O.R. they?

As I sit here typing, it's hard not to think about the fact that this time next week I'll be trying to get a good night of sleep ahead of taking the first step of the 6 days and 120 miles that is GORE-TEX TransRockies the following morning.

Am I excited?  Yep.

But concerned too.

The more my fitness has improved, the more aware I've become of my weaknesses and the fact that there's just no way to properly mimic running at altitude when there's no altitude to be had.  Not without money (and the contraptions that money can buy) that I do not possess (and couldn't justify on said contraptions if I did).

I spent the past several days in Salt Lake City at the Outdoor Retailer Summer Market trade show and, while there, had a couple of different chances to test the legs, lung and heart at higher elevations and had first hand opportunity to confirm that while being fit is a good foundation it doesn't always overcome science.

A whole summer of diligent nurture turned on its head by nature.  Go figure.

But up on the Great Western Trail in the Wasatch Mountains, I got myself the taste I needed to know more tangibly what I'm up against and that can't be all bad.  The racing pulse that signals my arrival at 9,000+ feet doesn't need to be a total deal breaker, but I've gotta handle it.  Feeling that pounding again firsthand before the actual first day of "racing" was definitely worthwhile.

It was also a blessing to be able to witness far more talented and experienced runners do what they do, either by bystanding or by running right alongside (or just behind) them.  I picked every accessible brain and tucked away what I could from offered advice and/or accounts of races and adventures.  I watched the way incredibly skilled trail technicians chose their steps and transitioned paces depending on the terrain.  I listened to them describe highs and lows and found that in many cases the moments they seemed to cherish weren't necessarily finish lines or medal ceremonies, but more often the same minor triumphs or beautiful landscapes that us less accomplished plodders  hold dear.

I'd been reminded, as I often am in the presence of trail runners that the majority of us are in search of the same camaraderie, friendship and shared passions.

I wasn't going to be able to thieve any of that talent or call upon experience that belonged to others, but maybe just maybe I stored away some new perspectives and nuggets of insight that I can draw from during those pending 6 days up high in Colorado.

We can't all stand atop podiums or set records, but we can each take another step along the trail, up the next climb or down the next descent.

Not being entirely sure what lies around the bend isn't a good enough reason to not go see.

I'm gonna have a look.

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.

colo-running.

Laurel Highlands put some cosmetic hurt on my feet, but otherwise left me surprisingly none the worse for wear.

Peel off a toenail...

...band-aid the ankles..

...lance a blister...

...good as new.

It was back to business and a few days in the office before boarding a plane for Boulder, Colorado.  I'd only be on the ground for 3 days and most of those hours would be devoted to work, but remaining on East Coast time, I hoped, would allow me to do some exploring each morning.  This would be the first time in several Colorado business trips that I'd be staying in a hotel in downtown Boulder with easy access to the endless trails that beckon from just outside of the city.  I'd picked a few of the brains I trust most about what trails to hit and how to get their from the Boulderado.

The flight to Denver International was blissfully uneventful and provided beautiful glimpses of the American patchwork below.  My girls are fascinated by planes (and why shouldn't they be?) and have rekindled my marveling at the experience after years of not giving flying much thought at all.  Surely a 2 and a 4 year old must believe that there's magic at work and if I think on it for too long, as I did on the flight, I tend to agree with them.

Our host for the visit, Ben, whisked us (my boss, Tim, was also along for the ride) away from the airport and shared a good laugh at the full behind-closed-doors pat down I'd received at the Harrisburg Airport after the scanner reportedly showed a large threatening bulge in the crotch of my pants.  All I can say is that a most thorough search on the part of two TSA employees failed to turn up anything incriminating.

Ben treated us to an awesome dinner at a local Japanese tea house and, at least according to Mountain time, we turned in early.  Despite being excited to run in the morning, I fell quickly to sleep.  Except for a middle-of-the-night wake-up call from the amorous couple in the room next door (short-lived, but vigorous), I slept soundly until my alarm went off at 5:00 AM "their" time.  The trails were calling my name.

Three blocks and a couple of hundred yards later, I was here:

Back in April, I'd run and hiked in Utah with Jon Webb, a current Boulder resident, and we'd hoped to get out on the trails together when I hit town.  Unfortunately schedules did not align and he was back in Utah on business of his own.  He had, however, been generous enough to give me some insider beta and it was at his suggestion that I was climbing the Viewpoint Trail on my way to the Flagstaff trailhead.

The sun rose quickly and after a few hundred feet of ascent I'd reached Flagstaff and continued to climb toward the summit.  The single track was incredibly forgiving in comparison to the rocks and roots of home and the surroundings were breathtaking.  I saw several deer during the run and they seemed determined to offer up postcard worthy poses against the sub-alpine backdrop.

I made it to the top of Flagstaff winded but pleased to find that the four day window after Laurel Highlands was enough to restore some energy to my legs.  The run down from the summit was quick and fun despite the fact that I managed to lose the trail somewhere along the line.  I didn't lose the trail so much as I somehow found myself on another, the Ute Trail, which took me further from town and down into Gregory Canyon.

Ute ended at a parking lot which was also home to access trails to the top of Green Mountain and I immediately made up my mind to return there the next morning.  A short jog up the road afforded a sweet view of the Flatirons.

Remembering that I did have a meeting that morning and confirming with the GPS that I'd been out on the trail for a good bit of time, I stuck to the road which returned me to Viewpoint and a fun sprint back down into town.  I got back to the Boulderado with just enough time to jump in the shower and wolf down breakfast.

Tim and I put in a full day of line reviews of Spring 2012 backpacks, tents, sleeping bags and other outdoor gear before enjoying another delicious dinner.  We roamed around Pearl Street for a bit before calling it a night.

My neighbors serenaded me again, this time with a little more gusto.  Perhaps they too were getting used to the altitude and building endurance.  I didn't give it too much thought and thankfully fell right back to sleep.

Knowing I had a more significant climb ahead of me than the day prior, I planned to wake up at 4:30.  I was up before the alarm went off, made my way through the eerily silent hotel and headed for Green Mountain.

As I climbed back up Viewpoint again, I was psyched that my legs felt fresh even after logging 8.5 miles the day before. I was feeling about as good as I could possibly hope to in the unfamiliar altitude.

I couldn't immediately determine where the Ranger Trail began but stumbled upon Saddle Rock and decided I'd run the loop in reverse.  Within a couple of hundred yards, I understand why Saddle Rock was suggested as the downhill portion of the loop.  That climb went on and on and alternated between maintained step-ups and technical track that surprised me after the smooth surfaces I'd tackled earlier.  Here's a look back over my shoulder:

I was no longer progressing very quickly but I was having a blast.  The sun had just gotten fully above the horizon when I reached a high point that looked back down on Boulder.

That high point, it turns out, was nowhere near the top of Green Mountain and I had plenty of work ahead of me.  I missed a couple of steep switchbacks that made the run even longer than it needed to be, but every single step was a joy.  I tried not to look at the GPS for fear that it would tell me it was time to head back down.

Eventually, I topped out at the summit and drank in the expanse.  The monument called out the parade of peaks that marched off into the distance.

I finally managed to drag myself away from the view even though I would've loved to linger.  I was still daydreaming about those high peaks when I took a misstep and crashed hard on my right knee.  Even the lump that rose above my kneecap couldn't ruin the day (though it did complicate the descent).

Less than a mile outside of town, I was granted one last gift as a mule deer in velvet allowed me to take his photograph.

And that was that.  I'd eked out 17.5 miles in two days and loved every inch.