excuses isn't just a river in egypt.

The fluttering butterflies in my stomach feel more like flailing winged walruses.

That may not be fair.

No walrus has been given an opportunity to show its flying skills.  Not as far as I, Google or Wikipedia have been able to confirm.  At least not with its own wings.

But should one of those fine (I'm assuming) swimmers wake up with built-in flying apparatus, it likely, I suspect, would go crashing off the sides of ice shelves and rock faces in a fashion similar to the way my nerves are battering against the insides of my stomach.

Why?

The Oil Creek 100 Trail Runs looms.

https://sites.google.com/site/oilcreek100/

Just another two nights of (semi)sleep before my inaugural one hundred miles of "can-you-do-this, you scrawny little bastard?" and  I, guiltily charged, have no idea.

I'm not completely unprepared.

I've got two functioning legs (currently) with feet properly connected to the ends of them (currently), an archived trail of long runs over the last few weeks and month, a fresh pair of shoes (with a back up), a more than capable crew and a cast of supportive friends, ample food and hydration and blind enthusiasm.

And, I've got an HBO-delivered mantra that I turn to with frequency and that I expect will play in my head like the cliched gerbil in its wheel all day long on Saturday and into Sunday.

Leon, why ain't you up and running again?

Dude, my left #$%*@*&! arch has called it quits.

Pain or damage don't end the world. Or despair or #$%*@*&! beatings.

So, why ain't you up and running again?

This is ridiculous.  I've been out here for hours, the sun's been down forever and I'm still six miles out from my drop bag and a headlamp.  This is NEVER going to end.

The world ends when you're dead.

Now, why ain't you up and running again?

I puked my guts out and am having a helluva time keeping anything down, man, even water!

Forty more miles to the finish and...until then you got more punishment in store.

LEON, why in the HELL ain't you up and running again?

These hills are endless...I'm freezing...There's just no way I can keep my eyes open another minute longer...I've pooped 20 times in the last 12 hours and I think I may have just, yep, I definitely just did crap my pants!

Stand it like a man and give some back.

I'm assuming that isn't meant as a suggestion to shit a 21st time on (or just to one side of) the course, but a reminder to fight back, to keep going.

To give some back by just simply not giving in.

Rest and recover tomorrow...and the next day...and, if need be, the next few weeks.

I've got no firm finishing time goals, so much as I really just want to not only make that finish line but also come away from the event--if not more enthused about running than ever then at least--still wanting to run.

If I find that I never want to go a full 100 miles at one time again, no harm done.

If I end up on the shelf for an extended period of time or, worse yet, suffer a complete loss of motivation because of the race THEN I will be disappointed...though I'll take time on the shelf for physical reasons over just plain listlessness.

Taking a long, long time to get to the finish line and suffering (perhaps immensely) along the way, but GETTING to that finish line?  That sounds like a win to me.

Should any of you have any desire to follow along (either out of concern, curiosity or in expectation of confirming and celebrating my failure), you can check in on the webcast of the 100-miler at the following link, keeping in mind that updates will be infrequent and, as with any of these types of races, logistical complications can lead to erratic or incorrect posts:

http://www.runrace.net/findarace.php?id=12287PA&tab=a5&lstpart=3919#lPrt

I'll be the scrawny little bastard sporting bib #105.

The scrawny bastard trying to give some back and praying the world doesn't end.

humble (pizza) pie.

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

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

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

Wah.

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

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

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

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

"I already did it.  It was great."

"Ah-hah!  So you DID it!"

"Yep."

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

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

the music and poetry of rock piles.

My mind keeps turning over rock and dirt.  Tumbling and polishing words (though imperfectly) in failed attempts to connect the dots between movement, the call of the (yes, I'm gonna say it) wild and the allure of, if not solitude, then at least remove from the cacophony of the trappings of our modern day.

To eyes grown accustomed to the rows, compartments, parking spaces of civilization, there is madness in the backcountry.  Hithers and thithers fail to make apparent THE way to go...as if there always must be A way to go.  Even the can't-miss-it guide of well worn singletrack must seem a deception to the uninitiated in its determination to round all bends and dance dizzying zigzags when straighter routes seem available.  Not just imagination but also experience is required to see "lines" whether it's trail to be run or rock to be climbed though those most gifted with creativity or blessed with time spent exploring likely take that ability for granted.  I'm guessing, of course, as I'm only moderately creative and woefully short on days and nights beneath the open sky.

But even without those gifts, I sense there is order to the chaos.

To stay on track and keep my short story from growing any longer than need be, I turn to the words of a man who possessed an innate ability to see the natural world as it truly is (was) and who came as close as one ever could to translating its language into our own.  Not only did he have vision, he also spent every possible moment outdoors and worked tirelessly toward preservation.  I shudder to think at how he'd feel about what's been done with all we had.

If I'm not careful, I'll get off track again, and drift back to my searching for words that Mr. John Muir was already kind enough to assemble.

"Every boulder is prepared and measured and put in its place more thoughtfully than are the stones of temples.  If for a moment you are inclined to regard these taluses as mere draggling, chaotic dumps, climb to the tip of one of them, tie your mountain shoes firmly over the instep, and with braced nerves run down without any haggling, puttering hesitation, boldly jump from boulder to boulder with ever increasing speed.  You will then find your feet playing a tune, and quickly discover the music and poetry of rock piles--a fine lesson, and all nature's wildness will tell the same story."

What do I know?  But that sounds about right to me.

birds singing and trees creaking.

Saturday morning we (me, Lily and Piper) woke up at the quaint cabin frequented for several decades by my stepfather and his family.  We've been absorbed into that circle over the last few years and look forward to every visit.

Compared to the west, the mountains (some might scoff at that designation) of Pennsylvania appear rather wee.

Short of stature, perhaps, but not of history, not of the human or the natural variety, and I believe their sleepy demeanor is evidence of the aging process, of the march of years that have carved them to their current stooped state and whittled away at any geologic ego.

Take heed all of you tall, vain mountain ranges.  The Appalachians once stood defiantly high as well, but wind and water had their way.  And will with you in time.

On this day, recent heavy late summer rains followed by autumnal temperatures had combined to dapple the region's normal blanket of endless greens with  broad patches of yellows, oranges, reds and every hue and color variation in between.

I stared lovingly and longingly from the small swath of grass behind the cabin that masquerades as yard.  I hadn't realized I was quietly speaking my thoughts aloud.

Lily (5 years old):  Dad?  Dad, are you talking TO the mountains?

Me (38):  Ummm.

Piper (3):  Daddy, mountains cannot talk.

Me:  They, ummm, they do to me.

Piper:  But....

Lily:  Piper, they do.  They do to Daddy.

Piper and Lil locked eyes for a moment and, then, as there was no further comment, the matter was apparently decided and we headed down the path for a day in the woods.

Which is exactly what I and the mountain had been discussing.

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.

this far, no further.

How had I gotten myself into this?

Photo courtesy of Hunter Imagery (http://www.hunterimagery.com/)

I wasn't asking how I ended up on my hands and knees, my face just a few inches above the puke-riddled ground in front of it.  I knew how I'd gotten there.  Ten thousand feet of altitude, parched, dusty air, hot, direct sunlight and over exertion can in combination nudge a flatlander into that very position and they certainly had done that very thing to me.

And, let's face it, puking is hardly a novelty for me and my ever shaky stomach.  I'd heaved and hurled before and was sure to again.

But, specifically, how did I get "here" high above Buena Vista, Colorado with a camera buzzing like a bee in my ear while I pondered the half digested salt caplets and chewed bits of licorice in the damp dirt wondering how in the hell I was going to get back up and go another 109 (give or take) miles?

Facebook.  That she devil.

On May 5th one Sean McCoy had used her as the platform from which to post the following missive:

Woke up at 4:30 in the morning and decided to go for a run.  I'd planned to go about 10 miles.  17 miles  later I am home and ready for a nap.  Living in Colorado is making me weird.

I distinctly remember grinning at the handful of "you ARE weird" responses before firing off a reply of my own.

Dude, that's the BEST kind of weird.  If your TransRockies partner bails (but his fees are already paid), let's talk.  :)

Two weeks later, we'd finalized the plan and I was officially a member of Team GearJunkie/Backcountry Edge and bound for 20,000 feet of elevation gain and 120 miles of hard work.  I was going to partake in the 6th annual GORE-TEX TransRockies, running with the herd from the high desert of Buena Vista to the posh ski town of Beaver Creek over the course of 6 days in mid-August.

IF I could get back on my feet.

For one miserable moment, I swear I saw that preposterous emoticon smiling snarkily back up at me from the dirt.

I got back up, of course, though the remainder of the day fluctuated between snail-like pseudo-running, unmistakable walking and pausing to soak up what very little shade mesquite can provide.

Oh, yeah, and I threw up a few more times.

It had taken us nearly 4 hours and 40 minutes and, frankly, there weren't too many teams to come through the finish after us.  We were consoled by Sean's parents, who'd driven in from Breckenridge to check on us and transport Sean's car home from Buena Vista.  They offered words of support and perspective and helped to convince us that things could've been worse.  Sure, we were way ahead of the 7 hour cutoff, but we were also more than twice as slow as the stage (and eventual overall) winning team in the Men's Open Division.  Whatever silly notions we might have harbored about being moderately competitive were swept downstream by the lovely Arkansas River in which we soaked our legs at race end.  

We'd topped out just a bit over 10,000 feet and the next morning we'd be boarding a bus to head to the start of Stage 2, a shorter (14 miles) leg that made up for its brevity with a quad- and lung-blowing climb up, over and down 12,500 foot Hope Pass.

I was concerned.

But a beautiful sunset reminded me that there was beauty all around that I needed to make sure to appreciate.

Rejuvenated, I returned to the communal mess tent where each evening we would congregate for supper, awards presentations, race briefings for the next day and a media presentation of the photos and video footage taken during that day's race.

Martin Gaffuri of Good People Run (http://www.goodpeoplerun.com/), who I'd met and run with a couple weeks earlier in Salt Lake City, was running the 3-day solo version of TransRockies and also weighing in at each evening presentation with his thoughts on the day.  On this night, he decided to inform the crowd of a special performance he'd been made aware of and, next thing I knew, Sean and I had been called up in front of the crowd to applause for having gutted out (ha) a not-so-good day on the trail.

It was good-natured and appreciated, but it did serve as one last reminder before bed that I might just be in over my head.  We'd see in the morning.

I awoke feeling improved but not confident.  I ate a rather sparing breakfast that, thankfully, settled well.  Breathing was still not exactly easy but it wasn't a struggle either.  Of course, I was sitting not running.  Time passed quickly and our jostling bus ride down rutted old jeep roads deposited us right at the foot of the day's climb.

Hope Pass sits high above the valley floor, bisecting Mount Hope and Quail Mountain.  The view from the 12,500 foot pass is stunning and the pass has become iconic due to its inclusion in the venerable Leadville 100 during which runners cross over it not once but twice on the out-and-back journey from and back to Leadville.  If we were going to get to Leadville and enjoy that view, we were going to have to get over Hope Pass ourselves.

Off we went.

The severity of the grade and the congestion of narrow singletrack made for little running, but Sean and I power-hiked surprisingly well.  The first mile or two wound through lush forest but we soon pushed through the trees and emerged above treeline for a series of open alpine switchbacks.  The hiking continued but I couldn't believe how quickly we topped out.

We paused just long enough for a photo.  An aid station perched just a bit beyond the actual pass, sharing the meadow with a dozen or so llamas that had hauled initial supplies for the Hopeless Aid Station that would serve Leadville runners just a few days later.  Dodging the llamas, we grabbed quick drinks and salt before continuing on.

Moments later, we were flying.  Or at least it felt like flying.  Sean said something about it being just like skiing, something I can't confirm or deny as I've never been on skis.  Funny thing happened while I was busy going up, up and up Molehill again and again while training for TransRockies.  To go up repeatedly, I also had to go down and I'd failed to notice that I'd turned myself into a pretty good technical downhill runner.  After my pathetic first day's effort, it felt good to be leading the way as we caught and passed several runners.  We hooted and hollered as we narrowly missed horrendous falls in our breakneck dash down from the pass toward Twin Lakes several miles below.

And then, just like that, we were down and the trail flattened out.  Funny thing happened while I was busy going up, up and up Molehill again and again while training for TransRockies...I didn't run anything and I mean ANYTHING flat.  And, boy, did it show.  The spirits that had soared over the last hour flagged along with my legs.

We couldn't have been more than a mile or two from the finish line but I was struggling.  Sean did his best to talk me through it and we were continuing to move forward though not quickly.  We gave back many of the positions we'd picked up on the descent.

And then, like a mirage, an unbelievable pick me up appeared on the trail ahead.

My friend and running confidant, Kelly Agnew.

He and his wife and crew chief, Jo, were in town for Kelly's second stab at the Leadville 100, he having run it as his first ever 100-miler the year prior.  I knew they'd be out in these parts around this same time but it never occurred to me that I might see them and I certainly didn't expect to find them on the course.  I was happy to see Kelly because, well, I'm always happy to see Kelly and, yes, I was genuinely touched that he'd gone out of his way to be there, a mile out from a finish, to give me a boost.

I won't lie and say that I found an extra gear from his appearance.  My legs were cooked, both by the climb and descent and, likely, by the after effects of the day prior and my still getting acclimated.  But it sure felt like the finish came a whole lot easier with the lift of seeing Kelly and the assurance that Jo would be smiling at the finish line...which, sure enough, she was.  We hadn't smoked the field, but we'd finished a good 10 places higher in our division than we had the prior day.

And I hadn't thrown up.

Sean and I spent the rest of that beautiful day with the Agnews (after another icy soak) and Sean's lovely girlfriend, Sarah, joined us as well.  Leadville played host to our laughter and served up cold beers.  Real beer, not the watery Michelob Ultras that Sean was drinking (and would continue to drink) back in camp as though he was determined to single-handedly drink them into extinction.  What can I say?  It was working for him.

Kelly and Jo were up early again the next day to see us off from Leadville.  Stage 3 would be significantly longer and would include a crossing of the Continental Divide before dropping into the spectacular Eagle River valley which lies between Leadville and Red Cliff.

We ran on pavement for three or four miles which was initially fun as first people lining the streets and then passing vehicles outside of town offered cheers and encouragement.  As we left the support behind, however, I was eager to get off of the road and back onto dirt.

We got there soon enough and with the dirt came climbing.  Up and up a meandering jeep road we went and it wasn't until a few miles later that I remembered to look over my shoulder and discovered that we'd gained a good bit of elevation during the uphill trudge.

My breathing was again pretty ragged which at this point was pretty disappointing and when I couldn't muster much of a response from my legs during a smooth but steep downhill section after we crossed the Divide, I was feeling pretty low.

Luckily, an eventual section of winding, technical downhill came to my rescue as I pushed the pace hard for a couple of miles.  That section was pretty encouraging, but the stage again ended with three or four miles of flat that proved arduous.  My overall fitness seemed to be improving but I was anxious for a solid, consistent day.

Saving graces abounded at race end, however.  Kelly and Jo had decided to surprise us again by driving out to the finish and together we all took in the beauty of that incredible valley.

I can distinctly remember sitting waist deep in a small pond just feet from the finish line, reveling in the effort of the day, basking in the stunning landscape and feeling happy and proud to have friends like Kelly and Jo and Sean with which to share these moments.  The trail binds.  Why? I'm not entirely sure, though I am entirely sure that I'm not going to waste a lot of time on investigating the reasons why.

I knew I wouldn't be seeing Kelly and Jo again until returning home.  Kelly was going to give Leadville hell even if Leadville gave it right back and Jo was going to be the rock solid crew she's been from the start.  A big part of me wished I could be there too, not because I didn't want to be where I was, but because I wanted to be for them what they'd been for me over the course of the last two days (and more days than that, if I'm being honest).  All I could do was tell them that I loved them which I did.  The word bittersweet is pretty trite and overused, I think, but I can't think of any other way to describe my feelings on our parting that day.  I was definitely sad to see them go, but, hey, Sean and I really didn't have any room for them in our tent.  So, off they went.

After three consecutive days of running and with mileage having crept up toward 60 miles, our bodies were starting to fatigue.  Sean's toes were bad.  They'd get worse, it turns out, but we didn't know that then.  Looking at the blisters and cracked nails, I couldn't believe he wasn't fully hobbled.  But he wasn't and when morning broke we dragged our aches and pains to the start line for a 13+ mile stage that basically amounted to one long, extended climb followed by mile after mile of switchbacking technical downhill and a number of water crossings.

The long, extended climb earned its reputation.

And so did the descent.

Our solid, consistent day had arrived.  We careened down, down, down the hill and blasted through the water crossings.  Again we hooted and, yes, we hollered.  And, when we were done, having arrived in quaint little Red Cliff in just over 2.5 hours, we'd managed a top 10 stage finish in our division.

At last.

To celebrate Sean cracked open another Michelob Ultra and we settled into another icy recovery soak.  And this one was REALLY icy.  Had the water been any colder, we would have been sitting on top of it.  A trooper and all around tough guy, Sean grit his teeth and managed to stay in the water for all of 3 minutes.

We caught a shuttle back to the valley where we'd be camping for the second night in a row.  With the solo runners having finished up the day before, camp had thinned out and there was a relaxed air.  That evening as I drifted off to sleep, I was serenaded by the calling of nearby coyotes.  It had been a pretty good day.

A pretty good day to be followed by a long, punishing day.  I didn't get sick during Stage 5, a 23 mile slogfest that began with an 8-mile climb up a jeep road from Red Cliff, followed by wickedly steep singletrack and many miles way up above 10,000 feet as we navigated the back bowls of the Vail ski area before miles of downhill on tired legs into Vail itself.  No, I didn't get sick, but I did take a beating.  The vantage points offered breathtaking views, they must have, but my breath was already literally taken by the thin air and the effort of ambulating at those great heights.

At one point on one of the final descents, I became aware of the grunting and whimpering that was escaping my body with every step.  I made a concerted effort to cut it out only to find that similar sounds were coming from Sean who was right on my heels.

It was a proper soundtrack for the day.

Sean's parents were waiting at the finish line and, despite the suffering, we were able to hold our heads higher than the last time we'd seen them.  Like minds were waiting and continued to arrive at the finish with "it was a long day" being the apparent theme of the stage.

The upside was that we were in Vail and the spectacular Gore Range served as a memorable backdrop to what would be our last day in the tents.

At the pre-race briefing, we were informed that some modifications had been necessary for the final stage, reducing the original 21 mile leg to just 19 miles.  At 4,900 feet, this stage promised more cumulative climbing than the five that had proceeded it, so learning that a couple of miles had been lopped off of the course wasn't too disheartening.

Which made things that much more crushing when 10 or 12 miles into the race the next day we learned that an additional re-route had been required and we were actually looking at a 21 or 22 mile day.  And, in the end, it turned out to be something more like 23 and change.  But who's counting, right?

Long, long story brought to a close...Sean and I did it.

We made it to Beaver Creek.  It seemed to take forever, but, as these things go, it also came all too soon.  We'd clawed our way up from way, way down the list to a respectable 12th place overall finish in the Men's Open.  With the first five slots populated with consistent podium finishers and decorated athletes, we had reason to feel good about what we'd accomplished.

Sean and I were still friends which may not be as insignificant an accomplishment as it first sounds like under the circumstances.  And, actually, we weren't STILL friends, we were far better friends for having worked together and stood by each other over the last several days.  I still couldn't run flats and Sean's feet probably didn't have another day in them, but none of that mattered.

We were finishers and once you break that tape it doesn't much matter if there isn't any more left in the tank.

I'd finished.

And, after that first day, I hadn't thrown up.

I'm smiling right back at you, you dusty little emoticon.

O.R. they?

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

Am I excited?  Yep.

But concerned too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm gonna have a look.