alpenglow.

Last year during the running of the 2010 Western States 100 miler, I followed the action as best I could by hitting, hitting and rehitting "refresh" to see if there were any further checkpoint updates.  As you can imagine, that makes for a pretty long day, no matter how nerdy your interest in ultrarunning.

That day the young Spaniard, Killian Jornet, drove a furious pace that eventually helped push Geoff Roes and Anton Krupicka to record performances.  Jornet ultimately faded in the unfamiliar California heat after naievely failing to stay hydrated.  He returned this year, fluids in hand, and won the race.  Still, his real home is in the mountains of Europe.

Which brings us to this past weekend and another running of the epic Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc, a 100+ mile circumnavigation of Mont Blanc across the rooftop of Europe.  Runners climb over 30,000 feet and start in France, pass into Italy and then Switzerland before returning to France for a crossing of the finish line in picturesque Chamonix.  The race begins in the middle of the night amidst thousands of celebrating onlookers before disappearing into the darkness.  The course winds through the Alps, exposed to the shifting weather of the mountains, and visits numerous 1,000-year old villages whose streets are lined with proud inhabitants enthusiastically cheering on the visiting runners and volunteers.  It is impossible to imagine a similar atmosphere here in the United States.

Obviously, I was nowhere near the Alps, holed up in Manheim awaiting the arrival of Hurricane Irene.  Thanks to Bryon Powell and http://www.irunfar.com/, however, I was privileged to be one of the moderators of a live "chat" of the event.  Collecting various Twitter feeds and serving as a common meeting place for anyone following the event from wherever he or she called home, the iRunFar coverage was as good as it gets for those of us who couldn't be up in the mountains ourselves.

As a moderator, my sole task, really, was to review and authorize comments to make sure that they weren't inappropriate, block spam (there was little, if any), keep any single poster from monopolizing, etc.  Bryon, who has done a magnificent job covering Western States, Hardrock and other major events in the past was on the course this time, not as a reporter, but as a UTMB participant.  Maintaining his open-minded approach to iRunFar, those of us monitoring the chat employed a light hand in moderating and most comments were given the "ok".  Mostly, we kept busy responding to those who'd just checked in with updates from earlier on in the event.  There were several of us involved and we split shifts amongst the group, though there was much overlapping as, at heart, we were there as fans and spectators as much as we were moderators.

The shared enthusiasm of those logged in was infectious and included Americans, Canadians, Europeans and many others.  There was some friendly nationalist and continent vs. continent competitiveness in some of the dialogue, but mostly there was shared awe and celebration of the Alps, the UTMB and the participants at the front, middle and back of the pack.

I can't even imagine the electricity of actually being there in the Alps, but even following along on the computer with like-minded enthusiasts was thrilling.  There were disappointments as reports drifted in of many of the top Americans dropping throughout the day.  Those letdowns played out repeatedly as fans, friends and family members checked in for updates only to find that beloved runners were already off the course.

The highs, though, were incredible.

The machine-like Salomon running team owned the day on the men's side with teammates Iker Carrera, Miguel Heras and Kilian running together near the front almost the entire race before an always smiling Kilian (so revealed the countless pictures being posted online) broke away in the last few kilometers to finish just minutes ahead of Iker.  The incredible Lizzie Hawker punished the women's field and beat all but 12 men to the finish line.

The pre-race excitement had motivated me to get out the door for a 10 PM run on Friday night and, after Kilian made his triumphant arrival in Chamonix, I found myself lacing on my sneakers again despite the pending arrival of Hurricane Irene.  The roads surrounding Manheim are hardly the Alps but I found myself daydreaming.

Those daydreams looked a little like this:

Returning from the run, I tuned back in to see just how far up the overall leaderboard Lizzie had climbed on her way to the women's crown and learned that Bryon had DNF'd.  The weather had been less than cooperative and the cold at the highest passes had taken its toll.

Those factors had made for a higher than usual drop percentage.  Only 1131 of the 2300 starters made it to Chamonix.  The DNF list included some of the biggest names in the sport, including Scott Jurek, Geoff Roes, Krissy Moehl, Nick Clark, Dakota Jones and, yes, even Miguel Heras who ran near the front for most of the day.

Bryon could (and should) hold his head up high knowing all that he'd accomplished, including giving so many of us, who until recently would have had no visibility other than reading race recaps, a nearly-live connection to the glorious spectactle that is the Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc.  I know that I for one am most grateful.

Thank you.

it's complicated.

Been pondering the "why" of running quite a bit lately.

Not due to any doubts or second guesses, but because I've been incredibly inspired as of late by what folks have tackled, are tackling or are planning to tackle (and I'm not just talking about running) and, in turn, I have been wondering how far, how high and how hard I might try to go on foot before my body gives out on me. 

When I consider the motivations of others in doing something I love doing, I find it impossible not to look inward for what drives me.  At the same time, I've had friends and family ask me to explain the fascination.

It isn't the easiest thing to do.  Not because I don't have reasons.  In fact, I started making a mental list and ran out of paper.  But no single reason holds the key and the words I come up with fall woefully short of capturing everything I want to convey when pressed to explain myself.

Frustrated by my inability to express myself properly, I've been devouring other people's writing of running and marveling at their abilities.

The June issue of TrailRunner ran an article about Diana Finkel's amazing second overall (1st woman) finish at the 2010 Hardrock 100-Mile Endurance Run and the subsequent kidney failure that she suffered in the days following the event.  The account was penned by Ben Woodbeck, her husband and pacer for the last 40 miles of the race.  Turns out he's also a gifted writer and insightful runner.

To wit:

"Asking about running is just another way to wonder, what is it for?  Just as ineffable as why one would climb a mountain, or kayak a river, or jump from an airplane, I guess.  Running makes life worthwhile, maybe; it gives a little definition outside the confines and strictures of work and family.  It offers a community, one in which we can be individuals, ourselves, sometimes our best selves.  It reminds us what is important, somehow, even if it does so by reminding us that running is not really that important.  Relationships are important; another truth that we know but sometimes forget."

I love that.  Love it.

It speaks so beautifully to the "escape" of running without saying (as I would have) "running is such an escape."  Whatever it is that we turn to in order to get momentary respite from the weight of the world is valid only so long as we remember that while it's a lovely gift it isn't "real" in the way that the rest of life is and must be.  The danger is to get so fixated and so lost in that step away that we fail to come back to what really matters.

The best of escapes, and for me that is a gorgeous, inviting strand of single track, sharpens the focus upon returning on what truly is important.

And that, friends, deserves ice cream.



the sea level blues.

Twice a year, I board a plane for Salt Lake City to attend the Outdoor Retailer trade show.  If you like backpacking, mountain biking, climbing, trail running, paddling, camping or just about any other activity in the great outdoors, each January and August, the Salt Palace serves up a head-spinning carnival of "what you'll have to have six months from now."

OR (pronounced oh-are), as it's known affectionately, also happens to be a great place to make and/or reconnect with like minded friends who've found ways to forge out a similar work/play hybrid career.  Each time I go, I've got more faces to look forward to seeing and more difficulty freeing up the time I'd like to catch up with everyone.

As a key component of a retail operation that works hard, hard, hard to continue carving out a place in the outdoor industry, I am often overwhelmed by how much actual work we cram into just a couple of days and I should be thrilled that we find anytime at all to socialize.  And we do.

For the past three or four years, while at OR I've run the Wasatch Wobble, a 5K put on by Montrail/Mountain Hardwear up in Red Butte Gardens above the city.  The event is a non-timed focused-on-fun event but at 5,000+ feet of elevation it's always been a good test for me too.  This year, though, I'd learned about the Jupiter Peak Steeplechase that takes place in Park City each August.  Beginning at 7,000 feet, stretching for 16 +/- miles and having a gain of over 3,000 feet, this race promised to be a big step up from the Wobble.

On the first day in town, I got up early to sneak in a run and breath the fresh air before sucking in the artificial air at the Salt Palace all day long.  I was also looking forward to seeing how my legs and lungs felt a few thousand feet higher than back home.

We were staying south of the city just a short drive to the foot of Big Cottonwood Canyon.  Unfamiliar with the area and starting before sun-up, I opted for a paved pedestrian trail until it conked out and left me climbing alongside the road toward the top of the canyon.  Not being on single track didn't dampen my spirits, as there were no cars on the road and the soft grit that ran parallel to the road felt great underfoot.  As the sun rose, I plodded steadily uphill as the sun began to peak over the Wasatch Mountains.

Not even the birds were stirring and the only sound was the creek crash, crash, crashing its way down the canyon.  My camera complained about the lack of light and an inept operator who couldn't find a mechanical compensation.  All the same, it did its best and captured a few memories.

I was on the verge of daydreaming my way up into the mountains and away for the day when I came to and realized I needed to get back to the car.  I tucked the camera into my waistband and quickened my pace.  I'd managed the climb nicely and was able to really push on the descent.  This made me hopeful for the race on Saturday morning even though I knew I'd be at twice the elevation.  I'd hiked above 10,000 feet but never run up that high.  It was safe to expect that I wouldn't manage the sub 7:30 miles I'd just logged, but, I was still encouraged by my effort that morning.

The next two days were a blur of backpacks, socks, tents, sleeping bags, trekking poles, waterproof/breathable jackets, headlamps, doodads, whizzywhats and shaboozles.  Business was talked, talked, talked, talked, talked.  Thankfully, there were also a healthy number of warm handshakes, hugs and laughter wedged in between all that talking.

The hours and days flew by and it was Saturday morning.  True to its calling, the alarm alarmed me that it was 5:45.  A little over an hour later, after dropping my boss off in downtown Salt Lake for a pre-business business-breakfast (talk, talk, talk, talk, talk), I coasted into the lower parking lot of the Park City Mountain Resort and stared past the windshield at the fittest bunch of pre-racers I can remember seeing.  A little gasping-for-air voice told me I was in my over my head, but my eyes followed the chairlifts upward and I wondered where out there was the top of Jupiter Peak.

I had to go see.

There was one last moment of trepidation when I realized that Lindsay's phone number was printed right on my bib.  So some kind passerby could give my wife a courtesy call upon stumbling on my corpse?  Yikes.

Clearly I was over thinking things and just needed to get my feet underneath me.  I wedged in with some 300 other runners as someone muttered inaudible instructions through a megaphone.  A signal of some sort, again unheard by me, sent the pack slowly shuffling up a steeply sloped service road before funneling us onto the start of endless (and glorious) single track that would wind its way all the way to the top of the mountain.

I'd decided on a modest goal of 4 miles an hour on the ascent, expecting that the severity of the grade and the altitude were likely to make my usual pace impossible to achieve.  If I could top out in 2 hours and have legs left beneath me, I hoped to let gravity whisk me the full 8 miles down to the bottom at a much faster pace.

I fell in stride with a number of runners who seemed to be of equal ability and condition

Somewhere soon after mile 5 the grade steepened and I could sense unfamiliar physiological demands.  I was struggling to pull enough oxygen out of the air and my legs reported corresponding heaviness.  Feeling a little lightheaded, I decided it was time to peek at the GPS and learned that we'd now climbed over 9,000 feet.  There were less than 3 miles left to the top but another 1200+ feet of elevation to be gained.  Needless to say, I was no longer running 12 minute miles when I looked up to see the ridge just below Jupiter.

To give some scale to the photo, note the "runner" at the very lower right and keep in mind that the tufts at the top of the ridge are full grown trees.  I couldn't help but notice that not a single person ahead of me was actually running.  In fact, some of them were on all fours or at least appeared to be.  Loose rock added to the challenge and I was relieved to find that the stubborn grass growing on the ridge held my weight as I clutched at it.

Topping out, I glanced at my Garmin and was surprised to see that I'd only covered 7 miles.  I vaguely remembered hearing that there was more work to be done after Jupiter's Peak and after a quick two hundred yards of downhill, the track led upward again to the top of Tri-County Peak.  At last the climbing was done and the smooth winding downhill single track led off into the distance.

It was right around mile 10, probably while my mind wandered off into another patch of aspens, that I fell and fell hard.  I took the brunt of the fall on my right knee which was now bleeding but also banged my right side just above the hip and dragged my right forearm and elbow.  A couple of runners hopped over me, offered words of genuine encouragement and then disappeared down the trail.  It took me a moment or two to get back on my feet and I was, admittedly, shook up.  I traversed the next few miles very tentatively and did anything but barrel down the mountain.

Eventually I shook off the fall and got back to running but I never work up to the pace I'd hoped for on the return to 7000 feet.  My head, however, did begin to clear with the downward progression and I reached the bottom feeling good.  Good and tired.

I can't speak for any of the preceding 18 years, but my GPS confirmed that this year's course was a full mile short of 16.  My exhausted lungs and legs didn't seem the least bit disappointed.  Those 15 miles had taken me just over 3 hours (more than an hour behind the winners), but, coming from a home elevation of 400 feet, I'm holding my head up high...and looking forward to next year.

goodbye to july.

I won't miss the heat of July.  Not a bit.

Luckily, it didn't keep me inside and while it upped the difficulty factor on my running, it didn't actually keep me from logging miles.  It would've been nice to have run even more but it already felt like there were too few moments to spend with Lindsay and the girls.  Getting the majority of my running in while the rest of my house slept did the double duty of saving me from the worst of the heat and not keeping me from my family.

Work didn't require any extended travel during the last 30 days and with the exception of a 5-mile race on the 4th of July and my informal birthday 60K, my running didn't consist of any organized events.  That was fine by me. It was just good clean running for the sake of running.  And it was great.

Here are the photos:

Saturday, July 10 - Early evening loop on  Mt Joy, Power and Sun Hill roads

Monday, July 11 - Run home from work

Tuesday, July 12 - Run to work

Wednesday, July 13 - Horseshoe Trail and power line trail at Pumping Station

Thursday, July 14 - Lunch break run on the Penryn and White Oak roads loop

Thursday, July 14 - Second leg of surprise twofer - After work loop on Mt Joy, Hossler and Colebrook roads

Saturday, July 16 - Horseshoe Trail out-and-back across 501 to ugly clear-cut reroute below Middle Creek

Sunday, July 17 - Pumping Station and Horseshoe Trail - picked up an odd blister high on my heel

Wednesday, July 20 - Pumping Station and State Game Lands

Thurday, July 21 - Run home from work - so ungodly hot, I jumped right into a freezing cold shower and it wasn't until I got out that I realized the stopwatch was still running (must have hit the stop/start twice).

Friday, July 22 - Run to work on Mt Joy Road

Sunday, July 24 - 37th birthday 60K - Clarks Valley on the AT to Horseshoe Trail through Campbelltown

Wednesday, July 27 - Pumping Station and Horseshoe Trail

Friday, July 29 - Mid-day sprint on Penryn and White Oak roads

Sunday, July 31 - Horseshoe Trail, Mole Hill (first ever sustained run-up!) and State Game Lands

horseshoes and....

Been running the Horseshoe Trail now pretty religiously for going on two years and have been itching to venture out onto more of its 120+ miles.  I've also been anxious to go beyond the 50K distance in anticipation of taking a shot at 50 miles later in the year. 

With my 37th birthday arriving on July 25th, I set my sights on running the last or first (take your pick) of the Horseshoe Trail the day before said birthday.

Lindsay had to work a shift at Lancaster General, but my mother and stepfather agreed to watch the kids until I could get to them.  Jefferson selflessly agreed to shuttle me from a car drop in Campbelltown to the Clarks Valley of the Appalachian Trail, the nearest access point to the yellow blazes of the Horseshoe.  The week prior brought one wicked heat wave and I considered calling off the run, but Sunday's weather report was a little less ominous with temperatures dipping back down below triple digits.  The humidity was still going to be an issue, but the plan was a go.

Things got off to an inauspicious start when I couldn't find the Locust Street the Horseshoe Trail guidebook told me I needed to travel in Campbelltown to drop the car.  I ended up flagging a police officer who was as sure as he could be that there wasn't a Locust Street in town, but, thankfully, he did guide me to where I wanted to be in spite of the missing road.

With the van parked, I jumped in with Jefferson and we headed north.  Clarks Valley is situated in a natural gap between Peters and Stony Mountains and the trailhead put us 3.2 miles from the summit of Stony and the junction with the Horseshoe Trail.

We snapped a quick photo in front of the AT sign at the Route 325 crossing but my fat head managed to block out all but the arrows.  Notice the haze hanging in the distance.  It was right around 7:30 AM.

There's a solid 1,000 feet of climb up to the top of Stony Mountain and I enjoyed the heck out of every step.  Jefferson and I chatted as we climbed the rocky track, making good progress but managing pace to hopefully keep me from bonking later in the day. I wasn't planning to "race", not by a long shot, but I still intended to be running (shuffling, at least) late in the day.

I was having such a good time, I couldn't believe how quickly we seemed to cover those initial miles.  Jefferson snapped another photo of me standing in front of the initial blazes of the Horseshoe and the Cyrus Sturgis Monument.

The run down from Stony was super quick and I wrestled over whether to open the throttle and blast down the ridge or put on the brakes to save the legs.  I compromised somewhere in between and had soon covered two miles of downhill and started down the unpaved Ellendale Stagecoach Road which seemed to go on forever (somewhere around 3 miles, per the guidebook) since I wanted badly to be back on singletrack.

That was going to have to wait.  Much of the 4 mile climb up from Stony Creek to the top of Second Mountain followed a wide abandoned logging road.  Tantalizing narrow trails shot off in all directions and I made a note to come back here to backpack and camp.  The sun was still behind the clouds but the day was beginning to warm up.  Though the inclined grade wasn't too severe, it didn't offer many breaks either.  I was caught from behind by one fiercely fit mountain biker and passed a single trail runner headed the opposite direction who looked spirit-crushingly fit.  I was somewhere around 10 miles into the trip and fighting the first wave of doubt.

Within a mile of the summit, the trail switchbacked against the logging road and transferred to extremely steep singletrack.  I couldn't make out the top and, like it has too many times before, my stomach began to raise protests.  Thankfully, those rumblings never turned into anything, but for a moment they did add to my concern.  Shaking them off, I power-hiked to the summit and sat for a moment to catch my breath, down a gel and consult the book.

It was cool to be doing this solo, but without aid stations waiting down the line, the only water I could count on was what I had in my pack.  The early sections of the route were proving really remote and I wondered where I was going to fill the emptying four bottles (two handhelds and another two in the side mesh pockets on my pack) that I had with me.  A peek ahead at the trail directions didn't look terribly promising.  I decided to start rationing and concentrate on just getting further along the route.

The next six miles were pretty sweet, weaving through mature woods on a slow clamber down from the summit of Second Mountain.  When things leveled off, the path fluctuated between singletrack and logging roads.  There was still little sign of civilization and the few structures that did appear were either in states of disrepair or spartan in their design.  Heavy tree cover coupled with the continued cloud cover to keep heat manageable.

In Manada Gap, the trail vanished into road but showed no sign of a place to replenish fluids.  The guidebook suggested that a mere 3 mile detour (one way) would get me to a convenience store but that mileage tack-on seemed really foolish and the whole idea of leaving the Horseshoe felt really unappealing.  I ignored the offer and stuck to my yellow blazes.

Less than a mile later, the trail reappeared and followed what the guidebook had referred to as a "beautiful trout stream on a splendid woods trail under old beeches and hemlocks".  The trees were still there (though I suspect in fewer numbers) but there wasn't enough water to support trout and the trail itself appeared to be woefully untraveled.  Bummer.

Another bummer was being completely out of water, especially when the trail vanished again and the blazes migrated from trees to telephone poles.  I was back on the road again and less than thrilled by the exposure to the sun.  The New Balance MT101's that I was wearing were spot on for the trail, but not ideal for extended road work.  Wah-wah.

I decided I would offer cash to the next human being I saw in exchange for cold water in my water bottles.  Over the next 3 miles, however, I saw plenty of homes but not a soul outside.  The whirring of air conditioners and the periodic appearance of undrinkable backyard swimming pools mocked me and my bone dry bottles.  Help would eventually come in the form of James who was outside braving the heat to deliver water to his landscaping.

James wouldn't hear of my offer, turning down the cash while kindly taking my bottles to fill me up with water on the house.  Perhaps because I mentioned that I'd come the whole way from Clarks Valley, he even filled me up on ice.  I couldn't have been more grateful, though I'm not sure I properly conveyed this, as stopping at last made me acutely aware of how parched and hot I'd become.  Looking back towards the distant aridgelines from his front yard, I got my first sense of how far I'd come.

I said my thanks and offered goodbyes before chugging back down the road.  My spirits soared for a few minutes until I started to get the feeling that I may not find dirt under foot for a good long while.  I was 21.5 miles into my run but feared it might be road the rest of the way.  The sun was now unimpeded with the clouds having melted away and I was taking a pounding. I realized I'd only had James fill up two of my bottles despite his offer to top off anything I had.  Dumb.  Those two bottles were only going to go so far.

As I reached Route 22, I hung a left in hopes of soon finding somewhere to get more water.  My confidence was wavering, my left foot was hating the road surface and I was really starting to dread the idea that the trail running portion of my day was over.  Stumbling upon a closed-for-the-day garage that had a stunningly beautiful soda machine parked right outside, I sat down to drink an ice cold Pepsi and ponder the possibilities.

I fished my cellphone out of my pack and attempted a call to my cousin, Chad.  He didn't answer the phone.  I replied to a text message from Jefferson asking how I was holding up and asked him yet another favor, this time hoping he could Google Route 22 East and tell me where it ended up.  While waiting for his response, Lindsay called and gave me an earful about a minor calamity at home.  I raised my voice back at her before we both calmed down, offered deserved apologies and traded "I love yous".  From there I placed a call to Mom who confirmed for me that 22 wasn't going to take me where I wanted to go.

I collected my thoughts, scoured the various maps in the Horseshoe Trail guidebook and decided it was time to quit mucking around and get back to what I'd set out to do in the first place.  Yes, I was hot and was looking at a lot of roadwork, but my legs felt pretty good and my stomach was fine.

I finished the last of that oh-my-god-good Pepsi and bought a number of waters from the machine to refill all four of my bottles.

I texted Jefferson to call of the Googling and confirm that I'd gotten my head straight.  Sending that text was the final push I needed and I was back on my feet, heading west to reconnect with the Horseshoe.  It wasn't long before I'd managed to do just that.

I covered another 6 miles before the blazes again got me off of the road, dumping me into a farmer's field somewhere around 27 miles into my day.  There was a confusing twist shortly thereafter when the trail seemed barred by a tall cornfield.  That proved a good thing because it forced me to again consult the guidebook which encouraged me to look back across Swatara Creek toward the Blue Mountains for "one of the most remarkable views along the trail".  I haven't seen enough of the trail to properly validate that claim but it sure was lovely.  The camera failed to capture a proper image through the afternoon haze, so I did my best to save the view to memory.

Turning back to the task at hand, I plowed through the cornfield and came out running on the other side.  A bright yellow blaze was waiting for me and waved me down the trail.  Sadly, that lovely bit of trail lasted little more than a mile before depositing me back onto roads just north of Hershey.  Before it did, however, I was offered one last look back at the mountains and this time the camera cooperated with a fairly nice representation.

I passed by Hershey Cemetary (the venerable Milton Hershey is buried here) and endured a rather frustrating bit of "where now?" in an old inactive quarry that added a few hundred unnecessary yards to my journey. Emerging finally on the other side of that stretch, I had less than 10K to go.

That was good news because I was tiring.  I threw a pose at the sun to see if I could spook it back into hiding but my bluff was called.

There was one last bit of confusion to muddle through before I got where I was going.  It could've proven disastrous.

Per the guidebook, I'd soon arrive in Palmdale, cross 422 and then make my way to Campbelltown.  I'd never heard of Palmdale but hadn't given it too much thought.  At this point, though, I had a pretty good idea where I was and where I was was Hershey not Palmdale.  A bit more searching in the book uncovered a reference to Palmdale being a "western suburb of Palmyra".  Palmyra I knew and Hershey I knew.  I couldn't tell you where one ends and one begins but I do know there isn't a Palmdale in between.

Not anymore.

Upon reaching 422, I flipped a mental coin and hung a right.  A mile later, I began to doubt my decision AND discovered that I was again out of water.  I backtracked a bit and ducked into a restaurant/bar.  Evidence of my running out of gas is the fact that I never even took any notice of the name of the establishment.  Poking my head inside, I pleaded with anyone available to clue me in on Palmdale and the seemingly fictitious McKinley Avenue.  No one knew what I was talking about and, frankly, I soon realized how insane I must have looked, sporting a cavemanish beard, wearing a sweat-drenched backpack, clutching empty water bottles and babbling on about a town that didn't exist.

A young guy named Dustin came to my rescue, throwing my beard a compliment and fetching me a Coke.  He also filled up one of my other water bottles which was huge and even retopped off my Coke after I downed it in about 3 seconds.  I bounced the Palmdale/McKinley question off of him but he too did not find either of those references familiar.  When I mentioned that I was heading to Campbelltown, he felt pretty certain that I needed to head east and hang a right.  In terms of getting me to Campbelltown, he was correct but I actually needed to push a little farther in the initial direction I'd headed to pick up the Horseshoe Trail.  Honestly, it mattered little at this point because I was looking mostly at roads regardless of which way I went.

Long story short, Dustin gets props from me for getting me exactly where I asked him to get me and for just being down to earth and cool at a moment when I benefited from that at least as much as getting the "right" directions.  No props for me in failing to snap a proper documentary photo.

And so I made it at last to Campbelltown, though I was approaching the van from the wrong direction and from off the "trail".  I'd been pretty sloppy with the GPS throughout the day, often turning it off when I took breaks but not always and sometimes forgetting to rehit "start" when setting off again.  I'm certain that I'd gone at least 37 miles by the time I opened the door, but the Garmin said 36.55.  I put my pack and bottles on the passenger seat and kept on running, heading out along the Horseshoe Trail along the route I should have just been on.  After about a quarter mile, I spun on my heels and returned to the van.  My day was done and my MT 101's could wait for dirt.

Happy Birthday to me.

endtroducing.

My four-legged friend is gone and while I knew that day would come, I didn't expect it to arrive so soon.

Lindsay and I saw Lego in the Lancaseter Sunday News one early morning in the Spring of 2006.  Before finishing the rest of that newspaper, we jumped in the car and headed to the Humane League.  We loved him as soon as we saw him in black and white and that much more in the full color of real life.

He caught a ride home with us and settled into our apartment as though he'd lived there the entire 6 months of his life.  A suspected Boxer/Blue Heeler mix, Clouseau (as we dubbed him) was an odd looking duck and good-naturedly endured puzzled looks and questions like "is that a dingo?".  He was unfazed and more often than not won over the doubters with his big heart.

He didn't stand very tall and eventually topped the scales at just 55 pounds, but every ounce was muscle that was thankfully never used for anything more than chasing sticks and swimming like a peculiar surface-skimming fish.

Lily arrived less than a year into his residency and we feared how he'd react to the shared spotlight.  Our fears were unwarranted as he proved a gentle, doting chaperon who rarely strayed from the baby's side.

This diligence continued even after we left the city and moved into a home with more room for Clouseau to sprawl.

First Lily and then Piper loved him and likely never considered life without him.  Now and again Lindsay or I would comment on how strange it was to realize that Clouseau would likely not live to see the girls into their teens, never entertaining the idea that he'd not even see them get on a school bus.

This April Clouseau began having accidents despite having been housebroken from before we'd adopted him.  At first, I thought he was at last demanding the attention lost from sharing the home with two small children.  I was wrong.

I finally broke down and took him to the veterinarian by then assuming confirmation of a bladder infection or, at worst, kidney stones.  When we learned that Clouseau had advanced lymphoma and had little time remaining, we were absolutely stunned.  Stunned and heartbroken.

Not knowing how much time we had left together, we did what we've always done,  we took Clouseau hiking and swimming.

We threw sticks, we laughed, the girls squealed.  But even little Piper seemed to pick-up on our melancholy.

It was a lovely, bittersweet day and it wasn't the last.  We were granted another couple of months with our beloved dog.  By early June, however, it became apparent that life was becoming more of a struggle and we'd agreed to not extend his suffering out of a selfish want to have him here with us.

The family shared goodbyes.

I loaded him into the van and we headed to the vet.  He took his normal post at the passenger seat window, nosing the full blast of the passing air.  He leaned so far forward it appeared he was trying to beat me to our destination.

In the waiting room he perked his ears and absorbed all the yips from the bowels of the building and sniffed all the comings and goings.  He didn't tug on his leash, however, laying at my feet and leaning against my leg.  I knew I wouldn't feel him there again and cherished the contact.

We never made Clouseau wear his collar at home and I'd hated putting it on him for this trip.  Having removed it for the last time, I put it back in its usual place upon returning home.

On the other side of the room sat Clouseau's bowls and I couldn't bring myself to put them away.

Lindsay and I have always been very straightforward with the children and both girls knew that Clouseau had been sick and wasn't going to get better.  Still they struggled to understand that he was truly gone.  Both Lily and Piper seemed to take the news rather calmly, but when I put Lil to bed that evening, she and I shared a good, hard cry.

Once the two of us had composed ourselves, Lily said so sweetly to me that she just wished Clouseau would've stayed a little longer.

Me too, Lil.  Me too.

gimme, gimme summer runnin'.

What's the rush, summer?

Time ticks on and I'm still trying to determine whether June actually happened or we all just agreed to skip right to mid-July.  There's been a lot of work on my plate and even more on my mind.  I've been run, run, running as an offset and been blessed with healthy legs and motivated feet.

Here's the evidence.

Monday, June 27 - Ran home from work in my new Happy Father's Day kicks.  Nice.

Thursday, June 30 - Ran to work in my one-run-less-new Happy Father's Day kicks.  Still nice.

Sunday, July 3 - Early morning run at Pumping Station and the Horseshoe Trail.

Sunday, July 3 - Afternoon run on Elizabethtown, Penryn, Locust Grove and Newport Roads.

Monday, July 4 - Ephrata Firecracker 5 - forgot to stop the GPS in the finish chute - official time was 34:57.

Tuesday, July 5 - Lunch break loop through Manheim.

Wednesday, July 6 - Morning run at Pumping Station and State Game Lands with Jefferson and Chris.



Saturday, July 9 - Horseshoe Trail out-and-back from Pumping Station to Middle Creek clear cuts.