Trailrunning = Playing
Pretty awesome video . . . my girls trail ran with me when they were young. We called it playing.
Lewis and Clark Trail
Meant to try something a little easier after blowing up my legs last week on trails. Apparently, moderation is not something I'm good at - the Lewis and Clark trail is just as steep, with a first mile having 649' of gain according to my GPS.
Oops. So much for finding some flat stuff to play on.
Very pretty trail with lots of opportunities for log hurdling. I picked it up just past Lolo Campground outside of Kamiah, ID.
Trip To Bald Mountain Trail Pictures
I posted a picture of what my shoes looked like when I was done yesterday but thought folks might like to see the trail itself, so today is more photo essay than usually. Don't miss tomorrow where I'll have an interview I conducted with former Kansas standout Tim Tays about his book, Wannabe Distance God.
First, the stats again. 17 miles, 4642 feet of elevation gain, 5 pounds of water loss, two very dirty legs, 1 happy trail runner. Here's the start . . .
A couple pulled into the parking lot behind me and unloaded their bikes as I headed out. The first uphill, which starts just past the above picture, is a grunt. There's no easy warmup on this trail but it's certainly pretty. I discovered pretty quick that the ankle I was worried about wasn't a problem - it was the calf. Almost turned back, which would have been sensible. It also would have been out-of-character. I pressed on . . .
It levels out as it reaches the first top - this isn't a straight uphill climb - you climb and drop several times.
When the sun broke through, the forest nearly glowed. The day stayed mostly overcast and in the 70's - perfect running weather and a relief from the triple digit heat of the past two weeks.
Welcome to the Forest Service. It goes thataway. Might be 5 miles to the lookout. Or not, since none of the signs are accurate - and they span a mile and a half of trail. Dispiriting my first time on the trail a decade ago when it was 100 degrees out. Now I laugh. Silly Forest Service!
This sign just flat pissed me off. Want me to pack it in, pack it out? No problem. Could I ask you not to visually pollute the trail? Put the stop sign on the road - yeah, the drivers will ignore. So did I. Stupid Forest Service!
HURDLE!
Some very runnable trails. Not nearly as flat as it looks here, though.
The two pictures above look out over the Palouse and Palouse Divide. There was still some smoke in the air - a couple of times I've been up here, standing on the lookout and it feels as though you could almost touch the fields in the distance they're so clear.
It occurred to me that those clouds had rain in them, and maybe a little lightning. Since Mother Nature loves her little ironies - and a writer who just wrote a novel about runners nearly hit by lightning actually getting hit by lightning certainly fits - and since I was standing on literally the highest point for many miles, I took my pics and climbed down.
I stowed the camera in the Camelbak for the return trip, taking it out to catch a shot of happy feet as I exited the trail.
A post that didn't go in the direction I planned . . .
It's always a shock to my system when I meet someone who doesn't have goals, the folks just drifting along with events, bouncing with the prevailing currents. I don't understand it because my hardwiring is different. Very different. Plus, I hang with folks that want to accomplish things, large and small.
I'm a huge fan of goals. However, I operate a little differently than the majority of the population, including those that are goal-setters.
I have a son-in-law, very goal-oriented (as is my daughter that he is married to.) Both of are planners, identifying their goals, laying down the path to the goal, often writing it down on paper to make sure all the steps are clear. Then, they pick up the first task and begin a march to the goal.
Which makes it sound easier than it is, but you get the idea of their general process. It's the one that most of the books you can order on Amazon will recommend, that teachers teach, that gurus advocate.
That's not my process. What they do, we call "Ready, Aim, Fire!"
My process is to identify my goal, like writing a book. Then I start. No plan, just an idea worth doing. Launch, and figure it out as I go.
Ready, FIRE!, Aim
It's the difference between an arrow, released to a target, and a self-correcting guided missile.
There are advantages to both approaches. The arrow already knows the target, the course, all the factors. The odds of hitting the target are good, and, the better your planning, the more likely you are to achieve the goal. There is the comfort of certainty in the process. Surprises can still happen but the planning stages will remove most of those.
The guided missile knows where it wants to end up but everything in between is in flux. A thousand possible paths exist and some will lead to dead ends. Others will lead to serendipitous points that enhance the journey. The very nature of the journey will be unpredictable and it's not for the fainthearted.
The guided missile has another advantage.
It can aim for the stars. There isn't any in between reasoning to explain why the goal is unreasonable or impossible. Truly transformational goals build off dreams, get their power from the passion that you invest.
Not everybody will understand the passion. Some will actively work against you and tell you the goal is unattainable.
Actually, they do this to the planners as well. My daughter, the planner, is studying electrical engineering. She's also raising a family, one daughter here, a son on the way. She's had classmates, especially the women, tell her she'll never complete the program because of the kids.
I laugh because they obviously misunderstand my kid. She's a stubborn one, and determined. She'll take in the insults - and that's what they are - and use them for motivation. In the meantime, she has a husband who's wonderfully supportive.
All three of my girls are like this. My wife and I joke that we doubled up on the stubborn gene but we also taught them to aim for the stars - and that they got to pick those stars. Yamaha motorcycles once ran an ad campaign targeting Honda, whose tagline was "Follow the Leader!" The Yamaha response, "At Yamaha, we don't believe you need to follow anybody!" and showed a bike kicking up dust across the open desert.
Whether you're a "Ready, Aim, Fire" person or a "Ready, Fire, Aim" sort like me, you have the right to define your own goals, your dreams. You also get to the right to define the path to them. Never surrender those, ever.
And, now a confession.
The picture I have embedded in this post doesn't match the content. That's because, in guided missile fashion, I originally aimed at something different, an explanation for why I needed a return to the Seven Devils to run the loop trail, all 30 miles of it, this year.
A serendipitous diversion on the way to that post. I'll put it up later this week.
For those that like Facebook, click and like to follow me there. All my posts end up on my author page. Also, the occasional smart-alecky aside.
Race Recap for Xterra Turkey Trail Marathon
I'm a little late getting to the race recap for my marathon this past weekend in Pagosa Springs. The short version is that the race went according to expectations and I hit all my (very modest) goals.
The longer version starts with a late arrival. Adric (that's the dude to the right) and I beat the start gun by about three minutes. We had intended to arrive a bit sooner but one wrong turn and a trip into the wrong set of hills slowed us down. Some really pretty homes on the south side of Pagosa Springs, but we were supposed to be on the north. Fixable and only slightly stressful.
The start included the marathoners and the half-marathoners in a rush along single track. One of the runners near me was laughing that this was a fast way to sort out the fittest - or at least, those with the most flexible ankles.
The volunteers guided us on to the trails and, within a mile or so, we sorted ourselves out into a single file along a winding single track among the ponderosa pine. The first five miles were on a slight downhill, dropping from 8200' of elevation to about 7500'. The footing was pretty good though occasionally a bit rocky. Passing proved to be a bit of a challenge as the sides of the trail were considerably rougher and not all the runners would yield to faster racers.
In my case, since I wasn't going to win any medals for speed, I figured on trying for the Miss Congeniality award. If I heard runners coming up behind, I stepped over and ran along the edges to let them by.
At the first aid station (there were a total of three,) about 3.5 miles in I decided to slide by without stopping since I had plenty of water in my handheld. I had planned on using the handheld for the full race. The weather forecast was for temps getting into the 80's which at altitude is a touch toasty.
I caught up with Adric there and we ran with a lady who was a physical therapist and a young guy who had his black lab for company. At 4.5 miles there was a small pond and the black lab took a fast dip. At this point, things were flowing pretty well and the air under the tree cover was still reasonably cool.
The next aid station was at 6.5 miles - about half way around the loop. A word about the aid stations. The volunteers were just wonderful and showed obvious experience. The stations were laid out like those I used to put together for ultras when I was in San Diego. The talk was the same, too. "Sweet and salty over there," said one of the volunteers, pointing to the potato chips, gummy bears, M&M's. "Gatorade and water," pointing to the other end of the table.
I grabbed two cups of Gatorade and a couple of chips. Interesting side note - to process carbs, you need a little fat. I discovered this the hard way during a 24 hour Ultra in San Diego years ago when I bloated about eight hours in. I needed calories, so I ate some sunflower seeds. The fat settled things down and I kept going.
The second half of the loop was all uphill. I ran more of this than I thought I would be able to, given the altitude. Most of the way I was with a group of about six ladies. One was super-steady and gained on me as we climbed, passing me before the last aid station at the 10 mile mark. I repassed her when things flattened out a bit and we chatted while we ran together.
She mentioned that we were almost done and I admitted that I had another loop to complete. She shook her head. "Just doing the half is kicking my ass," she said and I knew how she felt. Most of the uphill stretch was in direct sunlight and not a cloud in sight.
I hit the halfway mark in about 2;40 - slightly faster than I expected. I ditched my shirt (in full expectation of a sunburn) to drop my heat load.
Blood gets used by the body to move nutrients and oxygen tot he muscles and also gets sent to the skin for cooling. Two jobs, one blood supply, trained at 700' above sea level. Any way I figured it, the next loop was going to be a grunt.
I was about a minute per mile slower on the downhill stretch and I also took a little longer at the aid stations making sure to get enough food and water. I started with the Hammergel at mile 10. Chocolate flavored. I took the packets in slowly, drinking water to cut the mix. At the second visit to the first aid station, I snagged another one and opened it. I sucked down about half of it and put the packet in my pocket.
Mistake. It worked the first couple of times, but this time, I ended up with brown goop running down my thigh. Ick. I washed as well as I could at the same pond that the lab splashed in and motored on. Provided motored on includes switching to a run/walk cycle, the kind I used to use in Ultras.
Bless the folks at the second aid station, they had wet towels and I got the last of the gel off my leg. Stocked up on more gel, water, and some potato chips and headed out.
The next mile would be my last 'good' mile - it was a downhill jog through good tree cover with good footing. When I turned back up, around mile 20, the legs were done. It was perpetual forward progress time. If I couldn't run uphill, I could at least walk with purpose. The trail to the next aid station took more than an hour to grind out. Grinding I can do.
The second loop took 3:20 - almost the same time as my PR marathon. After the first loop, I was hoping that I was wrong on my 6 hour estimate. Without the heat, I might have beaten it. Ah well.
I hit all my goals - to step to the line, to have fun while I was out there, to finish. And to not be last. I did all that. And even though there was no Miss Congeniality award, I made sure to thank all the volunteers. They did an awesome job and were upbeat all day.
Cover for "Trail of Second Chances"
So, while I'm busy doing the rewrite on Trail of Second Chances, the cover artist that I use, Kit Foster, a bloke that hails from the UK, has out-done himself by coming up with the design for the book. Kit Foster also did the cover for Finishing Kick which earned compliments (but, alas, no awards) from The Book Designer cover design contest.
When I sent an email asking for help on this new project, I sent along the back cover blurb and gave him a rough outline of what I was looking for since this book was different from the last in that it is an adventure story involving young Becca Hawthorne.
Kit came up with a bunch of ideas but one jumped out and, with a bit of tweaking, became:
And the Blurb on the back?
Trail of Second Chances
A high-octane adventure on a wild Montana mountain as one girl finds herself racing for her life against a malignant fire.
It should have been the highlight of the summer, a training camp for elite runners in the mountains of Montana. Coached by her father, and frustrated by his efforts to hold her back, Becca Hawthorne dreams of competing in the Olympics. She earned her chance to test herself against the best runners in the Pacific Northwest. But now she faces a tougher opponent than even the fastest girl.
An action-filled roller coaster ride that keeps you turning the pages as the fire creeps closer.
I'll keep working on the rewrite. The editor (the same lady that worked with me on Finishing Kick) is waiting for it. It'll take her a couple of weeks to fix all my goofs. One more round of polish, then typesetting.
Expect it July 1, 2014.
PS. The next novel, The Lonesome Mile is started. It'll be done when it's done. No promises on dates until I get way farther along the path.
The Sun is Shining!
The sun is shining. It's been ages since it came out. . . And I am supposed to work? When I have new trail shoes and can run under pristine skies?
One of the bummers about becoming an adult is we're suddenly supposed to develop 'responsibility' which usually means doing things far less pleasant than blowing off a day of work or school to go for a run. These less pleasant things tend to grow in number until they take over every waking minute.
Some of them are absolutely necessary. I need to make enough money to support a family and feed the dog. I need enough money to buy the books I want, new or used. I could use the library but I prefer not to warehouse friends and I do think of many of my books as friends.
And I have an obligation to my clients. I work hard to make sure that they get everything they need to when they're buying a home - that can't be done in twenty minutes. Usually it takes hour for each one, with additional hours of follow-up. It would be easier if I were less successful at building a clientele. I've been trying to shrink the business for a couple of years as I move onto new projects - writing books for runners, designing a website for small town xc where the teams can get the coverage that the local paper will never give them. I'm better a growing things than pruning them.
As my wife put it, I'm never at a loss for ideas. It's time and money that act as limiting factors, mostly time.
So, the sun is shining. I'm going for a run, just not right now. I've checked the weather - it'll be sunny all day, supposedly. I've got the run gear packed next to my work gear and swapped out time on the schedule from report writing to running.
I'll work late tonight if I need to get caught up but the afternoon after my inspections is mine.
And sun is shining, the trails are calling, and my inner child wants to play in the dirt.
Poppa needs new shoes for mud.
I have a date in REI with a shoe professional later today so I can figure out which trail shoes to try out. I'm thinking of the Inov8 245's . Excited.
Now I need enough time to run.
I haven't had a 'favorite' trail shoe since my Montrail Vitasse from a decade ago.
GECKO Turkey Trail Marathon Training Update
Training was been. . . inconsistent, mostly because I'm a weenie in winter. When the weather gets cold and damp, my motivation drops through the floor. I've started compensating for this by mixing things up a bit. First, I'm making more of an effort to get the run done in daylight. That seems to be a big component. The other thing I've done is to hit the gym more. Instead of running on a treadmill, which I truly hate and occasionally do at the house (my treadmill is primarily a walking desk), I mix it up with cycling and stairclimbing. Throw in upper body work and I am getting stronger. I finally have my weight below 180. Starting to add leg lifts now that some of the systems are coming back. Ran in Hells Gate yesterday and, for the first time in a few years, powered up a hill instead of grinding. I had forgotten what that can be like. Exhilarating. I was cooking right along until some knucklehead put up a sign in the middle of the trail - Dog Trial. Shooting in Progress. That torqued me off a bit. Not that they were having a Trial but for putting the sign in the middle of the trail instead of at the junction. Let me know early and I'll grab another route. It would have been a quarter mile of extra walking for the guy. In the meantime, I went off-trail and explored. I didn't realize that Hells Gate was using old Christmas trees for wind-breaks. Should be spectacular the next time there's a fire over there. I'll watch from the porch. .
Lungs still need a lot of work but that always trailed legs so I'm following a pattern I know. Perpetual forward progress
Also had one of those random occurrences that brighten a day. A puppy was running around Hells Gate. His owner, an older dude, was keeping a pretty good eye on him and tried to call him over when they both saw me. The puppy ignored him - he had a new friend that he could run with. Sammy - that was what the owner was calling - leapt and cavorted and stopped for a pet so I grabbed his collar for the guy. He was apologetic and I told him "No worries." What I should have said was, "I'm out here to have fun. So is this little guy and he brings a big smile to my face, so no worries. Maybe even, hey, thanks!" But I tend towards slow-witted some days and I just kept running. I got to keep the smile, though
To counter the Sunday long run blahs, I've moved them to Wednesday afternoon, into a better energy time for me. This week it means an inspection, long run of 10 miles, and then another inspection. Work is busy as heck and I don't know quite why.
In a week, I'll be in Seattle and planning to hit REI for trail shoes. We'll see how that turns out. Open to advice. .
Run gently, friends.
Trail of Second Chances, Chapter 1
The current work in progress, Trail of Second Chances, is a novel about Becca Hawthorne, an elite teenage runner attending a training camp high in the mountains of Montana, where the wild things live. This is Chapter 1 - as with other work I post, this is unedited and subject to change... Plan to have it ready by summer next year... if you see typos, feel free to let me know and I'll fix it. Thanks!
Trail of Second Chances, Chapter 1
Becca felt sweat roll down her temples as the plastic mask threatened to suffocate her.
“Don’t quit,” her father Rob said in a quiet voice. He stood beside her as she pounded away on the treadmill.
She gave him a withering look and continued to run. On the other side of him sat sixty-three runners attending the Bitterroot Running Clinic. They were arranged in a semi-circle to watch her get measured for oxygen uptake – how much air she could process while she ran. Runners shortened it to VO2 max and it was one of the holy grails of runner performance.
The plastic mask was attached to tubing, sending the used air to an analyzer that would beep once when she reached the point where she couldn’t use any more air. When she hit exhaustion, she thought. The thought triggered another bout of claustrophobia and the mask pressed tighter to her cheeks.
“Keep digging, Becca, you can do this.”
On the other side of the treadmill, monitoring the equipment was Jim Eagle, cross country coach at Bridger College in Missoula, her father’s best friend, and, unofficially, her uncle.
“You’re doing great, Becca. Just hang in a little longer,” said Eagle, his dark eyes scanning the instruments. A former Olympian in the 5,000 meters, the coach was a small, intense man and a full-blooded Nez Perce Indian. He was an alternate when the man ahead of him, a young hotshot from UCLA, blew out both an Achilles’ tendon and his running career at the same time in a pick-up basketball game.
The incline on the treadmill went up another percentage point and Becca struggled to keep up. Gulping air, she tucked her chin down as her thighs started to burn. The acid was building. This was the third time she had been tested – her father volunteered her every year when she came to camp – and she knew that it was almost over as she felt her chest heave in the effort to keep up with the relentless pace of the treadmill.
This is the way the stupid mouse feels, she thought, a picture of a small white rodent chasing through a maze while people is white lab coats took notes. The sweat was coming off in rivulets, and her shirt was plastered to her back. She felt the wobble in her shoulders and tried to hide it.
“Keep going,” said Rob Hawthorne just as the machine signaled the end of the test. The deck of the treadmill began to drop as the belt slowed. Becca slowed with it.
“Can I take off the mask?” she asked, panting, voice muffled by the plastic. She looked at Eagle, eyes pleading.
“Sure, go ahead,” he replied.
She reached behind her head and struggled to get the elastic bands at the back loosened while she kept running, dropping pace to match the slowing belt. It clung to her sweaty face before detaching with a sucking pull. Becca, her lungs already in recovery, dragged in a great, gasping breath.
The treadmill slowed to a stop and Becca stepped off, legs unsteady on the motionless floor. Her dad handed her a water bottle and she took several gulps, the icy water sending a welcome chill down her throat. As she was reaching for a towel to wipe off with, Eagle threw the data from her test up onto a large screen monitor.
Her eyes, along with those of the other runners, tracked to the screen where three lines were traced, blue for oxygen, red for carbon monoxide and yellow for heart rate. Where the red and blue crossed is where it hurt.
“You’ve improved,” murmured Rob analyzing the graph. “But you still have some room to grow.” He glanced at her. “Good job.”
She threw her towel in the corner and went to sit with the other campers.
Eagle left the monitoring equipment and stood by the monitor.
“Okay, here is how this works.” Quickly he explained the lines and what the axes represented - oxygen consumption on one axis, time on the other.
“As you can see, Becca was running easily and had no trouble get enough air in early – see the gap?” he asked pointing to the chart at the five minute mark, “but when we got to the end of the test, that gap narrowed until the lines crossed.”
Eagle looked over the group. “Uptake isn’t the only factor we look at in running and some of you are probably very accomplished runners even without high uptakes. Running economy – how efficient you are – makes a huge difference.
“Becca has both. Her scores here, a 68.7 VO2 max is superior, especially for a high school athlete. Elite, well-trained females can get to about 75, guys can get to about 85 though scores over 90 have been recorded.”
He thumbed the clicker in his hand and the screen revealed another chart. Becca recognized it and saw the point where the panic attack almost caused her to fall on the treadmill her freshman year.
“This is Becca two years ago. As you can see, she’s improved a great deal. That’s the good news. You can improve uptake. The bad news is that you can only improve it this much,” he said holding his hands apart about a foot. “That’s why we’re focusing on form this year. The base miles and speed work are great and you need those but most of you get it in your programs already.”
He nodded to Rob Hawthorne. “The goal this year is to help you make those miles and the speed more effective by helping you become more efficient. Coach Hawthorne, for those that don’t know him, is one of the top coaches in Montana, and an expert at developing form.”
Heads turned to Becca’s dad but she kept her eyes on Jim Eagle. Her dad was an expert. She knew that, had listened to his instructions to drop her arms, tuck her elbows, increase her back kick until she was ready to puke.
Eagle smiled. “And I promise this is the last really nerdy thing we’re going to do here. Those of you who have been to the Bitterroot Running Clinic know the routine. We’ll have an easy run in the morning, followed by breakfast and a lecture. Afternoons are play time – we have the river right there so we can go tubing or swimming – or you can take a nap. We’ll do an evening run, a short one before dinner. That one is optional. Nights we relax and play some games.”
The athletes, a mix of young men and women, were getting restless. Eagle recognized the signs. His runners, some of them, were only a year or two older than Becca.
“Okay, enough,” he said. “Time to load up. Let’s head for the mountains.”
Runners scrambled to their feet, eager to be moving.
Her dad intercepted her as she walked toward the vans that would ferry them to the cabins.
“You did a good job in there,” he said. He reached for one of her bags. “Want some help?”
“I got it,” she said, half-turning away from him.
He withdrew the offending hand and started to walk with her. “This is a good opportunity for you.”
Becca turned her head to watch the first of the kids loading their sleeping bags and clothes into the back of the van, squashing the bags to make room.
“Becca.”
She stopped because he did and turned to face him.
“What, Dad? What’s a great opportunity?”
Annoyance lit his eyes briefly before disappeared with the smallest of head shakes. His tone had a slightly reproving edge as he said, “You’re an upperclassman now. You have a chance to show the younger kids,” he indicated them with his head, the gangly freshmen with the pinched scared look, “what it takes to be a runner. A lot of these kids, the girls at least, look up to you.”
She looked them over and then returned her gaze to her dad but staring at his shoulder, not his eyes.
“They shouldn’t.”
A sigh. “But they will and you can’t change that. It comes with the territory. There’s not a girl over there that doesn’t wish she could run like you. Probably,” he said but not boasting, “none of them ever will. They’ll never win State, they’ll never go to the Foot Locker Championships except as a spectator.” He waited while his words sunk in.
“So what am I supposed to do, Coach Hawthorne?” She regretted it as soon as she said it. At practice, he was Coach but the rest of the time he was just Dad.
“For starters, you might try acting like you want to be here,” he said. Annoyance crept into his voice.
Becca felt her lips tighten and her body get rigid. It’s you I don’t want here, she thought but she said, “I like the Clinic just fine. And I like the kids mostly.”
She could feel her dad staring at her, and she sneaked a glance at his face. The anger was gone, replaced by resignation.
“Okay,” he said, in a subdued voice, “I understand.” He spoke his words carefully. “You have any opportunity and it might be the only one you get. You don’t get a second chance at this.”
Becca shot an angry glance at him.
“Teach them that, if you can,” he said, his eyes intense, “to seize the opportunity.”
Becca leaned her head against the warm glass and felt the vibration of the engine, quick and steady, lulling her. Her father was right. The young runners, the girls, had all treated her like she was different and wouldn’t even look at her as they asked questions, half afraid that she would do…what?
That first Foot Locker, when she was a freshman and still scared, she had finished in a disappointing – to her and, she supposed, to her dad – 21st place. She remembered the look in the eyes of the girls – the nationally recognized racers, the ones that got written up in the running magazines. They all had the same look. She wondered if they shared the same feeling.
All I want to do is run…
Take What the Trail Will Give You
When I first started teaching my girls to run on trails, I taught them to take what the trail will give. I've watched so many runners, facing a rocky, technical hill, decide that they will impose their will on the hill. Good luck with that. The hill doesn't care. Nary a bit.
Which brings me to my run yesterday. The hill - in this case, the climb on the Headwaters Trail on Moscow Mountain - was kicking my butt. Yes, I'm out of shape. Yes, it was hot and it was humid. Those were the least of my issues.
I stood at a trail crossing a couple of miles up the hill and contemplated turning around, not finishing the loop. It wasn't a physical issue - I wasn't far from the top as it was. It was mental - I was overloaded, overheated and under-motivated. I was feeling a bit whiny if you really wanted to know.
So I did what I often do. I had an honest discussion with myself...
You can turn back now, Paul. It's all downhill. Feel fast as you cover ground back to the car and it's still a great addition to the week's running. It's just not what you said you were going to do.
And all you have to do is explain to the family how the hill was kicking your butt and you chickened out from the rest of the trail and ran for home.
Or you can keep going, finish the loop. Take what the trail will give, give what you've got ... and be happy with what is.
Your choice. What are you going to do?
So I kept going. For those that don't know me, I have a habit of talking to myself so the above conversation isn't either new or unusual. More importantly, I listen to myself and what I heard was disappointment. Not that the hill was clobbering me - but that I was giving up on me. I still had enough juice to get over the ridge.
About ten minutes later, the trail rewarded me. I know, I said the trail doesn't care but sometimes I just feel like things happen for a reason even if they obviously don't. But I got to see that big bull moose with the massive rack because I hung in to the end.
If I had quit, I would have missed him and the loss would be entirely mine. For those keeping track at home by the way, that's moose, elk, two types of deer, bear, bear cub and a fox seen this summer. Not bad and no cougar sighting except on the WSU campus.
Once I crested the ridge and started down, I was right - I would feel fast. I was whipping through the woods and the foot work started to come back. Little hesitation steps to rebalance past a tree root, quick stepping a downhill. The signs that I'm gradually relearning how to run, aware of the roots and rocks and ruts, the whole body making the adjustments to handle each little change, moving on a more instinctive level again.
The trail may not care but I do so I will take what the trail will give - and I'll honor it by giving what I have.
It's a fair enough trade and I got to see a moose. That's a pretty good run.