we're half awake.

Back at the beginning of September, I was privileged to take part in Pretzel City's 3rd annual Labor Pains event in Reading, Pennsylvania.  A camaraderie factory, this "race" consists of a 5 mile loop and a 12 hour time limit, ensuring that participants cross paths again and again, enjoy a ridiculously well stocked home base and have opportunity to see non-running family and friends repeatedly, the latter being a rare treat at long-distance events.

The day was filled with triumphs of the physical and the emotional, birthed new friendships and strengthened many bonds. I tried repeatedly to write (type) of the day but found wanting the limp stories my feeble words reported back to me.  There was so much effort, so much emotion tied up in the day and I couldn't seem to capture any of it after the fact.

A week later I volunteered at another event celebrating its third birthday.

The Keystone Trails Association's Susquehanna Super Hike and Ultra is near and dear to my heart.  My place of work, Backcountry Edge, is one of the gold sponsors of the Super Hike and the 28.4 mile course is as close to a home field as I have known for an actual race, with the final 12-13 miles tracking north on the Conestoga Trail.  To get to the 15-mile aid station that Backcountry Edge staffs on race day, I pass the site of the head-on collision that led to the death of my father.  Two years ago I attended the event and while there got word that my grandmother was on her death bed.  Last year extreme flooding from Hurricane Irene forced the cancellation of the event and even though I got out on the course anyway, the sobering images of a nearly ruined Pequea Creek Campground and the swollen, debris-clogged Susquehanna River remain cemented gloomily in my memories.

Despite those dark shadows, witnessing friends and strangers tackling and eventually rising above the challenges presented by the up-down-up-over-and-over-again terrain that hugs the edges of the Susquehanna brings unbelievable joy.  This year was no exception and I was especially honored to be able to be there for some folks who didn't make it to the finish line but (hopefully) have life-affirming efforts to reflect upon with something nearing the pride that I felt on their behalf.  While they may have felt disappointment, at least initially, I can attest that I drew overwhelming inspiration from seeing how far they'd gone and how valiantly they'd pressed forward.

And yet again I returned to my keyboard and came up with nothing.

Not a single sentence that did any justice to what had transpired.

By the midway point of nearly every race, I'm already turning words over in my mind, setting the foundation for the flawed reports that I so enjoy churning out.  They're never perfect, never quite what I'd hoped, but at least they happen.

Not this time.  Instead, another, different DNF.

Too many other things rattling around inside my brainbox, perhaps?

Maybe.

My first 100-miler, slated for the second weekend of October, is looming larger everyday and everyday I feel my schedule growing less and less supportive of pre-race training.  Lil is in kindergarten (gasp!) and Piper has taken her place in preschool.  As convenient as it would be for them to get themselves awake, tidied, dressed, fed, brushed and delivered to school all on their own, they (shockingly) don't yet seem up to the task without my assistance.

Linds is back to school and clinicals, working tirelessly and meticulously, as she does, to not just get by but excel in her pursuit of a nursing degree.

Running MUST take a backseat and never for a moment do I question that.

But it does leave me shaken for next month, for a challenge that was daunting to begin with. A sinus infection swept in this week to complicate matters further and effectively drained my energy for both running and writing and laid waste to a day of work while it was at it.

And another thing.

A not-so-insignificant thing.

I've missed the mountains since returning from TransRockies and not because I'd choose them over my family but because I'd love to have both be a part of my everyday.

Existing friends who've long lived out west haven't hesitated to offer "told you sos" and new friends, made in those very mountains, continue to send "come on backs."  And, now, a pair of best-friends-forevers have emptied the shaker of salt in these wounds by sealing the deal on a new home at the foot of Utah's glorious Wasatch Mountains and delivering the news with unapologetic neighborly invites.

Consider me haunted, hunted even, by the West.

A move that direction is not in the cards.  At least not in the nearest of futures, but it sure does sound enticing.  Especially when my wife busies herself in investigating the Salt Lake job market and school district statistics even though she's a good year-and-a-half to two years shy of escaping her current job/school position.

For now, I've got to push those temptations aside, clear these sinuses and get the mind right for 24-30 hours on my feet at the Oil Creek 100.  That race has the advantage to begin with and I'm a doomed soul if my mind's shot at the start line.

Gotta drown out the noise.  Perhaps with other noise.

Music, you sweet, sweet solace.

"Let's not try to figure out everything at once."

That snare!  That gorgeous snare, snapping and...wait..could it be?

Yes, popping my ears!  

And that's a start.

an abbreviated (but still super) hike.

My September running got off to a strong start with a number of hour+ long runs strung together over the Labor Day weekend.  My legs held up throughout and I wondered if that would make me feel that much more restless while volunteering at the 3rd annual KTA Susquehanna Super Hike on Saturday morning.

Even some wicked pain in my toe that required a doctor's attention (lancing proved even more painful than the injury itself) on Wednesday night didn't keep me from feeling like I had a long run in me.  If you're curious, Google the term paronychia and hope you never hear a doctor say it to you...I have never had such a seemingly insignificant source of discomfort make me question my pain threshold more critically.

It was with some guilt, then, that I learned of the Keystone Trails Association's decision to cancel the Super Hike after tropical storm Lee swept in and buried Lancaster County in many, many inches of rain that led to subsequent flooding in area creeks, rivers and towns.

Certainly I'd never hoped that the Super Hike would be shelved entirely, freeing me up for a long weekend run.  The event really is a treasure as is the Conestoga Trail and surrounding ridges, streams and hollows that host the race.

The KTA puts in an incalculable amount of work in putting together the race and participants train for weeks and months beforehand in preparation.  Obviously, all involved were sorely disappointed while still being respectful of the fact that safety comes first and the attention of emergency responders was best focused elsewhere in the aftermath of cresting flood waters.

A like-minded bunch of adventurous runners, however, decided to gather at the high point of Holtwood Park on Saturday morning, head down into Kelly's Run and north toward Pequea to see how far we could get before passage proved impossible.  I knew a couple of individuals firsthand, but most of the assembly consisted of new faces or faces that I knew only through the sneak peek that is Facebook or from fragmented memories of past area races.  Regardless, as I find with trail running in general, we all mingled and mixed like old pals and instantly felt like a team.

There was a ton of standing and running water up high on the trail that made me suspect we were in for a short trip.  Thankfully, that water must have been filtering into the ground or heading off in varied enough directions because the trail was actually in better shape the further we ventured into Kelly's Run.

When things bottomed out (still high above the Susquehanna), there was clearer evidence of receded waters, downed trees and choked debris.  The trail was certainly still passable, but required a little bit of clambering which led to slightly deeper than usual creek crossings at the lowest elevations before the start of the climb up towards the Pinnacle.

The Pinnacle stood unharmed, standing as it does a few hundred feet above the river, but the dense fog offered up only an impenetrable curtain of white and gray that refused any glimpse of the Susquehanna.

We pushed onward, heading down again, this time toward Tucquan Glen and the first landmark that had true potential to be completely underwater.

Before we reached the bottom, we caught site of the railroad tracks and knew that the river had dropped at least below that point.  Though the tracks were clear, there was a broad island of debris on the inland portion of the bridge that cluttered the clear pool that usually sits at the foot of Tucquan.

On the other side of the rails, there was a 4 to 5 foot wide ribbon of deep mud that had trapped numerous small fish, fingerlings and crayfish. We shuttled as many as were immediately visible into the river, but I'd imagine the story remained the same all the way north and south from that point.

A preliminary determination had us doubting that the Conestoga Trail was above water in Tucquan and we leaned toward taking the "high" trail on the other side of the creek to reconnect with the trail above the glen.  Someone, I'm not sure who, scouted ahead enough to say that the low trail was doable so we stayed the course and braved on.

The first portion of the trail was pretty waterlogged and, except for the few hearty souls that waded over-the-waist-high along the shoreline, most of the group did a bit of rhododendron bush-whacking to stay above the trail.

After the initial 50-100 yards, the trail reemerged and led to the always wondrous beauty that is Tucquan Glen.  As the elevation increased by even just a few feet, the glen looked not unlike it does after any significant rainfall.  At the sight of runners strung out around the bend on the ridge-hugging trail, I fell behind to try and snap photos, none of which turned out to do the spectacle any real justice.

Another creek crossing welcomed us to the start of another climb.  We passed a United Way group doing trail clean-up and offered our thanks and good luck.  A short while later we got our first from-up-high look at the chocolate-milk-like waters of the Susquehanna.

A short descent led across Reed's Run and then into the ups-and-downs over House Rock, past the limestone caves and down into the village of Pequea.  Clean-up was in full swing with pumps emptying water out of basements and first floors.  Small numbers of onlookers milled about, scoping the Susquehanna and viewing the swath of debris that filled the marina.  Something (everything?) didn't smell quite right.

We hung a right on the path toward Pequea Creek Campground and immediately hit standing water and deeper mud.  Most startlingly (and I can't believe I didn't manage to get a photo), deep cracks in the soft soil of the unpaved road seemed to offer strong support to the landslide warnings that had been issued the day prior.  I cringed at the idea of 500 hikers and runners attempting to cross through here on their way to the Super Hike finish line just a half mile ahead.

Before long we transitioned from the road into the campground and collectively gasped at what we found there.  Everything that wasn't under water, clearly had been not long ago and where the water had retreated, thick mud was left in its place.

The pavilion that a year ago had been the gathering place of volunteers, race finishers and their family and friends stood bathed in mud, its picnic tables pushed this way and that.  A slick of mud along the top of the seats of the picnic tables made it clear that the entire pavilion had been beneath at least 2 feet of water.

Downed outhouses had washed up against the pavilion and were now resting on their sides a few feet away.

The grassy plot that had served as the tent camping/parking area for the Super Hike looked fine until you stepped on it and discovered that beneath the top layer of grass was several inches of soupy mud.  My first footfall caused the next several feet of grass to ripple and roll like water displaced in the bathtub.

Even the herons looked perplexed, standing on banks that normally provided a high vantage point above the creek but were now flush with the dark brown waters of the creek.

Being beyond the end of the summer season, the campground had already seen many of its usual resident RVs and campers leave for the year, but those vehicles that had stayed behind were likely not going to be put to use again.  At the western end of the campground, there was still a foot or more of water and the line of mud caked along one camper's windows proved that water had been at least another 3-4 feet higher within the last 24 hours.

Before the four of us who remained together for the return trip left the campground, I snapped a quick photo of my GPS, concerned that the battery was going to run out of juice before we topped out at Holtwood (it didn't).  I'd forgotten to turn the Garmin back on when we'd first left the Pinnacle earlier in the day but had received confirmation from another runner's GPS that I'd shorted us exactly 4 tenths of a mile.

Off we went.

The journey back found Cassie, Steve, Gary and I together throughout, basking (sometimes gasping) in the sun that now shone brightly in the sky, enjoying each other's company, pushing through growing fatigue and using each creek crossing to calm swelling, cool down and clown around.

It was a blast.

At Pinnacle we dug into the cooler that Cassie and Steve had hid there earlier in the day and fueled up for the final push.  The section from the Pinnacle to Kelly's Run provided a breathtaking viewpoint of the trail, river, dam and bridge way down below.

Earlier in the day, knowing that I'd slow to a snail's pace if I pulled out my camera and started shooting pics, I had passed through Kelly's Run without taking a single photograph.  Coming back the second time, I lingered a bit behind the group to get a couple of shots. 

Fueled by the want to try and run the last leg (especially with the Conestoga Trail Run just a couple of weeks away) AND, maybe more importantly, to stay ahead of what felt like a growing threat of cramping, I was able to crank out a pretty good pace on the run up to Holtwood Park.  I'm not sure, though, that I had anything more left in the tank once I got there.

Steve, Cassie and Gary appeared just a few minutes later and together we enjoyed the cookies and beer that the others had kindly left behind for us.

In the end, it may not have been THE Super Hike but any full day spent on the trail with good friends (and making new friends) while gaining perspective well beyond running itself is pretty damn super.

bellyaching.

I'm staring at the keyboard knowing there's a long, long story waiting to be typed.  Even before I begin, I feel like I'm not going to manage to say everything I'd like to or convey all that transpired that weekend.

Nothing to do, I suppose, except start stringing letters and words together, like footstep after footstep, and see if we finish.  A theme emerges.

I left work midday on Friday headed for Ohiopyle and the acceptance of an invite from Derek to take part in the Laurel Highlands Group Weekend (I'll introduce the team in a moment).  I'd purposely run very little that week, sneaking in a run to work and another run home from work on Monday before spending the rest of the week on my bike.

Derek, Jason and Kelly (who I'd yet to meet) were going to be attempting the classic 70 mile Laurel Highlands Ultra (actually measuring out at 77 miles for the 2nd straight year due to a detour around a bridge that was out) while I was going to be tackling the shorter 50K race after running just the first leg of the 50K relay last year.  Greg, Bob and Randy, all of whom I'd never met, were also going to be running the 50K while Jo, Kelly's wife, would be crewing her husband's attempt at the full distance.

Jo and Kelly had been kind enough to offer to help shuttle cars to ensure that those of us running the shorter race would find our vehicles at the race's end.  This was no small gesture on their part considering the surprising distances between checkpoints and the fact that they'd be rising extremely early on Saturday morning to make certain that Kelly was ready for the 5:30 starting gun.

I'm hardly shy, but I did wonder at how well we'd all mesh.  I shouldn't have had any concerns.  As we settled into dinner, conversation flowed as the camaraderie I've come to expect and cherish in trail and ultrarunning came easy.  While Derek attended to the science experiment that is his pre-race food preparation, getting-to-know-yous transitioned into race story swapping and laughter.  We walked together down to the Youghiogheny River (the "Yough") so Randy and Derek could soak in the chilly water and the rest of us could enjoy a beautiful evening in downtown Ohiopyle.



(L to R) Bobby, Kelly, Greg, Randy, Derek, Jason and Me (photo by Jo Weakley Agnew)



Kelly and Jo chauffeured Bobby and I back to the lodge after letting us park our vehicles at the finish line 31.1 miles away on the meandering Laurel Highlands Trail.  We said quick goodbyes to let them get what little sleep they could sneak in before 3:30 AM, said final good lucks to Derek and the rest of the crew and retired for the night.

Bobby and I swapped a few more stories before flicking off the lights and getting some sleep.  He was without his iPhone and concerned that he'd either left it in Kelly and Jo's vehicle or, worse yet, forgotten it on the hood of his car.  We both joked that it was good he'd done it at a trail race because it was likely the phone would still be there, agreeing that at a road race someone would've jumped at the chance to pocket the loot.

We awoke just before 7:00 AM, leaving us more than an hour to cover the couple of hundred yards between the lodge and the starting line.  I commented immediately that I didn't feel my best, but I wasn't too concerned either.  I headed off to search for coffee and was relieved to find an open door with the smell of fresh brew wafting out onto the sidewalk.  Caffeine hit the spot and any trepidation I had was long gone.  It was time to sound the gun and get out into the lush beauty of the Highlands.

Bobby's plan all along for Laurel Highlands was to pace his friend, Chuck, to what would hopefully be his first 50 kilometer finish.  By the time I hit the parking lot, Bobby and Chuck had met up and were ready to go.  Chuck had friends along to crew and they generously agreed to transport my pack to our final destination, a detail I'd managed to not consider ahead of time.

The 50K starts in the parking lot of Wilderness Voyageurs, an Ohiopyle fixture for gear, good times and raft trip send-offs.  As we broke from the starting line, we were headed in the opposite direction of the boat launches and up, up, up and away from the Yough.  I remembered from last year that the initial broad track quickly turned into tight single track as a narrow set of stairs (yes, stairs) ushered runners into the first of the day's climbs.  I did my best to stay ahead of the pack so as not to immediately bog down.

Well familiar with the sustained, unrunnable climb that lurked at miles 6-8, I made certain to maintain a realistic pace at the outset.  I knew all too well that I hadn't logged a run of any significant length since before my Achilles flare-ups and nothing near 30 miles since last October.  I was pleased to settle pretty comfortably into what felt like somewhere in the range of 8-9 minute miles.  Foolishly, I'd forgotten my GPS in the pack that I'd handed over before the start of the race, so I'd spend the day without solid beta on how much time had elapsed and how steadily I was progressing.  That mattered little at this stage of the race, however, and I was thrilled just to be back on the Laurel Highlands Trail.

At some point I found myself right on Greg's heels and after a few switchback's he caught sight of me in his peripheral vision and realized I was stalking him.  We spent the next couple of miles in good conversation, discussing how we'd come to running, why it meant so much and marveling at the galvanizing force that is Derek.

I stuck with Greg through maybe mile 7 but watched him keep pushing on while I took a few moments to stretch the Achilles in a preventative attempt to stave off any strain issues.  Having loosened up again, I got back to the climb and topped out feeling much better than I had the year prior.

And then I threw up.  Violently.  I was somewhere around mile 9 and didn't feel bad leading up to the episode and felt pretty good immediately thereafter.  I chalked it up to the effort of the climb, shrugged it off and began moving swiftly again toward the first aid station at mile 11.6.  I'd end up puking twice more before reaching that station and by the 3rd time, my body was going through the motions but finding nothing to expel.

The trail levels off and transitions into rolling terrain ahead of the first aid station and my legs felt surprisingly good when I finally reached it.  I didn't bother to ask the time but, having been passed by few runners, I knew I was still on pace for a decent finish.  Despite it not occurring to me to retrieve my GPS, I was able to part with my hydration pack, shirt and hat which my new friends generously offered to put with my backpack.  The hat and the shirt were unnecessary as most of the trail up to that point and beyond was beneath the trees.  Carrying two handheld water bottles, I hadn't put a dent in the water I'd been carrying in my hydration pack, so I didn't see any reason to continue to carry the weight, especially with closer spacing between aid stations the rest of the way.  I'd come to second guess that decision.

I drank a cup or two of Pepsi which felt really good on my churning stomach.  I ate an orange slice which tasted a bit harsh but seemed like a worthwhile indulgence.  I refilled my water bottles with cold water and continued on my way.

I felt good.  Really good.

For about 10 minutes.

Somewhere around mile 12, I threw up again.  And again.  And again.  And....

Each time I thought I'd gotten everything out of my system, I'd set off again for the finish line.  Progress had grown ridiculously slow and I believe I may have even sat a time or two over the course of just a mile or two.  The trail has little stone markers at every mile, so you can easily keep track of how far you've come.  Shortly after passing the mile 13 marker, I had the most violent episode of the day despite the fact that my stomach had gone empty quite some time before.  It was at this point that I realized I wasn't sweating anymore.  Almost simultaneous to this realization, I got hit with the worst stomach cramp of my life.  A deep horizontal indentation in my stomach made it look as though someone had begun sawing me in half, lost interest and walked away after making it halfway through my torso.

My day was done.  I began moving again but this time I was headed back to the first aid station.  It seemed the only logical decision with aid station 2 placed somewhere out beyond mile 19.  I was upset but didn't want to end up like the listless guy that me and Taylor had transported from aid station 2 to the finish line last year, wondering if the guy was going to pull through and knowing that, without an IV, he was in a bad, bad place.  Oddly enough, while sitting to gather strength, that very runner passed by, stopping in his tracks when I asked him if he was the guy I'd given a ride to last year.  He thanked me and urged me not to allow myself to get where he'd gotten.

Soon after that exchange and totally out of gas, I plopped down into a creek to see if I could cool off and give myself enough of a boost to get back to the aid station.  Many (most) of the folks who passed by kindly offered to help me if they could.  I turned down most of the offers knowing I had little chance of keeping anything down.  One seasoned ultrarunner wouldn't take no for an answer and gently placed an electrolyte tab (I could've sworn it was a Listerine strip) against the inside of my cheek, gave me a salt pill and made me drink a little bit of water.  She told me to take all the time I needed and then assured me that I'd come around.  I couldn't help but think back on my dear friend Matt's claims that "trail magic" from a kind stranger had carried him to the finish of the 28.4 mile Susquehanna Super Hike.  That image faded as before my trail angel had even passed fully from sight, I vomited up everything I'd just been given.

Which makes it all the stranger that a few minutes later I clawed my way up onto my feet and began heading back down the trail, not toward the start but toward the finish.  I wasn't moving well and, at this point, I had very little hope of finishing but something had convinced me that I could at least make it to 19.6.

During one of my frequent sitdowns to try and calm my stomach pains, Bobby came upon me.  He too was having some GI issues and had urged Chuck to push ahead.  Though he was definitely moving better than me at this point, Bobby seemed disappointed to not be setting a quicker pace.  All the more reason I appreciated his offer of an electrolyte tablet even though I turned it down.  He assured me that he'd alert the next aid station to my difficulties and carried on his way.

Though I continued to creep further along, it seemed like an eternity between trail markers.  I still hadn't managed to keep anything down and because of the slow progress, no longer had any water left in my water bottles.  Luckily, another trail angel passed my way.  Laurie wasn't fast but she was dogged.  She was way, way back in the pack but I had no doubt that she was going to eke out a finishing time.  She hadn't intended to have her 3-liter water bladder filled completely at the aid station but an enthusiastic volunteer couldn't be talked out of adding water until the bladder bulged.  Laurie confided in me that she'd been spilling the water away to shed weight and urged me to take some.  She gave me enough to fill my water bottles about halfway and then settled back into her machine-like pace.  I watched her go and slowly mustered the determination to follow.

I hadn't gone more than 100 yards before I brought one of the water bottles to my lips to discover that the water was nearly undrinkably warm.  Just like that my determination was gone again.  The trail was again nudged right alongside a stream and I clambered in one more time to see if there were restorative powers to be had.  I submerged both bottles and hoped that their contents would cool.

I do not know how long I sat there but it was long enough to turn the water in the bottle ice cold.  I drank both bottles empty, savored the coolness for a bit and talked myself up and out of the creek.  I was moving again.

I alternated between fast hiking and, on downhill sections, something resembling running.  The further along I went, the longer I was able to sustain runs and transition more quickly between walking and running on steeper sections.  Taylor had run the second leg in 2010 and I recognized one of the climbs from his descriptions and knew that I was about to make it the second aid station that had seemed impossible a short while ago.

When I tumbled into the aid station, the volunteers looked bewildered.  I have a feeling it wasn't just Bobby who'd mentioned the state that I was in and it was clear that they'd been discussing what to do about me.  I pounded more Pepsi and, though I still had no stomach for solid foods, I licked the salt off of a handful of Pringles.  Laurie was there at the aid station and offered words of encouragement and admitted that she hadn't expected to see me in the state to which I'd seemed to return.  I gave her a hug, filled my bottles with 9 parts ice, 1 part water (roughly) and continued onward.  I'd made it through the aid station 2 cutoff with just 23 minute to spare.

Within the next few miles I came upon Bobby and another gentleman.  They too looked shocked to see me and admitted that they were struggling.  Bobby had not previously known the other runner but they'd teamed up as Bobby continued to battle his stomach and the other runner wrestled with the strain of a first time 50K attempt.  Together, we all determined to push the pace as best we could to ensure that we managed a qualifying time.  After a short sustained stretch in which we slowly, painfully ultra-shuffled instead of just walking, Bobby and I shared a good laugh at how crazy it was to be excited at having gotten our pace down to 17 or 18 minutes!  Any other day, we'd have probably been humiliated by that realization, but it was a genuine victory under the circumstances.

The remaining miles are pretty much a blur of cramping, shuffling and, oddly enough, laughter.  Too many hours had passed for there to be any chance of achieving a time to be proud of, but we did move along steadily enough to know well before the finish that we'd be managing to secure a qualifying time and a finisher's medal.  This allowed time to take in and fully appreciate the beauty of the Laurel Highlands.  With the exception of the short uninteresting pass through Seven Springs ski resort, the entirety of the trail is as pretty as can be with the crisscrossing streams, tall tree cover, sprawling sections of prehistoric ferns and an overall quiet remoteness.

My final time of 9:15:50 proved to be my slowest 50K to date...by 3.5 hours!

On paper, it's one of my worst, if not the worst, running performances of my life.  Truth is, it's the one of which I'm most proud and one I honestly believe could be a real breakthrough for me.  Throwing out the true injury that occurred at Hyner View, this is the first time that I've really had to push through "you should really stop" obstacles and do proper battle with the ultra demons.  I didn't do much more than barely finish the race, but that result was very much in doubt for most of the day.

Best of all, I made a great friend in Bobby and was able to immediately share the kind of profound experience that seems reserved for lifelong friends and loved ones.  It was a pleasure to suffer through the day with him and together lay claim to our finisher's medals.  We even managed to both arrive (via car, not on foot) at the aid station at mile 64 to spend time with Jo as she waited for Kelly to arrive and then offer encouragement to Kelly who certainly inspired me by looking like he was out for a walk in the park.  I guess, in a way, he was, but 77 miles is one long walk in the park.

We'd held out hope that we'd manage to see Derek at that aid station, but learned instead that he'd passed through earlier and, when he'd passed, was convincingly in first place.  We were already hooting and hollering at that news when the volunteer confirmed that Derek had actually already arrived at the finish and WON the race!  Bobby and I glanced at our phones to check the time and were astonished.  Not only had Derek finished in first place, he'd shaved an unthinkable hour off of the old 77-mile course record.  The recent news that construction on the bridge was expected to be completed before next year's race meant that Derek's record would stand in perpetuity.

Needless to say, it was a Laurel Highlands Group Weekend to remember.

stepping stones.

With apprehension that I am summoning a jinx, I have decided to unfurl the map and plot a course that leads towards running my first 50-mile event in late 2011, the Stone Mill 50 Mile Run in Damascus, Maryland. 

http://stone-mill-50-mile.org/?page_id=323

I've daydreamed about tackling the distance for the last 2 years but admittedly the concept hasn't evolved beyond "some day" status.  Rather than push the idea out any further, I want to approach the preparation as though the event has already started and apply the same dogged tenacity to finishing as I would on any other race day.

While I hope to take part in any number of events over the next 11 months, there are 5 key test pieces that I've picked to gauge where I'm at as Saturday, November 19 draws nearer.

I'd initially thought that I'd spend the first couple of months of 2011 simply not allowing short days and cold weather to keep me from logging miles.  Luckily, an unexpected invite appeared on my Facebook profile alerting me to the return of the Buzzards Marathon, a 26.2 mile trail run in the Clark's Valley area of Dauphin County.

http://www.lrrclub.org/_archive/Buzzards.html

The heavy snows of 2010 kept the event from being held, but on March 6th, off-road marathoners will return to a challenging course that overlaps portions of the Horseshoe and Appalachian trails.  An elevation profile of more than 4000 feet of change should provide a good early test.

In April I plan to head to Clinton County to participate in the Hyner View Trail Challenge.

http://hikerun.com/index2.html

I used to camp and hike regularly in an area slightly northwest of Hyner and was disappointed a few years ago when I learned that the event had happened just a week prior to my visit.  I've wanted to return ever since but haven't managed to make it happen.  I sent my registration check a few weeks ago and am not going to miss out this time around.  At 16 miles, the Hyner Challenge is the shortest of the races on this list, but may just be the most daunting.  Before reaching the 4th mile, runners will have climbed over 1400 feet and will give it almost all back in the downhill mile that follows.  There are two more similar climbs and quad-thrashing downhills to be tackled before the finish line.  The total elevation gain exceeds 4300 feet.  I'm really, really looking forward to this one but must own up to some anxiety as I intend to push as hard as I can.

With any luck my quads will have recovered enough by June 11 to allow me to enter the Laurel Highlands Ultra 50K Race in southwestern Pennsylvania.

http://laurelultra.com/index50.htm

This will be the 6th annual running of the abbreviated alternative to the esteemed 77-mile race that occurs on the same day.  I hope to someday try the full course, but for this year I'm going to be satisfied to do the 50K.  Last June I ran the first 11.6 mile leg of the 50K relay and am itching to try the full 31.1 miles on my own.  I was fairly pleased with my time at the relay but sorely disappointed in the wicked cramping that resulted from the effort.  Unless unexpectedly mild weather breaks at the Hyner Challenge, this will likely be the first 2011 race that bring the additional obstacles of heat and humidity.

On July 25th I will turn 37 and would like to celebrate with a run of that same distance.  That would mean running 10 kilometers further than I've ever run before which should serve the dual purpose of measuring my progress towards 50 miles and convincing me that I'm not yet over the hill (entirely).  I haven't decided on where to go about doing this and am very much open to suggestions.  If anyone would like to accompany me, I would consider it one whale of a birthday present.

A couple of months ago, I wrote of the Keystone Trails Association's Susquehanna Super Hike and Ultra Trail Run held in south central Pennsylvania's York and Lancaster Counties.

http://www.kta-hike.org/index.php?option=com_content&task=section&id=12&Itemid=76

My employer, Backcountry Edge, served as the gold sponsor and I was thrilled to be able to serve at one of the aid stations, secure and deliver door prizes and giveaways and provide moral support to all of the runners and hikers.  It was a fantastic day, but it left me wanting to actually enter the 28.4 mile race.  On September 10, 2011, I intend to do just that.

Once I've crossed the line at the Super Hike, I hope to concentrate on simply staying fit and healthy enough to attempt 50 miles on the Seneca Creek Greenway Trail and doing so without any reservations or excuses.

grace.

Sipping my way out of slumber with a tall cup of coffee, I found myself driving down Route 272 yesterday morning for the Keystone Trail Association's 2nd annual Susquehanna Super Hike.  This was the same road on which my father's vehicle was struck head-on by a semi, resulting in him suffering massive head trauma, spending several months in a coma and eventually passing away in July of 2001.  At the same time that I was creeping closer to Holtwood, my grandmother was hooked to an IV and a boatload of monitors, none of which indicated any functional brain activity.  I would learn over the next several hours that two more friends and fellow volunteers at the event would have their days rearranged by family members being rushed off to hospitals.

It didn't seem strange to ponder mortality on a day that many, many individuals would be undertaking an adventure that, once upon a time, they probably wouldn't have expected to attempt and one that would force them at times to question whether they had the ability, the willpower and the want to keep going.  When you spend your time running long distances and burying your head in blogs written by accomplished athletes, it's easy to lose sight of the fact that 28.4 miles is a long, long way to go over the course of a single day.  I'd guess that a good number of the folks signed up for the Super Hike hadn't come anywhere near covering that mileage on foot in a 48 hour period, much less within a 12 hour window.

The sun cast its glow over the river as I reached the mouth of the Norman Wood Bridge and wheeled towards York County.  Having overestimated the time it would take to get from Manheim to Lock 12, the site of aid station 2 and the first place at which I needed to deliver tables, canopies, etc. and help with set-up, I was rewarded with solitary minutes to devote to a morning run.  The woods were crisply quiet and I had them all to myself.  As my body warmed to the effort so did my spirits and I began to fully realize how perfect the weather and conditions were for a day of hiking and running.

My place of work, Backcountry Edge, was proudly serving as the gold sponsor for the Super Hike and, though that meant I wasn't going to have a chance to cover the course myself, I'd be involved in the event from start to finish.  When you take part in an event, it's all too easy to pack up and head home as soon as you're done and there are moments of comaradarie and ecstasy that you miss out on by doing so.  Like it or not, I wasn't going to miss out on them today.

Our assemblage of volunteers began trickling in about a half hour after I'd switched out of my running shoes and damp clothes.  Preparations began in earnest with the erection of our Kelty shadehouse (thanks, Tindall), the setting up of tables, the mixing of electrolytes and the placement of food, water and other essentials.  Details were discussed regarding the logging of times and participants as they passed through the aid station.  Our position at mile 15.2 was confirmed so we could safely assure passersby that they were more than halfway to the finish line.

Cones were distributed.

Positive reinforcements were applied.

Clipboards were manned.

Suddenly finding myself unneeded as our crack crew had things well in hand, I jumped into the van and headed to my next stop, the Pinnacle overlook and aid station #3.  If you haven't been to the Pinnacle, stop reading and go there now.  This perch high above the Susquehanna offers sweeping views of the river below, the rolling hills of York County on the far bank and, if you're lucky, bald eagles soaring overhead.

With an absolutely cloudless sunny sky and seemingly endless picnic tables near at hand, the volunteers at the Pinnacle turned down my supplies and shooed me away.  I paused to breathe in the view before heading to Pequea Creek Campground and the light at the end of every participant's tunnel, the finishing chute.

I put the van in park, shut off the engine, grinned at the sight of the banner being hoisted in front of me by a number of volunteers and literally leaped at the opportunity to slither up the tree to help with securing it in place.  Being that Backcountry Edge has been a web-only retailer throughout it's six year history, it was exciting to at last see the name living beyond the confines of its usual virtual walls.

In my peripheral vision, I noticed the requisite line-up of flyers for upcoming race events that never fails to pique my curiousity and get me psyched.

I put up another of the shadehouses (with a fresh set of helping hands) and a few more tables, hung banners touting some of the generous vendors (Kelty, Cascade Designs, Osprey, Ultimate Directions and Darn Tough) who'd helped us out with supplies and door prizes and made conversation with the warm and enthusiastic collection of individuals staffing this final stop on the Super Hike.  The boundlessly energetic Becky Schreiber was running the show with a smile on her face and we talked about how to distribute the screen-printed Platypus bottles (much appreciated, Rick!) that we'd brought for every participant and the approach we wanted to take on awarding the other giveaways (thank you, Tom, Justin and Ben!).

It wasn't long before the lead runner, Jesse Johnson, came roaring across the line with an impressive 4:09:10 finish.

I joined in the congratulations before saying my momentary goodbyes and heading back to aid station two.  I was anxious to see if things were still going smoothly and mingle with participants further back the trail.  I love seeing the myriad of different ways that people experience events of this type.  Goals and expectations differ, as well they should, and a grimace on one person's face can be just as positive and affirming as the smile on another.

I was particularly curious about good friends Matt and Heidi and hoped that I wouldn't return to find that they'd already passed through Lock 12.

They hadn't, but arrived soon after I'd returned with glorious and surprisingly fresh smiles on their faces.  Shepherded by Shannon's ferocious trail-blazing, they were ahead of their expected pace and ONLY had the worst of the day's climbs left to tackle.  They weren't unaware of that fact, as Heidi had tackled the remaining portion of the trail within the last month.  Still, they were all smiles.

The next few hours passed fairly quickly, despite my antsiness about remaining at our fixed position.  Pumping up participants with positive feedback and promises of food, drink and shade just ahead, I was finding it more and more difficult to not tag along.

It was great, however, to share in everyone's day and see the mixed emotions brought on by fatigue, injuries, thirst and simple effort.  I found (have always found) the back of the packers the most compelling and their barely arriving by checkpoint cut-off times or, in some cases, just after can be equally heartwarming and heartwrenching.  There is no way to physically pick someone up and transport him or her further along (at least not without disqualification) which urges you to find something, anything in a word or gesture that can compensate and muster in the individual the necessary motivation to move forward.  The emotion is palpable and intoxicating and leaves me both inspired and exhausted.

The sweeps, volunteer hikers who bring up the rear and confirm that all participants have passed or bear the sad news that checkpoints have closed and lagging participants have reached the end of their day without reaching the end of the course, arrived.  I helped to retrieve an older couple who weren't going to make it any further, openly admitted that our "Pennsylvania hills had kicked their Maryland butts" and both proudly and happily accepted the fact that they'd just covered nearly 15 gut-checking miles and could now catch a ride to the end to see their daughter cross the finish line.  Two final participants, a mother and daughter, laughed as they were "busted" and ushered off the course, cheerily pointing out that they'd planned all along to cover just this first section (their car was parked in Lock 12's lot as evidence) and that knowing this had allowed them to pause and marvel at every flower and butterfly, stop to enjoy a relaxed lunch and, most importantly, share each other's company on a beatiful September morning.  More inspiration.

With that, we were free to tear down and because aid station #2 had refused my offerings earlier in the day, the Backcountry Edge crew could skip right to Pequea to join in the celebration at the finish line.  I checked my watch and realized that I still had time to lace on my shoes and run out onto the course to hopefully provide Matt, Heidi and Shannon with a late-in-the-day pick me up and, with their blessing, walk with them to the end.  My friend and boss, Tim, decided to join me and we moved off briskly, hoping that our fresh legs wouldn't undue our messages of "your'e doing great" and "almost there" as we passed Super Hikers who'd already logged more than 25 miles over the course of 9 or more hours.  It was a mix of positive and negative reactions as we passed by.

Shannon appeared up ahead first and, with apologies, informed me that she'd had to leave Heidi and Matt behind in holding to her intended pace and not slowing down to let an aggravated knee turn into something much worse.  Another ten minutes of steady running brought me to a high point just being reached by my two friends.  I told them that they were one climb and 2 miles shy of the finish line and crossed my fingers that this was welcome news.  When they didn't throw up middle fingers or mutter and brush past me, I assumed that my presence wasn't completely unwelcome.

Together, Heidi, Matt, Tim and I plowed through the final miles, laughing and chattering away.  I could tell they were fatigued but they were in good humor and still looking strong.  The toast of her hometown, Heidi seemed to know everyone that we encountered over the last two miles through Pequea and she even managed to secure Matt a celebratory beer to down before turning the last corner to the finish line.  Tim and I raced out ahead and off of the course to let Heidi and Matt soak in their deserved cheers and applause.  I also wanted to make sure that I could snap a photo of them crossing the line together.

I sat with Matt while he refueled and we talked about the day.  He was in great shape considering the effort but I didn't think he'd believe me if I kept telling him so.  It seemed almost comical how proud I felt.

The remainder of the day was a bit of a blur as exhaustion finally set in, but there were more touching moments as people reached the end and fully grasped what they'd achieved.  Spirits ran high and you could see and feel the connections forged by the shared accomplishment of having attempted and, in most cases, completed the course.

And now it is tomorrow.

Grace, my grandmother, is gone.  The clouds have returned and much needed rain is falling.  Lily and Piper awoke to colds that seemed to confirm a changing of the seasons.  I'm at the coffee again turning over memories of childhood alongside those from yesterday.

There are a lot of long, long trails out there and we cover them in our varying ways, sometimes reaching the defined "end" and sometimes bowing out gracefully somewhere along the way.

I'm ready for whichever trail comes next.