Leadville 100 Mile - A Lifetime In One Day

Descending Hope Pass

When I reached for my salt tabs, I could only move in slow motion. My fingers, my arms, everything felt like it was under water. My mind was in a fog. I was at 12,000 feet, hunched over on a rock at the top of Hope Pass aid station. I’d been running and hiking for 10 straight hours. Now it felt like I was sucking oxygen from a pixie stick. I thought I was acclimated to the altitude. I'd spent two weeks in Big Bear, CA at 7,000 feet. But 7,000 feet is not 12,000 feet. To keep my lungs and heart from exploding, I had to stop and rest every 10  to 15 minutes when I climbed at high altitude, only to watch other runners pass me. Now, after months of training, I could feel my body and my race slowly unraveling.

Me and My Crew

A woman was talking to me who was a trained medical volunteer. She went to get me some warm broth. When she returned I slowly got back onto my feet. As I stood there she looked me straight in the eyes, searching for a weakness, any reason to sit me back down. She asked me if I was ok. I wasn’t sure, so I reluctantly nodded yes. Then, with 55 miles, another 10,000 feet of climbing and nightfall to go, she sent me on my way.

On August 17, 2013, I lined up with more than 900 other runners for the Leadville 100 mile trail race, among the oldest and the largest 100 milers in the country. The race starts at 10,200 feet elevation and goes as high as 12,600 feet at Hope Pass. The lowest point is 9,200 feet.

The air we breathe has the same percent of oxygen at all altitudes (21%). However, because the barometric pressure is lower at higher altitudes, the air is less dense, and therefore there are fewer oxygen molecules floating around. Consequently, when you breathe air in Leadville at 10,000 feet, you are getting 29% less oxygen than at sea level. At 12,600 feet, the top of Hope Pass, you're getting 36% less.

Going into this race I had a simple plan. Take the descents very easy, and run conservative for the first 50 miles. I'd learned my lesson at the Vermont 100 miler a month ago where my quads were blown by mile 25 from going too hard early on in the race. This time, I told myself, I would be smart and go easy for the first 50 miles. For the first time ever, I wrote down splits for each aid station with a target of running under 25 hours. Not to fast and not too slow, I felt.

Into Fish Hatchery - Mile 23

My plan started to derail by the second aid station (mile 23). I was behind by 15 minutes and feeling pretty spent. But like a zealous train conductor, I was still committed to keeping the train moving down the tracks. I adjusted a few things and pushed on. Though by the third aid station (mile 40) the train was facing serious jeopardy. I'd lost more time despite pushing myself in several sections. I thought to myself, why was this happening? I'm working hard out here but losing time. My wife Jen (crew chief) knew my target splits and she wasn't saying anything. I knew this wasn't a good sign since she was enthusiastically announcing my splits earlier in the day.

My Crew

I kept my cool and continued down the tracks, and into a dark tunnel called Hope Pass.

Even if you haven't run Leadville, you've probably heard of Hope Pass. A simple description? Two monster climbs of 3,400 feet out and 2,600 feet back between miles 40 and 55. Complicating things is the following taken from 2013 Leadville race guidebook: "Weather in the Colorado high country is notorious for its rapid and violent changes. During the race it could rain, hail and even snow. Lightning is hazardous, especially above timberline. Hypothermia can occur easily with a combination of decreasing temperature, wind and precipitation. The confusion that accompanies hypothermia can be deadly." 

Hope Pass from Twin Lake

Needless to say I approached Hope Pass with a healthy dose of respect. By the time I made it to the top, well, I think you got the picture above. It wasn't promising. Yet, despite the dark place in which I found myself, I continued to move forward, further up the mountain until I reached its pinnacle of 12,600 feet. For a moment, I simply stood on the very top of Hope Pass. And, for a moment, all the fatigue and all the pain that had been building in me during the day just slipped away. Now my eyes were in control, and the moment stood still. Across from me was the jagged spine of the Continental Divide, 14,000 foot peaks piercing the crisp blue sky like a freshly painted mural hanging from a museum wall.

By now I was coming to terms with just finishing somewhere in 26 hours. A respectable time for this high altitude course, but not what I was looking for. I continued to fall behind climbing Hope Pass and descending into the Winfield aid station, the 50 mile mark and turnaround point. By the time I finally made it into Windfield, I sat down and looked at my time. I was exactly one hour behind the time needed to break 25 hours. I shook my head, disappointed for sure, but still willing to go the distance regardless of my finishing time.

Climbing back over Hope Pass was one of the hardest climbs I've ever done. Much steeper than the front side, the back side was bringing many runners to their knees. This runner included. I settled into a ten minute on, one minute rest routine. This five mile section seemed to take forever. The only solace I could take was from knowing the runners around me were suffering as much as me, and in some cases much, much more. Above me I heard a loud, stomach wrenching groan that cascaded down the trail in fixed intervals. One of the pacers pondered "is that Sasquatch"? As we got closer it was apparent we were entering the heart of dry-heave ally.

Boss

It has been said that running 100 miles is a lot like living a lifetime in one day. All the ups and downs that you encounter, they are right there before you, from hour to hour, even minute to minute. I've learned that if I keep moving and don't give up, amazing things can happen. If I can manage to keep my mind quiet, the pain and self doubt I always seem to encounter, these mind traps will eventually fade and resurface in another form. Sometimes they resurface in the form of raw energy. Other times in renewed strength. Whatever form they take, the cycle teaches me to listen closer to the language of my body and avoid the distractions of my mind.  

When I reached Hope Pass for the second time, my ego was firmly in check. But more importantly, I was at mile 55 and my plan to conserve energy seemed to be working. My quads, broken only a month ago in Vermont by mile 25, seemed quite ready to start running. I began the descent into Twin Lakes and could feel the energy building. At last, I thought to myself, my plan might finally be paying off.

I entered the Twin Lakes Aid station at mile 60 and was greeted by my crew (wife and two daughters) and my pacer, the veteran S. Cracker. My crew quickly refilled my Vespa, fed me a sandwich and Gatorade, and sent Cracker and I on our way. Cracker and I  eagerly climbed Mt. Elbert, anxious to get to the top and begin the long, runnable trail into Half Pipe. Once we crested the top, the wheels began to turn and Cracker and I proceeded to pass dozens of other runners. One after another, we made our way down the mountain trail gaining momentum every mile.

Me and Cracker

To bring this home, I will just say that what happened after this is something I could only wish for in all my races. What started out as a frustrating day of falling behind my goal, ended with a surge that I have not encountered before. When I hit the 50 mile turn around, I was an hour off my plan, and I'm told somewhere around 200th place. That is when things started to change.

Fish Hatchery Inbound - mile 76

Maybe it was the conservative pace I'd run the first 50 miles, or the Vespa I'd been consuming religiously every 2 hours. Or maybe it was the two weeks I'd spent at 7,000 feet before coming to Leadville. Or maybe it was all of the above. Whatever it was, I came upon a surge of energy like none before that pushed me through the last 40 miles from Twin Lakes to the finish line. I must have passed over 100 runners in this section. By the time I crossed the finish line in 23 hours and 43 minutes, I was in 74th place and an hour and 17 minutes ahead of my goal of breaking 25 hours.

The goods

I'd like to extend a huge thanks to my crew Jen, Devs, Char and Cracker, you guys braved the traffic and crowds of the Leadville aid stations which I heard were a nightmare. And Cracker, my pacer, despite the pixie sticks you encountered climbing Sugarloaf Pass, you pushed me through the most important 20 miles on the course and you made it to the finish line. Finally, to all the volunteers at Leadville. This year's race has taken some hits for lack of organization, traffic and allegedly too many runners, but I found the volunteers at ALL the the aid stations to be very knowledgable and helpful, possibly the best I've encountered at a 100 mile race. Thank you.





          

Vivian Speaks

Keep close to Nature's heart... and break clear away, once in awhile, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean.

John Muir  

By the time I stood up from behind the rocks, I was a little wobbly and my fingers were clinically numb. Where do your fingers go numb in the middle of summer on a sunny afternoon in Southern California? That would be on the summit of San Gorgonio Mountain, where cold winds blow relentlessly at 30 miles an hour. I guess sitting down and enjoying the view for 40 minutes at 11,500 feet after climbing for three hours didn't help my situation. Now I needed to get down.  

Once in a while we all experience something that reminds us why we do what we do. Why we wake up at dawn and drive for miles, only to get out of our cars and hike and run for hours into places most people will never see. From the comforts of our modern society, into nature's den, where nothing is given, but something can always be taken away.

When the sun rises in late Summer over the San Bernardino Mountains, the light is crisp, softened by the branches of tall pines and looming mountain ridges. From this setting rises Old Greyback, or San Gorgonio Mountain, Southern California's highest peak. I've lived most of my life in Southern California and, until now, I have never been to the summit of San Gorgonio. It was worth the wait.

By the time I hit 9,000 feet, it was exactly 9 am. To the south of me was So Cal's second highest peak, the 10,800 foot Mt. San Jacinto. When I stopped to get a good look at the view, a grey cloud was billowing into the sky. It was the Silver Fire burning its way up the side of San Jacinto, at least 50 miles from where I stood. Smoke enveloped the sky and everything else in its path. I pushed on.

The higher I climbed, the greater the views became. By the time I reached 10,000 feet, then 11,000, I had to tell myself to keep moving, because every time I glanced over the horizon, I could see that much more. As I approached the summit, I turned and saw the distant hump of Saddleback Mountain. It was nestled in a curved horizon, a reminder of how high I really was. Can I really see the curvature of the earth up here? I think so.  

The purpose of this day was to get a "feel" for climbing, running, and just being over 10,000 feet. I'm learning that I have to be patient, because everything happens a little slower up here. My movements, whether climbing up a trail, or running down one, must be done at their chosen pace. Yet it is not me who choses, it's the mountain.  

On my descent, I decided to test my luck with a water filter. I've always wanted to run in the mountains and not be dependent on whatever water I could manage to carry. Water weighs a lot and when carrying too much one can easily be reduced hiking just to a mule enough H2O to get from point A to point B.

I stopped at High Creek which crosses the Vivian Creek trail around 9,000 feet. I pulled the pump out of my pack and quickly filled a water bottle to the brim. Within a few minutes I was back on the trail sipping nice cold spring water. No symptoms. Just another first for me, which made the entire 5 hour and 58 minute effort all the sweeter.

Keep it real!

AC Crewing and Pacing (Take Two)

Simon, Larry and I. Chantry hand off.

Team Larry R did it again last weekend at the Angeles Crest 100 mile run. This time I paced Larry for the first leg, and Simon C paced him for the second. Larry made this his third AC finish, which is pretty impressive given this is one of the hardest 100 milers on the west coast. I picked Larry up at mile 50 (Chilao) and ran with him to mile 75 (Chantry). 100% of this leg was in the dark, which I didn't mind as we avoided the heat of the day. Like last year, Larry ran like a champ, passing 7 or 8 runners, pushing through cramps, quad deterioration and a very active bladder. He even got in the face of another runner who wanted to drop during the race. Word spread on trail that if you planned on dropping, you didn't do it around Larry! Get to the chapah!  

Earlier in the day I joined the motley "Ultra" Rob M crew to help Ultra Rob and watch the race unfold. Cracker was apparently loading up on liquid carbs to ensure he had what it took to pace Rob from Chantry to the finish. I think HD Joe and Paul were there to ensure Cracker didn't unfold. In the end Cracker performed like a true professional, topping the carbs off just at the right moment, and getting Rob M to the finish line in a respectable sub 27 hours.

Team "Ultra" Rob M

Ultra Rob M getting leg rub by Cracker

Vermont 100 - Listening to the Right Voice

To do the job right, it took four hands. Two to unroll the clear packing tape, which I was quickly learning wasn’t the best choice when taping nylon against nylon, and another two to hold the pieces together as the tape was applied.

I did a quick look around us. My suspicions were confirmed. Lobster and I were the only ones attempting to “tape” a tent together at the Vermont 100 mile camp site. “I wish I had my duct tape,” Lobster kept saying. I mustered all my strength just to contain my laughter. All the other runners had these really slick looking Marmot and REI tents. Ours? Well the tape job lasted about two minutes before a gentle breeze picked up and the entire thing collapsed.

“Hey Lobster.” I said. “Yea?” he replied. “What do you say we stay in my hotel room tonite? “Sure.”

The Vermont 100 mile endurance run is an old school 100 miler celebrating its 25^th year in 2013. It takes place in a beautiful part of the country known for its covered bridges, horse trails and small farms. It is also one of the few 100 milers where humans run along side horses on the same course and on the same day.

To put things bluntly, the Vermont 100 beat the hmmm hmmm out of me. I came to run the race with certain expectations, and I left with a good old whoop’n by the running gods. But I did learn a few valuable lessons along the way. 

Lesson number one - don't assume you know what you don't know.

For some reason I assumed Vermont was some easy, gentle course I would be able to cruise through without breaking my stride. Looking back, I'm not sure what it was about 14,000 feet of elevation GAIN I didn’t comprehend. There were climbs in this race that were as steep as UTMB. Sure, maybe not as long, but there was some serious hiking I didn’t expect.  

Lesson number two - don't be an idiot.

At the start I reminded myself that the real starting line isn’t until mile 70, and to take it easy so I could really run the last 30 miles. And, like an idiot, I ran with reckless abandon for the first 20 miles. There were some really run-able downhills, including one on pavement for several miles. I felt like a kid in a candy store here. It felt so easy. I kept pushing and pushing, feeling the miles tick away. But then I came into an aid station toward the end of the long paved descent. I walked up to grab some liquids, and felt a sharp pain shoot through both my quads. Uh oh....

I continued on, a little concerned but still feeling good. What is the big deal I thought? So what if I went out a little fast? My body will recover I kept saying to myself. Well I arrived at the 50 mile in 8 hours and 37 minutes, nearly an hour ahead of where I should have been.  

Then reality started to creep in. After 50 miles, I was really struggling to run down hill. If my quads were serving as my racing tires early in the race, they were now losing PSI rapidly. I could almost hear the running gods telling me I had my chance and blew it. I had a plan and abandoned it. Now it was time for me to pay the price. So they took away my secret weapon – running down hill. I simply couldn’t do it. My deflated quads rendered me to hunched over, hobbling hobbit on the descents.

What an idiot I am I kept thinking to myself. But what I’ve learned about 100 milers is that you have time to adapt as long as you don’t give up. I figured if I can't run downhill, I can at least try to run everything else. So I rallied a little and got my rhythm back on some flat sections and even on some of the climbs. Through this cycle I was able pass several people who had passed me on the descents.

Lesson number three - if you run without a pacer, be prepared to get lost without a pacer.

Runners were allowed to have pacers from mile 70 on. I decided not to have a pacer. Why? I wanted to go-it-alone to get the full machismo experience of a 100 mile race. The result of this was, well, not good. I got lost twice, the first time around mile 73 and the second time around mile 88. 

By now, after starting out like an idiot and blowing up my quads, getting lost twice, running 88 miles by myself, my mental capacities were deteriorating. I was approaching the mental fortitude of a 3 year old lost and wondering a county fair. Why am I even out here? What the #@!% do I care if I even finish? And on and on. I was yelling at the stars and the full moon. And the running gods were laughing at me!

The second time I got lost was the best. It was dark out then and I had turned a down a trail with all kinds of blinking lights and glow sticks. I knew I was getting close to the last major aid station. As I continued running I could hear voices and see a lot of activity. As I got closer my energy started to spike as I knew the aid station was just a few more steps away. There I would be able to get my final nutritional boost and begin the final stretch to the finish line.

I rounded the corner and burst into the parking lot. All the voices I heard immediately turned silent. People looked shocked to see me. Then one lady yelled out "I'm sorry son you're in the wrong place. This is a horse aid station." She quickly escorted me out of there, pointing me in the right direction. 

When I finally rolled into the final aid station I told Lobster, who got to witness my trail tantrum first hand at this point, that I was done with this race. My chance of running under 20 hours was gone. I ran like an idiot. And I was going to just walk it in. That was that. So I just sucked down some chicken soup, drank some Ginger Ale, and ambled once again into the darkness.

Lesson number four - Listen to the right voice.

By the time I ambled into the darkness one last time, there was this voice in my head that was livid and stubbornly wanted me to give up. It spoke only of frustration, exhaustion and disappointment. I continued to listen to this voice as I stumbled forward. This was the same voice I would hear whenever I reminded myself about getting lost, or making the mistakes I'd made. 

But just as soon as I looked at my watch, and believed I still had a shot to break 20 hours, then another voice spoke. This voice was also stubborn, but told me not to give up, and to keep running. Thankfully, in those final miles as I ambled along that dark trial, it was this second voice that spoke to me louder than the first. My final time was 20 hours and 27 minutes, a new PR and reminder that the journey is the reward.  

Thank you Lobster for crewing me out there. You did a great job keeping the Vespa flowing and the Petty roaring. Smoooookeeey!    

Death Ride 2013 - The Natural Cycle

Last year, when my brother told me that he was training for the Death Ride 2013, a 130 mile road ride that ascends 15,000 feet through the Sierra Nevada Mountains, I didn’t know what to say. All I could muster was “really?” All I knew was this was a really a lofty goal, even for the fittest of cyclists. It would require months of training for four and five hours or more at a time on the bike, week after week.

Despite having a lot of experience on the bike, my brother wasn’t in what I considered, well, top form. His training consisted of a ride or two per week at best, and often not on a bike but on a standup paddleboard. The pounds he had put on over the years were not going to help. I told him it would be possible if he lost weight and trained properly for it. What I didn’t tell him was that he had never done anything like this before and his chances of pulling this off were slim at best.

Weeks passed. Then months. He seemed enthusiastic about his training, more so than I had seen in many years. But the work had only just begun if he was going to successfully tame this dragon. Then I received a call from him one weekend. I was on a trail run. He told me he’d just finished a training ride on the Angeles Crest Highway. He said he rode over 100 miles in the heat and wind and gained thousands of feet of elevation. And he had done it solo.

I noticed something about his voice on this call. It wasn’t the voice of an exhausted cyclist who had just finished a major training ride, someone struggling to get back in shape. It was more like a voice of a child who had just returned from summer camp. He described the ride in vivid detail -  catching other riders that appeared like silhouettes in the distance, feeling the searing heat from the black pavement, passing beneath the trees of the San Gabriel Mountains.

It occurred to me that, like a child, he had found his pleasure again. Under the big blue sky, riding his bicycle as nature greeted him. But unlike a child, he rode to regain his health. His peace of mind.

It was 4 a.m. when the alarm went off. Three of us were shacked up in a tiny, one bed cabin. My dad, who decided to join me on the trip to crew my brother during the Death Ride, insisted on sleeping on the floor. “I could hear mice scampering around the place all night,” he grumbled when we woke. My brother and I just laughed and shook our heads. Without his hearing aids, he could hardly hear us yelling at him.

Just before 5 am, my brother mounted his bike, flipped on his light, and was off. It was still dark and cold at 39 degrees, but the riders didn’t hesitate. What followed was a long day on the bike for him, and a lot of hours under the hot sun for my dad and I. I’ve never crewed for a cycling event and I found it to be a lot of fun. I’m sure my brother’s strong effort was a big part of this.

He rode conservatively for most of the day using what he had learned from his long training rides and his heart rate monitor and finished ahead of most of the other 3,500 riders. When it was over, he simply got off his bike, and I looked at him and my dad. I could see a connection I hadn’t seen in while. Then the three of us walked around the exhibitor area, ate some homemade berry pie, and talked about the event.

Some people ask, why ride 130 miles? Or run 100 miles? Better yet, why do two brothers do these things? If it is true that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, then we can only thank our dad for this blessing, or curse, depending on your perspective. He ran every single day when my brother and I were growing up, and he still works out with a trainer.

Other people shake there heads at these fitness endeavors. And I shake my head at them. We now live in a society that is experiencing an epidemic of disease and disability directly related to modern lifestyle. It is said that our kids may be the first who will live shorter lives than their parents. 

To the doubters out there, try to understand that it all starts with the fact that getting on a bike or going for a run are natural states of being that we all need. Without these or other forms of exercise, our bodies and minds will, eventually, simply wither away. A sacrifice to modern society’s vicious cycle. It finishes with the fact that as parents we are, more than anything else, role models to our children.

When a child sees a parent get on a bike or go for a run everyday, they remember it. When a child sees a parent return from a ride or run, stronger physically and mentally, they remember that too.  

But, above all else, when a parent sees a child return from a ride or a run, the natural cycle is complete, and the parent is fulfilled.

Congratulations Al. You rode an amazing ride. We are all proud of you!

Strategy. Failed.

I’m not normally a promoter of fast food joints. But every now-and-then, like when I finish a 5 hour run in intense heat and run out of water, I have to make an exception.

It all started with what I thought was a brilliant strategy. Rob M and I running Serrano Creek trail up Santiago Truck trail to Old Camp. Not a big deal, some 23 miles, but this trail gets really hot and I started (on purpose) with no water. My plan was to load up at the water fountain 3 miles into the run. The grand strategy was built around one objective: not to have to carry water for 30 minute of a 5 hour run. Ok...I’m starting to realize what I'm saying here. A five hour run. 30 minutes. No water. Where are my priorities?

We arrived at the water fountain. But why wasn’t it working?

Plan B was pretty simple. “How much water are you carrying Rob?” Three bottles! Ok, give me one. We can make it and if we get in trouble, we’ll bum some from other runners or mountain bikers.”

Rob and I agreed. This wouldn’t be a hard run. Unlike 99.9% of the runs we do together, we wouldn’t push it. How could we? Instead, we vowed to do as many rollers as possible (rollers being the launching of large roundish rocks spotted on the trail above steep mountain slopes). We delivered on our agreement. I’m estimating a dozen rollers were launched.

But launching rollers don’t make up for shrunken kidneys and withering electrolytes. We (I) pushed too hard up the final climb into old camp. Something akin to reckless abandon filled my veins. As I pushed into the final climb, I realized my water well was running dry.

Water, or lack of it, changes everything. One minute you’re feeling you can run forever, the next minute you feel everything coming apart. The power you felt at one moment, is simply gone the next. Just another element in the periodic table of ultra running.

We arrived at Jack in the Box in exactly 5 hours and 11 minutes after the start. Order? Two 42 oz cups filled with 460 calories of Minute Maid Lemonade. Not a bad reward for a failed strategy.

Three Times a Charm

Putting together a good day of training when juggling other responsibilities can make for some fun and creative running. Like yesterday. I was planning on joining a group run at 7:30 am, but I forgot about the waterpolo tournament my oldest daughter was in. After consulting with the family I quickly dispensed of any idea about a group run. Instead, I grabbed my youngest daughter and did one of my favorite kind of runs: the run ride. This is when she rides the bike and I run, and we explore our neighborhood by hitting as many parks as we can. She is keen on swings and rings...so a run ride it was...at least in the am.  

As the afternoon rolled around, before taking the afternoon waterpolo shift, I followed the 6 mile run ride with an 8 mile loop around one of my favorite trails on turtle ridge. The Tarantula Hawks were out in force which kind of freaked me out given these monsters are said to have the second most painful sting in the world. It is a little strange that I run this same trail several times a week and never see these flying beasts. Maybe they only fly in the early afternoon on weekends?

After dropping off my oldest daughter at the pool, I knew I had about an hour before her game started so I drove into the hills near Villa Park. At the first trailhead I parked my car and just started running. Before long I was high on a ridge in Anaheim Hills looking at the San Gabriel Mountains and watching Red Tail hawks circle in the wind above me. Just another day in another 100 mile week with responsibilities.  

Not Just Another Tree

Robert Frost once said that he could sum up everything he’d learned about life in three words: it goes on. I recently visited a place high in California’s White Mountains where life goes on...and on....for 40 centuries.


Not many people know about the White Mountains. They take their name from the white dolomite bedrock that dominates their deceivingly docile landscape.   They rise in the shadow of California Sierra Nevada Mountains. But unlike the saw tooth Sierras that have captured the imagination of visitors from around the world, the White Mountains exist in virtual anonymity.
 

It was two years ago when I glanced across the Owens Valley while descending from the Overlook aid station some 20 miles into the Bishop High Sierra 100k. This was the highest point of the course at 9,300’. I couldn’t believe what I saw. A few miles away and 5,000 feet below me lay the valley floor. Then, rising to over 14,000 feet in defiance of their mistaken obscurity, were the White Mountains, awash in the late afternoon sun. They looked massive, ominous.

Fast forward two years. I’m driving up highway 168, a two lane mountain road that rises to over 10,000 feet, into the White Mountains. Having finished the Bishop 100k for the second time, I decided to capture a glimpse of this solitary place on my way home.  I continued driving for 30 miles, gaining elevation nearly every mile. I’m now driving toward Schulman Grove. When I arrive I get out of my car, then step into another world.

Around me is a sprawling forest of trees that look haggard and remotely alive. These trees are more than 4,000 years old. Unlike other trees that grow from the soil of the land, these trees appear to cling to the hard, rocky mountain top with a grip stronger than life itself.

Even the dead trees remain defiant, not willing to yield their fate to the foreboding mountain. They remain standing for hundreds of years. The trees that have finally fallen and lay on the ground beneath me are said to be 10,000 years old.

Those that are still alive were born two thousand years before Christ himself. They rise, twisting from the barren landscape, into an environment that destroys all other life forms, including bacteria, insects and other predatory pests. With winds that reach more than 160 miles an hour and little if any rainfall, moisture levels here plummet to one half of a millimeter, the lowest level recorded on the planet.

I’m in the middle of a forest of Bristlecone Pines, the oldest living trees on the planet. They have survived because, where they are, nothing else can. I continue walking through these ancient grounds and I come upon one tree that seems to great me with its rich, golden trunk. I walk closer, under its claw like branches. I look up. High above my head branches reach into the deep blue sky. I stand still, trying to absorb the moment.

What would it be like to live to be 4,000 years old? To survive longer than any other single thing on the planet? How big was this tree when Jesus was born? Or Moses? All I could do was wonder. Seconds pass, and I can’t wait any longer.  I raise my hand and rest it on the ancient trunk. How many years was I touching? How many generations could I feel?

Pandora. Should We Breakup?

Dear Pandora:

When we were first introduced, you blew my mind. The sheer beauty of the Music Genome Project made me quiver in my running shoes. But now I wonder if our relationship is more akin to a teenage love affair.

I'll never forget our first several dates. I would turn you on and you would respond by fulfilling some of my inner most needs - new music sounds and genres. I was always ready to bookmark a song of a new artist I hadn't heard before. You provided a lot of those.

But here we are. Several years into the relationship. Now, instead of hearing new artists and genres, I'm hearing the same ones, over and over. Now, instead of fulfilling my inner most (music) needs, your flooding me with commercials. One commercial for every three songs!! You never used to that when we started dating.

To say the least, I'm really confused. On one hand, I don't want to just "throw in the towel" on everything we have been through. On the other hand, you've changed, and I'm the same guy you met when you were getting started. I guess it was inevitable that we would grow apart.

Oh, I forgot to tell you. I recently met another very pretty music streamer. She told me a secret. Once again, I'm quivering in my running shoes. What should we do?

Sincerely,

A Confused Music Lover/Runner

Running Out of the Gutter

I don't know why, but I've had to pull a few runs out of the gutter lately. The gutter being a place where  apathy runs roughshod over enthusiasm and fatigue makes the rules. I've learned a few things about getting out of the gutter lately. Get up. Lace up. Start walking. Jog if I can. Keep moving forward. Distance means nothing. Just keep moving forward. Run.

I started today's run knowing I could only do 5 or 6 miles, but believing I should leave my options open. I started with a few stride outs, but those didn't feel right. So I started climbing. Into the hills, then down the canyon and along the bike trail. So many people! Runners, cyclists, walkers, everyone was out. I thought I saw two people I knew! One turned out to be a false alarm, but the other? "Hey Lindsay!" I yelled. No response. So I keep running...14, 15, 16 miles, and out of the gutter.
 

Dare to Cross

Today a routine run turned into a four legged scramble up the side of a mountain. Nothing special, until we emerged from beneath thick chaparral to the top of a ridge and stumbled upon a 70 foot cross. Three hours in got us no more than maybe 10 miles, one of my favorite kind of "runs," even though this one should be categorized as more of a hike. At one point we were forced to turn around by a "trail guide" policing the great outdoors around Blackstar Canyon. Not to worry, it turns out, as this detour led us to our disoriented excursion. What followed were bullet holes, peacocks, vultures, crags, shrub and lots of crosses.