every leaf a miracle.

To state the obvious, I really love the outdoors.

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, 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.

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.

But they do exist.  Not just out on the trails, but everywhere.

I know it in my heart and all five of my senses confirm their existence if I heed the data those senses collect.

Feebly, I am unable to prove it or convey it to others.

Walt Whitman, the grand old poet who died on this very day back in 1892, was not so feeble.

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.

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.

All things.

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.

Rest well, Walt, and thank you for the prompting that ever leaf, every blade of grass is indeed a miracle.

Miracles

WHY! who makes much of a miracle?

As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,

Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,

Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,

Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the

water,

Or stand under trees in the woods,

Or talk by day with any one I love--or sleep in the bed at night with

any one I love,

Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,

Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,

Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon,

Or animals feeding in the fields,

Or birds--or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,

Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down--or of stars shining so quiet

and bright,

Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring;

Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best--

mechanics, boatmen, farmers,

Or among the savans--or to the soiree--or to the opera,

Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,

Or behold children at their sports,

Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old

woman,

Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial,

Or my own eyes and figure in the glass;

These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,

The whole referring--yet each distinct, and in its place.

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,

Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,

Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the

same,

Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;

Every spear of grass--the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women,

and all that concerns them,

All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.

To me the sea is a continual miracle;

The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the ships,

with men in them,

What stranger miracles are there? 

tuscaroaring 20's.

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.

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 HAT 50k in Maryland.  I silently wished all of them well, sad to not be at the Buffalo Run (one of my favorite events) and happy not to be headed back to HAT (with apologies, not one of my favorites).

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.

That said, I did have "race" plans for the day, at least on the surface.

Seasoned ultrarunner Don Halke would be directing the Tuscarora Trails Ultra 50K, 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.

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.

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.

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.

Just a few minutes ahead of the advertised 8:00 AM start time, I turned the car into the parking lot of the Big Spring State Park picnic area assured by the collection of vehicles sporting oval numeric-bearing bumper stickers that it was the right place.

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.

Moments later, we were on the move, picking our footfalls over the rock strewn Iron Horse Trail.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And I do mean "up".

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 TransRockies.  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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

As I pondered the predicament, a curious sign caught my attention.

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.

Not that it did anything to solve the riddle of where I was supposed to go next.

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.

Or was it?

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. 

Idiot.

Unfolding the sheet, I quickly had my answer and turned on my heels to head back the way I had just come.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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 Conococheague, 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.

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 Bull Run Run, 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.

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.

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.

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.

out of doors.

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.

The road we followed would only remain paved for a few miles before transitioning to 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.  Suge seemed to sense the bear's 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.

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.

Rattling Run Road in the light of day - Photo courtesy of John A Kilmer

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Our little group reassembled at the western edge of the ridge and together we tackled the downhill plunge to the parked cars waiting below.

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.

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.

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.  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.

all ears.

Five years ago today, I handed my camera over to an accommodating intern for Live! with Regis and Kelly just outside of the show's green room and she snapped the photo above.

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.

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 2009 NYC Beard & Moustache Championships.

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.  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.

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.

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.

Which, at last, brings me to how and why this post is appearing in a blog for-the-most-part devoted to running.

I ran and finished my first ultra, the New River 50K, in October of that very same year.

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.

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.

So, both bearders and ultrarunners are crazy, right?

Maybe.

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.

Both subcultures are fond of group shots, that's for sure.

Photo courtesy of Fayetta Schwanger

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.

I'm ok with that and send belated thanks for the humoring.

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.

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.

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.

Same with running.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

photo courtesy of iRunFar.com

Photo courtesy of Trevor Cranmer

Photo courtesy of Jo Weakley Agnew

Photo courtesy of Greg Petliski

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.

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.

not small at all.

Being in the woods makes me happy.  Sometimes simply not being indoors is enough.

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.

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.

By "you" I mean me and "sometimes" was Saturday.

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.

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.

Over and over and over again.

I get it.  I like all that and wouldn't be out doing the things I do if that weren't the case, but...

...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.

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.

Which is ridiculous.

 Thankfully, even my numb skull can warm with enough exposure to the glow of life's little wonders.

The coffee waiting at home tasted just as good as it always does.

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.

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.

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.

They were having fun, purely reveling in play and exploration, too busy to bother 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We scavenged, successfully, finding most everything on our list, including Suge's leash.

My legs ached, they must have, but that isn't part of my recollection of our time together.  

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.

I could not and did not argue with her.  It sounded like a great idea.

That's when another not so small thing happened.

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.

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.

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.

"What are you doing, Pipe?," I asked.  "Why'd you climb up there?"

"Why not?," came my answer as she thrust out her arms to beckon for rescue.

"Why would you climb up there if you can't get down?"

"I figure it out once I get up."

Yes.

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.