opening weekend.

Two-thousand eleven was slipping away with each tick and every tock.

Despite the mild temperature, I saw few people outdoors on my drive to Holtwood Park.  New Years festivities may have been well under way but they were either happening elsewhere or behind closed doors.

Fine by me.

The first face I saw was a friendly one.

Gary climbed out of his truck, delivered a proper hug and introduced me to Charlie who, along with a few other members of the Lancaster Road Runners Club, would be accompanying us down into Kelly's Run and up to the overlook at Pinnacle to greet the new year.

After watching the venerable Bill Smith sweet talk a couple of State Police officers into turning a blind eye and letting us venture off into the darkness, the crew assembled for a quick group picture.

Photo courtesy of Evan Sandt

Down, down, down we dropped into Kelly's Run, picking our way over the debris that has collected in the lower portions of the ravine in the wake of the rough weather earlier in the year.  My camera refused to play nice in the dark and left me without evidence of the frequent creek crossings and the bouldery climb up to Pinnacle.

"Running" was limited by a lack of light, tricky footing and the steep clamber up to high ground, but the company and conversation were top notch.  Being on the Conestoga again with Gary, Cassie and Steve was a nice reminder of our day of adventure back in September.

The lead pack arrived at the Pinnacle just moments ahead of midnight and gathered at the rail high above the Susquehanna to soak in the view of far off fireworks displays over Red Lion, Wrightsville and more rural outposts.

The remaining members of our pack arrived shortly thereafter and we gathered above the cliffs to break open a bottle of celebratory champagne.  Bill offered up short-and-sweet best wishes and we hoisted and "clinked" our plastic cups to another year of shared experiences on the trail. 

Photo courtesy of Evan Sandt

On the return trip, the group split into two, one following the more direct white blazes back to Holtwood Park and a few others doing a true "back" on the Conestoga.  Feeling frisky, I charged up and out of Kelly's Run, catching a few of the others just before the trail dumps out into the open at the top of the climb.  With a little luck, one of these days I'll actually finish the Conestoga Trail Run with a push this hard.  Could take lot of luck, now that I think about, but what better time to dream than New Years.

After a blissfully uneventful drive home to Manheim, I caught a couple of hours of sleep, woke up to play with the kids and then headed to Marietta to meet an entirely different crew for the first (annual?) Fancyfeet DiSanto New Years Day Half Marathon.

I had enthusiastically invited myself to join in the event, having stumbled on the announcement for the event on Facebook and, as is my habit, assuming that I was more than welcome.  Only after posting my "I'm in!" did I read a bit further and realize that this was initially established as a friends and family outing by Leo DiSanto in celebration of a recent return to running and a kickoff to another year.  Leo, quite graciously and never having met me, didn't just let me tag along but offered a warm reception.  Good man.

Leo did offer some warning that this was a pretty ambitious undertaking and seemed to suggest that we may not be moving along very quickly.  My gut told me that good times were to be had, regardless of pace and my lukewarm feelings for road running, and for once my gut was to be trusted.

I met Leo, his brother Nick (the only person in the group that I actually knew), Josh and Katie in the square at Marietta and we hopped on the ribbon of trail that parallels the old railbeds along the Susquehanna River. 

We passed beneath the picturesque face of towering Chiques Rock and then followed the tracks through the old rail yard and into the town of Columbia.  That first mile or two of trail was a nice surprise but was soon left behind as we headed south toward Washington Boro.

Thankfully, traffic was pretty light and we were probably passed by as many bicycles as four-wheeled vehicles.  When we hung a left in Washington Boro, we'd covered half the route and had a rolling 6 miles left on Route 999 before reaching our destination in the borough of Millersville.

The weather was again unseasonably warm, but not unpleasantly so.  A cold rain and accompanying wind descended with just a mile or two left in the run, too late to do much more than motivate us to the finish.

I was super impressed by the effort on everyone's part and really enjoyed the camaraderie.  New friends lurk everywhere, I sometimes forget, and this day unearthed a few more.  Katie even passed along a fresh pitted dates filled with peanut butter and cayenne recipe that I look forward to utilizing both on trail and off.  As it did when she first shared the concept, my mouth is again watering as I type this paragraph.

I slept like a log on Sunday night and awoke Monday morning to don a rare shirt and tie.  I drove a somber hour-and-a-half to Ambler, Pennsylvania where the family of Debora L. Schultz was gathering to pay their final respects.  An extended running family, of which I feel proud and blessed to be part, was also in attendance to support Debora's son, Derek, and husband, Randy, two of the finest individuals anyone could possibly hope to meet who just happen to also be runners. 

Both seemed surprised to see so many people who had never even met Debora, but it was an honor and a privilege to be given the direct opportunity to let them know how deep is the affection that many of us have for the two of them.  I hope our presence was of some comfort.  Having been in Derek's shoes when my father passed, I suspect that it may mean more upon reflection than it can possibly mean on the actual day of farewell.

In spite of the unfortunate circumstances of our gathering, it was nice to see Derek, Randy, Jo, Jason, Paul and other familiar faces.

Needing to get back to Manheim, I said farewell and headed back toward the Turnpike.  As I neared home, I touched base with Lindsay and learned that she and the girls were headed out on adventure of their own and the afternoon was mine to do what I wanted with it.

So, what do you think I did?

It's been a while, or feels like it has been, since I've run at Governor Dick Park near Mount Gretna.  A surprisingly extensive network of trails crisses and crosses through the 1105 acre park and offers a wide variety of terrain and demands.  I parked just off of Route 72 and jumped immediately on loop trail #13 and followed it to #12 which meanders westward and climbs to a high point in the park, passing by the still-standing fire tower that stands as the most striking landmark in the park.

It was significantly colder than the previous two days but still not nearly as cold as one might expect in early January.  I still felt comfortably warm and sported fairly fresh legs when I reached the environmental center and gave the trail map a close look (hence my being able to quote the trail #'s above that I've never managed before to retain knowledge of).

Here I learned that the trail I've enjoyed the most is trail #15, a winding, technical 2.6 mile trail that traversing rolling slopes on its way back to the eastern side of the park.  I also discovered that an intersecting path, trail #4, was the only one with a "difficult" designation, despite appearing to be rather short in length.  I decided to keep my eyes peeled.

I'm going to come right out and say it.  Trail #4, I love you.

Steep and technical, this is the kind of trail that most cries out to me and, at least in short duration, plays to my strengths.  With some tweaks in my technique and building of endurance over the last few years, I now climb well and, most importantly, absolutely enjoy the hell out of it.  Despite beginning to feel the creep of fatigue from the preceding miles of the last couple of days, I attacked #4 and reveled in the exertion.

As I neared the top, I also understood that the morning visit to the Ciavarelli Funeral Home had me revisiting a deep well of emotions and what might have otherwise been darkness was transferred into celebration of all the things I love most about being "here" now and retaining possession of wonderful, vivid memories of those who are not.

Some "sads" are good sads and this was one of those.

As is the case after my favorite days (or consecutive days) of running, I found myself ready to get back home to my beautiful family.  My melancholy had washed away and I had nothing but genuine smiles and laughter to share with a wife and children who deserve as much of that as I can provide.

I'd bagged 25+ miles in two days to kick off the new year and cherished the exercise, the conversations and the time spent NOT inside.


With the Phunt 50K coming up on January 7th and all kinds of other challenging opportunities materializing in the months ahead, I'm as excited about my upcoming race calendar as I've ever been, but I'll trade each and every potential race for sustained health for me and my family.

2012?  Let's do this.

along my journey.

"Along my journey

through the transitory world,

new year's housecleaning."

-Basho

The sun was shining brightly this morning and the temperatures crept higher than plausible for the last day of December.  It was as though 2011 was asking forgiveness for all of the sickness, lost loved ones, strained relationships, financial struggles and other hardships of the last 12 months.

Heavy skies and dipping mercury seemed more befitting but the day's offering was too good to pass up.  The air smelled of promise, if only in my hopeful imagination,as it tends to in the context of new year anticipation.

It gave me pause to reflect on the fact that the negativity while ever present hadn't managed to outduel the countering positivity that also coursed throughout the year.  Balance was struck and, in the sieve that is my memory, many of the details were replaced by general impressions of "wasn't that great" or "please, never again."

I revel in blacks, whites and grays and purposely employ them in my journaling.  Beauty rests there and demands that imagination do the coloring should it feel the need.  In the darkest of memories, all remains gray and there arises no temptation to paint anything more.  Those most precious moments, however, easily come to life in the full bloom of color.

And there was color in 2011.  Much color.

Shared experiences with friends old and new.  Celebrations of life lived well and pain escaped.  Births and rebirths.  Invention, reinvention and paths altered.  New connections, reconnections and necessary, healthy disconnections.  Adventure into new landscapes and physical challenges.

The children grew taller and wiser and thirsty for more, more, more of everything.  Of every single thing.  And the momentary quenching of that thirst (thankfully only momentary) was joy and reward unmatched by a paycheck, a bill paid in full, a conscious-clear accounting of one's purpose.

Color, color everywhere.  And more to come.

Photo courtesy of Bianca Cordova Photography

Photo courtesy of Andrew Rebeiro

Photo courtesy of Eric Harvey Brown

Photo courtesy of Jo Weakley Agnew

Photo courtesy of Dan Martzall

Photo courtesy of Dan Martzall

Photo courtesy of Dan Martzall

Photo courtesy of Jack Anderson

Photo courtesy of Mike McMonagle

No need to clean the house (why start now?) at the end of this year.  Sure, it's less than pristine, far less, but it is also surprisingly, comfortingly livable despite its blemishes and imperfections.

Thank you, friends and loved ones (and what joy it is to have the lines blurred between the two!), for the flawed but glorious year that it was.

I could not be more excited for all that lies ahead.

"Happy, happy.  Joy, joy."

-Stimpy

binge. purge. (agnew's revenge)

I'd held out as long as I could.  Except for a brief, relatively unsuffocating trip to the mall earlier in the month, I'd managed to steer clear of the mad swirl of Christmasing.

With time slipping away, I was going to have to venture into the fray.  With a focused plan, a map through the maze, I hoped I could get my shopping done in one two hour operation of determined tunnel vision.

I pulled into the Target parking lot, the first stop on my consumerist binge.  I should have laced up my sneaks because the closest parking spot was about a 1/4 mile away from the front doors.

There isn't much to tell of my time behind the wheel of the wobbly cart that greeted me at the front door.  All went relatively well and the shelves kindly peddled many of the things on my list, saving me any need to check it twice.  I didn't get everything I needed at that Target but expected visits to two more retailers addressed all remaining items on my list.

Time to purge.

To distract the girls while I was busy playing Santa, Lindsay had decided on a trip to Dutch Wonderland (a quaint little kid-oriented theme park for you non-Lancastrians) for holiday inspired amusement.

My inspired amusement would come from my beloved Conestoga Trail.

I have written about the Conestoga Trail on many occasions and those of you who read along have likely heard of or have had the pleasure of spending time on the trail.  For those who haven't, the Conestoga begins near the southern end of Lancaster County and meanders roughly due north until intersecting the Horseshoe Trail just below the Lancaster/Lebanon County line.  At its southernmost end, the trail serves up a jaggedy profile of elevation changes as it climbs high points and dips into hollows on the eastern shore of the Susquehanna River.  The terrain is rocky and rooty and the scenery is absolutely stunning, especially considering its close proximity to the ever creeping suburban sprawl of Pennsylvania and Maryland.

The aptly (if not terribly creatively) named Conestoga Trail Run takes place here each September, beginning at Pequea Creek Campground and traversing "10 challenging miles" on its way to Holtwood Park.  I love that race and had invited my good friend Kelly to join me there this year only to have him bear a grudge for what proved to be anything but the "totally runnable" course that I'd (admittedly) falsely promised.

What can I say?  My want for Kelly to love the trail as much as I do had totally clouded my recollection of how punishing the Conestoga can be.

Long story short, I now cannot think of the Conestoga without also thinking of Kelly and I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing, considering the unlikelihood that he'll ever set foot on it again.

Anyway...back to my story.

With hours to blissfully while away, I decided to park the car just beyond the small riverside village of Pequea and jump on the trail at a point a couple of miles along the race route.  This allowed me to skip the very short portion of established road and get right onto glorious singletrack.  Before long I'd climbed past the cave (yes, there is a real cave that sits just off of and likely beneath the trail) and up to the vista at House Rock.

The panorama looking south toward Pinnacle, past the few dotted islands and up to the curve in the river before the Holtwood Dam was as lovely as ever.  I progressed at a nice pace in the mid-40 temperatures but also stopped frequently to take in the view, listen to the subdued quiet of the river below and fiddle with the camera.  Honestly, I only wanted to go so fast.

It was nice to see a number of other people on the trail, though all were hiking not running.  As much as I love solitude and am susceptible to having a day downgraded or even ruined by excessive on-trail traffic, I often find it sad to cover mile after mile of trail without crossing anyone else's path and am left wondering how few people appreciate the beauty that while arguably fading is still all around us.

  

There were still many signs of the beating that the landscape had sustained from the hurricane and violent weather that came through in late summer and early fall, but it was also apparent that nature rolls with the punches and a bit of debris on the trail is of little consequence to the overall health of the forest and its inhabiting creeks.

Tucquan Glen, as usual, was lush and picturesque.  It's a lot of fun to run here but this is also one of those cherished places that cries out for you to stay and it always feels a shame to rush through too quickly.

The long brutal climb up out of Tucquan to Pinnacle is less about lovely scenery and more about doing the work required to just keep moving forward and achieve the high point above.  This is definitely a point during the Conestoga Trail Race, especially on a bad day, where you start to wonder if and when the race will ever end.

Without a clock ticking at the finish line, I was able to enjoy this section more than usual, but did break it into two parts, playing again with the camera at the top of one of the rockiest bits.

I still felt pretty good when topping out at Pinnacle though the circling vultures suggested otherwise.

I've always struggled with the next half mile to a mile of downhill trail after it changes over from the old fire road that departs Pinnacle onto loose scree and slabby rock that drops aggressively toward Kelly's Run below.  The first time I did the Conestoga Trail Race I took a hard fall and bounced on my tailbone.  Back in early September, while running with friends, it took everything in me to not recreate that fall.  Dead legs during this year's Conestoga Trail Race had me unsteady and tentative through this segment.

This day proved no different as downed leaves and fir needles made the rock slabs even more treacherous than usual.  By the time I arrived at the more level trail down  in Kelly's Run, my ankles and shins had taken a pounding.  I climbed well from there to Holtwood Park but knew that I'd lost a lot on the descent from Pinnacle.

It was time to refuel...

...and check my progress.

The food, drink and salt tabs went down well with my stomach giving its approval and my body immediately feeling improved.  Considering the time I'd piddled away not running, I'd covered the "out" section in pretty strong fashion.  I hadn't stopped having fun and everything suggested that the return trip would include more of the same.

Except for one thing.

I nudged the display buttons on the side of the GPS and discovered that it was 4:30 on the afternoon of one of the shortest days of the year.  In other words, I had about 45-60 minutes of daylight remaining, maybe less with the heavy cloud cover, and, while slightly refreshed at the moment, my legs were definitely going to be showing fatigue on the way back.

None of this would've mattered in the slightest if I had been in possession of a headlamp which, aggravatingly, I almost always am when running with a pack.  For whatever reason, I didn't have one with me today.  Those overcast skies were going to ensure that I didn't get any help from the moon or stars, so there was no getting around the fact that sooner or later, I was looking at still being on the trail with little to no visibility.

Somewhere, Kelly Agnew was grinning.  I imagined him the villain in some Scooby Doo-like cartoon, spying me through some far off computer monitor, bellowing out a vengeful cackle and perhaps even shaking a fist in the air.

And I, in my lack of preparedness, deserved it.

Nothing left to do but run and run hard while there was still enough light left to risk it.  I made it back down into Kelly's Run, clambered back up to Pinnacle and pushed to get down into Tucquan Glen before the sun set entirely.  I'd gotten turned around on that descent from Pinnacle on an overnight hiking trip with friends and that was with headlamps, so I was definitely relieved to put that section behind me with light to spare.

There was still light enough to run through Tucquan Glen but by the time I topped out on the next climb, I was alone in the dark.  This didn't immediately prove problematic as even without a light the worn in groove of the trail was followable.  I couldn't see enough to risk running over the technical surface and really injuring myself, but by keeping my strides close to the ground, I was able to power hike pretty briskly.

Eventually tricky water crossings and sections that skirted large rock slabs left me bushwhacking and/or staggering about trying to figure out how I'd literally just been on the trail and now could find no sign of it.  Knowing that the blazes on the trees that are impossible to miss in the daylight hours were lurking invisibly all around me was fairly maddening.

I was frustrated but never panicked, as there was no missing the Susquehanna River off to the left and, so long as I kept within earshot and continued progressing northward, I was going to get where I needed to get.

Just not very quickly.

Though I managed several times to get back on the trail after losing it, I finally lost the track for good on the climb up the ridge that shelters the aforementioned caves.  I'm pretty sure now that I initially climbed too steeply too soon and missed some aggressive  switchbacks that would've taken me higher and also a bit further inland.  My chosen route got me up and over the face of the climb more directly but also put in me in a couple of precarious positions and forced me through thorns and brambles that tore up my shins, knees and upper thighs.  I'd stumbled on several occassions once the sun set but was falling with regularity during this leg of the trip.  Twice I ended up having to do makeshift self arrests to keep me from sustained slides and on one of those flailings I bloodied my hand.

My lesson learned and a note driven with a mental steel spike to ALWAYS have a headlamp, the forest decided to spit me out onto familiar ground a few hundred yards from my car.

As I trudged up the road and fumbled for my keys, I remembered that it was just up the hill from this point back in September where I'd unsuspectingly come upon a nest of bees kicked up by the runner just ahead of me.

Perspective is everything and, wanting to end on a high note that reaffirmed that it had truly been a beautiful day in the woods, I focused on how nice it was to be  returning home without a single sting.

Purge accomplished.