tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64455643723462328572024-03-05T10:20:07.713-05:00this bee's knees.Musings on running, parenting and the balancing of the two from a humble husband, proud father, hack writer, Altra Ambassador, gear peddler, trail shuffler, and beard cultivator.this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.comBlogger185125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-2697563855132658022020-06-01T17:56:00.002-04:002023-07-29T09:22:46.899-04:00and you can never quarantine the past.<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span style="color: black;">"He was the owner of valuable land and exercised no small </span></i><i><span style="color: black;">influence </span></i><i><span style="color: black;">among the people of his neighborhood. In 1771 he </span></i><i><span style="color: black;">was </span></i><i><span style="color: black;">elected county </span></i><i><span style="color: black;">commissioner, and served as such until </span></i><i><span style="color: black;">1774. </span></i><i><span style="color: black;">By his will on file in the </span></i><i><span style="color: black;">Register's office, </span></i><i><span style="color: black;">after providing </span></i><i><span style="color: black;">for </span></i><i><span style="color: black;">his wife, and the slave to whom he had </span></i><i><span style="color: black;">given freedom, </span></i></span><i><span style="color: black;">he devises to his only son his large plantation of 500 acres."</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Lily, half listening, realizes that I've stopped reading from </span>the archived historical records of one of our ancestors. She looks up <span style="color: black;">from her phone, mulls over</span><span style="color: black;"> the </span>last few sentences, and says "It's cool that he freed the slave, right?" but before I can respond, her face and body language reveal that the full impact has settled in and she is feeling the same awful disappointment I am.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Back in March while noticing the numerous small farm burial plots along the rural roads that took the place of the trails that had become inaccessible during the COVID-19 quarantine, an intense curiosity to explore the genealogy of my own family emerged. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Armed with exceptional amounts of spare time and access to the endless corridors of the internet, I soon discovered numerous names and dates that began to give shape to a previously unexplored family tree.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">One clue led to another and another, the branches of the tree expanded exponentially, and a picture began to form of those who came before me. Nearly all of my ascendants left Germany and Switzerland beginning around 1710 and continuing for the better part of the 18th century. Sailing across the Atlantic, these non-seafarers (at least those who survived the journey) staggered off of vessels that docked in New York City and Philadelphia, some settling first in New York state, but most all of them ultimately finding their way to the southeastern part of Pennsylvania. Other than procreating and fanning out within the region, they've pretty remained here ever since.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">First setting eyes on Germany just a few years ago, I was stunned by how much of the countryside resembled the part of the United States that has always been my home. I imagined my fore bearers having the very same reaction upon arrival in Pennsylvania.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">These were people of faith and while land disputes, wars, and the famine and hardship that stemmed from them were major factors in the decision to leave the only world they'd ever known, so too was the promise of a place where they could practice their religion without persecution. One of my great grandfathers was the first Amish bishop in America and a member of the initial Amish settlement in the country. Others helped to found congregations of their own and at least one of my grandparents donated land so a church could be constructed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A few hundred years later, that narrative suggests a certain virtuousness, but those humans were just as flawed and fallible as those of us carrying on the family lines today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I didn't want or need grand or virtuous stories, I just wanted to fill in the blanks in my understanding of the history of my predecessors and I was as open to the mundane as the exceptional.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As the strictest of quarantine measures began to loosen slightly, I started venturing out, visiting various cemeteries, whispering my thanks, telling each deceased grandparent about me, my wife, and my children, and recounting the names of the individuals between us on the branch of our shared tree. Silly perhaps, but each experience was rewarding and connective. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The data on the internet initially spoiled me, leading me directly to grave site after grave site with little issue. My luck ran out, however, when a small family burial plot that I'd much looked forward to seeing proved elusive. GPS coordinates guided me to the backyard of a new home with a deep wide-open backyard that clearly did not contain a cemetery. The homeowner was away but a friendly next-door neighbor escorted me to the yard to confirm that the graves weren't there. Portions of an adjoining farm had been subdivided a few years prior and in place of the graveyard now stood the sand mound of a septic field.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Making notations a few days later that the cemetery was no more, I decided to revisit the dated photos first unearthed online. A thin line of trees in the background and the slope of the foreground convinced me to go back and check the line of trees that backed up against one side of the developed property. A thorough scouring of the woods and the fields along the trees offered no further signs of what I sought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It seemed that the last physical landmarks of my ancestors had been lost to history. The disappointing experience really drove home how temporal is our existence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Two days later that nagging feeling reemerged and encouraged one final tact. A return to the internet produced an e-mail address for an individual who had compiled some of the reference information and I sent a message asking when he'd last been to the graveyard or if he had any knowledge of what might have been done with the graves and the headstones. To my very pleasant surprise, he e-mailed back that same day and while he confessed that he hadn't personally ever been to the site, he shared the detailed directions that were provided to him by resources he'd used when compiling the memorial records. Sitting over the directions and Google maps, it became apparent that the stated GPS coordinates didn't match up with the directions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Third times a charm, right? Or perhaps just a sign of extreme stubbornness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">On Memorial Day weekend, I gave it another go, ignoring the coordinates and following the directions as best I could. When I failed to pinpoint the location, a rung doorbell started a strained conversation with a man who reluctantly confirmed that there was a small burial plot on the far side of the trees that ran alongside his property line. It was clear that other than receiving that information, I wasn't being given permission to access it from his residence. After a couple seconds of looking at each other silently, he said that the farm behind him was actually on a completely different road and, with that, the conversation was over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Having come that far and gotten that close, quitting wasn't a consideration. I clambered into the car, pulled up Google maps, and plotted a course. The final resting place of my 7th great grandparents was probably 100 yards from where I sat but a 6 mile drive and reorientation would be necessary to stand over their graves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When I reached the other side, there was no farm, at least not that I could see. I drove far enough to be certain that I'd somehow missed it and turned around. Coming the other direction, the lane I'd missed the first time became visible. A low-key single bar gate was open and just beyond it were several posted No Trespassing signs. It didn't appear that the lane saw much travel and it seemed unlikely that it led to an active farm. A mental playback of the earlier conversation brought mention of a farm but not a farmer. Perhaps no one even lived there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Deciding to give it a try, I slowly inched the car down the lane. After a couple of turns, the trees and brush that had lined the lane gave way to open space, revealing a beautiful old stone farmhouse with a picturesque little pond and a neatly paved driveway and parking lot. I realized with some regret that the landowners likely had zero interest in visitors, but, at that point, turning around seemed not an option.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There were a couple of figures visible inside a screened-in addition to one side of the farmhouse, so I pulled the car to a stop and exited the vehicle mixing apologies for intrusion with a quick explanation of why I'd trespassed. A father and his adult son acknowledged they were familiar with the graveyard and, after I agreed to affix the face mask loosely hanging around my neck, they even offered to walk back to it with me as it was a bit of a hike from where we stood talking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Our initial discussion about the cemetery gave way to conversations about the state of the world, our families, how we intended to spend the rest of the Memorial Day weekend, and how we'd all ended up living where we live. The father spoke excellent English but had a strong accent and though he had moved from New Jersey where his son who was visiting for the weekend still resided, it was obvious that he had at some point emigrated to the United States. I thought about the quiet, unassuming entryway to the property, the seemingly unused lane, and some of the rhetoric being used in relation to COVID-19 and remembered a recent social media post by my friend Wayne. An orthopedic surgeon now based in Worcester, Massachusetts, he had shared a photograph of he and his family hiking. In the caption, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he thanked his mother for the handmade mask he was wearing in the photo that read "I am from Taiwan not China". It was all at once both comical and disheartening. I didn't press my hosts for any more details.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Up until then, no one had accompanied me to any of the grave sites, but I was quite glad to have my gracious hosts there with me. On the walk back we exchanged contact information as they said they had some other historical information on my family that they'd happily share with me at some later date when social distancing wasn't required. The home they lived in had been the home of the grandparents I'd just visited and they'd been interested enough in the history of the property and the people who had lived there to know more than I did. The property had slipped out of our family line but had been inherited by a much deserving family whose members were preserving its story while adding narrative of their very own.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And then last night, as the nation mourned yet another senseless racially-charged murder and demanded justice, I learned that it was the very grandfather who built and lived in that stone home who had "given freedom" to the slave that had served him there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Never had it crossed my mind that slavery had been a part of my family's history and I was appalled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But it also never crossed my mind that driving onto a property with clear warnings not to trespass might result in getting me shot or arrested. Being asked to vacate the premises seemed the worst possible consequence and there were no corresponding concerns for my safety. Not for one second did my mind consider any greater repercussion than not being allowed to stay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I've never felt the need make a public distinction about my nationality out of genuine concern for the assumptions made by my fellow citizens.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I go out and run pretty much wherever I want and pretty much whenever I want with literally zero concern about anything other than not getting hit by a car operated by someone texting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In no situation do I fear a police officer. I may possess a general anxiety when pulled over for a traffic violation but that is a rare occurrence and, except within that specific scenario, it never even crosses my mind to be asked by a police officer to prove who I am, account for what I'm doing, or explain why I am where I am.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Because privilege is why. The very same privilege that in another era, but in this very same country, allowed whites to bind others in servitude. The very same privilege that in another era, but in this very same country, allowed whites to refuse entry or service to others because of the color of their skin. The very same privilege that today still allows for profiling, mistreatment, and sometimes murder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And whether I look backwards, forwards, or straight into the present, there is no denying that I am privileged. Any silver spoons my family may have possessed were long ago sold off and I am firmly and eternally rooted in the lower end of the middle class, but that is still an incredibly privileged position in this country as a white male.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I know this and have known this, but I don't know that I've truly and fully understood the broad implications of where that leaves others. And maybe I'll never be able to, but I am going to try. I don't want to be guilty of ever playing the "hey, nobody ever gave me any breaks" card or claiming that "I've had to work for everything I've got" and be blind to the relative stacked deck I've been able to draw from in a flawed system. Equal rights on paper aren't the same as equal rights in practice and it's become abundantly clear, even to the situational blind like me, that there are far too many segments of our population that have found their rights equal only on paper if at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A few weeks ago, after a discussion about how and why some people are discriminated against because of their sexual identity, Lily said "Dad, thank you and Mom for teaching us to love everybody." I adore my daughter, but she can be slow with a compliment, especially now in her earliest teen years, which made that statement both unexpected and stunning. The fact is that while her parents are mostly well-intentioned, they are also quite capable and guilty of not succeeding in loving everybody. Still, it made me abundantly happy to know that this is the message that my girls are hearing and it's a start.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Unfortunately, it's only a start and perhaps not even that if that love is known to exist within our own four walls but not overtly felt by everyone that we encounter on a daily basis. It's only a start and perhaps not even that if we don't manifest that love into actions that support the fair and equal treatment of all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As an adult, I have strived to treat people with respect and fairness. It's long been my approach to be positive and open-minded and take each person met at face value (or try to), while, frankly, sticking to my own lane. A partially sub-conscious "no harm, no foul" policy perhaps, but, all too slowly, I've realized that approach falls far short of what could be contributed and is in itself both harm and foul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am going to go on trying to love everybody. </span><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">It's quite likely that I will fail repeatedly and it's hard to even find a proper starting point. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Listening, really listening, seems like an appropriate place for someone as ignorant as I am to begin. Listening with a heart and mind open to criticism and an acceptance of blame. Learning the many ways in which oppression exists and impacts my fellow woman and man. Learning what I am doing and saying that feeds into that bias and ceasing to do it. Learning what I'm not doing or not saying that could help foster change and then actually doing and saying those things. Finding ways within the life I'm already leading to promote respect, fairness, and tolerance. Being more respectful, fair, and tolerant within the life I'm already leading.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I remain proud of my heritage and eager to further climb the branches of my family tree. There is humanity and goodness there. There are worthwhile themes of faith, love, hard work, earnestness, devotion, endurance, and survival. I stand in awe of the storms they weathered and a celebration of the journeys of others that brought me into existence and onto my current path is merited. I'm uncertain how to reconcile personal failings in my own past, and there are many, much less those that occurred during the lifetimes of my ancestors, but that doesn't mean those failings can't be examined and acknowledged and it doesn't excuse my conduct and responsibility in the present or diminish what lessons I impart to my children in the years ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Let us, all of us, hope that we can be better people and that we can together carve out a better society and existence for everyone. Let us hope that few generations will pass before someone looking back at the systemic issues of today will be as unable to fathom the inequality of our time as Lily and I were upon finding the word "slave" hiding in plain sight within our family record.</span></div>
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this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-69966205257934845882020-03-19T17:27:00.000-04:002020-03-19T17:58:12.929-04:00all i know is that i don't know nothing.<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A slight, nearly imperceptible knock at the door of my home office precedes my wife shuffling into the room doubled over with pain apparently caused by complications from the "fix" she received at the hospital just last week for an intestinal blockage.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">She doesn't want to go back. Not now. A dedicated nurse, she genuinely does want to be at the hospital; wants very much to be in scrubs, in fact, gowned up if need be, in order to help others. To provide care not to be cared for. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Not now.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">An inopportune time to be returning to a health care facility in a sudden age of inopportune times.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I have no answers, only recognition of my own stubborn chronic want to offer care not accept its offer. We are impatient patients, she and I.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But the pain is unrelenting, logic wins out, and we part ways with our beloved wife and mother for the second time in the last 10 days.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Hours later, I'm running because...because...because what else is a runner without answers supposed to do?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Even roadways are free of traffic and offer abundant space for distancing in a sudden age of distancing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My ears report that the outdoors have become the realm of birds, the airwaves uncluttered except for their singing along this road not traveled. Not today. Even the well-worn overhead flight paths are devoid of travelers. Not a single plane in the sky, a phenomenon that recalls those bizarre days early in the century, that other time we staggered about wondering what we were to do, not to do, and when.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Farms and houses approach and vanish bereft of human sounds or appearances. I see just one person; a man in his yard on a dog walking exercise. He looks expectantly at me and I at him, but neither of us musters more fanfare than a meek wave and a somber nod. It seems somehow fitting but disappointing too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The miles pass quietly and the presence of the single car that passes, normally a common occurrence, is jarring in its peculiarity on an otherwise vacant thoroughfare.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Up ahead on a long slow curve, an older couple, headed the same direction I am, is out for an afternoon walk. The casual, comfortable carriage lightens my mood and while I cannot hear what the two say to one another, their relaxed manner and obvious familiarity make the world seem less out of sorts for a moment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Until they sense my presence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Shoulders stiffen, conversation pauses abruptly, and the man and woman seem uncertain of whether to halt, continue walking, or step off into the field that they've been skirting on their amble. Raising my hands in front of me to indicate no intention of invading their space, I push as far off to the other side of the road as possible to make my way past them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Didn't want to sneak up on you," I offer, lamely, wishing for words of wisdom in a sudden age without any words of wisdom.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Everyone is now a stranger and stranger than ever.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">More physical and invisible distance until, at last, home. All there really is right now is home, but, today and again, ours is incomplete.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I know nothing. All I know is that I don't know nothing.</span></div>
this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-4626282490974214732019-10-24T15:17:00.000-04:002019-11-01T11:46:18.196-04:00let's go.<div style="text-align: center;">
I was a sports crazed kid.</div>
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Even without the Internet, SportsCenter, or cable TV, the last 4-5 minutes of local news broadcasts, weekend telecasts, and magazines kept 1970's/early 80's-me up-to-date (ish) on my heroes and their athletic feats in the NFL (my first love), college and professional basketball (my second and truest sport love), and major league baseball. ABC's Wide World of Sports clued me in on some of the "lesser" sports and every other year one of the seasonal Olympics would bring a parade of competition that seemed to go otherwise unmentioned during the off years and in-betweens.</div>
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You'd have been hard pressed, perhaps incapable, of convincing me that these exploits weren't of life and death importance or that the outcome of any given contest simply didn't matter all that much in the grand scheme of things. My not-the-least-bit-interested in sports parents didn't bother trying. I would figure it out on my own in time and, for the most part, I've done just that.</div>
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Much of the pomp and fanfare of professional sports has diminished my enthusiasm over the years. That and just getting older, I'd guess. As much as I continue to enjoy watching people strive and compete and am enthused by any game played at a high level between people or teams of similar ability and degrees of competitiveness, the peripherals often keep me from tuning in or contribute to me soon tuning out.</div>
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Still, I do find myself fascinated by compelling tales of athletes, teams, and obstacles overcome. It's the humanity beneath the surface, the not-so-glossy below the gloss that pulls me in, and that I find to be the most beautiful and worthy of celebrating.<br />
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Ultimately, I love a good story and, having grown up on sports, a good athletic story remains as likely as any to grab and hold my attention.</div>
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Not surprisingly, ESPN's award-winning <i>30 for 30</i> series of sports documentaries were made to my order. Originally launched as an anniversary celebration of films by 30 different directors profiling some of the top moments or stories in sports history that occurred during the television network's first 30 years, the series was eventually expanded after audiences responded enthusiastically and several episodes garnered commercial and artistic praise.</div>
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I watched enthralled as the series ran a wide gamut from explorations of the rise and eventual demise of the USFL, a much-larger-than-life profile of Bo Jackson, a behind-the-scenes look at the 2004 Red Sox and their improbable rally against the Yankees in that year's American League Championship Series on their way to a world championship the franchise seemed doomed to never claim, and an innovative recreation of the drowning out of the full slate of sports that occurred on the day that the pursuit of OJ Simpson and AC Cowlings on the LA freeway took over television sets everywhere.</div>
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There were other stories of events and athletes I hadn't known and sports that rarely or barely hit my radar. <i>The 16th Man</i> broached the social and political implications of Nelson Mandela supporting the national rugby team in post-apartheid South Africa and <i>Into the Wind</i> chronicled Terry Fox's attempt in 1980 to run the entire length of Canada to raise awareness and money for cancer research after having had one of his leg's amputated above the knee because of osteogenic sarcoma.</div>
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Watching <i>Hawaiian: The Legend of Eddie Aikau</i>, I learned of the humble native surfer who served as the first lifeguard in the famed Waimea Bay, was responsible for saving literally hundreds of lives on his watch, and sacrificed his own life trying to paddle back on his surfboard some 12 miles to the closest island of Lanai for help after the Hōkūleʻa, a traditional boat on which he was a crew member and that was attempting to retrace the ancient route believed to have first brought Tahitians to Hawaii, capsized in a storm and was drifting farther and farther off of its course and growing less likely to be rescued.<br />
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Eddie Aikau's body was never recovered.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9s2ryNcZCVSt9HQJA5j6A7HBZJ5RD4z0pKAQxbcL68UArjn-rgt4s-tOsjBNPoKnmBOpByuU742i4KWab_nLuzDQCuWhbVMPynrm9Jc4EIQij1GQPbo4vl1Q0weqBlT4ygaACopF1wZMI/s1600/lets-go-hokulea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="413" data-original-width="780" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9s2ryNcZCVSt9HQJA5j6A7HBZJ5RD4z0pKAQxbcL68UArjn-rgt4s-tOsjBNPoKnmBOpByuU742i4KWab_nLuzDQCuWhbVMPynrm9Jc4EIQij1GQPbo4vl1Q0weqBlT4ygaACopF1wZMI/s400/lets-go-hokulea.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of the Office of Hawaiian Affairs</td></tr>
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But perhaps I too am getting way off course.</div>
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The point I intended to get to is that real life matters a whole lot more than the current collegiate sports rankings, which athlete hoisted what trophy, and the batting average of the latest baseball wunderkind.</div>
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Another part of the point I also mean to make is that within organized sports and certainly from individuals engaged in athletic endeavors do dwell valid moments of inspiration and, ultimately, drawing strength and motivation wherever you find it shouldn't be dismissed as being banal or cliche. Hype aside, applicable metaphor does exist.<br />
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Sometimes sports really can inform real life and real life most certainly informs sports or at least the persons engaged in them can offer glimpses into how determination and persistence pay off.<br />
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When the humanity of sport and life collide or overlap, I'm again the same wide-eyed fan I was at 6 years old.</div>
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Midway through the Bear 100 a few weeks ago, after a long night of cold and wet and lightning and hail, after falling repeatedly in the beyond slippery clay-on-a-potters-wheel terrain, the protective cover of a canvas tent, the relative comfort of a folding chair, and the warmth of a campfire made me question getting back on my feet for hours and hours and miles and miles of more punishment.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFSP5UDWhaxaNqkMwmuSngycq3IbEaEIT25NS7xlXjkSibOG1ca6h0QOfaXcVGi0khj43GKS5Oo5IAY1HFSh-TM2kCwchafLLslguQdNfSLuajyaJ2o-RkNFBv3VA6imVsKkLzmo1SLHEA/s1600/lets-go-bear-100-elevation-profile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="579" data-original-width="800" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFSP5UDWhaxaNqkMwmuSngycq3IbEaEIT25NS7xlXjkSibOG1ca6h0QOfaXcVGi0khj43GKS5Oo5IAY1HFSh-TM2kCwchafLLslguQdNfSLuajyaJ2o-RkNFBv3VA6imVsKkLzmo1SLHEA/s400/lets-go-bear-100-elevation-profile.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Pondering that question whisked me away to a more tropical locale.</div>
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In April of 2017, Piper, Lily, Lindsay, and I found ourselves boarding a plane for a week of vacation gifted to us by the amazing people at Make-a-Wish. Lily had undergone brain surgery to combat a cancerous tumor the November prior and the trip had been something she and her family could focus on and look forward to instead of just worrying over how surgery would go and what recovery might entail. When Lily had been asked to name her wish, she unhesitatingly said she wanted to swim with dolphins and Make-a-Wish set everything in motion.</div>
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We were informed that there were two potential places in the US where the wish could come true. We'd already been to Florida, so we chose location number two.<br />
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In addition to swimming with dolphins, in Hawaii we'd have the chance to visit Pearl Harbor, snorkel in Hanauma Bay, and take part in several other special activities. On our first full day on the island, we were able to attend a luau. It was only upon arrival that we were informed that there were a number of other children there because of Make-a-Wish and at a certain point in the evening all of the kids would be brought on stage and honored.</div>
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My Lily is very much a creature of habit and so long as she's given fair warning and has time to process, even if what she's up against is daunting, she's quite adept at steeling her will and seeing things through. Blindside her or catch her unawares, she struggles. Like many of us.</div>
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She'd just turned 10 at the time and was still finding her way in terms of "owning" her cancer and accepting having attention thrust upon her for that reason. She'd get there in time and has become an active ambassador for childhood cancer awareness, but she was very much in the infancy of that journey then.</div>
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Frankly, she didn't want to stand in front of the "room" and be recognized as a sick kid. Had we forewarned her, she would likely have been fine, but the news being broken to her just minutes beforehand and without an opportunity to refuse or consider had her on her heels.</div>
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We did what we could to calm her nerves and did our best to enjoy the festivities together as a family. The food was exotic and delicious and the dancing and storytelling were mesmerizing. Still, I squirmed throughout the meal and performances knowing what was coming and realizing that I didn't even have an idea how the logistics were supposed to work.</div>
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Before I understood what was even happening, a large man in a mix of modern and traditional garb appeared at our table and gestured at Lily to come with him to the stage. She looked uncertain and nervously glanced first her mother's direction and then mine. As I began to get to my feet to intercede, Lily motioned at the man to lean down and as he did he turned his ear toward her. She said something to him that caused him to pull back with a surprised but bemused look on his face. As Lil rose to her feet, the man extended his arm and took her hand. Together, they made their way toward the stage. Lily didn't even look back our way.</div>
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Though her nervousness was quite obvious to her parents, Lily stood bravely alongside the other children, smiled, and politely accepted the kind gifts extended to her by the chief who led the ceremony and bestowed health and safekeeping to all the children on stage. Minutes later, Lil returned to our table with a shrug of shy relief but without a word.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNmTZAFDiYBlsAt-yeL7cP5cX3gRiZ7plrhGYpxBczm1QdJTWRLiL5xNE_ziyYBpj-S-an9f7BCpkdW9metmnPsokYHjeKrhRHGUAjPGqaPpJRDCk1jSa4l8hJLVZY8WalAXn7eUWdYpL/s1600/lets-go-luau.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="753" data-original-width="1005" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNmTZAFDiYBlsAt-yeL7cP5cX3gRiZ7plrhGYpxBczm1QdJTWRLiL5xNE_ziyYBpj-S-an9f7BCpkdW9metmnPsokYHjeKrhRHGUAjPGqaPpJRDCk1jSa4l8hJLVZY8WalAXn7eUWdYpL/s400/lets-go-luau.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
Soon after, I was approached by the man who'd escorted Lily to the stage. He gave me the shaka sign, grinned broadly, and then shared with me what my daughter had said to him.</div>
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"Eddie would go", she'd told him.</div>
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You see, after Eddie Aikau made that legendary attempt to swim back to Hawaii for help, his astounding courage wove its way into popular culture on the islands. When the waves and conditions at a surf contest named in his honor were dangerous enough to make organizers question whether or not to hold the event, legendary-in-his-own-right surfer Mark Foo simply stated "Eddie would go" and the phrase became synonymous with mustering courage and doing what needed to be done.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0dXMd_18sVxMOSlr2M5fW4YPyTzop_bnEz6vJg1cE-pHNLhWaZGG5xQ2VEyF51qC_oaP-3UvItOYWKd-iJeWBwac0pu3nfE2Sg8UnUTKbkHa57QyhNh1QS8nuTl0-GqoATeGazQKUiOPO/s1600/lets-go-eddie-aikau.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="800" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0dXMd_18sVxMOSlr2M5fW4YPyTzop_bnEz6vJg1cE-pHNLhWaZGG5xQ2VEyF51qC_oaP-3UvItOYWKd-iJeWBwac0pu3nfE2Sg8UnUTKbkHa57QyhNh1QS8nuTl0-GqoATeGazQKUiOPO/s400/lets-go-eddie-aikau.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Wikimedia</td></tr>
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Weeks or perhaps even months before, I'd told Eddie's story to Lily and Piper without ever expecting it to stick.</div>
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It stuck.</div>
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And the legacy of that waterman's selfless effort in the face of adversity and truly against all realistic odds inspired strength in a little girl more than 40 years later.</div>
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"Eddie would go."</div>
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Lily went.</div>
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And, buttressed with the perspective that in relative terms that dark and stormy night in the Bear River Range of Utah wasn't really all that dark and stormy, her father did too.</div>
this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-3278651239455067092019-07-28T00:17:00.000-04:002019-07-29T12:24:43.597-04:00lost or found.Hi, Jim:<br />
<br />
It's been too long and now is a shameful time to realize that; now that you've up and vanished, without a word as to where you've gone or whether you intend to return. Sounds like you've had your legs kicked out from under you as of late and your spirits and resolve have fallen down too.<br />
<br />
I feel you there.<br />
<br />
You don't need me to tell you that life is hard. You don't need me to tell you that sometimes it's too much. Or seems so.<br />
<br />
Man, do I ever feel you there.<br />
<br />
I remember you joking on a run that "the struggle is real" and is....it...ever. I am not immune to the darkness. It's crept in, terrifyingly so, on two separate occasions in the last 9 months alone, and, as you and I both know, that despair is all too real.<br />
<br />
So, it sounds like you and I both "get it" in terms of being out on that ledge and having to come to some conclusion as to what to do about it. To stare into that darkness and wallow in it or take some action, some step back towards the light. And it seems to me that this is something we probably would have benefited from commiserating over. You know, like together, not separately and alone. That's how commiseration works.<br />
<br />
Because now I'm floundering blindly in the woods, day after day, calling out your name, calling out my own name so you know who is calling yours, and listening to both names dissolve into the canopy without a reply.<br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">Which really, really, really sucks.</span><br />
<br />
I don't mean to judge you, but I'm worried you made the wrong call on this one. We all crave, no, we all need some time away. Some solitude. Some just-please-no-more-noise-just-this-one-time time to ourselves. We deserve it. We're entitled to it. But the people we love, the people who love us, the people we've committed to and who have committed to us, they also deserve to be told, in some fashion, that we're taking some of that time away even if we can't say how much time that's going to be.<br />
<br />
My heart breaks that your heart may have broken, that it may have been breaking or broken for quite some time. My heart breaks to think of how many other hearts are now breaking even as those...hearts...don't...know...exactly why they're breaking or if and how to move on.<br />
<br />
You are loved, Jim. By people that I know you love. By people you might not even know love you. And where there is love there is forgiveness even if it's a forgiveness hard won.<br />
<br />
But not knowing is intolerable and unacceptable.<br />
<br />
Which is why I'm pretty pissed at you. And pissed at myself too.<br />
<br />
In being stubbornly determined to be so damned strong, we men are preposterously weak. Sorry, Jim, but you are weak. Weak like me and weak like every other "him" out there trying to go it alone, muscle through, man up, only to crumble beneath the unrealistic weight. Alone, only because we choose to go it that way or because we've bought into the myth that we need to be able to handle it without any cracks in the exterior, help from anyone else, or any show of vulnerability.<br />
<br />
And that bullshit myth is all too often bolstered and braced by an utter lack of vulnerable hands or reassuring words being extended our way until it's too late and we've already cracked, already crumbled. Sure, we're first in line for rescues and search parties, but there'll be no crying on these broad shoulders until then.<br />
<br />
You've been radio silent on social media for weeks. Truant from the trail. I didn't call or text. Honestly and embarrassingly, I didn't even notice. But how could I, being so busy manning up myself? Going it alone. And failing. Not calling, not texting, not picking up on a friend's cracking and crumbling.<br />
<br />
Not calling until now.<br />
<br />
Here.<br />
<br />
In the middle of a seemingly endless sea of ferns, blowdowns, sunstreams, and birdsong. And an absence of you.<br />
<br />
I hope with every fiber of my being that you're ok, Jim.<br />
<br />
I hope with every fiber of my being that if you're not ok, and you're out there, and you're needing to be found, that we find you.<br />
<br />
I hope with every fiber of my being that if you've fallen and perished, that we find your body, and bring it and closure home to your distraught family. I do.<br />
<br />
And I also hope with every fiber of my being that if you are out there NOT wanting to be found and NOT needing to be found, that you formulate some way to convey that to the people who love you who can then help convey that to the multitude of acquaintances and well-wishers that want you found even if they barely know you or don't know you at all.<br />
<br />
So we can all stop crying out in vain, stop leaning plaintively into the hollow sound of our own grieving voices, and can begin broken hearts healing and start learning from this day forward to be more open, vulnerable, perceptive, and proactive in reaching out to offer help and to ask for help when we need it.<br />
<br />
I love you, Jimmy.<br />
<br />
Leon<br />
<br />this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-13815104486431617022016-10-27T18:02:00.000-04:002016-10-28T10:41:21.469-04:00thanksliving, part ii.<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>"I am thankful, immensely, for my wife and hopeful that
she and I will both still be drawing breath together decades from now and
hopeful too that every now and again her hand will reach out to me or squeeze
back when I reach out to take her hand in mine.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>I am thankful, boundlessly, for my daughters and hopeful
that they will never let what they know (or think they know) or all that
they've experienced get in the way of striving for what they don't know and have
yet to experience. I am hopeful that
they are never unaware of the love and faith in their abilities that their
parents have for them.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>I am thankful for my immediate, extended, and adopted
families for shaping me, accepting me, and reshaping me anew when necessary
(often) into a “me” that I too am able to accept. I am hopeful that together we grow, flourish
and continue to celebrate the myriad of ways in which we are different and the
same.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>I am joyfully thankful for this planet for both
possessing natural, untrammeled wonders and for hosting the triumphs of
civilization. I remain cautiously
hopeful that distinction and balance can be made between the two and that the
failures of civilization aren't mistaken for triumphs and allowed to render
nature extinct, not in my lifetime nor the lifetime of any creature that comes
after.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>I am thankful for hope.
Real hope. Not sloganeering, not
wouldn't-that-be-nice daydreaming, not wishful thinking without effort made
toward realization. Real hope with real
effort.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>I am thankful for dreams and hopeful for dreams, realized
or simply sought after.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Dream on."</i></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">------------------------------</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Apparently, I wrote those words three years ago (<a href="http://thisbeesknees.blogspot.com/2013/12/thanksliving.html">thanksliving.</a>), so this is more a recitation than a creative post.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">They've never wrung truer than now.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We received confirmation today that Lily's surgery will take place on November 28, so you'd better believe that hope and gratitude are very much on my mind.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The anticipation of that procedure is going to put a whole new spin on Thanksgiving this year. All of the nearly unthinkable unknowns drive home the need to be grateful for time shared with the people we care for most deeply. The potential to drive out the demon that is cancer and free Lil from its possession is wonderful basis for hope.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It's all almost too much.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Almost.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It's a lot, but it's not too much.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Hope sustains and we thank you for the hope you have for Lily.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">------------------------------</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Pull your loved ones close and make sure they know they're loved.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">No assumptions.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Assumptions of that sort are recipe for regret should time slip away.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Don't wait on Hallmark for your cues. Hallmark doesn't care if you miss any given occasion because they've got a "so sorry" card at the ready for that situation too.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Don't wait.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Give thanks today. Give thanks every single day. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Love.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Hope.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Dream.</span></div>
this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-32940654490894762032016-10-22T15:20:00.000-04:002016-10-22T15:20:34.040-04:00love thy neighbor.<br /><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"As the years go by and I watch my children already being better versions of me, as I continue to add names to the list of people I wish lived closer, led lives that managed to overlap now and again with my own or, worse yet, were simply still living, I get better and better at being mindful of all there is to appreciate. Focus drifts for periods of time, moods darken and the weight of day-to-day existence shrouds the holding up of all the good things now and again, but few days pass without my remembering my blessings."</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I wrote those words more than five years ago, as Lil and then Pipe emerged from infancy and began to show the innate kindness and sensitivity inherited from their mother as well as unveiling their own unique traits. Each new day I see more to celebrate in their emotional and intellectual growth.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I wrote those words in reflection of lost loved ones and dispersed friends. Migration from this world and across the planet has continued.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Blessings still abound and my appreciation of them has only deepened.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I cannot effectively express, at least not fully, how loved and worried-over we've felt the last few days and how much it has meant. If circumstance is equitable enough to find us in the same place again, I hope to have the chance to pull many of you close in shared embrace, look you in the eye, and tell you directly of what your gestures have meant. Depth of emotion even then will probably make me bumble and fall short on the words, but I'll get the hug right.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Thank you.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Know that your kindness is noticed and cherished. Know that we anxiously await the opportunity to pay it back and pay it forward.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Know that the love we feel is love we hope that each of you feel from us in return and from others around you.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The news in all its forms points to our differences of politics, of religion, of heritage, of social or economic status, of interests, of lifestyle, of opinion and would have us "know" that all is lost. I look to my broad circle of friends, diverse in politics, religion, heritage, social and economic status, interests, lifestyle, and opinion and choose to see not "sides" but individuals trying their best to make sense of their short existence. I KNOW all is not lost.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Doubt, anger, and frustration are human inevitabilities but they need not steer entirely our perspectives.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Love thy neighbor as thyself." It is a biblical imperative, but, you need not espouse Christianity or any other religion to understand that in the broadest sense, this is basically a natural inclination.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A child is faced with a life-altering (at least) medical diagnosis, a family sags beneath the burden, and instinctually you want to know how you can help. You don't run through some checklist to make certain that the girl and her family are on your side. You act. In those moments, we know there are no sides. Too often we feel otherwise.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
From one neighbor to another, thank you. I love you and I thank you for loving me, loving Lily, loving all of us.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We've received an abundance of support of every kind, but, if we can, we ask one more favor. We ask that you remember the rest of your literal and figurative neighbors over the likely contentious weeks ahead.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Disagree.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Debate.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But please don't let differences of opinion stand in the way of the need to care for one another. Don't let fictitious divisions become absolutes.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It's hard, but it's not as hard as we make it if we put love and human decency first.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Do glad.</div>
</span>this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-88524349281246993842016-10-07T23:53:00.000-04:002016-10-13T10:08:16.878-04:00let it be true.<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Note: If you’ve come here looking for my usual reflection on
running, you need not read past the end of the next two sentences. So long as
running brings you joy, I urge you to keep at it. Life being precious and
short, if running is a chore or little more than a way to measure yourself
against others, I plead with you to seek out new avenues for spending the days
you’re given.)</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">----------<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Eight years ago, my firstborn daughter, Lily, slipped from my
grasp and fell flat on her back in the grass at my feet. Instinct kicked in the
moment she hit the ground and I swooped her up, rushed her inside, and then shuttled
her off to the hospital before whatever emotions I might have felt had time to
record as memory.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I cannot recall now how I felt then though the memories of
the fear and trepidation of the hours and days that followed are vivid.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I cannot recall now how I felt then, but I will never forget
how I felt last evening, eight years after, when Lily, having listened to a
retelling of that story at her bedtime, assured me that I hadn’t dropped
her, but had “saved her life.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">----------<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Preliminary results of a CT Scan at the time of Lil’s fall
suggested a brain bleed, but careful scrutiny in the days immediately after and
follow-up testing weeks later confirmed that the smudge in the films wasn’t
bruising, but my initial relief at not being to blame quickly gave way to the
understanding that the abnormality was far more disconcerting than a temporary
wound.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">That abnormality, situated in Lil’s left temporal lobe, an
area of the brain employed in the comprehension of language and vision, has been
the subject of monitoring ever since.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">That abnormality has never stopped being disconcerting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mostly, though, it just was. It didn’t grow. It didn’t
diminish. It didn’t cause any ill effects. It just was and its menace consisted
solely of being there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In time, twice annual scans were relaxed to annual scans and, as the
results of those sessions remained consistently unchanged, time between scans was
eventually stretched to two years. And,
with assurance from the surgeons that more time could pass between scans, that
abnormality quietly, almost imperceptibly relinquished its menace. We never
fully forgot it was there, but it ceased to be the sole cloud carrying
potential for rain in an otherwise blue sky.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Those sunny skies encouraged us to close our eyes and bask
in the warmth and we did, but when we opened our eyes the forecast had changed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This past winter, in the midst of her 3<sup>rd</sup> grade school year, Lily
began to complain about her eyesight and, just like that, we had a symptom for
which we’d been cautioned to remain vigilant. Lindsay and I immediately
realized that another two years had passed and Lil was again due for an MRI.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Lily had been seen at Johns Hopkins since she was two, but
circumstance merited a move to Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP) and
she immediately felt more comfortable in this youth-centric facility.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">By the
time we visited for Lil’s initial MRI, she had already seen an optometrist and
had been prescribed corrective lenses.
Her need for glasses wasn’t proof alone that there was great
reason for concern, but we looked forward to verification that the old familiar
abnormality still simply was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It wasn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There were signs indicating both structural changes and
growth. A visit with an ophthalmologist corroborated the likelihood that the tumor was cause of the rapid deterioration of Lil's vision. Allowing for the fact that orientation from machine to machine can
differ and it had been some time since the last scan, a follow-up MRI was
slated for 30 days later. If it showed additional growth, we would need to
consider what immediate action could and should be taken.
If it showed additional growth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It didn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We returned to watch-and-wait mode, heartened for the
moment, but the wake-up call of that first sign of growth coupled with
additional input from Lily suggesting that she was also having some cognitive
issues, failing from time to time to be able to formulate the words that she
had at the ready in her mind, kept us on edge. She told us she knew that it was
growing, knew that something needed to be done. She asked, earnestly, if she
would die. As parents, we’d been asked that question before and it’s a painful
question to answer even when it’s brought on by the death of a pet, the passing
of an elderly relative, or simply the developing youthful mind. It’s
exponentially more difficult a question to answer when it stems from your child
facing that very real possibility. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Lindsay and I were forced to discuss surgery and its
implications, something we really hadn’t had to do since the first discovery of
the tumor all those years prior.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This time there was a third voice in that
discussion and, as it belonged to the person carrying the reason for the
conversation, the voice was the most important of the three. Lily didn’t want
to wait, she wanted to take action. She wanted to take IT out. She desperately wanted
the surgery and didn’t understand why we didn’t just do it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The surgeon we had first seen all the way back in 2008
recommended at that time that we move forward with surgery, remove as much of
the tumor as possible, and biopsy it. Second and third opinions advised caution
and ultimately convinced us to wait, primarily because of a lack of symptoms on
Lily’s part and the imminent threat, based on the location and structure
of the tumor, that healthy brain tissue could be compromised and survival was not
guaranteed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">That threat remained imminent and was the very reason why we
didn’t just schedule surgery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">September arrived and with it yet another appointment with
CHOP’s Radiology department.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This time the results were unambiguous, the need
to take action inarguable, and, in a cruel twist, at least for her parents,
Lily would have her wish.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Our oncologist and surgeon have made it clear that while we
should take steps to address the situation with surgery, the immediate risk is
not so great that we can’t schedule the procedure at a time over the next 6-9
months that would be least disruptive for Lily and for our family, including her doting, adoring little sister, Piper Bea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My daughter loves to dance. She loves to swim. Both of these
activities are her most direct connection to life as it is and how she wants it
to continue to be. She does not want
this…this thing in her body or its ominous shadow hanging over her any longer
than it must. She wants it out and the sooner the better. The sooner it is out,
the sooner she can dance, the sooner she can swim.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yes, there are risks and,
yes, there is potential that the procedure will not be effective, will not
fully alleviate the issue, or could even cause other issues. There is that potential. That potential is not nearly so great as the
absolute guarantee that doing nothing will ensure issues that neither Lily or
her parents care to sit idly by and watch manifest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Better to think of dancing, to dream of swimming. Best to
dance and swim now, in the meantime, and as soon as possible after.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Endless have been the conversations that Lindsay and I have
had over the years about that foreign castaway inside of our daughter. We’ve
cursed its constant, silent presence and the way in which it so often made us
second guess every odd gesture or peculiar mannerism that Lily had at any given moment, little happenings that other parents would have paid little mind,
likely no mind whatsoever. Knowing that it was there was a strange chronic
punishment but for what we weren’t sure.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It was a constant guilt I was resigned
to shouldering for the remainder of my lifetime.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A nine year old knew better.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Without knowledge of its being
there, that foreign body would have grown unwatched and by the time it made its
presence fully known, we would likely be looking not at a tricky surgical
procedure but faced with an inoperable tumor with a grip on Lily’s central
nervous system that could not be loosened, a grip that would have put her very
existence in jeopardy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Eight years ago, I dropped my daughter and couldn’t possibly
have imagined that, in doing so, I might have saved her life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Please, please let it be true.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">----------<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If everything falls into place, Lily will undergo laser interstitial thermal therapy in mid-to-late November. This neurosurgical technique will create a dime-sized hole in the top of her skull and allow a laser probe, steered by real-time computer guidance and informed by MRI-monitoring, to reach the tumor and then destroy the foreign cells by super-heating them. By employing this technique, we hope to minimize the damage to healthy tissue and lessen the potential for infection that comes with a traditional and more invasive craniotomy. It will not immediately remove the tumor or what portions of it would have been possible to cut away without too great a risk to healthy portions of the brain, but it is expected that the destroyed tissue will diminish with time and perhaps be eliminated entirely, something that subsequent MRI scans will need to confirm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The greatest risks are the likelihood of visual deficits (think blindspots, not blindness) and potential for language deficits. The fact that the tumor is surrounded by healthy tissue and in relatively close proximity to the brain stem brings graver concerns, but we have every confidence in CHOP and the precision of our surgical team.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We know our friends and family will have numerous questions
and, as much as we’d love to answer all of them, Lindsay and I ask for your
patience and understanding as we need to focus our energies on supporting Lily,
reassuring Piper, leaning on each other, and attending to all of the
logistics necessary to balance life alongside the preparations ahead of surgery
and whatever our situation proves to be afterwards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You can help us best by simply loving Lily as we know many of you do and
sending her positivity by whatever means you believe most effective. The means
of transmission isn’t important. She’s a sensitive child, always has been, and
she’ll feel it, I can assure you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If you feel compelled to pass word directly to Lily or should happen to run into her in the days ahead, all I ask is that you respect the gravity of
what she’s facing and the immensity of processing that at any age much less at
nine. She has been privy to every conversation with the oncologist and the
surgeon and has been given the opportunity to raise concerns directly. No punches have been pulled by anyone in speaking to those concerns. Tears and
heartfelt apologies, genuine as they surely would be, are not helpful and Lily
will not respond well to them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Trust me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My daughter does not aspire to be
extraordinary, even if her mother and father already believe her to be. Lily loves being "just a regular kid" and cherishes the moments that make her feel like she is just that. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In that, she mirrors her father.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">She is
sufficiently frightened about what lies ahead, healthily so, and doesn’t need the well-wishing but too-evident worries of others to make her that much more scared. She remains just a kid and
when this is in the rearview, she still will be. Treat her that way and I
promise that you’ll have helped. Remember that our Piper Bea could use a little love and attention too and I promise that you'll have helped.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Thanks, in advance, to all of you from all of us. Thank you for caring
about us and for sending us positive energy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It means much to us, as do all of
you.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-7332285795208916642016-08-11T17:52:00.000-04:002016-08-11T22:30:25.242-04:00time to pretend.<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My social media circle is crackling with excitement and fraught
with anxiety.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Long hours of training, strategizing, and preparing have led up to race day and now it's time to see what the shaping, reshaping, and
honing has wrought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Friends are
excited. Friends are worried. Friends are brimming with confidence or
drowning in doubt, in some cases brimming with confidence AND drowning in
doubt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am not brimming, nor am I drowning. I am strangely
calm and nearly numb.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Not because I am
supremely confident (I am not) and not because I am particularly sure that I
will fail (I don't believe I will).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As my race has
approached, I have told myself that I am excited and asked myself if I'm ready
to go or worried about the outcome and, honestly, I haven’t gotten much confirmation that I am excited or, frankly, much of a
response at all.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Calmness. Numbness.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">With all that has
transpired over the last year and all the real life challenges that I've
experienced, witnessed, or have learned of others facing, to suggest that
voluntarily running a race, even one of great length, extreme obstacle, and
(apparently) less than ideal weather conditions...to suggest that it matters all
that much would just be pretending and pretending unconvincingly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Not to say that I
am NOT looking forward to the Eastern States 100.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It doesn't mean
that I am NOT super enthused to gather with the tribe again, share our
individual stories, and write new ones together.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I absolutely am.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And NOT to say
that the prospect of being out and on-the-move for 30+ hours in high
temperatures, soaring humidity, and predicted powerful storms isn't daunting.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But....<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">At this moment of my limited time on the planet, the “larger than life” narrative of running ultra distances is, well,
nowhere near as large as life much less larger. The ability to engage in aerobic activity
that includes or transforms fully into physical discomfort or even pain is the
privilege of those who are not weak, are not terminally ill, are in possession
of the true luxury of leisure time, are among the living. That realization lets a lot of air out of the
ultra running balloon, but not nearly as much air as being weak, being
terminally ill, not having leisure time, or not drawing breath takes out of
life itself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">At no point during a race is my life at risk. Even if failing to take proper care of myself
nudges me in that direction, simply stopping alleviates the threat. I have direct say in how at risk my life is when many do not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Failing to reach
the finish line won't bring life screeching to a halt any more than
triumphantly crossing that same finish line will much improve my post-race
existence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It's amazing the
trivial things that we elevate to such great heights and equally
amazing the not-so-trivial things that we disregard or take for granted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My legs will be
tired and my feet will hurt. Sounds nice to have legs that are tired and feet that hurt must think those that have neither.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My stomach will
likely rebel and empty itself or refuse to be filled. And then when the
race is over, I'll eat as much as I want of whatever I want and my stomach
will cooperate. I will not go hungry and I will not be sick. Others will go hungry, will be sick, as they have for as long as they can remember and as far into the future as they are able to imagine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My distance to
travel will diminish and in the end will be reached and should I fail to cover the
desired distance on foot, I will get a ride to some other vehicle that waits to whisk me away to the comfort and safety of my home. Guaranteed and never, ever in
doubt. Unlike those without a home or a means to get to where they wish
to go or away from where they desperately need to be no more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My mind will falter, will bend, and perhaps even break momentarily, but rest
and sleep will return its faculties. My brain will not cease to function, will not be damaged, or require parts of it to be removed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">No, I have not
lost my want to physically challenge myself nor have I lost my admiration and respect for
anyone who willingly takes on an endeavor that asks her or him to strive, to
progress, to move, move, move! I will forever cheer on friends and strangers alike and will laugh, tearfully, as they attain their goals and overcome those things that appeared to stand in the way of
their progression. I will continue to attempt the same and will shed tears and roar with laughter for my own efforts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I have known true
sadness and had some that lay dormant dredged back to the surface. I've known anxiety and worry over matters that <u>really</u> matter.
Seen others’ health deteriorate, their finances vanish, even entire
foundations of life crumble beneath them. I've whispered goodbyes, wailed goodbyes, sometimes
too late to have them heard. I have felt truly powerless, BEEN truly
powerless to right wrongs and save others from pain and sorrow.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">All of which makes me human, none of which makes me unique.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Running and finishing (or not finishing) a race is full of
symbolism and the before, during, and after are rich with life lessons. Rich with lessons about life. But it isn’t life and shouldn't be mistaken or misrepresented as such.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It is play.
It is joyful, privileged play, but it is still pretend.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And so I am calm and nearly numb.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And for the better part of two days this weekend, I will embrace the absence from reality and the privilege of not worrying about anything that really matters for a short while.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I will play and I will smile, and laugh, and likely cry.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Time to pretend.</span></div>
this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-80568911929676493482016-05-21T17:20:00.001-04:002016-05-23T09:16:47.062-04:00amos.<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I'd been out all night.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Starting from the parking lot just off of Route 322 below the Clark's Ferry Bridge that crosses the Susquehanna at Duncannon, I had headed north on the Appalachian Trail right around dusk, climbing up Peters Mountain, continuing past the crossing of Route 325, making an abbreviated loop up Stony Mountain on a portion of the unofficial Buzzards Marathon course, before returning along the AT.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Pace be damned, I had clambered up any boulder that looked interesting, stopped as often and for as long as liked to snap photographs, chatted with the many deer crouching silently in the illumination of my headlamp with seeming conviction that so long as they didn't flinch I couldn't really see them, and even sleepily serenaded a porcupine with an infamous Sir Mix-a-Lot song when it would turn and offer only views of its rear end. I had paused frequently to listen to the night sounds; the whoo-whooing of owls, the downward, downward, always downward rushing of water, the soft, nearly imperceptible sound of caterpillar droppings drizzling from the forest canopy (yes, that's a thing), and, in the deepest hours of the night, the elusive, mesmerizing sound of silence.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC4XfzA6QWG8hP2foKZshR4BY8qce0YFsvlgJeEBHBPwDz-rCuIvjDYUcuWpZVMwFeWwT86yMzoO9rEjlqo8f7lJs_dbK2fZSbm3A9CXMFquF6ZAGDX3XQ6IW1Y1dpRJ3e5VFsMawNB5fS/s1600/photo+%252821%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC4XfzA6QWG8hP2foKZshR4BY8qce0YFsvlgJeEBHBPwDz-rCuIvjDYUcuWpZVMwFeWwT86yMzoO9rEjlqo8f7lJs_dbK2fZSbm3A9CXMFquF6ZAGDX3XQ6IW1Y1dpRJ3e5VFsMawNB5fS/s400/photo+%252821%2529.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Just before daybreak, the rain had begun to fall and over the next several hours it showed no signs of letting up. As much as I had enjoyed myself, the piling up of miles, the early stage of sleep deprivation, the relentless rocks of Peters Mountain, and hours of being wet and chilled had caught up with me and found me picking my way along one of the last rocky outcrops with tired, sloppy feet, beginning to dread the final few miles of steep descent back to the trail head.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The clicking of trekking pole tips on rock announced that a hiker was approaching from just below my perch and immediately reminded me that I hadn't seen a single person actually hiking since I'd started. During the night, I had passed the tents of many slumbering backpackers and in the morning I had waved and nodded at many of them as they peeked out of their sodden tents, huddled around smoky campfires, or went through the motions of breaking camp and packing for the day, but at no point had I truly come upon anyone hiking.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I stepped to one side of the trail to allow the ascending hiker clear passage. He lifted his head, squinted his eyes slightly, and declared, "I know you" in an unmistakable Pennsylvania Dutch accent that was familiar and welcoming despite my never having met the man before.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Backcountry Edge," he said, proudly gesturing at his pack and adding that it was the one I had "advertised on the Internet."</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I formally introduced myself and asked him his name and where he was from, learning that Amos hailed from a small town located 4 miles west of the even smaller town that I had grown up in as a small child.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Amos in turn asked how long I'd been out and I shared my overnight adventure and admitted that I was feeling pretty done in. I posed to him the same question and he told me that his "speed hike" had begun a short time earlier from the same parking lot I was headed toward and would end, he hoped, around midnight where the Appalachian Trail crosses over Route 645 just south of Pine Grove.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">That's a 42 mile done-in-a-day hike. I would finish my night/day at 37.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Noting how little gear he was carrying, I wondered aloud, "Will you camp when you get there? Will someone be meeting you?"</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">He grinned, shrugged, and replied almost sheepishly, "I have one of those push scooters, you know that the Amish people have." It was stashed near the trail head and once he was done hiking, he would scoot himself the 15 road miles back home.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Smiling broadly, I said, "Amos, you've got a big day ahead of you. Don't let me hold you up."</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"This is unbelievable, meeting you out here on the trail like this," Amos replied with a warm smile of his own and a "gee whiz" shaking of his head.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"It's been a pleasure," I agreed as Amos turned to go.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I watched him deftly navigate the ledge, slightly stunned that I had made his day.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">He'd certainly made mine.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Those last few miles back to the car?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">They weren't so bad after all.</span></div>
this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-59073889381624074782016-03-05T16:28:00.000-05:002016-05-21T20:33:57.485-04:00clockwise: another day on the black forest trail.<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Three fifty-three in the afternoon.</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We'd been following the Black Forest Trail in the same direction as the hands of the clock for hours and it wasn't until nearly 4 in the afternoon, by accident, that I happened to notice the time, a healthy indication that a day of days had been unfolding and continued to unfold.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It had been just shy of 3 years since I last went all the way round the BFT in a single push (<a href="http://thisbeesknees.blogspot.com/2013/05/erithizon-dorsatum-day-on-black-forest.html">http://thisbeesknees.blogspot.com/2013/05/erithizon-dorsatum-day-on-black-forest.html</a>) but the many conversations had about the trail and my stumbly-bumbly circumnavigations since then made it feel far less than that. So recent had that last visit continued to feel, I didn't fret much over the fact that I hadn't really revisited maps or my own report about that trip ahead of this one, as it all seemed very fresh and my navigational oh-I-know-where-I'm-going naivete remained undiminished.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLBWtfrMKOt43DDO29vm_unE_33bsENIzoalisG2Iogx2dkM9C1Wnm9RI-tifuoFDUsnA8H_EAgCI0rgKMvF4rrvSzzoJKmkDE_q7d5tvuzLLqlTMVV1OA6kp1GgdLbAsG-AA2FFlQ8JLo/s1600/blackforest_3d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLBWtfrMKOt43DDO29vm_unE_33bsENIzoalisG2Iogx2dkM9C1Wnm9RI-tifuoFDUsnA8H_EAgCI0rgKMvF4rrvSzzoJKmkDE_q7d5tvuzLLqlTMVV1OA6kp1GgdLbAsG-AA2FFlQ8JLo/s400/blackforest_3d.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo courtesy of pahikes.com</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">To be fair, the trail and its frequent orange blazes are rather easy to follow, but that hadn't kept me from getting turned around more than once back in 2013 and head-down running and trudging has a knack for luring me off even the most well-marked track. Forty-two+ miles and thousands of feet of gain (and loss) tend to produce some head-down periods even in the most ideal conditions.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAWnA-4yKt9bSFF5X5gWC2W17CzVR_HEm-_QKKTua2KLyahPzkhF4h9JSTlSg7NUfkJ9o5qpR8tWvvbkVK9IZp3jxw2uJ_dqVF4nMUzsHwxiD-sdgm-fvPSbX1tgwfxxlQruT54MWYZHuc/s1600/blackforest_3d+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="76" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAWnA-4yKt9bSFF5X5gWC2W17CzVR_HEm-_QKKTua2KLyahPzkhF4h9JSTlSg7NUfkJ9o5qpR8tWvvbkVK9IZp3jxw2uJ_dqVF4nMUzsHwxiD-sdgm-fvPSbX1tgwfxxlQruT54MWYZHuc/s400/blackforest_3d+%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">counter-clockwise progresses from right to left on this profile</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The course was the same as had been on the May day of my first thru-run, but the temperatures and the state of the trail were quite different. While this final weekend of February wasn't serving up the worst of winter, it was still quite cold and blustery and the trail, showing little sign of winter use, alternated frequently between leaf strewn, iced-over, muddy, and full blown underwater.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Other than going around this time in a non-traditional (for the BFT) clockwise direction, the most dramatic difference would be having company.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A neurotic confession:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I often struggle to describe or even define in my own head my relationship with running and other runners. Much of what I love about trail running is the solitude and the stepping away from, if only for minutes and hours at a time, the ever present presence of other people. I'm not a loner in the most literal sense, but I've got my me-just-me streak and attending to it with time in the woods makes me that much more the people-person I am, genuinely, most of the time. That said, many of my fondest on-trail moments have been spent with like-minded friends and those experiences are surely richer and more deeply textured because of having shared them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Running group dynamics and their undefined tipping points are a source of anxiety for me and, once that anxiety surfaces, my fixating on it leads only to its amplification. I don't want to be the one holding up a group anymore than I want to find myself, especially on long, challenging projects, pushing too hard, consciously or sub-consciously, and digging a physical hole that leads to a miserable experience or a total blow-up and possibly even an unfinished route. Remove time limits and checkpoint cutoffs of organized races from the picture and, rest assured, I will get from point A to point B, but predicting the time (or how many times I throw up while getting there) is a bet not worth making.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Getting to the "finish" is one thing, but enjoying the getting there is something else altogether. Including others means complicating logistics and requires time coordination. Politics, religion, differing personalities, even just simply not being on the same page are threats to the individual and the entire group being able to walk away with the feeling that whatever occurred really did happen together and the experience was better than it would have been on one's own.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It only takes one and you catch yourself wondering "what was with her (or him)?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And it's not just about "them", it's also about me not wanting to be the "him" for anyone else in the group. A read back over the preceding paragraphs makes me feel like maybe I really am a hermit-at-heart, but I don't believe I am. As the years pass and I consciously and determinedly expend more energy getting "out there" to experience nature, the deeper grows the awareness of just how short our lives really are and how little is the actual time to spend recharging in the outdoors and what a terrible disappointment to find the time but have it be the exact opposite of a recharge.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Three fifty three in the afternoon.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Three fifty-three in the afternoon and the only wasted t</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">ime was whatever seconds I had spent beforehand fretting unnecessarily and irrationally (I know these people...I LIKE these people...I should consider myself blessed--I do--that anyone tolerates me!) over group dynamics.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The alarm on my phone woke me around 6:00 AM after a cozy night of sleep in my makeshift back-of-the-car bedroom beneath the nocturnal watch of a moon shining brightly enough to glow through my closed eyelids. I was sitting up, but still drowsily breakfasting from the comfort of my sleeping bag when Jeff and Ben pulled up alongside me on their way to the agreed upon rendezvous spot in the parking lot of the Hotel Manor in the tiny village of Slate Run. It was not even a quarter of a mile from where I'd parked for the night and we found Mary and Tom already waiting when we pulled into the lot a few minutes later.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Instead of immediately crossing Slate Run to start the loop as would have been the case in the counter-clockwise direction, we left the creek behind us and would reach it only at the very end of the run many, many hours later. I grinned at the sight of the lovely new footbridge that eliminates the once unavoidable requisite soaking of that leg of the journey. While the cool of those waters was actually pleasant in May, it would have been less so to kick off a 20 degrees morning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Off we went, the five of us, up the short stretch of road along Pine Creek and into the woods. I didn't "write" a trailhead log entry, so much as I "pressed" one into the paper with a dry tip that refused to summon frozen ink from the bowel's of a feeble pen. Tom's assurances that rescuers could always make rubbings to determine that we'd been there convinced me it had been an effort well made.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">After a nice gradual start for the first mile-and-a-half, the Black Forest Trail rose aggressively into one of the steepest climbs of the day, but fresh legs and early-in-the-day enthusiasm got us quickly to the first sweeping vista. It had been quite dark and I had been in get-this-over-with mode the last time I'd stood here and it was a treat to soak in the view and get the first visual indication of what we we'd set out to tackle. The wind blew tiny flakes of snow that seemed to emanate from the forest itself and dance in the air around us with no threat of developing into anything more than a nice aesthetic touch to the sweeping landscape all around us.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Benjamin J Mazur</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The remainder of that climb followed a knife edge ridge and stayed exposed before the trail topped out and ducked in under the canopy of trees as it does for much of its length. Up high there was still some remnant snow but it was losing ground to melt, evaporation, and the permanent blanket of rocks, roots, and dead leaves beneath it. Snow-turned-water was on the move wherever able and in other places pooled within perimeters it could not escape, leading to wet and muddy shoes and feet. Northern and western aspects of the trail held a thin and not always evident coating of ice that made for second-guessing especially when the trail tilted away from sidehills or bent around contours with open-air exposures for unsuspecting footfalls. This slowed progress but none of us seemed to mind amidst shared conversation and scenery ideal for time taken to enjoy it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Within a few miles, we reached Little Slate Run, the site of my strange encounter with a salt-scavenging porcupine three years ago. I'm not a big believer in spirit animals, but am convinced that porcupines are for me whatever the opposite of a spirit animal would be considered. Either it's that or perhaps the porcupine very much is my spirit animal and I'm just denying it in hopes of discovering a more inspiring alternative. Either way, there was no sign of my nemesis today and that was oddly reassuring.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Another solid climb and a few more miles brought us down to and across a rushing Naval Run. I remembered, painfully, having not drawn water here on my first visit in the frustrated haze of getting turned around and adding bonus miles. Trying to push hard and make up for lost time had led to dehydration and exhaustion as punishment for my haste. This same recollection, however, also reminded me, that water had been plentiful leading up to that point and considering how much more wet conditions were this time around, I was encouraged that staying hydrated wouldn't be of issue today.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The views up above Naval Run are some of the best on the entire trail but hard-earned coming clockwise, as there is one long, seemingly endless Pennsylvania "up" required to get there. Topping out together, we were rewarded with the postcard-worthy southeasterly views of the Pine Creek Gorge far below.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We'd reached the point on the trail where the calamity of my solo run was now behind us and perhaps not surprisingly the surroundings became a little less familiar for me, as the vivid details of the stretches of trail where the wheels had come off had overshadowed the memories of mile-after-mile of relatively smooth sailing. Long stretches of the trail now felt brand new as if I was traversing them for the very first time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Hours passed like minutes and despite slippery footing and the hard work of another sneaky long climb, I was stunned to find that we'd come more than 20 miles and arrived at Route 44 and the location of the Halfway House aid station (mile 51.8) on the Eastern States 100 course. The location itself is rather nondescript, an otherwise un-noteworthy unpaved roadside pull off, but it was where Mary's car was parked and where she and Benjamin had planned all along to call it a day. Mary produced from her car a thermos of wonderfully hot black tea and an array of muffins and homemade energy clumps or balls or whatever-they-were...and whatever-they-were was delicious! Delicious and invigorating.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Benjamin J Mazur</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Solitude shmolitude. At this stage of the adventure, it was sad to see any member of the group go, but it was time for our now group of three to get moving so we bid farewell, crossed Route 44, and returned to the BFT.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As nice as it was to have gotten some warm beverage and food into our systems, the sitting around had let the cold sink a little deeper into our collective bones and each of us agreed that the chill had set in. Unsure of whether or not the winds would soon pick up, as the weatherpersons had predicted, and what might become of the temperatures as the late day sun eventually fell away entirely, none of us was yet willing to dig into the extra layers that we were carrying as doing so would leave us without the psychological boost of additional warmth to turn to later.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Movement brought about healthier internal temperatures even as the footing became increasingly wet and muddy. Our feet certainly weren't getting any warmer or any more dry, but above the ankles, we were moderately comfortable. The three of us speculated over the location of a high, open, boggy section of the trail and had half convinced ourselves that we'd somehow already crossed it when the trees suddenly grew more sparse and the broad meadow we'd been waiting for appeared. Sure enough, it was a shallow sea of muck that offered no alternative to simply gritting teeth and getting through and across it in as direct a fashion as possible. In the end, it was only a couple of hundred yards across and didn't live up to the full foreboding of floundering wallow we'd feared. Still, it only ensured that our feet remained anything but dry.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Not that it would have mattered much.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Soon thereafter we hit the spot on the trail where a "High Water" alternate route is offered for instances where storms or runoff have elevated the creek that the trail cuts back-and-forth across repeatedly (I lost count somewhere around 12 or 13 and didn't bother tallying the many more that came after) over the next couple of miles. We'd come to do the entire Black Forest Trail, so there wasn't a moment's hesitation or any discussion, as we ignored the alternative.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">While I hadn't bothered to track our time or mileage at any point in the day, we'd made steady progress, especially when the trail was more or less runnable. Here, though, our pace ground to a halt as we sought out downed trees, rocks, narrow gaps, shallow pools, or other, all-things-being-relative, safe passages from one bank to the other. We nearly considered just sticking to one side of the creek, but with no clear indication of exactly how many times the trail crossed before peeling away from the creek, it seemed unwise to stray far from the orange blazes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">At one point, Jeff even did an upside-down, hand-over-hand maneuver across one of the broader sections of creek that I was sure would end in failure. It wasn't me who'd had the idea, however, but a far more competent adventurer and it was actually one of the only "dry" crossings that happened in that entire section.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We were losing light quickly and while getting wet was inevitable, mitigating the time spent shin-to-thigh deep seemed worth the sluggish yards-per-hour pace to which we'd dropped. Finally and with the sun now off to shine on other hemispheres, we put the last of the high water behind us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Pausing just long enough to dig out the headlamps that would from there on be our guides, we worked our way down into the beautiful Algerines Wild Area, one of my absolutely favorite sections of the trail and a spot high on my list of "creek stomping" destinations for me and my daughters. The only downside to going clockwise was reaching this area in the darkness but even without the sun to illuminate it, this lush, pristine cut is lovely.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Jeff relayed a story about the derivation of the term "Algerines" as a reference to pirates who thieved timber from the lumber companies in the 1800's by stealing logs before they reached the mills, sawing off the sections that held the company's claiming brand, and replacing it with their own before selling the logs off for their own profits. I had no idea of whether or not that was true and even Jeff acknowledged that it was a "so I was told" type of tale, but I have since dug up the following from William James McKnight's</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 8.9557px; line-height: 19.2px;"> </span><i style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', serif;">A Pioneer Outline History of Northwestern Pennsylvania</i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">: "Along the lower end of our creeks and on the Allegheny River there lived a class of people who caught and appropriated all the loose logs, shingles, boards, and timber they could find floating down the streams. These men were called by the early lumbermen Algerines, or pirates."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">While this doesn't quite live up to the swashbuckling images I concocted in my head upon hearing Jeff's story, it does seem to lend credence and I quite like that this truly wild remnant place in Pennsylvania bears such a name.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">On this night, the only pirate we ran into was, you guessed it, a porcupine, and it didn't stand its ground, departing the side of the trail in a hurry (by porcupine standards) as we passed by.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">borrowed, respectfully, from the interwebs</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Other than late miles on cold, tired legs, the only real remaining obstacle was the challenging climb up along Red Run leading to the final ridge that parallels Slate Run and eventually leads to the namesake village. Coming counter-clockwise, this descent, done on still energized legs, is a super fun, technical bomb. The "trail" here consists mostly of boulder hopping and route-finding with the occasional visual confirmation of a nearby orange blaze to confirm that you haven't strayed too far off course. On exhausted legs and with runoff-turned-to-ice tucked here or there to complicate footing, the clockwise ascent is pretty punishing. Thankfully, it wasn't nearly as long a climb as I had remembered and, at this point in the day, going up felt a lot better than going down.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Topping out, we knew we were within 10 kilometers of the Hotel Manor parking lot and had nothing but rolling ridge top ahead of us until the final long descent to Slate Run. With no ambient light to mask its glory, the clear sky rained down starlight and welcomed gawking at the Milky Way in all its splendor. Were we not so depleted and the cold air not so capable of bringing on hypothermia to the unwary, we would have loved to perch up on the many rock shelves to spectate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As had been the case all day long, stories continued to be swapped and laughter remained ever present as we power-hiked along. While the warmth of the car, a cold beer, and a hot meal were beckoning, these last miles weren't wrought with the desperate how-much-farther, how-MUCH-farther! that often accompanies the end of a long endeavor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We joked of turning around at the cars to finish our out-and-back and even as we and our worn out knees clambered stiff-leggedly down the final quarter mile of hillside with the sparse lights of Slate Run in plain view, I couldn't help but think that going back out again didn't sound all that bad.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Next time, friends (if you'll have me).</span></div>
this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-38306945853916112172015-01-01T10:55:00.001-05:002015-01-01T11:26:54.984-05:00beyond the stats.<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The day one calendar replaces another is the day runners knee-jerkingly tally the numbers and report their statistics.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIhHjsVCi4kTtaD6HlXIv-f_2NiVks36JQmJt3XeE506acWStH7VxkgZQw8Gk9Tzuap1DdIGRft14ZiD2Bi9KAEOgW8xU1ea2uAvqYnuRt7mSfAC9tNl5vj7_0S-UJ_NvePjhXqtOO810Z/s1600/photo+(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIhHjsVCi4kTtaD6HlXIv-f_2NiVks36JQmJt3XeE506acWStH7VxkgZQw8Gk9Tzuap1DdIGRft14ZiD2Bi9KAEOgW8xU1ea2uAvqYnuRt7mSfAC9tNl5vj7_0S-UJ_NvePjhXqtOO810Z/s1600/photo+(3).JPG" height="300" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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I'm a runner (I think), so here's my look back at 2014.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mileage: ?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Vertical Gain: ?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Number of Summits: ?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Finishes: ?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ultrarunners in particular love to tout the lessons that long-distance running doles out. There's even a commonly held belief that the range of emotions, the physical highs and lows reached while covering 50-100 miles in a single day is nearly a condensed lifetime unto itself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Maybe.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Or, more likely, it's just a more-than-a-normal-single-day experience. To be fair, that's quite a lot and I don't mean to scoff so much as to maybe dial down the answers-to-everything mythos.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As an aside: I sometimes wonder if there's an abstract math equation to prove that the degree to which a runner (or some other pick-the-sport athlete) holds up the tutorial aspects of her or his running (swimming, baseball hitting, pole vaulting, hot dog eating, etc.) is directly relative to how much he or she is ignoring or denying the factual lessons of real life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I share those things I think I've learned through running with my children and feel quite certain that the love and respect of the outdoors that is the real impetus for my being out on the trails has impacted them and made them aware of the fact that there is magic in the natural world not equaled or matched by virtual reproductions or distractions. After that, my favorite hobby takes a backseat to other realities in terms of bestowing wisdom (have I any). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">___________________________</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Which brings me to a Target parking lot a few weeks ago.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Lily and Piper Bea had accompanied me on (for me) a brave venture into the teeth of holiday retail madness. We had knocked out the last of our gift gathering and for the most part avoided any of the mine-mine-mine consumer conflict the mass media is all too happy to report. Said conflict is surprisingly easy to avoid if you don't yourself feel entitled to, well, everything.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We'd walked in with smiles and we walked out with smiles, an admittedly minor miracle on my part as I tend to be all too on-the-watch for reasons to be disappointed in humanity on shopping excursions. Shame on me for such a mindset and perhaps writing this post is yet another lesson learned.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As we steered out of our aisle and passed by the other stores in the shopping center, I noticed an elderly woman approaching a crosswalk on a motorized grocery cart. I coasted into a stop well ahead of the crosswalk and gently waved the woman across with my biggest of neighborly smiles.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She grimaced in my direction and pulled one hand off the steering column to gesture towards the ground as though demanding me to stop. I had already stopped. I was stopped, smiling, and patiently waiting for her to cross.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The furrow on her brow deepened and she wagged a pointed finger at me before repeating her "slow down" gesturing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Stunned, I felt my smile melt into a confused gape, my gentle waving turning into a frustrated shrug and a sweeping arm pleading for the woman to "cross the road already".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Exasperated, the woman shook her head accusingly from side to side and inched into the crosswalk. As she and her cart crept by in front of our car, she continued to cast annoyed glances at me while muttering to herself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I began to roll down my window with the intent of explaining to the woman that I had been stopped all along and had been happily intent on giving her the opportunity to cross safely. Before I could say a word, she reached the other side, threw both of her hands in the air, and thrust them at me in a manner that made it clear I was being dismissed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Remembering that the girls were in the backseat and recognizing that what was about to come out of my mouth was going to be something quite inappropriate, I rolled the window up and moved along.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Girls, I just don't understand why people assume the worst. I really do believe that, deep down, we are all good people and mean to treat each other fairly. It's a real shame that we lose sight of that so often and that a joyous time like Christmas can actually cause us to be less nice, not nicer."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A peek in the rear view mirror revealed that my daughters were actually hanging on my words while looking curiously at the woman.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I continued spelling out how that woman had jumped to conclusions without even considering that....</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">just then a man stepped out in front of us waving his arms with an unmistakable urgency.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I slammed on the brakes, wondering what the hell was going on now and finding the want to escape the parking lot jumping to the top of my holiday wish list.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The man stepped to the front passenger window and I rolled it down to find out the nature of his flagging us down.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Your headlights aren't on," came through the open window with a warmth that made me immediately appreciative and thoroughly embarrassed at my own assumptions. My rescuer began to walk away from our vehicle, stopped, turned back to the open window and smiled a "Happy Holidays to all of you" before returning to his errand and vanishing into the store.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">By the time I repositioned my dropped jaw and processed my having moments before teetered on the brink of yelling at an elderly, mobility-challenged woman who was trying to alert me to the fact that I needed to turn on my lights, there was no sign of her and any opportunity to apologize and thank her had been lost. We drove around the parking lot for a few minutes making certain that she truly had gone. Guiltily, I explained to the girls the mistake that I had made and asked them to forgive me for my having been so hypocritical.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"You are good, Daddy. You are mostly nice to people." So said my tell-it-like-it-is daughter, Piper Bea.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Any respectable recap needs a stating of future goals, right? I actually don't know if that's right, but let's agree that it is.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, here goes:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">2015 Goals: Be good, be nice. Good-er and nicer than the day and years before. Heed every lesson not just those imparted while wearing a race bib.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Everything else'll figure itself out. Always has, always will whether I run 1 mile or 10,000, stand atop a mountain or don't, finish every race or fail to even start a single one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Do glad. Be nice. Be good for goodness sake.</span></div>
this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-69081529075713771952014-11-07T01:23:00.002-05:002014-11-07T09:51:08.190-05:00hazy shade of.<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The night was amiss right from the start.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A heavy fog crept from the fields, crawled through the hollows, stole into the woods. and encircled every tree. Muted by the misty veil, the usually welcome luster of a full moon instead unnerved like the eerie glow of a flashlight from beneath a blanket or the indistinct flicker of a candle crouched behind a curtain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">An autumnal carpet of downed wet, moldering leaves stifled headway, the pliable surface giving way underfoot and luring shoes down toward the slippery rocks and uneven terrain hidden underneath. Faint wisps of wind lacked the muscle to further hinder progress but prodded denuded tree limbs into scritchy-scratchy whispering in a barely-there primeval dialect that, though indecipherable, conveyed an uninviting sentiment. Birds, normally talkative, had departed the trees or held their tongues, perched invisible, expectantly silent.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Shadows abounded but evaded identification.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The trail, a favorite, that regularly unfurls itself in the wash of a headlamp beam, pointing the way and urging exploration, seemed simply to cease its existence a few feet further on, engulfed by the flood of fog and swept away.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPuOqIyGPRwQxCU-PHxDpKi_6oZ3X07oIdcF0a4LT2AA1rBdTbUrHgFs3SwrSbQGc93LdoeHw8i_APOoQNumjla0yf9LepBlyxESqeeLv-UfZAl_Z8iqf8UJ9ZE4VQLzaxvB0RsuaN1n2Q/s1600/photo+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPuOqIyGPRwQxCU-PHxDpKi_6oZ3X07oIdcF0a4LT2AA1rBdTbUrHgFs3SwrSbQGc93LdoeHw8i_APOoQNumjla0yf9LepBlyxESqeeLv-UfZAl_Z8iqf8UJ9ZE4VQLzaxvB0RsuaN1n2Q/s1600/photo+(2).JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Fitting on this night that my headlamp click-clicked one final strobed goodbye and conked out to leave me stumbling about in a suddenly unrecognizable landscape. I was no more alone than on any other solo outing, but the awareness of solitude was significantly more acute.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Bearings were lost. The absence of vision rallied the other senses and the smell of damp, decaying leaves and the otherworldly sounds of nocturnal nature cavorting in the darkness overwhelmed and added to my reeling. Running was no longer an option as any pace exceeding a timid stagger was futile.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Escaping from my usual place of escape became my sole task and the snail's pace of accomplishing that task amplified anxiety. Retracing steps and following the trail proved difficult, but abandoning that semi-beaten path for a direct descent of the ridge seemed madcap, irrational, too unsettling to realistically consider.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My nerves frazzled and my confidence shaken, I eventually reached the leveling of the grade that signaled the nearing road that would lead me back to the lot where my car was parked. Relief washed over me as my feet struck pavement, a surreal and unusual emotion for me to wed with a return to man-made surfaces.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That peculiarity was magnified by the rumbling approach of an 18-wheeler and the deep, inhuman baying of its compression brakes. Perhaps frightened by the thunderous announcement, the fog dispersed into the ether, as if on cue, and revealed with its departure the familiar beauty of a natural setting that siren-sings to me each waking day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Conscious of my cowardice, my foolishness, I stood in the moonlight and understood, as I've understood all along, that there is nothing so terrifying in the forest as what lurks in our everyday haunted houses of artifice, poor decisioning, greedy us-versus-them posturing, societal stressors, corrupted (or ill-defined) morals, and political divisiveness that clouds a basic, shared want to live better lives in a place and within a culture that we can embrace and by which we can be embraced.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I find no literal fog so disorienting as the unrelenting march of human "progress", its nothing (NO thing) shall stand in the way agenda, and the all-is-well, wait, all-is-lost seesawing of a mass media hellbent on reporting every last gruesome, obscene, illogical, base, nonsensical, unimportant detail so long as it entertains or distracts long enough to justify the ad spend that funded its broadcasting in the first place.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The howl of the braking tractor trailer drifted into the distance.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My hands reached under the wheel well to retrieve my key and restraint was summoned to save that key from being hurtled into Hammer Creek, every ounce of resolve called upon to keep my feet from fleeing back into the forest, into the darkness, into the light.</span></div>
this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-66642564486786583072014-06-21T00:12:00.000-04:002014-06-21T09:41:10.825-04:00half smashed.<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Went and got myself all shook up there in early May.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Saying goodbye to a friend, breaking the news of that goodbye to the family, and then trudging through the days and weeks that followed in a lonely daze. Usually, I'll write my way out of a funk like that, the letters initially fumbling around in the darkness, forming at last alliances in the eventual shape of words that finally band together into sentences that generate light enough to illuminate, however faintly, a way back onto the path.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Didn't happen this time, at least not in quick fashion.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The letters remained lifeless for weeks on end, not even making any noticeable effort to get to their feet much less team up with others to grant my sorrow voice. To be fair, they'd given what they could in allowing me to give first report of the loss, but then they, I don't know, went into mourning or perhaps just fell over too exhausted from the effort to consider a return to action any time soon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When runners can't run, they sulk and they fester. They rot. Even crap runners.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The same for writers, even if they are just hacks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The letters, the words would not come, but I could and did still run though without the normal spark and certainly without the usual joy. And, if you know me, that joy is pretty much the only point that I'm driving at in the first place. To move forward without joy was heartbreak on top of heartbreak.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">No sign of recovery in the letters, no hope of words, sentences, or healing paragraphs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Deafening silence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I tried to shrug off the not-writing. "Just taking a little break," I'd tell myself, relieved that no one else was listening or needed convincing because the pitch was too poor to possibly end in a sale.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I tried to look on the bright side. "You've got your health!" Yep. Lotta good that was doing me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What happened to seeing the glass as half full? Had I really become a half empty guy?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There was a teetering on the brink of becoming a full blown "shit, that glass is bone dry, long since empty" guy until I really stopped and gave the whole how-much-water-is-in-that-damn-glass proposition a proper think-through.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Half full, half empty, what's the difference?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Well, Leon, the difference is...ahem, let me just stop you right there. I get it, but, the thing is, pondering that water level requires a recognition of the container and what space is available within that container and there's something inherent in the word "contain" that makes me immediately think of confines, of fences, of walls. Here I was struggling to reclaim the joy while using an expression that relies upon confines, fences, and walls, constructs that certainly do not bring me any joy in the first place. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">None whatsoever.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Confines are shackles and I can't bear the idea of being restrained in any fashion.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Fences conjure up thoughts of selfishness, entitlement, "mine, mine, mine" tantrums, and the expectation of being told to keep out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Walls make me think of being indoors which makes me think of not being outdoors which makes me restless.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And restlessness motivates me, gets me moving, shoves me out of doors to scale walls and climb over fences. Restlessness drives me to shed confines, wiggle free of shackles, and...MOVE. Movement, especially when openly acknowledged and celebrated as a counter to confines, fences, and walls brings me joy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Some obstacles exist beyond our control, but other times we put them in our own way. Often we are personally responsible for the walls and fences that stand in the way of whatever has the greatest potential to heal. Sometimes we block out the joy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was there, cloaked in a fog of sadness and loss, but there all along.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was still moving but not acknowledging the gift of that ability to move. But it was there, as were the letters. They hadn't been lying there unresponsive. They'd been pressed flat to the floor of my brain by the weight of my guilt and grief, gasping for air and trying to hold fast long enough for me to step aside and let them rise.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That guilt and grief filled a depressing glass all the way to the brim and there was nothing positive in its being full.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Curse that glass, full or empty.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Well, that glass is no more. I smashed it. Not half way, but all the way. Shattered it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My heart can go on hurting while on the move, healing too by no longer being safely hidden, "protected" by those glass walls. Those walls had me not moving, not fully.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Those walls had me sulking, festering, rotting, but that's over.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Those walls are smashed, shattered, gone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sulking, festering, rotting is not doing glad and that just can't be.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm going running in the morning with my eyes, arms, and heart wide open. I'm going moving and let it be known, joy, I am coming for you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Just saying that makes me think I may have already found you.</span></div>
this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-71109539136558799002014-04-23T23:58:00.000-04:002014-04-24T08:31:29.684-04:00you old buzzards, you.<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Knowing full well what a cut engine in an unpaved lot at the end of a long car ride portends, Mamie had burst from the back of the car the second I popped open the rear window. Darting into and then immediately back out of the woods, she gave me a distrustful glance as she jogged to the other side of the lot to privately investigate the treasure she had excavated from the moldering leaves.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM5h3DL7m5kxKMsVBkmsB2v6aeK_NfiU0M8RzuIAFDM1pGxbc9DUqDyXCBemyXCRFvWKxDrM4o8xOlaKGlVlmPyoGvkHeiwveBplH9y363TFFLx_a-oM861Zxxv8Qtg25pihzEMXW3wJVt/s1600/buzzards1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM5h3DL7m5kxKMsVBkmsB2v6aeK_NfiU0M8RzuIAFDM1pGxbc9DUqDyXCBemyXCRFvWKxDrM4o8xOlaKGlVlmPyoGvkHeiwveBplH9y363TFFLx_a-oM861Zxxv8Qtg25pihzEMXW3wJVt/s1600/buzzards1.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Following her and having a look myself, I couldn't decide if this skull and its Mamie-detached mandible were good or bad omens.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We were in Buzzards country after all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Omens or not, dawn had broken, the sun was rising up off the eastern horizon, and all of Stony Valley invited adventuring from its roost just on the other side of Second Mountain at whose base we sat gawking from the valley of Fishing Creek. It was time to lace up the shoes and get lost (or what felt like lost) for a few hours.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Neither Brian or I have ever run the full Buzzards Marathon course, weren't even sure we knew what trails or sequence of turns made up the course (which is to say, more truthfully, we were sure we didn't know), but we were certain that we were departing from the official, ahem, unofficial starting point of the infamous race that never was.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For those of you who are wondering what the hell I'm talking about, there isn't much I can tell you since the race really doesn't, perhaps never really did, exist.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Or did it?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Hard to say, but if you're curious (as I was and still am), here's a link that will let you draw your own conclusions: </span><a href="http://www.lrrclub.org/_archive/Buzzards.html" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Fact or Fiction? Lore of the Buzzards</a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As a quick aside, I believe I may have found the man who can tell me all there is to know (or not know), but my instincts suggest he may not give me straight answers, especially if I propose to write a definitive history of this near-mythical non-event. Musings for another day and a different blog post.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Almost as soon as we stepped from the parking lot, our route began a steady climb of 700 some feet over about a mile and half. The familiar yellow blazes of the Horse-Shoe Trail welcomed us early in the climb and I was reminded of coming the opposite direction on this same trail a few years ago when I had traveled the first 34+ miles of the trail on a long birthday run. Going the opposite way and with the passing of even just a few years, I didn't recognize a thing, but that hardly mattered as we fell into a steady rhythm of movement and conversation. We quickly reached the top of Second Mountain where the early morning sun cast long shadows and Brian and I gestured from one ridge to another, commenting on prior explorations.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixtTTCxkoXtW6fIvkZtjVQt7epNe72sVfcUPm5Jo94KuxU5W9wopB9ylDRseUg0g-_tLjGlDbujpUJRCkS8KTP0aVfwcqz4M4zItNOLx8sd91yTk1bU-BohOJR9y2KuTfZa5E-M6XWGOgX/s1600/buzzards2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixtTTCxkoXtW6fIvkZtjVQt7epNe72sVfcUPm5Jo94KuxU5W9wopB9ylDRseUg0g-_tLjGlDbujpUJRCkS8KTP0aVfwcqz4M4zItNOLx8sd91yTk1bU-BohOJR9y2KuTfZa5E-M6XWGOgX/s1600/buzzards2.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Leaving the summit, we began a brisk downhill plunge that followed the straight arrow of an aging pipeline before hanging a sharp right to follow the Horse-Shoe Trail as it descended the ridge in more rolling fashion for the next 3 miles. I did recognize this section of the trail and, as was the case on my first visit, I couldn't get over how long it seemed to take to cover that distance despite the fact that we were actually chugging along at a pretty healthy pace.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We had noticed fairly fresh bear scat near the top of Second Mountain and when Mamie crouched down into a defensive position and raised hackles I'd never seen her raise before, I was pretty sure we were about to get an up-close look at an Ursus americanus.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I don't possess any inherent fear of Pennsylvania's black bears, but, all the same, encounters remain relatively rare and the possibility of one definitely arouses a little adrenaline.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">No such encounter materialized, however, and the at-attention stance of the hackles relaxed, signalling an end of our immediate concerns and allowing the adrenaline to seep away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Down, down, down we continued before finally crossing the bridge over Stony Creek and then banking left to log a mile or so of rail trail on our way to the Water Tank Trail.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I wrote about the Water Tank Trail less than a month ago and, as it turns out, it isn't any less punishing in broad daylight than it is at night. It was nice, though, to get on it this time without having first beaten up the legs with miles of self-correcting demanding ice, as was the case back in March, so it actually was a bit more manageable this go round.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglPbWTdBhPRgxzKRFu3HDlt21m4pfSizQ0wa7y3E3uXjWgblNgaQ-h48EqhQOz1R0IZoGPjMQYYozWeQNpC7ER7OFaFhAbxE6UfsK0XKLzvJkJSyUQffXtcFzQHPoUmOfaTdgtBgvWtw3w/s1600/buzzards3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglPbWTdBhPRgxzKRFu3HDlt21m4pfSizQ0wa7y3E3uXjWgblNgaQ-h48EqhQOz1R0IZoGPjMQYYozWeQNpC7ER7OFaFhAbxE6UfsK0XKLzvJkJSyUQffXtcFzQHPoUmOfaTdgtBgvWtw3w/s1600/buzzards3.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Manageable is certainly a relative term and the rocks, downed limbs and steep grade still made for slow going and the rushing water of natural springs and winter run-off made for nice photo ops/chances to slow the pulse along the way. Brian and Mamie began putting some time on me, but both were kind and patient enough to wait on me every now and then.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Rather than making the entire climb up Stony Mountain on the Water Tank Trail, we took a right-hand turn about a third of the way up the slope, following a trail dubbed Marcia's Madness and its orange blazes the rest of the way up the ridge. Rumors would have us believe that this was true to the Buzzards course, but who can say?</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX2OUhTgpqm4zSXuZaBE6cHGyO1l05hqQrVV6InEl1N7181OnmQAwRT-aEH1peUYhqEnqQxE-q-mzTcbR79x7LOG3Ztzk2_CcRZ-X1zMSjMkkckPq9Wp7KCgTjoKn2e6fU84LgLUqXNWPg/s1600/buzzards4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX2OUhTgpqm4zSXuZaBE6cHGyO1l05hqQrVV6InEl1N7181OnmQAwRT-aEH1peUYhqEnqQxE-q-mzTcbR79x7LOG3Ztzk2_CcRZ-X1zMSjMkkckPq9Wp7KCgTjoKn2e6fU84LgLUqXNWPg/s1600/buzzards4.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Together, those two trails took us from the valley floor at roughly 180 feet to 1266 feet on the plateaued top of Stony Mountain in about a mile and a half. To keep even the finickiest of masochists happy, they also threw in a healthy dose of rocks and roots in case the severity of the slope wasn't enough to render actual running a near impossibility.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Making yet another right hand turn, this time on to the Rattling Run Trail, we settled into one of the few real breaks of the day, a grassy track running north and east across the ridge top for a mile to a mile-and-a-half.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Red blazes to our left announced that we'd reached the H. Knauber Trail, our shortcut down to the Appalachian Trail below on the northern side of Stony Mountain. No more than 100 yards onto the trail, we crossed paths with a hiker just about to top out on his way up from where we were headed. The temperatures were maybe in the mid-60's but, despite looking strong and moving solidly (maybe because of this), the guy was sweating like it was a mid-summer 90 degrees with humidity to match. After we put a little distance between ourselves and the hiker, I made mention of this to Brian and silently felt fortunate that we were going down rather than up.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWDCujw_e3e0E6I547J_9ZDqU3jHLuSRiblBxmP5uGT_L9sGnh2C2_MMw8QqkjBI7_KjmN8KUP8AbybLl77uI0Q0Wj5xFwwHMnmXCpgQeqCy2vRRoRcWAUYMYj8fOknwYDyGM-zl-TTt_w/s1600/buzzards5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWDCujw_e3e0E6I547J_9ZDqU3jHLuSRiblBxmP5uGT_L9sGnh2C2_MMw8QqkjBI7_KjmN8KUP8AbybLl77uI0Q0Wj5xFwwHMnmXCpgQeqCy2vRRoRcWAUYMYj8fOknwYDyGM-zl-TTt_w/s1600/buzzards5.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Suffice to say, every drop of sweat staining that adventurous soul's shirt was hard-earned. The descent of the H. Knauber Trail was a full-on screamer with big, deep in-cut steps and technical terrain the entire way. By my Suunto's account, it gave away almost exactly a 1000 feet of elevation in 8 tenths of a mile. By the time we reached the trail marker at the junction of the A.T., we were 10.5 miles into our day and my quads were well aware of the work we'd already done (and trying to ignore what might be left). All I could think of was what that other guy had tackled by traveling the opposite direction.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sheesh.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We swung west (left) on the Appalachian Trail and continued to wind our way down into Clark's Valley, a section with which I was more familiar, having been on that stretch of trail several times before. Once we reached the bottom of the valley, we peeled away from the A.T. on a blue-blazed, new-to-me trail and began slowly working our way back up the ridge we'd just descended.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The sun continued to inch higher in the sky and the temperatures climbed too, marking the first real warmth of Spring. Our gradual ascending wasn't too taxing but I was beginning to want for calories, actual food to accompany the electrolytes that I had been doing a decent job of consuming along the way. We walked for a bit while I tried to choke down a Snickers but, finding my always cranky stomach to be rather disinterested, I put the half-eaten candy bar away, knocked back a couple of salt tabs, and returned to running.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Soon thereafter, our route, having grown impatient I guess with the slow climbing, turned sharply left and started beelining for the top of Stony. And, just like that, we were off on another 1000-ish foot climb squished into just over a mile. Brian machined his way up the ridge with Mamie in tow while I trudged from behind in not-so-hot pursuit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I may have imagined it, but I believe somewhere along that ascent, a small box was handed to me inside of which I found my own pathetic, beaten, scrawny ass, a humbling gift to receive, I'll have you know.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The top of the mountain did finally arrive, as it always does. Or, to put it another way, I did finally arrive at the top of the mountain, as I sometimes do. Even with beaten ass in hand, I was smiling. My friends were waiting, the surroundings were beautiful, and the weather was absolutely perfect. None of these things made me not-tired or any more filled with energy, but, all the same, they were there waiting and I was grateful.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We were back on the Rattling Run Trail, this time heading west instead of east but I was no longer cruising along the smooth, grassy double-track. Not hardly.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBmqqmafqsf0Z-Oaw-DuITY4pvxOsa73dbh-nwFt76eUw-Y32FrOzqe4fUj0cLe8NDn0dIsODJ6PGAjrTvzHZZaqtBTi8zMEPpjrCKLAYNxZpX5Y9WfHAwx_-NjCK3qynctlyVEUBsKsIz/s1600/buzzards6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBmqqmafqsf0Z-Oaw-DuITY4pvxOsa73dbh-nwFt76eUw-Y32FrOzqe4fUj0cLe8NDn0dIsODJ6PGAjrTvzHZZaqtBTi8zMEPpjrCKLAYNxZpX5Y9WfHAwx_-NjCK3qynctlyVEUBsKsIz/s1600/buzzards6.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I gulped down water, downed another salt tablet, and plugged away (this is an ego-protecting alternative phrase for walking) with knowledge of the long, gravity-promising descent of Rattling Run Road just a mile or two ahead. That promise pulled me like a tractor beam. Yep, like a slow, but persistent tractor...sputtering...in first gear...but, still, you know, persisting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We made far better time on the meandering 3 mile drop that is Rattling Run Road and were rewarded with a view of the two miles of right-straight-up-the-mountain-and-damn-your-switchbacks pipeline that we'd need to cover to top out one last time on Second Mountain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But not so fast. The pipeline would disappear from view before we got started. There was a creek that needed crossing and it was running high, knee-high at some parts, scrotum-high at others. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Brian made quick work of the crossing, squealing and screeching, perhaps involuntarily from the effects of 50 degree water on vulnerable parts of the anatomy. Or maybe he just likes to squeal and screech. Again, who can say?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mamie had a good long look at the situation and even without the same anatomical concerns as her companions, she still wanted no parts of our fording. She doesn't mind water actually or mud or any type of questionable footing, but she is resolute in her wanting to be able to touch bottom and Stony Creek wasn't offering that luxury at the moment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There's nothing quite like hucking a nervous 50-pound dog across a swollen creek on fatigued legs and a queasy stomach while your nuts shrivel up so tight they feel like they might burst.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We made it to the other side and I'm happy to report that Mamie couldn't have been any more dry. Whew.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And then it was time for that pipeline. I mean, then it was time for trudging through some of the thickest muck this side of the Everglades and THEN it was time for that pipeline.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Brian cheerfully said something about running up it and off he went.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I watched him and Mamie go. Watched them for a good 10 seconds.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then I got down on all fours and vomited.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For real.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Once the spasms passed and I got back on two legs, I looked back the direction they'd gone and they were...um...gone. Somehow I could see the whole way to the top of the mountain but couldn't see them. I'd been man-downed for a few minutes, but they weren't that fast, not by that point in the day anyway. A hundred yards away or half a mile, the point is they were long gone and I needed to start moving that way too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Surprisingly, my legs weren't completely shot and I was still able to power hike which, while not as effective as running, is a whole lot faster in getting up a climb than walking, sitting or lying prone beside a puddle of your own puke.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Again, trust me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It took a bit longer than I might have liked, but eventually I reached the intersection where earlier in the day the Horse-Shoe Trail had chosen a different compass setting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I still had a good bit of ascending left to do, but I was getting there. I vividly recalled the last time I'd come this direction and how brutal the climb had been from that point to the very top of the ridge. I also, fortunately, remembered that there is one distinct false summit about 100-150 yards from the true top of Second Mountain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Moments after mentally patting myself on the back for remembering that fact and avoiding the psychological letdown I might have experienced if I hadn't remembered, I found myself throwing up again. True to my ridiculous form, it wasn't the kind of puking that produces any output, since my stomach had already been wrung dry. Instead it was just a bout of spasms, a painful going-through-the-motions until my body accepted the fact that there wasn't anything else to evacuate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Whether as a defense mechanism or some other character flaw, I always seem to find myself laughing after these episodes. Perhaps it falls into the "might as well laugh about it" category and as stupid as that sounds as I type this, yes, you might as well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, topping out and discovering Brian and Mamie basking in the sun like two trail running pin-ups, I found myself laughing and happy, like always, to be out in the woods, among friends and still in possession of my flawed body and tenacious spirit.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"It's all downhill from here" is a dreaded cliche in ultrarunning, almost never true, but in this case it really was. Less than 2 miles later, we were back in the parking lot, reflecting on the preceding hours.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mamie humored me, as she always generously does, posing for an archival photo of the day's journey.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaLAewJwKLnTC2POp9jyML1rnd3pE6dCnqzgjlOaYxZ6QvD9u2hI9Bme7hRE8dE-TjO9DGAepkOGs5BKSDhUlFIUFHVvHswTGcOmhJzs4NjkvIeQbIOThyeZJKuD3Q5SDiYfzORipZEtRo/s1600/buzzards9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaLAewJwKLnTC2POp9jyML1rnd3pE6dCnqzgjlOaYxZ6QvD9u2hI9Bme7hRE8dE-TjO9DGAepkOGs5BKSDhUlFIUFHVvHswTGcOmhJzs4NjkvIeQbIOThyeZJKuD3Q5SDiYfzORipZEtRo/s1600/buzzards9.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">While I don't always bother to summon all the powers of my GPS, I decided to see what its charts had to report on our wandering and learned that we'd put in nearly 4400 feet of climbing and almost 21 miles. My legs, like their owner, aren't very good at math, but they definitely concurred that work had been done.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ6wwRRanOxaH_vSfly3ZTQQDQCH3MJjDQbUJKsuYhIvFQtEhZndebt6_AoXF8blG1yC13gXLdxypN8P5EMwC7L5M9o5_UoL5KlafQdHiAGl_LTsubHK8jDFz-yDqvPpTNEiNGJ9Eb1ckq/s1600/partial-buzzards-bw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ6wwRRanOxaH_vSfly3ZTQQDQCH3MJjDQbUJKsuYhIvFQtEhZndebt6_AoXF8blG1yC13gXLdxypN8P5EMwC7L5M9o5_UoL5KlafQdHiAGl_LTsubHK8jDFz-yDqvPpTNEiNGJ9Eb1ckq/s1600/partial-buzzards-bw.jpg" height="307" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Seems a full-blown Buzzards might have added my sun-bleached bones to those that Mamie had scrounged up earlier in the day.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Only one way to find out.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I can't wait.</span></div>
this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-41646824388655330922014-04-15T23:26:00.000-04:002015-04-15T12:38:40.890-04:00my goodness.<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">With so many snippets of news and not-news whizzing by at breakneck speed and in all directions, I have no idea why we click on the links that we do.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Or don't.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Or whatever.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sometimes the impetus is obvious, the mention of a person or feat of particular interest, a stunning image from an uber-exotic locale or a headline posing as fact simply too funny/stupid/unbelievable/sad to possibly be true. It could be the potential of a rare performance of a favorite song by a beloved or forgotten band or the revisiting of a memorable movie scene that left you breathless on first watch and promises a repeat performance.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For me, it is often the voyeuristic lure of seeing better-runners-than-I racing through lush forests, over mountain passes or along desolate desert trails.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Other clips invite viewing for reasons less explicable, and while some turn out so disappointing as to beg an answer why they were clicked in the first place, there are others that prove more than just reward for the visit.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Like this one:</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /><iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/ggeXB9UpUYA/0.jpg" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/ggeXB9UpUYA?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A friend shared this clip on Facebook this past Saturday and while I scrolled right past numerous other posts, there was something about this one that made me stop, press the play button and watch...raptly.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The ten minutes of wonder seem almost too perfect and may well have been scripted and directed. I choose to think not and will make no effort to learn otherwise. Even if someone was to spoil the fantasy by confirming that these two ladies were just actors in a modern ode to joy, my reaction shall remain the same.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What does it have do with running? Not a damn thing and who cares?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I could contrive a connection, pointing out how the tale overlaps with the venturing into the unknown of trail running, the bonds formed by two strangers sharing a common challenging experience, and the tearful release of completing a race you weren't sure you were capable of finishing.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I could, but I won't.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Fiction or non, the story of An and Ria moved me by reminding me again how much we take life for granted, how blindly and brazenly we muscle past the subtle wonders of the world to get to the next bullet point on our hourly/daily/weekly agenda.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We're all so bored, depressed, stressed, angry, disappointed, empty, bored (did I already say that?), over it, anxious, longing, demanding...entitled to whatever it is we don't yet and may never have.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We've been there. We know. We've already seen that, heard that, tasted that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What else you got?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We. Want. More.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dammit.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But we HAVE so much and have for as long as we can possibly remember (if we even bother trying) and we've never really bothered to be happy or thankful for that. We say we are...like clockwork...near the end of each November, just before we lay on the f#@#ing horn because some jackass had the nerve to "steal" the parking spot two whole spots closer than the one we had to settle for in the parking lot outside of CollossalRetaileroftheMoment a few minutes before the stroke of get-it-before-they-do midnight.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho1Pnkom2V5LBkLiWEki28H8s3vej15uGuvgt_2_-N613ZpmlT59fw6asxvYkevypwv-9MeGc8q-9MpqVaTTUmi-AcQiN9uM6tgqrx1rKXzPNEmAKwoaFrOBvzektejln-vMGOf_hUcgIE/s1600/ria-in-color.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho1Pnkom2V5LBkLiWEki28H8s3vej15uGuvgt_2_-N613ZpmlT59fw6asxvYkevypwv-9MeGc8q-9MpqVaTTUmi-AcQiN9uM6tgqrx1rKXzPNEmAKwoaFrOBvzektejln-vMGOf_hUcgIE/s1600/ria-in-color.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And I'm no different.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I want too.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I want to laugh like Ria on that roller coaster.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Deeply and genuinely.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I want to fly again for the first time and feel the excitement, the worry, the anticipation. I want to look out the window and whisper</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> "my goodness." I want to gaze down through the clouds, wordlessly, and think "how can this possibly be?"</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I want to topple over in the surf and get a wet bum.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And I want to acknowledge every second of the adventure as gift given and appreciatively received.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Wanting the same for my daughters, I sat them down beside me and we tagged along as An and Ria took off, laughed, became fast friends, and together explored the new world of Barcelona.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Lily and Piper Bea watched hushed, bright-eyed and fascinated while I thought of my good fortune to one day see them take their own first flights.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"My, oh my, oh my!"</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Indeed.</span></div>
this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-47375334120318398152014-03-26T22:33:00.000-04:002014-03-26T22:33:19.261-04:00every leaf a miracle.<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">To state the obvious, I really love the outdoors.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I also greatly adore the act of running and the benefit, in moving faster, of getting to see more of the beloved outdoors in a days time than would be possible at a slower pace. Not that I don't enjoy hiking, walking or even just sitting beneath a canopy of open sky. I do, but</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, it is while travelling more swiftly that I find my greatest solitary joy. A perfect blending of the release that is physical exertion and the inspiring exhibition of natural, remote settings, trail running makes me infinitely more capable of filtering out those things that might normally distract me from a full appreciation of how miraculous life can be.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Between science and all its explanations, the facts and figures that dwell within the phones and computers that have become appendages of our everyday, a globe that acknowledges having been explored, mapped and demystified, it has become all too easy to shrug off the miracles.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But they do exist. Not just out on the trails, but everywhere.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know it in my heart and all five of my senses confirm their existence if I heed the data those senses collect.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Feebly, I am unable to prove it or convey it to others.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Walt Whitman, the grand old poet who died on this very day back in 1892, was not so feeble.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd0rpP31J9bNDLkVRMWZrEL0fK3X5nXVjiRuG79ZkOmTUlwaBYundko4x7yFJ6T_XNAx3kkqWTm196zBzH7DoZsnOQrRVeE3v2mcTZ61KvPc_k4nE9qjVBQocUk__RQ8qFF_J9p2xgKqV9/s1600/walt-whitman-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd0rpP31J9bNDLkVRMWZrEL0fK3X5nXVjiRuG79ZkOmTUlwaBYundko4x7yFJ6T_XNAx3kkqWTm196zBzH7DoZsnOQrRVeE3v2mcTZ61KvPc_k4nE9qjVBQocUk__RQ8qFF_J9p2xgKqV9/s1600/walt-whitman-1.jpg" height="400" width="326" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As a teenager, I can remember reading his works and trying to fathom the scope and grandeur they evoked. I couldn't. Filled with flourishes and exclamations, his poetry refused to NOT acknowledge the wonder in all things, physical, spiritual, natural or man-made.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He praised action, physicality, movement, mountains, prairies, forests and oceans, but, within capacious musings, he cast light not just on athletic feats or the most fetching landscapes, but also upon the seemingly mundane, the otherwise shadowed or overlooked.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">All things.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So on this day, in remembrance of an icon's passing but even more so in honor of his having lived and done so on such a grand, celebratory scale, I set my own sights on becoming ever more receptive to the joy of all things.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Rest well, Walt, and thank you for the prompting that ever leaf, every blade of grass is indeed a miracle.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4i8bxOmmudW4Oie5JU4try5TR0nkWwquaN15WUQnPsxEfcGHHqDIHWyGZTTEj0BJV4A00Ja-7qOr1ab5ALerVNyE_KD-oxYftbnsT9GsS2ssMcZnQti182ZGS-ny_LCw3gHVpCluCsCrU/s1600/140326_0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4i8bxOmmudW4Oie5JU4try5TR0nkWwquaN15WUQnPsxEfcGHHqDIHWyGZTTEj0BJV4A00Ja-7qOr1ab5ALerVNyE_KD-oxYftbnsT9GsS2ssMcZnQti182ZGS-ny_LCw3gHVpCluCsCrU/s1600/140326_0003.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">Miracles</span></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>WHY! who makes much of a miracle?</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>water,</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Or stand under trees in the woods,</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Or talk by day with any one I love--or sleep in the bed at night with</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>any one I love,</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon,</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Or animals feeding in the fields,</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Or birds--or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down--or of stars shining so quiet</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>and bright,</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring;</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best--</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>mechanics, boatmen, farmers,</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Or among the savans--or to the soiree--or to the opera,</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Or behold children at their sports,</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>woman,</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial,</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Or my own eyes and figure in the glass;</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>The whole referring--yet each distinct, and in its place.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>same,</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Every spear of grass--the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women,</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>and all that concerns them,</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>To me the sea is a continual miracle;</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the ships,</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>with men in them,</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>What stranger miracles are there? </i></span></div>
this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-18521095760722139332014-03-23T20:52:00.000-04:002014-04-24T00:25:31.514-04:00tuscaroaring 20's.<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I woke up in the pitch black of early (long-before-bright) morning and wondered why. My alarm hadn't gone off and there didn't appear to be any other sound or movement to explain my rousing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Recognizing an alertness that made it unlikely I'd be able to fill the next hour with anything resembling sleep, I thought instead of the many friends running big loops around Antelope Island out in the middle of the Great Salt Lake and the numerous other pals soon to be lining up for the <a href="http://www.hatrun.com/">HAT 50k</a> in Maryland. I silently wished all of them well, sad to not be at the <a href="http://ultrasignup.com/register.aspx?did=24731">Buffalo Run</a> (one of my favorite events) and happy not to be headed back to HAT (with apologies, not one of my favorites).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Frankly, I didn't have any business visualizing myself at the start of an ultra, not with a winter of too little running just finally getting around to wrapping up. Don't get me wrong, I have logged a lot of miles over the last few months, but those could definitely be better defined as hiking than as running.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That said, I did have "race" plans for the day, at least on the surface.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Seasoned ultrarunner Don Halke would be directing the <a href="http://donrunsfar.com/">Tuscarora Trails Ultra 50K</a>, a "fat ass" event (for the uninitiated, this just means that there weren't any race fees and, in this case, the aid station food was actually donated by those of us who were also running) being held in western Perry County, PA and I was very much looking forward to seeing all of his hard work come to fruition in a part of the state with which I was unfamiliar but excited to be introduced. The weather report called for rain early but hinted at spring-like temperatures in the afternoon, certainly sounding like the right day to see some friendly faces, make some new connections and broaden my exposure to Pennsylvania trails.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I tiptoed around the house hoping not to rouse Sugar Pie who had finally fallen asleep a few hours earlier, nursing a grudge after watching me pack a bag and then not taking her out for a moonlit run.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRAL1mAaUMAKgu3HLs8dv-Ei32CNxLxRJfIVpkE7AMRT0ChUmDqLFT4biTNwWKPAOihwRZp-VSfMDvEjJH-OSszVqpcNwOGGFmV_eZj5Accs4m7zmiPnxSj00UwoSaaNqUPF7mfUMS48KL/s1600/tusca.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRAL1mAaUMAKgu3HLs8dv-Ei32CNxLxRJfIVpkE7AMRT0ChUmDqLFT4biTNwWKPAOihwRZp-VSfMDvEjJH-OSszVqpcNwOGGFmV_eZj5Accs4m7zmiPnxSj00UwoSaaNqUPF7mfUMS48KL/s1600/tusca.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Slipping guiltily from the house and steering the car as quietly as possible out of the driveway, I crossed fingers that the sun would begin to peek over the eastern horizon in time to illuminate the new-to-me topography waiting beyond the west shore of the Susquehanna River. As Cumberland County handed me off to Perry County just before I reached Sherman's Dale, that wish came true.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The landscape consisted of forested ravines, runoff-fed creeks, rolling hillsides and farmland opportunistically tilled wherever the land was level enough to merit the effort. There were aging Appalachian ridge lines in all directions and I wondered which one (or two) would play host to the race. A glance at the map informed me that that destination was probably not yet in view.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Just a few minutes ahead of the advertised 8:00 AM start time, I turned the car into the parking lot of the <a href="http://www.stateparks.com/big_spring_state_park_in_pennsylvania.html">Big Spring State Park</a> picnic area assured by the collection of vehicles sporting oval numeric-bearing bumper stickers that it was the right place.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">With little time to spare, I laced up my shoes and hustled over toward a pavilion and saw Don uttering final instructions from his bed of a pick-up truck perch. He was briefing those gathered there of changes to the course and some turns that required special attention (I'm guessing), information that likely would have been helpful had I not been busy saying hellos to Cassie, Rik, Zach, Stacey and three exquisite cattle dogs and also exchanging first-time greetings with Jennifer and Todd who were quick to warmly introduce themselves.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Moments later, we were on the move, picking our footfalls over the rock strewn Iron Horse Trail.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghx7bt6ydHj7D_9PVzhIBAwfcQciSbhS1FGMG7f-IRGfN2tgbmspsyg9Yp0uej7l_M4fwLRAnNczJnr09GwceCZuJiMhtBueuXWmSa7lkFYKwpBcUea8fKFP03ZhnnOmHont_8lPXlc473/s1600/tusc6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghx7bt6ydHj7D_9PVzhIBAwfcQciSbhS1FGMG7f-IRGfN2tgbmspsyg9Yp0uej7l_M4fwLRAnNczJnr09GwceCZuJiMhtBueuXWmSa7lkFYKwpBcUea8fKFP03ZhnnOmHont_8lPXlc473/s1600/tusc6.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Rik, Zach and I played how-have-you-been?, chattering on and on about all the on-trail standards, the weather, dogs and vasectomies (I think that's what that was about). I honestly don't recall many specifics from those first few miles, except an overall feeling of contentment, sharing miles with good people, soaking up the beauty of the Tuscarora State Forest, and basking in the warmth of the return of the prodigal sun.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Whatever pace we were moving at certainly seemed sustainable and, if anything, on the conservative side, but it was early and all three of us had reasons why were short on base mileage and not in a position to push our hardest. I can't speak for the two of them, but that thought never even entered my mind or tempted my legs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It wouldn't have mattered much anyway because soon after passing through Fowler's Hollow we encountered a steep, rocky grade that would have throttled any attempt at running.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjum6V18X_hCwLzBZEuNPTZvi3tSJ4FcMpJB4Z7VttsgUVyQMceZiswhsG9hmUDmnUTdXE5SKYN7RC4alA6L13xwYL0vRvjihPhG1PynpkHy5zdrnGUvLfriDqkwK0BsLLf3Hp00zFo9ZqF/s1600/tusc1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjum6V18X_hCwLzBZEuNPTZvi3tSJ4FcMpJB4Z7VttsgUVyQMceZiswhsG9hmUDmnUTdXE5SKYN7RC4alA6L13xwYL0vRvjihPhG1PynpkHy5zdrnGUvLfriDqkwK0BsLLf3Hp00zFo9ZqF/s1600/tusc1.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After a minute or two of trepidation at a crossroads where we saw a runner vanish down one trail while the one behind us confidently chose another, we determined that the "high" road was the proper route and we began the long, slow grind to the top of the ridge.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9JJQSrF_M9rpWCiindJdvhmBwSgmXOC-6jmN6A1L9nqeTVCt3cUO8jc9ynAge-Qmcw69R9sNxjeCDAfqgNy63wS5We6ksJYp0THFEXJx_djwJB54LiT5zoosA50WedyGEt10FajTMKfjb/s1600/tusc2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9JJQSrF_M9rpWCiindJdvhmBwSgmXOC-6jmN6A1L9nqeTVCt3cUO8jc9ynAge-Qmcw69R9sNxjeCDAfqgNy63wS5We6ksJYp0THFEXJx_djwJB54LiT5zoosA50WedyGEt10FajTMKfjb/s1600/tusc2.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Even this exposed slog was enjoyable with the good company, the views of the valley below and the sunlight that reminded us that the predicted rain never had materialized.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">An unnamed recovering clear-cut at the top of the north side of the ridge granted a sweeping multi-directional vista that had me wishing for a panoramic camera.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTEWBzG8wgvjXvRUK-OjZu8VW4scQ7KdAkV09MU-OVVCeezbBUbP4QHzwxuFQhPwISeK6ezRim_P7g3eeoEJ5TddKIbStKISixK1-6ZSRw2Sm-07gbYaSTbjeqSoq6MxhqQl-gmo9vYOI7/s1600/tusc3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTEWBzG8wgvjXvRUK-OjZu8VW4scQ7KdAkV09MU-OVVCeezbBUbP4QHzwxuFQhPwISeK6ezRim_P7g3eeoEJ5TddKIbStKISixK1-6ZSRw2Sm-07gbYaSTbjeqSoq6MxhqQl-gmo9vYOI7/s1600/tusc3.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was downhill from there and our legs started churning again. At the bottom of the descent, we returned to the aid station that we had passed through just 3 miles into the day and it was there that Zach and I said goodbyes to Rik and Stacey who had been waiting there for our arrival. The two of them are patiently rehabilitating injuries and, as much as I hated to see Rik go, I was glad that he was being intelligent (a notably rare quality amongst ultrarunners) and putting himself in good position to better tackle goal races later in the year. It goes without saying (which you only ever say just before NOT going without saying), that I look forward to spending more trail time with them soon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">By the time Zach and I got around to leaving the aid station, we had been joined by Cassie and Elena (I hope I got that right and apologize if I haven't) and we headed off toward the road crossing on our way up Conococheague Mountain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And I do mean "up".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The old fire road we followed seemed to go on forever and the grade and the terrain underfoot were reminiscent of the many grinding uphills at my beloved <a href="http://transrockies-run.com/">TransRockies</a>. As with those climbs, the ascent promised to top out eventually and bring with it the relief of ridgetop running. at least for a couple of miles.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My continuing conversation with Zach and the want to not stop moving forward until the top kept me plugging away but I was fully gassed at the summit and knew I needed some calories. Cassie and Elena, who had been right on our heels the entire climb, topped out moments later and the four of us caught our breath and regrouped. A few other folks arrived while we waited and soon everyone moved off down the trail while I finished peeling off one of the now unneccessary layers of clothing I'd been wearing and getting my pack back in place. I peeked ahead at the smooth double-track ahead and made up my mind to pick up my feet and fall back in with the pack.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At that same instant, a cramp rolled across the inside of my left thigh and confirmed that I was even further behind on calories and hydration that I had suspected. Continuing to sip at the water I was carrying, I decided to just go easy for a little while and then see if I could push a little to catch up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was a disappointing stretch of the course to not be able to run but, being that it was also a really beautiful setting for hiking, it was impossible to NOT enjoy myself. Several minutes later, my cramping had quieted down enough for me to begin moving along again at faster-than-a-walk pace and the next aid station soon came into view, manned by a single individual, a spirited gentleman who wouldn't let me talk him out of talking me into eating a peanut butter sandwich. My stomach wasn't terribly interested, but it was advice well taken and I thanked him (and thank him again) before going on my way just as another runner arrived and drew the full attention of my good Samaritan.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A little further along I came upon a fork in the road that seemed to merit flagging or some sort of indication as to which direction I should turn. Nothing. I honestly couldn't remember the last time that I'd seen a trail marker, but the route had been so obvious up until that point that this didn't seem all that odd.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I pondered the predicament, a curious sign caught my attention.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have no idea who put that up and what greater story lies behind the sign's existence but it was another of those curious intersections of wilderness and civilization that intrigues me so.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Not that it did anything to solve the riddle of where I was supposed to go next.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I tried to reach back into my memory and reform the words that Don had served up a few hours before into some sort of answer but it was useless.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Or was it?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I did vaguely recall something about a turns sheet and that recollection led to another. That very turns sheet was neatly folded and tucked into the pocket on the harness of my pack. Too bad that wouldn't be of any use in a situation like this. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Idiot.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Unfolding the sheet, I quickly had my answer and turned on my heels to head back the way I had just come.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW2S5dfd1iTtfLEqydCg3MFOCe-P9x7rRZCbJs8QZwNyVWGKBV6Uz7bso9dUuGg5tSghh8f0efFylNcNWkAvLjHAlLwklbFOAEryydvHtsNG3mtA7HEtJrR_Oy7dO1Ou2e_-ZRVgUcOx7K/s1600/tusc5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW2S5dfd1iTtfLEqydCg3MFOCe-P9x7rRZCbJs8QZwNyVWGKBV6Uz7bso9dUuGg5tSghh8f0efFylNcNWkAvLjHAlLwklbFOAEryydvHtsNG3mtA7HEtJrR_Oy7dO1Ou2e_-ZRVgUcOx7K/s1600/tusc5.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Retracing "about .6 miles too far", I returned all the way to the aid station, stepping over the giant "NO" that I'd apparently ignored on the way out the first time. Lifting my head this time, I couldn't help but notice the obvious turn off for the Shope Trail. Turns out the peanut-butter sandwich-peddling volunteer, having noticed after a few seconds that I was going the wrong way, had called out for me to stop, but those shouts had been ushered away by the warm winds blowing across the top of the ridge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At least the unexpected out-and-back gave me a chance to let him know that the sandwich had done the trick and the pep that had been restored to my legs allowed me to barrel down the steep slope in a way that wouldn't have been possible if I hadn't missed the turn in the first place.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I passed by a few runners before reaching Bryner Road and I headed off down that semi-maintained road on what I knew was a hopeless chase to catch up with Zach and Cassie.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Within a few hundred yards I came upon Jennifer and Todd and decided (correctly) that their's was ideal company for the next few miles. We spent that time getting to know each other and played "small world" with shared stories of our interactions with Kelly Agnew (way to butt in on yet another story, Kelly).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At some point, I decided that I needed to take advantage of the life my legs still seemed to have in them and I offered a "see you in a little while" and pushed out ahead. I crossed an unpaved road, picked up the trail on the other side and began switchbacking up the short, steep ridge ahead. Up near the top, I heard a "STOP!" and, after my experience back on </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Conococheague</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">, I froze in place. Looking back down the slope, I saw a runner or two heading down the road that I had crossed over and wondered if I was again off course. I waited for another response or an indication of whether it was I should be stopping or if it was someone else being called back to the trail I had taken. Unsure, I worked my way back down the switchbacks to the road and got there just in time to discover that I had been on the right track in the first place.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Back up the hill we went, by then joined by Bryan and his two female companions (whose names I lamely forgot to ask) whom I had passed on the descent of Shope Trail. I learned that he was fairly new to long distance running but would be tackling his first 50 miler, the <a href="http://www.vhtrc.org/brr/">Bull Run Run</a>, later this spring (he'll do great). I was enjoying our conversation but needing to keep moving while I still felt strong, I left him behind as he waited for the rest of his trio. Thankfully, I hadn't gotten too far ahead, giving him the chance to yell out notice that I had strayed off course yet again, having chosen some other direction over the obvious straight-ahead path that was the correct way.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Whether for reasons physical or psychological, it was about this point that my second peanut-butter fueled wind died down and fatigue set in. I had already surpassed my longest run of the year by a couple of miles, was uncertain of how much extra mileage I had already added or might add before reaching the finish, and didn't feel inclined to let my great day in the woods spiral down into a suffer-to-the-end death march.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Arriving for the third time to the aid station at the intersection of the Iron Horse Trail, I decided to take the less-than-3 mile bail out to an early finish. Navigating the rocks on that return leg corroborated my theory that the short-on-actual-running training of the prior months had left my legs a bit weak on sustained speed. Rather than try to vainly blow holes in that theory, I stuck to hiking the rest of the way, taking in the beautiful scenery all around me rather than having to stare at the ground two feet in front of me. I hit the finish line at an abbreviated 23.7 miles, smiling and feeling good, especially after a system-shocking dip in the creek.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqSCfTAtsvqgiy7n5TLmmxub4VcQKb_v1CeUSyG3azwNh6EeeW3cNj-S7CpnqndC2Zec1OY_lWl_a-KtYXc7lSbhXNaD_d_pg9iLhn4ItQ0190fGNZ-2C2EVA1vP7d1nBOejpmSQAKoZ4m/s1600/tusc7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqSCfTAtsvqgiy7n5TLmmxub4VcQKb_v1CeUSyG3azwNh6EeeW3cNj-S7CpnqndC2Zec1OY_lWl_a-KtYXc7lSbhXNaD_d_pg9iLhn4ItQ0190fGNZ-2C2EVA1vP7d1nBOejpmSQAKoZ4m/s1600/tusc7.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I hadn't put in 50 kilometers but I'm not sure I expected to in the first place. I'd had a roaring good time covering my 20-and-change miles. As promised, Don had served up one of his "running adventures" and I wasn't inclined to ask for my money back. In fact, weighed on a dollars-per-mile scale, the Tuscarora Trails Ultra 50k can hold its own against any race out there.</span></div>
this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-701962857372378422014-03-20T00:04:00.001-04:002014-03-20T00:04:15.932-04:00out of doors.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As promised, Brian and Eric were waiting for me (and Sugar Pie) at the Dauphin Boro/Stony Creek exit off of 322. The sun hadn't been below the horizon for all that long, but the darkness after we passed through the town of Dauphin and proceeded into the valley between Second and Stony Mountains had the deep quality of a much later hour.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The road we followed would only remain paved for a few miles before transitioning to </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">dirt pocked and grooved from an unforgiving winter and a lack of maintenance. Neither the dark nor the broken track fazed us much and it surely didn't dissuade the sizable black bear that rose up in the glow of our headlights from continuing on its search for easy-to-be-had scraps in the trash cans that accompanied the few houses colonizing the western end of State Game Lands #211. </span>Suge<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> seemed to sense the </span>bear's<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> presence without actually casting eyes upon it, perhaps having caught its scent through the window I had cracked to let the night air creep in to acclimate us to the cold.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After weeks, months, seemingly years of winter, the day had actually been surprisingly moderate, but relatively clear skies had let the fleeting warmth escape back into the atmosphere. Having reached the end of the road, the closed gate that marks the start of the Stony Valley Rail-Trail, a recreational re-purposing of the long abandoned Schuylkill and Susquehanna Railroad line, we stepped out into temperatures hovering right around the freezing mark. Cold, yes, but, without the determined wind that had seethed most of the preceding week, it was brisk without being bracing.</span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbPVUPhd2donddf5p7TB0v9_5KQ04l_EYImaLoU3i-N2uzEnMWuWMbCwzZyZ1_pAmF9YVELvYtG4bquLKwuq9fCuOzOzAVrMwwU7WOcQwU2LYnY1Lqp0uf7yBvsA9qH3iRFerEQRxmPhoZ/s1600/stoney1a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbPVUPhd2donddf5p7TB0v9_5KQ04l_EYImaLoU3i-N2uzEnMWuWMbCwzZyZ1_pAmF9YVELvYtG4bquLKwuq9fCuOzOzAVrMwwU7WOcQwU2LYnY1Lqp0uf7yBvsA9qH3iRFerEQRxmPhoZ/s1600/stoney1a.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;">Rattling Run Road in the light of day - Photo courtesy of John A Kilmer</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Rather than progressing along the remote but flat rail trail, we were headed up, up, up along the Rattling Run Trail which begins as a smooth, runnable (but not without work) uphill grade until nearing the top of Stony Mountain and bending off to the north east and rolling across the top of the ridge for several miles.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'd run with Brian and a few other friends the weekend before and it had been one of those days that my body just didn't have any interest in cooperating. This night felt very different and it was a joy to run steadily along, gaining ground all the way while, as is always my want, laughing and chattering the entire time. My legs felt much more responsive after the relatively low key week of running and climbing that had followed the aforementioned disheartening performance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It wasn't until we topped out and transitioned from the broader jeep road to gone-to-wild double track that we encountered snow, ice and the muck that lurked beneath the two. Though it slowed our progress...what, oh...right, it didn't slow Sugar Pie's progress in the slightest...anyway, though it slowed our progress, the messy conditions didn't dampen our spirits as the relative stillness and the moonglow off of the snow added to the captivating beauty of the night we'd wandered into.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRxH-J7vfYA3a8oiZEAgDDmajtzRi__bxy_HJOcHbD28kVVDHS1ttIMa1J-p5xrRuYTIoSvyXwe-cjAw-Z9QxxdtohCzqZ15iXH205vpHCfDKLOMVdLu3wTX_tR0zvU7sndF_GO8PAdVKr/s1600/stoney2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRxH-J7vfYA3a8oiZEAgDDmajtzRi__bxy_HJOcHbD28kVVDHS1ttIMa1J-p5xrRuYTIoSvyXwe-cjAw-Z9QxxdtohCzqZ15iXH205vpHCfDKLOMVdLu3wTX_tR0zvU7sndF_GO8PAdVKr/s1600/stoney2.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We passed various trail intersections and tried to piece together the topography from differing memories of past visits to paths in the valley that may or may not have overlapped with one another. I don't think we actually drew any solid conclusions and our mental maps remained full of question marks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The footing became a bit more treacherous as the trail headed downward and the terrain, more sheltered from the sun than what we'd already encountered, stubbornly clung to a blanket of polished ice. Our slipping and sliding eventually delivered us to the place where the Horseshoe Trail collides with (or departs from, depending on the direction you are traveling) the Rattling Run Trail.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtyYtXv9bVxdMoybdK3zwn0yDiu-4C1xpSWQufE-oOdKErb6e9_dmMGnKxxeKidbhqjj6rPwVl2DIDQTE2uoYxkwZqQwmASs0uswJfqnJLJOzQ0L0nCtmfSddcjOMLbHD1LkkyGKoF-vdl/s1600/stoney9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtyYtXv9bVxdMoybdK3zwn0yDiu-4C1xpSWQufE-oOdKErb6e9_dmMGnKxxeKidbhqjj6rPwVl2DIDQTE2uoYxkwZqQwmASs0uswJfqnJLJOzQ0L0nCtmfSddcjOMLbHD1LkkyGKoF-vdl/s1600/stoney9.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This intersection lies just below the Devil's Race Ground, a long boulder field that shelters the headwaters of Rattling Run beneath it. You can literally hear the rushing of the invisible river under your feet but are unable to catch a glimpse of the water itself despite endless cracks and openings between the pile up of thousands of tons of rock. I attempted to capture an audio recording of the stirring music, a music that early settlers feared was emitted from the devil himself, but, I did so in vain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sugar Pie whined her plea to move, move, MOVE along and we fell in line behind her as she led us down the shared route of the Horseshoe and Rattling Run Trails as they descended to the rail trail that had paralleled the course we'd traveled. Along the way, we passed the cool old historical marker I hadn't seen since running the first (or last) 34 miles of the Horseshoe Trail on my birthday two-and-a-half years earlier.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6pRBY5NQ8nJ1jBVpYyaS9I7iKG-z2TOv3yNQm6Ld4Q9pMGjRfwiLUxMmqbUC5a5894XQwiWwYCyvf6Obr1E5pF04-QDFztq0NuGhp9PGLR9jomt1rMpo1HJZ9x-anRcO4E193Lxk-Wf8j/s1600/stoney3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6pRBY5NQ8nJ1jBVpYyaS9I7iKG-z2TOv3yNQm6Ld4Q9pMGjRfwiLUxMmqbUC5a5894XQwiWwYCyvf6Obr1E5pF04-QDFztq0NuGhp9PGLR9jomt1rMpo1HJZ9x-anRcO4E193Lxk-Wf8j/s1600/stoney3.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My imagination likes to picture the hearty individuals who stood there on that October day back in 1934 being the very "interested" people who still returned each year to pay tribute. It's a cruel math that makes that improbable and so my leaning-to-the-left brain did what it tends to do and left the arithmetic undone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A 90-degree turn had us reoriented to the southwest. Persistent tree cover, a resting point in the shadow of Second Mountain, and the ever present moisture of Stony Creek just a few yards away made the rail trail a rather nasty sheet of unsure footing that required a subtle but constant focus and consistent, tiring auto correcting to remain upright. I don't believe any of us took a legitimate fall but the threat was persistent and our pace definitely suffered, making the 2-3 mile straight line feel like twice that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Our only diversion was a quick visit to the creek itself at the point where the Horseshoe Trail breaks ways with the rail trail and crosses water to begin its climb up Second Mountain. We gave Sugar Pie time to hydrate while we enjoyed a momentary respite from skating.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyVvrKECWS7xLf3p4GYG59fiBLM2tYHh2MbFFwiP_gx6x8w0Q6aAVnqgJLz-pfu_h3sb_fmIK2jaieCNoNDN-mMkgE8RIWMDkTDOkpXYBZX2QraMYJm295Nu12MXCUEYBXqs3VpudVqjYE/s1600/stoney5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyVvrKECWS7xLf3p4GYG59fiBLM2tYHh2MbFFwiP_gx6x8w0Q6aAVnqgJLz-pfu_h3sb_fmIK2jaieCNoNDN-mMkgE8RIWMDkTDOkpXYBZX2QraMYJm295Nu12MXCUEYBXqs3VpudVqjYE/s1600/stoney5.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That break didn't last long, as another round of whimpering signaled that we had dallied long enough and it was time to get back to work.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbIItNq4BlU9Ha0fJ42gyFmKZXwWQEhrjPyjbbOBd10ylF96L_BKSPBVwDxATrGZeFKJ8pPJ5PkVLcHhmPxuLW_DXGRfePi7szgXHQQ3t1gSq6RPQPRB-qNJPQGqC49dJD1sIn0hO0paJM/s1600/stoney4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbIItNq4BlU9Ha0fJ42gyFmKZXwWQEhrjPyjbbOBd10ylF96L_BKSPBVwDxATrGZeFKJ8pPJ5PkVLcHhmPxuLW_DXGRfePi7szgXHQQ3t1gSq6RPQPRB-qNJPQGqC49dJD1sIn0hO0paJM/s1600/stoney4.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We had another mile to go before we could put the rail trail behind us once and for all. Not that doing so meant any relief, as our escape route was the Water Tank Trail, a relatively short pitch of mangled singletrack that mirrors the route of an old lumber incline that had one intention which was to get from the top of the ridge to the valley below as directly as possible. Switchbacks are nowhere to be found. Rocks, roots, downed limbs and runoff gouges are prevalent and the sustained grade is not even remotely runnable. Hell, it's barely hikeable. On the bright side of things, it was free of ice and snow. Had it not been, it may very well have been completely impassible. Regardless, it was a punishing climb and I felt the first tinges of leg cramps well before the top and wondered how much more climbing we'd need to do and how interesting things would get if the severity of the cramps progressed. I knocked back a couple of salt tabs, knowing full well that it was too little too late.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As is always the case (I always tell myself to remember this, but sometimes it's harder than other times), the grade did finally relax, announcing our arrival at the top of the ridge. A sharp left returned us to the Rattling Ridge Trail we'd been on an hour or two earlier and we began again to navigate the mixed bag of snow, ice and mud.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Brian, having vowed to take things easy ahead of the Terrapin Mountain 50K a week later, was not taking things easy, at least not comparative to Eric and me. I kid, but, well, no not really. Thankfully, his cool badass-meets-kind-heart personality convinced him to check in with us now and again as we crept across the ridge. I chased the salt tabs with the last of the water I was carrying and throttled back from running to hiking whenever the cramps threatened to intensify.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Our little group reassembled at the western edge of the ridge and together we tackled the downhill plunge to the parked cars waiting below.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We had covered 16.5+ miles and those 4 hours had passed by in what in hindsight felt like half that EVEN with the slogging that had happened on the rail trail and the Water Tank.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTUVimOA4S4mC9jd7EjhViBYc36IbjpZTEZuNBhirWTXUupZR36okiVUX-IkJdOKA_KEfFh_bg032k8a4PrE1V1SqiQqZDqTKXtUZoxJeHn9sxcurFlNWGT9B4KZMly28x5g5jAe2V2L36/s1600/stoney6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTUVimOA4S4mC9jd7EjhViBYc36IbjpZTEZuNBhirWTXUupZR36okiVUX-IkJdOKA_KEfFh_bg032k8a4PrE1V1SqiQqZDqTKXtUZoxJeHn9sxcurFlNWGT9B4KZMly28x5g5jAe2V2L36/s1600/stoney6.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That disconnect from the clock is one of my favorite magical aspects of running "out of doors" at night. The minutes pass imperceptibly when there aren't any pending appointments, shift starts/ends, or television show airings that demand to be adhered.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">With my fitness not yet where it will be after months and miles of glorified hiking but little real running, I was definitely fatigued and happy to be done, but my mind was already plotting a return to Stony Valley and further exploration of its network of trails. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After a long drive home and a couple hours of sleep, that hadn't changed one bit and I decided to do a little multitasking at breakfast.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMe7_O5CYrOierERbh9fAQxoNDgBxY3zQ1zNf7m1xGMJ9DNSg-YVQXEsqGroyaGXBAyOpPFKOSHlU3Ud77M3_6zV5DQNKkuaGfrdqnNADAP2Jepm9gm8UpGTMR7bHd9p3ndxG7KoN9Q-m_/s1600/stoney7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMe7_O5CYrOierERbh9fAQxoNDgBxY3zQ1zNf7m1xGMJ9DNSg-YVQXEsqGroyaGXBAyOpPFKOSHlU3Ud77M3_6zV5DQNKkuaGfrdqnNADAP2Jepm9gm8UpGTMR7bHd9p3ndxG7KoN9Q-m_/s1600/stoney7.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-60181251338257465112014-03-16T00:54:00.001-04:002014-03-16T23:11:24.787-04:00all ears.<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgueTmERNiQSf_AW41oAVSSwY244bQlceNGh0H2bmyAzqxVgDiPdp_cEnGm8pKjgEyKxW6FBuL75WXARiJQx04XPhp6qBNLCehhxEixPdImvY7VyQhcdpjSFSGsi6nmvpAuJaFxy6vD83Ur/s1600/regis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgueTmERNiQSf_AW41oAVSSwY244bQlceNGh0H2bmyAzqxVgDiPdp_cEnGm8pKjgEyKxW6FBuL75WXARiJQx04XPhp6qBNLCehhxEixPdImvY7VyQhcdpjSFSGsi6nmvpAuJaFxy6vD83Ur/s1600/regis.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Five years ago today, I handed my camera over to an accommodating intern for <i>Live! with Regis and Kelly</i> just outside of the show's green room and she snapped the photo above.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A few hours earlier on that Monday morning, I'd driven through the Lincoln Tunnel, found a parking spot that would provide quick escape later in the day, and then walked 20-some blocks through a strangely vacant predawn Times Square and up Broadway to the ABC studios building located just west of Central Park.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The entire weekend had been a blur of non-stop laughter, drinking and, well, mayhem. I had been joined by 5 friends on Saturday morning for the drive to Brooklyn where we met up with two more friends for a bit of pre-gaming before the <a href="http://www.timeout.com/newyork/own-this-city-blog/hot-recap-2009-nyc-beard-moustache-championships">2009 NYC Beard & Moustache Championships</a>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That would be my second beard competition and the attention it garnered was a study in contrast from the relaxed, informal family affair experienced at the first competition I attended</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. Actually, I had an absolute blast at both events , but the two were strikingly different. If you love live music, it's a lot like trying to compare a great no-expenses-spared stadium production to an intimate performance in a small club.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Long story short, that night in Brooklyn was full of pyrotechnics and the invitation to be a guest of Regis two days later was just one more strange but beautiful explosion in a night full of awesome fireworks.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibMjq5Fqd8zmEzH9zDfLmoNAdqTjzkcNq7In3iEF8fVbJf8jWs3fMc2InF9HHsZxPoQ19yBAFx_Gzqz6mZwgbQVk1Y9TiWH-rhqwDX1R3XtyUU5bXNgnPG_x_Z8JSbcDUoRHqKXLOdaLj6/s1600/2665_1047935994728_6143666_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibMjq5Fqd8zmEzH9zDfLmoNAdqTjzkcNq7In3iEF8fVbJf8jWs3fMc2InF9HHsZxPoQ19yBAFx_Gzqz6mZwgbQVk1Y9TiWH-rhqwDX1R3XtyUU5bXNgnPG_x_Z8JSbcDUoRHqKXLOdaLj6/s1600/2665_1047935994728_6143666_n.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">By Monday morning, I had driven back-and-forth between home and New York City twice, logged about 8 total hours of sleep, and was still trying to wrap my head around all that had happened. There's a lot I don't remember about that weekend (and much I don't dare put into print) or that surreal visit with Mr. Philbin and Ms. Ripa (and Drew Carey who warmly met us three beardos as we exited the stage), but I vividly remember the comaraderie and the many last-forever friendships that were forged in fleeting moments and short periods of too little shared time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Which, at last, brings me to how and why this post is appearing in a blog for-the-most-part devoted to running.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I ran and finished my first ultra, the New River 50K, in October of that very same year.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNzdKUB2EsMNWRdvsvoPikfqkrs-RXi_tCLwLMS2yJK9qhO8K17CwgKzhxNKtmmGJZSjA-fyg2ZOwvhUVQBn7ID8gc_wtFEbhLVnUZxwXqCI_r8NWAQPIX0JGYfy6x7wjm8S03I-FVM9jS/s1600/cheering+daddy+on+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNzdKUB2EsMNWRdvsvoPikfqkrs-RXi_tCLwLMS2yJK9qhO8K17CwgKzhxNKtmmGJZSjA-fyg2ZOwvhUVQBn7ID8gc_wtFEbhLVnUZxwXqCI_r8NWAQPIX0JGYfy6x7wjm8S03I-FVM9jS/s1600/cheering+daddy+on+(2).jpg" height="300" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When Jefferson and I had ventured to Oil City for the WPBMA beard championships back in the Fall of 2008, I knew no one in the world of "bearding" and had little idea of what to expect at a beard competition. That same story held true when I picked up my bib and headed to the starting line of that first 50K. I had run my fair share of 5Ks, 5-milers and 10K races, but nothing longer than that and I didn't know (or didn't know that I knew) anyone who had run any distance longer than 26.2 miles. Not off road, that's for sure.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Well, what I discovered is that the people growing out their beards and thinking up works of art constructed from what they'd grown were just as welcoming as the loonies who weren't interested in going out for a run unless it was longer, sometimes MUCH longer, than the marathon distance that the rest of the world seemed to hold up as the ultimate test of endurance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, both bearders and ultrarunners are crazy, right?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Maybe.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And while crazy is a tag rather eagerly embraced by both parties, I'd argue that once you pitch aside the most obvious and arguably eccentric source of expression for either, the participants are as diverse a mix of sane or nearly sane people as any other group.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Both subcultures are fond of group shots, that's for sure.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPXI0t2yHMVUyQbBWLfalITWbKLJSzscRLrdxfy3cOOkJoyDWfGLGYW3TbfXTJI8O8wE5NeN5Mo-pqIQCzM7k3z1C2KgoSvHxUHiqYr0Rv7lbx0Gc6Hiq7egBiMq4RXQN4YEqS4eY6wkzQ/s1600/427198_10151020871292739_1105058159_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPXI0t2yHMVUyQbBWLfalITWbKLJSzscRLrdxfy3cOOkJoyDWfGLGYW3TbfXTJI8O8wE5NeN5Mo-pqIQCzM7k3z1C2KgoSvHxUHiqYr0Rv7lbx0Gc6Hiq7egBiMq4RXQN4YEqS4eY6wkzQ/s1600/427198_10151020871292739_1105058159_n.jpg" height="223" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg8CxtyEYkwi10ySCSX7Z5x65ks3Z0ALR5k2GTJG8CgXsblKF6-WcC-kUTdSvTa1LubRZD9qxNkr_rBx4bbYwhyphenhyphenMokkCxT5cQQ5aPpLn8NGvYIpyKD_PnQW-mXOE6cFn4lBnVVGq3CtgLe/s1600/1452587_753286061353336_1831423910_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg8CxtyEYkwi10ySCSX7Z5x65ks3Z0ALR5k2GTJG8CgXsblKF6-WcC-kUTdSvTa1LubRZD9qxNkr_rBx4bbYwhyphenhyphenMokkCxT5cQQ5aPpLn8NGvYIpyKD_PnQW-mXOE6cFn4lBnVVGq3CtgLe/s1600/1452587_753286061353336_1831423910_n.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Fayetta Schwanger</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Or maybe they aren't. I certainly am and, having been absorbed wholly into both cultures, perhaps I have just had good luck in coercing my pals into smiling for the camera.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm ok with that and send belated thanks for the humoring.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I love these team photos not because I am much of a "joiner". I'm not. But, I sure do love having documents to evidence shared company while doing some of the activities I enjoy most, especially when those happenings forged so many new friendships and further strengthened those friendships that already existed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Were it just about the activities and not the relationships built around those activities, I may have drifted on to other things. Novelty can wear off in time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The fact that someone let his (or her) facial hair grow untamed can be a surprisingly effective icebreaker and, in certain circles, it basically ensures immediate acceptance. It's a pretty flimsy foundation for a long-term relationship, however, and let the conversation stray from beards and you may soon find that you and your new aquaintance have got one and only one thing in common and it isn't going to prove to be a tie that binds. Or shouldn't be.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Same with running.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If I spend a few hours running with someone and the topic of conversation never strays from race results, training tips and the upcoming ultra events calendar, I start daydreaming about how much I like running alone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I hear people talk all the time about "all" ultrarunners this and "everyone" in the bearded community that and, frankly, it makes me cringe. I've been guilty of it myself and wish that were not the case. I love black-and-white photos, but only because they aren't actually black-and-white at all, but endless shades of grey enhanced with beautiful brushstrokes of light and shadow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It actually strikes me as counterproductive to broadly proclaim that everything about and everyone engaged in your favorite hobby is "the best", suggesting in a way that anyone not running far or not letting their razors rust are somehow lessers or, at the very least, out of the loop. That's just not necessarily the case and I would argue that anyone taking such a stance is the one missing out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If nothing else, I encourage you to dig a little deeper. Share a bit of yourself that isn't about what time you posted or intend to post at Western States. You may be sporting quite the finely shaped Garibaldi that I'm sure will prove quite competitive at Worlds, but...what...else...can...you...tell...me...about...yourself. I'd like to know.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Come out of character and let yourself be known and, while you're at it, spend a minute learning something about the people around you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I've been blessed to meet some quite accomplished runners and beardsmen. I marvel at their talents and what they've done with those talents. But, if and when a scratch beneath the surface reveals little else, that talent isn't enough to hold my interest. Thankfully, I have discovered that many of the folks you meet during races or while climbing onto a stage together to have your beards judged possess far more depth and have incredible stories to tell if you just allow the conversation get there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I thank my two seemingly unrelated hobbies for having introduced me to so many amazing individuals, but I could honestly care little about how much running or bearding factors into the time I spend in the future with these fine people.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's just not all that important if they make any more podiums or even reach another finish line. I won't think the less of him (or her) if the next Best Full Beard Natural award is given to someone else. What I will strive to be is the first in line to celebrate real life milestones, offer condolences for losses, laugh along, and just plain be there. And I know that should I (gasp) shave or hang up my shoes once and for all, I can expect they'll be there for me too.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo courtesy of iRunFar.com</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUKYInj_DqY_vpmtP23trYTitTHtS1vCEe7sSKgp5754AtDOfq1OrtJBgBh2vcFLVpeF64zPTKHe2BYUa-0X4BWTmjKTaOqCEfxUvPXQAYE21aSzKwnVM_3GLfsbeh98vmEfzr2b-bGkMO/s1600/23973_377066717738_3893792_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUKYInj_DqY_vpmtP23trYTitTHtS1vCEe7sSKgp5754AtDOfq1OrtJBgBh2vcFLVpeF64zPTKHe2BYUa-0X4BWTmjKTaOqCEfxUvPXQAYE21aSzKwnVM_3GLfsbeh98vmEfzr2b-bGkMO/s1600/23973_377066717738_3893792_n.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Trevor Cranmer</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Jo Weakley Agnew</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Greg Petliski</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Thank you, genuinely, to the many of you who have allowed me to be me and in turn given me the chance to truly know who you are.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And to those of you who I haven't yet met, be forewarned that even though my mouth can run a lot faster than my legs, I listen too and hope you give me a chance to hear your stories.</span></div>
this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-38975201073958696572014-03-10T23:50:00.001-04:002014-03-11T11:40:46.349-04:00not small at all.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Being in the woods makes me happy. Sometimes simply not being indoors is enough.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Add a predawn start with a bunch of good companions (including my favorite four-legged pal) on a favorite local ridge finally beginning to rally to life after a punishing winter and, well, things couldn't get much better.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Except sometimes the body doesn't cooperate. It's tired, disinterested, unresponsive. And sometimes, no matter how non-competitive or goal-oriented a runner you might be, you bog down on not performing the way you hope to and allow frustration with momentary physical weakness to be a bigger, a MUCH bigger, deal than it should be.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">By "you" I mean me and "sometimes" was Saturday.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes, I muddled through another 2700+ feet of climbing in a challenging season in which miles have been hard and hard to come by. Yes, I am on track for what spring and summer have in store (on track, not nearly all the way ready). I know that, but I stopped knowing it for a time on Saturday morning because instead of heeding the signs that my body needed a day off, instead of listening, I shouted over those indications with the noise of more of the very thing that had me worn down in the first place.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That's what ultrarunners are supposed to do, right? Gut it out, suck it up. Push harder, work harder, BE harder. Keep moving. Get back up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Over and over and over again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I get it. I like all that and wouldn't be out doing the things I do if that weren't the case, but...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">...boy, do we ever miss out on all the lovely small things when we get so hyper-focused on the big thing that (shhh, don't tell anyone) isn't really a big thing at all. We should know better than most that from time to time energy lapses and the indestructible body proves destructible, the unwavering mind wavers and, surprise!, life goes on anyway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I smiled for my friends and genuinely enjoyed their company but, make no mistake, my attention was inexcusably distracted by not being able to enjoy the movement because it wasn't the quality of movement I expected of myself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Which is ridiculous.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Thankfully, even my numb skull can warm with enough exposure to the glow of life's little wonders.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The coffee waiting at home tasted just as good as it always does.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A book pulled off the shelf for ten minutes of reading before Lindsay and the girls were ready to accompany me to the diner for breakfast did what books so often do, floored me with the power of words orchestrated by a conductor finely attuned to not just language but also to the essence of human interaction. The words wouldn't have been any more or less stirring had I charged through my earlier workout instead of bumbling and muddling along.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The thaw continued at breakfast with relaxed laughter, a recap of the girls' individual adventures at school that week, and the sweet, reassuring touch of a daughter's hand in a shared restaurant booth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Off to the rock climbing gym from there. I resigned my tired body to belay duty while Lily and Piper were their normal roller coaster rides of grit teeth determination alternating with who-could-care silliness.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">They were having fun, purely reveling in play and exploration, too busy to bother </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">measuring the fun they were having by increments of accomplishment. Hard to think of that concept as a "small thing" when you're forced to examine it, but too often our stressed-out by everything adult minds fail to grasp that simple wisdom.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Seen off by a round of hugs, Lindsay left the gym for a shift at the hospital and we three who remained headed back to the house to pick up Sugar Pie and then together we returned to the forest to retrieve the dog leash that I'd forgotten at the top of Molehill that morning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sugar Pie whimpered her want to move fast, fast, faster, but I and my battered legs were far more content to slowly amble along the Horseshoe Trail while the girls flitted about in search of scavenger hunt targets.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Hours before I had surveyed the ground beneath my feet through the narrow lens of a runner's eye, seeking traction and confident footfalls in a threatening landscape of ice, snow, mud and rock. Now, with my daughters by my side, the terrain was full of hope and promise. Receding snow revealed little pockets of life below and Spring suddenly seemed not so far away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It wasn't that Lily and Piper were more attuned to the small things so much as they seemed enamored of everything. Of ALL things. I marveled at just how many different things caught their attention, at Lily's endless stream of questions, and Piper's tenacious tracing of every one of her big sister's strides.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We scavenged, successfully, finding most everything on our list, including Suge's leash.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My legs ached, they must have, but that isn't part of my recollection of our time together. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The thaw was complete and I was lost again to living in the moment. Lily was actually the one to remind me that I was tuckered out by suggesting that when we got home I sit and relax while she and Piper rode their bikes and played on the playground of the old decommissioned elementary school behind our home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I could not and did not argue with her. It sounded like a great idea.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That's when another not so small thing happened.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Lily decided that she didn't need her training wheels anymore which was news to me. But, take them off we did, and except for a few fairly harmless slow-motion tumbles, she figured it out despite being perched atop a bike that seemed two sizes too small for her growing-too-fast-for-mom-and-dad legs. It seemed like I should make a really big deal out of the accomplishment, but she seemed satisfied by my wide grin and more interested in riding than hearing me heap parental praise upon her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She and Piper Bea whooshed around and around and around the small playground until hungry bellies won over their will to keep pedaling. I was hungry too but could have gone on watching them at play forever.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Lily dashed towards the house as I shuffled behind with two little bikes in tow. Piper had been right by my side so I was taken aback when my asking her if she'd had fun went unanswered. Looking back over my shoulder, I found her summiting a lingering pile of plowed snow at the edge of the schoolyard.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"What are you doing, Pipe?," I asked. "Why'd you climb up there?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Why not?," came my answer as she thrust out her arms to beckon for rescue.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge6E8uGs-X2o1sFIHEql3QaBIM4L8LMrALdToREwZWuRjKuzQB8CS9-YkeHUb97cC5e3CZuGFiR1BvylILgX6OgGG696b2b89qdY78wpe-_NwwhOWbeux94BmMPSsfDUG3LaxjskmVmp6R/s1600/pipe's+feet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge6E8uGs-X2o1sFIHEql3QaBIM4L8LMrALdToREwZWuRjKuzQB8CS9-YkeHUb97cC5e3CZuGFiR1BvylILgX6OgGG696b2b89qdY78wpe-_NwwhOWbeux94BmMPSsfDUG3LaxjskmVmp6R/s1600/pipe's+feet.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Why would you climb up there if you can't get down?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"I figure it out once I get up."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My child, a small thing herself (for now), had blessed me yet again with another not small at all example of why life isn't so much about how well or how poorly you climb the hill so long as you appreciate the gift of a hill to climb in the first place.</span></div>
this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-51971408490262458202014-02-22T12:07:00.001-05:002014-02-22T12:08:18.110-05:00resolved in children.<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Someone asked me recently about the tattoo on my right bicep, artwork that depicts Lily's footprint at birth encircled by cursive text. The writing is the final two sentences of lyrics from a defunct, but forever favorite band of mine from Baltimore, the oft overlooked and most certainly underappreciated (not by me...to a fault, perhaps) Lungfish. I've written of them before and spoken of them ad nauseam.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes, I know that band lyric tattoos have become a modern day cliche but this world as inhabited by humans, frankly, is a magnificent bundle of such things and she who is without guilt, well, you know what to do.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Digression. As the years pass, the words of Creation Story mean more not less to me. Like any well-written lyrics, the words are widely open to interpretation, to bending, to repurposing as fits the listener. This song continues to help tell the story of civilization as I believe it to have been, its evolution and regression throughout the millenia, while helping to explain and express the teensy part I feel I play in its current production. With each passing day, I find more truth in the song, more connections and even closer connection to "now".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I will share the lyrics and a link (from the title) to the song. Know that it is poem, more than song, but filled with rhythm and music that earns it, in my eyes, the title of song.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You may read or not, listen or not, but know that when you cross my path, be it on the trail, in the workplace or on city streets, these very words dance behind my eyes and interweave around the voices and sounds I hear, the images that I see, and help to filter my processing of those messages and instruct my responses.</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Songs are rarely written expressly for any one listener, but the best of them seem to be uniquely adapted for every listener.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Resolved in Lily Harper and Piper Bea I shall live.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">-----------------------------------</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8WiJlsOTICQ">Creation Story</a> by Lungfish (lyrics by Daniel Higgs)</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Paranoia warped into a gravity.</i></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i></i></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Which spread a smothering blanket on an evolutionary launch pad.</i></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Vision was tested on blank sky and voice said, "Let me tell you about the time that something occurred."</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Medication caused an ear to hear and a conflict of interpretation arose.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Landscapes were drawn from a plague of particles, and the burden was distributed.</div>
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The law would return as inflated skins.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
While music initiated architecture.</div>
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Animals, living through a velocity of fear began to modify their behavior to comply with human observation.</div>
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Thus dropping a keystone into the eggshell honeycomb of anthrocentric history since.</div>
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<br /></div>
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As for the plants, they had been with the music.</div>
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Science procured a steepled shell dressed for immortality, hollow to hold the music.</div>
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Emotion repelled all opinion and refused to consider it's origin.</div>
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Apples happened bringing acids and enzymes, the spinning recorder disguised as an endless bouquet.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Things became erotic at the drop of a hat.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A tyrant placed an apple on a table and lorded over it.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
As a fish realized it held a monkey inside itself and expelled it on the beach in a larval salamander form.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The voters clamored for more circles and the whole rig began to rotate.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Books were used for fuel and money and everybody was writing them.</div>
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The planets turned inside out to expose their freight.</div>
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No charges were pressed because all involved agreed that they could die.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
These are secrets a world sung to me truer than the truth.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A young order of birds that eats the eyes of believers.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Science predicted forms of worship and reveled in them.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
An orgy of mutation took place for many years.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Between stones, near water, and inside clouds.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The people bound their feet with the skins of the animals to trample their own cities and each other.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
They developed external organs like guns and television sets.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
They believed that they owned things.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
One mind in a generation will hear the eternal broadcast of the voice saying, "Let me tell you about the time that something occurred."</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And that mind's body will be strapped down and that body's mind will subject to testing or electric currents rippled through the brain.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But the music pervades.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It was music that gave the shove.</div>
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And resolved in music we shall breathe.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It was children that crafted a parent.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And resolved in children we shall live.</div>
</i></span>this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-14290820731742201152014-02-14T01:14:00.000-05:002014-02-14T01:14:02.438-05:00snow daze.<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Nearly a foot of snow had fallen and my own two feet were restless to explore. A lull in the weather, a predicted gap between the first round of the storm and its second appearance as a separate front pushed it back our way, left the roads surprisingly navigable.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Few motorists expected that to be the case or they were simply too busy digging out to venture onto the roadways. Whatever the reason, traffic was sparse for the 10 mile commute from my driveway to the Horseshoe Trail at the intersection of Pumping Station Road and Route 322.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf7rzkpdxdLzCpGC6eBH9VEsfkQyWaL0si4X8xGnwG_P4nmZGpM6CvsX8Ay7d-v0i0wk1iWSdfXVzJYJw30Vo_17Ibh-fc1HfhbU_fvSZRqSEZFqhrfHmf5Cjmi1-RcikhsVGFmsFuySSQ/s1600/snowdaze1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf7rzkpdxdLzCpGC6eBH9VEsfkQyWaL0si4X8xGnwG_P4nmZGpM6CvsX8Ay7d-v0i0wk1iWSdfXVzJYJw30Vo_17Ibh-fc1HfhbU_fvSZRqSEZFqhrfHmf5Cjmi1-RcikhsVGFmsFuySSQ/s1600/snowdaze1.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As expected, the parking lot at Pumping Station was unplowed except for a few vanishing tracks left by a vehicle or two that had apparently earlier used the lot to turn around and head the other direction. I followed one of those paths, backing my car into a position I prayed could be escaped from a few hours later.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Most of this winter has been spent in <a href="http://www.backcountryedge.com/kahtoola-microspikes-2013.aspx">Kahtoola MICROspikes</a>, but they seemed in over their heads for the conditions lurking in the woods. Besides, there are too few opportunities to dust off the snowshoes and this one wouldn't be missed.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOrw7CwlWhVKapCDEKfWWQR4TnN8WpLL-DzN0_4ZpMU1U_Ni_t2SKEF0mkENK1D53lgncFn_ePCPrKa7O54X_YPxxzSn4czlTdUQDYXrBBKhsZWRRr-HYEz6qPBu2vdL6eD1Km3uufyWwy/s1600/snowdaze2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOrw7CwlWhVKapCDEKfWWQR4TnN8WpLL-DzN0_4ZpMU1U_Ni_t2SKEF0mkENK1D53lgncFn_ePCPrKa7O54X_YPxxzSn4czlTdUQDYXrBBKhsZWRRr-HYEz6qPBu2vdL6eD1Km3uufyWwy/s1600/snowdaze2.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My <a href="http://www.backcountryedge.com/crescent_moon-gold-9-2012.aspx">Crescent Moon Gold 9</a>'s are built specifically for running, but, to be fair, they also anticipate packed snow, not the deep powder to which they were about to be exposed. Oh well. It's been a year of resistance training thus far and this would just be more of the same.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The Horseshoe was buried, absolutely buried, and there wasn't any sign to suggest that anyone had been out on the trail since the snow had begun falling the night before. Trail breaking would be required the entire way and the going would likely be slow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Bearing left off the Horseshoe allowed me to gain high ground more quickly and I was immediately glad to have my <a href="http://www.backcountryedge.com/search.aspx?SearchTerm=z-poles&Log=True">Black Diamond Z-Poles</a> as the depth of the snow stacked along the edge of the ridge the trail skirts made for some false footing that kicked powder down into the ravine below.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Reaching the top of the ridge, crossing the power line and ducking back into the trees, I began to establish a pace a bit more recognizable as running though the degree of difficulty had my heart pounding and my temperature rising beneath the warm layers donned to ward off the cold. Throttling down just a bit to keep from sweating out, I pondered which way to turn as a number of trail intersections approached.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw7IMvN0jhLIme_oEXqiB0yB579Cmdp3bZdd38roTv8W3BJZ_B7AeZGTi1oVvPWQeidn_h_bKOR0AiNNdrOY_syRQDFS8JQwP_j18ipdWmUmT2uNeW5a4q70p4Mx8cggCMckmM8mwWd-iS/s1600/snowdaze3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw7IMvN0jhLIme_oEXqiB0yB579Cmdp3bZdd38roTv8W3BJZ_B7AeZGTi1oVvPWQeidn_h_bKOR0AiNNdrOY_syRQDFS8JQwP_j18ipdWmUmT2uNeW5a4q70p4Mx8cggCMckmM8mwWd-iS/s1600/snowdaze3.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Following the Big Timber trail kept me off of some of the wider paths and had me ducking under limbs bent low from their cargo loads of white. Other than my own breathing, the crunching of snowshoes and the occasional trekking pole <i>clack</i>, there were few sounds to be heard. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Exceptions were the melodic <i>whew-whew-hews</i> of titmice and the namesake chirping of chickadees.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There were few tracks to be seen, confirming that most animals had the sensibility to hole up and ride out the storm. One rogue set of tracks in a tight one-hoof-directly-in-place-of-the-last stride seemed to indicate that a deer had been out for a rather casual mid-storm stroll. Stray appear-disappear-reappear squirrel tracks were there to be found but even they seemed more scarce than usual.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I did also happen upon the work site of a hearty woodpecker that had clearly been rat-a-tat-tapping away recently enough to have left its wood scraps strewn about atop the snow.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil-H4TYmCEw5epC0YJMHBt1_L7SaHoBqSi8CJX3MaSKkUPVSh5EZgiDpR3B82tG9pic5ObsPEoJCJw66182TaFyKiy3ifCcGAz0xKe5dYCpAROdsv99KuoqlZDq6_3jUGXQNfGPYhd4Gn0/s1600/snowdaze5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil-H4TYmCEw5epC0YJMHBt1_L7SaHoBqSi8CJX3MaSKkUPVSh5EZgiDpR3B82tG9pic5ObsPEoJCJw66182TaFyKiy3ifCcGAz0xKe5dYCpAROdsv99KuoqlZDq6_3jUGXQNfGPYhd4Gn0/s1600/snowdaze5.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In spite of not having seen any human visitors, the trails made themselves known by a dimpled, undulating surface that resembled the cartoon tunneling of Bugs Bunny on his way from that wrong turn in Albuquerque. I have seen this phenomenon before and it has bailed me out a time or two out in the forest without a headlamp after the light has failed (unless provided by a man-made appliance, can light really "fail"?).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Here and there, fallen leaves skittered lightly across the snow or rested stoicly in the shallow berths that their last inherent warmth had carved, a defiant final proof of having ever really been alive. If you look close, the leaves have often oozed the slightest stain of their brown and yellow hues into the snow itself, a natural farewell tagging that strikes me as both a sad and beautiful plea for remembrance.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnO_WVGeRNge8rDkagnHLQuNp7joIrCJ8qi0Iyrm75JSibJHHY1RWcAysyrrCC7c4iAcCVZq3t4WJ6HQ-wrbiQwDGB1vysJlg0lip3dWmK_GfwEHrfY5G4ATUZXlyh0lbWGm7mqZTjKpij/s1600/snowdaze6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnO_WVGeRNge8rDkagnHLQuNp7joIrCJ8qi0Iyrm75JSibJHHY1RWcAysyrrCC7c4iAcCVZq3t4WJ6HQ-wrbiQwDGB1vysJlg0lip3dWmK_GfwEHrfY5G4ATUZXlyh0lbWGm7mqZTjKpij/s1600/snowdaze6.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Fatigue snuck up on me until all at once I was gassed. The sign indicating the broad, smooth Explorer Lodge Road offered an escape route temptation but I was determined to take in the view atop Eagle Rock.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRoyFu9mxxRiJOkMDHyOXqAmJZnTYHA-ICBk06srYh7Za5mfDn7wMPSjK1xpjmW7-i73F0bzwWeDY_NW-XkdUi2hzChyphenhyphenZVDPjFFLZugk9VzgQgomx8592qkKSuj8uEsRWtAx_GLAc7H_Mj/s1600/snowdaze7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRoyFu9mxxRiJOkMDHyOXqAmJZnTYHA-ICBk06srYh7Za5mfDn7wMPSjK1xpjmW7-i73F0bzwWeDY_NW-XkdUi2hzChyphenhyphenZVDPjFFLZugk9VzgQgomx8592qkKSuj8uEsRWtAx_GLAc7H_Mj/s1600/snowdaze7.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It may not be more than a half mile from there to Eagle Rock but my tired legs felt as though it was a three mile stretch. A mix of sleet, freezing rain and actual rain was adding weight to what had been deep, but feathery powder.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Earlier in the week, on the ridge line just to the south and west of the one I was then traversing, I had noted quite a bit of damage from the ice storm that had swept the area several days prior. Broken limbs, downed trees and brush that had collapsed beneath its own weight had cluttered the trails and in some cases made them nearly impassable. I worried that similar debris was likely on the final approach to Eagle Rock but, other than a lot of snow, it was clear.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW3qahmgrHRyJHcD2XFwXrw6eJRJgg9QPE4sEg4xIndFDLTojZjieNQdhc4YuAyxlC59cwROJxu0rYP_GZS0Ak68EM_c7E6sNhnPbzz4uVfUPghSlDQGo9_oG_M9dwVuI7bV8gfsgbuklm/s1600/snowdaze8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW3qahmgrHRyJHcD2XFwXrw6eJRJgg9QPE4sEg4xIndFDLTojZjieNQdhc4YuAyxlC59cwROJxu0rYP_GZS0Ak68EM_c7E6sNhnPbzz4uVfUPghSlDQGo9_oG_M9dwVuI7bV8gfsgbuklm/s1600/snowdaze8.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Even though visibility was a fraction of what it normally is, the view from Eagle Rock was really stunning. The blanket of white triggered contrasts and highlights in the forest that otherwise often blend into a uniform sea of browns and greens. Clouds socked in the next ridge and further muffled any audible evidence of a world beyond these woods.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Brisk winds took advantage of the exposure to whip swirling moisture into my eyes and sent cold air seeking any vulnerabilities in the clothes I was wearing. Exhausted and concerned I might not be able to stave off the cold as easily as I normally do, I clambered down off the rock and moved on.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As soon as I turned away from the vista and stepped back into the trees, the wind fell away and with it any chill that had crept in. It was, quite literally, all downhill from there to the car and I took advantage of that trajectory to settle back into an actual run. Snow took some of the physical punishment out of this stretch of trail by padding the usually rocky footing and allowing me to move along briskly, sometimes running, sometimes glissading.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I paused just long enough to snap one last intersection photo and then barreled the rest of the way down the Horseshoe Trail toward Hammer Creek and the final approach to where the car awaited my return.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVhDhh1_PxrUqGKMtNJ8IbWAHMf6Uu65yxcB7CFudUIgH_TPxe5_2HJucULvjTApOqlBclYTJ1B6f6G8ov5Fss7o06SZVGmez3Infnom-w0CYG3gmDCKQQmJsz5ksvDDojNO4YXhzZiAgv/s1600/snowdaze9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVhDhh1_PxrUqGKMtNJ8IbWAHMf6Uu65yxcB7CFudUIgH_TPxe5_2HJucULvjTApOqlBclYTJ1B6f6G8ov5Fss7o06SZVGmez3Infnom-w0CYG3gmDCKQQmJsz5ksvDDojNO4YXhzZiAgv/s1600/snowdaze9.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I can't say how far I traveled, as my</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> GPS was still sitting at home wondering why it hadn't made the trip. Suffice to say, the mileage wasn't as far as my body was suggesting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There's no device known to me that can measure how much ground the mind covers. I don't ever set out with a specific distance goal for my thoughts, but I can tell when a given workout has been a good one for my body AND my mind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The legs are done in, the quads quiver. The brain? It's smiling.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I settled into the driver's seat, turned the key and, as the car freed itself from the lot and powered back onto 322, my body ached and the smile in my mind grew wide.</span></div>
this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-41149450535701961742014-01-17T00:48:00.002-05:002014-01-17T08:03:25.471-05:00constantly bee.<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Everything in nature invites us constantly to be what we are."</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">-Gretel Ehrlich</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">----------------------</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Work, even work that you love, has a curious way of graduating from task to taskmaster, pushing us in whatever direction it chooses, sometimes by wheedling us with little victories to make it feel as though something is actually being accomplished and hence one MUST keep striving even harder. Other times it simply tightens the figurative screws with deadlines and unspoken threats of the consequence of not plodding on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My work screws get tightened every January. No getting around it as competing priorities bottleneck. Throughout most of the year which chore comes next is normally obvious and while they may not assemble in agreeable single file</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, my various duties, for the most part, do align in at least semi-orderly fashion.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But not in January.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I equate the first month of the year with regards to my work schedule to my driveway, my family's two cars and the two cars owned by the tenants to whom we rent out our second floor. Most days, the individual automobiles come and go freely without any obstacle, but every now and again, there's a car parked in the lane while its driver unloads groceries, a car idling in the road waiting to deliver its impatient, worn-out inhabitant from a day punching the cliche out of some clock, and another car waiting in the back with a passenger eager to escape to anywhere else but there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Gridlock.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">January.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The year wasn't even a week old and that old familiar weight was back. Adding to the heaviness, there was snow and ice on the ground and temperatures were holding well below freezing with sustained winds that made it feel even colder.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm oddly fond of the cold anyway, but, regardless, the weekend would find me out of doors no matter the conditions as I desperately needed to expose my senses to something other than a monitor's glow, the obnoxious ring of a telephone, the bland scent of instant coffee being reheated (yet again) and the smooth, texture-less touch of keyboard keys.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My name had been added to the roster of a nearby trail race, but, not longing for only-talking-about-running company, directive flagging or stocked aid-stations, that entry was spurned for the lure of the percussive crunching of two and only two feet punching through crusted over snow, an unaccompanied, taxing uphill clamber and the nothingness-and-allness-all-at-once of a forest trail barren of billboards, traffic, machinery and chatter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Early Friday evening I drove Lily, Piper Bea and their (and my) beloved Aunt Nancy north to Juniata for a weekend with my mother and stepfather at their cozy, forested retreat. Peeling myself away from the no-don't-go charm of the cabin and its wood stove, I trudged back to the car, steered it home to Manheim and wedged in one final four-hour session at my desk before retiring to bed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The scarce treasure of sleeping in found me rising refreshed at 8:00 and a couple more hours in the office ensured that I could wander away the afternoon in the woods unencumbered by obligation and spend all day Sunday sledding and playing in the snow with the kids.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The winds were howling along the Susquehanna River as I stepped out of the car in the lot that sits just beneath Route 322 at the eastern side of the Clark's Ferry bridge. The southbound Appalachian Trail practically falls off of Peters Mountain and into that lot before crossing the bridge on a pedestrian walkway, hanging a hard left after departing the bridge, only to cross another bridge, this time over the Juniata River, before arriving in the community of Duncannon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In order to reach Cove Mountain and leave humanity behind, you need to navigate the entire length of town. The Appalachian Trail avoids the main drag by stepping one block further away from the river and following High Street to its end. Perhaps it was the knowing that this was all just leading up to the elevation gain and quiet I was craving or an embracing of the simple act of movement after a week of too many sedentary hours, but, whatever the reason, this mile or two of sidewalk and concrete proved more enjoyable than I would have predicted. Most of the inhabitants of Duncannon seemed content to spend the day indoors, protected from the biting wind coming up off of the icy river, and with rare exception the only faces I saw were hunkered down behind glass, staring obliviously at television screens, peering out the windows of their homes at the odd passerby (me) or fixed on the road ahead from behind-the-wheel perches.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Crossing the old, crumbling bridge over Sherman's Creek, I glanced to my left and caught sight of Peters Mountain in profile above the far riverbank from where I'd started.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A few hundred yards later, the AT left the road at last and, as though it was eager to lose itself as quickly as possible, it climbed 750 feet over the next mile and, not surprisingly, hadn't seen much traffic in the frigid conditions. The grade was significant enough all on its own, but a couple of inches of snow and any icy sheath over every exposed rock, root and branch made me relieved to have lugged along Microspikes on the paved portion of the run that now emerged from my pack to provide traction. Alternating between running and hiking, I inched my way around the ridge as it remained parallel to Sherman's Creek while climbing higher and higher above it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There is basically only one switchback on the entire climb and a motionless runoff stood sentinel at that very bend in the trail. Why I can't say, but the sound of water trickling covertly between rock and ice never ceases to give me thrills. Pausing there for several minutes, drinking in the music, I did not fail to notice that it was THE only sound to be heard and for that I silently rejoiced.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After another short but steep slope, the trail passed right by Hawk Rock which offered a dizzying view of the valley below and, to the east, full visibility of Duncannon and the confluence of the Juniata and the Susquehanna. If this vista could be accessed by car, complete with neat rows of vehicular parking spots and maintained bathrooms, it would no doubt be frequented by every inhabitant of this part of the state as well as anyone passing through.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Call me spiteful and selfish, but I'm glad it's harder to reach, its natural beauty already tainted by the spray paint and scrawling of disappointing (though enterprising) taggers.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrv7257DV_HaN5FAIv4Vk8t-6tqZwV78XAaVyPgDTsvXPS6W3weh92Ji7zpb-xiI_8IexmGwWyQ2PoiH-RHXHGiFUFr03jrh4ehHlvrDtGnvDtQl3TEGpNGilQk8_iUxWIBJFHS449GYdQ/s1600/COVE8eight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrv7257DV_HaN5FAIv4Vk8t-6tqZwV78XAaVyPgDTsvXPS6W3weh92Ji7zpb-xiI_8IexmGwWyQ2PoiH-RHXHGiFUFr03jrh4ehHlvrDtGnvDtQl3TEGpNGilQk8_iUxWIBJFHS449GYdQ/s1600/COVE8eight.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There had been a couple of sets of aged footprints that had joined the AT from a bisecting trail a half mile or so before the overlook, but feet had gone no further and the track afterwards was completely devoid of any sign of recent ambulation. Admittedly, Hawk Rock alone more than justified the effort but those other visitor had missed out on the easygoing miles that followed, as the singletrack ran the top of the ridge, slaloming gracefully through the trees while serving up just the slightest of undulations. Even in the snow, I was able to move along at a brisk pace and my thoughts drifted for just a moment to the speed at which one could travel this section on surer footing. No need to follow that thread as the day was too beautiful to waste wondering at others.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because of my midday start and having taken many minutes decompressing at Hawk Rock, I gently reminded myself that I wouldn't be logging the miles my body wanted to as my heart and mind adamantly wanted to end the day in my children's presence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I decided that reaching the Cove Mountain shelter would be goal enough. It came up faster than expected, announced as all AT shelters seem to be with a proper wooden sign and indicators of the distance to the next opportunity for rustic lodging.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwl_ykGWNE4i5_OF0cuY7nP61k_lkTSmapmJvmscO2x6w7KcMAy07Q7LFUz4wCdHfkUmb3IZuDxyMO-d-QXC4H99UkSbhKYGIdi1Sv8upUCgStirxXz5P1gJv0tZpfVWlQzJERP5rNQiQt/s1600/COVE4four.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwl_ykGWNE4i5_OF0cuY7nP61k_lkTSmapmJvmscO2x6w7KcMAy07Q7LFUz4wCdHfkUmb3IZuDxyMO-d-QXC4H99UkSbhKYGIdi1Sv8upUCgStirxXz5P1gJv0tZpfVWlQzJERP5rNQiQt/s1600/COVE4four.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A spur trail to the left dropped down a 200 yard incline and led right to the open face of the shelter. Two stacked bunks lined both of the interior side walls of the structure and hooks aplenty stood ready to hoist packs, clothes, gear and food out of harm's way or at least the reach of mice (or so the hooks would have you believe).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I lounged for a moment in one of the lower bunks and tried to determine which roost I would choose if I were to stay the night, on one of the upper bunks that were tucked slightly beneath the eaves or right where I was, closer to the floor and more exposed to the outside but with less room for cold air to swirl under me. A matter to be decided some other evening with the proper gear in tow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Having documented my stopping by, stating publicly my intent to return, and feeling refuled by some crackers, Gummi Bears and not-surprisingly-ice cold water, I was ready to be on my way when something pinned to the wall caught my eye.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Corny perhaps, but the sentiment made me smile and I hoped all at once to run into the WoodSpirit and to BE the WoodSpirit. Maybe I would cross paths with another hiker making her or his way to that very shelter and he or she (or they) might look at that very sign and wonder, "could it have been?".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who knows.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I hadn't seen another person since leaving Duncannon behind and I wouldn't see anybody until getting back off of the mountain. Did get another peek at Peters on the descent and the way it was framed so beautifully through a break in the trees seemed like all the luck I could have asked for.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The sun was slipping and sliding out of the sky, descending toward the river and casting Duncannon in shadows intermingled with hues of purple and orange.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Crossing back over the Susquehanna, the wind that had seemed subdued while in the forest reestablished its dominance in an intensity of sound and strength. Hearing the whizzing of automobiles on the other side of the barrier on my left while gaping to my right at the current below, choked with creaking and colliding sheets of river ice, I shuddered at the thought of freefalling from the bridge into the dark water and succumbing to its relentlessness. I couldn't decide if the stark, miraculous beauty of the sunset was complement or contrast to the inhospitable cold and unapologetic gale.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It is what it is, as they say.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We are what we are.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I always try to remember to do, I thanked nature for letting me be whatever it is I am.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">January, do your worst. February will be here soon enough.</span></div>
this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-80558597179612500942014-01-13T01:25:00.001-05:002014-01-13T09:30:56.410-05:00general specific.<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A number of want-to-go-heres and got-to-go-theres have been taking shape in this rattletrap of a head of mine, but holiday bustle and proper priorities have the fruition of those schemings waiting on another day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Opportunistically (always), I have continued in the meantime to explore bite-sized adventures more easily digested in the snack-length windows of time available in late December/early January. Sticking with the introduced theme and accepting the gift of mild post-Christmas weather, I went to visit a real-life rattletrap that lies mouldering a few hundred yards off of the Appalachian Trail in the St. Anthony's Wilderness east of Harrisburg.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But I'll get to that in a bit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">December had ushered in snow, melted it off, brought a bit more and then turned around and jacked up the temperatures. On the morning of the 28th, the sun was beaming and the prognosticators</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> were calling for the mercury to top out well over 50 degrees. The only acceptable reason for not being out in it was putting in a few fun hours of indoor rock climbing with my wife and daughters.</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">While the girls headed from the gym to the movie theater for a viewing of the latest Pixar film, Mamie (a/k/a Sugar Pie) accompanied me to Clark's Valley between Peters and Stoney Mountains about 10 miles east of the Susquehanna River. I didn't have any specific mileage in mind, but our intent was to point ourselves east, following the Appalachian Trail northbound toward and perhaps past Rausch Gap. A couple years ago, I had come the opposite direction, starting in Swatara Gap and turning around just 4 or 5 miles shy of the parking lot from which the dog and I would be departing. The first few miles would be a retracing of the route Jefferson and I had followed the day I ran the Horseshoe Trail from its start/finish on the top of Stoney Mountain to Campbelltown to mark my 37th birthday. Many more miles had been logged on the AT since then, but it had continued to bug me, pettily I suppose, that those few miles in between had remained unexplored.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5_u9KASSJs-x8rOH1f_4kw7_hlrBTGN9zEQ-zlJ8_TzXPOHVYTiKLzeBIxR5IuFty9qBepkwjUnPoHYjWCSRmbN7qKacmvpEnO-m4uMJjI0TqHGm0dxOpt6RFvF6IEhQAm4eP9tRBsD1Y/s1600/AT1one.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5_u9KASSJs-x8rOH1f_4kw7_hlrBTGN9zEQ-zlJ8_TzXPOHVYTiKLzeBIxR5IuFty9qBepkwjUnPoHYjWCSRmbN7qKacmvpEnO-m4uMJjI0TqHGm0dxOpt6RFvF6IEhQAm4eP9tRBsD1Y/s400/AT1one.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mamie couldn't have cared less about what had or had not yet been covered, but she was ready to go wherever it was we were going. </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: center;">In the rush to get started, I had forgotten to fill the hydration bladder in my pack before leaving home, but the stream at the trailhead just off of Route 325 was running high and graciously lent a few liters of water to which I added a purification tablet before uttering the "go get 'em, girl" the dog had been patiently awaiting. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgrfVfmmHFoCoWmGWbbdMc4Uc1gSCBC_TK7TluhO_jwZxQJ-MWUJGazbOc3pqnRTdIW2r-8IlOvacggJdI78Wx80mv6jUDYVyqQ7ZlljpfbZjz_W-mgH-dilY7ARLC61-Pt6ts7jpXrvxx/s1600/AT2two.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgrfVfmmHFoCoWmGWbbdMc4Uc1gSCBC_TK7TluhO_jwZxQJ-MWUJGazbOc3pqnRTdIW2r-8IlOvacggJdI78Wx80mv6jUDYVyqQ7ZlljpfbZjz_W-mgH-dilY7ARLC61-Pt6ts7jpXrvxx/s400/AT2two.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The first 3.2 miles came and went quickly, as Sugar Pie set a brisk pace climbing the 1,000+ feet to the summit of </span>Stoney<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> and the intersection with the Horseshoe Trail. Curiosity coaxed me to peek at the HT trail registry and, remembering how fun the initial descent is from there down to Rattling Run, I nearly modified our plans but shook off the temptation, nodded toward the monument that marks the terminus of the trail in a vague manner meant to indicate that I would return soon, and then jumped back on the AT for the first true ground-breaking mileage of the day.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3yY8aMNBIhpoPlK6YlD79oeOur5xxM2406T4rwwNGqcECRWSKB-Lpi_xWH0nYtShsm2kZq35GPjmpWFeuP14OvtKlXPMWG8sy1Hv7dApQ0tdhmBnpbSCD9sttHZYGxQZEJWeMaQ5eviJx/s1600/AT3three.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3yY8aMNBIhpoPlK6YlD79oeOur5xxM2406T4rwwNGqcECRWSKB-Lpi_xWH0nYtShsm2kZq35GPjmpWFeuP14OvtKlXPMWG8sy1Hv7dApQ0tdhmBnpbSCD9sttHZYGxQZEJWeMaQ5eviJx/s400/AT3three.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The next section proved wonderfully runnable, tracking mostly along the top of the ridge and eventually downwards, all with little rock, comparatively, to the terrain with which I was more familiar in the miles that would come later. There were a couple of melt-fed streams to cross and passageways of rhododendron to glide through, but, except for a few slushy footprints, we had the trail to ourselves.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We clambered over the rocky gouge where an old incline used to once reside, shuttling coal from the mined shafts higher on the ridge to the waiting-to-whisk-away rail lines in the valley below. Soon we reached the ruins of Yellow Springs Village which was abandoned in 1859 after what coal could be harvested had been depleted. Except for some diminishing foundations and crumbling stonework, little remains besides the mailbox that has since been erected to house an AT trail registry.*</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIOtBsEd6xs1egVj4ZgWKuw7acjWgJnD9ORxEqhwFuxJDj1i8J5nyBHWDR1-BDKSa1-crGbym_nqvDdAj5gBh1lqAUPxrR_Lkay8bluCsTCRrc-3-RKw83k12xMu57E1S39UcOKypHZehW/s1600/AT4four.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIOtBsEd6xs1egVj4ZgWKuw7acjWgJnD9ORxEqhwFuxJDj1i8J5nyBHWDR1-BDKSa1-crGbym_nqvDdAj5gBh1lqAUPxrR_Lkay8bluCsTCRrc-3-RKw83k12xMu57E1S39UcOKypHZehW/s400/AT4four.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Another 5 miles would deposit us in Rausch Gap but, having heard many tales of an old stranded steam shovel (my research revealed that it's actually an early gasoline-powered shovel, but that's not nearly as aesthetically pleasing to the ear/eye) on a spur trail somewhere in between, I was strongly entertaining the idea of a side trip. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After tiptoeing through a minefield of good old Pennsylvania rocks for the next 2 miles, Mamie and I were staring at the sign that signaled the arrival of our detour.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9JIru5VExTeuSAH5xHv30R6o9LTslzF4QQE8IDs633ptqZNiuGhbbQBR_JM5FFWcvmRsgrmP4bgUMWH6wn5lpdrCuM-VKOxSrI3dYXtPUHM2Xors1VN0Nt7IE-527lDPoiJxJaWD4Aqpb/s1600/AT5five.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9JIru5VExTeuSAH5xHv30R6o9LTslzF4QQE8IDs633ptqZNiuGhbbQBR_JM5FFWcvmRsgrmP4bgUMWH6wn5lpdrCuM-VKOxSrI3dYXtPUHM2Xors1VN0Nt7IE-527lDPoiJxJaWD4Aqpb/s400/AT5five.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I wasn't entirely certain how far we'd need to travel along the Sand Spring Trail to lay eyes on the General, but with only 1.7 miles from where we stood to Route 325, I figured we couldn't be looking at more than a 3 mile diversion.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The trail descended from the AT and required a rock hopping across Rausch Creek. A two-foot-long panel of rusty metal wedged in a notch of a tree confirmed that we were still on the right track. I was surprised to see that the trail climbed steeply soon after and it was nearly an all-fours endeavor to gain the top of the slope. It was apparent that there hadn't been much recent foot traffic and between the severity of the grade and the leaf litter, my climbing was a pretty sloppy showing. Reaching the high point, I expected to see this rumored shovel greeting our (my) huffing and puffing arrival.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">No such luck.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Faded blue blazes announced that we hadn't managed to lose the trail but there was no sign of any ancient machinery. Before we'd gone more than 100-200 yards, yellow blazes advertised a side trail heading in an easterly direction and I was sure that the General was waiting just around the bend. The trail dead-ended at a Jenga-worthy stack of conglomerate rock that provided a breathtaking overlook of Second and Blue Mountains to the south. It was a vantage point well worth reaching, but offered no sign of our quarry.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-MqZzTZXaEOIuUX6JPLz8umZzZf6jKL4n_SUC7mNUq9D4y1x_U3O6qyWE0gxt-IEt2DlEA5gu72VMACzDcRiteo7JI6QZigmQQwzgK2t_5lrtQilJbdUuP2O0LnOwCCSZwlUwlw1X10e/s1600/AT6six.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-MqZzTZXaEOIuUX6JPLz8umZzZf6jKL4n_SUC7mNUq9D4y1x_U3O6qyWE0gxt-IEt2DlEA5gu72VMACzDcRiteo7JI6QZigmQQwzgK2t_5lrtQilJbdUuP2O0LnOwCCSZwlUwlw1X10e/s400/AT6six.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We backtracked to where we had left the Sand Spring Trail and hung a quick right to continue on our hunt. Almost immediately, the trail aggressively gave ground, heading down into Clark's Valley quite steeply. A few inches of snow and even ice on rocks and downed trees clung to this, the leeward side of the ridge. Sugar Pie vanished from sight while I struggled to keep feet beneath me. The sun had fallen low in the sky over the last half hour, but it was significantly darker with the shadows cast by the ridge now rising behind us. It didn't seem like there could be much more trail remaining before we would hit 325 and that either meant that we'd passed the General or that it rested much closer to the road than I had first believed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A good spill was followed moments later by a second fall. I decided that pushing on and losing any more light would likely mean having to follow the road back to where we'd parked the car as clawing our way back up this side of the ridge and then picking our way down the Sand Spring Trail again on the other side was going to be some difficult navigation after the sun had set even with the headlamp that I'd brought along.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">With a whistle to cue Mamie back my direction, I began the climb back the way we had come. The ascent worked out better than expected, mostly because I was guided by the holes I'd just punched in the snow moments before. The amount of sunlight still available when we topped out was a pleasant surprise and the differences between either side of the ridge due solely to their positioning to sun and wind was a marvel.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Still, more light didn't mean much light and I hurried to get back down to Rausch Creek before darkness arrived. As the hunk of metal in the tree came back into view, it became apparent where I'd made my mistake. That metal was actually the indicator of where to turn to find the decrepit shovel. Though there was nobody there to appreciate the gesture, I rolled my eyes at my "duh" and hustled to find what we'd come seeking. The trail was faint and grown nearly shut with rhododendron but after following it for no more than 50 yards, I discovered the path widened considerably and soon the old machine materialized.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpnurN-TD3x9i4YAXF7xKbOOIjTHllQGpOlz8nGwIc7ZHzkx5VFeCQLuW_ywbZ0Q2FjmzIBmqUvzUd7KPeaVgU5jCKoKTsy-VWdIHR9ArOTmfzTC5_tC171_MSawAz_PAh1HPHKLvhtMLE/s1600/AT7seven.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpnurN-TD3x9i4YAXF7xKbOOIjTHllQGpOlz8nGwIc7ZHzkx5VFeCQLuW_ywbZ0Q2FjmzIBmqUvzUd7KPeaVgU5jCKoKTsy-VWdIHR9ArOTmfzTC5_tC171_MSawAz_PAh1HPHKLvhtMLE/s400/AT7seven.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In the low light, the dog cowered at the sight of the once-mighty General. The moniker, I've since learned, comes from the word now just barely visible on a rusty rear panel and the last visible remnant of the namesake General Excavator Company that manufactured the shovel. As noted, it isn't an actual steam shovel, but considering that GEC is said to have gone out of business in the 1920's, it is a pretty impressive example of an early gasoline-powered shovel. It rests in a slight depression and the surrounding area bears signs of the excavating that the General at one time must have been capable. Even with evidence that it was once fully functional and put in work right where it still sits, it is hard to figure out how the General ever arrived in its perch and at least as strange to understand why it was left there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I nosed around a bit longer and, yes, in a fit of childhood imagining, I even pictured myself operating the old shovel. Not for long, though, as I decided to take advantage of the final moments of light to hop dryly back across Rausch Creek and return to the AT.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I checked the GPS. We'd covered just under 10 miles and had to be another 3 miles from Rausch Gap. My legs still felt great and Suge, no doubt, had plenty of gas in her tank, but I had been guilty on other occasions of pushing on because of feeling fine only to discover shortly thereafter that I didn't feel fine anymore and had that much more ground to cover in returning to the trailhead. I chuckled over the fact that due to my out-and-back modus operandi, the day I can say I've traveled every inch of the Appalachian Trail in Pennsylvania is the day that I can also say that I've traveled every inch of the Appalachian Trail in Pennsylvania twice (at least).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Fifteen to twenty minutes later we were back at Yellow Springs and the sun was gone. Mamie and I stopped to enjoy a makeshift in-the-dark dinner of water, crackers, cheese, Honey Stinger waffles and dog kibble (we both had some of everything, though I did pass on the kibble). I took advantage of the darkness to strip down and slip on a pair of tights under my shorts (don't be fooled, I am, to the world's chagrin, not so modest as to wait on the cover of darkness...consider yourself warned). Other than donning a pair of lightweight gloves and turning on my headlamp, I didn't need any other bolstering, as temperatures still hovered in the low-to-mid 40's.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The rest of the return trip to the car was lovely though uneventful. My fitness held up, but we did slow the pace considerably on the the final descent off of Stoney due to a thin and initially deceptive layer of ice that had begun building up on the rocks and logs that had been merely wet during the daylight hours. Not being careful in those last couple of miles would have definitely made for a tale full of events, but I was much happier (and healthier) for having nothing to report.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We got back to the car just under 5 hours after we'd left, having whiled away 19.5 miles.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">An ever present grin kept me company the whole way home as Mamie snored loudly and contentedly from her backseat roost. Who knows if we'll be back specifically to visit the General, but we will definitely return to St. Anthony's Wilderness as there is much more exploring still to be done.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">*Over the years I've found little snippets of information here and there on Rausch Gap, Yellow Springs and the surrounding area. The first half of my childhood was spent in nearby western Berks County and my father and uncle spoke reverently about this part of the state and I always hoped to do my own exploring one day. After we moved to Lancaster County, I spent much time adventuring closer to home and didn't actually get up to Raush until many, many years later. While doing a bit more digging in the days before and after this outing, I stumbled on the following page, compiled by J.W. Via, that included several photos, maps and illustrations that I hadn't before seen: <a href="http://home.comcast.net/~StAnthonyWilderness/picpage.htm">St. Anthony's Wilderness</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I'm grateful to have found it and encourage you to check it if you're interested in far more detailed information on the area and its history.</span></span></div>
this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6445564372346232857.post-7667802821070704812013-12-19T22:55:00.001-05:002013-12-19T23:40:33.414-05:00frostbitten, twice shy.<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>"Go to Heaven for the climate,</i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; line-height: 16px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Hell for the Company"</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; line-height: 16px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">-Mark Twain</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After my buddy Bobby Bodkin had to pull out of the Hellgate 100K at the last minute and having already made arrangements to be there to pace for him, I agreed to accompany pal Brian Dibeler for the last 20 miles of the notorious race.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Earlier in the year Brian had completed the Holiday Lake 50K, Terrapin Mountain 50K, Promise Land 50K and Mountain Masochist 50 Miler and had only Hellgate left to complete the grueling Beast Series (most years, runners would also need to complete the Grindstone 100 Miler, but it had been cancelled due to the government shutdown in October) put on by Clark Zealand of Eco-x Sports and the legendary Dr. David Horton.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes, Brian had just one last race left to run, but, in addition to being his first foray over 50-something miles, Hellgate promised punishment in the form of 13,500-ish feet of climbing, bonus miles (the course measures out at something like 66.6 miles), a disorienting 12:01 AM start time and, this year, an unpredictable but no-matter-what-not-going-to-be-pleasant weather report.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of Keith Knipling and his 2007 race report (<a href="http://keith-knipling.com/?p=19">http://keith-knipling.com/?p=19</a>)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But those worries were for another day (you know, like 30 hours in the future). First we needed to figure out how we were going to get to packet pick-up, the pre-race dinner, and the starting line. After discussing our original plans--his to hitch a ride down with friend and fellow Beast Series participant Scott Newcomer and mine to (as per usual) catch a flight on the seat of my threadbare pants--Brian and I agreed that I'd pick him up so we could ride down to south central Virginia together, perhaps even draw up a strategy of sorts during the 4+ hour drive.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ultra Penguin appears courtesy of Lindsay Lutz</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As I recall, little strategic planning occurred, but we did laugh a lot, filled each other in on many of the details that had led us each to our current standings in life, and agreed on the title of this blog post. Spoiler alert: neither one of us ended up scathed enough by the weather to merit that title, but our minds were made up and it was too good to waste.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Before I type another word about the weekend, I should give a bit of history on Hellgate. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The race was dreamed up by Dr. Horton, the holder of more ultra running feats than I care to try and list here (Google and gawk, I dare you). Not only is he held in high esteem for his athletic accomplishments, but, as a longtime kinesiology professor at Liberty University, David has also served as mentor and motivator for countless students. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As an RD, he also happens to possess a mischevious streak that borders on sadistic. Hellgate, the race he introduced in 2003, is certainly not for the faint of heart nor is it designed for first-timers. The race is capped at 140 entrants with Beast Series participants getting first crack and the remaining spots filled only with runners that Horton's race committee (the RC) deems worthy after receiving and reviewing the completed mailed (no electronic sign up for this race) applications. To quote the race app, "The RC DOES NOT want runners competing </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">that don’t have a realistic shot of completing Hellgate within the time limit."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">On paper, the 18 hour time limit sounds extremely generous, but not when you consider the course, the sure-to-upset your Circadian rhythm start time, and the cold and conditions that mar December in the Blue Ridge Mountains. With a couple consecutive years of mild weather, the race was due for a return to the nasty weather that built its reputation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Dr. Horton seemed nearly gleeful at the prospect of snow, ice and frigid temperatures as he led the post-dinner/pre-race briefing in the quaint surroundings of Camp Bethel (which also proved a bizarre deja vu to the church camp at which my family resided during the second half of my childhood).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Hard to describe a Horton-led briefing, chock full of nervous energy, a course description too detailed to possibly digest without having been on the trails before, motivational isms, random asides and good-natured teasing. I can tell you this, it sure felt like being among family.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It was captivating watching him hold court, as he slipped easily from "aw, shucks" irreverence to compassion and back again. In response to an accusatory inquiry about who had measured a section of the course that had struck all prior Hellgate participants as far longer than advertised, Horton responded, "I've got a wheel right there in my truck! Course I never used it." Moments later after making a point to single out some folks who had traversed some hard personal roads since last year's race and ask for rounds of applause, the man who is currently side-lined due to wear-and-tear issues of his own looked around the room and said as though he were speaking directly to each of us "appreciate your ability to start" and added a poignant "I still dream about running sometimes."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As of late, actual racing hasn't struck me as very appealing, but after spending half an hour in that room, listening to Doc warning of what was to come and expressing his intense love of the course, the event and the people gathered there, I wanted to strap on a bib (and three layers of clothes) and attempt Hellgate myself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When the meeting ended, it was still a few hours until race time so Brian had ample time to sort out his gear, decide on what to wear (at least at race start), and make sure that we were on the same page with Stephen Hinzman, a former (and future?) Hellgater who had been kind enough to offer to crew for Brian after someone had done the same for him at a prior race. We thanked him for letting Brian be the recipient of his forward payment and felt relieved to find him bright-eyed and excited for the long night and day ahead.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At first it felt as though we had all the time in the world and we spent (wasted) many minutes accomplishing, well, not much of anything. Ten-fifty, the appointed time for the convoy of vans and vehicles to leave for the starting line of the point-to-point course that would wind its way back to Camp Bethel, was suddenly just minutes away and we scrambled to assemble everything that needed to find its way into Stephen's SUV.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I spaced out a bit in the backseat and, frankly, didn't manage to make tails or heads (who says heads needs to come first?) of which direction we headed or what turns we took, but I did pick up on the fact that it took us a pretty long time to get where we were going and it was awfully cold wherever it was that we ended up.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Awfully cold and awfully dark.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Stephen's dashboard reported an external temperature just below freezing. The start line rests at just over 750 feet and the high point on the course is well over 3,500 feet, so it seemed safe to assume that between the elevation changes, the many hours of remaining darkness and the impending precipitation, it was going to get a lot colder before the sun came up again and had any chance to cast a bit of warmth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Heavily bundled runners, crew, friends and family gathered for Horton's signal and shuffled about to stay warm. Stephen muttered something about trying to put his father's camera equipment to good use and headed a few hundred feet ahead of the start line to set up his tripod. His photo of the runners heading off into the night is sure to have made the camera and his father proud and I love the image of Horton just to the right of center, surveying what he wrought. If the color version of this photograph doesn't find its way into Horton's official race report in <i>Ultrarunning</i>, someone has some explaining to do.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Stephen Hinzman</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'm actually just barely visible in the trees just off of Dr. Horton's right shoulder, taking a photo that, in light of Stephen's, I will never show anyone...ever. In fact, while I'm thinking of it, I'm going to delete it from my camera. Done. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Within a minute or two the bobbing headlamps disappeared from view and the small left-behind crowd dispersed back to the vehicles to head back to camp for some sleep or on to Petites Gap, the site of Aid Station 2. Due to ice and snow that had fallen earlier in the week, the Blue Ridge Parkway was closed in several places, limiting crew access to Aid Stations 2, 5, 7, 8. While runners would hit Petites Gap fairly quickly, as it was only 7.5 miles from the start, it would be an extremely important crew point as the mileage between there and Aid Station 5 was over 20 miles. That distance, the several thousand feet of elevation change in that section, and the snow that was likely going to fall during the hours runners would be on that leg of the course, were going to demand that wise fueling and clothing decisions were made at Aid Station 2.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Stephen and I spent the miles and minutes that it took to get to Petites Gap introducing ourselves, finding out what we occupied ourselves with when we weren't driving around in the backwoods during the middle of the night, and discovering that we had a shared love of backpacking and the gear that goes with it. I'd lost myself in our conversation before realizing that I was seeing vehicles and headlights way, way, way up above us and when Stephen pointed out that the runners would dump out onto the road we were traveling on their way up to Aid Station 2, I began to realize just how much climbing Hellgate entailed. Runners would find Aid Station 1 waiting for them just 3.5 miles from the start but were then faced with a relentless 1,500 feet of grind over the next 4 miles.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As we parked the car, I noticed that the thermometer on the dash had jumped up unexpectedly to 45 degrees. That seemed impossible, but Stephen rolled down his window, stuck out his arm and nodded in commiseration with the reading. I felt empathetically ill at the thought of runners, clad in multiple layers to ward off the cold, sweating profusely on the trudge up to Petites. The insulated shelter of that side of the ridge was surely an anomaly that threatened to leave Hellgaters soaked through and that much more vulnerable to what lay ahead. I let out what I could swear was an audible "gulp" worthy of a cartoon scaredy-cat and wondered in what state Brian would emerge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In comparison to races back in Pennsylvania, Maryland, and New Jersey, I knew fairly few runners and could only speculate about relative abilities as the first few headlamps neared and passed us by as we waited. As more and more people passed by on their way to the Aid Station, I grew concerned that Brian was having a rough go. I was pleasantly surprised, however, when he arrived with a grin, his jacket tied around his waist to save him from overheating. He was playing things conservatively, making good decisions, saving energy for the many miles still ahead, and avoiding rookie mistakes. He ate a bit at the Aid Station while I refilled his hydration reservoir and then Stephen and I wished him well as he chugged back out into the night.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A few minutes later, I nestled into the passenger seat, determined to catch at least an hour or two of sleep to be as strong as I could be when I jumped in at mile 42. With the exception of a couple of startling bumps in the night and the occasional rousing headlight beam, little interrupted my "nap" and I was shocked to find that day had broken when I came to and learned from Stephen that Brian had come and gone at Jennings Creek (AS 5/27.7 miles), looking strong and having survived a cold night of hard-falling, visibility-limiting snow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">With a few hours to kill, we drove into Buchanan for some breakfast as a lighter, finer mix of snow and sleet continued to fall. The temperature rested firmly in the lower thirties and threatened to remain there all day long. Grey skies offered little hope of clearing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The king of burgers proved the easiest, quickest accessed option for food and, if nothing else, it was warm. After a night sleeping in the seat of a car, any coffee is good coffee and that proved to be the case even at the BK. Dean Johnson had settled for the same and we did some catching up and he let me know how Lori was doing thus far in her first attempt at a Hellgate finish. It sounded like she'd had a long, cold night too but was ready to see how things would go with the arrival of daylight.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Before long, we were at Bearwallow Gap/Mile 42.2, anxiously waiting to see how Brian was holding up and seeing what the weather morphed into next. I walked down the trail a few hundred yards just to get a sense of the footing and discovered deep beds of wet leaves and a smattering of ice and sleet at the surface. Thankfully, the wind was down and there was a lovely stillness except for the soft tinkling of the freezing rain as it met the forest floor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Back at the aid station, crew and family members, volunteers and expectant pacers sought shelter in their vehicles or alongside the stacked fires that volunteers tended throughout the day. I made note that depending on Brian's mental state, we might need to avoid their tractor beam lure throughout the day if we wanted to keep on moving.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Scott came rolling into the aid station looking fatigued but having put 42 miles behind him in very good time. I asked how he was doing and he told me that it "had been a long season" and it was catching up with him. Based on those words, I wondered how his day would end but should have remembered that I've heard him talk that way before only to grind out solid finishes. Don't let the tired posture fool you, Scott would end up finishing just one spot outside of the top 30 with an impressive 14:52:34.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Making certain I was ready when Brian arrived, I climbed into Steve's vehicle and got changed. I filled my hydration pack and walked it over to where the runner's drop bags rested. I heard the crackle of a megaphone and was surprised to hear Dr. Horton ask all assembled, "Who's got the prettiest beard out here?" and then announce "Lutz" before anyone could answer. I was surprised by the love and surveyed the scene to try and nod a grinning acknowledgement. The very second that my eyes located the source of the shout out, Horton finished his thought "NOT! Sucker."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">THAT made more sense and I felt silly for having swelled with pride in the first place. There was no time to linger on being burned by the doctor because just like that, Brian popped into view with a broad grin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">His spirits were high and he was moving really well. He pounded some calories, including some of the handmade hamburgers being slung by the Bearwallow chef, made some minor wardrobe changes and off we went, but not before a proper send off from our crew chief, Steve.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The trail out of the aid station began climbing immediately. There was the tiniest bit of ice and snow on the ground, but, all in all, the trail was in fantastic shape. Even with the sloped grade, it was surprisingly runnable. Brian was quick to agree and expressed relief after the nasty footing that had made up the course in the middle of the night.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As we shuffled along, we fell right back into the conversation we'd enjoyed on the drive from Pennsylvania and the up-and-down miles leading to Bobblets Gap began peeling away. I let Brian set the pace that suited him and we alternated between solid power hiking and running. We had passed one runner as soon as we'd come out of the aid station and we passed several more before catching up to and then accompanying three others into the next aid station.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The volunteers were set up beneath in an old railroad underpass which provided protection from precipitation but also meant that they were holed up in an unpleasant wind tunnel. Brian wolfed down a burrito, I scarfed a few Pringles and we hurried back out onto the course without any additional company.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The old road that we were now following tracked downwards for the next couple of miles and we settled into a solid pace. I don't know if either of us did a GPS check during that section, but we were cruising. There were some deep gouges in the trail that demanded some quick reactions but that kept things interesting. We didn't slow at all until I couldn't pass up the just-too-good Lost Trail Road sign.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Horton had warned at the briefing about missing a turn through this portion of the course and it was easy to imagine losing track and continuing on well past the turn off only to be faced with some serious back tracking to return to the course. The markings were great, however, and there was no missing the huge red arrow that returned us back to singletrack.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The next few miles included two or three minor climbs each followed by short descents. We continued reeling in other runners. By now, Hellgaters had been on course for over 13 hours and with so much climbing early in the race and the volatile weather having changed over to a cold, steady rain, most had to be really feeling the effects of exhaustion and exposure. If Brian was, it was not evident, and he just kept plugging away. We came jogging into Aid Station 9 at Day Creek knowing we had just a handful of miles and one significant climb left to go before Brian was officially a beast.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Off we went.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For roughly 3 miles and over 1,000 feet of gain, we hiked in step with two other runners before catching and passing another and putting a slight gap between all three as we topped out at the intersection with the Blue Ridge Parkway. It would be, literally, all down hill from there. We made quick note of the fact that the elevation change had brought a sketchy layer of ice on the parkway and the jeep road we would be following on the other side, but Brian didn't hesitate, darting downhill as though he wanted to make quick work of the remaining miles.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We were really cruising and caught another handful of runners on the way down to Camp Bethel. We were knocking off miles at 8.5 minute pace and I was impressed that Brian had so much leg left after all that Hellgate had dished out over the last 15+ hours. His quads should have been fried, but he had run a really smart race and proved more than up to the task. We were still talking, still laughing and while it was going to be nice to get out of the rain and dry off, I would have loved to have more ground to cover.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The running was almost over, however, and, as we rounded the bend into camp and the finish line clock came into view, it confirmed that Brian was going to be well under the 16+ hours he'd come in expecting to be out on the trails. Initially, there wasn't anyone in sight, as, wisely, everyone was hiding inside out of the wet and cold.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As we approached the final few yards before the finish, Horton and Steve emerged from indoors and I scrambled for my camera. The clock read 15:45:03</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> but I really wasn't paying attention, trying to take in the view of Brian collecting his congratulatory hug from Dr. Horton.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Stephen Hinzman</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Our adventure was over. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Well, sort of.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The one catch was that we were still looking at a drive of several hours back to southern Pennsylvania which happened to be under a winter weather advisory with the expectation of several inches of snow. We snagged showers (thanks for the towel, Dean!), wolfed down some food, stared into space, said thank yous and goodbyes and climbed into the car.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Brian had made such masterful work of the race, I was without the normal calamity that accompanies my race recaps. Surely, we were bound to roll the car, get stuck in a 45 car pile-up or nod off and wake up in a snowbank.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Not so. No calamity.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What I did get to see was a wife and child beaming with adoration as their husband and father arrived home with a smile and a happy report on a goal obtained. I hadn't met them before, but, having heard Brian speak warmly of them throughout the weekend, I easily recognized them as the lead characters in his stories and felt so honored to have accompanied Brian at Hellgate and to have returned him safe and sound to the loving arms of his family...all the way from Hell to Heaven in one very long day.</span></div>
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this bee's knees.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10070703019035069318noreply@blogger.com6