Of Running and Biogeochemical Cycling

(The frosty visage of my muse, from my apartment.)

Early Wednesday afternoon I snuck out the door in between extensive sessions of reading peer-reviewed environmental research.  I was earnestly attempting, but only marginally succeeding, to assimilate the methods and findings presented in Regulation of the nitrogen biogeochemistry of mountain lakes by subsidies of terrestrial dissolved organic matter and the implications for climate studies (Bunting et al., 2010).  Right.  Clearly, it was time to re-immerse myself in a medium in which I feel a little more adept, even proficient: the snowy slopes of Green Mountain.  

After the day's second summit helped get my head straight, though, it was back to the books for more feelings of significantly befuddled inadequacy, courtesy of Nanus et al. 2008 (Evaluating regional patterns in nitrate sources to watersheds in National Parks of the Rocky Mountains using nitrate isotopes).  However, during subsequent episodes on the trails I can't have helped but draw some parallels between alpine environment nutrient cycling and certain behaviors in my running.

One of the more important concepts to consider when studying the carbon (C) and nitrogen (N) cycles--particularly in light of an objectively changing climate and increasing mean global temperatures--is that of feedback loops.  Some feedback loops are negative and some are positive.  When a feedback is negative, the system tends to equilibrate itself and become stable, which is most often the case.  However, when a biogeochemical process operates as a positive feedback, the system responds by magnifying the amplitude of a given input or perturbation and can quickly result in a runaway situation, i.e. the amplitude of the system increases exponentially.

As a result, this decided instability means any scientist is usually quite interested in identifying any positive feedback loops in a given system.  One such example of a hypothesized positive feedback is that of a loop involving atmospheric carbon dioxide (CO2),  CO2 sequestered in permafrost, and increasing global temperatures.  The thinking goes: warmer annual temperatures melt permafrost at high latitudes, which releases CO2 into the atmosphere from the now unfrozen organic material, which new atmospheric CO2 then contributes to further increasing temperatures, and so on and so forth.

(As an aside, over the past months I have been summarily impressed with the apparent level-headedness that seems to prevail at many of Boulder/CU's prominent scientific institutions---the Institute for Arctic and Alpine Research, the National Snow and Ice Data Center, NCAR, NOAA etc---with regards to the typically hot-button issue of climate change.  I have heard a certain director, on more than one occasion, opine that they think Al Gore does more to hurt climate change science than to help it because he habitually overstates and hyperbolizes the case.  Climate Research Unit (CRU) hacking incident and resulting scandal aside, I am very confident in the fact that there are lots and lots of dedicated climate scientists doing unbiased and extremely ethical work.)

Over the last few weeks, it seems as if my running has been under the influence of a similar positive feedback loop.  It feels as if the consistent, reasonable workload of not having missed a day of running no less than two hours (let alone a Green Mt. summit) for the past two months has gradually helped to steel my body against injury.  The longer I can go without injury and maintain such a routine, the stronger my body's various relevant musculoskeletal structures become, which means I can continue to be consistent, which means my body gets stronger, which means strength and fitness improves and chance for injury decreases, and on and on.  The metaphorical snowball rolling down a hill.

However, I am not so sure that this is necessarily a true positive feedback situation where the amplitude of the output will necessarily progress in a runaway fashion.  That is, by very gradually increasing my mileage and ultimately limiting it to a level that is less than maximal, I feel as if I've been able to reap the benefits of a positive feedback loop while enforcing the stability of a negative feedback system.

(Summits #63 and #64 this morning.  It was gloriously bright.)

That, and acupuncture appears to not be a ruse, after all.  This morning I set out to challenge my knee with a test that a month (and four acupuncture sessions from Allison Suddard) ago it failed: two consecutive laps on Green Mountain.  The 2-3" of freshly fallen snow on the trails slowed my progress up Green's steep front side more than I would've liked (inefficient 37min ascents rather than the sprightly 35s I'd envisioned on a tacky, packed trail), but the most important fact was that I had zero knee pain on neither descents of Gregory Canyon nor on the 25 minutes of pavement I ran on the way back to my apartment to round out the three-hours and 5300'-of-vertical.

(Greenman trail: ~1mi and ~1000' vertical to go.)

(Lots of snow up there right now...typical trail conditions.)

By continuing to induce a little stability into my regimen, maybe I can be back racing a little sooner than I'd planned.

Weekly Summary: February 15-21

Some more fleshed-out details of my training is something that I've had a few requests for, so I thought I'd give it a shot this week, but I'm not sure whether I'll make it a regular deal.  I record my training in detail in other (more private) places, but ever since I've been a runner I've been interested in the specifics of other runner's training, so since there is an expressed interest in mine I feel a little compelled to oblige that interest.

Having said that, I find writing and reading these posts to be pretty dull.  The sheer nuts and bolts of a training regimen just aren't that interesting when put down in black and white.  Successful performances in distance running typically come as the result of an enormous back-log of surprisingly unvarying, unexciting (to the non-actor, at least) repetition and that is especially true of my training so far in 2010.  No secrets will be divulged here because there are none to reveal.  Enjoy your running, believe in it, do it consistently, and it will usually work.  (Ah, but that usually is what confounds everything...)

Finally, in the interest of spicing up what are sure to be otherwise exceedingly dreary posts I will probably entertain myself by also posting a song (of a hopefully live performance) that I find to be particularly compelling (but not necessarily entirely cutting edge or completely contemporaneous...I'm not a full-on hipster) that particular week.  If it helps turn someone else on to a band that I find to be especially awesome, great.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
02-15-2010
Mon-AM: 14 miles (2:04) Green Mt. Ranger-Greenman, 2800'
         PM: 14 miles (2:02) Green Mt. up Amp-down Ranger, 2800'
                32:19 PR up the frontside (6:45, 12:35, 18:40, 29:40)
02-16-2010
Tue-AM: 14 miles (2:10) Green Mt. Ranger-Greenman, 2800'
                 Predictably tired after yesterday evening.
02-17-2010
Wed-AM: 14 miles (2:09) Green Mt. Ranger-Greenman, 2800'
                 50th summit--ran down with Jocelyn.
         PM: 14 miles (2:00) Green Mt. Amp-Greenman, 2800'
                 32:49 for the climb up the frontside. 14min barefoot.
02-18-2010
Thu-AM: 14 miles (2:09) Green Mt. Ranger-Greenman, 2800'
                A good bit tired again...hmm...a pattern? 7min barefoot.
02-19-2010
Fri-AM: 14 miles (2:11) Green Mt. Ranger-Greenman, 2800'
               4" fresh snow slowed things considerably
      PM: 13 miles (2:10) Green Mt. Ranger-Greenman, 2800'
              With Jocelyn at 6:30pm, so the whole run was in the dark.
02-20-2010
Sat-AM: 15 miles (2:15) Green Mt. Ranger-Bear Canyon, 3000'
               With Dan K.  2" fresh snow and snowing the whole way.
02-21-2010
Sun-AM: 17 miles (2:33) Green Mt. Ranger-Bear Canyon+, 3000'
               ~6" fresh powder on the trail slowed things way down.
Total
-Miles:  143
-Hours:  21h 43min
-Vertical:  28,400'
-Green Mt: 56 summits (after 52 days) 

This has been an extremely heartening week.  The previous week I had to be cautious because the knee seemed to have a tiny relapse and I was a little gun-shy (run-shy?) as a result, content to just get in the default 2 hr Green ascent every day.  However, this week I struck upon the seemingly newly-sustainable plan of doing a Double Green every-other-day and it has worked out very nicely.  So, this was a big week in the statistical categories.  Right now I am very content with the privilege to make it up into the mountains so consistently, so I don't really have a lot to complain about.

This morning I tentatively tested out my knee with a run that was significantly over 2 hr in duration by tacking on a couple extra miles on the Creek Path at the end of the run.  Sitting here right now it seemed to have gone pretty much fine--past experience informs me, however, that I won't really know how the knee has truly reacted until my run tomorrow.  A few images from this morning's outing:

(Monochromatic views of the Flatirons for the fourth day in a row, striding up to the Gregory Canyon trailhead.)

(Standing in a cloud on summit #56.)

(Exquisite view while exiting the mouth of Bear Canyon.)

(Despite the good week of running, this weather makes me long for the days when The Roost was my apartment and it was warm enough to be sans shirt: night-before-LT100-logistics-prep at my secret campsite, August 2009.)

Finally, I've been enjoying these fellas for quite a while now, so here's some shameless pop pleasure to get your head boppin' for the next week:

Half-way There

Yesterday morning was my 50th ascent of Green Mountain in the last 48 days, which makes me half-way to my objective of completing 100 ascents in the first 100 days of the year.  It was pretty much like any of the other 48 past mornings, except that on this morning Jocelyn joined me.  She left the apartment in her car to drive to the Gregory Canyon trailhead while I opted for my usual mode of transportation there: my two feet.  This, however, gave her a 10-15 minute head start on me and allowed us to coincide our time of summitting.

(Jocelyn's first summit of Green Mountain this year.)

(My 50th.)

After snapping a couple of pictures, we then ran down the Greenman and Gregory trails together.  Jocelyn was pretty impressed with the performance of her new Microspikes.  Back at the trailhead, she headed off to class and I scampered home to complete my usual two-hour outing.

(Jocelyn sure-footedly descending the upper Greenman trail.)

After a mid-day acupuncture session, I got out again in the afternoon before my evening Watershed Biogeochemistry class, opting for the more challenging front side (Amphitheater-Greenman).  Allison's hour-long brutalization of my left hamstring and right vastus medialis obliquus (VMO) had left me fairly sore but didn't seem to have much of a slowing effect on the subsequent 32:49 climb to my 51st summit.  From the top of the surprisingly warm peak I had a great view of the ominous, somewhat sickening, temperature inversion-induced Brown Cloud of the Denver/I-25 corridor (that I subsequently, coincidentally, learned the atmospheric chemistry of in class last night).

(Why I am so annoyingly insistent upon not driving to the trailhead.)

I rounded out the two hours with a couple miles of barefoot striding around Kittredge Fields by the CU Law School where I had the pleasure of meeting and running with Austin Baillie, fresh off an impressive 1:04 half marathon performance last month in Houston.  Nothing like a little reality check as to where I truly stand in the pecking order of the distance running universe.  (Interestingly, though, Austin had plenty of respect for ultras, having paced at both Leadville and Hardrock.)  Nevertheless, I hope the next seven weeks of Green baggin' continue to go at least as smoothly as the first seven have.

Up

I fell down three times on my run this morning.  Stepping out the door in the pre-dawn darkness I knew it was one of those days.  A day where a curb presents an obstacle and the legs simply won't lift.  This morning was my 49th ascent of Green Mountain in the past 47 days, and I could feel it.

My first tumble came while scampering off of Green's summit rock.  It involves a simple, typically ungraceful but usually uneventful maneuver that I've become quite familiar with over the past seven weeks.  A curiously weathered cavity in the large chunk of Fountain formation sandstone conglomerate provides the most obvious route on and off the summit, and for the majority of the winter this has been at least partially filled with grippy packed snow and ice.  My without-style method of down-climbing is to sort of crab-walk/controlled-fall down the face stabbing the non-rock material with my trusty Microspikes and depositing myself safely back on flat ground.  Today, the usually much grippier landing spot failed to provide my 'spikes with any purchase and the next thing I knew I was lying on my left side checking to make sure I hadn't broken an arm.  Fall number one.

The second incident was one of those situations that I occasionally think about as being very bad if it actually occurred, but it simply usually doesn't.  With maybe five minutes of path remaining before being deposited back at the trailhead parking lot, the Gregory Canyon trail crosses the drainage on a decidedly over-constructed wooden footbridge.  Directly above this bridge are a pair of extremely short but steep switchbacks littered with the usual rock and ice.  Most mornings I skitter down this mindlessly, often grabbing a handy branch to swing/steady myself around the final switchback.  This morning, however, I caught a toe and plummeted headfirst downtrail.  Despite several large rocks being there to break my fall I regained my feet with no real issues other than a slightly tweaked hamstring.  No biggie, it's felt that way for almost four years now.

(The results of a summer-time digger.)

The final fall occurred on the corner of 10th and University.  Every single morning I subtract maybe two yards of running from my journey by shamelessly shaving the sidewalk corner with a quick step through the college students' house's front yard, often stepping over empty beer bottles and cans.  There is also, however, a very significant tree root on this path that every other morning I have very consciously stepped completely over.  This morning, the legs just weren't having it, though, and a split second later I was sprawled on the sidewalk hoping that I hadn't torn any holes in my tights.  That one really yanked the hamstring and I had to walk a half-block or so massaging it out before I could resume my stumble home.

My fatigue this morning was no surprise.  Yesterday I doubled up on my visits to Green's summit, and the afternoon ascent was a particularly notable effort.

Runners often ask me what sort of speedwork I incorporate into my weekly training routine, and I usually have to--somewhat sheepishly--explain that I don't tend to do anything resembling a structured "speed" workout.  I mostly gave those up when I graduated from college, and I don't regret it.  Instead, even when I'm not in the explicit pursuit of some sort of silly summit streak as I am now, my bouts of increased-effort-running occur much more intuitively.  By feel.  Only when the body is saying, Let's Go!  As it turns out, this still happens at least once or twice a week--about as often as it would if I were to schedule it--but I never force it.  If, when I get to the hill, my legs feel like going, I let them.  If that happens two days in a row, I let it.  And if it doesn't happen again for another week, or even two weeks, I don't worry.

Approached in this manner, hard running is never a chore and almost always on the emotional spectrum in the vicinity of "pleasurable".  It embodies that most primal of activities: simply charging through the woods at your personal apogee of effort until there are no more woods to charge through because you've reached the top. 

(Dave Mackey, Rickey Gates, and Jeff Valliere getting primal on the Amphitheater trail in May 2009, with Rickey running the FKT. Photo: George Zack)

When conducted as part of a run to the summit of a mountain, though, it is certainly not fast.  My route yesterday involved tackling Green on arguably its most arduous, official terms (there are other unofficial routes up Green that are even more sustainedly steep): the combination of the Amphitheater, Saddle Rock, and Greenman trails.  This ascent is just a little over two miles in length but gains ~2500' from trailhead to summit.  Considering that there is one somewhat extended flattish section about half-way up, suffice it to say that there are many other stretches that could only be described as damn steep.  (With a section on Amphitheater in the 40% range, I believe.) 

Without these qualifiers yesterday's ascent time of 32:19 (for two miles!) would appear laughably slow, but after a little research, it would seem that only one, maybe two people are known to have broken 30 minutes on this route (one of those being Rickey Gates, whose preternatural ability to run fast up big hills is inarguable, and nearly unassailable by anyone else in the country), so I'm fairly pleased.  For now.  Considering the snow.  Because even with this morning's falls, my fitness appears to be moving in the direction of up.

If only my knee would allow me to start logging some true long runs.

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.

Backside Loop (sort of)

Heading out the door this morning I wasn't really sure what I was going to run, only that I wanted to be out for a long time (four to six hours) and I wanted a couple of good climbs.  With that in mind, I tucked four gels into my shorts, chugged a quart or so of water, and carried another 16oz of water in a handheld bottle.

After the 20ish minute jog up to Chautauqua, I started with Green Mountain via Amphitheater, Saddle Rock, and Greenman.  That climb has certainly become a default for me already.  It's the most immediate, most fun way for me to get up high.  Right up from the Gregory Canyon trailhead I could feel some nice pep in my legs.  Running easily up steep, technical terrain is such a pleasure, definitely the most satisfying thing about building fitness.  I had a fresh pair of New Balance 100s on my feet and the extra protection and responsiveness that the rock plate in those things offers is perfect for the terrain here in Boulder.

Thirty-four minutes and 19 seconds and 2500 vertical feet later I was standing alone atop Green feeling fresh but a little chagrined at the lack of a view to the west.  The Continental Divide was completely socked in.  I still wasn't sure which way I wanted to go--down the West Ridge to Flagstaff Rd for the true "Backside Loop" or over to Bear Peak for some more vertical.  I chose Bear.  When in doubt, go higher.

My legs felt lickety-split headed down to Bear Creek and then going up the West Ridge trail I still had a surprising amount of pop in my stride.  For whatever reason, I usually really drag on this exceedingly moderate climb up the ridge, but not today.  Even when I hit the last stretch up through the boulders and talus I was still feeling in control, except for the wind trying to knock me over, which it would attempt to do all day.  Twenty-three minutes after crossing the creek I was on the summit of Bear Peak.

On the summit of Bear, I noticed that a gel had fallen out of my pocket at some point--probably the downhill off Green--so I was going to be stretching the calories a bit today.  Leaving the summit of Bear, I hadn't yet decided if I wanted to tag South Boulder Peak or not.  The short distance between it and Bear always makes for a tough decision: it's trivial, so why do it?  or, it's trivial, so why not do it?  Today, I chose the latter, mostly because I enjoy the view from SoBo the most and because it's always hard to deny the trifecta of the 8ers here in Boulder if one has enough time.

SoBo had the iciest footing of the day, but I made quick work of it and was still feeling great as I headed down Shadow Canyon.  I love the upper stretches of this trail.  There are very nice, reasonable switchbacks that, for some reason, remind me of the Barr Trail just below treeline.  Soon enough, however, the track devolves into ever-steeper and bigger rock drop-offs really, and it always drags on longer than I think it should.  Today it took me 15min flat to descend through the canyon and I emerged with my legs still feeling great even after two hours of running.

From there I hooked up with the Old Mesa trail, which is notably rocky.  It is very skinny, almost overgrown singletrack through a gorgeous little valley, but the tread is so full of embedded (not loose) rocks that I could barely lift my eyes off the ground to take in the views.  But, after a few minutes it dumped me out in the gorgeously quixotic little hamlet of Eldorado Springs.  It was my first visit to this little corner of the area and I loved it.  Ramshackle houses, breathtaking setting, dirt streets--this is my kind of "town".

I hadn't touched my water yet, and was holding off on hitting my first gel, but I figured if I was going to get some water this would be the place to do it.  As if on cue, as I was running past a strange, Alamo-looking type of building, a couple of other runners called out my name.  So I stopped to chat, there in the sunshine.  They were doing the Backside loop in a much more traditional manner--having run down Flagstaff Road and through Walker and Eldorado Canyon already--and were refilling their Camelbaks at this weird little water-dispenser thingy in a wall.  They said if I had a quarter, it would give me a gallon.  I had no quarter, but they were kind enough to let me have one, even if I had no idea how I could drink a gallon of water right there on the spot.  I elected to save the quarter for my then planned-for return-trip past the water dispenser.

(Looking back out at the entrance to Eldorado Canyon.)

I wanted to get into Eldo, but I didn't want to pay.  So I ran.  All the way back to County Rd 67 and up the Fowler Trail.  I knew there was a secret little shortcut trail to sneak up to Fowler more directly, but even with my eyes peeled I couldn't spot it.  I didn't really want to go poking around in people's back yards if I didn't know where I was going.

I love the Fowler trail.  The views are just incredible.  And the Eldorado Canyon trail was even more of a treat.  The climbs on that trail are much more like what I am used to running in Colorado Springs.  Reasonably steep, largely non-technical switchbacks that are runnable the whole way.  And, the tread and line of the trail is perfect the whole way.  Weaving in and out of woods, trending slightly up or down, expansive views into the canyon.  Before the big drop down to South Boulder Creek and the Walker Ranch Loop I finally hit my first gel because I could finally start feeling my legs dragging a bit.

Walker Ranch totally surprised me.  I elected to go clockwise because at this point I was contemplating bailing on doing the full lollipop, but I still wanted to see as much of the trail as possible.  South Boulder Creek is such an idyllic mountain stream up there.  And the entire trail was more of the same reasonable up and down on very nice singletrack.  However, on the final climb up from the Creek to the Flagstaff Road trailhead I was hurting.  Definitely dehydrated (still nursing a couple more mouthfuls in the bottle) and just generally feeling the grind of having run for nearly four hours.

So, that's when Flagstaff Road decided to kick me in the teeth.  Ouch.  I was not expecting that climb to be so tough.  It was only about 700' or so in the span of one and a half miles, but it freakin' hurt.  I knew there was no way I was going to skip out on a second summit of Green for the day, though.  What's another 500' of vertical?  Plenty, that's all I can say.  I finally made it, though, hit my final gel on top (the new Gingerbread GUs ain't half bad), and made the descent down Ranger.

It took a tremendous amount of will power to convince myself that summiting Flagstaff was worthwhile, and I spent the descent motivated only by visions of the water fountain waiting for me in Eben G. Fine park.  Of course, once I got there I knew I was only a slightly downhill 2.5 miles away from home and I didn't want to burn the energy to go the extra 50 yards to the fountain.  Long runs in the mountains often have deleterious effects on my logic.  

Five hours thirty six minutes, 9000' of climbing (my watch said 9500', but my brain only calculated 8500' when adding up the big climbs, so I split the difference), five summits,  and ~37 miles later, I was back at my doorstep.

Snowy Morning

Lying in bed this morning I could already hear the rain falling outside my slightly open window. I have a bit of a head cold, so the sleeping hasn't been the best, and I was awake before my 6:00am alarm. Full tights and rain jacket today. Out the door and into the inky wet darkness. It was cold so I was sure it was snowing up high, which I was looking forward to; give me snow over 32F rain any day.

Yesterday I'd sufficiently taxed the legs with a nice loop that involved summits of both Green Mountain and Bear Peak, so today I was looking for a nice relaxed run with more moderate climbing. When that is the case, I've found myself heading for Flagstaff Road, and that was the goal this morning. The road offers a welcoming predictable surface that would normally induce frustration. However, when the quads are heavy and the hips are tight it is very nice to be able to gain significant altitude by just pitter-pattering along with short, quick steps unhindered by the countless logs and boulders that typify most other routes up Green Mountain.

Jogging up through the neighborhoods on The Hill, I hunkered down beneath my hood, merely tolerating the water hitting me in the face and comforted by the knowledge that it would soon turn to snow. Near the base of Flagstaff it did just that, and I slowly ascended into a different world. I absolutely love mornings like this. At Realization Point, I took my customary turn down and to the left to hook up with the Ranger trail at the stone cottage there. Whereas I'd been running on a gradually more slush-covered, paved surface before, the Ranger singletrack was like stepping into a fairy tale. There are at least three amazing things about snow, when considered in the context of running:

1) Snow is soft. The cushioning effects on downhills and on paved surfaces is immediately noticeable. In great enough depth, it completely smooths out all the rocks and roots on what would normally be an exceedingly technical trail.

2) Snow absorbs sound. Running alone through a snowy mountainscape has to be one of the most singularly silent experiences possible. When everything audible is cancelled out like that, the run inevitably takes on a certain kind of magic.

3) Snow is beautiful. I am a fairly vocal critic of winter, mostly because of snow's mountain trail-drowning qualities. However, any landscape garnished with a fresh inch or two of powder is often breathtaking. I have found the Flatirons to be especially so. (Although, I must say, I am quite partial to either the Garden of the Gods or Red Rocks Canyon in Colorado Springs when it comes to snow-covered vistas.)

This morning, the summit of Green was more symbolic than scenic. The heavy layer of clouds enveloping the mountains precluded seeing more than a few yards into the soupy air, but I reveled in having it all to myself, not seeing another soul out there. I've had the privilege of standing on the summit of Green 16 out of the past 18 days, and each day is different. That may sound cliche, but I believe a mountain summit to be one of those rare entities that works the same way in both a literal and a metaphorical sense. Each time, it offers an invaluable opportunity for perspective.

On the descent back down the Ranger and Flagstaff trails (no paved road descents for me!) my crushed out New Balance 152s road flats offered surprising purchase on the just-right moisture content snow, and as soon as I stepped onto the Creek Path at Eben G. Fine Park the flakes disappeared, but the feeling still remained of having gotten away with something special.

Skyline Traverse

(Boulder's mountain backdrop...missing Flagstaff and Sanitas to the north, however.)

Driving into Boulder from the East, five peaks (well, more than that, but all of these have connected trails) provide the meat of the backdrop of town: 8549' South Boulder Peak, 8461' Bear Peak, 8144' Green Mountain, 7000' Flagstaff Mountain, and 6863' Mount Sanitas. Seeing as they are connected, it presents a tantalizing and obvious traverse. This weekend I completed the first of what I expect will become a nearly weekly outing (hmmm...we'll see once things get truly snowy and icy).

I jogged the less than 20 minutes from my house up to the start of the Mesa trail at Chautauqua Park and could tell that the previous day's flat and easy 90 minute run had did my legs good. The Mesa is nice. It is such a classic Boulder trail with its accessibility, views of the Flatirons, and ubiquitous hikers of all stripes, often with dogs in tow. I was happy for my short-sleeved shirt as the trail bops in and out of drainages mostly in the trees, but could tell that it was going to warm up to be a glorious autumn day.

The Mesa Trail is only "flat" in comparison to the craggy peaks whose bases it winds along. The highest point is ~6600' (compared to the 5300' that my house sits at) and there are several 100-200' rollers to put some sting in the legs. I cut down Big Bluestem to make the nearly 1000' descent to the South Mesa Trailhead on Highway 170 and started the traverse from there having already run 1:17.

Leaving South Mesa TH and climbing up the Towhee trail, it is easy to think that one is running "uphill". That all changes when Shadow Canyon is reached. In anticipation of the effort, I took off my shirt at the mouth of the canyon and headed up. This trail is yet another wench of a rugged climb that Boulder has to offer. Apparently these mountains don't really know any other.

This stretch of trail is only allegedly 1.1 or 1.2 miles long and I did it in 22:50, not killing it, not feeling great, but definitely not slacking either. It gains 1700' in that 1.2 miles which is absurd now that I think about it. The Incline in Manitou climbs 2000' in a single mile, so for anyone who's been on that, that gives you an idea of how crazy Shadow is. But, after seeing it for the first time today, it's definitely possible to nail this thing on a day when I'm feeling good and I have dialed in some of the rock step-up footwork sequences. Come to think of it, I would bet that, time-wise, this and the Incline are pretty comparable. I mean, sub-20 on this stretch would be nails (as it is on the Incline).

(The saddle between South Boulder and Bear Peaks.)

Anyways, I got to the saddle and was righteously greeted with a horizon-wide view of the snowy Continental Divide. But, from there I had another ~300' and 5min of vertical to the top of South Boulder Peak. The final forty seconds or so of this is a scramble on boulders, so that's kind of annoying, but I do really like the views from over there, looking down into Eldorado Canyon. The run down and over and up to Bear Peak was actually quite nice. I'm getting better at this stuff. After running up Shadow I was thinking, "Damn, I just want some real trails with actual switchbacks and some actual tread instead of these glorified rock staircases." 

(Looking north to Green Mountain, from the summit of Bear Peak.)

But, on the way over to Bear, I decided that it's actually 100% fine. This seems to be true mountain running; I think it's good to have the opportunity to get as proficient as possible on really technical up- and down-hills where you have to mix a running cadence with occasional huge step-ups and then get right back into the cadence and then learn how to rock-hop on the way down. It's actually a huge blast when the trails/rocks aren't covered in ice and snow (they weren't today). And, since I'm gonna be in Boulder for a while, I think it's worth it to adapt to the terrain and get really good at it. Plus, I appreciate the more natural and wild aesthetic of running a rough trail to the top of a mountain and then having to scramble over boulders the last minute or two to gain the true summit. It is how it should be, really.

(View of Bear Peak while descending on the West Ridge trail.)

Anyways, I hit a gel on top of Bear and actually felt pretty solid on the descent down to Bear Creek. The top of Green was a bit of a dissappointment with a bunch of people clogging up the summit rock so I didn't even feel like elbowing my way up there to get a good look at the Divide.  Not that I hadn't already had at least two world-class, people-free views of the high mountains so far.  Going down Ranger and then over and down Flagstaff I just tried to keep the legs feeling good and actually pounded some pretty good descents.  Earlier in the morning I had contemplated forgetting about Sanitas mostly because it's on the other side of the Creek Path (my route home) and also because it's just such a heinous grunt.  However, I got to thinking about climbs late in various races and decided that a 1300' ascent in 1.2 miles was exactly what I needed to finish off the day's endeavor.

(Sanitas: it looks so benign, but not with more than 5000' of vertical already in the legs.)

So, at Eben G. Fine Park I chugged a much-needed bottle of water and refilled, ate a gel, shuffled over Red Rocks and then got to work on Sanitas. It's a good little mountain, that's for sure.  Tons of log and rock steps but also a few actual flattish sections, too.  Problem is, because of the beautiful day, it was crawling with folks and I was mostly a salty, slobbering mess at this point, so I felt a little self-conscious about the effort it was taking to just keep moving. Three days before Leadville I had jogged over to Sanitas and ran easily to the summit right at 19min flat, so I was really hoping to groan my way under 20min today on my untapered, not-as-fit, tired legs.  I didn't quite make it, but hit the top 2h38min after leaving the South Mesa Trailhead.  At the top there was the usual mess of humanity with visors and dogs and sunglasses and cell phones, so I mostly just caught my breath and jogged down the mountain, which was actually a lot more fun than I remember it being that Wednesday before Leadville.

On the way back down to the trailhead I elected to take the Dakota Ridge singletrack instead of the Valley trail and right at the bottom Jeff Valliere caught up to say hello but was just out for a short hike with his wife so he soon turned back. Which was fine with me, because I was pretty worked and was super-psyched to get back to the top of Red Rocks because it was all (slightly) downhill from there back to the house.  It was a good ache, though, one that I haven't gotten to experience in a couple of months.  It's always good to get to the end of a long hard effort like that and still feel pretty solid. I took a soak in Boulder Creek afterwards, but the water was so cold that I could only stand it for two minutes because my toes had gone numb and the rest of my legs were hurting so much from the cold I was gettting sick to my stomach.  I think I've gotten a bit soft since this summer, but hopefully I knocked a little inflammation down.  All in all, a unique day in the mountains.

Boulder

Boulder is a city. Most of us live in cities. I'm finally becoming reaccustomed to doing so. Boulder, in many ways, however, is not a lot like other cities. It is the meeting point of the mountains and the plains, so its mountains--the iconic Flatirons, Green Mountain, Bear Peak--carry a certain abruptness, a certain drama that make them especially compelling.

Nevertheless, I spent most of the first month of my residence here dwelling on the fact that Green and Bear aren't Pikes. That Boulder isn't Manitou or Colorado Springs. Pikes Peak is the ultimate in dramatic topography that the Rocky Mountains has to offer: 8000' of vertical--Kansas-esque plains, and then BOOM, alpine summit. And, also, for whatever reason, it seems the human spirit tends to gravitate towards the familiar (i.e. the Pikes Peak region, for me).

(The Flatirons on Green Mountain's face--much how they looked this morning.)

However, the past week has represented a turning point in how I feel in relation to my new surroundings. I've been taking some down-time since Leadville, but this week the running has began again in earnest. From the upstairs graduate student computer lab in CU's Guggenheim Hall, there is an in-your-face view of Green Mountain. I can run to its trailhead from my doorstep in less than 20 minutes, a perfect amount of warm-up. From Guggenheim, Green Mountain seems so close as to be able to reach out the window and touch it, rearrange its features.

Instead, this week I've been letting it rearrange me. I've been up Green each of the last six mornings. It has been good to finally go about learning the idiosyncrasies of the mountains most immediate to my current existence. My preferred route up Green is so rugged, so varied, so challenging, that I don't anticipate tiring of what it has to offer, and I relish the opportunity to learn every stone and perfect every foot placement on its ascent. Because, for now, Boulder is definitely home.