amos.

I'd been out all night.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Backcountry Edge," he said, proudly gesturing at his pack and adding that it was the one I had "advertised on the Internet."

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.

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.

That's a 42 mile done-in-a-day hike.  I would finish my night/day at 37.

Noting how little gear he was carrying, I wondered aloud, "Will you camp when you get there? Will someone be meeting you?"

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.

Smiling broadly, I said, "Amos, you've got a big day ahead of you. Don't let me hold you up."

"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.

"It's been a pleasure," I agreed as Amos turned to go.

I watched him deftly navigate the ledge, slightly stunned that I had made his day.

He'd certainly made mine.

Those last few miles back to the car?

They weren't so bad after all.

axis mundi.

I've spent a good portion of the last few days shooting video for my place of work, Backcountry Edge.  These clips are basically short duration demonstrations of various tents, backpacks, sleeping bags and other outdoor gear or, as I prefer to think of it, filming these bits is a cross between playtime and learning, for me, and, eventually, for someone trying to get a more multi-dimensional view of a given item than a flat, lifeless product page on a retail website can provide.

It's fun, really, and serves as a nice physical escape from the office which is especially convenient when the weather decides to take a significant turn for the better, as it has this week.

But, this go round, the entire process has made me oddly restless.  Putting up a tent and expounding on its finer points has me wanting to be in that very tent somewhere a bit more exotic than a mile away from my desk.  Blowing up a sleeping pad, I find that I want to spend the entire night on the pad, preferably under a Western sky full of stars, stars, endless stars.  And the sleeping bags, the backpacks, the trekking poles, the you-go-ahead-and-name-its, they've all got me wanting to not just talk about their functional aspects but to put them to good and practical use somewhere far away from an all-too-handy and invasive cell signal.

All of which adds to my current longing for mountains and reminds me of a paragraph from Gretel Ehrlich's Questions of Heaven:

"Are mountains really mountains?  Are mountains a form of enlightenment?  Are rivers a mountain running?  Can we walk through them?  Why do mountains walk through us?"

I don't know the answers and, like all my favorite questions, they may not even have one or, at least, JUST one.  What fun is a question, anyway, if it's too easily answered?  Not as fun as one that isn't, this I know.

Today the mountains are walking through me and yet remain all too distant.  I miss them immensely.   I want to go to them.  To BE with them.  Not to race through them and head home, but to race to them and make them home.

I don't even need the gear.  Gear without the mountains is just trappings.  Mountains without the gear are still the connection points between earth and sky that pull me like so many magnets.

I'll get there...and when I do, I won't be back.

out of the darkness and all the secrets still exist.

Wanna know what I love most about ultra marathons?

The people, the places and the time spent with remarkable people in those spectacular places.  And those people and places combine to make every race worth looking back on in celebration whether you ran a PR, didn't run as fast as you thought you would, got injured or just plain didn't finish.

I love trail running.  Period.

I relish running alone and also love sharing the trail with a couple of close friends, but participating in organized events ensures that you cross paths instead of just follow paths.  You revisit friendships, establish new ones and share worthwhile fellowship even with those folks you never officially meet.

What do I like the least about ultra marathons?

I greatly dislike the fact that the pressure we apply on ourselves or that we allow to have applied upon us by others leads us to dissect our performances, feel the need to answer for our "failures" and potentially lose sight of what brought us out in the first place.  So wrapped up in push-on-through sloganeering is long-distance running that accomplishing anything less leaves us disappointed, defeated and defensive.

For several days following my decision to NOT go back out for another 50 miles after completing the first of two loops at the Antelope Island Buffalo Run, I tried to determine why I let fatigue and cold drown out my resolve to keep going.  I pondered the factors that made elusive a finish line that seemed on paper to be one, relatively speaking, easily reached.

Thankfully, what I like best came back to me.

I'll start with the place before moving on to the people.

Admit it, you've never heard of Antelope Island.  Until very recently, I hadn't or, if I had, it was a random assemblage of letters, just words, not a fixed position that I could identify on a map.

But it does exist, a 28,000-acre land mass, roughly 15 miles long and 7 miles wide resting out in the Great Salt Lake just west of Layton, Utah.  If you fly into the Salt Lake airport, you will see the island beneath your wings but you'll need to drive 40+ miles north to reach the narrow causeway that leads from the mainland onto Antelope Island.

It is a strikingly barren land, nearly devoid of vegetation higher than a couple of feet off of the ground.  There are rocks aplenty and a couple of peaks that climb a few thousand feet from the 4,200 feet of elevation at the shoreline.  Those peaks are dwarfed, however, by the stunning views of the snow-capped Wasatch Front standing guard to the East.  I marveled at the isolated pockets of weather that alternately dumped snow, hid the tops of peaks entirely and then rolled back to again reveal the jagged teeth that gate the far slopes that draw skiers from all over the world.

Seemingly endless swaths of hardy grasses are inhabited by 500 head of introduced bison and their neighbors include big horn sheep, pronghorn antelope and mule deer.  Fat rabbits are chased by equally well-fed coyotes.  Eagles, falcons, meadowlarks, chukars, ducks and other shore birds abound.  With few places to hide, all of this magnificent fauna is readily on display.

The wildlife, in its understated way, seems to appreciate the beauty of Antelope Island and I certainly did too.  I have never taken as many photographs during a race as I did at this one.  I'd shuffle along, stunned for minutes on end by the sweeping views before remembering that I had a camera and could make vain attempts to capture some of what I was seeing.  After snapping a few pics, I'd remind myself that I was "racing" and would zip the camera into its waterproof pouch and tuck it back into a vest pocket only to want to pull it immediately out again upon topping the crest of a rise or rounding another bend.

The wind pummeled the island all day (and all night) long, constantly reaffirming that it along with its ally, water, had shaped the landscape at which I gaped.   Nothing had ever nor would ever stand in its way, certainly not my outclassed jacket, and I never questioned that it reigned superior on the island regardless of what bureaucratic body claimed ownership.

If I were handed a piece of paper and told to draw the singletrack trails of my daydreams (AND if I possessed any ability to draw), those on Antelope Island may well have been what I'd have produced. While not carved naturally by the wind, the trails looked as though they'd always been there, that the land couldn't exist without them.  It could, of course, but the illusion was convincing.  There were rocks, here and there, to be wary of, but mostly it was rolling, forgiving terrain that felt so good underfoot you wished it would go on forever.

On the east side of the island where the land flattened out and hugged the shoreline, the long lines of sight made it feel as though the trails would, in fact, go on forever.  Even there, though, where it was mentally and physically challenging to endlessly turn the legs over and keep the mind from believing that no progress was being made, the land was still beautiful.  The lake rose with the wind and small swells lapped the edges of the island.  Here the Wasatch loomed most closely and their many contours revealed countless canyons across the water, silently emitting invitations for backcountry exploration.  The skies were boundless.

All was lovely.

As were the people spending the day on the island with me.

My dear friend Kelly Agnew had remained in sight during the initial miles of the day but had settled into the dogged pursuit and eventual successful securing of another 100-mile buckle and an impressive 9th place finish despite being far from full health.  I saw and even heard little of him after those first few hours but felt his presence throughout and cherished the opportunity to venture out the next morning to see him into the finish.

Shortly after the race began, I'd overheard a fellow runner, Jeremy Suwinski, dare to credit a nearby buffalo as having a better beard than mine.  He, sadly, was right, so, after a half-hearted defense, I settled into conversation that lasted for a few miles.  Discussing work situations provided reminder again of how blessed I am to have stumbled, blindly, into my position at Backcountry Edge, a position that had played no small role in my even being on the Antelope Island course in the first place.

On a switchback a few miles later, I came upon a woman and, just ahead of her, an older gentleman.  That man turned out to be 81-year old Grant Holdaway, the woman his daughter.  Grant was attempting to become the oldest individual to ever complete a 100-mile race.  He'd "retired" five years earlier, having finished a 100 at 76, but boredom, I suppose, had called his number and lured him from the sidelines back out onto the trail.  He, like me, only made it around the island once but if you dare say he ONLY went 50 miles, you need to learn a thing or two about perspective.

Another "old man", 45-year old Karl Meltzer did go 100 miles and he did so quickly.  His 14:34 finish shaved an hour off of the course record he already held and earned him his 35th 100-mile win.  Thirty five 100-mile wins?  Yep.  In case you're wondering, that is more wins, far more wins, than anyone else has ever notched at that distance.  It was a treat to get to see him do work and the memory of him completing the race at 2:30 AM to the muted applause of the then 5 or so fully-conscious people in the start/finish tent while I drowsed in the corner of the room is foggy but revered.

All day long, my beautiful wife, Lindsay, and her partner in crime, Jo Agnew, seemed to appear whenever I most needed someone to lift my spirits.  Despite the unshakable fatigue, I really didn't hit any desperate low points but their appearances were always a boost.  Possessing as big a heart as any I've ever known, nurse Lindsay was, not surprisingly, thrust into work at the start/finish line aid station, especially after I'd formally dropped down to the 50-mile distance and taken off my shoes.  Despite not ever having attended a long-distance race and being without knowledge of the running vocabulary that most event participants assume everyone "speaks", Lindsay toiled throughout the night and was still caring for runners and their family members long after the sun came up on Saturday.  The sleepless hours of the night took their toll and Lindsay is sick as the proverbial dog at the moment but I sincerely doubt that she'd have approached her duties any differently if she'd have known how she'd end up.  Dynamo Jo juggled the job of crewing for Kelly with helping out at the aid station all night too.  Those two women were amazing and the fact that neither of them were originally slated to "man" that aid station makes me wonder what runners would've experienced there without them.  I'm glad no one found out.

I also got to spend some time catching up with Missy Berkel who I'd met at TransRockies last August and though she was having a tough day herself, slowed by a troublesome knee that was giving her fits in the cold, she soldiered on and scored a 50-mile finish for which she should hold her head up high.

The venerable Roch Horton masterfully ran the show at the Black Diamond-hosted Lower Frary aid station, serving up pierogies, hot chocolate and broth (bROCHth) that pulled me out of an initial bout of wicked chills and was almost alluring enough to coax me back out into the night for another visit.  Adam Cox, a Black Diamond employee volunteering at the aid station, even parted with a pair of tights to better equip me for the wind and cold that settled in after nightfall.  Even though I did finally succumb to the elements, I certainly wouldn't have made it 50 miles without all the help and encouragement I received at Lower Frary.

There were so many other great encounters and I'm sure I am forgetting many of them, but  I would be remiss if I failed to mention the dry humor and quiet everything-is-under-control demeanor of race director Jim Skaggs.  It was a treat to be able to meet him the day before the race and help unload provisions for a weekend of racing (there are also 50-mile, 50K and 25K versions of the race that kick off the day after the 100-mile race's Friday start).  His manner is the perfect balance of no-nonsense organization and empathetic runner himself.

The most amazing personal experience of the race came as I rounded the last turn to trudge up the short hill leading to the start/finish tent at which I already knew my night would end. Quintin Barney, a man I'd met earlier in the day and with whom I'd leapfrogged back and forth all day long, had just caught up with me again and had someone special waiting to escort him into the aid station.  His precious daughter, Kara, was beaming in the dark with a smile that I instantly recognized as the one her father had offered up to me repeatedly during the preceding hours, just as he did to every other person that he met along the way.  Having staggered in out of the night and more or less collapsed in one corner of the tent, I needed a moment or two to realize that Kara had come over to ask how I was doing and, turning my head to glance across the room, I saw Quintin looking my direction with genuine concern for my answer to Kara's question.  I was touched by the gesture and had no doubt of its sincerity.  The love the two of them had for each other was so apparent and my heart ached for my sleeping daughters back home in Pennsylvania. Oh, how I hope to have similar moments on the trail with Lily and Piper some day, but, most of all, I hope that we're as close with one another and comfortable with our love as Quintin and Kara obviously are whether our shared moments do or do not include trail running.

Trail runners are at their best, undoubtedly, while they're actually running trails.  Away from those trails, it's easy to digress to the holding up of trophies and baubles, telling tales of accomplishments, making proclamations of what we're running next, all of which starts to sound an awful lot like the posturing and positioning reminiscent of high school locker rooms, locker rooms populated by self-conscious boys sorely lacking the confidence they are trying desperately to convince you they possess.

Completing a course, I don't care how long and challenging it may be, is not coping with true tragedy.  Crossing the line is not salvaging a damaged but worth-fighting-for relationship.  Making the cutoff is by no means overcoming life-threatening illness.

And not continuing on to the end of the race is, frankly, just not as big a deal as we make it out to be.  Not in comparison to remembering the gift of a healthy body, the privilege of recreation, of movement and the pure joy of shared experience.

Thank you, thank you, thank you to all who shared those gifts, privileges and joy with me this past weekend.

I'm short a buckle, but it'll barely be missed among the memories.

it rains a lot this time of year.

Ain't November no more and that's alright by me.  I've got nothing against the month itself.  Giving thanks happens far too infrequently so the last thing I want to do is wipe away the one month that demands we all at least go through the motions of recognizing whatever it is we cherish the most.

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.

This month my health failed me and only slowly and very recently did it begin to return.  Running didn't happen and, insignificant as that seems in the grand scheme (is there such a thing?), my spirits reeled in its absence.  I despise being ill--who doesn't--and struggle mightily when the rest of my household is sick at that same time because I feel that much more defeated and incapable.  It's made the recent weeks difficult and, illogically I suppose, the whole mess ends up unfairly and arbitrarely associated with the current month. The turning of the calendar page feels like starting over.

And today, or the day that ended just minutes ago, November 30, felt like a headstart.

Minor miracles happen daily, I'm convinced of it, but on the best of days, on hyper-receptive, eyes-wide-open days, those miracles are unmistakeable and nearly constant.  Don't even get me started listing all that I think is taken for granted every second of every day, especially in a country as privileged as our's.  Next time you're grumbling your way to work think about the fact that you just climbed into a wheeled metal enclosure that is safely and speedily whisking you from where you were to where you're going in a manner absolutely inconceivable only a handful of generations ago.  Call it what you will but I put it in or very close to the miracle category.

Back from the tangent.

I woke up today and I felt fantastic.  Without the sickness of the last few weeks, I likely wouldn't have noticed, but I sure did this morning.  Nothing ached.  This didn't hurt and neither did that.  I actually wanted to drink my coffee and when I did it tasted, damned if it didn't, just like coffee.  Beautiful.

I'd learned yesterday that I was going to need to duck out of work early today because our babysitter needed to attend to family matters and Lindsay had clinicals.  Some people love getting out of work and seemingly spend a good bit of their time devising (perhaps that's the grand scheme) ways to do so.  Not me.  I love my job and even if I didn't, I'd still feel compelled, having agreed to employment in the first place, to show up and put forth my best effort.  Knowing I have to bail early on my co-workers doesn't sit well and when it has to be the case it often casts a shadow on my entire day.  But today was a day where I managed to accomplish all that I intended during my short stay and actually knocked out a couple of to do's I didn't expect to get to which certainly qualifies as miraculous.

As far as the girls were concerned, I'd played hookie expressly to come home and play with them.  It wasn't exactly true but who was I to strip them of that interpretation?  Instead, I embraced the concept and we spent every last second of autumn daylight playing outside, rolling in the leaves, chasing each other to there to here and back to there, clambering around a local playground, reenacting and reinventing parties and picnics of seasons past.

The girls laughed, smiled and forgot that getting in spats with each other is part of their normal schedule.  They posed, without prompting, for photographs, something they, and especially Piper Bea, rarely agree to do.

There were countless little nudges to remind me that these moments really are fleeting and that my task (and privilege), beyond nurturing, teaching and protecting my daughters is to BE with them.  I don't mean physically having them near to me, though I suppose that's part of it, but being there, right there, while they do what they do without steering, directing or advising from me.  They are children and it's nearly impossible for them NOT to find adventure and unearth new wonders unless I get in their way or allow someone or something else to be the obstacle.  Obstacles like too many hours in a work week, chores, bill paying/fretting, railing against mankind instead of turning down the volume and listening.

I need to let my children be children, comfortable and sure in my presence.  Today was one of my better days at BEING with them and it was lovely.

After the fading light and falling temperatures drove us indoors, we ate together and then read books until both Lil's and Pipe's eyelids began to resign themselves to sleep.

Soon after tuck-ins, Lindsay returned home and urged me out the door to run and run I did.  It was the first time back on a trail and beneath a headlamp for several weeks and the return was pure joy.  I truly am without words to properly express how right the world was for those few miles alone in the woods after a fulfilling day and so I will leave it at that.

Tomorrow I'll get the girls up and we'll see what new adventures await.  Later in the morning, I'll be helping to moderate iRunFar's coverage of the always competitive The North Face Endurance Challenge 50-Mile Championships being held near San Francisco in what looks to be incredibly wet, nasty conditions.

http://www.irunfar.com/2012/11/2012-tnf-ec-50-mile-championships-live-coverage.html

And if you can't see the miracle in my being able to fully immerse myself in a rain-soaked race taking place on the other side of the country (from the comfort of my own home) and converse in real time with folks from all over the planet doing the very same thing, well, then I think it's fortunate that Thanksgiving is behind you and you can spend almost an entire year without having to begrudgingly conjure up something for which to feign appreciation.

As for me, I'll be sitting right here on my couch, thankful as can be for all that life is.  Until that race is over and then you can bet your ass I won't spend another second sitting inside.

For now, it's time for bed and even for that I'm thankful.  I'd nearly forgotten that sleep doesn't have to be simply an escape from sinus pressure and the fatigue of illness.  Sometimes it can just be refueling for whatever tomorrow is about to bring.

Bliss.

And to all my dear scattered, detached and/or departed friends and everyone headed out into the wind and weather of Marin County tomorrow morning, dogspeed and a nickel in the jukebox.

this far, no further.

How had I gotten myself into this?

Photo courtesy of Hunter Imagery (http://www.hunterimagery.com/)

I wasn't asking how I ended up on my hands and knees, my face just a few inches above the puke-riddled ground in front of it.  I knew how I'd gotten there.  Ten thousand feet of altitude, parched, dusty air, hot, direct sunlight and over exertion can in combination nudge a flatlander into that very position and they certainly had done that very thing to me.

And, let's face it, puking is hardly a novelty for me and my ever shaky stomach.  I'd heaved and hurled before and was sure to again.

But, specifically, how did I get "here" high above Buena Vista, Colorado with a camera buzzing like a bee in my ear while I pondered the half digested salt caplets and chewed bits of licorice in the damp dirt wondering how in the hell I was going to get back up and go another 109 (give or take) miles?

Facebook.  That she devil.

On May 5th one Sean McCoy had used her as the platform from which to post the following missive:

Woke up at 4:30 in the morning and decided to go for a run.  I'd planned to go about 10 miles.  17 miles  later I am home and ready for a nap.  Living in Colorado is making me weird.

I distinctly remember grinning at the handful of "you ARE weird" responses before firing off a reply of my own.

Dude, that's the BEST kind of weird.  If your TransRockies partner bails (but his fees are already paid), let's talk.  :)

Two weeks later, we'd finalized the plan and I was officially a member of Team GearJunkie/Backcountry Edge and bound for 20,000 feet of elevation gain and 120 miles of hard work.  I was going to partake in the 6th annual GORE-TEX TransRockies, running with the herd from the high desert of Buena Vista to the posh ski town of Beaver Creek over the course of 6 days in mid-August.

IF I could get back on my feet.

For one miserable moment, I swear I saw that preposterous emoticon smiling snarkily back up at me from the dirt.

I got back up, of course, though the remainder of the day fluctuated between snail-like pseudo-running, unmistakable walking and pausing to soak up what very little shade mesquite can provide.

Oh, yeah, and I threw up a few more times.

It had taken us nearly 4 hours and 40 minutes and, frankly, there weren't too many teams to come through the finish after us.  We were consoled by Sean's parents, who'd driven in from Breckenridge to check on us and transport Sean's car home from Buena Vista.  They offered words of support and perspective and helped to convince us that things could've been worse.  Sure, we were way ahead of the 7 hour cutoff, but we were also more than twice as slow as the stage (and eventual overall) winning team in the Men's Open Division.  Whatever silly notions we might have harbored about being moderately competitive were swept downstream by the lovely Arkansas River in which we soaked our legs at race end.  

We'd topped out just a bit over 10,000 feet and the next morning we'd be boarding a bus to head to the start of Stage 2, a shorter (14 miles) leg that made up for its brevity with a quad- and lung-blowing climb up, over and down 12,500 foot Hope Pass.

I was concerned.

But a beautiful sunset reminded me that there was beauty all around that I needed to make sure to appreciate.

Rejuvenated, I returned to the communal mess tent where each evening we would congregate for supper, awards presentations, race briefings for the next day and a media presentation of the photos and video footage taken during that day's race.

Martin Gaffuri of Good People Run (http://www.goodpeoplerun.com/), who I'd met and run with a couple weeks earlier in Salt Lake City, was running the 3-day solo version of TransRockies and also weighing in at each evening presentation with his thoughts on the day.  On this night, he decided to inform the crowd of a special performance he'd been made aware of and, next thing I knew, Sean and I had been called up in front of the crowd to applause for having gutted out (ha) a not-so-good day on the trail.

It was good-natured and appreciated, but it did serve as one last reminder before bed that I might just be in over my head.  We'd see in the morning.

I awoke feeling improved but not confident.  I ate a rather sparing breakfast that, thankfully, settled well.  Breathing was still not exactly easy but it wasn't a struggle either.  Of course, I was sitting not running.  Time passed quickly and our jostling bus ride down rutted old jeep roads deposited us right at the foot of the day's climb.

Hope Pass sits high above the valley floor, bisecting Mount Hope and Quail Mountain.  The view from the 12,500 foot pass is stunning and the pass has become iconic due to its inclusion in the venerable Leadville 100 during which runners cross over it not once but twice on the out-and-back journey from and back to Leadville.  If we were going to get to Leadville and enjoy that view, we were going to have to get over Hope Pass ourselves.

Off we went.

The severity of the grade and the congestion of narrow singletrack made for little running, but Sean and I power-hiked surprisingly well.  The first mile or two wound through lush forest but we soon pushed through the trees and emerged above treeline for a series of open alpine switchbacks.  The hiking continued but I couldn't believe how quickly we topped out.

We paused just long enough for a photo.  An aid station perched just a bit beyond the actual pass, sharing the meadow with a dozen or so llamas that had hauled initial supplies for the Hopeless Aid Station that would serve Leadville runners just a few days later.  Dodging the llamas, we grabbed quick drinks and salt before continuing on.

Moments later, we were flying.  Or at least it felt like flying.  Sean said something about it being just like skiing, something I can't confirm or deny as I've never been on skis.  Funny thing happened while I was busy going up, up and up Molehill again and again while training for TransRockies.  To go up repeatedly, I also had to go down and I'd failed to notice that I'd turned myself into a pretty good technical downhill runner.  After my pathetic first day's effort, it felt good to be leading the way as we caught and passed several runners.  We hooted and hollered as we narrowly missed horrendous falls in our breakneck dash down from the pass toward Twin Lakes several miles below.

And then, just like that, we were down and the trail flattened out.  Funny thing happened while I was busy going up, up and up Molehill again and again while training for TransRockies...I didn't run anything and I mean ANYTHING flat.  And, boy, did it show.  The spirits that had soared over the last hour flagged along with my legs.

We couldn't have been more than a mile or two from the finish line but I was struggling.  Sean did his best to talk me through it and we were continuing to move forward though not quickly.  We gave back many of the positions we'd picked up on the descent.

And then, like a mirage, an unbelievable pick me up appeared on the trail ahead.

My friend and running confidant, Kelly Agnew.

He and his wife and crew chief, Jo, were in town for Kelly's second stab at the Leadville 100, he having run it as his first ever 100-miler the year prior.  I knew they'd be out in these parts around this same time but it never occurred to me that I might see them and I certainly didn't expect to find them on the course.  I was happy to see Kelly because, well, I'm always happy to see Kelly and, yes, I was genuinely touched that he'd gone out of his way to be there, a mile out from a finish, to give me a boost.

I won't lie and say that I found an extra gear from his appearance.  My legs were cooked, both by the climb and descent and, likely, by the after effects of the day prior and my still getting acclimated.  But it sure felt like the finish came a whole lot easier with the lift of seeing Kelly and the assurance that Jo would be smiling at the finish line...which, sure enough, she was.  We hadn't smoked the field, but we'd finished a good 10 places higher in our division than we had the prior day.

And I hadn't thrown up.

Sean and I spent the rest of that beautiful day with the Agnews (after another icy soak) and Sean's lovely girlfriend, Sarah, joined us as well.  Leadville played host to our laughter and served up cold beers.  Real beer, not the watery Michelob Ultras that Sean was drinking (and would continue to drink) back in camp as though he was determined to single-handedly drink them into extinction.  What can I say?  It was working for him.

Kelly and Jo were up early again the next day to see us off from Leadville.  Stage 3 would be significantly longer and would include a crossing of the Continental Divide before dropping into the spectacular Eagle River valley which lies between Leadville and Red Cliff.

We ran on pavement for three or four miles which was initially fun as first people lining the streets and then passing vehicles outside of town offered cheers and encouragement.  As we left the support behind, however, I was eager to get off of the road and back onto dirt.

We got there soon enough and with the dirt came climbing.  Up and up a meandering jeep road we went and it wasn't until a few miles later that I remembered to look over my shoulder and discovered that we'd gained a good bit of elevation during the uphill trudge.

My breathing was again pretty ragged which at this point was pretty disappointing and when I couldn't muster much of a response from my legs during a smooth but steep downhill section after we crossed the Divide, I was feeling pretty low.

Luckily, an eventual section of winding, technical downhill came to my rescue as I pushed the pace hard for a couple of miles.  That section was pretty encouraging, but the stage again ended with three or four miles of flat that proved arduous.  My overall fitness seemed to be improving but I was anxious for a solid, consistent day.

Saving graces abounded at race end, however.  Kelly and Jo had decided to surprise us again by driving out to the finish and together we all took in the beauty of that incredible valley.

I can distinctly remember sitting waist deep in a small pond just feet from the finish line, reveling in the effort of the day, basking in the stunning landscape and feeling happy and proud to have friends like Kelly and Jo and Sean with which to share these moments.  The trail binds.  Why? I'm not entirely sure, though I am entirely sure that I'm not going to waste a lot of time on investigating the reasons why.

I knew I wouldn't be seeing Kelly and Jo again until returning home.  Kelly was going to give Leadville hell even if Leadville gave it right back and Jo was going to be the rock solid crew she's been from the start.  A big part of me wished I could be there too, not because I didn't want to be where I was, but because I wanted to be for them what they'd been for me over the course of the last two days (and more days than that, if I'm being honest).  All I could do was tell them that I loved them which I did.  The word bittersweet is pretty trite and overused, I think, but I can't think of any other way to describe my feelings on our parting that day.  I was definitely sad to see them go, but, hey, Sean and I really didn't have any room for them in our tent.  So, off they went.

After three consecutive days of running and with mileage having crept up toward 60 miles, our bodies were starting to fatigue.  Sean's toes were bad.  They'd get worse, it turns out, but we didn't know that then.  Looking at the blisters and cracked nails, I couldn't believe he wasn't fully hobbled.  But he wasn't and when morning broke we dragged our aches and pains to the start line for a 13+ mile stage that basically amounted to one long, extended climb followed by mile after mile of switchbacking technical downhill and a number of water crossings.

The long, extended climb earned its reputation.

And so did the descent.

Our solid, consistent day had arrived.  We careened down, down, down the hill and blasted through the water crossings.  Again we hooted and, yes, we hollered.  And, when we were done, having arrived in quaint little Red Cliff in just over 2.5 hours, we'd managed a top 10 stage finish in our division.

At last.

To celebrate Sean cracked open another Michelob Ultra and we settled into another icy recovery soak.  And this one was REALLY icy.  Had the water been any colder, we would have been sitting on top of it.  A trooper and all around tough guy, Sean grit his teeth and managed to stay in the water for all of 3 minutes.

We caught a shuttle back to the valley where we'd be camping for the second night in a row.  With the solo runners having finished up the day before, camp had thinned out and there was a relaxed air.  That evening as I drifted off to sleep, I was serenaded by the calling of nearby coyotes.  It had been a pretty good day.

A pretty good day to be followed by a long, punishing day.  I didn't get sick during Stage 5, a 23 mile slogfest that began with an 8-mile climb up a jeep road from Red Cliff, followed by wickedly steep singletrack and many miles way up above 10,000 feet as we navigated the back bowls of the Vail ski area before miles of downhill on tired legs into Vail itself.  No, I didn't get sick, but I did take a beating.  The vantage points offered breathtaking views, they must have, but my breath was already literally taken by the thin air and the effort of ambulating at those great heights.

At one point on one of the final descents, I became aware of the grunting and whimpering that was escaping my body with every step.  I made a concerted effort to cut it out only to find that similar sounds were coming from Sean who was right on my heels.

It was a proper soundtrack for the day.

Sean's parents were waiting at the finish line and, despite the suffering, we were able to hold our heads higher than the last time we'd seen them.  Like minds were waiting and continued to arrive at the finish with "it was a long day" being the apparent theme of the stage.

The upside was that we were in Vail and the spectacular Gore Range served as a memorable backdrop to what would be our last day in the tents.

At the pre-race briefing, we were informed that some modifications had been necessary for the final stage, reducing the original 21 mile leg to just 19 miles.  At 4,900 feet, this stage promised more cumulative climbing than the five that had proceeded it, so learning that a couple of miles had been lopped off of the course wasn't too disheartening.

Which made things that much more crushing when 10 or 12 miles into the race the next day we learned that an additional re-route had been required and we were actually looking at a 21 or 22 mile day.  And, in the end, it turned out to be something more like 23 and change.  But who's counting, right?

Long, long story brought to a close...Sean and I did it.

We made it to Beaver Creek.  It seemed to take forever, but, as these things go, it also came all too soon.  We'd clawed our way up from way, way down the list to a respectable 12th place overall finish in the Men's Open.  With the first five slots populated with consistent podium finishers and decorated athletes, we had reason to feel good about what we'd accomplished.

Sean and I were still friends which may not be as insignificant an accomplishment as it first sounds like under the circumstances.  And, actually, we weren't STILL friends, we were far better friends for having worked together and stood by each other over the last several days.  I still couldn't run flats and Sean's feet probably didn't have another day in them, but none of that mattered.

We were finishers and once you break that tape it doesn't much matter if there isn't any more left in the tank.

I'd finished.

And, after that first day, I hadn't thrown up.

I'm smiling right back at you, you dusty little emoticon.

the highlands lowlife.

In light of the goings on at the Laurel Highlands Ultra yesterday, I’ve been doing a little research.  I’ve unearthed hard evidence—the written word, people—to confirm that everyone, every living THING even, poops.

That’s certainly a relief, though it appears some ones, some THINGS, do it with a bit more frequency and at more inopportune times than others.

Perhaps I’ve gotten a bit ahead of myself.

I’ve been taking part in the festivities at the Laurel Highlands Ultra for the last 3 years, first as the opening leg of the 50K relay, then as a full 50K participant and, finally, signing on for the full 70.5 miler this year.  My first 19.2 miles would also be considered the first leg of Backcountry Edge’s 70.5-mile relay.

The first year, I attacked the course like I thought I should, having only to cover a little more than 11 miles before handing off to the next runner.  I pounded the downhills, shot the quads I really could’ve used on the grind of a climb that lives at miles 6-7.5, puked a bit.  I actually ran a pretty good time, as I recall, only to discover that my fellow team members had been directed to checkpoint #1 instead of aid station #1, meaning that they were 9 miles away by trail and a lot more than that by the roads that eventually got them back to me.  In the meantime, I proceeded to cramp up in seemingly every muscle I possessed.

Last year, I had all kinds of digestive issues that very nearly ended my day and pushed my finish time out to the very brink of acceptable qualifying standards.

Despite all that calamity, it was impossible to not be smitten with the indescribable beauty of this little corner of the world with its sustained high perch above the rolling valleys below, endless acres of deciduous forest, numerous streams, sprawling fern meadows, laurel thickets, rocky outcroppings and mile after mile of siren song singletrack.

Couple that with the fact that I’d been granted privileged acceptance into a tribe of damn fine trail runners (and even better people), the Laurel Highlands Ultra, in spite of its seeming determination to break my body and spirit, had become my absolute favorite of favorite races.

Hence the decision to sign up for the full 70 and coaxed my friends and co-workers to join in the fun.

By early Friday evening, the tribe had reunited in the tiny, picturesque whitewater rafting mecca of Ohiopyle in a collection of small lodges a couple hundred yards from the race start, new introductions had been made and our potluck feast was served.  Food consumed and dishes done, we meandered down to the banks of the Youghiogheny River to snap a group photo before settling into our individual pre-race preparations and attempts at sleeping before the 5:30 AM start.

My feet and legs felt great and together with my mind, bolstered by wise and friendly (for the most part friendly) reminders to calm down and start slow, the whole body settled quickly and easily into a surprisingly good night of sleep.

Waking together, the Backcountry Edge crew talked through race details and got ready to head down  to race packet pickup.  I was just about to leave the lodge when I was pleased to find my body ready for a sit-down bathroom break while I toilet was still ready available.  

Always good to get that out of the way early.

We mingled with the rest of the tribe and a sea of other friendly, anxious (many familiar) faces, snapped a couple of photos and said our “see you laters” to those not about to immediately run.  In what felt like no time at all, the massed crowd pressed forward across the parking lot and made its first steps up into the Highlands.

Temperatures, I’m guessing, were in the mid-to-upper 60’s to start with the sun still slightly below the horizon and little humidity, certainly by prior year’s standards.  The only clouds in the sky were of the big, puffy, completely non-threatening variety.  In other words, conditions couldn’t have been much, if any, better.

Kelly and I ran side by side, chatting a bit, and keeping things well under control.  I’m guessing he was just doing what he does and I was doing my best to try and do what he does too.  He’s way out of my league at long distances and has accumulated experience enough in the last year-and-a-half to outweigh   what I’m likely to amass before my legs or mind finally stop working (let’s hope that’s not next year).  That said, I also knew he’d been under the weather the entire week, a week that his body would otherwise have been fully attending to its recovery from a super strong performance at the Old Dominion 100 the weekend before.

With those factors in play, I thought there was some chance that we’d separate a bit early in the race with me getting out ahead to await his stalking me down and blowing by me a couple of hours later.  This happened somewhere along the line in an early climb but as I was still half awake, I failed to make note of exactly when it happened.  If you’d have asked me then for a prediction, I would probably have placed my bet on Kelly catching up/passing me by somewhere around miles 15-20 and sooner than that if I got impatient and failed to control my pace.

Derek and Kema had gotten out early to hike up the trail and say "good mornings" to the passing runners.  I was locked in some kind of thought as I passed them by and almost missed them entirely.  I'd have kicked myself if I had and hearing Derek's voice was just another unspoken reminder to keep things in check.

By inadvertently getting tucked in behind 3 or 4 conservative runners on some of the early climbs, I held my pace in check, following their lead and power-hiking sections that I would likely have run if left to my own devices.  Eventually, as I found myself pausing for moments to keep from hiking right up and over the next runner, I made polite conversation as I passed them and picked things up just a hair.

At some point, I glanced over to my right and noticed the incredible view that peeked from time to time through keyholes in the heavy foliage.  Somewhere far down below, the Yough snaked through the valley and just above it huddled a blanket of fog that we were climbing higher and higher above.  It was the kind of view that more than justifies stopping to dig a camera out of your pack regardless of what time you're chasing.

Soon thereafter, the trail tumbled back downward into the descent that had cooked my quads a few years back.  A runner just behind me, apparently a member of the good-as-they-come Virginia Happy Trails Club, made reference to this being the "crime" portion of the crime-and-punishment that is the first 8 miles of the LH 70.

Punishment would come soon enough on the long, long, yep-still-going climb up from mile 6. Here's a photo I snapped after looking back over my shoulder during an early section of the climb.  This picture ranks highly on the doesn't-tell-the-story meter, you can appreciate the fact that this is the view, in either direction, for many, many minutes.  In 2010, I can remember thinking I'd sell what little kingdom I possess for just a single switchback.

But, in all honesty, I handled the hill.  I certainly didn't master it and it was plenty hard work, but I emerged at the top surprised that there wasn't more climbing to be done and pleased to not feel nearly as diminished at the top as I'd been in years past.

My stomach was holding up and I was getting down and holding down plenty of fluids.  The next few miles are runnable and beautiful.  I picked up the pace just a tick to offset all of slow climbing that came before.  By the time I reached the first aid station, a little bit beyond the 11-mile point, I was well aware of the work I'd done, but still feeling pretty good and anxious to knock out the next 9 miles and run together with Kalyn as she took over relay duties at the first checkpoint situated at 19.2 miles.

All systems were go and the next couple of miles passed relatively uneventfully.   My legs and stomach felt great and I was soaking up the view that I'd failed to take in during my dehydrated low points the year before.

The trail hooked to the right and traced the shoreline of the little lake that I only vaguely remembered from the year prior.  A blue heron was perched on a far snag and all was right with the world.

And then, no more than 10-20 minutes after snapping that photo, I crapped my pants.

Not really, but it sure felt like I was going to.  Most of this course in under the cover of trees, but the old growth leaves little room for new trees and is, for the most part, wide open beneath the canopy except for lower-to-the-ground growth like laurel, ferns and poison ivy. A quick inspection of the landscape ahead didn't suggest much privacy for the pit stop that was threatening to happen whether voluntarily or involuntarily.

Voluntarily sounded preferable so I clambered off the trail for 20-30 yards where a slight slope allowed me to crouch just barely out of view to any on-trail passerby.  Fourteen or fifteen miles into the day, most runners were likely to be staring at that familiar spot about 5-10 feet out ahead of the next footfall anyway.  Still, it was humbling.

Let's be clear.  Day to day, I'm regular.  Solid, but regular.

You wanted to know, right?

At that moment, I was anything but solid.  Anything butt.

The stop took longer (duh) that I wanted it to and except for pausing to offer silent praise to whomever invented wet wipes, I went ahead and cursed everything else.  I'd been alone on the trail for a mile or two and was greatly disliking the sound of several pairs of feet shuffling past me.  I couldn't care less about my position in the race, but the idea of dropping further off pace was a downer.

Anything butt falling behind.

Back on my feet, I was slightly relieved to find that I didn't have any immediate lingering discomfort from the stop and hoped that maybe, just maybe, that would be the last of it.  As I though of hours on end of gels, shots, sports drinks and copious amounts of sweat, I had my doubts.

No more than a mile later, I was off the trail again, crouching over another Ohiopyle of my own making.  The initial stop took longer than the first and the output was less solid than before.  Holy shit was I regular!

As I rose out of my crouch, determined to get back on the trail and off toward the aid station ASAP, my bowels commanded to get right back into the assumed position I'd just vacated.  That was the moment that I also realized that I was sweating profusely and hot, hot, someone-please-anyone-turn-the-hose-on-me hot.

I cleaned up yet again and kicked through the underbrush back to the trail.  I didn't take more than a step or two before I realized I'd left my pack and two handheld bottles back at the scene of the latest (forget the downhills) crime.  I cursed aloud and cringed at the fact that my mind had chosen to go with "SHIT!".

Pack and bottles retrieved, I set my mind on Checkpoint #1 and actually settled back into a pretty brisk pace.  I was so, so hot even though I could feel that the air around me was still pleasantly cool and, having lived through merciless Pennsylvania summers my entire life, there was no mistaking the absence of humidity.  The wheels, as they (bastards) say, we're coming off.

I began using my handhelds at every creek crossing (thankfully, there were several) to pour water over my head, the back of my neck and across my shoulders.  I'd refill before actually leaving the creek and would resoak myself as soon as I began to dry and again become aware of my temperature.

My strength had noticeably flagged after each of my first two pit stops and after one more scramble into the woods to drop my shorts, I was flatlining pretty hard.  A couple people passed by and offered aid, but I wasn't lucky enough to cross paths with anyone dealing Imodium.  Forget switchbacks, my kingdom for a swig of Pepto!

No such luck.

There's one last kicker of a hill to clamber up before reaching Checkpoint #1 and Bobby caught me from behind right about then.  I'd be curious to know what kind of diarrhea-addled nonsense I spewed at him but maybe it's best I don't remember.  I do know I was having one hell of a time convincing my legs to get me up that hill and it's one I would've gobbled up on a  normal day.  A regular day.

I do think I managed to mumble something about keeping an eye out for Kalyn as I knew full well I was going to have to hope she could run her leg without the company I'd promised.  I was holding out hope that I could get myself put back together at the aid station, but I didn't expect that it was going to happen quickly.

Jefferson suddenly appeared in front of me on the trail and, while I can't imagine I did a good job of expressing it, I was happy to see him.  I couldn't be far now.

As Jefferson reports it, my first words to him were "I need to be somewhere".  As idiotic as that must have sounded, it wasn't far from the truth.

He walked me in (I'm assuming we were walking, I don't actually remember) and Kalyn was off-and-running.  The guilt washed over me as she disappeared up the trail and I tried to embrace the mystical restorative powers that dwell in aid stations.  In my peripheral vision, I could see held looks that confirmed that I must have looked at least as awful as I felt, if not worse.  Drinks were fetched and two packets of Imodium appeared in my hand.  Unfortunately, the shivering kicked in right about then and it seemed to take an eternity for Jefferson to realize that, despite my best efforts, I was failing miserably at prying those godforsaken pills from their foil-encased resting places.  Had he not noticed, I think I might still be sitting there bending and twisting the packets back-and-forth.

I have no idea how long I sat there listening to ludicrous but incredibly entertaining discourses on flavors of Gatorade from one of the young aid station volunteers while Jo and Jefferson brought me cups of the generic soda I kept pointing at and tracking down additional layers of clothing to try and get my shaking to stop.

By then, we'd gotten word that Kelly wasn't progressing very quickly and likely suffering the full impact of a week without much in the way of food or recovery.  I had reached the aid station way ahead of its cutoff time and, at least in theory, still had plenty of day to traverse the full course if I could just get things back under control.  I made up my mind that if Kelly made the cutoff and had any intention of going on, I'd give it a shot too.

I won't deny the selfish relief I felt as he finally walked into the aid station and removed the pack from his back.  There was no mistaking body language that said "I will run some other day."  It spoke for both of us.

So, that was that.  Another day, another DNF.

I prepped myself to deal with the shame and put on a supportive face for my teammates, my friends and all the other runners still on the course.

But, a funny thing happened.  I didn't need to put on any face at all.  In fact, I just needed to get out of the way of the smile that soon crept out and stayed put for the rest of what turned out to be another incredibly joyful day in the Highlands.

It was impossible to not remain completely psyched and engaged by the progress of our relay team.

Kalyn plowed soldiered through miles 19.2-32 like she'd been doing it for years, despite the fact that this was her first real trail run and, being that her leg was a bit over 13 miles, her first half-marathon too!  Concern and guilt sent me backtracking from Checkpoint #2 to be the first to see Kalyn as she approached the handoff, but it was washed away by the pride and elation I felt as she appeared with her beaming trademark smile so I could give her a bearhug before urging her on the aid station.  It's a moment I will truly cherish. 

After being keyed up to run from the moment runners left the start line at 5:30 AM (see evidence below), Jefferson devoured the third leg.

 Tim was chomping at the bit too by the time Jefferson raced up the hill and into Checkpoint #3.  Though he's unlikely to give himself the credit he deserves (as is his way), Tim further padded our time cushion before passing the final baton to Taylor.

Taylor left the last checkpoint with a question mark of a knee and a 3-mile technical and, by the time he'd get there, in-the-dark descent before reaching the end of the trail.  He ran like an animal, blazed into the finish and radiated with the joy of exceeding his own expectations. I got to deliver yet another well deserved hug that I'll remember always.

As a team, we had no idea what to expect in terms of a finishing time and I would surely have been proud of us for just making the 3:30 AM cutoff time.

Taylor crossed the line just minutes ahead of 10:00 PM.

Photo courtesy of Kelly and Jo Agnew

Enos, whom I'd met the night before, had breezed into and blown through the aid station while I was regrouping on his way to an impressive 2nd place finish in the 50K.  Ron and Bobby were clearly locked in and knocked out their first 70-milers in 20 hours.  Ron's wife Jo completed the 50K and made her way to a later checkpoint and caught up with the crew at a later aid station.  Randy missed a cutoff on the 50K and was swept from the course but had himself another great day in the woods and retained the indomitable spirit that makes him so beloved.  He's already made it clear he'll be back next year.

My only regret for those members of the tribe who saw the course through the whole way to the end is that they missed out on hours and hours of laughter with the rest of us.  If I think on it too long, I might just start attending races instead of bothering to race them.  I'd share a story or two or ten, but this post has already reached epic (or, if you prefer, too damn long for anyone to possibly bother reading the whole thing) length.

I will say this, to suggest that one hasn't lived until a next door neighbor has knocked on the door with a plate of shit asking if it belongs to your dog is clearly a ridiculous statement.  I would, however, argue that to say  you haven't lived until you've heard that full story is hardly a stretch.

I am strangely happy that my loose and unhappy bowels were the reason that story got told.

Long, long (how-much-longer?) story short, I had a wonderful day and a wonderful weekend with as wonderful a group of friends as one could ever hope to have.  It's how we do it in the Highlands.  It's how we've done it and it's how we're going to keep on doing it.

Only next time, I'm bring the Imodium and unwrapping them ahead of time.