do glad.

Today not tomorrow, that's what I've been saying.

So, when my wife's busy work/school schedule found her observing in an operating room for the day, babysitting options weren't available and I needed to skip out on work to watch Piper, I made the most of my time out of the office by dropping the car off for a much needed repair and heading to a nearby diner to enjoy a rare Daddy-and-daughter-and-nobody-else breakfast.

Piper Bea settled happily into her pancake, a pickle and a tall cup of chocolate milk.

I sipped coffee and listened to her tell me about whatever popped into her about-to-be-4-year old head.  Sipped, listened and smiled.  Taking full advantage of not being interrupted by her verbose big sister, Piper covered a lot of topics while we sat in our little booth-for-two.  She didn't make me swear to secrecy, but, all the same, I think I'll not share the details as it makes me feel like I alone was invited "in".

As we neared the end of our meals, the television monitor perched in the corner of the room showed the portrait of a woman celebrating her 108th birthday.  My not-what-they-once-were eyes couldn't read her name in the captioning and the sound of the TV was drowned out by our conversation and the crooning of oldies drifting from the overhead speakers...which was fine by me.

One hundred and eight years old.

Can you imagine?  You can't.  I can't.

Trying to imagine brings "today not tomorrow" right back into the discussion.  Perhaps if you make it the whole way to 108 you start believing that you'll never stop ticking and the days'll just go on and on forever.  Maybe that's the fear.

Or the hope.

Or maybe every day feels certain to be the last.

Who knows?  Not you and not me.

I silently wished that woman well and hoped that she was better able than me to make sense of the dizzying ways in which the world has evolved.

In that very same diner, two older (suddenly, mid-70's didn't seem all that old) gentlemen sat poring over a road map.  

Remember those?

I do and you do too.

But, maybe just maybe, our kids won't or at least not outside the context of museums and quaint postcards.  Of course, museums and postcards might not be long for this world either with any and all information available at our fingertips and the mail system, our modern day pony express, likely going the way of, well, the pony express.

I marvel at how much has changed in my lifetime.  Can't even begin to wrap my head around it, actually.  And, despite what my children believe, I haven't been alive all that long.

Here are a couple of the significant events that occurred in the year 1905, the year today's birthday girl was born.  The first forest fire lookout tower went into operation in Greenville, Maine.  Ty Cobb made his professional baseball debut.  A physics journal published the article that unveiled Albert Einstein's E=mc2 equation.  The Intercollegiate Athletic Association of the US was founded (it wouldn't officially become the NCAA until 5 years later).

One year earlier work began on Grand Central Station, the Wright brothers took their initial flight, fingerprinting was first introduced as a way to investigate crime and the ice cream cone was invented.  The ice cream cone was invented!

CAN YOU IMAGINE?  You can't and I could drive myself mad trying to...today not yesterday, today not tomorrow.

Piper Bea and I left the diner, she with cookie in hand, and we found the car repaired and waiting for us.

As we drove home, we passed by a beautiful restored farmhouse that I recalled residing in a different location just a few years earlier.  A construction/restoration group had plucked the once ailing structure from the ground, ratcheted it up onto a wheeled platform and towed it to a new, more idyllic, perch a few miles down the road.

I CAN imagine, but only because I saw it with my very own stunned eyes.  Amazing and certainly unthinkable not all that long ago.  I'm betting an undertaking such as this would have qualified as science-fiction back in 1905.

And I'm guessing "science-fiction' was hardly a household term at the time.  I should visit a museum to find out for sure.  Or, wait, I could just ask my phone...yes, I could actually speak into my phone and just wait one second for the answer.

Geez.

I have a 50-mile race coming up on Saturday, the FebApple Frozen 50 in Maplewood, New Jersey.  It seems a daunting undertaking this early in the year, especially with sickness and subsequent inactivity not too far behind me.

However, it doesn't seem nearly so daunting when held up against waking, rising and making one's way through the day, every damn day, for 108 years.

The woman in that photo was smiling and it was a beautiful, happy-to-be-alive smile.  Could've been taken a few years ago, of course, but that hardly tarnishes the message if she was, what, 105?

And maybe it was that smile that jarred something in my holes-punched-in-it memory about the number 108.  I did a little digging (you bet I employed my phone) and discovered that it is a Harshad number, an integer that is divisible by the sum of its digits (1 + 0 + 8 = 9 and 108 divided by 9 is 12).  That's a curiosity but what I found more interesting was the fact the "Harshad" is derived from two Sanskrit words, harsa and da.  Harsa means "joy" and da means "give".

Joy giver?

Seems too good to be true for the sake of this story, but it goes a long way toward explaining that lovely smile and the unmistakable happiness I felt in seeing it.

So, 50 miles?  A hundred?  No problem.  A blink of the eye really.  A joy.

Glancing at Facebook upon arriving home, I discovered a typo in a friend's status update.  She was sharing her relief at sneaking in a run before expected freezing rain began to fall.  "So glad" was accidentally replaced with "Do glad".

DO GLAD!

I love it.

I turn 39 this year.  Piper Bea will be 4 in April and her sister turns 6 just two weeks later.  People are celebrating 108 years on this planet.

What a gift.

How could you not do glad?  You can't.  I can't.

Do glad and do it today...AND tomorrow.

thirty-eight is enough.

Last year, I celebrated my birthday by running my age.

At the time, 37 miles marked the farthest I'd gone at one time and I'd considered making the effort an annual event, thinking maybe I could keep adding a mile each year for another few years at least.

Another trip around the calendar later, I was going to be hard pressed to find the time to squeeze in a run of that length in the middle of a work week, especially while trying to get my handle on the boatload of work that needs done ahead of next week's Summer Outdoor Retailer trade show in Salt Lake City and TransRockies, gulp, just two weeks after that.

So, I needed a different kind of status check and it made sense that it should be something that doubled as training for the 120 miles that await in Colorado next month.  While I don't have access to any altitude here in Pennsylvania, there are climbs to be had everywhere even if it demands that you go up, down and back up again.

Over and over and over.

I gave Jefferson a ring early in the week to let him know what I was planning and to see if he wanted in.  The idea was to match the elevation gain of the longest stage at TransRockies, 4900 feet, but to condense that climb into a shorter distance.  Basically, I was thinking that I'd try to make up for not being able to train in altitude by upping the severity of the climbing.  Flawed logic, I know, but at least it would be hard work.

I met Jefferson right around 5:00 AM and we hiked in the half mile on the Horseshoe Trail to the top of Molehill.  In my pack, I was hucking a mini aid station consisting of Gatorade, peanut butter, Gu, Honey Stinger waffles, granola bars, Swedish Fish and dog knows what else.  Either as a birthday offering, a reminder for me to keep an eye on my nutrition or as a goal to work towards, Jefferson had also brought a bottle of Mountain Lightning, the mystical knock-off of a certain caffeine-heavy, day-glo-colored carbonated beverage that came to my rescue when all hell had broken loose in my bowels at Laurel Highlands.

I appreciated the gesture but decided not to carry it to the trailhead.

During a couple of hill sessions the week prior, my Suunto had clocked the ascent at Molehill at around 430+ feet in a little over 4 tenths of a mile, so I was looking at something like 12 reps to make it to 4900 feet of climb.  The most laps I'd managed to crank out without switching from running to walking was 4, so I knew that I'd be doing some power hiking before the morning was over. I'd brought along my Black Diamond Z-Poles, thinking it would be a good chance to see if I could finally get the hang of using poles while moving swiftly...or trying to.  To start, though, I'd see how far I could go on the run.

It was still too dark to manage without a light, so the initial hike and the first couple of trips up and down the hill were headlamp lit.  As much as I wanted to barrel the downhills, I knew I'd need my quads to participate throughout the effort and, instead, I concentrated on clean footfalls on the descents.  A storm that had passed through the previous day had littered the trail with debris and Jefferson and I spent some time clearing out downed limbs on our initial trip down to the bottom.

We chatted the entire way down and most of the way up, as we cranked through the first lap.    I headed right back down, knowing that, whatever the reason, my second rep has always proven to be my most sluggish.  This day was no different and I toiled on my second ascent and thought I might end up hiking sooner than I'd anticipated.  I paused at the top to get a quick drink and use the Sharpie I'd brought along to make note of which lap I was on...I'd failed to take that step on past repeat sessions, lost track of the number and ended up doing extra laps to make sure that I covered the ground I'd planned on in the first place.  I had too far to go this morning and too little time before work to afford to lose the count.  Realizing I didn't have any paper with me, I marked two notches on my arm, replaced the cap and jumped back on the course.

The third time up the hill went far better and I was psyched to see Jefferson plugging away too.  He's conquered Molehill several times by now, but hadn't gutted out two on-the-run reps on any prior visits.  Here he was topping out for the third time and he'd get one more before having to part ways to get back home to start his day.

Soon after Jefferson left, I ran up the hill a fifth time and felt like I could manage one more before likely having to resort to hiking.  I snuck a quick peek at my watch, did some quick math (not my strong suit) and suddenly understood that, short of being late for work, I was going to be hard-pressed to log 12 laps in the allotted time.  Had I bothered to do that simple math the day before, I might have started earlier, but it was a little late for that now.

Down and up, down and up, down and up I went.  I wasn't flying by any means (a nearly 21% grade'll have that effect), but damned if I wasn't still running.  Or at least going faster than hiking.  I wouldn't have even thought about continuing to run if this had been an actual race, but this was something different altogether so I just kept at it.

I continued hitting the Gatorade and thieving food from my aid station.  And I was shocked to still be feeling good.  My feet were getting a bit sloppy on the downs but my legs kept chugging on the ups and my heart and lungs managed to keep up too.  I added notches though I was sweating away the earliest of those notches almost as quickly as I was acquiring new ones.

I kept repeating my "make it to the top of the hill on the other side of this hill" mantra, despite the fact that this day was all about just this one brutal hill.

Regardless, the mantra was working.

Eight, nine, ten times I summited Molehill before having to accept the fact that the clock had caught up with me and I was going to have to get off the trail, into the car and off to work.  But not before a quick archival photo of me on my favorite downed log/resting post.

I was thirty-eight, alright.

Maybe halfway home (or further) if you prefer to look at things that way.  I don't, for the record, but regardless of how little or much I've got left, I'm pretty pleased with still feeling frisky and still well in possession of grit teeth and stubborn will.  Guess I could have slept in for my birthday, but not getting up and moving is a gift I'd just as soon not receive.

I hadn't planned appropriately to accomplish exactly what I'd set out to do, but I'd buried my former idea of what I was capable of on that beloved/dogforsaken hill, running every damn step.  And 4495 feet of climb in 8.78 miles is no joke for boy or man (girl or woman).  

No joke at all.

If anything, it was worth a raised glass.  A celebratory drink.

And I had just the thing.

horseshoes and....

Been running the Horseshoe Trail now pretty religiously for going on two years and have been itching to venture out onto more of its 120+ miles.  I've also been anxious to go beyond the 50K distance in anticipation of taking a shot at 50 miles later in the year. 

With my 37th birthday arriving on July 25th, I set my sights on running the last or first (take your pick) of the Horseshoe Trail the day before said birthday.

Lindsay had to work a shift at Lancaster General, but my mother and stepfather agreed to watch the kids until I could get to them.  Jefferson selflessly agreed to shuttle me from a car drop in Campbelltown to the Clarks Valley of the Appalachian Trail, the nearest access point to the yellow blazes of the Horseshoe.  The week prior brought one wicked heat wave and I considered calling off the run, but Sunday's weather report was a little less ominous with temperatures dipping back down below triple digits.  The humidity was still going to be an issue, but the plan was a go.

Things got off to an inauspicious start when I couldn't find the Locust Street the Horseshoe Trail guidebook told me I needed to travel in Campbelltown to drop the car.  I ended up flagging a police officer who was as sure as he could be that there wasn't a Locust Street in town, but, thankfully, he did guide me to where I wanted to be in spite of the missing road.

With the van parked, I jumped in with Jefferson and we headed north.  Clarks Valley is situated in a natural gap between Peters and Stony Mountains and the trailhead put us 3.2 miles from the summit of Stony and the junction with the Horseshoe Trail.

We snapped a quick photo in front of the AT sign at the Route 325 crossing but my fat head managed to block out all but the arrows.  Notice the haze hanging in the distance.  It was right around 7:30 AM.

There's a solid 1,000 feet of climb up to the top of Stony Mountain and I enjoyed the heck out of every step.  Jefferson and I chatted as we climbed the rocky track, making good progress but managing pace to hopefully keep me from bonking later in the day. I wasn't planning to "race", not by a long shot, but I still intended to be running (shuffling, at least) late in the day.

I was having such a good time, I couldn't believe how quickly we seemed to cover those initial miles.  Jefferson snapped another photo of me standing in front of the initial blazes of the Horseshoe and the Cyrus Sturgis Monument.

The run down from Stony was super quick and I wrestled over whether to open the throttle and blast down the ridge or put on the brakes to save the legs.  I compromised somewhere in between and had soon covered two miles of downhill and started down the unpaved Ellendale Stagecoach Road which seemed to go on forever (somewhere around 3 miles, per the guidebook) since I wanted badly to be back on singletrack.

That was going to have to wait.  Much of the 4 mile climb up from Stony Creek to the top of Second Mountain followed a wide abandoned logging road.  Tantalizing narrow trails shot off in all directions and I made a note to come back here to backpack and camp.  The sun was still behind the clouds but the day was beginning to warm up.  Though the inclined grade wasn't too severe, it didn't offer many breaks either.  I was caught from behind by one fiercely fit mountain biker and passed a single trail runner headed the opposite direction who looked spirit-crushingly fit.  I was somewhere around 10 miles into the trip and fighting the first wave of doubt.

Within a mile of the summit, the trail switchbacked against the logging road and transferred to extremely steep singletrack.  I couldn't make out the top and, like it has too many times before, my stomach began to raise protests.  Thankfully, those rumblings never turned into anything, but for a moment they did add to my concern.  Shaking them off, I power-hiked to the summit and sat for a moment to catch my breath, down a gel and consult the book.

It was cool to be doing this solo, but without aid stations waiting down the line, the only water I could count on was what I had in my pack.  The early sections of the route were proving really remote and I wondered where I was going to fill the emptying four bottles (two handhelds and another two in the side mesh pockets on my pack) that I had with me.  A peek ahead at the trail directions didn't look terribly promising.  I decided to start rationing and concentrate on just getting further along the route.

The next six miles were pretty sweet, weaving through mature woods on a slow clamber down from the summit of Second Mountain.  When things leveled off, the path fluctuated between singletrack and logging roads.  There was still little sign of civilization and the few structures that did appear were either in states of disrepair or spartan in their design.  Heavy tree cover coupled with the continued cloud cover to keep heat manageable.

In Manada Gap, the trail vanished into road but showed no sign of a place to replenish fluids.  The guidebook suggested that a mere 3 mile detour (one way) would get me to a convenience store but that mileage tack-on seemed really foolish and the whole idea of leaving the Horseshoe felt really unappealing.  I ignored the offer and stuck to my yellow blazes.

Less than a mile later, the trail reappeared and followed what the guidebook had referred to as a "beautiful trout stream on a splendid woods trail under old beeches and hemlocks".  The trees were still there (though I suspect in fewer numbers) but there wasn't enough water to support trout and the trail itself appeared to be woefully untraveled.  Bummer.

Another bummer was being completely out of water, especially when the trail vanished again and the blazes migrated from trees to telephone poles.  I was back on the road again and less than thrilled by the exposure to the sun.  The New Balance MT101's that I was wearing were spot on for the trail, but not ideal for extended road work.  Wah-wah.

I decided I would offer cash to the next human being I saw in exchange for cold water in my water bottles.  Over the next 3 miles, however, I saw plenty of homes but not a soul outside.  The whirring of air conditioners and the periodic appearance of undrinkable backyard swimming pools mocked me and my bone dry bottles.  Help would eventually come in the form of James who was outside braving the heat to deliver water to his landscaping.

James wouldn't hear of my offer, turning down the cash while kindly taking my bottles to fill me up with water on the house.  Perhaps because I mentioned that I'd come the whole way from Clarks Valley, he even filled me up on ice.  I couldn't have been more grateful, though I'm not sure I properly conveyed this, as stopping at last made me acutely aware of how parched and hot I'd become.  Looking back towards the distant aridgelines from his front yard, I got my first sense of how far I'd come.

I said my thanks and offered goodbyes before chugging back down the road.  My spirits soared for a few minutes until I started to get the feeling that I may not find dirt under foot for a good long while.  I was 21.5 miles into my run but feared it might be road the rest of the way.  The sun was now unimpeded with the clouds having melted away and I was taking a pounding. I realized I'd only had James fill up two of my bottles despite his offer to top off anything I had.  Dumb.  Those two bottles were only going to go so far.

As I reached Route 22, I hung a left in hopes of soon finding somewhere to get more water.  My confidence was wavering, my left foot was hating the road surface and I was really starting to dread the idea that the trail running portion of my day was over.  Stumbling upon a closed-for-the-day garage that had a stunningly beautiful soda machine parked right outside, I sat down to drink an ice cold Pepsi and ponder the possibilities.

I fished my cellphone out of my pack and attempted a call to my cousin, Chad.  He didn't answer the phone.  I replied to a text message from Jefferson asking how I was holding up and asked him yet another favor, this time hoping he could Google Route 22 East and tell me where it ended up.  While waiting for his response, Lindsay called and gave me an earful about a minor calamity at home.  I raised my voice back at her before we both calmed down, offered deserved apologies and traded "I love yous".  From there I placed a call to Mom who confirmed for me that 22 wasn't going to take me where I wanted to go.

I collected my thoughts, scoured the various maps in the Horseshoe Trail guidebook and decided it was time to quit mucking around and get back to what I'd set out to do in the first place.  Yes, I was hot and was looking at a lot of roadwork, but my legs felt pretty good and my stomach was fine.

I finished the last of that oh-my-god-good Pepsi and bought a number of waters from the machine to refill all four of my bottles.

I texted Jefferson to call of the Googling and confirm that I'd gotten my head straight.  Sending that text was the final push I needed and I was back on my feet, heading west to reconnect with the Horseshoe.  It wasn't long before I'd managed to do just that.

I covered another 6 miles before the blazes again got me off of the road, dumping me into a farmer's field somewhere around 27 miles into my day.  There was a confusing twist shortly thereafter when the trail seemed barred by a tall cornfield.  That proved a good thing because it forced me to again consult the guidebook which encouraged me to look back across Swatara Creek toward the Blue Mountains for "one of the most remarkable views along the trail".  I haven't seen enough of the trail to properly validate that claim but it sure was lovely.  The camera failed to capture a proper image through the afternoon haze, so I did my best to save the view to memory.

Turning back to the task at hand, I plowed through the cornfield and came out running on the other side.  A bright yellow blaze was waiting for me and waved me down the trail.  Sadly, that lovely bit of trail lasted little more than a mile before depositing me back onto roads just north of Hershey.  Before it did, however, I was offered one last look back at the mountains and this time the camera cooperated with a fairly nice representation.

I passed by Hershey Cemetary (the venerable Milton Hershey is buried here) and endured a rather frustrating bit of "where now?" in an old inactive quarry that added a few hundred unnecessary yards to my journey. Emerging finally on the other side of that stretch, I had less than 10K to go.

That was good news because I was tiring.  I threw a pose at the sun to see if I could spook it back into hiding but my bluff was called.

There was one last bit of confusion to muddle through before I got where I was going.  It could've proven disastrous.

Per the guidebook, I'd soon arrive in Palmdale, cross 422 and then make my way to Campbelltown.  I'd never heard of Palmdale but hadn't given it too much thought.  At this point, though, I had a pretty good idea where I was and where I was was Hershey not Palmdale.  A bit more searching in the book uncovered a reference to Palmdale being a "western suburb of Palmyra".  Palmyra I knew and Hershey I knew.  I couldn't tell you where one ends and one begins but I do know there isn't a Palmdale in between.

Not anymore.

Upon reaching 422, I flipped a mental coin and hung a right.  A mile later, I began to doubt my decision AND discovered that I was again out of water.  I backtracked a bit and ducked into a restaurant/bar.  Evidence of my running out of gas is the fact that I never even took any notice of the name of the establishment.  Poking my head inside, I pleaded with anyone available to clue me in on Palmdale and the seemingly fictitious McKinley Avenue.  No one knew what I was talking about and, frankly, I soon realized how insane I must have looked, sporting a cavemanish beard, wearing a sweat-drenched backpack, clutching empty water bottles and babbling on about a town that didn't exist.

A young guy named Dustin came to my rescue, throwing my beard a compliment and fetching me a Coke.  He also filled up one of my other water bottles which was huge and even retopped off my Coke after I downed it in about 3 seconds.  I bounced the Palmdale/McKinley question off of him but he too did not find either of those references familiar.  When I mentioned that I was heading to Campbelltown, he felt pretty certain that I needed to head east and hang a right.  In terms of getting me to Campbelltown, he was correct but I actually needed to push a little farther in the initial direction I'd headed to pick up the Horseshoe Trail.  Honestly, it mattered little at this point because I was looking mostly at roads regardless of which way I went.

Long story short, Dustin gets props from me for getting me exactly where I asked him to get me and for just being down to earth and cool at a moment when I benefited from that at least as much as getting the "right" directions.  No props for me in failing to snap a proper documentary photo.

And so I made it at last to Campbelltown, though I was approaching the van from the wrong direction and from off the "trail".  I'd been pretty sloppy with the GPS throughout the day, often turning it off when I took breaks but not always and sometimes forgetting to rehit "start" when setting off again.  I'm certain that I'd gone at least 37 miles by the time I opened the door, but the Garmin said 36.55.  I put my pack and bottles on the passenger seat and kept on running, heading out along the Horseshoe Trail along the route I should have just been on.  After about a quarter mile, I spun on my heels and returned to the van.  My day was done and my MT 101's could wait for dirt.

Happy Birthday to me.

where the hell have i been?

I just realized how long it's been since I've posted anything on here and, frankly, I'm embarrassed.  In my mind I'm constantly composing written sentences but most of those compositions slip away and are never heard from again. Words and ideas come and go and I suspect little is lost in their vanishing.  Every now and then, though, there are minor gems and looking back over the last several weeks, I'm disappointed to have allowed so much time to pass without any attempt at documentation.  Somewhere in all those ponderings there must have been something worth keeping.

So, having no words to draw upon, I'll turn to my camera for a look back at some of what's been keeping me so busy.  Don't expect a comprehensive retelling...if we were talking baseball, you'd be getting the Sportscenter recap not a full start to finish ala Ken Burns.  And for that, you're welcome.

Friends came over and played in the backyard.  Beer was consumed, the earth was scorched and cardboard boxes provided shelter from the wind if not the smoke.

The first ever Philadelphia Beard and Moustache Championships were held in, you guessed it, Philadelphia.  My beard morphed into a moustache that left the judges unimpressed.  The boys were undaunted, however, and let me anchor our group photo.  Old friends were embraced, new friends were established and good times rolled.  The next morning brought short-lived dehydration and a race home for kickball with other beloved friends.

The moustache got its wish and was allowed to run.  And it has kept on running ever since.  Thirty+ mile weeks have returned and my legs are feeling stronger each day.  Twofers are becoming routine and bike riding has been incorporated into the weekly routine.

April brings trout lilies and reminds me of the joys of new life, of children.

Piper Bea turned one on Easter Sunday.  She was oblivious but radiant nonetheless.  Lily, at 3, was in full egg-collecting mode and returned home with ample booty.

The Lancaster Skill Share Collective hosted a weekend of DIY and self-sufficiency workshops.  With Pipe nestled on my back, I attended a session on edible plant identification and damn near ate every square growing inch of Lancaster County Park.

The Lancaster County Bart und Schnauzer Friendship Society pub night delivered on the promised camaraderie and shared laughter.  A Steely Dan album was sacrificed in the pursuit of fun.

Lily's face says it all...running together rules.

Spring, my friends, has sprung.