Rockwell Relay 2015: The Ride of Our Wives (part one. prologue)

Before I get started I should provide a couple of disclaimers.  

Disclaimer 1:  This is a long race.  Really long.  Five hundred plus miles long.  The better part of two days long.  So the blog is also long, would be long even if I knew how to be brief in writing (which I don't) or I didn't feel passionately about the subject matter (which I most definitely do).  So if you were looking for just a "so how'd it go?" update without any real interest in a thoughtful and complete answer to that question, check out the facebook updates posted during the race.  But if you came to relive the event with us in salty scalped, chapped-lip, saddle-sore, sweat from your pore(s) detail (which is really the only reason to blog about it in the first place) well then you've come to the right place. 

Disclaimer 2: If you are looking for an objective evaluation of this event or a critique of the people who promote it, this is not your blog post.  After returning to it for the fifth time I am far past neutral reporter mode, the fact is I Love this race and am probably its biggest homer* even though it has pushed me to the breaking point (and on more than one occasion beyond that point) every time I've done it.  It is crazy-fun in the way that you have to be a little crazy to find it fun.  So many reasons for that, first and foremost it's a bike race, so I'm already interested.  Second there's the landscape which is literally world renowned. People come from all over the planet to drive these roads, hike these trails and see these sights. Third, it's a road trip with three other people with whom you will share an experience that will bond you to them in a way that only the shared suffering of '525 grueling miles-one goal' can.  And finally it's the people who organize and support this 'kick off the racing season with a bang' event every summer: the Rockwell family (Daniel, Cort and Jeff Stewart, Tyler Servos, Michelle Lyman and all their kids, cousins, aunts, uncles, in-laws and out-laws) it's as if every year a member of their family gets married and we are all invited to celebrate for an entire weekend with the June Bride & Groom.  If you come away from this race without a feeling that you've been adopted into the Rockwell Clan, it's because you didn't spend any time talking to the people wearing the event staff T-shirts. 

*possible/probable exception would be Fat Cyclist and that's only because he's done it an equal number of times and his blog reaches a larger audience than mine by a factor of a Gajillion (yes Gajillion, with a 'G') and he practically sponsors the race or vice versa.  So if I'm number 2 on that list I'm OK with that. I've got a dozen Rockwell T-shirts and several bib kits, my vehicles are festooned with Rockwell decals and I own every finishers ring they ever made.  He's clearly a much more popular writer and ridiculously faster rider than me, but I can match him blow for blow in Rockwell homerism.


I can't love something this much and not want to share it with everybody I know who enjoys cycling and encourage them to try it out for themselves.  This is especially true when it comes to my wife Jennifer who loves cycling, loves racing and loves riding with me (most days).  You would have to ask Thad if his experience was the same, but from the first go-round in 2011 I wished I could ride it with Jenn.  She observes a strict 'no overnight races' policy the reasons for which are myriad and mainly involve her not wanting to destroy friendships by confining herself to tight quarters on very little sleep and poor nutrition while doing something that's not just physically demanding but challenging even under ideal conditions. Rockwell does all of those things (in spades) so Moab to SG seemed like something we would never share but that changed last spring when she decided the feather her cap was lacking was The Triple Crank*.  Since that time we have been planning (and training) for this weekend (and truth be told worrying on an unspoken level that it might all be a really, really bad idea).  Whether a bad marital decision or glorious bonding experience we are here, no turning back now.  Nowhere to go but forward.

*see previous blog posts

For those not familiar with the race I have lifted some info from the holy Race Bible:

Moab to St. George – The Rundown

June 12-13, 2015

What is the Rockwell Relay: Moab to St. George? It’s taking 3 of your buddies and cycling, non-stop, from Moab to St. George. One teammate in the saddle at all times makes for a ‘never forget’ experience. Covering 525 miles of majestic beauty, it is a ride that only invokes a sense of awe. It will test your mind, body, and soul.

The race begins in Moab, UT on Friday, June 12 at 7am | 9am | 11am. Start line is at Swanny Park. The course will follow the scenic backroads of southern Utah, traveling through two National Parks and Utah’s most beautiful landscapes. The race will continue through the night into Saturday until each team reaches the finish near downtown St. George, UT at the Bluff Street Park. Total miles traveled will be 525.

Each team will include 4 cyclists. Each cyclist will ride a total of 3 legs of the course. The average of each leg is 44 miles. Cyclist 1 will ride Leg 1, then at the first exchange switch off to Cyclist 2, and so on until all 12 legs are completed.

As you can see from the route map, there are no straight roads between Moab and St George.

Also, and perhaps more importantly, there are no flat roads between those two points either, as the elevation map so aptly illustrates.  It looks like a heart attack* if this were an electrocardiogram tracing and those peaks don't lie.  The route takes you over, around and through at least four mountain ranges, several river valleys and lots and lots of desert.  For future reference (and for those who like to code by numbers and colours) the blue parts are me, Jenn is red, green legs are Thad's and the yellow peaks belong to Kim. It's like one big game of Sorry (Ha! that just occurred to me and it's perfect, only when Jenn says it it comes out as Sore- Ree... That's Canadian linguistic critique number one, three is the limit for this weekend and given the circumstances 0-1 might be a better range, she's a generally good-natured Canadian who is about to be starved of food deprived of sleep, exposed to the elements and prevented from showering after multiple workouts. Don't push her).

*OK, really it looks like Ventricular tachycardia trying for asystole, either way things aren't looking good for the patient

So without further ado but before we get to the riding let's meet Team Taking Turns With Spouses*

*The playful double entendre team name which is de rigeur for events like these got more uncomfortable chuckles and sideways glances than I thought it would have.  It's an overnight bike race folks, not a lifestyle statement.  Just so we're clear.


First up:  Thad aka 'pickle juice'.  He's the team Captain, team coach and team wrench. There are no broken bikes or malfunctioning bike parts on this team. There are only bikes and parts he hasn't had a chance to fix yet.  That's the wrench part.  As the coach and fitness guru he designs and monitors team workouts.  He's earned an unofficial graduate level degree in exercise physiology, has read all the same books, blogs and websites as Jenn has and does.  If the two were married neither would ever, ever get any sleep.  Just sayin' (but they would both be in wicked-good shape all the time).











Steve (me)  I'm the climber of the crew, mostly because I'm willing and up until this year I was the team member who was least challenged by the physical laws that climbing mountains on a bike represents. An affable attitude and above average cardio prep (buried inside an above average sized frame) will only get you so far, however.  In this crowd it gets you across the finish line in a time that's about one standard deviation below the mean.   I'm also the resident shutter bug and historian.  I love writing about riding almost as much as I love the race itself.  At some point I'm going to have to either step up my power output, tighten up my prose or be relegated to team bus driver.

This is Jared, Thad's friend and former co-worker.  This is what a climber looks like. Thad told me I should be able to hold his wheel out of Moab and probably most of the way to Monticello.  Spoiler alert:  That didn't happen, though we did leapfrog their team for the next day and a half, mostly when Kim would pass their #4 cyclist and then Jared would catch me on the next big hill (again).





And finally Jennifer and Kim the rookies who are actually seasoned veterans with half a dozen marathons (including qualifying for Boston), twice that many half marathons, several century races and a Lotoja finish on their collective resumes.  You would be a fool to dismiss them as merely eye candy, though we kinda hope that's what the competition is doing. That said (and with apologies to Rodney's irrepressible charm and winning smile and Josh's nicer than the ones the pros ride bikes and designer bib kits) the team has experienced a serious aesthetic upgrade in 2015.  Both of these women are not just serious athletes but also talented, well rounded, well spoken individuals with fingers in more pies than I have time or room to mention.  That said, until early last week Kim was still finishing her third year of dental school and studying for boards (which she aced, even though the result she was sent in the mail said simply and almost dismissively 'pass' but we know the truth) and Jenn is the director of a choir that will temporarily have to make do without her services. This weekend the teeth and the tenors will have to take a number because the only hurtin' that Kim will deliver will be on the Lake Powell and Bryce Canyon climbs and the only serenading Jenn does will be to the black bears and coyotes on Boulder Mountain.







One of the interesting things about doing this race so many years in a row are the traditions that are so ingrained they are almost ritualistic.  This year would be different and not just for the obvious reason that there would be two more X and half as many Y chromosomes in the truck.  For one, we dispensed with the leaving so late that there's nobody left at check in and no Bratwurst (courtesy Fat Cyclist, I'm not saying he's more popular than me because he shows up early to feed everybody grilled sausages but I'm sure it doesn't hurt) and no cyclists milling about and hobnobbing with fellow riders. On this occasion we left close to on time and had the chance to meet and greet friends from Relays past, like Dot and Gordon (team Escape From the Land of Entrapment) whose car broke down last year so they jumped on board in our vehicle and kept the race going while their van got a new alternator. Good to see you again D&G.


Some things you don't mess with because the tradition/ritual is soothing and keeps you grounded as we get closer to the starting gun. We go to the Moab Diner with plans to have a shake but instead end up eating a safe but forgettable meal (like always) we make eleventh hour food purchases at the local Piggly Wiggly then back to the Motel rooms for last minute bike prep and bib number management then off to bed to try to fend off the race night jitters and stockpile the last precious minutes of sleep that occurs in a fully reclined position, between bed sheets, with your legs completely stretched.  It will be almost two days before that happens again. 



The first wave of riders (those planning on finishing in ~34 hours) leave at 7.  We hope to be significantly faster than that, but leaving earlier gives you more options for working with other riders as they catch you later in the race.  That and four years of doing this has taught us nothing if not the fact that the most careful and sensible of plans can be put quickly

asunder in the treacherous miles that lay ahead, so we join the dawn patrol riders. In earlier years the entire team would get dressed up in matching kits and ride to the city limits together but that's a newlywed gambit, the thrill of that is now long past.  Thad and Kim sleep in and Jenn comes with me to the start to snap a few photos and kiss me luck.  I sit and watch my heart rate monitor track my predictably increasing pulse.  My resting heart rate is about sixty but as we get hit the two minute to release it creeps to ninety, the to over one hundred at the minute mark and into the one twenties as we count down the last seconds and we're released; five century length bike rides and 25,000 feet of vertical climbing between us and our final destination.

Up next Part Two: At Dawn We Ride! (and in the afternoon too and in the evening and after the sun has gone down and after sensible people have gone to bed and after after party people have gone home and when Dairy farmers and doughnut fryers wake up and when early birds start looking for worms and when parents start making pancake breakfasts and when tired teenagers drag themselves to the table for mid morning leftovers and later when those same teenagers finally stop procrastinating and go out to mow the lawn... yeah, we'll still be riding.)

Jenn's Boston-Qualifier Blog Report

Energy and persistence conquer all things ~Benjamin Franklin

This is my second time running the Ogden Marathon. The first time was last year. Ogden 2014 was, in fact, my very first marathon. I thought for sure that would run a BQ then*. I was even on pace until mile 23. Then things fell apart. I silently prayed, is this a moment where I just need more faith or where I can ask for Divine help? The answer was, ‘Just slow down and enjoy the fact that you are running a marathon.’ A wave of endorphins hit me and as I slowed to a 10:30 pace I was overwhelmed with the thought, ‘I am running a marathon!’ I crossed the finish line at 3:52:something elated and absolutely pleased with my body for letting me run a marathon.

Here’s what you need to know about a BQ: "Boston Qualifier"--a marathon finish time fast enough to qualify for entrance into the Boston Marathon

Which, for me, means under or exactly 3:45. But some years there are more applicants than spots so you need to actually be faster. I figured I should be under by 2 minutes just to be safe.

*What Jenn’s not mentioning but should mention is how very difficult it is to qualify for Boston.  Just finishing a marathon is a singular achievement, one that only one half of one percent of the US population ever does.  That number is narrowed even further when you consider on average only 10.4 percent of marathon finishers ever actually qualify. Yes, Jenn has a storied history of proving naysayers wrong but this was of those times when the math ended up on the winning end and Jenn was left crunching numbers, reading training guides and hoping this year would have a different outcome.

This time I trained differently. I focused more on strength and core power than I did last year.  (Which was easy since I didn’t do it at all last year.) I was also riding my bike more. Instead of speedwork I did cycling classes that often punished me with interval training. I wanted to be stronger and leaner. It would help me with both speed and endurance. But I was having a really hard time getting lean. I never did feel as fit as I did last year. I never did feel on top of my game. I repeatedly tried cutting out sugar. Finally, I felt like I was arriving when… dun dun dun... bronchitis. Four weeks out and I get sick. I am down for 10 days. When I start up again I feel weak. I have lost speed and power. I express my concern and feelings of panic to Melissa and she offers me a gift. ‘If you want me to pace you I will :)’



I love running with Melissa. We obviously don’t run the same pace (she can run a 2:58 marathon - a screaming 6:48/mile pace) but running with her does something for me that I

can’t explain. I tried to express it in a text to her once:
“Running with you is somehow reassuring. And inspiring.
And hard. And cleansing. And wonderful.”



We had just done a trail run together on Antelope Island. It was back in February of this year. We ran and climbed for 22 miles. (Side note: buffalo are scary.) I have always admired Melissa for many things, not just her amazing athletic super powers (seriously, you don’t even know http://roadrunner8.blogspot.com/), but it was during this run that I felt a much deeper admiration and respect for her as a runner and as a daughter of God. In the true sense of the word, Melissa is awesome. And I am honoured to call her my friend.



After our Antelope Island trail run I felt somehow more connected to her. A big part of that, I know, is because she fully understands that running is, or can be, an incredible spiritual journey. Most endurance athletes will speak of a Higher Power. I believe it is in doing something you love, and connecting with and listening to and understanding your body, and having to suffer and overcome, that we may come to know God. Melissa has a firm testimony that God knows and loves her. He knows running is important to her and not just a trivial part of her life. I also know this to be true. So when she offered to pace me I was elated.

A week before Ogden I think to ask in my nightly prayers for the ‘desire of my heart’. I wonder if it is okay to ask for such a thing. I decide to do it. Then I climb into bed, open my Book of Mormon, and read...

                    3 Nephi 13:8 “... for your Father knoweth what things ye have need of

                    before ye ask Him.”

Right then that is all I need to know.

My mind, when I have a specific goal, does not shut down. The whole week leading up to Ogden is no exception. I obsess over my pace. I write down my pacing plan. I study my splits from last year. I rewrite my racing plan. I write down a best case scenario racing plan and a ‘slowest you can go and still get under 3:45’ racing plan. I micromanage my week. Early to bed every night. Early wake up. Healthy eating. No sugar. Minimize stress. I study the weather forecast that says it is going to rain. I think that by just staring at the hourly precipitation percentages and wind direction multiple times a day I can will them to change in my favour. I rethink my race day wardrobe. Two nights before Ogden I get as much sleep as possible. Eight hours… woo hoo! Friday, the day before Ogden, other than a quick 20 minute run, I rest my legs as much as possible.

I reread some of the texts Melissa has sent over the week:
         ‘Before race: no excuses, positive thinking.
         Race: come what may and love it.
         Finish: always oh how sweet!!!’

And my favourite:
         ‘Oh don’t you dare look back. Just keep your eyes on me. 
         I said no holding back. I said shut up and run with me. BQing is your destiny. 
         She said oooh-ooh-hoo. Shut up and run with me!’

If nothing else came of this marathon, I would be spending a few hours with one of the most fun people I knew. Melissa can make anything fun. I was really looking forward to it.

I had asked Steven for a blessing before my race. I wanted to know that my training and hard work would be used to its full advantage. I wished to run without injury. I was secretly hoping for but not at all expecting a direct answer to whether or not I would actually get my BQ. Steven gives me a blessing that speaks of faith and righteous desires. The Lord is pleased with my efforts, not just in my training, but in my life. I am filled with a peace and a hope. But not any tangible answer. I ask Steven, ‘What thoughts do you have?’ I think he wants to tell me I am going to succeed but can only say, ‘I know you are going to enjoy it.’

That night I get ready for bed at 9. I look up scriptures that include the word ‘race’.

                 Ecclesiastes 9:11 ‘... the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong… 
                 but time and chance happeneth to them all.’

I am asleep by 10 then up at the wee hour of 3am. Five hours is probably a record for longest sleep the night before a race. Yay! (I was so very tired last year with only one hour of sleep.) I eat my pancakes - the breakfast of champions - and Melissa picks me up at 3:25. She said 3:30 but Melissa is always early. I was ready for her at 3:20. We take the hour long drive up to Ogden and get on a bus that will take us up the canyon to the start line.

When we get off the bus Melissa exclaims, ‘It’s our song!’ Yep, the song ‘Shut up and [Run]’ is playing. This is a good omen, right? We hang out, use the portapotties a couple of times. Lindsey Smyth finds me and we chat for a while. (This is Lindsey’s first marathon. She is running it with one of her delightful friends.  She finishes in her expected time. Yay, Lindsey!)

The buses dropped us off at around 6. The race doesn’t start until 7:15. Thousands of runners are just waiting around, watching the skies, praying the rain holds off. It is so beautiful. It is so cold. It starts snowing.

Snow is better than rain any day. And I think I can handle this cold. I sit on the ground and try to conserve energy. It’s just another Saturday run, I tell myself. I don’t want to think about it, I just want to start.

A word about Race Tracker, it’s a mixed blessing. Sure it’s nice to know that Jenn is running and even how her pace tells me she is doing but at the same time you feel helpless and tense. Desperate to offer encouragement and aid but utterly helpless to do so. Jenn says this is how she felt the first time I rode LOTOJA. That race lasted TWELVE HOURS! I can’t imagine feeling this for that amount of time. I know I’ve already said thank you honey, but thanks again.

Finally, 7:15 rolls around. We start running with the masses and I am optimistic. The snow is gone and it is not raining… yet. Just follow Melissa. Don’t think. Enjoy the view. We are running faster than I had planned but it feels good and I know we will need the banked time when we get to the reservoir. Melissa does an elaborate dance at every mile marker, shouting out ‘Mile one, baby! …. Aww yeah, mile 2!!’ Everyone thinks she is crazy. ‘Let’s see you do that at mile 26’, they tease. I tell them, ‘You just wait. She will. This is just a training run for her.’

I get my first mid-race tracking update. Jenn said she wanted to be at 8:25 just to be safe.  She’s at 8:26, ahead of schedule and Melissa is keeping her on track. Good news. Jenn’s right, her training this time around wasn’t as circumspect as before and she never really seemed to hit her stride again since her annual bout of bronchitis.  I’ve been worried for her but this first Race Joy text message is reassuring.

At the aid stations Melissa asks me what I want and tells me to keep the pace. I try to drink at all the aid stations. It is cold so I am not getting dehydrated but I know in the latter part of the marathon I won’t want anything. For the first 10 miles I am nibbling on the breakfast bar and the chews I am toting in my spibelt. I grab a banana from a volunteer at mile 7. At mile 13 there are about 6 volunteers holding out bananas and I try to grab one without slowing my pace.  My hands are so cold and numb, I am soaked through (when did it start raining?), my arms are slow to move.  My arm won’t reach high enough on the first try and my hand has a hard time closing on the second.  I don’t even attempt to reach for the third banana but I grab one from the fourth volunteer. I have to eat while my stomach still says I can.

Halfway point, I get this text in a McDonald’s outside Hill Air Force Base where I have stopped to get the boys some breakfast. They ate nothing before we left and nathan isn't wearing a jacket. It’s raining and about 45 degrees (f). We’re eating sausage biscuits on heated leather seats in a fast food parking lot and Jenn has just finished half a marathon in the rain. I take a moment to reflect on the extreme disparity of our current locations and activities. Jenn is still on pace but has slowed to 8:30/mile.  8:35 will get her there in just under 3:45:00, she’s still in the game but I wonder if this is the beginning of a slow decline in pace and energy. I offer a silent prayer on her behalf. Not the first that morning and definitely not the last.

‘Eighteen! Eighteen! Eighteen! ...’ Melissa does one of her funky dances while running backwards. I want to laugh but I haven’t the energy. Some poor soul asks, ‘What is eighteen?’ ‘The mile marker we just hit.’ Running long distance slowly robs you of all capacity for reasoning and logic. I force myself to look up from the pavement and take in the view. I know I should be enjoying the beauty of the canyon; it is breathtaking. Unfortunately, I have no breath to spare as it is being stolen from me in the rhythm of in-two-out-two-three-four. As long as I can control my breathing I think I will be fine.

At the eighteen mile mark I get my next update. Jenn’s pace has dropped to 8:41 with a predicted finish time of 3:47:00 my heart sinks. I try to tell myself that Jenn and Melissa have just finished all the major climbing of the race and are about to hit Ogden Canyon (lots of downhill) and their pace is bound to pick up but at the same time I begin prepping my “we’ll get ‘em next year honey” speech. We are now in Ogden, standing roadside and noticing that it is not just kind of cold.  It’s really cold, and the rain is picking up.



It is at this very moment that I suddenly feel like I cannot keep the pace any longer. I don’t think I am going to make it. I thought Steven said I was going to enjoy this race. We are going downhill and yet I am struggling to keep Melissa’s pace. I can’t tell her. I don’t want to let her down. At the 18.5 mile aid station she asks what I want but I slow to a walk, grab a banana, some powerade, an orange. This might be the last time I eat or drink. I am starting to shut down and we have eight miles to go. I want to rest but I quickly start running again. Think positive. Negative thoughts always give my legs hope ‘You can’t make it, you say? Yeah, we should probably stop then’. I know this about myself, that I believe what I tell myself. I quickly think of Jens Voight and utter ‘shut up legs’ under my breath. Positive thoughts, positive thoughts, positive thoughts...

Me: ‘Melissa, I need a walking break’ Melissa: ‘You have ten seconds.. one.. two.. threefourfive.. six.. seven… eightnineten go!’ My body obeys. I know I have to do what she says. Our average pace is slower than planned. I have to keep up. ‘Shut up and run with me...’ runs through my head.

Me: ‘I have to take a break’ Melissa: ‘Not on a downhill, you can’t walk downhill, you have to wait till we are going uphill.’

Me: ‘I need one more break’ Melissa: ‘At the next mile marker... in half a mile’ I make it to the next mile marker and I don’t take the break. I read something somewhere, some pro cyclist talking about how it’s not necessarily how fast you go but how long you can suffer. I keep my pace.

We exit the canyon. This is where I fell apart last year. My breathing was out of control and my body started to shut down. But last year was hot. And last year there was no Melissa. My breathing is laboured but steady. My body screams for another break. We exit the short tunnel that connects to the path we will be running for the next two miles and I pause. I steady myself on a rock as my legs start to buckle. Okay, if this is what is going to happen when I stop then I guess I can’t stop anymore. Three more miles. I can do this.


Mile 23.1 (theoretically) only 5k to go. I shared my misgivings with the boys at the 18 mile update and they, like me, have begun worrying in earnest. Mathis gives me the update. Jenn/mommy is back on pace. 8:30/mile and a predicted 3:42:59 finish. Hooray. I know she has to be suffering immensely at this point and the end is so tantalizing close. Last year she cracked but this year she has Melissa. I say another silent prayer and go looking for some hot chocolate for what are bound to be two very cold marathon finishers scheduled to arrive in 25 minutes or so.

Somewhere in these last few miles I had started to think about my blessing, about my friends and family that are praying for me and at this point I realize that I really thought this would be easier. I thought I would have to work hard but not this hard. I thought I would be enjoying this… at least a little. Even Melissa felt inspired that there was a reason to pace me. And then I remembered the thought I had the night before. Melissa was inspired. Maybe not so she could help me qualify. Then why? Even she didn’t know the exact reason. I believe she was inspired simply to testify to me of this Eternal Truth... God is aware of who I am. Yes, God has more important things to worry about in the universe than my race. But He knows this is important to me. He knows what my goals are and He has assured me that they are righteous. He wants me to be successful. But He’s not going to just hand me what I want. I still have to fight for it. I still have to earn it. And this knowledge sustains me and keeps me from giving up. And even if I don’t qualify for Boston this time, He is pleased with my efforts and I am reassured of His love for me.

Melissa is looking back more often to make sure I am following. I had stopped trying to eat or drink miles back and now for the first time I am feeling like I seriously want to throw up. Not because my stomach is upset but because my body wants to get rid of this awful feeling and that’s the only way it knows how. Well, that and stopping. But it knows stopping is not an option because I have just said, out loud, ‘Override.’ End of argument. I manage to calm my body down and we keep running. I say we because at this point I am feeling completely disconnected from what is going on with the rest of my body. I am cold. My hands are numb. My legs are tight. But I keep going.

I get the final race update at mile 25, which should mean just 1.2 left but every marathon runner with a Garmin on his/her wrist knows that Marathon routes, at least those that are Boston Qualifiers, are actually 26.4 (Jenn’s GPS says 26.48 when she finally stops running) miles to allow for the tangents around corners. Race tracker has Jenn 6 seconds off her pace which means this last mile (and a half) will have to be run at a sub 8 minute pace to accommodate for the extra distance and six seconds she has dropped behind in the last 2.1 miles. I groan inside. I was so sure just twenty minutes ago that she would make it and now we’re back to condolences. I can’t ride this mood swing much longer. One way or another, in less than ten minutes I won’t have to anymore.

‘If you are going through hell, keep going.’ ~Winston Churchill

The last mile. Melissa is constantly looking back. Looking worried. ‘Dig deep. Finish strong. We are sooo close, so close. You can do this. Dig deep. Keep moving.’ My body is yelling at me... I. just.  want. to. stop. Please, MAKE THIS STOP!!

I know from experience that it hurts just as much to keep going as it does to start up again. In fact, most times it hurts more to start up again. I find myself arguing and negotiating with my body now. Things like, ‘Remember what happened last time you stopped? You can collapse in a heap when we get to the finish line.’ And, ‘If you keep going I promise I will never make you do a full ironman.’  And then Melissa utters the magic words...

                ‘I know it hurts so bad but it’s going to feel so good!’

And that’s what gives me a small but sufficient boost of strength. Because she is right. I am physically suffering more than I ever have. But I know that in less than ten minutes I will be done and the satisfaction of knowing I didn’t give up will feel sooo good.

Fleeting thoughts keep interrupting me.What if I actually qualify? What if this is really happening?  Seriously, what if I am fast enough to qualify for Boston? These thoughts don’t seem to have any effect on me. I am not in the least bit excited and I am utterly too spent to even care. But my body knows it wants it. I shut everything out and my legs keep running. I try to concentrate on Melissa’s shoes.

We turn the corner and I see the finish line soooooo far away. Don’t look at it, just look at Melissa.  Every time I look up it seems just as far away. ‘Less than two minutes,’ Melissa assures me.  ‘You are soooo close, so close.  Dig deep.’ And I obey.

If you look at the pictures of me just before the finish line you will understand this moment exactly.  What you will see in my face is pure agony and ultimate suffering. But my legs are still running strong with unprecedented willpower and determination.

The finish line is coming up.  I try to pick up my pace. I don’t think I do but the momentum is enough to keep me from slowing down and losing precious seconds. I am so close. If that finish line had just been at mile 26.2 I would have been done two minutes ago. I could be done right now… stop thinking and keep running!  Dig deep, dig deep, dig deeper, deeper, you are doing it!

Done. I cross the line and feel… nothing. I am numb. Do I feel anything? Cold maybe?  My legs start to buckle but I recover.

Melissa is cheering and yelling, Steven is calling my name, Liz is on the phone, I see some of the Moffatts, and then I feel something. I just want to cry. Oh wait, I do cry.  Melissa hugs me and I almost collapse into her. I forget to stop my

garmin but Melissa is celebrating a sub 3:45 time. I don’t care what my time is. I just gave that marathon every ounce of my strength. No way could I have run one second faster. I am happy with my effort.  So pleased that I didn’t give up. Maybe even a little impressed with my mental toughness.

I am smiling. I am happy. Steven hands me some hot chocolate. A volunteer places a medal around my neck. A photographer snaps a picture of Melissa and me. Melissa, looking happy and proud.  Me, looking shell shocked but glad to be alive.

There is a discrepancy between what RaceJoy is saying and Melissa’s garmin is saying. I don’t care. I am done and done and DONE. No more running. I just want to get dry and warm and sit down. Even if Melissa’s watch is right, I still didn’t run fast enough to go to Boston. I just read an article the other day saying the trend this year is 45 seconds faster than a BQ. Just give me my chocolate milk and some dry clothes.

I’m not sure what to say to Jenn. The race tracker has her (unofficial, didn’t realize that at the time) finish time as 3:45:38. So close, so much training, so much privation, so much suffering to come within half a minute of her goal.  It’s too cruel and I don’t have the words to express what I’m feeling, which is just as well since although Jenn is (sort of) walking and kind of talking, she’s clearly not on stable ground physically or mentally.  Also, Melissa is adamant.  They finished before the 3:45:00 mark and she doesn't care what anybody's text message update says. She delivered this baby, on time and  under budget and she doesn't want to hear about any 38 seconds.  I know better than to argue with Melissa when it comes to running, so I say nothing and snap some more photos.

We wander through the finisher’s chute. I grab one of everything… chocolate milk, banana, creamy (although it’s much too cold to eat it), coke, water. I join my mom under her umbrella for a huge hug. I almost cry again. Steven captures it on camera. Melissa is shivering uncontrollably even under the warmth of her sweatshirt Steven remembered to bring to the finish line. We find our bags at the clothing drop and walk back to our cars. I give Melissa another hug and thank her again and again.  She did something huge for me and is a new kind of superhero today. We say good bye and that’s it… race day is over. It feels kind of the same as when Christmas is over.

I find a nice café that lets me use their restroom to change into my dry clothes. My body temperature keeps dropping. I have a hard time using my hands to get dry clothes on my soaked body. Melissa didn’t have dry clothes to change into and I worry about her driving home.

In the car I try to tell Steven everything that happened.  But all I remember is how hard it was. I am still cold. My mind is still somewhat numb. I wonder what my official time will be because, even though Melissa’s watch said we made it under 3:45, the only time that will matter to the Boston Athletic Association is what Ogden has recorded. I check RaceJoy on my phone to see my split times.

Finish time 3:44:48

Steven exclaims, ‘You qualified!’ No way. It’s real then? I did it? I did it! ‘You are a Boston Qualifier!’ I, of course, start crying again.  (Who knew there was so much crying at the end of a marathon?)

At this point my allergies start acting up too and I’m again at a loss for words. I want to hug her (again) but we’re driving south in the rain at 70 mph on I-15, so it will have to wait.

When I get home I look in the mirror to see if I look different. ‘Good job, legs’ I glance at the few things I have written in the past few months. (I use dry erase marker to keep track of numbers or write motivational quotes on my mirror.) With satisfaction I smile at what has been my motto this training season… Energy and persistence conquer all things ~Benjamin Franklin.

I feel pretty amazing at the moment. A little melancholy maybe. Still cold. Wanting to take a nap. But also... looking forward to what I can accomplish next.

2015: Year of the Bike?

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; 
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; 
a time to kill, and a time to heal; 
a time to break down, and a time to build up; -Ecclesiastes 

Had I as an adult settled near the Southern California home where I grew up, I'm sure the idea of a cycling 'season' would be foreign to me.  Three hundred days a year of sunshine and 70+ degree temperatures offer lots of ride opportunities and really no 'off' season.  Great for a guy with a bike and some discretionary time on his hands. But despite what those of the septuagenarian set will tell you, it's also quite tedious, truth be told.  I could (but promise I won't) spend an entire blog writing about why I enjoy the predictable changing of Nature's Guard at Arms as Winter gives birth to Spring, Spring's adolescent vigor grows into Summer's productive, verdant splendour, which passes nostalgically into Autumn; Nature interpreting the gray hairs of maturity through the iconic colours of Fall. There's poetry in the change and while I don't fancy myself a poet, I appreciate the symmetry and cadence of a well constructed verse. And that's what a four season year feels like to me: a complete story with prologue, body and epilogue as opposed to the monotony of a  never ending, never changing narrative.  All pretty words and heartfelt appreciation aside, it still doesn't change the fact that I can't ride my bike in February.  So, in the words of poet/philosopher, David Crosby (or possible Steven Stills or Graham Nash... feeling too lazy even to google it):  "If you can't be with the one you love (honey), love the  one you're with."  And the one we were with in the early days of 2015: Year of the Bike, year in which Jennifer planned to shelf her Imelda-esque collection of running shoes and pursue the acme of Inter-Mountain area cycling achievements: The Triple Crank,* was the run.

*More, much, much more on this later. http://www.utahtriplecrank.com/#!

Unlike years past when I have spent pre dawn hours sweating on stationary bikes, gritting my teeth through spin classes or trying with mixed results to mimic interval training on an elliptical machine, this winter my once yearly foray into running (ie the Park Village Turkey Trot) had legs (so to speak) and lasted well past the last mud brown leaves of late November and into the slush and snow of December, the de facto hibernation season for most cyclists.  I bought a pair of actual, not on sale at Costco for $30, running shoes and hit the pavement.  And (and) actually found myself enjoying it.  I don't know if I ever fell truly and completely in love, but I did develop a proficiency of sorts (ie I ran for more than three weeks in a row without injuring myself) and eventually got faster, not just enjoying it but actually looking forward to runs.  Jennifer parlayed a gifted by Shauna entry into the Yellowstone Half Marathon last summer into a free registration for the Zion half marathon this Spring.  She asked if I wanted to join her and I agreed.  Jennifer (and if you know her you know she has never been accused of allowing the grass to grow under her feet) after narrowly missing last May, has her eyes on qualifying for Boston this Spring at the Ogden Marathon (Hey, what about the Year of the Bike?  Good question, we'll get back to that) and the Zion half would be a training run for her.

So mid-March, we packed the van the kids and some cousins and headed to my brother's house in St George.  The race was actually a lot of fun. Fun for Jenn because she was just out enjoying herself, taking in the scenery and pushing just hard enough to feel like she accomplished something when she finished.

It was fun for me because though it was no PR performance (lots more hill and climbing than they advertised, lots) I still finished in the top 15% of runners for age, gender and overall. That's unheard of for me.  Most bike races, if I am on my game and pushing beyond what I feel my soft-bellied, receding hairlined, mid to late forties body is capable of, I still finish mid-pack canting toward low 40th percentile on the bell-shaped curve even on my very best days. Jenn's journeyman, taking the guided tour effort also put her in the top 20% across the board.  Which is why she will qualify for Boston on flat roads and I will have to find a run that starts on top of Pike's Peak if  I am ever going to accomplish the same thing (more on that later too).

Back to the Year of the Bike.  Sometime last summer, the how and why of it happening is hardly as important the fact that it did happen Jenn decided she would do the Triple Crank.  That we would in fact do it together.

What exactly is the Triple Crank and what must one do to achieve it did you ask?  Well I'm glad you did.  For some of you this may be new material, for others who have already read and heard and especially to those who have plans make the attempt a refresher course is never a bad idea. Forewarned is forearmed as the saying goes.

The Triple Crank is not a race but rather an award given to any cyclist that in one summer takes down Utah's version of the Hydra: the three heads of this particular dragon consisting of:

June 13th -14th The Rockwell Relay Moab to St George



As it's name suggests, this is a team event.  A four person relay race, one rider on the bike at all times for 30 hours straight if you're fast, 36 hours straight if you're not (and in four tries we have always come closer to not than to fast) through three National Parks, over two mountains that top out above 10,000 feet and over 525 miles (850 km) of the most gloriously desolate country the conterminous United States has to offer.  The combination of distance, headwinds, isolation, heat, cold, oxygen deprivation, sleep deprivation, caloric depletion and proximity to three other athletes sharing the intimacy of suffering together for a common goal, trivial as it may seem to a purely objective observer, give the entire adventure a surreal, transcendent quality that you absolutely have to experience personally to understand.  I've tried (at least four times now) to describe it to Jenn.  She does not do overnight events, as she has explained to many a Ragnarian who has invited her to join their team, but for this (for me?) she has made an exception. The barrier of  overnight racing having been breached, the rest of the Triple was as inevitable as the two day head stuffed with cotton, legs made of brick hangover that follows the Rockwell Relay.

Head number two of this surly beast is:

The Tour of Utah Ultimate Challenge August 9th

The most challenging stage of the race dubbed America's Toughest Stage Race.  It is a bar fight disguised as a bike ride, one that leaves you feeling beat up, bewildered and willing to give your bike away to anybody who will agree to never give it back to you, no matter much you beg and plead.  It's an opportunity for amateurs to experience for one indelibly memorable afternoon what pro riders experience for days and days on end.  The route varies year to year but the few constants are at least 100 miles (160 km) of distance 10,000 feet of climb and a mountain finish at the top of Little Cottonwood Canyon.  The latter of which is roundly considered the most difficult canyon climb in a Valley full of canyon climbs.  The steepness of the road and misery or the August afternoon heat is ameliorated by more than a thousand racing aficionados who show up in carnival dress  to cheer you on, hand you up cold drinks, donuts, popsicles, pickles or whatever whatever else is handy and hand-up-able. And then giving you encouraging (and in my opinion crucial, especially at the section they mockingly dubbed Tanner's Flat) pushes on the bum.  The entire experience would be crazy fun if you hadn't been in your personal pain cave so deep and for so long that you wonder if your skin has lost its pigment.  The year I did the challenge we rode 108 miles (170 km) and climbed 10,800 vertical feet.  This year's route eclipses even that with 111 miles (175km) of riding and 13,000 feet of climbing including the notorious Marsac Avenue (with it's dreaded 15% pitches) ride out of Park City and up over Guardsman pass.

Yeah.

And lastly, but hardly least-ly, the final head of this unholy trinity:

The LOTOJA Classic September 7th

LOTOJA is a road race inspired by the one day Spring Classic rides of Europe like Paris-Roubaix or Leige-Bastogne-Leige.  It's an endurance event for endurance enthusiasts.  The route covers more than 200 miles (320km), includes three states, four national forests, three mountain passes and more than two dozen counties from Logan Utah to Jackson Hole Wyoming. Riding it is a Rip VanWinkle-like experience that keeps you in the saddle so long you wonder when you finish if your clothes are still be in style and who the current president of the United States might be.  Improbably (or predictably if you understand cyclists and their penchant for self-punishment) it is one of the most popular cycling events of the year, regularly turning away thousands of would be Lotojans.  Like I said, the original plan was to do all three events together but as LOTOJA registration day approached it became more and more clear that finding a support crew for Jennifer and myself (did I mention the race ends in Jackson Hole?  That makes supporting said race a two commitment, minimum) was not going to be a possibility so I did the right thing.  I've done LOTOJA four times now (which means Jenn has been my support crew--four times) so I stepped back from team Larsen and signed on for Team Jenn.  Plus (and this should be said) supporting Jenn is always enjoyable because unlike me, she is generally contending for a spot on the podium, if not overall certainly for her age group.  At least that's been the case in the two Triathlons she has done.  I will be interested how she fares against her cycling peers.  Like most events that involve both speed and endurance, being small of stature and mass is a favourable condition.  In comparison to other athletes she competes against Jenn is neither of these things.  Even at her race weight she is still 5'9" tall.  Nothing you can do about the mass, even when it's lean mass, that accompanies a frame that size.  And there's no doubt it will hurt her, especially on hill climbs like the one pictured above but she is is strong, both physically (and when it comes to her legs prodigiously so) and mentally. She possesses and makes the most of an iron will, indomitable spirit and laser focus.  Once she makes something her goal, she locks in on it and tracks it, studies it, trains for it and comes to any event she has decided matters to her with the preparation necessary to succeed.  I've said it before (and will again), I'm still impressed with her efforts but I've stopped being surprised by her results.  So I will accept my role as LOTOJA support and spend the latter part of summer training for the St George marathon in October* with an eye (really a pie-in-the-sky dream) of qualifying for Boston and running it with Jennifer in 2016.

*Only it turns out that the cutoff to register for Boston (assuming, of course you qualify to do so) is September 8th, a full month before the St George marathon which means we have to find and register for (sigh) another marathon, one that takes place before the second Monday in September and (hopefully) features a log chute style run down the side of a mountain.  What did we decide about Pike's Peak.  Do they have a marathon?  If so, when?  Also (also) am I the only one that has noticed that the year of the bike features an awful lot of running?  Yeah, what's up with that?

All of those plans and preparations were just that until this finally arrived a couple weeks ago:

Now it's official:  Triple Crank here we come.   

But first there was the matter of the Ogden Marathon and Jenn's follow up attempt to qualify for Boston.  That is a stand alone story that needs to be told (and has been by the runner herself, with commentary from her cheering sections and support crew... that would be me) It's the next entry in this summer's training blog.  I'll warn you now, it's long.  It is, after all, a marathon.  Or at least one runner's marathon story.  And it's a good one.  Worth your time and worth a read.  

As for the Year of the Bike (and the blog that bears its name) it will return with actual, you know, bikes and tales of people riding on them, in the middle of June with a report on our Rockwell Relay experience and the first leg of Jenn's Tripod o' Torment the Triple Crank.

Until then, cheers.

2014: Year Of The Runner

You won't find evidence of it on any officially recognized calendar, be it Chinese, Zodiac, Mayan or Lunar but 2014 was the Year Of The Runner.

It was the year You became a Runner

Of course you had run before that, many times, as exercise and for distances you once thought improbable if not impossible and for events in which you never believed you would compete.  You could even say you were in love with running long before the year of the runner began.  But somehow, this year was different.  This year you ran, all the time, everywhere...

You ran in the winter, in the frigid pre-dawn, a light strapped to your forehead illuminating your billowing, frozen breath, your nose and toes tingling, but your legs and arms warm and willing.

You ran in flurries of snow, the world blanketed in white as if dusted with icing sugar by a Master Baker and you, a Canadian in her element running to fully enjoy the gift:  "It's snow.  We have to run in it."

You ran at daybreak and the reward for battling the demon voice in your head that told you your bed was a better place to be that morning was the sunrise that painted your run a thousand colours

from a vermilion so deep you wondered if you were imagining it

 to a tangerine so brilliant you almost stopped moving so you could admire it.

Almost.

You ran on oval tracks.  You ran intervals.  

You did speed work and the only prize offered for the tedium of the task and pain of its performance was the sweat pouring off your face, the lactic acid burn in your calves and quads and the calamitously pure knowledge of threshold that leaves you feeling at once completely bereft and utterly refined.

You ran to be leaner, stronger, faster. You ran a personal best time for 5k, then for 10.




You ran a longest distance and then ran further still.




You ran up hills and down the back side and then you did it again (and again and again).









You ran in the sweltering, summer east coast humidity on tree lined country roads,  drinking in the heavy oxygen rich air, your lungs giddy at the prospect operating at sea level, your legs recognizing the bump in the grade of fuel from regular to premium.














You ran in foreign lands, world capitals and National Parks .










You ran on lonely mountain paths with only the craggy granite peaks and dusty scrub oak to witness your efforts.




You ran on the shores of lakes and rivers on dams, over bridges, beside canals and through hard wood forests.

You ran cuz: Peach Cobbler is irresistible

You ran cuz: Apple Pie is a religious rite 

You did a 1/2 Ironman cuz Indian cuisine is so delicious

You ran a marathon cuz bacon, cheese and fried potatoes 

(I have more words but are they really necessary?)

  

In the Year Of The Runner you indulged less, far less.  You made sugar a weekend friend, then a Holiday friend, then only Holidays with a religious component.  Soon you and sugar will no longer be on speaking terms at all.  But in the year of the runner when you were weak you made sure you paid for you peccadillos in advance and then performed your penance on footpaths until all evidence of your indiscretions was completely washed away.

You ran with friends, because of friends and for friends.  

You found that running friends are the truest friends.  

You made a thousand new running friends in one day.  You felt a lifelong bond with each new runner friend based on one fleeting interaction that came to you in the very moment you needed to hear it: From the marathoner you leap-frogged all day in Ogden at mile 23.1, five kilometers left and the Boston qualifier math tipping against you for the first time that morning:  "You've been running strong all day, you can't give up now."

From the tri-athlete you passed at mile seven of the half marathon in the Bear Lake Brawl, you still running with power and purpose, a good four minutes ahead of last year's split: "That's a strong pace you've got.  Keep it up!"

And finally from the anonymous runner on the MVC when he caught you at the Daybreak intersection, just as you slowed your pace after sprinting for an entire mile and thinking to yourself "that was fast, too bad nobody was around to see it": "You. Are. (expletive deleted) Fly-ing!"  

That last one made you smile and the took all the pain out of the seven mile return run home.




You ran to find God, to talk to him.  You ran because some of your most sincere prayers come amid the mental and physical concentration required to maintain a sub nine minute/mile pace.  You ran in the solitude of a deserted, sagebrush lined bike path and thought of it as your cathedral, your temple among the tumbleweeds and your communication was pure, uncluttered by extraneous stimuli.






You ran in races, marathons, 1/2 marathons,10Ks.  You ran after you swam and biked.  You volunteered at races so others could run and race too.





You ran to wring stress from your sinews to empty your head of thoughts that vex, to sweat out your frustrations rather than give them voice: "that mile was me not scolding Elaine for not caring, that mile was me not being bothered by Steven for not rinsing the hand mixer when he makes his protein shakes in the morning, that mile was me not telling Raechel what I think about her recent purchases of (... ! ), that mile was the dried apple cores nathan is collecting under the couch and the clean clothes he stuffed under a pile of dirty clothes in the closet instead of putting them away, that mile was for overdue book fines, late fees and kids' school projects I found out about the night before they were due."  You ran until all the jumbled ideas in your brain were placed in order and addressed. You ran until your mind could focus only on the run, the sublime satisfaction of performing the act and the peace it provides.

You ran simply because you could.  You ran because you have lungs that breathe air and transfer it to blood cells, a heart that beats in rhythm, pumping the oxygen in those cells to muscles that convert that fuel into kinetic energy, contracting and moving levers, forming fulcrums that bend and lift resulting in forward motion; the entire process of producing one stride an unspeakable miracle that you perform 10,000 times an hour. Because you can.




You ran because it left you feeling lean and energetic, your toned muscles taught with the promise of potential like a loaded spring anticipating release or a crouching feline waiting to pounce.

You ran because you craved that sensation of being locked and loaded, primed and prepped, the knowledge you had of your untapped capacity and ability.

You ran and because you ran you felt alive, alert and maybe just a little bit dangerous, not a person to be taken lightly or trifled* with.

(mmm trifle)







You ran because you loved the way it made your clothes fit and how it changed the face that you saw in the mirror and for the way the face looking back at you made you feel more confident, more capable, more accomplished.










You ran for Namaste, because this Universe is a Divinely given gift and the best way to thank the Giver is to fill your lungs with its atmosphere and coat your skin with its dust, to immerse yourself in the clay of creation, to feel the Earth under your feet and recognize the light in it by sharing yours.


You ran to experience that strange euphoric calm, that state of Grace that's sure to follow a full-measure running effort.  It's a sensation atheists will tell you is merely a chemical response, a vestigial evolutionary reward from the central nervous system, a remnant gift from our hunter gatherer ancestors whose survival depended on the heightened physical condition required to accrue their daily calories. But believers recognize it as your soul speaking to you and what it's saying is "Good job, here's your pat on the bum.  Thank you for feeding me today."





You ran  because at the base of your identity, when you strip away all the things you do adequately or excel at but only with great effort and concentration, you are an Athlete.


It's your divinely given Talent of Silver and how can you bury that in the earth?














You are  a runner because it makes your heart happy, because running is one of the Spiritual Gifts with which God blessed you and you feel wise to have recognized this fact and embraced it.

You ran and you ran and you ran...

You ran so much that you made me, a cycling agnostic run.  I ran because you ran, because it was so clearly something you loved, so much that it's become not so much what you do, but who you are .  And because of that I wanted to experience it, not out of jealousy or because I felt left out.  And not because it's something that you're better, stronger and more proficient at than than I could hope to be. I love that you have interests that don't necessarily involve me, that you have a profound inner strength that comes from nobody and nothing else.  That core strength (not talking about your belly here, but that's kinda nice too) and independence is one of your most attractive qualities, I actually find it quite sexy, but this is not the time nor venue to discuss that.  I wanted to do it because I love you and anything you care about this deeply I want to experience, even if I'll never quite understand it.

So I ran and I was clearly an outsider in my Costco shoes, billowing gym shorts and hoodie.  I wore sweat bands and used words like 'jogging' to describe what I was doing and you somehow managed not only to not roll your eyes at me but to encourage me.  You deftly walked the tight rope of giving helpful hints without sounding critical, of sharing insights and pro tips without making me feel resentful and picked on.

So I ran, and it hurt me, multiple times.  There was the initial 'my muscles don't know how to do this' pain and I got past that, but then there were the injuries, torn calf muscles (yes plural), a pulled hamstring, shin splints.  Each time I tried to embrace this activity my body told me in less than subtle ways that running wasn't for me.  My scoliotic spine, mismatched leg length and general lack of anything resembling running form probably didn't help matters a bit.  But you kept loving it so I kept trying to love it too and finally, after many a failure to launch I began to... not enjoy it per se, but to respect it, to appreciate what is required to do it well, how running involves your entire body and how you feel every step, how unlike cycling there's no coasting, no tucking for a descent, no cashing in on a negative grade with a helpful tailwind.  When you run you earn every kilometer and you pay for every mile.

So I bought my first pair of real running shoes:

Strava told me they require a nickname so I call these: 'Saucony', which is Navajo for: 

'Runs with a limp'

I ditched the cotton hoodie that weighs ~5 lbs for some more appropriate outerwear and I began correcting people who used the J-word.  My runs got longer and more intense until I was waking up an hour earlier than normal so I could put in eight miles before work, then ten, then a half marathon... the farthest I'd run in almost twenty years.  And the more I ran, the more I understood and the more I looked forward to next chance I had to strap on my shoes and pound the pavement.

I grew to enjoy the way that running forced me to pay attention to my body to learn to distinguish between discomfort that is a natural result of physical effort and pain that means an injury is imminent, how it forced me to listen and to respond to what my muscles, joints and tendons were telling me.  I was reminded of when I first started cycling and how on descents I would ride my brakes, sit upright in the saddle, white knuckling my handle bars and generally surviving the experience rather than celebrating it.  Then a friend (Rodney) told me "Trust your equipment."  I read the same thing in bicycling magazines and heard it more than once on rides with other amateur cyclists.  When I finally took the advice it completely changed the way I rode and opened entirely new avenues.  I enjoyed myself more, felt more confident more proficient. The more I ran the more I learned to trust my equipment, to listen to the mechanics of my machine and respond accordingly.  The result felt like the purest kind of communication, a one person conversation of a thousand voices all speaking at once but being understood completely.  I felt deeply connected and, I realize this sounds hokey but just because it sounds hokey doesn't make any less true, in touch with something deep inside myself, something intangible but very real, my soul I guess would be the most accurate way to describe it.

Running felt Spiritual to me, like Religion in its elemental form.

So I guess what I'm saying is I hope your Tribe has room for one more member and that my place at the table doesn't make you feel crowded because I've been running.

And I kinda love it.

                                                                                2014
                                                     Year
                                                     Of
                                                     The
                                                     Runner

xo -S (me)