snow daze.

Nearly a foot of snow had fallen and my own two feet were restless to explore.  A lull in the weather, a predicted gap between the first round of the storm and its second appearance as a separate front pushed it back our way, left the roads surprisingly navigable.

Few motorists expected that to be the case or they were simply too busy digging out to venture onto the roadways.  Whatever the reason, traffic was sparse for the 10 mile commute from my driveway to the Horseshoe Trail at the intersection of Pumping Station Road and Route 322.

As expected, the parking lot at Pumping Station was unplowed except for a few vanishing tracks left by a vehicle or two that had apparently earlier used the lot to turn around and head the other direction.  I followed one of those paths, backing my car into a position I prayed could be escaped from a few hours later.

Most of this winter has been spent in Kahtoola MICROspikes, but they seemed in over their heads for the conditions lurking in the woods.  Besides, there are too few opportunities to dust off the snowshoes and this one wouldn't be missed.

My Crescent Moon Gold 9's are built specifically for running, but, to be fair, they also anticipate packed snow, not the deep powder to which they were about to be exposed.  Oh well.  It's been a year of resistance training thus far and this would just be more of the same.

The Horseshoe was buried, absolutely buried, and there wasn't any sign to suggest that anyone had been out on the trail since the snow had begun falling the night before.  Trail breaking would be required the entire way and the going would likely be slow.

Bearing left off the Horseshoe allowed me to gain high ground more quickly and I was immediately glad to have my Black Diamond Z-Poles as the depth of the snow stacked along the edge of the ridge the trail skirts made for some false footing that kicked powder down into the ravine below.

Reaching the top of the ridge, crossing the power line and ducking back into the trees, I began to establish a pace a bit more recognizable as running though the degree of difficulty had my heart pounding and my temperature rising beneath the warm layers donned to ward off the cold.  Throttling down just a bit to keep from sweating out, I pondered which way to turn as a number of trail intersections approached.

Following the Big Timber trail kept me off of some of the wider paths and had me ducking under limbs bent low from their cargo loads of white.  Other than my own breathing, the crunching of snowshoes and the occasional trekking pole clack, there were few sounds to be heard.  Exceptions were the melodic whew-whew-hews of titmice and the namesake chirping of chickadees.

There were few tracks to be seen, confirming that most animals had the sensibility to hole up and ride out the storm.  One rogue set of tracks in a tight one-hoof-directly-in-place-of-the-last stride seemed to indicate that a deer had been out for a rather casual mid-storm stroll.  Stray appear-disappear-reappear squirrel tracks were there to be found but even they seemed more scarce than usual.

I did also happen upon the work site of a hearty woodpecker that had clearly been rat-a-tat-tapping away recently enough to have left its wood scraps strewn about atop the snow.

In spite of not having seen any human visitors, the trails made themselves known by a dimpled, undulating surface that resembled the cartoon tunneling of Bugs Bunny on his way from that wrong turn in Albuquerque.  I have seen this phenomenon before and it has bailed me out a time or two out in the forest without a headlamp after the light has failed (unless provided by a man-made appliance, can light really "fail"?).

Here and there, fallen leaves skittered lightly across the snow or rested stoicly in the shallow berths that their last inherent warmth had carved, a defiant final proof of having ever really been alive.  If you look close, the leaves have often oozed the slightest stain of their brown and yellow hues into the snow itself, a natural farewell tagging that strikes me as both a sad and beautiful plea for remembrance.

Fatigue snuck up on me until all at once I was gassed.  The sign indicating the broad, smooth Explorer Lodge Road offered an escape route temptation but I was determined to take in the view atop Eagle Rock.

It may not be more than a half mile from there to Eagle Rock but my tired legs felt as though it was a three mile stretch.  A mix of sleet, freezing rain and actual rain was adding weight to what had been deep, but feathery powder.

Earlier in the week, on the ridge line just to the south and west of the one I was then traversing, I had noted quite a bit of damage from the ice storm that had swept the area several days prior.  Broken limbs, downed trees and brush that had collapsed beneath its own weight had cluttered the trails and in some cases made them nearly impassable.  I worried that similar debris was likely on the final approach to Eagle Rock but, other than a lot of snow, it was clear.

Even though visibility was a fraction of what it normally is, the view from Eagle Rock was really stunning.  The blanket of white triggered contrasts and highlights in the forest that otherwise often blend into a uniform sea of browns and greens.  Clouds socked in the next ridge and further muffled any audible evidence of a world beyond these woods.

Brisk winds took advantage of the exposure to whip swirling moisture into my eyes and sent cold air seeking any vulnerabilities in the clothes I was wearing.  Exhausted and concerned I might not be able to stave off the cold as easily as I normally do, I clambered down off the rock and moved on.

As soon as I turned away from the vista and stepped back into the trees, the wind fell away and with it any chill that had crept in.  It was, quite literally, all downhill from there to the car and I took advantage of that trajectory to settle back into an actual run.  Snow took some of the physical punishment out of this stretch of trail by padding the usually rocky footing and allowing me to move along briskly, sometimes running, sometimes glissading.

I paused just long enough to snap one last intersection photo and then barreled the rest of the way down the Horseshoe Trail toward Hammer Creek and the final approach to where the car awaited my return.

I can't say how far I traveled, as my GPS was still sitting at home wondering why it hadn't made the trip.  Suffice to say, the mileage wasn't as far as my body was suggesting.

There's no device known to me that can measure how much ground the mind covers. I don't ever set out with a specific distance goal for my thoughts, but I can tell when a given workout has been a good one for my body AND my mind.

The legs are done in, the quads quiver.  The brain?  It's smiling.

I settled into the driver's seat, turned the key and, as the car freed itself from the lot and powered back onto 322, my body ached and the smile in my mind  grew wide.

thoughts thunk.

See beauty where others have tarnished it, taken it for granted or overlooked it entirely.

Familiar roads need not be entirely forsaken for those less traveled by.

Your eyes are always open.  Remember to listen now and then to what they have to say.

There IS a worthwhile "what" in blue blazes.

Don't be too impressed or disappointed by fleeting numbers.  They'll matter little tomorrow.

humble (pizza) pie.

I ran with friends this morning at Pumping Station, getting my first helping of humility long before the sun came up as unexpected heat and humidity (it is October, isn't it?!?) had me feeling like I was trying to run uphill underwater. 

I guess in some sense I was, as it rained the entire time we were running and a good bit of that time we were climbing.  When we did finally make it to downhill, the rain had turned the track to a muddy, crumbly mess and ultimately led to me trudging along gingerly rather than actually running in an attempt to steer clear of any undue harm to my aw-poor-little-baby arches ahead of next week's Oil Creek 100.

It really was a good workout and a fun time out with friends, but I ended up feeling a bit deflated by my performance.

Wah.

But, I perked up a bit when I popped into a local pizzeria to pick up some lunch and the friendly Sicilian owner wagged his finger at me playfully and said, "YOU!  I saw you...I saw you in the newspaper."

A short piece about my TransRockies experience had run in a small neighborhood publication and I was admittedly tickled that he had seen it.

He was grinning from ear to ear and I couldn't help but do the same.

"So, did you do it?" he asked.  "You did it?  You're going to do it?"

"I already did it.  It was great."

"Ah-hah!  So you DID it!"

"Yep."

Still grinning and nodding his head, the man fell silent.

After a moment, he began again.  "So.  Uh.  What did you do?  I, um, I didn't read it."

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.

once you get started you can't sit down.

Staring out the window at mid-day and taking in the rare sight (this year) of snowflakes falling with conviction, I knew I needed to find a way to sneak in a run.  Never mind the fact that the temperatures hovered just above freezing and it seemed unlikely that accumulation would amount to much.

No matter.

Snow was hard to come by and I was going to get out in it.

It wouldn't happen then, not with work stacked figuratively and, judging by the state of my desk, also literally to the ceiling.  I made a call to Lindsay to confirm her schedule for the rest of the day and allowed the dangling carrot of a night run to keep me hopping along happily until quitting time.

A few hours later I had several hundred acres of private and public land all to my lonesome.  The snow had continued to fall and the mercury had dipped enough to allow something close to an inch to pile up.  At slightly higher elevations, as much as two inches clung to the trees and added surprising visibility even with the nearly full moon mostly obscured by clouds.

I'd half-heartedly sent out an online invite to the "tribe" but wasn't disappointed to be on my own in the pristine conditions.  As is often the case when I run alone at night, I settled into a slightly slower than usual pace with the intent of maintaining that pace all night long.  Pulling a Lionel is what I've taken to calling that and it never fails to make me grin a stupid grin before I cringe slightly at the fact that I'm finding myself funny.

Still, the grin is genuine.

I crossed above Hammer Creek on Route 322 and hooked a quick left onto the Horseshoe Trail, pleased to find not a single set of tracks before me.  I hung another left and dug into the steep, rocky climb that peels up and away from the Horseshoe Trail.  The legs felt fresh and I soon topped out, crossed the power line and headed into the wooded state game lands on the other side.  Before long I took yet another left and followed the long descent that eventually returns to the banks of Hammer Creek and leads to the intersection with the Sharp Valley Trail, my first right turn of the run.

The snow served up a lovely, crisp lullaby underfoot and I marveled at the stillness and silence of everything else but the murmured chattering of the creek.  A far off train whistle, probably originating from the same train and tracks that called to me through the bedtime window of my childhood, just barely made itself heard above my footfalls.

Sharp Valley eventually led to the Big Timber Trail and after clambering up a rocky ascent, I found myself on the old logging road that skims Camp Mack and climbs its way back toward the Horseshoe Trail.  Before getting that high, I turned right onto the Explorer Lodge trail/road and followed it all the way back to the point where I'd first strayed from the Horseshoe Trail.

Feeling exceptionally at ease in the woods and still full of energy, I decided against returning to the car and instead began climbing up, up the Horseshoe Trail to Eagle Rock, headed east from there along the ridgeline and then came all the way back down the logging road again to the Big Timber Trail and retraced (in reverse) some of my earliest miles.

Somewhere along the way, I glanced down at my Garmin and realized that the clock had struck midnight.  At that same moment, I realized that it was now February 9th, the day that would've been my father's 60th birthday.

That hadn't crossed my mind at all, at least not consciously, before that very moment and its arrival jolted me out of my dreamy state.

I'd covered more than 10 miles by the time I arrived back at the car and had held my pace throughout, but the remaining turns and trails chosen after realizing the date had blurred and failed to register.  My head never quite settled back into its earlier peaceful state.

Instead, I pondered what it would be like to playfully give Dad a hard time about being an old man but discovered that I couldn't actually conjure up a vision of that happening.  There are photographs to remind me of how my father looked and, though I don't go out of my way to visit the mirror, it's hard not to see at least a bit of him when I cross one's path.

But in my mind, and I can't even begin to express how disappointing I find this, he often lurks as the 49-year old man in a coma that I visited every day for the last 5 months of his life.

You have a lot of time to look, really look, at someone when they lie prone and motionless for days, weeks and months on end.  You look as close as you should've looked all along but, sadly, you no longer have the opportunity to see anything more than the cold exterior shell and it really drives home how much life and beauty lives in gesture and movement, in the magical whatever-it-is that eyes are able to convey.

I looked too late to fully appreciate the magic.

The flicker of that magic in photographs is a poor reproduction of what is no more.  There's a reason that live shows transcend studio recordings and I'll take raw vulnerability over doctored perfection any and every day.

But, sticking with the music analogy, we don't get to see every band play live that we'd like to.  Even those acts that we were privileged enough to see perform aren't waiting in the wings for us to call them out for an encore.

Poor reproduction or not, recordings do still contain magic, however, and, if nothing else, they retain the ability to transport us back to those first listens, chill-inducing concerts or moments that became indelibly connected to specific notes or musical passages.

I love that about records.

And, I love that about photographs.

Especially when it's all I've got left. 

Miss you, Pops.

a light in the midst of the tunnel.

I really am beginning to believe that I do my best running in the dark.

By settling into the narrow tunnel of light and letting my brain pull what little info it can from the beam and quickly convincing my feet to trust that little bit of info and get on with things.  Maybe there's too much available data in the light of day and it's my brain that can't stay on task, leaving my feet wondering what it is they're supposed to be doing.

The Stone Mill 50, my first attempt at running 50 miles at one shot, is two weeks away and I'm considering wearing blinkers like a skittish racehorse.  Maybe I can start a new running fad.

Anyway, that decision can wait.  For now I'm concentrating on cranking out a few last moderate length runs to stay fit and keep the legs moving.  The family schedule has been wacky so night runs have become the norm.  Tonight, after a couple hours of fun hiking with Lil, Piper, Dan and Adeline and then getting the kids to bed, I zipped over to Pumping Station to spend some time on the Horseshoe Trail and the surrounding area.

Yes, it's dark out there.  But that is why I bring a headlamp.  And here's what things look like (be forewarned, this is barely watchable):

While I didn't grow up IN the forest, I did grow up just outside of the forest and spent many nights venturing into them.  I feel strangely at ease in the dark or at least I'm told that it's strange from folks (my wife, for one) who shudder at every snap of a twig and hoot of an owl.  I expect to hear those sounds and they don't bother me one bit.

That's what I was telling myself as I began to hear what sounded like the steady squeak of a slightly rusted tricycle apparently pedalling along in the woods just outside of my field of vision.  It held steady through a quarter mile climb and the subsequent descent.  I knew I was imagining it or, more correctly, misidentifying what I was truly hearing and morphing it into something creepy.

Time to think about something else.

I began thinking about Kelly Agnew's invitation, made a few weeks earlier, to have me pace him at the Javelina Jundred (pronounced Havelina Hundred for anyone unfamiliar with the hard-as-nails Javelina's soft-as-butter J) out in Arizona in mid-November.  He needed someone to accompany him on the final 39 miles and kindly (I think) thought of me.

I was flattered and intrigued even though I knew right away that I wouldn't be able to pull it off.  I had neither the money or the time to get myself there, not to mention the fact that I've never done 39 miles in a single go, haven't served as a pacer for anybody at any distance and I was signed up for Stone Mill the weekend that followed the Javelina Jundred.

Honestly, I was more than intrigued.  I wanted to do it.  For Kelly and for me, I wanted to find some way to be there.

But, it wasn't to be, despite Kelly's persistent texts that were equal parts urging and mocking.  It was an effective tact and resulted in a nagging conscience despite my sticking to my guns (facing reality).

So, anyway, here I am running in the Pennsylvania darkness and thinking of Kelly and I running in the Arizona darkness.  I was no longer concerned about ghost tricyclists but I did begin questioning if I had the stuff to be of any use to anyone as a pacer.

I never did get my answer, but I did decide that I want to find out.  I fully intend to keep running my own races and testing my own boundaries but, man, there's something about the idea of being there for a friend at a time that he or she most needs support while together tackling the very kind of challenge that has likely brought us together in the first place.

Sitting high up on Eagle Rock, I looked out over the sleeping valley below and looked forward to adventures to come.

So, if you're looking to go long and think you could use some company somewhere along the course, pick up the phone, send me an e-mail, let me know where I need to be.  I may not be the world's best and certainly won't be the fastest pacer out there, but I will do my damnedest to have an encouraging word when you need it, shut my mouth when you need it shut and suffer right along with you to the finish line.

My finish line on Saturday night was the Pumping Station parking lot where my car waited to escort me back to my slumbering household.  It was a satisfying finish.

As satisfying as making a finish can be, I can only imagine it's that much more satisfying to help someone else get there too.

Whether it's in broad daylight or by the glow of a headlamp. 

octo-brrr.

I loaded the girls (my two daughters and their great aunt) into the van, jumped in the driver's seat, turned the key and pointed the vehicle toward Lycoming County and, with any luck, some freakishly early snow.

My wish came true (though I'd have never guessed--weather reports notwithstanding--that there'd actually be more snow home in Manheim than up in the higher elevations of northern Pennsylvania).

Whichever friend of my stepfather's who owns and built the cabin that we frequent a half hour's drive north of Williamsport chose a beautiful location.  Perched on a nice vantage point just above the Lycoming Creek, the cabin is close enough (a 2.5-3 hour drive) to always feel within reach but remote enough to seem as though home is far, far away.

Arriving on Friday after the sun was already down, we didn't get a peek at the state of the fall foliage but we could see that there wasn't any snow on the ground.  It wasn't warm, but the temperatures hadn't dipped below freezing.  Regardless, the cabin's wood stove made for a cozy night's sleep.

When I woke to my alarm at 6:30, things had changed.

A solid frost clung to everything, steady snow was falling and a cold fog hung in the dim light of early morning.  The first few miles of my run would keep me low in the valley away from what little warmth the rising sun might bring.  The mercury hadn't dipped far below freezing, but a very wet snow dampened everything it touched and made the air feel that much colder.

I followed Route 14 south for about 4 miles until it reached the town of Ralston.  Once there, I hung a left onto an old logging road that quickly left town behind and crept out toward Loyalsock State Forest.  Rather than continuing into the state forest (which is beautiful), I soon bore left onto McIntyre Road, another unpaved mountain road, that offers a challenging sustained 4 mile, 1000+ foot climb to what, in fairer weather, is a pretty stunning vantage point of the valley that I'd just passed through.

A gathering blanket of snow on the tree branches welcomed my arrival.

I settled into a steady pace determined to run the entire climb and managed to so.  I had the road to myself except for a couple of passing hunters who greeted my wave and smile with the subtlest of acknowledging nods that, honestly, I may have invented to assure myself that we'd made nice.  Because of the road conditions, it took them a long time to leave me behind which gave me a nice shot of adrenaline to finish the climb.

Before actually reaching the vista, the road levels and even offers a slight downhill before the turnaround.  Having run the entire uphill, I decided to mess around with the small tripod in my pack and see if I could get any decent shots of me running.  They turned out so-so, but I liked this one:

When I did reach the overlook, visibility was extremely limited by the icy fog that rolled between the rocky outcrop on which I stood and the far ridgeline, a couple of miles removed.  Vanity coaxed me into another self portrait:

I lingered for several minutes as small gaps in the clouds opened and closed, providing momentary glimpses of the landscape below.

I realized I'd stayed long enough when a torso-shaking chill reminded me that I was soaking wet and it was still snowing.  I dug a dry shirt out of my pack and welcomed the immediate warmth.  Though the hardest part of my out-and-back was behind me, I still had a 9 mile return trip and was glad I'd planned well enough to have brought the change of clothes.

With four immediate miles of downhill, I pushed the pace a bit and was happy to have my legs respond nicely.  At the lowest section of McIntyre Road, the mid morning temps had climbed enough to keep the snow from accumulating.  I really enjoyed the autumnal beauty and almost wished that the road went on forever.

It didn't.  Eventually I was back along the comparatively bustling Route 14 and churning out the last few miles to the cabin.  I was pleased to see that I'd held comfortably below 9 minute mile pace for the entire 18 miles despite the climb up McIntyre and without every really trying to push hard.

This is the route, if you're interested:

http://www.usatf.org/routes/view.asp?rID=458308

Despite having snow fall throughout the day and into the evening hours, we didn't have any measurable accumulation at the cabin itself.  I learned that back home Lindsay had had the displeasure of shoveling 5-6 inches of heavy snow and a limb had sheared off of one our favorite backyard trees.

By the time I got home late on Saturday afternoon (and with the exception of the tree branch), most of the evidence was gone.  It had clearly snowed but little of it remained.  Still, curiosity led me back to the car and off to Pumping Station to check on the Horseshoe Trail.

Because of the closures of Route 322, I couldn't get the car all the way there.

I'm assuming there were trees down somewhere on 322 to merit the closure, but on foot, I couldn't see them.  There were limbs down everywhere on the Horseshoe Trail, however, and it was slow going through the gathered slush and what snow lingered.

After the long, quick road miles of the day before, the varying footing and the riddle that is route-finding on rocky terrain was a nice change of pace.  Topping out at Eagle Rock, I snapped a quick photo to show the couple of inches of snow and the view north toward Schaefferstown, Myerstown and Blue Mountain far in the distance.

For good measure, I took one more "I wuz here" photo of you know who too.

I tacked on a couple more miles before returning to the car to get home to my lovely snow-shoveling wife, some pizza and a couple hours of not running.

august.

This was going to be the month.

July had seen a slight uptick on mileage and August was going to be the month that I finally pushed things up a notch.  Only it didn't happen.

Some really solid running took place and there were many memorable on-trail moments, but I went in the wrong direction in terms of miles.  I did a couple of mid-distance races, the Jupiter Peak Steeplechase, of which I've already written, and the seemingly underappreciated On the Rocks 16-Miler at Rocky Ridge Park in York, PA.  I was reasonably pleased with both efforts (I finished 9th at On the Rocks), but admittedly felt some fatigue in the days after and struggled to cover additional miles.

No matter.

A couple days of tired legs are no big deal and other than keeping track of them for curiosity's sake, the number of miles really don't matter much to me.  I do, however, need to remind myself of that now and again.

And so August wasn't THE month, but it sure was A month of running and one that I'm looking back on fondly as I sift through the photo evidence below:

Wednesday, August 10 - AM - First run after Jupiter Peak Steeplechase included a good bit of climbing at Pumping Station and on the Horseshoe Trail - legs feeling good.

Wednesday, August 10 - PM - Back end of my twofer, a run home from work.

Thursday, August 11 - Run to work - felt fatigued but held pretty solid pace.

Sunday, August 14 - Morning run at Pumping Station/Horseshoe.

Wednesday, August 17 - Morning loop run on Horseshoe Trail starting on southern side of 322, crossing over to Eagle Rock overlook and back on the conservancy trail - may have been the last go for these MT 101s.

Saturday, August 20 - On the Rocks 16-miler at Rocky Ridge park.

Sunday, August 21 - Colebrook Road to R2T to Junction Road loop - good effort the day after On the Rocks.

Wednesday, August 24 - Horseshoe Trail out-and-back with Jefferson starting at Segloch Road and heading toward Middle Creek.

Thursday, August 25 - Midday run on Penryn and White Oak roads.

Friday, August 26 - Nighttime loop on Colebrook, R2T and Junction roads returning on Sun Hill - UTMB excitement and the pending arrival of Hurricane Irene had me feeling cabin fever.

Saturday, April 27 - Post-UTMB and early stages of Irene on Colebrook, Hossler, Power and Sun Hill roads.

Sunday, August 28 - Post-Irene afternoon/evening run at Pumping Station and on the Horseshoe Trail.

Monday, August 29 - Midday run on White Oak and Penryn roads.

Wednesday, August 31 - Pre-dawn run at Pumping Station and Horseshoe Trail - planting seed of hope for a sub-2 hour effort at the Conestoga Trail Run in a few weeks.  Fingers are crossed.