The Dignity of Labour

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., and online sales are enough to buy some new software as of late.

You can download some covers, remixes, and unreleased items here. The album is now on iTunes, and so is the bonus disc!

Download and Enjoy. 

Update January 2016: I've been working on some new material, with a possible new album scheduled for 2017. Stay tuned. 

Crazy for Swedgin and Co.

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: Salida Trail Marathon

(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.

Race Report: Moab Red Hot 50K/33K

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.

Race Report: Jeremy Wright North American Snowshoe Championships

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 Screamin' 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.

Race Report: Screamin' Snowman 5K

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

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.