It's been a while since I last posted. After finishing up the 6th race, I decided to step back and downshift for a few weeks to let my body heal. Time passed, but things still hurt. This wasn't good. I struggled through June, trying to run as I usually do, popping Advil like Skittles. Summer in the Sierra is a wonderful time to be out on the trails, and I really, really wanted to be out there, but every step was literally a pain. Ever since rolling my ankle in January, it's always been a bit tetchy, but I was able to partake in a Cortisone and Go program twice in the spring to get me through my races. However, my supplier said no more until an MRI showed what was going on. X-Rays had been negative, but the pain was persisting for far longer than it should. Of course, "should" is a term I try not to use, since I "should" have stopped running.

July 4th was coming and I couldn't break my streak of annual Forth to Fourth (of July) Lake, for the Fourth (of July) runs. This would be the fifth consecutive, and the seventh overall. I figured I could grit it out with a few others. I did. Barely. Holy Roots, that hurt. The whole return was a fog of pain. I vowed then that I would hang up the Hokas until I found out what was going on. 

The first appointment I could get for an MRI was in early August, so I dialed back, stopped running and started cycling. That didn't cause problems on the ankle. I cruised up to about 80 miles a week -- I do need to maintain my figure, you know -- and waited patiently for MRI day.

MRI day came, and results were disappointing. Newly sprained and existing torn ligaments have combined to become pernicious pain generators. Prognosis: a month in a brace, walking only on flat, smooth surfaces and a revisit in September. That really sucks, since it essentially co-opted my entire summer of trail running. But, if it's going to get me back out there, I can do it.

Fast forward to last week (does that even make sense?), and I'm back in the podiatrist office. He asks how it feels. I say it feels better, but still hurts. He has me sit, and take off the brace, and he'll manipulate my foot around and see what's what.

He pulls and pushes and rotates, and I levitate off the chair. Holy fuck. White hot pain. I'll admit I probably squealed like a little girl at one point. Apparently, old, stupid men like me don't heal particularly quickly, so it's another month in the brace. Unfortunately, I am heading off for a two-week vacation of scramble-hiking and walking, and I will *not* be deterred. Yes, it may set back my running another month, or six, but I can live with that. In fact, I've reconciled myself to the eventuality of never running coming sooner rather than later. If my last run turns out to be my last run -- on the Fourth of July -- I can live with that.

See ya in a couple of weeks. From Panama!

Alliterative, and alluring? Confusing, yet compelling? Swinging for the fences! And missing.

Way back in December, I decided to do a 50K in April in Fruita, Colorado, and make it a destination race with a little adventure tossed in. Instead of flying or driving, I'd ride the rails less traveled - I'd take the train. (Read here and here if you want more info on the adventure.) Somewhere along the Training Way leading up to Fruita, I thought, "Hey Slang, how about a lead-up event?" "Sure," I replied. "We can do this." So, I signed up for the Lake Chabot 50K in mid-February. I figured a 50K 8 weeks out would be a decent gauge of fitness and capability to do the race in Fruita.

Unfortunately, Chabot wasn't great, and when the opportunity (read: peer pressure) to do another a mere 6 days later, I went for it in an attempt at redemption of mind and body. Salmon Falls went better than I expected, though I still had the cramping bugaboo that is my personal albatross. But looking at the times for the races, they averaged out to 6:00 - and interesting balance and a decent finishing time for me. It was then that the idea struck. Somewhat influenced by the person who more than any other hooked me on trail running, Tom "It's all downhill to the top!" Wion, who had completed twelve 50Ks in twelve months in 2017, I thought, "Hmm. Maybe I can do a streak of some kind as well..." Enter The Quest.

​​Number three went really well: Ruck A Chuck. Despite having more vert than either of the other two, I did well: 5:50, and best of all, not a leg cramp to be had. I was now stoked. Fruita was three weeks out and I thought I had it dialed in.

​Well, I wouldn't call it dialed in, as I completed it with serious cramp issues, but still respectably in 6:08. I did a quick set of calculations: four races with an average elevation gain of 4503' and an average finish time of 5:59. Huh. I wondered if I could do two more and not exceed the 6:00 hour limit? Better yet, can I do two more such that the first to the last race was within a twelve week time span -- because numbers are fun? My stupid mind said, "This is going to be fun!" My body replied, "Dude, seriously?"

But before continuing on to items five and six, some photos from Chabot (first pair) Salmon Falls (second pair) & Ruck (last pair).

Five down in ten weeks. Now what? I still felt the need to at least get six in three. Because five in two and a half doesn't have the same cachet. And maybe, just maybe, I could get an average time on course of 6:15. Sure. At least there is a six at the beginning, right? So with that in mind I signed up for Paiute Meadows in Susanville, CA, on May 12. This one looked to be the warmest one, so cramping likely was going to be a definite concern. But hey, when the accommodations are at the Diamond View Motel & Laundromat the night before, you just know it's going to be a good next day. As for training, I'd been in a constant state of tapercovery, so I didn't think anything of scheduling an eighteen miler that turned out to be twenty one on the Saturday between. (It was beautiful and definitely worth it: Wolf Creek Falls.)

Race week: Two less-than-glorious "taper runs" where I had legs 'o lead and a chest o' pounding and tightness. Also I’d had twitchy calves daily from Tuesday onward, requiring the use of night splints to even have a hope of sleep at night.

A short hop north after work and I checked in Friday night at the Diamond View. Such a hidden gem: A super pleasant host, a comfortable bed...quiet, what more can you ask? Oh, yes a heterochromia iridum kitty, that decided I was his (her?) bestie, and thought my lap was the place to be.

Continuing race prep the night before, I wanted to do it as right as possible, and I purposely limited myself to a single low-ABV beer with a splendid burger dinner at the Pioneer Cafe (the outlet for Lassen Ale Works). Night was a toss-turner wearing the splints, but that's normal. Race morning: wake, eat (bagels and peanut butter!), poop, pack up and head to the start, located conveniently only about 5 minutes away.

When I arrived, and before I even had a chance to exit the car, my right calf fully spasmed. Well, dang. Things looked bleak indeed for anything more than a thirty-one mile death march. Me being me, I was committed to starting, and start I did.

The first half went relatively smoothly. I ran mindfully not to flex the calves - keeping them neutral to extended, but keeping moving at a reasonable pace. I hit the start again (the course is roughly two different loops) at 2:30 elapsed. Wow! I may get my six! Lulz.
​
The second half is a completely different beast. Most of the climbing occurs here, and the trails are far more technical. As for the baby cows? Yeah, they said hi. Repeatedly. Often. Alternatingly, even. I did finish, and my time was slower than I hoped for at the halfway point, but was faster than I feared at the start. Let's call it a compromise.

My spring event season (I hesitate to use the word "race".) has come to an end, not with a bang, or even a whimper, but with the realization I’m not as young and resilient as I want to be. After years of running with people 10+ years younger than I am, my mind plays tricks on me – writing checks my body cannot cash. However, I’m going to earnestly try to focus on what I did – not what I didn’t do. Running the final three events in just 29 days will figure prominently. Those who know me might scoff at that, but I will indeed try. I may even take some time off.

Friday night, pre-race. On a recommendation from a local, I got an awesome burger at Munchies, then hopped over to Copper Club Brewing for a couple of carb-load hydration packs, often referred to as “beers.” I was sipping and enjoying the music. Didn’t really register until he started jamming a Stevie Ray Vaughn tune. Damn. The guy was good. I turned to see him and I’ll be honest, I was surprised. He looked like he’d have been quite comfortable sitting and crooning at a campfire.

The best part was after the race. My college roommate from decades gone by Mark came over from Denver and we demolished a huge pizza from Hot Tomato, while swilling beer after beer in Copper Club (yes, again!). Such good pizza and such good beer. And such a good time with such a great friend. (Thought I was going to continue with the “goods”, didn’t ya?)
After whiskey into the night, we capped the visit with an awesome breakfast this morning at Camilla’s Kaffe. Sooo good.

The memories of that morning came back.
​On April 30, 1995 (I had to look up the date), I toed the line for the very first time since a middle school half mile race against the clock. (Back then it was called junior high.) That one was required to pass the phys-ed class I was in; this one was purely voluntary. I don’t remember exactly why I signed up, but I’m pretty sure it was a result of peer pressure from a dark-haired beauty I was dating at the time. (History shows I’m a sucker for that kind of pressure. And dark haired beauties, too, apparently.) I do remember the race was five miles, and my goal was 40 minutes. Pretty sure I didn’t make it, and I felt absolutely wiped out the rest of the day, but hey, I got the shirt!

Soon after that race, I stopped running, stopped seeing the dark-haired beauty, stopped working at my job, and stopped living in Colorado. It took seven years, and a gain of twenty five pounds before I tried running again – to resounding failure. I couldn’t even make it a mile. I was fat and over forty. Like a lunatic, I signed up for the now-defunct Silver State half marathon in Washoe Valley. I survived, and soon after, discovered trail running and have never looked back.

Fast forward another fifteen years. I lost the twenty five pounds (and more). I’ve lost my youth and the feeling of invincibility that goes with it. I’ve lost some relationships – losses which haunt me nightly. But, I’ve gained two great kids, and a healthy lifestyle on the trails. I’ve gained some pretty amazing trail companions, and a renewed connection with the natural world. And since every run could be my last, I strive to enjoy every step – even the ones that hurt, though they far outnumber those that do not.

​Sir Elton may be still standing. As for me? I’m still running. Running like Jackson Browne.

After two days of visiting the valley floor and heading up steep trails with unending switchbacks, I decided to change things up a bit and start in a different place — and go up a steep trail with unending switchbacks.

The trail from Tenaya Lake to Cloud’s Rest was on my shortlist, and when it was recommended by someone (who hasn’t done it yet, I might add.) I figured What the hell? I’ll likely die on a trail anyway. Why not today? Why not here in Yosemite?

i haven’t felt that horrible during a run in I don’t know how long. Dizzy, light headed, I couldn’t control my breathing nor my heart rate. I hurt from my head to my ankles. And I was only a mile in. This is going to suck. It was so hard for me to keep going, but I am nothing if not stubborn. Obviously, I made it there and back again. (LOTR reference for geeks.)

Final weekend tally: three days, three runs, 36 miles, 12K elevation gain. I think I’ll rest tonight; I may even sleep.
​
And now, videos and moar pictures!

Today was my second and last day in Yosemite Valley. It’s unclear, but I don’t foresee coming back. Not to say I won’t visit Yosemite, it’s huge and amazing, I just don’t foresee returning to the valley.

Why? Because reasons. I don’t want to elucidate, and you, Gentle Reader, don’t care: “ Blah, blah, blah. Bring on the pitchurs!”

​So, without further ado:

I’ll find someplace to go tomorrow. My legs are fried, but whatever. Maybe there’s another double digit run still in them for this weekend.

The demons came on Sunday. Familiar enough that they all have favorite places to hang out in the condo, but they didn’t bring snacks, the jerks.

They have a pretty solid bead on where I live, so to escape them, I leave. Monday morning I looked ahead and saw the three-day weekend opportunity. I saw that Tioga Pass had not yet closed for the season, and couple that with the fact I’d never been to Yosemite before, my weekend was settled: road trip.

Made it to Yosemite Valley in about 4.5 hours. The entrance booth to Yosemite from Tioga Pass was unattended, so free visit! Saved $30; I’m sure I’ll spend it on dinner and alcohol.

My plan was to head up to Sentinel Dome, and hit Glacier Point on the way back. Thirteen tough miles. Cold, windy and fog on Sentinel.

By the time I’d made it off and back to Glacier Point, though, it had cleared and was spectacular.

All the usual pains kept me in SUDS* mode on the descent. Guess they’re here to stay. Or until I find a new hobby!
Tomorrow I’m eyeballing the other side of the valley and go up the Yosemite Falls Trail. Sunday is still up in the air. This is a spectacular place, though it’s kind of sad I’ve nobody to share it with. Other than my readers, that is!

*Same Uphill Downhill Speed
​In this case: slooow…

All good things must come to an end, and this trip is painfully approaching its inevitable conclusion. Yesterday was my last big adventure on land, and today in the water.
Yesterday was a trek across the island. Ostensibly, there was a trail, but in all practicality, it was a 6+ hour bushwhack. By the time I finished, the 11 miles felt like an ultra marathon. I was either ducking under a branch or three, or crawling over a deadfall, or winding my way around another. And all the way, I was a hunted man.

some men are chick magnets. Some may even be money magnets. I, mis amigos, am a leech magnet. Glamorous, I know. Ladies, calm yourselves.

And not just on my feet. On my stomach, and less public places, too. Mosquitoes, I don't mind. Leeches on my balls? Yeah, no thanks. TMI? You don't know TMI until you see the little fuckers attached.
Otherwise, I saw a bunch of nature. All cool.

After spending half the night drinking Chang beer in a beach bar during a deluge with an Australian couple solving the world's problems, nothing exciting to report for today.

A bit of breakfast, then hopped in a kayak to investigate the mangrove estuary to the ocean.
​I think I'll go the other direction tomorrow.
​Damn I look old and decrepit. Glad I don't have any mirrors!

Then it was beach time. Had to share it with the Beach King.
(Side note about dogs. They are ubiquitous and in reasonably good health. The ones in Bangkok all look like small akitas, in Chiang Mai, they look like narrow-muzzled, small labs, and in Koh Chang, they nearly all have the ridgeback fur of a Rhodesian.
In all locations, there exists definite local hierarchies, and I noticed cooperative grooming behavior in the Chiang Mai cohort. I found that interesting.)