i used to go running.

I used to go running.  I used to write.

Lately, though, I haven't run much and have written less.

Not running has some to do with a busy schedule and some to do with a lack of motivation which may or may not have some to do with a busy schedule.

Not writing has had some to do with a busy schedule but more to do with liking what I'm reading from others far more than I like my own writing.

BUT, I'll come around soon.  I always do (jinx).  Inspiration's out there.

In the meantime, I'm just gonna ponder my next move...and keep reading.

Photo by Ken Trombatore

run of the mill.

"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."

I wrote those words here on the 20th of December and had pondered the jinx through Achilles issues, a gastric meltdown at Laurel Highlands, bee stings at Conestoga and month after month of mileage that fell short of what I'd intended to log in preparation for Stone Mill.

But, on the morning of November 19th, as I stood at the starting line outside of Watkins High School in Gaithersburg, I felt pretty darn good and, at least to start, there was no sign of the jinx.  Of course, there was a lot of hours left in the day and many miles to cover, so the possibility of a sighting remained.

The weather was perfect, cold to start, but not so cold as to require excessive layering for comfort.  I'd brought gloves but felt just warm enough to not need them.  I remembered Kelly's advice to stay conservative at the start and decided to stick to it as headlamps bobbed ahead of me on the trail.

That lasted for about 10 minutes until I realized that I was going to go crazy tucked (and stuck) in formation on a beautiful section of wooded singletrack.  I wanted to stay controlled but 11+ minute miles weren't going to hold my interest and were possibly going to put me in a hole I had no want to climb into as I alternated between what felt like running in place to walking so as not to literally bump into the person in front of me.

Managing to leapfrog past a number of other runners at a couple of strategic widenings of the trail, I was able to move along more swiftly while still remaining mindful of not going too fast.  The course was really runnable with only gentle rises and falls and fairly non-technical footing.  By the time I hit the aid station at mile 11, I'd settled into a very comfortable 10:00 minute mile pace and hoped that it wasn't too much too soon.

I had taken in some water and Gatorade from the handheld bottles I was carrying and had kept down one gel, but otherwise I hadn't refueled.  I wasn't hungry yet, but, knowing that I was going to need more throughout the day, I ate a couple of bites of potato at the aid station.  My stomach didn't fully protest but hinted that it would have preferred that I had left it alone.  "Wait to worry", I vaguely remember telling myself.

The sun had finally crept high enough to cast a beautiful light on the meandering Seneca Creek Greenway Trail.  I couldn't fathom that such sustained sections of unbroken trail were tucked inconspicuously into the wild cracks between the bustling sprawl of Washington D.C. and Montgomery County, Maryland.

I was having an absolute blast, cruising along, splashing through water crossings and waiting for my beard to thaw.

As I started to near 20 miles, I pulled the throttle back just a hair in hopes that I could settle into a pace I could hold all day long.  I even power hiked a couple of the steeper hills to conserve energy even though there wasn't a single section that I couldn't and wouldn't have run in a shorter race.

My pace dropped even further after I decided to take a break.  "Don't you have to go to the bathroom?", I've been asked on numerous occasions when talking about running long races.  Yes is, of course, the answer and, if you're lucky, there's a port-a-potty handy when the need arises.  Call me lucky. 

I left the john behind me and felt better for it.  Moments later I was on the towpath of the C&O canal and my "feeling better" went away.  After miles of trail, the hard-packed towpath surface felt way too much like pavement.

The view, however, was lovely with the mighty Potomac perched on the left.

I snapped a bunch of photos along this stretch, partly because it was so beautiful and partly because it broke up the monotonous pounding of the towpath.  On any random day, I would probably enjoy running on this surface and certainly surrounded by that landscape but, having already come a long way, this was the first time that my feet felt fatigued and the first time that my mind wandered to the many miles ahead.  My resolve weakened and I realized that I hadn't put anything further in my stomach.

A few miles later, the course branched away from the towpath and the ruins of the race's namesake stone mill offered a welcome distraction.

I investigated for a momentbefore hitting up the aid station nestled just a few yards away.  My drop bag was stocked with a change of shirts, a handful of gels, some GU Chomps, a couple of granola bars, some dried dates, salt capsules, some band-aids, a fresh wicking shirt and some ibuprofen.

I opened a gel packet but didn't manage to get much down before deciding that I just didn't want to tempt fate with my cranky gut.  I slipped into the dry shirt and packed my wet shirt and remaining gels back into the drop bag.  I knocked down two ibuprofen and tucked the Chomps and salt caps into my pocket.  The crew at the aid station refilled my bottles and I gave the GPS a quick glance before heading back out onto the trail.

Despite all my dawdling, I was still at a sub-11 minute pace and just 7 tenths of a mile shy of halfway home.  I wasn't feeling my best by any means, but was happy to have the towpath behind me, not suffering from any real physical issues and encouraged at being well ahead of the 12 hour cutoff.

After a short stretch of unpaved road, we were back on trail.  I felt pretty good for a mile or two as the path wound through open, hilly farmland fringed by old, thinned out woods.  Somewhere near mile 27 or 28, I hit a major lowpoint.  Physically, nothing seemed out of order, but I just couldn't muster any enthusiasm.  It was unignorable...I didn't want to be there, didn't want to run any further.  I'd gone further in a number of other races and on other runs and I couldn't understand why I was feeling the way I was, but that just made me more frustrated.  The miles between 27 and 30 seemed absolutely endless and while I wasn't really considering dropping when I reached the next aid station, I was dreading the miles and hours ahead.

For all the enthusiasm and support that lives in trail running aid stations, they can be really depressing places when your stomach isn't cooperating.  I looked at the chips, pretzels, M&Ms, almonds and other snacks with disdain and borderline despair.  I was sitting down, nursing a cup of Coke, staring at nothing and thinking about the same when I overheard a runner ask a volunteer for some chicken soup.  Hearing that request brought on a craving for soup like I've never experienced.  I jumped to my feet and said "make it two", feeling melodramatic but not caring in the least.

To say that that cup of soup saved my life would be...stupid, it would be stupid, but what it did do was give me calories I was sorely lacking and those calories translated into positivity that I'd been without for several miles.  It wasn't the last soup (or cup of Coke) that I would have that day, but it was the one that got my fueling back on track and kept me from a total bonk.  I wouldn't say that I went flying out of the aid station, but I did get back to running with purpose instead of letting pace get away from me entirely.

I kept plugging along, enjoying the babbling creeks, leaf-stripped woodlands and postcard-perfect old barns perched on distant hillsides.  I discovered that I'd covered 40 miles and was creeping toward the possibility of sneaking up on the finish line at just under 11 hours.  I wanted to go faster but also reminded myself to stay smart and forced myself to power-hike now and then to break up some of the repetition on my leg muscles.  The strategy seemed to be working as the Garmin reported that I'd made it to 44 miles.

That's where I was when the gentleman at the next aid station welcomed me to "41 miles".  I gave him a puzzled look as he explained that the next section was an out-and-back consisting of a 1.5 leg to a water stop and then an additional 3.5 miles to the turnaround.  I'm no mathematician and was tired to boot, but that sure sounded like more remaining work than I'd expected.  I mumbled something about the read-out on my wrist and he smiled when he told me that a lot of other runner's GPSs had said the same thing.  Hmmm.

Off I went, but with an admitted deflation.  Even though I felt pretty good, there was something about having thought I was so close only to learn that I wasn't that took a toll.  I slowed noticeably and no longer needed to force myself to hike the "ups".  Shortly after leaving the turnaround and recrossing an icy stream which may have been the motivation for the race directors to send us that way in the first place, the sun passed from low in the sky to gone.  Luckily, I'd kept my headlamp in my pocket instead of throwing it in the drop bag back at the Stone Mill aid station.

A mile further, the light revealed Bobby approaching me on his way out to the turnaround.  Stone Mill was his 11th ultra of 2011 and he'd lined up despite suffering from what he suspected was the start of plantar fasciatis.  Bobby and I had suffered through Laurel Highlands together back in June and forged a fast friendship and an easy camaraderie.  I wanted this to be a great day for him as much I did for myself, but I could tell he was having some difficulty.  He confirmed that his plantar diagnosis was correct and told me of his day.  He'd tried to modify his gait to offset the growing pain in his foot and brought on some knee issues in the process.  He'd gutted things out for hours on end, but, in learning that the course was longer than advertised and not wanting to cause any further damage, he decided to turnaround here and come back with me.  His race was over but he still had a few dark, cold miles ahead to get back to the start.  I was sorry for how his day had gone but happy to again be sharing the trail with him.

With the sun down, the temperatures had dropped considerably and we looked forward to calling it a day.  Having a friend to talk to made those last few miles slip by surprisingly quickly and before long the finish line loomed ahead at the top of one last grassy slope, the steepest of the day.  I bounded up the hill, surprised to find that I still had a little leg, and crossed under the Stone Mill start/finish banner.

I'd finished my first 50-miler and was pleased to feel like I could have gone further.  Well, to be fair, I had gone further.  Four-and-a-half miles further.  I hadn't managed to look down to see where I was at mile 50, but based on my final pace and the slogging that I did on that last out-and-back, I'm guessing it was something a little less than 11 hours.  Maybe.

Despite the unexpected miles, I had a great time and loved the event.  The weather was perfect and the course was totally manageable.  I'd have been hard-pressed to pick a better day and race my first 50.  There was a lot of grumbling about the extended distance and I'm still perplexed as to why the directors were comfortable overshooting by that much.  Wayne, who I'd met the night before, was using Stone Mill as his qualifying race for entering the Western States 100 lottery.  To get in without a 100-miler, he needed a sub-11 hour 50-mile race and, by running strategically throughout the day to hit that comfortably, he ended up just sneaking in under that time because of the extra miles.  His frustration was understandable.  For me, just wanting to get through the distance, I'm hoping that those extra miles will give me a psychological advantage the next time I attempt 50 miles.  Time will tell.

My hope is that the organizers publicize the full distance next year or modify it to be something a little closer to 50 or even add on and make it a 100K.  As cold as it got on Saturday, had there been rain or wind to further complicate things, runners could have found themselves in real danger of hypothermia or exposure.  This, obviously, is always a possibility at any ultra, but with the course being so much longer than advertised, the directors would have had to field some uncomfortable questions that, thankfully, didn't need to be addressed this past weekend.  Outside of that, I have no complaints or suggestions for improvement.

Thanks to all for putting on such a well-supported event with a great vibe.  With a hard to believe $35 entry fee in an era where you're often asked to pay that for a 5K, Stone Mill didn't include a commemorative shirt, but the swag was still pretty sweet and included a nice imprinted drop bag, a mug (for first time Stone Mill runners) and a flashlight.

It probably goes without saying, but my favorite piece of swag was the finisher's medal.

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. 

just a number.

"Age is just a number," they say.

Funny thing about they...for all of the bravado, they don't seem to do a lot of signing their names to the swaggering proclamations.  And with good reason, since many of those mouthing-offs don't hold water.

While I don't find the passage of time to be a source of dread, I can say, unequivocally, that age is far more than just a number.

If it wasn't, I'd be toeing the line at 5K races expecting to flirt with 18 minute finishes like I did at 24.  Those days are long, long gone.  Of course, so is the free time that I had in my early twenties.  Free time that would've come in handy had I taken an interest then in the long-distance running I love so much now.

Which brings me to something that is, in fact, just a number.

It's sitting right there in the lower right hand corner of the photo.  One thousand and two (point 1, since we're keeping count) is the reading on my 2011 running odometer as of the end of my middle of the night run run last evening (or this morning if you really want to get technical).

Engaged in a hobby in which some individuals crank out 50 or 100 miles in a single day (or at least at a single time over a span of more than 24 hours), taking 10 months to cover 1000 miles is easy.  I, however (and I realize that my non-running friends and family aren't going to buy this for a second), am not a very high-mileage ultra-runner.  I would like to be and hope over the coming years to increase my regular mileage, but not so much so that the rest of life requires an overhaul.

I've got 3 lovely reasons who share my home and my life to make me unwilling and uninterested in devoting much more time away from them, especially when my running life is already blissful with the time I am able to give it.  For now, I'll stick with my 20-40 miles per week that more resembles 10K training than a 50-mile race regimen and live with results on race days.

And, let's face it, 1000 miles is a fair few miles.  Leaving my front door and heading west, I'd be within 100 miles of New Orleans by now and could expect to knock on my friend Megan's door sometime late this month or early December (and promptly take her for a run).  If I'd have headed northeast instead, I could have visited Bar Harbor in early summer and have just 30 miles left on my return trip.  Had I made a beeline for San Francisco, I'd be pulling out of Kansas City and looking at being halfway across the country by the end of the year.

All that is nonsense, of course, as 1002 really is just a number.  I've got friends and acquaintances who probably waved goodbye to that same number as early as April or May and didn't see any reason to blather about it the way I am now.  Curiosity got the better of me this year, though, and so I'm looking more closely at the numbers than I have before.  I'm not really gleaning anything particularly useful from the running log that I decided to keep for the entire year, but I am finding it intriguing.  I may (or may not) have run 1000 miles in a year a time or too before but I never had the documentation to confirm it.

I went in to last weekend knowing that I was getting close to quadruple figures and when I let Monday and Tuesday slip away without getting in any miles it started to prey on my conscience.  Lindsay was scheduled to work on Wednesday evening until 11:30 and it looked like I was again going to spend the day on the sidelines.

When she got home early and needed to transition right into studying, I saw my opportunity.  On went the shoes, the windshirt, a hat and my headlamp and off I went.  Roughly an hour-and-a-half and just under 10 miles later, I had reached the silly number referenced in the earlier photo. 

It was during that run that I began pondering age.  Not sure why, but it happened.  I'm not going to say "I LOVE being 37", but I'm far more content as 40 approaches than I would've predicted as that speedier 24 year old.

Last I checked, the average American male can expect to draw breath for about 75 years, landing me squarely at mid-life crisis age.

But it hasn't happened and I'm fairly hopeful it isn't going to happen.

If anything I feel like the member of a football team that suffered through a rough first half only to emerge from the locker room re energized by a fiery halftime speech and the recognition that his team is still very much in the game.  The blessed existence of my wife, the life-affirming arrival of my children and, yes, the physical joy of running combined to deliver that speech and I'm thinking this second half could be a far more positive than the first.

Who knows, maybe grandkids'll sub in late and I'll end up sticking around for overtime to watch them unleash vengeful (but harmless) mayhem in my name on my mischievous children.

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.

finally.

How I've dreamed of a complete race.  Just one solid start to finish effort that didn't leave me questioning or second guessing myself at the end of the day. 

I think I may have had one or two over the years, but I was a much younger man the last time it happened.  Even my better results were usually accompanied by some missteps or sections of the race that could have gone differently and ended with a lower time.

So, I'm 37 now and no longer in possession of the speed and lack of wear-and-tear I had at 20.  I'm only gonna go so fast.  Which leaves me needing to be disciplined and smart.  Neither is my strong suit.

All the better, then, to have things come together at a race that references the "not smart" in its very name, Pretzel City Sports's third annual Ghouls & Fools 10K.

A Ron Horn original, this little gem of a race starts after the sun sets and winds its way up and around Mt. Penn, asking runners to weave around trees, duck under branches, clamber over logs and endure endless rocks and roots with just your flashlight or headlamp beam to guide the way.

I ran this race for the first time in 2010, placing 39th out of well over 400 finishers with a time of 52:44.  I was pretty pleased with that result, especially with the hesitancy I felt during the first mile or two as I questioned every footfall on the leaf strewn, rocky course.  I'd also managed to start further back in the pack than I had intended, always a potential obstacle at the well attended (and for good reason) Pretzel City events.

I almost missed this year's race entirely as I had somehow managed to convince myself that it was scheduled for the 29th of October, a day I would be in a little cabin north and east of Williamsport enjoying a weekend away with family.  Thankfully, I emerged from the fog on Friday morning to realize that the race was actually happening on Saturday, October 22nd.

Jefferson was there in body and spirit, but was leaning on a trekking pole that confirmed his ankle hadn't recovered from not one but two nasty falls on a predawn run the weekend before.  I was glad to see him even if he'd only shown up to claim his prepaid race tee.  Steve (50:22!) and Cassie (who earned a 3rd place finish in her age group!) were there, as was Jason though I didn't actually see him until later in the evening.  Shasta, as promised, showed up to try her first night run and ended up running it like it was routine.  There were plenty of other familiar faces too, but many of my closer running friends were out of town, the only bummer of the night.

The weather was perfect...just cool enough to run in long sleeves and a hat without wishing you could ditch them 10 minutes after you started.

After listening to Ron's pre-race threats, I succeeded in wedging in right behind the speedsters at the front of the pack and waited for the gun.  I stayed inside on the first crowded turn out of the parking lot and consciously moved quickly during the first few hundred yards to ensure that I was free of the fray when we hit the initial section of singletrack.

I was really psyched to vanish into the woods with no more than 15-20 bobbing headlamps out in front of me.  The pace was speedy during the first mile as the track tumbled mostly downhill ahead of the climbing to be done later in the course.

It was during the downhill stretch, as I tried to get a peek at how fast we were going, that I discovered I'd left my GPS in the car.  I immediately decided that it didn't matter and never gave it another thought.

At some point within the first two miles, the small pack that I was in fell apart at a spot where a few runners started off course and the others began to follow.  I emerged from that confusion at the front of the group and dug into the uphill section that immediately followed.  Some minutes later I realized that I was running alone and had been for a time as the trail continued to climb and snake here and there in the darkness.

I spent the next few miles mostly alone and shot right past the aid stations, not feeling the need for anything over the short distance and in the cool conditions.  I was eventually caught by a couple of other runners but stayed in the same headspace, just cranking out the miles and relishing the way my brain stayed out of the way of my body doing its thing.

I began to wonder if I should consider ONLY running at night as I really think I was running more purely with the lack of visibility because in order to hold pace I had to pretty much turn things over to my legs and hope that they were making the right decisions.  Every now and then I would hit a rock or root oddly and understand that I was a single misstep away from a disaster, but, thankfully, that misstep never happened.

I was almost disappointed to see the old familiar guard rail that marks the start of Ron's beloved one-last-kick-in-the-ass finishing climb.  A scramble over that last rocky ridge deposited me on the grass just ahead of the finish.  Jefferson threw me some kind words as I passed him and glanced up at the clock.  Crossing the line at 45:39, I'd shaved a full 7 minutes off of last year.

I felt great and loved that the race had felt less like a race and more like the best of runs, free of any expectations and, instead, just a total escape with the sound and noise of real life turned all the way down.

Beautiful.

Turned out my time was good enough to land me in 9th place and 2nd in my age group.  And the best part of all that was having Ron proclaim my beard the "best beard in the race" when he handed me this ghoulish medal:

I usually don't mingle with clowns, but I'm making an exception for this guy.

singing the blue's cruise.

I've got blog posts withering on the vine.

I meant to report on my day at the Conestoga Trail Run (and address Kelly's accusations), had a commentary on the wonderfully inherent risks of getting lost at ultras and intended to provide a look back at September's mileage.  A beard vs. aerodynamics entry is way overdue.  There are other ideas rattling around in my sieve of a brain but I've got to let them go or at least set them aside to say a thing or two about the 2011 Blue's Cruise 50K.

Just gotta do it.

I'm actually going to do my best to keep my clumsy words out of the way and let some great pics from some great friends (thanks, Jo and Derek!) do most of the talking.

Speaking of Jo, there she is on the far right smiling away as usual.  This was the crew at the 6.5 mile aid station and they were fantastic.  On a pretty raw day thanks to the muddy, muddy course, cool temps and on-and-off rain, the volunteers at Blue's delivered warmth and encouragement at every stop.  The been-there-done-that wisdom of the Pagoda Pacers was evident at each aid station and much appreciated.

And speaking of warmth and "pretty raw", here's Derek doing, well, whatever it is he's doing.  I'm relieved to say that I didn't witness this spectacle first hand.  I did, however, get the jolt of adrenaline that Derek delivers each of the four or five times I crossed his path on the course as he leapfrogged from point to point, cheering on racers and photo documenting the day.

Derek snapped this pic of me just after I went past the 6.5 aid station.  He had his shirt on at this point, thank goodness.  I was still feeling good enough at this point to have run through the aid station without stopping and it seems I was fancying myself some kind of bird in flight.  Why I can't help but clown for a camera is a mystery worth investigating.

This is ultra-machine Kelly Agnew doing work.  We ran together for the first couple of miles and I forgot to ask him if his stopping to shed a layer and encouraging me to "keep going" was his way of actually telling me to "get lost".  Hmmm.  Maybe it's better that I didn't ask.  The next time I saw him, he was asking me if I was "ok".  And, then, he got right back to the task at hand and cranked out a sweet 5:24 on a track way muddier and hillier than my (once again) poor pre-race reporting would've suggested.

Don't let this photo of Gary and Carli fool you.  The course is about 95% trail, much of it sweet singletrack.  This shot was taken within the first 1/8 of a mile and other than a couple of road crossings and this same short stretch at the end, this was the last paved surface they needed to cover.  Congrats, you two!

Look at that grin.  You think Greg likes ultra running?  I'd say so.  This is another of the wonderful individuals that I met at Laurel Highlands and immediately felt like I'd known forever.  I look forward to spending more time together on the trail...the sooner the better.

Jeremiah caught me from behind coming down the first real climb on the course when my left arch was starting to punish me for punishing it in the stride-mangling mud of the first 1/3 of the course.  He said "you don't recognize me" and he was right.  The last time I'd seen him, he was sporting a full head of dreads that apparently have been shorn.  Jeremiah is the owner and head trainer of the CrossFit Collective in Lancaster.  Whatever he's doing, it's working.  He ran a sub 5:30.  Check out the Collective and maybe he can whip you into shape too (maybe I should consider that a note to self).

Jason is another Laurel blood brother and a face I always hope and expect to see at area races.  We spent some time together on Sunday at a point where we were both in grinding mode, just trying to push through to the finish.  If you haven't been there, trust me, those are bonding moments for sure.  That much more so when you endure them with an already kindred spirit.  Way to get it done, Jason!

I hadn't met Steve before, but knew him through Facebook if that qualifies as "knowing".  Can't imagine a better way to have made his acquaintance than by sharing a mile together on the trail.  He was chugging away and I wish my arch would've allowed me to spend a bit more time with him.  Conversation was easy and he shared stories of Leo Lutz, another Lancaster runner who appears to be known by everyone but whom I've never met despite our similar names and shared interests.  Steve is another of the 6 degrees that will eventually lead to me shaking Leo's hand.  I didn't see Steve later in the day, but, per the results, it looked like he was 1st Senior Male, clocking a 6:02:58 at age 65.  Yes, sixty five.  Awesome.

And, speaking of awesome, the one and only Randy Schultz crossed the line and, in the process, scored his second 50K finish in the last month!  I can only imagine the thrill of being escorted to the end by son Derek.  This is one proud papa who just so happens to be a papa that so, so many of us are proud to know.  If there's a bigger heart out there, I'll need visual evidence as proof.  Congratulations, Randy!  You truly are an inspiration.

Which brings me back to me.  There was a different kind of inspiration waiting for me.  Lindsay and the girls were kind and loving enough to brave less than ideal weather to see me make it to the end.  If only I had as much pep left at the finish as Piper Bea did when she came dashing my way with a celebratory hug and giggles...the best finisher's medal ever.

Shy Lily played coy and got bearded kisses in response.  More joy.

Shout outs too to my beautiful wife, Lindsay, for spending one of her extremely rare days off from work, class, clinicals and studying to wait and worry in the cold rain for me to finally drag myself to the finish many, many minutes after I'd told her to expect me.  We make sacrifices for each other, but, frankly, mine are minor in comparison to hers.  If there is such a thing as an angel, she just might be one.  Thank you.

Thanks also to the race directors and all of the volunteers for another incredible event.  There was pre-race buzz surrounding the Blue's as this was the first year that it would be a true full 31 mile loop around the lake.  Then with the wicked weather of this past month, there was some concern that the course wouldn't actually be ready.  Just two to three weeks ago, most of the trail was quite literally underwater.  Like 10-15 feet deep!   I'm amazed at how well the race came off with those challenges and tip my hat, thinking it way too weak a gesture on my part under the circumstances. 

To trail running friends, old and new, may it please be evident how much I cherish our shared adventures.  Even at low physical moments, I can't imagine wanting to be anywhere else.  I hope that I find ways over the years to at least partly repay the inspiration, kindness and positivity that you gift to me on every meeting.  It's been a great ride thus far and I'm so excited that the road, er, trail looks like it just goes on and on and on.

See you out there!