Rodeo Beach 50K

I wasn't a runner.

My first foot race was part of a spring triathlon called the Homer Sea to Ski, in 2006. I put in a just-shy-of-30-minutes 5K, crushed the mountain bike climb and then proceeded to stagger around on cross-country-skis for a 45-minute 5K ski. My next race was the Veterans Day 8K in 2007, when I came in at 43:26 after a 7-year-old boy breezed by me in the final mile. If I am honest with myself, I really didn't run any of the 4 miles of the Mount Roberts Tram Run in 2008 or 2009. I knew I liked hiking but had more than one hiking companion tell me I "walk kind of funny." I knew I was strong on climbs but clumsy everywhere else. As I stumbled my way down Thunder Mountain in Juneau earlier this year, one friend finally told me, only half jokingly, that "you know, some people just aren't good on their feet. Maybe you should stick to wheels."

I wasn't a runner, but I don't like to be told what I can and can't do.

This spring, during my short-lived tenure in Anchorage, I decided to aspire to be a mountain runner. I trained briefly, maxing out my heart rate up 40-degree slopes and slumping back down them, physically spent after a mile. In Montana I met runners who helped me realize that I should aim where my strengths lie — endurance. After my big summer bike race (TransRockies), I began to dabble in run base building. Very soon after my training began, I kicked a rock into my foot and had to stay off it for two weeks. Then came the ill-advised (but extremely well-motivated) 50-mile pacing effort at the Bear 100, which I finished with something similar to plantar faciitis. After a few more weeks of no running, I completed another bike race (25 Hours of Frog Hollow) and during my first training run back, sprained my ankle. Different variations of "Hurty Foot" continued to crop up until about three weeks ago, when I became painfully aware that I was going to have to complete the December 18 50K I had signed up for as a still-almost-complete non-runner. I got some advice and coaching from Beat, did a few training runs in the snow and Seattle rain, and hoped for the best.

The Rodeo Beach 50K is a trail run in the Marin Headlands north of San Francisco. It was to be my first ultra-marathon — and, who am I kidding, my first foot race over 8 kilometers long. My goal was run it at my endurance pace, which is what I'd consider my "hold forever" pace, and try to finish under the nine-hour cutoff without contracting Hurty Foot yet again. It was a bold goal, and the conditions did not cut me any slack. Thick fog and light rain greeted us at the race start. The forecast called for temperatures in the low 50s and heavy rain — tough love for California. Only 57 people showed up to run the 50K, quite a few less than had originally signed up for the race. Of course the only people who would show up to race on a cold, rainy day in December where all "real runners" — thin and tan Californians with sinewy legs and tiny hydration packs. I felt the person holding the proverbial knife at a gun fight, waiting to be laughed at. But then again, racing wouldn't be nearly as fun for me if I wasn't always in completely over my head.

I got tangled up in the mid-pack and went out too hard at the beginning. The course climbs 1,000 feet in the first three kilometers, so the pack's fast-hike uphill felt like the perfect pace for me. Beat, having decided to stick with me rather than run his own race, followed behind and warned me about bonking after I announced my heart rate had bounced to 186. But I felt great. Even though I know I can't sustain that kind of heart rate all that long, I do know I could climb and climb and climb almost indefinitely if ever given the opportunity. Of course, that doesn't mean I can run.

And, inevitably, the downhills came with a vengeance. I handled the first couple OK and even put in an eight-minute mile at one point, but the mud became deeper and more slippery, and my confidence began to erode alongside the deteriorating conditions. I started to tense up and slowed to a walk, but the tension wouldn't let up. On the big descent into Tennessee Valley, I was gripped by a sudden, sharp cramp in my right side. It wasn't a side-stitch, it was more akin to a stress cramp, a single abdominal muscle below my ribs that tightened with such strain that I could scarcely breathe.

I tried a lot of different things. I took salt tablets and drank more water. I ate some gummy snacks. Beat theorized it cropped up because I went out too hard, but the cramp didn't seem at all effected by my breathing. In fact, the lower my heart rate, the worse it felt, as long as I kept running. Pretty soon I was walking a good portion of the downhills, or gingerly jogging at a slower rate of speed than my climbs. If I tried to run, the sharp pain would rip into my side like a large knife.

Meanwhile, fog masked Headlands, obstructing the views and casting an eerie tint over the lush green ground cover and occasional yellow flowers. I couldn't help but be a little frustrated. I knew I felt strong and energetic otherwise, but that cramp was really irking me, because I couldn't get at it to rub it away with my hands, and it wouldn't ever completely leave me alone. It lingered as low-level pain on the hard climbs, and became somewhat debilitating pain on the descents. Beat tried to help me by rubbing my side and reasoning through it — after all, it was just a cramp, not an injury. If I could push through that pain, maybe I stood a chance of coming out the other side. I knew he was probably right, but I struggled, because it constricted my breathing so much when it flared up that I felt like I wasn't getting any air. I also still don't feel much confidence on my feet, so I had the added stress of finding the right footing on top of the cramp that was probably caused by stress. Other runners started passing us. They made comments about the steep climbs. "Are you kidding?" I said. "The climbing is the easy part."

During the second loop into Tennessee Valley, I had finally had it. "Screw this cramp!" I snarled under my breath and increased my stride down the muddy trail. Beat followed close behind and shouted a few encouraging words as I wrestled through the pain, with inhibitions faded just enough to allow myself to gasp and gulp and groan like a dying animal. I can't say the cramp exactly went away, but I made enough noise that Beat insisted I take a few Advil pills at the aid station at the bottom of the hill. We started up the last long climb and low-level dull pain began to dissolve. My energy spiked again and I could feel a new resolve seeping into my admittedly sore legs. Rain fell harder and I finally began to come out of my funk. Twenty-six miles in, already an official marathon even without the steep climbs and mud and narrow trails, and I was finally starting to feel like a runner.

The last five miles were a breeze, literally. I realize there are ups and downs in any endurance effort, and many ups and downs in truly long one, but I felt like I had surmounted a major hump — the "sophomore slump" that creeps into many of my larger efforts, like the fourth lap of a 24-hour race. I got through it and finally felt like I could go forever, at least in theory. I looked at my watch and did a bit of math, and realized that we actually stood a chance of finishing in less than 7 hours. I increased my speed to comfortable 10-minute miles and coasted into the finish in 6 hours, 58 minutes, feeling strong and wondering how possible it would be for me to do another 50K right there.

Which is how I actually like to finish endurance events. I like to find that stride; I don't necessarily like to leave it all out on the trail. But I do appreciate challenges and the battle to overcome them. In that way, the Rodeo Beach 50K was the perfect first ultramarathon, and despite the strange cramping issue, it went considerably better than I thought it would. I'm still not really a runner, but I can't wait to tackle the next one with actual experience in my arsenal.

Garmin stats here.
Race results here.

Tour Divide presentation

Tonight I gave a presentation for our local bike club, Missoulians on Bicycles, at their annual holiday party. My photo presentation highlighted my experiences in the 2009 Tour Divide. I rarely deal in public speaking, so I stumbled through the introduction but loosened up after that.

There was a really good turnout, which was surprising. I was told to take about an hour and ended up blabbing on and telling stories about the photos in my slideshow for nearly two, but no one left and a lot of people complimented me afterward. I had a lot of fun. My Tour Divide presentation and I are available for bicycle club meetings, corporate retreats, motivational conferences and other events as long as travel expenses are covered. :)

I brought a section of the book I am working on but didn't even have a chance to read it. As for that long-standing book project, an independent editor is currently reading through it in order to give me feedback about it. I want to go forward with publishing but not yet sure how I want to go about it. I don't have a lot of time to devote to publishing a book. I'd really just like to jump straight to the book tour part where I could travel around and give slideshow presentations. I should probably cull down the blabbing first. But it's hard to condense a lifetime-in-24-days' worth of experiences into a single hour.

Seattle deluge

Over the weekend, Beat planned to visit his friends in Seattle and invited me along since Seattle is just a puddle jump from Missoula (Missoula is significantly closer to Seattle than Juneau is, even though Juneauites cheer for the Seahawks and consider themselves a distant suburb of the Puget Sound metropolis.) We planned snowy adventures on Snoqualmie Pass so I packed a huge bag full of snowshoes, poles, extra shoes and winter clothing. At the last minute I thought to throw in a Gortex jacket. It was a good thing, because unbeknowst to me, I was flying right into the front end of the "wettest storm to hit Western Washington in more than two years."

Beat's friend, Roger, is a race planner for endurance mountain bike races and trail runs all over Western Washington. Since the storm meant the mountain roads were too sketchy for driving on Saturday, he took us on a run near Issaquah, on a ridge called Tiger Mountain. I packed my Gortex coat but also failed to ask any questions before the run. As we accelerated on the powerline access road, and I finally asked, "So how long is this loop?" Roger just shrugged. "16 or 19 miles depending on where we go." Wait, what? Since when is 16 or 19 miles a mellow little afternoon on foot? The wind and rain picked up velocity, my feet felt slow and heavy, and I hunkered down for the worst.

The run turned out to be not that big of a deal, after all. The trails were soft but solid, and even mud is a faster surface to run on than snow. We climbed up three of the Tiger Mountains and dropped down a sideslope along the ridge. Roger lost the way once and we ended up on the long course. Nineteen miles and 3,750 feet of climbing in just under four hours. It boosted my confidence about my chances of surviving the 50K race next week. I also realized that my ideal foot course would involve crazy steep climbs with long gradual descents, but a lot of climbing overall. Basically the opposite of a good mountain biking course. Anyone know of a trail race like that?

By Sunday nearly 4 inches of rain had already fallen on the Seattle area in the storm, and warm temperatures pushed the rain level above 7,000 feet, which meant avalanche danger would be extreme in the mountains. The group settled on another run in the lowlands. I was feeling a whole lot weaker than I had on Saturday, and balked at the slow-passing miles. We climbed the ridge on Cougar Mountain and dropped into the gushing streams and flooded valleys below. The deluge of rain had turned the whole trail system into a chocolate-colored stream. Even though Cougar Mountain is located in the middle of a high-population density area, the trails were nearly deserted on a Sunday afternoon. Roger and his wife Yumay were giggling about the complete transformation of an area they know well, and I was lost in daydreams about its strong resemblance to my faraway former home in Southeast Alaska.

I dragged and dragged until I heard a deafening clap from a large tree that cracked in the strong wind just as I passed it. My heart rate surged and I began sprinting toward my friends, who had been waiting for me to bring up the rear all morning long. When Beat asked me if I was finally getting warmed up (because I train for endurance, I tend to feel like crap for an hour or two and manage to perk up only after most people are ready to stop.) I admitted that my newly acquired speed was all adrenaline and it was probably going to wear off quickly, but I did manage to mostly keep up for the rest of the 2-hour, 15-minute run.

In all we ran about 30 miles over the weekend, with about 5,000 feet of climbing overall, in the midst of a storm that dumped 4 to 5 inches of rain. Yumay admitted they would have never gone out if it weren't for the combined peer pressure that flowed between the four of us. "Thanks for getting us accustomed to Northwest weather again," she said. They pointed out the run was even more fun than it would have been if it had been sunny, thanks to the puddle splashing and muddy descents, and I fully agreed. It's funny how that's usually the case.

I also tested a heart rate monitor this weekend; nearly the first time I have ever used one. On Saturday I had a max heart rate of 175 and an average of about 135. I forgot to look at Sunday's final numbers but based on observations I'm guessing an average in the 120s with a max of 215, thanks to that tree. I also tested my VO2 max at 59 according to the watch.

I think I've lived in small towns and tiny cities for far too long, and now have a digestive system that can no longer handle urban food. We refueled with sushi and Korean meals that were both delicious, but I had stomach issues all weekend. Either I have a high-functioning version of that stomach flu that is going around, or I've been seriously limited by years of bland Alaska and Montana food. Either way, I'm telling myself that it's a good thing to run a few 10s of miles, clear out the system, then charge full-speed into the super busy week in front of me that just so happens to end in a 31-mile race. Eeeeek.

P.S. If you are in the Missoula area, you should come see my presentation at the Missoula Bike Club holiday party on Tuesday evening. I will be giving an hour-long slideshow presentation about my experiences in the 2009 Tour Divide. Drop by! More information here.

Forget running ...

Look what showed up in the mail today!

Ok, Ok, so it doesn't actually belong to me, but still.

Eeeeeeee!

The art of slog

Teeth-grating pop music blared through the radio as I crept through rush-hour traffic on Brooks Street. I switched through the four stations I can pick up on my ancient car stereo and settled on the only song I didn’t recognize. I crept through one traffic light, then another, trickling ever-so-slowly toward Blue Mountain.

I admit it was a strange route to drive across town for. The Blue Mountain Road is just an nondescript strip of gravel snaking through the woods up a nondescript mountain. In the winter it’s gated, which means it sees little to no motorized use and therefore doesn’t offer much of a base for cycling or running. I parked next the summer trailhead. Ignoring the tracks that led to a network of ski trails I knew would be fast but short, I donned my microspikes, switched on my flashlight, and started running down the pavement. After a mile or so I turned left onto frozen gravel, which soon became packed snow. I paralleled wooden fences and open meadows before I crossed the gate, pressing deeper into the woods.

The steep canyon blotted out the moon, which was thin that night, anyway. City lights reflected off the clouds and cast a dull orange glow on the snow. My legs kept an even speed, not necessarily feeling strong, but not bad, either. I followed a well-packed foot path for a mile, until it became a loose foot path, and then just a single set of footprints that paralleled a set of ski tracks. Minutes passed even though miles really didn’t. I moved slow and steady, breathing large gulps of the moist, chilled air. I let my mind wander to the tracks, creating small stories and entire universes around them. The runner had a smaller stride than mine, probably because he was walking. I saw the faint tread of boots and imagined a hiker marching blissfully upward in the weekend’s sunlight. The skier had a dog, punching deep postholes into the ski track. But those tracks faded before the ski tracks did, so I imagined several skiers, shuffling single file beside the phantom hiker. Why did we move up this mountain, with such an unclear destination? Obviously, for all of us, that reason was exercise — the art of becoming fit. But what does fitness really mean? These are the things I ponder when I am alone, running up the mindlessly steady grade of a snow-covered mountain road.

Soon the footprints petered out, and I ran through the powder next to the ski tracks. Just before the road’s mile marker four, even the ski tracks cut a lollipop loop and ended. I looked around for a sign of a destination, but saw nothing remarkable. This just happened to be the place the last person on the road decided to quit. It occurred to me that I was now traveling farther than anyone had since the last snowstorm. I saw deer tracks in the snow and followed those. I ran a mostly straight path as the deer wove in and away from the hillside. But after mile marker five, even the deer moved permanently off the road. The snow was eerily smooth. I was alone. Completely alone.

I continued running through snow that was becoming ever deeper. I was shuffling, struggling, wheezing deeply now, and moving ever slower. Powder clung to my pants as high as my knees where I wandered into drifts. I kept up my shuffle, watching the shapes of snow-covered pine trees creep beside me, half-willing myself to believe in monsters, to believe in the exciting prospect of sinister forces lurking in the shadows. I looked up at the opaque sky. It’s orange glow was gone; the city lights had been blotted out. There was no more sign of life.

The dark outline of the mountain hovered above me. I passed mile marker six. I had no memory of just how far this road really went. Several other bits of information lingered just outside of my limited realm of comprehension — the fact that seven miles up means seven miles back, the fact that I was now working quite hard to move at walking speed or slower, the fact that it was getting late, that I had other things to do tonight, that people would worry. I only understood one thing and that was that I wanted to follow this road, as far as it would take me, as far as I could go.

Fatigue settled over me like a warm blanket. Within the fatigue, the montone shadows, the monotony of the climb, was a peace that I only find when I am in the midst of a good slog. It is difficult for me to describe — slog isn’t exactly an goal to seek out, like climbing mountains or winning races. Slog has no reward in sight, no concept of an end. Slog only begets more slog, the depletion of energy, the wearing of muscles, the creep of exhaustion and seep of intellectual capacity until it seems the only thing left in the world is slog. It’s difficult to describe, impossible to understand, but I find peace in this feeling. There is joy in the slog, just as there is joy in hardships and pain. In experiencing both the world and myself in their most basic forms, I find I can truly appreciate the beauty and complexities that lie in both the world and myself on the other side of the slog.

I find it equally impossible to explain to people why I’m training to run the Susitna 100. I’ve braced myself for criticism because no one, and I mean pretty much no one, shifts from no running at all to running a winter 100-miler in a matter of months. I expected others, especially my more experienced runner friends, to question my delusion, lack of understanding or hubris. I wish there was a way I could explain that the Susitna 100 is really not like other races. That in it’s own way, it’s no more like a 100-mile ultramarathon than it is like a 100-mile mountain bike race. Of course, in many ways it’s much more difficult than either, but how do you define difficult? Maybe, I want to expain, a “real” ultramarathon like the Western States 100 would be impossibly difficult for me compared to the Susitna 100. That the “real” ultramarathon is hard precisely because it doesn’t contain enough hardships, enough mental challenges, enough slog.

My ultrarunning friends have yet to openly step forward with questioning or criticism. But I did receive one bit of encouragement from a friend who understands both sides:

“You're doing the perfect types of runs to get ready for something like Susitna. There are so many people who try to become ultra runners who just don't understand what it really means to slog along for hours on end. You obviously understand that part better than almost anyone and I think that will be a huge benefit for you.”

More than 20 minutes went by and I hadn’t passed another mile marker on the Blue Mountain Road. I knew I was moving too slow. There would be calls and texts waiting for me back in the world cell reception. I had to go to work tomorrow. It was late. I took one last lingering glance at the ridge above me and turned around to run, slowly but with increasing speed and confidence, the seven miles back to my car.

Today on my run

Sunday morning arrived beneath a smear of fog. It was a typical morning-after-a-hard-workout type of morning. I hadn't slept all that well from the recovery process of the six-hour run/power-hike the day before. The sky was gray, the temperature in the low teens, and I just wanted to do December stuff like curl up with my cat, shop online for Christmas presents and make peppermint hot chocolate (this last statement is just a jab at Beat, who thinks that the mint chocolate flavor is an American abomination.) Really, I was somewhat excited to get out for another run, but Beat suggested we do a route with a much higher ratio of running to postholing than Saturday, and I knew our only real option with the time we had available was a similar route. So I agreed to return to Mount Sentinel, rather reluctantly, because it was the weekend and it was time for adventure and what the heck were we doing with this training thing?

We decided to mix it up by taking a new trail, the Hellgate Trail. We ran 4.5 miles from my house on the bike path, then started up the mountain. We were immediately surrounded by tall, snow-crusted pines that nearly blocked out the groan of I-90 traffic, directly below us. It's a starkly different view of Mount Sentinel than you get from the wind-blasted west face, and a reminder that sometimes you can see the same places in completely new ways. I tend to think in terms of travel, not trails, which is why I have a lower tolerance for mountain-bike trail systems ("but we're just doing loops around the same five square miles. We're not actually going anywhere.") So the Hellgate Trail, which was indeed a new landscape, was a nice surprise.

It was also longer trail than we expected. We climbed 1,600 feet in 2.5 miles on fairly soft snow. It was slow-going and tough. The weight of Saturday's effort started to weigh on my legs. I was also startlingly low on energy. I did my whole six-hour Saturday run in the cold on a 390-calorie bag of gummy snacks and a smallish dinner afterward. You can get away with that for one day, but by day two the glycogen stores are low and they're tough to recover if you're already going at 60-80 percent max effort. I tried to hide it from Beat, especially since he already knows much about my long history of bonking, but I was struggling a little.

When I was a winter cyclist observing runners, they always seemed impervious to the cold. But I am learning that runners too are in a constant battle with the frigid air. Legs sting where the wind cuts through tights even as sweat pours from your forehead. Fingers go numb and then return constantly. You put on mittens and then realize you can no longer feed yourself. Your Camelback hose clogs with ice and you have to bite at the chunks to access water. Your butt goes numb and never comes back, because women's butts just weren't designed to keep themselves warm.

We climbed the peak and then dropped down the backside of Sentinel on a soft but better-packed trail, for another ~5 miles. As we descended, I felt worse and worse. Finally, I noticed I was actually staggering in and out of the rutted trail. I dug a Ginger Snap Lara Bar out of my pack and gulped it down in two bites. Just like that, I perked up. As we started up the South Summit, I suddenly felt good again. I power hiked up the steep snow with renewed purpose, making a mental note that Lara Bars work for running.

We traversed over and back up Sentinel. I was actually a little surprised when I saw red light on the Rattlesnake mountains and realized the sun was setting. We had been out for nearly four hours already and still had at least another 8 miles to run. I charged up the peak in an effort to race the disappearing sun for a photograph, and was rewarded with the most spectacular sunset. "I wasn't excited about this run but it's turning out fantastic," I exclaimed. Beat pulled out the secret stash, the Haribo Fruity Pasta gummies, and we chowed down half of a bag. These candies are oh-so-delicious, but highly acidic. They were the exact same snack that turned on me angrily during the 24 Hours of Frog Hollow, and halfway down the Hellgate Trail, I experienced similar distress.

Oh, running with a sour stomach. All runners do it, which is one of the big reasons I never wanted to be a runner. (That and blisters. Oh, and because it's really hard.) I was practically groaning by the time we returned to town, and we still had four miles before home. As I staggered down the icy path, I cycled through all of the things I had learned. "This is fantastic training," I told myself. Meanwhile, the bonk monster crept back in and left me feeling woozy and silly, which is almost like being drunk and therefore slightly euphoric, in a painful way. "This is nothing like yesterday," I told Beat. "I. Feel. Spent."

In the end the run took us just over five hours, with 4,000 feet of climbing and something in the range of 20-22 miles. (A lot like Saturday's run, actually, because it was pretty close to the same run.) In my typical fashion, I ate dinner and perked right back up, and felt raring to go again. I took a semi-forced recovery day with a bike commute and easy spin after work today, which in its own way was a small disaster and still involved a ~2-mile jog. (During my hour-long ride/run, I had singlespeed chain issues and took one hard fall the bike path after my studded tires skidded out on the rutted ice. The jog happened after my fingers went too numb to replace the chain on the cogs after it popped off a third time, despite my efforts to tension it.) I know I am ramping up the foot mileage fast but I still feel good, and snow is very forgiving (and extremely SLOW.) I am being mindful of muscle and joint stress and creeping injury, but learned a lot this weekend - mostly that I still have much to learn.

Good day run shine

Upon arriving in Missoula this weekend, Beat reminded me ever-so-gently that I had signed up for a 50K trail run in Rodeo Beach, California, on Dec. 18, which is (gulp) two weeks away. The point of the 50K is to see whether I have a snowball's chance of surviving the Susitna 100 on foot. But before I survive the Susitna 100, I kinda have to get through this 50K. Better get out for a training run.

Beat caught a nasty stomach flu the last time he traveled to the frigid north, and was sick for the entire past week. Saturday was his first attempt to exercise in many days, so we decided to keep it "close" to home. We planned a couple loops in the vicinity of Mount Sentinel. My goal was to stay out for at least 5 hours, but assumed Beat would cut out pretty early in the run.

The temperature was in the mid-20s, but was accompanied by the first direct sunlight Missoula has seen in what feels like many weeks (at least from my perspective. I had to travel 700 miles south and later 400 miles north to find the sun in November.) So today's weather felt like a simulation of California (at least from my perspective. Even a single layer of black polypro was too much for mid-day.) We climbed the south and north summits of Mount Sentinel.

The Rodeo Beach 50K also has something like 6,000 feet of climbing, so I advocated for more climbing even though there weren't any good climbing routes nearby. The problem with trail running in the winter, at least in the Missoula vicinity, is that you can go for a run or you can play in the mountains, but you can't do both. There just aren't enough packed trails around here, at least ones that haven't already been commandeered by skiers, so you're forced to break trail - which is much more strenuous than running, but doesn't exactly build the same muscles.

Still, it was a beautiful day to slog up University Mountain in knee- to thigh-deep powder ... beautiful enough that I didn't once ask myself how this particular slog was going to help me survive 31 miles of pounding on concrete-like trails in the Marin Headlands. I just sipped my icy water and soaked it all in.

The top of University Mountain was washed in ice. I feel a special affinity for trees perched on mountain tops - the "ghost trees" - for their ability to thrive in the worst conditions.

We powder-kicked back down the mountain and descended the Gut of Sentinel at sunset.

Beat cut off near the Hidden Treasure trail intersection, having survived four hours of run/slogging despite his ongoing battle with stomach flu.

He dropped back to town and I headed out for a solo run back up the Mount Sentinel Ridge. I turned on my iPod and climbed to reflective music by Sufjan Stevens as the winter light faded behind me.

The temperature plummeted rapidly and beads of ice formed along strands of sweat-soaked hair. I was completely content, feeling better and better as the hours fell behind me, wishing there was a way to just keep climbing, to some far-away mountain I'd never imagined I could reach at all, let alone on foot. In a direct line, the mileage I had run that day would have taken me far; the effort without the added strain of snow even farther. And the best thing about Saturday's run was its trajectory. I convinced myself that with the passing miles I could only become stronger, not weaker. I felt the surge of strength in places that had never before felt strong during a run - my feet and my knees. My legs carried me up the South Summit and back across the ridge as ice built on my head and a grin seemingly froze to my face.

I ran down the North Summit ridge into a blaze of city lights, striving to let go of my inhibitions and let my legs surrender to steep gravity. I couldn't quite give in completely, but tonight I came as close as I ever have to flying on my feet.

I jogged toward home just in time to catch the tail end of a holiday parade on Higgins Avenue. I stood on the sidewalk, taking photos and large gulps of frigid air until I could no longer feel my toes, then turned toward home. I finished my run just after 6:30, for a total time of six hours. My GPS cut out early and I'm not sure of the mileage, but probably in the vicinity of 20 miles with 5,000 feet of climbing. A good day to be out in world.