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 key ingredient.

If pressed for a single trail of residence, I'd certainly have to call the Horseshoe Trail home.

While not a true second home (I'm not made of trail money, after all), the Conestoga is like a cabin returned to season after season with a familiarity that makes it feel like "mine" even though, deep down, I recognize that as soon as I leave the next short term tenant arrives.

I'm also well aware of the fact that some other fellow tribesmen and tribeswomen log enough time on the Stogie to lay fair claim to it being their home.  Like Gary Bowman, for one.  If anyone has the right to roll out a proper welcome mat it's Gary and he did just that on Saturday evening, inviting fellow runners far and wide to tackle the 10-mile Conestoga Trail Run course under the cover of darkness.

A large contingent planned to gather at Pequea Creek Campground after some strategic pre-run shuttling and then switch on the headlamps and flashlights to guide footfalls up and down the many contours of the eastern side of the Susquehanna River from there to Holtwood Park.

A smaller group, consisting of a handful of more-than-able bodies and a dumbass with a braided beard.

Photo courtesy of Stacey Wilson Keener

Having arrived on the scene first, I got to bear witness to the mop-up of a rescue operation that sent emergency professionals down into Kelly's Run to fetch a Bear Grylls wanna-be hiker who'd managed to whack himself in the leg with the machete he'd decided to haul along on his misadventure.  I decided to NOT take that as an omen and quietly thanked the heavens that our scabbards held only water bottles.

As an aside, I'm still waiting on the punchline.  Bear grills...what?  I'd think on that for a bit during the long, hot hours ahead.

There were some strong, strong legs in this group and what was a slow, controlled pace for these guys was a nice, steady clip in my book.  Still, it's all downhill to start and the cruise down into Kelly's Run was good times.  Was it hot?  Yep.  But not nearly so hot down in the ravine as it had been up high.

I fought off the urge to stop and snap pics down in the run as I didn't want to fall off the pace early and we had plenty of ground to cover.  Scott and I discussed his good and my bad days at Laurel and agreed that it's one beauty of a course.  I couldn't help but think "and so is this one."

The clamber up over the slabs directly above Kelly's and the long, grassy slope beyond them led to the Pinnacle and an early opportunity to refill water bottles.  I never tire of this sweeping view and framing it with running partners helps to give it some scope.

On the long run down from there to Tucquan, John made first mention of some gastric issues he was having that were likely tied to an ill-advised meal not long before we'd started combined with the heat and humidity.  He was still running strong but also clearly uncomfortable.

And, when I get to that point, there isn't anything I look forward to more than soaking in a cold creek.  In Tucquan, it's not a matter of finding a pool but rather picking which one you like best.  I found my favorite hole and soaked for a bit before talking Rik and John into posing for this photo.

This little rest stop should have left us miles beyond Scott, Steve and J.J., so we were surprised to see them all again shortly after we'd made it up the next climb.  Turns out, machines that they are, they'd decided to run the full loop at Tucquan to tack on a bit of extra mileage.

Jesse humored me for a stretch, padding along behind me, talking shoes and second growth.  Come to think of it, with the miles he's logged in those river valleys, J.J. can stake a home claim there too.  We caught up with the others at House Rock where they were making small talk with a handful of day hikers.

I was still guzzling water when the crew headed out and it took me a couple of minutes to catch back up.  On the steep haul up to the ridge that fosters Wind Cave, I ran into John who again voiced his discomfort.  We hung together through that stretch and decided to round the corner before Pequea on the road, cutting out the short climb that then ambles down into town.  John made it clear at this point that he was going to try and catch a ride back to Holtwood and, feeling a bit cooked myself and more familiar with some of the runners we'd meet at the campground, I decided I might try and track down keys from someone running to Holtwood and drive John and I back there.  At the time, it didn't sound like a bad idea.

Our short cut allowed us to meet back up with Rik just before hanging the right onto the old trolley bed that leads from the river to the campground along the southern bank of the Pequea creek.  That last mile passed pretty quickly and we found the campground a bustle of activity with balls bouncing, golf carts buzzing and grills (no Bear) blazing.

Rik and I bee-lined for the creek and spent another few minutes soaking.  If not on the trail, look for me in water.  RUNNING water.

We'd arrived well ahead of the 10-mile crew and the longer we waited, the better I began to feel.  The night crew emerged, seemingly out of nowhere and it was full of friendly faces.  Steve and Cassie appeared with their trademark smiles and enthusiasm.  Chris pointed out that we only seem to see each other on this trail and passed me a chia energy bar that, honestly, seemed to add some immediate pep.  I hadn't seen Steve Lougee since we'd logged some time together up on Mole Hill and I threw him a wink.  Aimee grinned with pre-run anticipation.  Lane gave me the quick rundown on his recent immersion in trail running.  The man of the hour, Gary, delivered his customer bear hug.

At that point, I knew I was going back to Holtwood along the Conestoga.  Before I did that, however, I needed to help John find that ride.  J.J. and Monica Joan, who was joining us for the 10 miles back to Holtwood, agreed to turn their keys over to John.  I gave him a hug and we agreed to get in touch and stay in contact.  Just one more instance of translating a few hours together on a trail into a friendship to last.

And then, I suppose, I blinked because everyone was gone.  Once again, I was standing there watching the crew run away.  I scrambled to pull out my headlamp, put my pack back on, gather my bottles and catch up.  Steve and Cassie led the group off of the Conestoga onto Smith's lollipop start and I bagged it to get further out along the trail to set up my little tripod to see if I could get some shots of the group as it passed by.  Something about bobbing headlamps always gets me pumped.

Rik and Stacey came through first, having also cut the lollipop short.  They decided to shoot a couple of photos too and after the bulk of the group went through, we realized that we hadn't seen Gary.  We decided to wait on him and soon discovered that he had Carli and a couple of others with him.

The three of us brought up the rear for a bit before deciding to push out ahead.  We never did catch the others, but we must have put some distance on the four behind us as we never did end up reconnecting.

Over on the York side of the river, there was a pre-4th hootenany going down with a fairly impressive fireworks display and a peculiar concoction of radio-friendly country, hip-hop and pop.  It was pretty surreal, especially after having spent many quiet nights on these same trails with only the musical accompaniment of crickets, birds, far-off farm dogs and the occasional train.  While I prefer the quiet, the goings-on did add a festive air.

Rik, Stacey and I stuck together mile after mile, not pushing too hard but just enjoying a beautiful night out together.  Hard to believe that we only really met back in January and I can't imagine not thinking of the two of them when I think about local trail running.  They are good people and good company.

Once we'd slogged our way up and over the Pinnacle and temperatures had cooled, I was feeling really good.  We made the final water crossing in Kelly's Run and began power-hiking the long, steady climb up to Holtwood Park.  Before I knew it, that power-hiking had turned into shuffling and then full-on running.  I love having a lot of leg late in a run and, especially after having felt pretty legless earlier in the evening, it was really satisfying to be accelerating up the ridge.

I would have been ok with that stretch going on and on were it not for one little concern.  While slugging some water down in Kelly's I discovered that the empty zippered pocket on one of my handheld bottles was completely open.  This was really disconcerting because inspection of the other bottle revealed that it didn't contain my car key and I was about 98% sure that I'd put my key in one of those bottles.

My hope was that I'd arrive at the pavilion at Holtwood and, while basking in the glow of the post-run after party, I'd dig into my pack and find that I had actually stashed the key there.  Or, if the key wasn't there, maybe I'd find it lying next to the car or sitting on the roof, a spot I'd nearly left my key on a number of other occasions.

The after party glow was there waiting.

My key was not.

Once I'd confirmed that fact, I began begging a ride home.  Thankfully, Aimee obliged and I consoled my conscience with the fact that I could jump out of the car at the intersection of Mt Joy and Colebrook roads without ever forcing her to stray from her route home.

Finding Lindsay awake when I got home at 2:30 and learning that she'd been calling and texting and calling again the cell phone that was locked back in the car did not a thing to ease that some conscience.  Ugh.

What I didn't learn until morning was that shortly after Aimee and I left, Gary and Josh had arrived at the pavilion, key in hand.  How or where they found it, I've yet to learn and maybe it should stay that way.  They did me one last favor, alerting the rangers to the fact that my car was going to have to sit there overnight and slipping a "note" through the slight crack I'd left open in the driver's side window.

That's me, the owner who lost his key...

...only to get it (and my car) back today.

For the moment, I'm going to store that key with my new collection of favorite Conestoga Trail memories.  But I may seek out one of those magnetic storage boxes before next time.

Or tie it right into this dumbass beard braid.

the higher the bounce (week 15).

The day before heading to Clinton County for the Hyner View Trail Challenge , I sprung for Chinese and was greeted with the following fortune:

Considering the questionable state of my Achilles, the demands of the Hyner course under the best of conditions and the horrendous weather report for the weekend ahead, I didn't like the sound of falling or bouncing.

My legs actually felt quite good and the right Achilles seemed to have quieted down during a low mileage week and with the aid of diligent icing and heating.  I'd managed a fairly demanding (though not long) run in the rain on Tuesday, clambering up and down Mole Hill in the closest mimic of Hyner I could find within easy striking distance.  Steering clear of my most stripped down footwear, I stuck with my relatively burly Montrail Mountain Masochists.

I sometimes forget how much I genuinely like these shoes and I definitely appreciated the extra support during this forced taper.  Eking out sub-10 minute miles on Mole Hill with recovering legs left me hopeful for Hyner.

Chris and I pulled up in front of the start/finish around 9:00 PM on Friday night and found few inhabitants.  The National Weather Service had issued a wind advisory for much of Pennsylvania and heavy rains were projected for Saturday morning and afternoon.  Temperatures hovered just above 50 degrees Fahrenheit but threatened to plummet.  We spent little time considering putting up a tent and agreed that Chris's minivan had ample room for both of us to sleep comfortably.  Listening throughout the night to the van bracing against the increasing gusts, I felt thankful to be "indoors" and wondered what sunrise would bring.

We awoke an hour-and-a-half before the 8:30 AM start to find participants starting to assemble.  Twelve-hundred runners and hikers had signed up for the 16-mile event but we wondered how many would show with the forecasted conditions.  The start was pushed back nearly a half hour due to overnight winds that had toppled one of the support tents.  It was apparent that many who had signed up stayed away when we saw volunteers with fistfuls of unclaimed race bibs.

Knowing that we had little more than a mile before the course settled into climbing single track, Chris and I inched up in the pack.  The maneuver paid off as we left the road behind with no more than 40 or 50 runners ahead of us, all of whom were holding a steady pace.

The first climb up Humble Hill came upon us almost immediately and I was thrilled to find that I felt strong.  I wasn't strong enough to run much of the climb (few were), but strong enough to maintain forward progress on the ridiculously steep pitch.

Just over 3 miles into the race, we'd climbed 1200 feet and reached the first top out at Hyner View, a popular launching point for hang gliders.  The wind was whipping and I was shocked to see my mother, stepfather, aunt and uncle waiting with Lily and Piper.  I knew they'd planned to attend the event but thought the weather would keep them away.  My initial excitement was immediately tempered by the realization that Lily was visibly shaking in the cold.  I spent several minutes with the kids before continuing on my way.  Chris had trucked right through the top out and was long gone.  I wouldn't see him again until we were both done racing for the day.

I was feeling some stiffness in the Achilles but nothing too concerning. Overall I felt solid.  The next 3 miles consisted mostly of downhill running which saved my lungs but had me second guessing my footing.  An extended section of side hill running found the trail basically disintegrating underfoot,  putting undue strain on my outside leg (which just so happened to be my already strained right leg).

 "Nothing too concerning" suddenly seemed a premature determination.

The upside was that this section included frequent creek crossings that allowed me to continuously dunk my right foot and enjoy the on-the-fly icing.  I hoped that this might keep any swelling at bay.

The climb out of Reickert Hollow seemed gradual in comparison to Humble Hill and I hit the 9 mile aid station surprised to learn that the first two major climbs were now behind me.  Though I now knew I was going to be hurting at the end of the day, I was pleased to know I was past halfway both in terms of mileage and required climbing.  I couldn't remember the description of the next section but was initially relieved to see that it was downhill.

That relief vanished quickly as I found myself tiptoeing between the rocks that littered the next mile of trail.  I was getting caught from behind with regularity and kept an eye out for places to step out of the way to let fresher runners pass by.  Despite the raw weather, I could feel heat emanating from my right shoe and wondered if my Achilles was going to hold up.

At Cleveland Hollow, just ahead of the final climb, we passed by two volunteers in pick-up trucks and I considered hitching a ride back to the start.  I was already past 10 miles, however, and expected I could claw my way up the S.O.B. and hobble through the last 4 miles if it came to that.

A mile later my day was done.  My toes stopped responding and I'd progressed to actually feeling pain with every step.  Jesse had sent me an e-mail on Friday with a warning about attempting the race if things weren't in working order.  The words "you'll be out the entire summer" were rattling around in my head and I worried that I'd already accomplished that setback.

Disappointed, I began creeping back the way I'd came, struggling at this point to put weight on my non-responding right leg.  I eventually got back down to the Hollow and commandeered the ride I'd skipped over in the first place.  I was on the way back to the start with my first DNF.      

Chris ran incredibly well and was still looking fresh at the finish.  He was good company and I was in relatively good spirits considering my wounded pride and my swollen leg.  I'd get to see Chris the next day too as he was the attending physician in the emergency room on Sunday morning.

X-rays were negative and I was further relieved to find that I didn't appear to have any tears.  Chris did confirm, however, that my tendinitis was very much for real.  At least in the short term, per my new physical therapist, here's what my workouts will look like:

So there's my "hard fall".

Nearing a full four months into the year, I'm heading in the wrong direction.  The first two of my "goal" races resulted in one missed event due to scheduling conflicts and a did not finish.  I can't even think about the races I'd planned to run later in the year when I'm not even able to log short runs without repercussions.

Here's hoping for one hell of a bounce.

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.

10 tough miles.

I was headed back to the southern end of Lancaster County for the second time in a month after not having been there in a long time.  A trail running event was again the siren call, but this time I was actually going to get to run.

For the past 17 years the Conestoga Trail Run, another creation from the blessedly mad running mind of Bill Smith, had asked participants to tackle what was billed as "arguably the toughest 10-mile race on the East Coast".  A few hours later, I'd be in a better position to weigh in on the argument.

"The footing is uneven at best, and can be dangerous.  A fall is probable.  An injury is possible.  Insect bites, sprained ankles, lacerations, broken bones are some of the possible hazards.  There will not be medical teams immediately on hand and our insurance will not cover your medical bills."

Those written words were being read and reread in my head as I drove southward.  Suddenly, a bright red blur burst into my peripheral vision.  A morning hot air balloon joyride was coming to an end and very nearly on the hood of my car.  I'd been warned to expect calamity but this was ridiculous.  I snapped a quick photo and hurried on my way.

Because of the point-to-point nature of the course and the relatively remote location of the section of the Conestoga Trail selected for the race, participants needed to make their way to Holtwood Park which would also host the finish line, pick up race packets and then board one of the four buses employed to shuttle racers to the starting line.  I arrived well ahead of the scheduled departure time, picked up my race bib and tried to make sense of when and how much I should be eating or drinking with the starting gun still being a couple of hours away from firing.

A familiar voice offered a "hey" and I was thrilled to reach out and shake the hand of Chris Fox, a former general practitioner who is now an ER doctor at Lancaster General Hospital.  I've never been fond of the doctor's office, but Chris had a special way of making visits feel like "visits" instead of appointments.  Lily had loved and trusted him immediately and we couldn't help but feel the same.  Lindsay and I were genuinely saddened when we'd learned of his intentions to lend LGH his skills but soon accepted that we needed to get over our selfishness, wish Dr. Fox the best and rest assured that we would be in good hands if we ever found ourselves in the ER.

I'd never forgotten that Chris is a runner and a triathlete and when I'd run into him in the small world that is Lancaster, we'd exchange short updates on what we'd been training for or how we were staying active.  We'd never actually crossed paths at an event, however, and today would be a treat.

We made easy conversation and Chris, having run the event before, gave me a first-hand account of what to expect.  Nothing he had to report made the course sound any less challenging.  I kept pounding water as we conversed and went through the standard paces of lacing up shoes, pinning on numbers and doing light stretching.  We talked for a time with Christopher McDougall, the celebrated author of Born to Run, and I got a special kick out of discovering that McDougall and I were sporting the same Brooks flats.

Chris and I clambered on to one of the waiting buses and continued to share hiking and running stories as we crept closer to the start line.  My bladder was beginning to sound warning calls and I hoped we'd reach our destination soon.  After what felt like an interminably long wait, the doors of the bus flung open and seemingly everyone from all four buses headed for the single available port-a-pot.  I heeded Chris's advice to jog a short distance away and seek the relative privacy of the woods.  Pre-race adrenaline and the after effects of having staved off the need to pee found me struggling to completely empty all of the coffee and water I'd consumed that morning.  Impatience won out and I settled for having at least relieved some of the pressure.

As we walked back towards the gathered throng, I was psyched to see Monica, Jesse and their adorable daughter Lillah.  Jesse had convincingly won the Susquehanna Super Hike just two weeks prior and broken the tape at almost the very spot that we were lining up to now run the Conestoga Trail in the opposite direction.  Jesse was nursing an injury and saving strength for the upcoming esteemed 25-mile Bald Eagle Mountain Megatransect scheduled to take place the following weekend.  Monica, however, was wearing her number and celebrating a return for a second go at what had been her first ever trail run the year before.  I also learned that she was feeling the ill effects of a bout of food poisoning.  My need to piss suddenly seemed like a minor concern in comparison.

Back at Holtwood Park, I'd noticed one of the other participants and felt certain that I recognized him.  As Chris and I attempted to move a little closer to the front of the pack ahead of the starting gun, I ended up situated just in front of this stranger and decided to risk making a fool of myself.

"I recognize that this is going to be a really weird question if your answer is anything but 'yes', but are you Peter Sarsgaard?"  A wide grin accompanied the "yes, I am" that came back as the response.  I offered a "well, welcome to Pennsylvania" to the well-respected and accomplished actor but refrained from any further pestering.  I noticed that he was with McDougall and remembered that Jake Gyllenhaal had been his companion at the Leadville 100-miler just a few weeks prior, fueling speculation at that time that casting had begun for the Born to Run movie.  Lindsay has subjected me to enough Access Hollywood and copies of People to educate me to the fact that Peter is married to Jake's equally famous sister, Maggie.  Maybe Maggie can play the Jenn Shelton character?

After a few last instructions and a practiced joke, Bill fired his trusty rifle and sent us all racing down the well-worn path.  That lasted all of 50 yards before the orange flags ushered us onto a spur trail that narrowed dramatically and began winding uphill.  I immediately realized that Chris and I should have been a bit more aggressive in creeping up in the pack.  The next few hundred yards demanded some selective leapfrogging past slower movers.  I'd finally gotten myself in a position to run freely when the trail seemed to present two separate options with runners ahead of me on both paths.  The path to the right went uphill and for some reason that seemed like the one to choose.  I only managed a few strides before passing someone who informed me that he was at the back of the pack and I was retracing steps.  I spun on my heels, saw traffic moving swiftly in the other direction and thought that making a wrong turn this early in the run was a bad omen.

Shortly thereafter, the singletrack deposited us back on the main road nearly where we'd started and onto one of the few (the only?) flat portions of the course.  Again, the reprieve was short-lived as we soon saw Smith pointing runners up a preposterously steep and wooded hill and encouraging new arrivals to take whatever route was available to cover the 40 yards necessary to get back to navigable trail.  In the interim, running was out of the question and scrambling was the only available option.  Leaf litter and loose rock added to the complications.  It was going to be a long day.

The next 2-3 miles were familiar and I was excited to be moving swiftly and passing numerous competitors along the way.  My legs and lungs felt great and I would have been right where I wanted to be if it weren't for one problem.  My bladder was screaming and slowly, steadily winning out over my determination to keep moving.  At a sharp turn in the trail, I ducked behind a large rock and got to work.  I usually "go" like a race horse and couldn't believe how slow a stream I was managing.  From my vantage point, I could see runners approaching from above before vanishing only to emerge a few moments later over my shoulder before disappearing entirely as they attacked the first significant quad-punishing descent.  It felt like I stood there for an eternity but I was determined to take whatever time was required to not have to stop again before reaching Holtwood.

At last I finished and dashed down the hill with resolve to make up the time I'd given away.  Relief washed over me and being able to focus entirely on the run was a blessing.  It took some hard work but after another mile I'd caught up with a group of 4 or 5 runners making their way up the next ascent.  Chris was at the front of the pack and was maintaining a strong and steady pace.

A bit of maneuvering put me on Chris's heels and for the next 3+ miles we alternated between running and scrambling, as the terrain allowed, and swapped memories of past adventures.  Despite the demands of the elevation gains and losses, I was lost in the running and the camaraderie.

At least I was before the arduous climb up from the lush beauty of Tucquan Glen to the high perch of the Pinnacle.  The cardio demands of this portion of the course diminished the conversation and the severity of the grade made any and all available handholds welcome.  I offered silent thanks to each sapling that quietly allowed me to haul my exhausted body against its weight.  I second-guessed my decision to not bring trekking poles.

"Your beard isn't even wet, Leon!" echoed down from above and I lifted my head to see Jesse smiling support that signalled our arrival at the Pinnacle.  I paused at the aid station to refill my handheld water bottle and noticed that Chris was charging full speed ahead.  It was the last I'd see him before the finish.  I downed a GU packet, washed it down with water and gathered my resolve to tackle the long, meandering climb back down towards the river and one of my favorite places in the county, Kelly's Run.

For the first time in the race, I was all alone and my mind began to wander.  I didn't even realize that I'd stumbled until my tailbone bounced painfully off of a sloped shelf of rock that had made fools of my feet.  I was up again almost instantly and shuddered at the full comprehension of how steeply the ridge dropped away beneath the rock.  I resolved to pay better attention while simultaneously recognizing that my legs weren't what they'd been just a few miles back the trail.

As I left the rocky climb behind me and rediscovered the relatively flat track of the rhododendron-clad ravine of Kelly's Run, I glanced at my wrist to confirm that I was still 2 miles from the finish.  Once again I lost my focus and, this time, suffered a contused shin that dropped me to the ground.

Though the ascent from Kelly's Run to Holtwood Park is sustained, the grade isn't as severe as much of what was presented earlier in the race.  By now, though, it barely mattered.  I was running, moving forward but not at the pace I would have liked.  I steeled my will against the temptation to look at my Garmin every 30 seconds to check mileage, relying instead on my vivid recollections of hiking this beautiful section of the trail..

Mr. Smith had one more surprise in store, however, asking runners to depart the trail just shy of Holtwood Park, head one final time downhill only to make up the distance again by returning to the top of the ridge.  I struggled through this final section, including a particularly unwelcome crawl beneath a downed tree, before finally breaking from the forest towards the beckoning glow of the finish line's time clock.

Two hours and twelve minutes seems like an unacceptably slow time, but other than the time devoted to my pitstop, I don't think I had much more to give.  Chris posted an impressive 2:05 and 14th place finish.  Monica had shaken off the food poisoning to place 2nd in her age group and was next off to the Mega with Jesse.  I landed at 36th place, a few places behind Sarsgaard who, it turns out, was running the first trail race of his life.

The toughest 10-mile race?  Hell if I know.  Tough?  Inarguable.  As is the fact that I've found myself a new favorite race.