beyond the stats.

The day one calendar replaces another is the day runners knee-jerkingly tally the numbers and report their statistics.

I'm a runner (I think), so here's my look back at 2014.

Mileage:  ?

Vertical Gain:  ?

Number of Summits:  ?

Finishes:  ?

Ultrarunners in particular love to tout the lessons that long-distance running doles out.  There's even a commonly held belief that the range of emotions, the physical highs and lows reached while covering 50-100 miles in a single day is nearly a condensed lifetime unto itself.

Maybe.

Or, more likely, it's just a more-than-a-normal-single-day experience.  To be fair, that's quite a lot and I don't mean to scoff so much as to maybe dial down the answers-to-everything mythos.

As an aside:  I sometimes wonder if there's an abstract math equation to prove that the degree to which a runner (or some other pick-the-sport athlete) holds up the tutorial aspects of her or his running (swimming, baseball hitting, pole vaulting, hot dog eating, etc.) is directly relative to how much he or she is ignoring or denying the factual lessons of real life.

I share those things I think I've learned through running with my children and feel quite certain that the love and respect of the outdoors that is the real impetus for my being out on the trails has impacted them and made them aware of the fact that there is magic in the natural world not equaled or matched by virtual reproductions or distractions.  After that, my favorite hobby takes a backseat to other realities in terms of bestowing wisdom (have I any). 

___________________________

Which brings me to a Target parking lot a few weeks ago.

Lily and Piper Bea had accompanied me on (for me) a brave venture into the teeth of holiday retail madness.  We had knocked out the last of our gift gathering and for the most part avoided any of the mine-mine-mine consumer conflict the mass media is all too happy to report.  Said conflict is surprisingly easy to avoid if you don't yourself feel entitled to, well, everything.

We'd walked in with smiles and we walked out with smiles, an admittedly minor miracle on my part as I tend to be all too on-the-watch for reasons to be disappointed in humanity on shopping excursions.  Shame on me for such a mindset and perhaps writing this post is yet another lesson learned.

As we steered out of our aisle and passed by the other stores in the shopping center, I noticed an elderly woman approaching a crosswalk on a motorized grocery cart.  I coasted into a stop well ahead of the crosswalk and gently waved the woman across with my biggest of neighborly smiles.

She grimaced in my direction and pulled one hand off the steering column to gesture towards the ground as though demanding me to stop.  I had already stopped.  I was stopped, smiling, and patiently waiting for her to cross.

The furrow on her brow deepened and she wagged a pointed finger at me before repeating her "slow down" gesturing.

Stunned, I felt my smile melt into a confused gape, my gentle waving turning into a frustrated shrug and a sweeping arm pleading for the woman to "cross the road already".

Exasperated, the woman shook her head accusingly from side to side and inched into the crosswalk.  As she and her cart crept by in front of our car, she continued to cast annoyed glances at me while muttering to herself.

I began to roll down my window with the intent of explaining to the woman that I had been stopped all along and had been happily intent on giving her the opportunity to cross safely.  Before I could say a word, she reached the other side, threw both of her hands in the air, and thrust them at me in a manner that made it clear I was being dismissed.

Remembering that the girls were in the backseat and recognizing that what was about to come out of my mouth was going to be something quite inappropriate, I rolled the window up and moved along.

"Girls, I just don't understand why people assume the worst.  I really do believe that, deep down, we are all good people and mean to treat each other fairly.  It's a real shame that we lose sight of that so often and that a joyous time like Christmas can actually cause us to be less nice, not nicer."

A peek in the rear view mirror revealed that my daughters were actually hanging on my words while looking curiously at the woman.

I continued spelling out how that woman had jumped to conclusions without even considering that....

just then a man stepped out in front of us waving his arms with an unmistakable urgency.

I slammed on the brakes, wondering what the hell was going on now and finding the want to escape the parking lot jumping to the top of my holiday wish list.

The man stepped to the front passenger window and I rolled it down to find out the nature of his flagging us down.

"Your headlights aren't on," came through the open window with a warmth that made me immediately appreciative and thoroughly embarrassed at my own assumptions.  My rescuer began to walk away from our vehicle, stopped, turned back to the open window and smiled a "Happy Holidays to all of you" before returning to his errand and vanishing into the store.

By the time I repositioned my dropped jaw and processed my having moments before teetered on the brink of yelling at an elderly, mobility-challenged woman who was trying to alert me to the fact that I needed to turn on my lights, there was no sign of her and any opportunity to apologize and thank her had been lost.  We drove around the parking lot for a few minutes making certain that she truly had gone.  Guiltily, I explained to the girls the mistake that I had made and asked them to forgive me for my having been so hypocritical.

"You are good, Daddy.  You are mostly nice to people."  So said my tell-it-like-it-is daughter, Piper Bea.

___________________________

Any respectable recap needs a stating of future goals, right?  I actually don't know if that's right, but let's agree that it is.

So, here goes:

2015 Goals:  Be good, be nice.  Good-er and nicer than the day and years before.  Heed every lesson not just those imparted while wearing a race bib.

Everything else'll figure itself out.  Always has, always will whether I run 1 mile or 10,000, stand atop a mountain or don't, finish every race or fail to even start a single one.

Do glad.  Be nice.  Be good for goodness sake.

binge. purge. (agnew's revenge)

I'd held out as long as I could.  Except for a brief, relatively unsuffocating trip to the mall earlier in the month, I'd managed to steer clear of the mad swirl of Christmasing.

With time slipping away, I was going to have to venture into the fray.  With a focused plan, a map through the maze, I hoped I could get my shopping done in one two hour operation of determined tunnel vision.

I pulled into the Target parking lot, the first stop on my consumerist binge.  I should have laced up my sneaks because the closest parking spot was about a 1/4 mile away from the front doors.

There isn't much to tell of my time behind the wheel of the wobbly cart that greeted me at the front door.  All went relatively well and the shelves kindly peddled many of the things on my list, saving me any need to check it twice.  I didn't get everything I needed at that Target but expected visits to two more retailers addressed all remaining items on my list.

Time to purge.

To distract the girls while I was busy playing Santa, Lindsay had decided on a trip to Dutch Wonderland (a quaint little kid-oriented theme park for you non-Lancastrians) for holiday inspired amusement.

My inspired amusement would come from my beloved Conestoga Trail.

I have written about the Conestoga Trail on many occasions and those of you who read along have likely heard of or have had the pleasure of spending time on the trail.  For those who haven't, the Conestoga begins near the southern end of Lancaster County and meanders roughly due north until intersecting the Horseshoe Trail just below the Lancaster/Lebanon County line.  At its southernmost end, the trail serves up a jaggedy profile of elevation changes as it climbs high points and dips into hollows on the eastern shore of the Susquehanna River.  The terrain is rocky and rooty and the scenery is absolutely stunning, especially considering its close proximity to the ever creeping suburban sprawl of Pennsylvania and Maryland.

The aptly (if not terribly creatively) named Conestoga Trail Run takes place here each September, beginning at Pequea Creek Campground and traversing "10 challenging miles" on its way to Holtwood Park.  I love that race and had invited my good friend Kelly to join me there this year only to have him bear a grudge for what proved to be anything but the "totally runnable" course that I'd (admittedly) falsely promised.

What can I say?  My want for Kelly to love the trail as much as I do had totally clouded my recollection of how punishing the Conestoga can be.

Long story short, I now cannot think of the Conestoga without also thinking of Kelly and I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing, considering the unlikelihood that he'll ever set foot on it again.

Anyway...back to my story.

With hours to blissfully while away, I decided to park the car just beyond the small riverside village of Pequea and jump on the trail at a point a couple of miles along the race route.  This allowed me to skip the very short portion of established road and get right onto glorious singletrack.  Before long I'd climbed past the cave (yes, there is a real cave that sits just off of and likely beneath the trail) and up to the vista at House Rock.

The panorama looking south toward Pinnacle, past the few dotted islands and up to the curve in the river before the Holtwood Dam was as lovely as ever.  I progressed at a nice pace in the mid-40 temperatures but also stopped frequently to take in the view, listen to the subdued quiet of the river below and fiddle with the camera.  Honestly, I only wanted to go so fast.

It was nice to see a number of other people on the trail, though all were hiking not running.  As much as I love solitude and am susceptible to having a day downgraded or even ruined by excessive on-trail traffic, I often find it sad to cover mile after mile of trail without crossing anyone else's path and am left wondering how few people appreciate the beauty that while arguably fading is still all around us.

  

There were still many signs of the beating that the landscape had sustained from the hurricane and violent weather that came through in late summer and early fall, but it was also apparent that nature rolls with the punches and a bit of debris on the trail is of little consequence to the overall health of the forest and its inhabiting creeks.

Tucquan Glen, as usual, was lush and picturesque.  It's a lot of fun to run here but this is also one of those cherished places that cries out for you to stay and it always feels a shame to rush through too quickly.

The long brutal climb up out of Tucquan to Pinnacle is less about lovely scenery and more about doing the work required to just keep moving forward and achieve the high point above.  This is definitely a point during the Conestoga Trail Race, especially on a bad day, where you start to wonder if and when the race will ever end.

Without a clock ticking at the finish line, I was able to enjoy this section more than usual, but did break it into two parts, playing again with the camera at the top of one of the rockiest bits.

I still felt pretty good when topping out at Pinnacle though the circling vultures suggested otherwise.

I've always struggled with the next half mile to a mile of downhill trail after it changes over from the old fire road that departs Pinnacle onto loose scree and slabby rock that drops aggressively toward Kelly's Run below.  The first time I did the Conestoga Trail Race I took a hard fall and bounced on my tailbone.  Back in early September, while running with friends, it took everything in me to not recreate that fall.  Dead legs during this year's Conestoga Trail Race had me unsteady and tentative through this segment.

This day proved no different as downed leaves and fir needles made the rock slabs even more treacherous than usual.  By the time I arrived at the more level trail down  in Kelly's Run, my ankles and shins had taken a pounding.  I climbed well from there to Holtwood Park but knew that I'd lost a lot on the descent from Pinnacle.

It was time to refuel...

...and check my progress.

The food, drink and salt tabs went down well with my stomach giving its approval and my body immediately feeling improved.  Considering the time I'd piddled away not running, I'd covered the "out" section in pretty strong fashion.  I hadn't stopped having fun and everything suggested that the return trip would include more of the same.

Except for one thing.

I nudged the display buttons on the side of the GPS and discovered that it was 4:30 on the afternoon of one of the shortest days of the year.  In other words, I had about 45-60 minutes of daylight remaining, maybe less with the heavy cloud cover, and, while slightly refreshed at the moment, my legs were definitely going to be showing fatigue on the way back.

None of this would've mattered in the slightest if I had been in possession of a headlamp which, aggravatingly, I almost always am when running with a pack.  For whatever reason, I didn't have one with me today.  Those overcast skies were going to ensure that I didn't get any help from the moon or stars, so there was no getting around the fact that sooner or later, I was looking at still being on the trail with little to no visibility.

Somewhere, Kelly Agnew was grinning.  I imagined him the villain in some Scooby Doo-like cartoon, spying me through some far off computer monitor, bellowing out a vengeful cackle and perhaps even shaking a fist in the air.

And I, in my lack of preparedness, deserved it.

Nothing left to do but run and run hard while there was still enough light left to risk it.  I made it back down into Kelly's Run, clambered back up to Pinnacle and pushed to get down into Tucquan Glen before the sun set entirely.  I'd gotten turned around on that descent from Pinnacle on an overnight hiking trip with friends and that was with headlamps, so I was definitely relieved to put that section behind me with light to spare.

There was still light enough to run through Tucquan Glen but by the time I topped out on the next climb, I was alone in the dark.  This didn't immediately prove problematic as even without a light the worn in groove of the trail was followable.  I couldn't see enough to risk running over the technical surface and really injuring myself, but by keeping my strides close to the ground, I was able to power hike pretty briskly.

Eventually tricky water crossings and sections that skirted large rock slabs left me bushwhacking and/or staggering about trying to figure out how I'd literally just been on the trail and now could find no sign of it.  Knowing that the blazes on the trees that are impossible to miss in the daylight hours were lurking invisibly all around me was fairly maddening.

I was frustrated but never panicked, as there was no missing the Susquehanna River off to the left and, so long as I kept within earshot and continued progressing northward, I was going to get where I needed to get.

Just not very quickly.

Though I managed several times to get back on the trail after losing it, I finally lost the track for good on the climb up the ridge that shelters the aforementioned caves.  I'm pretty sure now that I initially climbed too steeply too soon and missed some aggressive  switchbacks that would've taken me higher and also a bit further inland.  My chosen route got me up and over the face of the climb more directly but also put in me in a couple of precarious positions and forced me through thorns and brambles that tore up my shins, knees and upper thighs.  I'd stumbled on several occassions once the sun set but was falling with regularity during this leg of the trip.  Twice I ended up having to do makeshift self arrests to keep me from sustained slides and on one of those flailings I bloodied my hand.

My lesson learned and a note driven with a mental steel spike to ALWAYS have a headlamp, the forest decided to spit me out onto familiar ground a few hundred yards from my car.

As I trudged up the road and fumbled for my keys, I remembered that it was just up the hill from this point back in September where I'd unsuspectingly come upon a nest of bees kicked up by the runner just ahead of me.

Perspective is everything and, wanting to end on a high note that reaffirmed that it had truly been a beautiful day in the woods, I focused on how nice it was to be  returning home without a single sting.

Purge accomplished.

the next day.

Whether you buy into the hype or not, Christmas seems to demand attention even before the Thanksgiving plates and utensils have made it to the drying rack.  From there the anticipation builds and builds (especially if you have children) until there's no possibility that the day can live up to its billing.

And just like that, even if it did prove a lovely occasion (and, thankfully, this year it did), it's gone again.

Falling as it did this year on a Saturday, the holiday was kind enough to deliver another day of rest before kicking us back to the curb that is the work week (unless you're my wife who headed immediately back to the "office").

Knowing that Lindsay would be leaving for her shift at the hospital in the early afternoon, I had set the alarm for just before 5:30 AM to make sure I got in my miles without disrupting her day.  I'd received a pair of New Balance MT101's from my sister the day before and had excused myself for an hour to put them immediately to the test.  They'd seemed, right out of the box, like familiar friends and I was eager to see how the felt on a return trip.

I met up with Jefferson just prior to 6:00 and we did our customary catching up while stretching, tying laces, donning headlamps, letting the GPS locate a satellite and such.  Between my wanting to get back in a timely fashion and Jeff's careful monitoring of a yet to be fully diagnosed leg issue, we decided to just do one small segment of the criss-crossing sections of trail that overlap with the Horseshoe Trail, Camp Mack and the surrounding state game lands.

In a little less than an hour, we'd put in just under 4.5 miles, including a couple of challenging climbs and some speedy downhills.  I'd been a bit tentative because of having switched to a more compact headlamp and immediately missing the brightness and sharpness of my usual light.  Otherwise, I felt great and was further convinced that I'd found a minimalist shoe that almost perfectly mirrored my foot.

I arrived home just as Lily emerged from her bedroom, rubbing the last of the sleep from her big blue eyes and affixing her customary rise-and-shine grin.  We agreed to spend the whole day in PJ's and I tucked her into the couch, turned on Thomas the Tank Engine and hurried off for a shower.

As I stepped out of the shower, I heard Piper Bea singing softly to herself from her bedroom.  She was surprisingly chipper for one who does not normally take kindly to the arrival of morning.  I changed her diaper and clued her in on the lounge-about plans.

Naptime arrived in what felt like mere minutes.  We'd read countless books, test-driven a bevy of new toys, hounded the dog and even played demolition derby with a pair of unsuspecting baby strollers.  I received no protests as I placed Pipe in her crib and ushered big sister Lily to her room for her "rest".  Lindsay was still sound asleep and, seeing no need to sabotage her slumber, I settled into the couch for a nap of my very own.  I do not remember the last time I dared such a luxury and it was exquisite.

I roused the girls and remembered (how could I forget?!?) the camera I'd been given the day before.  While I hardly qualify as a "photographer", I do enjoy taking pictures and had endured a painful stretch after dropping and breaking my camera back on Halloween.  My mother, who had originally gifted me that camera and witnessed first-hand its destruction, was kind enough to give me a model that was its specific update, sparing me my normal agonizing learning curve upon acquiring a new camera.

Piper, refusing to part with a new companion, was placed in her high chair.  Click.

Lily joined me in enjoying a bowl of soup.  Click.

Soup can be messy and tubby time wasn't far behind.  Another photo op.

A return to pajamas found us waving goodbye to Mom and hoping that impending weather wouldn't leave her stranded at work overnight.  After she was gone, we played and played.  We watched birds at the feeders, oohed at the falling snow and played some more.  The day, a rare specimen that saw little bickering between my two spirited daughters, passed swiftly.

After putting Piper down for the night and singing songs and reading a few last books to Lil, I discovered that Clouseau had also decided to turn in.

Which left me, still in my pajama bottoms and slippers, to decide what to do with the rest of my evening.  So here I sit, with my legs kicked up, a tall glass of ginger ale, a newly warmed slice of apple pie (Mom's recipe, my execution) researching the reported update to the aforementioned MT101 and hoping that New Balance doesn't undue perfection.

Even if they do, it's just a shoe.  And they can't take away this perfect day.

twas the day before christmas.

Realizing I was the only thing stirring, I threw off the blankets and groped in the dark for my running shoes.  Santa was scheduled to appear that night, but I had things to attend to prior to his arrival.  I'd consulted the USATF website two days prior and mapped out a 13.1 mile course that led from my doorstep to my place of work via a long arcing loop.  Considering it a present to myself, I'd created the Crack of Christmas Eve Dawn Half Marathon.

The preceding weekend had brought with it 9 inches of snow that hadn't budged in the chilly days after.  Though the roads were clear, ice and hard pitted ground lurked just to either side of the pavement.  The sun hadn't yet crept above the horizon when I left the house, so I had on a headlamp and a Petzl Signal safety beacon.  I'm pretty sure they don't actually do much in the way of alerting motorists to my presence, but I appreciate the sense of security they perhaps falsely provide.  As race director, I knew that there were no water stations to be had, so I grabbed my Osprey Raptor 6 hydration pack (coming to retail stores in Spring '10).  I topped off my ensemble with my beloved windshirt, an Outdoor Research balaclava and a newly purchased Santa hat.  I may have looked ridiculous, but I was as "geare up" as I get and feeling great.

With less traffic than I'm used to in the morning thanks to my early start, I enjoyed confident footing as I rarely needed to venture off of the road.  It was extremely cold, but the effort of the run kept me from feeling the effects...at least during the run.  The only disappointment was finding that my failing to insulate the hydration pack led to a completely frozen drinking tube and no way to access the 2 liters of water that I was toting on my back.  Thankfully Osprey has built a pack that fits well enough that I didn't really mind the extra weight.

Upon reaching the historic town of Lititz, I paused to snap a few pics to confirm that I'd made it that far before picking up my feet again and turning back towards Manheim.

It wasn't until arriving at work that I realized just how cold and thirsty I'd become.  Despite the cold and the dawdling in Lititz, I'd covered the 13.1 miles in under 2 hours without really feeling like I'd pushed very hard.  I'd enjoyed the sun coming up on a cold and beautiful December morning that was brimming with the exuberant holiday expectations of my two little girls. I'd grinned like a lunatic and felt truly blessed to be gifted with a beautiful, healthy family and the luxury of my own health and happiness.  All I needed was for my beard and toes to thaw.

Santa was free to pass me by entirely as I didn't need any more gifts than I'd already received.

the bills were piling up.

I shut down my computer and tucked my chair under my desk. Despite another hard day’s work, I’d barely put a dent in all that I’d set out to do when I walked through the door in the morning. Christmas shopping weighed heavily on my mind and there seemed to be no end to the clamoring for the few remaining dollars in my wallet. A Lungfish lyric rattled around in my head: “The bills were piling up.”

The temptation to just get home and retire to the couch was drowned out by my body’s want to shed the burdens of the day. Clothes and shoes were swapped for running attire. With the sun long since set and an ice storm looming, I pulled on gloves and donned a hat and headlamp.

Tumbling out into the dark, my first few strides were overshadowed by the mental replaying of the missteps of the last few days.

Monday had marked a hectic and short-handed start to a busy week of attending to disgruntled customers and scrambling to address inventory and shipping issues. The “joy” of the holiday season has apparently been lost on all shoppers amidst the preparations for the big day and they are in a combative state. Though I’ve been “blessed” with an ability to mitigate it doesn’t mean I actually enjoy putting that talent to the test over and over again. Christmas seemed a long way off and the need to devote more hours to the workplace between now and then made me feel the guilt of thieving that time from loved ones at home.

As my heart rate quickened and my lungs started to warm to the task, I continued to wrestle with the budget-balancing act of a newly increased mortgage payment, the rising cost of electric in my beloved Keystone State and the general strain of keeping up with what often feels like a never-ending parade of arriving invoices. The bills were piling up.

My legs fell into a steady rhythm that subtly encouraged my mind to let off the worrying and come along for the ride. A quick sidelong glance at a passing gas station revealed that fuel prices were on the way up, up, up and my thoughts momentarily tilted back towards more fretting.

The gas pumps faded into past tense and the tunnel of light thrown from my headlamp drew me fully into the run. A few sparse, swirling snowflakes reminded how much I enjoy being out in the elements freed from the confines of the four walls of buildings and vehicles. I couldn’t see through the dark windows of passing cars, but I knew that I wouldn’t trade places with those inside.

A grin grew as my legs involuntarily picked up the pace and propelled me along the otherwise deserted sidewalks. My heart beat happily in my chest and embraced the task at hand. Christmas lights cheered my efforts, blinking and twinkling in support.

I climbed a brief but steep section of hill that left town and its ambient light behind me. Traffic dwindled and the sound of brakes and motors was replaced by footfalls and steady breathing. With each progressive step, the stresses of the day seeped further and further away.

In the few moments that my mind wandered from my run it found its way only to the expectation of once again seeing the wonder of Christmas through Lily’s eyes and watching Piper Bea take in the spectacle for the very first time…and the grin grew.

Having rounded the final corner and reached the driveway, I stepped up onto our front porch and remembered a later line in that same Lungfish song: “The world vanished in a gentle breeze.”

Indeed.

Bills? What bills?