you just aren't very good at this, are you?

John Muir would've turned 175 years old yesterday IF physiology hadn't had its way, as it always does, and now long ago carted him from the planet and a civilization that was already careening further and further away from the beliefs he clung to so steadfastly.

He died in 1914 having barely caught a glimpse of what modernity and its technological breakthroughs could and would wreak and how broadly their impact would be felt by the natural world, but his words in many cases have hardly aged in the nearly 100 years since his passing.

“Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out going to the mountains is going home; that wilderness is a necessity...”

Amen to that, Mr. Muir, and by the early evening hours of Friday, April 20, this tired, nerve-shaken individual was "over" civilization and trying desperately to leave the world behind for a time.  Several hundred other minds and bodies were headed home to the mountains too, destined for either a 25 kilometer or 50 kilometer venture through the lovely deciduous forests of Clinton County, Sproul State Forest and Hyner View State Park.  Regardless of the distance covered, the individual journeys would be mercifully free of pavement, billboards and the endless stream of we-interrupt-this-broadcasts that had monopolized a soul-crushing week back in the "real" world.

The Hyner View Trail Challenge began back in 2007 as an as-demanding-as-they-come foot race/hike, boasting over 4,300 feet of gain (with just as much give-away in the quad-demolishing downhills) spread over 3 major climbs and 16 miles.  In 2012, an additional 25K loop was added for those folks who just felt there wasn't a high enough degree of difficulty, I suppose, on that original course.  Though the additional loop saves runners/hikers from having to retrace their steps and tackle those same 3 climbs twice around, it also adds two more significant uphill sections (another 3,200 feet of gain) and two punishing descents.

To say it more simply, it's brutally demanding at either distance and is softened only by the incredible beauty of the surroundings, the trails and the views provided at the top outs as well as, if you make it the whole way around the course, a rewarding finish line reached. 

Coming into the weekend, I couldn't have attested to the rewarding finish firsthand as my only prior attempt (back in 2011) ended prematurely when the Achilles issues I tried to ignore in the days leading up to Hyner were fully exposed and then amplified by all of that up and down.  My day ended 11 miles after the start and the only reward I received from the Pennsylvania DCNR-truck ride back to the finish was motivation to seek out a PT, Michael Beiler of Drevna Physical Therapy Associates, who helped put me back together and pass along advice and positivity that has stuck with me ever since.

Last year, I missed out on the inaugural 50K and a chance at redemption due to a too-good-to-pass-up canyoneering invite.  Even though that trip to southeastern Utah was one to remember, a little bit of my psyche ached during the several hours that I knew folks were grinding their way up Humble Hill, navigating Johnson Run, plowing down the Post Draft and approaching the final steep section known as the SOB.

Now, at last, it was my turn and I was pretty pumped to have another go at the Challenge.

My pal Jefferson, who was running the 25K, and I had tented at the Western Clinton Sportsmen's Association the night before which meant being able to sleep almost right up to race time, wake up, lace on shoes and walk a few hundred yards to the starting line.  The finish line sits on the WCSA property and our tent would be less than a football field away in case returning immediately to bed seemed like the ideal post-race option.

There were so many familiar, friendly faces waiting for the gun that it was almost hard to keep in mind that this was a "race", but eyeballing the couple of speedsters also gathered there, it was comforting somehow to know that the rest of us could actually just leave the racing to them.  Discovering that my children were there too, having spent the night before with my mother, stepfather, aunt and uncle at the cabin my uncle owns a few miles south of nearby Renovo, I really felt as though my "homecoming" was complete.

Eight o'clock arrived and off we went over the bridge that crosses the west branch of the Susquehanna River and then hung a sharp right, put a few hundred yards of pavement behind us and began working our way back along the north bank of the river on a narrow stretch of singletrack for a mile or two.  Laughter and chatter accompanied the tightly-clustered pack behind the leaders and as often happens the initial pace was brisk.

Humble Hill has a way of snuffing out brisk.  Rising steeply, immediately steeply, from just before mile 2, this climb takes you from 620 or so feet above sea level to right around 2,000 feet before you reach mile 4.  I'd brought collapsible Black Diamond Distance Z-Poles with me, something I've never used before during a race, and I was glad to have them.  While they didn't make me go any faster, they allowed me to take the "hunch" out of my back on ascents and by being able to stand more upright I could top out not nearly as fatigued as I suspect I would have without them.

Hell, I was still smiling as I neared the Hyner View vista that gives the park its name.

Photo courtesy of Peter Lopes

My family, having hopped in the car and taken the easy route to the summit, was waiting with smiles and heads shaking at how ludicrous it was that us bib-wearers had opted to trek there on foot.  After hugs all around, I got back to work.

Just beyond the aid station tables, a right-hand turn leads you back into the woods and onto singletrack that actually descends 1,000 feet in less distance than it was gained in the preceding miles.  It's a nice change but there's no shaking the fact that you are giving away nearly everything you just worked so hard to conquer.  Determined to keep my quads intact, I fell back quickly on the group that I'd stuck with on the initial climb.

The route levels out for a bit down in Reickert Hollow but the going is still challenging as miles 5-7 force you to cutback and forth across Johnson Run more times than I managed to count.  Back in 2010, I bagged the crossings and stayed in the creek to relieve the swelling that was building in my damaged arch and heel.  I gained some confidence this year in not having to seek the same solace.

Somewhere in the hollow, the 50K course splits away from the 25K course and begins another long and steep climb up the Sledgehammer.  I'd stashed my poles in my Gregory Tempo running pack after reaching Hyner View but quickly pulled them back out for this stretch.  An aid station was mercifully waiting at the top and I wolfed down PB & J's like they were a rarely-tasted delicacy.  The next mile-and-a-half was one of the few rolling-to-flat sections on the course, following one of the broad cleared-for-pipelines sections that lurk atop a staggering amount of northern Pennsylvania ridgelines.  It was easy running and a welcome reprieve following the effort already demanded and ahead of what was to come later in the day.

We hit another beautiful downhill that seemed to go on forever, switchbacking over and over again and it was in this section that I began feeling as though I just wasn't getting anywhere.  I wasn't particularly fatigued and the body was holding up nicely, but I just couldn't seem to move along at the pace that it seemed this stretch of the race would allow.  I was struggling to keep up with other runners even when the shared conversation was of interest and would've been great distraction.  Periodically, someone would pass me and every now and then I'd be caught from behind by two or three runners who seemed to be out for an afternoon jog.  I wanted to be THOSE guys.  Some days I am, but not today.

Not here at Hyner.

A low mental patch was threatening when I had a clear, liberating thought.  "You just aren't very good at this, are you?"  I'm not sure what brought on the question but I laughed aloud and immediately felt the blahs seep away.  The answer, of course, is/was "no, not really", but that's not what had brought me there in the first place.  My mind was back where it needed to be.

Moments later, I'd reached the bottom of the descent and turned left into the absolutely stunning Ritchie Run.  Aesthetically, this was my favorite part of the entire course.  The trail meandered its way from one side of the creek to the other and back again.  And again.  It was a really technical, wet uphill but I just marveled at how beautiful a place in the world it was and here was the first time that the "wilderness is a necessity" line began echoing in my consciousness.  I'm not sure I needed to be there, but I was so thankful that I was.

After leaving Ritchie Run behind, I auto piloted for a few miles and, frankly, don't recall many of the details.  I might have if the hospitality at the West Branch Nature Conservancy Camp aid station hadn't flushed everything from my short term memory, replacing it was carbonated beverages and hot, delicious soup.  Roughly twenty miles into the race at this point, I was craving sustenance, whether I knew it or not, and that soup was heaven sent.  As I think about it now, the glory of mid-race soup is a reoccurring theme for me at ultras.  Here's hoping that never changes and that the kind, selfless souls who have come to my rescue so many time either continue to be out there or have like counterparts on every long course I find myself.

The next few miles passed pleasantly as the little bit of climbing paled in comparison to what had come before and then we returned to the lollipop stick that had led away from the 25K course and were able to take the Sledgehammer down instead of up.  My quads still felt surprisingly good and I ran this section fairly well, actually passing a couple of runners and catching up to another.

I'm pretty sure I gave all of those positions right back after returning to where we'd left the 25K loop earlier in the day and having to creep up the narrow, messy, technical trail that climbs up along Johnson Run to the highest point on the 25K course.  The poles really shined in this section.  Again, they didn't actually haul me up the hill or quicken the pace but the balance and stabilization they provided my tiring legs was much appreciated.

At the top out, with the penultimate ascent out of the way, I made sure to drink a lot at the awaiting aid station.  I knew that I was about to hit another rocky, rooty downhill before tackling the final climb of the day and reaching the last aid station before the finish.  The Post Draft trail cuts downwards steeply along the side of a ridge and has tricky footing the entire way.  It had signaled the end for me two years ago and I was curious to find what it had to tell me now.

Mere moments after leaving the aid station, I was caught from behind by Robert Gusztaw who is headed to TransRockies (http://transrockies-run.com/) this summer with his wife, Janine.  Knowing I'd run the 6-day stage race last year, they'd introduced themselves briefly at the starting line.  It was nice to spend the Post Draft descent talking of the Rockies and I found myself excited anew for my August return to TRR.

Thanks to the conversation and the little psychological bump that came from catching 25K participants (they'd started an hour behind us that morning) from behind made this stretch go quickly and we continued to chat in the first portion of the climb out of Cleveland Hollow.  I couldn't help but notice the spot at which my Achilles had finally called it quits two years ago and while my mind stayed there for a minute or two, I fell behind a few steps and was again on my own.  There were quite a lot of 25K hikers on this climb and did my best to politely sneak past them without taking away from their experience or forcing them to step into inadvisable positions on the steep, narrow trail.

Practically on all fours, I scrambled the dreaded SOB at the top of the hill and stumbled on to the flat above, instantly struck by the gusting winds buffeting the volunteers staffing the final aid station nestled there.  The idea of them sitting there for hours in those conditions was humbling and I took a few moments to thank each and every one of them.

There was another mile or so of slight uphill that seemed like flat after the SOB and then the Spring Trail led straight down the mountain.  In two miles, the trail loses somewhere in the vicinity of 1,300 feet as it follows Huff Run toward the Susquehanna and I was thrilled to have quads enough to really power through it.  It was too little too late to make my overall time very impressive but I would rank that downhill in my own personal top 3 for both my performance and the fun that was had while doing it.  Didn't expect to feel that good after 28 miles at Hyner, but, man, I was glad I did.

I spent just about everything I had left there in Huff Run and found myself alternating between shuffling and walking back across the bridge before turning down the lane toward the WCSA.

Spirits were high at the finish line and it was awesome to be reunited with most of the friends who I'd started with or who had seen us off so many hours earlier.  Learning that my speedy friends, Jesse Johnson and Derek Schultz, had finished first and second with Jesse cracking 5 hours and establishing a pretty stout 4:55:19 course record.  The soon-to-be-ultra-running-household-name Ashley Moyer finished third overall, just 43 seconds behind Derek's 5:15:07 and nearly an hour ahead of the second-place female, Sheryl Wheeler.

My 7:29:12 put me right smack in the middle of the pack, a cozy position I've come to love that came without a trophy but secured the same finisher's medal as everyone else who made it the whole way 'round the mountain.

Most of the race participants departed a few hours later, but Jefferson and I again spent the night at the WCSA after driving back up for another, less taxing summit of the Hyner View vista.  Very early Sunday morning, I reluctantly snuck from the tent to relieve myself of some of the prior day's hydration.  The sky, free of ambient light pollution, was bursting with stars and whether from my emergence from the tent or something else entirely, a coyote's cry pierced the silence.  The call was answered by another and then two more in some sort of wild nocturnal responsorial that fell silent moments later, leaving only the distant sound of the waters of the Susquehanna seeking the Chesapeake Bay.  I remembered John Muir, grinned and returned to the tent, falling almost instantly back to sleep.

 I can't wait to go home to Hyner again next year.

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.

singing the blue's cruise.

I've got blog posts withering on the vine.

I meant to report on my day at the Conestoga Trail Run (and address Kelly's accusations), had a commentary on the wonderfully inherent risks of getting lost at ultras and intended to provide a look back at September's mileage.  A beard vs. aerodynamics entry is way overdue.  There are other ideas rattling around in my sieve of a brain but I've got to let them go or at least set them aside to say a thing or two about the 2011 Blue's Cruise 50K.

Just gotta do it.

I'm actually going to do my best to keep my clumsy words out of the way and let some great pics from some great friends (thanks, Jo and Derek!) do most of the talking.

Speaking of Jo, there she is on the far right smiling away as usual.  This was the crew at the 6.5 mile aid station and they were fantastic.  On a pretty raw day thanks to the muddy, muddy course, cool temps and on-and-off rain, the volunteers at Blue's delivered warmth and encouragement at every stop.  The been-there-done-that wisdom of the Pagoda Pacers was evident at each aid station and much appreciated.

And speaking of warmth and "pretty raw", here's Derek doing, well, whatever it is he's doing.  I'm relieved to say that I didn't witness this spectacle first hand.  I did, however, get the jolt of adrenaline that Derek delivers each of the four or five times I crossed his path on the course as he leapfrogged from point to point, cheering on racers and photo documenting the day.

Derek snapped this pic of me just after I went past the 6.5 aid station.  He had his shirt on at this point, thank goodness.  I was still feeling good enough at this point to have run through the aid station without stopping and it seems I was fancying myself some kind of bird in flight.  Why I can't help but clown for a camera is a mystery worth investigating.

This is ultra-machine Kelly Agnew doing work.  We ran together for the first couple of miles and I forgot to ask him if his stopping to shed a layer and encouraging me to "keep going" was his way of actually telling me to "get lost".  Hmmm.  Maybe it's better that I didn't ask.  The next time I saw him, he was asking me if I was "ok".  And, then, he got right back to the task at hand and cranked out a sweet 5:24 on a track way muddier and hillier than my (once again) poor pre-race reporting would've suggested.

Don't let this photo of Gary and Carli fool you.  The course is about 95% trail, much of it sweet singletrack.  This shot was taken within the first 1/8 of a mile and other than a couple of road crossings and this same short stretch at the end, this was the last paved surface they needed to cover.  Congrats, you two!

Look at that grin.  You think Greg likes ultra running?  I'd say so.  This is another of the wonderful individuals that I met at Laurel Highlands and immediately felt like I'd known forever.  I look forward to spending more time together on the trail...the sooner the better.

Jeremiah caught me from behind coming down the first real climb on the course when my left arch was starting to punish me for punishing it in the stride-mangling mud of the first 1/3 of the course.  He said "you don't recognize me" and he was right.  The last time I'd seen him, he was sporting a full head of dreads that apparently have been shorn.  Jeremiah is the owner and head trainer of the CrossFit Collective in Lancaster.  Whatever he's doing, it's working.  He ran a sub 5:30.  Check out the Collective and maybe he can whip you into shape too (maybe I should consider that a note to self).

Jason is another Laurel blood brother and a face I always hope and expect to see at area races.  We spent some time together on Sunday at a point where we were both in grinding mode, just trying to push through to the finish.  If you haven't been there, trust me, those are bonding moments for sure.  That much more so when you endure them with an already kindred spirit.  Way to get it done, Jason!

I hadn't met Steve before, but knew him through Facebook if that qualifies as "knowing".  Can't imagine a better way to have made his acquaintance than by sharing a mile together on the trail.  He was chugging away and I wish my arch would've allowed me to spend a bit more time with him.  Conversation was easy and he shared stories of Leo Lutz, another Lancaster runner who appears to be known by everyone but whom I've never met despite our similar names and shared interests.  Steve is another of the 6 degrees that will eventually lead to me shaking Leo's hand.  I didn't see Steve later in the day, but, per the results, it looked like he was 1st Senior Male, clocking a 6:02:58 at age 65.  Yes, sixty five.  Awesome.

And, speaking of awesome, the one and only Randy Schultz crossed the line and, in the process, scored his second 50K finish in the last month!  I can only imagine the thrill of being escorted to the end by son Derek.  This is one proud papa who just so happens to be a papa that so, so many of us are proud to know.  If there's a bigger heart out there, I'll need visual evidence as proof.  Congratulations, Randy!  You truly are an inspiration.

Which brings me back to me.  There was a different kind of inspiration waiting for me.  Lindsay and the girls were kind and loving enough to brave less than ideal weather to see me make it to the end.  If only I had as much pep left at the finish as Piper Bea did when she came dashing my way with a celebratory hug and giggles...the best finisher's medal ever.

Shy Lily played coy and got bearded kisses in response.  More joy.

Shout outs too to my beautiful wife, Lindsay, for spending one of her extremely rare days off from work, class, clinicals and studying to wait and worry in the cold rain for me to finally drag myself to the finish many, many minutes after I'd told her to expect me.  We make sacrifices for each other, but, frankly, mine are minor in comparison to hers.  If there is such a thing as an angel, she just might be one.  Thank you.

Thanks also to the race directors and all of the volunteers for another incredible event.  There was pre-race buzz surrounding the Blue's as this was the first year that it would be a true full 31 mile loop around the lake.  Then with the wicked weather of this past month, there was some concern that the course wouldn't actually be ready.  Just two to three weeks ago, most of the trail was quite literally underwater.  Like 10-15 feet deep!   I'm amazed at how well the race came off with those challenges and tip my hat, thinking it way too weak a gesture on my part under the circumstances. 

To trail running friends, old and new, may it please be evident how much I cherish our shared adventures.  Even at low physical moments, I can't imagine wanting to be anywhere else.  I hope that I find ways over the years to at least partly repay the inspiration, kindness and positivity that you gift to me on every meeting.  It's been a great ride thus far and I'm so excited that the road, er, trail looks like it just goes on and on and on.

See you out there!

one ugly mudder.

By Monday morning it was evident that Piper Bea had something far worse than the common cold.  Infants can be cranky and sport runny noses with enough frequency to often have it seem the norm.  Piper had crankiness and snot in spades but was listless in a completely unrecognizable way.

All week long we monitored a whip-sawing fever that would leap to 102.9 before vanishing entirely only to reemerge at a heart-stopping 104.  We visited the doctor on three different occasions and had taken the prescribed chest x-rays that thankfully revealed no major respiratory concerns.

Basically, our week looked (and sounded) a lot like this:

At bedtime on Saturday evening and with the prospect of another restless night looming, I was still uncertain of whether I'd make it to the start line of Pretzel City Sports's Ugly Mudder.  Another Ron Horn creation, the Mudder travels the rocky, rooty and, you guessed it, muddy trails of Mt. Penn above Reading, Pennsylvania in all their post-snow glory.

Jefferson had made up his mind to test his knee at the event several weeks earlier and I'd caught the bug myself.  At just a hair over 7 miles, the Ugly Mudder was shorter than the events that I was training toward tackling later in the year, but would be a great chance to see if I had any fleetness whatsoever and an opportunity to "race" early in the season.

Besides, there was a killer hoodie to be had.

We arrived with a good half hour to spare before the 11:00 start time and the place was packed.  Really packed.  I believe that there were nearly 600 signed up beforehand and there were enough walk-ups to push the start time out by a good 40 minutes as the good folks at Pretzel City kept registration open.

That is a whole lot of bodies leaving a start line headed for the beginning section of single-track on a course that consists mostly of the same.  In other words, this was not an event at which to get buried in the pack at the start.  But, true to form, Jefferson and I managed to do just that.

As Ron went over final instructions, I searched desperately and unsuccessfully for cracks in the crowd that might allow passage to somewhere closer to the front of the line.  When the gun went off, I was feeling frustrated and wasted adrenaline because of it.  By mile 2, I was feeling plenty gassed and wondered what the next 5 miles would bring.

Thankfully, I settled into a rhythm and my spirits started to pick up along with my pace.  The course overlapped periodically with the Ghouls n' Fools track and it was interesting to see in full daylight what had been cloaked in darkness back in October.  We passed beneath the storied Pagoda and Reading spread out in all directions below us.  A right turn dumped us back into the woods and off we went, up and down, sometimes on all fours.

Apparently some vandals removed a stretch of trail markers that led to some confusion in the middle of the course.  I'm pretty sure  I covered a small section of trail twice, but that didn't bother me nearly as much as it seemed to those individuals who'd had some hope of placing near the top of the standings.  I suppose there are some benefits to being short on talent.

Late in the course there were some wild downhills that included treacherous footing, loose rocks and tons and tons of thorns.  I had blood pouring from my knees and legs but dodged a real bullet when my shirt bore the brunt of what could've been a wicked goring from a downed tree limb.  I knew I'd totalled the shirt, but it wasn't until I got home later in the day that I realized a huge chunk of the shirt had actually been removed entirely. 

A final unpleasant uphill clamber that mirrored the end of Ghouls n' Fools deposited me at the finish line a couple minutes over an hour from when I started.  Especially considering that I'd boxed myself in at the start and felt fairly miserable a short while into the race, I was rather pleased.  I believe I ended up just outside of the top 30 which is about as close to the top as I can realistically hope to be.  More importantly, I'd had a wondrously enjoyable day on the trail (and before and afterwards) with an extended family of trail runners, including Jesse and Derek whom I hadn't seen together since they began their shared march to tackling a 100-miler.

Erin, Noah, Finn and Jefferson's mum-in-law were waiting at the finish and it was a joy to see the boys light up at the sight of their dad approaching.  As soon as Jeff appeared at the bottom of the last climb, their encouraging shouts drowned out the voices of all the other supporters on the course.

That was awesome and made my thoughts return to Piper.  Though she was asleep when I got home, she woke from her nap with bright-again-at-last eyes and a glorious grin that hinted her illness might finally be on the wane.

I couldn't have asked for a better end to an Ugly Mudder of a week.