yeah, what walt said.

It's the third week of January and that means I've got a plane to catch.

The Salt Palace, Salt Lake City's charmless convention center, as it does twice each year, is again playing host to the outdoor industry as its manufacturers tout the latest and greatest assortment of the latest and greatest in backpacking, climbing, skiing, paddling, running and general outdoor adventuring gear to the retailers who will decide whether the consumer gets in on the action by placing orders to stock shelves six months from now.

There'll be plenty of cool stuff to see, that's for sure. Better be since my livelihood as a head buyer/merchandiser for an outdoor retailer depends on it.  And so I'll have yet another chance to hear the practiced spiels and give my eyes the chance to confirm or refute the validity of those spiels.

Make no mistake about it, I dig gear.  I'm genuinely interested by what "they've" thunk up next and often do believe that some brand new or at least better-than-what-came-before doodad just might make your next outing that much better than the one before.

Funny then that some of my favorite moments at OR (the industry nickname for these Outdoor Retailer trade shows) are the hours spent running in the nearby Wasatch each morning before the show, hours spent far away from the bright lights of the show floor and the rah-rah-rah of those selling and those buying (or not) what's being sold.

While running with friends this past weekend, I grinned at the telling of a whispered-down-the-lane story of someone running Western States several years ago in fresh (at the time) gear only to be passed by an old timer in jeans shorts and a recycled water jug tied to his wrist.  Romanticized and exaggerated?  Maybe, maybe not.  True or not, it's still a great reminder of how we're capable of making even the simplest of acts overly complicated.

There's plenty of stuff you COULD take running.  Plenty.  Or you could leave that stuff behind.

Just being out and running on a cold, beautiful January morning with a couple of like-minded bodies (like-bodied minds?) was fantastic.  Who was wearing what didn't matter because...we'll, because it doesn't.  I'd have parted ways with my fancy schmancy running shoes and the full-of-information reading on my GPS long before giving up the shared movement, the conversation, the time spent together on the trail.

Nothing complicated about that.

Driving home and watching the sky complete its transition from starlight to daylight, I was reminded of a passage from Walt Whitman that I couldn't fully recite on the spot but that I was quick to track down as soon as I got home:

“When I heard the learn’d astronomer; 

When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me; 

When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them; 

When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the

lecture-room, 

How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;

Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself, 

In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time, 

Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.”

As gear goes, I've got a soft spot for the "proofs, the figures...the charts and diagrams" but not as soft a spot as I do for wandering off by myself and drinking in that moist night air.

Looking forward to enjoying a little of each over the next couple of days.

O.R. they?

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

Am I excited?  Yep.

But concerned too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm gonna have a look.

thirty-eight is enough.

Last year, I celebrated my birthday by running my age.

At the time, 37 miles marked the farthest I'd gone at one time and I'd considered making the effort an annual event, thinking maybe I could keep adding a mile each year for another few years at least.

Another trip around the calendar later, I was going to be hard pressed to find the time to squeeze in a run of that length in the middle of a work week, especially while trying to get my handle on the boatload of work that needs done ahead of next week's Summer Outdoor Retailer trade show in Salt Lake City and TransRockies, gulp, just two weeks after that.

So, I needed a different kind of status check and it made sense that it should be something that doubled as training for the 120 miles that await in Colorado next month.  While I don't have access to any altitude here in Pennsylvania, there are climbs to be had everywhere even if it demands that you go up, down and back up again.

Over and over and over.

I gave Jefferson a ring early in the week to let him know what I was planning and to see if he wanted in.  The idea was to match the elevation gain of the longest stage at TransRockies, 4900 feet, but to condense that climb into a shorter distance.  Basically, I was thinking that I'd try to make up for not being able to train in altitude by upping the severity of the climbing.  Flawed logic, I know, but at least it would be hard work.

I met Jefferson right around 5:00 AM and we hiked in the half mile on the Horseshoe Trail to the top of Molehill.  In my pack, I was hucking a mini aid station consisting of Gatorade, peanut butter, Gu, Honey Stinger waffles, granola bars, Swedish Fish and dog knows what else.  Either as a birthday offering, a reminder for me to keep an eye on my nutrition or as a goal to work towards, Jefferson had also brought a bottle of Mountain Lightning, the mystical knock-off of a certain caffeine-heavy, day-glo-colored carbonated beverage that came to my rescue when all hell had broken loose in my bowels at Laurel Highlands.

I appreciated the gesture but decided not to carry it to the trailhead.

During a couple of hill sessions the week prior, my Suunto had clocked the ascent at Molehill at around 430+ feet in a little over 4 tenths of a mile, so I was looking at something like 12 reps to make it to 4900 feet of climb.  The most laps I'd managed to crank out without switching from running to walking was 4, so I knew that I'd be doing some power hiking before the morning was over. I'd brought along my Black Diamond Z-Poles, thinking it would be a good chance to see if I could finally get the hang of using poles while moving swiftly...or trying to.  To start, though, I'd see how far I could go on the run.

It was still too dark to manage without a light, so the initial hike and the first couple of trips up and down the hill were headlamp lit.  As much as I wanted to barrel the downhills, I knew I'd need my quads to participate throughout the effort and, instead, I concentrated on clean footfalls on the descents.  A storm that had passed through the previous day had littered the trail with debris and Jefferson and I spent some time clearing out downed limbs on our initial trip down to the bottom.

We chatted the entire way down and most of the way up, as we cranked through the first lap.    I headed right back down, knowing that, whatever the reason, my second rep has always proven to be my most sluggish.  This day was no different and I toiled on my second ascent and thought I might end up hiking sooner than I'd anticipated.  I paused at the top to get a quick drink and use the Sharpie I'd brought along to make note of which lap I was on...I'd failed to take that step on past repeat sessions, lost track of the number and ended up doing extra laps to make sure that I covered the ground I'd planned on in the first place.  I had too far to go this morning and too little time before work to afford to lose the count.  Realizing I didn't have any paper with me, I marked two notches on my arm, replaced the cap and jumped back on the course.

The third time up the hill went far better and I was psyched to see Jefferson plugging away too.  He's conquered Molehill several times by now, but hadn't gutted out two on-the-run reps on any prior visits.  Here he was topping out for the third time and he'd get one more before having to part ways to get back home to start his day.

Soon after Jefferson left, I ran up the hill a fifth time and felt like I could manage one more before likely having to resort to hiking.  I snuck a quick peek at my watch, did some quick math (not my strong suit) and suddenly understood that, short of being late for work, I was going to be hard-pressed to log 12 laps in the allotted time.  Had I bothered to do that simple math the day before, I might have started earlier, but it was a little late for that now.

Down and up, down and up, down and up I went.  I wasn't flying by any means (a nearly 21% grade'll have that effect), but damned if I wasn't still running.  Or at least going faster than hiking.  I wouldn't have even thought about continuing to run if this had been an actual race, but this was something different altogether so I just kept at it.

I continued hitting the Gatorade and thieving food from my aid station.  And I was shocked to still be feeling good.  My feet were getting a bit sloppy on the downs but my legs kept chugging on the ups and my heart and lungs managed to keep up too.  I added notches though I was sweating away the earliest of those notches almost as quickly as I was acquiring new ones.

I kept repeating my "make it to the top of the hill on the other side of this hill" mantra, despite the fact that this day was all about just this one brutal hill.

Regardless, the mantra was working.

Eight, nine, ten times I summited Molehill before having to accept the fact that the clock had caught up with me and I was going to have to get off the trail, into the car and off to work.  But not before a quick archival photo of me on my favorite downed log/resting post.

I was thirty-eight, alright.

Maybe halfway home (or further) if you prefer to look at things that way.  I don't, for the record, but regardless of how little or much I've got left, I'm pretty pleased with still feeling frisky and still well in possession of grit teeth and stubborn will.  Guess I could have slept in for my birthday, but not getting up and moving is a gift I'd just as soon not receive.

I hadn't planned appropriately to accomplish exactly what I'd set out to do, but I'd buried my former idea of what I was capable of on that beloved/dogforsaken hill, running every damn step.  And 4495 feet of climb in 8.78 miles is no joke for boy or man (girl or woman).  

No joke at all.

If anything, it was worth a raised glass.  A celebratory drink.

And I had just the thing.

4,226 feet high and rising.

I last boarded an airplane back in August and, despite the economic gloom the news would have me believe, the parking lot outside the airport was packed, the hallways were flooded with bodies hurrying from gate to gate and there was not a single unoccupied seat on board.  Looked just like it did in the salad days of the late 90's and early millennium by my eyes.

But Cincinnati in early 2012 had room, room, lots of room to spare.  My mind conjured up the foretelling of the rapture but I couldn't recall if Cincy fell in the ol' Bible belt or not and my instincts told me no.

Nope, not a single soul had ascended to heaven but some of the hell had been taken out of flying.  The flight in from Philadelphia found me enjoying a row of seats all to my lonesome and I'd landed in Ohio without any need to unfold myself from a cramped position.  The doors flung open and there waiting in the airport was...nobody.  Glorious.

There was another spare seat waiting on the connection from Cincinnati to Salt Lake City and clear, obstacle-free skies delivered me blissfully to the Wasatch Front.  Back again and ready to run.

Yes, there was work (much work) to be done and as much as I'd like to "cool guy" you into believing I don't give a crap about work, I'd be bluffing and you'd be right to call me on it.  I toil away like my Germanic father before me, wearing a work ethic like its the only pair of pants I own.

But I do leave room for my vice and, in a world of R-rated vices, mine is downright Disney with a capital G.

The clock strikes 4:30 AM Mountain Time and I am out the door.  Fifteen minutes later, I'm a thousand feet above downtown and Salt Lake City sleeps below like the slumbering lion of The Tokens' song.

I only covered about 5 miles but the thin, crisp (and impossibly clean in comparison to home) air and the meandering singletrack put me in the right headspace for a day of business-ing in the climate-controlled environs of the Salt Palace and the Winter Outdoor Retailer trade show.

I did take a pretty big digger on a patch of black (brown?) ice that surprised me on the otherwise soft, sandy trail and deposited on my, er, um...ass.  Which is where being in my line of work comes in rather handy.  In between appointments, I ducked into the Kahtoola booth and bummed a pair of MICROspikes from Danny Giovale, the very man who built the damn things.

What are MICROspikes?  Glad you asked.  They are one of those startlingly simple engineering marvels, a set of low-profile crampons integrated into a durable rubber housing that slips easily over whatever footwear you got.  You might be more familiar with Yaktrax, but they are truly pedestrian in comparison to the adventure ready MICROspikes.

Where can you get them?  Glad you asked.  Try here:

http://www.backcountryedge.com/kahtoola-microspikes-2011.aspx

So, I'd secured traction but needed advice on how to get up higher.  Danny began saying something about Grandeur Peak but then got pulled in another direction, leaving me with an imagination-inspiring name but no idea how to get there.

Lucky for me, those-in-the-know were milling all around me, including Piep. 

Piep (John Pieper by birth, but, take it from me--a Steven known to many/most as Leon--he is and shall ever be Piep) had been living with his lovely family in Durango, Colorado for the past several years but had returned home to Salt Lake about a year ago, taking a Director of Sales and Markeing position at Gregory Mountain Products.  He was well familiar with the area trails and he seemed to agree with Danny that Grandeur Peak was well worth visiting.  After dinner, he grabbed a topo map, outlined the approach options and then insisted that I take the map along with me when I headed back to the hotel to catch a few hours of sleep.

Thanks, Piep.

I just realized that I've failed to touch on the fact that the daytime temperatures in town had been hovering in the upper 40's and low 50's even though Salt Lake City sits at an elevation of 4,226 feet, a good 3,800 feet higher than my Manheim home.  In other words, winter hadn't come to the Great Basin any more than it had come to the Susquehanna Valley.

And, so, the next morning I awoke to precipitation, but not the fluffy white stuff that I'd hoped to find.  I drove up above town, hung a right on Wasatch Boulevard and then took a left up Millcreek Canyon in the dark.  The moisture in the air still qualified as rain but just barely.  A good sign.

As soon as I stepped from the car, I was headed uphill through a National Forest picnic area.  The lungs were immediately heaving despite the fact that I was creeping along at a rate well shy of my normal pace.

A sign came into focus in the beam of my headlamp and confirmed that I was headed in the right direction.

That was fractions of a mile farther than I expected which immediately illuminated the fact that I'd forgotten to bring my Garmin.  Who cares right?  I know, I know, BUT it meant that I was going to be ascending in the dark with no real idea of what time it was or how far I'd gone which could be problematic since I needed to eventually to get back to the hotel before returning to the Salt Palace for another day of work.

The effort required in the climb and my love of running in the dark combined to back burner those concerns.  Per the topo map, I was looking at well over 2,500 feet of climb in those 3 miles and my legs and lungs were busy confirming that reading.  I cycled between running, power hiking and straight-up trudging, all with an oh-so-happy grin.  You know the kind...shit-eating some call it, though that phrase has always been lost on me.

Periodically, I'd peek to my right or my left depending on the turn of the switchback and ponder the void, wondering at the invisible drop.  I was so captivated by the darkness, it took me longer than it should have to realize that I was ankle deep in snow and more was falling.  A look back over my shoulder confirmed that I'd been plowing through snow for quite some time.

Such is the power of the MICROspikes.

Long (too long already) story short, I ended up turning back before the top out, a decision I'll probably always question, but the appropriate call given my not being able to confirm the time but being conscious of my going pretty darn slow given the conditions and my flatlander lung capacity.

Thanks to the short hours of winter daylight, I didn't see a single drop of sun on my morning runs but I loved everything I could see in the tunnel of light that I carried with me.  I look forward to getting back up to Grandeur (or anywhere else Piep or other locals can point me toward) in August and getting in a run or two ahead of taking another shot at the Jupiter Peak Steeplechase up in Park City (just confirmed today as again being part of the La Sportiva Mountain Cup series!) on the Saturday of Summer OR.

Then, if the body holds up, I'll be back through Salt Lake in October for the drive down to Moab for the SlickRock 100.  Pretty stoked.

And, just to return to the good omen of the empty flights, Salt Lake sent me off in style with an unexpected meet-and-greet (a run-in...get it?) at the airport with the iconically-mustachioed Nick Offerman.

Who?  You know who.

Pretty random, I know, but good times nonetheless.  Don't let the scowl fool you (his, not mine), he was a sweetheart.

If I hadn't alreay returned Piep's map and Danny's MICROspikes, I might have clued him in on Grandeur Peak.

Next time.

this must be the place...right?

Standing high above Salt Lake City with the awe-inspiring backdrop of the Wasatch Mountains and the sweeping valley below, it's easy to understand Brigham Young's famed "this is the place" utterance when he and his fellow Mormon pioneers reached the end of their long journey west.

Over 160 years later, Salt Lake City has become the place for something other than an escape from religious persecution and a new and bountiful home.

It is the now the twice annual host of the Outdoor Retailer trade show, a head-spinning gathering of various manufacturers of backpacking, climbing, paddling, trail running (all the shoes down in shoeville!!!) and other outdoor adventure gear.  Each January and August, vendors unveil the innovations bound for store shelves 6 months later.

For a gear junkie, it's a sight to behold.

But, for a retailer trying to carve out a greater niche in the marketplace, it also plays host to a lot of hard work compressed into a short amount of time.  At this point, after several years of attendance, I can barely imagine not going to OR, as it's commonly referred to within the industry.  The shows mark the year with far greater reliability than the temperamental passing of the seasons.  It may or may not snow, but, dammit, the Winter Outdoor Retailer show WILL happen in late January.  Count on it.

So, this IS the place and, lest I sound like I'm complaining, attending OR also means easy access to buttery singletrack and the advantage of still being on Eastern time so I can bag 5-10 miles each morning before "work" on trails like this perched 5,000+ feet above sea level (note SLC way down below):

  

Makes punching the clock a whole lot more palatable.

the sea level blues.

Twice a year, I board a plane for Salt Lake City to attend the Outdoor Retailer trade show.  If you like backpacking, mountain biking, climbing, trail running, paddling, camping or just about any other activity in the great outdoors, each January and August, the Salt Palace serves up a head-spinning carnival of "what you'll have to have six months from now."

OR (pronounced oh-are), as it's known affectionately, also happens to be a great place to make and/or reconnect with like minded friends who've found ways to forge out a similar work/play hybrid career.  Each time I go, I've got more faces to look forward to seeing and more difficulty freeing up the time I'd like to catch up with everyone.

As a key component of a retail operation that works hard, hard, hard to continue carving out a place in the outdoor industry, I am often overwhelmed by how much actual work we cram into just a couple of days and I should be thrilled that we find anytime at all to socialize.  And we do.

For the past three or four years, while at OR I've run the Wasatch Wobble, a 5K put on by Montrail/Mountain Hardwear up in Red Butte Gardens above the city.  The event is a non-timed focused-on-fun event but at 5,000+ feet of elevation it's always been a good test for me too.  This year, though, I'd learned about the Jupiter Peak Steeplechase that takes place in Park City each August.  Beginning at 7,000 feet, stretching for 16 +/- miles and having a gain of over 3,000 feet, this race promised to be a big step up from the Wobble.

On the first day in town, I got up early to sneak in a run and breath the fresh air before sucking in the artificial air at the Salt Palace all day long.  I was also looking forward to seeing how my legs and lungs felt a few thousand feet higher than back home.

We were staying south of the city just a short drive to the foot of Big Cottonwood Canyon.  Unfamiliar with the area and starting before sun-up, I opted for a paved pedestrian trail until it conked out and left me climbing alongside the road toward the top of the canyon.  Not being on single track didn't dampen my spirits, as there were no cars on the road and the soft grit that ran parallel to the road felt great underfoot.  As the sun rose, I plodded steadily uphill as the sun began to peak over the Wasatch Mountains.

Not even the birds were stirring and the only sound was the creek crash, crash, crashing its way down the canyon.  My camera complained about the lack of light and an inept operator who couldn't find a mechanical compensation.  All the same, it did its best and captured a few memories.

I was on the verge of daydreaming my way up into the mountains and away for the day when I came to and realized I needed to get back to the car.  I tucked the camera into my waistband and quickened my pace.  I'd managed the climb nicely and was able to really push on the descent.  This made me hopeful for the race on Saturday morning even though I knew I'd be at twice the elevation.  I'd hiked above 10,000 feet but never run up that high.  It was safe to expect that I wouldn't manage the sub 7:30 miles I'd just logged, but, I was still encouraged by my effort that morning.

The next two days were a blur of backpacks, socks, tents, sleeping bags, trekking poles, waterproof/breathable jackets, headlamps, doodads, whizzywhats and shaboozles.  Business was talked, talked, talked, talked, talked.  Thankfully, there were also a healthy number of warm handshakes, hugs and laughter wedged in between all that talking.

The hours and days flew by and it was Saturday morning.  True to its calling, the alarm alarmed me that it was 5:45.  A little over an hour later, after dropping my boss off in downtown Salt Lake for a pre-business business-breakfast (talk, talk, talk, talk, talk), I coasted into the lower parking lot of the Park City Mountain Resort and stared past the windshield at the fittest bunch of pre-racers I can remember seeing.  A little gasping-for-air voice told me I was in my over my head, but my eyes followed the chairlifts upward and I wondered where out there was the top of Jupiter Peak.

I had to go see.

There was one last moment of trepidation when I realized that Lindsay's phone number was printed right on my bib.  So some kind passerby could give my wife a courtesy call upon stumbling on my corpse?  Yikes.

Clearly I was over thinking things and just needed to get my feet underneath me.  I wedged in with some 300 other runners as someone muttered inaudible instructions through a megaphone.  A signal of some sort, again unheard by me, sent the pack slowly shuffling up a steeply sloped service road before funneling us onto the start of endless (and glorious) single track that would wind its way all the way to the top of the mountain.

I'd decided on a modest goal of 4 miles an hour on the ascent, expecting that the severity of the grade and the altitude were likely to make my usual pace impossible to achieve.  If I could top out in 2 hours and have legs left beneath me, I hoped to let gravity whisk me the full 8 miles down to the bottom at a much faster pace.

I fell in stride with a number of runners who seemed to be of equal ability and condition

Somewhere soon after mile 5 the grade steepened and I could sense unfamiliar physiological demands.  I was struggling to pull enough oxygen out of the air and my legs reported corresponding heaviness.  Feeling a little lightheaded, I decided it was time to peek at the GPS and learned that we'd now climbed over 9,000 feet.  There were less than 3 miles left to the top but another 1200+ feet of elevation to be gained.  Needless to say, I was no longer running 12 minute miles when I looked up to see the ridge just below Jupiter.

To give some scale to the photo, note the "runner" at the very lower right and keep in mind that the tufts at the top of the ridge are full grown trees.  I couldn't help but notice that not a single person ahead of me was actually running.  In fact, some of them were on all fours or at least appeared to be.  Loose rock added to the challenge and I was relieved to find that the stubborn grass growing on the ridge held my weight as I clutched at it.

Topping out, I glanced at my Garmin and was surprised to see that I'd only covered 7 miles.  I vaguely remembered hearing that there was more work to be done after Jupiter's Peak and after a quick two hundred yards of downhill, the track led upward again to the top of Tri-County Peak.  At last the climbing was done and the smooth winding downhill single track led off into the distance.

It was right around mile 10, probably while my mind wandered off into another patch of aspens, that I fell and fell hard.  I took the brunt of the fall on my right knee which was now bleeding but also banged my right side just above the hip and dragged my right forearm and elbow.  A couple of runners hopped over me, offered words of genuine encouragement and then disappeared down the trail.  It took me a moment or two to get back on my feet and I was, admittedly, shook up.  I traversed the next few miles very tentatively and did anything but barrel down the mountain.

Eventually I shook off the fall and got back to running but I never work up to the pace I'd hoped for on the return to 7000 feet.  My head, however, did begin to clear with the downward progression and I reached the bottom feeling good.  Good and tired.

I can't speak for any of the preceding 18 years, but my GPS confirmed that this year's course was a full mile short of 16.  My exhausted lungs and legs didn't seem the least bit disappointed.  Those 15 miles had taken me just over 3 hours (more than an hour behind the winners), but, coming from a home elevation of 400 feet, I'm holding my head up high...and looking forward to next year.

"i just wanted to say that i'm a nerd."

In December, I formally laid out my if-all-goes-well race plans for 2011.  It was (and is) a pretty ambitious schedule but leaves some room to sign-up for additional events depending on when they are being held.

Last month, the 2011 La Sportiva Mountain Cup series was announced.  If you're unfamiliar with this series that began back in 2008, it consists of 10 trail races ranging from 10K to marathon distances held between March and August at various sites scattered throughout the country.  Runners tally points based on where they place (closer to first, the higher the points) in their five best finishes in Mountain Cup races and after all races have been run, La Sportiva posts the winning results and award cash prizes.

I've never taken part in a Mountain Cup race and other than a passing curiosity, I wasn't expecting to do so anytime soon.  That changed the second I saw the final date for this year and my determination to get involved solidified as I further investigated the Jupiter Peak Steeplechase.

http://www.mountaintrails.org/2009/03/jupiter-peak-steeplechase-august/

For the 19th consecutive year, the Mountain Trails Foundation will be putting on this challenging event at Utah's Park City Mountain Resort.  A 16-mile sufferfest, the Jupiter Peak Steeplechase starts at 7,000 feet, gains more than 3,000 feet of elevation by the halfway point and then leaves you with an 8-mile run back down from its 10,400 foot high point.

That description alone was more than enough to pique my interest but travel plans also happened to already be in place that coincided perfectly with the date of the event.  As a gear buyer for Backcountry Edge (http://www.backcountryedge.com/), an online retailer of backpacking, hiking and camping equipment, I would be in Salt Lake City that entire week for the Summer Market Outdoor Retailer trade show.  A little creativity in my scheduling could free up enough time in the morning and afternoon of August 4th to allow me to make the drive up to Park City and the slog up to the top of Jupiter Peak.

I immediately logged onto the Mountain Trails Foundation website and attempted to follow the provided link to register for the event.  With a 400-participant cap and the inclusion of the event as a Mountain Cup event, there was a good likelihood that registration would close long before race day.  Unable to complete the sign-up, I became nearly frantic and fired off a message to the race director.  Minutes later I received a very kind and patient response that pointed out the big bold letters on the event homepage that spelled out the fact that registration opened on February 1st.

I was as apologetic as I was embarrassed.

I marked my calendar and waited.  Having checked back on the Mountain Trails Foundation site to find that registration was slated to open at 12:01 AM on the 1st, I decided to stay up late on the 31st.  Moments after midnight, I logged onto the page and was disappointed to find that sign-up was still unavailable.  Recognizing that the event is being held in Utah, I assumed that I was jumping the gun by a couple of hours and set my alarm for 2:00 AM.

Turns out the registration page is hosted by a west coast administrator.  In other words, I caught another 60 minutes of shut eye before rousing at 3:01 to try again.  As my sleepy eyes adjusted to the light of the monitor, I gasped to see that the beautiful "add to cart" icon had been activated on the website.  A running tally indicated that two other runners had already managed to sign up ahead of me.  I hurried through the registration process, hit "submit" and smiled to find that I was on the roster.

After patting myself on the back for not having foolishly waited until morning, I settled into sleep, dreaming of high altitude adventure.

Roughly 19 hours later, the roster shows that a grand total of one more runner has signed up and there are still 396 slots available.

Boy, am I one sleepy running nerd.  And a happy one.

So worth it.

jonesing.

My flight arrived at Salt Lake City International Airport last night around 8:00 PM, Mountain Time.  Feeling the normal touch down blahs of a days worth of airports, layovers and airline food (or lack thereof), I wanted water and sleep.  And not much else.


I awoke around 5:30 in the morning, wide awake and wondering what to do with myself since I didn't have diapers to change, bottles to make or breakfasts to fix in the toaster.  I should've been out the door for a run but my head and stomach still seemed undecided as to how cooperative they planned to be.


I splurged by taking a bath and reading a book.  Bliss.


Then I treated myself to a glorious FREE CONTINENTAL BREAKFAST.  In other words, I drank some flavorless coffee and ate a dry bagel.  By then it was off to the Winter Market Outdoor Retailer show being held in downtown Salt Lake at the Salt Palace.


I can vaguely remember how wide-eyed I was the first time I walked through the doors and took in the spectacle that is OR.  Vaguely.  At this point, some of the polish has worn off and the whole affair looks an awful lot like work.  Still, a gear head at heart, I do enjoy seeing what's new or slated to be new 6 months down the line. As far as work is concerned, I'm there to make purchasing decisions on tents, backpacks, sleeping bags and other hiking and camping equipment.  As a runner, I can't keep my eyes off of the trail running shoes, racing snowshoes and performance wear.


With the caffeine kicking in and my body regaining its composure, my want to run increased as the day dragged on and, all the while, I knew that a run was simply not in the cards.  I knew I'd missed my opportunity and desperately wanted to recapture those early morning hours.


I'm back in the hotel room now, peeking out the window and seeing the Wasatch Range faintly outlined by the lights of the city below.  I'll not get up there on this trip but look forward to putting in some trail miles when I return in July.  The roads outside the hotel will have to do tomorrow morning and, with a little luck, some of the snow that's been falling at higher elevations will make its way down here.  Per the forecasters, it's more likely I'll be running in rain.


Either way, there'll be a smile on my face.