At Dusk

For many years now, I have generally been of the get-out-and-run-in-the-morning-before-I-do-anything-else-today-because-it's-the-most-important-thing persuasion.  This is not to say that I don't log many a two-a-day session, it's just that my second run of the day is typically shorter, easier, and flatter than the morning outing.  Less serious.  More flexible.  Often barefoot.  Additionally, my body tends to feel better in the morning--the stomach is empty, the mental pressures and fatigue of the day have yet to accumulate, and afterall, all I've been doing for the past several hours is sleeping, so I generally have a surfeit of energy.

In college, logging the main workout of the day during the afternoon practice (~4PM, after a 5-8 mile jaunt before class that morning, of course) was a constant source of annoyance for me.  Without fail, the campus dining hall's food wreaked havoc with my intestines, so an otherwise idyllic autumnal session of, say, 24x400m on grass or 5xmile in the park was regularly rendered nearly unendurable thanks to undue gastrointestinal distress.

Conversely, many of my teammates hated running in the morning and thought I was borderline deranged for voicing my opinion that an interval session might be better performed at 7 or 8AM.  My fifth year at Colorado College (I headed back to slam through the entire Geology major in a single year), my good friend (and far more talented teammate: five-time All-American with 5K/10K PRs and school records of 14:30 and 30:43) Julian Boggs christened me his live-in guru for rousting him from sleep every morning at 6:40AM to log a brisk hour's cruise through the no-man's-land of social single-tracks and cacti-covered hills on the west side of I-25 that we referred to as The Mesas.  (Springs locals might know this better as Sonderman Park, but that apparent jurisdiction encompasses less than half of the open terrain we explored over there.)  Of course, this sort of accountability was only natural as Julian had been so accommodating (ridiculously so, in retrospect) as to allow me to take up residence under his half-lofted bed in his tiny (we're talking no more than 150 square feet here) single-person dorm room that semester.

This past week I rediscovered both the joys and dreads of doing substantial running later in the day.  On both Friday and Saturday evenings--after already logging my usual 2hr sojourn to the top of Green Mt and back in the morning--I got out again for a couple bonus Green summits.

These runs were shocking in their dialectic nature.

Striding away from my doorstep with an eye on the sun disappearing behind the Flatirons and a headlamp wrapped around my wrist I felt a curious pep in my stride that is hardly ever present in the pre-dawn darkness.  This sensation was always Julian's main argument for running in the afternoon--your body is fully awake and ready for action; the attendant incoordination of early morning miles is either completely skipped or compressed handily into a few quick steps.  When I arrived at the mouth of Gregory Canyon to begin the climb up Green my legs seemed to have super-powers.  I floated over big step-ups and skipped through technical terrain that I've become accustomed to zapping my energy.  My respiration rate indicated what should've been a high level of effort but none of this was borne out by any legitimate sensations of fatigue in my legs.  Everything was so easy.

This is the hidden aspect of mountain running that hikers or even road/track runners can never understand and will never know about.  It is the ineffable secret of those who have diligently paid their dues and over time become intimate confidants with a landscape that, to many, typically only represents an obstacle to be conquered.  Why, the hikers will ask, do you run these beautiful trails?  Aren't you afraid of missing the views, the scenery?  The road runners will claim, I don't want to sprain an ankle, scrape a knee, or thrash about at 12 minute pace when I can cruise the black-top hitting six minute miles with a perfect rhythm.

The answer, of course, is that, for me at least, the sheer felt kinesthetic sensation of a stretch of well-run trail unquestionably trumps the quality of any of those other experiences.  When things are going well-- when they're clicking on that unconscious, unforceable, primal plane of existence where every fiber is preternaturally aligned to the task of effortlessly traversing ground--there is a sense of everything being in its exact right place, right here, right now.  It's as if I am the leading star in my own life and at that moment I'm absolutely nailing the role.  To me, that type of experience is unassailable in its value.  And it doesn't happen while hiking.  Or fighting cars for a section of pavement.  It seems to require rocks, roots, and a significant gradient.

On Friday night, despite considerable darkness on the upper reaches of the Ranger trail that assuredly slowed my pace, I effortlessly PRed on the climb by a full two minutes.  There can be no more fitting place to celebrate a new best performance than from a mountaintop, at night.  Nearly 3000' below my feet, Boulder's lights glittered and glowed, casting light seemingly all the way to my position on the summit.  The swath of open space surrounding town presented itself in stark contrast as a lightless, dark band encompassing the city.

Alas, the downhill is where the duality of these night runs kicks in for me, i.e. there is a not-so-subtle shift in mood.  First, it's tough to run down technical trails in the dark--I don't care how bright the headlamp is.  Or maybe, my headlamp just isn't bright enough.

Second, downhills have a unique tendency to, um, shake things loose.  Suffice it say that, A) my two night runs this past week reaffirmed my belief in there being something profoundly amiss with my guts.  Things haven't been this wrong since Leadville.  And, B) when severe gastrointestinal issues strike, the true casualty in the situation is one's sense of self-dignity.  Early on, the effect is merely like that of an ominously rising river lapping at its banks:  no significant threshold is breached but the erosional effects cannot be denied.  Not so gradually, though, the water's destructive powers are realized and before you know it a full-on battle is raging, the result of which leaves your pride completely eviscerated and tattered somewhere back on the side of the trail.

In such a desperate, degraded, and depraved state any bush, any shadow, any shrub becomes fair game.  In my (most unfortunate) case, neither alleyways, baseball fields, nor fallow flower beds were left unscathed.  It was as if the euphoria of the first half of these runs had to be necessarily balanced with equally traumatic and depressing second halves.  Oh well, gotta keep things on an even keel, I guess.  Remain humble.

Thankfully, in retrospect, (and after a shower and when I'm someplace where toilet paper is readily available) I think the positives outweigh the negatives (if only barely), and I hope to continue to incorporate these night runs into the weekly routine.

January In Review

January has been a relatively good month with regards to my running.  By the sheer numbers:

488 miles
71h 50min
91,500' of vertical
31 summits of Green Mountain
0 days off

Which means that it's objectively been my best January since 2007 when I was training like a banshee in preparation for the Rocky Raccoon 100.  Just to prove that I've wisened up a little in terms of the volume I put in these days, here are the numbers from January 2007: 751 miles, 106h 38min, 36,500' of vertical, and three days off.

January's 2008 and 2009 were both affected pretty heavily by nagging lower leg injuries, so I ended up missing quite a few days. (And, the Rocky Raccoon 100 both years, too.  As I will this year, unfortunately.  Ever since coming within 16min of the course record three years ago during a very poorly-paced race I've been jonesing to get back there and run the race I know I'm capable of.  I would rate the 13:32 I ran at Rocky in 2007 as being on par with roughly 17:00 at a non-short (i.e., non-2009) Leadville.)

In addition to the more moderate mileage, it seems I've compensated for this a bit by hitting a whole lot more vertical climbing this year than when I was training in Colorado Springs.  During that January of 2007 a very typical day for me would have been a 2hr run in the Garden of the Gods in the morning and then another 2hr run over similar terrain in the evening.  I would count a run like this as having zero vertical feet climbed even though, as a result of the rolling terrain, I would probably get close to 1000' on a 2hr run like that.  I tend to not really count climbs that are less than 500' in one shot.

Whereas encountering significant vertical when embarking from the downtown Colorado Springs area used to generally require nearly a three hour run, living and running in Boulder has meant that I can run up a mountain and back from my doorstep in two hours or less (thus, the marked increase in vertical gain this month as compared to 2007).  While I don't yet know what kind of effect this will have on racing results, I do know that it more similarly reflects what I was doing this summer in Leadville (despite my meltdown at the LT100, the White River 50 in July was ample evidence that I was easily in the best shape of my life this summer) and that it more generally appeals to my personality, which is always a positive thing.  I like to run up mountains.

So, where does January leave me with regards to goals and plans for the coming months?  I'd like to keep not missing any days.  I value the accumulative strength that comes with not missing any days of running; I think it's important that the body remain accustomed to at least a little bit of specific physical motion every day in order to not set oneself up for the strange weaknesses and aches that can come with inconsistency.

I would be very happy to average around 500 miles per month for the whole year.  This would be directly in line with my "new" approach of lowering the overall week-to-week mileage in the hopes of vastly increasing the number of days that I'm running strong and healthy each year.

I think the avatar of this type of reasonable but inexorable consistency is Matt Carpenter, who, as a competitive mountain runner, I wouldn't mind emulating in other ways, either.  In most years, Matt will spend eight months (January through August) where he essentially never runs less than two hours each and every day, save for a race taper or two.  He's also gone five years at a time without missing a day.

(Vintage MC crushing Mount Washington in 1998.)

Kyle Skaggs is another person for whom I've witnessed this type of day to week to month consistency pay off.  From when he set the then-course record at the Wasatch 100 in 2007 until he shattered the course record for the Hardrock 100 ten months later, Kyle never missed a day of running but kept most weeks in the safe-and-sane region of 120-140 miles with a few excursions to 160 mountain miles in the final weeks before Hardrock.

(Kyle, slaloming down 14er Handies Peak on the Hardrock 100 course. Photo: Olga Varlamova)

Right now, maintaining my two hour run every morning feels very doable, but pushing my knee beyond that threshold still remains tenuous as doing so seems to almost necessarily require sacrificing the ability to continue to run healthy in the following days.  If I can gradually change that current reality, I think I'll be on my way to finally realizing some competitive racing goals while remaining healthy.  After the past month, I'm certainly the most optimistic I've been about that in a while.

Running on Cloud (Twenty-) Nine

(Flatirons in the mist at the base of Green Mountain.)

Yesterday, Boulder was enveloped in a miasma of mist. After three weeks of nearly exclusively sunny, often brilliant weather, a small system had descended overnight, dropped an anemic ~1" of snow, and then decided to hang around to just make things chilly. And dank.
.

Nevertheless, except for the addition of a pair of tights and a stocking cap, the regular morning's ascent of Green Mountain was largely without incident.  Running uphill through the new snow in the pre-dawn darkness did cause me to recall several other wintry early Thursday mornings with the Team CRUD folks in Cheyenne Canyon in Colorado Springs.  Handicapped-start group uphill tempos were an excellent way to motivate a group of runners of widely-ranging abilities to all suffer a bit and then run the downhill together.

(Running down Cheyenne Canyon with CRUDers Dan Vega, Rick Hessek, John Genet, and Neal Oseland.)

During the past week I have felt my body navigating the avenues of stress and adaptation, alternate bouts of energy and fatigue, that typically occur when I've been fortunate enough to plug away at the training long enough to give myself a shot at truly becoming fit. 

This always happens about four weeks into a training cycle.  The first week of a substantial build-up is marked by re-establishing the basic routines and habits of a serious runner.  Oh yeah, this is what it feels like to get up before the sun every day.  Or, ugh, two hours might be just a bit longer than my body is willing to consistently go right now.

However, by the second week, everything is roses.  My body is over the initial hump of being a real runner again but has not yet been immersed in the nearly ubiquitous low-level fatigue that comes with putting in the time day after week after month.  Instead, the dregs of fitness have been reawakened and the spirit is doubly bolstered by still-fresh legs.  Every run starts with a happy clip in the stride right from the doorstep, and some days I veritably bound up the mountain.

The third week is...arduous.  It tests the will, for sure.  It reminds me of just how hard running can be.  Accumulative, accreted fatigue settles in my legs and forces me to ease into every run with the utmost effort.  If that last sentence appears contradictory, that's because it is.  In the third week, running is contradictory; the perceived effort is fairly uniformly high, but the achieved pace does not correlate.  Every run is slow.

Thankfully, all that is required (as if this were somehow trivial) is some good old-fashioned stick-to-it-iveness and a hopeful eye to the future, knowing that the drudgery will eventually pay off.  This past week was the beginning of the pay-off.  Not every day felt good.  In fact, most runs still felt pretty bad.  But, from time to time I could detect a glimmer of solid, dependable energy (not the fleeting, somewhat fake energy of the second week) through the murkiness of fatigue.

So, yesterday, buoyed (but also made sore) by a mid-week acupuncture session I decided to test out my knee with a second ascent of Green in the evening.  I waited for Jocelyn to get home so that she could join me for the run up to Chautauqua. (Jocelyn--growing up in San Diego--is not the biggest fan of frowsy weather such as Boulder experienced yesterday.  Upon informing her that I was heading out and she was going too, she replied, "but why do you have to run up Green twice on the crappiest day we've had all month?"  The fog hadn't even figured into my decision at all--I simply knew that I was going to be missing an ascent this weekend so wanted to get ahead now; plus, it was time to test the knee.)

As all second-runs-of-the-day do, I started out feeling leaden and more than slightly unmotivated.  However, by time we got to the trailhead and I started up Gregory Canyon I could feel the weight lifting and my body started accessing that well of fitness that I've spent all month filling.  My Microspikes bit into the trail with purpose and I quickly ascended into the inky clouds with much less effort (and two minutes quicker) than in the morning.  Standing on the summit, though, I was slightly disappointed with the lack of any sort of view, so after briefly scrambling atop the summit boulder I turned and headed home--the downhill was going to be the truly interesting part of the run, because if my knee was going to protest, it would be on the descent.

Heading down Greenman (the upper section down to Saddle Rock is excellent for descending right now with an almost perfect amount of snowpack) I encountered no knee pain but was treated to a most excellent night-time view of the city as the clouds lifted virtually right before my eyes.  This was the view I'd been waiting for all day and it sparked a stretch of that kind of running that only comes along every once in a while.  Every footstep is perfectly placed without trying, the growing darkness adds a sense of increased effortlessness and speed, and the steep drops and rocks and roots all provide giddy moments of acrobatic proficiency instead of the more typical tired and awkward navigation.  I'd forgotten how much fun it can be to run trails at dusk.

By time I was cruising the streets back to my apartment I was more optimistic and satisfied about my running than I've been in quite some while.  After my thirtieth Ascent of Green this morning, though, I was sure to remind myself that it is still very early.  Early in the Project, early in the year, early in the season, and now is not the time to get greedy.

The Green Mountain Project

(There she is, nearly 3000' of vertical just waiting to be scaled.)

Initially, I think a significant part of why running appealed to me--when I started running regularly 15 years ago--is because it is an activity that easily lends itself to the proclivities of a somewhat obsessive, somewhat compulsive personality.  Emphasis on the qualifying somewhat's in that sentence.  I don't think of myself as particularly obsessive compulsive in most arena's of my life---it only sometimes pops up in fairly peculiar ways.

For instance, I am mildly compelled to always put my left shoe, sock, or glove on first, before the right.  No particular reason why, it just feels right.  When I discover a new band or song I often listen to it incessantly on repeat just because I enjoy it so much.  I have made the exact same recipe of "African Stew" (containing such delicious and nutritious ingredients as quinoa, yams, kale, chickpeas, and peanut butter) three times already this month---twice for the same dinner guests.  And, the obvious is that during particularly heavy training periods I can become especially draconian regarding the specifics of my daily or twice-daily runs.  In the latter case, it can be argued that a little OCD is almost a necessary component to maintaining a rigorous training schedule.  For whatever reason, running seems to accentuate this tendency in me.

But, with regards to the running, I have recently decided, I think, to whole-heartedly embrace this tendency in a new way.  With three weeks of 2010 already behind us---and still not a day missed on Green Mountain---I am highly tempted to strive for a goal that coalesces around a pair of particularly round numbers: completing, on foot, 100 summits of Green Mountain in the first 100 days of the year.

To be sure, this is not really a unique proposition.  In fact, it is virtually directly inspired by the fact that something very similar has been accomplished at least twice before.  When it comes to habitually running up and down a Boulder Open Space and Mountain Parks peak, Scott Elliott is the unequivocal standard-bearer of sorts.  At least twice in the last few years (2007 and 2009) Scott has managed to summit 8461' Bear Peak 100 times in the first 100 days of the year.  Last year he apparently extended the monomania and ran up Bear 175 times in the first six months (182 days) of 2009.

Scott's major racing accomplishments have occurred in primarily uphill-only races, most conspicuously in the venerable Pikes Peak Ascent, which he has won an astonishing eight times (with a personal best of 2:06:47), been second another four times, and finished a total of 17 times, only once out of the top ten overall.  His prowess on that mountain is only surpassed by the virtually incomparable Matt Carpenter.

The Boulder Daily Camera wrote this article during Scott's 2007 streak, and this Camera article from 2001 provides evidence that Scott's focus has not been limited to Bear Peak---it mentions a streak of ascending Green Mountain for something on the order of 115 days straight in preparation for that year's Pikes Peak race.

Because of where I live in the city, I have chosen the 8144' summit of Green Mountain (and not Bear or South Boulder Peaks) as my daily goal.  From my front doorstep, it is a 12-13 mile and just under 2hr roundtrip outing to the summit and back, depending on which trails I choose.  I have a couple of reasons for pursuing this goal.

First, as I implied earlier, it appeals to a powerful part of my personality.  It offers a tangible goal in my running during a time of the year that is typically devoid of many races and instead is important and appropriate for establishing a rock-solid foundation of mileage and hours for the rigorous spring and summer trail racing season ahead.

Second--and this is the most compelling and important consideration for me--I think it will actually serve to discipline me in my training to remain more conservative, less erratic, and therefore more consistently injury-free.  How, one might ask, am I rationalizing that?  My thinking is that by planning for a two hour run with big vertical every day I will not be tempted to push my training much beyond that on any regular basis because doing so might jeopardize my ability to go out and repeat the summit run the next day.  By taking the long-term (at least 100 days) view I will--theoretically--approach each day's training with a reasonable attitude, that, instead of focusing on how much I can squeeze out of my body on any given day will place the onus on day-to-day, week-to-week, and month-to-month consistency.  This is something I have regularly struggled with in the past, due mostly to my boundless enthusiasm and passion for running.

In this past week, I have already seen the positive effect of Green's summit on my decision-making.  On Tuesday I tested my knee with a nearly three hour Double Green run that (predictably) resulted in a little aggravation the last half hour of the run.  On Wednesday, after yet another trip to the top, I was still feeling a little residual soreness in the knee towards the end of the morning's summit run, so I decided to forget about running in the evening so that I could be sure to run Green pain-free the next morning (which I did).  In the past, I am almost sure that I would've gone for the Wednesday evening run and likely either forced a day off today or at the least not been able to complete such a fulfilling mountain run.

Third, I find this kind of training run to be tirelessly enjoyable and inspiring.  Maybe the single most satisfying thing to me in running is having the ability to self-propel myself---quickly and efficiently---to the summit of a mountain and back down.  I love the defined goal that the top represents and I love the effort and process of making it to the top.  The fact that Boulder has such picturesque, accessible peaks in such close proximity make this an even more natural choice in my training.  The mountain itself is my inspiration.  And so is Scott.  In the Camera article from 2007, Scott suggests that maybe his efforts on Bear Peak could provide motivation for an aspiring athlete.  Well, consider me inspired.

Finally, some ground rules:

1) An "ascent" will only count if the run begins from no higher than the approximately 5600' elevation of the Chautauqua or Gregory Canyon trailheads.  However, I anticipate that the vast majority of my ascents will begin and end at my doorstep (~5300')---a value (i.e., not driving to run) that is very important to me in my daily running.

2)  An ascent must only be foot-powered and non-mechanized: running or hiking count, but no bikes and no motor-powered assists to the Realization Point or West Ridge trailheads off of Flagstaff Road.

3) I do not need to ascend every day.  I can make up "missed" days with multiple ascents in a single day or single run as long as I descend at least to the Gregory Canyon trailhead (or equivalent elevation) in between each successive summiting.  This allows for races, out-of-town trips, or other extenuating circumstances.

4) I will not risk over-use injury or the value of the inherent fun-factor.  I subscribe to the "lite" version of obsessive-compulsiveness.

5) The entire project is completely on my honor.  I'm not going to purchase and start carrying a camera for a time-stamped summit shot every day.  The completion of this project shouldn't really matter to anyone but myself, so any transgressions of veracity on my part would be simply self-defeating.

So, 21 days down and 79 days and 79 summits to go.

A Fresh Start

Well, to get the most cliche part of this post out of the way as quickly as possible, it is a new year and that is exciting.

Since this is (primarily) a running blog, I will probably (primarily) continue to discuss my life in that context, here, for whatever that is worth. Ever since the Leadville 100 in August, my running has mostly been...frustrating. There were several races I wished to compete in last fall (Vermont 50, Lithia Loop Marathon, Masochist, North Face 50, even Bandera last weekend), but that was/has all been precluded by a cranky little knee. It is the same injury that first surfaced last April and kept me out of Western States this past June, and it is persistent.

It's not that I haven't been able to run. Quite the contrary. In all of 2009 I actually missed "only" 51 days (I employ the scare quotes because that still averages to nearly a day off every week) of running (compared to 118 in 2008), but curiously logged ~900 fewer miles in 2009 than in 2008 (~4300 vs ~5200). This is a function of my trick retinaculum/patella being pretty much happy with runs up to 2hrs in length, but nothing much longer than that. This fact makes the training and completion of an ultramarathon an especially sticky proposition. Any venture into the 4-5hr range of running duration has consistently led to a forced week or so of rest, waiting for the knee to quiet back down.

So, with that knowledge, and the commencement of the new year, I resolved to limit myself to 2hr length (albeit, frequent) outings, and, combined with some new proactive measures (acupuncture, sacroilliac joint adjustments, abductor-strengthening exercises), I hope to only extremely gradually increase the duration of my runs from the seemingly magical 120 minute threshold. So far, it has been working. The first 18 days of 2010 have seen me log 18 pain-free 2hr runs, each of which has included the 2500'-in-less-than-three-miles climb to the 8162' summit of Green Mountain here in Boulder.

(A rare non-solo outing for me: Heading up Green Mt via Gregory Canyon this morning with Brandon and Chris. Photo: George Zack)

Much to my joy, these daily sojourns have been greatly ameliorated by the Mountain Gods (and Microspikes). For the past ten days, Boulder (and, the rest of the Front Range, I imagine) has been regaled with consistently excellent weather--highs in the 50s, plenty of sunshine, no precipitation. This is the kind of stuff that makes me love the Front Range climate so much.

(It is hard for me to not contrast that with the frigidity that I experienced back in Nebraska over Christmas, and that my parents continue to endure. A little over a week ago, my Dad reported lows of -25F and -30F on successive days (with a high in between of -5F) compounded by one of the top three biggest blizzards in northeast Nebraska history. Fun stuff.)

(My dad excavating a small slice of my family's treasured chunk of isolated rural Nebraska paradise.)

(My sister and I attempting to subdue one of dozens of otherwise tractor-swallowing drifts. Never underestimate the power of the ever-present Nebraska wind.)

So, in what state of flux does this leave any future (probably maligned and misguided) attempts at ultramarathon racing? Hard to say. I have several classic ventures bouncing around in my head with Miwok, Lake City, and Western States being the most prominent. The primary goal this year is to actually race a full, healthy season (I managed to finish one, count it, one actual ultramarathon last year--the White River 50). However, all of those events--despite my most rigorous and assiduous efforts--will surely require more than two hours for me to complete, so at this point, my participation remains largely theoretical. In the meantime, I absolutely plan to continue simply enjoying the relative health and ability I have been granted.

Finally, I recently gave a rather extensive interview to the author of this blog. I found many of Mr. Babinski's questions to be refreshingly engaging, so I thought maybe some of my own blog readers might be interested in the topics covered.

Winter

Although the calendar may claim otherwise, winter has arrived. In the past I've been pretty vocal about my lack of love for the things winter involves--copious snow, plummeting temperatures, treacherous ice, a disappearing sun--but for whatever reason I've really been enjoying it here in Boulder the past couple of weeks.

The end of the semester has completely swamped me with homework since a week or so before Thanksgiving, but today I finally finished everything...took my Hydrology final, dashed off a final paper or two. But, neither of these two things--winter, school--have impacted my running too drastically. In fact, as has seemed to be the case for me in previous years, winter seems to have almost inspired a new bout of hard training. Of course, my relative health is usually the arbiter of such things, but it seems as if sometimes I need some sort of resistance to push back against. If it's sunny and warm everyday I almost get a little complacent.

So, to accommodate my studies, I've been running to the top of Green Mt and back every day at 6am--summiting 17 times in the last 22 days. It is dark and cold at this hour. It's been really cold lately. Yesterday morning I awoke at quarter to six, and in my bleary-eyed delerium mistook the -10F on the computer screen for a +10F. This is when I learned that the mind can play some funky tricks. As I hit the streets headed towards Flagstaff Road, I thought to myself, "Hmmm, the beard is icing up even sooner than usual today. Interesting." Or, "Boy am I glad for this neckwarmer today." However, stuck in my mental reality of +10F I never was uncomfortable at all. Only upon returning two hours later and seeing that the temperature was still only -7F with a windchill of -32F did I realize just how cold it had been.

The snow makes things beautiful, though, and that's been my major motivation lately. I usually get to the base of Flagstaff Road just as the horizon is beginning to brighten. First white, then orange, and eventually a brilliant red. With the trees and mountains all covered in snow, the first alpenglow usually hits just as the sun crests the horizon after I've started heading east on Green's West Ridge Trail. And the mountains are showered in pink.

Every day I'm claiming fresh tracks up on the backside of Green, so the usually crowded summit is gloriously lonely. After hanging out for a few minutes just generally surveying life, the real fun begins. Descending 2500' of singetrack trail knee-deep in fresh powder is a delight. Floating down Ranger and then Gregory Canyon, I think I catch a glimpse of why so many people are so obsessive about downhill skiing. Even if I do fall, it's into a pile of pillowy fluff.

Back down in town, I tear through the streets relishing the extra cushion that the snow offers the usually bone-jarring pavement. Cruising through a corner of campus, I blow by sleepy students slipping and sliding their way to class. Many gawk at me with looks of poorly-hidden horror--who the hell is this crazy creature in tights with tangled hair flying and a big chunk of ice where his face is supposed to be?

When I step in the apartment Jocelyn dashes back into the bedroom lest I do something terrifying, like kiss her with my icicles. So instead, I go to the bathroom for a towel and a shower to defrost the beard and re-enter the "real" world. But really, I'll take sunny and 50F whenever whoever decides such things is ready to dish it out.

50,000 miles

Today, Halloween 2009, my personal lifetime odometer flipped over to the 50,000 mile figure.  It took me 14 years, six months, and 19 days of recorded running (since April 12th, 1995) to reach that mark.  Over my lifetime of running thus far I have achieved a mathematical average of 9.4 miles per day, which includes vast stretches of non-running days due to various injuries.  I guess I should shoot for 100k by my 40th birthday?

Today's particular run was not much different than any of my other runs recently, of course.  I took a run to the top of Green Mt. here in Boulder via Flagstaff Road and the Ranger trail.  Despite getting ~30 inches of snow here earlier in the week, the sun was strong enough today to run shirtless as long as I wasn't in the shade.  The Ranger trail had been superbly packed into a trench (likely by the crowd of Basic runners) that provided some surprisingly tacky footing, which made for an unexpectedly easy ascent and descent.  It was just another glorious day in the mountains.  Which is not meant to be a trivial statement.

The funny thing about noting a landmark milestone such as this is that I find myself increasingly unconcerned with the number of miles I rack up in a given time period.  Especially since moving to Boulder, where the mountain trails are particularly steep and rocky, keeping too close of an eye on the number of miles covered is fairly silly and even counterproductive. 

 

And yet, I do keep track.  Maybe it has to do with my running roots in the hills of Nebraska where most of the dirt roads are surveyed on a perfect mile by mile grid, denoting the section lines.  There, it was almost impossible to not notice how many miles I'd gone.  Maybe it has to do with the classic standard that a "mile" is in the running world.  Most American distance runners quantify their training volume with this arbitrary unit of length.  Nevertheless, even given the assured amount of error in my total, I think it is still worth it to continue to maintain such records, if only for historical comparison, and to be able to--with some level of veracity--claim that I have run the equivalent of twice around the globe at its equator.

Tonight I dashed out into the Halloween darkness for another easy seven miles in the moonlight to supplement this morning's 18.  The legs felt splendid and clicked over effortlessly.  And, when I was finished I was sure of at least one thing--even after 50,020 miles, I have yet to achieve redundancy.  And I don't expect to anytime soon.