so captivating, I felt it worthy to post for the three people who haven’t yet seen it. It was such a bizarre glimpse of nature that National Geographic recently re-digitized the footage and parlayed the eight-minute clip into an hour-long documentary.

Postscript:

Here’s some more info I thought would add some insight to the video:

-Mr. Budzinski filmed the action from a safari tour vehicle occupied by several others, including a guide. They were staged in a parking lot next to a popular watering hole, ready to call it a day. The rest of the tour vehicles had left the area before this scene began to unfold, and the guide suggested they wait a while to see what would ensue. Mr. Budzinski would have missed much of the action if the other tourists had not instructed him where to point his camcorder, since his peripheral vision was limited by the device.

-All of the lions in the video were around three years old and weighed approximately 300 lbs. each. The reason they didn’t rip this poor calf to shreds is because lions kill their prey by either clamping down on the neck or over the face to suffocate the victim. The lions were likely exhausted from playing tug-of-war with a 600-lb. crocodile and did not have the energy to thwart the Cape buffalo attack. They released their grip on the calf’s throat long enough for it to call out, alerting the rest of the herd to return.

-You’ll notice that all of the punishment was dispensed by only one of the buffaloes.

What the Hail???

2008-05-09T14:02:00.017-06:00

I’m fortunate in that my employer allows me to work from home one day per week. That day is Thursday, and I look forward to it because I don’t have to make the hour-long commute into the city and can perform my job in my bathrobe if I want to. It also affords me a full day with unGuy and a rare daylight run, and I bank my hours during the other four days of the week to allow me this luxury. Yesterday, I decided to split from my afternoon routine and go for a jaunt in the morning instead. The sun was out, and the temp was around 50 – perfect for an easy neighborhood excursion. I gave unGuy a warm bottle and strapped him in the BOB, affixed the shield accessory to the stroller and began my circuitous route through the outer reaches of our neighborhood. The roads were still a bit muddy from recent rain and I found myself powerhiking a fair amount just to keep my heart rate in check. About seven miles in, I was starting to tire, so I decided to end my run using the shortest distance possible. Thankfully, our area is comprised of a series of intersecting loops, so I can change my course on the fly if I want to.

While navigating this shortcut, I noticed the clouds beginning to build overhead, further lending to my decision to call it a day. However, the speed at which the sky began to darken became increasingly disconcerting. I started picking up the pace, ignoring the high heartrate alarm pulsing from my Garmin. As I was climbing a steep section I sensed a rushing sound in front of me that diverted my attention from the road to the landscape beyond, and what I saw was a curtain of white, advancing on me like an angry mob. It was starting to hail. At first, I reveled in this freakish front, crying out ‘No way!’ in an incredulous, almost childish tone of voice as the deluge increased in intensity. Soon, the stings peppering my head and arms became too much to bear, and I crouched beneath the little shelter the stroller had to offer as the hailstones grew from peas to marbles. I nervously scanned my surroundings, with seemingly no refuge in sight. To the right, a cliffside, hail pouring off its lips and accumulating in pyramid-shaped piles below. To the left, a drop-off and no place to push a stroller. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. Lighting clapped around me, and never mind that 5-second distance theory – I had to find cover fast. By now the hail had completely blanketed the ground, and I pushed further up the hill while I still could. Chin buried deep into my chest, I pressed onward, feeling a warm sensation in my shoulders seconds before a bolt struck nearby. I felt exposed and vulnerable, and I decided that getting under a tree would be the lesser of two evils. About 100 yards later I came upon a driveway with a welcoming conifer nearby. I raced towards this giant and came to a stop completely out of breath through a mix of exertion and hyperventilation. This incredible episode had unfolded in a matter of 3-4 minutes. I quickly poked my head around to the front of the stroller, expecting to find unGuy wailing uncontrollably. He was not. In fact, in typical unGuy fashion, he appeared to be enjoying himself.

As quickly as it had come, the storm front pushed eastward and the sun began to seep through the cloudcover. I hesitantly slipped out from beneath the tree and returned to the road. I could only walk as if pushing a sled, pristine ice bearings collapsing under the weight of the stroller, and I was still about 1.5 miles from home. Finally, I arrived at the house, the BOB covered in pine needles and snowy aggregate, unGuy looking none the worse for wear. The squall had barely glanced our property but managed to pummel an area only an earshot away. My hands were so cold I could barely unclip my son from his harness, and I began to absorb the gravity of what had just occurred. Even now as I write this, the anxiety of that brief ordeal is a persistent afterthought, and I suppose I’ll be ordering a home weather station before the day is through.

Ground Zero. Looks kinda flat from space. It's not.

If I Could Save Pee In a Bottle

2008-05-07T17:31:00.013-06:00

Aspen and I live in one of those neighborhoods with a single road feeding a dozen or so less-traveled roads. The main drag is curvy with posted speed limits of around 30MPH, making the 3-mile trip from the highway to our house seem like an eternity when you’re in a hurry. Of course, while driving that slow, you’re afforded temporary glances of neighbors’ spreads, dogs, horses and other farm animals, and the occasional elk or deer grazing nearby. Sadly, the views are coupled with the errant unsightly home or derelict property. I suppose they start to become part of the scenic woodwork after a while. Creating quite the opposite effect was the amount of roadside trash that began to surface when the snow started to melt. Once Aspen brought it to my attention, trash started popping up out of nowhere on this stretch, diverting our attention from the road and threatening the promise of any future houseguests. Finally, one day we decided to stop complaining about it and put our words into action, choosing a well-traveled 1.5-mile section of the main road and setting out to collect all of the trash on its shores. I put unGuy in the backpack and we parked our car on the side of the road with a sign stating ‘Trash Pickup Ahead’. We decided to work in tandem, combing one side of the road and then returning on the other. The task began in earnest, as we gleefully upheld our self-appointed roles as refuse stewards, joking about who would be the first to stumble on a dead body or porno magazine. About two hours and seven or eight full trash bags later, the novelty had worn off and the end of our journey couldn’t have felt more distant. But, shortly before our car came into view, a woman stopped to thank us for our efforts, reviving our spirits and serving as just reward for our voluntary deed. We didn’t find any corpses or porno, but I did learn a thing or two about the demographics of our neighborhood:

Someone:

likes to drink and drive, beverage of choice being Miller High Life 40s. We found about 15 of these scattered throughout the 1.5-mile stretch, each in their own bag, and the bottle was always partially filled with beer or other undesirable liquid;

smokes a LOT of hard pack Marlboro Lights;

drinks a bunch of this beverage called ‘Talking Rain’ but can never finish the bottle;

chews that bottom-shelf tobacco Husky and spits into a beer or soda bottle, whatever’s available;

likes to eat a small bag of chips and drink a 20-oz. soda while driving, finishing off the snack by rolling up the chip bag like a joint and stuffing it into the empty bottle before throwing it out the window;

has a Lhasa Apso named ‘Milly’; and

named ‘Sharon’ had a birthday in December.

Except for several lipstick-coated cigarette butts and maybe Sharon, I’d be willing to wager that the rest of the repetitive trash was borne by men. Slobs. Regardless, we’re delaying the unglamorous task of separating the trash from the recyclables until our stomachs have had a chance to recuperate. For now, the shoulders of this short segment are free of litter, bounded on either end by more trash-riddled roadway, and no one to scour its banks. I have a feeling we’ll be scavenger hunting again soon.

Crazy for Swedgin and Co.

2008-04-29T12:06:00.007-06:00

About a month ago Aspen returned from the local video store with a free rental, the first installment of the HBO series Deadwood. I hadn't heard of the show, but the cover of DVD case looked interesting, and hey, I appreciate a good western. The opening few minutes of dialogue featuring actor Ian McShane (as saloon keeper Al Swearengen) was an eye opener, as the ‘F’ bomb, the ‘C’ word and many other expletives spewed forth from his lips in rapid succession. But there was one slang term that totally blew me away; an expression among many I didn’t know even existed back then; a word I can’t type here to maintain my PG-13 rating. The only clue I can give is that it rhymes with stocktrucker. I joked with Aspen that we should make a game out of this show, where we'd have to take a drink every time that word is spoken. I'm sure I’d be passed out before the closing credits.

I soon found myself captivated by the plot lines and the seemingly accurate portrayal of this lawless mining town in Dakota Territory, circa 1877. I imagined Main Street Deadwood as a cesspool of mud, where murder victims were fed to a Chinese guy’s pigs, and even the most unkempt spoke the Queen’s English. After that first DVD, I opened our Netflix account and placed the entire first season in the queue. That wasn’t enough, and we returned to the rental store for the second season. I began to work on my breathy Seth Bullock impression with fervor (as played by Timothy Olyphant), ‘I…..am….going….for…a…RUN!!’ When not aping this over-the-top performance, I was conversing with my wife using such phrases as ‘Let us retire to our bedroom quarters – post haste!’ or ‘Might I have a word with you regarding the odiferousness of our repast?’ I found myself humming the opening theme song in the shower, and tipping my invisible hat to local townfolk. I was hooked.

We just finished Season 2, and I can’t wait to see where the storyline will go from here, as this frontier soap opera continues to unfold. I can only wish that the gold didn’t play out so soon.

Race Report: Desert R.A.T.S. 50-Miler - My First Ultra

2008-04-23T13:45:00.068-06:00

The Desert R.A.T.S (Race Across The Sand) Festival in Fruita, Colorado was started in 2003 (originally the Spring Desert Ultra, or SDU, as it's still affectionately named) with a 25-mile race (in almost a single loop) and a 50-mile race (in which one follows the 25-mile course, then its reverse). Dave had been encouraging me to forego Greenland Trail this year and try the SDU instead. It happened to fall somewhere on the uphill climb towards Kettle in June, and I figured it would let me know if I was worthy of such extended distances. I naively registered for the 50-miler and was confident my training would come together in kind. But in the closing days before the festival, I found myself approaching my first ultra with increasing apprehension and downright fear. After all, I had run my previous longest distance only five weeks earlier at the Salida Trail Marathon and had since logged a piddly 80 miles of training. Suffering terrible heat-related mishaps in previous warm-weather events left me skittish over the predicted temperature highs in Fruita, which increased incrementally on a daily, or even hourly basis into the high 70s the week before the race. Also, I had been noticing some pain in my left forefoot, most likely from the XT Wings, which have seemingly sacrificed some width to allow for a more beefy shoe. And mentally, I just couldn’t picture myself gutting out those extra 24 miles. Was I too optimistic when building this year’s race calendar, or would my ‘at-least-my-body-is-well-rested’ excuse prove to save my sorry butt once again? I would soon find out.

It was late Friday morning when Dave, Jamie Dawson and I met at the Wooly Mammoth parking lot off of I-70, near Morrison. They piled their gear, including an ample stock of chilly microbrews, into the back of my Outback for a 4-5-hour trip. The I-70 corridor was enjoying a rare cloudless sky as we sped towards Fruita, just a few miles northwest of Grand Junction. I was fortunate that Dave had booked a room at the La Quinta months ago, and he was more than willing to let me crash on its second bed. Jamie and the rest of Dave’s training group of fifteen were also staying at the hotel. Friday night we enjoyed a Mexican dinner with a portion of this group, all of whom were running the 25-miler the following day. I joked with them about beer IVs and leaving a pretty corpse. Finally, one asked me if I was nervous about running the 50, and I responded with a relieved ‘Yeah’, as if my demeanor could no longer keep up the upbeat façade.

That night I tried to sleep with the notion of a DNF permeating my every thought. I forcibly banished those negative images and instead pictured myself pulling it off. Despite the paucity of mileage, I had made some preparations for the race: I started taking salt caps regularly a few days before the event; I looked up last year’s results, picked an upper-mid-pack finisher, and wrote his splits on my handheld as a reference; I prepared serving-size amounts of my favorite drink powder (Vitalyte) and fuel (Cran-Razz Shot Bloks); and, in addition to my usual playlist of Podrunner mixes, I set up a series of songs on my iPod that I knew would inspire me if I was having trouble.

I had also set some loosely-specific goals for myself. I’ve seen other runners do this, and thought it was a great way to stay positive in a race by mentally checking off each goal. These were (in order of increasing difficulty): 1) Complete the first loop, 2) Finish the race, 3) Finish in the top 20, 4) Finish in the top 15. That’s as far as I was willing to go.

The morning arrived quickly as the fuzzy 4:45 on the alarm clock came into focus. Dave was upbeat as usual, and we each performed our race day preparations with nervous excitement. I wisely decided to run in my Salomon XA Pro 3Ds instead of the XT Wings today.

The starting line was just outside the tiny berg of Mack, Colorado, short of the Utah border, and we appeared to be one of the later groups to arrive. I adjusted my gear and cued up my iPod to start off with the ‘Feelgood’ playlist, while throwing a stick for a fellow-runners dog. Dave came over to wish me luck, and he, Jamie and I lined up somewhere in the middle of the pack. The race timer counted off the seconds, and then we were shuffling southeast down a dirt road. The road began to climb, ending at a fenceline after about a mile, then reduced to singletrack (called the Moore Fun Trail) for the next five miles, until the first aid station at about six miles. I decided to take it easy on this first leg and even stopped a couple times to get some photos. However, something had caked up the lens on my BB, and the photos turned out cloudy. It would be the last time I used it (hence the lack of pics in this post). I walked most of the uphills in this section, patiently allowing runners to pass me as necessary. The remaining mile or so into the first aid station was mainly downhill, and I started passing runners who were putting on the brakes in the cobbly terrain. I looked ahead briefly to see Dave, a strong downhiller, stuck behind a block of tentative descenders. Seconds later he broke free and was pulling away quickly. I met up with him at the first aid station and we ran the next few miles together. Also at this time, I caught up to Chris Boyack, who had finished only a few seconds behind me at Salida. I knew we would be seeing more of each other as the day wore on. At Mile 7, we reached the start of about three miles of trail along the sandstone rim of Horsethief Canyon above the Colorado River. I felt great. The trail hugged the edge of the canyon, darting eastward into several slot canyons. These little offshoots were deceiving in that you were within a stone’s throw of a runner on the opposite side but may be a half-mile or more behind them. I remember smiling as I ran past the race photographer as Kool and the Gang’s ‘Celebration’ blasted in my earbuds. Now I knew what Dave was talking about.

About midway through this ribbon-like section, I was faced with an entirely foreign dilemma – I had to pee. This was the first time ever in a race and I wasn’t sure where the appropriate spot should be - Behind that bush? Just off the trail? What are the rules here? Finally, I came across a re-entrant and scrambled up to a healthy juniper to unload. I could hear the muffled slapping of feet as at least five or six runners clipped by. I reemerged to join the traffic, just a few steps behind Dave. I had earlier assumed he was in front of me when in fact he had also been off answering nature’s call.

The rim portion of the trail would intersect two more aid stations (Pizza Overlook at 9.1 miles and Crossroads at 12.2) before the long haul through Salt Creek Valley. I began to push a little harder, testing my limits as the morning’s gentle breeze lofted cool air from the Colorado. I was downing three S-Caps an hour by now, and pounding the Shot Bloks. I was filling my handheld at every aid station and mixing in the Vitalyte servings each time. I also had a half-full hydration bladder in my HPL#020, which I alternated with the handheld. Water, salt, Shot Bloks, Vitalyte – this four-course meal seemed to be working well, for now.

Shortly before the Troybuilt aid station (Mile 19.2), I caught up to Jamie. By now I had emptied my hydration bladder and had the volunteer refill it halfway. I also started adding items from the buffet table to my regimen (another new frontier) – bananas, at first.

Jamie and I began the slog up Mack Ridge. This was a two-track, cobbly ‘road’ that appeared to have recently been crudely graded. It was a climb for about two miles with some brief downhill sections. At Mile 21 the trail began to descend, and I knew this was to be the final drop into the end of the first loop. At about Mile 23 I passed 50-miler frontrunners Allen Belshaw and Ryan Burch on their second pass through the course. Those guys were really hauling ass!

Finally, I was back on the dirt road within a mile of the start line and 50-mile turnaround. I passed a runner who appeared to be struggling to knock off those last few hundred yards. He looked familiar, and the instant I recalled who he was, I heard my name from behind, ‘Kirk!’ I turned around, ‘Jorge! How are you doin’, man?’ Jorge was in Dave’s training group, and I had just met him at dinner the night before. He was suffering from severe cramps (and I heard later he had been dealing with them for the last nine miles). I encouraged him to keep running and not to stop, as it appeared that he was in a great deal of pain, which would only intensify the longer he was on the course. I verbally poked him along and said that I wouldn’t leave him behind. Soon he was pulling ahead and then accelerating toward the finish line. ‘Jor-ge! Jor-ge!’

I crossed a few seconds behind him and made my way over to my drop bag, restocking the ‘Bloks and scarfing down some items at the aid table. Wow, I had made it halfway! It would be so easy to call it a day and cheer on the 25-milers as they finished for the day. However, there was a niggling voice inside that said I was still running well and quitting now would be a cop out. Off I went. I crossed paths with Dave about a quarter mile out. He looked strong and fast (and would later PR in the 25-miler by 19 minutes!)

I could feel the temps starting to climb as I retraced the terrain I had just covered. I spotted one guy in front of me and one or two behind as I climbed Mack Ridge. For a while, no one seemed to be losing any ground or making gains. That is, until it was time to head back down the ridge. I threw caution to the wind and let myself ‘fall’ on the downhills, catching Sandy White just before the Troybuilt aid station (officially Mile 30.2, but more like Mile 32 according to my GPS). I spent a couple minutes here scarfing down banana fragments and even some potato chips. Sandy left a few seconds in front of me and I was able to catch up shortly thereafter, where we spent the next couple miles introducing ourselves and talking about upcoming races. At around 34 miles, Sandy motioned for me to go ahead because he was starting to ‘not feel that great’. I powered on, keeping an eye over my shoulder to ensure that I was continuing to pull away. I came upon two more runners shortly before Crossroads (38.7). One was limping badly and when asked if he needed anything, he said ‘Yeah, a helicopter!’ The other complained about being ‘chicked’ (passed by a girl) and also did not appear to be in any hurry. All of them joked about the layer of salt that was now encrusting my face (can you use the word ‘encrust’ without mentioning salt? Probably not). Despite my ghostly appearance, I was suffering no heat-related issues whatsoever. However, the gaiter had pulled off of my left shoe and some sand had collected in the shoe or sock. I had to empty it fast because another runner was approaching the station whom I assumed was Sandy. It was Chris. He had pushed the last five miles pretty hard which helped him pass a bunch of runners. He was in and out of the aid station quickly and said, ‘Come on, Kirk!’ motioning me to catch up. I pulled in behind him for a mile or so before the foot started to act up again. I stopped to take a closer look at it, only to discover that it was not sand in my sock, but a blister on the ball of my foot (probably caused by the sand, however). I pulled on the sock and shoe and decided to suck it up.

I caught Chris and then passed him, and we traded spots for a few miles including Pizza Overlook (40.2), where I stopped and once again gorged at the aid table (M&Ms, Coke) before dropping behind Chris again. We were now running the relatively flat section atop Horsethief Canyon. I stayed in Chris’ shadow for the first mile of this leg before pulling ahead yet another time, determined not to waste so much time at the next aid station. I started my descent to the Moore Fun station (Mile 44.1) with another runner in my sights, and when I arrived there the volunteers said that he was a bit incoherent and could be caught easily. With a handful of jellybeans and renewed spirit, I took off after the struggling runner. After a seemingly perfect race I was to make a mistake that would cost me precious time at the finish – I took a wrong turn, not only at a bearing opposite of the actual course, but in the direction of uphill. As I was climbing this offshoot I was searching for shoe prints while convincing myself, ‘This is not the trail. I know this is not the trail!’ I reached a switchback, and turned around to see Chris going the right way, with Sandy on his heels. A couple curse words later I was back on the correct route, realizing I had not only lost two places but a potential third as the runner I had been chasing was now painfully out of reach. Regardless, I shook off the rookie blunder and pressed on. I would later learn that the misturn cost me six minutes and about a half-mile of extra running.

The next couple miles comprised mostly of crawling back up the upturned sandstone slab cradling the Moore Fun trail, and I powerhiked a fair portion of this section, remembering that carefree descent almost 10 hours before. Reaching the top edge of the formation, I began my final descent, first along a short rim overlooking the Colorado before dropping down toward the finish. The wind was blasting over this saddle, and I staggered like a drunk along the brief stretch. Then it was a precipitous plunge to the Moore Fun trailhead. I didn’t want to spoil a stellar 50-miler with a last-minute digger, so I took this segment a bit more conservatively. At last, I was cruising on a dirt road, with the distant glimpse of support tents flapping in a gusty afternoon front. As I was closing in on the finish line, I picked up the faint cheers of the patient few bringing in the 50-milers. I could see Dave making his way to the front, and then Jorge, snapping photos. I had crossed the line in just over 10 hours with a respectable 9th place overall finish.

The next few minutes were a blur as I began to comprehend what I had just accomplished. I didn’t know what to do next. Eat? Drink? Mine the salt on my face? Not having much time to contemplate the process, I snapped out of my funk long enough to hear the name of the next runner to cross the line – Kirk Apt, the guy whose splits adorned my handheld. In mild disbelief, I made my way over to this previous Hardrock and Leadville winner to introduce myself. ‘Recognize these numbers?’ I asked as he relaxed in a lawn chair. ‘Yeah, those are my splits from last year!’ he exclaimed. We exchanged congrats and I returned to my own recovery under the shade of the support tent, dumbfounded by this incredible coincidence.

I asked Dave to drive back to the hotel as I called Aspen to let her know I was OK. She was well aware of my concern over completing the race and was grateful to hear that I didn’t end up in the ER. Returning to the room, I just wanted to take a shower, order a pizza and get a bit of shuteye. I had hoped to later celebrate with Dave and his friends at a local brewpub, but the short nap became a three hour affair, and I had slept through the awards ceremony. Fortunately, Dave was able to collect my medal (3rd, 35-49 age group), which was yet another surprise.

The next morning we ate a large breakfast and made our way back to Denver, and the four hours in the car gave me a few moments to contemplate my performance and look ahead to longer races. If anything, I was encouraged that an ultra isn’t all about speed – because I don’t consider myself a particularly fast runner – but rather about racing smart.....

....and salt!

Course map, complete with landmarks (Note: May take a bit to load)

Working the Dust Bowl

2008-04-10T20:17:00.023-06:00

I apologize for the lack of writing as of late. Free time has recently taken a back seat to some out-of-town work in southeastern Colorado. According to my resume, I’m an environmental geologist, dealing mostly with subsurface investigations and cleanups regarding underground fuel storage tanks (USTs – glamorous, I know). My client for the last seven-plus years has been the U.S. Army at Fort Carson, and I currently manage their UST program, serving as a liaison between the Army and The State of Colorado. Occasionally the job affords me short bursts of fieldwork. I (mostly) look forward to such excuses to ditch the corporate atmosphere, go a day without a shave or a shower, and relive those times as a fresh-faced field technician. Fort Carson manages a rather large training area in southeastern Colorado named Piñon Canyon Maneuver Site (PCMS), where up to 10,000 troops can be employed to simulate full-scale military exercises. The site is also the subject of some regional controversy, as the Army is looking to expand the current size of 237,000 acres to over 650,000 acres. This would include the small cattle town of Hoehne and practically the entire southeastern corner of the state. State Highway 350, which follows the Santa Fe Trail, connecting La Junta and Trinidad, is littered with signs defiantly proclaiming ‘Not 4 Sale to the ARMY’. Whenever fieldwork is required at PCMS, I usually drive from my home in Conifer to Fort Carson and pick up a military vehicle that takes me the rest of the way. Some might consider this a luxury until they sit behind the wheel of a desert tan 1986 Chevy Custom Deluxe pickup. The Army refers to these as Commercial Utility Cargo Vehicles or CUCVs, and have slowly phased them out in favor of the more beefy Humvees. The truck is so loud that I wear earplugs whenever I plan on going more than five miles. At 55 MPH (or whatever speed I’m traveling – the speedometer starts bouncing erratically above 60) the diesel engine winds up so high that you expect it to drop into another gear. It never does. But these things are literally scratch-proof, and you can wash out the cab with a hose. Yet I feel a bit uneasy pushing this moving target through the tumbleweeds of ‘Not-4-Sale-to-the-Army’ land, and I pray that the beast doesn’t die en route.

Two-and-a-half hours later I’ve arrived at PCMS, where a small fraction of the total acreage is occupied by buildings and a full-time civilian staff. My ‘site’ is located just outside of this cantonment area, a stone’s throw east of Hwy 350. Shutting off the CUCV, I usually sit for a few seconds to equilibrate, and the fingers of nature slowly begin to take hold. PCMS lies in the middle of prairie land, home of many species of native and migratory birds, including loggerhead shrikes, meadowlarks, and red-winged blackbirds (wintering in a wetland nearby). A red-tailed hawk patrols the area and several pronghorn graze nearby. The weather out there is very mild this time of year, with very little precipitation. However, a couple days into my last stint, the wind was brutally strong, and one intense microburst liberated an unbound 100-page report from the dash of my truck, scattering the document for hundreds of yards. Another time, I sensed the shadow of the resident hawk soaring overhead, only to discover that it was an empty Safeway bag.

Work days at PCMS are long, sometimes extending into the double-shift range, leaving little opportunity for play. But occasionally I have time to visit a couple sites on the fringes of the property, bounded on the east by the Purgatoire River. One such site is the former pipeline booster station town of Piñon Canyon, for which the installation was named. Among what remains of this mysterious place are the sidewalks leading to dwellings long since removed. A wooden water tower hovers over the pipeworks now void of any oil, and the chainlink backstop in an overgrown baseball field will likely never contain another wild pitch. A dozen or so ranch properties were annexed by the Army when PCMS was incorporated in 1983. A few of the homes were converted into lodging for teams of archaeologists periodically cataloguing Purgatoire Canyon’s vast prehistorical resources. Older buildings have been carefully preserved or restored as evident in some of these photos.

The day soon disappears and I’m rattling my way back to Trinidad, passing through the tenuously-populated towns of Tyrone and Model. Many properties along Hwy 350 are comprised of an adobe structure next to a 1920’s pyramid roof structure next to an inhabited double-wide, as if each successive generation looked at its parents’ house, said ‘eh’, and did their own thing. At the end of the job, I’m likely headed north to the sleepy town of Rocky Ford before pointing west toward Pueblo. Either route home entails a few hours of mental recompression and the promise of a return trip. In fact, I'm headed back in the morning.

Tyrone, Colorado - Population: Ewe

Zoe: The Silent Killer

2008-03-20T10:25:00.018-06:00

We have two dogs, both of which we adopted as puppies from the Denver Dumb Friends League. We got Zoe, a black Lab-Chow mix, in 2001, and Pickle, a black lab/Heinz 57 mix, a year later after learning that most dogs are happier with a playmate. Zoe quickly assumed the alpha position, while Pickle gladly took the sidekick role, shadowing Zoe’s every move. They grew to be very sweet and loyal dogs, but sometimes could not be more tempermentally opposite. Pickle behaves more like a human, while Zoe clings to traits decidedly common to her ancestors: rolling in fresh animal poop or dead carcasses to mask her scent from other predators; preparing a bedding spot for herself if we stop on a hike for longer than 5 minutes; and chasing, catching, and maiming small animals. I once had to kill both a wounded rabbit and a ground squirrel on a single hike. Last night it was a fox. As the sun was setting, the two dogs took off after the creature, which barely eluded capture as it attempted to cross the snowy meadow near our property to the safety of the forest beyond. Our neighbor was able to call Pickle back to us before she reached a barbed-wire fence, while Zoe continued pursuit unfettered. About this time, my parents, my uncle Kevin, and his girlfriend Cindy arrived at our house. An hour went by, then two - no Zoe. My concern for her welfare grew, and then the morbid ‘worse-case scenario’ thoughts became all-consuming as my desire to be a good host deteriorated. I imagined Zoe slicing her stomach on the barbed wire fence, bleeding out in the forest, then being attacked and eaten by a mountain lion. I envisioned myself strapping on snowshoes the next morning, crossing that same meadow and stumbling upon her half-eaten remains in the woods. Something must have happened to her, I convinced myself. Finally, I slipped out of the house and drove along my usual running routes, hoping she would recognize a road and take it back to our home. I crept along with the brights on, whistling the same note that usually stops our dogs in their tracks. No sign of Zoe. Finally, after about an hour of patrolling the area, I received a call on my cell from Aspen. Zoe had just appeared on the porch, wagging her tail and ready to come inside. When I arrived home, Aspen was giving her a bath while checking for any injuries. No blood. She also checked her teeth and noticed fragments of light-colored fur in between a few of them, indicating that Zoe had made a successful catch. Aspen dried her off with a towel and released her into the living room, where she promptly lay down in front of us, oblivious to our frustration over her primal ways.

Race Report: Salida Trail Marathon

2008-03-19T12:39:00.039-06:00

(Note: To skip past the personal race prep goo and go straight to the race report, look for ‘And we’re off!’ This wasn’t meant to be a novel, but it sorta ended up that way.)

When I decided to tackle the longer trailrunning distances several months ago, my anchor race became the Kettle Moraine 100K in June. I then pieced together a race schedule for 2008 that would build up to this marquis event, starting with a 20-mile snowshoe race in January, a 33K jaunt in Moab, and recently a trail marathon in Salida, Colorado. Each occasion was met with a ‘Sheesh, am I ready?’ attitude, as the fear of bonking or DNF’ing lent to some anxiety in the closing days and hours before a race. The Salida Trail Marathon, dubbed ‘A Run Through Time’, was no exception and would be my first attempt at this distance. I had just finished a 70-hour workweek in the field, during which I ran zero miles, got little sleep, and spent my days inhaling jet fuel fumes at a military installation. My longest training run to that point had been around 12 miles. To my benefit, being away from home spared me from the latest cold bug, and I felt healthy.

As a drive home from my field location would have added quite a few hours to my return trip, I decided instead to take the shorter route directly to Salida on the day before the race and spend the night in a hotel. Dave had graciously reserved a room for me at the Woodland Motel, after jumping on a last-minute cancellation in this popular bedroom community at the gentle bend of the Arkansas River and a snowball’s throw from Monarch Mountain. As I pulled into the berg, heavy snow began to fall, adding to a fresh base that appeared to have been building throughout the day. I arrived at the Woodside and went straight to Dave’s room where he had been relaxing in front of the TV, and we joked about the size of his quarters and the gratuitous signage adorning it, instructing guests on which towels to use and how to set the thermostat. As is custom, I commended Dave’s cache of race food, a feast in of itself. I appreciate the fact that he likes to reach a race destination a day early, decompress in the hosting city, and inspect the first few miles of the race course. I’ve learned that having a general idea of what to expect prior to the race gives one a bit of a mental edge.

I checked into my room, and we immediately drove in the direction of the race course. Fortunately, this particular circuit would follow a two-lane paved road feeding into an improved dirt two-track into the foothills northeast of Salida. Both Dave and I ran the half-marathon last year, and although he briefly flirted with the idea of joining me in the full, decided as the date came closer to stick with his original plan. As we climbed into the foothills, the snow grew deeper and the drive more treacherous. The course appeared vastly different in this virgin blanket of snow, and there was some confusion as to the location of the half-marathon turnaround point. Finally, we reached a spot that we both remembered and decided to push onward into the full-marathon course. The route was well-marked with pink flags, most likely placed by Chaffee County Running Club stalwart Tom Sobal on one of his ‘leisurely jaunts’. The marathon course was to follow the main road to the former mining town of Turret, now reduced to a collection of rustic summer homes cast in the shadow of its former glory. Dave and I figured, What the hell, let’s go check it out while we’re here. However, it was not meant to be. The road conditions had deteriorated beyond the comfort level of my new Outback and its driver, and we wisely returned to drier ground. I remember joking to Dave that snow was ‘The Great Equalizer’ and was almost giddy with excitement that this was gonna be more like an adventure race than a marathon.

Dinner was consumed at the Twisted Cork Cafe, perched next to the Arkansas west of town. It’s almost not worth the trouble going into a trendy restaurant, scanning the menu and predicting the fuel content of a pre-race meal when the entrees include ingredients like red peppers and cabbage. My mouth was watering at this point and I struggled to select the safest meal possible, finally settling on a noodle dish with a spring roll, while Dave got a penne pasta dish with a side of steak fries. We both inhaled our meals with copious amounts of ice water and left the restaurant painfully satiated, putting my ‘no farting in the new car’ rule to test.

Each of us returned to his room, and I began arranging my gear for the next day, vacillating between bare-bones and overkill, eventually reaching a happy medium. I watched a bit of TV and then drifted off with the promise of a challenging race in the morning. My alarm sounded at 5, and I scarfed down a carbo-rich breakfast before stealing another couple hours of shut-eye.

Soon it was daylight, and I dressed and made my way to the race start near the base of Tenderfoot Mountain. The temp was around 15 deg F, and the thought of running in a T-shirt and shorts was initially a bit unappealing. But I’ve learned that if I can suck it up for the first mile or so, I don’t need all of those heavy clothes anyway, as my body temp shoots up pretty quickly even on the coldest days. The registration line for the marathon (inside the historical Scout Hut at Riverside Park) was about 30 people long by the time I stepped in (no one was in the half-marathon line), and I struck up a conversation with Bill Geist from Los Alamos, NM (14th marathon overall, 4:37:24). We talked about the weather and the course conditions, which were wildly different from last year. Soon I was pinning my bib number to my shorts and getting my food in order (Clif Shot Bloks and Power Bar fragments), looking for Dave among the masses enjoying their last few minutes of warmth before venturing out into the cold.

Stepping outside of the building I noticed the competitors making their way toward the start line, which was northeast across a bridge over the Arkansas, then a few hundred yards down a primitive paved road parallel to a series of railroad tracks. As I got closer, I recognized Dave, and I think we were two of only a handful of runners in shorts. Rounding out my getup was a (Warning: Shameless Product Endorsement Alert) tech tee, a Nathan hydration pack (minus the bladder), Dirty Girl gaiters, and a pair of Salomon XT Wings. I also caved in to the temps and had added a thin GoLite jacket. Joining the tech apparel was a Nathan Thermal Quickdraw handheld, an iPod Classic loaded with 165 BPM Podrunner mixes and a Blackberry Pearl.

And we’re off! The course further followed the tracks to the northwest, then split right to a dirt road fronting some ramshackle houses at the base of the foothills. The route quickly began to rise toward a municipal water tower, then dropped again, confusing newbies who were expecting a steady climb. We had covered about 1.5 miles of dirt then picked up a mile-long section of paved road, when I discovered that I hadn’t started my GPS (I was able to add that missing first section in SportTracks). I also ditched my jacket during this time and tied it around my waist, where it stayed for the rest of the race. I hung with Dave for the first 2-3 miles as I tested the waters after 5 days of no running. I felt relaxed and loose, and Dave and I overtook a number of runners who were having a difficult time once the course started climbing the Ute Trail.

After about a mile of climbing, I felt that I could manage a faster pace and bid Dave adieu, moving on ahead past a dozen or so runners. I reached the half-marathon turnaround point and pushed on into the extended course. By now the road was snowpacked, and the sun peeked out from behind the cliffs. I let my mind drift into its surroundings, as pace and breathing were being driven by the iPod. After another mile or so I reached a saddle with a great view of the wintry Collegiate Peaks. I stopped to get a couple photos, and a runner I had just passed approached me and offered to take my picture. We fumbled around with the BB for a minute or two trying to get the best shot (Hmmm, did that cost me a few places at the end of the race? I’d post the photo, but it didn’t turn out that great.)

Soon I was running again, overtaking a couple guys who had caught up during my ‘photoshoot’. For the next several miles, the course negotiated a series of extended uphills and downhills as I pushed on towards Turret. It wasn’t long before the frontrunners began to pass by me, and since this was an out-and-back, I began my customary counting to determine what place I was currently holding. The count slowly climbed into the teens, then the twenties, after which I stopped keeping track (23…24…25…, ah, whatever).

A brief steep and cobbly section led into the former townsite of Turret, where a table of goodies awaited. I snagged a banana and probably should have grabbed a fistful of Fig Newtons, but I wanted to stay ahead of the guys I had just passed. I started my return trip, picking off runners on the uphills and greeting those coming toward me. My ‘Runners-Get-Friendlier-Toward-The-Back’ theory definitely came into play as I made my way toward Salida, and I was encouraged to cross paths with like-minded competitors who were also truly enjoying the experience. Well, maybe enjoyment is a slight overstatement, as I would soon find out. I reached the ‘photoshoot’ site at the saddle, and being a first-timer, I assumed it would be a nice downhill cruise from there. However, at Mile 17.5, the course took a sharp left turn onto a snowcovered jeep trail save for one set of tire tracks. At this junction was an aid station, only a half mile up the road from the aid station at the half-marathon turnaround. I thought it odd when coming up the gulch that they’d have two stations so close together, but once I made the turn onto the snowy trail, I realized why. I would not be returning the way I came, rather taking a more southern route, eventually rejoining the original trail at about Mile 25.3. The second aid station was geared toward the return trip for the marathoners.

I had a bit of trouble running in the narrow, 6-inch trench left by the single recon vehicle, and thought the course couldn’t get any trickier until it went off-trail to the right at Mile 18. What proceeded was about five miles of post-holing through calf-deep snow covered by a thin crust of ice. The magic shell was only dense enough to handle my weight about half the time, as my pace ranged from a crawl to a scramble, as I was able to run more stable sections as short as 20 feet. I reached for my BB only to find it had fallen out of my hydration vest somewhere along the course (and later turned in by an observant runner). ‘Well, sh*t’, I said as I plodded forward, eyeing the occasional drop of blood left behind in the snow from one of the frontrunners as he blazed the trail for the rest of us. I looked down at my own legs and was surprised to learn that I too was bleeding. I came upon one of the other runners in shorts, and soon learned why I was able to catch him so easily. ‘Ah, racing flats’, I said, my smile pulling back into a wince.

Eventually, the trail turned south and I was able to enjoy some downhills on soft ground. Yes, downhills! My former bane had suddenly become a boon in the loamy Arkansas Hills. I attributed this to the sponge-like consistency of the ground surface, recently stripped of heavy snow cover by the sun, and the XT Wings, which added a noticeable cushion to each footfall. I caught up to Bill, and we traded positions for a mile or so, but I was able to pull ahead when the terrain became difficult. I could feel my left calf start to tighten up, but downed a couple S-Caps and the sensation subsided. I also noticed hunger pangs at about Mile 23, which is odd because food is usually the last thing on my mind at this point. Those issues were cleared up with a few Shot Bloks.

Between Miles 24 and 25, I passed three more runners and set my sights on a fourth (Rich Muzzy, 11th, 4:34:37) but he saw me approaching and stepped up his pace. Soon I was flying down that initial hill near the water tower, and I could hear someone gaining on me from behind. It was Scott Kunz, who I had recently passed. He had found a fifth gear and breezed past me with a smile, eventually catching Rich before the finish line for 10th place and a time of 4:34:20. His pace was such that I had no way of responding in kind, and the three of us cruised along the train tracks with no one making any real gains on the other. At this point I saw Dave and Aspen standing with my parents, who were visiting from Wisconsin and had arrived a day early to see me race. They were straddling that set of tracks I had to cross a couple hundred yards before the finish. Last year, my toe caught the last rail, and I went down hard and flat, pushing my front teeth into my bottom lip and causing an injury to my right palm that ached for weeks. I finished that one with my hand up to my face and a mouthful of blood. This time, I focused on clearing the rails and still managed to graze one of my feet on that last one. My Dad said later that a runner behind me did fall, injuring his elbow and bloodying his forearm.

The final 100-yd stretch through the grass at Riverside Park felt like an eternity, and I gave one last look over my shoulder to ensure that I wasn’t going to be passed before crossing the line. I finished and immediately went over to congratulate Rich and Scott. Scott was joking that his running coach teased him about not having a fifth gear, and he wanted me to call this guy and tell him otherwise.

Dave ran up to congratulate me and said that I had come in 12th place (4:35:09). This was a wonderful surprise, since I had lost track of my position about halfway through the race. Aspen and my parents soon followed, and it was great to finish a race like that and be welcomed by your loved ones. UnGuy was asleep in the Baby Bjorn, and he gave me a big smile when he woke up. I hadn’t seen him nor Aspen since Monday, which made the finish even sweeter.

Once I collected my things, I downed a bowl of chicken soup, a couple of those chocolate chunk cookies and about 40 ounces of Gatorade. This is probably the first of the longer races where I had an appetite at the finish, a welcome change (I couldn’t eat a thing after the Moab race for about two hours). Dave had to jet back to Boulder and said his goodbyes. We walked over to Amica’s for calzones before returning to Conifer as another trail race event came to a close.

Next up, a 50 miler in Fruita, Colorado. I’m already wincing.

Course Overview - Now picture it with snow.

Neurotic Cord Pullers

2008-03-05T12:23:00.004-07:00

I recently started taking the bus to work a couple times per week to save on gas and wear-and-tear on my car. There’s a Park-and-Ride just a few miles from my house, and the bus route dumps me pretty close to work. Although it adds an extra half hour to each end of my commute, I appreciate that someone else is behind the wheel when traffic is brutal. During the ride I’m preparing emails for work, drafting blog posts, listening to music or watching a movie on my iPod. The time just flies. Sometimes I just stare out the window or observe riders as they board or disembark the bus, and I’ve come to recognize the same people occupying the same seats day in and day out. But one thing puzzles me. Each day without fail, the same person pulls the ‘Stop Requested’ cord when approaching my stop. At this point, the same half-dozen people get off the bus driven by the same bus driver each day. It’s almost as if said cord puller is afraid that the one time he doesn’t perform his daily duty the bus would breeze on past this popular stop. If I were a bus driver, this would drive me nuts.

The Favrelous One Retires

2008-03-04T10:52:00.006-07:00

It’s a sad day for Green Bay Packers fans today as quarterback Brett Favre has announced his retirement from pro football after 17 years in the league (16 with GB) and a dozen NFL records. As a former Cheesehead and avid Packerbacker, I was hoping he’d build on last year’s successful season and return for one more stab at the Lombardi Trophy. Here’s one more ‘ya der hey’ for you, Brett. We’ll miss the mix of field antics and professionalism you brought to the game. Enjoy your retirement!

Ashes to Ashes

2008-02-26T10:40:00.001-07:00

It is with great sadness that I relate the recent death of Rowan Parker Corcoran. He was born prematurely to my sister Heather and her husband Darin on Sunday, February 17 and died the following day. I’ve withheld my public reaction to his passing because I’m still searching for the positives in such a terrible event. My thoughts go to Heather and Darin during this difficult time.

Race Report: Moab Red Hot 50K/33K

2008-02-22T18:04:00.024-07:00

My first trail race for 2008 was the Moab Red Hot 50K/33K. I chose the 33K because I’m still not up to the ultra distances, and the race was to serve as a bit of a testing ground for longer events on the horizon. The race conveniently coincided with Valentine’s Day, so I booked a couple nights at Moab’s Cali Cochitta Bed and Breakfast, to the delight of my lovely wife. As a contestant in the first Western states trail ultra in 2008, I was excited to see names like Karl Meltzer and Anita Ortiz on the 50K entrants list, and I would later discover a few last-minute elite entries at race time. We hit the road on Friday afternoon, minus unGuy (staying with Grandma and Grandpa) and the dogs (with our neighbors, Gary and Kim).

Upon reaching Utah, I couldn’t believe the amount of snow on the ground, easily the most I’ve ever seen in this desert-like environment. It also lent to some spectacular views as the sun set beyond the Colorado Plateau. We pulled into Moab around 6:45 and proceeded immediately to the Musical Festival office to pick up the race packet. Before heading to the B&B, I wanted to check out the race start to see how much snow remained after a mild winter day. We drove about 10 miles north of Moab to the Gemini Bridges trailhead and picked our way up the slope through about three inches of slush, which would guarantee to freeze into a crunchy shell by morning. We also popped over to the race finish, where the south-facing terrain slightly eased my apprehensions about finishing on a downhill section. Finally returning to the Cali Cochitta, we settled into our room, where I performed my pre-race ritual of organizing my gear for the next day. I also set the alarm for 4:30 to stir me out of sleepytime long enough to eat a small breakfast. I slept well on each side of that first alarm.

The next morning was crispy and clear as we motored to the race start. The parking was scarce, and it appeared that we were one of the last to arrive, even though it was an hour before start time. I slipped out of the car to stretch, then made my way toward the masses, subtly assessing the competition and their apparel. Some were bundled up for a Yukon expedition, carrying backpacks and handhelds, while others were down to tank tops and shorts. I was somewhere in the middle, with a tech tee and shorts, handheld and Nathan hydration vest (minus the bladder). I had also rigged up the iPod to spin Podrunner podcasts in increasing BPM and carried my Blackberry to snap photos along the way. The 50K event was to start at 8:00, and the 33K at 8:30, and I stood with the 50K-ers as the course directions were broadcast by Race Director Chris Martinez. Kurt appeared next to me and we chatted briefly. He was still getting over a cold and planned on a subdued effort. Once the announcements concluded, the runners began to collect near the starting line. It was then I recognized Karl, along with 2007 Leadville Trail 100 winner Tony Krupicka and his pacer (and trail demon in his own right) Kyle Skaggs. I smiled in amusement as these faster runners stood at the line, separated from the rest of the group by an invisible 20-foot buffer. A fan asked them to pose for a picture, alerting others who weren’t in the know that these guys were trail celebrities. Soon the countdown began, and the runners were off; Tony and the gang taking quick possession of the lead. I returned to the car, ate a Powerbar and talked to Jim Sparks, who was parked next to me. He was very affable (although he reminded me a bit of Charlie Manson). We talked about injuries and races in common (Pikes Peak, Imogene), and wished each other luck in the 33K. By now, Aspen had left the confines of a warm vehicle, and we proceeded back to the starting line. Again, the RD barked out race directions, stating that the course was well-flagged, with pink ribbon showing where to go and red indicating off-course conditions. As I turned toward the direction of go, I felt the essence of speed surrounding the insanely skinny Anna Pichrtova, as she took her place in front of the rest of the runners along with Venezuelan runner Ramiro Paris (now a Boulder resident). The countdown ensued, and we were on our way. I hung in the middle of the pack for the first couple hundred yards or so, then began overtaking runners on a short climb, tiptoeing through the icy areas, and feeling quite strong. The climb was followed by a long descent, almost three miles on a two-track dirt road. At the peak I figured I was in about 7th or 8th place, but I got caught up in the moment and stuck to a pace I knew I couldn’t sustain for long. A runner I had passed on the uphill overtook me during this time, but I was able to otherwise maintain my position for the next several miles. At the 4.4-Mile aid station, we turned left to climb up to the ridgeline overlooking the entrance to Arches National Park. The 50K runners had turned right to complete an out-and-back to pick up an extra 17K then would return to this point to join the remainder of the 33K course.

The climbs were mostly slickrock, and I walked only the steepest sections. I was passed quite easily by another runner who appeared to be out for a morning stroll. I would later overtake him as he couldn’t maintain such a brisk pace. The course flirted briefly with the ridgeline, then descended, only to repeatedly return to the cliffs as runners traveled south. A female runner caught up to me, and for a while we helped each other through some sections that were poorly marked. Once the course pointed downhill after the Mile 8 aid station, I had to drop back, as my knees couldn’t handle that kind of punishment.

Tom's catching up!

Another runner, Tom Conner, caught me, and we spent the next 6 or 7 miles together, taking turns in the lead, while the other spotted the course markers. At one point around Mile 11, Tom stopped in his tracks with painful calf cramps, and I offered him an S-Cap. That seemed to temporarily keep the cramps at bay, as Tom pulled ahead for the rest of the race. I caught him briefly at the Mile 15 aid station, but by then I knew I wouldn’t be able to overtake him.

The remaining 5 miles consisted of dirt two-track road comprising the Golden Spike, briefly interrupted by steep slickrock benches. I occasionally looked behind me to make sure I wouldn’t be caught by any second-wind runners on this last stretch. Soon I began to pass hikers and other tourists, cheering me on as the last few miles came to a close. I was cruising at this point. My heart rate had dropped considerably, and I focused on my breathing and staying in sync with the iPod. The last half mile or so consisted of a precipitous drop full of doll’s head-sized cobbles strewn across red dirt. I was cutting a tangent on one of the switchbacks when suddenly I tripped and hit the ground hard, sending my calves into excruciating spasms. I screamed out loud as the cramps slowly released their hold long enough for me to stand and continue, and the pain subsided once I started moving again. The finish line came into view, as did Aspen, who was trying to get some action shots amidst the spectators and hikers. I crossed the line at 3:06:55, fast enough for 9th place overall and 3rd Masters. Tom was there with his wife and family, and we exchanged congrats and stood for a photo (Tom was 8th overall, 2nd Masters).

The post race food consisted of corn soup in a bread bowl, and at any other time this would have been a treat, but the only thing I could stomach was good ol’ H2O. I offered Aspen my share, and she wantonly accepted. We hung around for the 33K awards ceremony, which netted me a plaque and a 4.5-lb keg of Cytomax. The plaque was like nothing I had ever seen before, and difficult to describe with words. Picture a piece of sheet metal folded over and then the front of it etched out with a laser to create the silhouette of a runner and some text. I was grateful to receive such a unique award.

We returned to the B&B, where I showered while Aspen relaxed in a hammock in the backyard. The temps were in the 50s, just enough to taste of summer on this clear day. We drove back out toward the race finish, but continued on to a town called Potash, which was actually just a huge salt processing plant. The road circled expansive settling ponds until finally dumping us at the edge of Canyonlands National Park. We chose to return at this point, taking several pictures of a balancing boulder that begged to be dislodged from its tenuous perch.

Back at the Cali Cochitta, we rested briefly, then walked to Eddie McStiff’s for dinner and subsequent after-hours party. Dinner left me with a pleasantly-satiated feeling, ready to absorb whatever alcohol was being dispensed at the party. We entered a room reserved for the race entrants, and I quickly made my way to the tap, filling my red party cup with a nice amber micro. We asked to share a table with Mark Muehlethaler, not knowing he was with Anita Ortiz and Katie Mazzia, whom I had met the week before. Soon we were sinking beers and margs, snickering at the unusual Utah liquor laws and gabbing about races upcoming and past. At the table next to us were Tony, Kyle and Karl and their mates, enjoying the subtle air of exclusivity. I had hoped to introduce myself, but the opportunity just never came about. Kurt joined us after a while, and I was happy to see that Tom also made an appearance.

9:30 rolled around, and both Aspen and I were halfway to bed. We said our farewells and walked back to the B&B, crawled under the blankets, and quickly succumbed to a restful sleep. The next morning we devoured our home-cooked breakfast and hit the road, hoping to take a short scenic detour around the nearby La Sal Mountains. However, the scenic byway was not meant to be. We didn’t have a map and were going by the directions provided by one of our hosts, resulting in a detour completely devoid of any mountain or snow cover. The route slipped us into Colorado about 120 miles south of Grand Junction, placing us at the Eisenhower Tunnel at, you guessed it, 3PM, where we sat in gridlock in almost the same location as a week before.

Fortunately, traffic on the other end of the tunnel was light, and we got to see unGuy sooner than expected.

To summarize the experience in a few words, the Masters’ placement was a nice surprise. Sometimes it’s good to be an ‘old’ guy.

Screw Them Shoes!

2008-02-18T11:19:00.005-07:00

I’ll be getting to my Moab Red Hot 33K performance shortly, but I first wanted to bring up the concept of screw shoes. These are a pair of ordinary-looking running shoes fitted with a series of sheet metal screws. The screws help runners through the late winter season when the snow melts during the day and turns to ice on cold nights. The most thorough description of this process can be found on Matt Carpenter’s informative site. I’ve been meaning to do this for weeks and keep forgetting until I’m dressed for a run and don’t want to take the time to mess with my shoes. However, I’ve paid dearly with increasingly painful falls. I was doing a recovery run last night at a mellow pace on my usual dirt road route. About four inches of powder had fallen throughout the day, obscuring any hazards underneath. I was almost at the end of the out-and-back when I saw the dogs start to lose their traction. By the time I saw the underlying ice it was too late, and both feet flew out from under me. The fall resulted in two throbbing elbows and a busted headlamp, and I lay there cussing at myself, writhing in pain before gathering my composure and continuing on. One of my dogs, Pickle, showed some innate concern and came over to see if I was OK, not used to viewing her master in this horizontal display. Once I returned to the house, I was horrified to discover that my overshirt was soaked in blood from the right elbow down, and Aspen quickly ushered me over to the kitchen sink, where I hesitantly removed the garment. Fortunately, it was a puncture wound, and my elbow didn’t need stitches, but the sheer amount of blood was a bit disconcerting. Nevertheless, today, as I sit here bumping said elbow on various things in my office, I humbly accept the ‘I Told You Sos’ from my good buddy, Dave, who’s been bugging me to screw my shoes for weeks. I finally get the picture, man.

Happy Val-in-times Day

2008-02-13T23:44:00.002-07:00

Valentine’s Day is always a fun holiday for us. I usually write a ‘Love Letter’ that we send to our friends and loved ones, detailing our exploits and setbacks from the past year. We figure that everyone sends theirs on Christmas, so why compete? Most years, our Valentine’s weekend includes some sort of trip to a mountain town involving a stay at a bed and breakfast. It used to be the St. Elmo Hotel in Ouray until they promptly priced themselves out of our range. This year I registered for a trail race in Moab and combined the event with a couple night’s stay at a local B&B. I played it coy for a few weeks until the subject of lodging came up and I had to spill the beans. Aspen still has no idea where we’re going (but will find out in the morning). Grandma and Grandpa will be taking care of unGuy for a couple days.

I stopped at the store on the way home from work today to pick up some Valentine’s Day ‘stocking stuffers’. Big mistake. Joining me were a bunch of men picking up last-minute gifts for their wives. I’m sure this is quite amusing to the female cashiers and customers. The epitome was this guy who took approximately 12 seconds to pick out a card for his wife, prompting a woman standing next to me to declare, ‘Ha, ha, that’s about how long my husband would take, too.’ I spent a considerable amount of time looking for the perfect card, and then some chocolates to be arranged in an interesting manner, which Aspen will discover in the morning. I was a bit uncomfortable standing in the checkout line with all these goobs and their feeble last-minute attempts to show their mates how much they love them. I got those same smirky looks from the ladies and wanted to shout, ‘This is just extra stuff! I planned ahead! Really!’ But the icing on the cake was the 12-second-card-choosin’ guy at the front of the line with his card, a two-pound bag of cocktail wieners and the new Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. Nice job, dude.

Race Report: Jeremy Wright North American Snowshoe Championships

2008-02-11T22:13:00.000-07:00

Are you a newbie runner, translating your experience into the running world through hiking and snowshoeing? Do you fancy yourself as being competitive on snowshoes? Do you desire a venue at which to prove your remarkable speed and endurance? One bit of advice – do not register for a race with the words ‘North American Snowshoe Championships’ in the title. After a strong finish in last week’s Screamin’ Snowman, I was to discover my true position in the rank of Colorado’s elite, after a brutal 10K at the Jeremy Wright North American Snowshoe Championships in Beaver Creek, Colorado. This was a last-minute sign-up with the prospects of testing a pair of Crescent Moon’s latest offering, the Magnesium 9s. However, I was to race in my old Crescents, after learning that the company was building them on an as-needed basis, and all pairs were reserved for testing and review by publications such as Snowshoe Magazine and Backpacker. Nevertheless, having run a few snowshoe races in Beaver Creek, I’ve come to enjoy the race experience and post-race festivities.

The race directors wisely start the contests (5K, 10K, kids fun run, ‘dash-for-cash’ run) at 11:00 AM, allowing us city folk to make the 2-3-hour trip without having to get up at 0 Dark 30. The drive to Beaver Creek started as a casual affair. We left the house at 8, giving us plenty of time to reach the slopes. What I didn’t expect was the amount of ski traffic on I-70, prompting a recollection of how we’re always scrambling to get to the start line of the Beaver Creek races, no matter how early we get out the door. We did have a bit of a time buffer this year, allowing me to deposit Aspen and Nick near the drop-off area, park the car in an overflow lot and take the shuttle back to meet them. Beaver Creek Resort is unique in that there is almost no parking at the base of the slopes, except for residents and guests of the surrounding villas. We commoners take a shuttle into the village, which has a center plaza surrounded by shops and bounded by condos. Every square inch of space is accounted for, and I bet it’s one of the few establishments with outdoor escalators. Meeting Aspen at the base of the main ski slopes, she informed me that this race would be starting further upslope and that I had to take a chairlift to the registration booth and race start. I jogged over a bridge to a tent to get my chairlift pass and got in line for the ride up. I shared a quad-seater with a young couple who were skiing but were very interested in snowshoeing. I told them that I had been an avid skier at one time, but went snowshoeing once, only to get hooked and decide to never ski again. I bragged about how it costs next to nothing to do so, and I can bring my dogs and spend an entire day in powder without encountering a single soul. As we talked, I kept glancing at my watch, which had passed 11AM during the ride. Fortunately, upon reaching the registration booth, I found that the race was yet to start, and they would run the kids race and the 100-yd ‘dash-for-cash’ prior to the 5K and 10K races.

I took a bit of time settling into my race mentality. The temps on the slopes were in the 40s, so I wore a tech t-shirt and a light windbreaker, with winter running pants and a pair of Salomon XA Pro 3Ds. The weather also prompted the return of my lucky red bandanna, which was worn at almost every race last summer and fall. I had planned on wearing an iPod and a belt with a couple 8-oz bottles of Vitalyte but chose to leave this extra weight behind as I surveyed some of the other runners and the course beyond. I started inching my way through the other shoers to a spot somewhere in the middle of the pack, to learn that the 5K and 10K racers would comprise a mass start. The race director shouted ‘GO’, and off we went, starting with a climb in the direction of up. There was some difficulty moving forward as people were mostly trying to maintain their balance amidst the confinement of a group start. Once I was able to look ahead of me, I noticed the frontrunners had already broken away from the pack. The course soon split into the respective 5 and 10K routes, and most of the runners went the 5K direction (237, to be exact). Over the next few miles the course alternated between single-track powder and groomed Nordic trails. I chose not to try to pass on the single-track, knowing my strengths were in the Nordic climbs. My direct competition became apparent within the first mile, and I traded places with four or five others for the duration of the race. The toughest section proved to be an extended downhill singletrack through thigh-deep powder, and I was having difficulty in such small snowshoes designed for groomed trails.

As the race wore on, I found that I was able to pass runners while power-hiking, which gained me at least 3 or 4 spots alone. I had hoped that my training mix of running and hiking would benefit me on the hills, and it most certainly did. As the race MC's voice echoed ever nearer in the distance, I began to pick up the pace, knowing the finish was close at hand. (I had stopped looking at my Garmin after Mile Marker 4, in which the unit showed only 3.5 miles.) I caught up to a younger guy who flew past a bunch of us in a previous deep powder section, and he rose to keep pace with me. By then my sights were set on the finish line, knowing I had a little bit left in the tank to cruise ahead. However, I didn’t notice the right hand turn, and the younger guy laughed at me as I realized my error. The course detoured into a short section of powder during which I had lost precious yards to my competitor, allowing another racer to catch me, as well. I spent what little I had left maintaining my balance through this short section which rejoined the groomed trail I most desperately needed, and cruised into the finish.

Once I regained my composure, I began changing into some dry clothes, discovering that my race bib belt had completely spun around, leaving my number on my backside. On a hunch, I guessed that the finish line registrars didn't get my race number as I finished, and my suspicions were proven to be correct. Fortunately, I had timed the race with my Garmin, and it matched the question mark on the registrar’s ledger (1:11:30). It might have been for naught as I later learned I had finished 40th out 80. Collecting my things, I grabbed a chairlift back to the plaza, along with two other female snowshoers. I quickly learned that they were Anita Ortiz (2nd Women’s 10K) and Katie Mazzia (9th Women’s 10K). I had recognized both of their names immediately, as runners tend to scour race result postings for familiar names. Anita was suffering from that exercise-induced hacker’s cough I enjoyed at last week’s race. We talked about the Sc reamin' Snowman and the upcoming Moab Red Hot 50K, at which all three of us will be competing (well, they in the 50K and I in the 33K). Both were jonesing for a Starbucks, and we said our farewells after disembarking the lift.

I caught up with Aspen shortly thereafter. She was pushing Nick around in the jog stroller, and he was konked out in a restful nap. We proceeded to the plaza center, where a catered lunch was being served to the race participants. I wasn’t the least bit hungry and encouraged Aspen to enjoy my share. Soon the race MC was handing out raffle prizes, briefly interrupting the giveaways to announce the winners of each race division. Calling out the race times elicited murmurs of astonishment from the crowd, and I was quick to determine that the men’s winner finished the race a full 20 minutes faster than I did. The awards ceremony and raffle soon ended, and everyone made their way to the shuttles. It was about 1:45 PM at this point, and I still had to retrieve the car and return to get Aspen, Nick, and the jog stroller. We finally hit the road about 2:30.

Had I remembered past races, I should have kept a mental note to leave for home ASAP, for the next 3.5 hours were to be spent in the car, sitting in ski traffic hell, including an entire half-hour spent completely still, just a few hundred yards from the west entrance of the Eisenhower Tunnel. At first we both kinda marveled over how many cars were on I-70 at the same time. After two hours of inching ever forward, those curiosities turned to frustration, as I took stock of how much of my life was being wasted in this traffic jam. Aspen entertained herself by watching an entire movie on my iPod, and Nick cycled through sleep, whining and crying, as his day was also being manipulated by the incessant traffic pattern. Several times I wondered out loud how people can subject themselves to this kind of punishment each weekend. Gratefully, I will not be among them.

To summarize the race, I didn’t feel that I made any glaring mistakes, other than assuming that I was going to finish better than I did. If anything, this race gave me a renewed appreciation for the level of running talent that Colorado has to offer.

Another One Bites The Dust

2008-02-05T16:01:00.000-07:00

Kirk runs happily down the street
His hat pulled way down low
Ain’t no sound but the sound of his feet
On a couple inches of snow
Are ya ready?
Hey! Are ya ready for this?
Are ya hangin’ on the edge of your seat?
All of a sudden
The runner slips
To the sound of the beat, yeah.

My favorite runs occur when it’s dumping snow. Last night after getting sucked into 90 minutes of eye-rolling that is Deal Or No Deal (more on that in a later post), I didn’t get out until after 10 PM. It had been snowing for a while and about 2-3 inches had accumulated on snowpacked ground lovingly polished by local traffic for some time. I was running my usual route, an out-and-back that climbs the first half-mile, then gradually works its way down to the mouth of someone’s driveway. I was enjoying a rare sub-7:00 mile under 140 bpm, when all of a sudden my feet left terra firma and I was eating fresh powder. I should have paid more attention to one of my four-legged friends who was having trouble keeping her balance on the deceptive turf. The only component missing from this scenario was the third-base umpire squawking, ‘SAFE!’ I’m not sure how far I slid, but it was enough that the dogs showed some concern over their master suddenly becoming a sled. Brushing the wintry debris from my chest, I caught my breath long enough to laugh out loud, wondering what kind of spectacle I would have made to onlookers had I not been in the middle of nowhere. Maybe it’s time for those cleats after all.

Race Report: Screamin' Snowman 5K

2008-02-04T11:47:00.000-07:00

My second snowshoe race of the season was this little bitty 5K at Eldora Mountain Resort called the Screamin’ Snowman. The race course is a radical blend of steep uphills, well-worn single-track trails, and thigh-deep off-track powder. It’s almost impossible to get a rhythm going, since none of these sections are more than a few hundred yards long (except for one lengthy off-track segment). My first stab at this course was in 2005, when I ran with Aspen to finish somewhere in the middle of the pack. I returned in 2006, originally hoping to run the 10K version, but when it came close to registration time, I didn’t feel like I had a 10K in me. I surprised myself with a third place overall finish in the 5K. This year, I’m sure I could have taken on the longer distance, but my ego won out in the end and I went with the Sandbag Special. I uncharacteristically started just behind the frontrunners on this course, which opens with a groomed uphill climb that immediately spreads out the field. I found I was able to run this first section and keep a fourth-place position for the first couple miles of the course. Eldora had received about seven inches of powder the night before, so the off-terrain portions of the course were slower than usual, prompting the runner behind me to joke about how all of us looked like drunk people trying to navigate our way through the woods. I found that the 5K field was a lot stronger this year, and my perceived improvements were not enough to repeat my success, as I lost a couple places in the closing mile of the race. I finished strong, although my mistake of not taking a couple puffs on my inhaler before the race proved costly toward the end, as I struggled to get oxygen into my lungs on the home stretch. On such a short distance I wasn’t allowed to stop and take a breather or veer off course, as eight of us finished within 45 seconds of each other. In the end I came in sixth place overall, and I was gaining on the runner in front of me as I turned the last corner. Satisfied with my performance, I regained my composure and searched for Aspen, who was in the ski rental shop, cradling Nick and talking to some of the other moms with kids around his age (there must have been at least four or five!)

The exhilaration of knowing I had pushed my body to its limits paled to what would occur after the race. I asked one of the race directors, Darrin Eisman if he had any skull caps from last year’s event. I happened to be sporting one (see photo in Bachin’ it with unGuy), and have been wearing it around the house as my hair gets longer and increasingly difficult to keep out of my eyes. I had tried several different and more expensive brands only to come back to this economical version sold by Headsweats.com. To my delight, he said that they had a bunch left over from last year and were selling them for $5 (they cost $14 online)! I bought five, and he also gave me a freebie. After the awards ceremony, I ambled over to where Jake Thamm, owner of Crescent Moon snowshoes, was plying his wares. He was providing loaners of his most current product line to race-day entrants. I introduced myself, as Aspen and I wear Crescents and had recently sent them in to be retrofitted with new bindings and crampons. I had also talked with him at length on the phone about their new products, etc. He recognized me right away, and we spoke briefly about their new line and how light Crescent Moon snowshoes have become over the years. He mentioned that their current model is made of magnesium, resulting in an even lighter shoe. I looked down at mine (well, Aspen’s, actually – I race in hers) all beat-up and missing sections of paint, thinking of the 1000+ miles and breath-taking locations these shoes have seen, and I salivated over the aesthetics of his current versions. As the crowds were dissipating, I offered to help him load his inventory into his Jeep, casually volunteering to test a pair of those mag shoes. To my astonishment, he offered to send me a pair in return for a written review on their performance, durability, etc. As a ‘Crescent Veteran’, I look forward to giving the new shoes a thorough workout.

Now that the short race is out of the way, I look forward to the longer distances, where I can use smart running tactics like proper nutrition and hydration to persevere in a race rather than pure speed, which is not my strength. I have the Moab Red Hot 33K in a couple weeks and anticipate a strong finish simply due to my preference for colder climes on race day. In the meantime, I’m looking at the North American Snowshoe Championships in Beaver Creek next Sunday. This is a 10K event and will feature some of the best snowshoe runners in the country. I’m still suffering from a nasty exercise-induced asthma-borne hacker's cough which I hope will clear out before the weekend. Given the strength of the upcoming 10K field, I’ll need every advantage I can get. With a clean set of lungs and a pair of Mag 9s, maybe I’ll have a fighting chance (to finish).

Bachin’ it with unGuy

2008-01-30T11:22:00.000-07:00

This past weekend Aspen was in San Diego for a dental conference, which meant that unGuy and I got to hang out together for a few days. I was looking forward to this for weeks (not the ‘Aspen-leaving’ part, but the ‘spending-some-quality-time-with-my-son’ part). I get the impression that many dads dread playing Mr. Mom any longer than they have to. But unGuy is such a good little dude that I don’t mind the poops molded to his butt crack or the errant projectile squash spit-up. Other than that, he’s a pretty low-maintenance kid. I took advantage of our time together by planning a couple excursions for the weekend. Saturday we went snowshoeing at my ‘secret spot’ near Empire. It’s becoming not-so-secret lately as it was the most people (6) I’ve ever seen on this trail in one day. However, we passed many of them soon after starting and spent the rest of the afternoon on our own. I carried him in a Kelty Kids Journey backpack, which comes with a mirror that you can use to see how your little passenger is doing. I used it a few times when things got quiet back there. We started at about 8,900 feet and were just above 10,000 feet at the turnaround point (about 3 miles in). UnGuy fell asleep on the way back, so I knew he was comfortable.

Sunday afternoon I stuffed unGuy in the BOB and went on a 12-mile run around the neighborhood. A lot of snow had melted in the past few days, and the winds were incredibly strong. One gust nearly stopped me in my tracks. Fortunately, we bought a shield for the stroller, so unGuy was fully encapsulated. I walked a decent portion of these miles in an attempt to keep my HR below 140, but even that was tough when the route got muddy. UnGuy barely made a peep during the 2.5-hour jaunt. I peeked through the shield once, and he was playing with his foot.

Aspen was scheduled to arrive at DIA shortly before 6PM, and I thought it would be cool to surprise her at the airport. She missed unGuy terribly, and I figured it would take away her misery as soon as possible. When I got to the airport, I put him in the BabyBjörn (facing forward) and made quick strides to the reception area in the main terminal. I was on time, but it appeared that her plane had also come in early. I nervously paced around the escalator exits hoping I would catch her before she went to the baggage claim area. Soon a glut of passengers burst forth, and I recognized Aspen walking nonchalantly with her boss, who saw me and directed her attention my way. Our glances met and she scurried over to me with tears forming in her eyes. I unclipped unGuy from the harness and handed him to her as the days, hours, minutes, then seconds of separation culminated in an outburst of emotions that only a new mother can appreciate when reunited with her child after some time apart. I began to cry, too, and we stood there in a group hug, isolated from the urban commotion around us, as bachelor’s weekend came to a memorable close.

Blog Enhancements

2008-01-22T11:05:00.000-07:00

I’ve slowly been making enhancements to the blog after getting ideas from other sites and soliciting feedback from various bloggers whom are bit more internet savvy than I. You’ll notice that the following updates have been made:

You can now post a comment anonymously. I had originally selected that a blogger account is required to post here, but I feel that it detracts from the free-form feel I’m trying to achieve with this blog. All you John or Jane Does are now free to post without giving up any personal information. But I encourage you to use your name in your comments so I know who you are.

I’ve added my proposed race schedule for 2008 in the sidebar. Hopefully we share a least one race this year. If you’ve never met me, I’m the lanky 6’ 3” dude with shoulder-length blonde hair, probably fiddling with his iPod. I tend to have the blinders on during a race but am always interested in meeting people.

Subscribe to this blog through Feedblitz (also in the sidebar). I found that this is a great way to get my posts in your email inbox. My mom reads my blog and has no idea what a RSS feed is, so all she has to do now is enter her email into the little box ‘dere, and voila, she’ll never miss a post! I do encourage Feedblitzers to continue to visit the site, however, and post comments.

NOTE: If you’ve noticed, each of the photos on my blog have a caption that can be seen if you hover your mouse over it. I would ultimately like to have these captions directly beneath each photo, but this only works if you have every photo centered on the page. As far as I know, to place captions beneath photos that are right- or left-justified requires creating a table using HTML, which is beyond my expertise. I’ve sent feedback to blogger.com, but would welcome any quick fixes in the meantime.

I have a few more items to add, including links to products I use and endorse and a list of links to other blogs and various interesting sites.

I realize this is one of thousands of blogs fighting for your readership. Help make this grow! Introduce TFC to your friends and family! Link to this site!

The Good Samaritan

2008-01-16T10:11:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite blogs is A Trail Runners Blog by Scott Dunlap. While on a long bus ride a few days ago, I decided to scan through his last few entries. I soon came across a post about his experience at the Diablo 50K which provided a detailed account of the burden he was carrying into that race. I will not go into detail, other than that he happened to witness the immediate aftermath of a cyclist vs. truck accident and was a first responder. The post details a heartbreaking report of what ensued and how he dealt with the lingering emotional upwelling (be sure to read all of the comments following the post). While reading his narrative I was reminded of a time as a child when my Dad found himself in that same situation. We were driving on I-94 through Milwaukee when a dump truck lost its footing on a graded hillside on the opposite of the highway as we were passing by. I remember the massive beast tumbling to its side and finally coming to rest upside-down, wheels spinning and diesel fuel spilling to the ground out of a punctured gas tank. I recall my dad swerving to the shoulder and bolting across several lanes of traffic, running up this hill to the overturned truck, then pulling the bloodied driver out of the cab and harm’s way. I don’t remember much after that, only the unconscious speed at which my Dad responded. I haven’t made any rescues of quite that magnitude, however, I did experience a slightly more subdued incident about 10 years ago. I was driving the Jetta in a heavy snowstorm, returning east from Glenwood Springs on I-70. I had my mom, one of my sisters and her infant daughter in the car with me. We were passing through Vail as a Chevy Astro spun off the road into the median about 300 yards in front of us. The van slammed into the ravine dividing the four lanes of highway, resulting in a blast of fresh snow shooting in all directions. I immediately pulled over and sprinted toward them, not knowing what I would discover upon arrival. There, I found a young couple with a very small child groping their way out of the vehicle. Fortunately, no one was hurt, and we were able to give them a ride to a gas station in Vail. Of course, this is quite tame compared to what Scott and my Dad experienced, and I wonder how I would have reacted in their situation. I guess you never know until it happens to you.

A Run Through Time, Part III

2008-01-15T07:02:00.000-07:00

Continued from Part II......

Once past the Ranger House, I could feel the grade taking its toll on my energy reserves, and I responded by downing a few Shot Bloks and a couple gulps of gel. Little did I know that these were simply bandaids more suited for a training run and not miles 16-21 in a brutal climb. However, it was a mental boost that got me through the next couple of miles. Although I was well hydrated, I didn’t realize that I was far behind on my required caloric intake (about 4,000 each way). The trail began to cut into the cliff walls as I entered Roaring Springs Canyon, and the next mile or so was spent guessing where this route could possibly lead. I wondered if this portion of the trail was designed as it was blasted out of the sandstone or if there was any forethought that a chosen path would lead to an impassible dead end. Along this stretch, I met a few hikers and runners who were incredibly fresh and high-spirited. With about three miles to go I relinquished my jogging pace and resorted to a brisk power hike. Each turn gave a disheartening view of yet another geologic formation above the next, and I cursed out loud when I approached a section descending a series of switchbacks to a footbridge crossing. It’s bad enough to have to give up some elevation on a climb like this, but even more frustrating knowing that you have to regain it on the other side. With about 2.5 miles to go, I ran into Travis, who had started from the North Rim and was happily traipsing his first few miles of an R2. As I approached him, I felt that the R3 was an impossibility at this point and had already decided to call it a day upon reaching the rim. He was his usual positive self, riding that wave of enthusiasm I had known just a few hours ago. Of course, I wouldn’t expect anything less from a guy who recently quit smoking after 16 years and a became new convert to the running frenzy. After a few minutes of encouraging banter, we parted ways; Travis bounding gallantly down the path of vindication and me climbing the slippery slope of denial. I reached Linda about 0.25 mile later, decked out in all-weather gear and navigating the descent with a set of walking poles. A self-proclaimed slowpoke, she had made every precaution on this trip, plying her trail smarts onto the rest of us as the proverbial Trail Angel. Knowing she was an avid photo-journalist, I tried to look strong as I approached her, but the resulting picture exposed me for the tired heap that I was. By now I just wanted the hike to end and informed Linda of my intent to call it a day. She reminded me that her husband (and my co-worker) John would be waiting for me at the top with drinks and food. This became my focus as I considered the last two or so miles of the journey. The clothes I has peeled off in the first mile of the descent were slowly retaking their place on my torso as the weather conditions deteriorated.

I reached the Supai Tunnel shortly thereafter, and I knew from my research that it was almost exactly two miles from the North Rim. I figured I’d be arriving at John’s Food Mart in about a half hour. This was minutes before the wheels fell off and time became immaterial. I remember glancing at my GPS at one point, and to my horror I was clinging to a 28:00 mile. To put it in perspective, a granny pushing a walker would have passed me at this point. The term ‘death march’ came to mind and along with it the stories of runners who had succumbed to this misfortune for miles. Each turn led to another, with no home stretch in sight. Finally, I was passing the short hikers, the folks who step out of their cars in their penny loafers and amble down the trail a few hundred yards to get a better taste of the canyon. Many already knew who I was and what I was about to accomplish, and they cheered me on to the rim. I tried to look my freshest, but such despair is hard to mask with just a smile. A kiosk came into view, and I used what little I had left to carry me to the top. John was waiting like a concerned parent, and I was quick to inform him of my decision to hitch a ride back to the South Rim. A seasoned runner and hiker, he assessed my condition and didn’t dissuade me. I sat in his car with the heat blasting in my face, as recovery took hold. Chris arrived about a half hour later and appeared to be in a much better state. He had already decided to complete the R3 and sat in the car to recharge his GPS and attend to some leg cramps. Dave arrived about twenty minutes after Chris and was also content with an R2. We cheered Chris on his way and started on our 5-hour drive back to the South Rim.

I remember looking at a few trees, then waking up at a gas station a couple hours later. Climbing out of the car, I felt oddly fresh, and the pain of regret began to sink in. I began to second-guess my decision to bail out of the R3 and wondered if I had given myself enough time to recover before letting go. This inexperienced judgment would preoccupy my thoughts for the remainder of the trip.

Once the three of us were conscious and coherent, the undeniable subject of work came up. I try to avoid talking about work unless asked, but as we all shared a background in geology, the subject matter would promise to be entertaining. The hours evaporated quickly as we strengthened our commonalities through anecdotes from the field, and soon we were approaching the feral swarm of tourists in Grand Canyon Village. Not being successful at reaching Aspen by cell, I directed John to a parking lot off of the Bright Angel Lodge. She was parked there as expected and had just listened to my voice mail, relieved that I was safe and anxious to hear about the run. The dogs were barking in unison with reverence, as if they knew of what I had just accomplished. We quickly darted off to the town of Tusayan, where I had anticipated the devouring of the thickest, greasiest pizza we could find. Our first stop was at a couple different hotels in the town. I thought it would be a nice gesture to Aspen, and a guaranteed good night of sleep. All but one of the establishments were sickeningly out of our price range, and that one hotel was oddly closed when we attempted to inquire about vacancy. Nevertheless, pizza was next on the agenda, and we would return to this dive once our gullets were gratuitously filled. The impending satiation would have to wait even longer as we discovered that the entire Tusayan business district was in the middle of a prescribed power outage. By now I would have eaten just about anything and we resorted to the Yavapai Lodge cafeteria for some overpriced vittles. I would not be denied my pizza and succumbed to the rotating heat-lamped slices that the food vendor had to offer. Aspen had her fries, and unGuy, well, he just continued to elicit coos from all of the moms in the cafeteria. After some thought, we decided to camp another night and stay in Tusayan Saturday night.

Our guts filled, we returned to the campsite to relax and recover. I asked Aspen to drive out to the main road to attempt to reach Dave on her cell phone, as the signal had disappeared once we left pavement. She returned shortly thereafter, stating that we had to pack up and leave immediately. She happened to be pulling out onto the main road as a convoy of park rangers were returning from a training session. We gathered our stuff and made a hasty retreat to Tusayan after all, but by then our cheap motel had filled, as well as many of the mid-priced lodging. The rest were simply out of our price range. Finally, I said ‘Screw this’, and pushed on south towards Williams, hoping we could find some more affordable digs. We were about five miles outside of Tusayan when we passed a patrol car, and I diverted my attention to the rear view as the squad flipped a ‘U’ in our direction.

Coming up: The Red Butt(e). Steaks and Headlamps. Agate to the Past?

Race Report: Turquoise Lake 20-mile Snowshoe Run

2008-01-09T09:32:00.000-07:00

The 19th annual snowshoe race encompassing the Turquoise Lake area near Leadville, CO was my fourth time dragging my sorry carcass through miles of knee-deep powder. Each time has been a unique experience altogether. The first time was in 2002, and I figured it couldn’t be much harder than the snowshoe treks I was l already doing that winter. Toward the end of the race I found myself doubled over trying to preserve the contents of my stomach and attempting to resolve the errant hallucinations. I stumbled in toward the end of the pack, vowing never to subject myself to such punishment again. Four years went by, long enough for the painful memories of that ordeal to lapse. I had just started running in September 2005 and had about three months of training under my belt when I entered the 2006 race. I did much better and felt encouraged to continue with this running thing. Last year I caught a cold a couple days before the race and thought I could shrug it off by race day. What I didn’t predict was the sub-zero wind chill and a DNF about seven miles into the race. The walk back to the start was easily five miles, and Aspen happened to be driving by, sparing me further humiliation. This year I had logged many more miles, including three months of hill training around our new digs. I was getting over a cold and briefly considered passing on this year, but in the end my pride won out, and I entered with the goal of at least finishing the race.

Since Aspen was ill, I decided to make the solo journey to Leadville. My room at the Timberline was huge, allowing me to spread out my gear for the next day. Upon a cursory inventory, it looked like I remembered everything. But to my dismay, a leak in my hydration pack bladder thoroughly soaked my running clothes. (Our tap water is so good that I’ve become a bit of a drinking water snob, so I tend to haul my water from home, when possible). I hung up what I could, knowing the mountain climate would make short work of the drying process. I set my alarm and drifted off to sleep. The next morning arrived too soon, and I chose to delay race preparations to enjoy few more minutes of bliss. When my feet finally hit the floor I drew the curtains aside to a steady accumulation of snow. Realizing that I had a few miles to drive to the race start, I quickly threw on my attire, which was considerably less than what I had sported the year before. Outside, I brushed the snow off the Jetta and forced this sled down the hill toward the starting line at Sugar Loafin’ Campground. By now I was to pay for those extra 15 minutes in the sack, as people were already lining up, and I had yet to register. I scrambled to get signed up and ran back to the car to add the rest of my gear. I arrived back at the start line as RD Tom Sobal was going through the course directions to about 60 runners, only to realize I had forgotten my bib number in the car. I made a second trip back at slightly less than a sprint and returned as the race started. I slipped in at the end of the pack and spent the next few hundred yards pinning my bib number to my shirt and setting up the iPod for a 5-hour workout.

The opening leg was spent in single file at a brisk hiking pace, and it was evident that my cold still had a tenuous hold on my energy. My heart rate jumped into the 160’s and I was out of breath. I attributed this mostly to nerves and the adrenalin generated during my late arrival. Soon I calmed down and was able to shake off the cobwebs. During this first mile the course follows a series of overhead power lines via a swath cut into the forest to install them. Every time I travel this section it reminds me of the photos I've seen of the Klondike Gold Rush. I estimate that a few hundred feet of elevation is gained immediately. On several occasions I stood in place as some of the slower climbers in front of me navigated the steeper sections. It’s really tough to move at this speed when anxiety takes control and you feel like you’re losing ground to the frontrunners. One must keep in mind that there are 19 more miles to assume your place in the food chain.

The climb peaks at a service road, then drops to Turquoise Lake. The trail enters a clearing marking the edge of the shoreline, where a runner gets a glimpse of the frozen horizon beyond. Only this year, the lake was socked in with low-lying snow clouds, and visibility was poor at best. The course would begin to cross the snow-covered ice cap, and here is when I made my precipitous move towards the frontrunners. I passed approximately 20-25 people during this time, while keeping an eye on my heart rate. When it rose above 160 or so, I would slow to a power hike, but I found I was able to run most of this section. Occasionally the course would cross a section of slushy snow, where snowmelt settles in depressions in the ice surface, and there’s no easy way to navigate except go through it. I noticed that the trail banked to the left toward the opposing shore, which seemed to deviate from previous years. Soon I was climbing the shoreline toward the trees and tracing a fresh snowmobile trail. I could see two more runners ahead of me, and I was slowly gaining on them. As I rounded a smooth curve, the two were standing at a junction, studying a map. As I got closer, I noticed several snowshoe tracks leading to the right. However, I remembered this being a left turn. One of the two others was certain that the frontrunners had made a wrong turn, so he began to hike in the opposite direction. The other followed him and I in turn. But I soon relented and began to run toward the rest of the tracks, knowing that Tom was in the lead group and would not have made such a rookie mistake. By now a few more runners had collected and agreed with the first guy, yelling out to me that I was headed in the wrong direction. So, I turned around and attempted to regain the ground I had lost by getting in front of this group (which had quickly amassed to about 30 people). I had covered about 0.3 mile when the road began to descend, suggesting that I was indeed heading in the wrong direction. It was soon confirmed by a couple of support crew walking toward me who said that we were only a couple miles from the finish line. At this time, many in the group were considering a hasty return to the finish, since they believed we were far off course and would not be able to make the 7-hour cutoff time. I wasn’t about to hang it up just yet and returned to my original course.

The next five miles followed the main road that circles the lake. It was here that I reaped the rewards of my recent hill training. I found I was able to run almost the entire way. I caught up to an older gentleman, and we talked for a while, concluding that the course was being run in reverse of previous years. I passed two young women who were trudging along and appeared to be in poor spirits when I greeted them. I did my best to cheer them on and continued at my normal pace, overtaking a young guy who was taking very small steps. Usually, that’s the sign of a death march, and I was quick to recognize his troubled state after experiencing those same symptoms first hand. He said he was OK, so I moved on. At Mile 11 I was approached by a guy on X-country skis. He asked if there was anyone behind me, and I gave him a quick synopsis of what happened at the junction. He appeared to be quite concerned about the rest of the group and mentioned something about the cutoff time. He also noted that the aid station was 10-15 minutes away. I was relieved to know I would soon be putting some liquids into my system, since I had been prepared for an aid station at 5 miles in, not 12. Arriving at this oasis, I filled my handheld, drank half of it and refilled. I also had a smaller, empty 8oz bottle with Vitalyte powder, and I filled that, too. At this point the course becomes an out-and-back, where the trail steadily climbs to a 10th Mountain Division hut at 11,370 feet and returns to this aid station before heading to the finish. The aid station volunteer was helpful, and I was grateful that he properly assessed my condition before deciding whether to send me home. I was catching my second wind at this point, and it helped me through the toughest leg of the course. I was about halfway to the hut when the race leaders passed me on their descent. I did not recognize the two frontrunners, but I did spot Tom right away, in third. Shortly behind him was Keri Nelson, and then the staggered chase group. Nine, ten, eleven, I counted each runner as I was being passed. 19, 20, 21…Wow, they’re not as spread out as I would have guessed! I began to wonder where I would have been in the standings had I followed my instincts back at that junction, since I must have lost at least 20 minutes in that fiasco. I passed one more runner as I ascended, and about 200 yards from the hut I came upon Kurt who yelled out my name in excitement. He had suffered a cold spell and spent a few minutes in the hut to get warm. He said he’d be running slow so I could catch up and we could finish together. I reached the hut, tagged one of the walls and began my descent. The first few hundred yards were a bit out of control as I struggled to maintain balance with tired legs on a steep grade. Once the slope became manageable I could feel yet another gear kicking in. I quickly caught Kurt and we took turns leading on the downhill. Upon arriving at the aid station I learned that I was the last one to be allowed up to the hut. The confused pool of people I had passed earlier were directed to the campground with a DNF. This meant that I would be second or third to last place at the finish. However, I was relieved to still be an active participant.

Leaving the aid station, Kurt and I cruised a long descent on the main road. At this point I was still feeling really good. However, Kurt mumbled something about calling it a day. I told him I'd make sure he crossed the finish line, and that seemed to energize him as he pushed on. We began to pass some of the DNF’d runners, and I could feel their pain; not so much from exhaustion, but from regret. No one likes a DNF. Kurt and I made a right turn off the main drag into the woods, quickly dropping to the lake ice. Our entire crossing would be done as a power hike, since by now an additional 5-6 inches of snow had accumulated on the ice, and I assume that only the strongest of athletes could have run this section. We stopped briefly so Kurt could snap some photos of the eerie terrain.

A guy in front of us was moving at a crawl, at one point pausing to rest his hands on his knees. When we approached him, he asked how much further we had until the finish, and I reluctantly reported that he still had another 2.5 to 3 miles to go. I asked if he was OK, and he said he was getting dizzy but otherwise all right. At this point I had little water and one bite of food, which he politely refused. We continued on for another 1.5 miles or so until we reached the shoreline, rejoining the trail we covered earlier that day in the opposite direction. I was a few yards in front of Kurt and took the opportunity to consume the remainder of my supplies as he caught up. Once at the top of the ridge, we flew down the utility corridor singletrack with haste, and the return trip seemed to last forever. About 0.25 mile from the finish, I stepped aside and let Kurt take the reins into the finish line, and the 63-year-old grand master powered through those last few yards of powder like a champ. Kurt finished with a 5:24:20 and I with a 5:24:25. My GPS showed 21.3 miles.

Once the rush subsided, I took stock of the incessant snowfall and made a beeline to the car, now huddled under a blanket of heavy snow. I had planned to change into some dry clothing and rejoin Kurt at the small campground lodge for some homemade grub (entry fee to the race was $20, or $10 of you brought a dish to pass). I slipped off my snowshoes, gaiters, shoe covers, and finally my running shoes. All were thoroughly saturated. I then stepped into my boots and began to relieve my Jetta of about 100 lbs. of wet snow. The windshield was already covered by the time I made it around the car, and my concern over the weather began to grow. I started the car and picked out my exit strategy. The Jetta inched forward ever so slightly and the wheels began to spin. About 20 minutes later I had finally broken free. Now the decision was apparent: Do I hang out, eat a good home-cooked meal with friends, or to I hightail it outta there while I still can? Of course, I went with option #2. I spun my way back to Leadville, went straight to the Timberline and booked a room for the night. I had hoped that Kurt would figure out why I left and we could catch up later.

Further disrobing ensued in the rustic dwelling; each article of clothing more soaked than the next and hung on every available hook or nob in the room. I’m sure I was carrying at least one or two lbs. of snowmelt in my outfit alone. I checked my cell phone and I had two messages, one of which was certainly from Aspen, since I mistakenly told her the race started at 9 (it was 10, actually), it would take me about 5 hours, tops, and I would call her as soon as I finished. The phone was about dead at this time, so I had to charge it a while before making any calls, further lengthening the waiting process. After suffering the residual effects of my last year’s DNF, she was relieved that I finished and was happy with my performance. The accumulating snow and the serenity of being trapped in it made me even more homesick, and an extra night away from Aspen and unGuy was almost too much to bear. However, I went to the ‘Hut, ordered my traditional post-race pizza and settled down for the night. Kurt was able to track me down and invited me to join him and his friends who lived in Leadville, but by then I was hunkered down and ready for a second full night of rest.

The next morning, I noticed an additional inch or two of snow had fallen in the city, but the sun was now drenching the hills in a wintry glow. I collected my race garb, which had dried to a nice cardboard consistency, and packed the car. Kurt returned to invite me to breakfast, but I had already set my sights on the drive home. We said our goodbyes and each went on his way. The return trip was beautiful, as the recent snow had wrapped every tree like a gift. I was reinvigorated and blessed to be the fleeting owner of such beautiful country.

Postscript – After receiving the race results from Tom a few days later, I learned that the frontrunners had lost their way while crossing the lake and decided to head toward the nearest sign of land. Once they determined their location, they chose to run the course in reverse. Out of 64 runners, only 25 completed the full 20+ mile course; 39 did not. Kurt and I finished 20th and 21st, respectively.

Post-postscript - I’ve uploaded a Google map version of the race course and have added rudimentary green lines and arrows showing which direction the course should have taken (counterclockwise instead of clockwise). Looking at the map, you can see the split once the course reaches the southern shoreline of Turquoise Lake. The route should have stayed right and reached land directly north of the entry point. Instead, the frontrunners drifted left and then beelined it southwest to the shore. You can see where I doubled back a few times as shown by the blue section of the line. Ultimately we ran most of the course in reverse, except toward the end we would have continued south-southeast on the main road and then crossed back over the ice just above the dam. Ah, well.

Running in '08

2008-01-04T07:40:00.000-07:00

I’ve recently cobbled a potential race schedule for 2008, starting with a 20-mile snowshoe race tomorrow in Leadville, Colorado. The race is celebrating its 19th year due to the efforts of Race Director Tom Sobal. Tom holds the current world record for a marathon in snowshoes (3:06:17) and routinely finishes in the top two or three at this race, which is quite an accomplishment for a 50-year-old guy. I DNF’d last year due to catching a cold two days before the race and battling sub-freezing temps, but this year I plan to finish, despite the fact that I have again been saddled with a bug that appears to be taking permanent residence in my head and lungs. Fortuntately, the weather is supposed to be a lot warmer this year. Aspen decided to sit this one out, as she was getting over my cold and was blindsided by another one. This is a shame, since I look forward to our time together in Leadville each year. We stay at the Timberline Motel, which allows dogs and has a hot tub. The night after the race, we iceskate at the local rink. Skate rentals are $1, and we’re usually the only ones out there. This year, however, I’ll be staying at the Timberline alone and possibly making the drive home shortly after the race. I expect to see my new friend Kurt at the event as well, where his hours of recent training will be put to the test. I'll probably start out slow and pick off runners in the closing miles.

My race schedule averages about one per month, and I’ll be posting this to the blog shortly. In the meantime, I’ve been employing training techniques devised by Dr. Phil Maffetone, which requires running at a pace that keeps my heartrate below a calculated limit to build aerobic capacity. The jury is still out on whether I’ve made any measurable gains using this method, but I have noticed that I can stay on my feet a lot longer that I used to.

Merry Giftness

2008-01-02T23:50:00.000-07:00

Pardon the delay in posting here. We recently returned from a snowy Christmas in Wisconsin, and there simply wasn’t any time to gather one’s thoughts. I’ve since been gently reinserted into my daily routine and am ready to unfurl my wealth of observationisms to anyone who cares to listen. Every year, I witness the seasonal travesties foisted upon us (thanks Dave, for the grammatical inspiration!) with no regard to tradition. It seems a guy is worthless if he doesn’t surprise his mate with a Lexus and jewelry for Christmas. Colorado is already sick with car commercials and 'he bought it @ Jared' tripe; the current crop only exacerbates the perception that we are less than standard if we’re not driving the latest SUV or wearing our perceived wealth on our wrists. Since when does the birth of Jesus = gems and wheels?

Dialing L-4235

2007-12-05T11:05:00.000-07:00

There’s something to be said about mountain living. That unspoiled air, void of traffic noise, deer grazing idly on the property. I can blabber on about the positives of moving here. Even the water from our well is tasty enough to get me off my Diet Coke addiction. But, along with the gains come the concessions, I suppose. And being the technogeek that I am, nothing prepared me for the backwards step I was forced to take to remain connected to the outside world. The first thing I noticed was that my cell phone reception degraded from ‘full bars’ to ‘SOS’ as soon as I crested that last ridge about a half mile from home. So I researched a way to capture that fleeting signal. I bought the portable repeater station and the recommended external antenna for the frequency range of my cell service (Cingular/AT&T, whatever their name is this week). I found that the antenna needed a special adaptor to connect to the base station, so I drove to the local Radio Shack only to learn that I had purchased the wrong items for the frequency in my coverage area (I assumed it was in the 850 MHz range when it was in fact 1900 MHz). To make matters even more frustrating, there was no such adaptor, and I had to build my own from three other adaptors. Then I returned the base and the antenna and reordered the 1900 mHz gear, only to discover that I wouldn’t be able to get a signal after all.

Second was the internet. Aspen and I haven’t had a home phone in almost seven years, and since only DSL was offered in this area, we had to regress to a land line to get internet service. I had ordered the full package, assuming I would be able to drop the phone service down to a data line once I got my mini cell tower up and running. I didn’t volunteer our home phone number to family and friends because I was confident I’d soon be returning to cell service. Of course, the new carrier ensured that my first three bills wouldn’t total less than $400. Our names went into the local phone directory, and we began to receive telemarketing calls. We resorted to borrowing an old desk phone from one of our new neighbors just to receive calls. He had to dig through the attic of his garage to find it, and casually mentioned that this area had a party line as late as 1985 (back when the entire neighborhood had to share a single phone line). Finally admitting defeat, I picked up a phone with built-in answering machine at Home Depot for about $40.

Next was television. Most of our neighbors had ‘The Dish’, but we had just moved from an area with broadband cable TV, and our monthly bill was roughly $13. I was not about to get sucked into another package deal. Plus, ordering all those channels is like saying, “Yes, I’ll take some of that heroin, please.” Instead we chose the antenna route, hoping it would prevent us from whiling away our leisure hours in front of the boob tube. At first I employed the rudimentary method of making my own antenna out of speaker wire and aluminum foil, then Scotch-taping it to the large window of our living room, college-style. We received maybe three channels clearly, and one Sunday I was able to pick up the audio signal from FOX long enough to hear the Packers beat Minnesota. I finally relented and bought the last outdoor antenna ever made, spent an entire afternoon affixing it to our rooftop, then crawled through a fiberglass and fly carcass-infested attic to feed the cable through the opposite side of the house to the living room. The antenna only improved the clarity of the three channels we were already getting and could not yet harness my beloved FOX. Not to be outdone by the neighbors, I added a remote-controlled antenna rotor, and now we get seven channels in all their glory (still no FOX). Gone are the days where I could just plug the TV cable into a socket on the wall or retrieve email while on the throne. Here are the days of gravity-fed electrons trickling into my wannabe technofortress. Ah, the simple life.

Returning to the Groove

2007-12-03T08:29:00.000-07:00

My piece on The System and David Frank ('The Founding Father of Electronic R&B') was a great success, eliciting input from the man himself. I hope to interview him in the coming months, where my theory that he was responsible for Scritti Politti’s breakthrough sound can be put to the test. Stay tuned!

The System - X-Periment (1984)

A Run Through Time, Part II

2007-11-30T10:01:00.001-07:00

Continued from Part I......

I spent the first few miles of the descent attending to wardrobe malfunctions, removing excess clothing, etc. Chris and Dave continued on while I paused at various points to absorb the views of the outer reaches of the canyon. I was also not as adept at navigating the downhills as my counterparts, and took the opportunity to set a more comfortable pace. The cliffs were blanketed by a full moon, and I instinctively doused my headlamp when conditions allowed. I’ve run many trails in complete darkness, trusting that each footprint would be laid upon stable ground. However, a single misstep on this choppy route would have sent me tumbling into the canyon, and I chose my darkness wisely. An hour and a half later we reached the footbridge crossing the Colorado River. I stopped to take photos, but none would capture the quiet fury of the Colorado, nor the temporary ownership we had gained of this (imaginary) space. My heart raced not to the pace of the run, but to the sheer elation of reaching this point, exposed to some of the oldest rocks on the planet. Dave unloaded a portion of food for the return trip near the water stop on the north side of the river. I had planned to do the same, but once there I felt I could carry the full load up the other side and back. I made a concerted effort to drink as often as possible, after suffering through several heat stroke episodes over the past few years. Fortunately, my saving grace was traveling with a group who were like-minded and equally concerned about staying hydrated.

Our uphill leg kicked off in earnest, with Chris taking the reins, and me bringing up the rear. After many hikes or runs with my wife and friends, I’ve always been more comfortable moving at someone else’s speed, rather than dictating it. I rarely lead unless asked, and this removes the pressure of guessing on a suitable pace. At the time, Chris’ tempo was perfect for the conditions at hand, and we proceeded toward Phantom Ranch in agreeable silence. Once at the ranch, the trail began to braid through the underbrush. Several times we dead-ended at Bright Angel Creek, or the route simply disappeared. I’ve been in a few trail races where I’m with a small group, and we suddenly realize we’re off track. I can imagine a spectator watching a bunch of goobs jogging around in circles like mice trapped in a maze, desperately searching an exit as precious seconds tick off the timer. Somehow, it feels unnatural at this point to simply stop and assess one’s predicament. Our private goat rodeo was further exacerbated by the delightful fragrances emanating from the mule guides’ kitchen, and we groaned in unison when comparing the notion of a sit-down cowboy breakfast to the lifeless, inorganic task of ingesting another gel. Reluctantly fleeing this siren’s odor, we quickly pointed our nostrils in the general direction of the North Rim, and I substituted an appetite for those greasy victuals with that of some uphill running. The first several miles comprised the gentlest grade of the stretch, and I spent the remainder of the North Kaibab leg on my own, hoping to achieve my goal of running at least the first R2. I was wearing a wrist GPS, but the satellites couldn’t keep me on track, so I used the unit to monitor my heart rate instead. The initial five or six miles were fairly effortless, and the quiet was so deep that I swear I could hear the moonlight. The din was briefly interrupted by critters moving about, probably confused by this biped ambling through their backyards. I squelched the headlamp on several more occasions when the trail peeked out into the reflected light from under the sheer cliffs. The purity of this moment was almost too overwhelming to grasp, and I found myself at times in peaceful synchronicity with my surroundings. The synch would not last, however, as I plunged that first step into a small marshy area about five miles into the ascent. My unplanned arrival sparked the dispersal of a couple resident mammals attending to a small spring-fed pond. One scurried off into the cattails and the other made what I can only describe as a ‘submerging sound’. The time was around 4 AM, and I’m sure they weren’t expecting a human to interrupt their nocturnal forays. Once reaching dry ground, I took account of my shoes in the soulless glow of my headlamp. Not only were they soaked to the core with swamp water, but I had also accumulated some sort of residue on my skin from mid-calf south. I wisely chose not to remove it with bare hands and went on my way in mild disgust. Soon the trail began to rise in the direction of up, starting with an abrupt climb to Ribbon Falls on what is called Heartbreak Hill. It was here I made the first of several judgment errors that would cut short my intended route. I assumed that if I maintained a steady, comfortable pace, I could manage running the entire first 21+ miles of the R3. Up to this point I was feeling exceptionally strong. The temps were such that my liquid intake may well have been adequate, for a change. Why not just hammer through this section? The answer to this naïve supposition was to be revealed about 2.5 miles from the North Rim, to be illustrated later.

Reaching the crest of this unforgiving mound I turned to survey the canyon below. Immediately, I recognized Chris’ headlamp signaling me from a distance. I flashed in return and continued on my way, enjoying a brief decent in this relentless climb. Recalling this moment, I wonder if the unassuming left fork at the base of Heartbreak Hill would have skirted this feature altogether. Regardless, the die had been cast, and my determination to reach the rim at a conversational pace became all-consuming. Beyond Ribbon Falls, the trail returned to a more manageable grade. I stopped briefly at Wall Creek to drink deeply from its waters and refill my handheld. Despite warnings by all, I’ve drunk from many streams and puddles much more questionable than this, with no ill effects. Today was no exception. Ambling on, I arrived at Cottonwood Camp, still optimistic. As expected, the water tap at this location had been turned off for the season. I wasn’t greatly concerned as I had just tanked up at Wall Creek. A few campers had already begun their preparations for the day, and I greeted them warmly after talking to myself for the better part of two hours. Beyond the camp, the grade increased, as did my heart rate and general anxiety. Still, I pushed on to the Ranger House, which accommodated a tap reportedly disconnected but operational upon my arrival. The water quickly filled my handheld, and I casually splashed the remaining trickles onto my face. By now, the subtle hints of daybreak began to emerge from within the greater canyon. I was six miles from the rim, ready to greet the sun like a long-lost friend.

Coming up: The Supai Deathmarch. Work is Work. Rangers, Then Cops!

Disturbing the Groove

2007-11-28T22:14:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while a song graces my Jetta that I’ve heard a thousand times, but inexplicably resonates with me on that 1,001st play. Recently, it was Don’t Disturb This Groove by The System. I remember when this song dominated the airwaves and had long dismissed the track until a few days ago, when it arrived unannounced on a random iPod mix. (I’m a huge ‘old school’ R&B fan and have one of those ‘ancient’ 20-giggers packed to the gills with various styles of music, so the chances of a previously unplayed track popping up in a mix are quite good.) I proceeded to set the iPod to ‘Repeat’ and systematically dissect the workings of the song during my long commute from work. Once home, I did a 'net search on The System, a band I knew nothing about. According to wikipedia.com and davidfrankmusic.com, The System was singer Mic Murphy and keyboardist David Frank. A proficient pianist, Frank’s creative seeds were sewn at an early age and cultivated through gigs as a touring musician, eventually dovetailing into progressively substantial endeavors that not only forged his immense talents but financed his penchant for the most cutting-edge synths. Frank’s career began to take flight when Atlantic Records soul/funk band Kleeer enlisted him as their tour keyboardist. The band's road manager, Mic Murphy, asked Frank to sit in on some informal recording sessions, and at the time, Frank was unaware that Murphy could sing. The sessions afforded Frank the opportunity to record some of his own material, including a track called It's Passion. The song was presented to a pre-stardom Madonna who eventually passed on vocal duties due to creative differences. Recalling Murphy, Frank invited him to his loft to work on the track, where Murphy reworked the lyrics and melody. The two then entered the studio, recorded the song in one day, and spent the night mixing the recording. After their overnight session, Murphy delivered the master tape to an engineer friend who transferred the tape onto a 12" acetate record and suggested he present it to Mirage Records, a subsidiary of Atlantic. The next day, Murphy called to inform Frank that the duo had a record deal. Two days later, Murphy created the name The System, and within three weeks, It's Passion was receiving massive radio airplay in New York. (If only it were still that easy).

The follow-up single, You Are in My System (November 1982), took the same magic path, spreading to key markets around the country, and early 1983 saw the release of their debut album Sweat. They went on to release X-Periment in 1984 and The Pleasure Seekers in 1986, to increasing acclaim, leading to soundtrack appearances on Miami Vice, Coming To America, and Beverly Hills Cop. But it wasn’t until 1987, upon the release of the title track for the album Don’t Disturb This Groove, did The System’s profile begin to skyrocket. The track went to #1 on the Billboard R&B charts and #3 on the Hot 100. The duo followed the hit with several more singles and two albums, including 1989’s Rhythm and Romance and the 1990 reunion album ESP, although none of the ensuing releases would achieve the blistering success of Don't Disturb This Groove. However, their fresh approach put The System in high demand as producers/songwriters and musicians. The deft imprint of The System can be heard on Chaka Khan's I Feel For You, Mtume's Juicy Fruit (both certified Gold), and Phil Collins' Sussudio, where Frank’s trademark sporadic synth bassline permeates this substantial hit by the Genesis frontman. Frank’s production sensibilities eventually led him to much greater heights, producing Christina Aguilera’s Genie in a Bottle and other releases by a bevy of A-line acts.

The System - Don't Disturb This Groove (1987)

The System followed a path shared by many electronic acts of the eighties, but their meteoric rise laid claim to unique attributes absent from the sounds pushed by other artists in the scene. The System's design was no fluke, rather it represented the ultimate interracial cooperative, advancing a divine essence derived from the blend of cultural backgrounds that cannot be matched by imitation alone. It must have been plainly evident to Murphy and Frank that this synergy would quickly dissolve if one of the components were to be removed. In 1987, the ingredients forging the chemistry between them could not have been more precisely measured, culminating in the choral refrains of Don’t Disturb This Groove. The structure of the song was meticulously manicured, joyfully bouncing between major to minor within a single phrase. Murphy’s vox were spot on pitch, with no ulterior weaknesses commonly disguised by current softcopy wizardry. Sure, the production in itself is a bit dated for today’s tastes. That slamming snare has been mercifully absent from recordings for years. But Frank was employing progressive technology at the time, including the Fairlight and what sounds like a Yamaha DX-7. These boards lent The System’s sound a somewhat freeze-dried flavor. But it was Frank’s use of synth fragments is what carried the track into such an ethereal bent, as the song is built upon dozens of solo parts, each having its turn in the spotlight, while sprinkled onto the body of the mix like a fragrant powder. On the surface, the bassline appears to run random, with no detectable purpose other than to fill the spaces within. But upon subsequent spins I recognized a very intricate pattern not unlike the typical bassline by another one of my favorite eighties bands, Scritti Politti. Only upon further research did I discover that the basslines from Scritti’s critically acclaimed Cupid and Psyche ’85 were Frank’s (he was hired as a session musician for the recording of the album). I also dialed in some uncanny arrangement similarities between Don’t Disturb This Groove and Scritti’s Perfect Way, or for that matter, any track on Cupid and Psyche. I wonder about the degree of Frank’s influence on this recording (or vice versa), since his involvement remains poorly documented on the web. What speaks for itself, however, is the enduring quality of this truly timeless tune. I just wish I had caught this groove the first time around.

Junk Mail Mayhem

2007-11-28T12:08:00.000-07:00

One of the few pleasures in receiving new homeowner junk mail is the errant offer that includes an envelope marked ‘POSTAGE TO BE PAID BY ADDRESSEE’. As far as I’m concerned, this is an invitation to wreak havoc upon the companies who blindly ply their trade to recent home buyers like myself. In fact, I open every envelope disguised as a certified letter with tempered anticipation, hoping to reveal of one of these Golden Tickets. The ‘addressees’ are expecting from me a form complete with all of my personal information, naively confident that their product will help me through this volatile economic climate. Instead, they receive a First Class paperweight, stuffed with small, metallic items found around the house. The best are large flat washers, or any other flat piece of metal. Bolts, nuts, allen wrenches - only the heavy stuff will do. I ensure that the envelope weighs at least a pound or so before securing it with tape and gently placing it in the mailbox like a stick of old dynamite. I’m sure the item never makes it through the mail sorter at the local postal facility, but the prospect of it reaching its destination is satisfying nonetheless. I’d like to picture the recipient exclaiming ‘WTF??’ and lobbing it into the nearest garbage can, then tabulating the ensuing postal fees augmented by my ‘letter’ and all of the others returned in the same condition. Eventually, they’ll figure it out and stop sending junk mail altogether. Maybe not.

Into the Wild

2007-11-26T09:05:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, Aspen and I saw the movie Into the Wild. It’s a true story about the travels of Chris McCandless, who eschews his affluent upbringing to experience the country as a vagabond. His final destination – Alaska. Without exposing too much of the plot, I was relieved to find that the movie closely followed the book. I remember reading author Jon Krakauer’s article about McCandless in Outside Magazine some years ago and was deeply impacted by the newfound morals that evolved from McCandless’ idealism. At the time, I was single, living apart from most of my family and had no real ties to my surroundings. The thought of disappearing, leaving all creature comforts behind, struck a chord with me, and I fantasized about where I would visit first. Of course, this was only a fleeting desire, since I also envisioned the devastation this would impose upon those who loved me. Still, the thought of Aspen, Nick and I ditching the rat race for a life of tramping has some lingering appeal, although I’m sure my alma mater’s alumni association would still find a way to track me down.

Cellphone Stinkbombers

2007-11-13T01:02:00.000-07:00

The other day I purchased a few items from the local electronics store. I’d guess that their clientele represent a healthy cross-section of computer users: The Dockers-wearing guy with the Bluetooth earpiece and belt clip full of access cards; the chunky dude with the full-on beard and squarish, wire-rimed glasses buying a new graphics card to run the latest online tournament game; the wide-eyed couple with an armload of iPod accessories, etc. Normally, I’m focused on the task at hand and rarely notice the calm chaos around me. But on this day, a certain distasteful odor permeated my personal space, leaving me gasping for oxygen and retribution. I’m sure many of you have experienced what I’m about to describe: The ‘Wandering Shopper’s Cell Phone Conversation’. The offender is usually engulfed in an animated conversation with someone who appears to be hard of hearing, throwing out technical terms only recognizable to those in his business unit, all while strolling down each aisle with no real purpose or direction. I liken it to someone ripping a nasty fart and proceeding to walk through the entire store, dragging this wicked stink on a leash for all to enjoy. With professional stinkbombers, the conversation is usually nursed through the checkout process, past the exit doors and into the parking lot. If I were an unscrupulous cashier, I would slip a theft surveillance tag into their bag. After all, these people want to be the center of attention, why not give it to them in the form of a shoplifting alarm?

A Run Through Time, Part I

2007-11-12T09:58:00.000-07:00

I recently returned from a long-planned run across the Grand Canyon. Yeah, it’s been done before, and yes, I had counted on making the return trip, but alas, it was not to be. The whole experience, from the moment we pulled away from our new home, to those squinty hours when you just want to get out of the car and go to bed, was a typical spectrum of good fortune through moments best kept subdued.

Shortly into that first night of Wednesday, October 24th, as we pulled into a Subway in Buena Vista, my wife and I bantered about in our usual manner, and the inevitable subject came up of ‘being lucky that we’ve never hit a large mammal’. A couple hours later, I was plucking loose parts of what used to be our Forerunner’s front bumper after taking out a young male deer at 55 MPH. I’m quite certain he was killed instantly, although I have heard of deer walking away from collisions at even faster speeds. I did not stop to find out. Thankfully, none of us was injured (the unGuy didn’t even wake up and the dogs were none the worse for wear), and the car even survived another 1500 miles on the highway with only one headlight and no AC or heat. We spent the night in Ridgway with a couple of friends of ours, Michael and Darcy (I really need to start taking more pictures of people). Thursday was spent eying the remains of days before ‘striking it rich’ became synonymous with casinos and Lotto. (In the midst of the tailings piles and stamp mills, I subliminally reiterated my wish to travel back to the turn of the 19th century in the form of a bird or some other inconspicuous creature, to observe the daily life of a prospector. That arduous way of life just fascinates me.)

Most of the remainder of Thursday was spent chasing the sun, through bottle-riddled reservation highways lined with vacant jewelry shacks and tumbleweed motels. The thought of another critter-plagued night of driving made the miles peel off like roadkill on hot asphalt, and the gradual downshifting to touristy speeds within Grand Canyon National Park only heightened our anticipation of a good night’s sleep. Traffic was oddly absent from our drive into the park, and navigating the ribbon road with one headlight proved to be difficult, as we passed the unlit gateway to Road E1 three times before I finally had to pull over and locate it on foot. It was barely beyond the width of our Forerunner and marked on either side by inconspicuous boulders. Once on this unmaintained stretch, we chose a flat spot in a bed of pine needles and cones and proceeded to set up camp. Although our run departure time was only a few hours away, I felt compelled to contact Dave and his lady Veener, who were staying at the Yavapai Lodge within Grand Canyon Village. They were relieved to hear that we had arrived safely and warmly welcomed us into their love lair. Entering their room was like arriving at a grazer’s Shangri-La. Almost every horizontal surface was occupied by some sort of healthy foodstuff, and I imagined the four of us lounging around the room, watching the night pass by as all of the comfort foods within arm’s reach are gradually consumed. I hastily drew myself out of this driving-induced funk and accepted a cold glass of water with fervor. Conversations ebbed and flowed, and soon the realization of the impending trek struck hard. It was literally four hours away, and I was nowhere near that sleepy feeling. Eventually, my responsible self won out, and we retreated to the campsite.

Like most competitive runners, I like to arrange my clothes and gear the night before, so that I’m not forced to think about anything but eating and getting dressed the day of the race. In my haste, I’ve left the house without some of the most basic items, including shoes. I swore that would never happen again, and this evening was no exception. Arranging each item in almost an OCD manner, I completed the routine and hesitantly slunk into the tent. I managed to crawl out two more times to add things I had previously forgotten. It was now 11:00 PM. With the alarm clock placed on my pillow next to my head, I miraculously slipped into a wonderful sleep, broken only by the periodic panic that results in checking the display on the alarm. First it was 12:00, then 12:35, then 1:03, and finally 1:19, 1:24, 1:27, 1:28, and 1:29. Why I didn’t just get up at that point, I’ll never know. I suppose I was secretly hoping the alarm would validate my time of arousal. Soon, I was tip-toeing around the campsite, aiming to dress as quickly as possible in the snappy air. Since the gear had been laid out in advance, I was prepared to leave the campsite sooner than I had expected. I took the opportunity to kiss Aspen goodbye and jog to the South Kaibab Trailhead. The route followed the rim, and the warm breath of the canyon occasionally rushed across my skin, as yesterday’s heat rose from the floor below. After about 0.5 mi I arrived at the parking lot to the excited chants of Dave, Chris, and Veener, who made it clear that her involvement would be restricted to ‘You guys are crazy’-type quips. After a few more minutes of stretching and clever chitchat, our months of training were to culminate into a brief moment of pause before descending into the Big Hole.

Coming up, Part II: No lamps required. Dave smells bacon? Why do my shoes smell like ass?

Relative Elevation

2007-11-02T16:02:00.000-06:00

I’m currently working on my account of our recent trip to the Grand Canyon, and with so many smaller items attached to one great theme, it will take some time to process everything into print. In the meantime, I have a short anecdote to impart upon you.

As you may know, my wife Aspen and I have just moved into a new home. I’d say that we’ve probably gained about 2,500 feet of elevation in our new digs which has an unobstructed view of Pikes Peak. While we were looking at houses, many flaunted either a view of the Peak or the City of Denver. I remember a brief moment as we stood with our realtor, Chris, on the deck of one home boasting a bird’s-eye vantage of the city skyline. Chris extolled the value in having such a view, whereas I casually mentioned that I much preferred the Pikes Peak vista. As one whom owns a home overlooking the city, he explained that living with that exposure served as a reminder that he had conquered city life. I thought it to be quite a powerful and convictive statement. A couple days ago, I revisited that moment and began to consider why I prefer the view of a great mountain over that of a rising city. Almost immediately, I realized that I needed that view to remind me of how very small I am. I see no reason to dismiss Chris’ motives for where he chooses to live, because I think it’s natural for most to want to watch over something, whether they have just climbed a tree or are standing on the patio of a high-rise loft. However, I do believe it speaks volumes about how we each perceive our position in the Grand Scheme.

Still Here

2007-10-24T14:02:00.000-06:00

I had hoped to update this blog on a regular basis. However, a volatile work schedule, combined with moving my wife and family to a new city and training for the Grand Canyon R3, has depleted my free time. I leave tonight for the Big Hole and will return on Sunday with many stories to tell. See you soon.

Observationisms

2007-10-12T14:12:00.000-06:00

Upon joining this scene, I began compiling a list of potential blog topics. Instead of concentrating on items directly related to, say, music or running, I hope to broaden the criteria to the lowest common denominator. The most popular blogs have sort of a universal appeal by tackling subjects to which almost anyone can relate, while those dedicated specifically to one subject can only expect to grow as large as their niche. Building such an inventory is the easiest ingredient in maintaining a successful blog. Determining what will be of interest to you is much more difficult, since you may not care that I run on trails or have a kid. But the list continues to grow. Some of these are worth a diatribe, while others are simply spontaneous observations designed to spark some dialogue. I call these morsels Observationisms. I’ll throw one down from time to time. Most of the current crop are simple complaints about how things are done or made, and maybe I’m looking for some enlightenment on a subject I know little or nothing about. After all, doesn't ignorance breed controversy?

U2 – War, Track 10

2007-10-10T16:06:00.000-06:00

I’m fortunate in that I reached such a landmark age without regrets. Instead of ruing over the past, I direct my focus forward. Rather than be envious of what I once was, I’m jealous of the person I hope to become. I know some who have carved themselves a nice rut and react by cheating on their mates or buying a trophy car. Still others retire from their dead-end jobs and die at home because they have no outside interests. Although I don’t have any true misgivings over the choices made over the years, I can cite at least one disappointment borne from the aftermath of those choices – my music ‘career’. I remember years ago being contacted by a talent agency who was fronted a copy of my first album. They envisioned a future too esoteric for my Midwestern laurels, and I chose to decline their offer. Sometime later, the lead singer of a Christian 'NSYNC-type act rang me up, raving about my second CD and looking for a keyboardist to join his band for a long-term residency at Disneyworld. I developed deep-seeded issues with his ego and eventually passed on the opportunity. More recently, I was contacted by the lead singer of a seminal ‘80s band to go on tour in the US and abroad. I would have made the perfect fit – I knew all of the synth parts, and could sing any of the harmonies on key. The singer, whom I had idolized for years, soon learned the depth of my reverence and pursued me even more aggressively. However, I saw this as fulfilling his ambitions and not my own and again skipped on the gig.

I have since ‘retired’ from music to pursue other passions such as trailrunning and my new family. I leave a legacy that lies wholly unfulfilled, with boxes of unsold CDs and half-finished songs that may have spawned even more prospects to turn down. Looking back, I wonder where I would be today if I had said ‘yes’ to any of those opportunities. Someone must have known that my successes were to be found elsewhere. I guess that’s why I’m always looking ahead.

Immortraility

2007-10-08T14:54:00.000-06:00

A few weeks ago, my friend Dave and I planned a weekend trail run in the Indian Peaks Wilderness near Eldora, Colorado. I was ready to decompress after a stressful workweek and explore an area I had only previously tackled on snowshoes. We decided to open up the casual trek to any interested parties by posting a note on the local trailrunners’ Yahoo group. One person replied by the end of the week - a guy named Kurt. We offered to collect him at the local market in nearby Nederland, and then carpool to the nearby Fourth of July Trailhead. Upon arriving at the parking lot, we noticed a late ‘70s, brick red F-150 with a camper shell and Alaska plates. An unassuming, bespectacled, early-fifties-looking man carrying no water, fuel, or gear popped out from behind the camper, ready to go. We exchanged pleasantries and piled into my ’98 Jetta for a short trip to the trailhead. Along the way, Kurt talked about his last year of gold prospecting in Alaska and various races all of us had completed. He recognized every person we mentioned in conversation, although neither Dave nor I had ever met or heard of Kurt before this day. Soon we were stretching outside of the car with a tentative goal of Arapaho Pass. As our journey veered off-trail into sub-alpine meadows and beyond, our marvel in Kurt’s mountain goat-caliber scrambling prowess reached ethereal proportions. Much of Kurt’s day was spent waiting on us, yet he offered only words of encouragement and at the end of the day remarked how this was one of the best outings he’d ever experienced. Over the next few days, Dave and I retold the tale of this zen-like master to many within our running circles, only to find that many already knew of whom we were describing. The man known as Kurt was actually 62-year-old mountain runner legend Kurt Blumberg, with many trailrunning titles (and anecdotes) to his credit. It seems that his health secret of sleeping on magnets has paid off in a big way.

There are stories of Kurt running the 2001 Zane Grey 50K bottomless and posting decisive age-group wins at the Pikes Peak Marathon and the Imogene Pass Run. I can only imagine the accomplishments and accompanying tales that did not make the trailrunning archives. Here’s to you, Kurt. I hope we can catch-up (to you) again soon.

Matt

2007-10-01T18:12:00.000-06:00

I had a friend named Matt in high school. We were both in our school’s ski club and took regular trips to local ‘resorts’ in southern Wisconsin. One such trip was to the behemoth Mt. Olympia, which had been built upon a former landfill. I estimate that it took a total of 7.0 seconds to navigate their toughest run. On this particular day, an enthusiastic group of air catchers had built a disconcertingly steep jump at the bottom of the hill. Trouble is, anyone with foresight would have built it at mid-slope so jumpers could land at an angle and continue on their way without compressing their spines. However, Matt was convinced he could conquer this monstrosity unharmed, unlike the rest of us who lined up along the landing site to witness the carnage. Soon Matt was gathering speed toward the frosty mound. He caught air, caught a glimpse of the sky and executed the perfect landing – on his back. I can remember him gasping out a plea for someone to give him air. Of course, all of us stood there not knowing how to respond while he writhed in the snow. Once he regained composure his concern soon shifted to the obliterated condition of his brother’s ski goggles, and he was sure his brother was gonna kill him. He’s a pastor in Montana now, so I guess that God spared him for a higher purpose.

Faminoia

2007-09-21T15:29:00.000-06:00

I had an appointment this morning for a round of bloodletting (or ‘bloodwork’, in nurse-speak), since I have a family history of heart issues and wanted a baseline from which to track my own heart health. If you’re familiar with the process, most clinics require that you fast for twelve hours to ensure that your blood sugar levels are accurate. This wasn’t my first time fasting the night before a such an appointment, and I had always successfully surrendered my platelets on an empty stomach. However, I didn’t take into consideration that previous fasts were manageable before I started running regularly and eating every 2-3 hours.

Last night I ate dinner about 7:30 and hit the trail about 8:30 for a planned eight-mile out-and-back stretch. I was feeling good and decided to extend the O&B an extra mile, for a total of ten miles. When I arrived home, I naturally went for the fridge, hoping to grab a quick snack before jumping into the shower. It was then I realized that the wheels had been set in motion for a potential catastrophe. The shower did nothing to pacify the monster that would become my appetite. Crawling into bed I knew that by falling asleep the disaster would be averted, and those forty winks came mercifully to my rescue. Only when I rolled over to the 2:03 AM on the alarm clock did the pangs of panic begin to surface. It would be another eight or so hours before I could take my next bite. Soon I could feel myself unraveling as the urge to consume a bowl of Lucky Charms became irresistible. With rebellious craze, I leapt out of bed, inhaled the most delectable serving of vitamin-enriched cereal and proceeded to leave a message with my family care clinic that I would be unable to make the appointment. The binge did not end there, as I wrapped up the nighttime feast with a Power Bar (yes, I even eat these for fun!) and a few savory gulps of ice-cold milk. Defiantly satiated, I slipped back under the covers for a restful sleep. I wonder what my sugar intake would have done to those tests.

Trail to the Holy Grail

2007-09-18T16:20:00.000-06:00

I started running in September 2005 after the release of my last album. By then I had almost bottomed out on my mental and physical health and needed something to pull me out of the downward spiral. This came after years of proclaiming to everyone within earshot that I hated jogging and would never take up the sport. But I soon connected with Colorado’s thriving trailrunning culture, where the creative planner could run at least one trail race per week, if crazy enough (see Bernie Boettcher). Colorado claims thousands of miles of trails, and I’ve hiked many of these in the Front Range and beyond. I entered my first race as a competitor in February 2006, finishing in the 69th percentile on a 10-mile paved course. Crossing the finish line, the hook was set. I spent the rest of 2006 entering anything I could manage, with increasingly impressive results. I found that my hiking experience paid off in the uphill courses, as I posted strong finishes at the Mt. Evans Ascent (86th percentile), Pikes Peak Ascent (93rd percentile), and Imogene Pass Run (94th percentile). I still get beaten soundly by guys (and gals) who are 10+ years my senior. However, this is encouraging since it shows me that my best years of running lie ahead. I don’t fill my race calendar like I used to, only because it gets expensive, and I’d rather focus my training on the larger events. I have my first marathon in a couple weeks (more about that later), a ‘Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim’ run at the Grand Canyon (or, ‘R3’) planned for the last weekend of October, and my first ultra (The Kettle Moraine 100K) in June 2008. Hope to see you on the trails someday!

Bigfoot Sighting

2007-09-13T16:18:00.000-06:00

I had a friend in highschool and college named Bob. He had unusually large feet and wore size 17.5 basketball shoes. I'm not sure about the proported correlation between big feet and a certain sexual organ, but I do know that he once received an anonymous Father's Day card.

Apologies to Matt Damon

2007-09-13T10:05:00.000-06:00

The idea for this post arrived as I was watching last night’s episode of Jimmy Kimmel Live. I usually mute the first 30 seconds of the show because Robert Goulet’s vocals in the opening theme song are so horribly flat that I suffer physical pain every time I hear them. I lay there wondering how both the engineer and producer could allow such a dreadful overdub to make its way into the bedrooms of the millions who watch this wildly-popular show. My guess is that they were afraid to offend the legendary Mr. Goulet by asking for another take, or they simply could not afford one. What would Randy Jackson say about this performance?

I began to contemplate why I find such dissonance so offensive, when it can pass effortlessly through the ear canals of a trained professional. I can only offer the suggestion that my reaction is a genetic predisposition. I’ve always told people that I have perfect pitch, but after doing a bit of research, I found that what I possess is actually relative pitch. I play by ear, so I would have difficulty naming a note based upon its pitch, but I can tell which strings are out of tune on a guitar just by hearing a chord being strummed. Wikipedia says that relative pitch is a learned behavior, but says nothing about the discomfort associated with hearing mistuned instruments or voices. I know of at least two in my family who share this same trait. We squint our eyes and tilt our head hoping to magically bend that sour note back into place. It never works.

Infant Nicknames

2007-09-12T08:40:00.000-06:00

I have three sisters, all whom have young children branded with infantile petnames – ‘The Boobus’, ‘Birdy’, ‘Dudes’, etc. As I'm notorious for giving nicknames to almost everyone I know, my family was assured that our firstborn son, Nicholas, would get the budweiser of all nicknames.

Admittedly, I have to credit Nick for creating his own moniker. Upon his first breath of sterile hospital air, he didn’t really wail like the babies I had seen on TV or in movies. He popped out, his mouth opened wide, his face got red, and then this pitiful little cry spewed forth that sounded something like ‘unGUYYYYYYYY, unGUYYYYYYYY’. We were later relieved to learn that he really didn’t cry much at all. And on those rare occasions when his fussiness would begin to escalate, that cry soon became our own personal noun, as in, ‘Uh, oh, I think I hear an unGuy coming’ or ‘Did you get any unGuys today?’ which rapidly morphed into ‘I think unGuy had a blowout' or ‘How long’s unGuy been asleep?’ We grasped in vain at any sense of a nickname that would keep his masculinity intact. We threw ‘Dude’, ‘Big Guy’, ‘Bud’ at him. Nothing stuck. Sorry, unGuy.

Run, Funkylegs. Run!

2007-09-11T10:48:00.000-06:00

I suppose I should explain the name Funkylegs. This is a self-imposed nickname derived from my unique, shall I say, ‘gait’. My mom was reportedly quite small when she became pregnant shortly before her twenty-first birthday. She claims she was about 110 lbs and packed on at least eighty more during her pregnancy. Apparently the womb was too tiny for my gangly frame (I’m 6’3” now), and my legs were sort of pretzeled in there. As an infant, I was severely pigeon-toed, so my legs were often fixed to this metal apparatus that pointed them in the right direction, as in, straight ahead. I remember once sitting in the kid’s seat on the back of my dad’s bicycle and getting my feet caught in the spokes. Later as a middle-schooler, a certain classmate teased me relentlessly about the way one leg sort of swung out and the other swung in as I walked to my classes. Once in college, a girl asked me how I had injured my leg after seeing me walk towards her on campus. I’m sure there are many more memories like these, but they're likely victims of selective amnesia.

I’ve grown accustomed to the way in which I walk. In fact, I married a girl with similar issues. We’ve always joked about having a kid with legs that are either really messed up or completely straight, as our impediments sort of canceled each other out (thankfully, he was born with normal legs, although I suspect he’ll be a bit bowlegged). I took up running, and those unnatural movements don’t seem to be affecting my knees or finishing times. When I see a child in a wheelchair or a man taking an elevator up one floor, I’m grateful I can walk at all.