There's No Crying In Baseball! Er...Running!

Anyone who's seen the movie "A League of Their Own", with an all-star cast providing an excellent dramatization of the short-lived GPBL--Girls' Professional Baseball League--knows the line well. You can even hear Tom Hanks' angry voice spitting it at one of his players, "There's no crying! There's no crying in baseball!" Then, of course, vindication comes for those of us who watched, aghast, as he berated the woman and then was called on it by the umpire...who eventually threw him out of the game. But movie reviews need to be saved for another post.

My crying episode wasn't as well-documented, historically significant, or beautifully dramatized. It was just me, sitting up on a rock next to Boulder Res, wiping tears away quietly as more slid down my face. I wasn't met by an ultimately triumphant, chaotic vindication but rather by the calm, gentle understanding of my boyfriend who, finishing up his hourlong run at the res, approached me hesitantly. "You don't look happy," he said, and when he saw me crying he just hugged me. Man, what a decent guy, huh?

I registered for Backroads so long ago I don't remember it...well, long ago in running time anyway. Since then I've completed some substantial long hikes and some more substantial long runs. I've basked in the shock of my family and friends who remember me not long ago as the girl who wouldn't do a five-minute grocery run without her trusty pack of Winston S2's. I've endured blisters the size of my fingers running alongside the arches of my foot, training first in the mountains, then in the deep South, which afforded me the exact opposite training conditions, then back to the mountains. I felt truly awful when I found out that my coworker, Mike, who had also been training for Backroads, had to quit after twenty weeks due to a knee injury. After training so long you really empathize with someone who has to throw away that much time and effort due to injury. And I thanked my lucky stars that I didn't have the same issue.

After Gregory got back from France (two days after my triumphant return from the South, during which I ran a substantial sixteener) and life calmed down a little, I fell back into my routine training schedule. I don't adhere to my training guide like it's my Bible; for one, it was written for much more advanced runners and for two, I would surely injure myself if I tried to stick to that schedule. A few days gone here and there isn't the end of the world and besides, I was still readjusting to the altitude. I went out one day intending to do ten miles. I did about seven and came back with shin splints, which worried me, since I usually ran them off during my workout, and a slight dull pain below my kneecap and around the outside of it. It wasn't ITB, but I wasn't sure what it was. I stretched well, iced it, stayed off it for a day or two and then took off for a seven-miler. Going out wasn't bad but coming back, I nearly started hitching, my knee hurt so badly. It didn't seem to be bothered by going uphill or on the flats, but going downhill was sheer misery. I got home, got on the Internet and, a towel-wrapped bag of ice strapped on my knee, started to do research. When I realized that my symptoms pointed towards chondromalacia, or "runner's knee", my blood ran cold. This was the sideliner. ITB you could stretch, shin splints usually meant some serious strnegth-training and extra stretches, and often you could tear your ACL to shreds and not realize it for months. But runner's knee, referring to an inflammation of the tendon and/or ligaments and cartilage holding the knee together on the outside, at the tibia and fibula, was one of those that required lots of rest, lots of ice, lots of pain and often, cortisone shots, knee drainage and surgery. By the time Gregory got home from his bike ride, I was freaking out and still significantly pained. He took one look at where I was hurting, another look at the explanation I'd found on the Internet, and nodded. Having an endurance athlete for your boyfriend is beneficial in many ways, but none so much as in-house sports physician. He tried to tell me they wouldn't be able to do anything, but I was in agony and wasn't dealing well, and made him take me to the ER. Sure enough, the doctor wrapped my knee, gave me a pair of crutches and some weak painkillers, and sent me on my way, telling me to see a sports physician if it didn't get better.

Over the next week I iced it, was gentle on it, didn't take any staircases going down. Didn't run, didn't work out, didn't do much. The following week I took on a 5 mile run with a little stiffness, but no pain, and I was elated. One night over dinner at Mina's, our recent fave Latin restaurant, Iw as babbling about ice skating and talked Greg into going with me. We hit the rec center for about an hour, and it was awesome. I've always skated better than I walk, and I was prancing about the rink as usual, feeling awesome. As we crawled into bed later, Gregory asked me if I'd worn the knee brace he'd bought for me skating. I said no, and he frowned a little. I didn't think much of it until the next morning, when I could barely get down the stairs of his apartment complex. I was miserably unhappy and, at my boyfriend's urging, called my doctor for a referral to a sports MD.

Now, thirty-six or so hours to my appointment with a sports physician at the University of Colorado Sports Medicine Center, I am mildly terrified. Gregory's warning was, "Even though you're probably not going to like what he has to say, I think you need to go see a specialist," and that was enough to make me realize that I'd probably be calling it quits on marathoning this year, at least for Boulder Backroads. I feel like an unjustly condemned prisoner, a little, and at the same time, absurd for even making the comparison. It's like, wow, I worked my ass off to get here, and now that I've come all this way, somebody is going to tell me I have to stop. It felt okay the other day when we went to the res, but I barely got a quarter of a mile in before the pain started up, merciless and vigilant. Gregory, the victim of some dozen or so cortisone shots, knee draining, and left with as little as 15% of the cartilage he really needs in his right knee, has been trying to warn me about my upcoming doctor appointment. I'm not going to like what he's going to have to say, orthopedic doctors generally go straight for surgery with chondromalacia, and in all likelihood I'd be dropping out of the marathon. The knowledge of this information is what brought me to tears the other day. I wasn't hurting that badly, I was just angry and sad. Angry because no matter what else, I had worked this hard to get here, and I probably wasn't going to hit my goal. Sad because that's a pretty pathetic notion to be angry about, my knee problems knocking me out of the marathon, if that's what happens (who knows? maybe the doc can fashion me some orthotics and I'll be good as new).

So instead of being angry and sad, I have decided instead to, at the very least, TRY to be grateful, instead. Grateful for everything in my life that allows me to run, grateful that I have food, shelter, good kicks and clean drinking water, which puts me above a good half of the rest of the world in terms of gifts. Grateful that my training brought me closer to my dad and allowed him the opportunity to participate in something he didn't really have the chance to the first time around, when I was a kid. Grateful that I've quit smoking and am making generally healthier lifestyle choices. Grateful that I'd rediscovered how incredible it is to just feel so good about something that's so easy, so natural, as running. Grateful that I have an amazing group of family and friends behind me no matter what. And yes, of course, grateful for Gregory. Gregory's one of those people who give you the impression that he's very emotionally in tune with himself and those around him, but not overt at all about expressing it. While I can appreciate this, I'm much the opposite most of the time, loud, dramatic, and overemotional. That day at the res, though, wasn't like that. It was a quiet little fury, a miserable anguish that I really didn't want to share with anyone, let alone the world around me. I was all at once terribly upset over my training and my knee, and mortified that I was upset--after all, what right did I have to be angry over something so insignificant. At the time I didn't want to display anything; the tears on my face were bad enough. At the same time I needed an anchor, something to hold me to the world. I watched Greg run towards me, his form has improved a thousandfold since he and his coach did a gait analysis, and he looked really beautiful running. And at the end of it, he was my anchor, holding me and holding me down at the same time, keeping me from screaming or flying into a million pieces, but letting me cry. As soon as we began talking I felt better, and even got him roaring with laughter--I made some crack about talking like a toughass and not being able to cry when you do that, and he lost it in giggles. It was a good reminder...to dwell on the things you can cherish, from a long weekend spent with relatives rarely seen to a tiny moment in your life like feeling on top of the world when you make someone you love laugh, and to let the rest of it go. Life's too short to spend any significant amount of it crying. And besides, there's no crying in baseball...or running.

Training Like The Pros: The Gold Standard

When you train for a significant event, like a marathon or, I’m assuming, an Ironman or the like, suddenly “train like the pros” is a phrase that seems to pop out everywhere. This is partially because it’s one of the multibillion-dollar fitness industry’s ploys to get you to buy a bunch of crap you don’t need. The reality is, the pros may or may not use that special diet, they may or may not use whatever absurd ab-crunch-wiz-meister-machine they’re responsible for touting as one of their endorsements, and they may or may not train with a particular type of endurance drink, energy gel, or other product…at least not exclusively. One part of their reality you can virtually guarantee is their coaching.

What sets the pros apart from the rest of us “athletes”, aside from muscular structure some of us would literally kill for, kitchens outfitted with scales measuring down to 1/32 of a pound for properly controlling their food intake, and the best of the best of the best—and their choice among those—training equipment under the sun, is their coaching. They’ve got anything from one to several to a small army of individuals goading them, riding along their routes with them when they want them to, leaving them alone when they want them to, cajoling, wheedling, barking orders at the, well, basically, doing whatever it takes to get—and keep—them in peak condition. Think about Lance Armstrong, well, the guy’s an athletic idol and should be worshipped properly, but standing ever so slightly in his shadow is his coach, and Lance would be nowhere without Carmichael. He’d still be riding dirt roads in Plano, Texas and Americans would still never know the great sporting event known as the Tour de France as anything more than, “What? That bike race?” And it’s a symbiotic relationship; nobody’d know Carmichael without Lance either, but at some level or another, behind every great athlete is some great coaching mechanism, whether it’s a nutritionist, a strength trainer, a training strategist or all of the above. If it’s all of the above AND they’re getting up with you to do your eight-mile route at six o’clock in the morning with a car full of sport drink, water and Balance bars, well, then, they’re a coach. Or at least they’re part of a coaching mechanism. Most of these coaches get paid very well to do these kinds of things, in part because even the world’s greatest athletes don’t have friends good enough to do this kind of stuff for them, in part because the athletes can afford it and in part because, well, because they bring along a lot of other helpful information as well…like maximizing use of your heart rate at certain stages of your race, gait analysis, approaches to nutrition, research into injuries, stuff mortal men—or mortal athletes—can’t be bothered with.

As a pseudo-athlete, as I refer to myself with a wry grin, I have neither the financial capacity nor the skill set to require such a person, or set of people, in my life. My boyfriend recently hired some “help” in his Ironman training, a person he won’t refer to as a coach but whose role mimics that kind of support structure, but he’s much more an athlete than I am. If you look at our calves, you see what I mean: his are cut, defined, well-shaped and perfectly toned, and mine are…well, they’re getting there. That’s a good enough measurement for me, and though Gregory laughs, it’s rather telling as well. Gregory functions as my sort of coach; when he’s here he provides good motivation for me to work out (kinda hard to back out of a four-mile run when your boyfriend is taking on a three-hour bike ride followed by two hours of pace running), assistance in analyzing and treating minor injuries, advice on nutrition and training plans and whether or not I’m going to be able to actually do this thing. With him a zillion miles away in France, however, and myself now on vacation at my father’s house, I’ve become so spoiled rotten in the last two days of training alone that I’m not so sure drop bags or even the luxury of using Greg’s condo as a water/Accelerade/snack stop are going to do it for me when I get back to Boulder.

Visiting my father has always meant him having to adjust his work schedule to try to get as much vacation time off as possible as well as, generally, a decent amount of time on my own at his house, kind of left to my own devices. Since his diagnosis with leukemia a year and a half ago, and subsequent battle with/recovery from the cancer, rendered him first on full-time disability and now only able to do work from home, things around here have changed a lot. I haven’t been out to visit since Dad’s diagnosis, and a few things hit me with some degree of shock: the fact that the kitchen has been turned into a half-kitchen, half-pharmacy, the five times a day my dad has to take massive amounts of medication to keep the bone marrow transplant in check as well as the cancer in remission, the catheter implanted in my father’s chest…it all came as a huge shock especially to me, as my only experience of his disease has been through him telling me about what’s been going on, and that has been largely censored. While I appreciate my father’s trying to shelter me from the harsh realities of his battle, it all kind of culminated in a tearful first night for me, crying with my dad over everything that had changed.

In one way, though, at least, his leukemia did benefit me, or at least me the marathoner-in-training. Not to say I wouldn’t give anything, including my legs and/or my ability to run ever again, for my father to be healthy, but in light of present circumstances, my dad’s illness, in restricting his ability to work outside of home, has become a boon to my training. As Dad’s been going a little stir-crazy, the opportunity to go out and help train me has helped fill the time a bit for him.

For me, it’s meant that I am getting the absolute gold standard in training. Every half-mile or so I run, Dad’s waiting for me in his Kia Sportage, hazards flashing in the early morning or dusk twilight. The hazards have become what I look for, what encourages me and pushes me forward, as well as the driver’s side window rolling down and Dad’s head popping out, asking, “What do you need? Do you need water? The stuff?” (“The stuff” being his phrase for a metabolic booster beverage that tastes absolutely awful but enhances my stamina like nothing else.) Sometimes he gets out of the car—with the protective mask he now sports covering his mouth—and holds out water bottles, “the stuff” in one hand, Gatorade in another, my Camelbak filled with icy water hanging from his elbow. Sometimes I run right by, but a lot of the time I take full advantage of the luxury treatment I’m receiving and stop for a dousing of water, or sport drink, or on longer runs, a bite or two of an energy bar.

Training here is probably going to come with its setbacks as well…mostly, these will manifest when I get back to Colorado and have to return to high-altitude, meaning low-oxygen, training in the arid heat of early August. On the up side, I definitely won’t miss the humidity or the oppressive heat it brings, beating down on a runner’s body at all sides. I will miss the soundtrack of the Carolina outdoors, though, as so many crickets, katydids, birds, bugs and other creatures create an amazing racket that just completely fills the ears like prairie dogs’ whistles—my usual Colorado soundtrack—cannot. Most of all, though, I’ll miss my training buddy sitting out there in his car, hazards flashing, encouraging me with water, sport drinks, and most of all, an ear-to-ear grin that tells me how happy he is that I’m here. Nothing quite motivates like that kind of spirit, and that I will certainly miss the most.

Papaki

This post has been a long time coming. I've kind of been waiting for awhile to write this, ever since I found out my ex-boyfriend, Bob, would be moving to San Francisco at the end of this month. Call it denial or call it...well, denial, there's really no other word for it. This is what happens when the most monumental force outside of your family is suddenly gone.

To be fair, we haven't hung out regularly in over two years, when our relationship ended with a fight every five minutes. At the same time, I could pick up the phone and call him anytime. We had a relatively amicable break-up...well, we had a dozen relatively amicable break-ups and a couple that weren't so friendly, but the final one, the doozy, was pretty friendly, and we've stayed on good terms ever since. As much as we'd been through in the nearly four years we were together, I kind of felt like he'd never be really too far out of my reach. I guess that shows my age well. I'm only twenty-three, and Bob is thirty-four, though he is more like a thousand and one intellectually and twenty-five socially, emotionally and physically. He's absolutely great-looking, he works out like a maniac and has ripped pecs, abs and arms to show for it. He's one of the smartest people I've ever known. He was almost the one, almost Mr. Right, almost the perfect boyfriend. He was sweet and brilliant and funny and romantic and head-over-heels in love with me.

And sometimes he was cynical, cngry over nothing, negative, and would bitch over absolutely anything. His friends used to call him "The Preacher"...need I say more? It's not that he didn't have anything smart to say, or that he hated life...quite the opposite. Bob existed in that paradoxical realm where he loved life but hated the people he had to share it woth. Fellow students, jocks, sorority girls ("sorostitutes", we'd joke), rich kids, basically anyone who wasn't foreign or anti-society. The foreigners and the punks, that's who we wanted to hang out with. People who had culture and people who desperately wanted to. And sometimes succeeded.

I was, of course, as smitten with him as he was with me. He wasn't my first love, but he was my first adult love. He showed me that relationships don't have to end just because a couple breaks up, that you really can be "just friends" even when your past leaves something to be desired. He taught me that the amount of fighting is directly proportional to the amount of making up, times three whenever possible. He was the first--and only!--man I've ever spent an entire weekend in bed with, just curled up under the covers, venturing out only for sustenance and then, rarely. He's the only person outside of my parents to give me a bath. He taught me the meaning of compromise, and he showed me how to be myself...and even though that is what drove me away in the end, I can never thank him enough for it. He taught me never to settle for less than what I expected and to push for more if that's what I really wanted. He introduced me to punk rock, Japanese hardcore and the Beatles. Also reggae, ska, surf, trip-hop and psychedelia, as well as the coolest drum & bass I've ever heard. Through him I was introduced to David Cross, George Carlin and other funny, angry comedians.

I wonder, now, after all this time, what he got out of it? I can go on listing forever the benefits and consequences-both good and bad-of being with Bob for so long. Thanks to Bob I got to go to Europe; we found a kitten there and brought her back with us and now she's my cat. I'll never look at SKataki and not think of him. Or flip thorugh my CD collection, or hear a slam on Fox News or some rude anti-Republican remark, without my brain going instantly to Bob. He is the rare sort of person who stops crowds when he opens his mouth, who thinks before he speaks, stands up for what he believes in and only backs down from fights when he's in imminent danger...and sometimes not then either. He is passionate about his beliefs and convictions and doesn't admit defeat easily. He is one of the smartest, most talented and wisest people I've ever been fortunate enough to know. Even though it pains me to see him go and I know I will miss him, I'm happy for him. Or at least, I'm trying to be. Human beings are selfish by nature and I'm no exception. I want Papaki here where I can call him up to go grab a beer anytime, or go for a hike. Or hang out and listen to records. Or watch movies. Or bitch about the general state of the world these days. Or anything. He'll read this, maybe, at some point, and think yeah, right, when's the last time we did any of that. Time is fleeting and I'm sure that once he's gone, I'll have a better sense of how much I miss him. That's how absence works...you never feel it until they're gone. For real.

Bob leaves in two days to go see his family, then I leave to go see mine, then when I'm off visiting my zillions of sibs and nieces and nephews and my dad and stepmother on the East coast, he leaves for San Fran. We're going to try to get together tomorrow night. I'd like to see him once more before he goes. It's a strange thing to think of how much you put into something, and what it is to you once it's over. I don't believe that anything in life is ever so permanent you can close the book on it and for all I know twenty years from now we'll run across each other and become close again. For now, though, it makes me sad to know he's leaving. And at the same time, I hope that his new home has more to offer than this place. Part of me doesn't want him to leave, but a greater part of me would never stop him.

Just miss him.

Hitting The Wall

After yesterday's caffeinated psychosis led to a middle-of-the-night run and a brain buzz so solid that at three a.m., feeling as if my brain was boiling, I alternately blogged away and e-mailed my boyfriend as I felt my cranium simmer in its own juices. Today I took it a LITTLE easier: one latte and two Mountain Dews only. And I finished them before two p.m. And I didn't finish the latte at all. Anyway, that plus an hour and a half of sleep last night plus a grueling day at work plus necessary trips to two grocery stores postwork all added up to one very busy, tired Dondi. On top of which, well, I've had cramps that could cripple a rhino all day and upon arriving home and readying myself for the eight-miler before me, I found that they weren't getting any better. Oh well, I decided. I had a little snack because I was starving, waited a little while so I wasn't running on a still-digesting stomach, and headed out.

Off and on for the first two miles I felt a little weird, but okay. I'd definitely eaten too soon before running and my stomach bouncing up and down along with the rest of me wasn't helping the digestive process. The cramps weren't as steady or relentless but when they DID hit it was like a ton of bricks set on fire in my lower abdomen...and then they'd subside in a few minutes. I was walking a lot but at a decent pace, and I still planned on finishing the run.

At two and a half miles, I hit a wall. Suddenly the term "bonking" that serious athletes use to describe what happens when everything either just freezes up or shuts down was completely and entirely defined for me. When I was running as a kid, I never bonked. This is an adults-only affliction. Even if kids do hit the wall it's rare, and they usually don't know it anyway. As a kid you've got the capability to push your body to the max and it's created to compensate for that. The human body has evolved, like everything else, to cope with the stress of age on the physical form. One result is that we shut things down more quickly when we're pushed too hard as adults. The last time I was a serious runner was when I was twelve years old...bonking, hitting the wall, whatever you want to call it didn't exist. Between my awesome recovery rate and the fact that because I'm a total pansy and don't want to risk an asthma attack I don't push myself unnecessarily, I just figured bonking was an experience I'd either gloss over entirely or not have to enjoy for awhile.

Boy, was I wrong. The combination of the heat, exercise, snakc, cramps, fatigue and stress at two-point-five miles all came together and formed one big, scary--though completely invisible to everyone but me--wall. It was nearly literal, in fact I think it probably would've described what was going on inside of me if I looked to the causal onserver as if I literally had run into a wall in the middle of the path, just...BAM!...and she's down and out.

When I hit I was running a reasonable pace, but nothing race-paced style or crazy. Suddenly my stomach turned to a clenched fist around a core of hot lead, accompanied by a mild crunching sound. Yeah, the sound at least was probably all in my head, but that was all it took. My legs froze, my hands froze (in mid-pump, no less) and my stomach...well, my stomach boiled over. I managed to lean over to the side of the path and scramble a step or two away from it before my breakfast, lunch and snack came up all at once. Once I finished there, the bile came up next. Somewhere in the middle of it all my bowels threatened to unleash, and I at once saw a flash-frozen image of me hobbling home with a massive brown sticky spot on the back of my shorts. I at least held that much together.

I think I threw up four times. It got so bad I called Peter to ask if he was nearby and could provide a quick rescue in case I needed one. Friends in this world are hard enough to come by, but friends good enough to rescue a tired, sweat-drenched, fatigued runner reeking of sweat and bile are absolutely worth their weight in gold. And platinum. Combined. Fortunately for the sake of my pride and Peter's stomach, I was able to struggle home on my own.

The worst part, though, was that after the second or third violent purge my stomach decided to force to ensure I wasn't ever going to forget, or eat before running, run tired and fatigued, stressed out and cramped, again, I almost collapsed on the path. I sat down and put my head between my knees to stop the world from spinning. I heard rhythmic footsteps approach behind me, and turned slightly to see three real runners approaching.

I feel the same way around real runners that I do around real cyclists. Awkward, large and clumsy, I try to hide my flabby legs and poorly-shaped, slowly-coming-to-form calf muscles and avoid their glances as much as possible. (With real cyclists, I put my head down and pedal my huge cruiser by as fast as I can, ignoring the looks that could be cast in my direction.) This time, though, I was clearly in trouble, and while these two men and one woman carried the form I craved and the muscle tone I would kill for, they were apparently, aside from demi-gods of running in my mind, kind enough and human enough to stop or at least, for one of the men to jog in place and ask if I was okay. I replied that I was and smiled weakly, then scraped myself up off of the pavement and wandered on, jogging, walking, running, and puking my way home.

Later I recalled what I was thinking of when it all hit: Gregory's blog and the post he wrote on the Wildflower triathlon. He bonked on the ride and described the unpleasantness of it all succinctly, and that's when I realized that, if nothing else, I was well on my way to becoming a real runner. Hitting the wall meant if nothing else that I was hard-core enough to train regardless of really lousy, should've-caused-me-to-think-again circumstances involving the condition my body was in. Now, I don't know whether to thank my wonderful boyfriend or smack him. Fortunately for him, he's a few continents and an ocean away in France with his family and I love him too much to smack him for inspiring a healthy Dondi anew. Hey, you can't date a triathlete and be a generally unhealthy individual. You don't have to compare heart rates and VO2 maxes or even train together (especially when you can't even pace him) or share the same sports, but you do have to keep an interest in being a rather healthy individual (news flash, G: one Milky Way or donut a week doesn't make you unhealthy, hate to break it to you, babe) in general. It's just one of those things that you kind of have to have in common. I'm glad I didn't meet Gregory during my partying years.

The other very important information I remember about that particular post is that it was largely centered around the idea of mind over matter. Which was also true for me. I was completely done, strung out, gone on everything that eventually brought me, quite literally--a few times--(and I digress on further descriptions; you can all breathe a sigh of relief) to my knees, but I continued on. I continued on to purge further at times, much to my chagrin, but also to walk home and not have to rely on a good friend for a ride home in the end. I even ran a bit more. But I got there on my own. Mind over matter...even when the matter is something you'd rather not be forced to deal with.

But most importantly, I was reminded of the power inherent in a good friend. Nothing gets you back on top of your game like knowing that no matter what kind of shit shape you might be in, no matter how lousy you look and feel, whether or not you smell so badly you may make your friendretch, they'll pick you up off of the trail, haul your ass home and if you're in bad enough shape, probably stick around until you drink enough Recharge or Cytomax to at least get some fluids and electrolytes moving through you and are fully conscious again. I'm glad I reached my door by myself, mostly to make sure my good friendship with Peter was preserved through the evils of athletic smellydom but also because it really did prove mind over matter, but I am more grateful that I have a friend or two in mind--and with phone numbers plugged into my cell, which gets tucked into my Camelbak and goes with me when I run--who would come to my rescue when necessary. I have only a few, Shawn, Peter, and Kelly come to mind, but they'd give me the shirt off of their backs or at least a ride home from a terrifyingly halted run, albeit with all the windows in the car down, anytime I needed one. You only need a few, but they light up your whole world and make you smile again even when you're trudging along a bike trail at the side of a state highway, sick as a dog and ready to call it quits altogether. I think the knowledge that you have a rescue makes it easier to get home in the end...knowing that you've got that "safety net" makes it okay to push a little bit harder. So thanks, Peter. I didn't get anywhere near my eight miles but you did make it possible for me to get home by myself tonight...if for no other reason than I would feel incredibly bad for inflicting myself on you at the time. But mostly, knowing I had a safety net made it possible to try to soar again, even with a metaphorical broken wing. Thanks for that. Good friends are hard to come by, and absolutely essential to hang onto.

A Caffeine Binge...and a Dramatic Overhaul

When I was in high school and perhaps before that, caffeine was my friend. Between working forty-hour weeks at a grocery store in my adopted hometown, pulling a full load of high school courses and taking a class at Colorado State University, caffeine was my best friend, first in the form of NoDoz and later more subliminally, as a latte or a Coca-Cola. Collegiate years found me waiting for the bus at my dorm or later, apartment, with a cottle of Coke in hand or, if I'd pulled an all-nighter, a Starbucks Doubleshot. During my last week of finals of my senior year of college, I worked fifty hours at my job, took all of my finals, and subsisted almost entirely on java and sugar.

What the hell happens to your body between graduation and two years later? Somewhere in there I hit a wall. Caffeine, no longer a boon to my success, turned against me. If I drank coffee later than noon I'd be up all night. Life at an office rather than life sprinting around a small grocery store exacerbated these effects, and recently, I've been terrified to go down to the office cafeteria and use our extraordinarily expensive espresso machine any later than nine a.m. This is probably a good thing. Depending on what report you read, caffeine is either the worst substance known to man and can create greater devastation among the human populus than a nuclear holocaust, or is the harginer of success, fame and fortune. Taking into account my body's chemistry as well as such contrasting evidence, I tend to remain in the "moderation is key" social order and drink espresso when I am really dragging and otherwise swig a Coke or two during the day.

This is, of course, up until now whem at 2:22 in the morning, I find myself composing far-too-chatty e-mails to my boyfriend Gregory who, eight hours away in the midst of his morning in Paris hasn't the slightest clue that his girlfriend has gone off of the insomniac's deep end and, well, writing this blog. Let this be a lesson to the java-holics like myself out there: too much of a good thing IS possible, and can have dire consequences.

Late in the Fourth of July long weekend I learned that my pseudo-superior, our Pricing promotions coordinator, who I effectively work under/assist, was going to be out for the duration of this week with a family emergency. Armed with that knowledge I set out to work yesterday morning at 7:15 a.m., chugging a Starbucks Doubleshot to wake me up sufficiently for the day. Around ten-thirty I got a double-espresso latte at my office cafeteria, and throughout the day I drank two 20-oz. Mountain Dew sodas, which contain the highest consumer caffeine content available in soda form except for Jolt!, which either doesn't exist anymore or can only be found in certain areas (like the convenience-store equivalent to a video0store "back room"). Upon arriving home after nearly twelve hours at work I wrote for a bit, fed the cat, ate some dinner and went to bed. Or so I thought.

The chemicals coursed through me like a solar flare. I couldn't sleep. Tossing and turning, I finally turned to some academic reading, thinking that nothing would make me sleep like the biography of Ataturk, which is terribly fascinating to me but only if I'm in the right frame of mind. Apparently enough chemical stimulants will get you there...after three chapters (of which I believe I've retained nothing) I find myself at my computer, blogging away and writing e-mail to Gregory in France. I even went for a jog about an hour ago to no avail...blood pumping vigorously merely increases the high, and while I am starting to think a serious sedative, like the bottle of Skyy in my freezer, is going to be the only way I sleep, I dare not drink now, having to be awake and alert (or at least appearing to be alert) for my early day at work tomorrow. Today, rather.

While I've no doubt that caffeine has its benefits, both to the extremely overworked and the endurance athlete (both titles I will attain daily this week) overuse can make you miserable. So if there ARE any athletes besides Gregory reading this blog, do yourselves a favor: unless you're falling asleep at your desk, keep the java to a minimum. Say no to the neon-green beverage. And for God's sake, stay away from the Starbucks Doubleshot. You can down one in the two minutes it took me to get to work today (thank you, Gregory, and your lovely vehicle), and the effects are more potent that you want to realize.

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.

The Last Time I Raced

The last time I raced was the state varsity cross-country championships in 1993. I was twelve years old and my team placed eleventh in the state. The next year I joined the marching band and the corss-country team placed first in state. Incidentally, the marching band won more contests that year than we'd ever wone before. It was a banner year for Northside Christian School, and with a K-12 population of 1000, one of the opportunities presented to students at the school--aside from the enviable luxury of being brainwashed by the Southern Baptist Convention--was the very good chance that if you were a musician, an athlete, a scholar or all of the above, chances were you'd be pushed into competition with upperclassmen while you were still in junior high. When I joined the cross-country team there wasn't even a question of whether I'd be on JV or varsity...there simply wasn't a JV team, and varsity needed a second alternate. I ran seven-minute miles, culminating in a 6:54 personal best, and a 14:08 personal best two-mile, the length of the girls' meets. In Florida the weather is easily bewildering and despite the fact that we routinely ran between ten and twenty miles a day, girls raced a comfortable two miles to the boys' 5ks, then considered too long and hot for the fragile females.

The last time I raced I wore a silver-and-blue-and-white cross-country uniform, a sleeveless, shapeless top over baggy basketball-style shorts and Asics running shoes. The shapeless top housed a shapeless, bony girl-child's torso, the long, baggy shorts accommodated well-muscled, nicely-shaped legs and the Asics were stuffed with bony feet constantly propelling me forward. The last time I raced I was just doing what I was supposed to do: run, dammit. Run fast. Run hard. Wear yourself out. Be red-faced, bleary-eyed, wild-haired and sweaty as hell when you cross that finish line. Run hard and fast. Or else.

This time, things were a little different. For one, nobody cared what my place time was. Including me. I wasn't out to win any medals or help a team place. I was registered in the citizens' race of the Bolder Boulder, one anonymous face among a sea of thousands. 48,000 or thereabouts, to be totally accurate. I knew five other fellow racers: my boyfriend Gregory, my good friend Brian, and Gregory's friends Janelle, Brad and Shannon. Instead of being surrounded by my teammates, I was surrounded by a sea of teeming humanity, everyone from hard-core runners who'd trained for months hoping to keep their finish time within a ten-second span to...well, to people like me, overweight former athletes who quit the worst habit anyone could ever start two months before and started haphazardly training. My "uniform" this time was a white Champion sleeveless shirt made of a synthetic material called Dri-Max or Dri-Fit or something of that nature, a pair of light blue running shorts and an awesome pair of running kicks that Gregory bought for me as a congratulatory present for quitting smoking. Oddly, they're Asics. This time, I didn't worry about my finish time so much...around an hour would be nice, but no big deal. I wasn't out to prove myself to anyone. I really just wanted a couple of things: I wanted to finish, no matter what. I also wanted to run the stadium, that is, the last tenth of a mile or so, where all of the runners for the Bolder Boulder wind up, looping into and around inside of CU's Folsom Field, my alma mater's football stadium. I wanted to run that part. The rest I'd leave to...fate? Chance? Destiny? God? Basically, whatever was looking out for me.

It was the coldest Bolder Boulder I've ever seen. I've lived here in this town to witness six Bolder Boulders now, and I was rather infuriated at the weather. However, being a Coloradan, my level of weather-based fury is rather tempered to a cool shrug. I'm used to the fickle weather, and it seemed fitting, after awhile, that my first Bolder Boulder would be the coldest anyone had seen in years. I fiddled with the safety pins holding my bib to my shirtfront driving us all over to the start line. It was the first time in ages I'd worn a race bib. GB317 on the front, and on the back I wore an "I'm Running In Honor Of" memorial bib. It wasn't in memory, but it was in honor...in my own little way, I had to dedicate this race to higher powers than myself, so I figured I'd run in honor of "those whose support got me this far", as I wrote, "Mom, Dad, Gregory, my wonderful family and friends..." etc., etc. I figured even if I sucked, maybe their spirits would be behind me, kicking my ass along a bit.

I stopped ot walk early on, and Brad and Brian, who'd been staying close to me, dusted me. I waved them on, not wanting to hold anyone back, and for most of the rest of the race, I ran alone. At one point Shannon ran by me as I was walking through a water stop. "You okay?" She called out, and I smiled and waved.

A couple of cool things about the Bolder Boulder. First of all, it's held on Memorial Day Monday and draws thousands of people from all over the country to this little mountain town to do this little 10k. It carries an infamy I was already familiar with, but only as a spectator. As a runner, I began to understand why people take weekends off and haul to Boulder for the race. For one, the spectators are awesome. Everything from Blues Brothers and Elvis impersonators to really, really bad garage bands to full-scale sound systems booming good vibrations and tinny boomboxes playing scratchy eighties music accompanies your run. At several points you'll come across belly dancers, hippie squads flashing peace signs, students armed with massive squirt guns hosing hot runners down and then your run-of-the-mill spectators: families, neighbors in bath robes, elderly couples waving and smiling, enthusiastic people of every age, race, occupation and athletic capability rooting you on loudly. All along the route people call out your number, random well-wishers encouraging you forward. I don't remember whether or not I smiled a lot during my cross-country races, but I know that if I did, my determined, gritted-teeth grin came nowhere near the heartfelt, one-thousand-watt, loose, cheerful smile plastered across my face for the duration of this 10k. I slapped five with at least twenty different people, from the Dan Aykroyd impersonator to a five year old little girl who jumped excitedly out at me, her hands outstretched.

Another cool thing is the run into the stadium. You finish your run feeling like an Olympic athlete. Just the buzz in the stadium created by the people in the stands waiting for their runner and/or finished runners chatting or sheering others on creates an enormous excitement and doing that half-lap around the inside of Folsom, it feels like everyone is cheering for you. No matter how beat you are, you have to run at that point.

Fellow runners are great forms of encouragement, especially when they don't know it. At one point a man ran by me and tapped me on the back. "I like your bib," he said, tapping the "in honor of" bib pinned to the back of my shirt. I have no idea who that guy was, I don't even remember what he looks like, but he gave me a second or, by that time, perhaps fourth or fifth, wind.

Meeting up with friends afterwards, comparing times (especially when you start in the wrong wave like most of us did) and goody bags, talking about the race and sharing our own little moments of it, and, this time, getting the bag Gregory packed with all of our stuff in it and tugging our warm-ups on over our shorts and chilly thighs, are all fun moments. I almost missed my favorite postrace moment, though.

My mom and I spoke the night before and while she'd been saying she wanted to come in for it, she wasn't sure if she was going to be able to make th ehourlong drive down, find parking, and get to the stadium in time. Life's been stressful for her lately, and she had company in town, an old family friend from Jersey who I didn't even really remember, who would have to come along as well. When I hung up with her, I was pretty sure she wasn't going to be there and, consequently, I kind of forgot to look for her, especially once I found my friends.

Fortunately my boyfriend is more conscientious than I am. As I was busy chatting with our friends, I looked down and over a section to see him chatting with a couple of strange women. One of them began dialing something on his cell phone, and suddenly my phone began to ring. As I picked it up and heard her voice over the line, I saw the woman using his phone turn slightly towards me. Mom had made it after all, and Gregory was keeping her--and her long-distance friend--company while they tried to locate me. I made my way through the stands to her, and she greeted me--despite my ignorance of her presence after she'd driven down in freezing weather at the crack of dawn to see me run, only to wait around an hour after my finish until I finally found her--with a big hug and congratulations. It was starting to feel a little more like the last time I raced, and even though my mom only stayed for a few minutes, the familiarity she brought to the day brought tears to my eyes as I walked back across campus to meet my friends and Gregory after walking Mom and her friend to their car. My legs were sore and shaky, I was a little dehydrated and I really just wanted to stretch well and sit down for awhile. I felt exhilarated and exhausted at the same time, but also happy and content. I'd done it. I'd finished, I'd run substantially more than I'd walked and I ran the stadium. My time was, at about an hour and a few minutes, a bit better than I originally thought it'd be, and I was now among the Boulderites who'd wear their Bolder Boulder shirts proudly about town. I happily set off across campus to meet my friends.

My euphoria came to a slightly halt, though, if only momentarily. While little could really change the way this race made me feel, and nothing could take the experience away, there was a little dark lining to this silver cloud. I hadn't beaten Gregory by any stretch of the imagination. Nobody in our group had, actually; he'd outpaced everyone and came in first of all of us, even Janelle, the serious marathoner among us. Next time I'll have to remind myself of a few things:
-Never ever ever bet your odds of winning are better than an Ironman triathlete's, unless you are one as well.
-Train better, not harder. Training too hard sidelined me for a week with a nasty strain to my left foot and swollen knees due to poorly-stretched ITB muscles (I am STILL paying for this one). While I'm not sure that week would've necessarily helped, it woulddn't have hurt, and as it is, he only beat me by about ten minutes or so.
-Never ever ever gamble with the French. Look at Vietnam.
-If you're going to make such a gamble, make sure you don't mind the consequences too much. In my case I didn't. Neither did he.

On Coastal Breezes and Air Conditioners

When my mother first moved my sister and I here from Florida in August of 1995, I came kicking and screaming. When most peopleuse that phrase it's a figure of speech. I mean it literally: I was kicking and screaming. I was already an angry, confused adolescent who thought I knew everything, basking in my self-made depression and inner turmoil. I threatened to move to my father's house at least twice a day, I screamed at my mother about everything, and I slammed my door often enough that my mother took it away...multiple times. I...was...pissed. Everything I knew was gone from my life; everything and everyone familiar was now two thousand miles away. My beach, my Gulf, my house, my school, my friends...and I was stuck here in this hell hole freezing my butt off (the days would sometimes get to seventy degress in mid-August...that was the dead-of-winter low where I was from) and feeling constantly as if I was breathing through a straw. Boy, was I angry.

Ten years later I look back and laugh. Florida never held any promise for me, and while my life hasn't gone exactly as I would have liked it to (working for the second-largest natural-foods chain in the world managing promotions for one of our chains of stores isn't quite as glamorous as being a well-published author or even a lawyer or teacher), that has next to nothing to do with where I live. "This hell hole" has become home, and most of the time, you couldn't pay me enough to leave. I can barely afford to live in this town and yet I can't imagine how much I'd miss it if I had to move. Going to other places around the US and then to Greece over the last few years has given me a unique perspective on my home, and I often wonder if all Colorado residents feel the same inner glee I do when I look around other places in the world...like, hee hee, I have to put up with this for now but then I get to go back to Boulder! I'm sure most people have an attachment to their hometowns, home states/provinces/countries, etc., but mine feels better than theirs, I feel, if only because I had to fight myself so hard to really love this place.

Boulder proper, as a city, also happens to be one of the greatest places in the world if you're an athlete...or a wannabe like me. I remember reading recently in some fitness magazine quote that was ranking neighborhoods in terms of how healthy families/people who live there are, that something along the lines of a dozen Ironman (Hawaii) placers live in a ten-block radius of each other in the country's "healthiest neighborhood", the Newlands area of North Boulder. There are an overabundance of massage therapists, yoga practitioners, and of course your run-of-the-mill cyclists, runners, swimmers and triathletes. I'm five-foot-seven and around 140 pounds, not scrawny like I used to be but hardly fat...I have a little jiggle here and there when I jog and hey, I'm working on it. Going to run in a jog bra and a pair of shorts, however, as I quickly found today, makes me feel like the town's only fat person. Everyone else out today (not too many; most of the serious cyclists were out this morning and only the real crazy people like me would exercise during the hottest time of day) was slender, cut and trim, without an ounce of extraneous fat, and these are the not-so-serious athletes...the ones who only do 60-mile bike rides every Saturday and Sunday rather than 150-milers. I am just about the perfect weight for my height, perhaps a bit high, but in this town, I'ma fat person. It's almost amusing...and it definitely works in your favor when you're trying to get into shape. Aside from that, living in Boulder--or at any altitude, really--comes with it the privilege of training at altitude. If you watch any kind of sports, you know what advantage I'm talking about: you've seen the oxygen tanks lining the sidelines at football and basketball games, the benches at hockey games, and the dugouts at baseball games, when teams come from out of town to play our Broncos, Nuggets, Avalanche or Rockies. The reverse is true when you go to sea level: you last longer than usual (and usually, than most other people with similar fitness regimens) and you have more energy because your brain isn't focused entirely on sucking up as much oxygen as possible. You recover better and faster, and more completely.

There are a few benefits to living in Florida--and training and running in Florida--that I miss, and these came to me on my five-mile run today. The first came when I started thinking about getting home, about four miles or so in. I was getting fatigued, and I haven't trained in the past week after straining my knee and foot last Saturday. At my boyfriend's suggestion (Gregory has also become my impromptu sports physician and physical therapist) I laid off for a few days...and at my mind's laziness laid off for a few more, so I knew it'd be a painful run (it was, but not as bad as I thought...I did manage to get my Zen/zoned-out feeling going for a bit there) to start. Four miles in I began thinking about how mice it'd be to get home...then remembered it wasn't going to be a whole lot cooler at my house. Coloradans consider air conditioning an unnecessary luxury most of the time, and while most homes--including mine--have it, the air-conditioning unit in my apartment is pitiful at best, a wall model that makes the living room slightly cooler--sort of--and is so noisy it drowns out the television. I keep the shades drawn most of the time in the summer--which makes a dramatic difference--and the fan on in my bedroom to keep air circulating in there. Still, I knew it'd be only slightly better than outside, and my hopes faded.

Nearing the finish, I slowed to a walk, taking deep breaths and lengthy strides. A cool, dry brreze came thorugh and lifted my hsir off of my sweltering neck. Colorado's summers have an interesting efect: they're generally cooler in overall temperature over the span of summer days, but we're so much closer to the sun that it's 5000+ feet more intense than in Florida. Colorado also has about the aridity of a desert, whereas in Florida, if I didn't blow-dry my thinck, strawberry-blonde hair in the morning, it would still be wet when I came home from school. The air is so dense you can almost drink it in, making for not much fun during meets and races. I was suddenly brought back to those meets: during the hot, hot months of August and September, feeling as if you were running through water and drowning on your own breath.

But Florida, unlike Colorado, also has coastal breezes...that is, winds that sweep in from the Gulf, bringing floods of cooler, seaspray-charged air with them. For a moment, I weighed the possibilities...which was really worse?

Then I looked up and caught a view of the Flatirons. Days like today the world-famous rock-climbing precipices of Boulder's foothills--the Flatirons, which were closed for some time due to climbing deaths and boast cliff faces that invert climbers completely in some spots--look like a painting, or some fantastic mirage. There's no way to phrase in words the cut of the redd-ish-brown rocks and green treeline against the blue blue mountain sky, snowcapped peaks shining in the distance. They look as though they can't possibly be real. The first time I ever saw the mountains, when I was fourteen and woke up on our first day in Colorado, I could not stop staring. They did look like a painting...too big, too beautiful, and too alive to be real. Then, I gaped in awe. This time I smiled and put my head back down, breathing in deeply through my nose. The air smelled like pine needles and warm cedar, and for a moment I could have just as easily been on a trail in the mountains as I was standing in front of my apartment building doing my cool-down stretches. This place is my home.

Hey man...thanks

Almost everybody meets at least one person who has a profound impact on their life. Most of us meet a few. Some of us are lucky enough...or perhaps, thoughtful enough...to realize it. My family, especially my parents and my little sister Emily, most of my teachers but most especially my high school band director, Corry Petersen, my best friend Shawn, my ex-boyfriend Bob, who to this day knows me as well as any member of my family and remains a close friend. My colleagues Marsha and Denine, and my work buddy Kelly, who's becoming more and more my good friend. A lot of the time, you don't really realize the importance of their influence in your life, and hindsight is almost always 20/20. I have inherited from my parents the (usually) fortunate perspective that everything, no matter how weird, bad, good, extraordinary or seemingly detrimental, every experience is a learning experience. Everything works out okay in the end. And even when it doesn't, you've still gained all the more from actually experiencing it.

I've also, unfortunately, inherited a strange insomnia from my mother. My father sleeps like a brick, and I've never known the man to be less than a few minutes from solid, heavy sleep once his head hits the pillow. I hope, for his sake, that this is still the case, because insomnia sucks. Especially when you get it at least once a month, like me, and you know it so well you don't even try to beat it anymore. My body's reaction to sleeping aids is to fight them, so I refuse to try to take them anymore. When I get this type of insomnia, it's just all th ebetter to sit up writing a blog post or a journal entry with some cheesy movie on cable (it's "Kingpin" right now) in the background than lay in bed for hours on end watching the minutes tick by and trying to devise ways to trick my brain into shutting off. That's really it: my brain just won't close shop for the night, and I spend the next day wondering at the vibrance of my colleagues as I stumble through on an hour or two of sleep and a lot of caffeine.

However, serious insomnia also gives you a lot of time to ponder things. When in a position like this, I tend to let my brain wander and try not to dwell on one thing too much, just in case it should wander to sleep. This night, my brain keeps wandering back to my boyfriend.

You tend to forget yourself sometimes when you have such an idyllic person in your life, and I, having strong tendencies towards this, tend to push away when I feel like I'm getting too close. Especially when I don't feel that my feelings are being reciprocated. I freak out and I shut down and I almost lose one of the most important people in my life.

I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow or next week, three months from now or ten years, but I do know that no matter what happens between us, I'm quite grateful to my boyfriend. He really, really has been the defining influence in getting me back on the track to who I want to be, who I used to be when I was younger. All of the roads leading to my silly, playful, athletic, tomboy self have taken serious twists in the last seven or eight years, and somewhere along the way I lost myself...or at least, a lot of it.

When Gregory and I started seeing each other I was hyper-paranoid about this happening again. I didn't really feel like I knew myself very well anymore, but I knew I wasn't too happy with the person I was at the time and didn't want to get serious with anyone because I always tended to "lose myself" when that happened. Gregory was, much to his credit, extremely patient with me, and as things progressed, I started to see that I really didn't want to be without him. I really liked this one, mostly because he brought out everything in me that I always really liked. I have a better attitude, a better sense of humor, a lighter outlook, a greater sense of self-worth and a healthier approach towards life. I quit smoking, and while everyone I know has recognized this as no small feat, Gregory was there every day in the beginning and, though I don't crave anymore and never ever want to cigarette between my lips again, has been there throughout. Aside from being the biggest catalyst, he's also been my biggest supporter, at least insofar as physically being there for me day in and day out. A couple of weeks in I came home for my lunch break from work to find a card waiting for me on my desk. Its contents detailed his being proud of me, despite the apparent "fact" that I am going to beat him at the Bolder Boulder (not likely).

As it turned out, this is the one relationship where I didn't lose myself, but rather kind of stumbled across myself again. I often wonder at what I could have possibly done to deserve such a great guy, and relish the thought of having been canonized or martyred in a past life and this is some exixtentialist make-up for that.

Then I think about the nature of things between us, and just Gregory's character in general. Between attracting new clients to his company (and maintaining systems for the current ones), volunteering as "shark bait" at Ocean Journey, the Denver aquarium where he works twice a month putting his Dive Master certification to good work by jumping in a huge pool with a bunch of reef fish and sharks (yes, sharks) to feed the fish (and sharks), clean the aquarium, and entertain visitors, working towards his pilot's license, training for Ironman in Perth in November and maintaining his status so he can stay in the country and keep working (ah, the joys of immigration...after hearing about what legal immigrants have to put up with, I can't imagine why anyone would want to get into this country). Yet this guy constantly sports a huge grin that lights up his eyes, which sparkle even when he's being quite serious, and has one of the most positive outlooks of anyone I've ever known. He's attractive, fit, healthy, trim, and very handsome, but doesn't come off as if he knows that at all...there's much more of an "Aw, shucks..." presence to Gregory than anything else. He's unassuming, polite, sweet, incredibly friendly and extremely outgoing. He'll talk to anyone and no matter who they are, he makes them feel more valuable thereafter. Chatting with him is great, and hearing him speaking to his parents or his best friend in French is even better, though I don't understand fully one percent of what he's saying. It's the passion in his voice, the excitement you can hear no matter what the language. It's how alive he is.

It's how I feel too, in the last few months. Not to say I wouldn't have gotten there without him, but Gregory's provided a strong and stable compass that was also fun to be around and made me laugh in addition to pointing me in the right direction...back towards the person I used to be, the person I love to be. Back towards me.

When you pedestallize someone, anything they do can devalue their status in your eyes and therefore, hurt the relationship. When you practice a healthy admiration for your partner, your friend, your lover, you realize the difference really quickly. For me, it's that when I look at my boyfriend, or think of him, or talk about him, I always smile. The difference between pedestallizing and admiration is clear because I can see the way he looks at me too. His gaze mirrors mine. "What...?" One of us will ask. The other one responds, "Nothin...just looking at you."

So hey, Gregory...thanks. I could've done it without you---could've quit smoking, could've started running again, biking again, swimming here and there, could've broken out of my cynicism, etc.--but I probably wouldn't have, and certainly not so quickly. So hey man, thanks. I hope you stick around for awhile, because I sure enjoy your company. I hope you feel the same about mine.

On Failure and the Kindness of Strangers

So today was my first attempt at serious distance. I planned my route, dressed accordingly, ate beforehand and carried with me two energy bars, to energy gels (as disgusting as I always expected they were), and a bottle filled with diluted Gatorade. My route, if it went as planned, would take me on my usual 3.5 mile loop for a warm-up, then up an 8-10-mile descent to Gold Hill at the end of Sunshine Canyon, then back down into Boulder. All told, I'd walk roughly the distance of a marathon. I clipped my pedometer to my running shorts' waistband, typed up a quick e-mail to Gregory to let him know where I was going, and headed out.

Of course, things didn't go as planned (there would be no point in stating "if it went as planned" if it actually DID go as planned)...the canyon road was a grade of roughly 8-10% as well as being roughly 8-10 miles long. Over the course of the road, I would ascend approximately 3500 feet in elevation, topping out at Gold Hill, elevation somewhere around 8900 feet. I didn't really put two and two together here and ended up totally beat halfway up after race-pacing my walking. Yes, walking...I'd like to see you try to run it.

I also neglected to bring enough fluids. My hands began to swell badly about halfway up and I was out of Gatorade. I wasn't checking my pedometer as much as I probably should've--in the vain hope that I'd go further than I thought I had. By the time I nearly reached Gold Hill I had made up my mind to call Gregory when I got there for an impromptu rescue. In reality, I would've been fine had I just brought enough water...the constant uphill was a bit tiring, but it was entirely exhausting when exacerbated by dehydration. I ended up really kicking myself for that performance. By the time my pedometer read 11 miles, I was depleted, swollen and cranky. Every time I rounded a corner, the road just went up...and up...and up. I wanted to cry.

Instead, I kept moving. One nice thing about working out in Colorado is that as long as you're outside, no matter what else is going on, you have the luxury of some of the most breathtaking views imaginable. From the Sunhine Canyon Road (formerly a nice little mountain road home to fond memories especially with my friend Shawn, now a nemesis to challenge in a rematch) you can look right around you and see the semi-arid climate in its late spring splendor: tiny bright flowers scattered about, striated sandstone boulders, desert grasses...or, you can look up and see snow-capped mountains in the distance and the magnificent spread of lush foothills preceding the snowy fourteeners carpeted by evergreen and aspen. The houses up Sunshine Canyon, at first, redefine "property value" in terms of Boulder real estate, where the current average price for a single-family home is $549,000. Gold Hill, as a town, resembles Ward and Nederland in population: hippies, neo-hippies and real mountain folk (no, not the Vail poseurs who drove real estate through the roof by building multimillion-dollar homes along the I-70 corridor)--sun-chapped, wind-hardened, often sporting scraggly beards and skinny-braided locks of hair, higher-elevation people who have managed to retain their tiny plot of worth-its-weight-in-gold land because it's been passed down to them through the generations--as well as in real estate: strangely-shaped, poorly-built homes suffering from expanding from one to six rooms in a series of ill-devised construction attempts. These are the houses you see further up the canyon, especially at the end of the paved section of road. So no matter where you look, you're bound to see something interesting.

"Something interesting" did not, unfortunately, quite make up for lack of water. I was about a mile from Gold Hill when I happened upon two young men walking back up from a little overlook towards a bright yellow Jeep Wrangler. I'd long ago given up on any hope of getting water on the trail and was doggedly and devotedly trudging towards Gold Hill. "Excuse me?" I called. "How much further to Gold Hill?"

Now, as a single woman in a town most recently known for sex scandals, I tend to err on the side of caution and try to make myself invisible or, at least, appear deaf and/or mute when I'm on my own out and about. Not to say Boulder is a dangerous place--it isn't at all--but as a woman you learn quickly, if your mother taught you well, that just being alone puts you in a more compromised and sometimes dangerous position than it does men. Soliciting help from men when you're all alone, especially when you're alone, out in the middle of nowhere, and totally exhausted, is not advisable.

However, I was not only alone, out in the middle of nowhere, and exhausted, I was also seriously questioning my ability to continue. I'm pretty sure if I hadn't planned a route that gained 3000+ feet in elevation and managed to actually bring enough water to supply myself for the journey I would've been able to do it, but those were facts not in my favor, and besides, they looked like nice enough guys, and at least one of them was wearing a wedding band.

They confirmed what I suspected: that Gold Hill was at least another mile. I licked my very dry lips with my very dry tongue and mustered a small smile. "Hey, you guys don't have any water, do you?"

As it turned out, one of them had a thermos filled with water. We chatted for a few minutes, and I started to feel a little better. Then I looked back out at the road...still climbing. I sighed and turned back to the guys. "Are you headed back to Boulder?"

They were, and I asked if I could hop a ride. I've never hitched, I've never accepted rides from strangers and I have no problem getting myself around, but I was pretty done. I would have no issue with leaving Sunshine Canyon for another day.

They agreed, cautioning that they didn't have a back seat. Their names were Dave and Jeff, and as I gulped water greedily on the way back to Boulder, I discovered they'd come out to go four-wheeling, they had been friends for years and they were out for one last hurrah before Jeff graduated and moved away. They were extremely kind to me, especially given the horrible state I was in (swollen, thick-tongued, lips chapped and covered in sweat and road dust), and they got me back to Boulder. Once there I called Gregory and begged for mercy. I asked him about the edema I was experiencing and he replied candidly, "That's from not drinking enough water."

Okay, so I need to get a decent hydration rig and find better-tasting energy gels (chocolate-flavored Gu is terrible). I need to go out prepared next time I do any serious endurance training, so that next time I can finish.

As ill-prepared as I was, I slathered myself with enough sunscreen that I managed a decent runner's tan and not a nasty sunburn. My next effort at a marathon-length run/walk will be planned on a fairly level route, and if I don't have any better hydration gear by then, it will also include water stops at grocery and/or convenience stores so I don't swell like an overstuffed sausage in its casing. For now, I'm really very grateful for the kindness of strangers. And, of course, sympathetic boyfriends.