Missed Turns: The New Gateway Drug

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

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.

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???

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

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.

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

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

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

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

(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

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

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

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

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.