And The Insanity Begins...

What is it about endurance events that attracts certain people? Why is it that some of us are more than happy to count a half hour light walk or jog each day as decent exercise (and it is, according to the latest information released by the US government) and some of us have to race-pace for an hour or more just to start feeling as though we're getting a reasonable level of activity? What is it about distance running that turns most people's stomachs...and some of us into addicts?

I've thought about this for at least the past twenty-four hours or so, shortly after registering online for the Boulder Backroads Marathon, a Nike-sponsored race three months from now. While I'm unconcerned about the training I know it will be substantial, and registering will also kick-start my brain--which has been running-fuzzy since the Bolder Boulder, to say the least--into compliance with the rigorous training routine I know I'll have to follow from here on out. After registering, I was feeling pretty good about myself...even to the point of e-mailing my registration receipt to Gregory with the same subject heading as this post's title. I knew if I spent the money on it, I'd follow through with my training for it. By the time September 25th rolled around, I'd be a lean, mean, marathon-running machine. I was stoked.

So stoked, in fact, I decided it'd be a good idea to share my progress with some of my friends and colleagues. After the third or fourth person gave me a blank look and asked, "Why?" in a tone reserved specifically for dealing with the mentally disabled, I came to a stunning new realization: I really was as crazy as their looks were making me feel. What kind of insanity must one possess to actually plunk down $64.40 of hard-earned dough (hey, when you're living hand-to-mouth, $64.40 is two weeks' worth of groceries) so that they could participate in an event which demands the ability to keep the body physically moving for 26.2 miles? Who would actually pay to work out by running 40-60 miles each week for the next 13 weeks, so that as the finale to all of that training you get to run a substantial portion of that distance all at once, one time? Better yet, what the hell are the marathon committee members thinking by offering a pint glass as well as a finisher's medal to all finishers? That we're actually going to want beer once we're done literally running our bodies into the ground?

David Sedaris, in describing a scene from an event in the rural village in France in which he was, at the time, living, writes 'Here was an event that answered the question "Why?" with a resounding "Why not?"' Sedaris' essay, I Almost Saw This Girl Get Killed in his book Me Talk Pretty One Day, describes the event in question as centered around an arena that held vachettes which are, apparently, kind of the punk-rockers of cattle. An angry vachette--or several angry vachettes--would be released into the arena and the people therein would try various ways of pissing it off further without getting maimed for life. The first component of this event included the vachette being released into a soccer game, and she snorted and charged after players who were apparently entrusted with the fateful task of keeping the game going in the presence of a very angry, emotionally disturbed animal.

Whenever I've thought about marathons in the past, I've always felt that the same kind of ideas apply. "Why do a marathon?" "Hey, why not?!" was always my joking answer, at least inside my head. I couldn't really ever come up with a reason, besides, well, that distance runners are crazy. Even after I got the idea to do Backroads into my head, I still never came up with a real reason. Since registering, however, Gregory posed the worst question anyone could've asked me: So, do you have any goals in mind?

It was the worst because it forced me to rethink my why? why not?! justification. Nobody runs 26.2 miles just because, ever. There has to be a better reason. Better reasons lead to goals. Goals lead to further motivation to accomplish the teask set forth, or at least that's the way my brain has always worked. So since then, I've been thinking about it, and I've come to a few conclusions:

1)My only real goal is to finish. Yeah, I'd love to do sub-3:40 and qualify for Boston, but I'm not too concerned about it. I want to go out and give it my best and have a good time.
2)I need to assess my ability to keep up my nutritional needs on the course. This is more for future reference, as should my marathon be a fun and successful adventure, my next goal will be the Leadville Trail 100. Yes, that's right, a 100 mile footrace. More to come, some other time.
3)The training program for the marathon alone will get me into shape. Coupled with a solid abs routine, I will be buff and beautiful and healthier than I've ever been by the time September 25th rolls around. It's been a long time since I felt that good, and I would like to have it back again.
4)I can continue to hike in order to mix up my training and especially to strengthen my ankles, calves and knees. When your feet are constantly readjusting to rocks, mud, water, soft snow, dirt trails, packed snow, basically being turned in every position possible without injuring the muscles and tissues within them, I consider it excellent prevent-an-injury training. It's also excellent cardio work and I love hiking. The fact that it fits beautifully into my training just makes it all the better.
5)Distance runners are psychotic, and I love being one of them. A few months ago when I quit smoking and went for my first run in a decade, I never thought I'd be saying this. Between then and now I've had a few injuries, retrained my muscles in my legs substantially, lost a little bit of weight, eat better, and have achieved the "runner's high" or "the zone" as I call it, that euphoria that transports your brain into a dimension dominated solely by the rhythm of one foot hitting the ground in front of the other and the inhalations and exhalations paced to that speed, a dimension in which I literally feel I could run forever. It's the best feeling in the world, mostly because it's all yours. Nobody else contributes to it, and nothing can take it away. It's solid bliss, found within a pace and stride matching your present mood and attitude, and once you're there, you never want to leave.

So I guess there's only two real goals there, but it certainly got me thinking. There's a tiny part of me that just wants to be able to say, "I ran a marathon." That tiny part is the seed of my "zone", my favorite place on earth, where all that exists is the ground under my feet, the path ahead of me, the sky over my head and the blood pounding in my ears, whispering, "you can do it, you can do it."

The First Real Half-Marathon

...she ever does turns out not to include laps on her favorite five-mile loop, "water stops" at grocery stores or 7-11 or the attempt up Sunshine Canyon (nah, don't even want to get into this one). Instead, it involved a colleague in the industrial engineering field, a closed Jeep trail and a lengthy hike through some of the most beautiful scenery anyone's ever seen, right in my own backyard.

Nobody moves to Boulder, Colorado just to pay absurd prices for real estate, look cool sporting half a wardrobe's worth of clothing by the North Face or Patagonia, or seek methods of healing with crystals (there are much weirder towns in Colorado). The allure of CU-Boulder isn't so great that true scholars won't seek higher standards for their higher education. The "hippie town" appeal is largely gone (though still present if you're really willing to go looking for it) and even the Buddhists are finding, these days, that the Shambhala Center at Red Feather Lakes is a MUCH nicer facility.

You move to Boulder for the view, and the access to everything else. You move to Boulder because five of Colorado's major ski resorts are an hour away (on the weekdays) or two hours there and five back (on the weekends). You move to Boulder because when you have out-of-town visitors and they fly into DIA and you drive them through Denver and west on US-36 and come up over that last hill, they see the flatirons for the first time and the mix of awe and envy is as palpable as their oxygen shortage. You move to Boulder because you can't help but feel euphoric when you walk around and look up at the mountains near you, because the flatirons iced with an early fall snow is the most strangely, eerily beautiful sight you've ever witnessed, because despite the fact that some 40% of citizens are technically below the poverty line (because our rent rates bring us to our knees) they don't want to move to Longmont or any of the suburbs, and because if you're a hiker, climber, camper, or backcountry-er in any other way, Colorado's wilderness is half an hour away. Rocky Mountain National Park is a half-hour drive on a good day, forty-five minutes if you get stuck behind a Texan trying to negotiate vertigo, altitude sickness and his new Excursion. Hikes, climbs, tubing, kayaking and camping are anywhere from five minutes to several hours in or out of town, just depends on where you want to go. And how far away you need to get.

Yesterday at work my colleague-turned-hiking-buddy Peter, the engineer mentioned in the last post who's responsible for the organization of the Wild Goats, asked if I'd be up for a bit of a hike today. I must admit I was a bit reticent, considering I barely kept up with the group the last time for most of the trail. But Gregory's out of town and though I desperately need to clean my apartment (using a sandblaster if posible), trying to do that for my entire weekend would...well, it would ruin my entire weekend, so I eagerly agreed, seeing the hike as a much more enjoyable-and social-alternate to spending the entire weekend in th ecompany of my vaccuum. I also knew I had to buckle down and start seriously getting into gear for the Boulder Backroads Marathon, coming up in September. At this rate, I'll be a triathlete by next summer and training for Ironman by...wait, did that phrase even just occur to me? No, no it didn't. Moving on...as I need to get into shape for Backroads even though I haven't put together a real training plan, a serious workout was already in the works for this weekend. I figured on doing a half-marathon distance running/walking on Saturday and then a five-to-ten mile run/walk (I'm still unwilling to say "run" or "jog", both would be lying)on Sunday. So hey, a few miles' worth of hiking with Peter and I'd be well warmed-up for the rest of the half-marathon distance I'd planned to run once arriving back home.

When I arrived back home, jeans soaked a third of the way up and so muddy I couldn't see the denim at the bottom, socks and boots soaked so much they didn't bother trying to dry anymore, shoulders aching from my pack and legs a bit stiff and sore from the hike, I fully planned on crawling into bed. I guess the "runner's high" I sometimes get can easily be transferred to a hiker's high, though, because I have not only not gone to bed, I've been just resting and watching TV util a few minutes ago when I actually considered going out for a run. Fortunately, it's pouring. And my hips still ache.

When Peter picked me up this morning it was a perfect, bright-blue-sky Boulder day, the ones you think of when you discover that the town gets 300+ days of sunshine a year. The kind of day that makes you think that the mountains have somehow gotten clearer, closer, more magnified. We were stoked. Peter informed me at work yesterday that this hike would be something of a reconnaissance mission, as he'd hiked well into the southern part of the Indian Peaks Wilderness Area but not the northern part, and wanted to check out the feasibility of a trail or two for the rest of the Goats. With my boyfriend out of town and the daunting prospect of spending the weekend otherwise cleaning my apartment and trying to entertain myself by basically exercising my butt off, I readily agreed. Hiking might have been built into my weekend otherwise, but hiking with a friend is always better than hiking alone, especially when the friend is an expert in hiking and wilderness as well as keeping conversation going while hauling up trails carrying water-laden packs. Between the gorgeous day and the prospect of the hike ahead, by the time Peter pulled into my apartment complex early this morning I was more than ready to hit the trail.

As we drove up, Peter explained the hike we'd be taking on. It began with a four-mile Jeep trail that would deposit us basically at the boundary of Indian Peaks Wilderness Area and Roosevelt National Forest. From there we could hike freely into the wilderness area. The plan was to explore a few trails off of the St. Vrain trail and the Middle St. Vrain trail and get an idea of what we'd be up for doing with the rest of the Goats. If the trails weren't particularly our style, there were plenty left, but at leats we hadn't left this particular territory unexplored. Glossing over the guides provided in the book Peter brought along on Indian Peaks, I was excited by the time we hit the road leading into the camping areas and, eventually, the four-wheel drive trail. I hadn't been four-wheeling much as a kid and that's rather sad considering I moved to Colorado at the tender age of fourteen, and for the last near-decade have only been off-roading once or twice.

Unfortunately, we made our way through the campground to the four-wheel trail that was blocked by a huge iron gate, courtesy of the US Forest Service. The first four miles, which we'd originally planned on negotiating in Peter's Wrangler, would now have to be done on foot. While neither of us were particularly daunted by the prospect, it would lengthen our hike by eight miles of unexpected foot travel, and possibly leave us with little energy or stamina for further exploration. We prepared to set forth anyway, and with Peter pacing, were going at quite a decent clip. As with the last hike, it was I slowing us down here and there, and my friend was kind enough to accommodate my incredibly out-of-shape pacing needs whenever necessary. After about three miles, or so we thought, we stopped and assessed. We'd begun around ten and it was now eleven-thirty. A mile per half hour wasn't so bad, Peter reasoned, and we forged ahead. Little more than a quarter of a mile or so later we reached a sign marking the end of what would've been the Jeep trail, as well as, slightly further on, the boundary to Indian Peaks. We'd done four miles, and were feeling fine. We stopped for a moment to get down some food and water (note to self: survey endurance athletes I know for favorite power gels; the ones I brought were awful) and to rest in our elation. We'd gone another mile more than we expected. We were at Indian Peaks and ready to move on, and we were both feeling great in body and in spirit.

One thing about hiking that's almost frustrating is that if you're going at a reasonable clip you don't see a thing around you. You're moving through beautiful little mountain meadows, over tiny streams and along rushing rivers and creeks, below the fronds of towering evergreens and you're forced to look at the ground almost all the time. Hiking can turn from awesome to scary in a moment; one bad misstep or poorly-estimated river crossing and you can end up turning or rolling an ankle, tumbling into a stream (and hiking miserably wet for the rest of the way), or getting stuck...in mud, beneath a rock, whatever. You learn to catch the scenery around the trail in bits and pieces, along the flat areas when you have time to look up and check out the view, and occasionally, when you absolutely have to look, just stopping and taking in the view. For this reason alone, it's rather important that anyone you're hiking with is on the same page as you are, insofar as scenery's concerned. For the first four miles of the trail, we saw a lot of beautiful little mountain meadows and aspen glens through which the trail was flat, the occasional stop to look briefly at the St. Vrain River cascading along into picture-perfect waterfalls beside the trail, and a lot of close-up deer, horse, dog, bike and boot tracks in mud as we were carefully negotiating the tiny streams and rivulets crossing the trail here and there.

Actually, as I was carefully negotiating. While Peter plunged forth, boots snug and waterproof and waterproof gaiters strapped over the lower half of his pants, I picked away around the small ponds and streams as much as possible. The waterproofing inside my boots gave way on the third or fourth plunge into a small stream, and my stocking foot was greeted with icy cold. At nine thousand feet, however, the air is often cold but the sun beating down is hot, and my feet were happy with the chilly water invading my boots. Even by the end of the hike, though thoroughly sodden, my feet felt comfortable. Some testament to well-worn socks and old boots, I suppose, though I'll have to waterproof them better before another outing.

The first four behind us, however, gave the opportunity to stop for a bit of lunch, scrutinize the map and decide where we'd go from there. In the next hour or so we hiked another two and a half miles in, though we wouldn't have known if it weren't for well-written trail maps (though next time we'll have to get an update on what four-wheel drive trails are open before going up...they close them routinely and without warning). The scenery was just spectacular, and the end of the first half of our hike was accompanied by a lot of gape-mouthed stares at the mountains around us. By the end of the hike, we were well into glacier country, or would be shortly, and the St. Vrain glacier was impossibly close. Had we been able to take the Jeep in, we'd have easily reached the glacier and possibly Buchanan Pass which, as we calculated, was another 6 or so miles away. Not wanting to hike twenty miles today, we decided to just head up the glacier/pass trail until, well, until we pretty much felt like turning back.

Well done we. Directly in front of us for the remainder of the hike was Sawtooth Mountain which, covered in blindingly white snow, was an absolutely gorgeous sight. All around us upcroppings of rock cut jagged edges into the bright blue sky; most of the rest of our hike in was contained in a small meadow that formed the bottom of a basin whose sides were formed by the river to our left and the jagged peaks of mountain rock to our right. The snowcaps all around us formed the 12-ers and 13-ers of the region, climbable with snow-hike gear we weren't carrying and unfortunately, time we didn't have. At a point where several trails would be crossing, we sat down, ate a bit more and reassessed. We'd gone about another two and a half miles, we figured, according to the maps, and the clouds that had been blowing in, bright and white, all day, were taking shape in an ominous, steadily-darkening brew that we'd have to hike back through to get back to the car. We decided to turn back and, after gaping about for another half-mile back we picked up the pace and hauled back to the car. Going steadily downhill is decidedly easier than going up, and we actually pushed the pace a bit in some places, despite the waterlogged parts and the infamous "slowest hiker in North America": me.

Again, a nod to Peter, and to why hiking with friends is important, but hiking with friends who know backcountry, the scenery they like and the pace they're going to take is important, especially in light of your own preferences. I'm a lazy ass, and I know it. Everyone who knows me knows it. I would much rather sit in front of the TV and watch Sex & The City reruns than haul up a trail through the woods any day. However, if I make a commitment to a friend, I see it through. And while it sometimes takes a bit of prodding, I do enjoy a good hike and the absolutely beautiful Colorado wilderness. If I've got someone who'll push my pace and really force me to work, I enjoy the scenery, the hike, the company and the fact that I'm getting a decent workout in. Chatting while running is nearly impossible. Chatting while negotiating a steep trail through a mild rain involving thick mud and rocky outcroppings at a fairly good pace is nearly impossible, but boy, does it improve your cardio. I tend to be a bit of a chatterbox, okay, well, more like, I tend to run my mouth and will not shut up unless specifically asked, and Peter was content to let me run on and on and comment, question and respond when necessary. Truly, a good friend is one who's willing to put up with me and my wagging tongue for five hours in the Colorado backcountry: you're stuck out there with me, and there's no bus to push me in front of (though that hasn't happened yet, even though I'll bet my friends have contemplated it). Peter's a kind person, has a great sense of humor and is a great conversationalist, even when he's pushing to get a word in edgewise (thanks, Peter). I'd hike anywhere, anytime with this guy; while I can't be a baby and wimp out partially out of pride and partially because he has been a good friend and I don't want to spoil his hike, he gets a good sense of when I need to slow down and bit and whne I can pick things up. Truly, an awesome hiking buddy; I'm so glad I joined him today. By the time the trail was behind us and we were tearing back down to Boulder in Peter's Jeep, my half-marathon was behind me and I'd taken in some of the greatest scenery Colorado has to offer with a person as adept at appreciating it as myself, if not more so. Hiking is great. Hiking with a friend is better. Hiking with a friend who'll pace with you, push you when he can, keep a solid sense of humor and an even more solid appreciation for the incredible scenery that, if only for a moment, the two of you get to be a part of, is the best. So thanks, Peter, for my first half-marathon. I'll go on a recon hike with you anytime.

The Birth of the Wild Goats

Ah, hiking in the Rockies. The panoramic views, the soft crunch of pine needles and cones beneath your boots, the smell of forest and wildlife and the occasional elk- or bear-spotting. This is what most people think of when they imagine a midmorning hike in early June in Rocky Mountain National Park.

A gunmetal-grey sky replete with swollen clouds, precipitation ranging from slight mist to freezing sleet, judicious steps to ensure you don't get stuck--literally--in the boot-sucking mud, and temperatures hovering near freezing is NOT what comes to mind. For the first hike of a group of colleagues and myself, however, that's exactly what it was.

I feel pretty lucky to work where I do. Most of my colleagues are generally optimistic, well-intentioned, kind, good-hearted people. There are only a few bad eggs, and I don't have to deal with any of them. This particular group was no exception. Though our positions ranged from pricing peon (moi) to head of industrial engineering, the group turned out to be a really cheery bunch. And when you're constantly wincing from the frozen rain drizzling down your hair onto your neck and perpetually readjusting to find the right position for your clothing where it would keep inner layers as dry as possible, being with people who have a great sense of humor and a generally cheerful disposition makes all the difference in the world.

I've lived in Colorado for almost ten years now, so you think I'd have known better than to bring two jackets with questionable weatherproofing and more importantly, questionable waterproofing. We hadn't been on the trail for ten minutes before my outer jacket was soaked. I only had a sweater cap, and I found myself alternately envying my better-planned groupmates' attire and kicking myself for not bringing my shell along. Jackets were offered up by my wonderful hikemates, and I politely declined, a frozen grin on my face. It wasn't such a lengthy hike, and I felt the need to learn my lesson myself. I would have my soggy clothing, and wear it all too. I found myself pondering my wardobe and nearly bursting into laughter when I realized I don't have a whole lot of waterproof gear. My ski pants and my shell are probably it. When I mentioned this to a fellow hiker, she agreed. See, in Colorado, it's almost always either snowing, or the sun is shining. Rain isn't really a big thing in this state, and when we do get it it either clears up quickly or turns to snow. As it was the third day in June, we all figured it'd be sunny by the time we were halfway through the hike.

At the halfway point, we stopped for munchies and rest and horrendously dirty jokes that sated our slightly depraved senses of humor. Our resident foreigner, the engineer, has a thick Scottish accent and so just about everything he says sounds either charming or humorous or both. When he sagely advised me to purchase silicon spray to weatherproof my gear, I grinned and nodded, barely able to contain my giggling. It gets even better when he tells jokes. This is a guy I've known for a few years now, throughout different stages of my tenure at this company, have gone out with for drinks with other colleagues, and feel a pretty good rapport with, but I'll never get sick of--or apparently, be able to contain my humor at--the sound of that accent. (When he and Gregory met, instant commiseration, though Gregory's accent is considrably more ironed-out.) We were all pleasantly amused by the flock of assorted wildlife that gathered around us as we were eating our snacks (for me, a Luna bar and a power gel that tasted absolutely awful): a pair of mallards, a tiny squirrel and a squawking, flapping blue jay. The mallards tried to follow us as we made our way, none the drier despite the tree cover during our little break, back to the trail.

So despite the weather, the cold and the constant moisture, the hike really was great. The second half was, greatly to my relief, almost entirely downhill. These guys are all in much better shape than I, and my first thought as we started out was, oh, shit, I'm never going to be able to keep up with them, they were extremely kind in slowing down enough for me to catch up, and my buddy the engineer dropped back to me to keep me company for awhile. I hope I didn't hold everyone back too much, but if I did, I certainly didn't feel it.

At the end of the hike as we neared the cars (I drove four of us up from our meeting spot at the office and two others met us at the trailhead), I noticed that the puddle I'd had to park in had widened to a small lake. I had to climb to the driver's seat and was immediately grateful that my boyfriend had loaned me his SUV while he's out of town and okayed me taking it up on the hike. We might still be there if not for the runnerboard along the siding below the doors and the roof rack which doubles as a handle when getting in involves acrobatic action over a body of water.

A little tired and a little euphoric, we ate greasy Mexican food and toasted the inaugural hike with maragritas and sodas for the designated drivers. The upbeat humor continued; between the six of us we made a pretty good comedy act. The first hike of the Wild Goats, so christened by the absurd play on words (when you work for Wild Oats Markets, you hear enough jabs, so it's always good to be able to make fun of yourself as well)as well as our apparently adept skills at handling slippery rocks, boot-sucking mud and freezing temperatures. With bright spirits and slightly fuller bellies, we headed home. To nap.