a day's hard night.

Just before walking out the door of the office on Friday afternoon, I received news that a deadline I thought was 3 weeks away was actually just a week out.  That news hit me like a kick in a place (pick a place) that hurts and hurts a lot.  I wasn't happy to hear it.  Angry, in face and my initial and immediate frustration threatened to fester and destroy my entire weekend.

I fumed for a few minutes, recognized that because of the give-and-take required in the project, I wasn't going to make any headway this weekend anyway, and decided that I was going to take advantage of that fact and have a helluva weekend before settling into the sure-to-be-painful grind on Monday morning.

I went home and found the kids at play in the backyard with one of the neighbor kids and a friend of Lil's from her nursery school.  I tagged in on parent duty, freeing up Lindsay to attend to school work of her own, and spent the next couple of hours performing soccer goalie duties, being a "monster" and chasing the screaming kids from one end of the yard to the next.  It was great.

On Saturday, I played endlessly with the kids and, once Lindsay got home from clinicals, went with the entire family to the carnival in Buchanan Park.  It, too, was great or at least the time we had together was.

We had a wonderful little dinner together on the outside patio of a local restaurant at which all of the other patrons decided to eat indoors.  Having the whole place to ourselves, we laughed and enjoyed each other's company without any of the usual concern for the other diners that can make eating out with 3 and 5 year olds less than inviting.

You guessed it...it was great.

Arriving home as the sun was just beginning to set, I knocked out the mowing (don't EVEN get me started on this country's ridiculous obsession with manicured lawns) while the girls got tubbies (yes, we call baths tubbies) and Linds readied them for bed.

I finished up in time to take over bedtime story reading duties and got the girls tucked into their beds.  I doubt that visions of sugar plums danced in either of their little heads, but they drifted off with smiles that left me certain of sweet dreams to come.

And then...it was time run.

Rumor had it, there was a super moon on the prowl and that meant the promise of brightly lit trails to accompany the warm temperatures.  With Lil and Piper in bed and Linds bound for the same soon, all I had to worry about was being home by sunrise when Lindsay would need to again return to rounds at the hospital.

I rendezvoused with Jefferson a short while later and we carpooled 40 minutes north and east to where the Appalachian Trail crosses Route 325 in Clarks Valley.  This is the same trailhead from which I'd started my Horseshoe Trail 37-miler back in July 0f 2010 and Jefferson had seen me off on that run too.  This time we'd be heading west instead of east, climbing up Peters Mountain and running its ridgeline until we decided we'd gone far enough and needed to turn around and come back to the car.

This so called Super Moon was out, and bright to be sure, but there were plenty of clouds to dull the dazzle of its touted performance.  My romantic wishing for a run by moonlight was definitely going to require the sensible reliability of a headlamp.

Jefferson had had stomach issues earlier in the week that had him wondering about the state of his legs and I was curious if I would feel any ill effects from my climbfest on Mole Hill earlier in the week.  I had hoped to sneak in another run or two between then and now but my schedule had not cooperated.

The only real significant uphill of the night came right away, as the southbound Appalachian Trail sign at the low-lying parking lot on Route 325 points to an 800 foot climb over the next mile-and-a-quarter.  A couple of big step-ups near the end of the first mile reminded me that we intended to go a long way and maybe it wasn't the wisest decision to be attempting to run every single inch of the ascent.  Jefferson didn't protest, hinting that it would've been nice to have a warm-up ahead of a run straight up the mountain.

No such luck, but we were up on top soon enough and settled back quickly into a steady pace.  We talked about life in general (as we always do), our families and Jefferson's adolescent memories of visiting a camp in the valley just below us.  We also discussed the the terrain in relation to the Laurel Highlands trail where we'd be running together in just a few weeks.  I remember commenting that Laurel would have more elevation change but wouldn't be quite as rocky even though, at that point, I was finding the footing far less rocky than what had been the case on my recent miles on sections east of where we were.

The moon was growing less and less super as the night wore on and the clouds won over.  It did continue to make infrequent appearances and I tried to take advantage of its light to snap a few photos.  Through the lens of my camera, the moonlight cast ghostly glow through Jefferson's water bottle.

We also took periodic breaks to make sure that we were refueling, an effort worth making in the warm, humid conditions.  Jefferson's legs had come back and I was feeling good too.  Despite this, the initial climb, the rocky footing and the handful of stops had kept us from doing anything even close to our strongest pace and by the time we stopped at around 7.5 miles to assess the run and how much further we should go, it was well past midnight.

A slave to landmarks and wanting to reach points on the AT from which I can start fresh another day, I had hoped to make it all the way out to the pedestrian footbridge that spans the trail's intersection with Route 225.  This was likely another 2 miles from where we stopped to make our assessment.  Knowing that we'd have a 45 minute drive home after we got back to the car, I'd pretty much decided it was time to turn around.

But...I didn't know our exact location and, being certain that that would bother me in the days after, I suggested that we keep going west until we hit the next recognizable landmark and turnaround at that point.

We blew right past the spur trail that leads to the Peters Mountain shelter without seeing the sign that identified it as such.  When we hit a power line, I knew that we were only a half mile from the footbridge and, both feeling good, we barely hesitated in making the decision to push on.

The parking lot just before the bridge burst into sight somewhere after 2:00 in the morning. The view through the fence that ensures hikers don't topple down onto the road below was eerie in the light of the full moon and again I pulled out the camera and tripod to see what I could manage to capture.

We'd come 9.75 miles and, looking at a good long return trip, we made sure to pound some food and drink before getting back on our feet.  Except for minor stiffness, to be expected with the AT underfoot, we were both feeling fairly fresh.

And we continued to for the next mile or two.

When you do an out-and-back and start wondering why the trail seems so much more technical on the return trip, it's a pretty clear sign that you're getting fatigued.  And I was.  So was my partner and his knees weren't just fatigued but angry.  My feet were getting sloppy and, as can happen when this starts to be the case, I banged the front outside of my left foot hard and awkwardly off of a rock with a poorly timed step.  I hadn't broken anything but I'd clearly bruised myself in a fashion that made certain footfalls painful.

The time to shuffle had arrived.  Anyone who's done any ultra racing or significantly long trail running knows exactly what I'm talking about.  The knees stopped lifting and the feet were coming off the ground just high enough to scoot forward just quickly enough to not be mistaken for walking.  Through a couple of relatively smooth sections, we made decent progress but those sections were frequently interrupted by rocky stretches that demanded a picking of spots that slowed us to a determined hiking.

Despite our ever slowing pace, I was psyched because I knew that we'd already well surpassed the length of Jefferson's prior longest run and forward progress was still happening even if not at the pace with which we'd started.  I tried to keep Jefferson encouraged by keeping him abreast of the diminishing distance between us and our waiting vehicle but I believe that backfired as one of those updates informed him that we weren't nearly as far along as he and his body had hoped.  In hindsight and in putting myself in those same shoes, I should have just kept my mouth shut.

Keeping my mouth shut might have also kept me from the hyper awareness of how dry it was.  The heat and humidity, while not overwhelming, had definitely coaxed both of us into consuming more fluids than normal and with several miles left to go, we were metering out the last few drops instead of drinking our fill.  I daydreamed (nightdreamed?) of the Platypus bottle of water that I'd pulled from the freezer right before leaving home.  I'd talked myself out of carrying it in my pack while we ran but knew it would be waiting when we finally arrived back at the lot.

After what seemed like forever, the trail began a noticeable downward progression and it was obvious that we were in our final descent.  With the finishing line looming, fairly forgiving footing and gravity as aid, I picked up the pace but soon discovered, in looking back over my shoulder, that Jefferson was no longer tucked in right behind me.  I crouched down and waited a few moments for him to catch back up and he acknowledged that his knees were not going to let him pound away on the downhill.

Coming up out of my crouch, I realized that my quads and calves had a bit of the just-about-to-cramp feeling and, knowing that the car was close, I was quite content to take the time we needed to get down without pushing the pace or are luck in that last mile.

We made it, of course, and the water was just as cold as I'd imagined it.  We'd knocked out nearly 20 miles beneath the less-than-super moon and, in spite of the fatigue, I'd enjoyed the several hours that Jefferson and I had spent together.

 

I walked through the door of my home at ten of 6:00, just in time for Lindsay to wake up and head to clinicals.  An hour or two later, Lily and Piper roused me from a dead-to-the-world sleep in search of breakfast.  That was all the sleep I was going to get until later that night but I had no interest in cutting into Daddy-time because of my late night.

Thankfully, the girls didn't need to me to do anything more than shuffle as we played our way through the rest of the day.

wantitump.

Give it a rest with the Mole Hill already, right?

NOTE:  Real molehills, not THE Mole Hill.

I hear you, but it put its hooks in me.  Did right from the start and never let go.

Was thinking recently that I'd be curious if there is another name for that hill, trail, ridge, what it might be and who got to name it in the first place.  Doesn't matter, really, as I'll never consider it anything but the mountain I've made of it and have been busy, busy cementing its newly christened name to any and all who will listen.

I've tried on numerous occasions to take photos and/or shoot video there but justice cannot be done.  Frankly, the hill's just not all that pretty and there aren't long enough lines of sight to even provide much visibility of what lies above or below at any given point. It's not very tall and between knowing that and not being able to see the crest above or the bottom below through the trees, Mole Hill just isn't all that visually foreboding.

The actual measurements?

At the base, the hill is a pedestrian 571 feet above sea level and at the tippiest top you aren't likely to find yourself throwing wide your arms and bellowing out any DeCaprion "king of the world" proclamations.  The full height is only 1019 feet.  BUT, you do get there in a hurry.  

Let me modify that.

You don't necessarily GET there in a hurry but the distance between point A and point B is a mere .41 miles.

Meaning what?

Meaning that in well under half a mile, you will have gained 448 feet of elevation and done so with rocks, leaf litter, logs and downed limbs adding further obstacle to the ascent.  That's a healthy grade of over 20% and there aren't any breaks along the way, no "whew, at least that part is behind me" sections to be had.

It took me somewhere in the vicinity of 1.5-2 years to finally run the whole thing from top to bottom and I screamed with joy with what little air I had left in my lungs the first time I topped out on the move.  I've been up and down that trail many, many times since and have only seen 2 other people run the whole thing and only 1 of those 2 convincingly.  I've been stoked for both of those friends and will be for everyone else who gets there too.

That's not meant to pat me on the back, but it is offered as evidence that I'm not making claims of a secret location that no one has ever visited to back my claims.

Mole Hill is real and if it wasn't for my peculiar fixation on it, I don't think I'd have made ascending it on the run such a regular part of my routine.

I honestly don't have many love/hate relationships but whatever is going on between me and that ridge definitely qualifies as such.

I usually like to include an ascent of Mole Hill in longer runs rather than just settling into that one spot.  Like I said, it really isn't all that long and I often want to log more mileage than I possibly can by staying just in that one spot.  The surrounding area is beautiful and offers up prettier trails of varying length, technicality and distance.  The many trails of Camp Mack and Pumping Station are less than a mile away and the climb up Mole Hill connects directly to the Horseshoe Trail.  Throwing Mole Hill in the mix ups the difficulty factor and adds intrigue but there's usually plenty of great running to be had away from the Hill too.

But, a couple of nights ago, I grit my teeth and decided to see how many laps I could churn out, how many miles I could manage at one go.  I didn't have all night, as I'd promised to bring back Benadryl for my wheezing, sniffling allergy-suffering wife sometime well before sunrise so she could at least eke out a few hours of drug-induced sleep before I departed for work in the morning.  As muggy a night as it was, she didn't have to worry...the time I could survive on that hill was unlikely to be measured in hours.

And it wasn't.

The first ascent was ugly.  The heat surprised me and I think I went at the climb too aggressively for wanting to do repeats.  I topped out running but was far more gassed than I wanted/needed to be that early in the effort.  Of course, topping out means getting to turn heels into a balance-challenging/quad-thrashing downhill but does allow for the catching of breath and the overall calming of the cardiovascular system.

At the bottom, I felt good.

I downed a salt tablet and some Gatorade to stay ahead of any unwanted cramping and headed back up the way I'd come.

This second ascent was a little more measured and went far easier than the first.  I remember little of it except an improved confidence after my shaky start.

Before I knew it, I was down again, spun around and into my third ascent.  This proved to be the strongest, steadiest climb I've ever managed on Mole Hill.  My legs felt strong, my heart rate was tempered and I was at the crest of the hill in a time that made me wish I'd put a stopwatch on just that climb.

The subsequent "down", however, proved to be that both figuratively and literally.

I didn't trip, but my quads were quivering and my ankles weeble-wobbled and very much threatened to keel all the way over.  I may have hammered the preceding climb but I not without consequences.

I'm sure I had been perspiring the entire time, but on that descent it felt like every pore was a sweat-faucet and that every contour of my body was a spout aimed right for my eyes.  I was determined to maintain a solid pace on the downhill but my burning eyes and rubbery legs were suddenly clumsy companions in the narrow beam of my headlamp.

But I got down.  All the way down...

...and just couldn't walk away with three lousy laps.  Not after the last climb had been so strong.  Still my resolve was shaky and didn't strengthen fully until I'd downed another salt/Gatorade cocktail.

Up I went.  One last time.

Slowly.

Slowly but in a fashion faster than walking, dammit.

Barely.

I made it the whole way but am glad there were no actual witnesses to my whimpering and gasping.  I tend to be a chatterbox during runs (as opposed to the rest of the time when I'm church mouse quiet) but I couldn't have possibly mustered an audible word and continued to pick up my feet at the same time.

But I made it.  The whole way.

Yes, barely.

And down too.  Though that was equal parts comic farce and act of faith.

Some higher power smiled upon me and I'd like to think it was the pileated woodpecker that rat-a-tat-tats his displeasure at me on Mole Hill during the day.  It doesn't sound like he's pleased to have me invading his privacy, but I like to think he can sense my respect for him, his endeavors and his place in the world.  I'd like to believe that my presence qualifies as one of his few love/hate relationships.

Take it as a testament to Mole Hill or an indication of the elite runner that I am not, but I was ecstatic to have cranked out 4 laps and the short to-and-from the car in under an hour.  I was equally ecstatic to take off the t-shirt that was defying gravity by seemingly containing pounds and pounds of sweat and more ecstatic (Ecstaticier?  I know a band name when I see one) than that to get my legs out from beneath me and into a non-weight-bearing position.

Surely, there are far, far more demanding ascents to be had than Mole Hill.  And the air "down here" is blissfully rich in oxygen compared to the climbs to be had at higher elevation.  

AND Dog knows there are far better runners than me.

But, in a world of mountains (and a world of molehills or wantitumps, as they were once known), this one is mine.

one of those days.

Saturday morning broke beautiful.

The last remnant of chill in the air vanished with each upward inching of the rising sun.

I expected I might see a couple of members of the team that I'd assembled/conned to run the Laurel Highlands Ultra 70-mile relay in June, but the parking lot at Speedwell Forge County Park was mine all mine.

http://www.co.lancaster.pa.us/parks/lib/parks/SpeedwellFinish3color.pdf

The phone rang and Kalyn was somewhere other than there but trying desperately to navigate her way there for what would be one of her first ever trail runs. A trooper, she'd signed on for the second leg at Laurel, a 13.1 mile stretch that would be more than double her longest run to date. She wasn't going to manage even a hundred yards today without some on-the-phone assistance, assistance I was more than happy to provide.

A little while later she arrived with her ever present grin and, as it seemed that no one else was going to join us, we were off on our loop.

The track at Speedwell is nice and forgiving, fairly free of rocks and roots and undulating gently with the exception of a couple of short steep sections.  In other words, it's an ideal "course" for a new trail runner to gain confidence and Kalyn made easy work out of our 2+ miles.

I was impressed.

And hungry.

I've developed an addiction to post-run breakfasts, regardless of the time of day.  Coffee, turkey sausage and scrambled eggs over rice with a dollop of soy sauce is my drug of choice and, yes, I like it served best in/on striped mugs/plates situated on birdie place mats.

Go ahead and laugh.  We all have our vices.

With Lily and Piper's birthday party happening the very next day, the rest of the morning was spent securing snacks, paper plates and other kid party essentials.  After returning home and getting Piper Bea down for a nap, Lily and I settled into building goodie bags for the party attendees to take home.

We talked about how tomorrow might turn out and, for the hundredth time, Lily had me go over the list of who might be coming.  I threw in some surprise attendees like Mickey Mouse and the Easter Bunny, but she always called my bluff.  She knew the list already by heart, but liked to hear me say all the names.  How could I not oblige?

Once we completed our task, Lily decided she wanted to watch a movie and offered no resistance when I hinted that I might go for another run.

"Do it, Dad.  Go run," she commanded and, again, how could I not oblige?

I only get so many twofers, so I pulled on shoes and made up my mind to push the pace a bit and decide, as I went, how far to go.  As I've done on the few road runs I've logged as of late, I made a conscious effort to toe-off and make my woeful arches do their part.  With a little luck and a lot more conscious effort, the day may come when those arches and toes work together without my having to specifically ask them to...that'd be a great day.

http://www.usatf.org/routes/view.asp?rID=477610

I ended up putting in a little more than 5.5 miles at somewhere right around 7 minute mile pace and, most importantly, I felt great. I'd been purposely avoiding the road as of late and hoped I didn't regret heading out the door this time.

I didn't.

I spent the afternoon playing, playing and playing some more with the girls.  We rode bikes, slid down slides, swung on the swings, ran, giggled, picked flowers, visited Piper's make believe ice cream shop where she served us grass, tracked ladybugs and played monsters, monsters, monsters!

At some point during all that play, Jefferson sent a text about running on Sunday morning.  I hinted that I was considering running Saturday night and he sent back an enthusiastic "in".  Knowing Lindsay had every intention of hitting the books after the girls went to bed in preparation for an exam on Monday night, my mind was made up.

This monster had signed on for a threefer.

Mole Hill was calling and the legs were still fresh.

The specifics of that night's run matter not at all.  Jefferson and Steve met me at Pumping Station and we tackled Mole before settling into a solid steady pace that allowed for great conversation and a string of shared minutes beneath starry skies and within the warmth of the April darkness.

I'd managed three separate runs covering something in the vicinity of 16 miles while also spending a full day with friends and family.

There are few, far too few, of these days and I'm thankful for every one of them.  May there be more to come.

me all fall down.

Late February in Pennsylvania sometimes means snow, cold rain or, as is the case this year, clear skies and mild temperatures.  You just never can tell.

What you can count on is another running of Pretzel City's Ugly Mudder, a self-proclaimed "doggone ugly way to spend a day" on the trails on Mt. Penn.

The trails are plenty rocky and, depending on the whim of race director extraordinaire Ron Horn, full of steep climbs. This year, apparently, he felt the need to add a few more and steeper inclines than last year.

I've been climbing well as of late (and enjoying the hell out of it), so this should have played in my favor.

I can't seem to turn down a good climb, however, and had made the mistake of putting some time in on Mole Hill the day before (though it was good company, Steve).  Not the wisest decision the day before Ugly Mudder, not when I recover like the 37 year old I am rather than the 24 year old who's body I sometimes seem to ignorantly think I am in possession of and certainly not when that trip up/down Mole also resulted in a body-jarring fall on an iced-over log.

Anyway, Jefferson and I drove to West Reading on Sunday morning relaxed and ready to run and I was blissfully unaware of any latent fatigue.  The weather was perfect.  I have no idea what the temperature was but I felt perfectly comfortable in shorts, tights, long-sleeved t-shirt and lightweight windshirt.  There was just enough chill to merit the addition of gloves and a hat, but there was little wind (unlike the day before when friends at the FebApple 50 were pummelled with wicked gusts all day long) and the sun was shining.

The Ugly Mudder had been added to the renowned La Sportiva Mountain Cup, a series of a dozen or so sub-marathon distance trail races strewn all around the country each year.  This lured out some fast legs from afar (here's a race report from eventual 3rd place finisher and La Sportiva-sponsored runner Jason Bryant: http://lifethroughtheeyeofarunner.blogspot.com/2012/02/la-sportiva-mountain-cup-ugly-mudder.html) and added further interest to an event that routinely draws over 700 participants all on its own.  If I understood correctly, there were over 700 pre-race registrants and another 150+ on the day of the event, though the posted finishing times would suggest either a lot of DNF's, a bunch of no-shows or some combination of the two.

Long story short, there were a ton of bodies packed behind the starting line and only a couple of hundred yards before those bodies needed to funnel into an uphill section of singletrack.  I'd hit that clogged mess the year before and made up my mind to stay ahead of the fray if at all possible.

I managed to meet that goal and scampered up that first climb somewhere just behind the lead runners and the next chase pack.  I hadn't gone far, though, before I recognized that I was working on two tired legs.

Dumbass.

The flat in-the-park start and quick transition to singletrack was comparable to last year but, if I'm not mistaken, we actually took a slightly different route up that initial climb than we did in 2011.  If anyone reading this can confirm, I'd appreciate it.

Regardless, at some point we were back on familiar sections and I settled into as quick a pace as I could manage in expectation of maintaining it throughout the full 7 miles.  I wanted to be going a bit faster, but I was definitely "racing" and pushing the pace any harder at that point was sure to bring on a bonk later.

No more than a mile or two into the race, we hit a road crossing at which runners were receiving on-the-fly course instructions from the Horns, Ron and his lovely bride and fellow person-who-makes-Pretzel-City-happen Helene...the very sound of Helene's voice makes me happy and the smile she always (and I mean always) has to offer only adds to that happiness. 

There was a steep 5-foot section of poured concrete that led from the trail down to the road surface and it had three or four runners in front of me drawn basically to a stand still.  Determined to keep moving, I scooted by them on their left and leaped almost to the bottom of the "step", fell forward, rolled on my shoulder, popped back up and kept going.  It happened quickly enough that my brain failed to process an "ouch".  Seeing Ron a few feet ahead, I decided to run behind him so I could give him a congratulatory smack on the butt.  In doing so, I gave myself an odd angle back onto the trail and didn't really make sense of his advice to "look out for the cable" before falling to the ground a second time, having struck said cable full on with my left shin.

While my brain FULLY processed the "ouch" and even found some time to go back and address the one it had missed a moment earlier, I mumbled something like "oh, that cable?" and dragged myself back to my feet.

Dumbass.

Not only had I fallen off my pace but I wasn't going to get back there right away as the next short section was a relatively steep scramble up to the Pagoda.

A peculiar out-of-place landmark, the Pagoda has loomed high above Reading since just after the turn of the 20th century.  The first half of my childhood was spent in Berks County and because the Pagoda was always "up there", its oddity didn't really strike me until later in life.  Its constant presence and touch of uniqueness has made it beloved (I think) and I genuinely love the strange touch it gives Pretzel City races and am always amazed by how sweeping a view is offered from its high perch.  The image below was taken sometime in the 20's and while it gives some sense of its elevation above the city, it also shows a deforestation that, thankfully, has been replaced nicely by new growth.

The next portion of the course was the most strikingly different from the year before, at least the way I'm remembering it, serving up a fairly sustained and more-than-fairly steep climb soon after leaving the Pagoda behind.

None of it was so steep that it was completely unrunnable, at least not in a 7 mile race (50K+ and I would've considered these sections as hiking required) and, on fresher legs, I shouldn't have had to do any hiking at all.

To say it another way, I did some hiking.

We finally hit an aid station at the mid-way point and while I didn't need any actual aid, I did enjoy the confirmation that we'd made it halfway.

There were other climbs to be had in the second half, but nothing like the first 3.5 miles and, instead, it was a matter of keeping the pace and managing the technical track.  To make sure I stayed focused, I drank a beer at the mile 6 aid station.  I'm not sure it worked but it tasted great.

As I made the final clamber up Ron's infamous finishing hill, I heard familiar cheers from Erin, Finn, Noah and Helene.  Knowing it had an audience, the shameless clown-in-me decided it would be funny to turn around and run a few steps backwards.  No, I didn't fall down (yet again), but I did find when I turned back around that my body now wanted to puke.

I really didn't want to puke, so I walked the last few steps and came across in 1:02:47 with 35 runners already in ahead of me.  In 2011 I finished 32nd in 1:02:02 and, frankly, was hoping to improve upon those numbers this go round.  That disappointment came and went in a hurry, however, as I embraced the victory of not puking when I was sure it was going to happen.

Win!

In the end, as is usually the case at a Pretzel City event, I walked away thrilled to have taken part.  I met some new folks, reconnected with old friends, finally saw J.C. in the flesh (let's make it a habit, brother), witnessed Jefferson shave 2 minutes off of his 2011 time (!) and was there for Sheldon's impressive trail race debut.

A doggone pretty way to spend a day, I'd say.

Now if I can just stay upright next year....

goodbye to july.

I won't miss the heat of July.  Not a bit.

Luckily, it didn't keep me inside and while it upped the difficulty factor on my running, it didn't actually keep me from logging miles.  It would've been nice to have run even more but it already felt like there were too few moments to spend with Lindsay and the girls.  Getting the majority of my running in while the rest of my house slept did the double duty of saving me from the worst of the heat and not keeping me from my family.

Work didn't require any extended travel during the last 30 days and with the exception of a 5-mile race on the 4th of July and my informal birthday 60K, my running didn't consist of any organized events.  That was fine by me. It was just good clean running for the sake of running.  And it was great.

Here are the photos:

Saturday, July 10 - Early evening loop on  Mt Joy, Power and Sun Hill roads

Monday, July 11 - Run home from work

Tuesday, July 12 - Run to work

Wednesday, July 13 - Horseshoe Trail and power line trail at Pumping Station

Thursday, July 14 - Lunch break run on the Penryn and White Oak roads loop

Thursday, July 14 - Second leg of surprise twofer - After work loop on Mt Joy, Hossler and Colebrook roads

Saturday, July 16 - Horseshoe Trail out-and-back across 501 to ugly clear-cut reroute below Middle Creek

Sunday, July 17 - Pumping Station and Horseshoe Trail - picked up an odd blister high on my heel

Wednesday, July 20 - Pumping Station and State Game Lands

Thurday, July 21 - Run home from work - so ungodly hot, I jumped right into a freezing cold shower and it wasn't until I got out that I realized the stopwatch was still running (must have hit the stop/start twice).

Friday, July 22 - Run to work on Mt Joy Road

Sunday, July 24 - 37th birthday 60K - Clarks Valley on the AT to Horseshoe Trail through Campbelltown

Wednesday, July 27 - Pumping Station and Horseshoe Trail

Friday, July 29 - Mid-day sprint on Penryn and White Oak roads

Sunday, July 31 - Horseshoe Trail, Mole Hill (first ever sustained run-up!) and State Game Lands

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.