It occurred to me that the process by which I'm implementing my life change can be analogous to the phase changes exhibited by water. Bear with me on this, I promise it'll make at least a little bit of sense, because it does to me, and I'm normal. Strapped in? Okay, here I go.

Water exhibits three distinct phases: solid (as ice), liquid (as, well, liquid water), and gas (as vapor, like fog). The solid phase doesn't move much, it just kind of hangs around where it is. Water, has more energy and movement. It slithers around on the ground following contours and curves and goes places. Vapor is the most robust and free. Not bound by the pull of gravity to the extent that water and ice are: it flies and blows with the wind, moving through three dimensions. It goes everywhere and anywhere, unconstrained, unfettered and free.

Typically, phase changes move from solid to liquid to gas, to liquid to solid, based on temperature and pressure. Sometimes, through a process called sublimation, solid ice can transition directly from solid to gas, but that's significantly less common than the more pedestrian two-step tango to get there. Alright, now that everyone has a basic understanding of phase changes, I can only imagine Dear Reader, you are wondering, what the fuck does this have to do with, well anything in anyone's life - unless that person is a physicist?

I view my life back in Carson as me being ice. I was pretty immobile in the grand scheme, but I would occasionally "sublimate" to vapor and take off to an exotic location, only to change back pretty quickly upon return. But, mostly, I hung close, and didn't go much of anywhere. When, a month ago, I left the area for the road-trip portion, I converted to water; stuck to the ground and flowing hither and thither to different parts of the western USA. I still got around – I logged about 3500 miles on the road – but I was limited to the ground, so, yeah, I was of the water phase.

That portion of the Great Transition™ is now complete that I divested myself of my car. For the first time in forty years, I no longer own a car. That feels...weird. PHTEVEN is no longer. Not that many understood the meaning of that license plate, but I got the occasional knowing look.

Without a car, I am at the mercy of friends, family and public transit. In the western USA, that means I am at the mercy of friends and family. Public transport? HAHAHA! In just a few days, I go full vapor and hop a jet outta here. Phase change, indeed.

Side note: in this last week of residency in the west, I may have met a unicorn. Of course I did. NOW. Right when I am leaving. But, if I wasn't on this trajectory, would we have met at all?

I'm willing to bet that the vast majority of readers (so... 5?) are confident I'm talking about oil changes, rotating the tires, or, if you are a homeowner, swapping out the furnace filters, because it's that time of year. Nope, I'm not using the word "routine" as an adjective in this case, but another noun. I'm talking about maintaining a routine. Sneaky, eh?

I posit that - for the most part - most people are people of routine. I certainly was. I'd get up, make coffee, go to work, do that stuff, exercise/grocery shop, prepare & eat dinner, consume some entertainment, and go to bed to wake the next day to do it all again.

Sure, there are always variations. Sometimes, I'd shower, or do laundry. Daring stuff. And weekends had their own flavor of routine. Different from the work week, but still, a routine, resulting in the weeks coming and going with a certain rigidity of flow of activity. Far from it being a necessarily bad thing, I'll go one step further and lay claim to the position that routine keeps most people, as Jelly Bread sings, Safe 'n' Sane. It keeps the analysis paralysis of too many choices at bay and creates a structure that we can use to really enjoy the times that we deviate from the normal, e.g., vacations. Without the structure of a routine, ennui is a constant threat, as well as procrastinating: "why do it today, I can just do it tomorrow." Unfortunately, that same attitude will crop up the next day. And the next. And the next. No, routines are necessary. Though I haven't researched it, I'm confident psychology supports my assertion. Hubris? Nah. I just know I'm always right!

I've had a decent routine over the month since I walked away from the job, but with the upcoming Next Big Change™, I'm going to need an updated routine. I think I have the beginnings of one coalescing in the back of the ol' gray matter, one that includes semi-regular documenting thoughts here in the blog among other potential activities. Notable in its absence is training for any long distance running races. Given the new environment, and a new me, I'm hoping to roll new activities in as well. Let's see what happens in the next couple of weeks and see if my nascent plan holds, grows, or dies.

Dawn was foggy and cold: 28°F. At least I was able to get in and out of my car with no issues! The sun started to break just as I crossed the WY/SD state line.
First stop on the 2 States/3 Rocks tour was Crazy Horse.

Cognitively, I get it that the “sculpture” is going to be the largest on the planet when completed, but there is no estimated completion date. Like, at all. I’m rather pessimistic that it will ever get done. The distance from the observation area and the rock is pretty large. It’ll be much better if/when they move it closer when the chisel work is completed. I hope they do. Next stop: Mt. Rushmore.

This was more impressive to me than Crazy Horse. This time of year there are no crowds to speak of, and the weather was beautiful. On the way from one to the other, I noticed a trailhead sign that I logged for after Rush. I did go back and get a few miles on the Centennial Trail. I didn’t push hard, because (a) nobody knew where I was, (b) no cell service, (c) my IT Band was still barking and (d) a & b again.
But here’re some photos of Rushmore.

After Rushmore, I thought to take a look at Deadwood. It reminded me a bit of Virginia City, but bigger and more, I don’t know, citified? Lots of hotels and a convention center. I moseyed into the #10 Saloon (world famous, apparently) and had a Buffalo Snot stout, brewed in Custer, South Dakota. Despite the name, it was quite tasty. Apparently, I enjoy slurping buffalo snot.

That did it for day one for this old boy. I found a nice rest stop, and crashed. Devils Tower was on the agenda for tomorrow.

This was my favorite of the three. A lovely trail that ringed the rock provided a nice run. Really uncrowded. And not a single alien to be found. I even sang certain tones while on the back side, and got no response. I didn’t even crave mashed potatoes. That was my only disappointment. Photos? Yeah, I got some.

Happy birthday, Dad.

I expect most have experienced getting locked out of their car. I did once – from a truck with an unlatched sliding rear window – so that didn’t last long. But just how many have locked themselves inside?

Count me among the the few, the stupid, the new joke target. What happened? Well, I’ll share.

I had pretty much nestled down for the night when I discovered I unintentionally brought inside a few nasty prickly burrs when I had been out walking. No problem. Grab the key from the cup holder where I put it at night, unlock the doors, toss ‘em, close, re-lock and replace key in cup holder.

So I did.

Or so I thought. (Cue foreboding music.)

A bit later, being of advanced age and withered bladder capacity, I prepped to visit the facilities one last time. No problem. Get the key, unlock, and go.

That’s when I discovered the key was not in the cup holder. Why is this critical? Why not just open the door and look for it in the morning? Well, boys and girls, opening the door after it’s been locked by the key sets off the alarm. I wasn’t comfortable doing that in a quiet rest are, where others were trying to, you know, rest.

Could it have bounced out when I dropped it? Sure, as my stillborn basketball career can attest. I then spent far too long poking under and around the front seats looking. The gymnastics necessary for me to reach under the front seats without ever opening a door was impressive. Yet, after many minutes of fruitless, nearly arm trapping searching…nothing. I was so sure I’d put it back, but it simply wasn’t there. Let me be clear that what I was looking for was just the fob: a small black object in a car with black upholstery, black carpets, at night.

I moved toward the rear, methodically moving everything, and there it was, nestled in the comforter I use as bedding.
Needless to say, the sprint to the bathroom was a sight to behold.

I still, still remember dropping the key in the cup holder. I remember the sound it made when I did it. Memory loss is a terrible thing. But, all’s well that ends well, I guess. No accidents and no rest, other than my own, was disturbed.

Carry on.

Heading to South Dakota today, after a morning run with Nick and another delicioso burrito del desayuno from Consuela’s, which is known locally in Ft. Collins as the home of best breakfast burrito – a well-deserved accolade.
As I drove north on US 85, I thought it deserved the title of “Loneliest Road in America” much more than US 50 in Nevada. I never felt nearly as alone the many times I’ve been on 50 as I did today on 85. I hope the feeling quickly fades.

As a final act of running here in the good ol’ US of A, I signed up for a trail marathon in Ft. Collins, CO. This was at the suggestion of my nephew, who is (was?! 😈) quite the accomplished distance runner. In remarkably uncharacteristic manner, I trained diligently – if by train, I mean drink more beer in the three weeks leading up to the race than I had in the previous six months, and ran…little.

Before leaving Carson City, my training had waned due to smoke and ennui, and, despite a lack of smoke, the lack of motivation persisted. I suppose driving many hours a day (when not spending days drinking beer, of course) didn’t help either.

Leading up to race day, I hadn’t run even twenty miles but once in (I’m guessing) about three and a half years and even that was two years ago. I think I’d pretty well blocked out the sufferfest this death trudge was going to be, as did Nick. The night before the race was a comedy of trying to determine gear, logistics, nutrition, hydration, WHILE DRINKING BEER.

Mind, I knew I’d finish. It’s in my stubborn, relentless nature. What was less determined was how long it was going to take and just how shitty it was going to be. Back when I was semi-legitimately training (in August), I gave myself six goals. First are the standard three for every “race”:

1. Have fun. First and foremost, always.
2. Stay vertical.
3. No blood.

The next two are time-related:
4. Reasonable finish: 6:00
5. Stretch finish: 5:30

The last was an arrogance goal:
6. Beat Nick.

Granted he hadn’t been in the groove for while, but he was a Leadville 100 and UTMB finisher and had done some distance pacing this summer. Oh, and I’ve got 20+ years on him. Yeah, total arrogance goal.

Race day was beautiful. Crisp 30° start and a cloudless sky. Nick and I did the slow trot/power walk for the first 10K. I stopped for equipment change and he was gone. Fair. I had no idea of my time. I purposely wasn’t looking. My only change of plan was going to be to push with what I had the last 10K.

“Revisit?” Well, yes. I grew up not far away, and, in fact, my high school graduation ceremony was held here in June of 1980. Go Commanders! What with us all in our top hats, frock coats and arriving by horse and buggy, it was a sight of wonder and beauty! Of course there are no photos, cuz that hadn’t been invented yet. I recall seeing many shows here, some of the best, though, were impromptu Friday night acoustic shows by random people playing on a pitch-black stage. We’d sit in the stands listening and looking at the lights of Denver over the back rock, and the stars overhead. Can’t do that anymore: gates and locks on the entrances these days.

Arrived at my nephew’s, and we needed to go grocery shopping. Sigh. I guess I’ll get into the car and go.

But, finish we did – the both of us. And, I have to add, the old crushed the young. Heck, I’d already finished my first beer and was on to the second, when I handed him his frosty can of liquid gold as he crossed the line. Yeah, Imma gonna be blowing that particular horn for a looong while!
Now it’s time to rest the angry IT Band, do a bunch of laundry, visit with friends and see about what to do next. My aeroplane ride is coming up soon!

But first, I think a trip to South Dakota next week might be fun. I’d like to do a run while I’m there, but that’ll be determined by my leg agreeing to do so.

Tomorrow I leave the Triangle of Four Corners – that’s what I’m calling the Cortez-Mancos-Delores area – and I have to say, I’m almost reluctant to leave. I had a great visit to the Delores Brewery and dinner at Manzanita in Delores with Brittany and Scott tonight. Good beer, good food and incomparable company. Yeah, they’re family, but they have made me feel so welcome here, it’s unnerving to my cold, black, diamond-hard heart. And Winnie. Oh, Winnie.

Perhaps I’ll make it back in July. That’d be pretty awesome.

I’ve been hanging about in the Four Corners area of Colorado and Utah. Acting like a renegade and running on some of the iconic mountain bike trails, leaving footprints rather than tire tracks. You’ll never catch me, Copper!

Slickrock in Moab, Utah was like running on concrete. Concrete that was uneven, off camber, steep up, steep down, or any combination of all of those. Oh, and a total kick in the Hokas. I hit the trailhead bright and early in order to beat any crowds there might be on a random Thursday in October. Watching the sun rise over the fantastic rock formations was quite a sight. The route is clearly marked with paint on the rock, and even after the season, quite easy to see and follow. Ostensibly, this and my subsequent runs are supposed to be preludes to race day next weekend, but I truly suck, and the views are too spectabulous not to stop and take photos. Race day on the 16th is going to be a suck fest if I try to run fast even mildly competitively. So I am going to adhere to my own advice and “Run when I can, walk when I cannot, and enjoy my time on the trail.”

In addition to running here, I’ve met up with family I haven’t seen in a long-ass time. This has exceeded all my expectations. I’ve reconnected with a couple of nieces, and their husbands. They’ve always been good kids, but shit, now they’re good adults. I look at what they are doing, and can’t help but be happy with how well and happy they are. Both of them, and their mom, have embraced the West Slope rural life in the country. Raising and growing a substantial amount of the food they eat is complemented by buying locally sourced the things they don’t. My initial thoughts years ago of moving here are completely validated. The only drawback to that is I still hold out hope for a female companion, and those are really in pretty short supply. At least those that I find interesting. Maybe if I extended my range to Durango? Useless speculation at this point, as I’m on the move in two days to the Front Range to end the road trip, and begin the true expedition.

More highlights were meeting up with an old college roommate and a brother. Timing was good as my old roomie is on his way to a new place as well. Best of luck, Keith! I hope my brother is on his way to a new place too. Not geographical, but physically, and mentally. Best of luck to you too, Mike! I hope you can get there – and stay!

Meanwhile, enjoy the photos of beauty and fun I simply could not capture with a camera.

Also managed to spot some evidence of wildlife. Fresh juvenile lion print, and the spider had better running form than I did as he passed my on the trail. I wasn’t having my best run.